oh, I like it

The softness of the clover and moss under your hands is the only thing keeping your mind centered to the earth, the only thing reminding you that you're in your own body, lying on the riverbank on the edge of the castle grounds. You can't exactly recall how long you've been here. The sun was starting to dip lower, but not quite set. Truthfully, you couldn't be less interested in the time. After the meeting that caused you to seek out the peace of the riverbank, your worry about being scolded for disappearing was replaced with a deep, stomach-churning sense of dread.

You had been forced into meetings with suitors since you were eighteen. All were eager before actually meeting with you—extremely interested in both your beauty and the access to power and resources that a union with you family would enable. This interest waned after the conversation, as they assumed a princess as pretty and adored as you would speak excitedly about wedding planning and children, not poetry and astronomy. You were all the things a girl of your status should not be—courageous, sincere, intelligent.

At last, in your twenty-second year, a prince in a much further kingdom decided that the resources your family had access to were worth a marriage void not just of romance, but friendship. In six months, you would meet the prince the day you marry him, move into a private residence within their grounds, show the face of an adoring wife to the public, produce heirs (hopefully mostly boys), and don't complain. You knew nothing about this prince, other than he was in his early thirties, he came from a family known for farming and animal husbandry, and that his parents were long tired of being responsible for him.

"We are just so happy that he will finally have other people to mill about with," his mother said with a too-tight smile.

As you think of this, you sling an arm over your eyes, blocking out the dwindling sunlight. You do your best to place your focus on your surroundings—the gentle, persistent rushing of the river at your side, the pillowy moss and tufts of clover under your hands, the smell of damp earth and wild hyacinth. You place this focus a little too well, your darkened vision and preoccupied ears missing the shuffle of leather boots on the ground approaching.

"You alive down there?" A boyish, charismatic voice says above you. "Because I'm in big trouble if you're not."

You tear your arm away from your face, finally taking in the view above you. Steven. Sir Steven to the court and the rest of your family, but you two had been so close since childhood, the first time you called him "Sir Steven" after his official knighting, it felt as foreign as a different language.

"Much to your delight and my chagrin, yes," you say sitting up on your elbows. "I am alive."

"Alive and grouchy," he teases, having a seat next to you. He takes two apples out of the satchel at his side and offers you one. With a sheepish smile, you accept. "What's wrong? You're usually more optimistic than this."

"I'm getting married," you sigh. "To some stranger from the farming lands far west."

His eyes widen and his eyebrows knit together slightly, and you realize this is a rare occasion where Steven is lost for words. He's been quiet like this before—when his mentor Sir James didn't return from the war when Steven was still a squire, when his first and most beloved horse fell sick and needed to retire to a pasture, and now. You feel a little surprised that this news hurts him as much as the other heartaches.

"I'm sorry," he says, his voice catching strangely around the sadness. You can't bring yourself to look at him yet. You nod as you take a big bite of your apple.

"I was perfectly content to stay here," you say bitterly, laying down again. "I assumed after four years of hundreds of suitors and no marriage, rumors about my lack of wifely disposition would spread far enough that no one would ever try again." Steven chuckles softly at this.

"It really is a shame," he says. "You would have made such a good old witch." You shove him lightly and he relaxes onto his back. When he turns his head, the tip of his nose brushes your bicep. His warm hands reach out and take hold of one of yours, now chilly from the hours of mid-autumn breeze. For the first time all day, you take an actual breath.

"The land's nice at least. I've done some scouting out there," he explains, fidgeting with your fingers. "Lots of animals, I know you'll like that."

This was certainly true. In fact, your first meeting with Steven happened for this very reason. You were seven and he was eight, with sandy brown hair and arms and knees already covered in scrapes from dueling with the other squires for fun. You were on night three of sleeping on the ground of the sheep pasture after your father informed you that he would be sending your favorite lamb away. Younger Steven gently shook you awake by the arm.

"Your father wanted me to tell you that you need to come home," he said, parroting his instructions. "He said he isn't selling the lamb but that you can't do this anymore because it makes him look bad." He escorted you back home, and you had been attached at the hip ever since.

"It's a stupid thing to be upset about," you remark. "I was always going to end up married, and almost certainly to a stranger. I have no right to be disappointed."

"Of course you're disappointed," he replies sternly, tracing the lines of your palm with the pad of his thumb. "Anyone would be upset about being shipped off to a stranger."

His words cause your stomach to churn all over again, and you squeeze your eyes shut. His words sting, only because of how painfully true they are. In your twenty second year, and you had seen so little of the world. Now, you finally have your chance to see more, and entirely on someone else's terms. You had a grand castle for a home, a brave and handsome knight that swore to stand between you and anything that could bring you harm, a ridiculous wardrobe of expensive clothes, but nothing that truly belonged to you. You try to fall back into your body again, letting only your surroundings into your thoughts. The flow of the river. The plush of the ground. The smell of the crisp air. A tender kiss to the inside of your wrist pulls your mind back.

"Sorry," Steven says softly. "You just… went somewhere."

"It's alright," you reply, barely louder than a whisper.

A strong gust of wind rustles the leaves in the trees above you and blows a fresh cloud of hyacinth-scented air your way. Steven's thumb ghosts over your ring finger, soon to be adorned by a jewel, priceless to your future husband and meaningless to you. It breaks your heart how easily your family gave you to someone else. Your body, your dreams for yourself, your very sense of self, now belonged to a man you've never met. You would miss everything. The air around the castle, that smelled of hyacinths and pine. Your library, filled with books on astronomy, alchemy, poetry, music. Your big, overstuffed, goose feather canopy bed. The hallways of your home, where you would run around and hide in corners with Steven when you were little. Steven. God, you would miss him. The way his body felt in your arms when you rode behind him on horseback, and the little looks you would share across the room during parties and feasts. The ridiculous way he would smirk for the crowd after winning a joust.

A calloused finger runs the length of your nose.

"You keep going away," Steven says, sitting up to look down at you. "Just tell me what's on your mind."

"I just feel silly," you say. "I'm angry. I want to take everything I love about this place, and wrap my arms around it, and squeeze as hard as I can."

"I wish you could," He says, moving a lock of hair away from your eyes.

"I wish I had any control over my life," you say. "I mean, the first time I ever kiss someone is going to be when I meet this total stranger on my wedding day."

His eyebrows creep up.

"Are you serious?"

"There hasn't exactly been a line of people eager to, Steven," you grumble. "Besides, I'm not even allowed to go for a walk by myself. I don't get many chances to be kissed."

"But it's not right."

"Nothing about this is right," you say. "But it's always how my life was going to be."

"That's exactly right, it's your life," he responds, his eyes going a little glossy. You sigh.

"This is how things are," you say, sitting up. "I don't like it. Of course I would like to actually know the first man I kiss."

You look down at your lap, gazing wistfully at a little cluster of daisies growing out of the ground by your knee. Steven is also deep in thought next to you, waging the proposal he's about to make until he speaks.

"I'll do it."

The words cut through the air, fizzling like red-hot iron suddenly plunged into cold water. You laugh a little in disbelief.

"Do what?" Your voice is reedy and shocked, unfamiliar to your ears.

"I'll kiss you," he says casually. "Only if you want me to, I mean, this whole conversation has been about you not having any choice. So, if you would let me, I'll kiss you."

His eyes are shiny, and you suddenly feel very aware of how close you are to him. You can see all of his pretty moles and freckles, the tiny scars that dot his face and neck from years of combat, the bit of chest hair that peeks out from under his shirt and leather tunic. He's handsome in a way that feels unfair.

"That's not funny," you say in disbelief.

"I'm not trying to be," he replies sincerely. "You don't have to if you don't want to, but you deserve to have a little life of your own before you get married."

"I want to," you blurt out before you can really consider his offer. You feel your face grow warm.

"You're sure?" He asks, moving himself closer to be in front of you instead of at your side. "Like I said, this is all for you. I only want this if you do."

You nod. "I'm sure." He smiles and exhales with a little laugh, evidently pleased. Steven reaches for your hand again, drawing it close before he presses a kiss to the center of your palm. Your breath hitches and the warmth in your face starts to grow.

"Thank you," he says softly, lowering your hand.

"What am I supposed to do?" you ask nervously.

"You don't need to be nervous," he says, shifting to be even closer. "Just follow my lead, it's not scary at all."

You nod, trying to exert a little more confidence. It doesn't necessarily work.

"Where do I put my hands?" you whisper. He laughs slightly, entirely because he is so endeared.

"My shoulders, or my face," he offers. "Whatever feels good to you."

You hesitate for a moment before you lift your hands, letting them lay flat on his chest before sliding them up to his shoulders. You give them a slight, experimental squeeze.

"Good, that's good," he says sweetly. He lifts his hands to return the touch, a hand floating above your waist.

"Can I?"

"Please," you breathe out.

Steven's warm palm rests firmly on your waist, the other hand coming to cup your cheek. Despite the callouses and hard lines from years of handling reins and swords, his touch is impossibly gentle. Even in someone else's hold, you've never felt so free.

"Close your eyes," he says in a low voice. You do. His thumb gently brushes your cheekbone for a moment before you feel his face come closer to yours. His hand lowers a little for him to tenderly swipe your upper lip. "Soft," he whispers to himself. You feel his lips ghost against the corner of your mouth, and he gently kisses.

After what feels like an eternity, Steven finally, and so sweetly, presses his lips to yours. His hands moves to cup the back of your neck, causing the warmth in your face spreads through your whole body like wildfire. He can taste the sweetness of the apple lingering in your mouth, and he presses a little harder, eager for more of it. A small noise emits from your throat and you feel him smile against your mouth. When he pulls away for you to take a breath, you chase his lips, gathering the leather at his shoulders in your hands and you kiss him again. The hand at your face moves to your waist, and he fully wraps his arms around it. When you finally pull away, you're both wide-eyed and breathless, still holding onto each other desperately.

"I-" you try to speak. "Thank you." He smiles big and releases you a little, a hand gently rubbing up and down your side.

"You're very welcome," he says, still smiling. "I hope you feel a little more…lived, I guess."

You felt extremely lived. Alive like you had never been before, like the kiss was the last click of the lock on the door that was your life. A whole new fire blossomed in your chest, a fire that longed to read every book, run as fast as you could, make friends, ride horses, fight with swords, laugh loudly, bleed, cry, kiss, make love. Your desire to live a life wholly your own fully eclipsed the resignation to your fate, like it was never there to begin with. You wrap your arms around his shoulders and kiss him again. He kisses you back before he gently retreats.

"What was that for?" He asks, laughing a little. "Getting in all the kissing you can before you leave?"

"I'm sorry," you say, a little shy. "Just felt really good."

"Don't be sorry," he assures you. "I enjoyed myself, too."

Similar to Steven's own thoughts turning before he offered to kiss you, an idea forms in your head. Evidently, it shows on your face.

"You're back in your head," he says quietly. "C'mon, you shouldn't be lingering on those thoughts if they make you upset."

"I'm alright," you assure him. "Thinking about something else entirely, actually."

"You are?" He asks, taking your hand and kissing the back of it. "And what are you thinking about?"

You take a deep breath, steeling yourself to suggest what you're thinking of.

"Kissing isn't the only thing I was going to have to do for the first time when I get married," you explain. "His parents kept going on and on about how excited they were for grandchildren, so he'll probably also be expecting me to…consummate the marriage."

Steven's expression shifts from confusion to realization, the tilt in his head disappearing as he sits up straighter.

"You mean…" he trails off.

"Yes, I mean," you say. "It's like you said, I only want to if you want to. But I trust you."

"You trust me with your… maidenhood," he says, the word tensely tumbling out of his mouth.

"Please don't say it like that," you whine, your head falling to rest on his shoulder.

"I know, I'm sorry," he says, one of his arms wrapping around your shoulders. "But you're sure you want it to be with me? I mean, you deserve to do this with someone you trust, but you're smart and beautiful, and I'm… me."

"That's exactly why I want it to be you," you insist. "My whole life, you're the only one that doesn't treat me like an ignorant child. You care, you want me to be myself. That's the sort of person I want to give it to."

Steven's brow furrows, turning the idea over in his mind.

"I won't force you, that would just be me passing along the cruelty I've been given," you say, lightly squeezing his hand. "But if you would like to, it's what I want."

He returns the squeeze.

"When do you want to?" Steven asks.

"Is tonight too soon?" You suggest shyly, looking down at the grass again.

"Tonight?" His voice nearly cracks from the surprise. "You've just been kissed for the first time, don't you think this is a little fast?"

"Trust me," you say. "I know what I want. I know I'm ready."

He sighs.

"I trust you," he promises. "I'll come to your room after shift change, a little before midnight." Your heart jumps a little and your face grows warm again as you nod. You brings your hands to his face, feeling the slight stubble and heat on his cheeks.

"Thank you," you whisper, then you lean in to give him a quick, sweet kiss goodbye that he happily reciprocates. "I need to go, I'm already in so much trouble for being out here by myself."

"I know," he replies. "I'll see you tonight, angel."

The waiting is agonizing. Having to sit through dinner as your parents happily chirp about finalizing your engagement only made the fire in your chest burn harder. Each scrape of utensil against plate chipped away at your sanity. After you finished eating hastily, you were given permission to be excused. You all but flew out of your seat in the dining room and ran clumsily through the halls and up the stairs to your chamber. After your washing basin is filled with hot water, you go absolutely overboard—dumping an entire small jug of lavender oil, most of a bottle of rose water, haphazard handfuls of chamomile flowers and orange peel. You scrub obsessively at every inch of yourself, lathering yourself in a thick layer of sweet smelling foam. Your hands rake through your hair meticulously, fixing and de-tangling everything into place. After drying off, you debate between putting a nightgown on and getting dressed in one of your finer things. As your hands reach for a chemise and deep green overdress, you remember who it is you're getting dressed for. Steven. Your Steven, that has never asked anything of you. One of the only people you don't have to perform for. You pull out a nightgown and slip it over your head.

Even with the admittedly excessive preparation, there was still another hour until midnight. You paced a little, attempted to read by the fireplace, fluffed and arranged your bed, paced again, and retreated to the balcony for some fresh air to soothe the rapidness of your thoughts. As you close and lock the balcony doors, you hear three subtle knocks on the entrance to your room. You rush over, unable to suppress your eagerness. The door opens to reveal Sir Steven, entirely stripped of armor. He wearing a shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows and undone at the chest. His legs, which were always covered in either plates or leather braces, wear only simple trousers. His hair is a little more in place than usual, and he's smiling from ear to ear. He gingerly closes the door behind him and locks it, before he wraps you in his strong arms.

"Missed you," he says softly against the side of your head.

"It's been five hours," you tease, despite the feeling being mutual.

"Felt like fifty," he replies, pulling away a little to cup your face and press a kiss to your cheek, trailing down to your jaw. You giggle at the sensation as the tip of his nose drags softly over your cheekbone.

"You're sure you're ready?" he asks, taking your face into his hands. Yours find the front of his shirt, and you gently tug.

"I'm ready," you assure him.

Steven takes your hand and leads you over to your bed, pulling back the canopy for you both to crawl in. He takes in the the softness of the mattress, your thick bedcovers, feather pillows, all luxuries he never would have dreamed to indulge in. The orange candlelight bounces softly off of his features.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, pulling you close. "We're going nice and slow, alright? You can tell me you don't want this anymore any time you want." You nod, smiling sheepishly. He starts with soft, slow kisses pressed to your mouth, his hands wandering your waist and the expanse of your back. His tongue barely traces of the seam of your lips, deepening the kiss.

"Can I lay you down?" he asks softly, and you nod. He gently lowers your head onto your pillows, trying to shift so his weight would be grounding on top of you and not overwhelming. His lips are on yours again, then they shift to the corner of your mouth, down your jaw, and finally onto your neck. You gasp a little, the feeling unfamiliar and thrilling. Soft kisses pepper across your throat and collarbone, and you pull your bottom lip between your teeth, trying to stifle the sounds that threaten to spill from your mouth. Steven lifts his head up, frowning a little when he sees that you're embarrassed. His thumb gently tugs at your bottom lip, and he gives it a sweet kiss.

"You don't need to hide anything, angel," He says softly, gently rubbing your upper arm. "I want you to feel everything, you deserve that." His lips find your neck again.

"I know you would make the prettiest sounds if you let yourself," he murmurs into your collarbone and you shudder, letting out a voiced sigh.

"Knew it," Steven says, smiling as his reaches for the ties at the front of your nightgown. His big dark eyes blink up at you, silently asking for permission and you nod. You feel the pull of the cotton ties loosening, as your nightgown reveals your sternum and the very top of your breasts. His thumb brushes over the soft skin, and he plants a kiss on the right, then the left. He slowly tugs the fabric down further, leaving all of your chest on display for him. Your nipples pebble from the sudden, cool air.

"You're so gorgeous," he whispers, his words full of longing and reverence. You feel his warm, big palm come up and gently squeeze, feeling the suppleness of your breast. His thumb brushes across your nipple with intention and you whimper, too caught in the feeling of his touch to muffle yourself. He kisses the top of your left breast again, then trails his lips down to your nipple. Carefully, he pulls it into his mouth, swirling his tongue over the peak as he applies the slightest pressure with his teeth. Your hand reaches into his hair involuntarily.

"S-Steven," you moan. "I- it feels…God…" He pulls off of your breast with a quiet 'pop' and pulls himself to kiss your lips again, breathless and needy.

"You're perfect," he mumbles against your lips. Steven grabs the bottom of his shirt and lifts, exposing his torso. You had seen Sir Steven shirtless before, especially during the hot summer months, when training outside is unbearable in heavy armor, but this was different. His shoulders were broad, dotted with delicate spots that trailed down his arms. You reach for him, your palms making contact with the dark hair that covers the broadest plains of it. A pretty line of finer hair extends from the bottom of his navel to the top of his trousers. You feel your mouth water a little as you feel the warmth of him under your palm, the strength of his heartbeat. He takes the hands on your chest and brings them to his lips.

"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," he says, lowering your hands to his chest again. Woman. Everyone else in your life saw you as a little girl, a maiden, and you would be until you had your first child. Your access to womanhood was behind the door of motherhood—to most people around you, they were one in the same. Not to Sir Steven. To him, your maturity, your intelligence, the way you understood yourself; these were the things that determined what you were. Your eyelids flutter a little, and you reach for a shoulder to pull him down again. His chest hair brushes against the nakedness of your own breasts, and you sigh at the sensation. A hand trails downward and grasps the fabric covering your thighs. He looks at you before he pulls upward.

"I'll be gentle," he promises, with a kiss to your cheek. "Just let yourself feel it, sweetheart."

"I trust you," you say, cradling his cheek. He turns his face to kiss your palm. Your nightgown moves up your thighs and your legs start to cross on instinct until his big hand coaxes them open again.

"You're beautiful," he reminds you. "Every part."

Fingers skim up your thigh, tenderly grasping the flesh until the pad of his thumb slowly swipes from your cunt to your clit, smearing the wetness that had accumulated there. You mewl, burying your face in his shoulder. You had touched yourself before, but the way you felt in Steven's hands was something entirely different. He rubs slow circles, tenderly stroking your hair off your face with his other hand.

"I need more," you whine into his neck, eager to chase the feeling. He obliges your words, lowering his hand to press two fingers at the opening of your pussy. They press in slowly, and the stretch stings before it quickly melts into goodness. Fullness. His thumb continues its attention on your clit, causing your back to lift off the mattress for a moment.

"Feels good?" He looks down at you with eager eyes.

"It feels wonderful," you say, your voice breathy and light. His fingers pump in and out, in and out until you've fully relaxed in his hold again and you no longer need adjustment. Steven thinks for a moment before he removes his hand. He brings the hand that was inside of you to his mouth, and sucks at the fingers that were pleasuring you. A low moan vibrates around his hand. Your eyes widen at the sight and your tummy starts to swim, seeing him so shameless. Steven leaves your side and shuffles down, pressing a kiss to your knee before he fully lowers himself, chest flush with the mattress. You feel more kisses trail up your thighs.

"What are you-"

"Just trust me."

The next thing you fill is his lips on your clit, sweet and brief before he gives an experimental lick. The sensation shoots up your body, straight to your tummy.

"Please," you moan out, unsure of what it is you're exactly asking for. Steven flattens his tongue, dragging a long lick from your hole back up to your clit, and he gently suckles at it. His tongue flicks back and forth across the sensitive bud and your hands rake into his hair again, tugging a little at the strands.

"Pull as hard as you need, angel," he says looking up only for a moment before going back, arms wrapping around the backs of your thighs to keep them spread. He sucks and licks and kisses at your pussy, and you feel a hand leave your thigh.

"So sweet," he whines against your cunt.

Fingers press against your entrance again and push in, curling slightly to reach the most sensitive spot. The gentle waves of pleasure in your belly churn harder and faster. You can feel yourself gushing against Steven's hand and face, too caught up in pleasure to be self conscious about. The heat in your stomach isn't entirely unfamiliar, but the sensation of him so shamelessly adoring you, making you feel good—it gave the heat an entirely new presence in your body. You feel beautiful. Powerful. Loved.

"I think I'm close," you mumble, your mouth struggling around the words as more cries of pleasure rise in your throat.

"Let go, angel," he replies, briefly replacing his tongue with his fingers. "This is all yours. All for you." The second he's finished speaking, his tongue is back on you. The coil in your tummy winds and builds until it finally snaps, sending shock waves of real, relaxed pleasure throughout every inch of you. Steven tongue slows, working you through the intensity after your orgasm. Pulling away from you entirely would just be cruel. Once he hears your breaths even out, he presses a final kiss to your clit before bringing himself back up to you. His mouth presses against yours tenderly, licking into it a little. He's right, you think. Sweet.

"How do you feel?" he asks, cupping your cheek.

"Amazing," you sigh, trying to catch your breath before pressing a kiss to his palm this time. "You're so good to me."

"You deserve it," he replies with a smile. "You deserve everything."

You smile and kiss him again, pressing your hand against his heart, pounding strongly. As you kiss him, your hand travels from his chest, down the softness of his stomach to his pelvis. You hesitate before you gently press your palm against his clothed cock. He bucks into you involuntarily, eager for stimulation.

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he groans. "You just sounded so pretty, and you're so beautiful, and I-"

"It's alright," you giggle, hand on the swell of his tummy. "I"m actually flattered."

He laughs, giving you a kiss.

"I want to touch you," you say. "Can I?"

"Oh God, please," he breathes out.

You lower your hand again, gently cupping at the bulge in his trousers. You haven't seen anything yet, but you can feel that he's huge. His breath hitches as you tenderly squeeze and palm at him a little. He grinds back against you ever-so-slightly, pressing a long kiss to your lips.

"I'm ready," you pull away to tell him. When your hand closes around the waist of his trousers, you can feel smooth skin and coarse hair. He nods and you pull the tie, releasing his pants from around his hips. Steven sits back on his heels and takes hold of your nightgown again, pulling it up and over your head. He eases himself out of his trousers, leaving both of you entirely bare before each other for the first time.

"You're unbelievable," he says, drinking you in with his eyes. You look back at him with glossy, wanting eyes, gaze moving from the broadness of his torso to his now naked lower half. You never imagined a man's cock to be pretty. You had seen vague, unappealing drawings before in some health journals, but Steven's couldn't be more different. Long, and curved upward towards his stomach. He's thick, too—when you wrap your hand around, the tips of your middle finger and thumb barely meet. Your hand moves up and down, giving tentative strokes to feel the warmth and thickness of him. He groans above you, desperately grasping at the tops of your thighs. Steven lowers himself to kiss you, causing his cock to prod at your clit and you moan into his mouth. He wraps a hand around himself, gently stroking up and down your cunt with the tip. When he shallowly nudges the tip inside of you, you whine. This was an entirely new stretch, feeling fullness in a way you never had before, even on his thick fingers.

"I know, angel," he says against your neck. "I know, just breathe. I'll be so gentle. I've got you."

You nod, trying to best to take in a deep breath as he pushes in a little further, about halfway. His hand gently rubs at the side of your hip and your thigh, soothing you and bringing you back to your body. Another hand gently rests flat on your tummy, the warmth of it helping to soothe the subtle sting that lingers.

"I want more," you say after another deep breath. "I want to feel you, all of you." He gives a final swipe of his thumb over your tummy, then he pushes all the way in. You gasp as a whole new rush of warmth flows through you. You had never felt so full before, so wanted before.

"Gripping me so much," he mumbles lowering his face to your neck to press a soft, open mouthed kiss to it. "You're doing so well, angel. Taking me so good." Your arms wind around his shoulders, desperate for any closeness you can get. He thrusts shallowly, giving you a taste of how it feels for him to move inside of you. The rocking of his hips and press of his cock against your walls is intoxicating, causing your hips to jolt upwards.

"More?" He asks, rubbing at your side again. You give him a lazy smile and nod. He pulls out, leaving a little less than half his cock inside of you before pushing in again. The pad of his thumb finds your clit, and the last lingering sting dissipates into pure warmth, pulsing gentle and strong in your belly. When he pulls out again, you feel your pussy empty entirely. He doesn't give you the chance to whine at the emptiness before pushing in again, nestling his face against your neck.

"Feels so full," you pant, raking down his back with your fingernails. "God, Steven, n-need you so bad."

"You have me, lovely," he says through heavy breaths, lifting his head up to look into your eyes as he thrusts. "I'm yours. Yours always. I don't care what shit-hole corner of the world they send you to, there's nowhere you could go that I wouldn't belong to you."

His words pierce straight to your heart, instantly sending a mist of tears to your eyes.

"I swore myself to you," he says, rocking into you slowly. "I swore I'd never let anything hurt you. I plan on keeping that promise."

You pull him down to kiss you, trying to convey everything you feel into the kiss. Longing, gratitude, need.

"I love you," you say against his lips. He smiles wide, his shoulders shaking with happy laughter and he presses his forehead to your sternum for a moment.

"I love you," he replies, moving his hips again. "As long as I've known anything, I've known that. Fuck, I love you so much."

He thrusts into you with renewed purpose, the motion of pelvis continuing to pulse pleasure throughout your body. A familiar feeling arises in your tummy again, and you drag hand up from his back to the soft hair at the nape of his neck. Your cunt pulses around him and he moans, sensing your approaching orgasm.

"Come on, angel," he says tenderly. "Fall apart for me, I'm right here." The sweetness of his words combined with the grind of his hips into yours is all it takes to send you over the edge again. The fluttering feeling in your body bursts again, filling you with a fuzzy euphoria.

"Feels so good," you sigh, grinding your heels against the mattress, desperate for something ground you.

He gives you a final, long kiss before pulling out, starting to stroke himself above you.

"So perfect," he says through gritted teeth. "So fucking beautiful, can't believe you wanted me to do this. I'm the luckiest fucking bastard alive."

He grabs at one of your hands with his free one, interlacing the fingers. After a few more strokes up and down his cock, he finishes, painting the soft skin of your tummy with creamy white cum. His chest rises and falls in panting breaths until they eventually slow, and he leans down to kiss your lips.

"I love you," Steven says again, kissing your forehead. "You were perfect." He stands from the bed and searches around the room until he locates a basket of handkerchiefs. When he returns, he wipes your tummy clean. He lays back against the mattress, pulling you into his side. Your arms wind around him instantly, relishing in the closeness. He presses a long kiss to your sweaty hairline.

"I'm getting you out of here," he says after a short silence.

"What?"

"I don't know what I have to do, but they're not sending you away like that," his voice is firm and final. "I meant what I said. As long as you'll have me, I won't let anyone or anything hurt you. This choice they made for you, it hurts doesn't it?"

"It does," you whisper.

"Then it's my job to stop it," he insists. "I'll figure something out."

His hand gently strokes up and down your bare back, lulling you to rest. You know he'll be gone when you wake in the morning, out on the early morning watch near the castle walls. You know that as the months leading up to your wedding go by, you'll only be under more scrutiny and pressure. For now, you let the tender stroking up and down your back soothe those thoughts away. You trust him to figure this out with you. Sir Steven has yet to break a promise.

author's note: thank you for reading!! This is my first effortful attempt at writing smut and I hope I at all succeeded. Knight!Steve has always been so near and dear to my heart, and I absolutely want to write more about him and you (because you're literally a princess)

“Spend whatever it takes,” he continued.

‘Whatever it takes,’ you had echoed in your head.

You had then smiled at him, pocketing the card with a devious plan already forming in your mind.

Now, the athletics department’s annual charity-date-auction was in full swing. Every single hockey player that had stepped on stage was met with excited screams, and people were spending a lot. You were sitting in the middle row, casually sipping your drink when the host called out the next name.

“Up next, we have senior defenseman, Dean Di Laurentis!”

The room broke out into cheers again. Dean stepped out from behind the curtains and onto the stage, his walk dripping with confidence. He was wearing a tailored suit that probably cost more than your tuition.

Hands casually tucked into his pockets; his eyes scanned the crowd until they locked onto you. He gave you a confident wink. ‘The fool,’ you giggled to yourself.

“Let’s start the bidding at a hundred dollars,” the auctioneer said.

Paddles shot into the air instantly and the numbers climbed rapidly. Five hundred. Eight hundred. One thousand. One of the puck bunnies in the front row aggressively shouted out, “fifteen hundred!”

Dean didn’t even blink. He just looked at you, tilting his head toward the stage as if to say, well, what are you waiting for?

You grinned, lifted up your paddle, and called out, “two thousand!”

Dean’s smile widened. But the bunny in the front row wasn’t backing down, as you knew she wouldn’t. “Two thousand, five hundred!”

Dean looked at you again, waiting for you to shout a higher number. Instead, you slowly lowered your paddle, pouting and pretending to look defeated. Dean’s jaw dropped. His eyes widening in panic.

“Twenty-five hundred going once, going twice... sold to the front row,” the auctioneer said as he banged the gavel.

Dean was ushered off the stage by a very smug-looking puck bunny. He glared at you the entire way off, but you weren’t done yet. Two people later, the team captain stepped into the spotlight.

“Up next, team captain Garrett Graham!”

Unsurprisingly, the crowd went wild. The auctioneer had barely gotten his sentence out before you raised your paddle high.

“Five thousand dollars!” you shouted clearly.

The entire auditorium went silent. Up on stage, Garrett choked on his own spit, his head snapping toward you in complete disbelief. Behind the curtains, you could see Dean poking his head out, his face a mixture of betrayal and horror.

“F-five thousand?” the auctioneer stammered, looking around the stunned room before composing himself. “Going once... twice... Sold to the middle row!”

As you walked down the aisle to collect your date voucher, Dean intercepted you in the hallway, “Graham?! You brought Graham?” he gasped, pointing a finger at his captain. “With my card?”

You patted his cheek. “It’s for charity, sweetheart. Besides, Garrett promised to teach me some basic hockey moves. You can tag along if you’re any good.”

💭: LOVED doing Dean for this one, felt so right hahaha! if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc, it means a lot xx

Requested By: 👤

Hannah had silently wrapped blankets around your shoulders while Logan ordered enough takeout to feed an army, neither of them asking questions because they already knew the truth. They were two of the very few people who knew exactly what kind of man Phil Graham really was. The second time had come during Garrett's sophomore season during a game against Saint Anthony's after he took a brutal hit into the boards and broke his ankle.

So, now, whenever your phone lit up with another 911, every horrifying possibility imaginable crashed into your mind. You didn't remember grabbing your keys. You barely remembered sprinting out of your dorm. The drive to the Briar hockey house became a blur of red lights you definitely should've stopped for and speed limits you absolutely ignored. Your pulse pounded so violently against your ribs that it drowned out the music blasting through your speakers.

Please be okay.

Please let everyone be okay.

By some miracle, or sheer reckless determination, your Jeep screeched into the hockey house driveway in under five minutes. The engine hadn't even finished rumbling before you were out of the car. You bounded up the porch steps two at a time, shoved the front door open without knocking. Your breathing came in short, uneven bursts as your eyes swept frantically across the first floor, searching for blood, paramedics... anything.

Instead you were met with silence. Garrett, Beau, Logan, and Tucker stood shoulder to shoulder around the kitchen island, all four wearing expressions that ranged from concerned to thoroughly exasperated. Not a single one of them looked injured. They all looked far too relaxed. What the hell was happening? "Oh, thank God, she's here." Logan dragged a hand down his face, relief washing over his features.

Before you could demand an explanation, Garrett and Beau crossed the room. You reached your brother first, immediately grabbing both of his forearms. "I got your text," Your voice came out higher than you intended, adrenaline still coursing through your veins as your gaze traveled from his face to his shoulders, down his arms and legs, cataloging every inch of him for any kind of injuries. "What's wrong? Are you hurt?" He shook his head, making you let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

"I'm fine," Garrett assured gently, giving your elbows a reassuring squeeze to still your frantic inspection. "Promise." Releasing your wrists he gestured toward the staircase with the exhausted resignation of a man who'd reached his breaking point. "It's your knucklehead boyfriend." That alone was enough to make you wary. Ever since Garrett had become captain of the Briar hockey team, he'd made one rule abundantly clear, none of his teammates were to date his little sister.

He'd delivered the threat with the same intensity he reserved for playoff games, and every guy in the locker room had been smart enough not to test him. Well, everyone except Dean Di Laurentis. By the time the two of you had finally stopped pretending the feelings between you didn't exist, Garrett had nearly blown a gasket. It had taken months of Dean shamelessly kissing his ass, both on and off the ice, before Garrett reluctantly accepted that this wasn't another one of Dean's flings.

Dean had retired his infamous manwhore reputation without a second thought the moment you'd become his girlfriend, and somehow he'd managed to do the impossible: convincing your overprotective brother that he genuinely loved you. That however, still hadn't stopped him from finding new and creative ways to irritate Garrett. Nearly two years later, Dean could still get under Garrett's skin without even trying, especially if it involved anything to do with you.

"Is he hurt?"

"No."

"Did he get into a fight?"

"No."

"Did he piss you off?"

"Yes!"

All four guys answered in perfect unison which made a laugh escape you before you could stop it. Then a raspy coughing fit echoed from upstairs, followed by an aggressively dramatic sniffle that was somehow even louder than the coughing. Garrett squeezed his eyes shut, every muscle in his jaw flexing. "Dean has a cold." Silence settled over the room. After a few moments, you looked from Garrett to Logan. Then Tucker. Then Beau. None of them looked like they were joking.

"You texted me 911 because Dean has a cold?" Beau let out a sharp bark of laughter at your words before scrubbing a hand down his face, frustration evident in his features. "Normally I'd think it's adorable. You know I love you two together, but, Christ…" He pinched the bridge of his nose, looking every bit as exhausted as Garrett. "He's being so fucking stubborn."

Logan nodded before jumping in. "He won't take his medicine unless you're the one handing it to him. Barely touched any food because apparently it doesn't count unless you bring it to him." You had to practically bite your lip in order to stop another laugh that threatened to escape. "He has been like this all day," Garrett grumbled, you could have sworn you saw his eye twitch. "Every five minutes it's 'Where's my girlfriend?' 'Can someone call my girlfriend?' 'I think I'm dying. My girlfriend should know.'"

"I never realized someone could weaponize the common cold." Tucker admitted shaking his head as he stirred what you assumed was chicken noddle soup from the delicious smell. "You should've heard him this morning," Beau added with a dramatic sigh. "'Beau, if I don't make it, tell her I loved her.'" Your heart, traitor that it was, performed a full somersault inside your chest. Even stuffed up, feverish, and completely delirious, Dean still wanted you. Only you.

Garrett pointed toward the stairs. "Please, go deal with your idiot boyfriend." You bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing outright knowing it would infuriate Garrett even more. Without another thought, you headed for the staircase, taking the steps two at a time. As you reached Dean's bedroom, you knocked gently with the back of your knuckles. "Go away, G!" His voice carried through the wood, deep and rough from congestion, ending in a wet cough that sounded painful enough to make you wince.

A teasing smile tugged at your lips as you eased the door open, peeking your head inside. "I sure hope you mean my brother and not me," You teased softly. "I'd hate to have come all this way for nothing." Dean, who'd been curled into an impressive mound of blankets, turned sluggishly toward the sound of your voice. The transformation was immediate. His glassy, fever-heavy eyes widened before melting with unmistakable relief, exhaustion giving way to pure adoration.

"Babydoll." The nickname came out as little more than a dreamy sigh. Every ounce of misery on his face seemed to disappear the second he saw you. Well, almost every ounce. Your heart clenched painfully as you stepped fully into the room. Dean looked awful. His usually perfectly styled hair stuck out in every direction, flattened with sweat where it clung to his forehead. His cheeks were flushed a deep pink from the fever, while the tip of his nose had been rubbed so raw it was nearly the same shade.

Dark circles rested beneath bloodshot hazel eyes that struggled to stay open. He was shirtless despite being cocooned beneath two comforters, a sheen of sweat covering the broad planes of his chest and shoulders. A half-empty bottle of water, several packets of cough drops, a digital thermometer cluttered his nightstand. Used tissues surrounded the bed in messy little piles, some tossed toward the trash can with embarrassingly poor aim, others simply abandoned wherever they'd landed.

"Oh baby, you look absolutely miserable." You coaxed, gently shutting the door behind you. "I am miserable." His lower lip actually jutted out. Then, without the slightest hint of shame, he lifted both arms toward you. "Come here." Not a request, a demand. Or perhaps even a plea. Grabby hands opened and closed impatiently in your direction and your smile grew despite yourself. "Big, tough, hockey player, yet here you are being a big baby."

"Don't be mean, I have the plague."

"You have a cold."

A cough interrupted whatever dramatic speech he'd been preparing, forcing him to curl forward and cough into the crook of his elbow. By the time it subsided, he looked even more exhausted. You kicked off your shoes before crossing the room. The instant you were within reach, Dean's hands found your waist. With surprising strength for someone who'd apparently been on death's doorstep all day, he tugged you forward until you stumbled against the side of the mattress.

"There you are, missed you so much." He mumbled, sounding infinitely more content as he placed a chaste kiss to your clothed shoulder. Your chest warmed at the affection, as he buried his face against your stomach with a relieved sigh, wrapping both arms around your waist like he was afraid someone might steal you away. His warm cheek pressed against your shirt, and despite the fever radiating from him, he melted into your touch the moment your fingers threaded through his damp hair.

"Everything already feels better." He whispered, eyes fluttering closed. "You've been giving the guys a hard time, haven't you?" You felt him shrug against you, his face showcasing the perfect picture of innocence. "I've been perfectly pleasant." A loud, disbelieving snort drifted up from downstairs, followed immediately by Garrett's voice. "FUCKING LIAR!" Dean didn't even bother lifting his head. "They're exaggerating." You laughed so hard you had to bite your lip.

"Beau told me you refused your medicine."

"I was waiting for you."

"Logan offered you soup."

"It wasn't your soup."

"Tucker made grilled cheese."

"Grilled cheese isn't Tuck's strong suit."

That was a complete and total lie and you knew he knew it.

"You are unbelievable."

"So I've been told."

His arms tightened around your waist, followed by another sleepy sigh that sounded almost blissful.

"I missed you, babydoll."

"I've only been gone since this morning."

"Longest day of my life."

His voice had gone quieter now, rough with exhaustion rather than theatrics. "I just wanted my girl." The confession, so simple and so genuinely vulnerable, melted of whatever amusement remained. You leaned down to press a lingering kiss against his warm forehead before brushing another across the bridge of his reddened nose. "I'm here now." Dean hummed happily, his entire body relaxing. "Yeah, you are." He murmured, already sounding sleepier than before.

The knock at your apartment door came just after seven.

“I know you’re in there,” he called through the door. “Your TV is on, your car is outside, and I’m way too charming to be ignored this aggressively.”

You squeezed your eyes shut.

Another knock.

“I will start singing.”

You crossed the room fast. “Don’t.”

There was a pause.

“Aha,” he said. “So she lives.”

You opened the door.

Dean stood in the hallway in a Briar hoodie, looking far too good for someone who was clearly annoyed. His eyes moved over you quickly, taking in your face, your sweatpants, and the hoodie you were wearing.

His hoodie.

“Wow,” he said. “Look at that. She remembers I exist.”

“Dean.”

“No, no, this is good. I was starting to think I made you up. A whole woman who steals my clothes and then ghosts me like I’m some random guy with bad hair and a podcast.”

You stepped back to let him in. “I didn’t ghost you.”

Dean walked inside and turned around, looking deeply offended.

“You didn’t ghost me?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Busy?” he repeated. “That’s your defense?”

“It’s an answer.”

“It’s a terrible answer.” He pointed at you as he started pacing. “You ignored eight texts, four calls, and one vulnerable Snapchat.”

“The one where you zoomed in on your face and asked if I still cared about your emotional well-being?”

“That took courage.”

“It took boredom.”

“It took both.” He stopped in front of you, his frustration slipping just enough for you to hear the worry underneath. “You can’t just disappear on me. Garrett asked if I pissed you off and I didn’t even know what to say. Do you understand how humiliating it is for me to not know something?”

Your throat tightened as Dean kept going, too wound up to notice.

“And no one avoids Dean Di Laurentis. People seek me out. People circle back. People pretend they didn’t see me when we both know they absolutely saw me. I’m visible from space.”

“Dean.”

“If this is about that girl at Malone’s, I swear I told her I was there with someone. You were in the bathroom, so she may not have believed me, but I was noble. Hot, obviously, but noble.”

“I might be pregnant.”

Dean stopped completely.

His mouth stayed slightly open. His eyes widened, and for once in his life, no joke came out.

The silence scared you more than his ranting had.

“I’m sorry,” you rushed out. “I should’ve told you sooner. I know that. I just didn’t know how, and I kept thinking maybe I was overreacting, but then it kept getting later and I got scared, and we’re not even really—”

“Stop.”

His voice was quiet.

You wrapped your arms around yourself. “I didn’t want you to feel trapped.”

Dean crossed the room before you could say anything else.

Then his arms were around you.

You froze at first, surprised by how fast he pulled you in, but his hand slid up your back and held you there.

A shaky breath left you, and you grabbed the front of his hoodie.

“You don’t have to go through something like this alone,” he said.

“I was so scared,” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I didn’t know what you’d do.”

Dean pulled back just enough to look at you. His face was pale under the tan, but he stayed close.

“I don’t know what I’d do,” he admitted. “My brain is currently running around with no pants on. But I know I’m not leaving you alone with it.”

You let out a giggle.

His mouth twitched. “That was not my best line, but I stand by the meaning.”

You wiped your cheek with the sleeve of his hoodie.

“Have you taken a test?” he asked.

You shook your head.

Dean blinked. “You’ve been sitting with this for over a week and haven’t taken a test?”

“I couldn’t.”

His expression softened.

“Okay,” he said. “Then we get one.”

“Now?”

“No, next spring.” He winced immediately. “Sorry. Bad joke. I’m panicking and my mouth has become hostile.”

Despite everything, you laughed again.

Dean reached for your hand. “Shoes. We’re going to CVS before I start Googling symptoms and convince myself I’m pregnant too.”

Five minutes later, he was standing by your door in a baseball cap and sunglasses.

You stared at him as it was dark outside.

“Dean.”

“What?”

“You look insane.”

“I look normal enough.”

You rolled your eyes, but the knot in your chest loosened a little.

At CVS, Dean kept the sunglasses on until you reached the pregnancy test aisle.

Then he took them off and stared at the shelves like he had been asked to solve a crime.

“Why are there so many?”

You covered your mouth.

“No, seriously.” He stepped closer, squinting at the boxes. “How many ways do we need to find out if there’s a tiny Di Laurentis in there?”

“Dean.”

“What’s the difference between this one and that one?”

“That one is digital.”

“So it speaks English?”

“It says pregnant or not pregnant.”

“Great. Better than interpreting emotional hieroglyphics while I’m on the verge of a medical event.”

You laughed for the first time all night without feeling like you might cry.

Dean turned to look at you, and his face softened before he could hide it.

“Don’t look too impressed,” he said. “I’m still wildly unqualified.”

“I can tell.”

He grabbed one box, then another.

“One is enough,” you said.

“Or it could be wrong.”

“Pregnancy tests don’t just make things up.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

“Dean.”

“I’m getting two.” He paused, then grabbed a third. “Three.”

“You’re panicking.”

“I’m a thorough panicker.”

At the register, he added sour gummy worms to the counter.

You looked at him. “What are those?”

“Emotional support worms.”

The cashier’s mouth twitched.

You wanted to disappear. You also wanted to kiss him.

Back at your apartment, the air felt heavier again.

Dean set the CVS bag on the counter and looked at you.

“You okay?”

“No.”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “Me neither.”

That honesty hit harder than another joke would have.

You took one test and went into the bathroom. Dean stayed outside the door.

“You good?” he called.

“I’m reading the instructions.”

“Right. Literacy first.”

You huffed, then took the test with shaking hands.

When you were done, you set it on the counter and opened the door.

Dean was sitting on the floor outside the bathroom, elbows on his knees, phone in his hand.

He stood immediately.

“How long?”

“Three minutes.”

He set a timer. “Great. Three minutes. That’s nothing.”

A beat passed.

“That’s a lie. Three minutes is forever. You can ruin your whole life in three minutes. You can burn toast and set off the smoke alarm. You can scroll through your ex’s Instagram and make terrible decisions.”

“Dean.”

“Sorry. Filtering broke.”

You leaned against the bathroom doorway, arms wrapped around yourself.

Dean stopped pacing.

His face changed when he looked at you, and he stepped closer but stayed outside the bathroom.

“Whatever it says, we figure it out,” he said. “You hear me?”

You looked down. “You keep saying that.”

“Because I mean it.”

“You don’t know what you’d do.”

“I know I’d freak out,” he said. “Probably in several creative ways. I might call Tucker and say words he can never unhear. I might buy a parenting book written by someone named Linda. I might vomit.”

That pulled a tiny laugh out of you.

“But I won’t leave,” he said. “That part I know.”

The timer went off, your heart dropping as Dean went still.

You turned back into the bathroom and picked up the test. The words were right there on the little screen.

You opened the door and held it out.

Dean snatched it from your hand, then stared down at it.

His shoulders dropped all at once.

“Not pregnant,” he breathed.

You nodded.

For one second, neither of you moved.

Then Dean sagged against the wall and covered his face with one hand.

“Thank fuck.”

You laughed, shaky and relieved. “Yeah.”

“No, I mean that in every possible way.” He lowered his hand, looking dazed. “Spiritually. Emotionally. Academically.”

“Academically?”

“I don’t know. I’m overwhelmed.”

You laughed harder, and he pulled you into his arms again.

You buried your face against his chest, feeling the last nine days loosen all at once.

Dean held you for a long moment, his chin resting against your hair.

Then he exhaled.

“I’m buying condoms in bulk,” he said. “Costco-level commitment. I’m going to have a rewards card.”

You burst out laughing into his hoodie.

“I’m serious,” he said. “I’m going to be the most prepared man in Massachusetts.”

“That’s not something to brag about.”

“It is after what I just survived.” He pulled back, still holding you. “Honestly, I may glue one to my dick.”

“Ew what? Please don’t.”

“Fine. Tape?”

“Dean.”

“Okay, no adhesives. I’m listening.”

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself.

Dean nodded, then brushed his thumb along your jaw.

“Next time you’re scared, you come to me before making me chase you around like a rejected frat boy.”

“You were kind of acting like one.”

For once, he seemed to actually think before speaking.

“I don’t want to do the casual thing if casual means you think you can’t call me when something matters,” he said.

Your heart shifted.

“You don’t?”

“No.” His mouth tipped into a small smile. “I like you.”

You raised an eyebrow.

He winced. “That sounded sixth grade as hell. I’m aware.”

You laughed softly.

“I mean I like you,” he said. “Not just the fun parts. I like being here. I like that you steal my hoodies and pretend my jokes are worse than they are.”

“They are pretty bad.”

“And yet you laugh.” He leaned closer. “I want you. In a way where you don’t hide from me when things get complicated.”

You stared at him for a second.

“That sounds like dating.”

Dean gasped lightly. “Dating? Wow. Forward. Scandalous.”

“You brought it up.”

“I did not use the word dating. You did. But since you’re clearly obsessed with locking me down—”

“Dean.”

His grin softened. “Yeah. It sounds like dating.”

You nodded. “Okay.”

His eyebrows lifted. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

Dean smiled so wide it made your chest ache.

“Great,” he said. “Cool. Very normal reaction from me.”

“You’re smiling like an idiot.”

“I got a girlfriend and a negative pregnancy test in the same night. This is elite emotional whiplash.”

You laughed, and he kissed your forehead.

A little later, you were curled against him in bed with the sour gummy worms between you and his hoodie still wrapped around your body. Dean held your hand under the blanket, his thumb moving slowly over your knuckles.

The fear had not completely vanished, but it no longer had you alone in a quiet apartment, staring at a phone you were too afraid to answer.

Now it had Dean beside you, warm and ridiculous and impossible.

“Hey,” he murmured.

“Yeah?”

“I’m still ordering condoms tomorrow.”

You groaned. “Dean.”

“In bulk,” he said. “Costco-level commitment.”

“You don’t even have a Costco membership.”

“I’ll get one.” He kissed the top of your head. “I’m a provider now.”

“You provided gummy worms.”

“Emotional support worms,” he corrected.

You laughed into his chest, and Dean held you a little tighter.

For the first time in nine days, you finally believed him.

Dean and the boys sat in the stands overlooking the rink, bundled against the chill that seemed to seep through every inch of the arena. It still felt strange being on this side of the glass. Usually, he was the one on the ice, skates laced and stick in hand, while other people watched. Now he was the spectator.

But that's what boyfriends did. They showed up. They cheered. They learned the difference between a lutz and a loop, even if they still couldn't identify either with any confidence.

He smiled to himself.

You and Dean had started out exchanging harmless comments in passing. The hockey team finished practice just before your figure skating sessions, and there always seemed to be a few minutes where your paths crossed. At first, it was nothing more than teasing smiles and sarcastic remarks.

Neither of you had planned for it to become anything more.

You had a strict rule about never dating hockey players. Dean, meanwhile, didn't do girlfriends. Casual was easy. Commitment wasn't.

Then one party, one conversation that lasted until nearly sunrise, and one kiss neither of you had expected changed everything.

That had been months ago.

Since then, life had become a whirlwind of road games and competitions, late-night food runs, weekends in New York, and hundreds of quiet moments that somehow meant more than any grand gesture ever could.

Dean had never felt so completely known.

You saw past the jokes and the constant need to make everyone laugh. You recognized the parts of him he usually kept hidden beneath sarcasm and confidence, and somehow you loved those parts just as much.

Talking to you never felt like work. Silence never felt awkward. Whether you were wandering through the city, studying together, or simply sitting in comfortable silence, being with you felt effortless.

For the first time in his life, Dean understood what people meant when they talked about finding home in another person.

Being with you felt steady.

Safe.

Like the most natural thing in the world.

And somehow, despite that comfort, you still made his pulse race. Every date turned into an adventure. Every kiss still made him grin like an idiot. Every time you stepped onto the ice, he found himself staring with the same mix of admiration and disbelief.

He glanced over at Garrett and Hannah sitting a few seats down. He used to give them endless grief about being nauseatingly in love, constantly teasing them whenever they got caught stealing glances at each other.

Now he got it.

As you and your partner glided to center ice, Beau nudged him with an elbow.

"Try not to look too jealous," he teased. "She has to skate with him."

Dean rolled his eyes but couldn't hide his grin.

"Shut up."

The boys chuckled before their attention returned to the ice as the opening notes of your music filled the arena.

Dean loved watching you skate.

It was impossible not to.

The moment your blades touched the ice, everything about you changed. You looked lighter somehow, every movement effortless, every edge deliberate. Graceful. Confident. Completely at home.

It was like watching someone breathe.

He'd seen you perform dozens of times, yet every routine left him speechless.

You made the impossible look ordinary.

The program built toward its final sequence. Dean recognized it immediately.

The grand lift.

Your partner's hands settled at your waist before lifting you high overhead as they gained speed down the length of the rink.

Dean smiled.

Then everything went wrong.

It happened so quickly that his brain couldn't process it.

A slight stumble.

A hand slipping.

Your body tipping just enough to throw off the balance.

Then—

You fell.

Dean swears he heard the crack of your head striking the ice despite the music. A collective gasp swept through the crowd.

His friends all released a string of curse words. 

You didn't move.

Dean was on his feet before he even realized he'd stood.

"Y/N!"

The stairs blurred beneath him as he vaulted down toward the boards, the boys right behind him. Arena staff were only just beginning to react, but Dean was already pushing through the open gate onto the ice.

Someone shouted for him to stop.

He barely heard them.

His skates weren't on, forcing him to half-run, half-slide across the slick surface until he reached you.

You were exactly where you'd landed.

Perfectly still.

Your partner had scrambled backward, horror written across his face as he stared at you, frozen.

Dean dropped to his knees beside you, every instinct screaming at him to pull you into his arms.

He knew better.

Years of athletic trainers and emergency protocols echoed in his head.

Don't move her.

Not if there's a chance of a neck injury.

His hands hovered helplessly over yours before he carefully settled one against the ice beside your fingers, close enough that you could feel his presence if you were conscious.

"I'm here," he whispered, his voice shaking. "Don't try to move, okay? Just open your eyes."

There was no response. The fear that flooded his chest was unlike anything he'd ever experienced.

He had taken hits that left him unable to breathe. He'd broken bones. Played through injuries. None of it came close to this.

Behind him, he heard the pounding footsteps of the medical team racing onto the ice.

"Sir, we need you to step back."

Dean looked at you one last time, fighting every instinct telling him not to leave your side.

"I'm right here," he said softly, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'm not going anywhere."

Unresponsive.

Cervical collar.

Backboard.

Possible neck injury.

Possible spine injury.

Possible head injury.

The words blurred together, each one hitting Dean like another body check.

He sat on the narrow bench in the back of the ambulance, his knees pressed against the cabinets as the vehicle sped toward the hospital. The sirens wailed outside, but inside everything felt strangely controlled.

One paramedic knelt beside you, monitoring your airway while another secured the last of the straps across the backboard. The rigid cervical collar kept your head perfectly still. Electrodes dotted your chest, a pulse oximeter glowed on your finger, and the cardiac monitor filled the compartment with a steady, rhythmic beeping.

Dean couldn't tear his eyes away. Your chest rose and fell on its own, slow but steady, and for some reason, that tiny movement became the only thing he could focus on.

"Is she..." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat before trying again. "Is she going to be okay?"

Neither paramedic lied.

"We don't know yet."

The honesty somehow hurt more than false reassurance ever could.

Dean reached toward your hand before stopping himself, afraid of getting in the way. Instead, he rested two fingers gently against yours where they lay strapped beside your hip.

"I'm here," he whispered. "You don't have to wake up right now... just... keep fighting."

There was no squeeze. No twitch. Nothing.

One of the paramedics glanced at the monitor before speaking into the radio.

"Twenty-one-year-old female. Figure skating fall from an overhead lift. Unresponsive since impact. Cervical collar in place, fully immobilized. Concern for cervical spine injury and traumatic brain injury. Vitals currently stable. ETA three minutes."

Dean closed his eyes for a second.

Three minutes.

It felt impossible that his entire world had unraveled in less than ten.

The emergency department doors swung shut behind the trauma team, leaving Dean standing alone in the hallway.

"Sir, you can't come back here."

The nurse's voice was gentle but firm.

"We need room to work."

Dean looked through the small window in the doors one last time. He caught a glimpse of doctors and nurses surrounding your stretcher before someone pulled a curtain closed.

Then you were gone.

The waiting room was painfully quiet.

Dean sat hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees. Every few seconds, he glanced toward the double doors, hoping someone would come through with an update.

The entrance doors opened. Logan was the first one through, followed closely by Garrett, Hannah, and Beau. Garrett carried your bag over his shoulder. No one spoke at first.

Logan walked straight over to Dean.

"Any news?"

Dean slowly shook his head.

"They took her straight for imaging." His voice was hoarse. "They're worried about her head, neck, and spine."

Logan ran both hands over his face, pacing a few steps before stopping himself.

Garrett quietly set your bag on the floor beside Dean's chair.

"Hannah grabbed everything from the locker room," he said. 

Dean nodded absentmindedly.

"Thanks."

He opened the bag and looked through it, finding your phone.

The lock screen lit up, revealing a picture of the two of us smiling back at him. His chest tightened. He remembered you mentioning the passcode months ago, laughing that it was "the easiest number for Dean to remember."

His birthday.

The phone unlocked.

Dean hesitated for only a second before opening your contacts and finding Mom.

His thumb hovered over the call button.

"I can do it if you want," Garrett offered quietly.

Dean swallowed.

"No."

He took a shaky breath and pressed call.

It rang twice.

"Hi, sweetheart!" your mom answered cheerfully. "How'd the competition go?"

Dean couldn't speak.

Not at first.

"...Mrs. Y/L/N?"

There was a pause.

"Dean?"

Silence. He didn’t know what to say.

Then her tone shifted immediately.

"Dean? Is everything okay?"

He squeezed his eyes shut.

"There was... there was an accident during her program."

Another silence.

"What do you mean, an accident?"

"Her partner dropped her during a lift." Dean felt every pair of eyes in the waiting room turn toward him, but he couldn't look at any of them. "She hit her head on the ice. She was unconscious when the ambulance took her."

The line went completely still.

When your mother finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Is she okay?"

Dean looked toward the trauma bay doors.

"They're still evaluating her. She's in CT right now. The doctors don't know how badly she's hurt yet."

"I'll be there as fast as I can."

"I know."

"Dean, love, she’ll be okay."

Dean's grip tightened around the phone.

After the call ended, the waiting room fell silent once again.

No one knew what to say.

Time crawled.

Every time the emergency department doors slid open, every head in the waiting room snapped up in unison.

A nurse calling another patient.

A family leaving with discharge papers.

Someone from housekeeping pushing a cart.

Never a doctor.

Never anyone coming for them.

Dean had lost track of how long they'd been sitting there. Twenty minutes? An hour? Three? Time had stopped making sense the moment the ambulance doors closed.

The doors opened again.

This time, your skating partner stepped hesitantly into the waiting room.

His competition jacket was draped over his shoulders. His hair was still damp, and his eyes were bloodshot.

The moment he spotted Dean, he froze, guilt written all over his face.

"I..." His voice broke. "Dean, I'm so—"

Dean stood before he could finish. For a split second, Garrett thought he might actually swing. Instead, Dean wrapped him in a hug. The other skater completely fell apart.

"I'm sorry," he choked out. "I lost my grip. I don't know what happened. I tried—I tried to catch her."

Dean closed his eyes, summoning a strength he didn’t know he possessed, "I know."

"I dropped her."

"I know."

"It's my fault."

Dean pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, "No."

Your partner shook his head, tears spilling freely. Dean understood why he blamed himself. He probably always would. But Dean also knew what came with loving an athlete. Hockey players blew out knees. Football players broke bones. Figure skaters trusted another person to throw them into the air and catch them again. Sometimes things went wrong. That didn't make it anyone's fault.

Dean squeezed his shoulder, "She'd tell you the same thing."

Before either of them could say anything else, the doors opened once more. A doctor in navy scrubs stepped into the waiting room, clipboard in hand.

"Dean Di Laurentis?"

Dean's heart lurched.

"That's me."

The doctor smiled—a small one, but enough for Dean's shoulders to loosen for the first time all day.

"I have some good news."

Everyone stood.

"The CT scans of her head and cervical spine are normal. There's no evidence of bleeding, no skull fracture, and no injury to her neck or spine."

Dean let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"The neurological exam looks reassuring as well. Her strength, sensation, and reflexes are all intact."

Garrett quietly muttered, "Thank God."

"She does have a significant concussion," the doctor continued. "Given the mechanism of injury and the length of time she was unconscious, we're taking it seriously. She's going to have a rough few days with headaches, fatigue, and she'll need plenty of cognitive and physical rest."

Dean nodded, absorbing every word.

"Is she..."

The doctor smiled again.

"She's awake and she's been asking for you."

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it, equal parts relief and disbelief.

"Can I see her?"

"You can."

The doctor handed him a packet of discharge instructions.

"If someone can stay with her continuously for the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, we're comfortable discharging her. We want someone around in case her symptoms worsen, and she'll need to avoid driving, strenuous activity, alcohol, and anything that risks another head injury until she's cleared."

"I'll stay with her," Dean answered immediately.

The doctor nodded.

"I had a feeling you'd say that."

Dean didn't wait another second. He was already halfway to the doors before anyone else had a chance to move.

He stopped just long enough to toss your phone to Garrett.

"Call her mom, please, G. Password's my birthday."

Garrett caught it with one hand.

"You got it."

"Dean-o."

The greeting came out weak and raspy, but it was unmistakably you.

Dean stopped in the doorway.

For a long moment, he simply stared.

You looked exhausted. Your hair was a mess, and your skin had lost its usual color. But the cervical collar was gone.

That alone made his chest loosen.

You turned stiffly toward the nurse as she removed the last of your IV.

"Look at him," you said, gesturing lazily toward Dean. "Isn't he just a beautiful specimen of a man?"

The nurse laughed.

Dean let out a watery chuckle, covering his face with one hand as he tried—and failed—to hide the tears threatening to spill over.

"Seriously?" he asked, crossing the room. "You give everyone a concussion scare, and that's your first line?"

You frowned in mock offense.

"It was..." You paused, clearly searching for the rest of the sentence.

"...a really good line."

"It was."

He bent down, pressing the gentlest kiss imaginable to your forehead before resting his own there for a moment.

"I was so scared."

The smile faded from your face.

"I know."

A beat passed.

"I'm sorry."

Dean shook his head immediately.

"Don't apologize."

"I didn't mean to..."

"I know."

His thumb brushed gently across your cheek. He opened his mouth, ready to make some smart remark to lighten the mood, but the door swung open before he had the chance.

"Fuck," Logan said as he walked in. "I don't think I've ever seen Dean move that fast."

Garrett, Hannah, and Beau filed in behind him.

"There she is," Beau said, relief washing over his face. "The woman who gave three Division I hockey players simultaneous heart attacks."

You blinked at him.

"Only three?"

A sleepy grin spread across your face.

"Must be losing my touch."

Logan folded his arms.

"You can barely keep your eyes open, and you're still making jokes."

"It's called commitment."

Dean laughed.

The sound had barely left him before you winced, squeezing your eyes shut.

Instantly, every smile in the room disappeared.

"You okay?" Dean asked quietly.

"Yeah..." You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Just... don't laugh so loud."

He gave you an apologetic smile.

"Noted."

Garrett stepped closer to the bed.

"We called your mom. She's on her way to the hockey house to meet us."

You nodded slowly.

"Okay."

"Your partner's downstairs in the lobby, too," he continued. "We told him he could come up, but... he didn't want to."

Your expression softened.

"He thinks it's his fault."

No one said anything.

"It isn't," you murmured. "Can you... tell him that?"

"We will," Garrett promised.

The nurse, noticing everyone had finally settled, stepped forward with a clipboard.

"All right, since it looks like you have plenty of people volunteering to keep an eye on you..."

She launched into the discharge instructions, making eye contact with each of them as she spoke.

"No driving until you're cleared."

"No alcohol."

"Lots of rest."

"Limit screen time if it makes the headaches worse."

"If she starts vomiting repeatedly, becomes difficult to wake up, develops worsening confusion, weakness, numbness, or has a seizure, bring her straight back to the emergency department."

Everyone nodded with surprising seriousness.

Dean looked like he was mentally memorizing every word.

By the time the nurse finished, you looked utterly drained.

You let your eyes drift closed, your head sinking carefully against the pillow.

Dean noticed immediately.

"If you guys don't mind..." he said softly, glancing at the others. "Can I have a couple minutes?"

No one argued.

Within seconds, the room emptied.

The moment the door clicked shut, Dean turned back to you.

"Think you can get changed?"

You cracked one eye open.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"Whether you're volunteering to help."

A small smile tugged at his lips.

"I am."

With slow, careful movements, he helped you sit up, one hand supporting your back while the other steadied your arm. Every motion was deliberate, giving you plenty of time whenever you paused because the room threatened to spin.

He slid the sweatshirt Hannah grabbed from your locker gently over your head, careful not to bump the tender spot hidden beneath your hair. Then came a pair of soft sweatpants, guiding your feet through one leg at a time while you leaned against his shoulder for balance.

When you were finally dressed, he crouched in front of you to help you into your sneakers.

Only then did he stop.

He rested his hands lightly on your knees and looked up at you.

"You don't have to be brave with me."

The room fell quiet.

His eyes searched yours, taking in the exhaustion, the lingering confusion, and the effort it was taking just to stay awake.

"How are you really doing?"

For the first time since the fall, there was no audience.

Just the two of you.

You stared down at your hands for a long moment before speaking.

"I think..." Your voice caught.

Dean stayed silent.

"I think I'm done skating."

The words hung in the room.

He knew what they cost you.

Skating wasn't just a hobby. It was early mornings before class. Hours in freezing rinks. Competitions. Blisters. Bruises. Missing holidays. Chasing scores by fractions of a point. It was the language you spoke before you knew how to put your dreams into words.

It was part of who you were.

Dean swallowed hard.

"Hey."

You finally looked up at him.

"You don't have to decide that today."

A tear escaped before you could stop it.

"But what if I never trust another lift again?"

Dean reached up, brushing it away with his thumb.

"Then you don't."

"I almost..." Your voice broke. "Dean, I don't even remember hitting the ice. I woke up in a hospital."

"I know."

"What if next time is worse?"

He took both of your hands in his.

"Then that's a conversation for months from now."

You let out a shaky breath.

"I don't know if I can go back."

"You don't have to."

You searched his face.

"But if I quit..."

"You won't be quitting."

"You don't know that."

"I do."

He squeezed your hands gently.

"If you decide, after you've healed, after the headaches are gone, after you've had time to think—not today, not tomorrow, but when you're ready—that skating isn't what you want anymore..."

He paused.

"...that's not quitting."

"That's choosing."

"You've already proved how tough you are. You don't owe anyone another performance just because you've spent years getting here."

You looked away, tears quietly slipping down your cheeks.

"It feels like I'd be losing part of myself."

Dean's expression softened.

"I don't think skating is what made you who you are."

"It isn't?"

He shook his head.

"You make little kids stop and watch through the glass because they think you're magic."

A watery laugh escaped you.

"You make my teammates feel like family."

Another tear rolled down your cheek.

"You make my mom think I'm finally dating someone good for me."

That earned him a tiny smile.

"You make every room brighter the second you walk into it."

He rested his forehead against yours.

"The ice is just where everyone else got to see it."

Your eyes closed.

For the first time all day, you let yourself cry.

Not because your head hurt.

Not because you were scared.

But because someone had finally given you permission not to have all the answers.

Dean wrapped his arms around you as carefully as he could, mindful of your aching body.

"You don't have to decide today," he whispered again.

"So..."

You sniffled.

"...can I just be your girlfriend for a while?"

He smiled.

"You have never been just anything."

"Can we go home?"