Coriowife

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Rafe didn’t mean to fall for his sister’s best friend, but the fact that you’re the complete opposite of him keeps him drawn to you, especially your quiet and soft-spoken personality, a ray of sunshine when you feel comfortable with the people around you.

So he can’t understand why you also started spending more time with the pogues ever since Sarah got together with John B. They are no good for you in his eyes and will only drag you down the wrong path.

He had a great bond with you before the whole thing with Peterkin happened, even with some stolen kisses here and there that you never dared to mention to Sarah.

Now you’re trying your best to avoid him, obviously believing what Sarah told you and taking the side of your best friend without even letting him try to explain his actions to you.

It’s pissing him off immensely. You won’t talk to him nor look in his direction when seeing him around in Kildare and he clenches his jaw whenever he sees you around the pogues, realizing that you’re drifting further away from him with each passing day.

This evening Rafe has other things to worry about. The cross is laying in the transporter together with Renfield's body that he still has to get rid off before taking the cross to The Coastel Venture.

Your fingers fumble with the key from the transporter that you managed to steal from Rafe’s room with the help of Wheezie and Sarah, not knowing that your best friend already stumbled into her brother and has been locked into her room soon after by him.

"Please let this work." You pray quietly, the key almost slipping from your hand as you lift it up to the lock, breathing out in relief when it unlocks and pull open the door.

Your whole body freezes the second pair of open eyes stare right back at you. Dead. This person you’re staring at right now is visibly dead. Your hands tremble as you take a step back in shock, your breathing getting faster with panic.

"Oh god…oh my-" You turn away slightly and brace your hand on the transporter while you keep stumbling backwards, yelping in surprise when you crash into a firm chest.

Rafe’s hands shoot out to grab your arms, keeping you close as he lets out a sigh. "I really wish you didn’t do that, kid."

"G-Get off me!" You squeak out, trying to twist out of his grip but he only uses it to his advantage and wraps one arm around your waist, his free hand reaching up to clamp over your mouth before you could scream out for help.

"Not a sound." He growls into your ear, dragging you inside the house and down to the wine cellar, pushing you inside one of the rooms before locking the door in front of him, his breathing ragged.

That’s the best thing that could happen to Rafe. He’s got you for himself now and can finally talk with you about everything. No matter what you say now, he can’t just let you run off after what you’ve seen.

That’s his chance of making you his.

"Rafe!" Your cracking voice pulls him out of his thoughts, feeling you bang your fists against the door from where he’s leaning against. "Rafe, let me out! Please!"

"I’m not letting you out, Y/N. Not until you calm down, okay." He says calmly, hearing you let out a sob. "Don’t freak out on me now. Take some deep breaths."

"Let me out. Please. Let me out." You ramble to yourself, fisting your hands in your hair and pace back and forth as you try to regulate your breathing, screaming mentally at your brain to keep it together when it’s trying to slip into your littlespace to cope with the current situation.

You jump in your spot when the door unlocks and see Rafe step inside, wrapping your arms around yourself as you try to put as much space as possible between you both.

"Hey, it’s okay." He holds his hands up in a non-threatening way when he sees you tense up at his appearance, taking in the tears that are spilling from your eyes. "C'mon, you really think I would do something to you?"

"Did you kill him?" You whisper out, afraid of what the answer might be.

"No. I swear, I didn’t do shit. It wasn’t me." He is quick to respond. "I- I keep getting into stuff that makes me look bad. Everything I do is for my family, for my dad. You gotta understand. Sarah and…those damn pogues have been telling you shit the whole time."

You shake your head. "No, you’re lying- you-" You choke on your words, sinking down to your knees when they threaten to give out.

"Hey, hey." Rafe coos, crouching down as well and holds his hands out to catch you if needed. "I know you’re confused, overwhelmed even. But you have to listen to me for once. Hear my side of this whole mess."

You clutch at your chest, your mind feeling hazy from everything he’s telling you. How he had to shoot Peterkin to save his father, how Sarah has been provoking him and that he didn’t mean to shoot her, that he wanted to talk with you this whole time but didn’t get the chance, how much he missed you.

It all mixes up in your head and you pull your knees to your chest, trying to sort your feelings and the information you just received in a haste, not even noticing how close Rafe has been getting to you slowly because you’re too busy with making an opinion on all this.

"Shh, breathe." He pleads rather softly despite the situation, gently grabbing one of your hands to place it against his chest so you can feel his now calm heartbeat. "It’s gonna be okay. I got you now, yeah? It’s just you and me."

You don’t protest when he moves to help you back up from the ground, leading you over to the armchair and motions for you to sit down, tilting your head up with his finger.

"Stay here. I’ll be right back." He promises, cupping your cheek for a moment before he turns to leave, locking the door behind him just in case you take the chance to run off.

You sit there in silence, wringing your hands together when you suddenly remember Sarah. Where is she? Is she okay? What if her and the others are worried about you?

Before you could spiral further again, you hear the door unlock. Rafe steps back in, holding a plastic cup in his hand and places it in your hands, sitting down on the other armchair. "Drink. It’ll help."

You eye the cup in your hand warily, glancing at him before taking a hesitant sip, tilting your head slightly when you taste your favorite juice.

"I remember you telling once that it’s your ultimate favorite, so I had it stacked for whenever you came over for Sarah, well when you used to come over anyway." He tells you, scratching at the nape of his neck.

"You did?" You murmur softly and keep drinking from the cup, not noticing how Rafe watches your every sip as if he’s waiting for something.

"Course I did. You’re the only friend of Sarah’s that doesn’t give me headache. Which was…confusing to me at first but you’re really something else, and I always liked that about you."

You purse your lips at his admission, yet before you can form a response you start to feel hazy again, not from being at the edge of slipping but from feeling tired out of a sudden.

Rafe sees the change instantly, reaching out to take the cup from your slipping grasp to put it aside and gets up from the chair to steady your swaying self. "It’s okay, you’re alright."

"Wha…" You slur, barley registering that he slips his arms under knees and back to lift you up, not understanding what’s happening.

"Don’t fight it. It’s only gonna get worse if you do. Just relax and close your eyes for a bit." Your hear him say, though it sounds like his voice is muffled as he carries you out of the cellar.

Once your body fully sags in his arms, Rafe lets out a long exhale, knowing there’s no going back and that he’ll do anything to keep you at his side from now on.

"Now that I got the cross for us, we’ll have it real nice. You’ll see." He grunts as he makes his way outside to where the transporter is parked, rounding it to maneuver you into the passenger seat carefully.

He walks to the back of the vehicle to close it up again, turning his head to face Rose when he hears her come out and keeps putting the lock back in place.

"You took care of Sarah?" He asks, merely to make sure she won’t cause more trouble rather than in concern.

"Yes. What are you gonna do about Y/N?" She asks, afraid that Rafe will do something unpredictable again.

"Don’t worry about it. She’s my problem, not yours." He declares, about to walk towards the drivers side when Rose calls his name again firmly. "I’m gonna handle her. She’ll come with us. You take care of Sarah and Wheezie. I’ll meet you guys later."

Without another word, he climbs behind the wheel and slams the door shut, taking a deep breath as he looks over at your sleeping figure.

He reaches over to brush some of your hair behind your ear, adrenaline cursing through his veins at the fact he’s got you sitting next to him, even if you didn’t get a choice in that matter but in his mind he had no other choice than to give you something to keep you calm.

You hadn’t come around to changing it. And if you’re really being honest—something you only do on Wednesdays at 4 pm with your therapist—you hadn’t changed it because you hoped that you wouldn’t have to.

You hoped that maybe keeping him as your hockey boy meant that he’d come back into your life and stay that way.

Now, as the sky continued to rumble and weep above, you prayed that Logan’s generosity was not limited to your relationship. And tonight, you were going to test that.

The phone rang three times before the call connected.

“Hello?” His voice was raspy, laced with more perplexity than anything else.

You closed your eyes. You hadn’t heard his voice in a year. “Hey, Logan?”

He could hear the faint yet rhythmic thuds of rain hitting your car window through the speaker. You had gone back inside your car to make this phone call.

“Is everything okay?”

He sounded concerned. That’s good, you thought. That means he cares.

You took a deep breath, “No, I…I’m not okay. My car stopped working and I’m stuck in the middle of this rain storm.”

“You’re in Hastings?” He asked.

You swallowed. “Boston.”

The line went so quiet you had to check your screen to make sure you hadn’t been disconnected.

Then, “You’re here in Boston?”

You bit your bottom lip, “Yes.”

“Where are you?”

“Boston Common.”

You heard the soft metallic jingle of keys and your heart skipped a beat at the implication. You almost wanted to take it back, undo this call, pretend it never happened.

“Listen, Logan, I don’t know where you live. You could be miles away from where I am, but I didn’t know who else to call—”

“I will be there in 10 minutes. Do not leave your car, alright?”

Your heartbeat spiked. For a moment, you felt like a selfish monster—making him leave his home, reopening a chapter in his life he might’ve wanted to close, clawing your way back in on your terms. Logan had always been too kind for his own good.

He called your name softly and you snapped out of it.

“You hear me?” He repeated.

“Yes, I won’t leave my car.”

“And lock your doors.”

You pressed the button on your car door.

After he hung up, you did nothing but stare out your window. You put the windshield wipers to tedious work, watching as they slid water across the glass in futile efforts.

You didn’t notice the time passing. And you certainly didn’t notice Logan’s figure until his knock on your window made you jump out of your skin.

You quickly unlocked and pushed your door open. Logan was drenched. His cotton t-shirt clung to his torso, catching the ridges enough to leave an imprint of his abs. Droplets of rain dripped from his brown locks, falling and sticking to his forehead. He looked like a vision.

Logan helped you out your car, guiding you with a strong arm behind your back—not touching—towards his jeep. He opened the passenger door and made sure you settled inside before closing it and going around to his side of the car.

You were breathing heavily, still recovering from the heavy downpour. When Logan got in and shut the door behind him, you looked over.

He threw his head back to push the wet strands of hair out of his face. When he turned to face you, you felt a dip in your stomach.

“I’m really sorry,” you said right away.

He held his hand up to stop your apology. “Are you alright? Did you leave anything important in your car?”

You shook your head. Phone, wallet, keys. All tucked safely—albeit sodden—in your deep coat pockets.

He shifted the gear out of park mode and drove the two of you away from the street.

The car ride was silent. The ambience of the outside storm filled enough gaps that should have been packed with conversation.

God, when was the last time you had a conversation with Logan?

It must’ve been junior year for you. He had just moved to Boston after being drafted by the Bruins, got a place of his own, playing hockey professionally like he always wanted. And you were back at Briar, studying hard, doing long distance with him, sharing dreams whenever he came to visit you on campus.

“It needs to be a loft apartment.”

“Why a loft?” Logan furrowed his brows.

“Fun downstairs, cozy upstairs,” you replied.

He smiled and nodded along, “Okay.”

“With floor to ceiling windows, so we can always have a view.”

His arms wrapped around you, “And what view is that?”

“Fenway Park.”

Logan rolled his eyes and buried his face in your neck, making you squeal. “You baseball brat! I can’t believe you’re choosing that over hockey.”

The stubble on his handsome face made you ticklish, squirming in his hold. “I never even heard of the Bruins before I met you!”

He gasped in mock betrayal, “Oh you’re gonna pay for that, Red Sox masshole!”

Your laughter filled the air as Logan attacked your neck with kisses and tickles.

It had been going so well.

Until it wasn’t.

Long distance was hard. It wasn’t gracious or patient, not easy on fragile hearts such as yours. It wasn’t the type to harbor kindness that saved you from the rain despite everything.

No, it was cruel, and you never wanted your love for Logan to be that. He was a rising star in the hockey world. He deserved so much. So much more than a college girlfriend who lived away, more than FaceTimes every night and short weekend trips whenever your schedules aligned—like the sun and moon trying to meet.

You blinked out the passenger window when Logan drove onto a familiar freeway. “Wait, why are we—”

“I live down the block.”

You finally tore your gaze out the window and towards him for the first time since he started driving. Logan’s eyes remained steady on the road ahead, his grip on the steering wheel unwavering.

You didn’t say anything else as he pulled into the parking lot of his apartment building, or when the two of you walked into the lobby where the doorman greeted Logan with ease, or when you took the elevator upstairs to the 21st floor where he lived.

When he unlocked his door, he held it open for you to step in first. You entered with hesitant steps, like an elephant finding home inside a mouse’s hole in the wall. You pulled your coat off—now damp thanks to his car heater—and hung it up on the coat rack.

Logan’s apartment was beautiful. Polished with exquisite furniture—from the fine leather couches, to the shiny marble island, even the brick veneer fireplace in the living room. The deeper you ventured in, the more you were left in awe.

The floor to ceiling windows.

Your footsteps paused as you reached the far end of the room. You peered out the glass, coming face-to-face with the same Fenway Park the pair of you just drove by on the way here. The one you almost asked Logan about.

You turned around and met his eyes. He stood behind the couch, holding onto the cushions to keep him upright.

Your eyes glanced to the side of the apartment, where the floating staircase led to his quaint upper deck bedroom. Your eyes flicked back to his.

An unspoken exchange lingered between you.

“How’d you know where my car was?”

Logan pursed his lips before shrugging, “I just looked for the blue Toyota Camry.”

You nodded, “Of course you did.”

Logan walked over to his open kitchen, pulling out a bottle of something. “Reliable car,” he remarked.

You let out a huff of amusement, “Oh, for sure. Except when it’s pouring, right?”

Logan popped open the cork, “Cars don’t like water. They’re like cats.”

You sauntered your way into his kitchen. “Wish I knew that before I bought it.”

“I told you that when you bought it.”

Right. Logan had been the one who accompanied you to the dealership when you finally saved enough money to put a payment down for a car. He had spoken to the salesperson, checked out everything, told you all that you needed to know about cars. He was the reason you got a Camry because he said it wouldn’t let you down unless you let it down.

Perhaps that applied to more than just cars.

He held out a glass of wine towards you. You accepted it with a grateful smile, taking a sip.

Logan watched you over the rim of his own wine glass. “I’d give you the house tour but…this is pretty much it.”

“No, it’s nice,” you responded, looking around.

He nodded, “I’m glad you think so.”

Neither of you were willing to acknowledge his influence on your car preferences and your influence on his architectural choices.

You cleared your throat, “Thank you. Really. For saving me. You didn’t have to.”

Logan tilted his head, “No, I kinda had to.”

Your smile faded away.

He leaned against the kitchen island, “I told you if you ever had car troubles, I’m your guy.”

Your guy.

“Yeah, I know.” You replied. “I just…I wasn’t sure if you still meant that. After…everything.”

Logan looked away, finding sudden interest in the ceiling chandelier. “I’m gonna change out of this,” he pointed to his clothes.

You nodded, putting your glass down.

“You’re welcome to stay.” He told you, meeting your eyes once again. “We can go get your car in the morning—if it isn’t still raining—and I’ll fix it up for you.”

You wanted to decline his benevolent offer. Why was he so nice to you after you broke up with him? You didn’t deserve this—

Logan tugged you by your hand, his touch was electric after all the time apart. “C’mon, let me get you a change of clothes, too.”

He led you upstairs to the loft bedroom. The room was warmer, literally and figuratively. It wasn’t as chic as the downstairs, but definitely more homey.

Logan pulled open his dresser drawer and took out a t-shirt and pair of boxers. “These should still fit you,” he commented as he tossed them over to you.

You held them up. It was your favorite shirt of his, the one you always stole because of how soft the fabric felt. And the boxers, they had hockey sticks on them, something you bought him for his birthday one year.

He pointed to the en suite bathroom, “You can change in there, wash your face, whatever you want.”

You watched him for a moment as he pulled out his own change of clothes. Your mouth ran out of apologies and words of gratitude, so you simply nodded and made your way inside his bathroom.

By the time you stepped out in his apparel, Logan had already dressed in a fresh set of sweatpants sitting low on his waist and a white wife beater.

He paused when he saw you, needing to reintroduce the image of you in his shirt and boxers, as though it were a long-lost language he once spoke fluently.

He cleared his throat after a moment, “You can have the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“No, Logan, it’s your place.” You argued.

“It’s fine, you’re my guest—”

“No, really, you should—”

“I insist—”

“But I—”

“Babe.”

You both froze when the word slipped out Logan’s lips so effortlessly. Your eyes met in a loaded exchange, but at least it got you to shut up about the bed. He cursed himself internally for allowing that to happen, and even more so when it felt so right doing it.

Logan let out a sigh and picked up a pillow and blanket, “Just…sleep on the bed. Please.”

This time, you didn’t shoot out a retort. You simply observed as Logan went down the stairs with his bedding.

You tried.

You really did.

But sleep would not find you no matter how many times you tossed and turned on Logan’s smooth sheets. Your mind replayed memories of him instead of dreams.

“Why are you doing this?” Logan’s voice was equal parts exasperation and anguish.

You sniffled, “Logan, I want what’s best for you. That’s all I want.”

“You’re what’s best for me!”

“No, I’m not—”

“You don’t get to decide that!” He held your arms with a desperate grip. “I’ve been making hard decisions my whole life. And this? You? It’s the easiest choice I ever made; it’s the only one I know that’s right.”

“You’ll change your mind, you’ll meet so many wonderful people in Boston. And I don’t want you to resent me for keeping you.”

“Resent you?” He repeated. “I love you. You’re it for me, baby. Don’t you get that?”

You sat up on his bed, your heart beating faster than normal. When you stood up and leaned forward on the loft’s railing, you spotted Logan sitting by the tall apartment window, staring out into the nighttime view.

“Since when do you like baseball?”

Logan turned his head and saw you at the bottom of the staircase. He huffed, “Boston brainwashed me.”

You smiled and sat across from him, your knees brushed against each other but neither of you pulled away. You followed his gaze out the window and towards Fenway Park.

“You been to any of their games?”

“One or two,” he answered.

“You a Red Sox fan now?” You teased.

“I have to be or else I’d get beat up on the streets,” Logan quipped.

You chuckled quietly. “What a waste of real estate.”

His expression sobered. He fiddled with his fingers before looking at you. “I only got this place because it’s what you always wanted.”

Your eyes darted to him.

He shrugged like the confession was helpless, inevitable, even. Logan wasn’t ashamed nor did he regret it.

“Logan,” you called softly.

“What do I have to do to show you that I want this? That I want us.”

Your chest tightened, “Logan.”

“It’s been a year, baby. I haven’t seen anyone else. I can’t. They’re not you.”

“Logan—”

“And you can try to tell me that this is what’s best for us, or whatever bullshit mature answer you have, but I won’t buy that. Nothing you say will change how I feel about you. I meant what I said when I told you that you were it for me.”

You kissed him.

He wouldn’t shut up if you hadn’t.

Neither of you complained.

Logan groaned against your lips like you were the first drop of rain in the midst of a drought. His hands buried themselves into your hair, pulling you closer until you settled onto his lap.

You found purchase on his broad shoulders, bringing your chests flush together. Your fingers tips brushed against the hairs on the nape of his neck, remembering what it felt like to tug on them.

As if he could read your thoughts, Logan pulled back enough to ask: “Please, baby, can I eat you out? I haven’t tasted you in so long.”

You must’ve looked pathetic when you nodded so quickly.

Logan pushed you to lay on your back. He lifted your shirt up enough so he could admire your bare chest. The sound that escaped him was even more pathetic than your eager consent.

His lips latched onto one of your nipples, flicking the bud and wetting it with fervor. His free hand kneaded your other breast with ample attention.

Your breath came out in shaky puffs. You closed your eyes and sighed, “Fuck, Logan.”

Your voice went straight to his groin. He switched to the other breast and showered it with the same affection.

You blinked down at him in a daze, weakly tugging at his top. He sat up immediately and pulled it off his frame, chucking it aside. Your eyes wandered over the bare expanse of his torso. His defined pecks and abdomen, the blooming bruises he earned from hockey slowly fading into yellow-green patches.

You didn’t have time to admire him in the way he deserved because Logan impatiently hooked his restless fingers under his boxers that you wore.

“Raise your hips for me, baby.”

You complied without hesitation. When your bottom half was left exposed, Logan sat back on his haunches and stared. His eyes glazed over with a subtle sheen and you almost worried that he’d start crying.

“You’re unfair,” he mumbled with softly arched brows. He reached down and propped your legs over his shoulders.

You cried out when his tongue slid between your folds in a tantalizingly slow glide. You weren’t sure if the sound you heard came out of your own mouth or Logan’s.

“Tastes better than I remember,” he said.

His lips left a small peck on your clit before he sucked on it. Your hips flinched upwards, but Logan’s strong arms held you down.

“Reactive, huh? Did you miss my mouth?”

You huffed, “Yes.”

He smirked. So smug.

“Yeah, I bet you did. I can tell.” His fingers swiped against you and gathered your slick.

“You’re so wet for me.”

“Don’t tease.”

Logan’s smile widened. He leaned forward so his face hovered over yours. “I can do whatever I want, baby. I earned it.”

Fuck was he right.

He devoured you. He left your legs shaking and heart racing. His tongue prodded your hole so skillfully, just the right amount of pressure that made you yank at his hair.

“Right there,” you gasped out.

Logan doubled down on his ministrations. His hands lifted your ass up so he could bury his face deeper between your thighs.

Your eyes rolled back, “Baby, I’m close.”

Baby.

Logan hadn’t heard that name of endearment from you in a year and it made him grind down on his erection to relieve some tension.

“You’re so pretty when you’re about to cum,” he said, admiring the view of you. He could always tell when you were close to finishing.

He dove back in, rapidly shaking his head from side to side, resulting in a crude squelching noise to echo in the air. You shrieked, arching up towards him.

“Let me have it, angel. I need it. I deserve it.”

His words were enough to send you over. When you came, you both let out a moan. Logan held you through it, working his tongue to ride out your wave of pleasure. You had to shakily push his head away when it became too much to bear.

Logan threw his head back and sat down. You both panted, forcing air back into your lungs, holding eye contact. When your gaze dragged downwards, you spotted the dark stain on the crotch of his sweatpants.

Your eyes widened.

Logan let out a small chuckle.

“It’s been a while,” is what he said.

“Since you ate a girl out?” You queried.

His adam’s apple bobbed, “Since I came.”

The room went quiet.

The thought of Logan being celibate since the two of you broke up did dangerous things to your heart. It weaved precarious hopes that you feared would blossom into something neither of you could promise.

Logan pulled one of your legs into his lap and started caressing your foot. He stared down at your skin, allowing the moment to settle. You watched him, biting your lip in thought.

“Let me take care of you,” you offered.

“It’ll take a while,” he said.

Your eyes automatically glanced between his legs.

Logan let out another amused laugh that faded into a deep sigh. His expression shifted into something more thoughtful as he looked at your face.

“Come back to me, baby.” He murmured.

Your heart ached at the pleading tone.

“We can live here,” he gestured around the apartment. “Sleep in our loft, have dinner on the kitchen island, make love on the couch, look out at Fenway Park at night…”

That was the life you wanted with Logan.

It was perfect.

He was perfect.

He did everything perfectly.

And you had let your fears ruin that.

But not anymore.

You reached for his hands and pulled him closer. Your foreheads rested against each other. He closed his eyes for a second before looking deep into yours.

“You’ll have to go to every Red Sox game with me,” you whispered.

Logan’s chuckle came out sounding like a breath of relief. He nodded slowly.

“Whatever you want,” he murmured.

You tilted your head, “You. I want you.”

Logan squeezed your hands, “You have me.”

And that was the easiest decision you ever made, too.

The bass thumped through the crowded frat house like a second heartbeat, the air thick with beer, sweat, and pure triumph. Briar had just crushed Atlanta in the final, and Garrett Graham had been the fucking king of the ice. Everyone knew it. He’d scored the game-winner in overtime, and now the entire campus seemed crammed into this one house to celebrate him.

You were buzzing half from the shots Allie kept handing you, half from the overwhelming pride swelling in your chest. Your boyfriend had done that. Your Garrett. The man who still looked at you like you hung the damn moon even after two years together.

“C’mon, get up there!” Allie laughed, already half-drunk and hyped as hell. She laced her fingers together to give you a boost.

The wooden table in the middle of the living room groaned under the weight of empty cups as you climbed up with her help, your short black dress riding dangerously high on your thighs. The crowd cheered at the sight of you up there, but you raised both arms, demanding their full attention.

“LISTEN UP, YOU DRUNKEN BASTARDS!” you shouted, voice carrying over the music. People turned, phones already coming out. “MY BOYFRIEND FUCKED THOSE ATLANTA BITCHES ON THE ICE TONIGHT… AND HE’S GONNA FUCK ME NEXT! SO GIVE ME A FUCKING OVATION FOR GARRETT GRAHAM!”

The room exploded. Cheers, whistles, and roars shook the walls. Someone started chanting Garrett’s name. Cups raised in the air. The energy was electric, wild, and completely his just how you liked it.

From across the room, Garrett watched you with that slow, devastating smile, hazel eyes locked on you like you were the only person in the universe. His hair was still slightly damp from the shower he’d taken after the game, and the tight black t-shirt stretched across his broad shoulders did nothing to hide how fucking good he looked.

He didn’t look embarrassed. He looked proud. Hungry. In love.

Dean, standing right beside him with a beer in hand, barked out a laugh. “Bro, if that was Allie up there I’d already have her ass over my shoulder and halfway to a bedroom. You’re really just gonna let her—”

“Yeah,” Garrett cut him off, voice low and warm, eyes never leaving you. “Let her have this. Look how happy she is. She’s proud of me. That’s my girl up there screaming my name like that… she’s the whole reason I played like my life depended on it tonight.”

He took a slow sip of his drink, but his gaze was pure heat. The kind that promised he’d absolutely deliver on every filthy word you’d just yelled.

You caught his stare from the table and grinned, cheeks flushed, heart racing.

The crowd was still losing their minds around you, but all you could focus on was the way Garrett was looking at you like he was already imagining exactly how he was going to ruin you later.

Allie tugged at your leg, laughing. “Babe, you’re insane and I love you. Get down before you break your neck!”

You let her help you off the table, legs a little shaky from adrenaline and alcohol you barely had both feet on the ground before the crowd parted and Garrett was right there. Strong hands caught your waist, steadying you as the adrenaline made your legs feel like jelly.

Before you could say anything, he pulled you flush against his chest and kissed you like he’d been starving for it. Deep, hungry, tongue sliding against yours in front of half the fucking party. His fingers dug into your hips, possessive and warm, and you melted into him instantly.

When he finally let you breathe, you grinned up at him, cheeks burning, heart hammering.

“I love you so fucking much,” you breathed against his mouth, “and I’m so fucking proud of you, baby. You were incredible tonight.”

Garrett’s eyes darkened with heat and something softer, deeper. He cupped your face with one big hand, thumb brushing your bottom lip, and kissed you again slower this time, but no less filthy. A slow glide of tongues that had your toes curling in your shoes. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“Fuck, I love you too,” he murmured, voice rough and low just for you. “Hearing you scream that up there… telling everyone I’m gonna fuck you next?” He let out a dark little chuckle that sent heat straight between your legs. “You’re insane. And you’re all mine.”

His hands slid down to squeeze your ass shamelessly, not caring who saw. You could feel him already half-hard against your stomach, the thick outline pressing through his jeans.

“You’ve been hyping me up all season, wearing my jersey, screaming louder than anyone in the stands,” he continued, lips brushing your ear. “You deserve to feel so fucking good tonight, baby. Let me take you upstairs. Let me thank you properly… with my mouth or my cock whatever you choose. I want to taste how proud you are of me.”

He nipped your earlobe, then soothed it with his tongue, voice dropping even lower.

“Say yes and I’ll eat this pretty pussy until you’re shaking. I’ve been thinking about burying my face between your thighs since the final buzzer.”

Your core clenched at his words. Garrett had always been vocal, but tonight he was extra filthy—fueled by victory, pride, and pure need for you.

He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes blazing with that intense focus he usually saved for the ice. Waiting. Patient, but clearly ready to drag you upstairs the second you gave the word.

You bit your lip, looking up at him with that mischievous, horny little smile he loved so much. The music pulsed around you, but the rest of the party had faded into background noise. All you could feel was the heat of his body and the way his eyes devoured you.

“What do you think?” you whispered, voice sweet but dripping with challenge. You grabbed his wrist and slowly guided his big hand under the hem of your short dress, right there in the middle of the crowded room.

Garrett’s breath hitched the second his fingers brushed your bare, soaked pussy. No panties. Just slick, warm, dripping arousal coating his fingertips as he cupped you possessively.

“Fuck, baby…” he groaned low in his throat, eyes flashing with raw hunger. Two thick fingers slid through your folds, teasing your entrance before circling your swollen clit. “You’re fucking drenched. Walking around my victory party with this pretty cunt bare and dripping for me? You really are trying to kill me tonight.”

You whimpered softly as he pressed one finger just inside you, enough to make your thighs tremble. He curled it slowly, perfectly, like he already knew exactly how to make you fall apart.

Garrett pulled his hand free, brought his glistening fingers to his mouth, and sucked them clean with a filthy moan that sent another rush of wetness down your thighs.

That was it.

Without another word, he bent down, grabbed you like you weighed nothing, and tossed you over his broad shoulder. One strong arm locked around the backs of your thighs, your dress riding up so high your bare ass was practically on display for anyone looking.

You let out a surprised laugh that quickly turned into a needy moan when his free hand boldly palmed your exposed cheek and squeezed hard. “Garrett!” you squealed, half-laughing, half-turned on beyond belief as he started carrying you through the crowd toward the stairs.

People whistled and cheered as you passed. Dean shouted something like “Fucking finally!” but Garrett didn’t even glance at them. His focus was locked on you on the way your soaked pussy was inches from his face, on how you squirmed over his shoulder, on the little whimpers you couldn’t hold back.

He took the stairs two at a time, one hand still gripping your ass, fingers dangerously close to where you needed him most.

“You’re gonna be screaming my name all night, baby,” he promised, voice dark and rough as he kicked open the door to an empty bedroom at the end of the hall. “I’m not stopping until this pussy is ruined and you can’t walk straight tomorrow.”

The second the door clicked shut, Garrett spun you off his shoulder and kissed you like he was dying of hunger.

It wasn’t sweet. It was desperate, messy, and filthy. His mouth claimed yours, tongue fucking into you deep while his hands roamed everywhere squeezing your ass, sliding up your dress, gripping your waist like he couldn’t decide which part of you he wanted to devour first. You moaned into his mouth, fingers threading through his hair, tugging hard the way he liked.

He walked you backwards until your knees hit the bed, then tossed you onto it with zero effort. You bounced once on the mattress, dress bunched up around your hips, legs spread, pussy completely exposed and glistening. Garrett stood at the edge of the bed, staring down at you like you were his favorite meal.

“Wait, wait—” he said suddenly, voice rough with lust. He held up one finger, that cocky little smirk tugging at his lips. “Let me put on some music to get inspired.”

You watched, breathless and amused, as he grabbed his phone, scrolled for a second, and hit play. The opening guitar riff of Cherry Pie by Warrant blasted through the room.

You let out a surprised laugh. “Again? That song?”

Garrett chuckled, low and warm, the sound vibrating straight to your core. He tossed the phone onto the dresser and crawled onto the bed, hovering over you with that devastating blue-eyed smirk.

“What can I say?” He leaned down, brushing his nose along your jaw. “It keeps me inspired. Every time I hear it I think about spreading your legs and burying my face in that sweet pussy until you’re dripping down my chin.”

He kissed you again, slower this time but no less hungry, swallowing the moan that escaped your throat. His hand slid up your inner thigh, fingers teasingly close to where you were aching for him, but not quite touching yet.

“You looked so fucking hot on that table tonight,” he murmured against your lips between kisses, “yelling that I was gonna fuck you. Got me so hard I could barely think straight.” He nipped your bottom lip. “Now I’m gonna make good on that promise, baby.”

His kisses trailed down your neck as the guitar solo kicked in, his big body pressing you deeper into the mattress. You could feel how hard he was through his jeans, thick and insistent against your bare thigh.

He kissed, licked, and sucked along your throat with filthy hunger, teeth grazing that sensitive spot that always made you shiver. One of his hands pinned your wrist above your head while the other tugged the straps of your dress down your shoulders, exposing your tits.

“Fuck, look at you,” he groaned, voice thick. He kissed lower, lips brushing over your collarbone before latching onto one of your nipples. He sucked hard, tongue flicking and swirling, while his hand kneaded the other breast, pinching and rolling your nipple between his fingers until you were arching off the bed with a broken moan.

“Garrett…” you whimpered, already impatient. Your free hand fisted in his hair, trying to push him lower. Your pussy was throbbing, dripping onto the sheets, aching for his mouth. “Please… stop teasing. I need you.”

He chuckled against your skin, the vibration sending sparks straight to your core. Instead of moving faster, he took his time on your other nipple, sucking it deep into his mouth with obscene wet sounds while his hand slid down your stomach, fingertips brushing just above your clit before pulling away again.

“You’re so fucking impatient tonight, baby,” he murmured, kissing down the valley between your breasts. “I just won the championship and my girl screamed to the whole party that I’m gonna fuck her… You really think I’m rushing this?”

He looked up at you, eyes dark with lust, lips shiny. “I’ve been dreaming about eating this pussy all night. I’m gonna take my time.”

Still, he kept moving lower, pressing open-mouthed kisses down your stomach, tongue dipping into your belly button for a second just to make you squirm. Your hips kept bucking up, desperate for friction, but he held you down with one strong hand on your hip, keeping you right where he wanted you.

“Garrett, please,” you begged, voice shaky. “I’m so wet it hurts.”

He groaned at your words, finally settling between your spread thighs. His broad shoulders pushed your legs wider apart as he stared at your dripping pussy like it was the best thing he’d ever seen.

“Jesus Christ, baby…” He licked his lips. “Look how fucking pretty and sloppy you are for me.”

Garrett’s breath ghosted over your soaked pussy as he pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss right on your mound, right above your clit.

Then another. And another. Teasing you mercilessly while the guitar riffs kept playing in the background.

He moved lower, kissing along the crease of your thigh, then the other, before finally pressing his lips to your slick outer folds. Soft, reverent kisses at first almost worshipful like he was savoring the moment. Then he inhaled deeply, nose brushing against your wetness as he breathed you in.

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You smell so fucking good. Sweet and horny… all for me.”

The sound that left your throat was pure need. Your fingers tightened in his hair, pulling hard as you tried to grind against his face. Garrett let out a low, filthy chuckle that vibrated against your pussy.

“Easy, greedy girl,” he murmured, lips brushing your folds with every word. “I’ve got you.”

He kissed your pussy again, slower this time, dragging his lips up and down your slit, coating them in your slick. He licked once, long and flat from your entrance all the way to your clit, then pulled back just to look at how wet you were, eyes half-lidded with pure lust.

You yanked his hair harder, hips rolling desperately. “Garrett, please stop fucking teasing me.”

He moaned at the sharp tug on his hair, clearly loving the way you were manhandling him. Without warning he dove in, mouth latching onto your pussy with hungry, filthy enthusiasm. His tongue licked broad stripes through your folds, savoring every drop of your arousal like it was his favorite flavor in the world.

“Mmhh— fuck, you taste even better than you smell,” he growled between long, messy licks. “So fucking wet… dripping all over my tongue.”

Your back arched off the bed as he sucked your clit into his mouth, tongue flicking fast and perfect while two thick fingers teased your entrance. You pulled his hair even tighter, thighs shaking around his head, and Garrett groaned loudly against your cunt, the vibration making you cry out.

“No,” you gasped, yanking his head up just enough to meet his eyes. “No fingers. Just your tongue, Garrett. Please.”

A slow, wicked smirk spread across his shiny, slick-covered mouth. His eyes were dark with pure lust as he looked up at you from between your thighs.“Your wish, my command, dollie,” he murmured, voice low and rough.

Then he dove back in like a man on a mission.

Garrett flattened his tongue and licked a long, slow stripe up your entire pussy, collecting every drop of your slick before wrapping his lips around your swollen clit. He sucked it into his mouth like it was his favorite piece of candy gentle at first, then harder, rhythmic pulses that had your eyes rolling back.

“Fuck— yes, just like that,” you moaned, hips bucking against his face.

He groaned loudly against your cunt, the sound vibrating straight through your clit as he sucked and licked with messy enthusiasm. His hands gripped your thighs hard, spreading you wider so he could bury his face deeper. He was making obscene, wet sounds slurping, sucking, humming with pleasure like he couldn’t get enough of your taste.

Every time you pulled his hair, he sucked your clit harder, flicking the sensitive bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue before sucking it again, over and over, until your legs started shaking uncontrollably around his head.

“You’re so fucking sweet,” he panted between long, hungry licks, his voice muffled against your dripping pussy. “Keep dripping for me, baby. I could eat this pretty cunt for hours.”

He sealed his mouth around your clit again, sucking with perfect pressure while his tongue worked you relentlessly. Your slick was all over his chin, his lips, even the tip of his nose, but Garrett didn’t care. If anything, it seemed to make him hungrier. He moaned into you like a starving man finally getting fed, completely lost in the taste and feel of you.

His tongue licked you everywhere: long, messy strokes through your dripping folds, circling your clit, dipping inside your tight hole to fuck you with it, then dragging back up to lap at every drop of slick that kept pouring out of you.

You were a moaning, trembling mess beneath him, hips grinding against his face as Cherry Pie played on repeat in the background.

“You really enjoy eating pussy, don’t you?” you gasped between broken moans, fingers yanking hard at his hair.

Garrett pulled back just enough to look up at you, lips swollen and glistening, chin shiny with your juices. His eyes were glazed with pure lust.

“It’s my favorite meal,” he growled, voice hoarse and dripping with hunger. “And yours is the best I’ve ever had, baby.”

Without warning, he gathered saliva in his mouth and spit directly onto your swollen clit. The wet sound was filthy and hot as hell. You cried out, thighs twitching, but before you could even process it, Garrett dove back in like a man possessed.

He devoured you with renewed intensity sucking your clit hard, licking up his own spit mixed with your slick, then spitting on you again just to watch it drip down your folds before he licked it all up.

The obscene, wet sounds of him eating you filled the room louder than the music. He was moaning continuously into your pussy, completely addicted, tongue working faster and sloppier as he chased your pleasure like it was his own.

“Fuck— Garrett!” you whimpered, back arching sharply off the bed.

He gripped your ass with both hands, tilting your hips up so he could bury his tongue even deeper, fucking you with it while his nose rubbed perfectly against your clit.

He was drunk on you messy, greedy, and so fucking good at it that your vision was starting to blur.

“Oh fuck— Garrett, I’m close, babe,” you moaned, voice cracking. “I’m gonna cum—”

The words only seemed to make him hungrier.

Garrett let out a deep, needy groan against your pussy and doubled down. He didn’t slow down. If anything, he got more eager, more desperate, like your pleasure was feeding him. His tongue kept working your clit in fast, perfect circles while he sucked rhythmically, messy and loud, his hands gripping your ass so tightly you knew you’d have marks tomorrow.

“That’s it, baby,” he growled against your clit, barely pulling away long enough to speak. “Cum on my tongue. Let me taste it. I want every fucking drop.”

You were shaking, thighs clamped around his head, fingers yanking his hair so hard it had to hurt, but Garrett loved it. He moaned even louder, the vibration pushing you right to the edge. He kept licking and sucking without mercy, tongue flicking relentlessly over your swollen clit while he buried two fingers deep inside you this time, curling them perfectly against that spot that made stars explode behind your eyes.

You tried to warn him again, but all that came out was a broken cry.

“I’m— fuck, I’m cumming—!”

Your orgasm crashed over you hard. Your whole body tensed, back arching violently off the bed as you came with a loud, shameless moan of his name. Garrett didn’t stop for a second. He kept licking and sucking through every pulse, every tremble, drinking down everything you gave him with filthy, satisfied groans.

He looked wrecked face shiny with your cum, eyes dark with lust but he still kept going, gentler now but no less hungry, licking you through the aftershocks like he couldn’t bear to pull away.

“Oh fuck, Garrett… you’re so fucking good.”

He hummed happily against your oversensitive pussy, clearly pleased with the praise. Instead of pulling away, he kept licking you slowly, gently, cleaning up every trace of your orgasm with long, lazy strokes of his tongue. Soft, thorough licks that sent little aftershocks through your body.

“Mmm, that’s my good girl,” he murmured, voice low and warm, lips brushing against your slick folds as he spoke. “You came so fucking hard for me. Tasted so sweet, baby. I could live between these thighs.”

He gave your clit a soft, affectionate suck, then licked lower, pushing his tongue inside you to drink up the rest of your release. Every slow pass of his tongue was accompanied by more praise, murmured right against your soaked skin.

“Look at this pretty pussy… still dripping for me even after you came.”

Another long lick.

“So fucking wet. So perfect.”

A gentle kiss to your swollen clit.

“My favorite fucking meal. You did so good, dollie. Let me clean you up nice and slow.”

You whimpered, oversensitive but too blissed out to stop him. Your fingers loosened in his hair, now stroking through the messy strands as he continued his gentle worship. Garrett took his time, licking and kissing every inch of your pussy like he was savoring the taste of your orgasm. His big hands caressed your thighs, thumbs rubbing soothing circles while his mouth stayed busy.

He looked up at you between your legs, hazel eyes dark and full of adoration, chin and lips still shiny with you.

Logan notices you at first, of course. You wear the same pink, graphic hoodie no matter the weather. You never order more than a coffee or a water. 

The staff is kind to you. No one ever bothers you or asks you to leave because you’ve been taking up the same space for hours. 

Tucker notices you next when he sees the way Logan stares at you. He asks one of the waitresses, “Hey, can we send her a milkshake?”

Of course, Tucker knows that their strawberry milkshakes are the best on the menu. 

When it arrives at your table, you insist that you didn’t buy it. “It’s from those guys over there.”

The shy, scared smile that you return to the four of them is what gets both Dean and Garrett interested in you. 

You assumed it was a prank at first, but you were too hungry to dwell too long on it. 

Dean insists that they approach you officially, but the guys argue about the timing. They don’t want to rush things. They don’t even know you or why you camp out at Della’s every day. 

They plan to talk to you the next time they see you at Della’s, but you don’t return for the next week. 

Logan notices you at the auto shop and your beat-up sedan. He watches how you seem to shrink smaller as the mechanic explains how much it’ll be to fix your car. 

“I don’t have that much.”

“You can try the shop across town.”

You’re not sure your car will even make it that far. 

Logan approaches you when you’re sitting on the curb. He offers to take a look at your car, free of charge. He insists you follow him home and park it in his driveway. 

His eyes are trusting enough, and you don’t have many options. You didn’t want to go back to couch surfing. You needed your car to sleep in. 

Tucker notices the two of you when he’s bringing in groceries. “Hey, are you hungry?”

It takes a little convincing and Tucker insisting. He’s so warm, inviting, and talkative. Although you speak in three- or four-word sentences, Tucker has you opening up quickly. 

Garrett and Dean come inside the house after their workout and find you sitting at the kitchen island, hands inside your sweatshirt, legs kicking nervously. 

You think Dean might be the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen. And Garrett’s dark features and muscular build make your heart race. 

Dean is forward; he can’t help it. He’s staring you down, arms closing you in as he leans against the island. Garrett’s watching you carefully. 

“Y/N’s gonna stay for dinner. Logan’s gonna take a look at her car.”

“Sweet.” Dean and Garrett seem to say at the same time. 

When Logan comes back in, he says something about needing to buy a part from the store in the morning. “How much is it?” He says you shouldn’t worry about it. 

Garrett is already changing the subject after that. Your attention is everywhere. Dean is complimenting your eyes. Tucker is asking about your preferences for food. Logan is starting to set the table and, at the same time, plotting with Garrett about how you can stay the night. 

For the entire time, you’re convinced that you’ll turn them down. You’ll sleep in your car, but before you know it, they’re making excuses. “It’s really not a big deal.” “You should stay.” “Stay, please.” “You can stay in my room.” — Logan smacks Dean on the shoulder. 

Garrett brings up the idea of watching a movie. They don’t give you a chance to argue. They just guide you where they want you. Gripping you around your wrist. Strong hands against the small of your back. 

You end up between Logan and Dean. It starts to get late; you feel the anxiety in your stomach, and you’re not sure how you’ll convince them you need to leave. You can’t keep your eyes open after a while. 

When you fall asleep against the couch, they reposition you, your head on Dean’s lap and legs extending into Logan’s lap. 

“She’s kind of precious.”  “Awe, what a sleepy girl.”  “Can we keep her?” “Shhh, let her sleep.” 

The plot to keep you begins then. 

Tucker plans out the meals he’ll make you, how he’ll cut off your crusts, and leave little notes for you to discover when you take lunch to class. He loves the idea of waking up next to you, of going through your morning routine, and helping you pick your outfit for the day. 

Speaking of outfits, Dean’s already thinking about all the clothes he’s going to buy you. You could use some things. Even the basics. Baby pink tees, woodland animal printed socks, and sundresses. Lots of sundresses. Sundresses are so convenient. 

Logan’s plotting how he’s gonna stall when it comes to fixing your car. Maybe he’d convince you that a girl like you shouldn’t be traveling in that deathtrap. He could take you anywhere you needed in his truck. He loves the idea of playing with you, reading your favorite books with you, and generally anything that would make you smile. 

Garrett notices the practical things. Your life needs more order. More routine. A little girl like you needs her rest, so he’d be the one to set your bedtime. He’d love going through your nighttime routine with you to make sure you’re all set for the next day. 

And rules. Garrett and Logan would be the strictest. “Look at me, tell me what’s wrong?” “You stayed up all night. That’s not happening again.”

Dean’s punishment would be more pleasurable than painful. “You look like you need a good spanking, babygirl.” 

Tucker’s the gentle one. “You don’t have to finish your plate, but I’d like you to eat enough.” “Could you tell me what’s worrying you the most?”

Yeah, it wouldn't be long before you forgot what life was like before. You’d forget the time when you worried about everything. It would be like they solved all your problems overnight. 

“You guys are acting like … like … my Dads.”

You guys weren’t even dating, just a fling. You just fucked whenever you guys both wanted to.

It was 11:30 pm in the off campus house, and of course there was a party going on since they won the game against Eastwood. Tucker and Dean had to set up the kegs, Logan was in charge of music until Garrett took over and played his 80s music. Tucker also helped make food for everyone.

You stepped into the house, you weren’t even wearing anything revealing, just a black dress and leather boots. You looked hot, and unfortunately, everyone else noticed too. Within two minutes of walking through the door, some guy from the hockey team was already trying to hand you a red solo cup and was leaning in way too close to talk over the music.

You leaned against the kitchen counter, totally zoning out of the conversation, while your eyes scanned the crowded room. It didn't take long to find Dean. He was standing across the room by the dining table, but he wasn't talking to anyone anymore. He was staring straight at you.

He didn't even try to play it cool or act like you were just a casual thing anymore. The exact second that guy leaned in closer to you, Dean’s jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle tick. He didn't say a word to anyone else, he just set his cup down on the nearest table and marched straight through the crowded living room, ignoring everyone trying to talk to him.

Before the hockey guy could even finish his sentence, Dean was right there. He stepped directly between the two of you, completely cutting him off, and dropped a heavy, possessive hand onto your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He glared down at the guy with this look that said back the hell off, his grip tightening on your hip just to make sure you knew exactly who you belonged to.

He takes you up the stairs, away from the music, away from the people. the drinks. "Who was that guy?" Dean's voice is low against your ear, rough like gravel. His hand tightens on your waist, fingers pressing just a little too hard through the thin fabric of your dress. The bass from the party downstairs thrums through the floorboards, but up here in the hallway it’s just the two of you,his breath warm, his body crowding you against the wall like he owns it. Like he owns you.

You tilt your head, pretending to think. "Which one? The one with the blue shirt or the one who kept refilling my drink?" You bite your lip to keep from grinning, because Dean’s jaw clenches, that muscle jumping like it does when he’s trying and failing to stay calm.

Dean exhales sharply through his nose, that slow, controlled breath he does when he’s deciding whether to fuck you or strangle you. His thumb brushes the underside of your jaw, tilting your face up to his. “You’re gonna regret playing dumb, baby,” he murmurs, and the way he says it, sends a shiver down your spine.

His other hand slides higher on your waist, fingers skimming the edge of your ribcage, and you arch into him instinctively. “Dean,” you start, but he cuts you off with a rough kiss, all teeth and possessive hunger. You can taste the beer on his tongue, feel the heat of him pressed against you, and for a second, you forget how to breathe. He pulls back just enough to growl, “My room. Now,” and the command in his voice makes your knees weak.

You don’t argue. The second his grip loosens, you’re turning toward the stairs, but Dean catches your wrist, yanking you back against him. “Uh-uh,” he says, nipping at your earlobe. “You walk in front of me.” His palm lands on the small of your back, guiding you up the steps with just enough pressure to make your pulse skip. You can feel his eyes on you, tracking every sway of your hips, and by the time you reach his door, your skin is buzzing with anticipation.

He crowds you against the frame, one hand braced above your head while the other works the door knob. “You like making me jealous?” he asks, voice dripping with faux casualness. The door opens before you can answer, and Dean doesn’t even bother flipping the light switch, he just follows you close enough that you feel the heat radiating off him. The room smells like him, beer and clean cotton and something unmistakably male, your breath hitches when his fingers find the zipper at the back of your dress.

“Answer me,” he demands, dragging the zipper down slow enough to make your skin prickle. The fabric slides off your shoulders, pooling at your waist before he pushes it the rest of the way down. His palm skims the curve of your hip, possessive and sure, like he’s reminding himself where you belong. You turn to face him, but he stops you with a hand on your throat, not tight, just present, his thumb stroking the frantic pulse there. “Tell me you fucking love it,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours without quite kissing you.

You could tease him. You could drag this out until he snaps. But the hunger in his eyes is too much, raw and unchecked, so you exhale a shaky, “Yes.” His grip tightens infinitesimally, and you press into it, chasing the sting. “I love it when you get like this.” Dean’s groan is all satisfaction, low and rough, and then his mouth is on yours, swallowing your gasp as he walks you backward toward the bed.

The backs of your knees hit the mattress, and he doesn’t give you time to brace yourself just shoves you down and climbs over you, caging you in with his body. His teeth scrape along your collarbone, nipping at the sensitive skin there, and you arch into him with a breathless laugh. “That’s it,” he mutters against your throat, dragging his lips higher.

His hands are everywhere tugging your hair, palming your ribs, sliding down to grip your thighs and you’re already wrung out, already gasping, when he finally yanks his shirt off and tosses it aside. The moonlight catches the flex of his abs, and his biceps . You reach for him instinctively. Dean catches your wrist, pinning it above your head with a smirk. “Uh-uh,” he tuts, leaning down to nip at your bottom lip. “You don’t get to touch yet.”

The moment your wrist hits the mattress, pinned under his grip, you whimper, half frustration, half anticipation. Dean’s smirk deepens, his free hand tracing the dip of your waist like he’s memorizing it. “That’s the sound I like hearing,” he murmurs, dragging his thumb over your hipbone. The rough calluses on his fingers catch against your skin, sending sparks skittering up your spine. You squirm, but he just clucks his tongue, leaning down to blow a slow, teasing breath over the hollow of your throat. “Keep moving like that, and I’ll make you wait even longer.”

You go still, but your chest heaves, your pulse hammering where his lips hover just above your skin. Dean exhales a dark chuckle, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. “Good girl.” The praise shouldn’t make you shiver, but it does, pooling low in your stomach. His teeth graze your earlobe, and you bite back a moan, fingers twisting in the sheets.

He notices. Of course he does. “Fuck,” he breathes against your skin, rough and reverent, as his thumbs brush over the peaks of your breasts through the flimsy lace of your bra. You arch into him, chasing the pressure, and Dean rewards you with a groan, his mouth dropping to your collarbone. “So greedy,” he murmurs, but his hands don’t stop circling and teasing. His calloused fingertips dragging just enough to make you whimper.

When he finally unhooks your bra, you’re already breathless. The cool air hits your skin, but Dean’s hands are hotter, his palms cupping the weight of you like he’s memorizing the shape. His thumbs swipe over your nipples again, slow and deliberate, and you choke on a gasp, fingers tightening in his hair. “Daddy,” you sigh, just to watch his eyes darken, just to feel his grip tighten possessively.

He doesn’t disappoint. With a growl, he bends his head, taking one peak into his mouth, his tongue swirling just enough to make your back bow off the bed. His free hand pinches the other nipple, rolling it between his fingers until you’re writhing, your thighs clamping around his hips. “That’s it,” he mutters against your skin, his breath scalding. “Let me hear you.”

You’re too far gone to care. Every flick of his tongue, every graze of his teeth sends sparks skittering down your spine, pooling low in your stomach. When he switches sides, his mouth just as hungry, his fingers just as relentless, you sob his name, your hips jerking uselessly against the air.

Dean lifts his head just enough to smirk at you, his lips glistening, his hair mussed from your fingers. “You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he rasps, dragging his thumb over your swollen nipple one last time, just to watch you tremble. “But we’re not done yet.” His hand slides down your stomach, slow and deliberate, and your breath hitches when his fingers dip beneath the waistband of your panties.

Dean’s fingers trail lower, agonizingly slow, his calloused fingertips skating over the dip of your navel before he drags his palm back up to your ribs, just to watch you squirm. “So impatient,” he murmurs against the curve of your breast, his breath hot as he presses an open-mouthed kiss just below your nipple. His teeth graze the sensitive skin there, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make your breath hitch, your fingers tightening in his hair.

He hums, low and satisfied, like the sound of your desperation is something he wants to savor. His tongue flicks over your nipple once, twice, teasing. Then he blows a slow, cool breath over the wetness, watching it tighten under his attention. “Fuck,” he mutters, half to himself, before sucking it back into his mouth, his lips sealing tight as his tongue swirls in lazy circles.

Your back arches off the bed, a whimper tearing from your throat, but Dean just pins your hip down with his free hand, his grip firm. “Stay still,” he orders, his voice rough around the word. His thumb brushes over your other nipple, rolling it between his fingers until it’s pebbled and aching, and you can’t help the way your thighs press together, seeking friction.

Dean notices, of course he does, his dark chuckle vibrates against your skin as he lifts his head just enough to smirk at you. “You’re so fucking greedy,” he accuses, but there’s no heat in it, just a possessive and some sort of pride. His thumb drags over your nipple again, slow and deliberate, and you bite your lip to keep from begging.

Dean’s mouth is relentless, his tongue flicking over your nipple in slow, torturous circles while his fingers tease the other by pinching just hard enough to make your breath catch, then soothing with the rough pad of his thumb. You writhe beneath him, your hips arching off the bed, but he pins you down with a firm hand on your stomach, his grip unyielding. “Stay put,” he murmurs against your skin, his breath hot. “You’ll get what you want when I say so.”

His teeth graze the underside of your breast, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core, and you gasp, fingers twisting in the sheets. Dean hums in approval, his tongue dragging a wet path lower, tracing the curve of your ribs before he nips at the soft skin of your belly. His hands slide down to your hips, fingers hooking into the lace of your panties, and you lift your hips instinctively, eager for more. But he pauses, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the inside of your thighs, his breath warm against your skin. “So fucking eager,” he mutters, dark amusement lacing his voice.

Then his mouth is on you, his tongue flat and hot as he drags it up your center in one long, filthy stroke. Your back bows off the bed, a strangled cry tearing from your throat, but Dean doesn’t relent, he grips your thighs, spreading you wider, his tongue delving deeper, lapping at you like he’s starved. His groan vibrates against you, rough and satisfied, and you fist your hands in his hair, holding him there as he fucks you with his tongue, slow and deliberate.

When he finally pulls back, his lips glistening, his breath ragged, you whimper at the loss. Dean chuckles, low and smug, his fingers replacing his mouth, sliding through your wetness with agonizing slowness. “You’re fucking dripping,” he growls, his eyes locked on yours as he circles your clit, just once, just enough to make you jerk beneath him. “You love this, don’t you? Love making me lose my fucking mind.”

You don’t get a chance to answer. He surges up, capturing your mouth in a brutal kiss, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His hands grip your waist, before going back to your thighs. His tongue presses flat against you, dragging up in one slow, deliberate stroke that leaves you trembling beneath him. You gasp, fingers twisting into the sheets as he hums against your skin, the vibration sending sparks skittering up your spine. Dean doesn’t let up, his mouth is relentless, lips sealing around your clit as he sucks just hard enough to make your hips jerk off the bed. His grip tightens on your thighs, fingers digging in to hold you still as he fucks you with his tongue, slow and deep, like he’s savoring every taste.

“Dean—” you choke out, but he growls against you, the sound vibrating through your core as his thumb circles your entrance, teasing but not giving you what you want. Not yet. He drags his tongue back up, swirling around your clit with torturous precision before nipping lightly at the sensitive skin there. You whimper, thighs shaking, but he pins you down with a firm hand on your stomach, his grip unyielding. “Stay put,” he murmurs against your skin, breath hot. “I’m not done with you.”

And then he’s back at it, his tongue lapping at you like he’s starved, his nose nudging against your clit with every flick of his tongue. Your back arches off the bed, a ragged moan tearing from your throat as his fingers finally slide into you, curling just right to make your vision blur. Dean groans against you, the sound rough and satisfied, and you can feel his lips curve into a smirk as you clench around his fingers. “Fuck, you’re so tight,” he mutters, dragging his tongue over you one last time before pulling back, his breath ragged.

You whine, hips arching off the bed, but Dean smirks, leaning down to blow a slow, taunting breath over your skin. “You’ll come when I fucking say so,” he murmurs, his voice rough with want. His fingers slide into you again, curling just right, and your back bows off the mattress with a strangled moan. Dean watches you unravel beneath him, his eyes dark with satisfaction, his free hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave marks.

Then he’s pulling away, stripping off his jeans with rough, impatient tugs. The moonlight catches the flex of his abs, the hard line of his cock as he fists himself once, his gaze locked on yours. “Look at you,” he growls, stepping closer, his hand wrapping around your throat,not tight, just present, as he nudges your thighs wider with his knee. “Fucking perfect.”

Before you can protest the loss, he’s flipping you onto your back, his hands rough as he yanks your hips to the edge of the bed. Dean doesn’t give you time to recover. He fists himself in one hand, stroking slowly as he lines up, his eyes locked on yours. “Look at me,” he demands, voice thick with want. And then he’s pushing in, inch by agonizing inch, until he’s buried to the maximum, his hips pressed flush against yours.

Dean doesn’t let you come down from the high of his fingers still buried inside you.

"You feel that?" he grits out, his voice wrecked already. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, pressing down just enough to make you open for him, and when you whimper, he exhales a dark laugh. "Good. Remember who you belong to."

Then he’s moving, hard, relentless strokes that leave no room for gentleness, each snap of his hips driving you deeper into the mattress. His hands are everywhere, gripping your waist, threading into your hair, dragging your leg higher over his shoulder to fuck into you at a sharper angle. You choke on his name, your nails raking down his back, but Dean only growls, catching your wrists and pinning them above your head with one hand.

"Eyes on me," he demands, his breath hot against your mouth. His other hand slides between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit with unerring precision, circling just enough to make your vision blur. You arch into him, desperate for more, but Dean tuts, slowing his thrusts to a maddening grind. "Nuh-uh. You take what I give you."

Dean's fingers tighten around your wrists, pressing them deeper into the mattress as his hips roll against yours with torturous slowness. You can feel every ridge of him, every twitch of his cock inside you, the stretch bordering on unbearable, except you’d never tell him to stop, not when his breath hitches against your neck like he’s the one being ruined. "Fuck," he grits out, the word rough against your skin. "You’re so fucking tight—" His thumb circles your clit faster, compensating for the way he’s deliberately dragging his strokes out now, and you whimper, hips jerking uselessly against his grip.

He nips at your earlobe, breath hot. "Told you to stay still." His teeth graze your pulse point next, sharp enough to make you gasp, and you can feel his smirk against your throat when your thighs tremble around his waist. The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing, knows the way your body reacts to him like it’s been wired for his touch alone. His free hand slides down to grip your hip, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises as he finally, finally, picks up the pace, driving into you with sharp, punishing thrusts that knock the breath from your lungs.

You arch off the bed with a cry, your nails scraping down his back, but Dean just growls, catching your hands and pinning them above your head again. "Look at me," he demands, his voice ragged. When your gaze flickers shut, he nips your chin, forcing your eyes open. "I said look at me." His thumb presses harder against your clit, circling in tight, relentless strokes, and you sob his name, your hips jerking into his touch. "That’s it," he murmurs, lips brushing yours. "Come for me."

The command tears through you like a live wire, your body clenching around him as pleasure crests sharp and sudden. Dean groans, his forehead dropping to yours as he fucks you through it, his thrusts turning erratic, his grip on your wrists tightening like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. "One more," he rasps against your mouth, his breath uneven. "Give me one more." His teeth sink into your shoulder, blunt and possessive, and you gasp, oversensitive but unable to stop the way your body responds to him, the way pleasure coils tight again so soon.

The moment you start to come down from the first orgasm, Dean’s already shifting his grip, his fingers tightening around your wrists as he drags your hips higher off the bed. His thrusts turn deliberate again, slow and deep, each one dragging against oversensitive nerves until you’re squirming beneath him, torn between pulling away and arching into it. His smirk is all sharp edges when he catches your expression, his thumb pressing harder against your clit in a way that borders on cruel. "You love it," he mutters, more statement than question, and you can’t even deny it, not when your body’s already responding, clenching around him like it’s trying to pull him deeper.

Dean’s breath hitches when you tighten around him, his hips stuttering for half a second before he regains control, slowing his pace just to watch you unravel. "Fuck," he exhales, rough and reverent, his free hand sliding down to grip your thigh, hitching your leg higher over his shoulder. The new angle punches a moan out of you, the stretch bordering on too much, but Dean doesn’t let up, just leans down to catch your gasp with his mouth, his tongue tangling with yours in a kiss that’s more teeth than finesse.

You barely register the sting of his teeth on your bottom lip, too focused on the way his cock drags against that spot inside you with every thrust, the sensation sharp enough to make your vision blur. Dean groans when your nails dig into his shoulders, his grip on your thigh tightening as he fucks into you harder, his rhythm faltering for the first time all night. "Look at me," he demands, voice raw, and when your eyes flicker open, his gaze is dark with something possessive, something hungry. "Say it."

You know what he wants, know it in the way his thumb circles your clit just right, in the way his hips snap against yours like he’s trying to imprint the shape of himself into your skin. "Yours," you gasp, and the word sends a shudder through him, his breath coming uneven against your throat.

Dean exhales sharply through his nose, that slow, controlled breath that means he's fighting to keep himself in check. But the second the word leaves your lips, "Yours",something snaps in him. His grip tightens on your thigh, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks, and then he's fucking into you with a roughness that borders on desperate.

The headboard slams against the wall with each thrust, the rhythm uneven now, like he's forgotten how to be careful. You gasp, oversensitive from your first orgasm, but Dean doesn't let up, just growls against your throat, his teeth scraping over your pulse point. "Say it again," he demands, voice wrecked.

"Yours," you whimper, and his hips jerk, his cock twitching inside you. You can feel him losing control, feel the way his rhythm fractures with every ragged breath he takes.

Dean's hand slides from your thigh to your hip, fingers pressing into the bruise he left earlier like he's reminding himself it's there. His other hand grips your hair, tilting your head back so he can watch your face as he fucks you. "Fuck," he grits out, his voice rough. "Look at you—" His thumb brushes your bottom lip, pressing down just enough to make you open for him. "Taking me so fucking good."

Dean’s fingers tighten in your hair, angling your head back just enough that you can’t look away, not that you’d want to. The moonlight catches the sweat beading along his collarbones, the way his throat works as he swallows hard, his breath ragged. “Say it again,” he demands, hips snapping forward in a sharp thrust that punches a gasp out of you.

You’re wrung out, oversensitive, but your body arches into his anyway, like it’s been programmed to respond to him. “Yours,” you repeat, the word slurred at the edges, and Dean’s breath hitches like you’ve punched him. His rhythm stutters, his grip on your hip tightening to the point of pain, then he’s dragging you closer, his mouth crashing into yours in a kiss that’s more teeth than tongue.

The noise he makes against your lips is half-growl, half-groan, raw and unfiltered, and you can feel the way his control frays with every ragged exhale. His thrusts turn uneven, his hips jerking forward like he’s chasing something just out of reach. You whimper into his mouth, your nails scoring down his back, and Dean curses, his forehead dropping to yours.

“Fuck—” His voice cracks, his body tensing above you, and then he’s coming with a groan that rattles through his chest, his hips grinding into yours as he spills deep inside you. You can feel the way his pulse races under your fingertips, the way his breath gusts hot against your neck, his body shuddering with the force of it.

Dean doesn’t pull out, just collapses half on top of you, his weight pressing you into the mattress as he catches his breath against your throat. His lips move sluggishly against your pulse, more reflex than intention, his fingers still tangled in your hair like he’s forgotten how to let go. You can feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat where his chest presses against yours, the damp heat of his skin sticking to yours in the aftermath.

“Fuck,” he mutters, voice gravelly, his thumb brushing absently over your hipbone like he’s checking for damage. His other hand finally releases your hair, trailing down to cradle the back of your neck instead, possessive even in exhaustion. “You okay?”

You hum, too boneless to form words, your fingers tracing idle patterns along the sweat-slick planes of his back. Dean exhales a slow breath, his nose nudging against your jaw like he’s cataloging the scent of you, and you can feel the exact moment his muscles start to tense again, the way his grip tightens infinitesimally on your neck, the way his hips shift against yours.

“Dean,” you warn, but it comes out more breathless than stern, and he huffs a laugh against your skin, his teeth scraping lightly over your collarbone.

Dean's fingers trail down your spine in slow, idle strokes, his touch lighter now,not demanding, just present. His breath warms the curve of your shoulder where his face is half-buried in the pillow beside you, his body still draped over yours like a human blanket. "You're shaking," he mutters, voice rough with sleep and something softer. His hand slides up to cradle the back of your neck, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw. "Cold?"

You're not. The room is thick with heat, the sheets tangled around your legs, but your limbs won't stop trembling, aftershocks, you think, or maybe just the way Dean's fingers keep tracing your ribs like he's counting them. You shake your head, pressing back into his chest, and he hums, low and understanding. His palm flattens against your stomach, anchoring you. "Breathe," he reminds you, lips grazing your shoulder blade.

It takes a second, your lungs stuttering, your ribs expanding under his touch, but then you exhale, long and slow, and Dean's grip tightens approvingly. "There you go." His voice is quieter now, the sharp edges worn down to something warm and drowsy. His fingers skim your hipbone, tracing the faint marks he left earlier with a roughness that's absent now. "Hurts?"

You shake your head again, and Dean's exhale ruffles your hair. "Good." His hand drifts lower, palming the curve of your thigh where it's pressed against his, his touch lingering like he's relearning the shape of you. The silence stretches, comfortable in a way it hasn't been all night, no teasing, no demands, just the steady rhythm of his breath against your skin.

Dean shifts suddenly, rolling onto his back and dragging you with him until you’re sprawled across his chest. The abrupt movement makes you yelp, but his arm bands around your waist, locking you in place before you can squirm away. “Stay,” he murmurs, voice thick with exhaustion, his free hand carding through your hair like he’s petting a cat. The moonlight catches the sweat drying on his collarbones, the slow rise and fall of his chest beneath you.

You press your ear to his heartbeat, listening to the steady thud gradually even out. His fingers trail absently down your spine, pausing to trace the crescent marks your nails left on his shoulders earlier. He huffs a quiet laugh. “You're like a cat” he mutters, but there’s no bite to it, just a drowsy sort of fondness that makes your stomach flip.

A gust of wind rattles the window, and Dean’s arm tightens around you instinctively. His thumb brushes your hip where he knows you’re tender, his touch featherlight now compared to the bruising grip from before. “You good?” he asks again, quieter this time, his chin resting atop your head.

You nod against his chest, and he hums, satisfied. His fingers find yours where they’re splayed against his sternum, lacing together loosely. The calluses on his palm rasp against your knuckles, familiar in a way that shouldn’t make your pulse stutter, but it does.

Dean exhales through his nose, slow, controlled, his fingers tightening around yours in a silent challenge. You can feel the tension coiled in his body beneath you, the way his heartbeat kicks up when your nails scrape lightly over his ribs. "Still restless," he observes, voice rough with sleep and something darker. His thumb traces the inside of your wrist, pressing down on the pulse point there like he’s testing your reaction.

———-

The Coven (Remmick, His Princess, Stack and Mary) is staying in an old barn-keeping away from the sun and Y/n insists on snuggling her Daddy. Remmick knows how much his Babygirl adores being snuggled and he’s always happy to do so-one way or another-but whenever she woke him she was always playing a game of chance whether he would be happy to go right back to sleep wrapped in each others arms or pull her close and want quite a bit more than sleep…

‘Daddy…just wanna snuggle…’ she mumbled, nuzzling her face into his neck and settling down with her body now on top of his until the sun went down. Remmick however had different plans it seemed as she snuggled him.

‘Shh…you just snuggle in and let Daddy do all the work. You sleep and just let your Daddy use you…shh…such a good girl for your Daddy aren’t you?’

‘…mm-hmm…Imma good girl…’

‘Yes you are Princess. Such a good girl! Daddy’s perfect girl!’ he shushed her as he pulled the skirt of her dress up and out of his way.

‘Mmm…Daddy…’ she moaned a bit too loudly as he lifted her lower body and pulled his cock from his pants, loving whenever he would maneuver her wherever he needed to bring them both pleasure.

‘Shh. You know you hate it when Stack and Mary listen to us so try not wakin’ ’em cause Daddy ain’t stoppin’ this time-I need this pussy, Princess!’ He swore, pushing his cock into her before rocking up into her body. ‘Oh Fuck Yes! Daddy’s good girl, letting me use your little pussy. Fuck!’ He growled-fangs jutting out, her Daddy holding her tighter to his chest.

‘Daddy…’ she mumbled, opening her bright blue eyes and thanking whatever entity she needed to for her vampire ability to see in the darkness as she looked down and watched as Remmick disappeared inside of her body over and over again. His breathing became more frantic as he rutted up into her, coming closer to his end and shoving her over the edge quite suddenly. ‘Fuck Daddy!’

‘Ah-Ah! Watch that mouth Darlin’ or Daddy’s gonna have to stuff that next! Gonna fill this little pussy on up Princess! Fuck!’ An animalistic growl rumbled through his chest as he came, filling his mate exactly how he liked to every night. ‘That’s Daddy’s good girl, taking everything your Daddy has for you. Good Mate…Shh…Now you snuggle up here with your Daddy until sunset. When you wake up your Daddy will take you out for a good meal…maybe we’ll even stop and get some human food too.’

‘We’re in New Orleans, we’d better be trying food! I want beignets!’ She insisted making Remmick chuckle.

‘Okay my love. You sleep for a few more hours and Daddy will get you a powdered sugary treat.’ He promised, kissing her head and nuzzling closer to her neck, making sure to keep his cock buried as deep inside of her belly as he could, Remmick always insisting on filling her cunt and her belly as often as he could.

Remmick Masterlist

It’s far too hot to be sitting in the cave tonight, yet that’s what you’re doing anyway. Not out of choice, of course. You’d never choose to spend the night melting into the couch over visiting the boardwalk and cooling off in the sea. That was David’s choice. You haven’t been allowed to leave since trying to sneak out last week on Dwayne’s bike.

In hindsight, it had been an impulsive decision, made without any real consideration of what the consequences might be. Not to mention the fact that you don’t even know how to ride. It had been dangerous, and a little stupid, but you’d been too excited to see him to care about what might happen if you’re caught.

Nathan Walker.

Your stomach flutters at the mere thought of his name. Nathan’s face flashes to the forefront of your mind, tanned and smiling brightly at you, his long, dark hair ruffled from the breeze and his hazel eyes shining in the warm sun. Happiness personified. Your fathers suspect that it might’ve been a boy you’d been sneaking out to see, but with no real proof, there’s little they can do except keep you confined to the cave and try to intimidate a confession out of you. If you weren’t so used to their vampiric behaviour, you would’ve certainly cracked by now.

But no, you’re better than that. You won’t risk Nathan’s safety.

“The others will be back soon,” Dwayne speaks up from across the room, where he’s lounging on one of the other couches. Your favourite one. He must know that, having probably claimed it just to be petty. Another minor punishment for not telling them the truth about where you were planning to go.

“You gonna wear those?” He continues, eyeing your skimpy pyjamas disdainfully.

You adjust yourself on the sticky leather couch, wincing as you practically have to peel your skin off the material. “Yes. You got a problem with that?”

Dwayne raises an eyebrow, before rolling his eyes and leaning back in defeat. “If that’s really what you wanna wear then I’m not gonna stop you, but David probably won’t be happy that you can’t even get dressed for our guest.”

You sigh dramatically and drape yourself over the armrest, immediately feeling blood rush to your head. It’s a strangely pleasant sensation, like the closest thing you can get to a state of intoxication without rummaging through Paul’s stash. “I don’t care what his new girlfriend thinks of me. She’ll probably be dead by morning anyway.” You huff, tracing patterns across the dusty floor with outstretched fingers.

Dwayne sighs, and then says in the most patronising tone you’ve ever heard, “I’ve already explained this to you, princess, this one’s different. David’s going to turn her.”

You turn to look at him, still dangling off the edge of the couch, and narrow your eyes. “I know that, I’m not stupid, Dad. I just don’t get why Uncle Max wants him to do it.” With a small groan of effort breaking your speech, you sit back on the armrest properly and gesture to your father, “He’s got you four, why does he need some random girl too?”

Dwayne doesn’t look at all amused by your question. He glances away for a moment, carding his fingers through his long, raven hair, before finally replying, “It’s not our place to question him. If Max wants us to find girls, then that’s what we’re doing. Doesn’t matter why he wants them.”

You grimace, “What if she’s a mega bitch?”

“Then you’ll just have to put up with that,” he sighs, before adding, “and she’s not a ‘mega bitch’. She’s nice, I’m sure you two will get along fine.”

Dwayne’s defence of the woman is surprising, considering he usually has no interest in speaking to humans. If you’re going to trust anyone’s judgment on the new girl, it’ll be his.

“You like her then?”

He shrugs, seeming a little surprised by your sudden change in attitude. “No. I don’t like anyone other than you and the boys, but she’s fine. Not a pain in the ass or anything.”

From Dwayne, that’s practically a glowing review.

You shift again on the couch, finding it difficult to get comfortable with the amount of sweat you’re producing. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to give yourself a quick wash and change into something that doesn’t reek of B.O. before the guest arrives. It would make a good first impression, and David might reduce your period of house arrest if he sees you’re actually trying to look presentable.

“D’you think I’ll have time to clean up before they get back?”

Dwayne cocks his head towards the far side of the cave with a thoughtful hum, listening to some faraway sound you can’t detect. After a beat of silence, he glances back at you and shakes his head. “Not anymore, I can hear their engines up the top of the cliff.”

“Already?” You sputter, immediately straightening up and adjusting your hair. “Why didn’t you warn me? I’m not ready Dad!”

Dwayne shoots you an exasperated look, “I told you they’d be back soon. What more do you want from me?”

That’s a fair point, but you’re not going to admit that he’s right— being raised by four vampires has taught you better. “How was I supposed to know you meant that literally?”

Dwayne doesn’t miss a beat with his reply, “How else would I mean it?”

You groan, slumping back against the worn leather. “Like, I dunno, a figure of speech? Paul says stuff like that all the time. He’ll say we’re leaving in five minutes and then we actually end up leaving an hour later.”

“Yeah, well I’m not Paul,” he counters with a shrug, “when I say stuff I actually mean it.”

You send him an irritated glare, “If you’d been more specific then I could’ve gotten ready. Now David’s gonna be mad at me ‘cause I’m still in my sweaty pyjamas.”

“I asked you if you wanted to get changed, and you said no.” The steadiness of Dwayne’s voice annoys you. He’s perfectly content just sitting here whilst you have a mini meltdown over the girl that David’s bringing round. In fact, your panic seems to amuse him, like he’s unable to comprehend why having a stranger coming round would make you nervous.

“I thought—” you begin, and then give up, not really sure how you can argue with that. You had refused to put something else on. “Whatever. I had a change of heart. I mean, it’s the thought that counts, right? I was going to get dressed, but then I ran out of time, he can’t be mad at me for that. It was an honest mistake, surely David will understand.”

Dwayne rubs his eyes and sighs, clearly fed up with your rambling. “You’ve been at home the whole night, I wouldn’t call that running out of time.” He pauses and stands up, stretching his arms above his head with an exaggerated groan before glancing over at the cave entrance. “They’re here now, so there’s no point in beating yourself up over it.”

Just as he finishes talking, you hear Paul’s booming laughter echoing off the walls like a siren alerting you of their return. Even before he and the rest of your fathers come into view, you can already tell that Paul has been smoking pot. It’s understandable— if you were allowed, you’d definitely get high tonight as well. That would make meeting this random girl a whole lot easier. Maybe later you’ll be able to sneak away from everyone and get into David’s whiskey stash. Feigning sobriety shouldn’t be too difficult, as you've done it many times before. Most of your dates with Nathan involve smoking weed or getting blackout drunk off of cheap alcohol. It’s a miracle none of your fathers have caught you yet.

“Honey, I’m home!” Paul calls out teasingly, before immediately bursting out into uncontrollable laughter again. You turn your head just in time to see him trip over a loose rock and fall flat on his face at the bottom of the sloped entrance. Marko appears next, snickering at his brother on the floor. He crouches down beside Paul and ruffles his tangled mop of golden hair.

“Damn, how’d the ground taste, bud?”

Paul pushes himself up with a smirk, “I dunno, you tell me.”

Before Marko can react, he grabs a fistful of grit off the floor and shoves it in his face, grinding it into the other vampire’s lips.

Marko swats him away and staggers back to his feet with a disgruntled expression. “Ew, fuck off man!”

From the other couch, you hear Dwayne’s low, rumbling chuckle, “You kind of had it coming, Marko.”

Marko huffs, wiping his face with his sleeve before walking further into the cave where you and Dwayne are sitting. “It was a genuine question— I’ve always wanted to know what rocks taste like.” He shoots Paul a playful grin, before looking back at where you’re still practically melting into the couch. “You been okay, pumpkin? I bet it sucks being stuck here with Dwayne all night.”

“You’re just jealous that I got to spend quality time with her and you didn’t,” Dwayne retorts, shuffling to the end of the couch to make space for him.

Marko ignores the gesture entirely and instead sits right next to you, so close that his thighs press against yours and push them to the side. You jab his ribs with a halfhearted glare and press your legs back into his in retaliation. “Y’know, there’s this thing called personal space. Maybe you’ve never heard of it before, but I value mine, so scoot over.”

“Personal space?” He parrots with a small pout, cocking his head to the side dramatically, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of that. You ever heard of this ‘personal space’ stuff, Paul?”

Paul struts over and drops down beside Dwayne, resting his arms out across the top of the couch. Clearly he’s gotten over his small spat with Marko in favour of tormenting you. “Nah, dude. Sounds like a bunch of made up crap.” He smiles mischievously, flashing you his canines, “Probably just a conspiracy theory or something— like aliens.”

“Aliens aren’t a conspiracy,” Marko replies defensively, momentarily forgetting about the personal space debate, “they’re real, man! I swear to God I’ve seen a UFO before.”

Dwayne chimes in from beside Paul, “That was obviously a plane. Why would the aliens want to fly over Santa Carla? It’s nowhere near Area 51.” You glance over at him, surprised that even he is getting involved in this ridiculous conversation.

Marko gesticulates theatrically with his hands, “‘Cause Santa Carla’s where it’s at! Who wouldn’t wanna come here?”

Before anyone else can argue with him, a fourth voice cuts in, low and stern. Clearly unamused by what he’s hearing. “You guys aren’t seriously talking about aliens right now.”

At the foot of the slope, David stands with a nervous woman clinging to his arm. She’s partially hidden behind his imposing, leather clad frame, but you can still see the timid wariness in her dark eyes. Her hair is a wild mane of brunette curls, and her outfit is the antithesis of what you’d have chosen to wear, if you weren’t still in your pyjamas. The top she’s picked out is cream with a lace trim and her long, flowing skirt adorns a plethora of colours. Not bold and striking like Marko’s jacket, but an array of soft pastels, like a floral watercolour painting.

You take in her appearance criticically, and then scowl upon realising she too is staring back at you. Her expression isn’t hostile, if anything it’s curious, and maybe a little relieved to see another female in this overwhelmingly testosterone filled cave.

You turn your attention back to David, and notice that his hair is spikier than usual. He must’ve used extra hairspray today, probably to seem more appealing to the new girl, whose name you realise you still don’t know. None of your fathers bothered to tell you.

Marko finally speaks, evidently not at all bothered by his brother’s abruptness. “Actually, we were talkin’ about personal space, but Paul sidetracked us.”

“Personal space?” David muses, glancing over at you, “I’m assuming the kid brought this up?”

“Yep. Complaining about me sitting too close. I mean, everyone knows that personal space isn’t real.” Marko hooks an arm around your waist and pulls you into his lap, resting his chin on shoulder. “And even if it was, it wouldn’t matter, ‘cause what’s yours is mine, right babe?”

You roll your eyes and elbow him in the ribs. There’s no point in trying to escape from your father’s hold— his strength as a vampire is far greater than yours. Struggling would only make him tighten his grip. “Don’t think that’s how it works.”

He laughs, pressing his cheek to yours so that your faces are squashed together, “That’s exactly how it works.”

You send Dwayne a look that screams ‘please tell him to let go’, but he just smirks and looks away, purposely ignoring you.

So much for loyalty.

David, now satisfied that you’ve all calmed down, leads the mystery woman further into the cave to where you and the rest of the boys are sitting. He shifts so that she can no longer hide behind his arm, and then clears his throat. “Star, this is [Name]. [Name], this is Star.”

She offers you a small smile, “Nice to meet you, [Name].”

Rather than smiling back, you simply nod and quietly reply, “Nice to meet you too.”

There’s an awkward silence, and then David sighs and gestures to Dwayne and Paul, “You can sit with them if you’d like,” he states gruffly, crossing the space and taking a seat in his wheelchair throne. You almost scoff at his lack of chivalry, but don’t call him out on it. The least he could do is guide the poor woman to the couch.

Fortunately, Paul isn’t lacking in the social skills department as sorely as David. He immediately moves to make space for her, shuffling nearer to Dwayne with a disarming grin.

You watch her perch stiffly beside him, and then shift in Marko’s lap to make yourself more comfortable. “Does she know?” You ask softly, already suspecting the answer.

Marko hums and begins tracing shapes on your arm, “Know what, pumpkin?” Comes his murmured reply.

“You know what I’m asking.”

He hums again in response to your attitude, perhaps deciding whether to tell you off for it or not. Thankfully, he seems to have decided to let it go, at least for now. “She doesn’t know that we’re vampires.” He finally answers, still speaking in a quiet whisper.

“So you’re going to turn her into one without even telling her what you are?” You clarify, voice laced with disapproval. “She’ll go through the transformation process and won’t know what’s happening. That’s not fair, Papa. She at least deserves to know.”

“Of course we’ll tell her eventually,” he argues with a low growl, “but if she knows we’re vampires then she’s not gonna want to drink the blood-wine. The girl can’t know until she becomes one of us.”

You cast a glance over at Star, who looks a little more comfortable now that she’s settled beside Paul. Her fingers are fidgeting restlessly with the beads of her bracelets, but she’s no longer sitting completely upright on the edge of the couch. Whatever Paul’s rambling about must have eased her nerves a little.

“This is wrong— you know it’s wrong. She’ll completely freak when she finds out what you guys have tricked her into. At least win her trust first, make her feel safe around you before you literally turn her into an undead monster.”

Marko’s fingers go still against your skin, and then slowly curl into a crushing grip around your forearm. “Undead monster?” He echoes in a dangerously soft tone. “Is that what you think we are? Monsters?”

You try to keep your voice steady, “That’s what vampires are. They’re monsters.”

“I’m not asking you if you think vampires are monsters, I’m asking if you think we are.” He hisses back, digging his nails into your skin.

You have to bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out in pain. It’s ironic how he’d ask you such a question whilst actively causing you harm. “I think forcing her to become a vampire without her knowledge is something a monster would do.”

He squeezes your arm even tighter, and for a moment, you’re worried that he’s going to shatter your bones, but then David’s voice cuts through the air and Marko’s death-grip eases slightly.

“Star,” he drawls, pulling out a cigarette and slotting it between his lips, “welcome to our home. Do you like it here?”

Star’s eyes flitter around the cave, taking in all of the clutter. You’ve never paid much attention to all of the empty bottles, mismatched furniture and strange memorabilia before, having lived here for longer than you can remember, but now that your home is subject to the scrutiny of a stranger, you can’t help but feel defensive. You don’t have to hear her speak to know that she thinks the place is a complete mess.

“Yes, it’s nice.” Star finally replies, shooting David a tight smile.

He chuckles darkly as he lights his cigarette, “Nice.” He agrees mockingly, taking a drag of the cigarette.

Paul laughs along with David, oblivious to Star’s discomfort. You watch, still trapped in Marko’s lap, as he slings an arm around her shoulder and pulls her closer. “Yeah, it’s pretty cool, right? The whole place is ours— we can do whatever we want here.”

She grimaces and clears her throat, glancing over at you again in an effort to change the subject. “So um, are you two together?”

The amusement on Paul’s face immediately disappears, and Dwayne’s expression turns cold. They both look like they’re going to say something, but Marko beats them to it. “No, are you fucking stupid? She’s our kid.”

You turn your head to glare at Marko, “Don’t be a dick. She was only asking.”

Star seems absolutely mortified. Her cheeks flush a deep red and her eyes widen with both surprise and embarrassment. “Oh! I—I’m so sorry. You just… you only look a few years older than [Name]. Did you guys adopt her? All of you?”

David adjusts himself in his chair, resting his chin on his knuckles as he watches Star squirm through narrowed eyes. “Yes. We saved her from her old family when she was little and raised her ourselves.”

“So you’ve lived here a while, then?” She asks you, her embarrassment fading into a look of confusion now.

You smile awkwardly, still acutely aware of the tension lingering in the air. “Yeah, around ten years now. I think I was six when they found me.”

“Rescued you.” Dwayne corrects sharply, “We saved you from a life of neglect and abuse. Your old family didn’t care about you.”

“Same thing.” You grumble, ignoring the sternness of his tone. The boys have always been particular about how they phrase your adoption. When you were little you didn’t think much of it, but now you’ve started to suspect that what happened was more of a kidnapping than a rescue— even if what they say about your biological family is true, it doesn’t make what they did legal. Not that your fathers haven’t broken any laws before, they do kill people on the regular, but the fact that this crime specifically involves you doesn’t sit quite right.

“I’m sorry,” Star says, smiling nervously at Dwayne, “I’m a bit confused. You can’t be that much older than she is, how did you adopt her when she was only six?”

Your father narrows his eyes, “We’re older than we look.” He replies simply, in a tone that leaves no room for further questioning.

She frowns, but doesn’t press further, thankfully taking the hint that Dwayne doesn’t want to talk to her.

Across the room, David straightens up and clears his throat, “Why don’t we get the drinks out boys? I think Star needs some help loosening up.”

Star’s face appears to whiten in time with your stomach dropping, though both for entirely different reasons. She thinks they’re trying to use intoxication to make her more vulnerable, you know they’re actually going to give her David’s blood.

“Oh, um, that’s okay. I’m not really a big drinker.” She replies politely, shooting David a timid smile.

You can see Dwayne’s scowl deepen at the excuse, and Paul’s arm round her shoulder shifting into more of a headlock than just friendly affection. Marko, on the other hand, seems to be too distracted by your own tension to care about what Star’s doing. The arms around your midsection have grown tighter, a subtle warning not to interfere.

“You’re gonna turn down free booze?” David asks, his voice turning mocking again. “This is good stuff, doll. I really think you should try some.” He then glances over at Dwayne and raises an expectant brow, signaling to his brother to get the blood. Usually such a task would be delegated to Marko, but clearly David has decided that holding you still is more important.

Dwayne gets up without a word and walks over to one of the smaller chambers— the smallest one, where the alcohol is kept. You can feel yourself becoming more agitated at the obvious anxiety on Star’s face. She may not be the type of person you’d typically get along with, but that doesn’t mean you’re just going to let your fathers do this to her. Maybe it’s because she’s a woman, and you feel protective towards your own sex, or maybe it’s simply because like you, she’s a human. You’re both prey animals trapped in a cave of literal predators, though only one of you is fully aware of that.

“Dad,” you protest firmly, glaring at David, “she doesn’t want to drink. Don’t force her to.”

His frosty eyes snap onto yours, wide with disbelief over the fact that you’d dare speak out against him, in front of a guest no less. You brace for a harsh scolding, but instead, his gaze shifts to Marko, and he says coldly, “Take the kid to her room, Marko. Clearly she needs a lesson in manners.”

“Don’t fucking send me to my room just because I have morals and you don’t!” You snap, attempting to lurch out of Marko’s hold. He immediately stands up from the couch in retaliation, arms remaining firmly wrapped around your waist to keep you restrained.

“Stop being difficult.” He growls into your ear, his breath unnaturally cool against your delicate skin.

You try to peel him off just enough to slip through and get away, but your father is relentless. The moment he notices your struggles continue, he adjusts his hold and unceremoniously throws you over his shoulder, so forcefully that all the air is knocked from your chest. You gasp and wheeze, pounding against his back, but he barely seems to notice.

“I told you to stop being difficult,” Marko states plainly, as if manhandling you is a totally reasonable reaction to your outburst.

You grunt, still struggling to catch your breath, as he carries you out of the main chamber. When you look up, you can see Star watching you through wide, horrified eyes from her spot beside Paul. Her posture is rigid with fear, like she’s preparing to bolt at any moment. This isn’t anything out of the ordinary for you, though clearly it is for Star. She looks utterly disturbed by such a bold display of aggression.

But that doesn’t make sense. Dwayne has always said that the real monsters lurk within the depths of humanity. Men are heartless and cruel— far more terrible than vampires, who do humanity a favour by ridding them of these parasites. Whatever pain your fathers cause you is nothing compared to what you would experience living amongst your own kind.

But if that were the case, why is Star so shocked to see Marko acting the way he always does when you’ve broken their rules? This should surely be tame in comparison to what she’s experienced living with humans.

It doesn’t take long for Marko to reach your room. He kicks open your door so hard that it slams straight into the rocky wall and rattles on its hinges. You wince at the sound. If he breaks your door, you know you won’t be getting a replacement.

“What the fuck was that, huh?” Your father snarls, hauling you down from his shoulder with enough force to send you stumbling back onto your bed. He takes a threatening step closer, eyes shifting from blue to a murky shade of green as he fights against his nature. “You brat. You know this is important, the girl has to be turned.”

He stops at the side of your bed, leaving you no breathing space as he looms over your shrinking form. “I don’t wanna be stuck with that bitch for the rest of eternity any more than you do, but like it or not, this is happening.” Marko leans down and places a hand on either side of your hips, effectively pinning you against the bed. “You better get your shit together and start behaving, or else there’s gonna be some serious fucking consequences. Understand?”

You swallow down the lump in your throat and try to inch further back in an attempt to put some distance between you and your father. He immediately catches on to what you’re doing and holds you still in a bruising grip. “I asked you a question.”

“Get off me!” You hiss, shoving at his arms.

Marko’s eyes flicker gold, “I said do you fucking understand?”

The pressure on your hips becomes painful. You can feel his thumbs pressing harshly into your bones, making it clear that this is no longer about simply holding you still. He’s actively trying to cause you discomfort.

“I understand,” you grunt, still trying to writhe out of his grip, “but there was no need for David to force her into drinking the blood. If you guys had just been nice then you wouldn’t have to intimidate her into it.”

“That may be what you think, but it still doesn’t give you permission to interfere. David is calling the shots, not you.” Marko growls darkly. You can see his fangs beginning to extend from his gums, crowding his mouth and making talking audibly harder. He abruptly pulls away from you and closes his eyes to try to school his features back into a more human facade.

You take the opportunity to shuffle further back on the bed. Once there’s a safe enough distance between you and your father, you tenderly lift up the hem of your pyjama shorts and grimace. Your hips look red and swollen. There’ll definitely be bruising tomorrow.

Marko finally manages to calm down. His eyes open, having returned to their usual shade of blue, and immediately hone in on your new position on the bed.

“Did I say you could move?”

You move your hands away from your shorts and rest them on the comforter. “You didn’t say I couldn’t.”

Marko’s expression doesn’t change, but his fingers curl into fists at his sides. “You really do just have an answer for everything, don’t you?” The temperature of your sweltering room seems to increase in reaction to Marko’s growing frustration. He slowly begins creeping back towards the bed, his lips twitching as if unable to decide between a smirk and a frown. Your father loves punishments, but despises the disrespect that warrants them.

“How was I supposed to know you wanted me to stay where I was?” You reply, trying to keep your voice calm and level. Don’t give him anything that he could use to escalate the already tense situation.

“You’re usually such a smartass, it’s weird that your brain seems to stop working when you have to do as you're told.” Marko muses, his tone terse and laced with mock amusement.

You grit your teeth and take a deep breath. He’s doing this on purpose, trying to provoke you into an argument so he’ll have an excuse to take this further.

“You didn’t tell me to stay sitting, I moved because I was uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable?” He barks out a cruel laugh, “That’s new. I’m making you uncomfortable now, am I?”

“I mean physically uncomfortable.” You snap back, “It was an awkward position on the bed.”

Marko sneers down at you. “Don’t raise your voice at me,”

“I’m not!” Your voice shifts to a frustrated whine, almost childlike in pitch. “Why can’t you just be reasonable and listen to me? Stop trying to turn this into a fight!”

His eyes narrow to predatory slits, “Why can’t you just learn your place?”

Your whole body goes rigid with shock, joints locking and muscles tensing as you comprehend what he just said. One of the men who saved you from a supposedly neglectful family, a miserable life among humanity, has just told you to learn your place. Somehow, that hurts more than any kind of corporal punishment ever could.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You ask quietly, feeling your skin burn hot with indignation and a sickening sort of dread. Marko often says things he doesn’t mean, but this is different. You can tell from the disdainful glare that’s taken over his features that he genuinely believes you to be beneath him.

“It means that as our daughter, and the youngest member of the pack, you’re supposed to follow our lead and do what we ask without question.” He explains coldly, as if your inferiority to them is a fact of nature. “Obviously we’ve been too soft, ‘cause you seem to think you can do whatever the fuck you want without any consequences.”

You inch further back on the bed, trying to increase the space between him and yourself. “So because I’m younger than you, because you think you have some claim over me, that means my opinions don’t matter? Is that what you’re saying?”

He scoffs, completely ignoring your question, and takes a step closer. “Stop moving away from me. We didn’t raise you to be a coward, if you’ve done something wrong then you own up to it like a big girl.”

“Stop belittling me, Dad. I’m sixteen, I can tell apart right from wrong. And I know damn well that what you’re doing to Star is wrong.” Your fingers curl anxiously into the comforter. Talking back to him is dangerous, but to just stand by and allow them to do this to an innocent woman feels amoral. You’re at a crossroad. “I know that Uncle Max told you to do this, but if you let me speak to him directly, maybe we could sort this out.”

Marko laughs again. “Oh pumpkin, you’re just so fucking naive, aren’t you? None of us care about how that girl feels, except maybe Paul, but that’s only ‘cause he thinks she’s hot. Max isn’t gonna care any more than the rest of us do, so don’t bother whining to him about your morals.”

You can feel the warm fear that prickles beneath your skin simmering into anger. Their indifference to humans isn’t news to you, but you’d always thought they only targeted those who deserve it. Star, whilst you may think her to be stupid for even getting herself into this situation, hasn’t done anything to warrant being damned to an eternal life of blood.

“Can’t you just think about how other people feel for just five minutes?” You cry, trying desperately to reason with him. “She has a life too, and feelings! If you really have to turn her then you guys can at least be nice about it. There’s no need to bully her.”

Marko doesn’t immediately reply. Instead, he remains standing stiffly at the edge of your bed, staring down at you as if you’re worth little more than the rest of the humans they feed from. “It’s not in our nature to care.” He finally answers, in a surprisingly monotone voice. “You’ll understand when you become one of us, but for now, you’ve got to trust Max and David’s judgment.”

Your father’s apathy to your concern only aggravates you further. Rather than accepting his explanation, you snap back in frustration. “Stop using that to justify being a massive piece of shit! Being a vampire doesn’t make you an awful person, it just gives you an excuse to become one.”

Marko’s features morph back into a monstrous sneer. His eyes melt into a fiery shade of yellow, and the muscles contort beneath his skin to reshape his face into something less than human. Startled, you start shuffling away from him, so far back that you’ve now reached the other side. Marko lunges in response, stretching forward and snapping a clawed hand around your ankle to keep you from scrambling away.

“Get off me!” You yelp, trying to kick him away with your bare feet. The skin of your ankle is burning beneath the pressure of his nails, digging hard enough to draw blood. “Stop it, Dad, that hurts!”

He drags you across the bed by your foot, and then yanks his hand away to roughly pull you up by your wrist. “It hurts, does it?” He snarls, now standing chest to chest with you, “You know what hurts more? My own daughter calling me a piece of shit. That fucking hurts.”

You try to shove him back, but he doesn’t budge an inch. “You’re only mad because you know it’s true!”

Marko growls deeply, his lips pulling back to display his wickedly sharp fangs. Before you can even react, his hand shoots out and grabs you by the throat, just tight enough to make breathing uncomfortable. “It’s true, huh? Well in that case, I guess I might as well play the part.”

You open your mouth to argue further, only to be hit with a sudden, excruciating pain. An audible crack rings out as your nose shatters beneath his fist, so loud that you’re sure even Star must’ve heard it. The force sends you stumbling back blindly, crashing into furniture as your hands hover uselessly around your nose, which is now profusely spilling hot, syrupy blood down to your chin.

You collapse against the old wooden cabinet that Paul had helped you paint a few years ago, and squint open your eyes. They sting with unshed tears, making it hard to focus on Marko’s expression, but you can see his figure coming closer.

“Did that hurt, baby?” He sneers mockingly, “Poor thing, the big bad monster made you bleed.”

Your hands slide against the rough floor as you push yourself to sit more upright. The rock scrapes at your palms, though the pain is negligible compared to your pounding nose. “Don’t— don’t touch me.” You groan, turning to press your cheek against the cool wood of the cabinet. Blood coats your lips, warm and unpleasant, as you speak. Your tongue instinctively darts out to clear away the fluid before you can even realise what you’re doing. It tastes of copper, nothing like the rich sweetness that your fathers often describe.

Marko’s blurry frame crouches down before you, watching in silence before he speaks again. “Don’t touch you? But that’s what monsters do, isn’t it? They hurt people.”

You blink away your tears until his face comes into focus, and then bring a shaky hand up to your face, smearing away the blood on your lips. Marko’s expression is cold and expectant— a stark contrast to the playful sadism of his voice.

“I didn’t mean it,” you moan, grinding your hands into the floor to try and generate pain elsewhere in your body. Anything to distract you from the hot pulsing that’s undoubtedly the result of a broken bone. “I’m sorry, Papa, you’re not a monster. Please don’t hurt me again, ‘m sorry.”

Marko’s features soften slightly at your pleading apology, though you can still see a darkness lingering in his eyes. His attention seems to be flickering between your own tearful expression and the mangled state of your nose. Or more specifically, what’s streaming out from it. “You’re sorry?” He murmurs absently, as if making sure he’s understanding you right. For a few seconds, Marko remains completely fixated on your bloodstained skin. It’s only when you draw your knees protectively up to your chest that he finally snaps out of his trance. “Don’t apologise. Apologies are a sign of weakness.”

“Then what do you want from me?” You grunt breathlessly. You’re having to rely completely now on breathing through your mouth, which makes speaking a great effort.

Marko’s head tilts to the side in a deceptively innocent manner. His soft blue eyes sparkle in the dim candlelight of your room as he raises a hand to cup your cheek. The action makes you stiffen, but you manage to keep yourself from flinching away entirely.

“I don’t want an apology,” he reiterates in a low murmur, “all I want is for you to realise that you’re just as much of a monster as we are. We created the person you are today. Our cruelty is yours too— the only difference is that you harm with words, not actions.”

He pauses, staring at your broken face with disturbing reverence, before adding, “You’ll be such a perfect vampire. I can already see the hunger in you, the desire to hunt. It won’t be long now until you’re ready to join us in eternity.”

You shake your head with a sort of choked whimper, “I don’t want eternity. I don’t want to be like you.”

The knowledge that you will one day become a vampire has become a burden of which you have had to carry for years now. It has been a long time since your impending immortality has seemed a gift, rather than a curse. A threat of a dark future they will force upon you, tethering you to them forever. Destroying not only your own life, but the lives of all the humans you will be condemned to kill. You have had ten years to come to terms with what is to become of your humanity, and yet with every passing day, the idea of joining them in this life forever becomes more and more dreadful.

None of your fathers care. How many times have you confided in them about your worries? Too many to count. They have never once considered leaving you to grow old— letting you live what life you could have had, if Dwayne hadn’t found you alone on the boardwalk all those years ago.

“You don’t know what you want.” Marko counters darkly. “As your parents, it’s our job to make these decisions for you, otherwise you’d do something you regret.”

You shake your head again, and then quickly stop upon realising the action sends a nauseating wave of pain through your sinuses. “I don’t want to be a vampire.” You insist, “Let me have my own life— I won’t abandon you, I promise.”

Marko’s thumb begins to drift across your skin, as if stroking your face. It’s only when his digit strays to the clot of blood pooling at your upper lip that you realise what he’s doing. Before you can say anything in protest, your father pulls away his hand and brings his thumb, now coated in your blood, up to his lips. His eyes flutter shut with simple bliss as he savours the taste of his own destruction.

For a few seconds, a tense silence hangs between the two of you. Your father appears completely taken away by the morsel of blood he has stolen, and you, watching him, feel utterly sick. When Marko finally looks back at you, he seems dazed and a little unfocused, as if drunk on that tangy copper flavour you despise so much. “You will want it.” He finally says, rising back up to his full height as if he hasn’t literally just tasted your nosebleed. “When you’re finally one of us, you will understand why we did it, and you will be grateful.”

You crane your neck to look up at him, lips still softly parted to allow you to breathe through your mouth. “You don’t know that. I’m not like you, I’d be better off as a human.”

Marko’s expression doesn’t change as he replies coldly, “You’ll learn to be like us then. You will learn to trust the decisions we make for you, and enjoy your new unlife as a vampire.”

“I’ll never enjoy killing people,” you hiss, digging your nails into your knees. Your father’s face stays just as blank as it was before. This conversation means nothing to him, because he’s incapable of equating human life to something valuable. They’re lesser beings. You’re a lesser being.

“You will.” He says, so certainly that it almost comes across as arrogant. “After you’ve made your first kill, you won’t be the same. You’ll be an apex predator, like us. The concept of morals will seem childish and stupid, irrelevant compared to the feeling you’ll get after you take your first kill. You’ll be chasing that high for the rest of eternity.”

When he finishes speaking, you don’t even know what to say in response. You’ve lived with Marko long enough to know that arguing with him, or any of your fathers for that matter, is futile, and deep down, you’re terrified that what he says is true. Because surely they weren’t always like this. They weren’t always vampires. At some point, Marko, David, Paul and Dwayne were all regular people, at least to some extent. They would have lived with the same knowledge as everyone else, that some day they would die. They would have surely valued human life much more when they possessed mortality themselves.

Marko watches you intently, and then finally says, “You understand now, don’t you? It’s more than immortality. You’ll become something greater than humanity— another species. We are gods, walking among the people, we choose who lives and who dies.”

You shake your head weakly, “You don’t know that. You don’t know for sure that I’ll be like you.”

Marko merely smiles. “I watched Paul become a vampire, and I’ve raised you since you were a little girl. I think I know a lot more than you realise.”

You draw in a breath, preparing to speak, but then stop when you notice his attention drifting. His eyes are no longer pinned on you, but rather focusing on the doorway. Listening to something. Then he glances back at you and his smile grows. “Looks like we’ve got a fledgling on our hands.”

You stiffen. “Star drank the blood?”

“She did.” He confirms, looking back at the door. “David will want me to join them.”

“What about me?” The last thing you want to do is leave your room, especially with the state of your face right now. You don’t know much about the process of becoming a vampire. Is Star going to become feral when she smells your blood? Are you even safe in your own home right now?

“You’re staying here.” Marko says sternly. “David‘s probably gonna want to talk to you later, and Dwayne will too.” He groans, running his fingers through his golden locks, “Fuck, I’m gonna get an earful from him when he sees what I did to your nose. This wouldn’t have happened if you’d just behaved.”

You wipe away some of the blood from your face. Of course he’d blame this on you, because when is anything ever their fault? “I’m sorry.” You apologise stiffly.

He huffs and walks over to your door, still open, and then says dryly, “I know you’re sorry. You always are. When will you learn that saying sorry doesn’t change anything?”

You go to reply, but Marko doesn’t wait for a response. He leaves through the doorway without a word and shuts the door behind him. After a moment you hear a click, and it becomes clear that he’s locked you inside. You listen without protest to his fading footsteps as he leaves, and breathe out a small sigh of relief. Or maybe it’s fear, because you know that introducing a new vampire to the pack will only make them more anxious to turn you sooner.

You’re running out of time.

Tag list- @xjesterxjacksx @lunoorbonoor @simplyreading96 @lostbetweenvampiresandmusic @thelostboysforeva @purple-lemon-8

The moment his eyes locked onto yours, the exhaustion of your twelve-hour flight dissolved. He came charging at you, discarding all sense of public decorum as he weaved through the crowd.   

Before you could even drop your carry-on bag to the floor, Beau practically tackled you. all the air left your lungs as his arms wrapped around you, squeezing you so tight your bones ached.

“Hello, to you too,” you laughed, breathless.

“God, sweetheart,” he groaned, burying his face deep into the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of your skin.

He lifted you right off your feet, crushing you against his chest as if he wanted to physically absorb you. you instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist, burying your face into him too. Before leaving, he had given you a bottle of his cologne to spray your pillow with at night, but the scent had never smelt quite right unless it was mixed with his natural husk.

He held you there for a long time, completely ignoring the annoyed glares of the passengers who had to navigate around you both. When he finally slid you down his body, his hands immediately cupped your face, thumbs wiping away the tears you’d barely realised had fallen.

“How the fuck did you get even more beautiful?” He sighed. His eyes scanned every inch of your face, as if committing your features to memory all over again. “I missed you so damn much.”

He didn’t wait for a reply; he leant down to brush his lips against yours as he placed a tender kiss to your lips. It wasn’t the fiercely desperate kiss that you expected, but you welcomed it all the same.  

He pulled back just an inch, looking into your eyes, his chest heaving. “I’m going to ravish you when we get back,” he promised.

That, you had expected.  

The drive back to his dorm was a blur. Beau refused to let go of your hand, steering with one hand while keeping your fingers tightly locked in his other. Occasionally, he would lift your knuckles to his lips to press wet kisses against your skin.

The door to his dorm had barely closed behind you before his hands were on you, spinning you around and pressing your back against it. “You’re actually here?” He murmured, warm breath fanning your face. “I’m not dreaming? You’re home?”

“I’m home,” you replied, voice catching as you reached up and pulled him down for a kiss.

He kissed you like he might never get a chance again, as if you were running off abroad again. He was desperate, all-consuming, as his hands roamed over you, sliding up under the hem of your sweater. His palms were hot and slightly trembling against your stomach.

“Beau,” you gasped against his lips, his kisses made your knees weak. “Missed you. So much.”

“You have no idea,” he growled. He moves to press kisses along your jawline, making you arch into him. His hands gripped your hips, pulling your pelvis flush against the bulge of his jeans. “I haven’t touched myself in weeks just thinking about this day. I’m going to fill you up with my cum.”

You barely had time to react before he was sinking to his knees in front of you. he made quick work of your pants, pulling them and your underwear down.

“Beau,” you whined, suddenly very self-conscious even as you helped him to take off your pants. “I haven’t showered in like–.”

“Don’t care,” he interrupted.

“What about your dorm mate?” You countered, even as you swung your leg over his shoulder, spreading yourself for him.

“Not here.” He leant forward, pressing a kiss to your inner thigh before looking up at you. “Thank you for this meal.”

Beau wet his lips, one hand digging into your waist as he took your clit into his mouth.

“Ah~ Fuck!” You cried, to think you had all but forgotten what Beau’s mouth felt like. Your memory was nothing compared to the real thing.  

He hadn’t forgotten how you liked to be eaten though. He used his other hand to spread your folds to get better access to your clit.

Your thighs quivered around his head as he focused his attention there. His lips sucked on your clit, his tongue poking out to lick at you.

“You taste so good,” he murmured around your pussy. “Can’t wait until you’re dripping with my cum.”

“Mhm~ need you to fill me up, babe.”

“You’re so greedy for it,” he teased, the irony of him saying that as he desperately lapped at your wet heat wasn’t lost on you, but that didn’t mean you didn’t agree.

“Just for you.”

You grabbed at whatever of him you could get to, your blunt nails digging into his shoulder. His tongue swirled over your swollen clit, flicking it back and forth in a dizzying rhythm.  

He was taking such good care of you, but you knew what he needed. What he’d waited months for. Truthfully, what you both had waited months for.

“Babe, stop.”

At your words, he immediately pulled back, eyebrow raised and his chin wet with spit and your arousal.

“I need to feel you in me.”

He was immediately on his feet, effortlessly scooping you up and carrying you the short distance to his bedroom. He set you down on the mattress before he was undoing the button on his jeans.

His dick sprung up, hot and heavy, and you could see the vein on the underside of his dick throb. It twitched as you stared at it, and it took all of Beau’s restraint to walk over to you calmly and settle between your legs.

Positioned between them, Beau paused, his chest heaving as he looked down at you. The whites of his eyes were completely blown out with desire; he looked drunk on you.

“Sweetheart, I’m not gonna last,” he warned. “I’m so close just looking at you.”

You impatiently reached down and guided him to your entrance. “Come on, please~,” you whined.

He grabbed his dick, guiding the head to swirl around your arousal a few times before bringing it back to your clenching hole. You both gasped as he pushed into you. you wrapped around him like a vice, the warmth of you shorting out his brain. He dropped forward so you were chest to chest.

“I’m home,” he murmured into your ear. “Buried in you is where I’m supposed to be. And I’m gonna fill you up and keep that buried in you too.”

Your bodies were so sensitive from the time adapt, and Beau’s ragged voice told you just how close to the edge he really already was.  

“I’m never going to let you go,” you said, clenching around him tighter as if to prove your point.

“Look at that,” he whimpered, lifting himself slightly so he could see where he was disappearing into you. he pressed a rough kiss to your lips, his dick giving a sudden twitch inside you that made you gasp. “Look at how perfectly you take me in. God, I’m going to put a fucking baby in you.”

To be fair to Beau, he lasted much longer than you expected him to, but he was only a few thrusts in and his hips were already thrusting at an inconsistent pattern.

“You’re so tight,” he panted, his forehead resting against yours, his breath hot. “I want to put a baby in you so bad. I’m gonna get you pregnant, belly swelling cause I kept you full. Ah– Oh– fuck.”

He buried his face into your shoulder, hips faltering as he came. It was thick and heavy, filling you up just as he said he would.

“Fuck– FUCK! I told you,” he gasped, voice cracking as he continued to grind his hips into you.

You held him close, stroking his back and smiling softly as he kissed your neck. “I’ve got you,” you cooed.

All it took was one press of his thumb to your clit for you to cum on him. Hearing your undone cries almost had Beau hardening up again, not that he could but his dick surely wanted to try.

All the while, his release continue to pour into you, cock twitching for what felt like a full minute longer than usual. He shuddered violently as your walls kept closing down around him, his body twitching with the aftershocks of a pleasure so intense it bordered on painful.

Even when he stopped twitching and shooting cum into you, he didn’t pull out. His hands slid under your ass, lifting you up slightly to keep the cum from running out of you. you wrapped your legs around him, pulling him closer to you.

“Never leave me again,” he mumbled into your skin. “Have to keep you full of me.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss to his forehead. he was incredibly heavy, and you could feel his release pooling beneath your hips. But, after months of only seeing him through a screen, you would take being crushed by him over distance again any day.

They know exactly what is happening. They terrified you. They broke the illusion of the perfect, polite gentlemen they had been pretending to be, and the reality of their feral, obsessive desire sent you running for the hills.

Did they really ruin it? Is that it? Have they completely lost you before they even had you?

It’s Sunday afternoon, the day after a brutally physical, bloody game against Cornell. Briar won, but it came at a heavy cost.

The living room looks like a triage center. Garrett is stretched out on the sofa, a massive bag of ice taped to his bruised ribs, his face a thunderous mask of exhaustion and misery. Logan is slumped in the armchair, nursing a split lip and a dark purple bruise swelling along his jawline.

Dean is lying flat on the rug, his left knee elevated on a stack of pillows, wrapped tightly in an ACE bandage.

Tucker isn’t home. He’s at the library, completely oblivious to the crushing depression suffocating his three best friends.

“I’m going to text her,” Dean says suddenly, his voice raspy. He stares blindly at the ceiling. “I don’t care if Tucker finds out. I’m going to text her and beg for forgiveness. I’ll buy a rosary. I’ll memorize Bible verses. I just need to see her face.”

“Don’t,” Garrett grunts, closing his eyes. Every time he breathes, his ribs scream, but the ache in his chest has nothing to do with hockey. “She needs space. If you push her now, she’ll transfer to a different school.”

“I miss her cookies,” Logan mumbles, wincing as the movement pulls his split lip. “I miss her face. I miss her telling me to use an inside voice. I’m a shell of a man, Garrett. Look at us. We are pathetic.”

The heavy clack of the front deadbolt unlocking echoes through the silent house.

Instantly, all three men freeze.

The front door pushes open. A biting gust of January wind sweeps into the foyer, followed immediately by the rich, savory, mouth-watering scent of slow-cooked chicken broth, butter, and homemade dough.

“Tucker?” Your soft, melodic voice calls out hesitantly. “Are you home?”

Garrett’s gray eyes snap open. He sits up so fast he completely forgets his bruised ribs, biting back a harsh groan of pain.

Logan sits up in the armchair, his jaw dropping. Dean practically scrambles into a seated position on the rug, ignoring his throbbing knee.

You step into the foyer, pushing the door shut behind you. You are bundled up in a thick, cream-colored cable-knit sweater, a modest pair of dark denim jeans, and sensible winter boots. Your cheeks are rosy from the cold. In your hands, resting on a set of oven mitts, is a massive, heavy Dutch oven.

You came. You actually came.

You walk carefully into the kitchen, your eyes cast firmly down at the floor, absolutely determined not to look into the living room. You heard about the Cornell game from Tucker. You heard it was a bloodbath. Your gentle, nurturing heart couldn’t take the thought of them bruised and starving, even if your mind was still terrified of them. You took pity.

You set the Dutch oven gently onto the kitchen island.

“Tucker isn’t here,” Garrett says.

His voice is deep, rough with a terrifying mixture of relief and absolute desperation. It cuts through the quiet house, causing you to jump violently, your hands flying up to your chest.

You turn slowly.

Garrett is standing in the archway between the living room and the kitchen. He is wearing a tight gray t-shirt and dark sweatpants. You can see the heavy purple bruising creeping up his neck, and the way he holds his side.

Behind him, Logan and Dean step into view. Logan’s lip is busted, his handsome face battered. Dean is favoring his left leg, his eyes wide and completely fixated on you like a starving man looking at a feast.

“Oh,” you whisper, your voice trembling. Your heart immediately kicks into a frantic, erratic rhythm. The memories of your Christmas break — the feverish, filthy, agonizingly real dreams — slam into your mind. Your thighs clench instinctively. You take a step back until your lower back hits the granite counter. “I … I’m sorry. I thought Tucker was home. I just wanted to drop off some chicken and dumplings for him. And … for y’all. Since the game was so rough.”

“You haven’t been here in two weeks,” Logan says. He steps into the kitchen, his dark eyes entirely entirely focused on you. He ignores the Dutch oven. He doesn’t care about the food. He only cares about the girl who made it. “We thought you were never coming back.”

“I’ve been busy,” you lie quickly, your southern drawl thickening with panic. You stare intently at Garrett’s chest, completely unable to meet their eyes. “My classes are very demanding this semester. I should go. I have a paper to write.”

You grab your oven mitts and try to sidestep Garrett to reach the hallway.

Garrett takes one large step, using his massive body to completely block the exit. He doesn’t touch you — he remembers the rules — but he stands firm, an immovable mountain of muscle and determination.

“Please don’t run,” Garrett says, his voice softening into a raw, pleading rumble that absolutely shatters your defenses. “Please, Y/N. Just give us five minutes. We are losing our minds.”

You stop. You look down at your boots, your hands wringing together nervously. “There’s nothing to talk about, Garrett. I heard what y’all were saying. You were playing a game with me.”

“It wasn’t a game to us,” Dean says, stepping up to stand beside Logan. His voice is painfully sincere, stripped of all its usual playboy arrogance. “It was survival. You don’t understand what you do to us, Y/N. You walk into this house, smelling like vanilla, humming your little songs, taking care of us like we actually deserve it … and it completely rewired our brains.”

You swallow hard, your face burning with a fiery blush. “You said you wanted to do filthy things to me.”

Logan lets out a heavy, shuddering breath. “We do. God, sweetheart, we do. But not because we want to use you. Because we are completely, irrevocably obsessed with you. I can’t sleep. I can’t focus on the ice. Every time I close my eyes, I see you.”

“We tried to fight it,” Garrett confesses, taking a half-step closer. His massive presence overwhelms your senses. You can smell his body wash, the clean scent of his sweat, the sheer heat radiating off his skin. “We tried to stay away because we know you’re too good for us. You’re pure. You want the white picket fence and the Sunday school. We’re violent, messy hockey players. But we can’t stay away.”

“The bet was stupid,” Dean adds, running a hand through his sandy hair. “We made it because we were terrified of fighting each other over you. We thought if one of us won, the other two would back off. But it didn’t work.”

You finally look up, your wide, tear-filled eyes darting between the three of them. “Why didn’t it work?”

“Because none of us are willing to walk away,” Garrett says simply, his gray eyes burning with an intense, possessive fire that makes your breath hitch. “I would rather die than watch Dean or Logan take you on a date. I would rather break my own legs than step aside.”

“Same,” Logan agrees instantly, his jaw set.

“So would I,” Dean echoes, his voice hard.

You press your hands to your burning cheeks, completely overwhelmed. This is too much. This is a romance novel, a movie, a fever dream. You are just a simple Early Childhood Education major from Texas. You are not equipped to handle the combined, obsessive devotion of three division one athletes.

“Then what are you saying?” You ask, your voice a breathy, stuttering whisper. You are a gooey mess. The heavy, pulsing ache that plagued you all winter break is back, pooling between your

thighs, making your knees weak. “You can’t all court me. That’s … that’s madness. That’s not how the world works.”

Garrett, Dean, and Logan look at each other. A silent, entirely unified conversation passes between them in the span of three seconds. They spent the last fourteen days arguing, fighting, and finally coming to the absolute, undeniable conclusion that there is only one way this ends without destroying their brotherhood and losing you forever.

Garrett turns his gaze back to you. “We want to share you.”

The kitchen goes dead silent.

Your brain short-circuits. You simply stare at them, your lips parted, waiting for the punchline. But their faces are entirely serious. They are looking at you with a heavy, terrifying sincerity.

“Share me?” You squeak, the words barely making it past your throat. “Like … like a timeshare? Like a rental car?”

“Like a partnership,” Garrett corrects smoothly, taking another small step into your space. “We share everything. We protect you together. We provide for you together. We love you together.”

Panic, bright and entirely religious, violently seizes your chest.

“You can’t share a wife!” You burst out, your hands waving frantically in the air. “The Bible says a man leaves his father and mother and is united to his wife! Singular! One man, one woman! That is the holy covenant! You can’t have three men and one woman! That is … that is polygamy! That’s illegal! It’s ungodly!”

Dean leans forward, a desperately charming, cheeky smirk fighting its way through his misery. “Hey, come on. People do it all the time. Think of it like Sister Wives, but instead, we’re the Brother Husbands.”

Logan reaches over and violently slaps the back of Dean’s head.

“Ow! What?” Dean yelps, rubbing his skull. “I’m just trying to make it relatable!”

“Shut up, Dean,” Logan groans. He steps closer to you, his dark eyes softening, pleading with you to understand. “Y/N, sweetheart, breathe. Just breathe.”

“I am breathing!” You hyperventilate, pressing a hand to your chest. “I’m having a heart attack! I am a traditional girl! I want a family! How am I supposed to explain this to my mother? How am I supposed to explain this to Tucker? Tucker is going to murder all of you!”

“Let us worry about Tucker,” Garrett says, his voice a low, soothing command that instantly cuts through the static of your panic. He finally reaches out, breaking the absolute rule he set months ago.

Garrett’s large, warm hands gently cup your shoulders.

The physical contact sends a violent shockwave through your entire nervous system. You gasp, your head snapping up to look at him.

“Listen to me,” Garrett says, his thumbs gently stroking the thick wool of your sweater. His gray eyes are a storm of devotion and terrifying, primal possessiveness. “You want to be taken care of? We will take care of you. You want a white picket fence? We will buy you a goddamn fortress. You will never want for anything. You will never be unsafe. You will have three men whose entire existence revolves around making sure you are happy, protected, and completely worshiped.”

“He’s right,” Logan says, his voice dropping into that sweet, soul-searing tone that always makes your heart flutter. He steps up to your right side, his hand coming to rest lightly on your waist. The heat of his palm seeps through your clothes. “You have so much love to give, Y/N. More than one man could ever handle. We know who you are. We know your values. We aren’t asking you to stop being the good girl we fell in love with. We’re just asking you to be our good girl.”

“Please, Y/N,” Dean whispers, stepping up to your left side. He doesn’t touch you, but he leans in close, his green eyes utterly entirely devoted. “I don’t even look at other girls anymore. I don’t want to party. I just want to come home to you. We all do. We’ll be whatever you need us to be. Just don’t run away again.”

You are entirely trapped.

You are surrounded by a wall of solid muscle, heat, and expensive cologne. Garrett is holding your shoulders, his massive chest mere inches from yours. Logan’s hand is burning a brand into your hip. Dean is looking at you like you are the center of the universe.

You try to summon your righteous indignation. You try to summon the lessons from Sunday school. But your body is completely, hopelessly betraying you.

The heavy, slick ache between your thighs is throbbing so violently you can barely stand. Your breasts are heavy, the nipples peaking tightly against your bra, begging for the friction you experienced in your dreams. The sheer, overwhelming reality of having these three incredible men looking at you with such unabashed desire is melting every single moral defense you have left.

“I …” you stutter, your voice breaking. “I’ve never even kissed a boy.”

The confession hangs in the air, incredibly vulnerable and entirely true. You had planned to save your first kiss for the man you were going to marry, maybe on a porch, maybe after months of proper courting.

A dark, incredibly wicked flash crosses Garrett’s eyes.

“I know,” Garrett murmurs, his gaze dropping to your trembling, pink lips. “And I’m not waiting another second.”

Garrett’s hands slide from your shoulders to cup your face. His thumbs trace your jawline, tilting your head up.

You gasp as his face descends.

Garrett’s lips capture yours.

It is not a sweet, chaste first kiss. It is a claiming. It is a possessive, overwhelming brand of ownership. His mouth is hot and demanding, his lips bruising slightly against yours as he takes exactly what he has been starving for. He angles his head, parting your lips with the gentle but firm pressure of his thumb, and his tongue sweeps inside your mouth.

A loud, embarrassing whimper tears from your throat. You taste mint, male aggression, and pure fire. Your hands instinctively fly up to grip the front of his t-shirt, clinging to him to keep your knees from buckling. The kiss is deep, wet, and devastating. It sends a bolt of lightning straight to your core, confirming every single dirty, filthy thing you dreamed about over the break.

Garrett finally pulls back, his chest heaving, his gray eyes glazed with lust. He rests his forehead against yours, both of you gasping for air.

“Holy fuck,” Garrett breathes, his voice entirely wrecked.

Before you can even process the absolute earth-shattering reality of your first kiss, Logan moves.

Logan’s hand slides from your waist up to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. He pulls you gently toward him, turning your face, and crashes his mouth down onto yours.

Logan’s kiss is entirely different from Garrett’s. It is sweeping, cinematic, and soul-searing. He kisses you like he is drowning and you are oxygen. He groans into your mouth, a deep, vibrating sound that makes your stomach flip entirely upside down. His tongue strokes against yours, slow and deliberate, mapping every inch of your mouth. It is sweet, but it is deeply, dangerously filthy.

You melt. You completely surrender, your body going boneless against Logan’s chest, letting him hold you up. The religious guilt in your mind evaporates into thin air.

Something that feels this good, you think dizzily, clinging to Logan’s broad shoulders, something that feels this right, can’t possibly be ungodly.

Logan breaks the kiss slowly, dragging his lips across your jawline, leaving a trail of absolute fire in his wake.

Then, Dean steps in.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He slides his hands around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest, exactly like he did in the dream. You gasp at the immediate, shocking friction of his hard body against your softer curves.

Dean leans down, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the sensitive skin just below your ear, making you arch your back with a sharp cry. Then he turns you in his arms, his green eyes burning, and claims your lips.

Dean’s kiss is pure heat. It is practiced, smooth, and wildly intoxicating. He knows exactly how to move his mouth to make your entire body weak. He bites gently at your lower lip, soothing it immediately with a sweep of his tongue. He tastes like danger and devotion. You kiss him back, finally finding your rhythm, a soft moan escaping you as you tilt your head to give him deeper access.

When Dean finally pulls away, you are completely destroyed.

Your lips are swollen, slick, and practically bruised. Your hair is messy. Your chest is heaving under your cable-knit sweater, and your legs are shaking so badly Garrett and Logan both have to keep their hands on your waist to hold you upright.

You look at the three of them. They are staring at you with expressions of such intense, terrifying love and lust that it takes your breath away.

You are a traditional, sheltered girl. You belong in Sunday school.

But looking at the bruised, massive, fiercely protective men surrounding you, you realize you belong to them, too.

The silence stretches, heavy and thick with the electric aftermath of the kisses.

Dean breaks it.

He clears his throat, a massive, arrogant grin spreading across his handsome face as he steps back, running a hand through his hair.

“Well,” Dean says cheerfully, his green eyes twinkling. “I don’t want to jump the gun here, but that is definitely the best foursome I’ve ever had.”

You gasp, your southern sensibilities violently snapping back online. The fiery blush returns with a vengeance.

Without even thinking, you reach out and slap Dean’s shoulder. It’s not hard, just a sharp, reprimanding smack.

“Dean Di Laurentis!” You scold, your voice shaking, though there is no real anger behind it. “Do not say such filthy things in front of me!”

Dean doesn’t wince. Instead, his grin widens into something incredibly wicked and entirely captivated. He looks at Garrett and Logan, who are both fighting massive, smirking smiles.

“Oh, God,” Dean groans playfully, rubbing his shoulder, his eyes dropping to your flushed face. “I love this little firecracker side of you. I really, really do.”

Logan chuckles, the sound low and dark. “You better get used to it, sweetheart. Because we aren’t letting you go.”

“Never,” Garrett promises, his hand sliding down to firmly grip yours. He intertwines his thick fingers with your delicate ones, the ultimate, terrifyingly permanent gesture. “You’re ours now.”

You look down at your hand enveloped in Garrett’s. You look at Logan’s bruised, smiling face. You look at Dean’s arrogant, devoted eyes.

Your heart pounds. Your palms sweat. You are entirely terrified of what Tucker is going to do when he finds out.

But as the smell of your homemade chicken and dumplings fills the kitchen, blending perfectly with the scent of the three men who just claimed your entire future, you know you aren’t running away ever again.

***

It takes exactly three and a half weeks for the skittishness to finally melt out of your bones.

At first, being the shared girlfriend of three massive, fiercely protective, division-one hockey players felt like trying to navigate a minefield. You jumped every time Garrett entered a room. You blushed violently every time Dean winked at you. You practically stopped breathing whenever Logan casually slung his heavy arm over your shoulders in the kitchen.

You were waiting for the other shoe to drop. You were waiting for the guilt to consume you, for the lightning to strike you down for engaging in something so entirely unconventional and ungodly.

But the lightning never came.

Instead, Garrett, Dean, and Logan treated you like you were made of spun glass. They didn’t rush you. They didn’t push you into their bedrooms. They courted you. They held your hand while watching movies. They kissed your forehead when you studied. They praised you for the smallest, most domestic things — from brewing a pot of coffee to finishing a difficult essay.

They slowly, meticulously rewired your entire understanding of intimacy, proving that their feral obsession with you was grounded in a deep, terrifyingly real devotion.

And now, your body is making it abundantly clear that it is done waiting.

It’s a quiet Thursday night in mid-February. The sleet is tapping gently against the living room windows of the off-campus house. Tucker is gone for the evening, trapped in a mandatory study group at the library that won’t let out until midnight.

You are sitting on the plush living room rug, your back resting against the base of the sofa. You’re wearing a soft, oversized cream cardigan over a modest pink camisole, and a pair of plaid pajama pants. Your Child Psychology textbook is open in your lap, but you haven’t read a single word in twenty minutes.

Because Logan is sitting on the floor beside you, his long legs stretched out, lazily drawing small, electric circles on your bare ankle with his thumb.

Because Dean is lying on his stomach on the other side of you, his chin propped on his hands, shamelessly staring at the soft slope of your neck.

And because Garrett is sitting on the sofa directly behind you, his thick thighs bracketing your shoulders, his large hands slowly, rhythmically massaging the tension out of your neck and scalp.

“You’re not reading, sweetheart,” Logan murmurs, his dark eyes entirely entirely focused on the flush creeping up your cheeks. His thumb trails higher, tracing the line of your calf beneath your plaid pants. “You’ve been on the same page for half an hour.”

“I am reading,” you lie, your voice betraying you with a soft, breathy stutter. “It’s a very dense chapter on cognitive development.”

Dean chuckles, the sound low and wicked. He reaches out, lightly tugging on the hem of your cardigan. “You’re a terrible liar, Y/N. Your pulse is beating so fast I can practically see it from here. What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” you squeak, shutting the textbook with a loud thwack.

Garrett’s hands pause their massage. His thumbs press firmly into the base of your skull, sending a shiver straight down your spine. He leans forward, his chest brushing against the back of your head, his mouth hovering just over your ear.

“Don’t lie to us, baby,” Garrett says, his voice a vibrating, gravelly command that makes your stomach flip entirely upside down. “You know we don’t like it when you lie. Tell us what’s got you so distracted.”

You swallow hard. The truth is, the dreams haven’t stopped. If anything, they have gotten worse. Every night, you wake up tangled in your sheets, your body slick and aching, completely desperate for the release that always slips through your fingers right at the last second. You are exhausted. You are constantly, agonizingly turned on.

You look at Logan. Then you look at Dean. Finally, you tilt your head back to look up at Garrett upside down.

“I’m tired,” you whisper, the confession slipping out incredibly vulnerable. “I’m so tired of waking up aching.”

The atmosphere in the living room changes in a fraction of a second.

The lazy, domestic warmth instantly evaporates, replaced by a thick, suffocating, violently charged heat.

Garrett’s eyes darken to the color of storm clouds. Logan goes perfectly still, his hand gripping your calf tightly. Dean slowly pushes himself up into a kneeling position, his green eyes locked onto yours like a predator that just smelled blood.

“Aching?” Dean repeats, his voice dropping an octave. “Where are you aching, sweetheart?”

Your face burns a magnificent shade of scarlet. You hide your face in your hands. “Please don’t make me say it. You know what I mean.”

“We know,” Logan says gently. He moves closer, prying your small hands away from your flushed face. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your palm. “But we want to help you fix it. If you’re ready. Are you ready, Y/N?”

You look at them. These three massive, dangerous men who have spent the last month proving that they would burn the world down before they let anyone hurt you. You trust them. You trust them more than you trust yourself.

You give a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

“Yeah?” Garrett murmurs. He reaches down, gripping you by your waist, and effortlessly hauls you up from the floor.

You gasp as Garrett pulls you directly onto his lap on the sofa. You are straddling his thick thighs, your knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. He feels like a wall of solid, burning muscle beneath you.

“Good girl,” Garrett praises, his large hands sliding up your back to pull you flush against his chest. “Such a brave, good girl. We’ve been waiting so incredibly patiently for you.”

The praise hits you like a physical blow. A soft, involuntary whine escapes your throat. You have always thrived on positive reinforcement, but hearing it from Garrett, wrapped in this dark, heavy blanket of pure lust, makes your mind go entirely blank.

Dean moves onto the sofa, kneeling close to your left side. Logan shifts onto the cushions on your right. You are completely surrounded, boxed in by heat and expensive cologne.

“You’re going to let us take care of you,” Dean says, reaching out to gently push a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers trail down to rest against your collarbone. “You’re going to let us make you feel so good, exactly like you deserve.”

“I don’t … I don’t know what to do,” you whisper, your hands clutching Garrett’s broad shoulders for dear life. “I’ve never … I’ve never done anything like this.”

“You don’t have to do a single thing,” Logan promises, leaning in to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the side of your neck. You arch your back instantly, a sharp gasp tearing from your lips. “You just sit here and look pretty for us. Can you do that, sweetheart? Can you be a good girl and let us handle everything?”

“Yes,” you breathe, your eyes fluttering shut as Logan’s teeth scrape gently against your pulse point. “Yes, please.”

“Perfect,” Garrett rumbles.

Garrett’s hands slide around to the front of your body. With practiced, incredibly gentle movements, he begins unbuttoning your oversized cream cardigan. He pushes it off your shoulders, letting it pool around your elbows, leaving you in just your thin pink camisole.

Dean’s hands immediately take over. He slides his fingers under the hem of your camisole, his knuckles brushing against the incredibly sensitive skin of your stomach. You shiver violently.

“Look at her,” Dean murmurs, his voice entirely wrecked with adoration and filthy desire. “She’s so soft. She’s absolutely perfect.”

Dean pushes the camisole up, completely exposing your breasts in your simple, white cotton bra.

You instinctively try to cross your arms over your chest to cover yourself — years of deeply ingrained modesty fighting against your rapidly escalating arousal.

But Garrett catches your wrists. He doesn’t grip them hard, just firmly enough to stop you. He guides your arms back, pinning your wrists gently against his chest.

“Ah-ah,” Garrett scolds softly, his mouth hovering over your lips. “No hiding. We want to see you. We want to see everything. You’re beautiful, Y/N. Show us how good you are.”

The praise absolutely destroys your resistance. You let your arms go slack in his grip, offering yourself up to their hungry gazes.

Logan lets out a ragged groan. He leans down, bypassing the fabric of your bra entirely, and presses his hot mouth against the upper swell of your breast.

You cry out, your back arching violently, completely losing your mind as Logan’s tongue laves the soft skin.

“Logan,” you sob, your hips rolling down instinctively against Garrett’s lap. You can feel the impossible, rock-hard length of Garrett’s erection pressing directly against your aching center through the layers of your clothes.

“I’ve got you,” Garrett murmurs, capturing your lips in a deep, wet, punishing kiss.

He completely consumes your moan, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, mimicking the rhythm of your grinding hips.

While Garrett dominates your mouth and Logan worships your chest, Dean moves lower.

You feel Dean’s hands on the waistband of your plaid pajama pants. The realization of what is about to happen sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to your core.

“Dean, wait,” you gasp, breaking the kiss with Garrett for a fraction of a second. “I … I’m scared.”

Dean freezes immediately. He pulls his hands back, his green eyes meeting yours with absolute, terrifying sincerity. “I will stop right now if you want me to, Y/N. We will all stop. Just say the word.”

You look down at him. You look at the fierce devotion in his eyes, the absolute respect that cuts right through the lust. You are not a piece of meat to them. You are their world.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head, your face flushed and beautiful. “Don’t stop. I’m just … it’s new. I’ve never …”

“I know, baby,” Dean says, his voice softening into something unbearably sweet. He leans forward and presses a kiss to your bare stomach. “I know. And it is the greatest honor of my entire life that you are letting me be the first. I am going to be so careful with you. I promise.”

“He’s got you, good girl,” Garrett praises, kissing your temple. “Just relax for us. You’re doing so incredibly well.”

The combination of Garrett’s grounding presence and Dean’s sweet reassurance gives you the courage to let go entirely.

You nod, letting your head fall back onto Garrett’s shoulder.

Dean hooks his fingers into the waistband of your pants and your underwear, pulling them both slowly, agonizingly down your legs. You kick them off, leaving you entirely bare from the waist down, straddling Garrett’s lap in the middle of the living room.

The cool air of the room hits your feverish skin, but it is instantly replaced by Dean’s burning touch.

Dean parts your thighs gently, positioning himself between your legs. He looks at you. He actually just looks at you for a long, agonizing moment, his chest heaving.

“You’re so pretty,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with reverence. “God, you’re perfect.”

“Dean,” you whine, the empty ache throbbing so violently you feel like you might shatter into a million pieces. “Please.”

“Such a demanding little thing,” Dean chuckles darkly.

His long, calloused fingers reach out and finally, finally touch you.

When his fingertips brush against your slick, swollen center, you scream.

It is a loud, entirely unholy sound that Garrett immediately swallows with another bruising kiss.

The sensation is blinding. It is a thousand times more intense than any dream you had in Texas. Dean’s touch is expert, relentless, and unbelievably precise. He strokes you softly at first, mapping the slick folds of your body, spreading your own wetness over your aching clit.

“She’s so wet for us,” Dean murmurs, his voice a filthy rasp that makes your heart stutter. “Look at this, Logan. Look at how ready our good girl is.”

Logan lifts his head from your chest, his dark eyes tracking down to watch Dean’s fingers working between your legs. The sight of it — of religious, modest you completely coming apart under Dean’s hand — makes Logan let out a guttural curse.

“Fuck,” Logan breathes. He shifts, moving closer, his hand coming to rest firmly on your bare thigh. His thumb presses into your skin, holding your leg open wider for Dean. “You’re so gorgeous, Y/N. You look so perfect taking his fingers.”

“I can’t,” you sob, your hips thrashing wildly against Garrett. You have no idea what you’re doing. You have no control over your own body. You are entirely at their mercy. “It’s too much, it’s too much-”

“It’s not too much,” Garrett commands in your ear, his grip tightening around your waist to anchor you. “You can take it. You are taking it so well. Keep going, Dean. Don’t stop.”

Dean doesn’t stop. He slides one long finger inside you.

You cry out, your fingernails digging violently into Garrett’s shoulders. You feel impossibly full, stretched, and consumed by a heat that is burning you from the inside out.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Dean praises, his thumb returning to stroke your clit while his finger pumps slowly inside you. “Take it all. Just like that. You’re so tight, God, you feel so good.”

“Tell her she’s a good girl, Logan,” Garrett orders, his voice entirely wrecked with his own restraint. He is hard as a rock beneath you, suffering through the absolute agony of watching his best friends dismantle the girl he loves while he holds her.

“You’re the best girl,” Logan obeys instantly, his face hovering inches from yours. His dark eyes are hypnotic. “The sweetest, prettiest, best girl in the world. And you’re all ours. Every single inch of you.”

The praise is the catalyst.

The “good girl” hits your brain like a massive dose of dopamine. The traditional, eager-to-please part of your soul latches onto their words, entirely overlapping with the filthy, overwhelming physical pleasure.

You want to be their good girl. You want to give them exactly what they want.

Your hips begin to chase Dean’s hand, establishing a frantic, desperate rhythm. You sob openly, the tears slipping down your flushed cheeks. The coil in your lower stomach is winding tighter and tighter, pulling all the oxygen out of the room.

“Garrett,” you cry out, twisting your head to bury your face in his neck. “Garrett, please, I don’t know what’s happening-”

“You’re getting close,” Garrett rumbles, his large hand coming up to tangle in your hair, holding you firmly against him. “Don’t fight it, baby. Let it happen. Let go for us.”

“I’m going to taste her,” Logan declares, his voice completely raw.

Before you can even process the words, Logan switches places with Dean.

Dean pulls his hand back, leaving you whining at the sudden loss of friction, but it only lasts for a second.

Logan kneels between your legs. He grabs your hips, pulling you slightly forward on Garrett’s lap, and buries his face directly against your wet center.

When Logan’s hot, wet tongue lashes against your clit, you completely leave your body.

You scream a piercing, shattered sound that bounces off the living room walls. Your back arches so hard you practically lift off Garrett’s lap.

“Good girl,” Dean praises, stepping back to watch, his hands resting on his hips, his chest heaving. “Give it to him. Let him taste how good you are.”

Logan is merciless. He sucks, laves, and devours you, his tongue working with a terrifying, rhythmic precision. He holds your hips in a vice grip, refusing to let you squirm away from the onslaught of pleasure.

It is exactly the elusive feeling you have been chasing since Christmas. It is the absolute, terrifying edge of the cliff.

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” you chant, your eyes rolling back in your head.

“You can,” Garrett growls, his mouth hot against your ear. “Come for us, Y/N. Be a good girl and shatter for us right now.”

The final, commanding praise snaps the last remaining thread of your control.

The orgasm hits you with the force of a freight train.

You explode. A blinding, white-hot wave of ecstasy rips through your entire body, starting from your core and shooting out to your fingertips. You scream, your body locking up rigidly against Garrett’s chest. Your inner muscles clamp down violently, spasming with an intensity that you never even knew was physically possible.

Logan groans against you, taking the entire force of your climax, refusing to pull his mouth away until the very last tremor fades from your body.

You collapse.

All the strength entirely leaves your limbs. You slump heavily against Garrett’s chest, your head resting weakly on his shoulder. Your lungs are completely starved for air, your chest heaving with violent, ragged gasps. You are drenched in sweat, your skin flushed and hyper-sensitive.

You have never felt so utterly, blissfully ruined in your entire life.

The living room is dead silent, save for the sound of your frantic breathing and the harsh, heavy pants of the three men surrounding you.

Garrett wraps both of his massive arms securely around your waist, holding you tightly against him. He presses a long, incredibly tender kiss to your sweaty forehead.

“I’ve got you,” Garrett whispers, his voice thick with a terrifying amount of love. “I’ve got you, baby. You did so good.”

Logan slowly pulls back. His lips are wet, his dark eyes entirely entirely glazed over. He looks up at you, his face a portrait of absolute worship. He leans forward and presses a gentle, closed-mouth kiss to your knee.

“Perfect,” Logan murmurs. “You are completely perfect.”

Dean steps closer, sinking to his knees beside the sofa. He reaches out, gently brushing the tangled hair away from your flushed face. He is smiling, that familiar, cheeky, arrogant smirk, but his eyes are entirely soft.

“See?” Dean says quietly, his thumb stroking your cheek. “That wasn’t so bad, was it? Not ungodly at all.”

You let out a weak, watery laugh, a fresh wave of tears springing to your eyes. But this time, they aren’t tears of guilt or fear. They are tears of absolute, overwhelming relief.

You turn your head, burying your face against Garrett’s neck, inhaling his scent.

“I’m a mess,” you whisper weakly.

“You’re our mess,” Garrett corrects instantly, his grip tightening around you. “And you are never going to ache like that again. Do you understand me? Whenever you need it, whenever you want it, you tell us. You are never going to be unsatisfied.”

“Never,” Dean agrees, leaning in to press a kiss to your temple.

“We exist to serve you,” Logan adds, reaching out to gently squeeze your hand.

You look at them. You look at the fierce, unyielding devotion etched into all three of their handsome faces. You are a southern, religious girl who came to Briar University to get an education and find a husband.

Instead, you found three.

And as Garrett shifts beneath you, adjusting you carefully on his lap, you realize with a sudden, beautiful clarity that you wouldn’t trade this chaotic, intense, entirely unconventional reality for all the white picket fences in the world.

***

It is late April, and the Boston air has finally shed its bitter winter chill, replaced by the soft, humid promise of spring. Finals are looming, the hockey season is wrapping up, and somehow, by nothing short of a divine miracle, Tucker still doesn’t know.

For nearly three months, you, Garrett, Dean, and Logan have engaged in the most intricate, high-stakes game of deception in Briar University history. You sneak into their rooms late at night. They steal kisses in the pantry when Tucker turns his back. They leave bruised love bites on your thighs where your modest skirts hide them perfectly.

You have blossomed. The shy, terrified southern girl is gone, replaced by a woman who knows exactly the kind of devastating power she holds over three of the most dangerous men on campus.

But tonight, you don’t have to sneak around.

Tucker had a date. A real, sit-down dinner date at a fancy Italian restaurant downtown with a girl from his principles of finance seminar. He left the house at seven o’clock, smelling like expensive cologne, promising he wouldn’t be back until at least eleven.

That gave you four hours.

It is currently eight-thirty, and the living room of the house has been entirely transformed into a den of pure sin.

The television is off. The only sound in the room is the heavy hum of the central air conditioning, completely drowned out by the wet, visceral sounds of skin slapping against skin and your own ragged, breathless moans.

You are entirely naked, laid out on the plush center rug. Your yellow sundress is a crumpled heap on the coffee table.

Dean is kneeling between your spread thighs. His hands are firmly gripping your hips, his thumbs pressing into your hip bones to anchor you to the floor. His face is buried completely between your legs. His mouth is a relentless, starving force. His tongue lashes against your swollen, slick clit with a terrifying, expert precision that makes your vision literally go white around the edges.

“Dean,” you sob, your head tossing back against the rug. Your fingers are tangled in his sandy-blonde hair, pulling him closer, begging for more of the agonizingly perfect friction.

“I know, baby,” Dean murmurs against your wet skin, the vibration of his voice sending a fresh bolt of electricity straight through your core. He sucks hard on your most sensitive flesh, completely merciless. “Taste so fucking good. Give it to me, sweetheart.”

But Dean is only one third of the absolute sensory overload tearing your mind apart.

Garrett is kneeling directly behind your head. His thick arms are braced on the rug on either side of your ears. He leans down, his massive chest brushing against the top of your head, and his mouth attacks the sensitive column of your throat. He bites gently at your pulse point, soothing the sting with a hot sweep of his tongue, leaving a dark, blossoming bruise that you will have to cover with a cardigan tomorrow.

Garrett’s large hands slide down your body, entirely bypassing your stomach to heavily cup your bare breasts. His thumbs rub rough circles over your tight, peaking nipples.

“Look at her,” Garrett growls, his voice a deep, vibrating rumble that sinks straight into your bones. He pinches your nipple gently, making you cry out into the empty room. “Our perfect girl, taking all of us like she was made for it. You’re so gorgeous, Y/N.”

“Garrett, please,” you whine, your hips bucking up against Dean’s mouth. You are entirely overstimulated. The heat radiating off their massive bodies is suffocating in the best possible way.

“I’m right here,” Logan says.

Logan is crouched beside you, his dark eyes glazed with absolute, possessive adoration. He is completely naked, the corded muscles of his stomach flexing as he shifts his weight. He reaches out, his calloused hand tracing the line of your jaw, before his fingers slip into your mouth.

You instinctively part your lips, sucking the pads of his fingers, your eyes fluttering shut as you look up at him.

“Good girl,” Logan praises, his voice thick and heavy with lust. The praise hits your brain like a narcotic. He replaces his fingers with his mouth, leaning down to capture your lips in a deep, wet, soul-searing kiss.

Logan’s tongue sweeps into your mouth, mimicking the frantic, desperate rhythm of Dean’s tongue between your legs. He tastes like mint and male aggression. You kiss him back with a feral intensity that you didn’t even know you possessed, your body completely surrendering to the overwhelming, simultaneous attention of the three men.

Garrett groans, his hips shifting restlessly behind you. “My turn. Dean, let me in.”

Dean pulls back, his lips slick and shining. He lets out a ragged breath, swiping the back of his hand across his mouth. “She’s so wet, Graham. She’s practically melting into the floor.”

“I want her,” Garrett demands, his gray eyes dark as storm clouds.

You whimper as the cool air hits your soaked center, but before you can even register the loss of Dean, Garrett is moving. He shifts down, his massive frame replacing Dean between your thighs.

Logan breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against yours, his chest heaving. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You open your eyes, your chest rising and falling violently.

“Take him,” Logan whispers, his hand sliding down to grip your waist. “Take him like a good girl.”

Garrett positions himself between your legs. He reaches down, his thick fingers guiding his rock-hard, aching length to your slick entrance. He doesn’t hesitate. With one long, smooth thrust, Garrett buries himself entirely inside you.

You scream. It is a loud, completely uninhibited sound. You arch your back so hard you practically lift off the rug, your internal muscles clamping down violently around his massive size. It is a feeling of absolute, terrifying fullness that stretches you to your absolute limit.

“Fuck,” Garrett roars, his head throwing back, the cords in his neck straining. He stays perfectly still for a second, letting you adjust to him, his hands gripping your thighs like a vice. “You are so damn tight, Y/N. Holy shit.”

“Move,” you beg, tears of pure pleasure pricking your eyes. “Garrett, please, move.”

Garrett obeys. He pulls back slowly, almost entirely withdrawing, before slamming his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt.

The friction is devastating. You cry out again, your hands reaching out blindly.

Dean catches your hands. He is suddenly at your head, lying beside you on the rug. He intertwines his fingers with yours, pinning your arms gently above your head. He leans down, kissing the tears off your cheeks, murmuring a steady stream of filthy, adoring praise right into your ear.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Dean praises, kissing your jawline as Garrett continues to hammer into you with a brutal, relentless rhythm. “Take every inch of him. You’re doing so good. You belong to us.”

Logan moves to your side. He leans over you, his mouth finding your breasts, his teeth scraping gently over your nipple while Garrett claims you from below and Dean holds you from above.

You are entirely consumed. You are the center of their universe, the sole focus of their feral, predatory devotion.

“I’m close,” you sob, the coil in your lower stomach winding tighter and tighter. “Garrett, I’m going to-”

“Do it,” Garrett grunts, his thrusts getting harder, faster, completely abandoning his restraint. “Come for me, baby. Shatter for us right now.”

The orgasm builds with the force of a tidal wave. You are teetering on the absolute edge, your body trembling violently, ready to explode into a million blinding pieces of white-hot pleasure.

Click.

The distinct, metallic sound of the front door deadbolt unlocking echoes through the house.

But over the sound of Garrett’s skin slapping against your thighs, Logan’s wet groans against your chest, and your own piercing cries, none of you hear it.

The heavy wooden front door swings open.

Tucker walks into the foyer. He looks entirely miserable. His biology date talked about her ex-boyfriend for ninety straight minutes, spilled red wine on his favorite jeans, and then asked him if he could introduce her to Garrett Graham. He just wants to grab a beer, sit on the couch, and forget the entire night happened.

Tucker drops his keys into the ceramic bowl by the door. The sound is muffled by the loud, frantic noises coming from the living room.

Tucker freezes.

He knows exactly what those sounds are. He lives in a house with three massive playboys. He knows the sound of one of his roommates hooking up with a girl on the sofa.

Anger instantly flares in his chest. I told them to take that shit to their bedrooms, he thinks furiously. They know Y/N likes to stop by. I don’t want this filth in the common areas.

Tucker marches past the kitchen, his jaw set, ready to scream at Dean or Logan to put their pants on and get out of the living room.

He steps into the archway.

The scene in front of him registers in fragments.

He sees Garrett’s massive back, his hips driving relentlessly downward. He sees Dean pinning someone’s arms above their head, kissing their neck. He sees Logan beside them, completely absorbed in whatever he’s doing.

And then, Tucker sees the yellow sundress on the coffee table.

It is the dress he bought you for your high school graduation. The modest, pale yellow dress you wear to church.

Tucker’s eyes snap back to the floor.

He sees the hair splayed across the rug. He sees the small, delicate silver cross resting against a flushed collarbone.

The entire universe completely stops.

Tucker’s brain entirely misfires. It cannot process the image. It physically refuses to compute what his eyes are telling him.

His sweet, innocent sister. The girl who thinks hand-holding is a sin. The girl who went to youth group and prayed before meals. She is on the floor, buried beneath the three most degenerate, hyper-sexual idiots he knows.

There is only one logical conclusion in Tucker’s protective, older-brother mind.

They forced her. They manipulated her. They got her alone in the house, surrounded her, and they are assaulting her.

A sound erupts from Tucker’s chest. It is not a yell. It is not a shout. It is a primal, blood-curdling roar of absolute, murderous rage.

“GET THE FUCK OFF HER!”

The roar echoes like a gunshot.

Garrett, Dean, and Logan freeze simultaneously.

You gasp, your eyes snapping open, the blinding haze of the orgasm instantly turning into sheer, icy terror.

Tucker lunges. He doesn’t even hesitate. He completely bypasses Dean and Logan, launching his entire one-hundred-and-ninety-pound frame directly at Garrett’s back.

Garrett barely has time to pull out of you before Tucker tackles him entirely off the rug, sending them both crashing into the heavy wooden coffee table. The table splinters with a deafening crack.

“Tucker, no!” You scream, scrambling backward on the rug, frantically trying to cover your bare chest with your hands.

“I’ll kill you!” Tucker bellows, his fists raining down on Garrett’s face. He is completely feral, his eyes wild with a terrifying mixture of grief and fury. “I’ll fucking kill you! You touched her! You touched my sister!”

Garrett doesn’t fight back. He is the captain. He is the best fighter on the ice. He could easily flip Tucker and knock him unconscious. But this is your brother. Garrett just raises his massive forearms, shielding his face, taking the brutal, bone-crunching hits.

“Tuck, stop!” Logan shouts, launching himself off the floor.

Logan tackles Tucker around the waist, trying to haul him off Garrett.

Tucker spins around with a speed born of pure adrenaline. His elbow connects sickeningly with Logan’s jaw. Logan’s head snaps back, blood instantly bursting from his split lip, and he stumbles backward, hitting the wall.

“Stay away from her!” Tucker screams at Logan, pointing a shaking, bloodied finger at him.

Dean is on his feet in a millisecond. He grabs the nearest thing he can find — a thick wool throw blanket from the sofa — and throws it over your trembling, naked body.

“I’ve got you, Y/N,” Dean says, his voice thick with panic, keeping himself physically positioned between you and the violence exploding in the room. “Put this on. Don’t look.”

“Dean, stop him!” You sob, clutching the blanket to your chest, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “He’s going to hurt them!”

“Tuck, listen to me!” Dean yells, turning toward Tucker, holding his hands up in surrender. “Just listen for one second!”

Tucker turns his furious, tear-filled eyes on Dean. “You. You put your hands on her. I told you if you broke her I would put you in the hospital. I’m going to put you in the ground, Di Laurentis.”

Tucker lunges for Dean.

“NO!”

Your scream rips through the living room, so loud and piercing that it actually makes Tucker freeze in his tracks.

You don’t cower. You don’t stay hidden under the blanket.

You scramble to your feet. The wool blanket is wrapped tightly around your body, covering you from your chest to your knees, but your bare shoulders and disheveled hair are fully on display.

You step directly in front of Dean. You place yourself squarely between your raging, violent brother and the three men who just had you entirely undone.

“Y/N, get out of the way,” Tucker orders, his chest heaving, his knuckles bruised and bleeding. He looks at you with an agonizing, heartbroken expression. “It’s okay, honey. I’ve got you. They aren’t going to hurt you anymore. I’m going to call the police.”

“The police?” You repeat, your voice shaking, your eyes wide with horror.

“They assaulted you,” Tucker says, his voice cracking. He points at Garrett, who is slowly sitting up from the debris of the coffee table, wiping a stream of blood from his nose. “I left you alone for two hours, and these monsters-”

“They didn’t assault me, Tucker!” You scream, your southern drawl entirely stripped of its usual sweetness.

The living room falls dead silent.

The only sound is the ragged breathing of five exhausted, terrified people.

Tucker stares at you. He blinks, clearly not understanding the words coming out of your mouth. “What?”

You stand your ground. You are terrified. You have never defied your brother in your entire life. He has protected you, provided for you, and shielded you from the world.

But looking at Garrett bleeding on the floor, Logan holding his jaw, and Dean standing protectively behind you, you realize that the world you wanted to be shielded from is exactly where you belong.

“They didn’t force me,” you say, your voice dropping, gaining strength with every word. You clutch the blanket tightly against your chest. “They didn’t manipulate me. They didn’t coerce me. I asked them to do this. I wanted this.”

Tucker looks like you just struck him with a physical blow. The color drains completely from his face. “Y/N. You don’t know what you’re saying. You’re in shock.”

“I am not in shock!” You argue, stepping forward. “Look at me, Tucker! Really look at me! Do I look like I was being assaulted? Or do I look like I was with the three men I love?”

The word drops like a bomb in the middle of the room.

Behind you, Dean lets out a sharp intake of breath. Garrett slowly pushes himself to his feet, his gray eyes locking onto you with an intensity that practically burns the air. Logan lowers his hand from his jaw, staring at you in absolute awe.

You haven’t told them you love them yet. You saved it for this exact moment, weaponizing it to shatter your brother’s absolute denial.

“Love?” Tucker whispers, his voice entirely hollow. He looks around the room, taking in the scene again. He sees the way Garrett is looking at you, completely submissive to your command. He sees the way Dean’s hand is hovering inches from your back, desperate to comfort you but respecting the boundary. He sees the way Logan is watching you like you hung the stars in the sky.

The rage slowly seeps out of Tucker’s posture, replaced by a deep, profound confusion.

“You’re a traditional girl,” Tucker says, sounding like a broken record, desperately clinging to the version of you he knows. “You want a husband. You want a family. Y/N, you pray before you eat. You … you don’t sleep with three guys on a living room rug.”

“I am still that girl,” you say softly, the tears finally spilling over your eyelashes. “I still pray. I still want a family. But I want it with them.”

“All of them?” Tucker asks, his voice cracking, looking entirely horrified by the logistics. “Y/N, that’s insane. That’s not a family. That’s a harem.”

“It’s a partnership,” Garrett says.

Garrett steps forward. He ignores the blood dripping from his nose. He stops beside you, standing tall, refusing to shrink away from Tucker’s judgment.

“We love her, Tuck,” Garrett says, his voice a low, steady rumble of absolute truth. “I know you think we’re animals. And maybe we were, before she walked in here. But she changed us. We share her. We protect her. We provide for her. And we would die before we let a single tear fall from her eyes.”

Logan steps up to your other side. “I was going to come to you and ask for your blessing. We all were. We aren’t hiding her like a dirty secret. We’re going to marry her.”

Tucker’s brain officially breaks. He stares at the three of them, these massive, arrogant athletes who usually care about nothing but hockey and themselves, looking at his sister with the kind of reverence usually reserved for deities.

“You guys …” Tucker stammers, running a hand through his hair. “You guys are actually serious. You’re sharing my sister.”

“We are,” Dean says, finally stepping up behind you, completing the wall of muscle surrounding you. “And you can punch us all you want, Tuck. You can break every bone in our bodies. But you aren’t taking her away from us.”

Tucker looks at you. He sees the way you lean subtly back into Dean’s chest. He sees the way your hand reaches out to grip Garrett’s arm. He sees the fierce, unyielding light in your eyes.

You aren’t a victim. You are a queen, standing in the center of her court, entirely protected and entirely loved.

Tucker lets out a long, shuddering breath. The adrenaline crash hits him violently, and he slumps down onto the armchair, burying his face in his bleeding hands.

“I can’t believe this,” Tucker groans into his palms. “My mother is going to kill me. She entrusted you to my care, and I let you get corrupted by half the hockey team.”

“I’m not corrupted, Tucker,” you say gently, stepping forward and kneeling in front of the armchair, keeping the blanket tightly wrapped around you. You reach out, placing your hand on your brother’s knee. “I am happy. For the first time in my life, I am completely, genuinely happy. They treat me like a princess.”

Tucker peeks through his fingers. He looks at your face, glowing even through the tears. He sighs heavily, dropping his hands.

“You really love them?” Tucker asks quietly.

“I love them so much,” you confess, a watery smile breaking across your face. “They make me feel safe.”

Tucker stares at you for a long moment. Then, he looks up at the three men towering behind you.

Garrett’s nose is bleeding down his chin. Logan’s jaw is already swelling. Dean looks terrified.

Tucker points a shaking, bruised finger at Garrett. “If you ever make her cry. If any of you ever do anything to hurt her, or make her feel less than perfect … I won’t just hit you. I will end your hockey careers. Do you understand me?”

“Crystal clear,” Garrett says immediately, not an ounce of hesitation in his voice.

“We wouldn’t dream of it, Tuck,” Logan promises.

Tucker nods slowly. He rubs his face, completely entirely exhausted. “Okay. Okay, fine. You can date my sister. All three of you. God, I need a drink.”

Tucker stands up, avoiding eye contact with any of them. He walks past the broken coffee table, heading straight for the stairs.

“Tucker?” You call out softly.

He stops at the bottom of the stairs, not turning around. “Yeah?”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Tucker just waves a hand dismissively in the air. “Don’t thank me yet. I still have to figure out how to explain this to Mama. And for the love of God, please put some clothes on before I come back down.”

Tucker trudges up the stairs, his bedroom door clicking shut a moment later.

The living room is completely silent again.

You let out a massive, shuddering breath, the tension leaving your body in a sudden rush. Your knees buckle, and you practically collapse onto the rug.

But you don’t hit the floor.

Garrett catches you instantly, hauling you up into his massive arms.

“I’ve got you,” Garrett murmurs, pressing you tightly against his chest, completely ignoring the blood on his face. He buries his face in your hair, letting out a heavy sigh of relief. “Fuck, baby, you were incredible.”

Logan wraps his arms around Garrett’s back, pressing his face into your shoulder, essentially trapping you in a massive, crushing hug. “You told him you love us.”

Dean practically tackles all three of you, wrapping his long arms around the entire group. “You love us! You actually said it out loud! You’re brilliant, Y/N. You saved our lives!”

You laugh, a bright, tearful sound that echoes in the quiet house. You are surrounded by bruised, battered, beautiful men who belong entirely to you.

“I do love y’all,” you say, resting your head against Garrett’s chest, looking at Logan and Dean. “Even if you did get my brother to break the coffee table.”

Garrett chuckles, a low, vibrating sound that makes your stomach flip. “I’ll buy fifty coffee tables if it means I get to keep you.”

“Come on,” Logan says softly, kissing the top of your head. “Let’s get you upstairs. We have a lot of lost time to make up for.”

As Garrett carries you effortlessly up the stairs, surrounded by the fierce, protective presence of Logan and Dean, you realize exactly how right this is.

You didn’t lose your innocence. You just found it with the exact right people.

***

The late afternoon sun spills through the massive, floor-to-ceiling windows of the newly purchased Back Bay townhouse and on to the pristine white marble countertops.

It has been exactly one year since that explosive, terrifying night when your brother almost destroyed the living room. A year of navigating the absolutely insane, beautiful reality of sharing your life, your heart, and your bed with three division-one hockey players.

And now, they aren’t just college boys anymore. They are graduates.

You stand at the stove, a floral apron tied neatly around your waist over a soft, baby-blue sundress. You are stirring a massive pot of homemade marinara sauce, the rich scent of garlic, basil, and roasting meats filling the expansive, high-end kitchen.

To say this kitchen is an upgrade from the biohazard of their off-campus house would be the understatement of the century.

“I still can’t believe Tucker wore a tie today,” Logan says, leaning against the kitchen island. He’s wearing a fitted black t-shirt and jeans, casually tossing an apple in the air and catching it. “A real, actual tie. And a suit. He looked like an adult. It was deeply unsettling.”

“He’s a businessman now, Logan,” you say, smiling over your shoulder as you adjust the heat under the sauce. “He has to look professional. His new firm expects him to be put together.”

“Well, he looked like a narc,” Dean chimes in. He is sprawled out on one of the plush barstools, his long legs stretched out in front of him. “But I guess I can’t talk. I’ll be wearing a suit every day starting in September. God, Harvard Law. Saying it out loud still makes me feel like I stole someone else’s identity.”

Garrett walks into the kitchen, his dark hair still damp from a shower. He looks exactly like what he is: a professional athlete in his absolute prime. “You got into Harvard Law because you studied until your eyes bled for six months, Di Laurentis. Stop acting like you tripped and fell into the Ivy League.”

“I did it to stay in Boston,” Dean says, offering a lazy, devastatingly handsome smirk. His green eyes shift to you, instantly darkening with affection. “I did it so I wouldn’t have to leave our girl. And so I could keep an eye on you two idiots.”

Garrett chuckles, wrapping an arm around your waist from behind. He presses a hot, firm kiss to the side of your neck. “You couldn’t get rid of us if you tried. We’re locked in.”

It’s true. The four of you are completely locked in.

When graduation approached, the anxiety had threatened to tear you all apart. But Garrett Graham doesn’t lose, and he certainly doesn’t lose his family. When the Boston Bruins offered him a contract, he signed immediately. Logan, fighting tooth and nail, secured a spot with the Bruins organization as well, starting out his rookie season with the Providence affiliate. It meant a commute for Logan, but it meant they stayed together. Dean, true to his word, crushed his LSATs and secured his spot across the river in Cambridge.

And you? You just finished your sophomore year. You have two years left of your Early Childhood Education degree.

Garrett, Dean, and Logan pooled their signing bonuses and trust funds to buy this incredible, sprawling townhouse right in the heart of Boston. It has a massive kitchen for you, four bedrooms, and a custom-built, oversized bed in the master suite that comfortably fits all of you.

“How’s it coming, baby?” Garrett murmurs against your skin, inhaling the scent of your vanilla perfume mixed with the savory food. “Smells incredible.”

“Almost done,” you promise, tapping your wooden spoon against the edge of the pot. “The garlic bread just needs to finish toasting. Go sit down, all of you. You’ve been unpacking boxes all day.”

“We like watching you,” Logan says honestly, his dark eyes tracking your every movement.

It’s true. They treat watching you cook like it is a religious experience. To them, it represents everything they fought for.

You turn back to the stove, humming softly to yourself. The transition into this life wasn’t what you pictured when you left Texas. You thought you’d find a quiet, simple man. You thought you’d have a quiet, simple life.

Instead, you are the center of a chaotic, wildly passionate hurricane. But the core of it — the heart of what you always wanted — is exactly the same. You are still traditional. You love taking care of a home. You love cooking. You love the domesticity of it all.

And they absolutely worship you for it. They don’t want you to stress about money. They don’t want you to stress about anything. They have made it abundantly clear that they want to provide everything, giving you the freedom to be the homemaker you always dreamed of being.

“I still think we need a bigger dining table,” Dean says casually, standing up from his stool and stretching. “You know, for the future.”

Your heart skips a familiar, wild beat. You glance over at him. “The table seats eight, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Logan says, catching Dean’s drift immediately. A slow, deeply wicked smile spreads across Logan’s bruised, handsome face. “But what about when we have kids? Three guys, one girl … statistically, we’re going to have a massive family, sweetheart.”

Garrett’s grip tightens around your waist. His chest expands behind you. “He’s right. A whole house full of tiny humans running around with your eyes and your smile. We’re going to need a bigger table.”

The thought does something completely devastating to your insides. Every time they talk about having children with you — about putting babies in you, about watching your stomach swell, about raising a family together — a heavy, slick ache pools instantly between your thighs. It melts your core. The primal, provider instincts rolling off the three of them are so intoxicating it is a miracle you can even stand upright.

Dean saunters over to the stove. He crowds into your left side, practically pinning you against the counter between him and Garrett.

“I want at least four,” Dean whispers, leaning in close, his lips brushing your earlobe. “I want to keep you busy, Mama.”

You gasp, a violent blush rushing straight up your neck. “Dean!”

Dean chuckles, his hand sliding down your side. He traces the curve of your hip, and before you can stop him, his long, deft fingers slip under the hem of your baby-blue sundress. His hand slides up your bare thigh, his thumb brushing dangerously close to your cotton underwear.

You react entirely on instinct.

You pull the wooden spoon out of the sauce, spin around, and slap the spoon firmly against Dean’s wrist.

“Ow!” Dean yelps, instantly yanking his hand back and rubbing his wrist, though he is grinning from ear to ear.

“You are distracting me, Dean Di Laurentis,” you scold, pointing the sauce-covered spoon at his chest. You try to look stern, but your lips are fighting a massive smile. “I am trying to feed y’all a proper dinner. Keep your hands to yourself until the dishes are done.”

Garrett bursts into a loud, booming laugh, burying his face in your neck.

Logan throws his head back, laughing so hard he has to brace himself against the island. “God, she put you right in your place. Respect the spoon.”

“I’m abused,” Dean complains playfully, leaning down to press a quick, hard kiss to your lips anyway. “I am a victim of domestic violence.”

“You are a menace,” you correct him, turning back to the stove to hide the furious blush painting your cheeks. “Grab the plates. Dinner is ready.”

Dinner is a loud, joyful, incredibly chaotic affair. You sit at the head of the massive, dark wood dining table, surrounded by your boys. They eat like starving wolves, but they never stop checking on you. Garrett cuts a piece of chicken parmigiana and feeds it to you from his own fork. Logan pours your water. Dean keeps a steady hand resting on your knee under the table the entire time.

They banter, they argue about hockey stats, they complain about moving boxes, but their attention is always, constantly anchored to you.

When the last plate is cleared, you start to stand up. “I’ll get the dishes-”

“Absolutely not,” Garrett commands, his voice dropping into that low, authoritative tone that never fails to make your knees weak. He stands up, instantly blocking your path.

“You cooked,” Logan says, stacking the plates effortlessly. “We clean. Those are the house rules.”

“But-”

“No buts, good girl,” Dean says, stepping up behind you and sliding his arms around your waist. “You’ve been on your feet all day making this place feel like a home. Now it’s our turn to take care of you.”

Before you can protest, Garrett leans down and scoops you effortlessly into his massive arms. You squeak, wrapping your arms around his thick neck as he carries you out of the dining room.

“Garrett! I can walk!” You laugh, kicking your legs gently.

“I don’t care,” Garrett says simply.

He carries you up the grand, sweeping staircase of the townhouse, down the wide hallway, and kicks the door to the master suite open with his foot.

The bedroom is a sanctuary. It’s painted a soft, soothing gray, with sheer curtains billowing lightly in the warm evening breeze. In the center of the room is the custom bed — a massive, sprawling mattress covered in luxury white linens.

Garrett steps up to the edge of the mattress and gently drops you onto the center of the bed.

You bounce slightly on the plush comforter, your baby-blue sundress riding up to your mid-thighs. You look up at him, your breath catching in your throat.

Garrett doesn’t smile. The playful, domestic lightness from dinner is entirely gone. His gray eyes are dark, stormy, and completely feral. He grips the hem of his black t-shirt and pulls it over his head in one swift motion, tossing it onto the floor. His broad chest heaves, the muscles shifting beautifully in the dim light of the bedroom.

Footsteps echo in the hallway. Dean and Logan walk into the bedroom, shutting the heavy wooden door behind them. The distinct click of the lock turning sends a violent shiver of anticipation straight down your spine.

“Dishes are done,” Logan murmurs. He pulls his own shirt off, revealing the lean, corded swimmer’s build that contrasts so perfectly with Garrett’s bulky hockey frame.

Dean saunters to the edge of the bed, kicking off his shoes. He unbuckles his belt, the metallic clinking sound loud in the quiet room. His green eyes are locked onto you, hungry and completely devoted. “Now it’s time for dessert.”

You are entirely trapped, completely surrounded by three massive, devastatingly handsome men, and you have never felt safer in your entire life.

Garrett crawls onto the bed. He moves with the terrifying, predatory grace of a professional athlete, his knees sinking into the mattress until he is straddling your hips. His heavy thighs box you in.

“Look at you,” Garrett rumbles, his hands sliding down to grip your waist. His thumbs press into your skin, staking his absolute claim. “You look so pretty in our bed. Like a perfect little housewife waiting for us.”

The dirty, domestic praise hits your brain like a narcotic. A soft, involuntary whine escapes your throat. “Garrett …”

“You like that, don’t you?” Dean asks, crawling onto the bed beside Garrett. He lies down next to you, propping his head up on his hand. His long fingers reach out, lightly tracing the strap of your sundress. “You like being our good girl. Taking care of the house, cooking our meals, and then opening your legs for us at the end of the day.”

“Dean, please,” you gasp, your face flushing a magnificent scarlet. Your hips instinctively roll upward against Garrett’s thick thighs, desperately seeking friction. The slick, heavy ache between your legs is already throbbing out of control.

“Tell us you like it,” Logan commands softly, moving onto your other side.

Logan leans down, entirely bypassing your mouth, and presses a hot, open-mouthed kiss directly to the pulse point on your neck. You cry out, your back arching violently off the mattress as Logan’s teeth scrape gently against your sensitive skin.

“I like it,” you sob, completely losing your mind as Logan’s tongue laves the mark he just made. “I love it. I love being yours.”

“Good girl,” Garrett praises, the sound a low, vibrating purr.

Garrett leans down and captures your mouth. The kiss is explosive. It is entirely consuming, a wet, bruising invasion that leaves you breathless. He angles his head, his tongue sweeping deep into your mouth, tasting the marinara and wine from dinner. You tangle your fingers in his dark hair, kissing him back with a feral desperation that you only ever show them behind closed doors.

While Garrett dominates your mouth, Dean’s hands move to your dress.

With practiced, maddening slowness, Dean slips the straps of your sundress off your shoulders. He pulls the fabric down, exposing your breasts in their simple white cotton bra.

Logan shifts his attention from your neck. He pushes the fabric of your bra down, freeing your heavy, aching breasts. He doesn’t hesitate. Logan’s hot mouth completely engulfs your right nipple.

A loud, shattered moan tears from your throat, muffled only by Garrett’s punishing kiss. You thrash your hips against the mattress, your hands flying down to grip Logan’s dark hair, pressing his face harder against your chest. Logan sucks relentlessly, his tongue flicking against the tight, sensitive peak, drawing out a high-pitched whimper from you.

“My turn,” Dean murmurs, his voice thick with lust.

Dean lowers his head to your left breast, mirroring Logan’s agonizingly perfect torture. You are completely overwhelmed, caught in a crossfire of pleasure that makes your vision literally white out around the edges.

Garrett breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against yours, his chest heaving. He looks down at his two best friends worshipping your body, and a dark, entirely possessive smirk crosses his face.

“You’re going to take all of us tonight, Y/N,” Garrett promises, his large hands sliding down your sides to grip your hips. “We graduated. We bought this house. We are celebrating, and you are going to take every single inch we have to give you.”

“Yes,” you gasp, your eyes fluttering shut. “Please.”

Garrett shifts his weight. He reaches down and bunches the fabric of your sundress in his massive hands, pulling it all the way up to your waist. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your white cotton underwear and pulls them cleanly down your legs, tossing them onto the floor.

You are completely exposed to them.

The cool air of the bedroom hits your slick, swollen center, but it is instantly replaced by absolute fire.

Dean shifts his position. He moves down your body, kneeling between your spread thighs. He looks at you for a long, heavy moment, his green eyes dark with an unholy amount of desire.

“So fucking wet for us,” Dean whispers reverently.

Dean leans forward and buries his face directly against your center.

You scream. It is a loud, piercing, completely uninhibited sound that bounces off the walls of the master bedroom.

Dean is a master. His tongue is relentless, lashing against your slick, swollen clit with a terrifying, expert precision. He holds your hips in a vice grip, refusing to let you squirm away from the onslaught of pleasure, entirely consuming your wetness.

“Fuck,” Logan groans, watching Dean devour you.

Logan moves up your body, replacing Dean at your side. He leans over you, his eyes burning. “Look at me, sweetheart. Look at me while he makes you feel good.”

You open your tear-filled eyes, meeting Logan’s intense, soulful gaze. You are completely entirely tethered to him, grounded by his presence even as Dean tears your mind apart.

Garrett shifts his weight again. He reaches down between you, his hand brushing against your slick, sensitive skin right above where Dean is working.

“Open wider for me, baby,” Garrett commands softly.

You obey instantly, your thighs spreading as far as they can go.

Garrett positions his rock-hard length at your wet entrance. He doesn’t give you any warning. With one smooth, incredibly powerful thrust, Garrett buries himself entirely inside you.

“Garrett!” You sob out, your back arching off the mattress.

The feeling of absolute, agonizing fullness stretches you to your absolute limit. It is an impossible, overwhelming sensation. Garrett is buried inside you, filling you completely, while Dean’s mouth continues its relentless, wet assault on your clit.

“That’s it, good girl,” Garrett grunts, the cords in his neck straining as he holds himself deep inside you. “Take it all. You belong to us.”

Garrett begins to move. He sets a brutal, pounding rhythm, his hips slamming against yours, his skin slapping loudly against your thighs. The friction is devastating. Every time Garrett pulls out, you whimper at the emptiness, and every time he slams back in, Dean’s tongue catches the exact right spot.

You are completely, hopelessly overstimulated. You are drowning in pleasure, gasping for air, your hands gripping the bedsheets so hard your knuckles turn white.

“I can’t,” you cry out, shaking your head wildly. “I can’t, it’s too much, please-”

“You can,” Logan commands, his voice firm but incredibly loving. He leans down and captures your lips in a deep, soothing kiss, swallowing your frantic cries. “You can take it. Come for us, Y/N. Shatter for your boys.”

The praise, combined with the impossible, dual stimulation, snaps the final thread of your control.

The orgasm hits you like a violent explosion.

You scream into Logan’s mouth, your entire body locking up rigidly against the mattress. A blinding, white-hot wave of pure ecstasy rips through your core, radiating out to your fingertips and toes. Your inner muscles clamp down violently, spasming around Garrett’s thick length with a strength that makes him roar.

“Fuck!” Garrett bellows, his own restraint completely shattering.

He drives into you three more times, fast and brutal, before his entire body goes rigid. He empties himself deep inside you, his heavy chest collapsing against yours, his breath tearing out of his lungs in ragged gasps.

Dean pulls his mouth away with a wet smack. He rests his forehead against your inner thigh, completely breathless, absolutely devastated by the sight of your blinding pleasure.

You are completely ruined.

You lie limp against the mattress, tears of pure, unadulterated relief and love slipping down your flushed cheeks. Your lungs are burning, your heart is hammering against your ribs, and your entire body feels like it is made of melted wax.

Logan breaks the kiss slowly. He brushes the damp hair away from your forehead, his dark eyes filled with absolute worship.

“I love you,” Logan whispers, pressing a gentle kiss to your sweaty temple.

“I love you too,” you breathe, your voice barely a whisper.

Garrett slowly rolls off of you, completely exhausted, but he immediately pulls you against his side. He wraps his massive arm around your waist, tucking your head securely under his chin.

Dean crawls up the bed, his green eyes soft and entirely devoted. He lies down on your other side, throwing his heavy leg over yours, completely boxing you in.

You are entirely surrounded by heat, by muscle, by the scent of sweat and expensive cologne.

“You did so good today, baby,” Garrett murmurs, his voice a low, sleepy rumble vibrating against your chest. “Dinner was amazing.”

“The best,” Dean agrees, kissing your bare shoulder. “I can’t wait to eat your cooking every single day for the rest of my life.”

You close your eyes, a soft, content smile spreading across your face.

It wasn’t the life you envisioned when you left Texas. It is louder, messier, and infinitely more complicated.

But lying in the center of a custom bed, held tightly by three men who would literally burn the world down to keep you safe, you know one thing for certain.

This is exactly where you belong.

***

The screen of the smartphone illuminates the dark bedroom, displaying a wildly gesturing girl wearing an oversized Boston Bruins jersey.

“Okay, HockeyTok, I need you to assemble right now,” the girl says, tapping a manicured nail against the screen. “Because I am losing my absolute mind over the Bruins’ roster, specifically the Graham-Logan situation, and nobody is talking about the elephant in the room.”

A green-screen image pops up behind her. It’s a screenshot from Garrett Graham’s official Instagram account. It shows Garrett, massive and grinning, standing on a boat in Cape Cod. Tucked under his arm, looking incredibly tiny and wearing a modest white sundress, is you.

“Exhibit A,” the TikToker says. “Garrett posts this over the summer. Captioned ‘my entire world.’ Everyone is like, ‘Oh my God, Garrett has a girlfriend! She’s so cute! She looks like a trad-wife angel!’ Case closed, right?”

The image changes. It’s a screenshot from Logan’s Instagram. It’s a candid shot of you sitting at a kitchen island, laughing, with flour on your nose.

“Exhibit B,” the girl continues, her voice rising in pitch. “Logan posts this three days later. Captioned ‘best part of coming home.’ Okay? So now the comments are confused. Is she Garrett’s? Is she Logan’s? Did they break up and she switched teammates? The drama!”

The image changes a third time. It’s a paparazzi photo taken outside the TD Garden. You are walking toward the friends and family entrance. Beside you, holding your hand and carrying your purse, is Dean, looking incredibly sharp in a tailored suit.

“Exhibit C!” the TikToker practically screams. “Dean Di Laurentis! The most notorious playboy to ever walk through Briar University, now a hotshot corporate lawyer in Boston. He is constantly in their private box! He is holding her purse! Guys, I have a theory. And it sounds completely unhinged, but look at the evidence. They all live together. They all post her. They are all fiercely protective of her. Society wants us to think she’s just passed around or they have a really weird sibling dynamic, but I’m calling it right now: The most wanted men in Boston are sharing a girlfriend.”

The video loops back to the beginning.

Garrett lets out a deep, rumbling laugh, tossing his phone onto the plush mattress of the custom king-sized bed. “Well, it took them three years, but someone on the internet finally has two brain cells to rub together.”

“It’s about time,” Dean says, leaning back against the headboard, his laptop resting on his knees. He adjusts his reading glasses, a completely unfair addition to his already devastatingly handsome lawyer aesthetic. “I was getting genuinely offended. I take you out to a five-star dinner, hold your hand across the table, and the tabloids report that I’m ‘escorting Garrett Graham’s lovely girlfriend’ for the evening. It’s an insult to my game.”

“They just can’t comprehend it,” Logan murmurs. He is lying on his stomach, his chin resting on your thigh. He reaches out, his calloused fingers gently tracing the hem of your silk nightgown. “Nobody expects three guys like us to be able to share without killing each other. But they don’t know you.”

You smile, reaching down to run your fingers through Logan’s dark hair. “I think the truth is just a little too scandalous for the sports networks to handle.”

“Not for long,” Garrett says, stretching his massive arms over his head. “The Bruins PR team is sending that camera crew to the house tomorrow morning. They want that Day in the Life video. Are we going to sanitize it for them, boys?”

“Absolutely not,” Dean says without looking up from his legal briefs. “I plan on kissing my wife on camera at least three times.”

You aren’t legally married — state laws being what they are — but they call you their wife. You wear three distinct, incredibly expensive diamond bands on your left ring finger, one from each of them, stacked perfectly together.

“I’m going to do more than kiss her,” Logan grumbles sleepily, turning his face to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss directly to your thigh.

You gasp, a familiar, involuntary shiver running down your spine. Even after years of living together, after countless nights of taking all three of them, your body still reacts to them like it’s the very first time.

“Behave,” you scold softly, tapping Logan’s shoulder. “We have an early morning. The crew gets here at seven.”

***

At exactly 7:00 AM, the doorbell rings.

“I’ll get it!” Garrett yells from the top of the stairs.

Downstairs, the kitchen of the Back Bay townhouse is already a hive of domestic activity. You are standing at the stove, wearing a soft pink, ruffled apron over a loose white t-shirt and comfortable leggings. You are flipping thick, fluffy buttermilk pancakes on a massive griddle, while bacon sizzles in a cast-iron skillet next to it.

You hear the heavy wooden front door open.

“Hey, Bruins fans,” Garrett’s voice booms from the foyer, immediately slipping into his charismatic captain persona. “Garrett Graham here. Welcome to the madhouse. Come on in.”

The camera crew — a cameraman, a sound guy, and a bubbly PR coordinator named Jessica — steps into the foyer.

“Thanks for having us, Garrett!” Jessica says brightly. “So, this is the famous townhouse. You live here with Logan, right?”

“Logan, and another friend of ours from college, Dean,” Garrett says effortlessly, leading them down the hallway. “And, of course, the boss of the house. Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

Garrett leads the crew into the massive, sun-drenched kitchen.

The cameraman pans across the pristine marble countertops, the state-of-the-art appliances, and finally rests on you at the stove.

“Morning, baby,” Garrett says.

He walks directly up behind you, wrapping his massive arms around your waist. He doesn’t hesitate. He buries his face in the crook of your neck and presses a long, lingering kiss to your skin, entirely ignoring the camera recording his every move.

Jessica stops dead in her tracks. Her eyes widen.

You smile, turning your head to press a quick kiss to Garrett’s cheek. “Morning. Pancakes are almost ready.”

“Smells incredible,” Garrett rumbles, finally stepping back to look at the camera. “This is Y/N. She runs the show. Without her, Logan and I would probably eat protein powder straight from the tub.”

“Hi!” You say cheerfully, offering the crew a sweet, southern smile. “Would y’all like some coffee? I just brewed a fresh pot.”

“Uh, no, thank you,” Jessica stammers, looking between you and Garrett, clearly trying to process the level of intimacy she just witnessed.

Footsteps echo on the stairs.

Logan walks into the kitchen. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his hips and a backward Bruins cap. He looks exhausted, his eyes half-closed.

He walks straight past the camera crew like they don’t even exist. He goes directly to the stove, stepping up to your other side.

“Morning, gorgeous,” Logan murmurs, his voice thick with sleep. He reaches out, cups your jaw, and tilts your head up.

Logan kisses you. It isn’t a quick peck. It’s a slow, deep, familiar morning kiss that speaks of years of shared history and complete devotion. He pulls back, his thumb swiping gently across your lower lip.

The cameraman slowly lowers the camera by an inch, looking at Jessica. Jessica looks like she might pass out.

“Good morning, Logan,” you say smoothly, completely unfazed. “Your coffee is in the black mug on the counter.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” Logan says, shuffling over to the island to grab his mug. He leans against the counter, taking a sip, and finally acknowledges the crew. “Oh. Hey guys. You’re here early.”

“We’re … we’re rolling,” the cameraman whispers.

Before anyone can say another word, Dean sweeps into the kitchen.

Dean is wearing a custom-tailored charcoal suit, his tie perfectly knotted, looking like he just stepped off the cover of a GQ magazine. He is holding a leather briefcase in one hand.

“I have a deposition at nine, so I have to eat and run,” Dean announces to the room. He walks directly up to the stove.

“Dean, please don’t get grease on your suit,” you warn him gently.

“I don’t care about the suit,” Dean says smoothly.

Dean wraps his free arm around your waist, dipping you backward slightly in a dramatic, incredibly cinematic swoop, and kisses you deeply. He bites your lower lip playfully before pulling you back upright.

“Thank you for breakfast, sweetheart,” Dean says, smirking at the flushed pink color spreading across your cheeks.

“Dean, the cameras,” you scold in a hushed whisper, playfully hitting his chest with your spatula.

Dean finally turns to look at the Bruins PR team standing frozen in the archway. He flashes them his million-dollar lawyer smile. “Good morning. Beautiful day for a documentary, isn’t it?”

Jessica clears her throat violently. “I … yes. Yes, it is. So, you all … you all live here together?”

“We do,” Garrett says proudly, stepping up to stand beside Dean and Logan. The three of them form a massive, intimidating wall of male perfection. “It’s a great setup. Keeps us grounded.”

“Okay,” you announce, turning off the griddle. “Food is ready.”

You reach up behind your neck and untie the strings of your pink apron. You pull the apron over your head and drape it over the back of a barstool.

The removal of the apron reveals the loose, white t-shirt you are wearing underneath. It is soft and sheer, and it clings perfectly to your body.

More importantly, it completely exposes the distinct, unmistakable swell of a five-month baby bump.

The silence in the kitchen is absolute.

Jessica’s clipboard slips from her fingers and hits the floor with a loud clatter.

Garrett, Dean, and Logan don’t notice the PR team’s shock. The second your stomach is revealed, all three men practically gravitate toward you.

Garrett’s massive hand reaches out, resting entirely possessively over your bump. “How’s the little bean today?”

“Kicking,” you say softly, resting your hand over Garrett’s.

Logan leans down, pressing a soft kiss directly to your stomach. “That’s my girl. She’s going to have a wicked slap shot.”

“Don’t put that pressure on her,” Dean argues, fixing his cufflinks. “She’s going to be a litigator. I’m already teaching her objections.”

“It could be a boy,” you remind them, laughing as Garrett guides you gently to your seat at the head of the dining table.

“Doesn’t matter,” Garrett says, his gray eyes softening into absolute mush as he looks at you. “As long as they look exactly like you.”

The camera crew captures the entire thing. The breakfast, the casual touches, the absolute, undeniable, fiercely protective love radiating off the three men as they cater to your every need. They film Logan cutting your pancakes for you. They film Dean kissing your temple before rushing out the door. They film Garrett resting his hand on your knee under the table.

It is the most explicit, undeniable confirmation of the rumors possible.

***

Three weeks later.

The “Behind the B” episode dropped on Instagram and YouTube at noon. By 3 PM, it had broken the internet.

The comments section was a war zone of confusion, awe, and desperate thirst. The conspiracy theorists were vindicated. The casual fans were bewildered. The video link was trending at number one on Twitter.

The dining room of the Back Bay townhouse is filled with the smell of roasted chicken and the sound of Dean’s booming laughter.

Dean is sitting at the table, his tie loosened, holding his smartphone in the air. He is reading an article from a prominent sports journalism website out loud to the room.

“‘The Bruins’ Unconventional Lineup: How Garrett Graham and John Logan Share the Ice … and a Home,’” Dean reads, putting on a dramatic, theatrical voice. “’Fans were shocked this week when a behind-the-scenes video revealed that the Bruins’ star center and winger are part of a modern, unconventional domestic partnership with a Boston lawyer and their shared partner.’”

Logan takes a bite of his chicken, shaking his head. “I love how they make us sound corporate. ‘A modern, unconventional domestic partnership.’ It sounds so sterile.”

“Sterile?” Dean scoffs, scrolling down the article. “Listen to this part. ‘The arrangement challenges societal norms, presenting a picture of progressive, alternative family planning in the heart of professional sports.’”

Garrett snorts into his beer glass. “Progressive? You put on a maxi skirt yesterday because the delivery guy looked at your ankles for too long.”

“You are incredibly traditional, Garrett,” you agree, smiling at him across the table. “You all are. There is nothing progressive about how y’all treat me.”

“Exactly,” Dean says, setting his phone down and pouting playfully. “I’m actually offended. They completely left out the best part of our story. They make it sound like we met at a liberal arts seminar. They completely left out how we took an innocent, church-going southern belle who wouldn’t even hold hands before marriage, and totally corrupted her.”

A fiery blush instantly paints your cheeks. “Dean!”

“It’s true!” Dean defends himself, his green eyes sparkling with wicked amusement. “You were an angel. A pure, sweet angel. And we dragged you right down into the gutter with us.”

“We didn’t drag her,” Logan corrects softly, his dark eyes locking onto yours. The playful banter vanishes, replaced by that intense, soul-searing devotion that always makes your breath hitch. “She walked willingly. Because she knew we would worship the ground she walks on.”

“I did,” you whisper, the heavy, familiar ache pooling instantly in your lower stomach. Even five months pregnant, your body reacts to them with a terrifying, primal need.

Garrett’s gray eyes darken. He sets his beer down on the table. He looks at Logan. Logan looks at Dean.

The silent, telepathic communication of the Briar University hockey team is still perfectly intact.

“Dinner is over,” Garrett announces, standing up from his chair.

“Wait, I haven’t finished my potatoes,” Dean protests.

“Leave the potatoes,” Logan says, standing up and tossing his napkin onto his plate. “The boss is getting that look in her eye.”

You gasp, your blush deepening. “I do not have a look!”

“You definitely have a look, sweetheart,” Garrett rumbles, walking around the table. He doesn’t ask. He effortlessly scoops you up into his massive arms, cradling your pregnant body with absolute, terrifying care.

“Garrett, the dishes,” you protest weakly, wrapping your arms around his thick neck.

“Dishes can wait,” Dean says, suddenly abandoning his food entirely, the prospect of getting you into bed instantly overriding his appetite. He follows Garrett out of the dining room, loosening his tie the rest of the way and pulling it over his head.

They carry you up the sweeping staircase, the air in the house growing thick and heavy with anticipation.

Garrett carries you into the master bedroom and lays you gently in the center of the massive, custom-built bed. The sheer white curtains are billowing slightly, the Boston city lights twinkling through the windows.

You lie back against the plush pillows. Your white t-shirt rides up, exposing the round, beautiful swell of your stomach.

Garrett, Dean, and Logan surround the bed. They strip out of their clothes with a practiced, hurried grace. Shirts hit the floor. Belts clink against the hardwood. Within seconds, you are surrounded by three massive, heavily muscled, entirely naked men.

They crawl onto the bed, the mattress dipping under their combined weight.

Garrett kneels between your legs. He is massive, intimidating, and so entirely yours. He reaches out, his large, calloused hands resting gently on either side of your baby bump. He strokes his thumbs over your skin, his gray eyes filled with a terrifying amount of love.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” Garrett whispers, leaning down to press a hot, reverent kiss to your stomach. “Look what we did to you, Y/N. You are carrying our entire world in there.”

“It still doesn’t feel real,” Logan murmurs. He lies down beside you on your right, his dark hair messy, his eyes soft. He rests his hand next to Garrett’s, his thumb brushing against yours. “We have everything. We have the house, we have the careers, and we have you.”

“And we are never, ever letting you go,” Dean adds, taking his place on your left side. He leans in, capturing your lips in a deep, wet, bruising kiss.

Dean’s kiss tastes like expensive wine and pure devotion. He sweeps his tongue into your mouth, setting a desperate, frantic rhythm that instantly makes your hips roll upward against the mattress.

While Dean consumes your mouth, Garrett’s hands move down.

Garrett hooks his fingers into the waistband of your leggings and your cotton underwear. With excruciating care, he pulls them down your legs, tossing them onto the floor.

The cool air hits your slick, swollen center, but it is instantly replaced by Logan’s hot touch.

Logan shifts down your body. He kneels between Garrett’s thick thighs, burying his face directly between your legs.

You scream, a loud, shattered sound that bounces off the walls of the bedroom. Dean swallows the sound, kissing you harder, his hand coming up to tangle in your hair.

Logan is merciless. His tongue is a weapon of absolute destruction. He laves your sensitive clit, his mouth hot and wet, devouring you with a rhythm that makes your vision white out. You thrash your hips against the sheets, completely entirely at his mercy.

“Logan,” you sob, your fingernails digging into Dean’s broad shoulders. “Please, it’s too much-”

“Take it, baby,” Garrett growls, his voice vibrating right against your ear. He moves up to your chest, pushing your t-shirt up to expose your heavy, aching breasts.

Garrett’s hot mouth engulfs your nipple. The dual sensation — Logan tearing you apart from below and Garrett completely worshipping you from above — sends you completely over the edge in a matter of seconds.

The orgasm hits you with the force of a nuclear bomb.

You scream into the empty room, your back arching violently off the bed. A blinding, white-hot wave of pure ecstasy rips through your entire body. Your inner muscles clamp down, spasming with an intensity that leaves you completely breathless and ruined.

Logan doesn’t pull his mouth away until the very last tremor fades from your thighs. He drags his lips slowly up your stomach, pressing a kiss to your belly button before settling his chin on your chest, his dark eyes glazed and adoring.

Garrett pulls back, his chest heaving, his gray eyes stormy and feral. He looks down at your flushed, thoroughly satisfied face.

You lie limp against the pillows, tears of pure, overwhelming joy slipping down your cheeks. You are a tangled, sweaty mess, completely surrounded by the three men who own your soul.

“I love you,” you whisper, looking between the three of them. “I love you all so much.”

“We love you,” Garrett murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

Dean shifts his weight, lying down beside you and throwing his arm over your waist. He rests his head against the pillow, looking at your pregnant stomach with a thoughtful, wicked glint in his green eyes.

“You know,” Dean says casually, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hip. “I was reading some medical journals the other day. Just doing some light reading between briefs.”

Logan groans. “Oh God. What did you read?”

“I read,” Dean says, a slow, devastating smirk spreading across his handsome face, “that there have been rare, documented medical cases where a woman can actually get pregnant while she is already pregnant. It’s called superfetation.”

The bedroom falls completely silent.

Garrett freezes. Logan blinks.

You stare at Dean, a fiery blush instantly rushing back up your neck. “Dean! That is … that is extremely rare! And practically impossible!”

“Impossible?” Garrett repeats, his voice dropping into a dark, incredibly dangerous register. He looks down at you, the primal, territorial provider instinct flaring up so brightly it practically illuminates the room.

Logan shifts his weight, a slow, feral smile pulling at his lips. He looks at Garrett. “I think she’s challenging us, Graham.”

“I am not challenging you!” You squeak, frantically trying to pull your t-shirt down, but Dean’s hand pins your wrist to the mattress.

“Well,” Dean whispers, leaning in close, his breath hot against your ear. “We are highly competitive athletes, sweetheart. And I’m a lawyer who loves a good precedent. I think we have a moral obligation to try.”

“To try what?” You gasp, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Garrett moves over you, his massive frame completely blanketing your body. He supports his weight on his forearms, keeping his heavy chest off your stomach, but his rock-hard length presses directly against your wet, aching entrance.

“To see if we can put another baby in you, good girl,” Garrett rumbles, his gray eyes flashing with absolute, terrifying devotion. “Open up.”

“Or maybe,” Logan says, a slow, lazy grin spreading across his face, “I’m just better than you. Accept it. It’s the first step to healing.”

“I will literally fight you,” Garrett replies, not entirely joking. He rubs the back of his neck, his competitive streak burning just beneath the surface. He hates losing. Doesn’t matter if it’s on the ice, in the classroom, or on a dusty console in their off-campus living room.

From the armchair in the corner, Dean chuckles. He’s sprawled out in a pair of gray sweatpants, a mixing bowl of Lucky Charms resting on his stomach. His phone is gripped in one hand, his thumb swiping with practiced precision. “Don’t fight him, Garrett. Logan’s got that underlying rage issue. You’ll ruin his pretty face, and then how is he going to pull the kappa girls tonight?”

“Please,” Logan scoffs. “My face is indestructible. And for the record, I’m not pulling Kappa tonight. I’m branching out.”

“Branching out?” Garrett raises an eyebrow, hitting the restart button on the console. “To what? Tri Delt? So adventurous.”

“I’m a man of the people,” Logan says effortlessly. He stretches his arms over his head, popping his shoulders. Beneath the easy charm and the quick jokes, there’s a tension Logan carries that he never talks about. Garrett knows it’s there, Dean knows it’s there, but they don’t push. Logan’s dad is a mess, the mechanic shop is a weight around his neck, and hockey is the only place he can breathe. Well, hockey and this living room.

The front door swings open, the deadbolt clicking loudly in the quiet house.

Tucker walks in. He looks entirely out of place in the lazy Saturday afternoon atmosphere. He’s wearing a fitted white t-shirt that clings to his chest, damp with sweat, and a pair of faded jeans. He looks exhausted. More importantly, he looks serious.

“Look who decided to show up,” Dean says around a mouthful of marshmallows. “Where the hell have you been all day, Tuck? You missed the destruction of Garrett’s ego.”

“I was not destroyed,” Garrett snaps.

Tucker doesn’t smile. He doesn’t drop his keys in the ceramic bowl by the door. He just stands there, his hands on his hips, looking at the three of them like he’s assessing a threat.

“I was moving someone in,” Tucker says. His deep, southern drawl is tight, clipped in a way they aren’t used to. Tucker is the calm one. The gentleman. He doesn’t do tense.

“Moving who in?” Logan asks, sensing the shift in the room’s energy. He sits up a little straighter. “You got a new girl already? Semester hasn’t even started.”

“It’s not a girl,” Tucker says, walking into the living room and taking a seat on the edge of the second sofa. He rests his elbows on his knees, folding his large hands together. “Well, it is a girl. But it’s not a hookup. It’s my sister.”

Silence falls over the living room. Even the low hum of the television seems to fade out.

Garrett drops his controller. “Your what?”

“My sister,” Tucker repeats, his voice dropping an octave. “She’s a freshman here. I just finished moving her into her dorm.”

Dean lowers his bowl of cereal. “Hold on. You have a sister? A younger sister? Why the hell are we just hearing about this now?”

“Because I know exactly how you three operate,” Tucker says flatly, his dark eyes snapping to Dean. “And I wanted to keep her existence off your radar for as long as humanly possible.”

“Ouch,” Logan says, pressing a hand to his chest. “I’m hurt, Tuck. I’m a romantic.”

“You’re a menace,” Tucker corrects him without missing a beat. He looks at Garrett. “You’re a puck bunny magnet.” He looks at Dean. “And you’re a walking CDC warning.”

“Hey,” Dean protests, sitting up. “I get tested regularly. I am completely clean. And I am highly respectful of women.”

“I’m not here to debate your morals, Dean,” Tucker says, leaning forward. The easygoing Tucker is completely gone, replaced by an older brother who looks ready to commit a felony. “I am here to lay down some ground rules. Because she goes to Briar now, which means she’s going to be around. She’ll probably come to the games. She might even come by the house if I invite her.”

“Invite her over right now,” Dean says instantly. “I want to meet a female Tucker. Does she say y’all?”

“Dean, shut up,” Garrett says, reading the absolute murder in Tucker’s expression. “Let him talk.”

Tucker takes a deep breath. “You guys know a little bit about how I grew up. Mom working three jobs, right?”

Garrett nods. He knows better than anyone what a screwed-up childhood looks like. His own father made sure of that. But Tucker’s childhood wasn’t violent, it was just hard.

“Well,” Tucker continues, “while I had hockey and football to keep me out of trouble after school, Mom couldn’t leave my sister home alone. So she sent her to the after-school program at the local church.”

“Okay,” Logan says slowly. “So?”

“So,” Tucker says, “she basically grew up in that church. The youth group, the choir, the Bible studies. Everything. My mom and I aren’t religious, but it stuck with her. Deeply.”

Dean frowns, tilting his head. “Like … she prays before meals?”

“Like she is the most sheltered, traditional, sweet, innocent girl you will ever meet in your miserable lives,” Tucker says, his voice completely deadpan. “She’s an Early Childhood Education major. You know why?”

“Because she likes kids?” Garrett guesses.

“Because she wants to be a stay-at-home mom,” Tucker corrects him. “She is going to college to get a degree she only plans on using to raise her own children after she gets married. She wants the picket fence. She wants the Sunday school. She is … entirely pure.”

Logan lets out a sharp laugh, then quickly cuts it off when Tucker glares at him. “Sorry. Sorry, I just—you’re telling me this girl is walking onto

Briar’s campus? Does she know what goes on here? Does she know what goes on in this house?”

“No,” Tucker says firmly. “And she is never going to find out. I need you three to swear to me right now that you will not look at her, you will not hit on her, you will not breathe in her direction with any sort of romantic or sexual intent.”

“Buddy, relax,” Garrett says, holding up his hands. “We aren’t monsters. If she’s your sister, she’s off-limits. Period. Bro code.”

“It’s more than bro code, Garrett,” Tucker insists. “You don’t understand. She is naive. If you so much as smile at her, she’ll think you’re courting her. And I am not joking.” Tucker pauses, dragging a hand down his face. “Guys. She thinks hand-holding is as far as a couple should go before marriage.”

For three seconds, nobody speaks.

Then, Dean chokes on a marshmallow.

Logan bursts into laughter, slapping his thigh. “You’re messing with us. There is absolutely no way.”

“Hand-holding?” Dean wheezes, coughing into his fist. “Before marriage? Tuck, what century did she grow up in?”

“I am completely serious,” Tucker says, and the utter lack of amusement in his face finally makes Logan stop laughing. “She is a southern belle who believes in courtship, purity, and happily-ever-afters. She doesn’t understand guys like you. She doesn’t understand casual. If you touch her, you will break her. And if you break her, I will put you in the hospital.”

The threat hangs in the air, heavy and very real. Tucker is the nicest guy on the team, but he’s also six-foot-three of solid muscle, and nobody doubts he could snap Dean in half if he wanted to.

“Message received, Tuck,” Garrett says, his tone softening. He respects family loyalty. He respects protecting the people you love. “We won’t touch her. We won’t even talk to her if she comes over. She’s invisible to us.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dean mutters, though he looks a little terrified. “I respect a good challenge.”

Tucker stands up, crossing the room in two strides until he is towering over Dean’s armchair. “This isn’t a challenge, Di Laurentis. I swear to God. Stay away from her.”

“I’m kidding!” Dean holds his hands up in surrender, nearly spilling his cereal. “I’m kidding, man! I like women who actually want to sleep with me. Your sister sounds like a nightmare for my lifestyle. She is completely safe from me.”

Logan nods from the couch. “Same here, Tuck. I promise. I don’t need the drama, and I definitely don’t need you bench-pressing me. She’s safe.”

Tucker studies them for a long moment. He searches Garrett’s steady gaze, Logan’s relaxed but honest face, and Dean’s slightly panicked expression. Finally, he nods.

“Good,” Tucker says, stepping back. He looks exhausted again. “Because she’s completely out of her element here. She’s terrified, even if she won’t admit it. The last thing she needs is one of you degenerates making her life harder.”

***

You fold the last of your pastel cardigans, tucking it neatly into the small wooden dresser of your new dorm room.

The air conditioner in the window rattles loudly, fighting a losing battle against the muggy Massachusetts heat, but you barely notice. You smooth your hands down the front of your modest denim skirt, taking a deep breath and looking around the tiny, cinderblock room.

It feels entirely foreign. The smell of industrial floor cleaner, the distant thumping bass from a stereo down the hall, the sound of skateboards clattering on the pavement outside — it’s a million miles away from the quiet, dusty heat of Texas. It’s a million miles away from the gentle hymns of Sunday morning service, the sweet tea on the porch, and the safe, predictable routine you’ve known your entire life.

Your roommate hasn’t arrived yet. The other side of the room is totally bare, a stark contrast to your side, which you have already meticulously decorated. A floral quilt covers your twin bed. A framed photograph of you, your mother, and your brother, Tucker, sits on the desk. Next to it, a small, worn wooden cross leans against a stack of textbooks.

You walk over to the desk and trace the edge of the picture frame. Your mom looks tired in the photo, but she’s smiling. She always worked so hard. Three jobs, barely sleeping, just to make sure you and Tucker had food on the table. You know why Tucker pushes himself so hard on the ice. He wants to go pro to take care of her.

But your path has always been different.

You pull out the chair and sit down, resting your hands in your lap. The girls at the church back home told you that coming to a big university up North was a mistake. They said the boys here would be wild, that the culture was godless, that you would lose your way.

But Tucker is here. And you trust your brother more than anyone in the world. He promised to look out for you.

Still, your stomach is tied in knots. You bite your lower lip, listening to the shrieks of laughter from the hallway as a group of girls runs past your door. They sound so confident. So worldly.

You reach into your tote bag and pull out your journal, opening it to a fresh page. You’ve always found comfort in writing things out. It’s how you process the world.

Dear Lord, you write, the pen scratching softly against the paper. Thank you for bringing me here safely. Please watch over Mom back in Texas. And please guide me through this new season. Help me stay true to my values. Keep my heart guarded until I find the man you have chosen for me.

You pause, tapping the pen against your chin. The idea of marriage is something you’ve prayed about since you were a little girl. You don’t want a college fling. You don’t want to play games. You want the real thing — a man who will hold your hand on the porch, lead a family with kindness, and love you completely. You know that kind of man is rare, especially on a college campus, but you’re willing to wait. You’re willing to save yourself for him.

A loud knock on your open door makes you jump.

You spin around in your chair. Standing in the doorway is a tall, striking girl with bright pink streaks in her dark hair. She’s wearing ripped jeans, a band t-shirt that’s cropped above her navel, and a pair of heavy combat boots. She’s dragging a massive suitcase behind her.

“Hey,” she says, chewing on a piece of gum. “You must be my roommate.”

You stand up quickly, smoothing your skirt again, a nervous but genuine smile breaking across your face. “Hi! Yes, I’m Y/N. It’s so nice to meet you.”

The girl blinks at you, her eyes dropping to your denim skirt, your high-necked blouse, and then over to the floral quilt on your bed. She pops her gum.

“I’m Karly,” she says, pulling her suitcase into the room. “And I’m gonna be honest with you, Y/N. We are going to have a very interesting year.”

You swallow hard, your heart fluttering with a mix of excitement and absolute terror. “I’m sure we will.”

You glance back at the photo of your brother on your desk. Tucker said he lived with a few guys from his hockey team. He said they were nice enough, but that he wanted you to focus on your studies and keep your distance from the hockey house.

I’ll be fine, you tell yourself, turning back to help Karly with her bags. I’m just here to study. How much trouble could I possibly get into?

*** 

The neon sign for Malone’s flickers in the dimming Massachusetts twilight, casting a red hue over the cracked pavement of the parking lot. It’s early for a Friday night, which means the usual crowd hasn’t completely overrun the bar yet.

Inside, the smell of stale beer, fried food, and floor wax is overwhelming, but to the students of Briar University, it smells like home.

“I’m just saying,” Dean says, sliding into the worn vinyl of a corner booth, “It’s going to be awkward. What are we even supposed to talk about with a girl who thinks premarital hand-holding is a sin? The weather? The stock market?”

“We talk about whatever she wants to talk about,” Garrett says, taking the seat across from him. He grabs a laminated menu from the center of the table, not bothering to look at it. He already knows what he’s ordering. “Tucker said she’s homesick. He just wants us to be nice to her, eat our burgers, and not act like animals for exactly one hour. Can you manage that, Di Laurentis?”

“I can be nice,” Dean says defensively. He runs a hand through his sandy-blonde hair. “I’m incredibly nice. I just don’t know how to interact with a girl without … you know.”

“Flirting?” Logan suggests, sliding into the booth next to Garrett. He bumps his shoulder against Garrett’s to make room. “Objectifying them? Assessing their bra size with a single glance?”

“I don’t objectify,” Dean scoffs. “I appreciate. There’s a difference. And I’m just worried I’ll slip up and say a bad word, and she’ll burst into tears and call the youth pastor.”

Garrett rolls his eyes. “Just keep your mouth shut, then. Logan and I will carry the conversation. It’s an hour. We eat, we ask about her classes, we say it was nice to meet her, and we go home. Simple.”

“Exactly,” Logan agrees, picking up a paper coaster and spinning it between his long fingers. “She’s probably just a female version of Tucker anyway. Plaid shirt, polite smile, talks real slow. It’s not going to be hard to keep it in our pants for Tucker’s little sister.”

“Thank God,” Dean mutters, checking his phone. “Because if she’s a nightmare, this is going to be the longest hour of my life.”

The heavy wooden door of Malone’s swings open.

Garrett, sitting facing the entrance, glances up out of habit. He expects to see a female Tucker. Someone tall, broad-shouldered, maybe a little awkward, hiding behind a bulky sweater.

Instead, the air leaves his lungs in one sharp, sudden rush.

“Holy shit,” Garrett breathes, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

Logan and Dean turn their heads to follow his gaze.

Tucker is walking through the door, his hand resting protectively on the lower back of the girl beside him.

You step into the dimly lit pub, your eyes wide as you take in the sticky floors, the sports memorabilia on the walls, and the loud hum of conversation. You’re wearing a simple, pale yellow sundress. It has a modest square neckline, thick straps, and a skirt that flows perfectly down to your knees. It isn’t tight, it isn’t revealing, and it certainly isn’t trying to be sexy.

But the way the fabric cinches at your narrow waist, the way the soft yellow brings out the undertones of your skin, the way your hair falls in loose, untouched waves over your shoulders — it hits the three boys in the booth like a physical blow.

You look like a walking, talking angel. You look soft. Untouched. You look like Sunday mornings and sweet tea and everything pure in a world they have spent the last three years tearing up.

“Oh, no,” Dean whispers, his voice strangled. He grips the edge of the table, his knuckles turning white. “Oh, God.”

Logan simply stares, his mouth slightly parted. The paper coaster slips from his fingers and lands silently on the table. “Tucker didn’t say she looked like … that.”

“Shut up,” Garrett hisses, kicking Logan under the table, though his own heart is hammering against his ribs in a way it only does right before a puck drops. “Both of you, shut up. Look at the table. Do not stare at her.”

But it’s too late. Tucker spots them in the corner and raises a hand, guiding you toward the booth.

You swallow your nerves, giving your brother a small, grateful smile. He looks so tall and commanding here, so entirely in his element. You, on the other hand, feel completely out of place. The music is a little too loud, the stares from the other tables a little too bold, but you keep your chin up. You’re determined to make a good impression. These are Tucker’s best friends. They’re basically his family up here.

“Hey, guys,” Tucker says as you both reach the table.

Three massive, intimidating athletes immediately scramble to their feet. It’s almost comical how quickly they stand up, almost tripping over each other to get out of the booth.

“Hey, Tuck,” the guy with the dark hair and striking gray eyes says. His voice is deep, a little rough around the edges. He looks at you, and the sheer intensity in his gaze makes you take a half-step back, your shoulder bumping into Tucker’s chest.

“Guys,” Tucker says, his voice taking on that protective, older-brother warning tone they recognize immediately. “This is my sister.”

“Hi,” you say softly. Your southern accent slips out, sweet and slow, curling around the single syllable like molasses.

Dean actually lets out a quiet, pathetic noise at the back of his throat. He coughs loudly to cover it up.

“It’s so lovely to meet y’all,” you continue, clasping your hands together in front of your dress. You look at the dark-haired guy first. “Tucker’s told me so much about you. You must be Garrett.”

Garrett stares down at you. You barely come up to his chest. Up close, he can see the faint dusting of freckles across your nose and the complete, utter lack of makeup. You’re entirely natural. It takes every ounce of his legendary self-control not to reach out and touch your cheek just to see if you’re real.

“Yeah,” Garrett says, his voice tight. He clears his throat, forcing a polite smile that feels entirely foreign on his face. “I’m Garrett. Nice to meet you.”

You smile brightly, and Garrett feels a sudden, violent urge to protect that smile at all costs. It’s a completely irrational, insane thought. He’s known you for thirty seconds. But he wants to wrap you in bubble wrap and fight anyone who tries to take it off.

“And you must be Logan,” you say, turning your attention to the tall, handsome guy with the easy stance and the sharp jawline.

Logan blinks, snapping out of his daze. He normally has a line for every girl, a joke for every situation, a smirk that makes women melt. Right now, he feels like a socially inept middle schooler.

“That’s me,” Logan says, managing a crooked smile. He reaches out, offering his hand. “Good to finally meet the legendary sister.”

You hesitate for a fraction of a second before unclassping your hands and placing your small, soft palm into his.

Logan’s brain short-circuits. Your hand is so tiny in his. His skin is rough from calluses and hockey tape; yours is unimaginably soft. The jolt of electricity that shoots up his arm is so intense he nearly yanks his hand away. He lets go quickly, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, trying to ignore the sudden rush of heat pooling low in his stomach.

“And you’re Dean,” you say, turning to the last guy.

Dean is staring at you with wide, panicked eyes. You have a delicate, silver cross resting against your collarbone. He wants to bite it. He wants to ruin his entire life for you.

“Hi,” Dean says, his voice coming out an octave higher than usual. He clears his throat again, violently. “Yeah. I’m Dean. Welcome to Briar.”

“Thank you,” you say, genuinely touched by how polite they all seem. Tucker made them sound like absolute hooligans, but they’re standing up straight, looking you in the eye, and greeting you with perfect manners. “I really appreciate y’all letting me crash your dinner. I know it’s a Friday night, and you probably have better things to do.”

“Not at all,” Garrett says instantly, his voice a low rumble. “We’re happy to have you.”

“Yeah,” Logan chimes in. “We were just talking about how much we were looking forward to it.”

Tucker narrows his eyes at Logan, clearly suspicious of the overly enthusiastic tone, but he gestures to the booth. “Let’s sit down. I’m starving.”

The seating arrangement suddenly becomes a high-stakes game of musical chairs.

Garrett slides into the U-shaped booth first, taking the far corner. Dean immediately dives in next to him, desperate to put a physical barrier between himself and you so he doesn’t do something stupid like propose marriage. Logan slides into the other side.

Which leaves the space right in the middle, between Logan and Dean.

“Go ahead,” Tucker says, nudging you gently toward the middle of the booth. He plans to sit on the outside edge so he can easily flag down the waitress.

You slide into the booth. You try to make yourself as small as possible, but it’s a tight fit. Your left thigh presses firmly against Dean’s leg, and your right shoulder brushes against Logan’s bicep.

Both men instantly freeze.

You don’t notice. You’re busy smoothing the skirt of your dress over your knees, making sure it stays perfectly modest. “This place is … lively,” you say, raising your voice slightly over the bass thumping from the jukebox.

“It’s a dump,” Garrett says bluntly from across the table. “But they make the best burgers in town.”

“I love a good burger,” you say, giving him a bright smile.

Garrett grips his menu so hard the laminated plastic bends.

A waitress with a nose ring and a tired expression walks over, popping a bubble of chewing gum. “What can I get you boys? And …” she glances at you, raising an eyebrow. “… sweetheart?”

“I’ll have a water with lemon, please,” you say politely. “And the classic cheeseburger. No onions.”

The waitress nods, scribbling it down. The boys place their usual orders — beers, double burgers, loaded fries — and the waitress disappears into the crowd.

“So,” Logan says, leaning forward slightly. He has to turn his body toward you, which means he gets a face-full of your perfume. You smell like vanilla and sunshine. It’s intoxicating. “Tucker says you’re majoring in Early Childhood Education.”

You nod eagerly, happy to talk about something familiar. “Yes! I just had my first orientation class today. It’s so exciting. I love working with kids.”

“That’s awesome,” Dean says. He is staring very hard at a spot on the wall just above your head, refusing to look down at your lips. “You want to be a teacher?”

“Oh, no,” you say with a soft laugh. “I mean, maybe for a year or two. But my real dream is to be a mother. I want to have a big family. I’m getting the degree so I know exactly how to raise my own children one day.”

Silence falls over the table.

To them, college is for partying, playing sports, and avoiding adulthood for as long as possible. The concept of someone actively planning to get married and have a family is entirely foreign.

But hearing you say it, with such absolute conviction and sweetness, doesn’t make them laugh.

Instead, Garrett’s mind flashes with a sudden, unbidden image of you standing in a sunlit kitchen, holding a baby. His baby. The thought hits him so hard he actually chokes on his own saliva, turning away to cough violently into his elbow.

“Are you okay?” You ask, leaning forward, genuine concern in your wide, pretty eyes.

“Fine,” Garrett rasps, his face red. “Swallowed wrong.”

Tucker claps Garrett on the back, looking amused. “Pace yourself, Graham. The food isn’t even here yet.”

“So,” Logan says, desperate to change the subject before he starts mentally picking out baby names. “How are you liking the dorms? Got a good roommate?”

“Karly is … interesting,” you say diplomatically, folding your hands on the table. “She has a lot of heavy metal posters. And she came back very late last night. But she’s been polite.”

“If anyone gives you trouble, you tell me,” Tucker says instantly, slipping into big-brother mode. “Or you tell one of these guys. They’re basically walking brick walls. Nobody will mess with you if they know you’re with us.”

You blush, a beautiful, rosy pink blooming across your cheeks. “Oh, Tucker, I don’t want to bother your friends. I’m sure they have much more important things to do than babysit me.”

“It wouldn’t be a bother,” Garrett says, his voice low and serious. His gray eyes lock onto yours, and this time, you don’t look away. There is a weight in his stare, a silent promise that makes your breath hitch in your throat. “Seriously. You need anything, you call us.”

“Yeah,” Dean adds, leaning in slightly, his resolve to avoid looking at you crumbling. “We’re at your service, Y/N. Literally whatever you need.”

“Thank you,” you say softly, a little overwhelmed by their intensity. They are all so big, so focused, so fiercely protective already. It makes you feel strangely safe.

The waitress returns with the drinks, slamming three heavy pints of beer onto the table and gently placing your water with lemon in front of you.

As she walks away, Garrett, Dean, and Logan reach for their beers at the exact same time. They all need a drink. Desperately.

But before they can take a sip, you bow your head.

You clasp your hands together, resting them gently against the edge of the table, and close your eyes.

Garrett freezes, his pint glass halfway to his mouth. Dean’s eyes go wide, and Logan slowly lowers his beer back to the table.

They watch in stunned silence as your lips move in a silent, hurried prayer. It’s quick — no more than five seconds — but in the middle of Malone’s, surrounded by rowdy college students and blasting rock music, it is the most shocking thing any of them have ever seen.

You open your eyes, offering an apologetic smile. “Sorry. Habit.”

“Don’t apologize,” Logan says quietly. His voice is incredibly soft, stripped of all its usual sarcastic armor. He looks at you like you are something precious. Something fragile that he is terrified of breaking.

Dean swallows hard. He has hooked up with girls in bathrooms, in the back seats of cars, in closets at frat parties. He thought he knew what he liked. He thought he knew who he was.

But looking at you, with your folded hands and your lemon water and your absolute, unwavering purity, Dean realizes he is entirely, hopelessly screwed. He doesn’t want the party girls anymore. He wants you. He wants to take you on a date. He wants to hold the door open for you. He wants to meet your mother.

The thought terrifies him.

The food arrives, and the conversation flows easier than any of them expected. You are easy to talk to. You don’t play games, you don’t try to impress them with fake hockey knowledge, and you laugh at all of Logan’s jokes, even the terrible ones.

You tell them stories about growing up in Texas, about your church choir, about how much you miss sweet tea. They tell you sanitized, PG-rated stories about hockey trips and Coach Jensen’s ridiculous drills.

For an hour, Garrett forgets about his abusive father. Logan forgets about his drunk dad and the mechanic shop waiting to trap him. Dean forgets about his reputation.

They are entirely captivated by you.

When the bill comes, Tucker snatches it before anyone else can reach for it. “I got it. Welcome to Briar dinner.”

“Tucker, you don’t have to do that,” you say, reaching for your small floral purse.

“Put your money away,” Garrett commands gently, his hand shooting out to cover yours.

His large, warm hand rests over your small one. The contact is electric. You gasp softly, looking down at his hand, and then back up into his gray eyes.

Garrett immediately pulls his hand back, as if he’s been burned. Tucker’s warning from earlier echoes in his mind.

“He’s right,” Tucker says, oblivious to the charged moment. “I’m your big brother. I pay. Come on, I’ll walk you back to your dorm. It’s getting late.”

You nod, sliding out of the booth. Dean and Logan practically leap out of the way to let you pass, terrified of brushing against you again.

“It was so nice meeting y’all,” you say, standing by the edge of the table and smoothing your dress. You look at each of them in turn, your smile warm and genuine. “Thank you for letting me join you.”

“Anytime,” Logan says, his voice a little hoarse.

“Seriously,” Dean adds. “Come over whenever.”

“Don’t encourage her, Dean,” Tucker warns, though he’s smiling. “Let’s go, kiddo. See you guys back at the house.”

“See ya, Tuck,” Garrett says.

The three boys stand by the booth, watching as Tucker guides you through the crowded pub toward the exit. They watch the way your yellow dress swishes around your knees. They watch the way guys at other tables turn their heads to look at you, and they all feel a simultaneous, violent surge of possessiveness.

The heavy wooden door closes behind you.

Silence descends upon the corner booth. The loud music, the chatter, the clinking glasses — none of it registers.

Logan runs a hand over his face, pressing his palms into his eyes. He lets out a long, shuddering breath. “Well.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, staring blankly at the empty space where you were just standing. “Well.”

Garrett slowly sinks back onto the vinyl bench, his broad shoulders slumping. He stares at the small glass of water with lemon still sitting on the table.

“We’re so fucked,” Garrett says quietly.

“Completely,” Dean agrees, sliding into the booth next to him. He drops his head onto the table, burying his face in his arms. “I’m in love. I’m actually in love with Tucker’s sister. I want to buy a minivan.”

“She said grace,” Logan mutters, staring at the ceiling as if asking God for help. “She bowed her head and said grace in the middle of Malone’s. I wanted to marry her on the spot. If Tucker finds out what I’m thinking right now, he’s going to murder me and bury me under the ice rink.”

“He’s going to have to bury all three of us,” Garrett says grimly. He crosses his arms over his chest, his jaw set in a hard, resolute line. The competitive fire that makes him the best player on the ice is suddenly burning hot and fast in his chest, aimed entirely at the sweet, innocent girl from Texas.

He knows what Tucker said. He knows the rules.

But Garrett Graham has never been good at following the rules when he sees something he wants.

“Okay,” Garrett says, his voice dropping low, commanding the attention of the other two. “New plan.”

Logan lowers his head to look at him. Dean peeks out from under his arms.

“Tucker said we don’t look at her, we don’t hit on her, we stay away,” Garrett says. “We agreed because we thought she was going to be annoying.”

“She’s an angel,” Dean whispers defensively.

“I know,” Garrett says, his eyes darkening. “Which means staying away is going to be impossible. So, we play it smart. We don’t push. We don’t overwhelm her. We show Tucker that we can be respectful, upstanding gentlemen.”

“I don’t know how to be an upstanding gentleman,” Dean points out, panicking slightly. “I sent a girl a picture of my dick yesterday.”

“You learn,” Garrett snaps. “You adapt. Because if we rush her, she’ll run. If we scare her, she’ll tell Tucker, and we lose. We have to be the perfect, polite guys she thinks we are. We build trust.”

Logan leans forward, a slow smirk starting to form on his lips as he catches on to Garrett’s strategy. “The slow play.”

“Exactly,” Garrett says. “We be her friends. We look out for her. We let her come to us.”

“And then what?” Dean asks, sitting up. “She’s not a hookup in the dorm kind of girl, Garrett. She wants the white picket fence.”

Garrett looks at the empty spot in the booth where you had been sitting, the scent of vanilla still lingering faintly in the air. His chest tightens with a fierce, possessive ache.

“Then I guess,” Garrett says softly, a dangerous edge to his voice, “we start building a fence.”

Logan chuckles, the sound low and dark, a stark contrast to the easygoing guy he usually pretends to be. He grabs his half-empty beer and raises it slightly. “May the best man win.”

Garrett glares at him, the camaraderie snapping back into instant rivalry. “I don’t lose, Logan.”

“Boys,” Dean says, grabbing his own glass and clinking it against Logan’s, his wealthy playboy confidence finally returning. “You’re both forgetting who you’re talking to. She’s going to be mine.”

They drink, the silent declaration of war hanging heavy over the sticky table.

You have absolutely no idea what you’ve just started.

***

“I still don’t think this is a good idea,” Tucker says, his large hand resting on the brass doorknob of the off-campus house. He glances over his shoulder at you, his brow furrowed with a mixture of older-brother concern and deep, profound regret.

You adjust the strap of your canvas tote bag, offering him a reassuring smile. “Tucker, it’s fine. Karly had her study group over, and they were playing that awful music with the screaming again. I just need a quiet place to read my Bible and finish my reading for Child Psychology. I promise I won’t be a bother.”

“You’re never a bother, Y/N,” Tucker sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “It’s not you I’m worried about. It’s them. This house is … it’s not a place for someone like you. It’s a zoo. A disgusting, chaotic, morally bankrupt zoo.”

You let out a soft, musical laugh, patting his arm. You’re wearing a light blue, A-line skirt that hits mid-calf and a crisp white blouse with a Peter Pan collar. “They were perfectly lovely at Malone’s last week. They have wonderful manners. I’m sure you’re just exaggerating.”

“Right. Wonderful manners,” Tucker mutters, sounding unconvinced. He pushes the key into the lock. “Just … stay close to me. Don’t touch anything in the kitchen without sanitizing it first. And if any of them look at you funny, you tell me.”

He twists the doorknob, pushing the heavy wooden door open.

The immediate sensory overload is exactly what you would expect from a house inhabited by four massive college athletes. It smells faintly of expensive cologne, citrus floor cleaner, and stale beer. The living room to the left is a disaster zone of scattered Xbox controllers, half-empty water bottles, and a mountain of throw pillows tossed haphazardly onto the floor.

“See?” Tucker says, gesturing to the mess. “Barbarians.”

You step into the foyer, your sensible flats clicking softly against the hardwood. “It just needs a little tidying, that’s all. A house needs a woman’s touch to feel like a home.”

Tucker freezes mid-step, looking at you in absolute horror. “Do not let them hear you say that. Seriously. They will lose their minds.”

You frown, confused, but before you can ask what he means, a door opens on the second-floor landing.

The sound of heavy, bare footsteps echoes against the wooden floorboards upstairs. You instinctively look up, tilting your head back to greet whoever is coming out of the bathroom. You have a polite smile already formed on your lips, ready to say a cheerful hello to Garrett, Logan, or Dean.

You look up.

And your brain entirely stops working.

Standing at the top of the staircase, his hand casually running through his damp, sandy-blonde hair, is Dean.

He is not wearing a shirt. He is not wearing pants. He is not wearing a towel.

He is completely, undeniably, one-hundred-percent naked.

For a fraction of a second, your sheltered, traditional, church-raised mind simply cannot comprehend what your eyes are processing. You have never seen a man’s bare chest before, let alone … everything else.

Water droplets glisten against the hard planes of his abs, tracing the deep V of his hips, drawing your wide, horrified eyes straight down to the absolute center of his body. It is heavy. It is prominent. It is fully on display. You are getting an absolute, unobstructed eyeful of Dean Di Laurentis’s dick.

A tiny, strangled squeak escapes your throat. It sounds like a mouse getting stepped on.

Dean freezes at the top of the stairs. He looks down. He sees you standing in the foyer, staring up at him with eyes the size of dinner plates, your face burning a violent, magnificent shade of scarlet.

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes.

Tucker spins around at the sound of the squeak. He follows your gaze up the stairs.

The roar that erupts from your brother’s chest is something out of a wildlife documentary.

“DI LAURENTIS!” Tucker bellows, lunging forward as if he’s going to sprint up the stairs and tackle Dean through the drywall. “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK!”

You slap both of your hands over your eyes, squeezing them shut so tight you see bursts of white light. Your entire body is trembling. “Oh my goodness,” you gasp, your voice muffled behind your palms. “Oh my goodness, Lord forgive me, I didn’t mean to look, I didn’t-”

“I am going to end your bloodline!” Tucker screams at Dean, stepping in front of you to physically shield you from the sight, even though your eyes are already covered. “I am going to rip your head off and throw it into the Charles River! Get a towel! Get a fucking towel!”

Upstairs, a door bangs open. Logan steps out of his bedroom, rubbing his eyes, wearing a pair of low-slung gray sweatpants. “Tuck, what the hell are you yelling-”

Logan stops dead in his tracks. He looks at Dean, fully nude in the hallway. He looks over the railing and sees Tucker practically foaming at the mouth, shielding a violently blushing, trembling you.

“Oh, God,” Logan says, instantly realizing what just happened. A bark of laughter escapes him before he can stop it. “Dean, you idiot.”

“It’s not my fault!” Dean defends himself, though he doesn’t make a single move to cover up. Instead, he casually leans his hip against the banister, an incredibly arrogant, wicked smirk spreading across his handsome face. He looks down at you, knowing exactly what he’s doing to your delicate sensibilities. “Nobody told me we were having company. Besides, it’s just biology, Tuck. Relax. It’s not like Adam and Eve were walking around covered up in denim, right, Y/N?”

You let out another high-pitched squeak, burying your face directly into the back of Tucker’s flannel shirt. “Please tell him to put clothes on, Tucker. Please.”

“I am coming up there,” Tucker says, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly calm. “And I am going to castrate you.”

Another door opens. Garrett steps out of his room, his dark hair messy from sleep, wearing nothing but black gym shorts. He assesses the situation in three seconds flat. Naked Dean. Enraged Tucker. And you, shaking like a leaf, hiding behind your brother.

The primal, possessive instinct that Garrett has been desperately trying to keep in check since Malone’s violently snaps.

“Put some fucking pants on, Di Laurentis,” Garrett snarls, his voice so sharp and authoritative it actually makes Dean flinch. Garrett glares at him, his gray eyes flashing with genuine fury. “Now.”

Dean holds his hands up in surrender, dropping the smirk. “Alright, alright! Geez, Graham, calm down. I’m going.”

Dean turns and saunters back into his bedroom, taking his sweet time, fully aware that Garrett and Logan are both staring daggers into his back.

“He’s gone,” Tucker says softly, turning around and placing his heavy hands on your shoulders. “Y/N. Honey, you can open your eyes. He’s gone.”

You slowly lower your hands. Your face feels like it is radiating enough heat to cook an egg. You refuse to look up at the second floor, keeping your eyes glued strictly to Tucker’s chest. “I think I should go back to the dorm.”

“No,” Tucker says firmly, completely entirely enraged on your behalf. “You are not leaving. You came here to study, and you are going to study. I am going to go upstairs and have a very long, very physical conversation with Dean. You go sit in the kitchen.”

“Tucker, please don’t hit him,” you whisper, clutching your tote bag. “It was an accident.”

“The first three seconds were an accident,” Tucker growls. “The Adam and Eve comment earned him a black eye. Go to the kitchen, Y/N.”

Tucker marches past you, taking the stairs two at a time. A second later, you hear Dean’s bedroom door slam open, followed by Dean yelping, and Logan’s booming laughter.

You let out a shaky breath, pressing a hand to your racing heart. You have never been so mortified in your entire life. You try to push the image of Dean’s … anatomy out of your head, but it is seared into your retinas. It was just so … large.

You shake your head violently, asking for forgiveness, and quickly scurry into the kitchen.

If the living room was a disaster zone, the kitchen is an active biohazard.

You drop your tote bag onto a barstool and simply stare. There are three empty pizza boxes stacked on the center island. A pile of mail is scattered over the granite countertops. The sink is overflowing with dirty dishes, some of which look like they’ve been sitting there since the Bush administration. There is a single, lonely apple sitting in a fruit bowl, completely shriveled and brown.

The shock of what you just saw upstairs is immediately replaced by a deeply ingrained, almost pavlovian response to domestic chaos.

You cannot study in this. Your mother raised you better than this.

Without even thinking, you drop your Bible on the only clean corner of the island and roll up the sleeves of your white blouse.

Garrett walks into the kitchen two minutes later, having left Tucker to verbally assassinate Dean upstairs. He is still shirtless, his chest and muscular arms on full display. He expects to find you sitting quietly, maybe crying from shock, or at least staring awkwardly at the floor.

Instead, he stops dead in the doorway.

You have found a half-empty bottle of all-purpose cleaner under the sink. You are vigorously scrubbing the granite island, your hips swaying slightly in your blue skirt as you wipe away dried hot sauce and mysterious sticky rings. The pizza boxes have already been broken down and shoved into the recycling bin.

“What are you doing?” Garrett asks, his voice thick, sounding completely bewildered.

You jump slightly, turning to look at him. You immediately avert your eyes from his bare, sculpted chest, focusing fiercely on his chin. “Oh. I just … I couldn’t sit here with the mess. How do you boys live like this? It’s not sanitary.”

“You don’t have to clean that,” Garrett says, taking a step forward. “Y/N, stop. We have a cleaning lady who comes on Mondays. You’re a guest.”

“Nonsense,” you say, tossing the paper towel into the trash and reaching for another. “Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, Garrett. Besides, it helps calm my nerves.”

You finish wiping the counter and move toward the sink. You turn on the hot water, squirting a generous amount of Dawn dish soap over the towering pile of plates.

Garrett just stands there, completely paralyzed.

He watches you plunge your small, delicate hands into the soapy water. He watches the way the afternoon sunlight catches the golden strands of your hair. He watches you naturally, effortlessly take control of his chaotic space and bring order to it.

Garrett grew up in a massive, sterile mansion that felt like a museum. His mother was sick, and his father was a monster. He has never known what it looks like to have a woman happily puttering around a kitchen, humming a soft melody, creating a sense of warmth just by existing in the room.

It hits him like a freight train.

Every protective, possessive, provider instinct in his body flares up so intensely it actually aches. He wants to walk up behind you, wrap his arms around your waist, bury his face in your neck, and never let you leave this house again.

“Do y’all even have any real food?” You ask, drying a plate with a towel and setting it on the rack. “I looked in the fridge to find some water, and it’s nothing but sports drinks, beer, and something that smells like old cheese.”

Logan walks into the kitchen just in time to hear the question. He is also shirtless, showing off a lean, corded swimmer’s build that is completely different from Garrett’s bulk.

Logan freezes beside Garrett, his jaw dropping slightly as he takes in the sight of you standing at the sink, washing their dirty dishes.

“Uh,” Logan says, his brain totally short-circuiting. “We order out a lot.”

“That is terrible for your bodies,” you scold gently, sounding exactly like a southern mother. You turn off the faucet and wipe your hands on a towel. You walk over to the pantry, pulling the door open. You inspect the shelves, pushing aside boxes of protein bars and stale chips. “You are division one athletes. You need proper nourishment. Meat. Vegetables. Complex carbohydrates. Not … whatever these neon orange puffs are.”

You grab a large, heavy bag of flour from the back of the pantry. You haul it onto the newly cleaned kitchen island. Then you march over to the fridge, extracting a carton of eggs, half a stick of butter, and a gallon of milk.

“Y/N, seriously, what are you doing?” Logan asks, his voice practically a whisper. He feels like he’s watching a hallucination.

“I am making you boys a proper breakfast,” you declare, pulling a large mixing bowl from a lower cabinet. “Or lunch, I suppose, since it’s one in the afternoon. Have none of you eaten today?”

Garrett and Logan shake their heads simultaneously, completely mute.

“Exactly,” you say, cracking an egg into the bowl with one hand. “Sit down. Both of you.”

They obey instantly. Two massive, dangerous hockey players scramble onto the barstools on the opposite side of the island, sitting side-by-side, watching you with wide, mesmerized eyes.

“I am going to make biscuits from scratch,” you announce, measuring out the flour. “And some scrambled eggs. And if I can find bacon in that freezer, I’ll fry that up too. A growing boy needs protein.”

Logan swallows hard. His dad is a drunk who can barely remember Logan’s name, let alone cook him a meal. Logan has spent his entire life taking care of everyone else — his dad, his brother, his teammates. Nobody takes care of Logan. Nobody cooks for him just because they want to.

Watching you knead the dough, your small hands dusted with white flour, your face completely serious and focused on the task of feeding him, breaks down a wall inside Logan that he didn’t even know existed. He wants to give you the world. He wants to buy you a house with a wrap-around porch. He is utterly, hopelessly ruined.

“You don’t have to do this,” Garrett manages to choke out, though his voice is rough and betraying his absolute desperate need for you to stay right here forever.

“I want to,” you say, giving him a sweet, blinding smile that makes Garrett’s heart physically stutter in his chest. “It’s the least I can do. I barged in on your Saturday uninvited.”

“You can barge in whenever you want,” Logan says, his voice dripping with such unfiltered sincerity that it makes you pause and blink at him.

Footsteps echo on the stairs. Tucker walks into the kitchen, followed closely by a fully dressed, highly subdued Dean. Dean has a red mark on his shoulder where Tucker clearly shoved him into a wall.

“Alright,” Tucker says, exhaling sharply. “He apologized. He won’t ever-”

Tucker stops.

He looks at the gleaming counters. He looks at the empty sink. He looks at his sister, covered in flour, happily rolling out biscuit dough on the island. And finally, he looks at Garrett and Logan.

Garrett and Logan are staring at you with expressions of such intense, terrifying devotion that Tucker feels a cold sweat break out on the back of his neck.

Dean steps around Tucker, peering into the kitchen.

Dean’s mother is a high-powered corporate lawyer who wouldn’t know how to turn on an oven if her life depended on it. Dean has always dated girls exactly like his mother: driven, ambitious, entirely independent, and terrible in a kitchen.

He looks at you. He looks at the flour on your cheek. He looks at the modest, incredibly feminine way your skirt swishes as you turn to check the oven temperature.

Dean Di Laurentis, the biggest playboy on the East Coast, feels an overwhelming, violent urge to get a corporate job, put on a suit, and come home to you at five o’clock every single day for the rest of his life.

“Oh my god,” Dean whispers, gripping the edge of the doorway to keep himself upright.

“What are you doing?” Tucker asks you, his voice cracking slightly in panic. He told them to stay away. He told them she was pure. He didn’t account for you actively weaponizing your traditional upbringing against them.

“I’m making y’all lunch,” you say cheerfully, oblivious to the immense psychological damage you are currently inflicting on the three men in the room. “Have a seat, Tucker. The biscuits will be done in twelve minutes.”

Tucker looks at Garrett. Garrett’s eyes are dark, practically dilated, tracking your every movement.

Tucker looks at Logan. Logan has his elbows on the counter, his chin resting in his hands, staring at you like you are the sun and he has been living underground his whole life.

Tucker looks at Dean. Dean looks like he is going to pass out from pure, unadulterated yearning.

“Guys,” Tucker says slowly, a warning edge slipping into his voice. “Stop staring at my sister.”

“I’m not staring,” Garrett lies smoothly, though he doesn’t blink once. “I’m watching the dough.”

“It’s fascinating dough,” Logan agrees, completely hypnotized.

“I want to eat her dough,” Dean murmurs, still gripping the doorframe.

Tucker violently shoves Dean into the hallway. “Get out! All of you, get out of the kitchen!”

“Leave them be, Tucker,” you scold lightly, pulling a cast-iron skillet from the lower cabinet. You set it on the stove and turn on the burner. “They’re just hungry. Go sit down, Dean. I found some bacon in the freezer.”

Dean slowly steps back into the kitchen, his eyes never leaving you. He walks over to the island and takes the stool next to Logan. He looks at you with a kind of desperate, pleading reverence.

“You’re making bacon?” Dean asks, his voice thick.

“Yes, Dean,” you say with a soft smile. “I’m making bacon.”

Dean puts his head down on the cool granite counter. “I love you. I’m sorry I was naked. Please marry me.”

“Dean!” Tucker roars, lunging forward.

You just laugh, a bright, chiming sound that bounces off the walls, assuming he is entirely joking. “You’re very funny, Dean. But I think you’re just hungry. My mama always says men think with their stomachs.”

“We do,” Logan confirms, his gray eyes burning into you. “That’s exactly what we do.”

Garrett leans forward, resting his massive forearms on the island, putting himself slightly closer to you than the other two. “Can I help you with anything, Y/N? Anything at all. You just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”

“Actually,” you say, handing him a bowl and a whisk. “If you could whisk these eggs for me, Garrett, that would be wonderful. I need to keep an eye on the skillet.”

Garrett takes the bowl like it is the Holy Grail. He grips the whisk and begins beating the eggs with the intensity and focus of a man trying to win the Stanley Cup. He would whisk cement for you if you asked him to.

Tucker collapses into the fourth barstool, burying his face in his hands.

The slow play is officially dead.

Garrett, Logan, and Dean are no longer just interested. They are completely, irrevocably obsessed, and sitting in the kitchen while you cook them breakfast is cementing a terrible, beautiful truth in all of their minds.

They are going to fight to the death for you.

And you, blissfully unaware, just hum a quiet church hymn as you flip the bacon.

***

The house is dead quiet, which is entirely unnatural for a Thursday afternoon. Usually, there’s music blasting from someone’s room, the sounds of NHL 20 blaring from the living room TV, or the dull thud of a hockey puck bouncing off the drywall in the hallway.

Today, there is only the agonizing, suffocating weight of three miserable men sitting in absolute silence.

Tucker is gone. He had a mandatory meeting with the academic advisor, followed by a study session at the library, meaning he won’t be back for at least another two hours.

Garrett is sprawled out on the battered leather sofa, staring blankly at the ceiling fan. Logan is sitting backward on the armchair, his chin resting on his folded arms, staring blankly at the blank television screen. Dean is lying flat on his back on the rug, his arms thrown over his face, looking like a corpse that hasn’t been discovered yet.

None of them have brought a girl back to the house in three and a half weeks.

“I can’t take it anymore,” Dean finally says. His voice is muffled by his own arms, thick with genuine, unfiltered despair.

“Take what?” Logan asks, not looking away from the black screen.

“The pretending,” Dean groans, slowly lowering his arms. He stares up at the ceiling, looking haunted. “I can’t sit here and pretend that my entire brain hasn’t been rewired. I don’t want to go out. I don’t want to go to the Kappa party tonight. I don’t want to look at another girl.”

Garrett slowly shifts his gaze from the fan to Dean. He doesn’t say anything, but his jaw clenches.

“I think,” Dean whispers, as if confessing to a murder, “I think I have a thing for trad wives. Like, a serious, life-altering thing.”

For three agonizing seconds, the only sound in the room is the hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen.

Then, Logan lets out a long, shaky breath and drops his forehead onto his arms. “Oh, thank God. Thank God it’s not just me.”

Garrett sits up abruptly, dragging both hands through his dark hair. The sheer relief of the admission breaks the tension in the room like a snapped rubber band. “Are you kidding me? I’ve been losing my mind. I’ve literally been looking up property values in the suburbs. I don’t even like the suburbs!”

“I spent twenty minutes yesterday looking at minivans online,” Dean confesses miserably, sitting up and crossing his legs on the floor. “Honda Odysseys, Garrett. With the built-in vacuum cleaners in the back. I don’t even have a kid to drop Cheerios! Why do I care about a built-in vacuum?”

“Because of her,” Logan states the obvious, his voice heavy.

It has been roughly a month since you moved to Massachusetts, a month since Tucker brought you over for the first time, and exactly one week since you completely dismantled the Briar University hockey team with a piece of poster board and a sheet of shiny stickers.

Without another word, Garrett stands up and walks into the kitchen. Logan and Dean immediately follow him, a solemn, pathetic little parade trailing toward the refrigerator.

They stand in a semi-circle, staring at the white double doors of the fridge.

Right in the center, held up by four strawberry-shaped magnets, is a piece of bright pink poster board. The top reads, in perfectly neat, cursive handwriting House Rules for Good Boys.

“It’s a behavior chart,” Dean whispers, staring at it with a mix of awe and sheer terror. “She gave us a literal behavior chart meant for kindergartners.”

Logan reaches out, lightly tracing the edge of the poster board with his fingertip. “And we are fully governed by it.”

The flashback plays in all of their minds with crystal clarity.

A little over a week ago, you had marched into the house through the front door, carrying a rolled-up piece of cardboard and a small plastic bag from an arts and crafts store. You were wearing a mint-green sundress with a matching ribbon in your hair, looking completely out of place among the empty beer cans and scattered hockey gear.

“Tucker is at practice,” Logan had told you from the kitchen counter.

“I know,” you had said, unfurling the poster board. “I waited until he left. Gather ‘round, boys.”

They had looked at each other, confused, but the gentle, authoritative tone of your voice had them immediately leaving the living room and filing into the kitchen. They had stood in front of you, three towering, intimidating athletes, watching as you expertly magnetized the chart to the fridge.

“This house is a disaster,” you had told them sweetly, placing your hands on your hips. “You curse too much, you leave your dirty socks on the coffee table, and your sink always has dishes in it. Mama always said boys need structure. So, I am giving you structure.”

Garrett had stared at the board. There were columns with their names — Garrett, Dean, Logan, and even Tucker. Down the side were categories like Used Inside Voices, Completed Chores Without Complaining, No Bad Words, Ate All Our Vegetables, and Kindness to Others.

“What is this?” Dean had asked, trying not to laugh.

You had reached into the plastic bag and pulled out a sheet of shiny, holographic gold star stickers. “This is your behavior chart. Every time I come over, I will assess your behavior. If you do well in a category, you get a star next to your name.”

“Y/N,” Logan had chuckled, leaning against the counter. “We’re twenty-two years old. We don’t care about gold stars.”

You had smiled. It was a soft, entirely innocent smile, but it possessed a terrifying power. “Oh? Well, if you get five stars in a row, you get a reward. I will bake you whatever you want. Brownies, chocolate chip cookies, homemade cinnamon rolls …”

They had stopped laughing.

“But,” you had added, raising a delicate finger, “if you break a rule, you lose a star. And if you lose a star, I will be very, very disappointed in you.”

The word had hung in the air.

None of them had ever wanted to disappoint you. The thought of your big, pretty eyes looking at them with sadness or disapproval was literally agonizing.

“I want a star,” Garrett had said instantly, standing up straighter.

“Me too,” Dean had chimed in, suddenly panicking that he was behind.

“What do I have to do right now to get a star?” Logan had demanded, already grabbing a sponge to wipe down the countertops.

And just like that, you had them on a leash.

Back in the present, Garrett stares at the chart. Next to his name, he has four gold stars. Logan has four gold stars. Dean has three.

“I can’t believe I lost a star,” Dean mutters, dragging his hands down his face. “I stubbed my toe on the coffee table! It was a natural reaction!”

“You screamed ‘motherfucker’ at the top of your lungs while she was pulling a pie out of the oven, Dean,” Logan points out mercilessly. “You’re lucky she didn’t take two stars.”

“She looked so sad,” Dean whispers, genuinely distressed by the memory. “She just looked at me, sighed, and peeled the sticker right off the board. It physically hurt my chest, Logan. I felt like I failed as a man.”

“You did fail,” Garrett says, not taking his eyes off his own row of stars. He is one star away from the ultimate prize. “You lack discipline. She likes discipline. That’s why I’m winning.”

“We are tied, Graham,” Logan reminds him, bumping his shoulder. “I took out the recycling yesterday without being asked. She gave me a star for ‘taking initiative’. She patted my cheek, Garrett. She physically patted my cheek and called me a good boy.”

Logan’s voice actually breaks a little at the end of the sentence. The tough, sarcastic mechanic’s son from a broken home has completely crumbled under the weight of maternal praise.

“She called you a good boy?” Dean asks, his head whipping toward Logan, sheer jealousy radiating off him in waves. “When? I was here all day yesterday!”

“When you were in the shower,” Logan says, a smug smile tugging at his lips. “She patted my cheek, gave me a cupcake, and said she was proud of how hard I was studying for my finals.”

Garrett grips the edge of the kitchen counter so hard his knuckles turn white. “If you two think you’re getting the reward over me, you’re delusional. I ate broccoli last night. Plain, steamed broccoli. I hated every second of it, but she watched me do it, and she smiled.”

“God, her smile,” Dean groans, leaning back against the island and shutting his eyes. “It’s destroying my life. It really is.”

Since implementing the chart, you have started coming over every few days. You never come empty-handed. You show up carrying Tupperware containers filled with casseroles, fresh bread, and sweets. You sweep into the house like a gentle hurricane of domesticity, armed with a feather duster and an unshakeable moral compass.

The worst part — the absolute, most debilitating part for the three of them — is what you wear when you do it.

You are entirely oblivious to the effect you have. You show up in floral dresses that hit your knees, your waist cinched with a ribbon, looking like a 1950s housewife stepped out of a catalog. Sometimes you wear a frilly, pastel apron over your clothes to keep the flour off. You hum church hymns while you wipe the counters. You scold them gently for their bad habits. You act like the perfect, traditional wife, entirely unaware that the three men watching you are feral, testosterone-fueled athletes who are one loose thread away from snapping completely.

“I can’t sleep,” Dean confesses, keeping his eyes shut. “I literally can’t sleep anymore.”

“Join the club,” Logan mutters. “I haven’t slept a full night since she started wearing that yellow apron with the little ducks on it.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Dean says, his voice dropping into a raspy, tortured whisper. “I’m having dreams. Wet dreams.”

Garrett scoffs softly. “Dean, you’re twenty-two. Congratulations on basic biology.”

“Not about normal things, Garrett!” Dean snaps, opening his eyes and glaring at him. “About her And it’s messing with my head because they aren’t even normal wet dreams!”

Logan raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

Dean runs a hand violently through his sandy hair, pacing a small circle in the kitchen. “In the dream, she’s in the kitchen. She’s wearing the floral dress. She’s baking cookies. The whole house smells like vanilla and sugar. And she looks so … sweet. So pure. And then she turns around, and she smiles at me, and I walk over to her, and I … I do things to her.”

Dean swallows hard, his face flushing a dark red.

“Filthy things,” Dean continues, his voice strained. “Things that would make Tucker literally murder me with a rusted spoon. On the kitchen island. In the apron. And she’s calling me a good boy the entire time. I woke up yesterday morning and I had to sit in the shower under freezing cold water for forty-five minutes just to keep myself from crying.”

Logan stares at Dean, completely horrified but also terrifyingly empathetic. “Okay. That is … that is intense.”

“It’s psychological warfare!” Dean hisses, gesturing wildly toward the fridge. “She is a literal angel. She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She bends over to check the oven, and the skirt flares out just a little bit, and I feel like my brain is melting out of my ears.”

“She is completely untouchable,” Garrett says softly, his voice cutting through Dean’s panic.

Garrett leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. His gray eyes are dark, stormy with frustration and an aching, desperate kind of longing.

“That’s the problem,” Garrett says. “You’re dreaming about doing filthy things to her, Dean? She doesn’t even know what a wet dream is.”

Dean stops pacing. Logan looks at Garrett.

“Think about it,” Garrett continues, his voice turning grim. “She thinks hand-holding is a big deal. She prays before she eats a french fry. She was raised in a church where they probably told her that impure thoughts are a sin. If you tried to explain a wet dream to her, she would probably think you spilled water in your bed and offer to help you change your sheets.”

The absolute truth of that statement hits them like a physical blow.

Somehow, the realization of your total, complete innocence makes them all even hornier. It is a forbidden, unreachable purity that their corrupted minds are utterly obsessed with. They don’t want to ruin you. They want to worship you. They want to be the one man in the entire world who gets to show you what it feels like to be touched, to be loved, to be absolutely consumed by someone else.

But it’s impossible.

“She belongs in a glass case,” Logan says miserably, slumping against the counter. “Or a museum. We are entirely too dirtbag for her.”

“Tucker told us from day one,” Garrett says, staring at the floor. “He said if we touch her, we break her. I didn’t get it then. I thought he was just being an overprotective brother. But he was right. We don’t know how to do courtship. We don’t know how to do slow. We’re hockey players. We hit things.”

“I could learn,” Dean says defensively, though he sounds desperate. “I could buy flowers. I could open doors.”

“You hold the school record for most threesomes in a semester, Di Laurentis,” Logan reminds him.

“That was before I saw the light!” Dean argues. “I’m a changed man! I haven’t even looked at a girl since Y/N walked into Malone’s. I am reformed. I am practically a monk.”

Garrett lets out a harsh, humorless laugh. “We’re all monks now. And for what? She’s Tucker’s sister. Even if one of us somehow managed to learn how to be a perfect, god-fearing gentleman, Tucker would never allow it. He knows us too well.”

“Tucker isn’t the boss of her,” Dean points out, his competitive edge finally overriding his misery. He walks back over to the fridge, stopping directly in front of the pink poster board. He stares at the gold stars glinting in the afternoon light.

“What are you thinking, Dean?” Logan asks, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I’m thinking,” Dean says slowly, a dangerous, familiar spark returning to his eyes, “that we have a metric system right here.”

Garrett pushes off the counter. “What are you talking about?”

Dean turns around, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his handsome face. The misery is gone, replaced entirely by the thrill of the hunt. “This behavior chart. She put it up to give us structure. To make us good boys.”

“Yeah,” Logan says slowly. “So?”

“So,” Dean says, tapping the poster board. “We use it. We play her game. We play it better than we’ve ever played anything in our lives. We don’t just act like gentlemen, we become gentlemen. We compete.”

Garrett narrows his eyes. “Compete for what?”

“For the right to pursue her,” Dean says, the words hanging heavy in the kitchen air.

Logan goes perfectly still. Garrett’s jaw clenches.

“We are three guys who are aggressively, pathetically in love with the same girl,” Dean says, pointing between the three of them. “And we are all terrified of Tucker. If we all make a move, it’s going to be a bloodbath. Tucker will kill us, we’ll ruin our friendship, and she’ll run away crying because she hates conflict. So, we make an agreement.”

Dean steps away from the fridge, looking at Garrett, then at Logan.

“Whoever has the most gold stars on this chart by the end of the semester,” Dean proposes, his voice dead serious, “is the winner. The winner gets to go to Tucker, confess his intentions, take the beating like a man, and then ask Y/N on a proper, traditional date. And the losers have to back off completely. Forever. No interfering, no sabotage, no whining.”

Silence descends on the kitchen again.

It is an insane idea. They are betting on the affection of their best friend’s sister using a kindergarten reward system. It is childish, absurd, and potentially relationship-destroying.

But as Garrett looks at the chart, he realizes it is the only fair way.

He wants you. He wants you so badly his teeth ache. He wants to sit at the kitchen table while you make breakfast, he wants to go to church with you on Sundays just to hold your hand, he wants to build that white picket fence himself just to keep you safe inside it.

And he knows Logan and Dean want the exact same thing.

“You’re assuming she’s a prize to be won, Dean,” Logan says quietly, though he hasn’t looked away from the chart. “What if she doesn’t want the winner?”

“If the winner asks her out and she says no,” Dean replies easily, “then she says no. But the winner is the only one who gets the chance to ask. The winner gets a clear shot without the other two crowding him. Deal?”

Logan hesitates. He thinks about your soft hands, the way you smell like vanilla, the way you praised him for doing the dishes. He thinks about a lifetime of coming home to a warm house and someone who actually cares if he had a good day.

He sets his jaw. He refuses to lose that.

“Deal,” Logan says, his voice hard with resolve.

Dean turns to Garrett.

Garrett, the captain. The star center. The most competitive man on the Briar University campus. He looks at the single gold star separating him from Dean, and the tie he currently holds with Logan.

He isn’t going to lose. He doesn’t know how to lose.

“Fine,” Garrett says softly, his gray eyes locking onto Dean’s. “Deal.”

“Excellent,” Dean grins, clearly thrilled with himself. “Gentlemen, the game is-”

The front door suddenly clicks open.

“Hey, guys, I’m back!” Tucker’s voice echoes from the foyer, followed by the heavy thud of his backpack hitting the floor. “And I brought Y/N! She wanted to drop off some cookies!”

The three men in the kitchen freeze.

Instant, absolute panic washes over them. The bet, the confidence, the competitive bravado entirely evaporates the second they hear your name.

“Hello!” Your sweet, melodic voice chimes out, followed by the soft click of your sensible shoes on the hardwood floor. “Are you boys in the kitchen?”

Garrett practically dives for the dirty sponge Logan abandoned earlier, furiously scrubbing a spot on the already pristine granite counter.

Logan snatches a rogue piece of junk mail off the island and starts reading it with terrifying intensity, pretending to be deeply engrossed in an ad for a local carpet cleaning service.

Dean just stands there, looking like a deer caught in headlights, violently trying to force the image of his wet dream out of his mind before you walk into the room.

You step into the kitchen.

You are wearing a pale pink dress with little white daisies printed on it. You have a delicate, white crocheted cardigan draped over your shoulders. In your hands is a large plastic container, and you are smiling so brightly it practically illuminates the room.

“Hi!” You say, your southern drawl thick and warm. “I made snickerdoodles. I know y’all have a big game this weekend, so I wanted to make sure you had plenty of energy.”

Tucker walks in behind you, looking exhausted but fond. He glances at the three of them. He notices Garrett aggressively scrubbing a clean counter, Logan reading junk mail like it’s a textbook, and Dean standing rigidly at attention with his hands clasped behind his back.

Tucker squints. “What are you idiots doing?”

“Cleaning!” Garrett barks out quickly, his voice a pitch higher than usual. “Just keeping the house tidy. You know. For the chart.”

You beam at him, setting the container of cookies on the island. “Oh, Garrett, that is so wonderful! Look at you, taking initiative.”

Garrett’s chest puffs out instinctively. He glances at Dean and Logan with a smug, triumphant look.

You walk over to the fridge, pulling a sheet of shiny gold stars from your small purse. You peel one off the sheet, your delicate fingers working carefully. You reach up, standing on your tiptoes slightly, and press the gold star firmly onto the poster board, right next to Garrett’s name.

“There you go,” you say, turning to him and giving his bicep a soft, approving pat. “Five stars for Garrett. You get the first reward.”

Garrett stops breathing. The touch of your hand on his arm sends a jolt of electricity straight to his groin. He stares down at you, absolutely mesmerized, completely lost in the scent of cinnamon and sugar that clings to you.

“Thank you, Y/N,” Garrett manages to rasp out, his voice incredibly deep. “I … I appreciate that.”

Logan and Dean are staring at Garrett with expressions of pure hatred.

“And I noticed that the living room doesn’t have a single piece of clothing on the floor,” you say, turning your attention to the other two. “Did you both help with that?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean says instantly, practically standing at attention.

“Absolutely,” Logan agrees, desperate not to be left behind.

You smile, peeling two more stars off the sheet and adding them to Dean and Logan’s columns. “Good boys. I am so proud of how well y’all are doing.”

Dean lets out a soft, embarrassing whimper. He quickly clears his throat to cover it up, but Tucker definitely heard it.

Tucker narrows his eyes at Dean, his protective instincts flaring up. “You okay, Di Laurentis?”

“Never better,” Dean squeaks, staring rigidly at the fridge.

“Well, I can’t stay long,” you say, turning back to your brother. “I have to get back to the dorm to finish an essay for my literature class. But enjoy the cookies!”

“I’ll walk you back,” Tucker says instantly.

“Oh, you don’t have to,” you assure him, picking up your purse. “It’s still daylight. I’ll be perfectly fine.”

“I am walking you back,” Tucker repeats, leaving no room for argument. He looks at his three roommates. “Don’t eat all the cookies before I get back. Or I’ll take a star down myself.”

“You don’t have authorization to touch the chart, Tucker,” Garrett says seriously. “Only Y/N does.”

You let out a lovely, melodic laugh. “He’s right, Tucker. Only I control the stars. Bye, boys! Have a blessed afternoon!”

“Bye, Y/N,” they chime in unison, sounding like a choir of completely brainwashed cult members.

They watch you leave the kitchen, their eyes glued to the sway of your pink skirt. They listen to the front door open and close, followed by the heavy thud of the deadbolt locking.

The silence returns to the house.

Garrett, Dean, and Logan slowly turn to look at each other.

The misery is gone. The despair is gone.

In its place is an absolutely terrifying, feral determination.

Garrett points a finger at Dean. “I am going to win.”

“You’re delusional,” Dean fires back, snatching a snickerdoodle from the container. “I am going to charm her so hard she’s going to forget your name.”

Logan cracks his knuckles, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. “You two can fight it out all you want. But she likes a project. And I am the biggest project in this house. She’s going to fix me, and then she’s going to marry me.”

The war has officially begun.

And all it took was a pack of shiny gold stickers.

***

The pink poster board on the refrigerator is no longer just a behavior chart. It is a monument to madness.

It is the second week of December. Outside the off-campus house, a fresh layer of Massachusetts snow blankets the front lawn, but inside the kitchen, the temperature is absolutely boiling.

Garrett, Dean, and Logan stand in a tight triangle around the kitchen island, staring at the refrigerator.

The chart is completely, utterly full. There is not a single millimeter of blank space left in any of their three columns. The gold stars overlap each other, gleaming mockingly in the overhead lights.

Garrett has exactly seventy-five gold stars. Dean has exactly seventy-five gold stars. Logan has exactly seventy-five gold stars.

It is a perfect, catastrophic, three-way tie.

“This is mathematically impossible,” Garrett says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. He braces his massive hands on the granite counter, his jaw ticking so hard it looks like it might snap. “One of you cheated. I know for a fact I earned more stars this week. I shoveled the driveway before she even got out of her dorm.”

“I didn’t cheat!” Dean snaps, running a hand frantically through his sandy hair. He looks entirely unhinged. “I went to a knitting circle, Garrett! I sat in a circle with eight grandmothers at the community center and I learned how to knit a scarf! She gave me five stars for ‘embracing wholesome hobbies’. You can’t beat that!”

“Oh, please,” Logan scoffs, pointing an accusing finger at Dean. “I went to a Friday night Bible study. Do you know how hard it is to sit in a folding chair in a church basement, making eye contact with a youth pastor named Keith, while actively hallucinating about doing entirely unholy things to the girl who invited me? I earned those stars with my blood, sweat, and sanity.”

“It doesn’t matter what any of us did,” Garrett growls, turning his fierce gray eyes on his teammates. “The bet was simple. The one with the most stars at the end of the semester gets the right to pursue her. Nobody else interferes. We tie, nobody wins. Which means nobody has the go-ahead.”

“Well, somebody has to win!” Dean practically shouts, pacing the length of the kitchen. “I am dying, boys. I am literally dying. Tucker and Y/N fly back to Texas tomorrow morning for Christmas break. That’s three weeks. Three weeks without seeing her, smelling her, or hearing her call me a good boy. If I don’t get to stake my claim before she leaves, I’m going to throw myself off the campus bridge.”

Logan rubs the back of his neck, his normally easygoing face tight with frustration. “We can’t all pursue her. Tucker will literally buy a shotgun. We agreed to the bet so we wouldn’t tear this house — and her — apart.”

“Fuck the bet,” Garrett says suddenly.

Dean and Logan stop. They both stare at their captain.

“Excuse me?” Dean says.

Garrett stands up to his full, intimidating height. His chest heaves under his dark gray t-shirt. “Fuck the bet. Fuck the gold stars. I can’t do this anymore. I am not stepping back just because we tied. I want her. I am going to make her mine, and I don’t care if I have to fight both of you and Tucker to do it.”

“Whoa, hold on,” Logan says, stepping forward, his own alpha instincts flaring up. “You don’t just get to claim her because you’re the captain, Graham. I want her just as badly as you do. Do you have any idea what it does to me when she wears those little floral dresses? When she hums while she washes my dishes? I want to put a ring on her finger. I want her in my bed.”

“Your bed?” Dean barks out a harsh, desperate laugh. “I want her everywhere. I want her on this kitchen island. I want to ruin that perfect, sweet little innocence of hers. I want to pull her hair and make her scream my name until she loses her voice. I want to do filthy, degrading, mind-blowing things to her while she’s wearing that goddamn frilly apron, and I’m not letting either of you get to her first!”

“You think you’re the only one?” Garrett snarls, taking a step toward Dean, completely entirely feral. “I want to bend her over the dining table. I want to hold her down and make her take every inch of me until she’s begging. I am obsessed with her, Di Laurentis. It’s a sickness. I’m going to ruin her for any other man.”

“You’ll have to go through me,” Logan warns, his voice dropping an octave, his fists clenching at his sides. “Because she’s going to be underneath me, looking up at me, taking it all-”

A loud, metallic clatter cuts through the kitchen.

It sounds like a tin can hitting the hardwood floor in the foyer.

Garrett freezes. Logan stops breathing. Dean’s eyes go wide.

Simultaneously, the three massive athletes turn their heads toward the hallway.

You are standing in the foyer.

The front door is slightly ajar behind you, letting in a biting gust of December wind. You are wearing a thick, powder-blue winter coat, a white knitted beanie, and your cheeks are flushed pink from the cold.

At your feet lies a round metal tin. The lid has popped off, scattering a dozen perfectly frosted, homemade Christmas cookies across the hardwood floor.

Your hands are clamped over your mouth. Your eyes, usually so bright and warm, are dilated with absolute, unadulterated shock. They are wide and glistening with the sudden, sharp sting of tears.

You heard everything.

Every filthy, dirty, explicit thing they just said. The bet. The gold stars. The competition to “win” you. The incredibly graphic, violent ways they want to ruin your innocence.

“Y/N,” Garrett breathes, the color entirely draining from his face. The fierce, feral competitor vanishes in a fraction of a second, replaced by sheer, suffocating panic. “Y/N, wait.”

You let out a small, broken gasp. You take a step backward, your sensible winter boot crunching on a sugar cookie.

“Sweetheart, please,” Logan begs, holding his hands up like he’s approaching a terrified, wounded animal. He takes a slow step forward. “Just let us explain. It’s not what you think-”

“You … you bet on me?” You whisper, your voice trembling so violently it barely makes a sound. “A chart? Like … like a prize?”

“No!” Dean says, his voice cracking with pure desperation. “No, Y/N, it wasn’t like that! We just—we all wanted you so badly, and we didn’t know how to handle it!”

You look at Dean. Then you look at Logan. Then you look at Garrett.

The image of them — the perfect, polite gentlemen you thought you were helping, the boys you prayed for, the boys you baked for — shatters into a million jagged pieces. They aren’t gentlemen. They are predators. And they have been circling you for months, salivating, waiting for the right moment to pounce and do the horrible, filthy things they just described.

A sob tears from your throat.

You spin on your heel, grab the doorknob, and practically throw yourself out into the freezing snow.

“Y/N!” Garrett roars.

The heavy wooden door slams shut behind you with a deafening bang.

Garrett, Dean, and Logan sprint into the foyer, slipping on the crushed cookies. Garrett rips the front door open, stepping out onto the icy porch in nothing but his socks.

“Y/N!” He yells into the falling snow.

But you are already running. You are sprinting across the front lawn, tears streaming down your freezing cheeks, desperate to get back to the safety of your dorm, to Tucker, to anywhere that isn’t here.

Garrett stands on the porch, the freezing wind whipping through his hair. Logan and Dean stand in the doorway behind him, looking at the empty street.

“She’s gone,” Logan whispers, his voice entirely hollow.

Garrett slowly turns around, his gray eyes dead. He looks at the crushed cookies on the floor. He looks at the chart on the fridge in the distance.

“We are so fucked,” Garrett says.

***

The Texas heat is a jarring contrast to the New England winter. Even in December, the air is mild and humid.

You sit in the third pew of your childhood church, surrounded by the familiar scent of polished wood, old hymn books, and your mother’s floral perfume. The choir is singing a beautiful rendition of “O Holy Night.” It is peaceful. It is safe.

It is absolute torture.

It has been exactly two weeks since you fled the off-campus house. Two weeks since you boarded a plane with Tucker, who spent the entire flight wondering aloud why his three best friends were suddenly ignoring his texts and acting like they were at a funeral. You hadn’t said a word. You couldn’t.

You try to focus on the pastor’s sermon, but your mind is a traitor.

Every time you close your eyes, you don’t see angels or scripture. You see Garrett’s massive arms braced against the kitchen counter. You see Dean’s wicked, hungry smirk. You see Logan’s intense, darkening eyes.

I want to ruin that perfect, sweet little innocence of hers.

Dean’s voice echoes in your head, a phantom whisper against your ear. You shiver violently, crossing your arms over your chest, pressing your knees together in the church pew.

You are a good girl. You have always been a good girl. You saved yourself, you kept your thoughts pure, you prayed for guidance.

But overhearing them has awakened something entirely terrifying inside your body.

The shock and betrayal have slowly, agonizingly, morphed into something else. Something hot. Something heavy. Something that makes your skin flush and your pulse race in places you have never paid attention to before.

That night, you lie in your narrow childhood bed, the ceiling fan spinning lazily above you. The house is completely silent.

You squeeze your eyes shut, clutching the edge of your quilt, trying to pray yourself to sleep. Lord, please cleanse my mind. Please remove these thoughts. Please make me forget them.

But the darkness behind your eyelids is entirely hijacked.

You drift into a restless, feverish sleep.

The dream hits you with the force of a tidal wave.

You are in the kitchen of the off-campus house. You are wearing the yellow floral dress, the one that ties at the waist. But the fabric feels incredibly thin, brushing against your overly sensitive skin.

A hand grips your hip. It is massive, hot, and calloused.

Garrett.

You gasp in the dream as he pulls your back flush against his broad, solid chest. You can feel the hard ridges of his abs through your dress, the overwhelming, suffocating heat of his body. He leans down, his mouth brushing against the sensitive skin beneath your ear.

“Mine,” Garrett growls in your ear, his voice a vibrating, possessive rumble that shoots straight down your spine and pools between your thighs. “You’re mine, Y/N. I told you I was going to ruin you for anyone else.”

You whimper, arching your neck, completely powerless to stop the heavy, wet ache blooming between your legs.

Then, Dean is in front of you. He steps into your space, his eyes dark with unfiltered lust. He reaches out, his long, skilled fingers trailing down the center of your chest, undoing the tiny buttons of your dress with agonizing slowness.

“Such a good girl,” Dean murmurs, his voice a wicked, sinful coaxing. He parts the fabric, exposing your collarbone, the swell of your breasts. “So pure. God, I want to dirty you up. I want to hear you beg for it, sweetheart.”

In the real world, tossing and turning in your childhood bed in Texas, your breathing turns ragged. Your hands instinctively slide down to grip the bedsheets, twisting the fabric into knots. A sheen of sweat coats your skin. You are burning up from the inside out.

In the dream, Logan’s hands replace Dean’s. Logan is kneeling in front of you. He pushes the skirt of your dress up, his large hands gripping your bare thighs. His thumbs press into the soft, sensitive flesh, parting your legs.

“Please,” you hear yourself cry out in the dream, though you don’t even know what you’re begging for. It is an entirely new, blinding sensation.

“I’ve got you,” Logan whispers, his breath hot against the juncture of your thighs. “I’m going to make you feel so damn good, Y/N. Just let go.”

Logan’s mouth touches your skin.

You jolt awake in the dark.

Your eyes snap open, your chest heaving as you gasp for air in the quiet Texas bedroom. Your heart is pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs.

You lie there, paralyzed, completely consumed by the physical aftermath of the dream.

Between your thighs, there is a heavy, throbbing ache. A wet, slick heat that you have never felt before. The friction of your own cotton underwear against your swollen flesh is almost unbearable. Your body is practically vibrating with an empty, aching need.

“Oh my God,” you whisper into the dark, tears springing to your eyes.

You pull your knees to your chest, burying your face in your hands, overwhelmed by the crushing guilt. You feel like a sinner. A dirty, corrupted sinner. You are having explicitly filthy dreams about your brother’s three best friends doing things to you that you couldn’t even put into words.

And the worst part — the part that makes you sob into your pillow — is that your body craves it.

You don’t want to forget them. You want to go back to sleep. You want Garrett’s possessive grip. You want Dean’s dirty praise. You want Logan’s mouth on your skin.

For the rest of the Christmas break, you are a ghost. You pick at your food. You stare out the window. Every time Tucker mentions their names, asking why the hell they aren’t returning his calls, your stomach plummets, and a fresh wave of heat washes over your body.

It is a grueling, exhausting war between your sheltered mind and your rapidly awakening body. And your body is winning.

***

It is the night before you and Tucker are supposed to fly back to Massachusetts for the spring semester.

Your suitcase is packed and sitting by the door. You are lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, dreading the return to Briar University. You don’t know how you are going to look at them. You don’t know how you are going to be in the same state as them without completely falling apart.

Exhaustion finally drags you under.

The dream that comes this time is not a fragmented sequence. It is a terrifying, hyper-realistic onslaught of the senses.

You are entirely naked. You don’t know how it happened, but the floral dresses and the sensible skirts are gone. You are lying on the plush rug of their living room floor.

Garrett is above you. His heavy, muscular body presses you into the carpet, his chest crushing against yours. He grips both of your wrists in one of his massive hands, pinning them above your head. His mouth is entirely consuming yours, a punishing, bruising kiss that leaves you breathless and dizzy.

“You’re not going anywhere,” Garrett murmurs against your lips, his hips rolling down to press against yours. You can feel the impossible size and hardness of his erection pressing directly against your aching, wet center. “You are taking all of this.”

You cry out into his mouth, your back arching off the floor, desperate for the friction.

But then Garrett pulls back.

Dean slides behind you, pulling your back flush against his chest. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you tightly against his own hard length. His mouth attacks your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a bruise, his teeth scraping over your pulse point.

“You like it, don’t you?” Dean rasps in your ear, his hand sliding down your stomach, dipping lower and lower until his fingers brush against your slick heat. “You like being our good girl. Let me hear it. Say you like it.”

“I like it,” you sob in the dream, completely losing your mind as Dean’s long fingers slide into your wetness, stroking you with an expert, merciless rhythm. “Please, Dean, please-”

“Look at me, sweetheart.” Logan’s voice.

You open your eyes. Logan is kneeling between your spread thighs. His gray eyes are dark, stormy, completely fixated on the sight of Dean’s fingers working inside you.

Logan leans forward. He rests his large hands on your hips, his thumbs pressing into your hip bones, pinning you in place.

Then, Logan lowers his mouth.

The sensation of his hot, wet tongue sliding over your most sensitive, swollen flesh sends a violent shockwave through your entire body.

In your bed in Texas, you cry out loudly, your back arching off the mattress. Your hands fly down to your own body, completely entirely driven by instinct. You don’t even know what you’re doing, but you need relief. You need it so badly it feels like you’re dying.

In the dream, the sensory overload is pushing you straight to the edge.

Garrett is kissing you again, swallowing your moans. Dean’s fingers are pumping inside you, stretching you, matching the frantic, desperately wet rhythm of Logan’s tongue lashing against your clit.

The pleasure is building, pooling, tightening like a coiled spring in your lower stomach. It is agonizing. It is beautiful. It is right there. You are seconds away from shattering, from experiencing your very first orgasm, surrounded by the three men you realize, with terrifying clarity, you are hopelessly, completely in love with.

“Let it go for us,” Garrett growls.

“Come for me, baby,” Dean demands.

“Taste so fucking sweet,” Logan murmurs.

The tension snaps. You are right on the absolute edge of the precipice, your body preparing to explode into a million pieces of blinding, white-hot ecstasy.

And then-

The shrill, piercing shriek of your iPhone alarm clock shatters the silence of the room.

Your eyes snap open.

The living room vanishes. Garrett is gone. Dean is gone. Logan is gone.

You are alone in your childhood bedroom. It is 5 AM. Your flight is in three hours.

The physical sensation drops out from under you, leaving you stranded on the absolute edge of the cliff. The heavy, aching arousal is still there, throbbing violently between your legs, demanding a release that is suddenly, cruelly out of reach.

You let out a frustrated, desperate whine, your hands gripping the bedsheets so hard your knuckles turn white.

The realization of what you have been reduced to hits you. You are a tangled, sweating, thoroughly aroused mess, waking up from a filthy dream about three men you haven’t spoken to in weeks.

You sit up in bed, bringing your knees to your chest.

And then, you burst into tears.

You cry because you are frustrated. You cry because your body aches in a way you don’t know how to fix. You cry because you are a traditional, sheltered girl who was supposed to wait for a sweet, simple man, and instead, you have been entirely corrupted by three massive, filthy-mouthed hockey players.

You don’t want the white picket fence anymore.

You want the off-campus house. You want the chaos. You want Garrett’s fierce protection. You want Dean’s dirty praise. You want Logan’s intense, soulful eyes.

You crave them. You crave them so badly it feels like a physical illness.

You wipe your tears roughly with the back of your hand, looking across the room at your packed suitcase.

In three hours, you will board a plane back to Massachusetts. In less than twelve hours, you will be back on the Briar University campus.

You take a deep, shaky breath, the residual heat of the dream still causing a deep, heavy pulse between your thighs.

You don’t know what you are going to do when you see them. But you know one thing for absolutely certain.

You are not the same innocent girl who ran out of that house a month ago.

Garrett knew he couldn’t hurt Paige; that was a line he’d never imagine crossing, but her boyfriend was free game. So when he and Dean knocked on yours and Paige’s apartment door that morning, still clad in their tracksuits, and a shirtless Ethan opened the door, Garrett wasted no time. 

Pushing at his chest, Garrett pulls Ethan deeper into the apartment. Ethan’s smile fades quickly before the confusion surfaces on his features. Dean locks the door behind them. “What’s going on? Y/N’s not here.” 

Garrett had every intention of maintaining his composure enough to make a clear threat, but he finds his blood is already boiling, and his breathing is erratic. “She’s not. She’s safe. No thanks to your fucking girlfriend.” 

The three men crowd in the living room or Y/N’s makeshift bedroom. Garrett pushes him, hard, and Ethan stumbles until he falls into the blinds of the far window. “What the fuck?” 

Paige appears from the bedroom, but Dean is already blocking her from intervening. 

"Whoa. Stay back."

 “Dean?” She asks, flabbergasted, “Garrett? Stop! What are you doing?” 

Garrett sees read. Ethan charges back at him in an attempt to defend himself. Garrett stumbles, but gains his bearings quickly before grabbing Ethan by his shirt and forcing him down. The coffee table rattles at the impact. Then Garrett’s fists start to fly, each blow serving as retaliation for all the harm Paige caused you. All he could imagine was you sitting alone on those steps last night. How broken you must’ve felt.  

Bruising his own fists, Garrett leaves him with a black eye, a bruised nose, and a busted lip. Only stopping when Dean grabs him and lifts him off of the older guy. “Okay, buddy, that’s enough.” He feels frustrated, initially, but the entire reason he brought Dean was to prevent overkill. And as another voice to convince Paige to back down and stay down.

It doesn’t feel like enough, but Garrett feels satisfaction when Paige kneels to expect her boyfriend’s injuries. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” She shouts, and it’s completely rich coming from her.

“What’s wrong with me? You left her stranded last night.”

Paige’s lips part, hands running nervously through her red hair, “I ….I totally forgot. It was an accident —”

“Bullshit,” Garret cursed, “You forgot? You forgot the girl you’ve been using for money, your maid, as your fucking pet you drag around.”

“Y/N is one of my best friends!”

“And how did your best friend end up all alone last night while you ignored every single one of her calls?”

Paige doesn’t answer. 

“Not anymore. The two of you are done. She’s not living here anymore. We’re taking her shit, and you’re not gonna call her or text her ever again.”

“Are you serious?” Paige asks, incredulous, “You can’t make that decision for her.”

“Fucking watching me, “ Garrett only continues, his voice rising as he grows more furious, “If you see her on campus, you’re gonna walk the other way, or you’re not gonna like what I do next. Do you understand that?”

“Dean?” As a last-ditch effort, she looks to Dean for some kind of validation: “You know this is crazy, right?”

“I would drop it if I were you. Be smart, Paige. You don’t want this to become a bigger conversation.” 

Her relationship with Dean had overlapped with her and Ethan’s on multiple occasions. Ethan’s not able to pick up on the implied threat because of the massive headache Garrett’s given him, but Paige catches his meaning quickly.

"Dean," she says again, quieter this time.

"Drop it."

With a huff, she returned to tending Ethan, shaking his shoulders in an attempt to get him to focus.

Garrett gives Dean an impressed look. “We gonna grab Bunny’s stuff or what?” Dean asks, chin tilting towards the hallway closet. 

“Yeah.” 

Garrett doesn’t hesitate. 

The process should take longer, but naturally, not having a real room means you can’t have many belongings. He almost didn’t believe it when you’d told him she’d turned the coat closet into your personal one. Now he could visualize the handful of hangers, your backpack tucked into the corner, and the storage bins stacked with trinkets that you had no room to display. 

You’d smiled when you explained that arrangement. 

Garrett’s jaw clenches at the thought. 

You jolt up from your spot on Garrett’s bed when he shoves his bedroom door open. 

“Shit, I thought you’d be awake.”

You’d been curled up on top of his comforter, still in your clothes from last night. “No, no, I’m awake.” You rush out, looking him over, blue tracksuit and all. His forehead is slightly sweaty, and his breath is heavy. He was an all-star athlete, which ruled out the possibility that he was winded from walking up the stairs. You noticed your quilted, cotton duffle bag that you often used as your overnight bag in his hands. 

There’s a question on your lips, but you push it down. Garrett sets down your bag near the edge of the bed before he comes closer, sitting down beside you on his bed. 

“Are you okay?” He grabs you by your chin as his face leans closer. He tilts your head to each side to inspect you. You're sure your eyes are puffy from crying yourself to sleep, but there was no reason you’d be bruised. No one bothered you at the restaurant, and Jules came to get you as soon as they could. It was the early hours of the morning by the time you’d made it back, but you were fine, thanks to Garrett. 

“I’m fine. Thank you…for last night,” You say quietly, sincerely, because you’re mostly just embarrassed at this point that last night even happened. He tilts your chin up, and his eyes search yours before he presses a soft kiss to your lips. You’re not sure when you’ll get used to that. 

“I just want you to be safe,” Garrett says against your lips, his hand moving from your chin to your arm and then down towards your waist. “You know how you agreed that you would let me take care of you?”

Your heartbeat quickens at the thought of that promise and that moment you shared in his car. “Yes.”

“Last night was a prime example of why I want you to rely on me. To trust me.”

With him this close, you see every emotion swirling in his eyes. He’s deadly serious. “I-I do trust you. I promise.” 

“Trust would be calling me as soon as you knew something was wrong.”

Your throat hurts. You didn’t think you had any tears left to cry, but you feel them threatening to fall again. “I didn’t I-I…I thought she would come.” Your voice cracks, “I’m sorry.”

Garrett’s lips press into a thin line of frustration. You wait desperately for him to say it’s okay, to relieve you of this feeling of impending doom. You don’t think you can take it if he’s mad at you. It’s already killing you to think about Paige and what a disaster your relationship is turning out to be.

Besides her, Garrett was the only friend you had here. “You promised me you would let me take care of you.”

Your stomach hurts. 

“I will,” You assure him, nodding your head.  “I want you to.”

“You do?”

“Yes, I want you to take care of me.”

"You need me?"

"I need you."

Garrett seals your promise with another kiss. That sinking feeling fades as you melt into Garrett’s arms. He pulls you into his lap, squeezing your body against his, and there’s a long moment where he’s petting your hair as you rest your head on his shoulder. You feel better like this. Your heart doesn’t hurt as much. 

For the first time, you consider a future that doesn’t revolve around work and school. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to care about something–someone else. You’d always done everything yourself. It might not be so bad to rely on someone else. 

As if he could sense where your mind was wandering. “You don’t have to worry about any of it anymore.”

“What do you mean?” You ask, your voice small, fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket. 

“We got all your stuff from your apartment. All of it’s in the spare bedroom now. A real bedroom.”

Your body stiffens as you lift your head from his shoulders. “What? Did Paige see you?”

“Paige isn’t going to do anything, Bunny.”

“You don’t understand. I can’t …it wouldn’t be fair–” The panic starts to build again. You meet his eyes, and they’re swirling again. His grip on you tightens, and you understand that there’s a fine line between this side of him and something beneath the surface. “Was she mad?”

“It doesn’t matter.” Garrett shakes his head, jaw flexing. “You’re not giving her any more money. You will sleep in a real bed, and you won’t ask her for anything ever again. Fuck her. Do you understand?”

You don’t let yourself fully comprehend the full weight of his words and decide to take the path of least resistance. “Yes, Garrett.”

“Good. I smell like a bus. Let’s shower together.”

“Together?”

“Uh huh.” Garrett pats your bottom playfully, “This is your house now.”

“I can’t stay here for free.”

“I just said you could.”

“But–” You stop yourself, now realizing the pattern. Nothing with him was a negotiation. You didn’t make your own suggestions. You followed his lead. You could worry if Garrett told you to worry. If not, then maybe it wasn’t something to freak out about. “Okay. The guys don’t mind?”

“‘Course not. They love you, Bunny.”

You wish you could believe him. Sure, everyone was nice to you. You couldn’t wrap your mind around why Garrett was interested in you and had seemingly started to focus all his attention on you. It was even harder to understand why his friends would like you. 

The events of last night and this morning, all of the new revelations made, led up to you showering with Garrett. 

The two of you stood in the upstairs bathroom, steam slowly rising from the shower as you watched Garrett peel off the clothes he'd slept in. When he turned around, his expression shifted into something resembling disappointment.

You were still fully dressed, your arms wrapped tightly around your torso, looking seconds away from curling up in the corner and crying.

“It’s a lot. All of this is a lot, Garrett.” 

Paige. 

The fact that all your things were now packed into his guestroom. 

Him. 

He approaches you, carefully, as if herding a scared animal. He shushes you. “It’s a lot,” He confirms. “Change is hard. Fall a part of you want. I’m here for you.” 

You nodded, heart heavy. “Lift your arms, baby.”

He undresses you slowly, lifting your crewneck above your head and then helping you out of your leggings. Your underwear and bra come next. You don’t meet his eyes the entire time. You focus on his chest, tan and sculpted. 

You notice his bruised knuckles for the first time.

“Your hands?”

“From the game,” He answers quickly, matter-of-fact. 

You can’t help it, an “I’m sorry” escapes from your lips as he unhooks your bra. You cover your chest with your arms as soon as your breasts are exposed to the air. 

Garret tsks at the sound of you apologizing for your appearance. “Don’t, Bunny.” 

Don’t apologize. 

Don’t cover yourself from me. 

His meaning is easy to understand. You let your arms fall back to your side, and then Garrett pulls down your underwear. He grabs your hand, wrapping your smaller one gently in his, and he guides your naked body towards the shower. You can see all of him, just like he can see all of you, and you’re not sure if you’ll be able to make it through being so close to him. 

Garrett is a lot of man. The magnitude of him hadn’t fully set in until now, when there were absolutely no more secrets between the two of you. 

He lets you stand in front of him, and the majority of the shower is spent with Garrett’s hands roaming over your skin. He lathers your skin with body wash, and you do your best to accept the gentleness. If there were something he didn’t like about your body, he wouldn’t be touching you this way. He pays extra special attention to your nipples, his thumbs constantly rubbing over the peaks of your chest, hands squeezing at their fullness. 

You feel warmth spreading under your skin, especially in your center. You squeezed your lips tightly together to keep a desperate moan from escaping you. In an attempt to get your bearings, to allow yourself to think clearly, you turn around and look at Garrett for the first time since you entered the bathroom. 

He’s focused, and then you feel his hardness poking against your stomach. “I’m sorry,” You say automatically, and you cringe at yourself. 

“Don’t, Bunny,” He warns again; this time, he quiets you by placing his hands around your throat. 

Smooth and controlled, Garrett presses you against the wall, his grip tightening. 

With wide eyes, you stare back at him, but you’re not sure what version of Garret you’re seeing now. He crashes his lips against yours shortly after that. His knees between your legs, his hands keeping you pinned, he explores your mouth with his tongue. 

You’re not sure how you’re breathing at all. You feel lightheaded, but that somehow only makes his kiss feel better. 

He leaves you no room to wiggle away when he reaches between your legs. “Garrett, please,” You whimper against his lips, “I can’t–”

“I know you can,” He grunts back. “I want to see you.”

Thick fingers explore your center. He squeezes your neck whenever you try to close your eyes.

“Look at me, Bunny.”

“Good girl.” “You know what I want to see.”

He makes slow, consistent, agonizing circles over your most sensitive area. He increases his pressure when your lips part in a gasp. He reads your body so carefully that it’s as if your body reaches its crescendo as soon as he wills it. You don’t think he can choke you any harder, but you find yourself gasping for air as you let out helpless, shaking sounds. 

“Jesus, fuck, get on your knees, baby.”

You’re still shaking and breathing heavy, riding out your own wave of pleasure. Your knees are against the shower floor shortly after Garrett demands it. His fingers tangle in your hair. 

“Keep looking. Look at what you do to me, Bunny.”

There’s little work involved. All it seems to take is your face looking up at him. You watch as he touches himself, slow movements, and then rapid ones. 

“Fuck.”

Groaning, falling hard over the edge, he paints your lips and your chest. Although you’re overwhelmed by the sight of it and then the feeling, you don’t dare take your eyes away from him. 

The spare bedroom has a full-sized bed, and you find your sheets and comforter already decorating it. There’s a bay window on the furthest wall with plenty of room for all the things you might want to display. The closet is three times the size of your old one, and there’s an old wooden dresser Garrett said you could also use. The walls are bare, and there are old moving boxes in the corner, but it’s perfect. And it’s yours, which you’re not fully sure has sunk in yet.

Over the next week, Garrett helps you settle in, and the two of you step into a new routine. You ride to campus together, Garrett drives you to work when he can, and when he can’t, you usually end up with Jules or Beau. 

You see Paige outside of the College of Education building before class one day, talking with one of her friends, and as soon as you work up the courage to walk up to her, she spots you. Her face falls instantly. She turns away from you, says goodbye to her friend, and actually crosses the street. 

You’re surprised Paige hasn’t sent you an angry text yet. 

Part of you wondered what exactly Garrett had said to her. When he told her that you were moving in, was she sad? Did she try to defend your friendship? Maybe she was so pissed that she’d never talk to you again. 

Hours later, after your Literacy class, you walk out of the education building with the members of your group project. “We’re gonna study at the main library for the midterm tomorrow, Y/N, if you want to join.” Your classmate, Ben, tells you. His dark hair and sharp facial features contrast with his prescription glasses and boyish personality. 

You should ask Garrett first. “Oh, okay, I’ll let you know.”

Another one of your classmates, Sydney, adds on, “No, you should come, Y/N. We can start brainstorming ideas for lesson plans.” 

You smile politely. You had no other excuse except for Garrett, and you had a feeling they might give you a strange look if you told them you were asking Garrett Graham for permission to study with them. 

“Yeah, okay.” 

“Good, it’s a plan,” She chirps. 

“If you need a ride or something, I got you,” Ben decides to add. His eyes are kind, and he seems to sense your hesitation about coming. 

“No,” You say a little too quickly, “I’ll have a ride. Um, so I’ll see you guys tomorrow.” You turn on your heels quickly, walking down a brick staircase towards the parking lot. 

Garrett’s got practice tonight, but he said he’d drop you home before he had to leave. You find his car in the front row, but he’s not inside; he’s leaning against the driver’s door. 

“Hey, Bunny.” He smiles, and you’re immediately relieved he’s in a good mood. “You look pretty.”

Your cheeks heat with embarrassment: “You saw me this morning.” He was actually the one who told you to pair your white sneakers with your denim jacket. 

“And somehow you look better than before.”

Garrett grabs your chin and leans down to kiss you. The kiss is short-lived because seconds later, a male voice is calling your name. When you turn around, Ben is jogging towards the two of you. You inhale sharply and your nerves spike. 

“This is yours, right?” He approaches with his hands stretched towards you; the teddy bear keychain you’d had attached to your bag forever is in his hands. “Must’ve fallen off.”

Speechless, you reach out to accept it. You part your mouth to force out a statement of gratitude, but it never comes. 

Garrett breaks through the awkward silence, reaching out to shake Ben’s hand. “Hey, man, I’m Garrett. Y/N’s boyfriend.”

“Of course I know you. That was an insane game against Harvard, man. I’m Ben, we have a few classes together.”

“Good to meet you,” Garrett says, friendly. 

For a brief moment, you wonder if you’re going crazy. 

“Yeah, you too. You guys have a good night. See you tomorrow, Y/N.” 

“Yeah,” Is all you can manage. 

The drive back to the hockey house is too quiet. You squeeze the teddy bear charm in your hand. You’re the one who breaks the silence five minutes later. “I told some of my classmates I would come study at the library tomorrow night. We have that midterm Friday, and we also have this group project coming up.”

“Mmhm,” Garrett hums. 

“If that’s okay with you.”

“It’s school, Y/N, of course it’s okay with me.”

You let out a small breath, “Okay. I just thought … never mind.” 

“What’s his deal, though? That’s the guy who keeps offering you rides?”

“No, it’s been like two times. I think he’s just being nice.”

“Is a teddy bear that fucking precious that he needs to chase you down?”

“I don’t know. It might’ve been weirder if he held onto it … right?”

Garrett only hums in response. 

“You’ve never called yourself my boyfriend before.”

“Felt right.”

“So that means…”

“What do you think it means, Bunny?” Garrett reaches across the console, his large hand enveloping your thigh. 

“That I’m your girlfriend?”

Garrett smirks at you, “You’re everything to me, Bunny.”

Chinese Grand Prix 2026

Sunday, March 15th, 05:01 p.m.

Ich bin Ausländer (Ausländer) /mi amor, mon chéri /Ausländer (Ausländer) /ciao, ragazza, take a chance on me

The song has played in my head all weekend. And it couldn't be any more ironic. I don't think I've ever felt more like a foreigner anywhere else than in China. China is the complete opposite of everything I'm used to. Finland has only 5 million people, China has 1 billion. Finland uses the latin alphabet, China has a logographic system. I've felt so out of place almost all week. So, it feels comforting to hear the Finnish national anthem playing.

I hold my hand over my heart, murmuring some of the lyrics. /ei vettä rantaa rakkaampaa, kuin kotimaa tää pohjoinen, maa kallis isien! This is one of those rare moments where I feel patriotic. I look over at Mika who's smiling at me, singing along. I can't help but smile back. This is a moment I'll never forget. My first win. I've worked so hard for this. George and Lewis drown me in champagne. It perfectly hides the few happy tears that run down my cheek.

---

Lewis is hosting an after party tonight. This one I'm not even thinking about skipping. Lewis' first Ferrari podium and my first win, those are things worth partying about.

I'm about to leave, making sure I have everything I need. I open the door, getting scared as there's a man standing there. Thank God it's just Toto. "Jesus Christ, you scared the shit out of me." I sigh in relief as I enter the hallway, closing the door behind me. Toto's carrying another jewellery box and champagne bottle, this time only bigger. "My apologies, I didn't know you would be opening the door before I even had the chance to knock." He holds out the champagne bottle to me and I take it.

"Thank you, Toto, but again, you didn't have to get me anything." I reply, looking up at him. I wonder if he only has two outfits in his closet. It's either the team kit button down or a completely white one paired with black suit pants. All that money and he can't spend it on clothes? "And again, mein Engel. You deserve it." He starts walking with me towards the elevator.

"Why do you call me that?" I ask as we enter the elevator. Toto looks at me, his brown eyes almost intense, like he's evaluating me. "It suits you. You not only look like an angel, but you act like one too." I furrow my brows and he seems to read my confusion. "You do as you're told and you don't get into trouble." He unravels my bun with his other hand, combing his fingers through my hair before speaking again. "Keep your hair open." There's a hint of command in his tone, although he's speaking to me softly.

Toto offers me a ride to the party. He places the box on the dashboard and tells me not to touch it. We don't really talk during the drive. A rather awkward silence if you ask me. Whenever he shifts the gear, his hand lingers next to mine before returning to the wheel. And it's not only his hand that lingers, his gaze too. I feel like he purposely found the closest red lights so he could steal a longer glance at me, but I can't prove it. I could also just be delusional. After all, he is an attractive older man who's giving me attention.

We stop in front of the club where the party is held. Toto doesn't open the safety locks immediately. Instead he takes the jewellery box and turns to me, opening it. It's a thin golden necklace with a pearl. It's probably from the same set as the bracelet. I go to touch it but he stops me. He gestures for me to turn and I comply. Toto moves my hair away from my neck and then takes off my cross necklace. He replaces it with the necklace he got me, his hands lingering on my neck and shoulders. I look admire the pearl in it, it's definitely real. "Thank you." I mumble as I turn to him. I look at the cross necklace he's now holding. It was my grandmother's and I don't really want to lose it. "Could I maybe get that back? It was-" Toto interrupts me waving a dismissing hand. "I'll hold on to it." He gives me a reassuring smile before unlocking the safety lock. "Come on, Lewis is waiting." He says, getting out of the car.

Jesus, that was weird. I try not to think about it too much, I want to be able to enjoy my night. Toto wraps his hand around my waist as we enter the club, the loud music and dim lighting overwhelming me a bit to even register it fully. Lewis comes to greet us as we walk further into the club. "Congratulations to you both, man what a rocketship you built, Toto. Right after I left too!" Lewis chuckles as he gives us both a hug. I give Lewis the bottle of champagne Toto got me as a congratulatory gift, feeling Toto's grip tighten at the same time. I'm not a big drinker, so it made sense for me to give it to someone else. Lewis takes Toto with him, wanting to catch up with him. He congratulates me again before leaving with Toto. Toto's hands linger on my waist until he's too far to hold. I see George by the bar, talking with Carmen. "George!" I shout out to him, rushing to join him and Carmen.

---

Friday, March 20th, 09:28 a.m.

I wake up to my phone ringing. It must have been ringing for a while, because when I finally answer it a man's voice sounds relieved and annoyed at the same time.

"Finally. I've been trying to reach you for a while now." It's Toto. "Sorry, I just woke up." I answer, sitting up in my bed, barely awake. "I need you to come to Brackley. Today." He sounds urgent. "Is something wrong? I still have a day off before work tomorrow." I yawn, getting out of bed. "You're coming. My plane's there in an hour." "But I'm in Monaco-" I try to protest but he interrupts me. "I know. You're still coming." He hangs up. How the hell does he know I'm in Monaco? George is probably there and told him. Well shit. 30 minutes to the airport by taxi, so I have 30 minutes to get ready. I rush to the bathroom.

---

The taxi arrives in Brackley at one. Toto's already waiting by the front doors. "What the hell was so urgent I had to get here before my work hours?" I ask him, slightly irritated as he takes my bag and walks with me inside Mercedes HQ. "Language." He warns. We enter the elevator and he pushes the button to his office. "Sorry. I'm tired and I hate being rushed." I sigh, calming down. "We need to talk." He says, his voice serious. I look up at him sort of in disbelief. The elevator doors open to the top floor. "And this couldn't be handled through the phone?" I ask him, getting annoyed again. "No." He states, opening the door to his office and gesturing for me to enter. "Ei jumalauta." I mutter underneath my breath, taking off my coat.

He places my duffel bag down next to his desk. I sit down on one of the chairs in front of his desk, waiting for him to speak. "Is George coming too?" He shakes his head as he rolls up the sleeves of his button down. "No. And he doesn't need to know." I furrow my brows at that. This man loves to confuse me. "Why not?" He looks down at me. "Because I don't want you two fighting over who's my number one driver." Makes sense. I guess the brocedes break up was rough for him too. But still. Why does he only want to talk to me?

He sits down on the leather chair in front of me, the desk being the only thing to separate us. "I think it's time I teach you the rules." He says looking at me intently. "We already went through them." I answer, clearly confused. "I'm not talking about team rules. I'm talking about rules between you and me." Now I'm even more confused. And maybe a little concerned. "I'm sorry?" I ask, unsure if I heard him correctly. "Do you remember what happened last Sunday? At the party." He raises his eyebrows, looking at me like I did something wrong. I look away, trying to remember. "Yeah, I think so. I had a lot to drink and a lot of fun. And I woke up the next day, with a massive hangover, and next to a mechanic. But he was Red Bull's mechanic, so don't worry." I reply, finding it rather amusing, but he clearly doesn't. His jaw clenches and he takes off his glasses. He stands up, running his hands through his hair.

"Exactly why we need rules." He looks at me, almost disappointed. I look away rather quickly. I don't want him to be disappointed in me. I think I'd cry if he ever was. There's a short silence between us that he ends. "You can go out and have fun. You can drink yourself to a hangover as long as your liver can take it. But you can't wake up next to random boys. I don't want them distracting you." He says, his voice soft but assertive. Distracting me? I don't even remember the guy's name. He walks behind me, looking out of the window before speaking again. "Podiums and wins grant you prices. You get to go out, have fun. Anywhere below the top five? You're the one paying the price." He turns to me, being so close that I can feel my head touch his waist. His hands once again rest on my shoulders.

"You want to keep your seat? You play by my rules. No boys, no distractions. Partying or cleaning? It's your choice." He then turns my head up with his finger to look at him. "You wouldn't want to disappoint me, would you?" Oh, fuck him. He knows what he's doing. "No, sir." I whisper. I can see a smirk form on his face before letting go of my chin. He taps on my shoulder, signaling for me to get up. "Now be a good girl and hop on the simulator if you want to get off work early tomorrow. I'll bring your bag to your room soon."

He walks back behind his desk, sitting down and opening his computer. I nod, relieved for this torture to be over. I'm about to open the door when he calls my name. He tosses me back my cross necklace. I thank him, closing the door behind me. Jesus, it was getting tense in there. Glad I didn't tell him how I noticed him staring at me all night at that party. Probably would have made that conversation ten times more uncomfortable. A million questions run through my head. And I hate that I don't have anyone to talk to about this. It's been a long fucking day and the day isn't even over yet.

As I get on the simulator, I can't stop thinking about one thing. How did he know I was in Monaco if George isn't here to tell him, and I haven't posted anything online since the Chinese Grand Prix? Is he stalking me? No, someone from Mercedes must have known and told him. Anyway, Suzuka is next. I have to focus.

---

Australian Grand Prix 2026

Wednesday, March 4th, 07:15 a.m.

Plain talking (plain talking) /take us so far (take us so far) /broken down cars (broken down cars) /like strung out old stars (strung out old stars..

The lyrics of my current favourite song play in my ears as I look out the window of the plane. Melbourne looks so beautiful from the sky. I've never been to Australia before, so we came here a bit early to have a day of tourist activities. A 22 hour direct flight from Helsinki is not for the weak. I'm surprised I even managed to sleep at all. The anxiety I get from flying along with my nervousness about the upcoming race weekend have been keeping my brain awake.

I fiddle with my cross necklace as the flight attendant brings me a Red Bull. I take my headphones off in surprise. I didn't order anything, yet I still take it and thank her. I look over at Mika - my manager - sitting across from me.

"A Red Bull? You do remember I'm at Mercedes, right?" I ask him playfully as I open the can, taking a sip.

"I know you need it. I have a lot to show you in Melbourne. It's a wonderful city, you'll love it." He chuckles lightly as he answers back in Finnish.

I've known Mika since I was thirteen. It was at the Finnish Karting Championship Grand Prix held in Pori. He was there with his daughter who had just started karting. I was one of three other girls there. I had won the five previous races and was the runner up for the championship. He was working for McLaren at the time in recruitment. And to my luck, I won the race and after it he came to talk to me and my mum. He gave my mum his phone number and after a lot of talking about opportunities, finances, school and whatever else worried my parents, they finally agreed. My parents aren't rich. Both of them blue collar workers. Mika sort of saved me from my dreams collapsing. I joined the McLaren Driver Development Programme at 14 and was moved directly to European F3 in a span of couple months. And once I got a spot in F2 after winning the European F3 championship, Mika became my manager. Mika's a great manager and when I'm not training or racing he acts like a typical Finnish dad. He has basically adopted me into his family but I doubt he'd admit it.

---

Mika helps me put my bags in the back of the rental car. He only has one bag compared to my five. Not my fault I want to look good when I'm not racing.

"So, what was the name of the hotel Toto talked about?" Mika asks as we get inside the car.

"The Ritz-Carlton. 650 Lonsdale Street." I read from my phone. I sip on the Red Bull as we start driving.

We drive in comfortable silence. Us Finns aren't big talkers.

When we arrive at the hotel, a valet is there to help us. He takes our bags and helps us get settled in the hotel. I try to help him but Mika chuckles at me before turning to the valet. "I'm sorry, she's not used to this lifestyle." He apologises to the valet, his Finnish accent clear as he speaks in English. He gives the valet a tip and then turns to me.

"You'll get used to it. Now, get some rest before getting ready for the day. I'll come knocking on your door when it's time to go exploring. I'm sure someone from Mercedes will be here soon to greet you." He speaks to me again in Finnish. He hugs me before leaving, but I notice that someone's already by the door. It's George. Mika greets him as he leaves, leaving us alone.

George walks in, hugging me as we greet each other. "You made it here early. Haven't seen you in two weeks, I was starting to miss you." He says, slightly surprised with his strong British accent.

"Yeah, Mika wanted to show me Melbourne before the race weekend starts. I'm so glad you're here. I thought I would be the only one." I answer, smiling at him. George has been really kind to me ever since I joined Mercedes. Replacing a seven-time world champion is a huge pressure, but he's made sure I feel welcomed at Mercedes.

"Oh, don't worry. You're definitely not the only one. Mechanics, engineers, all the other important people who work with the cars got here on Monday. If anything us and Toto are the ones late. Anyway, would you like help with your things?" George remarks, offering a helping hand.

"Oh, you really don't have to, George. But thank you for offering to help. I have a very specific system when it comes to my things, so I'd rather unpack myself. Where's Toto, by the way?" I reply as I open one of my bags.

"All right, then. Toto's supposed to be here by two." George hugs me again before leaving, giving me space to unpack. At the door he turns around like he just remembered something.

"Oh, I almost forgot. Mercedes has this tradition of getting everyone together for dinner before the race weekend starts and it's tonight at eight. Vue de monde. I'll text you the address." He then leaves before I can thank him.

I sigh as I start unpacking. "Vai niin."

---

08.00 p.m.

My legs are killing me. I've been walking around Melbourne all day with Mika. I've seen probably every museum, café and park that Melbourne has to offer. And now I have to go to a fancy dinner wearing fancy clothes. I'm not complaining, though. Free food is free food. Apparently Toto pays for it all. That's insane if you ask me. I know he has money, but still, Jesus. But it's still nice of him. And also I haven't gotten my first F1 paycheck yet, so I'm broke compared to someone like George. It's actually what started Franco and I's friendship. Both of us being broke at the drivers' dinner that Lewis paid for two weeks ago.

I arrive at the table, George, Bono and the other men standing up to welcome me. Looks like Mercedes men have manners. It makes me slightly blush. George is the first to notice Toto. I turn around, Toto approaching us. He greets me first. He smiles at me and I smile back, shaking his hand. He puts a hand on my shoulder, turning me faintly towards him. "Glad to see you again, sweetheart. Hope your flight went well." He says, his Austrian accent stronger than I remembered.

"It did, thank you." I affirm, noticing how intense his eye contact is. Toto has always made me rather nervous. Everyone knows he's intimidating. George told me once I know him well enough he won't be so scary. I want to believe him. He nods, his hand still on my shoulder as he greets the others. Toto pulls out a chair for me, next to him. I sit down, thanking him.

The dinner went well. I tasted foods I've never even heard of and wines that are more expensive than the fanciest dress I own. We talked about the upcoming weekend. Went through the different strategies, schedules, all of it. At the end of the dinner, when we've all finished eating and we just talk while slowly sipping on our drinks, George makes a joke about Toto being the "leader of the pack" when discussing our upcoming Adidas Y3 x Mercedes collaboration. Toto smiles at it and then turns his head towards me.

I gently put down my wine glass before looking at him. Although he seems serious and tense, the way he speaks is almost gentle and playful. "You're not a wolf, you're a tiny little lamb." He says to me. I don't really know how to respond. Is he being mean? Or am I missing a serious social cue here? "But by the end of this season, you'll understand what it takes to be a wolf." He then takes his wine glass, cueing everyone else to take theirs as well. "To a dominating season." Bono remarks as we toast, ending the rather awkward silence just a second before.

---

Race Day

Sunday, March 8th, 08:00 p.m.

The weekend didn't start well. Both free practises went to shit. George, Toto, Bono and Mika, pretty much everyone told me that free practises didn't matter. I knew they didn't. I never watched them back when I was watching F1 on the television. I just wanted to make a good first impression. To prove that I belonged in this sport just as much as a man.

I managed to get P2 in qualifying. Although I am highly self-critical, I had to admit that was pretty fucking good. My nerves were so high before the race that I couldn't sleep. I managed to get maybe two hours of sleep. But once I got in that car and those lights went out, all of my thoughts stopped. I only focused on doing my best. And it worked. The rush of adrenaline kept me awake and focused. I got P2 on my first ever F1 race. Mercedes front row lock-out. Perfect way to start the season.

After washing away at least five bottles worth of champagne off me, I start getting ready for the after party hosted by Charles. I'm honestly tired, but George said I have to come. Apparently I am not allowed to miss my first Grand Prix after party. Especially not Charles'. I've just finished doing my makeup when I hear a knock at the door. I scramble to put on some clothes before opening the door, as I've only had my bathrobe on. I open the door to find Toto standing there, a velvet jewellery box on one hand and a small bottle of champagne on the other. "I came to congratulate you again." He says like it's obvious.

I let him in, thanking him for his gifts. He closes the door behind him, looking around my room. I sit back down by the vanity, opening the small bottle of champagne and taking a sip. He comes up behind me, looking down at me with the box in his hand. He opens the box, revealing a gold bracelet with tiny pearls.

"I thought it would look nice on you." He states, his voice low. He takes my hand gently and puts the bracelet on me. I'm confused to say the least. The bracelet is beautiful, but I don't understand why he would buy me one. "You really didn't have to buy me anything, Toto." I mutter.

"You deserve it. You did good today, mein Engel." He whispers it into my ear. His voice low and soft. His fingers linger on my wrist. I hope he doesn't notice how flushed my cheeks are. Why does he have to do that? He's my boss, it will have to stay professional between us, so no crushing. "Thank you." I whisper back, looking up at him. He lets my hand go, moving to my hair. He runs his fingers through it before taking the brush. I admire the bracelet on my hand but his sudden gesture to brush my hair takes my attention.

"You should wear your hair down tonight. It looks nice with the black dress you'll be wearing." He comments, setting down the brush and looking at me through the mirror. He sets his hands on my shoulders again. "Enjoy tonight. You're only young once." His grip tightens slightly. "But don't do anything stupid. I want you here safe and sound in the morning. Understood?"