gab in the fictional world

“You’ve been such a bad, bad girl,” Allie purrs as she crawls over your naked form on the bed until she has her thighs on either side of your head as she straddles your face. “Why don’t you make yourself useful and eat mommy’s pussy?”

You do not waste another second, and dive in between your girlfriend’s thighs. Your tongue finds her clit and she shudders over you, her hips rocking against your face.

Meanwhile, Dean is watching intently from the edge of the bed, his hand wrapped around his cock as he strokes slowly. A smirk ghosts over his lips as he unwraps his hand from his length, and he utters a single word in a rough, low voice, “Stop.”

Allie’s hips still immediately, and so do you, your tongue instinctively freezing against her cunt. You feel a whine bubbling in your throat, but you quickly swallow it down—you really do not need to be in deeper trouble than you already are.

“Allie-cat, why don’t you fetch me your favorite pairs of handcuffs?” Dean purrs from the edge, his dark eyes fixed on you still laid on the back. “Stay still. You’re perfect right there.”

The lack of a nickname for you is like a bucket of cold water thrown over you, and your heart drops when you realize that you are deep in it this time—you have pushed their buttons so far tonight. You have been on a bratty streak the past few days—leaving them on delivered for hours, teasing them in public, touching yourself despite being explicitly told not to. But tonight—wearing an insanely short dress that leaves little to the imagination, using your fuck me heels at the club, deliberately flirting with various people on the dance floor, keeping your eyes on your partners as you do so—easily tops them all. You had enjoyed seeing their darkened eyes on you, their jaws clenching, their grips tight around their glasses, but now, it is time for you to pay the price.

Allie eagerly swings her legs off the bed and drops to her knees, sliding an unsuspecting storage box from under Dean’s bed. She lifts the lid and spots two pairs of fuzzy handcuffs.

“Good girl.” Dean grins as he looks directly at Allie. “Cuff her to the bed frame,” he talks *about you like you are not in the same room as them, and your thighs squeeze together in an attempt to alleviate the growing pressure between them—him outright ignoring you makes you wetter than you’d like to admit.

“You look so pretty like this,” Allie coos, locking the cuffs into place. She ghosts her lips over your skin enough to make you squirm and whine softly. “Shh, toys don’t complain.” She wraps her slender fingers around your throat, squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. “Now, what do you say?”

“Release me.” You smirk as you look up at your girlfriend, whose eyes darken even more, the browns of her irises almost completely swallowed by her dilated pupils.

“I see you’re still being a bad girl,” she whispers, pressing a fleeting kiss to your lips as she releases your throat. Just as you begin to relax on the bed, she grips your chin tightly, her manicured nails digging slightly into the skin. She holds your soiled panties in her other hand as she speaks firmly, “Open.”

You do not budge for a few seconds before gasping when her palm connects with your cheek.

She takes this moment to shove the fabric into your mouth and grins as she leans back to admire her handiwork. “There. Now, you’re tied up and quiet.”

“Did such a great job, gorgeous,” Dean growls, beckoning her over with two fingers. “Come here, baby. You deserve a reward.”

You watch as Allie crawls over to where Dean is seated on the bed. You keep your gaze fixed on them as the latter pulls her into his lap, her bare cunt settling over his hardened cock.

“Tell me what you want,” Dean purrs, his lips meeting hers in an urgent kiss. “Allie-cat, tell me what you want.”

“You,” she whispers against him, her hips grinding instinctively against his, and they both moan at the sensation. “Fuck, I need you.”

“Your wish is my command, babydoll.” Dean grins as he grips her hips, guiding her down on his length. “Holy shit,” Dean groans, while Allie sinks down on him. “Allie, fuck, you are choking my dick, baby.” He laughs, all drunk and dazed on the sensation.

Meanwhile, you squirm on the bed, tugging on your restraints, and whining into the fabric of your panties stuffed into your mouth. “Please,” your plea is muffled behind the makeshift gag, but you whine anyway. “Please.”

However, neither Dean nor Allie pay attention to you, too wrapped up in each other to notice you.

Allie pushes Dean on his back, bracing both her hands on his chest as she starts riding him. “You are so fucking big,” she moans, “So deep.”

“Yeah?” Dean breathes out, still gripping Allie’s hips like his life depends on it. He is guiding her movements on top of him. “You love that I’m filling you up so good, huh?” He growls. “I know you can do that better, baby. Show me how much you love this.”

And so Allie does—she rides him harder, her hips now lifting off him, only to slam back down. Her hands are still braced firmly on his chest, her nails digging into the skin. “Holy fuck, you’re even deeper!” She gasps, throwing her head back at the delicious feeling of his dick stretching her out, reaching spots inside her she didn’t even know existed before Dean—and before you.

“Good fucking girl,” he groans, planting his feet steadily on the bed to meet her downward strokes with upward thrusts. “Oh, yeah? Feels good? Uh-huh?” He grins when Allie’s moans rise in volume as she gets closer and closer to her peak.

“Fuck, I’m so close, I’m so close,” she breathes out, her hips now rolling and grinding against his lap. A few more rolls of her body have her cumming around Dean’s cock, who groans loudly.

“Oh, yeah,” he grunts, one of his hands sliding up her back, and tangling into her curls. He pushes the back of her head to crash his lips against hers, his moans and groans now muffled by her mouth.

You are watching all this with tears of frustration in your eyes. You tug helplessly at the cuffs, groaning muffledly when they do not budge—the rattling of metal against the bed frame just irritates the hell out of you.

At the sound of your frustration, Dean’s eyes finally drift over to you, and he smirks. That wordless expression conveys all he wants you to hear—that could have been you on his lap if only you weren’t such a brat, pissing him off, stressing Allie out. He keeps his eyes on you as he grips Allie’s hips tightly, keeping her still on his lap as they cum together, their sounds blending in.

It takes a few minutes for them to come down from their highs, and when the waves of pleasure subside, Dean gently maneuvers Allie off of him and lays her on the mattress beside him. He then moves over to you, and your heartbeat spikes as the familiar heat pool in your core, but your heart drops when your boyfriend speaks,

“I’m going to take those cuffs off you, then I’m going to run you both a bath.”

“W-what?” You sputter weakly, watching as he unlocks the handcuffs and massages your wrists gently as he laughs mockingly.

“Oh, baby,” he croons, stroking your cheek with his thumb. “Did you really think I would let you cum after that stunt you pulled tonight? Cute. You’re lucky I didn’t leave a vibrator buzzing on your little clit.” He leans down, teasing your skin with a featherlight kiss as he whispers, “You don’t get to cum until we say you can. I don’t care if it takes a week—you’re going to earn that fucking orgasm.”

The first time Hannah Wells saw Garrett Graham anywhere other than Malone’s was in the boys’ locker room while she was cleaning. He was sitting on the bench with his phone in hand, a soft, not very Garrett-like smile on his face. A woman’s voice—your voice—drifted from the phone’s speakers, speaking animatedly about something Hannah could not fully understand.

“I miss you,” Garrett suddenly spoke, and you stopped talking. “I can’t wait to see you, baby.”

“I miss you too, honey,” you said softly. “Just a few more months away, Gare.”

“Why do you have to be on the other side of the country when you could be right here in Briar with me?” His voice was light and airy as he laughed, but his eyes held an unmistakable longing.

“I’m sorry, baby, I would stay with you if I could,” you said. “But you know how my dad is. He wants me here just until I graduate college, and then I’m off to wherever I want after graduation.”

“I know, baby.” He sighed, running a hand through his damp hair. “And I respect your parents’ decisions. That doesn’t mean I can’t spend every second missing my girl.”

“You miss me? I wouldn’t have known if it weren’t for the hundreds of messages and voicemails you send me every day.” Your tone dripped with sarcasm, but Hannah noticed there was no real heat behind your words—only affection for your (presumably) boyfriend.

He laughed softly, the sound far from the sarcastic, arrogant laugh he had on the ice. The sound then was genuine—a very brief glimpse of who Garrett Graham is behind closed doors. “I’ll see you soon, baby,” he said, his voice quiet and intimate. “I’ll be counting the days until I see you again. I love you. Please take care of yourself.”

“I love you too, GG.” Your voice turned sharper—stricter. “You take care of yourself, or I’ll have Tuck dragging your ass into the kitchen to shove real food into your mouth.”

Hannah almost laughed at that because she could definitely see Garrett being bossed around by a headstrong woman then. It might not seem like it at first glance, but the more she heard them, the more she believed it.

“Baby,” he groaned. “The last time he did that, I gained at least three pounds. Coach Jensen was on my ass the whole week.”

“So don’t even think of skipping meals this time.” You laughed freely. “I really have to go now, babe, I have my first class in ten minutes. Bye-bye, love you.”

“I love you more.”

“Not possible!” You said before the phone clicked as you hung up, leaving Garrett sitting there with a lovesick smile on his face.

Hannah saw the man’s face harden, the tension returning to him with full force. She watched as he stared at his dark screen, as if replaying the brief memory of your face and your melodic voice. She watched as Garrett stared at the dark screen for several moments before his eyes lifted to where she stood.

“Can I help you?” He asked, his voice devoid of the warmth he had with you, but not unkind. His facial expression was tense, a far cry from the soft, fond look he had earlier. It wasn’t that Garrett Graham had an attitude—it was just that no one had ever seen him that soft.

Hannah jumped and blinked a few times. “Oh, sorry, I…” She gestured vaguely around the locker room. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was just waiting for you to finish so I can… clean up.”

Garrett’s face slackened in slight surprise, and he nodded, standing from the bench and slinging his large duffle bag over his shoulder. “Sorry, lost track of time.”

Hannah watched Garrett leave—his tense frame, his hunched shoulders, and lowered head were significantly different from the man in front of you just minutes prior.

Huh, Hannah thought. She did not even know Garrett had a girlfriend in the first place, but it totally made sense—to her, at least.

—

The next time Hannah saw Garrett was in their philosophy class as their professor returned their papers.

“Perfect. Another D,” Dexter said beside Hannah, turning to her expectantly after looking through their own paper. “So… how’d you do?”

Hannah looked at her paper, shook her head hesitantly, and said, “Not good.”

“Girl.” Dexter looked somewhat apprehensive because *Hannah Wells—not doing well? The girl was quite literally a music prodigy and a smart cookie in general, but then again, Hannah was known to be humble—too humble. “Really?”

“Yeah, I wrote it in like an hour, so…” She left the rest of her sentence unsaid.

She heard him before she saw him.

“Fucking hell, you aced it?”

Garrett Graham was a *fucking loudmouth, and if Hannah did not know before, she definitely did then.

“I knew it,” Dexter said from beside her. “Show me.”

“Do you mind?” Her brows furrowed as she turned to look at him.

“What?” He smirked—that annoying, cocky smirk he always had. “Only you get to eavesdrop on conversations you shouldn’t?”

Garrett was still grinning by the time Hannah turned back around with a deep sigh and a roll of her eyes.

After that, Garrett had found Hannah in front of the building.

“Mona!” He called out from a few feet away. “Mona,” He said again once he was right behind Hannah.

“Uh, who’s… who’s Mona?” Hannah asked her friends.

“I think… you.” Dexter raised their eyebrows, taking a slight step back.

“I… I’m not Mona,” Hannah said, almost awkwardly.

“It is an M though, right?”

“Not even close.”

“Sorry about that.” Garrett grimaced. “I’m not… very good with names.”

“What do you want, Garrett Graham? Petals to walk on? Maybe another fancy gym that costs thousands of dollars even though the theater department is literally falling apart.” Allie rolled her eyes from beside Hannah, who turned to her with a sympathetic smile.

Meanwhile, the hockey captain had an amused smirk on his face.

“You guys are late for scene study.” Hannah grinned. “Go, I’ll see you at dinner.”

“Bye, Mona.” Dexter teased with a grin, wiggling their fingers in a wave as they practically pulled Allie with them.

“Could you please, with a sugar on top, help me study, so I don’t fail spectacularly?” Garrett immediately asked as soon as Hannah turned back to him.

“Didn’t know you had manners in you, but no,” she said as quickly as possible, starting to walk away from Garrett—and hopefully from the conversation.

“Come on, do me a solid,” Garrett, like the annoying little shit he was, followed after her. “I mean, for feminism?”

That pulled a laugh from Hannah. “Now, what are you actually on, Garrett Graham?”

“I’m serious,” Garrett said, “I have to ace the oral presentation, or I can’t play.”

“Believe it or not, I have priorities that have nothing to do with hockey,” Hannah said with a chuckle. “Find another tutor, dude.”

“Look…” He started, but realized he hadn’t even gotten her name yet. “Sorry, what did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” she deadpanned. “But it’s Hannah Wells—not even close to Mona.”

“I mean, it kinda is,” he mumbled, before shaking his head. “Look, it’s really important that I play this next game.” He was literally about to get to his knees and beg if that was what it would take for Hannah to agree. “We are playing against UCLA in two weeks, but that’s not what’s important. Hear me out, but my girlfriend lives halfway across the country, and… drumroll please…” He actually paused, to which Hannah raised an eyebrow. “She studies at UCLA. That’s why I really, really need to play.”

“I still hardly see how that is my problem?” Hannah backtracked immediately. “I’m sorry, it’s just I already am holding three jobs down right now, and I really, really can’t afford another job. You’re a good guy, Garrett, I’m sure you can find another tutor.”

“Okay, uh…” He rubbed his forehead briefly before his face literally lit up. “I can pay you.”

“I think that’s what having a job entails.”

“No, I mean, I can pay you however much you need,” he said, “Just name your price, Wellsy.”

“Wellsy?”

“That’s literally not what’s important.”

Hannah mulled his words over, and she would be lying if she said his offer was not tempting, but she didn’t know him, and she didn’t know how far he would be willing to go. “If I, hypothetically, agree, how long and how often would our sessions be?” She asked.

“Hypothetically, would 2 hours work for you?”

“It would,” she said slowly, “And if I, hypothetically, ask for fifty dollars per hour?”

“Then I would hypothetically agree.”

“Dude, seriously?” She turned to him, wide-eyed. “Do you know how much the minimum wage is?”

“Yeah,” he easily said, “But the whole point of this is that you are not to be paid the minimum wage, Wellsy.”

“Then…” She sighed deeply before reluctantly nodding. “Then I guess it’s a deal.”

—

Hannah found herself standing by the hockey house’s front door, her fist raised as she knocked—almost pounding on the wood to make sure she was heard over the game blaring from the speakers.

“Turn that down for a moment!” She heard someone yell from inside, his voice sounding closer as he walked over. Soon enough, the door swung open, revealing Logan.

“Hannah, hey! Didn’t expect to see you here.” Logan greeted Hannah with a twinkle in his eyes Hannah could not quite understand.

“Hey.” She waved, the gesture a little awkward and shy. “Uh, is Garrett here?”

“Garrett?” Logan’s brows furrowed before it dawned on him, a wide smile spreading across his face. “You’re his tutor!” He opened the door wider to let the girl in. “Come in. Is it okay for you to wait in the dining room while I call him down?”

“Yeah, for sure.” Hannah waved him off politely. She wandered through the house, looking around their shared space—which was surprisingly neat for a bunch of college athletes—until she found an unoccupied space on the farthest side of the dining table.

“Hey, Wellsy.” She heard Garrett greet as he descended the stairs and walked into the dining room. He was looking down at his phone, but looked up briefly to turn to the guys. “Can we have two hours of peace and quiet? Just two hours, guys.”

“Yeah, for sure.” Birdie put the controller down and turned the television off.

“Yeah, no, I gotta get started on dinner too.” Tucker rose from the couch. “All of you, except G, are on dinner duties. Get up now—right now.” There was an immediate commotion, but Tucker heard none of it. “Dinner duties or no dinner.”

“Wow, now I know why the house is tidy,” Hannah said as Garrett took a seat across from her, placing his phone face down on the table. “He runs a strict program here.”

“He really does.” Garrett laughed, eyeing her notes with a bit of interest. “Take it away then, Wellsy.”

As Hannah began talking, Garrett slowly lost what little interest he had at the beginning. He jumped every time his phone pinged on the table, his face lighting up slightly as he immediately picked his phone up, only to be disappointed every time.

She spoke when he picked his phone back up for the third time. “You know, I’d really appreciate it if you paid more attention,” she said, but not unkindly. “I don’t think you’d pass the oral presentation—or the class—if you don’t even try to understand what this is all about. Garrett, you told me you needed this, so please take this a bit more seriously.”

“You’re right, I’m sorry.” Garrett sighed, turning his phone to do not disturb. “Sorry. Can you backtrack?”

Two hours had passed quickly after that, and Hannah had been packing her stuff when Garrett’s phone rang. She watched as tension quickly left his body.

“Sorry, I have to take this,” he said quickly and picked up without waiting for her to respond—not that she minded. They were already done.

“Hi, GG!” Your voice came from the phone speaker soon, and Hannah couldn’t help but take a subtle peek into Garrett’s phone screen. “Sorry, I just got off my last class. It was hell, but anyway, how are you, baby?”

“I’m alright, baby.” He smiled softly—the same smile he had in the locker room, and the one he had when he was talking about her just the day prior.

Enthusiastic greetings and your name echoed behind Garrett as the guys scrambled towards their friend.

“Hi, guys!” You said as your boyfriend turned the camera over to the rowdy bunch. “Oh my God, you reek of testosterone so much, it reaches me all the way over here.”

“Hey! Garrett’s tutor is here with us!” Dean spoke up from behind Logan. “And she’s a woman, so that essentially cancels out the testosterone.”

Your eyebrows raised in surprise and excitement. “She’s there? Please, I need to see her!”

Garrett laughed, looking at Hannah. He turned the camera over towards her when she nodded, and watched as your face softened.

“Hi, oh my God! Finally, another woman!” You grinned, introducing yourself to Hannah. “I’m this doofus’ girlfriend, unfortunately.”

“Hey!”

“Hi!” Hannah laughed, her heart warming every second she talked to you. She honestly did not expect you to be this warm and welcoming, especially since you had a bit of a mean girl vibe at first glance. “Hannah Wells. I’m Garret’s tutor, unfortunately.”

“I am starting to regret this, just so you know,” Garrett grumbled behind the phone.

“Oh, that is unfortunate.” You giggled when your boyfriend turned the phone back to his face. “Baby, I am proud of you, and I’m glad you’re getting the help you need.”

“Babe, I have a tutor, not a therapist.”

You ignored his words. “But it is unfortunate for Hannah because you are as stubborn as a mule.”

“You are so lucky I love you.”

Hannah ended up staying for another hour before you finally ended the call, borderline threatening your boyfriend to drop her off up to her dorm room or else.

But Garrett had other plans, unbeknownst to her.

“So, uh, Wellsy,” he said. “My ride’s actually not in a good shape right now, so I probably can’t drop you off, but Logan here can.”

Logan looked at Garrett with wide eyes behind Hannah, to which he responded with a knowing grin.

“Oh, is that okay? I actually have my bike, so I can just, you know, bike,” Hannah said, trying to look at Logan without blushing.

“No, it’s late, I’ll drop you off,” Logan said with a charming smile. “Your bike will most probably fit in the truck, so…”

“Oh, that is so nice of you. Thank you!”

Meanwhile, Garrett was cheekily sending you a message.

Garrett: So

You: So?

Garrett: I didn’t drop Hannah off

You: 🤨?

Garrett: Pls hear me out

You: I am listening…

Garrett: Logan likes her, like likes her…

You: Okay…

Garrett: So I asked him to drop her off.

Garrett: You know, so they bond. 🙂‍↕️

You: You scheming dick 😟

You: I love it. Let me know what Logan says after 🤭

—

Hannah buckled her seatbelt in, waiting for Logan to enter his truck after strapping her bicycle in the pickup.

“Sorry for the wait,” Logan said as soon as he opened the door, quickly buckling in and turning the engine on.

“Oh, no.” Hannah waved him off. “I should be thanking you for the ride.”

“It’s nothing.” Logan started driving. “It’s late and dark out. Bare minimum, really.”

Hannah only smiled in response, and there was a few minutes of silence, only the sound of the radio filling the slightly awkward air between them.

“So…” Hannah began.

“So…” Logan repeated.

“Garrett and his girlfriend…”

“Oh, them?” Logan grinned. “As far as I know, they’re childhood sweethearts. Her family moved to Boston when they were around six and left in the second semester freshman year due to her dad’s relocation at work. They’re as thick as thieves, I’m telling you. When they were together, they were inseparable and they were both menaces. There was no peace with those two around. If you think Dean is bad, you should see them together.”

“That’s… actually really sweet.” Hannah smiled wistfully as she imagined you and Garrett together.

“It really is.”

They soon arrived in front of Hannah’s dorm building.

“Well, this is me,” she said, unbuckling her seatbelt. “Thanks again for the ride.”

“Yeah, no worries.” Logan, too, unfastened his seatbelt and exited the car to help Hannah with her bicycle.

Once the bike was chained safely onto the pole, they both stood there awkwardly.

“Uh…” Hannah gestured to the main entrance. “I’m gonna go in. Thank you so much again for giving me a ride. Drive safely on your way back. Message me when you get home?”

“Thanks, but, uh…” Logan put his hands in his pocket, not knowing what to do with them. “I don’t have your number.”

“Oh!” She chuckled awkwardly. “Sorry, I can… give it to you now.”

“Yeah, sure.” He handed her his phone, and she quickly typed her number in before handing the phone back to him.

“Here. Thanks again.”

“Anytime.”

Hannah smiled and slowly walked toward the building, waving at Logan shyly as he stood there with an almost dopey grin on his face.

—

It had been about two months since Hannah had tutored Garrett. He was able to ace his oral presentation in their philosophy class, and was ultimately permitted to play against UCLA.

From what Hannah had heard from Logan, you had watched the game wearing Garrett’s jersey, despite being a UCLA student, which had caused a bit of commotion with your friends.

You and Garrett were able to spend a few days together before they had to essentially pry your boyfriend off you.

It had been two and a half months since then, and now, here they all are at Malone’s. Hannah is serving their table, Garrett is drinking his sorrows away a few days away from Thanksgiving, and the guys are there for emotional support.

From what Hannah had heard from Garrett himself as he very loudly (and drunkenly) announced to practically the whole diner, he was supposed to be flying to California to spend Thanksgiving and the rest of the break with you and your family. Unfortunately, his dad had required him to spend at least Thanksgiving with him in Boston, only for his world-class asshole of a father to cancel at the very last minute.

Garrett, having canceled his flight ticket to California during one of the busiest times of the year, had to wait another three weeks for the next available flight because all flights were booked. On top of that, you hadn’t been responding to any of his calls and texts in the last few hours, which felt like a lifetime for a heartbroken man.

Hannah watches as a tear falls from Garrett’s eye after prolonged hours in the diner and a drink too many. Soon, more tears are streaming down his face as he sobs and hiccups.

“Fuck, I miss her so much, man.” He says to no one in particular. “Honestly, fuck my dad, and fuck the airlines and the planes. I will build my own fucking plane if I could.” He is hiccuping in between his words, while his friends look like they don’t know whether to laugh or sympathize with their friend.

“Call her,” Tucker mouths to Dean over Garrett’s shoulder.

“She’s fucking unreachable, dude!” Dean whisper-yells in a slight panic, not loud enough for Garrett to hear over his own heartbreak. “I’ve been trying for hours!”

“Well, try again!”

“What am I, a miracle worker?”

“Considering that a miracle is what we need right now, yes.”

“Choke.”

“Stop fucking talking!” Garrett interrupts with a sob—very out of character for the cold, untouchable captain of the hockey team. “My girl is across the world and I’m alone… I’m so lonely… I miss her… I miss my baby…”

“Dude, it’ll just be three weeks.” Logan tries to soothe his crying friend. “Time will pass quickly, I promise you.”

“Three. Weeks.” Garrett’s words slur together as he speaks. “Three whole weeks, Loge. I can’t wait that long. I will die. I will literally die.”

“No, you won’t, G, you’re being dramatic.”

“Fuck you, Dean. Try being away from your girl for your whole university life.”

“…Okay, fair.”

Another hour passes, and they finally manage to drag Garrett out of Malone’s with a (slightly empty) promise of having you on the phone by the time they get home, to which he easily agrees.

But Hannah, having clocked out of her shift just in time to come with the guys to the hockey house, takes the wheel after Garrett threatens to jump out of the moving car if he had to spend another second without you.

Hannah does not know whether to laugh at Garrett or to cry with him as he continues babbling and slurring in the backseat. The man she is seeing is significantly different than the hockey captain the rest of the world sees, but it somehow makes sense to her that he gets to this point of distress when it comes to you.

About fifteen minutes pass quickly, and Hannah finally pulls over and kills the engine, while Logan and Dean try to drag a very uncooperative, very uncoordinated man into the house.

They are halfway through the front door when Tucker comes to a halt—an actual, sudden stop that causes Garrett’s head to bump into his back.

Hannah instinctively scans the room trying to find the reason why Tucker froze, and that is when she spots the unfamiliar pair of shoes in the rack, two large suitcases beside stairs, an unrecognizable coat draped on the backrest of the couch.

Dean and Logan, completely focused on Garrett, do not immediately notice the slight changes around the house, but Hannah and Tucker do.

“Fuck, man, warn a guy next time—” Dean’s words are cut off abruptly when he finally sees the reason for Tucker’s sudden pause. “Holy fuck.”

Hannah’s jaw drops as her eyes land on you lounging on the sofa, the wide smile on your face faltering when you see the state your boyfriend is in.

“Oh God, what happened?” You stand from the couch to rush over, your hands immediately finding your boyfriend’s face. “Baby, what happened to you?”

Garrett looks up, his bleary, unfocused eyes staring through you, and he drunkenly laughs. “Shit, I miss her so much I’m hallucinating.”

You fight back a smile at his words.

The guys and Hannah exchange quick pleasantries with you as you let them drag Garrett into his room with a promise to spend more time with you once your boyfriend has had his time.

You hug each of them swiftly. “I have some stuff for you in the pink luggage.”

“You are a lifesaver.”

“We literally love you.”

“You are amazing,” Hannah suddenly says, which makes you stop. “Even more amazing in real life. I hope you know that I adore you already, and I hope to get to know you more.”

“Babe, I love you, and please, let’s go out sometime. I would love to know the person who saved my boyfriend’s career.” You grin, giving her a quick hug before entering Garrett’s bedroom.

Soon enough, it’s just you and your drunk boyfriend in his room. He is lying on his back, spread out like a starfish, and you snap a quick photo before moving.

You wet a washcloth with warm water and gently wipe him clean when he starts groaning and trying to push your hands off him weakly.

“Stop it, I have a girlfriend,” he mumbles, barely able to roll over. “She’s the only one I want. I love her and I miss her so much.” He almost starts crying right then and there.

“I’m sorry,” you say with a grin. “I’m sorry, I won’t touch you again, but can you please move over? Can you leave a space for when your girlfriend comes?”

“Mkay,” is all he murmurs as he rolls over to his own side on the bed, before promptly falling asleep.

You tidy up swiftly and crawl into bed with him, exhaustion taking over just as quickly.

—

Garrett regains consciousness slowly, but the pounding in his head quickly makes itself known. He winces slightly as the memories rush through his head with them ending right before his friends had dragged him home.

He raises a hand in an attempt to rub his eyes free of sleep, only to realize that his whole arm is pinned on the bed. He slowly turns to look, and his eyes immediately land on a mop of hair—your hair—and he feels the air leaving his lungs when he realizes that you are lying right there, on his bed, with him. You are not sleeping on your own bed across the country in California, but right here in Hastings.

A smile spreads across his face, his hangover completely forgotten as he leans down to wake you with gentle kisses on your skin.

He does not stop until you wake up, and he definitely does not—cannot—keep his hands off you—not when you shower together, not when you leave his bedroom and make your way downstairs, not when you walk into the kitchen, not when you talk with your friends, and definitely not when you spend the entire break with him.

“Hey, you coming?” Your roommate, Katrina, asks as she walks past you in the living room for what feels like the millionth time tonight. She is currently preparing to go to yet another party organized by none other than the royalties of Briar U with an equally popular fraternity. Normally, you would have come, always jumping in on every opportunity to see him, but tonight is different—to be fair, everything has been different ever since he decided to ghost you a week ago.

“No, but thank you, my love, enjoy the party, but be safe please. Keep your location on. Love you,” you reply, blowing her a kiss as she walks towards the front door.

“Are you sure?” Katrina asks, turning to you right before she leaves. “Honey, you haven’t left the dorm unless it’s for your classes. I love that you’re being studious, but you’ve got to have some fun!”

“I’m okay, Kat, really.” You smile at her concern for you, but you don’t really need it right now. “I haven’t had the energy to go out and do something, but I promise I will as soon as I can. I’ll even take you with me.”

She studies your face for a moment, but she eventually nods with a soft sigh. “Alright then. I’ll leave you alone—for now. This conversation is not over, missy.”

“Yeah, yeah. Go on your merry way and get shitfaced, but please be safe, Kat, I mean it.”

“I will, thanks. Love you! Lock the door behind me.”

Silence swallows the unit as soon as Katrina shuts the door behind her, and you are once again alone with your thoughts plagued by the man you are supposed to not think about. You stand from the couch and walk to the door to lock it.

The click of the lock shouldn’t have felt this sad and dramatic, but it weirdly does. You feel a pit in your stomach forming now that the deafening silence is all you can hear—no chatter from your roommate, no music blasting from the tiny speaker you always leave in the living room, no movie playing on a laptop screen, just you and the sound of your heart breaking all over again as your mind wanders to him once more.

Your gaze wanders around the room in search for something to do, but you ultimately come up with nothing—the shared living space is basically spotless (courtesy of your stress cleaning just earlier today), and the dishes are drying up on the rack (thanks to Katrina). Nothing is out of place, and you don’t want to start ransacking and rearranging your bedroom at this hour.

Maybe you should have gone to that stupid party, you think. Maybe the noise of the raging party is better than the silence of your dorm unit. Maybe being in a crowd of strangers is better than the complete isolation you are in at the moment. Maybe seeing him in person is still better than him occupying your mind at every waking moment.

Your head feels like it may start spinning if you think about it for longer than you already are, and you groan, dropping your weight onto the couch. You grab your phone and turn it on, only to stare at your home screen for a minute before your finger mindlessly clicks on the gallery icon. Against your better judgment, you look through your locked album containing all your memories with him, which only makes the melancholy—and everything else—worse, and your mind finally drifts to that godforsaken day.

—

You were in a café, sitting in your favorite spot as you worked on your class requirements when your phone vibrated on the table with an incoming call.

You picked it up without much thought, and the corners of your lips automatically twitched in a small smile when you saw the contact. You didn’t hesitate when you slid your finger across the screen, putting the phone to your ear. “I thought I told you not to disturb me for the next two hours?” You spoke, your tone light and joking.

“Can we talk?”

Your smile faltered at the seriousness of his tone, but you quickly recovered, giving him a bright, “Yes, of course! Right now?”

He gave you a time and a location—your usual spot, hidden away from most eyes, if not all.

You agreed, and he hung up without as much as a brief goodbye. The click of the phone signaled the end of the call, but you couldn’t help but feel like it meant something else.

The hours passed by in a blur, and before you knew it, you were sitting on the bench as you waited for Logan to arrive. Your heart was beating out of your ribcage as you racked your brain for something you might have done to warrant the severity of the situation, but you came up with nothing.

Your phone vibrated in your hand, and you quickly picked it up to look, only to be disappointed to see a notification from your roommate. You typed out a quick reply and glanced at the clock at the top.

Ten minutes had passed just like that.

You looked around the area, scrolled through your phone, glanced at the clock, repeat. You did this for several more times, and the last time you checked the clock, forty minutes had gone by.

You sent him a series of messages.

‘Hey, I’m here.’

‘I’m at the right place, right? Lol.’

‘Tell me when you’re on your way.’

You mindlessly typed another message.

‘I love you.’

But you jerked as you realized your mistake, quickly deleting the words, and turning your phone off. Your heart was pounding, and you placed a hand over your chest and breathed, trying to calm your racing heart.

You waited for thirty more minutes before your phone vibrated once again. You looked down eagerly, but were once again disappointed to see a random story notification from Dean on Instagram. You didn’t know what pushed you to click on it, but you did, and you were somehow glad that you did.

It wasn’t a party, you thought, but the Briar hockey house was never quiet—never ran out of visitors, and it was evident in the way people occupied every space of the house. Dean panned the camera all around the house for a reason you didn’t know—maybe he was giving his followers a house tour, maybe he just felt like it. What you knew was that in his second story was a picture of him—an innocent, unsuspecting selfie.

But it wasn’t the photo of Dean that bothered you, but what—or who—he was taking a photo with that did.

Because in the background was him—John fucking Logan.

John Logan who worshipped you in the quiet of the night—in secret. John Logan who kissed all your scars—in secret. John Logan who whispered promises into your skin—in secret. John Logan whose eyes twinkled a certain way as he looked into your own eyes—in secret.

That very same man had his arm wrapped around another woman, his lips close to her skin like he was whispering into her ear, and his eyes twinkled like they did with you—all for the whole world to see.

What he did with you in secret, he was doing with another woman in broad daylight. What he did with you in the comfort of your own bedroom with the same excuses revolving around his friends, he was doing with another woman in front of the very friends he kept you a secret from.

Your heart felt like it had stopped beating inside your chest, and for a moment, you forgot how to breathe.

You opened your messaging app, and were not surprised to see no reply from him. You typed out a message anyway. Your fingers shook and your eyes blurred as you tapped on your screen with a little bit of force.

‘You could’ve told me, so I didn’t have to wait for an hour for you.’

A few tears fell as you sent him another message.

‘Let’s end this. Please don’t try to reach out.’

You walked back to your dorm that night, shivering at the cold, and yet you felt nothing at all.

You spent the next few days wallowing. You knew you were the one to tell him not to reach out, but you found yourself waiting for a notification from him. A part of you wanted him gone from your life completely, a part of you wanted him back, a part of you wanted to know why.

But by the looks of it, you were never going to know why. It was cruel as it was, but maybe the only closure you were going to get was the fact that there had been no closure at all.

It was weird—your heart was shattered into a million pieces, and you couldn’t even turn to anyone because nobody knew.

A part of you thought that since nobody else knew, then that might have meant that whatever it was between you was not real.

—

Rapid knocks on the door snap you out of your trance. You look at the time and curse to yourself when you realize that a few hours have gone by.

“Wait a second!” You call out, rushing towards the door. You swing it open, and your heart drops as you come face-to-face with the man himself.

Logan is standing by the door, while Katrina—who is very much drunk—wobbles into the unit and straight into her room with a quick, “I’m going the fuck to bed. Bye, love you!”

The door to your roommate’s room clicks shut, leaving you alone with Logan.

“She insisted on leaving,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Dean had too much to drink, Garrett is with Hannah, and Tucker’s keeping the place afloat, so… Here I am. I, uh, dropped a few other people off, so she wasn’t alone.”

You understand the implication of his words, but you choose not to dwell. “Thanks,” is all you say, “Goodnight.”

“Wait!” He calls out just before you can shut the door. “Can we talk?”

You freeze, your heart pounding. “There’s nothing to talk about, so please leave,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. You think that if you speak any louder, your voice will crack and you will break right there, in front of the man you do not want to see for a second longer.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

You cut his speech short, not wanting to hear any more of his excuses. “You didn’t mean to what? Keep me a secret for almost a year? String me along while you go and flirt with anyone you want because we’re not exclusive? Because you don’t want to be exclusive? Make me wait for an hour? Ghost me for a week? You’ve done a whole lot of damage to be starting with ‘I didn’t mean to’, Logan.”

He utters your name, his voice soft and weak. “I’m so sorry. I—”

“Logan, please.” Unshed tears start blurring your vision and you know he sees it by the way his face softens even more. “Just save it. I don’t want to hear it. Leave before we both say things we don’t mean.” You slam the door shut without waiting for him to respond.

You watch him through the peephole. You watch as he stands there, looking at the door. You watch as he sighs and curses to himself. You watch as his hand runs through his hair repeatedly, messing it up more than it is already. You watch as he finally leaves minutes later.

That is when you finally break, your back sliding down the door. You sit on the floor in tears, drowning in your own head. You don’t notice when your hands start shaking. You don’t notice when you start gripping your own thighs, your fingers digging into the skin. You don’t notice when Katrina’s door slowly opens. You don’t notice when she walks over to you, crouching in front of you with a look of devastation on her face. You don’t notice when she leads you towards the couch, sitting beside you, and wrapping her arms around you tightly.

“Oh, honey,” she whispers, “If I had known, I wouldn’t have let him come here.”

“It’s not your fault, Kat,” you hear yourself respond. “It’s nobody else’s fault except his… and mine.”

“How is it your fault?” She asks so softly it triggers a fresh wave of tears. “Tell me everything if you’re ready—when you’re ready.”

“I am ready. I want to tell you.”

—

The drive back to the hockey house is quiet—no music playing on the radio, no other people chattering in the car, no other sound aside from the engine humming beneath, nothing to distract Logan from his thoughts.

He thinks back to that day, and the days before that. He thinks back to the day he told you to talk, only for him to bail at the last minute. He thinks back to the week he had prior to that day—how deep he had been in his head, how he had been ditching you for whatever reason he had come up with, how he had started pulling away—all for a stupid slip up you had during sex.

—

It had been an exhausting day for the both of you—Logan with his hockey practice and their family-run garage, you with your academics and the internships you had been applying for because your scholarship money can only go so far.

Despite the exhaustion the day had brought Logan, he had found himself with you in your bedroom. Katrina had spent the night with her boyfriend, so you were left alone in the dorm—that is until he came knocking on the door. You had eagerly let him into your home, into your bed.

It had been hours since then, and he had himself slotted between your legs as he thrusted for the last time, burying himself to the hilt when he heard it,

“Fuck, I love you,” you breathed out, your eyes screwed shut as you dug your nails into his back. You didn’t seem to notice your slipup, too lost in your own pleasure, but he did.

And he did not forget it—not when he was driving back home, not the next day, the next few days, the next week. A simple sentence whispered into his ear during the heat of the moment took over his life, and he realized how scared he was.

Scared of fucking his life over—just how his dad screwed their lives over. Scared that he might stay right where he was. Scared of fucking things up with you if he let you in completely—let you stay in his life longer.

—

“Dude, you look miserable,” Tucker says as soon as he enters the place, immediately rummaging through the coolers for something stronger than the cans of beer they already have. “I told you I could’ve dropped them off—”

“It’s not that, Tuck,” he grumbles, finally giving up on his hunt for liquor and settling on a cup of beer from the keg. He leans against the kitchen island and chugs the beer, willing it to be stronger. “Listen, I have a problem.”

“Yeah, no shit, man.”

“Seriously.” He sighs, slamming the red solo cup down on the countertop. He feels restless in his own skin. The sight of your tearful eyes and your devastated face is burned into his head, and the sound of your weak, shaky voice as you try your hardest to keep a strong face in front of him echoes in his mind. “I fucked up.”

“Fucked up how?” Tucker raises his eyebrows incredulously at Logan. “Wait, you didn’t manage to drive your truck into a ditch and kill one of your passengers, right?”

“No—fuck no.” Logan punches Tucker’s arm. “Be fucking serious for once, man.”

“I am serious!”

“It’s not about that, dude.” Logan stands there in silence, staring down at the floor.

“Are we going to stand here all night, or…?” Tucker tilts his head, trying to catch his best friend’s eyes. “Because I can, and I will.”

“I met this woman,” he finally says, “A year ago. In a class I took for extra credit. I was late on the first day, and the only vacant seat was beside her. She didn’t know who I was, and it felt… weird somehow, but it mostly felt… freeing because she didn’t know who I was. I got to be someone else with her—not the man shaped by hockey, not the boy from his family’s garage.” He doesn’t feel like himself as he recounts the story. He had compartmentalized his life so much in an attempt to keep you from the mess that is his life that it feels like he is talking about a whole different person now. “Long story short, we had a thing going on that I kept from everyone else in my life, which also made her keep our thing a secret—for almost a year. Two weeks ago, she said she loved me—during sex—and it got me scared. Scared that both our lives will screw over the moment I let her in, let her see who I am—the entirety of me, the me that she doesn’t see. I got scared that I’d end up being my dad—the person who fucks things up when they get bad.”

The words just keep flowing out of his mouth, and he feels like he is watching this happen from a distance—like who’s speaking is different from who he’s talking about. When did it come to this point? “A week ago, I told her to talk. I told her to meet me at our usual place at a certain time, and I don’t know what came over me—maybe it slipped my mind somehow, maybe I got scared that it was becoming too real and chickened out—and I bailed on her completely. I ditched her. I managed to convince myself that if I flirted with someone else and returned to who I used to be with her, then I didn’t have to face what I felt for her. But, fuck, that was a stupid idea. It just made shit worse. I didn’t reply to her texts then, and I didn’t reach out. I didn’t know how to apologize without sounding like a dick.”

“You would’ve sounded like a dick no matter what you do because you were a dick, man.”

Logan and Tucker both jump at the sound of Dean’s voice coming from the entryway. Garrett is standing beside him with his arms crossed over his chest—his face is blank, but they all know he has something going on in his head by the way his jaw clenches and unclenches.

“Jesus, when’d you two get here? How long have you been standing there?” Tucker is the first to respond, while Logan keeps his eyes on Garrett, waiting for him to speak.

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean says, clapping Logan on the back. “What matters is that you love that girl, but you’re too chicken to admit it, so you fuck it up and come to regret it. Now, you’re wallowing in self-blame and pity.”

“Man, it’s not like that—”

“It is,” Garrett finally speaks, and the room quiets, waiting with bated breaths. “It’s exactly how Dean put it, dude. You fucked your relationship up because you were scared of ending up exactly like your dad. Trust me, I know, but the fact that you worry enough about this shit tells me you’re far from who your father is.”

“Hannah is too smart for you, G,” Tucker says, turning to Logan. “But he’s got a point, man.”

“Exactly, so stop wallowing and go get your girl back.” Dean pats his shoulder rather roughly.

“Fuck no.” Logan pushes Dean off him just as roughly. “She doesn’t deserve what I did to her, and she sure as hell doesn’t deserve what I can give her. She doesn’t deserve someone like me, man, she’s too good for that.”

“Idiot.”

“Dick.”

“Asshole.”

One by one, his friends leave the kitchen, rolling their eyes. Soon enough, Logan is left alone.

—

Another week passes by in a blur of classes, hockey practice, and various extracurricular work. Logan engages with as many activities as possible without running into you… to avoid thinking about you. But he should have known it was nothing but wishful thinking. With friends like his, his life is never boring.

He should have known something is amiss the moment his phone lights up with a message from Dean.

‘Dude, come to the supply room closest to the locker room. Jensen’s been on my ass for the equipment.’

He heaves a deep sigh, and walks towards the direction of the mentioned supply room without thinking much of it.

He should have realized that Coach Jensen never said anything about any equipment from the supply room—or any supply rooms, for that matter—but in his dazed exhaustion, he completely missed that crucial detail. He should have also realized how quiet Dean has gotten behind him as he starts flipping the room over for something that does not exist, unbeknownst to him. He only realizes the fact that he was set up when he hears your voice with Tucker’s.

“How bad is it that you need the help of an unsuspecting student?”

“It’s really, really bad, okay? I’m so glad I found you because we really don’t know what we’d do with it.”

Soon enough, you are being maneuvered into the supply room, and before either of you even realizes, the door shuts behind you, the lock clicking into place.

“What the—?” You snap out of your trance, and force your eyes to look away from him. Turning to the door, you pound on it in hopes that Tucker will let you out. “Open the door! John Tucker, you are a dead man! You hear me?! A dead man!”

“I’m sorry, it had to be done!” Tucker yells from the other side of the door.

“Get your shit together, and we’ll consider letting you out!”

You curse upon hearing Dean’s voice. You whirl around and your glare lands on Logan, who hasn’t moved from his spot ever since he’s heard your voice outside. “Did you put them up to this? Tell them we don’t have anything to fix. Logan, I swear to God, I will—”

You don’t finish what you’re supposed to say when he walks towards you in two short strides, and pulls you into his arms in a tight hug. All the pent up emotions are poured into the brief contact.

“I missed you so much,” he speaks, his voice cracking a little. “So fucking much, baby, and I’m so, so sorry for everything I’ve put you through.”

You pull away and look through his eyes, scanning them for any signs of deception and malice, but you find nothing like so. Instead, all you see is pain and adoration. “Explain yourself,” you say as you completely pull away from him. “You have five minutes.”

He finds himself chasing after you, but he holds back—he doesn’t want to scare you off now that he has just gotten you back.

“Three weeks ago,” he speaks, his voice so soft that you want to pull him into your arms, but you resist. “You told me you loved me.”

Your heart drops. “I-I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s not that.” He cuts you off gently. “I… realized that I loved you, but it took me forever. At that moment, I got scared—of pulling you into my mess, of fucking things up between us, of losing you. I didn’t realize I was already losing you by pushing you away and being an asshole when you deserved nothing less than the best. I thought I didn’t deserve you—that you don’t deserve to be with someone like me when you are as good as you are. But I realized how fucked that was, and how much I loved—love—you.” He takes your hands gently. “I love you,” he says your name so gently, so tenderly, like it’s something sacred, something to worship. “I didn’t know how to approach you then—how to apologize without sounding like a dick, but here I am now, and I admit that I was a dick. I pushed you away because you are the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I was scared of ruining it—ruining you.”

You stay silent, processing his words. Your eyes fill with tears you desperately try to hold back but fail. You sniffle and pull one of your hands away to hit him square in the chest lightly. “You idiot!” You half-laugh, half-sob. “You are so stupid! Who are you to decide what I deserve or not? I hate you! I hate you, John Logan!”

Your words sting, but he deserves it, he thinks as he pulls you into his chest, his arms winding around your slightly trembling form tightly. “I’m so sorry, baby,” he murmurs over and over again as you cry into his shirt. He doesn’t care that your tears are soaking the fabric—all he cares about is you.

The fight leaves your body as soon as you are pulled into him, but you continue, “I hate you,” you cry softly, “And I hate that I don’t hate you—not even close. Not even a little bit. Not even at all. You hurt me so much, but I can’t find myself to hate you because I love you too much.”

“I know,” he murmurs, “I know, and I will forever be sorry for how I treated you. I will make it up to you for as long as I live—if you let me.”

You sniffle, pulling away to look at him. “I love you, John Logan, but a few minutes of reflection in a supply room can never undo the damage you have caused—all the secrecy, all the hurt, all the tears. I don’t hate you, but I don’t know if I can forgive you for what you’ve done either.”

His hopeful smile falters a little, but he doesn’t completely show his disappointment. “I understand. You don’t have to forgive me just because I apologized—I will never force that upon you. It’s more than enough that you heard me out.”

“I don’t know how to forgive you,” you say, “But I’m willing to give you a chance. If you fuck this up again, we’re done.”

His eyes light up once again, and he nods—too eagerly, he thinks, but he doesn’t care. “That’s more than enough for me. I promise I will never let you down again.”

He stands there, unsure of what to do, but after a moment of silence between you, you step forward, your arms wrapping around him. He does not hesitate when he hugs you back just as tightly without saying anything else, the silence between you now is just that—comfortable silence instead of a pregnant pause.

You and Allie perk up from your places in her bed, tangled beneath the sheets as you watch TikToks of animals on your phone.

“Rough practice?” You ask, reaching out to Dean as he practically slams the bedroom door open, slamming it back closed behind him. You reach a hand out, tugging the hem of his shirt slightly to let him fall onto the bed between you and Allie.

“You wouldn’t want to know,” he growls, his eyes darkening with that familiar fiery gaze.

He looks between his girls, and Allie immediately raises her arms in surrender.

“I can’t, babe, I’m on my period,” she murmurs, sitting up to place tender kisses along his jawline, down to his neck. “I’m sorry.”

“You know I do not mind a little blood,” he whispers, turning his head to meet her lips in a rough, almost bruising kiss that leaves her in a daze when he pulls away. “But I’m not forcing you, babydoll.”

Due to Allie running her fingers through them, Dean’s hair is already a mess when his darkened eyes flit over to you, and a shiver runs down your spine at the intensity of his gaze.

“Come here,” you whisper, holding your arms out, but he does not take them. Instead, he grabs a hold of your legs and tugs you towards him with a wolfish grin. You squeal, your hands flying to his shoulder.

Your hands stay on his shoulders when he leans in, crashing his lips to yours in another rough kiss, his tongue slipping into your mouth. You moan into his mouth, your back arching towards him.

“My girls taste so fucking good,” he groans, his lips trailing down to your jawline, then lowering to your neck. He nips at the sensitive point right below your jaw, and you let out a shaky breath. He chuckles darkly at your response to his kisses. “Sensitive already? Our sensitive girl.”

“Isn’t she so sweet?” Allie coos, crawling across the bed over to you. She holds your chin delicately, gently tilting your head and pressing a sweet kiss to your lips.

The stark contrast between Dean’s rough treatment and Allie’s sweet indulgence is making your head spin, and it is evident in the way your words turn incoherent as you babble, “please”.

“Please what, sweet girl?” Allie whispers against your lips, “Tell our Dean what you want, baby.”

Your brain does not immediately process her words, and Dean tuts, crawling back up to hold your face in his larger hand. His palm connects with your cheek in a light slap—not enough to hurt but enough to catch your attention. “You were asked a question, baby. Do you want to be punished?”

You moan at the sudden, slight sting, and they both laugh at that. Answering his question, shake your head with a feeble, “No.”

“Then tell me what you want, baby,” Dean whispers, looking intently into your eyes that are now glazed over with lust and want. “What does our baby want?”

Meanwhile, Allie is peppering kisses all over your skin—everywhere she can reach: your face, your neck, the exposed skin of your shoulder.

You so badly want to respond, but your mind keeps coming up blank. “Fuck,” you gasp anyway, “Please touch me.”

“But he is touching you, pretty,” Allie croons teasingly, trailing featherlight down your torso until she reaches the waistband of your shorts. “Do you want to be touched right here…” She trails her hand lower. “…or lower?”

“Right there—” You gasp as her palm cups your wet heat over the fabrics. “I need more, please.”

“Good girl,” Dean groans, finally crawling back down. “Good fucking girl, babydoll.”

Meanwhile, Allie nudges you to sit up with a soft, “Sit up for me a bit, baby.” She then takes her place behind you and pulls you close, your back now pressed to her chest. While Dean is hooking his fingers into your shorts and sliding them down your legs, Allie is pulling your shirt over your head, leaving you completely bare in your partners’ hold.

“So beautiful,” Dean murmurs, spreading your thighs and placing your legs on each of his broad shoulders. He kisses down from your knees into your inner thighs, close enough to feel his hot breath on your pussy. “And all ours. Isn’t that right, Allie-cat?”

Allie giggles in reply, brushing your hair to the side to kiss your neck and your nape sweetly, purring—

“All ours,”

—in between kisses, her free hand toying with your pebbled nipple.

The sensation Allie is giving, along with the cool air breezing over your pussy, makes you shiver and arch into your girlfriend’s touch. Your lips part in a silent moan.

“We’ve got you, sweetheart,” Dean murmurs, stroking your thighs as he watches Allie touch and kiss you. “We’ve got you. Just relax for us.”

“Dean, please,” you whine, your hips lifting off the bed in an attempt to shift closer to your boyfriend’s face. “Please do something. I need it—I need you.”

“I got you,” Dean groans out before diving in between your parted thighs. You cry out as soon as his mouth comes in contact with your throbbing cunt, his tongue swiping up and down, side to side, everywhere.

Your hips buck, grinding yourself against his face. He does not stop you—instead, he moans and groans into your cunt, the vibrations sending jolts of electricity straight into your core.

Meanwhile, Allie’s hands continue twiddling with your nipples, her lips kissing and whispering filth into your skin as you whimper and moan into the heated air of the bedroom, “you are doing so, so well for us, good girl. That’s it, fuck Dean’s face, baby, hump his face. Does that feel good? Yeah, I bet it does. Uh-huh?”

The multiple continuous sensations all over your body are enough to make your body tremble, your thighs close in around Dean’s head, and one of your hands grip Allie’s forearms, your nails leaving crescent marks in their wake, while your other hand is buried in Dean’s hair, pulling and tugging at the right moments. The slight sting of his scalp is pleasurable enough to make him whimper into your pussy.

As if swiping his tongue all over your clit is not enough, Dean wraps his lips around the sensitive bundle of nerves and sucks. You cry out in response, jerking in their hold and arching as far as humanely possible.

“Oh, yeah,” Allie moans at the sight of your pleasure skyrocketing. “Fuck, baby, if only you can see how so fucking good you look right now—both of you.”

Dean grins into your cunt, his eyes trailing up to meet both of yours from between your thighs. He sucks again to see your reaction, and god, he gets even more turned on at the sight: your body jerking and trembling, your lips parting in a silent scream, your eyes rolling back in pleasure. He moans louder into you as you tug harder at his hair.

He pulls away for air and reprieve, causing you to whine at the loss, but your disappointment does not last long as he dives back in, doubling down on his efforts this time.

“Oh God,” you cry out, the knot in your core tightening with every passing second Dean spends between your legs. “I’m so close, Dean!”

“He knows, baby, he knows,” Allie coos, also intensifying her efforts on pleasuring your tits. “You are so, so close, aren’t you, baby? Should we let you cum?”

Dean grins against you, pulling away just as you reach your peak. His hands stroke your thighs soothingly, while you groan in frustration, your eyes snapping down to where he lies on his stomach beneath you.

“Relax, sweetheart,” he murmurs, slipping two fingers into your mouth. “Suck my fingers like you’re sucking my dick, pretty. Get them nice and wet for me. That’s it, good girl.” He groans at the sight of you sucking his fingers, swirling your tongue all over the digits.

He slowly pulls his fingers out and lies back down between your legs, placing them on his shoulders once again. He prods at your entrance teasingly before pushing his thick fingers slowly into your pussy. His dark eyes do not leave your face as he watches every single expression that flashes across. He curls his fingers just right and watches as you struggle and thrash in Allie’s hold. “You can take it, sweetheart. You wanted this, remember? That’s it. You’re doing so well.”

Meanwhile, Allie has her arms tight around you to prevent you from moving too much and potentially hurting yourself or them. She strokes your skin soothingly, whispering sweet nothings into your ear, “Just a bit more, baby. You’re almost there, we know. Good girl—so sweet and beautiful for us.”

To add to your pleasure, Dean takes your clit back into his mouth and sucks as he pumps his fingers into you, the tips nudging that sweet spot inside you. His hips rut against the sheets as he moans into your clit.

The knot in your core coils tighter and tighter until they finally snap. You stiffen in Allie’s arms for a few moments before your body spasms as the waves of your orgasm crashes and flows through you.

Allie holds you through it, still whispering into your ear as she soothes you with her touch.

Dean continues pumping his fingers slowly into you, but he parts from your clit, letting you ride your high until the overstimulation turns into sharp jabs of pain with every move and your hands are tapping his shoulder urgently.

He slowly withdraws his fingers then, licking his fingers clean with a satisfied groan. He slowly lowers your legs on the bed, gently massaging the sore spots.

When he sits up, you and Allie gasp at the wet patch on his low slung gray sweatpants, right over his clothed erection.

“See how good you make me feel, sweetheart?” He murmurs, kissing your lips softly. “You okay?”

“I’m okay.” You nod, still slightly breathless. You then turn to Allie, kissing her cheek. “Are you okay, gorgeous?”

“Oh, I’m more than okay, pretty.” She grins, leaning in to kiss Dean this time. She groans as she tastes you on his lips. “Fuck, you taste so fucking good together. It’s insane.”

“We’re all insane here, gorgeous.” He grins boyishly, but his eyes soften as they look over you. “Think you can walk? You need to pee, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, I think so.”

Dean di Laurentis—who thinks he knows every woman in Briar, considering he had… made an acquaintance with about half of them—is first made aware of your existence at a block party. After three years in Briar University, he only knows about you—at a stupid block party, no less.

He approaches you with his usual charming smile that disarms women—and men—and tears even the highest walls down. You see, the key word this time is usually. Really, he should have known that there is a reason why he is only finding out about you now instead of three years ago during freshman orientation where about a third of the freshman class had thrown themselves at his feet, eager to get to know him.

“Hey.” He grins easily, holding a hand out for you to shake. “Dean di Laurentis, but I’m sure you know about me.”

Real smooth, di Laurentis, real fucking smooth. Holy shit, did he suddenly forget how to talk to women that he fumbles that badly? Oh, this is bad, he thinks, he can’t have himself failing when he has just found who he (very irrationally) thinks is the love of his life.

And while Dean is too busy having an internal conflict, you give him a once over before walking away with a snicker, leaving him standing there alone, with his hand still outstretched.

Only when his friends clap his back does he realize that you are no longer in front of him and are nowhere to be found. Great. He meets the love of his life and loses her in under ten minutes.

He leaves the party grounds later that night with you still in his head. His heart skips a beat every time he remembers the color of your eyes, the slope of your nose, and the curve of your lips—which is silly because he had literally *just met you, and he does not even feel this way about sorority girls he has known for years, or ex-hookups he sees around the campus. Hell, he does not even know your name. All he knows is that you are gorgeous and breathtaking and stunning and beautiful and captivating and mesmerizing and—

Oh.

He had just described you in more than two words that did not include hot and sexy.

Dean di Laurentis is completely, utterly, totally, absolutely fucked.

—

Dean, to his utmost delight *and horror, sees you again after a week—at another fucking party. Why is this a recurring theme in his life right now?

You step into the off-campus hockey house wearing an outfit that is so simple yet so elegant, especially on you. As soon as you step in, everyone else looks underdressed in his eyes, including himself.

He forces himself out of his thoughts with a vigorous shake of his head. He starts building his confidence and charm—which is ridiculous because he is Dean fucking di Laurentis, one of Briar U’s most sought-after bachelors. Why the fuck does he need to build his confidence any more? He is confident, he is charming, he is attractive, he is calm, he is cool, he is not fucking this up for the second time.

At one point during his self-affirmation, you walk past him. He catches a whiff of your perfume—faint, fleeting, but *there—and freezes up like an idiot. Of fucking course.

It is only when you are far enough for you not to hear him does he snap out of his trance, feeling like an absolute wreck. Instead of walking over to you and striking a conversation like a normal human being, he watches you from across the room, his heart beating like crazy even though you had done nothing but exist.

He watches as you chat with your friends and laugh freely, fetch yourself some drinks, and rock slightly to the beat of the music. He wants so badly to talk to you, make you laugh, refill your drinks for you, dance with you like there is no one else in the room, but every time he even *thinks of standing within three feet away from you, he chickens out—something he never thought was possible. Dean di Laurentis, the very epitome of a ladies’ man, chickening out? That will sound impossible, no matter who you ask, so why is it happening now?

He barely knows you, so why does he feel so strongly for you? It’s not love (yet), but maybe it’s something dangerously close—no, he barely knows you. It should not be possible to like you like that.

—

The next time Dean sees you is in an academic setting—a symposium on international relations and global politics. Thank fuck because he can surely strike up an intelligent conversation with you, unlike in parties, where he comes across as nothing but a dumb jock or a dumb blond—or even worse, a dumb blond jock.

He grins to himself, and walks over to where you and your friend (presumably) are sitting—the seat beside you is conveniently empty. He does not immediately take a seat; instead, he stands in front of the empty spot, perched adjacent to you with a hand outstretched.

“Hi,” he says in a slightly pitched voice, and immediately cringes inwardly, because Dean fucking di Laurentis does not say hi like that. “Sorry, *hey.” Even worse—why did he have to deepen his voice like that? It sounded more like a kid imitating his father’s voice more than anything.

He wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole—with not a single strand of hair left anywhere—when you pause your conversation with your friend—who he now recognizes as a campus journalist named Charlotte—to turn and look at him. Although there is amusement dancing in your eyes when your eyes trail down to his outstretched hand, you don’t keep him waiting for long.

You shake his hand briefly, and he thinks he can die happily now that he’s held your hand—even if it was just a short moment. Your hand is smoother than his hand that’s calloused from gripping hockey sticks for practically his whole life. He does not really know what you do with your hands, but he wants to find out, just like how he wants to know everything about you.

Then you state your name, your tone casual—nothing special, but he feels like dying then coming back to life from just a literal second of you saying your name.

“Hi, Dean,” he says with a dopey, not-very-him smile on his face. He quickly realizes that he had just said that in a completely wrong way. “I mean, hi. Dean—like hi, I'm Dean. Not like hi, you're Dean. I'm Dean di Laurentis, and I should probably stop talking now,” he says, all in one breath, his brain spiraling with every word that comes out of his mouth. He feels like a 12-year-old boy who runs away at the sight of women, which he's not, obviously. He's a 21-year-old man—a six-foot-something hockey defenseman, a very loud and proud supporter of women’s rights and wrongs who's got himself acquainted with quite a number of women, but here he is: blushing and stuttering like a complete idiot.

“I know who you are, Dean di Laurentis.” You look absolutely, drop dead gorgeous, even with an amused smirk—especially with an amused smirk.

“You do?” He can’t help the hopeful look and tone, but he quickly catches himself. He clears his throat and straightens his face as nonchalantly as possible. “I mean, yeah, a lot of people do—know me, I mean.”

“We know that too, Dean di Laurentis.” You chuckle softly, and he feels like he is in heaven.

“You don’t have to call me by my whole name, you know? You can just call me Dean,” he says, “Or anything you’d like, really.”

“That is duly noted, Dean.”

“Say, Dean, what are you doing here?” Charlotte interrupts as gently as she can possibly do, “I mean, no offense, but considering you’re a PolSci student, and this is a symposium on child psychology…”

“Oh shit, for real?” He looks around, and sees the LED wall on the platform displaying an entirely different topic than what he originally signed up for. “Fuck, sorry, I, uh, I got lost. I mean, I got the rooms mixed up, obviously. I’ll… see you around?”

“I’ll see you around, Dean.” You smile, and he feels like he has just died, gone to heaven, and then gone back to life.

He is absolutely, completely, entirely disarmed by just your smile, but he at least knows your name now.

—

The fourth time Dean sees you is during lunch at Malone’s. Puck bunnies surround them and their table, flirting and giggling and twirling strands of their hair around their fingers. Normally, Dean would have flirted back—maybe he would have invited them over to the hockey house after lunch, or invited them into the restroom for a quick one.

But Dean is not himself—he hasn’t been for a week now—not since the *accidental encounter with you in the lecture hall. He does not believe in fate, but he thinks he might after that run-in with you.

After those few, special minutes in the hall, Dean found himself walking towards the *actual venue of the symposium he had signed up for extra credit. He hadn’t listened—he immediately pulled up Charlotte’s profile on Instagram, and went through all of her 1,978 followers to look for you. He hadn’t been successful in the first hour of the symposium, and so he goes through your other friends’ (again, presumably) profiles: Emmett and Ivy from the block party, Megan and Bridget from the house party.

He had somehow found you after about two hours, and debated whether or not to send you a follow request after another hour.

You had accepted his request just a few hours prior.

So here he is, going through your Instagram profile. He probably has all 9 of your posts memorized by heart, and he is scrolling through them for what feels like the first time for him, but it has been at least three hours for the rest of the world.

“Dean,” a puck bunny—Ashley, if he remembers correctly—purrs beside him, running her perfectly manicured nail down his arm slowly. “What’s got you so distracted, gorgeous? Are you not enjoying this?”

He reluctantly looks up from the screen of his phone—he does not even bother to turn it off as he forces his gaze towards Ashley. He is about to respond when the bell above the door jingles. He does not know what compelled him to look over, but he’s glad he did, because walking into the diner is you.

You are wearing a simple shirt with a pair of washed jeans, as well as a pair of obviously well-loved sneakers. Your outfit is nothing out of the ordinary—something you’d see on more than half the population of Briar U—but it looks different on you. You look absolutely stunning in simple clothes.

His tense body sags with relief, and without thinking, he finds himself weaving through the small crowd consisting of his friends and women he barely knows. He passes through with a brief, quiet, ‘excuse me’, and walks towards you with an easy smile on his face.

“Huh,” Ashley hums in thought as she watches Dean part from the group. His friends all watch him, incredibly weirded out by his undeniably weird behavior.

“Hi, Hannah,” he hears you greeting as you lean against the bar. “I sent in an order about forty-five minutes ago, and I was hoping that it’s ready.”

“Oh, absolutely!” Hannah smiles at you, wide and bright as she hands you a paper bag. “Here you go—extra everything for Malone’s favorite regular.”

“Thanks a lot, gorgeous!” You beam, taking the bag, and looking through it briefly to make sure everything is in order.

Before you push away from the bar, Dean calls out your name. “Hey.” He smiles at you—a wide smile that deepens his dimples. “It’s great seeing you again.”

“Hi, Dean.” Your grin widens as you turn to him. “It’s great to see you too. How have you been?”

“Good, really good.” He nods, and he suddenly does not seem to know what to do with his hands. “You look great.”

“Thanks,” she says, her grin softens into a little smile now. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

“Thanks.” His smile, in turn, widens.

There are a few moments of slightly awkward silence—just a few beats of you two looking at each other—before you break it.

“I have to get going.” You point to the door behind you. “I’m kind of on the way to class. I just picked up lunch real quick.”

“Yeah, no, for sure.” He watches you take a few steps back, just as stiffly. “I’ll see you around?”

“Of course.” You nod, taking another step back.

Before you can turn away from him, he says, “I’ll, uh, keep in touch.”

He sees surprise flashing across your face, but you quickly recover, and you grin. “It’s up to you,” is all you say before walking out the door.

His eyes follow your moving form until you disappear from his sight, and only then does he release a breath he doesn’t realize he was holding. He runs a hand over his face and lets out another sigh. “Holy fuck,” he whispers, mostly to himself.

“You’re down bad,” he hears Hannah say from behind the bar as she wipes the countertop.

“Yeah, whatever, Wellsy.” He ignores Hannah’s words, finally turns to her, and sits on the stool directly in front of her. “May I ask how long you’ve known her for?”

“Since we were freshmen. She was one of the first people I knew, along with Allie,” she says, looking up at him.

“And may I ask how I’ve never met her before?”

“Dean, why are you asking me?” Hannah raises her eyebrows, both in surprise and in exasperation. “But if I’m going to answer your question, I’d say it’s because you were too busy being, well, you.”

“Okay, fair.” He raises his arms in surrender. “But I want to know her. Tell me what she likes, what she doesn’t, what she loves—please tell me everything.”

“Dude, you can literally ask her yourself.”

“I am so intimidated by her!” He almost begs. “Wellsy, help me out here. I am literally dying.”

“No, you’re not. Don’t be dramatic,” she says easily. “You just find her hot.”

“No, she’s not just hot. She’s absolutely drop dead gorgeous, and she’s objectively the most beautiful person in every single room she walks into, and—”

“Okay, point taken!” Hannah interrupts. “If it helps, she does literally nothing else during her free time but study and doomscroll through Instagram.”

Dean’s eyes literally light up at Hannah’s response. “Wellsy, you are an absolute lifesaver.”

“Holy shit, di Laurentis, you are more than down bad. You are abysmally, horrendously down.”

“Now, Wellsy, that’s an exaggeration.”

It’s really not that bad, really. He just wants to get to know you because he’s interested in you. Sure, they can all say he’s down bad, but you’re you. You’re beautiful and intelligent and overall an extremely interesting person. His infatuation is really not that bad.

Right?

—

*Wrong.

“Okay, who else thinks this is weird?” Logan says from the tall stool by the kitchen counter.

“What is?” Garrett asks from the couch, his eyes still glued to his phone screen.

“Dean.”

“He’s always weird. What’s new?” Tucker does not even pause from throwing a ball in the air.

“No, dude, he hasn’t brought anyone home in weeks, and he’s always on his damn phone.”

Tucker catches the ball, and turns to Logan. “So maybe he’s sexting? Or in a long distance situationship? Who even knows at this point, man? That’s Dean, and Dean’s not Dean if he’s not weird in his own, Dean way.”

“Yeah, but not this weird,” Logan argues. “Look, do you remember the girl from two weeks ago? Hannah’s friend?”

Realization dawns upon Garrett, and he finally peels his eyes off his phone. “You’re right.” He nods. “Hannah talked about how Dean had been asking about that friend for a week straight before he suddenly stopped.”

“Fucking finally!” Logan cheers. “You guys are slow as fuck.”

Just then, the front door opens, and in comes the man himself, carrying a large paper bag in his hand and his phone in the other.

“No way, an impromptu house meeting?” He speaks as soon as he steps into view. “What’s this one about?”

“You,” Tucker deadpans.

“Me?”

“Specifically,” Logan says loudly, “You and Hannah’s friend.”

“She has a name, thank you very much.” He says your name, his voice unconsciously turning softer. “What about her?”

“See, that’s fucking weird!”

“Man, what is?” Dean rolls his eyes. “Stop talking in codes, dude, just say it.”

“It’s weird that you’re in love because Dean ‘Six Flags’ di Laurentis does not fall in love,” Tucker finally says, and the rest of his friends nod along with him.

“You froze the first time you saw her at that block party. It’s like the world disappeared around you, man. You did not hear us calling you for at least five minutes. You made a complete fool of yourself the first two times you met her,” Garrett says with an amused smirk on his lips. “And you were pretty inconsolable for the first half of the day before Malone’s, and it’s like your entire being lit on fire the moment she walked through the door. You chased after her like a lovesick puppy, man, it’s honestly sickening to see.”

“And now, you barely hang with us because you’re either too busy on your phone with her or with her, like in person,” Logan adds.

Meanwhile, Dean rolls over all the information.

“And where’d you get those goods?” Tucker adds, eyeing the paper bag in his hand.

“From the café near campus,” he mumbles. Your favorite café.

Oh.

Oh.

Logan slowly wakes to the sunlight directly hitting his face, and his brows instinctively furrow. He rolls onto his side, blindly reaching out for you, intending to hide his face into your shoulder—something you had both found comforting in the early hours of the morning. However, confusion washes over his sleep-addled mind when his arm comes in contact with an empty space. He pushes himself upright, propping himself on his forearms as he looks around the room. That is when he notices your bedroom door ajar, sounds of water running and music playing from the bathroom just outside your room.

He is even more confused because what are you doing up at—he turns his phone on to read the time and day—eight on a Sunday morning? You usually sleep in on Sundays, getting everything done before the weekend, so the day is reserved for rest—always—so the fact that you are up before 10 AM is quite a surprise.

He leans back against the headboard. He scrolls through his phone while he waits, and his head shoots up as soon as the water stops running.

Soon enough, you are stepping back into your bedroom, dressed in a simple shirt and jean shorts with a towel wrapped around your head. “Hi, you’re awake,” you say as you sit in front of your vanity.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs, his voice rough and deep from sleep. He walks over to you, leaning down to wrap his arm around your shoulders. “Where are you off so early on a Sunday?” He asks softly, kissing your temple. “I thought you slept in on Sundays?”

“I do, baby.” You look at him through the mirror. “But I have my medical checkup scheduled today.”

“A checkup?” His brows immediately furrow in concern, his grip around your shoulders tightening instinctively. “Are you okay?”

“I am, baby, I’m okay.” You chuckle softly as his worried eyes continue to scan your face for any sign of discomfort or pain. “It’s a routine checkup—just to make sure everything is in order. I have mine twice a year.”

“Are you sure?” He does not stray his eyes away from your face. “You will tell me if you feel anything different, right?”

“I am absolutely sure, Loge.” You smile softly at your boyfriend’s concern for your health. “And yes, I promise I will tell you.”

“Okay, sweetheart.” He kisses your cheek. “If you’re absolutely sure. I just don’t want you thinking you have to keep secrets for me—especially when it comes to your wellbeing. I’m always here with you, okay?”

“I love you,” is all you say in response, and he smiles, tilting your head towards him with a hand on your jaw.

“And I love you,” he whispers before meeting your lips in a tender kiss. He then stands straight and heads to your door. “Can I use your ridiculously scented body wash?”

“You mean the one you claim to hate, but practically inhale from me?” You giggle. “Sure, but where are you going wearing my scent?”

“To take a quick shower.”

“Why?” Your brows furrow—he usually stays in your condo when you leave for classes or go out with your friends, especially when he is free.

He has the audacity to look confused when *you are the confused one. “To go with you?” He says, as if it is the most obvious answer in the world.

“Babe, you don’t have to,” you say, “It’s literally a bus ride away.”

“Exactly.” He grins. “It’s just a bus ride away, but why ride a bus when your boyfriend has a cool ass pickup truck?”

You look at him, your mouth opening, and then closing as you search for the right words to say. “I don’t wanna be a bother,” is what you say very quietly.

His eyes soften and his grin turns tender as he walks back towards you, sitting on the bed in front of you to meet you at eye level. “You will never be a bother, you hear me?” He cups your face in his large, calloused hands. “Never, baby. I love you, and I love doing things for you.” He moves to peck your forehead, down to your nose, your cheeks, and then your lips. “Now, let me finish three songs in the shower before we go. Unless you have to go earlier, I’m willing to compromise for All Too Well, Ten Minute Version, Taylor’s Version, From the Vault.”

“No, I just got ready early,” you say with a laugh. “Because, you know, I thought I had to take the bus. Also, All Too Well is as long as three songs, babe.”

“Fuck the bus.” He grins, standing up and walking over to your door. “Three songs it is then.”

“You are so annoying.” You roll your eyes, but you can’t wipe the grin off your face as you watch him leave your bedroom.

“You love me!”

You and your friends are in Malone’s to celebrate a successful game for your boys. It is an impromptu karaoke night due to popular demand.

Fortunately, Hannah and Allie are off work, which means they get to spend more time with Garrett and Beau respectively, as well as your other friends. Unfortunately, your miscellaneous fees do not wait for anyone or anything. Your tuition fee may be covered by your scholarship, but the other fees are not, which means that you get to work, even on a fine evening like this. You’re not really complaining though—money is money, even if it means not getting to party and drink with your boyfriend and friends.

Allie finishes her song onstage and you are the first to clap and whoop. “That’s my girl!” You cheer, flipping Beau off when he complains from their booth. “Fuck off, Maxwell, she was ours first!”

The crowd cheers for Allie and laughs at your playful banter with Beau.

You push off the bar, ready to serve a tray to a table of customers when something—or someone—makes you freeze in place.

“It’s good that she’s got great tits ‘cause the talent is nonexistent.”

You tilt your head slightly and spot a boy in a rugby jersey and jeans, standing with his equally lame, meathead friends.

You slam the tray back down on the countertop, the liquid sloshing over the rim of the glass. You grab the glass, wet with condensation and slightly sticky from the spilled drink, paying it no mind. The sharp thud of the tray hitting the bar catches the attention of your friends, as well as your quick, “This one’s on me, Della,” thrown over your shoulder as you storm through the crowd and straight towards the group of boys on the other side.

“What the fuck did you just say?” You sneer, grabbing Dumb Jock’s shoulder and spinning him around to face you.

Meanwhile, Dean straightens up, immediately abandoning his drink on the table. However, he does not immediately move to stop you, knowing that you can handle yourself—even against jocks who think with their dicks. That is, after all, how you met and how he fell head over heels for you the first time he saw you.

“What the fuck—” His jeer is instantly replaced by an arrogant smirk as soon as he spots you—an obvious employee at this very bar, looking for trouble. “Hey, that drink ours, girl? Sure, I mean, I’m not one to turn down a free drink, especially from a cute little waitress like you.”

“Dude, aren’t you helping your girl?” Logan turns to Dean in slight panic. Sure, he knows you can hold your own in situations like this, but not against huge rugby players—or so he thinks.

“I will when she needs me to,” he says, crossing his arms over his chest, “The last time I stepped in before she told me to, she made me do a hundred pushups with her and Hannah on my back. I’m not that much of a masochist, man.”

On the other side of the bar, you smile sweetly at the asshole. “Sure, this drink’s for you.” Your sweet façade drops just as fast as it emerged. “If you repeat what you just said about my friend, asshole. Say it to my face, I dare you.”

“Ooh, scary.” Dumb Jock grimaces and shivers in mock fear and panic. “But about that, I said that your pretty little friend should be grateful she’s got a great body—especially those tits, man—because she’s got no talent.” He laughs and high-fives his friends like what he just said added to his charm.

You laugh wryly, matching their volume, before your expression drops once again. “I’m giving you a chance to take back what you just said, go over to my friend, and apologize.”

“Oh yeah?” He grins, walking closer and leaning towards you. He is all up in your face, pissing you off even more by the second. “Or what?”

“Or this.”

You don’t hesitate as you step back. You throw the contents of the glass straight into his face, letting your palm connect with his face with a sharp, loud thwack right after. The impact is strong enough to tilt his head to the side, his cheek flushing a striking red.

The bar around you quiets, all heads snapping towards your direction as the people—including your circle—watch with mixed feelings: disbelief, amusement, and concern. The guy’s own friends are standing still, shocked and slightly terrified—both for their friend and for you.

Dean stands straighter, his hands falling to his side—on high alert for the possible escalation of the situation.

Dumb Jock pokes his tongue into his cheek and rolls his neck before turning towards you, his eyes dark with anger. “Why, you little—” He curses, his hand raised in an attempt to get back at you.

But Dean is in between before the guy’s hand can even move from its position, shielding you from the asshole with his broad frame. His hand is gripping the other’s wrist tightly, his face devoid of any emotion—his jaw is set, but his lips are pulled in a dark, sarcastic smirk. “Woah, hey, man. You’re assaulting an employee of your favorite place? You’re going to get kicked out.”

Dumb Jock yanks his wrist from Dean’s grip and the latter lets him—Dean just wants this asshole gone as soon as possible. “Fucking bitch,” he sneers. He takes a step back, but he definitely does not back down. “Of course you had to have your man to save the day. Knew you little bitch was all bark and no bite.”

“You fucking asshole—” You lunge at the guy with your fist raised and pulled back, but Dean is quicker as he wraps his arms around your waist, effectively pulling you away from the asshole. “Dean, let me go! Let me fuck him up!” You thrash against him, trying to free yourself from his grip.

“Calm down, babydoll,” he whispers into your ear, his arms tight around you but not enough to hurt you, “He’s leaving. Let him leave. Don’t waste any more of your time and energy. Your heart is beating like crazy. Deep breaths, sweetheart, there you go.”

But Dumb Jock is still not done with you—not yet. “That’s right, listen to your master.” He laughs mockingly. “Man, you have got to put your bitch on a tighter leash.”

The room stills—you freeze, Dean tenses up, even the temperature seems to have dropped. People sport various emotions on their faces: shock, anger, and fear—this time for Dumb Jock alone.

It’s one thing to rile you up—after all, you get riled up rather easily—but to piss Dean off is another. Dean—your voice of reason with the patience of a saint when it comes to you—is different when he is triggered, especially when it involves you.

Slowly, you feel his arms loosen around you and you grin, your fury settling into something cooler—even more chilling.

“Go fuck him up, baby,” he says quietly.

You stand straight once he unwraps his arms around you and takes a step back. You crack your knuckles and roll your neck as you step closer to Dumb Jock. Then without another word, you grab his collar to get him closer and you let your fist connect with his nose in a strong punch.

You feel and hear his nose crack under your fist, blood trickling down immediately.

“The next time I hear you talk shit like that, I am fucking breaking something more than your nose,” you spit, letting him fall into his friends’ waiting arms with a pathetic whimper. “Do you understand?”

He responds with nothing but a small whimper.

“I can’t fucking hear you.” You laugh mockingly. “You seem to be speaking fine just now.”

“Yes, I understand!” He whines.

“Good.” You nod before nodding towards Allie. “Now apologize.”

“I-I’m sorry!” He whimpers out.

“Louder!”

“I’m sorry!”

“Now leave.”

They don’t waste another second and all scramble out the door with their tails between their legs.

Later on, you are sitting in the booth with your friends and boyfriend. Your hand is now cleaned up and bandaged by Dean using the first aid kit you always keep with you, especially during work hours.

“That was fucking badass, babe,” Allie says, wrapping her arms around you tightly. “Thank you so much, really. I owe you.”

“It was nothing.” You smile at her.

“Yeah, yeah, that was cool,” Dean says from beside you, obviously restless. “Now can we leave? I’m suffering here, sweetheart.”

You laugh and let your boyfriend lead you out of Malone’s.

1.) During your exam season

“Fuck, my head hurts,” you groan and drop your pen on your table, rubbing your forehead and your temples as if doing so will magically make your headache disappear. It’s been going on for two hours this time—just as long as you have been studying. You blame it on eye strain—after all, you have been staring at your laptop screen for hours now—but your roommates-slash-best friends, Hannah and Allie, seem to think otherwise.

“That’s been going on for days, babe,” Allie says worriedly from her bedroom’s doorway. “Are you sure you don’t want to get that checked?”

“Nah, it’s fine. I’m sure it’ll pass after the hell weeks,” you say, shutting your laptop. “I think I’m going to take a nap. I don’t want to drink any more meds. I’ll see you later, my babies, love you.”

“Hey, you haven’t been wearing your glasses,” Hannah says thoughtfully, turning to face you before you close your door. “Are you wearing contacts? I thought you hated those things?”

“I do hate them,” you say with a shrug, “I’m not wearing any.”

“So…” She smirks, spinning her pen in her fingers, as if in deep thought. “You’re not wearing any contacts or your glasses? Nothing to aid you with your blindness?”

Behind her, Allie is pretending to read through the draft of Hannah’s paper, but the small, amused smile on her face gives her away.

You know she is trying to get you to admit that you need your glasses, but your eyesight is not that bad, really. It’s just a little hard seeing things clearly from a certain distance, but that’s completely normal!

“Hannah, I’m not blind,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes—which is apparently not the best choice because your head spins for a moment. “My eyesight is perfect! I’m okay. My headache is caused by stress and eyestrain and dehydration and sleep deprivation and—”

“Okay!” Allie interjects with her arms raised in surrender. “We believe you,” she says, more to appease you than anything, “Go take your nap, babe, before your headache gets worse. Love you.”

You chuckle softly before closing your door. You crawl into your bed, lying on the side Garrett always sleeps on—you find that his scent comforts you, easing your headaches just enough for sleep to take over.

Later, there is a knock on the main door. Allie moves from her place on the couch to open the door, only to find Garrett standing there holding three paper bags.

“Hey, G,” Allie greets, opening the door wider to let Garrett pass through. “Your stubborn girl’s asleep in her room.”

Garrett raises his eyebrows at your roommate’s tone and particular use of words. “Did something happen?”

Hannah snorts out a laugh from the dining table. “She’s been having these headaches for a few days now—she told you, didn’t she? Well, did she also tell you how she hasn’t been wearing her glasses?”

Garrett’s face softens into a fond expression. He puts two paper bags down on the table beside Hannah’s things. “Here are some things I got for you three. There are drinks and pastries in there—just something to power you through your midterms, hopefully.”

“Thanks, hockey boy, you’re a good sport,” Allie says, clapping his shoulders before looking through the bag with her name on, Hannah doing the same.

He walks into your room without as much as a smile towards your friends. He closes the door behind him, and his eyes immediately land on your form on his side of your bed. You are lying on your front, your face buried into his pillow. His smile widens into a soft grin at the sight, putting the last paper bag on your table.

Crawling beside you, his hand finds your upper back, and he strokes soothingly. He leans closer to your ear and murmurs, “Hey, baby, move your head a little.” He brushes your hair away from your sweaty face as soon as you angle your head towards him. “How are you feeling, pretty?” He asks, keeping his voice soft to avoid making your headache worse

“Better now that you’re here.” You grin in a dopey way.

He laughs at your expression, unable to help himself from pressing a quick, soft kiss to your forehead, then to your lips. “You are adorable.”

You only hum in response.

Then, he addresses the elephant in the room, “The girls told me you haven’t been wearing your glasses. I thought you were.”

“No, I hate them,” you groan, burying your face back into his pillow.

“Baby, look at me.” His voice turns a little strict, and you obey, turning your head back towards him with a small frown, which he soothes with a gentle touch of his thumb. “What’s wrong? Why haven’t you been wearing them? I thought you told me they helped.”

“No—I mean, they did,” you say, almost shyly, “But they get annoying, like when it’s already so hot out, and I have to wear my glasses, it literally feels like my face is melting off with those damn glasses—or when they ruin the whole outfit I’d plan for a whole week.” You frown once again as you recount the things that make you hate wearing glasses. “It’s fine, my eyesight is not that bad. I can manage just fine without my glasses.”

Garrett stares at you for a moment, as if taking in everything you just told him. “Alright,” he says after a few beats. He is clearly not convinced, but he decides to let it slide—for now. “If you say so, but promise me you will tell me the moment you feel like you need to wear your glasses?”

“…I promise.”

“Good girl.”

2.) In public

You are walking with Garrett within the campus grounds, your hands laced in his. He had offered to walk you to your next class—which is conveniently located in the science department three buildings away—since he had no classes until two hours later. Who are you to say no?

So here you are now, your hand in Garrett’s as you talk about anything and everything.

He has your bag slung over his shoulder, your water bottle in the same hand, and your hand in his other hand. You swing your intertwined hands as you walk, seemingly unnoticed by you, and he can’t help but smile and bring your joined hands close for a gentle kiss on your knuckle.

His action makes you pause and look at him, but he only shakes his head with a soft laugh. “Sorry, baby, please continue. I’m still listening.”

And so you continue talking while you both walk closer and closer to the science building when he suddenly stops, a look of confusion etched onto his face.

“What? What’s wrong?” You ask, turning to him.

“Baby, do you, by any chance, currently have a beef with Sloane?” He asks, and your face twists. Sloane is a sorority girl in your chemistry class, and you can say you have grown close to her.

“What? No.” You shake your head. “Why?”

“Are you sure?” He raises your joined hands to point in the direction where Sloane supposedly is. “Because she has been waving at you for, like, 5 minutes, and you haven’t acknowledged her since.”

“Oh, she is?” Your brows furrow as you turn to the direction he was pointing at, and you see people—blurry people, but people nonetheless—and you don’t think you see Sloane anywhere in the crowd. “What are you talking about, G? She’s not even there.”

“She is right there, baby.” He insists, starting to walk once again.

“No, she’s not.”

When you get close enough, that’s when you see her.

“Oh,” is all you say, waving back at Sloane with a weak smile.

“Yeah, baby,” Garrett breathes out a laugh, but stops when you pinch his side. “I mean, she’s been there for the past 5 minutes, baby.”

“Don’t,” you say, glaring at him, albeit weakly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t turn this into a lecture about me wearing my glasses.”

“I’m not.”

“You were literally about to,” you poke his side repeatedly, and he flinches every time, bursting out with laughter. “Stop.”

“Okay, okay! Mercy, baby, mercy!” He surrenders, and you stop and dust your clothes for (nonexistent, imaginary) dirt.

“Good.”

3.) In a restaurant with Garrett

“You really didn’t have to do this, babe, but thank you,” you say as Garrett pulls a chair out for you to sit in.

He had somehow booked a table for two in the restaurant you have been wanting to try, the one with a wait time of up to a year. Perks of dating a pro hockey player-to-be, you suppose.

“I didn’t have to, but I wanted to.” He flashes you an easygoing, charming smile as he takes a seat across from you. He thanks the waiter, takes the menu, and gestures for you to do the same. “Order anything, baby; it’s on me.”

“But—”

“No buts, baby. You deserve this, okay? You aced the shit out of your exams.” He grins easily, and you have no choice but to cave.

He easily reads through the menu, telling you all about the dishes they offer from appetizers to desserts and beverages, while you respond with hums and nods. Your lack of response does not go unnoticed by Garrett. Usually, you are chattering with him excitedly about the variety of dishes, the prices, and even the ingredients used. Tonight, you are quieter than usual—engaging with him, yes, but you are not initiating a conversation.

“What’s wrong?” He asks worriedly, putting the menu down to look at you properly. “You don’t like it here? We can leave and look for a new place, it’s okay,” he says, starting to pack your things and stand when you stop him with a hand on his.

“No, G, it’s not that, I swear.”

“Then what’s wrong, baby?”

“Do you promise not to judge?”

His brows furrow briefly at your choice words and tone. “I promise I won’t judge.”

“I can’t read what’s written on the menu because the letters are too small,” you say rapidly, all in one breath.

He stares at you for a few seconds, and you feel the pit in your stomach grow deeper by the second when he breaks the silence. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that. Can you speak a little slower?”

You take a deep breath before speaking, slower this time, “I can’t read what’s written on the menu because the letters are too small.”

His face softens—gone is the worry from his face, replaced by the corners of his mouth twitching.

“Don’t laugh,” you say, your tone coming out more like a plea than a warning.

“I’m not laughing.”

“You literally are.”

“I’m literally not. I didn’t even snicker.”

“Your lips are twitching.”

“But I’m not laughing.”

“But you are about to. See, your smile is getting wider.”

He does not respond to that. Instead, his smile turns softer. “Baby, I think your eyesight is actually worse without your glasses than you realize,” he says softly, reaching over the table to hold your hand in his gently. “Are you sure you don’t want to wear them? Or even contacts if they bother you so much.”

“Babe, I’m okay, I promise. I don’t need glasses or contacts, I swear.”

The silence lasts longer this time before he nods. “Okay, I hear you.”

You nod. That’s all you want from him, really—for him to listen.

4.) During a movie night with your friends

A week after your midterm exams, you and your friends decide to have your bi-monthly movie night in their off-campus house. However, instead of picking out a Hollywood movie, you collectively agree on watching a foreign movie this time.

It’s safe to say that it does not go well for you. As soon as the movie starts, you know you are fucked.

You can barely read the texts on the screen, but you chalk it up to your unfamiliarity with the language and its alphabet. But as soon as the character speaks, you are sure that you are in it deep—the language is completely incomprehensible, and you cannot fucking read the captions on the bottom of the screen.

You keep your eyes trained on the screen anyway, squinting a little to try and make sense of the blurry little letters, but to no avail. You try to pay attention to the characters and their scenes instead, but even that makes your head hurt since their faces are so blurry.

Not even halfway through the film, you just give up and lean back against Garrett. His arm instinctively drapes over your shoulder, effectively tucking you close.

The entire group laughs at a joke (you think), except for you. You turn to Garrett. “What was that? Sorry, I kinda spaced out.”

He explains the joke, and that’s when you laugh, finally understanding what happened. And if Garrett did not notice your struggle before, he notices now.

For the rest of the film, he keeps an eye on you. He watches as you squint and move your head a little closer, as you rub your forehead and your eyes every so often, as you turn to him when the group seems to collectively agree on something.

When the film finally finishes, the rest of the group are debriefing, but you stand and bid them goodnight. They think nothing of it, but Garrett does.

+ 1 time you finally wear your glasses

You trudge up the stairs after bidding your friends goodnight, going straight into Garrett’s room. You crawl into his bed and stare up at the ceiling—you don’t want to use your phone because it may worsen the dull throbbing in your head.

A few minutes later, the door opens, and Garrett steps in. He sits on the edge of the bed by your foot. “Baby, can you look at me?”

You turn your gaze over to his face, but frown when your vision doesn’t focus.

“Fuck, I think I stared into the abyss for too long.” You joke, but he does not laugh.

“I noticed how often you were squinting at the screen, rubbing your eyes and your forehead.” He rubs your foot soothingly. “And it wasn’t just during the movie, sweetheart, it happens almost all the time now. Remember when you didn’t see Sloane waving at you until you were about four feet away? Or how often you get these headaches due to various reasons? Or—’

“Oookay, I think I get your point now.”

“I don’t think you do, baby.” He crawls closer, holding your face delicately in his large hands. “I’m not trying to humiliate you by revisiting your most embarrassing moments. I want you to understand where I’m coming from and why I say that you need to wear your glasses. Every time you say you’re fine, you end up squinting, rubbing your eyes, missing details unless you are standing close. I don’t want you to keep hurting when there’s something that can help.”

You stay silent for several moments, trying to process the information. All this time, you think your eyesight is not that bad because you are not practically blind, but you realize now how inconvenient life is without your glasses, so with a deep sigh, you nod. “Okay,” you say, “I will try to wear my glasses, but I can’t promise that I’m gonna like it.”

“Trying is perfect, baby.”

With yet another sigh, you rummage through your bag for the case of your prescription glasses. You reluctantly open the case and wipe the lens before putting them on. You can’t help but gasp softly as you look around.

“Holy fucking shit, has everything been this clear?”

Bonus

“Fucking hallelujah!” Allie whoops when you turn the corner and walk into the kitchen. “She’s finally wearing her glasses. War is over, bitches!”

“So proud of you, honey,” Hannah says with a smile that rivals that of a proud mom of a kindergartener.

Being in a casual relationship—if you can even call it that—with Dean di Laurentis after his breakup with the Allie Hayes is a fucking feat in itself.

Having broken up for reasons between only the two of them, you somehow feel like a placeholder, but not really at the same time. After all, who can replace Allie Hayes—the one with perfect lips, perfect hips, the life of every party? Exactly.

No, you’re not obsessed with Allie Hayes—and you’re definitely not feeling inferior. It’s just… you can’t help but compare yourself to her, especially because Dean was so enamored with her. Who wouldn’t, really?

The outspoken political science major who just happens to be one of the most popular players of Briar U’s hockey team suddenly breaks up with the theater department’s perfect angel after a year of a very public relationship—and possibly more, according to Dean di Laurentis himself.

And then there was you.

It does not help that Di Laurentis is a charming man who gets what he wants when he wants it, and he apparently wanted you two weeks after the infamous breakup. It does not help that you are easily charmed by a man who knows what he wants. It does not help that the reasons for the breakup are not for public knowledge. It does not help that Dean is very open about his affection towards you—in and out of his bedroom. It does not help that it’s only been two weeks since he parted ways with Allie. It does not help that Allie is not upset with you or Dean anyways. It does not help—

Absolutely nothing is helping your case here. The turns of events are making you look like a homewrecker who can’t keep it in her pants, and yet…

And yet you do not hear a single negative word about you from Allie, which is absurd—not because you want her to hate you. She should hate you, but she does not, which is totally fucking nuts.

She smiles at you in passing, she greets you by your name, she looks you in the eye when you talk, and holy fuck, she knows when your classes end during her shifts and knows your usual order at Malone’s.

She does not seem to give a flying fuck that you’re hooking up with her ex-boyfriend not even a month after the breakup, unlike the entirety of Briar U apparently.

Okay, fuck, you are obsessed with Allie Hayes, and it’s unreasonable to be. It’s just that Dean takes such good care of you—before, during and after sex—that you can’t help but wonder if he was that way with Allie too, especially when you lie on the side of his bed she surely lied on before.

You can’t help but wonder, especially when Dean grunts a hot, little—

“Fuck, Allie,”

—into your ear as his hips jerk erratically against your skin. It makes you wonder about Allie—how she is in bed, how she sounds, how she looks.

He does not seem to notice his little slip up, but he notices the way you come harder than usual—your teeth leaving deeper, darker marks into his skin to muffle the sounds you make.

He does not say anything about that—not when he is pulling out of you, not when he is cleaning you up, and definitely not when he is collapsing beside you on his bed. You talk about anything and everything that does not even remotely relate to Allie Hayes, yet your mind seems to drift off to the thoughts of the very woman you are supposed to avoid thinking about, not when her ex-boyfriend has just fucked you on his bed—on her side. You think you should probably be upset—at Dean, or maybe even at Allie. You should probably ask why it is that her name is on his tongue—and his head. But instead, you forget about that—and think about her.

You lie awake that night for hours, staring up at his ceiling. It’s her name on your mind when sleep finally takes over, and it’s her name you’re thinking of the moment you regain consciousness the next morning.

She does not escape your head for a second, even as you pick up your soiled clothes from the floor of Dean’s bedroom, not when you’re walking back to your dorm wearing Dean’s clothes, not when you take a shower almost absentmindedly, not when you sit in class for three hours.

You think you’re going crazy.

And she certainly does not leave your mind when you pass her by in the hallway, catching a whiff of the sweet, gentle smell of her perfume. Your whole body feels like a live wire as her arm brushes yours as you walk past each other, and then your mouth acts before your brain can even catch up to the fact that you have just seen your hookup’s ex-girlfriend, whom you are definitely not obsessed about.

You turn just in time, calling out to her, and she does not ignore you, which does not help. She turns to face you fully, her bright eyes finding yours, her lips curled up into a sweet, sweet smile.

You’re definitely going crazy.

Later that night, you find yourself sitting across from Allie in a bar. You find yourself talking about anything and everything, the conversation flowing surprisingly naturally between you—two women pitted against each other by basically the whole campus. You find yourself interested as she retells the story of her own breakup. You find it surprising when she reveals that she swings the other way, which has caused the very healthy, very mature breakup between two people who have never really liked each other romantically beyond the hot sex and the fun—one who likes the same sex, one who cannot commit to save his life.

And God, she learns about you—she listens intently, her bright eyes trained on you, she remembers. You find her inching towards you as the bar fills with more people, and eventually louder sounds.

You later find yourself leaving the bar with her, walking out in the crisp night air after she invites you into their empty dorm room. You find yourself pressed against the closed door of her room, your lips locked and your hot breath mixing with hers.

You are obsessed with Allie Hayes, but not in the way either of you initially thought.