✨Great Love✨

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Series

The Art of Being Seen

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader

A Briar University slow burn romance.

Status: Ongoing

✧ Chapter 1: Fresh Start

✧ Chapter 2: New Ground

✧ Chapter 3: The Party

✧ Chapter 4: Gravity

✧ Chapter 5: Off Limits

✧ Chapter 6: Wildflower

✧ Chapter 7: Intermission

✧ Chapter 8: Some Day

✧ Chapter 9: Control

✧ Chapter 10: Surprise

✧ Chapter 11: Heaven

✧ Chapter 12: Hell

✧ Chapter 13: The Morning After

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One Shots

The Vampire Diaries

The Things We Pretend

Klaus Mikaelsson x Reader

From

Let Me Go

Cowboy Creature x Reader

Darlin'

Cowboy Creature x Reader

You Make Me Feel Alive

Smiley x Reader

Home For Christmas

Kenny Liu x Reader

Pumpkins and Promises

Kenny Liu x Reader

Let Go

Kenny Liu x Reader

I Can't Lose you

Kenny Liu x Reader

She Would've Loved You

Kenny Liu x Reader

Let Me In

Cowboy Creature x Reader

The 100

Your Choice

Bellamy Blake x Reader

Marvel

You Didn't Tell Me

Peter Parker x Reader

Outerbanks

Just Friends

JJ Maybank x Reader

Our Secret

Rafe Cameron x Reader

Orange is the New Black

Stay A Little Longer

Tricia Miller x Reader

Fluorescent Nights

Nicky Nichols x Reader

I Missed You More

Nicky Nichols x Reader

Say You're Mine

Nicky Nichols x Reader

Riverdale

Cross My Heart

Veronica Lodge x Reader

Drenched in Secrets

Sweet Pea x Reader

Drag You Down

Jughead Jones x Reader

Vikings

Stay This Time

Bjorn Lothbrok x Reader

Bridge Between Worlds

Rollo Lothbrok x Reader

Always and Forever

Rollo Lothbrok x Reader

Sturniolo Brothers

Vampire's Meal

Matt Sturniolo x Reader

Teen Wolf

It's Always Been You

Stiles Stilinsky x Reader

Back To You

Stiles Stilinsky x Reader

I Think About You

Stiles Stilinsky x Reader

House of The Dragon

Hotter Than Dragonfire

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

The Man Behind The Dragon

Aemond Targaryen x Reader

Game of Thrones

Take Me

Jon Snow x Reader

Bullet Train

You Know You Can't Resist Me

Tangerine x Reader

The Great

I Think I Love You

Peter x Reader

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Mini Series

Beg A Little

Matt Sturniolo x Reader

Status: Completed

✧ Part 1

✧ Part 2

Stark's Daughter

Peter Parker x Reader

Status: Completed

✧ Part 1

✧ Part 2

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You wake to the worst taste in your mouth and your own heartbeat playing a drum solo against your skull. Sunlight stabs through the window and you squint. You throw a hand over your eyes, sitting up. You're disoriented, limbs tangled in unfamiliar sheets, tongue impossibly dry and sticky. You blink, and the room rotates into focus. 

You have one second of blank, blessed peace, before your mouth begins to water, the familiar burn of bile rising up your throat. You slap a hand over your mouth and book it for the bathroom, flinging open the door with violence. Your knees hit tile as your dry heave, the cold floor biting your skin through last night’s fishnets. 

After two minutes of retching, you hang your head over the bowl and make a mental note to never, ever take a shot called “blood of the gods” again. You flush and lean against the wall, pressing your cheek to the freezing marble. 

The memories of last night light up one at a time as you rinse your mouth and stumble toward the mirror. The party, the dancing, Dean’s hands on your waist, his mouth on yours. Even now, the thought of him is a sugar on your tongue. You replay the confession, the surge of need, the way you’d fast forwarded past every nervous system warning sign until you ended up locking down like a car hitting black ice. 

You body twists with embarrassment. Last night was a complete and total car crash… and Dean sat in the wreckage with you, holding your hand and not asking you to fix yourself. You want to laugh, or scream, or crawl under the bed. 

You sigh, splashing cold water on your face. If you can survive this hangover, and the atrocities of last night, you can survive anything. 

You pad into the bedroom and find your phone is MIA. You scan the room, rip all the blankets off the bed, get on hands and knees to look under every piece of furniture. Nothing. Standing back up makes your world tilt, and you press a hand against your stomach to suppress the second wave of nausea. You move slowly, tucking your hands in the sleeves of Dean’s hoodie. You can still smell his cologne on the fabric. 

You inch open the door, peering out into the hallway, empty and echoing. At that exact same moment, a door across the hall cracks open, and Beth appears. One false eyelash is drooping for dear life as she yawns. She’s wearing a men’s t-shirt, bare-legged and feral, clutching her phone. 

You both freeze. Then, in perfect stereo, you blurt, “Did you-?” You gasp, “No,” at the same time that she begrudgingly agrees. You both giggle before meeting each other half way. 

“Do you have any idea what time it is?”

Beth checks her phone, swipes it with her thumb, and lets out a tiny, mortified groan. “It’s almost one, Y/N. We slept through breakfast.” Her mascara is smeared across her cheeks like war paint. “At least the party buses already left.”

“We can still eat breakfast.” You shuffle toward her, cradling your head. “Also, you look like an extra from The Walking Dead.”

She tugs you into a random bathroom. With a closer look at the shirt she’s wearing, you recognize it as John’s. You shoot her a look so loaded with meaning she flinches.

“Don’t say it,” she says, hands up in surrender. “I know I broke girl code, or whatever.” She wets a clump of tissue paper and begins scrubbing her cheeks. “But can we agree to never speak of it again unless I bring it up? Preferably at my wedding?”

You snort, which triggers a cough that nearly unspools your stomach again. “Sure. Only if you help me find my phone and make coffee.”

Beth switches into nurse mode instantly. “Yes, Captain.” She rips off her lashes before wiping your face the same way she did hers, pieces of toilet paper flaking onto your lips. She does one last inspection before nodding. “Let’s deploy.” She grabs your hand, and together you shuffle down the hall, two hangover ghosts haunting the upper level.

The stairwell is a war zone of solo cups, glitter, and a single, deeply concerning red thong hanging from a light fixture. Someone had wheeled a beer keg up the landing and abandoned it halfway. The main floor is empty except for the faint sound of a SportsCenter rerun from a distant TV.

You pause at the kitchen. It’s a mosaic of jammed bottle caps, pizza boxes, and enough empty Truly cans to build the Eiffel Tower. You spot your phone on the breakfast table, next to the coffee filters and beans already neatly set out.

“Bless whoever saved me from having to scrounge for coffee.” Beth makes quick work of blessing the house with the smell of caffeine. 

You scan your texts. Nothing since midnight. Which makes sense; the last thing you remember is him pulling off your shoes and kissing your forehead. Your fingers tingle with the urge to message him. Instead, you scroll to an unread message from John.

Big Bro: call me when u get up

You text him back a noncommittal “Alive. Don’t panic,” and set your phone aside, focusing on the task at hand: not dying.

You watch Beth, head propped on the cold marble counter. After five minutes and a shaky mug, you manage to feel semi-human.

“So,” you say, “you and my brother?”

She gags. “Don’t say it like that. I don’t need to think about the fact that you share biology. And you told me to go for it, so you can’t be mad.”

You hold your hands up in surrender. “Not mad, just curious. I have to ensure my brother is a gentleman.”

“He was super respectful. Like, too much.” She smirks. “Didn’t even try anything. I tried. Trust me, did I try.” You grimace and she winces. “But he wouldn’t, not while I was drunk. He just brought me water and told me to get some sleep.” Her smile fades. “Honestly, it was so sweet.” You feel a sudden rush of affection for your brother, though, you never expected anything less. John is a good guy, and he’d be great for Beth. “Enough about me.” She wiggles her brows. “I want to hear about your night. Dean came down and told us you were staying.”

Panic shoots up your limps. “What else did he say?”

“Nothing.” She shrugs. “Why? What happened?”

You take a long sip of your coffee, thinking of any way to not tell her. But you promised her no more secrets, and even though her and Dean have a history, she has always been supportive. “We um…” You cringe. “We kissed.”

She slams her cup on the counter. “Shut. The. Fuck. Up.” She gasps rushing over to you. “Shut the fuck up!”

“Shhh!” You slap a hand over her mouth. She grabs your wrist, face split with the world’s largest grin. 

“This is huge!” she whisper-yells. “I need all the details.”

You huff a laugh. “You’re not upset or anything, right? Given your… you know.”

She shakes her head. “No, of course not. Dean and I were strictly friends with benefits. I never deluded myself into believing it could be more than that.” You nod, and the smile holds, but something underneath it goes very quiet. Never deluded herself. Is that what you did? You think of last night, the confession, the kiss, the way that it meant something. That you meant something. Beth’s face changes. She catches the shift in the room. “No. Hey, that came out wrong.” She grabs your hand. “It’s completely different, okay? Dean and I were just… we were friends who got stupid at parties sometimes. That’s genuinely all it was. We both knew it.” She pauses, and her voice goes a little quieter. “I’ve always had a thing for your brother. Dean knew that too.”

Something in your chest unclenches. “Okay. Yeah.” You roll your eyes in an attempt to lighten the mood you’ve swallowed into your black hole of anxiety. “I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

She hugs you. “I’m more than okay.” She pulls away, walking back to her cup. “Now, details! And don’t leave anything out.”

You giggle and are about to spill everything when the sound of footsteps on hardwood makes you both freeze. You turn and see Dean. He’s wearing sweats and no shirt, and you pretend not to notice the way Beth’s jaw goes slack. He looks at you first, then Beth, then you again, face alight with mischief and the smug serenity of a man who knows he is the hottest thing in this hemisphere.

“Morning,” he says, voice syrup-thick and just a little raspy.

“Afternoon,” Beth corrects, schooling her face back into neutrality. She sips her coffee, eyeing you over the rim.

Dean strolls over, pouring himself some a cup. You stare at him, but see Beth in your peripheral making smooching faces. You slap the air. When he turns around you both go back to normal, and you bite your lip to suppress a grin, to which Beth fails at and snorts a laugh.

Dean’s brows furrow, but sets his eyes on you. “How’re you feeling?”

You want to crawl face-first into the espresso machine. “I’m fine. Thanks for, um-” You make a vague, fluttery hand motion that could mean anything.

Dean’s eyes crinkle, and he watches you for a moment with a look so tender you have to look away. He slides up next to you, close enough that you can feel the heat off his bare skin, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. He does it with the kind of practiced intimacy usually reserved for couples in movies, and for a moment, you malfunction. The world narrows to your cheek, his thumb, the heavy way he looks at you. 

Then, like it’s the most normal thing ever, he leans down and presses his lips to your forehead. The kiss is soft, almost shy, like he’s checking if he’s allowed. 

Beth actually makes a noise. A squeaky, involuntary thing, like a puppy getting a treat. Dean looks at you, and then down at his coffee. 

“You want breakfast, Ballerina?” You don’t know what to say. The glow in your stomach is part pride, part terror. You’d spent all night bracing for the morning after; worried there wouldn’t actually be a morning after. Not with him, not with anyone. You expected distance, or worse, regret. Instead, he’s pouring you a fresh mug and nudging it across the marble like you’ve done this a hundred times. “Eggs?” he prompts, gentle.

You manage to nod. “Yeah. Thanks. I should probably-uh-shower first?” You realize you have nothing to change into, no toothbrush, and last night’s makeup is still clinging to your lashes. You just needed an excuse to escape this moment.

Dean grins. “You can use my shower. I’ll make you a plate, and after I can drive you home if you’d like?”

“No need,” you say, aiming for breezy, “The plan was to drive Beth’s car home anyways.”

Dean flicks his gaze briefly to Beth. She’s leaned over her mug, eyes bloodshot but sparkling with the kamikaze glee of a girl who loves morning-after gossip. She rolls her eyes, taking a sip. 

“Come on, Di Laurentis. Weren’t you planning to keep Y/N here all weekend?” She gives you a too-obvious wink, then latches onto her cup with both hands, watching your face for a reaction.

Dean’s eyes widen. “Well, I mean, of course I want you to stay, but-”

“But nothing.” Beth smirks. “You’re staying.” You glance at Dean, whose brow is still quirked in gentle invitation.

“I don’t have anything with me.” It comes out as a complaint, but only half-hearted. “No clothes, no toothbrush, nothing.”

Beth grins as if she’s won a game you didn’t know you were playing. “I packed you a bag before we left, just in case.” At your stare, she softens. “You always bail. This time, I wanted to give you an opportunity to stay.”

You gape at her, disbelief and betrayal and gratitude warring in your chest. “What did you sneak in there?”

“An extra charger, some workout stuff, and,” she winks, “your favorite blue jeans. They look better than whatever leggings you’re about to wear for two days straight.”

Dean claps his hands once, triumphant. “You have no excuse.” He gives you that wolfish grin, a tilt of the head, like he’s picturing you in those jeans already. “Unless you really want to go home,” he says, as if even the suggestion is a dare.

You want to say yes. You want to run, to have a safe exit and no more high-stakes feelings for at least twenty-four hours. But the truth is, you’d rather be anywhere than back in your dorm, alone with only the echo of last night repackaging itself into regret.

You sigh, dramatic for effect. “Fine, but if you guys get tired of me, I reserve the right to disappear.”

You notice the way Dean’s jaw loosens. “We’re never getting tired of you,” he says, and damn if it doesn’t sound like a promise. The kitchen is suddenly too bright. Beth is already running back up the stairs, and Dean is standing there, looking at you like you invented sunlight. “I’m gonna go shower.”

You leave him in the kitchen and trail Beth, grimacing at the poppy seed glitter ground into every step of the carpet. The house seems bigger in daylight, less party palace and more Airbnb from hell. Beth pauses at the landing, glances at you over her shoulder, and gives you a grin. “I stashed your bag in my car trunk,” she says. “Keys are in my purse. You want to grab it?”

You nod and get her keys, slip into her beat-up Mazda parked across the street, and pop the trunk. There’s the duffel, blue and shamed by the mess of fast food wrappers and clothes. You haul it out and slam the trunk.

You don’t go right back inside. Instead, you sit on the curb, staring at the duffel, your head so loud. You think through all the possible ways this weekend can go sideways, how Dean will probably realize you’re still a mess and drift back to the parade of girls with less not-internalized trauma.

The bag is heavy. You unzip it and the first thing you see is a box. Flat, rectangular, wrapped in blue and yellow. You groan. The birthday present. You hadn’t planned to bring it. You definitely hadn’t planned to see Dean open it. At first, you thought it was cute, but the more you looked at it, the more embarrassed you got of it. But apparently Beth foresaw you flaking, saw right through the layers of your reluctance, and decided to override your decisions.

You’re going to kill her. But first, a shower.

You slip back inside, duffel slung over your shoulder, the shame of the wrapped box squirming in your chest. You climb the stairs and pause outside Dean’s room. The door is closed. Your heart jitters, but you force yourself to push through, step into the sunlight and wood-and-soap smell that belongs to him alone.

You set the duffel on the floor, yank out a fistful of tangled clothes, then the box, and drop the latter face-down on the bed before it can mock you. You peel off the borrowed hoodie, hold it to your chest for a moment, and then fold it neatly on top of the sheets. It feels like a tiny loss, like you’re giving back a piece of safety.

It takes you far too long to decide if you have the guts to actually shower. The floor is cold, and the light in the bathroom is too honest, too good at revealing every bruise, every wobble, every place where your skin is not the skin you’d prefer. You hate it, but you can’t help the inventory you run on yourself. The reflection is better than you expect, but still not something you can love.

A knock jolts you.

“Come in!” you say, then instantly regret it, because you’re in last night’s dress, and there’s a pile of your entire wardrobe scattered across Dean’s bed. You spin as Dean steps into the doorway, a glass of water in one hand and two Advil balanced on his palm.

He pauses, sport mode dimples engaged. He looks you up and down before clocking the present on the bed. His brows furrow. “Is that for me?”

Shit. You lunge, snatching the box and hurling it behind your back with a speed you didn’t know you possessed. “It’s nothing. Just… it’s trash, actually.”

Dean narrows his eyes, sets the water on the dresser, and steps into the room, all predatory grace and warm, ridiculous kindness. “Is it a gift?”

You shake your head, clutching the box so hard you hear the sides crumple. “It’s stupid.”

He smiles, patient, like he has all the time in the world to wait you out. “If it’s stupid, I’ll love it,” he says. “That’s my specialty.” You try to pivot away, but he’s quick. He intercepts, catching your arm in one giant, insistent hand. “Please?” he says, and there’s something behind the word that makes your resistance short circuit.

You sigh, defeated, and hand it over. “You’re going to make fun of me,” you warn, bracing for the worst.

Dean takes the box with care and slides off the wrapping in a single, practiced motion.

Inside is a plain black hoodie, identical to the ones he wears every day. Except on the back, in bright blue embroidery, are the words “Dean the Disaster” bracketing two hockey sticks crossed like a coat of arms. You force yourself not to wither and look away. It was supposed to be funny, a last-minute inside joke stitched at the mall kiosk, now it feels juvenile and tragic in the pale light of day.

Dean stares for a second longer. Then he laughs, a sound so genuine you almost want to hide. When he recovers, he tugs it over his head, leaping up to check himself in the mirror.

“Holy shit,” he says, twisting around to show you. “This is fucking sick.” The grin on his face is pure happiness, unequivocal, and the sight of it makes your insides go loose and warm. He sits down on the bed with a bounce that makes your half-folded laundry shudder. “This is the best thing anyone’s ever given me. Did you do this yourself?”

You shake your head. “I paid a lady at the kiosk to do it. But I picked the font.”

He makes a show of examining the stitching, then grins. “You nailed it. You know me so well.” He pulls at the sleeves and, just as you’re about to say “do not stretch it out already,” he flips the cuff over and frowns. “What’s this?” You tense, then remember, with horror and awe, that the custom order included free lettering, and in a fit of post-practice exhaustion you’d asked for the words “World’s Best Ballerina” in pink, tiny, stitched on the inside left sleeve. You’d thought he’d never notice it. He holds it up, beaming. “Wow,” he deadpans, voice high and mocking. “Did you want to propose with this or are we waiting till after graduation?” He nudges you with an elbow, brandishing the pink-stitched cuff. “You’re so cute.”

“No, I’m not.” You cover your face with both hands to hide your reddening cheeks. He stands, grabbing your wrists and hauling you up. 

“Yes, you are.” He puts his arms around you, engulfing you in a hug, and for a second it’s possible to believe in the kind of safety that exists in movies. He’s so warm and so close it’s almost an anesthetic, drowning every anxiety in his steady, simple happiness.

He draws back just enough to see you, eyes flicking to your mouth. This is the second before he kisses you, the slow collapse of the distance. And god, you want him to. More than food, water, any basic need. But the moment his hand maps your jaw, you panic, palm flat against his chest.

“Dean,” you say, and it comes out so shaky you almost swallow it. He stops, searching your face. “Wait. I need to-just-” You want to anchor your brain, force your mouth to keep up, but everything is liquid. “I need to make sure this is, like, actually what you want.”

He lets you go but stays close, so impossibly patient. “It is,” he says. “I thought I made that obvious.”

“Last night…” you start, and it’s all muscle memory from therapy, the process of surfacing hard things on a schedule, even if nothing in you wants to. “We were drunk, and upset, and it’s probably not even real. I just-” You fold in on yourself. “I don’t want to be the girl who ruins your life by getting too attached.”

Dean’s face does this thing, like you’ve handed him a puzzle with half the pieces missing. There’s a pause, and then he says, “You make it sound like I don’t know what I’m getting into.”

You laugh weakly. “I told you, I’m a disaster.” 

He nudges his chin toward the stitching on his back, and the world’s briefest, sweetest smile crosses his lips. “You’re not a disaster,” he says. “You’re perfect.”

It takes everything in your body not to lose it at that sentence. You let out a breath, finally remembering the point. “If… if we do this, I want to keep it private. I don’t want pictures of us, or people speculating, or…” You almost say his name again. “I don’t want to be anyone’s story except mine.”

He pushes his hands deep into the pouch of his new hoodie, thinking. “So you mean… what? A secret relationship?”

“Yeah,” you say, and even as you do, you realize what you’re asking. “I don’t want it online. I don’t want it on the Fifth Line. I want to be able to, like, decide when I’m ready to let everyone know.”

Dean purses his lips, blue eyes soft. “You know that’s not how this place works. Someone always sees. Someone always posts.”

“I know,” you admit. “But it matters to me.”

He studies you, then shrugs, resigned but not unkind. “So, what, I have to sneak around just to hug you? Can’t kiss you unless we’re alone?”

You nod, trying to play it cool. “I’m not ready to be headline news.”

He considers, glancing at the door, at his own feet, then at you. “If those are your rules, I’ll follow them.” He says it lightly, but you hear the edge. He wants, badly, to show you off. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t care about what people think of him.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to hide,” you say, softer now. “If that’s not okay, we don’t have to… whatever we’re doing.”

He’s on you in half a second, arms circling you, mouth pressed to your hair. “It’s okay,” he murmurs, voice velvet even through the tightness. “I can be discreet. For you.”

You want to weep from gratitude, or maybe relief. You clutch his torso, not letting go, and it’s terrifyingly easy to imagine this as a thing that lasts. The thought is thrilling and awful at the same time.

“Can I kiss you now?” Dean asks, voice a low rumble against your ear. “I’ve been thinking about it all night.”

Your body goes molten. You nod. He cups your jaw, thumbs gentle, and kisses you so carefully. Then, sensing the invitation, deepens it, arms tightening around your shoulders. Every nerve in your body zings awake. After a beat, you break away, dazed.

Holy shit. You want to say it out loud, but instinct tells you to play it down. “Okay, it’s official,” you smirk. “You’re a better kisser than you are a skater.”

He grins. “Careful. That was a high score on the Di Laurentis scale. Say things like that, and you’ll give me a complex.” After a beat he says, “So, private. Like, CIA-level.”

You laugh, relief bubbling up. “You joke, but yes. No one can know.”

He arches a brow. “Not even the group?”

You freeze. Of all the people who could notice, John and Beth are top of the food chain. And the frat will notice Dean isn’t with other girls. Garrett already suspects. The idea of your brother knowing is both comforting and mortifying. “They know I stayed,” you hedge. Would it really be so bad if they knew? None of them would ever say anything. “Fine,” you sigh. “But inner circle only.” You point at him and he nods.

“I’m serious, though. If you ever change your mind, and want to be public, even a little… let me know. I’m not embarrassed.”

The words linger in the air. You have no idea what to do with them. You don’t remember the last time someone wanted you without reservation.

“I’ll let you know.” 

Dean kisses you again, but this time there’s more on the line. A hunger that startles both of you, a question in his hands as they find their way down your sides, glancing off ribs and settling with real gravity on your hips. You lose any intention of playing coy. You just want to melt into him.

He slows it down then, pulling back but staying close, hands still anchoring you.

“You know, I never got to tell you how fucking sexy you look in this dress,” he murmurs, voice thick with want. A flush rolls up your chest, probably visible, and you try to hide it with a joke, but your jaw won’t unhinge, too busy memorizing the way his eyes have gone midnight blue.

“Well, you’re biased,” you choke out, and he snorts, the kind of laugh that’s made of pure joy, like he can’t believe his luck.

“Yeah,” he says. “Guess I am.” He’s still holding your hips, perpetually on the verge of either making out with you on the floor or just standing here until the world ends. You wish you could bottle this feeling. The simplicity of being wanted, not as a means to an end, not as a joke or a dare or a power play, but for the warmth that tingles just under the skin. You could get used to waking up to it. Dean pulls back and kisses your forehead, lingering a second in the way that says he wants to do this a thousand more times. You make yourself a promise, silent and private, to let him. “You hungry?” he asks, and you’re pretty sure he means it platonically, but the edge in his smile says otherwise.

You roll your eyes, but that heat, the one that starts in your spine and radiates everywhere, makes you want to be sixteen, or maybe someone who never got her heart broken, or maybe just anyone but yourself in this impossible, perfect morning.

“Only if you make those famous pancakes you always brag about.”

“Oh, you want me to cook for you now? Already acting like a girlfriend.”

You punch his arm. “In your dreams.”

He grabs your hand, holds it until the silence is easy. “Actually, I think that’s exactly how this one ends,” he says, and you laugh, because sometimes, the best parts of life are the ones you can’t control.

Rollo rolls his eyes, lip raised, as he takes a swig of his spirits.

By the gods, are you wasted. You must be. No one could possibly have this much energy while sober.

You grab the hands of a passing man and drag him into the dance. The poor fool barely has time to react before you're spinning him around, laughing when he stumbles over his own feet.

"She is going to kill someone." Beside him, Ragnar follows his brother's gaze. A smile slowly spreads across his face and Rollo immediately regrets speaking.

"Who?"

Rollo grimaces. "You know who."

"You'll have to be more specific, brother." Rollo glares at him and Ragnar's smile grows. Rollo gestures vaguely with his cup.

"The irritating one."

"Ah." Ragnar nods thoughtfully. "Your irritating one."

Rollo chokes on his ale. "She is not mine."

"No?" Ragnar raises a brow.

"No." Rollo looks back toward you, as does Ragnar. You have somehow acquired a flower crown. He doesn't know where it came from. There are no flowers in Kattegat at this time of year. Yet somehow, you have one.

You place it crookedly atop your head before grabbing Torstein by the arm and attempting to pull him into the dance. Torstein refuses. You pull harder, but he doesn't move. Your entire body tilts backward with the effort and he can see the whine spilling from your lips.

Rollo sighs. "Idiot."

He watches as Torstein finally relents, allowing you to drag him away from the table. Ragnar takes a drink.

"You watch her often."

Rollo's eyes snap toward his brother. "I do not."

"You are watching her now."

"Yes, well watching the weasel make a fool of herself is amusing." Ragnar laughs and Rollo turns away. He lasts perhaps three breaths before he looks back. You're gone. His brow furrows and he searches the crowd. For the first time that evening, Rollo realizes how loud the hall is, how crowded. He scans the dancers again. Where did you-

"Rollo!" Ale spills over the rim of his cup and down his hand. He closes his eyes, sucking in a breath. He slowly looks over his shoulder. There you stand, hands behind your back, as you sway side to side, beaming up at him with all thirty-two teeth. "Are you enjoying Yule?"

He squints. "You spilled my ale."

You shrugs, taking your lip between your teeth to suppress your giggle. "You have more."

"That is not the point," he growls.

"What is the point?"

"The point is that you-" You take the cup from his hand and gulp down the whole cup. Rollo just stares at you. Ragnar bursts out laughing.

"What is your problem, girl?" He snatches the cup from your hand and you run your tongue over your upper lip.

"I was thirsty." He knuckles blanch around his cup.

"You are the most infuriating woman in Kattegat."

You smile up at him, batting your lashes. "Awe, Rollo." You place a hand on his bare bicep. "You think about me that much?"

Ragnar snickers into his cup and Rollo glares between the two of you. "Do you ever stop talking?"

You consider his question. "I will if you dance with me."

"No."

"Please?" You whine, clasping your hands in prayer.

"No."

"Just one d-"

"No." You grab his arm, but he doesn't move. You pull harder, but still nothing. You plant both feet firmly against the floor and use your entire weight. You use so much force, that your breath is held, face turning red. Rollo looks down at your hands wrapped around his forearm, then at you. You groan, letting air flow back into your lungs as your arms fall limp. "What are you doing?"

"Taking you to dance," you heave.

"You're failing."

You hold up a finger. "I haven't failed yet."

"You're going to hurt yourself, little weasel." Your hands slap back on his bicep, and you pull again. Your teeth grind, feet sliding. You release him again, but the sudden loss of resistance sends you stumbling backward. Rollo's hand shoots out and he catches you around the waist before you hit the floor.

For the first time all night, you stop moving. Rollo does too. Your hands rest against his chest as you stare at each other. Suddenly, Rollo becomes painfully aware of how close you are. The mix and fire and mead have made your cheeks warm. Your flower crown is even more crooked than before. A strand of hair has fallen across your face. Without thinking, his gaze drops to your lips. Your smile slowly returns. Rollo immediately lets go and you stumble.

"Rollo!"

"Go dance," he grumbles.

"Not without you." You cross your arms and pout out your bottom lip.

"I will not dance with you, little weasel. Now go."

"No." You shake your head playfully. "You would miss me too much."

Rollo scoffs. "I would finally know peace."

You grin and irritation bubbles in his chest. He hates that grin, because you know. No matter how much he denies it, you know he would never truly send you away.

When you sit beside him, he stays. When you follow him, he slows his steps. When you steal his ale, he lets you finish it. When you ramble on about things he claims not to care about, he remembers every word.

Rollo Lothbrok finds you insufferable. He once told you that he believed you to be his punishment from Tyr for all his crimes.

You are too loud, too energetic, too happy. You are constantly blabbering and moving. But you can't help it. You have been in love with Rollo for years, and for years you have made it your mission to get him to admit he feels the same.

You are relentless. You follow him through the village, interrupt him during training, talk while he eats, ask endless questions while he drinks. Once, you followed him halfway into the woods before he finally stopped, turned around, and demanded to know why you were there.

You told him you were bored.

He stared at you for the longest time before he continued walking. You followed, and he never told you to leave. That's the thing about Rollo. For all his complaining, all his scowling, for all the times he threatened to throw you into the sea just to have a moment of quiet... he never actually made you go.

You grab his hand, which is twice the size of yours, and Rollo looks down.

"Come on," you plead.

His jaw tightens. "No."

"Rollo." He closes his eyes, clenching his teeth so hard the muscles in his neck bulge. "Rollo!"

"What?" He barks.

"Dance with me, you stunt." His brows pull together as he tears his hand from yours.

"I would rather fight a bear." You consider this, then nod.

"Fine."

Rollo frowns. "Fine?"

"Fine." Your shrug is full of sass. Rollo stares at you suspiciously and you turn toward the crowd. You scan it before finding your victim. You look over your shoulder, eyes flicking down Rollo's form. "I'll find someone else."

He watches you walk away. Thank the gods. Finally. Rollo picks up a new cup of ale. You disappear into the crowd and he takes a swig. He watches you catch someone's hand. Roller immediately recognizes him as Ulf, one of their young warriors.

Ulf pulls you toward him and you laugh. Rollo lowers his cup as one of Ulf's hands settles on your rear, the other gripping your hip.

Rollo's jaw clenches. Ragnar glances at him, but Rollo is too angry to notice. You spin beneath Ulf's arm. You're pulled back into his grip, back flush with his chest, head lulling against his shoulder as you sway.

Rollo's grip tightens on his cup.

"Brother."

"What?" Roller hisses through his teeth.

"Your cup." Rollo looks down, the wooden cup beginning to crack. He loosens his fingers and Ragnar smirks. "Now that she's gone, I thought you had peace."

"I do." Across the hall, Ulf whispers something in your ear, making you laugh again.

Rollo blames his cup down and Ragnar raises a brow. "Where are you going."

"To dance."

Ragnar's laughs. "I thought you did not dance."

Rollo ignores him. He moves through the crowd, shoulders knocking into anyone foolish enough not to move quickly. His eyes remain locked on you. More specifically, on Ulf's hands.

Rollo reaches the two of you just as Ulf turns you beneath his arm again. You're laughing when you spin around, nearly crashing directly into Rollo's chest.

Your eyes widen, then you grin. "Rollo!"

"Ulf." The younger man looks up at him.

"Rollo." They are locked into a stare down, a battle for dominance. Ulf is foolish if he truly believes he'll win against Rollo Lothrbrok. You glance between them.

"Are you two going to kiss?" Ulf chokes and Rollo's glare snaps down to you. You beam innocently.

"Go away, Ulf."

Ulf's eyebrows raise. "She asked me to dance."

"And now she is asking me."

"I did not-" Rollo grabs your hand and your mouth snaps shut. Ulf looks down at your joined hands before glancing back at Rollo. "Go. Now. Before I tear out your pretty braid."

Ulf huff before stomping away. Rollo watches him go. A finger pokes his chest, and he looks down at you smiling.

"What?"

"You came to dance with me," you gush.

Rollo grimaces. "I came to save Ulf."

"Sure you did, Rollo." You giggle. "If you are jealous, just say so."

"I would never be jealous of a weasel."

You gasp and Rollo nearly smiles. Instead, he pulls you toward him. You stumble forward, hands landing against his chest. Rollo's arm wraps around your waist. You feel your cheeks heat as he stares at you. For once, you seem to have nothing to say.

Rollo raises an eyebrow. "Have you finally lost your voice?"

"Do you miss it already?" You smirk.

"I have just never seen your mouth closed for this long."

You wet your lips, taking the bottom one between your teeth. You run your fingers down his skin and watch the goosebumps that follow. "There are other things I can do with my mouth."

He sucks in a breath, clenching his teeth. You burst into laughter.

"Little weasel," he growls. You throw your head back, still laughing as Rollo reluctantly begins moving with you.

"You keep lying to yourself as long as long as you need, but this dance proves that I am right. I know you are keen on me."

Rollo snorts. "One dance is nothing. I am hoping this will finally silence your pestering."

"Hmm," you hum, but giggle as you spin yourself under his arm.

This means nothing. It is one dance. One dance to stop you from embarrassing yourself with Ulf. One dance to keep the fool's hands off you. One dance to finally silence your endless torture.

But when you smile up at him, Rollo knows he is lying to himself. Because he would give you a thousand dances if you asked. He would give you anything... anything except the truth.

────── ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ᚨ ✦ ᚱ ᚲ ᚷ ──────

By midday, the snow has blanketed the earth to ankle height. Rollo stands at the docks, sharpening his axe as fat flakes drift lazily from the gray sky. The celebration has continued well into the night, and will for the next two nights. He remembers little of the hours after he danced with you. He remembers drinking, Ragnar and Floki laughing, you falling asleep with your head on his shoulder once you had tired of dancing. He carried you home, waiting outside your door longer than necessary. He laid you on your bed where you stripped in front of him, begged him, in your drunken state, to climb into bed.

He wanted to. By the gods did he want to, but he didn't. He couldn't.

Rollo drags the whetstone down the blade. Once. Twice. Thrice. He looks toward the village and exhales through his nose. His attention returns to his axe. A few moments pass before he looks toward the village again, eyes scanning the woods.

You are late. Not that he is waiting for you. He is not... but you always find him. The hunt for the sacrifice should not take this long.

"Where is the weasel?" Floki looks up from his work.

"What weasel?" Roller gives him a flat look and Floki grins. "Ah. That weasel." He shrugs. "Why would I know?"

"Because you know everything that happens in this cursed village."

Floki's grin widens. "Not everything, and I do not know what happens in the woods."

Rollo squeezes his axe handle. "When did they leave for the hunt?"

"Early morning, before the sun." A pang of worry ignites in his stomach.

"They should be back by now." He throws the whetstone down, standing.

Floki's amusement fades. "Rollo." He is already walking away. "Where are you going?"

Rollo doesn't answer. He finds the others near the edge of the village. One man, one woman, but not you. Rollo's windpipe tightens and he tries to swallow down the pain.

"Where is she?" The two hunters turn. The man frowns.

"We separated. We thought she may be back already. We had no luck with a catch."

Rollo fists the man's coat. "You separated."

The hunter raises his hands, face paling. "We found boar tracks. She went east while we circled around."

"And?"

"And we lost the tracks." Rollo pushes him.

"How long ago?" He sees the man's face drop. Rollo's gaze hardens, eyes slitting. "How long?" he grinds out.

"I-I am not sure. Maybe an hour or longer."

Rollor charges at him. "Or longer?!"

"Rollo, please," the hunter cries. "The snow covered her tracks."

The woman hunter steps in, pushing Rollo back. "We searched for her! We are not to blame!"

Rollo's chest heaves as he glares at them one last time before he turns toward the forest.

────── ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ᚨ ✦ ᚱ ᚲ ᚷ ──────

He calls your name until his throat is raw. The woods give him nothing in return. Snow crunches beneath his boots as you ducks through the trees.

"Y/N!" He strains his ears, but there's nothing. He keeps pushing forward, moving faster.

You are fine. You have to be. You are probably just lost. When he finds you, you will be cold and hungry and furious that no one found you sooner. You will complain the entire way home. You will tell him every detail of what happened. You will make the story unnecessarily long, and Rollo will pretend he isn't listening... just like always.

"Y/N!" Uphead, he sees something. He rushes toward it, your spear broken under a blanket of snow. His eyes slowly drag up. Blood. His heart beats so hard it threatens to break his ribs. "No," he whispers.

He follows the trail to a boar. It's dead, the other end of the spear buried deep in its neck. Next to it, is you.

The world stops.

You're lying beneath a tree, so still, that for one horrible moment, Rollo thinks you're dead.

"No!" The cry tears from his throat. "Y/N!" He runs, knees hitting the ground. There is blood everywhere. Your clothes are soaked with it. His hands hover uselessly over your body, trembling as he bites his lip hard enough to draw blood.

For the first time in his life, Rollo Lothbrok feels completely helpless.

"Y/N." He hand brushes your face. It's pale, lips starting to turn blue. "No, no, no."

His fingers press against your neck. There, so small he almost misses it, is the faintest pulse. The air comes rushing back into this lungs. He pulls you into his arms and your head falls limp against his chest.

"Wake up. Come on, little weasel." His voice cracks. "Wake up."

He yanks off his furs, wrapping them around you. He presses his hand against the wound on your stomach, blood seeping between his fingers. He presses harder and you make a sound. His eyes snap toward your face.

"Y/N?" Your eye lids flutter.

"Rollo?" Your voice is barely audible.

He nearly sobs. "Yes." Your eyes begin to close. "No!" He shakes you. "No! Look at me." You want to, but you're so tired, so consumed by pain. You just want to sleep.

"Rollo-"

"Look at me!" Tears leave hot trails down his cheeks. You force your eyes open and his face swims above you. He looks so afraid. His fear rips your heart from your chest. It forces you to take another breath even when all you wish is for the pain to go away. You do not fear death. You have never feared it, for Valhalla waits for you. But in this moment, you are terrified of what you may leave behind in your wake.

His terror, his tears, are what hold you to life, even if only long enough to confess your truth. You use the last of your strength to run your fingers along his beard. Tears well in the corners of your eyes.

"Rollo Lothbrok." Your bottom lip quivers. "If I am to die today, I am glad yours is the last face I'll see. My love, do not carry this with you, for I will be in waiting at the gates of Valhalla when the gods finally call you home."

"No." His hands cup your face. "You will not die today. You can't die on me." His tears drip down his neck, teeth bared.

"You foolish man." You chuckle, but it turns into a rattling hack, blood spirting from your lips. "Just-just stay with me until I go."

"I am with you.' He pulls you onto his lap, cradling you. "Always and forever."

"Always?" A faint smile touches your face.

"Always." You nod, finally allowing yourself the release the darkness offers. You hear it calling your name, and find it impossible to keep your eyes open. As they flutter shut, you feel your body shake. "No! Y/N!" His voice is a distant plea now. "You have to wake up! Please, I-" His voice is broken by a sob. "I can't do this without you!" Rollo presses his forehead against yours. "Please." He looks toward the sky, toward the gods he has worshipped his entire life, and he begs. "Taken anything!" His arms tighten around you. "Do you hear me? Anything! My strength, my life. I do not care!" He looks down at you, his tears hitting your paled cheeks. "Just not her."

Rollo Lothbrok has never begged for anything in his life. Not victory, or glory, or power. But he begs now. And for the first time, he understands the truth.

All those mornings you found him. All those times you followed him. All those nights you sat beside him. All your questions, your laughter, and endless talking. You had woven yourself into every part of his life. He had let you.

Gods, he had wanted you to.

He had spent years pretending you were something he tolerated. Told himself you were nuisance, a weasel, a punishment sent by the gods.

All were lies to avoid the thing that Rollo fears the most... Heartbreak. Abandonment.

But after all these years... he had found it. His happiness, the shoreline of his soul. And he never got the chance to tell you.

Rollo slides one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back. He lifts you. Your head falls against his chest.

"Hold on." He stands and he begins to run. "Hold on, little weasel." He doesn't know if you can hear him, but he holds on to every shred of hope he has left. "I am taking you home."

────── ᚠ ᚢ ᚦ ᚨ ✦ ᚱ ᚲ ᚷ ──────

When you wake, everything hurts. You open your eyes slowly, white hot pain stabbing your gut. The room is dark, the only rumination coming from a nearby fire. For a few moments, you don't know where you are. You scan the room, your head a whirlpool.

You try to move and cry when you feel like your intestines are being ripped out.

"Y/N?" You turn your head to see Rollo. He looks terrible. His hair is disheveled, eyes red, dark circle beneath them. His hand is wrapped tightly against yours.

"Rollo?" Your voice is drier than the sand on the beach. He doesn't answer, just stares at you, eyes glistening. "You look like shit, Lothbrok." You manage a weak smile.

He stands suddenly. "Don't ever do that again!"

You blink. "What?"

"Do you hear me?" You stare up at him. His chest rises and falls heavily, eyes wild. They are full of rage and fear. "Do not ever do that to me again."

"I didn't exactly plan-"

"I almost lost you!" Your mouth closes and Rollo looks away. "I almost lost you." His voice is barely audible as he repeats it.

"Rollo," you whisper, squeezing his hand.

He still won't look at you. "I found you in the snow. There was so much blood. And... and I thought you were dead."

Your chest aches. "Rollo-"

"I thought you were dead." His voice breaks and it clenches your heart.

"Come here." For once, Rollo does exactly what you ask. He sits beside you on the bed. You lift a hand, caressing his cheek. "I am here."

"You almost weren't." A single tear escapes.

"But I am, because of you. My hero." Rollo glares at you and you grin. "There's the grumpy Rollo I love so much." He freezes and you do too. You suck in a breath. "I mean-"

"I love you." Your eyes widen, a boulder lodging in your throat.

"What?" His eyes frantically search your face, lips parting slightly.

"I love you." You stare at him and he lets out a shaky exhale. "I love you. I have spent years pretending I don't. I tell myself you irritate me." You chuckle, but hiss at the pain.

"I do irritate you," you groan.

"You do. More than anyone I have ever met." His large hand cups your cheek. "But I love you." He rests his forehead against yours. "And I thought you were going to die thinking I hate you."

You smile, rubbing your nose against his. "I never thought that. You are not as good at hiding it as you think."

His eyes narrow. "I hid it well."

"No," you snort. "You did not, but I enjoyed the chase." He laughs, planting a kiss on your forehead. "Say it again."

Rollo's eyes soften. "I love you."

Tears prick your eyes. "I love you too."

So carefully, as if afraid to break you, he leans in and kisses you. It is so gentle you almost don't recognize it's him. He hands cradle your face. It is relief, and joy, and love.

When he pulls away, he keeps his forehead against yours. You close your eyes. For a moment, neither of you speaks.

Then, because you can't help yourself. "So..."

Rollo groans. "Gods."

"What?"

"You nearly die and you still cannot be quiet."

You smile. "You would miss me."

Rollo opens his eyes, and he looks at you. At the woman who has tormented him for years. The woman who follows him everywhere, steals his ale, talks until his ears hurt. His little weasel. The woman he had nearly lost before he ever found the courage to tell her the truth.

Rollo kisses your forehead. "I would. I hope I never forget the sound of your voice." Your expression softens as his fingers intertwine with yours. "Now sleep."

"But I'm not tired."

"Sleep," he demands.

"Rollo-"

"Sleep, weasel."

"But-" Rollo kisses you again. When he pulls away, your eyes are wide.

He smirks. "Finally."

Your mouth falls open. Rollo laughs and it fills the room, along with your heart.

"You-"

You feel guilty the minute the thought comes to your head, but you can't help it. There's this gut feeling that you can't shake.

Everyone who ends up in this godforsaken town is terrified at first. They're confused, angry, and half convinced this is some elaborate nightmare or religious punishment.

At one point in time, that was you.

So, you try not to judge the newcomers too harshly. Still, there's something about him that you can't quite explain.

You tell yourself that you're imagining things, being paranoid. Ignoring the uncomfortable feeling crawling beneath your skin. Pretending you don't notice things. You've gotten good at that. Being stuck here, you have to. It's the best coping mechanism you've found. That and befriending the monsters that rip peoples guts out. That skill is reserved for you and you alone.

Though, you're not sure if you'd call the cowboy your friend, more an obsessed stalker. Even if you do check your curtains a thousand times every night to see if he's there. You tried not looking. You really tried, but curiosity always gets the better of you. At least, that's what you call it, too afraid to name it as anything else. You can't deny the pull in your chest when the sun sets. The little voice in your head screaming at you that a peek won't hurt. A conversation, a laugh, none of it matters when you'll never open the door. How can it hurt when it's through glass?

It's your little secret. You promised him you'd never tell anyone about your talks. That was over a month ago. You know how insane it is, you tell it to yourself every night he begs you to let him in. Holding onto the little sliver of fear is the only thing keeping you from turning the lock.

Today, you're trying your best to not think about any of that. You're enjoying yourself with real human beings like a normal, not insane, person.

Someone found an old bottle of whiskey buried in the back of a cabinet, and apparently that was enough of an excuse for half of Colony House in the kitchen.

You're leaning against the counter, nursing a drink you've barely touched, laughing at something someone says.

For a little while, you forget. You forget the monsters. You forget the cowboy. You forget the way he says your name like he's known you far longer than you've known him.

Someone steps in front of you.

"Hey." You look up to see the new guy, Dan, you think. Your smile falters.

"Hey." He rests his hand on the lip of the counter, only inches from your thigh. You suck in a breath, pretending not to notice.

"You having fun?"

"Yeah."

He raises a brow, eyes shooting down to your full glass. "Doesn't look like it."

You force a chuckle. "Yeah, I guess I'm just tired."

"Could've fooled me. You were laughing a second ago."

At a loss for words you state the obvious. "Someone said something funny."

He takes his bottom lip between his teeth. "So, I need to be funnier."

You give an awkward laugh, sipping your drink to fill that space. When he doesn't say anything, you realize he's not going to leave until you respond. "Um, you don't need to be anything."

His smile grows and you immediately regret saying it. "Good to know."

You look toward the doorway. Maybe you should find someone else. You recognize this feeling, that little warning in the back of your mind.

Go.

You search for an excuse to escape and look out the window. The sky is beginning to bruise and you set your glass down.

"Shit, I didn't realize what time is it. I should get going."

"Already?" He motions to the window. "You have at least another hour."

You push off the counter. "Yeah, but better safe than sorry. Wouldn't want to get eaten, you know?"

You don't like the new guy in town.

You feel guilty the minute the thought comes to your head, but you can't help it. There's this gut feeling that you can't shake.

Everyone who ends up in this godforsaken town is terrified at first. They're confused, angry, and half convinced this is some elaborate nightmare or religious punishment.

At one point in time, that was you.

So, you try not to judge the newcomers too harshly. Still, there's something about him that you can't quite explain.

You tell yourself that you're imagining things, being paranoid. Ignoring the uncomfortable feeling crawling beneath your skin. Pretending you don't notice things. You've gotten good at that. Being stuck here, you have to. It's the best coping mechanism you've found. That and befriending the monsters that rip peoples guts out. That skill is reserved for you and you alone.

Though, you're not sure if you'd call the cowboy your friend, more an obsessed stalker. Even if you do check your curtains a thousand times every night to see if he's there. You tried not looking. You really tried, but curiosity always gets the better of you. At least, that's what you call it, too afraid to name it as anything else. You can't deny the pull in your chest when the sun sets. The little voice in your head screaming at you that a peek won't hurt. A conversation, a laugh, none of it matters when you'll never open the door. How can it hurt when it's through glass?

It's your little secret. You promised him you'd never tell anyone about your talks. That was over a month ago. You know how insane it is, you tell it to yourself every night he begs you to let him in. Holding onto the little sliver of fear is the only thing keeping you from turning the lock.

Today, you're trying your best to not think about any of that. You're enjoying yourself with real human beings like a normal, not insane, person.

Someone found an old bottle of whiskey buried in the back of a cabinet, and apparently that was enough of an excuse for half of Colony House in the kitchen.

You're leaning against the counter, nursing a drink you've barely touched, laughing at something someone says.

For a little while, you forget. You forget the monsters. You forget the cowboy. You forget the way he says your name like he's known you far longer than you've known him.

Someone steps in front of you.

"Hey." You look up to see the new guy, Dan, you think. Your smile falters.

"Hey." He rests his hand on the lip of the counter, only inches from your thigh. You suck in a breath, pretending not to notice.

"You having fun?"

"Yeah."

He raises a brow, eyes shooting down to your full glass. "Doesn't look like it."

You force a chuckle. "Yeah, I guess I'm just tired."

"Could've fooled me. You were laughing a second ago."

At a loss for words you state the obvious. "Someone said something funny."

He takes his bottom lip between his teeth. "So, I need to be funnier."

You give an awkward laugh, sipping your drink to fill that space. When he doesn't say anything, you realize he's not going to leave until you respond. "Um, you don't need to be anything."

His smile grows and you immediately regret saying it. "Good to know."

You look toward the doorway. Maybe you should find someone else. You recognize this feeling, that little warning in the back of your mind.

Go.

You search for an excuse to escape and look out the window. The sky is beginning to bruise and you set your glass down.

"Shit, I didn't realize what time is it. I should get going."

"Already?" He motions to the window. "You have at least another hour."

You push off the counter. "Yeah, but better safe than sorry. Wouldn't want to get eaten, you know?"

You don't like the new guy in town.

You feel guilty the minute the thought comes to your head, but you can't help it. There's this gut feeling that you can't shake.

Everyone who ends up in this godforsaken town is terrified at first. They're confused, angry, and half convinced this is some elaborate nightmare or religious punishment.

At one point in time, that was you.

So, you try not to judge the newcomers too harshly. Still, there's something about him that you can't quite explain.

You tell yourself that you're imagining things, being paranoid. Ignoring the uncomfortable feeling crawling beneath your skin. Pretending you don't notice things. You've gotten good at that. Being stuck here, you have to. It's the best coping mechanism you've found. That and befriending the monsters that rip peoples guts out. That skill is reserved for you and you alone.

Though, you're not sure if you'd call the cowboy your friend, more an obsessed stalker. Even if you do check your curtains a thousand times every night to see if he's there. You tried not looking. You really tried, but curiosity always gets the better of you. At least, that's what you call it, too afraid to name it as anything else. You can't deny the pull in your chest when the sun sets. The little voice in your head screaming at you that a peek won't hurt. A conversation, a laugh, none of it matters when you'll never open the door. How can it hurt when it's through glass?

It's your little secret. You promised him you'd never tell anyone about your talks. That was over a month ago. You know how insane it is, you tell it to yourself every night he begs you to let him in. Holding onto the little sliver of fear is the only thing keeping you from turning the lock.

Today, you're trying your best to not think about any of that. You're enjoying yourself with real human beings like a normal, not insane, person.

Someone found an old bottle of whiskey buried in the back of a cabinet, and apparently that was enough of an excuse for half of Colony House in the kitchen.

You're leaning against the counter, nursing a drink you've barely touched, laughing at something someone says.

For a little while, you forget. You forget the monsters. You forget the cowboy. You forget the way he says your name like he's known you far longer than you've known him.

Someone steps in front of you.

"Hey." You look up to see the new guy, Dan, you think. Your smile falters.

"Hey." He rests his hand on the lip of the counter, only inches from your thigh. You suck in a breath, pretending not to notice.

"You having fun?"

"Yeah."

He raises a brow, eyes shooting down to your full glass. "Doesn't look like it."

You force a chuckle. "Yeah, I guess I'm just tired."

"Could've fooled me. You were laughing a second ago."

At a loss for words you state the obvious. "Someone said something funny."

He takes his bottom lip between his teeth. "So, I need to be funnier."

You give an awkward laugh, sipping your drink to fill that space. When he doesn't say anything, you realize he's not going to leave until you respond. "Um, you don't need to be anything."

His smile grows and you immediately regret saying it. "Good to know."

You look toward the doorway. Maybe you should find someone else. You recognize this feeling, that little warning in the back of your mind.

Go.

You search for an excuse to escape and look out the window. The sky is beginning to bruise and you set your glass down.

"Shit, I didn't realize what time is it. I should get going."

"Already?" He motions to the window. "You have at least another hour."

You hop off the counter. "Yeah, but better safe than sorry. Wouldn't want to get eaten, you know?"

Dan chuckles, but something about the sound makes your skin crawl.

"I'll walk you."

Your eyes snap to him. "Oh, no. That's okay."

"Come on." He pushes away from the counter. "It's getting dark."

"Exactly." You give him a tight smile. "Which is why I should probably hurry."

"All the more reason you shouldn't go alone." The irony isn't lost on you. You glance toward the window again. The sun is sinking faster than you'd like. You don't have time to stand here arguing.

"I've made the walk a thousand times."

"Then what's one more with company?"

"I really don't—"

"Jesus." He laughs. "I'm not asking you to marry me." Your mouth snaps shut. Dan grabs his jacket from the back of one of the chairs. "Come on."

You should say no again. You want to, but several people are watching now, and you can already imagine how ridiculous you'll sound.

No, I don't want the new guy walking me home because he gives me a weird feeling.

You're just being paranoid.

You regret your decision before Colony House disappears behind you.

Dan walks too close. Close enough that his arm occasionally brushes yours. The first time, you tell yourself it's an accident. The second time, you move farther away. By the third, there's barely any road left between you and the grass.

"You know," Dan says, "you don't have to walk all the way over there."

You force a laugh. "I like my personal space."

"Clearly." The word holds bite and makes your stomach flip.

You side eye him to see his fists balled and he's looking straight ahead. You look toward the horizon instead. The last streaks of sunlight bleed across the sky.

Your chest tightens. Five minutes until the sun goes down. That's all you need.

You walk start to walk faster and Dan matches your pace.

"So, what's your deal?"

"My deal?" Your brows crease.

"Yeah."

"I don't have a deal."

"Everyone has a deal." You shove your hands into your pockets.

"Not me."

"Bullshit." You look at him and he grins. "You're kinda weird."

"Thanks?" You purse your lips.

"I mean it in a good way."

You snort. "Somehow, I don't believe you."

"There." He points at you. "That."

"What?"

"You act all quiet, but then you say shit like that." You shrug and Dan laughs. "You're cute."

Ew, puke.

You swallow the bile burning your throat and do your best to keep your expression neutral. You don't answer and you can see him staring at you in your peripheral. Your house is visible, only a few more feet.

"Hey." Dan catches your arm. You stop, every muscle in your body tenses. His hand is wrapped around your wrist. You stare at it, and then at him.

"Let go."

His brows lift. "I'm just trying to talk to you."

"You can talk without holding me." Something flickers across his face, but he releases you. You immediately step away. "Thanks for walking me. I can make it from here." You turn, but his hand closes around your arm again. His grip is tighter this time, causing the skin around his fingers to go white. "Dan," you whisper, barley restraining the urge to scream.

"What?"

"Let go."

"Why are you acting like this?"

Your heartbeat picks up. "Like what?"

"Like I'm some fucking creep." You wet your lips, drawing your bottom lip between your teeth.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." The sky is getting darker. You look toward the trees, then toward your house. You're close. So fucking close.

"Dan, I need to go." You pull your arm, but he holds firm.

"Just wait a second."

"No, it's getting dark." You yank your arm, panic swelling inside you. "I said let go."

"Would you calm down?" He pulls you to him.

"Get your fucking hand off me." You shove him and he stumbles backward.

For half a second, you're free. You turn and start running. You're in your front yard when you feel arms lock around your waist. A scream tears from your throat.

"Get off me!"

"Jesus Christ, would you stop?"

You thrash against him. Panic explodes through your chest. "Let me go!"

"I'm trying to fucking talk to you!"

"No!" You drive your elbow backward. He curses when it connects with his nose. You turn and shove him again. "Don't fucking touch me!"

Dan stares at you. His face has changed completely. The friendly smile is gone.

"You fucking bitch." Fear shoots through you. You slowly step backyard, eyes darting toward the sky. It has turned a dark blue, and stars have started to form.

Oh, God.

"Dan." You hate the way your voice shakes. "Listen to me, you-"

"You scared of me?" Your blood runs cold. Your eyes dart toward the trees. Darkness is creeping between them. The forest is waking up. It's not him you're afraid of anymore.

"Please." The word slips out.

Dan laughs. "You could've just been nice to me."

"I need to get inside," you beg

"So do I."

"Then go." You throw your arm in the direction of his house.

"Well, it's too late for me to make it home now." You take another step backward. "I'll have to stay here."

"Dan." He steps forward, you move back. "Stay away from me."

"Stop acting like I'm going to hurt you."

"You can't stay here." You shakes your head, feeling unshed tears burn your eyes. "You need to go."

He clicks his tongue. "You'd really leave me out here with these freaks? To die?" You gulp, wanting to say yes. Because you would. In a heart beat you would. You're only a few steps from your door. You can make it. You can run and lock the door before he gets there.

You hesitate one more second, then leap into action. You spin, making it up the first two steps of your porch.

His hand catches the back of your jacket. You scream. The force jerks you backward. You stumble down the steps, and Dan grabs your arm. You swing at him. Your fist catches his cheek and you make to stand, but your feet slip in the slick grass.

He swears and grabs your ankle. You fall, your chest hitting the lip of the first step. The air leaves your lungs. For a moment, everything disappears. Sound, sight, thought, all swallowed by the feeling of your sternum behind cracked.

You feel a hand reach higher up your leg and everything comes rushing back.

"No!" You kick. Your shoe connects with his shoulder. You kick again and again. "Get off me!" The sky is almost black. The realization crashes over you. You're outside. You're outside. You're outside.

Your panic doubles. "Dan, stop!"

"Would you fucking-"

Something moves behind him, and you freeze. Dan doesn't notice, but your heart stops. Your breath is caught in your lungs and you gasp as his shadow stretches over the both of you.

You've never been so happy to see a monster in your life. Dan grabs for you again, but you barely notice. You're staring past him, at the cowboy.

He's staring at Dan, fingers looped in his belt, and that familiar smile on his face. Only this time, the smile seems larger than normal, sharper.

His head tilts, slowly. The movement sends a chill down your spine.

"What the fuck are you looking at?" Dan follows your gaze. You hear his gasp of fear as he rips his hand from you like it's burned him. For one horrible second, nobody moves. "Oh, fuck."

The cowboy steps closer, his boot tip kicking Dan's foot.

"Evening."

Dan scrambles backward. You don't, you can't. You're still sitting on the ground, just staring at him, lips slightly parted.

The cowboy's eyes flick toward you. His gaze moves over you, your ripped jacket, your scraped hands, the red marks already forming around your wrist.

His blue eyes settle there, on Dan's fingerprints. You watch the smile spread deeper. The cowboy looks at Dan in slow motion.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing." The cowboy takes another step as Dan scurries to his feet. "I didn't do anything."

The cowboy looks at you. His eyes find yours, and he drawls your name in the softest, most gentle voice you've heard from him.

"Did he hurt you?" You can't speak, all thought consumed by fear and awe. The cowboy raises a brow waiting for your response. You swallow the lump in your throat, debating what you should tell him. If you say yes, Dan is surely dead, and can you handle having a someone's blood on your hands? But... his death would mean this doesn't happen to anyone else, or you, ever again. Your whole body shakes as you nod.

There's this subtle change, but you don't miss it. And it is terrifying. Every hair stands on end when his jaw shifts, fingers curling deeper, smile spreading from ear to ear.

Dan runs. The Cowboy's head snaps toward him, too fast, inhumanly fast. Your stomach drops.

"Wait!" The word leaves your mouth before you can stop it. The cowboy looks at you. You don't know what you're asking. You don't know if you're asking him to stay. You don't know if you're asking him not to kill Dan. Maybe both, maybe neither. The cowboy looks toward the direction Dan disappeared, then back at you.

"Get inside."

You swallow. "What are you going to do?"

The way he smiles is different than what you've seen through the safety of your window. It reminds you exactly what he is.

"That's nothin' for you to worry about, Sweetheart."

"Please," you croak as a tear slips down your cheek. You don't even know what you're pleading for.

His expression softens ever so slightly. "He hurt you, and I can't let that happen." He reaches out his hand. You take it, your hand trembling, and he gently lifts you up. He brushes a loose hair behind your ear. Butterflies erupt in your stomach. "I'll come see you later."

You nod. The cowboy tilts his head, and looks at your wrist again. The softness disappears. He looks at you on more time. You've never been this close to him without glass separating you. You should be terrified. You are terrified. But the fear isn't enough to stop the overwhelming sense of safety.

"Go on." He tilts his head toward your door. Your fingers slip from his. He lets you go reluctantly, his hand remaining outstretched between you for a moment before dropping to his side. Just as your hand rests on the door knob, you turn back to him. He hasn't moved. He's waiting until you're inside.

"Are you-Are you going to kill him?" Guilt has already began to eat away at your insides. You don't know why you ask. You already know the answer.

"Inside. Now." His tone leaves no room for argument.

You look toward the road where Dan disappeared, then back at him. The cowboy watches you carefully. You should tell him not to. The words should come easily.

Don't.

Leave him alone.

Let him go.

Instead, you look down at your wrist. The marks are already darkening. You can still feel Dan's hands on you. Your stomach turns and you think you're going to be sick. You open the door, begging your mind to stop reeling. You step through the threshold. Before closing it, you look back, but he's already gone.

─────── ⋆⋅☾⋅⋆ ───────

You don't sleep. You don't even try. You sit on the edge of your bed with your knees pulled against your chest. No matter how many times you try to convince yourself you're not waiting for him... you know you are.

Your eyes drift toward the window, but force yourself look away. Five minutes pass, or maybe it's ten. It feels like an eternity and you're stuck with your own consuming thoughts.

You look again, and he's still not here.

Stop. Stop thinking about him.

You grab the book sitting beside your bed. You read the same sentence four times. Your eyes betray you and look at the window again.

"Fuck." You throw the book aside. This is ridiculous. You're worried about a monster. A fucking monster. One of the things that walks around at night wearing people's faces and tearing them apart. And you're sitting here wondering when he's coming back for you.

You laugh, a short, hysterical sound. You've officially lost your mind.

You stand, and cross the room. You pull the curtain aside, nails digging into the fabric.

"Where are you?" The words slip out, and you immediately feel stupid. You slam the curtains shut and turn around.

Tap.

Your lungs seize.

Tap. Tap.

Slowly, you turn. There's a shadow behind the curtain. Your heart leaps into your throat. You rush forward and yank the curtain aside.

The cowboy smiles at you. "There she is."

Relief crashes through you... then you see the blood.

Your smile disappears. "Oh my God." He's covered in it. His shirt is soaked. Dark red stains stretch across his chest. His hands are worse. Blood coats his fingers, dried beneath his nails and smeared along his wrists. A trail of it drips down his chin. You stumble backward as he tilts his head, his eyes following you. You stare at him, a trembling hand coming up to cover your mouth "Is that-"

You can't finish. You think you might throw up. You feel your mouth start to water and you gulp it back.

He steps closer to the window. "You scared of me now?"

The question is soft, almost curious.

You stare at him. "I-I don't know."

He considers your answer, then nods. "That's alright."

"That's alright?" You feel anger spike.

"Mhm."

"You killed someone." You rush to the window and the cowboy's eyes turn dark.

"He hurt you."

"That doesn't mean-"

"He would've done it again," he snaps. Your mouth snaps shut. "I can't let that happen." You hate that you've already thought the same thing. You look down, and he taps the glass.

You should close the curtain. You should walk away. You should never speak to him again.

"Don't hide from me," he drawls, as if he can read your thoughts.

"I won't," you murmur, and hate yourself for it. "You have blood on your face."

His smile widens. He wipes his thumb across his chin, but it does little to help, as his hands are coated in it. He brings it to his lips, wrapping his tongue around it.

You take in a shaky breath and stare at him through the glass. The same glass that's separated you every night for over a month. The same glass that's allowed you to pretend this is harmless. That he is harmless... but he isn't.

You knew that. You've always known that. But knowing something and seeing the evidence of it dripping from his hands are two entirely different things.

"You came back." The words escape before you can stop them.

"Course I did."

"Why?" His brows furrow, like the answer should be obvious.

"I told you I would." Something in your chest aches and you look away.

"You shouldn't have." You say it so quietly in hopes that he won't hear it. "You're a monster."

"You've always known that." When you don't respond, his eyes drift to your wrist. "Let me see."

You instinctively pull your hand against your chest. "No."

His eyes lift. "Sweetheart."

"It's fine." You rub at the sore skin.

"Let me see."

"You can see it from there," you bite and his jaw tightens.

"No." The cowboy steps so close that his chest nearly touches the window. "I want to see you."

"You are seeing me." You motion to yourself, but he shakes his head.

"Not through the glass." Everything inside you goes still. You've had this conversation before. He always tries to bait you to let him in, but you can't. You won't. You may be stupid enough to talk to him, but you're not stupid enough to actually let him in.

"No." The answer comes automatically. The cowboy tilts his head, his smiling pulling at his skin.

"You didn't even think about it."

"Because I don't have to."

"Why?"

You laugh incredulously. "Why?"

"Mhm."

"Because," you let out an exasperated breath. "Because you just killed someone."

"You knew I killed people."

"That's different." You use it as an excuse, because it's all you have, even if it doesn't make sense. You have to hold onto something. This is wrong. It's always been wrong, but now he's hurt someone because of you.

"How so?"

"Because-" You stop. You don't have an answer. Because it was Dan? Because he did it for you? Because some dark, twisted part of you is relieved? The cowboy watches every thought move across your face.

"You've been talkin' to me every night for a month."

Your throat tightens. "That's different."

"You wait for me."

You scoff, sucking your teeth. "I do not."

His smile returns. "You do."

"No, I don't." He brings his hand to the window, blood squishing out around it and onto the glass.

"You wait for me by this window before the sun's even gone." Heat creeps into your cheeks. "You smile when you see me and tell me about your day." You don't answer. You don't know what to say, but the more he talks, the further you're pulled in. His voice softens. "I saved you tonight. The least you could do it let me in."

You chew on your cheek, teeth grinding with restraint. "What if I let you in, and you kill me like you did him?"

His raises a brow, smile growing wider. "Have I ever hurt you?"

"Well..." you pick as your nails. "No."

"Have I ever tried?"

"No."

He taps the glass and you look up at him. "Then what're you afraid of?"

"You."

His chuckles. "Now, Sweetheart, we both know that ain't true. You're not afraid of me, you're afraid of the way I make your insides turn."

You don't answer, because that's the problem. You're afraid of yourself. Of the fact that every night, the distance between your hand and that lock feels smaller. Of the fact that sometimes when he smiles at you, you forget what he is. Of the fact that tonight, when you thought Dan was going to hurt you, the cowboy was the person you wanted.

The person, not the monster.

"Open the door."

Your heart pounds. "No."

"Sweetheart, it's about time you let me have what's mine."

"I am not yours." Even as the words leave your lips, you know they're a lie.

"Are you so cure?" The cowboy's voice lowers. "Open the door." The cowboy leans closer. "Let me in. I want to be close to you."

You can't use words. Can't find it in yourself to say yes, so... you simply walk to the front door. You see his shadow pass through the front window. You reach for the lock, but stop just short of turning it.

You shouldn't do this. You can't do this. You head and your heart are at war and the longer you stare at the lock, the farther away it gets. Your visions starts to blur and you bite your lip. You shouldn't. God, you shouldn't.

Your fingers close around the lock.

Click.

The sound is deafening. You pull open the door and cold air rushes in.

Your mouth goes dry as you lift your head to meet his blue gaze. The smile that spreads across his lips isn't human. It's wide and hungry and triumphant. A shiver spiderwebs up your spine.

One second, he's outside. The next he's in your living room. You stumble backward. The cowboy straightens to his full height. For the first time, there is no glass between you. No talisman. No sunlight. Nothing.

It's just you and him.

His eyes never leave yours. You closes the door behind him.

Click.

Your heart stops as he locks it.

He smiles. "Now." He takes one slow step toward you. "You wanna tell me again that you ain't mine?"

Your breath catches and he moves closer. You don't back away. His bloodstained fingers rise toward your face. They stop before touching you. His gaze flicks to your eyes. You steel yourself and lean into his palm.

The cowboy inhales sharply. His thumb brushes your cheek. It is so painfully gentle that it doesn't match the blood staining his skin.

"I've been waitin' to feel your skin for so long." His arm wraps around your wait, pulling you into him. You gasp, splaying your hands across his chest. His fingers grip your chin, and he kisses you. It is metallic and sweet.

For all the nights you've imagined what it might be like, you weren't prepared for how careful he is at first. His lips barely move against yours, like he's spent years watching people do this but never understood why until now.

You pull back just enough to look at him. The cowboy's eyes open. You're fucking insane. You know it, and at this moment, you don't care. Any sense of guilt or shame left the minute you opened that door.

"Is that it?" His brows pull together. You can't help yourself, and you smile. "All that begging to come inside, and that's all you've got?"

Something flashes behind his eyes. Maybe teasing the monster wasn't your smartest decision.

His head tilts. "You sure about that, sweetheart?"

Your heart pounds. You grab the front of his shirt and pull him back to you. This time, he understands. His hands grab your hips, hauling you up. His lips never leave yours as he finds the nearest surface to set you on. You bare legs hit the cold marble of you kitchen counter and you hiss.

You feel the stickiness of the blood on your legs, as he runs his large hands up your thighs. His fingers find the hem of your shirt and he tugs. You separate long enough for him to pull it over your head.

You lean in, but he stops you. His irises have gone from bright blue to the color of deep water. His eyes, half-lidded, take in the sight of you. Streaks of red along your bare skin, chest heaving, hands shaking. He can smell the fear and arousal rolling off of you and it drives him crazy. His gaze lands on your neck and he runs a bloodstained finger over your pulse.

You suck in a breath, yet tilt your head to give him better access. His tongue darts out to wet his lips.

"You can... um... you can bite me if you want." What are you saying? What if he tastes you and he can't stop? You don't care. Right now, all you know is that you want him, you need him. And you love the way he's staring at you.

"Hmm," he hums. "You don't know what you're offerin', Sweetheart."

You grab his wrist, guiding his hands down your collarbone, over your breasts, until his fingers reach the hem of your shorts. Goosebumps cover your skin at the cold of his hand.

"I want you to. I want you." Your voice is soft and seductive. "I'm yours, right? So show me."

He moans, taking his bottom lip between his teeth. "Gladly."

He grabs your legs, yanking you to the edge of the counter. Your hands catch the lip, lifting yourself as he rips your bottoms off, along with your panties. He shoves your legs open, stepping between them. One of his hands grabs a fistful of your hair, as the other buries itself between your things.

It all happens so fast. His fingers slide into your pussy and his teeth sink into your neck and you scream. Your eyes roll back, legs spreading wide for him. The pain and the pleasure are intoxicating. He thrusts his fingers, tongue lapping over the wound on your neck. You hiss when he growls in your ear, taking the lobe between his teeth.

"You taste so sweet." His breath on your skin send shivers through your whole body. You rip his shirt open, buttons flying everywhere. You push the fabric down, your hands grip his shoulders, nails tearing into his skin and he plunges his fingers in and out of you. You feel a knot in your belly as his thumb rolls over your clit. Your legs being to shake and you wrap them around his hips for stability.

"Fuck, I'm close," you whimper and he pulls your head back, his tongue running up your neck, then your jaw, until his lips are on yours. You squeeze your eyes shut, grinding your hips so that his fingers dig deeper. You moan into his mouth as stars bust behind your lids. You fall back against the wall, the cold a relief against your sweat-soaked skin.

"My pretty girl," he moans, taking his fingers into his mouth. His sucks them, eyes rolling back. When he pulls them out, his licks his lips. His fingers fall to his belt and he undoes the buckle, pulling it from the loops. It clinks to the floor and he flicks the button of his jeans open.

When he yanks them down to his knees, you suck in a breath. His hands grip your thighs and heat rushes up your body.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to touch you." His fingers slowly trace up your legs, to your hips. His thumbs dig into your hip bones and you arch your back, moaning. "How long I've wanted to see you laid out before me. Helpless and pantin'." The husk of his accent is almost enough to send you over the edge a second time.

You are dizzy and desperate. You wrap your hand around the base of him and he groans. You run your grip up until you reach the tip, and run your thumb over the head of his cock. His hands fall onto the counter, knuckles blanching. You guide him to your entrance, brushing him up and down your wet pussy.

He grits his teeth and his gaze is predatory, all restraint dissipating. He grabs your thighs, slamming into you. He fills you and your mouth falls open in a gasp, all the air leaving your body. It stings as he buries himself in you all the way to the base.

"You're so wet and warm," he moans in your ear. He pulls out, then thrusts back in and you groan. He rolls his hips, forehead, meeting yours as he picks up pace. Every time he enters you, it's harder and faster, until your a mess of moans and cries.

He pushes your head out of the way, teeth sinking into your shoulder and you scream. He sucks on your skin, pounding in and out of you. Your nails drag down his back, needing something to hold onto to. Your legs are locked around his waist. Everything on the counter is shaking and rattling. Your hands fly to his hair tugging as your head falls back.

"Fuck," you cry and he swallows it with his mouth. The kiss and metallic with the taste of your own blood and takes your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging. You moan and yank his head back by his hair. You attack your lips to his collarbone, nipping and sucking.

You feel that familiar swell in your stomach and your head fall back. "I'm gonna... fuck, I'm gonna cum."

His fingers dig into your skin as he thrusts harder. "Look at me," he growls. "I want to see what I do to you."

You open your eyes to see his glistening skin. His muscles bunch under his skin at each thrust. His forehead rests against yours, your breath tangling as you come undone. You bite your lip to keep from closing your eyes. Your center starts to tingle and you feel yourself tighten around him. Waves of pressure swell and crash over you, every muscle in your body seizing as you release around him. Pure bliss consumes you, your legs falling against the counter, body going limp with pleasure.

You sag against him, breathless, your forehead falling against his shoulder. For a moment, he doesn't move. Neither of you speak. His arms remained wrapped around you, holding you against him. His face disappears into the crook of your neck. You tense when his nose brushes the marks he left behind, but he doesn't bite you again. Instead, his lips press against your skin.

"You alright?" he asks. Of all the things you expected him to say, that wasn't it. You pull back enough to see his face. A small smile finds your lips.

"Yeah," you giggle. "I'm alright."

"You ain't regretting' it?" You study him, the blood on his face, the darkness in his eyes, the smile you've spent countless nights pretending you don't wait for.

"No." The answers surprise you with how easily it comes out. You don't know if monsters can feel relief. Your not entirely convinces they can feel anything a human can, but whatever crosses his face comes close. He cups your cheek.

Dean’s not jealous. He’s not. It’s just that rage runs hot when he sees you take Caleb’s hand. Because Dean hates him, because you had to choose the one guy that he can’t stand. Dean tells himself this as he watches you, his unlikely and unwanted obsession, walk away from the basement with Caleb fucking Blaine. He doesn’t even have a costume. He’s just wearing black and a smug sense of higher principle. The opposite of Dean in every possible universe. 

He looses the two of you for a few minutes, and when he goes up the stairs, you’re already on the dance floor.

You’re laughing. Actually, truly laughing. It’s not the brittle, practiced smile you fake for most of the world, but the kind Dean’s only seen at midnight, in the privacy of his hoodie and stupid jokes. It’s like someone gave you new lungs. 

You’re in the arms of the guy who wrote that brutal article last year, the one that circulated through the team like a virus. He still remembers the likes, the condescending way he dissected the lot of them, and it’s been long enough that the hate runs clear. 

He stares, thumb picking at the rim of his plastic cup in a slow, repetitive tear. Dean’s first instinct is to go over there, break it up, wedge himself between you, but every inch of self-preservation tells him not to. Play it cool. 

Just then, two girls approach. One is a devil, one an angel, and both giggle when they reach him. 

“Hi,” Devil says, and Dean flicks his eyes to her with professional courtesy.

“Hey.” But he can’t focus. His entire periphery is a red-lit vision of you, gliding across the carpet with Blaine, your hand lazily resting in his as he twirls you.

“You wanna go have some fun?” Angel asks, bouncing a little for show. 

Dean makes eye contact and feels an immediate pang of disgust. Not with her, she’s beautiful, but with himself. 

A hollowness opens in his chest. He remembers you telling him to sleep with other girls, the dare in your eyes. He’d promised he would, but the truth was, he hadn’t even opened his DMs. The whole act was a pathetic attempt to make you jealous, to force some admission that you felt even a fraction of what he did. Now, watching you with Blaine, he wonders if his feelings are truly one-sided. 

“Maybe later.” He doesn’t realize how truly angry he is until he spills half his cup down his arm. The devil sidesteps the splash, then offers him a napkin. He takes it, says “thanks,” and immediately leaves them behind, going into the kitchen for a better view. 

You throw your head back at something Caleb says, and for half a second, jealousy and shame go to war inside Dean’s chest. Shame briefly wins. He wants you to be happy, doesn’t he? He just didn’t expect that happiness to come from someone other than himself. 

He sucks it up. Refills his cup, and swirls the pour. He takes a pull, then another, then another, until the alcohol forms a raft for his ego. 

He’s about to float over there, to “accidentally” collide, work some banter, reassert his brand of charm, when a hand clamps around his shoulder. It’s not a gentle hand.

Dean whips around, ready to sneer, and sees Logan. His gold circlet is crooked on his head. Statistically, Dean should hate him too, for liking the same girl, but Logan’s one of his best friends. Logan is the head to Dean’s heart when it comes to you. Dean carries only respect for him. 

“Don’t,” Logan says. 

Dean raises a brow. “Don’t what?”

He looks over the crowd. “Don’t go over there.”

“Why?” Dean tries to say it casual, but even he hears the bite. 

Logan doesn’t answer right away. Just jerks his chin in the direction of you and Blaine. “Look at her, man. She’s having a good time. Let her. First time all semester I’ve seen her like that.”

Dean pushes his tongue to his cheek, flat-line emotion. “I’ve seen her like that every night for the last month.” He shrugs Logan’s hand off. “Besides, I want to have a good time, too.”

Logan stares at him, mouth tight. “You’re not in this for her good time.”

“You don’t know what I’m in it for,” he snaps.

Logan laughs quietly, and annoyance spikes through Dean. He leans in, lowering his voice so only Dean can hear it. “Dude, don’t take this the wrong way, but you look like you’re about to punch someone. You can do what you want, but if you mess with Caleb, you’ll make it worse. And if you mess with her-” He stops, not needing to finish. 

Dean takes a slow breath. “Doesn’t it drive you crazy? Seeing her with other guys?”

“Yeah, it does.” Logan’s voice softens. “But not the way it does you.” He sighs. “Why can’t you just leave her alone?”

Dean scoffs. “Says the guy who never leaves her alone.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not trying to get with her.” Logan says it with a sincerity that pisses Dean off even more. “You, on the other hand…”

“What about me?”

Logan watches him, a knowing smirk on his face that makes Dean want to punch him. “You’re all in, and you don’t even know it, or at least you pretend not to.” Dean wants to deny it, make a joke, but the words tangle up before they can escape. Logan glances at Blaine and you again, then back at Dean. “She seems happy with him.”

Dean laughs, but it’s frail. “Oh, so you’re okay with her being happy with the guy who hates everyone on the team, but not me?”

“Do you really think you’re ready for everything that comes with making her happy?” Dean nearly spits out his drink at the question. Something ugly forms in the pit of his stomach. He glances at you, who’s are eyes closed and lost in the song that’s playing. Dean wants to be the one who makes you laugh. He wants to be the one you relax around, the one you trust. But deep down, he’s terrified he’s never going to be that. He looks back at Logan. 

“I don’t know.” The admission surprises them both. Dean lets out a humorless laugh, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I just…” He watches Caleb spin you under his arm, your smile is bright enough to squeeze his heart. “I don't know how the hell he got there first.”

Logan studies him. “He didn't.” Dean looks over. “You did. You've been there for weeks.”

Dean opens his mouth to argue, but the protest dies on his tongue. Logan’s right. Dean is the one who got you laughing late at night, the one who spent hours mirroring your steps just to feel your hand in his, memorizing the exact way you tuck your hands into your sleeves when you get anxious. He’d been there for all of it.

“I fucked this up,” he says quietly.

“Yeah, well giving all your attention to other women right in front of her doesn’t exactly make a girl feel special.” Dean wants to be angry, but it fizzles, replaced by guilt. He nods, and can’t help but look at you again. Your cheeks are flushed, you’re swaying to the music, completely oblivious to him watching. 

“I only did that to make her jealous.”

“How’d that work out for you?” Logan lets him simmer, then claps a hand on his shoulder again, this time in sympathy. “You’re not a bad guy, Dean. But we both know she’s been through some shit in her life, even if we don’t know what. Don’t pile on just because your pride’s hurt.”

Dean lets out a hollow laugh. “You know, she’s the one who told me to sleep with other girls in the first place.”

Logan snorts. “Of course she did. She’s pushing you away, and you’re letting her.”

“Or maybe she just doesn’t see me in that way.”

Logan smirks. “No way, man. I think she likes you a hell of a lot more than she’ll ever admit. She’s not playing hard to get. She’s just scared of getting her heart broken.”

Dean’s forehead wrinkles. “Since when did you become the Y/N expert?”

Logan shrugs. “We’ve just grown close over the last few weeks. And honestly, she’s not that hard to read if you look close enough.”

Dean chuckles. “Why are you helping me? I mean, it’s obvious you have a thing for her. I’ve seen the way you look at us. And the whole ‘off limits’ comment. I don’t get it.”

Logan sighs. “I’ve told you a hundred times, it’s not like that. We’re just friends. I’m not jealous, I’m just protective.” He shrugs. “But I see how you look at her, and I’ve never seen you look at anyone like that. I’ve seen you change for her in ways I didn’t think were possible. I just don’t want you to hurt her.”

“Fuck,” Dean rests against the counter. “I don’t want to hurt her either. She just makes it so hard.”

Logan bumps his shoulder. “Yeah, well you picked the most stubborn person to like.”

Dean chuckles under his breath. “It’s more fun that way.” They both laugh. “You really think I have a chance?”

“If you stop acting like an idiot, yeah.” Logan nods toward you. “Just, don’t prove to her that you’re the guy everyone thinks you are. You gotta be vulnerable, dude. Lay everything out on the table. If you’re really serious about her, then hold nothing back. Stop trying to make her admit she likes you. Give her a reason to believe you when you say you like her.” Silence settles between them. Dean watches as Caleb dips you. He knows you’re drunk because you nearly trip over your own heels and catch yourself against Caleb's shoulder, laughing even harder. Logan breaks the silence. “So…” He looks over at you. “What are you gonna do?”

Dean watches you for another second. Your eyes drift, and catch his before you quickly look away, making Dean smirk. “I’m gonna go get my girl.”

Logan grins. “That's the first smart thing you've said all night. But if you break her heart Di Laurentis, I’ll kill you.”

Dean shakes his head. “I’ll hand you the bat myself.” He takes a steadying breath, and starts walking toward you.

He edges through the crowd before you even see him coming. Caleb’s eyes flick up. That split second warning, then Dean’s shadow is over you. 

He clears his throat. “Mind if I cut in?” 

Caleb’s arm tightens around your waist. Dean feels the muscle tick in his jaw. He shrugs and offers Dean a polite, almost mocking smile. 

“Depends,” Caleb says, not sparing you a look. “You know how to dance, Di Laurentis?”

“Better than you,” Dean fires back, and the air stiffens.

You lurch forward, yanking Dean by the wrist. For one second, he forgets how to breathe under the warmth of your touch. 

“Sure. I’m all yours.” Caleb opens his mouth to protest, but you shoot him a look that says “please don’t die here.” He steps back, hands raised, before disappearing.

Only then does Dean realize you’re squeezing his wrist like a lifeline. The music shifts tempo, and he spins you close, half a foot between your faces. He catches the ghost of booze on your breath and the vanilla perfume that has become his favorite smell.

You quirk a brow at him. “What’s next, you gonna measure dick sizes?”

He tilts his head, smiling around the challenge. “Please, we both know mines bigger.”

You scoff, pulling your lip between your teeth, and damn, does it set him on fire. “Your inflated ego says otherwise.”

He purses his lips, feigning wounded pride. “Ouch, Ballerina. Since when were you into that guy, anyway?”

Your eyes flash with an emotion he can’t name. “Didn’t know it was your business.” You press closer, and he grips your hips like he’s afraid you’ll slip away.

“Maybe it’s not,” he murmurs. “You just looked happy with him. Or is it just because you finally get to show off your moves?” He tightens the hold on you, hoping you’ll push back. 

You snort. “You’re the one putting on a show. What’s the official count for the girls you’ve kissed tonight, or do you need to borrow my fingers to keep track?” 

“That’s cute,” he deadpans. “You been keeping score?”

“I wouldn’t want you to run out of options,” you say sweetly. “I’m sure there’s a whole queue.”

You step on his toe. Reflexively, he flinches, then grins at you. “You always this mean when you’re jealous?”

“Jealous of what?” you hiss, defensiveness cracking your voice.

He twirls you. You nearly stumble, but he catches you, fingers brushing your back. He catches the red creeping to your cheeks. “Of which girl?” you press. “There were three in the kitchen before you even got to the dance floor.”

He drops his voice to a dare-you level. “None of them are you, though.”

Your laugh is sharp. “Then go get one of them. You seem to prefer their company.” You twirl away, but he hooks his arm around your waist, pulling you against his chest. His lips graze your ear. 

“If you’re not jealous, then why do you care?” Your silence tastes like anger. You straighten, bristling like a caged animal.

“I really don’t,” you lie. “I just think you can do better.”

He cocks his head. “So you do care.”

You yank free and his gut tightens at the loss of you. “You are insufferable.”

“It’s a gift.”

“You know what’s a gift?” you say, “This conversation ending.” You whirl off the floor, heading for the stairs.

“Why are you so mad?” He calls after you, but you keep moving. 

“I’m not mad,” you snarl, rounding a corner.

“Says the girl storming away.” He follows, heart pounding. “Where are you going?”

“Anywhere you’re not.” You duck into a home office, all mahogany bookshelves, leather furniture, and a massive desk in the center. You groan, hands balling into fists. “Why are you following me?”

He shrugs, closing the door slowly. “Just making sure you don’t get lost.”

You glare. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know.” He leans against the door frame. “That’s kinda your whole thing.”

“Then why are you here?” Your voice cracks on the last word, and it’s a punch to his chest.

“I don’t know,” he says, soft. “You tell me. You said you didn’t want this, but you’re the one getting mad at me for doing what you asked.”

You yank the plastic horns off and toss them to the couch. “You’re so full of yourself. You actually believe I sit around thinking about who you’re with?”

“Honestly?” He crosses the room until he’s cornering you between himself and the wall. His wings stretch out, filling the space. “I think you do. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be so upset right now.”

“You don’t know anything.” You shove him, both hands against his chest, but he catches your wrists and pulls you in. You gasp when his breath fans your cheeks.

“Just admit it, Ballerina. You like me.”

You laugh bitterly. “God, seriously, what is your problem?”

He lifts his chin. “What’s yours?”

You break free and press your back against the wall, arms crossed. “My problem is you, Di Laurentis.” Your words are a bullet.

He takes a step forward. “And you’re mine.” The words are quieter than he expects, more of a discovery than a declaration. Laughter dies in his throat. He rakes his hands through his hair. “I mean, fuck, Y/N. Look, I’ve never been good at telling people how I feel, but I like you. How many times do I have to say it.”

“No, you-” you start.

“Yes!” He cuts you off, leaving no room for argument. “Can’t you, for once, just accept the fact that someone enjoys being around you. And maybe, just maybe, not try to push me away.”

Your eyes glisten. “I can’t,” you whisper. “I’m not good at this. I’m not good for you. You deserve somebody better, someone who isn’t a complete fucking mess.”

“Don’t do that.” His voice cracks. “Don’t decide-”

“No, Dean.” You hold your hand up. “I saw you with those girls tonight. Beautiful, outgoing, happy. That’s not me. I can’t be what you want.”

His chest clenches, because you’re wrong. You can’t even begin to comprehend how wrong you are. If only he could make you see yourself the way he sees you. “I don’t want them.” He closes the distance, his gaze unwavering. He reaches out, his hand hesitating before gently brushing hair from your face. “I want you. The messy parts, the mistakes, all of it. I don’t care. It’s only you.” He huffs, a raw sound of frustration. “I know you’re scared. So am I. I’m fucking terrified of to want you, but here I am… wanting you anyway.”

Your eyes shut, a single tear falling. “You’re gonna regret this,” you whisper.

He ducks his head, searching your eyes. “I don’t care. I have never wanted anything as much as I want you.” His large hands cup your cheeks. “Just tell me you want me to.”

He sees a million emotions fly across your face at once. His eyes flick to your mouth, lips slightly parted. If you say no, he’ll let go, and you’ll both pretend this moment didn’t happen, but if you say yes…

You shake your head, one last attempt at denial. “I shouldn’t,” you murmur, but he sees the way your throat works. You lean in just a fraction. He doesn’t move, doesn’t press. He waits, hope and dread tangled in his chest. He imagines pressing you against the wall, his hands on your waist, yours in his hair. 

Then, gravity takes over. You close the space, eyes shutting as your lips meet his. 

He kisses you back like it’s survival, palms sliding down your jaw, to your throat, tracing a line down your arms. It’s not a delicate kiss, not a prelude. It’s urgent, nearly desperate, both of you inhaling the heat and letting it burn straight through you. 

When you break for air, his forehead rests against yours. You open your eyes and they are wild and terrified. The two of you freeze, staring, like this might all come crashing down if you say anything. 

So you don’t.

He kisses you again. His hands find your waist, pulling you closer, but never quite close enough. The kiss tastes like cheap vodka and strawberry Jell-O and absolute fucking heaven. Your nails dig into his shoulders, needing something to hold onto. 

He lifts you by your hips, never breaking the kiss. You’re moving, then feel something cool against your legs. Your knees part as they hit the edge of the desk. He smirks into the kiss as he steps between them. 

You’re kissing, then you’re laughing, then you’re cursing and kissing again, his hands traveling up the sides of your thighs. Everything is hot and blinding, until his fingers graze the hem of your dress. 

You freeze. 

It’s visceral, instantaneous. Your hands clamp hard on his wrists, your pulse spiking. The second his thumb presses into your flesh, your heart stutters. It’s not him you’re feeling, it’s another hand, another laugh, another night. 

The memory is a razor slicing through you. You jerk your knee up to block him instinctively. 

Dean pulls back, face crumpling with confusion. He’s all adrenaline and apology, hands cupping your cheeks and brushing hair from your face. 

“Hey,” he stammers, blinking. “What’s wrong?”

You can’t answer. You can’t even hear what he said. Your breath comes in rapid staccato, a hiccup stutter you can’t get under control. You look around for an escape. Your hand flies to your chest, as you fumble off the desk. 

“Y/N!” Dean catches you as you sink to the floor. “Hey, are you okay?” His voice is stripped of everything but raw panic. You can’t look at him. Your eyes overflow with tears, and they burn hot trails down your cheeks. 

You can’t speak, can’t even formulate a word. The room blurs at the corners. Your fingers curl uncontrollably in the plush of the rug. There’s too much light, too much sound. Your blood, your heartbeat, his voice. Somewhere, far away, Dean is saying your name.

“Hey,” he says, so soft you almost don’t hear it. “Ballerina. It’s me.”

The pet name cracks something in you, and you choke on a sob. Your throat seizes around it. Your lungs claw for air. No matter how much you suck in, you’re drowning. You squint through the tears.

Dean’s face is contorted. “Tell me what to do,” he says, voice breaking. “Please, just tell me what to do.” You try, but your tongue is useless, rubbery and numb. Sound whines in your ears. You shut your eyes, hoping if you block out the world, you can find your way back. He grabs your hand, squeezing it. “You’re here. It’s just me and you.” He repeats it over and over again. Just me and you. Just me and you. The sound of it, the sincerity, it’s an anchor. You latch to it, drift closer to the surface. The air hurts less. Your chest contracts, but the sharpness eases. “Breathe with me.” He sounds desperate. He takes a shaky breath himself. “In through your nose.” He does it, then exhales slowly. You follow, a ragged attempt, then another, until your breaths start to even out. A tear falls down his cheek, but he doesn’t wipe it, not willing to take his hands from yours. “I’m so fucking sorry,” he says. “I didn’t-I didn’t mean to-”

You shake your head, frantic. Your hand shoots out, caressing his cheek. “No. I’m sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.” The need to say more is a fire in your chest, but all you can manage is, “It’s not you. I’m… I’m just fucked up.” That’s all you can offer.

Dean shakes his head. “Don’t say that. Don’t.” 

“No, Dean. This is what I mean.” Your voice trembles. “I’m not a good idea. I told you. You should leave while you have the chance.” 

He crawls in closer. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

“Dean-”

“Just let me be here.” His voice is so soft. “Okay? Let me be here with you.” You search his face for any sign of regret, but there’s none. You nod, and he pulls you onto his lap, wrapping his arms around you. 

You cry until your throat aches and your nose runs, and you can’t catch your breath, until you’re clutching his arm just to stay upright, until the merciless, iron grip in your lungs yields to something like relief. 

Dean sits with you. He waits. Sometimes he says your name. Sometimes he just breathes. At some point, the storm breaks, and you’re left numb, hollowed, but present. That’s when Dean finally moves. He picks you up, carrying you to the couch, you curled under his arm.

You listen to his heart thump through his ribs. The physicality of him is a reassurance. He’s not the boy in the memory. He’s not any of them. You close your eyes, exhale, and when you open them again, you’re here. In this room, with this boy, who will not leave you.

After what feels like hours, you break the silence. “You can ask.”

Dean brushes your hair behind your ear. His voice is so gentle you’d laugh, if you had any laughter left in you. “Ask what?”

“Whatever you want to know.” You swipe a hand at stray tears. “You’re allowed.”

He shakes his head. “Only if you want to talk about it.” He won’t push, you see that now. He means it, which somehow makes it harder.

You don’t know if you owe him something, or if you just need to say it out loud to someone who isn’t a therapist. You look at the floor. 

“Senior year.” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “I was at a party, and there was this guy.” You laugh once, short and humorless. “I’d liked him forever.” You twist your hands together. “I had a few drinks, got the courage to talk to him. We kissed, and I was naive enough to think it meant something.” You feel Dean listening, the particular quality of his silence, and you wish he would say something so you could stop. “I passed out later, in one of the back rooms.” Your mouth goes dry. “He came in.” Your throat closes. Dean goes very still beside you. You feel the change in him, and you don’t look at his face because you can’t afford to right now. You don't want his pity. “While I was asleep, he pushed his hands up my dress, and he, um…” You stop, biting your lip hard enough to draw blood. 

“Hey,” he whispers. “You don’t have to.”

“No,” you wipe your face. “No, I want to.” You sniffle, collecting yourself enough to continue. “I woke up and I just-I kept thinking if I pretended I was asleep, he’d stop.” Your voice has gone flat in the way it does when you’ve rehearsed something so many times it’s lost its shape. “He kept saying he knew I wanted it. That if I really liked him, I’d do this for him.” The words taste rotten. “I said I’d scream.” You exhale. “And he stopped.” You feel tears sliding down your face and you don’t bother wiping them. “The next day, my best friend told me that he told everyone I slept with him, and in detail. When I denied it, she went to defend me, be a good friend, but it just made everything worse.” 

You don’t say the rest. You don’t say how long it lasted, the things people said, the trauma that came after, what you lost, or that some mornings you still can’t look at yourself in the mirror without thinking of what you could have done differently. You don’t say any of that. You’ve already said more than you meant to.

After a long time, he says, “That’s never gonna happen again. Not while I’m breathing.” 

You look at him. You want to deflect, to make a joke, to take back the whole confession and go back to before you said any of it. You also want, badly, to believe him. Both of those things are true at the same time, and you don’t know what to do with that, so you just nod, and let the silence come back, and try to decide if what you’re feeling is relief or just the particular exhaustion of being known.

Then Dean, voice tentative, says, “Ballerina?” “Yeah?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” You half-laugh, then half-cry, and let the humor soften the rawness. 

“Are you sure? There’s still time to run,” you murmur.

“No. I’m exactly where I want to be,” he whispers. You smile and the stretch of your lips turns into a yawn. “You tired?” 

Your eyes are heavy and you nod. He stands, hands gentle as he helps you up, and you let him, too tired to protest. 

He leads you quietly down the hall, the pulse of the party fading behind you, stopping at a door at the far end of the corridor. The room inside has a king-size bed, a dresser, and a flat screen TV. It’s obvious it isn’t lived in.

Dean crosses to the bed, yanks off the tangle of covers, and gestures. “You can sleep in my room, as long as you’re okay with staying the night. I don’t think anyone’s in a position to drive, but I can get you an Uber.” The thought of an hour and a half ride home with a stranger sounds like an absolute nightmare.

“No, it’s fine.” You sink onto the edge, fighting the pull of exhaustion. Your dress rides up dangerously, but you don’t have the energy to care. He grabs an old hoodie from a chair, holds it out for you. You slip it over your head, and it swallows you whole, cotton warmth blotting out the chill. You breathe in the smell of his cologne. 

Dean drops to one knee in front of you. You look down at him, confused, until you see his hands close around your ankle. He undoes the buckle of your heel with the care of handling something made of glass. The shoe comes free. He does the other one the same way, unhurried. When he’s finished, he stands, meets your eyes, and you feel something in your chest give, quietly, the way ice does in early spring.

“Wait,” your brow creases, “Where are you gonna stay? I don’t want to take over your room.”

“No. I want you to stay in here. I’ll, uh… stay down the hall.” He looks away, voice tripping on itself. “My phone’s on, if you need. But you can lock the door. Just, whatever you need, it’s yours.”

You nod, and for a second you want to say something, to thank him or apologize, but all you can do is nod. He kisses your forehead before walking to the door.

He lingers in the entrance, the hall light carving him out of the shadows. He turns, his hand resting on the frame, and his expression softens. 

“Thank you for telling me. It doesn’t change how I feel,” he says, his voice a low promise. “Not a thing.” You clutch the edge of the comforter. “Thank you.” “Anything for you. Goodnight, Ballerina.” And then the door closes.

If hell’s real, it probably smells like hairspray and vodka and the scorched sugar of cupcakes. You decide this as you stand barefoot in the bathroom, a Target bag of costume props splayed across the counter, Beth in full angel drag next to you, pinning her halo into place.

The birthday party of the year, the one that you’ve been dreading since the group chat went nuclear two weeks ago, is tonight. You’re going. Against all better judgment, you’re going. You’re dressed as a devil, which Beth found hilarious as she pitched it. Red mini dress. Fishnets. Plastic horns clamped to your head so tight you have a headache already. You look in the mirror and see the inverse of yourself. It’s bold, loud, impossible to overlook. It’s a joke at your own expense, and you can’t help but appreciate the irony.

“Let me do your eyeliner,” Beth says, snapping her compact shut. She’s already a blur of white. Wings, fuzzy halo, dress stitched with shimmery thread that catches every light. A gold belt droops from her waist, that has disappeared with the corset.

You try to protest. “I’m going for minimal, punkish. Less Satan, more post-breakup Avril Lavigne.” But she’s already coming at your face with a pencil.

“You know what makes this party extra evil?” she says, bracing your chin in her hand for maximum stability. “Rumor is, Beau hired actual strippers for the photo booth. Isn’t that, like, illegal?”

“Only if you’re Beau,” you deadpan, and she cackles, eyeliner trembling dangerously close to your cornea. “I’m serious, Beth. Please don’t blind me before the big debut.”

“Debut?” she snorts. “Who are you trying to impress? Oh, let me guess. Or actually, let me not, because you could say Logan and I’d be hurting my own feelings.”

You sigh, about to roll your eyes before you remember she’s in stabbing distance. “We’ve been over this. He doesn’t like me.”

“Yeah, well, he acts like a jealous ex every time he sees you with Dean. So, forgive me for doubting.”

You don’t have the energy to re-litigate this. Not before you’re even out of the bathroom.

Instead, you hold still and let her work, trying not to flinch at the subtle microaggressions of her friendship. “Don’t scrunch your forehead, you’ll get lines,” and “God, your lashes are so good, it’s criminal you never curl them.” You realize, not for the first time, that this is probably the healthiest relationship you’ve ever had.

When she’s finished, you peer at the mirror. She’s drawn a black cat-eye. It makes your eyes pop, makes you look older, colder, less like the girl who wants to climb into bed and disappear. 

“Nice,” you admit, as she stands back and surveys her work like Da Vinci.

You lean on the counter and watch Beth through the mirror. She’s threading gold rings into random braids she’s woven into her long, blonde hair. She’s so beautiful, and confident, and carefree. You admire her. You still haven’t even absorbed the effect of your appearance. If you look at yourself too long, you’ll overthink it way too much. She notices you staring and smirks.

“I swear to god,” she says, softening for a second, “if you spend the whole night in a corner on your phone, I’ll actually kill you.” Her voice lilts, even if her words are meant as a joke.

You reach for the lip gloss, reapplying out of nervous habit. “Don’t worry. If I get overwhelmed, I’ll just light someone on fire and walk home.”

She grins, but it dies quickly. “No, seriously, I know you’re not into this stuff, but you should enjoy the college experience.” She grabs the gloss from your hand. “I actually think Logan’s going to ask you out tonight.” You bite your tongue to hold back the vomit. 

“Beth,” you warn.

Her tone goes brittle, reflecting in the mirror as she fusses with her wings. “What? You know you can talk to me, right? If something happened with him, you have to tell me. I promise I won’t get mad if you guys are like… a thing.” You glare at her, hands clenching the lip the of the laminate. “I just hate that you won’t tell me. That you never trust me with the real stuff.”

You sneer. “I tell you real stuff.”

She drops her hands, turning to you. “No, you don’t. I mean, obviously something happened to you before you came here. We all know it, but you never trust anyone enough to say what. You’re like my best friend. I tell you, like, everything, and you won’t even tell me about the guy you like. If you want to be with Logan-”

“Jesus, Beth, could you lay off about John?”

Her cheeks flush, nostril flaring. “Why won’t you just tell me what’s going on?”

“Nothing is going on because he’s my fucking brother!” You snap your jaw shut just as hers hits the floor. For a second you think she’s going to laugh, but her face goes still. 

“What?” The word is quiet, and it sucks the oxygen from the room.

You nod, once, twice, for emphasis. “He’s my older brother.” The words sound weird aloud. Wrong, because of how long it’s been since you’ve said it. Like you’ve just outed yourself as the world’s least interesting compulsive liar. “That’s why we talk all the time. That’s why he’s always showing up. I transferred here because of him.” You suck in a breath, shoulders tensed. “I begged him to keep it a secret because I didn’t want the attention. If everyone knows, I’ll immediately be posted on the Fifth Line. Girls would pretend to be my friend to get to him. I just want to be a normal, invisible person.” Beth leans back, hands braced on the sink, and stares at you. The silence is suffocating. She frowns, equal part wounded and furiously processing.

“No shit,” she says, but it’s not really a question. She’s recalibrating her entire map of your friendship.

You can hear the blood in your ears. “Yeah. No shit.”

“So you-” She has to reboot. “You’re not, like, harboring some weird forbidden crush on him.” You snort so hard you choke on your own breath. 

“Oh my god, no. Beth. Ew.” The relief is like cold water poured over your head.

She nods, then stares at the floor, then at the wall, then back at you. The bathroom is too bright, too small for everything in her eyes. 

“You could’ve just told me.” You pick at the edge of the plastic horns, focusing on the pressure at your scalp. 

“I couldn’t. I didn’t want you to get weird. Like you are, right now.” You try to make it a joke, but it falls flat. “You’d start treating me different. Or worse-” and here, your tone gets hot, “-you’d start gossiping about it and then suddenly I’m not myself anymore. I’m just his shadow.” You look away from her, unable to stand the heat of her shock. “I like being just… me. I don’t want the attention that comes with being a star hockey player’s sister. I can’t handle that.” When you risk a glance up, Beth’s eyes are huge. 

“You jerk,” she says, the words wobbling but true. “I was worried you were in some secret relationship. Instead, you just didn’t trust me.” She’s right, and it stings, more than you want to admit. You force out a shaky exhale. 

“I do trust you. I just… there are things you don’t understand about me. I need to keep it a secret. I thought maybe, if people didn’t know, I could reinvent who I am, you know?” Beth nods, still biting the corner of her mouth.

“But that’s the thing. I want to understand everything about you.” She grabs both your hands in hers. “I would never judge you. We’re besties.”

You laugh softly. “Yeah, we are.” She pulls you into a hug. “I’m really sorry I didn’t tell you.”

“It’s okay. I promise not to tell anyone about Logan.”

“And I promise to tell you all my deepest, darkest secrets.” You both start laughing before you can stop. The way only girls in ridiculous costumes, with more history than they can fit into matching makeup bags, can. Your horns press into her halo, your arms are locked around her. A tangle of angel and demon, ridiculous and complicated and brighter than you remember friendship ever being.

“Good.” She pulls back, holding you at arms length. “But not right now.” She adjusts your horns. “We have a party to get to.”

You walk to the car, heat trapped in your cheeks. Your head pulses with the double-buzz of adrenaline and mortification. You focus your mind on the click of your heels.

Beth drives, hands loose on the wheel, humming along to some retro pop banger. Every few miles, she sneaks a look at you.

The drive to Beau’s Cape Cod, summer house is an hour and a half. You had the option of alternative transportation, but the party bus is another beast entirely. All you could picture was it heaving down the dark highway, a rolling Petri dish of jungle juice and cologne, bodies pressed tight together. The idea of being sealed in with the entire Briar microcosm of players, bunnies, and upper classmen makes your head spin.

You were supposed to stay the whole weekend. That was the plan. Group Instagram shots, day drinking, whatever. Dean begged you, along with Allie and Beth. He promised it would just be the frat boys and the girls, but that sounded even more like hell than the party bus. Being stuck in Cape Cod for an entire weekend with no escape. You’d rather die. 

You told them you’d meet them for the party, that you’d find a ride. Beth just offered to drive. Sweet, not even the slightest bit fooled, Beth. She saw it as your attempt to get out of the party entirely, and she couldn’t let that happen.

You have never been to Cape Cod. It’s as lavish as you expected. Tennis courts line every back yard, grown with invasive ivy, and the wind smells like the sea. Beau’s summer house is a mansion, lit up and trembling from the bass of a pop song. There are cars everywhere. SUV’s in the driveway, a rusted Jeep on the lawn, three Ubers idling at the curb, drivers with podcasts leaking through the cracked windows.

Beth checks her teeth in the visor, and totters around to meet you. There’s a moment, in the hush before the front door opens, where you want to run. Beth must see this, because she grabs you by the elbow, squeezes, and launches you both at the party.

Inside, nothing is real. There’s a half-naked Greek god doing shots with the grim reaper. A smoke machine pulses moodily along the staircase. There’s a sign in gold and red marker that says, “WELCOME TO ONE HELL OF A PARTY. HEAVEN’S UPSTAIRS.” The music is too loud, and there are fake feathers and horns and glitter literally everywhere.

You instantly spot Dean on the far end of the kitchen, surrounded by an adoring harem of drunk angels and half-dressed devils. Even as he talks to them, laughs at their jokes, and lets one of them feel his bicep, his eyes are drifting. That is, until he sees you. He takes his bottom lip between his teeth. You raise a brow and smirk. He lifts a shot glass at you, winks, and instantly resumes entertaining the mob.

You bypass the den, seeking sanctuary on the back stairwell, and Beth follows, still in full hype mode. “Holy shit,” she giggles. “Did you see what Madison is wearing? Her shorts are practically a thong.”

You smile, but your mind is elsewhere. On the way over, you’d tried to shut down the over arching anxiety, but it has slowly started to consume you.

Beth clocks your distraction before you can mask it. She looks over her shoulder at Dean. “So much for new and improved.” Her tone is full of disappointment. “Sorry, Y/N. Maybe you’re better off.”

You laugh, soft. “I know I am.” And you do. The only person less suited to a normal relationship than you is Dean. Even though that has nothing to do with your mood, it’s easier to let her believe it is. “It’s not like that, anyway.”

“Uh-huh.” Her skepticism is a stone in your ribs. “You know, you’re allowed to like someone. It’s not a crime.”

You brace an arm on the railing and look out over the crowd, devil horns bobbing and weaving through human chaos. “That’s where you’re wrong,” you say, not joking.

Beth gets quiet. Then she does what Beth does best, pivots to herself, the center of her own gravity. “Do you think Logan’s here? You know, he’s one of the few guys I’ve met at Briar who can actually keep pace with me in a drinking game. Did I tell you about the night we did vodka blind taste tests?”

“Twice,” you say, grinning. “Wasn’t that the night you puked in the Uber, and he paid the driver fifty bucks to not give you a one-star review?”

She howls. “God, yes. Best night of my life. Do you think he’s, like, into me at all? On a scale of zero to… you know, bone zone?”

“Ew, gross.” You gag. “The last thing I want to think about is you having sex with my brother.”

She cringes. “God, sorry. I’m still getting used to that. It’s cool if I’m into him, right?” There’s something raw, almost hopeful, and pure in her face. It’s in a way you recognize but haven’t allowed yourself since long before Briar.

“Of course. Unlike my brother, I actually want him to find love.”

“Now the death glares at Dean make sense.” She nods, putting a hand over her heart and pouting out her bottom lip. “He’s just protective over his baby sister.” She smirks. “It’s kind of hot. I love a protective man.”

You scoff, shoving her shoulder. “Beth! Ew!”

She laughs, gripping the wall for support. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m done, I swear.” She sucks in a breath. “But seriously. Do you think I have a shot?”

“If he doesn’t think you are the funniest, smartest, hottest girl alive, then we’re not related. But then again, guys are idiots. The only way to know is if you ask him yourself.”

“Yeah, true.” She thinks on it for a moment, then shrugs. “If I’m gonna shoot my shot, there’s no better time then when my boobs are out.” She places her hands under either breast that are toppling over her corset. The comment is so unexpected you spit a little when you laugh. 

She bumps your shoulder, and together you wade back into the party. The crowd is even denser now, and you’re grateful for Beth’s height and take-no-prisoners aura. She carves a path to the kitchen and returns seconds later with two blood-red shots sloshing in plastic cups.

“Cheers to no more secrets,” Beth says. “And to taking chances.”

You try to laugh, but you can’t suppress the ache in your jaw. The shot’s probably something sickly-sweet. You wet your lips and shake your head. 

“I’m good,” you say, shielding the tiny cup with your palm.

Beth narrows her eyes. “You said you’d try to have actual fun tonight.” You did. Multiple times over the last two weeks, actually. But you say a lot of things to get out of peer pressure and arguments.

“I will have fun. I just can’t get wasted with you, Beth. I’d like to make it home tonight, remember?” You’ve already mapped out all the exits, the exact excuses you’ll need to peel yourself away mid-evening and disappear. You just don’t want to drink.

She sees right through you. “There are, like, a hundred bedrooms in this place. And if you’re that nervous, just sip it. No one cares.”

You don’t want to have this argument. It’s easier to just let her win. But you see the flashes of red lipstick, of hands beating down on you, the camera flash from phones. You don’t want to remember how you were still shaking hours after you got away. You especially don’t want to remember John, who drove three hours back from Briar and didn’t say a word the whole way home except, “It’s okay. You’re okay. I promise I won’t tell Mom.”

You raise the cup, fingers trembling so bad the meniscus quivers. Beth smiles, victory complete. You know she’s just trying to help, to bring you into the light, drag you out of the orbit of your own self-destruction, but it’s a lot. Tonight is a lot.

“Hey, Satan.” You feel a squeeze on your shoulder and turn to see John, who looks at your drink. “You’re actually partaking?”

He’s dressed like a Greek god, his top half wrapped in white cloth, with matching white pants, and a gold-leafed crown on his head. You could cry with relief at the sight of him. He squeezes again, a big-brother Morse code, and everything inside you that’s been on high alert unclenches a notch. The trembling stops. “I can’t believe you actually came.” Beth beams between the two of you, eyes lingering on John’s exposed torso a little too long. “The outfits accurate.” You click your tongue, elbowing him. He laughs, taking the shot from your hand, holds it up to the light, and smirks. “Damn. You’re really corrupting her, aren't you?”

Beth grins, not the least bit chastened. “Just a little ceremonial blood,” she says. “Context-appropriate.”

He hands it back to you, and you stare at the liquid. It burns to even consider. John understands every thought in your head. He takes you in, sees the panic frozen at the corners of your mouth, and angles his body to block you from the crowd. “You wanna do this?” he asks, voice pitched low, just for you.

You consider it. You want to be fun, to be normal. You want to be the kind of girl who can raise a glass and not have her hands shake. Maybe having John here is enough.

“Only if you do it with me,” you say, and it’s more plea than challenge.

John shrugs, scoops up a shot of his own from the next counter, and clinks it against yours. “On three,” he says.

You glance at Beth, who’s vibrating with anticipation. “You’re a demon, you know that?” you tell her.

“Actually, I'm an angel.” She winks, then starts the count for you both. “Three… two…” and you just throw it back. It’s sweet, then hellfire. Beth whoops, and you cough.

John grins, “She’s not gonna let you off easy.” But he sweeps a paper towel from the counter and hands it to you, like a parent passing a kid a napkin after a sundae. “Hey,” he says, “I can keep an eye on you if you wanna actually party tonight. You’ll be safe. Promise.” 

He won’t let anything happen. If you have to let someone convince you, you’re glad it’s him. He’s the one person in this world you trust, wholeheartedly. 

“Maybe just one drink,” you say.

Beth cheers, and John gives your horns a playful tilt. “Atta girl,” he says, letting his hand rest on your back as you ease into the main room. It is utter chaos and light and bodies pressed too close, but with John’s shadow beside you, it’s almost manageable.

People swirl around you. You spot Allie in a slutty black dress, surrounded by three boys trying to feed her Jell-O shots off plastic syringes. She raises her glass and finds you in the crowd, and you do the same. You search for your other friends. Hannah and Garrett are playing beer pong, Tuck is refilling the chips, and Dean is nowhere to be seen. 

Beth and John’s commentary is live, hilarious, and just disjointed enough to keep you riding the crest of the moment instead of tumbling beneath it.

You phone buzzes and Dean’s name flashes on the screen.

Dean the Disaster: You better not leave before you dance with me

You roll your eyes, and Beth catches the change in your face. “What?”

“Dean. He wants me to dance with him.”

She raises a brow. “Is it weird that I think you two are kind of perfect?”

“Yes,” you and John say at the same time, and you look at him with a raised lip.

Beth slaps his shoulder. “Your opinion doesn’t count. Being her brother makes you biased.”

John’s head snaps toward you. Your lips press into a line. “Right… Yeah. I told Beth.”

He twists his wrist up. “When?”

“Right before the party,” Beth chirps, swaying to the music. 

You jab a finger into his chest. “That doesn't mean you can tell anyone else.”

He raises his hands in surrender. “I won’t.”

Beth wiggles her brows. “So, are you gonna dance with him?”

“Didn’t you just say that I’m better off?” you ask.

Beth shrugs, sips something pink out of a solo cup, and gives you a look that’s half exasperation, half dare. “Maybe, but I’m a sucker for romance.” She glances at John, whose fist is about to crack his cup. “I want to dance.” She grabs your brother’s arm twirling him into the swell of bodies.

“Wait-” He looks back at you and Beth mouths ‘You’re welcome.’ over his shoulder. You laugh and give John a nod of reassurance. You see the worry in his face soften as he sends one back to you. You watch the shimmer of Beth’s wings fade into neon, then disappear.

With them gone, you’re a little untethered. The alcohol is doing its job. Your skin is warm, head buzzing, and limbs looser than they’ve been in months. You duck into the current of moving bodies, head down, horns knocked crooked by the first two shoulders that collide with you.

The kitchen is kinetic. Shots are slammed, beer sloshes onto tile, and the red cups bleed slicks of condensation across every available surface. You linger in the doorway, float on the ripple of music. Out back, through the sliding glass, the patio is strobing with light, a parade of togaed hockey players playing some kind of drinking game with plastic swords.

The truth is, if you keep moving, you won’t have to think. So you move. You find Allie, perched on a counter, fending off a boy in a gladiator skirt who’s offering what he calls “a communion of gods.” You pluck two Jell-O shots from his tray and hand one to her. 

Allie’s eyes go huge. “Holy shit, you’re actually drinking?” She takes the offering, wobbles it between her fingers, and gives you a look full of delighted horror. “I didn’t think Beth could convince you. Who are you, and what have you done with my friend?” You peel the lid and flick it to the counter.

“Shut up and take the shot, Al.” You throw it back and chase it with a cup of whatever is closest. It’s carbonated and violently sweet.

Allie cackles, legs swinging where she sits. “Oh, I love this version of you. I never thought I’d see the day. I figured Beth would drag you here, but I didn’t think you’d actually drink.” 

You head falls to the side as a lazy grin finds your lips. “I’m making up for lost time. You run your tongue over your teeth and ask, “Where’s Dean?”

It comes out so casual, like you’re asking about the weather, and a tiny part of you winces at the ease. Allie’s entire face lights up, then compresses into a smirk. “Look at you!” She shoves your shoulder. “A little alcohol and you’re ready to risk it all for a hockey boy.” She leans in, lowering her voice. “He’s in the basement, last I checked. They set up a slap shot challenge down there, and now everyone is trying to beat Di Laurentis’s score. If you hurry, you might catch him in his element.”

“Should I just go down there?”

“Oh, absolutely. Plus, you look way too hot to not make an entrance. Just don’t trip on the stairs. Or do. I feel like Dean would catch you before you hit the bottom.” The thought of Dean, catching you makes you flush. You try to squash it, but the alcohol is a traitor, making everything impossible to hide inside. Allie raises her Jell-O shot as a toast. “To you. May you sin before midnight.” With that, she downs the shot. The world is suddenly a little warmer, and you’re laughing, actually laughing, as you shove through the kitchen and go hunting for Dean.

The basement smells like chlorine and spilled Fireball, with lighting that alternates between red, yellow, and white. It’s full of devils, angels, and a smattering of Greek gods, all shouting over each other and ribbing the two boys at the center of the room. They’re playing some improvised slap shot game. The rules seem simple enough. Hit the plastic puck into the devil’s mouth, get a point. Miss, drink. The house’s concrete support beams echo with every wild slap, and the crowd roars at every near-miss.

Dean’s easy to spot. He’s dressed in the world’s least appropriate angel costume. He has on baggy white slacks, matching sneakers, and giant wings. His upper half is bare, adorned only by his simple, gold chain. His hair and chest glisten with sweat, and he looks like a fucking god. The sight makes your mouth water. 

He’s up against Beau, who’s his polar opposite. They’re wearing the same exact outfit, but Maxwell’s is all black. You have to hand it to them. They know how to create spectacle.

You absorb the chaos. Dean loads a puck and takes a second, lines up like he’s back on the ice at center face off. He’s grinning so hard his dimples could swallow the room. The crowd shouts, counting down the seconds. Three, two, one. His stick whips forward, crack sharp as a gunshot. The puck lands with a thunk, ricochets off the side, dies spinning at the wooden mouth of the devil cutout. The crowd erupts. Beau howls in mock agony, flopping backward and yelling that the game’s rigged.

Dean’s laugh cuts through everything, and you can’t but smile at the sound of it. When his gaze sweeps the crowd and finds you, he almost misses. Then does a double take, grin ratcheting up as he drinks in the sight of you. His eyes drag down your body, then back up to your face. Your skin prickles under his gaze.

You fight the urge to shrivel up and instead lean against the cool stone wall, arms crossed. The air is electric, and the way his gaze clings to you makes you hyperaware of every bare inch of skin.

Beau cedes the stick and drops to the floor, yelling for someone to bring him a shot as penance. Two angel girls hover at the foot of the stairs, giggling and throwing hopeful looks at Dean, but his attention is chained to you.

You try to look away, focus on the game, but you can’t. Even the music can’t unstick you.

A new round loads up, and Dean makes a show of stretching his arms behind his head, flexing his bicep. He winks when he sees you watching. Asshole.

He shakes out his wrists, more dramatic this time just to entertain the crowd. As he lines up, a hush settles, the whole room focused on him. He glances at you, holds the look as he shoots.

The puck zips across the room and slams dead-center into the opening, the cleanest shot all night. There’s a half-second of stunned silence, then the basement erupts. Someone smashes a solo cup against a beam and showers everyone in red punch. Dean smirks, opens his arms in a “come at me” gesture.

A girl in a sequin dress hops up and says, “I have a prize for you, cutie,” and kisses him full on the mouth. He leans in, letting it happen. The whole room whistles like a cheap reality show. You feel a quick, ugly twist in your gut, and for a split second your vision tunnels.

Dean finishes the kiss, mouth slow, drawing it out for maximum effect. He lets the girl wrap her arms around his neck for a second too long, then gently sets her back on her feet and bows. He looks back at you immediately, a sly, interrogating look like he’s waiting to see what you’ll do.

You hope your face is blank. You hope the heat at your cheeks doesn’t betray the way jealousy and humiliation are dueling in your chest. You force your lips flat, raise your eyebrows in sarcastic applause.

Dean grins and shrugs as if to say, “This is what you wanted.” You flip him the bird.

At that moment, someone touches your shoulder. You tense on instinct, and turn. The guy from orientation is dressed in all black, hair messy. 

“Hey,” he says, voice pitched low so only you can hear. “You look like hell, in a good way.” His eyes flick to your horns.

You laugh, and it’s a relief to let some air out. “Hey, Caleb, right?” He nods, and you make a show of taking in his appearance. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

He shrugs, takes a sip of his drink, and leans against the wall next to you. “You’re not really into this, are you?”

You think about deflecting, but you’re too tired for games. “Not at all. I actually hate parties. But, you know, peer pressure.” You tip your chin toward the crowd, where Dean is now letting that girl leave a red kiss on his neck.

Caleb follows your look, sips his drink, then says, “He doing that for your benefit?” 

You sigh. “Dean never does anything for the benefit of anyone but himself.”

Caleb tilts his head. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Are you more devil or angel?” His smile is crooked, a little dangerous.

You consider the question, then gesture at your horns. “Devil, but just for tonight.”

Caleb’s eyes glint, the studio-glow lighting making his jawline even sharper. “Is that so?” He leans in. “See, I’d call bullshit, but there’s something too convincing about the way you’re pulling it off.”

You laugh nervously, eyes flicking to the floor. “So, um, do you come to a lot of these?”

“God, no.” He huffs. “I’d rather mainline Windex.”

You nod, like that’s the right answer. “I can respect that.”

He holds your gaze, then quirks a smile, almost embarrassed by his own candor. “Anyway,” he says, “You wanna dance?”

You giggle. “You dance?”

“Not really, but there’s less meat market upstairs.” You look over his shoulder, back at the crowd. Dean is now holding court at the far end of the table, two girls in black mesh on either side, but his head keeps turning to find you, gaze darting away the instant you catch it. 

By seven, your floor is a graveyard of discarded pants and your search history is a testament to panic. You actually googled if sudden cardiac arrest can be triggered by the words “dress casual.” There’s a statistic for that. Giving up, you pull on black leggings, sneakers, and his hoodie. Your stomach twists into a knot the size of a fist when your phone dings. He’s here. Fuck, he’s here. It’s fine. It’s just another night. 

Except you don’t know where you’re going, and he’s now apparently monogamous Dean. The Dean that plans things, that sets up surprises. What if this is all a ploy? What if this is his big grand gesture that finally gets you to have sex with him? Would he really spend so much time on you if that were the case? I mean, he could have any girl he wants. Literally any girl. So… why you? 

Your phone dings again, ripping you from your downward spiral. You steel yourself with a breath, grab your purse, and give the empty room one last check. A pang of guilt hits you. Beth still isn’t back. You’ll have to find her later, to apologize and explain everything.

With one last glance at her bed, you force yourself out the door and half-slide down the stairs. You would take the elevator, but you need movement to keep you from turning around and crawling into bed. You see Dean waiting outside, backlit by the gold campus lights, hands in his pockets. He looks… annoyingly good.

“What’s the surprise?” you call, not bothering with hello.

He grins at you with unrepentant mischief. “It wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you now. Are you scared?”

You squint at him, then at the suspicious-sized duffel slung over his shoulder. “Should I be?”

He shrugs. “I mean, that depends. You ever heard the phrase ‘payback’s a bitch’?”

If you had a dollar for every time he’s said something designed to make you regret all your choices, you could put yourself through grad school. You cross your arms, but he’s already holding the door open for you.

The walk is brisk. Dean does all the talking, filling the night air with the details of this morning’s practice. He launches into hockey stories. One about Tucker nearly losing a tooth, another about Garrett peeing in a Gatorade bottle on the bus because the coach refused to stop. He tells them like you were there, like you’ve always belonged.

You don’t realize until you’re in front of the building that you’re at the stadium. He drags you along, until your standing at the rink. It’s empty, the box office a dark stage behind glass.

“Are we… ice skating?” you ask, pulse spiking in existential horror.

Dean’s eyes flash. “Only fair. If I have to humiliate myself in front of you in a dance studio, you should get to fall on your face somewhere too.”

You punch his arm, but it only makes him laugh. “This is blackmail,” you say, but he’s already guiding you through a side door, the sign marked Team Only. Inside, the building is a cathedral of cold.

There’s no one else. Not even the sound of a cleaning crew, just the persistent hum of cooling pipes and the dull roar of the empty rink. Somehow, he’s already snagged you a pair of skates.

He hands them to you. They’re white, too big, probably the smallest he could find in the spares the college offers. You just stare at the blades.

“Need me to help?” Dean asks, dropping to his knees, and the audacity of the vision, of Dean Di Laurentis, kneeling before you, makes your stomach flip.

You try to refuse. You really do. But your hands are shaking, so you let him thread the laces, cinching your foot in with the perfect tension. Your skin burns in the places where his fingers brush your ankle.

“When did you plan all this?” you ask, voice somewhere between scandalized and star struck.

He grins, head down. “I dunno. Maybe the first time you made me look like an idiot.”

You snort, and he looks up; a second later, you’re both giggling. There is something reckless and warm about being here. You fight the voice in your head telling you to run. You allow yourself to lean in, just a little. Just see what happens. It shouldn’t be too hard.

He grabs your hands, yanking you to your feet. You almost tip, but catch yourself on his shoulder. “Wow,” you say, “I’m basically a natural.”

“Don’t get cocky, Ballerina,” he says. “This is the part where I let go of your hand, and you fall on your ass.” But he doesn’t let go. Not even as you step out onto the ice, where the laws of gravity are ignored at will. The cold stings your cheeks, but his hand is warm, calloused, and steady. You shuffle, penguin-style, inch by inch. Dean is an expert, but he skates backwards so you don’t feel abandoned, matching your pace with patience. “See? Not so bad,” he says.

You try, genuinely try, to stay upright, but the second you stop thinking about your feet, they’re fly out from under you, your tailbone smacking hard against the ice. Dean chuckles, but rushes over to you. He crouches and offers a hand.

“That has to be a record,” he says.

“For what?” You glare at the domed ceiling, refusing his help.

“Velocity of descent.” Your face drops and his amusement echoes in the quiet rink. “You sure you’re not just trying to get out of this?”

You push up with shaky arms. “I don’t know how you guys do this. It’s like trying to walk on butter.”

He makes a noise that was, maybe, supposed to be empathy. “It’s all in the hips,” he says, and then, “Let me show you.”

Dean stands, offers his hand again, and this time he just holds it, pulling you gently upright. His palm is hot, his grip careful. He leans in, lowering his voice to a soft baritone only you can hear.

“Point your feet into a V shape, and bend your knees a little. Now lean forward. No, more than that.” He catches your elbow when you overcompensate. “See? Knees over your toes.” He wraps his arms around you, hands on your hips, and you freeze. For a second, the ice is a million miles away, your body is a shivering animal in his arms, neither of you moving. You glance up, and he’s watching you, not even pretending to be casual. “Like this,” he says, barely above a whisper. You let him steer you, his hands gentle, guiding your hips in a slow side-to-side sway. It should be awkward, but it’s not. It’s surprisingly comfortable.

You skate, if you can call it that, for five unbroken minutes. Dean smiles the whole time, and every time you lose control he’s there, catching you.

By the second lap, you’re having way too much fun.

By the third, you’re so distracted by the way his hands keep finding their way to your waist, you nearly forget to be furious at him for setting you up. 

You get cocky. On lap four, you decide you don’t need to hold onto anything. At least not to him. You try to twist away, aiming for the edge, and say, “I think I got it now, you can let go.” 

Dean raises a brow, lets his hands linger a fraction too long, and then obliges. For a second, you’re fine on your own.

Your left foot glances off a gouge in the ice and your body jerks sideways, arms windmilling, evolutionary panic surging up your spine. Instinct sends you right back toward him, but he only barely catches you by the forearm. You hand death grips his jacket, pulling both of you down. Dean twists before he crushes you, pulling you with him. Your hands brace yourself against his chest as his back hits the ice. 

You both groan. The wind knocked from your lungs, you find yourself sprawled on him, every nerve in your body ablaze. For a heartbeat, nothing moves, not breath or sound or shame. It’s just the frozen symmetry of your hips between his thigh, your palms against the heat of his shirt, his hands cupped on the small of your back, holding you there. 

The only thing warmer than his skin is the look in his eyes. Your faces are only inches apart, close enough to feel the heat of his breath. He wants this. You can see it in the way his gaze drops to your mouth, and for a dangerous second, you want it too.

The pause stretches out, long enough that you become aware of your own breathing. The thump of his chest, the cold bite through your leggings, the pulse in his neck and in your own. You stare at him. His mouth hovers dangerously close to yours, and for the briefest, oxygenless instant, you want him to close that gap. 

No. This is what he wants. 

You push yourself up, clearing your throat. You stagger upright, cheeks scalding, and brush imaginary snow from your sleeves. “Nice save,” you mutter.

Dean props himself up on his elbows, grinning, but there’s a look in his eyes that doesn’t quite disappear when he says, “I think you’re ready for varsity.”

You cross your arms, but your feet start to slide and Dean jumps up, grabbing your hand. “You let out an exasperated breath and look at him. “I’m sure you say that to all the girls.”

He scoffs. “What girls?”

Your chest tightens. So, it’s true. He isn’t sleeping around. You have to know. If you don’t ask, it’ll eat away at you. “Oh, come on. How many people have you pulled this trick on?”

You hear his breath catch. “What trick?”

“The ‘I’ll teach you how to skate’ routine. I’m sure you bring all the girls here.” Your voice is sour, but your hand is still locked in his, and god help you, you don’t want to let go.

He backs off, but only slightly. Blue eyes bright, his mouth curving in that vulnerable half-smile you’ve learned is real.

“None,” he says, earnest. “I swear, you’re the first.”

You scoff, and turn away from him, bracing yourself on the glass. “Nobody likes a liar, Dean.”

“Fine. You don’t believe me.” He grabs your arm, and you let him spin you gently so you face him. “But it’s the truth.”

“What about the puck bunnies?” you ask, mostly to save face, to keep things on the ground and not up in the dangerous, hovering promise of what could be.

He shakes his head. “Never brought anyone here. Seriously. Ask the guys. They’d make fun of me for it for the rest of my life.”

A silence blooms between you, too big for the rink, and you break it before it can swallow you whole. The words tumble out before you can stop them. “Why aren't you sleeping around?”

Dean’s face goes blank. He blinks, completely unprepared for this question. “Who told you that?”

“Doesn’t matter.” You shrug. “Is it true?”

He lets out a small, incredulous laugh. “Do I really need to answer that?”

You think of Hannah’s words, of the way Allie said they’ve noticed a change. Maybe you are oblivious. Maybe you want to be. “Yes, you do.”

He slowly slips his hand back to your waist, as if you’ll spook by quick movements. “Is it not obvious?” Dean asks, “I like you. More than I should. More than I know what to do with.”

Your pulse pounds and you push out of his grip. “You can’t mean that.” Your voice is flat. “You don’t even know me.”

Dean’s smile falters, but he doesn’t back off. “What do you mean? I’ve spent the last month getting to know you.”

“No. We are not doing this.” You dig the toe-pick of the skate into the ice, steadying yourself. If you start slipping here, you’ll never stop. “You don’t know the real me.”

He moves to block your retreat, hands tucked behind his back. “I think I do. You’re just too scared to admit it.”

You shake your head. “You can’t like me, Dean. That’s not the deal.”

“Okay. Then explain the deal.”

You look at him like he’s just started speaking in tongues. “We’ve already talked about this. No flirting, no drama, no… whatever this is.” You jab a finger between the two of you. 

“Yeah,” he throws his hands up, “and the only reason we’re talking about it again is because you brought it up. I am exactly where I want to be. I’m happy liking you from afar.”

Your forehead creases in disbelief. “But that’s not fair to you. I told you at the beginning I’m not girlfriend material. I meant it. I’m not even like… one-night stand material. You know that.” You wish your laugh was cruel, but it just sounds sad. “People like us? We’d be catastrophic.”

Dean leans, tapping a finger on the glass. “You keep saying that, but I think you’re scared of losing control. You’re scared of getting hurt, but guess what? So am I. The only difference is that I’m willing to take the risk.”

You push off, wobbly but determined, circling past him. “I am not scared. I’m practical. I see exactly where this goes.”

“Enlighten me.”

You round back to him, too proud to take his offered hand for balance this time. “Fine. We hook up for like, a week, maybe two. You get bored. I probably cry.” You scowl. “Then I have to switch schools, move, and become a cloistered nun to avoid seeing your dumb face for the rest of my life.”

He bites down on his bottom lip to suppress a laugh, making his dimples pop. “You do realize how dramatic that is, right?”

You shake your head, a bitter little smile playing on your lips. “This is textbook, Di Laurentis. Guys like you go after the thing you can’t have. It’s a challenge. It’s dopamine. That’s what you want.”

“Guys like me.” He nods. “But not me.”

You shuffle closer. “Look. You need to be out there. I want you to be out there. Go full Di Laurentis. Fuck the entire campus if you want. I’ll even root for you. Hookups are what you do. Let’s not pretend you want anything more.”

Dean looks down, mouth twisted. “That’s what you want?”

You square your shoulders, ready for the crucifixion. “Yes.”

He considers you for a beat, then takes a half step forward, crowding your space. The cold from the rink is nothing compared to the heat radiating between you. “Fine. If you can look me in the eye, and tell me you don’t have even the tiniest amount of feelings for me, I’ll go fuck the first girl in my DMs.”

You glower at him. “I want you to go out and get it out of your system. I want you to stop acting like this is-” You break off, teeth clamped, because you can’t breathe through the lie.

He lets out an amused scoff, taking his tongue between his canines. “That’s not what I asked, Ballerina.”

You hold steady, even as something inside you flares. “I do not have any feelings for you.”

He smiles. “And yet, you’ve been wearing my hoodie for…” he ponders it. “A week now?” 

“Wha-” You blink several times, throwing your hands up. “That doesn’t mean anything. You can have your stupid hoodie back.” Your nostrils flare and you stab a finger into his chest. “I do not like you. Not even the tiniest little spark of a crush.” You ball your fists, nails digging into your palms. “I want you to find someone less likely to set you on fire.” You realize it sounds more like a plea than a dare. “For both our sakes.”

He steps back, folding his arms, a long exhale fogging the air. “Alright. Let’s try it your way. See how that goes.” He runs his hand through his hair, and flashes that quick, devastating smile that means he’s going to say something you will hate. “But don’t get weird if you see me with someone else. You can’t have it both ways.” A glint of a challenge in his eye. “If you really don’t care, then you can’t get jealous.”

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts your head. “I will literally never get jealous over you, Di Laurentis.”

He nods, stepping closer, inspecting your face for a trace of a lie. “Good. Because you definitely looked jealous just now, imagining the puck bunnies lining up for a shot.”

“I did not,” you snap, maybe too shrill. You bite the inside of your cheek, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

His hands slip back into his jacket pockets. He cocks his head, and there’s a moment, one high-tension scan, before he says, “You also have to come to my birthday party.”

Your stomach becomes a drum. “Dean, I-”

“You’re not actually going to ghost my birthday, are you?” It’s almost a plea, but he smothers it with bravado, adds a playful shove to your shoulder. “Everyone’s going. Even Beth said she’d drag you out if she had to.”

You lift your chin. “You know I hate parties. Especially when it’s a set-up for drinking games, or for you to show off your abs.”

He laughs. “Hey, the ladies love my abs. It’s the perfect opportunity to do exactly what you asked of me.” He sobers, his teasing tone fading. “But I want you to be there, Ballerina.”

You hate how fast your ribs loosen, seeing his face go momentarily unguarded. “Why’s it so important?”

“It’s not,” he lies, and it’s so transparent you could hold it up to the light and see every dumb, hopeful thing he actually means. “But it’d be nice to see you there. With my friends. With everyone.”

You stare at the ice, which is far less dangerous than his face. “I’ll think about it,” you concede, voice stripped.

He steps back, running hands along his jaw, the pretense draining out of him. “If you don’t show up,” he says, “I’ll literally break into your dorm and carry you there in your pajamas.” Imagining Dean Di Laurentis throwing you over his shoulder, is somehow the closest you’ve ever come to actual panic and actual glee at the same time. “You know I will,” he threatens. Then, quietly, “Or you could just show up, and we could… just… hang out. Like always. No expectations. I won’t even hit on you.” A beat. “Much.”

The past three weeks have felt like holding your breath. At Malone’s, you watch your new friends, friends you can almost trust, and wonder how long this fragile peace will last. You think of the late nights in the dance studio with Dean that are less about practice and more about listening to music on the floor, talking and laughing, texts that last until two a.m. It’s terrifying, the comfortability of it all. Even the frat house, which you finally visited on a non-party night, has become a regular thing, another baby step onto thin ice. Everything feels a little too good to be true, and the longer it goes on, the more your shoulders relax, which might be the scariest thing of all.

“So, are we ready for the biggest event of the year?” Beth dips a fry in ketchup before taking it between her glossed lips. 

You’re thankful that Malone’s is slower than usual. You’ve been spending a lot of time here with the group, and it’s become one of your favorite places, but it does get busy. 

“What event?” You look between the girls and Allie shakes her head, slurping her milkshake.

“The annual Maxwell Di Laurentis extravaganza.” Allie wiggles her fingers and they all giggle. Your brows furrow.

“Dean and Beau’s birthday,” Hannah clarifies. 

“I figured you’d know by now.” Beth chews another fry. 

“I do.” When he mentioned it a few days ago, you brushed past the topic. It’s in two weeks, and it sounds like a nightmare. He’s supposed to send out invitations tomorrow. “I’m not going.” All heads turn at once. “What?”

“You have to go.” You snort, taking your bottom lip between your teeth. She’s said it so many times you’ve stopped counting. 

“No. I mean, you know how I am with parties.” You point to Hannah. “You saw me at the last one. I was a train wreck.”

Hannah shrugs. “We all have bad moments, and besides, you have more friends now. We’ll all be there, and you don’t have to drink.”

You’ve grown closer to Hannah over the weeks. You see a part of each other that no one else does. You’ve never said it outright, but in the way she talks about parties, or watches the guys, or avoids opened alcohol. You see a reflection of your own caution. It’s a silent understanding that feels more real than any conversation you could have. 

You give her a weak smile. “Yeah, I don’t know.”

“Have you told Dean you’re not going?” Beth raises her perfectly plucked brows. “Because there’s no way he’s going to let you miss his birthday.” Just then your phone dings. “Speak of the devil.”

You roll your eyes and pull your phone out. You smile before you can stop yourself. 

Dean the Disaster: where are you???

Dean the Disaster: dont say class. i know your schedule

You giggle and shake your head.

You: youre such a stalker

Dean the Disaster: i prefer the word investigator

You look up from the screen to see three sets of eyes staring at you.

“…What?”

“That smile.” Beth leans forward, a conspiratorial glint in her eye.

“What smile?” You force the curve of your lips down.

“The Dean smile.”

You scoff. “I don’t have a Dean smile.” Beth turns, and eyes the other girls who give a knowing look and you huff. “Don’t do that.” They all suppress a laugh. 

Allie grins. “So…” She leans forward. “What’s going on there?”

“Nothing.” The word is out too fast. 

“You text until like three in the morning every day,” Beth retorts.

“Friends text.”

“Do friends also spend every night together?”

You shrug. “You do if you’re good friends. I spend every night with you.” 

She elbows you and clicks her tongue. “We live together.”

“No.” You shake your head. “It’s not like that. We’re just friends.”

Hannah swirls her straw between her fingers. “Says the girl wearing his hoodie.” She smirks, and you kick her playfully under the table, making you both laugh. 

“Okay.” Beth side eyes you. “Speaking of people you spend a lot of time with… what about you and Logan?”

You inhale your drink. Carbonation burns your esophagus and throws you into a coughing fit. 

“What?” you choke out.

“You two are together just as much as you and Dean.”

Your face pinches. “No we’re not.”

She raises a brow. “He drives you home from the frat, walks you to class, carries your bags. He’s always calling you.”

“We’re just friends.”

Beth sucks in a breath, blowing it through her nostrils. “Just friends,” she mumbles. 

You feel your irritation spike. “What?”

She purses her lips. “Nothing.”

“No, what?” You demand. 

She sighs dramatically. “I’m just saying…” She gestures to you with a fry. “…Dean.” Another fry. “…Logan.” She picks at her nail. “A lot of friends.” She hooks two fingers around the word friends. “You could leave some for the rest of us.”

You scoff, leaning away from her. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” She drops a fry into the tray and wipes her fingers on a napkin. “I gotta go. I’ll see you guys later.” She grabs her purse and is out the door. You throw your arms out and turn back to Hannah and Allie. They both cringe. 

“What the fuck was that?” 

“Isn’t it obvious?” You look between them, clueless. Allie huffs. “God, you’re really oblivious sometimes. Beth likes Logan.”

“Oh,” you lean back in your seat. “Well, yeah. She likes all the hockey guys.”

“No.” Allie shakes her head. “She really likes Logan.”

Your eyes bulge. How have you not noticed? Are you really that oblivious? She flirts with all the hockey guys.

“Why didn’t she tell me?”

“Because,” Hannah finishes her fry, “she thinks he likes you. She’s trying to be a good friend and guard her feelings at the same time.”

Every time someone says John likes you, you seriously think about gouging your eyes out with the nearest pointy object. Right now, your fork is looking pretty appealing. 

“I promise you, nothing is going on between John and me.” 

“Right.” Allie drags the word. “Just like nothing is going on between you and Dean.”

“There is nothing going on,” you demand. “Dean doesn’t do girlfriends. He’s probably off boning some freshman right now.”

Hannah shakes her head. “According to Garrett, he hasn’t seen Dean with a girl in over a week.” 

You bite down on your straw. “What? No. No.” You stammer over your words, trying to process the information. “I mean, just because he doesn’t bring any girls to the house doesn’t mean he’s not sleeping with anyone.” He needs to be sleeping around. You want him to. If he’s sleeping around, he’s unavailable, he’s the play boy you know him to be. He has to be.

Hannah’s lips quirk up. “I don’t know.”

“Why do you want him to be sleeping around?” Allie asks. “I mean, it’s obvious you like each other.”

You groan, squeezing your cup until your knuckles blanch. “We. Are. Just. Friends.”

“Are you joking?” Allie huffs a laugh. “Babe, come on. That man is in love.”

“He is not.”

Allie looks to Hannah. “Han, back me up.”

You give Hannah a death glare, and she squeezes her eyes shut. “I have to side with Allie on this one.”

You throw your head back against the booth cushion. “No.”

Allie grabs your hand. “Why is that a bad thing?” 

“Because.” You look between them. “Because he can’t like me. Because he’s Dean. Because neither of us would be good in a relationship.” 

“So,” Allie shrugs. “Don’t be in a relationship.”

“What do you mean?”

“Who needs labels. Just have fun,” Allie suggests. “All the benefits of a relationship with no strings. I mean, if anyone is built for that, it’s Dean.”

“Benefits? You mean sex.”

She giggles. “Well, yeah, and other stuff.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, as if that might physically erase the thought. You don’t even know if you could have sex with anyone. Not after… 

“No way. I’m not having sex with Dean Di Laurentis. Not in this or any other dimension.”

Allie snickers, slurping the rest of her shake through a pink straw. “You’re thinking too far ahead. You don’t have to have sex with him. But if you want to, then do it.”

You scowl. “I literally do not.”

Hannah’s voice has no edge, just gentle, infuriating patience. “You get that you can just see what happens, right? You don’t have to map it all out. If you want to kiss him, kiss him. If you want to punch him, punch him. Both are valid. But don’t talk yourself out of something just because you think you know the ending. Sometimes it’s not even about endings.”

You glare at her. “That is the most vague thing anyone’s ever said.”

Allie tucks a loose curl behind her ear, cocks her head, and grins like a fox. “Okay, serious question, then. If Dean asked you to kiss him, right now, would you do it?”

You freeze. Your face heats as you imagine the particulars. The dimples on his cheeks, the hairs at the nape of his neck, the way he always looks like he’s daring you to admit you want to. You hate yourself for how fast you have an answer, even if it’s one you’ll never say out loud. “No,” you scoff, too quickly. “Hard no. He’s a player. I don’t mess with guys like that.” 

“Come on,” Allie says, loud enough that the two study groups three booths down twist their necks in curiosity. “You could literally be living in a romance movie right now if you just gave in.”

You groan, smacking your forehead against the rim of your cup. “Can you guys not?”

Allie leans in, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. “How come? Is it… trust issues? Or do you just hate happy endings?”

You cut your eyes at her, then at Hannah, praying for some distraction, a fire alarm, a surprise food fight, anything to redirect this energy away from you. But Hannah just rests her chin on her palm and waits you out.

“It’s not that I hate happy endings,” you mutter, “I’m just realistic about mine...” You swirl your soda, watching the bubbles rise then break. You look up through your lashes with a smirk. “And I have trust issues.”

Allie rolls her eyes. “Babe, that’s beauty of not putting a label on it. It doesn’t have to end at all. It just… exists.” She spreads her fingers like a magician unveiling a trick.

“But what if I can’t?”

“Can’t what?” Allie’s brow creases. 

“I just… I don’t know if I’m ready to be with him, or anyone for that matter. Sexually or romantically. What if I…” You chew on your cheek, fighting the battle of telling them. Your therapist said talking about it is good. Finding people you trust to tell is key to healing, and at this moment, you feel like you could tell them. Yet, something holds you back. 

Hannah’s next words blind side you. “It’s none of my business,” she says. “But I get where you’re coming form.” She traces a finger along the waxy table. “It took me a long time, too. Like… a really long time.” She shrugs, small. “Don’t do anything you don’t want to do, but you’ll also never know if you’re ready until you try. Mostly, it’s about if you can let yourself feel safe.”

You open your mouth, then snap it closed. It takes effort to scrape up something honest past the knives lining your throat. “I just… I don’t want to be the girl who ruins everything. And I can’t-” you pause, huff the weakest laugh, “I can’t do that with someone who would just walk away.”

There. See? You’ve said it. Confession. It’s not as hard as it seems.

Allie looks at you, eyes wide, and for once there’s nothing but pure softness. “He wouldn’t walk away.”

You huff, spooked by how certain she sounds. “You don’t know that. I mean, it’s Dean Di Laurentis. The playboy of playboys.”

She waves a dismissive hand. “He might be, but not with you. We’ve all seen it.”

Hannah nods, her voice gentle. “Just don’t sell yourself short.”

You look down at your hands, the white lines where your thumb pressed too hard against the cup. You want to say you’re not ready, not now, not ever. But instead you say, “Even if I wanted to, I wouldn’t know where to start.”

Allie snorts. “You start by showing up to his birthday party.” She grins. “The rest of it will happen on its own.”

You glare, but there’s no venom left. “Why do I feel like this is the set-up to a god-awful romcom disaster?”

“Because it is!” Allie claps her hands. “That’s the fun of being alive.”

Hannah smiles, and there’s the tiniest hint of pride in it. “The best parts of life are the ones you can’t control.”

You remember a situation you couldn’t control. It’s the feeling of the world tilting and shattering around you. You can’t let that happen again. Not ever.

You squirm under the weight of her words, wishing you could tease them away with a clever retort, but nothing comes. They’re right. The appeal of life is unpredictability, even if you hate it, even if it still makes you want to run for the hills or, at minimum, under a table. A slow-blooming panic starts in your chest at the thought of the party. Of the dress. 

Your phone buzzes again. You don't look. You already know it's him.

"Just think about it," Allie says, softer now, reading the shutters behind your eyes. "No pressure. We just want you to be happy."

You nod, because it's easier than saying no. Easier than explaining that wanting things is the most dangerous feeling you've ever had. The last time you wanted something, someone, it was used against you. This is a bad idea. A familiar, self-destructive fairytale. Your gut, which has never been wrong, is screaming at you to run. Things are good. Don’t ruin them with feelings. 

“Okay, this intervention is over. I have an essay due and two classes tomorrow morning. Also, the more we talk about this, the more I want to jump in front of car.”

You slide from the booth, rushing to the door. The instant the cold air hits, you feel a little better.

Allie and Hannah follow, their footsteps quiet as they weave through the empty tables. At the curb, Hannah offers her arm, and you’re almost too proud to take it, but she holds steady and waits. You loop your elbow around hers, and she matches your stride perfectly.

The walk back is nice. You talk about classes and Allie debates what she’s going to wear to Dean’s party. The three of you split at the edge of campus.

“See you at the party?” Allie chirps.

“Possibly,” you say. They won’t, but you don’t need to tell them that.

You walk the last block with Hannah’s words eating away at you. He hasn’t been with any girls in over a week. It can’t be true. He needs to be. He has to be. Dean Di Laurentis doesn't just... stop. Guys like him don't wake up one morning and decide they're relationship material. He flirts. He hooks up. He leaves. That's who he is. That's who he has to be. Because if Hannah's wrong... 

If Garrett's right... 

Then nothing between you is as simple as you've convinced yourself it is. 

As if on queue, your phone buzzes again. The screen lights up with Dean’s name. You press accept, barely letting it ring, because if you think about this too long, you won’t answer.

“Hey,” you say, already bracing for an ambush about the party.

“Wow. She answers the call,” he teases. “Did you die, Ballerina? I texted you, like, five times.”

You click your tongue, all acid and nerves. “Did you send an ambulance?”

He snorts. “If you don’t answer in five minutes, I start drafting your eulogy. I’ve got a good one so far. Want to hear it?”

“I’d rather not,” you mumble, kicking a rock in the path.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and frustration burns in your chest.

“I’m peachy.” It comes out brittle. “Just didn’t realize you were so clingy.”

“Woah, someone’s grouchy.” 

“I’m not grouchy,” you snap.

“Right,” he drags out the word. “Well, Oscar.” You grind your teeth at the name. He thinks he’s so funny. “I’m not being clingy. I have a question about tonight.” Regret instantly hits you. You’re on edge from the conversation with the girls. It’s not right to take it out on him. You check the time, expecting him to say he can’t make it to practice, that he’s bailing. “We’re not dancing tonight.”

“That’s not a question.”

He laughs. “I’m getting there, jeez. I have an alternative plan. A surprise. If you’re up for it?”

You roll your eyes, even though he can’t see. “I hate surprises.”

“I know,” he says, and the confidence in his voice is like a steadying hand on your shoulder. “But this is a good one. I promise.”

You feel queasy. “I like our routine, though.”

“You actually don’t get a vote.”

You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “Now I’m definitely not going.”

He sighs like he sees straight through your bullshit. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

You stiffen. “Help what?”

“The control thing.” There’s no edge to it, just fact. “Every time you think someone’s taking you off script, you panic.” You want to argue, but the words disappear. He’s right. Fifteen seconds later, you can’t even remember what your argument was supposed to be. “Look. Just... try it, for once. You don’t have to plan everything,” Dean says, voice softer now. “You’re coming.”

“I’m not a dog, you know. You can’t just snap your fingers and expect me to do whatever you want.”

“Just when I thought you couldn’t be more dramatic.” He chuckles. “You know you’ll hate yourself if you don’t find out what the surprise is.”

You almost smile. “You’re so sure of yourself.”

“That’s what makes it fun,” he says, and you can practically see his grin through the receiver. “Pick you up at seven?”

You want to say no. You want to hang up and send a text tomorrow saying you forgot, you got sick, something. You picture what Hannah said about letting yourself just “see what happens.” It’s just one night. A small deviation from the routine.

“Fine.” You try to sound put upon.

After the game, the world rearranges itself around your absence. The texts ding in before you’re even out of sight of the arena. 

Beth: are u okay??

Beth: where are u??

You: im fine, but im headed home. not feeling well

Beth: do u want me to come? i can bring snacks?

You: no. have fun at the game. ill see you later

Beth: okay, but ill still bring snack home. see you later <3

You snort at the screen and tell her you love her in all caps. The walk to your dorm is much needed. When you get inside, you change and grab your gym bag. 

At the studio, you slip inside, past the overzealous janitor who’s mopping with a purpose. You push open the door of your sacred place. You stand in the hush of the studio for a moment, staring at the mirrors. 

You throw your bag down and plug your phone into the sound system. You don’t stretch. You just move. The playlist is a queue of everything you used to love before you loved anything, and it spins up tape after tape until the music becomes sensation instead of noise.

Outside, every shadow is another person with an opinion. In here, there is only the scrape of your feet and the perfection of repetition. The third time you nail the middle eight, you smile. The fourth, you lose yourself so fully that you forget to look for the exit, forget about the photo posted on the Fifth Line and the way Dean saw you cry.

Your brother calls in the cool down, right after you’re lying flat on the floor staring at the sodium spotlights. You glance at his contact photo, a dog filter selfie from freshmen year, tongue stuck out, both of you pretending to be idiots when you were supposed to be at Mom’s rehab family week. You hit accept.

“Hey,” you start, but he’s already talking.

“You good? I heard you left early.”

Of course he did. If John Logan were not a hockey player, he’d be a prison warden or an intelligence asset. He’s someone who never misses anything, especially when it comes to you. You never learned to match his vigilance.

“How did you-”

“Beth.” He cuts you off and you nod, even though he can’t see you.

“Right. Yeah, well, I just… I was tired.”

The line is quiet. You can hear the roar of post-game voices behind him, a party already in progress. He must have sequestered himself away just to call you.

“You don’t have to hide things from me,” he says, and something in your chest eases. “I get it. Seriously, I do.”

You roll your eyes. “If you say so.”

“I’m serious.” He lets the silence linger, lets it be enough for a minute. “I’m fucking proud of you, you know that? For going at all.”

It’s too kind. It cracks your armor a little. “I almost made it a whole game before melting down. So, like, C+?” 

He laughs. “A solid A-minus. Perfection’s kinda overrated, anyway.” You hear him shift, the echo of a party growing louder behind him before he cups the receiver. “You want to come by the house? There’s gonna be a victory party.”

You picture the frat house, the sticky floors, the tumble of bodies. 

“I think I’ve tortured myself enough for one day.” 

“Fair.” He lets it settle. Then, as if he’s been skating up to it for minutes, he says, “So… Are you seeing Dean?” You freeze. The question is a flashbang. Your heart trips, but you play it cool. 

“What? No. We’re, like, barely friends. Less than friends.”

“Huh.” You wait, but he doesn’t elaborate. 

“What does ‘huh’ mean?” you demand. You stretch your calf, waiting him out. 

“Means if you are, you need to be careful.” He inhales through his teeth. “Dean’s my boy, but he’s… he’s a fuckboy. You know that. You don’t owe me anything, but I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

An accidental laugh bubbles out. “No boys, John. Not after everything. I promised myself.”

“I know that,” he says, exasperated. “But not everyone else does.”

You stand and swing your leg up onto the barre, a physical wall to brace yourself. “I would never. You think I’d go there? I’m not stupid.”

He sighs, relieved. “Good. Seriously. Stay away from him. Guy’s a walking red flag.”

You can’t help where your mind goes. Dancing with Dean, him making you laugh just to distract you from crying. It all seems like a lot of effort to just get in your pants, though, you’ve seen it before. You’ve seen the lengths that men will go to, the lies they’ll tell for sex. You’d be stupid to give him the benefit of the doubt based on your experiences. But, you’ve drawn that line. You’re just friends, and maybe Dean’s efforts are for friendship. You take a breath, the kind that clears out your ribs and mind.

“Duly noted.” There’s a pause. You let yourself feel, for the barest moment, what it would be like not to have to explain every choice, not to have to reassure anyone. You trust John. You trust him to never ask for more than you can give.

“Love you, you know,” he says, suddenly soft. You crush the phone to the side of your head.

“Love you, too, dork.” A knock hammers through the studio before you can say goodbye. You fumble to hang up, almost dropping your phone in your rush. “Bye, John,” you manage, but it’s soft, like you’re twelve again, homesick at sleep away camp.

You turn to see Dean walking toward you. He’s in joggers and a black fitted t-shirt, hair still wet from post-game shower. He stops mid-stride. He’s not smiling, just standing still. 

“Hey,” he says, and the word is simple, but sharp. There’s no dimple. Just a thin line pressed into place, lips white at the corners.

You grab your water bottle, pretend you haven’t noticed the tension radiating off him in heat waves. “What’s up?”

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says, but you know he did. He gestures at the phone, jerks his chin at the ghost of your call. “You were talking to John? As in Logan?”

You nod, cautious. “Yeah.”

He watches you, barely blinking, the blue of his eyes hard as his tensed shoulders. “You two talk a lot, huh.”

You almost laugh, but something about his face stops you. “We’re friends,” you say, schooling your tone to neutral. “Why?”

He shrugs, but it’s a defensive move. “No reason. Didn’t realize you were that close.”

You uncap the water, drag a sip, and eye him over the rim. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” he says, too fast. “I just-forget it.” He steps around you, makes for the mirror, and leans in to study his own reflection.

You dump your bottle into your bag, annoyed at how he’s siphoned all the oxygen out of the studio. You weren’t even prepared to be mad tonight, not until he decided to pick this fight.

“Do you ever take a day off?” you ask, letting the sarcasm curl through.

He spins back around. “From what?”

You motion vaguely at his entire being. “From this,” you say. “From being a complete head case.”

He grins, but there’s no joy in it. “You’re one to talk.”

You freeze. “Excuse me?”

He holds up his hands, feigning innocence, but his mouth won’t quit. “You think I don’t see what you’re doing? Between the whole ‘just friends’ act and keeping me on the longest leash in the world. Now, suddenly, you have time for John. If you’re interested in John, don’t drag me along. Tell me so I’m not over here looking like an idiot.”

You feel the pulse in your temple, quick and ugly. “You really think that’s what I’m doing? Playing the field? Are you really going to believe your own conclusions without any evidence?”

He shrugs, steps closer. “Only the ones that feel like a punch to the balls, yeah.” The confession stuns you into silence, and he fills it. “If there’s something going on, if you and him are-” He can’t even finish the sentence, his jaw clenching.

You stare at him. “I don’t want to be with anyone.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t look like it.”

You laugh, but it’s bitter. “Do you hear yourself?”

His voice dips. “I’m just asking. If you want me to back off, just say it.”

You step forward, matching his aggression, your toe almost to his. “You’re jealous,” you say, incredulous.

“Not jealous,” he shoots back, but the lie can’t survive for more than a second. “Just-I don’t know. I thought we had a thing.”

You want to tell him about the phone calls with John, the hours spent hiding in blanket forts as kids to escape your mother’s male suitors and drunken stupors. You want to explain how you can’t be seen with John, not at Briar, not after everything that’s happened over the last two years. But the words are locked away, secret and sacred. Not for Dean. Not for any of them.

You look away, stabbing your fingers through your scalp, digging for a temper you can control. “There is nothing going on with him.”

He narrows his eyes, mapping your face for the lie. “Then why did he tell me you’re off limits?”

Your heart ratchets up its shivering speed. “He told you that?”

Dean rolls his eyes, as if he expected you to know John said that. “He did,” he says. “A few days ago, after practice. So, you want to explain why my best friend is marking territory on a girl we met a week ago? Or do you want to keep pretending like I’m the only one here who can’t read a room?”

He sounds so sure, so certain that you have a strategy. You hate it. “There is no room, Dean. There’s nothing to read.”

Dean’s nostrils flare. He leans back against the mirror, arms folding tight across his chest and biceps swelling with the move. “Then why do I feel like I’m in some kind of goddamn contest I’m not allowed to win?”

Your skin hums with nerves, the kind that make your thoughts flicker unpredictably. “Stop saying shit like that! I’m not a fucking contest! No one’s winning me. We’re just friends, remember?”

He scoffs. “Right, friends. So you do this with all your friends?” He gestures at the space between you. “Let them watch you dance, dance with them, blow off your own friends, like Beth, to hang out with them instead of go to the party.”

You want to shout that none of those things count, that he is overvaluing every tiny moment because that’s how boys like him seduce girls like you. With attentiveness, with gentle care, until you fold to the idea that maybe you matter. 

“You’re overthinking,” you snap.

“Am I?” He steps even closer, only inches between you now. You tilt your head up to meet his eyes. “Tell me right now that I don’t make you feel anything, and I’ll drop it.”

“If I liked John, don’t you think I’d be at the party?” That sentence makes you want to vomit. You can’t believe he really thinks you like… you can’t even finish the thought. “But I’m not. I’m not seeing anyone, or interested in anyone. I’m not even sleeping with anyone.” The words leap out before you can edit them. You see Dean’s jaw tighten, then flex, as he digests the admission. 

“That’s not what I asked.” 

“Yeah,” you say, “but you wanted to.”

“Did I? Because I think you’re purposefully avoiding my question.” His eyes hold so much anger in him, but also something lost. “Sometimes I think you want me to try.”

It feels like a trap. If you say yes, you’re just another idiot who falls for the hot, blue-eyed, hockey play boy who says please. If you say no, you’re a liar, because your body betrayed you from day one. No matter how much you hate him, the kind of guy he is, you have started to look for him in crowds. You know you find him attractive. I mean, who wouldn’t? But there’s a difference between love and lust. You can lust after him without having feelings for him, and you don’t have feelings for him. You can’t have feelings for him. The silence tunnels out between you, the whole studio breathing in your collective misery.

“Why do you care?” You force the words out through your teeth. “You said it yourself, you've known me for a week.” You pick at your nails. “Besides, I thought feelings weren’t your thing.”

Dean’s hands are fists now. He swallows, the line of his throat severe. “They definitely aren’t,” he bites out. “And yet, I care about all the shit I never cared about before. Like, do you hate me? Do you think about me? What would it take to change your mind about guys like me?” He rocks his head against the mirror, eyes lifting to the ceiling. “Logan says I should leave you alone, and I feel like an asshole. If he likes you too, I should stay away. But, for some reason, I can’t.”

You inhale. There’s a sour escalation behind your ribs that you can’t identify. You’re not used to being a positive center of anyone’s attention. The feeling burns and soothes at the same time. “Dean, there is nothing going on between me and anyone. Also, don’t think I’m going to hook up with you just because you’re persistent,” you say, quieter than you meant.

“That’s not why I come here.” The brush of honesty in his voice startles you. “I don’t even know what I want to happen. I just want you to stop acting like I’m dirt under your shoe.”

You want to apologize. The urge is so strong it knocks against your teeth, desperate to be spoken, but something fierce in you presses back. “I don’t think you’re dirt, Dean.”

He ducks his head, breath coming in tight pulls. “Then why does it feel like every time I try, you want to run out the fucking door?”

You stare at your hands, at the little white crescents your nails made in your palm. A million micro-memories crash through your mind. The feeling of his hot breath on your neck, his hands on your thighs, the hate comments and assaults that came after. The endless appointments with the nice therapist, who told you trust is a practice, not a product. You look up, meet Dean’s eyes. “Because I do?” you say. “Because I don’t know how to not run.”

His expression loses its fight. He just stands there, shoulders dropping, the bigness of him suddenly unguarded. “It’s exhausting,” he says, almost to himself. Then, louder, “I’m not good at this. I don’t know how.” You debate telling him the truth, that you don’t either. That even when your chest feels ready to cave in, when all you want is to push him away so you can control the story, some part of you wants to see what it might be like if he stayed. “You want me to leave?”

“No,” you whisper. “But you have to stop this. No jealousy, or flirting, or anything. I’m not at a point in my life where I can be good for someone, and let’s be honest, neither are you.” He huffs a laugh and you crack a smile. “We would never work. You are nowhere near boyfriend material, and I’m more fucked up than you can imagine. You don’t want the baggage that comes with this.” You gesture to yourself. “Trust me. You don’t know me, and you don’t want to. Friends is better for everyone.”

He nods, chewing on his bottom lip. “I don’t know what you’ve been through, but you can’t make that decision for other people. You can’t just decide that people aren’t going to like you because you don’t like yourself.”

“I can if it means I won’t get hurt.”

He searches your face. “Yeah, well, if you ever want to tell me why you run,” he says, voice low and tentative, “I’ll listen. I don’t scare easy. I know you think I’m an asshole, but I actually… I can keep my mouth shut. Sometimes.”

Something inside you, cold and long-glued shut, splinters. You tip your head, considering him, and for a second, you let yourself believe it. The possibility that someone would want you even if you’re not easy to love, or fix, or keep around. 

“Okay,” you say. “Maybe someday.”

His dimples pop at the smile that spreads across his face. “Okay, I can work with someday.” He claps his hands together, rubbing them as he backs away. “So, you gonna show me how to pirouette or what?” He puts his hands above his head and spins on the tip of his sneaker, nearly falling. You watch him stumble, dramatizing the almost-fall for comedic effect, and laugh in spite of yourself. Dean grins, arms windmilling, and topples to a crouch. For a moment, he stares at your shoes, then looks up through his lashes. “Show me?”

You sigh, and demonstrate the turn, slow and precise. His eyes never leave your feet until you finish, landing with a perfect spot on some imaginary audience in the window’s reflection. “See?” you say, and he nods, stands, tries again, fails less spectacularly. He’s a fast learner. It’s infuriating.

You don’t acknowledge how much you enjoy the attention, the way his smile full-body lights him up, or the feeling that, if you let your guard down another inch, you might be swept along by how simple this could all be. You focus on his inexpert attempt to replicate your movement. The way he bends at the knees, the snap of his arms, the crooked smile through the spin. He’s not a dancer, not by miles, but there’s something in his determination. It’s a need, a desperation, not to completely suck at this. 

You never trust the good days. Not even this one, though you feel strange and light, so nearly normal that you can almost see the outline of a different life where you’re not tiptoeing around the ghosts of your own instincts. You make it though all of Lange’s class with ease. Your dance went well. The applause at the end made your pulse skip, but you accepted it with a smile and quick bow. 

When you push open the door of the dance studio, the fall breeze is a relief against your sweat-soaked skin. You take in a deep breath, admiring the way the trees have started to orange. Fall has always been your favorite season. You hop down the few steps and when you twist, a coil of energy comes alive in your spine. There he is, Dean Di Lauretnis, fresh from his own practice, hair shining, a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. 

His smile is a living thing. “Hey, Ballerina.” 

You can’t help the way your lips tug. “Hey, Disaster.”

He winks, all charm, and when he steps closer, your stomach flutters. Dean shifts sideways, so you’re forced to move with him. You realize belatedly that he’s done this on purpose, staged the angel so that the warm gold of the sun backlights the both of you. 

He leans in. “Are you coming tonight?”

“To what?” It comes out more terse than you intend, because you know what he’s referring to. You had a whole argument with Beth about it this morning. 

He tilts his head, not missing a beat. “The hockey game. It’s kind of a big deal.”

“I thought we had-” You almost say it, almost betray the secret thing that isn’t a secret. What if someone overhears you? What if people hear you’re hanging out together privately? You want John to lie because you don’t want attention. Who gets more attention than Dean? “Dance practice,” you whisper. 

He grins. “Are you that embarrassed of me?” he says just as quietly, and you cross your arms. 

“Are we, or are we not?”

He shrugs, drinking in your sass. “I was thinking we could do both. It’ll be fun.”

“Who says I want to see a bunch of sweaty guys fight over a puck?”

“Who says you get a choice?” He swings the bag off his shoulder and lets it thump the floor. “If you want to be friends, you have to at least pretend to support me in my passions.”

You eye him. He is all teeth, a moving illusion of a boy who exists entirely to upset the equilibrium of your life. “Just because I don’t want to go to a game doesn't mean I don't support your passions.”

He shrugs again. “I want you there,” he says, and oh, do you hate to hear that. It’s the thing you never account for. It’s the moments of honesty that yank the rug out from under your feet. 

You try to hide your smile behind a snort and shake of the head. “I don’t know.” 

He tisks. “Come on, Ballerina.” You roll your eyes at the name, and despise that he is actually convincing you. “Please.” He pouts out his bottom lip. “You could be our good luck charm, and we’d never know because you didn’t come.”

You don’t process why you say yes. You just do. “Fine,” you groan. “You win.” 

He beams and pumps his fist. “Yes! Okay, awesome.” He chuckles. “Yeah, great. I’ll, um, I’ll see you there.” He picks up his duffle, heading toward his next class. You’re watching him walk away when he turns, and waves over his head. You giggle and give a small wave back. Once he rounds a building, you suck in a breath. A Briar U hockey game. One of the most popular events in the entire school. Where there will be hundreds of people. You place your hand on your stomach, hoping to ease the feeling of hurling up your breakfast. 

✦ ────────── ❀ ────────── ✦

The din of the arena is relentless, a scream of sound that crushes your chest and makes your head feel light. Beth has a death grip on your wrist as she drags you through the mass. She finds a seat in the second row. You swallow at how close you are. You hate sitting up front. When you look around, you realize you’re sitting with the puck bunnies. Why wouldn’t you be? Beth is one of them after all. 

“You look so cute.” You whip your head to Beth, her voice reeling you back in. She is all excitement and joy, her body language buoyed by the raging tide of the crowd. “I can’t believe you haven’t gone to a real game before.” 

You lied to her. Of course you’ve gone to a hockey game before with your brother being John Logan, but you didn’t want to reveal anything that would give you away. Lying was easier. 

You force a smile to hide your turmoil. “I can’t believe all of Briar is here for this.”

Beth laughs. “Now you get why nothing at school gets done in hockey season.” She introduces you to a group of girls. More names, more faces, and you get the oddest sensation of feeling like your on a roller coaster and waiting for it to drop. You take a deep breath through your nose, pushing yourself to ride the wave with them, let them pull you along, let yourself forget everything bad, every reason you keep your guard up. 

It doesn't last. At some point, you hear a camera shutter, and your skin goes cold. You turn, and there is a girl with bleached hair and alternative style with her phone pointed at you. She’s taking pictures of the crowd, of all the girls in your section. Her phone swallows every ounce of your existence as you turn and hide your face. 

You shrink into your chair, breath hiccuping in your chest. Beth doesn’t notice. She’s focused on the scoreboard, already trash talking the other team. You flip open your phone and start scrolling through Pinterest, desperate for a distraction. 

You swipe and scroll, pretending your thumbs have more important things to do than tremble. The picture of the camera won’t leave your mind. You keep your head ducked, absorbing the noise, letting every shriek and clatter pile up. The whole place smells like popcorn and sweat.

When the stadium lights go dark, your lungs seize. The crowd goes wild. Wild isn’t even the right word, it’s an animal scream that shakes the floor. You brace for the bad, but then the spotlights fly across the ice. There’s a song, you don’t know what it is, but everyone else does. Everyone is howling the chorus as the Briar team barrels out one by one, faces hidden behind metal cages. The phone swings to chase them, and for a blissful moment, you aren’t a part of the spectacle. 

Beth jumps to her feet, screaming, “That’s my future husband!” and the whole crowd cracks up. Beth grabs your arm, hauling you up, and you oblige out of peer pressure, hands clutching your phone. You take in the screaming and cheering. You wonder what it feels like to matter that much to a crowd. 

When you look back at the ice, you see number 66, with Di Laurentis in big blue letters. He glides on the ice with grace, spinning around. You watch him scan the crowd, and when he finds you, he smiles. And somehow, the people melt away for a split second when he waves at you. You wiggle your fingers, and you see his shoulders shake in what you assume is a chuckle before his attention is on the start of the game, and the world comes crashing back in. 

The first period is a blur. Your anxiety smolders, but you are able to tame the fire. You fake laugh at the right times, join the cheering and clapping when Beth elbows you. She keeps leaning over to tell you the rules, and you pretend it’s new information, nodding and humming along. Your eyes find Dean on the ice every time. He moves like he’s made for it, all velocity and calculation. 

There’s a collision in the corner, bodies slamming against glass, and your breath catches. Only, he’s fine, just doing a victory slide along the boards, and now the whole section is pounding their feet. 

At intermission, the lights rise again and people flood the aisles for snacks and refills. Beth leaves for a bathroom run, but you keep your head down. You feel your phone buzz and see a text from John.

Big Bro: im surprised you came. 

You: couldnt miss my big brothers game. what kind of sister would i be?

Big Bro: you sure you came for me?

Your shoulders tense. You stare at the message until the letter blur. You chew the inside of your cheek, and finally start moving your thumbs. 

You: who else would i be here for?

Big Bro: 👀

You roll your eyes. Technically, Dean asked. You wouldn’t be here if he didn’t, but John doesn’t need to know that. It doesn’t mean anything. You’re friends, and friends support each other. Besides, you also came for John. He’s always supported you. It’s only right you do the same for him. 

You: youre right. i actually came for the popcorn, but watching you is cool too ig.

Big Bro: asshole

You: love you too. remember to stay hydrated 

You put your phone in your back pocket, right as Beth returns. She has a blue Gatorade and even more energy. 

“Oh my god, you have to see this,“ she says, shoving her phone inches from your face. There, on the feed of the Fifth Line is a photo. It’s the puck bunnies section. The caption is a joke about the “real MVPs” and you’re dead fucking center in the shot, in perfect focus. Your face isn’t even masked by a hand or a cup, it’s just you, looking out, like your past life snuck you into a police lineup. You stop breathing. You don’t blink.

You feel it coming, the swell and crush. The way your vision narrows, the static in your ears. Your hands go clammy, the phone slick and foreign. Beth is grinning, and you realize she thinks the picture is cute, she thinks it’s cool, she thinks you’ll want to save it to your camera roll. She doesn’t notice the way you’re spiraling. 

You stand up, nearly drop the phone, forcing a noise that sounds like, “I’m going to the bathroom.” 

“Wait, are you okay?” You hear her voice, but can’t turn back around. You need out. You wedge past the row, elbows wide, and stumble the steps into the blinding, echoing corridor. For a second you can’t hear anything, then the world barrels back in. Shouting, footsteps, the ridiculous whistle of a nacho cheese machine. 

You find the bathroom and the endless line of people. You can’t bear to wait. You need somewhere to go, now. Away from everyone, away from everything. So, you pivot away, moving fast, not sure where you’re going. You just need movement, an escape from every light and camera, the hundred shrieking reminders of the attention that comes with being here, being on the Fifth Line. 

You dodge past a group of kids. You’re aware of how you look. Your eyes are wide, face probably blotchy, the way you hug your arms over your stomach as if you can press yourself out of existence. 

At some point, you’re looping the back corridors of the arena. You lose the crowd. A couple of doors open into dark, cold concrete. A janitor wrangles a trash cart through the gloom, barely glancing at you. You keep moving, barely thinking, just wind-up-toy momentum. You see a door at the end of the hall, propped open just a sliver by a rubber wedge. You take the detour, your hands shaking so hard you barely catch the door. 

Inside, you’re hit by the fresh chemical tang of laundry, and the sticky-sweet overlay of Gatorade powder. You recognize the place before your brain catches up. It’s an auxiliary locker room.

You press your head against a cool locker. You hate yourself. For being so predictable, for letting a fucking photo turn you inside out. No one will know. No one will care. But your brain is already listing possibilities. Who’s screenshotting, who’s sending it to who, who might recognize your face.

You bite the inside of your cheek until it stings, clamping down so hard you taste iron. Your breath comes unevenly. Your bottom lip starts to quiver, and you stand up, dragging your hands through your hair. You take one deep breath after the other, fighting with all your strength to ward off the tears. 

The photo, clear as day, floats in your mind. Have you always looked like that? Have you always been so immediately readable? Fear, shock, a sheet of glass between you and the world? You want to scream. Instead, you press your palms into your eye sockets and slide down the row of lockers. You press until you see stars. Maybe, if you stay perfectly still, you can keep the tears behind your eyes and the bile behind your teeth.

But you lose. A cry breaks through, and soon your hands are wet. You pull your knees to your chest, forehead resting on them as you let go of any restraint.

Someone opens the door. You can’t move fast enough, can’t hide, so you freeze and hope to turn invisible.

“Y/N?” Dean’s voice is quieter than you expect. Cautious, almost. You don’t answer. He steps inside anyway. How did he even know you were in here? Maybe he can just sniff you out like a dog. It doesn’t really matter. He sees you, and the look on his face makes everything worse. “Are you okay?”

You cover your face, angry at yourself, angry at him for seeing you like this, again. “Go away,” you mumble, but it comes out a whimper.

Dean lets the door fall against the wedge. You hear his footsteps, then nothing. He waits. You wish you could say something. Instead, you just breathe, stilted, the sound embarrassingly raw. 

He comes closer, but not too close. He sits down on the side of the bench farthest from you. It’s far enough that you could run, close enough that if you wanted, you could talk.

“Do you want me to get Beth?” You shake your head, unable to do more than that. 

The silence is unbearable. He doesn’t push, just watches you. When you finally speak, it’s so soft you don’t even believe you mean it. “You can leave. You should leave.”

Dean shakes his head. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, voice pitching lower, “unless you want me to.” You look up at him. There’s no smile, no dimples, none of that emotional teflon he always wears in public. You try to speak, but your voice cracks so you just look at the ceiling, then at the floor, willing yourself to be smaller. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to. I’ll just sit here with you.”

You know if he says something nice, something real, it’ll break you, and you don’t want that. You don’t want to be the girl who cries in front of him, the one who can’t even make it through a hockey game without falling apart. You bury your face in your hands, elbows pressing into your knees so hard it hurts. Maybe you want it to hurt. “I’m okay,” you say, but it’s weak. “I just-” You can’t finish the sentence. You can't even remember what the sentence was. 

Dean sits, absorbing the ache in the air, not trying to fix it. “No one comes in here during intermission.” He glances at the door. “I’ll close it, if you want.”

You nod. He does. There is something oddly intimate about the click of the latch. It makes you want to cry more, but you hold it back.

When your shaking stops, you risk a look at him. He’s staring at his own knees, mouth set in a calm line. You want to thank him, for some reason, for just being here, but you don’t know how to say it. And you don’t want to owe him anything. So instead you say, “Are you allowed to leave the team during the game?” He smiles, small. “Technically, no.” You bite at your lip. “So you’re breaking the law right now.” “Maybe just bending it.” He shrugs, and the movement is sweet. “I think I’ll survive.” You sit in silence, and it’s not as bad anymore. He leans back, lets his head hit the wall. “Anyway,” he says. “You want me to tell you something embarrassing about myself?” You look up. He grins, a glimmer of his usual self. “When I was ten, I got stuck in a tire swing. My mom had to call the fire department to cut me out. There are pictures.” He tilts his head, eyes squinting as if reliving the moment. “I’m never letting them resurface.” 

You sputter a laugh, surprising yourself. His face lights up, and he joins you with a chuckle. You’re laugh fades, replaced by a long, shuddering inhale. “I hate that I’m like this.”

“Like what?”

You shake your head again, unable to explain, even to yourself, why the sight of your own photo still makes your skin crawl. “I’m just not very good with crowds, anymore.” You sniffle, wiping you nose with your sleeve. “I hate being in pictures, being looked at. I just… I don’t know. When I saw the Fifth Line’s post I just freaked out.” 

He studies you, his face open in a way that makes you ache. “You know how many pictures of me there are online?” He cocks his head, like he’s genuinely considering. “Most of them are after I wipe out. Or trip. Or take a penalty. That’s just… college. People have faces.”

You drag your hands down your cheeks. “That’s not-” You want to tell him it’s not the same, but the words won’t line up right. “It’s different.” Your arms coil around your waist. “I don’t like being seen.”

He tilts his head. “Who do you think is looking at you right now?” You open your mouth, close it. The urge to say “everyone” is so strong you nearly say it aloud, but instead you just wave your hand, uselessly. Dean waits, eyes on the floor. “No one’s watching you.” He glances over. “Except me.” Your breath gets caught in your throat. You stare at him for a moment, let the confession hang. 

You can’t think about his meaning too deeply. Your head is filled with enough, so you ignore it. Choose to ignore whatever tingle spreads across your skin. “I just can’t breathe sometimes,” you whisper. It’s the straightest thing you’ve said in weeks.

He nods, like he knows exactly what you mean. “I get that feeling on the ice. You start thinking, and then it’s like you forgot how to skate. Everything trips you up. The more you try to fix it, the worse it gets.” He picks at his thumbnail. “If you think about falling, you’ll fall. If you don’t think about anything, you’ll still fall, just less often.”

You scoff. “Is this supposed to be adive?”

Hu shrugs. “It’s supposed to be empathy. I don’t know, I’m not a therapist.” He dares a look at your face. “You don’t have to stay at the game. We can stay in here. We can eat all the shitty protein bars before intermission is over.”

You watch him, suspicious. “Is this your way of getting me alone?”

He feigns shock, finally a hint of the old Dean. “What, me trying to get you alone? I would never. I made you a promise, remember? Just friends.”

Your lips press into a line as you nod. “Just friends.”

He grins. “I really wanted to get you alone to show you how long it takes me to chug a Powerade?”

You swallow, the panic receding an inch. “How fast?”

“Thirty seconds. But the record is twenty-two. I might throw up if I try again.”

“Do it,” you dare.

A soft laugh escapes him. “Maybe later. When you’re ready.” He glances around the empty locker room. Then, softer, “Whenever that is, you just tell me.”

You look at him so long it feels like time could snap. There is nothing in his face but the offer and the patience. You inhale, let it out, and the tears finally go quiet. You run your palms over your cheeks, drying them, reassembling your edges.

“I think I’m gonna wait here.”

He nods, and there’s nothing patronizing about it. He stands, then pauses when he gets to the door. “If you need me-” he fumbles for words, “just text me or whatever. I’ll check after the period.”

You watch him, all broad-shouldered and heroic, trying to be casual even as he’s clearly worried. It’s almost sweet, if you could let yourself have sweet things.

“Good luck,” you say, and he grins, mock-bowing before slipping out the door.

When the door shuts, the silence in the locker room is different now, softer, almost comforting. You catch your face in the dull metal of a locker, the pinkness faded from your cheeks, the eyes puffy but not scared. You feel your phone buzz and pull it out, a smile finding your lips. 

Dean the Disaster: we still on for dance practice?

Dean the Disaster: also if you need carbs Tuck made brownies this morning

You: yes but only if you promise not to bring the brownies. i might cry again if i eat the whole batch. i cant be sad and fat

Dean the Disaster: you're sexy no matter what size you are

Heat creeps up your neck, partially from embarrassment, but also because no one has ever corrected the way you speak about yourself. Usually, they're the ones saying the awful things.

You: Dean Di Laurentis.

Dean the Disaster: what

Dean the Disaster: im just saying, you make anything hot

Dean the Disaster: and before you yell at me for flirting dont say bad things about yourself and i wont be forced to 

Dean the Disaster: hope youre okay ballerina. lmk if you want company.

The messages stack up while you stare at them, bottom lip between your teeth to suppress your giggle. You wonder how many times Dean has done this with someone. How many times has he sat quietly, made stupid confessions, tried to keep a storm at bay by embarrassing himself. 

You: im fine. dont be weird. see you later.

You: good luck with your game. dont mess up

It takes only a second before a new message lights up your phone, as if he’s been staring at your chat this entire time.

You don’t know how long he’s been standing there. How many times he watched you fumble, misstep. All you know is that after your argument with him, you were furious. So, you came to the one place that always eases you. Why you were so mad, and you’re not even sure why. You don’t even know him, so why get so upset over a guy you’ve known for like a week. Over a guy who proves he is just like every other man. All he wants is to play a game, and you’re not some prize to be won. 

You reach over to the sound system and jab the pause button, the silence less forgiving than the playlist. He is watching you unabashed, just breathing in all your angles and unguarded moments. It makes you want to curl in on yourself, but you are so tired of folding small for men who don’t deserve it. He “came for the show.” That’s what he said when you finally noticed him. What an asshole. 

You exhale. “I’m not here for your entertainment.”

He shrugs, trying for cocky, failing it so hard you have the oddest urge to laugh. “I thought artists loved an audience.” You scoff, sucking your teeth. “Besides, I didn’t mean it like that. Why do you always have to take everything I say the wrong way?”

You tilt your head. “Why do you always have to say the wrong things?”

You expect him to fire back, to make a stupid joke, but he just stands there, chewing on what you said like it matters. He looks at you the way you sometimes look at your own reflection after a good day, like you could almost live with what you see. Your mind cartwheels, unspooling every possible humiliation he could whip out, but he just keeps watching you, as if he’s not sure you’re real.

You wipe your face with the back of your hand. The gesture is meant to be tough, but you miss and nearly poke your eye, which ruins every ounce of intimidation you might have built. You want to hate yourself for it, but somehow it softens you instead.

He breaks the silence first. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-if you want me gone, just say it.” He lingers on the last three words, like they’re heavier than they should be. “I’ll leave.”

A part of you wants that. A small voice in your head is screaming to tell him to stay.

“Are you stalking me?” You ask it like a joke, but Dean, for once, is not laughing.

He steps forward, hesitantly. “No. I mean, kinda, but not in like a creepy way. I swear.” He scrapes a hand through his hair, rough enough to pull it vertical. “I-fuck. I just wanted to see you. Not like…” He trails off, grimaces, tries again. “You’re good at what you do. When you’re… I don’t know. Like this. All the way real. Even when you mess up.”

You blink at him, the confession leaving you in complete shock. No one has ever said that before, not without a critique attached. You want to throw him out, but you also want to see what else he’ll say if you stay silent long enough. So you just stand there, heart a drumline, and wait. He almost walks it back. You can see his mouth tense, the urge to play it cool clawing at the edge of every word. But he doesn’t. He doesn’t, and for that you nearly forgive him for ruining your solitude. “You need water?” he asks, and it’s so stupid, so utterly mundane, that for a moment you’re dizzy with the normalcy of it. You shake your head, and the smallest smile whips across his face, so fast it’s almost tragic. “I’d like to stay and watch for a little, if that’s alright?”

You swallow down the nerves. “Fine. But if you’re going to stay, make yourself useful. Lock the door behind you. I don’t like surprise guests.”

He listens. The lock catches with a soft click, and Dean slides down the wall until he’s sitting cross-legged, arms folded over his knees. He watches you keeping a safe distance. 

You reach for the speaker again, thumb running along the playlist, hunting a song. You settle on your favorite, Wildflower by Billie Eilish. It’s one of the songs that got you through everything, that you would cry to while you screamed the lyrics. It’s a song that will take up space and not demand perfection. As the music seeps back in, you glance at him. He is waiting, not to judge, just to see.

You close your eyes and try to forget he’s there, but this is impossible. You dance anyway. You dance like you’re still invisible, but you know he can see every battered edge you spend all day tucking away. And when you stumble, when the phrase breaks, and you nearly pitch forward, you don’t apologize. You don’t stop, either. You keep going, and he watches, and there is something like peace in that. The minutes stack up, and your lungs burn, and when you finally double over, sweat in your eyes, Dean stands and offers a hand towel, wordless.

You take it, shoulders shaking, half out of exhaustion and half out of the absurdity of this, him, you, the echo of the last song still trembling through the air. The world is very quiet, and he is closer than you thought. Too close.

“So what happens now?” Dean asks, almost in a whisper. He is not smiling. He looks like he is preparing himself to hear the worst thing in the world.

You want to answer. But words stick, wedge sharp in your throat. Instead, you lean against the wall and stare him straight on. You won’t be the one to look away first. Not tonight.

You drag a deep breath in, yours and only yours, and cut the next question right to the bone. “Why do you always follow me, Di Laurentis?”

Dean looks at you like you’ve just asked him the most difficult question in the world. He takes a second, maybe to decide if it’s safe, and then smiles.

“Maybe,” he says, “I just want to see what happens next.”

You should laugh. You should roll your eyes and tell him to go away. You should bite back with some line that warns him off, that carves out a safe moat around your insides. But you don’t. You stand there, heart kicking the underside of your sternum. The music turns over, softer now, and in the shift between songs he blinks and looks down, as if that confession could undo everything he’s said.

You break, just a little, and words leak out before you can shut them down. “That’s not how it works,” you say, but your voice isn’t as mean as you want it to be. “You don’t just show up, and…” You gesture at the empty studio, your sweat-dark shirt, the slow-bloom humiliation of being seen by a boy who can barely even apologize.

Dean shrugs, and you see something real stall out behind his teeth. “You’re wrong,” he says. “That’s exactly what I do.” His laugh is quiet, so low you can only hear it because the room is so empty. “It’s the only thing I’ve got.” You say nothing. Just let the weird, blurry edges of the moment exist. His hands hang idle at his sides, and he just stares at you, the air like a held breath between you both. Then he opens his mouth, and instead of anything useful, he blurts, “I’m-” but stops, grinds his teeth, and makes a face like he bit into a lemon. “Look, I shouldn’t have called you a puzzle. Or whatever I said at the party. Or…” He gestures vaguely, as if there are so many offenses he can’t pick only one. “I keep making it worse.”

You wipe sweat from your brow, eyes refusing to give him an inch. “You haven’t actually said sorry, just so you know.”

His ears burn red. “I’m trying, okay, it’s not-” He drags a hand through his hair. “I’m sorry. For being an asshole. For fucking up your first week. For everything. I mean it. I suck at apologies, but I suck even more at, like, regret, and I think I might be the world champion at both with you.”

You want the apology to land, to mean something. But mostly you feel tired, a little shaky, a little too full of adrenaline for anything sincere to stick. You look away. “You’re really bad at this,” you mutter, though it isn’t nearly as sharp as you want it to be.

Dean laughs. Only, it’s not that thing he does for attention, the one that’s half weapon, half sex. It’s small. The smallest you’ve ever seen him. “Yeah.” He drags the toe of his shoe against the floor. It scuffs, faintly. “I just… I don’t want you to hate me.” That does something to your insides. Stupid. You want to deny it, or at least roll your eyes, but you just cross your arms and wait for the next move. A beat. Then, “What do I have to do to make it up to you?” His eyes flick up, earnest in a way that is honestly infuriating.

You bite your lip, searching your mind for what could possibly make this better, but then it hits you. A smirk pulls on your lips as you look up at him. “Dance.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You want forgiveness?” you say, shrugging. “Dance.”

His mouth opens, closes, opens again. It’s very satisfying to watch. “Now?”

“Yeah. Now.” You don’t know where the idea comes from, but there’s something completely intoxicating about seeing him in the same vulnerable state he saw you.

Dean stares, as if waiting for you to crack. You don’t. He stands there, shifting from one leg to the other, then sighs, hands on hips, like you’ve just asked him to solve world hunger. “Fine. But you’re not allowed to judge.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” you promise, voice dry. You flick to a new song. You almost select a slow one, but the thought of Dean Di Laurentis, on your terms, floundering to a pop remix is too good to pass up.

He listens for the beat, tries to find it, and then hits you with the one classic white-guy nod, heavy on the second and fourth beats. You think he’ll stop there, but then this idiot, this beautiful, reckless idiot, actually starts to move. He rolls his shoulders, arms jerky at first, then looser. He does a hip-thrust that is so comical, so deliberately dumb, you can’t help it. A laugh tears out of your chest, loud and violent and completely unplanned.

Dean points at you, a flash of triumph on his face. “Ha! That’s the first time you’ve laughed all week.”

You’re still laughing. “Yeah, because you look like you’re being electrocuted.”

He comes closer, two steps, three, swaggers with a new confidence. Then, god help you, he grabs your hand and spins you right into him, like this is a high school gymnasium. He even does the classic, corny dip.

“Are you trying to kill me?” you gasp, when he hauls you back upright.

“Little bit,” he admits, grinning. “Did it work?”

You’re not sure if you’re dizzy from the spin or from his arms wrapped around your waist, so you blame the spin. “I don’t know,” you say, breathless.

He lets go, but his hands linger at your sides. He bites his lip, and for a second, it looks like he has something important to say. The moment is so raw and exposed you have to look away.

“So? Do I win, or…?” he asks.

“No.” You shake your head, letting your arms drop. “You owe me fifty more apologies for having to watch that.” You are smiling, and you hate that you’re smiling, and you love that you are, anyway.

Dean nods solemnly, like he’s taking notes. “Okay. Fifty. Got it.” He makes a show of counting on his fingers, but after three, he drops the act and stares at you, blue eyes cutting through every wall you ever built. Dean’s mouth twitches like he’s going to say something flirty, probably inappropriate. He steps closer, reaching for your hand. “So-”

You shake your head, hard enough to dislodge any possibility of misunderstanding. “Don’t even think about it.”

His brows leap. “Think about what?”

You point at him, and there’s a charge in the air. You’re fearless, for once. “Whatever you’re about to say. Whatever dumb line you think will work. This isn’t a victory lap, Dean.”

He puts his hands up, palms open in surrender. “Hey, I wasn’t even going to-”

You laugh, sharp and clear. “Yes, you were.” And then, because something terrible and wonderful just occurred to you, you step in closer, so you can read every microexpression. “You don’t have to keep trying so hard.” The words are so strange in your own mouth, you almost want to spit them out. “I’m not the next level, or some achievement you unlock. I’m not a puzzle, or whatever.”

Dean blinks, and something in his face crumples, just for a second. “I know,” he says. “I’m sorry. That was-I said it because I’m an idiot, but also because it’s the truth.” He scratches behind his ear. “You’re not like anyone I’ve met, and I don’t know what to do with that.”

You stare at him, heat moving up your neck, and realize the only weapon left is honesty. You point at him. “I know exactly who you are, Di Laurentis. You’re going to go back to your house and brag how you made the ‘dancer chick’ forgive you by embarrassing yourself. Then you’ll hook up with some freshman and forget this ever happened.”

He shakes his head, steps closer. “That’s not true.” You can feel the heat coming off him, the way his hands twitch like he wants to reach for you and isn’t sure if it’s allowed.

You hold your ground. “It is true.” You lower your voice. “And I’m not playing that game, ever.”

The words hang there. He doesn’t flinch away. Instead, he says, “Okay. No games.” He holds up an imaginary surrender

“Good, because I don’t do that.” He looks hurt for half a heartbeat. “The one night stands. Or the just friends with benefits. Or whatever it is you do to girls here.” You gesture broadly, encompassing the whole dorm, the campus, maybe the whole galaxy of Dean Di Laurentis’s body count. “We’re friends, or we’re not.”

That vulnerability, the one he keeps failing to hide, cracks through. “Okay,” he says, like he’s tasting the word for the first time. “Yeah, good. Friends.”

You snap your fingers. “With rules.”

He grins, braces a hand on the barre behind you. “Let’s hear them.”

“One: No hitting on me, no flirting. Two: If you see me in public, you do not mention any of this.” You wave between the two of you, referencing the dance he witnessed. “Three: If you ever make me cry again, we’re not friends anymore.”

He bites the inside of his cheek, trying to hold back a laugh, but nods solemnly. “Deal. I was hoping you’d let me show you not all of us are assholes.”

You want to, but you can’t admit it yet. So you just roll your eyes and shove him toward the exit. “Prove it. But stop saying things that require an apology. You’ve used up your quota of ‘I’m sorry’.” He laughs, lets you push him all the way to the door, and then just stands there, looking at you like he could memorize you. You stare back, waiting for him to leave. But then you say, “You ever show up here again, you have to dance with me every time.”

He grins, full dimple, full shine. “I’ll be here every night.”

You’re both going to regret this. You can feel it already.

Dean glances at the clock and lets out a low whistle. “It’s almost midnight. I didn’t mean to keep you.” He hesitates, and for a second, you think he’s going to go back on all that just got brokered, but instead he says, “Do you want me to walk you back?”

You nearly say no, but then remember the cold and the darkness and that you should never walk home alone this late. “Fine,” you say, grabbing your bag. “But no funny business. Seriously.”

He pushes the door open, then stops. “Shit. I, uh. I don’t have your number.” He looks at you like this is a completely reasonable crisis to be having, right now, in the threshold of a studio. “For emergencies.”

You deadpan. “For emergencies?”

He raises his hands, palms open. “Scout’s honor.”

You sigh, hand over your phone. He types something in, then shows you the screen, thumb hovering over the contact that now reads “Dean The Disaster” with a hockey stick and a skull emoji.

You shake your head. “Charming.”

He shrugs. “I am who I am.” He holds out his phone to you. You grab it, typing in your number. He thumbs in a name before turning the phone to you. He’s decided on “Dancer Chick”. 

“You think you’re so cute,” you grimace, but fight the smile forcing its way to your mouth. 

He raises his hands. “Your words, not mine.”

You chuckle, stepping outside. The cold air is bracing. You start walking, and Dean keeps pace at your side.

When you get to your building, he doesn’t follow you inside. Instead, he stands under the spill of streetlight, and waits. Only when you turn back and wave, does he shove his hands in his sweatshirt pocket and melt into the darkness.

The minute your bedroom door closes, your phone buzzes. 

Dean The Disaster: i wanted to apologize again for being an ass but im not sorry for that dance. i could use some lessons tho. see you tomorrow for dance practice, ballerina. 

You’re not sure how to reply. You can feel the anxiety of possibility. 

Dean can’t stand people who say things in an argument just to hurt other people, just to win. Unfortunately, today he was that person. He was actually that person yesterday, too. God, he’s a fucking hypocrite.

He shakes his head at the thought as he stalks away from the dance building. He needs to run away from the fire as fast as possible, even if he’s the one who poured the gasoline. His adrenaline is roaring, throat raw from what he said… from what he didn’t say. There’s a faint tremble in his hands that has nothing to do with today’s hockey practice, or the big game that’s coming up tomorrow. 

He barely remembers the walk to Beth, the conversations he had, the drive home. It’s all one big blur. He’s still replaying every moment over and over. The split second before you said your name at the party. Fuck, the way you said your name. The way he got you to laugh when he danced. The absolutely stupid shit he said because he was angry. The apology and anger splashing up around you both but never getting anyone clean. 

Tucker and Garret are both in the living room when he steps in, and both are too consumed with the video game on the TV. Tucker holds out a bag of chips, wordlessly. Even mid CoD match he still makes sure everyone is fed. 

Dean grabs it from his hand, making his way into the kitchen. The countertop is blessedly cold as he leans his elbows on it, trying to get his shit together. 

Why her? Seriously, why her? He hasn’t been bent out of shape since… since no one. He doesn’t do girlfriends. There’s no need. Hookups are easy. It’s all anyone wants from him anyways. A good time, not a long time. He’s perfectly happy with that. 

But there’s something about you. Not just the way you bite at him, or the rush he gets when he manages to throw you off your game. It’s the way you- 

No. Air puffs out his nose. No. You’re mean. You assume the worst of him. You keep telling him to go away. You fucking hate him. He should’ve forgotten about you the second you walked out of that party. Instead…

No. No. This is not happening. Dean likes a challenge, he loves the chase. He loves a girl that plays hard to get and damn, are you hard. You aren’t impressed by him, you don’t fall to his charm. And he loves it. God, does he fucking love it. That’s why he can't stop thinking about you.

Dean is aimlessly shoving chips in his mouth and on his hundredth run around of events, when Logan strolls in. His hair is wet from the shower, loose strands dripping water onto his shirt. He shoots Dean a look. Logan’s been off the last few days, more distant with Dean.

“She’s scary, right?” Dean asks, not giving Logan time to feign ignorance.

He raises an eyebrow and starts making a sandwich. “Which one?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know.”

Logan shrugs, but his eyes narrow. “I’m not a mind reader, Dean.”

He rolls his eyes. “Miss ‘I don’t do parties’.” He mocks you and Logan’s hand tightens on the butter knife. 

“Some people don’t want to be bothered. You ever think of just leaving her alone?”

Dean bristles at that. “I barely look at her, and she acts like I killed a puppy. I’m not some creep.”

“Never said you were,” Logan sighs. He opens a jar of pickles, dumps half of it onto the cold pile of turkey. “But maybe don’t push. Not everyone’s dying to get Di Laurentis’d.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dean laughs, but it’s hollow, a reflex that curdles away in his chest. He stands, fishing for a water bottle in the fridge so he doesn’t have to look at his friend. 

Logan slides a finished sandwich onto a plate, wipes his hands on his pants, and finally meets Dean’s eyes. There’s something unyielding in his stare. It feels like a warning. “I’m just saying, people have their reasons. If she wants to be left alone, then lay off.”

Dean studies him for a beat. He knows Logan doesn’t bullshit, and he respects that, even on days he wants to break Logan’s nose. He’s not smirking or cringing away from the confrontation, just looking at Dean like someone willing to wrestle a bear if it comes to it. 

Dean shakes his head, not sure if he’s pissed at Logan, or at himself, or at you, for the fact that you’ve wormed your way so deep into his brain that now his own friends are giving warnings about staying away. 

“Why do you care?” Dean asks. “It’s not like you’re lining up for her attention.”

Something flickers across Logan’s face. It’s quick, but Dean’s not an idiot. It looks like guilt. Dean stares, startled. He barks out a laugh. “Wait. Holy shit, do you have a thing for her? Should I be apologizing right now or-”

“Shut up, Di Laurentis,” Logan snaps. “Just drop it, okay? Find some other bet to lose. She’s off-limits.”

The words hang in the air. Dean’s breath goes tight. He replays the scene in his head. The way Logan tenses up when Dean brings her up. The edge to his words, now that Dean thinks about it, every time he so much as mentions your name. 

Dean squints, recalibrating. “I’m not after her for a bet,” he says. After a second, he’s not so sure who he’s trying to convince. 

Logan stares at Dean, jaw flexing. “Good.”

He grabs his sandwich and stalks away, leaving the kitchen and Dean in it. He’s suddenly aware that he is the last to know whatever the fuck is going on around here. 

Dean doesn’t move right away. He’s still standing in the kitchen five minutes later, replaying every conversation he ever had with you and Logan, trying to figure out what it is about her that makes Dean want to punch a wall and memorize her in the same breath. 

Eventually, he realizes his hands are clenched so hard around the bottle the plastic has caved in. He loosens his grip, but the feeling doesn’t go away. 

If one of Dean’s best friends likes you, who would he be if he chased you? You clearly hate him anyway, so maybe he should take Logan’s advice and leave you alone. 

He huffs a laugh, shaking his head. He doesn’t think he could even if he tried. He takes a swig of water, trying hard not to imagine just how big of an idiot he sounded like in front of literally everyone today, when Garrett saunters in. His hair is a mess of curls, and he’s still in compression shorts from his workout, but his attention is all on Dean.

He clocks the crumpled water bottle in Dean’s hands, half the bag of chips vanished, the way he’s leaning on the countertop like it’s the only thing keeping him vertical. 

“Dude,” Garrett says, drawing the word out like he’s making fun of Dean. “What did you do? Logan looks like he’s about to put someone through a wall.”

Dean pretends not to notice, but he’s not that good an actor and Garrett’s not that dumb. Dean shrugs. “Got another condom out of the drain today. Actually, I think he’s pissed about my snaking form.”

Garrett ignores this. He finishes off whatever text had his attention, thumbs it away, and leans across from Dean. “Did you try the thing again? I told you, you need to learn how to, like, actually apologize. You can’t just do the puppy eyes and then make a joke.”

He scoffs, and tips the bottle back. “Since when is that not an apology? It works great on you.”

“That’s because I have the emotional range of a carrot stick,” Garrett says. “She’s a human being, dud. You gotta use your words. Trust me, learned that the hard way with Wellsy.”

“What’s the point?” Dean slams the water bottle down harder than he means to, and it ricochets a little across the counter. “It’s not like she’s going to forgive me. She hates my guts.”

Garrett snorts. “Yeah, literally everyone hates your guts until suddenly they don’t.” He says this with a weird kind of fondness Dean feels he doesn’t really deserve. “What did you actually do?”

He shakes his head, then scrubs a hand over his face. “I called her a puzzle.” Garrett’s physical cringe makes Dean want to punch himself in the face. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just say shit.”

Garrett whistles. “You got personal, huh?”

Dean nods, feeling the words in his teeth. “She got personal too. But she’s allowed to. I’m not.”

“She told you that, or you just assuming?”

Dean glares at him. “You ever feel like you keep trying to talk to someone and every time you do, it just makes it worse?”

Garrett considers this. “I feel like that every time I talk to my dad.”

Dean wants to laugh, but his chest hurts too much for it. He kind of hates himself for this, but he looks up and meets Garret’s eyes. “Why’s it matter, anyway? I like a challenge. The more she hates me, the more, I don’t know. The more I want it.”

Garrett raises a brow. “You want what?”

Dean almost says “her”, but that’s not what he means. He wants you to see him. Not the Di Laurentis everyone else gets. He wants you to know that he can be the one that sticks around. That he can be counted on, even if he isn’t actually sure it’s true. 

Dean settles for, “To win.” It sounds so cheap.

Garrett hums. “Yeah, well, maybe you’re not the only one playing.” He pauses, and Dean knows a speech is coming. “Look, you ever notice how Logan acts when you talk about her?”

Dean’s skin crawls. “We already played this game. He said to drop it.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Garrett shoves a chip in his mouth, chews, points the bag at Dean. “You know why he’s pissed? Because you’re not taking it seriously. If you’re gonna fuck around, do it somewhere else.” Dean doesn’t say anything. “If you’re gonna fight for the same girl, at least be respectful. Logan would pick you over his own blood. If he saw the chance for you to be happy, to actually find someone for once, he’d let you have it.” Dean winces at that, because it’s true. Logan is a great guy. He’d always put his friends before himself. “If you don’t actually mean any of it, stay the fuck away from her.” Garrett shakes his head, like he can see all the arguments lining up in Dean’s head. “Just don’t fuck over your best friend, okay?” When Dean doesn’t respond, Garrett rocks back on his heels and yells, “Tuck, Dean’s having feelings. You want in on this therapy session?”

Tuck’s voice floats in, “Is it about a girl? Or the game tomorrow?”

Garrett hollers, “Girl.”

Tucker chuckles. “Let him marinate. I’ll sub in for the post-game analysis.”

Dean snorts, and it comes out sounding sad, which is mortifying, but at least Garrett doesn't comment. He just gives Dean a look that’s way too sincere for a guy who hit someone with a hockey stick two hours before. “Seriously, man. If you wanna get her to forgive you, say something real. For once in your life.”

When Garrett leaves, the house gets quiet except for the hum of the fridge and the distant sounds of video game gunfire. Dean finishes off the water, ignoring how his throat tries to close up. 

Why does it matter? He asks himself again and again, looking for an answer he hasn’t already laughed off. 

It would be easier if he could actually hate you, like you hate him. But he doesn’t. 

He stands there, chipping away at his self-esteem one memory at a time, until he hears his phone vibrate. He checks it. It’s a message from his mom, which he ignores. He scrolls down, thumb hovering over the text window like it might bite him. He could text Beth, get her to bring you out somewhere. 

Then a Snapchat pops up from a puck bunny. He opens the snap, and it’s a bathroom selfies. A tiny towel, huge confidence, and a strategically placed hairbrush. She messaged him once last semester about his “Olympic-perfect ass.” There’s a text overlay on the picture.

BriarBaby: Wanna hang out ;)

Dean: When and where

No joke, he’s forgotten her name. That’s fine, though. The puck bunny social web at Briar runs on a set of unspoken rules. You play hard, you pretend not to care, and you don’t ask for names unless you need them for a group project. 

She gives Dean her dorm. He stares at it for a second, and by some coincidence, it’s in the same building as yours. The universe has jokes, but maybe he’ll run into you. This is a perfect excuse. 

He walks back into the living room. Tuck’s still playing, though Garrett’s grown bored and is collapsed on a beanbag.

He gets in his car, and drives onto the campus. He doesn’t think about you, not at first. Not until, he's walking into your building, then going up your elevator, then down your hall. When he reaches the room, it’s only three away from yours. He knocks, and the door opens before the echo finishes. 

She’s braless and unapologetic. Light-up LED vines crawl over the walls, and her roommate is gone for the night. She’s already moving toward him, arms around his neck, her breath minty. 

He goes through the motions. He lets autopilot take over. The way he kisses her jaw, the way his hands work their way under the hem of her shirt. It’s almost athletic, the way he pivots and adjusts, slipping into the right script, the perfect pace. She’s loud. She likes it when he grabs her hips. There are dozens of cues he knows how to read, and he reads them all. 

He doesn’t think about the fact that, even as he loses himself in the mindless rhythm, he’s thinking about another girl, the one who doesn’t want him here, the one who hates him but won’t leave his head for a single fucking second. 

Fuck. He came here to forget about you. He thought having sex with this girl would help. Usually, it does. Sex is the best distraction. But all he can think about is that you’re three doors down. 

After, the girl sprawls out on her bed, hair wild, tracing lazy lines along his collarbone. She laughs, tells a story about her best friend’s fake ID. He realizes, mid-laugh, that he hasn’t even introduced himself, that he still doesn’t know her name. He just smiles and lets her call him “Di Laurentis” like it’s a brand, not a name. 

He implies he has practice in the morning. He says he needs sleep. He leans over, puts his lips on her shoulder and, for a second, tries to imagine it’s someone else. But it’s not.

He leaves before she gets clingy because he can't stomach the effort of small talk. The hallway is fluorescent blue and empty. He lingers outside your door. For a second he entertains the idea of knocking, just to see. To see you in your pj’s, probably going to sleep or reading or, hell, he doesn’t know what you do when you’re not glaring daggers at him. 

He needs air. He has a game tomorrow. He needs to be focused, have a clear head. Walking always helps. 

Outside, the campus is quiet. He shoves his hands in his pockets and just drifts. He doesn’t know where he’s going until he’s halfway to the quad, until his feet stall out in the shadow of the arts building, and he sees the lights, the amber glow from the massive dance studio windows, leaking warm onto the sidewalk. 

It’s ten at night. No one should be in there, unless they forgot to turn the lights off, unless…

Unless you’re in there. 

He laughs at himself, a cruel, quiet sound, because of course he’d end up here. Curiosity, he tells himself, to whatever else it might be. He tries the door, fully expecting it to be locked. It isn’t. He slips inside, sneakers silent on the wood. Music fills the space.

He freezes at the sight of you. Not the angry version, not the girl who’s always bristling, but this… woman. This sharp, stripped-down thing, barefoot on the polished floor, dressed in black and sweat. You don’t notice him, and he can’t look away. 

You move with elegance. There’s such purpose in the way you turn, arms slicing the air, hair snapping across your cheek with each spin, that he feels embarrassed for barging in. He wants to leave, but instead he settles against the wall, out of your eye line, and lets his heartbeat slow to match the patter you make in space. 

It’s almost funny, that the only place you’re soft is when you’re alone, building something out of nothing. You practice the same phrase, fail, try again. Sometimes you stumble and look up with a determined expression. 

He knows this kind of rage. He’s spent years beating it back on the ice, turning it into something useful. He wonders if you know he’s here, if you’re showing off for his benefit.

You spin, and at the moment you catch his eye. You hate that you go cold, that instead of yelling, you only stare at him in your ripped tank and spandex shorts, sweat painting dots down your calves. You are keenly aware that there is nothing between you and him except a few cubic feet of air that would be so easy to cross, if he ever wanted to.

“Jesus,” you breathe, voice so faint you almost miss the word yourself. Your heart is in overtime, breath wild and animal in your own ears. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Morning slams into you with all the elegance of a dropped dumbbell. You peel open your eyes to the memory of last night’s party, a rapid-fire montage of sticky tile floors, the hurricane of bodies, the echo of your argument with Dean. For a moment, you’re just a smear of consciousness. The dorm is quiet. Beth is knocked out, half the comforter in a death grip around her legs.

You stare at the ceiling, bracing for the return of every humiliating detail. Every glance, every comment, every moment you wanted to shrink into the wall. And yet, when you search your body, what you find isn’t panic, but… relief? You made it through. You did not combust.

Well… maybe you combusted a little, but you survived.

The first dance class of the semester waits for you, and the thought eases the leftovers of last night’s anxiety.

You get ready in silence, your movements automatic: hair in a knot, black leotard, sweats over, worn sneakers, bag slung over your shoulder. In the mirror, you look like any other dance student in the world. There’s no sign of last night’s disaster, no sign of what’s happened before or since. The anonymity is a blessing you intend to keep.

The campus is already humming when you step outside. A breeze brushes your face, and you inhale until your chest aches. The dance building is on the far edge of Briar, removed from the traffic of student life. It looks like every other boxy, beige campus building except for the huge windows facing east, glass so clear it reflects the sunrise in sheets of gold. The closer you get, the quieter everything becomes, the rest of the world falling away one footstep at a time.

The second you push open the heavy door, it hits you. Rosin, polish wood, the faint scent of old fabric floods your senses. It’s home. Your shoulders relax. For the first time since arriving at Briar, your chest doesn't feel tight.

For the first time since arriving at Briar, you aren't looking for exits. You aren't counting people. You aren't wondering who's staring. You aren't wondering if someone recognizes you. You're just here.

The studio is already lit. Sunlight pours through the windows, pooling across the sprung wood floor, glancing off the bars and mirrors and the marley. At the far end of the room, a few other students are stretching in silence, headphones in, faces blank with focus. You clock them, half out of habit, half because you need to know who you’ll be up against. A redhead with a bun so tight it gives her a face lift. A tall, reedy guy in a navy tank, pale arms already flushed from warmup. Two girls in matching black, twins or close enough, their every movement in sync.

You drop your bag by the wall, slip out of your sweats, and take up your own space at the barre. For a minute, you do nothing but watch the light crawl up your calves, the way the shadow of your body interrupts it. There’s a hush in this room, a sanctity, that nowhere else on campus could ever match.

You start slow. Plies, tendus, moving through the sequence you’ve done since you were five. At first, your body fights against you. Your knees are stiff, the backs of your legs sore, your toes complaining at every extension. You ignore them. You keep going. Breath by breath, you press deeper into the movement, muscle memory unspooling, everything else falling away.

The instructor, Lange, sweeps in at 8:59 exactly. She is a wisp of a woman, gray hair cropped short. Her presence alone is enough to drop the temperature of the room by several degrees.

“Warmup for another ten,” she calls, without looking at anyone in particular. “Then center. We’ll see what we’re working with.”

The class obeys. You work through the barre, sweat breaking along your spine. Every transition is a test, every change in direction a challenge you throw at yourself, daring your body to keep up. By the time Lange walks the room, you’re already running lines in your head. What she’ll see, what she won’t, what you can disguise with technique.

She lingers by the twins, murmurs something about turnout. She gives the redhead a sharp nod. When she pauses behind you, you keep your gaze locked forward, not even a glance in the mirror. There is the faintest whiff of coffee and wintergreen, the creak of her old sneakers. She doesn’t speak, doesn’t even clear her throat. But you can feel her there, watching the line of your back, the tilt of your hip, the set of your shoulders.

“I remember you.” Your fingers faulter against the barre. You glance over your shoulder. Professor Lange is studying you with the same unreadable expression she's worn since entering the room.

"You auditioned in January." It isn't a question.

You nod once. "Yes, ma'am."

"You danced Falling Through Water."

Surprise flickers across your face. Of all the dancers who had auditioned that weekend, she'd remembered yours.

"You weren't planning on transferring until the spring semester."

"No."

"What changed?" A dozen answers flash through your mind. My hometown turned against me. My mother went to rehab. I couldn't breathe there anymore. Instead, you settle on the safest one.

"My circumstances changed." Professor Lange watches you for another beat. Whatever she sees on your face, she doesn't comment on it.

"I was disappointed when you declined your acceptance."

Your eyebrows lift. "You were?"

"You were one of the strongest auditions we had."

Heat creeps into your cheeks. "Thank you."

"I assume your circumstances improved."

"They...” you search for the right word, “changed."

A nearly imperceptible nod. "Well." She folds her arms. "You've joined us halfway through the semester."

You nod. "Yes, ma'am."

"That means everyone in this room already has six weeks of choreography, conditioning, and corrections you don't."

You nod again. "I know."

"I'm glad you know." Her voice remains perfectly even. "Because I will not slow this class down for you."

"I wouldn't expect you to."

"No extensions." Another nod. "No modified expectations."

"Understood."

"No exceptions."

You meet her eyes. "I don't want any."

For the first time, something shifts in her expression. Not quite a smile. More... approval. "Good." She takes a step back. "Talent earns you admission." Another. "Work earns you a place." Then she claps once, the sharp crack echoing through the studio. "Center." The room moves immediately. As you take your place among the other dancers, Professor Lange's voice follows you one last time. "Oh, and one more thing." You glance back. "If you were good enough for me to remember from auditions..." She tilts her head slightly. "...then you're good enough for me to expect excellence."

A small, nervous smile tugs at your mouth. "No pressure."

"There is," she says flatly. "Get used to it." The corner of your mouth twitches. When the center portion starts, Professor Lange calls out, “We’ll start with an adagio, then pick up tempo. Partners, if you please.” There is a shuffle of bodies. You end up paired with the tall guy, his palm clammy against yours.

The adagio is slow, deliberate. Every movement asks for control, for line, for the suspension of gravity and the denial of every law physics ever wrote. In the glass, you catch your own face. It’s expressionless, focused, a little feral. Each time you pirouette, you chase the spot in the mirror, the singular point that keeps you from dissolving. The world could end outside, and you wouldn’t notice. There is only the next step, the next reach, the next impossible ask.

When the tempo increases, the class shifts into a blur of movement. Arms and legs, music and sweat, all of it crashing together. The guy you’re partnered with nearly fumbles the sequence, but you cover for him with an easy shift, a flick of the wrist that brings him back on beat. He grins at you, grateful, but you barely register it.

When your turn to leap arrives, you don’t even hesitate. You explode off the floor, every muscle screaming in the best possible way. Your body is a rocket, an answer to every question the last two years ever raised. You are strong. You are weightless. You are nothing at all except what you make yourself, here, in this space.

The end of class comes too soon. Professor Lange claps once, sharp and loud. “Good. We’ll finish with a cool down. Tomorrow, be ready for auditions. We’ll separate the casual from the committed.”

There is a murmur, half nerves, half excitement. The guy you danced with offers a breathless, “Nice work.” The twins don’t speak, but you catch the side-eye they throw your way, the quick calculation of threat level.

You feel Lange’s attention before you see it. Her gaze is heavy, almost physical, pressing between your shoulder blades as you pack your bag. You pretend not to notice, hiding the burst of adrenaline in the careful knot of your hair. You stand, aiming for the door, ready to disappear again.

Unfortunately, it turns out there’s no such thing as sneaking out of a dance studio. Even when you make a break for it, even when you keep your head down and time your exit for maximum invisibility, someone is always waiting. You’re halfway down the hall when you hear your name.

“Miss Logan,” Professor Lange calls, voice clipped and cool as ever.

You freeze. Your first impulse is to run. The second is to faint. Instead, you pivot slowly, forcing your face into a blank slate.

Lange stands in the doorway, hands folded, eyes unreadable. “A moment?” she asks, though it isn’t a request.

You walk back. The redhead is loitering by the water fountain, eavesdropping with the subtlety of a cartoon spy. The twins hover inside the studio, stretching hamstrings and pretending not to listen.

Inside, Lange shuts the door. She stands very still, studying you the way a scientist studies a rare bug.

“Your technique is…” She pauses, searching for the right word. “Solid. Some roughness, but you have a foundation.” You can’t tell if that’s a compliment or an insult. “Today,” she continues, “you moved like you were trying to outrun something.” Lange leans in, voice lowering. “That’s not always a bad thing. Fear is kinetic. It creates velocity. But it can also destroy you.”

You stare at her. She holds your gaze, not unkind, just… precise.

“You have talent,” she says, then fixes you with a look that is almost soft. “But you’re holding back. That won’t fly here.”

You want to say you’re not holding back, but the words stick in your throat. Of course you are. You’re hiding, playing it safe. Hiding is what you do. It’s the only thing you’re any good at.

Lange folds her arms. “I need dancers for showcase. Ones who can lead. Not just follow steps.” Her eyes flick down to your feet, then up again. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

Your tongue trips over itself, trying to find the right answer. “Yes, ma’am.”

She watches you, the smallest ghost of a smile at the corner of her mouth. “Tomorrow. You dance first. Understood?” You nod. She turns away, a clear dismissal. “Go get some rest, Miss Logan. You’ll need it.”

You step into the hallway, half expecting to collapse. Instead, you stand there, feeling like your body has been rewired. You run the conversation over in your head. You were picked out, on day one. No way to fade into the background now. No more coasting.

You hear the redhead whisper to one of the twins, “What did Lange want?”

You ignore them and keep moving. At the end of the hall, sunlight pools across the floor, warm and syrupy. You step into it, letting the light settle over your skin.

Somewhere deep in your chest, your heart is still drumming, but this time it feels like music. Like maybe, if you keep moving, nothing can catch you.

You step outside. The front steps are slick with the morning dew, and in your hurry to get away from the gaze of the redhead and twin spies, you forget everything you ever learned about gravity. Your old sneakers kiss the edge of the concrete and slide out from under you.

This is how you meet Dean Di Laurentis for the fourth time. Airborne, limbs everywhere, a full-body slow motion disaster. There’s a flash of blond hair and then an impact as solid as a hockey check, but with more arms. Dean’s arms. One wraps around your ribs; the other catches your hip so firmly that you land with your face two inches from his. He hits the step below, cushioning the landing, a surprised grunt in your ear.

“Jesus!” his voice huffs, more amused than injured. “Are you okay?”

You’re still half on top of him, chest to chest, your elbow jammed under his. The world reels and rights itself and for a split second you hold perfectly still, mortified.

“Sorry,” you blurt, scrambling to disengage. He doesn’t let go right away. His hand is still at your waist, keeping you from tumbling any farther.

“You good?” he asks, soft now. You twist and free yourself, clambering upright with as much dignity as someone who just tackled a human mattress can muster.

“Fine,” you mutter, mortification blooming across your cheeks. You brush imaginary dirt from your sweats and will your heart to slow down.

Dean stands, stretching to his full height, impossibly tall in the gold light. He’s in practice gear: navy joggers, Briar Athletics tee, hair still wet from a shower or an early skate. He’s got two coffees in one hand, and even after saving your life, he doesn’t spill a drop.

He looks you up and down, eyes slow and interested, but not in the way that guys look when they want to get something out of you. More like he’s genuinely taking stock: Are you hurt? Are you real? Are you going to run away?

“You always this good at making an entrance?” he asks, dimples out in full force. “If so, we gotta sign you up for hockey. You’ve got all the makings of a top-line forward. Terrible balance. No fear.” He grins so big it’s a physical challenge not to punch him.

You scowl. “I didn’t see you. Why are you here, anyway?” you ask, half hoping he’s not stalking you.

He shrugs, holding up the coffees. “Promised Beth I’d caffeinate her before her Chem 201 meltdown.” He holds the other cup out, a silent peace offering. You don’t take it. He arches a brow, then places it gently on the low railing beside you, unfazed. “You want it, it’s yours.”

“I’m good,” you say, already stepping back, but he’s tracking you, matching pace and proximity.

“So. Dance building.” He points to the large brick building. He clicks his tongue awkwardly. “You’re a dancer.”

You hesitate. “I already told you that at the party.”

“Yeah, right.” He crosses his arms. “Dance is cool. Never really got how you remember all those steps. If someone told me to spin around and not fall on my ass I’d just-”

“What do you want, Dean?” Your frustration takes over and you cut him off.

Dean opens his mouth, then closes it. His jaw works, like he’s chewing gum, and whatever bravado he had on the stairs drops away for a beat. The silence between you sharpens. Did he forget what happened last night, or is he pretending it didn’t? For a hockey player with a mouth so big you thought he might be incapable of shutting it, he looks almost hesitant.

“Just…” he starts, then scrapes a hand over his face. He looks at you, direct, blue eyes unguarded. “Last night was nuts and we both said some things I shouldn’t have.” The words are rough.

You cross your arms. “Is that supposed to be an apology?” You shake your head. “If so, apology not accepted.”

He huffs, and the sound is self-deprecating. “Look,” he studies his feet, then you, then the coffee sweating on the railing, probably wishing it were a beer, “I don’t know, I was a dick.”

You can’t help it. You laugh, a sharp single note. “You think?”

He smiles, lopsided. “I deserve that.” You want to tell him to forget it, or to go away, or to not try so hard to make things okay. But you can’t. Not when you remember the way his face looked last night, stripped of charm and defense, surprised that someone saw through him. He leans one hip against the railing, arms loose at his sides. “Let’s just say, I’m not used to someone calling me out. Most people just… let me be an asshole.” He grins, but this one is thin, as if he’s not sure he deserves to be forgiven so easily. “You have a mean right hook, by the way. Verbally, I mean. Not that you couldn’t probably punch me, too.”

A snort escapes you before you can kill it. He hears it, and his posture relaxes, just a little. “I think you’d be surprised,” you say. “I’m stronger than I look.”

He mimics shock. “You? A threat?” His eyes flick to your shoes—old, battered, the laces doubled up in some kind of dare to the universe. “You just tried to break my ribs with your spine, so, yeah. I buy it.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat. “Why do you care?” The question comes out before you can stop it.

Dean looks at you, really looks, and for a moment the noise of the quad is gone. He shrugs, but it’s helpless. You see it in his eyes, the same thing you saw last night, when he dropped the act for half a second. “I don’t know. You seem…” He gropes for a word. “Complicated.” He grins. “And I love a puzzle. Even if it tried to break my neck today.”

There it is. The word that cuts through everything, crackling a fuse at the base of your brain. Puzzle. Challenge. Complicated. The kind of thing guys say before they flip you over and shake you for the pieces. You feel yourself go cold; your jaw tightens, your skin prickling along your arms though the world outside is still warming, full of life.

You draw one, two sharp breaths, something hisses in your throat. You clamp your mouth shut around the protest, but it vibrates through your molars. There’s no steady way to say the thing that chews at your heart. You are so, so tired of being interesting only in how difficult you are to solve.

“Right,” you say, “puzzle.” There’s an edge in your voice, a tremor he can’t miss. You turn, instantly wishing to be anywhere but here. He grabs your wrist and you spin around.

“I didn’t mean it like-”

“Yes, you did.” It comes out too loud, and a passing student glances over. You lower your voice, bury it in the gravel of your throat. “You said it exactly how you meant.” You backpedal, almost laugh, but it’s sharp, nothing like what you sounded like upstairs in the studio, nothing like someone who is just fine. “That’s how guys see me. Puzzle to mess with, solve, whatever.”

“That’s not-” he starts, but you don’t let him get the words out.

“It’s fine,” you say. “You don’t have to pretend.” You take a step back, hands jammed in your pockets. You can feel the sweat cooling along your spine, the drain of adrenaline as you realize you can’t out-dance this one. You never could. You never will.

Dean doesn’t look away, but his mouth hardens, a flat line. For a heartbeat, he seems like he might say something real, but then the mask slips back. He shrugs, lets out a laugh that sounds nothing like before. “Hey, if you say so.”

You’re furious with yourself for the way your cheeks burn, for the way your heart spikes in your throat. Because you keep stumbling for the version of him that cares. Because you so badly want someone to see you, not just the story wrapped around you. Not the person you’re forced to be.

Dean looks down at the coffee, then at his sneakers. “I should go. Don’t want to keep you from… whatever it is you’re doing.”

You can’t tell if he’s angry or ashamed or just done with you, but it doesn’t matter. You want to flee, to leave this dumb porch and the aftertaste of disappointment stuck between your teeth.

The first time Kenny says it, you're standing in the diner. The place is quieter these days. It's not empty. It would never be empty. It's just quieter. Ever since Tian-Chen was taken from the town, it has been. From what you've been told, she was the life force of this place.

You run a rag over one of the tables while Kenny counts supplies behind the counter. Outside, the sun is beginning to set. Inside, everything feels soft.

"You know," Kenny says suddenly.

You glance up. "Hm?"

A small smile pulls at his lips. "My mom would've loved you."

Your chest tightens. You never got the chance to meet Tian-Chen. You know her from stories. From the way Boyd's face softens whenever he mentions her. From the way Jade still can't quite look at her house without getting emotional. From the way Kenny talks about her when he forgets he's talking.

He loves to talk about the way she used to sing while cooking, how she always worried everyone was hungry, and how she somehow knew when he was lying before he even opened his mouth.

You smile gently. "You think so?"

Kenny lets out a quiet laugh. "I know so." He closes the notebook in front of him. "She would've adopted you immediately."

You laugh. "Adopted me?"

"Immediately."

"That's dramatic."

"It's really not." He points at you. "You helped Kristi reorganize the clinic for three hours because she looked stressed."

You snort, because to you, it was the only reasonable option. "It was the right thing to do."

"You made Ethan that birthday cake."

"It was from a box."

"You still made it." You roll your eyes and Kenny grins. "And you bring people food when they're sad."

"Everyone does that."

"No." He shakes his head. "My mom did that." The smile slowly slips from his face. You see the grief underneath. It's always there. He always tries to hide it. He wants to be strong for the town, for you. He believes he has to be, but you don't want him to. He doesn't need to around you.

You walk around the counter and stop beside him. His hand immediately finds yours.

"I wish I could've met her," you admit softly.

"I wish you had too." His voice comes out rougher than expected. You squeeze his hand. Kenny stares down at your intertwined fingers. "My mom always worried about me."

You smile. "I think that's just called being a parent."

"No, I mean..." He laughs quietly. "She worried I'd end up alone."

Your heart breaks a little. "Kenny-"

"I'm serious." He shrugs. "She always said I was too busy taking care of them. That I spent too much time with my parents and no girl wants that."

You giggle. "She's not wrong."

"Hey." He bumps you with his shoulder, making you both laugh. Then he looks at you with that same expression he gets when he's trying to memorize something. "She would've been so happy when I told her about you."

You feel tears threatening. "Kenny..."

"She would've asked a million questions." His voice grows softer. "She would've wanted to know where you grew up." A smile tugs at his lips. "What your favorite food was." His hand comes up to cup your cheek. "If you were eating enough."

You laugh through the sting in your eyes. "That sounds familiar."

"Yeah." His own eyes glisten now. "She would've made you dinner." The words nearly break him. "She would've told everyone in town you were dating me."

You laugh. "Oh, absolutely."

"Like immediately. Within five minutes maximum." A shaky smile spreads across his face. Then he looks away. That's always the hardest part. The remembering. The daydreaming of what life could've been like. The realization that she's not here.

You step close enough that your forehead brushes his shoulder. "I would've loved her."

The room goes silent. Kenny swallows. Then he wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you against him.

You feel him exhale. "Yeah," he whispers.

For a second, you imagine her standing behind the counter. She would be watching her son smile, watching him be loved.

And somehow, even though you've never met her, you think she'd be smiling too.

You tilt your head up. "I may not have gotten the chance to meet her, but I feel like I know her. Because of you." You cup his cheek. "She lives on through your stories," you continue softly. "Through the way you talk about her. Through all the little things you do without even realizing." A tear slips down his face "I love her without ever knowing her," you whisper. Your thumb brushes the tear away. "Because she made you. She raised the man I love."

For a moment, Kenny just stares at you. Then he lets out a shaky laugh, the kind that sounds dangerously close to crying, and he sniffles. "She would've loved hearing that."

You smile. "Then it's a good thing she's listening."

Kenny's eyes immediately fill. "Come here," he murmurs. You don't have to be told twice. His hands cup your face, wiping your tears the same way you did his. "I love you."

You hum, leaning in until you're only a breath away. "I love you more." You close the gap, his lips meet yours. The kiss is soft and tender.

His hands move from your face to your waist, and when he pulls you into his arms, holding you so tightly it almost hurts, you know he isn't just holding you. He's holding every version of his life that should have been. Every conversation his mother never got to have. Every introduction that never happened. And for the first time in a long time, the grief doesn't feel quite so heavy.