My World

The voice acting starts because of a guest spot on Javadi’s podcast. It’s another hustle she’s running alongside the Tiktoks, trying to give the public a taste of what life is really like on the front lines. He ends up talking about the eccentricities of the night shift, how you have to be a special type of person to fall in with the night crawlers, to do the things that his team do in the dark.

It’s Jesse that approaches him about the comments in the aftermath. He thinks Javadi’s too embarrassed to which is why he ends up hunched over the nurse’s station studying the nurse’s phone as he scrolls through the litany of people describing how sexy his voice is, how they could listen to it for hours no matter what he’s saying.

“You know…” Jesse says his thumb hovering a pink icon on his phone with a ‘q’ in the centre. “There’s this thing I do that no one knows about, it’s kind of wild.”

“Wilder than getting shot at on a Friday night?” Jack asks him as the full screen for an app called Quinn flashes up. He’s still salty that he didn’t pass that last TEMS psych eval. Apparently, it wasn’t what his therapist meant when he told him he needed to get a hobby.

“It’s… a different type of wild.” Jesse’s teeth sink into his lower lip indecisively before pulling up a profile entitled ThatSilverFox. He hands Jack the phone, the doctor’s eyebrows furrowing into a frown as he studies the details.

ThatSilverFox – Purveyor of fantasies and dedicated to your pleasure.

Scripts written by Red Velvet.

Male - 50,987 listeners – 5,000,567 plays.

345 Audios:

Boys & Their Toys – My new toy has arrived and you like to watch. [M4F] [Exhibitionism] [Voyeurism] [Toys] [Vibrator] [Edging Myself]

Bad Romance – You’ve been a bad girl and I need to teach you a lesson. [M4F] [Bondage] [Spanking] [Degradation] [MDom] [Blindfold] [Red Room]

The Boss – The way you’re bending over that desk… it gives me a lot of bad ideas. [M4F] [Power Dynamics] [Boss x Employee] [Oral] [Praise] [Body Worship]

There’s more, hundreds more. All with different tags and kinks.

“Are you telling me that the entire time I’ve known you, you’ve been secretly recording audio porn…” Jack hisses under his breath as he continues to thumb through the profile. He has to hand it to Jesse, he’s versatile.

 “I started doing it to pay my way through nursing college and well, I got really fucking good at it.” Jesse says running a hand through his snare of gray curls. “One of my friends on the same course wanted to try her hand at script writing. She says it’s a great way to decompress after a pulling a shift at this hellhole.”

“This… Red Velvet… she works here too?” His gaze strays to a nurse that drifts past, his eyes narrowing as if trying to detect if they have a secret life as an erotic script writer.

“You’d be surprised by how many people in this place have worked in adult entertainment to make ends meet.” Jesse says with a seriousness Jack feels in the depths of his soul. They all know the story of Dennis Whitaker, homeless until Santos took him in, living on the 8th floor. “This is safe, inclusive, it gives us control and she’s right, it is a great way to decompress, something I think you’re struggling with after what happened with TEMS.”

Jack clears his throat, his palm scrubbing over the back of his neck as he takes in Jesse’s words. As much as he doesn’t want to admit it to himself, he spends most of his downtime in a state of hypervigilance, listening to the police scanner, bitter he isn’t one of those people rushing out to help. TEMS made him feel useful in a way he can’t explain to others who haven’t been a part of the services. That desire to deserve it’s been bred into him ever since his first tour and on his days off he finds himself lacking purpose.

“I mean I didn’t hate doing the podcast…” He says, shrugging his shoulders before gesturing at the phone that rests in the space between them. “But I’ve never done anything like that before, I wouldn’t know how.”

“Well…” Jesse drawls, his elbows coming to rest on the desk as the two of them bend their heads together conspiratorially. “I want to expand my brand a little, do a collaboration. Two guys, one girl kind of thing. The script Red Velvet has written is absolute fire, I just haven’t been able to find the right voice until…” He lets the rest of the sentence hang but Jack gets the drift.

“You think I’m the right voice?” Jack asserts, mulling this latest development over in his head.

Sex… it’s a fact of life. Something he’s very good at when he’s engaged in a relationship. And those kinks that were listed on Jesse’s profile, he’d participated in more than a few of them, the others… he wouldn’t mind exploring.

“I think you’ve got a great voice.” Jesse says earnestly before holding up his phone, shaking it from side to side. “And so do thousands of other people on the internet if Javadi’s podcast is anything to go by. I have studio set up at my place. We could do a few read throughs, you can get a feel for it, see if it’s your thing.”

“Alright.” It’s not like Jack has anything else to do when he’s not running the nightshift at PTMC, something like this, it might be a way to decompress, fill the time between shifts. “Send me the script and I’ll read it through.”

It’s an hour later his phone pings. He reaches into his pocket and see that Jesse was true to his word about sending the script the moment he got home.

Jesse Van Horn: File Attached.

Booked – A Red Velvet Original.

You get caught cheating and your professors must punish you any way they see fit. [MRoughDom] [MSoftDom] [Spanking] [Blowjobs] [Double Penetration] [Voyeurism] [Oral] [Overstimulation] [Pussy Slapping] [Fingering]  

His eyebrows raise as he studies the script. It’s clear which role he’s meant to fit into. He can hear Jesse’s voice as the Soft Dom, smoothing over his own Rough Dom hard edges.

Jesse Van Horn: What do you think?

Jack Abbot: I’m in.

Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here!

When you opened your eyes, you weren’t anywhere you recognised. This was a bedroom. In a house. Not somewhere on the streets.

It came back to you in a blur. The alley. You’d been setting up behind the bins. A guy had come out of the club for a smoke, and then another guy had come up and… and shot him. Straight in the head.

You rolled out of the bed, grabbing for the waste basket and emptying the meagre contents of your stomach into it. 

When you eventually stopped heaving, you took the chance to look around. Where were you? You’d fully expected the guy to kill you, but you must have passed out and now you were, well, wherever you were. 

Wonder which way do I go to get on out of here, you thought to yourself.

Using the bed to help you, you rose to your feet, but your legs were all wobbly, a side effect of the malnutrition you knew you were suffering from.

Just as you thought you had your footing, the door suddenly opened. The man, the man with the gun, stood there. You snatched up the lamp, ready to defend yourself.

“Stay back,” you cautioned, albeit impotently.

The man just rolled his eyes with an indulgent smile as he stepped forward. “Put that down before you hurt yourself, Mouse.”

“Mouse?” came your indignant squeak.You lifted the lamp a little higher, but he effortlessly wrestled it from you and placed it back down.

“Well,” he continued, “you were hiding behind some bins and calling you ‘Rat’ feels a bit mean. You want to tell me your real name?”

You shook your head, definitely not wanting to do that.

“Well, in that case, I’ll keep calling you Mouse and you can call me Sam.”

it was a slow day at the pitt but the day was soon coming to an end. Robby had just given a handoff to Jack, your boyfriend of 2 years. You could’ve gone home but you decided to linger and take your time.

“Girl” Trinity slides up beside you at the hub “have you seen that trend on tiktok where you make a comment about seeing someone you know on tinder and wait to see how long it takes your significant other to notice?”

You furrow your eyebrows as you think and then your eyes widen.

“Oh my god yes, that shit is funny as hell” you giggle, leaning your head on Trinity’s shoulder .

She shoves your arm playfully.

“Imagine how Abbot would react if you did that.”

“You mean my silently possessive, military conditioned, volunteer SWAT member boyfriend? Yes I guarantee he won’t have a cow about it at allllll.” the sarcasm is obvious through your laugh.

“Pssh c’monnn girl, does he even know what Tinder is?” she questions shaking your arm.

Your smile grows bigger “Maybe? Robby’s probably talked about it with him at some point.”

Trinity claps her hands loudly making you jump.

“That’s it! Say you saw Robby’s profile. It’s perfect!”

You shake your head in amusement.

“Okay but if he gets upset, I'm not making lasagna this weekend.”

“WHAT? Okay okay trust me it wont even come to that. Don’t threaten my favorite meal!” she begs.

You roll your eyes as you both wait for Jack to seek you out.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Not even an hour later and Jack makes his way to the nurses station in search of you. You see him come around the hall corner and scan the room until his eyes land on you.

He smiles wide as he walks over.

“Hey honey,” he kisses the side of your head “thought I missed ya leaving.”

You smile up at him from where you’re sitting.

“As if I would leave without saying goodbye.”

He chuckles as he pulls a chart and leans on the front of the desk and starts writing.

You look up and see Trinity make eye contact with you from the other end of the hub. She throws two thumbs up at you.

You grin a little before pulling out your phone.

“Oh my god that’s crazy.”

“What is?” Trinity asks to aid in the joke.

You look to her

“It’s Robby”

The name causes Jack to look up from the chart and at you.

“What? What about Robby, baby?”

You shake your head and raise your eyebrows.

“He’s on tinder. Didn’t know he was serious when he said he was looking for someone to break the seven week thing he has going on.”

“Oh yeah,” Jack says and looks back at the chart “said he was ‘serious’ this time. Love him but I don’t think he’ll stick with it right now.”

You furrow your eyebrows and look at Trinity. She shrugs, just as surprised as you.

She stands up and walks over to your side.

“Have you seen Mateo’s account yet?”

You shake your head playing along.

“No but if I do, I'm swiping left so fast. He’s like a brother to me.”

Jack doesn’t join in, clearly engrossed in the current chart he has.

You let out a dramatic huff.

“Hmm?” He looks towards you.

“Nothing baby” you sigh as you lean your head back against the chair.

Prank: failed.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

Jack leaves you and Trinity at the hub to find Robby for clarification on a chart.

He finds him in an exam room with Mateo as they clean up and restock.

Robby quickly helps him with the chart so it’s correct.

Jack leans against the doorway.

“My girl told me you’re finally on Tinder. Proud of you for putting yourself out there brother.”

Robby and Mateo look up.

“Thanks man, I'm hoping it goes well. Not sure what will happen.”

Mateo still looks at Jack with raised eyebrows.

Jack stares back with a confused expression.

“Spit it out Diaz, what’s wrong?”

“You said your girlfriend saw Robby on Tinder?”

“Yeah?” Jack nods slowly.

Mateo laughs a bit.

“So, your girlfriend saw Robby’s Tinder account. A dating app where you have to have an account to see anyone else’s account.”

Jack stares at him and they notice the moment it clicks for him.

“Oh fuck no.”

He then takes off at a jog in search of you.

“Some social media prank I’m assuming?” Robby asks with a smirk as he continues restocking.

“Oh you know it.” Mateo laughs.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You’re sitting in the break room getting ready to leave in a few minutes when quick footsteps grab your attention.

Looking up you see Jack walk in.

“Give me your phone.”

You scrunch your eyebrows.

“Uh why?”

He gets closer and tries grabbing it from you but you move it out of his reach.

“Nuh uh, what are you doing J?”

He huffs and leans all in your space to grab the phone.

“You have a tinder.”

Then it clicks.

He finally got it.

You try and hold back a smile.

“Now who said I did?”

He crowds you against the table, chest pressed to yours.

“Mateo said you can only see Tinder accounts if you have one.”

You try and hold in your laugh but fail as your body shakes from the giggles.

“Oh my g-god. I-I can’t” you laugh with a massive smile.

He looks at you confused.

“What’s funny?”

“It’s just a prank baby” you lay a hand on his bicep.

His hand goes to your hip.

“So, no Tinder account?”

You shake your head “No Tinder account baby. Pinky promise.”

He leans his forehead against yours and lets out a quiet laugh.

“Thank god. You can’t leave me sweetheart.”

You bring your other hand to his face and pull back to look him in the eyes.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

He kisses you briefly.

“HA YOU FELL FOR THAT. PRANK WAS A SUCCESS” a voice yells from the hallway.

He looks towards the doorway and then back to you.

“Santos?”

You grin and nod.

“Santos.”

・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

He was on the couch in the far corner, one long leg stretched out, the other bent, beer bottle loose in one hand, shoulders relaxed beneath a faded Briar Hockey hoodie because he had a game tomorrow and one beer was the tragic little line between responsible captain and washed-up campus cautionary tale. 

His hair was still damp from whatever shower he’d taken after practice, curls drying messy over his forehead, and he had that clean, warm, unfair look on his face that made girls drift toward him like someone had put out a bowl of candy.

One of them had drifted. She was perched on the arm of the couch beside him, angled in with her knees turned toward him, laughing at something Garrett said like he’d invented humour personally for her benefit. 

She had glossy hair and a tiny top and the kind of pretty, easy confidence that came from never having to wonder if people wanted you in a room. Her hand landed on Garrett’s arm once, light and quick. Then again, longer this time, fingers curling around his bicep like she was testing the merchandise.

The red cup crinkled slightly in her hand.

Garrett laughed. A low huff through his nose, mouth tilting, eyes dropping briefly before coming back up. It was the kind of laugh that looked private from across the room even if it wasn’t. The kind of laugh that made something hot and awful crawl up the back of her neck and settle behind her ears.

She took one sip from her cup and tasted nothing but melted ice and bad decisions.

“Careful, Kitty,” Dean said beside her. “Clench your jaw any harder and you’ll crack a tooth.”

She didn’t look at him. “Don’t call me that.”

Dean hummed into the rim of his beer. He’d appeared at her side sometime in the last five minutes, because rich boys had stealth settings when there was drama nearby. 

He wore a white t-shirt that probably cost more than her whole outfit and looked entirely too comfortable watching her quietly consider homicide. “It’s a cute nickname.”

“It’s not my name.”

“Yeah, but nicknames usually aren’t.”

She finally turned her head just enough to glare at him. Dean looked delighted, which made her want to shove him and also, unfortunately, made her feel a little less insane. 

He had that big, bright, nosy expression on his face, the one that said he had absolutely no intention of helping and every intention of narrating the crash if she drove herself into a wall.

“Mm,” she said flatly. “Whatever.”

Dean followed her gaze back to the couch. The girl was laughing again, leaning so far into Garrett’s space that her hair brushed his shoulder.

Garrett didn’t move away. He didn’t lean in either, which was probably supposed to mean something mature and rational, except her body was not currently accepting evidence from the defence. 

Her stomach had gone tight. Her tongue sat sharp behind her teeth. Every inch of her skin felt stupidly aware of how many times Garrett’s hands had been on her that week alone.

His fingers on the back of her neck while he kissed her in the kitchen. His mouth against her ear upstairs. His hoodie shoved into her arms when she’d complained about being cold, like he hadn’t cared, like he hadn’t watched her pull it on and then gone a little quiet around the eyes.

Casual. That was the word he liked so much.

Casual, apparently, meant making space for her at the counter without being asked. It meant texting her u up? and then getting pissy when she said no because she had an early class. 

It meant his hand sliding under the back of her shirt while they watched a movie with the guys and him acting like that was somehow normal. It meant his mouth on her throat and his stupid voice saying baby like he’d been born knowing it would make her softer, then turning around two days later and saying, very calmly, very publicly, that they weren’t dating.

Which was true. Technically.

Unfortunately, technically did not stop her from wanting to throw her drink at the girl’s stupid shiny little head.

Dean’s shoulder bumped hers, barely. “You could go over there.”

“And do what?”

“I don’t know. Bite her?”

She gave him a look.

“What?” Dean said, lifting both hands. “I’m workshopping.”

“I’m not jealous.”

Dean blinked at her. Then he looked back at Garrett, then at her again, slow and theatrical. “Oh, okay.”

“I’m not.”

“Right.”

“I just think it’s tacky.”

“Her?”

“Both of them.”

Dean nodded, deeply solemn. “Of course. This is an etiquette issue.”

“It is.”

“Very Miss Manners of you.”

She made a soft, mean little sound and looked away, because if she kept watching him smile at that girl, something was going to snap clean through her. The party kept moving around her like nobody else could feel the pressure building in the walls. 

Logan was somewhere near the dining room yelling, “No, no, house rules, you drink on a bounce,” like he was presiding over the Supreme Court. 

Tucker walked past with a plate of burnt pizza rolls and paused just long enough to assess her face, then Dean’s face, then Garrett’s corner of the couch.

“Oh,” Tucker said.

Dean nodded. “Yeah.”

Tucker looked back at her, kind but not soft enough to be annoying. “You good?”

“I’m amazing,” she said.

Tucker’s mouth twitched. “That sounded convincing.”

“I’m having the best night of my life,” she snapped. 

“Cool.” Tucker took one pizza roll off the plate, bit into it, immediately regretted it, and still swallowed because he was committed to dignity. “Just checking.”

She watched him go, jaw working.

Dean leaned closer, lowering his voice. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think he’s doing anything.”

That made something in her chest pull tight, because Dean wasn’t joking now, and that was worse. She could handle him being an idiot. She had built up a tolerance to Dean’s particular strain of idiocy. But concern made the whole thing embarrassing in a way she could feel under her skin.

She kept her eyes on the opposite wall. “He can do whatever he wants.”

“Sure.”

“He’s single.”

He shrugged, lips turning down. “Technically.”

She turned on him. “Don’t do that.”

Dean’s brows lifted. “Do what?”

“That little voice.”

“My voice is beautiful.”

“The thing where you all act like I’m his girlfriend when he’s the one walking around with a public service announcement that I’m not.”

Dean’s face shifted, amusement easing out at the corners. He looked over at Garrett again, and she hated how much she wanted him to tell her she was wrong. 

How much she wanted anyone to say Garrett was just being stupid, that everybody could see it, that she wasn’t standing there making herself sick over a guy who would go upstairs with someone else while she was still in the room.

Dean took a slow drink. “Yeah,” he said finally. “He’s an idiot.”

“That wasn’t helpful.”

“Wasn’t trying to be helpful. Just accurate.”

Across the room, Garrett stood, and the girl stood too.

For one second the party muffled itself around her, all the music and laughter and clattering cups dulling under the sudden hard rush of blood in her ears. 

Garrett said something to the girl, head tipped down so she could hear him over the noise. The girl smiled up at him, bright and satisfied, then touched his arm again. A small stroke of her thumb over the sleeve of his hoodie.

Her stomach dropped so sharply it almost felt physical, like missing a step in the dark.

Garrett started toward the stairs and the girl followed.

“Oh,” Dean said under his breath, and there was no humour in it this time.

She didn’t move at first. Her hand was still wrapped around the cup. Her mouth felt dry. The room had tilted a little, or maybe she had. She could see Garrett clearly as he cut through the living room, tall and easy and completely unaware that she was standing there with something vicious crawling around inside her ribs. 

Or maybe he did know. Maybe that was worse. Maybe he knew exactly where she was and had still decided to walk past her with another girl trailing after him toward the stairs that led to his room.

Casual. Cool. Fine.

She lifted her cup to her mouth and realised it was empty.

Garrett noticed her when he was close enough that it was too late to pretend she hadn’t seen. His gaze flicked from her face to Dean, then back again, and something changed in his expression. Confusion first. A little crease between his brows, mouth settling, shoulders still loose but no longer careless.

The girl came up beside him, close enough that her arm brushed his. Garrett looked at her, nodded toward the stairs, and said, “I’ll meet you up there.”

She nodded, smiling, then slipped around him and went upstairs.

Dean made a noise into his beer that sounded like a man trying very hard not to choke on stupidity.

Garrett watched the girl disappear, then turned back. “What’s wrong?”

Dean coughed. “Brother.”

Garrett’s eyes cut to him. “What?”

Dean shook his head and took one step back. “Nothing. I just love when you’re dumb.”

Garrett ignored him, attention coming back to her. “What’s wrong?”

She looked up at him. He was close now. Close enough that she could see the little damp curls around his hairline, the faint bruise yellowing near his jaw from last weekend’s game, the stupid dark sweep of his lashes when he blinked down at her like she was the one being difficult. 

Like he hadn’t just sent another girl upstairs to wait in his room. Like her body wasn’t reacting to the whole thing with an ugly, nauseous twist that made her want to either laugh in his face or claw her way out of her own skin.

“What’s wrong?” she repeated.

Garrett’s brows drew tighter. “Yeah.”

She smiled. It didn’t feel nice on her face. “Don’t be stupid.”

His jaw shifted. “Okay. What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dean took another tiny step away, then immediately stopped because his survival instinct was at war with his need to witness the entire thing.

She set her empty cup on the nearest bookshelf with such careful precision that Garrett’s eyes followed the movement. Then she looked back at him and kept her voice light. Sweet, almost. “If you fuck her, you’re never touching me again.”

Garrett blinked. Dean inhaled so sharply he almost whistled. 

For a second, no one said anything. Someone screamed with laughter in the kitchen. A bass-heavy song rattled through the floorboards. 

Garrett’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “What?”

She tipped her head, widening her eyes in a cruel little imitation of him. “What?”

His face hardened by degrees. That familiar Garrett switch where something got too close to an exposed nerve and he decided arrogance was quicker than honesty. “We’re not dating.”

Dean made a strangled sound. “Oh, man.”

Garrett pointed at him without looking away from her. “Stay out of it.”

“No, I’m sorry,” Dean said, not sounding sorry at all. “I’m incapable. You don’t fuck someone else in front of her, dude.”

Garrett glared at him. “I said stay out of it.”

She laughed once, sharp enough to make Garrett’s eyes snap back to hers. “No, no. Let him talk. He’s making sense for once.”

Dean pressed a hand to his chest. “That felt backhanded, but I’ll take it.”

Garrett’s nostrils flared slightly. “I wasn’t–” He cut himself off, dragging a hand over his mouth, then looked down at her again. “You don’t get to make rules for me.”

That landed worse than she wanted it to, because every part of this was built on nothing solid enough to hold. No title. No promise. No soft, stupid conversation in daylight where either of them admitted what they were doing. 

She kept smiling anyway.

“I’m not making any rules.” Her voice was calm enough that even Dean looked at her twice. “You can do whatever you want, Garrett. I’m not your girlfriend. You’ve made that incredibly fucking clear. So go upstairs. Have fun. I’m not going to tackle her in the hallway.”

His face flickered. Just once.

She stepped in a fraction closer, because if she stopped now, she might actually start shaking, and she would rather die in the hallway with Dean watching than give Garrett that. 

She tipped her chin up, all teeth around the edges of her smile. “But it’s simple, baby. Stick your dick in her, and you never get to stick it in me ever again. Okay?”

Dean stared at the ceiling like he had just seen God. Garrett went very still.

His eyes dropped to her mouth, then came back up. His hand tightened around the neck of his beer bottle. For all his cocky, golden-boy bullshit, for all the easy girls and easy smiles and campus-wide Garrett Graham mythos, he looked briefly like she’d shoved him hard enough to make him feel where the edge was.

“Okay,” he said. It came out low.

She blinked. “Okay?”

His jaw worked once. “Yeah. Okay.”

Dean’s head whipped toward him. “Wow. Love personal growth.”

Garrett shot him a look that should have melted paint off the wall. “Dean.”

“I’m going, I’m going.” Dean lifted both hands and backed up another step, but not before looking at her with open admiration. “For the record, Kitty, that was terrifying.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Yeah, no, for sure.” He nodded, still backing away. “Very scary. Loved it.”

He disappeared toward the kitchen, probably to tell Logan and Tucker immediately.

Garrett looked at her for another second, then glanced toward the stairs. Something in her body tightened again, bracing. Waiting for him to go up anyway. Waiting for him to prove the whole thing meant less to him than it did to her.

Instead, he turned and shoved his beer onto the bookshelf beside her cup. “Stay here.”

Her laugh came out before she could stop it. “Excuse me?”

“Just–” Garrett stopped, visibly swallowed the first version of whatever he wanted to say, and tried again. “Don’t leave.”

It was a little rough around the edges, a little too quick, like the thought of her walking out had gotten under his skin before he could pretend otherwise.

She crossed her arms. “Why?”

Garrett looked at her like she was exhausting, which might have been more effective if he hadn’t just made a girl wait in his room and then told the girl he wasn’t dating not to leave. “Because I’m going upstairs to tell her to go.”

She hated how much that loosened something in her chest. She crossed her arms tighter, because if she didn’t, she might do something embarrassing, like believe him too quickly. “Fine.”

Garrett’s eyes stayed on hers. “Fine?”

“Go.”

He nodded once, then hesitated, hand flexing at his side like he wanted to touch her and knew better. “She’s leaving,” he said.

“She better.”

His mouth twitched despite everything. “Yeah, Kitty.”

“Don’t call me that.”

But this time, she didn’t sound nearly mean enough.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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Logan snorts, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his broad shoulder. “Mutually beneficial exchange of joy? Did you read that in a poetry textbook, Di Laurentis? Or is that just the line you used on the kappa sig girl last night?”

“First of all, her name was Britney,” Dean corrects, flashing a bright, wicked grin. “And second, I didn’t use any lines. I am simply a purveyor of good times. I like women. Women like me. It’s the circle of life, Elton John style.”

“You’re a menace,” Garrett mutters, though he’s grinning. Garrett is walking beside Beau, who is casually tossing a small foam football between his hands. Tucker brings up the rear, quiet and imposing, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his denim jacket.

“I am a public servant,” Dean fires back, spinning around so he’s finally walking forward, falling into step with the rest of the hulking athletes. Together, the five of them take up the entire sidewalk. They are Briar’s royalty — hockey stars and the football golden boy — and they know it. But Dean wears the crown with a different kind of ease. He doesn’t have the brooding intensity of Garrett or the quieter, intimidating stoicism of Logan. Dean is sunshine and sin, wrapped in a designer jacket that probably costs more than a semester’s tuition.

And he has nothing to be stressed about. His parents are two of the most high-powered attorneys on the East Coast. His mother’s family basically owns half the luxury hotels in the country. He grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut, in a house that looked like a castle, raised by parents who were shockingly down-to-earth and irritatingly in love with each other. He knows what love looks like. He just has absolutely no interest in it right now. Why tie himself down when the world is full of beautiful, willing women?

“You’re going to catch something one of these days, man,” Beau chuckles, spiraling the foam ball into the air and catching it effortlessly. “And I don’t mean feelings.”

“I am pristine,” Dean says, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am a beacon of health and vitality.”

“You’re a slut,” Logan corrects cheerfully. 

“I am comfortably sex-positive,” Dean counters, winking at a passing group of cheerleaders who immediately dissolve into giggles. He doesn’t break his stride. He rarely spends a night alone, and he likes it that way. 

“Hey, watch it,” Tucker says suddenly, putting a massive hand on Dean’s shoulder to stop him from plowing into a cluster of students gathered near the science building. 

Dean halts, taking a sip of his coffee. He glances over the heads of the crowd, his eyes scanning the courtyard purely out of habit. Looking for a pretty face, a nice smile, someone to spend the evening with. 

That’s when he sees you.

Dean stops breathing. Actually, physically forgets how to inhale. 

Across the courtyard, standing beneath the shade of a massive oak tree, is a woman. And not just any woman. She stands out against the sea of Briar University hoodies and sweatpants like a diamond sitting in a pile of gravel. She’s wearing a tailored camel trench coat, tied neatly at the waist, over a dark, elegant turtleneck. Her posture is immaculate — straight-backed, poised, the kind of posture drilled into someone through years of etiquette classes and formal dinners. 

But it’s not the clothes that make Dean’s heart violently hurl itself against his ribs. It’s the face. 

He blinks hard. He shakes his head, rubbing his free hand over his eyes. No, he tells himself. You’re hallucinating, Di Laurentis. Too much studying. Too much caffeine. Because it can’t be you. You are an ocean away.

You are the daughter of his mother’s best friend. The girl who grew up in the estate next door in Greenwich. The girl who used to build terribly constructed forts with him in the woods, who used to scrape her knees trying to keep up with him, who he used to share all his secrets with before the world got complicated. You were joined at the hip, practically a permanent fixture in the Di Laurentis household, until right before high school. 

That was when your father was appointed as the Ambassador to the United Kingdom. And just like that, you were whisked away to London. 

The distance had been a sudden, sharp ache that Dean had never fully known how to process. Over the years, the letters and FaceTime calls had dwindled as you both grew up and built separate lives. Last he heard from his mother, you were studying at Oxford. You were thriving. You were also, allegedly, dating some British aristocrat. A Lord, or an Earl, or a Viscount. Something pretentious. Not that Dean was jealous. He absolutely wasn’t jealous. He was a Briar hockey star; why would he care about some tea-drinking Earl in tweed?

But the woman standing under the tree looks exactly like the girl he used to know, overlaid with a breathtaking, mature beauty that makes his throat go dry.

“Whoa,” Beau murmurs, having followed Dean’s line of sight. “Who is that? She looks like she belongs on the cover of Vogue, not outside the geology building.”

“Transfer student?” Garrett guesses, narrowing his eyes. 

“I call dibs,” Logan says immediately.

“Shut up,” Dean snaps. The harshness of his own voice surprises him, and it definitely surprises the guys, who all turn to look at him in bewilderment. 

Dean ignores them, his eyes locked on the figure under the tree. The woman is talking to two girls from Dean’s sports psychology class. She looks slightly shy, her hands clasped elegantly in front of her. 

Then, one of the girls says something, and the woman laughs.

It’s a soft, musical sound, ringing clear across the crisp autumn air. 

Dean drops his coffee. 

The paper cup hits the concrete, splashing warm, brown liquid over his pristine white sneakers, but he doesn’t even notice. He would know that laugh anywhere. He has heard it a thousand times in his childhood — when he fell off the monkey bars, when he told a terrible joke, when they stayed up past midnight watching movies they weren’t supposed to see.

“Y/N?” Dean breathes. 

He doesn’t realize he’s moving until he’s already shoving past a group of freshmen. 

“Whoa, Dean! Where are you going?” Tucker calls out.

Dean ignores them. He closes the distance across the courtyard in long, frantic strides. His heart is pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his sternum. As he gets closer, he raises his voice, the desperation bleeding through.

“Y/N!” 

You pause. The polite smile falters on your lips as you hear your name. You turn, your eyes scanning the chaotic campus crowd in confusion. You look bewildered, slightly out of your depth, a delicate flower suddenly dropped into the chaotic wilderness of an American college campus. 

Then, your eyes land on him. 

Dean stops a few feet away, his chest heaving as if he just skated three periods back-to-back. 

You stare at him. Your wide, expressive eyes blink once. Twice. Your lips part in shock. You take in the messy blonde hair, the broad shoulders that have filled out significantly since you were fourteen, the familiar, handsome face that has haunted your memories for years.

“Dean?” Your voice is a soft gasp, carrying a subtle, elegant British lilt that completely wrecks him.

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes out. “It’s really you.”

Before you can even formulate another word, Dean crosses the remaining distance. He doesn’t think. He just acts. He throws his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you. You smell like expensive vanilla and Earl Grey tea, sophisticated and warm and so intensely you that it makes his head spin.

For a second, you freeze, completely shocked by the sudden, overwhelming embrace. But then, instinct takes over. You melt against him, your arms wrapping around his waist, holding onto him with a fierce, quiet desperation. 

The entire courtyard seems to stop. 

“Is that … Dean Di Laurentis?” A girl whispers loudly nearby. “Is he hugging someone?”

“Like … romantically?” Another asks in disbelief. “I thought he didn’t do public affection.”

“I thought he only hugged girls when they were horizontal.”

Dean hears the whispers, but he couldn’t care less. He squeezes you tighter, lifting you off your feet just a fraction of an inch, relishing the feeling of you in his arms. It’s a completely foreign sensation for him — touching a woman not with the intent to seduce, but out of overwhelming adoration and relief. 

When he finally, reluctantly pulls back, he keeps his hands on your shoulders, his thumbs gently grazing the soft fabric of your coat. He looks down at you, really looking at you, taking in the elegant curve of your jaw, the soft flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes sparkle with unshed tears.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with an emotion he can’t quite name. “You’re … God, you’re beautiful. You’re all grown up.”

You blush, a deep, pretty pink spreading across your cheeks. You duck your head shyly, a demure gesture that completely contradicts the bold, brash girls Dean usually surrounds himself with. “You haven’t done too badly yourself, Dean. Though I see you’re still as dramatic as ever.”

Dean laughs, a bright, genuine sound. “What the hell are you doing here? Mom told me you were at Oxford. Getting cozy with royalty or whatever.” He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but a tiny sliver slips through.

Your smile falters slightly, a shadow passing over your eyes. You glance around, suddenly aware of the massive crowd of students staring at you, and more specifically, the four giant athletes slowly approaching from behind Dean, their jaws practically on the floor. 

“It’s … complicated,” you say softly, your hands nervously twisting the belt of your trench coat. “I transferred. I’m going to Briar now.”

“You’re going to Briar?” Dean repeats, his brain struggling to compute this information. You, the diplomat’s daughter, the Oxford scholar, at a party school in Massachusetts? “Since when?”

“Since about a week ago,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Dean, I …”

“Hold on, hold on,” Logan’s voice interrupts, loud and booming. Dean groans inwardly, dropping his hands from your shoulders as his friends finally catch up. 

Logan, Garrett, Tucker, and Beau form a massive, intimidating wall of muscle behind Dean. They are all staring at you as if you just dropped out of the sky in a flying saucer. 

“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, his eyes darting between you and his best friend. “Are you going to introduce us to your … friend?”

Dean feels a sudden, fierce wave of protectiveness wash over him. He steps slightly in front of you, shielding you from their intense gazes. 

“Guys, this is Y/N,” Dean says, his voice taking on a serious tone that the guys rarely hear. “Y/N, these are my idiot friends. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, and Beau.”

You offer them a small, polite smile, dipping your head in a graceful nod. “It is very lovely to meet you all. Dean has mentioned … well, he actually hasn’t mentioned you, but his mother has.”

Beau chuckles, immediately charmed. “Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air. How do you know our boy here?”

“We grew up together,” you explain softly, your eyes darting back to Dean. “In Greenwich. We were best friends.”

“Best friends,” Logan repeats, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He looks at Dean, a slow, annoying smirk spreading across his face. “Funny. Dean never mentioned he had a gorgeous, British-sounding best friend.”

“She’s not British, she just lived there,” Dean snaps, glaring at Logan. “And I didn’t mention her because you degenerates don’t deserve to know about her.”

Tucker chuckles, tipping his imaginary hat to you. “Ma’am. It’s a pleasure.”

“Please, just Y/N is fine,” you say, your cheeks still flushed. 

Dean turns his attention back to you, completely ignoring his friends. He reaches out, gently catching your hand. Your fingers are freezing. 

“You’re shaking,” he notes, his brow furrowing. “And you didn’t answer my question. Why are you here, Y/N? And don’t give me some bullshit about wanting to experience American college life. Oxford was your dream.”

You look down at your intertwined hands, your thumb unconsciously tracing the knuckles of his hand. It’s an intimate, familiar gesture that sends a jolt of electricity straight to Dean’s groin, but he aggressively shoves that reaction down. This is you. He cannot corrupt you. 

“My father,” you start, your voice trembling slightly. You swallow hard, looking up into Dean’s eyes, seeing the genuine concern radiating from him. “He … he was getting threats. At the embassy. Serious ones.”

The air around the group instantly shifts. The playful banter evaporates. Garrett’s posture straightens, Tucker crosses his arms, and Dean’s entire body goes rigid. 

“Threats?” Dean asks, his voice dropping an octave, losing all of its usual playful cadence. “What kind of threats?”

“Political ones,” you say vaguely, not wanting to spill state secrets in the middle of a busy quad. “Things got very tense very quickly. Security advised that my family be relocated. My parents are back in D.C. under heavy detail, but they didn’t want my education completely derailed. Briar has an excellent political science program, and they accepted my transfer credits immediately. Plus, it’s far away from Washington, but still in the States. They thought I would blend in here.”

You gesture helplessly to your immaculate outfit, contrasting sharply with the neon leggings and hoodies around you. “Though I suppose I’m failing a bit at the blending in part.”

Dean doesn’t laugh. His jaw is ticking, a muscle feathering in his cheek as he processes what you’re saying. You were in danger. You were threatened. The thought makes a sudden, terrifying rage spike in his chest. 

“Are you safe here?” Dean demands, his hand tightening around yours. 

“Yes,” you assure him quickly. “I have … well, I have discrete security. But officially, I’m just a normal student now. Or trying to be.”

Dean looks at you, really looks at you. He sees the exhaustion lurking beneath your perfectly applied makeup, the faint dark circles under your eyes, the tension in your shoulders. You have been uprooted, terrified, and dropped into a completely alien environment. 

“Where are you living?” Dean asks.

“They put me in a single dorm in the upperclassman hall,” you say softly. “I was just trying to find the registrar’s office to get my schedule sorted, but this campus is rather massive.”

Dean makes a split-second decision. 

“You’re not staying in a dorm,” Dean says definitively. 

You blink in surprise. “Pardon?”

“He said,” Logan chimes in, correctly reading Dean’s mood and seamlessly backing him up, “that the dorms are trash. And you’re not staying in one.”

“I—I have to,” you stammer, looking overwhelmed. “It’s already paid for, and-”

“I don’t care if the President himself paid for it,” Dean says, stepping closer to you. “You’re not sleeping in a building with a broken security door and a bunch of drunk frat boys running down the halls. You’re coming home with me.”

Your eyes go wide. “Dean, I couldn’t possibly-”

“I live in an off-campus house,” Dean continues, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. “With Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We have a spare room. It’s supposed to be a gaming room, but we’ll clear it out. You’re staying with us.”

“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, we’re not exactly … quiet.”

“She’s staying with us, Garrett,” Dean repeats, shooting his captain a look that dares him to argue. 

Garrett holds his hands up in surrender. “Hey, I’m not arguing. It’s your call. Just warning the lady.”

You look entirely flustered, your elegant composure cracking as you look between the massive hockey players and your childhood best friend. “Dean, really, it’s too much. I don’t want to intrude. You have your own life, your own friends-”

“Y/N,” Dean says softly. He reaches out, gently cupping your cheek. The contact makes you gasp quietly. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, his eyes softening as he looks into yours. “You are never an intrusion. You’re family. And right now, you need someone to look out for you. Let me do this.”

You stare up at him, your heart doing a complicated flutter in your chest. The boy you used to know — the skinny, hyperactive kid who used to catch frogs in the creek — is gone. In his place is a man. A broad, commanding, impossibly handsome man who is looking at you with such fierce, protective devotion that it makes your breath catch. 

“Okay,” you whisper softly. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Dean says, offering you a breathtaking, devastating smile. The kind of smile that breaks hearts on a daily basis. 

He turns to the guys. “Beau, go to the registrar and sort out her schedule. Take her ID. Garrett, Logan, Tucker — we’re going to her dorm to pack up her shit and move it to our house.”

“Wait, I didn’t agree to be manual labor,” Logan complains. 

Dean shoots him a dark look. 

“Manual labor is my favorite,” Logan corrects immediately. “Point me to the boxes.”

Dean turns back to you, slipping your hand securely into his, lacing your fingers together. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you out of this quad.”

As Dean leads you away, with three massive hockey players trailing behind like your personal bodyguards, you can’t help but feel a profound sense of whiplash. Within twenty minutes, your entire terrifying, lonely American college experience has been hijacked by Dean Di Laurentis. 

You look down at your intertwined hands, feeling the heat of his palm against yours. 

Maybe coming back to America wasn’t such a bad thing after all. 

***

The walk to your dorm is a surreal experience. The Briar campus is bustling with mid-morning activity, and you are acutely aware of the stares. Specifically, the stares directed at your joined hands. 

“Dean,” you murmur, leaning closer to him so the guys trailing behind you won’t hear. “People are staring.”

“Let them stare,” Dean says easily, his thumb rhythmically stroking the back of your hand. “They’re just jealous because I’m walking with the prettiest girl on campus.”

You roll your eyes, though a hot blush creeps up your neck. “You haven’t changed. Still a terrible flirt.”

“I’m not flirting,” Dean says, sounding genuinely offended. “I’m stating facts. I have an eye for aesthetics, Y/N. You know this.”

“I know that your mother used to complain that you spent more time looking in the mirror than she did,” you tease gently. 

Dean barks out a laugh. “That was one time! And I was styling my hair for the seventh-grade dance.”

“You used an entire can of hairspray,” you remind him, a genuine smile finally breaking through your anxiety. “You smelled like a chemical hazard.”

“And yet, you still danced with me,” he counters, throwing a wink over his shoulder. 

“I took pity on you,” you reply primly. 

Behind you, Logan lets out a low whistle. “She’s got jokes, Di Laurentis. I like her. Can we keep her?”

“She’s not a stray dog, Logan,” Garrett groans. 

“She’s too classy for us,” Tucker adds in his slow, Southern drawl. “Look at her. She looks like she should be having tea with the Queen, not walking next to a guy who ate cereal out of a frisbee this morning.”

You glance back at Tucker, slightly horrified. “You ate cereal out of a frisbee?”

“All the bowls were dirty,” Logan defends him. “It was a logistical necessity.”

You turn back to Dean, your eyes wide. “What exactly have I agreed to?”

“Chaos,” Dean admits cheerfully. “Absolute, unmitigated chaos. But I promise we’ll keep the house clean for you. I’ll personally hire a maid if I have to.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you say quickly. “I can clean. I’m quite domesticated.”

Dean stops walking. He turns to look at you, his expression completely serious. “Y/N. You are not cleaning our house. I will literally physically restrain you before I let you scrub a toilet that Logan has used.”

“Hey!” Logan yells from behind.

“I’m serious,” Dean says, his eyes boring into yours. “You’re a guest. You’re my … you’re with me. You don’t lift a finger.”

His words send a strange shiver down your spine. There is a possessiveness in his tone that you’ve never heard before. It’s thrilling, and terrifying, and completely unexpected. 

You finally reach your dorm building. It’s a standard, slightly run-down brick building that smells vaguely of cheap beer and floor wax. Dean wrinkles his nose as you lead them inside and up to the third floor. 

When you unlock your door and push it open, the stark, depressing reality of the tiny room hits you again. A single twin bed with a thin mattress, a particle-board desk, and two large suitcases sitting unpacked in the center of the floor. 

Dean steps inside, looking around with blatant disgust. “Yeah, no. This is a prison cell. Grab what you need for the day, we’re taking the rest.”

“It’s not that bad,” you say softly, walking over to your suitcase. 

“It’s inhumane,” Dean corrects. He turns to his teammates. “Grab the bags. Let’s go.”

Garrett and Tucker easily heft your massive, heavy suitcases as if they weigh absolutely nothing. Logan grabs a smaller duffel bag and a few hanging garment bags. 

“Is this everything?” Dean asks. 

You look around the barren room, clutching your handbag. “Yes. I haven’t exactly had time to unpack.”

“Good,” Dean says. He steps close to you again, his presence overwhelming in the tiny space. He reaches out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your skin, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core. 

“You’re safe now,” he murmurs, his voice so low only you can hear it. “I’ve got you, Y/N. I promise.”

You look up into his warm, green eyes, seeing the fierce sincerity there. The fear and isolation that had been gripping your chest for the past week slowly begins to uncoil. 

“I know,” you whisper. 

For the first time since you landed in America, you actually believe it. 

Dean smiles, a soft, intimate thing that makes your breath catch. He takes your hand again, leading you out of the dismal dorm room and toward whatever crazy, chaotic new life awaits you at the off-campus house. 

As you walk out of the building, surrounded by a phalanx of massive hockey players, you realize one very undeniable fact. 

Dean Di Laurentis might be known as the campus womanizer, but to you, he is something entirely different. He is your past, your protector, and quite possibly, the most dangerous thing to your heart.

The walk to the house is a blur of falling autumn leaves and the continuous, rapid-fire banter of the Briar hockey players. You mostly listen, fascinated by the easy camaraderie between Dean and his friends. It’s vastly different from the stiff, overly polite circles you ran in at Oxford, where every conversation felt like a chess match. Here, the insults are hurled with affection, and there are absolutely no filters. 

“So, Y/N,” Garrett says, easily matching your pace despite carrying a suitcase that weighs half as much as you do. “Politics, huh? You want to be a diplomat like your dad?”

“That’s the plan,” you say, your voice steadying as you find your footing in the conversation. “International relations, specifically. Though right now, I think I’d settle for just passing my midterms without causing an international incident.”

“If you need help studying, Logan is basically a genius,” Dean chimes in, though his tone is heavily laced with sarcasm. “He once tried to put metal in the microwave to see if it would sparkle.”

“It was a scientific inquiry!” Logan defends loudly from the back. “And I was a freshman!”

“You were a sophomore,” Tucker corrects mildly. 

You let out a soft laugh, the sound bubbling up naturally. Dean’s head snaps toward you, his eyes catching yours. The playful smirk on his face softens into something warmer, something that makes the knot of anxiety in your stomach loosen even more. 

“Here we are,” Dean announces, gesturing grandly to a large, slightly weathered two-story house sitting on a quiet residential street just off campus. The lawn could use a trim, and there’s a stray hockey stick leaning against the porch railing, but it looks incredibly inviting. It looks like a home. 

Dean leads you up the steps and pushes the front door open, stepping aside to let you enter first. 

You step into the foyer, immediately assaulted by the scent of pine cleaner, old leather, and something distinctly masculine. The living room to the left is massive, dominated by a huge sectional sofa and a television that belongs in a movie theater. 

“It’s … very big,” you remark politely, stepping further inside. 

“It’s a pigsty,” Dean corrects, glaring at a pair of discarded sneakers in the hallway. He kicks them into a closet. “I’m going to murder whoever left their shoes out.”

“Those are your shoes, bro,” Logan points out, dropping your bags at the base of the stairs. 

Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m a complex man. I contain multitudes. Come on, sweetheart, let me show you your room.”

He takes your hand again — a gesture that is quickly becoming a habit — and leads you up the wide wooden staircase. You trail behind him, acutely aware of how small your hand feels in his. 

At the end of the hallway, Dean pushes open a door. 

“This was the designated gaming room,” Dean explains, flipping on the light switch. “But we have another TV downstairs, so it’s basically just storage. Give us an hour to clear out the Xbox and the beanbag chairs, and we’ll bring up a bed from the basement. It’s a real mattress, I swear. Not that dorm room cardboard.”

You step into the room. It’s spacious, with a large window overlooking the backyard. Right now, it’s cluttered with video game cases, a ratty sofa, and empty pizza boxes. 

You turn to Dean, feeling overwhelmed all over again. “Dean, I can’t ask you to give up your space for me. I can just stay in the dorm. It really isn’t-”

“Stop,” Dean says softly, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, placing his hands lightly on your waist. The heat of his palms bleeds through your trench coat, sending a violent shiver down your spine. 

“Look at me,” he commands gently. 

You look up, meeting those devastating green eyes. 

“I am not letting you stay in a dorm where anyone could walk in,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a serious, gravelly register. “I know you have security, but I don’t care. I need to know you’re safe. I need to know that when I go to sleep at night, you’re just down the hall. Let me do this for you, Y/N. Please.”

His plea is so earnest, so completely stripped of the cocky armor he usually wears, that it breaks your heart a little. You realize then that this isn’t just about protecting you; it’s about him needing the reassurance. 

“Okay,” you whisper, nodding slowly. “Okay, Dean. Thank you.”

He exhales a long breath, a stunning smile breaking across his face. “Good. Now, sit on that disgustingly stained sofa and supervise while I make these idiots do heavy lifting.”

For the next hour, you sit and watch in amusement as the hockey players dismantle the gaming room. They move furniture with shocking efficiency, bickering the entire time. Dean is a relentless taskmaster, snapping orders and threatening bodily harm if anyone scratches the walls. 

When they finally lug a heavy wooden bed frame and a pristine mattress up from the basement, Dean insists on making the bed himself. 

You lean against the doorframe, watching as the notorious campus playboy meticulously tucks in a fitted sheet with absolute precision. 

“You have excellent domestic skills, Di Laurentis,” you tease, crossing your arms over your chest. 

Dean smirks, tossing a pillow onto the bed. “My mother taught me that a man should always know how to make a bed perfectly. Among other things.”

He shoots you a wicked, heavily implied wink that makes your face burn. 

“Down, boy,” Garrett warns as he walks past, carrying the last stack of video games. “Don’t scar the poor girl.”

“I am a perfect gentleman,” Dean protests, fluffing the pillow aggressively. 

Once the room is cleared and your suitcases are placed at the foot of the bed, Dean ushers the other guys out of the room. 

“Give her some space to unpack,” Dean orders, practically shoving Logan out the door. “We’ll order pizza for lunch. Y/N, you like pepperoni?”

“I love pepperoni,” you say softly. 

“Perfect. Unpack. Breathe. Come down when you’re ready,” Dean says. He lingers in the doorway for a second, his eyes tracing over your features as if he still can’t believe you’re actually standing in his house. 

“Welcome home, Y/N.”

And as he pulls the door shut, leaving you alone in the suddenly quiet room, you press a hand to your chest, feeling the frantic, terrifyingly fast beat of your heart. 

You are thousands of miles from the life you knew, hiding from threats you barely understand, living in a house full of giant athletes. 

But as you look at the perfectly made bed, and remember the fierce, protective heat in Dean’s eyes, you realize something profound. 

For the first time in weeks, you aren’t afraid. 

By the time you finish unpacking your essentials and hanging your tailored clothes in the small closet, the scent of melted cheese and greasy pepperoni is wafting up the stairs. Your stomach gives an unladylike rumble, reminding you that you haven’t eaten since a piece of dry toast at 6:00 AM. 

You take a deep breath, smoothing down the front of your sweater. You swapped the formal trench coat and turtleneck for a pair of fitted dark jeans and a soft, oversized cashmere sweater — an attempt to match the casual vibe of the house without losing your own sense of style. 

When you walk down the stairs, the volume of the house hits you instantly. The television is blaring a sports broadcast, and three overlapping arguments are happening simultaneously in the kitchen. 

You peek around the corner. The massive kitchen island is covered in flat cardboard pizza boxes. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker are all standing around, shoving slices into their mouths at an alarming rate. 

Dean is leaning against the counter, a slice of pizza in one hand and a beer in the other. He looks perfectly in his element, relaxed and gorgeously disheveled. 

Then he spots you. 

The conversation around him continues, but Dean completely tunes it out. His eyes lock onto yours, sweeping over your casual outfit. A slow, devastating smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features in a way that makes your breath catch. 

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice cutting through the noise in the room like a knife. 

The other guys immediately stop talking and turn to look at you. 

“The Queen descends,” Logan jokes, offering you a greasy salute with his pizza crust. 

“Ignore him,” Dean says, pushing off the counter and walking over to you. He grabs a clean paper plate, loads it with two slices of pepperoni pizza, and hands it to you. “Eat. You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, taking the plate. You walk over to the island, hyper-aware of Dean shadowing your steps. You take a delicate bite of the pizza, the warm, greasy goodness making you close your eyes in appreciation. “Oh, that is heavenly.”

“See?” Dean says, looking incredibly smug. “American pizza. Way better than whatever boiled garbage they serve in England.”

“They don’t boil pizza, Dean,” you point out dryly, taking another bite. 

“Whatever,” he dismisses smoothly. He leans against the counter next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. The physical contact is completely casual for him, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight to your brain. “So, did Beau text back about your schedule?”

Tucker pulls out his phone. “Yeah, Beau texted the group chat while you were upstairs. He got her registered. Emailed the schedule to her student account. She’s got Political Theory at 8 AM tomorrow.”

You groan softly, dropping your head forward. “Eight AM. The cruelty of the American education system.”

Dean laughs, a rich, warm sound that vibrates in his chest. “Don’t worry. I’ll drive you.”

You look up at him, startled. “Dean, you don’t have to do that. I can walk. I’m sure you have your own classes.”

“I don’t have class until eleven,” Dean says simply, taking a sip of his beer. “And you’re not walking across campus alone. Not right now. Until we get a handle on … your situation, you don’t go anywhere alone. Understand?”

His tone leaves no room for argument. It’s the voice of a man who is used to getting his way, but beneath the bossiness, there is a thick layer of genuine anxiety. He is worried about you. 

“Alright,” you agree softly. “If you’re sure it’s not a bother.”

“You,” Dean says, leaning in so his face is only inches from yours, his green eyes intense, “are never a bother.”

The kitchen suddenly feels very small, and very hot. You stare into his eyes, completely forgetting how to breathe, let alone speak. The undeniable, pulsing tension between you is thick enough to cut with a knife. 

Someone clears their throat loudly. 

You jump, breaking eye contact with Dean and looking over to see Garrett leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, observing the two of you with raised eyebrows. 

“So,” Garrett drawls, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Childhood best friends, huh? You guys used to play in the sandbox together?”

“I used to push him into the mud,” you correct, finding your voice. “Regularly.”

Logan barks a laugh. “I knew I liked her.”

“She was vicious,” Dean agrees, turning back to the guys but keeping his body angled toward you. “One time, she convinced me that poison ivy was a rare type of mint. I was covered in rashes for a week.”

“You were terribly gullible,” you say innocently, taking another bite of pizza. 

“I trusted you!” Dean gasps in mock betrayal. “You were the diplomat’s daughter! You were supposed to be honorable.”

“Diplomacy,” you counter smoothly, “is just the art of letting someone else have your way. I wanted to see what would happen.”

The guys burst into laughter, and even Dean chuckles, shaking his head. He reaches out and nudges your shoulder gently. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Y/L/N.”

The casual compliment makes your heart stutter. You duck your head to hide the sudden blush painting your cheeks. 

As lunch winds down, the guys scatter to their respective routines. Garrett and Logan head to the living room to play NHL on the Xbox, and Tucker retreats upstairs to study. 

Which leaves you alone in the kitchen with Dean. 

You start gathering the empty pizza boxes, intending to throw them away, but Dean intercepts you. His hands cover yours, stopping your movements. 

“I told you,” he says softly. “You don’t clean.”

“Dean, it’s just boxes,” you protest weakly, staring down at his large, warm hands covering yours. 

“I don’t care,” he says. He takes the boxes from you and tosses them into the large trash can by the door. Then, he turns back to you, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious. 

“Y/N. Come here.”

He grabs your hand and leads you out of the kitchen, pulling you toward the back of the house and out onto a small patio. The crisp autumn air bites at your cheeks, but you barely feel it. Dean lets go of your hand and leans against the wooden railing, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Tell me the truth,” he says, his eyes boring into yours. “How bad are the threats?”

You wrap your arms around your middle, suddenly feeling very small. The playful banter of the kitchen is gone, replaced by the stark, terrifying reality of why you are actually here. 

“They were … specific,” you whisper, looking down at the wooden planks of the patio. “Letters delivered directly to the embassy. Photos of me at Oxford. Walking to class. Sitting in cafes. Someone was following me.”

Dean curses violently under his breath, his hands gripping the railing so hard his knuckles turn white. 

“My father’s security detail intercepted them before I saw most of it,” you continue, your voice trembling slightly at the memory. “But they told him that the people making the threats knew my schedule perfectly. They wanted my father to vote a certain way on an upcoming international trade sanction, and they were using me as leverage.”

Dean pushes off the railing and steps closer to you. He doesn’t touch you, but his physical proximity is a comfort in itself. “So they pulled you out.”

“In the middle of the night,” you nod, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my professors or my friends. They packed my bags, put me on a private jet with four armed guards, and flew me to D.C. I stayed in a safe house for three days before they decided Briar was a safe enough distance to hide me.”

You look up at him, a single tear spilling over your lashes and tracking down your cheek. “I’m terrified, Dean. I’m trying to be brave, but every time I look over my shoulder, I expect to see someone watching me.”

“Hey,” Dean breathes, closing the remaining distance between you. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you firmly against his chest. You bury your face in his shoulder, letting out a shaky breath as his arms envelop you completely. 

“No one is watching you here,” Dean whispers fiercely into your hair, his hands stroking up and down your back. “I swear to God, Y/N, no one is going to touch you. You have me. You have Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We are literally a house full of giant, violent hockey players. You are the safest person in the state of Massachusetts.”

You let out a wet, watery laugh against his sweater. “You’re not violent.”

“I can be,” Dean says, and the deadly serious tone of his voice makes you pause. “For you, I could be.”

You pull back slightly, looking up into his face. The cocky, charming playboy is entirely gone. In his eyes, you see a fierce, unyielding devotion that takes your breath away. 

“Why are you doing this, Dean?” You whisper. “You have your own life. You don’t need to babysit me.”

Dean reaches up, his thumb gently wiping away the tear track on your cheek. His touch is impossibly tender. 

“Because you’re mine,” he says simply, the words slipping out naturally, as if it’s the most obvious fact in the universe. “You always have been, Y/N. Since we were kids. I lost you once when you moved away. I’m not letting anything happen to you now that I have you back.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. The words echo in your head, thrilling and terrifying all at once. You stare at him, seeing the sudden realization of what he just said flicker in his own eyes. Dean swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before darting back up to your eyes. 

The air between you is highly combustible. All it would take is one lean, one tilt of the head, and years of childhood friendship would go up in flames. 

Dean slowly leans in, his face inches from yours. You find yourself leaning closer, your eyes fluttering shut, anticipating the slide of his lips against yours. 

BANG.

The sound of the back door flying open shatters the moment like glass. 

You and Dean spring apart instantly, your faces flushed, breathing heavily. 

Logan stands in the doorway, oblivious to the heavy tension he just interrupted. “Yo, Di Laurentis! Are we doing the grocery run or what? We’re out of beer and Y/N probably needs, like, fancy British tea or something.”

Dean closes his eyes, taking a deep, ragged breath. When he opens them, he shoots Logan a look of pure, unadulterated murder. 

“I’m coming,” Dean snaps, his voice completely strained. 

Logan blinks, finally sensing the weird vibe. “Uh … did I interrupt something?”

“Yes,” Dean says bluntly. “Go start the car.”

Logan throws his hands up in surrender and retreats back inside. 

Dean turns back to you, dragging a hand through his messy blonde hair. He looks incredibly frustrated, but a small, breathless smile tugs at the corner of his lips. 

“We’re going to pick up some things for you,” Dean says softly, his eyes dropping to your lips again. “Get settled. Take a nap. I’ll be back soon.”

You nod silently, still trying to get your erratic heartbeat under control. “Okay.”

He hesitates for a second, looking as though he wants to close the distance again, but then he shakes his head and steps back. “Lock the door behind me.”

As Dean walks back inside, leaving you alone on the crisp patio, you press your fingers against your lips. They are tingling, buzzing with the phantom feeling of a kiss that never happened. 

You are hiding from a terrifying political threat, living in a house of hockey players, and you are dangerously close to falling completely, irrevocably in love with the biggest playboy on campus. 

Welcome to Briar University.

***

It has been exactly three weeks since you moved into the off-campus hockey house, and the entirety of Briar University is operating under the collective, terrifying assumption that Dean Di Laurentis has been abducted by aliens. Or cloned. Or possessed by a very chaste, very domesticated demon. 

There is simply no other logical explanation. 

“I’m telling you, it’s not him,” Logan says, his voice hushed but frantic as he peeks around the kitchen doorframe. He’s staring into the living room, where Dean is currently sitting on the couch. “Look at him. Just look.”

Garrett sighs, leaning against the counter and crossing his massive arms. “He’s reading a textbook, Logan. It’s called studying. Normal college students do it.”

“Dean doesn’t!” Logan hisses, gesturing wildly. “Dean pays attention in class just enough to coast, and he spends his free time trying to get horizontal with anything that has a pulse and a nice smile! He hasn’t brought a girl home in twenty-one days, Garrett. Twenty-one! Do you know what that means?”

“That we don’t have to bleach the living room rug anymore?” Tucker suggests mildly from his spot at the kitchen island, not looking up from his breakfast.

“It means his brain has been hijacked,” Logan insists. 

Beau, who had stopped by to steal their food, chuckles and takes a bite of an apple. “Or, and hear me out, it means his childhood best friend moved in, and he’s realized he has to actually be a functional human being to keep her safe.”

They all fall silent, turning to look back out into the living room. 

You are sitting on the opposite end of the oversized sectional. You have a thick political science textbook resting on your knees, your brow furrowed in concentration as you highlight a passage. You’re wearing a pair of soft grey sweatpants — a recent, highly encouraged addition to your wardrobe by the guys — and an oversized Briar hockey hoodie that absolutely swallows your delicate frame. The hoodie belongs to Dean. 

And Dean? Dean is sitting about a foot away from you, his own textbook open, but he isn’t reading. He’s just watching you. His arm is draped along the back of the sofa, his fingers lightly, almost unconsciously, playing with the frayed end of your hoodie string. His eyes are soft, tracing the line of your profile with a reverence that borders on religious. 

“It’s freaky,” Logan mutters. “He went from being a certified campus manwhore to … a golden retriever. A very protective, aggressively loyal golden retriever.”

“He’s whipped,” Garrett says, though there’s a fond smile pulling at his lips. “And they aren’t even dating.”

“Yet,” Beau corrects softly. “Give it time. The guy looks at her like she hung the moon and the stars.”

In the living room, you let out a soft sigh, rubbing your eyes. You’ve been studying for three hours straight. The sudden shift from the British educational system to American midterms has been jarring, and the added stress of your security situation hasn’t helped your focus. 

“Tired?” Dean asks instantly, his voice a low, soothing rumble. 

You turn to look at him, offering a small, exhausted smile. “A bit. Rousseau is incredibly dense when you’re running on four hours of sleep.”

Dean frowns, his hand dropping from the hoodie string to gently brush a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. “You need a break. We have class in an hour anyway. Come on, I’ll make you tea.”

“I can make it,” you protest gently, starting to close your heavy book. 

“Absolutely not,” Dean says, already standing up. He reaches down and effortlessly plucks the massive textbook from your lap, tossing it onto the coffee table. “You sit. I brew. That’s the deal.”

As Dean walks into the kitchen, Logan, Garrett, and Beau immediately scatter, trying to look as though they weren’t just intensely analyzing his every move. Dean ignores them completely, walking straight to the kettle. 

You watch him from the couch, your heart doing that familiar, terrifying little flip. The way he treats you is entirely at odds with the reputation that precedes him. You’ve heard the whispers on campus. You know what people say about Dean. You know the girls point and stare, whispering about his conquests. But the man who makes your bed when you forget, who insists on walking you to every single class, who glares at any frat boy who looks at you for too long? That man is careful. He treats you like you are something precious, something made of spun glass that he is terrified of breaking. 

Ten minutes later, Dean emerges from the kitchen with a travel mug. He hands it to you. 

You take a sip and close your eyes, a genuine hum of pleasure escaping your lips. “Dean … this is Earl Grey. With exactly a splash of oat milk and half a teaspoon of honey.”

“I know,” Dean says, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over one broad shoulder. 

“How do you remember that?” You ask, staring up at him in wonder. “I haven’t ordered this in front of you since I moved here. I’ve just been drinking whatever drip coffee the guys make.”

Dean pauses, looking down at you. The easy, arrogant smirk he usually wears is nowhere to be found. “I remember everything about you, Y/N. Everything. I didn’t forget your favorite tea just because you moved across an ocean.”

Your breath catches. You stare at him, feeling a hot flush rise to your cheeks. 

“Come on,” Dean murmurs, his voice softening even further. He reaches down, grabbing your heavy tote bag before you can even reach for it. “Let’s go to class. I want a good seat.”

The walk across campus is, as always, an exercise in public scrutiny. Dean walks slightly ahead of you, his large frame parting the sea of students effortlessly. Every time you pass a group of girls, you see the hopeful glances directed his way, followed immediately by total confusion when Dean doesn’t even spare them a second glance. His entire focus is tethered to you. 

When you enter the massive lecture hall for your Political Science seminar, it’s already crowded. Dean immediately zeroes in on two seats near the middle row. He drops your bag onto one chair and his own onto the other, effectively claiming the territory. 

“Hey, Dean,” a high-pitched, bubbly voice calls out. 

You both turn to see a stunning blonde in a cropped sweater leaning over the row behind you. She flashes Dean a brilliant, practiced smile. “I was hoping you’d be here. There’s an empty seat next to me if you want it. We could … share notes.”

You feel a sudden, sharp prickle of insecurity. She is exactly the kind of girl you imagine Dean with — bold, beautiful, and completely uninhibited. You instinctively shrink in on yourself, looking down at your hands. You are so fundamentally different. You are quiet, painfully shy, and the thought of public displays of affection makes you want to spontaneously combust. 

But Dean doesn’t smile back at the blonde. In fact, his expression remains completely blank, almost bored. 

“I’m sitting with Y/N,” Dean says flatly, leaving absolutely no room for interpretation. 

“Oh,” the girl falters, her smile slipping as she glances at you with thinly veiled disdain. “Right. The … new girl.”

Dean’s jaw ticks. He steps slightly in front of you, a clear, territorial block. “Yeah. My girl. Excuse us.”

The words send a dizzying rush of heat straight to your core. You sink into your seat, your face practically burning, as Dean sits down next to you. He casually drapes his arm across the back of your chair, his solid, warm presence a shield against the rest of the room. 

“You didn’t have to be rude to her,” you whisper, though secretly, you are terribly glad he was. 

“I wasn’t rude,” Dean whispers back, leaning in so close his breath ghosts over your ear. “I was honest. I don’t care about her notes. I only care about you.”

You bite your lower lip, trying desperately to suppress the smile fighting its way onto your face. Dean’s eyes track the movement of your teeth on your lip, his pupils dilating slightly, but he quickly forces his gaze away and pulls his notebook out. He is so restrained with you, so careful not to push your boundaries, and it only makes you fall for him harder.

Friday night arrives with the heavy, pulsing bass of a house party. 

The guys decided to throw a rager to kick off the start of the hockey season. Under normal circumstances, you would have locked yourself in your room with a pair of noise-canceling headphones. But Dean had looked at you with those big, green eyes and promised he would stay by your side the entire night, so here you are. 

You are standing in the corner of the crowded living room, clutching a red Solo cup filled with ginger ale. You are wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved black dress that hits mid-thigh. It’s elegant, understated, and completely out of place in the sea of neon crop tops and miniskirts surrounding you. 

“Are you okay?” 

You look up as Dean materializes through the crowd. He’s wearing a fitted black Henley that highlights every single muscle in his chest and arms, and his hair is perfectly, artfully messy. He looks like pure, unfiltered trouble. But the moment his eyes land on you, the dangerous edge softens. 

“I’m fine,” you say, though you have to shout slightly over the music. “It’s just … very loud.”

“We can go upstairs,” Dean offers immediately, stepping closer so he doesn’t have to yell. His body acts as a natural barrier, preventing a stumbling frat boy from bumping into you. “We can lock the door and watch a movie. I don’t care about the party.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “Dean, this is your house. Your team. You can’t just hide upstairs with me. Everyone expects the legendary Dean Di Laurentis to be out here, working the room.”

Dean scoffs, taking a sip from his own cup. “Let them expect whatever they want. I’ve retired.”

“Retired?” You echo, a small laugh escaping you. 

“Yep,” Dean says, leaning against the wall next to you. “Hung up my jersey. I’m a one-woman man now.”

The casual confession makes your breath hitch. He says it so easily, so confidently, but the weight of the words is staggering. 

Before you can formulate a response, a girl with bright red hair pushes her way through the crowd and practically throws herself at Dean. 

“Deeeaan,” she purrs, trailing a manicured hand down his bicep. “I haven’t seen you all night! We should go to the kitchen and do shots. Or go somewhere … quieter.”

She presses her chest against his arm, shooting a triumphant look at you. It’s the kind of blatant proposition that the old Dean would have accepted before she even finished her sentence. You’ve heard the stories. You know that more than once, he’s hooked up with girls right here in the living room while a party raged around them. 

You instinctively take a step back, the familiar, suffocating shyness gripping your throat. You can’t compete with this. You don’t want to compete with this. 

But Dean doesn’t even blink. He physically steps back, dislodging the redhead’s hand from his arm as if she’s made of acid. 

“Not interested, Lexi,” Dean says, his voice devoid of any warmth. 

“What?” Lexi pouts, looking genuinely shocked. “Come on, Dean. Don’t be boring. It’s Friday!”

“I said no,” Dean repeats, his tone dropping into a freezing, commanding register that makes the girl actually flinch. “I’m busy.”

He reaches out, grabbing your hand and pulling you firmly to his side. He intertwines your fingers, holding your hand up slightly so the girl can see it. 

“I’m with her,” Dean states unequivocally. “Have a good night.”

Lexi stares at your joined hands, then looks up at your flushed face. She huffs in annoyance, turning on her heel and stomping away into the crowd. 

You look up at Dean, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” Dean says, looking down at you. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, a grounding, soothing motion. “I told you, Y/N. I don’t want anyone else. They don’t even register on my radar anymore. It’s just you.”

“Dean …” you breathe, feeling completely overwhelmed by the raw honesty in his eyes. 

“Hey, lovebirds!” 

The moment breaks as Tucker and Logan push their way over to your corner. Logan is grinning like a madman, holding two fresh beers. 

“Di Laurentis,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I just watched you turn down Lexi. The Lexi. Are you feeling okay? Do we need to call a doctor?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Dean snaps, though he doesn’t drop your hand. 

“He’s domesticated,” Tucker drawls, leaning against the wall and tipping his cup toward you. “You’ve tamed the beast, Y/N. The whole hockey team is terrified of you.”

You blush furiously, looking down at your shoes. “I haven’t done anything.”

“That’s the crazy part,” Logan laughs. “You literally just exist, and he acts like a knight in shining armor. It’s disgusting. I love it. Can I get a hug?”

Logan opens his arms, stepping toward you. 

Before you can even react, Dean steps directly between you and Logan, pressing a flat hand to his teammate’s chest. 

“Do not touch her,” Dean growls, half-joking, half-deadly serious. 

Logan puts his hands up in surrender, laughing harder. “Alright, alright! Guard dog mode activated. I respect it.”

As the guys fall into an easy banter, Dean pulls you slightly closer, tucking you into his side. You lean your head against his shoulder, letting the chaos of the party wash over you. Surrounded by the towering hockey players, anchored by Dean’s warm, protective grip, you feel something you haven’t felt since you lived in London. 

You feel entirely safe.

The next evening is the first official home game of the season. 

The Briar University arena is packed to the rafters, a sea of black and red violently cheering as the Zamboni finishes clearing the ice. The energy is electric, thick with anticipation and the smell of roasted peanuts and cold air. 

You are standing outside the home locker room, clutching a plastic cup of overpriced hot chocolate. 

The door swings open, and Dean steps out. 

He is fully geared up, massive in his shoulder pads, his Briar jersey stark and imposing. He looks like a gladiator about to step into the Colosseum. But the moment his eyes find you, the ferocious intensity of his game-face melts away, replaced by that soft, devoted smile reserved entirely for you. 

He walks over, his skates clacking loudly against the rubber floor mats. 

“Hey,” he says, stopping right in front of you. 

“Hey yourself,” you reply softly, looking up at him. “You look … intimidating.”

Dean chuckles, a low, nervous sound. “Good. That’s the point. But I don’t want to intimidate you.”

“You never intimidate me, Dean,” you say truthfully. 

Dean swallows hard, his eyes dropping to your outfit. You are wearing a simple black turtleneck and jeans. He frowns slightly. 

“Hold on,” Dean says. He reaches back and grabs the hem of his game jersey, pulling it up and over his head in one fluid motion. 

You gasp, your eyes going wide as he stands there in just his black under-armor shirt, the tight material clinging to every ridge of his abs and chest. “Dean! What are you doing?”

“You’re not wearing my colors,” Dean states simply. He shakes out the massive jersey and holds it out to you. “Put it on.”

“Dean, it’s your game jersey,” you protest, your heart doing a wild, frantic dance. “You need it to play!”

“I have a spare in my locker,” he dismisses easily. “Put it on, Y/N. Please. I want … I want everyone in that arena to know whose side you’re on.”

The intense possessiveness in his voice makes your knees weak. With shaking hands, you hand him your hot chocolate and take the jersey. You pull it over your head. It is ridiculously large on you, the heavy fabric falling almost to your knees, the sleeves swallowing your hands entirely. 

But across the back, in massive block letters, it reads DI LAURENTIS 66.

You smell like him now — a mix of clean laundry detergent, ice, and that distinct, spicy cologne he wears. 

Dean stares at you, his chest heaving slightly as he takes in the sight of you swimming in his jersey. His eyes darken, a visceral, primal reaction flashing across his features before he aggressively reels it in. 

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, his voice rough. “That’s exactly how you’re supposed to look.”

He hands you back your drink and steps closer, reaching out to gently tug on the collar of the jersey. “I have to go to the bench. Beau is saving you a seat three rows behind our box. It’s next to the glass. You’ll be safe there.”

“I’ll be cheering for you,” you promise softly. 

Dean leans down, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second, you think he’s going to kiss you. But instead, he presses his lips firmly to your forehead, lingering there for a long moment, inhaling your scent. 

“Watch me, sweetheart,” he whispers against your skin. “I’m going to play for you.”

When you finally take your seat next to Beau in the stands, the entire arena seems to be buzzing. Beau takes one look at the oversized jersey swallowing you whole and bursts out laughing. 

“Oh, he is so gone,” Beau cackles, shaking his head. “If he plays half as aggressively as he’s acting right now, we’re winning a national championship.”

The puck drops, and the game begins. 

It is violent, fast-paced, and incredibly stressful. You sit on the edge of your seat, your hands clutched tightly in your lap as you watch the boys crash into the boards. 

But Dean is a revelation. 

He skates with a fluid, lethal grace, dodging defenders and making plays that leave the opposing team looking foolish. He is a blur of motion, hyper-focused and ruthless. 

Midway through the first period, Briar gets a breakaway. 

Logan intercepts a pass and sends it rocketing up the ice. Dean is there, catching it flawlessly. He tears down the center, the crowd rising to their feet, screaming his name. He fakes left, drops his shoulder, and sends a devastatingly fast wrist-shot right over the goalie’s glove. 

The red light flashes. The horn blares. The arena completely erupts. 

You jump to your feet, screaming in delight, your hands flying up in the air. 

On the ice, Garrett and Logan immediately tackle Dean, shoving him against the glass in celebration. Dean laughs, shaking them off, and skates directly toward the bench. 

But he doesn’t stop at the bench. 

He skates right up to the glass where you are sitting. The crowd around you goes wild, but Dean doesn’t look at them. He looks right at you. 

He taps his stick against the plexiglass twice, right in front of your face. Then, he presses his gloved hand to his chest, right over his heart, and points directly at you. 

The gesture is so public, so undeniably romantic, that the entire section of fans surrounding you completely loses their minds. Girls are screaming, Beau is howling with laughter, and you are standing there, wearing his name on your back, feeling completely cherished.

Two hours later, the game is over. Briar has decimated the visiting team 4-1, and the post-game high is practically vibrating through the concrete walls of the arena corridors. 

You are standing in the secluded hallway just past the locker rooms, waiting. The crowds have mostly filtered out, heading to the inevitable victory parties, but you stayed exactly where Dean told you to wait. 

The heavy locker room door opens, and the boys start pouring out. They are showered, dressed in their street clothes, and loud. 

When Dean finally emerges, he looks exhausted but radiant. His hair is damp from the shower, curling slightly at his forehead, and he’s wearing a simple grey t-shirt and jeans. He has a massive sports duffel slung over his shoulder. 

He spots you leaning against the wall, still drowning in his game jersey, and a slow, exhausted smile spreads across his face. He drops his bag immediately and crosses the hallway in three long strides. 

“Hey,” he breathes out, stopping right in front of you. 

“Hi,” you say, looking up at him with wide, shining eyes. “You were incredible out there, Dean. Truly.”

“Yeah?” He asks, his eyes searching your face, seeking your approval above all else. 

“The best on the ice,” you confirm softly. 

The boys are filtering past you both, offering catcalls and teasing whistles. 

“Get a room, Di Laurentis!” Logan shouts as he walks by with Tucker. 

“Shut up, Logan!” Dean yells back without breaking eye contact with you. 

The hallway finally clears, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, fluorescent-lit corridor. The adrenaline from the game is still humming in the air between you, mixing violently with the unspoken tension that has been building for three weeks. 

Dean steps closer, invading your personal space. He reaches out, his large hands resting gently on your waist, over the heavy fabric of the jersey. 

“I meant it,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping an octave. “When I pointed to you. That goal was for you, Y/N.”

You look up at him, at the handsome, reckless boy you grew up with who has somehow morphed into this incredible, devoted man. You realize, with a sudden, crystal-clear certainty, that you don’t want to be scared anymore. You don’t want to hide behind your shyness or your fears of ruining your friendship. 

“Dean,” you whisper. 

You reach up, your hands slipping out of the oversized sleeves. You place your palms flat against his chest, feeling the heavy, rapid beat of his heart through his t-shirt. 

Dean completely freezes. His breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t move a muscle, terrified that if he does, you will pull away. 

You rise up on your tiptoes. Dean instinctively tilts his head down, meeting you halfway. 

You press your lips to his. 

It is not a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. It is chaste. Soft. Sweet. It is a gentle press of lips, a quiet, tender thank you, a desperate confession of everything you are too afraid to say out loud. 

It lasts only three seconds. 

When you pull back, dropping down to your flat feet, you keep your eyes closed for a moment, terrified of his reaction. 

When you finally open them, you gasp. 

Dean Di Laurentis — the guy who has quite literally been with half the campus, the guy who knows every sexual maneuver in the book, the guy who thrives on marathon, sweaty, athletic encounters — looks completely devastated. 

He looks like he has died and gone to heaven. 

His green eyes are blown wide, his pupils completely dilated. His jaw is slack, his lips slightly parted, pink and damp from your brief touch. His chest is heaving as if he just skated ten periods back-to-back. 

“Y/N,” Dean breathes, the word trembling on his lips. 

He raises a shaking hand, pressing his fingers to his own mouth, as if he can’t quite believe what just happened. 

“Was that … was that okay?” You whisper, your insecurity suddenly flaring up. “I know it wasn’t … I know you’re used to-”

“Don’t,” Dean interrupts, his voice cracking slightly. He drops his duffel bag entirely and reaches for you, wrapping both arms around your waist and hauling you flush against his chest. 

“Don’t you dare compare yourself to anyone else,” Dean says fiercely, staring down at you with a reverent, blazing intensity. “That was … Y/N, that was the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

“It was just a small kiss,” you murmur, your face burning. 

“It was everything,” Dean corrects, his hands gripping your waist tightly. “You’re everything. God, I’m so in love with you.”

The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them, tumbling into the quiet hallway like a grenade. 

You freeze, your heart slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts. “Dean …”

Dean closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours. He lets out a shaky laugh, a sound of pure relief and surrender. 

“I know,” he whispers, his breath fanning across your lips. “I know it’s fast, and I know you’re scared, and I know I have a terrible reputation. But I’m yours, Y/N. I have always been yours. You just had to come back for me to realize it.”

He opens his eyes, looking deep into yours. 

“You don’t have to say it back,” Dean promises, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. I just needed you to know. I’m not playing games, sweetheart. I’m playing for keeps.”

You stare up at the man holding you, feeling the absolute truth in his words. The terrifying world outside — the threats, the politics, the uncertainty — melts away entirely. 

You rise on your tiptoes again, but this time, Dean doesn’t wait. He captures your lips, kissing you with a tender, devastating passion that seals your fate completely.

***

The collective student body of Briar University is, for lack of a better term, completely losing its mind. 

It has been nearly two months since the legendary, untouchable Dean Di Laurentis officially took himself off the market. Two months since he dragged a beautiful, shy transfer student into his orbit and never let her go. And yet, the novelty of his absolute, unrelenting devotion hasn’t worn off. If anything, it’s only become more aggressively apparent.

It’s a chilly Tuesday afternoon, and the campus coffee shop, The Daily Grind, is packed with students seeking refuge from the biting wind. 

You and Dean are standing near the pickup counter. You are wearing a cream-colored knit sweater, the sleeves pulled down over your knuckles, your posture as impeccable as ever. Dean is standing practically flush against your back, his large hands resting possessively on your hips. He’s leaning down, his chin resting near your shoulder, listening intently as you softly explain a concept from your international relations seminar.

A few yards away, sitting at a cramped corner table, Logan and Garrett are nursing their coffees and watching the spectacle.

“I give up,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I literally give up. I don’t know who that man is. He’s an imposter. A body double.”

“He’s in love,” Garrett corrects, though he looks equally bewildered. “I mean, we knew it was bad, but this is … this is advanced whipped.”

A group of sorority girls at the next table over are openly staring, whispering behind their hands. 

“Do you remember sophomore year?” One of the girls mutters loud enough for Logan to catch. “When he hooked up with those two girls on the literal pool table at a Theta party? He didn’t even care who was watching! It was like a spectator sport for him.”

“I know,” her friend replies, eyes wide. “And now look at him. He looks like he wants to build a white picket fence right here in the cafe line.”

At the counter, the barista calls out your name. “Y/N! London fog latte and a black coffee.”

You step forward to grab the drinks, but a hulking frat boy in a backward cap, rushing to grab his own macchiato, bumps hard into your shoulder. 

You stumble slightly, letting out a soft, surprised gasp. 

Instantly, the atmosphere in the coffee shop shifts. Dean’s relaxed posture vanishes. He steps in front of you, his chest broad and imposing, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle feathers dangerously. His green eyes turn to ice as he glares at the frat boy. 

“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice low but carrying across the suddenly quiet shop. “Watch where the hell you’re going.”

The frat boy pales, taking in the sheer size of the angry hockey player. “My bad, man. I didn’t see her.”

“Well, open your eyes, or I’ll wire your jaw shut so you don’t have to worry about drinking your little coffee,” Dean threatens, taking a menacing step forward. 

Before Dean can escalate a simple accident into a full-blown brawl, you move. You reach out, your delicate hands flattening against the solid wall of his chest. 

“Dean,” you murmur, your voice soft, sweet, and perfectly calm. 

Dean freezes. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under your palms. 

You offer him a small, placating smile. You slide your hands up his chest, resting them gently on his broad shoulders. Then, ignoring the dozens of eyes fixed on you, you rise up on your tiptoes. You press a soft, lingering kiss to his tense jawline, right over the ticking muscle. 

“I’m alright,” you whisper softly against his skin. You reach up, gently smoothing down the collar of his flannel shirt. “He just bumped me, Dean. Let it go. Please?”

The transformation is instantaneous. 

The murderous rage evaporates from Dean’s eyes. His shoulders drop. He lets out a shaky exhale, his hands coming up to wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He leans his forehead against yours, completely ignoring the terrified frat boy who scurries away. 

“I know,” Dean breathes, his voice entirely soft, meant only for you. “I just … I hate when people aren’t careful with you, sweetheart.”

“You’re careful enough for the both of us,” you tease gently, your cheeks flushing a pretty, soft pink at the public display, even though it was entirely initiated by you. You give his chest a gentle pat. “Now, carry my tea, please. It’s dreadfully hot.”

Dean practically melts into a puddle on the floor. “Whatever you want, baby.”

He grabs the tray of drinks, completely docile, and follows you out of the shop like a well-trained puppy. 

The moment the bell above the door jingles shut behind you, the coffee shop erupts into whispers. 

“Did you see that?” Logan says, staring blankly at the door. “She literally just rebooted his operating system with a kiss on the cheek.”

“It’s a superpower,” Garrett murmurs in awe. “She’s a witch. A beautiful, polite, sort of British witch.”

Later that evening, the off-campus house is blissfully quiet. Garrett and Logan are at the library (allegedly), and Tucker is out on a date. 

You are in Dean’s bedroom. Or, rather, your shared bedroom. The spare room you initially moved into has slowly become little more than a closet for your clothes, as Dean flat-out refused to sleep in a bed that you weren’t occupying. 

The contrast between the Dean that the campus sees — the fiercely protective, completely obsessed boyfriend — and the Dean behind closed doors is staggering. 

In public, you are shy, demure, and easily flustered by too much attention. Dean respects that. He shields you, gives you space, and handles the spotlight so you don’t have to. 

But here, in the dim, amber glow of the bedside lamp, with the heavy wooden door locked and the world shut out? Here, Dean worships you. And he systematically, patiently dismantles every ounce of your shyness. 

You are sitting on the edge of his massive mattress, wearing one of your elegant silk nightgowns. It’s champagne-colored, modest by most standards, but the way Dean is looking at you makes you feel completely exposed. 

He is kneeling on the floor between your parted thighs. He hasn’t even taken off his jeans yet, though he shed his shirt hours ago. His broad, muscular chest is on full display, his skin golden in the low light. 

“You’re blushing,” Dean murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrates straight through to your core. 

You duck your head, your hands nervously smoothing the silk over your thighs. “You’re staring at me.”

“I’m admiring,” Dean corrects softly. He reaches up, his large, warm hands wrapping around your ankles. His thumbs slowly, deliberately stroke the delicate skin there. “I can’t help it. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I love it when you flush for me, Y/N. I love knowing exactly what it does to you when I look at you.”

Your breath hitches. His words are always so direct, so unapologetically filthy and sweet all at once. He is a master of this — of seduction, of bodies, of pleasure — but he treats you as if you are the very first woman he has ever touched. There is a reverence to him that completely wrecks your defenses. 

“Dean,” you whisper, a soft plea leaving your lips. 

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he commands gently. 

You force your eyes up to meet his. His green eyes are dark, completely blown out with desire, but there is an anchor of absolute patience there. He never rushes you. He has spent the last few weeks slowly, meticulously broadening your horizons, taking you further than you ever thought you’d go, and making sure you feel entirely safe the entire time. 

He slides his hands up your calves, his rough palms sending a shockwave of heat over your skin. He stops at your knees, leaning in to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your right knee. 

You gasp, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck. 

“So pretty,” he breathes against your skin. He shifts higher, pushing the hem of your silk nightgown up your thighs. “You get so pink, Y/N. It starts on your cheeks …” 

He kisses higher up your thigh, his tongue darting out to taste the sensitive skin. You let out a soft whimper, your back arching slightly. 

“… and then it spreads down your neck,” he continues, his hands sliding up to grip your hips securely. “Down your chest. All over your stomach. You blush everywhere for me, don’t you, baby?”

“Only for you,” you manage to gasp out, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. 

Dean growls, a low, primal sound of satisfaction. He rises up onto his knees, towering over you slightly. He reaches for the thin straps of your nightgown, slipping them slowly off your shoulders. 

You instinctively cross your arms over your bare chest, that ingrained, polite shyness flaring up even now. 

Dean gently catches your wrists. He doesn’t force them away, but he holds them softly, his thumbs stroking your pulse points. 

“Don’t hide from me,” he whispers, leaning in so his lips are barely a breath away from yours. “I want to see you. I want to worship every single inch of you. Let me see, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”

His words melt your resistance entirely. You slowly uncross your arms, letting your hands fall to his broad shoulders. 

The silk nightgown pools around your waist, leaving your top half completely bare to his hungry gaze. 

Just as he predicted, a deep, beautiful flush of pink spreads rapidly down your neck, blooming across your chest and stomach. 

Dean lets out a ragged breath. He looks at you as if you are a religious artifact, something holy and miraculous. “God, you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.”

He leans in, replacing his intense gaze with his mouth. He kisses the hollow of your throat, his lips hot and demanding. You tip your head back, a soft, breathy moan escaping your lips as his mouth trails lower. 

He takes his time, kissing the swell of your breasts, the valley between them, worshipping the flushed skin just as he promised. When his mouth finally closes over one sensitive peak, drawing it in and laving it with his tongue, you completely lose your mind. 

“Dean!” You cry out, your hands gripping his shoulders hard, your fingernails digging into his skin. 

“I’ve got you,” he hums against your skin, the vibration sending a fresh wave of electricity straight down to your core. “I’m right here. Just feel it, baby. Let go.”

He is relentless in his devotion. His hands are everywhere, mapping your body, learning exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you arch into his touch. For a man who used to thrive on quick, athletic hookups, Dean is agonizingly slow with you. 

He pulls away just long enough to shed his jeans and boxers, tossing them carelessly to the floor. When he returns to you, he is fully bare, completely aroused, and radiating heat. 

He gently pushes you back until you are lying flat on the mattress, your hair fanned out over his pillows. He follows you down, his massive frame hovering over yours, supporting his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. 

“Tell me this is what you want,” Dean says, his voice strained with the immense effort it’s taking to hold himself back. He needs to hear it. He needs your verbal consent, your absolute certainty. 

“It’s what I want,” you whisper, reaching up to cup his handsome, tense face. “I want you, Dean. Please.”

That is all it takes. 

Dean shifts his hips, settling himself between your thighs. He reaches down, guiding himself to your entrance. He pauses there, his eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of hesitation. When you only nod, your eyes wide and completely trusting, he slowly, steadily pushes inside you. 

You let out a sharp cry, your eyes fluttering shut as the feeling of him filling you completely takes over. It is overwhelming, intense, and deeply, achingly intimate. 

Dean freezes, his jaw clenched tight. “Y/N? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you gasp, opening your eyes. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his face down to yours. “No, Dean, it feels … it feels incredible. Don’t stop.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, pressing his forehead against yours. “You’re so tight, baby. So incredibly sweet. I’m going to take it slow. I promise.”

And he does. He begins to move, pulling back slowly and pressing in deep, establishing a steady, torturously good rhythm. Every time he hits the back of your slick heat, he presses a kiss to your lips, your jaw, your neck. 

He murmurs dark, dirty praise into your ear, perfectly contrasting your elegant nature. He tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you look laid out in his bed, how much he loves the sounds you make when he hits that one specific spot. 

You are completely undone by him. Your shy, reserved exterior is shattered entirely under his careful worship. You are writhing beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, matching his rhythm, chasing the blinding pleasure he is feeding you. 

“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice breaking as the pressure builds low in your stomach. “I can’t … it’s too much.”

“It’s not too much, sweetheart,” he grunts, his pace quickening, his hips snapping against yours with more force. “You can take it. Let it happen. Come for me, baby. Just for me.”

The possessive command is the final push you need. You shatter entirely, a high, keening cry escaping your lips as your body goes rigid. The climax rips through you in violent, beautiful waves, your internal muscles clenching tightly around him. 

Dean groans loudly, his control snapping the second he feels your release. He drives into you a few more times, fast and deep, before burying his face in the crook of your neck and finding his own release with a deep, guttural shout. 

He collapses against you, his heavy chest heaving, his heart hammering against yours. You hold him tightly, your hands stroking his damp hair, entirely sated and floating in a euphoric haze. 

Dean eventually rolls to the side, taking his weight off you, but he pulls you tightly against his chest, tucking your head under his chin. He pulls the heavy duvet over both of your bodies, enveloping you in warmth. 

“God,” Dean breathes into the quiet room, sounding entirely awestruck. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I love you. I love you so damn much, Y/N.”

“I love you too,” you whisper sleepily, pressing a kiss to his bare collarbone. “You’re wonderful, Dean.”

“Only with you,” he promises, his arms tightening protectively around you as you drift off to sleep. 

The next morning, the campus is bustling with the standard Wednesday chaos. 

Dean is walking you to your 10 AM lecture. He’s wearing his Briar hockey letterman jacket, looking impossibly large and handsome. 

You are walking beside him, holding his hand. The contrast from last night is almost comical. 

You are back in your tailored clothes — a pleated wool skirt, tights, and a high-necked cashmere sweater. Your hair is perfectly styled, and your posture is immaculate. You look every inch the untouchable, elegant diplomat’s daughter. 

As you walk past the quad, a group of guys from one of the fraternities walk by. One of them, not noticing Dean immediately, lets out a low, appreciative whistle directed at you. 

“Damn, baby. Looking good,” the guy calls out. 

Instantly, that furious, shy blush races up your neck and paints your cheeks bright pink. You immediately duck your head, feeling incredibly embarrassed by the crass public attention, and instinctively turn your face in toward Dean’s bicep to hide. 

Dean wraps a heavy arm around your shoulders, tucking you safely into his side. He shoots the frat boy a look so terrifying, so full of lethal, possessive promise, that the guy practically trips over his own feet trying to hurry away. 

But as Dean looks down at you, hiding your bright red, blushing face against his jacket, a slow, incredibly smug smile spreads across his lips. 

Everyone on campus thinks you are a fragile, shy angel who can barely handle a compliment. 

But Dean knows the truth. 

He knows what you look like completely undone, blushing that exact same shade of pink while tangled in his bedsheets. He knows the sounds you make, the way you scratch his shoulders, the way you let him broaden your horizons in the dark. 

The dichotomy is thrilling. It makes his heart race with a fierce, possessive joy. You are this sweet, untouchable, elegant creature to the rest of the world, but behind closed doors, you belong entirely to him. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” Dean asks softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

“I’m fine,” you mumble against his jacket, still embarrassed. “People are so loud here.”

Dean chuckles, a rich, warm sound that vibrates through his chest. He pulls you a little closer, kissing your temple. 

“Don’t worry about them,” he murmurs, his green eyes sparkling with a secret only the two of you share. “They don’t know anything about you. But I do. And I think you’re perfect.”

You peek up at him, seeing the wicked, knowing gleam in his eye, and your blush somehow deepens even further. 

“You’re terrible,” you whisper, though a small smile plays on your lips. 

“I’m the best,” Dean corrects easily, pulling open the door to the lecture hall for you. “And you know it.”

You do know it. And as you walk into the classroom, your hand firmly intertwined with the biggest playboy turned most devoted boyfriend in Briar University history, you wouldn’t trade him for the world.

***

The late November air bites sharply at your cheeks as you and Dean walk out of the political science building. The Briar University campus is painted in stark shades of grey and deep, dying auburn, the sky threatening an early winter snow. 

You are bundled in a thick wool coat and a cashmere scarf, your hands buried deep in your pockets. Dean is walking beside you, seemingly impervious to the cold in just a Briar Hockey quarter-zip, though he has your heavy canvas tote bag slung effortlessly over his broad shoulder. 

“I still think the professor has it out for me,” Dean complains, bumping his shoulder gently against yours as you navigate the crowded sidewalk. “I answered the question perfectly.”

“You compared the socioeconomic impacts of the Industrial Revolution to the plot of Transformers,” you point out mildly, though a fond smile pulls at your lips. “It wasn’t exactly a perfect academic parallel.”

“It’s about the rise of machines, Y/N,” Dean argues, a wicked, charming grin spreading across his handsome face. “It’s deeply metaphorical. He just doesn’t appreciate my genius.”

“Of course,” you say, laughing softly. “That must be it. You’re a misunderstood scholar.”

Dean stops walking suddenly, turning to fully face you. He reaches out, pulling your cold hands from your coat pockets and wrapping his large, warm ones around them. He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss to the chilled skin right there in the middle of the quad. 

“I don’t care if I’m a scholar,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours with that familiar, breath-stealing intensity. “As long as I get to sit next to you.”

A blush instantly warms your cheeks, combating the winter chill. It’s been weeks of this — weeks of Dean completely upending his life to revolve around yours, weeks of his fierce protection and tender worship — and you still haven’t gotten used to the sheer force of his devotion. 

“Come on,” Dean says softly, tugging your hands. “Let’s go get lunch. Garrett said he was craving-”

Dean’s words cut off abruptly. 

You look up, following his line of sight, and your heart skips a sudden, violent beat. 

Standing near the edge of the courtyard, completely out of place amidst the sea of stressed-out college students in sweatpants, is a man in an immaculate, bespoke navy suit. He is flanked by two very large, very discreet men in dark overcoats who exude a quiet, lethal sort of professionalism. 

“Dad?” You gasp, the word slipping out in absolute shock. 

Your father turns his head at the sound of your voice. His stern, diplomat’s face instantly softens into a warm, relieved smile. 

“Y/N,” he says, his deep, cultured voice carrying across the pavement. 

You don’t think. You just run. You drop Dean’s hands and sprint across the quad, throwing yourself into your father’s open arms. He catches you effortlessly, wrapping his arms tightly around you and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

“Dad, what are you doing here?” You ask, your voice muffled against his lapel. “Is everything okay? Are you safe? Is Mom okay?”

“We are perfectly fine, sweetheart,” your father assures you, pulling back just enough to look at your face, his hands resting on your shoulders. “Everything is fine. In fact, it’s more than fine.”

You blink, confused, as Dean slowly walks up behind you. He is standing a respectful distance away, his posture rigid, his jaw clenched tight. The playful, flirtatious college boy has completely vanished, replaced by a tense, hyper-vigilant protector. 

“Ambassador Y/L/N,” Dean says, his voice respectful but cautious. 

Your father looks up, his sharp eyes taking in Dean’s massive frame, the Briar hockey quarter-zip, and the canvas tote bag adorned with your handwriting that Dean is still holding. 

“Dean Di Laurentis,” your father replies, a small, knowing smile touching his lips. “It has been quite a few years. You’ve grown into a mountain of a young man. How are your parents?”

“They’re doing very well, sir. Thank you,” Dean says stiffly. 

You look between the two of them, the tension crackling in the cold air, before turning back to your father. “Dad, please. Tell me what’s going on. You’re supposed to be locked down in D.C. Why are you in Massachusetts?”

Your father sighs, a sound of profound, weary relief. He gestures to a nearby stone bench. “Let’s sit down for a moment.”

Dean remains standing, flanking the bench like a bodyguard as you and your father take a seat. 

“The threat has been neutralized, Y/N,” your father says quietly, his voice dropping into the serious, commanding tone he uses for state briefings. “Completely.”

Your breath catches. “Neutralized? How?”

“It was a joint operation,” your father explains, glancing around the quad to ensure no one is within earshot. “MI6 and the FBI have been tracking the extortion ring for months. The group using you as leverage to manipulate the trade sanctions made a mistake. They tried to move funds through an offshore account that had been flagged. The authorities raided their compound in Zurich two days ago. The key players have all been indicted, and the network has been dismantled.”

You stare at him, your brain struggling to process the magnitude of his words. For the past two months, you have lived with a persistent, low-grade terror thrumming in your veins. You had accepted that your life would never look the same, that you would always be looking over your shoulder. 

“Are you absolutely sure?” You whisper, your voice trembling. “They’re gone?”

“They are gone,” your father confirms firmly, covering your hand with his. “The Director of Intelligence personally assured me this morning. You are no longer a target, my darling. The danger has passed.”

A wave of dizzying relief washes over you. You slump forward slightly, tears of sheer release pricking the corners of your eyes. Your father wraps an arm around you, holding you close as you let out a shaky sob. 

Above you, Dean lets out a long, ragged exhale. The rigid tension bleeding from his broad shoulders is almost palpable. 

“Thank God,” Dean breathes, running a hand through his blonde hair. “Thank God.”

“Indeed,” your father says. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a crisp, white envelope, handing it to you. “Which brings me to the secondary reason for my visit.”

You sniffle, wiping your eyes carefully as you take the envelope. It bears the official crest of Oxford University. 

“I spoke with the Dean of your college at Oxford yesterday,” your father continues, his tone gentle. “They understand the extenuating circumstances of your sudden departure. They have held your spot, Y/N. Your transfer credits from Briar will apply. You are entirely free to return to England and resume your studies next semester, just as you planned.”

The words hang in the freezing air, heavy and catastrophic. 

Behind you, Dean stops breathing entirely. 

The color drains rapidly from Dean’s face. His heart, which had just been soaring with relief for your safety, suddenly plummets straight into his stomach, crashing violently against the cold dread pooling there. 

Return to England. Resume her studies. Leave Briar. 

Leave him.

Dean feels physically ill. It’s only been a month and a half. He has only had you back in his life for a fraction of a semester, but in that time, you have become the absolute center of his universe. You are the air he breathes, the reason he wakes up in the morning, the only thing that makes this chaotic, loud world make sense. The thought of you packing your bags, getting on a plane, and crossing an ocean again feels like a physical blow to his chest. 

He remembers the ache of losing you when you were both fourteen. He remembers how quiet his house felt, how empty his days were without his best friend. But this? Losing you now, after he has tasted your lips, after he has held you in his bed, after he has realized that his soul is irreversibly tied to yours? 

It will break him. He knows, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that if you leave, he will not recover. 

Dean instinctively takes a half-step backward, the physical manifestation of his emotional retreat. His hand, which had been resting on the back of the stone bench near your shoulder, drops to his side. He stares at the ground, his jaw locked so tight his teeth ache, preparing himself for the inevitable. You belong at Oxford. You belong in grand libraries and ancient halls, not in a messy hockey house with a guy who barely scrapes by in political science. 

You look down at the heavy, embossed envelope in your lap. 

Oxford. It was your dream. You had worked tirelessly to get in. You had friends there, a life there, a clear, pristine path laid out for your future in diplomacy. Returning is the logical, smart, expected thing to do. 

You look up at your father, seeing the quiet expectation in his eyes. 

Then, you turn your head to look at Dean. 

He won’t meet your gaze. He is staring fiercely at the concrete, his broad shoulders hunched as if bracing for an impact. You see the subtle tremor in his clenched jaw, the absolute devastation radiating from his rigid posture. He has already convinced himself that you are leaving. He is already letting you go, because that is the kind of man he is — he would tear his own heart out before he ever held you back from something you wanted. 

A fierce, protective warmth blooms in your chest. 

You don’t want Oxford. Not anymore. The ancient halls and polite, intellectual debates suddenly seem terribly cold and lonely compared to the chaotic, vibrant, fiercely loyal life you’ve found here. You don’t want a life without Garrett stealing your snacks, without Logan’s terrible jokes, without Tucker’s quiet drawl. 

And, most importantly, you absolutely refuse to exist in a world where you don’t wake up next to Dean Di Laurentis every single morning. 

You slide the envelope back across the bench toward your father. 

“No, thank you,” you say softly, but your voice is remarkably steady. 

Dean’s head snaps up so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t pull a muscle. He stares at you, his green eyes wide, raw shock and desperate hope colliding in his expression. 

Your father arches a dark eyebrow. “No? Y/N, you loved Oxford. It is one of the premier institutions in the world for your field.”

“It is,” you agree, reaching out to gently lay your hand over the envelope. “And I am grateful they held my spot. But I don’t want to go back to England, Dad. I want to stay here. At Briar.”

“Briar is an excellent school,” your father acknowledges smoothly, ever the diplomat. “But it is a significant shift in your trajectory. Are you certain this isn’t a reaction to the trauma of the past few months? Now that the threat is gone, you don’t need to hide anymore.”

“I’m not hiding,” you say firmly. You stand up from the bench, stepping closer to Dean. You reach out, your delicate fingers sliding into his large, calloused hand. Dean gasps softly, a quiet, broken sound, and immediately crushes your hand in his, holding on as if you are a lifeline. 

You look up at Dean, offering him a smile so full of love and absolute certainty that the last lingering remnants of his panic melt away. 

You turn back to your father, your hand firmly anchored in Dean’s. “I’m not hiding, Dad. I’ve built a life here. I have friends here. I’m happy here. Really, truly happy. I want to stay.”

Your father looks at your joined hands. He looks at the way Dean is looking down at you — as if you are the sun and he has spent his entire life in the dark. The Ambassador has spent his career reading people, analyzing motives, and deciphering unsaid truths. It takes him less than five seconds to understand exactly what is happening in front of him. 

A slow, genuine smile breaks across your father’s stern face. 

“Very well,” your father says, standing up and smoothing the front of his suit jacket. “It is your life, Y/N, and your education. If Briar is where you wish to remain, I will not attempt to convince you otherwise. I trust your judgment.”

You let out a massive sigh of relief, your shoulders dropping. “Thank you, Dad.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” your father says, his eyes shifting to Dean. “My driver is waiting by the main gates. I have reservations at Ostra in Boston for lunch. You are both joining me.”

It isn’t a request. 

Dean swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes, sir.”

The drive to Boston is quiet, insulated by the tinted windows and plush leather of your father’s town car. You sit in the middle of the spacious backseat, your father on your right, and Dean on your left. Dean hasn’t let go of your hand since the courtyard. His thumb traces anxious, rhythmic circles into your palm, betraying the calm, stoic mask he is trying desperately to maintain. 

Ostra is exactly the kind of restaurant your father frequents — impeccably designed, quietly opulent, and smelling of expensive wine and Mediterranean seafood. The maitre d’ immediately ushers the three of you to a private, secluded booth in the back. 

As the waiter pours sparkling water and takes their drink orders, Dean is practically vibrating with tension. 

He knows how this goes. He isn’t stupid. He is the guy with a notorious campus reputation who has suddenly shacked up with the Ambassador’s sheltered, brilliant daughter. He has been waiting for the shovel talk since the day you moved into the hockey house. He is entirely prepared to take it. He is prepared to sit here and let your father threaten him, dissect his character, and warn him of dire consequences if he ever breaks your heart. 

Dean will agree to all of it, because he’d sooner die than hurt you. 

“So, Dean,” your father starts once the waiter retreats, resting his forearms on the white tablecloth. “Political Science. A slight departure from your parents’ corporate law background.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean says, sitting incredibly straight. “I plan to go to law school after graduation, but I wanted a broader undergraduate foundation. And … hockey takes up a significant amount of my time.”

“Ah, yes. The Briar hockey program,” your father nods slowly. “Your mother mentioned you were a standout player. Any plans to pursue it professionally?”

“I have options,” Dean answers honestly, his voice steady despite his nerves. “I’ve had some interest from scouts, but my priority right now is finishing my degree. And making sure Y/N is situated.”

Your father takes a slow sip of his water, his sharp eyes pinning Dean to the plush leather of the booth. 

“Speaking of Y/N,” your father says softly, the diplomatic polish stripping away to reveal the protective father underneath. “She has been staying with you and your teammates at an off-campus residence.”

Dean stiffens. “Yes, sir. When she first arrived, the dorms lacked the necessary security parameters. My housemates and I decided it was safer for her to be with us. We have a spare room.”

It’s a half-truth. You haven’t slept in that spare room in weeks, but Dean isn’t about to volunteer that information over the bread basket. 

“I appreciate your hospitality,” your father says smoothly. He sets his glass down. “I also appreciate that you have taken it upon yourself to act as her personal shadow. My security detail informed me that you walk her to every class, you sit beside her in the library, and you haven’t attended a single social event without her on your arm.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t apologize. He looks your father dead in the eye. “She was threatened, sir. I wasn’t going to let her out of my sight. Not when I had the means to protect her.”

You reach under the table, resting your hand gently on Dean’s rigid thigh, a silent gesture of support. Dean’s hand immediately covers yours, gripping your fingers tightly. 

“Sir,” Dean continues, his voice dropping into a serious, unwavering register. “I know what this looks like. I know you’re probably aware of … certain aspects of my reputation before Y/N transferred here. And I know you probably brought me here to give me the warning I absolutely deserve. I am completely ready to hear it. But you need to know that I love her. I love your daughter more than anything in this world, and my only priority is her happiness and her safety. You can threaten me all you want, but I am not going anywhere.”

You stare at Dean, your heart swelling with so much love you think it might genuinely burst. You look at your father, ready to defend Dean, ready to tell your dad that Dean is the best thing that has ever happened to you. 

But your father doesn’t look angry. 

Instead, a soft, incredibly fond smile touches his lips. He leans back in the booth, looking at Dean with an expression of profound respect. 

“Dean,” your father says gently. “I did not bring you here to threaten you.”

Dean blinks, completely thrown off guard. “You didn’t?”

“No,” your father chuckles quietly. “My entire career is built on assessing character, gathering intelligence, and understanding the truth of a situation before I enter the room. I know exactly what your reputation on this campus was. And I know exactly how drastically it changed the moment my daughter set foot in Massachusetts.”

Your father folds his hands on the table, his expression turning entirely earnest. 

“You think I don’t know the boy sitting across from me?” Your father asks softly. “I have known you since you were in grade school. I have watched you grow up alongside my daughter.”

Your father pauses, his eyes softening as he looks into the past. “Do you remember the summer you were both twelve? Y/N had convinced you to take one of the small sailing dinghies out onto the Long Island Sound, despite the small craft advisory.”

Dean exhales a shaky breath, the memory hitting him instantly. “I remember.”

You look down, blushing slightly. “That was entirely my fault. I wanted to see the lighthouse up close.”

“A sudden squall rolled in,” your father recounts, his voice thick with remembered fear. “The wind picked up, and the boat capsized. The Coast Guard was dispatched, but it took them nearly an hour to locate you in the chop.”

Your father looks directly at Dean. “When they finally pulled you both out of the water, Y/N’s life vest was gone. The clasp had broken when the boom swung around. But she wasn’t under the water. You had given her your life vest, Dean. You spent an hour treading water in freezing temperatures, holding her up above the waves, completely risking your own life to ensure she didn’t drown. You were hospitalized for hypothermia, and you refused to let the doctors treat you until you saw with your own eyes that Y/N was unharmed.”

Dean looks down at the table, his cheeks flushing a dull red. “She couldn’t swim as well as I could. I wasn’t going to let her sink.”

“I know,” your father says quietly. “That is my point, Dean. When the threats against my family escalated in London, my first thought was terrifying panic. My second thought was finding a safe harbor for her. The government suggested several secure locations. But when my wife mentioned that Briar University was an option — that you were at Briar — I signed the transfer papers immediately.”

Dean’s head snaps up, absolute shock written across his features. “You … you sent her to Briar because of me?”

“I sent her to Briar because I knew that if you were there, no one on this earth would be able to touch her,” your father states with absolute, unwavering conviction. “I knew the boy who gave up his life vest in the freezing Sound had grown into a man who would do whatever it took to keep her safe. I don’t need to give you a shovel talk, Dean. You are perhaps the only man on earth I trust implicitly with my daughter’s heart, and her life.”

The silence in the opulent restaurant booth is deafening. 

Dean stares at the Ambassador, his green eyes shining with unshed emotion. The heavy, suffocating weight of guilt he has carried about his past, the fear that he wasn’t good enough for you, is completely decimated by your father’s words. 

Dean swallows hard, his jaw working as he struggles to find his voice. He looks at you, his eyes blazing with a fierce, watery devotion, before turning back to your father. 

“Thank you, sir,” Dean says, his voice thick and rough. “I won’t let you down. I swear to God, I will never let her down.”

“I know you won’t, son,” your father smiles warmly, picking up his menu. “Now, I am told the sea bass here is excellent. And I believe we have a celebration in order. My daughter is safe, she is staying in America, and she is in excellent hands.”

Under the table, you squeeze Dean’s hand, leaning over to rest your head gently against his broad shoulder. Dean presses a kiss to your hair, his entire body radiating a profound, beautiful peace. 

He didn’t just get to keep the love of his life today. 

He finally realized he was worthy of her.

***

Spring break at Briar University usually means packed beaches in Cabo, cheap tequila, and a week of terrible decisions. 

But Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t do anything by the standard playbook anymore. 

When you had offhandedly mentioned over a midnight study session that you missed the rainy, historic charm of England and the specific scones from a little bakery near your old flat, you hadn’t expected anything to come of it. You were simply feeling a bout of homesickness. 

Two days later, Dean had dropped two first-class tickets to Heathrow onto your textbook. 

Now, you are walking hand-in-hand down the ancient, cobblestone streets of Oxford, bundled in a sleek wool coat to ward off the crisp March chill. 

The trip has been nothing short of a fairy tale. Dean had rented a massive suite in London for three days, taking you to the West End, indulging in high tea, and buying you more luxury clothes than you could ever fit in your suitcase. Then, he had whisked you away to the Cotswolds, renting a secluded, romantic stone cottage with a thatched roof and a roaring fireplace. You had spent three days snowed in, wrapped in thick blankets, drinking hot cider, and letting Dean absolutely worship every inch of you in front of the hearth. 

But Oxford is different. Oxford is your past. 

“So, this is it,” Dean says, his head tipped back as he looks up at the towering, magnificent dome of the Radcliffe Camera. “The legendary stomping grounds. I have to admit, sweetheart, it’s pretty spectacular. Makes Briar look like a strip mall.”

You laugh, squeezing his large hand. “Briar has its own charm. But yes, Oxford is … it’s special. I spent hours reading in that library. I used to sit on that wall right over there and debate international policy until the sun went down.”

Dean looks down at you, his green eyes entirely soft, crinkling at the corners. He is wearing a long, tailored black overcoat over a dark turtleneck, looking so impossibly handsome and devastatingly striking that people have been turning their heads to stare at him all morning. 

“Show me,” Dean murmurs, pulling you flush against his side and pressing a warm kiss to your temple. “Show me everything. I want to see where you lived, where you drank, where you bought those scones you wouldn’t stop talking about.”

“You bought me five dozen scones yesterday, Dean. I think I’m set for life,” you tease, leaning your head against his broad shoulder. 

“I’m a provider,” he counters smoothly, flashing that wicked, brilliant grin. “It’s in my nature.”

You lead him through the winding, historic streets, pointing out your favorite pubs and the quiet little courtyards hidden behind massive iron gates. Dean listens to every word you say with absolute attention. He asks questions, he remembers the names of your old professors, and he looks at you with a devotion so fierce it makes your chest ache in the best possible way. 

“And this,” you say, stopping in front of a rustic, wood-paneled pub with hanging flower baskets, “is The Turf Tavern. It’s practically a requirement to get a pint here. Shall we?”

“Lead the way,” Dean says, reaching past you to push the heavy oak door open. 

The pub is crowded, smelling of ale, fried fish, and damp wool. You navigate through the low-ceilinged room, Dean keeping a protective hand resting securely on the small of your back. You manage to find a tiny, secluded booth near the back. 

Dean goes to the bar to order two pints and a plate of chips. You sit at the booth, pulling your scarf off and feeling a profound sense of contentment wash over you. You are back in the city you love, but you are here with the man who holds your entire heart. It is the perfect collision of your two worlds. 

“Y/N? Is that you?”

The crisp, highly polished, and painfully familiar British accent cuts through the low din of the pub. 

You freeze. Your blood turns to ice water in your veins. 

You turn your head slowly. Standing a few feet away, holding a half-empty pint glass and wearing a perfectly tailored tweed blazer, is Edward. 

Edward, the Viscount of Scunthorpe. The aristocratic, impossibly snobby ex-boyfriend you had dated during your time at Oxford. The man who had treated you more like a shiny, diplomatic accessory than a human being. 

“Edward,” you say, your voice tight. You force a polite, entirely fake smile onto your face. “Hello.”

Edward steps closer, his gaze sweeping over you with an uncomfortable familiarity. “I had heard a rumor you fled back to the States. Something about your father and a political scandal? What a dreadful business. You look well, though. A bit … domestic, perhaps, but well.”

His backhanded compliment grates on your nerves. You immediately shrink back into the booth, your ingrained, polite shyness warring with your immense annoyance. “I didn’t flee, Edward. I transferred. And I’m doing perfectly fine.”

“Of course you are, darling,” Edward smirks, taking another step forward. He reaches out, aiming to lazily tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Though I must say, Oxford has been terribly dull without-”

A massive, calloused hand suddenly intercepts Edward’s wrist mid-air. 

The grip is visibly bone-crushing. 

Edward gasps, his eyes blowing wide as he looks to his right. 

Dean is standing there. He holds two pints of beer effortlessly in his left hand, while his right hand is locked around Edward’s wrist like a steel vice. Dean’s expression is completely blank, but his green eyes are practically glowing with lethal, frozen rage. 

“Don’t touch her,” Dean says. His voice is dangerously low, a soft, gravelly threat that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. 

Edward tries to yank his arm back, but Dean doesn’t budge an inch. “I beg your pardon?” Edward sputters, his face turning an undignified shade of red. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Dean slowly, deliberately releases Edward’s wrist, shoving the man’s arm back toward his chest with just enough force to make Edward stumble back a step. 

Dean sets the pints down on the table. He doesn’t sit. He turns, placing himself entirely between you and Edward, shielding you from the Viscount’s sightline. 

“I’m the guy who is going to break your hand if you reach for my girlfriend again,” Dean answers smoothly, his tone conversational, though the threat is violently real. “I’m Dean.”

Edward scoffs, rubbing his wrist, though he wisely takes another step back from the towering, broad-shouldered American athlete. “Your girlfriend. I see. Y/N, really? You traded me for a … what are you, a footballer? A rugby brute?”

“Ice hockey,” you say clearly, finding your voice. You slide out of the booth, stepping up to stand right beside Dean. You wrap your arms around Dean’s bicep, pressing yourself against his side. “And I didn’t trade you for anyone, Edward. We broke up because you were entirely insufferable.”

Dean looks down at you, the lethal ice in his eyes melting instantly into a look of absolute, smug adoration. He wraps a heavy arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. 

Edward sneers, looking Dean up and down with blatant aristocratic disdain. “Ice hockey. How terribly colonial. Tell me, Dean, do you actually know how to read, or do you just hit things with a stick for a living? I’m surprised you can even keep up with a conversation here at Oxford.”

Dean doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t raise his voice. Instead, he laughs. It’s a dark, rich, incredibly condescending laugh that completely catches Edward off guard. 

“You know, Edward,” Dean says, leaning forward slightly, using his height to completely dwarf the other man. “You talk a lot for a guy whose family wealth is currently tied up in the failing agriculture sector because your father completely botched his investments in the post-Brexit trade agreements. From a socioeconomic standpoint, you’re practically a peasant in a nice jacket.”

Edward’s jaw actually drops. The color drains from his face. 

You stare at Dean, absolutely floored. 

Dean continues, his voice dripping with terrifying charm. “I study political science and corporate law, Edward. My parents are two of the most ruthless litigators on the East Coast. So, if you want to debate international trade laws or intellectual property, we can. But right now, I’m on vacation with the woman I love, and you are boring me to death.”

Edward opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly defeated, stripped of his aristocratic armor by a guy who he assumed was nothing but muscle. 

Dean doesn’t give him a chance to recover. 

He turns to you, completely ignoring Edward’s existence. “You ready to get out of here, sweetheart? The air in here suddenly feels incredibly cheap.”

“Yes,” you whisper, your heart doing frantic, somersaulting leaps in your chest. “Take me back to the hotel.”

Dean smirks. Right there, in the middle of the crowded pub, with your ex-boyfriend standing three feet away, Dean reaches up and cups your face. He tilts your head back and crushes his lips to yours. 

It is a claiming, devastating, incredibly filthy kiss. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting you, devouring you, staking a completely undeniable claim. He kisses you until you are breathless, until your knees go weak and you have to grip his coat lapels to stay standing. 

When he finally pulls back, you are thoroughly flushed, your lips swollen and wet. 

Dean turns his head slightly, shooting Edward a look of pure, dominant victory. 

“Have a nice life, Eddie,” Dean deadpans. 

He grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together, and leads you out of the pub, leaving the Viscount standing completely humiliated in the dust. 

The walk back to the Randolph Hotel is a blur. 

You are practically vibrating with adrenaline. You had never seen Dean like that. You had seen him protective, yes, but the way he had verbally dismantled Edward without even raising his voice, the way he had claimed you so thoroughly in public — it sent a rush of intense, liquid heat straight to your core. 

The moment the heavy, oak door of your luxurious hotel suite clicks shut behind you, the calm, collected facade Dean had maintained completely shatters. 

Dean spins around, grabbing you by the hips and backing you forcefully against the heavy door. 

You let out a soft gasp as your back hits the wood. 

“Darling?” Dean snarls, his voice dropping into a dark, guttural growl that sends a violent shiver down your spine. “He called you darling?”

“Dean-” you start, but he cuts you off, his mouth crashing down onto yours. 

There is no slow, patient worship this time. This is feral. This is possessive. He kisses you with a desperate, consuming hunger, his tongue pushing past your lips to conquer your mouth. He tastes like ale and dark desire. 

You moan softly into his mouth, your arms instantly coming up to wrap around his neck. You kiss him back with matching ferocity, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck. 

Dean’s large hands tear at your wool coat, practically ripping it off your shoulders and tossing it to the floor. His hands roam over the thin silk of your blouse, his palms hot and heavy. 

“Tell me whose you are,” Dean demands, pulling back just a fraction of an inch, his chest heaving against yours. His green eyes are black with lust, wild and completely untamed. “Tell me, Y/N.”

“Yours,” you gasp, your eyes fluttering shut as he trails open-mouthed, biting kisses down the column of your neck. “I’m only yours, Dean. Nobody else’s.”

“Fucking right you’re mine,” he groans against your skin. He sucks a hard, bruising mark into the sensitive spot right above your collarbone, making sure to leave a physical reminder of exactly who you belong to. 

You cry out, arching your back off the door to press your chest flush against his. 

Dean grabs the back of your thighs and lifts you effortlessly. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles behind his back. He carries you across the luxurious suite, your back never leaving his chest, and drops you onto the center of the massive, king-sized bed. 

You bounce slightly on the plush mattress, looking up at him through heavy, hooded eyes. 

Dean strips off his overcoat and his turtleneck in one fluid, aggressive motion. He stands beside the bed, his golden, impossibly muscular chest heaving. He reaches for the buckle of his belt, his eyes fixed on you like a predator watching its prey. 

“Did he ever touch you like this?” Dean asks, his voice tight with lingering jealousy. He reaches down, grabbing your ankles and dragging you down the mattress until your hips are right at the edge of the bed. 

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head frantically. “God, no, Dean. Never. It was never like this. It’s only you.”

Dean lets out a harsh, satisfied breath. He kneels between your parted thighs. His hands make quick work of your blouse, popping the buttons and tossing it aside, followed quickly by your bra and skirt. 

In seconds, you are completely bare to him, flushed a deep, beautiful pink from your chest down to your thighs, completely exposed to his heated gaze. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Dean murmurs, the feral edge softening into pure, intense worship. “You make me absolutely crazy, sweetheart.”

He leans forward, pressing his mouth to the valley between your breasts, before trailing wet, hot kisses down your stomach. You writhe beneath him, your hands gripping the high thread-count sheets on either side of your head. 

Dean’s hands slide up the inside of your thighs, pushing them wider apart. He settles himself fully between your legs, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive core. 

“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice a high, sweet whimper. You are already aching, already so incredibly slick and ready for him. 

“I’ve got you, baby,” Dean hums. 

He lowers his head and takes you into his mouth. 

You scream his name, your back arching violently off the mattress. His tongue is relentless, swirling and flicking exactly where you need it, while his large fingers slide effortlessly inside your slick, wet heat. He mimics the rhythm of sex, pumping his fingers deep inside you while his mouth devours you, driving you completely out of your mind. 

“That’s it,” Dean praises darkly between wet, sloppy kisses against your core. “Let go for me. Show me how much you want it.”

You can’t hold back. The intense, overwhelming pleasure builds too fast, shattering through your body in a blinding wave. You climax hard against his mouth, your internal muscles clenching tight around his fingers, a sobbing moan tearing from your throat. 

Dean doesn’t give you a moment to recover. 

He rises up, his own need completely overriding his patience. He shoves his jeans and boxers down his hips, freeing his aching, heavy arousal. 

He grips your hips, his thumbs pressing into your hip bones, and aligns himself with your entrance. He looks down at you, his eyes blazing, a muscle ticking in his strong jaw. 

“Look at me,” Dean commands softly. 

You open your eyes, tears of pure pleasure pricking the corners, and meet his intense gaze. 

“I love you,” Dean says, the words a fierce, unbreakable vow. 

He drives his hips forward, burying himself completely inside you in one long, deep thrust. 

You cry out, the feeling of him stretching you, filling you so completely, sending a fresh wave of electricity straight to your brain. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, locking him flush against you. 

Dean begins to move. He sets a punishing, desperate pace, pulling almost completely out before slamming his hips forward, driving deep into your tight, wet heat. The sound of his skin slapping against yours echoes loudly in the quiet hotel room. 

“Dean!” You cry, your fingernails digging into his broad shoulders, leaving half-moon indentations in his golden skin. 

“You feel so fucking good,” Dean groans, his teeth gritted. “So tight. You’re mine, Y/N. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob out, completely lost in the overwhelming sensation of him. “Always yours. Oh god, please, harder.”

Dean complies instantly. He adjusts his grip, hooking his arms under your knees and pulling your legs all the way back against his chest, opening you up completely. He thrusts deeper, hitting a spot that makes you see stars. 

You are a chaotic mess of flushed skin, tangled hair, and breathless moans. Every time he hits that spot, you shatter a little more. You are entirely consumed by him, by his heat, his scent, his overwhelming, possessive love. 

“I’m close,” Dean grits out, his pace turning frantic, his thrusts losing all coordination as the pleasure takes over. “Baby, I’m right there.”

“Come for me,” you beg, your own body tightening, ready to fall over the edge again. “Dean, please.”

Dean lets out a deep, guttural roar. He drives into you three more times, as deep as he possibly can, before his body goes entirely rigid. He clenches his jaw, his eyes squeezing shut as he pours his release into you, his hips locked flush against yours. 

The feeling of him finishing deep inside you pushes you over the edge, your own body convulsing around him as you climax for a second time, calling out his name like a prayer. 

For a long time, the only sound in the luxurious hotel suite is the harsh, ragged breathing of two entirely exhausted people. 

Dean eventually collapses forward, his heavy chest resting fully against yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He is covered in a light sheen of sweat, his heart hammering a violent rhythm against your own. 

You wrap your arms around his broad back, holding him tightly, your fingers lazily tracing the deep ridges of his spine. You feel entirely boneless, floating in a euphoric, hazy afterglow. 

Slowly, gently, Dean rolls to the side, taking his heavy weight off you but immediately pulling you flush against his side. He reaches down and pulls the thick, white hotel duvet up over your bare bodies, cocooning you in warmth. 

He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, his thumb gently stroking the curve of your waist. 

“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” Dean murmurs into the quiet room, his voice raspy. “I just … seeing him look at you like that. Thinking about him touching you. I saw red, Y/N.”

“You didn’t lose your temper,” you reply softly, turning your head to press a kiss to his chest. “You were completely calm. Terrifyingly calm, actually. I think you might have broken his spirit.”

Dean chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “Good. He was a prick. And he didn’t deserve you.”

“No,” you agree, looking up into his warm, green eyes. “He didn’t. But you do.”

Dean’s breath catches. He reaches up, gently brushing a tangled lock of hair out of your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek. 

“I meant what I said,” Dean whispers, all the playful arrogance stripped away, leaving only the raw, honest truth of the man who has loved you since you were children. “I’m your future, sweetheart. I know we’re young, and I know we have our whole lives ahead of us. But I am not doing any of it without you.”

Tears prick your eyes again, but this time they are tears of absolute, profound joy. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Dean,” you promise him, sliding your hand up to cup his handsome face. “I love you. I love you more than anything.”

Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, impossibly tender kiss. It is a promise, a vow, a sealing of a fate that had been written in the stars the moment you built your first terribly constructed fort in his backyard in Greenwich. 

He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours, a stunning, radiant smile breaking across his face. 

“So,” Dean murmurs, a hint of his signature, charming arrogance slipping back into his tone. “Since I successfully defended your honor against a British Lord, do I get to be a knight now? Is that how it works here?”

You laugh, the sound bright and clear, echoing perfectly in the quiet room. 

“You’re already my knight in shining armor, Dean Di Laurentis,” you tease, pressing a final kiss to his jaw. “Now, shut up and hold me.”

“As you wish, sweetheart,” Dean replies smoothly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you impossibly closer. 

As you lie there in his arms, thousands of miles from the Briar hockey house, looking out the window at the ancient spires of Oxford, you realize you have never felt more at home. 

Not nicely, always. Figure skating had never been gentle, no matter what people thought from the stands when the dresses were pretty and the music swelled and everybody politely forgot that most of the sport was just girls repeatedly hurling themselves at the ice until one day the hurling started looking graceful. 

Her body had always hurt somewhere. Ankles, arches, hip flexors, the backs of her knees, the little bruises on her thighs from falls she’d stopped counting years ago. 

Pain had been background noise. A language, almost. Something she could interpret and bargain with and, on good days, ignore.

This is different. This is her body becoming a locked door.

“Again,” Cam says.

She looks at him through the mirror. He has the clipboard tucked against his chest and the calm, mildly sympathetic face of a man who has chosen professionally to ruin people’s afternoons through controlled movement. “Cam.”

“One more set.”

“You said that last set.”

“I lied.”

She lets out a breath that’s too close to a laugh to count as actual protest and steps back onto the little foam pad. It dips under her weight. Her ankle wobbles. Her knee, traitor, considers doing something stupid. She fixes it fast, jaw tightening before her face can give too much away.

Cam notices anyway, because Cam is awful.

“Good,” he says. “That’s better.”

“It feels bad.”

“It’s supposed to feel hard.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I know.”

She hates that tone. Cam is one of those deeply inconvenient medical professionals who knows exactly when not to give you the easy reassurance, which means she can’t even be properly irritated with him without feeling immature about it. 

He doesn’t say you’ll be back before you know it. He doesn’t say you’re young, you’ll heal fast, as if youth is a warranty and not just another thing that can get snapped in half during a bad landing. 

He just says again, and better, and not yet, and lets the rest of the room sit there around it.

She finishes the set with her hands hovering slightly away from her sides like she might be able to balance through prayer, then steps off the pad and pretends the relief doesn’t go all the way through her.

Cam scribbles something down. “That’s enough for today.”

Her breath leaves her in one piece. “Thank God.”

“Don’t sound so grateful.”

“I’m trying to make you feel valued.”

“That was your version?”

“It was implied.”

He smiles faintly and reaches for the roll of athletic tape on the table. “Ice tonight if it gets cranky. Don’t push the stairs. And don’t go on the ice.”

She looks down at her bag too quickly. Cam pauses. The silence is horrible.

She lifts her eyes back to him with as much blank innocence as she can assemble while sweaty and standing in one shoe. “What?”

He gives her a look.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“Good.”

“I know I’m not cleared.”

“Great.”

“I’m not an idiot.”

“I didn’t say you were.”

“You were thinking it in your Cam voice.”

“My Cam voice?”

“The one where you sound nice while accusing me of crimes.”

That gets a small laugh out of him, which she counts as a win even though he immediately ruins it by pointing at her with his pen. “No ice.”

The words land flatter than the joke leaves room for. She nods, because nodding is easier than speaking when the answer has gone somewhere tight under her ribs. 

No ice. Two tiny words. Perfectly reasonable. Clinically correct. Devastating in the way small, practical sentences often are when they’re the ones standing between you and the only place your body has ever made proper sense.

She sits on the bench to change back into her other sneaker, unwrapping the brace strap with careful fingers. There’s a damp patch at the collar of her shirt and another under the elastic of the brace, and she can feel the dull, complaining warmth in her knee beginning to spread now that the session is over and adrenaline has stopped being useful.

The door opens while she’s shoving her water bottle into the side pocket of her bag, and Garrett Graham steps in.

He comes in the same way he always seems to come into rooms, even injured. He just has that stupidly natural presence that takes up space before he’s done anything to earn it, all broad shoulders and damp dark curls and Briar Hockey hoodie with one sleeve pushed higher than the other. 

His gym bag is slung over one shoulder, his phone in his hand, and there’s a strip of white tape disappearing under the edge of his shorts near his thigh, which she tries very hard not to look at for too long.

She knows him, technically, Briar ice athletes overlap. They know the same rink schedule, the same sharp smell of resurfaced ice, the same ugly fluorescent tunnel between the locker rooms. 

She knows Garrett Graham because everyone knows Garrett Graham, but she also knows him in the more specific way of someone who has seen him skate when he thinks only hockey matters. Fast, controlled, mean in the cleanest possible way. Good hands. Good edges, for a hockey player, which she had once made the mistake of saying near one of the other figure skaters and had been accused of sounding weirdly horny about crossovers.

She wasn’t. Mostly.

He knows of her too. She knows this because he’d said her name once in the rink hallway last semester when she’d nearly collided with him coming around the corner with her skate bag, and because he’d watched the last ten minutes of one of her practices from the boards with Logan and Tucker a few months ago, both of them still in half their gear, while she ran the footwork section of her short program three times in a row until her lungs burned and her coach finally stopped looking like she might start throwing things. 

Garrett had leaned his forearms on the boards and said something she couldn’t hear. Logan had laughed. Tucker had looked politely impressed in the way nice men look when women do difficult things they understand enough not to interrupt.

So, first-name basis. Vague orbit. Mutual ice awareness.

Not whatever this is, which is Garrett walking in right as she’s sweaty and sore and trying to get her sneaker on without making the tiny injured-person grunt she has grown to hate in herself.

Cam looks over his shoulder. “One second, Garrett. I won’t be long, man.”

Garrett nods, easy. “All good.”

His eyes move from Cam to her, and she braces, because she’s been doing a lot of that lately, bracing. For pity. For questions. For the little sympathetic wince people do when they’ve heard about the injury but don’t know what to say after sorry, that sucks, so they fill the air with optimism until she wants to bite through her own tongue.

Garrett doesn’t wince. He gives her one of those small, quick smiles instead. 

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi.”

He shifts his bag higher on his shoulder, glancing once at the brace and then back at her face so quickly she almost appreciates the politeness of it. “I heard you got hurt. That’s… yeah. Fucking sucks.”

It shouldn’t help, except it does. The bluntness. The lack of inspirational packaging. The fact that he says it like someone who knows exactly how unhelpful it is when people try to make being benched sound like a spiritual growth opportunity.

She nods and looks down for half a second at the zipper on her bag, pulling it closed even though it’s already closed. “Yeah. It’s pretty shit.”

His mouth moves, not quite a smile. “Yeah.”

“I heard about yours too,” she adds, because it’s only fair and also because looking at him directly for too long feels slightly like standing too close to a heater. “I’m sorry.”

He makes a small shrugging motion. It’s casual, but not quite enough to hide the little tightness that passes across his face when the movement pulls at something. “Could be worse.”

She looks at him. Garrett looks back.

Then he huffs a quiet laugh. “Sorry. That’s such an asshole thing to say to someone injured.”

Her mouth lifts before she can stop it. “It’s okay. Everyone says it.”

“I know. I keep wanting to fight them.”

“Have you?”

“Not yet. Cam said it would slow my recovery.”

“He’s very anti-violence for someone who hurts people for a living.”

Cam, from the cabinet, says, “I can hear both of you.”

Garrett’s grin appears then, quicker, brighter, and for one strange second it makes the rehab room feel less ugly. 

Cam comes over with his clipboard tucked under one arm and gives Garrett the tired look of a man who has known hockey players long enough to consider them a hazard. “Ready?”

Garrett nods, but his eyes flick back to her. “See you.”

It’s a small, stupid, future-tense thing. See you. Like it’s already assumed there will be another time. Like she’s not just passing through the doorway of his appointment with her bag on her shoulder and her knee taped into submission, but someone who exists in the shape of his week now.

She nods. “Yeah. Bye.”

Then she leaves before her face can do anything unhelpful.

After that, they keep seeing each other. That’s the whole problem with schedules. They make coincidences stop being coincidences and start becoming routines before anyone has to be brave enough to choose them. 

Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Her appointment first. Garrett after. The first few times, it’s only hey and how’s it going and Cam making deeply unimpressed noises when Garrett leans in the doorway instead of waiting properly outside like a normal person.

By the following Wednesday, Garrett’s sitting on the bench in the hallway when she comes out, elbows on his knees, hoodie sleeves shoved up, one hand wrapped around an iced coffee that looks mostly melted. 

He glances up as the door opens, like he’s been reading something on his phone and not listening for it, which is a performance she respects enough not to challenge.

“You survive?” he asks.

She shifts her bag higher on her shoulder. “Barely.”

“Bad?”

“Cam made me do step-downs.”

Garrett’s face changes with immediate, serious recognition. “Oh, Jesus.”

“Right?”

“No, those are evil.”

“They look so stupid. That’s what makes it worse. Like, I’m standing there trying not to die on a four-inch box.”

“Yeah, and Cam’s like, great, now control the descent.”

She laughs, and then looks down because the laugh comes out too easy. Too relieved. “He says it like that too.”

“Of course he does. He has a script.”

From inside the rehab room, Cam calls, “I still hear you.”

Garrett raises his coffee vaguely toward the door. “We’re bonding through shared suffering. It’s part of the process.”

“It’s not billable,” Cam says.

Garrett looks back at her, and there’s that little curl at the corner of his mouth again, but softer than she expects. “You got class after this?”

She blinks. “Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Psych. Levin.”

He pauses. “Wait, the eleven-thirty?”

“You’re in that class?”

His expression shifts into something almost sheepish, which is such a strange look on him that she forgets for a second to be awkward about her own surprise. 

“I sit in the back,” he says. “Very engaged. Quietly academic.”

“I have literally never seen you.”

“That feels like a you problem.”

“It feels like an attendance problem.”

Garrett presses a hand to his chest like this has wounded him. “I’m injured and you’re attacking me.”

She laughs. “You started it.”

“I asked about class.”

“Menace behaviour.”

He laughs at that, quick and low, head ducking for half a second. Then he stands because Cam calls him in, and he’s suddenly very close in the narrow hallway, close enough that she has to tilt her face a little to keep looking at him. 

His smile stays, but the volume of it drops. “See you in Levin, then?”

She should say maybe. Or sure. Or something easy and noncommittal that keeps the moment from feeling too visible.

Instead she says, “If you show up.”

His eyebrows lift. “That a challenge?”

“No.”

“Sounded like one.”

She doesn’t know what to do with that, so she adjusts her bag again, which has become a humiliating little habit around him. 

Her hands always need a task before her face gives her away. “Go do your step-downs, Graham.”

He smiles properly then, pleased. “Yes, ma’am.”

She walks away before Cam can witness the way her mouth betrays her.

Garrett does show up to class that day. He comes in two minutes late, because punctuality would have damaged the brand, and slides into the seat beside her with his laptop under one arm and a coffee in his hand. 

There’s a row of empty seats behind them. Several, actually. He ignores all of them.

She looks over as he sits. “Subtle.”

“What?”

“You could have sat literally anywhere.”

He opens his laptop. “This seat has a good view.”

“Of the lecture?”

He glances at the front of the room, where Dr. Levin is fighting with the projector and slowly losing. “Sure.”

She looks down at her notebook because smiling at her paper is less incriminating than smiling at him. 

Garrett doesn’t push it. That surprises her a little, though by then maybe it shouldn’t. He jokes, yes. He has the kind of natural charm that makes silence around him feel almost rude. 

But he’s not constantly filling space just to hear himself in it. He seems to know when to let a moment breathe, which is worse, somehow. Much worse. Because it means the attention is not accidental.

He takes notes badly. Not because he’s stupid, she learns that very quickly. Garrett isn’t stupid in the way some people like to assume athletes are stupid when they would rather not admit physical talent can exist alongside a working brain. 

He just takes notes like a man who believes future him will remember the context through sheer confidence. Half sentences. Arrows to nowhere. One bullet point that just says dopamine??? and then, underneath it, ask her.

She catches it while he’s typing and looks at him.

He doesn’t look back, but his mouth moves. “Don’t judge my system.”

“That’s a system?”

“It works.”

“It says ask her.”

“Yeah.” Now he glances over, and his eyes are warm enough that her stomach does something small and deeply unhelpful. “See? Efficient.”

She lets out a breath through her nose and turns back to her own notes. “You’re ridiculous.”

After that, the talking becomes easier because it has somewhere to go. Rehab into class. Class into walking halfway across campus. Walking into texts, eventually, though the number exchange happens in the most Garrett way possible, which is to say he makes it sound practical even while looking far too pleased with himself.

They’re leaving psych one afternoon, the sky low and grey over campus, both of them moving slower than the stream of students around them because neither of them can walk at full speed without paying for it later. 

Garrett has his hood up against the cold and his bag slung over one shoulder. She has one hand wrapped around the strap of her own, the other holding her phone, thumb hovering over a message from her coach she hasn’t opened because she can see the first line in the preview and already knows it will make her feel like peeling her skin off.

Garrett notices. 

“Coach?” he asks.

She looks over. “What?”

He nods toward the phone. “I know the face.”

She looks down at the screen again. The preview says, no pressure, just wanted to check in about competition timeline, which is exactly the kind of text people send when there is pressure and everyone knows it but nobody wants to be rude enough to name the animal in the room. Her thumb locks the phone before she can read the rest.

Garrett doesn’t say anything for a few steps. He doesn’t immediately try to fix it. Doesn’t ask if she’s okay in a tone that makes okay feel like a performance. 

He just walks beside her, slower than campus wants him to, shoulder occasionally close enough to brush hers when the path narrows.

Finally, he says, “I hate those texts.”

She glances at him.

“The check-in ones,” he says. “Like they’re being nice, and they are, but it’s also like… hey, just wondering if your body has stopped ruining the plan yet.”

Her throat tightens so quickly she has to look away.

Garrett’s voice stays even, low enough that the people passing them don’t get any of it. “The hockey staff keep doing it too. Not in a shitty way. They’re trying to be normal. But every time someone asks how recovery’s going, I’m like, I don’t know, man. I miss my life and my hip feels fucked up. You want the official answer or the weird one?”

She laughs, but it comes out thin. Still, it comes. “My knee feels fucked up.”

They walk a little farther. The cold air catches under the hem of her sweatshirt and sneaks up her back. Somewhere across the quad, a group of boys are laughing too loudly near the library steps. A bike bell rings. The world continues in its very rude way, all motion and noise and healthy knees.

Garrett clears his throat. “You can send me those, if you want.”

She looks up at him.

“The annoying texts,” he says, and now he does seem a little more careful, eyes flicking to hers and away again. “Or just, like… complain. If you don’t want to answer normal people nicely.”

Something in her chest shifts. “Normal people?”

“You know.” His mouth tips. “Healthy civilians.”

“That’s dark.”

“It’s accurate.”

She looks at her phone. Then at him. “Are you giving me your number so I can forward you texts from my coach?”

He shrugs, but his ears go just slightly pink from the cold or the question. “I mean, when you put it like that, it sounds weird.”

“It is weird.”

“You want it or not?”

She does. Immediately. Stupidly. Enough that she has to make herself take a second before answering. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” She opens a new contact and hands him the phone before she can overthink the fact that her fingers feel too warm. “For fucked up knee purposes.”

Garrett takes it, smiling down at the screen while he types. “Obviously.”

He saves himself as Garrett, then, after one tiny pause she absolutely notices, adds a hockey stick emoji. When he hands it back, she looks at it and raises her brows.

“Subtle.”

Her first text to him, sent that night after staring at her coach’s full message for eleven minutes and then lying face-down on her bed in a silence so complete her roommate had paused in the doorway and then wisely kept walking, is just a screenshot.

Garrett replies three minutes later.

Garrett: jesus. “no pressure” should be illegal.

She types, right????

Garrett: they put it at the front like a tiny little lawyer.

She laughs into her pillow hard enough that the pressure behind her eyes changes shape.

After that, it’s embarrassingly easy.

She’s slower to warm, more cautious, more likely to tuck herself back inside her own head the second a feeling starts getting too large to hold naturally. 

Garrett seems to understand that without making her explain it. He doesn’t crowd. He doesn’t demand a constant version of her that knows how to be charming back on command. 

He sends her a picture of Logan asleep sitting up on the couch with an ice pack balanced on his shoulder. 

Garrett: warrior down. 

She sends back, is he alive? 

Garrett: unclear. tucker says we should wait and see.

Sometimes they talk a lot. Sometimes it’s only a stupid photo, a class complaint, a how’s the knee? sent at nine p.m. that makes her chest go warm because he remembers which days hurt more. 

Sometimes she doesn’t answer for hours because the whole day has been too much and she’s gone quiet in that way that makes even typing feel strangely exposed. 

Garrett never punishes the delay by getting weird about it. He just picks the conversation back up wherever she left it, like the space is allowed.

He’s not always gentle. She wouldn’t like him as much if he were. Garrett’s gentleness works because it’s threaded through the rest of him, through the easy confidence and the dry little comments and the occasional captain voice that slips out when Cam tells him to stop overdoing it and he says, “I’m not,” with the exact expression of someone absolutely overdoing it. 

He still chirps Logan across the room. Still gives Dean shit when Dean swings by the rehab hall one afternoon and announces, loudly, “Damn, this is where they keep all the broken hot people,” before Tucker drags him back by the hood and says, “Don’t flirt with the injured. It’s unethical.”

Garrett, sitting beside her on the hallway bench with an ice pack on his thigh, doesn’t even look embarrassed. He only rubs a hand over his mouth and mutters, “I’m so sorry.”

She presses her lips together to keep from laughing. “Are they always like that?”

“No,” Garrett says. Then, after half a second, “Yes.”

Dean, from down the hall, calls, “She seems nice, G!”

Garrett closes his eyes briefly.

Tucker says, “Keep walking.”

Logan’s voice drifts back too, amused and bright. “Garrett made a friend!”

Garrett opens his eyes and looks at her with an expression so tired and resigned that she actually does laugh then, full and surprised and too loud for the hallway. His face changes when she does. Only for a second. It softens, almost helplessly, before he covers it by looking down at his ice pack.

“Yeah,” he says. “They’re always like that.”

By the second month, Cam starts pairing them for parts of rehab because, as he puts it, “You both complain less when you’re trying to look normal in front of each other.”

Garrett looks offended. “I always look normal.”

Cam doesn’t even glance up from the clipboard. “You asked me yesterday if your hip mobility was ‘giving washed-up uncle.’”

She bites down on a smile.

Garrett points at her. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I was not.”

“You were thinking it.”

She looks down at the resistance band looped around her ankle, cheeks warm. “I mean. A little.”

Garrett’s mouth twitches. “Unbelievable.”

Rehabbing together is both better and worse. Better because Garrett makes the room less lonely without trying to fill it too brightly. Worse because now she has to be perceived while doing the ugliest exercises known to sports medicine. 

There’s nothing romantic about hip bridges. There’s nothing elegant about controlled lunges when your knee is shaking like it’s received bad news by telegram. 

There’s  no world in which she wants Garrett Graham to watch her do glute activation with a yellow band around her thighs while Cam says, “Good, hold that,” in the background like a man actively trying to end her life.

Garrett, to his credit, doesn’t make it weird. He makes other things weird, obviously. He’s still Garrett. When she wobbles on the balance pad, he says, “Very artistic,” and when she glares at him, he lifts both hands and says, “I’m appreciating the performance.” 

When Cam tells Garrett his form is getting sloppy, she murmurs, “Washed-up uncle,” under her breath and Garrett looks at her like he can’t decide whether to laugh or throw a towel at her. 

When she has a bad pain day and goes quiet halfway through, Garrett stops joking entirely and starts matching her pace so subtly she doesn’t realise until later. He finishes his reps slower. Takes longer between sets. Asks Cam a question he probably already knows the answer to, giving her thirty extra seconds to breathe without anyone looking directly at her.

That one stays with her for a while. It’s easier to let someone flirt with you than it is to let them notice you’re struggling and not make you feel small about it.

Garrett is cleared for the ice before she is. He tells her after a Friday session, standing outside the athletic building with his hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie, campus cold moving around them in little grey gusts. 

He looks happy, but it’s careful happiness. Muted. Like he knows the news is good and still doesn’t want to set it down too loudly between them.

“Cam said I can start controlled skating next week,” he says.

Her heart does something complicated.

“Oh,” she says, and hates immediately that it comes out too small. So she fixes it fast, or tries to. “Garrett, that’s great.”

“Yeah.”

“No, really. That’s… that’s so good.”

His eyes stay on her face. “I know.”

“You don’t sound like you know.”

“I do.” He looks away for a second, toward the parking lot, where a bunch of hockey guys are piling into someone’s car and yelling about food. “It’s just weird.”

She nods before he has to explain. Being allowed back into the place you’ve been aching for isn’t cleanly joyful when someone else is still outside the door. Especially when that someone has been sitting beside you for weeks, teaching you through sheer proximity that your particular kind of misery is not as uniquely embarrassing as you thought.

“I’m glad,” she says.

Garrett looks back at her, and the softness in his face makes her wish she had phrased it better, or maybe worse. “You’ll get there.”

She nods. “Yeah.”

“I know you know that. Sorry.”

“No, it’s okay.”

“I just–” He stops, rubs one hand over the back of his neck, and for once the confidence seems to snag on something real before it can make the sentence smoother than it should be. “It sucks being the one still waiting. I know.”

Her throat tightens. She looks down at the crack in the pavement between them. “I hate that I’m jealous.”

Garrett’s quiet for half a second, in a surprised-by-her-honesty way. Then he says, “Yeah.”

She winces. “That was not my best quality.”

“It’s not a crime.”

“It feels ugly.”

“A lot of this feels fucking ugly.”

She looks up at him then, and his face is open in that simple, steady way of his that keeps undoing her. 

“Yeah,” she says. “It does.”

He nods once, like they’ve agreed on something important and awful. Then his mouth shifts, small and careful. “I’ll tell you if it sucks.”

She huffs a laugh. “Your first skate back?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s comforting.”

“I’m offering solidarity.”

It does suck, apparently. He texts her after the first session. 

Garrett: felt good for ten seconds then my body filed a formal complaint.

She stares at the message for a long time, then replies, rude of it.

Garrett: yeah. HR nightmare.

She sends, did it feel nice though?

The typing bubbles appear. Disappear. Reappear. The finally he replies.

Garrett: yeah. too nice. kind of wanted to stay out there forever and also throw up.

Her eyes sting so fast it embarrasses her, even alone in her room. She types, yeah. i get that.

Garrett: i know.

When her clearance comes, it’s a Saturday morning in the third month of rehab, and she almost doesn’t believe Cam when he says it.

Controlled ice work only. Edges. Slow laps. Nothing clever. Nothing she would describe later as just seeing how it felt, because that sentence has been the downfall of many athletes before her. She nods through all of it with her hands folded tightly in her lap.

Cam stops talking. Her eyes are fixed on the corner of his clipboard.

“You okay?” he asks.

She nods, once. Too fast.

He waits. A laugh comes out of her, tiny and breathless and nothing like humour. “Sorry. I just… yeah. I’m good.”

Cam’s face softens. “You’re ready for this part.”

She gets to the parking lot before she texts Garrett.

cleared for controlled ice work.

He calls her. 

She stares at the screen for one full ring, startled enough that she almost drops the phone, then answers with a voice that comes out much quieter than planned. “Hi.”

“Holy shit,” Garrett says, and the happiness in his voice is so immediate and unfiltered that she has to close her eyes for a second. “That’s huge.”

“Yeah.”

“That’s really fucking good.”

“I know.” She laughs softly, but it shakes. “I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Also valid.”

“Cam said I can go tomorrow morning. Just controlled stuff.”

“I’ll come.”

The answer is so quick she doesn’t know what to do with it. She sits in her parked car with the keys still in her hand and looks out through the windshield at the athletic building, the brick and glass blurred slightly by the cold. “You don’t have to.”

“I know.”

“You probably have… hockey things.”

“Can’t do hockey things yet.”

“Team things.”

“They’ll survive one morning without me standing there being inspirational in a hoodie.”

She smiles despite herself, and because he can’t see it, she lets it happen properly. “You’re very important.”

“Thank you.”

“I was joking.”

“I wasn’t.”

That gets a real laugh out of her, and Garrett is quiet for the smallest beat after it, like he’s letting himself hear it. 

Then his voice lowers a little. “Seriously. I’ll come. If you want.”

She swallows. The car is cold. Her knee aches faintly from the session. Her phone is warm against her ear.

“Yeah,” she says. “I want.”

The rink is almost empty the next morning. It’s early enough that the building still has that half-asleep feeling, the lobby lights too bright over the old carpet, the vending machines humming like they’ve been up all night thinking about their choices. 

Someone has left a stack of orange cones by the boards. The ice is clean from a fresh resurface, glossy and unmarked under the white lights, and the sight of it hits her so hard she stops walking halfway down the tunnel.

Garrett notices after two steps and turns back. He’s in a Briar hoodie and dark athletic pants, skates dangling from one hand, hair curling damply near his forehead because he’s showered before dawn like a lunatic. 

He looks less like campus Garrett here. Less like the guy everyone waves at in the dining hall, less like the captain with half the hockey program orbiting him. In the rink, he’s quieter. Familiar with the cold. Part of the architecture in the same way she is, or was, or is trying very hard to become again.

“You good?” he asks.

She looks past him at the ice. “Yeah.”

It’s very obviously not convincing.

Garrett doesn’t call her on it. He only nods and shifts his skates to his other hand. “We can sit for a minute.”

“I’m fine.”

“I didn’t say you weren’t.”

She looks at him then, and the gentleness of his face makes something in her twist. Garrett, thankfully, seems to understand that pity would make her walk directly into traffic. This is something else. Space, maybe. Offered without making her ask for it.

So they sit. Long enough for her to lace her skates with fingers that feel strangely clumsy. Long enough for Garrett to tie his own and then pretend very hard not to watch her checking the tension of hers twice, then three times, then pressing her thumb along the side of the boot like it might offer reassurance if handled correctly.

“Do you want me to say something helpful or shut up?” he asks eventually.

The question startles a laugh out of her. It comes out small, but real. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. I can do medium.”

“Medium?”

“Yeah. Light talking. No motivational speech. No silence so intense it feels like a funeral.”

She looks over at him. “You’ve thought about this.”

“I’m a thoughtful guy.”

“You’re something.”

His smile appears, quick and warm, but he doesn’t chase the joke. “I know it’s weird.”

Her hands go still on the laces.

“I mean, I don’t know exactly,” he says, looking out at the ice now instead of directly at her, which helps. “It’s different for you. But I know the part where you miss it so much that getting it back even a little feels…” He pauses, searching for the word and apparently deciding not to dress it up. “Fucked.”

“It feels like if I step wrong, everything starts over,” she says.

Garrett nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“And I know that’s not how it works. Like, technically. I know Cam wouldn’t have cleared me if he thought I’d immediately explode.”

“Probably not.”

“Probably.”

“I mean, I don’t want to overstate his kindness.”

She laughs again, and this one stays longer. Garrett’s mouth softens at the sound, but he looks down to adjust his skate before she can catch too much of it.

They step onto the ice together. At first, all she can feel is terror. The blade settles under her weight. The ice takes her. Her knee doesn’t collapse, doesn’t scream, doesn’t turn into the moment it all went wrong. It only exists. Present and warm and strange inside the brace, part of her and not part of her, a little guarded corner of the body she used to trust without needing to narrate the trust to herself.

Garrett steps on beside her and turns with the easy balance of someone who’s been on skates since before he had any say in the matter. He doesn’t reach for her immediately. His hands are there, ready but not assuming, and the restraint of it makes her want to cry more than if he had grabbed her.

She takes one small push. Then another. It’s awful. It’s fine. It’s the most familiar thing in the world and completely foreign.

Her breath catches, and Garrett moves in closer without crowding her. “There you go.”

“Don’t say it like I’m a toddler.”

“I was saying it like you’re someone doing something hard.”

She glances at him, caught by the simplicity of it.

He gives her a tiny smile. “But if it helps, I can say it like you’re a toddler.”

“Please don’t.”

“Cool. Good note.”

She looks back at the ice and manages another slow stride. Her shoulders are too high. She can feel that. Her arms don’t know where to go with none of the old choreography to place them, none of the speed, none of the music. 

She's spent years making skating look like instinct, and now every movement has to be discussed internally before it happens, which is both boring and humiliating and almost funny if she gets far enough away from wanting to scream.

Garrett skates beside her, slightly behind, matching the tiny pace without comment. A hockey player skating slowly is a strange thing. Like seeing a dog heel when you know it wants to run. 

Garrett is all contained energy, all strength kept deliberately soft at the edges. Every so often she catches him adjusting to her without making the adjustment visible enough to feel like management. He doesn’t hover, he just stays close enough that the air seems to know where he is.

After half a lap, he says, “For what it’s worth, you still look like you know what you’re doing.”

She lets out a shaky breath. “That’s because you’re used to hockey players.”

“Rude.”

“You guys do look like you’re being chased a lot of the time.”

“We are. By other hockey players.”

They make it once around the rink. Then again. The second lap isn’t easy, but it’s less impossible. Her breath begins to settle into the cold. The first hard spike of fear loosens by degrees and leaves something else behind, raw and bright and almost worse. 

The ice under her blades. The sound. That delicate scrape she used to know better than her own alarm clock. Her body, cautious but moving. Her knee, not perfect, not forgotten, but holding.

She doesn’t realise she’s started crying until the cold hits the wet under one eye. Garrett sees it, but he doesn’t stop abruptly or make a face or ask if she’s okay in that terrible alarmed voice people use when crying becomes an event.

He only slows with her and says, “We can take a second.”

She laughs once, embarrassed, wiping under her eye with the heel of her hand. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s really not.”

She looks at him, and the rink lights catch in his eyes. He’s close enough now that she can see the rough edge of stubble he probably missed shaving, the way his hair has started curling more as the cold gets to it. He looks like Garrett, but not the campus version. Just a boy on skates, injured and healing and kind enough not to make her crying about a slow lap into something she has to survive on top of everything else.

“I missed it,” she says, and it comes out barely above a whisper.

His face changes. “Yeah.”

“I know I’ve said that. But I don’t think I knew how much until right now.”

Garrett nods once, slow. “Yeah,” he says again, and there is so much understanding in it she has to look away.

They stand there near the boards for a while, the quiet rink around them, her hand resting lightly on the rail. Garrett doesn’t touch her. He just stays beside her while she gets herself back into her body.

Eventually, she breathes in and lets it out. “Okay,” she says.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

They start again. It goes better for maybe seven minutes. She’s still too careful, still too aware of every shift and edge and tiny correction. But there are moments now, little flashes where the fear drops half a step behind the movement and something older comes through. 

A turn of the ankle. A cleaner glide. Her body remembering a thing before her brain can interfere. Each one lands small and huge at the same time.

Garrett notices those too. He doesn’t cheer. Thank God, if he cheered, she might actually skate into the wall on purpose. 

He only smiles a little and says, “That one looked nice,” or “Yeah, that was better,” in the same low voice he uses when he’s telling her something true and not trying to make a moment out of it.

Maybe that’s why she gets stupid. A little more confident than she was three minutes earlier, enough that she lets herself push into a slightly longer glide coming out of the curve. Barely anything, nothing she would once have even counted as skating. Her blade catches anyway.

It’s tiny. The smallest wrongness. But her body doesn’t know the difference between small and catastrophic yet. Her stomach drops, knee locking in fear before pain can even arrive, and suddenly the whole rink tilts in one bright, awful flash.

Garrett catches her before she falls. One second he’s beside her, and the next his hands are on her waist, tugging her in with a controlled little scrape of blades that brings her straight against him.

Her hands land on his chest, fingers grabbing at the front of his hoodie. The impact is soft because he makes it soft, knees bending with hers, one arm braced properly around her back before she has even fully processed the fact that she’s upright.

“Hey,” he says, breath close. “I’ve got you.”

Her heart is punching so hard she can feel it in her palms where they’re pressed to him. “I’m okay,” she says automatically.

“I know.”

“I just slipped.”

“I know.”

“It was small.”

“I know.”

She lets out a breath that shakes on the way out and hates it, then hates that she hates it because Garrett is looking at her like the shaking is allowed, like none of this is embarrassing enough to require apology.

For the first few seconds, there’s only the aftershock. Ice, fear, the violent little replay of what if. Then the world begins to come back in pieces, and Garrett comes back with it. His chest under her hands. The warm line of his arm across her back. His face closer than it has ever been without the excuse of class or rehab or a crowded hallway. The smell of him, cold air and clean laundry and something faintly minty from gum.

His gaze drops to her mouth. It’s so quick she almost thinks she invented it. Then he looks back at her eyes, and the air between them changes so completely it feels like the rink’s gone quiet on purpose.

She should move. That would be the normal thing. Step back. Laugh it off. Say thanks. Return to the careful, slow lap. Keep everything in the safe category it’s technically belonged to for months, even as the edges have gotten less and less believable.

She doesn’t move. Garrett doesn’t either. His thumb shifts once at her waist. Small. Barely there. But she feels it through the layers anyway.

“You good?” he asks, and his voice is lower now.

She nods. His eyes move over her face with that same checking look, except now there’s something else threaded through it. Something less clinical. Less controlled. 

He’s still giving her an out. She can feel that. It’s in the stillness of him, the way his hand doesn’t pull her closer even though it could, the way his mouth is soft but not smiling, for once, like even Garrett knows this is not a moment to be smoothed over with charm.

She looks at his mouth. This time, neither of them can pretend he doesn’t notice.

His breath changes. Just slightly. “Careful,” he murmurs.

Her fingers tighten in his hoodie. “I’m not doing anything.”

Her face feels warm despite the rink. Everything does, actually. Her hands, her throat, the place under her ribs where fear had been sitting all morning and has now made room for something much more dangerous.

Garrett dips his head a fraction, then stops. The restraint of it is the thing that finally makes her brave. She lifts up on her toes, just barely, because they’re on skates, and kisses him.

He kisses her back, soft at first, because of the ice, because of her knee, because of the months of carefulness that have led them here. His mouth is warm in a way that feels almost shocking against the cold. 

She makes a small sound, and Garrett’s hand slides more securely around her back as the kiss deepens by degrees, still careful but less polite now. Like something in him has unclenched. Like every hallway conversation, every text, every slow walk to class, every time his hand almost touched and didn’t, has found the same narrow place to go.

Her arms go up around his shoulders before she thinks about it and he smiles against her mouth.

She feels it and pulls back an inch, breathless. “Are you smiling?”

Garrett’s eyes open, bright and warm and closer than seems legal. “No.”

“You are.”

“No, I’m being very serious.”

“You’re not.”

“I am.” His mouth brushes hers again, once, because he’s already become comfortable enough with this to be unbearable about it. “This is an important rehab milestone.”

She stares at him, and then she laughs, properly this time, startled and light and so relieved by the sheer stupid Garrettness of it that it breaks the last of the fear in her body loose. He laughs too, she feels it under her hands.

“You’re so annoying,” she says.

“I know.”

“I can’t believe you just said rehab milestone.”

“Was it too much?”

“It was awful.”

“Okay.” He nods like he’s accepting professional notes, but his hands are still at her waist and his face is still soft in a way that makes the joke land somewhere tender instead of sharp. “I’ll workshop it.”

“Please don’t.”

“Got it.”

They stand there smiling at each other like idiots, and she hates how much she likes it. Hates, a little, how easily the rink has shifted around them. The ice is still under her blades. Her knee still exists, still healing, still not ready for everything she wants. But Garrett’s hands are on her body and his mouth is kissed-soft and he’s looking at her like the morning has done something to him too.

Then he glances down at their skates, back up at her, and says, quieter, “You scared?”

She doesn’t know which thing he means. The ice. The kiss. The way those have somehow become tangled enough that the answer fits both.

She nods once.

Garrett’s face doesn’t fall. He only nods back, thumb moving once over her side. “Yeah. Me too, a little.”

That surprises her enough that she looks at him properly. 

He huffs a breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “Don’t look so shocked.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I just…” She swallows, eyes flicking over his face. “You don’t seem scared of much.”

Garrett looks at her for one more second. Then he kisses her again. This one is easier. Warmer. Still careful, but with laughter caught at the edges now, his mouth curving every time she makes the smallest noise because clearly he’s going to be deeply smug about kissing her, which she should have anticipated. 

He keeps one arm around her waist and lets the other hand come up to her cheek, thumb brushing near her jaw, and her whole body goes strangely loose and awake at the same time.

When she presses closer, he makes a soft sound under his breath and shifts them without thinking, turning just enough that his body blocks hers more fully from the open rink, as if there is anyone there to see them besides the empty seats and the unbothered scoreboard.

She pulls back because she’s smiling too much to keep kissing properly.

Garrett looks very pleased with himself. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s a suspicious nothing.”

“You look smug.”

He shrugs. “I feel a little smug.”

“At least you’re honest.”

“You kissed me first.”

Her mouth falls open. “Barely.”

“Still counts.”

“I was emotionally vulnerable.”

“I know.” His smile softens before it can become too much of a tease.

She looks down, overwhelmed in a way that’s not bad but still requires a second. Garrett lets her have it. Then, because he’s Garrett and because tenderness with no escape hatch would probably kill them both, he says, “For the record, I had a very cool plan to do that eventually.”

She looks up again, grateful despite herself. “Did you?”

“Yeah.”

“What was the plan?”

His nose scrunches. “Still developing.”

“So... no plan.”

He tilts his head. “A flexible plan.”

“Right.”

“Probably would’ve walked you to class. Said something devastatingly charming. You would’ve swooned.”

“I don’t think I swoon.”

“You might have. We’ll never know.”

“You’re so full of shit.”

“There she is,” he says softly, and then seems to realise he’s said it in a way that gives too much away.

She glances toward the boards, then back at the stretch of ice ahead of them. The fear is still there, but quieter now. Less teeth. Her body feels wrung out and bright, like it’s survived two separate kinds of firsts before breakfast and does not know where to put the information yet.

Garrett follows her gaze. “You want to keep going?”

“Yeah,” she says. “But maybe…”

He’s already holding out both hands before she finishes. She looks at them, then at him.

He shrugs, casual and not casual at all. “Just for a bit.”

She puts her hands in his, and they start slow again. His fingers lace with hers this time. His hands are warm around her cold ones, and he skates backward at a careful pace, eyes mostly on her face, checking without hovering. The rink is still too bright. Her knee is still not perfect. Cam would probably have a clipboard-related opinion about the emotional developments currently occurring during controlled ice work.

But she’s upright. She’s moving.

Garrett’s thumbs brush once over her knuckles. “Good?” he asks.

She looks at him, at the ice, at the long clean stretch of it opening ahead. And for the first time in months, the answer does not feel like a lie.

“Yeah,” she says, a little breathless, a little shy around the smile she can’t fully stop. “Good.”

Garrett’s grin is small, real, and absolutely devastating. “Yeah?”

She nods.

His hands tighten lightly around hers, and he keeps moving backward, slow and steady, like he has nowhere else to be and no reason in the world to rush her. “Okay,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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You weren't staring — that was what you were telling yourself, anyway.

You weren't staring at Justin Kohl from across Malone's like you'd suddenly forgotten how to act in public; you were watching the show, just like everyone else — like a normal person who'd come out with friends, ordered one drink she'd barely touched, and had definitely not spent the last forty minutes watching every movement of his hands on the guitar.

Unfortunately for you, your friends knew you too well.

"Oh my god," Allie said beside you, leaning close enough for you to hear her over the music. "You're staring."

You turned to her a little too quickly. "I'm watching."

"That's literally the same thing."

"No, it's not."

"It is when you're looking at him like you forgot anyone else was in the room."

Heat crawled up your neck, so you immediately took a sip of your drink to give yourself something to do. It didn't help. Mostly because the second you looked back toward the small stage tucked into the corner of Malone's, Justin's eyes were already on you. Again.

The first time it happened, you told yourself it was an accident. The second time, you told yourself he'd just been looking somewhere near your table. The third time, he smiled mid-verse, just enough for one corner of his mouth to lift, and your stomach dropped so fast you almost lost your grip on your glass.

Now, pretending felt impossible.

Justin looked good enough on a normal day, which was already unfair. On stage, though, he was something else entirely

The low lights caught in his hair. His sleeves were pushed up over his forearms, veins visible as his fingers moved over the guitar, and there was this loose confidence in the way he stood behind the mic — like he knew the whole room was watching, but still somehow only cared about where your eyes were.

You hated how much it affected you, but you hated it even more that he seemed to know.

"You're blushing," Hannah said from your other side, way too amused for someone who was supposed to be on your side.

"I'm just warm."

"It's literally February."

"Malone's has terrible ventilation."

Allie laughed into her drink like she didn't believe a word of that. "Sure."

You pressed your lips together to keep from smiling and looked down at the table instead of at him. That lasted maybe ten seconds, right up until the song shifted and the crowd cheered as Justin stepped closer to the mic.

Of course, you looked up, only to find Justin watching you again — and this time, he wasn't even trying to hide it.

His gaze found yours through the dim light, holding there just long enough for your breath to catch; then he smiled, slow and knowing, and looked back down at his guitar.

Beside you, Allie made a sound.

You groaned before she could even say anything. "Don't."

"I didn't say anything," Allie said.

"You were going to."

"I was going to say you're completely doomed."

Unfortunately, she wasn't wrong.

By the time the set ended, your nerves were completely shot.

Justin thanked the room, voice rough from singing, his cheeks flushed, and his hair slightly damp at the temples. People clapped, whistled, and called for another song while Justin laughed into the mic before stepping back from the stage.

You tried very hard not to watch him walk away, and failed almost immediately.

Hannah nudged your side with her elbow. "Come on."

You blinked at her. "Where?"

"To say hi," Hannah said, like that was obvious.

Your eyes widened immediately. "No."

"Yes," Hannah answered.

"No. Absolutely not."

Allie grinned. "You've been making heart eyes at him the whole night."

"I have not."

"Sweetie," Hannah said gently as she stood. "You have."

Before you could argue, they were already pulling you through the thinning crowd toward the back hallway Malone's used as a makeshift green room whenever someone performed. It wasn't exactly backstage, at least not in the glamorous sense. It was a narrow hallway near Della's office that smelled faintly of beer, fried food, and old wood, with a couple of folding chairs pushed against the wall and a door that always stuck unless you kicked it near the bottom.

Still, it felt private enough that your pulse picked up.

When you rounded the corner, Justin was there, guitar case open on the floor and hands busy coiling a cable. He looked up at the sound of footsteps, and the second he saw you, his mouth curved — not at Hannah, not at Allie, but at you.

"There she is," he said.

Your stomach did a little flip.

Hannah's eyebrows lifted immediately, and Allie looked like she was physically restraining herself from screaming.

"Hi," you said, painfully aware of how quiet your voice came out.

Justin straightened and set the cable down. "Hi."

For one ridiculous second, neither of you said another word.

Then Hannah cleared her throat, apparently remembering someone had to speak. "Great show."

"Thanks." Justin smiled at her, though his eyes flicked back to you almost immediately. "Glad you guys came."

Allie looked between you and Justin before grabbing Hannah's arm with far too much enthusiasm. "We're gonna go get another drink."

You turned to her, panic flashing across your face. "What?"

"Another drink," she repeated, smiling far too sweetly. "You're fine."

"I'm not—"

"Fine," Hannah agreed, already letting Allie drag her away.

Traitors, both of them.

The silence they left behind felt louder than the music had been.

Justin leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms loosely over his chest. "Your friends are subtle."

You let out a nervous laugh. "They like to think they are."

"They're wrong."

"Usually, yeah."

His smile widened, and you looked down at your hands, because looking at him for too long felt dangerous now that there wasn't a stage between you anymore. No crowd, no guitar, and nothing to pretend you were focused on except him.

Justin noticed immediately. "You got quiet."

You glanced up at him. "I'm always quiet."

"No." Justin pushed off the wall and stepped closer. "You were singing earlier."

Your cheeks went hot immediately. "You saw that?"

"I saw plenty."

The words settled low in your stomach.

You tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out breathier than you'd meant it to. "You were supposed to be performing."

"I was." Justin tilted his head, eyes moving over your face. "Didn't stop me from noticing you."

Your mouth went dry at that.

Justin stepped closer again, not touching you yet, but close enough that you could see the sheen of sweat at his throat, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the way his pupils looked darker in the hallway light.

"You looked like you enjoyed yourself out there," he said.

You swallowed, trying to sound normal. "It was a good show."

"That all?" he asked.

You tried to hold his gaze, and failed.

His smile softened, though the teasing didn't leave his voice. "Don't get shy now."

"I'm not shy."

"No?" His voice dipped. "So if I asked why you kept looking at me like that, you'd tell me?"

Your heart beat a little too fast.

"I could ask you the same question."

That surprised him for half a second, and then his grin turned sharper. "There you go."

You looked away again, embarrassed by your own boldness, only for Justin's fingers to touch your chin gently and guide your face back to his.

"Hey," Justin said, and your breath caught. "Wasn't making fun of you."

"I know," you said softly.

"Do you?" he asked softly.

You nodded, though the truth was you didn't know much of anything when he was standing this close.

Justin's thumb brushed over your lower lip, barely there.

"You came back here for a reason?" Justin asked.

Your voice came out almost like a whisper. "Hannah brought me."

"That's not what I asked," he said.

The hallway suddenly felt too warm.

The noise of Malone's faded into the background, muffled behind the door at the end of the hall. Outside, you could hear people laughing, glasses clinking, and Della yelling at someone to stop blocking the register. And Justin was waiting.

You took a small breath before admitting it. "I wanted to see you."

Justin's eyes darkened. "Yeah?"

You nodded, not trusting your voice yet.

"I've been wanting that all night," he murmured, and then he kissed you.

It wasn't slow or careful; it was the kind of kiss that felt like the end of something you'd both spent the whole night pretending not to start. His hand slid into your hair, the other settling at your waist as he pulled you in until your chest pressed against his. A soft sound slipped out of you against his mouth, and Justin groaned like he'd been waiting all night to hear it.

The sound went straight through you, warm and sharp.

He walked you back until your shoulders hit the wall beside the office door, never once taking his mouth from yours. The kiss turned messier and hotter, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt while his thigh pressed between yours.

"You looked so sweet out there," he murmured against your mouth, "trying not to stare."

Your face burned. "You looked too."

"I was," he said, kissing your jaw. "Never said I wasn't."

"You knew exactly what you were doing."

His mouth curved against your skin. "So did you, sweetheart."

"I didn't do anything," you said, though it came out a little less convincing than planned.

Justin's hand slid down your side, over your hip, his fingers pressing into the fabric of your skirt. "You looked at me like you wanted me to stop singing and come over there."

A whimper slipped out of you before you could stop it.

Justin froze for half a second before his grip tightened.

"Oh," he breathed, grip tightening like the sound had done something to him. "That's what you sound like?"

You turned your face away, embarrassed, but Justin caught your chin again.

"No, don't do that," he murmured, his lips brushing yours. "I like it."

Your stomach did that stupid little flip again.

He kissed you again, slower this time but no less hungry, while his hand slipped beneath your skirt and his fingers brushed the outside of your thigh. Your breath hitched when he found the edge of your underwear.

"Justin," you breathed.

"Tell me to stop, and I will."

You shook your head quickly, voice barely steady. "Don't stop."

His eyes dropped to your mouth, voice dipping. "Say that again."

Your fingers tightened in his shirt as you said it again. "Don't stop."

Something shifted in him.

He pushed open the office door beside you and guided you inside, shutting it behind him with a quiet click. The room was small and cluttered, barely big enough for the desk, the filing cabinet, and a stack of boxes in the corner. It smelled like paper, dust, and the faint sweetness of Della's perfume.

It shouldn't have felt sexy. It did, mostly because Justin locked the door, then looked at you.

Your pulse jumped at the look.

He crossed the room in two steps and cupped your face, kissing you again. You stumbled back until the edge of the desk hit your thighs, and Justin lifted you onto it like he'd been thinking about doing exactly that all night.

A stack of papers slid sideways across the desk.

You gasped against his mouth. "We shouldn't—"

"We won't break anything," he murmured.

"That is so not what I meant."

Justin grinned against your skin, kissing down your throat. "Then be quiet."

The words made your thighs press together, and of course, he noticed.

His fingers slipped under your skirt again, nudging your knees apart as he stepped between them.

"You like that?" he asked, his voice low. "Knowing they're right outside?"

You swallowed, voice barely steady. "Maybe."

His mouth brushed against your ear. "That's not very shy."

Whatever answer you had disappeared into a gasp when his fingers pressed against your clothed cunt. The fabric was already damp beneath his fingers, and Justin made this soft, rough sound when he felt it.

"Fuck," he murmured, fingers pressing a little firmer. "This from watching me?"

A whimper slipped out of you.

He rubbed you slowly through your underwear, eyes fixed on your face. "Answer me."

"Yes," you breathed.

"Yes, what?" he asked.

You looked at him, your breath shaking. "Yes, from watching you."

His jaw tightened, and the praise came out rough enough to make your thighs press together again. "Good girl."

Your whole body reacted before you could even think to hide it, and Justin smiled as he'd felt it.

He pushed your underwear aside and touched you directly, fingers sliding through your wetness before settling into slow circles over your clit. Your head fell back as a quiet moan broke from your lips.

"There it is," he murmured, sounding far too pleased. "That's what I wanted to hear."

His fingers moved slowly at first, teasing more than giving, until your hips started chasing his hand on their own. You were aware of everything: the locked door, the muffled noise outside, the way your skirt was bunched around your waist, and the way Justin watched you like the show hadn't ended at all.

"Justin," you breathed, barely getting his name out.

He leaned closer, voice low. "Right here."

"Please," you breathed.

His eyes darkened when he heard that.

He slid one finger into you, then another, curling them just right until your hand flew to his shoulder. The stretch pulled a louder moan from you, and his other hand came up to cover your mouth for one brief second.

"Careful," he murmured, though he was smiling. "Unless you want them to know what you're doing in here."

Your eyes widened at that.

He moved his hand away slowly, eyes still fixed on yours. You should've been embarrassed, and you were, but you were also wetter, and Justin noticed that too.

"Oh, you like that," he whispered, fingers moving deeper. "Pretty girl likes having to stay quiet."

"Justin—fuck."

His thumb found your clit again, rubbing tight circles as his fingers pushed into you, and your body tightened fast — too fast. The whole night had been built up — his eyes on you from the stage, the smirk, the hallway, his voice in your ear. You were already so worked up that every touch felt like too much and still somehow not enough.

"I'm close," you whispered, sounding almost surprised by it.

Justin's mouth curved like he'd been waiting to hear that. "Already?"

Your cheeks warmed immediately. "Don't be smug."

"I'm not," he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth. "I'm flattered."

You laughed, only for it to break into a moan when he curled his fingers just right.

"Come on," he murmured, his voice low. "Let me feel it."

The orgasm hit you hard and sudden, and this time your hand clamped over your own mouth as your body shook around his fingers. Justin watched you through it, lips parted and eyes dark, his hand gentle on your thigh as he slowed without stopping, not until you whimpered from the sensitivity.

"Fuck," he breathed, like the words slipped out before he could stop them. "You're gorgeous."

You barely had time to recover before he dropped to his knees, and your heart stopped.

"Justin," you breathed.

He looked up at you, his hands sliding up your thighs. "You said not to stop."

Your mouth went dry, and then his lips were on the inside of your thigh, scattering every thought you'd had.

He kissed higher, pushing your skirt up farther before dragging your underwear down your legs and tucking them into his back pocket, grinning when you made an offended sound.

"Seriously?" you hissed.

"Souvenir," he said, looking far too pleased with himself.

"You're unbelievable," you said, even though your voice didn't sound nearly annoyed enough.

"You're still spreading your legs for me," he said, like that settled the argument.

That shut you up pretty fast.

Before you could say anything else, his mouth was on your cunt, tongue flattening over your clit in one slow stroke that made your body jerk. He groaned against you, his hands gripping your thighs as the sound sent another wave of heat through you.

You were already too sensitive. Still, you didn't even try to push him away.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, tugging the second his tongue circled your clit, and Justin's hands tightened like he liked the reaction.

"Oh my god," you whispered, head tipping back before you could stop it.

He hummed against you, then sucked softly, and your hips lifted toward his mouth before you could stop them.

Justin pulled back just enough to look up at you. "That's it. Don't get quiet on me now."

"People will hear."

"Then make me work for it," he said.

Your entire body flushed, and Justin smiled before going back down.

By the time Justin stood again, your legs were trembling, your breathing uneven, and you weren't entirely sure you remembered how to function. Justin's mouth was wet, his hair messy from your hands, and he looked so pleased with himself that you would've hated him for it if you hadn't wanted him so badly.

He kissed you, slow and filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

A moan slipped into his mouth before you could stop it.

"Condom?" he asked, his voice rough.

You nodded quickly, too breathless to pretend you weren't desperate. "Please."

He fumbled in his pocket, and you might've teased him for it if your own hands hadn't been shaking too. He rolled it on before stepping between your thighs again, lining himself up while your arms wrapped around his shoulders.

The head of his cock pressed against you, and both of you went still for a second.

Justin dropped his forehead to yours, his voice softer now. "You okay?"

You nodded, voice barely steady. "Yes."

"Yeah?" he asked softly.

"Justin," you whispered, impatience slipping into your voice now. "Please."

He groaned, then pushed in slowly.

The stretch made your mouth fall open, your fingers digging into his shoulders while he filled you inch by inch. He went slow enough that you felt every bit of him, slow enough that your breath hitched halfway through, and by the time he finally bottomed out, both of you were breathing hard.

"Fuck," he murmured, voice rough. "You feel so good."

"You too," you whispered, and his eyes snapped to yours like hearing it had done something to him.

Then Justin started moving. He moved slowly at first, deep and controlled, his hands firm on your hips as he fucked you on Della's desk with the crowd still muffled outside the door. It felt filthy and unreal, your skirt around your waist, his mouth against your neck, the desk creaking softly beneath you.

Justin's voice stayed low against your ear. "Thought about this all night."

"The way you were watching me."

"Trying to act like you weren't thinking about this too."

You moaned, your nails dragging over his back as the admission slipped out. "I was."

His hips snapped harder at that. "Yeah?"

"Yes," you moaned, your head falling back. "I wanted you."

That did something to him, hearing you finally say it.

The pace changed then, sharper now, more desperate. His hand slipped between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, and you nearly cried out before burying the sound against his shoulder.

"Shh," he murmured, even though his own voice sounded wrecked. "I know."

Your thighs tightened around his waist, holding him closer.

"Justin," you gasped. "I'm close again."

"Good," he murmured, his thumb moving faster. "Come for me."

The pleasure built quickly, your body still sensitive from his mouth and fingers, but this time, when it hit, it rolled through you slower, deeper, making you clench around him as you buried your face in his neck to muffle the sound.

Justin cursed under his breath, his hips stuttering.

A few more thrusts and Justin followed, groaning against your shoulder as he came, his hands gripping you like he needed something to hold onto.

For a moment, neither of you moved, both of you still breathing hard. The room was quiet except for your breathing, his, and the distant noise of Malone's outside the door.

Then Justin let out a soft laugh.

You lifted your head to look at him. "What?"

He looked at you, his smile lazy, warm, and entirely too smug. "That was definitely better than the show."

You groaned and pushed weakly at his chest. "Don't say that."

"I'm serious," he said.

"You are not," you said.

"Okay, maybe the show was pretty good," he said, kissing your cheek. "But this was better."

He helped you clean up as best as possible in Della's office, which shouldn't have felt romantic but somehow did, mostly because he was gentle now, hands careful on your thighs and smile soft whenever you got shy again.

When he handed your underwear back, you snatched them from him, glaring.

"You're a thief."

"Temporary borrower."

"You're not keeping them."

"Next time, then," he said, far too casually.

Your stomach fluttered, and of course, Justin saw it.

He stepped closer and brushed your hair back from your face. "Come to the next show."

You looked up at him, still a little unsteady. "Why?"

His smile curved slowly. "Because now I know where to look."

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

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All you wanted was a relaxing night out. As a school teacher, often your evenings were spent marking or lesson planning, and inevitably picking glitter glue out from under your nails. However, it was the start of spring break and you’d promised yourself – and your girlfriends – that, for one night only, you’d cut loose. You could catch up on Monday.

Dressed up for the first time in longer than you could remember, all that was standing between you and good time at the nightclub two towns over was the line to get in. The long-ass line.

Behind you, just off to the side of the line, you heard some over the top giggling and turned to see a tipsy looking brunette batting her eyelashes at a handsome, solidly built man with a buzz cut. They weren’t alone, with several other men and women making up their group.

“Thanks for bringing me along, babe,” Tipsy giggled at Buzz Cut, stumbling over her feet, and you rolled your eyes at your friends. 

As the loud group got closer you realised that they weren’t lining up behind you, instead walking straight past toward the door. The rule follower in you railed the idea of them cutting.

“Oh,” you shouted out loudly, getting Buzz Cut’s attention. “The line forms on the right, babe.”

It was as though the whole line was holding their collective breaths. Buzz Cut raised his eyebrow, looked you over and then handed off Tipsy to one of his friends. He sauntered over, your friends and the rest of the line seeming to melt away.

“You always a stickler for rules?” he asked, apparently amused.

“You always trying to break them?” you countered.

He snorted with a grin, rocking back on his heels. “It’s not breaking rules if it’s my club.”

SET AFTER:

Rockstar - Brendon Park meets his match against PTMC's fiery new attending.

Pussy Wagon - A spilled drink leads you to see a different side of your nemesis Park The Shark.

The First Time (NSFW) - Fireworks aren't the only explosive thing happening at Jesse's Fourth of July party.

A Loaded Gun (NSFW) - Hate sex has never been so fucking hot...

This Is Not A Love Story - Brandon tries to set a rule after a 'sticky' situation.

The Game - Brendon finds himself breaking his own rules when it comes to you.

Pittfest -Brendon comforts you when you fall apart after the events of Pittfest.

Is He Prettier Than Me? - Brandon gets curious when he learns you have other plans.

The Drawer - Brendon realises your relationship may be shifting when he discovers he has a drawer at your place.

Scrunchies - Scrunchies… they’re the downfall of Brendon Park.

Love Games (NSFW) - Brendon and you love to play games, especially with each other.

An Exquisite Form of Torture (NSFW) - Brendon continues to turn up the heat as he holds you captive.

THAT Guy - Brendon is forced to face up to his feelings for you when he finds out your meeting up with an ex.

Seven Days - Seven days is far too long to go without you...

Save It - A thirty six hour shift leads to another admission about your relationship with Brendon.

Doctor Dick - Brendon's day takes a turn when Whitaker gives him some critical information.

A Manipulative Fuck - You and Brendon discuss what happened with your ex.

The Call (NSFW) - Brendon decides to put a stop to David's calls once and for all.

The One That Hates The Ravens - David's attempt at revenge backfires spectacularly.

The Lovin Spoonful - You wake up to an unexpected surprise.

Delete, Block, Rinse, Repeat - A series of cryptic messages force Brendon to confront a secret he's been keeping for almost a decade.

His Father's Son - Brendon reflects on the past as he debates taking that first sip of whiskey.

The Cost of Dignity - Brendon's greatest secret comes with a cost.

A Kiss For Luck - Brendon struggles to navigate working at the hospital after the release of THAT video.

The Craziest Fucking Thing - You take matters into your own hands after receiving bad news from Brendon.

Ride Or Die - You wake up to the sound of an angry blender after Brendon discovers what happened with Rowena.

Baby Shark - Once a year Brendon always ends up back at the aquarium.

Diamonds (NSFW) - A bet leads to naughty shenanigans in a five star restaurant.

The Call Out - Brendon's focus on wedding planning is disrupted when he's called out to the scene of a multi-car pile up.

Good Hands - Abbot reminds Brendon you're in good hands as they proceed with the amputation.

Flayed - Brendon's world crashes down as he learns the truth about the accident.

Ten Things I Love About You - Brendon discovers a pink envelope in the pocket of the jacket you were wearing at the time of the accident.

The Parent Trap - Brendon faces your parents, leading to a surprise revelation.

Sledgehammer - Brendon struggles to cope in the aftermath of everything that's happened.

Et Tu Marianne? - Your mother throws Brendon under the bus after you wake up from surgery.

The Fucking Patient - Abbot has some harsh words for Brendon regarding your care.

Chemistry - You and Brendon finally have a moment alone to talk.

A Serial Absconder - Your habit of disappearing leads to a healing journey Brendon doesn't expect.

You’re anxious.

You don’t tell Brendon that, but he can sense it underneath the surface as you sit inside the car he’s rented because your wheelchair won’t fit in the Porshe without total disassembly. He’s thinking of trading it in, getting something that will suit your needs more.

“I know that this is scary.” He says gently as your hands curl into fists, the fabric of your shorts bunching up as you grip it. “But you’re ready to come home, they wouldn’t have let you out if you weren’t.”

“It’s not that.” Your jaw clenches as you suck in a breath, holding it for a couple of seconds before exhaling. “It’s the car. I haven’t been in one since the accident, it’s… I didn’t expect it to be so tough.”

He kicks himself for not thinking of that. He’d been so focused on making sure the house was ready, that you had everything you needed that he didn’t even think about the journey from A to B.

“I’ll take it slow.” He offers. If he could take this away from you, helicopter you home instead, he would but the yard is only so big, and that cost would be even more than he could afford. “We can stop if you need to, just say the word…”

You nod shakily, your shoulders tensing as he turns on the engine.

“Would it help if you closed your eyes and put on one of your Quinn stories in your earbuds?” He suggests. Distraction was always something his own counsellor recommended when he was trying to curb his drinking. “Yes Chef, always seems to make you laugh, or there’s that one about the sexy groundskeeper.”

The edges of your mouth tip up into a smile as you reach into your fanny pack in search of your headphones. It’s new, something he picked up a couple of days ago when he realised how much you had to juggle in terms of navigating your altered balance and carrying a purse. It’s been a saving grace on your many trips around the hospital. Everything you need is right there in reach.

“I find it interesting it you know the contents of my Quinn originals.” You note as you open the tiny white container and take out your earbuds. “Do you want to roleplay chopping wood while I pretend to be a princess?”

“I prefer going down on you in the kitchen.” He shoots back before considering the other scenario. There is a wood burner in your new house, and he could see you getting a little hot and bothered as you sit on the decking in the garden watching him swing an axe. “But I could be persuaded into a little lumberjack fantasy.”

You cackle as you hook up your Bluetooth to your headphones. He waits until you’re settled, eyes closed, head leaning against the headrest before he pulls out of the disabled parking space and hits the road. Your fist clenches again but you take another deep breath dispelling that nervousness just like in the exercises your therapist has been teaching you.

It’s a short journey, only twenty minutes. He takes it as carefully as he can, trying not to agitate your anxiety. When he pulls up outside the house, his hand comes to rest on your good knee squeezing gently.

“We’re home.” He says softly as you pull out your ear buds.

You open your eyes, your breath catching. You press your fingers to your lips, your eyes glossy as you stare at the house in front of you with two hanging baskets full of flowers and a wheelchair ramp leading up to the front door. “You didn’t…”

“It was meant to be a wedding gift.” He tells you as your hair falls over your features so he can’t read your expression. “Your something new but then the accident happened and it seemed the perfect place for you to recover since your apartment was on the third floor and the stairs in my condo would have killed you.”

“Did you move all of my stuff in?” Your voice is small, unreadable. His heart starts to pound, every beat thudding against his ribcage as the blood rushes in his ears.  

“Everything is in there.” He confirms, his knuckles turning white as he grips the steering wheel. “I wanted it to feel like home for you, for you to be around all your things. I did have to put the rugs and coffee table into storage for now as they aren’t wheelchair friendly but once you get your new leg you’ll have better mobility so we can bring them back out again.”

There’s silence, it hangs heavy between the two of you before he breaks it. “Did I fuck up?”

You shake your head with a sniffle, and that’s when he realises you’re crying. It’s the first time you’ve shed a tear since this whole thing happened and it breaks his fucking heart.

“Oh Rae.” He unfastens his seat belt and reaching over the console to wrap his arm around your shoulders. He draws you into the shelter of his form, the back of your head resting in the crook of his neck as he kisses your hair. “I know this is a lot of change, but we’ll find our way.”

“It’s not that.” You tell him, using the back of your hand to wipe away the tears that mar your cheeks. “It’s just so perfect, you’ve thought of everything and I just… I’m so fucking lucky to have you in my life.”

“No.” He says fiercely, his lips brushing over your temple. “I’m the lucky one, you saved me Rae, you really did. You lit a fire in me… first by pissing me off and then…” He trails off but you understand, he knows you do. “Do you want to see inside?”

“Yeah.” You say brushing more tears away from underneath your eyes. “I really do.”

Like My Work? - Tip your friendly fan fic writer here!

"I understand," Loki nods. Thor might have some more objections but if Loki is saying he understands, then he can pester his brother and not the other mage. "May we see her?"

"She is asleep, but you are allowed to sit next to her," Mage Beck confirms with a small bow.

The man hasn't finished speaking before Thor is rushing past. Loki makes sure to thank the fellow mage before heading in.

Tess gives you a look when you enter the kitchen well after most of the other staff. She's been gently urging you to eat more but you content yourself with the leftovers the other servants leave after the dinner rush. It's not as if you can eat much anyways. Besides, this way you don't have to deal with an overly crowded kitchen and the crush of other bodies against yours.

"I made sure to save you a slice of the crumble," Tess informs you. "Wasn't easy, but I know the blackberry are your favorite ones and the sugar'll do you some good."

"Thank you, Tess," you say with a hug.

"And after dinner you'll be practicing your letters?"

"Yes, Tess," you promise, your cheeks heating with embarrassment.

You know it isn't your fault your reading and writing are so poor. Your parents had never pushed your or your siblings to learn more than the basics. There were no books, no writing utensils. When Tess and Mage Beck learned of your low literacy they insisted on upgrading your education. Thankfully Lady Sarah, King Wilson's sister, was willing to teach you alongside her young sons.

"And if I spot any bit of berry on Max's face, you're gettin' a lecture," Tess warns.

That makes you smile. "I can promise I'll be eating the blackberry crumble by myself."

"Glad to hear it."

"My brother and I are needed back in Asgard, but Mother is not yet ready to travel," Thor informs King Wilson.

"She can stay here as long as she needs," the King promises. "I'm happy to honor the longstanding alliance between our kingdoms."

"You are a good man Samuel," Thor says with teary eyes. "We would have lost her without you and yours."

"And don't you forget it," King Wilson says with a smirk. "And we'll make sure whatever people you leave behind with her are taken care of as well."

"Hopefully she will be well enough by the next summit and we can take her home with us then."

As the two kings discuss the logistics of the upcoming departure Loki's mind keeps going to the servant girl and her dog. Maybe he should meet up with them again so Max can see Loki is no longer so distressed. He can still hear the dog's pitiful whines. Almost as clearly as he can picture your beautiful face.

The thought has to be squelched. He's an Asgardian Mage, you are a servant girl in another kingdom. It isn't proper.

But maybe a correspondence? A friendship? To keep up with your and Max's continued health.

The gardens are especially quiet today. All hands that are able are helping to prepare King Thor's caravan back to Asgard. In a rare moment of not being needed, Loki snuck his way out to the gardens in the hopes of seeing you. Though, if anyone asks, he's looking for that sweet dog he met to help him calm his nerves. Sure there were other dogs in and around the castle, but he can easily say Max is the most attentive to strangers.

His shoulders relax a little when he sees the little dog running towards him. He smiles when he sees you chasing after the dog.

"Oh, Your Majesty," you say between breaths as you curtsy.

"Loki, please," he insists, hiding the hurt in his eyes by bending down to pet Max.

"Loki," you repeat. "I wasn't expecting you to come back. Your people have been busy with preparations."

"They have," he nods. "But I wanted to make sure to thank you, and Max, before I leave. The two of you were quite the...comforting presence when I needed it."

"It's the least we can do. We know what it is to need that kind of peace and comfort."

"I was wondering, if...if it's not too forward, if I might...write to you, from time to time. To ask after Max. The pup has quite grown on me rather quickly."

If Loki hadn't had his eyes down, purposefully focusing on Max, he'd have seen your eyes round with shock as your jaw dropped.

"I...I must warn you, I'm not...my reading and writing skills are...lacking."

"Lacking?"

"I've got the basics but my handwriting is that of a child. Reading is a slow process for me."

Shame burns your cheeks. This handsome, kind, royal man must be highly intelligent to be a mage. And you're just a rescue who can barely read and write. The differences between you makes you feel so small, so unimportant.

"Then, with your permission, may I help you practice by writing from time to time?"

"I...I think I would like that, Loki."

Previous--Next

Series Masterlist

“Save it,” Nick snaps.

On the other side of the room, you lift your hands and argue, “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

Nodding, you murmur, “Okay,” under your breath.

Nick shifts away from you like he’s going to keep talking, but then he looks at you again. “Why are you even here?”

“Trust me, Wagner, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be,” you reply, crossing your arms over your chest.

“Then consider yourself dismissed.”

Bowing dramatically, you roll your eyes and mutter, “Thank you, your high-nepotist.”

“Watch it,” Nick warns.

You straighten, smiling as you inquire, “Was that a threat?”

“It was advice. I suggest you take it.”

“What I’ll take is a one-way ticket out of here. Good luck, Nicky.”

You leave, unaware of Nick watching you leave.

When you’re far enough away that she’s sure you won’t hear, Morgan inquires, “So, uh, Nicky… Anything you’d like to share?”

“Gillory, read the room,” Selena advises. “But the offer stands, Captain Wagner.”

The steady crashing of waves on the shore and the cool spray misting off the water make time pass strangely. You’re unsure how long you’ve been here, but it hasn’t worked yet. Once, years ago, you could sit on the beach in the early hours of the morning and everything clouding your mind would get pulled into the depths. Now, you can’t relax. Even as the horizon becomes visible through the earliest rays of sunlight, your mind races as the waves move closer.

Blinking, you wipe beneath your eyes to clear the salty spray that has been blowing onto you. The tears are a surprise.

Down the beach, Nick closes his back door and locks it, clicking his tongue. “C’mon, Ingrid,” he calls, leading her down the wooden path to the beach.

Nick encourages Ingrid to move a little quicker so he can jog, but she elects to meander at her own pace, sniffing shells and squinting at the ocean. Nick sighs and takes her lead, attempting to slow down and enjoy the early morning. But that plan ends abruptly, rendered impossible by the sight of you sitting in the sand.

Nick scoffs, prepared to say something before he notices that you’re curled in on yourself. Your shoulders are drawn in, your knees pulled up toward your chest. You seem completely unaware of anything going on around you. But the tear tracks on your face make Nick stop walking.

Ingrid walks to you, sniffing your side before she nudges her snout against your leg. You blink rapidly, then look to your side. The smile that appears on your face at the sight of her is different from all the smiles Nick has seen before — it’s purer than the sarcastic look you give him and more genuine than the smiles you send Morgan or Daphne when they compliment your outfit. There’s something joyful in this look. The speed with which it disappears when you notice Nick is with Ingrid brings everything back into perspective, ripping both you and Nick out of your respective moments like the following sea pulling a boat under in a breath.

“Hey,” you greet softly, patting Ingrid as she sits beside you. “This is Ingrid?”

“Yeah,” Nick answers. “Sorry.”

“She’s good,” you assure him. “I- I kind of needed this.”

“We were going to walk to the jetty and back, if — uh, you know — if you’d like to join us.”

Nodding, you check, “You’d be okay with that?”

“It’s a public beach,” Nick answers with a shrug. “And Ing and I would like some company.”

“Even if it’s me?”

“Are you going to keep asking questions or are you going to join us?” Nick sighs.

“There’s the Nick Wagner I know,” you mutter. “Yeah, I’d like to join you.”

Nick nods once and offers his hand. You squint at his palm like you’re worried touching it will hurt, so Nick bends at his waist and takes your hand. He pulls you to your feet, wrapping his arm around your waist when you tip toward him.

“The running shoes and your lack of a shirt make me think I’m interrupting a run,” you whisper, stepping out of Nick’s hold. “Don’t let me slow you down.”

“My plans had already changed,” Nick says. “I want you to join us.”

You nod, falling into step with Nick. Ingrid is a step ahead, moving from left to right to investigate shells and abandoned beach toys alike.

“I didn’t realize I was so close to your house,” you admit. “I used to come to the beach when I needed to clear my head and thought I’d try again tonight. I wouldn’t have come to this specific beach if I’d known.”

“Try?” Nick repeats. You glance at him, and he explains, “You said you’d try it tonight. Did it not work?”

“It did not.”

“Do you want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“Then can I interest you with a tale from the Chronicles of Ingrid?” Nick suggests, smiling softly.

You laugh in surprise, then reply, “I would love to hear it.”

“No input from you, Ing,” he tells her. He drops his voice to inform you, “She likes hyperbole.”

“Ingrid Wagner? Dramatic? I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” you exclaim. “Ingrid, I won’t believe this slander.”

“Well, the tale begins with a hamburger and a thirty second trip back to the kitchen…”

“Morgan, sorry, I’m going to interrupt,” you begin, dragging a hand across your jaw. “Why am I here?”

“Because I think you can help,” she answers simply.

“Do you have somewhere else to be?” Nick asks from the seat across from yours.

“No, I just- I was under the impression there was more evidence than the last time you asked me to help.”

Daphne and Oz look from you to Nick, then back again. They volley to follow your conversation like it’s a tennis match.

“If there’s a connection, you can find it,” Nick states decidedly.

“What if you’re wrong and you’re wasting your time?” you counter, meeting his eyes.

“I’m not wrong about people.”

“Don’t start thinking I’m valuable now, Wagner,” you warn.

“I wouldn’t dare.”

You stop suddenly, ankle-deep in the sand as you look up at the full moon. It reflects of the choppy water, the windy night rippling the picture of the sky.

“Hi,” Nick greets, stopping to your left. “I, uh, I thought I saw you out here.”

“You watching for me now?” you question.

“Ingrid barked,” he explains, pushing his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants. “She likes you; don’t blame me for that.”

Stepping toward Nick, you smile and wonder, “What brings you to the beach at…”

“It’s 12:15.”

“What brings you to the beach at 12:15?”

“I just told you. My dog barked because someone was wandering around outside.”

“And do you always walk out to engage the person in oddly friendly conversation?”

“How is this oddly friendly?” Nick demands. “What does that even mean?”

“We don’t exactly get along,” you remind him. “You argue with me every chance you get! I mean, we are always at each other’s throats, yet you’re here. Is this some kind of pity thing? You see me crying on the beach once and have to get involved? I promise I’m not going to walk into the water and-”

“Stop,” Nick interrupts, lifting a hand. “I argue with you, yes. That doesn’t make us mortal enemies.”

“No, the fact that we could never get along makes us enemies.” Nick looks both confused and shocked by your claim, leading you to lower your shoulders and whisper, “Right?”

“Not right,” he answers seriously, stepping toward you. “How do you get from ‘we argue’ to ‘we could never get along,’ when we have gotten along before? I don’t remember arguing a few nights ago while we were walking.”

“Then why do you think we argue?” you inquire.

“Because you see yourself wrong,” Nick answers without hesitation. “You think you can’t do something; you second guess yourself to the point that you question my thoughts about you!”

“And what are your thoughts about me?” you question, rubbing your arms when the wind picks up.

“That you are smarter than you think. That you don’t give yourself enough credit. That you should believe in yourself.”

“You’re making it really hard to argue with you right now.”

Nick takes the final step to you and wraps his arm around your shoulders. You tip your chin to see him in the proximity, with your breath caught in your throat.

“Maybe we should stop arguing now,” he suggests softly.

“And- and what should we do instead?” you whisper.

Nick smiles, lifting his other hand to hold your face. You meet him halfway, kissing him under the light of the moon. Nick moves slowly at first, but when your hands find his shoulders, Nick abandons the care and gentle pace. He drops his hands to your hips, pulling you against him. Until your feet catch in the sand, at least.

“What are you doing?” he questions dramatically, pressing his forehead to yours. “Trying to bury yourself?”

“Well, I wasn’t anticipating that,” you point out, dragging your hands along his sides.

“You’re shivering,” he points out.

“Excellent detective skills,” you mutter.

“Let’s go.”

“Where?”

Nick hooks a hand behind your knees and pulls you out of the sand, laughing against you when you yelp in surprise and wrap your arms around his neck.

“Ingrid wants to say hi,” he explains.

“Ah, I see.”

Ingrid did in fact want to say hello. But that aspect of the evening doesn’t explain why you wake up on Nick’s couch with his arms wrapped tightly around your waist. Last night was the most relaxed you’ve been in months — your mind cleared when Nick kissed you, you didn’t worry about what would happen next. In the light of day, you wonder What did this mean? What exactly are we? And why did I wait so long to kiss him?

“G’morning,” Nick mumbles against your shoulder, pulling you tighter against his chest.

“Hey,” you mutter.

“I need a new couch,” he groans.

“Or you could, I don’t know, not sleep on it.”

Nick brushes his lips across your temple. “I didn’t plan to.”

“So, uh… Should we talk?”

“About what?”

“Uh, the fact that last week at this time, we were yelling at each other and last night we were making out on the beach?”

“Was any part of that supposed to sound bad?” Nick checks.

“Well, you work with people who are going to notice if we’re suddenly nice to each other.”

“Then we try to be understanding and civil,” Nick suggests. “But they don’t need to know why. Especially Morgan.”

“Sure,” you agree. “But I’m not clear on why either.”

“Because we’re seeing where this goes.”

Smiling, you push yourself up to see Nick. “Could that involve dinner tonight?”

“Whatever you want,” Nick promises.

Three weeks of stolen moments and private dates later, you and Nick have yet to name the change between you. Spending so much time acting like enemies, getting accustomed to doing everything alone, and assuming you know what the other believes that it’s hard to find a new balance. Hard but not impossible.

“Why are you here?” Nick asks when he steps into his office.

“Wow. Nice to see you too,” you deadpan.

“You know what I mean.”

“But I don’t,” Morgan interjects from behind Nick. “Want to let me in?”

Nick closes the door in her face, refusing both to let her in the way she wanted and to let her into the room.

“Are you okay?” Nick checks.

You shrug, straightening his desk mat rather than answering. “I’m fine. Could use a hug, though.”

“Then c’mere.”

It’s well after sunset when you knock on Nick’s door. It’s been a month since your romantic night beneath the full moon. Now, you need to clear your mind after a horrible day but don’t think about the ocean behind you. Not when Nick has already proven he’s here for you whenever you need him.

“Hey,” Nick greets. His smile drops when he sees you. “What’s wrong?”

You don’t answer. Instead, you cross the threshold and wrap your arms around his waist. Nick doesn’t hesitate to hug you, holding you tightly as his heart and his breathing ground you.

“I love you,” you breathe out. “And I wasted so much time telling myself I didn’t, that I couldn’t because it would never work.”

Nick shakes his head, lifting one hand to cup the back of your head. “You didn’t waste any time,” he promises.

You shudder in his hold. “Nick,” you whisper.

Nick takes a step back, keeping his hands on you. When your gaze meets his, he assures you, “No time wasted. Look, I’m where I’ve always been. I’m right here. I’m beside you.”

Nodding, you exhale. The stress of the day melts away, lightening your shoulders where Nick’s skin meets yours.

“I love you,” Nick replies softly.

“You do?”

“You’ve always been exactly who I needed. I meant what I said before. I believe in you. And on days when you can’t do that yourself, I’ll be right here. On days when you know you can take this world on by yourself, I’ll still be here. You have me, okay?”

“You have me, too,” you vow.

Nick smiles, his hair falling into his face as he leads you farther into his home. You can see the waves crashing onto the shore from here, but you find the comfort and peace you need in Nick, pushing his hair back before Ingrid decides you should pay attention to her rather than Nick.

“I came as fast as I could,” you tell Nick as you rush into the bullpen.

“I didn’t call,” he says, his brows furrowed.

“I did,” Morgan calls from her desk. “Start talking. I want to know when exactly you stopped hating each other.”

“Find something else to do, Gillory,” Nick advises.

He spreads one arm to show you out, then waits five seconds before he follows you. In the elevator, his hand finds your waist and the world quiets.

Nick Wagner Taglist🏷️ @person-005 @dreamerxo12 @jennifer0305 @notanotherpotter