Unbetitelt

𑣲 ⁺ ੭﹕﹒ 🍒 elias “stack” moore !

⧽ jolene, i’m a woman too

⧽ happy father’s day

⧽ babydaddy!stack tiktok

⧽ vampire!stack concept

⧽ greedy!reader w/ babydaddy!stack

⧽ love at first bite

⧽ doggy style

⧽ can you be a good girl

⧽ dick suckin’ thought

⧽ cause he a fashion killa

⧽ take a seat

⧽ dandy!stack at the met gala thought

𑣲 ⁺ ੭﹕﹒ 🍒 elijah “smoke” moore !

⧽ your bodyguard

⧽ firefighter!smoke concept

⧽ full nelson

⧽ can’t take it

⧽ acts of service

⧽ ex-husband!smoke yearning

𑣲 ⁺ ੭﹕﹒ 🍒 michael “mikey” jackson !

⧽ too sensitive

⧽ calling michael out his name

⧽ if it’s aching

⧽ virgin!michael thought

𑣲 ⁺ ੭﹕﹒ 🍒 sev’s others !

⧽ batman!john carter concept

⧽ bimbo!reader w/ frank langdon

⧽ bimbo!reader w/frank langdon visuals

⧽ i get wet at the thought of you

⧽ bimbo!reader w/ frank langdon smau

"So I ran into Olivia Tucker — you remember her, right? From church? She had a son named John," she said, not looking at the camera.

You had learned years ago that it was easier to say yes, of course than to endure five minutes of your mom describing a person like she was giving a statement to the police.

"Yeah, of course. I remember Mrs. Tucker."

"She mentioned her son John is attending the same college as you." She said it like she was reading off a notecard. Matter of fact. "She said he's playing hockey now."

Oh. That John Tucker.

"Yeah, I know who he is," you said, cleaning up the mess on your middle finger.

"Isn't that a big coincidence?"

"I mean, not really — he's like a year younger than me, right?"

"Yes, but you two used to play together when you were kids. At church, remember?" You did not remember. Your family went to church maybe twice a year. "Anyway, I gave her your number so she could pass it along to him. So you two could talk."

"Mom — what, that's not really —"

"She's probably not even going to use it."

She used it. Mrs. Tucker called three days later, and with the grace of a good Southern woman, she asked you to keep an eye on John — not in so many words, of course. She said he'd moved into a house with some of the other players and she just wanted to know he was taking care of himself. She didn't want you to do much. Just stop by, take a look around, report back. She'd handle the rest by phone.

What she did not tell you was that Tucker already knew about her plan.

He opened the door looking completely unsurprised to see you, leaned against the frame with his arms crossed and a grin that said nice try. He was, it turned out, perfectly capable of taking care of himself and, annoyingly, other people too.

Which is how you ended up here, almost a year later, sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen island in the off campus house, crying into an onion.

"I'm just saying, get a dicer," you said, keeping your eyes on the knife because you had to. "This is inhumane."

"A real chef doesn't use those kinds of things," Tucker said from across the kitchen, doing significantly less chopping than you were.

"Well, good thing you're not a real chef then."

He turned around, visibly offended. "What did you just say?"

You opened your mouth to repeat it — and then Garrett wandered in from the living room, grabbed an apple from the counter, looked at Tucker's side of the kitchen and then at yours, and pointed at you. "She's doing all the work," he said, to no one in particular, and wandered back out.

"He's right," you said.

"He's a traitor," Tucker said.

You opened your mouth to agree and then the sound of footsteps came down the hallway, and Dean came around the corner fresh out of the shower, towel low on his hips and water still tracking down his chest.

You sniffed, eyes watering, nose red.

Dean stopped. Looked at you. And then let out a slow, deeply entertained laugh.

"Well," he said, "I've heard a lot of reactions from girls seeing me like this. But crying might be a first." He tilted his head. "You alright there, sweet pea?"

"It's the onion," you said flatly. "Tucker's making me cut it."

"Sure." He was already turning toward the stairs, completely unbothered. "Whatever floats your boat."

He winked at you over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner.

You looked back down at the onion.

Tucker was very pointedly not looking at you.

"Not a word," you said.

"I didn't say anything," he said, in the tone of someone who was saying everything.

The party invitation from Tucker arrived as a single text on a Thursday night.

party saturday, be here, i made a playlist

You were in the middle of your readings and you looked at the message for a moment before typing back: do I need to bring anything?

yourself and good energy

You put your phone face down and went back to your reading. Then picked it up again.

what time

nine but come at eight so we can hang before it gets loud

That was Tucker's way of saying he wanted to cook with you beforehand, which you appreciated more than you would ever tell him out loud because he would absolutely use it against you. You sent back a thumbs up and returned to your notes, and you did not think about the fact that Dean would be there, because that was not a relevant consideration.

You thought about it the entire rest of the week.

Not in a dramatic way. Just in the quiet, persistent way of something you kept putting down and finding in your hand again. You were honest with yourself about Dean, had been from the beginning. You knew what he was. Charming in a way that looked effortless because it mostly was, easy with people, the kind of person who filled a room without trying. You'd watched him for almost a year. You knew the way he talked to people, the way he leaned in when something was funny, the way he'd come into the kitchen sometimes when you were there and open the fridge and just stand there for a full thirty seconds like the answer to whatever he was looking for might eventually appear.

You knew that he'd noticed you too. That wasn't ego, just observation. The way his eyes would find you first when he walked into a room where you already were. The way he'd aim a comment at you specifically when he had a whole group to choose from. The way he'd said I've heard a lot of reactions like your reaction was the one that mattered.

You'd been sensible about it for a year. You'd made the choice, every single time, to not do anything about it. And you were fine. You were genuinely fine with that. You knew what Dean was, knew what it would be, and you'd decided the math didn't work out in your favor so you'd left it alone.

It was just that sometimes, quietly, in the back of your head, a voice said but what if you didn't.

You got dressed Saturday night and told that voice to shut up, and went to the party anyway.

Tucker met you at the door at eight on the dot, already in a good mood, which meant either the playlist was really good or he'd already had a drink.

"You look great," he said, holding the door open.

"You say that every time."

"Because it's true every time." He handed you a beer from the counter as you came into the kitchen, already comfortable, already home in the easy way the house had started to feel over the past year. "I was thinking we do something with the leftover rice from yesterday, I got peppers —"

"Tucker."

"What."

"We're not cooking. There are already people here."

He looked genuinely confused. "So?"

You took the beer from him and looked around the kitchen. Logan was leaning against the far counter talking to someone from the team, and Garrett was already in the living room, and the house had that particular pre-party hum to it, not yet loud, still settling into itself.

Dean wasn't in the kitchen.

You noted this the way you noted a lot of things quietly, without making anything of it.

Logan glanced over when Tucker handed you the beer. "You're here early."

"She's basically a resident," Tucker said, like this was a fact.

"I'm a guest," you said.

"Guests don't know where we keep the good knives," Logan said and winked, and went back to his conversation.

You spent the next hour in that easy pre-party mode, moving between the kitchen and the living room, talking to people you knew by name now, accepting a second drink from someone who was mixing them near the back. Tucker orbited you loosely the way he always did at these things, appearing at your elbow every twenty minutes or so to say something that made you laugh and then disappearing again. This was one of your favorite things about him, he was never clingy, never needed to keep you close, just checked in like punctuation.

Dean appeared sometime around ten.

He came down the stairs and into the living room and you saw him before he saw you, which felt important. He was wearing a dark green shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows, and he had that easy unhurried way of moving through a room like it had already arranged itself around him. He said something to Garrett near the bottom of the stairs and laughed, and you looked away before he could look up.

So. He was here. That was fine. That was completely normal and fine.

You went to find Tucker.

The next hour you spent being very deliberate about not being obvious. You talked to people on the back porch when Dean was in the living room. You came inside when he drifted toward the kitchen. You were not proud of it exactly, but you were not going to stand around waiting for him to decide whether tonight was a night he felt like paying attention to you. You'd done a lot of things in your life. That was not going to be one of them.

Your friend Anna, a sorority sister, texted at eleven: how's the party

You typed back: fine. dean's here.

Three seconds.

oh. OH. okay. call me tomorrow.

maybe

that means yes. don't do anything I wouldn't do

You locked your phone and put it in your pocket and thought about the specific, limited list of things Anna wouldn't do and found it unhelpfully short.

The thing was, and you'd been over this, you'd been reasonable about this, you knew what it would be. A night, maybe a few nights, comfortable and uncomplicated and then done. Dean DiLaurentis didn't do anything that looked like what came after. You'd watched him long enough to know that too. And you'd decided that wasn't what you wanted, so you'd kept your distance, and that had been the right call, and it remained the right call.

You were in college at a party on a Friday night and you had been sensible about this for almost an entire calendar year.

The voice in the back of your head said but you knew that going in and it doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to mean.

You told it to shut up.

It had a point though.

You refilled your drink. Stood near the back door where the air was a little cooler and the noise slightly less consuming. Watched the party happen around you. Thought, very clearly and deliberately: you know what it is. you've always known. that doesn't have to be the reason not to.

You were still working through the logic of that when you felt someone come to stand beside you.

"(Y/N). You've been avoiding me."

Dean. Not accusing, just observing, the same way he did most things, like he was simply noting a fact about the universe. He had a drink in one hand and he wasn't looking at you yet, eyes scanning the room like he'd just happened to end up here beside you, which you both understood wasn't true.

"I've been talking to people," you said.

"You've been talking to people on the opposite side of every room I was in."

"Maybe I just like that side of the room."

He looked at you then. Really looked, in that direct way of his that felt like being assessed and appreciated at the same time. The music was loud enough that the conversation existed in its own small space, just between you.

"You've been doing that for a year," he said.

"Has it been a year?" You kept your voice light.

"Almost." He took a drink. "I've been patient."

The word landed simply, without performance. Patient. Like he'd been waiting. Like the last year had been something he'd noticed too, kept track of, decided to let run its course.

You looked at him for a long moment. The party moved around you, loud and warm, and you stood in it and made the decision clearly, with both eyes open, which felt like the important part.

"Bathroom's upstairs," you said.

Something shifted in his expression, not surprise, just confirmation. Like he'd known, and now he knew for certain.

"Yeah," he said.

He followed you up the stairs without touching you, which felt somehow more loaded than if he had. You could feel him behind you the whole way, that particular awareness of someone close, and by the time you reached the top of the stairs your heart was doing something inconvenient.

The upstairs bathroom was at the end of the hall. You went in, he came in behind you, and you turned to click the lock and found him already there, close enough that turning around put you nearly chest to chest with him, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him before he'd laid a hand on you.

He didn't kiss you right away.

That was the first thing. You'd expected him to, he'd been patient for a year, you'd just told him where the bathroom was, you'd expected him to close the distance immediately. Instead he just looked at you, and the looking was its own thing, slow and deliberate, like he was taking his time now that he finally had you here and he wanted you to know it.

"You made me wait a long time," he said.

"You could have said something sooner," you said.

"I said something tonight."

"Barely."

Something shifted in his expression, not quite a smile, more like he'd just decided something. He reached up slowly and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your jaw, and the touch was so light it was almost nothing, which somehow made it worse.

"You're going to be like that," he said. Quiet. Certain.

"I don't know what you mean," you said, which was a lie and you both knew it.

He tilted your chin up with two fingers, not roughly, just — directing. Making you look at him. "Yeah you do," he said, and then he kissed you.

It wasn't tentative. It was a kiss from someone who had thought about this specifically, who knew what he wanted and had decided tonight was when he was going to have it, and you kissed him back and felt a year's worth of deliberate distance dissolve somewhere at the back of your mind.

He walked you backward until your hips met the bathroom counter and left you there, stepped back just enough to look at you again with that same unhurried attention, and you understood then that he wasn't in a hurry. That he'd waited this long and now he was going to enjoy it, and you were going to have to let him.

"Take your jacket off," he said.

You did.

He watched you do it. That was all — just watched, arms loosely crossed, completely at ease, like this was exactly where he'd planned to be tonight. You set the jacket on the counter and looked at him and he looked back.

"Good," he said, like that meant something.

Your heart was doing the inconvenient thing again.

He came back to you slowly, hands finding your waist, and kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding into your hair and gripping, not painfully, just holding you exactly where he wanted you. You made a small sound against his mouth and felt him smile.

"There it is," he murmured.

"Shut up," you said.

"Make me," he said against your jaw, and then his mouth was on your throat and the option to respond coherently became briefly unavailable.

He took his time with your throat, your collarbone, the soft place below your ear that made your fingers curl into his shirt without your permission, and every time you moved to pull him closer he'd ease back just enough to remind you that he was running this. Not mean about it. Just clear.

"Dean —"

"I've got you," he said, against your skin. "I'm not going anywhere."

His hands moved to the hem of your top, pulling it up slowly, and he stepped back to pull it over your head and dropped it somewhere on the floor and looked at you again with that particular focus, and you had to actively resist the urge to cover yourself, because that was not what you did, but the way he was looking at you made you feel like you were already coming apart.

"You have no idea," he said quietly, more to himself than you, and then his mouth was on your collarbone and his hands were at your waist and you gave up on dignity entirely.

His hands moved to the button of your jeans, unhurried, and he looked up at you first — not asking exactly, just checking — and you nodded and he undid it and crouched down to pull the fabric down your legs with a thoroughness that felt like a point being made. He looked up at you from there, and whatever was on your face made him look deeply, quietly satisfied.

"You've been thinking about this," he said. Not a question.

"Don't," you said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't be smug about it."

"I'm not being smug." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, which short-circuited something. "I'm just paying attention."

He stood back up slowly, hands trailing up the outside of your thighs, and lifted you onto the counter like it was nothing, stepping between your knees. You pulled him back in by the collar of his shirt and kissed him harder than you'd meant to and he made a low sound and kissed you back the same way, one hand flat against the small of your back pulling you closer.

"Tell me what you want," he said, against your mouth.

"You know what I want."

"I want to hear you say it."

You pulled back and looked at him. He looked back, completely unbothered, and you understood that he meant it, that he was going to stand here all night if he had to, patient as anything, until you said it out loud.

"Dean."

"I'm right here," he said pleasantly.

"You're so —"

"Tell me."

You told him.

"Please"

The expression that crossed his face was worth it. He kissed you once, hard, like a reward, and said good against your mouth, and then his hand moved and all the words you'd been planning to say next went somewhere inaccessible.

He knew what he was doing in a way that felt almost unfair, thorough, attentive, like he'd already decided exactly how this was going to go and was now simply executing. When you tried to rush it he slowed down. When you made a sound he filed it away and came back to it. The tile was cold at your back and his hands were warm on your thighs and his mouth was at your cunt and the things he said there were quiet and precise and designed specifically to ruin you.

"You've been driving me crazy," he said. Low, unhurried. "All year. You know that."

"Dean —"

"Every time you walked into a room." His hand didn't stop. "Every time you looked at Tucker instead of me. Every single time."

"That's your fault," you managed.

"I know," he said. "I know it is." Something almost rueful in it. "Doesn't change the fact."

When you finally came it was with your head hitting the mirror behind you and holding his shoulder and his name somewhere in the middle of it, and he stayed with you through the whole thing, unhurried, like he had nothing else in the world to do.

He gave you a moment. Then he pulled back and looked at you with an expression that you could only describe as thoroughly pleased with himself, which should have been annoying and wasn't.

"Don't," you said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was going to ask if you were okay," he said, which was such an obvious lie that you laughed, and the laugh broke something open in the room, and he grinned, a real one, unguarded in a way you hadn't seen before, and kissed you again before it could turn into a whole thing.

You worked his belt with hands that weren't entirely steady and he helped without comment, and then his hands were at your hips and he pressed his forehead to yours for just a second.

You watched him look for a condom on his backpocket.

"Yeah?" he said quietly. All the performance gone.

"Yeah," you said.

He pushed into you slow and you exhaled against his jaw, fingers gripping his shoulders, adjusting to the feeling of him. He gave you a moment, forehead still to yours, patient, present, and then he moved and everything else became temporarily beside the point.

It was charged the way it only gets when two people have been waiting too long. Not frantic but urgent, with a focused intensity that felt like something being resolved. His grip was firm and deliberate and you pulled him closer when he slowed down and he got the message and didn't slow down again. The mirror was fogging and somewhere below you the party was still happening and it was completely irrelevant.

"Look at me," he said.

You did. He held your gaze and something passed between you that neither of you named, and you felt it in your chest more than anywhere else.

"Months," he said again. Quieter now.

"I know," you said. "I know."

When he came he buried his face in your neck and went quiet and still, one hand flat against the small of your back holding you against him, and you held onto him too because it seemed like the thing to do, and because you wanted to, and those were the same thing tonight.

You stayed like that for a moment longer than necessary.

Then you both exhaled at roughly the same time, which broke the tension, and Dean huffed a quiet laugh into your shoulder.

You untangled carefully, straightened yourselves out. You hopped off the counter and turned to the mirror, fixing your hair, smoothing your top back into place. He leaned against the wall watching you do it, arms crossed loosely, shirt back on. His hair was a mess and he didn't appear concerned about it.

You met his eyes in the mirror.

"This doesn't have to be a thing," you said. Even, matter of fact. Not cold, just clear. You were giving him an out because you'd rather give it than have him feel like he needed to take it badly.

Something moved across his face. He pushed off the wall slightly. "What if I want it to be a thing?"

You turned around. "What kind of thing?"

He held your gaze. Didn't answer right away, which was an answer, and you'd known it would be, you'd known before you came upstairs, and still it took a small quiet moment to settle.

"Right," you said simply.

Not angry. Not hurt, or at least not visibly. You'd gone in with both eyes open and you'd meant it, and the math was what you'd always known it was. That was fine. You were fine.

You unlocked the door.

"Hey," Dean said.

You looked back.

He opened his mouth, closed it. Something in his expression that you couldn't entirely read. "Nothing," he said finally. "Never mind."

You nodded once and stepped out into the hallway.

Downstairs, the party had peaked without you. The music was louder and the living room was full and Tucker was in the kitchen, which is where Tucker always ended up at some point. He took one look at your face when you appeared in the doorway and turned to open the fridge and produced a beer, which he held out without a word.

You took it.

"Having fun?" he asked, very casually, eyes on the fridge.

"Yeah," you said. "Party's good."

"Cool." He closed the fridge. "I made queso."

"Tucker."

"It's in the pot on the back burner."

You looked at him for a second. He looked back, perfectly neutral, perfectly unbothered, and completely full of information he was choosing not to say.

"Thank you," you said.

"Don't mention it," he said. "Seriously, don't. I have a reputation."

You laughed despite yourself, and some of the tightness in your chest loosened, just a little.

Tucker handed you a chip.

You both stood at the stove and ate queso and said nothing about any of it, and that was, genuinely, one of the nicest things anyone had done for you in a while.

Dean came downstairs eleven minutes later, you weren't counting, you just noticed, and grabbed a beer from the fridge and leaned against the counter across from you, and the three of you stood in that kitchen like nothing had happened at all.

Dean looked at the pot on the stove. "Is that queso?"

"Made it myself," Tucker said.

"You absolutely did not."

Tucker looked at you. You said nothing, scooping queso onto another chip. Dean's eyes moved between you both and landed on you with something unreadable in them.

"Can I have some?" he asked.

"It's your house," you said.

He got a chip. Ate it. Looked at the pot. "That's really good."

"I know," you said.

Tucker stared directly at the wall and smiled at absolutely nothing.

It didn't have a name. That was the thing , it never got one, and neither of you tried to give it one, and somehow that made it easier to just let it exist.

It started simply enough. A week after the party, Dean texted you at eleven on a Tuesday night. Just: you up?

The second text was a trailer link. No context, no explanation, just: this.

You watched it once. Typed back: that looks pretentious.

i know. yes or no.

fine.

The house was quiet when you got there , Garrett's door closed, Tucker apparently out, and Dean was on the couch with a beer and the energy of someone who had been waiting without admitting to waiting.

You sat in the middle of the couch.

He pulled up the movie without comment.

It was pretentious and it was also actually good, and you told him so twenty minutes in when he glanced over to see what you thought. He said told you without looking back at the screen. You said you said it looked pretentious, which is not the same as saying it wasn't good. He said that's a very specific distinction. You said I'm a specific person. He didn't say anything for a moment, and then said: yeah.

Somewhere around the third act the distance between you closed. You weren't sure who moved, maybe both of you, gradually. His arm along the back of the couch and your shoulder under it and neither of you addressed it.

The movie ended and neither of you moved.

He found something else. A documentary, shorter, that turned out to be genuinely interesting. You watched most of it. Somewhere in the second half you were closer still his arm properly around you now, your feet tucked up beside you — and the lamp in the corner was the only light, and in here it was warm, and you were paying attention to about thirty percent of the documentary.

You woke up at two in the morning with a blanket over you that hadn't been there before. Dean was asleep at the other end of the couch, head back, completely unconscious. The TV was still on. You looked at him in the blue light of the screensaver, the line of his jaw, the stillness of someone actually asleep and felt the quiet weight of something you were not going to examine.

Then you got up, folded the blanket, left it on the cushion, and walked home.

You didn't text him about it. He didn't text you about it. Two days later he sent: you around tonight? and you said depends and he said on what and you said what's the plan and he said no plan and you said okay.

That was how it started.

By November it had a shape, even if it didn't have a name.

You came over two or three times a week. Sometimes it was a movie, sometimes it was just you in the kitchen making something with whatever was in the fridge while Dean sat at the counter with his phone and ate everything you put in front of him without comment except occasionally this is really good in a tone that suggested he was a little annoyed about it. Sometimes the whole house was there, Tucker loud and cheerful, Garrett and Logan drifting in and out, the TV on in the background and sometimes it was just the two of you and the house was quiet and those evenings had a quality to them that you tried not to examine too closely.

He texted you things that weren't questions. A link to an article about something you'd both argued about in passing. A photo of a sunset he'd apparently seen from the library roof, no caption. A voice memo once, at midnight, that was just him reading something in the flat unimpressed tone he used when something was genuinely getting on his nerves — listen to this, the message said, and you did, and you laughed, and he sent back a single: right?

You sent him things back. A recipe you thought he'd actually like. A clip of something that reminded you of a conversation you'd had. He always answered. Not immediately, not performatively, just he answered.

Garrett had noticed, in his way. He'd stopped doing double-takes when you were in the kitchen on a Tuesday night, had started just saying hey and opening the fridge like your presence was a given. Logan was less subtle, he'd caught your eye once across the living room when Dean laughed at something you'd said, and raised an eyebrow, and you'd looked away and he'd had the decency not to push it.

You talked to Anna about it on a Sunday afternoon in November, feet up on her bed, staring at the ceiling while she did her readings across from you.

"So it's a situationship," she said, not looking up.

"I didn't say that."

"You described a situationship."

"I described two people who spend time together."

"With benefits."

"Occasionally."

She finally looked up. "How often is occasionally?"

You said nothing.

"That's what I thought." She went back to her reading. "Are you okay with it?"

You thought about it honestly, the way you tried to think about most things. "Yeah," you said. "I went in knowing what it was."

"That's not what I asked."

You looked at the ceiling. "I'm fine," you said. "It's fine. I know what it is."

Anna made a small noncommittal sound that you chose not to interpret.

The physical part of it was easy in a way you hadn't entirely expected. Comfortable in a way that felt like it should have taken longer to get to. He knew what you liked with an attentiveness that might have been alarming if you'd let yourself think about it, and you knew what worked for him, and there was none of the awkwardness of newness anymore.

The only thing you were consistent about was the condom. Every time, without exception. Until one night in late November when Dean caught your wrist gently before you could reach for the nightstand.

"Why do you always —" He stopped. Nodded toward it. "Every time."

"Because I'm not stupid," you said. "You were getting around a lot before this and I don't know what this is and I'm not asking but I'm also not —"

"I haven't," he said. "Since the party. I haven't slept with anyone else."

The room went quiet.

"Oh," you said. A beat. "Me neither."

Something moved across his face that he didn't entirely manage to control. His thumb traced a slow absent line against the inside of your wrist.

"Okay," he said quietly.

"Okay," you said.

The air in the room changed into something neither of you was going to name. Then he kissed you, and it was different, slower, more careful, like something had been confirmed that he hadn't known he was waiting to confirm, and you let yourself feel it without examining it too closely, because that felt fair.

The first sign was the texts.

Not that they stopped completely, that would have been obvious, and Dean was too smart for obvious. They just slowed. A reply that came four hours later instead of forty minutes. A shorter answer where there used to be a real one. The voice memos stopped. The links stopped. You'd send something and get back a single word where there used to be a sentence, and you'd look at it and feel the shape of what was happening without being able to name it yet.

You told yourself it was school. Exams were coming, everyone was disappearing into the library, that was normal. You told yourself he was busy, stressed, in his head about the end of semester and the hockey team. You were busy too. You had your own readings, your own papers, your own life that existed completely separately from the off campus house and always had.

You kept coming over. Tucker needed someone to watch the game with and you'd promised him a recipe you'd been meaning to show him and you were not going to rearrange your life over a shift in text frequency.

But you noticed.

You noticed the way Dean would come into the kitchen when you were there and open the fridge and not look at you the way he used to. Not hostile, just absent. Like you were furniture. Like the awareness he'd always had of you in a room had been switched off at a source you couldn't locate. He ate the food you made without commenting on it. He answered direct questions. He didn't start anything.

You didn't push. That wasn't who you were.

But by the second week of December you were lying in your room at night doing the math and the math was not coming out well, and you were tired of pretending it wasn't.

You went over on a Thursday.

Tucker was at a class. You'd known that, you'd checked, because you wanted the house quiet, because you wanted five minutes of honesty without an audience. Garrett's truck wasn't in the driveway either. You knocked on Dean's door and he opened it in sweats and a Briar hoodie, textbook open on his desk, and the look on his face when he saw you was almost nothing, which was its own answer.

"Hey," you said.

"Hey." He stepped back to let you in, which you took as an invitation, and you came in and stood in the middle of his room and he closed the door and leaned against his desk with his arms crossed. Not aggressive. Just closed.

You looked at him for a moment.

"What's going on with you?" you asked. Quiet, direct. No accusation in it, just the question.

He shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing. Finals."

"Okay," you said. "That's not what I mean and you know it."

A beat. Something moved behind his eyes and then went still.

"I don't know what you want me to say," he said.

"I want you to say what's actually happening."

He looked at you. Then he looked away, jaw tightening slightly, and you recognized the particular quality of someone deciding something, not discovering it, deciding it, and some quiet part of you braced.

"I think this has run its course," he said. Flat. Careful.

You kept your face even. "Okay. What does that mean."

"It means —" He stopped. Started again. "I don't want this anymore. Whatever this is. I don't want it."

"Okay," you said.

He looked at you, and something in your steadiness seemed to irritate him, which you hadn't expected, and that was maybe the thing that cracked something open in him that should have stayed closed.

"I don't know what you thought this was," he said, and his voice had an edge now, "but it wasn't — I wasn't —" He made a short, almost contemptuous gesture. "You've been coming over here for months like you live here. Cooking, watching movies, acting like this is some kind of —"

"I never called it anything," you said.

"No, but you acted like it was something. You act like everything is fine and nothing bothers you and you're so —" He stopped, and the word he landed on was quiet and precise and clearly chosen to land: "You're so comfortable here. Like you belong here. And you don't."

The room was very quiet.

You looked at him. He looked back, and you could see the moment he heard what he'd just said, saw something flicker across his face that might have been regret but came too late to matter.

"You're right," you said. Your voice was completely level. "I don't."

He opened his mouth.

"I'm not going to make this into something," you said. "You don't want it, that's fine. I went in knowing what it was." You picked up your jacket from where you'd set it on the edge of his bed. "I hope finals go okay."

"Hey —"

"Good night, Dean."

You left. You closed the door behind you, not hard, just closed, and you walked down the stairs and through the front door and out into the December cold and you kept your shoulders straight the whole way home.

You didn't cry until you were in your own room with the door locked, and even then it wasn't for very long, because you'd known, you'd always known, and knowing didn't make it nothing but it made it survivable.

You texted Anna: you were right.

She called immediately. You let it ring twice, then picked up.

"I'm okay," you said, before she could ask.

"I know you are," she said. "Tell me anyway."

The hard part came later, at midnight.

You were lying in bed and you saw a link, a restaurant that had just opened, a tasting menu you'd been meaning to mention and you had his name pulled up in your contacts before you caught yourself. Thumb over send. The restaurant unremarkable and the gesture everything.

You put your phone face down on the mattress and looked at the ceiling for a while.

You'd known. You'd always known. That didn't make it nothing. It made it survivable, which was what you'd agreed to, and you were keeping that agreement.

The next afternoon you went to the off campus house.

Not because of Dean. Tucker had texted you at noon — i made something and i think i made it wrong, come look at it — and you'd said what did you make and he'd sent a photo that made you genuinely concerned for his wellbeing, and you'd said I'm coming over because that was what you did.

You showed up at three in the afternoon in your good boots and your coat, hair done, bag over your shoulder, because you had a study session after and you were not rearranging your life. You walked into the kitchen and Tucker was standing over something on the stove that smelled questionable and turned around with the expression of a man who needed saving.

"What is that," you said.

"I was trying to do the thing you showed me with the —"

"Tucker."

"I know."

You put your bag down and took your coat off and hung it over the stool and rolled up your sleeves and looked at whatever was happening in the pot, and Tucker stood next to you like a man watching a surgeon assess a patient.

"It's salvageable," you said.

He exhaled. "I knew it."

"Get me the garlic."

You cooked. Tucker hovered and passed things when you asked and made commentary that you ignored selectively and the kitchen filled up with something that smelled the way the kitchen was supposed to smell, and it was normal. It was completely normal. You were fine.

Logan came through at some point, stopped in the doorway, looked at the pot. "That smells good." Then he looked at Tucker. "Did you make that?"

"We're collaborating," Tucker said.

Logan looked at you. You said nothing. He grabbed a water from the fridge and left, which was exactly the right thing to do.

Dean came downstairs at some point, and you heard him stop at the bottom of the stairs, and you stirred the pot and didn't turn around.

"Hey," Tucker said, in the careful voice of someone being very casual.

"Hey." Dean's voice from the doorway. A pause. "What are you making?"

"She's fixing what I made," Tucker said.

You felt Dean's eyes on your back. You reached past the stove for the spice rack.

"Smells good," Dean said.

You said nothing. Not pointedly — just nothing. Tucker handed you the paprika.

Dean didn't leave. You could feel him still standing there, which told you something you set aside for later. You plated what you'd made, put Tucker's portion in front of him, put the extra in a container that you labeled with a piece of tape and a marker the way you always did, and started washing the pan.

"There's extra," Tucker said, to the room.

"I can see that," Dean said.

Tucker ate a bite. Made a sound of profound relief. "You're genuinely talented, you know that?"

"I know," you said, drying the pan.

You stayed another forty minutes, finishing your tea, going over the recipe with Tucker so he could try again, answering a text from Anna. Normal. Easy. The house the same as it had always been, Tucker the same as he'd always been, you the same as you'd always been.

When you left you said, "Bye Tuck, don't touch the leftovers until tomorrow, they're better the next day."

"Noted," Tucker said.

You pulled on your coat. Picked up your bag. "Later," you said, generally, to the room, and you walked out.

Dean stood in the kitchen after the front door closed.

Tucker was eating. Not looking at him. The kitchen smelled incredible and there was a labeled container in the fridge and the pan you'd used was clean and back on the rack like you'd never been there.

"She labeled it," Dean said.

"She always labels it," Tucker said.

Dean looked at the fridge. "For who."

"I don't know, Dean." Tucker turned a page in whatever he was reading. "Whoever wants it, I guess."

He couldn't focus in class the next morning.

The professor was talking and Dean had his laptop open and his notes half-started and none of it was going in because he kept coming back to the same thing, the same image, which was you standing at his stove with your back to him like nothing had happened.

Not performing like nothing had happened. Actually fine. The difference between those two things was something he understood logically and couldn't reconcile emotionally and it was making him insane.

He'd expected — he didn't know what he'd expected. Something. Some sign that what he'd said had mattered, that he had mattered, that the months of you being in his space and in his kitchen and in his bed and knowing how he took his coffee and showing up when Tucker texted you and falling asleep on his couch and leaving your chapstick on his nightstand —

You'd taken the chapstick. He'd noticed.

You'd taken it and labeled the leftovers and said later to the room and walked out and that was it, apparently. That was the whole thing. He'd said you don't belong here and you'd said you're right and you'd meant it, and that was the part he couldn't get past. You'd meant it not because you believed it but because you weren't going to fight him on it. Because you didn't need to.

You act like you belong here. And you don't.

He'd said that. He'd actually said that.

He stared at his laptop screen.

You'd been coming to that house since before he'd ever spoken a full sentence to you. Tucker's mom had called you, you'd shown up, you'd been folded into the house slowly and completely the way only people who actually fit somewhere ever are, Tucker texting you unprompted, Garrett knowing your coffee order, Logan moving over on the couch without being asked, and Dean had stood in his own room and told you that you didn't belong there and you'd looked at him like you were giving him the chance to hear what he was saying and he hadn't taken it and you'd left.

And then you'd come back the next day and cooked Tucker's disaster and labeled the leftovers and said later.

Later. Like you'd see them around. Like the house was still just a place you came to, unconnected to Dean, existing independently of whatever he'd decided.

Because it was. Because Tucker was your friend. Because you'd built something there that had nothing to do with Dean DiLaurentis and apparently had no intention of dismantling it on his account.

He wrote something down without reading it.

The thing was and this was the part that was sitting in his chest like something he couldn't shift, he'd ended it because it was getting too real. That was the honest answer, the one he hadn't said out loud to anyone including himself until approximately right now, which was not ideal timing. He'd felt it getting heavier and closer and more like something that had a name and he'd panicked, and when Dean DiLaurentis panicked he went cold, and when he went cold long enough he said things he couldn't take back.

You don't belong here.

He closed his laptop. Opened it again.

You hadn't fought for it. He'd said something genuinely cruel and you'd said you're right and you'd left, and the version of events he'd been running in his head where you'd be upset, where you'd pull back from the house, where he'd see the evidence of having mattered somewhere in your behavior, none of that had happened. You'd come back with your boots and your coat and your labeled container and your later and you were fine.

He was not fine.

That felt deeply, profoundly unfair, and he was self-aware enough to recognize that he had no one to blame for it but himself, which made it worse.

Wait, said something in the back of his head, quiet and inconvenient.

He picked up his pen. Put it down.

Wait.

He didn't finish the thought. He stared at his notes until they stopped meaning anything, and outside the window the Briar campus went on being cold and grey and completely indifferent to the fact that Dean DiLaurentis was sitting in class slowly understanding something he wasn't ready to understand yet.

The problem with ending things, Dean was discovering, was that it only worked if the other person let it end.

You hadn't made a scene. Hadn't texted him anything he had to respond to, hadn't shown up at his door, hadn't done a single thing that gave him something to push against. You'd just continued. Existing in the house, in the kitchen, in Tucker's orbit, completely unchanged, like Dean's opinion of the situation was one data point you'd received and filed appropriately and moved on from.

He ate everything you made. That was the humiliating part. Every single time you left something in the fridge he ate it, sometimes within the hour, standing at the counter in the kitchen alone like some kind of punishment he was administering to himself. Tucker never commented on this. Tucker never commented on anything, which was its own form of commentary.

You'd left soup once. Labeled, like always — back burner, twenty minutes, don't let Tucker have more than one bowl he'll eat the whole thing. Dean had read the label four times. Eaten two bowls. Stood at the sink washing the pot afterward feeling like a man losing an argument he wasn't allowed to be having.

Garrett had found him standing there once, staring at nothing, and said "you good?" and Dean had said "yeah" and Garrett had looked at the labeled container still on the counter and said nothing further, which somehow made it worse.

He started noticing everything.

The way you'd laugh at something on your phone and not share it with the room, just smile to yourself and put it face down. The way you always took your shoes off at the door and lined them up neatly to the left, always the left, and he'd started checking for them when he came downstairs, the presence or absence of your boots telling him things about the afternoon before he'd even gotten to the kitchen. The way you said Tucker's name — comfortable, fond, like a shorthand — and the way you had, at some point, stopped saying Dean's name at all. Not pointedly. Just it didn't come up. He wasn't who you were talking to.

He'd done that. He understood that he'd done that.

He just hadn't understood what it would feel like to have done it.

He tried, for a while, to be reasonable about it.

He made a list, mentally, of all the reasons this was fine. He didn't do relationships. He'd never done relationships. He had a plan for his life that had been in place since he was sixteen, and that plan had no room in it for whatever you were. Whatever you'd been. The comfortable weight of your presence, the evenings when you were in the house versus evenings when you weren't, the way he'd started coming across things during the week and thinking you'd have something to say about this —

That was the problem right there. That was the thing he kept running into.

He'd been having conversations with you in his head for weeks. Full conversations, with your actual responses, because he knew how you thought well enough to fill both sides, and that was, that was not the behavior of someone who was fine.

He talked to Garrett on a Tuesday night, which he never did, and talked around the subject for twenty minutes before Garrett said, flatly: "Just tell me what she did."

"She didn't do anything," Dean said.

A pause. "Then tell me what you did."

Dean stared at his ceiling. "I ended it."

"And?"

"And she's fine."

"That's it? She's fine and you are like this?"

"She's too fine," Dean said, and hated how that sounded.

Garrett was quiet for a moment. Then: "Dean."

"What."

"You absolute idiot."

January settled over Briar cold and grey and Dean settled into a particular kind of misery that he was too proud to name properly. He went to class. He did his readings. He played well enough at practice that Coach didn't get on him, which required more effort than it should have because his head was not where it was supposed to be.

You came over on Saturdays, usually. Sometimes Thursdays. Tucker had apparently taken to texting you about things that had nothing to do with cooking, Dean had seen the thread once, accidentally, and it was just the two of you sending each other increasingly unhinged videos with no context, a friendship that existed completely on its own terms, owed nothing to Dean, and was apparently thriving.

Logan had said, once, carefully, over breakfast: "She was here yesterday."

"I know," Dean said.

Logan looked at him. "Just saying."

"I know," Dean said again.

Logan went back to his cereal and didn't push it, which was the right call, and Dean appreciated it and resented it in equal measure.

He watched you from across rooms and told himself he wasn't doing that.

You never looked uncomfortable. That was the thing that was going to actually kill him. You'd come in, take your boots off, left side of the door, say hey to whoever was around, drift toward the kitchen with the ease of someone in a place they belonged, and it would be normal. Warm. Real. And Dean would be somewhere in the same house eating himself alive and you would be completely, genuinely fine.

He thought about the things he'd said. You act like you belong here. And you don't.

He thought about those words with a frequency that was becoming a problem.

It was a random Wednesday in late January.

Dean came home from a late class tired and cold and in the specific bad mood that came from hours with a professor who seemed to find his suffering amusing. The house was lit up when he got there, which meant people were home, and he could hear voices from the kitchen before he'd gotten his coat off.

Tucker's laugh. And then yours.

He stood in the hallway for a second with his coat half off.

"—absolutely not, that's not how that works—" Tucker, indignant.

"I'm telling you, Tucker, I watched you do it, that's exactly how you did it—"

"I was recovering, there's a difference—"

"There is no difference, the result was the same—"

Tucker said something Dean didn't catch and you laughed, full and real, the kind of laugh that meant you'd actually been caught off guard by it, and the sound of it hit Dean somewhere undefended and just stayed there.

He finished taking his coat off. Hung it up. Walked to the kitchen doorway.

You were at the island, Tucker leaning on his elbows across from you, some kind of card game between you that Dean didn't recognize. You had a mug of something and your hair was down and you were still smiling from whatever Tucker had just said, and Tucker was looking at you with the expression of someone who had won a point. Garrett was on the couch in the next room, feet up, barely paying attention, the way Garrett existed in the house like ambient weather.

"Dean," Tucker said. "Tell her that recovering from a bad move is a valid strategy."

"Depends on the move," Dean said, automatically.

"See," Tucker said to you.

"That's not what he said," you said, and glanced at Dean briefly,not long, not loaded, just a glance, the kind you'd give anyone and looked back at Tucker. "Your move."

Dean got a glass of water. Stood at the counter. The card game continued. Tucker accused you of cheating, you denied it with the specific serenity of someone who was absolutely cheating, Dean watched and said nothing and felt the sensation of standing outside something warm.

An hour later you started putting your coat on.

"Okay," you said, gathering your things. "Tucker. Rematch Thursday."

"Thursday," Tucker confirmed. "I'll win."

"You won't." You pulled your bag onto your shoulder. Looked at Tucker with something genuine and warm. "Bye, Tuck."

"Bye." Tucker was already looking back at his phone.

"Later, Garrett," you called toward the living room.

"Later," Garrett called back, not looking up.

You walked toward the door. Past Dean, close enough that he could have said something, close enough that the window was right there, and he stood at the counter with his glass of water and said nothing, and you pulled the door open and walked out, and the door closed, and that was it.

Tucker looked up from his phone.

The two of them sat in the quiet kitchen, the card game still spread out on the island, your mug still on the counter.

"She forgot her mug," Dean said.

"She'll get it Thursday," Tucker said.

Dean put his glass down. Picked it back up.

"She said bye to you first," he said.

Tucker looked at him for a long moment. Set his phone down. "Yeah," he said. "She did."

The kitchen was very quiet.

"Tucker —"

"I'm not doing this, Dean."

"I'm not asking you to do anything."

"Good." Tucker picked his phone back up. "Because I really, genuinely, am not getting involved."

From the living room, Garrett said nothing, which meant he was listening to every word.

Dean looked at the door.

"She left her mug," he said again, quieter, to no one in particular.

Tucker said nothing. Which was, as always, its own kind of answer.

He lasted four days.

Four days of your mug on the counter — Tucker had washed it and left it there — four days of picking up his phone and putting it down, four days of being a reasonable adult who had made a decision and was living with it, and then on Sunday night at eleven p.m. he put on his shoes and his coat and walked across campus to the Kappa house like a man who had exhausted every other option.

He stood outside in the cold and looked up at the second floor windows and felt genuinely insane.

He found a handful of small rocks from the landscaping border. Looked at them. Looked up at the windows.

He threw one.

It hit the wrong window. A light came on and someone looked out — not you, someone he didn't recognize — and he stepped back into the shadow of the tree until the light went off again.

He tried the next window. Nothing. The one after that.

The window opened.

You leaned out, hair messy, clearly pulled from sleep or close to it, and looked down at him in the dark with an expression that moved through several phases: confusion, recognition, disbelief. Before settling on something that was almost exasperated and almost amused and fully of course.

"Dean," you said, not loud. "What are you doing."

"I need to talk to you."

"It's eleven o'clock."

"I know. You weren't answering my texts."

You stared at him. "You texted me twenty minutes ago."

"You didn't answer."

"I was asleep."

"Can I come up?"

The expression on your face did something complicated. "You want to climb the sorority house."

"There's a trellis."

You looked to the left, apparently confirming the existence of the trellis, then looked back down at him. "Dean."

"Five minutes," he said. "I just — five minutes. Then I'll go."

You looked at him for a long moment, and he stood in the cold and let you look, because he'd run out of ways to manage how this went. You could close the window. That was a real option and he'd accept it.

You didn't close the window.

"The trellis is on the left," you said. "Don't break anything."

He made it up without incident, which he felt was frankly more than he deserved. You'd stepped back from the window to let him climb through, and he came in trying not to knock anything over and stood in the middle of your room feeling the full absurdity of the situation settle over him.

Your room was small and warm. Books on every surface, a desk lamp on low, a quilt on the bed that looked like it had been in your family for a while. It smelled like you, something warm, something that had been living in the back of his brain for months without his permission.

You sat on the edge of your bed and looked at him with your arms loosely crossed, not hostile, just waiting. Giving him the floor.

"I need to say something," he said.

"Okay."

"And I need you to let me say it without — I need to actually get through it."

"I'm not stopping you," you said.

He looked at you. You looked back, and there was something in your expression: patient, steady, not giving him anything, and he understood suddenly that you were going to make him do this himself. All the way. No half measures.

He took a breath.

"I said things to you that I can't take back," he started. "That night in my room. And I knew when I said them that they weren't — I knew they weren't true. I said them because I was scared and I was trying to make you leave and I wanted it to work so I made it as —" He stopped. Tried again. "I wanted you gone and I made sure you'd go and then you went and I've been —" He stopped again.

You waited.

"I've been losing my mind," he said. "For weeks. You keep coming over and cooking Tucker's food and laughing at his jokes and you left your mug on the counter and you said bye, Tuck and walked out like I wasn't standing right there and I —" He stopped. The words that needed to come next were the ones he'd been circling for weeks and he was done circling. "I'm in love with you."

The room was quiet.

"I'm in love with you," he said again, because it had come out steadier the second time and it was true and he was done with it living only in his head. "I have been for a while. I didn't know what to do with it so I — I did what I did. And I know that's not an excuse. I know what I said. But I needed you to know that it wasn't because you didn't matter. It was because you mattered too much and I didn't know how to —"

"Dean," you said.

He stopped.

You looked at him for a long moment. Something in your expression that was careful and real and not entirely closed.

"I know," you said quietly.

He blinked. "You —"

"I knew." You said it simply, without cruelty. "I've known for a while. I needed you to know it too." A pause. "And I needed you to say it. Out loud. To me. Without me making it easy for you."

He held your gaze. "Because you're not going to make it easy for me."

"No," you said. Not meanly. Just honestly. "I'm not."

He nodded slowly. That was fair. That was completely fair.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For what I said. You don't belong here — I knew that wasn't true when I said it. That's the worst part. I knew and I said it anyway."

You looked at him. And he watched something in your expression shift, not all the way, but enough, a small careful opening.

"I know," you said again. Softer this time.

"Can we —" He stopped. Tried to find the right shape for the question. "Is there a way back from this. Is that something that exists."

You were quiet for a moment that felt very long.

"Come here," you said.

He crossed the room and you stood from the bed to meet him and he kissed you carefully, like he was asking, and you kissed him back like you were answering, and it was nothing like the first time and nothing like any of the times in between, because those had all been about desire and this was about something that didn't have the same kind of ceiling.

His hands came to your face, gentle, and you let him, and he kissed you like he was trying to say the things that words hadn't been sufficient for the weeks of watching you from across rooms, the soup, the mug, the way your boots on the left side of the door had started to feel like something he needed, all of it, moving through the kiss like it had somewhere to go now.

You pulled back after a moment and looked at him.

"Say it again," you said quietly. Not a test. Just you wanted to hear it again.

"I'm in love with you," he said, without hesitating.

You looked at him for one more second. Then you kissed him again and this time you meant it differently, your hands in his collar pulling him in, and the tenor of the whole thing shifted from careful to something warmer and more certain.

He walked you back to the bed gently, and you sat and pulled him down with you, and he went willingly, propping himself above you, and looked at you for a moment. Your hair on the pillow, your expression open in a way he hadn't been allowed to see in weeks.

"Hi," he said, quietly.

The corner of your mouth moved. "Hi."

He kissed you again, slower this time, and his hands moved over you with a deliberateness that was different from anything before not performing, not proving anything, just present. Your shirt came off and his followed, and he pressed his mouth to your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft curve of your throat, taking his time in the way of someone who wasn't going anywhere.

"Dean," you said softly, fingers in his hair.

"I know," he said, against your skin. "I've got you."

You exhaled like something releasing.

It was slow and close and almost unbearably tender, the kind of thing that didn't have anything to hide anymore. He was attentive in a way that felt different now not just knowing what worked but wanting you to feel it, wanting you to know he was there, all the way there, not halfway out the door. You made soft sounds against his jaw and pulled him closer and he went, and you moved together in the small warm room with the desk lamp still on low and neither of you suggested turning it off.

When you came it was quiet and deep and you said his name and he held you through it with his face pressed to your temple, and afterward he stayed close, closer than strictly necessary, and you didn't move away.

When he followed he was holding your hand, fingers laced, which hadn't been planned and was completely true, and you held on.

Afterward you lay in the small bed in the quiet and the lamp was still on.

Your head was on his chest. He had his arm around you. Neither of you had suggested otherwise.

"You really threw rocks at my window," you said, to the ceiling.

"Small rocks."

"You hit Anna's window first."

"She didn't see me."

"She definitely saw you." A pause. "She texted me twenty minutes ago asking if I had a 'nighttime visitor.'"

Dean closed his eyes briefly. "Great."

You laughed, quiet, against his chest, and he felt it more than heard it and thought: there it is. there's the thing I've been missing.

He pressed his mouth to your hair.

"For the record," he said, "you do belong there. In the house. That was — I need you to know that was the opposite of true."

You were quiet for a moment. "I know," you said. "I always knew."

"You're annoyingly self-possessed, you know that?"

"You've mentioned it."

"Not a complaint."

You tilted your head to look up at him. Something in your expression that was warm and a little careful still, not closed, just real. This was going to take time, he knew that. He'd put something between you that didn't disappear overnight and you weren't going to pretend it had, because you didn't do that.

"Tucker's going to be insufferable about this," you said.

Dean thought about Tucker, who had said absolutely nothing for weeks and washed your mug and left it on the counter. "He already knows," Dean said.

"He's known for months."

"I know."

"He texted me two weeks ago," you said, "and said 'just for the record I think he's an idiot.' I asked who and he said 'you know who.'"

Dean stared at the ceiling. "I'm going to kill him."

"You're not."

"No," he agreed. "I'm not."

A beat.

"Garrett's going to say I told you so," you said.

Dean closed his eyes. "Did he tell you so?"

"He texted me a single thumbs up the morning after the speech. No context."

"I'm going to kill Garrett too."

"You're really not."

"No," he said. "I'm really not."

You settled back against him and the room was quiet and warm and your hand was resting on his chest and outside the world was doing whatever the world was doing and in here it was just this, finally, with a name on it.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," you said.

The first time Coriolanus met you, he knew you were perfect. You touched his hand and he felt… nothing. It would be a perfect marriage; never being able to be manipulated or vulnerable with you because he didn’t love you. And you knew this, plain as day. 

One night, Coriolanus sat up in bed, taking your hand in his. “Something on your mind?” The moonlight cast a dim ray onto his face, his blond hair becoming even lighter. 

You were staring off into space when he took your hand. You glanced down at where his strong hand pressed into your palm, fingers forcing their way between yours. “No,” you replied simply. And it was truthful: you were thinking of nothing in particular, the only emotion running through you was the contemplation of another day of being the First Lady.

He hummed in acknowledgment as he ran his thumb over your knuckles, pulling you closer to him. He looked at you intensely, his gaze calculating as if he was analysing you. “You’re sure you’re alright, dear?”

Any other woman would smile up at him, sure that he cared for her. But after being married for almost five months, you knew better. You saw the deeper analysis of his stare, you felt the facet of control he was exerting by holding your hand. So you nodded again, staying silent. Your gaze wandered off again before shaking your head and saying, “sorry, I suppose I’m not being very talkative right now. How was your day?”

Coriolanus let out a soft exhale. He didn't mind that you weren't talkative. He found you easier to manage when you were silent, rather than when you made it your mission to retort to every comment. And in any case, he had no interest in your conversations. Only your arguments. They kept him on his toes and were a good exercise for his wit.

He shifted his position on the bed, sitting with his back pressed against the headboard. “My day was fine,” he replied evenly. “The usual presidential obligations.”

You hummed noncommittally, waiting for him to ask you about your day. When he didn’t, you sucked in a breath and said, “well, then goodnight, I suppose.” Your tone was clipped, and of course Coriolanus knew it, but he didn’t comment as you got under the covers and clicked off the bedside light. He didn’t move to do the same – instead, he remained seated against the headboard, his silhouette rigid in the dim light.

“Goodnight,” he replied smoothly, his voice cool and detached. His hand lingered atop the covers, his fingers tapping idly against the fabric. Your husband made no move to touch you, to offer any semblance of warmth. After a pause, he added, almost as an afterthought, “try not to let your thoughts keep you awake.” The words were clinical, empty, and unnecessary. Not a comfort, just an observation. Then, he turned away slightly, reaching for the book on his nightstand. Another practiced distance between you.

Your brows furrowed together in confusion at his words, but you shook off the uneasiness and tried to go to sleep. It took longer than normal, as if he sadistically knew that planting that fitful seed in your mind would keep you up. Of course he knew. Coriolanus’ mind games never stopped, after all. After a good twenty minutes, you huffed and reached up to turn on the light. “You haven’t turned a page,” you stated, looking over at him.

A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he heard you. He knew you'd break eventually, and here you were, unable to resist the urge to say something. He let out an exasperated sigh, feigning annoyance at your interruption. Without looking up from the book, he replied dryly, “no, I haven't. Your keen observation skills are truly remarkable.”

You sat up next to him, hands in your lap. “And why haven’t you?”

He closed the book with a soft thud, turning to face you with a slightly bemused expression. It was infuriating. “Because, my dearest,” he began, a hint of condescension laced in his tone, “not everyone requires constant mental stimulation. Some of us appreciate the quiet, the absence of mindless chatter.”

“Then why open the book?” you asked, mimicking his condescending. You suddenly remembered that he wanted this. He wanted to rile you up for whatever twisted reason he had. You took a breath, trying to calm down.

Oh, how he relished this little game of power, the subtle jabs at one another. It was practically entertaining. “Because,” he replied calmly, placing the book in his lap. You could almost detect a hint of arrogance in his voice. “I like to pretend to read. It allows me to appear intelligent without actually having to exert mental effort. Something you wouldn't understand, I assume.”

Your brows curved up and you couldn’t help but snort. “That’s ridiculous! So what I’m hearing is that the President of our nation doesn’t know how to read?” Arrogance dripped into your tone as Coriolanus got exactly what he wanted from you.

His pale eyes gleamed with amusement, though not the warm kind. The kind that made you wonder if he was laughing with you or at you. “Oh, Y/n,” Coriolanus murmured, tilting his head slightly. “Careful now. You forget yourself.” His fingers tapped against the cover of the book. His smile was razor-thin, always giving the impression that he knew something you didn’t. “Are you implying that the Capitol elected an illiterate leader? That would reflect poorly on all of us, wouldn’t it?” How he hoped you pushed further.

“Well, the nation has never asked you to read in front of it before,” you replied coolly. “Perhaps I’ll get a television network to ask you to read stories for the youth and then they’ll see how idiotic you actually are.”

For a fleeting moment, the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying a glimmer of amusement. “You are quite the comedian tonight, aren't you?” His voice was smooth as silk, but dripping with sarcasm. “I'm sure the nation would be thrilled to see their beloved President stumble over a children's book. Such high entertainment value.” His fingers kept drumming against the book, his eyes never leaving you.

Your gaze swept over the room, yet never landed on him. Your bedroom was ornate and perfect, though the two people who inhabited it were anything but. “Hmm,” you mused quietly. “Maybe I’m just frustrated with you is all. Though ‘beloved’ is a high title to place upon yourself.”

His fingers stilled against the book cover. “Beloved is a fact, not a title,” he countered smoothly, his voice laced with quiet authority. “And frustration? I wonder why that is. Could it be that you crave something I simply cannot give you?” His eyes flicked over your face, searching for any crack in your composure. He enjoyed your irritation, your defiance. It was far more interesting than when you were silently obedient.

You were still not looking at him, instead staring at the painting hung opposite your canopy bed. The painting, Venus and Mars, by an old Renaissance painter that somehow survived all those years, ironically expressed the message that love always conquered war. Coriolanus had gifted it to you for your wedding. “Not what you cannot give me,” you corrected him, “though that was a close guess. More of what you took away.”

His gaze followed yours to the painting: Venus and Mars laying languidly after having sex, a display of love and war fused into one. How poetic, he had thought when he gifted it. Not because it reflected anything between you two, but because it amused him – the illusion of devotion wrapped in mockery.

“Took away?” he repeated. “What, precisely, have I stolen from you, dear? Your freedom? Your joy?” He clicked his tongue in disapproval. “Or is this about something far more trivial?” Obviously, he knew the answer. He just wanted to hear you say it.

You finally turned and looked at your husband. You assumed the same position as him, propped against the headrest. “The ability for someone else to love me,” you told him, no sadness or remorse in your voice; only plain, strict fact. You had come to that conclusion early on the marriage and had come to accept it.

He took note of your cool, collected composure and felt a strange sort of amusement, or maybe almost respect. Most people would be weeping hysterically, begging him for reassurances and apologies. But you? No. That wouldn't be your style. “You miss being loved. You miss being wanted.” He let the words hang in the air between you, his gaze searching yours for any hint of vulnerability. Vulnerability was weakness, but he didn’t know if he wanted you to be weak or not. It would be easier to control you, obviously, but it would be much more fun to chip away at your confidence slowly but surely.

“Once again missing the point, Mr. President,” you smirked. “No, I miss my delusions of grandeur. I miss the thought that maybe someday, I would have been loved. What do you miss?” you asked him in a whisper.

For a moment, Coriolanus’ composure faltered by just a fraction, almost imperceptible. Delusions of grandeur… Was that how you saw your hopes for love? A product of delusions? He almost pitied you. “Miss,” he echoed, his mind working to find a response that didn't feel like an admittance of his own regrets. “I miss nothing,” he lied easily. “I have all I need.”

“Of course,” you whispered out mockingly, eyes turning back to the painting. “Why would the great President ever show any ounce of humanity?”

He knows your game. You're baiting him, trying to provoke a reaction. He wouldn't give in. “You mistake humanity for joy.” His voice was a cool, controlled murmur, now teaching you a lesson like you were beneath him. “Humanity is an exploitable trait. One I cannot afford to harbor. Something you clearly don't understand.” 

“An exploitable trait like me?” you replied swiftly, almost as if you had been waiting for him to say it. “One there just for convenience? But that won’t bring any liabilities?” You took in a breath and continued, “yes, my placidity to be First Lady comes and goes, but then I always remember who I actually am. And I find myself wondering why me… out of all the other obedient girls?”

There it is. The defiance he'd been anticipating. He could deal with your sarcasm, your subtle jabs. But this was treading on dangerous territory.

“You were chosen for many reasons, dear,” the President said finally, his tone deceptively calm. “Your obedience was one. Your compliance another. And your... shall we say, 'manageability.' Your family's prestige and your own background made it an easy arrangement.” His gaze locked with yours. “Don't confuse convenience with affection.” His tone was suddenly very harsh.

“Oh, I never did,” you assured him. “But let’s be truthful… am I really obedient? Am I compliant? If I was, wouldn’t I be turned over and asleep right now? No…” you mused. “You wanted someone with just a bit of wit to keep you on your toes. Someone to verbally spar with to keep things interesting.”

A slow, dangerous smile spread across his lips. You'd almost caught him. You were close enough to the truth to be interesting, yet far enough away to remain unharmed. “Is that what you think?” he asked, his fingers drumming lightly against the book again. “That I keep you around for entertainment? Y/n, Y/n... if I wanted verbal sparring, I'd hold another Cabinet meeting.” His gaze hardened just slightly. “No. You're here because you serve a purpose. Whether you're obedient or not is irrelevant, so long as you continue to serve.”

There was a pause. Then, softer, colder: “Do try not to overestimate your importance.”

His words hit closer to home than you would like to admit, but you didn’t let it show. “Isn’t obedience the same as serving?” you asked him lowly. “If I fail to be obedient, then I won’t be serving your purpose,” you rationalised.

“Obedience is blind,” he stated, his voice dropping to something almost intimate, if intimacy could ever be cold and calculated. “Serving is strategic. You don't have to be obedient to serve my purpose, Y/n. You just have to be... useful.”

His fingers stilled, resting against the book's cover. “And right now?” Coriolanus tilted his head, feigning thoughtfulness. “You're very useful.”

The unspoken threat lingered beneath the words. Usefulness isn't permanent.

You blinked slowly, fingers twitching around the duvet once more. “And I suppose you’ll never tell me your… purpose for me?” you asked after a long moment, gears racing in your head as you tried to think of a way to come out on top. But you didn’t think you could. And you detested that feeling.

“No,” he replied simply, his tone almost casual. “I won't.” He leaned back, the cover of the book against his palm. “You don't need to know your purpose, Y/n. You just need to do your part.” The words were cold and unfeeling, serving as a stark reminder of your place in this arrangement.

“And how can I do my part if I don’t know my purpose?” you asked, voice lowering once more. “If I keep ‘disobeying’, then it’s futile. Wouldn’t you rather me know what you expect me to do?”

He exhaled sharply through his nose as a silent laugh, devoid of humor. “Do you truly believe I'd leave anything to chance?” His fingers tapped idly against the book's spine. “You'll play your role perfectly, Y/n. Because the alternative…” He let the threat hang, unspoken. The Capitol didn’t forgive disobedience. Neither did he. “Your purpose,” Coriolanus continued, “is whatever I decide it is. Today, tomorrow – it doesn't matter. You'll adapt.” His smile was slow and undeniably cruel. “You always do, dear.”

After a beat, you said, “you never truly answered my question… why not a more manageable girl from an equally prestigious family? One who wouldn’t even be having this conversation with you because she would roll over and do exactly what was asked? Or are you too afraid to admit that you actually like the way I challenge you?” 

His jaw clenched involuntarily. The worst part about you provoking him is that he enjoyed it. Or, at the very least, Coriolanus found your insolence somewhat amusing. He could practically admire the fire that burned inside you even after all he put you through. The moonlight cast long shadows across the room and he didn’t dare look away from you. “Don't mistake interest for affection.”

“Oh, so there is interest,” you muttered, eyes locked on the satin sheets. A very slow smirk pulled at your lips. “And that still doesn’t answer the question.” 

Coriolanus had no choice but to answer it now, otherwise risking looking like he hadn’t planned something perfectly. His fingers tightened around the book, just enough for you to notice. “You're right,” he admitted. “I could have chosen someone more pliable. But pliable is boring. And I have little patience for boredom.” He didn’t speak for a moment, a calculated risk that paid off. “Does that satisfy you?” His tone dripped with condescension. “Or shall we keep playing this tiresome game?”

“Hmm,” you whispered out, “and here I thought you liked my games.”

You turned over again and shut off the light. And for some reason, even though he had just been smug a couple moments before, there was now a loathing feeling in him as if you had won that round. Perhaps the war was his, but the battle was yours.

He turned sharply away from you, his back rigid as he faced the opposite wall. Silence stretched between you. But he didn’t retaliate, because you had won. And he would never forget it.

“Sleep well, Y/n.”

The words sounded more like a threat than a farewell.

The next morning you woke just a couple moments after your husband, just in time to see him getting up for the day. It was moments like those when you were able to forget the chasm between you two.

Coriolanus’ movements were stiff as he pulled himself upright, rubbing his temple as if trying to chase away the remnants of sleep, or, perhaps, last night's conversation. The morning light softened the sharp angles of his face, making him look younger. Coriolanus paused when he noticed you stirring, his icy blue eyes flickering in your direction. If you could believe it, there was a fraction of a moment where it seemed like he forgot his hatred towards you and he could imagine you were his wife that he loved.

Then it was gone.

His voice was cool as he stood. “You’re awake.” It was a statement, not a greeting.

You let out a scoff, stretching and turning farther into your pillow. “Astute observation,” you grumbled. From the moment you were awake, your brain had to formulate sharp responses to his own insults. It was utterly exhausting.

He sighed, his jaw tightening in annoyance. Of course. You could never wake without a witty comment, could you? His eyes flitted across your form which was still half-buried beneath the sheets. You looked practically vulnerable. Your eyes were closed as you burrowed underneath the covers again. There were pillow lines on your cheeks and you curled into a little ball to conserve your warmth. 

His breath caught…

It was involuntary and something primal and very stupid. He stared at you curled into the sheets, tangled in the sleep-warm fabric. The urge to reach out clawed at him, but of course, he didn't. Instead, he strode toward the bathroom, his voice biting as he said, “you’re impossible.” Coriolanus slammed the door harder than necessary. You could hear the sink running and the sharp rustle of fabric as he prepared for the day and you let out a breath. Finally, the door creaked open again. He stepped out, perfectly composed except for the faint tension in his jaw.

Your eyes raked over him and you commented offhandedly, “you look nice.” Indeed he did – he was dressed in a white button-up shirt and a deep red suit and pants.

Coriolanus adjusted his sleeves, pulling at them sharply. He huffed and turned away, ignoring the way your eyes ran over him like a physical touch. “Flattery doesn't suit you,” he sneered, ignoring the heat creeping up his neck and flicked at his collar.

“It wasn’t flattery, but if you must take it at that, so be it,” you chuckled, turning onto your other side towards where he moved to the door. “And must I remind you, you’re the one who sought after me. All this drama and ridiculousness is something you chose. I could happily be with another man right now who loves me for as is,” you said, something you always loved to remind him of.

His hands, already halfway into tying his tie, halted abruptly.

Another man. The rush of fury through him wasn’t because of possessiveness or jealousy. No, it was the idea that you believed you could escape him. That you could belong to anyone else.

The President forced his fingers to resume their precise movements. "Ah, yes," he muttered, his voice dripping with false amusement. “The man who loves you.” His eyes flicked to you, icy and sharp. “Tell me, Y/n, what kind of pathetic fool would that be? Because whoever he is... he certainly doesn’t exist.”

“He does in my mind,” you said, letting his words roll off you so early in the morning. But, as it often happened, you knew his cruel phrases would come back and haunt you late at night, adding to your own insecurities. Both of you knew that was exactly his intention.

After a short second, he muttered, “shut up.”

One of your eyes peeked open to look at him, unused to his playground taunts. “What?” you mocked. “My imaginary husband is making you jealous?” You chuckled and turned back around.

It was the way you laughed, practically carefree, that made him so pissed. “Your imaginary husband?” he echoed. “How charming, dear.” 

“He is, isn’t he?” you yawned, snuggling under the covers again. You even reached across to grab Coriolanus’ own pillow and tucked it next to you as something to hold.

His pillow– that was his pillow! It took every ounce of his willpower not to snap. He wanted to yank the damn thing out of your grasp and rip it in half. Watching you do such a thing, wrapped in his sheets, and smelling like him... it drove him insane. But instead of admitting that, Coriolanus remarked, “you're an idiot, you know that, right?” That was the thing he couldn’t stand about you sometimes: that you didn’t seem to care about his insults.

After a long enough pause, you asked, “I’m assuming we’re still having lunch and dinner together? Our assistants seem to have this idea of attempting to curate a perfect family in their eyes.”

Of course the Capitol needed its perfect First Couple. His image has always been more important than his reality. “Obviously,” he rolled his eyes, already moving toward the door. “Appearances must be maintained.” He didn’t turn back to look at you as he spoke to the empty air between you. “Be punctual.”

Just to spite him, you were fifteen minutes late. You entered wearing a pink dress and chatting with a female advisor. Coriolanus was already sitting at the long table, hands clasped on the table. His eyes were already on the door when you entered, jaw clenched. However, there were servants and guards present, so his voice remained perfectly composed as he interrupted your conversation. “Dearest.” 

The room fell silent, all eyes flicking between the two of you. The perfect First Couple.

He smiled and extended a hand toward your seat beside him. “You're late.” His whisper was only for you, venomous and quiet. “And that dress is simply appalling.”

You mirrored his charming smile, sitting down and tucking your dress in. “Shut up,” you scowled at him as you dismissed everyone else in the room.

“Did you intentionally aim to humiliate me?” he hissed, “are you deliberately being late and wearing that ridiculous pink abomination?”

“First off, you were the one who wanted me to wear more red, your ‘colour,’” you taunted. “And secondly, I was quite literally fulfilling my role as First Lady and trying to find more donors for my children's programs.”

“Don't lie to me,” he said. “Your little program isn't a priority. Certainly not enough to justify disrespecting my time.” His fingers tapped against the table. 

“I would like to think the future of Pamen is important to you since they will be the ones under your rule,” you countered.

His lips curled into a sneer. “Pamen? Is that truly your concern?” He leaned in slightly, voice lowering to a venomous whisper. His eyes flicked over your dress he supposedly hated. “Or is this just another performance? Another way to defy me?” Coriolanus’ fingers drummed faster on the table.

You took some of the food from the table and loaded it onto your plate while his fingers kept drumming. And drumming. “Well I’m sorry that the wife you chose has a personality she’s not willing to give up.”

“Your personality is childish and self-absorbed, Y/n. Stop acting like a petulant little girl.”

“Divorce is always an option,” you smirked, taking a bite of food. His fingers were still drumming on the table and you reached over and placed your hand on his rather forcefully.

The moment your hand touched his, his fingers stilled. How dare you make his thoughts race in a thousand different directions, all centered on you? Above all, he's fuming. You dare to place your hand on his? To touch him in a silent command? He supposed he should rip your hand away. Instead, he let it linger until you took it off.

You placed some food on his plate for him and motioned to it. “You’re hungry,” you stated.

“I'm not a damn child,” he grumbled. “I can feed myself.”

“And yet you wait until I’m here and throw a tantrum because you don’t like my dress.” You rolled your eyes. “Just eat.” 

He stabbed at the food. “I did not throw a tantrum,” he retorted, taking an unnecessarily aggressive bite to emphasize the point.

“Uh huh,” you said, clearly unconvinced. After some moments of silence, you asked, “what’ve you been up to today?”

The simple domesticity of the question caught Coriolanus off guard. “Meetings,” he answered stiffly. Then, begrudgingly: “you?”

It was an olive branch. Tiny and fragile, but an olive branch nevertheless. He already regretted it.

You sighed and a little crease appeared between your brows. “Yes, I’ve been trying to negotiate the fine details of some of my programs. It’s been hard to pick the select few I actually want to move forward with, but as of now, I really think the education and women empowerment projects will be beneficial. And of course, the program for impoverished children,” you added, giving him a side eye. You knew of his past, after all, and the dismal conditions he grew up in. Soon after news of your engagement broke to the public, you had received a letter from someone claiming to be Coriolanus’ cousin. The letter detailed everything about their upbringing but encouraged you not to reach out to them again. They did leave a way of contact, however, in direst need. 

“The children's program," he repeated after a moment. His lips were pressed slightly together. “That's... still your top priority?” It seemed as if each word was strained to come out. Coriolanus wanted to argue and to tell you to drop the program entirely, but something stopped him. Perhaps memories of cold winters with empty pantries was the thing that made him pause.

“...Fine,” he said through gritted teeth. He didn’t look at you as he spoke again, “just don’t embarrass me.”

“Oh, I'd never dream of it”

He clicked his tongue. “Don't sass me.”

You sighed, your knife pressing down into the plate as you cut up your food. “We just had this conversation last night, Coriolanus,” you said. “You were the one to wed me. You knew the wife you were getting.”

Of course you'd bring up the fact that he chose you, knowing full well the brat he was signing up for. He worked his jaw so he wouldn’t smile. “Trust me,” he snarked, eyes narrowing. “I'll never forget that mistake.”

“Divorce is always an option,” you repeated yourself from a moment ago.

How could you be so naïve? Divorce was out of the question, and Coriolanus knew that you were aware of this. He would never give the Capitol such satisfaction. 

But still, to have you make such a casual suggestion about leaving him… He gripped the edge of the table so hard, his knuckles went white. “If you say that again–”

“You need to learn how to control your temper,” you said. “Or am I the only one that upsets you?”

“Yes," he exclaimed before he could stop himself – before he could even think – because it was true. No one else dared provoke him. No one else could. “Happy now?”

And suddenly, your stare fell back down to your plate. In unusual and aching honesty, you whispered out, “no,” between cracked lips.

He blinked. He expected more bantering, more cruelty. Certainly not vulnerability. He tried to maintain his irritation, but his heart betrayed him. 

But then you sighed and took another bite, chewing at your food. “I don’t think I’ve been happy for a while now,” you told him, voice steady once more. “Thanks to you.”

His fingers tightened around the edge of the table again, but not in anger. There was something else coiled beneath his ribs, something tight and uncomfortable. He wanted to retaliate and snap back that you’re not the only one unhappy here, but he didn’t. Instead, he exhaled sharply through his nose and turned his gaze back to his plate. “Then we’re even,” he muttered.

It was the closest to an admission you’ll ever get.

But you were on a roll. It seemed like you were just talking to yourself now as you said, “I think what hurts the most is what I spoke of earlier: that you took me away from a life of potential happiness. You’re depriving me of a husband who would actually love me. And for what? So we would both be miserable? I still have yet to understand your mind, Mr. Snow, and why you didn’t choose a prettier girl who would fall over backwards for you.”

His jaw locked but his hands stayed still this time. No drumming. No fists.

Just silence.

Because what could he say? That he chose you for reasons he didn’t fully understand himself? That every time he looked at you, something in him twists violently between want and rage? That the idea of you with another man — loved, happy, and free — made his chest burn with something he refused to name?

No.

Instead, he exhaled a breath, and said, low and final, “you will never understand.” Then, always one to get the last word, he stood abruptly, chair scraping against marble. “And you’ll never be free of me.”

Coriolanus walked out without another word.

Both of you skipped dinner. He spent his evening in his office with a glass and a bottle of gin, seething silently. You’re depriving me of a husband who would actually love me. His mind replayed different versions of your last conversations over and over again. What would be different if he said something else? The President cursed his brain for conjuring images of you with another man. Of you laughing. Of you smiling. The image of another man touching you… taking you…

Coriolanus gripped his glass tighter.

By the time he stepped into your bedroom, tipsy and red-faced, you’re already under the covers, turned away from him. He stood in the doorway, staring. The moonlight cast you in such an innocent nature. His fingernails dug into the palm of his hand, a strange urge to reach beneath the covers and to pull you closer wafting over him. What would it be like to bury his face in your neck, feel your heartbeat, and to know you loved him? He wanted to. He wanted to so badly.

It must be the alcohol talking.

Coriolanus Snow was not supposed to want. He chose you for that exact reason: he didn’t want you. You wouldn’t be a liability or a weakness. And yet, there you were, slowly becoming one without even knowing it. He detested it because it terrified him. So he got ready for bed as loudly as possible, rousing you from your peace. He climbed into the enormous bed designed so he wouldn’t have to touch or look at you. But even then, there was a certain warmth radiating from your body making his skin prickle with awareness. He shifted closer. Just an inch. Just enough to feel the heat of you.

Pathetic.

He knew you were still awake. He could tell by the shift in the sheets. Coriolanus should rip his heart out for it wanting you to turn over and talk to him. He should grind it to dust for being the one to turn over on his side and speaking first.

“Y/n.”

You let out a hum and his hand reached out towards your back, fingers pressing along the bedsheets. You could feel the dip but stayed still, your back still towards him. His lips parted and let out a breath at the small, secret relief that you were awake. He stayed quiet for a while, fingers digging into the sheets. The President’s eyes squeezed shut as the thought of pulling you to him, wrapping his arms around you, and burying his face in your hair crossed his mind. He felt like a little boy again, wanting the safety of a loving touch. He wanted– 

He swallowed thickly. “Are you still angry?”

You couldn’t help but let out a low little chuckle. You turned to face him, blankets rustling over you. “You’re still just a man, aren’t you, Coriolanus Snow?” you asked, reaching over to gently brush a lock of his hair away from his face.

He didn’t pull away. God, he should have. Then maybe he wouldn’t be in this mess of aching for you. Instead, his hand slowly rose to cover yours where it lingered against his hair. “Shut up,” he whispered.

When you had first touched him, he had felt nothing. It truly made you the perfect candidate for his wife. But now everything he knew was wrong and maddening.

“I think a small part of me will always be mad at you,” you answered softly.

His fingers gripped yours tighter, bringing your hand down to his lips. “Only a small part?” Coriolanus whispered, the corner of his mouth twitching up. He could live with only a small part.

“Unfortunately, yes. Only a small part.” After a beat, you repeated back at him, “are you still angry at me?” 

“I'm angrier with myself,” he admitted suddenly. “Not you.” You could feel the ghost of his breath on the back of your hand.

“Hmm, and why with yourself?” you asked, though both of you know you could see through him. A smug little smile lifted your lips. “Is it because you’re feeling something for me? This wasn’t part of your plan, was it? You weren’t supposed to love your wife.”

How did you always know, even when he refused to believe it himself?

Coriolanus pulled your hand to press his lips against it. He exhaled, surrendering, before he muttered, “no.” His other hand lifted, so slow and even trembling, to ghost along your jaw. He couldn’t remember the last time he trembled. “It wasn’t part of the plan.”

“Ah, dear husband.” You rolled your eyes with affection. “Who could have ever seen this coming?” you couldn’t help but joke. You pulled away from him and turned back around, leaving him cold and empty.

He moved without thinking, reaching out towards you, but then he stopped. Close, so close that he could feel the warmth radiating from your body. It was like his body needed to touch you on its own accord. It craved– no, he craved you. “Turn back around,” Coriolanus demanded.

“No,” you replied quietly to his ragged request. Instead, you shifted back towards him so you were tucked into the crook of his body. 

You could hear the hitch of his breath in his throat as you settled against his chest. The tension in his muscles was obvious and it almost felt like your back was to a brick wall. But then, he melted. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, pulling you flush against him, silently thanking you over and over that you were letting him touch you. His lips pressed against the nape of your neck before he tried to compose himself.

“...Fine.”

A little laugh escaped you at his acquiescence. “That’s what I thought,” you teased gently.

His arms tightened around you as you laughed. His breath fanned warm against your neck, slow and steady, matching yours. And when sleep finally pulled him under, his hold didn't slacken.

Not even a little.

Four days later, when Coriolanus was in his study working on long lists of papers and orders and treaties, you opened the door without knocking. His head snapped up but the irritation in his eyes didn't reach his usual sharpness. Not when you were standing there, bathed in sunlight, looking entirely too pleased with yourself, no, he couldn’t be too mad.

He really should’ve reprimanded you for barging in unannounced. Instead, he set his pen down and leaned back in his chair. “Do you ever knock?”

“Not this time,” you said, walking over to his desk.

“You're insufferable,” he muttered. “What do you want?”

“Is it a crime to want to see my husband?”

He exhaled sharply, grumbling, “unbelievable.” He paused and glanced outside to the gardens that sprawled out below his window. “Fine.”

Coriolanus stood, chair scraping back, and rounded the desk, his papers long forgotten. “Come. We're going for a walk.” You looped your arm through his and he had to remind himself to keep walking. 

“Oh thank god.” You stepped out into the gardens and you couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief. It had been a long day and it wasn’t even half over yet. The gardens were filled with rose bushes, something Coriolanus ordered the moment he stepped foot into the presidency.

His hand slowly ran down your arm until he was holding your hand, fingers curled around yours. It felt different from when he would first hold your hand earlier in the marriage. Back then, it felt cold and boring. Now he seemed to do it with intent.

You strolled along next to him for a while silently and he glanced over at you. “You’re wearing red,” he observed.

“And you’re wearing white.”

Coriolanus hummed.

After a little while more, you admitted, “I quite like your wit, did you know that? I need a partner who can keep me thinking. It’s nice.”

His brows rose up at the compliment. Coriolanus’ shoulders drew back, almost as if he was preening at your appreciation. His grip on your hand tightened as he asked slowly, “is that a compliment?” He shouldn’t care so much about your answer.

You paused and your brows furrowed a touch. “Unfortunately, I think it is,” you sighed out before chuckling. “I can’t think of a reason it wouldn’t be.”

He couldn’t stop himself from murmuring, “disgusting.” He doesn't let go of your hand for the rest of the walk.

Every so often he would ask you another question or you would make a comment on the roses in the garden. As you headed back towards the house, however, you asked him plainly, “I know you’ll never love me, but could you ever imagine us, say, forty years down the line, being friends?”

The President stopped dead in his tracks before turning to face you fully. His expression was unreadable but his voice was soft when he finally spoke, “...Friends?” He decided he now had a personal vendetta against the word. It just felt so small. So insignificant. His thumb pressed into your pulse point before he muttered, “no. Not friends.”

You didn’t dare to break eye contact even as your breaking heart beat pitifully. The blue in his eyes was so striking but you forced yourself to stay steady. “Good to know,” you said honestly. “Thank you.”

For a moment, neither of you breathed. His hand lifted, ghosting over your jaw and tilting your face up higher. “You’re welcome.”

Truthfully, he didn’t know what you would be in forty years and that terrified him. Coriolanus Snow was a planner who had his life down to a science. You were an unidentified element he hadn’t equated in.

“Coriolanus,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You’re being dramatic and we both know it. Where’s the stoic witty man I know and hate?” you asked jokingly. 

Is that what you truly wanted? Did you want him to go back to that evil man? Should he shape himself into what you were expecting if it led to more affection from you? You wanted the stoic, detached version of him — the version that didn’t feel — when all he could think about was the way your skin felt beneath his fingertips.

He hated that he couldn’t give you what you wanted. “You want that man? Fine.” He stepped back and straightened his jacket with deliberate precision. His stare was ice. “There. Happy?”

Underneath his composure, his fingers trembled because he wasn’t that man anymore.

Finally, you paused and looked back at him. “Well, are you that man?” you asked quietly. “Or did the great President of Panem change?”

“Does it matter?” he snapped without meaning to. “Isn't this what you want? For me to be the phlegmatic bastard, just as you always call me?” He scoffed, lips twisting into a cold smirk. “So be it.” Yet, behind his eyes a thousand different emotions burned. Anger, despair, rage, grief, loss, desire, and something else. Something terrifyingly human.

He began to stride back to the palace and you picked up your skirts to jog after him. “Coriolanus,” you huffed before realising he didn’t plan on turning around. “Coriolanus!” you exclaimed again. You followed after him, all the way until he reached his study. “Stop acting like a child and speak to me like a man!” you shouted.

His hands slammed down on his desk, papers scattering, and he whirled around, eyes burning with fury. “Speak like a man?" he repeated, voice shaking. “What would you have me say, Y/n? That I loathe this? That I hate feeling anything for you? That I hate how you look at me, how you touch me, and yet I still crave it?” His chest heaved before he snapped, “is that man enough for you?”

Suddenly, he was still. He should not have admitted that.

Now you knew.

His eyes slowly lifted to your face. Your eyes were wide and your chest rose and fell. Then, you took a step closer to him. Then another. And then you were hurrying to close the distance and you slammed into him, wrapping your arms around him in a hug.

Every movement, every muscle, every nerve went rigid as your body pressed against his. His hands lifted as if to push you back to protect himself, but they instead dug into the fabric of your dress, clutching at you like a lifeline. His throat tightened and his breath turned ragged against your hair.

God, he hated this. He hated you. He hated how much he needed you. But he didn’t pull away, not even when the first crack splintered through his chest and not even when his heart shattered in his ribcage. Because finally… he felt human. The great President of Panem, the monster in the dark, reduced to a man. A man desperately grasping for something more. How ironic that love was all that was needed to break him fully.

“Damn you,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Damn you, dear.” For the first time since he could remember, Coriolanus yielded. His body bowed and his forehead pressed against yours. “Damn you,” he whispered again. He sounded weak and broken, but he didn’t pull away. For all his hatred and rage… he loved you.

And he hated that too.

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this, hmm?” you finally murmured, repeating yourself from four days ago. “I was supposed to just be here. Someone you didn’t care for so there wouldn’t be any vulnerability?”

The laugh that ripped from him sounded more like a strangled sob, his entire body sagging towards you and his head buried into the crook of your neck as he whispered, “yes.” This was never supposed to happen. You were never meant to mean something to him. Nothing should’ve been able to break down the walls he had so carefully built. “You weren't supposed to matter.”

“I know,” you said. “Neither were you.”

“You're an insufferable woman.”

“Says the man who wanted to manipulate me into a boring wife,” you chuckled, because even in your vulnerable moments, you couldn’t help but tease him. “You know I’ll never let that go, yes? I’ll lord it over you forever. Until our dying days.”

His voice had lost its edge, replaced instead with a strange warmth. “You're the worst, you know that?”

“That’s what everyone says,” you sighed, rolling your eyes jokingly. “I really am a terrible choice for First Lady, hmm?”

“Absolutely awful,” he agreed quietly. “Completely insufferable.” Even as the words left his lips, his hands were sliding against your waist, drawing you closer. Your mouth opened to retort something, so instead of dignifying your jokes with another response, he leaned down pressed his lips against yours in a kiss that said everything he couldn't put into words. His hands slid up, rough and desperate, one tangling in your hair, and the other clutching your waist. When he finally pulled back, breathless and aching, his voice was raw. “Happy now?”

The first thing you hear is a loud clatter. You bolt upright with a gasp. Your heart lurches into your throat. For one terrifying second, you don’t know where you are.

The walls are unfamiliar, the bed, the floor, everything. 

Then reality catches up. 

Briar. Dorm room. College. You’re not home anymore. Or you are? Maybe that’s a better way to think of it. Briar is your home now. Your home wasn’t really much of a home anyway. 

You let out a shaky breath and collapse back against the pillow. 

“Shit, I’m so sorry!” 

You groan and open one eye to see Beth coming out of the bathroom. She walks to the middle of the room and puts her hands on her face. Sunlight pours through the window behind her. It’s too early for this. 

“What?” you mumble.

Beth drops onto her bed dramatically. "I’m the worst roommate ever. I just dropped everything in the bathroom, waking you up. And what happened yesterday was literally the most embarrassing moment of my entire life."

Your brain is still bogged down from sleep, so it takes you a minute to catch her meaning. But, then it hits you. Naked hockey guy, shirt on the floor guy, the ‘I don’t do girlfriends’ guy, the guy your roommate was climbing like a tree the first time you met.

A laugh escapes before you can stop it. 

Beth points accusingly. “Don’t.”

That only makes you laugh harder. “Oh my god.”

“I know,” she groans. 

“You brought him into the room.”

“I know.” You bury your face in your pillow to muffle your laughter and Beth huffs. “Please stop laughing.”

"I'm trying."

"You are not trying." You’re absolutely not trying. By the time you sit up again, tears are gathering in the corners of your eyes. For the first time in months, they aren't from sadness. Beth narrows her eyes. "You think you're funny."

"A little." She throws a pillow at you, and you catch it, throwing it back. It hits her square in the head and you both laugh.

"So." You side eye her, untrusting of the dip in her voice.

"So?"

She wiggles her eyebrows. "Orientation day."

You groan. "Do I have to?"

"Yes, you’re a transfer. All transfers have to."

"I don't want to." You collapse backward onto your mattress.

Beth throws her hands up. "You are literally attending one of the best universities in the country."

"I'm aware," you sigh.

"You got into one of the best dance programs in the country." Beth and you spent time yesterday getting to know each other. You learned she’s an undergrad in pre-med, a cheerleader, and a puck bunny. The only reason you even know that term is because of your brother. You had the pleasure of being introduced to the entire hockey team via Beth’s Instagram. 

"I know."

"You should be excited." Her words are a punch to the gut. You should be excited. Hell, you should be fucking thrilled. Instead, you feel like vomiting, crying, screaming, all of the above. Beth's expression softens slightly. "Look, you don't have to love it today." You glance at her. She shrugs. "But maybe leave yourself open to loving it eventually."

"Maybe." You say it before you fully decide if you mean it.

She beams. "I'll take maybe."

By ten o’clock, you realize that orientation day is literally all day. It starts with the welcome session, which is your own personal version of hell. 

Beth isn’t here, but reassured you that you’ll meet up after the campus tour. The auditorium is already half full when you arrive. Hundreds of chairs stretch down toward a stage decorated with Briar banners and blue-and-gold balloons. Students fill row after row, flooding through every entrance, talking over each other, laughing, trying to find seats beside people they met approximately twelve minutes ago and are suddenly calling their best friends. Most of them are freshmen. 

The noise presses in, a physical weight against your eardrums, and the air feels suddenly too thin to breathe. There’s too many people, too many eyes. You scan the room automatically. You look for doors, exits, bathrooms, the closest way out. It’s a habit you wish you could break.

If you had a choice, you’d sit at the top row, farthest from the stage, closest to an exit. With those being reserved, you instead opt for the one right below it at the end of the aisle. The room continues filling. Every seat around you disappears. The noise grows louder. And louder. And louder. Until it feels like the walls are closing in.

You focus on your breathing. In and out. In and out.

A girl behind you is talking about sorority recruitment. Two rows down, someone is complaining about their roommate. Three seats away, a guy is already flirting with someone.

Normal. All of it is normal. 

That's the strange part. Nobody here knows you. Nobody is whispering about you, or laughing at you. Nobody is staring. They're all too busy living their own lives. You find peace in that thought. 

The lights dim and conversations slowly die down. A man steps onto the stage, the university president. The room erupts into applause. You clap politely.

The president smiles. "Welcome to Briar University."

More applause and the speech begins. It’s some jargon about excellence and opportunity. You try to listen. You really do. But after twenty minutes, your attention starts drifting. The words become background noise. Your gaze wanders around the room. Students lean toward one another, whispering. Others stare at their phones. A few are actually paying attention. Psychopaths.

The president continues talking. Something about finding your community. How Briar U is a place where you can discover yourself and become who you're meant to be. You stop listening again. Because that's the thing… you don't know who you’re meant to be anymore.

Back home, you used to know. You were a dancer, a daughter, a friend, a girl with plans. Then one bad night turned into rumors. Rumors turned into whispers. Whispers turned into stares. And eventually it felt like being yourself wasn't enough anymore. Like you had become a story people told each other.

The applause startles you. The president is gone. Another speaker takes the stage. Then another. Then another. You survive approximately forty-five more minutes before your soul begins leaving your body.

"If one more person says the word opportunity, I'm going to shoot myself," the guy next to you leans over and whispers. You choke on a laugh. Several people glance your way, and you immediately look down. It’s an attempt to make yourself smaller. The feeling settles over you before you can stop it. It’s the incessant urge to shrink, to take up less space.

When you look up, everything has resumed. Nobody is looking at you. Nobody is looking at you. 

You allow yourself to look around the room again. Hundreds of students. Hundreds of stories. Hundreds of strangers. And not a single one knows yours. A strange feeling blooms in your chest. Maybe this place can be different. Maybe here, you can be different.

“Now, a round of applause for our orientation volunteers this year!” A loud cheer erupts from somewhere near the back of the auditorium, and you jump. The entire room turns. A group of hockey players have just entered through one of the side doors. The crowd immediately starts laughing and cheering. One of them bows dramatically. Another waves at the audience. You recognize your brother instantly. Then, you see a familiar blonde head and dimples.

The guy beside you lets out a groan. You glance over. He's watching the hockey players with the same expression people usually reserve for stepping in dog shit.

"What's wrong with you?" you whisper.

He scoffs. "What's wrong with them?"

You blink. "What?"

"The hockey team." The way he says it makes it sound like a disease. A few people nearby are waving. One girl actually pulls out her phone. The guy beside you looks disgusted by the whole ordeal.

"I swear to God, if one more person acts like they're celebrities-" A laugh escapes before you can stop it. His expression brightens. "There it is."

"What?"

"A sane person."

You roll your eyes. "They're just hockey players."

"Exactly." His disgust only deepens. You glance back toward the doors. The hockey players are still filing inside. Most of them are smiling. A few are talking to students. Your brother is laughing at something a guy you believe to be Garrett says.

The guy beside you leans closer. "I'm Caleb, by the way."

You drag your attention away from the hockey team. "What?"

"Caleb." He offers his hand and you shake it. You tell him your name.

"Normal name," he says. "Normal reaction to a bunch of guys walking through a door." He gestures vaguely at the girl three seats down, who is now standing. "I was starting to think I was the weird one."

“Well, now we can be weird together.” He smiles and nods. The speaker on stage continues talking. Neither of you listen. Caleb settles back into his seat.

"So where are you from?" You open your mouth, then close it. When you open it again, the words seem to dissolve on your tongue. Home. Your town. The place you spent years trying to escape. The place that still feels glued to your skin.

Before you can answer, movement behind you catches your attention. You turn to see the hockey team is heading toward the rows directly behind yours.

A sudden, sharp chill prickles across your skin. No. No no no. There are hundreds of seats in this auditorium. Hundreds! The universe cannot possibly hate you this much. You just hope John keeps his promise. 

Then you hear a familiar voice. 

"Well, would you look at that." Your eyes close. No. Please no. You slowly turn, and 'I don't do girlfriends' guy is standing directly behind your seat. You would’ve preferred your brother. You turn your head to the sky, closing your eyes. If there’s a god, you know he’s laughing right now. “Closing your eyes won’t make me go away.” You feel his breath on your hair and turn, just to find him inches from your face. He flashes you an award-winning smile and you grimace. His volunteer badge hangs around his neck. His orientation shirt is wrinkled. His hair is messy. And he looks entirely too pleased with himself. 

“Ever heard of personal space?” you snap. He mocks contemplation.

"I’ve never heard those words in my life." You stare, and he stares back. His grin widens.

The seat directly behind you is empty, and Dean slides into it. You turn around immediately. Nope. Not happening. You face the stage and the speaker drones on. You want to die.

A piece of paper lands in your lap. You freeze. You look down at a folded note and already know who it's from.

Caleb notices. "What's that?"

“Just an attempt to ruin my day." You unfold it and the handwriting is messy.

STILL THINKING ABOUT KILLING ME?

Your eye twitches. You stare at the note. Then slowly turn around. Dean is leaning back in his chair, hands behind his head, and smiling.

You fucking hate him.

You grab a pen. On the back, you write, 

YES

You fold it and toss it over your shoulder. The note hits him directly in the face. Caleb snorts.

A few moments later, another note lands on you.

RUDE

You immediately write, 

YOU SAT BEHIND ME

The response comes back suspiciously fast.

THAT'S HOW CHAIRS WORK

You glare at the paper. Then write,

GO AWAY

The note disappears. A few seconds pass, and you pray that the torture is over. But of course it's not.

NOT A CHANCE

You pinch the bridge of your nose. A disapproving groan leaves Caleb. You completely forgot he existed. He looks at the note, then slowly turns to look behind you, and something in his face falls.

“Don’t tell me,” he says. 

"What?"

He faces forward again, staring at the stage. “You’re passing notes with a hockey player? Di Laurentis out of all of them?”

"I can hear you." Dean's voice floats over your shoulder. "Hi, Caleb."

Caleb's mouth presses into a flat line. "Don’t talk to me."

"Wasn't planning on it."

You look between them. "Do you two-"

"No," they say, at the same time.

Your eyes flick between them, but drop the subject. Not your circus, not your monkeys. You don’t know and you don’t care. You try to bring your focus back to the presentation, but after several moments, another note flies over. You sigh, unfolding it. 

WHAT TIME ARE YOU FREE AFTER THIS THRILLING PRESENTATION

Your brows furrow. You turn to see him sprawled out like a cat in the sun. With his arms behind his head and his legs stretched into the aisle, his shirt rides up just enough to display a dangerous stretch of skin above his jeans. Some mysterious, evolutionary impulse has you staring. 

You force your eyes away, cursing yourself. 

FOR YOU? NEVER

You throw the paper at him. You hear a low chuckle from Dean behind you.. Your phone vibrates and pull it out and see John’s name across the screen. 

Big Bro: you good?

You: yeah why??

Big Bro: Dean just texted our gc that he met the hottest girl at orientation and im not an idiot

Heat floods your face so violently you’re certain the entire auditorium can see it. You lock your phone without responding, shove it into your pocket, and stare straight ahead at the stage, willing yourself to disappear.

Behind you, Dean watches the back of your head with the quiet, almost predatory focus of a man who has found something interesting for the first time in a long time. He doesn't know why he keeps pushing. He should stop. He absolutely should stop. But the way your shoulders tense every time he speaks, the way you bite back. Damn, it does something to him that he cannot explain and has no interest in examining.

The note is tossed back, tumbling over your shoulder and onto your thigh. And there it will sit, untouched. You can feel it like a physical manifestation of Dean's smugness. Every second you don’t look at it, you feel like you’re winning some small, meaningless battle. But curiosity has always been your greatest weakness, and after thirty seconds of white-knuckled resistance, you give in. 

You snatch the note before you can change your mind and unfold it. The second you read it, you regret everything.

YOURE CUTE WHEN YOURE MAD

The blood drains from your face, then rushes back in a furious, scarlet wave. You grind your teeth. Your fingers curl around the paper with enough force to crumple it.

Then you turn. 

Not slowly. Not with hesitation. You spin in your seat with enough force that your hair whips and almost hits Caleb. Your eyes lock onto Dean, who is leaning back with that same infuriating, practiced grin, and you rip the note in half. Then in quarters. Then into pieces so small they flutter down onto his lap like confetti.

The grin doesn't waver. If anything, it deepens.

"Am I still cute?" You hiss. 

Dean's gaze drops to the shredded paper scattered across his thighs. He looks at it for a beat. Then he looks back up at you. 

"Yes." You sneer and turn around, throwing your back into your seat. 

The words hang in the air between you like a challenge. You want to reach across the row and strangle him. You want to grab the nearest object, a water bottle, a notebook, his volunteer badge, and throw it directly at his smug, dimpled face.

Your phone buzzes. You ignore it, not even wanting to guess what John is saying. But then it buzzes again. And then again. You groan. 

Big Bro: if he makes a move on you im beating his ass

Big Bro: why is he looking at you like that

Big Bro: what do the notes say

Big Bro: if you don’t answer im going to kill him

Heat rushes to your face. Your fingers fly across the screen.

You: DO NOT

You: I SWEAR TO GOD JOHN

His response is immediate.

Big Bro: ill fucking kill him if he touches you

You: no you won’t!!!!!

Big Bro: im going to

You: NO YOU ARE NOT

Big Bro: he flirts with anything that breathes 

You: thank you for the encouraging words

Big Bro: you’re welcome

You close your eyes. This is a disaster. An actual fucking disaster. You type furiously.

You: if you do anything everyone will know

You: remember our deal

Big Bro: our deal doesnt count when it comes to guys

Big Bro: the last thing you need right now is a guy messing with you. I brought you here to get away from that

You: its college… there will always be guys messing with me

Big Bro: not if I can help it

You: John please 

You: we had a deal

Big Bro: I hate our deal

You: too bad

Chat bubbles pop up, then disappear. There’s a pause. They pop up again, then they’re gone. Finally,

Big Bro: are you sure you’re okay?

The irritation drains from you. That’s the real question. The only question that matters. You glance over your shoulder to see Dean arguing with one of his teammates, completely oblivious. Completely ridiculous. Completely harmless… isn’t he? He is one of your brother’s best friends, and John would never hang out with a guy like…like- 

Your hands start to shake. You take a deep breath and look back at your phone. 

You: im okay

You: seriously 

You: dont do anything 

Big Bro: fine

You: promise

Big Bro: i said fine 

You: that’s not a promise

Big Bro: fine i promise 

You exhale. You shove the phone back into your pocket and press your palms flat against your thighs, forcing yourself to breathe.

Behind you, Dean is no longer arguing with his teammate. He's watching you. He hasn't stopped watching you since you turned around. He doesn't understand why the back of your neck has gone stiff, why your shoulders have hunched forward like you're trying to make yourself smaller. The girl three rows ahead of you is openly staring at him, and he doesn't even notice.

He notices you. Why does he notice you? He doesn’t even know you. 

The orientation speaker rambles on about academic integrity and Dean doesn't hear a single word. His eyes are fixed on the line of your spine, the way it curves slightly, the way your fingers keep tracing invisible patterns on your knees. 

He should look away. He should pay attention to the girl in front of him who's been glancing back every thirty seconds. She’s definitely his type. She's gorgeous, tall, athletic, the kind of pretty that makes heads turn without trying. He could talk to her. He could probably have her number by the end of orientation. That's how it usually goes. That's how it's always gone.

But instead, his gaze drifts back to you. To the way you're sitting so still it looks like you're barely breathing. To the way your knuckles are white where they grip your knees.

The girl three rows ahead turns around again, offering him a smile that's equal parts shy and inviting. Dean gives her a polite nod and looks away. Something about her smile feels hollow compared to the glare you give him. 

The girl turns, her smile faltering. Dean doesn't notice. His eyes remain fixed, watching your shoulders rise and fall with each breath. There's something different about you. It's not just that you're pretty, though you are, in a way that makes him want to study every detail. God, you’re fucking beautiful, but… it's something else. It’s the fire in your eyes when you look at him. It’s the way you hate him. It’s the sass in your voice, and the fact that you don’t fawn over him. And god damn does he love a challenge. 

Dean taps his pen against his knee. He should write another note. He should say something clever and watch your face flush with annoyance again. But for once, the words don't come easy. Something in the rigid line of your posture tells him to back off.

The lights go up, and you’re immediately on your feet. You half trip as you grab your bag and launch up the aisle. Behind you, the auditorium fills with the raw energy of two hundred freshmen all moving at once. Overhead, the university fight song blares. You duck your head, feeling the beginning of a panic attack claw at your ribcage. 

Dean has nine inches on you, and it takes him all of twenty seconds to catch up. He taps your shoulder, but you keep moving, speed walking past the crush of bodies flowing toward the quad. 

“Hey, you left your jacket.” He holds it out in front of you like a peace offering. 

“Thanks,” you say, voice flat and breathless. 

Dean stands beside you, scanning the crowd with practiced ease. Part of him wants to crack a joke about your sprinting skills, but something about the pressed line of your lips, how your hands tremble ever so slightly around the jacket, makes him think twice.

“You okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” You feel yourself getting defensive, closing in on yourself. 

“Woah.” He throws his hands up in surrender. “Just asking. Jesus.”

“There you are.” There’s a loud clap on Dean’s shoulder, and John appears with a forced smile on his face. He’s pissed.

“Here I am.” Dean lifts his arms. 

“You were supposed to be helping direct students.” 

“I am helping.” Dean gestures to you and winks. 

“By passing notes during orientation?” The strength drains from your legs, making it hard to stand. Your brows raise in a pleading look, internally begging John to not be an overprotective asshole. He promised. 

“How do you know about that?” Dean asks. 

John smirks. “I have eyes.”

You snort and that’s when your brother looks at you, like he’s just now noticing your presence. 

“Oh, hey. The dorm girl.” 

“The what?” you ask.

"The girl from move-in day." John points at you. "I helped you carry those suitcases."

Immediately, understanding clicks into place. A perfect explanation for anyone who saw you together yesterday.

"Oh." You force a polite smile. "Right. Hi."

Dean looks between the two of you. "You know each other?"

John shrugs. "Not really. Helped her move into her dorm yesterday. You had, like, six suitcases."

You deadpan. "It was three."

"Felt like six." You roll your eyes and John smirks. Dean laughs, and just like that, the moment passes. Nobody suspects anything. Relief floods your chest.

“Since we’re all friends-”

“We are not friends.” You cut Dean off. Your brother laughs and Dean smacks his arm. 

“What do you mean? I thought we were getting along so well.”

“I barely even know you,” you counter.

“Well, if you let me finish what I’m saying, I’m about to give you the opportunity to. We’re throwing a party tonight. You should come.” He glances at John in some weird, silent bro language that irritates you. 

“Yeah… no offense, but I’ll pass. I think my quota of forced social interactions are full.”

“It’s not forced,” Dean retorts. “You can leave after five minutes.” When that doesn’t work, he adds, “We’ll have pizza. And a keg the size of your attitude. Which, for the record, is massive.”

You almost smile, almost, but don’t answer. Beth appears at your elbow, breathless and pony tailed and full of genuine delight, and it’s clear she’s heard at least the last part of the conversation.

“Wait, there’s a party tonight?” Beth’s eyes are full of hope and mischief. “We’re definitely going, right?”

“You can go,” you say, backing away. “I’ll meet up with you after.”

“What?” Beth’s shoulders sag. “No. No, you have to come.”

Your teeth clamp together. “I don’t do parties.”

Behind them in the quad, students are milling toward their assigned tour groups, orientation leaders waving clipboards and corraling the masses. John, sensing the direction, gently says, “You don’t have to come. We have plenty of parties. There will be others.”

Beth elbows him. “What? No! You have to come. You’re contractually obligated as my roommate to come.”

You blink, trying to process the word “contractually”. It’s a lot. It’s all too much. 

Dean tries one more time. “You can stick with us. Literally half the people there will be the hockey team and their girlfriends. We can introduce you to some of the girls. I think you’ll like Hannah and Allie.” You chew on your lip, plucking imaginary dirt from under your nails. “Look, worst case, you stand in the kitchen for ten minutes, make fun of us, and leave. Best case, you make fun of us for the rest of the year.”

You open your mouth to say no when a whistle cracks across the quad, and a harried-looking RA starts barking orders to form lines by department. Relief rushes through you. 

“Perfect,” John says. He gestures toward a cluster of students. "Tour group. Let’s go." He places a hand on the small of our back, shoving you along. 

Dean looks suspicious. "You don't lead tours."

"I do today,” John calls over his shoulder, not looking back. 

“You should come tonight!” Dean is desperate to make one last attempt. You glance back and find he’s watching you. He puts his hands together in prayer, and you can’t help the smile that spreads across your face. He mouths the word ‘please’, and you mouth back a ‘no’. You turn around before you change your mind, being swept away by the crowd. 

“You should go.” Your head snaps to your brother. 

“What?”

John laughs. "The party.”

“I know what you’re referring to, and no.”

"You haven't even thought about it."

"I thought about it," you argue. 

"For three seconds."

"It was a productive three seconds."

John shakes his head. "You know why I wanted you here?"

You stare ahead. "Because you love me?"

"Ehh." He wiggles his hand in a ‘so-so’ gesture. You shove him, and he steadies himself, grinning. "I brought you here so you'd have somewhere to land." You don't say anything. "You don't have to be a new person. You don't have to perform recovery." He glances at you. "You don't have to be Beth."

You exhale. "The bar is on the floor, and I'm grateful."

"You just have to let yourself exist somewhere." You have to clench your jaw to keep your composure. "You've been bracing for impact for two years. You can stop." He's right. Obviously he's right. You've known he's right since before he said it. The worst part is how tired you are of knowing it too. "You've been through enough. Something good is allowed to happen to you." You press your lips together, forcing the blur from your vision. Around you, the orientation crowd churns forward, people already swapping numbers, already building the small architecture of a life here. It doesn't look as unbearable as it did an hour ago. John's shoulder finds yours. "So?"

You close your eyes briefly. "Fine. Yes. Whatever."

A pause. "Wait, really?"

"Ask me again, and I'll take it back."

He doesn't ask. He grabs you instead, lifts you clean off the ground, and you hear yourself laugh before you've decided to.

Maybe Briar is different. Or maybe you just agreed to a party thrown by Dean Di Laurentis and this is where it all goes sideways.

Getting pregnant during your freshman year of college had not been the plan. Getting pregnant with the biggest manwhore in your year and probably the whole school even though he was only a freshman too had been even less of your plan. But Dean Di Laurentis wasn't one to back out of a challenge, ever. So when you showed up at his hockey practice and shattered his world with two words, he didn't crumble. Instead, he nodded, asked what your plans were and assured you that whatever it was he'd be there for it.

When you decided you wanted to keep the baby and told him you didn't expect anything from him he hit you with the most outraged defense about how that was his child you were carrying and how he was going to do everything in his power to make sure you were both okay.

You were never together officially, Dean continued hooking up with other girls, now being extra careful, but still made sure he was always showing up for you. One night you called him crying at 2AM when you were five months pregnant because you were hungry but had ran out of the specific mango sorbet you had loved for months now and your back hurt and your feet were too swollen. He'd been in the middle of round two with a blonde from a sorority but as soon as he heard you crying he was already putting on his pants and rushing out the door.

You were way too pregnant by summer, so instead of heading to St.Barts, the entire Di Laurentis family huddled close in New York, your family having decided not to support you, to help you and Dean. His parents gifting you a unit right next to theirs so you could have your own space.

Sadly, the baby had decided to hold on until classes had started again. Dean moved in with the hockey guys into an off campus house, you had found an apartment not too far away that he had insisted on paying for , you'd fought him against it but ended up accepting an 80-20 split for the time being until you could go back to work, Dean hadn't even batted an eye at the money he had spent.

You decided to take the semester off to focus on the baby for the first months swearing up and down that you would be back to start your sophomore year, how? You were still not sure but you knew you'd figure it out.

Dean's friends had been surprisingly supporting through it all. The guys constantly checking up on you while Dean was in class and making sure to always bring something for you. When your water broke you had been at their house with Tucker and Garrett because Dean had insisted you stayed there as you were past your due date and he wanted to keep an eye on you.

You were on your way to the kitchen to get a snack when you felt the liquid splash down on your feet and stopped in your tracks. Garret looked up from the game they were playing and gasped "Did you pee yourself?" "I think my water just broke" Tucker looked at you then with wide eyes "What?" "I think my water just broke" You repeated looking down at the mess you'd made, then looked at the guys and with the calmest look ever you said "Someone needs to drive me to the hospital"

The next 20 minutes had happened in double speed, both boys helping you out to Garrett's jeep, Tucker with your hospital bag clutched all the way to the hospital, where Garrett yelled like a madman for help and it wasn't until the nurse looked at him with the kindest most understanding smile and said "We've got her daddy don't worry" That you all realized no one had called Dean yet.

15 minutes later you were in a room with Garrett and Logan when Dean rushed through the door with Logan hot on his trail. He stayed by your side for the entire 17 hours and 36 minutes the birth took and the moment he held his son he swore his whole world shifted in its axis.

The first week of Sebastian's life Dean refused to leave both of your side's, he missed lectures and practice and hangouts. By the beginning of the second week you called Garrett and begged him to come and take him away because he was driving you insane. The next four weeks were a constant revolving door of Dean's roommates plus Jules (Logan's sibling who had just started at Briar as a freshman) constantly checking up on you and the baby.

At six weeks you and Dean decided you were comfortable enough to take little Seb out, his first trip was straight to the hockey house.

Masterlist

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4