Fanfic Reblogs

The camera was supposed to be following Parker, that was the entire purpose of the video.

The Avalanche media team had decided to film a casual behind-the-scenes feature following Parker through a game day. Nothing too complicated. A few clips of him arriving at the arena, warming up, joking with teammates, and preparing for the game.

Parker had been informed about the camera following him, although that had not stopped him from forgetting about it every few minutes.

Which was exactly what happened when he wandered toward the family lounge after morning skate.

He had promised Rasmus that he would bring him one of the extra pucks from practice, and Parker was determined not to disappoint the six-year-old who had already asked him about it twice that morning.

The cameraman followed a few steps behind him, still recording as Parker pushed open the lounge door. Neither of them expected to find the Landeskog family in the middle of a conversation.

Rasmus was sitting on the edge of one of the couches, still wearing the small Avalanche jersey Gabriel had helped him put on earlier. His blond hair was slightly messy from the winter hat he had abandoned somewhere near the entrance, and his legs swung back and forth as he listened to you.

Gabriel stood a few feet away, leaning casually against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. You were crouched in front of your son.

The conversation had clearly already begun before Parker entered the room “But Papa talks Swedish all the time,” Rasmus argued.

You smiled patiently “Yes, he does.”

“And Grandma talks Swedish.”

“She does.”

“And Grandpa.”

“Yes.”

“And I’m Swedish.”

Gabriel’s lips twitched from where he stood, you glanced at him briefly before turning your attention back to your son “You are Swedish,” you agreed. “But you are also Canadian and you live in Denver, a place where not everybody understands Swedish.”

Rasmus frowned as if this was a very complicated problem.

A few minutes earlier, he had answered one of the staff members in Swedish after Gabriel asked him a question. The employee had laughed kindly, but Rasmus had continued talking without realizing that the man could not understand him.

You had gently pulled him aside afterward “Speaking Swedish isn’t bad,” you explained. “Papa and I want you to speak Swedish. It’s part of who you are, and it helps you talk to your family when we visit Sweden.”

Rasmus nodded slowly.

“But when you are around people who don’t speak Swedish, and you know they don’t understand you, it can sometimes feel rude if you keep speaking it in front of them.”

His eyebrows pulled together “Why?”

“Because they might think you are talking about them or they might feel left out of the conversation.”

“I wasn’t talking about him.”

“I know you weren’t.” You placed one hand gently on his knee. “You weren’t trying to be rude. I know that. But being polite is also about making sure other people feel included.”

Rasmus looked toward his father for confirmation, Gabriel immediately straightened when he realized he had been brought into the discussion “Mamma is right,” he said.

You turned your head toward him, narrowing your eyes playfully “Thank you for your contribution.”

Gabriel smiled “I’m helping.”

“You’ve been standing there silently for five minutes.”

“I’m supporting you.”

Parker stopped just inside the doorway, the cameraman stopped behind him. Neither of them said anything.

Rasmus considered your explanation for another moment “So I can speak Swedish with Papa?”

“Of course.”

“And with you?”

“You can try,” you said, making Gabriel laugh softly.

Your Swedish had improved significantly after years of being married to Gabriel, but Rasmus had recently discovered that speaking quickly made it much harder for you to understand him.

He occasionally took advantage of that.

“But if someone else is talking with us,” you continued, “we should speak a language everybody understands or we can explain what we said afterward.”

Rasmus nodded “Because we don’t want them to feel left out.”

“Exactly.”

He leaned forward and wrapped his arms around your neck “I’m sorry, Mamma.”

You immediately hugged him back “You don’t have to apologize to me, älskling, you didn’t know.”

“I’ll say sorry to Mr. Daniel.”

“I think he would appreciate that.”

Rasmus pulled away, looking much happier now that the problem had been solved “Can I tell Papa something in Swedish first?”

You glanced at Gabriel “That depends. Is it about me?”

Rasmus giggled “No.”

Gabriel pushed himself away from the wall and walked closer, Rasmus cupped his hands around his mouth even though he was nowhere near Gabriel’s ear “Jag älskar Mamma mest.”

Gabriel’s eyebrows rose. You understood enough of the sentence to gasp dramatically “You love me the most?”

Rasmus burst into laughter, Gabriel placed a hand over his heart “That is very hurtful.”

“I love you too,” Rasmus promised quickly. “But Mamma makes pancakes.”

“I make pancakes.”

“Mamma’s are better.”

Gabriel looked at you. You tried to hide your victorious smile “I didn’t teach him to say that.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Parker finally said from the doorway. All three of you turned toward him, Parker lifted the puck in his hand “I brought this for Rasmus.”

Rasmus immediately jumped off the couch and rushed toward him, the serious conversation completely forgotten “Is it from practice?”

“Yes.”

“Did Papa score with it?”

Parker glanced at Gabriel “No, but I did.”

“That makes it less cool,” Rasmus said honestly, you covered your mouth, trying not to laugh. Gabriel failed completely, Parker stared down at the child “You know what? I’m keeping it.”

“No!” Rasmus grabbed his arm. “It’s still a little cool.”

The room filled with laughter.

For the rest of the day, nobody thought much about the moment, you hadn’t even noticed the camera behind Parker. Gabriel had seen it eventually, but he assumed it had been lowered before Parker entered the lounge.

It had not.

The media team discovered the footage while editing the Parker Kelly feature later that week, the clip was never supposed to be included. It had nothing to do with Parker’s preparation for the game, aside from the final thirty seconds where Rasmus insulted his puck.

But the editor hesitated before deleting it.

The conversation between you and Rasmus was sweet, but that was not the part that caught everyone’s attention.

It was Gabriel.

Throughout the entire conversation, he barely looked away from you.

His expression had been soft from the moment the camera entered the room. He watched you explain the importance of including other people with a quiet smile, his arms folded comfortably as he listened.

When you reassured Rasmus that speaking Swedish was still important, Gabriel’s expression changed completely. There was pride in his eyes and something much deeper.

The media manager watched the clip twice before sending it to Gabriel for approval.

He showed it to you that evening.

You were curled beside him on the couch at home while Rasmus slept upstairs “They filmed that?” you asked, horrified.

“Apparently.”

“I didn’t even see the camera.”

“Neither did Rasmus.”

The video paused on an unfortunate frame of you crouched in front of the couch. You pointed at the screen “They cannot post that.”

Gabriel looked confused “Why?”

“Look at me.”

“I am.”

“That is the problem. Look at my hair.”

“Your hair looks beautiful.”

“It looks like I fought with Rasmus’s winter hat and lost.”

Gabriel smiled, placing his hand on your thigh “You always look beautiful.”

You looked back at the screen.

The clip had been edited down to less than a minute. Most of the explanation remained, followed by Rasmus claiming that he loved you more because your pancakes were better “You really want them to post this?”

Gabriel shrugged “I think it’s nice.”

“It was private.”

“They asked us first.”

You leaned closer to him “You only think it’s nice because Rasmus said my pancakes are better.”

“I’m secure enough in my abilities to admit defeat.”

“You complained about it for the rest of the day.”

“I was joking.”

“You made pancakes the next morning to prove him wrong.”

“That was unrelated.” You laughed, resting your head against his shoulder, Gabriel replayed the clip. This time, you noticed what the media manager had clearly noticed.

Gabriel was not watching Rasmus, he was watching you. For nearly the entire conversation, his eyes followed every small movement you made. When you smiled, he smiled. When you reached for your son, Gabriel’s expression softened.

You lifted your head from his shoulder “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Gabriel kept his eyes on the screen “Like what?”

“Like that.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You’re barely blinking.”

He laughed quietly “I was listening.”

“To me explaining manners to a six-year-old?”

“You were being a good mother.” The teasing disappeared from your expression, Gabriel turned toward you “You always are.”

You studied his face for a moment “You really looked that in love with me while I was lecturing our child?”

“I wasn’t aware that I needed a specific reason to be in love with my wife.”

You felt your cheeks warm. Even after years together, Gabriel could still say things so casually that they left you completely speechless.

He brushed his thumb over your knee “I like watching you with him,” he admitted. “You’re patient with him. You explain things instead of making him feel bad for not knowing.”

“He’s six.”

“Exactly. Sometimes adults forget that children are still learning how the world works.”

You looked back at the paused video. Rasmus was staring at you seriously while Gabriel stood behind him, wearing that unmistakably lovesick expression “You look ridiculous,” you whispered.

Gabriel kissed your temple “I look married.”

The Avalanche posted the clip two days later.

It was added to the end of Parker’s feature under the caption:

Parker Kelly delivers a puck and accidentally interrupts a Landeskog family meeting.

The video spread almost immediately, most fans loved Rasmus’s brutal assessment of Parker’s puck.

Others focused on the conversation about speaking Swedish, praising the way you explained it without making Rasmus feel ashamed of being bilingual.

But the majority of the comments were about Gabriel.

Gabriel did not hear a single word. He was too busy staring at his wife.

That man is still completely obsessed with her.

The way his face changes when she says Swedish is part of who Rasmus is.

He looks like he’s watching her walk down the aisle again.

Parker Kelly accidentally exposing his captain for being the world’s biggest wife guy.

Parker found Gabriel in the locker room shortly after the video was posted “You’re welcome,” he announced.

Gabriel looked up from tying his skates “For what?”

“Your entire public image is now devoted husband.”

Gabriel raised an eyebrow “I was already a devoted husband.”

“Yeah, but now everyone has video evidence.”

A few players laughed from nearby stalls, Parker sat down across from him “The comments are brutal.”

“About you?”

“No, unfortunately. Everyone loves me.”

“Rasmus said your puck wasn’t cool.”

“He said it was a little cool.”

“After you threatened to take it away.”

Parker ignored him “They’re calling you a wife guy.”

Gabriel finished tying his skate “I am a wife guy.” The answer came without embarrassment or hesitation, Parker stared at him.

“That’s all you have to say?”

Gabriel stood “What else would I say?”

Across the room, one of the players made an exaggerated kissing noise, Gabriel threw a roll of tape at him.

That evening, you found him in the kitchen helping Rasmus with his Swedish homework. Your son sat at the counter, carefully writing words into a small notebook while Gabriel corrected his spelling.

You leaned against the doorway “Are we speaking Swedish?” Rasmus looked up immediately “Only because nobody else is here.” you smiled “Good job.”

Gabriel turned toward you and once again, he gave you the same look, soft, proud, completely in love.

You crossed your arms “You know people can see you doing that now.”

“Doing what?”

“Staring at me.”

“I’m looking at you.”

“There’s a difference.”

Gabriel walked over, placing both hands on your waist “I don’t care if people see.”

“You didn’t know they were filming before.”

“I still wouldn’t have cared.”

Rasmus made a dramatic noise from the counter “You’re being weird again.” Gabriel looked over his shoulder “You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You say that now.”

You laughed as Gabriel leaned down and kissed you. It was soft and familiar, the kind of kiss that came from years of choosing each other in quiet moments nobody else normally saw.

When he pulled away, his forehead rested against yours “Jag älskar dig,” he whispered (i love you)

You smiled “I understood that one.”

From the counter, Rasmus sighed loudly “You have to speak English when other people don’t understand.” Gabriel looked at you, fighting a smile “You taught him well.”

1. More Athletic

“Beau!” A shit eating grin is already spread across your face as his name leaves your lips. A hum sounds from where he stands over the sink in the bathroom, brushing his teeth before bed. “Do you ever wish you were more athletic?”

You hear a quick spit, rinse, and jiggle in the bathroom and then Beau materializes in the doorway, shirtless, sweatpants riding low on his hips, and it takes everything in you not to practically drool when he leans his whole weight onto the frame. He raises a questioning brow at you, because obviously he had heard you wrong, and intentionally flexes his stomach muscles as he smirks, “what was that, baby?”

As you lean back on your elbows, Briar Football hoodie bunching around your shoulders and tiny shorts riding high on your thighs, you try to keep your composure, “do you ever wish you were more athletic?” the sentence doesn’t even fully finish leaving your mouth before Beaus rolling his eyes.

“Unbelievable,” is muttered quietly, he walks over to where you’re leaned on his bed, holding his hands out. You give him a look, one he throws right back at you with a shake of his outstretched palm. “Give me your hand, baby.”

As soon as your fingers touch his, he’s pulling you into him, one of your hands being placed directly onto his abdomen, feeling the ridged muscles underneath smooth, warm skin. The other hand holding loosely onto his thick bicep, not even close to being fully wrapped around the band of muscle.

Beau guides your hand down his stomach, making sure you feel every dip and crevice packed heavily with pure strength from long days at the field and weight training. His pretty brown eyes hold yours in a constant stare, and he looks quite smug that you’re awestruck at his blatant display of ego. Or maybe that’s how you always look when you touch him like this, usually he’s too busy with his mouth, hands, and… other parts of his body to see how you react every time he takes his shirt off, or shows off his thick thighs.

“Athletic? Really, baby? I’m as athletic as they come.” He punctuates his point by flexing his bicep, removing one of his hands from yours and physically moving your head so your eyes go from where they’re frozen staring at his eyes, wide with astonishment, to looking at his arm muscles. Tight and tan, veins running underneath his skin, and you swear you’ve never seen a sexier forearm in your life.

Heat licks at your spine, your stomach in knots at how fine this man is in front of you. Hair damp from his shower, minty breath fanning across your face, and a stupidly hot grin that says how right he knows he is sitting on his lips. You have half a mind to drop to your knees right now and give him the head of his life if it means he lets you keep touching him like this.

But the thought of your phone, recording from a hidden corner in the room, catching Beau getting his dick sucked is too much for you to handle, you should be the only one to see that. You’re quick to remove yourself from him, because touching him short circuits your brains sometimes, and giggle to yourself as you try to pass by him.

His eyes track you as you cross his room, and grab something hidden behind a pile of books, and then his hands go through his hair as he sighs dramatically when you hold your phone up, almost victoriously, “tiktok,” is all you say.

2. Wiping Kisses

The first time you do it, you’re walking back to your dorm from dinner. Your hand is held tightly in his, your path isn’t straight what so ever, always moving a little left, a little right, and a smile is plastered onto your face.

Beau had texted you after practice, saying he needed to see you or he might die due to his coach basically making him see god on the field. And then he had texted you again, when you didn’t answer within 2 minutes saying this was cruel and unusual punishment. And then he triple texted, and thats when you decided to make him suffer.

You tried to do it when he kissed you as he got to your dorm to pick you up, but he was stage 3 clinger Beau and there was no avoiding or wiping any of what he gave you in the first 20 minutes of him seeing you, not that you’re complaining. But after eating and catching up for over an hour, the plan is very much in motion to make Beau suffer just a little bit.

Beau, none the wiser, is already setting himself up for failure. He’s been slowly pulling you into his orbit for the past few minutes, hand holding turning to his arm loosely around your waist, then around shoulder. His bigger body steering yours to the ice cream shop that he likes but won’t admit to, always blaming your sweet tooth instead of his undeniably bigger one.

A kiss is planted directly onto your forehead, absentminded most likely, Beau says sometimes he physically can’t help that he has to love you out loud, and that includes subconscious foreheads kisses. Unlucky for Beau, you’re set on being a menace to him tonight, so your hand goes up to your head and smoothes away where his lips had just been. You think he didn’t catch it, too busy staring at a squirrel that’s a little too close for comfort and let your hand drop back to your side. Have to try harder next time.

The next peck is placed onto your check after you find your seat at the ice cream shop, Beau telling you to get comfy while he goes and orders for the two of you. Your hand is quick to wipe away the kiss while he’s still looking at you smile at him in thanks. He catches that one for sure, and his eyebrows furrow, “you good?”

You nod, “why wouldn’t I be?” Beau just shakes his head and then goes to get your ice cream.

You’re surprised you get away with the third, after ice cream and the walk home, you’re both settled onto your couch, a show that you watch together paused on the tv, ready to go with the new episode that dropped the night before, and your legs draped over Beau when he leans over you to land a quick smooch right on your lips. One of his hands goes to the back of your neck, smoothing over your hair and moving his lips gently against yours for a moment before returning to his spot.

The sleeve of your shirt meets your lips in the next second and Beau scans your whole body like you’ve committed a crime against him, but decidedly keeps it to himself as you start the show. He stealthily does a quick breath check, and as far as he can tell his breath is fine, and even goes as far as to smell his shirt and armpit when you’re busy fussing with the blanket you had been sitting on, he smells like his deodorant and cologne.

He hand soothes up and down your leg as he goes over everything he had done the past few days, practice, class, dinner with you twice, study, drinks with the boys on Saturday, he had a scrimmage on Monday that he had to cancel on you for because it ran late, you can’t be mad at him for that, could you?

Before he knows it, the episode is over and you’re yapping about everything that had just happened, usually he loves these yap sessions, usually he’s the main yapper. You’re getting up to grab a glass of water and he’s following you like a lost puppy when he makes a split decision to test his theory on how to tell if you’re upset or not.

His hand meets your back, then full circles to your stomach as he turns you, your back pressing firmly against the wall as his lips capture yours. The gasp you let out is delicious, his mind already too focused on how you’re feeling and not how you’re feeling about him. Your arms are around his neck immediately, and when his lips leave yours to trails down your jaw, you almost forget about the suffering you’ve decided on today.

One of your arms leaves his neck, the sleeve of your shirt gliding across your lips as his kisses trails, just to immediately stop at the sight in front of him, “what the hell, baby?” Beau takes 2 full steps back from you as you burst into giggles.

You’re fully bent over laughing as he stands there, a pout firmly on his mouth. “is this because of Monday? Baby, I had to stay late-“ you’re quick to cut him off with a kiss, more giggles escaping you as his hands find your waist.

“You triple texted.” You say, as if that’s an actual answer, and Beaus face screws up as he prepares to rant about the 12 texts he got while at practice yesterday that explained exactly why you should get a pet fish and every name you have listed in your notes app for said fish.

3. Current Boyfriend

After seeing Allie pull the Current Boyfriend Trick on Dean, you knew you had to move fast. There was a chance Dean would tell Beau about the horrible thing Allie did to him, “she basically said she wants to break up, bro,” and there was a chance Dean would forget all about it the second he walked into the Football house for the party that night.

It was a few hours before the party was due to start, and you were feeling mischievous. You had just finished up hair and makeup, when Beau walks into your room and plops directly into your bed.

“Baby, Dean wants to pregame here with you and the girls,” he says it like he’s delivering a punishment, and truly he is. You know that Dean likes your choice in pregame drinks more than the Football boys, and the fact that Beau has decidedly held himself hostage in your dorm for the past few pregames makes Dean want to be at yours more than the Football house. But Dean hogs the snacks and is loud, and gets mad when more than 3 Kesha songs play.

You flip flop the idea in your head, turning to Beau with a happy smile on your face, “he can come if you do a fit check with me,” a groan immediately leaves his throat, but he’s already standing up and offering you a hand before you can take him seriously. You know he would do one with you anyway, he loves to show you off.

You quickly get dressed, something cute and then you’re party ready, a whistle leaves Beaus lips as you do a little twirl for him and you can’t help but giggle. As you’re setting up your phone, Beau gets into position, he knows your habits by now, having done enough of these by now to know what angles you like and what side you prefer to stand on.

“Hey guys, here’s the fit check for tonight’s party! My tops Akira and bottoms are thrifted! Necklace is Kendra Scott! And this is my current boyfriend, Beau! Your turn!” you’re met with silence as Beau stars at you, mouth open.

“Beau, baby, your turn!” you smile at the camera, playing up your fit check as you push him forward a little. Beau igonores your recording completely, turning his whole body to you.

“Current?” He’s stunned to say the least and he looks genuinely upset. But the smile on your face doesn’t fade as you nod at him. Thank god for Dean and his short term memory loss.

“Yeah, current boyfriend. Where’s your shirt from? Cove?” You’re pulling at the bottom of his shirt but he’s stuck 10 seconds in the past, his head spinning slightly at the thought of him not ever being your significant other. He nods, and you think he’s catching up on the conversation, but then he turns to your desk and grabs something.

Before you can even blink he’s got your left hand held in his and a sharpie held to your left ring finger. He’s drawing a line around it with a big circle in the middle at the bottom of your finger. Now you’re the one shocked, mouth agap as he draws a ring onto your finger. When he’s done, he plops the sharpie back on your desk and gives you a quick kiss on the head before going back to your recording.

“Hey, I’m Beau, current boyfriend, future husband and father of her children, my shirt is from Cove and pants are old navy i think, my mom bought them last time she visited. Oh my chain, baby you bought this for me for our 2 year anniversary right?” the absolute shit eating grin on his face as he turns to you and sees your staring at your finger still is what gets your video to a million views by the end of the night.

You had given up on sleep nearly an hour ago.

At five months pregnant, getting comfortable had become a nightly challenge. The baby seemed to have a personal vendetta against whichever side you chose to lie on, your lower back ached constantly, and tonight, your mind simply refused to quiet down.

Beside you, Bowen slept deeply.

He had come home exhausted after a particularly physical game, barely managing to shower before collapsing into bed. You had smiled when his head hit the pillow and he fell asleep almost immediately, one hand instinctively settling over the curve of your stomach.

You had stayed there as long as you could, listening to his steady breathing and trying not to move. But after another twenty minutes of staring at the ceiling, you carefully lifted his hand, placed it on the mattress, and slipped out of bed.

The house was silent as you padded downstairs.

You poured yourself a glass of water, then stood in front of the refrigerator as though it might offer some explanation for why you were awake at two in the morning.

Nothing looked appealing, well, almost nothing.

You found the container of strawberries Bowen had washed for you earlier, took a few, and leaned against the kitchen counter. The overhead lights felt too harsh, so you left them off, allowing only the soft light above the stove and the moonlight filtering through the windows to illuminate the room.

Your phone sat on the counter beside you.

Without thinking much about it, you opened your music and selected one of the slower songs from the playlist you and Bowen had made together when you first started dating.

The opening notes filled the kitchen quietly, a smile tugged at your lips.

You remembered dancing to it with him years ago in the living room of his apartment, back when neither of you had much furniture. You had been surrounded by half-open boxes and takeout containers, his hands resting cautiously on your waist as though he was still afraid of doing something wrong.

Now, years later, the two of you had a home together and a baby on the way.

Your hand drifted toward your stomach, the baby moved beneath your palm, a small flutter that made your chest tighten with affection “Can’t sleep either?” you whispered.

Another soft movement answered you. You laughed quietly, setting the half-eaten strawberry down.

Then, surrounded by the peaceful darkness of the kitchen, you began to sway. It wasn’t really dancing at first. You simply shifted your weight from one foot to the other, one hand supporting the underside of your stomach while the other rested over the place where the baby had moved.

But as the music continued, you slowly turned across the kitchen tiles.

“You’re going to have to get used to this,” you murmured to your stomach. “Your dad loves dancing when nobody’s watching.”

“That’s not true.”

You startled so badly that your hand flew to your chest, Bowen stood in the kitchen doorway. His hair was messy from sleep, his eyes barely open, and he was wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants. Despite looking completely exhausted, there was an amused smile spreading across his face “Bo,” you breathed. “You scared me.”

“Sorry.” His voice was rough with sleep. “I woke up and you were gone.”

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“I noticed.”

You glanced toward your phone, suddenly feeling embarrassed that he had caught you spinning around the kitchen alone “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to hear you telling our unborn child lies about me.”

“They’re not lies.”

“I don’t dance.”

“You danced with me when we moved into your old apartment.”

“That was one time.”

“And at our wedding.”

“That was required.”

“And in the hallway after we found out I was pregnant.”

His expression softened immediately “That was different.”

You raised an eyebrow. “How?”

“Because I was happy.” The simple answer made your heart ache.

Bowen crossed the kitchen slowly, stopping in front of you. His gaze lowered to your stomach, and his hands settled carefully on either side of it “Are you okay?” he asked.

“I’m fine. Just uncomfortable.”

“Is the baby kicking?”

“A little.”

He looked offended. “At two in the morning?”

“Your child.”

“Our child when they’re behaving,” he corrected. “My child when they’re keeping you awake.”

You laughed, reaching up to smooth down a piece of his hair. It immediately sprang back into place “You should go back to bed,” you told him. “You’re exhausted.”

“So are you.”

“I didn’t get slammed into the boards for three periods.”

“No, you’re just growing an entire human.” His thumbs brushed gently over your shirt “I think that wins.”

The song changed, but another slow one began playing. Bowen glanced toward your phone before holding one hand out to you, you stared at it “What are you doing?”

“Proving your story right.”

“You just said you don’t dance.”

“I don’t.” He curled his fingers impatiently. “Come here.”

Smiling, you placed your hand in his. Bowen pulled you closer, carefully adjusting his stance to leave enough space for your stomach between you. One of his hands settled at your lower back while the other held yours against his chest.

You rested your head beneath his chin, for a moment, neither of you spoke.

You simply swayed together in the dim kitchen, barefoot and half asleep, while the refrigerator hummed behind you. Bowen pressed his lips to the top of your head “Were you dancing with the baby?” he asked quietly.

“Mhm.”

“Without me?”

“You were sleeping.”

“I could’ve been invited.”

“You could barely keep your eyes open when you came home.”

“I’m awake now.”

“Barely.” His hand rubbed slow circles against your aching back, you melted closer to him, releasing a quiet sigh as some of the pressure eased “Better?” he murmured.

“Much better.” He continued massaging the sore spot while guiding you in small, careful circles around the kitchen.

Then the baby kicked and Bowen froze “Was that—”

“Yeah.”

His eyes widened as he looked down between you, the baby moved again, this time directly beneath where his hand rested, a tired smile transformed his entire face “Hey,” he whispered, lowering his hand to your stomach. “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“They’ve inherited your schedule.”

“That’s concerning.”

“You’re telling me.”

Bowen lowered himself slightly, pressing a kiss against the curve of your stomach through your shirt “Let your mommy rest” he murmured. “She needs sleep.”

You threaded your fingers through his hair “And what about you?”

“I’ll survive.”

“You have practice tomorrow.”

“I’ll still survive.”

He straightened and pulled you back against him, resting his cheek on top of your head. You remained in the kitchen long after the song ended, swaying to music neither of you was really listening to anymore.

Eventually, Bowen noticed your eyes beginning to close “Come on,” he whispered.

“I don’t want to go back upstairs.”

“Why?”

“I won’t be able to get comfortable.” He considered this for a moment, then he bent down, placing one arm behind your knees and the other around your back. “Bowen—” He lifted you before you could finish protesting “You played an entire game tonight,” you reminded him, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“And?”

“And you’re tired.”

“So stop arguing before I drop you.”

“You would never drop me.”

“No,” he admitted, kissing your forehead. “I wouldn’t.”

He carried you into the living room instead of upstairs, arranging the pillows on the couch before lowering you carefully onto them. Then he disappeared for a moment and returned with the blanket from your bed “You stole our blanket,” you said.

“I relocated it.”

He lay down beside you, pulling you against his chest with your back supported by the cushions. His hand returned to your stomach as though it belonged there. Within minutes, his breathing became slow again, you smiled, assuming he had fallen asleep. Then his sleepy voice broke the silence “Next time you’re dancing in the kitchen at two in the morning, wake me up.”

“You’ll complain.”

“Probably.”

“And you’ll be tired.”

“Definitely.”

You turned your head enough to look at him, his eyes remained closed, but a faint smile rested on his lips “Still wake me up,” he murmured. “I don’t want to miss it.”

Your throat tightened, you leaned forward and kissed the corner of his mouth “Okay.” Bowen pulled you closer, his palm warm over the baby as the three of you finally settled into sleep together.

The summer nights in Germany were warmer than you had expected.

Even with the bedroom window cracked open, the air felt heavy, carrying the soft chirping of crickets and the occasional sound of a car passing along the quiet street outside. You had kicked the blankets away hours ago, and the small fan in the corner did little more than circulate the warmth around the room.

The two cribs beside the bed remained empty. Not because Ben and Anne were awake.

For the first time since bringing the twins home, both babies were sleeping peacefully. They simply refused to sleep anywhere except on their parents.

Lukas sat against the headboard without a shirt, one protective arm wrapped around Anne as she slept sprawled across his bare chest. Her cheek rested directly over his heart, her tiny lips parted while her breaths warmed his skin.

You were beside him with Ben tucked against your chest, nursing lazily despite having fallen asleep several minutes earlier.

Every time you attempted to detach him, his little face scrunched and his fingers tightened against you as though he could sense that you were trying to move him “They’re spoiled,” you whispered.

Lukas looked down at Anne, whose entire body seemed to relax further whenever he gently moved his hand along her back “They’re newborns,” he corrected softly. “They can’t be spoiled.”

“You say that because Anne has decided you’re her personal mattress.”

“She has good taste.” You rolled your eyes, though the smile pulling at your lips gave you away.

Lukas had been completely devoted to the twins from the moment they were born. During your pregnancy, he had worried constantly about whether he would know what to do. He had read books, watched videos and asked his parents so many questions that his mother eventually told him he needed to trust his instincts.

The moment the twins arrived, those instincts seemed to take over.

He changed diapers without being asked, paced the halls at night with one baby tucked securely against his chest and always made sure you had eaten before worrying about himself. He refilled your water bottle whenever you breastfed and kept snacks beside the bed because he had read that nursing made you hungry.

He cared for Ben and Anne with a gentleness that made your chest ache.

But there was something particularly special about the way Lukas treated his daughter. Anne barely needed to make a sound before he was checking on her. He could identify her cry instantly, even when you still needed a few seconds to determine which twin was fussing.

He insisted she slept better against him because she liked hearing his heartbeat.

The fact that she apparently required him to be shirtless was something Lukas was far too proud of “She won’t stay asleep if I put a shirt on,” he explained seriously.

“You’ve tested that theory once.”

“And she woke up.”

“She woke up because you hit the bassinet with your knee.”

“That is not relevant.”

You quietly laughed, careful not to disturb Ben. “You just like having an excuse to walk around without a shirt.”

Lukas glanced at you with a knowing smile “You like sleeping on my bare chest too.”

Heat immediately rose into your cheeks. “That’s different.”

“How?”

“I’m your girlfriend.”

“And she’s my daughter.” You opened your mouth to respond, but nothing came out, Lukas smiled triumphantly. “Exactly.”

“There was absolutely no logic in anything you just said.”

“There was enough.”

Ben suddenly shifted against you, making a soft, unhappy sound when you adjusted your position. His face scrunched, and before he could begin crying, you settled him comfortably against your breast again.

He immediately relaxed. From beside you, Lukas sighed dramatically, you glanced at him “What?”

“He gets you all to himself.”

“He’s eating.”

“He’s been asleep for ten minutes.”

“He likes the comfort.”

Lukas narrowed his eyes playfully at his son. “Those were mine first.”

For a moment, you simply stared at him. Then a laugh escaped you before you could stop it, Anne stirred against Lukas’ chest, her tiny eyebrows pulling together as though deeply offended by the noise. Lukas immediately supported the back of her head, whispering soothingly in German until she settled again.

“You’re jealous of your newborn son,” you accused, struggling to keep your voice quiet through your laughter.

“I’m not jealous.”

“You just claimed ownership over my boobs.”

“They were my favorite pillows before he arrived.”

“Lukas!”

“What?” he whispered innocently. “It’s true.” Ben released you long enough to make a disgruntled little noise before latching again, Lukas stared down at him “He knows.”

“He’s three weeks old.”

“He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

You shook your head, still smiling. “Stop competing with your son.”

“I’m not competing. I’m just reminding him that he has to share.” As though offended by the suggestion, Ben’s hand opened against your chest and his fingers curled into your skin.

Lukas pointed at him. “See?” Before you could answer, Anne began to stir. Her mouth moved against Lukas’ chest, and she released a small whimper as she lifted her head. Lukas immediately sat straighter “She’s hungry.”

“I know.”

You carefully adjusted Ben before reaching toward your daughter. Lukas passed Anne into your arms, but the moment he moved her away from his chest, Ben began fussing.

His tiny cry grew louder as Anne settled against your other side “He doesn’t like when I hold her,” Lukas whispered.

“He doesn’t like when anyone else gets attention.”

Ben continued to whimper while you tried to position both babies. Anne rooted impatiently, turning her head against you, while her brother seemed more interested in protesting than eating.

Lukas watched you for a moment before moving closer “Tell me what you need.”

“The nursing pillow.” He grabbed it immediately, carefully placing it around your waist. He helped you support Anne before gently adjusting Ben’s body so both babies could lie comfortably across you.

The second they were settled and nursing together, the room became quiet again. Ben’s little hand remained pressed against you as though claiming his place, while Anne’s fingers curled loosely beside her cheek.

You released a tired breath and leaned back against the pillows, when you looked toward Lukas, he was staring at you. Not casually, he was watching you with such open admiration that you suddenly became self-conscious “What?” you asked.

He shook his head slowly. “Nothing.”

“You’re staring.”

“I know.”

You glanced down at yourself. Your hair was tied into a messy knot, your shirt was bunched beneath the nursing pillow and there were probably dark circles beneath your eyes from weeks without proper sleep “I look terrible.”

Lukas’ expression immediately changed “No, you don’t.”

“I haven’t showered today.”

“I don’t care.”

“I’m covered in milk.”

“I still don’t care.”

His gaze moved toward the twins, his expression softening as he watched them nurse“You’re feeding both of our babies at the same time,” he murmured. “How could I not look at you?”

Your throat tightened unexpectedly “It’s not exactly glamorous.”

“To me, it is.”

You gave him a doubtful look, Lukas shifted closer, resting one hand gently on your thigh “I mean it,” he said. “You carried them. You gave birth to them. Now they calm down just because they can hear your voice or feel you holding them.”

“They calm down with you too.”

“Anne does.”

At the sound of her name, Lukas’ eyes moved immediately toward his daughter. Anne was already beginning to fall asleep again, her sucking slowing while her body became heavier in your arms. Ben, however, remained determined “He’s going to stay there all night,” Lukas muttered.

“He’s hungry.”

“He’s always hungry.”

“He’s growing.”

“He’s possessive.”

You laughed quietly, Lukas leaned forward and brushed one finger over Ben’s soft cheek, he stopped nursing for half a second and frowned “He doesn’t like me interrupting,” Lukas observed.

“He’s jealous.”

“Of me?”

“Of Anne.”

Lukas looked unconvinced until Anne finished nursing and he carefully lifted her from your arms. The moment she was settled against his bare chest again, Ben released you and began crying.

Both you and Lukas froze “You see?” you whispered.

Lukas looked down at his son, then at Anne “Ben,” he said seriously, “she’s my baby too.” Ben cried louder, Anne responded with a startled whimper “Oh no.” Lukas immediately began rubbing his daughter’s back. “Don’t wake up, Prinzessin.”

“You have to take Ben too.”

“I only have one chest.”

“You have two arms.”

Carefully, Lukas shifted Anne to one side and reached for Ben with the other. You placed the little boy against his free shoulder, but Ben continued to fuss while staring in your direction “He wants you,” Lukas said.

“He wants to make sure you’re not replacing him with Anne.”

“I would never replace him.” Lukas lowered his face and kissed the top of Ben’s head “You hear that? Papa loves you too.”

Ben’s cries slowly softened, although he continued making small unhappy noises whenever Lukas kissed Anne “This is ridiculous,” Lukas whispered affectionately.

“He gets it from you.”

Lukas looked at you. “What does that mean?”

“You were jealous because he was breastfeeding.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

Lukas opened his mouth, clearly searching for an explanation,ou raised your eyebrows “He stole my spot,” he finally said.

“You’re both impossible.” Despite the protest, your entire expression softened as you watched him.

Lukas sat shirtless against the headboard with one newborn tucked into each arm. Anne was spread across his chest, perfectly peaceful again, while Ben remained against his shoulder, one tiny fist gripping the chain around Lukas’ neck.

Lukas looked exhausted.

His hair was messy, his eyes were heavy and there was a small milk stain on his shoulder from where Ben had spit up earlier. You had never found him more attractive “You’re staring now,” he said.

“I know.”

“Why?”

You smiled. “Because you’re a good dad.”

His teasing expression disappeared, Lukas looked down at the babies before swallowing softly “I’m trying.”

“You don’t have to try very hard.”

“I do.” He glanced at you again. “You make everything look easy.” you laughed under your breath. “Nothing about this is easy.”

“I know.” His voice softened. “That’s why I admire you.”

Your eyes burned with sudden tears, Lukas noticed immediately “No baby, please don't cry.”

“I’m hormonal.”

“I know.”

“You’re supposed to disagree.”

“You cried yesterday because my mom brought you bread.”

“It was good bread.”

“It was very good bread,” he agreed.

He carefully leaned toward you, still balancing both twins, and kissed you “You’re amazing,” he whispered. “Even when you’re tired. Even when you think you look terrible. Even when Ben steals you from me all day.”

You laughed through the tears. “You almost made that romantic.”

“It was romantic.”

“Until you mentioned being jealous of the baby.”

“I can be romantic and jealous.”

Anne stirred against his chest and tucked her face closer to him. Ben followed a second later, his body finally relaxing as Lukas continued gently rubbing both of their backs.

The room became quiet once more “You should put them in the cribs” you whispered.

Lukas looked toward the two empty beds “We could try.” Neither of you moved, Anne released a content little sigh and Ben tightened his grip on Lukas’ necklace “They look comfortable,” Lukas said.

“They always look comfortable on you.”

“So do you.”

He shifted slightly and stretched one arm toward you “Come here.”

“You already have both babies.”

“There’s still room.”

You carefully moved closer until your head rested against his shoulder, beside Ben. Lukas pressed a kiss into your hair while keeping both twins securely against his bare chest “There,” he murmured contentedly. “All my favorite people.”

“You won’t be saying that when your arms go numb.”

“They’re already numb.”

“Lukas.”

“But I’m not moving.” You smiled, closing your eyes as you listened to the steady beat of his heart beneath Anne’s cheek.

The cribs would remain empty for another night.

Ben would wake soon and demand to nurse again. Anne would refuse to settle unless her skin touched her father’s chest, and Lukas would continue pretending that he wasn’t secretly delighted by it. But with all four of you pressed together beneath the warm German summer air, you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

By the time midnight passed, you had tried everything.

You had given Romeo another dose of medicine exactly when the pediatrician said you could. You had run a warm bath and sat beside the tub while the steam loosened some of the congestion in his tiny chest. You had made him toast, then soup, then cut strawberries into little hearts because they were usually his favorite.

He had refused all of it.

Now your three-year-old was curled against you in the middle of your bed, his cheeks flushed with fever and his small body trembling every few minutes despite the blankets tucked around him.

“Daddy,” Romeo whimpered, you pressed your lips to his damp curls. “Daddy’s coming home, baby.”

It was the same answer you had given him for the last four hours.

Frank was supposed to have landed before ten. The Blackhawks’ road trip had ended that afternoon, and when he called from the airport, he had promised Romeo that he would be home before bedtime.

Then the flight had been delayed, first by an hour, then two, then indefinitely.

Frank had called whenever he could, apologizing even though none of it was his fault. He had spoken to Romeo over FaceTime, telling him how brave he was and promising that he was trying his hardest to get home.

Romeo had only stared at the screen with watery eyes “I need you here,” he had whispered.

The expression on Frank’s face had broken your heart “I know, buddy,” Frank had said softly. “I’m coming. I promise.”

But Romeo did not understand delayed flights or bad weather. He only understood that his dad had said he would be home, and he wasn’t.

And now he refused to sleep.

You had carried him into his own room twice, but the moment his back touched the mattress, he cried for you. When you brought him into your bed, he cried for Frank “Both,” he kept saying between tired sobs. “I need mommy and daddy”

You rubbed slow circles over his back, feeling each congested breath beneath your palm “I’m right here.”

“And Daddy.”

“Daddy too.”

“No.” Romeo lifted his head from your chest, his bottom lip trembling. “Daddy here.”

Your eyes burned, you had been holding yourself together all day. Through the fever, the coughing, the medicine, the calls to the pediatrician and the airport updates. You had stayed calm because Romeo needed you to be calm.

But you were exhausted, and your little boy was hurting, and there was nothing you could do to make it stop “I’m sorry, baby,” you whispered.

Romeo’s tiny hand touched your cheek “Why sad, Mama?”

That was all it took.

You turned your face away, but the first tear had already escaped. Then another followed, and suddenly you were crying silently into Romeo’s hair while trying desperately not to scare him.

You felt guilty immediately, he was the one who was sick. He was the one who needed comfort and you were supposed to make everything better.

Instead, you couldn’t even get him to sleep “I’m okay,” you said quickly, wiping your cheeks. “Mama’s okay.”

Romeo frowned, unconvinced “Does your tummy hurt?”

A broken laugh left you “No, sweetheart.”

“Medicine?”

“I don’t need medicine.”

He studied you for another moment before settling against your chest again “I want Daddy.”

“I know.” You reached blindly for your phone on the nightstand. There was still no new message from Frank.

The last one had come twenty minutes ago.

We landed. Waiting for the gate. I’m coming straight home.

You had not replied.

You knew Frank was doing everything he could, but you did not have the energy to type another reassuring message when you felt anything but reassured.

Romeo coughed against you, the sound rough enough to make your chest ache. You tightened your arms around him “I’m sorry,” you whispered again, though you weren’t sure whether you were apologizing to Romeo, Frank or yourself.

You did not hear the front door open, you did not hear Frank drop his bag in the entryway or hurry down the hallway, still wearing the same suit he had traveled in.

You only noticed him when the bedroom door opened.

Frank froze.

His hair was messy from hours of travel, his tie was loose around his neck and exhaustion shadowed his face. But the moment he saw you sitting against the headboard with Romeo in your arms and tears running down your cheeks, everything else disappeared from his expression.

“Hey,” he breathed, Romeo lifted his head so quickly that he immediately started coughing “Daddy!”

Frank crossed the room in seconds, he climbed onto the bed without taking off his shoes, gathering Romeo carefully against his chest“I’m here, buddy.” Frank kissed his warm forehead again and again. “Daddy’s here.”

Romeo clung to him with both arms “You took too long.”

“I know.” Frank closed his eyes, guilt passing over his face. “I’m so sorry.”

“Plane was mean.”

“The plane was very mean.”

Romeo gave a weak little nod, apparently satisfied with that explanation, before burying his face in Frank’s neck.

Frank held him tightly, one hand supporting the back of Romeo’s head. His eyes found yours over your son’s shoulder “Come here.” You shook your head as you wiped beneath your eyes. “I’m fine.”

Frank’s expression tightened “YN.”

“I’m just tired.”

“Come here,” he repeated gently.

You moved closer, and Frank immediately wrapped his free arm around you, pulling you against his side, the second your forehead touched his shoulder, your composure disappeared again “I couldn’t make it better,” you cried quietly. “He’s been miserable all day, and he wouldn’t eat, and he wouldn’t sleep. I tried everything, Frank.”

“I know.”

“I couldn’t take the pain away.”

Frank pressed his lips against your temple “You’re not supposed to be able to take it away.”

“I’m his mom.”

“And you took care of him.” His hand moved slowly up and down your back. “You gave him medicine, you called the doctor, you held him all night. You made sure he wasn’t alone.”

“But he needed you.”

“He needed both of us,” Frank corrected softly. “That doesn’t mean you weren’t enough.”

Romeo shifted between you, his tired eyes moving from your face to Frank’s “Both,” he murmured.

Frank’s expression softened “Yeah, buddy. Both.”

Romeo pointed toward the pillows. “Bed.” Frank finally kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his suit jacket. He placed Romeo carefully between you before lying down on the other side.

Romeo immediately reached for both of you, one hand wrapped around your finger while the other rested against Frank’s chest.

Frank pulled the blankets over the three of you “Better?” he whispered.

Romeo nodded “You stay?”

“All night.”

“You too, Mama?”

You brushed the curls away from his forehead. “All night.”

Romeo’s eyes finally began to close, Frank reached across him and took your hand, weaving his fingers through yours over Romeo’s small stomach.

For several minutes, neither of you spoke. You listened to Romeo’s breathing slowly become more even as the tension finally left his little body. Then Frank looked at you “You should’ve called me.”

“You were stuck on a plane.”

“I still would’ve stayed on the phone.”

“You were already worried.”

“So were you.”

You looked down at Romeo “I didn’t want you to feel worse when there was nothing you could do.” Frank lifted your hand and pressed a kiss to your knuckles “You don’t have to protect me from being his dad.”

Your throat tightened.

“And you don’t have to handle nights like this alone just because I’m away,” he continued. “You can call me. You can cry. You can tell me that it’s hard.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

You gave him a tired look, Frank smiled faintly before leaning across Romeo to kiss your forehead “You’re a good mom.”

You closed your eyes “I cried in front of him.”

“You’re still a good mom.”

“I lost my patience when he threw the soup.”

“You’re still a good mom.”

“I let him watch cartoons for almost six hours.”

“That might make you his favorite parent.” A quiet laugh escaped you, Frank smiled, relieved to hear it.

Between you, Romeo stirred “No talking,” he mumbled without opening his eyes. Frank immediately lowered his voice. “Sorry, boss.”

“Sleep.”

“Yes, sir.”

Romeo tightened his hold on both of your hands, within minutes, he was asleep, completely asleep. You stared at him in disbelief “That’s all it took?” you whispered.

Frank glanced down at the tiny boy sprawled between you “Apparently.”

“You owe me for the last five hours.”

“I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you.”

“You can start by taking the next medicine shift.”

“Done.”

“And breakfast.”

“Absolutely.”

“And if he wakes up asking for water—”

“I’m on it.” You settled deeper into the pillow, finally allowing your body to relax, Frank kept one hand linked with yours while the other rested protectively over Romeo’s back “I’m sorry I wasn’t here,” he whispered.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I still hated it.”

You squeezed his hand “You’re here now.” Frank looked at the two of you, his expression softening “I’m here now,” he agreed.

A laugh slips out of her, dry and disbelieving. “Oh, cool. We’re doing hostage situations now?”

“We’re talking.”

“We were talking. Then you started doing that thing where you use your captain voice like I’m a freshman who forgot to tape a stick.”

His mouth tightens. “You don’t even know how to tape a stick.”

“And yet I still know you’re being a dick.”

Garrett drags a hand through his hair, curls springing up messier after his fingers leave them, and the motion is so familiar it almost makes her angrier. She knows him like this now. Knows the little tells. The hand through the hair when he’s trying not to yell. The jaw twitch when something hits hard. The way he plants his feet like stubbornness is a defensive formation. 

It makes her stomach feel hot and hollow at the same time, like her body is still waiting for him to do the right thing even though her brain has started packing up.

“You left after the game,” he says.

“I went home.”

“You didn’t say anything.”

“You were busy.”

His eyes flash. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That.” He points at her, frustrated. “That fucking thing where you say something normal but you mean something else.”

She smiles, and it feels sharp enough to cut the inside of her mouth. “Sorry. I forgot you only like direct communication when it’s convenient for you.”

Garrett scoffs. “Jesus Christ.”

“No, because this is funny, actually.” She drops one boot by her feet, then the other, because if she holds onto them any tighter she’s going to throw one at his stupid beautiful head. “You don’t get to be mad that I’m acting casual, Garrett. You built the whole fucking cage and then got offended when I stopped wanting to live in it.”

His face changes. 

She steps closer because the hurt is turning bright in her chest now, hot enough to make her reckless. “You wanted me when I was easy to keep in your bed. You wanted me when it was fun. When you could say I wasn’t your girlfriend and still get pissy if someone looked at me too long. You liked all the parts where I made you feel good, but the second you started feeling something you didn’t know what to do with, suddenly I’m frustrating.”

“You are frustrating,” he snaps, immediate and rough. “You’re fucking impossible.”

“Great.” Her throat pulls tight around the word. She hates that. Hates the little pinch behind her nose, hates that her body is trying to betray her into softness while he’s standing there angry and gorgeous and terrified of his own feelings. “Then move.”

“No.”

“Garrett.”

“No, because you do this. You push and push and push until I say the wrong thing, and then you get to leave like I’m the asshole and you’re just some innocent bystander in my room.”

Her breath stops for half a second.

He sees it, because Garrett notices everything when it’s inconvenient and nothing when it matters. His chest rises once, hard. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing?”

She laughs again, but it comes out smaller. “What am I doing?”

“You’re making it my fault.”

That lands wrong. It lands so wrong she actually goes still. Then her chin lifts. “No, Garrett. You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to make me the reason you don’t know how to be honest.”

“I am being honest!”

“No, you’re being loud!”

His mouth shuts.

The silence rings. Her pulse is everywhere – wrists, throat, the backs of her knees. She wants to shove past him. She wants him to grab her. She wants, horribly, stupidly, for him to say one thing that doesn’t come wrapped in defence first.

Garrett looks at her for one long second, and something in his face gives, like a door kicked open from the inside.

“Fine,” he says, low. “You want honest?”

She doesn’t answer.

He laughs once, humourless, staring at the floor before his eyes come back to hers. “I’m in love with you.”

Everything in her goes silent. Downstairs, someone cheers. The sound comes up muffled and stupid and impossibly far away.

Garrett’s throat works. He looks angry about it, almost, like the words have left marks coming out. “There. Happy? I’m in love with you, and I want to be with you, and I hate that you make me feel like I’m losing my mind every time you look at me like you’re already halfway out the door.” His voice cracks at the edge, not enough to break, just enough to make it real. “You’re so fucking frustrating because I don’t know how to want you a normal amount.”

She stares at him.

For once, there’s nothing ready in her mouth. The whole room seems to tilt a fraction, Garrett standing there with his hands half-curled at his sides and his face open in the worst possible way, like he’s given her something sharp and is waiting to see where she puts it.

Her fingers feel numb. “What?” she says.

Garrett’s expression flickers. “Don’t make me say it again.”

She blinks, and her eyes burn so suddenly she has to look away. At the desk. The hoodie. The stupid empty Gatorade bottle near his books. Anything but him.

“I can’t,” she says, and the words come out before she knows what they mean.

Garrett goes still. “Can’t what?”

She grabs her boots. Her hands shake once, quick and humiliating, so she tightens them into fists around the leather. “I can’t do this with you right now.”

“Baby–”

“No.” She looks at him then, because that’s worse and she loves making things worse. “Don’t baby me after that.”

He looks like she hit him. Good, some ugly part of her thinks. Then immediately hates herself for it. Garrett steps back from the door. 

She walks past him without touching. Her shoulder nearly brushes his chest, and every inch of her body screams about the space between them, about his warmth, about the fact that he doesn’t reach for her.

At the doorway, she stops for half a second. She doesn’t turn around.

Behind her, Garrett’s voice comes out rough. “You’re leaving?”

She swallows. The hallway swims a little at the edges.

“Yeah,” she says, barely above a whisper. “That’s what casual does, right?”

Then she goes, barefoot down the stairs with her boots in her hand, while Garrett stays in his room and says nothing at all.

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"You're more than fit, Nightwing. You can handle another one."

"You think so?" In a second, his expression changes. Dick grabs you by the wrists, twists your body with ridiculous ease, and leaves you beneath him, one knee between your legs and your arms pinned above your head.

"You know normal people only get one round?" he mutters playfully.

He slides his mouth down your neck, to your collarbone. He sucks right where you know he'll leave a mark. His hands release your wrists, but only to run his rough hands all over your naked body, stroking that impatient, dripping pussy of yours.

"That's it," he whispers against your ear. "You're going to make me late again, you know?"

You don't answer. You just moan under his touch, and that brings out a cocky smile from him. He knew the answer. He always does.

His fingers sink into you without warning, moving with a delicious rhythm that forces your back to arch. But he gives you no respite.

"Did you want another round, gorgeous?" he asks, his lips brushing against yours, barely touching you. "Then you're going to earn it."

Before you can say anything, he's already sliding down. He spreads your legs with ease and begins to eat you out with a mixture of hunger and devotion that leaves you breathless. His tongue works as if it has a damn mission. And in part, it does: to leave you so trembling that you can't drag him back down for hours.

Your hands tangle in his hair, tugging unintentionally as your body writhes beneath his mouth.

"Dick... please..."

"Please, what?" he asks in a husky voice, his lips wet, his eyes shining with perversion. "Did you want another one? I'll give it to you. But I'll ruin you first."

▬★

"She wants me at the party, she wants me at the mall"

Dick Grayson always looks impeccable, but there was no better version than Dick Grayson in a tailored black suit, his blue tie, charming smile, and his usual confident posture. He's an expert at moving through high society without losing that mischievous air that distinguishes him. And, as always, he has the attention of every woman in the room.

You just watch him from a distance, drink in hand, dressed in that dress he'd picked out for you once. The one that left him spellbound, so he couldn't take his eyes off your chest. And every movement you made made Dick want to forget about the gala, about Bruce, about all of Gotham.

Since he looked so good in that white shirt that perfectly covered his hard-working body, the one you slept in every night, you should definitely make him wear more suits.

You approached him through the crowd, Dick interrupts his conversation kindly once he sees you closer.

“Can we talk for a second?” you asked, in the sweetest tone you could muster, not letting on any malice you had in mind.

Dick nods immediately, and reflexively follows you without asking any questions.

You lead him down one of the hall's side corridors, to a quiet area, away from the hustle and bustle and prying eyes. The light is soft, golden. The sound of the music barely reaches you. Dick crosses his arms, curious.

“What's up?” he asks with a smile. “Are you bored without me?”

You chuckled softly and shook your head, taking a step closer. Your eyes were brighter than ever, with that mischievous reflex you usually had when you wanted to tell him something in secret. You fiddled with the fabric of your own dress, lowering your gaze slightly, as if you were embarrassed by what you were about to say.

“It’s just… I don’t know if I should say this now,” you whisper, biting your lip.

Dick leans in slightly, intrigued. “Tell me what, swet heart?” He runs his hand gently through your hair, gently tucking a strand behind your ear.

You looked up, looked at him with those good-girl eyes he knew so well. And you let go, softly, sweetly, as if you were saying "I love you" for the first time.

“I want to suck your cock.”

The silence is immediate.

Dick blinks. Once. Twice. The air suddenly feels thick. He stands there, staring at her, processing the sentence. Because it wasn't just what you said. It was how she said it. So cute, so damn sweet.

“You…” he begins, a nervous laugh escaping him. “You can’t say that like that, not here. Not with that voice.”

You tilted your head, pretending not to understand. “What did I do wrong?”

“What did you do wrong?” he repeats, his eyes darting around, as if he were already deciding which wall to use. “Do you know what you do to me when you talk like that?”

You shake your head with completely feigned innocence. “What if I just… walk you to your car? Just a second. Just to… distract you, you look a little overwhelmed,” you say, running a finger along his tie.

Dick closes his eyes for a moment, as if it takes all his willpower not to drag her down that hallway right now. “You’re going to be the death of me. You know that, right?”

Dick didn't respond immediately. Instead, he took your hand firmly, and without looking back, led you through one of the side doors that led to the building's private parking lot. No one saw them. No one dared to stop him.

The car was just steps away. One of Bruce's. Tinted windows, total luxury… and, above all, privacy.

He opened the back door without a word, and before you could even mock his urgency, he'd helped you in carefully, without wrinkling your dress too much. He closed it behind him and stared at you, still kneeling in the seat, breathing heavily.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do with you,” he murmured, unable to stop staring at your mouth.

You, with the same innocent sweetness as before, leaned towards him, brought your hands to the knot of his blue tie and slowly loosened it.

“I have a couple of ideas, but we need more space.”

Your fingers moved down his white shirt, unbuttoning the first button, then the second… but Dick was barely breathing. His gaze burned, fixed on you, somewhere between exhaustion and on the verge of collapse.

Slowly, you knelt between the seats, your smile as soft as it was dangerous.

“Is this okay?” you asked in a low voice, unbuckling his belt with a skill only someone who knew him so well could possess.

Dick let out a stifled laugh, closing his eyes as he leaned his head back against the seat. "Now you're worried about that?"

You looked at him once more, as if seeking confirmation that he really wanted this. He looked back at you, completely lost in you.

And then you did it .

Slowly, as if you were tasting a sweet treat for the first time. Caressing him with your lips, with your tongue, with that tenderness and adoration that only you knew how to turn into torture.

Dick placed one hand against the fogged-up glass of the car, the other on the back of your neck, not pressing you, just holding you, as if he needed to hold on to something real to keep from losing control.

Your every move was measured, precise, delicate, and devastating at the same time. You knew him so well that you knew exactly when to speed up, when to play, when to stop for a second and look down on him, with that angelic face that had already earned its place in heaven...

▬▬★

"She just wants to fuck me all the time"

The sound of gloves hitting, the creaking of mats, and the rhythmic panting of labored breaths filled the space. you were in the middle of a sparring session. you and Dick, face to face on the mat, exchanging measured but intense blows.

He was focused, sweaty, his black T-shirt clinging to his body, his arm muscles flexing with every movement. Every kick, every spin, made him look even more irresistible. There was no way to hide it: you were distracted. Very distracted.

The roll of his hips as he kicked. The way he panted. The deep sound of his voice as he gave orders. Your mind wasn't on the practice. It was on his body above yours.

At one point, he takes a few steps back to give you space. He cranes his neck, wipes the sweat with the back of his forearm, and looks at you.

"Your turn. come on"

His voice snaps you out of your trance, but it's too late. You're horny. Too horny to be honest.

You stand, hiding it as best you can, but as soon as you get close, he notices. Dick always notices. Your dilated pupils. Your breathing. The way you lower your gaze directly to his neck.

He raises an eyebrow, amused. “Are you okay?”

"Perfect" you lie.

"Then fight," he smiles, giving you the first soft blow with his glove, as a provocation.

But as soon as you're in front of him, you give in to temptation. Your hand doesn't go to the glove. It goes to the collar of his shirt. You get closer than necessary. Your lips brush his ear. "You're all sweaty... it smells so good..."

Dick lets out a grunt and in a second he has you cornered against the mat wall, his forearm blocking your way. "Are you horny? Here, while we're training? such a needy whore" he whispers, his voice tense and dark.

"It's not my fault you're so fucking sexy when you give orders."

He looks you for a few seconds, assessing. Then he shakes his head, a crooked smile crossing his face."You're impossible."

He quickly spins you around, pressing your body against the wall, his hard crotch already resting against your ass. His hand moves straight down to your crotch inside your leggings, and when he feels how wet you are, he lets out an exasperated sigh. "Jesus Christ… You’re soaked."

Dick already had his hand inside your leggings when you reacted with a sly smile.

"I'm not going to let you win that easily," you whisper to him, just before turning around abruptly.

He didn't expect it.

You hook him with a swift kick to the thigh and take advantage of his slightest distraction to pull on his arm, knocking him off balance. You both fall to the mat with a thud, but you remain on top, with your knees on either side of his hips.

Dick snorts, clearly surprised, and looks at you with a mixture of pride and annoyance. "Are you playing, or do you want to fight for real?"

"this is my foreplay " you say, with a mischievous smile. You lean over him, placing one hand firmly on his chest while the other goes straight to his waist. He doesn't even move. He just watches you, his eyes narrowed.

"Don't even think about it… "

But you don't let him finish. With a swift movement, you push your hips down, positioning yourself right over his erection through his clothes. The moan he lets out isn't from pain. It's pure instinct.

"What are you doing?" he growls, grabbing your hips. "This is a workout, not an invitation to fuck me with my clothes on."

“Then take me down,” you challenge, starting to move slowly, pressing your core against his member with a friction that draws a low sigh from you.

He grits his teeth. His hands tighten around your waist, as if he's struggling between pushing you off him and pushing you closer. "You're a fucking temptation," he says, his voice deep and husky. "A fucking distraction with legs."

"You're too weak," you tease. "Look at you, you can't even concentrate."

He flips you over with a ferocious snarl, trapping you underneath him in the blink of an eye, his body pressing yours into the mats.

But just as he's about to rip your leggings off...

"Richard." Bruce's dry voice comes back through the cave's speaker.

The silence falls. Dick rests his forehead against your collarbone. He says nothing.

A heavy, warm hand slides up your spine. Calloused fingertips trace the line of your vertebrae with agonizing gentleness, right up to the nape of your neck, before a soft pair of lips presses against the healing mating bite over your scent gland.

“Morning, beautiful,” Dean’s voice rumbles, low and gravelly with sleep.

You let out a soft, contented sigh, shifting backward until your body is perfectly flush against his solid chest. The bond humming beneath your skin flares to life, vibrating with a deep, answering affection. “Morning.”

“How are you feeling?” He asks, his arm wrapping around your waist to pull you even closer. “The fever is completely gone. You feel cool.”

“I feel like I ran a marathon,” you mumble, keeping your eyes closed. “Or maybe ten marathons. I can barely lift my arms.”

Dean chuckles, the sound vibrating against your back. “That’s fair. You put in a lot of work this week, sweetheart.”

You flush hotly, the memories of the past seven days rushing back. It had been a blur of skin, heat, and absolute biological demand. Every time you thought the wave was cresting, it would pull you back under, and Dean had been there for every single second of it. He hadn’t just taken care of you; he had worshipped you. He fed you when you were too weak to sit up, carried you to the bath when you were slick with sweat, and answered every single one of your omega’s frantic pleas with absolute, unyielding devotion.

“You must be exhausted,” you say, finally cracking your eyes open and turning your head to look at him over your shoulder.

Dean looks beautifully wrecked. His blonde hair is sticking up in every direction, his jaw is covered in a week’s worth of golden scruff, and there are faint, dark circles under his eyes. But his green eyes are bright, practically glowing with a fierce, settled contentment.

“I’ve never felt better in my entire life,” Dean says honestly. He props his head up on his hand, looking down at you. “You’re perfect. You did so good. I’m so damn proud of you.”

Tears immediately prick your eyes. Your emotions are still completely raw, sitting right on the surface. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true,” he promises, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Now, stay here. Don’t move a muscle. I’m going to make us some coffee and get some actual food in you. Room service brought up a massive breakfast spread about an hour ago.”

He climbs out of the nest, completely unbothered by his lack of clothing, and pulls on a pair of grey sweatpants low on his hips. You watch him walk out to the main living area, admiring the broad slope of his shoulders and the way his muscles shift under his skin.

He’s your mate. The reality of it still knocks the breath completely out of your lungs.

A few minutes later, Dean returns carrying a tray loaded with pancakes, bacon, fresh fruit, and two massive mugs of coffee. He sets it on the nightstand and climbs back into the bed, carefully pulling you up so your back is resting against the headboard. He grabs one of his oversized Briar hockey hoodies from the edge of the nest and gently pulls it over your head, completely cocooning you in his scent and warmth.

“Eat,” he commands gently, handing you a fork.

You actually have an appetite this morning. The two of you eat in comfortable, easy silence, occasionally stealing bites from each other’s plates. It feels incredibly domestic. It feels like the start of the rest of your life.

When the plates are mostly cleared, Dean sets his coffee mug down and clears his throat.

“So,” he begins, leaning back against the pillows and crossing his arms over his chest. “We need to make some phone calls.”

Your stomach does a complicated, nervous flip. “Phone calls?”

“To our parents,” Dean says. He watches your face carefully, instantly picking up on the spike of anxiety pushing through the bond. He reaches out, wrapping his hand around your ankle under the blankets. “Hey. It’s okay. I want to call mine first. I want them to know I found you. Is that alright?”

You swallow hard and nod. “Yeah. Yes, of course.”

“Do you want me to step out into the living room?”

“No,” you say quickly. “No, stay here. I want to hear.”

Dean smiles, a soft, incredibly tender expression. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabs his phone, and dials. He hits the speakerphone button and tosses the phone onto the mattress between you.

It rings twice before a bright, elegant voice answers.

“Dean? Honey, it’s barely ten in the morning on a Sunday. Are you actually awake, or is the frat house on fire?”

Dean laughs. “No fire, Mom. I’m wide awake. Is Dad there?”

“Peter!” His mother calls out, her voice slightly muffled as she pulls the phone away. “Pick up the line in the study! It’s Dean!” A second later, a deep, authoritative voice clicks onto the line.

“Morning, son. Everything alright?”

“Everything is perfect,” Dean says, leaning forward. He reaches out and takes your hand, lacing his fingers tightly with yours. “Better than perfect, actually. I found her.”

The silence on the line is instantaneous and absolute.

Then, his mother gasps. “Dean? Are you … are you serious?”

“I’m completely serious,” Dean says, his chest puffing out with undeniable alpha pride. “She’s right here with me. Her heat just broke this morning.”

“Oh my god,” his mother breathes, her voice suddenly thick with emotion. “Peter, he found his mate! Dean, this is incredible! Oh, darling, congratulations. We are so, so happy for you.”

“A fated mate,” his father adds, the strictness in his voice completely replaced by a warm, booming joy. “Well done, son. That’s the best news we’ve had in years. What’s her name? Is she a Briar student?”

Dean looks at you, his eyes shining. “Yeah, she goes to Briar. And she’s amazing. She’s the most beautiful, perfect omega I’ve ever met.”

You blush furiously, hiding your face in the oversized collar of Dean’s hoodie.

“Well, don’t keep her all to yourself!” His mother insists. “You need to bring her down to Greenwich immediately. We have to celebrate! I’ll have the staff air out the guest wing, or if she’d prefer, we can come up to Massachusetts. We can take you both out to dinner. Oh, I need to go shopping, I need to get her a welcoming gift-”

“Mom, hold on,” Dean interrupts gently. He gives your hand a firm squeeze. “I need you to listen to me for a second, okay? We aren’t coming to Greenwich right now, and you can’t come up here just yet.”

“Why?” His father asks, immediately picking up on the shift in Dean’s tone. “Is everything alright? Was the heat too hard on her?”

Dean takes a deep breath. “She had a rough time. A really rough time before I found her. Her family … they’re betas. Only betas.”

“Oh,” his mother says, her tone shifting to cautious understanding.

“They put her on suppressants when she was fourteen,” Dean continues, his voice hardening slightly at the memory. “Heavy, industrial-grade blockers. They tried to medicate her designation away because they thought it was an inconvenience. When I found her on campus a week ago, she was seizing on the concrete. She had Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome from the toxicity. She almost died.”

A sharp, horrified intake of breath comes from the phone.

“My god,” his father murmurs, completely appalled.

“They put a child on those poisons?” His mother asks, her voice trembling with genuine outrage and heartbreak. “Dean, that’s barbaric. That poor darling. Is she okay? Is she healthy?”

“She’s healthy now,” Dean assures them quickly. “We flushed her system at the hospital, but coming off them threw her straight into her first heat. She was terrified. Her parents completely convinced her that fated mates were a myth and that her biology was something to be ashamed of.”

“That is unacceptable,” his father states firmly, the high-powered attorney coming out in full force. “Absolutely unacceptable.”

“I know,” Dean says. “Which is why I’m telling you this. When we do finally come down to visit, or when you come up, I need you to be extra gentle with her. She’s never had a proper pack. She’s never seen how an omega is supposed to be treated in a real family. I need you guys to show her that this is a blessing, not a curse.”

“Dean, you don’t even have to ask,” his mother says, her voice thick with unshed tears. “You just tell us what she needs. We will spoil her absolutely rotten. We will show her exactly what it means to be cherished by this family. You just take care of her right now, okay? Let her recover. Let her get her bearings.”

“We’re sending a care package,” his father adds decisively. “Expect it by tomorrow. And Dean … tell her welcome to the family.”

“I will,” Dean says, a massive smile breaking out on his face. “Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Mom. I’ll call you guys later.”

“We love you, Dean. Send her our love!”

Dean hangs up the phone and looks at you.

You are openly crying, the tears spilling down your cheeks and soaking into the collar of the hoodie. You have never, not once in your entire life, heard adults talk about an omega with that level of reverence, care, and desperate protection. And they haven’t even officially met you yet. They just immediately accepted you because you are their son’s mate.

“Hey, no tears,” Dean murmurs, dropping the phone and pulling you onto his lap. He cradles you against his chest, pressing kisses into your hair. “They love you already. I told you, you’re a queen now.”

“They’re so nice,” you sob, clinging to his shirt. “They didn’t even care that I missed class for a week. They just cared if I was okay.”

“Because you’re what matters,” Dean says, rubbing your back. “Not your grades, not your schedule. You.”

You stay there for a long time, letting his words and the overwhelming support from his parents settle into your bones. It makes you feel brave. It makes you feel incredibly grounded.

You pull back slightly, wiping your eyes with the oversized sleeves of the hoodie. You take a deep, shaky breath.

“I need to call my parents.”

Dean frowns, his protective instincts immediately flaring. “You don’t have to do that right now. You can wait. Send a text.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I need to. I’ve been missing for a week. They’re probably worried sick. Or angry. Mostly angry. But I have to tell them.”

Dean studies your face, seeing the determination in your eyes. He hates it. He hates knowing what is likely waiting on the other end of that line, but he refuses to take your agency away.

“Okay,” Dean says softly. “But I’m right here. If they start their bullshit, I’m cutting it off.”

You nod, pulling your own phone off the charger on the nightstand. Your hands are shaking slightly as you scroll to your mother’s contact and hit call. You leave it off speakerphone, holding it tightly to your ear.

It rings four times.

“Hello?” Your mother’s crisp, impatient voice answers.

“Hi, Mom,” you say, your voice remarkably steady despite the racing of your heart.

“It’s about time,” she snaps immediately, the reprimand sharp and instant. “Do you have any idea how irresponsible you’ve been? I have been texting you for six days. I called your roommate, and she gave me some nonsense excuse about you being out of town. What is going on with you?”

You flinch slightly. Dean feels the spike of distress through the bond and immediately wraps his arm securely around your waist, anchoring you to him.

“Mom, I’m sorry I didn’t call,” you start, trying to keep your tone reasonable. “I was in the hospital.”

There is a brief pause. “The hospital? I saw a charge hit the insurance from Boston General, but when I called, they wouldn’t release your records to me because you’re an adult. What did you do to yourself?”

What did you do to yourself. Not are you okay? Not I was so worried. “I didn’t do anything,” you say, your voice hardening just a fraction. “The suppressants you and Dr. Davidson put me on caused a toxic reaction. I had a severe tonic-clonic seizure on the quad. I almost died, Mom.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” your mother sighs, a deeply irritated sound. “Dr. Davidson warned us that there might be some adverse side effects when we upped the dosage. It was just your body adjusting. You just needed to push through it. If you went to the hospital, I’m sure those doctors overreacted and pulled you off of them.”

You stare blankly at the wall, the sheer, willful ignorance of her words staggering you. “Yes, they pulled me off of them. Because they were poisoning me. Because they caused Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome.”

“Well, now what are we going to do?” Your mother demands, completely ignoring your near-death experience in favor of logistics. “You’ve been off them for a week. You must have missed your midterms. Do you know how hard it’s going to be to get those professors to let you retake them? You’re jeopardizing your entire semester for a temporary biological hiccup!”

“It’s not a hiccup!” You finally raise your voice, frustration bleeding through. “It’s my biology! Coming off the pills triggered my heat.”

“Ugh,” she groans, the sound dripping with disgust. “I knew it. A whole week wasted wallowing in a dorm room. We are calling Dr. Davidson on Monday. There has to be a different brand, something lower dose that won’t cause the seizures but will still keep you regulated-”

“I’m not taking them ever again.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, I’m never taking suppressants again,” you say firmly, the mating mark on your neck pulsing warmly, giving you strength. “I’m an omega. I’m done hiding it.”

“You are a modern woman,” your mother corrects sharply, her voice rising in anger. “You are not an animal ruled by hormones. I will not let you throw your life away just because you had a bad reaction to one medication. We worked too hard to make sure you were independent.”

“I am independent!” You argue, tears springing to your eyes again, this time entirely out of frustration. “But I also found my mate, Mom.”

The line goes dead silent.

“What did you just say?”

“I found my fated mate,” you repeat, your voice shaking but defiant. “The guy who found me on the quad when I was seizing … he’s an alpha. We mated. Everything you said was just a fairytale, everything you told me didn’t exist in real life … it’s real. And it’s better than I ever imagined.”

Your mother scoffs. It is a loud, derisive, mocking sound.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Really? This is what this is about?” Her tone is dripping with absolute condescension. “You had a medical emergency, you got scared, and some frat boy alpha fed you a line about being fated to get you into bed during your heat. And you fell for it. You used a fairytale to justify throwing away your medication schedule.”

“That’s not what happened!” You gasp, completely horrified by her cruelty.

“It’s exactly what happened,” your mother says ruthlessly. “Fated mates aren’t real. It’s just a chemical reaction, a biological trap to keep women subservient. And now you’ve bound yourself to some random college boy who is going to expect you to play house instead of focusing on your career. I am so deeply disappointed in you.”

The words hit you like physical blows. You curl in on yourself, a fractured sob tearing from your throat. “Mom, please. Just listen to me-”

“I have heard enough. You are going to pack your bags, you are going to march into your professors’ offices tomorrow and beg for make-up exams, and then you are going to call Dr. Davidson. Until you are ready to act like an adult and take control of your biology, I have nothing else to say to you.”

Before you can even try to respond, Dean’s hand completely covers yours.

He physically pulls the phone out of your grip. His face is a mask of pure, terrifying alpha fury. The air in the room practically drops ten degrees as his scent spikes with sharp, aggressive warning pheromones.

He brings the phone to his mouth.

“Listen to me very carefully,” Dean snarls into the receiver, his voice a lethal, vibrating threat. “Do not ever speak to my omega like that again. You lost the right to call yourself her mother the second you put your prejudice above her life. Do not call this number again.”

“Excuse me, who do you think you are-”

Dean hits the red end-call button, cutting her off mid-sentence.

He tosses the phone onto the floor, completely dismissing its existence, and immediately turns all his attention to you.

You are shaking violently, sobbing into your hands. The rejection cuts so incredibly deep. It’s exactly what you had always feared — that if you embraced who you were, your family would throw you away.

“Shh, baby, hey,” Dean murmurs, pulling your hands away from your face. He wraps his arms completely around you, dragging you fully onto his lap and pressing your face into his neck. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

“She hates me,” you cry, gripping handfuls of his t-shirt. “She didn’t even care that I was happy. She just cared that I ruined her perfect plan.”

“She’s toxic,” Dean says firmly, his hand rubbing soothing circles into your back. He pushes out waves of calming cedar, actively using the mating bond to try and force the panic and heartbreak out of your system. “She is a toxic, miserable person who can’t handle the fact that you have something she will never understand. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I just wanted her to be happy for me,” you whisper brokenly.

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” Dean kisses the top of your head, resting his cheek against your hair. “But you don’t need her. You don’t need any of them.”

You sniffle, looking up at him with red, swollen eyes. “I don’t?”

“No,” Dean says, his gaze burning with absolute certainty. He brings a hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb sweeping away a fresh tear. “Because you have me. And you have my family. We are your pack now. You hear me? You belong to us. We are going to celebrate you, and we are going to love you exactly the way you are.”

He leans in and kisses you, a deep, grounding kiss that tastes like salt and coffee and absolute devotion.

“I’m never letting anyone make you feel small again,” Dean vows against your lips. “You’re my omega. My beautiful, perfect omega. And from now on, your life is going to be a goddamn fairytale. I promise.”

You close your eyes, leaning into his strength, letting his scent wash away the lingering sting of your mother’s words. It hurts. The rejection hurts terribly.

But as Dean holds you tight against his chest, safe in the center of the nest he built just for you, you realize that for the first time in your life, you are finally, truly home.

***

Stepping out of the hotel feels like crossing the threshold between a dream and reality. Only, as Dean’s hand rests heavily and securely on the small of your back, guiding you toward his car in the underground garage, you realize reality is suddenly far better than any dream you could have conjured.

The air in the parking garage is cool, but you are wrapped in one of Dean’s thick, grey Briar Hockey zip-ups, perfectly insulated by the soft fleece and the overwhelming scent of your mate. Your body still hums with a lingering, pleasant ache from the past week, a constant physical reminder of the bond that now firmly tethers your soul to his.

“You good?” Dean asks, opening the passenger door for you. He pauses, his green eyes scanning your face with that intense, focused dedication he hasn’t dropped since he found you on the quad. “Not too tired?”

“I’m good, Dean,” you promise, offering a soft smile as you slide into the leather seat. “I promise. I just feel … different. Lighter.”

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to the mating bite resting over your scent gland. The jolt of electricity that shoots through your veins makes you gasp softly. Dean smirks against your skin, clearly pleased with his effect on you, before pulling back and shutting the door.

He climbs into the driver’s seat, starting the engine. “First stop, the dorms. We need to grab your essentials.”

“I should probably text Grace,” you say, pulling your phone out of your bag. You hadn’t looked at it since the disastrous call with your mother yesterday. True to his word, Dean had actively pushed out waves of calming alpha pheromones, completely smothering your anxiety and replacing it with a deep, settled peace. “She’s probably going to yell at me for going off the grid.”

“She can yell all she wants,” Dean says lazily, backing the SUV out of the parking spot. “As long as she doesn’t stress you out. If she stresses you out, I’m throwing her out the window.”

You roll your eyes, though a giggle escapes your lips. “She’s my best friend, Dean. And she’s a beta. You can’t throw her out a window.”

“Watch me,” he deadpans, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward.

The drive to campus is short. Dean navigates the familiar streets of Briar with practiced ease, pulling the heavy SUV right up to the curb outside your dorm building. He throws it into park, hopping out to open your door before you can even reach for the handle.

Walking into the dorm building with Dean Di Laurentis is an experience. Usually, you keep your head down, practically blending into the cinderblock walls to avoid drawing attention to yourself. Today, keeping a low profile is entirely impossible.

Dean entirely envelopes your space. He keeps one hand firmly laced with yours, his broad shoulders practically acting as a shield as he guides you through the crowded lobby.

Heads turn. Whispers instantly break out. Dean is a minor celebrity on campus, and the sight of him fiercely guarding a girl wearing his oversized hoodie sends shockwaves through the Sunday morning crowd. But Dean completely ignores them. He only has eyes for you.

When you reach your door on the third floor, you take a deep breath and push it open.

Grace is sitting at her desk, entirely surrounded by flashcards and empty coffee cups. She looks up, her eyes widening in immediate relief.

“Oh my god, you’re alive!” Grace shouts, jumping up from her chair and rushing toward you. “I have been calling you for-”

She stops dead in her tracks, about three feet away.

Her eyes dart from your face, down to your violently bruised lips, to the massive hockey hoodie, and finally, to the tall, imposing figure standing right behind your shoulder.

 Grace’s jaw practically hits the linoleum floor.

“No way,” Grace breathes, her eyes wide as saucers. She looks at you, then at Dean, then back at you. “No freaking way. You … and him? Dean Di Laurentis?”

Dean offers a charming, completely unapologetic grin, stepping forward to wrap his arm around your waist and pull your back flush against his chest. “Nice to meet you.”

“You … you smell different,” Grace says, taking a step back, her nose wrinkling slightly as she tries to process the heavy, mixed pheromones filling the small dorm room. Even as a beta, she can easily pick up on the intensity of the bond. Her eyes suddenly snap to your neck, catching a glimpse of the bruised, healing skin peeking out from the collar of the hoodie.

 Grace gasps, clapping a hand over her mouth. “You’re mated! You actually did it! You stopped taking the pills!”

“I did,” you say, a massive, genuine smile breaking across your face. You lean back against Dean’s chest, entirely unashamed. “Grace, this is Dean. My mate.”

“But … he’s Dean Di Laurentis,” Grace stammers, entirely bewildered. “He’s Briar’s resident man-whore! He literally had a line of girls waiting outside his frat house last week!”

Dean winces slightly, a faint dusting of pink hitting his cheeks. He tightens his grip on your waist. “Hey. Former. I’m retired. And technically, it’s not a frat house, it’s an off-campus rental. I only slept with betas because I was waiting for her.”

Grace stares at him for a long, calculating moment. She looks at the way his hand rests possessively on your hip, and the way his green eyes soften every time he looks down at you. The protective, devoted aura rolling off him is entirely undeniable.

Slowly, Grace smiles. “Well. It’s about damn time somebody treated you like a queen.”

“That’s exactly what I told her,” Dean says, instantly warming up to your roommate. He looks around the cramped, sterile dorm room. “Alright, beautiful. Where are your bags?”

You blink, looking up at him. “My bags? I only have a backpack for class tomorrow.”

“No,” Dean says patiently, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of your nose. “Your duffel bags. For your clothes.”

“Why do I need to pack my clothes?” You ask, completely confused.

Dean stops. He looks down at you, his brow furrowing slightly, before a slow, devastatingly arrogant smirk spreads across his lips. “Because you’re not sleeping here anymore, sweetheart. You live with me now.”

A rush of heat floods your cheeks, turning your face a brilliant shade of crimson. “I … I do?”

“Yes, you do,” Dean says, the humor fading into absolute, unshakeable sincerity. “You’re my omega. You think I’m going to let you sleep in a twin-sized dorm bed across campus from me? Not a chance in hell. You’re coming home. To our house.”

You stare at him, your heart doing a frantic, joyful flutter against your ribs. Moving in with a guy you technically met a week ago should feel terrifying. It should feel reckless. But it doesn’t. It feels like the most natural, inevitable thing in the world.

“Okay,” you whisper, the blush still burning on your cheeks. “Okay. Under the bed. There are some suitcases.”

Dean is a man on a mission. For the next thirty minutes, he practically tears through your side of the room. He pulls out your suitcases, expertly folding and packing your clothes with a terrifying efficiency.

Grace sits on her bed, entirely entertained by the sight of Briar’s hottest alpha meticulously folding your fuzzy socks and organizing your skincare routine into a vanity bag.

“I’m going to miss you,” Grace says softly as Dean zips up the final suitcase. “But I’m really, really happy for you.”

“I’ll still see you in class,” you promise, walking over to pull her into a tight hug. “And I’ll text you. Thank you, Grace. For always telling me not to settle.”

“Anytime,” she smiles, pulling back. She points a warning finger at Dean. “You break her heart, Di Laurentis, and I don’t care how big you are. I will destroy you.”

Dean hoists two massive suitcases over his shoulders like they weigh absolutely nothing. He looks at Grace, his expression dead serious. “If I ever do anything to hurt her, you have my full permission.”

He gestures toward the door with his chin. “Ready, baby?”

“Ready,” you say, grabbing your backpack.

***

The house Dean shares with his hockey teammates is massive, sprawling, and exactly what you would expect a group of athletic college guys to live in. It sits at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac just off campus, boasting a massive wrap-around porch and a perfectly manicured lawn that you heavily suspect Dean pays someone to maintain.

Dean pulls into the driveway, cutting the engine. He turns in his seat, reaching out to gently cup your cheek.

“Nervous?” He asks, his thumb stroking your skin.

“A little,” you admit, biting your lower lip. “I know who your roommates are, Dean. Everyone knows who they are. What if they think this is weird? What if they don’t want an omega in the house?”

Dean’s expression hardens instantly. “It’s my house. My grandfather bought it, the lease is in my name. And even if it wasn’t, Garrett, Logan, and Tuck are my brothers. They were at the hospital pacing the waiting room right next to me. They already know you’re mine, and they already respect you. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

He leans in, pressing a firm, reassuring kiss to your lips. “You’re pack now. They’ll treat you like it.”

Dean hops out of the car, grabbing your heavy suitcases from the trunk. He refuses to let you carry a single thing, hip-checking the front door open and ushering you inside.

The house smells like fresh pine, leather, and the distinct, overlapping scents of three other alphas. It’s a little overwhelming, but underneath it all, the foundation is Dean’s comforting cedar and rain, anchoring you immediately.

“Di Laurentis! Is that you?” A deep voice calls out from the living room.

“Yeah, we’re in the hall!” Dean shouts back, dropping your bags near the staircase. He reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers tightly with yours as he leads you into the main living space.

Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are all sprawled across a massive sectional sofa, entirely surrounded by empty pizza boxes and video game controllers. The massive flat-screen TV is currently paused on a game of FIFA.

The moment the three of them catch your scent — the rich, undeniable sweetness of a newly mated omega — they all freeze.

It’s pure instinct. One by one, the three massive hockey players stand up, completely abandoning their game. The easy, frat-boy energy completely vanishes, replaced by a deep, biological respect.

“Guys,” Dean says, his voice carrying the calm, authoritative rumble of a pack leader. He tugs you slightly forward, keeping you tucked safely against his side. “This is my mate.”

Garrett is the first to move. He steps forward, offering a warm, genuine smile that completely transforms his usually intense features. He keeps his distance, making sure not to crowd you. “It’s really nice to officially meet you. I’m Garrett.”

“I know who you are,” you say softly, offering a small, shy smile in return. “Hi.”

“I’m Logan,” Logan says, giving you a two-finger salute from across the coffee table. “Glad to see you’re looking a hell of a lot better than the last time we saw you on the quad. Dean was about two seconds away from ripping someone’s head off.”

“Ignore him,” Tucker drawls, his thick Southern accent smooth and welcoming as he steps up beside Garrett. “I’m Tucker. Welcome to the madhouse, darlin’. If this idiot forgets to feed you or starts acting up, you just let us know, and we’ll handle him.”

Dean rolls his eyes, though the tension completely bleeds out of his shoulders. “I think I can handle feeding my own mate, Tuck.”

“Just putting it out there,” Tucker grins.

You look at the three alphas. You have spent your entire life being told that alpha-heavy spaces are dangerous, that they are overwhelming and oppressive to omegas. Your mother had warned you to stay away from the hockey houses, claiming they were toxic environments.

But standing here, surrounded by four massive alphas, you have never felt safer. They aren’t looking at you like prey. They are looking at you with respect, entirely acknowledging Dean’s claim and welcoming you into the fold without a single moment of hesitation.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice much steadier now. “It’s nice to meet you guys, too.”

“Alright, show’s over,” Dean announces, clapping his hands once. “We have unpacking to do. Don’t eat all the pizza.”

Dean guides you up the wide wooden staircase, easily carrying both of your massive suitcases. He leads you down a long hallway, pushing open the heavy oak door at the very end.

“Welcome home,” Dean says softly, dropping the bags on the floor.

You step inside, and your breath catches in your throat.

Dean’s bedroom is massive, almost the size of a studio apartment. It has high ceilings, massive windows overlooking the backyard, and a king-sized bed in the center of the room. But what stops you in your tracks is the fact that the room is completely, immaculately clean.

“You cleaned,” you observe, walking further into the room.

Dean rubs the back of his neck, looking slightly sheepish. “Tuck might have come up here and helped me scrub the place down yesterday while you were sleeping. I wanted it to be nice for you. I know I’m usually kind of a slob, but I swear, I’ll be better. I want you to be comfortable.”

Your heart melts entirely. You walk over to him, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your face into his chest. “It’s perfect, Dean. Thank you.”

He lets out a long exhale, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your hair. “Good.”

For the next two hours, Dean helps you unpack. And he doesn’t just clear out a single drawer for you; he completely reorganizes his massive walk-in closet, physically pushing all of his designer suits and hockey gear to one side to give you exactly half of the space. He sets up your skincare on the master bathroom vanity. He clears off the top shelf of the bookcase so you can put your textbooks there.

He doesn’t just make room for you. He completely integrates your life into his, physically and emotionally claiming you with every single sweater he hangs up.

By the time the last bag is unpacked, you are exhausted all over again. Dean pulls back the heavy comforter on the bed and ushers you in, pulling you flush against his chest and entirely burying you in his scent.

As you drift off to sleep, surrounded by the smell of cedar and rain in a house full of protective alphas, you realize you have finally found exactly where you belong.

***

The sharp, annoying blare of your phone alarm rips you out of a deep sleep the next morning.

You groan, reaching a hand blindly out from under the heavy comforter to smash the snooze button. The bed is incredibly warm, perfectly molded to your body.

A low, deep chuckle rumbles from the pillow next to you.

“Five more minutes?” Dean asks, his voice thick with morning gravel.

You open your eyes, blinking against the bright morning sunlight streaming through the windows. Dean is propped up on his elbow, looking down at you with a stupidly fond expression on his face. He is shirtless, the morning light catching the golden dusting of hair across his broad chest.

“I have an eight AM,” you grumble, pulling the blankets up to your chin. “I can’t miss it. I already missed a whole week.”

“I know,” Dean says, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m taking you.”

You frown slightly, your sleepy brain trying to catch up. “You don’t have to walk me to class, Dean. I know you’re a political science major. You’re on the other side of campus.”

Dean smirks, a completely devastating look that makes your stomach flip. “Sweetheart, look at your schedule again. We’re in the same Intro to Political Theory lecture on Mondays and Wednesdays. I’ve been sitting three rows behind you since September.”

Your eyes widen drastically. “You … you have?”

“Yeah,” Dean says softly, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “I always wondered why you smelled like vanilla body spray instead of an actual scent. Now I know.”

He throws the blankets back and hops out of bed, completely unashamed of his nakedness as he walks toward the bathroom. “Come on. Up. I’ll make coffee while you shower.”

Getting ready with Dean is a completely new experience. In your dorm, mornings were a frantic rush of fighting Grace for the mirror and running out the door with a granola bar.

With Dean, everything is slow, deliberate, and entirely focused on you.

He stands behind you in the bathroom, brushing his teeth while you do your makeup, his free hand resting heavily on your hip. When you walk out to the kitchen, he has a travel mug of hot coffee and a perfectly toasted bagel waiting for you.

“Ready?” He asks, grabbing his own backpack and slinging it over one shoulder.

“Ready,” you smile, taking the coffee.

As you step out onto the front porch, you move to sling your heavy tote bag over your shoulder. But before the strap can even touch your arm, Dean’s hand catches it.

“I got it,” he says smoothly, taking the bag from your hand and sliding it onto his own shoulder, right next to his massive hockey backpack.

“Dean, it’s heavy,” you protest weakly. “You don’t have to carry my bag.”

“I’m an alpha, sweetheart,” he smirks, grabbing your free hand and lacing his fingers with yours. “Carrying heavy things for my incredibly beautiful mate is literally in my biological job description. Let me spoil you.”

You don’t argue again. You let him pull you down the driveway, a warm, bright feeling blooming in your chest.

Walking across campus with Dean is entirely different this time. You aren’t rushing, you aren’t hiding, and you certainly aren’t invisible.

The campus is buzzing with the morning rush. And almost instantly, people start staring. Dean Di Laurentis, the guy notorious for refusing to commit to anyone, the alpha who supposedly only slept with betas, is walking across the quad holding hands with a girl. And he’s carrying her floral tote bag.

You shrink slightly under the weight of the stares, instinctively moving closer to Dean.

He senses your anxiety immediately. His arm wraps securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He pushes out a wave of sharp, protective cedar, a clear, biological warning to anyone staring too hard.

“Keep your head up,” Dean murmurs, leaning down so his lips brush against your ear. “You’re with me. Let them look.”

His confidence is infectious. You straighten your spine, leaning into his solid strength, and let the rest of the campus blur into the background.

You reach the massive lecture hall just as the previous class is filing out. Dean guides you through the double doors, leading you down the carpeted stairs toward the middle section.

He stops at a row of empty seats, but he doesn’t sit down immediately. Instead, he drops his backpack onto the floor, places your tote bag gently on the desk, and physically pulls out a chair for you.

“Here,” Dean says softly.

You sit down, completely overwhelmed by his attentiveness. Dean slides into the seat directly next to you, his massive frame making the small university desk look entirely inadequate.

He reaches into his bag and pulls out a sleek, insulated thermos. He unscrews the top and slides it across the desk toward you.

“What’s this?” You ask, looking at the pale green liquid inside.

“Iced matcha,” Dean says casually, pulling out his notebook. “I noticed you always get one from the campus cafe before this lecture. But since we didn’t have time to stop today, I made it at the house.”

You stare at the drink, completely speechless. He had noticed. He had been watching you closely enough since September to know your exact morning coffee order, and he had taken the time to make it for you before you even woke up.

“Dean,” you whisper, your heart swelling with so much affection it physically aches. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” he says simply, looking at you with those deep, devoted green eyes. He reaches under the desk, taking your hand and resting it on his muscular thigh, tangling his fingers with yours.

The professor walks in, a stern-looking older beta, and immediately begins writing on the whiteboard. The dull hum of the lecture hall settles as students open their laptops and notebooks.

You try to focus on the lecture. You really do. But it’s nearly impossible when Dean is sitting inches away from you, his thumb slowly, rhythmically stroking the back of your hand under the desk.

About twenty minutes into the class, the professor starts droning on about the philosophical implications of Rousseau’s social contract.

Dean shifts slightly in his seat. Without looking away from the front of the room, he lifts your joined hands from his lap. He turns your hand over, brings your knuckles to his lips, and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your skin.

A sharp jolt of electricity shoots up your arm. You practically stop breathing, your eyes darting to look at him.

Dean is perfectly calm, completely unfazed by the public display of affection. He lowers your hand back to his leg, keeping his fingers tightly laced with yours. A faint, incredibly satisfied smirk plays on his lips.

You look down at your hand resting on his leg. You look at the iced matcha waiting perfectly on your desk. You inhale the rich, heavy scent of cedar and rain that entirely surrounds you, acting as a permanent, invisible shield against the rest of the world.

Your mother was wrong.

Being an omega isn’t a weakness. It isn’t a liability, and it isn’t a biological trap.

It is exactly this. It is feeling completely, undeniably safe. It is being cherished, protected, and adored by an alpha who looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars.

You shift in your plastic chair, leaning entirely into Dean’s space. You press your shoulder firmly against his massive bicep, nuzzling your face subtly into the crook of his neck to inhale his scent directly from the source.

Dean lets out a low, rumbling purr that completely vibrates through his chest. He wraps his arm around the back of your chair, pulling you flush against him, completely ignoring the professor and the fifty other students in the room.

He drops his head, pressing his lips to the crown of your hair.

“I love you,” Dean breathes, the words meant entirely for you, completely lost under the droning voice of the professor.

“I love you too,” you whisper back, meaning it with absolutely every fiber of your newly awakened soul.

Reality had finally begun. And as you sit there, anchored to the alpha you were quite literally born to be with, you realize that your fairytale was going to last a lifetime.

***

The heavy silk of your dress slips over your curves, settling perfectly around your hips. You turn slightly in front of the floor-to-length mirror in the luxury hotel suite, adjusting the thin straps.

It’s been three months since you moved into the hockey house. Three months of waking up completely wrapped in Dean’s scent, of Garrett and Tucker teasing you in the kitchen, of Logan complaining when Dean kisses you too long before practice. Three months of feeling completely, unapologetically alive.

But right now, staring at your reflection, a familiar knot of anxiety is twisting tight in your stomach.

“You’re overthinking.”

Two massive, warm hands slide around your waist from behind, pulling your back flush against a broad, solid chest. Dean rests his chin on top of your head, his green eyes meeting yours in the mirror. He is already dressed in his suit — a bespoke, charcoal-grey masterpiece that fits his muscular frame so perfectly it should be illegal.

“I’m not overthinking,” you lie, leaning back into his heat. “I’m just adjusting the zipper.”

Dean smirks, his hands sliding flat over your stomach. “Sweetheart, I can literally feel your heart racing through the bond. And your scent is spiking with anxiety. You smell like sour vanilla.”

You sigh, dropping your hands. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” Dean says softly. He turns you around in his arms, his expression instantly shifting from playful to fiercely devoted. “I told you, we don’t have to go. We can stay right here in this hotel room, order room service, and I can spend the next forty-eight hours ruining that pretty dress. You have absolutely zero obligation to see those people.”

“It’s Jenny’s wedding,” you remind him gently, reaching up to smooth the lapel of his suit jacket. “She was the only one in my extended family who actually treated me like a person growing up. She snuck me romance novels when my mom confiscated them. She always checked on me when the suppressants made me sick. I’m not going to miss her wedding just because my parents are on the guest list.”

Dean’s jaw ticks, a flash of pure alpha protectiveness darkening his eyes at the mention of your parents. He still hasn’t forgiven them. He likely never will.

“Okay,” Dean says, leaning down to press a firm kiss to your lips. “But we have a deal. The second they step out of line, the second they make you feel even a fraction of an inch small, I am stepping in. And then we’re leaving. I don’t care if they’re about to cut the cake.”

“Deal,” you smile, the anxiety already melting away under the heavy, grounding weight of his cedar and rain scent. “You look incredibly handsome, by the way.”

Dean grins, his trademark arrogant swagger snapping right back into place. “I know. It’s a burden. But wait until they get a load of you.”

He catches your wrist, his thumb gently brushing over the stunning diamond and sapphire claiming bracelet that hasn’t left your skin since the night in Greenwich. Above it, peeking just over the neckline of your dress, is the dark, permanent scar of his mating bite.

You belong to him. Completely and entirely.

“Let’s go show them what they’re missing,” Dean murmurs.

***

The country club reception hall is beautiful, entirely bathed in warm candlelight and soft floral arrangements. It is also entirely full of betas.

The moment you and Dean step through the double doors, the shift in the room’s atmosphere is instantaneous. Betas don’t have the acute, hyper-sensitive olfactory senses of alphas or omegas, but they aren’t entirely blind to biology. The sheer, overwhelming gravity of a fully mated alpha and omega walking into the room creates an undeniable ripple.

Heads turn. Whispers start up immediately.

Dean doesn’t falter. He walks with the kind of relaxed, predatory grace that demands the room’s attention, his hand resting possessively on the small of your back. He keeps you tucked firmly against his side, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic circle against your spine.

“They’re staring,” you whisper, keeping your eyes trained on the ice sculpture in the center of the room.

“Let them stare,” Dean says smoothly, grabbing two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and handing one to you. “They’ve probably never seen an actual mated couple before. Half of them are probably wondering why their own marriages feel like business transactions compared to this.”

You let out a startled laugh, almost spilling your champagne. “Dean! You can’t say that.”

“I just did,” he smirks, clinking his glass against yours. “Drink up, beautiful. We have a bride to congratulate.”

You spot Jenny near the sweetheart table. She looks radiant in her white gown, laughing with her new husband, a perfectly nice, perfectly average beta named Greg.

When Jenny sees you approaching, her eyes light up.

“You made it!” She shrieks, abandoning her husband to practically sprint across the dance floor. She throws her arms around you, squeezing you tight. “I am so happy you’re here. I was so worried your mom was going to convince you to stay in Massachusetts.”

“I don’t really listen to my mom anymore,” you say, pulling back with a bright smile. “You look absolutely stunning, Jenny.”

“Thank you,” she beams, before her eyes slide to the massive, imposing man standing directly behind you. Her eyes widen slightly, taking in Dean’s sharp jawline, broad shoulders, and the intense, protective way he’s watching the room around you. “Oh my god. Is this …”

“Jenny, this is Dean,” you say, reaching back to grab his hand. “My mate.”

Dean steps forward, offering a charming, devastating smile that completely melts the bride. “Congratulations, Jenny. She talks about you all the time. It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

“The honor is mine,” Jenny breathes, slightly dazed. She looks at you, her eyes dropping to the mating bite on your neck and the glittering bracelet on your wrist. “Wow. You guys … wow. You look amazing. Both of you. The energy between you two is practically vibrating.”

“It’s a fated thing,” Dean says simply, pulling you flush against his chest and wrapping both arms around your waist from behind. He rests his chin on your shoulder, entirely unashamed of the public display of affection.

You watch the other couples on the dance floor. The beta partners are swaying together, polite and pleasant. There is love there, absolutely. But it lacks the gravity, the desperate, magnetic pull that exists between you and Dean. When Dean touches you, it isn’t just a physical action, it’s a soul-deep reassurance. He doesn’t just hold your hand; he anchors your entire existence.

“I’m so incredibly happy for you,” Jenny says softly, her eyes shining with genuine tears. “You deserve the fairytale. I always knew it was real for you.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning back into Dean’s solid heat.

“Enjoy the open bar,” Jenny grins, turning back toward her husband. “And brace yourself. Your parents are at table four, and they’ve been glaring holes into the back of your head since you walked in.”

The warmth instantly drains from your face.

Dean feels the spike of cold dread through the bond immediately. His arms tighten around you, his chest rumbling with a low, barely audible growl. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your ear. “Want me to go tell them to get lost?”

“No,” you say, taking a deep breath and squaring your shoulders. “No, I’m not hiding. We’re going to get a drink, we’re going to dance, and if they have something to say to me, they can come say it.”

Dean spins you around, a look of pure, blazing pride on his face. “God, you are so incredibly hot when you’re brave.”

He kisses you hard, right in the middle of the ballroom, before leading you toward the bar.

For the next hour, it’s perfect. You drink champagne, you introduce Dean to a few of your nicer aunts and uncles — who are all entirely captivated by his old-money charm and sheer alpha presence — and you dance. When a slow song comes on, Dean pulls you into the center of the floor. He doesn’t leave space between you like the beta couples. He pulls you flush against his body, his hands roaming freely over your back, your hips moving together in perfect, effortless synchronization.

You are laughing at a joke he just whispered in your ear when the music fades into a low hum.

“Having fun?”

The voice is cold, sharp, and instantly recognizable.

You freeze. Dean immediately stops swaying, his body going rigid as he turns you both to face the edge of the dance floor.

Your mother is standing there, flanked by your father. She is wearing a stiff navy dress, her lips pursed in a thin, deeply disapproving line. Her eyes rake over you, taking in the close proximity of your bodies, the flush on your cheeks, and finally, the heavy claiming mark on your neck.

“Mom. Dad,” you say, your voice perfectly even, though your heart is hammering against your ribs.

“I’m surprised you showed up,” your father says bluntly, crossing his arms. “After the stunt you pulled.”

“It’s my cousin’s wedding,” you reply, keeping your chin high. “I wasn’t going to miss it.”

Your mother scoffs, an ugly, condescending sound. She looks directly at Dean. “And I suppose this is the boy you threw away your medication schedule for. The one who convinced you that acting like an animal in heat was somehow romantic.”

Dean lets out a low, vibrating snarl that is so purely alpha it actually makes your father take a physical step back.

“Speak to my mate with respect, or I will have security throw you out of this venue,” Dean says. His voice is dangerously quiet, entirely completely devoid of his usual charm. It is a lethal, unyielding command.

“Excuse me?” Your mother bristles, her face flushing with anger. “This is a family event. You don’t get to dictate-”

“I dictate everything concerning my omega,” Dean cuts her off, stepping slightly in front of you to shield you with his body. “You gave up your right to be called her family the day you decided her biology was an inconvenience. The day you nearly killed her with toxic suppressants.”

“We were trying to protect her future!” Your mother hisses, keeping her voice low to avoid a scene, though several nearby guests are already staring. “She was on track to graduate early. Now she’s probably failing half her classes because she’s too busy playing house with some arrogant frat boy.”

“Actually,” you say, stepping out from behind Dean. The fear is completely gone now. Staring at the bitter, close-minded woman in front of you, you only feel pity. “I have a 4.0 this semester. Because instead of fighting my own body, I’m actually healthy. I’m happy. And Dean isn’t a frat boy. He’s my mate.”

Your mother looks at the diamond and sapphire bracelet on your wrist, her lip curling in disgust. “A temporary chemical bond. He’ll get bored of you the second he graduates and goes back to his rich little alpha circles.”

Dean actually laughs. It’s a dark, humorless sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Temporary,” Dean repeats, shaking his head. He reaches out and grabs your hand, lifting your wrist so the diamonds catch the chandelier light. “My grandfather bought these sapphires in Paris for my grandmother on the night he claimed her. They’ve been in my family for sixty years. And now they belong to her. She is wearing my mark, my family’s legacy, and she has my entire soul in her hands. There is absolutely nothing temporary about this.”

Your parents stare at him, completely silenced by the sheer, overwhelming weight of his devotion.

“You don’t understand it because you’re incapable of feeling it,” Dean continues, his eyes locking onto your mother’s. “And that’s fine. But you will not stand here and project your miserable, sterile worldview onto my mate. We’re done here.”

Dean turns to you, his expression softening instantly. “Ready to go, baby?”

“Yes,” you breathe, your chest swelling with so much love for him it physically aches.

You don’t look back as Dean leads you off the dance floor, out of the reception hall, and straight to the valet.

***

The silence in the elevator ride up to your hotel suite is heavy, thick with the lingering adrenaline of the confrontation.

Dean’s jaw is clenched tight, his grip on your hand almost painfully firm. His alpha is entirely agitated, the protective instincts pushed into overdrive by the perceived threat to his omega.

The second the suite doors click shut behind you, Dean drops the keycard on the entry table and turns to you.

“I should have ruined them,” Dean snarls, running a hand aggressively through his perfectly styled blonde hair. “I should have completely torn into them. The way she looked at you-”

“Dean,” you say softly, dropping your small clutch onto the table.

You step into his space, sliding your hands up his chest to grip the lapels of his suit jacket. You look up into his dark, storming green eyes.

“You defended me,” you whisper, the words heavy with awe. “You stood in front of my parents, and you defended me. No one has ever done that for me.”

Dean’s breathing hitches. He looks down at you, the blazing anger slowly morphing into a deep, desperate hunger. “I will always defend you. I will burn the entire world down before I let anyone make you feel ashamed of being mine.”

Your omega practically screams in response to his dominance. A hot, slick rush of arousal pools instantly between your thighs. The sheer display of his protective, primal nature has completely short-circuited your brain.

“Show me,” you beg, your voice dropping to a breathy, desperate rasp. You pull on his lapels, forcing him to step closer until your bodies are flush. “Show me I’m yours.”

Dean groans, a guttural, vibrating sound that makes your knees weak.

He grabs you by the hips and physically lifts you off the floor. You let out a startled gasp, immediately wrapping your legs around his waist and crossing your ankles behind his back.

Dean doesn’t even bother walking to the bedroom. He backs you up two steps, slamming your back against the heavy wooden door of the suite. The impact knocks the breath out of you, completely replaced by his mouth crashing down onto yours.

It is a devastating, bruising kiss. There is no gentleness in it, only raw, desperate possession. He parts your lips with his tongue, tasting you deeply, drinking in the soft moans escaping your throat.

“So fucking perfect,” Dean breathes against your mouth, his hands dropping to grip the backs of your thighs.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are pitch black, completely feral. He reaches up and grips the neckline of your expensive silk dress.

With one sharp, violent tug, the silk tears down the center, the sound of ripping fabric echoing in the quiet entryway.

“Dean!” You gasp, entirely shocked by his aggression, but it only fuels the fire burning in your belly.

“I’ll buy you a hundred more,” he growls, shoving the ruined fabric off your shoulders. The dress pools around your waist, leaving you in nothing but a sheer lace bra and a matching thong.

Dean’s eyes rake over your exposed skin, darkening even further. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth scraping heavily over the mating mark he left there months ago. You throw your head back, arching your spine off the door as a jolt of pure lightning shoots straight down to your core.

“You handled them so beautifully, baby,” Dean praises, his voice a rough vibration against your skin. “You were so brave. My perfect omega.”

“Take it off,” you plead, your hands frantically tugging at his suit jacket. “Dean, please, I need you. I’m so empty.”

He drops you to your feet, letting your ruined dress fall completely to the floor. You step out of it, entirely focused on him.

Dean rips his suit jacket off, tossing it blindly into the room. He tears at his tie, popping the top three buttons of his crisp white dress shirt before he completely abandons it, unable to wait. He reaches for his belt, his breathing harsh and ragged as he sheds his slacks and boxers in a matter of seconds.

He stands before you, perfectly cut and entirely hard, the heavy, thick length of his arousal pulsing with demand.

You drop to your knees.

Dean’s breath catches violently in his throat as you look up at him through your lashes. “Sweetheart, what are you doing?”

“Claiming you back,” you whisper.

You reach out, wrapping your small hands around his thick base, and take him completely into your mouth.

Dean roars, his hands instantly flying to tangle in your hair. His head throws back, hitting the door behind him with a thud. “Fuck! God, baby, yes.”

You swallow him as deeply as you can, the sheer size of him stretching your jaw comfortably. You swirl your tongue around the sensitive ridge, swirling and sucking with a desperate, greedy rhythm. You want to taste every inch of him. You want to make him lose that perfect, arrogant control.

Dean’s hips begin to buck involuntarily, entirely at your mercy. He grunts with every agonizingly wet pull of your mouth. His fingers tighten in your hair, holding you in place as he sets a brutal, driving pace.

“I can’t-” Dean gasps, his entire body trembling violently. “Baby, stop. I’m going to finish in your mouth, let me go.”

You don’t listen. You hum against his length, increasing the suction, entirely determined to wreck him.

Dean curses, a filthy, desperate sound. He pulls back roughly, ripping himself from your mouth before he completely loses his mind.

He grabs you under the arms, hauling you to your feet. He spins you around, slamming your chest against the smooth wood of the door.

“You’re a menace,” Dean snarls, his chest heaving as he presses his massive body against your back. “A beautiful, entirely too eager menace.”

He reaches around your hips, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your lace thong. He rips it down your legs, leaving you completely bare and entirely exposed to him.

“Spread your legs,” Dean commands softly.

You obey instantly, stepping your feet shoulder-width apart.

Dean reaches down, his fingers completely coated in the slick, wet heat pouring from your core. He doesn’t bother with any preamble; you are already soaked, completely primed and desperate for him.

He aligns his thick, blunt tip against your entrance, leaning forward to bite down sharply on the junction of your shoulder and neck.

As you gasp at the pain, Dean drives his hips forward, burying himself completely inside you in one brutal, merciless thrust.

You scream his name, your fingernails digging frantically into the wood of the door. The feeling of him completely filling you up, stretching your inner walls taut, is the most intense, overwhelming sensation in the world.

“So fucking tight,” Dean groans, his forehead resting heavily against your back. He stays perfectly still for a moment, letting you adjust to his massive size. “You feel like heaven, baby. You feel so good.”

“Don’t stop,” you sob, throwing your hips back against him, demanding friction. “Dean, please move!”

He chuckles darkly. He grips your hips, holding you firmly in place, and pulls back almost entirely. And then he slams his hips forward, bottoming out with a loud, wet slap of skin.

You completely lose your mind.

Dean sets a punishing, relentless pace. He takes you from behind with pure alpha dominance, entirely feral and completely lost in the overwhelming high of the mating bond. His thrusts are hard and deep, hitting the exact spot inside you that makes your vision white out.

“That’s it,” Dean praises, his voice a low, rough growl in your ear. “Take all of me. Show me how much you need me.”

“I need you,” you cry, your head thrashing back and forth. “I love you, Dean. Please, please!”

He slides one hand around to your front, finding the slick, swollen bundle of nerves between your thighs. He rubs his thumb in a tight, fast circle right over your clit while continuing his brutal assault from behind.

It is entirely too much. The sensory overload snaps the last shred of your control.

“Dean!” You scream, your body bowing violently off the door as a massive, blinding climax rips through you. Your inner walls clench frantically around his length, completely milking him.

Dean snarls, his own control completely shattering. He drives his hips forward in rapid, erratic thrusts, chasing his release.

“Mine,” he roars, burying himself to the hilt as the heavy knot at his base swells, completely locking him inside you.

He unloads deep inside your womb with a devastating, earth-shattering force.

You cry out as his climax hits, the sheer volume of his heat sending you spiraling straight into a second, paralyzing orgasm. You ride the devastating aftershocks together, the physical tie of his knot anchoring you as the mating bond flares brilliantly in your chest, linking your souls in absolute, unshakeable harmony.

For a long time, the only sound in the entryway is your synchronized, ragged breathing.

Dean slowly collapses forward, pressing his sweaty chest entirely against your back. He keeps his heavy arms wrapped securely around your waist, holding you upright as your legs tremble uncontrollably.

“God,” Dean breathes, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder blade. “You are going to be the absolute death of me.”

“You started it,” you murmur, turning your head to smile weakly back at him.

Dean chuckles, his chest rumbling against your back. His knot slowly begins to recede, allowing him to carefully pull out of you.

He turns you around, catching you immediately as your knees buckle. He scoops you up into his arms like you weigh absolutely nothing, carrying you down the hall and into the master bedroom.

He drops you gently into the center of the massive king-sized bed, crawling in right beside you. He pulls the heavy duvet up over both of your damp, exhausted bodies, instantly pulling you flush against his chest.

“I’m sorry the wedding was stressful,” Dean murmurs, his thumb stroking a soothing rhythm up and down your bare arm. “I’m sorry they were there.”

“I’m not,” you say softly, resting your head on his shoulder.

Dean looks down at you, surprised. “You’re not?”

“No,” you smile, looking up into his devoted green eyes. “Because looking at them tonight, looking at how miserable and bitter they are, it just made me realize how lucky I am. I used to be so afraid of this. I used to think being an omega was a curse.”

You reach up, tracing the strong, sharp line of his jaw.

“But you showed me the truth,” you whisper. “You gave me the fairytale, Dean. I’ll never be afraid again.”

Dean’s expression melts into pure, undeniable adoration. He leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, impossibly tender kiss that completely steals the breath from your lungs.

“I’m just getting started, sweetheart,” Dean vows, his lips brushing against yours. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you know exactly how perfect you are.”

You close your eyes, inhaling the deep, comforting scent of cedar and rain. As you drift off to sleep in the arms of your fated mate, wrapped entirely in his love and protection, you know with absolute certainty that he is telling the truth.

The happily ever after wasn’t just a story. It was finally yours.

***

Five years.

It feels like an entire lifetime ago that you were a terrified college student, choking down pale blue pills and trying to smother the very essence of your soul. Sometimes, when the house is quiet, you still marvel at the sheer, impossible trajectory of your life since the day you collapsed on the Briar University quad.

But right now, the house is perfectly, beautifully quiet, and you aren’t thinking about the past at all. You are entirely captivated by the present.

You are sitting in the direct center of the most magnificent nest you have ever built. It takes up the entirety of the massive, custom-made mattress in the master bedroom of the home you and Dean bought just outside of Boston. The nest is a masterpiece of biology and absolute luxury — woven together from Dean’s worn-in college hockey hoodies, the ridiculously expensive cashmere throws Dean’s mother gifts you every Christmas, and the softest silk sheets money can buy.

And resting perfectly against your chest, wrapped in a pale pink blanket, is your daughter.

Celia Di Laurentis is four days old.

You stare down at her tiny, sleeping face, your heart expanding so rapidly in your chest that it actually aches. She is impossibly small, with a full head of soft, spun-gold hair that exactly matches her father’s, and a tiny, perfect button nose. Her little chest rises and falls in a steady, peaceful rhythm, and every time she lets out a soft, mewling sigh, your omega instincts absolutely roar with a fierce, all-consuming wave of protective love.

She smells like sweet milk, baby powder, and the undeniable, distinct genetic blend of vanilla and cedar. Your pup. Your perfect, beautiful pup.

The heavy oak door of the master bedroom clicks open, the hinges entirely silent because Dean had personally oiled them the day before you went into labor.

You don’t even have to look up. The rich, grounding scent of rain-soaked asphalt and deep cedar immediately floods the room, completely blanketing your senses and making the mating mark on your neck tingle with warmth.

“Hey,” a low, achingly gentle voice whispers.

You look up. Dean is standing in the doorway, holding a silver tray loaded with a massive spread of food, a pitcher of ice water, and your postnatal vitamins. He is wearing soft grey sweatpants, entirely shirtless, his broad, heavily muscled chest currently acting as a canvas for the tiny, dark ink of your initial over his heart.

He is twenty-seven now. The cocky, arrogant college playboy has long since matured into a devastatingly handsome, fiercely commanding alpha who runs a massive division of his family’s luxury hotel empire. He wears bespoke suits to the office and commands boardrooms with lethal precision.

But right now, looking at you and Celia, he just looks like a man who has been completely brought to his knees by his own heart.

“You’re awake,” Dean murmurs, stepping into the room and gently kicking the door shut behind him. He moves with an incredible, practiced quietness, setting the heavy tray down on the bedside table before turning his full attention to the nest.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you whisper back, your voice raspy. You brush a gentle finger over Celia’s soft cheek. “I just wanted to watch her.”

Dean’s green eyes soften into pools of pure, liquid devotion. He steps up to the edge of the mattress, dropping to his knees so he is perfectly at eye level with you and the baby. He doesn’t cross the boundary of the nest yet; even as your mated alpha, his biological respect for your nesting space during the immediate postpartum period is absolute.

“How is she?” Dean asks, his gaze tracing every single line of his daughter’s face as if he is trying to memorize it for the thousandth time today.

“Perfect,” you say, a completely genuine, exhausted smile spreading across your lips. “She ate about an hour ago, and then she just milk-drunk passed out. She hasn’t even fussed.”

“She’s a Di Laurentis,” Dean smirks, reaching out slowly. He rests his massive, calloused hand on the mattress, just inches from where your knee is tucked under the blankets. “She knows how to appreciate a good nap in a luxury bed.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh. “You are completely ridiculous.”

“I’m serious,” Dean says, though his smile is wide and painfully bright. He looks up from Celia, his eyes locking onto yours. “How are you feeling, sweetheart? Really. Don’t lie to me to make me feel better. You’re exhausted.”

“I am exhausted,” you admit, the truth of it settling heavily in your bones. The labor had been long, a grueling eighteen hours that tested every ounce of your physical strength. But Dean had been a rock, an immovable anchor holding your hand, pushing his scent into your lungs, and practically growling at any nurse who didn’t move fast enough for his liking. “My body aches. But it’s … it’s a good ache, Dean. It feels like exactly what I was meant to do.”

Dean’s breathing hitches. He reaches forward, his large fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, sweeping a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“You did so incredibly good,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with a raw, overwhelming emotion. “I have never been more terrified or more in awe of anyone in my entire life than I was watching you bring her into the world. You are so goddamn strong, baby.”

Tears immediately prick your eyes. Your hormones are still wildly fluctuating, keeping your emotions right on the surface, but this isn’t sadness. It is sheer, overwhelming gratitude.

“I wasn’t alone,” you remind him, leaning your cheek into the warmth of his palm. “I had you.”

“Always,” Dean vows, pressing his palm firmly against your skin. “You have me forever.”

He lets out a long breath, finally pulling his hand back to gesture to the tray on the nightstand. “I made you a turkey club. Extra bacon, extra mayo, exactly how you’ve been craving it since Monday. And Garrett dropped off those pastries from the bakery downtown.”

“Garrett was here?” You ask, your eyebrows lifting in surprise.

Dean chuckles, running a hand through his messy blonde hair. “Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have all been sitting in our living room for the past three hours. They refuse to leave. Tucker brought a massive stuffed bear that is literally bigger than the baby, and Logan has been aggressively trying to put together that luxury baby swing my dad sent over.”

A warm, bright feeling blooms in your chest. The Briar boys had never stopped being your pack. They had stood by Dean at your wedding, they had aggressively vetted the neighborhood before you bought this house, and the moment you announced you were pregnant, they had collectively lost their minds.

“You should let them come up,” you say softly. “They haven’t even seen her since we brought her home from the hospital.”

“Absolutely not,” Dean says instantly, his alpha completely rejecting the idea. He shakes his head, his jaw setting in a firm, protective line. “No other alphas in your nesting space right now. Not even them. You need quiet, you need your space, and you need to heal. They can look at her through the crack in the door tomorrow, maybe. From the hallway.”

You roll your eyes, but your omega practically purrs at his intense, territorial protection. It makes you feel entirely safe, completely guarded from the outside world.

“You’re a tyrant,” you tease.

“I’m a father,” Dean corrects smoothly, puffing his chest out just a fraction. He looks back down at Celia, and the fierce alpha completely melts back into a massive softie. “Look at her, baby. I mean, actually look at her. We made that.”

“I know,” you whisper, adjusting the pink blanket slightly. “She has your hair. And your absolute refusal to be put down in a crib.”

“She knows where the good snuggles are,” Dean defends, grinning. He shifts his weight on his knees. He looks at the edge of the nest, the chaotic wall of blankets and pillows you’ve spent the last four days meticulously arranging. He looks up at you, a silent, deeply respectful question in his eyes.

Your heart flutters. He never assumes. Even with his ring on your finger, even with his bite permanently scarred into your neck, he treats your biology with the ultimate reverence.

“Come in, Dean,” you say softly, pulling your legs back to make a massive space for him. “We want you.”

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He climbs over the edge of the mattress, carefully navigating the pillows so he doesn’t disturb the structural integrity of your nest. He settles in right beside you, stretching his long, muscular legs out and wrapping his heavy arm around your shoulders.

He pulls you flush against his side, his body heat seeping instantly into yours. You lean your head against his chest, tucking Celia safely between the two of you.

The moment the three of you are completely connected, the atmosphere in the room shifts. The chaotic, exhausting energy of the postpartum haze completely vanishes. The mingling of your scents — cedar, rain, vanilla, honey, and the sweet, powdery scent of your pup — creates an intoxicating, entirely perfect environment.

This is what heaven looks like.

“You’re warm,” you murmur, closing your eyes and just breathing him in.

“You’re perfect,” Dean replies, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head.

He reaches down, his massive, calloused index finger gently stroking Celia’s impossibly small hand. Even in her sleep, her tiny fingers instinctively curl around his, holding on tight.

Dean lets out a shaky breath, completely captivated by the movement.

“My mom called while you were sleeping,” Dean says quietly, not looking away from his daughter’s hand. “She and my dad are flying in from Greenwich tomorrow. They promised they’d stay at the hotel downtown so they don’t crowd you, but my mom is threatening to break down the front door if I don’t let her hold her granddaughter by noon.”

You smile. Lori and Peter have been the ultimate parents to you for the past five years. They embraced you entirely, completely filling the void your own parents left behind. They had paid for your dream wedding, they celebrated every single one of your career milestones, and Lori had spent the last nine months buying out every luxury baby boutique on the East Coast.

“Let her break the door down,” you say softly. “I want to see them. I want them to meet her.”

“I’ll tell security to stand down, then,” Dean jokes softly. He continues to stroke Celia’s tiny knuckles.

A quiet, comfortable silence stretches between you. It is the kind of silence that only exists between two people who know the absolute depths of each other’s souls. The heavy, gold wedding band on his left hand catches the soft light of the bedside lamp as it rests near the baby.

“Have you heard from Grace?” Dean asks, his voice careful.

“She texted me this morning,” you say, a genuine warmth filling your chest. “She’s demanding to be named the godmother. She said if you give the title to anyone else, she’s going to organize a beta uprising.”

Dean snorts, a quiet, amused sound. “Auntie Grace it is, then. I’m not dealing with an uprising.”

He shifts slightly, pulling you even closer. His hand slides up your arm, his fingers gently tracing the familiar, sparkling line of the diamond and sapphire tennis bracelet that still rests on your wrist. He hasn’t stopped draping you in jewelry since that night in Greenwich, but this piece never comes off.

“Did you … did you tell anyone else?” Dean asks, the hesitation in his voice letting you know exactly who he is referring to.

Your parents.

You look down at Celia’s sleeping face. Five years ago, the thought of cutting your parents out of your life entirely would have sent you into a paralyzing panic. The conditioning was so deep, the fear of their rejection so absolute. You had spent years agonizing over the fact that they chose their prejudice over their own daughter.

But looking at the family you have built — looking at the fiercely devoted alpha holding you, the perfect, beautiful pup resting against your chest, the unshakeable pack waiting in the living room below — the ache is entirely gone.

“No,” you say simply, your voice steady and completely devoid of regret. “I didn’t. And I don’t plan to.”

Dean lets out a quiet exhale, his chest relaxing completely against your back. He presses a firm, reassuring kiss to your temple. “Okay. Good.”

“They wouldn’t understand this anyway,” you continue, tracing the soft edge of Celia’s pink blanket. “They would look at me sitting in a nest, completely overwhelmed by my biology, and they would see a victim. They would see someone trapped by their hormones.”

You tilt your head back, looking up into Dean’s eyes. The absolute devotion in his gaze takes your breath away every single time.

“But I’m not trapped,” you whisper, the absolute truth of it ringing crystal clear in the quiet room. “I have never been more free in my entire life. They told me this was all a fairytale, Dean. They told me that fated mates and biological bonds were just romanticized traps to make omegas subservient.”

Dean’s jaw ticks slightly at the memory of their cruel words, his protective instincts flaring, but he forces himself to stay calm for you. “They were idiots, sweetheart. I told you that on day one.”

“They were,” you agree, a soft, triumphant smile playing on your lips. “Because this isn’t a fairytale. Fairytales are fake. This is real. This is my life. And it is so much better than any stupid story.”

Dean’s expression shatters into something so incredibly soft it almost breaks your heart.

He shifts entirely, carefully maneuvering around Celia so he can lean directly over you. He frames your face with his large, warm hands, his thumbs sweeping gently over your cheekbones.

“You gave me everything,” Dean says, his voice a rough, desperate whisper. The arrogant, wealthy CEO is completely gone. In the center of this nest, he is just your mate. Just an alpha completely entirely devoted to his family. “You gave me a home. You gave me a purpose. And now you gave me her.”

He looks down at Celia, then back at you.

“I am going to spend the rest of my life making sure you both know exactly how worshipped you are,” Dean vows, his green eyes burning with absolute, permanent certainty. “I am going to build an entire empire just to lay it at your feet. You are my queen, and she is our princess. And nothing in this world will ever touch you.”

You reach up, wrapping your hands around his wrists. The mating bond pulses violently in your chest, a bright, blazing star of pure, unadulterated love.

“I know,” you whisper back.

Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, devastatingly tender kiss. It is a kiss that holds five years of history. It holds the terror of the hospital, the blinding intensity of your first heat, the quiet Sunday mornings in the hockey house, and the profound, life-altering weight of the vows you took in front of his parents.

It is the promise of forever.

When he finally pulls back, resting his forehead against yours, Celia lets out a tiny, soft squeak. She stretches her little arms, her tiny nose scrunching up as she slowly blinks her eyes open.

“Hey,” Dean breathes, completely distracted. He looks down at his daughter, his entire face lighting up with absolute wonder. “Look who’s awake.”

Celia blinks, her unfocused, dark green eyes slowly finding the shape of her father’s face. She lets out a tiny yawn, perfectly content.

You look at the two of them. The beautiful, impossible family that the universe had carved out specifically for you. You lean your head against Dean’s shoulder, pulling the soft cashmere blanket tighter around your perfect little pup.

Your mother had told you to run from this. She had told you to medicate it away, to hide in the sterile, practical world of betas.

But sitting in the center of your nest, completely enveloped in the scent of cedar and rain, listening to your alpha whisper promises of the world to your newborn daughter, you know exactly what you are.

You are an omega. You are a mate. You are a mother.

And as Dean wraps his heavy arm around you, pulling you completely into his chest as the sun begins to set outside your window, you finally let out a long, perfectly contented sigh.

The story didn’t end with a happily ever after.

Logan snorts from the bench across the room, tossing a roll of tape that bounces directly off Dean’s shoulder guard. “You’re an animal. Does your dick ever get tired, or is it powered by some kind of endless trust-fund energy?”

“It’s powered by charisma, Logan,” Dean says, catching the tape on the rebound and tossing it into his bag. “And the fact that I actually know what to do with it, which is more than I can say for some of the tragic beta performances I’ve heard about.”

“Hey, leave us out of it,” Tucker drawls in his thick Southern accent, leaning against the doorframe with a protein shake in hand. “Some of us prefer a little quality over quantity.”

“I offer exceptional quality,” Dean says, finally kicking off his left skate. “Ask anyone.”

“Oh, we don’t have to,” Garrett mutters, rolling his eyes. “They literally line up outside the frat house. I tripped over a sophomore trying to get to the kitchen this morning.”

Dean chuckles, running a hand through his damp blonde hair. He knows what they think of him. To the guys, to the whole campus, he’s exactly what he appears to be: Briar’s resident playboy alpha. He’s got the wealthy attorney parents, the maternal family money tied up in luxury hotels across the globe, the looks, the charm, and the seemingly insatiable appetite.

But there’s a line he doesn’t cross. A line the guys love to give him shit for.

“Was she a beta too?” Tucker asks, taking a slow sip of his shake.

Dean pauses, his easy smile tightening just a fraction before he forces it back into place. “Always. You know the rule, Tuck.”

“It’s a stupid rule,” Logan points out, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “I mean, I get the whole old money, traditional thing your family has going on. But only sleeping with betas? Refusing to even look at an omega unless you think she’s the one? It’s archaic, man. It’s the twenty-first century.”

“It’s not archaic, it’s respect,” Dean fires back, his tone dropping its playful edge for a fleeting second. He stands up, pulling his t-shirt over his head. “When I meet my fated mate, she’s going to be the only omega I’ve ever touched. She gets all of me. The whole alpha package, untainted by anyone else’s scent or biology.”

Garrett groans. “You sound like a Victorian romance novel. What if you never meet her? Or what if she doesn’t care if you’ve slept with other omegas?”

“She’ll care,” Dean says simply, his voice firm. He grabs his duffel bag and hoists it over his shoulder. “Because I care. Betas are fun. They’re safe. There’s no biological complication, no scent-bonding, no risk of an accidental mating bite during a heat. It’s just physical.”

“So you’re just going to keep running through the beta population of Massachusetts until this mythical girl shows up?” Logan asks, amused.

“Pretty much,” Dean says, flashing his signature grin again, burying the sudden, sharp pang of longing that hits him square in the chest. “Keeps my skills sharp. When she finally shows up, I need to be ready to worship the ground she walks on. See you at the house, boys.”

He pushes through the locker room doors, the heavy scent of alpha pheromones fading into the sterile smell of the hallway. Dean keeps his smile locked in place as he walks out to his car, but the bravado slowly bleeds out of him.

He plays the part perfectly. He loves the attention, the sex, the careless fun. But God, he is so fucking tired of the emptiness of it. He was raised in circles where the alpha-omega bond was sacred, something to be revered. His parents had it. His grandparents had it.

He wants the fairytale. He wants the intoxicating, head-spinning rush of a fated scent hitting his system. He wants to fiercely protect someone, to provide for them, to spoil them absolutely rotten with every dime his family has to their name. He wants to be looking at a beta girl across a crowded room and suddenly realize she means nothing, because his mate just walked in.

He grips the steering wheel of his car, staring out at the campus parking lot.

“Where are you?” He murmurs to the empty car. “Come on, baby. I’m waiting.”

***

You stare at the tiny, pale blue pill resting in the center of your palm.

It looks entirely harmless. It looks like a breath mint, or a generic painkiller. It doesn’t look like something that is actively destroying you from the inside out.

Your stomach performs a violent, rolling flip just looking at it, and you have to close your eyes and grip the edge of the bathroom sink to steady yourself. The porcelain is cold under your hands.

“Hey,” a voice calls out, accompanied by a soft knock on the bathroom door. “You alive in there?”

It’s Grace, your roommate. You swallow hard, fighting the rising bile in your throat. “Yeah. Just … getting ready.”

“You’ve been staring at the mirror for ten minutes. The pizza is getting cold.”

“Coming,” you manage to say.

You look at the pill again. The suppressants. Grade-A, top-of-the-line, incredibly expensive synthetic hormones designed to completely mute your omega biology. Your parents, both highly pragmatic, fiercely independent betas, had insisted on the absolute strongest prescription available the moment you presented.

To them, being an omega is a biological inconvenience. A liability in the modern world.

You take a deep breath, tossing the pill to the back of your throat and immediately chasing it with a massive gulp of tap water. You gag as it goes down, your body instinctively rejecting it. You lean over the sink, breathing heavily, waiting to see if it’s going to come right back up.

When your stomach finally settles into a dull, throbbing ache, you wipe your mouth and open the door.

Grace is sitting cross-legged on her bed, a slice of pepperoni pizza in one hand and her laptop balanced precariously on her knees. She looks up, her eyes immediately narrowing.

“You look like garbage,” she says bluntly.

“Thanks,” you mutter, shuffling over to your own bed and curling up into a tight ball, pulling your oversized hoodie down over your hands. You don’t want the pizza. The smell of the grease is making your head spin.

“Seriously,” Grace presses, setting her pizza down on a paper plate. “You’re completely pale, and you’ve been shivering since you got back from class. Are you sick?”

“It’s just the new dosage,” you whisper, closing your eyes. “Dr. Davidson upped my suppressants last week. My body is just … adjusting.”

Grace sighs, a very loud, very beta sigh. She doesn’t have a malicious bone in her body, but she doesn’t understand. She can’t. “I don’t get why you let your parents push you into taking those things. Especially the intense ones. They make you miserable.”

“Because according to them, the alternative is worse,” you say, your voice muffled by your pillow. “They think heats are degrading. They think the whole dynamic is outdated.”

“And what do you think?”

You open your eyes, looking at the faded poster on your wall. “I think I feel like I’m constantly walking underwater. I feel … muted. Like a part of me is just locked in a box.”

Grace softens a bit. “Have you tried talking to them again? Telling them how sick you feel?”

Right on cue, your cell phone vibrates on the nightstand. The screen lights up with Mom.

You groan, reaching out a trembling hand to grab it. You swipe to accept the call, bringing it to your ear. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie,” your mother’s brisk, efficient voice comes through the speaker. There is no background noise, she’s likely in her corner office.

“I only have a minute before a conference call, but I wanted to check in. Did Dr. Davidson confirm the new prescription went through?”

“Yes,” you say, your voice flat. “I just took it.”

“Good. That higher dose should completely eliminate any residual pre-heat symptoms you were having. You can’t afford to be distracted right now, not with midterms coming up.”

“Mom, it’s making me really sick,” you say, forcing the words out before you can lose your nerve. “I threw up twice yesterday. I can barely eat. I feel weak all the time.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end. Not of sympathy, but of calculation. “It’s a transition period. Your body is just fighting the regulation. Give it another week.”

“What if I don’t want my body to be regulated?” You ask, your voice cracking slightly. “What if I just want to be normal?”

“You are being normal,” your mother corrects sharply. “You’re a modern woman. You don’t need your biology dictating your schedule, or your emotions, or who you choose to partner with. We’ve talked about this. Those old fairytale ideas about fated alphas swooping in to take care of you? They’re fantasies. They don’t happen in the real world, and relying on some archaic bond is a recipe for losing your independence.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, hot and frustrating. “I know.”

“You’re a smart girl. You’re going to get a great degree, build a career, and find a nice, stable beta partner who respects you as an equal, not as a biological imperative. Okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper, the fight completely draining out of you.

“Good. Call me on Sunday. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You drop the phone onto the bed.

“That sounded like it went well,” Grace notes sarcastically.

You roll onto your back, staring at the popcorn ceiling. You love your family, you really do. But being the only omega in a house full of betas is like speaking a language no one else understands. They look at you and see a problem that needs to be medicated away.

But sometimes, when you’re alone in the dark, you let yourself remember the dreams you used to have. Before the pills started.

You dream of a heavy, comforting warmth. You dream of a scent that smells like home, of strong arms wrapping around you and making the rest of the world disappear. You dream of an alpha who looks at you like you are the center of their entire universe. An alpha who wants to protect you, who wants to provide for you, who wants to adore you exactly as you are, biology and all.

You close your eyes, letting a single tear slip down your cheek into your hairline.

Fantasies, your mom called them.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe fated mates only exist in Hallmark movies and trashy romance novels. Maybe you just need to accept that you’re going to spend the rest of your life taking little blue pills and pretending you aren’t half-empty.

***

The bass from the speakers is rattling Dean’s teeth, and he is painfully, agonizingly bored.

He’s currently trapped in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while a stunning brunette — a junior named Alice, or maybe Alyssa, he honestly can’t remember — runs her hand up and down his bicep. She smells perfectly nice. Like vanilla body spray and vodka.

She smells like a beta.

“So,” she purrs, leaning in close so he can feel the heat of her body. “I was thinking maybe we could go upstairs? It’s getting kind of crowded down here.”

Dean looks at her. She’s beautiful. She’s eager. She’s exactly his type, or at least, the type he pretends to have. A year ago, he would have already had her pinned against the wall of his bedroom.

Tonight, he just feels … tired.

“You know, sweetheart, I’m actually really beat tonight,” Dean says, offering her a perfectly practiced, apologetic smile. He reaches out and gently untangles her fingers from his shirt. “Coach ran us into the ground at practice. I think I’m just gonna grab a water and crash.”

The beta pouts, clearly taken aback. Dean Di Laurentis turning down a sure thing? It’s practically a campus anomaly. “Are you sure? I give really good massages.”

“I bet you do,” Dean says, leaning in to press a brief, charming kiss to her cheek. “Next time, I promise.”

He slips past her before she can argue, navigating through the sweaty bodies of his classmates with the practiced ease of a guy who owns the room. He makes his way to the back patio, shoving the sliding glass door open and stepping out into the cool night air.

He lets out a long exhale, running a hand over his face.

“Well, that’s a first.”

Dean turns to see Tucker sitting on the patio railing, nursing a beer.

“Shut up,” Dean mutters, walking over and leaning against the railing next to him.

“I’m just saying,” Tucker drawls, looking amused. “I just watched you turn down a ten. Are you feeling okay? Do we need to call a doctor? Maybe a priest?”

“I’m fine,” Dean says, staring out at the dark expanse of the backyard. “Just not in the mood.”

Tucker chuckles, taking a sip of his beer. “You know, for a guy who sleeps around as much as you do, you’re surprisingly miserable doing it.”

Dean glares at him. “I’m not miserable.”

“You’re empty calories, man,” Tucker says, shrugging. “You’re eating junk food when you really want a steak. You’re waiting for this magic omega to drop out of the sky, and until she does, you’re just going through the motions to keep yourself occupied.”

Dean wants to argue, but the words die in his throat. Because Tucker is right. He’s so right it hurts.

“What if she’s not out there?” Dean asks, the vulnerability slipping out before he can stop it. He hates sounding like this. He’s Dean Di Laurentis. He’s confident. He’s cocky. He doesn’t whine about feelings.

“She’s out there,” Tucker says simply. “You just haven’t crossed paths yet. But you will. The universe has a funny way of sorting these things out. And when you do …” Tucker grins. “I fully expect to see you turn into a pathetic, lovesick sap.”

“I am never pathetic,” Dean scoffs, some of his usual bravado returning. “I’ll be a goddamn delight. I’m going to spoil her rotten.”

“Sure you will, buddy. Sure you will.”

Dean looks back up at the sky, the stars mostly obscured by the campus light pollution. He wonders where she is right now. He wonders what she’s doing. Is she at a party? Is she studying? Is she waiting for him, too?

Hold on, he thinks, sending the thought out into the universe like a prayer. Just hold on. I’m looking for you.

***

You are practically shivering under your blankets, despite the fact that your dorm room is perfectly temperature-controlled.

The nausea from the suppressant has finally passed, leaving behind a dull, hollow ache in your chest. You have your laptop propped up on your stomach, playing a painfully cheesy rom-com from the early 2000s. On screen, the male lead is currently running through an airport to catch the female lead before she gets on a plane.

It’s cliché. It’s dramatic. It’s completely unrealistic.

You can’t look away.

Grace walks back into the room, fresh from the shower, a towel wrapped around her hair. She glances at your screen and sighs.

“Again?” She asks, walking over to her dresser. “You watched this same movie three days ago.”

“It’s comforting,” you say defensively, pulling the blankets up higher around your neck.

“It’s masochistic,” Grace corrects gently. She turns to look at you, her expression softening. “You watch these movies, and you read those books about fated mates, and then you let your parents convince you to take pills that stop you from ever actually having it. You’re torturing yourself.”

“They’re just movies, Grace,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “It’s not real life.”

“How do you know?” She challenges. “You’ve never even given yourself the chance to find out. You’ve been on suppressants since the day you presented. You hide your scent under perfume. You avoid alpha-heavy places like the plague. You’re terrified of your own biology.”

“I’m not terrified,” you snap, though the lie is weak even to your own ears. “I’m being practical.”

“You’re being miserable,” Grace says, walking over and sitting on the edge of your bed. She reaches out, gently resting a hand on your blanket-covered leg. “Look, I’m a beta. I know I don’t get the whole scent-bond, fated-mate thing. To me, it sounds totally overwhelming. But you’re an omega. It’s in your blood. And watching you try to squash it down to make your parents happy is really hard.”

You look away from her, staring at the screen. The male lead has finally caught the female lead. They are kissing passionately while a sweeping orchestral score plays in the background.

“What am I supposed to do?” You whisper, a tear finally escaping and tracking down your cheek. “My family thinks it’s a weakness. They think if I let myself be an omega, I’ll just end up completely dependent on some alpha who treats me like property.”

“Then find an alpha who treats you like a queen,” Grace says simply. “They exist, you know. Not every alpha is some dominating jerk. Some of them actually like the romantic stuff as much as you do.”

You let out a wet, humorless laugh. “Right. Where am I going to find a romantic alpha at Briar? Have you seen the guys here? They’re all frat bros and athletes who sleep with a different girl every night.”

“Not all of them,” Grace points out.

“Name one.”

Grace hesitates. “Okay, fine, a lot of them are like that. But you won’t know if you don’t look. And you definitely won’t know if you keep taking those pills and pretending you’re a beta.”

You look back at the movie. The couple is walking hand-in-hand, smiling, completely wrapped up in each other. A deep, agonizing ache settles in the pit of your stomach. It’s a physical craving, a biological imperative that the pills are desperately trying to smother, but it’s still there. Faint, but undeniable.

You want to be cherished. You want to be protected. You want to belong to someone, and have them belong to you.

“I have to take them,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “If I stop, if I go into heat,  it’ll ruin everything. My classes, my family’s expectations …”

“Is it really ruining things if it makes you happy?” Grace asks softly.

She doesn’t wait for an answer. She just squeezes your leg once more, stands up, and walks over to her desk to dry her hair.

You lay there for a long time, the glow of the laptop screen illuminating the dark room. You reach a hand up, resting it over your heart. It’s beating a steady, rhythmic thud.

I’m here, it seems to say. I’m still here.

You look over at your nightstand. The small, orange plastic pill bottle is sitting there, looking entirely unassuming.

For the first time in your life, you look at the bottle, and instead of feeling a sense of dutiful obligation … you feel a spark of resentment.

***

The summer heat is usually oppressive, but today, you can’t feel it at all. In fact, you’re freezing.

You grip the strap of your backpack, your knuckles turning white, and force yourself to take another step down the crowded brick pathway of the Briar University quad. Your teeth are chattering so hard your jaw aches. Every muscle in your body feels like it’s been pulled taut, vibrating like a violin string right before it snaps.

“I’m telling you, you need to go to the campus clinic,” Grace’s voice sounds tinny and distant coming through your AirPods. “You looked like a ghost when I left for my eight AM. I seriously considered skipping to stay with you.”

“I’m fine,” you lie, your voice breathless and shaky. You stumble slightly over a crack in the pavement. “It’s just … it’s just the adjustment period. Like my mom said. It’s normal.”

“It doesn’t look normal, and it doesn’t sound normal,” Grace snaps back, her tone sharp with genuine worry. “You were sweating through your sheets, but you were shivering. That’s a fever. Please, just skip the midterm. Professor Harrington is a hardass, but he’s not going to fail you for a medical emergency.”

“I don’t have a medical emergency, Grace,” you say stubbornly, though black spots are beginning to dance at the edges of your vision. “I just need to sit down. Once I’m in the lecture hall, I’ll be fine.”

You don’t feel fine.

Your skin feels too tight. There’s a strange, metallic taste in the back of your mouth, and your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You reach up to wipe a bead of sweat from your forehead and realize your hand is trembling uncontrollably.

“Just … let me call you after the test, okay?” You mumble, not waiting for her response before you tap your ear to disconnect the call.

The campus around you seems to blur. The voices of passing students melt into a loud, ringing hum in your ears. You try to take another step, but your legs feel like lead. Your knee buckles.

You manage to catch yourself against a large oak tree, pressing your back against the rough bark. You just need to breathe. Just a deep breath.

But your chest won’t expand. The muscles in your torso are locking up, rigid and unyielding. Panic flares hot and bright in your chest.

Something is wrong, your brain finally screams, cutting through the haze of your mother’s assurances. Something is really, really wrong.

You try to push off the tree, to ask the guy walking past you for help, but your vocal cords seize. A sudden, violent tremor rips through your body. The world tilts sharply to the left.

The last thing you feel is the harsh impact of the concrete against your shoulder before the darkness swallows you whole.

***

“I’m just saying, if she asks me to explain the offside rule one more time, I might actually lose my mind,” Logan groans, taking a massive bite of his breakfast sandwich.

Dean chuckles, adjusting the strap of his gym bag on his shoulder. He and Logan are walking back from a brutal morning lift session, the sun beating down on the bustling campus. “Maybe she doesn’t care about hockey, man. Maybe she just likes watching you get all worked up trying to explain it.”

“It’s not cute,” Logan argues around a mouthful of egg and bacon. “It’s a foundational rule of the sport. It’s an insult to my life’s work.”

“Your life’s work is putting a piece of rubber into a net,” Dean points out lazily.

“Yeah, well, my life’s work pays my tuition.”

Dean grins, shaking his head. He feels good today. The lingering annoyance from last night’s party has faded, replaced by the familiar, comfortable rhythm of his routine. Workout, class, practice, sleep. It’s easy. It’s manageable.

He’s about to make another joke at Logan’s expense when a sudden, collective gasp ripples through the crowd of students about fifty yards ahead of them.

Dean stops walking.

“Whoa,” Logan says, swallowing his bite. “What’s going on over there?”

A cluster of students is rapidly forming near one of the large oak trees lining the path. People are pointing, pulling out their phones, taking hesitant steps backward.

“Someone fell,” Dean says, his eyes narrowing as he tries to see over the crowd.

Then, the murmurs turn into alarmed shouts.

“Holy shit, is she having a seizure?”

“Someone call 911!”

“Don’t touch her, you’re supposed to put something in her mouth, right?”

“No, idiot, don’t do that!”

Dean doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he’s sprinting. The heavy gym bag drops from his shoulder, hitting the grass with a thud, but he doesn’t look back. His heart is suddenly pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs. His alpha instincts, usually tightly leashed beneath his charming exterior, roar to life with blinding suddenness.

“Move!” Dean barks, his voice carrying the deep, resonant command of an alpha that has the surrounding students instantly stepping aside. “Get the fuck back, give her some space!”

He pushes through the inner circle of onlookers and drops to his knees on the concrete.

It’s a girl. She’s small, swallowed up by an oversized Briar University hoodie, and she is violently convulsing against the hard pavement. Her head is thrashing, perilously close to the brick border of a flower bed.

“Logan!” Dean yells, not looking away from her. “Call 911! Now!”

“Already on it!” Logan shouts from somewhere behind him.

Dean strips off his thick varsity jacket in one fluid motion, rolling it up. He moves quickly but carefully, sliding the jacket under her head to cushion the brutal impacts.

“Hey,” Dean says loudly, his hands hovering over her trembling shoulders, wanting to restrain her but knowing better. “Hey, I’ve got you. You’re okay. Just let it happen, sweetheart. Help is coming.”

Her eyes are rolled back, and a sickening, strained sound is pushing past her lips.

“What happened?” Dean snaps at a terrified-looking sophomore standing nearby.

“I-I don’t know!” The guy stammers. “She was just leaning against the tree, and then she just … dropped. She was shaking before she even fell.”

Dean curses under his breath. He reaches out, carefully checking her wrist for a pulse.

The second his skin makes contact with hers, he recoils.

“Christ, she’s burning up,” Dean mutters, his eyes widening. She’s radiating heat like a furnace. Her skin is drenched in sweat, yet her muscles are locked in terrifying rigidity beneath the convulsions.

“Dispatch says EMTs are three minutes out,” Logan says, kneeling next to Dean. He takes one look at the girl and pales. “Man, she looks bad.”

“She’s boiling,” Dean says, his voice tight. He shifts closer, using his body to block the harsh sunlight from hitting her face. “Her muscles are completely locked. This isn’t just a normal seizure.”

He leans in closer, checking to make sure her airway is clear. As he drops his face near her neck, he inhales sharply.

It hits him like a freight train.

At first, it’s nothing but the sharp, sterile, metallic stench of pharmaceuticals. It’s the distinct, bitter smell of clinical suppressants. It burns his nose, making his alpha recoil in disgust.

But then …

Underneath the chemical blockade, forced to the surface by the intense heat of her raging fever, is a scent.

It’s faint. It’s a whisper. It’s barely there.

But Dean feels it in his teeth.

It’s vanilla. Warm, rich vanilla, and spun sugar, and rain-soaked earth. It’s a scent so perfect, so impossibly right, that for a split second, the entire world goes completely, deafeningly silent.

Dean stops breathing.

His pupils blow wide, his irises flashing from their usual warm green to pitch black. A possessive, ferocious roar tears through his mind, so loud he almost claps his hands over his ears.

Mine.

The realization doesn’t tiptoe in. It kicks the door down and shatters every window in the house.

Mine. Omega. Mine.

“Dean?” Logan’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “Hey, man, you good? The ambulance is pulling into the quad.”

Dean blinks, the world rushing back in with a dizzying rush of noise. He looks down at the girl — his girl, his mate, his omega — and a wave of terror so overwhelming t makes him nauseous crashes over him.

The convulsions are finally slowing down, tapering off into violent, whole-body shudders. But she isn’t waking up. Her lips are taking on a faint blue tint, and her breathing is shallow and ragged.

“Where the fuck are they?!” Dean snarls, his head whipping around. He spots the flashing lights of the ambulance navigating the crowded pedestrian path.

He looks back down at you. The acrid smell of the suppressants is choking the beautiful, perfect vanilla scent, suffocating it. Suffocating you.

“What did they do to you?” He whispers, his voice breaking. His hands are shaking now. He reaches out, gently brushing a damp lock of hair away from your sweaty forehead. “What did you take?”

“Step back, please! Let us through!”

Two paramedics shove their way through the crowd, carrying heavy jump bags.

“Move, Logan,” Dean barks, shoving his friend back to give the medics room. But Dean doesn’t stand up. He shifts to the side, refusing to break contact with the girl, keeping one hand firmly planted on her shoulder.

“Sir, you need to step back,” the first paramedic, a stern-looking woman, says as she drops to her knees beside you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that makes the medic pause. It’s pure alpha command, unyielding and terrifying. “Tell me what to do.”

The medic shares a quick, cautious look with her partner before turning back to the patient. “What happened?”

“She collapsed,” Dean says rapidly, his eyes tracking the medic’s every movement. “A seizure. Lasted about two minutes. She’s burning up, her muscles are rigid, and she smells like she swallowed a pharmacy.”

The second medic pulls out a thermometer and presses it to your ear. It beeps almost instantly.

“104.2,” he calls out grimly. He grabs your arm, checking the rigidity. “Severe muscle rigidity. Tachycardia. Is she a friend of yours? Do you know what she’s taken?”

“I don’t know her name,” Dean says, the admission tasting like ash in his mouth. “But she’s an omega. And she smells like heavy, heavy suppressants. Industrial-grade blockers, or stronger.”

The female medic curses sharply. “Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. Her body is having a toxic reaction to the suppressants. We need to cool her down immediately and get her an IV, or her organs are going to shut down.”

Dean’s heart stops. The words echo in his head. 

“Do it,” Dean snarls, the terrifying helplessness morphing into blistering rage. “Fix her.”

“We’re loading her up,” the male medic says, unrolling a stretcher. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

They hoist you onto the stretcher with practiced efficiency. Dean grabs his jacket from the ground and stands up, his eyes never leaving your pale, unconscious face.

As they start wheeling the stretcher toward the ambulance, Dean falls into step right beside them.

“Sir, you can’t ride in the back,” the female medic says over her shoulder.

“Watch me,” Dean says flatly.

“Dean,” Logan says, grabbing Dean’s arm. “Hey. Stop. You can’t just jump in the ambulance. You don’t even know her.”

Dean rips his arm out of Logan’s grip with a viciousness that makes his best friend stumble backward.

“Don’t touch me,” Dean snaps, his eyes flashing black again. He points a shaking finger at the stretcher. “She’s mine. That’s my mate.”

Logan freezes, the color draining from his face. He looks at the girl, then back at Dean, his mouth falling open. “Holy shit. Are you … are you sure?”

“Yes,” Dean breathes, the anger cracking to reveal the absolute terror underneath. “And she’s dying, Logan. I just found her, and she’s dying.”

Logan swallows hard, nodding quickly. “Go. Get in the ambulance. I’ll get Garrett and Tucker and we’ll follow you to the hospital in my truck. Go!”

Dean doesn’t need to be told twice. He sprints to the back of the ambulance, jumping in right before the doors close.

The medic glares at him. “I told you-”

“I’m her fated mate,” Dean says, his voice thick with a desperation he’s never felt before in his entire life. “I am not leaving her. Do your job, and let me stay.”

The medic looks at the absolute devastation on his face, the frantic, protective set of his jaw, and sighs. “Sit in the corner. Stay out of my way.”

“Thank you.”

The ambulance sirens wail to life, the sound deafening in the confined space. The vehicle jerks into motion, throwing Dean back against the metal wall.

He watches as the medics cut away the sleeve of your favorite hoodie, swabbing your arm to start an IV. They place a cold compress on your forehead and an oxygen mask over your mouth and nose.

You look so incredibly fragile.

Dean leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped so tightly together his knuckles ache.

He’s dreamed of this moment for years. He thought he knew exactly how it would happen. He thought it would be at a party, or a coffee shop, or maybe a fancy gala his parents dragged him to. He thought their eyes would meet across the room, the scent would hit him, and he would sweep her off her feet with his charm and his smile. It was supposed to be a fairytale.

Instead, it’s a nightmare.

He watches the steady, agonizing drip of the IV fluid. He listens to the erratic beep of the heart monitor they hooked you up to.

Underneath the smell of the sterile ambulance and the heavy, toxic blockers, that tiny whisper of vanilla and honey reaches him again. It’s so weak, struggling to survive under the chemical warfare going on inside your body.

Whoever prescribed those pills, whoever pushed her to take them … Dean is going to find them. And he is going to destroy them.

But right now, all that matters is you.

Dean carefully reaches out, ignoring the medic’s warning glance, and gently wraps his large, warm hand around your freezing fingers.

“I’m here,” he whispers, leaning in close so only you can hear him over the sirens. “I’m right here, sweetheart. I finally found you. Don’t you dare leave me now.”

Your hand remains limp in his grip.

Dean squeezes tighter, bowing his head as a single, hot tear tracks down his cheek.

Please, he begs the universe. Just let her be okay.

***

The emergency room at Boston General is a chaotic clamor of shouting doctors, crying children, and blaring alarms.

Dean is pacing. He has been pacing for two hours.

The small waiting area off the main ER floor is practically vibrating with his nervous, angry alpha energy. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are sitting in a row of plastic chairs, watching him with varying degrees of concern and awe.

They’ve never seen Dean like this. None of them have. The easy-going, arrogant playboy is gone, completely erased. In his place is a terrifyingly focused, lethal-looking man who looks like he’s ready to tear the hospital down brick by brick if someone doesn’t give him an answer soon.

“Man, you’re going to wear a trench in the linoleum,” Garrett says quietly, leaning forward. “You need to sit down. You’re making the nurses nervous.”

Dean stops abruptly, turning his fierce glare on Garrett. “I don’t give a shit about that. I want to speak with a doctor. They took her behind those doors two hours ago and no one will tell me anything!”

“They’re working on her, Dean,” Tucker says, his Southern drawl slow and soothing, trying to de-escalate the situation. “NMS is serious business. They have to flush her system and get her temperature down. It takes time.”

“She was freezing when I touched her,” Dean mutters, running both hands through his disheveled blonde hair. He starts pacing again. “She was shaking so hard. And the smell of those pills … Tuck, it was repulsive. It smelled like bleach and metal. Who the fuck puts an omega on that kind of dosage?”

“Someone who doesn’t want her to be an omega,” Logan says quietly.

Dean stops dead. He looks at Logan, his jaw ticking. “What?”

“You said she was dressed in a massive hoodie, trying to hide. She’s taking industrial-strength blockers,” Logan explains gently. “A lot of omegas from beta families do it. They don’t want the stigma. They don’t want the heats. They try to suppress it so they can live ‘normal’ lives.”

“Normal?” Dean scoffs, his voice thick with disbelief and rising anger. “She almost died on the pavement! How the hell is that normal? It’s biology! You can’t just medicate it away!”

“We know that,” Garrett says. “But clearly, she didn’t. Or someone convinced her otherwise.”

Dean closes his eyes, trying to reign in the explosive fury building in his chest. He remembers the fragility of your wrist in his hand. He remembers the agonizingly weak scent of vanilla fighting through the poison.

He wants to wrap you in a blanket and lock you in his bedroom where the world can never hurt you again. He wants to buy you a new wardrobe, throw every pill bottle you own into the ocean, and spend the rest of his life making sure you never look that pale again.

“Family of the Jane Doe from Briar University?”

Dean’s eyes snap open. A tired-looking doctor in blue scrubs is standing by the double doors, holding a clipboard.

Dean covers the distance between them in three massive strides. “That’s me. I’m with her.”

The doctor looks him up and down, raising an eyebrow. “Are you a relative?”

“I’m her mate,” Dean says, the words feeling heavy and permanent and incredibly right on his tongue.

The doctor’s expression softens immediately. In their world, a fated bond overrides almost everything else. It’s an undeniable biological link. “Ah. I see. I’m Dr. Goldstein. Come with me, please.”

Dean follows the doctor down a quiet, sterile hallway, his heart thumping erratically. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker stay behind, giving him space.

“How is she?” Dean asks, his voice surprisingly steady despite the chaos in his head.

“She’s stable,” Dr. Goldstein says, pushing open the door to a private room. “The EMTs were right, it was a severe case of Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome brought on by a toxic buildup of synthetic suppressants. We’ve managed to bring her fever down, and the muscle rigidity is subsiding. We have her on IV fluids and muscle relaxants.”

Dean steps into the room, and the breath leaves his lungs in a rush.

You are lying in the hospital bed, looking incredibly small amidst the stark white sheets. Your eyes are closed, your breathing steady but shallow. The bluish tint is gone from your lips, replaced by a pale, exhausted pallor. The IV is taped securely to the back of your hand.

“She’s sleeping,” Dr. Goldstein continues softly. “Her body has been through an immense trauma. It’s going to take a few days for the suppressants to completely flush out of her system.”

“And then what?” Dean asks, his eyes glued to the slow rise and fall of your chest.

“And then … her biology is going to rebound,” the doctor says carefully. “When an omega comes off suppressants cold turkey like this, especially at the dosage she was taking, it usually triggers an immediate, intense heat.”

Dean swallows hard. He steps closer to the bed, entirely captivated by you.

“She can’t take those pills ever again,” Dean says, his voice low and hard. It’s not a question. It’s a fact.

“I strongly advise against it,” Dr. Goldstein agrees. “Her system clearly can’t tolerate them. But she’s going to need a lot of support through the withdrawal process, and the subsequent heat. It will be overwhelming for her.”

“She’ll have it,” Dean says immediately. “She’ll have me.”

The doctor nods, offering a small, sympathetic smile. “I’ll leave you to it. Press the call button if she wakes up and seems disoriented.”

The door clicks shut, leaving Dean alone with you.

The silence in the room is heavy, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the monitors.

Dean pulls a chair up to the side of the bed and sits down. He reaches out, slowly, reverently, and takes your hand in his. Your skin is cool now, lacking that terrifying, burning heat from the quad.

He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to your skin.

Now that the suppressants are beginning to wash out of your system, your scent is getting stronger. It’s filling the small hospital room, wrapping around him like a physical embrace. Vanilla. Honey. Rain. It’s the most intoxicating thing he’s ever breathed in.

His alpha settles, a deep, rumbling purr vibrating in his chest. Mate. Safe.

“You really scared the shit out of me, sweetheart,” Dean whispers, his thumb stroking soothing circles over the back of your hand. “We haven’t even officially met, and you’re already giving me gray hairs.”

You don’t move, but Dean doesn’t care. He has all the time in the world.

He leans back in the chair, his eyes never leaving your face. He maps out the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheekbones, the soft part of your lips. He tries to imagine what color your eyes are. He tries to imagine what your voice sounds like when you aren’t screaming in agony.

“I don’t know who told you that you had to hide,” Dean says quietly to the empty room. “I don’t know who made you feel like you weren’t perfect exactly the way you are. But they were wrong.”

He squeezes your hand gently.

“I’m going to show you,” he promises, his voice a vow. “I’m going to take care of you. You’re never taking another one of those pills again. You’re going to be a queen. My queen.”

Dean settles in, letting the steady beat of your heart anchor him. The playboy of Briar University is dead.

And as he watches you sleep, inhaling the sweet, perfect scent of his fated mate, Dean Di Laurentis has never felt more alive.

***

Coming back to consciousness is a slow, heavy process. Your eyelids feel like they have lead weights attached to them, and your mouth is as dry as cotton. A steady, rhythmic beeping sound echoes somewhere to your left, pulling you inch by inch out of the dark.

But before you can even force your eyes open, a smell hits you.

It’s completely overwhelming, wrapping around your senses like a thick, warm blanket. It’s sandalwood and cedar, rain-soaked asphalt, and a deep, purely masculine musk. It doesn’t smell like your dorm room. It doesn’t smell like your childhood bedroom in your parents’ sterile, modern house.

It smells like home. Like a place you’ve never been, but have spent your entire life desperately searching for.

Your breath hitches, your omega biology — newly freed from the chemical cage of the suppressants — flaring to life with a desperate, greedy hunger. You inhale deeply, chasing the scent, and finally manage to blink your eyes open.

The harsh, fluorescent light of a hospital room makes you wince, but a large shadow immediately shifts, blocking the glare.

“Hey,” a low, incredibly gentle voice rumbles. “Take it easy, sweetheart. Don’t rush.”

You blink the blurriness away, your vision slowly coming into focus. Sitting in a plastic chair pulled right up against the edge of your bed is a guy. A devastatingly handsome guy. He has messy, golden-blonde hair, striking green eyes that are completely locked onto you, and the kind of broad, muscular shoulders that a varsity jacket was practically invented for.

You don’t recognize his face. But the second you inhale again, you know exactly who the scent belongs to. It’s him. He is radiating it.

Panic spikes in your chest. You try to sit up, but your muscles feel entirely hollowed out, weak and trembling.

“Whoa, hey, stay still,” he says, instantly standing up. His hands hover over your shoulders, close enough to offer comfort but respectful enough not to touch without permission. With one hand, he reaches up and hits the red call button above your bed. “You’ve been through a lot. Just lay back.”

“Where …” Your voice comes out as a harsh, painful croak. Your throat feels like sandpaper.

“You’re at Boston General,” he explains calmly, his eyes tracing your face with an intensity that makes your breath catch. He reaches for a plastic pitcher on the bedside table and pours water into a cup, sliding a bendy straw in. “Here. Just a little sip at first.”

He leans over, guiding the straw to your lips. You are so thirsty you don’t even hesitate, taking a slow, glorious pull of the ice-cold water.

“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning your head back against the pillows. You look at him, really look at him, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of your memory. “I was on the quad. I was walking to my midterm, and then …”

“You collapsed,” he finishes for you. The easy gentleness in his expression hardens just a fraction, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You had a severe seizure. Your body was rejecting your suppressants.”

The word hits you like a bucket of ice water.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, your hands immediately flying to your face. “My mom. My mom is going to kill me. She told me it was just an adjustment period. I have to call her, she has to talk to Dr. Davidson-”

“Hey. Look at me.”

The command in his voice isn’t loud, but it vibrates straight through your bones. Your hands drop, and your eyes lock onto his.

“No one is calling anyone to adjust those pills,” he says, his tone firm, brooking absolute zero argument. “They were poisoning you. You had Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. If I hadn’t been walking by when you went down …” He stops, swallowing hard. The absolute terror in his eyes is raw and jarring. “You’re done with them. Forever.”

You stare at him, completely bewildered. Why is this beautiful, random alpha hockey player looking at you like the thought of losing you physically pains him?

“Who are you?” You ask softly.

He smiles, and it’s a beautiful, devastating thing. The harshness completely melts out of his face. “I’m Dean. Dean Di Laurentis.”

“I don’t know you, Dean,” you say, your brow furrowing. “Why are you sitting here? Why do you smell like …”

You trail off, your cheeks flushing a deep, embarrassed crimson. You can’t just tell a stranger that his scent makes you want to curl up into his chest and never leave.

Dean’s smile softens even more, turning into something completely wrecked and reverent. He slowly reaches out, giving you plenty of time to pull away, and gently wraps his large hand over yours where it rests on the blanket. His skin is so warm.

“I smell like home,” Dean finishes for you, his voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper. “Don’t I?”

You can only nod, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“That’s because I’m your mate, sweetheart,” Dean says, the words hanging in the quiet hospital room like a religious vow. “Your fated mate.”

Your entire world stops.

You stare at him, your brain desperately trying to process the words. Your fated mate. The thing you had secretly dreamed of. The thing your mother had ruthlessly mocked. The thing you had been medicated to avoid.

You yank your hand out from under his, shaking your head frantically. “No. No, that’s … that’s not real. That’s a fairytale.”

Dean looks at his empty hand for a second before his gaze snaps back up to yours. “Excuse me?”

“My family,” you stammer, pushing yourself backward against the pillows, trying to put distance between you and the intoxicating pull of his scent. “They told me it’s not real. It’s just biological chemistry that gets romanticized in Hallmark movies. Fated mates don’t actually exist in real life. It’s just an archaic myth.”

Dean stares at you for a long, silent moment. The air in the room suddenly feels very heavy, his alpha presence expanding, pressing against the walls.

“Then your family,” Dean says, his voice dangerously quiet, “is full of idiots.”

“Don’t call them that,” you say automatically, though your defense sounds incredibly weak.

“I’ll call them whatever I want if they’re the ones who filled your head with that garbage,” Dean fires back, leaning closer. The intensity rolling off him is entirely focused on you. “Look at me. Look at how my hand is shaking right now. I smelled you underneath whatever toxic sludge you were taking, and my heart literally stopped beating in my chest. You are my omega. Mine. The universe literally carved my soul to match yours. Don’t tell me that’s a goddamn myth.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You want to believe him. You want to believe him so badly it hurts.

Dean sees the tears and his entire demeanor fractures. “Hey, no, don’t cry. Shh, I’m sorry.” He sits on the very edge of your mattress, ignoring the hospital rules, and carefully reaches out again. This time, he doesn’t take your hand. He brings his fingers up to your face, gently wiping a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I’m sorry. I’m just … I’m angry. Not at you. Never at you.”

He traces the line of your jaw, his touch so achingly tender it makes a sob catch in your throat.

“Who put you on those pills?” Dean asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Who gave you a dosage that high?”

You look away, ashamed. “Dr. Davidson. My family doctor.”

“And who asked for it?” Dean presses, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “Because an omega doesn’t walk into a clinic and ask for an industrial-grade chemical lobotomy on their own.”

You close your eyes. “My mom.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You open your eyes to see Dean staring at the wall, his jaw locked so tight the muscle is twitching wildly. His green eyes have darkened, the pupils blown wide in pure, unadulterated fury. You have never seen a man look so lethal.

“Dean?” You whisper nervously.

He blinks, forcing his focus back to you. “Whoever she is,” Dean says, his voice flat and deadly cold, “I have never hated a human being more in my entire life.”

“You can’t say that!” You defend, the lifelong habit of protecting your parents kicking in. “She’s a beta. My whole family is full of betas. They don’t understand the alpha-omega dynamics, okay? To them, it’s a liability. She just wanted me to be independent. She wanted me to have a normal life, a good career, without being tied down by my biology. She thought she was protecting me.”

“Protecting you?” Dean snarls, the anger finally slipping the leash. He stands up, pacing away from the bed before whirling back around to face you. “You were seizing on the concrete! You were freezing to death and burning up at the same time! Is that her version of protection? Forcing you to suppress a fundamental part of who you are just because it inconveniences her worldview?”

“She didn’t know the pills would do this!”

“She didn’t care!” Dean shouts, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “Just because she’s a beta and she’ll never experience the absolute fucking magic of having a fated mate doesn’t give her the right to try and rip it away from you! It is a gift, and she treated it like a disease!”

You flinch, pulling your knees up to your chest. The truth of his words hits you like a physical blow, breaking through the decades of conditioning your parents had carefully layered over you.

Dean sees you flinch and curses violently under his breath. He crosses the room in two strides, dropping to his knees right beside your bed so he’s perfectly eye-level with you.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m yelling,” he breathes, his hands coming up to grip the metal bedrails. “I’m just so angry that you got hurt. You have no idea what it did to me, watching you on that pavement. Thinking I finally found you, only to watch you die.”

He reaches through the rails, gently taking your left arm. He turns your wrist over, exposing the pale skin of your inner forearm. Right over your pulse point, where a mating gland sits dormant beneath the skin.

He lowers his head and presses a long, firm, agonizingly soft kiss directly over the gland.

A jolt of pure electricity shoots up your arm, straight into your chest. Your omega purrs, a deep, vibrating sound of absolute contentment that you didn’t even know you were capable of making.

Dean pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, his lips still hovering mere inches from your skin.

“She’s not in charge anymore,” Dean vows, his voice a low, rough rumble. “I’m here now. I am your mate. I will take care of you, I will protect you, and I swear on my life, you will never experience anything like that ever again. You are done hiding.”

You stare down at him, entirely captivated. For the first time in your life, you don’t feel broken. You don’t feel like a problem that needs to be solved. Under Dean’s heavy, devoted gaze, you feel perfect.

Before you can formulate a response, the heavy wooden door to your room pushes open.

“Ah, you’re awake,” a female voice says briskly.

Dean immediately stands up, though he doesn’t step away from your bed. He slides his hand down to tangle his fingers firmly with yours, presenting a united front as the doctor walks in, followed by a nurse holding a chart.

“I’m Dr. Goldstein,” the doctor says, offering a warm smile as she approaches the foot of the bed. “It’s good to see your eyes open. How are you feeling?”

“Weak,” you admit honestly, your voice still raspy. “My muscles ache.”

“That’s to be expected,” Dr. Goldstein says, flipping through your chart. “You suffered a severe tonic-clonic seizure caused by a toxic buildup of synthetic suppressants. Your body went into a state of Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. Frankly, you’re very lucky your mate here acted as quickly as he did, and that the ambulance was close.”

You look up at Dean. He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, though his eyes remain locked sharply on the doctor.

“We’ve pumped you full of fluids and muscle relaxants, and we’ve successfully flushed the majority of the chemical toxicity out of your system,” Dr. Goldstein continues. She lowers the clipboard, looking at you with serious, sympathetic eyes. “But we need to talk about what comes next.”

The knot of anxiety in your stomach, which Dean had momentarily smoothed away, twists tight again. “What comes next?”

“You cannot go back on suppressants,” Dr. Goldstein says firmly. “Your body has developed a severe, life-threatening allergy to them. If you try to take even a low dose, you could go into anaphylactic shock, or worse.”

“Never again,” Dean states, his voice leaving absolutely no room for debate.

You swallow hard. “Okay. No more pills. But … what does that mean?”

Dr. Goldstein sighs softly. “It means your biology is going to rebound. Hard. You’ve been forcibly suppressing your omega nature for years. Now that the dam is broken, your hormones are going to spike to compensate. I need you to be prepared. Within the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, you are going to go into heat.”

The blood completely drains from your face.

Heat. The thought echoes in your head, a terrifying, abstract concept that your mother had always spoken about in hushed, disgusted tones. A loss of control. A feverish, degrading biological imperative.

“No,” you whisper, true, visceral panic setting in. You start to shake, pulling your hand out of Dean’s grip to clutch at the hospital blanket. “No, I can’t. I don’t know how. I’ve never had one.”

Dr. Goldstein looks surprised. “Never?”

“My parents put me on suppressants the day I presented at fourteen,” you say, your breathing turning shallow and frantic. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how it feels. Please, isn’t there something else you can give me? A lighter pill? An injection? I can’t just … I can’t!”

“Sweetheart, hey, look at me,” Dean says, his voice cutting through the rising tide of your panic.

You look at him, tears freely spilling down your cheeks.

Internally, Dean is a hurricane of pure, unadulterated violence. The realization that your parents essentially chemically sterilized you at fourteen — robbing you of every natural milestone of your secondary gender out of their own beta prejudice — makes him want to find them and tear them apart with his bare hands. The rage is so hot and blinding he can barely see straight.

But outwardly? Outwardly, he is a mountain. Unshakeable. Calm.

He sits back down on the edge of the bed, completely ignoring the doctor and nurse. He frames your face with both of his large, warm hands, his thumbs sweeping away your tears.

“Breathe with me,” Dean murmurs, locking his green eyes onto yours. He takes an exaggerated, deep breath in. “Come on. In.”

You drag a ragged breath into your lungs, mirroring him.

“Good. Out,” he praises softly.

He keeps his scent deliberately calm, pushing out waves of soothing cedar and rain, blanketing your panic in layers of alpha protection.

“I’m terrified,” you sob, your hands coming up to grip his wrists. “My mom always said heats make you lose your mind. She said it’s humiliating.”

“Your mom doesn’t know a damn thing about what it means to be an omega,” Dean says, his voice dripping with absolute certainty. “She lied to you. It’s not humiliating. It’s natural. It’s beautiful.”

“But I don’t know what to do!”

“You don’t have to know what to do,” Dean says gently, leaning in until his forehead is resting against yours. “Because I know what to do. That’s what mates are for, baby. I am going to be right by your side the entire time. I’ll take care of everything. You won’t have to think, you won’t have to worry, you just have to let your body do what it was meant to do.”

“You promise?” You whisper, closing your eyes and leaning into his solid strength.

“I swear it on my life,” Dean vows, his lips brushing against your forehead. “I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time. I’m not going to let anything scare you ever again. We’re going to get through this together.”

Dr. Goldstein clears her throat softly, a small smile playing on her lips. “He’s right. A mate bond makes the biological transition significantly smoother. You’re in very good hands.”

You open your eyes, looking at Dean. The arrogant, charming playboy of Briar University is entirely gone. In his place is a devoted, fiercely protective alpha who is looking at you like you hold the stars in your hands.

For the first time in your life, you stop fighting your own biology. You take a deep breath of sandalwood and rain, and finally, you let yourself just be an omega.

***

The next thirty-two hours are a masterclass in anticipation.

The hospital staff insists on keeping you for observation to ensure the suppressants are completely flushed from your system and that your organs haven’t suffered any lasting damage from the toxicity.

Dean never leaves your side. He sleeps in the wildly uncomfortable plastic chair next to your bed, his hand tangled with yours. He eats terrible cafeteria food. He charms the nurses into bringing you extra pillows and smuggled-in hot chocolate.

He only leaves once. On the second morning, he kisses your forehead, promises he’ll be back before you can even miss him, and vanishes for two hours. He returns smelling like his expensive cedar body wash, wearing fresh clothes, and carrying a massive duffel bag.

“I had to prep,” Dean explains simply when you ask about the bag, a devastating smirk playing on his lips. “And I had to threaten Logan with bodily harm if he ever breathed a word about my panic attack.”

When Dr. Goldstein finally signs your discharge papers, the shift in your body is undeniable.

You feel … heavy. There is a deep, pulsing warmth settling low in your abdomen, a completely foreign sensation that makes your breath catch every few minutes. Your skin feels highly sensitized, the friction of your sweatpants against your legs sends tiny shocks up your spine.

But the most obvious change is the scent.

As Dean leads you out to his car, you notice the way his nostrils flare. His jaw is tight, his grip on your hand firm and possessive. The faint, smothered vanilla scent that had barely survived the suppressants has bloomed. It’s rich, thick, and intoxicatingly sweet, dripping with the undeniable pheromones of an omega on the absolute precipice of her first heat.

“We aren’t going to my house,” Dean says, opening the passenger door for you and helping you climb inside. “Logan and the guys are great, but you don’t need three other alphas in the house right now. And you definitely aren’t going back to your dorm.”

“Where are we going?” You ask, your voice already a little breathless. The leather of the car seat feels incredibly soft against your back.

“My family owns the Heyward Harbor Hotel downtown,” Dean says, shutting your door and walking around to the driver’s side. He climbs in, immediately locking the doors and starting the engine. “There’s a private penthouse suite on the top floor. It’s soundproof, secure, and completely ours. The staff knows not to come up unless I call.”

You swallow hard, your heart doing a nervous, excited flutter. “You really planned this out.”

Dean shoots you a dark, heated look as he pulls out of the hospital parking lot. “Sweetheart, I’ve been planning for you since I was sixteen years old. And right now, you smell so incredibly sweet that it’s taking every ounce of my willpower not to pull this car over and climb into the backseat with you.”

You flush a deep crimson, a rush of slick heat pooling between your thighs at his words. “Dean …”

“I know,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. “Hold on for me. Just a little longer.”

The drive is a blur of city lights and the heavy, electric tension filling the cabin of the car. By the time Dean pulls into the private underground garage of the hotel, you are practically vibrating.

He leads you to a private elevator that opens directly into the penthouse. The space is massive, all floor-to-ceiling windows, modern art, and sleek furniture. But Dean bypasses the living area entirely, guiding you straight into the sprawling master bedroom.

You stop dead in your tracks.

The king-sized bed in the center of the room has been completely transformed. It’s a nest. A massive, chaotic, incredibly inviting pile of faux fur blankets, high-thread-count sheets, and enormous plush pillows. And woven through every single layer of fabric is the heavy, comforting scent of sandalwood, cedar, and rain. Dean’s scent.

“You built this?” You whisper, staring at the bed. Your omega instincts are practically screaming at you to dive into the center of it and roll around until you are completely coated in his scent.

“When I went back to shower,” Dean says, stepping up behind you. He rests his hands on your hips, pulling your back flush against his solid chest.

“I bought every soft blanket I could find in a ten-mile radius. Does it look okay?”

“It looks perfect,” you breathe, leaning back against him.

“Good. But you can’t get in it yet,” Dean says, his hands sliding up to grip your waist. He kisses the side of your neck, sending a violent shiver down your body. “You need a bath. And you need to eat. Once the heat fully hits, you aren’t going to care about food, and you need your strength.”

He is as good as his word. Dean leads you into a massive marble bathroom and starts the water in a deep soaking tub. He helps you strip out of your hospital clothes with a terrifyingly gentle reverence, his eyes dark and hungry, but his hands entirely respectful.

The warm water feels like heaven on your aching muscles. Dean kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves, and actually washes your hair. His large fingers massage your scalp with a perfect, agonizingly slow pressure.

“You’re shaking,” Dean notes softly, rinsing the shampoo from your hair.

“I feel … weird,” you admit, your eyes fluttering shut. The ache low in your belly is turning into a sharp, demanding throb. “It’s like there’s a wire pulled tight inside me, and it keeps getting tighter.”

“That’s the pre-heat,” Dean explains, his voice a soothing rumble. “Your body is prepping. It’s waking up. Just breathe through it.”

After the bath, he wraps you in a massive, fluffy towel and carries you out to the kitchen island. He’s ordered room service — a massive plate of carbonara, warm bread, and fruit.

“Eat,” he commands gently, pushing a fork into your hand. “As much as you can.”

You manage to eat half the pasta, though your appetite is rapidly being eclipsed by a different kind of hunger. The scent in the room is overwhelming now. Your vanilla and honey has mixed entirely with his cedar and rain, creating a thick, heady atmosphere that makes your head spin.

You drop the fork, a sudden, violent hot flash tearing through your body. You gasp, your hands gripping the edge of the marble counter.

Dean is there in a second. “Hey. Look at me.”

You look up, panting slightly. “Dean … it hurts. It’s so hot.”

“I know,” Dean says, his eyes flashing to a pitch-black, predatory dark. The leash he’s been keeping on his alpha is snapping. He reaches down and effortlessly scoops you up into his arms, carrying you back to the bedroom. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

He drops you gently into the center of the nest. The sheer volume of his scent embedded in the blankets hits your system like a drug. You instantly curl onto your side, burying your face in one of his oversized t-shirts he left in the pile, a loud, desperate whine tearing from your throat.

Dean strips off his shirt in one fluid motion, tossing it aside. He kicks off his shoes and jeans, left only in his boxer briefs, before he crawls into the nest with you.

The moment his bare skin touches yours, the final thread snaps.

The heat hits.

It is a tidal wave of biological demand. The dull ache turns into a blinding, searing need that completely consumes your mind. You don’t think. You just react. You scramble toward him, your hands desperately clutching at his broad, muscular shoulders, pulling him down over you.

“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice a fractured sob. You arch your hips upward, seeking the heavy, solid weight of him. “Please, I need … I need …”

“I know what you need,” Dean growls, his voice a guttural, vibrating sound that makes your core clench. He pins your wrists gently above your head with one hand, his chest hovering inches from yours. “You are so incredibly beautiful. You smell like pure sugar, baby.”

He lowers his head, his mouth capturing yours in a devastating, bruising kiss. It’s nothing like the polite, gentle care he’s shown you for the last two days. This is raw, possessive, and entirely alpha. He parts your lips with his tongue, tasting you deeply, drinking in your soft moans.

You writhe beneath him, your legs tangling with his. You are soaked, a slick, hot mess of arousal that your body has naturally produced in terrifying abundance.

Dean breaks the kiss, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw and the sensitive column of your neck. He pauses right over your scent gland, inhaling sharply.

“You’re mine,” he breathes against the skin, his hot breath making you arch off the mattress. “Only mine. Tell me.”

“Yours,” you gasp, your eyes rolling back. “Dean, please, it’s so empty. Please.”

“Impatient,” Dean chuckles darkly. His free hand trails down your torso, slipping past the waistband of your underwear. “We have to do this right, sweetheart. I need you completely ready for me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

His hand slips between your thighs, and you let out a high, fractured cry at the contact. His fingers are large, calloused from years of gripping a hockey stick, but they are impossibly gentle. He parts your slick folds, tracing the sensitive bundle of nerves at your peak.

You thrash against his hold, completely overwhelmed by the sensation. “Dean!”

“I’m here,” he murmurs, his thumb applying a steady, rhythmic pressure. “Let go for me. Come for me, baby.”

He slides two fingers deep inside you, and you completely shatter. Your body bows off the bed, a scream tearing from your throat as your first orgasm rips through you. It’s blinding. It’s a rush of pure pleasure that leaves you gasping for air, your muscles trembling violently as your inner walls clench around his fingers.

Dean watches you unravel, a look of pure worship on his face. He doesn’t stop. As you ride out the agonizingly long waves of the climax, he shifts lower down the bed.

“Dean, wait, I’m too sensitive-” you stammer, trying to push yourself backward.

“I’m not done,” he says simply.

He parts your thighs wider, settling between your legs. He grips your hips to hold you completely still, and then he lowers his mouth to your core.

You scream his name, your hands flying to tangle in his blonde hair. The slide of his tongue is expertly cruel, lapping up your slick with a greedy, starving desperation. He finds your clit again, sucking gently before swirling his tongue over it, sending you plummeting right back into the fire.

Your mind goes completely blank. There is only the heat, the overwhelming scent of cedar, and the devastating perfection of his mouth. You climax again, harder this time, sobbing into the pillows as your vision literally whites out.

Dean pulls back, his chest heaving as he crawls back up your body. His eyes are glazed, completely feral. He strips away your underwear and tears his boxers off, discarding them off the edge of the bed.

You feel the heavy, thick press of him against your entrance. The sheer size of him makes you gasp, a fleeting moment of apprehension piercing through the haze of the heat.

Dean senses it immediately. He pauses, his forearms bracketing your head, and looks down into your eyes.

“Look at me,” he commands softly.

You meet his gaze.

“I’m going to take care of you,” Dean vows, his voice a rough, desperate rasp. “I am going to fill you up, and I am going to make you feel so goddamn good. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” you whisper, meaning it with every fiber of your being. “I trust you. Please.”

Dean groans, a deeply satisfied, rumbling sound. “Good girl.”

He pushes his hips forward, burying himself inside you in one long, agonizingly slow thrust.

You cry out, your fingernails digging into his shoulders. It is the most intense, overwhelming feeling you have ever experienced. You are completely full, stretched taut, the physical connection bridging the gap your soul has been aching to fill for years.

Dean rests his forehead against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants. He stays perfectly still, giving your body time to adjust to his massive size. “Fuck. You feel … you feel like heaven. So tight. So wet for me.”

“Don’t stop,” you beg, lifting your hips to meet him. “Dean, please move.”

He chuckles, a dark, breathless sound, and begins to pull back. The friction is absolute torture in the best way possible. He sets a brutal, driving pace, his hips snapping against yours with audible slaps of skin.

You are completely lost in it. You match his rhythm perfectly, meeting his thrusts, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist to draw him in even deeper. The room smells like sex and alpha command and the intoxicating sweetness of an omega in the throes of a mating heat.

“That’s it,” Dean praises, his voice strained. “Take it all, baby. You’re doing so good.”

The pressure is building again, twisting into a tight, coiled spring low in your belly. Dean recognizes the shift in your breathing, the frantic, desperate hitch in your chest.

He slides one hand under your lower back, angling your hips up to hit a spot deep inside you that makes you see stars.

“Dean!” You scream, your head thrashing side to side.

“I’ve got you,” he growls. He shifts his weight, pinning you down, and buries his face in the crook of your neck. His lips brush directly over your scent gland. “I’m going to claim you now. I’m going to make you mine permanently. Let me mark you.”

“Yes,” you sob, the word a desperate plea. “Yes, mark me!”

Dean bites down.

His sharp canines pierce the delicate skin over your scent gland. The pain is a sharp, brief sting, instantly swallowed by a blinding, explosive rush of euphoria.

The bond snaps into place.

It is physical. It is emotional. It is a sudden, brilliant tether forming between your chest and his, locking your souls together with an undeniable, permanent gravity. You can feel him. You can feel his love, his possessiveness, his absolute devotion flooding into your mind.

At the exact same moment his teeth break the skin, Dean drives his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt, and unloads deep inside you.

Your own climax hits like a freight train, your body convulsing violently around his knot as it swells, locking you together. You scream his name, your hands desperately clutching at his back.

“Bite me,” Dean commands, his voice muffled against your skin. He pulls back just enough to expose his own neck, baring his throat to you in the ultimate display of alpha submission. “Mark me back, sweetheart. Claim me.”

You don’t hesitate. You surge upward, your lips finding the pulsing scent gland on the side of his neck. You sink your teeth in, tasting the salt of his sweat and the sharp, metallic tang of blood.

Dean lets out a roaring groan, his head falling back as the bond solidifies on his end. The tether snaps tight, completely unbreakable. He grips your hips, riding out the devastating aftershocks of your shared climax, completely lost in the overwhelming high of the mating bond.

For a long time, neither of you moves.

The room is silent except for your ragged, synchronized breathing. Dean’s knot is still firmly locked inside you, keeping you intimately tethered. He collapses completely against you, his heavy weight a comforting, grounding presence.

He gently buries his face in your hair, pressing soft, reverent kisses to your temple.

“Mine,” he whispers, the word laced with pure awe. “You’re actually mine.”

“Yours,” you echo softly, running your hands through his damp blonde hair.

Slowly, the frantic racing of your heart begins to settle. The feverish edge of the heat dulls into a bone-deep, lethargic exhaustion. Your eyelids droop, the sheer physical toll of the last few hours finally catching up to you.

Dean senses it. He shifts slightly, wrapping his arms securely around your waist. “Tired?”

“Exhausted,” you murmur, nuzzling your face into the hollow of his shoulder. “Is it … is it over?”

Dean chuckles softly, his chest rumbling against yours. He reaches up, gently petting your hair, his fingers smoothing the tangled strands.

“Not even close, sweetheart,” Dean says, pressing a kiss to the healing bite mark on your neck. “A normal heat usually lasts anywhere from four to seven days, depending on the omega.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and you try to pull back to look at him, but he keeps you flush against his chest. “Four to seven days? Of that?”

“Usually,” Dean continues, his voice soothing and calm. “But given the circumstances … given how long your parents had you on those heavy suppressants, and how violently your body rejected them … Dr. Goldstein warned me that this one is going to be different. Your biology is rebounding. Hard. This heat is going to be significantly longer, and the peaks are going to be a lot more extreme.”

A spike of nervous anxiety flares in your chest. “Dean, I don’t know if I can-”

“Hey,” Dean interrupts gently, his hand sweeping down your back in a steady, calming rhythm. “Stop. What did I promise you in the hospital?”

You swallow hard. “That you’d take care of me.”

“Exactly. And I will,” Dean says, his gaze burning with absolute certainty. “I am not going anywhere. I’ve got enough food and water in this suite to last us two weeks. I’ll be here for every single wave. You don’t have to think, you don’t have to worry. You just have to let your body do what it needs to do, and I will handle the rest.”

You look at him, really look at the beautiful, devoted alpha who has completely upended your entire life in the span of three days. The fear melts away, completely smothered by the warm, buzzing hum of the mating bond currently singing in your veins.

“Okay,” you whisper, resting your head back against his chest.

“Okay,” Dean echoes. His knot slowly begins to recede, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he shifts, pulling the heavy faux fur blankets up over both of you, completely cocooning you in the nest.

He wraps his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin. His thumb resumes its slow, hypnotic petting of your hair.

“You did so good for me, baby,” Dean murmurs, his voice growing heavy with his own exhaustion. “So perfect. Try to get some sleep. You need to rest before the next wave hits.”

You close your eyes, the scent of cedar and vanilla wrapping around you like a physical shield. The ache is still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but it’s no longer terrifying. It’s natural. It’s right.

For the first time in your life, you aren’t fighting who you are. You aren’t suppressing the deepest, most fundamental parts of your soul. You are exactly where you are supposed to be, safe in the arms of an alpha who looks at you like you are the center of his entire universe.

This is the fairytale. This is everything your mother said didn’t exist.

As you drift off to sleep, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of Dean’s heart beneath your ear, you realize one simple, absolute truth.

The reality is so much better than the dream.

The reception had already reached that point in the night where everything felt softer than real life.

The lights were warm and golden, strung across the ceiling in delicate rows that made the entire room glow. Candles flickered in glass holders on every table. White flowers spilled beautifully from the centerpieces, petals scattered between champagne flutes, folded napkins, and half-empty plates of cake. Somewhere near the dance floor, a group of cousins had abandoned all rhythm in favor of enthusiasm, and Jack Hughes had appointed himself the unofficial leader of a dance circle that no one had asked for.

Y/N watched from the sweetheart table with her cheek aching from smiling, her husband sat beside her.

Her husband, even thinking the word made something flutter behind her ribs.

Quinn Hughes, who had been her boyfriend for years, her best friend for even longer than that, her quiet place in every storm, was now sitting beside her in a black tux with a wedding band on his finger and his hand resting warm and steady over hers beneath the table.

He had been touching her all night, not in a dramatic way. Not in a way anyone else would necessarily notice unless they knew Quinn well enough to understand how he loved.

His thumb over her knuckles, his fingers brushing her lower back when they walked between tables, his palm settling at her waist whenever someone pulled them into a picture. His knee pressed against hers under the table. Every few minutes, he looked at her like he was checking that she was still there. Like he still could not fully believe the ceremony had happened. Like he had watched her walk down the aisle and had somehow never recovered from it.

Y/N wasn’t sure she had recovered either, she kept replaying the moment in her head. The doors opening, everyone standing, the music swelling. Ellen already crying in the front row, Jack turning around too early because he had no patience, only for Luke to yank his sleeve and whisper something that made him straighten up.

And Quinn.

Quinn waiting at the end of the aisle. Quinn, who looked like every bit of air had been stolen from his lungs, he hadn’t smiled right away. That was the thing she remembered most. He had looked stunned first. Completely frozen. His eyes had gone glossy almost instantly, and his mouth had parted a little like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

Then she had taken one step, then another, and his face had changed. The smallest smile, the softest breath, the kind of expression that said, there you are. Y/N had almost started crying before she even reached him, now, hours later, her veil was gone, her shoes had been kicked off under the table, and Quinn still looked at her like she had just walked toward him. “You okay?” she asked quietly, leaning close so only he could hear.

Quinn turned his head, his eyes softened “Yeah,” he said. “Why?”

“You keep staring.”

“I’m allowed.” she smiled, cheeks warming. “Because we’re married?”

“Because you’re beautiful.” Her heart twisted. “Quinn.”

“What?”

“You can’t say stuff like that when I’m already emotional.” His mouth lifted at one corner. “You’ve cried four times today.” “Five,” she corrected. “I cried when your dad hugged me.” Quinn’s smile grew. “That was a good one.”

“It was not a good one. It ruined my makeup.”

“You still looked beautiful.” She rolled her eyes even though her chest felt too full, before she could respond, a loud laugh from Jack’s table pulled their attention across the room. Jack was standing with a champagne flute in hand, telling a story with entirely too many gestures. Luke sat beside him looking exhausted but entertained. Trevor Zegras was leaning so far back in his chair laughing that one of Quinn’s cousins had a hand ready behind him in case he tipped over.

Y/N shook her head “How did your family survive you three growing up?” Quinn followed her gaze “My mom is very strong.”

“That’s an understatement.” At the head family table, Ellen was speaking softly with Jim, her eyes still puffy from crying during the parent dances. Jim had tried to hold it together during his dance with Quinn, and for most of it, he succeeded. But near the end, Quinn had said something Y/N couldn’t hear, and Jim had pulled him into the kind of hug that made everyone in the room pretend not to stare.

Y/N had cried then too, obviously, the entire day had felt like walking through one memory after another. Every person who approached them had a story, a blessing, a joke, a piece of the life Quinn and Y/N had built together without realizing how big it had become. A college friend reminding Y/N about the first time she said Quinn’s name with a smile she tried to hide. A Canucks teammate telling Quinn that he had known Y/N was different when Quinn started checking his phone with actual urgency. A family friend saying she had never seen Quinn look more peaceful than when Y/N entered a room.

It was overwhelming, beautiful, a little embarrassing, but mostly beautiful, the DJ had just started transitioning into another upbeat song when the microphone near the dance floor crackled.

Y/N looked up, her maid of honor stood near the projector screen, holding the mic with both hands and wearing a smile that immediately made Y/N’s stomach drop “No,” Y/N whispered, Quinn glanced at her. “What?”

“I know that face.”

“What face?”

“That face.”

Her maid of honor tapped the microphone “Hi, everyone!” the guests cheered lazily, some raising glasses. Jack shouted, “Is this another speech?” Her maid of honor laughed. “No, Jack.”

“Thank God.” Ellen immediately turned in her chair. “Jack.” He lowered his glass. “Respectfully. I meant respectfully.” Luke muttered, “You did not.”

The room laughed, Y/N sat up straighter, beside her Quinn looked curious, hher maid of honor smiled directly at the bride and groom “Don’t worry, i promise I’m not going to talk for long. But I do have one more little surprise for Quinn and Y/N.”

Y/N’s eyes widened, Quinn’s hand tightened over hers “What kind of surprise?” he murmured “I don’t know,” Y/N whispered. “That’s why I’m scared.” Her maid of honor continued, “When Y/N and Quinn started dating, I started noticing something.”

“Oh no,” Y/N said immediately, Jack leaned forward from his table, suddenly alert. “This sounds good.” “It is good,” Luke said, already pulling out his phone, Y/N pointed at him across the room. “Do not record this.” Luke lowered his phone halfway, Jack leaned over and pushed it back up. “Record it.” The maid of honor grinned. “Y/N has always been the kind of person who records everything. Random updates. Funny complaints. Little vlogs. Emotional spirals. Dramatic rants that she sends at midnight and then pretends never happened.”

The room erupted into knowing laughter, Y/N covered her mouth with both hands “No.” Quinn looked at her, amused now. “What did you send her?” “I don’t remember,” she said, horrified. “That is the problem.”

“And over the years,” her maid of honor said, “I saved some of them, Y/N turned bright red, Jack slapped the table. “This is the best wedding I’ve ever been to.” “You cried during the vows,” Luke said.

“I can have multiple favorite parts.”

The projector screen lowered, the lights dimmed, Quinn leaned closer to Y/N, his shoulder brushing hers “You okay?” “No,” she whispered. “I am about to become a victim.” He smiled, pressing his lips briefly to her temple “I’ll protect you.”

“From my own camera roll?”

“I’ll try.” The screen flickered, A title appeared over a shaky phone video of Y/N’s old apartment "QUINN & Y/N: A LOVE STORY, ACCORDING TO Y/N’S CAMERA ROLL"

The entire room cheered, Y/N made a helpless noise and hid against Quinn’s shoulder, Quinn laughed softly, wrapping an arm around her, then the first clip started Y/N’s face filled the screen, younger, flushed, and clearly fresh from getting home. She was lying on her bed, holding the phone above her face at the most unflattering angle possible“So,” video Y/N began dramatically, “I just got back from dinner with Quinn Hughes.”

The room reacted instantly, Jack yelled, “Oh, this is historic.” On screen, video Y/N narrowed her eyes “And I need to say something. Quinn Hughes is so annoying.” the room burst into laughter, current Y/N groaned into Quinn’s suit jacket. Quinn’s eyebrows lifted. “Wow.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“You said it with conviction.” Video Y/N continued, “He does this thing where he says, ‘I don’t care, you pick,’ but then when I pick, he gets this little look on his face.” she paused and made an exaggerated Quinn expression: blank, slightly squinting, mildly concerned, the Hughes table lost it, Luke pointed at the screen. “That’s exactly his face.” Jack laughed so hard he leaned into Trevor. “That is literally him at every restaurant.”

Quinn shook his head. “I don’t look like that.” Jim, from across the room, said gently, “You do, bud.” the laughter got louder, video Y/N sat up on her bed, still ranting “We walked around for almost forty minutes because apparently every restaurant was both fine and not fine. And then when we finally picked somewhere, he ordered the safest thing on the menu and said, ‘This is pretty good,’ like we didn’t almost starve getting there.”

Y/N peeked up at Quinn, he was laughing now, ears pink “That happened one time,” he said, she raised an eyebrow. “It happened last week.”

“Not for forty minutes.”

“Thirty-five.”

“Still different.” On screen, video Y/N sighed dramatically “He is so annoying.” she paused, her expression softened without warning “But, like…” She groaned, kicking her feet against the bed. “Why is he also the cutest person I’ve ever met?” The entire room let out a loud, teasing awwww, Quinn slowly turned to look at his wife “The cutest person you’d ever met?” Y/N covered her eyes. “I was young and vulnerable.”

“You were twenty”

“Exactly. A child.”

Jack yelled, “She had taste!” Luke added, “Questionable, but taste, Quinn ignored them, smiling in a way that made Y/N’s embarrassment soften around the edges, the next clip appeared, Y/N was sitting in a car, the camera angled low. Quinn was driving, one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting near the gearshift. He looked focused, serious, completely unaware of whatever commentary was about to happen. Video Y/N whispered, “I am documenting this for future evidence.” on screen, Quinn glanced sideways. “Are you recording?”

“No.”

“You are.”

“I’m collecting legal proof.”

“Of what?”

“That Quinn Hughes is the worst passenger princess alive.” the room exploded. Quinn’s mouth fell open “I was driving!” current Y/N laughed into her hand. “I had a point.”

“You did not.” video Y/N turned the camera more toward Quinn “He’s driving, technically, but spiritually? Passenger princess. He has complained about the temperature, the snacks, the playlist, the fact that I put my feet on the dash even though I did not put my feet on the dash—”

“You were close,” video Quinn interrupted.

“My feet were on the floor.”

“They were angled suspiciously.”

Current Jack doubled over, Luke was wiping tears from the corners of his eyes, trevor screamed from another table, “Spiritual passenger princess is insane!” Quinn pointed at him without looking away from the screen. “Don’t start.”

Video Y/N continued, whispering loudly, “He also thinks I don’t know that he skipped three songs from my playlist.” on screen, video Quinn’s eyes widened slightly “You did know?”

“Of course I knew.”

“I didn’t skip them. I curated.”

The room laughed again, current Y/N looked at Quinn. “You still do that.”

“Some songs need curating.”

“My playlist does not need your interference.”

“Debatable.”

Another clip cut in before she could argue, this time, the phone camera panned slowly across Quinn’s apartment, the coffee table, the kitchen counter, the couch, the floor beside the couch, the nightstand, everywhere the camera went, there was a water bottle. Some full, some half-empty, some suspiciously abandoned. Video Y/N spoke in a low, documentary-style voice “Here we observe the natural habitat of the wild Quinn Hughes.”

Quinn dropped his face into his hand, Y/N started laughing despite her embarrassment.

Video Y/N zoomed dramatically on a bottle beside the TV “The wild Quinn is a fascinating creature. He can remember every detail of a hockey system, every flight time, every team schedule, every tiny adjustment made during a game…” the camera moved to another bottle on the windowsill “But he cannot remember where he placed his water.”

Ellen was laughing through tears, Jim shook his head. “That tracks.”

Video Y/N whispered, “This one has been here for three days.” on screen, younger Quinn walked into frame wearing sweats and a hoodie, He stopped when he saw the camera “Are you filming the bottles again?”

Jack nearly screamed “Again? There were multiple episodes?” current Y/N grimaced. “It was a recurring series.” Quinn turned slowly toward her. “A series?”

“You gave me material.”

Video Quinn sighed, then started collecting the bottles, video Y/N whispered, “Progress.” the clip switched to another night, the room on screen was dark except for a lamp. Video Y/N lay in bed, wrapped in a tiny corner of blanket, looking betrayed “It is currently two thirteen in the morning,” she whispered. “And Quinn has stolen all the blankets again.”

The camera flipped, Quinn was dead asleep beside her, completely wrapped in the comforter like a burrito, only his face and one hand visible “He says he doesn’t do this on purpose,” video Y/N whispered. “That is a lie. He rolls over very calmly, very politely, and then takes everything with him like a soft little thief.”

The room roared, Luke slapped the table. “A soft little thief!” Jack was wheezing. “That is poetry.” Quinn’s face was bright red now “I was asleep. I cannot be blamed.” Y/N turned to him. “You absolutely can.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You woke up once because I tried to take it back and you said, ‘No, I need this.’”

“I have no memory of that.”

“That does not surprise me.”

Another clip appeared, Y/N sat at a kitchen island, staring into the camera with the seriousness of a news anchor “It has been four hours since I texted Quinn asking what he wanted for dinner.” the screen showed a screenshot, with Quinn’s unanswered text at the top and several dramatic follow-ups from Y/N.

Y/N: dinner? Y/N: hello? Y/N: quinn???? Y/N: I know you’re alive jack just posted you Y/N: this is why I have trust issues

The reception howled, video Y/N continued, “Jack has responded to me. Luke has responded to me. Quinn has not.” the clip cut to video Jack’s reply on screen.

Jack: order what u want. make his spicy so he learns.

Current Jack stood halfway out of his chair and pointed proudly at the screen “I was helping!” Ellen gave him a look. “You were enabling chaos.”

“I support women.”

Luke nodded solemnly. “He does when it inconveniences Quinn.”

The clip cut again to Quinn walking into the kitchen later, video Quinn looked into the takeout bag “Did you get the spicy noodles?” video Y/N calmly said, “Yes.”

“You know those are too spicy for me.”

“You should’ve answered your phone.” The room exploded again, Quinn turned to Y/N, betrayed. “That was premeditated.”

“You ignored a dinner text.”

“I was busy.”

“You were liking Luke’s Instagram post.” Luke lifted his glass. “He was.”

Quinn sighed, the next few clips came one after another, each funnier than the last, Quinn standing in a grocery aisle holding two jars of pasta sauce, reading both labels like he was studying for an exam, Y/N whispered, “We have been here for eleven minutes. It is sauce.”

Video Quinn frowned. “This one has basil.”

“They both have basil.”

“This one has more basil.”

Current Jack shouted, “More basil!” Luke repeated it under his breath, laughing harder every time, then Quinn trying to build a bookshelf and insisting the instructions were “not clear,” while video Y/N zoomed in on the manual where step three had very clearly been skipped, then Quinn in a hotel room looking for his hoodie while it sat on the chair directly behind him, video Y/N whispered, “He can read plays at NHL speed but cannot locate cotton from six feet away.” Then Quinn sitting on the couch watching reality TV with intense focus after claiming, repeatedly, that he “didn’t care about this show.” video Y/N whispered, “He just asked who betrayed who in episode four. He cares.”

Trevor stood up. “I knew he cared!” Quinn pointed at him again. “Sit down.”

Then there was a clip of Quinn wearing one of Y/N’s green face masks, expression blank, arms crossed, video Y/N asked, “How does your skin feel?” video Quinn muttered, “Fine.”

“Glowy?”

“No.”

“You look glowy.”

“I look ridiculous.”

“You look moisturized.” Current Y/N was laughing so hard she had to lean into Quinn’s side, Quinn, despite himself, was laughing too.

It was mortifying. It was ridiculous. It was so painfully them that it made her chest hurt, everyone was seeing the little details now, the relationship behind the public photos, the things no article, no Instagram post, no wedding speech could ever fully explain.

The water bottles, the stolen blankets, the terrible texting, the basil, the quiet humor, the comfort, their life.

Then the screen faded to black, the laughter slowly died down, Y/N exhaled, thinking maybe it was finished.

It wasn’t.

A new clip appeared, and instantly, the mood shifted, it was Y/N again, years younger, walking outside at night. The camera shook a little in her hand. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, and city lights glowed behind her. She looked shy, almost embarrassed, like she had recorded this in a moment of bravery she might regret later, video Y/N looked into the camera “I don’t know why I’m recording this,” she said softly. “Maybe because I want proof that I knew.”

Current Y/N went still, Quinn’s hand tightened around hers.

On screen, video Y/N took a breath “I had dinner with Quinn tonight. Again. Nothing happened. I mean, not nothing. We talked for three hours, and he walked me home, and he gave me his jacket even though he pretended he wasn’t cold.”

A tiny smile pulled at Quinn’s mouth, Y/N swallowed hard, she had completely forgotten that video.

Video Y/N looked down, smiling at herself “And I know this sounds insane because it’s early. Like, very early. And I’m probably being dramatic. But…” She paused, then whispered, “I think I just met the person I’m going to marry.”

The room went completely silent, Y/N felt her eyes sting immediately, Quinn didn’t move, he stared at the screen like someone had reached into the past and handed him something fragile, Jack’s teasing smile faded, Luke lowered his phone slowly, Ellen pressed her hand over her mouth,Jim looked down at the table, blinking fast.

On screen, video Y/N laughed nervously “So if this goes terribly, no one can ever see this. Delete it. Burn my phone. I am serious.”

A soft, emotional laugh passed through the room, Quinn finally turned his head toward Y/N “You said that?” he whispered, she nodded, her throat tight. “I guess I did.”

“That early?”

“I think part of me knew before I was ready to admit it.” His eyes searched her face, then the clip changed.

The next video was from the lake house. The sunset painted the water orange and pink. Y/N sat on the dock in an oversized sweatshirt, hair messy from the wind. In the background, Quinn was on the boat with Jack and Luke, pretending to be annoyed while clearly keeping track of everyone, video Y/N turned the camera toward him “Quinn is acting like he’s irritated right now,” she said quietly. “But he already checked if Jack had sunscreen on twice, told Luke not to jump too close to the dock, and noticed I forgot my drink before I noticed.”

The camera caught Quinn stepping off the boat, picking up a water bottle, and wordlessly bringing it toward her, Y/N whispered, “See?”

Current Ellen made a small, tearful sound.

Video Y/N turned the camera back on herself “He notices everything. He acts like he doesn’t, because he’s Quinn, but he does.” she looked over her shoulder at him again “I used to think love was supposed to feel loud. Like fireworks or movie scenes or some big dramatic moment. But with Quinn, it’s quieter than that.”

Current Y/N’s breath caught.

On screen, video Y/N smiled faintly “It’s him walking on the outside of the sidewalk. It’s him putting my phone on the charger when I fall asleep. It’s him standing next to me at parties when I’m nervous, not saying anything, just being there until I feel okay.”

Quinn’s jaw tightened, his thumb moved slowly over the back of her hand.

Video Y/N’s voice softened “I don’t think he knows how easy he makes it to love him.”

Ellen started crying then, fully crying, Jack looked toward his mom, and his own face crumpled for half a second before he recovered by pretending to adjust his tie, Luke caught him “You’re crying.” Jack sniffed. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m sweating from my eyes.”

“That is crying.”

The next clip came from a team event. Y/N stood in a bathroom mirror, dressed up, looking overwhelmed and giddy “Okay,” video Y/N whispered. “I am hiding in the bathroom because Quinn just introduced me to, like, twelve people as his girlfriend, and he said it so casually. Like he didn’t just rearrange my entire nervous system.”

A few soft laughs moved through the reception, current Quinn leaned slightly closer to her “I remember that night,” he said quietly, Y/N looked at him. “You do?”

“You were nervous.”

Of course he remembered.

On screen, video Y/N pressed a hand to her chest “He looked so proud. Not loud proud. Quinn proud. Which is worse, actually, because it makes me want to cry.”

Current Jack whispered loudly, “Quinn proud is a real thing.” Luke nodded. “Very subtle. Very deadly.”

Video Y/N looked at herself in the mirror “I love him,” she whispered. “I haven’t said it yet. But I do. I love him so much it makes me feel stupid.”

Quinn went very still, Y/N looked down at their hands because she couldn’t handle looking at his face just yet.

The video moved to another year, Y/N sat on the floor of Quinn’s apartment beside a half-packed suitcase. Quinn was asleep on the couch behind her, one arm tucked under his head, his hair messy, Y/N spoke quietly “Quinn is asleep, so I’m documenting this before I lose my nerve.”

Quinn inhaled slowly, He remembered that night, their first truly hard conversation, the one about distance. About schedules. About whether love was enough when life kept pulling them in different directions. About how tired she was. About how scared he was to ask her to stay close when his world was so demanding.

Video Y/N looked down at her hands “We had one of those conversations tonight. The kind where nobody is really wrong, but everything feels scary because you love each other enough that the future matters.”

Jim reached for Ellen’s hand.

Video Y/N glanced at sleeping Quinn “And I realized something. I don’t need everything to be easy with him. I just need us to keep choosing each other when it isn’t.”

Her eyes filled on screen “I think that’s what forever is supposed to be.”

Current Y/N wiped under her eyes quickly, Quinn noticed immediately, he lifted their joined hands and kissed the back of hers.

The next clips were shorter, stitched together with soft music underneath, Y/N filming Quinn at an airport, half-asleep with coffee in his hand “He says he’s not tired. He is lying.”

Y/N filming him from behind at a family barbecue, where he was helping Ellen carry plates into the kitchen without being asked “This is one of the reasons I love him.” Y/N filming Quinn kneeling to tie the laces of one of Jack’s younger cousins because the kid had tripped twice already “He is going to be such a good dad someday. Don’t tell him I said that. He’ll panic.”

The room reacted softly at that one, Ellen’s hand flew to her chest, Jim looked at Quinn, his expression gentle, Jack’s brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t tease, Luke looked down with a tiny smile.

Quinn turned his head toward Y/N slowly, she was staring at the screen, cheeks flushed, tears gathering again, she had forgotten saying that too, or maybe she had buried it somewhere deep because it had felt too big at the time.

On screen, the video moved on, Y/N, sitting in a hotel room after a playoff loss, wearing one of Quinn’s hoodies “He lost tonight,” video Y/N said softly. “And I hate that there’s nothing I can do to fix it for him.” the camera moved to her hand, where she was twisting the hoodie sleeve around her fingers, “But maybe love isn’t always fixing things. Maybe sometimes it’s sitting beside someone while they’re sad and making sure they know they don’t have to be sad alone.”

Quinn’s eyes shone, Y/N leaned into his shoulder.

Then came a Christmas clip at the Hughes house, wrapping paper everywhere, Jack stealing someone’s cinnamon roll, Luke arguing that he had not, in fact, lost a board game, because the rules had been “unclear.” Ellen laughing in the kitchen, Jim holding two mugs of coffee and shaking his head at all of them.

The camera focused on Quinn sitting on the floor, looking across the room at Y/N with a tiny smile, Y/N whispered, “Sometimes I look at him with his family and I just know. I want this. I want the loud, messy, teasing, everyone-talking-over-each-other version. I want him. I want his people. I want all of it.”

Ellen broke completely, Jack wrapped an arm around her shoulders from his seat, pressing a kiss to the side of her head, Luke wiped at his face and looked annoyed about it.

Trevor, shockingly, stayed quiet.

The video continued, a rainy street, Quinn holding the umbrella almost entirely over Y/N while his own shoulder got soaked, video Y/N said, “He thinks I don’t notice when he does stuff like this. I notice everything.”

A grocery store, Quinn carrying all the bags even though Y/N was holding out her hands, video Y/N said, “He says he doesn’t need help. He is very stubborn. Unfortunately, I love him.”

A quiet morning, Quinn asleep with his face half-buried in a pillow while Y/N whispered, “He stole the blankets again, but he also brought me coffee in bed yesterday, so I’ll let him live.”

The room laughed through tears.

Then the screen shifted again, Y/N appeared in a car, older now. Calmer. Softer. Her smile was different, the kind that came from years of being loved steadily “I think Quinn is going to propose soon,” video Y/N said.

The room gasped and laughed, Quinn turned sharply toward his wife.“You knew?” Y/N gave him a guilty look. “I suspected.” Jack threw his hands up. “Are you kidding me? We were so careful.” Luke stared at her. “I asked about flowers in a normal way.” Y/N gave him a look. “Lukey, you walked into the kitchen, said, ‘Hypothetically, do you hate roses?’ and then left.”

Luke’s face went pink, Jack pointed at him. “I told you that was suspicious.”

“You kept staring at her hand!”

“Because I was nervous!”

Video Y/N laughed on screen “No, I did not find the ring. I did not snoop. I am very respectful and mature.”

Current Jack muttered, “That means she thought about snooping.”

Video Y/N continued, “But Quinn has been acting weird. Sweet weird. Nervous weird. He keeps checking his phone and hiding it like he’s in a spy movie, Jack looks guilty every time he sees me, and Luke asked me what flowers I liked and then looked like he had committed a crime.”

The room laughed again.

Quinn shook his head, but he was smiling.

Video Y/N’s expression softened “But honestly? I don’t care when he asks. Or where. Or how perfect it is.” She looked straight into the camera “If he ever asks me to marry him, my answer will always be yes.”

Quinn’s smile faded into something overwhelmed, he remembered the proposal vividly, his shaking hands, the ring box in his pocket, Jack whispering, “Stop looking like you’re about to get arrested.” Luke checking the setup twelve times, Ellen crying before Y/N had even arrived, Jim squeezing his shoulder and saying, “Just talk to her. That’s all you have to do.”

And then Y/N turning around, Y/N seeing him, Y/N saying yes before he had even finished asking, he hadn’t known she had already decided, he hadn’t known the yes had been waiting for him long before the question.

The video faded, for a second, the room was quiet.

Then another clip started, Y/N sat on the floor of their bedroom in one of Quinn’s Canucks sweatshirts. The room was dim, lit only by a lamp. Her hair was pulled back, her face bare, her expression nervous and tender.

Current Y/N’s heart dropped, she remembered this one “Oh,” she whispered, Quinn looked at her “What?”

She shook her head, already tearing up again, on screen, video Y/N gave a small embarrassed laugh “Okay,” she said. “This is embarrassing, and I don’t know why I’m doing it.”

A ripple of soft laughter moved through the room, video Y/N twisted the sleeve of Quinn’s sweatshirt between her fingers “But I was thinking today that someday, if everything goes the way I hope it does, there might be a wedding. And maybe people will give speeches, and maybe everyone will talk about when they knew.”

She smiled, eyes already glossy “And I think I know now.” the room went still, video Y/N took a breath “I know because I don’t feel like I’m waiting for my life to start anymore. I know because even on boring days, even on hard days, even when he forgets to text me back or steals the blankets or leaves water bottles everywhere…”

A few tearful laughs broke through, video Y/N smiled wider “…there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Quinn was staring at the screen, his eyes red now.

Video Y/N looked directly into the camera “If you’re somehow watching this at our wedding…” She laughed softly. “I guess he asked.”

Y/N’s first tear slipped down her cheek, Quinn reached up immediately and wiped it away with his thumb.

On screen, video Y/N’s voice quieted “I don’t really care what our wedding looks like. I don’t care about the flowers, or the cake, or whether everything goes perfectly.”

She paused, her eyes softened in a way that made current Quinn’s breath catch “As long as he’s the one waiting for me at the end of the aisle.”

The room dissolved, Ellen was crying openly now. Jim had turned his face slightly away, blinking hard, one hand still holding Ellen’s. Jack wiped under his eyes quickly and then pretended he hadn’t. Luke stared at the table, jaw tight, his napkin pressed against one eye.

Trevor, for once, did not say anything.

On screen, video Y/N smiled one last time “So, future Quinn,” she said softly, “if you’re seeing this…hi. I love you. I loved you before you knew. I’ll love you after this day is over. And I’m really, really glad it was you.”

The screen went black, everyone thought that was the end, the applause started slowly, emotional, warm.

A few people stood, Y/N covered her face with both hands, crying and laughing at the same time “I can’t believe she did that,” she whispered.

Quinn didn’t speak, he looked completely undone, his eyes were glossy, his face pale with emotion, his hand still holding hers like he needed the contact to stay upright. Then, before the applause could fully rise, the screen flickered again.

The room quieted, text appeared on the screen.

One more clip.

Y/N froze, her heart stopped, her maid of honor, standing near the projector, looked at her with tears in her eyes.

Y/N’s lips parted, she knew, she knew exactly what this was.

The final clip appeared, it was recent, so recent that Y/N felt the air leave her lungs, she was sitting on the bathroom floor, not the elegant, glowing bride everyone had seen walking down the aisle today.

Just Y/N.

Bare-faced. Hair messy. Wearing one of Quinn’s old hoodies. Knees pulled to her chest. One hand covering her mouth while the other held her phone with a visible tremble, her eyes were red, she had clearly been crying before she even started recording.

The room went completely silent, Quinn’s body went still beside her.

On screen, Y/N let out a shaky laugh that immediately turned into a sob “Okay,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I don’t know why I’m recording this. I think because I can’t tell him yet and I need to say it somewhere or I’m going to explode.”

Current Y/N’s hand flew to her mouth, Quinn slowly turned toward her but she couldn’t look away from the scree, video Y/N looked down, her trembling hand lifted something into view, a pregnancy test, positive.

The entire room gasped, Ellen made a soft, broken sound, Jack’s mouth fell open, Luke sat frozen, Jim’s eyes widened before immediately filling.

Quinn did not move, he stared at the screen as if his whole world had stopped turning.

Video Y/N started crying harder “I’m pregnant,” she whispered, the words seemed to echo through the reception hall.

Y/N’s tears spilled over, beside her, Quinn’s grip on her hand tightened, but not painfully. Desperately. Like he was afraid this was a dream.

On screen, video Y/N pressed the pregnancy test against her chest and laughed through a sob “I’m pregnant. And I’m scared because I don’t know how to tell him without crying, and I’m happy, and I’m terrified, and I love him so much that I don’t even know what to do with all of it.”

Quinn’s eyes snapped to Y/N, she finally looked at him, his lips were parted, his eyes were full “Y/N,” he breathed, she tried to speak, but nothing came out. On screen, video Y/N wiped her face with the sleeve of Quinn’s hoodie “I always knew I loved him,” she said, voice shaking. “But this feels different. Because now there’s this tiny, impossible little part of both of us, and I keep thinking about him.” her smile trembled "I keep thinking about Quinn holding a baby. Our baby.”

Ellen was crying into Jim’s shoulder now, Jim had one hand over his mouth, his own eyes wet, Jack had both hands on top of his head, completely speechless, Luke looked like someone had hit him directly in the chest with emotion.

Video Y/N looked down at the test again “And I know he’s going to panic at first,” she said, laughing softly through tears. “Not because he won’t be happy. He will be. I know he will be. But because he’s Quinn, and he’ll immediately start thinking about cribs and doctors and whether the apartment is safe enough and whether I’ve eaten enough today.”

A watery laugh moved through the room because everyone knew she was right, Quinn let out a broken laugh, one tear slipping down his cheek.

Video Y/N’s voice softened “But he’s going to be the best dad. I know that too. I’ve known that for years.” Her eyes lifted to the camera, full of tears “Because he loves so quietly, but he loves so completely. He notices everything. He takes care of people before they ask. He remembers little things. He makes people feel safe.”

Y/N was crying too hard to hide it now, Quinn reached for her face, his fingers trembling.

On screen, video Y/N let out another shaky breath “And this baby is so lucky. So lucky. Because they’re going to have him.” She paused, crying harder “And I’m lucky because I get to have him too.”

The silence in the room was overwhelming, not empty silence, full silence, the kind that held every heartbeat in the room. Video Y/N looked at the pregnancy test again, then back at the camera “I was going to tell him privately. I still am, probably. Maybe I’ll put the test in a little box or buy a tiny jersey or do something cute and not completely unhinged like recording myself sobbing on the bathroom floor.”

A few soft laughs broke through the tears, Quinn covered his mouth with one hand, Y/N let out a sob and grabbed his other hand with both of hers.

On screen, video Y/N’s smile turned impossibly tender “I love you,” she whispered. “I love you as my boyfriend. I love you as my fiancé. I already know I’m going to love you as my husband.” her hand dropped gently to her stomach “And I think I’m going to love you most as the father of our baby.”

That was when Quinn broke, a sound left him, small, breathless, half laugh, half sob, Y/N turned toward him fully, crying “Quinn,” she whispered.

But the video wasn’t finished.

On screen, video Y/N wiped her cheeks one more time “So, future Quinn, if you’re watching this, please know I wanted to tell you in a perfect way. But I also know you, and I know us, and nothing about us has ever had to be perfect to be beautiful.” She smiled through tears “I don’t need a perfect wedding. I don’t need a perfect announcement. I don’t need perfect timing.” Her voice cracked “I just need you.” she looked down at her stomach again “We need you.”

The screen faded to black, for several seconds, nobody breathed, nobody clapped, nobody spoke. The room was suspended in that one truth, pregnant, their baby.

Quinn and Y/N’s baby.

Then Quinn moved, he stood so quickly his chair scraped against the floor, but he didn’t seem to hear it. He turned toward Y/N, both hands reaching for her before he even seemed to decide what he was doing, Y/N stood too, trembling “I’m sorry,” she said immediately, crying. “I was going to tell you before the wedding, but then everything got so busy, and I wanted to find the right moment, and I told her because I was freaking out, and I didn’t know she put it in the video, I swear I didn’t know—”

Quinn shook his head quickly “No,” he said, voice broken. “Don’t apologize.”

“I wanted to tell you privately.”

“Baby,” he whispered, and his voice cracked so hard that Y/N sobbed again. “Come here.” he pulled her into him, not carefully, not politely, desperately, his arms wrapped around her so tightly she disappeared against his chest, her face pressed into his suit jacket, his hand cradling the back of her head.

The room erupted, not into wild cheering at first, into crying, into gasps, into hands covering mouths and people standing and hugging each other. Ellen practically stumbled toward them, Jim right behind her, both crying. Jack looked like he had forgotten how to function. Luke was still sitting for half a second longer, staring at his brother and Y/N like he was watching the entire universe rearrange itself.

Then Jack shoved his chair back “No way,” he said, voice thick. “No freaking way.” Luke stood too, wiping at his face “Quinn’s going to be a dad,” he said, like saying it out loud made it real, Jack turned to him, eyes wet “We’re going to be uncles.” Luke blinked, then his face crumpled “Oh my God, we’re going to be uncles.”

Trevor slapped both hands over his mouth, then immediately pointed at Quinn “I’m going to be the fun one!” Jack whipped around. “Absolutely not.” Luke shook his head. “You are not getting unsupervised access.”Trevor looked offended through his tears. “I am emotionally available!”

“You taught a child to say ‘tax fraud’ last summer,” Jack said.

“It was funny!”

“It was not age appropriate!”

Y/N laughed wetly into Quinn’s chest, but Quinn didn’t let go, he held her like the entire room could disappear and he wouldn’t notice, his face was buried in her hair, his shoulders shook once, then again “Quinn,” she whispered, pulling back just enough to see him.

He looked down at her, he was crying, openly, no hiding it, no pretending, tears on his cheeks, eyes red, mouth trembling with a smile he couldn’t quite control “You’re pregnant?” he asked, like he needed to hear her say it in real life.

Y/N nodded, crying harder “I’m pregnant.” his breath left him “Our baby?” she gave a watery laugh. “Yes, Quinn. Our baby.” he looked down between them, at her stomach, then back at her face, his hands moved carefully, almost reverently, from her back to her waist.

“Can I?” he whispered, her face crumpled “Of course.” his hand settled over her stomach, there was nothing to feel yet. Nothing visible beneath the fabric of her wedding dress, but Quinn placed his palm there like it was the most precious thing he had ever touched.

Y/N covered his hand with hers, the room seemed to break again, Ellen cried harder, Jim put a hand over his eyes for a second, Jack turned away, hands on his hips, breathing through emotion like it offended him personally, Luke leaned into him slightly, and Jack immediately wrapped an arm around his shoulders without making a joke.

Quinn stared at his hand on Y/N’s stomach, then he laughed softly, disbelieving and tearful “I’m going to be a dad?” Y/N nodded “You’re going to be a dad.”

He looked at her “I’m going to be a dad.”

“Yes.” His smile broke wide and terrified and joyful all at once “I don’t know anything about babies.” Y/N laughed through tears. “You know plenty.”

“I don’t. I know hockey.”

“You know how to love people.” His face changed, softened, broke open again, Y/N placed her hand against his cheek “That’s the important part.”

Quinn leaned down and kissed her, it wasn’t like their first kiss as husband and wife after the ceremony, sweet and emotional and watched by everyone, this was messier, salt from tears.

A laugh caught between them, his hands trembling at her waist, hers gripping the lapels of his jacket, when they pulled apart, Quinn rested his forehead against hers “How long have you known?” he whispered.

“A little over a week.”

His eyes widened. “A week?”

“I wanted to tell you. I swear.”

“No, I know. I know.” He shook his head, still trying to absorb it. “You’ve been carrying this by yourself for a week?”

“I wasn’t by myself. I told her.” Y/N glanced toward her maid of honor, who was crying and covering her mouth. “Because I was panicking.”

Quinn looked at the maid of honor, for a second, Y/N thought he might be upset, instead, he mouthed, thank you, her maid of honor sobbed harder.

Then Ellen reached them “Oh my God,” Ellen whispered, Y/N turned just in time for Ellen to pull her into the gentlest hug possible, like she had suddenly become breakable “My sweet girl,” Ellen cried. “Oh, honey.” Y/N melted into her “I’m sorry I didn’t tell everyone privately.”

Ellen pulled back, holding Y/N’s face “Do not apologize. That was beautiful. You hear me? Beautiful.” Jim stepped closer, his eyes wet and his smile trembling “Congratulations,” he said softly.

Then he looked at Quinn, his son, a husband, a father.

Jim’s face crumpled slightly before he pulled Quinn into a hug, Quinn went into his dad’s arms immediately, Jim held him hard, Y/N watched Quinn close his eyes, one hand still reaching back toward her like even in his father’s embrace, he needed to keep touching her, Jim whispered something against Quinn’s ear that Y/N couldn’t hear.

Whatever it was made Quinn nod quickly, eyes squeezed shut, when Jim pulled back, he gripped Quinn’s shoulders “You’re going to be great,” Jim said, voice rough.

Quinn shook his head slightly, overwhelmed, Jim nodded firmly “You are.” Jack arrived next, he looked at Y/N, then at Quinn, then at Y/N’s stomach, then back at Quinn “I don’t even have a joke,” Jack said, voice breaking.

Y/N laughed. “That’s how I know it’s serious.” Jack stepped forward and hugged her carefully “I’m so happy for you,” he whispered, and it was so sincere that Y/N started crying again “Thank you, Jack.”

He pulled back and pointed at her stomach “Hi, baby Hughes. I’m your favorite uncle.” Luke immediately shoved him aside “Absolutely not.”

Jack glared. “I called it first.”

“That’s not how babies work.”

“You don’t know that.” Luke hugged Y/N next, his arms awkward and careful and sweet “Congratulations,” he said quietly.

“Thank you, Lukey.” his face softened at the nickname, then he looked at Quinn “You’re going to be a dad.”

Quinn huffed out a shaky laugh “I know.”

“No, like…” Luke blinked hard. “A dad.”

Quinn nodded, eyes wet again “I know.” Luke pulled him into a hug then, and Jack joined because apparently emotional boundaries no longer existed. Quinn got trapped between both of his brothers, one laughing, one crying, both pretending neither was fully losing it.

“Don’t teach the baby your restaurant indecision,” Jack said into Quinn’s shoulder, Luke added, “Or the blanket stealing.” Quinn laughed, trying to shove them off. “Can you give me five minutes before parenting critiques start?”

“No,” Jack said.

“Absolutely not,” Luke agreed, Y/N watched them, one hand resting unconsciously over her stomach, Ellen noticed, her face softened impossibly, she stepped beside Y/N and wrapped an arm around her waist “You okay?”

Y/N nodded, though she was still crying “I’m happy.” Ellen kissed her temple “I know.”

Y/N looked across the room, everyone was reacting now, friends hugging, family crying, phones held to chests instead of recording because some moments felt too sacred.

The maid of honor stood near the projector, wiping her face with both hands. Y/N caught her eye and shook her head through tears “You’re in trouble,” she mouthed, her maid of honor mouthed back, “Worth it.”

Eventually, the DJ, who had clearly not been emotionally prepared for any of this, spoke gently into the microphone “Well,” he said, voice thick, “I think congratulations are in order for the bride, the groom…and baby Hughes.”

The room exploded, this time, it was cheering, loud, joyful, overwhelming cheering, people stoo, glasses lifted, someone shouted, “Baby Hughes!”

Jack shouted louder, “MY NIECE OR NEPHEW!” Luke yelled, “OUR niece or nephew!” Y/N laughed, crying at the same time, Quinn finally escaped his brothers and came straight back to her.

He looked dazed, happy, but dazed, like someone had handed him the entire future at once and he was trying very hard not to drop it “You okay?” Y/N asked, echoing her question from earlier, Quinn stared at her for a long second, then he laughed softly “No.”

Her eyes widened “No?”

“I mean, yes. But no.” He shook his head, smiling through tears. “I’m happy. I’m so happy I don’t know what to do.” her face crumpled “That’s exactly how I felt.”

He placed his hand over her stomach again “Hi,” he whispered, Y/N sobbed, Quinn looked embarrassed for half a second, but then he kept going, voice barely above a breath “Hi, baby.”

The entire room seemed to collectively melt, Jack made a strangled noise behind them, Luke whispered, “Oh, that was unfair.” Ellen cried again. “Quinn.” Quinn ignored everyone, his eyes stayed on Y/N’s stomach “I’m your dad,” he whispered, like he was trying the words on for the first time, Y/N covered her mouth,Quinn looked up at her “I’m your dad,” he said again, this time to her, half disbelieving.

She nodded “You are.” he swallowed hard “And you’re my wife.” she laughed through tears. “Yes.”

“And we’re having a baby.”

“Yes.”

He blinked “That’s a lot.”

“It is.”

“I love you so much.”

“I love you too.”

“No.” Quinn shook his head slightly, his hand still warm over her stomach. “I mean, I loved you this morning. I loved you when you walked down the aisle. I loved you before that. But this…”

His voice broke “This is different.” Y/N’s eyes filled again “I know.”

“I didn’t think I could love you more.” She smiled through tears. “And? he let out a shaky breath “I was wrong.” she stepped into him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

Quinn held her carefully now, different than before, still close, still protective but with a new awareness beneath his palms, as if every place he touched her had become sacred.

A few minutes later, after more hugs, more tears, and Jack loudly declaring that he needed to be involved in all baby name discussions, the DJ restarted the music.

But the mood of the reception had changed completely, the wedding had become something else, not just a celebration of what Quinn and Y/N had been, but of what they were becoming.

Husband and wife, Mom and dad, a family.

Quinn led Y/N back to the dance floor, the song was slow, soft enough that people began pairing off again around them. Ellen danced with Jim, still wiping her eyes. Jack tried to pull Luke into a dramatic slow dance as a joke and got shoved away. Trevor attempted to join them and was rejected by both.

Y/N stepped into Quinn’s arms, his hand settled at her waist, then, almost instinctively, drifted lower, closer to her stomach, she smiled “You’re going to do that a lot, aren’t you?”

He looked down at his hand “Probably.”

“Quinn.”

“What?”

“You found out ten minutes ago.”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re already hovering.”

“I am not hovering.”

“You are emotionally hovering.”

He smiled faintly “I’m allowed.” she shook her head, laughing softly. “Because we’re married?”

“Because you’re carrying our baby.” her breath caught, Quinn noticed immediately.

“You okay?” she nodded “That just sounds real when you say it.”

His eyes softened “Our baby,” he said again, quieter, Y/N leaned her forehead against his chest “Our baby.”

They swayed together, around them, the reception continued. People danced. People cried. People whispered excitedly. Somewhere nearby, Jack was already telling someone that he was going to teach the baby to skate before they could walk. Luke was arguing that developmentally, that made no sense. Trevor was insisting that babies loved him.

But Quinn and Y/N were in their own world, the same way they had been in every clip, in cars, in kitchens, in grocery stores, on docks, on bathroom floors, in bedrooms where whispered hopes had become real.

Quinn looked down at her “You said I was going to panic,” he murmured, Y/N smiled against his chest. “A little.”

“I’m not panicking.”

She lifted her head and gave him a look “You asked your dad if babies need passports.” his mouth opened, then closed “That was a valid question.”

“We are not traveling with the baby tonight.”

“I know that.”

“Do you?”

He sighed, but he was smiling “I’m processing.” she laughed softly “I know.” his face grew serious again “I wish you didn’t have to be scared alone.”

“I wasn’t alone,” she said gently. “And I knew you’d be happy. I just… I think I was overwhelmed by how much I wanted it with you.”

Quinn’s throat worked “Yeah?” she nodded “I love you so much it scares me sometimes.”

His eyes shone “That’s what you said in the video.”

“I meant it.”

“I know.”

He pulled her closer, his lips brushing her forehead “I’m scared too,” he admitted, Y/N looked up “You are?”

“Yeah.” His voice was quiet, honest. “Not because I don’t want it. I do. I want it with you. I just want to do it right.”

Her expression softened “Quinn.”

“I know there’s no perfect, but…” He glanced down at her stomach, then back at her face. “I want them to feel safe. I want you to feel safe. I want to be good at it.”

Y/N cupped his cheek “You already are.” He gave her a doubtful look “You take care of everyone you love,” she said. “You notice everything. You show up. You stay. That’s what I meant in the video.”

His eyes searched hers “You really think I’ll be a good dad?”

Y/N smiled, tears gathering again “I think our baby is the luckiest baby in the world.”

Quinn’s face crumpled, he dipped his head and kissed her again, slow and emotional, his hand resting gently over her stomach between them, when they separated, Jack’s voice cut through the tenderness “Not to interrupt the most emotional wedding dance in human history,” he said loudly from the edge of the dance floor, “but I need to say something.”

Quinn closed his eyes. “Please don’t.”

Jack ignored him, he lifted a glass “To Quinn and Y/N,” he announced.

The room quieted again, but this time with laughter waiting beneath the surface, Jack’s voice wavered slightly, even as he tried to sound casual “You two are disgusting.”

Y/N laughed, Quinn sighed, Jack continued, “Like, genuinely unbearable. You make normal couples look bad. You’ve been married for five minutes and you’re already having a baby, which feels very aggressive.”

Luke muttered, “That’s not how that works.”

“But,” Jack said, pointing at them, “I also need to say that Quinn has been in love with Y/N forever. Like, forever. Before he admitted it. Before he understood it. Before any of us were allowed to make fun of him for it.”

Quinn’s expression softened despite himself, Jack swallowed “And Y/N… you’ve loved him exactly the way he deserves. Even when he is a terrible texter. Even when he takes forever to pick dinner. Even when he hoards blankets like a tiny Canadian dragon.”

The room laughed, Quinn muttered, “Tiny?” Y/N pressed her lips together to keep from laughing harder, Jack’s voice grew thicker “So, yeah. Congratulations. On the wedding. On the baby. On making all of us cry against our will.”

Luke raised his glass beside him “To baby Hughes,” he added softly, the room repeated it “To baby Hughes.” Quinn’s hand tightened around Y/N’s, Y/N looked around the room, tears in her eyes, overwhelmed by the love surrounding them.

Then she looked at Quinn, he was already looking at her, of course he was “I guess the video worked,” she whispered.

His smile was watery “It ruined me.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

He leaned closer “I want a copy.” she groaned softly. “Quinn.”

“I mean it. I want all of it.”

“The embarrassing parts too?”

“Especially those.”

“Even the blanket thief clip?”

“Yes.”

“The basil?” he paused, Y/N raised an eyebrow, he sighed. “Even the basil.”

She smiled “And the last one?”

His expression changed again, softened into something so tender it made her chest ache “Especially the last one,” he whispered, Y/N nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks again “Okay.”

The song shifted around them, but they kept dancing, at some point, Ellen took another picture. Jim wrapped his arm around her. Jack and Luke stood beside them, still wiping their faces when they thought no one was watching. Trevor cried openly and claimed he had allergies.

And Quinn held his wife in the middle of it all, his wife, the mother of his child, the girl from the videos, the girl who had once sat on her bed after a first date and called him annoying, the girl who had stood in the cold and whispered that she thought she had met the person she was going to marry, the girl who had cried on a bathroom floor because she loved him so much that the thought of their baby had overwhelmed her completely.

Quinn pressed his lips to her temple “I loved you before I knew too,” he whispered. Y/N looked up at him “You did?”

He nodded “I think everyone else knew first.” she laughed softly “That sounds like you.”

His thumb brushed her waist “I’m glad you waited for me.”

“I wasn’t waiting,” she said. “I was loving you.” Quinn’s eyes filled again “Same thing.” She smiled “Maybe.”

He looked down at her stomach, then back at her “I’m going to spend the rest of my life loving both of you.”

Y/N’s breath caught, around them, their family danced and cried and laughed, the screen behind them was black now, the video over, but Y/N could still feel every version of herself from the clips standing with her.

The girl who ranted, the girl who hoped, the girl who knew, the girl who cried over a positive test because she loved Quinn too much to hold it quietly inside her own chest, and now she was here.

In her wedding dress, in Quinn’s arms, with his ring on her finger and his hand over their baby, she thought about what she had said months ago in that final clip.

I don’t care what our wedding looks like, as long as he’s the one waiting for me at the end of the aisle.

She smiled through her tears, because Quinn had been waiting, and now, somehow, there was someone else waiting too, tiny, loved, unseen but already cherished beyond words, their baby, their future, their forever.

Y/N rested her head against Quinn’s chest as he held her close, and for the first time all night, neither of them said anything.

“You’re so strong,”

He said, forehead pressed to yours.

“I’m so proud of you, baby.”

And then it happened, forty-five minutes into surgery, a cry pierced through the room.

Loud. Clear. Perfect.

You barely had time to react before tears flooded your eyes. Quinn’s body shook beside you, a soundless sob catching in his throat as he looked over the curtain. The nurse held up a tiny, red-faced baby, and Quinn melted like snow in spring.

“That’s him,” he whispered, eyes locked on yours.

“That’s our boy.”

When they laid him in Quinn’s arms, he looked down at the wrinkled little face as though it was the most sacred thing he’d ever seen. And when he brought him over to you, both of you cried quietly together, hearts wide open in a way nothing could ever prepare you for.

You named him Finn Hughes.

And the world felt whole.

The hospital days were a dreamy blur of exhaustion and newborn cries, but through it all, Quinn was your steady constant. He learned how to hold Finn before you could even lift your arms fully. He guided him to your chest, helped adjust your gown for breastfeeding, always whispering sweet encouragements while balancing a plate of food to feed you at the same time.

“You’ve done enough,”

He’d murmur, nudging a fork to your lips.

“Let me take care of you now.”

Every evening, he’d sneak home just for an hour, long enough to shower, grab snacks, and come back smelling like home.

Sometimes he returned with fresh clothes for you, or photos from the nursery you hadn’t seen yet. Sometimes it was just a quiet, long hug that said more than words ever could.

And when it came time to help you walk again, Quinn was your crutch.

Ellen took Finn in her arms while Quinn wrapped one hand firmly around your waist and the other held your hand. Your first steps were shaky, your body weak and unfamiliar.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

“Tell me if you need to stop. I’m right here.”

When you leaned into him, too overwhelmed to speak, he looked at you with guilt flooding his eyes.

“I think… I think Finn might be our only child,” he said softly.

“Seeing you like this, I feel so guilty, like I made you go through too much.”

Your heart twisted at the sound of his voice. This man, your gentle, golden-hearted man felt pain just watching yours. You reached up, cupping his cheek, grounding him.

“You gave me the greatest gift of my life,” you whispered.

“I’d do it again a thousand times.”

First week home was chaos. Finn fit into the house like he’d always belonged there. His crib sat under soft mobile lights, his name spelled on the wall in muted blue letters. Every night, Quinn would take the night shift with a sort of peaceful determination.

“You need sleep, mama,”

He’d always say, cradling Finn close.

“Let me take care of our little guy.”

Diaper changes, bottle warmings, rocking chair lullabies, Quinn handled it all with love. Even when you insisted on nursing Finn, he sat beside you everytime, whispering to him like it was the most normal thing in the world to stay up till 3 a.m. with his whole heart poured into this little boy.

Sometimes, you’d urge him to sleep.

But he never did, at least, not before kissing your temple and saying.

“I like watching you two like this.”

Then came the quiet storm.

More than three months postpartum, you stood in front of the mirror one evening, looking at the scar that marked your belly. You traced it lightly with your finger and felt a pang of self-consciousness. You didn’t feel ugly, but you didn’t feel beautiful either. You didn’t feel like you.

And you never said a word to Quinn. You tried to hide it.

But he knew you, really knew you.

He came into the bathroom quietly, arms around your waist, and kissed your shoulder before noticing where your eyes had fallen. Without a word, he slowly dropped to his knees in front of you. And then…

He kissed your scar.

Soft. Long. Meaningful.

You gasped, tears rising uninvited.

“Don’t ever think that this makes you anything less than the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,”

He whispered against your skin.

“That scar… it gave me him. It gave me everything. It’s the most sacred part of you now.”

His voice cracked slightly as he looked up at you, eyes glossy but sure.

“I’d give anything to trade places with you. But since I can’t… I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure you never feel like this scar makes you anything less.”

And then he kissed it again, this time slow, reverent like it was the beginning of every love story ever written.

You broke.

In his arms, you cried for every fear, every ache, every second of doubt and in return, he held you like you were his whole world.

Because you were.

By the last round of the game, you’re hardly in control of yourself. The room spins and everything seems absolutely hilarious from your spot squeezed between Sirius and James. The guys cheer loudly when James gets the ping pong into the final cup, the other team forced to drink while your boys celebrate their victory. You bury your face against Sirius’ shoulder, your hand finding his and giving it a squeeze. 

“Where’s Rem?” You ask, suddenly noticing the absence of your tallest boyfriend, and somehow Sirius understands you despite the roar of the crowd and the evident slur in your voice.

“Probably trying to keep Frank and the others from killing each other.” Sirius speaks with a flicker of amusement in his eyes and he’s so beautiful that you really want him to take you upstairs so you can cuddle. You decide to just tell him that. 

“Take me upstairs,” You slur more than you think, burying your nose against his shoulder. His fingers tangle themselves in your hair, pressing you so close you’d happily suffocate against his skin. 

“Yeah?” Sirius’ voice is low but he turns his head to speak into your ear so you can hear him over the music. “You tired already, sleepy girl?” 

You give a half nod, stars curling behind your closed eyelids. You’re glad you’re leaning against him or you might fall over. “I had two exams today. Two. And you three were doing fuck all.”

Sirius laughs, a steady sound that in any other room would catch everyone’s attention. Here, in the frat house’s kitchen, he can barely be heard over the bass.

James hears it, though, and reaches for your free hand, looking between the two of you knowingly like he was able to hear the whole conversation, though you know that’s impossible. “You alright, angel?”

You shift when he squeezes your fingers, just enough to peek one eye out from your hiding place against Sirius. You don’t understand how they seem barely tipsy while you can hardly stand on your own two feet. “I want to cuddle. And I’m tired.”

Sirius coos and wraps his arm around your waist, leaning over you to talk to James. “Take her upstairs,” Sirius tells him, and then his eyes find yours again, sweet and soft, “I’m going to find Rem and we’ll be up.”

You practically swoon on your feet (or maybe it’s the alcohol) at the thought of being dog-piled by the three of them. You’re already excited to be warm and wrapped up in their tangle of limbs. 

“Okay.” You tell Sirius with a sweet smile, and he presses a kiss to your temple before ducking away. James leads you unceremoniously upstairs, helping to stop you from running into anything. How he’s managed to stay on his own two feet while having drank twice as much as you is unknown, especially since he’s having to practically carry you. 

The bed is soft when you flop down onto it, your giggles filling the dorm room as you do. James chuckles, crawling behind you on the bed to sit against the headboard. You place your head in his lap, and his fingers tangle their way into your hair, pads of his fingertips tracing over your scalp. Your eyes close.

“‘f you keep doing that, I’m going to fall asleep.” Your voice would suggest you’re closer to sleep than you think. 

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” James’ voice is soothing, his touch warm, and your brain is still spinning from the alcohol. It makes you feel dizzy, and a little sick. 

“Mhm, but I want cuddles with Moony and Pads too before I fall asleep.” Your drunken murmurs are mumbled against his lap, barely above a whisper. The bass from downstairs can be heard still, low booming audible even through the floor. It makes your head ache, which makes your stomach churn more. 

Maybe you feel more than a little sick.

“Jamie?”

“Yes, angel?” 

“I think I’m going to be sick.” 

It takes Sirius longer than it should to find Remus. He’s outside smoking a cigarette, which should’ve been obvious, but instead Sirius had shoved his way through the entire crowd in the living room and even checked the basement, which should be considered dangerous on nights like tonight. 

By the time the two of them finally make it upstairs to the dorm room (after a shared cigarette and a little making out), you’re sitting on the sink with James brushing your teeth for you. You look miserable. 

“Oh no, dovey…” Remus and Sirius step up beside you, your sandy-haired boyfriend placing a hand on your knee to squeeze it gently. “Did you get sick?”

James nods for you as he continues to move the toothbrush over each tooth so meticulously you begin to wonder why he isn’t majoring in pre-dental. 

You lean over to spit your toothpaste out into the sink and Remus reaches for a cloth to wipe at your mouth. If you remember this tomorrow, you’ll be embarrassed. You let the three of them carry you to bed, latching onto Remus as the four of you climb onto the mattress. James lays behind you, pressing a warm hand to your stomach and a soft kiss to the back of your neck. Sirius is behind Remus, head resting on his elbow so he can see all of you. 

It doesn’t take you long to fall asleep, your eyes falling closed and your jaw going slack, your cheek smushed into the front of Remus’ shirt. 

“I’ll stay with her.” Remus tells them, brushing a soft touch down the side of your face that leaves you sighing and snuggling further into him. “You two can go drink.”

“Are you sure?” James asks while Sirius is already climbing out of bed.

“Let’s do shots!” Sirius suggests with a smirk and a sparkle in his eye. 

James looks down at you, peacefully asleep in Remus’ arms, and then meets his eye, asking again, “Are you sure, moony?” 

Remus rolls his eyes, but the soft smile that grows on his face is saccharine. “Yes, go on.”

James leans forward to press a chaste kiss to Remus’ lips, and a quick one to your forehead, and Sirius does the same. Then they’re off, hand in hand, and Remus pulls out a book, his free hand tangling in your hair. 

°˖✧✿✧˖°

The sunlight filtered timidly through the fissures of the heavy blackout curtains, tracing gilded lines across the rumpled blankets. That morning, like so many others before it, the world did not yet fully exist; there was only the pervasive warmth and the steady, grounding presence at your back.

Brendon woke you as he always did. He used no words, favoring the language you both mastered best: touch. It began with soft, lingering kisses along the curve of your neck as his hand descended to squeeze your hips with possessive affection. It was a silent gesture—an unspoken “I’m here, Doll”—as he drew you flush against his naked heat, letting you feel his morning arousal brushing against the small of your back.

It wasn’t a demand for sex, but a tether—a life-affirming reminder of the electric intimacy that, even after two years of marriage, remained vibrantly intact.

You buried your face in the pillow with a languid, muffled sigh, shivering at the sensation of his calloused fingertips against your skin. Brendon was in no rush. He took his time, dragging the tip of his nose along your jawline to inhale your natural scent before it was camouflaged by the citrus perfume you always asked him to buy.

After assuring himself—with one last firm squeeze and a delicate kiss to the nape of your neck—that you wouldn’t drift back to sleep, he finally pulled away. The mattress felt cavernous without his massive frame filling his side of the bed. He stood and moved with an agility that defied his sheer size; even after all this time, and despite accompanying him to the gym, you couldn't fathom how a man of his build could move so gracefully.

He lingered for a moment at the foot of the bed, watching you as he stretched his muscles, before pulling on a pair of briefs that did little to hide his hardness—though he seemed entirely indifferent to it. His blue eyes glinted with that specific blend of adoration and mischief he reserved solely for you and your shared mornings. He gave you a slow, knowing smile, well aware that in this precise moment, the world was "silent" for you.

He knew—not for nothing had he been married to you for years—that wearing your cochlear implants for more than six hours at a time was a sensory nightmare. Usually, you only removed them when the noise became a physical torture of overstimulation. Or, more often, he would remove them himself, having learned to read every micro-expression of discomfort on your face.

He strode from the room, granting you those final minutes of absolute peace. By habit, you knew he was heading straight for the kitchen. Though you couldn't hear it, your mind reconstructed the soundtrack of his actions with crystalline clarity: the electric roar of the grinder pulverizing specialty coffee beans—ridiculously expensive in your opinion, but purchased because he preferred the best—and the delicate clink of ceramic mugs meeting the black marble island.

It was a ritual, a domestic choreography executed with a precision born of devotion. Black, potent coffee for him; a thick, velvety hot chocolate for you. This was his nonverbal syntax, his way of tending to you, of reminding you that you were his—that he chose you above all else, every single day.

You lingered a moment longer amidst the Egyptian cotton—another luxury Brendon insisted upon, and a far cry from the scratchy linens you'd known in the system—feeling his residual warmth fade. You wondered what he was "inventing" for breakfast. Brendon was not a man for simple toast; for him, the kitchen was another theatre of mastery. He was as deft with a chef’s knife as he was with a scalpel in the operating room.

Gradually, the aroma of his cooking began to seep beneath the door. You rose and donned one of his oversized shirts, ignoring the silk robes in your own dressing room. The fabric draped over your bare skin, concealing the handprints, love bites, and bruises Brendon had marked you with the night before.

You moved slowly, feeling a pleasant ache in your muscles and a lingering tenderness from your husband's attentions. Reaching for the hard case on the nightstand, your fingers closed around it with mechanical familiarity. You snapped the processors behind your ears, feeling the faint click of the magnets engaging.

A soft electronic beep signaled the end of your silence. Suddenly, the stillness was replaced by the low hum of the radio and the distant murmur of Brendon’s voice as he mentally retraced the steps of his first scheduled surgery.

You walked barefoot, the chill of the dark hardwood floors biting at your soles. Brendon’s shirt, made of an impossibly soft weave, brushed against your knees as you padded down the hallway. The scent was now unmistakable: fresh coffee, rich chocolate, and the savory salt of crispy bacon and scrambled eggs on seeded toast.

At the kitchen threshold, you paused, leaning against the frame of the French doors. He stood with his back to you, focused on the stove, his broad, muscular shoulders bathed in the clear morning light. Across his shoulder blades, you could see the evidence of your own passion: long, crimson furrows where your nails had dug in, as if he’d been marked by a wolf. They were the silent testimony of the pleasure he had elicited with his hands, his tongue, and his body. Had it been four orgasms? Five?

He didn't need you to speak to know you were there; it was a sixth sense he’d developed over their time together. He turned slowly, spatula in hand, wearing that half-smile he kept only for you.

"Good morning, Doll," he said, his voice reaching your implants with a vibrant, resonant warmth. "I was starting to think I’d have to bring breakfast to you."

His gaze raked over the shirt—recognizing his own garment—and the flare of heat in his eyes at the sight of his marks on your skin almost made you wish for more.

"Good morning, Big Guy," you murmured lazily, stepping forward to curl into his chest.

He welcomed you with a protective arm, hooking it around your waist to haul you flush against him while his other hand remained busy with the pan. The heat radiating from him was intoxicating. As you pressed your face into his bare chest, Brendon let out a low, rumbling laugh—a deep vibration you felt against your cheek before your implants even processed the sound. It was your favorite sound in the world.

"It looks better on you than it does on me, Babydoll," he said, setting the spatula aside to thread his fingers through your sleep-muddled hair, gently tilting your head back to meet his gaze. "I could get used to this view, though I’d run out of clothes in a week."

He looked at you with a predatory intensity, savoring the contrast of his massive shirt against your petite frame. His thumb traced the edge of a bruise on your neck—a mark he had carved there himself. An electric shiver of possession raced down your spine, a reminder that while the outside world was a chaotic mess, here, there was only the two of you.

"Now, breakfast," he said, punctuated by a firm swat to your backside—hard enough to sting and leave yet another mark.

You let out a small gasp, half-startled and half-delighted. The echo of the impact resonated in your implants with startling clarity. Brendon Park never did anything halfway; every caress, however blunt, was a signature—a way of marking his territory and reminding you that you had belonged to him from the moment you said "I do."

"Brendon!" you protested with a mischievous grin, though you made no move to retreat.

He laughed, guiding you toward a stool at the island. He moved with practiced efficiency, plating the eggs and bacon on white porcelain adorned with cherry blossoms—your choice, not his. Left to his own devices, everything he owned would have been black, but he used these because he knew they made you happy.

"Sit, Doll. You need to recharge," he said, setting the steaming plate and matching cup of chocolate before you.

You settled onto the stool, the shirt riding up to reveal the bites on your pale thighs. Watching him move in the morning light—so domestic yet radiating that dangerous, coiled energy—your heart hammered. You couldn't help but marvel at your luck that a man like this was yours alone.

Brendon sat beside you, but not before pressing a chaste, firm kiss to the crown of your head. He didn't eat immediately. Instead, he leaned an elbow on the counter and studied you with the same critical, discerning gaze he used on surgical interns. He knew your every habit. He knew that you sometimes drifted away from the physical world, forgetting basic needs like sustenance.

"Eat, Doll. Don't you dare leave half of that," he warned, gesturing to the plate with his chin. "I know you. You’ll drink the chocolate, decide the sugar is enough to last ten hours, and think you’re fine. You know I don't like that."

He reached out and, with a tenderness that stood in stark contrast to the raw power of the night before, cut a piece of toast and held it to your lips. He waited patiently for you to accept it. It was a command wrapped in devotion. Only when he saw you chew and swallow did he grunt in satisfaction and begin his own meal.

He ensured not a scrap was left on your plate before draining his coffee in one long draught. Once finished, he cleared the space with methodical precision, loading the dishwasher with surgical efficiency.

"I’m going to shower. I won't be long," he announced, pressing one last kiss to your shoulder before heading toward the primary ensuite.

You rose to prepare his clothes for the day. You walked barefoot into his dressing room—a space that smelled of sandalwood, cedar, and expensive, spicy cologne. You knew his routine by heart: today was a long day in the theater, which meant hours of standing under relentless lights, maintaining microscopic accuracy as he reconstructed bone and joint.

You sifted through the hangers carefully, mindful of the perfect order he maintained—a sharp contrast to the beautiful chaos of your own closet. You selected a deep navy Egyptian cotton shirt that matched the hue of his eyes and trousers of a soft, elegantly tailored black fabric. You laid them out on the bed, smoothing every phantom wrinkle with your palm.

Just as you finished setting out his socks and silk briefs, the sound of the water cut off. Moments later, Brendon emerged, a towel knotted loosely at his hips. His torso was still beaded with water, and his damp hair dripped onto his broad shoulders. He paused when he saw the clothes waiting for him.

"You're too good to me, Babydoll," he sighed, though the curve of his lips betrayed how much the gesture touched him. "And you know me too well. After a long shift, the last thing I want to do is fight with a wardrobe."

He walked up to you, his damp hands resting on your waist, just above where you both knew the marks of his possession remained etched into your skin.

"Thank you, precious," he continued, his tone softening for a fleeting second. "Now, let me get dressed before I decide that surgeries can wait—and you can't."

"I could cover my eyes, if you're too embarrassed for me to see you naked," you teased affectionately. You shielded your face with your hands, but left purposeful slits between your fingers so as not to miss a single detail of his formidable anatomy.

Brendon shook his head, clearly amused by your mischief, a spark of adoration igniting in his eyes.

"You are incorrigible, Doll—absolutely and truly incorrigible," he murmured. He dropped the towel without a trace of modesty, knowing full well you were devouring every line of his body with your gaze.

You watched him dress with practiced speed. There was something hypnotic about a man of his bulk slipping into the clothes you had curated for him. He pulled on the cotton T-shirt, which clung to his broad shoulders like a second skin; then his briefs, concealing a frame that—even at rest—was considerable; and finally, his trousers, which he drew up over his powerful legs.

Once dressed, he sat on the edge of the bed to lace his shoes. The atmosphere shifted subtly; his expression grew somber, his mind already navigating through X-rays and surgical protocols with the clinical efficiency that characterized him at the PTMC. In an instant, he transitioned from the tender, possessive husband to the meticulous, predatory surgeon capable of silencing a room with his mere presence.

He stood and approached you one last time, wrapping one large hand around the nape of your neck to draw you into his space until you shared the same air. You couldn't help but shudder—not from fear, for you would never fear him—but from the sheer electricity his proximity always sparked.

"Take advantage of your day off. Rest. Stay in bed all day if you want," he ordered, his lips brushing yours with every syllable.

You closed your eyes, letting yourself be intoxicated by that balance of tenderness and dominance only Brendon could strike. You felt small beneath his touch, yet immensely secure.

"Understood?" he insisted, pressing his lips against yours in a slow, possessive kiss that forced you to grip his massive forearms just to keep your balance.

"Understood, Big Guy," you murmured against his mouth, your voice barely a breath.

He let out a grunt of satisfaction. With one final, stinging swat to your backside that made you arch your back with a moan, he laughed and pulled away. He strode out of the room, and seconds later, you heard the heavy thud of the front door. Finally alone, you collapsed back onto the unmade bed, enveloped in the fading scent of him.

What you wouldn't give to be back there again.

What a fool you had been.

Silly and careless.

You shouldn't have done it. But he pampered you with such devotion that you hadn't wanted to be left behind. As a token of gratitude, you had decided on a gesture of your own: you would take your old car and bring him a homemade lunch. It was a rarity; you both preferred to keep your marriage private, shielded from the prying eyes of "gossipy colleagues."

The intention had been pure—an act of love for the man who adored you. You had prepared his favorite meal, ignoring the pull of exhaustion, the ache in your muscles, and his direct command to remain in bed.

But fate—or rather, a drunk driver blowing through a stop sign—had other plans.

A flash of red. The harrowing screech of rubber against asphalt. The cacophony of blaring horns. Then, the thunderous explosion of metal yielding to metal—a dull, bone-deep impact that seemed to shift the very axis of the universe.

And then, the nothingness.

That was how you ended up here.

The first sensation to register as you drifted into consciousness within the disoriented haze of the trauma room was the scent: a sterile, sharp medicinal smell that you associated so deeply with your husband. You were surrounded by a frantic blur of doctors and nurses, their mouths moving with urgent speed, but you heard nothing. Where were your implants? Had they been lost in the wreckage? You couldn't think clearly, and the silence was absolute—a rising wall that severed you from the world, leaving you skin-raw and vulnerable.

A stabbing headache made reason impossible. You tried to lift your arms to sign, to tell them you couldn't hear, but a pair of hands pinned you down, obstructing your only means of expression.

Panic flared. You were trapped in a ring of people who wanted to help but couldn't comprehend why you wouldn't—or couldn't—answer.

"It’s useless; she’s too disoriented from the impact," Dr. Al-Hashimi said. You couldn't hear her, of course, but you saw her lips moving too fast to read as you struggled against the restraints.

"Ortho is on their way down," Perlah confirmed, hanging up the red trauma phone.

It was then, in the middle of the struggle, that the agony in your hip finally surged through the adrenaline. For the first time since waking, you thought of Brendon. He would be frantic. Had the paramedics salvaged your bag, or was it still crushed in the footwell of the car? You should have been wearing the medical alert bracelet he’d bought you for exactly this scenario, but you’d forgotten it again. The universe seemed to be mocking your negligence, leaving you helpless and mute at the moment you most needed a voice. A lump of sheer helplessness tightened in your throat.

"We can’t stabilize her if she won't stop fighting," Santos muttered, though Perlah heard her clearly.

It took only minutes for Brendon Park to arrive.

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly. You couldn't hear the sudden hush that fell over the trauma bay when he entered, but you felt the change in pressure. It was like a shark dispersing a school of silverfish, or the shockwave of a blast leveling an idyllic landscape. Drs. Al-Hashimi and Santos tensed, their shoulders hunching as their gazes darted toward the double doors. Whitaker practically recoiled into a corner, looking like a gazelle in the presence of an apex predator.

"Call Ortho again and tell Dr. Brennan to get down here," he ordered, offering no explanation and looking at no one but you. He moved with predatory focus until he was at eye level with your stretcher.

"What? But you’re already here, Dr. Park," Al-Hashimi interjected, her confusion palpable. "I don’t believe her injuries are severe enough to require two attending surgeons—"

He didn't deign to answer her. He scanned you with a surgical eye, not touching you yet, before realizing that your agitation was born of pure, silent terror. He correctly guessed that the magnets of your implants hadn't survived the G-force of the collision.

"I’m here, Doll. Look at me. Only me," he signed, ensuring his hands were within your line of sight while simultaneously speaking with a loud, commanding clarity. He cared nothing for the stunned expressions of his colleagues.

"Since when do you know ASL?" Whitaker stammered, too shocked to filter his thoughts. Seeing Park—the "Shark"—signing with fluid grace was like seeing a statue start to breathe.

"Since my wife is deaf, genius," Brendon snapped, turning a steel-blue gaze on every medical professional in the bay. "And you’re terrifying her. How is it that not one of you noticed she can’t hear a word you’re saying? Am I surrounded by total incompetents?"

The silence in the trauma room deepened, spreading like a cold front across the faces of the staff. Dr. Al-Hashimi’s mouth hung open as she processed the revelation. Santos looked equally horrified, and Whitaker turned a shade of pale that nearly matched the hospital walls.

No one in the hospital knew that the cold, caustic, and brusque Dr. Park even had a personal life, let alone a wife—and certainly not that his wife was currently bleeding out on an ER gurney.

"Dr. Brennan is coming, but she’s not happy about the summons," Perlah said, returning from the phone.

"As if I give a damn about her mood. The bylaws forbid me from operating on my own wife," Brendon dismissed her. Even without hearing the thunder in his voice, you saw the granite set of his jaw. The staff shrank back as if they were on a sinking vessel surrounded by white sharks. "And I’m certainly not leaving her in the hands of incompetent residents. Brennan is the only one I trust for this, besides myself."

His gaze returned to you, transforming in a heartbeat. The "Shark" vanished, replaced by the man who adored you. He leaned in, invading your space with that familiar, possessive heat, ignoring the half-dozen witnesses who were still reeling from the word wife.

"Look at me, Doll. You’re going to be fine. Dr. Brennan is going to fix your hip, and I’m going to be right there, watching her every move. Don't worry about anything. Do you understand?" He signed slowly, allowing your concussed brain to track his movements.

You nodded, the knot of panic in your chest finally loosening. Seeing him sign in the middle of this sterile chaos was the anchor that kept you from drowning in the quiet. You didn't care that his coworkers were seeing a side of him they didn't believe existed.

"Park is married..." Whitaker whispered, utterly floored by the sight of the brutal surgeon being so tender. "I never thought it was possible."

"Yes, I’m married. Yes, I have a life outside these walls; though I fail to see why that matters right now," Brendon replied, his voice regaining its icy edge. "You should be focused on the patient, not gossiping like schoolboys."

He never took his eyes off you, even as he hurled barbs at the staff. You watched the resident who looked like a character from Ratatouille stumble backward, nearly tripping over a blue-eyed doctor, while Al-Hashimi tried to regain her professional composure.

"The boy from Ratatouille looks like he’s about to faint. Don’t be mean, Bren," you signed weakly, your arms feeling like lead.

A brief, dry laugh shook Brendon’s chest—a vibration you felt against your arm before you saw his lips curl into a genuine, if ironic, smile.

"Then... you were the one who left those marks," Santos blurted out, her eyes traveling over the dark bruises on your neck and chest. The evidence of the previous night was everywhere: shoulders, abdomen, thighs. The most prominent were the unmistakable shadows of large fingers wrapped around your waist. "It looks more like a brutal assault than a consensual act."

Brendon didn't flinch, but his eyes turned lethal. You couldn't hear the accusation, but you could intuit the tension surrounding the marks of his passion. With a slow, deliberate motion, he pulled the hospital sheet up to your chin, veiling every trace of his possession from their judgmental eyes.

"What happens between our sheets is none of your concern, Dr. Santos," he said, his voice sharp enough to draw blood. "My wife is here because of a car accident, not because of her sex life."

The rear doors hissed open. Dr. Brennan entered like a Category 5 hurricane in a small frame. She was tiny compared to the other surgeons, but she had carved out her reputation with steel. If Brendon was the Shark, she was the Orca. Her grey eyes swept the room, taking in the cowering Whitaker and the standoff between Brendon and Santos.

"That’s enough, Dr. Park. We’re taking her to the OR," Brennan said. You couldn't hear her, but the authority in her expression was absolute. She moved to the stretcher, physically nudging Santos out of the way.

She didn't waste a second, signaling the orderlies to unlock the wheels. The ceiling began to move—a blurring sequence of white panels and flickering fluorescent lights that made your head spin.

Brendon didn't leave your side. He walked flush against the gurney, his hand crushed tightly in yours, his blue eyes searching your face for any flicker of pain.

You reached the heavy steel doors of the elevator. The wait for the car to descend felt like an eternity in the absolute silence.

"We're almost there, Doll," his lips articulated. There was a softness in his expression that masked the tension in his frame. "Don't worry. I trust Brennan. She’s the best—after me."

The doors slid open, and the stretcher was pushed into the cramped, metallic box, followed by Brennan and two nurses. The space was claustrophobic. Brendon placed his free hand on the back of your neck—the exact same caress from that morning. He knew you hated confined spaces; he knew the trauma of being locked in cupboards as a child in the system.

As the familiar tremor began at the base of your spine, your pupils dilated with terror. The steel walls seemed to shrink, shifting into the dark, damp shadows of your childhood. Your breathing hitched—a silent, jagged gasp that signaled the onset of hyperventilation.

But then, Brendon’s hand squeezed firmly at the nape of your neck. His fingers were more than a caress; they were an anchor to the now, demanding your attention and pulling you back from the precipice of that dark, traumatic abyss. He stepped between you and the closed elevator doors, his massive frame becoming your entire horizon—your beacon in the storm of your own thoughts.

He knew every one of your ghosts; he had spent countless nights cradling you through the tremors of your nightmares. Seeing that glint of primal terror in your eyes made his jaw tighten to the limit, his teeth grinding with a raw, barely contained fury at the world that had hurt you.

"Look at me, Doll. Only me," he signed with one hand, the other maintaining that heavy, grounding warmth against your skin. "You aren't there. You are here with me. These doors won't stay closed for long. No one here will ever hurt you again."

His blue eyes burned with a protective ferocity. He knew how to soothe you better than you knew yourself. He forced you to synchronize with the rhythm of his own breathing, which you could feel against your face as he leaned in close. You inhaled, mimicking him, and the ghost of the cupboard began to dissolve against the reality of his presence.

"We’re almost out, my little doll," he promised, his voice a low rumble. "I’m not letting go. I’m with you until the end. You’ve always been a survivor—a fighter."

He leaned forward, pressing his forehead against yours. It was a gesture so profoundly intimate that Dr. Brennan and the orderlies averted their eyes in a rare, respectful silence.

When the elevator doors finally slid open onto the surgical floor, the relief was instantaneous. The world seemed to expand, and the sterile, chilled air filled your lungs. The stretcher rattled out of the metal cage—a vibration you felt deep in your bones. Brendon stepped back just enough to allow the orderlies to maneuver you toward Operating Room 5.

"Dr. Brennan is an exceptional surgeon," he said, knowing he had to head to the scrub sinks if he was to join you. "But I will be right there. I’ll be your voice while you sleep. I won't let anyone make a single misstep. I promise you, Doll."

You watched him stand still for a heartbeat, watching as you were wheeled toward the theater, before he turned on his heel. He strode toward the scrub room with the determination of a man who would not let fate, the universe, or any god take away the only thing in the world he truly loved.

The double doors of the OR swung wide. Inside, the lights were a raw, blinding white. They transferred you to the operating table—a transition to a cold, metallic surface that made you shudder as it met the bare skin of your back. Panic thrummed in your chest like a muffled drum, a primal response to the hostile environment, but deep down, you knew you were in the safest hands in the city.

To your left, the anesthesiologist approached, precisely adjusting the IV manifolds. Almost instantly, a glacial chill began to invade your veins, racing up your arm like a frozen river.

Your eyelids grew heavy, weighted with lead. You tried to fight it—one last desperate effort to stay awake, to stay here. With fingers numbed by the onset of the drugs, you managed to lift your hand just a few inches. The movement was clumsy and slow, but you managed to sign a final "I love you" to the imposing figure of your husband, who had just appeared at your side.

That was the last thing you remembered before the world slipped away.

You didn't see his answer.

Only darkness.

A dreamless sleep.

The next time you opened your eyes, it felt as though only minutes had passed. However, the leaden weight of your eyelids, the dry, tacky sensation in your mouth, and the scratchiness in your throat betrayed the truth: it had been hours.

You were bathed in a soft, amber gloom—a merciful reprieve from the violent white glare of the operating room. The first thing you registered was a familiar touch: warm, rough, and grounding. His hand was clamped over yours. You turned your head slowly, battling the residual vertigo of the anesthesia.

There he was.

Brendon hadn’t moved. He was slumped in the armchair pulled flush against your bedside, still clad in his surgical scrubs. His normally immaculate hair was a mess of curls; you could tell he had run his hands through it repeatedly, rubbing away the gel until it looked entirely natural. The shadows beneath his blue eyes were bruised and deep, as if the weight of the last few hours had physically aged him.

The moment he noticed you stir, he bolted upright. His eyes scanned your face with clinical intensity, searching for any flicker of pain or lingering delirium.

"Hello, Doll," he signed, a smile of pure, jagged relief breaking across his lips. "Welcome back. The surgery was a success. Dr. Brennan did an inspired job. You’re going to make a full recovery, little doll."

You tried to speak, but only a fractured, hoarse moan escaped your throat. He anticipated the need, gently guiding a straw to your lips to offer a few precious drops of water. Once you had swallowed, he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out an object that made your heart skip a beat.

Your cochlear processors.

They were scuffed, and one had a hairline fracture along the protective casing, but they were whole.

"I got them back from the car," you read on his lips, a spark of grim triumph in his gaze. "Well, I sent Ratatouille to fetch them. I refused to leave your side."

He leaned over you with infinite care. You felt the familiar magnetic click against your skull, and suddenly, the world rushed back in. The rhythmic, electronic chirp of the heart monitor, the distant bustle of the hallway, and—above all—the sound you had hungered for since the moment of the crash.

"Can you hear me, Doll?" His voice reached you—low, gravelly, and frayed by an exhaustion born of near-loss.

"Yes, Big Guy. I hear you," you managed to whisper. You were still floating in an anesthetic haze, but the relief of hearing him again was an instantaneous balm.

Brendon let out a long, shuddering sigh, closing his eyes as he pressed his forehead against yours. His shoulders, which had been braced like granite since he first saw you on that trauma gurney, finally slumped.

"Don't ever give me a fright like that again," he growled against your lips, punctuated by a tender, lingering kiss. "God... when I walked in and saw you lying there, I thought... I thought I’d lost you. Don’t do it again. I’m begging you."

"I’m so sorry... I only wanted to bring you lunch. To thank you for taking such good care of me." Tears pricked your eyes. "I didn't mean for this to happen."

He silenced your guilt with another kiss—one that sought to overwrite your apologies with his devotion.

"Hush, baby. Don't you dare apologize for loving me. The only thing that matters is that you're alive, that you're going to heal, and that you're coming home with me," he said. He traced the line of your cheek with his thumb, wiping away a stray tear. "I only need you. Whole. Safe. Under our roof and between our sheets."

"Brendon," you murmured, your voice sounding small and fragile. You tugged weakly at the V-neck of his scrubs. "Come up here. Please."

He hesitated, casting a wary glance toward the door of the private room. As a senior surgeon, he was flouting every protocol in the hospital handbook, but one look at your pale face and trembling lip ended his resistance. He kicked off his shoes and carefully maneuvered his massive frame into the narrow space on the hospital bed, curling around you with exquisite care to avoid your operated hip.

You tucked your head into the hollow of his chest. Brendon pulled you flush against him, burying his face in the crook of your neck, where his lips brushed against one of the marks he had left the night before.

"Rest, Doll," he whispered against your skin, the vibration of his voice resonating through your own chest. "I love you. I love you so much."

"I love you too, Big Guy."