Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
𓏲ּ𝄢 read between the lines | part one: first impressions (the meet-bad)
summary: when dean di laurentis gets signed up for a literature class as a joke gone too far, the last thing he expects is to be paired with the girl who actually reads for fun; the same girl who's spent the last two years convinced he's as shallow as everyone says he is. But Pride and Prejudice has a way of getting under people's skin, and first impressions were never meant to last.
⤷ dean di laurentis x englishmajor!reader
series masterlist
The beat up Penguin Classics edition of Austen’s Pride and Prejudice sat cracked open in your lap, its imperfect beauty spilling out of the pages that formed it. While someone may have only seen an ugly cracked spine, folded edges and pages that were slowly turning yellow, you knew better.
You knew things that rested under the surface, such as how its annotated margins, scribbled over in different colored pens, were what sparked your love for literature when the book was lent to you by your grandfather. Or how the dried flower you had been using as a bookmark for over half a decade was the only thing that reminded you of the fact that despite time passed, important memories were never forgotten.
Dr. Macaulay, the class’ professor, had announced on the subject’s portal that every student was obligated to show up to class five minutes early and get their books out, as she wanted to observe the group of students right after entering.
Although you should’ve utilized the extra five minutes to organise all of the annotating supplies that lay on your desk, your gaze was transfixed on the novel in front of you. Tearing your eyes away from it felt like punishment, like a consequence for a bad action. You read and reread Darcy’s confession hoping, one day, a man would show the same level of affection towards you. It was a silly childhood dream, one that you’d been imagining ever since you read it for the first time, and a dream you’d carry in your heart forever. The class whispered a silent promise, you were not the only one dreaming, and that was why you’d been so eager to register for it.
There were fifteen students in the class, including you, who were already seated and had their copies of Pride and Prejudice opened on their desks. Dr. Macaulay came into the room, pulling up the sleeves of her fitted shirt. Her charcoal pinstripe trousers reminded you of the ones your aunt used to wear to Christmas dinners, and you could’ve sworn you’d seen the brown leather boots she was wearing at a store last week.
“Hello, class. My name is Dr. Macaulay and welcome to Courtship and the English novel. As I’m sure you all understood from the message I posted, this course examines Elizabeth’s prejudice and Darcy’s pride not as separate flaws, but rather–”
Her opening statement was interrupted by someone shutting the door, and the sound of footsteps reverberating around the classroom. You turned your head to see the person, presumably a student, who had entered the room, and your jaw practically fell to the floor.
The new student was Dean Di Laurentis, the blond campus playboy. You’d heard all about him and his reputation, how he addressed himself as “Six Flags” and avoided committed relationships as if they were a pest. How he partied more than he studied, and how hockey and alcohol were practically his only personality traits.
“By all means, barge into the classroom late. Are you willing to sit down and let us continue, or will you just stand there for the entirety of the lesson, Mr. Di Laurentis?” she deadpanned, crossing her arms over her chest.
In unison, the class erupted into a fit of chuckles disguised as coughs, which the professor didn’t condemn by any means. Dean’s eyes widened, and he made his way over to a seat that was three spaces away from you. When he finally sat down, you couldn’t help but roll your eyes in frustration.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The Wednesday before registration day
Loud music echoed through the walls, the smell of cheap alcohol and weed surfacing as the house’s highlighted scent. Bodies occupied every inch of the hockey house, except for the space between the beer pong table and the circle of people that surrounded its players.
“There is no way you’ll beat me at beer pong, Logan,” Dean assured, shaking his head.
Logan moved from where he’d previously been talking to Dean to an end of the beer pong table. “You’re very full of yourself for someone so drunk, D. I’m sure you won’t want to take a swing at me in your current state.”
“I’m not very full of myself, I’m adequately full of myself. And to prove that to you, I wanna start a wager,” Dean told Logan as he stepped towards the opposite end of the table.
New red cups were being placed in front of them, their glossy texture complementing that of the alcohol bottles and contrasting the matte finish of people’s clothes. For inexperienced freshmen, the environment would most certainly be overwhelming, sweat and cologne sticking to the walls.
“A wager, huh? What would it be, exactly?”
“The loser gets his elective chosen for him by the winner, Tucker and Garrett.”
Before the game even began, a sorority girl from the circle who had made out with Dean at the start of the party went up to Dean and kissed him. Logan raised his brows, perplexed by the sudden action, and Dean’s only response was ‘Six flags, baby’.
The bet ended up favoring Logan due to Dean’s pathetic coordination, acquired through numerous shots of mixed vodka and tequila, which led to him being the group’s prey. While looking for electives, Garrett spotted a name that made him audibly laugh out loud.
“Guys, look at this one. Courtship and the English novel,” he said while pointing at the screen.
Tucker looked down at the screen, and a mischievous grin spread across his face. “Shit, this is perfect”
“I guess Daddy Dean has finally found his newest course,” Logan announced, unable to refrain from smiling.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
“As I was saying before I was interrupted, this class explores how pride and prejudice function, not as isolated flaws that pertain to a single character, but rather as a dynamic– how first impressions, once set in stone, resist revision and how growth for one of our two main characters is only possible through the other,” Dr. Macaulay explained, scanning the classroom.
“What you may not know, is that the entirety of this class’ grade is determined by a term-long project, in which you’ll have to examine how your assigned character is changed by your partner’s and argue what caused the shift while showing textual evidence. You’ll have to hand in a co-written essay a month before you present your answers in front of the class. Any questions?”
“Do we get to pick the pairs, or will you make them?” a red haired girl, who sat in the second row, asked.
Dr. Macaulay scribbled unknown words on a sheet of paper before turning her attention to the students again. “I’ve made them just now. When I call out your name, you’ll have to sit next to your partners, and I’ll assign each of you a character,” she responded.
She named pairs one by one, and your fear grew every time she didn’t mention your name or Dean’s. You’d been incapable of holding back from glancing at him a few times, his blond hair shining under the light of the lecture hall.
“Di Laurentis, you’re with her,” Dr. Macaulay stated, pointing at you. “She’s been my best student since freshman year, and probably the only one who’ll tame you. You’re on Darcy and Elizabeth”
When the words rolled from her tongue, your whole body tensed. Turning your head to look at the boy, you sighed in defeat.
The private plane had arrived later than expected, throwing off what was supposed to be a smooth arrival and turning it into a rushed, slightly chaotic scramble through the small island airport.
The air inside the terminal was warm and humid, clinging to your skin the moment you stepped inside, and between waiting on luggage and navigating through scattered groups of arriving tourists, your patience had already worn thin before you even made it outside.
By the time you and your best friend Kate finally made it to the car waiting outside, you were both exhausted in a way that felt disproportionate to how little you had actually done. The driver greeted you politely, already reaching for your bags, while you slid into the backseat with a tired groan and let your head fall against the leather seat.
Kate followed right after you, immediately kicking off her shoes and leaning her head back with a long exhale.
“I swear,” you muttered, staring out the tinted window as the airport lights faded behind you, “if I hear one more person say ‘welcome to paradise,’ I’m going to lose it.”
Kate let out a quiet laugh beside you, closing her eyes as if she might fall asleep right there.
The car pulled away smoothly, and almost immediately, the landscape outside began to change. The airport buildings disappeared behind clusters of palm trees, and suddenly the road opened up into something quieter, more remote, as if the world itself was slowing down around you.
The Maldives at night looked almost unreal.
Tall palm trees lined the roads, their leaves swaying gently in the warm breeze, while soft golden lights wrapped around their trunks and hung from branches like floating lanterns. Every so often, glimpses of the ocean appeared between the trees, reflecting faint ribbons of moonlight across its surface.
Even through your exhaustion, you couldn’t ignore how beautiful it was.
The tension in your shoulders loosened slightly as the air conditioning cooled your skin, and you shifted just enough to rest more comfortably against the seat.
“I might forgive the airport for ruining my life,” you said finally, watching the scenery pass by.
Kate hummed in agreement without opening her eyes.
The drive to the resort didn’t take long, but it felt long enough for your body to start drifting somewhere between awake and not quite asleep. Soft music played quietly through the car speakers, blending with the sound of tires against smooth pavement and the city around you.
By the time the driver slowed to a stop, your phone read just past midnight.
The moment the car door opened, warm night air spilled inside, wrapping around you instantly. You stepped out slowly, followed by Kate, and both of you paused without even saying anything.
The resort in front of you didn’t look real at first.
It stretched out like something from a dream, with glowing pathways lined in soft amber lights and tall palm trees framing every direction you looked. Lanterns in shades of gold, pink, and soft blue hung from branches, reflecting off infinity pools that blurred seamlessly into the ocean beyond.
Your suitcases were wheeled behind you as a staff member led the way down a stone pathway surrounded by tropical plants and softly lit gardens.
Your rooms were side by side, each with a small private porch that faced out toward the water.
The moment your bags were set down inside, you and Kate collapsed onto the outdoor chairs like your bodies had finally given up pretending to function.
Kate stretched her arms out dramatically, letting her head fall back.
“I think I’ve reached maximum exhaustion,” she said.
You let out a tired laugh, leaning back in your chair.
“That was, like, three hours of travel,” you replied.
Kate opened one eye to look at you. “And?”
You smiled slightly, shaking your head.
After a few seconds of comfortable silence, Kate turned her head toward you. “Are you going to bed?”
You considered it for a moment, glancing toward your room where the soft lighting spilled out through the open door. Your body was definitely tired, but your mind wasn’t ready to settle yet. There was still too much energy left in you, too much restlessness from the long day.
“I think I’m going to get a drink first,” you said finally.
Kate nodded immediately, like she had expected that answer.
“Okay, I’m going to pass out then. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
You stood up, smiling faintly. “Goodnight.”
After Kate disappeared into her room, the resort fell into a quieter rhythm around you. The distant sound of the ocean became more noticeable, no longer competing with conversation or movement, just steady and constant like background music.
You stayed outside for a few more seconds, leaning against the porch railing and letting the warm air settle against your skin.
Eventually, you pushed yourself up and stepped back inside your room.
The space was dimly lit and calm, designed in soft neutral tones. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched across one wall, showing nothing but ocean and night sky beyond them. The bed sat perfectly made, almost untouched.
For a moment, you just stood there, letting it sink in.
Then you headed straight for the shower.
By the time you stepped out, your skin felt lighter, your hair damp and loose around your shoulders, and your mind clearer than it had been all day.
You moved slowly as you got ready, pulling on a pair of small black shorts and a matching halter top. You added your black wedge sandals at the end, glancing at yourself in the mirror without much thought.
When you finally stepped outside again, the resort had grown even quieter.
The pathways were nearly empty now, lit by soft golden lights that reflected faintly on the stone beneath your feet. Somewhere in the distance, music played low and slow from the bar area, mixing with the sound of the ocean in a way that made everything feel slightly unreal.
The closer you got to the bar, the more the atmosphere shifted. It was still calm, still intimate, but there was a subtle hum of life now, the occasional laugh carried by the breeze, the faint clink of glasses, the soft glow of warm light spilling out into the open air.
And then you saw him.
At first, it was just the shape of someone sitting alone at the bar, angled slightly away from you. He looked relaxed in a way that felt like he belonged exactly where he was.
His long blond hair caught the light whenever he shifted slightly, and even from a distance, there was something about the way he carried himself that made you notice him before you even understood why.
You hesitated for half a second without realizing it.
Then you walked over and took a seat a few stools away from him, close enough to notice him but not close enough to acknowledge him directly.
You ordered your drink from the bartender without looking in his direction, even though you were aware of him in a way that felt mildly irritating.
When your drink arrived, you wrapped your fingers around the glass and took a slow sip, letting your attention drift outward toward the dark horizon beyond the bar instead of to your side.
Still, you could feel him there.
And eventually, the silence between you shifted.
“You from L.A.?”
His voice was calm, smooth, and far too confident for someone you hadn’t even spoken to yet.
You didn’t answer immediately. Instead, you took another sip of your drink, letting the question sit in the air for a moment longer than necessary before you finally turned your head toward him.
He was already looking at you.
Up close, he was even more noticeable than you expected. Not in an overwhelming way, but in a way that made it slightly difficult to look away once you had started paying attention. His posture was relaxed, one arm resting casually against the bar, as if he had all the time in the world.
You tilted your head slightly.
“How’d you guess?” you asked, your tone calm but lightly amused.
His eyes moved over you for a brief second before meeting yours again.
“You’ve got that rich girl L.A. vibe,” he said simply.
You let out a quiet laugh through your nose.
“Rich girl L.A. vibe?”
He nodded once, like he was completely serious.
“It’s hard to miss.”
You turned slightly in your seat now, giving him your full attention, even though you told yourself it was just out of curiosity.
“And what exactly does that mean?” you asked.
He leaned back slightly, studying you for a moment like he was deciding how honest he wanted to be.
“It means you look like you’re used to people paying attention to you,” he said.
That answer made something pause in your chest, subtle enough that you almost ignored it.
Most people would have said something obvious. Spoiled. Princess. Maybe even stuck up if they were trying to be rude.
But this wasn’t that.
This felt more observant than judgmental.
You looked away first, taking another sip of your drink like it was suddenly more interesting than the conversation.
“Bold assumption,” you said lightly.
“I’m usually right,” he replied.
That made you smile despite yourself.
“Dangerous trait,” you said.
“For who?” he asked.
You glanced back at him again.
“Depends,” you said. “On how wrong you are.”
A faint smile tugged at his lips, like he enjoyed that answer more than he expected to.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The ocean behind the bar moved slowly in the background, the sound of waves filling the silence in a way that didn’t feel awkward. It felt like the silence was part of the conversation rather than a pause in it.
Then he finally spoke again.
“I’m Hollis,” he said.
You looked at him properly for the first time without pretending you weren’t.
And this time, you didn’t look away immediately.
“Don’t get cocky, Hollis,” you replied.
His smile widened slightly, like he had been waiting for that exact reaction.
He shifted slightly on his stool so he was angled more toward you now, not invading your space, but no longer pretending he was just casually existing beside you either.
The change was subtle, but noticeable enough that the conversation no longer felt like two strangers sitting near each other at a bar.
“You always this welcoming to people who introduce themselves?” he asked.
You took another sip of your drink before answering, letting the question hang in the air just long enough to make it clear you weren’t going to be rushed.
“Only the overly confident ones,” you said calmly.
He hummed, like he was considering that answer more seriously than it deserved.
“So I’m special,” he said.
You glanced at him over the rim of your glass.
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you didn’t deny it either,” he replied easily.
That earned him a quiet laugh from you, despite the fact that you were very aware of how quickly this conversation was slipping into something more comfortable than it probably should have been.
The bartender passed behind you both, wiping down the counter, but neither of you really acknowledged anything outside the space forming between your stools.
“I’m Y/n,” you said finally, as if deciding he had waited long enough to earn it.
Hollis repeated your name under his breath almost immediately, slower this time, like he was testing how it sounded in his own voice.
“Y/n,” he said again, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “That fits.”
You raised an eyebrow slightly. “Fits what exactly?”
He shrugged, leaning back a little as if the answer was obvious but he was choosing to enjoy making you ask.
You let out a small breath of amusement, shaking your head slightly.
“You say things like that a lot, don’t you?” you asked.
“Like what?”
“Vague things that sound like they mean more than they actually do.”
He looked genuinely thoughtful for a moment. “I think I just say what I notice,” he replied.
You studied him then, more carefully than before, as if that answer had moved him from “random guy at a bar” to something slightly harder to categorize.
The conversation should have felt like it was winding down at some point, like most interactions with strangers usually did. But instead, it kept unfolding, each answer leading into another question neither of you seemed in a rush to avoid.
At some point, you realized your drink was nearly gone.
You glanced down at the glass, slightly surprised you hadn’t noticed yourself finishing it.
“I should probably head back soon,” you said, mostly to yourself.
Hollis followed your gaze briefly, then looked back at you.
“Already?” he asked.
“It’s late,” you replied.
“That’s not really an answer,” he said.
You smiled slightly, setting your glass down.
“It is when you’re tired.”
He leaned forward a little, resting his forearms on the bar now, studying you in a way that felt less like flirting and more like he was trying to figure out whether you were serious.
“You don’t seem that tired,” he said.
“I hide it well,” you replied.
“Or you’re just not done yet,” he said.
That made you pause.
Not because it was profound, but because of how easily he said it, like he wasn’t trying to convince you of anything, just stating what he thought was true.
You tilted your head slightly.
“You don’t even know me,” you said.
“No,” he agreed calmly. “But I’m getting there.”
The way he said it wasn’t forceful or suggestive in an obvious way. It sounded more like a simple observation of time passing, like he fully expected that if you stayed here long enough, that statement would naturally become true.
That should have been irritating.
Instead, it stayed with you.
The bartender passed by again, and you hesitated for a moment before making a decision.
“Another drink?” he offered.
You opened your mouth to decline again, but Hollis spoke before you could.
“Let her have one more,” he said casually.
You turned to look at him immediately.
“I can speak for myself,” you said.
“I know,” he replied, completely unbothered. “But I also know you’re not actually leaving yet.”
That made your expression shift slightly, a mix of disbelief and amusement.
“You’re very confident for someone who just met me,” you said.
He smiled. “I’m observant, remember?”
You stared at him for a moment longer than necessary before turning back to the bar with a faint shake of your head.
“Fine,” you said. “One more.”
Hollis leaned back again like that outcome had been obvious from the start, while you tried not to think too hard about how easily you’d stayed.
And how little you actually wanted the night to end yet.
The bartender nodded and turned away to prepare your drink, leaving a brief stretch of quiet space between you and Hollis.
He didn’t rush to fill it immediately. Instead, he leaned back in his seat again, resting one arm loosely against the counter as if he was perfectly content sitting there without speaking.
It was a small detail, but it made him feel less like someone trying to impress you and more like someone who had no problem simply existing in the same moment as you.
You found yourself noticing that more than you expected.
“You always this calm?” you asked after a moment, glancing at him from the side.
He looked at you like the question amused him slightly.
“I don’t think I’m calm,” he said.
“What do you think you are then?” you asked.
He considered that for a second, eyes drifting briefly toward the ocean before returning to you.
“Patient,” he said finally.
That answer made you smile without meaning to.
“You’ve known me for like twenty minutes,” you said.
“I know,” he replied easily. “But I’m not in a rush.”
The bartender placed your drink in front of you, and you thanked him quietly before wrapping your fingers around the glass again. The cold condensation immediately grounded you, giving you something to focus on besides the conversation sitting beside you.
Still, Hollis’s words lingered in the back of your mind in a way you didn’t fully acknowledge.
You took a slow sip before speaking again.
“You’re from here?” you asked.
He shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Just staying here for a bit.”
“Vacation?” you asked.
“Something like that,” he replied.
You waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. Instead, he just watched you for a second, like he was deciding whether or not to give more.
You tilted your head slightly.
“That’s very vague,” you said.
He smiled faintly.
“I know.”
You exhaled a quiet laugh through your nose.
“You’re kind of annoying,” you said, though there was no real edge to it.
“I’ve been told that too,” he replied.
“I believe it,” you said.
He nodded like that was fair.
The bar had grown even quieter now. A few stools down, someone laughed softly at something their friend said, and beyond that, the ocean rolled in steady, distant waves.
You found yourself glancing toward it for a second longer than you intended.
You finished your drink slower this time, setting the glass down with a quiet tap against the counter.
“I should go,” you said again, though it sounded less certain than before.
Hollis glanced at your empty glass, then back at you.
“You said that already,” he reminded you.
“I mean it this time,” you replied.
He nodded like he accepted that, though he didn’t move right away.
Instead, he just looked at you for a second longer, then finally he spoke.
“Let me walk you back,” he said.
The words were simple. Casual. Almost expected.
You should have said no immediately.
But you didn’t.
Instead, you hesitated just long enough for the silence to shift slightly between you.
“I can walk myself back,” you said finally.
“I’m sure you can,” he replied. “I still want to.”
That answer made you look at him more carefully.
There was no push in his voice. No insistence. Just certainty without pressure, like it wasn’t about whether you needed it, but whether he wanted to do it.
After a beat, you sighed softly and slid off the stool.
“Fine,” you said. “But don’t make it weird.”
A faint grin returned to his face immediately.
“No promises,” he said, standing as well.
He stepped slightly to the side, giving you space to lead, but then paused as if remembering something, and extended his hand.
And for reasons you didn’t fully feel like analyzing, you took it.
Hollis didn’t say anything immediately after you took his hand again. He simply adjusted his pace to match yours, and together you stepped away from the bar, leaving behind the warm glow of the counter and the low hum of conversation that had filled the space only moments before.
The night outside felt different the moment you left the open-air bar.
It was quieter in a way that made everything feel more personal. The resort pathways were lit by soft golden lights embedded into the ground, casting faint reflections across the stone and sand as you walked. Palm trees lined the paths on either side, their leaves shifting slowly in the warm breeze that carried the scent of saltwater and tropical flowers.
You were suddenly more aware of the fact that it was late.
Not because you were tired.
But because it was just the two of you now.
Hollis walked beside you without pulling ahead or falling behind. His hand still held yours loosely, not tightly enough to feel restrictive, but not absent enough to forget either.
“So,” he said after a few moments, his voice quieter now that the bar was behind you, “you always this selective with strangers, or did I get lucky?”
You glanced at him briefly before looking ahead again, letting your steps stay steady.
“I’m not selective,” you replied. “I’m just not easily entertained.”
That earned a small laugh from him, low and amused.
“Yeah,” he said, “I noticed.”
You shot him a quick sideways look.
“You noticed a lot for someone I met an hour ago.”
“Noticed enough,” he corrected.
The answer made you roll your eyes slightly, though the smile you were trying to hide didn’t fully cooperate.
The path curved gently, leading you on the path ahead and the glow of your villa area started to come into view. The resort felt even quieter here, almost private, like the rest of the world had been left behind somewhere near the bar.
The closer you got, the more the night seemed to settle around you, like it was gently reminding you that the moment was nearing its end.
You slowed as you reached your door.
Hollis slowed with you.
Neither of you let go immediately.
There was a pause that felt longer than it should have, like both of you were acknowledging without saying it that something about the night had shifted.
Finally, his hand slowly loosened first, like he was giving the moment back to you instead of taking it away.
You let your hand fall naturally to your side, though you were suddenly more aware of the absence than you expected to be.
“Well,” you said, glancing at your door, then back at him, “this is me.”
“I figured,” he replied.
There was a faint smile on his face, but it was quieter now. Less playful than before, more thoughtful in a way you couldn’t quite place.
“You should sleep,” he added.
You raised an eyebrow slightly. “That’s very considerate of you.”
“It’s observational,” he said, repeating the earlier word.
That made you smile despite yourself.
“Goodnight, Hollis,” you said.
He nodded once. “Goodnight, Y/n.”
You turned toward your door, but paused just before stepping inside. For a moment, you weren’t entirely sure why you stopped.
You just looked back.
Hollis was still standing there, not moving away immediately, not rushing the moment. Just watching for a second longer, as if making sure you actually went inside before leaving.
And somehow, that detail stayed with you longer than anything he had said all night.
Then you stepped inside and closed the door gently behind you.
The room was quiet when you entered, the soft hum of the air conditioning filling the space almost instantly. But even with the silence, your thoughts didn’t settle the way they usually did.
Because the night didn’t feel like it had ended the way nights normally do.
It felt like it had simply paused.
You exhaled slowly, almost like you were trying to reset yourself, and finally moved further into the room. You kicked off your wedges near the bed and let yourself fall back onto it for a moment without changing, staring up at the ceiling as if it might offer some kind of explanation for why a conversation you had planned to be meaningless now felt like it wasn’t.
It was annoying, really.
Eventually, you got up and changed properly for bed, though your movements were slower than before. When you finally slipped under the sheets, the room went quiet again in that heavy, uninterrupted way that only late nights can create.
You expected sleep to come easily after the travel and the long day.
It didn’t.
Instead, your mind replayed small fragments of the night in pieces you didn’t fully control. The sound of his voice saying your name. The way he looked at you when he wasn’t trying to make a joke. The brief weight of his hand in yours as you walked through the resort like the world around you didn’t matter.
Eventually, sleep found you anyway, though it didn’t feel like a decision.
☀︎༄.°
The sun against your face woke you slowly from your sleep, warm and gentle in a way that made it hard to fully separate dream from reality at first. You shifted in bed with a soft yawn, blinking a few times before you finally sat up and rubbed your face, still half-dazed as the morning settled in.
A loud knock came from your door.
It was sharp enough to cut through the haze, and the moment it did, the memories from the night before rushed back into you all at once. The bar. The walk. Hollis. Your thoughts paused for a second as you sat there, staring forward like your mind needed a moment to catch up to itself.
The knock came again, louder this time.
You got up quickly and crossed the room, opening the door to find Kate already standing there, fully dressed and far too awake for someone who had also just arrived at a resort after travel.
“Y/n!” she said immediately, stepping inside without waiting. “How long were you up last night? Go get ready right now.”
You sighed softly but didn’t argue, moving aside as she walked in like she belonged there. She immediately went to the speaker and turned on music, filling the room with sound that made everything feel less quiet, less like your thoughts had room to linger.
☀︎༄.°
The morning unfolded around you as you got ready, Kate talking nonstop in the background while you slowly shifted into the day. The resort outside was already bright and alive when you finally stepped out, sunlight reflecting off the water and stone paths, everything looking too perfect to feel entirely real.
It didn’t take long before you saw him.
Hollis was by the pool with a few friends, laughing and talking so relaxed and effortlessly in a way that didn’t try to pull attention but still somehow held it. And the second his eyes found yours, everything around him seemed to fade out just slightly, like the rest of the world had been pushed back without either of you moving.
Kate noticed immediately beside you.
“Y/n,” she said slowly, leaning in with a knowing look. “Who is that hot blond man that is staring at you?”
You broke eye contact first, turning slightly toward her as if that would reset your thoughts.
You lifted your drink and shrugged. “Some guy I met at the bar last night.”
Her reaction was instant, her eyes widening. “Is that why you went to bed late?”
You groaned lightly, shaking your head. “He was talking to me for a bit, then he walked me back to my room. That’s it. Nothing crazy happened.”
Kate looked at you like she didn’t believe a single word of that version of events.
“You totally want something to happen though,” she said.
Your head snapped toward her immediately. “As if. I met him less than twenty-four hours ago, Kate.”
She rolled her eyes like that detail didn’t matter at all. “We’re not in L.A. The rules don’t count here.”
That made you pause for half a second longer than you meant to.
Your gaze drifted back toward the pool before you could stop it.
Hollis was in the water now.
Shirtless.
You watched him for a moment longer than necessary, your fingers lightly resting against your glass as your attention stayed fixed without you fully admitting it. Then, as if he felt it, he glanced up and shot you a wink.
You looked away immediately, turning back to Kate like nothing had happened, though your expression didn’t fully match your voice.
“Do you really think so?” you asked quietly.
Kate didn’t even hesitate. “You know what makes a vacation better? A hot man to fuck during it.”
You groaned and leaned your head back slightly. “Fuck, you’re right.”
The realization settled between you both for a moment, and then you both burst into laughter, like the idea itself was ridiculous even though neither of you fully treated it like a joke.
☀︎༄.°
The rest of the day passed easily.
A trip to the beach, a massage, a few drinks that made everything feel softer and slower, and constant moments where your eyes kept drifting back to Hollis without you meaning them to. Sometimes he was closer, sometimes farther, but he always felt present in a way that didn’t fully leave your awareness.
By the time the sun began to set again, the resort had shifted into evening.
You were back in your room now, standing in front of the mirror as you touched up your makeup, deepening it slightly for the night. You changed into a mini black lace two-piece that felt simple but intentional, like it belonged to the version of you that existed after sunset rather than during the day.
A knock came at your patio doors.
When you opened the blinds, Hollis was standing there.
He had changed too, now wearing a silk black button-up that hung slightly open at the top. He looked at you for a moment without speaking, his gaze moving over you slowly, taking his time, before he let out a quiet breath through his nose.
“You look gorgeous,” he said.
You didn’t hesitate. “I know, Hollis.”
His mouth twitched slightly, like he was amused but trying not to show it too much.
“You’re a brat, you know that?” he said.
You leaned lightly against the doorframe, completely steady as you looked up at him.
“Get used to it,” you replied.
Then he stepped closer, not fully inside, but close enough that the space between you shifted.
“You barely know me, Y/n,” he said quietly.
The way he said your name lingered a little longer this time.
Then he added, just as calmly, “You like that, don’t you? You don’t know a goddamn thing about me — yet you still want to keep me around.”
You let out a soft laugh, controlled but sharp enough to respond.
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. Wanting to use you for a week and wanting to keep you around are two different things.”
That made him pause slightly.
Just long enough to register it.
Then he scoffed lightly, though it didn’t carry frustration.
“Brat,” he said again.
You fake-pouted slightly. “That hurt your feelings?”
He extended his hand again. “Come. Don’t fight me.”
You hesitated only briefly before taking it.
And the second your fingers met his again, it felt exactly like before.
He led you out of your room without another word, and the resort outside had fully shifted into evening.
You walked beside him naturally, your steps falling into his without effort.
After a moment, you glanced up at him.
“Dinner is going to close soon,” you said.
He didn’t look at you when he answered. “I got something better than dinner for you, girl.”
You turned your head slightly to look at him as you walked, trying to read his expression, but Hollis wasn’t looking at you. His focus stayed forward, completely unbothered, as if whatever he had planned was already settled in his mind and you were simply following the direction it was going.
The words should have sounded vague. They should have made you slow down, question him, maybe even push back.
Instead, something in the way he said it made your attention sharpen.
Your eyes widened just slightly before you caught yourself, and you suppressed the reaction quickly, letting it turn instead into something closer to a smirk you didn’t fully admit to.
“Oh yeah?” you said, your voice lighter now, but with a shift in energy that even you couldn’t ignore.
That small change was enough.
Your steps subtly quickened behind him without you needing to think about it, like your body had already decided to follow before your mind fully signed off on it.
Hollis noticed, of course.
Not in a way that made him stop or look back, but in the faintest shift of his hand around yours, his grip tightening just slightly as he guided you forward through the resort.
You didn’t ask where he was taking you.
Not yet.
The confidence in his pace made it feel unnecessary.
Eventually, he led you to a different section of the resort. The buildings here were similar in design to yours, but quieter, more tucked away, with fewer people passing through and less sound drifting between the walkways. It felt like a mirrored version of where you had come from, just more isolated.
He stopped in front of one of the rooms.
His hand didn’t leave yours as he reached forward, unlocking the door and stepping inside first, pulling you in with him without hesitation. The moment you crossed the threshold, the outside noise softened instantly, replaced by the quiet, enclosed calm of the room.
It looked almost identical to yours.
Clean, minimal, dimly lit in a way that made everything feel slower the second you were inside.
Hollis didn’t say anything for a beat.
He simply stepped further in with you, then reached back toward the door.
With one smooth motion, he flipped the “Do Not Disturb” sign.
The small click of the lock followed right after.
And only then did he turn slightly back toward you, still holding your hand, like nothing about the situation needed to be explained out loud.
He slid his hand away from yours and settled it firmly on your waist, drawing you in until his body pressed flush against you. Then he pulled back, circling around to the mini fridge.
He grabbed a chilled bottle of champagne and two glasses, pouring without a word. You moved closer as he handed you a glass. You both drank in silence, the bubbles sharp on your tongue while heat coiled low in your belly.
He set his glass down and stepped in again, fingers gripping your chin to tilt your face up. “Tell me, y/n… have you been a good girl today, or a bad girl?”
Your lips parted, but his hold tightened. “Don’t lie.”
You swallowed hard. “Bad,” you whispered.
“Louder.”
“Bad. I’ve been a bad girl.”
He exhaled through his nose, thumb stroking your cheek before he walked you backward until the bed pressed against your thighs. “Do you know what happens to bad girls?”
You shook your head.
“Do you want to find out?”
The smile that curved your mouth was answer enough. His palm settled on top of your head and pushed down. “On your knees.”
You dropped to the wooden floor, the impact sending a small jolt through your legs. You rubbed your cheek against the growing bulge in his pants, earning a low curse from him.
He unbuckled and shoved his pants down, then you hooked your fingers into his boxers and dragged them off slowly, revealing the sharp cut of his hips. His cock sprang free and slapped lightly against your face. You whined at the weight of it.
Both hands wrapped around his shaft, but he clicked his tongue. “Top off. I want to see those pretty tits.”
You stripped from the waist up without hesitation, then looked up at him as you took his cock into your mouth. He groaned, hips twitching as your tongue pressed along the underside.
You worked him deeper, gagging when the head hit the back of your throat, spit running down your chin. You pulled off with a gasp, then licked a slow circle around the tip before sucking it back between your lips, hands stroking the rest of his length.
“Just like that,” he growled. “Fuck.”
His thighs tensed. He pulled out of your mouth and stepped back. You wiped the mix of spit and precum from your lips with two fingers and sucked them clean. He shook his head, eyes dark.
Lay back," he ordered.
"On the floor?"
He gave a single nod. "Good girls get fucked on beds. Bad girls get pounded on the floor. Understand?"
You swallowed. "I understand."
You eased down onto the cold wooden planks, the chill racing up your spine. He moved over you, eyes locked on yours, then yanked your skirt down in one motion and ripped your panties away. The sudden exposure pulled a sharp gasp from your throat. He only smiled, sweet and dangerous.
Reaching behind you, he grabbed a condom from the drawer, tore it open, and rolled it down his rigid cock. His gaze searched your face for any hesitation. Finding none, he leaned in and kissed you, both of you humming into it. His mouth trailed along your jaw, down your neck, and to your ear while his cock slid along your wet folds.
"You’ve been bad," he murmured, "but you’re going to take every inch like a good girl."
You whimpered. "Okay…"
"Louder."
"Okay!"
He thrust in halfway. Your breath caught, then broke into a whimper. "You good?" he asked.
You nodded.
"Halfway, baby."
Your eyes widened. He chuckled, then pushed the rest of the way in, slow and deliberate. A long, broken moan tore from your throat. He cursed under his breath and held still, buried deep.
"So fucking tight," he groaned. "So warm."
Your fingers slid into his long golden hair and dragged his mouth back to yours.
Hollis's chest pressed down onto yours, his weight pinning you to the cold floor. His hips rolled, driving his cock in and out in slow, deliberate strokes that let you feel every inch stretching you open. Once your body loosened around him, his pace shifted. He slammed into you harder, each thrust jolting your spine against the wood.
You cried out, the sound raw. Hollis sank his teeth into the side of your neck, biting down until you whined. The sharp sting blended with the deep ache of his cock pounding you, fogging your thoughts.
He fucked you faster, his hips snapping forward without mercy. Your nails raked across his back, leaving red lines that welled with blood. A droplet slid down his arm. You gasped at the sight.
"F-fuck," you moaned.
His rhythm never faltered. "Still being a bad girl?"
"I'm sorry!" you choked out.
He scoffed. One hand slid up your chest, thumb circling and pinching your nipples until they stiffened under his touch. His palm continued upward and wrapped around your throat.
His fingers tightened, cutting off your air just enough to make your pulse hammer. You gasped, eyes wide, as he drove into you even harder. His cock hammered that spot inside you that made your vision spark.
"Right there—fuck, Hollis, right there!"
His grip on your neck clamped down harder. Tears spilled from the corners of your eyes.
"Cum on my cock while I choke you out, baby. You like that?"
You nodded frantically, voice breaking. "I love it!"
He groaned, his thrusts turning erratic. "Not just a bad girl—you're a fucking slut. My fucking slut."
You nodded again, mindless, pleasure cresting until your stomach clenched tight. Your head tipped back and a loud moan tore from your throat. Your pussy spasmed around him, squeezing and pulsing as you soaked his cock and the floor beneath you. Hollis buried himself to the hilt, groaning as he emptied into the condom, his body shuddering against yours.
You slump against the cool tile floor, your chest heaving as your eyes flutter shut, trying to catch your breath. The air in the room feels thick, charged with the lingering electricity of what just happened. Hollis slowly releases his grip on your throat, his fingers leaving faint, fading imprints on your skin.
Without a word, he immediately leans down, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to the exact spot his hand just vacated, as if apologizing with his lips.
"Was that okay?" he murmurs softly, his breath warm against your collarbone.
You nod weakly, your fingers finding their way back into his damp hair, tugging him slightly closer. Hollis lets out a low breath and allows himself to fully relax against you for a second, his heavy frame a comforting weight.
He kisses his way up your jawline, trailing fire along your skin until he reaches your lips for one more slow, bruising kiss before abruptly rising from the floor.
"Hollis, what are you doing—"
Your question is cut short as his strong arms slide under your knees and back, scooping you up into his chest in one fluid motion. A sharp ache ripples through your overstimulated body, causing you to wince and bury your face in his neck, but you willingly ignore the soreness as he carries you down the short hallway and into the bathroom.
He sets you down on the edge of the marble counter. Your legs feel like jelly, and you have to grip the edge of the sink just to keep yourself upright while he reaches into the shower to turn the water on. The hiss of pipes echoes in the space, and steam quickly begins to fog up the mirror. Within seconds, Hollis turns back to you. You instinctively wrap your legs tightly around his waist as he lifts you again, stepping over the threshold and into the big glass shower.
The blast of warm water cascades over your shoulders, immediately soaking your hair and washing away the tight tension in your muscles. Hollis sways you slowly in his hold under the downpour, letting the spray rinse the evidence of your intense connection down the drain.
"I want you again," you whisper against his ear, your lips brushing his wet skin, emboldened by the heat of the shower.
Hollis pauses his swaying, a low chuckle vibrating in his chest. "You’re sore," he tells you, his voice thick with a mix of amusement and concern.
You shake your head stubbornly against his shoulder. "I’m serious, Hollis." You pull back, wiping the water from your eyes so you can look him dead in the face.
"You won’t be able to walk properly tomorrow," he warns, a wicked smirk finally tugging at the corners of his mouth.
You match his look with a challenge of your own. "Good thing I don’t have anywhere to be."
He stares at you for a long, heavy beat, his dark eyes darkening further under the pulsing water. Carefully, he lets your legs slide down his body until your feet touch the wet tile floor. Your knees give out slightly from the sudden weight, and he catches your waist, chuckling softly as you stabilize yourself.
He gently guides your hips, prompting you to bend forward. You press both palms flat against the slick glass door for support, your fingers sliding slightly against the condensation.
He steps flush against your back, his thighs pressing into the backs of yours. You feel him — already completely hard again — teasing your entrance, the blunt head of his length frictioning against you.
"Fuck, let me go get another condom," he mutters against your neck, his hands sliding off your hips as he makes a move to step out of the streaming water.
Before he can step away, you reach back blindly and catch his forearm, your grip tight. When he stops and looks down at you through the steam, you look over your shoulder and simply shake your head. Hollis raises a single, questioning eyebrow, a silent question passing between you, but he doesn't argue.
Pressing his chest hard against your back again, he traps you against the glass. He guides the tip to your opening, and with the heavy cascade of water acting as a natural lubricant, he pushes forward. He slips all the way inside you in one smooth, agonizingly deep stroke.
A breathless, echoing moan escapes your lips as he bottoms out, your forehead resting against the cool glass door. His movements are heavy and deliberate, slower than before but packed with a grueling intensity.
His large hands grip your hips, fingers digging in to anchor you as he pulls back and drives in again. He watches with hooded eyes how your body reacts, the water making your skin glisten with every deep, rhythmic thrust. He leans forward, pressing his lips to the curve of your spine, and the shift in his weight drives him even deeper inside you.
Your moans slip out in rapid succession, bouncing off the tiled walls. At this point, you don't care how loud you're being. Sensing your undoing, Hollis's pace begins to quicken, his thrusts becoming sharper, harder.
His right hand slides down from your hip, slipping between your thighs until his fingers find your swollen clit. Pulling your upper body back until your spine is flush against his chest, he traps you in his embrace while his fingers begin to rub the sensitive nub in tight, urgent circles. Your legs begin to shake uncontrollably under the dual stimulation, the overwhelming friction inside and out turning your body to jello.
"Oh—shit!" you whimper, your fingers clawing at him as the tight coil in your stomach tightens to a breaking point.
"I’m gonna cum, baby. I need you to cum for me," Hollis growls in your ear, his breathing ragged, his chest heaving violently against your back.
Your head falls back onto his shoulder, your gaze rolling back until your eyes lock onto his. He watches you with a fierce, possessive intensity, his hips and fingers working in perfect, cruel synchronization.
"Such a good girl for me," he praises, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.
You moan loudly, refusing to break eye contact for even a fraction of a second as your walls suddenly clench, your body completely coming undone and convulsing around him in a violent orgasm.
The sensation triggers him instantly. He fucks you hard through the tight pulses of your release before quickly pulling out, painting your lower back with his own warm release just as the water washes it away.
Eventually, the water runs a little cooler. You both finish washing up, the quiet routine filled with soft touches, before wrapping yourselves in plush towels and stepping back out into the cool air of the bedroom.
"I should probably head back to my room," you say, a sudden wave of hesitation washing over you as you look at his large bed.
Hollis stops mid-stride, his brows furrowing into a deep frown. "What? You’re not going anywhere tonight."
Your heartbeat picks up a frantic, happy rhythm, a small, involuntary smile taking over your face. "You want me to stay?"
He rolls his eyes playfully at the question, suddenly lunging forward. You let out a genuine shriek of surprise as he scoops you up once more, tossing you gently onto the mattress. The springs squeak loudly beneath your weight, and before you can even sit up, he climbs on top of you, pinning your legs with his thighs.
"Of course I want you to stay," he murmurs, his expression softening as he looks down at you.
You giggle, reaching up to frame his face, but your laughter is cut short as his lips crash onto yours in a deep, lazy kiss.
BANG. BANG.
A sharp, aggressive knock suddenly echoes from the front door, cutting through the quiet room. You both freeze instantly, your breath catching in your throats. Hollis stays suspended over you, his eyes wide. Another heavy knock sounds, louder this time. Neither of you dares to breathe, let alone move.
Then, a muffled, incredibly pissed-off voice cuts straight through the wood: "Can you keep it fucking down? You already woke like three of us up!"
The sound of heavy, furious footsteps immediately follows, fading down the hallway as the angry woman marches back to her own room.
For a second, the room is dead silent. Then, you clamp both hands tightly over your mouth, a breathless laugh of pure, panicked disbelief bubbling out of you. Hollis lets out a sharp snort, his shoulders shaking, and within seconds, the tension breaks. You both burst into a quiet, hysterical laughing fit, buried against each other to muffle the sound.
Once the giggles finally die down into tired sighs, you both kick off the damp towels and crawl under the heavy covers. Hollis pulls you flush against his chest, your bare bodies tangling together under the sheets, finally settling in for the rest of the night.
i have a disgusting soft spot for varang like thats my baby. yes her tall ass is little spooning and yes she whimpers and whines and gets bratty despite the domineering show she puts on for her clan.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
a/n: what happens when his north star gets abducted and he gets their case. kinda got into criminal minds again (y’know why) so i had to write this lol, also kinda wanted to write a fic for this idea but i cant cause i’m too busy with all my other stuff :(
cw: Dex being Dex, angst, reader is kidnapped by a (random) serial killer, mentions of torture/death, obsessive/stalker behavior, violence/gore, traumatized!reader, co-dependency.
He was panicking, he could find you, he didn’t see you at your favorite cafe in the morning anymore, you had stopped going to work, and you weren’t in your apartment, he’s looked everywhere and still, nothing. you hadn’t moved away without him knowing, had you? was he so neglectful to have not noticed? no way, he had always made sure to have at least one moment of his day for you and only you, that was the one thing that kept him together, so how could you? how could he have missed it? no no, you wouldn’t just leave everything behind, something must’ve interfered on your life. taken you from him.
Then the case file ended up on his desk, and there you were, your picture, name, and so much information, all of it in the file of potential victims, dread sank into his gut, how could he have let this happen, he should have watched over you more, it’s his fault that this monster has taken you, oh how scared you must be right now, if you were even still alive.
He studied every aspect of the case throughout the night, not letting himself rest until he got it, he had to find you before this killer decided it was your time, you’ve already been gone for 2 days, and according to the suspects MO, you had very little time left. he kept reading file after file, obsessing over every detail, seeing every horrific picture of the previous victims, how they were clearly tortured for the suspects sick gratification, how their skin were carved up while still alive, then gutted like a pig. Dex would not let this happen to you, he couldn’t let this animal leave your corpse in this humiliating pose his imagination had formed.
Finally, he figured it out, the patterns leading him straight to the beast, he called his higher ups despite himself, having fought everything in him to just go and get you out himself, he knew it’d be safer for you if he got the swat with him, so after a single phone call, he got into his gear and drove as fast as he could to the address, getting there just as the rest of the agents did.
He scanned every corner as he made his way through the run down building, gun drawn and ready, his team quietly cleared the area looking for the suspect while he looked for you. making his way down underground to the basement, he found what appeared to be an old-timey bomb shelter hidden behind shelves and boxes, the metal feet of the shelf scraped against the concrete floor as he used his body to push it out of the way. carefully he would open the heavy door, gun still in hand, the pitch black room barely touched by light as he stood in the now opened doorway, and there, finally he found you huddled in a corner, your wrists and ankles zip tied tightly together as you shivered in fear.
Dex was careful with approaching you, his eyes scanned the room to make sure it was secure before putting away his gun, his hands were out where you could see them as he walked toward you, “FBI, i’m special agent Poindexter, you’re safe— i’m here to help” he hesitatingly kept to his script, to disarm himself, make you feel safer before he carefully cut the zip ties, your flesh bruised and raised raw from how tight they were. “he— is he..” you shakily stumble on your words, your eyes darting behind him in paranoia, “we got him, he won’t hurt you again” he spoke with such care in his voice. seeing how weak you were, he took you into his arms and carried you like you were a koala, strong enough to hold you up with one arm as he walked out.
He got you out of the building just as the suspect got cuffed while held to the ground; having tried to flee once they found him. Dex kept a safe distance from the man, he could feel your short breaths hitting his collar, hiding your teary face against his neck as you clung to him like he was your lifeline, you needed him, he was your safety. when in reality, you had saved him from himself more times than he could count by just living, seeing you go about your day was enough to keep him sane, although you wouldn’t know that. you wouldn’t let go of him even as you got to the ambulance, the paramedics needed to check you for any injuries, so Dex gave them a understanding look, before sitting down “are you able to sit? they need to make sure you’re okay” he asked softly, you nodded and got seated, still he held your hand to give you some comfort as they flashed your eyes to check your pupils and felt your neck for any serious injury.
He’d visit you in the hospital, in the guise of being on the clock, and getting information about the case, but really he was just there to see you. he got you a bouquet of your favorite flowers; which you thought was just coincidence, he’d talk to you when you felt up for it, but mostly he’d just sit there watching over you like a guard dog.
You were clearly traumatized by the incident, who wouldn’t have been after such events. but, the law wouldn’t wait for you to heal mentally before they threw you back into reliving those traumatic moments, they had you testify against the man that did this to you, having to look him in the eye as you saw the sick satisfaction they held as you retold the events of what had occurred, reveling in the gruesome details of your torture and fear, you could see how much he loved the fact that you saw his face every time you closed your eyes, that you couldn’t sleep. Dex was in the courtroom glaring bullets into his skull the entire time, but still giving you a comforting look every time you’d glance his way, helping you keep yourself together, not letting the monster see you cry as you got him locked away for life.
Dex became your rock, you’re safe space after that trail, after everything. he became your friend then your lover in only a few months, moving in together, being there for the other whenever one of you would get night terrors or panic attacks, he took care of you, helped you heal while you kept him sane, needing each other just as much. of course how your relationship started was obviously controversial in the eyes of his fellow agents, seeing it as unprofessional, they didn’t know he had already been watching you before the incident, just thinking that he took advantage of your vulnerable state as and excuse to get himself a ‘fuck buddy’, he hated that idea, but, he didn’t let it bother himself too much, shoving the lovey-dovey phone calls in their faces every day to make their soulless rumors crumble in a short while, ignoring the glances his coworkers would give him whenever he’d go home to you, judging him, but he couldn’t care less cause he finally had you, secure in his arms.
₊˚ ᨦ ᨩ blue to all the teams she takes photos off. she loves everything maximalist. her dorm room is full of color and clutter. most call it messy but she calls it controlled chaos. always taking photos of something. easily influenced to help. never had sex let alone a first kiss. overthinker to the max. loves everything miffy and hello kitty. the biggest sweet tooth ever. if you can’t tell, she loves the color blue.
ᨳଓ sports photographer!reader has loved photography since she was a little girl. always taking photos of something even if they weren’t aesthetically pleasing. her skill getting better once she took photography in freshman year of high school.
ᨳଓ sports photographer!reader mostly takes photos of the football and hockey team, occasionally she’ll do basketball but not really.
ᨳଓ sports photographer!reader loves getting little gifts for her friends. she somehow always has a trinket and they always somehow end up in john tucker’s room.
ᨳଓ sports photographer!reader surprisingly is a homebody. yes when she goes out she has a time but she loves staying at home and just catching up on editing photography or doing anything really.
ᨳଓ sports photographer!reader love language is acts of service. mentioned above she just loves to give and give because well spending money on her friends makes her heart happy
ᨳଓ sports photographer!reader hugs feel like home. any of the teams she works with can tell you, her hugs are so warm. a lot of the times people come to her building just for a hug when their day is hard because that’s how warm and comforting they are.
ᨳଓ sports photographer!reader secret passion is hair. she loves braiding and styling her friends hair and she’s surprisingly really fucking good at it. and no one ever takes it down in which she tells them they can but they just shrug and keep it
ᨳଓ sports photographer!reader is best paired with hannah wells, dean di laurentis, garrett graham, & beau maxwell!
story information: Y/n escaped a toxic home hoping life in LA would heal her, but her depression followed. She gets by modeling and DJing, keeping people at a distance until she meets Nett one night at her set. After she unknowingly plays his music and admits she likes it, the two quickly connect. As they open up about their shared mental health struggles, their friendship turns into a casual hookup, with both realizing they need someone to lean on. cw: angst, drug usage, depression, careless behaviour, suggestive/sexual content, suicidal thoughts, toxic actions (from both of them), avoidance masterlist taglist
Summary: When y/n finds out that her drink has been spiked she has no one to turn to but Dean, her enemy. Dean finding y/n knocking at his door in her barely conscious state brings up clashing feelings.
TW: having a drugged drink at a party
Word Count: 4.8K
The music could be heard from half a block away. The hockey house was already overflowing by the time Hannah and Y/N arrived, laughter spilling out the open front door along with the bass that rattled the porch railings. People crowded every room, cups clinked together, someone was yelling about beer pong in the kitchen, and the living room had already turned into a sea of strangers dancing shoulder to shoulder.
Hannah sighed dramatically, "I swear they invite the entire campus."
"They probably do," Y/N replied, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her dress.
She hadn't wanted to come. Not because she disliked parties. Because Dean Di Laurentis would be here. And Dean Di Laurentis possessed an almost supernatural ability to ruin perfectly good evenings.
Hannah nudged her shoulder. "Relax."
"I am relaxed."
"You've been glaring at the front door for thirty seconds."
"I'm mentally preparing."
"For Dean?"
Y/N rolled her eyes. "I'm mentally preparing for his ego."
Hannah laughed as they stepped inside.
Almost immediately, someone called Hannah's name from across the room. It was Garrett. He was standing near the kitchen island, waving her over with an easy grin.
"Go," Y/N said.
"You sure?"
"Yeah, girl, go talk to your boyfriend. I'm not going to spontaneously combust because you're talking to your boyfriend."
"You might if Dean starts talking."
"I'll survive."
"I sure hope you do."
Y/N shoved her lightly.
"Go."
Hannah laughed and disappeared into the crowd.
Y/N made her way toward the drink table, weaving through clusters of people she vaguely recognized from campus. She could feel eyes on her. Not in an uncomfortable way. Just... noticing.
She'd spent longer getting ready than she wanted to admit. Her hair fell in soft waves over one shoulder, and the dark emerald dress she wore hugged her just enough to make her feel confident without trying too hard. It was simple. Elegant and comfortable.
"You look hot," Hannah had declared.
"I look dressed."
"You look hot."
"I look like someone attending a party."
"You look like Dean's going to choke on his own tongue."
Y/N had snorted. "As if Dean Di Laurentis has ever been speechless in his life."
Apparently... Tonight might've been close. Across the room, Dean had been halfway through a conversation with one of his teammates when Logan abruptly stopped listening.
"Dude."
Dean barely looked at him.
"What?"
Logan nodded toward the front hall.
Dean followed his gaze and forgot what he'd been about to say.
"...Oh."
Logan smirked.
"Oh?"
Dean recovered almost instantly.
"So?"
"So…?" Logan echoed.
Dean shrugged.
"She cleans up okay."
Logan barked out a laugh. "Cleans up okay?"
"Yeah."
"You've been staring for like fifteen seconds."
"I absolutely have not."
"You absolutely have."
Dean tore his eyes away.
"I was observing."
Logan’s grin widened.
"Observing."
"Shut up."
He grabbed his drink and headed toward the kitchen before Logan could say anything else.
It was a coincidence. Entirely a coincidence that Y/N reached the drink table at the exact same time. She noticed him immediately. Of course she did. Dean Di Laurentis stood out in any room he walked into, whether she liked it or not. He leaned casually against the counter in a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, laughing at something one of the hockey guys said.
Then his eyes landed on her. The laughter stopped. For just a second. His gaze traveled from her heels... To the dress... To her face.
There was the briefest flicker of something she couldn't quite read. It disappeared so quickly she wondered if she'd imagined it.
Then the familiar smirk returned. "There she is."
Y/N sighed. "Hello to you too."
"I almost didn't recognize you."
"No?"
"Nah."
He tilted his head.
"Didn't think you owned anything that wasn't a sweater."
She smiled sweetly.
"And I didn't think you owned a shirt with sleeves."
A couple of people nearby chuckled.
Dean nodded once.
"Fair."
Y/N reached for a cup. "I'll cherish the compliment."
"I wasn't complimenting you."
"I know." She looked at him over the rim of the cup. "That would've been very out of character."
Dean laughed quietly. "You really think you're funny."
"I know I am."
"Hm."
He folded his arms.
"I think the dress is trying a little too hard."
The words landed harder than either of them expected. Y/N's smile faltered. Only for a heartbeat. She recovered so quickly that most people wouldn't have noticed.
Dean did.
"So does your personality," she replied evenly.
He smiled again.
"If I wanted my personality judged, I'd have dated an English major."
She stared at him.
"You know, for someone who's supposed to be good with teamwork, you're remarkably insufferable."
"And yet," Dean said with a shrug, "people still invite me places."
"So do people invite me."
He looked around theatrically.
"Really? I assumed Hannah brought you as emotional support."
There it was. The one that actually stung. Y/N's fingers tightened around her cup. She and Hannah had been inseparable since freshman year, and Dean knew it. He knew exactly which remarks would hit where they hurt.
She forced a laugh. "Don't flatter yourself."
"I'm not."
"You've clearly spent all week thinking of that one."
Dean smiled lazily. "Took me about three seconds."
"Must've been exhausting."
He stepped just a little closer.
"Not nearly as exhausting as pretending you're above everyone in this room."
Her eyebrows lifted. "I don't pretend. I just have standards."
Someone behind Dean let out an audible, "Damn."
Dean chuckled.
"There she is."
"What?"
"The real you. The one that thinks she's smarter than everyone."
Y/N held his gaze.
"I don't think I'm smarter than everyone."
"No?"
She smiled.
"Just you."
The surrounding group burst into laughter.
Dean's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He laughed too. But this time it didn't quite reach his eyes.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them felt strangely charged. Like the room had grown quieter despite the music still shaking the walls. Dean looked at her again. Really looked. The dress. The way she'd done her hair. The confidence she'd walked in with. She looked... beautiful. Annoyingly, unfairly beautiful. Which irritated him more than it should have.
So instead of saying the one thing that had unexpectedly crossed his mind: You look nice, He smiled that infuriating smile and said, "You know..." His voice was light. Almost conversational. "I guess if you were trying to distract everyone from your personality..." His eyes flicked down her dress once before meeting hers again. "...it almost worked.”
Silence.
This time, she couldn't hide it: the hurt. Dean continued, “I just wish Hannah wouldn’t bring you along; it’s just a waste of space, you know. And it’s not like you’re gonna have fun,” he scoffed, “as if anyone would go for that,” he eyed her down, “I sure wouldn’t, and you know damn well I’m all over gorgeous girls all the time.”
The hurt flashed across her face before she buried it beneath a practiced smile. As much confidence as she carried, some words did take her back to high school, where everyone would just shatter and break her heart all around.
"So that's your best one tonight?" she asked quietly. "I expected more."
She stepped around him before he could answer. "Enjoy your party, Di Laurentis."
She walked away without looking back. Dean watched her disappear into the crowd.
Logan appeared beside him a second later. "What the hell was that?"
Dean didn't answer. Logan looked toward where Y/N had gone. Then back at Dean.
"You know..." he said slowly, "I think you just can’t take your eyes off that dress.”
Dean frowned.
"What?"
Logan shook his head. "You looked at her like you forgot how to breathe. And then you immediately acted like an ass."
Dean scoffed.
"I always act like an ass."
Logan smirked, "Yeah, but usually it's because you think someone's annoying."
He looked toward the crowd where Y/N had disappeared.
"This time..." Logan clapped him on the shoulder. "I think it's because you're in trouble."
—
To forget the snarky comment, Y/n went in for a drink. Of course she looked gorgeous: her hair, her dress… everything was just breathtaking, but Dean’s words awakened some hidden insecurity that was resurfacing from high school.
Y/n was making her way to Hannah to ask her to leave the party, but she saw her and Garrett walk upstairs to Garrett’s room.
Shit…
What kind of friend would she be if she interrupted their special time? She needed her friend’s support, but not at the cost of inconveniencing her. So she sighed and went back for yet another drink. There was no point in going home alone and suffocating in bed with resurfacing bitter memories. Y/n chose to drown those with more alcohol.
Y/N lasted exactly twenty-three minutes before she needed another drink.
Not because she'd had that much to drink. Because she needed something to do with her hands. Something to wash away the lingering sting of Dean's words.
She slipped into the kitchen, grateful to find it momentarily less crowded than the living room. She reached for a clean plastic cup. Ice. Lemonade. A splash of vodka.
She stared down into the drink for a second, hoping it’ll help to stop thinking. Dean Di Laurentis had spent the better part of two years insulting her. She should've been immune by now.
So why had that one landed?
She let out a slow breath. Because this one remark hadn't been clever. It hadn't even been funny.
It had just been... Mean.
Then her racing thoughts were interrupted by a stupid comment: "You look like you're making a chemistry experiment."
She closed her eyes. Of course.
Without turning around, she said flatly, “Don't you have girls waiting in line for your attention?"
Dean walked up beside her anyway, grabbing an empty cup. "They'll survive."
He poured himself a drink, leaning casually against the counter.
Silence settled between them. It felt... different this time. Less like a game.
Y/N focused on dropping ice into her cup. Dean watched her from the corner of his eye.
She hadn't looked at him once. Not after earlier.
For reasons he couldn't explain, that bothered him.
"You know," he said, swirling his drink, "Logan thinks I was too hard on you."
She gave a small shrug.
"Good for Logan."
"So you're not gonna defend yourself?"
"I've learned it's usually a waste of energy."
That wasn't the answer he'd expected. He frowned.
"What?"
She finally looked at him. Her smile was polite. Almost painfully so.
"You've already decided who I am." Her voice was calm. "So why bother changing your mind?"
Dean looked away first. Something about that answer sat wrong. He covered it the only way he knew how.
"You know what your problem is?"
She sighed.
"Please. Enlighten me."
"You walk around acting like you're too good for everyone."
A tiny laugh escaped her.
"No."
"No?"
"I walk around trying not to care what people think."
He scoffed.
"That's adorable."
"It works most days."
"Clearly not tonight."
The words slipped out before he could stop them.
He saw it immediately. The way her shoulders stiffened. The tiny inhale she took.
He should've left it there. Instead….
"I mean..." he said lightly, "you spent all that time getting dressed up." His eyes drifted over her outfit again. "And for what?"
She said nothing. Dean smiled, though it felt forced now.
"You really thought tonight was going to be different?"
The kitchen suddenly felt very quiet.
"You thought someone was finally going to notice you?" He laughed once. “I hate to break it to you..." His voice dropped just enough to make every word sharper. "But people are looking because they don't recognize you." He held her gaze. "Not because they're interested."
For a long moment, Y/N didn't move. Dean waited for the comeback.
She always had one. Always.
Instead she looked down into her cup. "Are you done?" Her voice was so quiet that it almost didn't sound like her.
Dean blinked. "What?"
"I asked..." She swallowed. "...if you're done."
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.
She gave one small nod, as though answering herself.
"Okay."
No sarcastic remark. No eye roll. No smug smile. She simply picked up her drink.
"I hope, one day," she said softly, "someone speaks to you the way you speak to other people."
Dean's chest tightened. She looked at him one last time. Not angry. Not even upset. Just disappointed. Then she turned and walked away. Dean watched her disappear into the hallway. For some reason, he felt awful.
Y/n was so consumed in her thoughts and a need to get away that she shoved through a crowded hallway just to get outside. She didn’t even notice the small splash... a splash that was made when someone dropped something into her drink.
Some guy tossed a pill into her cup with an easy flick of his wrist. It landed with a tiny splash before sinking beneath the ice.
"There." He snorted. "Let's see how long it takes…"
A couple of people laughed.
Y/n was already outside, sitting on an empty chair she found. Still replaying Dean's words in her head, she wrapped her fingers around the cup.
Y/N looked down at the cup for only a second. Then, she took a sip of the drink and then another one, unaware of what happened nearly thirty seconds ago.
—
Dean had never hidden from one of his own parties. Usually, he was the reason they stayed alive. If the music got louder, it was because Dean wanted it louder. If another game started in the kitchen, it was because Dean had convinced everyone to play. If people were laughing, chances were he was somewhere in the middle of it. He thrived in rooms like this. Crowded. Loud. Chaotic. Easy.
Tonight everything felt just a little off. He wandered back into the living room, weaving through people who greeted him with pats on the shoulder and shouted greetings over the music.
"Dean!" Someone shoved a red cup into his hand. He accepted it automatically.
Another guy pulled him into a conversation about next week's game. Dean answered. Mostly he just nodded in the right places, made the occasional sarcastic comment, and even laughed once.
But his attention kept drifting. His eyes searched the room without meaning to. Not looking for anyone in particular. Just... looking.
He caught himself glancing toward the hallway. Then toward the kitchen. Then the staircase. His eyebrows pulled together. What was he doing? He took a long drink instead.
"Dean." A familiar voice.
He turned. A blonde girl smiled up at him, already standing much closer than necessary.
"I've been trying to find you."
"Have you?"
"Mhm."
She reached up, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from the front of his shirt.
"I thought maybe you disappeared."
Dean looked down at her hand.
Then back up.
"Huh."
She laughed.
"I was wondering if you wanted to dance."
Normally? He would've said yes without thinking.
She was pretty and confident. Exactly the kind of girl who usually made parties more interesting.
Instead his answer caught in his throat. "I..."
For some reason, the image that popped into his head wasn't the blonde standing in front of him.
It was emerald green, the color of Y/n’s dress.
A quiet voice that never seemed to leave his thoughts got louder, “I hope, one day, someone speaks to you the way you speak to other people.”
He blinked. "Maybe later."
The girl looked surprised.
"Oh." She recovered quickly. "Okay."
She disappeared back into the crowd.
Dean watched her go.
That was… weird.
He took another sip.
Someone cranked the music even louder. The living room erupted into cheers. Someone started chanting his name from across the room. Usually, he'd be over there already. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was.
"Dean!" Another voice.
This time, a brunette. She slipped easily into his space, smiling like they'd known each other forever.
"You owe me a rematch in pong."
"Do I?"
"You destroyed me last weekend."
"I probably did."
She laughed, looping an arm through his.
"You sound thrilled to see me."
Dean looked at her.
She was gorgeous. Dark hair. Bright smile.
One of the girls who always seemed to show up whenever there was a hockey party.
She squeezed his arm playfully.
"So?"
"So?"
"The rematch."
Dean looked toward the dining room where everyone was gathered around the table.
Then looked back at her.
"I think I'll pass."
Her smile faltered.
"You... don't want to play beer pong?"
"Not really."
She laughed like he was joking. When he didn't laugh back, she slowly let go of his arm.
"Okay..."
She walked away looking thoroughly confused.
Dean was, too.
What the hell?
He never turned down beer pong.
He frowned into his cup. Something was wrong with him. He wandered onto the back deck. Fresh air. That would help. Except it didn't.
He saw Y/n. After the past two encounters, he didn’t feel like going at it again. He couldn’t even ignore her and go on about his day and enjoy the party.
He wandered back inside, weaving through strangers who moved aside automatically when they recognized him.
Someone called after him. "Dean! Take a shot!"
He waved without looking.
Another voice.
"Dean, come dance!"
He ignored it.
A hand caught his wrist.
He turned. Another girl. She smiled brightly.
"You've been avoiding me all night."
"Sorry."
She stepped closer. "You can make it up to me."
Usually, he'd flirt back. Usually, this part was effortless. She reached up, fingers brushing lightly over the back of his neck. Dean felt... nothing.
Not even annoyance.
Just... Nothing.
"I'm actually heading upstairs."
Her smile slipped.
"Oh."
He gently untangled her hand from his arm before continuing toward the staircase.
Halfway up, he stopped.
He looked down.
The entire house stretched beneath him.
Music. Laughter. People dancing. Friends shouting across rooms. Girls smiling at him every time he looked their way. It was everything he'd always enjoyed. Everything that had always been enough.
Tonight it wasn't.
He ran a hand through his hair. "What the hell..." The words came out barely above a whisper. No answer came.
He climbed the rest of the stairs. His bedroom door clicked shut behind him, muffling the music until it became nothing more than a dull pulse through the walls.
Silence.
Dean leaned back against the door.
He stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Then laughed once. A humorless sound.
"If anyone ever finds out I'm hiding in my room during my own party..." He shook his head. "They'll never let me live it down."
He tossed his phone onto the bed before sitting beside it. For the first time in years, the party downstairs held absolutely no appeal.
He couldn't explain it. Couldn't fix it. Couldn't even name it.
All he knew was that every laugh downstairs sounded too far away. And every time he closed his eyes, he saw a pair of hurt eyes and heard a quiet voice asking, "Are you done?"
—
Outside, the party only seemed to get louder.
Someone had turned the music up again. Cheers erupted from the living room, followed by the unmistakable crash of something breaking and a chorus of laughter that suggested nobody particularly cared.
Y/N stood in the middle of it all.
She couldn't hear herself think.
At first, she assumed it was the music.
Then she realized the room itself had started to move.
She frowned.
The people around her blurred together for half a second before snapping back into focus.
"Weird." She blinked hard.
Maybe she'd stood up too fast.
She lifted her cup to take another sip, but stopped halfway. Her stomach rolled unpleasantly.
No.
Something wasn't right. She lowered the cup.
The bass thudded through the floor beneath her feet, each vibration making the dizziness worse.
Someone bumped her shoulder as they squeezed past.
Normally, she would've stumbled a step and laughed it off. Instead, her knees almost gave out. She caught herself on the edge of a nearby table.
"Oh..." A whisper .Barely audible. "...Oh, no."
Another wave hit. The room tilted sharply to the left before correcting itself.
Y/N squeezed her eyes shut.
Okay.
Okay, breathe.
When she opened them again, the crowd seemed even bigger somehow.
Too many people.
Too much noise.
Too little air.
Her fingers tightened around the plastic cup until it crumpled.
"Oh, shit."
Her voice trembled.
"Oh, shit..."
She looked down at the drink in her hand.
Without another thought, she walked to the nearest trash can and dumped the rest of it out before tossing the cup after it.
She needed Hannah.
That thought came immediately.
Hannah.
She'd know what to do.
Y/N turned toward the hallway.
Then remembered.
Garrett had quietly stolen Hannah away almost twenty minutes ago.
Garrett had simply grinned, taken Hannah's hand, and led her upstairs.
Privacy.
Right.
Y/N swallowed.
She couldn't exactly burst into Garrett's room.
Absolutely not.
Her breathing grew uneven.
The hallway stretched farther than she remembered.
Another wave of dizziness crashed over her so suddenly she reached for the wall. Her palm slapped against it. Her fingers trembled against the old drywall.
Think.
Who else?
Her parents? No way, she was far away in college, what would her parents even do? Fuck.
An ambulance?
No.
That sounded more stupid. Who calls an ambulance to a party?
No, no...
She wasn't even sure what was wrong.
She just... She just needed someone.
Someone she knew.
Her thoughts landed on a name she never would've expected.
Dean.
She almost laughed.
It would've been funny under different circumstances.
Dean Di Laurentis.
The same Dean who'd spent the entire evening trying to make her miserable. The same Dean who'd looked her dead in the eye and told her no one would ever be interested in her.
She hated him.
He was an ass.
Cocky.
Infuriating.
Meaner than he realized.
But...
He would never hurt her in a way bunch of guys in this party would if they found her in this state.
Her drink has been spiked, she thought, and whoever it was was bound to show up sooner or later. She needed to get away.
She knew that with complete certainty.
Her feet were already moving.
The staircase looked impossibly steep. By the third step, her legs felt strangely disconnected from the rest of her body.
Come on.
One more.
She gripped the railing so tightly her knuckles turned white. The music downstairs faded with every step upward, replaced by the pounding of her own heartbeat.
Halfway up, her vision blurred again. She stopped. The stairs shifted beneath her.
"No..."
She squeezed the railing harder.
"You are not passing out." As if scolding herself would be any help.
Another breath.
Another step.
Then another.
By the time she reached the second floor, she was breathing like she'd run a marathon.
Dean's door.
End of the hallway.
So close.
She took one step. Then another.
Her foot caught slightly against the carpet.
She stumbled, catching herself against the wall.
The hallway spun. "Oh, God..."
Everything suddenly felt so far away.
She finally reached Dean's door, raised her hand and knocked.
—
Inside, Dean didn't move.
He stared absently at the ceiling from where he sat on the edge of his bed.
The music downstairs had become little more than a dull vibration through the walls.
A knock sounded.
Dean sighed.
Without getting up, he called toward the door.
"Occupied."
Silence.
Good.
Probably another couple looking for somewhere quiet.
Not happening.
He leaned back against the headboard again.
Another knock.
More insistent this time.
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose.
"I said go away."
Nothing.
Then…. a heavy thud. Like something, or someone had fallen.
Dean's head snapped toward the door. Every trace of annoyance disappeared. He was on his feet before he'd even realized he'd stood.
He yanked the door open. And froze.
Y/N laid crumpled just outside his room. One hand still stretched weakly toward the doorframe. Her hair had fallen across part of her face. She looked frighteningly pale.
"What the…" Dean dropped to his knees instantly. "Y/N?"
She stirred. Barely. Her eyelids fluttered open just enough to find him. For a second, she simply looked at him. Like she was trying to make sure she'd found the right room.
"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, the question coming out much sharper than he'd intended.
Was he angry? No.
Panicked? Confused? Terrified? Yes.
"I..." she whispered. Her voice was so quiet he almost missed it. "I know..." She swallowed with visible effort. "I know you hate me enough not to try anything…”
Her eyes began slipping shut.
Dean's expression shattered.
Her arm gave out beneath her. Her body pitched sideways.
"Y/N!"
He caught her before she could hit her head.
Dean held her; one arm around her shoulders, the other catching her legs awkwardly before lowering her carefully against him.
"Hey, hey, hey." His voice had changed completely. Every ounce of sarcasm was gone. Every trace of arrogance vanished. Raw panic replaced all of it.
"Look at me." Her head lolled weakly against his shoulder. "Y/N."
Nothing.
"Come on."
Her eyes opened halfway. Just enough.
"There you are."
His hand came up instinctively, brushing loose strands of hair away from her face. She looked exhausted. Not sleepy. Drained. Like staying conscious required more effort than she had left.
"What happened?"
She blinked slowly and closed her eyes.
Dean's heart slammed painfully against his ribs. He tried to control his shaking hands.
"What did you have to drink?"
She frowned.
"...just..." Another slow blink. "...not much..."
"Did you hit your head?"
A tiny shake. "No."
"Did somebody…" His voice caught. He couldn't even finish the question. Y/N looked at him, and nodded.
"I think so..." Her breathing hitched. And she fully closed her eyes.
Dean’s eyes widened. He was trying to hide his panic.
"Okay." He nodded quickly. "Okay."
He wasn't okay. Not even close. But she needed him calm.
"I've got you."
He slipped one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. She was lighter than he'd expected. Too light.
She instinctively curled toward his chest as he lifted her. Her forehead rested weakly against his shoulder. Dean carried her inside as though she might break.
The bedroom door swung shut behind them. He crossed to the bed immediately. He lowered her carefully onto the mattress, supporting her head until it rested against the pillow.
She shivered. Without thinking, Dean tugged the comforter over her. He crouched beside the bed.
"Stay with me." He shook her slighly so she’d stay conscious. Y/N looked at him through half-lidded eyes.
"I'm trying."
"I know." His voice cracked. "I know."
She reached for him without really meaning to. Her fingers brushed weakly against his wrist. Dean took her hand immediately. Firm. Steady.
"I'm here."
Her grip was almost nonexistent. She still didn't let go as she closed her eyes one last time to sleep off the drug’s effect.
Dean looked at her. Really looked at her. She was unconscious and laying in his bed. A dark thought crossed his mind. She could have not made it to his room and right now… God knows what would have happened.
She'd climbed the stairs. Walked through an entire house full of people. Passed countless rooms. And somehow she'd come here, to him. And out of all people he chose him not because she trusted him, but because she thought he hated her enough not to try anything another filthy guy would.
A lump settled painfully in his throat.
Y/n’s eyes opened slowly, she was in and out of consciousness.
"I'm here." Dean whispered.
Her breathing slowed again. Her eyelids drooped lower.
"No, no."
Dean gently squeezed her hand.
"Don't fall asleep again, not yet."
"Tired."
"I know."
"Just..." Her words were fading.
He leaned closer. "Stay awake a little longer for me."
She tried.
God, she tried.
He could see it.
The effort it took just to keep her eyes open.
Eventually she looked at him one last time. Really looked. Like she wanted to make sure he was still there. Then, satisfied, her fingers loosened around his hand. Her breathing evened out. Her face relaxed for the first time since he'd opened the door.
"Y/N?"
No answer.
Just the quiet rhythm of sleep.
Dean stayed exactly where he was.
Still holding her hand. Still watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. As if looking away, even for a second, might somehow let something happen to her.
Downstairs, the party raged on. People laughed. Music shook the walls. Someone cheered loud enough for the sound to carry upstairs. Dean didn't hear any of it. His entire world had narrowed to the girl asleep in his bed and the sickening realization that she chose him to be her safe place due to every cruel thing he said to her, because in y/n’s eyes Dean hated her.
tw 4 entrie series: obsessed!nettspend x model!reader, reader is unattached and uninterested, nett is golden retriever coded lowkey, weed mentions, mentions of eating disorders, thats all for now!
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
gunner shepardson(nettspend) x fem!influencer!reader
summary: he has spent three months trying to take you out; seeing him in person might finally change your mind.
word count: ~412
gunner is, if nothing else, incredibly persistent.
your instagram request folder is practically a timeline of his attempts to get your attention. it’s been that way for the past three months—ever since you posted that grwm in an oversized vintage tee, and somehow, from that point on, he ended up everywhere.
if you checked your phone right now, he’d probably be sitting at the very top.
him.slut (replied to your story: a close-up selfie showing off your new lip gloss.)
u look good
a minute later.
u in la still?
and then, because he never really knows when to quit
lemme take u out
i’m deadass too
you almost never answer.
sometimes you’ll double-tap the messages just so he knows you saw them.
sometimes you leave them sitting there unopened for hours before eventually tapping in, reading every word, and backing right back out.
it doesn’t matter.
a day later, he’s replying to another story.
him.slut (replied to your story: a mirror selfie.)
this the one
every new post earns another reaction. another reply. another excuse to start a conversation that never really gets off the ground.
you’d think he’d get the hint eventually.
he doesn’t.
if anything, he just gets more patient.
the funniest part, though, is seeing him in person.
last weekend at an archive pop-up in la, he was posted against a wall with his hands shoved in the pockets of an oversized zip-up, talking to somebody you didn’t recognize. the second you walked in, his attention drifted.
he looked over once.
then again.
and before you knew it, he was making his way across the room.
“finally caught you,” he says, stopping in front of you with the smallest grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
you raise an eyebrow.
“caught me?”
“yeah.” he shrugs. “thought you was gonna keep hiding behind instagram forever.”
you let out a laugh, shaking your head.
“i’m not hiding.”
“could’ve fooled me.”
he tilts his head toward you just enough to be heard over the music.
“so…” he says. “you ever gonna let me take you out?”
you roll your eyes, taking another sip of your drink.
“…you don’t give up, do you?”
“nah.”
he smiles.
“not really.”
and for the first time in three months, you’re actually considering answering those dms.
a/n: sooo i wrote this right after he said his favorite justin bieber song is boyfriend, so it’s very loosely inspired by that. feedback is always welcome and actually needed so don’t be shy. but nonetheless, profitez bien, mes angels.
summary: allie comes over for movie night, but neither of you end up paying much attention to the movie. (not smut…)
parings: allie hayes x fem!reader
a/n: hey guys… hehe it’s been a while since i posted.. i just wanted to focus on school because it was super stressful but SCHOOL IS OVER!! and summer break is finally here. unfortunately that means i need to start looking for a job.. but we’ll do that later.. okay anyway i been super obsessed with off campus!! it’s so good and i love it.. so guys now’s ur chance to send me requests because im locked in. okay here’s a cute allie fic i hope you guys enjoy… send requests for off campus!!
HAPPY PRIDE MONTH!!
it starts with a text that comes in when you’re not really doing anything important.
allie: hey iconnn, movie night?
i’m bored
i’m coming over btw
you stare at it for a second longer than you should, sitting cross-legged on your bed, then type back without thinking too hard about it.
you: you don’t even ask anymore 🙄
allie: because you always say yes
and you hate that she’s right.
there’s a knock at your door not long after, a little impatient like she already knows you’re going to open it anyway.
when you do, allie is standing there like she’s trying not to smile too obviously. she’s got snacks in both hands, shifting them slightly when she sees you like she suddenly remembers she’s supposed to act normal.
“hey,” she says, softer than the text messages were.
you step aside. “you’re acting like this is a planned event.”
“it is,” she says, walking past you like she’s already decided where she’s going. “you just didn’t know about it.”
you let out a quiet breath that almost turns into a laugh and close the door behind her. she moves into your room without hesitation, setting the snacks down and glancing around like she already belongs there.
you notice her hair first. down, a little messy, falling into her face in a way she keeps brushing back without noticing she’s doing it.
she catches you looking and her eyebrows lift slightly. “what.”
you shake your head a little too fast. “nothing.”
when time passes you guys are now sitting on your bed watching mamma mia.. it’s a classic and a musical something you both love and happily agreed on.
the movie keeps going but neither of you are really watching it anymore. it’s still playing, still filling the room with noise, but it feels distant now, like it belongs to something else entirely.
allie shifts slightly beside you, not enough to feel deliberate, just enough that the space between you changes without either of you acknowledging it. her shoulder brushes yours again and this time it doesn’t feel accidental in the way it probably is.
you don’t move away.
a few seconds pass like that, quiet in a way that feels heavier than it should. allie tilts her head a little toward you, eyes drifting off the screen like she’s already forgotten it’s even playing. she looks at you a second too long, like she’s thinking something she hasn’t said yet, and when she finally talks it’s quieter, like she’s not really saying it to the room at all.
“you’re pretty good at this,” she says.
you glance at her a little slowly, like you didn’t expect that. “at what.”
she makes a small, vague motion between the two of you, the bed, the movie, like she’s not even sure how to explain it properly. “this. just… being you.”
that makes you look away before you mean to, like it landed too close to something you don’t usually let people touch. your fingers tighten slightly in the blanket without you noticing at first, and when you finally speak your voice is quieter than before.
“that’s a weird thing to say,” you admit, not really looking at her when you say it.
allie just shrugs a little, still looking at you instead of the screen. “it’s true though.”
there’s a pause after that not empty… just slower. like even the room feels like it’s moving a little differently now.
you shift a little, adjusting like you suddenly forgot how to sit still, and she notices. of course she does. her knee nudges yours lightly again, not pulling away this time, just staying there like it belongs.
“you’re not even watching the movie,” you say quietly, more just to say something than because it really matters.
allie hums like she’s thinking about it, but she doesn’t look away from you. “neither are you.”
you let out a small breath through your nose, almost a laugh, but it doesn’t fully come out. “you’re really distracting,” you say, softer than you liked.
“me?” she asks, like she’s offended, but there’s a smile in it now. “you’re the one looking at me.”
you glance at her properly then, and she’s already looking back, closer now without either of you really deciding it happened. her expression isn’t teasing anymore, not really. it’s quieter, more steady, like she’s waiting for something she hasn’t said yet.
“what?” you murmur, because you can feel the shift even if you don’t know what to call it.
“nothing,” she says again, but she doesn’t look away.
and that’s the problem.. because nothing about her feels like nothing right now.
there’s a beat where the movie changes scenes and neither of you react at all. the sound keeps going but it might as well not exist.
allie leans in just slightly, not closing the distance fully, just enough that you feel it. her voice drops when she speaks again, softer now, like she’s not trying to interrupt anything anymore.
“you know..” she paused. “you’re really pretty,” she says.
it lands differently this time. slower. heavier. not like a comment, more like something she didn’t mean to hold in.
you go still for a second, not dramatic, just caught. your eyes flick down briefly, then back up, and there’s a small, nervous smile that slips in before you can stop it, like your body reacted before your brain caught up.
“you can’t just say that,” you say quietly, but it doesn’t really come out sharp like you wanted it to, it came out shy instead.
allie watches you like she’s trying to figure out why that reaction matters to her more than it should. “why not?” she asks.
you hesitate, shifting a little closer without realizing you’re doing it. “because it makes me feel like i have to say something back,” you admit, voice low now, a little more honest than you probably meant it to be.
that makes her expression change slightly, like she wasn’t expecting that answer at all. she doesn’t push it though, just nods a little like she’s taking it in.
“you don’t have to,” she says, after a second. “i just think it.”
that does something worse, honestly, because it’s even quieter now, even more real, and there’s nowhere to hide it.
you glance at her for a second too long, then away, then back again, like you’re trying to figure out what you’re supposed to do with the space between you.
“you’re pretty too,” you say, and it comes out softer than everything else, like you didn’t fully decide to say it before it happened.
allie goes still for a moment, just looking at you like she’s letting it sit there between you, then she shifts a little closer without really thinking about it.
her hand is already there before you fully notice it, resting lightly on your thigh, like it didn’t need permission so much as confirmation, and you don’t move away from it. you just look at her instead.
the movie keeps playing behind you both, completely forgotten now, like it was never really part of the night to begin with.
her voice drops, barely there when she speaks. “can i kiss you?” but there’s no joke in it or teasing. just her, asking.
you nod once, small. “yeah.”
she leans in slowly, like she’s giving you every chance to stop her, and you don’t.
the kiss starts soft at first, kind of careful in a way that feels almost unfamiliar, like neither of you really trusts it yet or wants to rush into something you can’t take back. there’s a second where it just lingers like that, close but still hesitant, like you’re both waiting to see what the other does.
and you guys can’t pull away from the kiss.. or maybe you just don’t want too but just like that.. the night goes on.
GUYSSS HAPPY PRIDE MONTH!! WOOOOO!! okay guys im very happy to be back finally!! hehe.. how do you guys like this short fic?? i think it’s very cutesy… GUYS PLEASEE send more requests for off campus i do anyone! garrett, dean, hannah, tucker, logan, allie (obvs), and beau.. ok pretty much anyone. sorry if this is bad or so many grammar errors this is not proofread LMAOO. i always end up doing my fics at like 2 am?? not sure why… im very obsessed with this show rn.. okay anyway guys i hope you enjoyed this! don’t forget to send more requests for off campus and i love you all so muchhh (happy pride.. again!)
Summary: Dean has never met a problem he couldn’t charm his way out of or a woman he couldn’t leave completely satisfied. So when he overhears a football player publicly blame you for his own failures in bed, Dean does the only logical thing: he shows up at your doorstep with a duffel bag full of toys and a mission
Warnings: 18+ content
The crisp March wind whips across the Briar University quad, but Dean hardly feels the chill. He’s running on four hours of sleep, a triple-shot espresso, and the lingering high of a weekend well spent.
“I’m just saying,” Garrett says, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. “If Coach makes us bag skate again tomorrow, I’m staging a full-team mutiny. I’m not doing it.”
Logan snorts. “You love bag skates.”
“I tolerate bag skates,” Garrett corrects him. “There’s a massive difference.”
“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”
Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”
Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”
“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”
He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.
“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”
“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”
“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”
“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”
“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”
They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.
Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.
Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”
“Who?” Tucker asks.
“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”
Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.
“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”
“Yeah?” The other guy asks.
“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”
Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.
McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”
Dean stops walking completely.
Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”
“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.
“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”
“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”
“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”
“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”
“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”
Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.
Something must genuinely be wrong with her.
No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.
“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”
Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.
Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”
McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”
Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”
McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”
“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”
“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”
Beau winces. “Dean.”
McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”
“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”
For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.
But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.
McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”
Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.
McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.
Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.
“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”
“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”
“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”
They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.
But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.
It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.
He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.
Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.
“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”
He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.
“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.
Beau glances over. “Yeah?”
“Who did McMahon just break up with?”
Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”
“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.
“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”
“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”
“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.
“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”
“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.
“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”
Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”
“I am absolutely going to track her down.”
“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.
Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”
“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”
“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”
“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.
“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.
He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.
He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.
***
The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.
“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.
“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”
“I’m open!”
“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”
“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”
“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.
On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.
Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.
He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.
It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.
“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”
“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.
“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”
“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”
“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”
Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”
“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.
“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”
Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”
“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”
The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.
Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.
“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.
“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”
Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”
Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”
“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”
Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”
“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”
Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”
Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”
“Who?” Dean demands.
“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.
Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”
“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”
Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”
Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.
“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”
Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.
“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”
The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”
“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.
“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”
Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.
He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.
It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.
“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.
“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”
“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”
Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”
Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”
“No,” Dean says immediately.
“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”
“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”
“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.
“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”
“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.
“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”
Beau sighs. “Dean-”
“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”
The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.
“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”
He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.
“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”
Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”
“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.
“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”
“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”
Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.
Right now, Dean is dead serious.
“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”
Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”
“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.
“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”
Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”
“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.
Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”
“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.
“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”
“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”
“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”
“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”
“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.
“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”
“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”
“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.
“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”
Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”
Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.
He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.
And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.
Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.
He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”
Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”
“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”
“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.
“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”
“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”
“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”
He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?
He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.
Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?
That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.
***
Dean does not usually require props.
In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.
But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.
Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.
So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.
He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.
“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.
“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.
“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”
“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”
“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.
Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”
He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.
The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.
He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.
He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.
Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.
The lock clicks. The door swings open.
And Dean completely forgets how to speak.
You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.
He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.
You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”
Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.
“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.
“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”
Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”
Silence.
Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.
You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.
Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”
The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.
Before he can even register the hit, you step back.
“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.
Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.
“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”
He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.
“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”
“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”
“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.
“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”
The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.
“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”
Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”
“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”
“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”
You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”
“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”
The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.
“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”
“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”
You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”
“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”
You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.
“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”
“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.
Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.
You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”
“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”
You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.
For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.
“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”
Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.
The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.
You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.
“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”
“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.
“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”
“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”
You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”
Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”
Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”
“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”
Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.
“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”
Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.
“Y/N,” he starts softly.
“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”
You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.
“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”
You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.
“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.
He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.
This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.
“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.
You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”
“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”
You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”
“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”
“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”
“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”
“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”
“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.
You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.
“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”
You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.
But then the wall goes back up.
“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”
Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.
He needs leverage. What does he know about you?
Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.
“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.
You stop. “What?”
“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”
You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”
“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”
You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”
“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”
“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.
Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.
“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”
You stare at him.
“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”
Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.
The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.
“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.
“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”
You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”
“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”
“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”
Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.
“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”
You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.
The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.
Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.
“Shirtless,” you say softly.
“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”
The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.
“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”
“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.
You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.
“When?” You ask.
“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”
You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”
Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.
“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”
He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.
He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.
Now, he just has to do the impossible.
***
The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.
Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.
He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.
“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”
You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.
“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”
He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.
“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”
“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.
“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”
You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”
“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”
Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.
On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.
You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.
Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”
“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.
“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”
“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”
“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”
You do. He is staring at your lips.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”
He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.
A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.
The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”
He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.
You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.
“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”
“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.
He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.
Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.
He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.
You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.
“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?
“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”
The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.
Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.
He lowers his head.
The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”
He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.
“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.
He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.
It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.
Dean feels it. He stops immediately.
“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.
You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.
“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.
“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”
“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”
“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”
“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”
He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.
“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.
“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”
“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.
The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.
“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.
The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.
“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”
He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.
The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.
The coiled spring snaps.
A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.
Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.
When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.
You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.
Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.
He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.
He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”
You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”
“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”
You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.
“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.
Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”
Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”
“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”
He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.
You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.
Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.
But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.
You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.
It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.
You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.
“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”
It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.
Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.
He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.
You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.
Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.
“Look at me,” he demands softly.
You meet his eyes.
“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.
And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.
You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.
He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.
It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.
“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”
“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.
The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.
“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”
You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.
Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.
He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.
You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.
A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.
He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.
“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”
You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”
“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”
You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.
The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.
But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.
And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.
***
The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.
The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.
“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”
You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”
“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”
You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.
“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”
“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.
You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.
Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.
And leading the pack is Dean.
He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.
A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.
You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.
“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.
“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”
“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”
Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.
“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”
“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”
“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”
You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”
Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.
Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.
“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.
“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”
“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”
Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”
“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”
You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”
“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.
You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.
“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”
“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”
“It’s a yes,” you agree.
“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”
“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”
Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.
You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.
“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.
“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.
“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.
The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.
Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.
And Dean.
Dean is putting on a show.
You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.
Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.
He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.
Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.
“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”
“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.
“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”
You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”
Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”
“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.
“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”
You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.
You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.
Your heart does that stupid flip again.
He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.
“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.
Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”
“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”
“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”
“I think I can manage that.”
“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”
You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.
“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”
The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.
You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.
You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon.
He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.
“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”
A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.
Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.
But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.
He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.
All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.
“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.
McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”
Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.
Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.
“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”
McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”
“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”
McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.
“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”
You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.
“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”
McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”
“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”
The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.
“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”
McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.
Dean isn’t finished.
He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.
“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”
McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.
He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.
The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.
Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.
You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.
No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.
Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.
“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”
You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.
It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.
The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.
You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.
“That was perfect,” you whisper.
“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.
“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”
“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”
You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”
Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”
“You love it,” you remind him.
“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”
He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”
“Dean!”
He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.
You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.
You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.
And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.
You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: Dean Di Laurentis has always been the kind of man who plays to win. You just never realized the game had already started … or that you were the prize. He calls it love. He’s not wrong. He’s just not telling you everything
Dean does not do quiet nights in. Or at least, he didn’t.
For the first two years of his time at Briar University, Dean was an absolute legend. He is the charming, impossibly good-looking hockey star whose bed rarely sees the same woman twice and, sometimes, sees two at once. He’s the guy who buys the entire bar a round of shots and still remembers the bouncer’s kid’s name. With two high-powered, fiercely loving attorneys for parents and a maternal family drowning in luxury hotel money, Dean has always had the world on a silver platter. He never had to try too hard at anything. Hockey, women, school — it all just came easily to him.
But that was before you.
Now, Dean pushes open the front door of the house he shares with his teammates, ignores the lingering scent of stale beer from last weekend’s party, and makes a beeline straight for the sunroom.
He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest, and just watches you.
You are sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing a pair of paint-splattered overalls that have definitely seen better days. Your hair is piled into a messy bun, held together by a single pencil, and there is a streak of cerulean blue swiped right across your cheekbone. You are completely engrossed in the canvas propped up on the easel in front of you.
“Did you even go to practice, Di Laurentis, or did you just stand by the glass winking at puck bunnies?” You ask, not even bothering to look up from your palette.
Dean grins, pushing off the doorframe. “I resent that. I winked at exactly zero bunnies today. I am a retired man, remember?”
“Retired from what? Being a menace to the female population of Massachusetts?”
“Exactly.” Dean drops onto the battered floral sofa behind you, sprawling his long legs out. “Besides, Coach ran us through skating drills for an hour. I’m too exhausted to be a menace to anyone but you.”
You finally turn your head, giving him a flat look. “You don’t look exhausted. You look exactly like you always do. Smug.”
“It’s not smugness, babe. It’s natural charisma.” He reaches out, tugging gently on the frayed hem of your overalls. “Come here. Tell me about your day.”
You sigh, setting your paintbrush down and wiping your hands on a rag before crawling over the drop cloth. You settle between his knees, resting your back against the sofa as his hands immediately find your shoulders, his thumbs massaging the tight muscles at the base of your neck.
“It was fine,” you say, closing your eyes as his hands work their magic. “I spent four hours in the studio trying to get the lighting right on this piece, and then I had to go argue with the financial aid office about my scholarship disbursement for next semester.”
Dean’s hands still for a fraction of a second before resuming their steady rhythm. “You know you don’t have to do that, right? Argue with them. I could just-”
“Dean,” you warn, your tone carrying a familiar edge.
“I’m just saying! One phone call. My dad would have a check overnighted, and you wouldn’t have to deal with the bureaucratic bullshit.”
“And we’ve talked about this,” you reply gently, tipping your head back to look up at him upside down. “I am doing this on my own. No Kennedy money, and no Di Laurentis money either.”
Dean looks down at you, his green eyes softening. It still blows his mind sometimes, the sheer grit you possess. You are a Kennedy heiress. You grew up in the exact same upper-crust, east-coast circles he did. He still remembers being twelve years old at some stuffy Hamptons gala, watching you in a perfectly pressed pastel dress, looking absolutely miserable while your parents paraded you around.
But the moment you told your fiercely political, legacy-obsessed family that you were majoring in fine arts instead of pre-law, they cut the cord. Shut off the trust fund, canceled the credit cards, the whole nine yards. Most people from your world would have caved. You just packed a bag, took out loans, fought for a merit scholarship, and showed up at Briar University in a pair of scuffed sneakers.
Dean recognized you immediately freshman year. At first, he just wanted to make sure you were okay — a protective instinct taking over. He made sure you knew where the dining halls were, bullied his teammates into helping you move a terrible thrift-store couch into your dorm, and threatened any guy who looked at you sideways. He thought he was just taking you under his wing. He didn’t realize he was falling completely, hopelessly in love with you until it was already far too late.
“I know, I know,” Dean murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “You’re a strong, independent artist who doesn’t need my money. But you’re still letting me buy you dinner, right? Because I’m starving, and if I have to eat another one of Logan’s weird protein-powder concoctions, I’m going to hurl.”
You laugh, a bright, clear sound that makes his chest tight. “Pizza? Half pepperoni, half whatever disgusting combination you want?”
“It’s called a supreme pizza, you uncultured heathen, and yes.” He kisses you again, lingering this time, his lips brushing softly against yours. “Go wash the paint off your face. I’ll order.”
***
An hour later, the two of you are sitting on the floor of his bedroom, the open pizza box sitting between you. Outside, the Massachusetts wind is howling, rattling the old windows of the hockey house, but inside, wrapped in Dean’s oversized gray hoodie, you are perfectly warm.
“So, next year is looking good,” Dean says around a mouthful of pizza. “But honestly, after Harvard, I don’t even know. My mom is already sending me listings for apartments in Cambridge.”
“She’s excited,” you say, stealing a pepperoni off his side of the box. “Her son, the legacy, heading to Harvard Law. It’s a big deal, Dean. You should be proud.”
“I am,” he says, leaning back against his bedframe. And he is. He’s worked his ass off to keep his grades up alongside hockey, proving to everyone that he’s more than just a rich party boy with a good slap shot. “But it’s going to be weird. No more Briar. No more living with the guys. Just actual adulthood.”
“Terrifying,” you agree, wiping grease from your fingers.
“Hey, it’s not like you aren’t right there with me,” he points out, bumping his knee against yours. “We’re both graduating. We’re both moving on. Which reminds me — have you checked your email today?”
You freeze, your hand hovering over the pizza box. “No.”
“You haven’t?” Dean sits up a little straighter. “Babe, they said the end of the week. Today is Friday. You need to check.”
“I don’t want to look,” you admit, pulling your knees to your chest. “If it’s a rejection, I want to live in denial for just a few more hours. Let me have my pizza in peace.”
“Nope. Absolutely not.” Dean reaches over, grabbing your laptop off the desk and setting it squarely on your lap. “Open it. If it’s a rejection, I will personally drive to the admissions office and key their cars. But it won’t be. Because you’re brilliant.”
You let out a shaky breath, flipping the laptop open. The screen casts a blue glow over your face as you pull up your email. Dean watches you, his heart pounding a steady rhythm against his ribs. He knows how much this means to you. Your art is your entire world. It’s the reason you gave up your family and your fortune.
“Okay,” you whisper. “There’s an email.”
“Read it,” Dean says, leaning over your shoulder. He can smell your shampoo — something fruity and sweet — mixed with the faint, metallic scent of oil paint.
Your eyes dart across the screen, reading the first few lines. And then, you gasp. Your hands fly up to cover your mouth, your eyes widening impossibly far.
“What?” Dean asks, his voice urgent. “What does it say?”
“Dean,” you breathe out, turning to look at him. There are tears welling in your eyes, but your smile is blinding. “Dean, I got in. They accepted me.”
“Holy shit!” Dean barks out a laugh, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you into his lap. He buries his face in your neck, hugging you so tightly you squeak. “I knew it! I fucking knew it! You’re a genius!”
You are laughing and crying at the same time, throwing your arms around his neck. “I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it. Full ride, Dean. They’re covering the tuition and giving me a stipend. I don’t have to take out more loans.”
“Because you’re incredible,” he says fiercely, pulling back to frame your face with his large hands. “I am so proud of you. Do you hear me? So damn proud.”
He kisses you, deep and passionate, pouring every ounce of his pride and love for you into it. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers
tangling in his dark blond hair. It’s a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. You did it. Against all odds, without your family’s safety net, you achieved your dream.
“We have to celebrate,” Dean says, pulling back slightly, his eyes shining. “I’m calling the guys. I’m buying kegs. Hell, I’m renting out the entire bar downtown.”
“Dean, no, we don’t need to do all that,” you laugh, wiping a stray tear from your cheek.
“Yes, we do! My girl is getting her Master of Fine Arts. From Stanford!”
He says the word with so much enthusiasm, so much triumph. But as soon as the syllables leave his mouth, the sound hangs in the air between you.
Stanford.
Dean’s smile falters, just a fraction of an inch.
Stanford. Palo Alto. California.
He suddenly feels like he’s just taken a slapshot bare-chested. The air leaves his lungs in a sharp, silent rush. All the adrenaline, all the excitement that was humming through his veins just a second ago evaporates, replaced by a sudden, icy drop in his stomach.
“Stanford,” he repeats, and this time, his voice doesn’t have the same booming volume. It’s quieter.
You seem to catch the shift in his tone. The massive smile on your face dims slightly, your brows knitting together in concern. “Yeah. Stanford. The MFA program.”
“Right. Right, yeah. West Coast.” Dean forces his mouth back into a smile, though it feels a little stiff. “That’s … that’s amazing, babe.”
“Dean?” You shift in his lap, looking at him closely. “Are you okay?”
“Are you kidding? I’m fantastic,” he lies smoothly, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your lips. “I just … realized how far California is. Going to be a bitch of a flight.”
“Yeah,” you say softly, your eyes searching his face. “It’s … it’s really far.”
“But it’s the best program in the country,” Dean jumps in, his voice slightly louder, desperate to fill the sudden quiet in the room. “And you deserve the best. It’s incredible.”
“We’ll figure it out,” you say, resting your hand against his cheek. Your thumb brushes against his jaw. “Right? I mean, you’ll be in Cambridge, and I’ll be in California, but people do long distance all the time.”
“Exactly,” Dean says immediately. “Long distance. Easy. We’ve got FaceTime. We’ll rack up frequent flyer miles. It’s nothing.”
You study him for a long moment, and Dean actively works to keep his expression open and supportive. He cannot ruin this for you. He will not be the guy who makes your greatest triumph about his own selfish panic. He loves you too much for that.
“Okay,” you finally whisper, leaning your forehead against his. “We’ll figure it out.”
“We will,” Dean promises, pulling you tight against his chest.
***
It is 3 AM.
The house is dead silent, save for the hum of the radiator and the steady, rhythmic sound of your breathing.
You are fast asleep, tangled in the sheets, one arm thrown across Dean’s bare chest. Your head is tucked perfectly into the crook of his neck, exactly where you belong.
Dean is wide awake.
He is staring up at the ceiling, his heart hammering a dull, heavy beat against his ribs. The darkness of the bedroom feels suffocating.
Three thousand miles.
The thought loops in his head on a relentless, torturous cycle. Three thousand miles. A six-hour flight. A three-hour time difference.
He turns his head slightly, burying his nose in your hair, inhaling the faint scent of your shampoo. He closes his eyes, trying to force down the rising tide of panic that has been clawing at his throat for the last six hours.
When he told you they’d figure it out, he meant it. He wants to figure it out. But in the quiet, terrifying solitude of the middle of the night, the reality of the situation is crushing him.
He is going to Harvard Law. The curriculum is famously brutal. He’s going to be drowning in case studies and legal briefs, pulling all-nighters in the library. You are going to a highly competitive, intense MFA program on the other side of the continent. You’ll be spending all your time in the studio, surrounded by new people, new artists, a whole new life.
How does this work? How do they survive this?
Dean has never been an insecure guy. He knows what he brings to the table. But the idea of you being thousands of miles away, living a life that he isn’t a part of every single day … it terrifies him.
What if the distance is too much? What if the time zones make it impossible to talk? What if you meet someone in a coffee shop in Palo Alto who understands your art in a way Dean never could? Someone who doesn’t have a meathead hockey past. Someone who is there.
He tightens his arm around your waist, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer. You murmur softly in your sleep, shifting closer to his heat, your hand curling against his chest.
He loves you. God, he loves you so much it physically aches. You are the best thing that has ever happened to him. You grounded him, you saw past the arrogant hockey star, and you loved him for exactly who he is.
And now, he has to let you go.
He has to smile and pack your boxes and put you on a plane to California, because holding you back would be a betrayal of everything he loves about you.
Dean stares into the dark, his jaw clenched tight, a profound, agonizing fear settling deep into his bones. He is going to lose you. He doesn’t know how, and he doesn’t know when, but as he lies awake holding you in the dark, he is absolutely terrified that this is the beginning of the end.
***
It has been exactly four days, six hours, and twenty-two minutes since you got the acceptance email from Stanford.
Dean knows the exact timeline because that is exactly how long it has been since he last took a full, deep breath.
It’s Tuesday afternoon, and the hockey house is relatively quiet. Most of the guys are either in class or at the gym. Dean is sprawled on the battered living room couch, his long legs hanging over the armrest, staring blankly at his phone. He’s supposed to be reading a chapter on contract law for his seminar tomorrow, but the textbook is lying face-down on the floor, abandoned.
Instead, he’s doom-scrolling.
His thumb flicks upward. A hockey highlight. Flick. A girl dancing. Flick. A dog falling off a couch. Flick.
The algorithm, sensing his stagnant, depressive mood, throws something different onto his screen. It’s a girl sitting in a bedroom that looks like a library, excitedly tapping a thick paperback book against her chin.
“Okay, BookTok, hear me out,” the girl on the screen says, her voice breathless and enthusiastic. “I just finished the most unhinged dark romance of my entire life, and I am obsessed. The male main character? A total walking red flag, but we love to see it.”
Dean’s thumb hovers over the screen. He doesn’t care about romance books. He’s about to swipe when she says the next sentence.
“He knows she’s going to leave him for her dream job in Scotland,” the girl continues, her eyes wide. “So what does our morally gray king do? He baby traps her. He literally takes a needle to his stash of condoms and microwaves her birth control pills. And the craziest part? It works. She stays. They get married. He loved her enough to be the villain so he wouldn’t lose her.”
Dean freezes.
He stares at the girl on the screen. The video loops, starting over from the beginning.
He baby traps her. Dean scoffs out loud, a harsh, jagged sound in the empty room. He locks his phone and tosses it onto his chest. That is insane. That is genuinely psychotic. He is a good guy. He was raised by a mother who would literally skin him alive if he ever disrespected a woman. He understands consent. He believes in bodily autonomy. The idea of doing something so manipulative, so violating, makes his stomach turn.
But as he lies there staring at the water-stained ceiling, a tiny, insidious voice whispers in the back of his mind. But she stayed.
Dean clenches his jaw. He scrubs a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble there. He hasn’t shaved in three days. He’s losing his mind. You haven’t even left yet, and he’s already grieving you like you’re dead.
If you love something, set it free.
He has always hated that saying. Whoever came up with that bullshit clearly never loved anyone the way he loves you. If you love something, you fight for it. You hold onto it. You don’t just open the door and watch it walk out of your life.
“You look like you’re planning a murder.”
Dean snaps his head up. Logan is standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen, holding a massive protein shake in a shaker bottle. He’s in his sweatpants, a towel draped over his broad shoulders.
“Just thinking,” Dean mutters, sitting up and letting his phone slide onto the cushions.
Logan walks over and drops into the armchair across from him. “About what? You haven’t spoken a full sentence to anyone in the house since Friday night.”
“I’ve spoken.”
“Grunting when someone asks you to pass the salt doesn’t count, man,” Logan says, unscrewing the cap of his bottle. He takes a long drink, his eyes never leaving Dean’s face. “Talk to me. You’re spiraling.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
“You’re wearing the same hoodie you wore to practice yesterday. You smell like despair and cheap body wash.” Logan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “This is about Stanford, isn’t it?”
Dean glares at him. “Don’t say the word.”
“Stanford? Palo Alto? California? West Coast?”
“Shut up, Logan.”
“Look,” Logan sighs, his tone softening slightly. “I get it. It sucks. But guys do long distance all the time. It’s not the end of the world.”
“It’s three thousand miles,” Dean snaps, his voice rising despite his effort to keep it steady. “Do you know what the success rate is for long-distance relationships in grad school? It’s abysmal. Especially when one person is doing law and the other is doing an intensive art program.”
“So you’re just giving up?”
“No! I’m not giving up!” Dean drags both hands through his hair, tugging hard at the roots. “I want her to go. I want her to have everything she wants. She deserves this. She fought so hard for it, and her family treated her like garbage. I am so proud of her, I could burst.”
“But?”
“But I can’t breathe when I think about her leaving,” Dean admits, the truth tearing out of him. His chest heaves. “I don’t know how to do this, Logan. I don’t know how to wake up and not have her right there. I don’t know how to go days without seeing her. What if she realizes she doesn’t need me? What if she builds this whole new life out there, and there’s no room for me in it?”
Logan watches him for a long moment. “Dean, she loves you. You’re acting like she’s looking for an excuse to leave.”
“Distance changes people,” Dean says darkly.
“So what are you going to do?” Logan asks, arching an eyebrow. “Beg her to stay?”
“No. I’d never ask her to give up Stanford for me. That would make me a piece of shit.”
“Then you support her. You help her pack. You buy a webcam. And you trust her.” Logan stands up, slapping Dean on the shoulder as he walks past. “Get your head out of your ass, Di Laurentis. Don’t ruin her moment because you’re terrified.”
Logan leaves the room, and Dean is alone again.
He grabs his phone off the couch. The screen lights up, still paused on the BookTok video.
He loved her enough to be the villain so he wouldn’t lose her.
Dean swallows hard, his throat dry. He swipes out of the app entirely, tossing the phone onto the coffee table. He is not a villain. He is a good guy.
But as he grabs his keys to drive over to your dorm, his hands are shaking.
***
“Look at this one, Dean,” you say, turning your laptop screen toward him.
You are sitting cross-legged on your narrow dorm bed, your glasses pushed up on your head, holding a mug of green tea. Dean is sitting at the foot of the bed, his back against the wall, trying his hardest to look engaged.
“It’s a converted garage in Redwood City,” you explain, pointing at the screen. “It’s about a twenty-minute commute to campus, but the rent is actually manageable with my stipend.”
Dean looks at the photos. The place is tiny. It has exposed pipes, concrete floors, and a kitchenette that consists of a mini-fridge and a hot plate.
“A garage?” Dean says, trying to keep the judgment out of his voice. “Babe, you can’t live in a garage.”
“I’m an artist, Dean. And I’m on a strict budget,” you say, pulling the laptop back to look at the photos again. “Besides, look at the natural light from that skylight. It’s incredible for painting.”
“It doesn’t have a real kitchen,” he points out, crossing his arms over his chest.
“I survive off coffee, dining hall food, and whatever you force-feed me anyway,” you reply with a laugh.
“Yeah, but when I come visit, where am I supposed to cook for you?” Dean asks. “I can’t make you my famous chicken parm on a hot plate.”
You soften instantly, your eyes lifting to meet his. You set the laptop aside and crawl over the duvet, settling onto his lap. You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder.
“You’re going to cook for me?” You murmur against his neck.
“Someone has to keep you alive while you’re out there playing starving artist,” Dean says, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you tight against him. He presses a kiss into your hair.
“I’m going to miss you so much,” you whisper, and Dean can hear the slight tremble in your voice.
The sound of it hits him like a physical blow. His grip on you tightens until it’s almost painful.
“You don’t have to miss me,” he says, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “I’ll visit all the time. I’ll fly out every weekend.”
You pull back slightly, resting your hands on his chest. You look at him with a sad, gentle smile. “Dean, you’re going to be at Harvard Law. You’re not going to have time to fly out every weekend. You’re going to be swamped.”
“I don’t care,” he says fiercely. “I’ll study on the plane.”
“It’s a six-hour flight,” you remind him softly. “And it’s expensive.”
“I have money.”
“But you don’t have infinite time,” you say, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. “We have to be realistic about this. It’s going to be hard.”
“I don’t want to be realistic,” Dean mutters, leaning into your touch. “I want you to stay.”
The room goes dead silent.
As soon as the words leave his mouth, Dean wishes he could snatch them back out of the air. He promised himself he wouldn’t do this. He promised he wouldn’t guilt you.
Your hand falls from his face. You look down at your lap, your expression unreadable. “Dean …”
“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, his heart hammering against his ribs. “I didn’t mean that. Forget I said it. I want you to go. I’m just … I’m just having a hard time today.”
You look back up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears. “Do you think this is easy for me? Leaving you is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”
“Then don’t,” the dark voice in his head whispers.
He shoves the thought away, physically shaking his head. “I know, baby. I know. I’m sorry. I’m just being selfish. Show me the garage again. Let’s look at the skylight.”
You study him for a long moment, clearly torn between addressing his outburst and letting it go. Eventually, you sigh, reaching for the laptop again. “Okay. Look, the bathroom actually has a decent-sized tub.”
Dean forces himself to look at the screen. He nods, making agreeable noises, pointing out things he likes about the tiny, pathetic apartment. But he isn’t really seeing it. He is looking at the screen, but all he can see is the ticking clock counting down the days until he loses you.
“Hey, I need to use the bathroom,” Dean says suddenly, gently lifting you off his lap and standing up. “I’ll be right back.”
“Okay,” you say, your eyes already back on the Zillow listing. “Don’t take too long, I want your opinion on this complex in Mountain View.”
Dean walks out of the bedroom and heads down the short hallway to the shared dorm bathroom. He flips the light switch, closes the door, and locks it.
He leans heavily against the door, closing his eyes and taking a deep, shuddering breath. He feels like he’s vibrating out of his skin. He can’t do this. He can’t sit there and help you pick out the apartment where you’re going to learn how to live without him.
He opens his eyes and walks over to the sink, turning on the cold water. He splashes some on his face, shivering at the sudden chill. He grabs a hand towel off the rack and presses it to his face.
When he lowers the towel, his eyes catch on something resting on the edge of the sink counter, right next to your toothbrush cup.
It’s a small, rectangular object. A plastic compact.
Dean stares at it. He knows exactly what it is.
He slowly reaches out, his fingers trembling slightly, and picks it up. He flips the compact open. Inside is a blister pack of birth control pills. They are small, pink, and perfectly circular. You take one every night before bed. He watches you do it. Half the time, he’s the one who reminds you when you get too distracted by your painting.
He stares down at the little pink pills.
The video from earlier flashes behind his eyes, vivid and loud.
He literally microwaves her birth control pills.
Dean’s breathing turns shallow. The bathroom feels entirely too small, the air too thin.
He is a good guy. He is Dean Di Laurentis. He respects women. He would never take away your choice. He would never violate your body. He would never trap you.
But she stayed. He loved her enough to be the villain.
If you got pregnant.
The thought crashes into his brain like a freight train, loud and violent and impossible to ignore.
If you got pregnant, you couldn’t go to Stanford. You wouldn’t be able to move across the country, live in a tiny garage, and spend eighteen hours a day in a studio surrounded by toxic paint fumes. You would have to stay in Massachusetts. With him.
He has money. He has family support. He has a massive trust fund. He could buy you both a beautiful house in Cambridge. He could set up a state-of-the-art studio for you in the spare bedroom. You could still paint. You could still be an artist. You just wouldn’t be doing it three thousand miles away from him.
He would take care of you. He would give you everything you ever wanted. He would worship the ground you walk on. You would be safe. You would be loved.
And, most importantly, you would be his.
Forever.
Dean’s thumb moves over the smooth foil of the blister pack. It would be so easy. It takes thirty seconds to pop them in the microwave. The heat destroys the active hormones. They look exactly the same, but they become completely useless. You would take them every night, thinking you were protected, and within a month or two …
His heart is pounding so hard he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. His hands are sweating.
He imagines you standing in this very bathroom, holding a positive test. He imagines the look of shock on your face. He imagines pulling you into his arms, telling you it’s going to be okay, promising you that he will fix everything. He imagines your belly swelling with his child. He imagines you walking down the aisle toward him.
He imagines a life where he never has to watch you pack a suitcase and leave him behind.
“Dean?”
Your voice comes from the other side of the door, slightly muffled. “Everything okay in there? You’ve been in there a while.”
Dean flinches, nearly dropping the compact into the sink. He snaps it shut, his breathing ragged.
He stares at his own reflection in the mirror. His eyes are wild, his pupils blown wide. He looks like a stranger. He looks like a monster.
“Yeah!” His voice cracks slightly, and he clears his throat, trying to sound normal. “Yeah, babe, I’m fine. Just washing up.”
“Okay! I think I found a two-bedroom we could actually afford if I got a roommate. Come look!”
The words twist like a knife in his gut. A roommate. Some stranger. Maybe some pretentious art bro who understands color theory and drinks matcha and gets to see you every single day while Dean is stuck in a torts lecture freezing his ass off in Boston.
Dean looks down at his hand. His knuckles are white from how tightly he is gripping the compact.
The line between love and obsession is so incredibly thin, and Dean suddenly realizes he doesn’t know which side he’s standing on anymore. He has always been a guy who plays by the rules. But when the stakes are this high, when the only woman he has ever truly loved is slipping through his fingers … the rules don’t seem to matter as much.
He slowly opens the compact again.
He stares at the foil backing.
He loves you. He loves you so much it’s making him sick. He loves you enough to do anything to keep you.
Dean closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and makes his choice.
***
The next sixty days are the most agonizing, excruciating two months of Dean’s entire life.
It is a completely different kind of torture, a quiet, invisible agony that eats at the lining of his stomach every single second of the day. Every time he looks at you, his heart performs a violent, jagged leap into his throat. He watches you pack cardboard boxes. He watches you buy bubble wrap. He listens to you excitedly chatter over FaceTime to a potential roommate in California. And every time, the same terrified, frantic questions loop in his mind until he feels like he’s losing his grip on reality.
What if it didn’t take? What if the microwave trick was just some stupid internet myth? What if the hormones were still active? What if it’s all for nothing?
The uncertainty is driving him insane. He has always been a man of action. If he wants something on the ice, he skates hard and takes the shot. If he wants a grade, he studies. But this? This is entirely out of his hands. He has set the wheels in motion, and now all he can do is sit back, play the supportive boyfriend, and wait to see if his gamble pays off.
And the guilt. God, the guilt. It hits him at the most random times. When you look at him with those wide, trusting eyes and thank him for helping you tape up a box of canvases. When you fall asleep on his chest, exhausted from finals, murmuring about how much you love him. He feels like a monster. He is a fraud, a liar, a manipulator playing God with your life. But then he pictures you getting on that plane at Logan International Airport, walking out of his life and taking three thousand miles of distance between you, and the guilt instantly evaporates, replaced by a fierce, possessive resolve.
He cannot lose you. He will not lose you.
Four weeks in, you miss your period.
Dean knows exactly what day it’s supposed to start because he has been tracking it in his head like a madman. But when the day comes and goes, you don’t even blink.
“I’m just stressed,” you tell him one afternoon, waving off his carefully casual question while you aggressively highlight a textbook. “My cycle is always wonky when I’m stressed. Between finals, graduation, and the move, my body is probably just freaking out. It’ll come.”
Dean nods, forcing his face to remain a mask of calm indifference, while inside, a tiny spark of hope ignites.
But as week five turns into week six, and week six bleeds into week seven, the spark turns into a roaring fire.
Because Dean starts noticing the signs. Even before you do.
It starts with the coffee. You are a notorious caffeine addict. You practically bleed espresso. But one morning in the kitchen of the hockey house, Dean sets a fresh, steaming mug of your favorite dark roast on the counter next to you. You reach for it, bring it to your lips, and suddenly pale.
“Ugh,” you grimace, pushing the mug away. “Did you burn this?”
Dean blinks, looking at the coffee pot. “No? I made it the exact same way I always do.”
“It smells like burnt plastic,” you say, pressing a hand to your stomach and stepping back from the island. “Actually, could you just pour it down the sink? The smell is making me nauseous.”
Dean slowly picks up the mug, his eyes fixed on your pale face. He pours it down the drain, his heart doing a slow, heavy thud in his chest. Nausea. Aversion to smells.
Then comes the fatigue.
You have always been a night owl, staying up until two in the morning to finish a painting or study. But right around the eight-week mark, Dean finds you dead asleep at seven-thirty in the evening. You fall asleep on his bed, on the couch, once even sitting straight up at your desk with a paintbrush still in your hand.
“I’m just so tired, Dean,” you murmur one evening, burying your face in his chest as you lie on the couch. “I feel like I haven’t slept in a year. My bones feel heavy.”
“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” he soothes, stroking your hair. “Just rest, baby. I’ve got you.”
And then, there are the physical changes. Dean knows your body better than he knows his own playbook. He notices the subtle softening of your
stomach, the slight rounding of your hips. He notices that your breasts are fuller, and that you flinch slightly when he brushes against them.
“They’re sore,” you complain one night as you change into one of his oversized t-shirts. “I think my period is finally coming. PMS is hitting me like a truck this month.”
Dean just smiles softly from the bed, his blood humming with a dark, triumphant thrill. He knows it isn’t PMS. He knows exactly what it is.
It’s working. He did it. You are pregnant. You are carrying his child, and you don’t even know it yet.
But Dean also knows he can’t push it. If he suggests you take a test out of nowhere, you might get suspicious. He has to wait for you to come to the realization on your own. He has to let it be your idea.
The breaking point finally arrives on a rainy Thursday afternoon.
Your apartment is almost entirely packed. There are only two weeks left until your flight to California. The reality of the move has been a dark cloud hanging over Dean’s head, but today, that cloud is about to break.
You are standing in the middle of your living room, taping up a box of books, when you suddenly freeze. The roll of packing tape slips from your fingers, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor.
“Babe?” Dean asks from where he’s sitting on an overturned milk crate, sorting through some of your records. “You good?”
You don’t answer. Your face drains of all color, turning a terrifying, translucent shade of gray. You clap a hand over your mouth, your eyes wide and panicked.
And then, you sprint for the bathroom.
Dean is on his feet instantly, tossing the records aside and chasing after you. He reaches the bathroom just in time to see you drop to your knees in front of the toilet. You retch violently, your shoulders heaving as you empty the contents of your stomach into the bowl.
“Hey, hey, I’m here,” Dean says immediately, dropping to his knees beside you. He gathers your hair in one hand, holding it back from your face, and uses his other hand to rub soothing circles onto your back. “Let it out, baby. I’ve got you.”
You gag again, a miserable, choking sound, before finally collapsing back on your heels. You are trembling violently, tears streaming down your cheeks. Dean reaches up and flushes the toilet, then grabs a damp washcloth from the sink and gently wipes your mouth.
“Food poisoning?” Dean asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “What did we eat for lunch?”
“I don’t …” You shake your head, taking a ragged breath. You lean back against the bathtub, pulling your knees to your chest. You look completely terrified. “Dean.”
“What is it?” He asks softly, sitting cross-legged in front of you.
“Dean, what’s today’s date?”
“May sixteenth,” he answers smoothly.
You let out a quiet, strangled gasp. Your hands fly up into your hair, gripping the roots. “Oh my god.”
“What’s wrong? You’re scaring me, baby. Talk to me.” Dean leans forward, placing his hands on your knees, projecting nothing but steady, loving concern.
“I’m late,” you whisper, the words barely audible over the sound of the rain lashing against the bathroom window. “Dean, I’m so late. I missed my period in April. And now May is halfway through. I haven’t … I haven’t had a period in almost two months.”
Dean allows his eyes to widen in perfectly calculated shock. “Two months?”
“I thought it was stress!” You cry out, your voice cracking. A fresh wave of tears spills over your eyelashes. “I thought it was just the graduation stress, and the move, and … oh my god. The coffee. The exhaustion. I’ve been throwing up all morning.”
“Okay. Hey, look at me.” Dean moves closer, framing your face with his large hands. He wipes your tears with his thumbs. “Look at me. Don’t panic. There are a million reasons you could be late. You said it yourself, the stress is insane right now. Nausea could be a stomach bug.”
“Dean, I need to know,” you sob, grabbing his wrists. “I can’t … I can’t just sit here and wonder. I need to take a test.”
“Okay,” Dean says, his voice a soothing, deep rumble. “Okay. I’ll go to the pharmacy right now. You stay here. Get into bed, drink some water. I’ll be back in ten minutes. I promise.”
“Hurry,” you beg, your eyes wild with fear.
“I will.” Dean kisses your forehead, lingering for a second, before standing up and rushing out of the apartment.
The moment he is alone in his truck, the mask drops.
Dean grips the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, and lets out a massive, shuddering breath. A wild, manic energy surges through his veins. He drives to the nearest CVS, ignoring the speed limit entirely. He buys three different brands of pregnancy tests — Clearblue, First Response, the generic CVS brand — and a pack of prenatal vitamins to keep for later.
When he returns to your apartment, you are sitting on the edge of your bare mattress, staring blankly at the wall. You look incredibly small, swallowed up in one of his Harvard Law sweatshirts.
Dean walks in and gently sets the plastic bag on the bed next to you.
You stare at the bag like there is a live bomb inside it.
“I got a few different kinds,” Dean says quietly, sitting down beside you. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side. “Whenever you’re ready. I’m right here.”
You swallow hard, your throat clicking audibly. “What if it’s positive, Dean?”
“We cross that bridge when we come to it,” he lies effortlessly. He crossed that bridge two months ago. “Go. Take the test.”
You grab the bag with shaking hands and walk into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.
Dean stands in the hallway outside the bathroom. The wait is excruciating. The box said three minutes. It feels like three agonizing lifetimes. He leans his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of plastic rustling from the other side of the thin wooden door.
He knows the result. He engineered the result. But the anticipation is still burning him alive from the inside out.
Five minutes pass.
The bathroom is dead silent.
“Babe?” Dean calls out softly, rapping his knuckles gently against the door. “Are you okay in there?”
Silence.
And then, a sound that sends a shiver straight down Dean’s spine. It’s a sob. A raw, devastating, heartbroken sob that tears from your chest and echoes in the small hallway.
Dean doesn’t hesitate. He turns the handle and pushes the door open.
You are sitting on the tile floor, your back pressed against the vanity cabinets. Your face is buried in your hands, and your shoulders are shaking violently. Three plastic sticks are scattered on the floor in front of you.
Dean drops to his knees. He glances down.
Two pink lines. A bold, undeniable plus sign. And the word Pregnant glowing on the digital screen.
All three. Positive.
Dean’s heart explodes in his chest. A fierce, predatory surge of possessiveness, of ultimate triumph, washes over him so intensely he almost dizzy. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep the smile off his face.
You’re his. You’re staying. It worked.
But outwardly, Dean is the picture of a devastated, supportive boyfriend. He shoves the tests aside and scrambles forward, pulling you into his arms.
You collapse against his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck and sobbing hysterically into his shirt. “It’s positive,” you cry, your voice muffled against his collarbone. “Dean, they’re all positive. I’m pregnant. Oh my god, I’m pregnant.”
“Shh, I know, I know,” Dean murmurs, wrapping his arms tightly around you. He buries his face in your hair, holding you as close as humanly possible. “It’s okay. Breathe, baby, breathe. I’ve got you.”
“My life is over,” you sob, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “Stanford. The MFA program. I can’t go to California. I can’t move across the country. I don’t have the money for a baby. My parents cut me off. Dean, what am I going to do?”
“Hey, listen to me.” Dean pulls back just enough to force you to look at him. Your eyes are bloodshot, tears streaming endlessly down your cheeks. He cups your face, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. “Your life is not over. Do you hear me? You are not in this alone. I am right here.”
“But Stanford-”
“Stanford can wait,” Dean says firmly, his voice vibrating with absolute certainty. “Art can wait. But whatever happens, whatever you want to do, I am with you. One hundred percent.”
You sniffle, looking up at him with desperate, seeking eyes. “What do you mean?”
Dean takes a deep breath, preparing to deliver the most manipulative performance of his entire life. He knows you. He knows your heart. He knows exactly which buttons to press to get the outcome he wants.
“I mean, the choice is entirely yours,” Dean says softly, his green eyes locking onto yours. “You are the one who has to carry this burden. It’s your body. It’s your future. If you are not ready for this … if you want to go to Stanford and live your dream …”
Dean pauses, swallowing hard to make it look like the words are physically paining him to say.
“If you don’t want to keep it,” he continues, his voice barely above a whisper, “I will support you. Completely. No judgment. No guilt. I will stand up right now, I will walk you out to my truck, and I will drive you to Planned Parenthood myself. I’ll hold your hand the entire time, and I’ll pay for everything. And we will never speak of it again, and you can get on that plane in two weeks.”
You stare at him, the tears freezing on your cheeks.
Dean holds his breath. It is the ultimate gamble. He is giving you the out. He is offering you the exact thing that would ruin all his plans. But he knows that if he tries to force you, if he acts too possessive or tries to trap you openly, you will run. You have to believe it is your choice.
You look down at the three tests scattered on the floor.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. Dean’s heart is hammering so loudly he is terrified you can hear it.
“No,” you whisper.
Dean exhales, a slow, silent breath out of his nose. “No?”
You shake your head, fresh tears spilling over your lashes. You reach out, your trembling fingers brushing over the digital test that spells out the word Pregnant.
“No,” you say again, your voice shaking but finding a sliver of resolve. You look back up at him, your eyes searching his face. “Dean … this baby is half me. But it’s half you, too.”
“I know, baby,” he whispers, reaching down to take your hand.
“I love you,” you cry, squeezing his hand tightly. “I love you so much. And … and we created this. Together. I can’t … I can’t just end it. I could never do that. Not to a piece of you.”
Dean feels a genuine lump form in his throat, overwhelmed by the sheer, devastating purity of your love for him. You are so good. You are so incredibly, beautifully good, and you are sacrificing your dream because you love him too much to let his child go.
“Are you sure?” Dean asks, his voice thick with fake hesitation. “You don’t have to do this for me, Y/N. I told you, I support whatever you need.”
“I’m sure,” you sob, throwing yourself back into his arms. “I’m sure. I want to keep it. I want our baby. But I’m so scared, Dean. I don’t know how to be a mom. I don’t have a family to help me.”
“You have me,” Dean says fiercely, wrapping his arms around you like a vice. He pulls you flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “You have me. I am your family now. I will take care of you. I’ll take care of both of you.”
“What about Harvard?” You cry against his collarbone. “What about my scholarship? Where are we going to live?”
“I’ll handle it,” Dean promises, his voice low and vibrating against your skin. “I’ll handle everything. I’ll call a realtor tomorrow. I’ll buy us a house in Cambridge. A beautiful house, with a room for a nursery and a room with huge windows for your art studio. You can defer Stanford. You can paint at home. I’ll work, I’ll go to school, and I will provide for you. You will never have to worry about a single thing ever again.”
You cling to him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt like he is a lifeline in the middle of a raging ocean. “Promise me, Dean. Promise me you won’t leave me.”
“I am never, ever leaving you,” Dean vows, his grip on you tightening. “You’re mine. Forever.”
“I love you,” you weep into his chest, completely surrendering to him, completely trusting him.
“I love you too, baby,” Dean murmurs, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head. “So much.”
He holds you there on the bathroom floor as you cry out the last of your fear and grief for the future you just lost. He rubs your back, he murmurs sweet, comforting words into your ear, and he plays the role of the perfect, supportive partner flawlessly.
But as you press your face against his chest, completely blind to his expression, Dean slowly lifts his head.
He stares at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.
His eyes are dark, burning with a terrifying, absolute victory. The panic, the agonizing anxiety of the last two months is completely gone, replaced by a cold, settling sense of permanent ownership.
Dean pulls you just a fraction of an inch closer, his hand resting protectively over your flat stomach.
And as you continue to cry into his chest, entirely unaware of the cage that has just locked firmly into place around you, Dean smiles.
***
The smell of stale beer, fried food, and cheap cologne at Malone’s usually brings a sense of comfortable familiarity. Tonight, it just makes you want to gag.
You slide into the worn vinyl booth, wedging yourself into the corner next to Dean. The leather of his jacket squeaks against the seat as he crowds in beside you, his thigh heavily against yours. Across the table, Garrett Graham is already deep into a heated argument with Logan about the Bruins’ defensive woes, while Tucker and Beau are trying to flag down a waitress over the din of the Friday night crowd.
“I’m telling you, it’s a weak blue line,” Garrett says, slapping his hand on the sticky table for emphasis. “If they don’t trade for a solid two-way defenseman, they’re getting swept in the first round. Tell him, Dean.”
“Leave me out of it,” Dean replies, his arm casually slung over the back of the booth behind your shoulders. His fingers idly play with the ends of your hair. “I’m off the clock.”
A waitress finally weaves through the crowd, slamming a tray of water glasses onto the table. “What can I get you guys?”
“Two pitchers of the IPA,” Garrett orders without hesitation. “And a round of tequila shots. We’re celebrating. I passed my sports management final.”
“Barely,” Logan mutters.
“A pass is a pass, John. Don’t be a hater.” Garrett looks over at you and Dean. “You guys in for the shots?”
“No shots for us,” Dean says smoothly, his hand dropping from the back of the booth to rest firmly on your thigh under the table. His thumb strokes a soothing circle against your denim-clad leg. “Just a Coke for me, and an iced tea with lemon for her.”
The entire table goes dead silent.
Garrett slowly lowers his menu. Logan squints at Dean. Tucker, who was mid-sip of water, slowly sets his glass down. Even Beau leans forward, looking between the two of you like you just announced you’re joining a cult.
“A Coke,” Garrett repeats, the words slow and dripping with suspicion. “For Dean Di Laurentis. On a Friday night. At Malone’s.”
“You sick, man?” Beau asks, his brow furrowing.
“And you’re not drinking either?” Logan asks, turning his sharp gaze on you. “You literally just graduated. You should be funneling champagne right now.”
You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. You look up at Dean. He looks perfectly calm. In fact, he looks incredibly smug, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. He gives your thigh a reassuring squeeze before he meets the stares of his closest friends.
“We’re not drinking,” Dean says, his voice steady and clear over the background noise of the bar, “because we have some news.”
“Oh my god,” Tucker breathes out, his eyes widening dramatically. He points a finger at you. “Are you guys getting married? Did you elope?”
“No,” Dean laughs, shaking his head. “Not married. At least, not yet.” He turns his head to look down at you, his green eyes softening in that specific, devastating way they only ever do for you. “Ready?”
You take a deep breath, your stomach doing a nervous flip, and nod.
Dean turns back to the table. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t sugarcoat it. He just drops the bomb with a grin that could rival the sun.
“Y/N is pregnant. We’re having a baby.”
For three agonizing seconds, no one breathes. The silence at the table is so profound you can hear the ice clinking in Garrett’s water glass.
Then, absolute chaos erupts.
“Holy shit!” Garrett bellows, lunging across the table to grab Dean by the collar of his jacket and shake him. “Holy shit, Di Laurentis!”
Logan is laughing, a booming, genuine sound as he runs a hand over his face. “I don’t believe it. I actually do not believe it. You? A dad?”
“Congratulations, man!” Beau shouts over the noise, reaching over to slap Dean hard on the shoulder.
Tucker looks like he might actually cry. “Oh my god. There’s going to be a little Di Laurentis running around.”
“Hey, easy on the jacket, Graham,” Dean laughs, shoving Garrett off him, but he’s beaming. He looks so incredibly proud, his chest puffed out, absorbing the shock and excitement of his brothers.
“Wait, wait,” Logan says, holding up a hand to quiet the table. He looks at you, his expression softening into something incredibly gentle. “How are you doing? Are you okay? You’re moving to California in like, a week.”
The question hangs in the air. You feel a familiar, heavy ache in your chest at the mention of California, but before you can even open your mouth, Dean steps in.
“She’s not going,” Dean says, his voice taking on a firm, protective edge. “We’re staying here. I’m going to Harvard in the fall, and we’re looking for a place in Cambridge together.”
Garrett leans back in the booth, crossing his arms. He looks at you closely. “Giving up Stanford? That’s huge. You sure you’re okay with that?”
“I am,” you say, and to your surprise, your voice doesn’t waver. And it’s true. The initial devastation has faded, replaced by a quiet, fierce dedication to the tiny life growing inside you. “It wasn’t an easy decision, but … this is our family. Stanford will still be there someday. Right now, I need to be here.”
“Damn right you do,” Tucker says softly, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. “We’ve got your back. All of us. You need anything — groceries, midnight ice cream runs, someone to put together a crib — you call us. You hear me?”
“Yeah,” Logan agrees, raising his water glass. “To the newest Briar mascot. God help us all.”
The guys clink their glasses together, the tension fully dissipating into a warm, chaotic celebration. You lean into Dean’s side, feeling a massive wave of relief wash over you. They aren’t judging you. They aren’t questioning the timeline. They are just happy.
You look up at Dean. He is watching you, that same dark, triumphant light dancing in his eyes. He leans down and presses a hard kiss to your temple.
“Told you they’d be thrilled,” he murmurs against your skin.
***
Two weeks later, the hunt for a house begins.
“It’s just … it’s a lot of money, Dean,” you say quietly, standing on the sidewalk of a quiet, tree-lined street in Cambridge.
In front of you sits a massive, stunning three-story brownstone. It has creeping ivy climbing up the brick exterior, a set of heavy, double oak doors, and huge bay windows that look out over the cobblestone street. It is beautiful. It is perfect. And it is completely, obscenely out of your budget.
“I told you not to look at the price tag,” Dean says, coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder, looking at the house with you. “My trust fund is built for stuff like this. It’s an investment.”
“It’s an estate,” you correct him. “Dean, it has five bedrooms. There are three of us. Well, two and a half.”
“We need a master bedroom, a nursery, a guest room for my parents or the guys, an office for me to study for law school, and a room for you,” he lists off easily, kissing your cheek. “That’s five. It’s perfectly practical.”
“Practical,” you scoff, though a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.
The real estate agent, a sharp-looking woman named Sylvia, pushes the front door open and gestures for you both to follow.
The inside is even more breathtaking. Original hardwood floors, crown molding, a massive kitchen with a marble island, and a working fireplace in the living room. It smells like lemon polish and old money.
Dean walks through the rooms with a critical eye, checking water pressure, knocking on walls, and asking Sylvia questions about the roof and the HVAC system. You follow slightly behind, feeling completely out of your depth. A month ago, you were prepared to live in a converted garage with a hot plate. Now, you are touring a multi-million-dollar property in one of the most expensive zip codes in the country.
“And finally, the top floor,” Sylvia says, leading you up a narrow, winding wooden staircase. “The previous owners used it as a storage space, but it has phenomenal potential.”
You reach the top of the stairs and step into the attic.
You gasp.
It spans the entire length of the house. The ceiling is vaulted, with exposed wooden beams, but the true masterpiece is the lighting. There are four massive skylights built into the pitched roof, and the far wall is entirely comprised of floor-to-ceiling windows. The afternoon sun pours into the room, bathing the dust motes in a warm, golden glow.
It is the most spectacular natural lighting you have ever seen in your life.
“Oh,” you whisper, walking slowly toward the windows. You run your hand along the sill. “Wow.”
“You like it?” Dean asks. He is standing by the stairs, watching you intently. He hasn’t looked at the room at all. He is only looking at you.
“It’s incredible,” you breathe out, turning around to face him. “The light in here … you could paint for hours without needing a single lamp. It’s perfect.”
Dean smiles, a genuine, blinding smile, and walks over to you. He wraps his hands around your waist. “It’s yours. We’ll rip up this old carpet, put down some hardwood that you don’t mind getting paint on. We’ll install a huge utility sink over there in the corner for your brushes. Whatever you want.”
“Dean, you don’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I do,” he says firmly. “This is going to be your studio. Just because you aren’t going to Stanford doesn’t mean you stop painting. You are an artist. You need a space.”
You feel tears prick the backs of your eyes, a hormonal surge of emotion hitting you out of nowhere. You rest your forehead against his chest. “You are too good to me.”
“I’m just taking care of my girls,” he murmurs, his hand dropping to rest flat against your stomach. “Or my girl and my boy. Whichever.”
He pulls back slightly, his expression turning thoughtful. He looks into your eyes, his brow furrowing just a fraction. It’s a perfectly rehearsed look of supportive concern.
“You know,” Dean starts, his voice gentle. “We are in Boston. There are amazing programs here. BU, MassArt, even Tufts. We could look into applications for the spring semester. You could still do your MFA locally. We can hire a nanny for when we’re both in class.”
He offers the words smoothly, laying the trap with expert precision. He knows exactly how you will react, but he needs to say it. He needs to play the role of the partner who is willing to move mountains to keep your dream alive, so you never, ever suspect that he is the one who killed it.
You sigh, leaning back from him slightly to look out the window.
“I appreciate it, Dean. I really do. But … no.”
“No?” He asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” you explain, rubbing your arms. “I’m due in January. Right in the middle of the winter semester. Even if I got in somewhere, I’d have to drop out immediately to have the baby. And I don’t want a nanny raising our newborn while I’m locked in a studio across town. I want to be here. I want to raise our kid.”
“Are you sure?” Dean asks, stepping closer and cupping your cheek. “I don’t want you to resent me. Or the baby. I don’t want you to feel like you gave everything up.”
“I’m sure,” you say softly, turning your face to kiss his palm. “I have this beautiful house. I have you. I’m going to have a baby, and a studio right upstairs. I have everything I need right here.”
Dean pulls you into a tight hug, burying his face in the crook of your neck so you can’t see his face.
He closes his eyes, inhaling the scent of your shampoo, and a massive, shuddering wave of relief and victory washes over him.
You’re done fighting, he thinks, his grip on you tightening possessively. You’re staying. You’re his.
“Okay,” Dean whispers against your skin, his voice thick with a dark, hidden triumph. “Okay, baby. We’ll buy the house.”
***
The true test comes three days later.
Lori Heyward and Peter Di Laurentis are flying into Boston for a legal conference, and Dean has made a dinner reservation for the four of you at Ostra, one of the most exclusive seafood restaurants in the Back Bay.
You are standing in front of the full-length mirror in your dorm room, staring at your reflection, feeling like you are about to throw up.
“I look huge,” you whisper, pulling at the fabric of your black dress.
“You are eight weeks pregnant, you do not look huge,” Dean says from the bed. He is already dressed in a charcoal suit that makes him look devastatingly handsome and terrifyingly grown-up. He walks over to you, swatting your hands away and smoothing the fabric of the dress down your hips. “You look gorgeous. Stop stressing.”
“I can’t stop stressing, Dean,” you say, your voice rising in panic. You turn to face him, your chest heaving. “Your parents are high-powered attorneys. They deal with sharks for a living. They are going to see right through me.”
Dean frowns, his hands resting on your waist. “See through what? You haven’t done anything wrong.”
“I am a broke art student who just got pregnant by their son!” You cry out, burying your face in your hands. “They are going to think I trapped you. They’re going to think I poked holes in the condoms. They’re going to think I’m a gold-digger who locked down the Di Laurentis fortune. They are going to hate me.”
Dean flinches.
The words hit him like a physical blow to the chest. The bitter, sickening irony of your fear threatens to choke him. You are terrified of being accused of the exact monstrous thing that he actually did to you.
“Hey,” Dean says sharply, grabbing your wrists and pulling your hands away from your face. “Look at me.”
You blink up at him, tears swimming in your eyes.
“My parents love you,” Dean says, and for the first time in weeks, he is telling the absolute, unvarnished truth. “My mom has been obsessed with you since the day I brought you home for Thanksgiving sophomore year. My dad thinks you’re the only person who can keep me in line. They know who you are. They know you didn’t do this on purpose.”
Because I did, he adds silently in his head.
“But the timing-”
“The timing is a surprise,” Dean interrupts smoothly. “But it’s a happy surprise. Trust me. You are going to be fine. Let me handle the talking.”
He kisses you hard, pouring all of his protective energy into the contact.
An hour later, you are sitting in a plush leather booth at Ostra. The lighting is dim, the clinking of crystal glasses fills the air, and you are vibrating with anxiety.
Lori Heyward is a force of nature. She has sharp, striking features, perfectly blown-out blonde hair, and is wearing a white blazer that probably costs more than your entire college tuition. Peter is a massive, intimidating man with a booming laugh and Dean’s green eyes.
“So, Y/N,” Lori says, elegantly slicing into her sea bass. “Dean tells us the Stanford move is off. I have to admit, I was shocked when he told me. That MFA program is incredibly difficult to get into.”
You freeze, your fork hovering over your plate. You shoot a panicked look at Dean.
Dean reaches under the table, lacing his fingers through yours and squeezing firmly. He clears his throat, setting his own fork down.
“Actually, Mom, Dad … there’s a reason she isn’t going,” Dean says. His voice is calm, authoritative, and totally in control. “We wanted to tell you both in person.”
Peter pauses, taking a sip of his wine. He looks between the two of you, his thick eyebrows raising. “Well? Out with it. Did you fail a class, Dean? Because if Harvard rescinds that acceptance …”
“Harvard is fine, Dad,” Dean says, rolling his eyes slightly. He looks at you, gives your hand another squeeze, and looks back at his parents. “Y/N is pregnant. We’re having a baby.”
The reaction is instantaneous.
Lori drops her fork. It clatters loudly against the fine china plate, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her mouth falls open, her perfectly manicured hands flying up to cover her lips.
Peter chokes on his wine, coughing loudly into his napkin before staring at Dean with wide, shocked eyes.
You brace yourself. You wait for the narrowed eyes. You wait for the accusations. You wait for Lori to ask for a paternity test or a prenuptial agreement.
Instead, Lori’s eyes well up with tears.
“Oh my god,” she whispers, her voice cracking completely. “A baby?”
“Yeah,” Dean says, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. “A baby. Due in late January.”
Lori practically scrambles out of the booth. She completely abandons decorum, rushing around the table and pulling you right out of your seat. She wraps her arms around you in a crushing, fiercely tight hug. She smells like expensive perfume and genuine, overwhelming joy.
“Oh, sweetheart,” Lori cries, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Oh, this is the best news. This is wonderful! I’m going to be a grandmother!”
You stand there, stunned, your arms hovering awkwardly before you slowly wrap them around Lori’s back. “You … you aren’t mad?”
“Mad?” Peter booms, standing up from his side of the booth and walking over. He wraps his massive arms around both you and Lori, pulling you into a group hug. “Why the hell would we be mad? You’re giving us a grandchild!”
“But … the timing,” you stammer, looking between them as they finally pull back. “We’re so young. And Dean is just starting law school. I thought … I was worried you would think I …”
“Y/N,” Lori says softly, reaching out to cup your face in her warm hands. Her sharp eyes soften completely. “We know exactly who you are. We know you come from that awful, stiff-necked Kennedy family, and we know you walked away from millions of dollars just to paint. You don’t care about our money. You care about our son.”
She looks over at Dean, who is watching the exchange with a soft, satisfied expression.
“We love you,” Lori continues, wiping a stray tear from under her eye. “You are already family to us. The fact that you’re having Dean’s child? It’s a blessing. A complete blessing.”
You finally break. The anxiety that has been coiling in your chest for weeks snaps, and you burst into tears. You cover your face with your hands, sobbing in the middle of the fancy restaurant.
“Oh, honey, the hormones,” Lori coos sympathetically, pulling you back into her arms and rubbing your back. “It’s okay. It’s okay. We are going to spoil this baby rotten. We are going to buy out the entire baby section at Neiman Marcus tomorrow.”
“We’re buying a house,” Dean announces proudly from the table, clearly riding the high of his parents’ reaction. “A brownstone in Cambridge. Closing next week.”
“I’ll have my interior designer call you on Monday,” Lori says immediately, not missing a beat. She pulls back and looks at you warmly. “Whatever you need, Y/N. We are here for you.”
You look over Lori’s shoulder at Dean.
He is leaning back against the leather booth, looking like a king sitting on a throne. He has his parents’ money, he has his Harvard acceptance, he has the house in Cambridge, and, most importantly, he has you. Completely, irreversibly, forever.
He catches your eye and winks, a slow, dark, possessive smirk playing on his lips.
You smile back through your tears, feeling so incredibly lucky to have a man who loves you this much. A man who protects you, provides for you, and stands by you no matter what.
You have absolutely no idea that you are thanking the wolf for guarding the sheep.
***
September in Cambridge brings a crisp chill to the air, turning the leaves on the ancient oak trees into brilliant shades of copper and gold.
It also brings the brutal, unrelenting reality of Harvard Law School.
The transition is jarring. One week, Dean is spending lazy mornings in bed with you, painting the nursery a soft sage green and arguing over crib designs. The next, he is plunged headfirst into a shark tank of hyper-competitive, sleep-deprived geniuses. His schedule is instantly swallowed by torts, contracts, civil procedure, and endless stacks of reading that weigh as much as a small car.
But if anyone expects Dean to crumble under the pressure, they are sorely mistaken. He attacks law school with the exact same ruthless, arrogant confidence he used on the ice. He does the reading, he dominates the Socratic method, and he never, ever lets them see him sweat.
But the biggest change isn’t Dean’s schedule. It’s you.
You are nineteen weeks pregnant, and the nesting instinct has hit you like a freight train.
At first, you spent all your time in the spectacular third-floor studio Dean built for you. You painted for hours, losing yourself in the canvas. But as the weeks drag on and the reality of the brownstone’s quiet emptiness settles in while Dean is at class, a restless, anxious energy begins to vibrate under your skin.
You don’t like the quiet. You don’t like the empty house. Most of all, you don’t like being away from Dean.
So, you find a new project.
“You don’t have to do this, baby,” Dean says, leaning against the marble kitchen island.
He is wearing a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a pair of tailored gray trousers, and a tie hanging loosely around his neck. He looks like a devastatingly handsome young lawyer, but his eyes are entirely focused on you.
You are standing at the stove, wearing a pair of soft black leggings that stretch over the undeniable, perfect little bump at your midsection, and one of Dean’s old Briar Hockey t-shirts. You are carefully placing a homemade, artisanal turkey and brie sandwich into a sleek glass Tupperware container.
“I want to,” you say, snapping the lid shut and tucking it into a brown paper bag along with a container of mixed fruit and a slice of banana bread. “You told me the cafeteria food in the law building tastes like salted cardboard. I am not letting the father of my child survive on salted cardboard.”
“I could just grab something at a café off-campus,” Dean points out, though the massive, self-satisfied smirk on his face completely betrays his words.
“You don’t have time between your civil procedure lecture and your study group,” you counter, grabbing a sharpie from the junk drawer. You quickly draw a small heart on the brown paper bag and hand it to him. “There. Now you have a balanced meal. Eat the fruit, Dean. Don’t just give it to that guy in your study group.”
“Ben is iron-deficient,” Dean jokes, taking the bag from your hands. He sets it on the counter, grabs you by the waist, and pulls you flush against his chest.
His large hands spread out over your lower back, his thumbs resting just above the curve of your hips. He looks down at you, his green eyes dark and warm.
“Thank you,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose. “But seriously. You’re supposed to be resting. Or painting. Not playing 1950s housewife for me.”
“I like doing it,” you admit softly, resting your hands flat against his chest. You can feel the steady thud of his heart beneath the crisp cotton of his shirt. “The house gets so quiet when you leave. It makes me anxious. Taking care of you gives me something to focus on.”
Dean’s chest swells. A dark, possessive thrill shoots straight down his spine.
He loves this. God, he loves this so much it makes his teeth ache. He loves that you are seeking him out. He loves that your entire world has shrunk down to this beautiful house, your art, and him. The fact that the silence of the house makes you anxious — that you literally crave his presence to feel grounded — is the greatest victory he could have ever engineered.
“If you get lonely, you call me,” Dean orders softly, his voice dropping an octave. “I don’t care if I’m in the middle of a lecture. You call, and I’ll walk right out.”
“You will absolutely not walk out of a Harvard Law lecture just because I’m feeling a little clingy,” you laugh, swatting his chest.
“Watch me,” he challenges, entirely serious. He kisses you then, deep and lingering, tasting like mint toothpaste and coffee. “I have to go. Contracts wait for no man.”
“Knock ‘em dead, counselor,” you smile, fixing the collar of his shirt.
He grabs his leather messenger bag, his lunch, and heads out the front door.
But by 12:30 PM, the silence of the brownstone becomes suffocating again. You put your brushes down, wipe the cerulean paint off your hands, and look at the clock.
Dean has a break at 1:00.
You make a split-second decision. You go downstairs, pack a fresh container of pasta salad you made yesterday, grab two bottles of sparkling water, and throw on a long, cozy cardigan over your leggings.
***
The courtyard outside Austin Hall is swarming with law students. The air is thick with tension, the smell of burnt coffee, and the frantic sound of people debating case law.
Dean is sitting at a wrought-iron patio table, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He is surrounded by three other first-year students. They all look like they are on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Dean, on the other hand, looks like he’s waiting for a bus. Cool, relaxed, entirely unbothered.
“But if you apply the ruling from Hawkins v. McGee,” a highly strung girl named Katelyn says rapidly, aggressively highlighting a massive textbook, “the expectation damages have to be calculated based on the difference between the promised state and the actual state.”
“Katelyn, breathe,” Dean says lazily, leaning back in his chair. “You’re overthinking it. The professor doesn’t want you to just regurgitate the formula. He wants you to argue why the formula is flawed in this specific application. Pivot to the ambiguity of the contract.”
“Easy for you to say,” grumbles Ben, a pale guy with thick glasses. “You got cold-called today and practically gave a TED talk.”
Dean just smirks, reaching for his water bottle.
“Excuse me,” a soft voice says.
Dean’s head snaps up.
You are standing at the edge of the patio table, holding a canvas tote bag. Your hair is pulled back into a loose braid, and the soft beige cardigan clings perfectly to the distinct, rounded curve of your belly.
The transformation in Dean is instantaneous.
The arrogant, laid-back law student vanishes. He is on his feet before you can even take another step, closing the distance between you and wrapping a protective arm around your shoulders.
“Hey,” Dean says, his voice entirely different — softer, warmer, dripping with devotion. He pulls you in, pressing a kiss to your temple in front of everyone. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay? Is the baby okay?”
“We’re fine,” you laugh softly, leaning into his side. “I just … I finished painting early. And I realized you were probably going to be hungry again after that sandwich, so I brought the pasta salad.”
Dean looks down at you like you just handed him the winning lottery numbers. He doesn’t care about the pasta salad. He cares that you couldn’t stay away from him. He cares that you walked right onto his campus, into his territory, for everyone to see.
“You are incredible,” he murmurs, kissing you again, lingering a little longer this time.
He turns back to the table, keeping his arm firmly wrapped around your waist, pulling your back flush against his side so your bump is proudly on display.
“Guys, this is Y/N,” Dean says, his chest puffed out. “My girl.”
The three law students stare at you in varying states of shock.
“Hi,” you say politely, offering a small wave.
“Oh,” Katelyn says, blinking rapidly. She looks from Dean to your stomach, and then back up to Dean. “Wow. Hi. I’m Katelyn. We didn’t … Dean didn’t mention he was …”
“Expecting?” Ben finishes, adjusting his glasses. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls out the chair he was just sitting in and gently guides you into it. “Sit. You shouldn’t be standing too long.”
You roll your eyes, but you sit down, digging into your tote bag to pull out the Tupperware containers and the forks.
Over the next few weeks, this becomes your routine.
Whenever you feel that creeping, lonely anxiety in the big empty house, you pack a bag and take the short walk to campus. You become a fixture in the courtyard. The terrifyingly intense law students quickly realize that the only way to get Dean Di Laurentis to help them with their outlines is to be extremely nice to his pregnant girlfriend.
They bring you decaf coffee. They offer you their chairs. They ask about the baby.
And Dean? Dean thrives on it.
He loves sitting at a table with his arm draped over the back of your chair, his hand absentmindedly resting on your stomach while he debates property law with his peers. He loves the jealous looks he gets from other guys when you show up looking effortlessly beautiful, carrying his lunch. He loves that everyone on campus knows exactly who you belong to.
It happens on a crisp Tuesday afternoon in October.
You are sitting next to Dean on a stone bench just outside the law library. He is eating a slice of quiche you brought him, and you are resting your head on his shoulder, soaking in the autumn sun.
“Di Laurentis,” a stern voice calls out.
Dean pauses, swallowing his bite of quiche. He looks up as Professor Richards, an intimidating, gray-haired man who teaches constitutional law, stops in front of your bench.
“Professor,” Dean greets easily.
“Excellent brief on the Marbury application today,” Richards says, adjusting his briefcase. “Your argument regarding judicial review limitations was surprisingly concise.”
“Appreciate it,” Dean says, offering a polite nod.
Richards’s sharp eyes shift down to you. You sit up slightly, offering a polite, nervous smile.
“And this must be the famous lunch-delivery service I’ve been hearing about,” Richards says dryly, though there is a hint of amusement in his eyes. He looks at your bump. “Congratulations to you both.”
You reach out and shake his hand. “Y/N Kennedy. It’s nice to meet you.”
Richards’s hand freezes. He doesn’t let go of your hand immediately. His gray eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline, his expression shifting from polite indifference to sharp, sudden intrigue.
“Kennedy?” Richards repeats, the word hanging heavily in the air.
He looks at your face closely, studying your bone structure, your eyes, the tilt of your chin. In elite East Coast circles, that name is royalty. It’s power. It’s money.
“Any relation to Senator Joseph Kennedy?” Richards asks, his tone entirely different now.
You feel your stomach drop. The familiar, sickening knot of anxiety twists in your gut. You hate this question. You hate the association. Since your family cut you off, hearing their names just feels like a raw wound being poked.
“He’s my uncle,” you say quietly, pulling your hand back from his grip. “But I’m not really … involved in politics. Or with the family, right now.”
Richards looks stunned. He looks at Dean, and then back at you. “A Kennedy. Here, in the courtyard. Well. That certainly explains the poise. Your father must be devastated you didn’t choose the law yourself.”
You swallow hard, looking down at your lap. “Something like that.”
Dean feels the exact moment your body tenses. He feels the anxiety radiating off you.
A dark, protective rage flares in his chest, instantly mingling with that deep-seated, possessive pride. He knows exactly what Richards is thinking. Richards is looking at you like you are a prized show pony, an elite piece of political capital. He is looking at you like you belong to the Kennedys.
Dean stands up.
He doesn’t do it aggressively, but the sheer size of him, the broadness of his shoulders, instantly forces Richards to take a half-step back.
Dean steps directly into Richards’s line of sight, blocking his view of you. He reaches down, grabbing your hand and lacing his fingers tightly through yours. He pulls your hand up, resting it firmly against the center of his chest.
“She’s an artist,” Dean says. His voice is perfectly polite, but the underlying steel in his tone is unmistakable. It is a warning.
“An artist,” Richards repeats, clearly recovering his composure. “Well. A Kennedy venturing into the fine arts. How … modern.”
Dean smiles. It is a sharp, dangerous smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Yeah, well,” Dean says, his voice ringing out clearly in the quiet courtyard. He looks down at you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, before locking his piercing gaze back onto the professor.
“She won’t be a Kennedy for long,” Dean states, his words slow and deliberate.
Richards blinks. “Excuse me?”
Dean’s grip on your hand tightens. He looks at the professor with absolute, unyielding dominance.
“I said, she won’t be a Kennedy for long. She’ll be a Di Laurentis soon.”
The courtyard seems to go completely silent.
Richards stares at Dean for a long, calculating moment. He is a man who understands power dynamics, and he clearly recognizes that he has just stepped directly onto Dean Di Laurentis’s fiercely guarded territory.
“I see,” Richards finally says, clearing his throat. He offers a tight, formal nod. “Well. Best of luck with the wedding. And the baby. Good day, Mr. Di Laurentis. Ms. Kennedy.”
Richards turns and walks briskly away toward the faculty building.
As soon as he is out of earshot, you let out a massive, shaky breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. Your shoulders slump, and you cover your face with your free hand.
“I hate that,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly. “I hate when people do that. The sudden shift in how they look at me. Like I’m just a walking bank account or a political connection.”
Dean immediately sits back down next to you. He wraps both of his massive arms around you, pulling you onto his lap right there in the middle of the courtyard. He doesn’t care who is watching.
“Hey,” he murmurs fiercely, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Look at me.”
You drop your hand, looking up into his intense green eyes.
“You are not a walking bank account,” Dean says, his voice low and fierce. “You are the most talented, brilliant, beautiful woman I have ever met. You are going to be an incredible mother. And you don’t need them. You hear me? You don’t need their name, and you don’t need their money.”
“I know,” you sniffle, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I just … it caught me off guard.”
“They’re cut off,” Dean says darkly, his hand resting securely over your baby bump. “They don’t get to claim you. Not anymore. You’re mine now. This is your family. Me and this baby.”
“I know,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him softly. “I love you.”
“I love you too,” Dean replies, kissing you back, hard and deep.
He holds you there on the bench, completely ignoring the stares of the passing students. He rubs soothing circles into your back until your breathing evens out and the tension finally leaves your body.
He plays the role of the ultimate protector flawlessly. He makes you feel safe, cherished, and completely shielded from the world that rejected you.
But as you rest your head against his chest, finding comfort in his steady heartbeat, Dean stares out across the campus lawn, his mind racing.
He didn’t just say it to put the professor in his place. He said it because it’s the next logical step.
The baby trap was phase one. It anchored you to him. It kept you in Boston. It forced you to rely on him for housing, for support, for everything.
But Dean knows how fragile that is. You are still technically a free agent. You aren’t married. The baby binds you together, but it isn’t a legal lock.
He needs the lock.
He needs a ring on your finger. He needs your name changed. He needs to legally, permanently bind you to him in a way that you can never, ever escape, no matter what you eventually find out.
Dean’s hand slides from your back to rest gently over the swell of your stomach. He feels a tiny, fluttering kick against his palm. His child. His fail-safe.
He looks down at your peaceful face, blissfully unaware of the cage he is meticulously building around you.
Tomorrow.
He will skip his afternoon seminar tomorrow. He will drive into downtown Boston, he will walk into the most exclusive jeweler in the city, and he will buy the biggest, most undeniable diamond they have in the vault.
Because Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t just play to win. He plays for absolute, total possession. And he is almost at the finish line.
***
December in Massachusetts is a bitter, bone-chilling kind of cold, but inside the grand ballroom of the Harvard Club of Boston, the air is suffocatingly warm.
The annual winter alumni networking gala is in full swing. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, glittering light over hundreds of Boston’s most elite legal minds, politicians, and high-powered executives. Waiters in crisp white jackets weave through the crowd carrying silver trays of champagne flutes and miniature crab cakes. The dull roar of classical string music and pretentious conversation echoes off the mahogany-paneled walls.
You are standing near a massive, roaring fireplace, holding a crystal glass of sparkling cider and trying very, very hard not to let your exhaustion show.
At thirty-four weeks pregnant, you look like you are about to pop at any second. Your belly is a heavy, undeniable presence beneath the dark emerald velvet of your maternity gown. Your feet, squeezed into a pair of sensible but elegant black flats, are throbbing. You feel massive, clumsy, and entirely out of place among the sleek, tailored crowd.
But you are here for Dean.
Dean is in his element. He is standing about ten feet away, locked in a conversation with a senior partner from a top-tier corporate law firm. He is wearing a custom-tailored black tuxedo that fits his broad, athletic frame to absolute perfection. His dark blond hair is pushed back, his jaw sharp, his green eyes completely focused as he charms the absolute hell out of the partner.
He looks like a king holding court. He looks like he was born to inhabit these rooms, to shake these hands, to command this kind of power.
But even as he laughs at a joke the senior partner makes, Dean’s eyes flick over to you. It’s a constant, rhythmic check-in. Every two minutes, his gaze finds you across the room. He catches your eye, his lips curving into a soft, private smile that is meant only for you, before he seamlessly turns back to his conversation.
You smile back, taking a sip of your cider. You feel a familiar rush of warmth in your chest. He is so incredibly good to you. Even in a room full of people who could make or break his future career, you are still his absolute center of gravity.
“I think I need to sit down,” you murmur to yourself, feeling a sharp ache in your lower back.
You turn slightly, intending to find an empty chair near the edge of the ballroom.
But as you turn, the crowd parts slightly, and the breath is punched completely out of your lungs.
Standing less than five feet away, holding a glass of scotch and looking exactly as terrifyingly composed as you remember, are George and Marie Kennedy.
Your parents.
You freeze. Your feet weld themselves to the plush carpet. Your heart performs a violent, painful leap into your throat, the glass of cider trembling in your suddenly cold hands.
You haven’t seen them in over a year. Not since the day you stood in their sprawling foyer and told them you were going to art school, and your father coldly informed you that you were no longer welcome under his roof.
They haven’t changed at all. Your father looks sharp and imposing in his tuxedo, his graying hair perfectly styled. Your mother is draped in an ice-blue silk gown, a massive diamond necklace resting against her collarbone. They look wealthy. They look powerful. They look completely devoid of warmth.
Marie’s eyes sweep over the crowd and land directly on you.
She stops. Her gaze drops instantly from your face, scanning down the emerald velvet of your dress, and lands squarely on the massive, undeniable swell of your stomach.
Her eyes widen slightly, a flash of pure, unadulterated shock crossing her perfectly Botoxed features. She grabs your father’s arm, her sharp manicured nails digging into his tuxedo sleeve. She whispers something urgently to him, nodding in your direction.
George Kennedy turns. His cold, calculating eyes lock onto you. He takes in your face, the simple elegance of your dress, and the baby bump that you are suddenly, desperately wishing you could hide.
Your instinct is to run. To turn around, push through the crowd, and hide in the bathroom until Dean can take you home. But your legs refuse to move.
Your parents begin to walk toward you.
They move with a slow, predatory grace, parting the crowd without even trying. Every step they take feels like a hammer striking your chest. You instinctively wrap your free hand around your stomach, a protective gesture for the baby that is currently kicking against your ribs.
“Well,” Marie says as they stop in front of you. Her voice is like cracked ice. Smooth, cold, and incredibly sharp. “I suppose congratulations are in order, Y/N. Though I can’t say I’m surprised.”
You swallow hard, your throat feeling like it’s lined with sandpaper. “Mother. Father.”
“Don’t call us that,” George says, his voice low and devoid of any affection. “You lost that privilege the day you decided to embarrass this family.”
The words sting, a fresh lash against an old wound, but you force your chin up. “What are you doing here?”
“We are alumni,” Marie says, taking a sip of her champagne. Her eyes rake over your stomach again, her lips curling into a sneer of pure disgust. “The real question is what you are doing here. And … in this condition. Though, I suppose it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”
“Excuse me?” You say, your voice trembling slightly.
“Oh, please, Y/N,” your mother sighs, looking at you with complete, humiliating pity. “We all knew that ridiculous little art school fantasy wouldn’t last. Did the money dry up that quickly? Did the reality of living like a peasant finally set in?”
“This has nothing to do with money,” you say, your heart hammering against your ribs. “I’m here with my boyfriend. He’s a law student.”
“A law student,” George repeats, a harsh, humorless chuckle escaping his chest. “Let me guess. A rich one? Someone with a trust fund?”
“His name is Dean Di Laurentis,” you say, your voice growing firmer, a defensive heat rising in your chest. “And you have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Marie leans in slightly, the scent of her expensive Chanel perfume making your nausea spike. “I know exactly what I’m talking about. You realized you had no skills, no family name to fall back on, and no money. So you found a boy with a fat wallet and you did the only thing left to do to secure the bag. You got yourself knocked up.”
The words hang in the air between you, vile and suffocating.
“You trapped him,” George adds, his voice dropping to a harsh, vicious whisper. “You spread your legs and trapped some poor, unsuspecting heir because you were too lazy to work and too stubborn to apologize to us. You are a disgrace. You’re little better than a high-priced-”
“Finish that sentence, and I will shatter your jaw into so many pieces the surgeons won’t be able to put it back together.”
The voice is a low, lethal snarl that cuts through the classical music and the chatter of the ballroom like a blade.
You gasp, turning your head.
Dean is standing right behind you.
The charming, relaxed future lawyer is completely gone. In his place is the Briar University enforcer, the hockey player who used to drop his gloves and beat grown men bloody on the ice. His green eyes are black with fury. His jaw is locked so tightly a muscle is jumping erratically in his cheek. His broad shoulders are tense, his hands balled into massive, white-knuckled fists at his sides.
He looks like he is about to commit a murder in the middle of the Harvard Club.
He steps around you, putting his body entirely between you and your parents. He is significantly taller and broader than your father, and the physical threat radiating off him is so intense that both George and Marie instinctively take a step back.
“Dean,” you whisper, terrified.
Dean doesn’t look at you. His murderous gaze is locked on George Kennedy.
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Dean demands, his voice a dangerous, vibrating rumble.
“I am speaking to my daughter,” George says, though his voice wavers slightly under the sheer, terrifying intensity of Dean’s stare. “And who are you? The boy she trapped?”
Dean lunges forward.
It’s an involuntary, deeply ingrained reflex. The hockey player in him wants violence. He wants to feel bone crunch under his knuckles. He wants to destroy the man who just made the love of his life look so small and terrified. He raises his right fist, his body coiling like a spring.
“Dean, no!”
You drop your glass. It shatters on the carpet, soaking the floor with cider. You lunge forward, grabbing his raised arm with both hands.
“Don’t,” you beg, your voice cracking. “Dean, please. He’s not worth it. Don’t ruin your career over him. Please.”
Dean freezes.
The desperate, trembling sound of your voice cuts through the red haze of his rage. He looks down at your hands, gripping his tuxedo sleeve, and then at your face. You look terrified, pale, and on the verge of tears.
He takes a harsh, ragged breath. The violent tension doesn’t leave his body, but he slowly lowers his fist. He covers your hands with his, squeezing tightly to reassure you, before turning his attention back to your parents.
He chooses a different weapon.
“My name is Dean Di Laurentis,” Dean says, his voice no longer a snarl, but something much colder. Something smooth, calculated, and infinitely more dangerous. He speaks with the absolute authority of a man who knows exactly how much power he wields. “My father is Peter Di Laurentis. My mother is Lori Heyward. I’m sure you know the names.”
George Kennedy pales. The arrogant sneer drops off his face instantly.
Of course he knows the names. The Di Laurentis family is legal royalty in New England. They own half of the corporate real estate in Boston, and their law firm has the power to destroy entire political campaigns with a single phone call.
“I … I am familiar,” George says tightly.
“Good,” Dean says, a dark, cruel smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Then you know that I am not some poor, unsuspecting heir. And you know that I am the last person in this room you want to piss off.”
Marie crosses her arms, though her hands are trembling slightly. “Mr. Di Laurentis, we were simply trying to warn you. You are young. You have a bright future. Y/N is manipulative. She knew what she was doing when she let this happen. She wanted your money.”
Dean actually laughs. It is a harsh, mocking sound that makes a few people at the neighboring tables turn their heads.
The bitter, twisted irony of the accusation almost makes him want to scream. They think you trapped him. They think you are the master manipulator. They have absolutely no idea that you cried for hours over losing your dream, while Dean smiled into your hair because his sick, desperate plan worked perfectly.
“Let me make something incredibly clear to both of you,” Dean says, stepping slightly closer to them, forcing them to look up at him. “Y/N didn’t trap me. She didn’t want my money. In fact, she fought me tooth and nail when I tried to pay for her groceries.”
He pauses, letting the words sink in, his eyes burning into theirs.
“I chased her,” Dean states, his voice ringing with absolute, possessive pride. “I begged her to give me a chance. I am the one who fell on my knees thanking God when I found out she was carrying my child. Because she is the best thing that has ever happened to me, and she is entirely too good for the likes of you.”
You let out a soft, choked sob, pressing your face against Dean’s bicep.
“She is a Kennedy,” George snaps, his pride rearing its ugly head one last time. “We gave her everything.”
“You gave her nothing,” Dean fires back, his voice slicing through the air like a scalpel. “You gave her conditions. You gave her a bank account attached to a leash. When she decided she wanted to be her own person, you threw her out like garbage. You threw away the most brilliant, talented, loving woman in this entire city because she didn’t want to go to law school.”
Dean leans in, his face inches from George’s, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly whisper.
“You lost your greatest asset, George. And I won.”
George’s jaw tightens, his face flushing a dark, humiliated shade of red.
“Now,” Dean says, his tone shifting into the smooth, ruthless cadence of a future courtroom shark. “This is how this is going to work. You are going to turn around, and you are going to walk out of this ballroom. If I ever see you near her again, if you ever so much as speak her name in public, I will have my father’s firm audit every single one of your offshore accounts.”
Marie gasps, her hand flying to her chest.
“I will bury your political ambitions so deep you won’t be able to run for dog catcher,” Dean continues ruthlessly. “I will make sure every partner in this room knows exactly how the Kennedys treat their pregnant daughters. I will ruin you. Do you understand me?”
George and Marie stare at him. They are completely, utterly defeated. They know he isn’t bluffing. They know he has the resources, the power, and the viciousness to do exactly what he promised.
George grabs Marie’s arm. “We’re leaving.”
Without another word, your parents turn and quickly disappear into the crowd, rushing toward the exit like they are being chased by dogs.
The moment they are out of sight, all the terrifying, cold energy drains out of Dean.
He turns to you immediately. He wraps both of his arms around you, pulling you tightly against his chest, right in the middle of the ballroom. He doesn’t care who is watching. He doesn’t care about networking. He buries his face in your hair, his hands running frantically over your back, your shoulders, the curve of your belly.
“Are you okay?” He asks urgently, his voice rough and breathless. “Did they hurt you? Are you having contractions? Tell me you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” you sob, clinging to the lapels of his tuxedo. The adrenaline is fading, leaving you shaky and exhausted, but the overwhelming surge of love for him is making your chest ache. “I’m okay, Dean. I’m fine.”
“I should have broken his jaw,” Dean mutters darkly against your neck. “I should have put him in the hospital.”
“No,” you say, pulling back slightly to look up into his fierce, beautiful face. You reach up, resting your hands flat against his cheeks. “No. You handled it perfectly. You protected me. You always protect me.”
Dean closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. A heavy, complicated sigh escapes his lips.
“I love you so much,” he whispers, opening his eyes to look at you with such intense, staggering devotion that it takes your breath away. “I love you. You are my family. Just you and this baby. They don’t matter. They will never hurt you again. I won’t let them.”
“I know,” you whisper, fresh tears spilling over your lashes. “I know you won’t. I love you, Dean.”
“Let’s get out of here,” Dean says, gently wiping the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs. “Let’s go home. You need to rest.”
“Okay,” you agree, letting him tuck you securely under his arm.
As Dean guides you through the ballroom, leaving the glittering lights and the staring alumni behind, you rest your hand on your massive stomach. You feel completely safe. You feel entirely loved. You look up at the handsome, powerful man walking beside you, thanking every lucky star that you found someone who would fight so fiercely to keep you.
And Dean?
Dean holds you close, his jaw set in a hard, victorious line. He feels the warmth of your body against his, the weight of his ring sitting in a velvet box in his tuxedo pocket, waiting for the perfect moment.
They accused you of trapping him.
Dean almost laughs at the twisted perfection of it all. He didn’t just trap you with a baby. He trapped you with love. He trapped you with protection. He built a cage out of devotion, and you just handed him the final key.
You will never leave him. Not ever.
And as he helps you into the back of his black SUV, wrapping his coat around your shivering shoulders, Dean Di Laurentis knows that he has won the most important game of his life.
***
“I am going to kill you! I swear to God, Dean, I am going to murder you with my bare hands!”
Your scream tears through the sterile, brightly lit delivery room at Massachusetts General Hospital, echoing off the pale blue walls and completely drowning out the rhythmic, agonizing beeping of the fetal heart monitor.
“I know, baby, I know,” Dean says, his voice a low, steady rumble of absolute devotion. “You can kill me. As soon as he’s out, you can do whatever you want to me.”
“Don’t patronize me!” You sob, your head thrashing back against the sweat-soaked hospital pillow. Your face is flushed, your hair plastered to your forehead in damp, tangled strands.
You grip his left hand with the strength of a dying gladiator. You are squeezing so hard that Dean is genuinely, medically certain you are fracturing the small bones in his knuckles. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t even flinch. He just leans closer, using his free hand to wipe a cool, damp washcloth across your burning forehead.
It is 3:26 AM on a freezing Thursday in late January. Outside the hospital windows, a massive nor’easter is dumping two feet of snow onto the streets of Boston. But inside this room, the air is thick with heat, sweat, and blinding, primal exhaustion.
You have been in labor for nineteen hours.
“Okay, Y/N, you’re doing beautifully,” Dr. Williams says calmly from the foot of the bed. “The contraction is peaking. I need you to take a deep breath, tuck your chin to your chest, and push. Give me everything you have.”
“I can’t!” You cry out, shaking your head wildly. “I can’t do it anymore, Dean. I have nothing left. It hurts too much.”
“Look at me,” Dean commands, his voice firming up, cutting through the haze of your panic. He drops the washcloth and frames your face with his right hand, forcing you to meet his gaze. His green eyes are fierce, burning with an intensity that physically anchors you to the bed. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You look up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks.
“You can do this,” he says, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “You are the strongest person I have ever met. You are going to push, and you are going to meet our son. Do you hear me? We are so close, baby. You are doing so incredibly well.”
Another wave of unimaginable agony rolls through your abdomen. You bear down, squeezing your eyes shut, and let out a guttural, primal scream. You pull on Dean’s hand so violently his shoulder pops, your fingernails digging crescent-moon shapes into his skin.
As you pull, the fluorescent hospital lights catch the massive, flawless piece of jewelry sitting on your left ring finger.
It’s a three-carat oval diamond set on a delicate, crushed-ice platinum band. Dean had dropped to one knee in front of the roaring fireplace in the living room of your new brownstone on Christmas Eve, holding the velvet box. You had cried so hard you could barely choke out the word ‘yes.’
“Ten seconds,” the labor nurse counts down, keeping her hand flat against your stomach. “Eight … nine … ten. Okay, slowly release the breath. Good. Good.”
You collapse back against the pillows, your chest heaving violently. You are panting, staring up at the ceiling with wide, exhausted eyes.
“I am never doing this again,” you gasp out, your voice rough and raw. You turn your head to glare at Dean, your eyes narrowed into vicious slits. “Do you hear me, Di Laurentis? I am never having sex with you again. Ever. We are sleeping in separate rooms for the rest of our lives.”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” Dean murmurs easily, pressing a kiss to your sweaty temple.
“I mean it!” You threaten, pointing a shaking finger at him. “If you come within ten feet of me with … with those intentions … I will castrate you.”
“I hear you,” Dean says smoothly, brushing the hair out of your eyes.
But internally? Dean is trying very, very hard not to smile.
Good luck with that, he thinks, his eyes tracing the beautiful, flushed lines of your face.
Separate bedrooms? Not a chance in hell. He hasn’t slept a single night without you tangled in his arms in nine months, and he has no intention of starting now. And as for never doing this again? Dean has already mapped out the timeline. He wants a big family. He wants the massive five-bedroom brownstone in Cambridge filled with noise, toys, and chaos. He wants at least three more babies with you. He is already looking forward to getting you pregnant again.
But he is smart enough to keep that entirely to himself while you are actively trying to push an eight-pound human out of your body.
“Okay, mom and dad, he’s crowning,” Dr. Williams announces, her tone suddenly shifting into high gear. “Y/N, I need you to stay focused. This next push is the big one. We’re going to bring this baby out.”
The panic returns, seizing your chest. “Dean, I’m scared.”
“I’ve got you. I’m right here,” Dean says, climbing halfway onto the side of the hospital bed to brace your back with his arm. He pulls you up slightly, his broad chest supporting your weight. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
“Okay, the contraction is starting,” the nurse says, her eyes glued to the monitor. “Deep breath … and push!”
You scream, bearing down with every single ounce of strength you have left in your battered body. You squeeze Dean’s hand so hard you literally feel something give way in his knuckles, but he doesn’t make a sound. He just holds you, whispering a constant, steady stream of encouragement into your ear.
“That’s it, that’s it, keep going!” the doctor urges. “I have the head! Y/N, give me one more big push! Don’t stop!”
“Dean!” You cry out, your voice breaking into a sob.
“Push, baby, push! He’s right here!” Dean practically shouts, his own voice cracking with emotion. His eyes are wide, locked on the doctor.
You let out one final, agonizing, earth-shattering scream, forcing your body past every known limit.
And then, suddenly, the unbearable, crushing pressure is gone.
It is replaced by a wet, slippery sound, and then, a second later, the most beautiful, piercing wail Dean has ever heard in his entire life echoes through the delivery room.
“He’s here!” Dr. Williams laughs, pulling her mask down. “Time of birth, 3:31 AM. You did it, Y/N!”
You collapse back against Dean’s chest, completely boneless, gasping for air. You are sobbing openly, the tears running into your ears, your entire body trembling with shock and exhaustion.
Dean is frozen.
He is staring at the tiny, screaming, purple, blood-covered creature the doctor has just lifted into the air.
His son.
The breath leaves Dean’s lungs in a staggering, silent rush. Tears, hot and fast, spill over his eyelashes, tracking down his cheeks. He doesn’t even try to wipe them away. He is completely, utterly overcome.
The doctor quickly wipes the baby down with a towel and immediately places him directly onto your bare chest.
“Oh my god,” you sob, bringing your shaking hands up to cup the baby’s tiny, slippery back. “Oh my god. Dean. Look at him.”
Dean leans over you, his large hands trembling as he reaches out. He doesn’t even know where to touch. The baby is so small, so impossibly fragile. Dean gently rests two fingers against the back of the baby’s head, feeling the soft, dark fuzz of hair there.
“I see him,” Dean chokes out, a wet laugh tearing from his throat. He presses his face to yours, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your lips, tasting salt and sweat. “You did so good. You did so fucking good, baby. He’s perfect.”
“He looks just like you,” you cry, looking down at the baby’s face.
And he does. Even scrunched up and screaming, the baby is the perfect mix of the two of you. He has Dean’s strong jawline and thick, dark blond hair, but he has your delicate nose and the exact shape of your eyes. He is a Di Laurentis through and through, but he belongs entirely to you.
“Dad, you want to cut the cord?” The nurse asks, holding out a pair of sterile scissors.
Dean nods, unable to speak. He takes the scissors, his hands shaking slightly, and snips the physical connection between you and the baby.
As the blades snap shut, something profound happens inside Dean’s chest.
For the last nine months, a tiny, deeply buried knot of anxiety has been living at the base of Dean’s spine. It was the fear of discovery. The fear of failure. The fear that somehow, someway, you would pack a bag, figure out the truth about his monstrous deception, and leave him. The fear that the ghost of Stanford and the life you were supposed to have would eventually tear you away from him.
But as Dean looks at his son lying on your chest, as he watches you weep with pure, unadulterated love for the child he gave you, that knot entirely unravels.
It is done.
The trap is sealed. Not just in a lease, not just in an engagement ring, but in blood. In bone. In life.
You are a mother now. You are the mother of his child. You will never walk away from this. You will never walk away from him. The cage isn’t just locked; the key has been completely destroyed.
An intoxicating wave of relief and victory washes over Dean, relaxing muscles in his back and shoulders that he didn’t even realize were wound tight. He feels light. He feels powerful. He feels like a god.
“I love you,” Dean whispers fervently, resting his forehead against yours as the nurses bustle around the room, checking vitals and weighing the baby. “I love you so much, Y/N. Thank you. Thank you for giving him to me.”
“I love you too,” you murmur, your eyes heavy, completely exhausted but radiantly happy. “We have a son, Dean.”
“We have a son,” he repeats, the words tasting like victory on his tongue.
***
Two hours later, the chaos of the delivery room has completely subsided.
You have been moved to a private, luxury postpartum suite that Dean paid to upgrade. The lights are dimmed to a soft, warm amber. Outside the window, the blizzard is still raging, painting the city of Boston in a blanket of silent, isolating white.
But inside the room, it is perfectly quiet and incredibly warm.
Dean is sitting in a leather armchair pulled directly up to the side of your hospital bed. He has finally washed the sweat and blood off his hands, though his left hand is heavily bruised and wrapped in an ice pack. Logan, Garrett, Beau, and Tucker had blown up his phone with thirty different texts from the waiting room downstairs, but Dean had ordered them to go home and sleep.
He didn’t want to share you yet. He wanted this quiet, sacred time to be just the three of you.
You are propped up against a mountain of pillows, wearing a fresh, soft hospital gown. Your eyes are half-closed, the heavy toll of labor visible in the dark circles under your eyes, but you look so peaceful.
“He’s awake,” you whisper, looking down at the bundle resting in the crook of your arm.
Noah Di Laurentis.
Dean leans forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. He watches as Noah roots around, turning his tiny, fuzzy head against your chest, his mouth opening and closing in small, frustrated movements.
“I think he’s hungry,” Dean says, his voice a low, gravelly whisper.
“Yeah. The nurse said I should try to get him to latch as soon as he showed signs.” You take a deep breath, wincing slightly as you shift your weight. “Can you help me?”
“Of course,” Dean says immediately.
He stands up, tossing the ice pack onto a side table, and leans over the bed. With incredibly gentle, careful hands, he helps you unbutton the top of the hospital gown, pulling the fabric aside to expose your breast.
Dean’s breath hitches.
He has seen your body a million times. He has worshipped it, explored it, memorized every single inch of it. But seeing you like this — soft, maternal, your skin flushed and full — sends a completely different kind of shockwave straight to his groin.
You adjust Noah in your arms, guiding his tiny head forward. It takes a few clumsy seconds, but suddenly, the baby latches on perfectly.
You let out a soft, sharp gasp of surprise at the sensation, your eyes widening slightly before fluttering shut in relief. “Okay. Okay, he got it.”
Dean slowly sits back down in the armchair. He doesn’t take his eyes off you.
He sits there in the dim light, completely mesmerized, watching you breastfeed his baby for the very first time.
The sight does incredibly complex, dangerous things to Dean’s mind.
It is the most beautiful, pure thing he has ever witnessed. You look like a Renaissance painting, bathed in the soft amber light, your head tipped back against the pillows, your hand gently stroking the soft curve of Noah’s back. The rhythmic, quiet sound of the baby swallowing is the only noise in the room.
But beneath the awe, beneath the profound, overwhelming love he feels for you, is that dark, feral, possessive core that drives every single thing Dean does.
He watches the baby feed from your body, and the visual confirmation of what he has achieved is intoxicating. His seed. His child. Sustained by your blood, grown in your womb, and now feeding from your body. You are physically nourishing the anchor he used to keep you.
You look down at Noah, a soft, exhausted smile playing on your lips. Then, you lift your eyes and look at Dean.
You catch the intense, dark, heated look on his face. Your cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink.
“What?” You whisper self-consciously, pulling the edge of the blanket up slightly to cover yourself. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Like what?” Dean asks, his voice thick and husky.
“Like … like you want to eat me,” you say, letting out a breathy, tired laugh.
Dean smiles, a slow, predatory smirk that makes his green eyes flash dangerously in the low light. He reaches out, trailing his knuckles gently down the side of your neck, his thumb brushing over the pulse point hammering wildly at your collarbone.
“Because I do,” Dean murmurs, leaning in so his face is only inches from yours. He inhales the scent of you — sweat, hospital soap, and that warm, sweet, milky scent of a new mother. It is a potent, addictive drug. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my entire life.”
“Dean, I just gave birth,” you laugh softly, though you lean into his touch. “I look like a train wreck. I’m covered in sweat, and I’m pretty sure my hair is matted to my head.”
“You look like a goddess,” he corrects fiercely. He drops his hand to rest lightly over yours where it cradles the baby’s back. “You gave me everything. You gave me a family.”
“We did it together,” you say softly, your eyes softening with that deep, absolute trust that Dean relies on to survive. “I didn’t think … when we first met, I never thought my life would look like this. I thought I’d be alone in a studio in California right now.”
Dean’s hand stills. The mention of California is a ghost from the past, a fleeting phantom that used to terrify him, but now, it holds absolutely no power.
“Are you sad?” Dean asks, his voice perfectly smooth, perfectly supportive. “That you aren’t in California?”
You look down at Noah. You watch his tiny chest rise and fall as he feeds. You look at the massive diamond ring sparkling on your finger. And then, you look back at Dean, the man who has protected you, provided for you, and loved you fiercely when your own family threw you away.
“No,” you whisper, and the absolute honesty in your voice makes Dean’s heart soar. “No, Dean. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”
Dean leans in and kisses you. It is a deep, branding kiss. He pours all of his dark, twisted, possessive love into it, claiming your mouth the same way he has claimed your life.
When he pulls back, he is breathless, his eyes burning with absolute triumph.
“Yeah,” Dean agrees, his voice a low, satisfied rumble as he looks at his beautiful fiancé and his perfect son. “You are exactly where you’re supposed to be.”
***
The Cambridge brownstone is exactly as Dean promised it would be ten years ago.
It is massive, stunning, and entirely filled with absolute, deafening chaos.
“Noah! If you do not put your dress shoes on in the next thirty seconds, I am leaving you here to guard the house!” You shout, standing at the bottom of the grand wooden staircase.
“I can’t find the left one!” A nine-year-old boy yells back from somewhere on the second floor. He sounds exactly like his father, complete with the dramatic, exasperated groan.
“Check under the sofa in the den!” You call back, resting a hand on your hip. You turn around, narrowly avoiding stepping on a rogue Lego brick. “Naomi! Nicole! Please stop trying to put lipstick on the dog! The Doberman does not need to look pretty for the reunion!”
“But she’s a girl, Mommy!” Six-year-old Naomi argues from the living room rug, holding a tube of your expensive Chanel lipstick while her identical twin sister, Nicole, tries to hold the extremely tolerant dog still.
“No makeup on the dog!” You command, swooping in to pluck the lipstick out of Naomi’s hand.
You let out a long, exhausted breath, pushing a stray lock of hair out of your face. You are wearing a breathtaking, form-fitting crimson silk dress that pools around your ankles, your hair styled in soft, cascading waves. You look like a movie star, but you feel like a frantic zookeeper.
“You know, when I pictured my gorgeous wife in that dress, I didn’t picture her wrestling a tube of lipstick away from a canine.”
You spin around.
Dean is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, holding two-year-old Jamie perfectly balanced on his hip.
Ten years have done absolutely nothing to diminish Dean Di Laurentis. If anything, time has only made him more devastating. He has traded the hockey jerseys for custom-tailored suits. The boyish charm has sharpened into the lethal, commanding presence of one of Boston’s most feared and successful corporate litigators. His blond hair is perfectly styled, his jaw covered in a faint shadow of stubble, and his broad chest fills out the crisp white dress shirt he’s wearing under his black suit jacket.
He walks toward you, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative sweep over your body that makes your stomach do the exact same flip it did when you were nineteen.
“Well, your gorgeous wife is currently managing a circus,” you sigh, reaching out to fix Jamie’s tiny bow tie. The toddler giggles, grabbing your finger with his chubby hand. “Is the diaper bag packed?”
“Diaper bag is packed, bottles are in the cooler, and Noah’s shoe was in the pantry, for some reason,” Dean says smoothly. “He’s putting it on now. We are ready to go.”
Dean steps into your space, entirely ignoring the chaotic noise of the twins arguing over a toy behind you. He wraps his free arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He leans down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply.
“You look unbelievable,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, husky register that is reserved exclusively for you. “I’m half-tempted to cancel the babysitter, skip the reunion, and take you upstairs.”
“Dean,” you warn, though a breathless laugh escapes your lips as you tilt your head, giving him better access to your neck. “We can’t. Tonight is a big deal. The gallery showing first, then Briar.”
“I know, I know,” he sighs, pressing a lingering kiss just below your ear before pulling back. He looks into your eyes, his green gaze bursting with absolute, overwhelming pride. “Tonight is about you. My brilliant, famous wife.”
You blush, looking down at his crisp lapels. “It’s just a local gallery, Dean. I’m not famous.”
“You sold out your last three collections,” Dean corrects fiercely, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “You have a waitlist of private buyers six months long. You are incredible, and tonight, I am going to show you off to every single person in Massachusetts.”
You smile, wrapping your arms around his neck. Even after a decade, four kids, and a marriage that has weathered the exhausting storms of his law career and your art shows, he still looks at you like you hung the moon.
“Okay,” you whisper, kissing him softly. “Let’s go show off.”
***
The art gallery in downtown Boston is buzzing with quiet, sophisticated energy. Soft acoustic music plays through hidden speakers, and waiters carry trays of sparkling water and champagne.
The walls are lined with your work — massive, vibrant, emotionally charged oil paintings that explore the beautiful, chaotic reality of motherhood, love, and time. You have spent the last two years pouring your soul into this collection, painting in the sun-drenched attic studio Dean built for you when you were pregnant with Noah.
“Excuse me, Y/N?”
You turn away from a couple admiring a piece near the window. The gallery owner, an elegant woman named Beatrice, is practically vibrating with excitement.
“Yes, Beatrice? Is everything okay?”
“Okay? It’s phenomenal,” Beatrice breathes out, leaning in close. “I just got word from the front desk. Five more pieces just sold. To a private, anonymous buyer.”
Your jaw drops. “Five? At once?”
“Yes! They just wired the full asking price. Y/N, the entire collection is sold out. Every single canvas.” Beatrice grabs your hands, squeezing them tightly. “This is unprecedented for a first-night showing. You are a star.”
You are in absolute shock. You excuse yourself, your heart hammering against your ribs, and scan the crowded room.
You find Dean standing in the corner, holding Jamie, while Noah explains the plot of a Marvel movie to him with wild hand gestures. Dean is nodding along, pretending to be deeply invested in the cinematic universe, but his eyes are fixed entirely on you.
You walk over, your heels clicking against the polished hardwood floor.
“Dean,” you say, stopping in front of him. You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “Did you do it?”
Dean blinks, his expression a mask of perfect, innocent confusion. “Did I do what, baby?”
“Did you buy five of my paintings through an anonymous proxy just now?”
“Me?” Dean gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am deeply hurt by this accusation. I am an officer of the court. I uphold the law. I don’t use anonymous proxies.”
“Dean.”
“Okay, it was my dad’s firm acting as the proxy,” Dean smirks, entirely unrepentant. He shifts Jamie to his other hip and reaches out to pull you close. “But I used my money.”
“Dean, you can’t just buy out my gallery!” You laugh, hitting his shoulder. “That’s cheating! You already own half my portfolio. Our house looks like a museum dedicated to me.”
“It’s an investment,” Dean says smoothly, quoting the exact same excuse he used ten years ago when he bought the brownstone. “And I don’t want anyone else owning them. I saw that guy in the turtleneck staring at the self-portrait of you at the beach. He looked like he wanted to buy it. I wasn’t going to let some hipster hang my wife in his living room.”
You roll your eyes, burying your face in his chest to hide your massive, ridiculous smile. He is so possessive, so fiercely protective of everything you create.
“You’re a menace,” you murmur against his suit jacket.
“I’m your biggest fan,” he corrects, kissing the top of your head. “Now, come on. The babysitter is meeting us at the car to take these monsters home. We have a ten-year reunion to crash.”
***
The Briar University campus looks exactly the same. The brick buildings, the sprawling green quads, the crisp, freezing winter air — it’s like stepping into a time machine.
The alumni gala is being held in the main event hall, a massive space decorated in Briar’s signature black and red. The music is loud, the open bar is packed, and the room is overflowing with the Class of 2016.
You walk through the double doors with your hand tightly wrapped in Dean’s. Without the kids pulling you in four different directions, the two of you look like a terrifying power couple. Dean looks immaculate, sharp, and intimidating. You look stunning, glowing with the confidence of a successful woman completely secure in her life.
“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to show up.”
You hear the booming voice before you see him.
Garrett pushes his way through the crowd, a massive grin on his face. He is holding a beer in one hand, looking exactly like the cocky, legendary hockey captain he used to be. Right behind him are Logan and Tucker.
“Graham,” Dean grins, dropping your hand to catch Garrett in a rough, back-slapping hug. “You look old, man. The NHL is aging you.”
“Shut up, Di Laurentis,” Garrett laughs, shoving him back. “Some of us actually work for a living instead of sitting behind a mahogany desk.”
“Hey, Y/N,” Logan says, pulling you into a warm hug. “How was the gallery?”
“Sold out,” Dean answers for you, his voice ringing with absolute, obnoxious pride. “Every single piece. She’s a certified genius.”
“Congratulations!” Tucker beams, giving you a hug as well. “That’s incredible. How are the kids? Did you guys bring the whole circus?”
“Babysitter has them,” you say, taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “If I brought Jamie in here, he would dismantle the ice sculpture in five minutes.”
“Smart,” Garrett nods, taking a sip of his beer. He looks at Dean, shaking his head in disbelief. “I still can’t get over it. Ten years ago, you were getting kicked out of Malone’s for doing body shots off a bartender. Now you’re a partner at a law firm with four kids and a minivan.”
“It’s an SUV,” Dean corrects smoothly, completely unbothered. “And it has heated leather seats. Don’t be jealous just because your life is boring.”
As the guys fall into their familiar, effortless banter, you look around the room.
It is incredibly surreal. You recognize faces from your freshman art history seminars, girls from your dorm, guys who used to throw massive, destructive parties at the hockey house.
And they are absolutely staring at you.
Or, more accurately, they are staring at Dean.
“Oh my god. Is that Dean Di Laurentis?”
You glance over to see a group of women standing by the bar. You recognize two of them instantly. They were notorious puck bunnies, the kind of girls who used to hang around the ice rink practically begging for Dean’s attention.
One of them is staring at Dean with her mouth literally hanging open. She whispers something to her friend, her eyes darting from Dean to you, and then down to the massive, blinding diamond ring on your left hand.
Dean notices the stares. He notices everything.
He smoothly extracts himself from his conversation with Garrett, steps behind you, and wraps both of his arms around your waist. He pulls your back flush against his chest, crossing his arms over your stomach. It is a completely territorial, undeniable claim.
He looks directly at the group of whispering women, his green eyes cold and sharp, before he deliberately leans down and presses an open-mouthed, lingering kiss to the side of your neck.
You gasp softly, your hands flying up to grip his forearms. “Dean, we are in public.”
“I know,” he murmurs against your skin, not stopping. “Let them look. Let them see exactly whose wife you are.”
“You’re impossible,” you laugh, leaning back against him anyway.
Suddenly, a guy in a slightly ill-fitting gray suit approaches your group. He looks nervous, clutching a plastic cup of beer.
“Dean? Dean Di Laurentis?” The guy asks.
Dean slowly pulls his face away from your neck, though he doesn’t loosen his grip on you. He looks at the guy. “Yeah. Evan, right? From constitutional law seminar?”
Evan nods eagerly. “Yeah, yeah! Wow, man. It’s crazy to see you. I follow your firm’s cases. That corporate merger you blocked last month? Phenomenal legal maneuvering. Absolute shark stuff.”
“Appreciate it,” Dean says smoothly.
“And I heard …” Evan hesitates, looking between Dean and you with total bewilderment. “I heard you have kids now? Like, a lot of them?”
“Four,” Dean says, the word completely devoid of any embarrassment. He says it like it’s a badge of honor, like he just won the Stanley Cup. “Two boys, two girls.”
Evan actually chokes on his beer. He coughs, his eyes watering. “Four? You? Dean Di Laurentis has four children? With the same woman?”
“I do,” Dean smirks.
“Man, that’s wild,” Evan says, shaking his head. “I just … I remember you in freshman year. You were an absolute machine. I thought you’d be a bachelor forever, living in a penthouse and terrorizing the dating pool.”
“I found something better,” Dean says, his voice dropping into a register so dark, so completely sincere, that the entire circle goes quiet.
He looks down at you. You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, and your heart physically aches with how much you love him.
“I met my wife,” Dean says, his green eyes locking onto yours, making you feel like you are the only two people in the crowded, noisy room. “And I realized I didn’t want anything else. Just her. And as many kids as she’d let me give her.”
Evan awkwardly clears his throat, clearly realizing he has interrupted a deeply intimate moment. “Right. Well. Congratulations, man. Good to see you.”
He scurries away, and the guys chuckle.
“You really enjoy terrifying the general public, don’t you?” Logan asks, clinking his glass against Dean’s.
“It’s my favorite hobby,” Dean agrees, finally letting go of your waist to take your hand again. “Come on, sweetheart. They’re playing our song. Let’s go terrorize the dance floor.”
“They are playing an EDM remix of a Taylor Swift song, Dean,” you point out, laughing as he drags you toward the center of the room. “This is not our song.”
“It is now,” he declares.
He spins you into his arms, completely ignoring the fast-paced beat of the music, and pulls you into a slow, swaying dance. You loop your arms around his neck, resting your hands in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.
You are surrounded by hundreds of people. You are surrounded by the ghosts of your college years, the memories of the broke, terrified, fiercely independent nineteen-year-old girl you used to be.
But as you look at Dean, you realize you don’t miss that girl at all.
You look at the man who saved you. The man who gave you a home, a beautiful family, the freedom to paint, and a love so intense it feels like it could swallow you whole.
“You’re staring,” Dean whispers, his hands sliding down to rest intimately on your lower back.
“I’m just thinking,” you reply softly, stepping closer so your bodies are perfectly aligned. “About how lucky I am.”
Dean’s breath catches.
His grip on you tightens convulsively. He looks into your eyes, seeing the absolute, unwavering trust and devotion shining there.
Ten years.
It has been ten years since he stood in a tiny, cramped dorm bathroom, staring at a blister pack of birth control pills. Ten years since he made the darkest, most selfish, most terrifying decision of his entire life.
He put them in the microwave. He destroyed the hormones. He trapped you, systematically dismantling your chance to leave him, closing every door until the only path forward was exactly where he wanted you.
And you never knew.
You never suspected a thing. You thought the universe had simply handed you a surprise, and you had embraced it, turning that surprise into a beautiful, thriving family. You think he is your savior. You think he is the good guy who stepped up when your family abandoned you.
Dean stares down at you, his heart pounding a heavy, victorious rhythm against his ribs.
Does he feel guilty?
He searches the darkest, most honest corners of his soul.
No.
He doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt. He would do it again, a thousand times over. He would burn the entire world to the ground if it meant keeping you in his arms. He built this life with a lie, but the love is real. The house is real. The four beautiful children sleeping in their beds in Cambridge are real.
He is a monster, maybe. But he is a monster who gets to sleep next to a goddess every single night.
“I’m the lucky one,” Dean murmurs, his voice thick with a raw, primal emotion. He leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. “You gave me everything, Y/N. You are my entire world.”
“I love you, Dean,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.
Dean turns his head, capturing your lips in a slow, deep, devastating kiss. He kisses you until your knees go weak, until you forget about the reunion, the music, and the people staring at you. He kisses you until you are completely, utterly his.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark, a familiar, predatory heat burning in his green gaze. He drops his hands from your back, letting them slide slowly, deliberately over the curve of your hips, resting them flat against your stomach.
“You know,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a dark, seductive rumble that sends a shiver straight down your spine. “The house has five bedrooms.”
You blink, confused for a second, still dazed from the kiss. “Yes?”
Dean smirks. It is the smirk of a man who knows exactly what he wants, and knows exactly how to get it.
“Noah has his room. The twins share. Jamie has the nursery. And we have the master,” Dean lists off, his thumbs brushing slow, lazy circles over the silk of your dress. He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. “Which means we have some extra square-footage.”
Your eyes widen. You pull back slightly, staring at him in absolute shock. “Dean Di Laurentis. Are you out of your mind?”
“I’m just saying,” Dean laughs, a rich, genuine sound of pure joy. “We have the space. And you look entirely too good tonight. It’s making me reckless.”
“We have four kids!” You whisper-shout, hitting his chest, though you are smiling uncontrollably. “Four! I am not having a fifth! I told you in the delivery room with Noah, I was going to castrate you!”
“You’ve been threatening to castrate me for a decade, sweetheart, and yet, here we are,” Dean points out smugly, pulling you right back into his chest. “Come on. Just one more. I want another little girl who looks exactly like you.”
“You are insane,” you laugh, burying your face in his neck.
“I’m in love,” he corrects fiercely.
He wraps his arms around you, swaying you to the music, holding his entire world perfectly secure in his grasp.
Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t believe in setting things free. He believes in holding on. He believes in fighting, claiming, and keeping.
He looks out over the crowded ballroom of his past, his chin resting softly on top of your head. He has the brilliant career, the massive fortune, the perfect children, and the only woman who ever made his heart stop.
He trapped you.
And as he holds you close, listening to your bright, beautiful laughter, Dean smiles into the dark.
titsay
kianamaiart
jacobvanloon
jbbartram-illu
baratheonpilled
2087
snowghoul
theartofmadeline
germansingergirl
