Bunny

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It rings twice before a bright, elegant voice answers.

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

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

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

“Morning, son. Everything alright?”

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

The silence on the line is instantaneous and absolute.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean hangs up the phone and looks at you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I need to call my parents.”

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

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

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

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

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

It rings four times.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not taking them ever again.”

“Excuse me?”

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

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

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

The line goes dead silent.

“What did you just say?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He brings the phone to his mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Grace’s jaw practically hits the linoleum floor.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready,” you say, grabbing your backpack.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just putting it out there,” Tucker grins.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ready,” you smile, taking the coffee.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here,” Dean says softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your mother was wrong.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

“You’re overthinking.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You belong to him. Completely and entirely.

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

***

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

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

Heads turn. Whispers start up immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

When Jenny sees you approaching, her eyes light up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The warmth instantly drains from your face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Having fun?”

The voice is cold, sharp, and instantly recognizable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You drop to your knees.

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

“Claiming you back,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spread your legs,” Dean commands softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You completely lose your mind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Five years.

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

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

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

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

Celia Di Laurentis is four days old.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean’s breathing hitches. He reaches forward, his large fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, sweeping a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“You did so incredibly good,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with a raw, overwhelming emotion. “I have never been more terrified or more in awe of anyone in my entire life than I was watching you bring her into the world. You are so goddamn strong, baby.”

Tears immediately prick your eyes. Your hormones are still wildly fluctuating, keeping your emotions right on the surface, but this isn’t sadness. It is sheer, overwhelming gratitude.

“I wasn’t alone,” you remind him, leaning your cheek into the warmth of his palm. “I had you.”

“Always,” Dean vows, pressing his palm firmly against your skin. “You have me forever.”

He lets out a long breath, finally pulling his hand back to gesture to the tray on the nightstand. “I made you a turkey club. Extra bacon, extra mayo, exactly how you’ve been craving it since Monday. And Garrett dropped off those pastries from the bakery downtown.”

“Garrett was here?” You ask, your eyebrows lifting in surprise.

Dean chuckles, running a hand through his messy blonde hair. “Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have all been sitting in our living room for the past three hours. They refuse to leave. Tucker brought a massive stuffed bear that is literally bigger than the baby, and Logan has been aggressively trying to put together that luxury baby swing my dad sent over.”

A warm, bright feeling blooms in your chest. The Briar boys had never stopped being your pack. They had stood by Dean at your wedding, they had aggressively vetted the neighborhood before you bought this house, and the moment you announced you were pregnant, they had collectively lost their minds.

“You should let them come up,” you say softly. “They haven’t even seen her since we brought her home from the hospital.”

“Absolutely not,” Dean says instantly, his alpha completely rejecting the idea. He shakes his head, his jaw setting in a firm, protective line. “No other alphas in your nesting space right now. Not even them. You need quiet, you need your space, and you need to heal. They can look at her through the crack in the door tomorrow, maybe. From the hallway.”

You roll your eyes, but your omega practically purrs at his intense, territorial protection. It makes you feel entirely safe, completely guarded from the outside world.

“You’re a tyrant,” you tease.

“I’m a father,” Dean corrects smoothly, puffing his chest out just a fraction. He looks back down at Celia, and the fierce alpha completely melts back into a massive softie. “Look at her, baby. I mean, actually look at her. We made that.”

“I know,” you whisper, adjusting the pink blanket slightly. “She has your hair. And your absolute refusal to be put down in a crib.”

“She knows where the good snuggles are,” Dean defends, grinning. He shifts his weight on his knees. He looks at the edge of the nest, the chaotic wall of blankets and pillows you’ve spent the last four days meticulously arranging. He looks up at you, a silent, deeply respectful question in his eyes.

Your heart flutters. He never assumes. Even with his ring on your finger, even with his bite permanently scarred into your neck, he treats your biology with the ultimate reverence.

“Come in, Dean,” you say softly, pulling your legs back to make a massive space for him. “We want you.”

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He climbs over the edge of the mattress, carefully navigating the pillows so he doesn’t disturb the structural integrity of your nest. He settles in right beside you, stretching his long, muscular legs out and wrapping his heavy arm around your shoulders.

He pulls you flush against his side, his body heat seeping instantly into yours. You lean your head against his chest, tucking Celia safely between the two of you.

The moment the three of you are completely connected, the atmosphere in the room shifts. The chaotic, exhausting energy of the postpartum haze completely vanishes. The mingling of your scents — cedar, rain, vanilla, honey, and the sweet, powdery scent of your pup — creates an intoxicating, entirely perfect environment.

This is what heaven looks like.

“You’re warm,” you murmur, closing your eyes and just breathing him in.

“You’re perfect,” Dean replies, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head.

He reaches down, his massive, calloused index finger gently stroking Celia’s impossibly small hand. Even in her sleep, her tiny fingers instinctively curl around his, holding on tight.

Dean lets out a shaky breath, completely captivated by the movement.

“My mom called while you were sleeping,” Dean says quietly, not looking away from his daughter’s hand. “She and my dad are flying in from Greenwich tomorrow. They promised they’d stay at the hotel downtown so they don’t crowd you, but my mom is threatening to break down the front door if I don’t let her hold her granddaughter by noon.”

You smile. Lori and Peter have been the ultimate parents to you for the past five years. They embraced you entirely, completely filling the void your own parents left behind. They had paid for your dream wedding, they celebrated every single one of your career milestones, and Lori had spent the last nine months buying out every luxury baby boutique on the East Coast.

“Let her break the door down,” you say softly. “I want to see them. I want them to meet her.”

“I’ll tell security to stand down, then,” Dean jokes softly. He continues to stroke Celia’s tiny knuckles.

A quiet, comfortable silence stretches between you. It is the kind of silence that only exists between two people who know the absolute depths of each other’s souls. The heavy, gold wedding band on his left hand catches the soft light of the bedside lamp as it rests near the baby.

“Have you heard from Grace?” Dean asks, his voice careful.

“She texted me this morning,” you say, a genuine warmth filling your chest. “She’s demanding to be named the godmother. She said if you give the title to anyone else, she’s going to organize a beta uprising.”

Dean snorts, a quiet, amused sound. “Auntie Grace it is, then. I’m not dealing with an uprising.”

He shifts slightly, pulling you even closer. His hand slides up your arm, his fingers gently tracing the familiar, sparkling line of the diamond and sapphire tennis bracelet that still rests on your wrist. He hasn’t stopped draping you in jewelry since that night in Greenwich, but this piece never comes off.

“Did you … did you tell anyone else?” Dean asks, the hesitation in his voice letting you know exactly who he is referring to.

Your parents.

You look down at Celia’s sleeping face. Five years ago, the thought of cutting your parents out of your life entirely would have sent you into a paralyzing panic. The conditioning was so deep, the fear of their rejection so absolute. You had spent years agonizing over the fact that they chose their prejudice over their own daughter.

But looking at the family you have built — looking at the fiercely devoted alpha holding you, the perfect, beautiful pup resting against your chest, the unshakeable pack waiting in the living room below — the ache is entirely gone.

“No,” you say simply, your voice steady and completely devoid of regret. “I didn’t. And I don’t plan to.”

Dean lets out a quiet exhale, his chest relaxing completely against your back. He presses a firm, reassuring kiss to your temple. “Okay. Good.”

“They wouldn’t understand this anyway,” you continue, tracing the soft edge of Celia’s pink blanket. “They would look at me sitting in a nest, completely overwhelmed by my biology, and they would see a victim. They would see someone trapped by their hormones.”

You tilt your head back, looking up into Dean’s eyes. The absolute devotion in his gaze takes your breath away every single time.

“But I’m not trapped,” you whisper, the absolute truth of it ringing crystal clear in the quiet room. “I have never been more free in my entire life. They told me this was all a fairytale, Dean. They told me that fated mates and biological bonds were just romanticized traps to make omegas subservient.”

Dean’s jaw ticks slightly at the memory of their cruel words, his protective instincts flaring, but he forces himself to stay calm for you. “They were idiots, sweetheart. I told you that on day one.”

“They were,” you agree, a soft, triumphant smile playing on your lips. “Because this isn’t a fairytale. Fairytales are fake. This is real. This is my life. And it is so much better than any stupid story.”

Dean’s expression shatters into something so incredibly soft it almost breaks your heart.

He shifts entirely, carefully maneuvering around Celia so he can lean directly over you. He frames your face with his large, warm hands, his thumbs sweeping gently over your cheekbones.

“You gave me everything,” Dean says, his voice a rough, desperate whisper. The arrogant, wealthy CEO is completely gone. In the center of this nest, he is just your mate. Just an alpha completely entirely devoted to his family. “You gave me a home. You gave me a purpose. And now you gave me her.”

He looks down at Celia, then back at you.

“I am going to spend the rest of my life making sure you both know exactly how worshipped you are,” Dean vows, his green eyes burning with absolute, permanent certainty. “I am going to build an entire empire just to lay it at your feet. You are my queen, and she is our princess. And nothing in this world will ever touch you.”

You reach up, wrapping your hands around his wrists. The mating bond pulses violently in your chest, a bright, blazing star of pure, unadulterated love.

“I know,” you whisper back.

Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, devastatingly tender kiss. It is a kiss that holds five years of history. It holds the terror of the hospital, the blinding intensity of your first heat, the quiet Sunday mornings in the hockey house, and the profound, life-altering weight of the vows you took in front of his parents.

It is the promise of forever.

When he finally pulls back, resting his forehead against yours, Celia lets out a tiny, soft squeak. She stretches her little arms, her tiny nose scrunching up as she slowly blinks her eyes open.

“Hey,” Dean breathes, completely distracted. He looks down at his daughter, his entire face lighting up with absolute wonder. “Look who’s awake.”

Celia blinks, her unfocused, dark green eyes slowly finding the shape of her father’s face. She lets out a tiny yawn, perfectly content.

You look at the two of them. The beautiful, impossible family that the universe had carved out specifically for you. You lean your head against Dean’s shoulder, pulling the soft cashmere blanket tighter around your perfect little pup.

Your mother had told you to run from this. She had told you to medicate it away, to hide in the sterile, practical world of betas.

But sitting in the center of your nest, completely enveloped in the scent of cedar and rain, listening to your alpha whisper promises of the world to your newborn daughter, you know exactly what you are.

You are an omega. You are a mate. You are a mother.

And as Dean wraps his heavy arm around you, pulling you completely into his chest as the sun begins to set outside your window, you finally let out a long, perfectly contented sigh.

The story didn’t end with a happily ever after.

Logan snorts from the bench across the room, tossing a roll of tape that bounces directly off Dean’s shoulder guard. “You’re an animal. Does your dick ever get tired, or is it powered by some kind of endless trust-fund energy?”

“It’s powered by charisma, Logan,” Dean says, catching the tape on the rebound and tossing it into his bag. “And the fact that I actually know what to do with it, which is more than I can say for some of the tragic beta performances I’ve heard about.”

“Hey, leave us out of it,” Tucker drawls in his thick Southern accent, leaning against the doorframe with a protein shake in hand. “Some of us prefer a little quality over quantity.”

“I offer exceptional quality,” Dean says, finally kicking off his left skate. “Ask anyone.”

“Oh, we don’t have to,” Garrett mutters, rolling his eyes. “They literally line up outside the frat house. I tripped over a sophomore trying to get to the kitchen this morning.”

Dean chuckles, running a hand through his damp blonde hair. He knows what they think of him. To the guys, to the whole campus, he’s exactly what he appears to be: Briar’s resident playboy alpha. He’s got the wealthy attorney parents, the maternal family money tied up in luxury hotels across the globe, the looks, the charm, and the seemingly insatiable appetite.

But there’s a line he doesn’t cross. A line the guys love to give him shit for.

“Was she a beta too?” Tucker asks, taking a slow sip of his shake.

Dean pauses, his easy smile tightening just a fraction before he forces it back into place. “Always. You know the rule, Tuck.”

“It’s a stupid rule,” Logan points out, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “I mean, I get the whole old money, traditional thing your family has going on. But only sleeping with betas? Refusing to even look at an omega unless you think she’s the one? It’s archaic, man. It’s the twenty-first century.”

“It’s not archaic, it’s respect,” Dean fires back, his tone dropping its playful edge for a fleeting second. He stands up, pulling his t-shirt over his head. “When I meet my fated mate, she’s going to be the only omega I’ve ever touched. She gets all of me. The whole alpha package, untainted by anyone else’s scent or biology.”

Garrett groans. “You sound like a Victorian romance novel. What if you never meet her? Or what if she doesn’t care if you’ve slept with other omegas?”

“She’ll care,” Dean says simply, his voice firm. He grabs his duffel bag and hoists it over his shoulder. “Because I care. Betas are fun. They’re safe. There’s no biological complication, no scent-bonding, no risk of an accidental mating bite during a heat. It’s just physical.”

“So you’re just going to keep running through the beta population of Massachusetts until this mythical girl shows up?” Logan asks, amused.

“Pretty much,” Dean says, flashing his signature grin again, burying the sudden, sharp pang of longing that hits him square in the chest. “Keeps my skills sharp. When she finally shows up, I need to be ready to worship the ground she walks on. See you at the house, boys.”

He pushes through the locker room doors, the heavy scent of alpha pheromones fading into the sterile smell of the hallway. Dean keeps his smile locked in place as he walks out to his car, but the bravado slowly bleeds out of him.

He plays the part perfectly. He loves the attention, the sex, the careless fun. But God, he is so fucking tired of the emptiness of it. He was raised in circles where the alpha-omega bond was sacred, something to be revered. His parents had it. His grandparents had it.

He wants the fairytale. He wants the intoxicating, head-spinning rush of a fated scent hitting his system. He wants to fiercely protect someone, to provide for them, to spoil them absolutely rotten with every dime his family has to their name. He wants to be looking at a beta girl across a crowded room and suddenly realize she means nothing, because his mate just walked in.

He grips the steering wheel of his car, staring out at the campus parking lot.

“Where are you?” He murmurs to the empty car. “Come on, baby. I’m waiting.”

***

You stare at the tiny, pale blue pill resting in the center of your palm.

It looks entirely harmless. It looks like a breath mint, or a generic painkiller. It doesn’t look like something that is actively destroying you from the inside out.

Your stomach performs a violent, rolling flip just looking at it, and you have to close your eyes and grip the edge of the bathroom sink to steady yourself. The porcelain is cold under your hands.

“Hey,” a voice calls out, accompanied by a soft knock on the bathroom door. “You alive in there?”

It’s Grace, your roommate. You swallow hard, fighting the rising bile in your throat. “Yeah. Just … getting ready.”

“You’ve been staring at the mirror for ten minutes. The pizza is getting cold.”

“Coming,” you manage to say.

You look at the pill again. The suppressants. Grade-A, top-of-the-line, incredibly expensive synthetic hormones designed to completely mute your omega biology. Your parents, both highly pragmatic, fiercely independent betas, had insisted on the absolute strongest prescription available the moment you presented.

To them, being an omega is a biological inconvenience. A liability in the modern world.

You take a deep breath, tossing the pill to the back of your throat and immediately chasing it with a massive gulp of tap water. You gag as it goes down, your body instinctively rejecting it. You lean over the sink, breathing heavily, waiting to see if it’s going to come right back up.

When your stomach finally settles into a dull, throbbing ache, you wipe your mouth and open the door.

Grace is sitting cross-legged on her bed, a slice of pepperoni pizza in one hand and her laptop balanced precariously on her knees. She looks up, her eyes immediately narrowing.

“You look like garbage,” she says bluntly.

“Thanks,” you mutter, shuffling over to your own bed and curling up into a tight ball, pulling your oversized hoodie down over your hands. You don’t want the pizza. The smell of the grease is making your head spin.

“Seriously,” Grace presses, setting her pizza down on a paper plate. “You’re completely pale, and you’ve been shivering since you got back from class. Are you sick?”

“It’s just the new dosage,” you whisper, closing your eyes. “Dr. Davidson upped my suppressants last week. My body is just … adjusting.”

Grace sighs, a very loud, very beta sigh. She doesn’t have a malicious bone in her body, but she doesn’t understand. She can’t. “I don’t get why you let your parents push you into taking those things. Especially the intense ones. They make you miserable.”

“Because according to them, the alternative is worse,” you say, your voice muffled by your pillow. “They think heats are degrading. They think the whole dynamic is outdated.”

“And what do you think?”

You open your eyes, looking at the faded poster on your wall. “I think I feel like I’m constantly walking underwater. I feel … muted. Like a part of me is just locked in a box.”

Grace softens a bit. “Have you tried talking to them again? Telling them how sick you feel?”

Right on cue, your cell phone vibrates on the nightstand. The screen lights up with Mom.

You groan, reaching out a trembling hand to grab it. You swipe to accept the call, bringing it to your ear. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie,” your mother’s brisk, efficient voice comes through the speaker. There is no background noise, she’s likely in her corner office.

“I only have a minute before a conference call, but I wanted to check in. Did Dr. Davidson confirm the new prescription went through?”

“Yes,” you say, your voice flat. “I just took it.”

“Good. That higher dose should completely eliminate any residual pre-heat symptoms you were having. You can’t afford to be distracted right now, not with midterms coming up.”

“Mom, it’s making me really sick,” you say, forcing the words out before you can lose your nerve. “I threw up twice yesterday. I can barely eat. I feel weak all the time.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end. Not of sympathy, but of calculation. “It’s a transition period. Your body is just fighting the regulation. Give it another week.”

“What if I don’t want my body to be regulated?” You ask, your voice cracking slightly. “What if I just want to be normal?”

“You are being normal,” your mother corrects sharply. “You’re a modern woman. You don’t need your biology dictating your schedule, or your emotions, or who you choose to partner with. We’ve talked about this. Those old fairytale ideas about fated alphas swooping in to take care of you? They’re fantasies. They don’t happen in the real world, and relying on some archaic bond is a recipe for losing your independence.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, hot and frustrating. “I know.”

“You’re a smart girl. You’re going to get a great degree, build a career, and find a nice, stable beta partner who respects you as an equal, not as a biological imperative. Okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper, the fight completely draining out of you.

“Good. Call me on Sunday. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You drop the phone onto the bed.

“That sounded like it went well,” Grace notes sarcastically.

You roll onto your back, staring at the popcorn ceiling. You love your family, you really do. But being the only omega in a house full of betas is like speaking a language no one else understands. They look at you and see a problem that needs to be medicated away.

But sometimes, when you’re alone in the dark, you let yourself remember the dreams you used to have. Before the pills started.

You dream of a heavy, comforting warmth. You dream of a scent that smells like home, of strong arms wrapping around you and making the rest of the world disappear. You dream of an alpha who looks at you like you are the center of their entire universe. An alpha who wants to protect you, who wants to provide for you, who wants to adore you exactly as you are, biology and all.

You close your eyes, letting a single tear slip down your cheek into your hairline.

Fantasies, your mom called them.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe fated mates only exist in Hallmark movies and trashy romance novels. Maybe you just need to accept that you’re going to spend the rest of your life taking little blue pills and pretending you aren’t half-empty.

***

The bass from the speakers is rattling Dean’s teeth, and he is painfully, agonizingly bored.

He’s currently trapped in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while a stunning brunette — a junior named Alice, or maybe Alyssa, he honestly can’t remember — runs her hand up and down his bicep. She smells perfectly nice. Like vanilla body spray and vodka.

She smells like a beta.

“So,” she purrs, leaning in close so he can feel the heat of her body. “I was thinking maybe we could go upstairs? It’s getting kind of crowded down here.”

Dean looks at her. She’s beautiful. She’s eager. She’s exactly his type, or at least, the type he pretends to have. A year ago, he would have already had her pinned against the wall of his bedroom.

Tonight, he just feels … tired.

“You know, sweetheart, I’m actually really beat tonight,” Dean says, offering her a perfectly practiced, apologetic smile. He reaches out and gently untangles her fingers from his shirt. “Coach ran us into the ground at practice. I think I’m just gonna grab a water and crash.”

The beta pouts, clearly taken aback. Dean Di Laurentis turning down a sure thing? It’s practically a campus anomaly. “Are you sure? I give really good massages.”

“I bet you do,” Dean says, leaning in to press a brief, charming kiss to her cheek. “Next time, I promise.”

He slips past her before she can argue, navigating through the sweaty bodies of his classmates with the practiced ease of a guy who owns the room. He makes his way to the back patio, shoving the sliding glass door open and stepping out into the cool night air.

He lets out a long exhale, running a hand over his face.

“Well, that’s a first.”

Dean turns to see Tucker sitting on the patio railing, nursing a beer.

“Shut up,” Dean mutters, walking over and leaning against the railing next to him.

“I’m just saying,” Tucker drawls, looking amused. “I just watched you turn down a ten. Are you feeling okay? Do we need to call a doctor? Maybe a priest?”

“I’m fine,” Dean says, staring out at the dark expanse of the backyard. “Just not in the mood.”

Tucker chuckles, taking a sip of his beer. “You know, for a guy who sleeps around as much as you do, you’re surprisingly miserable doing it.”

Dean glares at him. “I’m not miserable.”

“You’re empty calories, man,” Tucker says, shrugging. “You’re eating junk food when you really want a steak. You’re waiting for this magic omega to drop out of the sky, and until she does, you’re just going through the motions to keep yourself occupied.”

Dean wants to argue, but the words die in his throat. Because Tucker is right. He’s so right it hurts.

“What if she’s not out there?” Dean asks, the vulnerability slipping out before he can stop it. He hates sounding like this. He’s Dean Di Laurentis. He’s confident. He’s cocky. He doesn’t whine about feelings.

“She’s out there,” Tucker says simply. “You just haven’t crossed paths yet. But you will. The universe has a funny way of sorting these things out. And when you do …” Tucker grins. “I fully expect to see you turn into a pathetic, lovesick sap.”

“I am never pathetic,” Dean scoffs, some of his usual bravado returning. “I’ll be a goddamn delight. I’m going to spoil her rotten.”

“Sure you will, buddy. Sure you will.”

Dean looks back up at the sky, the stars mostly obscured by the campus light pollution. He wonders where she is right now. He wonders what she’s doing. Is she at a party? Is she studying? Is she waiting for him, too?

Hold on, he thinks, sending the thought out into the universe like a prayer. Just hold on. I’m looking for you.

***

You are practically shivering under your blankets, despite the fact that your dorm room is perfectly temperature-controlled.

The nausea from the suppressant has finally passed, leaving behind a dull, hollow ache in your chest. You have your laptop propped up on your stomach, playing a painfully cheesy rom-com from the early 2000s. On screen, the male lead is currently running through an airport to catch the female lead before she gets on a plane.

It’s cliché. It’s dramatic. It’s completely unrealistic.

You can’t look away.

Grace walks back into the room, fresh from the shower, a towel wrapped around her hair. She glances at your screen and sighs.

“Again?” She asks, walking over to her dresser. “You watched this same movie three days ago.”

“It’s comforting,” you say defensively, pulling the blankets up higher around your neck.

“It’s masochistic,” Grace corrects gently. She turns to look at you, her expression softening. “You watch these movies, and you read those books about fated mates, and then you let your parents convince you to take pills that stop you from ever actually having it. You’re torturing yourself.”

“They’re just movies, Grace,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “It’s not real life.”

“How do you know?” She challenges. “You’ve never even given yourself the chance to find out. You’ve been on suppressants since the day you presented. You hide your scent under perfume. You avoid alpha-heavy places like the plague. You’re terrified of your own biology.”

“I’m not terrified,” you snap, though the lie is weak even to your own ears. “I’m being practical.”

“You’re being miserable,” Grace says, walking over and sitting on the edge of your bed. She reaches out, gently resting a hand on your blanket-covered leg. “Look, I’m a beta. I know I don’t get the whole scent-bond, fated-mate thing. To me, it sounds totally overwhelming. But you’re an omega. It’s in your blood. And watching you try to squash it down to make your parents happy is really hard.”

You look away from her, staring at the screen. The male lead has finally caught the female lead. They are kissing passionately while a sweeping orchestral score plays in the background.

“What am I supposed to do?” You whisper, a tear finally escaping and tracking down your cheek. “My family thinks it’s a weakness. They think if I let myself be an omega, I’ll just end up completely dependent on some alpha who treats me like property.”

“Then find an alpha who treats you like a queen,” Grace says simply. “They exist, you know. Not every alpha is some dominating jerk. Some of them actually like the romantic stuff as much as you do.”

You let out a wet, humorless laugh. “Right. Where am I going to find a romantic alpha at Briar? Have you seen the guys here? They’re all frat bros and athletes who sleep with a different girl every night.”

“Not all of them,” Grace points out.

“Name one.”

Grace hesitates. “Okay, fine, a lot of them are like that. But you won’t know if you don’t look. And you definitely won’t know if you keep taking those pills and pretending you’re a beta.”

You look back at the movie. The couple is walking hand-in-hand, smiling, completely wrapped up in each other. A deep, agonizing ache settles in the pit of your stomach. It’s a physical craving, a biological imperative that the pills are desperately trying to smother, but it’s still there. Faint, but undeniable.

You want to be cherished. You want to be protected. You want to belong to someone, and have them belong to you.

“I have to take them,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “If I stop, if I go into heat,  it’ll ruin everything. My classes, my family’s expectations …”

“Is it really ruining things if it makes you happy?” Grace asks softly.

She doesn’t wait for an answer. She just squeezes your leg once more, stands up, and walks over to her desk to dry her hair.

You lay there for a long time, the glow of the laptop screen illuminating the dark room. You reach a hand up, resting it over your heart. It’s beating a steady, rhythmic thud.

I’m here, it seems to say. I’m still here.

You look over at your nightstand. The small, orange plastic pill bottle is sitting there, looking entirely unassuming.

For the first time in your life, you look at the bottle, and instead of feeling a sense of dutiful obligation … you feel a spark of resentment.

***

The summer heat is usually oppressive, but today, you can’t feel it at all. In fact, you’re freezing.

You grip the strap of your backpack, your knuckles turning white, and force yourself to take another step down the crowded brick pathway of the Briar University quad. Your teeth are chattering so hard your jaw aches. Every muscle in your body feels like it’s been pulled taut, vibrating like a violin string right before it snaps.

“I’m telling you, you need to go to the campus clinic,” Grace’s voice sounds tinny and distant coming through your AirPods. “You looked like a ghost when I left for my eight AM. I seriously considered skipping to stay with you.”

“I’m fine,” you lie, your voice breathless and shaky. You stumble slightly over a crack in the pavement. “It’s just … it’s just the adjustment period. Like my mom said. It’s normal.”

“It doesn’t look normal, and it doesn’t sound normal,” Grace snaps back, her tone sharp with genuine worry. “You were sweating through your sheets, but you were shivering. That’s a fever. Please, just skip the midterm. Professor Harrington is a hardass, but he’s not going to fail you for a medical emergency.”

“I don’t have a medical emergency, Grace,” you say stubbornly, though black spots are beginning to dance at the edges of your vision. “I just need to sit down. Once I’m in the lecture hall, I’ll be fine.”

You don’t feel fine.

Your skin feels too tight. There’s a strange, metallic taste in the back of your mouth, and your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You reach up to wipe a bead of sweat from your forehead and realize your hand is trembling uncontrollably.

“Just … let me call you after the test, okay?” You mumble, not waiting for her response before you tap your ear to disconnect the call.

The campus around you seems to blur. The voices of passing students melt into a loud, ringing hum in your ears. You try to take another step, but your legs feel like lead. Your knee buckles.

You manage to catch yourself against a large oak tree, pressing your back against the rough bark. You just need to breathe. Just a deep breath.

But your chest won’t expand. The muscles in your torso are locking up, rigid and unyielding. Panic flares hot and bright in your chest.

Something is wrong, your brain finally screams, cutting through the haze of your mother’s assurances. Something is really, really wrong.

You try to push off the tree, to ask the guy walking past you for help, but your vocal cords seize. A sudden, violent tremor rips through your body. The world tilts sharply to the left.

The last thing you feel is the harsh impact of the concrete against your shoulder before the darkness swallows you whole.

***

“I’m just saying, if she asks me to explain the offside rule one more time, I might actually lose my mind,” Logan groans, taking a massive bite of his breakfast sandwich.

Dean chuckles, adjusting the strap of his gym bag on his shoulder. He and Logan are walking back from a brutal morning lift session, the sun beating down on the bustling campus. “Maybe she doesn’t care about hockey, man. Maybe she just likes watching you get all worked up trying to explain it.”

“It’s not cute,” Logan argues around a mouthful of egg and bacon. “It’s a foundational rule of the sport. It’s an insult to my life’s work.”

“Your life’s work is putting a piece of rubber into a net,” Dean points out lazily.

“Yeah, well, my life’s work pays my tuition.”

Dean grins, shaking his head. He feels good today. The lingering annoyance from last night’s party has faded, replaced by the familiar, comfortable rhythm of his routine. Workout, class, practice, sleep. It’s easy. It’s manageable.

He’s about to make another joke at Logan’s expense when a sudden, collective gasp ripples through the crowd of students about fifty yards ahead of them.

Dean stops walking.

“Whoa,” Logan says, swallowing his bite. “What’s going on over there?”

A cluster of students is rapidly forming near one of the large oak trees lining the path. People are pointing, pulling out their phones, taking hesitant steps backward.

“Someone fell,” Dean says, his eyes narrowing as he tries to see over the crowd.

Then, the murmurs turn into alarmed shouts.

“Holy shit, is she having a seizure?”

“Someone call 911!”

“Don’t touch her, you’re supposed to put something in her mouth, right?”

“No, idiot, don’t do that!”

Dean doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he’s sprinting. The heavy gym bag drops from his shoulder, hitting the grass with a thud, but he doesn’t look back. His heart is suddenly pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs. His alpha instincts, usually tightly leashed beneath his charming exterior, roar to life with blinding suddenness.

“Move!” Dean barks, his voice carrying the deep, resonant command of an alpha that has the surrounding students instantly stepping aside. “Get the fuck back, give her some space!”

He pushes through the inner circle of onlookers and drops to his knees on the concrete.

It’s a girl. She’s small, swallowed up by an oversized Briar University hoodie, and she is violently convulsing against the hard pavement. Her head is thrashing, perilously close to the brick border of a flower bed.

“Logan!” Dean yells, not looking away from her. “Call 911! Now!”

“Already on it!” Logan shouts from somewhere behind him.

Dean strips off his thick varsity jacket in one fluid motion, rolling it up. He moves quickly but carefully, sliding the jacket under her head to cushion the brutal impacts.

“Hey,” Dean says loudly, his hands hovering over her trembling shoulders, wanting to restrain her but knowing better. “Hey, I’ve got you. You’re okay. Just let it happen, sweetheart. Help is coming.”

Her eyes are rolled back, and a sickening, strained sound is pushing past her lips.

“What happened?” Dean snaps at a terrified-looking sophomore standing nearby.

“I-I don’t know!” The guy stammers. “She was just leaning against the tree, and then she just … dropped. She was shaking before she even fell.”

Dean curses under his breath. He reaches out, carefully checking her wrist for a pulse.

The second his skin makes contact with hers, he recoils.

“Christ, she’s burning up,” Dean mutters, his eyes widening. She’s radiating heat like a furnace. Her skin is drenched in sweat, yet her muscles are locked in terrifying rigidity beneath the convulsions.

“Dispatch says EMTs are three minutes out,” Logan says, kneeling next to Dean. He takes one look at the girl and pales. “Man, she looks bad.”

“She’s boiling,” Dean says, his voice tight. He shifts closer, using his body to block the harsh sunlight from hitting her face. “Her muscles are completely locked. This isn’t just a normal seizure.”

He leans in closer, checking to make sure her airway is clear. As he drops his face near her neck, he inhales sharply.

It hits him like a freight train.

At first, it’s nothing but the sharp, sterile, metallic stench of pharmaceuticals. It’s the distinct, bitter smell of clinical suppressants. It burns his nose, making his alpha recoil in disgust.

But then …

Underneath the chemical blockade, forced to the surface by the intense heat of her raging fever, is a scent.

It’s faint. It’s a whisper. It’s barely there.

But Dean feels it in his teeth.

It’s vanilla. Warm, rich vanilla, and spun sugar, and rain-soaked earth. It’s a scent so perfect, so impossibly right, that for a split second, the entire world goes completely, deafeningly silent.

Dean stops breathing.

His pupils blow wide, his irises flashing from their usual warm green to pitch black. A possessive, ferocious roar tears through his mind, so loud he almost claps his hands over his ears.

Mine.

The realization doesn’t tiptoe in. It kicks the door down and shatters every window in the house.

Mine. Omega. Mine.

“Dean?” Logan’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “Hey, man, you good? The ambulance is pulling into the quad.”

Dean blinks, the world rushing back in with a dizzying rush of noise. He looks down at the girl — his girl, his mate, his omega — and a wave of terror so overwhelming t makes him nauseous crashes over him.

The convulsions are finally slowing down, tapering off into violent, whole-body shudders. But she isn’t waking up. Her lips are taking on a faint blue tint, and her breathing is shallow and ragged.

“Where the fuck are they?!” Dean snarls, his head whipping around. He spots the flashing lights of the ambulance navigating the crowded pedestrian path.

He looks back down at you. The acrid smell of the suppressants is choking the beautiful, perfect vanilla scent, suffocating it. Suffocating you.

“What did they do to you?” He whispers, his voice breaking. His hands are shaking now. He reaches out, gently brushing a damp lock of hair away from your sweaty forehead. “What did you take?”

“Step back, please! Let us through!”

Two paramedics shove their way through the crowd, carrying heavy jump bags.

“Move, Logan,” Dean barks, shoving his friend back to give the medics room. But Dean doesn’t stand up. He shifts to the side, refusing to break contact with the girl, keeping one hand firmly planted on her shoulder.

“Sir, you need to step back,” the first paramedic, a stern-looking woman, says as she drops to her knees beside you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that makes the medic pause. It’s pure alpha command, unyielding and terrifying. “Tell me what to do.”

The medic shares a quick, cautious look with her partner before turning back to the patient. “What happened?”

“She collapsed,” Dean says rapidly, his eyes tracking the medic’s every movement. “A seizure. Lasted about two minutes. She’s burning up, her muscles are rigid, and she smells like she swallowed a pharmacy.”

The second medic pulls out a thermometer and presses it to your ear. It beeps almost instantly.

“104.2,” he calls out grimly. He grabs your arm, checking the rigidity. “Severe muscle rigidity. Tachycardia. Is she a friend of yours? Do you know what she’s taken?”

“I don’t know her name,” Dean says, the admission tasting like ash in his mouth. “But she’s an omega. And she smells like heavy, heavy suppressants. Industrial-grade blockers, or stronger.”

The female medic curses sharply. “Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. Her body is having a toxic reaction to the suppressants. We need to cool her down immediately and get her an IV, or her organs are going to shut down.”

Dean’s heart stops. The words echo in his head. 

“Do it,” Dean snarls, the terrifying helplessness morphing into blistering rage. “Fix her.”

“We’re loading her up,” the male medic says, unrolling a stretcher. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

They hoist you onto the stretcher with practiced efficiency. Dean grabs his jacket from the ground and stands up, his eyes never leaving your pale, unconscious face.

As they start wheeling the stretcher toward the ambulance, Dean falls into step right beside them.

“Sir, you can’t ride in the back,” the female medic says over her shoulder.

“Watch me,” Dean says flatly.

“Dean,” Logan says, grabbing Dean’s arm. “Hey. Stop. You can’t just jump in the ambulance. You don’t even know her.”

Dean rips his arm out of Logan’s grip with a viciousness that makes his best friend stumble backward.

“Don’t touch me,” Dean snaps, his eyes flashing black again. He points a shaking finger at the stretcher. “She’s mine. That’s my mate.”

Logan freezes, the color draining from his face. He looks at the girl, then back at Dean, his mouth falling open. “Holy shit. Are you … are you sure?”

“Yes,” Dean breathes, the anger cracking to reveal the absolute terror underneath. “And she’s dying, Logan. I just found her, and she’s dying.”

Logan swallows hard, nodding quickly. “Go. Get in the ambulance. I’ll get Garrett and Tucker and we’ll follow you to the hospital in my truck. Go!”

Dean doesn’t need to be told twice. He sprints to the back of the ambulance, jumping in right before the doors close.

The medic glares at him. “I told you-”

“I’m her fated mate,” Dean says, his voice thick with a desperation he’s never felt before in his entire life. “I am not leaving her. Do your job, and let me stay.”

The medic looks at the absolute devastation on his face, the frantic, protective set of his jaw, and sighs. “Sit in the corner. Stay out of my way.”

“Thank you.”

The ambulance sirens wail to life, the sound deafening in the confined space. The vehicle jerks into motion, throwing Dean back against the metal wall.

He watches as the medics cut away the sleeve of your favorite hoodie, swabbing your arm to start an IV. They place a cold compress on your forehead and an oxygen mask over your mouth and nose.

You look so incredibly fragile.

Dean leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped so tightly together his knuckles ache.

He’s dreamed of this moment for years. He thought he knew exactly how it would happen. He thought it would be at a party, or a coffee shop, or maybe a fancy gala his parents dragged him to. He thought their eyes would meet across the room, the scent would hit him, and he would sweep her off her feet with his charm and his smile. It was supposed to be a fairytale.

Instead, it’s a nightmare.

He watches the steady, agonizing drip of the IV fluid. He listens to the erratic beep of the heart monitor they hooked you up to.

Underneath the smell of the sterile ambulance and the heavy, toxic blockers, that tiny whisper of vanilla and honey reaches him again. It’s so weak, struggling to survive under the chemical warfare going on inside your body.

Whoever prescribed those pills, whoever pushed her to take them … Dean is going to find them. And he is going to destroy them.

But right now, all that matters is you.

Dean carefully reaches out, ignoring the medic’s warning glance, and gently wraps his large, warm hand around your freezing fingers.

“I’m here,” he whispers, leaning in close so only you can hear him over the sirens. “I’m right here, sweetheart. I finally found you. Don’t you dare leave me now.”

Your hand remains limp in his grip.

Dean squeezes tighter, bowing his head as a single, hot tear tracks down his cheek.

Please, he begs the universe. Just let her be okay.

***

The emergency room at Boston General is a chaotic clamor of shouting doctors, crying children, and blaring alarms.

Dean is pacing. He has been pacing for two hours.

The small waiting area off the main ER floor is practically vibrating with his nervous, angry alpha energy. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are sitting in a row of plastic chairs, watching him with varying degrees of concern and awe.

They’ve never seen Dean like this. None of them have. The easy-going, arrogant playboy is gone, completely erased. In his place is a terrifyingly focused, lethal-looking man who looks like he’s ready to tear the hospital down brick by brick if someone doesn’t give him an answer soon.

“Man, you’re going to wear a trench in the linoleum,” Garrett says quietly, leaning forward. “You need to sit down. You’re making the nurses nervous.”

Dean stops abruptly, turning his fierce glare on Garrett. “I don’t give a shit about that. I want to speak with a doctor. They took her behind those doors two hours ago and no one will tell me anything!”

“They’re working on her, Dean,” Tucker says, his Southern drawl slow and soothing, trying to de-escalate the situation. “NMS is serious business. They have to flush her system and get her temperature down. It takes time.”

“She was freezing when I touched her,” Dean mutters, running both hands through his disheveled blonde hair. He starts pacing again. “She was shaking so hard. And the smell of those pills … Tuck, it was repulsive. It smelled like bleach and metal. Who the fuck puts an omega on that kind of dosage?”

“Someone who doesn’t want her to be an omega,” Logan says quietly.

Dean stops dead. He looks at Logan, his jaw ticking. “What?”

“You said she was dressed in a massive hoodie, trying to hide. She’s taking industrial-strength blockers,” Logan explains gently. “A lot of omegas from beta families do it. They don’t want the stigma. They don’t want the heats. They try to suppress it so they can live ‘normal’ lives.”

“Normal?” Dean scoffs, his voice thick with disbelief and rising anger. “She almost died on the pavement! How the hell is that normal? It’s biology! You can’t just medicate it away!”

“We know that,” Garrett says. “But clearly, she didn’t. Or someone convinced her otherwise.”

Dean closes his eyes, trying to reign in the explosive fury building in his chest. He remembers the fragility of your wrist in his hand. He remembers the agonizingly weak scent of vanilla fighting through the poison.

He wants to wrap you in a blanket and lock you in his bedroom where the world can never hurt you again. He wants to buy you a new wardrobe, throw every pill bottle you own into the ocean, and spend the rest of his life making sure you never look that pale again.

“Family of the Jane Doe from Briar University?”

Dean’s eyes snap open. A tired-looking doctor in blue scrubs is standing by the double doors, holding a clipboard.

Dean covers the distance between them in three massive strides. “That’s me. I’m with her.”

The doctor looks him up and down, raising an eyebrow. “Are you a relative?”

“I’m her mate,” Dean says, the words feeling heavy and permanent and incredibly right on his tongue.

The doctor’s expression softens immediately. In their world, a fated bond overrides almost everything else. It’s an undeniable biological link. “Ah. I see. I’m Dr. Goldstein. Come with me, please.”

Dean follows the doctor down a quiet, sterile hallway, his heart thumping erratically. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker stay behind, giving him space.

“How is she?” Dean asks, his voice surprisingly steady despite the chaos in his head.

“She’s stable,” Dr. Goldstein says, pushing open the door to a private room. “The EMTs were right, it was a severe case of Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome brought on by a toxic buildup of synthetic suppressants. We’ve managed to bring her fever down, and the muscle rigidity is subsiding. We have her on IV fluids and muscle relaxants.”

Dean steps into the room, and the breath leaves his lungs in a rush.

You are lying in the hospital bed, looking incredibly small amidst the stark white sheets. Your eyes are closed, your breathing steady but shallow. The bluish tint is gone from your lips, replaced by a pale, exhausted pallor. The IV is taped securely to the back of your hand.

“She’s sleeping,” Dr. Goldstein continues softly. “Her body has been through an immense trauma. It’s going to take a few days for the suppressants to completely flush out of her system.”

“And then what?” Dean asks, his eyes glued to the slow rise and fall of your chest.

“And then … her biology is going to rebound,” the doctor says carefully. “When an omega comes off suppressants cold turkey like this, especially at the dosage she was taking, it usually triggers an immediate, intense heat.”

Dean swallows hard. He steps closer to the bed, entirely captivated by you.

“She can’t take those pills ever again,” Dean says, his voice low and hard. It’s not a question. It’s a fact.

“I strongly advise against it,” Dr. Goldstein agrees. “Her system clearly can’t tolerate them. But she’s going to need a lot of support through the withdrawal process, and the subsequent heat. It will be overwhelming for her.”

“She’ll have it,” Dean says immediately. “She’ll have me.”

The doctor nods, offering a small, sympathetic smile. “I’ll leave you to it. Press the call button if she wakes up and seems disoriented.”

The door clicks shut, leaving Dean alone with you.

The silence in the room is heavy, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the monitors.

Dean pulls a chair up to the side of the bed and sits down. He reaches out, slowly, reverently, and takes your hand in his. Your skin is cool now, lacking that terrifying, burning heat from the quad.

He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to your skin.

Now that the suppressants are beginning to wash out of your system, your scent is getting stronger. It’s filling the small hospital room, wrapping around him like a physical embrace. Vanilla. Honey. Rain. It’s the most intoxicating thing he’s ever breathed in.

His alpha settles, a deep, rumbling purr vibrating in his chest. Mate. Safe.

“You really scared the shit out of me, sweetheart,” Dean whispers, his thumb stroking soothing circles over the back of your hand. “We haven’t even officially met, and you’re already giving me gray hairs.”

You don’t move, but Dean doesn’t care. He has all the time in the world.

He leans back in the chair, his eyes never leaving your face. He maps out the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheekbones, the soft part of your lips. He tries to imagine what color your eyes are. He tries to imagine what your voice sounds like when you aren’t screaming in agony.

“I don’t know who told you that you had to hide,” Dean says quietly to the empty room. “I don’t know who made you feel like you weren’t perfect exactly the way you are. But they were wrong.”

He squeezes your hand gently.

“I’m going to show you,” he promises, his voice a vow. “I’m going to take care of you. You’re never taking another one of those pills again. You’re going to be a queen. My queen.”

Dean settles in, letting the steady beat of your heart anchor him. The playboy of Briar University is dead.

And as he watches you sleep, inhaling the sweet, perfect scent of his fated mate, Dean Di Laurentis has never felt more alive.

***

Coming back to consciousness is a slow, heavy process. Your eyelids feel like they have lead weights attached to them, and your mouth is as dry as cotton. A steady, rhythmic beeping sound echoes somewhere to your left, pulling you inch by inch out of the dark.

But before you can even force your eyes open, a smell hits you.

It’s completely overwhelming, wrapping around your senses like a thick, warm blanket. It’s sandalwood and cedar, rain-soaked asphalt, and a deep, purely masculine musk. It doesn’t smell like your dorm room. It doesn’t smell like your childhood bedroom in your parents’ sterile, modern house.

It smells like home. Like a place you’ve never been, but have spent your entire life desperately searching for.

Your breath hitches, your omega biology — newly freed from the chemical cage of the suppressants — flaring to life with a desperate, greedy hunger. You inhale deeply, chasing the scent, and finally manage to blink your eyes open.

The harsh, fluorescent light of a hospital room makes you wince, but a large shadow immediately shifts, blocking the glare.

“Hey,” a low, incredibly gentle voice rumbles. “Take it easy, sweetheart. Don’t rush.”

You blink the blurriness away, your vision slowly coming into focus. Sitting in a plastic chair pulled right up against the edge of your bed is a guy. A devastatingly handsome guy. He has messy, golden-blonde hair, striking green eyes that are completely locked onto you, and the kind of broad, muscular shoulders that a varsity jacket was practically invented for.

You don’t recognize his face. But the second you inhale again, you know exactly who the scent belongs to. It’s him. He is radiating it.

Panic spikes in your chest. You try to sit up, but your muscles feel entirely hollowed out, weak and trembling.

“Whoa, hey, stay still,” he says, instantly standing up. His hands hover over your shoulders, close enough to offer comfort but respectful enough not to touch without permission. With one hand, he reaches up and hits the red call button above your bed. “You’ve been through a lot. Just lay back.”

“Where …” Your voice comes out as a harsh, painful croak. Your throat feels like sandpaper.

“You’re at Boston General,” he explains calmly, his eyes tracing your face with an intensity that makes your breath catch. He reaches for a plastic pitcher on the bedside table and pours water into a cup, sliding a bendy straw in. “Here. Just a little sip at first.”

He leans over, guiding the straw to your lips. You are so thirsty you don’t even hesitate, taking a slow, glorious pull of the ice-cold water.

“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning your head back against the pillows. You look at him, really look at him, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of your memory. “I was on the quad. I was walking to my midterm, and then …”

“You collapsed,” he finishes for you. The easy gentleness in his expression hardens just a fraction, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You had a severe seizure. Your body was rejecting your suppressants.”

The word hits you like a bucket of ice water.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, your hands immediately flying to your face. “My mom. My mom is going to kill me. She told me it was just an adjustment period. I have to call her, she has to talk to Dr. Davidson-”

“Hey. Look at me.”

The command in his voice isn’t loud, but it vibrates straight through your bones. Your hands drop, and your eyes lock onto his.

“No one is calling anyone to adjust those pills,” he says, his tone firm, brooking absolute zero argument. “They were poisoning you. You had Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. If I hadn’t been walking by when you went down …” He stops, swallowing hard. The absolute terror in his eyes is raw and jarring. “You’re done with them. Forever.”

You stare at him, completely bewildered. Why is this beautiful, random alpha hockey player looking at you like the thought of losing you physically pains him?

“Who are you?” You ask softly.

He smiles, and it’s a beautiful, devastating thing. The harshness completely melts out of his face. “I’m Dean. Dean Di Laurentis.”

“I don’t know you, Dean,” you say, your brow furrowing. “Why are you sitting here? Why do you smell like …”

You trail off, your cheeks flushing a deep, embarrassed crimson. You can’t just tell a stranger that his scent makes you want to curl up into his chest and never leave.

Dean’s smile softens even more, turning into something completely wrecked and reverent. He slowly reaches out, giving you plenty of time to pull away, and gently wraps his large hand over yours where it rests on the blanket. His skin is so warm.

“I smell like home,” Dean finishes for you, his voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper. “Don’t I?”

You can only nod, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“That’s because I’m your mate, sweetheart,” Dean says, the words hanging in the quiet hospital room like a religious vow. “Your fated mate.”

Your entire world stops.

You stare at him, your brain desperately trying to process the words. Your fated mate. The thing you had secretly dreamed of. The thing your mother had ruthlessly mocked. The thing you had been medicated to avoid.

You yank your hand out from under his, shaking your head frantically. “No. No, that’s … that’s not real. That’s a fairytale.”

Dean looks at his empty hand for a second before his gaze snaps back up to yours. “Excuse me?”

“My family,” you stammer, pushing yourself backward against the pillows, trying to put distance between you and the intoxicating pull of his scent. “They told me it’s not real. It’s just biological chemistry that gets romanticized in Hallmark movies. Fated mates don’t actually exist in real life. It’s just an archaic myth.”

Dean stares at you for a long, silent moment. The air in the room suddenly feels very heavy, his alpha presence expanding, pressing against the walls.

“Then your family,” Dean says, his voice dangerously quiet, “is full of idiots.”

“Don’t call them that,” you say automatically, though your defense sounds incredibly weak.

“I’ll call them whatever I want if they’re the ones who filled your head with that garbage,” Dean fires back, leaning closer. The intensity rolling off him is entirely focused on you. “Look at me. Look at how my hand is shaking right now. I smelled you underneath whatever toxic sludge you were taking, and my heart literally stopped beating in my chest. You are my omega. Mine. The universe literally carved my soul to match yours. Don’t tell me that’s a goddamn myth.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You want to believe him. You want to believe him so badly it hurts.

Dean sees the tears and his entire demeanor fractures. “Hey, no, don’t cry. Shh, I’m sorry.” He sits on the very edge of your mattress, ignoring the hospital rules, and carefully reaches out again. This time, he doesn’t take your hand. He brings his fingers up to your face, gently wiping a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I’m sorry. I’m just … I’m angry. Not at you. Never at you.”

He traces the line of your jaw, his touch so achingly tender it makes a sob catch in your throat.

“Who put you on those pills?” Dean asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Who gave you a dosage that high?”

You look away, ashamed. “Dr. Davidson. My family doctor.”

“And who asked for it?” Dean presses, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “Because an omega doesn’t walk into a clinic and ask for an industrial-grade chemical lobotomy on their own.”

You close your eyes. “My mom.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You open your eyes to see Dean staring at the wall, his jaw locked so tight the muscle is twitching wildly. His green eyes have darkened, the pupils blown wide in pure, unadulterated fury. You have never seen a man look so lethal.

“Dean?” You whisper nervously.

He blinks, forcing his focus back to you. “Whoever she is,” Dean says, his voice flat and deadly cold, “I have never hated a human being more in my entire life.”

“You can’t say that!” You defend, the lifelong habit of protecting your parents kicking in. “She’s a beta. My whole family is full of betas. They don’t understand the alpha-omega dynamics, okay? To them, it’s a liability. She just wanted me to be independent. She wanted me to have a normal life, a good career, without being tied down by my biology. She thought she was protecting me.”

“Protecting you?” Dean snarls, the anger finally slipping the leash. He stands up, pacing away from the bed before whirling back around to face you. “You were seizing on the concrete! You were freezing to death and burning up at the same time! Is that her version of protection? Forcing you to suppress a fundamental part of who you are just because it inconveniences her worldview?”

“She didn’t know the pills would do this!”

“She didn’t care!” Dean shouts, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “Just because she’s a beta and she’ll never experience the absolute fucking magic of having a fated mate doesn’t give her the right to try and rip it away from you! It is a gift, and she treated it like a disease!”

You flinch, pulling your knees up to your chest. The truth of his words hits you like a physical blow, breaking through the decades of conditioning your parents had carefully layered over you.

Dean sees you flinch and curses violently under his breath. He crosses the room in two strides, dropping to his knees right beside your bed so he’s perfectly eye-level with you.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m yelling,” he breathes, his hands coming up to grip the metal bedrails. “I’m just so angry that you got hurt. You have no idea what it did to me, watching you on that pavement. Thinking I finally found you, only to watch you die.”

He reaches through the rails, gently taking your left arm. He turns your wrist over, exposing the pale skin of your inner forearm. Right over your pulse point, where a mating gland sits dormant beneath the skin.

He lowers his head and presses a long, firm, agonizingly soft kiss directly over the gland.

A jolt of pure electricity shoots up your arm, straight into your chest. Your omega purrs, a deep, vibrating sound of absolute contentment that you didn’t even know you were capable of making.

Dean pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, his lips still hovering mere inches from your skin.

“She’s not in charge anymore,” Dean vows, his voice a low, rough rumble. “I’m here now. I am your mate. I will take care of you, I will protect you, and I swear on my life, you will never experience anything like that ever again. You are done hiding.”

You stare down at him, entirely captivated. For the first time in your life, you don’t feel broken. You don’t feel like a problem that needs to be solved. Under Dean’s heavy, devoted gaze, you feel perfect.

Before you can formulate a response, the heavy wooden door to your room pushes open.

“Ah, you’re awake,” a female voice says briskly.

Dean immediately stands up, though he doesn’t step away from your bed. He slides his hand down to tangle his fingers firmly with yours, presenting a united front as the doctor walks in, followed by a nurse holding a chart.

“I’m Dr. Goldstein,” the doctor says, offering a warm smile as she approaches the foot of the bed. “It’s good to see your eyes open. How are you feeling?”

“Weak,” you admit honestly, your voice still raspy. “My muscles ache.”

“That’s to be expected,” Dr. Goldstein says, flipping through your chart. “You suffered a severe tonic-clonic seizure caused by a toxic buildup of synthetic suppressants. Your body went into a state of Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. Frankly, you’re very lucky your mate here acted as quickly as he did, and that the ambulance was close.”

You look up at Dean. He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, though his eyes remain locked sharply on the doctor.

“We’ve pumped you full of fluids and muscle relaxants, and we’ve successfully flushed the majority of the chemical toxicity out of your system,” Dr. Goldstein continues. She lowers the clipboard, looking at you with serious, sympathetic eyes. “But we need to talk about what comes next.”

The knot of anxiety in your stomach, which Dean had momentarily smoothed away, twists tight again. “What comes next?”

“You cannot go back on suppressants,” Dr. Goldstein says firmly. “Your body has developed a severe, life-threatening allergy to them. If you try to take even a low dose, you could go into anaphylactic shock, or worse.”

“Never again,” Dean states, his voice leaving absolutely no room for debate.

You swallow hard. “Okay. No more pills. But … what does that mean?”

Dr. Goldstein sighs softly. “It means your biology is going to rebound. Hard. You’ve been forcibly suppressing your omega nature for years. Now that the dam is broken, your hormones are going to spike to compensate. I need you to be prepared. Within the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, you are going to go into heat.”

The blood completely drains from your face.

Heat. The thought echoes in your head, a terrifying, abstract concept that your mother had always spoken about in hushed, disgusted tones. A loss of control. A feverish, degrading biological imperative.

“No,” you whisper, true, visceral panic setting in. You start to shake, pulling your hand out of Dean’s grip to clutch at the hospital blanket. “No, I can’t. I don’t know how. I’ve never had one.”

Dr. Goldstein looks surprised. “Never?”

“My parents put me on suppressants the day I presented at fourteen,” you say, your breathing turning shallow and frantic. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how it feels. Please, isn’t there something else you can give me? A lighter pill? An injection? I can’t just … I can’t!”

“Sweetheart, hey, look at me,” Dean says, his voice cutting through the rising tide of your panic.

You look at him, tears freely spilling down your cheeks.

Internally, Dean is a hurricane of pure, unadulterated violence. The realization that your parents essentially chemically sterilized you at fourteen — robbing you of every natural milestone of your secondary gender out of their own beta prejudice — makes him want to find them and tear them apart with his bare hands. The rage is so hot and blinding he can barely see straight.

But outwardly? Outwardly, he is a mountain. Unshakeable. Calm.

He sits back down on the edge of the bed, completely ignoring the doctor and nurse. He frames your face with both of his large, warm hands, his thumbs sweeping away your tears.

“Breathe with me,” Dean murmurs, locking his green eyes onto yours. He takes an exaggerated, deep breath in. “Come on. In.”

You drag a ragged breath into your lungs, mirroring him.

“Good. Out,” he praises softly.

He keeps his scent deliberately calm, pushing out waves of soothing cedar and rain, blanketing your panic in layers of alpha protection.

“I’m terrified,” you sob, your hands coming up to grip his wrists. “My mom always said heats make you lose your mind. She said it’s humiliating.”

“Your mom doesn’t know a damn thing about what it means to be an omega,” Dean says, his voice dripping with absolute certainty. “She lied to you. It’s not humiliating. It’s natural. It’s beautiful.”

“But I don’t know what to do!”

“You don’t have to know what to do,” Dean says gently, leaning in until his forehead is resting against yours. “Because I know what to do. That’s what mates are for, baby. I am going to be right by your side the entire time. I’ll take care of everything. You won’t have to think, you won’t have to worry, you just have to let your body do what it was meant to do.”

“You promise?” You whisper, closing your eyes and leaning into his solid strength.

“I swear it on my life,” Dean vows, his lips brushing against your forehead. “I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time. I’m not going to let anything scare you ever again. We’re going to get through this together.”

Dr. Goldstein clears her throat softly, a small smile playing on her lips. “He’s right. A mate bond makes the biological transition significantly smoother. You’re in very good hands.”

You open your eyes, looking at Dean. The arrogant, charming playboy of Briar University is entirely gone. In his place is a devoted, fiercely protective alpha who is looking at you like you hold the stars in your hands.

For the first time in your life, you stop fighting your own biology. You take a deep breath of sandalwood and rain, and finally, you let yourself just be an omega.

***

The next thirty-two hours are a masterclass in anticipation.

The hospital staff insists on keeping you for observation to ensure the suppressants are completely flushed from your system and that your organs haven’t suffered any lasting damage from the toxicity.

Dean never leaves your side. He sleeps in the wildly uncomfortable plastic chair next to your bed, his hand tangled with yours. He eats terrible cafeteria food. He charms the nurses into bringing you extra pillows and smuggled-in hot chocolate.

He only leaves once. On the second morning, he kisses your forehead, promises he’ll be back before you can even miss him, and vanishes for two hours. He returns smelling like his expensive cedar body wash, wearing fresh clothes, and carrying a massive duffel bag.

“I had to prep,” Dean explains simply when you ask about the bag, a devastating smirk playing on his lips. “And I had to threaten Logan with bodily harm if he ever breathed a word about my panic attack.”

When Dr. Goldstein finally signs your discharge papers, the shift in your body is undeniable.

You feel … heavy. There is a deep, pulsing warmth settling low in your abdomen, a completely foreign sensation that makes your breath catch every few minutes. Your skin feels highly sensitized, the friction of your sweatpants against your legs sends tiny shocks up your spine.

But the most obvious change is the scent.

As Dean leads you out to his car, you notice the way his nostrils flare. His jaw is tight, his grip on your hand firm and possessive. The faint, smothered vanilla scent that had barely survived the suppressants has bloomed. It’s rich, thick, and intoxicatingly sweet, dripping with the undeniable pheromones of an omega on the absolute precipice of her first heat.

“We aren’t going to my house,” Dean says, opening the passenger door for you and helping you climb inside. “Logan and the guys are great, but you don’t need three other alphas in the house right now. And you definitely aren’t going back to your dorm.”

“Where are we going?” You ask, your voice already a little breathless. The leather of the car seat feels incredibly soft against your back.

“My family owns the Heyward Harbor Hotel downtown,” Dean says, shutting your door and walking around to the driver’s side. He climbs in, immediately locking the doors and starting the engine. “There’s a private penthouse suite on the top floor. It’s soundproof, secure, and completely ours. The staff knows not to come up unless I call.”

You swallow hard, your heart doing a nervous, excited flutter. “You really planned this out.”

Dean shoots you a dark, heated look as he pulls out of the hospital parking lot. “Sweetheart, I’ve been planning for you since I was sixteen years old. And right now, you smell so incredibly sweet that it’s taking every ounce of my willpower not to pull this car over and climb into the backseat with you.”

You flush a deep crimson, a rush of slick heat pooling between your thighs at his words. “Dean …”

“I know,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. “Hold on for me. Just a little longer.”

The drive is a blur of city lights and the heavy, electric tension filling the cabin of the car. By the time Dean pulls into the private underground garage of the hotel, you are practically vibrating.

He leads you to a private elevator that opens directly into the penthouse. The space is massive, all floor-to-ceiling windows, modern art, and sleek furniture. But Dean bypasses the living area entirely, guiding you straight into the sprawling master bedroom.

You stop dead in your tracks.

The king-sized bed in the center of the room has been completely transformed. It’s a nest. A massive, chaotic, incredibly inviting pile of faux fur blankets, high-thread-count sheets, and enormous plush pillows. And woven through every single layer of fabric is the heavy, comforting scent of sandalwood, cedar, and rain. Dean’s scent.

“You built this?” You whisper, staring at the bed. Your omega instincts are practically screaming at you to dive into the center of it and roll around until you are completely coated in his scent.

“When I went back to shower,” Dean says, stepping up behind you. He rests his hands on your hips, pulling your back flush against his solid chest.

“I bought every soft blanket I could find in a ten-mile radius. Does it look okay?”

“It looks perfect,” you breathe, leaning back against him.

“Good. But you can’t get in it yet,” Dean says, his hands sliding up to grip your waist. He kisses the side of your neck, sending a violent shiver down your body. “You need a bath. And you need to eat. Once the heat fully hits, you aren’t going to care about food, and you need your strength.”

He is as good as his word. Dean leads you into a massive marble bathroom and starts the water in a deep soaking tub. He helps you strip out of your hospital clothes with a terrifyingly gentle reverence, his eyes dark and hungry, but his hands entirely respectful.

The warm water feels like heaven on your aching muscles. Dean kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves, and actually washes your hair. His large fingers massage your scalp with a perfect, agonizingly slow pressure.

“You’re shaking,” Dean notes softly, rinsing the shampoo from your hair.

“I feel … weird,” you admit, your eyes fluttering shut. The ache low in your belly is turning into a sharp, demanding throb. “It’s like there’s a wire pulled tight inside me, and it keeps getting tighter.”

“That’s the pre-heat,” Dean explains, his voice a soothing rumble. “Your body is prepping. It’s waking up. Just breathe through it.”

After the bath, he wraps you in a massive, fluffy towel and carries you out to the kitchen island. He’s ordered room service — a massive plate of carbonara, warm bread, and fruit.

“Eat,” he commands gently, pushing a fork into your hand. “As much as you can.”

You manage to eat half the pasta, though your appetite is rapidly being eclipsed by a different kind of hunger. The scent in the room is overwhelming now. Your vanilla and honey has mixed entirely with his cedar and rain, creating a thick, heady atmosphere that makes your head spin.

You drop the fork, a sudden, violent hot flash tearing through your body. You gasp, your hands gripping the edge of the marble counter.

Dean is there in a second. “Hey. Look at me.”

You look up, panting slightly. “Dean … it hurts. It’s so hot.”

“I know,” Dean says, his eyes flashing to a pitch-black, predatory dark. The leash he’s been keeping on his alpha is snapping. He reaches down and effortlessly scoops you up into his arms, carrying you back to the bedroom. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

He drops you gently into the center of the nest. The sheer volume of his scent embedded in the blankets hits your system like a drug. You instantly curl onto your side, burying your face in one of his oversized t-shirts he left in the pile, a loud, desperate whine tearing from your throat.

Dean strips off his shirt in one fluid motion, tossing it aside. He kicks off his shoes and jeans, left only in his boxer briefs, before he crawls into the nest with you.

The moment his bare skin touches yours, the final thread snaps.

The heat hits.

It is a tidal wave of biological demand. The dull ache turns into a blinding, searing need that completely consumes your mind. You don’t think. You just react. You scramble toward him, your hands desperately clutching at his broad, muscular shoulders, pulling him down over you.

“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice a fractured sob. You arch your hips upward, seeking the heavy, solid weight of him. “Please, I need … I need …”

“I know what you need,” Dean growls, his voice a guttural, vibrating sound that makes your core clench. He pins your wrists gently above your head with one hand, his chest hovering inches from yours. “You are so incredibly beautiful. You smell like pure sugar, baby.”

He lowers his head, his mouth capturing yours in a devastating, bruising kiss. It’s nothing like the polite, gentle care he’s shown you for the last two days. This is raw, possessive, and entirely alpha. He parts your lips with his tongue, tasting you deeply, drinking in your soft moans.

You writhe beneath him, your legs tangling with his. You are soaked, a slick, hot mess of arousal that your body has naturally produced in terrifying abundance.

Dean breaks the kiss, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw and the sensitive column of your neck. He pauses right over your scent gland, inhaling sharply.

“You’re mine,” he breathes against the skin, his hot breath making you arch off the mattress. “Only mine. Tell me.”

“Yours,” you gasp, your eyes rolling back. “Dean, please, it’s so empty. Please.”

“Impatient,” Dean chuckles darkly. His free hand trails down your torso, slipping past the waistband of your underwear. “We have to do this right, sweetheart. I need you completely ready for me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

His hand slips between your thighs, and you let out a high, fractured cry at the contact. His fingers are large, calloused from years of gripping a hockey stick, but they are impossibly gentle. He parts your slick folds, tracing the sensitive bundle of nerves at your peak.

You thrash against his hold, completely overwhelmed by the sensation. “Dean!”

“I’m here,” he murmurs, his thumb applying a steady, rhythmic pressure. “Let go for me. Come for me, baby.”

He slides two fingers deep inside you, and you completely shatter. Your body bows off the bed, a scream tearing from your throat as your first orgasm rips through you. It’s blinding. It’s a rush of pure pleasure that leaves you gasping for air, your muscles trembling violently as your inner walls clench around his fingers.

Dean watches you unravel, a look of pure worship on his face. He doesn’t stop. As you ride out the agonizingly long waves of the climax, he shifts lower down the bed.

“Dean, wait, I’m too sensitive-” you stammer, trying to push yourself backward.

“I’m not done,” he says simply.

He parts your thighs wider, settling between your legs. He grips your hips to hold you completely still, and then he lowers his mouth to your core.

You scream his name, your hands flying to tangle in his blonde hair. The slide of his tongue is expertly cruel, lapping up your slick with a greedy, starving desperation. He finds your clit again, sucking gently before swirling his tongue over it, sending you plummeting right back into the fire.

Your mind goes completely blank. There is only the heat, the overwhelming scent of cedar, and the devastating perfection of his mouth. You climax again, harder this time, sobbing into the pillows as your vision literally whites out.

Dean pulls back, his chest heaving as he crawls back up your body. His eyes are glazed, completely feral. He strips away your underwear and tears his boxers off, discarding them off the edge of the bed.

You feel the heavy, thick press of him against your entrance. The sheer size of him makes you gasp, a fleeting moment of apprehension piercing through the haze of the heat.

Dean senses it immediately. He pauses, his forearms bracketing your head, and looks down into your eyes.

“Look at me,” he commands softly.

You meet his gaze.

“I’m going to take care of you,” Dean vows, his voice a rough, desperate rasp. “I am going to fill you up, and I am going to make you feel so goddamn good. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” you whisper, meaning it with every fiber of your being. “I trust you. Please.”

Dean groans, a deeply satisfied, rumbling sound. “Good girl.”

He pushes his hips forward, burying himself inside you in one long, agonizingly slow thrust.

You cry out, your fingernails digging into his shoulders. It is the most intense, overwhelming feeling you have ever experienced. You are completely full, stretched taut, the physical connection bridging the gap your soul has been aching to fill for years.

Dean rests his forehead against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants. He stays perfectly still, giving your body time to adjust to his massive size. “Fuck. You feel … you feel like heaven. So tight. So wet for me.”

“Don’t stop,” you beg, lifting your hips to meet him. “Dean, please move.”

He chuckles, a dark, breathless sound, and begins to pull back. The friction is absolute torture in the best way possible. He sets a brutal, driving pace, his hips snapping against yours with audible slaps of skin.

You are completely lost in it. You match his rhythm perfectly, meeting his thrusts, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist to draw him in even deeper. The room smells like sex and alpha command and the intoxicating sweetness of an omega in the throes of a mating heat.

“That’s it,” Dean praises, his voice strained. “Take it all, baby. You’re doing so good.”

The pressure is building again, twisting into a tight, coiled spring low in your belly. Dean recognizes the shift in your breathing, the frantic, desperate hitch in your chest.

He slides one hand under your lower back, angling your hips up to hit a spot deep inside you that makes you see stars.

“Dean!” You scream, your head thrashing side to side.

“I’ve got you,” he growls. He shifts his weight, pinning you down, and buries his face in the crook of your neck. His lips brush directly over your scent gland. “I’m going to claim you now. I’m going to make you mine permanently. Let me mark you.”

“Yes,” you sob, the word a desperate plea. “Yes, mark me!”

Dean bites down.

His sharp canines pierce the delicate skin over your scent gland. The pain is a sharp, brief sting, instantly swallowed by a blinding, explosive rush of euphoria.

The bond snaps into place.

It is physical. It is emotional. It is a sudden, brilliant tether forming between your chest and his, locking your souls together with an undeniable, permanent gravity. You can feel him. You can feel his love, his possessiveness, his absolute devotion flooding into your mind.

At the exact same moment his teeth break the skin, Dean drives his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt, and unloads deep inside you.

Your own climax hits like a freight train, your body convulsing violently around his knot as it swells, locking you together. You scream his name, your hands desperately clutching at his back.

“Bite me,” Dean commands, his voice muffled against your skin. He pulls back just enough to expose his own neck, baring his throat to you in the ultimate display of alpha submission. “Mark me back, sweetheart. Claim me.”

You don’t hesitate. You surge upward, your lips finding the pulsing scent gland on the side of his neck. You sink your teeth in, tasting the salt of his sweat and the sharp, metallic tang of blood.

Dean lets out a roaring groan, his head falling back as the bond solidifies on his end. The tether snaps tight, completely unbreakable. He grips your hips, riding out the devastating aftershocks of your shared climax, completely lost in the overwhelming high of the mating bond.

For a long time, neither of you moves.

The room is silent except for your ragged, synchronized breathing. Dean’s knot is still firmly locked inside you, keeping you intimately tethered. He collapses completely against you, his heavy weight a comforting, grounding presence.

He gently buries his face in your hair, pressing soft, reverent kisses to your temple.

“Mine,” he whispers, the word laced with pure awe. “You’re actually mine.”

“Yours,” you echo softly, running your hands through his damp blonde hair.

Slowly, the frantic racing of your heart begins to settle. The feverish edge of the heat dulls into a bone-deep, lethargic exhaustion. Your eyelids droop, the sheer physical toll of the last few hours finally catching up to you.

Dean senses it. He shifts slightly, wrapping his arms securely around your waist. “Tired?”

“Exhausted,” you murmur, nuzzling your face into the hollow of his shoulder. “Is it … is it over?”

Dean chuckles softly, his chest rumbling against yours. He reaches up, gently petting your hair, his fingers smoothing the tangled strands.

“Not even close, sweetheart,” Dean says, pressing a kiss to the healing bite mark on your neck. “A normal heat usually lasts anywhere from four to seven days, depending on the omega.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and you try to pull back to look at him, but he keeps you flush against his chest. “Four to seven days? Of that?”

“Usually,” Dean continues, his voice soothing and calm. “But given the circumstances … given how long your parents had you on those heavy suppressants, and how violently your body rejected them … Dr. Goldstein warned me that this one is going to be different. Your biology is rebounding. Hard. This heat is going to be significantly longer, and the peaks are going to be a lot more extreme.”

A spike of nervous anxiety flares in your chest. “Dean, I don’t know if I can-”

“Hey,” Dean interrupts gently, his hand sweeping down your back in a steady, calming rhythm. “Stop. What did I promise you in the hospital?”

You swallow hard. “That you’d take care of me.”

“Exactly. And I will,” Dean says, his gaze burning with absolute certainty. “I am not going anywhere. I’ve got enough food and water in this suite to last us two weeks. I’ll be here for every single wave. You don’t have to think, you don’t have to worry. You just have to let your body do what it needs to do, and I will handle the rest.”

You look at him, really look at the beautiful, devoted alpha who has completely upended your entire life in the span of three days. The fear melts away, completely smothered by the warm, buzzing hum of the mating bond currently singing in your veins.

“Okay,” you whisper, resting your head back against his chest.

“Okay,” Dean echoes. His knot slowly begins to recede, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he shifts, pulling the heavy faux fur blankets up over both of you, completely cocooning you in the nest.

He wraps his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin. His thumb resumes its slow, hypnotic petting of your hair.

“You did so good for me, baby,” Dean murmurs, his voice growing heavy with his own exhaustion. “So perfect. Try to get some sleep. You need to rest before the next wave hits.”

You close your eyes, the scent of cedar and vanilla wrapping around you like a physical shield. The ache is still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but it’s no longer terrifying. It’s natural. It’s right.

For the first time in your life, you aren’t fighting who you are. You aren’t suppressing the deepest, most fundamental parts of your soul. You are exactly where you are supposed to be, safe in the arms of an alpha who looks at you like you are the center of his entire universe.

This is the fairytale. This is everything your mother said didn’t exist.

As you drift off to sleep, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of Dean’s heart beneath your ear, you realize one simple, absolute truth.

The reality is so much better than the dream.

“I liked it,” Jimin chimes in, smiling with that dangerous, innocent sweetness.

“You would,” Yoongi mutters, not even looking up from his dual-monitor setup.

“That’s rude.”

“That’s honest.”

You shake your head, trying to hide your smile as you navigate the narrow aisle past their cluster. You’re already thinking about the mountain of spreadsheets waiting for you, but then—

“Rough morning?”

Jungkook is already leaning against your desk, looking like he owns the square footage. He’s got that relaxed, lanky posture that makes your breath catch in your throat, his phone tossed carelessly onto your desk surface.

You set your lukewarm coffee down with careful precision. “Define rough.”

He studies you for a second, his dark eyes tracking the concealer under your eyes and the way your ponytail is slightly loose. A knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his perfect mouth.

“You haven’t taken a sip of your coffee yet.”

“…And?”

“And that’s concerning.”

You roll your eyes, grabbing the cup just to prove a point, taking a long, deliberate sip. “Maybe I’m pacing myself, Jungkook.”

“Or,” he says, pushing off your desk, taking a step closer to you, “you’re just exhausted.”

You glare at him, but there’s no real heat in it. “Why do you sound so pleased about that?”

“Because,” he says, stepping into your personal bubble just enough to make your pulse jump, “it means you might actually accept some help today.”

You scoff, sitting down as you turn towards your computer. “I don’t need help.”

“Sure you don’t.”

Behind him, Hoseok, who is the human equivalent of a surveillance camera, calls out, “She definitely does, Jungkook. I saw her staring at the same file for ten minutes yesterday. It was painful to watch.”

You whip your head around to stare at your other coworker, “You were watching me?”

“I observe everything,” Hoseok says, tapping his temple, with a wide smile, the same one he always has.

“You’re creepy,” you mutter, turning back around to face Jungkook.

“Helpful,” Hoseok corrects.

Jungkook just laughs, a melodic sound that vibrates right through your veins, making your chest warm and heavy. His gaze stays locked on you, “Offer stands. If you need me.”

You nod, turning back to your screen, acting like it doesn't matter. Like you don't feel his stare burning a hole in your shoulder blades for a solid minute after he walks away.

You and Jungkook are just coworkers.

That’s the mantra. The holy gospel you repeat to yourself in the elevator. Just coworkers who always end up sitting in the same row of cubicles. Just coworkers who somehow find themselves in the breakroom at the exact same time every day, like your internal clocks are synced to the same frequency.

Just coworkers who get relentlessly teased by everyone else.

“You two are actually predictable,” Seokjin says, sliding into the chair beside you in the breakroom, abandoning his own lunch to join the fray. “Same time, same table, same everything. It’s pathetic.”

“It’s called routine,” you reply, stabbing at your salad, reluctantly eating it even if all the teasing has made you lose your appetite.

“It’s called a pattern,” Jimin adds, popping a grape into his mouth with a grin.

“A suspicious pattern,” Hoseok agrees, tapping his spoon against his bowl.

“Can you all relax?” you sigh, feeling the heat creep up your neck, you straighten your posture, cracking your neck as you try to make yourself more comfortable.

Across from you, Jungkook looks entirely unbothered, his ramen steam curling around his face. “What?” he says lightly, eyes dancing. “They’re not wrong.”

You blink at him, jaw slightly agape, shocked. “You’re supposed to defend me, you traitor.”

“Why?” he asks, leaning his chin on his palm, staring right at you. “I like our routine.”

Your stomach does a backflip. You focus intensely on a stray piece of lettuce. “It doesn’t mean anything,” you mumble.

“Mm,” Yoongi hums from the next table, not even looking up from his book. “Sure.”

Namjoon doesn’t even look up. “Denial is a powerful thing. It’s also very loud.”

“I hate all of you,” you announce to the table, grabbing your lunch as you throw it out.

Jungkook just laughs under his breath, and when you glance at him, he’s already watching you with that soft, dangerous look in his eyes, the one that makes you feel like the only person in the room.

You swallow your feelings down, forcing yourself to shake your head as you smile at him, just how a coworker would.

Everything shifts the day you’re assigned the project together.

“Deadline’s tight,” Namjoon says, dropping a file on your shared desk. “You two will handle the cross-department integration. Get it done.”

You nod. Jungkook nods.

Behind you, Seokjin whispers, “Finally.”

You ignore him, but the air in the office suddenly feels thinner. 

Working together shouldn’t feel different. But it is. It’s quieter, even when the hum of the office is at its peak. The space between your chairs seems to shrink every hour. Your conversations aren't just about data anymore; they're about the way he drinks his water, the way you chew your pen when you're stressed.

“Move,” he murmurs, nudging your chair with his knee so he can angle his monitor toward you.

“You’re invading my space, Kook.”

“You invited me,” he replies, his voice steady.

“I did not—”

Your arm brushes his. The contact is electric, it feels like a jolt that freezes the air in your lungs. You both pause, just for a heartbeat, two people caught in something they’re too afraid to name. Then, you both pull back, staring at the screen, pretending you didn't just feel the world tilt.

The later it gets, the more the office sheds its layers. The hum of the printers dies. The clatter of keyboards ceases. One by one, the others pack up.

“Don’t stay too late!” Hoseok calls, grabbing his coat.

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Seokjin adds, winking.

“That doesn’t narrow it down,” Yoongi mutters, trailing behind them.

“Fighting~” Jimin says, a little too sweetly, and a little too deviously.

Then, it’s just you and Jungkook. The silence is heavy, draped over the desks like a blanket. Accidentally, you let a sigh slip from your lips, brushing back the hair that fell from your ponytail.

“You always do that,” you say quietly, your voice sounding small in the empty room.

“Do what?” he asks, cocking his head.

“Stay. Even when you’re done.”

He leans back, his chair creaking. “So do you.”

“That’s different.”

“How?” he asks, his dark eyebrows furrowing slightly.

You hesitate, your fingers hovering over the keyboard. “It just is.”

He studies you for a long moment, the blue light from the monitor casting shadows across his sharp features. “Have you ever thought about it?”

“About what?”

“This,” he says, gesturing vaguely between you. “Us. Spending every hour in the same room. The way we look for each other the second we walk in.”

Your heart stumbles before you can even stop it, it almost felt like you dreamt those words, as if they didn’t really come out of his mouth. “We’re coworkers, Jungkook.”

“Right.” His face drops, and you can see it clear as day. The word feels heavy, like a stone dropped in a well. You already regretted saying those words, but now you feel even more terrible.

He exhales, a ragged sound. “Forget it.”

But you don’t forget. Not even when you go to bed, staring up at the ceiling.

The next day’s a disaster. Not because anything happened, but because the silence is screaming. You and Jungkook have barely talked, and didn’t even have lunch together. He made up a simple excuse, something about not being in the mood to eat.

“Did you fight?” Jimin asks as you sit down beside him, stabbing at your food like it was a nuisance to you. 

“No.” you replied, shaking your head.

“Did something happen?” Taehyung tries.

“No.”

“You know what’s funny,” Jimin added, a suspicious look on his face, staring as you violently pick at your rice. “Jungkook said the complete opposite.”

You immediately snap your eyes up at him, your attention focused, “What did he say?”

“Ah! So something did happen!” He replied. Great, you unknowingly gave yourself into the hands of Jimin, without even realizing he was lying.

“You liar!” You groaned, rubbing at your face, before putting them down to look at him. “Fine. After everyone left, he insinuated that there was… something between us.”

Jimin and Taehyung looked at each other, then back to you. You thought they would have more of a reaction, but it was as though you were just telling them about the weather.

“Well, we all know that.” Taehyung shrugged, crossing his arms as he leaned back. “Is there something between you?”

“I don’t know. I told him that we were coworkers, and he basically shut down after that.” you bit at your lip, worrying.

“You what?” Jimin gasped, face palming. 

“Y/N, you idiot! He was clearly confessing to you, and you shut the poor boy down.” Taehyung explained.

You stared blankly at them, last night playing back in your head. There was no way Jungkook was confessing to you right? He couldn’t have liked you, he simply just thought you were friends.

“There’s no way. He was just playing with me, if he liked me it would’ve been more obvious!” you retaliated.

“More obvious?” Taehyung let out an incredulous laugh, nearly dropping his fork. “Y/N, are you kidding me? The man practically stares holes into your soul every time you walk into the breakroom. He brings you coffee exactly how you like it without you ever asking. He practically fights the air if someone looks at you the wrong way.”

Jimin nodded, his eyes wide. “He’s practically been doing the ‘I’m in love with you’ dance for months. The only person who hasn’t seen it is you, and apparently, Jungkook, because he clearly thinks he’s being subtle.”

“He’s not subtle,” Taehyung added, shaking his head. “He’s just pathetic. And now he’s probably sitting at his desk thinking he’s been rejected by the love of his life.”

You felt your stomach drop. The memory of his face, and the way it had gone blank, the way he’d said forget it, suddenly didn't look like indifference anymore.

"I didn't mean to..." You started, but the words felt hollow.

"Look," Jimin said, his expression softening just a fraction. "He’s been acting like a wounded puppy all morning. If you want to fix it, stop overthinking and go find him. He’s probably hiding out in the supply closet or the archives, sulking."

You didn’t even finish your lunch. You stood up, your chair scraping loudly, and walked out of the breakroom with a singular goal in mind.

You found him in the archives, a dim, quiet room tucked away in the back of the office. He was standing by the tall filing cabinets, a stack of folders in his hands, but he wasn't doing anything. He was just staring at the wall, his shoulders slumped in a way that made your heart ache.

"Jungkook?"

He stiffened, the sound of your voice clearly catching him off guard. He didn't turn around right away, but you saw his knuckles tighten around the folders. "What are you doing here?"

"I... I wanted to talk," you said, closing the heavy door behind you, muffling the distant sounds of the office.

He finally turned, and the look in his eyes shattered you. He wasn't angry; he just looked tired, guarded, and incredibly sad. "There’s nothing to talk about. You were right. We’re just coworkers. I shouldn't have made it weird."

"You didn't make it weird," you said, taking a step toward him. "I did. I was scared, Jungkook. I've spent so long telling myself that you were just being nice, just being a good coworker, that when you actually asked... my brain just defaulted to the safest, stupidest thing I could say."

Jungkook dropped the files onto the nearest table, the thud echoing in the small room. He looked at you, his gaze searching yours, desperate for a hint of truth. "You were scared?"

"Terrified," you admitted, stepping into his space. You didn't give him a chance to pull away. You reached out, your fingers brushing against the fabric of his shirt before settling on his chest, right over his racing heart. "I’m terrified because I’ve wanted you to say that for so long that I didn't know what to do when you finally did."

The tension in his shoulders seemed to snap. His hands came up, hovering for a second before he cupped your face, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones. "I thought I’d lost my chance. I thought you were just being polite when you called us coworkers."

"I was an idiot," you whispered.

"Yeah, you were," he murmured, but his expression was anything but harsh. He leaned down, his nose brushing against yours, his breath hot and uneven. "But I think I can forgive you. If you promise never to say it again."

"I promise," you whispered

He didn't wait for another word. He surged forward, his mouth finding yours. It was desperate and needy; he pressed you back against the rows of cold metal cabinets, his hands sliding down to your waist, anchoring you.

You froze, his words settling into your bones, warm and steady. The stifling silence of the archives vanished, replaced by the thrum of his heartbeat beneath your palm.

He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you into a tight, grounding embrace, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He let out a long, shaky exhale, the kind that only comes after you’ve been holding your breath for months.

“I was so worried,” he murmured against your skin, his voice muffled but entirely sincere. “I walked into work today and every time you looked at me, I felt like I was losing a little piece of myself. I almost called in sick just to avoid the awkwardness.”

You laughed, a soft, breathless sound, and wrapped your arms around his waist, pulling him as close as physics would allow. “I spent the whole morning trying to figure out how to apologize without sounding like a total wreck.”

Jungkook pulled back just enough to look at you, his eyes soft and bright. He reached out, his thumb brushing away a stray lock of hair from your forehead with such care it made your heart ache. The intensity from a moment ago had melted into something sweet, something domestic and easy.

“You’re not a wreck,” he said quietly, his gaze roaming over your face as if he were memorizing the way the light caught your eyes. “You’re exactly who I’ve been waiting for.”

He leaned his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. “We don’t have to rush this, you know. I just wanted you to know I’m not going anywhere. We can be coworkers, we can be friends, or... we can be something else entirely. Whatever you need.”

The kindness in his voice made your chest swell. You stood on your tiptoes and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to his nose, then his cheek, before resting your head on his shoulder.

“I don’t want to be just coworkers anymore,” you whispered into his shirt, feeling the familiar, comforting scent of his cologne. “I want to be with you.”

Jungkook chuckled, a low, melodic sound that vibrated against your ear. He squeezed your hand, lacing his fingers through yours and bringing them up to rest against his chest.

“I want to be with you too,” he said, his voice dropping into that familiar tone you’d grown to love. “I also have a feeling the rest of the office is going to be incredibly annoying once they find out.”

You groaned, a smile breaking across your face. “Oh, definitely. Jimin is going to have a field day.”

After that, you spent the rest of your day trying to not stare at Jungkook as he worked, but you were failing miserably. It was even worse when he invited you over to his home.

The door to his apartment had barely clicked shut before he had you pinned against the entryway, his mouth crashing onto yours with a hungry force that left no room for hesitation. The professionalism he’d practiced for months was completely gone, replaced by a need that made your pulse hammer against your throat.

"I’m done acting like a coworker," he growled against your lips, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, pulling you flush against his hard, unmistakable erection. "I’m done watching you from across the room and wondering what you sound like when you're finally mine."

He didn't wait for a response, sweeping you up into his arms and carrying you toward the bedroom. His hands were everywhere, fumbling with the buttons of your blouse, sliding under the hem of your skirt to press his hot palms against the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

"You look so beautiful," he rasped, his voice dropping into a rough register that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "And you’re going to be so loud for me tonight."

He moved quickly, stripping away your clothes until you were pressed together, skin to skin. He trailed his tongue down the column of your throat, biting gently at your collarbone until you whimpered, your fingers raking through his messy hair. 

His mouth latched onto your already hard nipple, swirling his tongue until it became sensitive. You let out a whimper, watching as he did that to both of your tits.

His hand then moved lower, slipping between your thighs with precision, circling at your clit. Your hips lifted in response, a moan escaping from you.

“Fuck, Jungkook—“

"That's it, baby," he murmured, his breath hot against your ear, his voice thick with want. "Tell me exactly how much you’ve been thinking about this. Tell me you wanted me to do this to you while everyone else was only a few feet away."

"I did," you breathed, your voice breaking. "I wanted you to take me right there at my desk. I wanted to crawl to you and suck you off."

He let out a groan, the sound vibrating through your chest as his fingers dipped inside you, finding you already slick and pleading for more. He began to move his fingers, thrusting them into your pussy. His thumb rubbing against your clit until your head fell back, your breath hitching in sharp, uneven gasps.

"You have no idea how much I wanted to hear you say that," he rasped, as he watched your face with an intensity. "I spent all day watching you, picturing exactly what you'd look like on your knees, tasting me while everyone else was just feet away, completely oblivious."

He took his fingers out and pushed you back gently, guiding you until you were kneeling between his legs. His eyes were heavy, fixed on you with a mixture of worship and barely-controlled demand. He leaned back against the headboard, his breathing already ragged, and looked down at you.

"Go on," he rasped, "I’ve spent months wondering what your mouth would feel like around me. Show me exactly how much you’ve been thinking about it."

As you took his cock in your mouth, he let out a low, shuddering moan. His hips hitched forward, forcing you to take more of his length. His fingers tightened in your hair, guiding your head, his thumb tracing your jawline with a possessive stroke.

"Fuck," he hissed, his head falling back again, his teeth biting his lip as he fought to keep his composure. Spit was dripping down his cock as you continued, your head bobbing up and down, while your tongue teased his soft tip.

"This is better than I imagined. You’re so fucking hot, taking me like that... like you were born to do it."

He watched you through half-lidded eyes, his gaze following each movement and of your lips. He dropped his head down onto the pillow, never taking his eyes off you. The noises that left his lips made you soaking wet, your core filled with an ache.

"Keep doing that—don't you dare stop. I want to feel every bit of your mouth. I want you to memorize the taste of me so that every time you look at me across that office, you know exactly what I taste like, what I feel like."

He started to move his hips more rhythmically, his hands still holding your hair.

"That's it," he groaned, his voice breaking. "You're so good at this, it's driving me out of my mind. Does it make you feel good to know that I’m the only one who gets to see you like this?"

"I love it," you took your mouth away for a second, only to reply, before dragging your tongue along the side.

"Good," he growled, his grip in your hair intensifying as he got close. "I’m going to ruin you for anyone else, you hear me? Every time I look at you, you’re going to remember exactly how this felt. You’re going to be thinking about how much you want me to do this to you again."

He let out a ragged, strangled moan as he came, his hips bowing off the mattress as he finished into your mouth, his hands trembling. He held you there for a moment, his breathing heavy and uneven.

"God," he rasped, finally pulling you up, his skin flushed and slick. "You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to do that to you. Now, sit down on my cock—I’m not done with you yet."

You wiped the spit away from your chin with the back of your hand, before straddling him comfortably. Your nails scratched against his chest, before resting on his abs.

He moved slowly, pushing into you with a heavy pressure that made your breath catch in stuttering gasps. Each thrust made your body twitch, every movement a silent declaration.

"Look at me," he commanded, "I want you to see exactly what you’re doing to me. You’re so fucking tight. Every time you clench around me, I wanna fuck you harder."

He leaned down, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck, "I spent months watching you walk down that hallway, wondering if you were wet for me. I used to go to the bathroom and just close my eyes and imagine exactly this—your pussy wrapped around my dick, your voice begging for me to go faster."

You let out a broken, needy sound, your ass slapping against his pelvis to meet his rhythm, and he let out a harsh, jagged laugh.

“Yes! Fuck, yes— I was so wet for you, Jungkook. I needed your cock so badly.” you gasped, grabbing onto his shoulders.

"That's it," he hissed, his hand sliding down to grip your ass, his fingers gripping the flesh before slapping it harshly. "Keep begging for it. Tell me how much you need me to ruin you. Tell me you’re never going to let any other man touch you after this."

"I'm yours," you choked out, your walls tightening around him, the friction becoming an agonizing, perfect heat. "Only yours, Jungkook."

"Good," he growled, his pace accelerating, his hips slamming into you with a power that shook the entire bed. "Because I'm going to own every inch of you tonight. I’m going to make you scream my name so loud that even if you wanted to go back to being just a coworker tomorrow, you wouldn't be able to look me in the eye without remembering exactly how I felt inside you."

He moved faster, his movements becoming more frantic and demanding, his hands sliding under your ass to haul you up against him, deep and heavy. 

"Fuck, you're perfect," he rasped, his voice breaking as he reached his own climax, his body shuddering with every powerful thrust. "Take it all. I want to fuck you so deep, that you feel it every time you sit at that desk tomorrow."

When the orgasm finally hit, it was a blinding, shattering force that left you both gasping. He collapsed against you, his forehead resting on your shoulder, his skin slick with sweat and his breathing ragged. His cum was seeping out of you, dripping down his twitching cock.

He didn’t let you recover for long. Even as his heart was beating fast against your ribs, his hands were already sliding down to your waist, his grip firm and insistent. With a groan, he pulled himself out of you, the absence leaving you feeling cold and aching for more.

"Not done yet," he rasped, his voice dropping into a demanding tone. "Flip over."

You obeyed, gasping as he pushed you onto your hands and knees, the mattress shifting beneath your weight. He positioned himself behind you, his hands sliding over your thighs to pull you back against him. When he entered you again from behind, he hit a spot so deep it forced a raw, breathless sob from your throat. He pounded into you, long and heavy, his thrusts stretching you, filling you so completely you felt like you might snap.

"Look at that," he panted, his hands sliding up to grip your hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. "You’re already so hungry for me again. You’re such a greedy girl."

He tilted your hips, finding the perfect angle, his movements becoming a punishing thud. "Does it feel good to be used like this? To have me own you from behind, where you can't even see my face while I ruin you?"

You didn't have an answer, only a series of breathless, broken whimpers as he hit that same spot, over and over again. He leaned down, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin at the nape of your neck, his breath hitching as he felt you tightening around him, milking every inch.

"Fuck, you’re so tight," he whispered, “You’re going to be so sore tomorrow. I want every single person in that office to look at you and know exactly what you were doing all night."

He gripped your hair, pulling your head to the side, forcing you to look over your shoulder at him. His eyes were filled with a terrifying, beautiful hunger. "Say it. Tell me you’re my little slut, and that you’re never going to be anyone else’s."

"I'm yours," you panted, the friction building in your lower abdomen. "Only yours, Jungkook. I'm your slut."

He slammed into you with renewed power, his hands leaving bruising imprints on your hips. You were sobbing his name, your body arching as the pleasure built.

He didn't slow down, instead leaning forward to bite down hard on your shoulder, his own breath coming in broken gasps as he came inside you once more, his body shuddering with every hard, final thrust that pinned you into the mattress.

He held you there, panting, his head buried in your hair as the world finally stopped spinning. Slowly, he pulled back, his heavy, spent body collapsing over yours, his arms wrapping around you to keep you anchored to him.

The silence that followed was heavy and languid, the kind of stillness that only exists when two people have completely unraveled each other. Jungkook didn't pull away immediately. Instead, he stayed right where he was, his weight a grounding comfort against your back. He kept his arms locked tight around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder as he focused on catching his breath.

He shifted slowly, rolling off you and pulling you back so you were curled against his chest. He reached over to the nightstand to grab the duvet, pulling it up to cover you both, shielding you from the cool air of the apartment.

"You okay?" he murmured, his voice now stripped of its earlier, demanding edge. It was soft and hesitant, the voice of the man who brought you coffee every morning, just layered with a new intimacy.

You hummed, burying your face in his chest, feeling the steady, calming thump of his heart beneath your cheek. "I’m good," you whispered, though your voice was still raspy.

He didn't just leave it at that. He began to stroke your hair, his fingers carding through the tangles with an almost reverent tenderness. He traced soothing patterns down your spine, his palm warm and steady against your skin. It was a sweet contrast to the intensity of the last hour, and it made your chest ache in the best way possible.

"I didn't mean to go so hard," he admitted, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. "I just... I’ve waited so long to have you like that. I forgot how to be gentle when I’ve spent months just watching you."

"It’s okay," you whispered, turning your head to press a kiss to his collarbone. "I liked it."

He chuckled and pulled you even tighter, tucking you securely into the crook of his arm. "I'm going to take care of you, you know. I’m going to make sure you’re alright tomorrow."

He reached for a glass of water on the nightstand, guiding it to your lips with one hand while he held you with the other. He watched you drink, his gaze softened by an affection that felt permanent. Once you were settled back down, he pulled the duvet up higher, tucking it around your shoulders like a cocoon.

"Stay right there," he whispered, pressing his forehead against yours. He kept his hand on your waist, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles against your hip, keeping you grounded. "We’ve got all night. No meetings, no deadlines. Just us."

He continued to hold you and as the adrenaline finally faded into a hazy, warm exhaustion, you felt him kiss your forehead one more time, his hold deepening.

"Go to sleep," he murmured, his voice drifting into the quiet of the room. "I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere."

And as you finally drifted off, the last thing you felt was his heartbeat against your ear and the secure, protective warmth of his hand resting firmly against your side.

The next morning, you walked into the office feeling like you were walking on air, despite the fact that every muscle in your body felt like it had been put through a professional-grade blender.

You walked past Seokjin’s desk. He stopped mid-sip of his tea, squinted at you, and then let out a sound like a deflating balloon. "Oh. My. God."

You kept your head down, trying to look busy with your files, but then Hoseok popped up from his cubicle like a meerkat. "Y/N! You’re… glowing? Or is that just a very aggressive highlighter?"

Then, the final boss appeared. Jungkook walked in. He looked perfectly fine, annoyingly well-rested, actually, and he was carrying two cups of coffee. He walked directly to your desk, his hand resting on the small of your back for a very deliberate, lingering second.

"Morning," he said, his voice smooth as silk. "Got your coffee. Just how you like it."

He didn't pull his hand away. He just stood there, leaning slightly against your chair, looking at you with that soft, goofy smile that said I’m completely obsessed with you.

The entire office went dead silent. You could literally hear a pin drop, if a pin were to drop in a room full of people holding their breath.

"So," Jimin said, slowly spinning his chair around to face you. "Are we going to talk about the fact that Y/N is walking like she’s carrying a backpack full of bricks, or are we going to talk about the fact that Jungkook is currently vibrating with smug satisfaction?"

Yoongi didn't even look up from his screen. "I already won the office betting pool. I knew they’d fuck by Friday."

You turned bright red, burying your face in your hands. "I hate you all. I really, truly do."

You grabbed your coffee and realized that yes, this was a disaster. Yes, your coworkers were chaotic, annoying monsters. And yes, your legs were killing you. But as Jungkook pulled a chair up next to yours, effectively ending the concept of "personal space," you decided it was definitely worth it.

"You're a menace," you whispered.

"And you," he whispered back, "are still mine."

taglist: @kingsqueensandvagabonds @lovejeonn

Within moments, it grows louder. Your son has woken. Kwei opens his eyes immediately.

Years of hunting have taught him to wake at the smallest sound. Before becoming a father, that instinct meant danger.

Now… It meant a hungry baby.

He turns his head. You are still asleep beside him, curled under the heavy furs, your face is half hidden against the pillow, your breathing slow and wonderfully deep.

He watches you for a moment. Dark circles still rest underneath your eyes. Your body is healing, but not as quickly as either of you hoped.

Pregnancy had been difficult, the birth had been harder. Some days you smile and laugh as though nothing happened, but other days, he finds you asleep sitting upright because you tried so hard to stay awake with the baby that your body simply stopped listening. He hates those days. Not because you complain.

Because you never do, you always apologise instead.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him whenever he catches you struggling. “I’ll be alright.”

He wishes you would stop saying that. Because you do not need to apologise for bringing his son into the world. Another cry comes from the small cradle beside the fire.

Kwei glances back toward you.

You do not stir, not even a little.

He has learned the difference. Usually, even before the baby begins crying properly, you wake immediately.

Tonight… Nothing.

You are completely exhausted. His chest tightens. He slips carefully from the nest, making sure not to disturb you as he crosses the room.

The crying grows louder.

“I know.” His voice is low. Calm. “I hear you.”

The tiny bundle kicks impatiently underneath the blankets. Two bright eyes blink up at him, Kwei cannot help the small movement of his mandibles.

His son always looks so serious. Even while crying.

“You have your mother’s lungs,” he mutters quietly. The baby answers by crying louder. “I understand.”

He bends down carefully, one enormous hand sliding under the tiny body with a gentleness that still surprises him.

Months have passed, and he is no longer afraid of holding his son.

The first time, he had barely breathed, convinced he might somehow break him. Now the movements come naturally.

Strong arms. Gentle hands.

The baby settles against his chest, wrapped securely in one arm while Kwei reaches for the bottle you prepared before falling asleep.

“I know what you want.” The crying continues. “So impatient.”

He sits near the fire before offering the bottle. Immediately, the crying stops and Kwei lets out the quietest breath.

“There.”

The tiny hands wrap clumsily around the bottle, more interested in drinking than holding it.

For several moments, the only sound is the crackling fire. Kwei studies the small face before him.

Months old.

Growing, already stronger than he was when he first came home.

“You frightened us.” The words leave him quietly. “So small.”

His thumb brushes carefully across the baby’s soft skin.

“Your mother carried you through every season.”

His eyes drift toward the nest.

You have not moved. Still finally resting.

“I watched her become tired.” His voice grows softer. “I watched her smile anyway.”

The baby blinks sleepily, drinking without understanding a single word.

“She was sick in the mornings and sometimes at night. Sometimes all day. She said she was fine.” He huffs quietly. “She lied.”

The baby makes a tiny noise around the bottle.

“I know.” Kwei smiles to himself. “I told her the same.”

His gaze returns to you. Even asleep, you look tired. There are moments when he still remembers seeing you after the birth.

Pale. Shaking.

Barely able to keep your eyes open. Yet the first thing you asked…

“Is he alright?”

Not whether you were alright. Whether your son was.

Kwei has never forgotten it. He doubts he ever will.

“You have her heart.” He looks back down at the baby. “Kind.”

His thumb brushes gently across the baby’s tiny hand.

“You will learn from her. You will learn patience. You will need it.”

The baby finishes eating, blinking slowly as sleep begins pulling him away once more. Kwei lifts him carefully onto his shoulder. Large fingers begin rubbing slow circles across the baby’s back. The tiny body gives a quiet burp.

“There.”

He cannot help the quiet chuckle that follows.

“A mighty hunter.” Another tiny yawn. “So fierce.”

The baby’s eyes flutter closed. Within minutes, he is asleep again.

Kwei remains where he is.

Holding him, while watching the fire and watching you.

His home.

Years ago, he believed strength was measured by trophies hanging from walls. By scars. By victories.

Now…

Strength looks different. It looks like a woman who gave everything she had to bring new life into the world. It looks like a tiny child sleeping peacefully against his chest. It looks like choosing to stay awake so the person you love can finally rest.

He stands up slowly, walking back toward the cradle, he lays his son back onto the soft furs, adjusting the blanket until only his small face remains visible.

The baby sighs. Kwei watches him for another moment before returning to the nest. You are exactly where he left you.

One hand tucked under your cheek, hair falling across your face, he kneels beside you. Carefully brushing a few loose strands behind your ear. You make the smallest sound.

But you do not wake up. You only lean instinctively toward his touch. He slips back under the furs, wrapping one arm carefully around your sleeping body.

You move closer immediately, almost unconsciously, pressing against his warmth with a quiet sigh that sounds more content than anything he has heard all day. Still asleep, you whisper something he almost misses.

“…thank you…”

His eyes widen slightly. You never opened your eyes. You never woke up. Yet somehow… you knew.

He lowers his head, pressing the gentlest kiss against your forehead.

“So stubborn,” he murmurs. His hand rest over yours. “You carried him. Tonight…” His eyes close. “I will carry both of you.”

Your son sleeps peacefully. You sleep even deeper.

And Kwei stays awake for just a little while longer, listening to the steady breathing of the two people who have become the greatest purpose of his life.

Only when he is certain that both of you are resting peacefully does he finally allow himself to close his eyes, knowing that, for one night at least, you have been given the gift of uninterrupted sleep.

~Masterlist~

The hockey house has always felt like home to you. In the past few years you’ve spent there, it’s felt more like home than your father’s house ever did.

Maybe it was because Garrett lived there. Or maybe because of the countless movie nights, post-game celebrations, sunday breakfasts, or parties you’d been a part of.

You loved spending time over there, teasing your brother about how whipped he was for Hannah, keeping track of Dean’s countless hookups, or being the taste tester for whatever incredible creation Tucker was making. And the moments you got to spend with a certain brown haired star forward were just an added bonus.

Tonight was another one of those post-game celebrations. The Briar Hawks had won, obviously.

You hadn’t actually planned on coming. Midterms were looming over your head, and you’d fully intended to spend the evening studying. But with combined pleading and guilt tripping from Hannah and Garrett, you relented and allowed yourself to be swept up in the celebrations.

The house is already buzzing when you arrive with Hannah. Music pours from the speakers, people yelling to hear each other over the noise, and somewhere in the kitchen someone let out a triumphant whoop.

Garrett is the first to greet you guys at the door, kissing Hannah before high-fiving you and nodding towards the kitchen.

“Logan’s in there,” he gestures. “Green sweatshirt, you can’t miss him.”

Your voice jumps an octave. “Why would I care where he is?” you ask, cheeks burning despite yourself.

Hannah rolls her eyes.

“You guys have been playing this game since freshman year,” she says, exasperation evident in her voice. “It’s clear you both like each other, so save all of us the awkward tension and just get together already!”

You gasp. “Hannah Wells!” you say with mock indignation. “How dare you?”

She just laughs before disappearing in the crowd, pulling Garrett with her.

“Best of luck!” she calls out.

You feel a laugh building up your own throat as you enter the kitchen. You’re leaning with your back against the island, watching everyone, when you feel a warm presence at your side. You know without looking that it’s Logan.

“Would m’lady care for a drink?” He asked, holding up a can of something alcoholic.

“This lady would care for more than one drink.” You joke. “Just keep them coming.”

He smiles as he opens the can in front of you.

His hand brushes yours as he hands it to you, sparks of something electric passing through where your fingers touch. Your eyes flit to his, and you know he feels it too.

“So, uh….” you start awkwardly. “Congratulations on the win today.”

His face breaks into a genuine grin, one he gets only when he’s talking about hockey.

“It was such a close one,” he says. “I was convinced halfway through the game that we’re going to lose, but man did we turn that around.”

You’re actually listening to his words, and you open your mouth to compliment him on his slapshot in the first period when you see Garrett and Hannah making their way to you.

“It’s time for the team tradition.” Is all Garrett says before grabbing Logan and leading him away. Logan gives you an apologetic smile before following.

You take a sip of your drink, ignoring Hannah’s knowing look as one of your favourite songs starts blasting from the speakers.

“Oh my god, I can’t not dance to this!”

You go to the dance floor with a shriek, dancing and completely enjoying yourself with your drink in hand.

The music is loud, and everyone else is also singing the lyrics. For a few minutes, you lose yourself in the music completely.

Then you feel someone behind you.

Turning, you catch a hint of short, dark hair and a grin that was dangerous, though not in a fun way.

You don’t move away yet. He’s maintaining a respectful distance, you don’t feel as though you’re in any immediate danger, so you decide not to make a big deal out of it and continue dancing.

A few moments later, the song changes, and you hear your brother call your name from the kitchen.

You make your way there, still smiling from the dance.

The kitchen is filled with people buzzing around, enjoying the vibes and the food.

You sit on the counter, throwing away your finished drink and smiling at Logan when he gets you another.

You’re having a spirited conversation with your brother about who takes longer in the bathroom, while Logan throws in occasional comments which makes the argument worse. 

It takes you a moment to realise that Hannah’s gaze keeps drifting to your drink, sitting a few inches beside you on the counter.

You frown slightly.

Following her line of sight, you notice her tense as she looks at somebody over your shoulder. She doesn’t say anything about it though, so you pin it to her constant hypervigilance

Her hypervigilance has never been something that you’ve found extreme of her. You love Hannah. You know all about her history, and the fact that she’s always concerned for yours and other’s safety? That’s just a detail that made you love her more.

A few drinks later, you guys end up sitting on the couch, watching the game recap and yelling loudly over the commentary. Your drink is kept amongst many others on the coffee table, half forgotten as you curse out one of the opposing team members on tv for shoulder checking Dean.

A shadow suddenly looms over you.

Looking up, you see that it’s the same guy from before, on the dance floor. You give him a tight lipped smile.

“Hi.”

He sits in the empty space of the couch beside you, leaning forward as he speaks.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice Hannah suddenly reach over and shift your drink closer to herself.

The guy just glances at her with an unreadable expression before removing his hand from his pocket and holding it out to you.

“Ivan. James Ivan.” he says, smiling in a pompous way that just instantly makes you dislike him.

“Hey James.” you say cautiously. “Was there anything you wanted?”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Logan’s jaw clench as he glances at the interaction, trying but failing to look unaffected. You file that away for later.

“Well, for starters, your number would be great.” James says in such a self assured way, like he just offered you the greatest gift life could ever give you.

“I’m actually not looking for anything serious right now.” you say politely. “Thanks though.”

James’ expression twists into something ugly, shattering the confident man persona. A dark look passes over his features before he schools his expression.

“Right. Well, good luck to you.”

And without another word, he gets up and leaves. You roll your eyes to Hannah and take another sip as she hands you your drink.

The night progresses.The music was loud enough to rattle the windows, and the crowd’s energy has reached its peak.

You were near the dance floor, teasing Logan about something stupid he said. You were gesturing wildly, so you had kept your drink on the table next to you. You were keeping an eye on it diligently, of course.

In your peripheral vision, you notice Hannah and Garrett in the kitchen, looking so happy with each other.

“In my defense, I said that after a few drinks.” Logan says, putting his hands up. “It was Dean’s fault for believ-”

You don’t get to hear the rest of his defense, as a sound from somewhere next to you draws your attention.

It was the same guy. Jake… James? You didn’t remember his name. The source of the noise was him stumbling over a discarded hockey stick, with an angry expression flashing on his face. The second he notices you and Logan looking, his eyes widen.

He quickly bends down, picks up something he’d dropped in the fall, pockets it, and backs away without another word.

You watch him get enveloped by the crowd.

A second later, you notice Hannah making her way over to you. She glances at the spot where the guy disappeared, and then your drink. 

She stares at it for a second, uncertainty clouding her eyes, before making a decision.

She picks up your drink… and proceeds to dump it in a nearby trashbag.

You give her a confused, questioning look.

“That guy has been hovering around a lot.” she explains softly. “I didn’t notice if he actually managed to spike it before he fell, but…” she shakes her head, still looking worried. “I’m not taking any risks.”

You nod, completely agreeing with her. “Yeah, of course.” You say. “I can just ask Logan to get me another one.”

“Did I hear my name?” he appears beside you suddenly, his eyes fixed on you.

You bat your eyelashes and ask him in an extra sweet voice. “Log, can you get me another drink?”

His eyes soften, and he nods before disappearing to get it.

“That man is obsessed with you,” Hannah comments.

“Oh, shut up!”

As the party starts winding down, your mind begins to wander.

You suddenly wonder if your math teacher sent the resources she said she would. You press the power button on your phone, only to see the dead battery symbol flashing at you.

Sighing, you turn to your brother.

“Can I borrow your charger?” You plead. “My phone’s dead, and I need to check my email.”

“You know where it is.” he says, tilting his head to the staircase.

You smile at him before heading upstairs, making your way to his room.

Hannah had a weird feeling about this party. Nothing had really happened, not enough to justify the knot in her stomach. But that guy that kept hanging around you was giving her weird vibes all night. And after everything, Hannah had learned to trust those vibes.

She watches you head upstairs, not thinking much of it at first.

Then a second later, she sees that same creepy guy glance around the room. His eyes follow you.

He heads for the staircase.

She stiffens, and then understands there’s no time to lose.

“Garrett.” she uses a voice she doesn’t adopt often. It makes Garrett turn to her immediately, concern flashing across her face. It even catches Logan’s attention, who’s standing next to Garrett.

She keeps her eyes trained on the staircase. “Some dude just followed your sister upstairs.”

Logan goes completely still.

“And that guy has been hovering around her the entire party.” she continues. “I think he tried to slip something in her drink, but I don’t know if he succeeded. I still threw it away, just to be on the safe side.”

Silence falls between them for a split second, before Garrett speaks. His voice is low enough to send a chill down Hannah’s psine.

“Let’s go.”

You plug your phone into Garrett’s charger in his room. As you wait for it to charge enough to turn on, you hear a noise outside the door. Assuming it’s just Hannah or one of the guys, you speak.

“Give me a minute, my phone is just-”

The words get stuck in your throat when you realise it’s no one you expected.

It’s James.

You instinctively take a step back.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, trying to keep your voice from shaking.

“Well I came here for you, ofcourse.” he says, stepping in like he owns the place before quietly closing the door behind him.

“I already told you, I’m not interested!” you say, frustration creeping into your voice.

“Well that obviously can’t be true.” he says, a lazy smirk gracing his face, sending chills through you.

“It is true.” you say, trying to sound firm.

He takes a step toward you. Then another.

Without thinking, you move backwards until your back hits the wall.

That’s when you realize you’re in trouble.

Your eyes dart around the room, looking for some form of escape, but he’s standing too close, crowding over you in such a way that you’re effectively trapped.

You slip your hand in your pocket, thinking that you might be able to call someone discreetly.

Your stomach drops.

Your phone is still charging on Garrett’s table.

“Get away from me.” you tell him.

James just chuckles. “You’re making this way more dramatic than it needs to be.”

“Get away from me!” you repeat, forcing yourself to meet his eyes.

“Princess,” he starts. The nickname makes you want to hurl.

“We’re already here. Why are you still playing hard to get?”

“I’m not playing hard to get, asshole.” You spit out. “I’m not playing anything. I said no.”

He doesn’t move, so you make a split second decision.

You duck to your right, and for one brief second, you think you’ve done it…

Then you feel a cold hand catch your collar, making you shudder as it jerks you back and into the wall.

Your breathing picks up as you look into James’ eyes. They’re fully dark now, something scary lurking in them. His hands move to your wrists, pinning them above your head with all his body weight, leaving you with no chance of escaping.

You hear the bass from downstairs making the walls of the house thump. Voices, laughter carrying up, so close yet so far away.

James leans down next to your ear, his breath ghosting over your neck and making you feel sick.

“C’mon, princess.” He croons. “You know you want this.”

Before you could say or do anything, the door slams open to your right. You whip your head toward it, meeting Logan’s eyes.

You make use of James’ momentary distraction to pull your knee up, hitting his crotch, your hands getting freedom as he retracts them in pain, crying out.

“Ouch, you absolute-”

He doesn’t get to finish.

Garrett storms into the room, all 6’1” of pure muscle and anger. Grabbing James by the shoulders, he shoves him into the opposing wall, clearing up space around you.

You’re still having trouble catching your breath. You’re hyperventilating, your hands shaking as Logan and Hannah come near you.

“I’m going to get you your bag and a glass of water, okay honey?” you hear Hannah’s soft, soothing voice break through your panic. You manage to give a small nod as she shares a look with Logan before tuning to head out.

As she reaches the door, Dean and Tucker appear, having been drawn up after hearing all the commotion. Their concern is clear in their features.

As she makes her way to the door, she pauses beside Garrett. Who’s just shoved James back into the wall so hard that the picture frames rattled. For a second, you’re not even sure he hears Hannah say his name.

“Garrett.”

He gives James a mean right hook, the sound echoing through the room. It makes you flinch.

It’s small, almost unnoticeable, but your brother notices, and his entire body stills.

He knows that flinch. He’s seen that flinch. Hell, he’s flinched that flinch.

And suddenly, Garrett isn’t looking at James anymore. He makes himself take a step back, forcing him to breathe.

Moments later, Dean and Tucker appear in the doorway, their expressions shifting as they take in the scene. They don’t ask questions. Your face, along with the way Garrett was staring daggers at James, says enough.

“Take him away.” Garrett says gruffly.

Dean and Tucker move immediately, grabbing James by his upper arms and pulling him before he can react.

“Get your hands off me!” James snaps, but neither of them pay him mind as they drag him out of the room.

Garrett watches them, breathing still heavy.

“I’m calling campus police.” he says, taking out his own phone.

Logan guides you to sit on the edge of Garrett’s bed, kneeling in front of you.

“Hey, sweetheart.” he says softly. The familiar timbre of his voice calms you down a bit, but not enough for you to catch your breath.

“Can I touch you?” he asks with full sincerity.

You shake your head no.

He nods and he respects that decision fully.

“Okay, focus on my voice right now.” He continues.

“You’re safe. Take a deep breath.” he says, taking one himself.

“In… and out.”

You shake your head, tears slipping down your cheeks.

“I can’t-”

“Yes you can.” he affirms. “You can do it, I know you can.”

“C’mon, breathe in with me.”

You take a shaky gasp of air, following his counts until your lungs finally begin working properly on their own.

It takes a few more moments before your breathing starts to settle.

Hannah returns with your stuff and a glass of water.

Logan holds the glass for you, your hands still shaking from the adrenaline comedown. You take small, desperate sips, your heart rate finally returning to normal.

The room is quiet.

There’s faint music coming from the ongoing party downstairs, but no one is focusing on that.

You’re staring at the floor near your feet as Garrett hangs up his phone call.

“Excuse me for a second. I’m going to deal with James” he says, slipping out of the room with quietly controlled anger.

A few seconds later, you hear his voice outside the room.

“Are you hurt anywhere?” Hannah asks softly.

You shake your head no, and a sigh of relief exits both of them.

Then Garrett’s voice raises outside the door, and Hannah stands up. “I should go check what’s going on.” she says.

She gives you one last look before leaving.

It’s just you and Logan now. For a minute, neither of you says anything.

He reaches for your hand, but stops at the last second.

You notice. And you reach for his hand instead.

He rubs his thumbs over your knuckles, warming your hands up as he looks up at you.

“It’s all going to be okay.” he murmurs.

You nod.

“That was so fucking scary…” he says quietly.

Your brows furrow slightly.

“If anything bad had happened to you…” he pauses.

His jaw tightens as he struggles to get the words out.

“I don’t know what I’d have done.” A beat passes. “I’d never have forgiven myself.”

“It’s not your fault, Logan.” You whisper.

“I know it isn’t.” he says, though he sounds unconvinced.

“I just…” he looks down at your joined hands. “I’m pissed at myself for not realizing what was going on sooner.”

“Hey, don’t blame yourself for that.” you say, squeezing his hand gently.  “You can’t be expected to focus on me the entire party.”

He just looks at you for a long moment.

“...But I was.” he confesses quietly.

Those three words steal the air from your lungs, but in a good way this time. This is the closest you guys have ever come to acknowledging… whatever it is going on between you.

“This entire party… I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.” he continues.

“Logan…” you whisper.

“Hear me out first.” he says, standing up.

“May I?” he asks, gesturing to the empty place next to you on the bed. When you nod, he sits down, his hand still holding yours.

“Another reason I was so scared…” he swallows.

“Is because I couldn’t stand anything happening to you.” his voice gets quieter as he explains.

“I know Garrett’s your brother, and Hannah is your best friend, but as we raced up the stairs… ” he looks down.

“I realized the complex web of feelings I had and… I couldn’t justify what I was feeling as just being worried about a friend.” he says, voice hoarse.

Your heart beats faster.

“Somewhere between the living room and Garrett’s bedroom, I realized that you’re more to me than just a friend.”

A pause.

“And I realized that I wanted to have a position to feel more than that.”

You stare at him.

“Garrett automatically gets the role of your protector because he’s your brother. Hannah gets to be the person you turn to first because she’s your best friend.” his hands tighten around yours. “And I’m just… Logan.” he says with a small smile.

“I don’t mean that in a bad way.” he quickly adds. “I love being your friend, I really do.”

He takes a breath.

“But tonight, when there was a chance of something happening to you, I realized I didn’t just want to be someone who stood by you. I want to be someone you actually need.”

“Logan…”

“I want to matter to you the way you matter to me.”

“You do matter to me, John.” you admit.

His eyes flick up to yours.

“Not just because you’re my friend who does my homework for me.” you say, laughing. “But because, over the past few years, you’ve somehow wormed your way into my heart.”

“And if I ever lost you, well… there’d be a huge Logan shaped hole I wouldn’t know how to fill.”

You squeeze his hand again.

“You’ve been there for me for years. You make me laugh when you know I need it, and you know me better than almost anyone- hell, maybe even more than my brother.” you admit. “I don’t know when it happened, Logan, but somewhere along the way, you became someone I couldn’t imagine not having in my life.

He lets out a quiet breath.

“While these aren’t ideal circumstances, you don’t know how much I’ve been dreaming about this moment.” he says with a grin.

The room falls quiet again, but not quiet in a heavy way. Quiet in this calm, peaceful way that succeeds emotionally vulnerable conversations.

You shift closer, resting your head against his shoulder. Logan stills under you. When you don’t shift, though, he takes a breath and relaxes, his hands still wrapped around yours as his thumb rubs circles into your wrist.

Downstairs, the party continues. Somewhere outside, James is definitely regretting the moment he entered this party. Hannah was probably on a grocery run getting your comfort foods for you.

Those eyes you loved so much disappeared in an instant, instead replaced with ones of complete and utter fury. You frightfully watched the way they darkened to a deep red, the gold rings of his irises shining through Hell’s smoke-filled air. 

You were looking at the King of Hell. 

“Lucifer!” You tried to call out, but your voice was lost in the gust of wind that picked up around him. It whirled around the both of you and tousled your hair. It wasn’t particularly chilly, but it still sent shivers up your spine and spread goosebumps across your skin in its wake.

He bared his teeth in a low growl, and the wind burst into flame. The ground rumbled beneath your feet and you just barely managed to leap out of the way as a flurry of inferno shot past you and towards the Radio Demon. Alastor stood not too far away with that ever-present smile on his face twisting into a haunting grin. 

There was not a trace of fear in that smug expression.

He knew how this would end.  

He too was shifting into his own display of power. Black tentacles sprouted from his back and hoisted him into the air. His limbs extended in an unnatural manner, his demonic power a stark difference to the angelic ones Lucifer possessed. It was only a matter of time before their constant bickering erupted into something far worse. Far dangerous. 

And Charlie was nowhere to be seen. 

You realised her father grew noticeably taller in this demonic form as well. From the ground you had the perfect view of his now towering form and your breath caught in your throat. Lucifer’s claws swelled and doubled in size, poised for attack. Golden eyes opened up on the inside of his coattails and you gaped at the resemblance he had to a Seraphim. Sometimes you forgot he used to be an Angel. 

The two demons were seconds away from breaking out into battle, and you knew this would end badly. Lucifer couldn’t actually harm sinners, but sinners could without a doubt harm him. Alastor especially. Everyone knew the horrors he could unleash with his power, and Charlie wasn’t there to stop it this time. 

You had to do something, and quickly. 

Without thinking it through, you scrambled to your feet and rushed towards Lucifer. Alarm bells blared in your mind as you practically threw yourself at him. He only had a split second to realise what was happening before you reached up to grab his face, then pulled him down to meet your lips. 

The alarms stopped. Your mind went blank. 

A surprised noise vibrated in his throat as you moved your lips against his almost desperately. It didn’t take long for him to begin returning the gesture, head tilting to the side as he relaxed into it and moved a hand to the side of your jaw. You could still feel the warmth of the flame in the skin of his palm and the sharpness of his claws against your skin. 

You kissed him with desperation, yet he was kissing you in an almost feverish manner. Like a man starved. Like he hadn’t done such a thing in years. And perhaps he hadn’t. 

It felt like hours before you finally pulled away to look him in the eye. 

What the fuck did you just do?

He glanced at you through hooded eyes at first. You felt your veins burst to life at the sheer lust that burned within those crimson eyes. Until it dawned on him what just happened. His face immediately turned a bright shade of red and he stumbled over his words. 

“I—What—You—” 

Your words seemed to have failed you as well, because all you could do was stare back at him with your own wide eyes and hot cheeks at the realisation of what you just did. 

“Oh my god—” You eventually managed to get out, stepping back nervously. 

“I’m so sorry, I—I don’t know what I was thinking, I just—” It all came out at once in a word vomit of apologies and half-finished explanations. 

He frowned ever so slightly as you backed away, words still spilling from your mouth. His demonic features retreated back into himself, and in the blink of an eye he was back to his normal self, carefully reaching out towards you. 

He gently grabbed your hands in his, silencing the apologies spewing from you. There was a newfound look in his eyes—something you couldn’t quite place. They sparkled with their usual warmth, yes, but there was something else swirling around in them as well. Up close you could see the lingering redness of his cheeks. 

You opened your mouth to say something, another horrified apology for your actions, but the words were sucked out of you as his lips met yours once more. The kiss was more deliberate this time. Slower. Soft. Your eyes fluttered shut. His hands rested on either side of your jaw to guide you through the movement, and yours pressed gently against his chest. 

For the next few moments, you swore you’d walked through Heaven’s gates right then and there. Everything felt just perfect, just right. His touch was entirely too tender, holding you like you were the most fragile thing in all of creation. He moved closer. Your chests grazed one another. It was all so electrifying. 

And then he pulled away. 

There was a brief moment where the two of you were pressed together, nudging noses, breathless. Between the loss of his lips and your need for air, your mind was spinning out of control. 

“I’ve wanted to do that for a while.” He murmured, resting his forehead against yours. 

You almost jolted at his words, heart stuttering violently. You felt dizzy and likely would have already collapsed if it weren’t for his steady hands. 

“Me too.” You whispered. 

Lucifer broke out into a grin. And then he was laughing. You couldn’t help yourself, either. The two of you giggled together as he pulled you in for an embrace and twirled you around. 

When you calmed down, he tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. 

“Thank you.” He hummed, fingers caressing your face. 

You cast a glance over his shoulder at the reminder of why the two of you were there in the first place. Alastor was gone. You returned your gaze to his and smiled. 

Maybe Charlie should leave more often.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

☆ I had two versions of this.... (this is also not really proofread lol)

“a new face!” your father exclaims with a wide smile. “welcome, we were about to begin. please, take a seat friend.”

the stranger only nods and sits a few rows before you. for the entire length of the sermon he did not move. you knew this because you couldn’t take your eyes off him. he was so still, was he even breathing?

where did you come from? what are you doing here? no one ever comes this far out, there is nothing to find. people come here to die, not to live.

brown eyes pierced into your soul as you were lost in thought and you jump a little, quickly averting your gaze. your father came to your rescue.

“new friend, we rarely get any guests. please, won’t you share your favourite verse with us? there’s no better way to get to know someone as by their favourite verse is there?”

a small smile forms on the strangers face and he nods. “nothing like it.”

his voice was…foreign. it didn’t sound like anything you have heard around here.

“let him know that whoever brings back a sinner from his wandering will save his soul from death and will cover a multitude of sins.”

a murmur of approval passes through the rows. your father nods. “james 5:20, a powerful verse. we had yet to have someone mention it as their favourite. pray tell, what is your name?”

every person in the room simultaneously seemed to have leaned forward a little, careful not to miss the reveal of the mysterious stranger.

“jake.”

jake. so simple. someone like him seems to need a more grand name. a name that carries the same feeling as his presence does.

once again, he turns his head, this time looking around the entire room. “it’s very nice to meet all of you.” enthusiastic greetings practically flew back at him, utterly charmed by this interruption of daily normality.

he smiles at them and when his eyes land on you for a single second longer than anybody else, he gives you a small nod before turning to face your father again.

the rest of sermon goes by like always, yet you cannot stop thinking about jake. his face seems to imprinted in your brain, eyes seemingly seeing right through you even in your imagination. you barely notice the crowd leaving the small, stuffy room. body and mind being almost in a trance.

“don’t go walking home in the dark,” jake’s voice ripped you out of your haze. he stood in front of the doorsteps, lazily leaning against the porous frame of the door. you hurriedly grab your bible, clutching it to your chest as you walk past him into the cool air of the night.

at dinner, you barely eat. your mother worries, of course she does, but you blame it on the heat. feigning a headache, you excuse yourself from the dinner table and find refuge in your bedroom. the small breeze gently moves through the thin curtains you embroidered last winter. little petals falling from the top to bottom, where they eventually start to decay. it had been a hassle to convince your mother to hang it up, this unhappy portrayal in the place you rest. you managed to spin it back to the idea of life and death, you always get her with this. does this really matter that much to her? is nobody else as lost as you are?

you lay on the soft covers, staring at the ceiling. change is not normal around here. strangers aren’t. every once in a blue moon a distant family member from someone comes to visit, but not someone who has no ties to this place. why would he come here?

sunday. the holiest day of the week.

more people fill the benches today, happy chatter filling the space.

you find yourself sitting in the middle of them once again, never having felt so lonely as you do now. what would they think if they knew of your doubt? your sin following you like a shadow, ready to jump out to reveal the truth.

before you knew it, sermon was over, the sound of praises ripping you out of your gloom.

your father engages in happy chatter with the crowd, shaking hands, giving hugs. how happy the all seemed. where they pretending or did they truly feel saved? how could this sin filled world not tempt them but devour your soul?

“no sleep?”

your head whipped around. there he was again. standing right in front of you, seemingly appearing out of thin air once again.

“what?”

“i don't mean to be rude”, he exclaimed “but you seem tired.”

if he only knew. every night, the same dream. for months. the church ceiling, hot rushes zapping through you like lightning. an unknown warmth bubbling in you.

“it doesn’t cool off in the night as much these days.”

he nods, eyes never breaking contact with yours. they gleam so interestingly, you cannot pinpoint the colour of them.

god, he was devastatingly beautiful, a mix of harsh lines and soft features. hair swooping in soft waves, framing his face. the sunlight dances on it, shimmering in the lightest shades of brown.

“so,” his voice ripping you out of your thoughts again. “what is there to do in a place like this.”

“there’s nothing to do in a place like this.”

a charming smile forms on his face, “surely there's something. what do you spend your days with?”

you pause. weirdly enough, you couldn’t think of much. you weren’t asked about yourself. not in a rude way, nobody asked the other for more than their well being and the occasional small talk.

“i dream,” you blurt out.

“dream.” he echoes.

you nod, looking out of the window, too scared to look the stranger in the face.

“what about?”

“i’m not sure. sometimes it’s these snippets of life. i’m not sure if it’s my life, i mean i don’t recognise any parts. but it feels so real, i find myself hours later, still sitting in the same spot, just dreaming.”

the moment you stopped speaking you realised what you just did. horrified, you look at him, the smile on his face. and you bolt.

“i’m sorry, i have to go.”

pushing past him, past the church crowd, you run down the dusty path to your house. you swear you still heard him ‘see you tonight’.

you slam your bedroom door shut, back pressing against it, as if to make sure no one could enter. the rapid beat of your heart made the blood in your ears pulse. you heave, tugging away at the collar of your dress. off, off with it.

there you stand, in your underskirts, hair falling falling loosely on your shoulders. in your heated state you must’ve tugged at it. a nervous habit your mother desperately tried to get rid off. your wildness will be the end of you, she always said.

you still feel the way he looked at you, even though it made no sense. a look doesn’t touch. yet you swear you can still him, as if he followed you here all this way. but that would be ridiculous, right?

nervously, you bite your nail, pondering what to do. you creak open the door and listen. no sound. but he had a habit of being quiet, that much you knew about him.

you softly padded your way over to the stairs, deliberately not stepping on the creaking parts of the wood floor.

the kitchen was empty, so was the living room. of course he wasn’t here. your mind has been playing tricks on you for months, a cruel test of faith. a test that you feel yourself failing.

“what are you doing?

you scream, hands grabbing for the nearest object.

your father looked at you with a mix of confusion and concern.

“is something the matter? are you feeling unwell?”

slowly, you lower your hands again. your shoulders drop and suddenly you felt so heavy. at first it was a little shake, a hiccup of sobs soon turning into a waterfall of tears streaming down your face.

your fathers arms hold you, steady and firm.

“it will all be okay, my sweet. it’s all part of the plan, part of your journey. you know he would never punish a heart as pure as yours.”

his words only add to your sobs. if only he knew that his own flesh and blood was drenched in sin. but you could never tell him, so you let yourself be held by the man that loves both god and his daughter, not knowing it was the greatest juxtaposition.

nightfall came quicker than expected.

the sheer cover of you blanket was tickling your skin with the occasional gust of wind. you have been laying in your bed ever since your father had carried you up.just like old times, he had tugged you into bed, brushing the hair out of your face and muttering a quick prayer. it will all be okay.

but you didn’t feel the same anymore. not calm, not protected or ready to enter dreamland.

no, you felt like your skin was on fire.

droplets of sweat ran down your forehead, dripping down your chin. your rapid heartbeat didn’t make it any easier, you could practically hear your own blood rushing in your ears.

none of that could compare to the pressure behind your eyes though. for what felt like hours you had been pressing your palms into your eye sockets, desperate to relieve the throb.

come on. it echoed in your head.

you writhed, a silent scream escaping you.

this was your punishment. all the times you had been questioning what god had planned for you, you have failed him. you have failed and now the devil is out to get you.

it’ll be nice, i promise.

a broken sob bubbled out of your throat. you were so tired. tired of being strong, tired of pretending to believe. you were already doomed, what’s there to lose?

so you lay there, limbs slowly relaxing. just letting it happen.

you have so much potential. this mind of yours is rare.

this time, the voice had a face. a blurry picture of jake formed in your mind.

he had such kind eyes. had shown you such kindness and what have you done? ran out the second you felt embarrassed. pathetic.

don’t be so hard on yourself now.

you felt the slightest ghost of a touch on your collarbone and you jumped, just to realise it was your own. you have gone insane. but it felt nice, your own flesh.

don’t stop now, jakes voice spurring you on.

with almost cruel slowness your fingers danced down, between your breasts, across your stomach, before stopping at the hem of you nightgown. you’ve heard the other girls murmur, head pushed together whispering away their secrets. of boys between their legs, of mouths on skin and flesh. it was all so unfamiliar to you.

i’ll help you, don’t worry.

your fingers inched up again, making contact with your core. a mix of a strangled moan and a squeak escaped you.

just take your index finger, we’ll go slow. start at the top.

listening to his voice, you place your index finger on top of your heat.

good, now circle.

you hesitate a moment before you comply, but no amount of pausing could’ve prepare you for the way your body was hit with a wave of ecstasy.

how come that this forbidden sweetness was what made you feel the most alive you’ve felt in months.

your movement grew quicker, more desperate and your mind cleared the picture of jake. the way his fingers had been tapping on the cover of the bible in his hand, how they caressed the back of the spine with such slow circles.

what would it be like if he were the one touching you right now? would it feel even better?

such unholy things you’re thinking sweet thing. careful with what you wish for, you swear you heard his chuckle echo.

but you have long lost the care. you felt to good right now, your body singing with liveliness and desire.

explore further down.

unquestioning, you dipped your fingers lower and gasped at the pool of wetness seeping out of you.

there you go….now gather it and touch yourself again. promise it feels good.

damn right he was. you bit your pillow just in time before an almost violent moan escaped your throat. now you knew why this was unholy, you were closer to heaven than ever before and they didn’t want this to happen before you fulfilled your purpose.

fuck that purpose. you have felt so lifeless for so long, so empty. you deserve this.

the bliss suddenly grew even more intense, your legs flexing and an unknown feeling bubbling up your stomach.

no need to fear, you’re doing so so well for me.

that was all you needed to hear. before you knew it, your abdomen scrunched and you were enveloped in a cloud of bliss.

this was it. the heavenly sin they spoke of.

see, wasn’t that nice?

“mhm,” you mumbled out loud, exhaustion taking over you.

sleep well, pretty.

on the other side of town, jakes head hit the soft pillows. if he weren’t undead he’s sure his heart would be racing like he just ran for a thousand miles straight. he couldn’t see you, but he had felt the way you were writhing at his words. the way your hands travelled down your stomach and dove into your wet heat.

the moon stared at him through the open window. nights were so different out here, so quiet. it reminded him off a time long ago, when things were different. he knew he couldn’t stay here for long. no, he had to act soon.

the following morning you didn’t sit in your usual church bench. no, this time you sat where he sat last time.

you didn’t know what you were thinking, maybe you weren’t thinking at all, but you couldn’t stay away from him. or the idea of him. maybe you’ll even gather the courage to talk to him following sunday?

but god, if he was actually real, had a cruel plan, since jake entered just a few moments before sermon started.

oh your poor heart razed so quickly you were sure everyone could hear. why would he come here to another one already? he had just been here yesterday. was he this devoted? was your punishment meant to torture you alive?

don’t be rude, your father is speaking.

you jolted in your seat, head whipping around. but jake just sat there, eyes focused on your father as his hands were clasped in his lap.

how unholy of you to think of my lap while in the lords house. and all these people here with us as well.

it was all too much, you couldn’t stay here. the second everybody rose to sing, you quickly made your way out of your own personal prison.

outside, you stared at the vast nothingness in front of you. sand, so much sand. was there really more than this out there?

later that day, your parents looked at you with eyes full of worry. you had never missed sermon unless you were violently ill.

“i’ll be okay,” you reassured them, no certainty in your mind. but of course they believed it. everyone around here would rather believe lies than admit that you were all doomed out here.

you had slept for the day, missing evening sermon as well. this time, there had been no impure thoughts torturing you. this time, you had been dreaming of the woods. the smell of wet moss and petrichor.

when you woke, the moon greeted you. unsure with what to do, you started roaming around town. how are all of them just fine with this? there’s no satisfaction with this life. were they all that blind? or did they choose to not see it.

of course you found yourself in front of the church, that damned little building.

one more time. you will try one more time and if that isn’t helping then so be it. you’ll have to find another way to make it through this hell.

the doors opened with a soft creak, almost sounding like a mocking laugh.

you walk past the empty benches, stopping in front of the giant cross hanging in front of you. how cruel to display a man in his suffering for everyone to stare at, you thought.

with a deep sigh you drop to your knees, the wood pushing into your skin.

one last time.

you squeezed your eyes shut.

“god, strengthen me to resist temptation. god, cleanse my mind from all impurity.”

“you really think that’ll help you?”

jake. of course he’s here.

you couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“who sent you?” you scoff over your shoulder.

“i act upon my own free will.”

“bullshit", you shoot back. “there’s nothing here. there must be a reason why you’ve come here.”

at that, he laughed. “well of course there is! you.”

this time, you turn your head completely.

“me.”

“yes, you.”

without comprehending how, he suddenly materialised in front of you, looking down at you. but you weren’t afraid, didn’t tremble in fear. no, you felt like how they said you would feel when you felt god.

his hand reached out and you took it.

with one swift motion, you were on your feet as he led you over to the altar.

your back pressed against the wood, digging into your skin. his hand cupped your cheek so softly you almost flinched.

“recite.”

nothing further, no questions, just a command. and you complied.

“no temptation has overtaken you except what is common to mankind. and god is faithful, he will not let you be tempted beyond what you can bear.”

his hand travelled down your body, bunching up the soft material of your nightgown.

“ corinthians, good choice.” he mumbled as his lips grazed your neck.

your eyes fluttered, hand grasping his shoulder for stability.

“continue.”

he said this as if you weren’t experiencing the most forbidden thing you were taught to avoid all these years.

“how did you do that? be in my head,” you breathed out.

the vibrations of his chuckle against your neck sent goosebumps down your spine.

“gentleman never tell his secrets.”

you huff, head falling backwards as his plush lips suck on your neck, surely leaving bruises behind already.

his lips travelled further down your throat, over your collarbone, down your arms. he took your hand so sweetly, as if it hadn’t been gripping onto him for dear life. sweet kisses adored your knuckles, his eyes never leaving yours in the process.

“next verse, pretty.”

with that he dropped onto his knees in front of you, big hands gripping the insides of your thighs.

a soft gasp slips past your lips as you feel his breath on your already damp core.

“i’m not gonna continue if you don’t speak.”

your head falls back in frustration.

“create in me a pure hea–” his tongue darts out, licking a long stripe along your closed pussy. your legs squeeze around his head and he hums.

“create in me a… a pure heart – fuck, o god, and…and renew a steadfast spirit within me.”

it was downright blasphemous what you were doing. leaning against the holy alter, an almost stranger between your legs as you get high on the way his tongue feels.

jake on the other hand wasn’t thinking of the setting at all, no all he was focused on was the sweet scent coming between your legs. he had been going crazy ever since that night, smelling your arousal all the way across town.

“taste so good, better than any pure honey,” he praised.

oh and you responded so beautifully to him. limbs twisting at his touch, sweet moans and whines spilling out of your mouth.

but he wanted more, he wanted you utterly addicted to him.

his hands moved up your dress, fingernails grazing against the soft skin. without warning, he grasped you tit, fingers pinching the already hardened nipple. and my god, the noises coming out of you. a gorgeous mix of a groan and a whine, only intensifying as he increased the pace of his tongue flicking up and down your pussy.

“more, please.”

your voice was barely a whisper at this point, how could anyone resist a plea this sweetly?

he pushed the wet material aside, leaving you no time to adjust to the cool air hitting your exposed cunt. his nose nudged the sensitive bundle as his tongue dove straight into the wetness threatening to drip out of you.

if heaven had a name it would be yours, if it had a place it would be your pussy. he moaned at the way he could feel you clench, the overwhelming smell of you making him dizzy. your fingers in his hair, tugging away, making it sting so deliciously he couldn’t stop the moan escaping him.

“another.” he demanded between slurps of your arousal.

“submit yourselves, then, to,to – fuck, to god. resist the devil, and he will flee from you.”

at this jake couldn't help but laugh. the devil, some would argue he was one of his reincarnations.

"i’m so close–” your tiny voice barely a squeak, and he pushed his thumb on top of your clit. with a sharp cry you came, your arousal dripping down his chin and he closed his eyes. god, you were everything he had needed.

you were still dizzy as he levels with you again, cum covered lips sloppily finding yours. it was a mash of tongue and teeth, barely even a kiss. it was possessive, both of you almost breathing the other in. you have never kissed anyone before, all you knew was that his lips felt like they had the cure to life on them.

in the turmoil of it all, your hand slipped and you hissed.

ironically, your finger had pierced the sharp top of the carelessly thrown away crucifix. little droplets of blood rolled down your skin, as jakes mouth covered the wound, tongue circling over your flesh.

he releases your finger, the moon hitting the sharp ridges of his face. but there was something else, something new. two pointy fangs shimmered in the moonlight.

your eyes locked with his and you paused, they had changed as well. a red hue covered the previously brown and you realised: this wasn’t the devil seeking you out. no, it had been the night creature the old women of the town had read you stories about when you were a kid.

for a moment you just looked at each other. jakes eyes roamed over your face, looking for a trace of fear or disgust. but you surprised him, hands intertwining behind his neck as you press your lips to his, tongue slipping in between his lips.

a soft moan escaped him, his hands travelling down to your hips, positioning you onto the altar.

“want all of you,” you mumble in between kisses, your hands tugging at his shirt.

within seconds he got rid of not only his clothes, but yours as well. he heard your heartbeat hammering away between your ribs, the little vein on your neck pulsing with blood.

“don’t worry, i’ll take care of you.”

his hand settled on your hip while the other cupped your cheek. it would almost be romantic if you weren’t on top of the altar in your fathers church.

the wetness between your thighs helped him enter, yet you couldn’t help but wince at the unknown feeling.

sweet hushes left his lips, his hand rubbing up and down your waist as kissed the your squeezed eyelids.

“just give it a moment, yeah?” he assured as you took a deep breath.

“there you go, gonna make you feel so good,hm?”

and when he bottom out for the second time you felt it, the pleasure that moved through your body, engulfing you.

your nails dig into his back, feeling the muscles move under your touch. you look at him, his furrowed brows, his fangs digging into his plush bottom lip.

without thinking you push your finger down on his lip, near the fang. he looks at you and before he could ask you pushed your finger to the pointy tooth.

blood spilled almost instantly and he moaned, gaining a grin from you.

“you’re dangerous,” he breathed, tongue licking away at the blood spilling from you once again.

“says the vampire,” you shoot back.

he only chuckled at that, lips attaching themselves to your neck once again.

as if you had done this a million times, your bodies move in sync, breathless moans echoing off the holy walls.

“make me one of you, “you plead. “let me explore the world with you. don’t leave me here to rot away.”

the honesty of your words almost knocked the air out of his lungs. he motioned to pause but you clenched around him.

“no, don’t stop. please.”

his forehead dropped down onto yours, hips now moving more slowly, almost careful.

“you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

you scoff, “so you just came here to take my virginity and leave?”

his eyes softened, the red fading and his hips stilled.

“never. you have no idea how long i’ve been trying to ignore your pull. i’ve travelled the entire world, yet no place on this damned earth is far enough to make me not want you.” his hands cupped your cheeks. “you’re my ruin, do you understand that?”

you could only stare at him. was this the confession people told you of? the one that you would hear from your beloved before forever comes?

so you only had one word for him.

“please.”

for a creature rumoured to be heartless his eyes were so full of emotion. he captured your lips so softly, such a stark contract to moments ago.

you bucked your hips in invitation, a whine escaping his lips.

his lips moved down your chin, soft pecks on your chin and neck. he nestled his head between the delicate spot between your neck and shoulder.

“are you really sure?” he questioned softly.

you’ve never been allowed to make your own choices. it was follow this, do that and you’ve had enough.

“yes.”

he kissed your skin one last time before sinking his fangs into your skin.

you had expected it to sting, to burn. but all you felt was bliss.

at first, he slowly lapped at your skin, but even he couldn’t resist the sweet taste of blood for long.

as his tongue was on your throat, his cock moving in and out of you with such haste, you felt your life slip from you.

the cross loomed over you watching your damnation unfold and you smiled. this was the first own choice you’ve made. none of this mindless devotion anymore. no more lies, no more pretending.

jake felt you slip away between his hands, quickly sinking his teeth into his own wrist.

“come on, you have to drink mine.”

the metallic taste of blood hit your tongue and you moaned, leaving jake in absolute awe. no prophecy could’ve told him that this is what his fate had in mind for him.

his hips still moving, he felt your walls tightening.

“just let go pretty, i’ve got you.”

the overwhelming sensation of him dominating all your senses on top of your slowing pulse had you climaxing within seconds. jake was not too far after you, his praises drowned out by the rushing of blood in your ears.

as you took your last breath, you felt him stroke the wet strands of hair out of your face, kisses on your cheek.

the first thing you noticed when you awoke was how loud the world was. sounds you’ve never heard before hitting your ears.

you blink the dizziness away and spot him, looking down at you.

both of you were clothed. it was still dark out, so you couldn’t have been out for too long.

after a moment you realise you’re still in the church, lying in his lap as he softly caressed your face.

the sun would rise soon, you had to leave before the violent light woke. yet you felt no sadness, you mourned this town long ago. there had never been a future for you here.

he was your future now. an endless future, together. never to be alone again. the sweetest sin.

When you stepped out of the shower, your hair was still slightly damp. The warm orange glow from the lampshade highlighted your soft, plump skin. A towel was wrapped tightly around your body like a short, fitted dress that hugged your curves, your hardened nipples poking through from the cool air, and the fabric barely covering your thick thighs.

Jake’s eyes lit up at the sight. He shamelessly checked you out, undressing you with his gaze, clearly wanting to rip the towel away.

I push a little farther on the edge

I crawl a little further on the bed, babe

I'm burning up, yeah, all I see is red~

“She said, ‘Fuck me like I’m famous,’” Jake sang seductively. He stuck his tongue out, then bit his lower lip, nodding playfully. His eyes burned with lust as he stared at you intensely.

“I said, ‘Okay,’” you replied, matching his energy. Just thinking about what was coming next made you drip with anticipation.

You walked slowly toward him and began unwrapping the towel for him.

Jake's gaze locked onto you the second the towel slipped from your fingers. The fabric pooled at your feet, leaving you bare under the warm orange glow of the lamp. Your skin still glistened from the shower, nipples hardened from the cool air, the curve of your hips and the soft swell of your thighs fully exposed.

Jake definitely loves what he is seeing right now.

He dropped his phone onto the mattress without looking, distracted by the scene in front of him, the song still playing low from the speaker. His cock strained visibly against the gray fabric of his sweatpants, a thick ridge pressing upward, waiting to be unraveled. He stayed seated on the edge of the bed, legs spread, watching every step you took closer.

"Fuck," he breathed, voice rough. His hands gripped the edge of the mattress as you stopped right between his knees. He leaned forward, mouth level with your stomach, and dragged his tongue slowly up the center of your torso, tasting the water still clinging to your skin. Smelling the milky floral scent body wash you use, his favorite. The wet heat of his tongue left a shining trail.

His hands came up to your waist, fingers digging in as he pulled you even closer. He pressed his face between your breasts, inhaling deeply, feeling the tingling sensation straight to your pulsating core. Jake turned his head and sucked one stiff nipple into his mouth. His tongue flicked over your sensitive bud, slowly teasing you, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp. Biting it,making you grab his soft messy hair. He switched to the other, giving them attention, sucking harder, leaving both glistening when he finally pulled back.

"Turn around," he said, voice low and thick. You did, and he immediately grabbed your ass with both hands, spreading you open for a moment before letting go. One palm slid between your thighs from behind, fingers brushing through your slick folds. He groaned when he felt how wet you already were.

"So wet, dripping for me already, mhm?" he muttered, his two long fingers sliding inside you without warning. “Do you like this right? He pumped them slowly, curling them against your inner walls while his thumb circled your clit, making you moan. His other hand stayed on your ass, squeezing and spreading your ass cheek as he fingered you deeper just how you always liked it.

“You're trembling. Is it too much? Tell me? he asked teasingly, as he continued to torture your wet cunt.

“Y-yeah T-too much! Ohh–!” you replied breathlessly, clenching hard around his thick bony finger.

The song swelled in the background. You're about to reach your orgasm when Jake pulls his fingers out, brings them to his mouth to taste your juices, and sucks them clean while staring up at you. That fucking eyes of him. He's playing dirty. Then he hooked his thumbs into his waistband and shoved his sweatpants down just far enough for his dick to spring free. It stood thick and flushed, the pink head already shiny with precum.

He wrapped a hand around the base and gave it one slow stroke. "Come here,babe" he said, guiding you forward by the hips until you straddled his lap. The head of his cock nudged against your entrance as he held you there, his tip circling around your sensitive clit, not pushing in yet. Jake's one hand spreads your thighs wider, as his free hand slid up your back, fingers tangling in your damp hair, tugging your head back so he could place his mouth at your throat.

"Ride me," he whispered against your skin, teeth scraping your pulse. Sending shivers down to your spine. 

“Fuck me like I'm famous, Okay?”

Oh.

taglist: @hoonguin @jakeycakeys @simjaeyunlvrclub @ni-kiluvzxo @livonianmaia

It was such a stark contrast to the way you’d grown up. The polished floors. The coldness that seemed to seep its way into the house even when the Russian winter was long behind.The soulless walls. Decorated only with oil paintings too valuable to look at for too long and silver mirrors that only ever reflected what your parents wanted to see.

Love had existed in your childhood home — but quietly. Sharply. In the way a blade might shimmer in the light. It cut more than it held.

Your mother kept everything under control. Her smile, her posture, her house, you. You were her project — a doll with real skin and inconvenient emotions. She was the kind of woman who only acknowledged excellence — and only once. Praise was rationed like medicine. The kind of woman who believed good behavior should go unnoticed because it was expected.

Your father… your father had loved you. You knew that. You never doubted that. There were days when he came home laughing, cheeks flushed with liquor, stories tumbling from his mouth like gold coins. And days he came home hollow-eyed and mean. You never knew which version you’d meet. And your mother — instead of shielding you — made you her mirror. Her outlet. Her weapon.

So you learned silence. You learned how to hold your tongue and your breath. How to keep your face blank when the voices rose and the furniture trembled. How to disappear even when you were right there, center stage.

You didn’t cry much. Not even when you were little.

And the older you got, the more you resembled them. Cold. Controlled. Capable.

You studied magic like it was survival. Not just charms and transfiguration — but theory. Deep, tangled spellwork, old texts your tutors tried to hide from you. Dark magic, they called it. Advanced, you’d said. And it was. But you weren’t drawn to it for power. Not really. You wanted to understand it. The parts people flinched away from. You wanted to hold the match to your palm and ask it why.

Maybe by understanding it, you would understand your parents. What made them what they are now, and how to avoid it.

You could have ended up like your father. In the worst ways. Sometimes you think you almost did.

It was a corrupted normalcy you had grown into. Disturbing, but still normal. Or at least that was the illusion the three of you had been under until a particular fight that changed it all. Even years later, you did not like to dwell on the memory too long — thinking about what would’ve happened if things hadn’t changed, and had escalated instead. Where would you be now?

It had not been a pretty fight, to say the least. It was a fight that had bled far beyond words. A door slammed. A spell misfired. Blood covering your vision, and the way your hand immediately went to cup your face. You had been seventeen.

Your father had seen something in your face that shook him that night. He didn’t say anything, just left you and your mother crying in the kitchen as he slammed the front door.

He checked himself into rehab that same week.

Not the magical kind, but rather the slow kind. The kind that took work, and effort, and countless amounts of tears. Tears you had never seen any man in your life shed. He relapsed twice, and the third time he didn’t. Your mother changed too, though not as loudly.

It was like a series of earthquakes. Your childhood home completely rearranged from its foundation. You found yourself often standing in the ruins of your childhood. Wondering how to go on, how to change along with them, or even if it was too late for you. You wondered what came next.

What came next was choice.

You saw, for the first time, how change could be real. Not immediate or cinematic, not even steady. There were still hard days, but the worst of them appeared to be far behind. Your father — who had once hexed a man for jostling him in a queue — now refused to cast anything beyond basic defensive charms unless he was calm enough to name his emotions first. He journaled. He drank tea. He apologized without being asked.

You had watched him fall in love with the man he was trying to become.

And so, you had tried too.

That’s why it stung, more than you expected, to hear Molly Weasley speak about people like your father as if they were born wrong. As if a single act, a single branch of magic, could define the rest of you.

Your fingers tightened on the edge of the table as the conversation circled morality. Light versus dark. Right versus wrong.

Charlie had known. Of course he had. You’d told him. Not everything. But enough.

So when he took your hand under the table, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist in slow, grounding circles, it was the only thing that kept you from going cold.

You didn’t argue for fun. You didn’t contradict to be clever. But you had to say it.

“I don’t believe there’s such a thing as ‘dark magic’ or ‘light magic.’ Not in the spells themselves,” you’d said.

Molly’s reaction hadn’t surprised you. What surprised you was how much it hurt.

Because she reminded you — without meaning to — that some people only knew how to measure others in absolutes. As though one wrong note meant the whole song was cursed.

She didn’t know you. She didn’t know your father. Didn’t know the years he spent studying healing magic to atone for the hexes he once reveled in. Didn’t know that when you held your wand, you held all of it — your bloodline — and still chose not to use it against the world.

So yes, you stood by what you said.

But it didn’t make you feel any more at home.

Later, when the table was cleared and the conversations softened into laughter in the other room, you slipped out the back door without a word. You stood in the garden, arms crossed, boots crunching in the grass, looking up at the stars as if they might offer a verdict.

You heard the door creak open behind you, and the soft pad of boots.

Charlie didn’t speak. Not right away.

Just came to stand beside you, shoulder to shoulder.

“She’s never met anyone like you,” he said at last. “And she’s afraid of what she doesn’t understand.”

You didn’t answer.

You restrained yourself from saying what you were currently thinking. Because Charlie was right. Molly was not a bad person by any means, she was just a product of her surroundings. A place where ‘purebloods’ often defended dark magic, and used it for their own benefits. Where the likes of people like you, were often associated with cruelty and arrogance.

You could not blame her.

But it was still hard —that even when you insisted on not seeing absolutes— most times it was all people could see when they looked at you. A pureblood doll, and all the labels that came along with it.

You wondered, not for the first time, whether you would ever be able to walk into a room without first being seen as a warning.

Your voice came quiet. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make it uncomfortable.”

Charlie held on to your wrists gently and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You don’t have to apologize. You stood for what you care about.”

You nodded once, and even though your throat still felt tight, you let him pull you into his arms. There, against the warmth of his chest, the coldness that was so rooted in you found a home.

You were staying in a borrowed flat, one of Charlie’s friends from the reserve who’d gone abroad for the season. The flat was modest — creaky floorboards, windows with chipped paint, a couch that sagged in the middle — but it was yours, for now. And after the Burrow, it was a welcome kind of quiet.

Charlie was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up as he lit the candles around the small dinner table. He had insisted on cooking — or rather, insisted on trying, which you found equal parts admirable and mildly concerning.

“Don’t let him near the garlic,” you’d warned Bill when he arrived.

“Too late,” Bill replied with a grin, stepping inside and ducking to avoid the low hanging doorframe. Fleur followed close behind him, radiant even in a rain-damp coat, and in her arms—

“Oh,” you breathed, soft and involuntary.

Victoire.

She was bundled in soft ivory wool, cheeks pink from the evening chill, a blue charm floating lazily above her head that kept the rain from touching her. Just a baby, not even walking yet — blinking up at the room like she was still dreaming.

You crossed the room before you even realized you’d moved.

“May I—?”

“Of course,” Fleur smiled, and passed her over with the kind of ease you hadn’t expected.

You held her carefully, like something sacred. And for a long moment, that was all there was. The weight of her. The tiny warmth. The quiet rise and fall of her breathing against your collarbone. You hadn’t held something so small in… maybe ever.

Even the baby dragons back at the reserve were already the size of a toddler when they hatched.

“She likes you already,” Fleur said softly, settling down into the armchair across from you.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not right away.

Victoire’s hand curled instinctively into your sleeve, and something in you folded in on itself — something old and long-buried. You blinked once, then twice, and forced the burn behind your eyes to settle.

Fleur watched you with a kind of knowing. A pause stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

After a minute, she spoke again — gently.

“Molly didn’t like me at first either, you know.”

You looked up, startled. Fleur’s expression was calm, her lips curled into the ghost of a smile.

“I’m sorry?”

“She didn’t. She thought I was too polished. Too proud. Too French, perhaps.” Her tone was light, but her eyes were sharp. “Too much.”

You huffed an unbelieving laugh. Because where you stood, Fleur was the blueprint of what a perfect daughter-in-law must look like. Soft around the edges, with just the right amount of sharpness in her eyes.

In some way, she was your antithesis. Sharp where you were soft, and soft where you were sharp. You had come to the conclusion that maybe that’s why Molly didn’t seem to like you at first. Even before your opinions on dark magic became clear. That had been the last drop.

“Yes,” she said simply, as if she was able to read your thoughts.

“I was too much for her,” Fleur continued, adjusting her sleeves, her voice not bitter — just honest. “And I didn’t try to be less.”

You swallowed, looking down at Victoire, who had gone heavy in your arms, tiny lashes fluttering as she dozed.

“She didn’t think I was good for Bill. Thought I was proud. That I would outgrow him. That I was…not quite one of them.” She tilted her head slightly, watching you with something like recognition. “And she was right, in some ways. I wasn’t like them. But I never tried to be.”

You said nothing. Just traced a circle with your thumb over the wool knit of Victoire’s blanket, her warmth seeping into your skin like light.

Fleur shifted forward in her chair, resting her elbows on her knees. Her tone softened. “But she came around. Slowly. Molly learns through observation, not persuasion. She needs to see who you are.”

You looked up, and the weight of Fleur’s gaze didn’t frighten you. “She’ll come around for you too,” Fleur said, gently but certainly. “Because you’re not going anywhere. And you shouldn’t have to shrink to fit into a house that’s already too full of love to notice when it spills over.”

You let out a slow breath. Victoire stirred, then curled further into your chest.

Then, from the kitchen — Bill’s voice, cheerful and far too loud for the sleeping baby: “Oi! Dinner’s ready.”

You saw him emerge from the kitchen and smile at the sight of his wife and you sitting on the couch.

A scream for his name came from the kitchen. Charlie—sounding a bit too panicked for your taste.

Bill sighed and turned to look at you. “Do you keep a first aid kit?”

The table was small, mismatched chairs pulled in from every corner of the flat. You took your seat next to Charlie, Victoire passed gently back to Fleur, who placed her in a floating bassinet charm that hovered beside her with the faintest glow.

Candles flickered. The windows steamed from the warmth inside. And for the first time in days, you weren’t thinking about the Burrow. Or Molly. Or what she saw when she looked at you.

You were here.

And that was enough.

Dinner, against all odds, was good. Burnt around the edges in places, yes, and Charlie had absolutely oversalted the mushrooms — but still. Good.

Bill told stories about Victoire — how she’d bitten George’s nose and then promptly charmed him into carrying her around the garden like a prince. How Ron, terrified of holding her, had sat stiffly with a pillow in his lap and looked like he might cry from fear when she smiled at him.

“Ginny’s the only one who didn’t flinch,” Bill said proudly. “She scooped her up like it was nothing. Victoire puked on her hair and she didn’t blink.”

“Gabrielle is obsessed,” Fleur added with a soft laugh, cutting into her roast. “She’s been reading all the parenting books in English, even though she is not even married. She calls herself ‘godmother in training.’”

“She’s got a whole bag of enchanted toys already and she’s only visited twice,” Bill added. “Victoire’s going to think she’s Santa Claus.”

You laughed and Charlie turned to look at you like he’d been waiting to hear that sound all night.

“What about you?” Bill asked, reaching for his butterbeer with a grin. “What’s it like, wrangling dragons all day?”

“You know…” you said, taking a sip from your wine. “Similar to having a kid in some ways. Very different in others.”

Victorie seemed to laugh at that as a cheering noise came along accompanied by her launching mashed potatoes with her little spoon.

You smiled at her as you watched Fleur clean her mouth.

The rest of the evening stretched in easy rhythm. The conversation wandered — Bill recounting near-catastrophes from Gringotts that had you snorting into your glass, Fleur speaking about her sister’s dramatic letters, and you, when pressed, telling them about the time two hatchlings had mistaken Charlie’s boots for food and he’d spent an hour chasing them barefoot across the reserve.

By the time plates were scraped clean and wine bottles stood empty, the candles had burned low, dripping wax in uneven pools across the table.

“Go on, leave the dishes to them,” Fleur said with a sly glance at Bill. “They’ll survive.”

Charlie shot her a mock glare, but he was already rolling up his sleeves. Bill smirked, clearly unbothered.

“Sit,” Charlie said firmly, brushing a hand across your shoulder as he passed. “We’ve got this.”

You didn’t argue. Not when Fleur settled beside you with Victoire, who had begun to fuss in her bassinet. Fleur lifted her gently, kissed her head, then placed her in your arms once more.

“She adores you,” Fleur murmured, brushing her own hair back from her face. “Babies… they feel when someone’s heart is safe.”

Something tightened in your chest at that.

You shifted Victoire carefully against you, her warmth sinking into your collarbone, and without thinking too much about it, you whispered a small charm to float soft notes of music into the air. Low, lilting — a tune your father used to hum when he was trying to make amends.

You rose slowly and began to rock, a small, instinctive sway that became a gentle circle. Victoire’s small fists opened and closed against your sleeve, her breaths falling into rhythm with the music.

Fleur stayed silent, watching from her chair, a knowing softness in her eyes.

The clink of dishes in the kitchen dulled, and when you turned in your slow orbit, you caught sight of Charlie standing in the doorway with a towel lazily slung over one shoulder and the softest of smiles on his lips.

His eyes were fixed on you — moving with his niece in your arms, the faint smile on your lips, the music filling the quiet. And for once, he looked utterly still. As though if he so much as blinked, he might miss something holy.

Bill brushed past him with a towel in hand, muttering something under his breath about soap charms, but Charlie didn’t answer. He just kept staring, the kitchen light spilling behind him.

The song faded when Victoire finally relaxed, a tiny sigh against your collarbone. Fleur rose, brushing your shoulder gently, and took her daughter back with a grateful smile.

They said their goodbyes not long after. Bill kissed your cheek, Fleur squeezed your hand, Victoire blinked owlishly up at you one last time before disappearing into the night wrapped in her parents’ arms.

You began clearing the table, throwing out the empty wine bottle and snuffing candles one by one. But before you could move more than a finger, Charlie was there.

No words. Just his hands, sudden and insistent at your waist, turning you before you’d even registered it. His mouth crashed against yours — not rough, not hurried, but deep. Like he’d been holding back all evening and had finally decided not to.

The bottle slipped from your hand onto the table with a muted clatter as he lifted you slightly, spinning you half a turn through the dim room.

You pulled back, breathless, your laugh cutting through the quiet. “What’s gotten into you?”

Charlie only grinned, pressing his forehead to yours. “You. Just you.”

You swallowed, eyes flicking to the dying light of the candles, to the half-cleared table, to the way his hair curled damp against his temples.

The laugh that escaped you this time was softer. Not because anything was funny, but because it was impossible not to.

“Put me down Charlie,” you said as you thrashed in his arms.

He decided to t¡do the exact opposite as he twirled you once more. You hung onto him for dear life, hiding your head in the nape of his neck.

He then threw you on the couch, his body following after, settling on top of you as he kissed you.

Your face was sore from all that smiling and laughing, but you couldn’t hold back.

“Charlie!” you squealed as his kisses started traveling down to your neck.

Charlie hummed in acknowledgement. His hands were on your waist, roaming up and down your body.

Your laughter came in short bursts, each one breaking against his mouth as he refused to stop kissing you. His lips chased every sound you made, greedy for it, as though laughter was as intoxicating to him as the wine.

You tangled both hands in his hair, tugging gently when he ducked lower, dragging his mouth along the slope of your jaw, down to the hollow of your throat. He nipped there, not enough to hurt, just enough to make you squirm and laugh all over again.

“Charlie—” You tried to sound stern, but it was hopeless. The way his curls slipped through your fingers, the way his stubble grazed your skin — it unraveled you.

He came back up to your lips suddenly, kissing you until you were dizzy, until the taste of wine on his tongue was all you knew. When he finally pulled back, you pressed your palms to his cheeks.

“What has gotten into you?” you asked again, your voice soft but breathless.

He looked at you like you’d just asked him to explain the stars. His grin was loose, giddy, his pupils blown wide, making his green eyes darker than usual.

You shook your head, lips curving despite yourself, and leaned forward to press a small kiss to the tip of his nose.

“Let’s have a baby,” Charlie murmured, drunk on wine and you, his smile impossibly unguarded.

You broke into startled laughter, dropping your forehead against his. “Charlie—”

But he was insistent, his lips already scattering along your cheekbones, your temple, the corner of your mouth. He kissed wherever he could reach, muttering against your skin between touches.

“I’m serious—” kiss “—a baby—” kiss “—you’d be—” kiss “—perfect.”

You tried to wriggle away but he held you easily, whining into your jaw as you covered his face with frantic little kisses in an attempt to stop him from talking. “You know we can’t do that,” you said between bursts of laughter, peppering his cheeks, his forehead, even the curve of his chin.

“Why not?” he whined against your skin, mouth finding the line of your jaw again.

You tilted your head back, a helpless giggle escaping you as his lips grazed your ear.

“You know why not.”

He nibbled at the shell of your ear, groaning dramatically, as if your reasoning was some great tragedy. His arms locked more securely around your waist, pinning you to the couch as he buried his face against your neck, mumbling unintelligible protests softened by how much he was smiling.

You bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing too loudly, but failed when he nuzzled into your throat like an oversized, insistent dragon demanding attention.

You let your fingers trace the nape of his neck, soothing where your tugging had left his hair mussed.

“Merlin help us if you’re like this after every dinner party,” you murmured, though you were smiling so hard it hurt.

Charlie only hummed, content and unwilling to move, lips still pressed clumsily against your skin like he’d forgotten how to stop.

The letter came folded in half, sealed with Molly’s tidy handwriting across the back. Charlie had plucked it from the stack of owl post and slid it across the kitchen table to you with an almost sheepish grin.

“Ginny’s birthday,” he explained. “Whole family’ll be there. She asked specifically that you come.”

You’d turned the envelope over in your hands, thumb dragging over the crease. You could already imagine the Burrow, filled with chatter and noise, Molly flitting about like the axis the whole house turned on. The last time you’d been there, your words on light and dark had landed like stones in water — ripples spreading further than you meant them to.

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” you murmured, gaze fixed on the neat scrawl.

Charlie leaned back in his chair, arms folding loosely across his chest. He looked as though he wanted to say the perfect thing — the one phrase that would banish your hesitation — but instead he kept it simple. “I’ll be with you the whole time. If it gets… too much, we’ll leave early.”

That was how he won you over. Not with promises that everyone would love you, but with the certainty that he’d be at your side when they didn’t.

The Burrow looked much as it had the last time — roof patched in odd angles, garden wild with summer growth, the long wooden table stretched out across the lawn and draped in cheerful bunting. Laughter floated in the air long before you crossed the garden gate.

Ginny spotted you almost immediately. She jogged over, her hair catching in the sun like a living flame. “You came!”

You smiled, pulling the wrapped parcel from your bag. “I thought you might like this. It’s… not something you can get in England.”

When she tore away the paper and unfolded the black-and-white jersey, her eyes went round. The Sankt-Peterburg Swans crest gleamed on the front, and scrawled signatures crowded the fabric in silver ink.

“You’re joking,” she breathed, voice gone high and thin with disbelief.

“They’re the first all-female team,” you explained, a quiet pleasure curling in your chest at her reaction. “I had a school friend who went to play with them. She owed me a favour.”

Ginny’s squeal startled a flock of garden gnomes back into their holes. She clutched the shirt to her chest, nearly hopping on the spot. “This is… Merlin’s beard, I can’t believe this—thank you! You’re the best.” She flung her arms around you before you could brace for it, warm and fierce.

Charlie’s hand brushed your lower back as he passed, the small contact grounding.

You found Fleur in the shade with Victoire balanced against her shoulder, the baby’s blond wisps of hair haloing in the light. Fleur greeted you with the same composed warmth she always carried, and you bent to greet the little girl.

Victoire took one look at you and squealed — an unfiltered sound of delight. Her tiny arms stretched out, fingers splayed in demand.

Your chest loosened. “Oh, hello there, ma petite,” you murmured, stepping forward to gather her up. She came easily, nestling against your collarbone as though it were the most natural thing in the world. You cooed softly in Russian without thinking, little nonsense words that made her giggle and grab at the edge of your dark sleeve.

Fleur smiled, half-surprised. “She remembers you. She does not do that with everyone.”

Charlie chuckled low, leaning close enough that you felt his breath stir your hair. “She has good taste.”

From the kitchen window, Molly Weasley’s hands stilled on the rim of a mixing bowl. She had been ferrying trays of sandwiches to the counter all morning, her rhythm unbroken, her focus fixed on the party outside. But now she lingered at the glass, eyes drawn to the sight of her granddaughter happily nestled in your arms.

“She’s not bad, you know?”

The voice came from just behind her shoulder. Bill stood at the chopping board, a half-sliced cucumber in one hand, knife in the other. He didn’t look up, just kept working with the quiet ease of someone accustomed to Molly’s kitchens.

Molly frowned, the faint line between her brows deepening. “I didn’t say she was.”

“You didn’t have to,” Bill replied mildly. He sliced another piece, neat and even. “I saw the way you bristled last time. About the light and dark business.”

“That wasn’t—” Molly began, then broke off. Her gaze slipped back to the window. You were bouncing Victoire gently, murmuring something that made the baby’s laugh ring out like a chime. Charlie watched you with a softness that seemed to set his whole frame alight.

Molly exhaled through her nose. “She’s different.”

“She is,” Bill agreed, wiping the blade clean. “Different doesn’t mean wrong.”

For a long moment, Molly said nothing. Then she turned back to her work, hands steady as she pressed dough into the waiting tins. But when she carried the next tray out to the garden, her eyes lingered just a fraction longer on you before she set it down.

The day unfolded slow and lazily.

You’d expected the watchful stares, the hesitant pauses in conversation. And they were there — at first. But the longer you stayed in the Burrow’s garden, the more the weight shifted.

Fred and George had drawn you into some ridiculous banter about whether dragons could be trained to deliver mail, and you found yourself volleying their jokes back with sharp retorts. That seemed to win them over.

Arthur, delighted, pressed you with earnest questions about dragon physiology, wide-eyed as though you were reciting wonders from some long-lost manuscript.

You’d ended up between Charlie and Harry, though Ron had been leaning so far across the table toward you that his elbow kept dipping into the butter dish. Charlie noticed, of course. He noticed everything. Which was probably why his arm had stretched lazily along the back of your chair, hand brushing your shoulder as though it had every right to be there.

Harry asked the first question, half-shy, half-intrigued. “So… dragons. What’s it actually like working with them? Everyone makes them sound like untameable monsters.”

You smiled faintly into your glass. “They can be monsters, if you treat them like ones. But if you learn their habits, respect their space, and don’t try to force them into things… they’ll give you more than you expect. It’s not taming, really. More like… negotiating.”

Harry’s eyes lit with a quiet kind of respect. “That makes sense.”

Ron, on the other hand, was nearly vibrating. “But you’ve flown them? Properly flown them?”

Charlie chuckled next to you. “Of course she’s flown them.”

Ron’s jaw practically hit the table, but Charlie wasn’t finished. He tipped his glass toward you, a grin tugging at his mouth. “You’re looking at the reserve’s damage-control unit.”

You shot him a glance. “Charlie—”

“No, go on,” he said, nudging you with his shoulder. “Tell them what that means.”

You hesitated, aware of half the table’s eyes flicking toward you, and then sighed. “It means I get the dragons no one else wants to touch. Behavioral cases, mostly. Hatchlings that won’t bond. Mothers that reject their young. The ones that tend to lash out.”

Ron leaned in so far his plate tipped. “And you do what, exactly?”

“She calms them,” Charlie answered before you could. “When a dragon’s too far gone for handlers to manage, she steps in.”

“Cool,” Harry muttered-

“The coolest”, Charlie agreed as he squeezed your hand.

The tips of your ears warmed at the intensity in his voice. “It comes with the job,” you murmured.

“Tell them about the Black,” he said casually, though his grin betrayed him.

You stiffened. “Charlie—”

“No, come on,” he pressed, his voice picking up a note of mischief. “You’re underselling yourself.”

Your frown deepened. “That’s not—”

He turned to the boys anyway. “One of the interns at the reserve fell into the enclosure of a Hebridean Black last year.”

Ron nearly choked on his drink. “What?”

“What did you do?” Harry asked.

“Not me,” said Charlie. “Her.”

You closed your eyes, already covering your face with one hand. “Charlie—”

“She jumped straight into the pen,” he continued anyway, grinning like he couldn’t help it. “Didn’t even hesitate. Got up on its neck while it was thrashing, clamped her legs down like a rider, and jabbed it with a small dose of anesthesia. Not enough to knock it out, but enough to make it sluggish, docile enough to back off. She bought the intern enough time to be pulled out. No one else on staff could’ve done it. They would’ve been eaten alive.”

“Brilliant,” you heard Ron mutter, his voice having gone an octave higher than usual.

By the time the cake had been carried out and Ginny blew out her candles, you felt… not at ease, but less like a shadow pressed against the wall.

Which was why Molly’s voice from the kitchen doorway stilled you so completely.

“Would you mind helping me with the soup?”

The words landed like a summons. Your first instinct was to decline—graciously, politely, but firmly. And yet when your gaze darted toward Charlie, you found him watching you with steady eyes. No pressure in them, just a small nod.

You rose. Your hands felt colder than they should as you followed Molly inside.

The kitchen smelled of herbs and apples, the air warm with steam. A large pot simmered on the stove, and Molly handed you a wooden spoon without ceremony.

“Give it a stir,” she said.

You obeyed, focusing on the slow circles, the broth shifting and bubbling under your hand. Silence stretched. The kind that pressed at your ribs.

“May I…” Your voice caught, and you cleared your throat. “May I try it?”

Molly nodded once.

You dipped the spoon carefully, let the broth cool a fraction before tasting. The flavours were good—comforting, hearty—but you remembered something. A memory that was half scent, half sound: your mother humming softly as she stood over a pot, a few well-worn jars lined up on the counter beside her.

“If I may,” you ventured, cautious, “my mother always added black peppercorns, celery seed, and garlic to soups like this. She said it—brought the broth alive.”

For a moment, you wondered if you’d overstepped. Molly’s eyes were unreadable, her hands steady on the counter. Then, slowly, she gestured toward the spice rack.

“Go on, then.”

Your heart thudded louder than it should have as you gathered the jars, adding the seasonings with care before stirring them in. You dipped the spoon once more, then offered it to her, your hand steady despite yourself.

Molly tasted. Her face did not soften, not exactly. But she gave a small, considered nod. “Better,” she said simply. Then, after a pause: “You’ll have to come round more often. Teach me a few of these recipes.”

The words hit you harder than you expected. A small door opening in a wall you hadn’t thought would ever budge.

“I—” you stammered, heat rising in your cheeks. “I’d like that. Very much.”

A voice at the doorway cut the silence.

“Isn’t she the best.”

It came out more like a statement rather than a question.

Charlie leaned there, arms folded, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He crossed the kitchen, coming to stand behind you, his arms slipping around your waist with the ease of long practice. His chin brushed your shoulder as you stirred, the warmth of him a steady anchor.

Molly had already turned back to her work, flour dusting her hands as she rolled out pastry for an apple pie. She didn’t look over. But she didn’t need to.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding, the wooden spoon still circling through the broth. Charlie kissed your temple, low and unseen, his voice a murmur just for you.

You are halfway down the Brackley corridor with Bradley beside you when your brain finally catches up with your feet.

“We have to tell George first.”

Bradley slowly stops. Like a man who has just heard the opening note of a song he hates.

The anonymous message still glows on his phone.

Mercedes has to lose the next race in Barcelona, or the photograph goes public immediately after the chequered flag.

Below it, the sender has described the picture in enough detail to make your stomach twist all over again.

Toto kissing his employee.

George Russell kneeling with a Red Bull driver’s cock in his hand.

A lovely family portrait. Very suitable for framing.

Bradley turns his head and looks at you. “We are walking to Toto.”

“I know.”

“To tell Toto.”

“I know.”

“Because Toto needs to know immediately.”

“I know.”

Bradley waits.

You swallow. “But George needs to know before Toto sees that photograph.”

Bradley closes his eyes. For one second, he looks like he is trying to spiritually resign from Formula One.

Then he opens them again. “Of course we do.”

“He is in the simulator.”

“I know where your brother is.”

“He is the one most exposed in that picture.”

Bradley looks at the phone again. “His face is clearly visible.”

“And his hand.”

“And the cock.”

“Yes, Bradley. I remember the cock.”

“I wish I didn’t.”

You pull out your phone.

Bradley points at your phone. “Do not write anything dramatic.”

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You already look dramatic.”

“I am informing him there is an urgent situation.”

“You are his sister. He will assume someone is dead.”

You look down at the screen.

Fair.

You send George a short message instead.

You: Get out of the simulator. Now.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

George: I have forty minutes left. You: You don’t anymore. George: Is this a sister thing or a Mercedes thing?

You glance at Bradley. He looks like a man who has travelled beyond normal exhaustion and found a new country.

You: Both. Bring trousers and emotional stability.

George replies after a few seconds.

George: That sounds concerning. You: It should.

George comes out of the simulator twelve minutes later in his Mercedes kit, hair slightly damp, face tense.

He sees you and Bradley waiting near the corridor and immediately slows. “What happened?”

Bradley checks that no one is nearby. “We need to go to Toto’s office.”

George looks between you. “That is not an answer.”

“It’s the only answer you’re getting in a corridor,” you say.

George’s gaze sharpens. “They sent another message.”

You hesitate. That is enough for George to notice something is off.

“What do they want?”

“We’ll discuss it with Toto.”

George looks at Bradley. “You sent her the photograph so she could warn me. Don’t start pretending I know less than I do.”

Bradley presses his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “Right. Sorry. I have lost track of who knows which section of this catastrophe.”

“That is reassuring,” George says dryly.

“It has been a difficult week.”

Bradley starts walking.

George falls into step beside you. “What do they want?”

“We’ll discuss it with Toto.”

He catches your arm. “What do they want?”

You look at him. “Mercedes has to lose Barcelona.”

George stops. Bradley and you take two more steps before turning back.

Your brother stands in the middle of the corridor, staring at you. “That’s insane.”

“Yes.”

“What happens if we don’t?”

You do not answer.

George’s face loses colour. “They release it.”

“Yes.”

He rubs both hands over his face. “This is my fault.”

“It is not.”

“I was the one in the storage room.”

“With another adult who dragged you inside.”

“Thank you for reminding me that Max also has terrible judgment.”

Bradley turns sharply toward him. “Ah. Excellent. At least one Russell sibling is finally being honest with me.”

George freezes. You close your eyes.

Bradley points between him and the invisible evidence hanging over all of you. “So the Red Bull suit and the cock officially belong to Max Verstappen.”

“I did not officially confirm anything,” George says.

“You said his name.”

“I was speaking hypothetically.”

“While discussing the man whose cock you were holding.”

George looks at you. “Is he always like this during a crisis?”

“He gets worse with every message.”

Bradley presses the button for the lift. “We should inform Max too.”

“We will,” you say. “After Toto.”

George looks alarmed. “Max cannot be in the room when Toto sees it.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that.”

“Good.”

Bradley steps into the lift. “Toto currently believes you can barely tolerate Max and that you are the polite, sensible one in this team.”

George gives him a look. “I am polite.”

Bradley glances at him. “You are about to show your team principal a photograph of yourself on your knees with someone’s cock in your hand.”

George steps into the lift beside him. “That does not cancel basic manners.”

Bradley presses the button. “Let Toto enjoy his final thirty seconds of believing Max is only your sporting rival.”

Toto is waiting inside his office. He stands beside the desk with his arms folded, his private phone lying in front of him.

The threatening message he received in Monaco is still open on the screen.

Your Mercedes is quite the brothel on wheels. And you are its central pimp.

His eyes move from Bradley to George. Then to you. His gaze stops there.

Your chest tightens. You have barely spoken since the argument. You have spent days avoiding his office, his calls, his eyes, and every private place where he once kissed you.

He has done the same. Professional words only. Schedules. Briefings. Media responsibilities. No messages after midnight. No hand at your back. No quiet Liebling whispered against your hair.

Now you stand inside his office carrying a photograph that proves your kiss in the corridor started as a distraction.

You already see the hurt waiting to happen.

Toto turns to Bradley. “You had thirty minutes.”

Bradley places the laptop on the desk. “I needed slightly longer.”

“Why is George here?”

George clears his throat. “I feature in the situation.”

Toto looks at him. “How?”

Bradley opens the attachment.

No one breathes.

The photograph fills the screen.

Toto sees you and himself first.

His body bends over yours in the corridor. Your fist is twisted into his shirt. His hand is firm on your waist, fingers low enough to make the professional explanation impossible.

His eyes remain on that part of the image for a second.

Then they shift to the open storage room. George on his knees. His horrified face turned toward the camera. One hand wrapped around an exposed cock. The Red Bull race suit behind him.

Toto’s face changes colour. He goes pale first. Then, somehow, faintly green.

George watches him with growing concern.

Toto leans closer to the laptop. His jaw drops a fraction. “That is…”

Bradley nods solemnly. “Yes.”

Toto turns his head. “I have not finished.”

“The answer remains yes.”

Toto looks at George. Then at the photograph. Then back at George.

“You were on your knees.”

George folds his hands in his lap. “That appears to be the case.”

“With a Red Bull driver’s cock in your hand.”

“Yes.”

“In a storage room.”

“Technically, it happened partially outside the storage room.”

Toto’s stare could stop an engine. George’s mouth closes.

Toto looks at the picture again. “That is Verstappen.”

Your brother’s shoulders tighten. “No face is visible.”

“It is Verstappen.”

George tries for a dry smile. “Interesting that you recognise Max by his cock.”

The room dies. Bradley looks at the ceiling. You stare at your brother in disbelief. George’s smile disappears under Toto’s gaze.

“Poorly timed,” George admits.

“Very.”

George shifts in the chair. Then, because self-preservation has apparently left the Russell bloodline, he points at the laptop.

“For the record, your hand is on my sister’s arse.”

Toto’s eyes move to the photograph. His palm rests low on your waist. Very low.

He looks back at George. “That is different.”

“How?”

Toto opens his mouth. No answer arrives.

Bradley quietly sits in the chair beside George.“I would like it recorded that I warned nobody because I never imagined this exact conversation.”

Toto ignores him. His attention moves to you. The anger remains. Something more painful sits beneath it.

“You saw George.”

It is not a question.

You nod. “Yes.”

“You looked inside the room.”

“Yes.”

“And then you pulled me away.”

Your throat tightens. “Toto—”

“That is why you kissed me.”

George looks down. Bradley becomes deeply interested in the edge of the desk.

You force yourself to hold Toto’s gaze. “It’s why I started the kiss.”

His face closes. A quiet shift. Tiny. Devastating.

“So it was a distraction.”

“At first.”

“And afterward?”

You remember his hands on your waist. His mouth opening beneath yours. The way he forgot the corridor, the team, George, and everything else. So did you.

“I forgot why I was doing it.”

Toto studies you. He wants to believe you. You see it.

You also see every unanswered call, every lie, every day you carried George’s secret and allowed Toto to think your silence was about him.

“You could have told me,” he says.

“I promised George.”

“And what did you promise me?”

The question lands harder than anger.

You look away.

Nothing official. No titles. No public relationship. No promises spoken aloud. Only stolen nights and tenderness neither of you was brave enough to name.

Toto gives a short, humourless breath. “Exactly.”

“That isn’t fair.”

His gaze sharpens. “No?”

“I was trying to protect my brother.”

“By lying to me.”

“By stopping you from seeing something George wasn’t ready for you to know.”

Toto looks at George.

George sits straighter. “I asked her not to tell you.”

Toto’s jaw tightens. “That does not improve this.”

“It should,” George says. “You can be angry with me instead.”

“I have enough anger for everyone.”

Bradley raises one hand. “I would prefer to be excluded.”

No one reacts. Bradley lowers it again.

Toto looks back at the photograph. “Does Max know about the threat?”

“Not yet,” George says.

“He knows about the photograph?”

“Yes.”

“And he allowed you to hide this from me.”

George’s expression hardens. “This is my private life. Max did not owe you a confession.”

“He had his cock out in a storage room metres away from Mercedes hospitality.”

“Ah, there is that phrase again...”

Toto’s eyes narrow. George wisely stops.

Bradley turns the laptop slightly and shows Toto the latest message. “We have a larger problem.”

Toto reads it. The anger in his face shifts. Becomes colder. Cleaner. The team principal replaces the wounded man.

“They want us to lose Barcelona.”

“Yes,” Bradley says.

“No.”

One word. Immediate.

You step closer. “Toto.”

“We race normally.”

“If we win, the photograph goes public.”

“Then it goes public.”

George stares at him. “That is easy for you to say.”

Toto turns toward him. “No. It is not.”

“They can identify me.”

“I know.”

“They will identify her.”

“I know.”

Bradley folds his arms. “They will accuse you of sleeping with a direct employee. There will be questions about favouritism, conflict of interest, power imbalance, team governance.”

“I know.”

“George will become the centre of a global scandal.”

“I know.”

“The Red Bull driver will eventually be identified.”

From the chair, George mutters, “He thinks his cock is distinctive.”

Toto’s head snaps toward him. George presses his lips together.

Bradley continues as though no one has spoken. “You could lose sponsors. She could lose her position. George could face questions from Mercedes, the FIA, his family, and every journalist with access to the internet.”

Toto looks at you. His expression softens for one second. Then hardens again. “We will not throw a race.”

Bradley studies him. “Would you sacrifice your own reputation?”

“Yes.”

No pause, no doubt. The answer makes your chest ache.

Bradley nods toward you and George. “Theirs?”

“No.”

Toto’s voice is quieter now. “I will not sacrifice her. I will not sacrifice George.”

George looks at him differently. Some of the embarrassment fades. Your brother finally sees what you have been too afraid to trust. Toto would let the world tear him apart before he allowed it to reach you.

“If the photograph showed only me,” Toto continues, “I would release it myself and remove their leverage.”

Bradley looks at the image. “That would be a bold media strategy.”

“Would it work?”

“It would confirm that you kiss your communications manager against walls during race weekends.”

Toto glances at you. Your entire body remembers exactly how he kisses you against walls.

You look away first.

Bradley notices. He sighs. “We need a plan.”

“We already have one,” Toto says. “We race. We investigate. We find them.”

“And the picture?”

“We prepare for it.”

Bradley’s mouth tightens. “That is not protection.”

“It is refusing to let someone control this team.”

Toto closes the laptop. The meeting is over. At least for him.

George stands.

Toto stops him with one look. “One more thing.”

George freezes.

“No more storage rooms.”

Bradley nods. “A strong internal policy.”

George clears his throat. “Understood.”

“And tell Verstappen that if another part of him appears near Mercedes hospitality—”

“I will pass on the feedback.”

“Word for word.”

George heads for the door. Bradley follows.

You stay behind for half a second. Toto does not look at you.

You wait. He knows you are there. He says nothing. The silence hurts more than the argument. So you leave.

George calls Max from his car.

Max answers immediately. “How bad?”

“Toto went green.”

“That bad?”

“He saw the photograph.”

A pause.

“Did he know it was me?”

“He recognised you.”

“From the suit?”

George starts the engine. “I made a joke about him recognising your dick.”

Silence. Then Max says, “Why?”

“I panicked.”

“You joke when you panic?”

“I am British.”

“That explains nothing.”

George pulls out of the factory car park. “I’m going home. Come over.”

“I thought Toto wanted me away from Mercedes property.”

“My house is not Mercedes property.”

“You drive a Mercedes.”

“Max.”

“I’m coming.”

You arrive at George’s house before Max.

George lets you in without a word. He looks exhausted.

The two of you sit in his living room with untouched coffee between you. For several minutes, neither speaks. Then George looks at you. “I’m sorry.”

“For the photograph?”

“For Toto.”

Your chest tightens. “He is angry.”

“He’s hurt.”

“That too.”

George watches you carefully. “You should talk to him.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to me.”

“He always wants to talk to you.”

“You didn’t see his face.”

“I did.”

You turn toward him. George’s expression softens. “He looked more hurt than angry when he realised you used the kiss to distract him.”

“I didn’t use him.”

“I know.”

“Does he?”

George says nothing.

The doorbell rings. Max arrives in a dark hoodie and cap, looking like a man attempting to disguise himself while possessing one of the most recognisable faces in Formula One.

George lets him inside.

Max removes his cap. His eyes go immediately to George.

The first thing he does is touch him. One hand against George’s neck. Brief. Quiet. Intimate.

“You okay?”

George nods. “No.”

Max’s thumb moves once under his ear. You look away, giving them the illusion of privacy.

When they sit down, Max stays close enough that their knees touch. George does not move away.

You show Max the new message.

He reads it twice. His jaw tightens. “They want Mercedes to lose.”

“Yes.”

“Of course Toto refused?”

“Immediately.”

“Good.”

George looks at him. “Good?”

“You cannot manipulate a race because someone took a photograph.”

“My face is in the photograph.”

“I know.”

“My career is in the photograph.”

“I know.”

Max puts the phone down. “If it goes public, I identify myself.”

George’s eyes flash. “No.”

“We have discussed this.”

“You announced it. That isn’t a discussion.”

“I am not leaving you alone.”

“They cannot prove it is you.”

Max looks at him. “You can.”

George rubs a hand over his face. “Max.”

“You think I will watch people call you a liar while they speculate between me and Isack?”

Your mouth twitches despite everything.

George notices. “This is not funny.”

“A little,” you admit.

Max looks personally insulted. “No one is going to think it is Isack.”

George turns toward him. “You continue returning to that.”

“Because it is ridiculous.”

“Your cock is not a biometric passport.”

Max leans back. “It is distinctive.”

You close your eyes. “I regret coming here.”

George points at Max. “This is what I deal with.”

“You invited him.”

“That was before he started presenting expert testimony about his own cock.”

Max glances between you. “Toto is right about one thing.”

George raises his brows.

“Storage rooms are a bad idea.”

“That is your revelation?”

“They have weak locks.”

Despite everything, George laughs. A real laugh.

Max watches him. The irritation fades from his face. His hand settles on George’s knee. It stays there. The gesture is casual enough to deny. Tender enough to expose everything.

You see the way George leans slightly toward him. You also see how Max moves his thumb over the fabric of George’s trousers, grounding him without drawing attention to it.

They are already in love. George knows it. Max probably thinks he has developed a complicated sporting concern.

You envy them. Not the secrecy. The closeness. The ability to sit beside each other while the world threatens to explode.

Toto is a few kilometres away, and he might as well be on another planet.

Max looks at you. “What happens with you and Toto?”

You stiffen.

George gives him a warning look. Max ignores it.

“He is angry,” you say.

“He loves you.”

You stare at him.

Max shrugs. “It is obvious.”

George nods reluctantly. “It really is.”

“You both have poor judgment.”

Max glances at George. “That appears to be a shared problem.”

George’s fingers slide beneath Max’s hand. Their hands link. Hidden between them.

Your heart aches. “We focus on Barcelona,” you say.

“And after?” George asks.

You pick up your coffee. “After Barcelona, we survive whatever is left.”

Barcelona is bright, hot, and full of people who have no idea Mercedes is carrying a sexually explicit bomb through the paddock.

The team operates normally. Mechanics prepare the cars. Engineers work through upgrades. Journalists ask about tyre degradation. Sponsors smile beside branded walls.

You and Toto behave like professionals. Perfect professionals.

He sends you media requests through email. You reply with clean, precise answers.

You stand beside him during a sponsor briefing and never touch. He passes behind you without placing his hand against your back.

The missing contact feels louder than an engine.

At night, your phone remains silent. You open your messages with him more than once.

The last personal one is from Monaco.

Toto: Will you come over tonight?

You never answered properly.

Now three days of professional exchanges sit beneath it. Documents. Meeting times. Interview schedules. Nothing real.

Across the hospitality, Toto watches you laugh politely with a sponsor.

He looks away before you see him.

George sees both of you. On Friday morning, he corners you near the media office.

“This is painful.”

You glance up from your tablet. “What?”

“You and Toto.”

“There is no me and Toto.”

The lie tastes horrible.

George’s expression falls. “Don’t say that.”

“It may be true.”

“It isn’t.”

“You don’t know what he wants.”

“I know he looks at you like someone cancelled oxygen.”

You force a smile. “That sounds inconvenient.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

George leans against the wall beside you. “This happened because of me.”

“No.”

“You lied to him because I asked you.”

“I made my own choice.”

“He thinks you used him.”

“I did use the kiss to distract him.”

“You also nearly climbed him in the corridor.”

“George.”

“I’m trying to help.”

“You are describing my sexual behaviour to me.”

He winces. “Fine.”

“Please stop.”

“You love him.”

Your fingers tighten around the tablet. “Yes.”

“Then tell him.”

“You love Max.”

George goes quiet.

You lift one eyebrow. “Exactly.”

“That was cruel.”

“It was efficient.”

Before he can answer, Alex Albon appears at the end of the corridor.

“George!”

George’s face immediately softens. Alex walks over and pulls him into a loose hug. “You look miserable.”

“I’m having a lovely weekend.”

“You have the face.”

“What face?”

“The one from Williams when the car had three functional parts and two were mirrors.”

George laughs. You smile despite yourself. Then you notice Max. He stands near the Red Bull hospitality, speaking to an engineer.

At least, he was speaking to an engineer. Now he is staring at Alex’s arm around George’s shoulders. His expression barely changes. His eyes become murderous.

Bradley appears beside you with two coffees. He follows your gaze. “Is Verstappen about to commit a crime?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Alex touched George.”

Bradley watches Max for a moment. “That is the most emotional I have ever seen him.”

“He is technically standing still.”

“He has aggressive stillness.”

Alex squeezes George’s shoulder again before walking away. Max’s jaw clenches. George turns and spots him. A smile threatens at the corner of his mouth.

Bradley sees that too. “Oh, God.”

“What?”

“They like each other.”

“That has been established.”

“No. I thought they were having angry sex in cupboards.”

“They were.”

“This is worse.”

George excuses himself and heads toward the back of hospitality. Max waits twenty seconds before following.

Bradley looks at you. “Should we stop them?”

“They know about the cameras.”

“Does desire affect memory?”

“You knew about Toto and me for months. You tell me.”

Bradley drinks his coffee. “Fair.”

George slips behind hospitality with his pulse already too fast.

He knows this is stupid. Toto has specifically forbidden storage rooms, hidden corridors, suspicious doors, and any further appearance of Red Bull anatomy near Mercedes property.

But this is technically an outdoor service passage.

Little progress.

The narrow space between hospitality units is shaded from the afternoon sun. Equipment cases line one wall. The noise of the paddock fades into a distant hum.

George barely reaches the corner before Max appears. Cap low. Jaw tight. Eyes dark.

George leans against the wall and smiles. “You followed me.”

Max steps closer. “Albon touched you.”

George’s smile grows. There it is. “He hugged me.”

“I saw.”

“We’re friends.”

“I know.”

“You look upset.”

“I’m fine.”

George laughs softly.

Max’s eyes narrow. “You think this is funny?”

“A little.”

Max closes the remaining distance and puts one hand beside George’s head.

George feels heat immediately. Anger. Jealousy. Want. Max has never been subtle with any of them.

“Alex has hugged me before,” George says.

“I don’t care.”

“You followed me behind hospitality because you don’t care?”

Max’s jaw clenches.

George feels horribly pleased with himself. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“You nearly murdered him with your face.”

“He kept touching you.”

“He touched my shoulder.”

“And your waist.”

George pauses. Max saw that too. Interesting.

“You were watching closely.”

Max grabs the front of his Mercedes shirt. “You were enjoying it.”

George’s pulse jumps. “I’m enjoying this more.”

Max kisses him. Hard.

George’s head hits the wall with a soft thud, and his hands go straight to Max’s waist. Max’s fingers tighten in George’s shirt.

George pulls him closer, feeling the tension in his body, the heat already gathering between them.

They should stop. There are cameras somewhere. Staff nearby. Toto inside hospitality, probably discussing strategy while Bradley considers sedatives. And somewhere in the paddock, their blackmailer is apparently running around with a phone, probably delighted at the prospect of adding another photograph to the collection.

George knows all of that. Then Max bites his lower lip, and every sensible thought leaves.

George groans into his mouth. “Toto told us to stay away from each other.”

Max kisses along his jaw. “Toto also kissed your sister in a corridor.”

“Yeah... his argument loses strength every time you mention that.”

“Good.”

Max presses his thigh between George’s legs. George’s breath catches.

“You’re hard.”

“You followed me into a dark corner and started biting me.”

“You were hard before I kissed you.”

George does not answer.

Max looks at him. Smug now and very dangerous. “Oh.”

“Shut up.”

“You liked me being jealous.”

George grips the back of Max’s neck. “Maybe.”

Max’s mouth moves to his ear. “You’re mine.”

The words go through George like electricity. He should tease. He should point out they have never discussed ownership, feelings, or any other subject capable of causing emotional injury.

Instead, he whispers, “Then prove it.”

Max pushes him harder against the wall. Their mouths crash together again.

George can feel Max’s cock through his trousers now, hard against his hip. He rolls his body forward, earning a rough sound from Max.

“Fuck,” Max mutters.

“You started it.”

Max looks around the corner once. Clear. Then he drops to his knees.

George stares down at him. His entire brain stops. “Max.”

“Quiet.”

“This is Mercedes hospitality.”

“It's behind Mercedes hospitality.”

“That distinction will comfort Toto.”

Max opens George’s trousers. George’s protest dies when Max pulls his cock out.

Cool air hits heated skin. Max wraps one hand around him.

George braces a palm against the wall. “Fuck.”

Max looks up. His eyes are dark under the cap. Jealousy still there. Possession. Something softer underneath that George is scared to name.

Then Max takes him into his mouth. George’s head falls back. Every muscle in his body tightens.

Max’s mouth is hot and wet, tongue moving slowly along the underside before he takes George deeper.

George bites down on his own breath. “Jesus.”

Max’s hand grips his thigh. The other works the base of his cock while his mouth moves over him. Slow at first. Deliberate. Punishing.

George’s fingers slide into Max’s hair beneath the cap. Max lets him.

George looks down and almost loses control immediately.

Max Verstappen on his knees. Hidden behind Mercedes hospitality.

His lips stretched around George’s cock, eyes fixed on his face like he wants to see every second of him breaking.

George’s hips twitch. Max takes him deeper.

George’s free hand slaps against the wall. “Fuck, Max.”

Max hums. The vibration tears through him.

George’s knees weaken. He tries to stay quiet. He really does. His breathing still turns rough, and every time Max’s tongue drags over the head, another sound escapes.

Max knows exactly what he is doing. He has learned George’s body too well. He knows where to slow down. When to suck harder. How deep to take him before George’s fingers tighten uncontrollably in his hair.

George looks toward the entrance to the passage. Anyone could turn the corner. Bradley. A mechanic. Kimi with cereal. Toto carrying a flamethrower. Or their blackmailer with a phone, thrilled to add fresh evidence to the collection.

The danger should stop him. It makes his cock pulse in Max’s mouth.

Max pulls back enough to breathe. “You like this.”

George looks down at him. “You’re the one kneeling.”

Max strokes him slowly. “You were smiling at Albon.”

“He made a joke.”

Max’s grip tightens. George gasps.

“Did he make you hard too?”

George’s eyes widen. “Oh, you’re really jealous.”

Max takes him back into his mouth before George can laugh. Deep. Fast.

George’s amusement shatters into a moan.

Max sucks him harder now, cheeks hollowing, tongue working every sensitive place. George’s thighs tense.

He is getting close. Far too quickly. Max feels it. His hand presses into George’s hip, holding him against the wall while he takes him deeper.

George’s breathing breaks. “Max, I’m—”

Max pulls away. Completely.

George stares down at him in disbelief. The cold air hits his wet cock.

“What the fuck?”

Max rises slowly. His lips are red. His eyes gleam with satisfaction. “You were close.”

“Yes.”

“I know.”

“You stopped.”

“Yes.”

George grabs his shirt. “You absolute bastard.”

Max smiles. Small. Infuriating. “Your turn.”

George understands. Heat coils lower in his stomach. He turns Max around and pushes him back against the opposite wall.

Max’s smile disappears.

George drops to his knees. “Still jealous?”

Max looks down at him. “Yes.”

George opens his trousers. “At least you’re finally honest.”

He pulls Max’s cock free. Hard. Heavy. Already slick at the tip.

George wraps his hand around him and strokes once. Max’s breath catches.

George looks up. “So worked up because Alex hugged me.”

“George.”

“Pathetic.”

Max’s hand slides into his hair. “Put your mouth on me.”

George smiles. Then obeys.

Max’s head tips back against the wall. “Fuck.”

George takes him slowly, letting Max feel every inch of his mouth. He swirls his tongue around the head, tastes salt, then takes him deeper.

Max’s hand tightens in his hair. “Good.”

The praise goes straight through George. His own cock jerks.

Max sees everything. “You like that.”

George hums around him. Max’s hips move forward. George takes it, throat relaxing as Max slides deeper.

His eyes water slightly.

Max watches him with a hunger that feels almost violent. “You look perfect like this.”

George moans. Max curses.

George works him faster, hand around the base, mouth wet and tight. Max’s control starts slipping quickly.

His thighs tense. His breathing gets rough. The hand in George’s hair becomes less careful. “George.”

George knows that tone. Close. He sucks harder.

Max’s head falls back. “Fuck, don’t stop.”

George stops. He pulls off with a wet sound and rises.

Max’s eyes snap open. Murder. Pure murder.

George wipes his mouth with his thumb. “You were close.”

Max stares at him. “You did that on purpose.”

“Yes.”

“You little—”

George kisses him. Max grabs him immediately, one hand at the back of his neck, the other dragging him close.

Their cocks press together between them. Both wet. Both aching. Both left on the edge.

The kiss turns filthy. George tastes Max on his own tongue. Max groans into his mouth and wraps one hand around both of them.

George’s breath breaks. “Fuck.”

Max strokes them together. Their cocks slide against each other, slick with spit and precome, heads rubbing, shafts pressed tight in Max’s fist.

George adds his hand. Their fingers overlap. The pressure doubles.

Max’s forehead falls against his. They breathe into each other’s mouths.

“Look at me,” Max says.

George does. Max’s eyes are dark. Possessive. Open in a way his words rarely are.

Their hands move faster. Wet strokes. Skin sliding together.

George’s hips push forward. Max meets every movement.

The risk disappears. The paddock disappears.

Only Max remains. His mouth. His fist. His cock grinding against George’s.

“You’re mine,” Max says again.

George’s chest tightens. This time, there is no teasing. No escape.

“Yes.”

Max’s hand falters. George grips the back of his neck.

“I’m yours.”

Max looks at him for one raw second. Then his mouth curves. A real smile. Tiny. Private.

George feels it everywhere.

“And you’re mine,” George whispers.

Max kisses him hard. Their hands speed up. George is close again. So is Max. He can feel it in the way Max’s body tightens, the way his breaths turn into rough little sounds against George’s mouth.

“Together,” Max mutters.

George nods.

Neither of them lasts much longer. George comes first by half a second, cock pulsing between their hands, hot cum spilling over Max’s shaft and their joined fingers.

Max groans and follows, hips jerking forward as he comes across George’s cock.

Their cum mixes between them. Wet. Hot. Messy.

George’s head falls against Max’s shoulder. Max keeps stroking them slowly through the aftershocks, hand slick, breathing rough.

For several seconds, they remain pressed together in the dark corner. Then George starts laughing.

Max lifts his head. “What?”

“Toto is going to kill us.”

“He has to find out first.”

“We are terrible at secrecy.”

“We are improving.”

George looks down at the mess between them. “Yes. Very discreet.”

Max takes tissues from his pocket.

George raises his brows. “You came prepared.”

“I spend time with you.”

“That is strangely romantic.”

“Shut up.”

They clean themselves quickly, fixing trousers, shirts, hair. Max adjusts George’s collar. George straightens Max’s cap. The tenderness of it feels almost more dangerous than the sex.

Max’s fingers brush George’s cheek. “You’re still mine.”

George smiles. “Yes.”

Max kisses him once. Soft and quick. Then steps away.

They wait thirty seconds.

Max leaves first. George stays behind long enough for his breathing to settle and his face to stop looking thoroughly ruined.

Ten minutes later, George returns alone. His lips are slightly red. You raise your brows.

He glares at you. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Stop looking at my mouth.”

“Max was jealous.”

“He was not.”

“He followed you behind the hospitality.”

“We spoke.”

“Did he speak directly into your mouth?”

George walks away.

Bradley watches him go. “At least one couple is communicating.”

The comment hits harder than he intends.

He looks at you. “Sorry.”

You stare across the paddock. Toto is standing inside the garage. He does not look back.

Toto makes the decision before qualifying.

“We race normally.”

He says it inside his office, with only Bradley standing across from him.

The door is closed. The blinds are drawn. No one else in the team knows why those two words carry so much weight. Bradley does. So do you.

Toto leans both hands against the desk. “No conservative decisions because of external pressure. No changes to our approach. We fight for the best possible result.”

Bradley watches him carefully. “And if we win?”

Toto’s jaw tightens. “Then we deal with what comes next.”

“What about her?”

Toto’s expression tightens. You are not in the room. That makes the question easier. And harder.

“I protect her.”

“How?”

“Whatever it takes.”

“And George?”

“The same.”

Bradley exhales. “You cannot protect everyone by standing in front of the explosion.”

“I can try.”

“That is your entire plan?”

“It has worked before.”

“Has it?”

Toto’s eyes become colder. “This conversation is finished.”

Bradley leaves Toto’s office but he does not return to hospitality. Instead, he heads toward the engineering offices.

You see him speaking quietly to one of the senior strategists. When you approach, they separate. The strategist nods once and walks away. Bradley smiles at you. Too quickly.

“What was that?” you ask.

“Work.”

“You’re communications.”

“We communicate with engineers.”

“Usually through meetings.”

“This was an efficient meeting.”

You study him. Bradley takes a drink of water.

“What are you planning?”

“Nothing.”

“You have a lie face.”

“You have been spending too much time with your brother.”

“Bradley...”

He looks toward the garage. “Toto has made his decision.”

“That doesn’t answer me.”

“No,” Bradley agrees. “It doesn’t.”

Then he walks away.

A cold suspicion settles in your stomach.

George takes pole position. His final lap is perfect.

The Mercedes cuts through Barcelona with a precision that makes the garage erupt before he even crosses the line. P1.

George shouts over the radio. The mechanics cheer.

You forget the threat for three full seconds and throw your arms around Bradley. Then you find Toto. He stands at the front of the garage, pride breaking through every layer of control.

George returns and climbs out of the car.

You reach him first. He grabs you in a crushing hug.

“You did it.”

“I know.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Pole gives me permission.”

Toto reaches him next. For a second, the photograph exists between them. The storage room. The confrontation. Max.

Then Toto grips George by both shoulders. “That lap was exceptional.”

George’s expression softens. “Thank you.”

Toto pulls him into a brief embrace.

Your heart hurts at the sight. Because Toto loves your brother. Because George knows it. Because somehow all of you have made love look like an accusation.

Across the paddock, Max watches.

Kimi appears beside you, helmet still in his hand. “Max is smiling.”

You glance toward Red Bull. Max’s mouth has moved by perhaps half a millimetre.

“That is not smiling.”

“For Max, yes.”

George looks toward him. Their eyes meet. Max gives the smallest nod. George’s whole face changes. Pride, warmth and something private and soft.

Then Bradley’s phone buzzes.

The celebration keeps moving around you. Bradley reads the message. His face drains.

You step closer. “What?”

He shows you.

Anonymous: Pole position? You clearly misunderstood the instructions.

A closer version of the photograph is attached.

George’s face is painfully clear. His hand around the cock is even clearer.

The final sentence appears beneath it.

Mercedes loses tomorrow, or this goes live before the champagne dries.

You look up.

Toto is already watching you. He sees your face. Then Bradley’s.

He walks over. “Another message?”

Bradley nods.

“What does it say?” Toto asks.

“That we misunderstood.”

Toto’s jaw tightens. “Good.”

You stare at him. “Good?”

“They are nervous.”

“They have the photograph.”

“And they still need us to obey.”

Toto glances toward George, who is laughing with the engineers. “We race.”

He walks away before you can answer. Bradley watches him. Then looks toward the strategy stand.

Your suspicion returns. Stronger.

“Bradley.”

He keeps his eyes forward. “I’m going to check the post-qualifying statements.”

“You are planning something.”

“I am doing my job.”

“So am I.”

“Then smile. George is on pole.”

You do. For the cameras. Inside, you feel sick.

Race day starts perfectly.

George leads from pole. Lewis stays close behind in the Ferrari. Kimi holds third and keeps pressure on both of them.

For the first half of the race, Mercedes controls the pace.

Toto stands at the front of the garage with his headset on. Still. Focused.

You stand back beside Bradley, watching the timing screens and trying to ignore the countdown in your head.

Every lap brings you closer to the photograph going public. Every good sector from George feels like a threat. On lap thirty-two, George reports a loss of front-end grip. The data shows inconsistent pace. Nothing catastrophic. Enough to make Lewis close the gap.

The strategy discussion begins. Ferrari considers an undercut. Mercedes debates covering it. George stays out. One lap. Two. Three. Too long.

You look at Bradley. He watches the screens without moving.

“You did something.”

His eyes stay forward. “I didn’t.”

“You spoke to strategy yesterday.”

“I speak to many people.”

“Bradley.”

“Toto decided we race normally.”

“That does not mean you get to decide otherwise.”

His jaw tightens. “I have decided nothing.”

Before you can press him, Kimi reports a strange vibration. Lap fifty-nine.

The garage sharpens. Engineers check the data. Kimi’s pace drops. He fights to keep the car alive. Lap sixty-one. Power loss. Lap sixty-two. The engine note changes. On lap sixty-three, smoke appears behind the Mercedes.

Kimi pulls to the side. The car stops. DNF.

Toto’s shoulders stiffen.

Kimi’s voice comes over the radio, flat and furious. “Something broke.”

The engineer confirms they can see it.

Kimi climbs out. The championship leader stands beside the dead Mercedes while marshals push it away.

George remains P2. Lewis has taken the lead through the pit sequence and Mercedes’ delayed response.

George pushes. He closes the gap. The pace problem returns whenever he gets too close.

His radio becomes colder. “What are we doing?”

The answer is careful. “We’re protecting P2.”

“I was leading.”

“We need to manage the front.”

George says nothing.

That silence sounds exactly like yours.

Lewis crosses the line first. His first victory for Ferrari. Red fills the pit wall. Fred celebrates. Lewis screams over the radio.

George finishes second. A strong result. A painful result. Kimi has no points. Mercedes does not win. The photograph remains private.

Toto notices. You see the moment it happens. He removes his headset. Looks toward the Ferrari garage. Then at Bradley. Bradley avoids his eyes.

Very bad choice.

The office door closes after the race. Inside are Toto, Bradley, George, and you.

No one sits.

George still wears part of his race kit. His hair is damp, his face tight with exhaustion and anger.

Toto stands behind the desk. He barely looked at you all weekend. Now his eyes pass over you and settle on Bradley.

“Why has the photograph not been released?”

Bradley folds his hands in front of him. “I don’t know.”

Toto’s expression turns cold. “You are a better liar than she is.”

You flinch. He notices. Regret flickers across his face. He does not take the words back.

“What did you do?” Toto asks.

“Nothing illegal.”

“That is not reassuring.”

George looks between them. “What is going on?”

Toto does not look away from Bradley. “You spoke to strategy before qualifying.”

Your suspicion becomes certainty. Bradley stays silent.

Toto steps closer. “You knew we would lose if they chose the safest option after George’s pace dropped.”

“The pace issue was real.”

“You encouraged them to protect P2.”

“I advised caution.”

“You manipulated my race.”

Bradley’s face hardens. “I did not touch the cars. I did not create George’s problem. I did not cause Kimi’s engine failure.”

“You influenced strategy.”

“Yes.”

George goes very still. “You cost me the win.”

Bradley looks at him. The professional mask slips. Guilt appears.

“I may have.”

George laughs once. Sharp. “You may have?”

“I pushed for the safest legitimate strategy.”

“I didn’t need safe.”

“Your career did.”

George steps closer. “My job is to race.”

“My job is to protect this team.”

“You are communications.”

“Today I communicated very firmly.”

Even Toto almost reacts to that.

George’s anger remains. “You let me think the team failed me again.”

Bradley’s expression softens. “The team had real issues. The pace loss was real. Kimi’s engine was real. I made sure we did not take the final risk required to fight Lewis.”

“You made sure we lost.”

“Yes.”

The admission fills the room.

Toto’s jaw tightens. “You had no right.”

“No.”

“You acted behind my back.”

“Yes.”

“You compromised the integrity of this team.”

Bradley raises his chin. “I protected your people.”

“That was my decision.”

“That was the problem.”

Silence.

Bradley looks at Toto with the exhausted anger of someone who has spent weeks trying to save everyone from themselves.

“You were ready to sacrifice your own reputation. Fine. Heroic. Very you.”

“Careful.”

“You were also ready to let them publish a photograph that would destroy her career and expose George’s private life.”

Toto’s voice drops. “I would have protected them.”

“How?”

“I would have taken responsibility.”

Bradley laughs without humour. “You cannot take responsibility for George holding Max Verstappen’s cock.”

George closes his eyes. “Could we stop saying that sentence?”

“No,” Toto and Bradley answer together.

You almost laugh. The sound catches in your throat.

Bradley continues. “You cannot stand in front of every headline. You cannot absorb every consequence. Sometimes protection means making a terrible decision before someone else makes a worse one.”

Toto stares at him. “You should have trusted me.”

Bradley’s voice softens. “And you should have trusted us.”

The words land between you and Toto. He looks at you. You look back. The silence of the entire weekend sits inside that glance.

George sees it. His anger fades slightly. He looks down. “This is all because of me.”

“No,” you say immediately.

“Yes.”

“George—”

“I went into that room.”

“Max pulled you in.”

“I stayed.”

Toto’s eyebrow lifts. George gives him a tired look.

“This is not the time to review consent logistics.”

Bradley’s phone buzzes. Everyone turns toward him. Same anonymous number. Bradley opens the message.

Anonymous: Much better.

Below it is a photograph of Lewis on the top step of the podium. Ferrari red. Champagne. Fred smiling beneath him.

Another line appears.

Red suits the podium, don’t you think? Your old friend finally gave Ferrari what they wanted.

Toto takes the phone. He reads the message once. Then again. His expression changes. The anger remains. Something clicks beneath it. Recognition.

Private number. The language. The focus on Ferrari.

Your old friend.

He zooms in on the photograph.

Fred stands beneath the podium, grinning.

Toto’s eyes narrow. “No.”

Bradley watches him. “What?”

Toto says nothing for several seconds. Then he looks at the original photograph again on Bradley’s laptop.

At the corridor. At you and him. At the angle from which it was taken. At the sliver of red reflected in the polished wall beside the storage-room door. A shirt. A team pass.

Someone close enough to laugh at the entire situation.

Toto’s face becomes dangerously calm. “I know who has my private number.”

Your stomach drops. George straightens. Bradley looks from Toto to the photograph. Then to the image of Fred beneath the podium. Realisation slowly spreads across his face.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

Toto hands the phone back. His jaw tightens. “Fred.”

The room goes silent.

George blinks. “Fred Vasseur?”

Toto’s eyes stay on the photograph. “He saw us.”

You stare at the red reflection. “And George.”

Toto exhales through his nose. “Yes.”

Bradley lowers himself into the nearest chair. “So Ferrari’s first win with Lewis was sponsored by George Russell’s terrible choice of storage room.”

George looks offended. “That is an unfair summary.”

“It is also accurate,” you say.

Toto turns toward the door. His anger has found a target. That should make you feel better. It does not.

He passes you without touching you. Without looking at you.

Then stops with his hand on the door. “Bradley.”

“Yes?”

“Make sure Fred does not leave the paddock.”

Bradley looks at the closed race schedule on his phone. “And if he tries?”

Toto opens the door. “Tell him I know.”

Then he leaves.

You remain standing beside George. The distance between you and Toto follows him out of the room.

George quietly reaches for your hand. You let him take it.

Across the paddock, Ferrari celebrates. And somewhere inside their hospitality, Fred Vasseur is about to discover that blackmailing Toto Wolff with a photograph of two secret relationships may have been the funniest mistake of his life.

For everyone except Toto.