He’s not talking much now. Which is really for the best, because when Garrett Graham gets too smug, she starts wanting to bite him. And when she bites him, he gets this ruined little hitch in his breathing that makes her feel extremely normal and mentally well about the whole thing.

Her legs are wrapped around his waist, ankles locked low at his back, pulling him in harder every time he starts to get too careful. He keeps trying to kiss her like it will quiet her down, which is stupid for several reasons, mainly because she’s never once in her life been inspired toward silence by Garrett’s mouth. 

If anything, it makes her worse. Messier. Hotter under the skin. More likely to drag her nails down his back until he hisses through his teeth and his hips snap forward hard enough to make the headboard complain behind them.

“Fuck,” Garrett grits out, breaking the kiss just enough to breathe against her mouth. “Baby, your nails.”

She smiles, but it comes out shaky because he rolls into her at the same time, deep and slow and mean, and the sound that leaves her is nothing like the clever thing she had planned. 

It spills out raw and open, caught in the back of her throat before it turns into his name. Her fingers flex against his shoulders anyway, nails finding the hot, damp skin there. “You love my nails.”

“I love my skin attached to my body.”

“Liar.”

His laugh breaks halfway through when she drags her nails down again, lighter this time but still enough to make his whole back tighten under her hands. He drops his forehead to hers, breath shaking, mouth brushing hers without properly kissing. “You’re evil.”

“You’re inside me and still complaining.”

“That’s multitasking.”

“That’s annoying.”

“That’s rich coming from the girl who bit my jaw ten minutes ago because I said please.”

She turns her head just enough to see the mark under his jaw, dark and pretty and entirely her fault. Heat licks through her again, stupid and proud. “You sounded cute.”

Garrett’s eyes narrow, but whatever comeback he has dies when she clenches around him on purpose. His mouth falls open against hers. The hand under her thigh tightens, fingers digging in, and his next thrust comes rougher, less polished, all the practiced control slipping for one hot second. 

She loves when it happens. Loves the little cracks in him. Loves how Garrett can be cocky all night downstairs with half the campus orbiting him like he hung the moon in Briar blue, but in here, with her ankles locked behind his back and her nails in his skin, he gets messy. He gets honest in ways he doesn’t always know how to say.

“There,” she breathes, laughing softly even as her eyes start to flutter. “That shut you up.”

His mouth curves against hers, smug even ruined, which is frankly inspirational in the worst way. “You’re so fucking mouthy for someone who’s been moaning for ten minutes.”

She gasps, offended, except it gets dragged sideways into a moan when he shifts his angle and hits something low and bright that makes her hips jerk. “Garrett.”

“Yeah?” He kisses the corner of her mouth, then her cheek, then the place under her jaw where her pulse is going stupid. “What, baby?”

Her nails scrape up into his hair, tugging hard enough that his head lifts. His eyes are dark, half-lidded, heat blown wide through them, and he looks so good above her that it annoys her. It always annoys her. 

He has no right looking like that in a room this messy, with a scratch blooming red over one shoulder and his mouth swollen from hers, like some rich athletic nightmare built specifically to make her standards embarrassing.

She pulls him down until his mouth is almost on hers again. “Spit in my mouth.”

Garrett stills for half a second. A tiny pause, one blink, his eyes searching hers with the last scrap of sense either of them has brought into this room. “Yeah?”

She nods, breath already catching because he hasn’t moved again and her body is throwing a private, furious little tantrum about it. “Yeah.”

Something shifts in his face. His thumb presses into the soft skin beneath her thigh, his mouth hovering over hers, his voice dropping into that low, careful place that still sounds filthy because it’s Garrett and he’s looking at her like he wants to ruin his own life with both hands. “Open, baby.”

Her stomach flips so hard it almost feels like falling. She opens her mouth, and of course he chooses that exact second to thrust again, slow and deep enough that a moan pushes right out of her, helpless and wet and humiliatingly perfect. 

Garrett’s eyes drag over her face like he’s memorising it for later, like he’s going to be insufferable about this for the rest of time if she gives him even an inch. Then he leans closer, lips parted, and spits into her mouth.

The sound she makes is obscene.

Garrett’s breath catches. His jaw flexes as he watches her swallow, and for one second all his stupid golden-boy polish goes clean out the window. He looks wrecked. Actually wrecked. Mouth open, eyes gone dark and stunned, hips pressing into her like he forgot what rhythm was supposed to be because her tongue just flicked over her bottom lip and that was the final thing his brain could survive.

“Fuck,” he says, low and rough, almost to himself. “You’re gonna kill me.”

She smiles up at him, dazed and pleased and hot all over. “Don’t be dramatic.”

He laughs once, without humour, and kisses her so hard the back of her head presses into the pillow. It’s sloppy after that. His tongue pushes into her mouth and she lets him, opens for him, pulls him closer with her legs until he groans into the kiss and his hips start moving again, faster now, the bed shifting beneath them with every thrust. 

She can feel him everywhere. In her hips, her thighs, the bruising grip of his hand, the sweat-slick slide of his chest against hers, the dizzy little ache where he fits so deep it makes the entire room blur at the edges.

She gets loud because there’s no point pretending she won’t. Garrett knows it. The house knows it. The drywall has probably developed trauma. His mouth keeps catching hers between sounds like he’s trying to swallow them, like he wants them and also knows Tucker is on the other side of the wall silently considering a transfer.

“Baby,” Garrett mutters, but it sounds more like a plea than a warning.

“What?” she breathes, all fake innocence and no air. “Too loud?”

His hand slips from her thigh to her waist, then lower, dragging her harder into the next thrust. “No.”

She laughs, but it breaks apart when he does it again. “You’re so bad at pretending to be responsible.”

“I’m extremely responsible.”

“You’re fucking me through your mattress.”

“That’s private captain business.”

She makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a moan, and Garrett kisses it off her mouth, smiling like an idiot against her lips. It’s too warm suddenly, too close to something sweet, so she scratches lightly down his back again to ruin it. He hisses and pulls back, eyes flashing.

“Roll over,” he says.

Her breath leaves her in a rush. There’s a beat where she just looks at him, because she likes him like this. Bossy but not cold. Rough around the edges but still watching her face, still making sure she’s with him, still Garrett under all that heat. 

She lifts one brow because surrendering immediately would be bad for her brand. “Say please.”

His mouth parts, incredulous. “You want manners now?”

“I’m classy.”

“You just asked me to spit in your mouth.”

“And you did.” She smiles sweetly. “So maybe don’t act above the table manners portion of the evening.”

Garrett stares at her for a second, then laughs under his breath, shaking his head like she has personally ruined every plan he had for being a normal man. “Please roll over before I lose my fucking mind.”

“See?” she says, already moving because her body has no interest in maintaining a bit when his voice sounds like that. “That wasn’t hard.”

“No, but I am.”

She chokes on a laugh as he pulls out, and then he’s got his hands on her hips, helping her turn, warm palms sliding over her waist and stomach and thigh in little unnecessary touches that make it very clear he’s not, actually, as impatient as he’s pretending to be. 

The mattress dips. The sheet twists under her knees. She gets one elbow beneath herself, then pushes her hips back because she knows what she’s doing and because the groan Garrett makes behind her is worth any amount of lost dignity.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

She looks back over her shoulder, hair falling into her face, mouth swollen, breathing still ruined. “What?”

His hands settle on her ass, thumbs pressing in, and his eyes move over her like he’s having a serious private conversation with every bad decision he’s ever made. “Nothing.”

“You look pained.”

“I’m admiring.”

“You’re staring.”

“Same shit.”

She laughs and starts to say something else, but Garrett bends before she can, pressing his mouth to her ass in a hot, open kiss that steals the thought clean out of her head. Her fingers grip the sheet. He does it again, slower, then bites just lightly enough to make her jolt.

“Garrett.”

“Mm?”

“Are you making out with my ass?”

His laugh brushes warm over her skin. “You sound mad.”

“I’m impatient.”

“Yeah?” His mouth moves up, kisses dragging over her lower back, then higher, slow and warm and unbearable. “Poor baby.”

“Don’t poor baby me when your dick is literally begging to be inside me.”

He breaks. Actually laughs against her back, low and helpless, and the sound sends something soft and molten through her before she can stop it. Then his hand slides up her spine, palm smoothing over the place her body has gone tense with need, and his mouth follows: her back, her shoulder blade, the slope of her shoulder, the side of her neck. 

By the time he’s over her again, chest pressed to her back, one arm braced beside her and the other guiding her hips, she’s trembling in a way she would deny under oath. His mouth brushes her ear. “You good?”

The question is quiet. Almost swallowed by the heat of the room, the house noise underneath them, her own heartbeat. She turns her face into the pillow and nods. “Mhm.”

“Words.”

She huffs, but it comes out soft. “I’m good, Garrett.”

His mouth presses to her shoulder, a kiss that lingers half a second too long. “Good.”

Then he pushes back in, and she forgets every single language she has ever used to be difficult.

The moan that leaves her is loud enough that Garrett’s hand flexes at her hip and his forehead drops briefly to her shoulder like he’s either praying or laughing at his own funeral. 

She falls forward into the pillow, fingers twisting in the sheets, ass still tipped up because pride may be dead but instinct is thriving. He starts slow for approximately three seconds, which is very noble and completely unsustainable. Then she pushes back against him, and whatever thread of control he’s holding snaps with a sound low in his throat.

“There she is,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Fuck, baby.”

She says his name into the pillow, muffled and useless, and Garrett’s hand slides around the front of her throat, holding her there while his mouth presses beneath her ear. It makes her eyes roll shut. It makes every sound worse. The angle is deeper like this, sharper, each thrust sending heat licking up through her stomach and down the backs of her thighs until her whole body feels loose and overlit and almost too full of him to stay attached to itself.

The first bang on the wall is so hard the lamp flickers. They both freeze for one startled, ridiculous second.

Then Tucker’s voice comes through the drywall, flat and furious and deeply traumatised. “KEEP IT DOWN.”

Garrett goes completely still behind her.

She turns her face out of the pillow, eyes wide. For one silent second, the room holds. Then Garrett’s breath hits her shoulder in a shaky laugh, and she loses it too, a breathless little giggle that immediately makes her hide her face again because there’s nothing dignified about being naked on all fours while Tucker yells through the wall like the world’s saddest RA.

“Oh my God,” she whispers.

Garrett’s shoulders shake against her back. “We’re gonna get evicted.”

“You own nothing.”

“I live here.”

“Not for long if Tucker kills you.”

Another bang hits the wall. “I CAN HEAR YOU LAUGHING TOO.”

She lifts her head, trying to sound sincere and absolutely failing because Garrett chooses that moment to shift inside her, just barely, and her voice wobbles. “SORRY–”

Garrett thrusts again. The apology breaks apart instantly, turning into a moan she has no chance of catching. Her head drops back into the pillow, fingers gripping the sheet as Garrett buries his laugh against her shoulder and then, because he’s a bastard and a deeply unserious man, does it again.

Tucker groans through the wall. “I HATE THIS HOUSE.”

Garrett kisses her shoulder, still laughing, but his hips keep moving now, slow and deliberate and mean in a way that makes the humour dissolve back into heat far too quickly. “You apologised so nicely,” he murmurs against her skin.

“Shut up.”

“You want to try again?”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” His hand tightens at her waist, pulling her back to meet him, and her whole body answers before she can decide not to. “You’re clenching.”

“Garrett.”

“Yeah, Kitty?”

“Don’t call me that when I’m trying not to scream.”

His mouth curves against her neck. “That sounds like a you problem.”

She reaches back blindly and smacks at his thigh. He catches her wrist, pins it gently against the mattress beside her head, and the movement does something awful to her stomach. 

His chest is hot over her back, his breath ragged at her ear, his body moving harder now, less careful with every little sound she fails to swallow. She can’t bring herself to care about anyone else in the house. Not when Garrett’s other hand slides around her hip and down, fingers finding her with the kind of precision that makes her bite into the pillow.

“Oh,” she gasps, muffled. “Fuck.”

Garrett groans. “Yeah. There?”

She nods because words are a scam. His fingers keep moving, slick and firm, and his rhythm falters for the first time. That gets her. The fact that he’s not as controlled as he sounds. The way his hand tightens around her wrist. The way his mouth presses to her shoulder and stays there while his breathing falls apart in little pieces against her skin.

“Baby,” he says, and it’s not smug now. It’s rough and low and almost gone. “You’re so fucking good.”

Her eyes squeeze shut. The praise lands too deep, curling hot behind her ribs, and she tries to arch away from it, from the feeling, from how quickly it pulls her apart. Garrett follows, hips pressing in deep, fingers steady, mouth at her ear.

“Don’t hide,” he murmurs. “Let me hear you.”

“Tucker will kill us.”

“Tucker’s already dead inside.”

She laughs, or tries to, but it turns into another moan when he changes the angle again, and Garrett makes a sound like that one got under his skin. “There,” he says. “That’s it. Fuck, that’s the one.”

Her body goes tight all at once, heat winding so hard through her stomach that she stops caring about the wall, the house, the fact that she is absolutely going to have to walk downstairs later and look Tucker in the eye. 

Garrett’s fingers keep moving. His hips keep dragging her under. His mouth is on her neck, then her cheek, then the corner of her jaw, messy little kisses that don’t match how filthy everything else is, which is honestly rude.

“Garrett,” she gasps.

“I know.” His voice breaks around it. “I know, baby. Come on. I’ve got you.”

“I’m gonna–”

“Yeah.” His hand releases her wrist so he can wrap his arm around her middle, pulling her tighter against him, holding her through the sudden, helpless shake of her body. “There you go.”

She comes hard enough that the room blanks at the edges. Her face presses into the pillow, one hand flying back to grip his hip, nails digging in wherever she can reach. Garrett swears against her neck, deep and ruined, hips stuttering as she tightens around him.

He fucks her through it with no finesse left, just heat and breath and his hand locked over her stomach like he’s keeping her from coming apart completely.

By the time she comes back to herself, he’s still moving, slower now, his forehead pressed between her shoulder blades, breath ragged and damp over her skin. She turns her face out of the pillow, cheeks hot, mouth swollen, eyes bright with leftover heat and laughter. Garrett looks down at her, curls wrecked, shoulders scratched, face flushed and soft in all the places he keeps pretending he isn’t. She smiles before she can stop herself.

“Poor Tucker,” she whispers.

Garrett’s mouth curves, and his hand slides possessive and warm over her hip. “Poor Tucker should buy earplugs.”

She bites the pillow to hide another laugh.

He leans down, mouth brushing her ear, voice dropping back into heat like it never left. “Now be nice and keep your apology quiet this time.”

She turns her head just enough for her mouth to graze his jaw. “Make me.”

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Sighing tiredly, you rubbed the mark on your collarbone as your phone buzzed on the kitchen counter.

Matt. Again.

You stared at it until the ringing stopped, and then a ping indicated that a text had come through. Dropping the spoon into your half-eaten bowl of cereal, you grabbed your phone.

Matt: Dinner tonight. No excuses.

You closed your eyes briefly before another ping sounded.

Karen: If you ghost us again I’m coming over there and dragging you out with us.

Despite everything, a weak laugh escaped you. God, you missed them. Which made your guilt even worse.

Your fingers hovered over the screen before finally typing and sending a single sentence.

You: I’ll be there.

The response from Karen came immediately.

Karen: Suspiciously fast answer. Are you dying?

You snorted softly.

Only emotionally, you thought to yourself.

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Matt’s apartment smelled like pasta sauce and garlic bread.

Which made the dread clawing at your chest almost painful.

Karen stood near the stove with a glass of wine in hand while Matt finished plating dinner, movements smooth and precise despite his blindness.

For one horrible moment, you thought about lying again. Considered faking a smile and pretending that everything was fine.

“There she is.” Matt smiled when he heard you step inside.

Sliding off your shoes, Karen set down her wine glass as she walked over and hugged you tightly.

“You look exhausted,” she muttered against your shoulder.

“I’ve been busy.” You say, hugging her back.

“You’ve been avoiding us.” She said, hugging you tighter.

You forced a weak smile. “That too.”

Karen pulled back just enough to study your face before letting you go.

Matt’s head tilted slightly. “You haven’t been sleeping.”

You swallowed thickly. “No.”

The silence lingered a little too long for Matt to not notice your nerves.

“Dinner’s ready,” he said quietly.

The three of you settled around the small kitchen table, the room glowing warm under dim lighting while a soft breeze swept through it from the open window.

Normally this would’ve comforted you. Tonight it just made you feel trapped as Karen talked about work and Matt complained about a client.

Nodding at the right moments while barely tasting the food they made, your heartbeat refused to slow down, and you knew Matt could hear it.

It was halfway through dinner when Karen sighed and set her fork down.

“Okay,” she said carefully. “What’s going on with you?”

Your stomach dropped. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“Karen,”

“No! You’ve been avoiding us for days,” she interrupted. “You look miserable, you’re barely speaking, and don't think for a second we haven't noticed how weird you get when Poindexter is mentioned.”

You froze as your breath stuttered, and across the table, Matt went completely still.

The apartment suddenly felt suffocatingly quiet as your already racing heart got faster.

“Wait.” He whispered.

Your chest tightened painfully as Matt turned towards you, and in that moment you realised by the look on his face that he already suspected your secret.

“That’s why,” Matt said quietly.

Your eyes burned immediately. “I didn’t know how to tell you.”

Karen stared between the two of you, confused. “Is this another one of those twin things?”

“Say it,” Matt said.

“Matty,” your voice cracked as your fingers shook around your fork.

“Bug,” Matt softly said your childhood nickname. “Just say it.”

You swallowed hard as you looked down at your barely touched dinner.

“Dex is my soulmate.” You finally whispered.

Your eyes lifted as the room fell silent at your confession despite your chest feeling a little lighter.

“Oh my God.” Karen's words came out angry as she looked at you like you'd physically struck her.

“No,” she said immediately after. “No.”

Beside her, Matt sat motionless.

“Does he know?” He asked.

You almost released a bitter laugh because, of course, that would be Matt’s first question.

Not are you okay? Or has he hurt you? Or are you seeing him?

But does he know? Because Matt understood exactly what it meant if Dex did.

“Yes.” You say.

Karen let out a disbelieving laugh. “You told him?”

“I didn’t have to.” You tell them.

Matt’s jaw tightened slightly. “How long?”

Your throat closed. “Since the night he shot me.”

Karen inhaled sharply, and Matt looked sick for the first time all evening.

Because now they understood.

Dex had known the entire time. While imprisoned, while isolated, while unmedicated and unstable.

Obsessing about you.

“Oh my God,” Karen whispered, horrified now instead of angry.

You stared down at your hands in your lap. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“You should’ve stayed away from him.” Karen exclaimed, standing abruptly from the table.

You twisted your fingers tightly together, hoping the slight pain would ease the tightness in your chest.

“I tried.”

“He shot you.”

“I know.”

“He nearly killed Foggy.”

Your breath caught painfully as your eyes stung with tears.

The apartment went quiet again.

Karen’s eyes filled with frustrated tears. “And you still let him into your apartment?”

You flinched as a tear ran down your cheek. But that wasn't the worst part because what was worse was the fact that you wanted him there.

Matt's voice was steady when he spoke again, “Has he been contacting you?”

“Yes.” You confirm wiping the tear off your cheek.

“How?”

Matt’s expression hardened when you hesitated too long.

“Has he been seeing you?”

You looked away as your heart began racing again.

Karen stared at you in disbelief. “You can’t see him.”

Something inside you snapped slightly at her words. “Karen.”

“No,” she interrupted sharply. “Absolutely not. He is dangerous.”

“I know he’s dangerous.”

“Then why are you doing this?”

You froze at her question.

Because he notices me. You thought to yourself. Because he makes me feel seen. Because I want him to keep coming back.

Matt’s voice cut through your spiraling thoughts.

“How can you possibly want this?”

Your throat tightened at the crack in his voice. Because your brother wasn't angry, he wasn't judgmental. He was hurt.

Your eyes burned again. “You think I don’t ask myself that every day?”

Neither of them answered.

So you kept going. Mouth moving before you could stop it.

“I waited years for my soulmate,” you whispered shakily. “Years. And then it was him.”

Your voice cracked.

“Do you think I wanted it to be him?”

Karen’s expression faltered slightly.

But the words wouldn’t stop now that the hurt and suffering you had kept locked away for months had broken free.

“I know what he’s done,” you continued. “I know who he is. I know what people think when they look at him.”

Your breathing shook as you looked them in the eyes.

“But every time I try to stay away from him…” your voice softened painfully, “… I can’t.”

Silence filled the apartment for the third time that night. This time heavy and miserable.

Matt’s face tightened again. “He’s already attached to you.”

“Don't,” you looked at him sharply. “Don't use that against me. Against him.”

Matt’s jaw flexed once. “I can hear it every time his name comes up.”

Anger twisted low in your stomach. Because Matt was right, Dex was attached, and you knew that from his gifts and his relaxed attitude whenever he broke into your apartment.

But so was a part of you.

Karen sank slowly back into her chair, rubbing at her face.

“You’re my best friend,” she whispered. “And I’m terrified he’s going to destroy you.”

The anger in her voice finally cracked enough for the fear underneath to show.

Your eyes burned harder. “I know.”

Because that was the horrible truth. You knew exactly what this could become, how this could end.

And still you wondered about the what-ifs and the maybes and the possibility that this might not destroy you.

The apartment suddenly felt suffocating.

You pushed your chair back abruptly. “I should go.”

Karen immediately looked guilty. “Wait.”

But you were already sliding on your shoes.

Matt stood quickly too. “Hey, bug.”

You paused near the door, coat on only one shoulder.

Matt’s expression was a mix of protective, worried, and nervous all at once.

“You’re not alone in this,” he said quietly.

But somehow that only made your tears burn harder because, despite his words, you had never felt more alone.

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The rain had soaked through your coat by the time you got home.

Your chest still hurt, but at least your tears had stopped. Karen’s voice still echoing in your skull.

He shot you.

God. You knew that.

Hands trembling slightly, you unlocked your apartment and stepped inside. The lights were off, but you immediately felt his presence.

“You told them.” Dex’s voice came quietly from the darkness.

You switched the lights on and slowly shut the door behind you.

Dex sat on the sofa, half-hidden by shadows. His head tilted as he watched you again.

You suddenly felt exhausted down to your bones. “Yes.”

Silence filled the apartment as rain tapped softly against the windows.

Dex’s eyes moved slowly across your face, studying every emotion there.

“They’re upset.” He said.

A sad, humourless laugh escaped you. “That’s one word for it.”

Dex stayed quiet for a moment. “What did they say?”

You dropped your wet coat onto the chair. “That you’re dangerous.”

His expression didn’t change. Because that wasn’t news to either of you. “And?”

You looked away first. “They don’t understand why I keep letting you come back.”

The second the words left your mouth, anger shifted on Dex’s face.

Sharp and immediate.

Your chest tightened when you saw it.

“You told them why?” he asked quietly.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It is to me.”

Of course it was. To him you're not just soulmates, you're fate, you're destiny. And you knew that because Dex had always looked at you like you were it for him.

But for you? Nothing about this was simple.

“You don’t understand what this is doing to my life, Dex, to me,” you whispered tiredly.

Dex stared at you. “You think I don’t?”

“You have killed people, Dex.”

Your words cracked through the apartment sharply.

“I know.”

“You nearly destroyed my family.” You could feel the tears forming again.

His jaw tightened immediately. “I know.”

“You shot me.”

Your words were sharp, and you saw the emotions immediately on his face.

The guilt, the anger, and the frustration.

“Do you think I wanted to do that?” he snapped suddenly.

You blinked, stunned as Dex stood up and stepped closer.

“I didn’t know,” he said harshly. “I didn’t know who you were then.”

“But you know now.” You felt the first tear fall.

“Yes.”

“Then you know why this feels impossible for me?”

Dex’s breathing came out sharper than before. Because this conversation was turning into something he couldn’t fix.

And it was terrifying him.

“You keep pushing me away,” he said quietly, gently cupping your face.

Your chest ached at his words and actions. “Because I don’t know what to do.”

“I do.” He said as his thumbs gently stroked your cheeks.

A bitter laugh escaped you.

“No, you don’t.”

“I know you’re mine.”

The words hit like a punch as his name burned hot on your collarbone.

“I’m not a possession.” You snap, putting your hands on his chest, ready to push him away.

Dex stepped closer again.

“Baby, that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” You asked, ignoring your heart fluttering when he called you that. 

His eyes searched yours desperately, like if he could just make you understand his view, everything would stop hurting.

“You feel it too. The connection between us. Our bond.”

Your breath caught.

Because that was the problem, you did feel it.

You felt it in every glance, in every touch, and in every moment he looked at you like you were something precious. 

Something his.

You felt all of it, and you were too tired to deny that you didn't want more.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” you whispered shakily and knew that it was a lie.

Dex looked genuinely confused by the question.

“You.”

The simplicity of his answer made your heart flutter and break at the same time.

“You can’t just,” your voice cracked as more tears fell, “you can’t just come back after everything and expect this to be easy.”

“I don’t expect easy.”

“Then what?” You pushed against his chest, but he barely moved.

Dex stared at you for one long, awful second.

“You keep acting like loving me is the worst thing that could happen to you.” He whispered.

Your eyes widened.

Because that wasn’t what this was.

That wasn't what you meant.

But before you could explain, Dex suddenly closed the distance between you.

One hand moving to the back of your head while the other wrapped around your waist.

And then he was kissing you.

Desperate and impulsive, like if he could get close enough, this distance you kept between you two would finally disappear.

For a second you froze.

Because this was your soulmate, and you had imagined this moment for years. But also because this was Dex, and half of you wanted this.

Then reality slammed back into you.

Your hands shoved hard against his chest. “Stop.”

Dex stumbled back instantly, his hands leaving your body.

The apartment fell silent except for your uneven breathing, but you could see his expressions shifting.

From confusion to realisation and then panic. Like he’d only just understood what he’d done.

Your own mixed emotions made your head spin.

“You can’t do that,” you whispered.

Dex looked wrecked. “I thought.”

“I know what you thought.” Your tears were flowing freely now.

“But you can’t fix this like that.”

Silence filled the apartment again, and for the first time since meeting him, Dex looked uncertain.

And you hated that look on his face. You never wanted him to feel uncertain around you, but why is this situation making you feel like you have to choose between your family and your soulmate?

“Leave me alone.” Your throat tightened painfully.

The words shattered something between you instantly.

Dex went completely still, and the look on his face nearly made you take the words back. Because for the first time since you met him, he looked scared.

Scared of losing you.

But you forced yourself to hold his gaze anyway, and after a long, horrible moment, Dex nodded once.

Then, without another word, he stepped backwards toward the open window and stopped as if he was waiting for something before disappearing into the rain.

Leaving you standing alone and crying in the middle of your apartment, feeling like a fool for believing that you could have had it all.

“Baby.”

His voice came from behind her, breathless enough that he had jogged the last few steps. Good. Great. Fantastic. He could chase her now. He could find his legs now that the whole party wasn’t watching him be wanted.

She walked faster.

“Baby, come on.” Garrett’s sneakers scraped lightly over the pavement as he caught up beside her, his shadow cutting across the wet shine of the sidewalk under the streetlamp. “Can you just stop for a second?”

“No.”

“Okay, then can you slow down before you eat shit? You’re in heeled boots.”

She let out a laugh so sharp it barely sounded like one. “Oh my god.”

“What?”

“Nothing. That’s just–” She shook her head, eyes burning already, which made her angrier because she hadn’t even got to the yelling properly and her body had started betraying her like some kind of amateur. “That’s so you.”

Garrett moved into her path just enough to make her have to angle around him. Big and warm and breathing a little harder than normal, curls messy from the party heat, the collar of his jacket sitting crooked like one of those girls had maybe caught it when she leaned in to say something stupid into his ear. “What does that mean?”

“It means move.”

“Not until you talk to me.”

She stopped so abruptly he almost walked into her. For one second they stood under the streetlamp outside the row of dorm buildings, campus stretched cold and quiet around them, the party pulsing behind them like another life.

The air bit at her cheeks. Her hands were shaking, so she shoved them into her coat pockets and curled them there until her nails pressed little crescents into her palms.

Garrett’s face softened the second he saw her properly. He always looked sorry once the damage had a visible shape. “Hey,” he said, lower now. “Baby–”

“You’re such a piece of shit.”

His mouth closed. The words came out flat and ugly, too quick to stop, and for half a second even she seemed to hear them from outside herself. Not because they weren’t true in the hot, vicious courtroom currently operating under her ribs, but because they were not the sort of thing she usually said to him first. 

She usually worked up to it. Usually gave him three warning shots and a sarcastic little exit route and enough room to pretend they were having an argument instead of watching one person bleed out slowly from the same cut.

Garrett blinked once. “Me?”

She laughed again, and this time the wetness in it made her want to claw her own throat open. “You’re such a fucking piece of shit.”

“Okay.” His jaw tightened, but he nodded, both hands lifting slightly like he was trying to calm a dog that had bitten him before and might do it again. “Okay. Let’s talk about why I’m a piece of shit.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“No, seriously. Let’s talk about it.” His voice had gone careful in that way that made her feel more insane, like he was standing there with a clipboard while she came apart on the pavement. “This is what I’ve been trying to do. I’ve been trying to talk to you about this all night.”

“All night?” Her head snapped back like the sentence had shoved her. “Garrett, you were not trying to talk to me all night. You were trying to flirt your way through three girls and then act shocked when I didn’t clap for you.”

“I wasn’t flirting.”

She stared at him.

“I wasn’t,” he said again, faster now, one hand dragging over the back of his neck. The old move. The Garrett Graham damage control special. “Jesus, they came up to me. What was I supposed to do, tell them to fuck off?”

“No, apparently that’s reserved for me.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“You didn’t have to say it.” Her voice climbed, then cracked, and she hated the crack so much she bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to taste metal. “You do this thing where you make me feel like I’m ruining your night by existing.”

Garrett looked genuinely thrown for a second. “That’s not fair.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. It’s not.” The defensive edge came in then, quick and familiar, the one that always arrived right after his guilt and right before her humiliation got turned into a debate topic. “I’m allowed to talk to people.”

“Holy fuck,” she said, quietly enough that it came out worse.

“What?”

“You’re fucked.”

“How am I fucked?” His hands spread, and there was a flash of frustration under the apology, the part of him that couldn't understand why wanting her and disrespecting her were not mutually exclusive in her body. “Talk to me. I’m right here. Tell me.”

“No.”

“Baby.”

“No.” She pointed back toward the house, eyes hot and too full now, the streetlamp turning everything soft-edged and horrible. “You know what? Actually, go ahead. Say your piece. Say your Garrett Graham bullshit. Please. Tell me what shit you’re gonna come up with this time.”

He watched her for a second, mouth pressed tight, breath coming out white in the cold. A car rolled past at the end of the street, slow enough that its headlights moved over them like a searchlight, catching the shine on her cheeks before she could turn away.

“Nah,” Garrett said finally. “I want to hear you out first.”

Her laugh was immediate and mean. “Of course you do.”

“I’m serious.”

“No, you want me to say it first so you can pick it apart.”

His brows drew together. “I’m not trying to pick anything apart.”

“Yes, you are.”

“I’m trying to understand what happened in there.”

“I’ve been telling you what happened.” Her voice broke properly this time, anger ripping through the words before she could sand them down. “For months. For fucking months, Garrett.”

His expression shifted. “No, you’ve been getting upset and then shutting down.”

“Because you make me feel stupid when I talk.”

“I don’t mean to.”

“But you do.” She stepped closer without meaning to, the space between them shrinking until she had to tilt her face up to keep looking at him. “You do, and then you stand there like because you didn’t mean to, I’m supposed to take that home and sleep next to it.”

Garrett swallowed. His hands dropped to his sides. “Okay. Then tell me properly now.”

Something in her face twisted. “Properly?”

“I get you’re frustrated–”

“Frustrated?” The word came out almost silent. Then she laughed, one hand flying up like she could physically bat it away from her. “Oh my god.”

“I’m trying to talk to you.”

“No, you’re trying to make me calm enough that you don’t have to feel like the bad guy.”

“That’s not–”

“You’re not respectful in the slightest,” she said, and the tears started then for real, hot and fast and humiliating, slipping down before she could do anything useful with her face. “Have some fucking respect for your fucking girlfriend!”

Garrett went still.

She made a frustrated sound, almost a groan, pressing the heel of her hand to one eye for half a second before dropping it again because crying into her own palm on a sidewalk was not the kind of tragic she respected. “What the fuck.”

Then she turned and started walking again.

“Hey, stop.” Garrett caught up in two strides, and his hand came to her waist. Warm fingers through her coat, a gentle pull meant to turn her back to him, and her whole body rejected it before her mind caught up.

She shoved him away with both hands. “Don’t fucking touch me.”

Garrett’s face changed so quickly it almost made something in her collapse. His hands lifted, empty. “Okay. Okay, I’m sorry. I won’t.”

“I don’t want to fucking talk to you.”

“I feel like shit,” he said, voice rougher now. “Please talk to me.”

The words should have softened her. Maybe some version of her, one who hadn’t spent the last month measuring how long it took him to remember she was standing beside him in rooms full of girls who wanted him, would have stepped into that roughness and let it mean enough. 

But tonight her chest was too packed with old little injuries, all of them awake at once, crowding under her ribs until she could barely breathe around them.

“You weren’t feeling bad fifteen minutes ago,” she said. “Surrounded by girls. You weren’t feeling bad yesterday when we got stopped every three seconds and I stood there like an idiot while people talked through me to get to you. You weren’t feeling bad when you dropped my hand in that coffee shop, or when you missed the first half of my showcase because practice ran over and apparently I was supposed to be grateful you made it before bows.” Her breath hitched. She hated that one. Hated that it came out. “There was no consideration for me. There wasn’t. Or you wouldn’t have acted the way you fucking acted.”

“Whoa. Hey.” Garrett stepped closer, then seemed to remember and stopped himself. The restraint looked painful on him. “First of all, I always consider you. Always. I can’t help that people want to talk to me–”

She started laughing before he finished. Her body had found one last emergency exit before sobbing, and it was laughing in Garrett Graham’s face under a dorm streetlight with mascara starting to move at the corners of her eyes. “Holy fuck.”

His mouth tightened. “What?”

“How bad did you really feel if this is your version of a fucking apology?”

“I’m trying to explain.”

“You’re explaining why it’s not your fault.”

“That’s not what I’m doing.”

“That’s exactly what you’re doing.” She wiped under one eye with the side of her finger, furious when it came away damp and black-smudged. “You stand there in the corner with three puck bunnies flirting with you like, what? You’re rubbing that shit in my face?”

“No. No, no, no.” His face opened with alarm, real now, not defensive for one precious second. “Baby, that’s not– no. I wasn’t flirting with them. It’s not like that.”

“If you felt bad, you wouldn’t have continued to do it,” she said. “But you did. And you have. Over and over. So, cool. You want them, go get them. They’d be more than happy.”

“I don’t want them.” Garrett’s voice cracked around the denial, and the sound did something terrible to her stomach. “That’s not what this is. I get it, okay? I fucked up. I get that. But I’m human.”

The air went very thin for a second. She stared at him, tears cooling on her cheeks, the whole night narrowing down to his face and those two words sitting there between them like an insult wearing a reasonable coat.

“No,” she said.

Garrett’s brows pulled in. “What?”

“No. I don’t buy that shit.” She shook her head, slow at first, then harder, because if she stopped moving she might actually feel how much of her was splitting open. “I’m human too, Garrett. I’m human, and I’m not letting three different guys get me drinks and hang off me all night because I know how that would make you feel. I know. I don’t need a fucking thesis. I don’t need a seminar on empathy. I just think about you before I do things.”

He flinched.

Good, some ugly little part of her thought, and then immediately felt sick from the taste of it.

“You do not have the same respect for me that I have for you,” she said, quieter, which made it worse. “So I don’t want to hear that I’m human shit. I don’t give a fuck. I don’t feel sorry for you.”

“I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.” Garrett stepped one half-step closer, stopped again, hands flexing uselessly at his sides. His eyes were bright now, not with tears exactly, but with panic pushing hard against the back of them. “Baby, I don’t. I just want you to hear me out. I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I did that to you.”

She shook her head, and the movement sent more tears down. She could feel them hitting the cold air and tightening on her skin. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

“You’re not fucking sorry.”

“I am.”

“You feel no guilt about any of this.”

“Yes, I do.” His voice rose, desperate now, and for the first time all night Garrett looked younger than himself. A boy in the street with his jacket open against the cold, trying to hold water in his hands after the glass had already shattered. “I do. You can go ask any of the boys. Go ask Logan or Dean or Tuck. I swear.”

Her face crumpled before she could stop it, but the laugh still came out. Small, disbelieving, wrecked. “Oh, the same boys that keep telling me I’m the love of your life? Huh? Those ones?”

Garrett’s mouth parted.

“Those boys?”

“You are,” he said, and then stopped like he’d stepped too close to a ledge he hadn’t realised was there. His throat worked. “I–”

The cold moved between them. The party door opened in the distance, letting out a bright slash of noise and some girl’s laughter, then shut again. She watched Garrett stand there with the sentence stuck in his mouth, and there should have been some triumph in it, maybe. Some relief. The love of your life. The thing girls were supposed to want to hear. The thing that should have fixed something.

It didn’t. It only made the hurt widen, because what was she supposed to do with that? Let the love of his life get humiliated in coffee shops? Let the love of his life stand beside him at parties while he forgot how to be careful? Let the love of his life go home every night with a stomach full of little explanations she had to feed herself so she wouldn’t seem needy?

She shrugged, and the movement felt loose and awful on her body. “So be it.”

Garrett stared at her.

“So be it, Garrett.” Her voice dropped into something almost calm, except the tears wouldn’t stop, so the calm looked deranged even to her. “Be the love of my life.”

His face changed. The panic went quiet for one second, like she had hit somewhere deeper than anger could reach. “I’m trying.”

She looked at him, really looked, at the red at the tips of his ears from the cold, the crease between his brows, the mouth she had kissed against lockers and in his bed and outside this dorm with her hands in his hoodie. 

He was trying. That was maybe the worst part. He had been trying in the way Garrett knew how. Apologising after. Ordering the coffee right. Kissing the top of her head. Pulling her back in with warmth every time she got close to the edge. But he kept letting the edge exist.

“I’m done,” she said.

Garrett shook his head immediately. “No.”

She turned away from him, because if she kept looking at his face she was going to start bargaining against herself. “I am.”

“No, hey.” He followed her. “You’re not even letting me talk.”

“I let you talk for months.”

“You’re not letting me talk now.”

“No, I’m done.” She spun back so fast her coat swung open, cold hitting her through the thin party top underneath. “I’m done. I’m good. I’m not doing this stupid back and forth with you where I tell you something hurt me and then you explain your intentions like I’m dating your intentions. I’m not. I’m dating you. And you acted the way you acted, and you won’t change that shit, so we’re done.”

“Baby–”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.”

“It is.” She nodded too many times, tears still spilling, breath starting to shake now in a way she could not control. “It’s fine. I get it now.”

“No, you don’t.” Garrett’s voice went rough, almost angry with fear. “You’re hurt and you’re pissed off and you’re deciding something huge because of one night.”

“One night?” she whispered.

He realised it the second it left his mouth. She saw it. The tiny collapse around his eyes. “No,” he said quickly. “I know it’s not one night. I know that. I didn’t mean–”

“You never do.”

Garrett flinched again, and this time it didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel like anything except more damage in a street already full of it.

“I’m trying to fix this,” he said. “Let me fix it.”

“There’s nothing to fix.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Don’t.”

“It is.” He took a step closer, and then stopped himself again, because she had told him not to touch her and he was finally, finally listening when it no longer had anywhere useful to land. “It’s bullshit. You don’t get to just– baby, come on. You don’t get to decide this alone.”

For a second she almost smiled, because it was so perfectly him. So wildly, painfully Garrett. Still arguing with the scoreboard after the game had ended. Still believing there had to be a third period if he wanted one badly enough.

“I just did,” she said.

His face went blank. The dorm entrance buzzed faintly behind her, ugly fluorescent light spilling over the steps. Her fingers had gone numb in her pockets, and her face felt swollen from crying, and somewhere inside the building there were people doing laundry or microwaving noodles or living tiny, ordinary lives not currently ending under a streetlamp. 

She wanted that so badly it almost made her dizzy. A room. A door. A place to put her body down without Garrett looking at her like she was taking his apart.

“Go back to your puck bunnies, Garrett,” she said, and the bitterness came out exhausted now, all the teeth worn down. “I’m done. I’m so fucking done.”

She turned before he could answer. He said her name once, not baby this time, and that almost did it. That almost made her stop. Her actual name in Garrett’s voice, cracked at the edge, chasing her up the first step like a hand she had told him not to use.

She kept walking.

The key card shook when she pulled it from her pocket. She missed the scanner once, plastic tapping uselessly against the panel, and behind her Garrett made a small sound like he was physically stopping himself from coming closer. She swiped again. The lock clicked.

“Please,” he said.

She opened the door. Warm stale dorm air hit her face, carrying the smell of old carpet, microwave popcorn, and somebody’s overworked vanilla plug-in. She stepped inside and turned just enough to see him through the wired glass before the door shut between them. 

Garrett stood on the sidewalk with both hands in his hair now, elbows out, jacket open, mouth parted around words he had nowhere to put. For one awful second he looked completely lost. Alone under the streetlamp, staring at the door like he could still make it open if he found the right thing to say.

Then the door closed. The sound was small. Pathetic, almost. A dull latch catching in an institutional frame.

She made it halfway up the stairs before her legs stopped working properly. One hand caught the railing, cold metal biting into her palm, and the first sob tore out of her so hard she bent over it, forehead nearly touching the sleeve of her coat.

A brutal little failure of breath, her ribs pulling too tight around nothing, her mouth open while the stairwell blurred in ugly blocks of cream paint and grey steps and the dark smudge of mascara on her fingers.

She pressed both hands over her face, trying to hold herself together with pressure, but there was too much of it. Garrett’s face. The girls’ laughter. His hand letting go in the coffee shop. His voice saying I’m human like she hadn’t spent months being human quietly beside him. Be the love of my life. I’m trying.

The words kept moving around inside her, useless and sharp, knocking against every place she had already bruised trying to love him without asking to be chosen out loud.

Downstairs, through the thick dorm door and the stairwell concrete and the blood in her ears, she thought she heard him say her name again. Or maybe she wanted to. Either way, she climbed the rest of the stairs alone.

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She’s sitting on the bench with a roll of tape beside her thigh, a half-finished coffee going lukewarm near her foot, and the little volunteer lanyard they’ve made her wear twisted twice around her finger because the rink is cold and her hands have gone stiff. 

Across from her, Garrett is skating drills with the kind of speed that makes the whole world narrow briefly to the hard cut of his skates and the flex of his thighs under practice gear, which is completely normal to notice and not at all a sign of advanced personal decline.

This is extra credit. Academic. Professional. She’s here for learning opportunities, supervised practice, and to develop confidence around minor sports-related injuries.

She’s not here because Garrett drives her there and back with her coffee in the cupholder and his hand on her thigh at red lights like that’s a casual transportation arrangement. She’s not here because watching him bark instructions across the ice does something deeply inconvenient to her blood pressure.

And she’s absolutely not here because every time he glances over between drills and catches her looking, his mouth tilts like he knows exactly what she’s doing and intends to be unbearable about it later.

A freshman comes off the ice holding his shoulder with the solemn expression of a man returning from war. “Hey,” he says, stopping in front of her. “I think I tweaked something.”

She looks at his shoulder. Then at his face. Then back at the ice, where Garrett has gone very still near the blue line.

“Did you fall?”

“No.”

She tilts her head. “Did someone hit you?”

“Not really.”

She raises her brows.

The freshman clears his throat. “It just feels weird.”

“Right,” she says, because she’s a healthcare-adjacent professional and therefore cannot say, does it feel weird because you skated directly over here after making eye contact with three of your friends? “Can you lift your arm?”

He lifts it immediately. Fully. Cheerfully, even.

Garrett’s voice cracks across the rink. “Miller, get your ass back on the ice. Your shoulder’s fine.”

Miller drops his arm like he’s been shot. “Just being safe, Cap.”

“You’re about to be unsafe if you miss the next drill,” Garrett barks.

She bites the inside of her cheek and gestures toward the rink with two fingers. “I think you’ve made a miraculous recovery.”

Miller grins, a little sheepish, and skates back out. He passes Garrett on the way, and because he’s either very brave or very new, mutters something that she just barely catches over the scrape of blades and the slap of a puck against the boards. “She’s so pretty, man.”

Garrett turns his head slowly.

Oh, this is excellent.

She looks down at her tape roll very hard.

The next one lasts seven minutes. An ankle, apparently. A deeply tragic ankle that carries its owner across half the rink and onto the bench without so much as a limp until he remembers, too late, to start favouring it in front of her. She crouches to check it anyway, because she may be enjoying Garrett’s visible descent into possessive insanity, but she’s not actually negligent.

“Pain from one to ten?” she asks.

The boy’s eyes flick to her face, then over her shoulder to where Garrett is watching with both gloves planted on top of his stick. “Like, a two?”

“A two,” she questions.

“Maybe three.”

Garrett’s laugh is flat enough to remove paint. “Skate it off, Peterson.”

She presses her thumb gently around the outside of the ankle. Nothing. No swelling. No heat. No tenderness. The guy does, however, blush when she looks up at him, which is not a symptom covered in her skills checklist but should perhaps be documented as acute stupidity.

“You’re fine,” she says, standing. “No sharp pain, no swelling, full movement. Go.”

Peterson nods and makes the fatal mistake of smiling at her. “Thanks.”

Garrett points his stick at him. “Move.”

By the time the third guy comes over with a wrist that has suffered spiritually rather than physically, Dean’s leaning over the boards with the grin of a man witnessing a gift from God. “You know,” he says, voice bright with menace, “I think my back’s kinda tight too. Might need a full assessment.”

Garrett doesn’t even look at him. “I’ll kill you.”

Dean’s grin widens. “That doesn’t sound medically advised.”

She gives Dean a look, but it lacks impact because she’s smiling. She likes Dean. She does. Against better judgement and all survival instinct, she’s developed a soft spot for him because he’s annoying in a way that feels almost brotherly now, all big dramatic beauty and terrible boundaries and weirdly sincere concern when it counts. 

He asks about her exams. He calls her Florence Nightingale when he wants something. He once carried her entire backpack upstairs because he saw her rubbing her shoulder after placement and then pretended he only did it because Garrett gets weird when you’re injured and nobody has the time.

Tucker’s quieter about it, but somehow worse. Tucker keeps oat milk in the fridge now. Tucker leaves leftovers in labelled containers with her name on them, like that’s a normal thing for a man she’s not dating’s roommate to do. 

Logan keeps more to himself, but he smiles at her when she comes in and calls her Garrett’s girlfriend whenever he wants both of them to make the same offended noise at once.

They’re making it very hard for her to maintain a casual delusion with dignity.

After practice, the team disappears into the locker room in a loud, sweaty wave, and she stays on the bench to repack the kit, still grinning to herself as the door swings shut behind them.

She gives it thirty seconds. Then Garrett’s voice erupts from inside, furious and carrying beautifully through the cinderblock wall. “No more fake fucking injuries just to get touched by the pretty nursing student. Enough!”

Her hand stills on the tape.

Someone says something she can’t catch. Then there’s laughter, followed by Garrett again, louder. “I’m serious. No fake injuries. No injuring yourself on purpose. No mysterious shoulder pain after eye-fucking my–” A pause. A dangerous one. “After eye-fucking her from the neutral zone.”

Dean’s voice rises, delighted. “Your what, G?”

“Shut up.”

“Oh, no, finish the sentence.”

“I swear to God, if I hear one more freshman say she’s pretty, I’m slamming someone’s face into the ice.”

“She is pretty,” Logan says, and the locker room immediately explodes.

It starts with one sharp bark of laughter from Dean, then Tucker saying, “Oh, man,” in the low, doomed voice of someone watching a car roll gently down a hill toward a lake. Then three freshmen lose the battle with self-preservation and start laughing too, and Garrett’s voice cuts through all of it like a skate blade through fresh ice.

“Great,” he says. “Perfect. Since apparently we need this spelled out for everyone with a fully developed frontal lobe and also Dean, we’re putting a policy in place.”

Dean sounds delighted. “A policy?”

“A policy,” Garrett snaps. “No more bullshit injuries.”

Someone makes a wounded noise. “Cap, my ankle was–”

“Your ankle was fine, Peterson. I watched you skate two laps after that.”

More laughter. A locker slams, probably from Garrett turning too fast and hitting something with his elbow because the room has officially entered the stage of his irritation where furniture becomes collateral damage.

“If you’re bleeding, dizzy, can’t move something, can’t feel something, or your bone is somewhere bones should not be, you go to the trainers or the volunteer table,” Garrett continues, voice getting louder over Dean’s wheezing. “If you have a real injury, obviously get checked. I’m not telling you morons to hide a concussion because you’re scared I’ll chirp you. But if one more guy skates over there because his wrist feels weird after he spent two minutes staring at her mouth, I’m making the entire line run suicides until graduation.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Dean, sounding absolutely thrilled to be alive, says, “So to clarify, we can approach the pretty nursing student if we’re actively bleeding?”

“She has a fucking name.”

She almost stops breathing on the bench outside.

The locker room goes briefly, beautifully still, like even the freshmen have enough collective instinct to understand that something has been said there that’s not covered by team policy. Then Logan makes a soft, disastrous sound that might be a laugh swallowed into a towel.

Garrett clears his throat hard enough to qualify as structural damage. “You know what I mean.”

“Do we?” Dean asks.

“Shut up.”

“I’m just asking for the boys. Because the policy feels emotionally loaded.”

Garrett groans. “The policy is don’t be a creep.”

“Strong policy,” Tucker says, and she can hear the smile in his voice even from outside. “I support it.”

Garrett seizes on that like a man being thrown a rope. “Thank you. See? Tucker understands basic conduct.”

“Tucker also left her pasta in the fridge last week,” Logan adds. “Is that allowed under the policy, or is food-based favouritism still okay?”

“That was different,” Tucker says, immediately defensive. “She had a late shift.”

Garrett’s voice drops into something flat and dangerous. “Why is everyone in this room obsessed with my–” He stops again. Another horrible, obvious stop. “With her schedule?”

Dean makes a noise like he’s been physically struck by joy. “Your what, G?”

“Everyone shut the fuck up and listen.” Garrett sounds like he’s standing now, captain voice dragging itself back into place by force. “Hands off. That’s the policy. No fake injuries. No flirting while she’s trying to do actual healthcare stuff. No making her uncomfortable. No skating over there because you want her to touch your shoulder. If she checks you out, you say thank you and get back on the ice. If I hear one more freshman say she’s pretty like she’s not sitting ten feet outside this room with ears and a working brain, I will personally introduce your face to the boards during non-contact drills.”

A freshman, very quietly, says, “Isn’t that contact?”

“Exactly.”

Dean loses it. Fully loses it. Laughs so hard it turns silent for a second, which is always worse, and then comes back in a rough, wounded wheeze. Tucker’s laughing too now, softer but absolutely not helping, and Logan says, “Garrett’s girlfriend protection program,” which makes the room explode all over again.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Garrett says, with the exact exhausted violence of a man who has said it too many times for it to remain believable.

Outside, she sits there with her lips pressed together, shoulders shaking silently, one hand clamped over her mouth like that might keep the laugh from escaping and ruining the best thing that’s happened to her all week.

When Garrett finally comes out, hair damp, hoodie half-zipped, jaw still tight with the remains of his very official captain’s speech, she’s sitting exactly where he left her, hands folded sweetly in her lap.

“Good practice?” she asks.

Garrett stops in front of her. His eyes narrow. “You heard that.”

“Heard what?”

“Don’t.”

She grins. “I’m just volunteering. For extra credit. Very focused on professional development.”

His gaze drops to her mouth, then back up, unimpressed and a little helpless. “You were enjoying that.”

She lifts one shoulder. “It’s nice to feel valued by the community.”

Garrett exhales through his nose, looking away like he needs strength from the rink ceiling. “Get your bag.”

“So bossy.”

“Yeah, well, apparently I have to implement a hands-off policy.”

She stands, slinging her bag over one shoulder, unable to stop the smile when he reaches for the strap and takes it from her without asking. “I’m not your girlfriend, Graham.”

Garrett looks down at her for a second too long, the noise from the locker room spilling warm and stupid behind him. His mouth curves, but softer now. Worse. “I know,” he says. “That’s why I’m being normal about it.”

She laughs the whole way to his truck.

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The third thing you realized was that sharing a bed with Dean Di Laurentis was a terrible idea. Not because he did anything wrong — annoyingly enough, Dean had stayed exactly on his side of the bed all night. No touching, no flirting, no breaking any of the rules you’d very responsibly created to survive the weekend with your dignity intact.

So, unfortunately, the problem was you.

Because Dean was asleep.

Actually asleep. Peaceful and quiet and entirely unaware that he was ruining your morning by looking like that. His hair was messy against the pillow, his mouth slightly parted, one arm tucked under his head while the other lay loose over the blanket. The shirt you’d forced him to put on the night before had ridden up just enough to show a narrow strip of skin above his sweats. It felt deliberate, even though it absolutely wasn’t.

You hated him for that, just a little. You hated yourself even more for noticing.

You’d woken up facing him, which you were blaming on the mattress, gravity, and whatever ridiculously expensive hotel bedding Dean’s family had paid for. That seemed more reasonable than admitting your body had turned toward him in the night, like he was the safest place in the bed.

Dean’s face was close enough that if you shifted forward even a little, you’d feel his breath against your mouth.

That thought was horrifying.

It wasn’t your fault, obviously.

Probably.

You stared at him for another second before very carefully shifting away, but Dean’s hand found your wrist before you could get far. You went completely still.

For one terrifying second, you thought he was awake. You stopped breathing, eyes wide, already bracing yourself for whatever smug comment he was about to make about you staring at him. At the same time, he slept because Dean would absolutely turn being unconscious into a personal victory if given the chance.

But he only breathed, slow and even.

His brows drew together slightly, and he made a low, sleepy sound before tugging your wrist closer.

Your stomach dropped.

“Dean,” you whispered.

Nothing but another slow, even breath.

Still asleep, somehow.

Apparently, Dean Di Laurentis flirted in his sleep now. Unfortunately, that felt exactly like something he’d do.

You tried to pull your wrist free, but his fingers tightened again — not enough to hurt, just enough to make your whole body go stupidly still. His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist once, so soft it almost felt accidental, like he was comforting himself without realizing it.

You stared at his hand first, then at his face, and finally at the ceiling, like maybe God, or at least the hotel sprinkler system, could explain why this weekend was already becoming significantly more dangerous than you’d planned.

“Dean,” you said again, sharper this time.

His eyes barely opened.

For half a second, he looked sleepy and confused, soft enough to make your chest do something embarrassing.

His gaze dropped to his fingers around your wrist, then lifted back to your face.

Neither of you moved.

“Morning.” His voice came out rough from sleep.

You swallowed. “Your hand’s still on my wrist.”

Dean blinked like he was trying to load the rest of his brain. He looked down at his hand around your wrist. “That does appear to be true.”

“Dean.”

“Right.” He let go slowly, but not before his thumb brushed your skin one more time. Probably accidental. Definitely something you were going to think about later against your will. “Sorry.”

You pushed yourself upright immediately, putting space between you like the bed had caught fire. “Do you always grab people in your sleep?”

Dean rolled onto his back and dragged a hand over his face. “I don’t know. No one’s usually complained.”

“Consider this the first official complaint.”

“Noted,” he said.

“You’re weirdly clingy when you’re asleep.”

“I was literally unconscious.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

Dean turned his head on the pillow, hair falling over his forehead as he looked at you. “Are you always this mean in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Good to know.” His mouth curved slightly, as if that were information he planned to use later.

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

“Because my mom’s going to ask if we slept okay.”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out, which was annoying, because he had a point.

Dean seemed to notice at the same time you did, because his mouth curved slowly.

“No.” You cut him off immediately.

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You looked like you wanted to.”

“I’m allowed to think.”

“That’s worse.”

He sat up slowly, still looking far too good for someone who’d just woken up. “If my mom asks, we need to keep our story straight.”

“We need boundaries, Dean.”

“We have boundaries. You made a whole list.”

“You were holding my wrist in your sleep.”

“Again, I was unconscious.”

“You smiled when you realized.”

“I mean, that part I’ll take credit for.”

You grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at his head.

Dean caught it against his chest and laughed quietly, the sound too warm for that early in the morning. Too easy, and too much like the night before, when he’d been lying beside you in the dark, looking at your mouth like kissing you might be the only honest thing he’d done all weekend.

The memory pulled tight in your stomach. Dean’s smile faded, just a little, and you knew he remembered it too.

The room went quiet in a way that wasn’t awkward, exactly.

It was worse.

Careful.

Irritating Dean was easier to deal with. Irritating him was familiar. Safe. It came with the added benefit of letting you insult him without your pulse doing anything weird.

Careful, I made you remember last night, when neither of you had moved away fast enough.

Dean was the first to clear his throat. “Bathroom’s yours.”

You nodded a little too fast. “Great.”

Then you climbed out of bed and walked straight into the bathroom without looking back, because if Dean was still watching you, you had a horrible feeling you’d remember it forever.

The bathroom was cold, too bright, and deeply judgmental.

You stared at yourself in the mirror for a long moment. Your hair was doing whatever it wanted, and your shirt looked like it’d given up sometime around three in the morning. Your face looked far too awake for someone who’d slept terribly, which felt unfair. If you were going to spend half the night replaying an almost-kiss with Dean Di Laurentis, the least your face could do was look tragic and mysterious.

Instead, you looked like a girl who’d made bad choices and was about to have breakfast with the consequences.

You brushed your teeth, washed your face, and gave yourself a look in the mirror like that might solve anything.

“This is fake,” you whispered.

The mirror looked unconvinced.

By the time you came out, Dean was already dressed.

He was standing near the window in dark pants and a white button-down, sleeves rolled up, phone in one hand. His hair was still a little damp from running his fingers through it. He looked like someone’s rich, responsible boyfriend, which was both offensive and inaccurate.

You stopped short in the doorway.

Dean looked up from his phone. His gaze moved over you once, quick enough to pretend it hadn’t happened but not fast enough to be innocent.

“You look good.”

You frowned at him. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you mean it.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “You’d rather I lie?”

“Yes.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. “You look terrible.”

“Thank you.”

“Awful, honestly.”

“Much better.”

“Hard to believe my family’s buying this.”

You rolled your eyes and brushed past him to grab your bag. “Your family seems optimistic.”

“My family’s obsessed with you,” Dean said. “My mom’s texted me three times already.”

Your head snapped up before you could pretend you didn’t care. “About me?”

Dean lifted his phone. “Mostly.”

“That feels ominous.”

“She says she hopes you slept well.”

Heat rushed to your face so quickly that it was actually humiliating.

“Why would she say it like that?”

Dean stared at you.

You stared back, already regretting the question.

Then he grinned.

You pointed at him before he could say anything. “Do not.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You had the face.”

“That’s just my face.”

“Exactly. That’s the problem.”

Dean leaned against the window, smiling like your panic was funny. “She just meant because of the hotel, sweetheart.”

Your stomach did that stupid little flip again at the nickname.

You hid it behind a glare. “Don’t sweetheart me when no one’s here.”

“Pretty sure rule four didn’t mention sweetheart.”

“It’s close enough to rule four.”

“Are we making amendments now?”

“I’ll make whatever amendments I need to survive this weekend.”

Dean’s smile softened, which somehow made it worse. “That bad already?”

You held his gaze for half a second too long.

His voice was teasing, mostly, but something sat underneath it — something careful, again, like he was asking without actually saying it, like he remembered how quiet the room had gotten last night and didn’t know what to do with it either.

You could’ve said yes.

You didn’t.

“You’re really annoying before breakfast,” you said instead.

Dean’s expression cleared, his smile slipping back into place. “Only before breakfast?”

“Don’t push it.”

Breakfast was in one of the hotel’s private rooms, because apparently, rich people couldn’t eat eggs around strangers like normal people.

Dean’s hand settled at your lower back the second the elevator doors opened, and your body stiffened before your brain could catch up.

Dean noticed immediately, his mouth dipping close to your ear. “Necessary?”

You glanced into the room ahead and immediately spotted his parents with a group of older couples. His mother turned toward you with a bright smile.

Necessary.

It hung between you like a dare.

You swallowed before nodding once.

Dean’s hand stayed exactly where it was.

Warm. Light. Respectful enough that you couldn’t complain, but present enough that your entire body noticed anyway.

“Relax,” he murmured near your ear.

“I’m perfectly relaxed.”

“You look like you’re preparing for war.”

“I haven’t ruled it out.”

“My mom’s obsessed with you, remember?”

“That only makes it worse.”

Dean let out a soft laugh. “How?”

“Because now I actually feel bad lying to her.”

His fingers flexed against your back once, quick enough that you almost missed it.

“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter now. “I know.”

You looked up at him before you could stop yourself.

For a second, the smile was gone. Then his mother started across the room toward you, and just like that, Dean’s performance was back in place — smooth enough that it should’ve scared you more than it did.

“There you are,” she said, pressing a kiss to Dean’s cheek before turning to you with a smile. “Good morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep okay?”

You were actually going to die.

This was how you were going to go — in a hotel breakfast room, taken out by Dean’s mother asking an extremely normal question.

Dean’s hand pressed a little more firmly against your back, and somehow, annoyingly, it helped.

You smiled, hoping it looked normal. “Really well, thank you. The room’s beautiful.”

Dean made a sound that was very clearly supposed to be a cough.

His mother glanced between the two of you with far too much interest. “I’m glad.”

Dean’s father appeared beside her, coffee in hand, and nodded at you. “Morning, [Y/N]. Dean.”

Dean nodded once. “Dad.”

His father glanced at Dean, then at the hand still resting against your back.

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

You suddenly understood exactly where Dean got that habit from.

Breakfast was somehow worse than dinner. Everyone was awake, sober, and paying attention.

You sat beside Dean at the round table as his mother introduced you to people whose names you forgot almost immediately. There was a couple who’d known Dean when he was younger, a woman from the charity board, and a man who apparently couldn’t make it two minutes without asking him about hockey.

Dean answered easily, charming when he wanted to be, making everyone laugh like it took no effort at all.

That was the problem.

Dean was good at this.

Not just the fake-boyfriend thing, although he was annoyingly good at that, too.

Dean was good with people. Good at reading a room. Good at knowing when to joke and when to listen. Good at making his mother smile, and his father shake his head like he was disappointed but amused.

He talked with one arm draped over the back of your chair, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Not touching you, not really. Just like it belonged there.

Which was ridiculous, because it absolutely didn’t.

Nothing about any of this was supposed to belong anywhere.

“Coffee?” Dean asked, cutting through your thoughts.

You blinked, dragged back into the room. “What?”

He was already reaching for the carafe in the middle of the table. “Coffee?”

“Oh. Yeah, please.”

“Cream, no sugar?”

You went still.

Dean didn’t even hesitate as he poured your coffee, like remembering your order was nothing and not something he’d any business doing so easily.

Across the table, his mother stopped mid-conversation.

If Allie had been there, she would’ve screamed.

You stared down at the cup Dean placed in front of you, then at him.

Dean looked at you like he’d no idea what he’d done. “What?”

“You remembered.”

His expression shifted for half a second, like he’d only just realized what he’d given away. “You order it like that every time.”

He said it like it should’ve been obvious, like paying attention to you was just something he did.

The woman from the charity board made a delighted little sound. “That’s sweet.”

Dean turned to her with an easy smile, recovering faster than you could. “I have my moments.”

“One moment,” you corrected, lifting your coffee to hide your face.

Dean’s smile widened as you’d just proved his point. “She keeps me humble.”

“Well, someone has to.”

His mother looked entirely too thrilled.

His father seemed quietly amused.

You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you, preferably in a tasteful, expensive way.

The questions started about halfway through breakfast.

They weren’t obvious at first, which somehow made them worse.

His mother asked where the two of you usually went together. His father asked how Dean managed with hockey taking up so much of his time. The woman from the charity board asked whether Dean had a romantic side.

That one nearly took you out.

Dean choked on his coffee.

You smiled sweetly because if you were going down, he was coming with you. “Dean?”

Dean turned to look at you, a warning already in his eyes.

You folded your hands neatly in your lap. “Romantic?”

“Careful,” he said quietly. But people were watching, which meant he couldn’t do anything about it, and that made you brave. Possibly stupid, but brave.

“Well,” you said, pretending to consider it, “he once walked me home in the rain and only complained a little.”

Dean blinked at you, because unfortunately for him, that had actually happened.

Not while you were dating, obviously, because you weren’t dating. But months ago, after Malone’s, you’d forgotten an umbrella, and Dean had insisted on walking you home anyway.

He’d given you his hoodie, complained dramatically the entire walk, and still texted you afterward to make sure you’d warmed up.

You’d pretended it hadn’t mattered, because that was easier than admitting it had.

Something in Dean’s expression softened before he could stop it, and you only caught it because you’d been looking.

“A little?” Dean repeated.

“Twelve minutes, Dean.”

“It was literally raining sideways.”

“You’re a hockey player.”

“That’s a different kind of cold.”

“You’re so ridiculous.”

“You kept my hoodie for three days after that.”

That was enough to shut you up.

Dean’s eyebrows lifted as he realized, too late, that he’d said that out loud.

His mother’s smile softened in a way that felt unbearable, while his father looked down at his plate like that would hide the laugh he was fighting.

You took a very slow sip of coffee and silently prayed for strength.

Dean leaned in, voice dropping low enough that only you could hear. “Did you?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

Dean’s mouth curved slightly. “The hoodie.”

You kept your eyes on your coffee. “I don’t remember.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m selectively remembering.”

Under the table, his knee brushed yours, as if it were an accident.

You glanced over at him, and Dean looked back. For a second, everything else seemed to fade again.

You were starting to hate how easily that kept happening.

His mother cleared her throat, very delicately, and both of you looked away at the same time.

You spent the rest of breakfast in a state of emotional self-defense.

Dean’s mother talked through the charity luncheon later that afternoon, the silent auction, the donor reception, and the formal dinner that night. Dean nodded along like he understood what any of that involved, but you could tell from the way his expression slowly went blank that he absolutely did not.

“So,” his mother said, looking between you and Dean with a smile that immediately made you nervous, “you two will come to the garden reception before the auction, won’t you? There’ll be a photographer.”

Dean’s hand paused near his coffee cup, just for a second.

“Of course,” Dean said, smooth as ever.

You kicked him lightly under the table. Dean didn’t even flinch, which only made you want to kick him harder, especially when his smile didn’t move.

The second breakfast ended, and you were safely out of earshot, you grabbed Dean’s sleeve and dragged him toward one of the quieter hallways off the lobby.

Dean let you drag him away without a fight, which was probably the first bad sign.

“A photographer?” you hissed.

Dean glanced down at your hand still wrapped around his sleeve. “Good morning to you, too.”

“You said there would be dinner and charity things.”

“It does involve those things.”

“You left out the photographer.”

“I didn’t know there’d be a photographer.”

“You are so bad at giving warnings.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“That’s not a warning. That’s tricking me.”

Dean smiled. “Worked, didn’t it?”

You let go of his sleeve when you realized you were still holding it. “We need to look normal.”

“We do look normal.”

“No, we look like two people who are always five seconds away from arguing.”

Dean tilted his head. “That’s normal for us.”

“For a fake relationship?”

“For us.”

The words landed somewhere they had no business landing, and Dean seemed to realize it at the same time you did, his smile fading just a little.

You cleared your throat. “We need picture rules.”

“We have rules.”

“You keep finding loopholes.”

“I lovingly challenge them,” he said, because apparently he remembered saying that and was choosing to make it worse.

“You’re going to stand beside me like a normal person.”

“I’m very normal.”

“You said our dating story was you flirting until I gave up.”

“And yet, everyone believed it.”

“Unfortunately for me.”

Dean stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, but close enough that you noticed.

You always noticed.

“You’re overthinking it,” he said.

“I’m thinking the correct amount.”

“You’re spiraling.”

“I’m being prepared.”

“You’re aggressively preparing.”

You glared at him, which only seemed to prove his point.

Dean smiled, but then something in his face softened. “Hey.”

Your glare weakened because, apparently, gentleness was allowed to be used against you now.

“You’re doing really well,” he said.

Your stomach did that stupid little thing again, which you hated with your entire being.

“Don’t be nice to me when I’m trying to be mad at you,” you said.

Dean blinked like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. “What?”

“It’s confusing.”

Dean’s mouth curved slightly. “Confusing?”

“You’re usually annoying.”

“I’m a complicated guy.”

“You’re a complicated guy with terrible impulse control.”

“Also true.”

You shook your head and headed back toward the lobby before he could say anything else that made your chest feel weird.

Dean fell into step beside you. “For the record, pictures are the easy part.”

You glanced over at him. “The fact that you said that makes me think they won’t be.”

“We just have to stand close and look like we like each other.”

“We barely like each other.”

Dean looked at you.

You looked back.

For a second, neither of you tried to argue. Then Dean smiled, slow and far too knowing. “Right.”

You hated him. You hated him so much it was starting to feel like a problem.

The garden reception started at noon, which gave you exactly two hours to walk around with Dean and pretend to be the kind of couple who could survive a country club lawn without making a scene.

It was harder than it had any right to be, and not because lying was hard. You were alarmingly good at that, apparently. When Dean’s mother introduced you to donors and family friends, you smiled, answered questions, laughed when you were supposed to, and corrected Dean whenever he said something ridiculous.

The problem was Dean, because, of course, Dean kept being good at it. Whenever the crowd got too tight, his hand found your back and guided you through it. When people spoke softly, he leaned in and listened as it mattered. He remembered the name of an older woman’s dog from a conversation ten minutes earlier, which almost made you forgive him for being so annoying.

At one point, his father got pulled into a conversation with a donor who seemed very interested in Dean’s hockey future, and Dean’s expression shifted into that polished look you were starting to recognize.

The one that said he was listening, even though every other part of him wanted to be anywhere else.

You were standing beside him with your arm linked through his, because his mother had insisted it looked sweet, when the donor turned to you.

“And what do you think of all this?” the donor asked.

You smiled like you had any idea what the correct answer was. “All this?”

“Dean’s future in hockey,” he clarified. “Must be quite something, dating someone with that much focus.”

Dean’s arm went tense beneath your hand. His father glanced over like he’d felt the shift too.

Dean smiled, but it wasn’t the one he usually gave you.

This was one of those questions that was really just a test — a polite little trap dressed up as good manners, like Dean’s future was something people could casually assess over champagne.

You looked at Dean, but his eyes were still on the donor, so you answered for him.

“I think people assume Dean doesn’t take things seriously because he makes everything look easy,” you said, and Dean’s head turned sharply toward you. “But he works harder than most people give him credit for.”

The donor looked slightly surprised.

Dean’s father looked at you like he was seeing something he hadn’t expected.

You smiled politely, suddenly aware that you had everyone’s attention and absolutely no idea how to stop talking. So, naturally, you kept going.

“He’s annoying about plenty of things,” you added, because that felt necessary for balance, “but hockey isn’t one of them.”

Dean stared at you, and his father looked at you like he was seeing something he hadn’t expected.

The donor chuckled. “Well, that’s quite an endorsement.”

Dean’s mother appeared at your side like she’d been summoned by emotional honesty. “It is, isn’t it?”

You wanted to disappear, but then Dean’s hand covered yours where it rested against his arm, just for a second.

A quiet thank you.

You didn’t look at him because you had a feeling you’d see something you weren’t ready for.

Instead, you smiled at his mother, because that was safer than looking at him. “He’s still very irritating.”

Dean’s thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles.

“You know I’m standing right here, right?”

“I’m aware.”

“You enjoy reminding people.”

“They deserve to know what they’re getting into.”

Dean’s mother laughed, but Dean kept looking at you, long enough that you had no choice but to look back.

His expression was different again. Not smug, not teasing. Something warmer, which felt worse somehow.

“What?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.

Dean shook his head. “Nothing.”

“That didn’t seem like nothing.”

“It wasn’t.” Dean’s mouth curved, softer this time, and your stomach flipped. “I’ll tell you later.”

That was terrifying, because later, with Dean, it was starting to feel like a very dangerous concept.

The photographer found you fifteen minutes later, proving that God had abandoned you and sent a woman named Marissa, armed with a camera and a clipboard, in your place.

Dean saw her coming first; you knew because his posture changed.

“What?” you asked, following his gaze.

“The photographer.”

Your eyes went wide. “Already?”

“She looks determined.”

“I don’t like determined people.”

Dean laughed under his breath, but then Marissa stopped in front of you with a bright smile.

“Dean, right?” Marissa said with a bright smile. “Your mother sent me to get a few shots of you two before the reception gets too busy.”

“Of course she did,” Dean said, pleasant in a way that sounded deeply forced.

You pinched the inside of his arm, and Dean smiled wider as you’d just encouraged him.

Marissa led you toward one of the flowered arches at the edge of the garden. It was beautiful in a way that made everything feel even more staged, which felt unfair, considering your relationship was already fake.

“Closer,” Marissa instructed.

Dean stepped closer, but apparently not close enough.

“A little closer.”

You both moved closer, which was apparently still not close enough.

Dean glanced down at you, his mouth twitching. “We’re bad at this.”

“We’re doing great,” you muttered.

“We look like cousins who don’t like each other.”

You made a strangled sound. “Dean.”

Marissa lowered the camera slightly, like she’d found the problem. “Maybe his arm around your waist?”

Dean looked at you first. That was new. Or maybe it wasn’t, and you were only noticing now because every small act of consideration from Dean made the weekend feel a little less fake.

You nodded once.

Dean slipped his arm around your waist.

Your body reacted immediately because, apparently, your survival instincts had checked out of the hotel sometime between last night and breakfast.

His hand settled at your side, warm through the fabric of your dress, careful in a way that somehow made it worse.

“Relax,” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.

“I’m extremely relaxed.”

“You’re standing like you’re being held hostage.”

“I might be.”

“You did agree to this.”

“Under duress.”

“You made five rules and still said yes.”

“The rules were the duress.”

Dean laughed, and Marissa immediately lifted the camera.

“Perfect,” Marissa said, already taking another picture. “That was perfect. Keep looking at each other.”

You stopped laughing first.

Dean didn’t.

He was still looking down at you, his smile lingering as he’d forgotten anyone else was there.

The camera clicked once.

Then again.

You became painfully aware of everything at once. His arm around your waist. Your hand against his chest because Marissa had put it there. His heart beating under your palm, steady and real and entirely too distracting.

“Beautiful,” Marissa said, lowering the camera just enough to smile at you. “Now maybe one where you’re a little more affectionate?”

Your fingers tightened against Dean’s shirt.

Dean’s smile froze.

Slowly, you both looked at her.

She smiled back, oblivious to the crisis she’d just created. “A kiss would be lovely.”

No. Absolutely not. That was your first thought. The second was worse. Necessary.

Dean’s hand tightened slightly at your waist.

Slowly, you looked up at him.

He was already looking at you, his expression carefully neutral in a way that told you it wasn’t neutral at all.

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

There was no teasing. No smirk. No challenge. Just Dean, giving you a way out in front of a photographer, his mother, several donors, and probably half of the Di Laurentis family’s social circle.

That should’ve made it easier to say no, but somehow it only made everything harder. Dean was trying, everyone was watching, and rule number one had always been the stupidest rule, really, because necessity could stretch around almost anything if you wanted it badly enough.

“It’s necessary,” you said, mostly to yourself.

Dean’s eyes searched your face. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you said, before you could lose your nerve.

Dean didn’t move right away, and that was what ruined you — not the kiss, not yet, but the pause; the way he looked at you like he knew this was a line and didn’t want to be the one who dragged you over it. Like beneath all the teasing and flirting and dramatic fake-boyfriend nonsense, he understood that your yes mattered, even when the whole thing was pretend.

Then his hand came up slowly, giving you every chance to stop him.

You didn’t.

His fingers brushed your jaw, and your breath caught before you could do anything about it. Dean heard it; you knew he did, because something in his eyes shifted, just barely.

Then Dean leaned down and kissed you.

It was supposed to be quick. That was the plan: a short, neat, necessary kiss for the camera. Something easy. Something forgettable. Something you could roll your eyes about afterward, when Dean inevitably made some annoying joke, and you pretended your pulse hadn’t tripped over itself.

But then Dean’s mouth touched yours, and the entire plan fell apart.

He kissed you softly at first, careful in a way you weren’t prepared for, like he was still giving you room to pull away. Like even now, with everyone watching, your yes mattered more than the photograph.

Your hand curled in the front of his shirt, and Dean went still for half a second. Then he kissed you back. Really kissed you back. Not deeper, exactly — not enough for anyone watching to call it inappropriate, but enough that you felt the difference; enough that his thumb brushed along your jaw, his arm tightened at your waist, and your body leaned into him like it had forgotten this was supposed to be fake.

The camera clicked somewhere nearby, but you barely heard it.

Dean pulled back first. His forehead almost touched yours, and for one reckless second, neither of you moved away.

His eyes opened slowly, and so did yours. He looked at you like he’d forgotten anyone else was there. You were almost glad, because for one second, you had forgotten, too.

Then Marissa made a soft, delighted sound. “That was perfect.”

You snapped back to yourself so abruptly that it was almost painful.

You stepped back, and Dean let you go immediately.

Your lips tingled, which was dramatic and embarrassing and exactly the sort of thing you would’ve mocked if it were happening to someone else.

Dean cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes for half a second, like he needed a moment before he could look at you again.

Marissa checked the photos, then smiled. “You two are adorable.”

“Thanks,” Dean said automatically, but his voice sounded slightly off. Good. At least you weren’t the only one dying.

You managed to smile politely until Marissa left, then turned away so fast you nearly walked directly into a decorative shrub.

Dean caught you by the elbow. “Careful.”

You jerked your arm back as his hand had burned you. “I’m fine.”

His brows lifted, and you hated that he looked concerned instead of smug. Concern was not part of the deal.

“You’re spiraling,” he said quietly, like he knew exactly what you were trying to hide.

“I’m absolutely not spiraling.”

“You almost fought the shrub.”

“It came out of nowhere.”

“It’s a planted shrub.”

“You’re planted.”

Dean blinked, and then his mouth twitched.

You pointed at him immediately. “Don’t.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he said, absolutely going to.

“You were absolutely about to laugh.”

“I was going to ask if you needed water.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“I am,” he admitted, and that made you laugh despite yourself, because apparently your body had decided betrayal was its new hobby.

Dean smiled at the sound. Not his usual smile, but a softer one — the kind that made you want to look away. So you did.

“We should probably go back inside,” you said.

“Yeah,” Dean said, but neither of you moved.

You glanced up at him. “Dean.”

Dean blinked, like he’d forgotten what you were talking about. “Right.”

You started walking first, because one of you had to be responsible, and apparently, that person was still you, even after your mouth had been personally betrayed by his.

Dean caught up beside you after two steps, and for once, he didn’t touch your back. You noticed the absence immediately, which was probably the worst part.

The rest of the afternoon passed strangely — not badly, exactly, just strangely.

You made it through the reception, the donor conversations, the silent auction setup, and Dean’s mother introducing you to approximately seventeen people who all seemed to know embarrassing stories about him as a child. Apparently, he had once tried to auction off his cousin’s bike at a family fundraiser because he “understood business.” That felt extremely Dean of him.

Usually, you would’ve enjoyed making fun of him for it. You still did, a little. But the kiss sat between you now like an extra person.

Every time Dean looked at you too long, you remembered his mouth. Every time his hand came near your waist, he seemed to remember, too, stopping himself before he touched you unless someone was watching. Every time someone called you a cute couple, Dean smiled like he was supposed to, and you smiled like you were supposed to, and neither of you looked at each other right away.

Which was fine. It was fine. Completely fine, actually, right up until his mother pulled you aside near the auction table while Dean was talking to his father across the room.

“You’re good for him,” she said softly.

You almost dropped the silent auction pamphlet.

“Oh,” you said, because apparently that was the only word your brain had left.

Dean’s mother smiled at you, warm and terrifyingly sincere. “I know this is probably embarrassing for me to say, but I haven’t seen him this settled in a long time.”

Your stomach twisted. Settled. Dean Di Laurentis, who had lied his way into a fake girlfriend and almost kissed you in bed after one night, apparently looked settled. That was bad. Very bad.

“He’s easy to be around,” you said, and immediately wanted to take it back because it was both too nice and too true. His mother’s expression softened, and you panicked. “When he’s not being impossible,” you added quickly.

His mother laughed softly. “He’s always been a little impossible.”

“Only a little?”

“Fine. Very.” She looked across the room at Dean, her face softening. “But he has a good heart.”

You followed her gaze before you could stop yourself. Dean was standing with his father, one hand in his pocket, listening to something with his head slightly bowed. He looked older like that, quieter, like the version of him who joked and flirted and filled every room was only one part of him, not the whole thing.

“I know,” you said softly, and his mother looked back at you. You realized too late how that sounded, so you cleared your throat. “I mean, I’m aware he has… occasionally decent qualities.”

Her smile widened.

You were absolutely getting worse at this.

Across the room, Dean looked over, and his eyes found yours immediately. The smile faded from his face, replaced by something questioning.

You looked away first. Again.

By the time you made it back to the suite before the formal dinner, you were exhausted in a way that had very little to do with socializing and everything to do with pretending you hadn’t kissed Dean in a garden while a photographer documented your downfall.

Dean shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, like he needed a second before moving again.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The room felt too quiet without anyone watching.

You dropped your purse onto the couch and started unfastening your earrings, mostly to give your hands something to do.

Dean watched you for about three seconds. “So.”

You shut your eyes. “No.”

“I only said one word.”

“And I’m stopping you before that one word becomes something worse.”

“You don’t even know what I was about to say.”

“You were going to bring up the kiss.”

Dean paused, which was extremely incriminating. You opened your eyes and found him watching you.

Dean looked mildly offended. “I might not have been.”

“You absolutely were, and you know it.”

Dean pushed off the door, smiling a little in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fine. I was going to talk about the kiss.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

His eyebrows rose. “No?”

“No.”

“It happened.”

“It was necessary,” you said, as if that explained anything.

Dean looked at you for a long moment, then nodded once. “Right.”

You hated how easily he agreed, which felt like a trick, even if it wasn’t.

“It was for the photo,” you added.

“Yeah.”

“Your mom wanted pictures.”

“Yeah.”

“People were watching.”

“I know.”

“So.” You shrugged, like your heart hadn’t been trying to crawl out of your chest ever since. “Necessary.”

“Necessary,” he repeated, and the word sounded different when he said it — lower, slower, like he knew it was supposed to end the conversation and was choosing to make it worse instead.

You turned away and busied yourself with your bag, because looking at him felt like a terrible idea. “Great. Glad we agree.”

“We agree.”

“Perfect.”

“Very.”

The silence stretched, and you hated him, hated yourself, hated the word necessary.

Dean moved first, crossing to his bag and pulling out his suit for dinner. “For the record,” he said casually, “you’re the one who grabbed my shirt.”

Your head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

His back was to you, but you could hear the smile in his voice. “During the necessary kiss.”

“I was selling it.”

“You sold it aggressively.”

“I did no such thing.”

“My shirt disagrees.”

“Your shirt is biased.”

Dean turned around then, suit jacket hanging from one hand, and there was the smile. Not fully smug, not fully soft. Somewhere in the middle, which was becoming increasingly dangerous for him.

“You’re cute when you panic.”

“I’m not panicking.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because you keep being wrong.”

“I don’t think I am,” he said, and there was something in his voice that made it harder to argue.

His smile faded slightly, and for one horrible second, you thought he was going to say something honest — about the kiss, about last night, about the way he’d looked at you afterward like he’d almost forgotten this was supposed to end.

Instead, he held up his suit. “I need to change.”

You stared at him for a second, then pointed toward the bathroom. “Go.”

His mouth twitched. “Bossy.”

“Go, or I’ll make you change in the hallway.”

Dean started toward the bathroom, then paused in the doorway.

You looked at him, already suspicious. “What?”

He leaned against the doorframe, suit jacket slung over his shoulder. “You know, for someone who made a no feelings rule, you’re very invested in where I take my clothes off.”

You picked up the nearest pillow and threw it at him.

Dean disappeared into the bathroom laughing.

You stood in the middle of the suite, heart still racing, lips still remembering him, with the horrible truth pressing harder against your ribs than it had all day.

The kiss had been necessary. That was what you told yourself while Dean laughed behind the bathroom door. It had been necessary, and that should’ve made it easier to forget. The problem was that nothing about the way you wanted him to do it again felt necessary.

𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐍 𝐃𝐈 𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐒 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓:

@05gwyn, @gojodaddy1029, @carlossainzapologist, @cosmosnkaz, @pearled-wings, @parker-barnes-af, @idgasb, @laceyvt3, @coc4aine, @saltyfriendsaladbandit, @ethanthequeefqueen, @fromasgardandback, @stevesxwhore, @itmekelpy, @nellyboosworld, @fandom-princess-forevermore, @kmc1989, @biologicallyyours, @zoereyna, @fentyqloss, @aetherysis, @chickenburger22, @aarohisharma, @homeslices, @indigohazardconduit, @gingerihardlyknowher17, @sammiib444, @kennedy-brooke, @marieisbored, @tita004, @infiremejoon, @cari87, @rexit-mo, @jtheteenagewitch, @justkeepingitpeachy, @hoetel-manager, @freezing82, @elixirandstars, @proooof, @beebeechaos, @cherrypieyourface, @shatteredinkpot, @phoebesatoru, @maybankslover, @aria1108, @stcrmflyy, @genterom903, @loveeverythingsblog, @just-hopeful @nizzasspot

Two Months Earlier

“Hi,” Peter rushes into your apartment, breathless and flustered as always. You get a firm kiss to the cheek before he disappears into your bedroom. 

Laughing slightly, you peer around the corner and try to get a glimpse of him. “Everything okay, Petey?”

You get a slight hum of acknowledgment before he goes back to what sounds like rustling through papers. Shaking your head, you bring the popcorn bowl over to the couch and wait for him to reemerge. 

It doesn’t take longer than a few minutes until he’s strolling back toward you, a slightly cocky pep to his step. You narrow your eyes at him but fail miserably at holding back a grin. “Whatcha up to, Parker?”

“Who, me?” He shrugs, playing dumb as he jumps over the back of the couch, landing on the cushion beside you. You spot something folded in his hand before he tries to hide it. 

With little warning, you lunge forward, reaching for his hand. “Hey!” He jumps back, unable to hold in his laughter. “That’s cheating, you know?”

You don’t acknowledge him, grunting in frustration as he holds his hand further and further away from you. “Alright, well, what happened to no secrets?” You push, slightly embarrassed at how breathless you sound. 

“Oh, wow,” his hand comes up, cupping your jaw as he pulls your face closer to his. “That’s playing dirty,” he whispers. You can’t subdue your smile, inching closer until your noses are brushing. 

“You like it when I play dirty.” Peter’s eyes widen, a visible flush on his face as your lips just barely brush together. The whisper of a kiss. He was so focused on that, he failed to notice you ripping the paper from his hands. 

He groans as you lean back on the couch with a triumphant grin. “You’re too easy, Parker,” you tease. 

He props his chin on your knee, “Only for you.” 

“Oh God, you are so cheesy.” He opens his mouth, a stupid grin on his face. You pinch his lips together and laugh, “Don’t say it again. For the sake of our relationship, please.” 

You release him and he presses a quick kiss to your hand before leaning back. “Well,” he nods toward the paper in your hand. “Don’t you want to see what you’ve won?” 

Excitement bubbles inside you as you unfold the small piece of paper. The print’s slightly smudged from your wrestling match, but when you bring it closer, you can’t help the sharp gasp that escapes you. 

“Peter!” He’s smiling widely, posture relaxed and completely smug as you gush. “I can’t believe you managed to get tickets.”

“One of the guys in my lab knows someone at the museum. He owed me a favor,” he shrugs it off like it’s not a big deal. Like he didn’t just get you into one of the most exclusive exhibitions in Queens. 

He lets out a slight grunt when you toss yourself at him, arms wrapping like a vice around the back of his neck. You can feel the exhale of a laugh as he buries his head in the crook of your shoulder, arms quick to wrap around your waist. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, pulling back slightly to get a proper look at him. He keeps his grip firm, reluctant to let you get much further. 

“You know I’d do anything for you,” he tells you and he has all the conviction of a man who really believes it. 

“That’s a big promise,” you smile. “Sure you can keep it?”

“‘Course I can.” When you lean in to kiss him this time, you make sure it's real. Not the whisper of a touch, but something deeper as he pulls you into his lap completely. You don’t think you’ll ever get over how wonderful it is to be loved by Peter Parker. 

“Christ,” you blow into your gloved hands and hope some of the warmth bounces back to your face. You knew it was going to be cold today, but you hadn’t thought it would be a problem. Peter had said he was going to meet you outside the museum, but it’s already been fifteen minutes and you’re losing feeling in your nose. 

He does have a mind going 100MPH most days. Usually, you like to give him a leeway on timing. But it’s absolutely freezing today and snowflakes have just started falling. If you were with your boyfriend, this would be like a scene out of a romcom. 

Instead, it’s about to be a nature documentary on wild stood-up girlfriends freezing in Queens tundra. 

Pulling out your phone again, you bite the thumb of your glove and tug it off. You’ve sent Peter about twenty messages, none of which have even so much as gotten a ‘read.’ You try calling him this time, tucking the phone between your shoulder and ear as you hurriedly tug your glove back on. 

“Hey, this is Peter, you know what to do.” 

You roll your eyes at his voicemail. “It’s your girlfriend, Pete. But, I swear, if you make me wait any longer in this damn snow, I’m going to be your ex.”

“Good thing you don’t have to wait.” With a squeak, you whip around to find Peter standing behind you. You slap his shoulder and he bounces back with a laugh. The tip of his nose has been nipped red by the cold and his cheeks aren’t much better. 

“You’re lucky I like you,” you snap. 

“Extremely,” he agrees, not an ounce of sarcasm in his voice. It softens you slightly. When you can feel your fingers again, you’ll consider forgiving him. He throws his arm over your shoulder, struggling slightly with the scarf triple-wrapped around you. 

Glancing down to hang up the call, you see a little news notification pop up. 

Spider-Man & Molten Man Spotted in Times Square

“What’re you looking at?”

You shake your head, tucking your phone away. “Nothing.”

You send him a smile that he returns eagerly. He passes the staff your tickets and opens the door for you as you step into the museum. You’d like for the first thing you appreciate to be the gorgeous mural on the wall in front of you. But you are far more interested in the blast of heat coming from the vents above. 

“Oh, thank God,” you grumble, blocking the door as you greedily soak up all the warmth you can. 

“Come on, bug,” Peter laughs, tugging you along so the line of people can get by. “We’ll get you an overpriced coffee at the cafe.”

“You’re paying,” you tell him sternly. “I still can’t feel my nose.” 

“Deal.” Peter doesn’t hesitate, just leans down and presses a quick kiss to the tip of your nose. It’s the type of thing you used to see others do in public and gag. 

You’d think about how you would never be one of those touchy-feely couples. Peter makes it feel so natural, though. As if you’ve been together all your life and this is just another one of your daily routines. 

The giddy smile on your face is wide and can’t even be hidden behind your scarf as you lean into him. He chuckles as he pulls you closer, taking you toward the cafe. “What do you want to see first?”

“I read online that they’ve got a bunch of Monets by the south entrance, we’ll go there and then circle back to the front.”

“You’ve had this planned since you saw the tickets, haven’t you?”

You laugh and shake your head. “Since I read about the exhibit. Remind me to thank you again when we get home.”

Peter glances down, brows raised with a cheeky look on his face. You snort and push his face away. “What? I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face did,” you tease. Peter laughs, pressing a kiss to the top of your head as you get in line for a coffee. You don’t even feel like you need it anymore. You’ve been warmed inside-out just by Peter’s presence. 

God, when did I become such a cliche?

9:50

where the hell are you

they keep talking about distillation columns and thermo-something

you know I don’t understand nerd

Checking the time on your phone for the nth time, you feel your leg begin to bounce. Something uncomfortable has tied itself around your stomach, squeezing until you can’t stand one more sip of your beer. 

Peter’s labmates celebrate around you. They keep jostling each other’s shoulders, talking in technobabble. You have never felt as stupid as you did when Marcy asked you what your thoughts were on a plug flow reactor. Whatever the hell that is. 

You’d just said, “Oh, yeah, they’re great.” She’d smiled and slowly backed away, eagerly jumping into the next conversation. 

It’s not that they’re not nice people, but this clearly isn’t where you’re meant to be. Not without Peter, at least. You’d promised to come thinking, oh, you know, that your damn boyfriend would be here. 

10:30

Peter

Please

I feel so stupid

Nausea is thick in your throat as you hunch over the bar. Peter’s friends have all moved to a table, but you didn’t feel like following. It’s not like they were talking to you anyway. They didn’t know how and you didn’t either. 

“This is so stupid,” you mutter, dragging your hand down your face. You push away your empty beer and find yourself drawn to the TV, looking for any sort of distraction. 

It’s the news and, of course, Spider-Man’s swinging around the city again. His suit is bright against the night sky, and there’s an odd shape on his head that’s catching the snow. Leaning forward slightly, you snort when you see he’s wearing a red beanie. 

“Of course, New York gets the weirdo for a hero,” you mutter. You grimace as you watch Spider-Man get punched down by a man who looks like he’s made himself a megazord. Pulling back the sleeve of your blouse, you sigh at the time. 

There’s a tight pinch in your chest as you slide off the barstool. 

11:02

I’m going home

You debate saying anything else but decide not to. Tugging on your winter attire, you stop by the others’ table and bid them all goodnight. They’re nice enough to say bye, but you’re pretty sure they thought you had already left. 

The wind pushes against the bar’s door as you make your way outside. Snowflakes are quick to whip at your cheeks, landing in your lashes and melting into your scarf. You pull the scarf tighter and trudge forward. 

The cold isn’t bothering you any more than your absentee boyfriend is. You’ve always been gracious with Peter about being late. It’s a chronic sickness for him at this point and you’ve been around it the majority of your life. 

But it feels different now that you’re dating. Waiting outside an arcade or a restaurant for a friend isn’t a big deal. But when you’re sitting on your own at a table in a crowded restaurant, that’s absolute humiliation. 

He’s been dropping the ball a lot more lately and that hurts. But he hasn’t given you any other reason to worry about the state of your relationship. So, despite the sting, you’ve resolved to just swallow down the embarrassment and keep on going. 

You hear a small thud behind you and your hand instinctively goes to your purse. Swallowing thickly, you keep walking, hoping it’s nothing more than your paranoia. Then you hear the crunch of snow behind you, the clear footsteps matching your pace. Your hand wraps around the mace Pete bought you and you whip around on them. 

To your absolute horror, Peter’s standing behind you. He throws his hands up and lets out a nervous laugh. “Okay, an hour late is really bad, but please don’t mace me.”

You tilt your head and give him a flat look. “Two hours, actually.”

His face screws up and you cross your arms. “Sweetheart, I am so sorry.”

You shake your head and turn back around. “Forget it, Pete. Just go celebrate with your friends.”

Peter jogs to catch up with you and darts in front of you, a frown on his face. “Wait, no, come on. Why don’t you head in with me?”

You let out what can only be described as a guffaw and push past him. “And suffer through more questions about plug flow-whatever’s? Pass.” 

“Plug flow reactors?”

You glare at him over your shoulder and he fails horribly at hiding the amused look on his face. “Trying to speak nerd with them was humiliating, Peter.” His face softens at that and he reaches forward to pull you closer. 

Out of pure stubbornness, you should resist. But standing outside in the cold is making you desperate for Peter’s insane body heat. “Come inside, just for a little while,” he brushes a hair off your cheek and smiles softly. “I swear, I’ll teach you all our science jargon.”

You roll your eyes, but he knows he’s won when you sink into him. “You’re way too persuasive,” you snap. Peter does his best to lace your mittened hands together as he turns you back toward the bar. 

“Yeah, but you love me.”

“Unfortunately,” you glare at him, but your smile gives you away. 

For once in your relationship, you’re the one running late. Something you know Peter is about to take far too much joy in. He’s already sent about fifteen texts. The majority of them bemoan being all alone and then asking if this is how you always feel. Those were followed by an influx of apologies. 

You’re not thinking about the texts, though, as you jog down the street. You spot Peter waiting outside the diner, leaning against the wall. He’s got his phone in his hands, fingers moving rapidly across the screen. 

Sure enough, you can hear your phone ding with yet another passive-aggressive text. “Would you quit it?” You demand, completely out of breath, as you stop in front of him. 

He tosses his head back dramatically and groans. “God, finally. I thought you were just going to leave me out here to freeze.”

“Would serve you right,” your brows furrow. “When’d you get this?” You flick the edge of the red beanie shoved over his hair. 

Peter shrugs and readjusts it. “I dunno, I’ve had it forever.” You frown, biting your lip as you think. You swear to god you know it from somewhere, but you must’ve just seen Peter in it before and forgot. 

He holds the door of the diner open for you and lets out a relieved breath as you both step into the warmth. You would feel bad for him if he hadn’t done this to you five times within two weeks. 

“How come you wanted to…” The go to this place so bad trails off into a laugh. You should have known when he kept badgering you about coming here. 

Plastered floor to ceiling are comic book characters, clips from the stories, and various forms of memorabilia. You’re absolutely surrounded by a hundred different fandoms, and you’re honestly surprised Peter hasn’t had a heart attack yet. 

“I really should have seen this coming.” 

Peter laughs and leads you over to an empty table. A busty woman with a purple leotard stares you down from where she’s painted on the wall. You give Peter a flat look and he flushes. 

“I mean… the name is Strips.”

“Oh, seriously, Parker. Why would my mind immediately go to comics? I was worried you were taking me to a strip club or something.”

Peter wrinkled his nose and frowned. “That’s way too on the nose. I’d take you somewhere classy like Jumbo’s Clown Room.”

Your lips part and you just shake your head. “I don’t want to know if that’s a real place. And if it is, I don’t want to know how you found out about it.”

“Blame Flash,” he mutters as a waitress comes over with a coffee pot. 

You smile and thank her as she walks away. “Oh, I don’t think I’ve gotten a chance to tell you about this, yet.” Peter perks with interest and a wide smile blooms on your face. “You know how I was trying forever to be Professor Beeter’s TA. The position never opened but,” you trail off slightly as the people behind you start getting loud. 

“Oh my god, he is wrecking this place!” Frowning, you glance over your shoulder and take a look at what they’re watching. Someone’s phone is propped in the middle of the table and you see yet another ridiculous villain punching through the Chrysler building. 

Rolling your eyes, you settle back in your seat. “What was I saying?”

“Um,” Peter’s leg bounces under the table and his gaze shoots toward the door. “I’m not sure.”

You frown, watching him warily as he grows more antsy. “Oh, it’s about Professor Beeter. He offered me a-”

“Sweetheart,” he interrupts you and jumps to his feet. “I’m so sorry, but I just remembered I promised I would help May today.” He presses a kiss to the top of your head. 

“What? Peter! You wanted to come here!” He’s already running out the door. You watch, astounded, as he races past the window like hell’s nipping at his heels. You sink back into your seat with a stunned expression and your heart aching. 

Clearing your throat, you look up to find your waitress giving you a pitying look. She offers you a sympathetic smile that only makes you sick to your stomach. Grabbing your bag and coat, you jump out of the booth, rushing outside. 

What the hell is going on with him? You think, glaring down the street where Peter had gone. Pinching the bridge of your nose, you swallow down a lump in your throat and decide to just head back home. 

After his abrupt exit, you haven’t heard from Peter all day. You’ve sent him a few texts, checking in on him and asking about May, but you only got one answer before he went AWOL. 

You:

Everything good with May?

Petey:

Yeah

Her pilot was out had to make sure she had heat

After that, you’ve gotten nothing from him. Also, as far as you’re aware, May doesn’t use gas for heat. Peter hooked her up with better appliances forever ago. 

It’s as you’re dialing May’s number that you have to try and convince yourself you haven’t gone total psycho girlfriend. It’s perfectly normal to want to check on your boyfriend. Especially after how he was acting today. The line only rings a few times before she picks up. 

“Hello?”

“Hey, May.”

She says your name and you practically hear the smile in your voice. “Hey, sweetie. How are you?”

“Fine,” you answer quickly. “I just wanted to be see how Pete’s doing?”

She’s silent for a moment too long. She clears her throat and you frown at the pitch of her voice. “Oh, yeah, Pete’s fine. I’d let him talk to you, but he’s busy right now.”

You hum, fingers twisting your hoodie (Peter’s hoodie) strings as your stomach ties itself into a knot. “Right. Uh, what’d he say he was helping you with, again?”

“Cleaning out the gutters. Apparently, it can be a fire hazard or something, I’m not sure.”

Your body goes cold while something venomous rushes up your throat. “Okay,” you can barely hear your own voice. “I’ll let you go, then.” You hang up before she can respond, phone slipping from your hand and clattering to the ground. 

“Oh, my god,” you let out a panicked whisper, smoothing your hands over your hair as you try to think of a reasonable explanation. But there are no anniversaries, no birthdays, nothing special coming up that he might be lying about for a surprise. 

You’re honestly more shocked that May would lie to you. Growing up, she’d always seemed like the type of woman to protect a girl from sleaze-bag boyfriends. 

So maybe that means Pete isn’t doing anything bad. Maybe she’s covering for him for a good reason. 

So, why can't you think of one damn reason May would lie to you?

You don’t want to start spiraling for no reason. People lie, not just boyfriends, and not always for insidious reasons. Plucking your phone off the floor, you call Gwen. She’s usually good at pulling you out of your head when you start getting bad. 

The phone rings a few times before she finally answers. “Hey, what’s up?”

You frown and cross your arms across your stomach, trying to keep the nausea down. “Why do you sound so out of breath?”

“What?” She clears her throat but that only makes her sound worse. “No, I’m not. Did you need something?”

“Uh,” slightly taken aback by her tone, you struggle to find the right words. 

“Gwen!” Your heart beats ruthlessly against your ribs as your entire body stills. 

“Is that Peter?” You know it is. You could pick his voice out of a crowd if you were blindfolded. 

Gwen lets out a tense hum. “Yeah, it is. Uh, he was helping me with some chem stuff. So, I gotta go. Call me later, yeah?”

She’s hanging up before you can say anything else. Your hands are trembling as you set your phone on the table. Squeezing your throat to try and keep the lump back, you shake your head. 

There’s a reasonable explanation for everything. Right?

The nausea’s still coiled tight around you by the time Peter gets to your apartment. Your eyes are staring blankly at the wall, the only light coming from your window. You’re not sure how long you’ve been lying there. Trying and failing to sleep as you consider all the reasons Peter might have lied to you. 

Why he would be with Gwen instead of you. 

You hear him padding through the hall and shut your eyes, tugging the blanket slightly over your head. 

“Bug?” He calls softly. He’s quiet as he approaches the bed. He brushes a hair off your cheek and leans down to press a kiss to your temple. “You awake?”

Part of you wants to tell the truth. She wants to spring up and start laying into him, demanding to know why he lied. And the other half, she’s a coward. So, you stay curled into a ball, eyes closed, and pretending like you’re not falling apart. 

Peter lets out a low groan as he settles in your bed behind you. It takes everything in you not to jerk away when he wraps his arm around your stomach, pulling you into his chest. The last thing you want right now is to have him touching you. But saying that requires being awake. 

And that’s more painful than a sleepless night. 

Peter wakes up slowly, his body aching after last night. He’s not sure who decided a “living robot” was a good idea. But his ribs are paying the price. 

Stretching, he ignores the twinge of pain along his side. His arm gropes blindly along the sheets, searching for you, for your warmth. When his fingers brush against the wall, he reluctantly opens his eyes. 

He frowns when he realizes you’re not in bed beside him. Turning toward the rest of the apartment, he doesn’t hear you. You’re not in the shower or humming in the kitchen. 

With something cold settling inside him, he gets out of bed. “Sweetheart?” He calls out, hoping to hear you answer. It’s Saturday, and while it’s never been something you’ve both spoken aloud, traditionally, you spend all day in bed together. Just crashing from stressful weeks and overloaded uni schedules. 

“Bug?” He tries again, wandering through your apartment. He already knows, deep down, that you’re not in here. But he doesn’t want to accept it. He’s barely had any time for you this week and he was really looking forward to just being lazy with you all day. 

In the kitchen, pinned to your fridge, he finds a pink note with his name on it. 

Prof. Beeter asked me to come in. Someone messed up last week’s research log

Should be home for lunch <3

The only thing stopping him from spiraling is the little heart at the bottom of the note. He knows it’s silly, but he’s slightly worried that you’re mad at him. He can’t explain where the feelings are coming from, but it's gnawing along the back of his mind. 

Peter glances at the clock and groans. It’s only 9, and lunch to you is usually 2 O’Clock. He’s not sure if he’s patient enough to last that long. Peter glances at the note again and leaves it on the counter to go get dressed. 

He had Professor Beeter last semester and they got along pretty well. He’s sure the older man wouldn’t mind Peter bugging you for a little while. 

Still heavy with the feeling that he’s done something wrong, Peter brought along your favorite sweet treat from the cafe on campus. Hopefully, that will soothe his worries and give you a boost for the day. He knows you look forward to Saturdays just as much as he does. 

Peter’s heading toward the lecture hall when his brain finally catches up with the rest of your note. What research were you talking about? You hadn’t told him you were a part of any projects. 

He’s always yapping to you about his labs. He figured you would do the same. Maybe it’s new, he thinks. 

Pushing open the door, he spots you immediately. You’re at a desk, papers and books piling all around you. There are three other people with you, each of whom he has a vague recollection of. 

“I mean, I don’t even know how we’re supposed to salvage this.” Your voice sounds strained, completely pulled taut. Peter frowns, wishing he could just take your problems and shoulder them for you. 

“It’ll be okay,” one of the girls assures you. 

You finally lift your head from your hands. “Twelve pages with zero references, we’re going to be at this all damn day.” Peter draws back slightly, suddenly wondering if this is such a good idea. 

He knows how testy you can get about school. Especially major projects. Sometimes just leaving you alone seems to work better than smothering. But, then, before he can back out, one of the girls, he thinks her name’s Mila, catches sight of him. 

“Peter?” She calls out. Your eyes instantly snap to him. If he thought you were angry at him before, he does not feel any better now. Your gaze is sharp, lips in a flat line, and there’s absolutely nothing on your face except perpetual irritation. 

“What’re you doing here?” You snap and your voice is way sharper than he was expecting. Holding his hands up slightly, he approaches slowly. He doesn’t want to treat his girlfriend like a stray dog, but you look ready to go for someone’s jugular. 

“I thought you might want something to eat. Figured you didn’t have any time before you left to get something.”

Mila and the other girl both aw over him and it gives him the briefest amount of hope. But then you’re shoving out of your chair and storming toward him. Peter swallows roughly as you approach. He almost wishes he were fighting that living-fire guy right now. 

You snatch his sleeve in your hand and drag him back toward the door. “Peter, why are you here?” You demand, voice lowered so the others can't hear. 

He frowns and shrugs helplessly. “It’s Saturday, we always spend Saturday together.”

You cross your arms, a sharp, derisive look on your face. Okay, definitely mad. “Oh, so you can remember dates now? What’s next? Are you going to show up on time for once?”

“Hey,” he objects, hoping to lighten the mood. “I was on time yesterday.”

Your eyes narrow and something on your face goes blank. He can’t place it exactly, but it’s like there’s a wall where he can usually read you so well. “Yeah, doesn’t count if you ditch me ten minutes later, babe.”

The venom in your voice makes him take a step back. He looks down, knowing you’re right. But he doesn’t want you any more mad than you are, instead of addressing it, he nods toward your desk. 

“What’s going on here?”

“We’re working on the dementia research project with Professor Beeter.”

Peter wants to light up, to hug you, and congratulate you for finally getting an in with the professor you’ve been trying to work with since last year. But you deliver him the news so flatly he feels like you’d only get more mad.

“You didn’t tell me about that,” he says instead. Which is very clearly the wrong answer, by the way you back off with a sharp scoff. 

“I’m not sure when I would have, Peter. I got placed two weeks ago and I haven’t seen you for more than an hour since then. Besides, when I tried to tell you yesterday, you fucking bolted to May’s.” You pause, and your lips curl up into something cruel. “Or was it Gwen’s place? Sorry, I can’t remember which lie you bullshited your way through.”

Peter feels his heart drop to his feet. It’s like a film goes over his eyes as his mind scrambles for any explanation that isn’t ‘I was busy beating up a robot with a weird, creepy human brain in it.’ Because he’s pretty sure that would be grounds enough for you to dump him right now. 

You really don’t give him a chance, either way. You snatch the bag from his hand and the smile drops from your face. “Thanks for the visit. You can go now.” You turn back toward your teammates without another look at him. “Hungry?” You call out to Mila.

She gives a hesitant nod and you toss Peter’s pastry at her. “Dig in.” Even when you sit down, you don’t look up from your books. Not even a twitch as he opens the door. 

Peter walks out, still slightly numb from the whole… argument? Did that even count as an argument? Or was that just you finally calling him out?

You’ve let him get away with a lot and maybe he took advantage of that, but he’s worried you might have the wrong idea. He doesn’t know why you would bring up Gwen, but the tone of your voice was so accusatory that he feels sick to his stomach. 

Yes, he was at her house last night. But that’s because he needed to be stitched up. She’s known about Spider-Man since high school. It was either bleed out or have her use her beginner's sewing kit. 

Peter lets out a shaky breath and runs his hands through his hair restlessly. You’ve both gotten into worse fights before. It’s not like you were a perfect couple. Surely, you could find a way to get over this. He just needs a half-decent excuse for his lying.

Peter perks up as he hears you step into the apartment. He glances at the clock and grimaces. You’re going to be pissed that you had to stay there until 6, fixing someone else’s screwup. When you round the corner and see him, he hears you let out one of the most exhausted noises he’s ever heard from you. 

“Peter,” he finally turns to meet your eye. “Why are you here?”

His chest clenches as he forces a smile. “I figured you would be hungry.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose. “Are you ever at your own place?”

Ouch. “I just wanted to make you dinner. I’ll be out of your hair as soon as it’s done, bug.”

You shrug off your jacket and take a seat at the kitchen island. Peter takes your silence as agreement and goes back to stirring the pasta. When you speak again, his ears practically touch his shoulders. This dreadful feeling in his stomach has just been mounting all day. He feels ready to vibrate out of his own skin.

“Peter, where were you last night? I want the truth.”

Peter’s hand clenches around the spoon and he keeps his back to you. “Went over to May’s to help around the house and then I saw Gwen.”

You let out a loud scoff and your hands slap against the counter. “Did you all get your stories straight? Am I hearing the right lie, now?” 

Peter drops the spoon and turns to face you. He expects anger, maybe sadness. But you’re not giving him anything. You’re just… cold and Peter hates it. He’s seen you use that look before. It’s always been directed at people you don’t care about. You don’t hate them, you don’t love them, you just… don’t care. He doesn’t want to be someone you don’t care about. He can’t be. 

“Look me in the eye,” you command. “Tell me the truth.”

Peter takes in a steadying breath, doing his best not to make it obvious. “Sweetheart, I swear, I went to help May with the heat and the gutters. Gwen called and she needed my help on her chemistry project. I’m sorry that I got home late-”

“I can’t,” you clear your throat and the way your voice cracks makes his heart ache. “I can’t believe that you’re just going to stand there and lie to me.”

He shakes his head and takes a desperate step forward. “No, bug, I’m-”

You hold your hand up and his jaw snaps shut. “You’ve talked Peter, now it’s my turn. I have put up with a lot from you. If anyone treated me the way you do, you know what you would tell me?”

He opens his mouth and you shoot him a look that makes him shrink into himself. “Do not answer that, I am still talking. You would tell me to cut them out. If someone doesn’t respect my time, my dates, if they lie straight to my fucking face, then that’s not someone who deserves to be in my life. You are never on time, if you even show up at all.”

He wants to object, he really does, but he knows you’re right. Still, you must sense his apprehension. “Scroll through our texts from the past two months. It’s just a block of me asking where you are and telling you how stupid I feel. Then you show up, make everything better, and I just let you get away with it. Because I have known and loved you for so long, I let you disrespect me. I can handle missing dates, I can handle not being on time, always being at my place and never letting me over at yours. But I can’t do this, I can’t just swallow down you lying straight to my face. Getting your aunt and my best friend involved in this is sick, Pete. What do you expect me to think when Gwen’s lying about why you’re at her place?”

“No, sweetheart,” he finally speaks, rushing toward you, voice breaking on something desperate. He reaches for you, but you jerk back and he swears something cracks open inside him. “I would never.”

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Why would I ever believe you?”

Peter flounders. He tries to think of anything. Anything that isn’t a lie and isn’t the truth about who he is. But his mind is blank. The panic flooding through him is overriding anything that might get you back, might get you in his arms again. 

You suck your teeth and give him a jerky nod. “Why do I feel like I’m losing you?” He whispers, afraid that if he speaks any louder, he might actually cry. 

“I think this has been happening for a long time, Peter. It’s just your first time realizing it.”

No, no, he can’t handle that. He can’t handle knowing that this awful, barbed feeling ripping through him is how he’s made you feel for so long. But he can’t just spill his guts and tell you everything. 

Right after Gwen had discovered him, it was like the bad guys had a missile lock on her. She kept getting thrown into danger, nearly dying, because of him. He can’t be the reason you get hurt. He can’t live with that. 

But he’s hurting you either way and for once, he can’t think of a way to make this all smooth over. 

You take in a sharp breath and turn away from him. You walk to the stove, turning off the burner as the food begins to smoke. “I think you should go, Peter.”

“Bug,” but he doesn’t have anything to say and you still won’t look at him. He just wants you to look at him. He feels as if you did, if you saw how sorry he was, something here might be fixed. 

“I’m going to take a shower. When I’m done, I expect you to be gone.” You toss the pot in the sink and head down the hall, not another word spared for him. And Peter…

He just spirals. Every mistake, every time he showed up late, just pummels into him as he realizes this is all his fault. 

You turned off your phone yesterday. The missed calls and texts from Peter were bordering on obnoxious and you couldn’t take it anymore. Even Gwen kept trying to call you. Kept texting you that it’s not what you think. 

But did they ever offer any other explanation?

No, they fucking didn’t.

So, not only did you lose your boyfriend, the man you’ve been in love with as long as you’ve known him. You also lost your best friend. 

Best. Week. Ever.

Sick of being sad in your bed, you decide to go be sad outside. Maybe just grab a pint of ice cream from the bodega and lock yourself inside your apartment for the rest of your life. That sounds like a decent plan. 

Leaving your phone, you grab your keys and some cash. It’s still cold outside, though the snow has calmed down a little bit. It soaks through your tennis shoes, now, seeps along the hem of your sweatpants. No part of you can be bothered to care about that as you trudge toward the shop. 

It’s unusually quiet as you walk inside. Usually it’s a lot busier this time of night. Maybe the universe decided to give you a break. 

Digging through the freezer section, you frown when you don’t see your favorite flavor. You turn toward the shop owner, Al, who has gotten used to you coming down here the past few days. “You guys don’t have any more Turtlesaurus Rex?”

Al’s silent and you frown, finally turning to fully face him. A man in a black jacket lingers by the counter, hands stuffed deep in his pockets. Al gives you a tense smile, and your brows furrow as dread picks at you. 

“All out. Maurie down the street might have some.” There’s something about how wide his eyes are that’s making you think you probably should have brought your phone. Especially because you definitely just saw the handle of a gun in that man’s jacket and you really need to call the cops. (Even though they probably won’t do anything.)

“Yeah, I’ll go check over there.”

“Have a good night.”

You try not to sound stiff as you return the sentiment. But you’ve barely made it to the door when you hear the distinct sound of a hammer being pulled back. 

“You think I’m stupid?” What a wonderful time this would be for a freak in red and blue spandex to show up. 

You turn slowly and shake your head, absolutely zero idea how to defuse this. 

“I think the lady’s just being polite. Personally, I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone encapsulate the term ‘mouth-breather’ so well.”

Your eyes widen, and you whip around to see Spider-Man standing at the entrance of the bodega. What the fuck is your life? 

“Hey, jackass,” you hiss, and his head whips toward you. “Who’s he pointing the gun at?”

Spider-Man shrugs, “What gun?” You barely have a second to blink before a thick white string is twhip-ing past you and jerking the gun out of the man’s hands. 

“Smartass,” you mutter under your breath. 

“I think you mean, ‘thank you, Spider-Man for saving my life,’” you shoot him a flat look and walk out of the bodega. Maybe it’s time to just accept that you’re not meant to be in the outside world. You’re better off cocooned in your bed. 

There are no robbers there. No cheating boyfriends and conniving best friends. 

About a minute later, you hear rapid footsteps approaching. “I don’t have a purse, phone, or wallet.”

“Wow, great mugger-deterrent. I totally don’t want to rob you now.”

You plant your feet in the snow and hear Spider-Man let out a sharp breath as he skids around you. “I thought you were the friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. Not the quippy, neighborhood pervert who follows girls around at night.”

Spider-Man lets out a noise that can only be described as a guffaw. “I’m making sure you get home safely. Since clearly you don’t care. I mean, who walks around this late at night without mace at least?”

“Me,” you tell him flatly. 

“Pretty girls shouldn’t be walking around here on their own.”

Your lips curl and you gag as you continue toward your apartment. “Okay, first of all, totally not helping with your creep angle.” He groans and you almost laugh at the defeated sound. “Also, I’m fresh off a break-up, so keep the compliments to yourself.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Spider-Man quickly jumps in front of you and you frown as he blocks your way. “Breakup,” his voice is pitched so high, you swear it almost sounds familiar. “You broke up with someone?”

“Uh… yeah.”

“R-really?” He tries to lean against a lamppost, slips, and then straightens awkwardly like he meant to do that. “Because you know sometimes people think that it’s just a break and not a breakup, you know? Big difference. Are you sure this isn’t just a break?”

He’s talking so rapidly you can barely understand him. It doesn’t help that he’s got that mask on, so you can’t try to catch the words on his lips to decipher them. You think you might have gotten half of that word-vomit.

“Well, I’m the one who did it. I feel like I should know.”

“Does he?” He holds up his hands, quick to correct himself. “Or she? Spider-Man doesn’t judge.”

“Oh, good to know, he’s a pervert, but at least he’s an ally.” You push past him. “Look, if he doesn’t know, then he’s a lot stupider than I gave him credit for.”

You hear a low, “Ouch,” behind you and figure you might be being a tad harsh about Peter. But what the hell would Spider-Man care?

“You know,” Spider-Man continues after you. 

Jesus, he’s like a damn dog.

“I’ve always believed that everyone deserves a second chance.”

You glare over at him and swear you see the eyes of his mask turn down. You’ve never seen a mask emote before; it’s incredibly bizarre. “Do they deserve a second chance after sleeping with your best friend?”

Spider-Man shrugs, throwing his hands in the air. “Do you have evidence that it happened, though?”

“Dude,” you snap. “What do you care? And what other evidence would I need besides the fact that he wouldn’t tell me the truth? If there was nothing to hide, why would he continue to hide shit?”

You hear his inhale of breath and shake your head, holding your hands up. “No, you know what, no. Alright? I didn’t get my Turtlesaurus Rex and I am not going to listen to some weirdo in a unitard give me relationship advice.”

“Unitard?” He scoffs. “I’m not a weirdo.”

“Oh, yeah?” You call over your shoulder. “Then stop following me home!” It takes a few minutes to believe he’s actually gone and you can finally breathe again. What weird ass fever dream was your life turning into?

You sit on the ledge of your roof’s building, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You’re scrolling through all the texts Peter’s sent you in the last three hours. There are at least fifty of them. But it’s the one at the end that really catches your eye. 

Is this really it? Are we done? Bug-

You stop reading at the nickname and put your phone down. Reluctantly, Spider-Man’s words from the other night pop into your head. Some people think it's a break, not a breakup.

How could Peter not have gotten the message by now?

“Fancy meeting you here.”

You let out a screech and jolt forward. Arms winding wildly as you try to regain your balance. The city tilts below you until something’s latched onto the back of your shirt and you’re suddenly being pulled into a firm chest. 

“Why would you sit on the edge?” Again, his voice gets an impressively shrill pitch. 

Shoving away from him, you whip around and slap his shoulder. “Why would you scare someone sitting on the edge?”

You can hear his sharp intake of breath before his argument fizzles out. “That’s what I thought Spider-Boy-”

“Man.”

“Whatever.” You walk back to the edge and rewrap yourself in your blanket. With a pointed glare over your shoulder, you hop right back on your perch. Spider-Man lets out a world-weary sigh before he jumps up beside you. 

“You know,” he drawls. “Most people say thank you when a superhero saves you.”

“Oh,” you laugh. “Is that what you are, now? A superhero?”

“Dude. What is your problem?” His voice goes so flat, all humor sucked out of it, that, for some weird reason, it’s the first thing he’s said to get a real laugh out of you. He seems just as confused as you are if the way he tosses his hands up means anything. 

“I cannot figure you out.”

You shake your head and brush a stray curl from your eyes. “It’s not you, Bugboy-”

“Rude.”

“It’s life,” you spread your palms out, gesturing to the sprawling city across from you. “Just broke up with the love of my life. Lost my bestie. The research project I’ve been trying to join for a year is falling apart at the seams. Oh, and I almost got shot yesterday.”

You point your face to the sky and let out a dramatic sigh. “God hates me.”

There’s a light nudge on your arm and you look over to see that Spider-Man’s moved closer to you. “God doesn’t hate you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. Because I didn’t let you get shot. I’d say that’s pretty damn lucky.” You snort and from the mask, you think he’s… pleased? It’s really hard to tell. 

“I guess that’s fair.” 

Spider-Man lets out a satisfied hum as he turns to the city. “You gotta stop being so hard on yourself, bug.”

Your entire body goes still. Your eyes widen as they stare down at your lap, adrenaline rushing through your blood as you turn toward Spider-Man. “What’d you say?” You ask, voice so low you’re surprised he even registers it. 

He shrugs, “I said to stop being so hard on yourself.”

“No, you called me something. What’d you call me?”

“Bug,” Spider-Man drawls and you swear you’re going crazy because that voice is painfully familiar. “You called me Bugboy, I thought it would be fair.”

It’s too hard to distinguish whether this swooping feeling in your stomach is relief or disappointment. And you hate yourself for not knowing which one you want it to be. 

“Right,” you scoff and rub your eyes. “I’m going crazy, now.”

Spider-Man lets out a long sigh as he watches you. “You kind of seem like you’re having a mental breakdown. Maybe, I don’t know, get off the edge of the very tall building.”

“Oh, don’t tell me Bugboy’s got a crush.”

Your lips curl at his scoff. “You’re impossible.”

Feeling only slightly guilty for the hell you’ve given him, you slip off the edge and get your feet planted firmly on the ground. “Better?”

He surveys you suspiciously before nodding. You pick your phone up off the ledge and, for some reason, are compelled to open up the texts with Peter. You should have guessed how nosey Spider-Man was going to be about it. 

“That the ex?”

You shoot him a flat look as he kicks his legs over the ledge. “Yeah. That’s the ex.”

“So, what are you going to tell him?” He motions toward the last text. “Break or breakup?” Your mind snags on how Peter called you bug and Spider-Man’s weird slip-up before you force yourself to dispel the thoughts. 

“Breakup. I guess I should have made it more clear.” Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you shoot Spider-Man a look. His back has gone weirdly tense and you frown. “Hey, you’re a guy. How’s the nicest way to tell him it’s done.”

“Don’t.” His voice is clipped, almost angry. “He’ll get the hint. Trust me.” 

Your brows furrow as you eye him warily. “Are you okay?”

“Gotta go. Superhero business, you know?” You shrug, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s already leaping off the ledge, thwip-ing his way to the building across from yours. 

“Weirdo,” you scoff. 

You figured that after Spider-Man’s abrupt departure on the roof, that would be the end of it. But, no, it’s only gotten worse for you. He’s everywhere now. He’s somehow more consistent than your ex ever was. 

Walking home from late research sections, look who wants to be a walking buddy. 

Heading to the bodega for a midnight snack, somehow, Spider-Man had the same idea. 

Your life is now a Sunday comic strip in the paper. It’s like there’s some sadistic artist out there exploiting your misery for humor. It’s not just him, either. It’s the month. In all your drama with Peter, you’d failed to keep up with the dates. 

Now, freshly single for the first time in a couple of years, you sit alone preparing yourself for the next week. Valentine’s Day is Saturday, which means suffering through pink streamers all over campus and girls walking around with gift baskets lovingly curated by their boyfriends. 

“I don’t like how often I find you on this ledge.”

You spare a glance over your shoulder and smile. “I don’t like that you still haven’t learned not to scare me.”

“Touche,” Spider-Man breathes out, taking quick strides toward you. “You seem tense. Feel like sharing? I’m a great listener.”

“Nothing big, just Valentine’s Day. I’ve had a boyfriend for so long I forgot how bitter and annoying it is for single people.”

“Tell me about it,” he sighs. 

“Really? The Spider-Man is single?”

“I appreciate the surprise in your voice, no matter how forced it is.” You let out a wry chuckle and you swear you can hear a smile in his laugh. 

“Probably a good thing, though. I can’t imagine any girlfriend would be happy with the amount of time you spend on this ledge with me.”

“No,” he agrees,  “probably not.” The next noise he lets out is soft, tired in the kind of way that resonates with you. For the most part, your interactions are shallow. There’s banter, stupid quips, and then he’s off. You don’t usually hear something so real from him. 

“Freshly single?” You ask. His head whips toward you and you shrug. “I recognize the misery of your sigh. It resonates within my withered heart.”

Spider-Man swats your shoulder lightly and you grin. “Yeah, it’s fresh. I still don’t think I’ve accepted it.”

You prop your chin in your hand and smile at him. “What level of not accepted are we talking here? Stalking? Or just crying over Instagram posts?”

Spider-Man goes quiet and you pull back. He recognizes the suspicion on your face and waves his hands. “No, no, no, this doesn’t count as stalking. Not really. I mean, it’s consensual?”

He sounds more unsure of himself at the end than you did. “Let's just not talk about that,” you offer. “I don’t think I want to know what your idea of consensual stalking is.” Spider-Man snorts and you shake your head. 

A billboard across from you catches your eye. It’s Gwen’s favorite band, an announcement that they’ll be coming through soon. There’s a sharp ache in your chest when you remember you can’t just text her about stuff like that anymore. 

“Gwen would love that,” you say, almost without thinking. 

But what’s worse is when the man beside you doesn’t think either. “Oh, yeah, she would.”

Consensual

Stalking

Oh. My. God. 

Your entire body stiffens as you turn to Spider-Man/maybe your ex-boyfriend. He doesn’t seem to realize his slip-up and that just makes you freeze up. You don’t know what to do. You can’t just blindly accuse him of being Peter. If you start hinting at secret identities, he might stop talking to you. 

Loathe as you are to admit it, you’ve begun to enjoy his company. The main reason being he reminded you of how it was with Peter before you guys started dating. 

Oh, Jesus, you’re gonna throw up off the ledge of your building. When the pavement below seems to swim up to you, it’s time to slip off the ledge. Slowly, fighting off the vertigo of your discovery, you drop back to safety. 

Spider-Man watches you, head tilted in question. “Um, I have to go.” You search for an excuse, but none comes. “Yeah, I have to go.”

“Oh,” he seems taken aback, but doesn’t comment. “Alright. I’ll see you later?”

You let out a noise between a hum and a squeal as you rush back into your apartment building. Your mind is racing while you scramble through the door of your apartment. Like a detective, you flit through different memories, red string connecting each one as you start to line up Peter’s disappearances with Spider-Man's greatest hits.

Every missed date, every time he showed up late, it was all right there. But you never thought to connect it because… Well, why would you? Peter is Peter. He’s not a superhero. He definitely doesn’t have webs. Please, don’t let him have webs. 

Scrambling for your phone, you dial the first number you can think of. It’s barely ringing before it’s getting picked up. “Gwen,” your voice is incredibly shaky as you try to calm yourself down. “I’m going to ask you something and if you don’t tell me the truth, we’re never talking again.”

Spider-Man/Peter Parker/ex-boyfriend-

No, no, too many titles. Peter has not been around in the past week. Not as his alter ego, and not at his lectures. Unfortunately, a lot of your schedule seems to intersect and the majority of your day is spent hiding in a hoodie and trying not to make eye contact. 

But there hasn’t been any of that at all this week. 

Maybe Gwen told him you know. He’s probably losing his mind right now. 

But, no, she swore she wouldn’t and you know she’s not going to risk hurting your friendship again. Though you did profusely apologize for ever thinking that she could do that to you. And then she berated you about thinking she would ever be attracted to Peter. 

Which… Ouch. 

It’s Saturday, which used to mean days spent with him. Instead, it now means watching people get all mushy on Valentine’s Day. That used to be you, disgustingly in love, kissing way more than you should in public. 

Now, you watch it all on the subway with that same old glare you used to have before Peter. You’re thinking about him a lot more than you want to. Especially given that he’s supposed to be an ex. 

After your long speech on respect and boundaries and honesty, you should be completely over him. But it sort of makes sense now. Especially after Gwen told you what happened to her when she found out about him. 

Peter wanted to protect you. You can understand that. But it doesn’t just erase all of the pain you felt while you were in the dark. You let out a low groan, ignoring the people around you as you walk home. You just keep going in circles over and over again. 

The streets around you begin to thin out the closer to home you get. You’re still so deep in thought, you don’t notice the man dangling in front of you until your forehead is smacking into his. 

“Ow,” you hiss, pressing your palm to the bruise that’s probably already forming. Backing up, Spider-Man, Peter, is dangling from the small overpass, upside down, as he waits for you. 

“Dude,” you drawl. “How long have you just been hanging out here?”

He shrugs, “An hour, maybe.” Only in Queens would people pass by a dangling man in spandex and not question a thing. 

One of his hands is tucked behind his back, and the other is holding onto his webbing. “Here,” he says. “I’ve got something for you.”

He untucks his free hand and passes you a bright pink, smothered in glitter, Valentine's Day card. You can hear his proud smile as he asks, “Be my Valentine?”

Narrowing your eyes at him, you shake your head with a low laugh. This is the dork you fell in love with. The boy you swore you would follow anywhere. It’s not his fault he’s such an idiot, not really. 

Something soothes the ever permanent ache in your heart as you imagine the smile he’s probably got plastered on face. God, you bet he’s so proud of himself for this silly little Valentine. 

A deep longing echoes through you and you reach up, going for the edge of his mask, when he reels back. “What’re you-”

“Relax, Parker,” you whisper. He goes completely still and you take hold of the mask. 

“Did Gwen tell you?”

“You did, dumbass. You know, you’re really bad at the whole secret identity thing when it comes to consensually stalking your ex.” He lets out a low groan as you peel down his mask, just enough for his lips to be visible. 

Pulling back, you take his face in your hands and smile. “Do you want me as your Valentine, or not?”

“What do you think, bug?” With a soft laugh, you lean forward and press your lips to his. It takes a second to get the angle right, what with his chin brushing your nose and all. But you don’t need perfect, you just need him. 

Pulling back, he’s got a goofy grin on his face and you smirk. “Parker?” He hums as you fix his mask. “If you ever lie to me again, I’ll cut a hole in the crotch of your unitard. Or, worse second option, I’ll tell Jonah Jameson where you live. Got it?”

He goes still and you raise a brow. “You’re not joking?” You shake your head, expression flat. “Yeah, I got it, sweetheart.”

Smiling, you press a kiss to his cheek and step back. “Be home by six,” you tell him. “And bring some takeout.” You walk around him as he swings himself back up to the top of the overpass. 

“I love you!” He calls after you. 

“I know you do, Bugboy!”

𝘞𝘦 𝘈𝘭𝘮𝘰𝘴𝘵 𝘉𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘜𝘱 𝘈𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘓𝘢𝘴𝘵 𝘕𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵

𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳                  ♥︎

⇄              ◁◁  I I  ▷▷          ↻

⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵

💿 We've been here before and we'll be here tomorrow 💿

a/n: this was meant to be angstier but, well, I started writing him in the Spider-Man “voice” and folded like a wet paper towel

She dragged her highlighter across a sentence, slow and neat, and added, “I’ve been waiting for this. You’ve been tapping your foot for, like, twenty minutes.”

Across the room, Garrett gave a short, breathy laugh, the kind that sounded like it’d been punched out of him. When she glanced over, he was still facing his desk, one elbow planted beside his textbook, pen caught between his fingers, the end of it pressed lightly against his mouth. 

His hair was a mess from where he’d clearly been dragging his hands through it, dark curls pushed up and falling back down again, and he looked annoyingly good in an old Briar hockey hoodie and sweats, which was rude of him. Deeply unnecessary.

“Huh,” he said, and his mouth twitched like he was trying for normal and missing by a mile. “Yeah. Okay. Uh.”

She lowered the highlighter. “Uh-oh.”

“No, it’s not–” He turned in his chair halfway, then stopped, then turned properly, knees spreading a little as he leaned forward with his forearms on his thighs. “Can I ask you something?”

“Clearly not easily, but sure.”

His eyes flicked to hers, amused despite whatever panic was happening under his skin. “You’re a real comfort, you know that?”

“I try to keep you humble.”

“Impossible. I’m beloved.”

“You’re tolerated.”

“I’m adored.”

“You’re on thin ice.”

That got the real smile out of him for half a second, bright and quick and Garrett all over, and then it slipped again. He rubbed a hand over his jaw, glanced at the wall, at his desk, at the floor, anywhere but her.

“So,” he started, then stopped.

She watched him for a second longer than she meant to. “Garrett.”

“Yeah, okay.” He exhaled, then looked at her properly. “You’ve hooked up with girls before, right? Like– you’re, like, bi?”

Her eyebrows lifted.

Garrett immediately winced. “Jesus. Not like that. I mean– fuck. Sorry. That came out–”

“Why’re you being weird?”

“I’m not being weird.”

“You just asked me if I’ve hooked up with girls like you were– like, a dad in a nineties sitcom who found a rainbow sticker on his daughter’s laptop.”

He pointed at her with the pen, relief breaking through his embarrassment for one tiny second. “Okay, first of all, oddly specific.”

“And accurate.”

“And second of all, I’m trying to be respectful.”

“You’re doing it with the energy of someone defusing a bomb.”

“Because you’re terrifying.”

She snorted, leaning back against his pillows. “You’re six-two and built like a refrigerator.”

“Six-three on skates.”

“Just proved my point.”

“I’m just saying.” He shifted again, then groaned under his breath, dragging both hands through his hair until it stuck up worse. “Okay. I’m not asking because– I mean, it’s not a weird fetish thing, alright? I just… I have something.”

“A rash?”

He gave her a flat look. “Do not make me regret this.”

“Too late. You’re already sweating.”

His mouth opened, then closed, and despite herself she softened. Because Garrett could be a lot of things – cocky, loud, insufferably pleased with himself when he got under her skin – but this wasn’t him trying to be cute. This was him genuinely stumbling over himself, which happened so rarely that it made something in her chest sit up and pay attention.

She set the highlighter down on her notebook. “Okay. Serious face. What’s going on?”

Garrett stared at her for a beat, like he was checking if she meant it, and then his shoulders dropped just a little. “Someone asked me to do something.”

“Someone?”

“Yeah.”

His room hummed around them in the way his room always did when the house was actually quiet for once – the heater ticking somewhere near the floor, the muffled thump of music from downstairs, the occasional burst of laughter through the walls. His desk lamp threw a warm stripe across one side of his face, catching on the curve of his cheekbone and the edge of his mouth. 

Her stomach dipped before she knew why. “Hannah?” she asked.

He looked at her fast. Too fast. Then nodded, then immediately shook his head, which was so deeply unhelpful that she blinked at him.

“Garrett.”

“It’s not–” He swallowed, thumb rubbing at the side of his pen. “It’s not Hannah. It’s someone important to me. To… to Hannah. Sort of. Not Hannah.”

She stared at him. “That answered exactly zero questions.”

“I know.”

“Are you in trouble?”

“No.”

“Is someone else in trouble?”

“No.”

“Is this a hockey thing?”

“What? No.”

“Is it illegal?”

“No.”

“Is it stupid?”

He paused.

She pointed at him. “There it is.”

“It’s not stupid.”

“Garrett.”

He dropped his head for a second, huffing a laugh into his hands, and when he looked back up his ears were a little pink. “She asked me to… help her with something. Tonight. And I said yes, because I wanted to, and because she trusts me, and because I–” His jaw tightened, like the words had gotten too close to something he didn’t want to put on the desk between them. “I don’t know if I’m the right person for it.”

She stared at him for another second, then sat up straighter on the bed. “Is Hannah a virgin? Is that what this is?”

“Not– No, don’t say it like that.”

“You’re the one having a crisis in front of me!”

“I am not having a crisis.”

“You asked me if I’ve hooked up with girls and then started talking in riddles about doing a thing tonight. You’re absolutely having a crisis.”

His mouth twitched again, but it didn’t last. “I don’t want to fuck it up.”

The joke sitting ready on her tongue went quiet. She looked at him then, really looked, at the way his knee had gone still but his fingers hadn’t, turning the pen over and over until the plastic clicked softly against his knuckle. 

Garrett Graham, captain of the Briar men’s hockey team, professional-level flirt, human ego with good hair, sitting in his bedroom like he’d been handed something breakable and was terrified of dropping it.

Her voice came out gentler. “Garrett.” He glanced up. “If she asked you, she wants it to be you.”

“I know.”

“And if she wants it to be you, then that matters more than you having a perfect script.”

“I know that too.” His eyes dropped again. “But… I need to make sure she comes.”

A laugh burst out of her before she could stop it.

Garrett’s head snapped up. “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not laughing at you.”

“You’re absolutely laughing at me! She wants… like, there’s… things.”

“Babe. Do all the things. Everything. Do them all.”

His gaze sharpened at the word babe in a way it really had no business doing, but then he was nodding, focused. “I know. I know that. I just–”

“You’ve made girls come before, right?” she interrupted, narrowing her eyes. “Please say yes.”

Garrett scoffed so quickly it almost sounded offended. “Obviously yes.”

“Okay.”

“Yes, of course I have.”

“Great.”

“I’m good at sex. Great, actually. Really great.”

“I didn’t ask for your fucking résumé.”

“I’m just clarifying.”

“Consider it clarified.”

He leaned back in the chair, but the tension didn’t leave him. If anything, it settled lower, somewhere under his ribs. “This is different.”

It wasn’t like she had feelings for Garrett. That would be stupid. Impractical. A terrible use of her time. Garrett was her friend, and he was gorgeous in the kind of way people wrote angry diary entries about.

She could sit on his bed in his hoodie-scented room and listen to him talk about making another girl come without doing anything insane like feeling it under her sternum.

Except then he looked at her like that. Open and anxious and stupidly sincere, his usual smirk nowhere in sight, and something inside her gave a tiny, treacherous twist.

“Okay,” she said, because her voice needed to be normal. “Well. First thing: if it’s her first time, she might not come.”

Garrett shook his head immediately. “Not an option.”

She blinked.

Garrett’s brows pulled together a fraction. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

She looked down at the notes in her lap, at the little neon smear where her highlighter had bled too hard into the paper. “No, it’s just. Respect.”

His face softened, but he didn’t push. That was another thing people missed about Garrett because he was so loud in every obvious way. He knew when not to shove his way into a sore spot. He’d hover near it, sure, maybe make some dumb joke to give you an exit, but he didn’t go digging unless you handed him the shovel.

“She trusts you,” she said eventually. “That’s the part you don’t want to mess up.”

“Yeah,” he said, quiet.

“And you’re nervous because you care.”

“Gross.”

“Deeply embarrassing for you.”

“I know. Don’t tell anyone.”

“Oh, I’m telling everyone.”

He pointed the pen at her again, but his mouth was softer now. “I’ll deny it.”

“They’ll believe me.”

“Yeah, probably.”

She breathed out a laugh and dragged one knee up, resting her chin on it for a second. “Okay. So what do you actually need from me? Like, a pep talk? Anatomy review? Diagrams? Because I’m very good with diagrams.”

His eyes flicked over her face, searching. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Well, I know the basics.”

“Comforting.”

“I know more than the basics,” he corrected, offended again. “I just don’t know if I know enough.”

“Enough for what?”

“To do it right.”

She let the words hang there. He looked so genuinely stressed that her mouth opened before her common sense could tackle it to the ground. “I can teach you.”

Garrett froze, like, actually froze. His whole body went still except for one blink.

She heard herself say it, and then immediately felt heat crawl up the back of her neck. She shifted against the pillows, trying for casual and landing somewhere closer to reckless.

“I mean,” she added, because silence had started gathering in the corners, “if you’re that nervous.”

His voice came out careful. “Teach me.”

She gave him a look, even though her pulse had started doing something humiliating in her throat. “Garrett.”

His eyes dropped for a second, just to her mouth, maybe her shoulder, the bare skin of her thigh where her shorts had ridden up beneath the hem of her oversized sweatshirt. Then back to her eyes, fast enough that if she didn’t know him as well as she did, she might’ve missed it.

But she did know him. Which was the problem.

“You mean,” he said slowly, “like…”

“Go down on me. Finger me. Whatever.” She shrugged, too loose, too casual, like she couldn’t feel every inch of her body suddenly becoming extremely aware of the bed under her, the air on her legs, Garrett sitting three feet away and looking at her like she’d just handed him a loaded gun. “I’ll give you pointers. Tell you what’s good and what’s not. I’ll be honest. You know I will.”

Garrett stared.

She lifted both brows. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not a nothing face.”

“I’m just trying to figure out if you’re serious.”

“I am.”

His gaze moved over her again, more restrained this time, like he was trying very hard not to make it gross. That somehow made it worse. Hotter. The fact that he wasn’t leering, wasn’t immediately turning it into a joke, wasn’t giving her the full Garrett Graham grin and some line about how lucky she was. 

He just looked startled and a little blown open, his fingers gone still around the pen.

“Isn’t that weird?” he asked.

She swallowed. “Only if you make it weird.”

“I don’t want to make it weird.”

“Then don’t.”

“That easy?”

“Probably not,” she admitted.

He let out a quiet laugh, low and disbelieving, his head dipping as he rubbed at the back of his neck. When he looked up again, some of the panic had changed shape. It hadn’t left, but there was something else there now. Something warm and assessing, tucked carefully behind the concern.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said.

“I know.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“No, I mean–” He sat forward again, and this time his voice had that Garrett steadiness to it, the one he used on the ice, with the guys, when he’d decided something mattered. “I don’t want you offering because you feel bad for me or because you think you have to help.”

She huffed. “I don’t do pity orgasms, Graham.”

His mouth curved despite himself. “Good to know.”

“And I definitely don’t do homework I don’t want to do.”

“This is homework now?”

“Fieldwork.”

“Right. Academic.”

“Very.”

He looked at her for a long second, and the room seemed to shrink around the two of them. The textbook on his desk. Her notes sliding half-forgotten toward the rumpled blanket. The faint laundry smell of his sheets, detergent and boy and something clean underneath. 

Garrett’s face was still soft with the leftover nerves from before, but his eyes had changed. Darker, maybe, or just more focused. He wasn’t touching her. He wasn’t even close. But the space between them felt suddenly crowded.

“You’d really help?” he asked, and there was enough sincerity in it that her stomach dipped again.

“Yeah,” she said, shrugging. “Course.”

His shoulders loosened. She saw the relief move through him. Saw the way his grip eased around the pen. Saw the way his mouth parted slightly before he caught himself and nodded once.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” He set the pen down on the desk with an unnecessary amount of care, like if he moved too fast the whole thing might crack. “But we’re setting rules.”

She blinked, then laughed. “You’re setting rules?”

“Damn right I am.”

“Captain Graham has entered the chat.”

“Laugh all you want.” He stood, and that was unfair too, the shift from anxious Garrett in a desk chair to Garrett unfolding to his full height, hoodie pulling across his shoulders, sweats hanging low on his hips. “But if we’re doing this, we’re not doing some awkward, half-assed, ‘haha this is fine’ thing where neither of us says what we mean and then we pretend nothing happened.”

Her throat went a little dry. He noticed that too, the bastard.

“Rules,” she said, because it was the only word she trusted.

“One,” he said, holding up a finger, “you can stop it at any point. For any reason. You don’t have to make it cute or explain it.”

She nodded, all the teasing slipping just slightly. “Same for you.”

“Two,” he continued, “you actually tell me if something’s good or bad. No lying to protect my ego.”

“That’ll be devastating for you.”

“My ego is very strong.”

“It’s clinically concerning.”

“Three.” His voice dipped a little. “If it gets weird, we stop.”

She looked up at him from the bed. “And if it doesn’t?”

Garrett’s eyes held hers. The silence stretched so thin she could feel it against her skin.

“Well,” he said, quieter, “you teach me.”

For one second, neither of them moved.

Then Garrett crossed the room. He moved carefully, in that quiet, deliberate way he got sometimes when the noise dropped out of him and all that golden-boy bravado narrowed into focus.

The desk chair rolled back a little behind him, one wheel catching on the edge of the rug, and she watched him come toward the bed with her pulse already starting to act like an idiot in her throat.

He stopped in front of her, close enough that his knees brushed the side of the mattress, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to keep looking at him.

For a second, he just stood there, eyes moving over her face like he was checking for something. A flinch. A joke she was swallowing. Some little sign that she’d changed her mind and was too stubborn to say it.

She hated, a little bit, how much she liked that he looked.

Garrett bent down, one hand bracing beside her hip on the bed, the mattress dipping under his palm. His other hand lifted slowly, and his knuckles skimmed the side of her jaw before he tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear.

It was such a small touch. Ridiculously small, actually, considering the conversation they’d just had. But it went through her in a clean, warm line anyway, settling somewhere low in her stomach before she could pretend it hadn’t.

“This okay?” he asked. His voice was quiet. Rougher than it had been before.

She smiled, because if she didn’t smile, she might do something really embarrassing, like stare at his mouth and forget how to breathe. “Mhm.”

Garrett nodded once, like he was filing that away. “Good.”

Then he leaned in and pressed his mouth to her shoulder, over the soft worn fabric of her shirt, his lips warm and careful through it. He paused, his breath barely moving, and she felt her fingers curl into the blanket underneath her.

“Like this?” he asked, mouth still close enough that the words brushed her skin.

She nodded, a little too quickly. “Yeah.”

His smile touched her shoulder more than it reached his face. “Okay.”

The next kiss landed higher, at the curve where her shoulder became her neck, and she felt that one in her knees even though she was sitting down.

Garrett’s hand came to her waist, warm through her shirt, steady enough that it made her feel weirdly taken care of in a situation that should’ve felt like a terrible idea.

He kissed again, just under her ear, slower this time, and her breath caught before she could make it sound casual.

“This?” he murmured.

She swallowed. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Garrett.”

“What?” he asked, and the bastard had the audacity to sound amused now, like he could feel her starting to unravel by millimetres and was getting just enough confidence from it to become himself again.

She turned her head, trying to glare, but his mouth was right there. Too close. His eyes dropped to hers, and the air between them shifted so quickly it was almost embarrassing.

One second he was kissing up her neck like a careful student. The next, she was looking at his mouth and realising there was no way she was going to survive this if he kept asking permission in that voice.

“You’re supposed to be learning,” she said, though it came out softer than she meant.

“I am learning.”

“You’re smirking.”

“I’m absorbing information.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Probably,” he said, and then his mouth brushed the corner of hers. Barely there. More a question than a kiss. “This?”

She answered by kissing him properly. And the stupid thing was, it wasn’t as weird as it should’ve been.

She’d expected weird. She’d braced for it, actually. Some awkward, clumsy second where her brain would catch up to the fact that this was Garrett, Garrett from her classes and the dining hall and late-night study sessions and terrible jokes and arguments over stolen fries, Garrett who called her out when she was lying and remembered exactly how she took her coffee and had never once looked at her like a practice run until now.

She’d expected the friendship to press against the kiss like a bruise. But it didn’t, it just felt really fucking good.

His mouth was soft. Softer than seemed fair, considering how much of him was not soft at all. He kissed with this controlled kind of heat, careful for all of two seconds before she made a small sound against him and his hand tightened at her waist. Then the carefulness shifted.

She shifted up onto her knees before she thought too hard about it, arms sliding around his neck, and Garrett made a quiet sound like the movement had hit him somewhere low.

He caught her by the hips and pulled her closer, easy, like she weighed nothing, his mouth staying on hers while his hand spread across her lower back.

The front of his hoodie brushed against her chest, warm and soft, and she kissed him harder because that was who she was now, a person who kissed Garrett Graham on his bed and thought, distantly, oh no.

He lifted her slightly, just enough to move her higher on the mattress, and she grinned into his mouth because it was so Garrett. Casual strength. No announcement. No big dramatic move. Only his hands on her like he knew exactly where to put them, like he’d done this a hundred times and still somehow looked pleased when she laughed against his lips.

He pulled back a fraction, smile catching at his mouth. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a very suspicious nothing.”

“You just–” She shook her head, still smiling, breath already thinner than she wanted it to be. “You’re very jock-coded.”

Garrett blinked. Then laughed, low and warm, and used the hand on her back to ease her down onto the bed. “Jock-coded?”

“Shut up.”

“No, no, I wanna hear more.”

“I said shut up.”

“Mean,” he murmured, and kissed her again as he lowered her onto her back.

The mattress gave beneath her. Garrett settled between her legs with a careful kind of weight, one forearm planted beside her head, the other hand still at her waist like he wasn’t entirely ready to stop holding her there.

It should’ve been too much. The closeness. The heat of him. The stupid, intimate reality of Garrett’s body fitted against hers, his thigh nudging between hers, his mouth moving over her mouth like he had nowhere else to be.

Instead, she arched up before she could stop herself, and Garrett’s hips shifted down against hers. The sound she made was small and immediate.

Garrett froze for half a second, pulling back just enough to see her face. “This good?”

His voice had gone rough again. His eyes were darker, hair falling messily over his forehead, mouth a little swollen from kissing her. He looked like trouble. Worse, he looked like he was trying very hard not to be trouble unless she asked him to.

She nodded, breathless enough that it made her want to laugh at herself. “Yeah. Really good. Just…” She swallowed, then tipped her head back a little, exposing her neck because subtlety had left the building. “Kiss my neck more?”

Garrett nodded immediately, serious as anything. “Neck. Yep.”

It made her laugh, just a little, because he sounded like he’d been given a note in practice and was determined to execute it perfectly. Then his mouth found the underside of her jaw and the laugh thinned into a sigh.

He kissed down slowly, following the line from her jaw to the side of her throat, testing a spot beneath her ear before moving lower. She felt the brush of his stubble, the warmth of his breath, the soft pressure of his mouth turning less polite when she tilted into it.

Her hands slid into his hair without permission from her brain, fingers curling into the dark messy strands, and Garrett hummed softly against her skin like the touch had done something to him.

“Yeah,” she whispered, eyes fluttering shut. “There.”

He nodded against her neck, and she felt that too, the tiny movement of acknowledgement, his mouth staying exactly where she’d told him to stay.

It was unfair, the listening. The way he didn’t make her repeat herself. The way he didn’t get impatient or try to leap ahead because he’d decided he knew better. He just learned her.

Her fingers found the hem of his t-shirt under the hoodie, tugging, and Garrett pulled back enough to look at her.

“This part of the lesson?” he asked.

“Advanced module.”

“Good. I’m ready.”

She tugged harder at the fabric. “Take it off, Graham.”

His smile flashed, quick and boyish and far too pleased, but he listened. He sat back enough to strip the hoodie and t-shirt off in one movement, fabric dragging up over his shoulders, curls getting even messier when it came free. For a second she forgot to be clever.

Because, honestly. Fuck him.

He was all warm skin and solid muscle and the kind of athlete’s body that made a person feel briefly wronged by genetics. Broad shoulders, strong chest, the faintest flush across his collarbones from all the kissing, and that stupidly satisfied tilt to his mouth when he caught her looking.

“Pointer?” he asked.

She stared at him.

Garrett’s grin got worse. “No notes?”

“Don’t be annoying.”

“That’s not a note. That’s a personality critique.”

She pushed herself up before he could say anything else, knees bracketing his thigh, and kissed the centre of his chest just because she wanted to wipe the smugness off his face.

It worked. Sort of. His breath caught, and she felt the shift in him, the little tightening under her mouth when she kissed higher, over the warm plane of his chest, up to his collarbone, then finally back to his mouth.

He caught her jaw gently as he kissed her, thumb brushing the corner of her lips. When he pulled back, he didn’t go far.

“This not weird?” he asked.

There was enough vulnerability tucked under it that her chest squeezed.

She shook her head. “Not for me.”

Garrett looked at her for a beat, then nodded, like that mattered. Like her answer had settled something in him.

“Me neither,” he said.

And maybe that should’ve made things messier. Maybe the admission should’ve landed too heavy between them, should’ve made her sit up and go, okay, actually, let’s unpack that before your mouth is anywhere else.

But Garrett kissed her again before either of them could ruin it by thinking too loudly, and the moment folded back into heat and laughter and the shifting weight of his body over hers.

He started kissing down her neck again, then lower, over her collarbone, his hands working carefully at the hem of her shirt. He paused before lifting it, eyes flicking up.

She nodded. “Yeah.”

He pulled it up slowly, like he was giving her a dozen chances to change her mind, and then his mouth followed the new skin he uncovered. Her chest, her ribs, the soft place beneath her breastbone where her breath kept catching.

He kissed like he had time. Like this was the point, not the part before the point. It made her body go warm and loose underneath him in increments, not a sudden spark so much as a slow, low spreading.

“Spend more time building up to it,” she murmured, trying to keep her voice steady and not entirely succeeding. “Like… don’t rush straight down. Kiss my neck and my boobs and my stomach.”

Garrett lifted his head just enough to look at her, eyes bright with concentration and something hotter underneath. “Okay.”

“And don’t look so proud of yourself when I say something works.”

His mouth twitched. “That one’s gonna be harder.”

“Garrett.”

“Right. Humble. Got it.”

He went back to her neck first, because she’d told him to, and somehow that made the whole thing worse. Better. Worse because he was listening and she liked it too much; better because his mouth found the places she’d already given away and stayed there until her fingers tightened in his hair again.

Then he moved lower, kissing over her chest with a careful, reverent sort of attention that made her stare at the ceiling for a second like it might offer assistance. It did not. It just sat there while Garrett Graham learned her body with his mouth.

By the time he kissed over her stomach, she was breathing harder, one hand still in his hair, the other pressed loosely to the pillow beside her head. Garrett’s hands slid over her sides, thumbs moving in slow arcs against her skin.

He kissed near her hip, then paused, and she could feel the question in the pause before he even looked up.

“And my–” She stopped, then huffed at herself because ridiculous, ridiculous, she had literally offered this, and now she was shy because he was looking at her like that. “My thighs too.”

Garrett’s expression changed. The smallest curve of his mouth, a little heat flickering through the carefulness.

“My thighs too,” he repeated softly.

“Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m just repeating instructions.”

“You’re enjoying the instructions.”

“Yeah,” he said, and the honesty of it made her stomach flip. “I am.”

He kissed the outside of her thigh first, over the edge of her shorts, then lower, then inside, slow enough that she had time to anticipate every next touch and hate him for it.

His mouth was warm against her skin, his hair brushing her leg, and when he used his teeth very lightly, more tease than bite, she made a sound that had his hand tightening around her hip.

He looked up at her from between her thighs, and Jesus Christ, that was not a sustainable image for her long-term friendship with this man.

“Do you like…” He paused, searching for the least embarrassing phrasing and failing adorably. “Talking? Like, me talking?”

The question was so earnest and so Garrett that she giggled, breathy and helpless. “Yeah.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, talking is good.”

He nodded, mouth brushing the inside of her thigh when he spoke. “Little hard to do with my mouth on you, though.”

She laughed again, the nerves shaking loose in her chest. “S’okay. You’ll manage.”

“Great. No pressure.”

“You asked for a lesson.”

“Yeah, and my professor is mean.”

“Your professor is doing you a favour.”

“My professor is very pretty,” he said, almost absently, like the thought had slipped out before he could package it into a joke.

She went still. Garrett paused too, then looked up. For once, he didn’t smirk. Didn’t walk it back. Didn’t make it safer by turning it into something stupid.

Her cheeks warmed. “See? That.”

“That?”

“Compliments. Good. Keep doing that.” She swallowed, then added, because she needed to make it about the lesson before the inside of her chest got too loud, “Make it fun. Like… be cute. Kiss me while you’re taking my clothes off. Compliment me. Don’t make it feel clinical.”

Garrett’s face softened. “Okay.”

“And don’t say my professor is very pretty like you’re trying to kill me.”

His grin came back, slow and devastating. “Noted.”

She covered her face with one hand. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I’m considering it.”

He kissed the inside of her thigh again, then the edge of her shorts, and hooked his fingers into the waistband. He paused there. “You good?”

“Mhm.”

“Enough… like…” He gave her an apologetic look, half amused, half genuinely checking. “Foreplay?”

She laughed into her hand. “God. Never say it like that again.”

“Sorry. I heard it as soon as it left my mouth.”

“You sounded like a health textbook.”

“I panicked.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“Fine?”

She lowered her hand and looked at him. “Really good.”

The pleased little breath he let out should not have been as charming as it was. He leaned up to kiss her again, soft and brief, while his fingers worked her shorts down her hips.

That was good. Annoyingly good. The distraction of his mouth. The way his hand slid under her thigh to lift her slightly, taking care not to tug or make it awkward.

He kissed her once more when the shorts passed her knees, then tossed them somewhere off the side of the bed without looking.

“Cute enough?” he murmured against her mouth.

“Barely.”

“Liar.”

She smiled, and he kissed the smile like he couldn’t help himself.

When he moved lower again, his hand settled at her hip, thumb brushing the thin fabric left there. His expression sobered. The teasing didn’t vanish, but it stepped back, giving room to the thing beneath it.

“You sure?” he asked.

Her breath caught, not because she was unsure, but because he’d asked again. Because he kept asking. Because Garrett Graham, who could’ve made arrogance look like a sport, was kneeling between her legs with messy hair and swollen lips and still waiting for her to say yes.

She nodded. “Don’t leave me hanging now, Graham.”

He huffed a laugh, relief warming his face. “Right.”

He took her panties off slowly, and he kissed her while he did it, one hand sliding up to lace briefly with hers before he moved back down.

It should’ve been ridiculous, probably, how careful he was about it. She was already half-naked on his bed, already flushed and breathing unevenly, and Garrett was still treating the thin scrap of fabric at her hips like it required focus and dignity and a full team meeting.

His mouth followed the path of his hands, a kiss pressed to the inside of her knee, then her thigh, then the place where her hip curved soft under his palm.

He paused there, warm breath spilling across skin that had already gone too sensitive, and she felt her stomach tighten before he’d even done anything worth being smug about.

He kissed her stomach again, because she’d told him to build up to it and he was determined to be an overachiever in every possible context. Then lower. Then lower again, his mouth soft and unhurried, his hand spreading over her thigh to ease it wider, asking with the steady pressure of his fingers until her body answered before her brain could make a whole embarrassing thing about it.

By the time his mouth finally settled between her thighs, her whole body felt like it had been tuned too tight and then touched in exactly the right place.

And damn it, he was actually good.

He was patient. Focused. Careful in a way that didn’t feel timid. His first touch was a slow, hot drag of his tongue that made her inhale so sharply her ribs hurt, and he noticed.

Garrett, who sometimes couldn’t find his own phone while holding it, became some kind of terrifying scholar the second his mouth was between her legs. He did it again, lighter this time, testing the difference, his fingers pressing into the soft flesh of her thigh when her hips twitched up toward him.

She'd been fully prepared to give notes. She’d expected to have to, actually. She’d expected some overconfident athlete nonsense, maybe too much pressure, too much speed, too much of him assuming confidence counted as skill.

Instead, she stared at the ceiling with one hand fisted in the sheets and the other in his hair, trying desperately to remember she was supposed to be useful while Garrett licked into her like he was trying to memorise what made her go quiet and what made her make noise.

His mouth moved with this awful, devastating attention, warm and deliberate, tongue flattening where she needed softness, then narrowing to something more precise when her legs shifted around his shoulders. He made this quiet sound against her, almost pleased, and she hated him a little for how much she felt it.

“No,” she breathed at one point, because he’d gotten a little too eager, a little too much, the pressure tipping from good into sharp enough that her thighs tightened around his head. “Gentle. Gentle–”

He eased immediately. An instant shift into softer, slower strokes, his thumb brushing once over her hip like he was saying, heard you, without lifting his mouth.

Her eyes shut before she could stop them. “Actually, that’s good.”

She felt him hum against her, and her thighs tightened before she could stop them.

“Don’t be smug,” she warned, though it came out embarrassingly thin.

Garrett’s fingers pressed lightly into her hip like he was laughing without lifting his mouth.

“Garrett.”

He pulled back just enough for his breath to skim over her, his lips and chin wet, his hair a disaster between her thighs, his expression so careful and so pleased that she wanted to put a pillow over his face. Possibly for murder. Possibly for self-preservation. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I’m always thinking something.”

“Think less.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She laughed, then immediately lost the laugh when he lowered his mouth again. His hand slid from her hip to the inside of her thigh, slow enough that she had time to anticipate it, then his fingers touched her carefully, gathering the slick heat of her before pressing in with one.

Just one, at first. Her breath caught hard, her hand tightening in his hair, and he went still for half a second, eyes flicking up.

“Good?” he murmured, mouth barely leaving her.

She nodded too fast. “Yeah. That’s– yeah.”

His eyes stayed on her for one more beat, checking, and then he curled his finger slightly while his mouth found her again.

“Oh, fuck,” she breathed, so quietly it barely counted as language.

He made another low sound, and the thing about Garrett was that he was impossible to ignore. Even like this. Especially like this. His shoulders under her thighs, his hand firm on her hip, his tongue moving over her in slow, wet strokes while his finger worked inside her with the same annoying, attentive rhythm.

He wasn’t guessing wildly. He was watching everything. The way her stomach pulled tight when he crooked his finger just so. The way her knees tried to close when his mouth got firmer. The way her fingers tugged at his hair when she wanted more but was too busy trying not to dissolve into his sheets to say it out loud.

“You can add another,” she managed, then immediately wanted to die because his eyes lifted again, dark and amused and focused in a way that felt unfairly intimate.

“Yeah?” he asked, and his voice had gone rough enough to scrape over her skin.

She swallowed. “Don’t make me repeat it.”

That got the smallest grin out of him, quick and devastating, before he kissed her thigh like a complete asshole. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Liar.”

“Probably,” he murmured, and then he gave her the second finger.

Her head tipped back into the pillow, a sound slipping out of her before she could make it prettier. Garrett’s mouth came back to her at the same time, and for a second she lost the thread of everything but that – the stretch of his fingers, the heat of his tongue, the obscene little rhythm he found like he’d been handed instructions directly from her nervous system.

Her hips moved before she could stop them, a small helpless roll up into his mouth, and Garrett held her there with his free hand spread over her lower stomach, grounding her while he worked her open with a patience that made her feel insane.

“Garrett,” she breathed, warning and plea and accusation all tangled together.

He pulled back barely enough to speak, fingers still moving. “What?”

“You’re–” She broke off when his thumb shifted, brushing over her in a way that made her whole body jolt. Her hand flew out, catching the sheet, then his shoulder, then back into his hair because she had no plan and no dignity. “Jesus Christ.”

“That a note?”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

She wanted to argue, but then he lowered his mouth again and did something with his tongue that made the entire thought evaporate. There was no possible comeback. There was barely oxygen.

He sucked softly, enough to make heat snap bright through her stomach, and then softened it with his tongue like he was apologising and absolutely was not sorry.

His fingers kept moving, steady and slick, curling into that spot that made her toes flex against the sheets and her mouth fall open around nothing useful.

At some point, his other hand slid up her body and found hers where it was twisted in the sheets. He didn’t make a big thing of it, just nudged his fingers against her palm until she opened for him, and then he intertwined their fingers, pressing her hand into the mattress beside her hip.

The intimacy of it hit her so hard she made a small, wrecked sound she couldn’t blame on anything else.

Jesus. Christ.

His hand was warm. Solid. Holding hers while his mouth worked between her thighs like he had no interest in being anywhere else, his fingers moving inside her with a slow, confident drag that had stopped feeling like a lesson and started feeling like something much worse. Something that had teeth. Something that sat low under her ribs and made every breath come out thinner than the last.

The whole thing had tipped from funny and hot and vaguely educational into something that made her chest feel too small for what was happening inside it.

She could feel it building. Slow at first, then faster, gathering low and deep until her body started moving without permission, her hips chasing his mouth in little helpless shifts.

Garrett stayed with her, didn’t get sloppy, didn’t change things just because she was close. Fuck, maybe he had listened. Maybe he was better than most people by accident and then better again because he cared enough to pay attention.

His mouth stayed exactly where she needed it, his tongue steady, his fingers curling at the same pace, over and over, until the pleasure stopped coming in sparks and started rolling through her in a hot, heavy wave.

She squeezed his hand hard. “Garrett,” she breathed, and his name came out wrong. Too soft. Too much.

He looked up without stopping, eyes lifting to her face. That nearly finished her by itself.

His hair was a wreck from her fingers, curls falling over his forehead, cheeks flushed, mouth slick and warm against her, and he looked at her like he wanted to see it happen, like he was right there with her. Like the sound of her losing control mattered to him. Like he was going to take her apart as gently as she needed and then remember every second of it.

“Right– Garrett, there. Yes. Oh my god–” Her free hand flew to his hair, fingers tightening, and he groaned against her like the sound of her losing it had gone through him too. “Oh fuck.”

He kept going, steady and warm and maddeningly good, his fingers locked with hers. His mouth got softer when her legs began to shake, fingers still working inside her but slower now, careful not to push her past where she wanted to go. Which was somehow worse. Better. Devastating.

She nodded, barely aware she was doing it, breath breaking into little half-formed sounds, and then it hit. Hard enough that her back arched off the mattress and her eyes squeezed shut, heat snapping through her in waves while Garrett stayed right where she needed him, gentle when she needed gentle, firm when she pulled him closer, letting her ride it out without making it about him for even a second.

His hand tightened around hers through it, anchoring her while everything else went bright and loose and shaking, while her thighs pressed around his shoulders and her mouth fell open on his name again, softer this time, almost ruined.

When she finally went soft against the bed, her hand slipped out of his hair and landed somewhere beside her head like it no longer belonged to her.

Garrett eased his fingers out slowly, careful even then, pressing one last kiss to the inside of her thigh like he was trying to be sweet and was instead making her want to throw herself out a window.

For a second, there was only the sound of her breathing.

Then he crawled up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked at her with the stupidest, most careful, most pleased expression she’d ever seen on his face. “Good?”

She laughed because there was absolutely no other option. It came out ruined and breathless, her head tipping back into the pillow. “Uh huh.”

“No, serious.” He flopped down beside her on his back, one arm thrown over his forehead, chest rising and falling like he’d been the one worked over. “Pointers?”

She turned her head toward him. Garrett turned his too, eyes bright, mouth twitching.

She shook her head. “You– no.”

“No?” he asked, grin spreading.

She covered her face with both hands and laughed harder. “I hate this.”

“No, come on. I need constructive criticism.”

“You don’t.”

“I do. I’m a dedicated student.”

She dropped her hands, still catching her breath, and looked at him lying there beside her, shirtless and smug and soft around the eyes in a way that made her stomach do something dangerous all over again.

“Tens across the board,” she said finally.

Garrett’s grin went enormous. “Yeah?”

“Don’t make me say it again.”

“No, no, I heard you.” He lifted a fist between them, delighted and boyish and so aggressively Garrett that she couldn’t help it. “Tens across the board.”

She stared at his fist, then at him. “Are you seriously asking me to fist-bump you after giving me head?”

“Yes.”

“You’re such a loser.” She laughed, helpless, and bumped her fist against his.

Garrett made a quiet, victorious little sound, and that was what fully broke them. They dissolved into laughter, both of them lying there on his bed in the messy aftermath of what was supposed to be a practical favour, her shorts somewhere on the floor, his shirt gone, his hair wrecked from her hands.

It should’ve been awkward. It should’ve been impossible to come back from. It should’ve cracked the air open and left them staring at each other with panic creeping in around the edges.

Instead, she found herself rolling onto her side and resting her head on his shoulder like it was normal. Garrett didn’t freeze. He just shifted enough to make room for her, his arm coming loosely around her back, fingers settling at her side.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, still smiling, eyes half-closed.

His chest moved under her cheek with a quiet laugh. “That a good oh my god or a traumatic oh my god?”

“Shut up.”

“Good enough for me.”

She smiled against his shoulder, but inside, beneath the warmth and the laughter and the pleasant, boneless hum still moving through her body, something had gone very still.

Because this was the problem. His arm around her. His thumb moving once, absent and gentle, against her ribs. The soft sound of his breathing evening out beside hers.

The way it didn’t feel weird. The way it felt like she’d set something down she hadn’t realised she’d been carrying. She stared at the far wall of his bedroom, cheek warm against his shoulder, heart slowly sinking into the mattress.

Oh fuck.

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The first thing you realized was that Dean Di Laurentis wasn’t good at begging without making it dramatic.

The second thing you learned was that Dean absolutely hated being bad at anything.

“No,” you answered.

Dean blinked at you from across the kitchen table as your answer had personally offended him. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“You said, ‘I need a huge favor,’ and then looked at me like you were about to ruin my entire week,” you told him, taking a sip of your coffee. “That was enough.”

Hannah pressed her lips together beside you like she was trying very hard not to laugh.

Allie didn’t bother trying.

She leaned back in her chair, already grinning into her mug. “This is my favorite conversation.”

Dean gave her a look. “No one asked you.”

“You showed up in our dorm at nine in the morning.”

“It’s almost ten.”

“On a Saturday,” Allie added. “That’s basically dawn.”

Dean ignored her and turned back to you, his hands braced on the table. His hair was messy, his hoodie was wrinkled, and he had the faintly panicked look of someone who’d made several bad decisions and was only now realizing consequences existed.

It wasn’t an unfamiliar expression on him.

“Just hear me out,” he tried.

“Absolutely not.”

“[Y/N], come on.”

“Dean, no.”

“I’m serious this time.”

“That’s when you’re usually most dangerous.”

Hannah finally gave up, laughing softly into her hand.

Dean pointed at her. “Don’t encourage this.”

“She doesn’t need encouragement,” Hannah said. “She’s doing great on her own.”

You gave him a sweet smile.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Deeply.”

“You don’t even know what I’m about to ask.”

“I know it involves you, your family, and the phrase ‘huge favor,’ so that tells me everything I need to know.”

Dean exhaled and dragged a hand through his hair. “Okay, fine. I may have accidentally told my parents I’m seeing someone.”

Allie went quiet, Hannah looked up, and you lowered your coffee like the conversation had suddenly earned your full attention.

Dean looked between the three of you, suddenly defensive. “It made sense at the time.”

You stared at him. “No, it didn’t.”

“You don’t have the context.”

“Was the context that you lied?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

Allie leaned forward like she’d been waiting for this. “Oh, this is good.”

Dean let out a groan. “It’s not good.”

“It’s incredible,” she corrected. “Keep going.”

Dean shot her a glare before turning back to you. “They’ve been on my ass lately about taking things seriously.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Wonder why.”

His gaze cut to yours. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m still listening.”

“You’re judging me with your whole face.”

“I’m capable of both.”

Hannah touched your arm like she was asking you, very nicely, to let him finish.

You leaned back with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Go on.”

Dean looked like he was starting to regret coming here, which was satisfying.

“My family’s hosting this charity weekend,” he started. “Country club, hotel, dinner, auction, donor thing, the whole nightmare.”

“That sounds expensive and exhausting,” Allie said.

“It is.” Dean pointed at her as Allie had just proven his point. “Exactly.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m still waiting for the part where this becomes my problem.”

“I’m getting there, okay?”

“I’m getting older,” you added, watching Dean clench his jaw.

Hannah tried to hide another smile.

“My mom asked if I was bringing anyone,” Dean admitted. “And I said yes.”

You waited for him to keep going, and when Dean didn’t, you narrowed your eyes.

“Dean,” you warned, watching him look away. “Dean.”

“I panicked,” he admitted.

“You panicked,” you repeated, because somehow that explained nothing.

“She got weirdly intense.”

“She asked whether you had a date.”

“She asked it like it meant something.”

“Oh my god, Dean.”

“And then my dad made this comment about wanting to meet whoever finally got me to settle down, and I didn’t correct him fast enough, so now my parents think I have a serious girlfriend.”

The room went quiet for about two seconds before Allie burst out laughing.

Dean pointed at her again, which only made her laugh harder. “This isn’t funny.”

“It’s kind of funny,” Hannah admitted.

“It’s actually very funny,” you told him.

Dean looked at you like you’d personally wounded him. “I’m in crisis.”

“You’re dealing with consequences.”

“I need your help.”

“You need a reality check.”

“I need a girlfriend.”

“I need a girlfriend,” Dean blurted, and you nearly choked on your coffee.

Allie made a delighted little sound, and Hannah looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

Dean held up both hands before you could react. “Fake girlfriend.”

“No,” you told him, setting your mug down hard.

“You haven’t even heard the full plan yet.”

“There’s no plan in the world that ends with me pretending to date you.”

“That’s actually hurtful.”

“That feels fair.”

Dean leaned across the table and lowered his voice, as if that would make him more convincing. “It’s one weekend.”

“No.”

“It’s three days.”

“Still no.”

“Two nights, technically.”

“Not a chance.”

“I’ll owe you big.”

“You already owe me after you told Logan I liked his haircut and he thanked me for twenty minutes.”

Dean winced at that. “That was an accident.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘[Y/N] thinks you look hot.’”

“I was just trying to distract him.”

“Distract him from what, exactly?”

Dean paused before admitting, “I don’t remember.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He sighed your name, long and pleading.

You hated that your name always sounded softer when he said it like that, and you hated it even more because part of you noticed anyway. After all, that was the thing, you didn’t hate Dean the way you pretended to.

Hating Dean Di Laurentis would’ve been a lot easier if he weren’t so hard to like.

He was arrogant, irritating, shamelessly dramatic, and way too pleased with himself, the kind of guy who flirted like it was a reflex and teased you because he knew exactly how to get under your skin. He stole fries from your plate whenever you sat with Hannah and Allie at Malone’s, called you “sunshine” when you glared at him, and “sweetheart” when he was clearly trying to get something thrown at his head.

But he was also usually the first one to notice when Hannah got overwhelmed in crowded rooms, to cover Allie’s drink when someone brushed too close to it, and to walk you home when it got late, like it wasn’t a big deal.

Dean was irritating and had always been in trouble, but he also had a way of looking at people that made him notice more than he should.

You found that deeply inconvenient.

“No,” you repeated, because apparently he needed to hear it twice.

Dean’s shoulders slumped. “You don’t even want to know what’s in it for you?”

“No.”

“I’ll get you tickets to the next game.”

“I already know too many hockey players.”

“I’ll make Garrett stop calling you scary.”

“I actually like it when Garrett calls me scary.”

“I’ll get Logan to stop flirting with your friend.”

“You absolutely can’t.”

Dean considered that for a second, then nodded. “Fair.”

Allie leaned closer to you. “You should ask for money.”

Dean looked genuinely offended. “I’m not paying someone to date me.”

“You’re not,” you told him, “because I’m not dating you.”

“Fake dating,” Dean corrected.

“Somehow, still no.”

He looked at Hannah as if he were getting desperate. “Help me.”

Hannah lifted both hands. “I’m not getting involved.”

“You’re already involved,” Dean told her. “This is your apartment.”

“That’s not how involvement works.”

Dean looked back at you, and for the first time since he’d shown up, the panic slipped into something quieter.

“Please,” he murmured.

The word landed differently this time.

It wasn’t dramatic this time. It wasn’t teasing. It was just Dean, looking at you like he really needed you to say yes.

Your chest tightened before you could stop it.

Damn him for making it harder to say no.

You hated that seeing him genuinely stressed made it harder to stay annoyed. It was much easier to say no when Dean was being insufferable, not when he looked like he actually needed you.

“Why me?” You looked at him, trying not to sound like you were already considering it.

Dean blinked, thrown for half a second, like he hadn’t expected you to ask.

Then he straightened slightly, like the answer was obvious once he said it. “Because they’ll believe you.”

You frowned at him. “Why?”

“Because you don’t act like someone who would put up with me unless you wanted to.”

Allie snorted into her mug, and you shot her a look.

She held up both hands, still grinning. “Sorry. That was good.”

You looked back at Dean, trying not to think too hard about what he’d just said, but he was watching you carefully now, without the smirk or the teasing, and that made it harder not to.

“Also,” he added, a little quieter, “you’re good with people. My mom will like you, my dad will think you’re smart, and you won’t get intimidated by my family or let me say something stupid without kicking me under the table.”

“You say stupid things all the time.”

“Exactly. I need supervision.”

You looked away first, which felt annoyingly close to a loss. That was a mistake, because Allie immediately let out a soft little gasp as she’d just witnessed something historic.

“Oh my god,” Allie gasped. “You’re considering it.”

“I’m not.”

Hannah tilted her head like she was trying to be gentle about it. “You kind of are.”

“I’m not,” you insisted, which didn’t help your case. Dean’s eyes lit up with dangerous hope, and you pointed at him before he could say anything. “Don’t look excited.”

“I’m not,” Dean said, looking extremely excited.

“You are,” you told him.

“I’m cautiously optimistic.”

“You should be afraid.”

“I can multitask,” he said, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You dragged both hands over your face.

This was ridiculous. It was ridiculous. It was exactly the sort of thing you shouldn’t agree to under any circumstances.

Dean Di Laurentis was a lot of things, but boyfriend material wasn’t one of them.

He was flirt-at-a-party material, bad-decision-after-midnight material, the kind of guy who looked good leaning against counters and bad for your common sense. Charming when he wanted something, dangerous when he smiled, and completely unqualified to be anyone’s serious boyfriend, especially yours. Fake or not.

“No kissing,” you told him, and Dean went still.

Dean’s smile spread slowly. “So you’re considering it.”

“I’m setting a condition.”

“That sounds a lot like considering.”

“I can still say no, Dean.”

“You won’t.”

“I absolutely can, actually.”

“But you won’t.”

You leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Do you want my help, or do you want to die?”

Dean, for once, made the smart choice and closed his mouth.

You pointed at him. “No kissing unless necessary.”

“Define necessary.”

“You know exactly what necessary means.”

“I do, but I’m getting the feeling your definition is stricter than mine.”

“My definition includes your mouth staying away from mine most of the weekend.”

Dean’s eyes flicked briefly to your mouth, so briefly that you almost convinced yourself you’d imagined it.

Almost.

Then he looked back up at you, expression so maddeningly innocent it had to be fake. “The majority?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, which only made him smile.

You hated him.

You hated him.

You were starting to think that might be a problem.

“No sex,” you added, sharper this time.

Allie choked on a laugh.

Hannah breathed, “Oh my god.”

Dean blinked once, then twice, before his mouth curved. “Sweetheart,” he murmured slowly, “I hadn’t even brought that up.”

Heat rushed to your face. “That’s why I’m bringing it up first.”

“Very responsible of you.”

“I’ll stab you with this spoon.”

Dean’s grin widened. “Fake relationship rule number two. No sex.”

“Rule number one,” you corrected, “is no kissing unless necessary.”

“Right. Very tragic rule.”

“Rule number three,” you went on, ignoring him. “No feelings.”

Dean raised an eyebrow like that was exactly the wrong thing to say. “Were you worried?”

“Yes. For you.”

Dean laughed. “For me?”

“You seem emotionally fragile.”

“I’m already devastated.”

“Rule number four,” you continued. “No calling each other boyfriend or girlfriend when no one is around.”

Dean’s smile shifted slightly, just for a second, before it came back.

“Why not?” Dean wanted to know.

“Because that’s weird.”

“We’re pretending to date for an entire weekend, sharing a hotel room, and lying to my parents, but boyfriend is where you draw the line?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

“It’s not interesting, Dean.”

“It’s kind of interesting.”

“Rule number five,” you went on, louder this time. “When this is over, we go back to normal.”

Dean studied you like he knew there was more beneath the surface. For once, he didn’t immediately make a joke, which somehow made it worse.

The word sat between you in a way you didn’t want to look at too closely, because normal, for you and Dean, had never been simple. It’d always been bickering in kitchens and too-long eye contact, comments that felt like dares, and smiles you pretended not to return. It’d always been his hand hovering near your back in crowded places, never staying long enough for anyone to call it something, but close enough that you noticed every time.

Dean nodded once, like he understood exactly what he was agreeing to. “Deal.”

Your stomach tightened a little. “You’re agreeing too easily.”

“I told you, I’m desperate.”

“That’s very comforting.”

“I mean it,” he promised. “Your rules. I’ll follow them.”

Allie coughed, as if she had thoughts about it.

Dean glanced at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” Allie said, in a way that meant absolutely nothing.

“That sounded like a judgmental cough.”

“I just think ‘your rules, I’ll follow them’ is going to age beautifully.”

You ignored her and held Dean’s gaze like you were trying to figure out whether you believed him.

“You owe me,” you reminded him.

“Anything,” Dean promised.

“You don’t even know what I want yet.”

“Then I’ll find out.”

The words shouldn’t have sounded like that, soft and low and too much like a promise. Your fingers tightened around your mug.

Allie, because she had no mercy, leaned back in her chair. “This weekend is going to be a disaster.”

Dean looked at you, and you looked back at him. For once, neither of you argued.

**

Less than twenty-four hours later, the disaster began.

Dean picked you up at noon, which gave him just enough time to text you seven times beforehand.

dean

wear something my mom will believe i had a shot with

you

so basically nothing?

dean

very hurtful.

you

objectively accurate.

dean

my mom’s going to love you.

you

because i’m obviously charming?

dean

because you’re mean to me. she’ll find it refreshing.

you

your family sounds smarter than you.

dean

everyone says that, actually.

By the time Dean pulled up outside your apartment, you were already on the curb with your overnight bag, pretending your stomach wasn’t twisting.

Dean pulled up to the curb and got out immediately.

You wished he looked worse. It would’ve been helpful if he’d shown up in something ridiculous, like a stained hoodie, bad shoes, or a hat that made him look like an idiot.

Instead, he showed up in dark jeans, a navy sweater pushed up at the sleeves, and sunglasses hooked into the collar like he’d been designed specifically to ruin your life at a family charity weekend.

His eyes moved over you before he seemed to remember he wasn’t supposed to be obvious about it. Too late, though. You noticed.

“You look…” Dean started, then seemed to forget the rest of the sentence.

You raised an eyebrow. “Careful.”

His mouth curved. “Expensive.”

You stared at him because somehow that was worse.

Dean smiled like he couldn’t believe he had to explain it. “That was a compliment.”

“That was a weird compliment.”

“My mother’s going to love it.”

“You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

He took your bag from your hand like it hadn’t occurred to him not to.

“I’m your fake boyfriend,” he reminded you. “That’s my job.”

You froze. Dean froze, too, like he’d realized it at the same time, and then you slowly turned your head toward him.

“What was rule number four again?”

Dean sighed as if this rule were personally inconvenient. “No calling each other boyfriend or girlfriend when no one is around.”

“And are we currently around anyone?”

Dean looked dramatically up and down the empty street before nodding toward a bird. “Does that count?”

“Dean,” you warned.

“Fine.” He put your bag in the trunk. “I’m the man pretending to be emotionally invested in you for social gain. Better?”

“Much better.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You literally begged me.”

“I’m regretting it already.”

“No, you’re not.”

He shut the trunk and smiled at you over the roof of the car like he knew you were right.

“No,” he told you. “I’m not.”

That shouldn’t have warmed something in you. It did anyway.

The drive to the hotel took about 2 hours. Dean spent the first 30 minutes giving you a full family briefing, as if you were about to enter witness protection.

“My mom’s going to ask how we got together.”

“We’re going to need a story.”

“We already have one.”

You looked over at him. “Since when?”

“I flirted with you until you gave up.”

You stared at him until he glanced over. “What?”

“That’s not a story.”

“It’s close enough to the truth.”

“It’s absolutely not.”

Dean grinned as he’d just found a loophole. “So you admit there’s some truth to it?”

“I admit you flirt with anything that has a pulse.”

“Not anything.”

“Sorry,” you corrected. “Anything attractive that breathes.”

Dean tilted his head as he’d just caught you. “So you admit you’re attractive?”

You closed your eyes as that might help. “I hate you.”

“That’s not very fake girlfriend of you.”

“Dean. Rule four.”

“Fake girlfriend,” he insisted.

“That still counts.”

“It doesn’t.”

He smiled at the road like he was enjoying this way too much.

You hated how easy it was to fall into this with him, into the fighting and the rhythm and the way he always seemed ready for whatever you threw at him. It made the fake part feel less fake than it should’ve, and that was dangerous. Very dangerous.

Dean’s phone buzzed where it sat in the cup holder.

He glanced down at it, then passed it to you. “Can you read that for me?”

You picked it up. The text was from his mom, which felt ominous.

Mom

Can’t wait to meet her. Your father says, “Please don’t be late.” I say try not to scare her off before dinner.

You smiled despite yourself as you handed the phone back. “She sounds nice.”

“She’s nice,” Dean admitted. “That’s the problem.”

“Since when is nice a problem?”

“When nice people are disappointed in you, it’s worse.”

Your smile softened. Dean said it casually, but his fingers tightened slightly on the wheel, just enough for you to notice.

That was the problem with fake dating someone you spent so much time pretending not to care about. You knew things, tiny things you weren’t supposed to know, like how Dean joked more when he was nervous, how he tapped his thumb against the wheel when he was thinking too hard, and how his confidence was loudest when he was trying to convince himself of it.

“You’re nervous.”

Dean’s thumb stopped tapping against the wheel.

“I’m not nervous.”

“You are.”

“I’m just focused.”

“On lying to your parents, you mean?”

“On surviving this weekend.”

You studied him for a moment, and when you spoke again, your voice was quieter. “Do they really think you’re that unserious?”

Dean’s mouth twitched, but it didn’t quite turn into a smile. “I mean, I haven’t exactly given them evidence otherwise.”

Something in your chest pulled tight. “Dean.”

He glanced over at you, and for a second, there was no teasing in his expression at all.

“I know what people think of me,” he admitted. “It’s not like they’re wrong.”

You didn’t answer immediately, because you’d thought those things too. Cocky, careless, shameless, charming enough to get away with anything. But then there were the other things, the things Dean pretended didn’t count, like how he’d shown up at Hannah’s after one text when Garrett was spiraling, how he always checked if Allie got home safe even when they were arguing, and how he noticed which teammate needed to be dragged out of a party before anyone else did.

Dean was unserious about a lot of things, but not everything.

“Maybe you’re just bad at letting people see the evidence,” you offered.

Dean looked over at you again, and when the car went too quiet, you looked out the window like that would help.

“Don’t make it weird,” you told him.

His voice was softer than you expected. “You made it weird.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You said something nice to me.”

“That was an accident.”

“Do that again, and I might fall in love.”

Your head snapped toward him, and there it was again, Dean’s grin, annoying and beautiful and infuriating all at once.

“Rule three,” you reminded him.

“No feelings,” he agreed lightly. “Yeah, yeah.”

But his hand stayed tight on the wheel long after that.

**

The hotel was exactly what you expected from a Di Laurentis family charity weekend: expensive, tasteful, and deeply intimidating.

It sat beside a sprawling country club with polished lawns, white columns, and more valet attendants than one entrance could need. People moved through the lobby in tailored clothes and quiet confidence, like they knew which fork went with which course and had opinions about wine regions.

You stepped out of Dean’s car and immediately felt underdressed, which was unfair, considering you’d agonized over your outfit for an hour.

Dean appeared beside you, already grabbing both bags from the trunk. “You okay?”

You blinked at him. “What?”

He looked down at you, brows drawn like he’d noticed before you had. “You got quiet.”

“I’m just observing the rich people’s habitat.”

His mouth twitched. “Careful. They can smell fear.”

“Great. Then I’ll stand behind you.”

“You think I look less scared?”

“You look like you belong here.”

Dean looked toward the hotel, his expression shifting into something you couldn’t quite read.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s the idea.”

Before you could ask what he meant by that, a woman’s voice called his name.

“Dean, sweetheart!”

Dean’s whole posture changed, not dramatically, but enough for you to notice. His shoulders straightened, and his smile shifted into something warmer, brighter, less guarded.

A woman with dark hair and elegant gold earrings crossed the lobby toward you, followed by a man in a blazer who looked like an older, sharper version of Dean.

His parents.

Your stomach flipped when Dean’s hand touched your lower back, light and brief, like a silent check-in. You hated how much it helped.

“Mom,” Dean greeted, leaning down to kiss her cheek when she reached him.

She hugged him tightly, and despite yourself, you smiled. Then her eyes found you, the warmth in them sharpening into curiosity.

“And you must be [Y/N],” she greeted warmly.

You smiled and extended a hand, but she ignored it and pulled you into a hug instead.

“Oh,” you laughed softly, surprised. Beside you, Dean coughed.

His mother pulled back, still smiling. “Sorry, I’m a hugger. Dean should’ve warned you.”

“He left that part out,” you told her.

Dean’s father stepped forward and offered his hand. “It’s nice to meet you finally.”

Finally.

The word made you glance at Dean, but he was looking anywhere except at you.

You shook his father’s hand and smiled. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

His father looked between you and Dean, assessing but not unkind.

“So,” his mother began, slipping her arm through Dean’s like she wasn’t about to interrogate you in the middle of a hotel lobby. “How long has this been going on?”

Dean opened his mouth, but you answered first. “Long enough for him to annoy me into saying yes.”

Dean’s mother laughed instantly. Dean turned to stare at you, and you smiled sweetly up at him.

His father’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “That sounds like Dean.”

“It really does,” you agreed sweetly.

Dean leaned in, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“You literally begged me,” you whispered back.

His eyes flicked down to yours.

For half a second, the lobby disappeared.

His mother looked between you and Dean, smiling. “Well, I already like her.”

Dean’s gaze lingered on yours for a second too long.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That happens.”

Your heart did something deeply inconvenient.

So you looked away first.

Check-in went smoothly, mostly because Dean’s mother handled it while asking you questions with the skill of a woman who had definitely hosted charity events before and knew how to extract personal information without seeming rude.

She wanted to know where you were from, what you were studying, how you knew Hannah and Allie, and, most importantly, how you and Dean had gotten close.

Dean answered the last one before you could. “She hated me at first.”

You blinked at him. “At first?”

His mother’s smile widened. “And now?”

You tilted your head like you were giving it serious thought. “Now I tolerate him.”

Dean pressed a hand to his heart as you’d wounded him. “She’s shy with affection.”

“I’m shy with public displays of murder.”

His father laughed under his breath. Dean’s mother looked delighted, and Dean looked at you like he was trying not to smile.

It was ridiculous how easy it was.

That should’ve been the first warning sign.

The second came when the receptionist handed Dean the room keys and said, “King suite, eighth floor.”

You waited, Dean waited, and his mother smiled pleasantly.

Your stomach dropped.

“King suite?” you echoed.

Dean’s head turned slowly toward his mother like he already knew she was responsible.

She blinked at him with perfect innocence. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Dean said, too quickly.

At the same time, you asked, “One bed?”

Dean’s father raised an eyebrow. Dean’s mother looked between you and Dean, just as his hand came to rest at your waist.

Warm. Steady. Entirely too natural.

“We’re good,” Dean said smoothly. “She likes to pretend she needs her own space.”

You turned your head very slowly toward him.

Dean smiled down at you, the kind of smile that made people believe terrible lies.

“Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

Your nails dug into your palm.

Rule four. No boyfriend or girlfriend in private. Technically, this wasn’t private.

Still.

Dean was enjoying this.

You smiled back, bright and dangerous. “Only because you kick in your sleep, babe.”

Dean’s eyes flashed. His mother made a soft, delighted sound. His father looked like he might be reconsidering everything he knew about his son.

Dean leaned down until his lips were close to your ear.

“Babe?” he murmured, like he was testing the word out.

“You started it,” you whispered back.

“You’re going to regret that,” he murmured, still close to your ear.

“Can’t wait.”

You felt his fingers flex once at your waist, like he’d forgotten himself for half a second.

Then he stepped back, smile still in place.

You were in trouble.

The room was somehow worse.

The suite was beautiful, because apparently Dean’s family didn’t do anything halfway. There was a sitting area, a massive window overlooking the golf course, a marble bathroom, and, right there in the middle of the bedroom section, one enormous king bed.

You stood in the doorway, staring at it. Dean set the bags down behind you.

Neither of you spoke.

Then you said, very clearly, “Absolutely not.”

Dean sighed, already resigned. “Here we go.”

“You knew.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You absolutely knew.”

“I thought there would be a couch.”

You stared at him. “There’s a couch.”

You both turned to look at the small decorative couch near the window.

It looked like it’d been designed exclusively for people without spines.

Dean made a face.

You pointed at the couch. “Enjoy.”

“I’m six foot two.”

“Congratulations.”

“I won’t fit.”

“Fold.”

Dean turned to you like you’d lost your mind. “You want me to sleep on that?”

“You created this problem.”

“I didn’t create the furniture.”

“You created the fake serious girlfriend.”

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Then nodded once, like he hated that you had a point. “Fair.”

You walked farther into the room and crossed your arms. “I’m not sharing a bed with you.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose. “Scared?”

You laughed. “Of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Dean, the only thing scary about you is your ego.”

“My ego and my charm.”

“Your delusion.”

“You like my charm.”

“I tolerate your charm.”

“You said you tolerate me. That’s different.”

“I’m expanding the category.”

He stepped closer, smiling like he knew exactly how annoying he was. “You know, for someone who hates me, you’re very committed to arguing with me.”

“For someone who needs me, you’re very committed to being unbearable.”

“Maybe that’s my love language.”

“Then I pity every woman you’ve dated.”

Dean’s smile faltered, barely enough to notice.

But you noticed.

The joke had landed wrong somehow.

You almost apologized.

Then Dean turned away, walking toward the window like he needed something else to look at. “You can have the bed.”

Your arms loosened before you could stop them. “Dean.”

“It’s fine,” he said, but it didn’t sound like it.

The sudden lack of teasing felt strange. Too strange.

You watched him pull his phone from his pocket, pretending he suddenly had something to check.

Dean was good at pretending, and you were starting to realize that was part of the problem.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

He looked back, grin already in place like nothing had happened. “Relax. I’ve slept in worse places.”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

You didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Dinner was scheduled for seven. Dean had called it “casual,” which apparently meant everyone would be wearing outfits that cost more than your monthly rent.

You managed to unpack in silence for approximately three minutes before Dean ruined it.

“So,” Dean said from the other side of the room, sounding way too casual, “should we practice?”

You looked up from your bag, shoe already in hand. “If the next words out of your mouth are kissing-related, I’m throwing this at you.”

Dean glanced at the heel in your hand and raised both palms like you were the unreasonable one. “Hostile work environment.”

“You created the job.”

“I meant the story.”

“What story?”

“Our story.”

The shoe lowered in your hand. “Right.”

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, which annoyed you because he looked too good there. Relaxed, comfortable, like the room belonged to him, and the weekend wasn’t already beginning to unravel around you.

“How did we get together?” he asked.

“You annoyed me until I had a lapse in judgment.”

“Funny, but my mother is going to want details.”

“Fine. We started hanging out because of Hannah and Allie.”

“True.”

“You flirted.”

“True.”

“I rejected you repeatedly.”

“Debatable.”

“Dean.”

“I’m listening.”

“And then one day, you were slightly less annoying than usual, so I agreed to dinner.”

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I like that.”

“You like being called annoying?”

“I like that your version still has me winning.”

“You didn’t win. I suffered a moment of weakness.”

“I’ll take it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth betrayed you anyway.

Dean saw the almost-smile.

“Careful,” he murmured.

You looked at him, instantly suspicious. “What?”

“You almost looked like you liked me for a second.”

The room shifted. Maybe it was the softness in his voice, or the bed between you, or the fact that in less than an hour, you’d have to walk downstairs and convince his entire family that whatever this was had a name.

You forced a laugh like that would fix whatever had just happened. “Don’t get excited, Di Laurentis.”

“Too late,” he said, smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Your stomach flipped. You turned back to your bag before he could notice.

He probably noticed anyway.

Dinner was both easier and harder than you expected. Dean’s family was warmer than you’d feared, which should’ve helped, except their warmth only made the lie feel worse.

His mother sat beside you at the long table in the hotel restaurant, asking questions with genuine interest. Across from Dean, his father watched him with quiet amusement every time you corrected him or stole the bread basket from his side of the table.

“You two bicker a lot,” his mother said, smiling into her glass.

Dean leaned back, his arm draped over the back of your chair. “It’s part of our charm.”

“Our?” you echoed, eyebrows rising. “Interesting.”

“Fine. Your charm. My patience.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

Dean looked at you, and his smile softened.

His mother noticed.

You could feel it.

“So,” she said, looking entirely too pleased, “Dean tells us you’re the reason he’s been slightly less impossible lately.”

You nearly choked on your water.

Behind you, Dean’s arm stiffened. “I said no such thing.”

His father’s mouth twitched. “You said she keeps you in line.”

“That’s completely different.”

You turned to him before you could stop yourself. “You talk about me?”

Dean’s eyes met yours, and for once, he didn’t look away.

Then he said, “Only to complain.”

“Liar,” you said, but there was no heat in it.

His mouth curved. “Prove it.”

The table faded again.

That kept happening. Little moments where the performance went quiet, and something else slipped in.

You hated it.

You liked it.

You were doomed.

Later, after dessert, after his mother had hugged you again and his father had told Dean not to be late for breakfast, you both made it back to the suite in silence.

The door clicked shut behind you.

The performance dropped, sort of.

Dean let out a breath and leaned back against the door. “You were good.”

You kicked off your shoes. “I know.”

He laughed quietly. “Humble.”

“I was excellent.”

His smile softened. “You were.”

The sincerity made you pause. Dean pushed off the door, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked farther into the room.

“My mom loves you.”

“She has good taste.”

“My dad too.”

“Clearly, good taste runs in the family.”

Dean looked at you then, and something unreadable moved through his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, still looking at you. “They do.”

Your pulse stumbled.

No.

Absolutely not.

You turned toward the bed because that felt like the safer option.

It wasn’t.

The bed was still there, large and waiting and definitely mocking you.

You pointed at the decorative couch. “Your throne.”

Dean followed your gaze and sighed. “You’re really going to make me sleep there?”

“Yes.”

“You’re cold.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I might not.”

“How tragic.”

He walked over to the couch and sat down, only for his knees to immediately look ridiculous.

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh.

Dean stared at you. “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m being respectful.”

“You’re biting your lip.”

“Out of grief.”

He narrowed his eyes, which only made you laugh.

You couldn’t help it.

Dean tried to glare, but his mouth twitched. “You’re enjoying my suffering.”

“Deeply.”

“You know, a loving fake girlfriend would offer to share.”

You froze, and Dean froze too.

For a second, both of you seemed to remember the rule at the same time.

No boyfriend or girlfriend when no one was around.

“Sorry,” he said, quieter this time.

The apology came quickly, too quickly, as he meant it, and that made it worse.

“It’s fine,” you said.

Dean stood, suddenly restless. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You looked at him. Really looked. Noticed how tired he seemed now that his family wasn’t watching, how the weekend had already pulled something tight in him, how he was trying, actually trying, to respect the line you’d drawn.

The bed was huge. Huge enough to avoid touching, probably.

Maybe.

You exhaled. “Dean.”

He looked up, cautious now.

“You can sleep in the bed.”

His eyebrows rose like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

“But,” you said sharply, pointing at him, “there will be rules.”

His mouth curved slowly. “More rules?”

“Yes.”

“I love rules.”

“You break rules.”

“I lovingly challenge them.”

“You stay on your side.”

“Yes.”

“No touching.”

“Yes.”

“No flirting.”

His smile widened. “In my sleep?”

“Especially in your sleep.”

“What if I dream about you?”

“Then wake up ashamed.”

Dean laughed, warm and low, and you hated how much you liked hearing it in the quiet room.

“Deal,” he said, softer than you expected.

You changed in the bathroom, mostly because you didn’t trust Dean and partly because you didn’t trust yourself.

When you came out in sleep shorts and an oversized shirt, Dean was already in bed, shirtless.

You stopped in the doorway, because apparently your body needed a second.

He looked up from his phone. “What?”

“Where’s your shirt?”

Dean looked down at himself like he’d forgotten. “Off.”

“I can see that.”

“I sleep shirtless.”

“Not tonight.”

“You’re policing sleepwear now?”

“Yes.”

Dean’s gaze moved over your face, amused and something else you didn’t want to name.

“You’re flustered.”

“I’m annoyed.”

“You’re standing in the bathroom doorway, glaring at my chest.”

“I’m glaring at all of you.”

“My chest feels singled out.”

You marched to your suitcase, grabbed a pillow, and threw it at him. He caught it easily, laughing.

“Put a shirt on.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because I said so.”

Dean’s smile turned dangerous. “That’s not a reason.”

Your face warmed. His eyes flicked over it, but then he reached down, grabbed a shirt from his bag, and pulled it on.

“There,” he said.

You blinked. “That was… easy.”

“I can be easy.”

“Never say that again.”

His grin returned immediately. “Too tempting?”

You reached for the lamp on your side and turned it off before he could see your expression.

“Go to sleep, Dean.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured.

You climbed into bed carefully, staying as far to the edge as possible. The mattress dipped under Dean’s weight when he shifted. Even with space between you, you could feel him there—his warmth, his breathing, his presence taking up too much of the room.

For several minutes, neither of you spoke.

Then Dean’s voice came quietly from the other side of the bed. “You did save my life today, by the way.”

You stared into the dark. “I know.”

“My mom would’ve killed me if I showed up alone.”

“She still might if she ever realizes this is fake.”

Dean was quiet. Too quiet. You turned your head slightly, but you couldn’t see his face well in the darkness.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

You didn’t mean for your voice to soften. “Are you okay?”

He let out a quiet laugh, not amused exactly.

More surprised.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You went quiet.”

“I’m fine,” he said, too quickly.

You recognized the answer because you used it too.

Fine.

The least convincing word in existence.

You rolled onto your side, turning toward him in the dark.

He lay on his back, one arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you told him.

The words were out before you could think better of them.

Dean turned his head toward you, and even in the dark, you felt his gaze settle on your face.

“That’s funny,” he said softly.

“Why?”

“Because pretending is kind of the whole point, isn’t it?”

Something in your chest tightened. “Not all of it.”

The silence after that was different.

Thicker.

Dean shifted onto his side too, until you were facing each other. Too close. Not touching. Close enough to see his eyes in the low light from the window.

“You’re being nice again,” he murmured.

“It keeps happening by accident.”

“That’s a dangerous habit.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

Your breath caught.

There it was again, that softness. The part of Dean that didn’t feel like a joke.

For a second, neither of you moved. His eyes dropped to your mouth, and this time, there was no pretending you didn’t see it.

Your pulse jumped.

“Dean,” you whispered.

“I know,” he murmured, his voice lower now. Rougher.

He didn’t move closer, and neither did you, but somehow, the space between you felt impossibly small.

“No kissing unless necessary,” you whispered.

His gaze lifted back to yours. “Right.”

“This isn’t necessary.”

“No,” he said, but neither of you moved. He didn’t look away, and you didn’t roll back over.

Almost kissing him was somehow worse than actually kissing him. The possibility of it. The heat. The fact that you could feel how easy it would be to close the distance and ruin every rule on the first night.

Dean’s hand shifted on the mattress between you. Not touching, but close enough.

Your fingers curled into the sheet.

He noticed. His jaw flexed, and then he rolled onto his back, putting space between you with a quiet exhale.

“Goodnight, [Y/N].”

You stared at the side of his face, your heart still racing. “Goodnight, Dean.”

You eventually turned away, facing the window. But sleep didn’t come quickly. Not with Dean lying beside you. Not with the ghost of an almost-kiss sitting between your ribs. Not with the horrible realization that rule number one had already started to feel less like protection and more like a challenge.

━━━━━━━━ 🏒 ━━━━━━━━

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Hockey house - Thursday afternoon.

"Yo, whoever flushed the blue package baby wipes when they clearly say do not flush next time you're the one's unclogging the toilet" Logan wipes his sweat covered forehead with his forearm and points at his two teammates sitting in the living room "And where the hell is Dean?"

"Seb emergency" Garrett answers without looking up from his textbook "Apparently he lost his ducky and wouldn't stop crying"

"I will never get over you saying the word ducky" Tucker snickers.

"Dude, you've been singing the itsy bitsy spider for days" Garrett shoots back.

"She's a ver determined spider" The curly haired guy almost looks offended at the quip.

"I'll take the itsy bitsy spider over baby shark any day" Logan's putting his toolbox away in the cabinet under the sink when he notices the bright yellow plush he's all too familiar with "Hey I found ducky!" He lifts it up with a triumphant smile.

The baby's cries are loud against his ear when he calls Dean "Fuck you want?" The clearly stressed dad answers the phone, in the background Logan can hear you yelling at him for swearing in front of the baby.

"Now, that's no way to talk to your savior" Logan frowns.

"I stopped going to church when I was 12" Dean snaps back "But maybe I need to take this kid in for an exorcism"

"Stop talking about our son like that!" You complain, probably taking the crying baby out of his arms because Logan notices the cries are more distant now.

"Anyways, I found ducky" Logan says.

"I fucking love you" The blonde sounds so relieved, already moving to get his car keys "Seriously, this weekend, drinks on me and you get first dibs"

When you, Dean and Seb show up at the house a little while later you look like you've been in combat for weeks. Both your hair desheveled, your clothes crumpled and faces flushed and if it wasn't for the milk stain on your shirt and the crying child in Dean's arms, your friends would be sure that you had been fooling around in Dean's car before walking in.

"Hey bud" Logan regards the squirming kid belting his little heart out "Look what your favorite uncle found for you"

"You're not the favorite shithead" Garrett says from the couch.

"Neither are you" Tucker adds.

Sebastian stops crying when he notices the yellow duck plushie in Logan's hands, instead of loud wails he just hiccups with big wet blue eyes as he's handed the stuffed animal.

"I would so get mad at you for cursing in front of him but I'm too tired for that" You tell Garrett already on your way upstairs to Dean's room, probably for a well deserved nap.

"Here" Dean plops the now calm child into Tuckers lap ignoring the laptop he was working on "You're the least likely to let him die" And walks away "He's due for a feeding in like an hour"

"So when do you think mom and dad will realize they're soulmates?" Logan asks the sleepy baby over the couch.

Malone's - Saturday morning.

"You know, you could always just bring him in with you" Della offers, you're going over your new job as a waitress.

"That won't be necessary" You tell her "He's going to the campus daycare and Dean's looking after him when he's free, but thank you so much"

"Of course hon, just know the option is there if you ever need it. As long as you do your job I have no problem with the little dude joining you" She sends a smile your way and walks away leaving you at the counter with your breakfast.

"Here you go, sorry for the wait" Hannah, who you've learned you're going to be sharing many shifts with places a glass of orange juice in front of you.

"Thanks" You say back.

The bell on top of the door dings and you hear the rowdy hockey players that have become your baby's family and therefore your family walk in.

"Hey mama" Dean plops down next to you, Seb strapped into that ridiculously expensive baby carrier he insisted on buying "What are you doing here so early?" He steals your glass of juice and drinks it whole in one big gulp, you give him an annoyed look.

"I was coordinating everything with Della" He looks confused "The job? As a waitress? I told you about it last night when I dropped Seb off?"

"I was half dead by the time you dropped by" He admits "I woke up at 4 am for the roadie and didn't get to nap at all in the bus, sorry" He then waves Hannah over "Can I get the big daddy breakfast with extra sausages and another orange juice please? Oh and a coffee, one cream two sugars"

"You got it" Hannah mumbles.

Dean turns back to you at the same time as he grabs Seb's hands that are outstretching towards the napkins in front of you "Anyways, why the hell are you getting a job?"

"Because I have things to pay?" You deadpan "I also have a meeting with the financial advisor in 40 minutes, the school agreed to let me hold onto my scholarship but even then, the rest of the money is still a little too much and I don't want to drain all my savings like that so… job" You motion to the place.

"Thanks" He tells Hannah when she places the three big plates, orange juice and coffee cup in front of him "Why didn't you tell me you needed money?"

"Because I don't need money from you" You shrug "Don't worry, Seb's getting all he needs, this is just for my stuff"

"You know I've gotchu whatever you need" He says, your mom reflexes save his breakfast from Sebastian's curious hands smashing into it.

"Thanks but I'm good" He doesn't like this, but he knows he's not going to win the argument so he just hums already planning how he's going to increment the money he sends you for Sebastian in a way that you won't instantly notice "Hand him over so you can eat before he faceplants into the eggs"

Your apartment - Monday night

"So I was thinking" Dean starts, he's on the floor doing tummy time with Sebastian.

"Oh no"

"Shut up" He shakes his head "I was thinking, if we make it to the frozen four this year, this little guy will be old enough to come see daddy play"

You make a face "I don't know"

"Oh come on, we can get him those huge earmuffs and get the puck bunnies to bodyguard" See, the thing about the puck bunnies is you shouldn't like them, but you can't help it. Sure, they are known for sleeping with the hockey players, but if you really think about it, they have a type and a limited dating pool in the school but they really don't harm anyone and they are nice once you get to know you. Oh and they love your kid because he is Dean's kid so really, you have no problem with them.

"How about this" You sit next to him with a yogurt cup that will most likely be stolen from your hands in just a few seconds "If you make it to the finals and the trip is not too long we'll make it"

"Great, going to order the ear muffs now" You know he's being truthful because he's already pulling up Amazon on his phone, the season is barely halfway through.

The Hockey House - Tuesday afternoon

"Dean if you don't pick your shit up I will throw it away" Tucker's yelling up the stairs when you walk into the house with Seb in your arms "Oh hey guys!"

"Hey Tuck" You give him a tired smile, at only six months old, Seb's decided that sleep is no longer something he's interested in.

"You look like you're about two seconds from collapsing" He frowns taking both the baby and baby bag from you.

"Feel like it too, he's decided he's allergic to sleeping more than 20 minutes at a time" You drop onto the couch with a sigh.

"I can watch him for a bit if you wanna nap" You throw up a thumbs up, your eyes already closed "Okay bud, today you're learning how to make a peach cobbler"

A while later you wake up to find Tuck cleaning the kitchen whit the baby strapped into his chest while humming a country song you don't recognize, the surprising thing? Seb's totally asleep, mouth open, little snores, drooling all over Tucker's chest asleep.

"Holy shit" You whisper making your way to the kitchen "You are magical Tuck"

"Huh?" He looks confused, then notices your gaze on the baby "Oh! He's been asleep for a while, I was explaining how to pick the perfect peaches to him and he just conked out" He shrugs as if it's nothing.

"John Tucker I think I might be in love with you" Of course that's the moment your baby's father decides to walk into the room, furrowed brows in annoyance at your words because although you two are not together he's not sure how he feels about you saying those words to one of his best friends.

"What the fuc-" He doesn't get to finish his sentence though because you practically throw yourself into him to cover his mouth, he catches you by your waist pressing you flush against him, frown still present in his face.

"Shut up" You whisper shout at him "I've been trying to get him to sleep for forever and he wouldn't settle now look at him"

Econ 201 - Wednesday morning

"Dude I have a problem" Dean's sitting next to his new friend, Beau, in class.

"You have a lot of those" Beau keeps taking notes of the board "It's the reason you're a hockey player"

"This is serious" Dean insists.

"What level of serious?"

"Camille tried sexting me last night and I didn't text back" Beau's pen basically drops from his hand and suddenly he's not into class at all becuase his buddy needs serious help if this problem is stopping him from sexting Camille freaking Green back.

"You have my undivided attention" The brunette says, his whole body turned to the blonde.

When your name comes out of Dean's mouth Beau gasps, yes, this is very clearly a serious problem if you're involved.

"Yesterday she told Tuck she was in love with him" Beau's eyes go impossibly wide at Dean's words "And it's been bugging me ever since"

"No bro like that's totally valid" Beau nods "If my baby mama said she was in love with my best friend I would go crazy too. So what happened next?"

"She told me to shut up because the baby was sleeping" Dean continues with his story "And then the other guys got home and we had dinner and then she left so we didn't get to talk but-"

"Gentlemen" The professor called, the class eerily quiet around them, all their classmates staring at the two "Anything to share with the class?"

Malone's - Wednesday night

"So" Garret plops down next to Tucker in the booth, throwing his arm around him "How's it feel to be a step dad?"

"Fuck you talking 'bout?" Tucker asks confused.

"It's all everyone on campus is talking about, John Tucker, the dad that stepped up" Logan says teasingly sitting on the other side of the booth, Tucker's still confused.

"Word on the street is that you'r dating Dean's baby mama" Garrett finally explains making the curly haired guy choke on his water.

"Where the hell is that coming from?" He asks "Wait, is that why everyone's been giving me weird looks?"

Dean arrives then with Beau by his side, the quarterback dapping him up before joining his own teammates leaving Dean to find his roommates.

"Why do you two look like you've pulled the prank of the year?" He asks Logan and Garrett who can't help but to cackle.

"Hey Tuck, I can give you a baby of your own if you want" A girl walking by winks at the Texan who gives his friends a mortified look.

Dean gives the table a questioning look "Apparently someone's been saying Tuck's dating your baby mama and has become" Garret starts, Logan joins with a big smile and at the same time they both say "The dad that stepped up"

"Wait… what?"

"Dean!" You barrell towards their table "What the hell did you do?"

"I didn't do anything" The blonde raises his hands.

"Then why is the whole campus thinking I'm in love with Tuck?" That's when it dawns on Dean.

A sixth one comes through, your phone buzzing angrily. You roll your eyes, and for a long second you seriously consider drowning the damn thing in the abandoned beer glass next to you.

He doesn’t get to call you, like you’re some wandering child. He doesn’t get to get angry about you being out, when he’s the reason you’re here in the first place. And you told Sam to tell him that you’d be here. So really, this is Dean’s fault, then Sam’s, then yours.

The call goes to voicemail. You flip the screen back over, and take a long drink. If it’s really that big a deal that you’re out without him, he can put on his pants and come get you himself.

And he won’t. And that’s part of the problem.

Dean’s going to lecture you about safety when you crawl back in the morning, and you’re going to roll your eyes. He’ll ask you if you think something’s funny, sweetheart? You look him dead in his pretty eyes and say I don’t know, is it? He’ll get angrier. You’ll get angrier. Sam will try to mediate, and you’ll throw something at him before stomping off. Dean will chase after you, and wrestle you back into the room while calling you a brat.

When you get tossed down on the mattress, you’ll sink your nails into his shoulder, because you do every time. You want to drag him down with you, to make him feel this the same way you always have.

To big, too much. Too soft in all the wrong places, and too spiked everywhere else. There’s a sharp, angry shell around your heart that’s grown like an exoskeleton. It’s got wires and teeth that snap, whenever Dean gives you a little too much attention. You can never tell if it’s trying to eat him or latch onto him anymore. You don’t think it really matters.

Dean hates you. He thinks you hate him. He’s going to grab your knees and pin them to your chest, and you’re going to be the only woman in the world who he doesn’t notice flush against him. He’ll hiss that you can’t just go running around alone. That it’s not like you, to be reckless. You spit a fuck you, his grip will get tight, and he’ll shove you away to go take one of his long showers.

Sam will tell you to stop testing him. You’ll tell Sam to eat himself, and go back to sulking like a child in the corner.

Only Dean can do that to you. You hate and love him for it.

When you met—on a hunt that didn’t matter, until it did—he made you all giggly and dumb. Years of training and a mind that could never slow down, turned to goo from one roughish, lazy smile.

“You like trouble?” He’d asked you, trying even then to talk you out of a hunt.

“No. No one likes trouble.”

Dean had chuckled. “I don’t know about that, sweetheart. Most girls like you love it.”

You’d snorted. “Girls like me? What’s a girl like me?”

“Gorgeous.” He’d smirked, like he’d been dying for you to ask. “Smart. Mouthy-“

“Mouthy?” You’d cut him off, rolling your eyes. “Are you from the 60s?”

“No. But you’re provin’ my point.”

“You didn’t have a point. You were just trying to sleep with me.”

Dean had raised his hands in mock surrender. “Guilty. But- Is it working-“

“No.”

It had been. If Sam hadn’t come back to the car two seconds later, you would’ve climbed into Dean’s lap like a whore. Which wasn’t what you were. It wasn’t what you did. Sex with a half-stranger, sex in general, you didn’t toss your body around easily. You’d never been able to do the removing emotions part of casual sex. You’d always managed to come up with a million reasons not to, most of them looking something like have a hookup, get pregnant, the father’s already gone, the baby’s born with cancer, you love it anyway and it dies in your arms, if you’d been more responsible the baby would’ve solved climate change, everyone dies in a fiery explosion.

But you’d looked at Dean, and seen no death or path out that didn’t end in light. He’d grabbed your thigh in the dark of the car, and you’d flushed and smiled to yourself like a schoolgirl.

“You wanna know my middle name?” He’d whispered to you, later that night.

“That’s the worst pick up line I’ve ever heard-“

“It’s not a pick up line! I’m askin’ you a question-“

“But it’s going to turn into a pickup line.” You’d said flatly, and Dean had given you a boyish smile that almost made you forget that he was covered in vampire blood.

“You already know me so well,” he’d cooed, and you’d snorted.

“You’re predictable.”

“So you’re never gonna wonder what I’m thinking.”

You’d shoved his face away with a hand, still giggling. This was usually the point in a hunt where you started thinking about what came next. How long you had to get out of town, how much food you’d need to eat now before you got to your next stop—if you eat too much, you’re going to overstuff and get sick, if you don’t eat enough you’re going to be weak and pass out behind the wheel and cause a fifty car pile-up—and if there are any strings you needed to wrap up on the case.

But Dean had been smiling at you. And that had felt like the only thing that mattered.

“C’mon, ask me what my middle name is-“

You’d covered his mouth with a hand, shooting him a stern glare. His eyes had gleamed with affection, and something deeper you try not to think about now. It hurts too much. It makes you mourn for something that was never even yours to have.

“Only so you shut up,” you’d whispered. “What’s your middle name.”

You’d dropped your hand, and Dean had touched his lips like he was in some telenovela. You’d fought a smile. You’d never known someone could be so handsome it made your heart ache, and so cute you thought you’d explode.

He’d puffed out his chest, and grinned at you like he won the lottery.

“It’s Trouble-“

“It’s Adam.” Sam had called from the table. Dean had looked at  him like he’d just murdered a puppy, and you’d laughed so hard you almost fell off the bed.

And you’d thought something was growing. You’d been a foolish girl, who thought the dorky, handsome hero in front of her would give chase, when she turned him down.,

If you could go back, you’d slap yourself in the face and tell you to get it together. Dean Winchester is Dean Winchester. You listen to the what the shadows whisper. You knew his reputation before he smiled at you in the low light of his car. You’re smart. Sam goes to you for research advice, you’ve come up with whole new ways to kill demons and trap angels. You fucking knew better, than to fall in love with Dean.

You should’ve known better.

You didn’t.

So you attached yourself to them like a little, leeching parasite. You followed them around, the Winchester’s shadow, and fell more in love with Dean, and got your heart broken every night when he slipped out of the bar with another woman on his arm.

You’d gotten mean. You’d started getting short with him, and he’d fueled the fire building in the cavity of your chest by being a dick. Suddenly you were too inexperienced for every hunt. Too young to be out alone—you’ve had that fight more times than you can count—or too tense and tightly wound to think clearly.

He’s the one who doesn’t think clearly. He’s the one who drinks himself to death after a hunt and has literally fucked monsters because he can’t be bothered to plan ahead. He drags you and Sam to towns because he’s got a good feeling about them. He tells you to just relax, princess, and you want to punch him in his stupid, pretty face.

But you still love him. You love him so much you think it’s going to kill you. And you keep that locked in the deepest chamber of your heart, because he never needs to know that you still get stupid and soft for him. If he finds out that the first time he tried to leave on a hunt without you, you almost started crying in the middle of the bunker kitchen, he’ll look at you like you’re crazy.

And you are crazy. You know that. You’re a fumbling, wild ball of worries and sneers, and Dean would never want a nagger. He’d never want a younger woman who acts like she knows better—even though you do—and who needs him to be perfectly attentive and affectionate every second of every day.

You’re in love with a man who hates you. And if you had to listen to him fuck that secretary through the wall all night, you were going to kill yourself on their bed.

So now you’re at this loud, disgusting bar, drinking something that you’re praying numbs the pain, and smiling so wide it hurts your face.

The abandoned beer’s owner came back. He’s a broad shouldered, smirking man with a clean cut face, and lighter hair. If you get a little more squint, he looks just like Dean. If you get a little more buzzed, he’ll sound like him too.

You hate causal sex. It doesn’t count if you’re pretending it’s Dean. It doesn’t count if it makes this stop hurting.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doin’ here?” The man drawls, leaning across the bar.

You giggle, and it sounds distant to your ears. “Drinking.”

“Yeah?” The man smirks. “You like drinkin’, doll?”

You shake your head, swinging your feet and spinning in the bar stool. The man raises his brows.

“You sure you don’t? You’re goin’ through that thing fast.”

“It tastes bad.” You wrinkle your nose. “Feels good.”

The man’s smile turns wolfish. Your phone starts to buzz again, and you glare at the screen before shutting it fully off.

“Boyfriend?” The man asks, and you shake your head.

“He wishes.”

No, he doesn’t.

That’s the problem.

And you keep flirting—if it can even be called that, because you mostly babble about hating the drink you got and hating Dean and loving the man’s drink because Dean likes that one too—and the man’s hands find their way to your lower back and thigh.

“Why don’t I help you forget about Dean?” He winks at you, and you shrug.

The world is mostly just blurred colors and lights now. Everything feels awfully light, in a way you’re not sure you like.

But you like forgetting about Dean more. So even though you want to tell this man that it’s impossible to forget about Dean, you’re also just lost enough to want help finding your way out.

“Okay.” You beam at him.

You make it to the parking lot—his arm around your waist, herding you like a lost lamb—before Dean ruins everything. He always ruins everything.

There’s a shout of your name, almost ripping through the hazy fog of your drunken mind. You were feet from the man’s car. Just a few more steps from having fun, which you’re bad at doing, but maybe if you practiced, Dean would like you more.

From the look on his face when you turn around, it might’ve actually made him like you less.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He marches across the lot with a scowl, hands balled into fists and gaze fixed solely on you. “I almost made Sammy file a missing persons report-“

“’M not missing.” You stick your tongue out at him. “’M right here. Stupid.”

You mutter the last word under your breath, and Dean freezes. He blinks slowly, gaze raking over your body. That’s not fair. It makes you feel all warm and puddley. Your core floods with heat, and your knees get weak, and he’s get looking at you.

Dean takes a half-step forward, his voice dropping low and rough. “Are you drunk?”

“No.”

There’s a larger gust of wind. Dean’s eyes gleam in the golden light of the parking lot. He looks a little like an angel. You trip standing up, then giggle when the man pulls you back up. Dean’s jaw drops, his brow knitting tight.

“You’re fuckin’ wasted.” He mutters, shaking his head. “Jesus, sweetheart- C’mon.” He steps forward, reaching out a hand. “Let’s go.”

“Nuh uh.” You pout, shaking you head. “I’m not drunk-“

“You’re standing like we’re on a freakin’ ship. Come on.” He flexes his hand, and you cross your arms over your chest.

He doesn’t get to win. “I’m having fun.”

“We can have fun back at the room-“

“The lady said she’s having fun.” The man next to you pulls you tighter into his side, fingers curling on your hip like a lock. “Screw off, pal. I got here first.”

And Dean recoils, looking at the man like he’s noticing him for the first time. You can’t read his expression in the low light, but it seems angry. Or just annoyed. Or indifferent. His jaw looks sharp and clenched. You want to lick it.

“Listen, bud.” Dean snaps, glaring down at the man. “This ain’t a who got here first thing. My girl’s drunk. I’m takin’ her home, or I’m punching you in the face.”

The man is silent for a moment. He and Dean glower at each other, and you frown between them. There’s something poking at your drink addled brain, but it’s spelling a word you can’t read. All you can really figure out is that they’re being weird.

“You Dean?” The man asks.

Dean’s eyes narrow. His shoulders square, the way they do before he’s about to swing at a demon. “Yeah. And?”

“Nothin’.” The man smirks. “Just… Thought you’d be God, based on how she was talkin’ about you. But,” he chuckles, tipping his chin. “You’re just a little bitch.”

Dean’s jaw ticks. You don’t need the lighting to figure out what he’s thinking now. You can almost feel it, rolling off of him in waves.

He’s pissed.

He looks the man up and down, and if he throws a punch, you know he won’t be the one who goes down. You’re drunk enough not to worry about the violence of it. All your useless thoughts can spin around is the idea of Dean fighting for you. Of his massive arms flexing as he knocks down the other man—who, the longer your Dean stands in front of you, looks less and less appealing—and scoops you into his arms like the princess he mocks you with being. Then he can wrap his arm around your head and fuck you against the hood of his car, until you’re drooling all over his cock.

You giggle at nothing, a unignorable heat pooling between your legs. Dean’s attention snaps back over, and you beam at him.

Something in his gaze shifts. He lets out a slow breath, and stretches out a hand.

“Let’s go, princess.” He beckons with two crooked fingers, and you almost stumble forwards. “We can watch whatever you want, alright? I’ll get you some of that ice cream you like, and- Sammy can watch with you, if you don’t want me around. Just-“ He sighs, running a hand over his face. “Get over here. Please.”

He sounds so tired. Tired and almost sad. Your feet move without your permission, and you reach to take his hand.

The man yanks you back, and you yelp.

“Remember what you told me, doll.” He drawls in your ear, loud enough for Dean to still hear. “Remember how he treats you.”

Dean scowls. “You stay out of this-“

“He doesn’t care.” The man ignores him. “You told me, he doesn’t love you.”

Dean opens his mouth, something stricken flashing over his features. You feel a little sick.

“C’mon. I got you.” The man rubs your hip, smiling gently. “Show him what he’s missing. He can bitch about it, alone all night while you get fucked real good.”

Dean’s face is a shade of red you’ve never seen before. He has an expression like someone just punched him in the gut.

And it’s not the fucking real good that steels you. It’s the reminder that Dean won’t be alone. He has his secretary. And you’re allowed to have your random bar man, and there’s nothing he can do about it.

Dean rasps your name. “Come here-“

“You come here.” You snap, and it’s meant to be a sharp, killing blow that makes him sigh and give up.

If you were a little less drunk, you would’ve known that was never going to work.

Dean’s throat bobs. He exhales like he’s going through the trials of Hercules, rather than arguing in a parking lot. He rubs his jaw, looks up to the sky like he’s praying, and chuckles. It’s dry and flat, but so deep and rough. You shiver at the sound, and almost fall right into him again.

“Alright.” Dean mutters, shaking out his arm. “Fine.”

He marches forward, clocks the man across the jaw, and throws you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. It happens so fast your body is still catching up with it, by the time he’s halfway back to the car. You realize you should be thrashing and shouting when you hear the Impala door unlock. Your body doesn’t seem to want to cooperate though. Dean’s back is warm, and his hand is resting near your ass, and it’s making you putty for him to play with.

He did it so fast. He didn’t even break a sweat or give the man a chance to fight back, before he grabbed you. When he lowers you into shotgun, he does it so gently. Like even after getting on his nervous, you’re precious cargo. He brushes the hair from your face, hunched over as you settle into the bench.

You blink at him, still drunk and confused. Dean still has that strange look in his eyes, his lips parted as you just stare at each other. His hand lingers on your cheek. You lean into the touch, and his nostrils flare.

Across the parking lot, there’s a roar of his name.

Dean sighs, and stands up. He walks around the hood of the car, slides into the driver’s seat, and starts the car. You watch his fingers move like a starved woman. You want him to put them in your mouth, and you almost tell him when there’s a slam on his window.

The man is shouting at him, veins bulging and eyes bugging. He looks nothing like Dean now.

And Dean doesn’t even flinch. Doesn’t even look at him. He just puts the car in reverse and pulls out of the lot. If the man gives chase, you don’t see. You’re too busy staring at Dean.

The first half of the drive is silent. Low music plays on the radio, and you watch Dean in the moving light of the road. Long shadows and dim streetlamps make him look like he fell out of a dream. Your arms twitch to wrap around him. Your eyes are heavy, your head intoxicated by the rich, amber and smoke smell of his cologne. If you lay your head in his lap, you wonder if he’d shove you away.

“You weren’t actually gonna go with him.” Dean mutters suddenly, and you blink.

“Huh?”

“That douchebag.” His fingers flex on the wheel. “You weren’t gonna fuck him.”

You frown. Useless, exhausted tears prick at your eyes. You don’t even know where they’re coming from. Just that you feel small, and you’re tired, and Dean’s dragging you back to the motel just so he can fuck another woman with peace of mind.

“He’s not even your type-“

“You don’t know what my type is.” You grumble, sinking into your seat.

Dean huffs a laugh. “I’ve seen what kinda guys you find hot on TV. He was ugly.”

“He wasn’t ugly-“

“Yeah, he was.”

“You’re ugly.” You snap, and Dean laughs. You get why. You didn’t even convince yourself.

“Only on the inside, sweetheart.”

Your lips wobbles. For some reason, that pushes the tears out of your eyes. You sink into the bench, wrapping into a tight little ball that Dean won’t be able to pry apart. You can’t stop the tears, but he doesn’t get to have more leverage.

Dean clears his throat. “Are you crying-“

“Shut up.” You sniff, wiping your nose with your sleeve.

He murmurs your name, voice softer than before, and you lean against the window.

“Shut up-“

“You’re fuckin’ crying-“

“Dean!” You glare at him through the blur of the tears. “Just- Leave me alone!”

Dean’s silent for a second. But only a second.

“Did he hurt you?” He grunts, something hot and angry lining his words. “Before I got there, did that son of a bitch-“

“He barely even touched me, you just- You fucking-“

“I what? What the hell did I do-“

“You hate me!” You shout, and Dean goes horribly still. 

“Don’t be insane.” He mutters your name, glaring out at the road. “I don’t hate you.”

You scoff, hugging your knees tight to your chest. “Yes, you do. You hate me, and you- You never let me have any fun-“

“That wasn’t fun, that was a lawsuit.”

You don’t even have a good comeback to that. He’s probably right. It just makes you angrier.

You turn away from him all together, watching the trees blur past in the window. You’re certain you’re going to be sick now. You close your eyes, the tears still flowing, and hide your face behind your hair and in your knees.

Dean sighs. His voice gets softer again.

“Listen, you’re drunk, alright? You’re gonna feel better in the morning-“

“No.” Your words are muffled, but you know he’ll still hear them. “I won’t.”

“Yeah, you will. I get a million of these drunken… feelings.” He says the word in an oddly tight tone. “You just gotta sleep them off.”

You laugh, wet and weak. “Whatever, Dean.”

“I’m trying to help-“

“No, you’re not.” You hug yourself tighter. “You just wanna get back to her.”

He’s silent again. You can hear his fingers drumming on the wheel. Almost hear the frown in his voice when he finally speaks.

“Who the hell are you talking about.”

“Your secretary lady.” You grumble, bitter and tired.

“You mean Katy?”

You grunt. “I hate her.”

“I- Princess, I sent her home like- Two hours ago.” He pauses. The air in the car feels oddly heavy. “Moment Sammy told me you were gone.”

You huff, but don’t respond. You can’t think of anything. You can barely understand what that means.

“You hate her?” Dean’s voice is so quiet you almost miss it.

“Mhm.” 

“You barely even talked to her-“

“I don’t care.” You mutter, rubbing away the tears on your cheeks. “I hate her.”

“Why-“

“’M tired.” You pull your face out of your knees, and find Dean staring at you.

He clears his throat, and looks back to the road. You think you’re going to start sobbing again, when he stretches out an arm around your shoulder.

Neither of you say anything, when he slowly pulls you into his side. You haven’t been this close to him in a while. He’s just as warm as you remember. You’re already half-asleep, just from a few seconds of his fingers tracing circles on your shoulder and your face pressed into his neck.

“I didn’t like him that much either.” Dean mutters suddenly. “Your bar guy.”

You hum, nosing at his jaw. He smells good.

“I wish you’d tell me.” He adds. “When you were goin’ out. I’d come with you-“

“I don’t want you to come with me.”

Dean tenses. He doesn’t pull away. “I’m fun at bars, sweetheart..” His voice is too casual. “We’d have a good time-“

“You’d have a good time.” You grumble. “I’d be alone.”

“I wouldn’t- If we went out, I wouldn’t ditch-“

“Yes, you would.” You yawn, and you’re crying again, but it’s softer.

Even now, Dean makes everything easier.

You wish you could hate him more than you love him. You don’t think you’re ever going to manage.

“You hate me.” You whisper, sleep already pulling on the corners of your brain. “’S not fair.” 

Dean swallows. His fingers still on your arm. “Why not?”

“’Cause I-“

You cut yourself off with a yawn. Dean mutters your name, and you shake your head, burrowing further into his side. You need to be as close as possible. You need to sink something into him that he can never wipe away, the same way he did with you.

“I love you,” you mumble. “And you hate me. And- It’s not fair, Dean.” You tremble, letting out a soft, pained breath. “Not fair.”

And sleep drags you under. But right before the world fades, you could swear you hear Dean’s low voice, and it floats through your dreams.

“I don’t hate you, baby.” He murmurs. “I couldn’t if I tried.”

Dean hasn’t spoken to you since last night.

You get up in the morning with a migraine and shame burning your face. You remember all of it. Every painful, whiny moment. You acted like the lovesick, annoying girl he accuses you of being. You told him the thing you swore you’d never say aloud. Once Sam tried to make you admit it, and you dumped a glass of iced tea over his head. You’d whimpered Dean’s name into your pillows while you touched yourself, and you’ve told yourself to get it together in the bathroom mirror, but you’ve never said it aloud.

And you just told.

You ruined everything.

He gives you meds and a glass of water to help the hangover, but he doesn’t look you in the eyes. You pack up the rooms and hit the road, but he doesn’t look in the rearview mirror to check on you even once. You bite the inside of your cheek and refuse to cry again. That will just make you seem more pathetic than you already are.

“What’s going on with you two.” Sam mutters when you stop at a gas station, hanging over your shoulder in the candy aisle.

“Nothing-“

“Don’t lie.” He gives you a flat look. “You’re not even fighting, which means you’re fighting.”

You peer up at him with a flat expression, and he sighs.

“You know what I mean. What the hell did he say to you.”

“He didn’t say anything.”

Sam mutters your name, and you grab a candy bar, flipping him off over your shoulder.

“Just drop it, okay?”

“No! I can’t drop it! I live with you guys, and- This is so much worse than when you were acting like you hated each other-“

“Sam-“

“You can’t see his face while he’s driving.” Sam hisses, grabbing a pack of almonds. “He’s either going to punch himself or cry, and that’s gonna be a whole freakin’ thing. Just- Talk to him-“

“He can talk to me.” You grab a pack of jerky. You can’t help it. Dean must be hungry too, and despite all your common sense, you still love him so much the world is slipping out from under your feet. 

Sam pleads with your name. You shake your head.

“Please. Drop it.”

He examines you for a moment, then sighs. He agrees to drop it. It doesn’t make anything better at all.

Because Dean’s not even being mean or overbearing or annoying. He’s just silent. And Sam’s right.

It’s so much worse.

Normally by this point in the ride, you’ve been fighting so much that Sam turns up the radio until you can’t hear each other. You’ll poke his neck to annoy him, and he’ll swat you like a fly before cornering you against the car when you stop for food. You’ll shove him and march into the diner. He’ll stomp after you and sit too close in the booth, making you press your thighs together with every mocking word. He’ll flirt with the waitress, and you’ll daydream about throttling her every time she bats her eyes. Dean will keep your knees against each other’s, while he gets her number, and you’ll pour a bunch of salt over his pie when he goes to the bathroom.

You’ll shove at each other, until one of you snaps and stomps away. You’ll cry yourself to sleep that night, because he hates you, he hates you, he hates you.

But you don’t even have any tears left, and Dean doesn’t hate you.

He just can’t stand to look at you, now that he knows you love him.

Sam gives you worried looks, while Dean glares silently at the road. His fingers drum on the wheel, and you hug yourself tight. He might not be looking at you, but you can’t stop looking at him. If he asks you to leave, it will kill you. If he doesn’t ask you, but never speaks to you again, you’ll just wither away into nothing. But you can’t be the one to break the silence. You’ll only make it worse.

You stop at a diner, and the waitress has the biggest boobs you’ve ever seen and the kind of honeyed smile that usually makes Dean smirk.

Today he doesn’t even look at her. You have to order for him, which makes the waitress glare at you, as if you’re responsible for him sulking so much he doesn’t care about boobs—and you are, but she has no way to know that—and you give her a tight smile.

Dean doesn’t thank you for the food, but he looks at you for the first time all day. You blink at him, biting back the pout threatening your lips. You’re not going to break here, in broad daylight, with Sam right there.

Dean lets out a slow exhale through his nose, and looks back to his food. You blink away the useless sting behind your eyes, biting your inner cheek until it’s swollen. Sam gives you a pitying look. You shoot him a glare.

“He still sat next to you.” Sam mutters while Dean checks you into a motel, that night. “Whatever happened, he’s not that mad at you-“

“Sammy!” Dean calls from the desk. “The lady needs our IDs!”

Sam sighs, going through his pockets as he walks over.

Dean’s gaze meets yours, and you flush. You can’t read the expression on his face, and you fucking hate it. You thought you knew all his expression. You thought you knew him. You thought he’d at least have the guts to turn you down like a man.

Instead his tongue flicks over his lips, and he rips his gaze back to the desk attendant. You hate her. You hate him. You love him. Your head hurts, overflowing with too many thoughts that you can’t even pick them apart. You want to scream and cry and run and sink into the floor. It’s not fair of him, to do this to you. You’re going to be sick. You want to drown your sorrows in as many drinks as you can find.

You settle for curling into your bed, hiding your face in the pillows, and crying until your body is limp and your throat is sore. He knows you love him. He hates you. He’s never going to look at  you again, and you’re going to turn into a ghost. An evil, angry ghost. One of the ghosts that he has to kill. Then he’s going to kill you, and you’re going to turn into a demon, then you’re going to start the apocalypse again, and everyone ever is going to die because you told Dean you love him.

You cry until you can barely breathe, then a little while after. It was silent. There was no way Sam and Dean would hear it, even through the door joining your rooms.

But there’s a creak, and you sniff, turning your head just enough that Sam will be able to hear you.

“I’m fine, Sam-“

“Not Sam.” Dean mutters, and you freeze.

You don’t move. You don’t dare. Dean clears his throat, and you hear him shifting on his feet. He’s close enough to be fully through the door. You hear it close behind him, and bunch the sheets in your arms.

“I- Uh- I was hopin’ we could talk?”

You still don’t move. Dean coughs. His voice is even rougher than usual. Normally, if you had the brainpower, you’d be worried about him.

“Can you look at me?”

You scowl at the pillow in your face. “No.”

Dean mutters your name, and you cut him off with short words.

“Go away, Dean.”

“No, we need to- I got some shit to say, alright-“

“I don’t care.”

“Trust me, princess, you’re gonna care about this-“

“Stop calling me that!” The words rip from your throat, sudden and broken.

You flip over, moving to your knees, and Dean stumbles back like you punched him. His face is red, and there are bags under his eyes. He’s still handsome.

Asshole.

“I-“

“Shut up.” You hiss, narrowing your eyes at his slack expression. “Stop- Stop calling me princess and sweetheart and- and acting like you fucking care about me! It’s fucking cruel, Dean, it was a dick move before and now- Now you know.” Your voice cracks. You can’t even say it again. “Now you know, alright? You know what I- How I am! And I’m sorry, okay? I shouldn’t have told you, but I was drunk, and I- I was tired, and you were being nice and you’re never nice to me-“

Dean opens his mouth, and you chuck a pillow right at his chest.

“No.” You spit, pushing up higher on your knees. “No, you don’t get to talk now. I don’t want to hear it, I don’t need- You don’t have to tell me! I get it, I know what you’re going to say!” You thought you were out of tears. You were wrong. “I’m just a stupid little girl, and you see me like a fucking sister or whatever, I don’t know what I’m talking about and I don’t know how I feel and you- You’d never-“ You choke on your own words. “You’d never feel-“

He moves quickly. You don’t even get the chance to throw another pillow.

Dean grabs your face between his hands, pulling right up into his. Dean kisses you, and your sharp words dissolve into a surprised sound, then a tiny moan.

His mouth is demanding. Your lips are already parted, and when the moan pushes its way up from your chest, Dean pushes his tongue over yours with a grunt. It’s a messy and desperate, noses bumping and spit mixing. You try and shove back, but Dean just pushes further over you, and you dissolve into his touch. 

You’re panting, when he pulls away. He keeps his hands firmly planted, his thumb tracing the swollen line of your lips and his shoulders heaving. His fingers are tangled in your hair. You feel small under his gaze, but not in the painful, ignored way like before. It’s like you’re being shielded. Like he’s trying to protect you from your own, spiraling thoughts by sucking them out of your face.

It’s working. You stare at him with an open awe you can feel in your chest, bubbling and light.

He kissed you.

His lips were soft and chapped in the best way, and he was even better at kissing than you imagined. He tasted a little sugary from the pie he had with dinner, and something richer that was just Dean. His touch on your is almost reverent, and you want to suck on his thumb to see if it tastes as good as his lips. You want to suck on every part of him. For science. You want, you want, you want. Dean kissed you, and now all you can feel—thundering through your bloodstream—is want.

He murmurs your name, scanning over your slack features. Your eyes flutter. His throat bobs.

“I’m gonna talk now.” He says, and you nod.

You should be shoving or fighting him, but he’s looking at you like you matter. And you’re far too tired to bother with anything but tears or pleas for more kisses right now.

“I thought-“ He shakes his head, huffing a low, dry laugh. “I thought you hated me.”

“I don’t-“

“Yeah, I got that now.” He gives you an amused, tired look. “But- Sweetheart, you called me a seductive manwhore last week.”

Your face burns a little. He’d been flirting with another waitress, at another diner. You’d wanted to slit her throat.

“Seductive is a compliment.” You mumble weakly, dropping your gaze to his chest. Dean chuckles.

“From where I was sittin’, it felt like you wanted to kill me.”

 You shake your head, the movement small between his hands. “You looked like you wanted me to fuck off. You always looked like you wanted me to fuck off-“

“No.” His grip tightens, and your attention shoots back up.

And you think you understand that expression. It’s heavy, and you have seen it before. But it’s always been a dull glint in his eyes, before he looks away.

Longing.

“Dean…” You whisper, and he leans down, pressing his brow to yours.

“I never want you to fuck off.” He mutters. “Never. Please- Don’t.”

His voice breaks. You reach up to grab his wrists, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

“I know I ain’t perfect. I know I’m old, and a dick, and I don’t got much to offer-“

“I like what you have to offer.” You whisper. His brow knits tighter. “I always liked it.”

Dean chuckles. “You shot me down. First time I offered it.”

“You wanted a hookup, I- I can’t do that-“

“I couldn’t either.” He looks at you under hooded eyes. “Not with you.”

You press your lips in a thin line, years of anger and sparring fading into a blur of a dull, bruising ache. He was always a wound you refused to heal. If he cuts you open any wider, you don’t think you’re going to have the option anymore.

“You didn’t seem interested.” Dean rasps. “You started- Lookin’ at me all weird and calling me names and-“

“I loved you.” You say it before you can think. Dean lets out a sharp breath, his weight pressing further down.

“But- I- You too.” He winces, like he hates the words. “I didn’t- It was never- Son of a bitch-“

He looks like it’s paining him to try and say it. And you know. You know he can’t, because he doesn’t even say it to Sam. 

But he looks like he’s going to cry. Dean never cries.

He means it. The thing you never let yourself dream of, he means it.

“I- You just- I wanted shit, and you seemed like you wanted nothin’ to do with me, so I-“

You move carefully, tugging that collar of his shirt down into the kiss. Dean goes rigid for a single, horrible second.

Then he almost melts.

His fingers dig into your skin like he can’t bear to let go. His body collapses over yours, his kisses going from the soft ones you started to fast and desperate. He kisses you like he’s trying to leave a mark, and you meet him with every bit off passion.

Dean folds you down, until you’re flat on the mattress. Your legs fly up to wrap around his torso, and he grabs one of your hands, tangling your fingers together. The kisses turn slow. A little more certain and controlled, Dean sucking on your lower lip before kissing the corner of your mouth, then your upper lip. You smile into the kiss, and a broken sound rumbles from his chest.

He pins your hands next to your head, squeezing once before he breaks away. He looks wrecked. He stares at you like you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen, and your head buzzes, nice and clear of what ifs.

All that matters right now is Dean above you, and the electric heat in your body. How his hand fits so perfectly in yours. How your bodies are already molding together, and you’re both still fully clothed.

“You deserve better, baby.” He mutters, and you almost laugh.

There’s nothing better. There’s Dean, glorious and unreachable, and there’s everyone else.

“No.” You whisper, beaming up at him. “I don’t.”

Dean’s throat bobs. He lowers himself down slowly, pressing his lips slowly over yours. Like he’s still not fully sure. You hum happily into the kiss, and he takes the cue easily.

You lose yourself in him quickly. His lazy, passionate kisses and his hands, slowly tracing over your body. He starts with light touches near your hips and waist, every brush of his fingers making you shiver. You arch into it, when his thumb grazes the bare skin of your midriff. Dean groans, testing the waters with another slow graze of his fingers.

“Deeean…” You breathe against his lips, and he grunts.

“You’re so soft.” He mutters, slipping his hand under your shirt. “So fuckin’ reactive and soft.”

You whimper, heels digging into his back as he teases his fingers up your spine. “Don’t- Don’t tease-“

“Not teasin’.” He nips at the corner of your mouth. “Just sayin’ things that are true, baby. Not my fault they make you all stupid.”

Your breath hitches, your head tipping back as your legs spread slightly. Dean hums, interest flashing in his gaze. He noticed. Of course he did. He notices everything.

“You like that?” He drawls, kissing over your cheek, then down your neck. “You like bein’ called baby? Or called stupid.”

His hand drifts up your side, until his thumb is grazing under your breast. The sensation, combined with his dirty words, makes your hips roll. A dizzy, pleased sigh escapes your lips. Dean chuckles, rubbing his thumb in a tight circle. His lips graze a sensitive spot on your neck, and your hips roll again.

“I think you like both.” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Dirty girl, bet you’re already wet for me.”

You whimper, the sound turning to a sharp gasp when Dean shoves his knee right between your thighs. You buck off the bed at the sudden pressure, eyes glazing and mouth hanging open.

Dean sucks on that sensitive spot, and your whole body shivers. You can’t stand to not move, not with the heat of him all around you. His thumb drags up, brushing over your nipple right as his tongue flicks against your skin. You start to mindlessly grind against his knee, chasing just a little bit more friction. Dean chuckle, biting softly at your neck before bullying his knee further against your clothed cunt.

“That’s it.” He growls in your ear. “Messy fuckin’ girl, already humping my leg. You need it that bad, sweetheart? Can’t even wait for me?”

“I- I’m sorry-“ You whine, trying to stop your body from moving.

It doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. Dean slips his hand from under your shirt and grabs your jaw, forcing your gaze onto his, and his attention just fuels the wildfire under your skin. You need him, and form of him you can get. You need him harsh and all over your body, until there’s are marks you won’t be able to wash away in the morning. You need him to claim you so deeply neither of you can back out.

Dean watches you with a gentle, but sharp awe. Like he’s trying to memorize the scene below him, that you’re sure is quiet a sight. You fucking his leg like a dog in heat, your adoration and love finally allowed to pour all over your face.

“Need you,” you breathe out, grabbing his wrist. “Need you so bad, Dean.”

A low rumble leaves his chest, his eyes getting darker with every tiny moan from your lips. His attention is almost too much. You try and turn your face into the sheets, but he tugs it back with barely a flick of his wrist.

“Dean, please-“

“Look at me.” He taps your cheek with one finger, slamming his knee forward.

Your glossy, tear-stained eyes dart to his, and he smirks. It’s soft, but dangerous. He smiles down at you, and another breath of his name escapes your lips.

“What do you want, sweet girl?” He murmurs, squeezing your hand. “Use your words.”

It takes you a second to remember how. “You,” you breathe out, and Dean’s jaw ticks. “Want you, Dean, always wanted you-“

“I know, baby,” he coos, leaning slowly down. Your noses bump, and you whimper, closing your eyes. “You want me so bad it hurts, don’t you. Bet your little pussy is fuckin’ calling my name, begging me to stuff her up.”

“Yes,” you nod, bobbleheaded and dizzy. “Oh my god, yes-“

“But how.” His voice turns stern, the heat of his breath making you shiver. “Do you want me? Soft? Or,” he pushes your further down onto his knee, and your eyes roll a little back. “Hard?”

Dean drags his thumb over your lips, squeezing your cheeks into a tiny pout. You try to keep fucking his knee, but he’s got you pinned so hard against it that you can’t move. You’re trapped in a cruel kind of heaven, with everything right on the brink of falling, and Dean holding you over the edge by the nape of your neck.

“Hard,” you whisper, dragging your eyes open to meet his. He needs to see it. How bad you want him. “Wanna- Ohh-“ Your lashes flutter, as Dean starts to slowly grind his knee against your core. “Wanna feel you. All of you. Don’t- Don’t hold back.”

His grip on your jaw tightens. His voice drops a full octave. “Baby, are you-“

“Yes.” You smile at him, already a little drunk on his everything. “I trust you.”

And that seems to be what gets him. Dean blinks at you for a second, the façade of pure control slipping. You know it’s a game, and that when you’re done he’s going to coddle you like a princess. But you’re not sure he knew you knew. Not sure he understood that, even when you thought he hated you, you would’ve placed your life in his hands without even a beat of hesitation.

Dean leans down, and kisses you slowly. Sweetly. His hand pulls from yours, and he wraps his arm around your lower back. His fingers tickle your sides a little, teasing the side of your breast, and you giggle. Dean grunts, pushing you further into the mattress. It just makes you giggle more.

“Somethin’ funny?” He mutters, and you can hear it again. He’s back in this. It sends a shivering thrill through your body.

You need more. And you shake your head, trying to test just how much it takes him to snap.

“You’re laughin’ like something’s funny.” Dean leans back up, glaring down at your lovedrunk, giddy expression.

There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.

You’re about to be fucked into next week.

“Look at you.” He mutters, palming at your breast through your shirt. You gasp, arching into the touch, and Dean chuckles. “You’d do anything I told you, huh. Just to make me fuck you.”

You shake your head, and Dean chuckles.

“Don’t lie, princess. Good girls don’t lie to me.”

Your breath catches. Your thighs press around Dean’s knee, the grind of your hips short and uncontrolled. He lets you writhe below him, smirking at the pants that escape your lips.

“Does it hurt?” he coos, smearing some spit over your cheek. “Your pussy aching, baby girl? Already can’t take it?”

“N- No.” You choke out. “I can take it-“

“Doesn’t seem like you can.” He mutters, scanning over your limp body. “I’m not even touchin’ you and you’re about to cum. Can’t believe you’re that fucking easy.”

You whimper, shaking your head. “I- I’m not easy-“

“Yeah?” Dean mocks. “How many other guys you fucked?”

“Two. Just two-“

“They make you feel like this?”

“No- Never-“

“Damn right. They don’t.” Dean grunts. “You’re mine, princess. My fuckin’ girl.”

You whimper, heat rushing through you at the possession in his voice. You are his. He has no idea, how completely and totally his you are.

“Say you’re mine.” Dean orders, and you nod.

“Yours. All yours, Dean, I’m- Fuuuck-“

He pinches your nipple rolling it between two fingers. Your hips try to buck off the bed, but he’s pinned you down too well.

“Fuck- Dean- You can’t just-“

You moan, and he chuckles.

“Oh, baby.” He leans back down, brushing a featherlight kiss over your lips. “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

Dean nips on your lower lip, then rises back up, patting your cheek.

“Open.”

You do, without a thought. He chuckles, leans down, and spits right into your swollen lips.

“Swallow.” He grunts, and you obey.

You lick your lips for good measure. Just to see how he’ll react. His mouth falls a little open, a deep, possessive sound rumbling chest.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, almost fully to himself. “So fuckin’ eager. You ready to listen, princess?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, and add for good measure. “Please.”

 Dean’s lips twitch. “Beggin’ and I don’t even have you naked yet. We should fix that.”

“Fix what-“

“Stand up.” Dean drags you upright with steady, but firm hands.