Katieemerald

You had been at the party for exactly forty-three minutes when you decided you had officially stayed long enough to leave without seeming rude.

Not that anyone would notice.

The thought came quietly, without bitterness. You had become good at slipping in and out of places without drawing attention. Lecture halls, dining rooms, dorm gatherings. You occupied space carefully, always conscious of where you stood and whether you were blocking someone’s way.

The hockey house was packed.

Music shook the walls, loud enough to pulse beneath your shoes, and every room seemed to hold twice as many people as it reasonably should. Someone had opened the windows despite the cold, but the air still smelled like beer, perfume, and too many bodies pressed close together.

Your roommate had promised she would stay with you.

She had said it three times while doing her makeup.

“We’ll go together, stay for an hour, and leave together.”

Twenty minutes after arriving, she had disappeared upstairs with a boy whose name you did not know.

You had received a text shortly afterward.

Don’t wait up! Love you!!!

You doubted she did.

Not in a cruel way. She simply did not know you well enough to love you. You had been assigned to live together at the beginning of the semester, and although she was friendly, there was a difference between being friendly and being friends.

You had learned that difference slowly.

You stood near the edge of the kitchen, holding a plastic cup filled with something fruity and overly sweet. You had taken two cautious sips before deciding you did not like it, but keeping it in your hand gave you something to do.

Around you, people shouted over the music.

A group of girls near the refrigerator laughed loudly at something one of them said. Two boys were arguing about a game you had not watched. Someone stumbled into you, sloshing beer over the back of your hand, and barely paused long enough to mutter an apology.

You wiped your fingers against the side of your jeans.

Forty-four minutes.

You could leave now.

You had already opened your phone to request a ride when someone spoke beside you.

“You look like you’re planning a prison break.”

You glanced up.

And then farther up.

Dean Di Laurentis stood beside you with one shoulder resting against the kitchen counter, a lazy smile curving across his face.

You knew who he was.

Everyone at Briar knew who Dean was.

Even if you had somehow missed the hockey games, the campus newspaper articles, and the stories repeated in whispered tones at parties, it would have been difficult not to notice him.

He was tall, blond, and unfairly handsome in the polished sort of way that made him look as though he had stepped out of an advertisement. His pale sweater fit him perfectly, pushed up at the forearms, and there was a confidence in the way he carried himself that suggested he had never once entered a room and wondered whether he belonged there.

You immediately became aware of everything you were doing.

The way your hair had started to frizz near your temples.

The awkward bend of your elbow.

The fact that you had been staring at your phone like it contained emergency evacuation instructions.

“I wasn’t planning a prison break,” you said.

Dean glanced at your phone.

“You were looking at ride prices with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.”

You locked the screen.

“I was thinking about leaving.”

“Already?”

“I’ve been here almost an hour.”

He looked around the crowded kitchen as if taking inventory.

“Honestly, that might be enough.”

You stared at him.

That was not the response you had expected.

Dean lifted his own cup toward the room.

“Someone broke a lamp twenty minutes ago, Garrett is threatening to ban half the freshman class from the house, and I’m pretty sure there’s a guy crying in the laundry room.”

“Why is he crying?”

“No idea. I didn’t ask. He looked like he needed privacy.”

A surprised laugh escaped you.

Dean’s smile widened.

It was not the practised grin you had seen him give girls across campus. It looked warmer up close. Less calculated.

“There it is,” he said.

You frowned. “What?”

“I was starting to think you couldn’t smile.”

Your face heated.

“I smile.”

“I believe you now.”

You looked down at your cup, suddenly wishing you had left two minutes earlier.

He must have noticed the shift because his expression softened.

“That came out wrong,” he said. “I only meant you looked miserable.”

“That isn’t much better.”

“You’re right.” He placed a hand over his chest. “I’m doing terribly.”

You laughed again, quieter this time.

Dean leaned closer, though not enough to crowd you.

“Can I start over?”

“You can try.”

He straightened and extended his hand with exaggerated formality.

“Hi. I’m Dean.”

You looked at his hand.

“I know.”

“That sounded ominous.”

“Everyone knows who you are.”

“Good things, I assume.”

You raised your eyebrows.

He sighed.

“Devastating.”

You hesitated before slipping your hand into his.

You told him your name.

His fingers closed around yours briefly, warm and gentle.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he said.

Something about the way he said it made the words feel sincere.

You pulled your hand away before you could think too much about it.

Dean gestured toward your cup.

“What are you drinking?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s concerning.”

“My roommate handed it to me.”

“Where’s your roommate?”

“Upstairs.”

He followed your gaze toward the ceiling, understanding arriving quickly.

“And she left you down here alone?”

“She didn’t force me to stay.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

You shifted your weight.

“She wanted to have fun.”

“And you don’t?”

“I do.”

Dean looked around again.

“Just not like this?”

You nodded.

He studied you for a second, not in a way that made you feel inspected, but as if he were genuinely considering what you had said.

“What do you do for fun?”

The question caught you off guard.

“What?”

“You said you like having fun. What does that look like?”

You almost asked whether he was making fun of you, but his face held only curiosity.

“I read.”

“Scandalous.”

“I go to the movies.”

“Alone?”

“Usually.”

He frowned slightly, and you immediately regretted saying it.

Not because there was anything wrong with going to the movies alone. You told yourself that often enough. But people tended to react in one of two ways: pity or disbelief.

Dean surprised you again.

“What was the last thing you saw?”

You told him.

He had seen it too.

Within a few minutes, the party receded around you.

He had strong opinions about the ending. You disagreed with nearly all of them. He accused you of defending a character who had made objectively terrible choices, and you argued that he was ignoring the entire point of the story.

“You’re wrong,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“You are, but it’s cute that you’re committed.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Do you always become condescending when someone disagrees with you?”

“Only when I’m right.”

“You must be condescending a lot, then.”

He grinned.

“There she is again.”

You tried not to smile.

You failed.

Dean took your untouched drink and exchanged it for a sealed bottle of water from the refrigerator. He did not make a comment about it or ask whether you had had too much. He simply handed you the bottle and continued talking.

You noticed things about him gradually.

He listened.

Actually listened.

When you mentioned transferring to Briar, he asked why. When you said your previous school had not been a good fit, he did not push for details. When you told him your major, he asked what you wanted to do with it rather than making the same tired joke everyone else made.

You learned that he was studying history.

You had not expected that.

“You sound surprised,” he said.

“I am.”

“You thought I was majoring in hockey?”

“I thought you were majoring in parties.”

“That’s my minor.”

You rolled your eyes.

He laughed.

People interrupted him constantly.

A girl touched his arm and asked him to dance. One of his teammates shouted something from the living room. A boy you vaguely recognized wanted to know where the extra cups were.

Dean responded to each of them, but he always turned back to you.

As if the conversation had not ended.

As if you had not become invisible the moment someone more interesting appeared.

It was such a small thing.

It should not have mattered as much as it did.

After nearly an hour, the kitchen became too crowded to breathe comfortably.

Dean noticed before you said anything.

“Want to go somewhere quieter?”

The question sent a small pulse of alarm through you.

He seemed to read it immediately.

“The porch,” he clarified. “Not a bedroom.”

Mortification flooded your face.

“I didn’t think—”

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You absolutely did.”

You looked away.

Dean smiled, but there was no cruelty in it.

“We can stay here.”

The kitchen erupted into shouting as someone attempted to climb onto the counter.

You winced.

“The porch is fine.”

He led you through the crowd without touching you until someone stumbled into your path. Then his hand settled lightly at the small of your back.

It was barely there.

Still, you felt it through the fabric of your sweater.

Outside, the air was sharp and cold.

You inhaled deeply.

The porch wrapped around the side of the house, dimly lit and mostly empty. Music still filtered through the walls, but it was muted now. The night felt calmer beyond the glow of the windows.

Dean dropped onto the top step and looked up at you.

“You can sit. I don’t bite.”

“I’ve heard otherwise.”

He stared at you for one stunned second before laughing.

The sound was bright and genuine.

You smiled despite yourself and sat beside him, leaving a careful amount of space between you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

You watched your breath fog in front of you.

Dean leaned back on his hands.

“So why did you really come tonight?”

“My roommate asked me.”

“That’s the only reason?”

You considered lying.

Instead, you shrugged.

“I thought maybe I should try harder.”

“At parties?”

“At meeting people.”

His expression changed.

Only slightly, but enough for you to notice.

“You don’t know many people here?”

“I know people.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

You picked at the corner of the water bottle label.

“I transferred at the beginning of the semester. Everyone already had their groups. It’s hard to join when people have known each other for years.”

Dean was quiet.

You worried you had made the conversation uncomfortable.

You usually did that eventually. People liked quiet girls until the quietness revealed itself to be something heavier. Loneliness made others uneasy when spoken aloud.

You rushed to soften it.

“It’s fine. I like being alone.”

“Sometimes,” he said.

You glanced at him.

Dean’s gaze rested on the dark yard ahead of you.

“Sometimes you like being alone,” he continued. “Other times, you’re alone because no one thought to invite you.”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly.

You looked down.

“That sounded depressing,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“No. It’s just…”

“Accurate?”

You nodded.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Then Dean bumped his shoulder against yours.

“Tonight wasn’t a complete failure.”

“No?”

“You met me.”

You let out a small laugh.

“And you’re very humble.”

“It’s one of my best qualities.”

“I don’t think you know what humble means.”

“I’m a history major, not an English major.”

“That excuse doesn’t work.”

“It was worth trying.”

You smiled at your shoes.

His shoulder remained against yours.

You did not move away.

The conversation shifted again. Somehow, you ended up telling him about getting lost during orientation and walking into the wrong lecture hall. He told you about accidentally calling one of his professors “Dad” during freshman year.

“You did not.”

“I did.”

“In front of everyone?”

“Full lecture hall.”

“What did he say?”

“He said, ‘Your mother and I are disappointed in you.’”

You laughed so hard you had to cover your mouth.

Dean watched you.

The laughter faded when you realized he was staring.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I know.”

The air between you changed.

Not suddenly.

It had been changing all night, growing warmer beneath the jokes and easy conversation, but now there was nowhere else to look.

Dean’s eyes lowered briefly to your mouth.

Your pulse jumped.

You knew his reputation.

You had heard the stories.

Dean Di Laurentis did not flirt without purpose. He did not sit on cold porch steps discussing movies and embarrassing freshman memories because he wanted friendship.

You should have stood.

You should have thanked him for the conversation and ordered your ride.

Instead, you remained still.

Dean lifted one hand slowly, giving you plenty of time to stop him. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair away from your cheek.

“You’re nervous,” he said.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“You keep telling me how I feel.”

“You keep lying.”

You swallowed.

His thumb lingered near your jaw.

“Tell me to stop.”

You should have.

Instead, you whispered, “I don’t want you to.”

Dean’s expression softened.

Then he kissed you.

You had expected confidence.

You had expected him to kiss like someone who knew exactly what he was doing and knew that you knew it too.

You had not expected gentleness.

His mouth moved slowly against yours, warm and careful. He did not pull you closer until you leaned toward him first. Then his hand slid to the back of your neck while the other settled at your waist.

The kiss deepened.

Your fingers curled into the front of his sweater.

Dean smiled against your mouth.

“What?” you murmured.

“Nothing.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I know.”

“That’s distracting.”

“Sorry.”

He kissed you again, and he did not sound sorry at all.

The porch door swung open.

Cold light spilled across the steps.

“Dean, have you seen—”

The boy stopped.

You jumped away so quickly you nearly dropped the water bottle.

Dean turned, visibly annoyed.

“Logan.”

Logan’s gaze moved between the two of you.

A slow grin appeared.

“I didn’t see anything.”

“You’re currently looking directly at us.”

“I’m going blind as we speak.”

“Go away.”

Logan lifted both hands.

“Garrett wants to know where the spare keg is.”

“In the garage.”

“Thanks.”

He disappeared inside, still grinning.

You covered your face with both hands.

Dean laughed.

“This isn’t funny.”

“It’s a little funny.”

“Your friend is going to tell everyone.”

“Logan has walked in on much worse.”

“That does not make me feel better.”

Dean gently pulled your hands away from your face.

“Hey.”

You looked at him reluctantly.

“No one’s going to bother you.”

You believed he meant it.

That frightened you more than if he had been careless.

Because this was supposed to be simple.

He was Dean.

You were a girl he had met at a party.

You knew how this worked.

You knew better than to confuse attention with affection.

Still, when he asked whether you wanted to leave the porch, you did not say no.

His room was quieter than the rest of the house.

You stood just inside the doorway while Dean closed it behind you, leaving the noise on the other side.

For the first time all night, uncertainty crossed his face.

It disappeared quickly, but you saw it.

“We don’t have to do anything,” he said.

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

He stepped closer.

“Do you?”

You nodded.

Dean studied you for a moment.

Then he reached for your hand.

His fingers threaded through yours.

“Tell me what you want.”

No one had ever asked you like that before.

Not as a challenge.

Not impatiently.

As if the answer mattered.

You looked at him, at the boy everyone claimed never cared enough to ask.

“You,” you whispered.

His eyes darkened.

He kissed you again.

The rest of the night became a collection of soft, blurred moments.

Quiet laughter when your knee bumped awkwardly against his.

His forehead resting against yours.

The way he asked if you were all right and waited for an answer.

The unexpected tenderness of his hands.

The room growing still around you.

And eventually, sleep.

You woke before sunrise.

For a few seconds, you did not know where you were.

The room was dark except for the faint gray light filtering through the curtains. A heavy comforter covered you, warmer than the thin blanket in your dorm. Something solid rested against your waist.

Then you remembered.

Dean slept beside you.

He was sprawled on his stomach, one arm curved loosely across the space where your body had been. His blond hair had fallen over his forehead, and without the easy smile or bright confidence, he looked younger.

Softer.

You watched him breathe.

A dangerous warmth opened in your chest.

Last night returned in pieces.

The porch.

His laugh.

The way he had listened to you.

The way he had looked at you as though you were someone worth noticing.

You turned toward him.

For one foolish moment, you imagined staying.

You imagined him waking and smiling when he saw you. Maybe you would talk for a while. Maybe he would remember the things you had told him. Maybe he would ask to see you again.

Then reality settled over you.

You knew who he was.

More importantly, you knew who you were.

Dean Di Laurentis woke beside beautiful, confident girls who understood the rules. Girls who could leave smiling because they had never expected anything more.

You were already making last night mean too much.

You could feel it happening.

The way your heart had tightened when he asked what you did for fun. The way you had stored every small kindness as though it were rare.

For him, it had probably been easy.

Dean was charming because charm came naturally to him. He made people feel special because he knew how.

That did not mean you were special.

The thought hurt, though it should not have.

You had agreed to one night.

He had never promised more.

The kindest thing you could do for both of you was leave before he had to make that clear.

Carefully, you lifted his arm and slid out of bed.

Dean shifted.

You froze.

He murmured something unintelligible and buried his face deeper into the pillow.

Your chest ached.

You found your clothes quietly.

His sweater lay across the desk chair, and for a moment, you remembered him draping it around your shoulders when you had complained about the cold.

You picked it up.

The fabric still smelled faintly like him.

You almost put it on.

The thought was so embarrassing that you folded it instead, smoothing the sleeves before placing it neatly on the chair.

Your phone had several messages.

Two from your roommate.

One asking whether you were safe.

Another, sent an hour later, containing nothing but several question marks and a winking face.

You ignored them.

Before leaving, you looked back at Dean.

You considered writing a note.

Thank you for last night.

Too formal.

I had a nice time.

Too hopeful.

Maybe I’ll see you around.

Too pathetic.

You opened the door without writing anything.

The hallway was empty.

Downstairs, the house looked different in the early morning. Cups covered every surface. Someone was asleep on the couch with one shoe missing. The air smelled stale and sour.

You stepped outside.

The cold hit your face immediately.

By the time your ride arrived, the sky had begun to lighten.

You did not look back.

Dean woke reaching for you.

His hand moved across the sheets, searching for warmth.

He found only an empty space.

His eyes opened.

For a moment, he thought you might be in the bathroom.

He rolled onto his back, blinking at the ceiling while the memories of the night before returned.

You laughing on the porch.

Your fingers curled into his sweater.

The sleepy way you had said his name.

A smile formed before he could stop it.

He had not planned anything beyond the party.

He rarely did.

But he wanted breakfast.

He wanted to know whether you drank coffee.

He wanted to finish the argument about the movie because you were still wrong and he had thought of three more reasons to prove it.

The bathroom door stood open.

Empty.

Dean sat up.

Your clothes were gone.

His sweater had been folded carefully on the chair.

He stared at it.

Something unpleasant shifted in his chest.

“Hello?”

The room remained silent.

He checked his phone.

Nothing.

He had given you his number at some point, hadn’t he?

No.

He frowned.

He had been too busy talking. Too busy kissing you. Too certain there would be time in the morning.

Dean got out of bed and pulled on sweatpants.

He checked the hallway.

Then the kitchen.

Then, absurdly, the porch.

You were gone.

No note.

No number.

Nothing.

He stood in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the door.

This was new.

Girls did not usually leave before he woke up.

Some did, of course. He was not arrogant enough to think it had never happened. But usually there was a text. A number written on a receipt. A teasing message sent later.

You had disappeared as if the night had never happened.

Logan wandered into the kitchen wearing a T-shirt and boxers.

He stopped when he saw Dean.

“You look weird.”

Dean ignored him.

Logan opened the refrigerator.

“Where’s your friend?”

“Gone.”

Logan glanced over his shoulder.

“Already?”

Dean’s jaw tightened.

“Apparently.”

“You get her number?”

“No.”

Logan slowly closed the refrigerator.

“You didn’t get her number?”

“I was going to.”

“When?”

“This morning.”

Logan looked around the empty kitchen.

“Solid plan.”

“Shut up.”

Dean poured himself coffee from the pot someone had left on overnight, took one sip, and immediately poured it into the sink.

Logan leaned against the counter.

“What was her name?”

Dean told him.

“Do you know her last name?”

“No.”

“Major?”

Dean answered.

“Dorm?”

Dean hesitated.

“No.”

Logan stared.

“Wow.”

“Why do you keep saying it like that?”

“Because you usually know everything about a girl within five minutes.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is absolutely true.”

Dean dragged a hand through his hair.

He could still hear your voice.

You had told him you transferred. You had told him what you studied. You had mentioned a lecture building and a professor you liked, but he could not remember the professor’s name.

He should have asked more.

He thought he had.

He thought there would be more time.

Logan’s amusement faded.

“Do you want to see her again?”

Dean looked toward the front door.

“Yes.”

The answer came too quickly.

Logan noticed.

His eyebrows rose.

Dean pointed at him.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I was going to ask whether you had finally developed human emotions.”

“Go put on pants.”

Logan grinned.

“This is incredible.”

“There is nothing incredible happening.”

“You like her.”

“I met her last night.”

“And?”

“And nothing.”

“You checked the porch.”

Dean went still.

Logan’s grin widened.

“I saw you through the window.”

“I thought she might be outside.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Because you were hoping she hadn’t actually left.”

Dean hated him.

He hated that Logan was right more.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

Garrett entered the kitchen, looking exhausted.

“Why are you two arguing before nine in the morning?”

“Dean has a crush,” Logan said.

“I do not.”

Garrett paused.

He looked at Dean.

Then at Logan.

“On who?”

“No one.”

“The girl from last night,” Logan supplied.

Garrett opened a cabinet.

“The quiet one?”

Dean frowned. “You saw her?”

“She was sitting with you on the porch.”

“Do you know her?”

“No.”

Dean’s shoulders fell before he could hide it.

Garrett noticed.

He turned slowly.

“Wait.”

Dean reached for a clean mug.

“Don’t.”

“You actually want to find her?”

“I said don’t.”

Garrett smiled.

It was worse than Logan’s grin because Garrett looked genuinely delighted.

“Dean Di Laurentis has been ghosted.”

“I have not been ghosted.”

“She left without giving you her number.”

“We forgot.”

“You forgot?”

“We were talking.”

Both boys stared at him.

Dean’s irritation sharpened.

“What?”

Logan looked at Garrett.

“He didn’t get her number because they were talking.”

Garrett nodded solemnly.

“This is serious.”

“You’re both idiots.”

Dean abandoned the mug and headed for the stairs.

Behind him, Garrett called, “What does she look like?”

Dean stopped.

He turned despite himself.

Garrett’s expression was still amused, but there was something helpful beneath it.

“If we see her around campus,” he said, “we can tell you.”

Dean described you.

He began with your hair.

Then your eyes.

The sweater you had worn.

The way you tucked your hands into the sleeves when you were nervous.

Logan’s amusement slowly disappeared.

Garrett stared at him.

Dean realized he had said too much.

He cleared his throat.

“She’s short,” he finished. “Quiet.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched.

“Very helpful.”

Dean flipped him off and went upstairs.

His room felt wrong when he returned.

Too quiet.

He picked up the sweater from the chair and unfolded it.

One strand of your hair clung to the fabric.

He brushed it away.

Then he sat on the edge of the bed and reached for his phone.

He searched your first name.

Too many results.

He added Briar.

More results appeared, but none were you.

He tried your major.

Nothing.

Dean dropped the phone beside him.

This was ridiculous.

He barely knew you.

One night did not mean anything.

He had spent countless nights with girls he never saw again. That was the arrangement. No expectations. No disappointment. Everyone left happy.

You had left.

So why did it feel different?

He looked at the empty side of the bed.

Because he had not wanted you to.

The realization sat heavily in his chest.

Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

For the first time in longer than he cared to admit, he had gone to sleep beside someone already looking forward to the morning.

And you had vanished before it arrived.

You avoided the hockey house after that.

It was not difficult.

You had never gone there before, and you had no reason to return. Your roommate asked questions for nearly three days, but you gave vague answers until she lost interest.

You had met someone.

You had left with him.

It was fine.

You were fine.

You repeated that last part often.

In the mornings, while getting dressed for class.

At night, when the dorm became too quiet.

Whenever you saw blond hair across the quad and your heart reacted before your mind could correct it.

You did not regret the night.

That was the problem.

You remembered too much of it too fondly.

You remembered how Dean had made space for you in every conversation. How he had noticed when the kitchen became overwhelming. How carefully he had touched you.

You had expected to feel embarrassed afterward.

Instead, you felt lonely.

Lonelier than before because now you had something to compare it to.

For one night, someone had seen you.

Then you had left before he could look closely enough to change his mind.

It was better that way.

At least, that was what you told yourself.

Dean would move on quickly.

He might not even remember your name.

And eventually, you would stop glancing toward every crowded room, searching for him despite praying he would not be there.

You would return to your quiet routines.

Classes.

The library.

Dinner alone with a book propped open beside your plate.

You would become invisible again.

It had always been safer that way.

What you did not know was that across campus, Dean Di Laurentis had begun looking for you everywhere.

And each day he failed to find you, he became a little less convinced that one night had been enough.

Gathering your books, papers and pens, you shove everything into your bag, quickly standing from your chair. Your best friend looks in the direction your attention is glued to, a mischievous smile tilting her lips now.

“Oh, I see you, girl. Dirty details later, don’t think you’re getting out of this one Y/L/N!”

You narrow your eyes, playfully giving her the middle finger before you turn and head straight towards Dean.

He’s standing at the very back of the library now, tucked away behind large, wooden bookshelves filled to the brim with books ranging from old as dirt to brand new. You inch closer to Dean, ready to talk to him about last night, but the conversation he’s already having with none other than Allie Hayes, stops you dead in your tracks.

“I completed the assignment, Allie-Cat, and I have to be completely honest, I didn’t really feel good doing it.”

Allie scoffs, her brown eyes shining with amusement as she looks back at Dean. “Oh, come on, Dean. You were this campuses biggest playboy when I first met you, I don’t believe for a second you didn’t enjoy whoever you slept with last night.”

Her words are like a knife to your heart. They’re discussing you. They’re discussing what you and Dean did last night, and Dean called it an “assignment”, what the fuck does that even mean?

Dean steps closer to Allie, his hand reaching out and tucking a strand of her wild, curly hair behind her ear. The way she looks at him… eyes full of adoration. How could you have been so blind? So stupid?

You’ve liked Dean for as long as you can remember, so when he came up to you at Malone’s last night, bought you a drink and charmed the pants off of you — literally — you thought it meant he liked you.

Not that you were some fucking assignment, which you’re still unsure what the hell that even means.

“I like you, Al, I told you this. I completed the stupid assignment because you did. You said if I completed it, we’d be even, and then we could move forward, so why are you-”

You can’t listen to anymore, you make your presence known, stepping into view of both Allie and Dean.

Clearing your throat, you lock eyes with a very stunned Dean.

“What the hell is the assignment you completed, and why am I somehow part of this?”

Dean stutters, his blue eyes wide as they volley back and forth between you and Allie.

You raise a single brow, placing one hand on your hip, waiting on him to explain.

“Any fucking day now would be great, Dean. Why the hell are you telling Allie you ‘completed the assignment’ and she’s saying you enjoyed whoever you slept with. You slept with me last night, so please, explain any fucking time.”

“Okay, listen..” Dean begins, but Allie quickly cuts him off.

“I’m sorry, you didn’t tell her that it wasn’t going to be more than sex, Dean?”

Dean’s pretty eyes find Allie, looking shameful as he says, “It didn’t really come up, no, but I also didn’t even want to complete your stupid assignment and didn’t think about saying anything because I knew what it was for me.”

Allie blinks, her eyes wide with bewilderment at what Dean just said.

“Dean, girls have bigger feelings than… boys.” she points at him, her hand waving up and down while she does. “You needed to be transparent with her, now you’ve probably hurt this poor girls feelings.”

Your narrowed eyes slide to Allie, not necessarily angry at her, but not liking being considered a “poor girl”, that just makes it seem like you’re someone who needs to be pitied, and you don’t want that.

“Okay, listen, yeah it sucks, but I don’t want or need your pity, I’m just waiting on Dean here to explain himself.”

Dean sighs, running a hand through his messy blond hair. His blue eyes lock on yours, finally giving you the explanation you’ve been waiting on.

“I didn’t mean to use you, my intentions weren’t to hurt you either, I just…” he runs his hand through his hair again. “Allie and I started a no-strings attached type of relationship a few months back, we both started catching feelings, but she wasn’t ready for that, so we made a pact, kind of, we called it the assignment.” Dean pauses to take a breath, his eyes squeezing shut as he gathers his thoughts.

“The assignment was basically for each of us to sleep with someone else to prove the feelings weren’t that strong, that we could remain no-strings. You were the girl I was drawn to last night, so, while yes you were my way of completing the assignment, I really was into you… I know that probably doesn’t make anything better, but, you weren’t just a girl I used, I mean.. not really at least.”

You scoff. His explanation makes sense in a way, but it doesn’t change the fact that he did use you. He may not have intended to use you, or hurt your feelings, but the bottom line is, he wasn’t upfront and honest with you. He didn’t tell you what last night was, and that is just plain unacceptable.

“So I was just, what? A game basically? You sleep with me, prove to Allie you don’t have strong feelings for her and the two of you can continue your friends with benefits relationship? I mean seriously, Dean, did you just not think I’d ever find out? That I wouldn’t want to talk to you today?”

Dean lets out another sigh, a look of defeat on his face. “I’m sorry, I truly wasn’t thinking. I never meant for this to happen.”

Rolling your eyes, you grip the strap of your bag tighter. “Fuck you, Dean. I truly didn’t ever want to believe the shit that’s said about you around this campus, but of course, that was just plain stupid of me. You are the fuckboy everyone says you are.”

Dean cringes, a flash of hurt crossing his face before he quickly schools it. “I understand.”

You let out an incredulous laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure you do.”

Turning on your heel, you rush out of the row of bookshelves the three of you were in. Rushing past the table you and your best friend were occupying, you see she’s now gone. You keep your head down, hiding the tears that are already threatening to fall. Fuck Dean. Fuck him and his little “assignment” that he and Allie had going on. He used you. The fact that he used you hurts so much more than the feeling of being invisible to him.

You rush out of the library doors and into the crisp fall air, letting the first tear fall. You rush all the way back to your dorm room, letting the tears flow as you try and clear your mind of Dean and his stupid assignment.

When your brain was being rational, it told you that Dean was with you because he loved every part of you. And when you struggled to love yourself, he was always there to remind you why you should.

Dean was a very vocal advocate of women. He was a proud, unapologetic, ladies’ man and he knew, with a label like that, he had a responsibility to treat women well. Priding himself on the deep, unshakeable respect he had for women, he made it his mission to understand that womanhood was a beautiful, but complicated, experience that left its mark. It meant that women came in all shapes, and all sizes. It meant that boobs wouldn’t always be perfectly perky or that parts of the body could be darker than the rest of the body. He knew about chafing, stretch marks, and how the skin could jiggle. He loved every part of womanhood, and you knew that.

Logically, you knew there’d be no benefit to Dean being with you if he didn’t want to be.

However, at times like these, logic didn’t mean a damn thing.

You didn’t always feel this way about yourself. Sometimes you just existed, going about your day as any other person. But then, there would be times when you’d get a harsh, unsolicited, reminder that society wasn’t built for people who were bigger. People like you.

You’d go shopping with your friends and try on a pair of jeans, only for the largest size on the rack to barely pass your thighs. You’d notice people looking uncomfortable when you squeezed into the empty seat next to them on the train. You’d worry about what you ordered at restaurant, terrified someone would judge you for eating too much.

It was exhausting.

You couldn’t get away from it at home either. You’d rifle through your closet, looking for something to wear, you’d pick up clothes and think to yourself ‘that’s so big, there’s no way it fits me.’ Only for it to be a perfect fit. Or, even worse, too small.

You really didn’t feel like this all the time. You had worked on yourself and your self-esteem. There were times where you’d wear a crop top because it looked cute, telling yourself that others wore crop tops, so why couldn’t you. Sometimes you’d wear a tight dress because it showed off your curves.

It wasn’t easy to get there, and you weren’t fully there all the time, your mind was a prison sometimes. And society didn’t help. But that’s why you loved Dean. He was so carefree and couldn’t give a toss about societal standards.

That morning had started out fine. You had excitedly put on the form hugging outfit that you were wearing for that reason. However, as you watched the scene in front of you, it all came flooding back.

Dean was leaning against the kitchen counter, laughing at something Allie Hayes, his ex-girlfriend, was saying.

And, as if a magician had snapped their fingers, the mental gymnastics began.

Allie was gorgeous, fitting effortlessly into the swimsuit-model category. She could wear his oversized hockey jersey and look like a delicate dream, rather than looking like she was a defenseman on the team. And, to top it off, she was a lovely person. She had done everything she could to make you feel welcome when you had first started to date Dean, never once made you feel like it was her territory you were stepping into. You honestly couldn’t understand why they had even broken up.

Your brain started to calculate the maths that made sense to nobody but you. You wondered if people looked at the two of you together and couldn’t add the pieces together. The golden-haired hockey god with the sculpted physique and you, a woman who took up space in a society that expected women to shrink. How did that add up?

They wouldn’t do that with Allie. Those pieces made sense together; the maths was simply 2+2 = 4 there.

Your mind, venomous and sharp, kept spinning out of control. Does he look at her and remember how easy it was? Are they laughing together about how he traded down? Is he pleading with her to take him back?

Suddenly, you became very aware of your outfit. The fabric felt suffocatingly tight in all the wrong places. Your curves felt like they were drawing the eyes of everyone in the room as they protruded out over your high-waisted jeans.

At times like these, your brain was a masterclass in self-sabotage.

It didn’t matter that Dean had spent hours tracing your stetch marks like they were roads to heaven.

It didn’t matter that he publicly looked at you with a hunger that made your knees weak.

It didn’t matter that he gently coaxed you into being comfortable sleeping together with the lights on and that he hadn’t run away when he finally saw all of you.

None of that mattered. Your brain was screaming over the bass of the music, over every rational thought you’d ever had, drowning it all out. He wants to get back with Allie. She is everything, and I’m nothing.

It was a horrible, ugly thought that was entirely unfair to yourself and to Dean, who had never given you a single reason to doubt his love and loyalty. But, your insecurities didn’t care about fairness.

You took a shallow, shaky breath, your chest tightening as you watched them. The way everything she did looked effortlessly charming and feminine.

A suffocating, bitter, knot rose in your throat, choking your breath. You had to get out of there before anyone could see the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.

Dean’s head snapped up, his eyes scanning the room until they locked directly onto yours, as if he had a red alert that signalled to him that you needed him. The easy smile he had been sharing with Allie shifted into something deeper, something warmer, as he looked at you.

He put his cup down on the counter, murmured a quick goodbye to Allie, and began sliding his way through the sea of drunk college students, heading straight for you.

You were standing with two of your friends, desperately trying to signal to them with your eyes that you all should go. Your heart was hammering against your ribs. You felt like you couldn’t move because you knew he would follow. Then you’d have to face him.

Within seconds, Dean arrived and threw a possessive arm around your shoulders, pulling you flush against his chest. The familiar scent of his expensive cologne, usually a smell that provided you with comfort, suffocated you. He leaned down to press a kiss to your lips.

“Hey, beautiful,” he murmured against your lips, pressing another kiss on you. “I missed you.”

Your friends immediately giggled and exchanged knowing glances. “Okay, so that’s our cue to leave!” one of them teased.

“Yup, see you in class tomorrow girlie,” the other said.

They vanished into the crowd before you could even protest, leaving you feeling alone in Dean’s arms.

You forced yourself to tilt your head up, pressing a quick peck to his jaw.

“I missed you too,” you managed out, forcing a smile to hide how you felt.

But Dean knew you better than that, your smiles always reached your eyes. His eyebrows furrow in slight confusion. His eyes scanned your face with an intense scrutiny and he saw the slight glassiness in your eyes.

“Hey,” he said. He dropped his arm to cup your cheeks in both hands. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

The concern in his eyes almost broke you. It would be so easy to tell him, but the shame of your own insecurity felt too heavy, especially with Allie still in the room.

“Nothing,” you lied, voice tight. Your heart thudded painfully in your chest, you didn’t like to lie, especially to Dean. He was big on trust.

You gently pulled away from his touch, his hands dropping from your face. “I’m just… really tired, Dean. I think I need to go.”

“Okay,” Dean said easily. “I’ll come upstairs with you.”

“No,” you rushed out too quickly and too loudly. “I need some space; I need to go… home.”

Dean blinked, looking genuinely confused. “Home? But I thought you were staying here tonight? Your bag is upstairs.”

He was panicked now, eyes searching yours again for some sort of understanding of what was happening. A rare flash of sadness crossed his features and you wanted so desperately to kiss it away but your brain couldn’t stop telling you that this was the right move. That it would be better for him if you left. If you pushed him to want you gone.

“Talk to me, babe. Did I do something wrong? Let’s just go upstairs, just you and me.” The panic in his voice sent a painful pang straight through your chest.

“No, it’s not that,” you choked out, unable to look him in the eye. The sound of voice was enough to make you cry, if you combined that with the look on his face, you were done for. “I just need to be in my own bed tonight. Please.”

Dean felt completely helpless. He hated to let you go, but he also respected your boundaries too much to keep pushing for you to stay when he knew you didn’t want to.

He reached into his pocket, his jaw clenching. “Okay. Okay, yeah. If that’s what you need. I’ve had a few beers, so I can’t drive you.” He sounded incredibly mad at himself for that, as if he could have known he needed to stay sober. “I’m ordering you an Uber.”

You didn’t bother to say goodbye to anyone, or pick up your bag from upstairs, as you weaved your way outside. Dean followed you, keeping a protective hand on the small of your back the entire way.

He waited on the porch with you in the chilly air. There were a few couples out here, cuddling together and giggling as they whispered into each other’s ears. Dean so desperately felt the urge to pull you in and not let go.

After a few long minutes of standing in the heavy silence, the car finally pulled up. He opened the door for you. When you slipped inside, you expected him to shut it immediately, but he didn’t. He kept a tight hold on the handle, leaning down as he pleaded, “text me the second you get in. Please.”

Blue eyes trembled as they watched for your response. Dean looked devastated as he chewed his bottom lip. Unable to bear it, you put on another fake smile and nodded. Anything to get him to go. He closed the door gently, but, to you, it felt like that was the door closing on your entire relationship.

As the Uber pulled away, the tears finally fell. You looked back to see Dean still standing there, watching your car until it disappeared around the corner.

He didn’t wait for you to get home to start texting you.

Dean (22:10): I don’t know what I did, but I’m so sorry. Please let me fix it. Dean (22:10): I love you. So much. Dean (22:11): Just tell me what you need from me.

By the time you unlocked your front door twenty minutes later, your chat history with him looked like a wall of messages.

You stared at your phone screen, the words blurring together through another wave of tears. You wanted to reply. You were going to reply. But how could you? What could you say that would make any sense? That would justify this?

You crawled into bed and immediately pressed your face into the pillow to muffle the sounds of your sobs. Your body convulsed as you cried harder, the weight of everything hitting you at once.

You cried until exhaustion finally took over your body. You cried yourself to sleep without even realising it.  

The next morning, you woke up with a splitting headache and dry throat. Memories of last night came flooding back to you. You were supposed to respond to Dean’s messages, at least to let him know you’d gotten back safely. Instead, he would have seen that you left him on read.

You hurriedly reached for your phone, your heart dropping into your stomach as you saw he had continued to send messages throughout the night.

Dean (02:14): Still haven’t heard from you. Getting worried. Please just let me know you’re safe.

Dean (03:45): I know you asked for space but I cannot sleep until I know you’re okay.

Dean (06:11): I’m coming over.

The last message was sent barely half an hour ago. You jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom to brush your teeth and try to make yourself look presentable. Your eyes were bloodshot from the tears; you hadn’t even washed the make-up from your face last night.

A heavy, frantic, pounding echoed from your front door. Your mind raced again, given the timing of his texts, you doubted if he had even slept. He should not have been behind the wheel. And how fast did he have to drive to get to you in this time?

You hurriedly wrapped your dressing gown around yourself and padded down the hallway. When you opened the door, the sight of Dean stopped the breath in your lungs.

He looked completely wrecked. He had changed from since the party; but his clothes were already wrinkled. His usually stupidly perfect hair was sticking up in all directions, as if he’d spent all night running his fingers through it. There were dark shadows under his bloodshot eyes. He really hadn’t slept.

A shuddering breath escaped his lips as he saw you. “Thank God.”

Before you could say a word, he stepped across the threshold, closed the door, and pulled you into his arms. He held you so tightly against his chest that you could feel the frantic thumping of his heart. He was trembling.

“You terrified me,” he muttered, his grip tightening. “You told me you needed space from me, didn’t text or answer my calls. I thought you got into an accident, I thought someone hurt you. But then I saw you were reading my messages and… I thought… I thought you were leaving me.”

The rational part of your brain roared back to life, screaming at you to see how much he loved you. He wasn’t thinking about Allie or anyone else. He was falling apart because he thought he had lost you.

“Dean, I’m so sorry,” you whispered, your own voice cracking as you wrapped your arms around his neck. “I’m soso sorry, I’m okay.”

He pulled back just enough to look at your face, his hands moving up to cup your cheeks. His thumbs gentle wiped away a stray tear that you hadn’t even noticed had fallen.

“Are you leaving me?” he asked, voice fragile.

“No,” you sighed, leaning into his touch. “Not if you don’t want to leave me.”

“Of course I don’t, babe. But can you please just talk to me?” he pleaded, his blue eyes searching yours with pure desperation. “Please, I’m losing my mind here.”

He would never admit it to anyone else, but he was a deeply emotional man. He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders while acting like nothing fazed him. But, in front of you, that act was dropped.

You looked down, unable to hold the weight of the guilt you felt. Swallowing hard, the truth came tumbling out of you, tasting bitter and heavy on your tongue.

“I… I saw you talking to Allie and my brain just… it just went haywire. It’s great that you have a healthy relationship with your ex, it just speaks to the kind of man you are but…I… I just...” Your fingers bunched into the fabric of his top as your words trailed off.

He stayed silent, patiently giving you the time you needed to collect your thoughts.  

“She’s amazing and she looks better than I do… physically.” Your voice lowered, it was so embarrassing admitting this out loud to him. No matter how much you trusted him with your feelings. “I just worry that you’re going to wake up one day and realise what you lost.”

Dean let out a sharp, pained, breath, his jaw tightening. Before he could interrupt, you pressed a hand to his chest. “Let me finish, please.”

He gave you a tight, silent nod, urging you continue.

“I know it’s stupid, I know it isn’t a problem that you created, Dean. It’s an insecurity inside of me. I just… yeah, I guess I just have more of a mountain to climb than I thought. I don’t want to leave you, but I’d understand if you wanted to leave me so you don’t have to deal with all of this.”

Dean was quiet for a long moment. When you looked up at him, he didn’t look angry at your explanation or relieved that you had given him an out from this relationship.

“Okay,” he said finally. His voice was steady. “Let me be clear. There is no comparison between you and Allie. She’s my past, which I cherish, but you are my present, and my future. Understand?”

You nod your head, you needed to hear that.

“I have no reason to leave you. No desire to leave you,” he continued. “I’ll admit, I’m not a big fan of the radio silence last night, but I love you. I love us. Part of that love means that we go through some tougher times together, and you are completely insane if you think that I’m leaving you to climb any part of a mountain alone.”

You didn’t know what to say, a thick knot of emotion blocking your throat. Instead of trying to speak, you wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him down to you. Dean didn’t hesitate; he met you halfway as you pressed your lips to his in a kiss. The softness of the kiss showed all the words you wanted to say.

“Thank you,” you mumbled against his mouth before kissing him again.

“I mean it, we’ll work through anything together,” he vowed, his hands sliding down over your curves to rest securely on your hips. “What do you need from me? How can I be better at supporting you?”

You let out the breath that you felt like you’d been holding since last night, the tension finally melting out of your muscles. “Just… please be patient with me while I fight my way back to reality, I guess.”

Dean nodded instantly, his expression serious. “Done.”

“Thank you,” you whispered, leaning up to press a kiss to his jaw. “Thank you for not giving up on me.”

“Never. Now,” he murmured, a lazy grin spreading across his face as he looked at you. “Seeing as neither of us slept well last night, I highly suggest we go catch up on some lost sleep.”

He leaned in close, his lips brushing against your ear as he dropped his voice to a suggestive whisper. “And once we’re rested, I am going to show you, very slowly, exactly how obsessed I am with you and your beautiful body. Does that sound good?”

You nodded, a genuine smile finally breaking across your face.

“Good,” he said. Without another word, he hooked his arms under your thighs, picking you up effortlessly and carrying you down the hall into your bedroom.

You shifted the vodka bottle in your hand, thumb rubbing over the edge of the label. You weren’t even sure when you’d picked it up. One second, you were in the kitchen, wedged between a counter full of red cups and some guy loudly arguing that he could outdrink half the hockey team, and the next, you were standing there with the bottle in your hand like it was a decision.

Not a drink.

A decision.

“Give it here.”

You turned your head.

Hannah stood beside the island, one hand extended, her expression too soft for you to fight with. That was the worst part. If she’d come over snapping at you, you could’ve snapped back. If she’d rolled her eyes and made a joke, you could’ve pretended this wasn’t anything. But she just looked at you the way she had been looking at you all week.

Like she could see the damage even when you kept smiling over it.

“Hannah—”

“No.” Her voice was quiet, but firm. “Not tonight.”

“I wasn’t going to do anything.”

“You’ve been standing here for five minutes trying to decide if you want to feel worse now or later.”

That shut you up.

Your fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle, not because you wanted it that badly, but because there was something humiliating about being seen so clearly. Hannah didn’t move closer. She just kept her hand out, patient in that stubborn way of hers.

You looked away first.

The party kept going around you. Someone laughed too loudly near the fridge. A cabinet slammed. Music poured through the doorway, some terrible playlist Logan had probably taken credit for even though it sounded exactly like every other party playlist at Briar.

You swallowed. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Hannah’s voice softened. “And that’s why I’m taking it.”

For a second, you thought about arguing. You thought about saying you were an adult, that you could handle one drink, that everyone else in this house was drinking and no one was hovering over them like you were a cracked glass.

But then Hannah’s eyes flicked to your phone on the counter, face down beside your elbow.

You hated that, too.

How everyone knew.

How everyone could look at you and know there was a boy-shaped bruise sitting right in the middle of your chest.

Slowly, you handed her the bottle.

Hannah took it without making a big production out of it. She set it behind her on the counter, out of your reach but not dramatically. Not like she was punishing you. Like she was helping you put something down before it got heavier.

“You can be upset,” she said. “You can be angry. You can hate him. You can cry in my room later if you need to. But I’m not letting you drink until you don’t recognize yourself tomorrow morning.”

Your throat tightened before you could stop it.

“That’s very bossy of you.”

“I learned from Garrett.”

Across the room, Garrett Graham was leaning against the doorway with a beer in his hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself despite the fact that he had no idea he’d just been insulted. Or maybe he did. With Garrett, it was always hard to tell. He caught Hannah’s eye, smiled at her like the party had gone quiet and she was the only thing in it, and lifted his beer in a lazy salute.

Hannah rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

You looked away before the ache in your chest could turn mean.

You loved them. You did. Garrett and Hannah were good together in a way that made the world feel less terrible sometimes. But tonight, their easy little glances felt like a hand pressing down on a bruise. You didn’t want to resent them for being happy.

You just didn’t know where to put your own hurt.

“I’m getting you water,” Hannah said, studying your face. “And you’re staying here.”

“I’m not a child.”

“No, you’re my friend.” She pointed at you as she backed toward the fridge. “Different thing. Same level of supervision.”

You huffed despite yourself.

That tiny almost-laugh must have been enough for her, because Hannah gave you one last look before turning away.

You barely had a second alone before a voice slid in from behind you, smooth and amused and much too familiar.

“She’s scary when she gets quiet.”

You closed your eyes for half a second.

Of course.

Of course he was here.

Dean Di Laurentis was leaning against the opposite counter like he’d been placed there for decoration, all golden hair and expensive ease, looking like he’d never had to stand in a kitchen and talk himself out of doing something pathetic. He wore a faded Briar Hockey sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, and somehow even that looked deliberate on him. Like casual was a rich man’s costume he wore better than everyone else.

His eyes weren’t on the bottle.

They were on you.

“You were listening?” you asked.

Dean’s mouth curved. “Hard not to. Wellsy has range.”

“Nobody invited you into this conversation.”

“I was already here.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“I was in the area.”

“That means nothing.”

“It means I’m innocent.”

“You’ve never been innocent a day in your life, Di Laurentis.”

His smile widened, pleased like you’d complimented him. That was the thing about Dean. Insulting him only worked if he agreed it was an insult, and most of the time, he seemed to take everything as proof that people were paying attention to him.

Which, annoyingly, they usually were.

He pushed off the counter and reached past you for a bag of chips, moving close enough that his shoulder almost brushed yours. He smelled clean and expensive, soap and cologne and something warm beneath it.

You hated noticing.

“You know,” he said, opening the bag, “for the record, she’s right.”

You gave him a flat look. “Still not your conversation.”

“No, but I thought I’d bring a male perspective.”

“God forbid.”

“It’s valuable.”

“It’s unwanted.”

Dean popped a chip into his mouth and looked at you with that lazy half-smile of his. “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

You should’ve walked away. Really, you should have. Dean was exactly the kind of person you didn’t have the emotional energy for tonight. Too confident, too pretty, too aware of both. The kind of guy who made flirting seem like breathing, who probably didn’t even know when he was doing it because the world had always flirted back.

And still, you didn’t move.

Maybe because he wasn’t hovering.

Hannah had been careful with you all night. Garrett kept giving you space in that quiet, protective way of his. Allie had spent the first half hour checking your face whenever you got too quiet, like she was waiting for the moment you finally broke down.

Dean just looked at you like he was trying to figure you out.

It should have annoyed you. It did annoy you, actually. He had no right to stand there in the middle of the kitchen with that lazy, golden-boy confidence, watching you like your bad decisions were something he could see coming from a mile away.

His eyes dropped to the phone in your hand.

“You’re going to regret that,” he said.

You looked up. “Regret what?”

Dean tilted his head, gaze flicking over your face with irritating accuracy. “Whatever you’re about to do with that phone.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Sure.” He took one step closer, close enough that you caught the clean, expensive smell of his cologne beneath the beer and noise of the party. “You’ve only looked at it six times since I walked in.”

You hated that he’d counted.

You hated even more that he was right.

“Maybe I’m checking the time.”

Dean glanced at the clock on the microwave behind you. “It’s been ten twenty-three for the last four minutes.”

You stared at him.

He smiled a little. “Bad lie.”

“God, you’re annoying.”

“I’ve been told.” His eyes went back to your phone. “So what is it? Waiting for him to text you, checking if he posted something, or writing out some pathetic little ‘hope you’re doing okay’ message you’ll hate yourself for sending?”

The words landed harder than you wanted them to.

Your fingers tightened around your phone.

Dean’s smile faded just enough for you to notice.

“Don’t do that,” you said.

“What?”

“Act like you know me.”

“I don’t have to know you to know that texting him tonight is a bad idea.”

“You don’t know what happened.”

“I know Hannah took vodka out of your hand like she was defusing a bomb.” His voice lowered, less teasing now. “And I know you looked more upset when your phone didn’t light up than you did when she called you out for it.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

That was the problem with Dean Di Laurentis. Half the time he sounded like he was joking, and then suddenly he’d say something too sharp, too close to the truth, and you had no idea what to do with it.

Your phone buzzed.

The sound cut between you.

Your whole body reacted before you could stop it.

Dean noticed.

Of course he noticed.

You looked down before pride could stop you.

His name sat on the screen.

you out?

Not an apology. Not an explanation. Not even enough effort to pretend he missed you.

Just a hook.

A stupid, lazy hook.

And still, for one awful second, your thumb hovered.

Dean moved fast.

The phone was gone from your hand before you could unlock it.

“Hey—”

“Nope.”

You blinked at him. “Give it back.”

“No.”

“Dean.”

His brows lifted slightly when you said his name, but he only held the phone higher. “Absolutely not.”

You reached for it, and he stepped back, his stupid mouth curving like this was funny to him. Like he hadn’t just snatched the one thing in the room you were trying not to need.

“Give me my phone,” you snapped.

“Say you’re not answering him.”

“That is none of your business.”

“Then you don’t need the phone.”

You lunged again, catching his wrist this time. Dean let you shove him back a step, still holding the phone above your head, still looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Dean, I swear to God—”

“You keep saying my name like that, and I’m going to start thinking you want my attention.”

“I want my phone.”

“No,” he said, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth. “You want a reason not to answer him.”

Your hand stilled against his chest.

Dean noticed.

His smile softened into something worse. Something knowing.

“See?” he murmured. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve done all night.”

You pushed at his chest, trying to reach around him, but Dean caught your wrist with his free hand and turned you before you realized what he was doing.

Your back hit the wall beside the kitchen doorway.

Not hard.

Just enough to stop you.

Just enough for the air to change.

Dean was suddenly right there, one hand around your wrist, the other still holding your phone out of reach. His body wasn’t pressed against yours, not fully, but he was close enough that you could feel the heat of him. Close enough that your breath caught before you could hide it.

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

Then back up.

The fight in you stumbled.

Dean saw that too.

Of course he did.

“Still want it back?” he asked, voice quieter now.

You swallowed. “Yes.”

“Then tell me you’re not going to text him.”

You glared at him, but it didn’t work the way it should have. Not with him this close. Not with his thumb resting against the inside of your wrist, right over your pulse.

“I hate you,” you said.

“No, you don’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

His mouth tipped near your ear, and your entire body went still.

“I know you’re mad,” he murmured. “I know you’re embarrassed because you were about to answer a guy who gave you nothing and still knew you might come running.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “And I know you’re looking for something stupid enough to make you forget him for five minutes.”

Your breath hitched.

Dean paused.

For one second, he didn’t move. He waited, like he was giving you room to shove him away, to make this nothing.

You didn’t.

His lips brushed the shell of your ear when he spoke again.

“I could help with that.”

The words slipped down your spine.

You turned your head just enough to look at him.

Dean’s face was close. Too close. His gaze was darker now, the teasing still there but buried under something hotter, something less polished.

“That’s your offer?” you whispered.

His eyes flicked to your mouth.

“It’s a better one than his.”

You should have laughed. You should have shoved him back and taken your phone and gone to Hannah, because Hannah was safe and smart and probably sitting on the couch with pretzels, waiting for you to make the right choice.

But Dean’s hand was still on your wrist.

Dean’s body was still crowding yours.

And for the first time all night, you weren’t thinking about the text.

Dean leaned in, his mouth almost touching your cheek.

“He doesn’t deserve an answer,” he said. “He definitely doesn’t deserve you standing here looking like this because of him.”

“Like what?”

Dean’s jaw flexed.

“Like you forgot what it feels like to be wanted properly.”

Your pulse jumped hard beneath his fingers.

His grip tightened for half a second, not enough to hurt. Just enough to tell you he felt it.

Then he said, right against your ear, “I could fuck you better than he ever did.”

Heat went through you so fast your knees nearly betrayed you.

Dean felt that too.

The bastard smiled.

You shoved at his chest, but it was weak, and you both knew it.

“Don’t say things like that.”

“Why?” His mouth hovered close to your skin. “Because it’s rude, or because you’re thinking about it now?”

You closed your eyes.

That was a mistake.

With your eyes closed, he was everywhere. His voice. His hand. His cologne. The wall at your back. The low noise of the party barely a room away.

“Dean,” you breathed.

Dean’s hand loosened around your wrist, giving you room he clearly didn’t want to give.

“Say no,” he said, voice low against your ear, “and I’ll hand you the phone back and pretend I didn’t notice how badly you wanted me to be right.”

Your breath caught.

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

You didn’t say no.

Instead, you looked at the phone still in his other hand.

Then back at him.

“Don’t give it back yet.”

Dean’s expression shifted.

Slowly.

Like you’d just handed him something better than the phone.

“No?”

“No.”

His smile spread, but there was nothing playful about the way he looked at you now.

“Good choice.”

You grabbed the front of his sweatshirt and pulled him down.

Dean kissed you like he’d been waiting for permission to ruin the night properly.

His mouth was hot, confident, too good for someone already so full of himself. The second you kissed him back, he made a low sound against you and stepped in closer, pinning you more firmly between him and the wall. His hand slid from your wrist to your waist, fingers flexing there like he was trying to decide how much of you he was allowed to touch.

You decided for him.

You wrapped your hand around the back of his neck and dragged him closer.

Dean groaned softly, the sound disappearing into your mouth. His phone hand dropped to his side, still holding yours, while the other curved around your hip. He kissed like he wanted you focused. Like he wanted every thought in your head narrowed down to him, his mouth, his body, the hard line of him pressing closer every time you made the mistake of breathing like you wanted more.

He broke away only when someone laughed too loudly near the hallway.

His forehead hovered near yours.

Both of you were breathing too hard.

Dean glanced toward the living room, then back at you, eyes dark and amused and completely wrecked around the edges.

“Hannah’s going to kill me,” he said.

“Probably.”

“Garrett might help.”

“Definitely.”

Dean looked down at your mouth again. “Worth it.”

You should not have liked that as much as you did.

He kissed you once more, slower this time, like he was proving he could. Like the first one had been to take the thought of your ex out of your head, and this one was to put himself there instead.

When he pulled back, your phone was still locked in his hand.

You reached for it, more out of habit than actual want.

Dean lifted it away, his mouth curving.

“Not yet.”

Your brows rose. “Seriously?”

“You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

“I doubt that.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower for half a second before dragging back up. “Maybe not for the phone.”

Your stomach flipped.

A laugh sounded from the living room, too close this time. Dean glanced toward it, jaw tightening, like he had just remembered the entire party was still happening around you. Hannah was somewhere on the couch. Garrett was probably watching the hall like he had a sixth sense for Dean making bad decisions.

Dean looked back at you.

“Upstairs,” he said quietly.

Your pulse jumped.

“Dean—”

“Yeah, I know.” His thumb brushed over the side of your hand. “Bad idea.”

You stared at him.

He leaned in, mouth close to your ear again.

“But you’re not thinking about him anymore, are you?”

No.

God, no.

You weren’t thinking about the text. You weren’t thinking about the drink. You weren’t thinking about anything except the heat of his body and the way his voice made your thighs press together before you could stop it.

Dean’s eyes darkened like he’d caught that too.

He took your hand.

This time, you let him.

The two of you slipped out of the kitchen when no one was looking, his fingers tight around yours, your phone hidden in his other hand. He didn’t rush until you reached the stairs, and then he glanced back once, grinning like trouble, before pulling you up after him.

Halfway up, your phone buzzed again.

Dean didn’t look.

This time, neither did you.

The bedroom door clicked shut with a quiet, secretive finality, sealing out the muffled bass and chatter of the party downstairs. The sudden silence of the room felt heavy, charged with the kind of tension that had been building between you and Dean all night.

Without breaking eye contact, Dean reached over to the dresser and slid your phone far across the polished wood, placing it well out of reach. A smug, amused smile played on his lips. "Let it ring," he murmured, his voice a low, teasing drawl. "I think you've had enough distractions for one evening."

He didn't rush. Instead, he stepped back just an inch, his gaze traveling over you with a slow, confident appreciation. He looked at you like he already knew how this was going to end, and the worst part was, you weren’t sure he was wrong. The air between you practically hummed.

The stripping was a messy, hurried blur of mutual desperation. You reached for his shirt at the same time he found the hem of your dress, both of you tugging and fumbling with fabric in a way that felt reckless and right. He pulled the dress over your head, tossing it aside, and as he looked down, his eyes widened slightly.

“Nothing under this?” Dean’s smile went slow, his gaze lingering on your bare skin. “And you were really going to waste tonight answering him?”

You backed toward the bed, and Dean followed.

He slid his hand down, fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs before slipping between them, and the first touch made your breath catch.

“All that arguing downstairs,” he murmured, “and you were already this wet?”

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a deep, slow makeout. It was a conversation of tongues and breath, a mutual exploration where he savored every gasp and shiver you gave him. He broke the kiss to trail a path of soft, biting nips along your jawline, lingering at the curve of your neck.

He moved lower, his breath hot against your skin as he kissed his way down to your chest. He focused on your nipples, swirling his tongue around them and teasing them with light tugs of his teeth. He watched your face, leaning back occasionally to see the way your eyes fluttered and your breath hitched, clearly enjoying the way you reacted to him.

Then, he shifted downward. He parted your legs and leaned in, his tongue finding your clit with a controlled, teasing precision. He didn't rush. He took his time, flicking and swirling, making you arch your back and grip the sheets. He used his fingers to open you up, sliding one deep inside while his tongue continued to work on your center, creating a friction that had you whimpering. He paused for a moment, looking up at you with a smug whisper. "Forget everything else. Just focus on this."

He went back to it with more intensity, sucking your clit into his mouth and using a rhythmic, wet pressure that pushed you closer and closer to the edge. Every time you tried to pull him closer, he slowed down, teasing you, making you beg for the release before he finally let you peak, your body shaking under his touch.

As the haze began to clear, you reached down, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull him up. You didn't want to just receive. You wanted him. You guided his hard cock against your wet opening, and with a brief, shared look of intense desire, he sank into you in one smooth, deep motion. There was nothing between you, just skin on skin, the raw heat of him filling you completely.

Dean stayed on top, his movements steady and focused. He was cocky, his eyes locked onto yours, watching the way your expression shifted with every thrust. He wasn't trying to overpower you. He was attuned to you, adjusting his pace to keep you right on the edge.

“You’re not thinking about him now,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Look at me.”

You wanted him to stop looking so pleased with himself. So you pushed at his chest, caught him off guard, and rolled them until he was beneath you. Dean blinked up at you, breathless for half a second. Then his grin spread.

“Okay,” he said, voice rougher now. “Didn’t know we were doing that.”

You shifted, sliding down onto him and taking full control. You began to ride him, your hips rolling in a slow, sensual grind that forced a sharp hiss of breath from his lungs. You watched the cocky mask slip from his face, replaced by raw, unfiltered need as you set the pace.

“That’s it,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips to help drive you down onto him. “Keep doing that.”

The friction built rapidly, the feeling of him deep inside you driving you both toward the peak. You increased the speed, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps, while Dean watched you with an expression of pure, focused heat. As you reached your climax, your internal muscles clenched tightly around him, triggering his own release. Dean let out a low growl, his body stiffening as he came deep inside you, the heat of it flooding your center.

As you both collapsed against each other, panting and spent, the phone on the dresser buzzed again. The vibration rattled against the wood, a persistent reminder of the world outside.

Dean noticed it. He glanced toward the phone, then looked back up at you. You didn't even turn your head. You didn't even blink. You just stayed draped over him, completely immersed in the afterglow.

Because nobody knew that long before Allie and Dean started their complicated game of hide-and-seek, my eyes were already drifting toward the blonde, arrogant hockey player.

Flashback: Three Months Ago

The early morning air in the off-campus house was freezing. It was four o’clock on a winter Tuesday morning, and I couldn't sleep due to midterm anxiety. I had come down to the dark kitchen, wearing an oversized t-shirt of Tucker’s and a pair of shorts, looking for a glass of warm milk.

I didn't turn on the lights so I wouldn't wake anyone. I sat on the counter, my feet dangling, watching the reflection of the moon on the hardwood floor. Suddenly, the back door of the kitchen opened with a soft click.

I tensed instantly, ready to grab the heavy ceramic mug as a weapon, but the silhouette that walked in was unmistakable. The messy blonde hair, the broad shoulders, and that posture dripping with an almost offensive confidence. Dean.

He stopped dead in his tracks upon noticing my presence in the dim light. His blue eyes took a second to adjust to the darkness, but when they did, a slow, smirk spread across his face.

—Well... what is a goddess like you doing awake at this hour in my kitchen?—Dean whispered, taking a step forward. His voice had that raspy, sleepy edge mixed with an innate sensuality that sent a shiver down my spine.

—I could ask you the same thing, Di Laurentis,—I replied, keeping my voice steady and locking into my diva attitude, refusing to show how much his proximity was wrecking my heart rate. —Did you just get back from breaking some heart over at the girls' dorms?—

Dean let out a low chuckle, stopping right in front of me. He was so close I could smell his cologne—a mix of mint, leather, and that clean, distinct scent that was entirely his. He leaned against the counter, inches from my legs, trapping me between his arms without actually touching me.

—Actually, no,—he admitted, looking straight into my eyes. There was a strange intensity in his gaze that night, something that went beyond the superficial flirting he usually flashed at everyone. —I was studying the plays for the next game. My head won't turn off. What about you? Studying too?—

—Trying to,—I whispered. The space between us seemed to have vanished into thin air. My eyes flicked down to his lips for a split second, and I swore he noticed the movement because his smirk softened, turning a little deeper.

—You know... you spend a lot of time taking care of the other guys,—Dean murmured, reaching out a hand to gently brush a stray lock of hair away from my face. His fingers grazed the skin of my cheek, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. —Garrett, Logan, Tuck... Sometimes I wonder when it’s going to be my turn to have you look after me.—

The air grew thick. The sexual tension in that dark kitchen was so real you could practically cut it with a knife. I was on the verge of losing control, a second away from leaning forward to find out what Dean Di Laurentis’s promises tasted like. But before either of us could make a move, the sound of heavy footsteps upstairs snapped us out of it.

Dean stepped back with feline agility, winking at me before grabbing a water bottle from the fridge.

—See you at breakfast, gorgeous,—he murmured, disappearing down the back hallway before Logan even reached the stairs.

That night, lying in my bed, I realized two things: that Dean Di Laurentis was the most dangerous man on campus for my sanity, and that I was already hopelessly lost for him.

End of Flashback

—Earth to the campus diva?—Allie’s voice snapped me back to reality, waving a hand in front of my face. —You froze up staring out the window. Are you sure you’re okay with this? If it’s too much trouble, I can figure out something else to tell Hannah...—

—Oh, please!—I exclaimed, shaking my head and recovering my usual mask with a dramatic wave of my hand. —Since when has saving your skin ever been a problem for me? Besides, Hannah is easy to convince if I tell her you were super stressed out. You just focus on your... ‘study session’ with Dean.—

Allie smiled, relieved, and opened the kitchen door to head back into the living room with the others. I stood alone for a second, taking a deep breath. Right at that moment, I heard Dean’s laughter from upstairs. He was coming down the steps.

I walked out of the kitchen just in time to see him enter the living room. He was wearing a black leather jacket over a white t-shirt, his hair perfectly pushed back, and that smug look that drove every girl at Briar crazy. His eyes scanned the room; they passed Logan, Tucker, and grazed Allie in a way that was almost imperceptible to the rest, but they stopped for a full second on me. A spark of recognition flashed in his gaze—the shadow of that secret we shared in the dark hours of the night before everything got complicated.

—Hey, Di Laurentis!—Logan shouted, finally setting down his controller. —Are you going to Malone’s tonight or are you staying behind to admire your own reflection in the bathroom mirror again?—

—Logan, please. My reflection deserves at least two hours of daily admiration,—Dean fired back arrogantly, earning a collective groan from the group. —But yeah, I’m going to Malone’s. I need to watch you try to flirt with Grace and fail miserably for the twentieth time this week.—

—Tonight is the night!—Logan defended himself, pointing a finger at him. —In fact, I already have a mastermind plan for tonight.—

I turned my head toward Logan, narrowing my eyes suspiciously.

—What kind of mastermind plan, John?—I asked, using his first name to warn him that I didn't like his tone.

Logan smirked in that way that signaled imminent danger.

—You’ll see, gorgeous. You’ll see. Just make sure to bring your best attitude tonight.—

I looked at Garrett, searching for backup, but he just shrugged with an amused smile.

—Don't look at me. When Logan gets an idea in his head, it’s better to just let him crash and burn on his own,—Garrett said, getting off the couch and stretching his arms. —Anyway, I’m gonna go shower. If we’re going to Malone’s, I suggest we move fast before the line wraps around the block.—

The group began to scatter around the house to get ready. Allie and Hannah went upstairs to change, Tucker went to put his books away, and Dean lingered by the kitchen island for a moment, checking his phone.

I stood right in the middle of the living room, feeling the weight of the night that lay ahead. Malone’s was going to be packed. The music would be loud. The drinks would be flowing. And I would have to spend the whole night watching Dean from across the room, knowing that when the bar closed and the lights went down, my phone would vibrate with a text from Allie, asking me to lie for them just one more time.

What I didn't know at that moment, as I caught Dean’s eye from across the room, was that Logan’s —mastermind plan—was about to completely change the rules of the game tonight, throwing me right into the center of a stage where I would no longer be able to hide behind my lies.

The green neon sign of Malone’s blinked rhythmically against the dark night sky, reflecting in the puddles on the main avenue's sidewalk. Inside, the atmosphere was a perfectly choreographed chaos—a dense mass of college hormones, alcohol, and music turned up to a volume that vibrated right in your chest. The smell of spilled beer, old wood, and expensive perfume mingled in the air. It was a classic Briar karaoke night, which meant the bar was packed to the brim and the campus hierarchy was clearly on display.

We had our usual table: the large, worn leather booth near the pool tables. The hockey guys claimed it every weekend as if it were their private property, and no one in their right mind dared to dispute the space with the star team. Hannah and Garrett were submerged in their own bubble in a corner of the couch; he was whispering something in her ear with his typical Southern drawl, and she was laughing, hiding her face in his neck. Allie, on the other hand, was playing with the straw of her drink, but her eyes discreetly drifted toward the bar every time the crowd parted.

I was sitting right in the middle, flanked by Tucker and Logan. I was wearing a black spaghetti-strap top with a subtle but killer neckline, tight pants, and knee-high boots. My short hair fell with a rebellious, chic vibe that framed my features perfectly. Holding a glass of vodka cranberry in my hand, I crossed my legs with a sophisticated slowness. I enjoyed the attention; I knew several eyes in the bar were locked on our table—and specifically on me—but my internal radar was locked onto a single target.

Dean Di Laurentis was sitting directly opposite me. He had taken off his leather jacket, draping it over the back of his chair, leaving him in just a white t-shirt that hugged his broad shoulders. He hadn't said a single word since we sat down, but he didn't need to. His intense, lazy blue eyes scanned my look from head to toe with a slowness that bordered on insolence. When his gaze met mine again, he flashed that crooked smirk—the one that screamed he knew exactly the effect he had on women. I felt the familiar electric jolt shoot down my spine, but I didn't flinch. Instead, I raised an eyebrow, holding his gaze in a silent, diva-like challenge. Two can play this game, Di Laurentis.

—It’s a done deal.—Logan’s voice shattered the staring contest instantly. He slid back into the booth with a smug grin that set off all my alarms, dropping down beside me with an unbearable air of triumph.

I turned to him slowly, narrowing my eyes and resting my chin on my hand.

—What exactly did you do, Logan?—I asked in a dangerously soft tone. —And it better not involve my car, my credit card, or my mental health.—

—I put you on the karaoke list. You’re singing tonight, babe,—he dropped casually, taking a long sip of his drink as if he were the king of the world.

I froze. A lock of hair fell perfectly over my face as I stared at him with a mix of disbelief and pure indignation.

—You did what, John Logan?—I repeated, reaching out to give his forearm a sharp slap.

—Ow! Hey, relax,—he protested, rubbing the spot but keeping his teasing grin. —You need to express your feelings, seriously. You’ve seemed tense lately, like you’ve got a secret or some knot locked up inside that you won't let out. Look at me and Grace. Sometimes you just have to dive in, be honest, put your heart on the line, and let things flow...—

The name Grace floated above the table like a helium balloon about to burst. My self-defense instinct reacted before my brain could even process it. I didn't want to sing. I didn't want to be exposed under Malone’s spotlights when my head was an absolute mess because of the guy sitting across from me—the very same guy who was now sleeping with one of my best friends.

—Just like you did with Grace? Because I recall that ending in a monumental disaster of biblical proportions, with you crying on my kitchen floor,—I fired back, quick, cold, and sharp as a razor blade.

Tucker let out a muffled —uhhh—from his corner, his eyes widening as he covered his mouth with his hand, while Hannah let out a nervous chuckle. The noise at the table seemed to grind to a complete halt. Logan visibly tensed, the smile vanishing from his face as a flash of guilt and pain crossed his eyes.

The comment was a low blow. A direct hit to his pride and his healing process. I knew it the second the words left my mouth, and remorse instantly punched me in the stomach.

—I’m sorry...—I apologized immediately, dropping the entire diva façade for a second. I placed my hand on his arm, softening my voice. —That wasn't right, Logan. Seriously, I was being an idiot, I’m sorry. It’s just... I don't want to sing tonight. I’m not in the mood to have the whole bar staring at me.—

—Hey, look at me,—Garrett intervened. The team captain leaned across the table toward me, resting his heavy arms on the worn wood and capturing my full attention with that trademark confidence of his that worked like an anchor in any storm. —You’re my favorite, and you know it.—

I caught a quick glimpse of Dean out of the corner of my eye. He had leaned back in his chair, watching the scene unfold with his arms crossed over his chest. His blue eyes hadn't drifted from me a single millimeter; he was analyzing the tension between Logan and me with a steadiness that burned my skin.

—Whatever is going on in your head right now... with Dean, with your exams, with whatever... set it aside for three minutes,—Garrett continued, his voice low, firm, and grounding. —You’re incredible, babe. Get up there and remind all these idiots why you’re the queen of Briar. Go crush it. Next round is on me.—

Tucker nodded enthusiastically, taking a swig of his beer.

—He’s right. Go show 'em how it's done,—Tuck added with his eternal optimism.

Allie looked at me from the other side, offering a bright, encouraging smile. It hurt. It hurt because she genuinely cared about me, and she didn't have the slightest clue that the real reason my heart was hammering wasn't stage fright, but the secret that involved her and the guy sitting next to her.

The bar's emcee took the microphone on the small stage at the back, shattering my thoughts with the echo of the feedback.

—Alright, Briar! Next up on the list... we have our house diva! A huge round of applause for her!—

I stood up in one swift movement, exhaling all the breath I’d been holding. I adjusted the straps of my black top with a slow, deliberate gesture, straightening my spine. Shyness and doubt evaporated in a blink, replaced by that armor of confidence and sensuality that I wore like a pro. I walked toward the stage as the murmurs from the tables began to quiet down to make way for me. The hockey team started cheering loudly; Logan whistled sharply through his fingers, proving the low blow was already forgiven, and Garrett banged his fists on the table.

As I climbed the three wooden steps, the main spotlight hit me full in the face, warming my skin. I grabbed the mic with one hand, adjusted the stand, and looked out at the crowd. Half of Briar was watching me. Guys from rival fraternities lowered their pool cues to look toward the stage; a group of sophomores at the bar elbowed each other, pointing in my direction. I was the center of attention, and I loved it.

When the sophisticated, heavy-bass pop chords of Sabrina Carpenter's —sugar talking—started thumping through the speakers, a slow, feline smile spread across my lips. The rhythm of the song was perfect: danceable, flirtatious, a little shameless. Just like me.

I looked for one specific gaze.

Dean.

He had stood up from the table. He was no longer sitting. Now he was leaning against the wooden bar counter a few yards from the stage, swirling a glass of whiskey between his long fingers. His posture was deceptively relaxed, but his eyes were completely locked on me, gleaming under the blue and green flashes of the neon lights.

I started to sing, and my voice flowed clean, with a velvety, suggestive tone that caused the general hum of the bar to drop into a near-complete hush.

—Put your loving where your mouth is../ Your sugar talking isn't working tonight, oh

I sang the first lines staring straight at the hockey table, but the moment I hit the word loving, my eyes snapped directly to Dean. I saw him tense imperceptibly against the bar. I walked from one end of the small stage to the other, swaying my hips with a slowness that knew exactly what kind of reaction it provoked. My high boots resonated against the wood.

Reaching the chorus, I stepped close to the edge of the stage, holding the microphone with both hands, leaning forward slightly. The black top exposed the line of my collarbones under the red glow of the spotlight.

—Yeah, your paragraphs mean shit to me... / Get your sorry ass to mine...—My voice sounded playful, teasing, yet laced with an underlying emotion that very few in that room understood.

I turned my face toward a group of football players in the front row and flashed them a stunning smile, winking. Two of them gasped and straightened up in their seats, completely hypnotized by the performance. But I wasn't looking at them. I turned my gaze back to the bar.

Dean had set his whiskey glass down on the counter. Both of his hands were now gripping the edge of the wood, leaning forward. The playful, arrogant smirk he always wore had completely vanished; his jaw was tightly clenched and his blue eyes were dark, fixed on my lips with an intensity so physical I could practically feel it brushing against me. I watched his Adam's apple move as he swallowed hard. He was jealous. Not in a logical way, because he wasn't mine, but with that primal, territorial instinct that hockey guys just couldn't hide. It pissed him off that the whole bar was desiring me in that exact moment, and it drove him crazy knowing I was doing it on purpose just to provoke him.

I spun around on stage, turning my back to him for a second to move with the beat, letting my silhouette cut through the light before whipping back around for the final line of the song, pointing my index finger directly at him as I sang in a suggestive whisper:

—... You tell me that you want me (want me)…./ But, baby, if you need me

I held eye contact until the last note of the bass faded into the air. For a second, the bar remained in absolute silence, trapped in the electric atmosphere I had just created.

And then, Malone’s erupted.

The cheers were deafening. The football players in the front row applauded wildly, several guys shouted my name, and my hockey boys threw a monumental fit, slamming their beer mugs against the wood. I walked down the stage steps with my heart hammering a thousand miles an hour in my chest, feeling pure adrenaline rushing through my veins like liquid fire. The diva mask was intact, shiny, and triumphant.

I made my way back to the bar area, dodging a couple of compliments from strangers, and stopped in front of Garrett and Logan, who already had their glasses raised to greet me.

—Told you so. A total rock star,—Garrett boasted, throwing a heavy arm around my shoulders with genuine pride, giving me an affectionate squeeze.

—You were incredible, seriously. I take back what I said about you being ruthless... well, no, you’re still ruthless, but you sing like an angel,—Logan admitted, clinking his glass against mine with a wide, sincere smile.

—Thanks, boys. Just doing my part to elevate the standards around here,—I replied, slipping back into my sophisticated, flirtatious tone, taking a long sip of my vodka to cool my throat.

I smiled, feeling—for a brief, glorious second—like I was on top of the world, completely unburdened. I turned slightly, searching for Dean.

He was walking purposefully in my direction. He had left the bar behind and was cutting through the crowd of students with long, firm strides. His gaze was intense, direct, without a trace of his usual laziness. He had that same fierce determination he used on the ice when he had the puck and his eyes on the goal. The space between us shrank with every second; the tension was so thick, so charged with sexual static, that I swore Logan and Garrett would notice the shift in the air. He was going to say something to me. I was certain he was going to call me out on the song, the dancing, the looks I gave the other guys...

Bzzz.

The phone vibrated violently in the back pocket of my pants, cutting the music in my head.

I broke eye contact with Dean just as he was barely three steps away from me. With my hand trembling slightly from the adrenaline, I pulled out the phone and unlocked the screen. Allie Hayes’s name illuminated the glass.

Allie: Cover for me with Hannah, please. I'm leaving with Dean. See you at the photo booth in 10. Don't forget about the car thing if she asks.

The high of the music, the applause of the crowd, Garrett’s pride, and the fire of the adrenaline plummeted in a freefall, crashing face-first into Malone's concrete floor.

I lifted my eyes from the phone slowly. Dean had stopped dead in his tracks two steps away from me. He had glanced over my shoulder toward the bar's side exit, where Allie had just quietly slipped out toward the back parking lot. He looked back into my eyes. It was a quick look, barely two seconds, but it was agonizing—it was loaded with silent frustration, a flicker of an apology, and a shared secret that made my stomach turn.

Without saying a single word, Dean spun on his heel with that feline agility of his and walked toward the back hallway that connected to the emergency exit, vanishing from everyone's sight in a heartbeat.

I squeezed the phone against the palm of my hand until my knuckles turned completely white, swallowing hard to try and dissolve the bitter, dry knot tightening in my throat. The flirtatious stage diva had to evaporate in a second, forcing me to lock the pieces of the unbreakable perfect, loyal friend mask back into place.

—Everything good?—Logan asked, furrowing his brow and tilting his head as he noticed the drastic, sudden change in my face.

—Yeah...—I forced my best smile—the one I’d been practicing for three months—slipping my phone into my pocket with a quick motion. —Everything's perfect. Just Allie, she left her room keys in my bag and asked me to bring them to her because she’s feeling a little tired and heading back early. I'm gonna hit the restroom and find her, guys. Be right back.—

I turned around before Garrett could ask one of his analytical questions, walking toward the dark hallway at the back. I knew exactly what was coming next. I knew that out there, in the dim light of the photo booth or the back seat of a car, I would have to smile, act normal, listen to Allie’s sighs, and be the perfect shield for the secret that, piece by piece, was breaking my heart in absolute silence.

I slipped my phone into my back pocket, my mind racing at a thousand miles an hour. The music at Malone’s was still thumping in my ears, but now it sounded muffled, distant, as if I were underwater. I tucked a stray lock of hair behind my ear, forcing my facial muscles to maintain that sophisticated, carefree smile everyone expected from me.

—Seriously, babe, that song was out of this world,—Logan insisted, giving Garrett an open elbow nudge. —Did you see the look on those football idiots' faces? They were practically drooling.—

—Anyone with eyes would be drooling, Logan. Don't be basic,—Garrett replied with a half-smirk, though his light eyes settled on me with that analytical steadiness that always put me on guard. —But your expression shifted real fast. Are you sure Allie just wanted her keys? You went pale.—

—It’s just the adrenaline crash, Gray,—I lied with a naturalness that was starting to scare me, giving his chin a playful tap. —Being up on stage takes a lot of diva energy, you know? I need to touch up my lipstick and get some air. Don't move, I’ll be back in five.—

I turned around, ready to head down the hallway leading to the restrooms and the back exit, where the bar’s old vintage photo booth was located. But I hadn't even taken three steps before a figure stepped right into my path.

It was Cami, one of the girls from the campus events committee, notorious for having the fastest and most dangerous tongue in all of Briar. She held a red solo cup in her hand, sporting a malicious grin and wide eyes that gleamed with the spark of someone who had just struck absolute gold.

—Well, well... the star of the night,—Cami said, blocking my way with a fake familiarity. —You sing incredible, seriously. But I think the real show wasn’t on the stage.—

I tensed, but kept my chin high, crossing my arms with a bored expression.

—Oh, really? I didn’t know Malone’s had a double feature tonight. What are you talking about, Cami?—

Cami leaned in closer, dropping her voice so the booming music wouldn't drown her out, but with the clear intention of watching my reaction.

—I’m talking about your friend, Allie Hayes. And Dean Di Laurentis. I just saw them walk into the back hallway together. And I don’t know about you, but I don’t think they went into the men’s room to compare literature notes. Dean looked around twice before slipping into the photo booth with her.—

My stomach wrenched with a violence that nearly stole my breath, but my face didn’t give in. Not a single millimeter. I let out a clean, loud, perfectly practiced laugh, earning a bewildered look from her.

—Seriously, Cami? Is that the best you’ve got today?—I asked, looking at her with a mock pity that I had mastered to perfection. —Dean is doing her a favor by passing along the contact info for a tutor for next week’s exam. Allie was incredibly stressed out, and he offered because, even if he plays the bad boy, he’s a softie. They went in there to talk without the noise from the football troglodytes blowing their eardrums out.—

Cami narrowed her eyes, not entirely convinced.

—In the photo booth? That’s a pretty cramped space to talk about tutoring.—

—It’s the only spot with a curtain that blocks out the neon lights, sweetheart. Basic marketing: if you want focus, you look for privacy.—I took a step forward, subtly invading her personal space with that intimidating diva stare that could break anyone. —So I suggest you stop inventing fanfictions in your head before Garrett overhears you and decides you’re no longer welcome at the off-campus house parties. It would be such a shame for you to miss the one next Saturday, don't you think?—

The color drained a bit from Cami’s cheeks. She knew perfectly well the power the hockey team—and I, by extension—wielded over Briar’s social scene. She swallowed hard and forced a smile.

—I was just saying... it looked weird. But if you say so...—

—I do say so,—I declared with a radiant, fake smile. —Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to use the restroom.—

I brushed past her, subtly bumping my shoulder against hers. The moment my back was turned, the smile vanished from my face. Real panic settled into my chest. If Cami had seen them, anyone could have. I had to get them out of there before someone else investigated, or before Garrett decided to go find Dean to order another round.

I walked briskly down the dark hallway. The noise of the bar began to fade, replaced by the hum of the pipes and the smell of damp air. Turning the corner that led to the emergency exit, I saw it: the old wooden structure of the photo booth, its lights flickering, and the heavy red velvet curtain completely drawn shut. From inside, nothing could be heard over the bar's music, but the tension in the air was practically solid.

I stepped up and, without hesitation, ripped the curtain open.

—Time’s up, guys. We have a problem,—I snapped in a firm voice, crossing my arms.

The space inside was tiny. Allie was sitting on Dean’s lap, her cheeks flushed and her hair slightly unraveled. Dean’s hands were locked around her waist, but at the sound of my voice, his head snapped up. His blue eyes were blazing, unfocused from the adrenaline of the moment, but the instant they locked onto me, a mix of surprise and that annoying frustration rushed back onto his face.

—What’s wrong?—Allie asked, jumping down with a face full of panic, frantically adjusting her sweater. —Is Hannah coming? Garrett?—

—Worse,—I replied, staring straight at Dean for a split second before turning back to her. —Cami saw you two walk in. I tried to stall her with the tutor excuse and threatened to blackball her from the parties, but she’s starving for gossip. If you guys don’t leave separately this damn second, the whole bar is going to find out.—

Allie gasped, clamping her hands over her mouth, turning pale.

—Oh my God... no, no, no. If Garrett finds out...—She looked at Dean in desperation.

Dean stood up from the small bench inside the booth, filling the cramped space with his height. He adjusted his white t-shirt with an infuriating calmness, though the tight line of his jaw betrayed that he wasn't nearly as relaxed as he wanted to appear.

—Relax, Hayes. It’s fine,—Dean said, his voice carrying that raspy edge that completely wrecked my insides. —Go out through the back emergency door and head toward the parking lot. I’ll walk out through the main hallway in a minute, like I’m going to find Logan. No one’s going to suspect anything if they don’t see us together.—

Allie nodded frantically, looking at me with a devotion that made me feel like the worst person on earth.

—You’re my savior, seriously. I owe you my life. I’ll see you at the house,—she whispered, giving my arm a quick squeeze before pushing the metal bar of the emergency exit and disappearing into the cold Massachusetts night.

The door shut with a dull thud, leaving me completely alone with Dean in the narrow hallway.

The silence that settled between us was dense, heavy, loaded with everything we hadn't said to each other since that night in the kitchen three months ago. Dean took a step forward, stepping out of the photo booth. He stopped mere inches away from me, forcing me to tilt my head up just to hold his gaze. I could smell him—the whiskey, the mint, and that physical warmth that threw my nerves into overdrive.

—So... saving our skin again,—Dean murmured, dropping his voice to that dangerous whisper that sent shivers down my spine. There was a strange intensity in his eyes, a spark of reproach. —You sing beautiful, by the way. Though I could’ve sworn that look at the end wasn’t meant for the idiots on the football team.—

I shoved my hands into my pockets so he wouldn't notice my fingers trembling. I locked into my untouchable diva posture, even though I was breaking into a million pieces on the inside.

—Just doing my job, Di Laurentis,—I replied, keeping my voice cool and flirtatious. —I protect my friends. And about the song... don't flatter yourself. I sing for anyone who cares to listen.—

Dean let out a low chuckle, a short sound that vibrated right in my chest. He took half a step closer, effectively trapping me between his body and the wooden wall of the photo booth without actually touching me, recreating the kitchen scene almost perfectly.

—You’re a terrible liar when you’re nervous, babe,—he whispered, tilting his head slightly toward mine. His eyes dropped to my lips for a second that felt eternal. —You were teasing me up there. You know it, and I know it. Why play games like that if you’re just going to run and hide behind the guys afterward?—

My heart was hammering against my ribs so hard I was certain he could hear it. The proximity, the scent, the frustration of spending months as a spectator to his story with Allie... everything pooled in my throat. I was a millimeter away from losing it, away from grabbing his shirt and screaming that I hated him for being so indifferent and so damn necessary all at once.

But the rules of the game were the rules of the game. And I was a diva, not a homewrecker.

—I play because I can, Dean,—I answered, locking my eyes with his with all the strength I could muster. —But you already have a game in progress. And I suggest you play it well, because next time, I might not be around to clean up your mess.—

I ducked right under his arm before he could react, letting the scent of my perfume wash over him one last time. I walked with a firm, steady stride back toward the glowing neon lights of the bar, feeling his blue eyes piercing my back like two daggers of ice.

I quickened my pace down the hallway, forcing my Vans to hit the floor with the firm, determined rhythm of a girl who has everything completely under control. But the second I crossed the threshold of the side door and the freezing Massachusetts night air hit me full in the face, the diva armor crumbled entirely.

I leaned against the brick wall of Malone’s back alley, away from the lights, away from the eyes, and finally let out the breath I felt like I’d been holding for three whole months. My hands shook uncontrollably inside my pockets. The echo of the bar’s applause was still buzzing in my ears, but now it felt like a cruel mockery. What was the point of having an entire bar looking at me, desiring me, if the only pair of eyes I actually wanted didn't belong to me?

I stared into the darkness of the parking lot. In the distance, the silhouette of Dean’s car flipped on its headlights, cutting through the shadows for a split second before slowly rolling toward the back exit. I knew exactly who was sitting in the passenger seat. I knew Allie was fixing her hair, smiling in relief because, once again, her best friend had saved the day.

And there, in the solitude of the alley, I realized I was utterly exhausted. I was tired of fighting. I was tired of waging an invisible war inside my own head—a battle that had been lost since the very first day.

No matter how hard I tried to convince myself that whatever they had was just a temporary arrangement, a college distraction, deep down I knew better. I knew how to read the looks. I knew how to spot the tension. That friends-with-benefits relationship between Dean and Allie had real foundations; it was strong, heavy, and grew a little more every single time they locked themselves in a room. It wasn’t a stupid game. It was happening for real.

I closed my eyes, feeling the night chill seep into my bones, but the ache in my chest was so much worse. Allie was my friend. One of the few people at Briar who had offered me genuine loyalty, who looked at me with pure affection and trusted me with her most precious secret. I couldn't do that to her. I wasn't that kind of girl. I couldn't allow myself to cross the line and covet the guy she was sleeping with—the guy who made her smile in that very specific way. Friendship had sacred rules, and I wasn't going to be the villain in my best friend’s story.

But the bitterest truth—the one that burned in my throat and made it hard to swallow—was something else. It was the silent humiliation of waiting. Waiting in the shadows of the kitchen at four in the morning, waiting for a sidelong glance in a bar booth, waiting for some miracle where Dean Di Laurentis would open his eyes and choose me.

How stupid. What a pathetic, goddamn fantasy.

Dean wasn't going to choose me. He had his life, his game, and he had Allie. At the end of the day, when the neon lights faded and the music stopped, nobody cared about what happened behind my untouchable diva façade. My practiced smiles, my flawless lies, my sleepless nights taking care of everyone... all of it was just the stage setting for someone else's romance. On the grand chessboard of Briar University, my feelings didn't matter. They were just the price I had to pay to keep a lie afloat—the very lie that was breaking my heart in absolute silence.

The crunch of slow footsteps on the alley gravel shattered the silence of my dark corner. The sound forced my spine to snap straight instantly, swallowing the knot in my throat and blinking rapidly to erase any trace of vulnerability. The diva mask locked back onto my face out of pure survival instinct, ready to repel whoever had dared to follow me.

—Are you okay? Do you want to leave?—The voice coming from behind me was soft, low, but carried a slightly raspy, drawn-out tone, with a cadence that didn't belong to the North, but rather to a much warmer, more sophisticated coast.

I turned around slowly, resting my hip against the brick wall. The dim light from Malone’s green neon sign silhouetted him, and the air escaped my lungs—but this time, for a completely different reason.

It wasn't one of the hockey guys. It wasn't anyone from Briar.

Physically, he looked like he had stepped right out of a high-society catalog but had decided to rebel against it. He was tall, with a lean yet wiry build, wearing a light linen button-down shirt left slightly open at the collar, which contrasted ridiculously with the Massachusetts cold. His hair was light brown, almost dark blonde, faded very low on the sides but with enough texture on top for a few stray locks to fall over his forehead with an aristocratic carelessness. He possessed sharp features, a highly defined jawline, and clear, pale blue eyes that often conveyed a dangerous, almost erratic intensity. Yet, at this exact moment, as he looked at me, the internal storm he always seemed to carry had completely dissipated. His gaze was clean, strangely protective.

An involuntary smile—the first real smile of my entire night—curved my lips as I remembered how I had met him. It happened a few months ago, during those vacation weeks when I needed to escape from everything and ended up in a small coastal paradise—a place of endless beaches, wooden piers, and golden sunsets where nobody knew my name. He didn't belong there either; he was just passing through, dealing with his own family demons, and our worlds—both so broken and so perfectly camouflaged under designer clothes—collided one afternoon by the sea.

—What are you doing here?—I whispered, letting my shoulders drop, allowing myself to let my guard down just a single inch. —Don't tell me you drove for hours just for Briar karaoke night.—

He took a step forward, closing the distance between us. There was something about the way he moved, a latent tension in his shoulders that screamed he could lose control at any moment, but when he stopped right in front of me, his gestures became incredibly tender, almost delicate, as if he were afraid of breaking me.

He reached out a hand and, with a gentleness no one at this university would believe a guy of his stature capable of, used the back of his fingers to trace the outline of my cheek, brushing my short hair away from my face. His skin was warm, a direct reminder of the summer I missed so terribly.

—I heard you singing from the entrance,—he murmured, staring intently into my eyes, reading the exhaustion and the pain I was trying to hide from the rest of the world. —You were incredible, babe. An absolute queen. But your eyes aren't saying the same thing as your voice. Let’s get out of here. You don’t have to keep taking care of people who don’t know how to take care of you.—

Your father never went easy on you either. On weekends, he made you break down a game tape until you could see the game unfold before it even happened. He taught you hockey wasn’t just talent. It was anticipation. Discipline. Psychology. Reading people before they even realized what they were about to do.

During your senior year of college, your father offered you an internship at Briar to be the Hawks’ assistant coach, and people immediately started talking. Some accused Coach Jensen of handing his daughter a job she hadn’t earned, while others were far crueler, insisting a woman had no business coaching hockey in the first place. Some players and fans mocked the decision, alumni trashed your name online, and rival teams joked that the Hawks were turning into a circus act.

Tonight was your first away game with the Hawks and you were nervous. You were playing against Harvard, one of Briar’s biggest rivals. There was years of rivalry between the two teams, but some of Harvard’s players had been very loud about their miscontentement of your assistant coach position. One of them had trashed your name on social media and accused you of sleeping with the players. Another even sent you a message on Instagram asking you to blow him if his team wins. Disgusting.

Having enough of reading nasty shit, you turned off your phone and leaned back into your seat. You couldn’t let any of this distract you from the game. 

‘’I’m not going to let any asshole from Harvard talk down about you,’’ Garrett promised, sitting across the aisle on the bus. ‘’You’re part of the team.’’ 

‘’Thanks, G,’’ you returned, giving him a small smile. 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

At the hotel, you all went to your assigned rooms. Unfortunately, you were sharing with your father…

‘’Was this necessary, Dad?’’ you sighed,  unzipping your bag and pulling out your clothes for the game. They’ll need to be ironed and placed on a hanger. ‘’Why can’t I share a room with one of the girls from the support bus? I’m not twelve anymore.’’ 

The man in question was already in his Coach Jensen state, barely glanced up from the sheets of paper he was going through. ‘’These girls don’t have a game to coach tomorrow. I need you well rested and alert.’’ 

‘’Sharing a room with them won’t mean I’m gonna stay up all night. Hannah and Grace are very calm. You know Hannah Wells, right? She tutored Garrett at the start of the semester. She's usually asleep before ten.’’ 

That was only half true. Hannah was studious, polite, and about as trouble-free as a person could be, but her bedtime definitely wasn’t 10pm — at least not on weekends. Still, if there was one girl who could get on your father’s good side, it was her.

‘’She’s a player’s girlfriend.’’

You frowned. ‘’And?’’

‘’And I don't want you hanging around my players.’’

‘’Dad, Hannah is my friend—’’

‘’She’s dating Graham,’’ he cut in firmly. 

Reducing Hannah to being a player’s girlfriend was unfair. She’s been an amazing friend to you since you arrived at Briar. She shut the nasty rumors some players were saying about you — with the help of Garrett —, showed you around campus and even invited you to Malone’s to hang out with her friends. Briar wouldn’t be the same without her. You would never have met Grace or Allie, or tasted Malone’s mac&cheese. 

Before you could defend Hannah, your father sighed, putting down his papers on the desk. ‘’You may think I'm being hard on you, but I need you to hear me out. Right now, those players see you as a coach. An authority figure. The moment one of them starts looking at you as anything else, everything you’ve worked for and tried to prove will fall. You will lose any credibility you’ve earned. By being seen with Hannah, who is dating my captain, you’re walking on a tightrope.’’

You swallowed his hard truth. 

Jessica Campbell may have paved the way for girls like you who had a dream in a world of men, but hockey was still a very sexist world. 

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

Hair slicked back into a ponytail, it swayed as you jogged toward the elevator, trying to catch it before the doors closed. The team was meeting in the lobby before getting into the bus and heading out for dinner. 

‘’Wait up!’’ 

A hand shot out between the doors, stopping them from closing long enough for you to slip inside.

‘’Thanks,’’ you said, slightly out of breath.

The doors slid shut, leaning you alone with Dean.

‘’Cutting it close, Coach.’’

You glanced at him, standing near the back wall in a pair of jeans and his team hoodie. Team merch was mandatory for outings on away games. 

‘’I couldn’t find my team jacket,’’ you explained. ‘’I think I left it at home.’’

Dean's gaze drifted over your outfit, lingering on the lace of your bra that was slightly peaking from your half buttoned cardigan. It must have moved during your little jog. ‘’Should’ve shot me a text. You could have borrowed mine.’’ A smirk curved on his lips — the one that everyone folded at.

Players’ jackets had their name and number on them. Your father would have an aneurism if he saw you in the lobby wearing that. Especially Dean’s. Your old man knew about his bunny hopping reputation.

After emptying your whole bag, you settled for a blue ribbon in your hair. It was better than nothing.

The elevator dinged and the doors opened, cutting your conversation short.

Dean motioned for you to go first. ‘’After you, Coach.’’

You shot him a look over your shoulder. ‘’Such a gentleman.’’

His smirk deepened. ‘’Only when Coach Jensen around.’’

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

The Girls

Gracie: I have a favor to ask. Do you think you can save us a spot close to the bench for the game? I don’t want to sit with the bunnies…

Hannah: The bunnies are not the issue. It’s Hollis’ girl

Gracie: She’s not Hollis’s girl. She’s obsessed with him! It’s different

Hannah: That’s a bit far fetched, Grace…

You: Hollis has a girl? Since when? 👀

Gracie: She’s not!

Hannah: Garrett said they went on a date last week

Gracie: What?! 😲

Gracie: Is he looking to end up on a true crime podcast? 

Hannah: Rupi is a freshman girl who’s ‘in love’ with a hockey player. She’s not the next Jodi Arias

You: Can someone catch me up? I’m not following 

Gracie: There’s this girl named Rupi and she’s obsessed with Mike Hollis. She sat next to me at the last game and she had a shirt with his name and kept asking questions about him. I love weird, but this is too weird for me to handle…

You: And Hollis went on a date with her? 

Hannah: According to Garrett

You were mid typing when your phone screen changed to an incoming video call from Dean. A shirtless Dean. He was laying on his bed, his blond hair splayed on the pillow. 

‘’Have you lost your fucking mind?!’’ you whispered, trying to not wake your father in the other bed. 

He gave you his signature grin. ‘’Is the big bad wolf sleeping yet?’’

You glared at him. ‘’Don’t call him that.’’  

Dean’s grin only widened at your glare, like a golden retriever who knew exactly how much trouble he was in but didn’t care one bit. The camera shook slightly as he adjusted it, propping his phone on the pillow beside him so you could see all of him: bare chest glistening from his shower, that infuriatingly perfect jawline, and those stupidly blue eyes full of mischief.

‘’Relax,’’ he whispered back at you, voice low and teasing like he always did when he knew your father might hear.

If he were in your shoes, he wouldn’t be relaxed. You may be an adult, but mingling with the players outside the ice was strictly forbidden. It was work etiquette. If your father caught you talking to Dean, it would be over for your internship. 

‘’What do you want?’’ 

You tried to not look too happy to see him, but in reality all you wanted to do was run down the hallway to his room and kiss him. 

Dean lifted one arm above his head in a lazy stretch, the kind that showed off biceps and shoulders like they were part of an ad campaign for hockey muscle. ‘’I’m just bored. Birdy is sleeping already. And snoring. Can you hear?’’ 

A soft laugh left your lips. Even through the phone, you could hear the faint rumble in the background. The guy really did snore like a bull.

You carefully pushed the blankets off your legs and sat up, glancing toward the other bed. Your father hadn't moved an inch.

Good.

Cradling your phone against your chest, you slipped out of bed and padded quietly across the hotel room. The carpet muffled your footsteps as you made your way to the bathroom. You eased the door shut behind you and clicked on the vanity light, bathing the small space in a warm yellow glow.

‘’You coming over tomorrow? The game is early so we won’t be home late.’’ His voice softened slightly, like the question mattered more than he wanted to admit.

‘’We’ll see how many goals you score,’’ you replied, sitting on the edge of the tub. 

Dean's eyebrows shot up. ‘’I need to score goals to get you now?’’

You hummed. ‘’My time has a price, Playboy.’’

He let out a dramatic sigh and dropped his head back against the pillow. ‘’Two goals.’’ 

‘’Three.’’ 

His eyes narrowed. ‘’Three? You drive a hard bargain.’’

‘’Sounds like a skill issue.’’

Dean barked out a laugh. ‘’Fine.’’

· · ────── ꒰ঌ·✦·໒꒱ ────── · ·

With your head held high, you walked down the tunnel beside your father and toward the bench as the boys spilled onto the ice for warmups. The arena buzzed with the energy of students and fans filling the stands and the sharp sound of skates cutting across fresh ice.

You could feel pairs of eyes watching — judging —, but you kept your expression calm and composed. You belonged here just as much as anyone else behind that bench.

‘’Show them whose blood runs in your veins,’’ your father had said before the game. 

You set your clipboard down beside the stack of water bottles, your gaze automatically sweeping across the ice. The boys were already in motion, circling through their warmup drills with the familiar mix of focus and show off that came with being college athletes. 

‘’Tucker’s late,’’ you noted.

Your father glanced toward the tunnel, seeing the latter. ‘’By thirty seconds.’’

‘’Still late.’’

A corner of his mouth twitched. 

‘’Sorry, Coach. Someone took the laces off my skates…’’ the curly haired left wing explained before getting on the ice. 

Across the ice, the opposing team skated out to a chorus of cheers from their home crowd. The energy in the building immediately shifted. Harvard wasn’t the Hawks’ biggest rival, but their goalie was skilled. You’ve seen him in action on videos and it was pretty impressive. Their center, however, had an Achilles heel: he got frustrated easily. 

Most players were good at hiding it. He wasn’t. The moment a game stopped going his way, his discipline slipped. He chased hits he didn’t need to make, took unnecessary risks with the puck, and started jawing at opponents instead of focusing on the play. It wasn’t enough to get him thrown out of games, but it was enough to throw him off.

And tonight, you intended to exploit it.

You flipped through the notes on your clipboard one last time as the siren went off and the boys gathered behind the bench. Coach had already explained their game plan in the locker room, but you wanted to add one thing. 

‘’Keep pressure on twenty-one all night,’’ you said. 

Several players glanced your way.

‘’Finish your checks. Nothing dirty. Nothing stupid. Just make him work for every inch of ice.’’

Logan nodded immediately. ‘’He'll crack?’’

‘’Eventually.’’

A grin spread across Dean’s face. ‘’Got it.’’ 

══════════════════

If someone had told you six months ago that you’d currently be dating the Dean Di Laurentis, star of the Briar University hockey team and well-known playboy, you would’ve probably laughed to the point of tears.

Oh, how things can change so drastically.

You’d met at a frat party, bumping into each other on accident. The alcohol held loosely in his grip sloshed out of the Solo cup upon impact, sending lukewarm beer down the front of your top.

“Oh, fuck! I’m so sorry, sweetheart.” Dean seemed apologetic, but the way his eyes subconsciously trailed down your now soaked top (and the black bra clearly visible) were anything but sorry.

You were starstruck as you let out a meek “It’s fine!”, scrambling to find napkins to wipe yourself down and appear decent again.

“Hey, wait, I think I have an extra top upstairs. You can change into that if you’d like.”

“Do I want to make a guess as to why you have women’s clothing in your room upstairs?”

His sly smirk in response was all the answer you needed.

“Nope, never mind. I’m just going to head home and take a shower or something. It was nice to meet you.” You whipped around, intent on making a beeline for the front door.

A strong, large hand wrapped around your wrist before you could go far. “Hold on!” You turned around slowly, skepticism clear on your face. “It’s actually just one of my sister’s shirts- she left it here the last time she came to visit. Would you please come change so I can get to know you better?”

You paused, thinking over both options. If he was just looking for a quickie, he found the wrong girl. On the other hand, you were covered in sticky beer and every crevice of your body smelled like it.

The gross feeling of the beer stuck to your skin won out. “Fine, I’ll change. But no funny business. I mean it.”

Dean grinned like he had you right where he wanted you. In a sense, he truly did. “Of course, sweetheart. Lead the way.”

The two of you ended up talking until the early hours of the morning, ceasing conversation only when everyone else had gone home and the other guys were passed out in various spots around the house. True to his words, Dean never made any sexual advances toward you, remaining respectful and listening intently to what you were talking about.

Late night talking turned to coffee dates, which turned into lunch dates, ultimately ending in multiple dinner dates before you finally decided to call yourselves a couple.

Dean, surprisingly, was everything you wished for in a boyfriend. He was chivalrous, kind, and put you first before everything and everyone else. You’d agreed to just keep the relationship light and fun, leaving the serious parts for a later time if you got there.

The pair of you were rapidly approaching the month mark of being together, and everything thus far had been amazing.

“Why hello there, gorgeous.” A pair of arms wrapped around you from behind on the quad, pulling you backward into them and placing kisses down your neck. “Funny seeing you here.”

“Dean, stop.” You giggled, squirming in his hold from the ticklish sensation. “You knew I’d be here! It was your idea to meet for lunch.”

“And what a fantastic idea it was.” He grabbed your hand, leading you over to a picnic table nearby, sliding food across the table before sitting beside you on the bench and throwing an arm around your shoulders.

As the two of you ate and chatted, you scanned the courtyard, people watching. There were a group of freshmen discussing their days, another couple making out on the opposite end of the quad, and at another table you could see Hannah and Allie, talking in hushed whispers.

You locked eyes with Hannah, grinning and sending her a wave. She sent a small wave in greeting back, Allie turning to see who she was looking at. You waved at her as well, expecting the same in return. Instead, you got a scathing glare and a small frown in response before she whipped her head back around.

Huh, that was weird. Allie and Hannah were besties, but you also occasionally hung around them. You’d always had good times together, which made Allie’s sudden change in personality even more confusing.

“Well, that’s odd.” You told Dean.

“Yeah, sure.” He responded, but his voice sounded distracted. Upon looking at him, you noticed he wasn’t staring at you- he was looking intently at Allie

“Everything okay?”

“What?” It was as if your question snapped him out of a daze. “Oh, yeah, sorry about that. Just had my head in the clouds, I guess. Want some more fruit?”

“Sure,” you responded, growing more suspicious at his suddenly flippant attitude.

As the two of you finished lunch, you couldn’t help the sudden lump in your throat. Something odd had happened, and you were determined to find out one way or another. Even if that meant doing some deeper digging.

The night of Logan’s fundraiser rolled around quickly, a rare night off for you while Hannah and Allie took the shift at Malone’s. You were still there, just in front of the bar rather than behind it.

You’d seen Dean once or twice while you hung out with Dexter, but only fleeting moments, never once being able to sit and talk to each other.

“You and Dean seem pretty cozy.” Dexter teased, nudging your shoulder lightly with his own.

“Yeah, I guess you could say so.” You couldn’t seem to wipe the giant, lovesick grin from your face.

“You know, I was wondering how long this act between the two of you was going to last.” Birdie chimed in from his spot at a nearby table.

“What do you mean?” you asked, smile slipping slightly from your face.

“I just mean you’re a great friend, is all. Dean and Allie had a good fling going before she broke it off. He was really heartbroken for a while.”

Dexter came to your defense quickly, questioning, “And what does that have to do with Y/N?”

“Oh, c’mon, guys, you can cut the act when it’s just us. The whole hockey team knows.”

“Knows what?”

“They know about your little arrangement so he can get Allie back. It’s all ‘Allie this, Allie that’ when it comes to him in the locker room. It’s totally working, too; she hasn’t been able to stop watching the two of you like a hawk for the last month. They’ll be back with each other by the end of the weekend, I guarantee it. You’ll be off the hook soon.”

At the dumbstruck looks on your and Dexter’s faces, Birdie froze.

“…oh shit, you weren’t in on it?”

You turned, seeing nothing but red as you searched the crowd for the one person who’d know could tell you where Dean was.

“Beau,” you shouted, grabbing him by the lapels of his jacket. “Where’s Dean?”

“Oh, um,” he stuttered, clearly surprised by your sudden fury. “I’m not sure. Last I saw him, he was on stage announcing the raffle winners.”

He took in your expression, asking hesitantly, “Did…did something happen?”

“How long have you known?”

He winced. “Since the beginning.”

You released his jacket as if he’d burned you, whipping back around and searching for Dean, eyes wild.

“Wait, Y/N, I’m sorry! We can still talk about this!” His words were useless to you, only adding to the fire burning deep in your stomach.

You’d caught him saying something about the photo booth, heading in that direction to see. As you approached, you noticed Dean’s familiar sneakers under the curtain.

Along with another pair of shoes facing him.

You tugged the curtain open, freezing as your worst fear came to life right before your very eyes. Dean and Allie were making out right there in the booth, closer than you ever thought possible.

They broke away at the sudden interruption, Dean’s eyes widening as he noticed the reason for the distraction.

“Oh, shit, Y/N, wait!”

Not a chance in hell you were going to wait for him. You took off toward the front door, pushing your way out with force as tears streamed freely down your face in heavy sobs.

“Baby, please! Wait!”

“What the fuck do you want, Dean?” You screamed, shaking off his hand on your shoulder as you gasped for breath.

“I am so, so sorry. You weren’t meant to see that in any way.”

“Oh, so if I hadn’t seen it then that would’ve been fine? Give me a break.”

He winced at your sharp tone. “No, absolutely not. I know I’m an asshole, okay? I just didn’t know what I wanted. What Allie and I had was great, but I really care about you and would never want to hurt you like I just did.”

“Yeah, caring about me, my ass. I should’ve known it was too good to be true. I wish I had never, ever gone out with you in the first place.” You seethed.

“Look, why don’t we go inside and talk about this?”  He noticed the gathering crowd around you, some whipping their phones out to record the spectacle. “Come on, honey.”

“I hope you figure out what you want, Dean.” You shook his hand off your arm, beginning to walk away. “It just won’t be with me.”

As Dean watched you walk away, silent sobs making your shoulders shake, he couldn’t help the way his heart shattered. He really had grown to feel for you over your time spent together, feeling more guilt with every meeting at the idea of breaking your own heart the way he just did. All this time, he had convinced himself that Allie was the woman he wanted.

Now, he wasn’t so sure.

I kept telling myself I was just playing the game, just having fun like everyone else. But the truth was, I hadn't taken my eyes off Y/N for more than a few seconds all night. Something about the way she was acting - reckless, wild, so completely unlike herself - had every protective instinct I possessed on high alert.

This wasn't the Y/N I'd grown up with. The girl I knew was thoughtful, careful, someone who preferred a good book to a wild party. But tonight she was dancing with strangers, drinking everything put in front of her, and laughing with a brightness that seemed forced and desperate.

She's running from something, I realized as she lined up another shot, swaying slightly on her feet. But what?

"Conrad, your turn," Jeremiah called out, pulling me from my thoughts.

I took my shot automatically, my muscle memory handling the game while my mind stayed focused on Y/N. She was beautiful even in her intoxicated state - flushed cheeks, bright eyes, that smile that never failed to stop my heart - but there was something fragile about her tonight that made my chest ache.

That's when Belly appeared out of nowhere, her face tight with some emotion I couldn't read.

"Cam," she said abruptly, not even acknowledging the rest of us. "Can we leave? I want to go home."

The urgency in her voice caught everyone off guard. Cam immediately set down his cup, concern written across his features.

"Of course. Are you okay?"

Belly nodded quickly, but I could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she was holding herself like she might break apart. "I just... I need to get out of here."

As they gathered their things and said quick goodbyes, I felt the dynamic shift around the beer pong table. Jeremiah spotted some girl across the room and excused himself with his trademark grin, leaving just me and Y/N standing in the sudden quiet.

I was about to suggest we head home too - she clearly had enough to drink, and the responsible thing would be to get her somewhere safe. But before I could speak, Nicole appeared at my elbow with that warm smile and confident energy that had initially drawn me to her.

"Hey," she said, sliding her arm around my waist in a gesture that felt more possessive than affectionate. "Want to stay the night? My parents are out of town, and I have that big house all to myself..."

The invitation hung in the air between us, loaded with implications I wasn't sure I was ready for. I glanced at Y/N, who was swaying slightly by the beer pong table, and felt that familiar tug of responsibility mixed with something deeper.

"I can't," I said finally. "My mom asked me to make sure everyone gets home safely."

It was a lie - Mom hadn't said anything of the sort - but I couldn't leave Y/N in this condition. Not when she was clearly not herself, not when every instinct I had was screaming that she needed someone to look out for her.

Nicole's face fell slightly, but she recovered quickly. "Oh. Okay, I understand."

But I could see in her eyes that she didn't really understand, and maybe that was for the best.

Y/N's POV

The beer pong game had been a welcome distraction from the chaos in my head, the alcohol making everything feel softer and less sharp around the edges. But when Belly and Cam left abruptly, and Jeremiah disappeared with some girl whose name I couldn't remember, suddenly it was just me and Conrad standing by the table.

The air between us felt charged, dangerous in a way that made my already fuzzy thoughts even hazier. He was looking at me with that expression I couldn't read - concern, maybe, or frustration, or something else entirely.

He opened his mouth like he was about to say something, but before any words came out, Nicole appeared with her perfect smile and her obvious intentions.

"Want to stay the night?" she asked, her arm sliding around his waist like she had every right to be there.

The question hit me like a physical blow, even though I'd been expecting something like this all night. The alcohol in my system made everything feel more intense, more raw, and suddenly I felt like I might be sick.

This is your cue to leave, I told myself, backing away from the table. He made his choice. Let them have their night.

I stumbled slightly as I turned away, but I managed to make it back to the dance floor without completely embarrassing myself. The music was loud and overwhelming, but it was better than standing there watching Conrad decide whether or not to spend the night with another girl.

Conrad's POV - Panic

When I finished declining Nicole's invitation and turned back to where Y/N had been standing, she was gone. Completely vanished, like she'd never been there at all.

Panic hit me with surprising force. How could someone disappear in the span of two minutes? And where would she go in her current state?

"Have you seen Y/N?" I asked a couple of people near the beer pong table, but they just shrugged or shook their heads.

I checked the bar first - it seemed like the logical place for someone who'd been drinking as much as she had. But the bartender hadn't seen her. I tried upstairs next, pushing through groups of people and checking every room I could access.

Finally, I found her on the dance floor.

And I immediately wished I hadn't.

She was dancing with some guy I didn't recognize, someone older who definitely wasn't from our usual crowd. His hands were all over her - waist, hips, places that made my blood boil with protective rage. She was laughing and moving with him, but there was something desperate about it, something that didn't feel like real joy.

I watched as the guy leaned in, trying to kiss her. She ducked away at the last second, but he tried again, more persistent this time. That's when I started pushing through the crowd toward them, ready to intervene whether she wanted me to or not.

But before I could reach them, she moved closer to the guy's face and said something I couldn't hear over the music. Whatever it was made him back off immediately, his hands dropping from her body as he melted back into the crowd.

What did she say to him? I wondered, but she was already moving away, heading back toward the bar with that same determined expression she'd worn all night.

How much more does she want to drink? The question filled me with genuine concern. I'd never seen her act this recklessly, and something was clearly driving her to these extremes.

Y/N's POV

The dance floor interaction had left me feeling shakier than I wanted to admit. The guy had been too pushy, too grabby, and for a moment I'd felt truly unsafe. But I'd handled it - told him exactly what I thought of his behavior in language that would have made my mother wash my mouth out with soap - and now I just wanted another drink to wash away the unpleasant memory.

I was reaching for the vodka bottle when a familiar hand closed over mine, stopping me mid-pour.

"That's enough," Conrad's voice was firm but not unkind. "We need to leave. The moms will be worried if we're too late."

The reasonable part of my brain knew he was right. It was getting late, I'd already had too much to drink, and staying here would only lead to more poor decisions. But the alcohol-fueled, emotionally raw part of me bristled at being told what to do.

"Why should I listen to you?" I demanded, pulling my hand away from his. "Why do you care how much I drink? You should be with your girlfriend."

The last word came out bitter and spiteful, loaded with all the hurt and jealousy I'd been trying to drown in alcohol all night.

Conrad's jaw tightened. "Y/N, you're drunk. Let me take you home."

"I'm fine," I insisted, even though I had to grip the edge of the table to keep myself steady. "I don't need you to take care of me. I don't need anything from you."

But Conrad had apparently reached the end of his patience. Before I could react, he was scooping me up and throwing me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing at all.

"Put me down!" I shouted, pounding on his back with my fists. "Conrad, I swear to God, put me down right now!"

But he just grabbed my purse from the table and carried me straight toward the exit, ignoring my protests and the curious stares from other party guests.

Conrad's POV

When I finally set Y/N down by my car, she was furious. Her cheeks were flushed with anger and alcohol, her eyes bright with tears that could have been from rage or hurt or both.

"How dare you-" she started, pulling back her fist to punch me.

But the alcohol had thrown off her balance and coordination. Instead of connecting with my chest, she stumbled sideways, her momentum carrying her toward the asphalt.

I caught her before she could fall, pulling her against my chest and holding her steady while she regained her footing. For a moment, she struggled against my grip, still angry and wanting to fight. But then something seemed to leave her, and she went limp in my arms, her hands dropping to her sides in defeat.

That's when I really looked at her face. Her flushed cheeks had gone pale, and there was a green tinge around her eyes that I recognized immediately.

"Oh no," I murmured, and her eyes widened with the same realization.

She pushed away from me and stumbled toward the edge of the parking lot, making it just far enough from my car before she started throwing up. Everything she'd consumed that night - the beer, the vodka, Laurel's birthday dinner - came up in violent waves that shook her whole body.

I was beside her immediately, gathering her hair back from her face and rubbing soothing circles on her back while she retched. This was the inevitable consequence of the amount she'd been drinking, but seeing her so sick and vulnerable still broke something inside me.

When the worst of it was over, I ran to get water and towels from my car, helping her clean up and rinse the taste from her mouth. She was still drunk, still unsteady on her feet, but the anger had gone out of her completely.

"Come on," I said gently, guiding her toward the passenger seat. "Let's get you home."

She didn't protest as I helped her into the car and buckled her seatbelt, making sure she was secure before closing her door. As I walked around to the driver's side, I heard her voice - small and fragile in a way that made my chest ache.

"Connie?" she said when I slid behind the wheel. "I'm sorry for getting you dirty. I feel... I feel dirty."

Her eyes filled with tears, and whatever composure I'd been maintaining cracked completely. I reached over to cup her face in my hands, my thumbs brushing away the moisture on her cheeks.

"You have nothing to be sorry about," I said firmly. "And you're beautiful. Don't ever think otherwise."

I pressed a kiss to her forehead, gentle and protective and full of all the feelings I couldn't put into words. I knew she probably wouldn't remember this in the morning - Y/N never remembered details when she drank this much, always complained that everything became a blur. But I would remember. I always remembered everything when it came to her.

Conrad's POV

Before starting the car, I grabbed my hoodie from the backseat and helped Y/N put it on. She was shivering slightly, whether from the night air or the aftermath of being sick, and the sweatshirt swallowed her small frame in a way that made her look impossibly young and vulnerable.

I love seeing her in my clothes, I realized with startling clarity. There was something possessive and protective about it that appealed to parts of me I didn't want to examine too closely.

As we drove through the quiet streets of Cousins, she hummed along to the radio with that contentment that always came over her when she was drunk. Despite everything that had happened tonight, hearing her happy humming brought a smile to my face. This was the Y/N I remembered from previous summers - silly and giggly and completely without pretense.

After a while, the humming stopped. When I glanced over, she was curled up in the passenger seat like a child, half-asleep and looking more peaceful than she had all night. The turmoil that had been written across her features at the party was gone, replaced by something soft and unguarded that made my heart clench.

When we reached our street, I sat in the driveway for a moment longer than necessary, reluctant to break the spell. These quiet moments with her felt precious, like something I should hold onto while I still could.

But eventually, reality intruded. I parked the car and texted Steven to open the front door, then carefully lifted her from the passenger seat. She was completely asleep now, her head falling against my shoulder as I carried her toward the house.

Steven met us at the door with wide, concerned eyes.

"What happened?" he whispered, taking in Y/N's condition.

"Too much to drink," I replied quietly. "She'll be okay, but she needs to sleep it off."

"Her mom's going to kill her if she goes home like this," Steven observed.

"That's why she's staying here tonight," I said, already heading for the stairs.

Conrad's POV

I carried her up to my room and laid her gently on my bed, trying not to wake her as I pulled my hands away. But the movement disturbed her anyway, and her hair fell across her face in a way that seemed to bother her even in sleep.

Carefully, I brushed the strands away from her eyes, tucking them behind her ear with the kind of gentleness I usually reserved for injured animals. She stirred at my touch, her eyes fluttering open as she tried to focus on my face.

"Go back to sleep," I whispered, stepping back toward the door.

But as I reached for the light switch, her voice stopped me.

"Connie?" she said, her words slightly slurred but audible. "I don't want to be alone right now. Can you... can you keep me company?"

Every rational part of my brain screamed that this was a bad idea. Y/N was drunk, vulnerable, and we were already walking a dangerous line with our feelings. Staying here, being close to her in this intimate setting, would only make things more complicated.

But the look in her eyes - lost and fragile and so unlike her usual strength - made it impossible to say no.

I sat down on the edge of the bed near her head, my hands automatically moving to her hair. I'd seen her mother do this countless times over the years, knew that having her hair stroked always helped Y/N fall asleep.

She relaxed immediately under my touch, her breathing becoming deeper and more even. For a moment, I thought she'd drifted off again.

Then she spoke, and her words shattered something inside me.

"Connie," she said, her voice breaking, "do you love Nicole?"

The question hit me like a physical blow. "No," I said immediately, the truth coming out before I could think about it.

"So you love Belly?" she continued, her words getting sleepier but no less devastating.

The question caught me completely off guard. I opened my mouth to answer, but before I could find the words, she continued.

"If you do, I don't want you to keep breaking her heart... and mine." Her voice was barely a whisper now, full of pain that cut right through me. "It's just too much."

And then she was asleep, leaving me sitting there with her words echoing in my head like an accusation I couldn't escape.

She thinks I love Nicole or Belly.

The realization was devastating. Without even meaning to, without even being with her, I was hurting the person I cared about most in the world.

I knew I should leave. Should go sleep on the couch and give Y/N the space she needed to recover from tonight's mistakes. But my selfish heart wanted to stay close to her for as long as possible, to hold onto these quiet moments before the real world intruded again.

Dawn was only a few hours away anyway, I reasoned. And Y/N looked so peaceful with her head resting near my lap, her breathing deep and even under my gentle touch.

I made myself more comfortable against the headboard, careful not to disturb her, and let my heavy eyelids drift closed. For the first time in weeks - maybe months - I felt truly peaceful. The constant anxiety about Mom's diagnosis, the guilt about pushing everyone away, the confusion about my feelings - all of it faded into the background when Y/N was near.

Sleep took me gradually, my hand still tangled in her hair, my heart finally quiet in a way it hadn't been all summer.

To be continued...

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