identity crisis ♎️

You were having an exceptionally difficult time not thinking about that night.

Three days had passed, which was long enough for embarrassment to settle in and for common sense to reappear, for you to convince yourself that perhaps your memory had exaggerated certain details. Maybe the tension hadn’t been quite as intense as you remembered, maybe the look in Dean’s eyes had meant less and maybe the entire thing had only felt significant because it had been built on months of denial.

The problem was that every time you tried to convince yourself of that, reality immediately disagreed.

You didn’t regret it and judging by the steady stream of texts sitting unanswered in your phone, Dean didn’t either but you couldn’t answer him…shouldn’t.

Every single vibration in your pocket made your stomach tighten before you even looked at the screen. His messages ranged from annoying to shameless to surprisingly genuine, each one making it harder to maintain the distance you’d spent months carefully constructing. So you avoided him, the rink, the locker room and every hallway he regularly occupied.

You had already cut your time around the team nearly in half, showing up long before practice began or lingering hours after everyone else had left. It wasn’t sustainable and you knew it, because sooner or later people would notice, the players would definitely notice and your godfather?

Your godfather noticed everything, that thought alone made your eye twitch.

Whenever your personal life became complicated, you always retreated toward certainty, toward things with rules, deadlines and clear answers, meaning you buried yourself beneath coursework. Exam season was approaching fast enough to justify the obsession and soon most of your days were spent hidden in forgotten corners of the library, surrounded by textbooks, highlighters and half-empty coffee cups. It was easier there and safer.

At least it should have been.

Instead, you found yourself staring at pages without absorbing a single sentence as words dissolved into memories and paragraphs transformed into flashes of Dean sitting across from you in his room and the unbearable awareness of each other hanging between you from the second you’d climbed through that window.

You squeezed your pen harder as a line of ink dragged crookedly across your notes.

Some stubborn part of you still admired the restraint the two of you had managed that night. After months of wanting, avoiding and pretending, things could have spiraled much further than they had but another part of you, one you tried very hard not to acknowledge, resented that restraint entirely because taking the edge off hadn’t solved anything. 

It had only confirmed what you’d spent months trying not to admit. This wasn’t temporary and it wasn’t a simple crush, it was attraction that wouldn’t simply go away.

“Psst.”

Your pen continued moving automatically across the page. You focused on the music playing through your headphones and on the sentence in front of you…Well, you actually just tried to focus on literally anything except your own thoughts.

“Psst.”

You frowned. The sentence you were copying suddenly looked wrong, very wrong. Your eyes scanned it again and half the words were misspelled while the other half appeared to belong to entirely different paragraphs. You stared at the mess in genuine disbelief because never in your entire life had you been this distracted.

Suddenly, a tiny paper ball landed directly on top of your notebook.

You blinked slowly at it before looking up. The library stretched quietly around you, rows of shelves creating narrow aisles in every direction. Several students nearby were already looking annoyed, though at what exactly you couldn’t tell.

You pulled one side of your headphones off and only heard silence, then…“Psst!”

This time you heard it clearly and your head turned toward the source. You watched as two thick books moved apart on a shelf several rows away to reveal a familiar face squeezed between them.

It sported a grin, dimples and far too much confidence…Dean. His eyes lit up the second he realized you’d spotted him and his grin somehow grew wider. 

You stared at him as he stared back but neither of you moved, then Dean lifted a hand and gave you an absurdly enthusiastic little wave through the gap between the books and your stupid heart betrayed you, because after three days of successfully avoiding him everywhere else on campus, the last place you’d expected him to find you was your hiding spot and judging by the victorious look on his face, he knew it.

Reluctantly, you pushed your chair back and stood. The legs scraped softly against the library floor, earning another irritated glance from a nearby student which you ignored. Your notebook remained open on the desk with highlighters scattered around it and headphones abandoned beside a coffee that had long since gone cold. For a second you considered grabbing your things and making a run for it until you looked through the gap in the shelves again.

Dean was still standing there, grinning and entirely too pleased with himself…which ultimately made you regret getting up at all.

Weaving through the rows of books, you kept your pace quick and your expression carefully neutral. Dean watched your approach openly, hands shoved into the pockets of his sweatshirt, looking entirely too comfortable for someone who had just spent several minutes terrorizing an entire section of the library.

The second you reached him, your voice dropped into a furious whisper.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Trying to get your attention.” He nodded as though the answer should have been obvious as the grin remained firmly in place.

You stared at him. “Yeah, I think you got everyone’s attention.”

His smile only widened. “Mission accomplished then.”

“Dean.” You lowered your voice even further. “What do you want?”

“Hmm.” He tilted his head thoughtfully, extending his fingers one by one as though consulting a very serious list. “Let’s see. I’d like you to talk to me. I’d like you to text me back. I’d also like you to stop hiding from what we did.”

“Shh!” The sound came out much harsher than intended and before he could continue, your hand covered his mouth. You grabbed his sleeve with your free hand and dragged him farther between the shelves, away from the study tables and unsuspecting students trying to finish their assignments.

The last thing you needed was Dean casually announcing your personal business in the middle of the library.

“Keep your voice down,” you hissed.

His eyes danced with amusement above your hand.

“We didn’t do anything.”

His brows shot upward as he started speaking into your palm. You felt the vibration of the words before realizing exactly what position you’d put yourself in and your hand disappeared from his face so quickly it almost looked like you’d been burned.

Dean inhaled dramatically.

“You demonstrated it just now,” he informed you. “Except your fingers were sweeter and wet too…you also forgot the part where you kissed the back of your hand afterward and then vanished off the face of the earth.” 

You folded your arms. “If you need a sequel to the second half, feel free to call action right now.” You tilted your head slightly. “I’m excellent at improvisation.”

You watched every stage of his suffering pass across his face in real time. Disbelief, then annoyance…followed by resignation and mild murderous intent…but still, no regret. By the end of it, Dean physically looked like he was restraining himself from rolling his eyes.

“You’re impossible.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Sucks, cause it sounded like one…maybe try smiling a lot less.”

Dean exhaled heavily through his nose before grabbing your forearm and steering you away from the shelves.

You barely had time to protest before he was guiding you toward the nearest side exit.

“Wait, Dean–”

“Nope.”

“Dean.”

“It’s still ‘no’.” 

The emergency door opened with a metallic click and cool air rushed in from the stairwell beyond, only then did his hand settle briefly against the small of your back as he ushered you through ahead of him.

“You’re hilarious, by the way,” he said dryly. “Have you ever considered stand-up comedy?”

There wasn’t a single trace of amusement in his voice.

You smiled teasingly. “Could never make a bigger joke than you.”

The door swung shut behind both of you with a heavy thud and silence followed. The stairwell was empty, stone walls echoing faintly with distant footsteps from other floors.

Dean stopped on the landing and stared at you. “You really are a pain in my ass.”

“Then what are you doing here?” You descended several steps instinctively, creating distance before he could close it.

Dean followed to remain close. Then he continued farther down until he stood a few stairs below your position. For once, the difference in height disappeared, you found yourself looking directly into his eyes without having to crane your neck.

You crossed your arms tightly across your chest, only then did you notice what he’d done. He wasn’t standing there accidentally, he had positioned himself between you and the lower exit.

The realization earned him a narrowed look which he promptly ignored completely.

“I’ve been thinking.”

You groaned theatrically. “Oh, great. The world’s ending.” His eyes closed briefly so you continued anyway. “I can’t spell basic words anymore and Dean Di Laurentis has finally managed to make two brain cells rub together. Truly historic.”

“Well.” A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “One of us has to keep the ship from sinking.”

“I think you can stop…I’m a great swimmer.”

Dean pointed toward you. “See? That.”

“What?”

“That thing you do to deflect. Can you stop for five seconds? Jesus.”

You looked entirely too pleased with yourself while Dean looked entirely…too tired. The words weren’t harsh, if anything, they sounded exhausted. He planted his hands on his hips and looked away briefly before returning his attention to you.

The smile had faded and so had the teasing. For the first time since he’d appeared in the library, he looked genuinely nervous. His jaw shifted once, then again like he was carefully choosing every word before saying them.

“We fucked up, Dean.” The words came out quieter than you intended, stripped of most of their bite by exhaustion. You tightened your arms across your chest and leaned back slightly against the railing beside you. “I’m trying to go back to normal.”

“Well, it’s not working.” Dean shook his head.

The grin he’d been carrying around since ambushing you in the library was far gone. His hands dropped from his hips, frustration slipping through the cracks of his composure. He looked at you for a long moment before speaking again, searching your face like he was trying to find the version of you that hadn’t spent the last three days dodging him.

“You being mean right now, it’s…” He exhaled heavily through his nose. “It’s not helping, okay?”

His eyes stayed fixed on yours as you forced yourself to hold the gaze. That had to be safer because looking anywhere else felt dangerous while looking lower felt…even worse.

The memory of his bedroom was already doing enough damage without additional help.

“I’m not looking,” you said quietly.

The corner of Dean’s mouth twitched despite himself and the growing tent in his pants. “I’d rather you didn’t…it’s getting embarrassing."

His voice softened noticeably but the next sentence only made your face twist further.

“Didn’t know it was that hard cleaning cum stains out of dark fabric.”

“Dean.” You looked genuinely horrified. “Can we not talk about it?”

His expression changed from amusement to disbelief so quickly it almost gave you whiplash. 

“I can’t!” The words bounced around the stone stairwell loudly. He ran a hand through his hair afterward, visibly frustrated with both the conversation and himself. Three days of unanswered messages, three days of avoidance and three days of pretending nothing had happened had clearly pushed him well past whatever limit he’d been trying to maintain.

Your stomach dropped and your eyes widened. “Did you tell someone?” You stepped down another stair before pointing an accusing finger directly at him. “Dean, I swear if you–”

“I didn’t tell anyone.” The interruption was calm but immediate. Dean held both hands up briefly before letting them fall again. “I talked to you about it.” His brow lifted slightly. “Which you would’ve known if you’d read my texts.”

“I told you texting me would get you blocked.” The reminder sounded weaker than you had meant for it to, mostly because both of you already knew it hadn’t happened.

Dean smiled a slow, smug smile that made you regret opening your mouth. “I’m not blocked.”

You blinked as your brain immediately began searching for a response, something clever and perhaps devastating…but unfortunately Dean moved faster.

“How can you be so sure?” you asked.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his sweatshirt and pulled out his phone. Your stomach sank instantly as you watched him unlock it, type something with alarming speed, then hit send.

The silence lasted all of two seconds, then your own phone vibrated inside the back pocket of your jeans and merely a second later came the familiar notification sound.

Dean raised his eyebrows. “Do you wanna get that?”

You glared at him. “Probably my godfather,” you replied, refusing to acknowledge the obvious. “I’m having dinner at his place tonight.”

“Mm.” Dean nodded slowly, lips pressed together as though he was physically restraining a comment. Then he reached toward you, the movement was casual until his hand stopped midway when your voice cut through the stairwell.

“I could push you down these stairs.” There wasn’t a shred of conviction behind the threat, Dean noticed that much.

“You’d do anything for an excuse to kiss me better.” His response came just as quiet, just as effortless.

Before you could even formulate a comeback, his fingers slipped into the back pocket of your jeans. The movement was so smooth and familiar that it made your pulse stumble as he pulled your phone free while maintaining unwavering eye contact the entire…fucking…time.

The bastard was smiling and you hated that specific victorious smile…or at least you hated that you didn’t hate it.

He tapped the screen awake and immediately began scrolling through the notifications crowding it. His grin widened when he noticed the top message was from him…and so was the one beneath it…and the one beneath that.

Dean tilted the phone slightly toward himself. “Well, look at that.” His eyes flicked upward. “Did they remove the block button?”

“Relocated, I believe.”

“Mm.” The hum lingered in his throat as he continued looking at the screen before finally lifting his gaze back to yours. The amusement was still there but beneath it sat something softer. “Didn’t try very hard, did you?”

“And you would know all about ‘hard,’ wouldn’t you?” You tilted your head slightly as you threw the comment back at him. The smile tugging at your mouth made it clear you already knew exactly what reaction it would get.

You didn’t need to look anywhere below his face to know you’d landed the hit.

Dean’s eyes narrowed.

You watched him inhale slowly through his nose and let the breath back out with visible restraint, shoulders rising and falling once beneath his sweatshirt. Then, without breaking eye contact, he slipped your phone into the front pocket of his jeans, far away from your reach and so that grabbing it back would require getting entirely too close.

The fact that he looked completely satisfied with himself afterward only made it worse but both of you knew you were stubborn enough to leave it behind and buy another one out of spite if necessary, which meant the gesture had absolutely nothing to do with the phone.

“I have a proposition.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “Do you, now?” The words came out smooth and teasing as you shifted your weight against the stair railing. “Is that what all those texts were about?”

A grin spread across his face, the one that usually meant he was about to say something deeply unnecessary. “I was texting you about how sweet you sound when you’re not making smartass comments every five seconds.” The grin widened.

“What can I say?” You shrugged. “Been spending too much time around you.”

“Not nearly enough.” The answer came too quickly like he’d been thinking it for days.

For a brief second, his eyes dropped to your mouth before returning to your gaze. The movement was small enough that most people would’ve missed it but you didn’t and neither did your pulse.

The silence stretched long enough for him to notice and for your breathing to betray you. That’s when Dean smiled to himself, victorious and deeply infuriating to you.

“You like plans,” he continued. “Rules…lists and color-coded schedules. So I’m here with a plan.”

You groaned dramatically. “Does this plan include fixing that fuck-awful interview you gave the other day?” 

Hope actually crept into your voice, you still couldn’t understand how he’d managed to perform so badly. You’d written the questions and he’d picked the ones that would be asked, then somehow he’d stood in front of the camera and acted like he’d never spoken to another human being before.

Dean looked genuinely offended. “They usually go better when there’s someone else behind the camera asking them.”

You stared at him and he stared right back, neither of you budged.

“What? Are you hard of hearing? Should I have asked them to speak louder?” you finally asked.

His grin returned. “Been hearing just fine.” He paused. “I’ve just been distracted lately.”

You closed your eyes briefly, he just couldn’t help himself. “What is your plan, Dean?”

The question came out flatter this time, because every second this conversation continued, your imagination became increasingly unhelpful. The enclosed stairwell wasn’t helping either, nor was the fact that Dean had somehow positioned himself close enough to matter while still maintaining enough distance to pretend he wasn’t doing it intentionally.

“It’s simple.” His hands slid into his pockets and his shoulders relaxed. The expression on his face said he believed he’d just solved a major international crisis. “Once is an accident, twice is coincidence…and three times is a pattern.”

You already hated where this was going but Dean continued anyway. “Which means we can screw up twice and still be fine.”

For a second, you simply stared at him, then you laughed in his face, a sharp sound that bounced off the stone walls around you.

“Have you ever heard the phrase ‘don’t jump to conclusions’?”

His grin remained firmly intact. “Maybe.”

“Because right now it feels like you backflipped into one.” You pointed at him. “Several, actually…and I thought skating was your thing.”

Dean looked entirely unapologetic, the smile threatening at the corner of his mouth told you he was enjoying this far more than he should have and unfortunately, the fact that you were smiling too made it very difficult to claim otherwise.

Dean nodded reluctantly and the eye roll still came anyway. He knew perfectly well you were right. His argument had several holes in it, most of them large enough to drive a truck through but he wasn’t ready to abandon it yet.

“It still makes sense,” he insisted. “Think about it.”

“No, you think about it.” You folded your arms tighter across your chest. “We’ve technically already fucked once…remember?”

His entire face twisted and a dramatic sigh left him as he looked away toward the stone walls, blowing out a breath through pursed lips before turning back to you.

“That’s–” He pointed vaguely between the two of you. “That was a sample.”

You blinked. “A sample.”

“Yes.” The confidence alone nearly made you laugh. “You don’t walk into an ice cream shop and immediately buy a whole cup of some new flavor,” he explained, gesturing with his hands as though this was a perfectly reasonable comparison. “You sample it first.”

His shoulders lifted in a shrug. “Or at least stare at it through the glass deciding if it’s worth the commitment...which was what we did.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Who’s the ice cream in this scenario?”

A grin spread across his face so quickly it almost looked painful. “I lick spoons clean when I’m done.” He nodded once, entirely pleased with himself. “You’ll figure it out soon.”

“Dean.” His name came out as a warning.

Dean immediately raised both hands in surrender. “Okay, okay.” But the grin remained. “The saying applies to penetrative sex.”

You continued staring.

“And maybe some of the other stuff too,” he added. “But then the numbers start adding up really fast and–”

“That’s just greedy.”

“I thought so too.” He nodded in agreement as the conversation stalled.

The teasing was entirely gone and the stairwell grew quiet again. Somewhere several floors below, a door opened and closed while distant voices echoed briefly before disappearing.

Dean glanced down at his shoes as you watched him. He looked back up a second later and found your eyes already on him.

The sight alone softened something in his expression. “What do you say?” The question was quiet and careful.

You exhaled slowly and looked away first, turning toward the window beside the stairs. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the glass, casting pale strips of light across the stone steps.

“The off-limits thing wasn’t my idea.” Your voice was softer now. “And it’s fucking ridiculous.”

Dean nodded without hesitation. “I agree.”

“And so’s this.”

“I agree with that too.”

That earned the smallest smile from you, when you looked back at him, neither of you spoke for a few seconds. The silence felt different, it was less defensive, the fragile sort that appeared whenever honesty slipped into the conversation by accident.

“But?” Dean asked it before you could stop yourself from smiling.

“But,” you echoed, it made his attention sharpen quickly. “I guess I could entertain the thought for a little while.” His grin appeared before you’d even finished speaking and you rolled your eyes. “I mean, I should probably give you credit.”

Dean straightened slightly. “For?”

“Allegedly using whatever’s underneath all that hair.”

His smile widened instantly as he teasingly tilted his head, lowering his already soft tone. “Just promise you won’t pull too hard.”

You laughed. “Only if you promise to make it worth my while.” The answer came with a smile neither of you bothered hiding.

Dean nodded firmly as the confidence returned, his brows lifted. “A kiss to seal the deal?”

The hopeful look accompanying the question was almost embarrassing…almost.

You stepped down one stair, then another while Dean’s attention followed every movement and by the time you stopped, barely any distance remained between you.

You were close enough to notice the faint stubble shadowing his jaw and to see the way anticipation had already settled behind his eyes. You held his gaze the entire time as your hand slipped into the front pocket of his jeans.

Dean’s breath caught, the reaction was so clearly involuntary that it made your mouth twitch. Your fingers searched briefly before finding what you’d come for, the phone…and nothing else but still, they grazed the tip of his hardening cock, feeling it twitch in its restrained state before you wrapped your hand around the phone and slowly pulled it free.

“I think,” you said quietly, lifting the device between you both, “you need to find something better to do.”

His eyes dropped briefly toward your mouth before returning to yours. “Nothing better than you.”

For a moment neither of you moved but eventually, you carefully stepped back, one step…then another and one more as the distance returned slowly.

You watched Dean remain exactly where he was, looking up at you with entirely too much confidence and not nearly enough concern for his own well-being.

Shaking your head, you turned toward the library door. “See you around, Di Laurentis.”

You pushed the library door open without looking back, already stepping into the familiar hush of turning pages and whispered conversations.

Behind you, Dean let out a quiet breathy laugh. “Oh, yes you will.”

The confidence in his voice followed you through the doorway and you hated how easily it made you smile.

Once must be an accident…

The first time happened at the training center, which was undeniably your first real act of rebellion.

The building had mostly emptied hours ago. Practice was over, meetings were done and the endless stream of athletes, trainers and staff had long disappeared into the night. Only a handful of overhead lights remained on, casting warm pools of light across the otherwise dark hallways. The polished floors reflected every movement, every shadow and sound, including yours.

Your laughter echoed loudly through the corridor as you walked beside your godfather, bouncing off the high ceilings and glass office walls. It was the sort of laugh that came easily around him, unfiltered and familiar after decades of shared history.

He shook his head as he laughed too.

“You were such trouble,” he said. “And I knew it would only get worse the second you started walking.”

You shrugged dramatically. “You still keep me around. I’d say you’ve had plenty of years to fix it and decided not to.”

“That was my first mistake.”

“Probably.”

He snorted. The smile never left his face as he circled an arm around your shoulders and pulled you closer for a brief side hug. The gesture was automatic, practiced through years of scraped knees, school events, birthdays and every other milestone in between.

“Nobody else around here benefits from nepotism quite like you do.”

Your laugh burst out immediately. “Wow.”

“Hey, you know it’s true.”

“You actually said it out loud. That’s…wow.”

That only made him laugh harder. “You’re good at what you do,” he continued. “You’re passionate about it. You work harder than most people in this building and half the ideas the department uses come from you.”

“Aw.”

“Besides,” he added casually, “I apply a family discount to your paychecks.”

You gasped so dramatically that he nearly stumbled laughing. Pushing him away, you stared at him in mock horror. “Are you serious?”

His head tipped back as the sound of his laughter filled the hallway. “Your college housing is free,” he reminded you. “You could move in with me and your aunt tomorrow and be a ten minute drive from campus…I also paid for your car.”

You opened your mouth to speak but he kept going. “You have a weekly allowance too…What exactly are you struggling with here?”

“How about that family discount turns into a promotion with benefits?”

His grin widened. “You mean more money.”

“It’s the only language you speak.” You pointed at him. “Don’t act surprised.”

He scoffed. “I speak plenty of languages.”

“No. You speak hockey and money.”

“That’s two.”

“Barely.” You continued walking together, your footsteps echoing softly through the corridor. “If I start calling you Coach Jensen in front of the guys instead of all the ridiculous nicknames I gave you growing up,” you offered, “would that help my chances?”

“Oh, never that.” His response was immediate as genuine horror crossed his face and you laughed. “No amount of money is worth that.”

“See? Promotion worthy answer.”

“Not happening.” He shook his head.

The two of you continued down the hall, passing framed team photographs and championship banners hanging behind glass displays. Most of them had been there for years. Some of them included players who were now professional athletes and others included kids he’d coached before you’d even started high school.

Then his expression softened slightly. “The rest of that money’s invested, by the way.”

You glanced over. “What money?”

“The money you’re constantly trying to get out of me.”

“Oh.”

“It’s sitting in an account collecting interest.” His shoulder bumped yours lightly. “It’ll do you a lot more good when you finally leave the nest.”

You grimaced. “Who says I’m ever leaving?” His brows lifted in curiosity so you continued. “Nepotism’s nice,” you informed him. “It’s comfortable…It offers a very soft life.”

That earned a quiet chuckle as he looked at you for a moment, observing and thinking, though it wasn’t difficult to guess where his thoughts had gone. The subject had come up before, of the assumptions and the advantages that came with being connected to him. 

You’d spent years hearing variations of the same concerns.

He cleared his throat. “Nobody giving you a hard time about that?” The question was casual but the concern underneath wasn’t.

You shook your head. “Your boys are good.” A small smile tugged at your lips. “I’d say they’re nicer than most people give them credit for.”

His expression softened. “And outside this building?”

You shrugged. “I’m not sure many people even know.” Then you smiled slightly. “And if they do, I don’t really care.”

His eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“I mean it…I’m a grown woman. I can handle someone being annoying.”

The look he gave you said he wasn’t entirely convinced. “You’re still my kid…you’re still my responsibility.” You looked away first because the sincerity always got to you.

“If something happens,” he continued, “you come to me. I don’t care who it is.” He pointed down the hallway as if the guilty party might suddenly appear. “Anybody gives you trouble, I deal with it.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Especially if it’s one of my players.”

Your heartbeat picked up immediately for reasons that had absolutely nothing to do with the conversation. You focused very hard on the floor as you walked. “Right.”

“You hear me?”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah.”

Unfortunately, all you could think about was Dean, about stairwells, text messages, plans and about how catastrophically this conversation could go if Coach Jensen ever discovered what had been happening.

“You give really good fake-dad speeches.”

He snorted. “Fake?”

“Adoptive.”

“That’s better.”

You hesitated. “Hypothetically…”

His eyes narrowed as he looked at you and you instantly regretted the choice of words.

“Uh-oh.”

You chuckled. “There’s no uh-oh.”

“There’s definitely an uh-oh.”

“I just…” You paused, “You mean that in a ‘if someone hurts me’ way, right?”

There was absolutely no hesitation in his voice. “I’ll decide when the time comes.”

It did absolutely nothing to ease your concerns but before you could respond, he glanced down at his watch. His expression changed instantly as he stopped walking and patted one pocket, then another and finally his jacket.

“Crap.”

You stopped too as he checked all of his pockets again individually. “What’s wrong?”

“I forgot my keys in my office,” he said, already patting down his pockets once more for good measure with a quick, irritated exhale. “We’re running late and I’ve got to make a call. I wanted to do it in the car.”

“Make your call,” you replied, already stepping backward down the hallway. “I’ll go get them.”

He hesitated only a second, eyes still scanning his pockets as if willing the keys into existence.

“It might take a while. Twenty, maybe thirty minutes. Should I call you an Uber and just cancel the whole dinner?”

“No way you’re getting out of it,” you said without slowing down. “I’ll wait. I’ll just use your printer to get some work done so I can sleep in tomorrow. Call me when you’re done.”

His brow lifted slightly. “So you’re the reason I’m constantly out of ink.”

You shrugged as you kept walking. “The library charges thirteen cents per color page. I’m not made of money…color coding saves lives.”

A quiet scoff followed you down the hall. “No color coding for my favorite goddaughter. Can you imagine?”

“It’s criminal,” you called back.

He finally pulled out his phone, already thumbing through it. “Keep your phone close,” he added without looking up, voice slipping back into that habitual coaching tone. “Or you’re walking home.”

“Yes, Coach,” you replied with a lazy salute over your shoulder before turning fully toward his office.

His muttering faded behind you as he scrolled, already pulled into whatever chaos lived on his screen. You kept moving through familiar corridors, passing framed team photos and closed doors, the building quieter now than it had been all day. He had always been like that, always halfway inside something else, phone never truly out of reach, his attention constantly split between ten different responsibilities. You’d grown used to it long before you ever realized what it meant for you.

You pulled your phone out while walking, scrolling through the documents you needed to print, checking formatting and margins out of habit as you turned the last corner. The office door came into view at the end of the hall, slightly ajar.

You pushed it open enough to slip inside and nearly jolted out of your skin when two hands landed at your hips, pulling you in before your brain even caught up. Your head snapped to the side so fast your hair whipped across your cheek, breath catching hard in your throat before your eyes locked onto Dean standing right behind you.

He lifted a finger to his lips in a quick, silent shush, then guided you further inside with an ease that made your stomach drop for a second, nudging the door shut behind you with his foot.

“You motherfucker,” you hissed the moment the latch clicked and turned to face him. “I watched you leave.”

Dean’s grin was immediate, infuriatingly relaxed. “I was waiting for you in the parking lot.”

Your eyes narrowed in the dim office light as it settled properly around you. The space smelled like paper, coffee and the faint sterile edge of hockey equipment that never fully left anything he occupied. The desk behind you was cluttered, a laptop still open while folders lied stacked slightly unevenly near the edge.

“Oh, fantastic,” you muttered. “That’s not creepy at all.”

He stepped closer, still smiling. “You came to practice tonight.”

“Wow,” you replied flatly. “Anything else, Sherlock?”

His hands tightened at your hips again as he started guiding you backward without hesitation. The motion was slow, controlled, like he already knew exactly where this was going and had no interest in pretending otherwise.

“You look beautiful,” he added.

You rolled your eyes, but the words still landed. You were wearing a light summer dress. You’d kept a blanket wrapped around your shoulders during the game earlier, tucked into the rink seating, ignoring the cold while Dean had spent half the period barely paying attention to the puck.

“Yeah,” you said, voice quieter now as your back hit the edge of the desk. “I know.”

The realization of where he’d led you hit a second too late, making your breath catch again.

The desk pressed into your ass as your hands hovered uncertainly near the surface. You swallowed hard, trying to steady yourself as logic tried to catch up with instinct.

“Dean,” you started, firmly. “We don’t have time for this…You hear me? There’s no time to test the waters.”

“Good,” he simply said and with a sudden, decisive movement, he hoisted you up onto the table, the cool surface a sharp contrast to the heat radiating off his body. “I mean to taste them.”

Your eyes widened instantly. “I’m serious. He could walk in.”

“I heard you out there. We both know he’s incapable of walking and holding a professional phone conversation at the same time,” Dean said without hesitation, his tone annoyingly certain as he adjusted your position on the desk. “I’ll be fast.”

Your eyes narrowed immediately, hands bracing lightly on the edge of the desk as papers shifted beneath your palms, sliding just enough to remind you how fragile this situation actually was despite the confidence in his voice.

“I’m not walking out of here half-pleasured,” you decided flatly, holding his gaze so he understood you weren’t joking, not even slightly.

Dean didn’t even blink. “Who said you are?”

That answer only made your expression tighten further.

“Oh, so you’re just magically going to figure me out in…” you glanced down briefly at your phone screen, thumb hovering over the time without thinking. “Fifteen minutes?”

A slow, confident exhale left him.

“You’re not the only one good at observing, Hawkeye,” he said, eyes locked on yours as if the rest of the room didn’t exist at all. His hands moved again, gathering the fabric of your dress with controlled ease, the motion unhurried but so intentional that it made your breath catch slightly despite yourself.

The desk creaked faintly beneath your weight as he leaned in closer.

“Ice isn’t the only thing I’m fast on.”

He stepped closer between your thighs, his presence overwhelming and absolute. He didn't break eye contact for a single second, his gaze heavy and knowing as he reached down. You felt the sudden, firm hook of his fingers into the lace of your panties as he pulled them down slowly, the fabric sliding over your skin with an agonizing pace.

"I want you quiet," he murmured, voice a low, dangerous vibration that seemed to settle right in your gut. A smirk played on his lips. "I know how hard that is for you, so...try your hardest."

The arrogance of it sparked a flare of defiance in you. Even as your heart hammered against your ribs, you managed to bite back, "I know how to stay quiet."

Dean’s grin widened, sharp and predatory. Without a word, he bunched the fabric of your panties into a tight ball in his fist and in one swift motion, shoved them into your open mouth. The taste of your own scent and the sudden fullness of the fabric gagging you caught you off guard, forcing your jaw open and stifling any further retort.

"Just a precaution," he whispered, his eyes gleaming with triumph. "I'm keeping those after."

He sank to his knees between your legs, the movement fluid and confident. You stared down at him, chest heaving as the feeling of being gagged for the first time sent a jolt of raw, forbidden electricity through your nerves. It was humiliating and exhilarating all at once, stripping away your voice and leaving you completely vulnerable to whatever he decided to do next.

Dean leaned in, breath hot against your inner thighs before his mouth found you.

The first touch of his tongue was a revelation. He didn't fumble or guess, he hit your clit with a precision that made your entire body jerk while a muffled, desperate sound died in the back of your throat, trapped by the fabric in your mouth. He knew exactly where to go, his tongue swirling in a tight, wet circle that sent a wave of heat crashing through you.

It was toe-curling, an intensity of pleasure you hadn't known was possible. He began to suck, his lips creating a firm, vacuum-like seal around your nub, pulling it deep into his mouth. The sensation of the wet, sliding friction of his tongue combined with the rhythmic pressure of his suction was overwhelming.

You felt your face heat up, your eyes fluttering shut as you lost yourself in the sheer sensory overload. Every flick of his tongue felt like a lightning strike, vibrating through your hips and settling deep in your core. The contrast was maddening, between the silence forced upon you by the gag and the loud, screaming pleasure echoing in your mind.

Driven by a sudden, primal need for more, your hands flew to his head. You gripped his hair, fingers digging into the strands to pull him closer, wanting to fuse your body to his mouth. Dean noticed the second you grabbed him and a low hum of satisfaction vibrated from his throat and directly into your sensitive flesh. He leaned into the pressure, increasing the pace, tongue working with a relentless, expert rhythm.

He was sucking you with a hunger that matched your own, his mouth wet and warm, creating a sloppy, sliding sound that filled the quiet of the room. You could feel the moisture coating you, the slickness of his saliva making every stroke of his tongue feel even more immersive.

As you sat there, gagged and trembling, you hated how right this felt. You hated that the agonizing wait, the teasing and the verbal sparring had all led to this exact moment of surrender. The confidence he radiated and the way he took control without a shred of doubt, was intoxicating. You were trapped in a cycle of intense anticipation and shattering satisfaction, your body humming like a live wire, desperate for a release that he was intentionally, cruelly delaying.

Dean didn't let up for a second, his tongue becoming a weapon of pure pleasure. He shifted his angle, pressing his face deeper into your pussy, nose brushing against your folds as he focused entirely on your clit. He began to use the flat of his tongue, delivering long, slow and wet strokes from the bottom of your opening all the way up to the peak of your nub, coating you in a thick layer of saliva that made every movement slide with effortless, slick friction.

The sensation was agonizingly perfect. You felt your thighs tremble, your muscles twitching involuntarily as he alternated between those broad, sweeping licks and sharp, pinpoint flicks of his tongue. He was playing you like an instrument, knowing exactly how to build the tension without letting you break. Every time you felt yourself tipping toward the edge, he would slow down, swirling his tongue in a teasing, lazy circle that left you whimpering into the fabric of your panties.

The gag in your mouth felt heavier now, the taste of yourself mixing with the heat of your breath, turning your muffled moans into desperate, nasal whines. Your head fell back, eyes rolling back as you focused on the wet, sloppy sounds of his tongue working between your legs.

He suddenly increased the intensity, tongue hardening and darting rapidly against your clit in a blurring rhythm. It was a relentless assault of pleasure, a rhythmic drumming that sent sparks flying behind your eyelids. You gripped his hair even tighter, knuckles lightening, pulling his face harder against your pussy, almost begging him with your body to never stop.

He responded by sucking you back in, lips creating a tighter, powerful seal that pulled your clit between his teeth. He sucked with a rhythmic, pulsing force and it soon felt like it was drawing the very soul out of you. You could feel the constant vibration of his throat as he let out a low, muffled growl against your skin, his confidence radiating through the sheer dominance of his technique.

You were floating in a sea of heat and wetness, your entire world narrowing down to the point where his mouth met your flesh. You were drenched, your own juices mixing with his spit, making the encounter sound wet and filthy.

He teased you, pulling back just a fraction of an inch to let the cool air hit your wet skin before diving back in with a sudden, deep lick that made you gasp into the gag. He was prolonging the torture, savoring the way your body shook under his control. He knew you were desperate, knew you were hovering on the precipice of something shattering and he took a sadistic pleasure in keeping you right there, suspended in a state of pure, unadulterated arousal.

Dean soon felt you trembling, body vibrating with a tension that had become almost unbearable. He knew you were balanced on a razor's edge and with a predatory glint in his eyes, he finally decided to push you over. While his tongue continued to swirl and flick against your swollen clit, he slid two fingers deep into your soaking wet pussy.

The sudden intrusion nearly broke you. The feeling of him filling you, stretching your tight walls while his tongue relentlessly hammered your nub, was an overload of sensation that shattered your composure. Your shoulders began to shake, chest heaving as you fought for air through your nose. Your eyes forced shut, the world disappearing into a haze of white-hot pleasure and you bit down on the fabric of your panties with everything you had, jaw aching as you muffled screams of ecstasy into the gag.

He didn't let you fall yet. He kept you right there, at the agonizing precipice of orgasm, fingers curling inside you to hit your G-spot with rhythmic, punishing precision while his mouth worked in a wet, sloppy frenzy. You were trapped in a loop of pure erotism, hips bucking wildly against his face, body begging for the release that he stubbornly denied you. For what felt like an eternity, you hovered on the brink while your muscles twitched and your mind screamed for the end.

Then, the sharp, intrusive ring of your phone pierced through the silence of the room.

The sudden shock of the sound, combined with the peak of the stimulation, was the final trigger. Your body snapped. You let out a muffled, guttural shriek into the gag as a violent orgasm ripped through you. Your walls clamped down hard on his fingers, pulsing in rhythmic waves of intense pleasure that made your toes curl and your back arch. Your eyes flew open, wide and glazed, looking down at the vibrating phone on the desk as you shuddered through the climax.

Dean stayed right there, slurping up every drop of your juices, tongue licking the cream from your folds with a greedy, satisfied sound. He continued to suck and lick even as the waves subsided, ensuring he tasted every bit of your release.

Slowly, he pulled back but he left his two fingers buried deep inside you. He stood up tall, looming over you, his expression one of complete enamourment. He watched you breathe heavily, chest heaving as he continued to move his fingers in and out of your dripping hole in a slow, teasing slide that reminded you exactly who was in control.

With shaking fingers and trembling legs, you reached up and pulled the damp fabric of your panties from your mouth, pulling out the gag. You didn't pick up the call. Instead, with a shaky hand, you typed a quick text back. "I'm coming."

Dean leaned over, reading the screen and let out a low, dark chuckle. "Yes you are," he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.

He finally withdrew his fingers with a wet pop, maintaining intense eye contact as he lifted them to his mouth and licked them clean, savoring the taste of you one last time.

"You're such an asshole," you breathed, voice raspy and exhausted. You hopped down from the desk, legs feeling like jelly and looked around for your bunched-up panties. You swore you had left them on the desk just a second ago.

Dean opened his opposite palm, revealing the lace fabric gripped in his hand. "Told you I'm keeping them," he said with a smug grin. Then motioned toward the door with his head. "Go, before he comes looking."

You grabbed your phone and found your godfather's keys, turning to leave but just as you reached the door, his voice stopped you, dripping with a mix of mischief and dominance.

He licked his lips, "I made sure to get all of it but don't walk too fast...just in case."

He grinned, knowing exactly how drenched you were. You didn't say a word, face heating up as you opened the door and finally stepped out. Behind you, Dean stood in the center of the room, breath heavy and staring after you with the biggest, hardest erection of his life as the scent of your sex still clung to his skin.

“There you are.”

Your godfather’s smile appeared the second you stepped into view, warm and completely unaware as he pushed himself away from the wall he’d been leaning against. The overhead lights cast long shadows across the now-empty lobby, the training center nearly silent around you aside from the distant hum of ventilation and the occasional echo of a door closing somewhere deeper in the building.

“Ready for dinner?”

You forced a smile onto your face and tossed the keys toward him before he could look too closely at you. The metal jingled through the air before he caught them one-handed, only then did you trust yourself to speak.

“Is it bad that I’m craving takeout?”

He laughed and as far as you could tell, he wasn’t suspicious but the sound made guilt twist somewhere deep in your stomach. 

“Not bad at all.” He slipped the keys into his pocket as you finally reached his side. “We’ll save the dinner for next week.”

You nodded quickly. “That sounds good.”

The two of you headed for the exit together. Your godfather reached the door first, holding it open as cool night air rushed inside, carrying the scent of damp pavement and freshly cut grass from the athletic fields beyond the parking lot.

You stepped outside and the darkness felt refreshing against overheated skin.

The parking lot stretched ahead under pools of yellow light, mostly empty now except for a few scattered vehicles belonging to coaches and staff members working late.

Your eyes immediately found his car.

“Coach!”

The voice hit like a gunshot and your entire body locked before your mind forced it to turn around…and there he was.

Dean jogged out of the building toward the two of you, sports bag slung across the front of his body in a position so intentional it almost made your eye twitch. His hair looked slightly messy too but the fact that he could still look this comfortable after what you’d done made you want to throw something at him.

“Di Laurentis.” Your godfather stepped aside to lock the doors behind everyone. “Five more minutes and you would’ve been spending the night with the cleaning crew.”

Dean laughed the same laugh he used with coaches, professors, reporters and strangers. “I fell asleep after practice.” His eyes landed on yours and the smile on his face shifted almost imperceptibly as he reached up and pushed a hand through his hair fixing it.

You nearly choked.

“It was an…accident,” His gaze lingered on yours, the sweetness in his voice was subtle when he spoke again. “Hi, Y/n.”

“Hey.” The answer came out remarkably normal considering you suddenly remembered exactly what he’d looked like less than twenty minutes ago.

“Accidents happen.” Your godfather finally finished locking the doors and turned back toward you both. An arm settled comfortably around your shoulders. “You did good at practice today,” he told Dean. “Go get some real rest.” Then he looked down at you. “We could drive you.”

“No need.” You spoke up far too fast, making both men look at you instantly.

Shit.

You forced a smile as you watched Dean’s mouth twitch.

That fucking asshole…

“Yeah,” he agreed before anyone could think too hard about it. “I’m good.” His sports bag moved slightly against the front of his jeans and you swore you almost saw him wince. You looked away before things could get worse. “Night.”

He began backing toward his car, slowly, eyes lingering on you every chance he got.

“Night,” your godfather answered. Then his arm tightened around your shoulders as he steered you toward the car.

The conversation immediately changed to something entirely different, his voice filling the space between your thoughts as he launched into yet another debate about ordering pineapple and pepperoni pizza.

You groaned automatically as he laughed.

The parking lot stretched ahead beneath the lights as the two of you walked away and despite your best efforts, you could still feel Dean’s eyes on you from somewhere behind.

That might have been the greatest accident to ever exist but then again…

Coincidences had always been better.

It wasn’t often that you skipped parties. As exhausting as college could be, you firmly believed it was supposed to be filled with shared experiences, stupid stories, regrettable decisions and memories people laughed about years later. If your friends were going somewhere, you usually went too, even if you only stayed an hour before disappearing home.

Tonight was the exception.

Jules had handed you the keys to the boys’ house earlier that afternoon. You’d let yourself in without knocking, music already blasting through your headphones and immediately claimed a stool at the kitchen island.

The house seemed and looked unusually quiet, there was no shouting and no hockey game playing on the television.

You spread your work across the countertop and got comfortable.

Most of your evenings had been spent reviewing PR material for the upcoming week. Social media calendars, engagement reports, interview clips and promotional content. You frequently collaborated with Jules to make sure everything the team posted felt consistent, professional, and aligned with the image Briar Hockey wanted to project, at least, that had been the plan. 

Instead, you found yourself checking your phone every few minutes because your roommate had a guy over again. The arrangement had seemed like a great idea when you’d first arrived at college. Living with a roommate felt like one of those essential university experiences everyone was supposed to have. It built character and created memories, now it mostly created scheduling conflicts.

If you couldn’t go home yet, you might as well be productive. Gathering the notes Jules had asked you to leave in Logan’s room, you pushed yourself off the stool and headed upstairs.

The music in your headphones swelled as you climbed and your body immediately followed the rhythm.

One hand trailed along the railing while your hips swayed unconsciously with the beat. You sang lyrics you couldn’t actually hear over the volume, completely off-key and blissfully unaware of it. You made the stack of papers bounce lightly against your thigh as you moved through the hallway, turning the familiar walk into a private concert attended by absolutely nobody…or so you thought.

You stepped into Logan’s room without hesitation and the notes landed neatly on his desk.

You turned toward the door again, still moving with the music, shoulders rolling gently with the rhythm while your fingers slid absentmindedly over your own arms and down your sides as you spun once, completely caught up in the song.

Until you looked up…and screamed. The sound tore itself out of your throat before you could stop it.

Your entire body jumped and your soul practically left through your mouth as Dean stood in the doorway, motionless and watching with a towel hung low around his hips, damp skin still glistening from the shower. His hair looked darker wet, strands falling across his forehead as tiny droplets continued disappearing down the side of his neck.

You ripped the headphones off so fast they nearly flew across the room. “What the fuck is your problem?!”

Dean’s eyebrows lifted slowly as he pointed at himself. “What is my problem?”

“Yes!” Your hand pressed against your chest where your heart was still attempting to escape. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here.” The reminder came accompanied by an entirely unhelpful grin. “Nice moves, by the way.”

Your eyes narrowed while adrenaline still surged through your veins. “Fuck you.”

His grin widened. “I might start begging you to.”

You groaned loudly and pushed past him, unfortunately, instead of leaving the house entirely, your feet carried you directly into his room and Dean followed.

“What are you even doing here? There’s a party tonight,” you asked as you dropped onto the edge of his bed.

“I was studying.”

“Naked and wet?” You questioned.

“I was in the shower.” He added flatly, “Which you would’ve heard if you weren’t surgically attached to those headphones.”

You rolled your eyes. Then, somehow, the room grew quieter, the two of you looked at each other long enough for your breathing to gradually settle into the same rhythm and for Dean’s attention to drift toward the headphones hanging around your neck.

“What’s so special about them?”

You glanced down. “The headphones?”

“The obsession.”

A small smile tugged at your mouth. “It isn’t the headphones.” You removed them and turned them over in your hands. “It’s the music.”

Dean remained where he was, listening.

“If you find the right song,” you continued, “it can completely change where you are.” Your fingers traced absent patterns along them. “It can take a boring walk and make it feel important. Turn studying into something less miserable and make a random day feel cinematic.” Your smile softened. “It just makes everything better.”

Dean tilted his head. “Better?”

You nodded. “Sexier.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise. “Sexier?” The amusement in his voice made you regret using that word…only slightly. “Does it work with everything?”

You swallowed. The question felt harmless but the way he asked it didn’t. “What’s everything?” you asked carefully.

Dean held your gaze for another second before nodding toward the headphones in your hands. “Put them on.”

His voice was quiet and patient, entirely too interested in whatever reaction he thought he was about to get.

You slid the headphones over your ears and the world instantly shifted. The sudden surge of music drowned out the ambient noise of the room, isolating you in a cinematic cocoon of sound. The bass thrummed through your skull, vibrating in your chest, turning the reality of the room into a silent movie where only the visuals mattered.

Dean stepped directly in front of you, his presence commanding and heavy. Because you couldn't hear him, your entire focus narrowed onto his face. He leaned in, his expression a mixture of hunger and playful dominance. He didn't speak or if he did, the music swallowed it but he carefully mouthed the words, “Watch me...read my lips.”

A shiver raced down your spine. You nodded, your heart hammering against your ribs in time with the beat of the song. His hands moved slowly, reaching for the towel wrapped around his waist. Before he moved it, he paused, gaze locking onto yours, silently asking for consent.

You nodded again, breath hitching.

The towel pooled at his feet in one fluid motion. You sat perched on the edge of the bed, your eyes immediately dropping to his cock. It was semi-hard, thick and pulsing slightly, with a neat trim of hair at the base that only made the sight more visceral. You watched, mesmerized, as the blood rushed to it, the shaft thickening and lengthening right before your eyes, straining upward as he sensed your gaze.

Driven by a sudden, desperate need to be bare before him, you began to undress. You kept your eyes locked on his hardening length, the visual of his arousal fueling your own. You kicked off your shoes, the friction of the carpet against your soles a distant sensation compared to the heat radiating from him. You peeled away your pants and slid your shirt over your head, leaving you exposed. Without a bra, your breasts were fully revealed, nipples already peaking from the chill and the anticipation. Finally, you reached for your panties.

As you slid them down your thighs, Dean reached out, his fingers twitching as if to snatch them away, a callback to his possessive streak. You quickly shook your finger ‘no’ with a small and defiant smile playing on your lips. He chuckled, though you only saw the vibration of his chest and the crinkle at the corners of his eyes.

He began to crawl toward you, his movements predatory and slow. You retreated, crawling backward into the center of the bed, the soft fabric of the sheets sliding against your skin. He followed, closing the gap until your head hit the pillows. You remained pinned by his gaze, holding intense eye contact as he loomed over you.

Then, his touch arrived.

His fingers began to graze over your naked body in a light, agonizingly slow exploration. He traced the line of your sternum, the sensation sending electric sparks through your nerves. When his hands reached your breasts, he cupped them firmly, thumbs rolling your nipples between his fingers. The friction was exquisite. You gasped, your back arching instinctively but the sound of your own moan was lost to the music, leaving you in a vacuum of pure sensation.

Dean, however, heard it. He saw the way your throat tightened and heard the muffled sound of your pleasure and the sight of your vulnerability made him even harder. He leaned down, capturing one nipple in his mouth. The heat of his tongue and the sharp tug of his suction sent a jolt of lightning straight to your core. He switched to the other side, lips wet and demanding, swirling around the peak of your breast until you were writhing beneath him.

As your back arched off the mattress, you felt your pussy clamp shut around nothing, the internal muscles pulsing with a desperate, empty longing. You were slick, the heat between your thighs becoming an ache that demanded to be filled. Dean must have seen the way your hips tilted, the way your thighs trembled, because he shifted his weight.

He slid two fingers deep inside you in one smooth motion. You let out a sharp whine, your head tossing back against the pillows. The feeling of him filling you, the stretch and the sudden friction, was overwhelming. He began to move his fingers in a rhythmic, curling motion, hooking them upward to hit the sweet spot.

Your focus remained obsessively on his face. You watched his lips, searching for a word, a command, a promise…anything, but he remained teasingly silent, refusing to kiss you, denying you that final point of contact. Your eyes fluttered, the pleasure threatening to pull you under into a blackout of bliss but you fought to keep them open, desperate to read his lips, to stay connected to him through the only channel left.

Your legs twitched open wider, inviting him in, body humming like a live wire. He curled his fingers deeper, increasing the pace, the wet sounds of his intrusion lost to the music but felt vividly in every nerve ending. You were hovering on the precipice, the tension building into a towering wave but he kept you right there, on the edge, breathless and begging, with no release in sight.

Until he leaned closer, his body a heavy, radiating heat between your thighs. His fingers continued their relentless work inside you, curling and sliding in  rhythmic friction. You looked up at him, vision slightly blurred from the intensity and your lips parted.

"Fuck me louder," you breathed, the words barely a whisper, lost to the thumping bass of the music in your ears. “I know just how much you like to hear me sing.”

He saw the desperation in your eyes and the way your hips were bucking upward. He moved, pressing the raw, blunt tip of his cock directly against your clit. The sudden, direct pressure made you whine, a high-pitched sound that vibrated in your own throat but remained unheard by you.

In one swift, decisive motion, he withdrew his fingers. For a heartbeat, there was a void, a cold, empty ache and then his lips ghosted over yours, a teasing promise of what was coming as he lunged forward, pushing his thickness into you in one powerful thrust.

The stretch was immense. You felt your pussy walls scream and then surrender as he bottomed out, burying himself to the hilt. A synchronized groan escaped both of you, the sound muffled by the collision of your mouths as you finally, desperately, kissed. The sensation of him filling you completely for the first time was an explosion of tactile data, you could feel every vein, the heat of his shaft and the way your internal muscles clamped tight around him in a shocked, welcoming grip.

The kiss became messy and hungry, tongues clashing and swirling as you fought for air and dominance. Your body struggled to adjust to his size, your pussy walls twitching and pulsing rhythmically around him, trying to mold themselves to his shape. Your nails dug deep into his sides, leaving red crescents in his skin as you anchored yourself to him.

He began to move.

He pulled back nearly all the way, almost slipping out, before slamming back in with a force that rattled your teeth. You couldn't hear the wet, slapping sounds of your pelvises colliding or the guttural groans he was making into your mouth but you felt them. You felt the vibration of his voice in his chest against yours and you knew with absolute certainty that you were both making insane, primal noise that would have filled the room.

The sensory deprivation heightened everything to an unbearable degree. Because you were blind to the sound of the world, the physical sensations became hyper-focused. Every slide of his cock felt like a lightning strike. You didn't know if it was the hypnotic rhythm of the music or the agonizing anticipation of the last hour but the sex was transcendently good.

Dean broke the kiss to dive back down to your breasts, latching onto your nipples and sucking them hard, the sharp tugging sensation mirroring the deep rolling thrusts of his cock. His large hand slid down, gripping your ass cheek with bruising force, lifting and tilting your pelvis to change the angle of penetration.

The change in position allowed him to hit your G-spot with every single plunge. You felt as though you were going to shatter into a thousand pieces. Your face twisted, eyes rolling back in a mask of pure, unadulterated pleasure, your mouth hanging open in a silent scream. The visual of him, his muscles straining, his face tight with lust and the sight of his hips slamming into yours, combined with the feeling of being completely impaled, pushed you further and further toward the edge.

He was relentless, driving into you with a rhythmic, punishing pace that left you breathless. You were a prisoner to the music and the friction, trapped in a loop of exquisite torture where the only thing that existed was the feeling of him stretching you open and the sight of his hunger. You were hovering on the precipice again, the tension building into a towering, unstable wave but the release remained just out of reach, leaving you desperate for more.

Dean stopped the linear slamming and began to employ rolling thrusts, grinding his pelvis in a slow, circular motion that smeared his cock against every sensitive ridge of your vaginal canal. The friction was agonizingly perfect, a swirling pressure that stoked the fire in your gut until it became a roaring blaze.

You were unraveling. Your head thrashed against the pillows, mouth wide and gasping, emitting a torrent of raw, uncontrolled moans and whimpers. You couldn't hear the volume of your own voice but you saw the look of satisfaction on Dean's face. He was drinking in the sight of your undoing, the knowledge that while you were trapped in a silent world of bass and rhythm, your voice was filling the room. To him, your desperate cries were a symphony, a private concert of pleasure that belonged solely to him. He loved that you were oblivious to how loud you were, how completely you had surrendered your dignity to the sensation of him.

The tension reached a critical mass. Your internal muscles began to seize, clamping down on his shaft in involuntary spasms. You felt a sudden, electric snap deep within your core and then the dam broke.

It was the longest, most delicious orgasm of your life. It didn't hit like a wave, it hit like an earthquake, shattering your composure and sending jolts of white-hot electricity radiating from your clit to your fingertips. Your body arched, spine curving off the bed as you locked your legs around his waist, trying to pull him even deeper. Your eyes rolled back into your head, leaving only the whites visible as you drifted into a void of pure, sensory overload.

He sensed the climax gripping you and used it, fucking you right through the peak. He drove into your pulsing walls with a ferocious intensity, his cock sliding through the flood of your release. The combination of your orgasm and his relentless pace pushed him over the edge. 

With one final, guttural surge, he buried himself to the absolute hilt, pinning you to the mattress as he erupted. You felt the hot, thick jets of his cum pulsing deep inside you, filling your womb with a searing warmth that seemed to anchor you back to reality.

The world slowly began to refocus. 

The two of you remained locked together, chests heaving in a synchronized rhythm as sweat glued your skin together. The noise in your ears was still there, the music continuing its steady beat but the physical intensity had changed into a heavy, languid glow.

Before he let his weight collapse onto you, Dean reached up. His fingers brushed your hair as he carefully slid the headphones off your ears.

The sudden influx of sound was jarring. The room rushed back in, the distant hum of the house, the rustle of the sheets and most prominently, the ragged, heavy sound of your shared breathing. The noise was intimate, raw and echoing.

As the sound of his labored exhales hit your ears, you felt a fresh wave of arousal ripple through you. Your pussy, still tight and sensitive, gave a series of rhythmic, needy throbs around his softening cock, making Dean let out a low, shaky breath against your neck.

It probably took the two of you twenty minutes to finally peel yourselves away from each other and even then neither of you moved very far. You lay side by side beneath tangled sheets, staring up at the ceiling, shoulders barely touching whenever one of you moved. Every muscle in your body felt pleasantly heavy, as though simply sitting up would require far more effort than either of you were willing to spend.

Unfortunately, being comfortable didn’t stop either of your brains from working.

If anything, the silence only gave them more room.

You found yourself thinking about how this could possibly happen again eventually. At the same time, another part of you was already trying to figure out how to stop it from happening a third time. The contradiction would’ve been funny if it wasn’t so hopelessly obvious.

You truly believed this was your “twice”, your glorious coincidence.

Beside you, Dean let out a long sigh before finally breaking the silence.

“Would you say it counts if we don’t move?”

Your chest shook with tired laughter. “If you want a positive answer, you might want to ask the Mormons.”

Dean groaned. “So no.”

The room fell quiet again and for several seconds neither of you spoke.

Then your eyes widened slightly. “Wait.”

Dean turned his head toward you as you continued staring at the ceiling while thinking through the idea.

“What if we don’t orgasm?”

“No.” The answer came so quickly you almost laughed again. Dean didn’t even need time to consider it. After everything he’d experienced over the past hour, the suggestion wasn’t remotely tempting. “No, absolutely not…I can’t do that. I won’t survive it.”

You smiled toward the ceiling. “It’s good that you’re finally admitting how greedy you are.”

“I’m not that greedy.”

“You absolutely are.”

Dean scoffed.“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It usually is.”

A grin tugged at his mouth despite himself. “Maybe it resets every month.” His voice sounded thoughtful now.

You turned your head toward him. “What does?”

“The count.” He gestured vaguely toward the ceiling as though presenting serious scientific evidence. “Maybe there’s a monthly reset and every month we get two new chances.”

You stared and Dean shamelessly stared right back. “I’m serious, what day is it?”

You suddenly burst into laughter as you ran both hands down your face, though the sound still echoed softly around the room.

“We are in so much trouble.” Your voice came out muffled behind your palms.

Dean couldn’t keep his eyes away from you and the smile that appeared was lazy, warm and entirely too satisfied for someone supposedly worried about consequences and patterns.

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

You peeked at him through your fingers and rolled your eyes as he laughed quietly to himself before settling deeper into the mattress.

“But sure…I’ll get back to you on that,” he said. “Sometime after my brain starts working again.”

Unfortunately for both of your very optimistic interpretations of statistics, neither of you had started counting at the right place. The truth was that you’d been sampling this relationship for months before the night you climbed through his window.

With every lingering conversation, stolen glance, every excuse to stay five minutes longer and every hallway, stairwell, empty office and late-night text message, the line had been moving long before either of you admitted it existed and those had merely been milestones along a road the two of you had already been traveling for a very long time.

This was your third…the very last piece of the pattern, which meant there was no stopping this anymore. 

The only thing left to do was keep it hidden for as long as possible, hoping the secret survived longer than your self-control had.

After all, mathematics had never really been your forte but public perception certainly was.

“That’s good, baby,” he says, like he’s commenting on the weather.

Then his hand finds your hip.

“Come here.”

Not a question. Just a tug—fingers hooked into the waistband of your bikini bottoms, pulling you toward his chair instead of the empty one next to him. You go, because of course you do, settling between his legs with your back against his chest. He’s warm—not just from the sun. He runs hot anyway, and the weed makes it worse. You can feel the heat of him through your whole back, radiating through the thin fabric of your bikini top.

He passes you the joint. You take a small hit, hold it, and cough on the exhale—not as bad as you used to, but still enough that he huffs a quiet laugh against your shoulder.

“Getting better,” he says, mouth still on your skin. He takes it back, hits it without effort, and the smoke curls up past both of you and disappears into the afternoon.

Neither of you says anything for a minute. Just the pool filter humming. Someone’s music a few houses over, muffled by the wall—something with a bass line, unidentifiable. A dog barking somewhere far enough away that it sounds more like atmosphere than noise. The high hasn’t hit you yet, but you can feel it at the edges—that first loosening, the way the light starts to look thicker, the way his heartbeat against your back starts to feel like something you could fall asleep to.

His fingers are moving. Your hip, your side, the tie of your bikini bottom. Not going anywhere. Just moving.

Then he starts talking.

———

“Did you know,” he says, and you’re already smiling because nothing good has ever started with Joe Burrow saying did you know while high, “that octopuses have three hearts?”

“I did know that, actually.”

“Three,” he repeats, like you didn’t hear him. His fingers are tracing your arm now, slow and aimless. “And when they swim, one of them stops beating. Just shuts off. So they don’t like swimming because it literally exhausts their heart.”

“That’s why they crawl.”

He goes quiet for a second, and you feel him nod against the top of your head. “That’s why they crawl,” he confirms, like you’ve both arrived at something important.

You take another hit. Smaller this time. Hold it longer. The exhale comes easier, and the high is starting to settle in now, warm and loose, like the sun got under your skin and decided to stay.

“I think about that sometimes,” he says.

“About octopuses.”

“About having three hearts.” His hand has moved to your stomach, palm flat, thumb dragging a slow line above your belly button. “Like, what would you even do with three. That seems like a design flaw. Too many things to break.”

“Or maybe it’s a backup system,” you say. “You lose one, you’ve still got two.”

He’s quiet long enough that you think he’s moved on. Then his arm tightens around you—just barely, just enough to feel.

“That’s a better way to look at it,” he says. Softer now. Not stoned-philosopher soft. Just soft.

The music from the neighbor’s yard has changed to a slower tempo. The ice in your glass is melting. His chest rises and falls behind you in a rhythm that feels like it’s pulling yours along with it.

———

The high is fully in you now. Everything is warm and slow and a little bit golden, like someone put a filter over the whole afternoon. You can feel your own pulse in your fingertips. Every place his skin touches yours buzzes.

He’s been quiet for a while. Not gone—you can tell by the way his fingers keep moving, still tracing those aimless patterns on your stomach. But he’s somewhere in his head, the way he gets when the weed pulls him down instead of out.

“I don’t think about football out here,” he says.

You don’t respond right away. Not because you don’t know what to say, but because you know how rare that sentence is. Joe doesn’t talk about not thinking about football the way other people do. For him, it’s not a complaint. It’s a confession.

“Like, at all?” you ask.

“Not the way I do at home.” His voice is low, unhurried. “In Cincy, it’s always there. Even when I’m not watching film or at the facility. It’s just—running. This background thing that never turns off.”

His thumb has stopped moving on your stomach. He’s pressing his palm flat against you now, like he’s grounding himself through the contact.

“Out here it’s quiet,” he says. “I just wake up, and it’s Tuesday or whatever, and I don’t have anywhere to be, and I just...” He trails off. You feel him exhale against your hair. “I didn’t know I could feel like this.”

You turn your head enough to see his jaw. The clench that usually lives there is gone. Has been gone for weeks, actually, but right now—high and warm and holding you in the sun—it’s so absent it’s almost startling. Like looking at a different version of him. Not a new one. Just one he doesn’t get to be very often.

“Like what?” you ask, quietly.

He doesn’t answer right away. His fingers start moving again—your hip this time, tracing the string of your bikini.

“Easy,” he says. “I feel easy.”

———

You don’t say anything back. You just settle heavier against him, letting your head fall back onto his shoulder, and his mouth finds your temple like it was already on its way there.

His hand is still on your hip. Still tracing the bikini string. But it’s different now—not aimless the way it was before. His thumb is following the line of it with something closer to intention, dipping just under the fabric, dragging along the crease where your thigh meets your hip.

He might not even know he’s doing it. That’s the thing about Joe when he’s high—his hands get ahead of him and starts doing things his brain hasn’t signed off on yet. And by the time he catches up, he doesn’t stop. Just commits.

You shift against him. Not a lot. Just enough that your hips press back into his, and you feel his breath change against your neck.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” he says. Low. Not a complaint.

“Doing what?”

His fingers tighten on your hip. “Moving like that.”

“I’m just getting comfortable.”

“Mhm.” His mouth drags from your temple down to the spot below your ear. Not a kiss. Just his lips, parted, resting there. Breathing you in the way he does when he’s high—like your skin is something he needs to memorize. “Real comfortable.”

The hand on your hip slides forward. Slow. Over your stomach, down, fingertips brushing the top edge of your bikini bottoms. He stops there. Not teasing—waiting. Letting the weight of his hand sit just above where you want it, his palm warm and heavy on your skin.

You exhale. 

“Joe.”

“Hm?”

“We’re outside.”

He leans in closer, mouth at your ear. “It’s my backyard.”

His fingers slip under the fabric. Not fast—nothing about him is fast right now. Just a slow drag down, and your breath catches hard enough that he feels it against his chest.

“There it is,” he murmurs. Mouth still at your ear. Smug and lazy all at once.

Your hand finds his thigh, gripping, because you need something to hold onto, and he’s all there is. The sun is still on both of you—your skin hot and damp, his chest slick against your back. Everything feels magnified. The calluses on his fingers. The chlorine smell off the pool. The bass line still thumping from somewhere over the wall, low enough that it almost matches your pulse.

He’s not rushing. He’s not even trying to get you there—not yet. Just touching you like he wants to know how you feel right now, in this exact moment, with the sun and the high and his hand between your legs. Curious more than urgent. Like he’s cataloging what makes you shift, what makes you hold your breath, what makes your nails dig into his thigh.

“You’re so warm,” he says against your neck, almost to himself. “You feel different when you’re high. Softer. Like everything’s—” He stops. Presses his mouth to your shoulder. “I don’t know. More.”

You can’t respond. Not with words, anyway. Your hips move instead, pressing into his hand, and he groans—quiet, low, more vibration than sound.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “Like that.”

His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you tighter against him, and you can feel him hard against your lower back. He doesn’t do anything about it. He doesn’t shift or adjust. He just lets you feel it while his fingers keep moving—slow circles, no pressure, then more pressure, then less again. He’s paying attention the way he always does, reading you like something he wants to get exactly right, except the weed has stripped out all the urgency and left nothing but patience.

Your head drops back against his shoulder. Your eyes are closed. The sun is red through your eyelids, and his breath is hot on your throat, and his hand is moving so slow you could scream.

“Joe.” It comes out broken. “Please.”

“Please, what?”

You reach back, fingers sliding into his hair. “More. I need—”

“I know what you need.” His voice is thick. Honey-slow. “I’ve got you.”

His fingers push into you, and your spine arches off his chest. He catches you—arm tight around your waist, pulling you back against him, mouth open against the curve of your neck.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You feel—”

He doesn’t finish. Just curls his fingers and lets the sound you make finish the sentence for him.

The lounge chair creaks under both of you, and neither of you cares. His fingers are moving with that same unhurried focus—in, curling, dragging out slow enough to make you dizzy. His thumb finds where you need it and presses, and your whole body jerks against him.

“Easy,” he says. The same word he used before, but it means something completely different now. “I’ve got you. Just feel it.”

And you do. You feel everything. The high has turned your skin into something electric—every point of contact between his body and yours is buzzing. His chest against your back. His thighs bracketing yours. The arm locked around your waist, forearm pressed flat to your stomach, holding you against him like he thinks you might float away.

You’re making sounds you’d be embarrassed about if you could think. But you can’t think. His fingers won’t let you. Every time you get close to a coherent thought, he changes the angle or the pressure, and it falls apart.

“You’re shaking,” he says against your ear. Not concerned. Pleased.

“Whose fault is that?”

He laughs—low, quiet, stoned. “Guilty.”

Your hand is still in his hair, gripping hard enough that it has to hurt, but he hasn’t said a word about it. His hips are moving in these slow, barely-there rolls against your back, like he can’t help it, like his body is chasing something his brain hasn’t caught up to yet.

“I want—” you start, but your voice dies when his thumb presses harder.

“Tell me.”

“I want you.”

“You have me.”

“Joe.” You tug his hair, pulling his face closer. “I want you.”

He goes still. Just for a second. His fingers stop, buried in you, and his breathing is ragged against your neck. You feel the moment he decides—the way his whole body tenses and then lets go, like something he was holding onto just snapped.

“Turn around,” he says. Rough. Not a request.

You pull away from his chest, and he lets you—barely. His hands stay on you the whole time, guiding your hips as you shift on the narrow chair, turning to face him, your knees on either side of his thighs.

And there he is.

Red-eyed. Flushed. Lips parted. His hair is a mess from your hands, and his shorts are doing nothing to hide how hard he is. He looks wrecked already, and you haven’t even touched him yet.

He looks up at you, and his hands settle on your thighs. Heavy. Warm. His thumbs pressing into the soft skin on the inside, just above your knees.

“There she is,” he says. Half-smile. Completely gone.

Something about the way he says it—like he’s been waiting for you to face him this whole time—cracks you both open. You laugh first, and then he’s laughing too, low and stoned and shaking under you.

His hands slide up. Slow. Over your thighs, your hips, your waist. He pulls you down onto his lap until there’s nothing between you but fabric and heat and the fact that neither of you has moved to fix that yet.

“You’re so pretty,” he says, squinting up at you against the sun behind your head. “It’s stupid. It’s stupid how pretty you are.”

“That’s the weed talking.”

“That’s me talking. The weed just let me say it out loud.”

His fingers find the tie at the back of your bikini top. He doesn’t pull it. Just holds the string between his fingers, rolling it, waiting.

“Can I?”

You nod.

One tug and it falls. He catches the fabric before it drops, pulls it away from you slowly, and tosses it somewhere behind the chair without looking. His eyes don’t leave your body. He stares—openly, unhurried, with none of the composure he usually wears like armor. The weed and the sun and the want have stripped all of it out, and what’s left is just him, looking at you like he’s trying to figure out how you’re real.

His hands come up to your waist. He pulls you closer and presses his mouth to your sternum. Just rests there. Breathing. His thumbs are tracing the underside of your breasts, barely touching, like he’s got all day and plans to use every second of it.

“Joe,” you whisper. Your hands are in his hair again.

“I know.” He kisses your chest. Then lower. Then the curve of your breast, open-mouthed, tongue dragging slowly across your skin. “I know. I’m getting there.”

“You’re taking forever.”

“We’ve got forever.” He says it into your skin, simple and stoned and certain, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You reach between you. His stomach tenses under your fingers—a sharp breath, his abs contracting when you trace the line of hair below his belly button and keep going. Your palm presses over him through his shorts, and his head drops back against the chair.

“Fuck,” he breathes. Eyes closed. Jaw slack. His hips push up into your hand without permission, just once, and then he catches himself. Tries to.

“Don’t do that,” you say.

He opens his eyes. “Do what?”

“Hold back.” You press harder. Watch his throat work. “You don’t have to out here.”

Something moves across his face. That same recognition from earlier—like you’ve named a thing he didn’t know he was doing. His hands flex on your hips. His jaw loosens.

“Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “Okay.”

You lift up enough for him to push his shorts down, and he does—just enough, shoving the waistband past his hips with one hand while the other stays on you. Like he can’t not touch you for even the two seconds it takes.

You push your bikini bottoms to the side. His eyes drop to watch, and the sound he makes—low, almost pained—hits you right in the chest.

“Come here,” he says. Both hands on your hips now, pulling you forward. “Come here, come here.”

You sink down onto him slowly. The high makes everything louder—the stretch, the heat, the way his fingers dig into your hips hard enough to leave marks neither of you will notice until tomorrow. His mouth falls open, a strangled groan caught in his throat, and his head drops forward against your collarbone.

“God,” he manages. “Oh, my god.”

You don’t move. Neither does he. Just both of you breathing, adjusting, feeling everything at twice the volume. The sun is hot on your back. His chest is hot against yours. The lounge chair groans under the shift of your weight, and somewhere a car door shuts, and a bird is going off in a tree, and the world is still happening out there, on the other side of the wall, while you sit in his lap and feel him pulse inside you.

His hands slide up your back. Slowly. Fingers spread wide, pulling you into him. He tilts his head up and kisses you—sloppy, stoned, all tongue and no coordination. You can taste the pineapple juice and the weed, and underneath it, just him.

“Move,” he whispers against your mouth. “Baby, please move.”

You do. Slow. A roll of your hips that barely counts as movement, but his whole body responds—hands tightening on your back, breath punching out of him, his hips lifting to meet yours like he couldn’t stop himself if he tried.

“Just like that,” he says. Barely words. More air than voice. “Fuck. Just like that.”

The pace stays slow because neither of you can make it anything else. The high has turned everything syrupy—your limbs, your thoughts, the rhythm between you. Every time you rise up and sink back down, it feels like it takes a full minute. Like time is moving through honey, and you’re both stuck in it, and neither of you wants out.

His mouth is everywhere. Your throat. Your collarbone. The swell of your breast. He’s not kissing so much as tasting—open-mouthed and wet and unfocused, dragging his lips across whatever skin he can reach. His hands are the same. Roaming. Restless. Up your spine, down your sides, gripping your ass, then back to your hips to pull you down harder.

“You feel—” He shakes his head against your chest. “I can’t. I can’t describe it. Everything is just—”

“I know,” you whisper. Because you do. Your skin feels like it’s humming. Every nerve is dialed up and spread out at the same time, like the weed took everything your body can feel and turned the volume all the way up.

You plant your hands on his chest and push yourself upright. His eyes open—heavy, glassy, red-rimmed—and he looks up at you with an expression so open it almost hurts. No filter. No composure. No, carefully constructed anything. Just Joe, high and sun-drunk and buried inside you, looking at you like you’re the only thing that exists.

“Don’t stop,” he says. His voice cracks on it, and he doesn’t care. “Don’t stop, don’t stop.”

You roll your hips again. Deeper this time. His head falls back against the chair, and his hands clamp down on your thighs—hard, bruising, holding on like the chair might tip and take both of you with it.

The lounge chair is creaking in a rhythm now. Steady and obscene, and you’d laugh about it if you could think about anything other than the way he feels inside you—thick and deep and hitting the exact right place every time your hips meet his.

“Baby,” he grits out. His stomach is tensing under your palms. His breathing has gone short and ragged. “Baby, I’m—”

“I know.” You lean down, mouth against his ear. “Me too.”

His arm locks around your waist. Pulls you flush against him so there’s nothing between you—chest to chest, skin to skin, sweat and sunscreen and chlorine. His hips start moving faster, taking over, fucking up into you with a desperation that doesn’t match anything else about this lazy, hazy afternoon.

“Look at me,” you say, and he does. Immediately. No hesitation. His eyes find yours and stay there—blown wide, barely any blue left, and so completely unguarded that it feels like seeing something sacred.

He comes first. You feel it—the stutter in his rhythm, the way his whole body locks up, his arm crushing you against him as he groans into your neck. Not loud. Just wrecked. A sound that starts in his chest and gets caught somewhere in his throat, and his hips jerk once, twice, and then he’s pressing as deep as he can get and holding you there.

That’s what tips you over. The feel of him letting go—the sound, the grip, the way his face looks when he’s not holding anything back. It rolls through you slow and devastating, starting low and spreading outward until your thighs are shaking against his hips and you’re gasping into his hair and everything goes white and warm and infinite.

———

The pool filter hums. The bird is still going off in that tree. The bass line from the neighbor’s yard has changed to something you almost recognize but can’t name and don’t care enough to try.

Neither of you moves.

His arms are still around you—loose now, heavy, his fingers barely twitching against your lower back. His face is buried in your neck, and his breathing is slow and damp against your skin. You can feel his heartbeat through his chest, still coming down, still faster than normal.

Your forehead is on his shoulder. Your legs are jelly. The sun is on your back, and his hands are on your skin, and you’re pretty sure if someone asked you your name right now, you’d get it wrong.

He speaks first. Barely.

“I can’t feel my legs.”

You laugh—weak, shaky, muffled against his shoulder. “Good.”

“No, like—” He shifts under you and winces. “I think the chair ate my spine.”

“That’s what you get for not going inside.”

“I’m not apologizing for that. I’m never apologizing for that.” His arms tighten. A lazy squeeze. “That was—”

He doesn’t finish. Just exhales. Long and slow and satisfied, the kind of breath that carries the last of the tension out with it.

You lift your head enough to look at him. He’s a mess. Hair going in four directions. Eyes barely open, so red they’re almost pink. There’s a mark on his shoulder that you don’t remember making and a sunburn starting across his nose.

He looks like the happiest person on the planet.

“What?” he says, catching you staring.

“Nothing.” You brush his hair back from his forehead. It’s damp and warm and sticks to your fingers. “You just look really good right now.”

“I look destroyed.”

“Same thing.”

He grins. Slow and crooked and so completely stoned. His hand comes up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, then stays there—palm against your cheek, thumb tracing your bottom lip.

“Stay,” he says.

“I’m literally on top of you.”

“No, I mean—” He blinks. Slow. “Out here. Don’t go inside yet. Just stay.”

You settle back against his chest. His arms fold around you again, easy, automatic, like his body already knows the shape of this. The lounge chair groans under the rearranging but holds. His chin rests on top of your head, and his thumb draws slow circles on your shoulder.

The sun is lower now. Not setting yet, but getting there—that golden hour light that makes everything look like a photograph. The water in the pool is still. The music has stopped. Even the bird has finally shut up.

“Hey,” he says after a while. His voice is thick with sleep.

“Hm?”

“The octopus thing.”

You smile against his chest. “What about it?”

“Three hearts.” His words are starting to slur, going slow and heavy at the edges. “But they only need one to crawl.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His arms tighten one more time. His mouth presses to the top of your head.

“One’s enough,” he says.

He’s asleep before you can answer. You close your eyes. The sun keeps going. You stay.

Bucky cleared his throat, shooting the kid his best reassuring grin. “Ten minutes is nothing, buddy. Trust me. Back in the day, I once showed up to basic training a whole hour late.”

Danny blinked. “Did you get yelled at?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Did you cry?”

“…No.”

Danny leaned back in his booster seat like a seasoned war general staring down a doomed campaign. “Ms. Lane’s gonna be mad.”

Bucky huffed a laugh as he pulled into the parking lot, spotting a scattering of parents still dropping kids off at the entrance. “Your teacher’s not gonna be upset you when I explain. You’re five. You’ve got diplomatic immunity.”

Danny shook his head slowly, solemnly.

“Not with me. You.”

Bucky paused mid-parallel-park, one hand still on the wheel, his brow furrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Danny didn’t answer. Just stared straight ahead at the entrance to Abbott Elementary like it was the last checkpoint before war. Like he was waiting for the music from The Godfather to start playing.

“You’ll see,” he said simply, grabbing his backpack straps like they were armor.

Bucky frowned as he helped him out of the car. “What’s with the dramatics, huh? She gonna throw a book at me?”

Danny shrugged. “She’s just… Ms. Lane.”

And with that, the kid marched ahead like a tiny soldier into the building, leaving Bucky trailing behind, wondering what the hell kind of teacher scared a kindergartner more than a DC-level supervillain.

He was about to find out.

Bucky followed Danny down the hallway, trying not to feel like he was walking into a parent-teacher trap. It smelled like crayons, wet sneakers, and disillusionment.

A cluster of teachers loitered near the front office—one of them with an armful of broken rulers, one loudly arguing with a printer, and one sipping coffee with the grace of a woman who’d already survived decades of nonsense.

He made a beeline for her. Elegant, composed, a pearl necklace that said “respect me,” and an aura of calm he hadn’t felt since his last decent nap.

“Ms. Lane?” Bucky asked, offering a smile that had gotten him out of more than one parking ticket. “Sorry for the delay, I was doing my sister a favor—her son, Danny? He’s in your class.”

The woman blinked up at him, unimpressed. He could practically hear the mental pen clicking as she filed him under Oh no, not another one.

“I am Mrs. Howard,” she said, calmly correcting Bucky like he'd just misquoted Scripture. “Ms. Lane is the other kindergarten teacher.”

Bucky opened his mouth to apologize, but she wasn’t done.

“She’s just down the hall. Room 3B.” Then came the pause. The head tilt. The look.

“Young man…” She gave him a once-over. Not flirtatious. Not judgmental. Just quietly disappointed—like he'd shown up to church in jeans.

Bucky blinked. “Yes, ma’am?”

Mrs. Howard offered a solemn shake of her head. “Good luck.”

And with that, she turned and glided off, coffee in hand, already done with his entire existence.

Bucky stood in the hallway for a second, frowning. How bad could this Ms. Lane be? What, was she going to quiz him on phonics or glare him into a coma?

The door was already open a crack, but Bucky still knocked first, because that’s what you did when walking into enemy territory.

There was no chaos. No screeching. No glue sticks flying through the air. Which was immediately suspicious for a kindergarten class.

Instead, he stepped inside to find… silence.

Twenty tiny heads bent over worksheets like they were prepping for the SATs. Crayons moved in eerie unison. No one screamed. No one licked a desk. A kid in the back raised his hand quietly—quietly—to ask if he could use the bathroom.

That was his first warning.

Because when were kindergarteners ever quiet?

Bucky hesitated in the doorway, feeling like he’d just stumbled into enemy territory. What kind of boot camp were they running in here?

Danny nudged him forward, but Bucky’s attention was already drifting to the figure at the whiteboard across the room—spine straight, skirt fitted, heels clicking as you scrawled a date across the board with clean, efficient precision. You didn’t look up. You didn’t need to.

You radiated authority from thirty feet away.

He half-expected to see gray hair, maybe glasses on a chain. Strict. Sharp. The kind of teacher whose name gets spoken in terrified whispers on playgrounds.

Then you turned around.

And Bucky’s mouth dried up instantly.

You weren’t old. You weren’t scary. You were stunning. Not just pretty—gorgeous. The kind of beautiful that hits you like a left hook. And you didn’t smile when you saw him. Of course you didn’t.

You just turned, one brow raised, assessing him like a problem you were deciding whether to fix or eliminate.

Bucky cleared his throat, defaulting to his most practiced, most lethal move: the smile. The one that had gotten him out of bar fights, jury duty, and once, weirdly, an IKEA return policy.

“Hi. Sorry—I’m Bucky Barnes,” he said, stepping inside. “Danny’s uncle. Rebecca asked me to drop him off today. It’s my first time—”

“Kids are supposed to be in class by eight,” you interrupted, voice calm, level, and sharp enough to slice drywall. “It’s eight fifteen.”

Right. Okay.

The smile faltered just a fraction.

You crossed your arms, waiting, watching him like you were unimpressed by his entire bloodline.

Danny, standing a little behind Bucky now, mumbled, “Told you so.”

Bucky sighed and shot him a look before stepping forward a bit, trying again with a little more Sergeant, a little less smug.

“Yeah,” Bucky said, holding onto the edge of that smile. “That’s on me. My sister got called in early, and I didn’t realize traffic near the school was… a situation.” He gave a little shrug, trying to soften the blow. “It’s only fifteen minutes.”

One kid—front row, bowl cut, way too invested—visibly winced for him as you took a step closer to him. Bucky barely caught the movement before he felt the weight of your stare.

“Danny,” you said, never breaking eye contact with Bucky, “you can go take your seat.”

Danny didn’t hesitate. He made a beeline for his desk like he was escaping a hostage situation, never once glancing back at his uncle.

You turned your full attention on Bucky then, your eyes sweeping him head to toe in a single motion so dry, so thoroughly unimpressed, it made his spine straighten instinctively.

“Fifteen minutes,” you said, voice still perfectly pleasant, “is long enough for a child to lose their morning routine. It’s long enough to miss foundational learning, to feel behind before they’ve even started the day. It’s long enough to build a habit of dismissing responsibility.”

Bucky opened his mouth.

You didn’t stop.

“Fifteen minutes late to school turns into fifteen minutes late to interviews. Fifteen minutes late to jobs. Fifteen minutes late to life. That might not seem like much to you, Mr. Barnes, but to a five-year-old trying to learn structure in an unpredictable world? It matters.”

A low “oooh” rippled through the class like someone had just witnessed a verbal assassination.

You turned your head—just slightly—and every single one of them went silent like a switch had been flipped.

Then you turned back to Bucky with a smile so polished it might’ve passed for genuine, if not for the gleam in your eye that said this isn’t over, and you will remember me.

“Have a good day, Mr. Barnes.”

He blinked. “I—”

“Have a good day, Mr. Barnes.”

His mouth shut. His posture shifted. He nodded, respectful this time. “Of course.”

You turned back to the whiteboard without another word, already moving on like he was just a bump in your perfectly structured morning.

As Bucky stepped out of the classroom, he glanced back over his shoulder one last time.

The kids were still silent.

You were still terrifying.

And now?

You were stuck in his head.

From then on, Bucky made a small but strategic adjustment to his week.

He got Rebecca to agree—grudgingly, at first—to let him handle school drop-off twice a week and pick-up three times. It was about being involved. Showing up. Being a solid, male figure in Danny’s life. A steady one. That’s what he told himself. And his sister.

And sure, maybe it was also because Danny’s kindergarten teacher was the most infuriatingly magnetic person Bucky had ever met.

Ms. Lane.

You.

Every time he stepped into that classroom—on time, now, thank you very much—you were there. Clipboard in hand, spine like steel, eyes that didn’t blink when he smiled at you like he’d invented it.

You never giggled. Never blushed. Never let him get so much as a twitch of a lip curl when he dropped a line like, “Careful, you keep looking at me like that and people are gonna think we’re in a PTA scandal.”

Nothing.

You’d just stare at him, arch a brow, and hand him a paper that said ‘Parent Reading Night RSVP – Required.’

At one point, he was pretty sure you gave Janine more reaction for sneezing glitter.

And the worst part?

The kids loved you. Danny adored you. Sure, you also partially terrified them all, but you had their respect. Which meant Bucky couldn’t even pretend to resent the way you owned every room you walked into. He just had to lean in, play along, keep showing up, and try not to let it get to him when you ended every conversation with a clinical “Have a good day, Mr. Barnes,” like he was some stranger in a waiting room.

So he tried harder.

He wore better jackets.

When Becs didn't have the time, he made Danny’s lunches look like they were packed by Pinterest moms.

He learned all the traffic patterns around Abbott to avoid being even one minute late.

He even tried calling you “Ms. Lane” in that flirty voice he’d once used on girls outside jazz clubs in Brooklyn.

You looked up from your lesson plans, dead-eyed, and said, “Are you choking, or is that how you normally talk?”

You were unshakable.

Immovable.

He was in hell.

Beautiful, dry, completely-uninterested-in-him hell.

And he couldn’t stop coming back.

The door creaked open just as you were nodding along to whatever Janine was rambling about—something involving manifesting healthy communication with her plants or possibly something about moon phases and exes.

You barely suppressed a sigh. You liked Janine in small doses. She was enthusiastic. Kind. Chronically incapable of taking a hint. And lately, she’d made it her personal mission to turn your life into a rom-com, complete with imaginary “will-they-won’t-they” tension and way too much commentary.

“See, what I’m saying is, if he keeps showing up early, that’s basically a love confession. And if you weren’t so emotionally repressed—”

The door opened and he walked in.

Bucky Barnes strolled into your classroom like he owned a portion of the lease. Jacket unzipped, sleeves rolled, hair an intentional mess. He gave Janine a familiar nod and then locked his gaze on you like he always did—like you were the only person in the room.

He smiled. That easy, smirky, I-know-you-hate-this-but-maybe-you-don’t kind of smile.

“Ladies,” he greeted smoothly. “Miss Teagues. Ms. Lane.”

You didn’t look up from your clipboard. “You’re early.”

“Yeah, figured I’d show up before the bell, for once.” He leaned against the edge of a desk, far too casual. “I hear being punctual really impresses a certain someone.”

You deadpanned, “My class is in the library for story time. They won’t be back for another twenty minutes.”

He grinned. “Guess I’ll just have to entertain myself then.”

“God, you two are so adorable,” Janine burst out, hands clasped like she’d just walked in on a Hallmark movie climax. “The way you flirt—so classic enemies to lovers. It’s giving Pride and Prejudice. But like, modern. And in a school.”

You didn’t even blink.

“Janine. Leave.”

You looked at her. Just looked. One long, unimpressed, soul-shearing glance.

“Right. Right, right, right,” she mumbled, fumbling for her tote bag. “I have… bulletin board stuff. Laminating. Paper… science.”

She took two steps backward, then paused, giving Bucky the most exaggerated wink a human could physically perform.

You didn’t react. You were too tired.

She nodded like she was passing the torch of your romantic destiny and literally backed out of the classroom like Homer Simpson into a hedge.

The door clicked shut.

Bucky exhaled dramatically, like he’d just survived a natural disaster. “She’s like a human glitter bomb. No warning. No escape.”

You didn’t look up from your clipboard. “She’s enthusiastic. It’s exhausting.”

He chuckled, low and knowing. “So I guess that means I’m not your type either.”

“You’re not glittery.”

“Oh, come on,” he said, stepping closer, that damn smile still lingering at the corners of his mouth. “I sparkle a little.”

You glanced at him then—slowly, flatly.

“You always this persistent?” you asked, voice dry as ever.

He tilted his head, hands sliding into his jacket pockets like he had all the time in the world. “You always this impossible to impress?”

You shrugged, tapping your pen once against the clipboard before setting it down. “Only with people who try this hard.”

He gave a low whistle, grinning like you’d just scored a point in a game he didn’t mind losing. “Damn, but I bet if I said I was here for the stimulating curriculum and not to see you, you'd kick me out.”

“I’d consider it,” you said coolly. “But I’m invested in Danny’s education.”

“Ouch.”

He stepped a little closer again, but not too close. Like he was testing a line with his toe, just to see if you’d swat him back or finally step over it yourself.

“I ever make you laugh, Ms. Lane?” he asked, real curiosity under the velvet of the question.

You raised an eyebrow. “Do you want a sticker if you do?”

His grin turned into something a little rougher. “I’d rather earn one of those gold stars I see on your discipline chart.”

You didn’t smile. Not quite. But there was a flicker in your eyes he caught anyway, and his grin deepened like he’d won something.

You turned back to your desk, flipping a folder open without looking at him again.

“You know,” he said, glancing around your empty classroom, “this is the quietest I’ve ever seen it. Kind of eerie. I was starting to think the kids were fake—like one of those training simulations.”

You gave a low, unimpressed hum. “If they were fake, they wouldn’t sneeze directly into my coffee when I’m not looking.”

He chuckled, eyeing your desk. “Is that why you’ve got three different mugs over there? Just in case?”

You didn't respond. But the faint upward curve of your mouth—blink-and-miss-it—was the closest he’d gotten to a laugh since the first day he met you.

It made something curl low in his stomach.

“I know I keep saying this, but I’m not just here to bug you,” Bucky said after a beat, his voice edging toward sincere despite the grin still playing at his mouth. “Danny likes it when I pick him up. Says it makes him feel cool when I show up.”

You looked up, just slightly. “He does like showing you off.”

Bucky’s smile softened, just a little. “Kid’s got good taste.”

Then his eyes slid back to you, the cocky glint returning. “Speaking of good taste—what are the odds I could convince you to grab coffee sometime?”

You gave him a long, slow blink. Not mean. Just… devastatingly neutral.

He added, “I’ll be on time. And I promise not to flirt with the barista.”

You opened your mouth—possibly to respond, possibly to destroy him—but before a single word could land, the bell rang.

Shrill. Loud. Unforgiving.

You sighed like the universe had interrupted you on purpose.

“Danny’ll be waiting for you outside the library,” you said, already picking up the clipboard again like this was over and done. “Probably trying to con the librarian into letting him borrow another comic book.”

Bucky hesitated. “So… is that a maybe on the coffee?”

You didn’t even look up. “It’s a ‘your nephew’s in the library.’”

He grinned, slow and crooked. “I’ll take that as a soft yes.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Take it however you want, Barnes. Just go get your kid.”

He turned toward the door, still smiling, still smug—but quieter now. And before stepping out, he glanced back one more time.

You were already back to your paperwork.

But you hadn’t said no.

Bucky was still smirking to himself as he stepped out of your classroom and into the hallway—clearly riding high off your non-answer like it was a personal victory.

And, as luck would have it, he walked directly into Principal Ava Coleman’s path.

She had sunglasses on indoors and a folder she clearly hadn’t opened all week tucked under one arm.

“Good afternoon,” he said politely, offering her a nod and a half-smile.

Ava turned so fast it was like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. “Oh it is now,” she said, eyes raking over him so blatantly Bucky actually paused mid-step.

She watched him until he rounded the corner, then turned on a heel and bee-lined straight for your classroom, heels clicking like trouble.

She leaned into your doorway with no regard for your personal space or your peace of mind.

You didn’t even look up as she strolled through your door, “Girl.”

You kept sorting worksheets. “Ava.”

She gave you a look like she just walked in on free tickets to a concert and front-row seats.

“Now that is the finest white man I’ve seen this whole year,” she said, plopping down into one of the tiny student chairs with zero grace and maximum chaos.

You glanced up, deadpan. “It’s March.”

Ava rolled her eyes. “I meant school year. Don’t try and be smart with me.”

You arched a brow. “Wasn’t trying.”

She pointed a perfectly manicured nail toward the door. “You better quit playing with that man’s heart before I mess around and pull rank.”

You blinked once. “I’m not playing with anything.”

Ava smirked. “Girl, please. You’ve got him showing up early on purpose. That man’s in here more than Gregory and he actually works here.”

You didn’t respond right away. Just gathered your things slowly, expression unreadable.

Then: “He’s annoying.”

Ava stood, smooth as silk. “Mm-hm. And yet he’s got you so annoyed you keep your lipstick fresh after lunch.”

You glanced at her, unimpressed.

“I’m just saying,” Ava continued, striding around the room like she owned it (she technically did, unfortunately), “if you don’t take him, I will. That man is gonna give me some fine, emotionally stable mixed babies.”

You looked at her. Just looked. Slightly disgusted, mostly exhausted.

“Ava. Seriously?”

“What?” she asked, clearly unbothered. “You’re the one over here acting like you don’t notice. Always so uptight, hair all sleeked back like you’re about to defend someone in court. Girl, this is a school.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Ava, what do you want?”

“I’m going out tonight,” she said, waving a perfectly manicured hand like this was some kind of decree. “Clubbing. Drinks. Vibes. You’re coming.”

You didn’t even flinch. “Absolutely not.”

She pointed. “You’re coming.”

“No.”

“I’m your boss. You’re forced to. It’s in your contract.”

“It’s really not.”

“Also,” she added, shrugging, “you’re the closest thing to an equal I’ve got in this place. So you’re coming for moral support.”

You finally looked up, full eye contact. “Ava. No.”

She pointed at you. “Nine o’clock. I’m texting you the address. Now go home, let your hair down and let your scalp breathe for once. Wear something that says ‘I’m open to bad decisions.’ Not ‘I’m about to read you your Miranda rights.’”

You opened your mouth to decline again, but she was already halfway down the hall, yelling something about “energy healing” and “pre-gaming with affirmations.”

You sighed.

Loudly.

“You gotta stop lookin’ like someone stole your dog,” Sam said, nudging his shoulder as they walked toward the club entrance. “You’re killin’ the vibe.”

Bucky shot him a look. “You dragged me out.”

“I’m saving your sad, one-woman-man life,” Sam said. “You need to remember other women exist, Buck. The world’s bigger than that kindergarten teacher who makes you sweat like you’re back in basic.”

Bucky sighed, scanning the line outside the club. “You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Nope.” Sam clapped him on the back. “C’mon. Maybe the actual girl of your dreams is in here.”

“Already found her.”

“You are so damn whipped, man,” Sam muttered.

Inside, the club was all neon glow and bass-heavy music. The air pulsed with energy and cheap cologne. Bucky kept his hands in his jacket pockets, jaw tense as Sam tried to steer him toward the bar.

And then he saw you.

You were standing near a tall cocktail table, back to him, dress hugging every curve like it was tailored by sin itself. That deep burgundy color against your skin, the sheer lace sleeves, the neckline that made his mouth go dry—fuck.

It was like the air got sucked right out of the building.

He stopped walking. Just… stopped.

Sam bumped into him. “What? Don’t tell me you already gave up—”

Bucky lifted a hand, pointing without looking away. “That’s her.”

Sam followed his gaze. “That’s Ms. Lane?”

Bucky nodded, dumbfounded. “Yeah.”

“She teaches kindergarten?”

“Yeah.”

Sam stared a moment longer. “I’ve never wanted to re-enroll in school so bad in my life.”

Bucky’s jaw worked. You hadn’t noticed him yet. You were talking to someone—smiling, even, which was a rare enough sight that it nearly took him out.

Then he saw who was beside you.

“Oh. Ava’s here too.”

Sam turned. “Who’s Ava?”

“The principal.”

Sam blinked. “You’re telling me the tall one with the long hair and wearing that is the principal?”

“Yep.”

“I’m calling Sarah,” Sam said, already reaching for his phone. “We’re transferring my nephews.”

Bucky didn’t respond. His eyes were locked on you—his teacher, his girl, his quiet obsession—laughing in a club with a dress that made his palms sweat. All those weeks of buttoned-up shirts and sarcastic dismissals, and now here you were, looking like a damn vision.

Sam nudged him. “You gonna stand there drooling or go say something?”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“I think I’m in love.”

Sam rolled his eyes hard. “God, you’re so dramatic.”

But Bucky didn’t hear him. You’d turned just enough for your eyes to start sweeping the room, and the moment you looked in his direction—

He knew you saw him.

And he knew everything was about to change.

The club pulsed around you—sweaty, crowded, way too loud—and you were already regretting everything.

You weren’t the kind of woman who went out on Friday nights. You were the kind who wrote parent emails about glitter-related injuries and kept a drawer full of emergency dry-erase markers.

The kind who dodged PTA moms like landmines and maintained a firm no-nonsense reputation because the moment you didn’t, someone’s child would be climbing the bookshelf like it was Everest.

But here you were. Burgundy dress, heels too high, lip gloss too shiny, sipping on a drink that tasted vaguely like regret and melted candy.

Ava was beaming beside you, obviously thriving. “Now this is what I’m talking about,” she said, swaying to the music. “You, me, outfits that should be illegal. This is the energy we need.”

You took a sip, trying not to look like you wanted to crawl out of your own skin. “I already want to go home.”

“You always want to go home. You're, like, emotionally married to your couch.”

You opened your mouth to reply, but then Ava froze—gasped like someone had pulled the fire alarm—and grabbed your arm with enough force to startle you.

“Girl. Girl. You will not believe who just walked in right now.”

You frowned, confused. “What—”

“Look.”

You followed her eye line. The club suddenly felt ten degrees hotter.

Bucky Barnes stood at the entrance, taller than anyone else around him, leather jacket open over a dark henley, hair tousled, mouth set in that stupid half-smirk like he knew he didn’t belong there and didn’t care. His blue eyes scanned the crowd like he was looking for someone.

And then they landed on you.

Oh no.

No.

“This is not happening right now,” you muttered, nearly tripping over your own words. “I have got to get out of here.”

You turned, already strategizing your exit route, but Ava threw an arm out in front of you like she was stopping traffic.

“Girl, forget you. Look at that man’s fine ass friend.”

You blinked, turning your head just enough to catch him—Bucky’s friend. Broad shoulders. Clean-cut. Smiling already like he knew how this worked. His eyes were on Ava like she was a problem he was already planning to solve.

“Hell yes,” Ava said. “That’s my man. Manifested. Claimed.”

You were too busy trying to make your brain reboot. Because Bucky was still watching you. He hadn’t looked away once. Like you were the only person in the club. His mouth curved slightly. Not cocky. Not playful. Just… locked in. Sure.

And damn him—you felt it. That same heat in your chest you pretended didn’t exist every time he came to pick up Danny. Except now, there was no desk between you. No escape.

And then, the inevitable.

The two pairs drifted toward each other. Like planets colliding. Like destiny had a sick sense of humor.

It was Ava who broke the silence first.

“Hi,” she said to Bucky’s friend, offering a hand like she expected it to be kissed. “Ava Coleman. Principal. Administrator. Visionary. And I know you’re about to buy me a drink.”

Sam blinked once, clearly amused. “Sam Wilson. Nice to meet you, Ms. Visionary.”

“Mmhm. I know.” Ava looped her arm through his like it was nothing. “Let’s go, future Mr. Coleman.”

You turned, shocked. “Ava—”

She didn’t even glance back. “You’re on your own, counselor. Don’t mess this up.”

And with that, she strutted away with Sam trailing behind her, clearly both confused and deeply invested.

You turned back to find Bucky still standing there.

Still watching you.

And now it was just the two of you.

No classroom.

No clipboard.

No rules.

Just you. And him. And the truth you’d been ignoring.

He smiled.

And you suddenly couldn’t remember a single reason why you ever told yourself he wasn’t dangerous.

Bucky stood there for a second longer, drinking you in.

The lace sleeves. The curve of your waist. The neckline that made his brain stop working for a solid five seconds. It wasn’t just the dress—it was you in it. Out of your usual uniform. Out of your guarded shell. Still composed, but softer somehow. Looser.

“You look—” he started, voice low.

“Hot?” you cut in, arching an eyebrow, mouth twitching just enough to betray your awareness.

He laughed, quiet, head tipping slightly. “I was gonna say amazing. But hot works too.”

You rolled your eyes and took a slow sip of your drink to hide the way your pulse jumped.

Bucky stepped closer, just enough to speak without raising his voice. “I didn’t think you went to places like this.”

“I don’t. Ava dragged me.”

You glanced past him, where Ava was already leaned over the bar with Sam looking both impressed and slightly alarmed.

“And now she’s dragging him,” you murmured.

Bucky followed your gaze and let out a soft chuckle. “Should we check on them?”

“No,” you said instantly. “Let natural selection take its course.”

He grinned again—less smug this time. Quieter. More real. The kind of smile that said he’d missed seeing you. The kind that made your breath catch a little deeper than you wanted to admit.

You took another sip, letting the pause stretch, then tilted your head at him.

The music pounded around you. People brushed past. The lights shifted.

But it felt like everything stilled between you and him.

“I thought maybe, outside the classroom... you’d stop pretending I’m not getting to you.”

Your grip on your drink tightened slightly.

You didn’t look away.

You should have.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you held his gaze like it was a contest. Like you were daring him to blink first. Your chin stayed lifted, eyes steady, but something behind them flickered—just for a second.

Bucky saw it. That crack in your wall. And God help him, it made his pulse jackhammer in his throat.

You tilted your head slightly, that same biting calm in your voice. “You really think you’re getting to me?”

He stepped in closer, slow, careful—not touching you, but close enough that the heat rolled off him like static. “No,” he said. “I know I am.”

Your throat worked on a swallow you tried to hide, but Bucky clocked it.

You were still composed. Still wrapped in that hard-earned edge of professionalism, like even now, in heels and lace, you could throw a behavioral chart at him and end the whole thing.

But your body betrayed you.

The shift of your weight. The way your breath hitched when he looked at your mouth.

You didn’t push him away.

“You always this arrogant?” you asked, voice like silk-wrapped steel.

“Only when I’m right.”

You opened your mouth, probably to put him in his place again—but then the music shifted, a heavy, pulsing bass dropping in from the DJ booth. A sea of people moved on the dance floor, but the space between you and him felt small. Pressurized.

His eyes dipped to your lips, then back up.

“Dance with me,” he said.

You blinked. “What?”

His smirk curled slowly. “You heard me.”

You scoffed, already shaking your head. “I don’t dance.”

“Sure you do. You just don’t want to with me.”

“Accurate.”

“But you will.” He leaned in, voice brushing the shell of your ear now. “Because I’m asking. And because for once, I don’t think you want to walk away.”

You hated how that made your stomach flip. Hated it even more when he held out a hand—not cocky, not smug. Just… waiting.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

Then, slowly, you slid your hand into his.

And that was all he needed.

Big win. Massive win.

He tugged you gently into the swell of bodies, his hand warm against yours, his other settling lightly on your waist. And when he pulled you close—closer than you’d ever let him stand before—you didn’t pull back.

You danced.

At first, stiff. Calculated. Like you were trying to make it not mean something.

But Bucky? He knew how to move. Knew how to guide without pushing, how to lean in just enough to make your head spin. Every time your hips brushed, every time his hand slipped an inch lower on your back, you felt it in your knees.

You hated him for being good at this.

You hated yourself more for liking it.

And when his lips brushed your ear again, breath hot and voice low, you barely heard the words over the music:

“Just admit it.”

You swallowed, refusing to answer.

He smiled against your skin.

He already knew.

You didn’t answer.

Couldn’t.

Because something inside you snapped the second his breath touched your neck. And the next thing you knew, your fingers were gripping his wrist, dragging him behind you through the crowd with single-minded purpose. Not speaking. Not thinking. Just moving.

Bucky didn’t ask where you were going.

Didn’t need to.

He followed like a man being led to his own damn salvation.

You found the restroom near the back—single occupancy, thank God—and yanked the door open, pulling him in after you. The lock clicked behind you just as his mouth crashed into yours.

It wasn’t gentle.

There was no space for that anymore.

You kissed like you’d been waiting weeks to do it—months actually. All teeth and tongue and heat, his hands gripping your waist like he still couldn’t believe you were real. You pressed him back against the wall, palms flat on his chest, lips dragging along his jaw, biting at the curve of his neck just to feel him shudder.

His hands roamed—your waist, your hips, sliding lower, greedy, hungry, completely unrestrained. His mouth returned to yours, catching your gasp mid-kiss as he backed you against the sink now, one hand curling around the back of your neck, the other on your thigh, tugging it up around his waist.

“You sure?” he murmured against your mouth, breath ragged.

You answered by dragging his lower lip between your teeth.

“Fuck,” he breathed.

He kissed you harder.

Sloppier.

Desperate.

The kind of kiss that said he didn’t care about the lipstick smudging or the way your dress rode up or how his belt buckle knocked against the porcelain edge of the sink. It was all teeth and moans and hands gripping too tight.

Your fingers slid under his jacket, then his shirt, pushing it up, needing to feel skin—hot, firm, real. You ran your nails over his stomach and he groaned like it physically hurt to be touched that way.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me,” he panted.

You gripped his belt, pulling his hips flush to yours. “You’ve got a pretty good idea what you’re doing to me too.”

He looked down at you like he was already wrecked—and still starving.

Like this wasn’t enough.

Like it was never going to be enough.

Then suddenly Bucky let out a breathless laugh, eyes darting around the cramped bathroom as he made sure to lock the door behind you. “In here? Really?”

You smirked, stepping backward until your back met the cool tile wall, the sink brushing your hip. “What?” you said, voice teasing, eyes locked on his. “You’ve never fucked in a public bathroom before?”

He tilted his head, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Have you?”

You shrugged, that slow, calculated way that always made him insane. “First time for everything.”

He stared at you for a beat, eyes dark and full of heat—then moved.

He was on you in a flash, hands braced on either side of your head, mouth finding yours again in a kiss that tasted like restraint snapping in half. It was messy, all tongue and teeth, lips crashing together.

Your hands threaded into his hair, tugging, nails scraping against his scalp as he kissed you harder, deeper, needier. His body pressed into yours, firm and unrelenting, and you gasped when you felt the hard line of his cock against your thigh.

Then he dropped.

Literally—dropped to his knees, palms dragging down your sides with reverence and greed.

“Bucky—”

“Shh,” he murmured, voice rough as his eyes flicked up to meet yours. “Let me.”

His hands pushed your dress up slowly, worshipfully, bunching the burgundy fabric around your hips. He hooked a finger into your panties, pulled them to the side, and let out a soft, guttural groan.

“Jesus Christ…”

Then he dove in.

His mouth pressed against your cunt like he was starving, tongue parting your folds with a groan that vibrated against you. You cried out—soft, sharp—your hands flying to his hair again as he started to lick, slow and purposeful. Long, wet strokes that made your knees go weak.

One hand clutched the sink for balance, the other fisted in his hair as he sucked your clit into his mouth, groaning like you were the best thing he’d ever tasted.

You bit your lip to keep quiet—pointless, really. Your hips bucked against his face and he held you there, arms locking around your thighs, face buried between your legs like he had no intention of coming up for air.

“You taste so fucking good,” he growled, voice muffled as he licked deeper, tongue fucking into you before circling your clit again with maddening precision. “Been thinking about this since the first day I saw you.”

You choked on a gasp, head tipping back, the edge already building—too fast, too strong.

And he wasn’t stopping.

Not for anything.

Your grip tightened in his hair as Bucky’s tongue dragged a slow, torturous circle around your clit, only to suck it between his lips with a low, obscene groan that vibrated through your entire body.

“Fuck—” you gasped, breath hitching as your thighs threatened to close around his head.

He wasn’t having it.

His left hand braced against your hip, holding you open, steady, while his right slid up your thigh—palm rough, fingers sure—until he reached your slit. One thick finger slipped inside, slow, dragging along your walls as he moaned like he felt it too.

“You’re so tight,” he breathed against your cunt. “So wet for me. This pretty pussy’s been waiting for me, huh?”

You shuddered, jaw slack, hips rolling down onto his face and hand like your body knew exactly what it needed. He pumped the finger slowly, deliberately, curling just right to make your knees buckle. Then he added a second—stretching you, filling you—and the heat in your belly twisted hard.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he murmured, eyes flicking up to watch your face as his fingers curled deep inside you. “Let me hear you, baby.”

His mouth returned to your clit, licking in messy, desperate circles while his fingers fucked into you faster—his rhythm syncing perfectly with your shaking body. Every thrust hit that spot inside you with aching precision, your thighs trembling as your moans broke free.

You weren’t composed now.

You weren’t silent.

You were his, unraveling in his mouth, pulsing around his fingers, the world narrowing to the slick sounds of your body and the obscene groans he made as he devoured you like it was his last meal.

“I could do this all night,” he panted, fingers curling hard as your hips jerked. “You gonna come for me? Gonna soak my fuckin’ fingers?”

You couldn’t even form words—only nod, only whimper, only clutch at his hair and the edge of the sink like you might float away if you let go.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he growled, tongue flicking your clit fast and filthy now, fingers pounding into you. “Come on my face.”

Your body clenched, the pressure snapping like a whip crack—your orgasm crashing over you so hard you cried out, hips shaking, thighs locked tight around his head. He groaned, licking you through it, fingers still working you until you were whining, pushing weakly at his shoulder.

He finally pulled back, mouth and chin glistening, chest heaving.

He looked wrecked.

And proud.

Bucky stood, chest rising hard, his jaw clenched like he was fighting off every urge he’d ever had. His mouth was slick with you, his fingers still glistening, and he looked down at you like you were the only thing tethering him to sanity.

Then he cursed.

“Shit—” he growled, hand dragging down his face. “I don't have a condom.”

You blinked, still breathless, still shaking.

Then you reached for his belt.

You pulled him close with both hands, grabbed his face, and kissed him hard—tongue sweeping into his mouth, tasting yourself all over him.

He groaned, loud and broken, his hands flying to your waist, gripping tight.

“I’m on birth control,” you panted against his lips. “It’s fine.”

He froze for half a second.

Then everything snapped.

He spun you around, bent you over the sink, and shoved your dress up around your waist again with a growl that sounded like it was ripped from his chest.

“Fuck, I’ve wanted this,” he muttered, dragging his pants down just enough to free himself—his cock hard, thick, flushed at the tip.

You looked at him over your shoulder, eyes dark, daring. “Then take it.”

He didn’t hesitate.

He grabbed your hip with one hand, the other guiding himself to your soaked entrance. He groaned when he felt how wet you still were, and then he thrust in—hard, deep, one sharp movement that made both of you cry out.

“Jesus—” he bit out, buried to the hilt inside you.

You gasped, your hands bracing against the sink, your head dropping between your arms as he pulled back and slammed into you again, rougher this time, like all the control he’d been clinging to shattered in one thrust.

His grip on your hips was bruising.

His rhythm? Relentless.

“Look at you,” he gritted, hips snapping into you again and again, cock dragging perfectly over your walls. “All that attitude. All that sass. And now you’re fucking dripping for me.”

You moaned, arching your back, pushing back onto him. “Shut up and fuck me.”

That did it.

He pounded into you, deep and rough, grunting with every thrust, each one sharper than the last. Your hands scrambled for grip, one of your heels slipping as he rutted into you like he was trying to claim you, pull every sound out of your throat that you’d refused to give him in daylight.

“Been thinking about this since the first time you called me Barnes like it was a threat,” he growled, one hand fisting in your hair to pull your head back. “And now you’re letting me fuck you in a goddamn club bathroom?”

You gasped, eyes fluttering. “Shut up.”

He fucked you harder.

“You love this,” he growled in your ear. “You love the way I feel inside you. Admit it.”

Your nails scraped the porcelain.

He yanked you upright against his chest, his cock still buried inside you, pounding you with punishing, perfect rhythm.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice ragged. “Say you wanted this.”

You moaned, nearly sobbed. “I—fuck—I wanted this—”

He groaned, low and guttural, lips dragging over your shoulder and hand drifting to your neck.

His hand on your throat wasn’t choking—just holding. Just claiming. His mouth was at your ear, breath hot, voice wrecked. You were bent over the sink but upright now, your chest flush to his, and your eyes—

He made sure they were on the mirror.

“Look,” Bucky growled, fucking into you hard enough to make the sink creak. “Look what I’m doing to you.”

Your gaze caught the reflection—and fuck, it was obscene. Your lips parted, cheeks flushed, sweat-damp hair clinging to your temples. His broad chest against your back, one hand gripping your hip, the other still around your throat like he was holding you steady so you couldn’t escape how good it felt.

Every thrust slammed into you from behind, deep and fast, his cock stretching you wide, hitting that perfect spot over and over until your legs were shaking.

You whimpered, unable to hold back anymore.

“That’s it,” he rasped. “Let me hear you. No classroom. No clipboard. Just you. And me.”

Your head tipped back onto his shoulder as his thrusts grew rougher, deeper, fucking you in front of the mirror like he wanted you to remember this—to see exactly what he turned you into.

“I can feel you squeezing me,” he panted. “So fuckin’ tight. You gonna come for me?”

You moaned, body tensing, orgasm coiling hard in your belly, your thighs trembling, the pressure too much.

His fingers moved down your stomach, finding your clit, rubbing tight, fast circles as he slammed into you.

“Come for me,” he growled into your ear. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

You shattered.

It was sharp, messy, loud—your cry bouncing off the bathroom walls as your pussy clenched around him, body locking up, hips jerking uncontrollably. You came so hard you saw white, barely able to hold yourself up as your orgasm rolled over you in crashing waves.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Bucky grunted, and then he lost it.

His rhythm stuttered, a broken gasp tearing from his throat as he buried himself deep one last time and came inside you, hips jerking, breath ragged against your neck.

He held you tight, forehead pressed to your shoulder, still inside you, both of you shaking and panting, sweat-slicked and spent.

The mirror caught everything.

Two people undone.

Two people who couldn’t take it back.

And neither of you wanted to.

The room was quiet now, save for your breathing and the soft hum of music bleeding through the walls.

You blinked slowly at the mirror, still bent over the sink, your hair mussed, dress bunched around your hips, Bucky’s body heavy and warm behind you. He was still buried inside you, both of you barely recovered.

He exhaled, lips brushing your shoulder, then your neck. “Well, damn.”

You let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh if you weren’t still coming down from the best orgasm of your life.

He finally pulled out with a low groan, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as he did, and then helped smooth your dress back down over your thighs. His touch lingered just a second too long, like he wasn’t ready to let go of you just yet.

You straightened, turned slowly to face him, your expression mostly neutral—but your eyes were warmer than before. He saw it. He always did.

Bucky leaned back against the sink beside you, tucking himself back into his jeans with practiced ease, still watching you with that lazy post-orgasm smirk.

“So,” he said, running a hand through his hair, still slightly breathless. “Now that we’ve gotten the hard part out of the way…”

You arched a brow, lips twitching. “That was the hard part?”

He grinned. “Figuratively. And literally.”

You rolled your eyes, turning to check yourself in the mirror. Your lipstick was gone. Your cheeks were flushed. Your neck had the faint outline of his stubble. You looked exactly how you felt: fucked out and dangerously close to letting him in.

You dabbed at your collarbone with a paper towel.

He watched you quietly for a second, then said, softer now, “Come on, baby. Just one date.”

You froze.

He didn’t miss it.

“One date,” he said again, stepping a little closer, voice still low. “Not the club. Not the classroom. Just you and me. Dinner. Or drinks. Hell, coffee if that’s all I get.”

You looked at him, really looked.

He was flushed, eyes bright, hopeful in a way he hadn’t been in weeks. There was something real behind that smirk now. Something open. Unprotected.

You should’ve shut him down.

Should’ve said something cold. Dismissive.

But instead, you leaned in—kissed him, slow this time, less teeth, more tongue. Just a whisper of what could happen again if you said yes.

When you pulled back, your lips barely brushed his.

“You’re gonna regret asking me out, Mr. Barnes.”

He grinned.

“Not a chance, Ms. Lane.”