Kirst🌻

You didn’t do “regret.”

Regret implied failure somewhere along the carefully constructed architecture of your life, it implied you had made a wrong turn and now sat mourning an alternate version of events where you had somehow known better and you hated that mentality. Things happened, people changed, choices got made and you dealt with them. End of story.

Dean Di Laurentis was not one of your regrets.

He wasn’t just some ex-boyfriend reduced to funny anecdotes over cocktails and late-night gossip with friends. Dean had been your first love in every embarrassingly real sense of the word, the one that settled deep inside your bones and permanently rearranged them afterward and you had been his right back. Every awkward discovery, every fumbling touch, every late night conversation about sex, fear and the future had happened side by side, learning each other carefully until it became impossible to tell where one of you ended and the other began.

People always assumed you’d dated longer than you actually had whenever his name slipped into conversation, maybe because of the weight attached to it. The relationship itself had lasted barely over a year but it had consumed enough emotional space to feel infinite.

That single year had carved through your life with enough intensity to feel longer than most marriages.

Before that, there had been years of orbiting each other helplessly and cautiously, dancing around feelings both of you recognized long before either admitted until eventually neither of you remembered who had caved first.

Even now, you would both choose the word “sacred” because you had been each other’s “one and only”.

Even years later, the relationship remained untouched territory between you both, so sacred that your names still occasionally stuck in each other’s throats like some forbidden incantation. Friends joked about exes casually while you and Dean handled each other like loaded weapons.

You had been the one to end it before he left for Briar and it wasn’t because you stopped loving him. That would've made things easier.

Dean had his future lined up with terrifying precision back then, hockey, school, structure and goals stacked neatly one after another while you still felt haunted by pieces of your past you couldn’t quite outrun yet. You loved him enough to know he deserved freedom, deserved college without having to constantly worry about the girl still trying to keep herself afloat hundreds of miles away carrying baggage heavy enough for two people.

Dean had disagreed immediately, actually, “disagreed” was putting it lightly. He had outright said ‘no’ like a breakup required mutual consent.

For six straight weeks afterward, he ignored the fact you’d ended things entirely. He kept showing up after your classes, kept texting you good morning and kept trying to take you to dinner as if stubborn consistency alone could undo heartbreak if he refused to acknowledge it properly. Eventually, you had to stop answering altogether because every time you saw him, you almost folded.

The breakup itself stayed strangely gentle despite that. There had been no screaming, betrayal or dramatic ending, only two people loving each other badly timed.

Years later, you still existed in each other’s peripheral vision through social media and mutual friends. You knew about his hockey career because his face appeared online often enough for avoidance to become impossible. Sometimes you allowed yourself a few extra seconds reading comments underneath interviews or game clips before forcing yourself to scroll away without interacting while Dean did the same.

He knew about your travelling, your art and the gallery work, as well as the occasional blurry appearances of people beside you in pictures. He never believed any of the men lasted very long because somewhere deep down he couldn’t picture anyone understanding you correctly.

When nights got too quiet, he reread old messages he absolutely should’ve deleted years ago but tonight had been particularly bad.

The Briar Hawks had lost earlier that week and apparently half the team decided the healthiest way to cope with that was snapping at each other until morale hit rock bottom. Practices had turned tense, locker room conversations shorter and sharper, everyone carrying irritation under their skin like bruises they kept pressing on purpose. Dean usually handled losses well, but after days of teammates barking at each other and coaches running everyone into the ground, something inside him started feeling worn thin in a way hockey normally never managed, so he escaped. 

By the time he got back to his family’s New York penthouse, he’d convinced himself silence would fix whatever had been clawing at him lately. Instead, the place just felt empty in expensive ways. Too much glass, too much space and too many rooms carrying memories of you around like ghosts that paid rent there.

Especially once he found that old video in his phone. He recognized the exact window immediately because he stood in front of it now, the city spread before him in dark glittering lights while your younger voice filled the room through his phone speakers.

The video shook slightly as you filmed the skyline from his bedroom years ago, your laughter airy and careless while midnight painted the windows black.

“That’s so beautiful,” you’d murmured softly. “I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of it.”

“Of me?” younger Dean joked instantly, voice muffled into the mattress somewhere next to you. He could practically remember himself face-down and exhausted after sex. “I hope not.”

Your laughter burst out louder then, making the camera jerk slightly.

“And I hope this is one of those things where you’re filming the view but actually calling me beautiful…That’d be romantic.”

“I bet you’d love that,” you cackled.

“Not more than I do you.”

Dean closed his eyes briefly. He remembered exactly how that video ended, the laughter dissolving slowly into kissing, into tangled sheets, whispered conversations and love making that lasted until dawn turned the skyline pale blue and gold.

He had never revisited those videos before tonight but something about hearing your younger laugh again cracked open a weak spot he’d spent years trying to reinforce.

Meanwhile, you sat tucked inside a crowded New York bar with old friends, laughing hard enough your stomach hurt while someone retold a story you’d already heard three separate times over the years. Your trip was short, barely a few days for work but it justified reconnecting with people you missed whenever life slowed down long enough to let nostalgia sneak in.

Dean knew exactly where you were because of one Instagram story, one tagged location…and one bad idea.

Your phone buzzed against the sticky wooden table just as you lifted your drink toward your mouth.

The second you saw his name, everything inside you stalled. 

Your laughter cut off so abruptly one of your friends frowned instantly. “Y/n? You okay?”

“What?” You blinked hard, lifting your brows too quickly as you straightened. “Yeah. Yes. I just– excuse me one second.”

You grabbed your phone before you could think better of it and slipped outside into the cool night air of the city, the muffled bass from the bar fading behind you as you pressed answer and raised the phone to your ear.

Ten full seconds of silence followed. There was no greeting or breathing, so naturally you started thinking that maybe he called accidentally or lost his nerve halfway through because surely…this was a bad idea, right?

“How’s New York?” he asked suddenly, voice finally cutting through the silence.

You smiled despite yourself. You had heard his voice plenty over the years through interviews, videos teammates posted and clips floating around online after games but none of those had been meant for you. This was. 

You could hear the exhaustion underneath it now that it wasn’t filtered through screens and public smiles.

“I have a feeling you already know,” you replied calmly, leaning your shoulder against the brick wall outside the bar.

Silence stretched again as you weighed your next words carefully, debating whether to let him hide behind casual conversation or acknowledge that you knew him too well for that. In the end, the defeated undertone in his voice made the decision for you. The Hawks had lost, sure, but Dean didn’t call only because of hockey.

“That bad, huh?” you asked softly.

You heard him exhale quietly on the other end. “It might get worse if I don’t do this.”

Your brows furrowed slightly. “Do what?”

“Fail at being a proper ex.” The soft laugh escaping him pulled one from you too before you could stop it.

“We’re awful at it,” you admitted.

Dean laughed properly then, low and warm through the speaker. “It’s pathetic,” he said. “On my part, at least…Seems like you’re doing alright.”

You looked down at the pavement, smiling faintly to yourself. “I still picked up on the first ring.”

“It rang three times on my end,” he argued. He tried sounding teasing about it but you caught the truth underneath. For a second there, he’d genuinely thought maybe you finally wouldn’t answer anymore.

You laughed softly. “Once on mine. And I’m pretty sure I was the one who called last time…or the one before that.”

Dean leaned his head back against the penthouse window behind him, smiling helplessly to himself. God, you still sounded exactly the same…same voice and cadence, same way of speaking that made him feel seventeen and stupidly in love all over again.

“I’ll always pick up,” you reminded him quietly, turning your head to glance through the bar windows at your friends inside. “You know that.”

“And I’ll always call,” he admitted. “Hoping you’ll come.”

The honesty in it hit you straight in the chest. You heard him clear his throat awkwardly afterward, probably rubbing at the back of his neck the way he always did when he felt too exposed.

“I’m at The Heyward…if you–”

Your thoughts disappeared entirely. One second you had common sense and self-preservation and the next your brain had turned into static. Seeing him tonight became the only coherent thing left glowing obnoxiously bright in the middle of it all.

“I can…” you interrupted softly before you could stop yourself. You almost heard your own better judgment trying to physically drag the words back down your throat.

Fuck it, it’s fine.

“I can be there in maybe…thirty minutes.”

The relief on the other end was immediate even if Dean tried hiding it. He let out a breath you were pretty sure he’d been holding since you answered.

“I can text you the address.”

You chuckled quietly, your hand already resting on the handle of the bar door. “I’ve never had trouble finding my way back.”

Both of you fell silent for half a second after. There it was…the truth neither of you had ever really escaped. You thought you were over it and done, you thought you were through. Thought maybe distance, years and other people would've eventually worn the feelings down into something manageable but there was no denying perfection once you’d already had it.

“No,” Dean murmured under his breath. “That you haven’t.”

You were grateful the night had already started winding down by the time he called.

Back inside, you announced vaguely that you were exhausted, that work had drained you and you needed sleep before your meetings tomorrow. Conveniently, your departure encouraged a few other people to call it a night too, which kept anyone from paying too much attention to your sudden need to leave.

You paid your tab, hugged your friends goodbye and stepped into a car fully aware you were actively driving toward the destruction of every sensible decision you’d made over the past few years…and worse? You didn’t even feel guilty about it.

The route to Dean’s place came back to you embarrassingly easily, every turn felt familiar enough to make your chest tighten. Somewhere during the drive, you realized there had been dozens of opportunities to stop this before it happened, yet you ignored every single one.

By the time you walked into the building lobby, your mind had gone almost completely blank again.

The elevator ride to the top floor felt endless, your pulse hammering harder with every passing second which was enough time to turn around, to remember all the reasons this was a terrible idea but when the doors slid open… there he was.

Standing barefoot in the doorway already waiting for you, completely unaware of the plans he was wrecking and probably even less aware of how deeply fucked up this whole thing was.

Dean smiled the second he saw you and you were sure you’d seen much hotter men…you just really couldn’t remember when!

He carried you into the bedroom, bodies fused together as you kissed with a desperation that bordered on starvation. It was as if the air in the room had vanished, leaving only the scent of him and the heat of your skin as the only things keeping you alive. The room was slick and modern, all clean lines and muted tones but the atmosphere between you was chaotic and primal. Your tongues clashed and danced, a familiar rhythm that felt like coming home after a lifetime in exile.

Clothes were stripped away in a frantic blur of grasping hands and impatient tugs, discarded carelessly on the polished floors. The moment your skin was bare, he didn't waste a second. He pressed you back onto the bed, mouth immediately finding your breasts. He sucked your nipples into his mouth, swirling his tongue around the peaking tips with a hunger that made your toes curl. You arched your back, breath hitching in jagged gasps as he alternated between biting and sucking, marking you as his own again.

He moved then, sliding down the length of your body and knelt at the foot of the bed, his presence commanding and focused. He reached down, large hands gripping your thighs, massaging the soft flesh with a firm pressure that forced your legs wide open, exposing you completely to his gaze.

As he leaned in, his eyes locked onto yours with a deep, piercing stare that communicated everything the silence couldn't. There was an intense, wordless understanding in his expression, a recognition of every curve and every hidden need of your body. He knew exactly where to touch, how much pressure to apply and exactly how to break you.

When his tongue first made contact with your clit, a violent shiver racked your entire frame. He licked you with long, slow strokes, savoring the taste of your arousal. He began to suck the small, sensitive nub into his mouth, creating a vacuum that sent electric shocks straight to your core. You let out a loud moan, fingers diving into his hair, gripping the strands tightly and pushing his face harder against your pussy.

He responded by sliding two fingers deep inside you. The intrusion was sudden and perfect, filling you up while his tongue continued its relentless assault on your clit. He began to pump his fingers in a rhythmic, curling motion, hitting your G-spot with a precision that made your hips jerk uncontrollably to meet him halfway.

The world outside the bedroom ceased to exist. There was no past or future, only the friction of his fingers and the wet, sliding warmth of his tongue. You watched him through hooded eyes, seeing the way he focused on your pleasure, the way his jaw tightened as he worked to bring you to the edge.

Your moans became a constant, melodic soundtrack to the act, filling the modern silence of the room. You couldn't hear your own thoughts anymore, the mental noise had been drowned out by the sheer intensity of the physical sensation. Your mind stopped processing language, stopped questioning and fearing. Even your internal monologue dissolved into a single, echoing "ah" that vibrated through your soul.

He increased the pace, fingers fluttering inside you while his tongue flicked faster and harder against your clit. He was driving you toward a cliff and you were leaning into the fall. You gripped his hair tighter, pulling him in, legs shaking as the tension built into an unbearable coil in your lower belly.

The orgasm hit you hard. Your internal muscles clamped down hard on his fingers, pulsing in rhythmic waves of ecstasy. You screamed into the quiet room, your back arching off the mattress as your vision blurred. Every nerve ending fired at once, a blinding explosion of white light and heat that left you breathless and trembling. You collapsed back into the sheets, your chest heaving, staring down at him with wide, glazed eyes as the aftershocks continued to ripple through your body.

He didn't let you linger in the afterglow for long. He began to crawl back up the bed, lips trailing a path of fire across your inner thighs, your stomach and your breasts, kissing every inch of skin as if he were reclaiming territory. When his lips finally crashed against yours, the kiss was different, no longer just desperate but possessive and deep. You wrapped your arms around his neck, your tongue tangling with his, while your hand slid down between your bodies to find him.

The moment your fingers closed around his cock, a jolt of need shot through you. It was thick, pulsing and scorching hot. You gripped him firmly, jerking him with a rhythm that spoke of a hunger you had suppressed for far too long. During the months you had spent with other men, you had tried to bury the memory of this specific weight, this specific hardness but the second you touched him, the comparisons were devastating. No one else compared to this.

He let out a low groan right into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest. With a sudden, powerful movement, he manhandled you, flipping you over onto your stomach. You gasped as your chest hit the mattress, your face now aligned with the floor-to-ceiling windows. You looked out at the view you loved so much, to the city lights shimmering like fallen stars but the scenery was secondary to the weight of him pressing you down.

Dean moved to your ear, licking the lobe before sucking it deeply, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin. He trailed kisses behind your ears and down the nape of your neck, his hot breath sending fresh shivers racing down your spine. You were both breathing heavily, the air in the room thick with the scent of sex and arousal.

He reached for a pillow, shoving it swiftly under your hips. The movement propped your ass up, arching your back and tilting your pelvis perfectly toward him. In one fluid, decisive motion, he aligned his head against your still pulsing, dripping wet cunt and thrusted home.

The impact was seismic. You both groaned in unison, a raw, primal sound of relief. Your head fell onto the mattress and he collapsed his forehead against your shoulder blades, both of you frozen for a moment as you breathed through the sheer intensity of the fullness. He was bare, sliding deep into your heat without any barrier and the feeling of skin-on-skin friction was overwhelming. Any thought of consequences or logic was incinerated, the only thing that mattered was the way he filled every single void inside you.

As he began to move, the friction was exquisite. He started with slow, heavy thrusts that seemed to reach your very soul, pulling back until he was almost out before slamming back in. You let out throaty whines as your fingers clawed at the sheets and your vision began to blur, making the city lights outside merge into a haze of color that mirrored the fog settling over your mind.

He reached down, hand searching for yours. Instead of letting you grip the linens, he interlocked his fingers with yours, pinning your hand against the bed. The intimacy of the gesture, combined with the rhythmic pounding of his cock in your pussy, was too much.

"Holy...angh, fuck!" you breathed shakily, squeezing his fingers as his large hand completely encompassed yours.

"I know you’ve missed this," he rasped, his voice a low, gravelly vibration against your skin.

"How...?" you managed to gasp out between broken moans, hips instinctively bucking back against him, begging for more.

"Because I have..." he groaned, pace quickening as the sound of your wet bodies slapping together filled the room. "And fuck...you're so tight. Reminds me exactly whose cock you were molded for first."

The words fueled the fire. He began to fuck you with a relentless, driving force, each thrust hitting your G-spot with bruising precision. The feeling of being claimed after so long was intoxicating, this wasn't just sex, it was an erasure of everyone else who had touched you in his absence. You felt stretched, filled and completely dominated.

As the tension began to coil again, tighter and more violent than before, he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. "Enjoying the view?" he whispered, feeling the internal muscles of your pussy begin to squeeze and ripple around him in desperate spasms.

You let out a breathless, broken laugh that dissolved into a loud moan. "Can't...can't really focus on liking anything but you right now."

That confession broke his last shred of restraint. He abandoned the slow rhythm for a frantic, punishing pace, his fingers squeezing yours so hard it almost hurt but you welcomed the pain. 

You were spiraling, the pleasure building into a towering wall of heat.

The climax hit you both simultaneously. You screamed into the mattress as your walls clamped down on him in violent, rhythmic contractions. He let out a loud grunt, thrusting one last time as deep as he could go, filling you with his hot, thick cum. You both shook violently, locked together in a crushing embrace, the world outside the window disappearing entirely as you drowned in the sensation of finally being whole again.

For a few long, heavy seconds, neither of you moved. You remained as you were, the only sound in the room was the ragged, synchronized gasping of your breath. He stayed buried deep inside you, his weight pressing you firmly into the mattress, chest heaving against your back. You could feel him still pulsing, the aftershocks of his orgasm sending waves of heat through your core as he continued to leak his thick, hot cum deep into your womb.

Slowly, he began to move, his muscles tensing as he tried to pull out. The sensation of his thick cock sliding against your sensitized walls was almost too much to bear yet the friction was delicious, dragging against every nerve ending that was still screaming from the climax. But as he withdrew, he found he couldn't fully let go. The tight, wet grip of your pussy was clinging to him, refusing to let him leave.

He let out a low, shaky breath and instead of pulling away completely, he began to slowly fuck the remaining cum back into you. “Don’t you spill a single drop.”

He pushed in, a slow and agonizingly deep slide that filled you to the absolute brim.

"Ugh fuck…" you moaned, the sound raw, vibrating through the mattress. The feeling of being stretched wide again, combined with the slickness of his seed acting as a lubricant, made the sensation incredibly intense.

He paused for a heartbeat, letting you feel the sheer girth of him, before he slid back out almost entirely, until only the head remained teasing your entrance and then slammed back in with a heavy, wet thud.

"Mmmh…" you whined, voice breaking.

The sounds were obscene, the loud, squelching slap-squish of your wet bodies colliding echoing through the quiet room. Every thrust sounded like a splash, the excess cum and your own juices bubbling around the point of impact. It was a primal, messy sound that only served to heighten the eroticism of the moment.

You couldn't find words anymore. Instead, you began to hum, a low, vibrating sound in the back of your throat that mirrored the pleasure radiating through your lower body. Your entire frame began to quake, a fine tremor that started in your thighs and traveled up your spine.

Inside, your pussy was in chaos. The walls were spasming, clamping down on his cock in involuntary, rhythmic pulses. Each time he pushed in, your muscles gripped him with a desperate, milking intensity, squeezing him tight as if trying to draw every last drop of pleasure from his body. You were a trembling mess beneath him, completely undone, shivering through the exquisite torture of those slow, wet and deep thrusts.

In between slow kisses and another round of loving, unhurried sex beneath the steaming spray of the shower, you somehow found your way back to his bed again, skin damp, limbs heavy and loose from exhaustion and familiarity. The city lights spilled through the massive windows in streaks of gold and white, cutting across the sheets and over Dean’s bare chest as he laid facing you, one arm tucked beneath his pillow while the other traced lazy paths up and down your naked arm, fingertips catching on goosebumps every now and then. 

Your own hand moved over his face just as slowly, mapping features you already knew by heart but still wanted to relearn anyway, the sharper line of his jaw, the faint crease between his brows, the mouth that always looked seconds away from either a grin or trouble. Time had matured him in unfair ways. He looked older now, rougher around the edges, broader everywhere and yet the expression in his eyes while looking at you still carried traces of the boy who once refused to let you break up with him for six straight weeks.

“What were you thinking?” you asked softly, voice barely louder than the hum of the city beneath you both.

Dean’s eyes stayed on yours while his thumb dragged slowly over your shoulder. “That I needed to get you,” he admitted quietly. “The screen wasn’t cutting it anymore.”

Your thumb lowered to his lips, tracing the soft fullness of them while silence settled comfortably around you again. The truth was neither of you had been thinking much at all tonight. You had simply tripped into each other all over again, like muscle memory, like every version of yourselves somehow still led back here no matter how much distance or time you forced in between. Every conversation with Dean eventually became this strange gravity neither of you ever fully escaped.

His hand slid from your shoulder higher, warm palm settling around your neck as he tugged you closer across the pillows. “What’s so bad about a little lovin’?” he murmured with a crooked grin, the words brushing teasingly against your lips before he kissed you again, slow at first and then deep enough to make your chest ache.

Your heart practically sighed at the feeling while your brain cursed it immediately after. 

“I only see him as a friend” it told you, which was the biggest lie it ever said.