𐙚

The sun carefully rose and brightened Dean’s room. The soft morning light brightened the room bringing the notice of the beginning of a new day. It’s not like Dean cared about the news the daylight brought. He cared about the girl who was sleeping in bed. The previous day still didn’t end for Dean; he still replayed the knock and y/n’s words in his mind. Whatever good news this new day was bringing with it didn’t matter if it wasn’t about y/n’s well-being. So Dean sat on his chair and let the rays of the sun brighten his room hoping they’d awaken y/n and he’ll find her healthy and steady.

The first thing Y/N noticed when she opened her eyes was the ceiling.

It wasn't hers.

For one disoriented second, she simply stared at it, her mind slow and heavy, trying to place the unfamiliar room around her. Gray walls. A dresser across from the bed. Hockey posters. A desk chair near the window.

Then panic hit.

Y/N jolted upright too quickly, breath catching in her throat. The room tilted sharply, and she pressed a hand to her forehead.

"What-"

Her other hand flew to the blanket, clutching it tightly against her chest. She looked down.

Her dress was still on.

Her shoes were gone, but she was clothed.

Completely clothed.

Relief crashed through her so suddenly it almost made her dizzy again.

A quiet voice came from the corner of the room.

"Hey. Easy."

Y/N's head snapped toward it.

Dean was sitting in the desk chair beside the bed, elbows resting on his knees. He looked awful. His dark shirt was wrinkled, his hair messy like he'd been running his hands through it all night, and there were shadows beneath his eyes that hadn't been there yesterday.

The second she saw him, everything came flooding back.

The party. The drink. The dizziness. The stairs.

His door.

Heat rushed to her face.

Dean noticed immediately. His expression tightened, but his voice stayed careful.

"Nothing happened."

Y/N swallowed.

"You came to my room, and you collapsed outside the door. I caught you before you hit your head." He looked away for a second, then back at her. "I put you on the bed, covered you up, and stayed here."

Y/N stared at him.

For once, there was no smirk. No teasing. No sarcastic edge.

Just exhaustion.

"I remember…" she whispered.

Silence settled between them.

Y/N looked down at the blanket still clenched in her hands. The panic from waking up slowly gave way to something heavier: embarrassment, confusion, and the lingering fog of last night.

Then she noticed the hoodie draped over the blanket.

It was black, oversized, and unmistakably his.

Her fingers brushed the sleeve. "Is this yours?"

Dean glanced at it and nodded once. "Yeah."

A memory flickered across his face before he added, quieter, "You were shivering."

Y/N's chest tightened.

"Oh."

Another silence.

Dean stood slowly, like he didn't want to startle her, and grabbed the water bottle from his desk. "Drink some water."

Y/N accepted it with slightly shaky hands.

"Thanks."

"You should sip it slowly."

She listened, taking a careful drink. Her throat felt dry, and the water helped clear some of the haze from her head.

When she lowered the bottle, she looked at him again.

"You look tired."

Dean huffed a small laugh. "I'm fine."

"Did you sleep?"

He shrugged, too casually. "Not really."

"Why?"

Dean looked at the floor for a second before answering. "Just wanted to make sure you were okay."

The words were simple. Almost careless. But the way he said them made Y/N believe he had been far more worried than he was admitting.

"You stayed in the chair all night?"

Dean leaned back against the desk. "The bed was occupied."

Y/N glanced at the neatly made side of the bed he clearly hadn't touched.

"You could've slept there," she said softly.

"And wake you up every time I moved?" Dean shook his head. "You needed space."

That hurt more than it should have.

Not because of anything cruel.

Because Dean Di Laurentis, who usually filled every room with noise and arrogance, had chosen the chair so she would feel safe.

Y/N looked down at the water bottle. "I'm sorry."

Dean frowned. "For what?"

"For worrying you."

His expression changed immediately, like the apology caught him off guard.

"You don't apologize for that."

"I still worried you."

Dean let out a quiet breath. "Yeah. Well. Don't do it again."

The attempt at casualness almost made her smile.

Almost.

Y/N shifted, and the room tilted slightly. Dean moved toward her instinctively, one hand half-reaching out before stopping himself.

"You okay?"

"Just dizzy."

"Then don't stand up yet."

"I wasn't going to."

Dean nodded once, then stepped back, giving her space again.

Y/N studied him carefully. He looked different this morning. Softer around the edges. Less certain of himself.

And suddenly, the insults from last night felt strangely distant. Not erased. Not forgiven. Just... smaller compared to the realization that someone had drugged her drink.

A shiver ran through her.

Dean noticed immediately. "Hey."

She looked up.

"You're safe now."

The words settled somewhere deep in her chest.

Y/N swallowed. "I remember some of it."

Dean's jaw tightened. "What do you remember?"

"The kitchen with drinks. Feeling dizzy. The stairs." Her voice dropped. "Your door."

Dean didn't speak.

Dean looked at her carefully. "You were scared."

Y/N looked away. "I knew you wouldn't hurt me."

Dean was silent for a long moment.

Then he said, very carefully, "I'm glad you came here."

Y/N didn't know what to do with that. Both of them remembered the exact words from yesterday: “I know you hate me enough not to try anything.” And the words just lingered around the room, making every interaction more heavy and intense than it should be. Every word seemed to reference last night’s events and it seemed to bother both of them.

Dean cleared his throat. "I can take you home."

"You don't have to."

"I know."

"I’ll call someone."

Dean's mouth tightened. "You can. But I'm still taking you home."

Y/N blinked. "Dean..”

"You're still dizzy."

"I'll be fine."

"Maybe." He crossed his arms lightly, though there was no arrogance in it. "I'd rather not risk it."

Y/N hesitated.

Part of her wanted to refuse out of principle.

Another part remembered the stairs, the dizziness, and the fact that Dean had stayed awake all night to make sure she was okay.

Finally, she sighed. "Fine."

Dean nodded once, almost relieved. "Good."

"But I'm not letting you make a big deal out of it."

"I never make a big deal out of anything."

Y/N raised an eyebrow.

Dean looked offended. "Okay, rude."

For the first time that morning, a tiny smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Dean noticed.

And for one brief second, despite the exhaustion and the guilt and everything hanging awkwardly between them, the room felt a little less heavy.

—

As they headed outside Dean stopped mid tracks and ran back to his room.

Y/n stopped mid walk and started at the direction Dean went. Confusion was written all around her face.

Seconds later Dean returned with another hoodie in his hands.

He held the hoodie out toward her.

“Wear it.”

She blinked.

“…Dean.”

“It’s freezing.”

“I’ll be fine.”

He looked at her for exactly two seconds before raising an eyebrow.

“You’re literally shivering and we haven’t left the house yet.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Poorly.”

She opened her mouth to argue.

Dean took one small step closer and gently nudged the hoodie into her hands.

“It’s just until you get home.”

She looked between him and the sweatshirt.

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“You really don’t give up, do you?”

“No.”

“Noted.”

She slipped the oversized hoodie over her head.

The sleeves swallowed her hands almost completely. The hem reached halfway down her thighs, covering most of the elegant dress beneath it.

Dean looked at her for a second. Then another.

Y/N narrowed her eyes.

“…What?”

He pressed his lips together.

“I’m deciding.”

“About?”

“If that’s the strangest outfit I’ve ever seen.”

She looked down.

The elegant emerald dress peeked out beneath the oversized black hoodie.

She sighed dramatically.

“I look ridiculous.”

Dean’s shoulders shook with a quiet laugh.

“…A little.”

She pointed at him.

“I knew it.”

“But…” His smile softened. “It works.”

She rolled her eyes.

“You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

—

The morning air carried the kind of chill that only existed just after sunrise.

The campus looked almost unfamiliar without the usual crowds. Sidewalks that had been packed only hours earlier now sat nearly empty, scattered with a few students heading home after long nights and the occasional jogger making an early start.

Dean shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans as they stepped out of the apartment building.

Y/N wrapped her arms around herself instinctively, thankful she had Dean’s hoodie on.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The quiet wasn’t uncomfortable. It simply felt… new.

Birds chirped somewhere overhead. The breeze rustled through rows of trees lining the sidewalk. Dean glanced toward her every few moments without meaning to.

She looked tired. Not exhausted. Just quieter than usual.

After several minutes, he broke the silence.

“Do you remember much from last night?”

Y/N looked ahead.

“Bits and pieces.”

She frowned thoughtfully.

“I remember feeling fine.”

Then she stopped herself. Dean slowed his pace to match hers.

“What is it?”

She shook her head.

“I keep trying to remember everything exactly.”

Her eyebrows pinched together.

“And every time I think I’ve got it…” Her voice trailed off. “…it slips away.”

Dean nodded once.

“You don’t have to figure it out today.”

“I know. It’s just that damn party…” She looked down at the sidewalk. “I just…” A sigh escaped her. “I keep thinking maybe I should’ve paid more attention.”

Dean frowned.

“To what?”

“My drink, to whoever was around me...” She gave a humorless little laugh. “I probably should’ve kept a closer eye on it.”

Dean stopped walking. Completely.

Y/N turned toward him. “What?”

His expression had hardened. “No.”

She blinked.

“No?”

“You don’t get to blame yourself.”

“I wasn’t…”

“You were.”

His voice stayed calm.

“It should’ve been a place where you didn’t have to think about that.”

She stared at him.

Dean continued more quietly.

“If somebody acts like an idiot…” He shook his head. “That’s on them.”

“Dean…”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

The certainty in his voice left no room for argument.

Y/N looked away.

For some reason, hearing him say it made something inside her loosen. She hadn’t realized she’d been carrying that thought around since waking up.

“…Thanks.”

Dean simply nodded.

They resumed walking.

After another minute, Y/N drifted back into her thoughts. Her eyebrows knitted together. Almost unconsciously, the nail of her thumb found the side of her index finger.

She began picking at the skin. A habit she’d had since high school. She didn’t even notice she was doing it.

Dean did.

He watched her for several seconds.

Then, without really thinking he reached over. His fingers gently wrapped around her hand. Stopping hers completely.

“…Don’t.”

Y/N froze.

Dean froze.

Both of them looked down.

Dean’s hand covered hers completely.

Warm.

Steady.

For one very awkward second, neither of them moved. Dean’s brain finally caught up with what he’d done.

Why did he…?

He almost let go.

Instead, he cleared his throat.

“You’ll make it bleed.”

His explanation sounded surprisingly reasonable.

Y/N looked at their hands again.

“…I always do that when I’m nervous.”

“I noticed.”

“You noticed?”

“You’ve done it before.”

She hadn’t realized. Neither had he. A tiny silence settled between them. Dean was still holding her hand.

He really should let go.

Probably.

Instead…

His thumb brushed lightly across the back of her hand. Almost absentmindedly.

“You don’t have to figure everything out today,” he said quietly. “You’ve got time.”

She looked at him. Something about his expression had changed. The usual confidence wasn’t there. Just sincerity. She felt herself relax a little.

“…Okay.”

Neither of them mentioned their hands. Neither of them pulled away. Eventually they started walking again. Still side by side. Still hand in hand.

It somehow felt… natural. As if letting go would be stranger than continuing. Thankfully, the conversation drifted somewhere much lighter.

Dean glanced sideways.

“So.”

“So?”

“I learned something.”

“Oh?”

“You apparently judge people’s hoodies.”

“I judge everyone’s hoodies.”

He looked offended.

“This one’s high quality.”

“It’s three sizes too big.”

“That’s the point.”

“It makes me look like I got dressed in the dark.”

He grinned.

“You kind of did.”

She laughed.

A real laugh this time.

Dean smiled without realizing it.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“You laughed.”

She bumped his shoulder lightly.

“You are unbelievable.”

“I’ve also been told that.”

“You’ve been told a lot of things.”

“Most of them are true.”

“I’m sure.”

By the time they reached her apartment building, the walk had felt far shorter than either of them expected.

Dean slowed to a stop.

“…Well.”

“Well.”

For a moment, neither moved.

Y/N looked down at the oversized hoodie.

“I’ll wash it.”

Dean looked at her.

“And I’ll bring it back.” She added.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t have to rush.”

She smiled too.

“I wasn’t planning on stealing it.”

“I wasn’t accusing you.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You absolutely were.”

Dean laughed.

“I guess now I’ll have to see you again.” The words slipped out before he could stop them.

For a heartbeat, both of them went quiet.

Y/N’s smile softened. “I guess you will.”

She reached for the apartment door. Before stepping inside, she looked back.

“…Thanks.”

This time she wasn’t talking about the hoodie.

Dean understood anyway.

He gave a small nod.

“Get some rest.”

“I will.”

She disappeared inside the building.

Dean stood there for another few seconds, staring at the closed door.

The walk had taken maybe twenty minutes.

It hadn’t been nearly long enough.

Eventually, he turned toward campus.

His hands instinctively slid into the pockets of his jeans.

One pocket felt strangely empty.

Then he remembered.

His hoodie.

A small smile spread across his face.

He’d be getting it back eventually.

And, for the first time in a long while, he found himself looking forward to the excuse.

He couldn't cry. Not right now. Not yet. Not until he knew the facts. Tucker started talking. A crash, Beau, broken bones and blood everywhere. Alive.

Dean breathed out slowly. Alive.

Beau was alive.

"He's in the ICU. I can show you."

Dean nodded, once and slowly, before following Tucker down the hall. The lights were bright, chaos was everywhere. Dean was focused on one thing. Beau. Tucker stopped at the big, metal doors. "I can't go past. I'm not immediate."

Dean nodded again, like he understood. He wasn't paying much attention. He walked over to the nurse's station, his body basically on autopilot as he told her who he was here for and who he was. Dean Di Laurentis. Beau Maxwell's emergency contact.

They'd made each other their emergency contacts three years ago, when they were the closest ones to each other to do anything immediate. It made sense. Right now, Dean was grateful for it. He couldn't handle not seeing him.

The nurse led him back to the room, opening the glass door and allowing him inside. The sight made Dean's stomach drop. He had a tube in his throat, his body beat to hell and wires poking out of every possible spot.

"It's scary to look at," you said. Dean's eyes flickered to you. You were doing something with his IV. "I promise it looks scarier than it is. He's doing quite well so far."

Your voice was calm, collected. There was a small, sympathetic smile on your face. Like you knew all too well what Dean was feeling. He swallowed. Once. Twice. Then he cleared his throat. "How bad is it?" he managed to ask.

"I'm not allowed, really, to tell you the full details," you replied. Dean sucked in a breath. "But the doctor will be in soon. She'll explain everything in full detail. She'll have the answers to your questions."

Dean nodded, slow and unsure, his eyes going back to Beau. "He can't breathe?" Dean knew what the tube down the throat meant. It meant he wasn't breathing on his own.

"He's in a medically induced coma to help his body heal. He can breathe on his own otherwise," you said softly.

Dean let out a small, shaky breath. "What's your name?" he asked, trying to distract himself. Everything was running in his head and he couldn't focus.

"Sit," you told him, motioning over to the chair in the corner. Dean listened without hesitation. He was sure his legs were going to give out soon. "I'm Y/N. And you are?"

"Dean. I'm-" Dean's voice hitched, and he cleared his throat of a voice crack. "I'm Beau's best friend."

You nodded. "Well, he's lucky to have you. You may not realize it, but the body is a mysterious thing. People heal much better with the company of their loved ones."

Dean's eyes met yours. Soft and unsure, searching for answers you didn't have. He could tell that you wish you did, though. "Yeah?"

You smiled softly at his quiet voice. "Yeah."

The glass doors slid open and the doctor came in. You nodded, walking out of the room without another word. Dean's eyes watched you as you went. Something about you soothed his racing heart.

  ++

  The following days were hard. He spent every second that he could in the ICU with Beau, and when he couldn't, he spent it in the waiting room. He hadn't showered, had barely ate. If it wasn't for the guys, he'd probably be a walking zombie by now.

Garrett sat next to him in the waiting room. Dean's leg bounced. Beau was healing. Slowly, but he was. He was still in the coma, still needed more time, but the doctor was optimistic. That made Dean feel a little better.

Beau's parents and sister were there most of the time, meaning Dean had even less time in the ICU than he did the first night. It was okay, he knew that. Beau would want his family there. Dean, however, wanted to be there as well.

He needed it.

"How's he doing?" Garrett asked, voice soft and sympathetic in a way all of their voices have been since that first night.

Dean swallowed. "Better. Healing slowly. Just...wish it was faster." Dean shook his head, rubbing his hand over his stubble.

Garrett put a steady hand on his shoulder, squeezing. "You need to shower. Sleep. Eat. You can't do anything if you're like this, Dean."

Dean shook his head. "I can't leave, man."

Garrett sighed. Dean continued before he could say anything. "What if-" He sucked in a breath. "What if I leave and something happens? I leave and he..."

Garrett shook his head. "No. Hey, no. You can't think like that, Dean. You can't."

Dean shook his head again, hand coming up to wipe the tears from his eye before they could spill over. "Someone has to."

"That's the doctor's job. They're here all the time. He has the best he could have to help him recover. You have to take care of yourself too, dude."

Dean sighed. Once, and then twice. He slowly nodded. "Fine."

Dean went home with Garrett. He showered and ate a quick meal Tucker had cooked, and then took half an hour nap that Logan supervised. That was the only reason Dean even managed to fall asleep.

Then he was up, heading back to the hospital with no complaints for the guys because they knew he wouldn't listen. He found a seat in the cafeteria because he had promised that he'd find something more to eat when he got back to the hospital.

A small sandwich was in front of him, along with a bottle of water. Untouched. Dean's leg bounced, his mouth worked around his nails that he'd nearly bitten all the way down.

Dean didn't bite his nails. He didn't worry like this.

But this was different. This was Beau.

His eyes shot up when he saw you, sitting down in front of him, a tray of food in your hands. "Seat taken?" you asked softly.

He shook his head silently. You sat the tray down, scooting the chair closer. For a moment, no one spoke, and then you did. "Beau's doing better. He's improved a lot. Dr. Anderson thinks he'll be able to be taken out of the coma soon."

Dean appreciated the update. He hadn't been back in the ICU since last night and he'd been worrying like hell since he left to go home. "Good. That's...that's good."

"That's great," you corrected, opening a cup of yogurt. "He's doing great, Dean."

Dean's leg stopped bouncing. His mouth paused its gnawing on his fingernails. "Yeah?"

You smiled softly. "Yeah."

Dean slowly pulled his fingers away from his mouth, swallowing. "Thank you. For taking such good care of him."

You nodded, grabbing your plastic spoon. "Of course."

The silence that followed was softer. Less traumatic. It was a light quiet, full of thoughts Dean couldn't quite figure out and a small relaxation to his chest that he wasn't aware was there yet. You moved delicately as you ate.

Your touch never rough, your movements never quick. Like you had all the time in the world even though Dean knew you didn't. He watched, a little transfixed. You kept a calm demeanor, a safe one. He felt invited into it. Like everything would be alright if you were there.

Finally, he spoke. "How long have you been a nurse?"

You smiled, a small but genuine one. "First year, actually," you said.

Dean's eyebrows rose in surprise. "Really? You..." He smiled, shaking his head. "You can't tell."

You laughed softly. "Good. It means I'm doing my job right."

Dean laughed back. Small and quiet, but there. The first laugh he's cracked in four days. "How are you so...calm. I'd be freaking out."

You shrugged. "Hospitals and I have a long history."

That got his interest, but he didn't pry. Not yet, anyway. Instead, he nodded, looking at you curiously. "Well, it suits you. You...I mean, you're good at it. Certainly have helped me."

The words hung in the air for a second, before they settled in your chest. You smiled, a little bigger this time. "Thank you, Dean. I appreciate that."

Your pager went off, and you glanced down at it, your demeanor changing. Never panicking, never tensing, but it was different. Like the weight of the world rested upon your shoulders. It kind of did.

Dean's changed too. "It's not Beau," you said quickly, standing up. Dean's eyes watched you with panic, and you paused for a second. "It's not Beau," you repeated, a little softer this time. Making sure he heard.

He let out a small sigh, nodding, and then you were gone. Lunch left behind and the calmness disappearing.

That was when Dean felt it. The way you helped his nerves. He didn't notice until they were back again in full force. But with you, they were still. Not gone, but still. Like sparks of worry remained in his blood instead of filling every vein and artery with concern.

He let out a shaky breath, closing his eyes.

Eating lunch sounded like a good idea right then. Mostly to distract himself from the insane amount of panic that coursed his bloodstream. The thought of you lingered in his head.

   ++

   On the sixth day, Beau was awake. Groggy and in pain, but awake and out of the ICU. Dean got to see him then, and everything felt a little better. The room was sterile and stiff, but Beau had a smile on his face when Dean walked in. "Hey, dude," he croaked out, and Dean chuckled.

Tears flowed freely then down his face, and he didn't stop them. Couldn't. He was too focused on Beau living and breathing and talking in front of him. "Hi," Dean whispered, shaking his head. "Fuck, man. You scared the shit out of me."

Beau nodded, weakly and barely there, but there nonetheless. "Yeah, I heard."

Dean sniffled, shaking his head again. "Don't ever do that shit again. I'm serious."

"I'll try not to."

"I love you, dude."

Beau smiled. "Aww, you love me?"

Dean rolled his eyes playfully. "Can you be fucking serious right now? You're in the fucking hospital."

Beau laughed, groaning from it, but laughed still. "Nah, one of us has to stay silly."

"Hey, I am the king of silly." Dean pointed at Beau seriously, and Beau shook his head.

"Does not look like it."

Dean rolled his eyes again, still playful. His chest felt lighter, his breathing was better. The worry wasn't gone, not until Beau was cleared and out of the hospital, but it was less. More like a ghost than a weight on his chest.

The two sat and talked for what felt like seconds but was in reality an hour, before Beau tapped out and went to sleep. Dean let him, he clearly needed it, but he didn't move from his chair. Instead, he went to sleep as well.

Finally, he felt like he could. Like everything might just be alright if he closed his eyes for a little bit.

When he woke up, he was wrapped in warmth, and the sound of the TV echoed through his ears. "You look like a sleeping baby," Beau mumbled, and Dean flipped him off without even really needing to wake up for it.

His eyes fluttered open, and he looked down, seeing a hospital blanket on him. Clearly fresh because it was still warm. He looked at Beau questionable. "That hot nurse covered you up. I think she likes you."

Dean chuckled, soft and breathless, but the words stuck. He couldn't help but replay them. Beau was just fucking with him, he knew that. But he also knew Beau didn't know just how much you had helped Dean over the past few days.

"If all goes good, Doc said I get released tomorrow," Beau said.

Dean's eyes shot to his, a small smile on his face. "Good. You going to your parents?"

Beau nodded. "Yep. Round-the-clock care for little ole' me, apparently."

Dean chuckled. "Needed."

Beau scoffed. "Totally not needed."

"Dude, look in the mirror."

The two laughed at that.

Dean stayed with Beau through the night and into the morning. When Beau was released and Dean knew he was safe with his parents, he finally went home. The guys were waiting for him, Tucker with a meal and Logan with a towel.

"Go shower," Logan told him, pointing at him. Dean laughed.

"Eat first," Tucker said, sliding the plate across the island.

"Yes, dads." Dean saluted, feeling much more like himself than he had in a while. He shoved the meal down his throat, a lot more hungry now that Beau's almost-death wasn't lingering over his head anymore.

And then he showered. Long and hot and he let the water soak into his skin. Now that Beau was okay, only one thing stayed on his mind. You. He knew it was impossible, and probably incredibly inappropriate for him to think about you like that, but he couldn't help it.

Your entire self was something he wanted to be wrapped up in.

Although, he hoped he never went back to that hospital.

  ++

  It'd been a week. Beau was feeling much better and Dean was pretty much back to his usual self. Aside from the lingering thought of Beau's hot, incredibly comforting nurse. Dean found himself at a bar downtown, needing some time away from the frat life he lived.

Everything felt different now. Like he'd grown ten years somehow.

The bar was on the quieter side, more cozy. He hadn't realized how close it was to the hospital until he recognized some nurses' faces in the crowd. He shrugged it off, sitting at the bar and ordering a drink.

It'd be a hell of a practice, and he'd missed so many he wasn't sure if he'd ever catch up. Still, he didn't regret it. Beau's life meant more than any fucking sport. Even hockey.

Dean sat there, nursing his drink for about an hour before it was gone. That was unusual, but then again, Dean was a little unusual all the time now.

He almost didn't notice when a body slipped next to him at the bar. Not until your voice ordered a drink. His eyes shot up faster than he'd like, and then your eyes met his, lighting up. "Dean," you greeted smoothly.

Dean swallowed. "Y/N."

"How's Beau?"

Dean smiled, his chest feeling a little lighter now. "Beau's good. He's real good."

You nodded, your smile brightening. "Good. I'm glad."

The conversation between you two was light and casual for a little. Basic chit chat, but it was the most raw and real he'd felt with a woman in...well, ever.

He finally asked the question he'd been wanting to ask since you brought it up. "Why'd you become a nurse? I mean, was it the long history with hospitals, or something else?"

Again, your demeanor changed. Small and barely there, but enough for him to notice. He couldn't take it back before you started speaking. "The long history was it, for sure." You sighed, taking a sip of your whiskey.

"My brother was in and out of hospitals for most of his life. Thus, so was I. I spent more time there than I did anywhere else."

Dean's head tilted, his eyes softening. The topic was heavy on your shoulders, he could tell. Still, there was light in yours eyes, like the weight of the world was something you carried like air.

He let you continue when you felt ready. "When he died...I knew I wanted to help. Help others like him, help families like me. The hospital is home to me in ways I'd never wish on anyone, so I try and make it the best I can for the patients and their families."

The words sank slowly into Dean's chest, filling it up with a feeling he wasn't used to. Something raw and real and entirely too emotional. "That's..." Dean paused, searching his brain for the right words that he couldn't seem to find. "You do," he said instead. "You make it something better."

You looked at him, a smile spreading across your lips. "Yeah?"

He nodded, a smile spreading across his. "Yeah."

Something felt certain now, and although Dean couldn't figure out what, he felt at peace with it. Like something had finally found its place inside him. Like he'd finally found home.

The music could be heard from half a block away. The hockey house was already overflowing by the time Hannah and Y/N arrived, laughter spilling out the open front door along with the bass that rattled the porch railings. People crowded every room, cups clinked together, someone was yelling about beer pong in the kitchen, and the living room had already turned into a sea of strangers dancing shoulder to shoulder.

Hannah sighed dramatically, "I swear they invite the entire campus."

"They probably do," Y/N replied, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from her dress.

She hadn't wanted to come. Not because she disliked parties. Because Dean Di Laurentis would be here. And Dean Di Laurentis possessed an almost supernatural ability to ruin perfectly good evenings.

Hannah nudged her shoulder. "Relax."

"I am relaxed."

"You've been glaring at the front door for thirty seconds."

"I'm mentally preparing."

"For Dean?"

Y/N rolled her eyes. "I'm mentally preparing for his ego."

Hannah laughed as they stepped inside.

Almost immediately, someone called Hannah's name from across the room. It was Garrett. He was standing near the kitchen island, waving her over with an easy grin.

"Go," Y/N said.

"You sure?"

"Yeah, girl, go talk to your boyfriend. I'm not going to spontaneously combust because you're talking to your boyfriend."

"You might if Dean starts talking."

"I'll survive."

"I sure hope you do."

Y/N shoved her lightly.

"Go."

Hannah laughed and disappeared into the crowd.

Y/N made her way toward the drink table, weaving through clusters of people she vaguely recognized from campus. She could feel eyes on her. Not in an uncomfortable way. Just... noticing.

She'd spent longer getting ready than she wanted to admit. Her hair fell in soft waves over one shoulder, and the dark emerald dress she wore hugged her just enough to make her feel confident without trying too hard. It was simple. Elegant and comfortable.

"You look hot," Hannah had declared.

"I look dressed."

"You look hot."

"I look like someone attending a party."

"You look like Dean's going to choke on his own tongue."

Y/N had snorted. "As if Dean Di Laurentis has ever been speechless in his life."

Apparently... Tonight might've been close. Across the room, Dean had been halfway through a conversation with one of his teammates when Logan abruptly stopped listening.

"Dude."

Dean barely looked at him.

"What?"

Logan nodded toward the front hall.

Dean followed his gaze and forgot what he'd been about to say.

"...Oh."

Logan smirked.

"Oh?"

Dean recovered almost instantly.

"So?"

"So…?" Logan echoed.

Dean shrugged.

"She cleans up okay."

Logan barked out a laugh. "Cleans up okay?"

"Yeah."

"You've been staring for like fifteen seconds."

"I absolutely have not."

"You absolutely have."

Dean tore his eyes away.

"I was observing."

Logan’s grin widened.

"Observing."

"Shut up."

He grabbed his drink and headed toward the kitchen before Logan could say anything else.

It was a coincidence. Entirely a coincidence that Y/N reached the drink table at the exact same time. She noticed him immediately. Of course she did. Dean Di Laurentis stood out in any room he walked into, whether she liked it or not. He leaned casually against the counter in a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, laughing at something one of the hockey guys said.

Then his eyes landed on her. The laughter stopped. For just a second. His gaze traveled from her heels... To the dress... To her face.

There was the briefest flicker of something she couldn't quite read. It disappeared so quickly she wondered if she'd imagined it.

Then the familiar smirk returned. "There she is."

Y/N sighed. "Hello to you too."

"I almost didn't recognize you."

"No?"

"Nah."

He tilted his head.

"Didn't think you owned anything that wasn't a sweater."

She smiled sweetly.

"And I didn't think you owned a shirt with sleeves."

A couple of people nearby chuckled.

Dean nodded once.

"Fair."

Y/N reached for a cup. "I'll cherish the compliment."

"I wasn't complimenting you."

"I know." She looked at him over the rim of the cup. "That would've been very out of character."

Dean laughed quietly. "You really think you're funny."

"I know I am."

"Hm."

He folded his arms.

"I think the dress is trying a little too hard."

The words landed harder than either of them expected. Y/N's smile faltered. Only for a heartbeat. She recovered so quickly that most people wouldn't have noticed.

Dean did.

"So does your personality," she replied evenly.

He smiled again.

"If I wanted my personality judged, I'd have dated an English major."

She stared at him.

"You know, for someone who's supposed to be good with teamwork, you're remarkably insufferable."

"And yet," Dean said with a shrug, "people still invite me places."

"So do people invite me."

He looked around theatrically.

"Really? I assumed Hannah brought you as emotional support."

There it was. The one that actually stung. Y/N's fingers tightened around her cup. She and Hannah had been inseparable since freshman year, and Dean knew it. He knew exactly which remarks would hit where they hurt.

She forced a laugh. "Don't flatter yourself."

"I'm not."

"You've clearly spent all week thinking of that one."

Dean smiled lazily. "Took me about three seconds."

"Must've been exhausting."

He stepped just a little closer.

"Not nearly as exhausting as pretending you're above everyone in this room."

Her eyebrows lifted. "I don't pretend. I just have standards."

Someone behind Dean let out an audible, "Damn."

Dean chuckled.

"There she is."

"What?"

"The real you. The one that thinks she's smarter than everyone."

Y/N held his gaze.

"I don't think I'm smarter than everyone."

"No?"

She smiled.

"Just you."

The surrounding group burst into laughter.

Dean's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He laughed too. But this time it didn't quite reach his eyes.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them felt strangely charged. Like the room had grown quieter despite the music still shaking the walls. Dean looked at her again. Really looked. The dress. The way she'd done her hair. The confidence she'd walked in with. She looked... beautiful. Annoyingly, unfairly beautiful. Which irritated him more than it should have.

So instead of saying the one thing that had unexpectedly crossed his mind: You look nice, He smiled that infuriating smile and said, "You know..." His voice was light. Almost conversational. "I guess if you were trying to distract everyone from your personality..." His eyes flicked down her dress once before meeting hers again. "...it almost worked.”

Silence.

This time, she couldn't hide it: the hurt. Dean continued, “I just wish Hannah wouldn’t bring you along; it’s just a waste of space, you know. And it’s not like you’re gonna have fun,” he scoffed, “as if anyone would go for that,” he eyed her down, “I sure wouldn’t, and you know damn well I’m all over gorgeous girls all the time.”

The hurt flashed across her face before she buried it beneath a practiced smile. As much confidence as she carried, some words did take her back to high school, where everyone would just shatter and break her heart all around.

"So that's your best one tonight?" she asked quietly. "I expected more."

She stepped around him before he could answer. "Enjoy your party, Di Laurentis."

She walked away without looking back. Dean watched her disappear into the crowd.

Logan appeared beside him a second later. "What the hell was that?"

Dean didn't answer. Logan looked toward where Y/N had gone. Then back at Dean.

"You know..." he said slowly, "I think you just can’t take your eyes off that dress.”

Dean frowned.

"What?"

Logan shook his head. "You looked at her like you forgot how to breathe. And then you immediately acted like an ass."

Dean scoffed.

"I always act like an ass."

Logan smirked, "Yeah, but usually it's because you think someone's annoying."

He looked toward the crowd where Y/N had disappeared.

"This time..." Logan clapped him on the shoulder. "I think it's because you're in trouble."

—

To forget the snarky comment, Y/n went in for a drink. Of course she looked gorgeous: her hair, her dress… everything was just breathtaking, but Dean’s words awakened some hidden insecurity that was resurfacing from high school.

Y/n was making her way to Hannah to ask her to leave the party, but she saw her and Garrett walk upstairs to Garrett’s room.

Shit…

What kind of friend would she be if she interrupted their special time? She needed her friend’s support, but not at the cost of inconveniencing her. So she sighed and went back for yet another drink. There was no point in going home alone and suffocating in bed with resurfacing bitter memories. Y/n chose to drown those with more alcohol.

Y/N lasted exactly twenty-three minutes before she needed another drink.

Not because she'd had that much to drink. Because she needed something to do with her hands. Something to wash away the lingering sting of Dean's words.

She slipped into the kitchen, grateful to find it momentarily less crowded than the living room. She reached for a clean plastic cup. Ice. Lemonade. A splash of vodka.

She stared down into the drink for a second, hoping it’ll help to stop thinking. Dean Di Laurentis had spent the better part of two years insulting her. She should've been immune by now.

So why had that one landed?

She let out a slow breath. Because this one remark hadn't been clever. It hadn't even been funny.

It had just been... Mean.

Then her racing thoughts were interrupted by a stupid comment: "You look like you're making a chemistry experiment."

She closed her eyes. Of course.

Without turning around, she said flatly, “Don't you have girls waiting in line for your attention?"

Dean walked up beside her anyway, grabbing an empty cup. "They'll survive."

He poured himself a drink, leaning casually against the counter.

Silence settled between them. It felt... different this time. Less like a game.

Y/N focused on dropping ice into her cup. Dean watched her from the corner of his eye.

She hadn't looked at him once. Not after earlier.

For reasons he couldn't explain, that bothered him.

"You know," he said, swirling his drink, "Logan thinks I was too hard on you."

She gave a small shrug.

"Good for Logan."

"So you're not gonna defend yourself?"

"I've learned it's usually a waste of energy."

That wasn't the answer he'd expected. He frowned.

"What?"

She finally looked at him. Her smile was polite. Almost painfully so.

"You've already decided who I am." Her voice was calm. "So why bother changing your mind?"

Dean looked away first. Something about that answer sat wrong. He covered it the only way he knew how.

"You know what your problem is?"

She sighed.

"Please. Enlighten me."

"You walk around acting like you're too good for everyone."

A tiny laugh escaped her.

"No."

"No?"

"I walk around trying not to care what people think."

He scoffed.

"That's adorable."

"It works most days."

"Clearly not tonight."

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

He saw it immediately. The way her shoulders stiffened. The tiny inhale she took.

He should've left it there. Instead….

"I mean..." he said lightly, "you spent all that time getting dressed up." His eyes drifted over her outfit again. "And for what?"

She said nothing. Dean smiled, though it felt forced now.

"You really thought tonight was going to be different?"

The kitchen suddenly felt very quiet.

"You thought someone was finally going to notice you?" He laughed once. “I hate to break it to you..." His voice dropped just enough to make every word sharper. "But people are looking because they don't recognize you." He held her gaze. "Not because they're interested."

For a long moment, Y/N didn't move. Dean waited for the comeback.

She always had one. Always.

Instead she looked down into her cup. "Are you done?" Her voice was so quiet that it almost didn't sound like her.

Dean blinked. "What?"

"I asked..." She swallowed. "...if you're done."

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

She gave one small nod, as though answering herself.

"Okay."

No sarcastic remark. No eye roll. No smug smile. She simply picked up her drink.

"I hope, one day," she said softly, "someone speaks to you the way you speak to other people."

Dean's chest tightened. She looked at him one last time. Not angry. Not even upset. Just disappointed. Then she turned and walked away. Dean watched her disappear into the hallway. For some reason, he felt awful.

Y/n was so consumed in her thoughts and a need to get away that she shoved through a crowded hallway just to get outside. She didn’t even notice the small splash... a splash that was made when someone dropped something into her drink.

Some guy tossed a pill into her cup with an easy flick of his wrist. It landed with a tiny splash before sinking beneath the ice.

"There." He snorted. "Let's see how long it takes…"

A couple of people laughed.

Y/n was already outside, sitting on an empty chair she found. Still replaying Dean's words in her head, she wrapped her fingers around the cup.

Y/N looked down at the cup for only a second. Then, she took a sip of the drink and then another one, unaware of what happened nearly thirty seconds ago.

—

Dean had never hidden from one of his own parties. Usually, he was the reason they stayed alive. If the music got louder, it was because Dean wanted it louder. If another game started in the kitchen, it was because Dean had convinced everyone to play. If people were laughing, chances were he was somewhere in the middle of it. He thrived in rooms like this. Crowded. Loud. Chaotic. Easy.

Tonight everything felt just a little off. He wandered back into the living room, weaving through people who greeted him with pats on the shoulder and shouted greetings over the music.

"Dean!" Someone shoved a red cup into his hand. He accepted it automatically.

Another guy pulled him into a conversation about next week's game. Dean answered. Mostly he just nodded in the right places, made the occasional sarcastic comment, and even laughed once.

But his attention kept drifting. His eyes searched the room without meaning to. Not looking for anyone in particular. Just... looking.

He caught himself glancing toward the hallway. Then toward the kitchen. Then the staircase. His eyebrows pulled together. What was he doing? He took a long drink instead.

"Dean." A familiar voice.

He turned. A blonde girl smiled up at him, already standing much closer than necessary.

"I've been trying to find you."

"Have you?"

"Mhm."

She reached up, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from the front of his shirt.

"I thought maybe you disappeared."

Dean looked down at her hand.

Then back up.

"Huh."

She laughed.

"I was wondering if you wanted to dance."

Normally? He would've said yes without thinking.

She was pretty and confident. Exactly the kind of girl who usually made parties more interesting.

Instead his answer caught in his throat. "I..."

For some reason, the image that popped into his head wasn't the blonde standing in front of him.

It was emerald green, the color of Y/n’s dress.

A quiet voice that never seemed to leave his thoughts got louder, “I hope, one day, someone speaks to you the way you speak to other people.”

He blinked. "Maybe later."

The girl looked surprised.

"Oh." She recovered quickly. "Okay."

She disappeared back into the crowd.

Dean watched her go.

That was… weird.

He took another sip.

Someone cranked the music even louder. The living room erupted into cheers. Someone started chanting his name from across the room. Usually, he'd be over there already. Instead, he stayed exactly where he was.

"Dean!" Another voice.

This time, a brunette. She slipped easily into his space, smiling like they'd known each other forever.

"You owe me a rematch in pong."

"Do I?"

"You destroyed me last weekend."

"I probably did."

She laughed, looping an arm through his.

"You sound thrilled to see me."

Dean looked at her.

She was gorgeous. Dark hair. Bright smile.

One of the girls who always seemed to show up whenever there was a hockey party.

She squeezed his arm playfully.

"So?"

"So?"

"The rematch."

Dean looked toward the dining room where everyone was gathered around the table.

Then looked back at her.

"I think I'll pass."

Her smile faltered.

"You... don't want to play beer pong?"

"Not really."

She laughed like he was joking. When he didn't laugh back, she slowly let go of his arm.

"Okay..."

She walked away looking thoroughly confused.

Dean was, too.

What the hell?

He never turned down beer pong.

He frowned into his cup. Something was wrong with him. He wandered onto the back deck. Fresh air. That would help. Except it didn't.

He saw Y/n. After the past two encounters, he didn’t feel like going at it again. He couldn’t even ignore her and go on about his day and enjoy the party.

He wandered back inside, weaving through strangers who moved aside automatically when they recognized him.

Someone called after him. "Dean! Take a shot!"

He waved without looking.

Another voice.

"Dean, come dance!"

He ignored it.

A hand caught his wrist.

He turned. Another girl. She smiled brightly.

"You've been avoiding me all night."

"Sorry."

She stepped closer. "You can make it up to me."

Usually, he'd flirt back. Usually, this part was effortless. She reached up, fingers brushing lightly over the back of his neck. Dean felt... nothing.

Not even annoyance.

Just... Nothing.

"I'm actually heading upstairs."

Her smile slipped.

"Oh."

He gently untangled her hand from his arm before continuing toward the staircase.

Halfway up, he stopped.

He looked down.

The entire house stretched beneath him.

Music. Laughter. People dancing. Friends shouting across rooms. Girls smiling at him every time he looked their way. It was everything he'd always enjoyed. Everything that had always been enough.

Tonight it wasn't.

He ran a hand through his hair. "What the hell..." The words came out barely above a whisper. No answer came.

He climbed the rest of the stairs. His bedroom door clicked shut behind him, muffling the music until it became nothing more than a dull pulse through the walls.

Silence.

Dean leaned back against the door.

He stared at the ceiling for a long moment. Then laughed once. A humorless sound.

"If anyone ever finds out I'm hiding in my room during my own party..." He shook his head. "They'll never let me live it down."

He tossed his phone onto the bed before sitting beside it. For the first time in years, the party downstairs held absolutely no appeal.

He couldn't explain it. Couldn't fix it. Couldn't even name it.

All he knew was that every laugh downstairs sounded too far away. And every time he closed his eyes, he saw a pair of hurt eyes and heard a quiet voice asking, "Are you done?"

—

Outside, the party only seemed to get louder.

Someone had turned the music up again. Cheers erupted from the living room, followed by the unmistakable crash of something breaking and a chorus of laughter that suggested nobody particularly cared.

Y/N stood in the middle of it all.

She couldn't hear herself think.

At first, she assumed it was the music.

Then she realized the room itself had started to move.

She frowned.

The people around her blurred together for half a second before snapping back into focus.

"Weird." She blinked hard.

Maybe she'd stood up too fast.

She lifted her cup to take another sip, but stopped halfway. Her stomach rolled unpleasantly.

No.

Something wasn't right. She lowered the cup.

The bass thudded through the floor beneath her feet, each vibration making the dizziness worse.

Someone bumped her shoulder as they squeezed past.

Normally, she would've stumbled a step and laughed it off. Instead, her knees almost gave out. She caught herself on the edge of a nearby table.

"Oh..." A whisper .Barely audible. "...Oh, no."

Another wave hit. The room tilted sharply to the left before correcting itself.

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut.

Okay.

Okay, breathe.

When she opened them again, the crowd seemed even bigger somehow.

Too many people.

Too much noise.

Too little air.

Her fingers tightened around the plastic cup until it crumpled.

"Oh, shit."

Her voice trembled.

"Oh, shit..."

She looked down at the drink in her hand.

Without another thought, she walked to the nearest trash can and dumped the rest of it out before tossing the cup after it.

She needed Hannah.

That thought came immediately.

Hannah.

She'd know what to do.

Y/N turned toward the hallway.

Then remembered.

Garrett had quietly stolen Hannah away almost twenty minutes ago.

Garrett had simply grinned, taken Hannah's hand, and led her upstairs.

Privacy.

Right.

Y/N swallowed.

She couldn't exactly burst into Garrett's room.

Absolutely not.

Her breathing grew uneven.

The hallway stretched farther than she remembered.

Another wave of dizziness crashed over her so suddenly she reached for the wall. Her palm slapped against it. Her fingers trembled against the old drywall.

Think.

Who else?

Her parents? No way, she was far away in college, what would her parents even do? Fuck.

An ambulance?

No.

That sounded more stupid. Who calls an ambulance to a party?

No, no...

She wasn't even sure what was wrong.

She just... She just needed someone.

Someone she knew.

Her thoughts landed on a name she never would've expected.

Dean.

She almost laughed.

It would've been funny under different circumstances.

Dean Di Laurentis.

The same Dean who'd spent the entire evening trying to make her miserable. The same Dean who'd looked her dead in the eye and told her no one would ever be interested in her.

She hated him.

He was an ass.

Cocky.

Infuriating.

Meaner than he realized.

But...

He would never hurt her in a way bunch of guys in this party would if they found her in this state.

Her drink has been spiked, she thought, and whoever it was was bound to show up sooner or later. She needed to get away.

She knew that with complete certainty.

Her feet were already moving.

The staircase looked impossibly steep. By the third step, her legs felt strangely disconnected from the rest of her body.

Come on.

One more.

She gripped the railing so tightly her knuckles turned white. The music downstairs faded with every step upward, replaced by the pounding of her own heartbeat.

Halfway up, her vision blurred again. She stopped. The stairs shifted beneath her.

"No..."

She squeezed the railing harder.

"You are not passing out." As if scolding herself would be any help.

Another breath.

Another step.

Then another.

By the time she reached the second floor, she was breathing like she'd run a marathon.

Dean's door.

End of the hallway.

So close.

She took one step. Then another.

Her foot caught slightly against the carpet.

She stumbled, catching herself against the wall.

The hallway spun. "Oh, God..."

Everything suddenly felt so far away.

She finally reached Dean's door, raised her hand and knocked.

—

Inside, Dean didn't move.

He stared absently at the ceiling from where he sat on the edge of his bed.

The music downstairs had become little more than a dull vibration through the walls.

A knock sounded.

Dean sighed.

Without getting up, he called toward the door.

"Occupied."

Silence.

Good.

Probably another couple looking for somewhere quiet.

Not happening.

He leaned back against the headboard again.

Another knock.

More insistent this time.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I said go away."

Nothing.

Then…. a heavy thud. Like something, or someone had fallen.

Dean's head snapped toward the door. Every trace of annoyance disappeared. He was on his feet before he'd even realized he'd stood.

He yanked the door open. And froze.

Y/N laid crumpled just outside his room. One hand still stretched weakly toward the doorframe. Her hair had fallen across part of her face. She looked frighteningly pale.

"What the…" Dean dropped to his knees instantly. "Y/N?"

She stirred. Barely. Her eyelids fluttered open just enough to find him. For a second, she simply looked at him. Like she was trying to make sure she'd found the right room.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, the question coming out much sharper than he'd intended.

Was he angry? No.

Panicked? Confused? Terrified? Yes.

"I..." she whispered. Her voice was so quiet he almost missed it. "I know..." She swallowed with visible effort. "I know you hate me enough not to try anything…”

Her eyes began slipping shut.

Dean's expression shattered.

Her arm gave out beneath her. Her body pitched sideways.

"Y/N!"

He caught her before she could hit her head.

Dean held her; one arm around her shoulders, the other catching her legs awkwardly before lowering her carefully against him.

"Hey, hey, hey." His voice had changed completely. Every ounce of sarcasm was gone. Every trace of arrogance vanished. Raw panic replaced all of it.

"Look at me." Her head lolled weakly against his shoulder. "Y/N."

Nothing.

"Come on."

Her eyes opened halfway. Just enough.

"There you are."

His hand came up instinctively, brushing loose strands of hair away from her face. She looked exhausted. Not sleepy. Drained. Like staying conscious required more effort than she had left.

"What happened?"

She blinked slowly and closed her eyes.

Dean's heart slammed painfully against his ribs. He tried to control his shaking hands.

"What did you have to drink?"

She frowned.

"...just..." Another slow blink. "...not much..."

"Did you hit your head?"

A tiny shake. "No."

"Did somebody…" His voice caught. He couldn't even finish the question. Y/N looked at him, and nodded.

"I think so..." Her breathing hitched. And she fully closed her eyes.

Dean’s eyes widened. He was trying to hide his panic.

"Okay." He nodded quickly. "Okay."

He wasn't okay. Not even close. But she needed him calm.

"I've got you."

He slipped one arm beneath her knees and the other behind her back. She was lighter than he'd expected. Too light.

She instinctively curled toward his chest as he lifted her. Her forehead rested weakly against his shoulder. Dean carried her inside as though she might break.

The bedroom door swung shut behind them. He crossed to the bed immediately. He lowered her carefully onto the mattress, supporting her head until it rested against the pillow.

She shivered. Without thinking, Dean tugged the comforter over her. He crouched beside the bed.

"Stay with me." He shook her slighly so she’d stay conscious. Y/N looked at him through half-lidded eyes.

"I'm trying."

"I know." His voice cracked. "I know."

She reached for him without really meaning to. Her fingers brushed weakly against his wrist. Dean took her hand immediately. Firm. Steady.

"I'm here."

Her grip was almost nonexistent. She still didn't let go as she closed her eyes one last time to sleep off the drug’s effect.

Dean looked at her. Really looked at her. She was unconscious and laying in his bed. A dark thought crossed his mind. She could have not made it to his room and right now… God knows what would have happened.

She'd climbed the stairs. Walked through an entire house full of people. Passed countless rooms. And somehow she'd come here, to him. And out of all people he chose him not because she trusted him, but because she thought he hated her enough not to try anything another filthy guy would.

A lump settled painfully in his throat.

Y/n’s eyes opened slowly, she was in and out of consciousness.

"I'm here." Dean whispered.

Her breathing slowed again. Her eyelids drooped lower.

"No, no."

Dean gently squeezed her hand.

"Don't fall asleep again, not yet."

"Tired."

"I know."

"Just..." Her words were fading.

He leaned closer. "Stay awake a little longer for me."

She tried.

God, she tried.

He could see it.

The effort it took just to keep her eyes open.

Eventually she looked at him one last time. Really looked. Like she wanted to make sure he was still there. Then, satisfied, her fingers loosened around his hand. Her breathing evened out. Her face relaxed for the first time since he'd opened the door.

"Y/N?"

No answer.

Just the quiet rhythm of sleep.

Dean stayed exactly where he was.

Still holding her hand. Still watching the slow rise and fall of her chest. As if looking away, even for a second, might somehow let something happen to her.

Downstairs, the party raged on. People laughed. Music shook the walls. Someone cheered loud enough for the sound to carry upstairs. Dean didn't hear any of it. His entire world had narrowed to the girl asleep in his bed and the sickening realization that she chose him to be her safe place due to every cruel thing he said to her, because in y/n’s eyes Dean hated her.

Your eyes went straight to the fridge.

Hannah’s post-it was still there, bright yellow and impossible to ignore.

logan — if something leaks, breaks, explodes, or you panic. do not let him flirt his way out of doing the job.

You stared at his name for a long second.

“No,” you said to the empty kitchen.

The pipe sprayed again.

You grabbed your phone.

It rang twice before he answered.

“Please tell me this is the part where you say you need me.”

You closed your eyes. “I need a wrench.”

There was a small pause, and then Logan laughed under his breath. “That is a devastating downgrade.”

“I might need a plumber,” you said, looking at the water spreading across the tile. “Or an exorcist.”

“Which apartment?”

“Hannah and Allie’s.”

“Yeah, figured. Hannah told me she left my number.”

“She also told me not to let you flirt your way out of doing the job.”

“She wrote that down?”

“In pink ink.”

“Wow.” You could hear the grin in his voice. “She knows me so well.”

“Can you fix a sink or not?”

“Probably.”

“Probably?”

“I haven’t seen the sink yet.”

“Logan.”

“I’m five minutes away.”

You looked down at your wet shirt clinging to your chest, then at the puddle near your feet. “Make it four.”

His voice softened slightly, though the amusement stayed. “You okay?”

“I’m wet, annoyed, and my kitchen is flooding.”

“That sounds like a yes with attitude.”

“It’s a yes with a time limit.”

“I’m on my way.”

He was there in four.

When Logan showed up, you were standing in the kitchen with damp socks, a soaked shirt, and the deeply unfair feeling that the apartment had chosen to embarrass you in front of the one person who would enjoy it.

He knocked twice before you opened the door.

John Logan stood in the hallway in sweats and a dark T-shirt, hair slightly messy, mouth already tilted like he knew the night had handed him something good.

His gaze flicked over you, quick enough to almost be polite, then lifted back to your face.

“Bad sink?” he asked.

You stepped aside. “Evil sink.”

He walked in, glanced at the towels on the floor, then at the bowl under the cabinet. “Yeah, I can see that.”

“I had it under control for about twelve seconds.”

“That’s longer than most people.”

You looked at him.

He held his hands up, fighting a smile. “That was supportive.”

“It sounded judgmental.”

“It was both.”

Despite yourself, you almost laughed, which annoyed you more than the leak.

He crouched in front of the sink and opened the cabinet, leaning in with one shoulder braced against the counter. The easy joking faded just enough once he saw the pipe, and that was somehow worse. He was still Logan, still too relaxed in your kitchen, but now he actually looked like he knew what he was doing.

You passed him the wrench when he asked for it, then a dry towel. His fingers brushed yours both times, and you told yourself it was only because the kitchen was cramped.

“So,” he said from under the sink, voice muffled. “Boyfriend couldn’t come save the day?”

You leaned back against the opposite counter. “That would require having a boyfriend.”

He paused with his hand still under the sink.

Not long. Just enough.

“Good to know.”

Your stomach dipped, and you hated that he probably heard the silence that followed.

“That was not an invitation.”

“Didn’t say it was.”

He turned the wrench again, but there was a smile in his voice now, low and pleased and impossible to miss.

You looked down at the towel in your hands instead of at him. “Fix the sink, Logan.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A small laugh slipped out before you could stop it.

Logan glanced back at you like he had caught something he wanted to keep, and that annoyed you more than if he had actually said something about it.

You busied yourself with the towels, wringing one out over the sink while he went back to the pipe. The kitchen settled into the sound of water dripping into the bucket, his hand moving against metal, and your own very poor attempt at not watching him work.

After another minute, he reached out without looking. “Towel.”

You handed it over.

He wiped beneath the pipe, then adjusted something near the valve with a focus that made you regret how much you were watching his hands.

“You sure this is fixing it?” you asked.

“No faith in me?”

“I met you through a post-it on the fridge.”

“That post-it had my number for a reason.”

“Hannah also warned me not to let you flirt your way out of doing anything.”

Logan looked up at that, grin slow but not overdone. “Smart girl.”

“I meant her.”

“I didn’t.”

Your stomach dipped, and he ducked back under the sink before you could come up with anything decent to say.

After another turn of the wrench, he said, “Relax. I’m good with my hands.”

You almost dropped the towel.

He noticed without even looking directly at you.

“That came out exactly the way you meant it,” you said.

“Did it?”

“Logan.”

“What?” He glanced up, all innocence and none of it believable. “I’m fixing your sink.”

The worst part was that he really was fixing it.

He joked too much, and he looked entirely too pleased with himself every time he made you stumble over a response, but he was not just poking at pipes for show. He knew where to look, what to tighten, when to stop and check the leak. Every few minutes, he asked for something, and every few minutes, you found yourself looking at his hands before you realized you were doing it.

It was getting irritating.

Not because he was annoying.

Because he was annoying and attractive and actually helping.

That combination felt personally unfair.

When he finally told you to turn the faucet on, you did it slowly, one hand on the handle and the other ready to shut it off if the sink decided to attack again.

For two seconds, everything was fine.

Then water burst from under the pipe and hit Logan square in the chest.

“Shit.”

He reached under the sink while you scrambled for the faucet, twisting it too far in the wrong direction before finally getting it right. The spray stopped all at once, leaving behind a dripping cabinet, a wet floor, and Logan kneeling in front of the sink with his shirt plastered to his chest.

He sat back on his heels, water running down his neck, and pushed a hand through his hair.

You meant to look at the pipe.

You looked at him instead.

His shirt clung to him in a way that made the kitchen feel very quiet. You could see the shape of his chest beneath the wet fabric, the way his stomach tightened when he breathed, the water caught along his jaw before it slipped down his throat.

Logan’s eyes lifted to yours.

For once, he did not say anything immediately.

That was worse too.

He stood slowly, reaching for one of the towels on the counter. “That part was not supposed to happen.”

“I figured.”

“You look a little too satisfied about it.”

“I’m deciding whether I should still trust you with the sink.”

He dried his face with the towel, but his eyes stayed on you. “That what you’re deciding?”

The question was simple. The way he asked it was not.

You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of your own shirt sticking to your chest.

“Yes.”

His gaze dropped for half a second, then came back up.

“Okay,” he said, quieter. “Decide.”

The kitchen seemed smaller than it had a few minutes ago. Water dripped softly into the bucket under the sink. Your shirt clung to your skin, and his clung to him, and the space between you felt thin enough to snap.

You looked at the towel in his hand, then at his wet shirt, then at the way his fingers tightened around the fabric like he was stopping himself from reaching for something else.

“You told me you were good with your hands.”

Logan’s expression changed.

The teasing did not disappear, but it settled into something heavier.

“I did,” he said.

A second passed.

Then he stepped closer.

“Was that just about the sink?” you asked.

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

“No.”

That was all it took.

He crossed the space between you in one hard step, and then his mouth was on yours.

It was not sweet. It was not tentative. It was a wet, hungry kiss that shoved the breath out of you and made your back hit the counter before you realized he had moved you. His hands went to your waist, firm and hot through the damp fabric of your shirt, and you grabbed his shoulders because he was already kissing you like he had been thinking about it since he walked in.

Maybe before that.

His tongue slid against yours, and the sound that left you made his fingers dig into your waist.

His hands tightened on your waist. He stepped between your legs, caging you against the counter, and the feel of his body pressed to yours sent a hot, dizzy rush through you.

His shirt was cold and wet against your chest, but underneath it he was warm, solid, all hard muscle and restless hands.

He kissed you until you could barely think through it.

Then his hands slid down to your thighs.

“Up,” he said against your mouth.

You barely had time to react before he lifted you onto the counter.

The casual strength of it made your stomach flip. One second your feet were on the floor, and the next you were sitting on the cold kitchen counter with Logan between your knees, pulling you forward until your legs opened around him.

“Well damn,” you breathed before you could stop yourself.

His grin was instant.

“Already?”

“Shut up.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, his hand spreading across your lower back as he pulled you tight against him. He did not leave space between you. Not even a little. His chest pressed to yours, his mouth stayed close, and his other hand slid along your thigh, fingers pushing beneath the hem of your shorts.

You shivered.

He felt it.

A pleased breath left him against your jaw. “Still thinking about what I said?”

“About what?”

His fingers skimmed higher.

“My hands.”

Your breath caught.

He kissed the corner of your mouth, then the line of your jaw, then the side of your neck where your pulse was making a fool of you. His arm stayed locked around your back, holding you against him as his hand slid between your legs over your shorts.

The first press of his fingers made you inhale sharply.

Logan paused just enough to look at you.

“Still okay?”

You nodded.

His eyes stayed on yours. “Say it for me.”

“Yes.”

The answer barely left your mouth before he kissed you again.

His fingers moved slowly at first, rubbing over the damp fabric, learning the shape of your reaction. You tried to keep kissing him like you were still in control of any part of this, but then he pressed harder, right where you needed him, and your mouth opened against his.

“That’s better,” he murmured.

You dug your nails into his shoulders.

“Cocky,” you managed.

He smiled against your neck. “You like it.”

“I haven’t decided.”

His fingers slid beneath the waistband of your shorts.

Your whole body tensed.

Logan’s arm tightened around your back, keeping you close as his hand dipped under your panties. His fingers found you wet and aching, and his breath left him in a rough sound that went straight through you.

“Fuck,” he said softly. “You’re soaked.”

“You sprayed me with the sink.”

He laughed under his breath, but it broke when his fingers slid through your pussy, gathering the wetness there.

“Yeah,” he said. “That’s definitely what this is.”

You would have snapped back if he had not started touching you properly.

Two fingers rubbed slow circles over your clit, and every thought you had scattered across the kitchen floor with the towels. You pressed your face into his shoulder, biting back a moan, but Logan was not having that. His hand at your back slid up beneath your shirt, palm warm on bare skin, and he pulled you closer until your breasts pressed hard against his chest.

“Don’t hide from me,” he said near your ear. “I want to hear you.”

The words made your pussy clench around nothing.

His mouth brushed your ear, his smile almost cruel. “Yeah. You liked that.”

You lifted your head and kissed him because it was easier than answering. He kissed you back immediately, tongue sliding into your mouth while his fingers kept moving between your legs. The wet sounds of his hand under your shorts were obscene in the quiet kitchen. You could hear them beneath the drip of the sink, beneath your uneven breathing, beneath the small groan he made when your thighs tightened around his hips.

He was still standing right in front of you, holding you like he wanted every inch of you pressed to him. You could feel his cock getting hard through his sweats, thick against the inside of your thigh.

The realization made heat roll through you.

Logan’s fingers slowed.

“You felt that, huh?”

You looked at him, breathless. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re sitting on the counter with my hand in your shorts.”

You hated how badly you wanted him.

You hated how much he knew it.

Then he pushed one finger inside you, and you stopped thinking about anything else.

Your head fell back, a moan slipping free before you could swallow it. Logan’s mouth moved to your throat as his finger slid deeper, curling slowly, testing what made your thighs shake. He found it too fast. A smooth curl, a press, and suddenly your hips jerked against his hand.

His laugh was soft and wicked.

“Still questioning my hands?”

“Logan.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

He added a second finger, stretching you with slow, deliberate strokes that made your eyes flutter. His arm stayed around your back the entire time, keeping you upright against him, close enough that every breath dragged your chest against his. Your wet shirt stuck to your breasts, and when he shifted, the friction made your nipples tighten painfully.

He noticed.

His mouth moved lower, kissing over the damp fabric at your chest before his hand left your back just long enough to drag your shirt upward. You lifted your arms because there was no pretending now. The shirt came off and hit the floor with a wet slap.

Logan looked at you.

Really looked.

Your skin burned under it.

“Jesus,” he muttered.

You reached for him, suddenly needing him closer again, and he came willingly. His mouth covered yours as his free hand cupped one of your breasts, thumb dragging over your nipple while his fingers kept fucking you. You arched into him, your knees tightening around his hips.

“That’s it,” he said against your mouth. “Let me feel you.”

His thumb circled your clit while his fingers moved inside you, and the combination made pleasure build fast and hot in your stomach. You gripped the edge of the counter with one hand and his shoulder with the other, trying to hold on to something as your body started to shake.

He kissed you through it.

Messy, deep kisses that stole every sound from your mouth until he wanted them back and pulled away just enough to hear you.

“You had a lot to say a minute ago,” he murmured.

You tried to answer.

He curled his fingers again.

Your words fell apart into a moan.

Logan’s eyes darkened. “That’s what I thought.”

You were close already. Embarrassingly close. Maybe it was the teasing. Maybe it was his fingers. Maybe it was the fact that he still had one arm around you like he had no intention of letting you lean away from a single second of it.

Maybe it was all of him.

His wet shirt. His mouth. His hand. His cock hard against you. His voice in your ear, rough and smug and getting less controlled every time you moved against him.

“Come for me,” he said. “Right here.”

Your thighs trembled.

“Logan.”

“I’ve got you.”

That did it.

The words were softer than everything else, but they hit harder. Your pussy clenched around his fingers as the orgasm rolled through you, sharp and warm and dizzying. You buried your face against his neck, moaning into his skin while he kept touching you through it, slower now, drawing out every pulse until your body went loose against him.

He did not let you fall back.

He held you close, breathing hard against your hair, his fingers still buried inside you until you whimpered from how sensitive you were.

“Fuck,” he said, voice rough. “You look good like that.”

You lifted your head, still trembling.

He kissed you before you could answer.

This kiss was different. Hotter because he had lost some of his patience. His fingers slipped out of you, and you gasped at the emptiness, but then he was reaching for the waistband of your shorts.

Then your shorts and panties were being pulled down your legs, his hand gripping your thigh to lift you enough to get them off. They dropped somewhere near the towels. You barely cared. Your hands were already at his shirt, dragging the soaked fabric upward.

He helped you yank it over his head, and for a second you lost your place in the rush of it.

Because he was right there.

Wet skin, hard chest, hair damp and messy, eyes locked on you like he was trying to decide whether to kiss you again or devour you whole.

You touched him because you had to.

Your hands slid over his chest, down his stomach, feeling the flex of muscle beneath warm skin. Logan sucked in a breath when your fingers reached the waistband of his sweats.

His hand returned to your lower back instantly, catching you, pulling you upright against him again. The closeness made your head spin. Even while you fumbled with his sweats, even while he shoved them down enough for his cock to spring free, he kept you against him like he could not stand the idea of space.

Your eyes dropped.

He was hard and thick, flushed at the tip, and the sight of him made your mouth go dry.

Logan noticed.

“Still full of myself?” he asked.

You dragged your fingers along his cock, and his breath hitched.

“Maybe not full enough.”

His eyes snapped to yours.

For once, he looked like you had stolen the line right out of his mouth.

Then he laughed, low and disbelieving, and kissed you again. “You’re trouble.”

“You asked if I had a boyfriend while fixing my sink.”

“Yeah, and look how well that worked out for me.”

He reached down, wrapped his hand around his cock, and dragged the head through your pussy. The slick slide made both of you go still. Your hands gripped his shoulders. His forehead dropped to yours, and for one breath, neither of you said anything.

Then he did it again, dragging himself over your clit, down to your entrance, then back up until your hips lifted on their own.

“Logan,” you breathed.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

His eyes lifted to yours. “Yeah.”

There was something in his voice that made you ache worse than the teasing had.

He reached to the side, grabbing his sweats from where they had bunched at his thighs. You realized what he was doing when he pulled a condom from his wallet. The normalness of it should have cooled things down.

It did not.

Watching him roll it on while standing between your spread thighs made your stomach twist all over again.

Then he stepped back in, one hand sliding behind your back, the other gripping your thigh. He pulled you to the edge of the counter until your pussy brushed the head of his cock.

You inhaled sharply.

He kissed your cheek. Your jaw. The corner of your mouth.

“This still what you want?”

“Yes.”

“Say it.”

You looked at him, heat blooming in your face despite everything he had already done to you.

“I want you to fuck me.”

His eyes went dark.

“Christ.”

Then he pushed inside.

The stretch made your mouth fall open. Logan groaned, deep and rough, his arm tightening around your back as he sank into you inch by inch. You clung to him, legs locking around his waist, your body adjusting to the thick pressure of his cock filling you.

He stopped once he was fully inside, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard.

“Fuck,” he said. “You feel so good.”

You could barely answer. He was so close, chest against yours, one hand spread wide over your back, holding you upright while his cock throbbed deep inside you. The counter was cold beneath your thighs. His skin was hot under your palms. The sink dripped behind him like the most ridiculous reminder of how this had started.

Then he moved.

Slow at first, just a pull of his hips and a deep thrust back in that made your nails dig into his shoulders. His mouth found yours, swallowing your moan. His tongue slid against yours as he started to fuck you, still holding you close enough that every thrust rocked you into his chest.

You had expected him to be good.

You had not expected this.

The closeness made it worse. Better. Impossible. He did not give you room to turn away from the feeling. His arm stayed around your back. His hips pushed between your thighs. His mouth kept coming back to yours every time you tried to breathe. It was wet and heated and messy, the kind of kissing that made you feel like he was just as gone as you were.

Your breasts brushed against his chest with every thrust, nipples dragging over damp skin until you were shivering from that alone. He gripped your thigh harder, lifting it higher around his waist, changing the angle so his cock hit deeper.

Your head tipped back.

“Oh my God.”

Logan’s mouth moved to your throat.

“There,” he said. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

You could only nod.

He did it again, and your whole body jolted.

“Words,” he murmured, breath hot against your skin.

“Yes,” you gasped. “There.”

His hips snapped forward a little harder.

Pleasure sparked bright through your body.

“Right there?”

“Logan.”

He kissed you, smiling into it for half a second before the smile disappeared into a groan. “You say my name like that again and I’m not lasting.”

You clenched around him.

His eyes squeezed shut.

“Fuck.”

You would have laughed if you had enough breath for it. Instead, you pulled his mouth back to yours and kissed him until he started moving faster.

The rhythm turned frantic without losing the closeness. He fucked you hard, but he kept you wrapped against him, one arm behind your back, one hand on your thigh, his chest pressed to yours like he needed to feel every reaction. Your hands slid into his hair, tugging when he hit that spot again, and his answering groan vibrated against your mouth.

“Keep your legs around me,” he said.

You did.

You could not imagine doing anything else.

Your heels pressed into the backs of his thighs. Your pussy took every thrust, slick and tight around his cock, the wet sound of it mixing with the harsh pull of his breathing. The counter creaked beneath you. Somewhere behind him, water dripped into the bucket.

It should have been funny.

Maybe later it would be.

Right now, all you could think about was Logan’s cock inside you and his hand moving between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit again with devastating accuracy.

Your body jerked.

He felt it and groaned.

“God, you get so tight when I touch you there.”

You made a helpless sound into his mouth.

He kissed you through it, his thumb rubbing steady circles while his hips kept moving. The pressure built again, hotter this time, deeper because he was inside you, because his cock kept dragging through you just right, because he was holding you like there was nowhere else he wanted to be.

“Next time,” he said, voice rough, “you don’t have to wait for the sink to break.”

The words went straight through you.

“There’s a next time?”

His hips slowed just enough for him to look at you.

His eyes were dark. His mouth was swollen from kissing you. His hair was damp, his chest flushed, his hand still moving between your legs like he knew exactly how close you were.

“You tell me.”

Your answer came out as a kiss.

He took it like a yes.

His hips drove forward again, and the counter dug into the backs of your thighs. You barely felt it over the pleasure gathering low in your stomach. His thumb circled your clit faster, his cock thrusting deep, and you broke away from his mouth with a moan you could not hold back.

“Logan, I’m gonna come.”

“I know.” His voice sounded wrecked. “Come on my cock. Let me feel it.”

You tried to hold his gaze, but then he shifted the angle again, deeper, harder, still pressed so close you could feel his heartbeat against your chest. The orgasm hit fast, a rush of heat and pressure that made your pussy clamp around him as your body shook in his arms.

He cursed into your neck.

“Fuck, that’s it.”

He kept moving through it, fucking you while you came, his thumb slowing only when you started to tremble from too much. You clung to him, face buried against his shoulder, every pulse of pleasure leaving tingles down your thighs, your spine, the tips of your fingers.

Logan’s rhythm faltered.

His grip on your back tightened. His mouth found yours again, rough and desperate, tongue sliding against yours as he chased his own release. You kissed him back, still clenching around him, still shaking, and that seemed to break whatever control he had left.

His hips drove in deep once, twice, then he came with a low groan, his forehead dropping to yours as his body went tense against you.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

The apartment was quiet except for breathing.

And the sink.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

You started laughing first.

It slipped out of you, breathless and disbelieving, your forehead falling against his shoulder as the full reality of what had just happened came crashing in. Logan lifted his head, looked at the sink, then looked back at you.

“Technically,” he said, still breathing hard, “I did solve the emergency.”

You wanted to shove him. You also wanted to kiss him again, which was deeply inconvenient.

He slid out slowly, making both of you suck in a breath, then helped you down from the counter like he had any right to be sweet after what he had just done to you. Your legs were not entirely trustworthy, and Logan noticed immediately.

His hands went to your waist.

“Whoa.”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure?”

You gave him a look.

He kissed you once, quick and smug, then reached for his discarded shirt and paused when he realized it was soaked.

You glanced around the kitchen. Towels everywhere. Your shorts on the floor. His sweats low on his hips. The sink still dripping into the bucket.

Your phone buzzed on the counter.

Hannah’s name lit up the screen.

did everything survive? did you call logan?

Logan glanced at it before you could move the phone away.

“Nosy,” you muttered.

“She asked about me.”

“She asked about the sink.”

He looked past you, toward the cabinet, where the dripping had finally slowed to almost nothing.

“Same thing.”

You rolled your eyes and typed back.

yes. unfortunately.

Logan laughed under his breath. “Unfortunately?”

“You heard me.”

His smile stayed, but he let it go. For a second, neither of you moved. The kitchen was still a mess, your clothes were still on the floor, and his hoodie hung loose on your body while he stood there shirtless and damp, watching you like he already knew this was not ending here.

Then the sink gave one last quiet drip.

Logan sighed and reached for the towel.

“Give me two minutes.”

This time, you did not pretend not to watch him work.

A minute later, the dripping stopped.

He stood, glanced at the post-it on the fridge, and took the pen from the counter.

You narrowed your eyes. “Logan.”

He only smiled as he wrote beneath Hannah’s note.

In the six months you'd known John Logan, you'd known him to be rational. His anger was taken out on the ice, his head stayed cool, and his fists stayed by his side. That's the type of man John Logan was. He didn't punch first and ask questions later.

So why then, did Tucker call you at ten at night to tell you that Logan had his fists in your ex's face?

You weren't sure. All you knew was that you needed to figure it out. Set it straight. Understand why Logan lost his cool so hard.

He'd never done that before, and something in you was worried.

So, you put shoes on and headed out the door, not even bothering to change out of your pjs as you got in the car and headed to the hockey house. The ride there was deafeningly silent. No music, no mumbling or humming or anything from you. Just the rumble of your car and the worry in your brain.

When you pulled up, you paused for a second, breath hitching. You weren't entirely sure what you were doing here. In reality, what could you do to help? But...you had to be there. You had to be.

If Logan was pissed off over your ex, you felt responsible.

So you got out of the car and headed up to the house in your slides and pjs, not bothering to knock as you opened the door. Tucker and Dean were in the living room, and Dean pointed upstairs wordlessly.

You didn't give him a second glance as you headed upstairs and to Logan's room. No knocking, no waiting, you just barged in, closing the door behind you. Logan was sitting on his bed, leg bouncing and knuckles busted open.

You swallowed. "What happened?" you asked, your voice suddenly quiet.

It was like he hadn't even realized you were there, not until now. His eyes shot up to you, a mix of confusion and anger still lingering, but there was something else too. Something...different. His jaw worked, his lips pressing together.

Then, he shook his head. "Nothing," he replied. Like it wasn't a big deal. Like this entire thing didn't happen.

You scoffed. "Nothing? Logan, look at your knuckles."

Logan looked down, his eyes glancing over his bloody knuckles, and he inhaled shakily, like he was seeing them for the first time. He brought a hand up, running it over his face. "It's fine. Don't worry about it."

"Don't worry about it?" You sounded offended. You were offended. How could he tell you that? You huffed, turning around and leaving his room. You went to the bathroom and grabbed a washcloth, getting it wet with warm water and then adding some soap.

You walked back into Logan's room, and his eyes shot up again, surprise in them like he didn't expect you to come back. You walked over to me, dropping to your knees down in front of him and grabbing his hand gently.

"You don't have to—"

"Shut up," you mumbled, dabbing the rugged skin lightly. Logan hissed, hand tightening in yours, and you let him. Silence encompassed the room for a few seconds as you cleaned his knuckles, but curiosity got the best of you. "Why'd you do it?"

Your eyes met his. He swallowed. "He pissed me off."

You shook your head. "It's more than that. It has to be. You don't just beat up people because they piss you off, John."

The use of his first name seemed to get him. You only called him that when it was serious, and this was serious. You had to understand what was so special about your ex that he threw fists.

He sighed, throat bobbing as he swallowed once more. "He deserved it," he deflected again.

You weren't having it. "That's not what I asked."

He inhaled through his nose, squeezing your hand slightly tighter as you hit a sensitive spot with the washcloth. "He called you a slut," he grumbled out through gritted teeth.

You paused, eyes flickering up to his. You let out a shaky breath. You knew your ex had been saying shit about you, but it didn't make it affect you any less hearing it come from Logan. He scoffed softly, shaking your head. "So you beat his ass for that?"

"Of course I beat his ass for that, angel. Why the hell wouldn't I?"

Angel.

He only called you that on rare occasions. When he was really drunk or when it was really late and you were sleeping over. So to hear it now, in this moment? It struck your chest and made your stomach erupt with butterflies.

"It wasn't worth it," you mumbled, finishing up his knuckles. "It's just words."

You stood up, tossing the washcloth in his dirty hamper. "It's not just words, and it was worth it. It was worth it to me." He stood up then, hovering over you, his body inches from yours. "No one gets to talk about you like that."

You swallowed, shaking your head. "Why is it such a big deal to you?"

He tilted his head, eyes searching yours like the question was ridiculous to even ask. "Are you kidding me?" You shook your head, eyebrows furrowed. "Angel..." His hands came down to your hips, gripping gently and pulling you closer.

Your breath hitched. "Everything about you is a big deal to me," he whispered, a small smile on his face.

You smiled slightly, confusedly, trying to come to terms with what you knew he was saying. "I don't-" You paused. "I mean...you- you still shouldn't have hit him."

He chuckled, breathlessly and softly, like this was all funny. "Yeah, I should've." He leaned in, kissing you softly. Your breath was taken away, his lips soft and sure against yours. It took you a few seconds, but you caught up.

Your hands went to his hair and he pulled you even closer, the kiss deepening as he did so. The kiss lasted as long as it could before you both had to pull back, and you were smiling so hard it almost hurt. You'd never been kissed like that before.

You chuckled, shaking your head. "You are..." You sighed, leaning in and resting your forehead against his. "Something else, John Logan."

Judging by the way he looked at her when she opened the door, hair messy, mouth curved, one hand already reaching for her waist like the rest of the evening had been mutually agreed upon by fate and grey sweatpants, it was very much the second.

“Hey, baby,” he said, warm and low, stepping inside before she could fully decide whether to warn him.

“Hi,” she said, and shifted the baby higher on her hip.

Garrett’s hand stopped halfway to her waist. His eyes dropped. For one perfect second, the great Garrett Graham, Briar’s captain, top-line centre, walking highlight reel, man who could read a defender’s shoulder from half a rink away and decide how to ruin his life in under two seconds, stared at the tiny six-month-old baby in her arms with the blank, careful horror of someone who had walked into an exam for the wrong subject.

The baby stared back. She had one fist shoved in her mouth, cheeks round and flushed from her bottle, dark lashes blinking slow and judgmental like she, too, had expected better situational awareness from him.

Garrett’s gaze flicked from the baby to her face. Then back to the baby. Then back to her. “Uh,” he said.

She bit the inside of her cheek.

His brows pulled together. “Did I… miss something?”

That broke her. A laugh came out before she could make it pretty, bright and helpless enough that Pippa startled, then smiled around her wet little fist like laughter was a game she had just invented and expected royalties from.

“No, idiot.” She bounced the baby once when Pippa’s legs kicked happily against her stomach. “This is my niece. Pippa.”

Garrett blinked. “Your niece.”

“Yes.”

“Right.” He nodded too many times, visibly reorganising the entire evening in his head. The door clicked shut behind him with his heel. “Yeah. Obviously. I knew that.”

“You absolutely didn’t.”

“I did.” His eyes dropped to Pippa again, his mouth doing something strange, not quite a grin yet, like he was afraid any sudden facial expression might commit him to childcare. “I just didn’t know she was gonna be… here.”

“She lives a very busy life.”

“Looks like it.” He leaned a little closer, cautious in a way she had literally never seen from him. Garrett Graham had taken hits from men built like refrigerators and grinned blood off his teeth. But faced with one damp, sleepy baby in a yellow onesie covered in tiny ducks, he suddenly looked like he was approaching an unexploded device. “Hi, Pippa,” he said, voice dropping into this awkward, overly polite register. “Nice to… meet you.”

Pippa took her fist out of her mouth with a soft pop and blew a bubble at him.

Garrett’s eyebrows lifted. “Yeah. Cool.”

She laughed again, softer this time, because he looked so stupidly sincere about the whole thing. “Garrett, she’s a baby.”

“Okay, sorry I’m being respectful.” He shot her a look, then glanced back at Pippa, who had started patting her own chest with one open palm like she was applauding the conversation. “I don’t know her yet. I’m making a good first impression.”

“You came over to hook up and now you’re networking with an infant.”

“I’m versatile.”

“You’re scared.”

His head snapped up. “I’m not scared.”

“Babe.”

“I’m not.” He straightened a little, like the accusation had challenged his captaincy. “I’m just being careful. She’s tiny.”

Pippa made a happy little shriek at the exact same moment, startling herself so badly her eyes went huge. Garrett froze. She immediately shoved her fist back into her mouth and drooled down her wrist with the calm recovery of someone who had no idea she had just almost sent a six-foot-two hockey player into cardiac arrest.

Her whole chest went warm. Garrett standing in her entryway, still built for sex and hockey, suddenly unsure what to do with his hands because there was a baby in the room and the baby was looking at him like he might be interesting if he proved himself.

She shifted Pippa higher, the baby’s warm little body settling against her side, one socked foot digging into her thigh. “My sister’s anniversary dinner ran late. She asked if I could take her for a few hours.”

Garrett nodded, still watching Pippa like she might evolve in real time. “Right. Cool. Yeah. That’s cool.”

“You can go, you know,” she said, amused, because it was easier than admitting how weirdly sweet he looked standing there trying to adjust. “I know this probably isn’t what you had planned.”

His eyes lifted to hers at once, and the grin finally arrived, crooked and familiar and much easier to recognise. “Depends. Is she gonna be here the whole time?”

She stared at him. He lifted both hands. “I meant for hanging out. Jesus. Don’t look at me like that.”

“You had exactly one thought when you walked in.”

“I’m a man of focus.”

“You’re a man of grey sweatpants and bad timing.”

His grin widened. “You noticed the sweatpants.”

“I have eyes.”

He sucked at his bottom lip. “Good ones.”

“Don’t flirt with me in front of my niece.”

“She doesn’t know.”

Pippa squealed again, louder this time, and slapped her hand against the front of her sweatshirt hard enough to leave a damp little print.

Garrett looked at her. “Okay, maybe she knows.”

“She’s very advanced.”

“Clearly.”

She moved toward the living room, and Garrett followed, slower than usual, his bag dropped near the door, hands shoved into the front pocket of his hoodie like he did not trust them unsupervised. Her apartment had been fully taken over in the last hour by things that were not hers. 

A soft blanket on the rug. A half-collapsed baby gym with dangling animals in colours nature had never intended. A bottle cooling on the coffee table. A diaper bag open on the couch, packed with enough wipes, tiny clothes, and unidentified pastel objects to suggest Pippa was planning a weekend away rather than a three-hour visit.

Garrett stopped beside the play mat and looked down at it. “She comes with gear.”

“She does.”

Pippa watched him over her fist, drool shining on her chin. Garrett watched her back. His mouth twitched. “She’s kind of staring me down.”

“She’s deciding if she likes you.”

“Important process. I respect it.”

“She usually likes everyone.”

His head turned toward her, offended. “Don’t say that. I wanna earn it.”

That got her again, the laugh catching lower this time, softer around the edges. She set Pippa down carefully on the blanket, one hand supporting the back of her head until she was settled on her tummy. Pippa made a small grunt of effort, immediately kicked both legs, and then began the serious business of trying to eat a cloth giraffe.

Garrett crouched beside the mat, forearms resting loosely on his knees, the size of him absurd next to all that baby softness. Big hands. Broad shoulders. Hoodie stretched over muscle. Hair falling slightly over his forehead. He looked like someone had dropped a golden retriever into a nursery and told it to act natural.

Pippa lifted her head, saw him closer, and smiled so wide her whole face folded into it. Garrett went still. “Oh,” he said, quieter.

She felt the sound more than heard it, tucked under the faint hum of the dishwasher and the cartoonish crinkle of the giraffe toy. His face had changed. His eyes had gone a little softer, caught on this tiny person who had decided that he wasn’t a threat and maybe even funny-looking enough to enjoy.

“She smiled at me,” he said.

“She did.”

“Like, on purpose?”

“Probably.”

“Okay.” He nodded, trying very hard to look normal about this development and failing badly. “Yeah. She’s smart.”

“She likes the ceiling fan too, so don’t get cocky.”

Pippa drooled onto the giraffe. Garrett pointed. “Is that… fine?”

“That’s fine.”

“She’s eating it.”

“She’s gumming it. It’s made for babies.”

“Oh.” He looked down at the giraffe again, then at Pippa. “Carry on, then.”

She lasted maybe eight more minutes before Pippa decided the play mat was a cruel prison and began making the small, offended little sounds that meant she wanted to be upright, involved, and possibly worshipped. 

She picked her up first, mostly on instinct, rubbing a hand over Pippa’s back while the baby huffed against her shoulder, warm cheek pressed to the collar of her sweatshirt. Garrett watched from the couch, elbows on his knees now, all that earlier awkwardness hidden under interest he was clearly trying to pretend was casual.

“You wanna hold her?”

The question hit him like a puck to the sternum. His eyes lifted. “Me?”

“No, the other enormous hockey captain in my living room.”

He looked at Pippa, then at his own hands, like he was reassessing whether thumbs were enough. “I mean. Yeah. I can.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I didn’t say I don’t want to.”

“You look like I just asked you to defuse a bomb.”

“That’s dramatic.” He sat up straighter, shoulders squaring. “Give me the baby.”

She paused. “Never say it like that again.”

He rolled his eyes, but there was a nervous edge under it that made her smile before she could stop herself. “Okay, fine. May I please hold Pippa, the baby, respectfully?”

“Better.” She stepped between his knees and shifted Pippa carefully in her arms. “Okay, put your arm like this.”

Garrett’s hands came up, big and hesitant. He had beautiful hands, which was an annoying thing to think right now, but also true. Hands that knew sticks and steering wheels and the back of her neck in the dark. Hands that could be careless with his own body but were suddenly so careful around Pippa that her throat did something strange.

“Support her head,” she said softly, guiding his palm under the baby’s neck. “Yeah. Like that. And this arm under her bum. There you go.”

Pippa transferred over in a warm, squirming little bundle, and Garrett’s whole body went rigid. Alert. The way he got before a faceoff, only if the puck had chubby thighs and one sock sliding off.

“Oh my God,” he said under his breath.

She laughed, one hand still hovering near Pippa’s back. “You’re fine.”

“She’s moving.”

“She does that.”

“Cool. Great.” Garrett stared down at the baby now nestled against the crook of his arm, his voice lowering like volume itself could destabilise her. “Hey, Pippa. We’re good, right? You and me?”

Pippa stared up at him, serious for one second, then reached out with one damp fist and grabbed the string of his hoodie. 

Garrett looked at her. “Strong grip.”

“She likes strings.”

“She can’t have it if it’s dangerous, right?”

“Right.”

He immediately tucked the other string away with his free hand, jaw set in concentration. “No choking hazards. I know that.”

“Look at you.”

He glanced up at her, smugness making a brave return despite the fact that he was still holding Pippa like she was made of glass and university liability. “Told you I got this.”

“You’re sweating.”

“I’m post-practice.”

He carefully adjusted Pippa higher, the movement clumsy for half a second before his instincts caught up and his hold settled into something sturdier. The baby’s cheek turned into his hoodie. Her little fist stayed locked around the fabric near his chest, and Garrett looked down at her with such focused, faintly stunned attention that the joke waiting on her tongue dissolved before it could leave her mouth.

Pippa made a sleepy sound and rubbed her face into his chest.

Garrett’s eyes lifted to hers, quieter now. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah.” Her voice came out softer than she meant it to. She cleared her throat. “She likes you.”

His mouth curved. “Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

“Smart girl.”

“She also likes licking table legs.”

“Still smart.”

She shook her head, smiling, and sat beside him on the couch, close enough that her thigh pressed into his. Garrett didn’t move away. If anything, he tilted slightly toward her, careful not to jostle Pippa, letting the baby’s weight settle between them like something neither of them had expected and both of them were, in their own ways, trying not to overreact to.

The TV was on low, some episode of a show neither of them was watching moving blue light across the room. The apartment smelled faintly like baby lotion and Garrett’s soap and the pasta she’d eaten standing at the counter before Pippa’s bottle because babysitting had made time weird and dinner had become whatever she could fork into her mouth while bouncing a tiny person with opinions. 

Somewhere outside, a car rolled down the street with music thudding faintly through closed windows. Normal stuff. Little stuff. The kind of evening that would not have felt dangerous at all if Garrett didn’t look so unexpectedly right with a baby tucked into his arm.

She hated that, a little. The sweetness of it. The way it slipped under her skin without asking. Garrett glanced over and caught her staring.

His grin appeared immediately, soft and unbearable. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That’s not a nothing face.”

“I’m just watching you panic.”

“I’m not panicking. I’m thriving.”

She laughed and leaned her head lightly against his shoulder, careful of Pippa between them. Garrett’s cheek tipped down for half a second, brushing the top of her hair. It was so absent, so automatic, that it made her chest tighten more than if he’d said something sweet on purpose.

Pippa’s eyelids started to droop. Her fist loosened in Garrett’s hoodie, fingers uncurling one by one. He noticed before she did. “She’s doing something.”

“She’s getting sleepy.”

His voice dropped even lower. “Oh.”

“You can breathe, babe.”

“I am breathing.”

Pippa sighed then, a full-body little sound that ended with her mouth falling slightly open against Garrett’s chest. Garrett went still again, but differently this time. Less fear. More wonder trying very hard not to show up as wonder because he was still a twenty-one-year-old hockey player in grey sweats who had come over intending to get laid and had instead been promoted, temporarily, to furniture for a sleeping infant.

His hand shifted carefully over Pippa’s back, one broad palm almost covering the whole of her. He rubbed once, slow, then looked at her for confirmation.

She nodded. “That’s good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His mouth softened. He looked back down at the baby. “She’s tiny.”

“She’s actually chunky for her age.”

“She’s tiny,” he repeated, like this wasn’t up for debate, and there was something in his voice that made her stop teasing.

For a second, she wondered if he was thinking about his own family. Sometimes, when something gentle entered the room too suddenly, she could see the way he didn’t quite know where to put his hands around it. Like softness needed instructions. Like if he held it wrong, someone might blow a whistle somewhere only he could hear.

So she didn’t say anything too big. She only reached over and fixed Pippa’s fallen sock, tugging it back over one tiny heel, and let her fingers brush Garrett’s thigh on the way back. “You’re doing good,” she said.

His eyes came to her face. For once, he didn’t grin immediately. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. Natural.”

That made him huff. “Liar.”

“A little,” she admitted, smiling. “But you’re cute, and very brave.”

“I know.” His grin came back, smaller now. “Might put it on my résumé. Can hold one baby under supervision.”

She scoffed softly. “Barely.”

“Successfully.”

“For seven minutes.”

“Still undefeated.”

She laughed softly, and Pippa stirred against him, face scrunching. Both of them froze. The baby sighed and settled again. Garrett exhaled through his nose, triumphant and silent, like he’d just won a championship in not waking up infants. She had to press her lips together to keep from laughing again.

He looked at her, eyes bright. “Did you see that?”

“I saw.”

“Handled.”

“You did.”

“Captain material.”

She leaned into him a little more, her shoulder tucked against his arm, the warmth of him spreading through the old sweatshirt she was wearing. His body was still keyed underneath the stillness, all coiled athlete forced into gentleness, but his breathing had slowed. 

Pippa’s small back rose and fell beneath his hand. The room seemed to soften around the three of them, domestic in a way she didn’t want to name because naming it would make it too real and maybe too much.

Garrett was quiet for a while. He didn’t rush to fill the space with some joke about her baby-trapping him or ask if this meant his original plans were permanently cancelled or make one of the million stupid comments he could have made to rescue himself from looking soft. He just held Pippa and let his thumb move, once, twice, barely there over the baby’s back. Then, very quietly, he said, “She smells good.”

She looked at him.

He glanced back. “What?”

“Nothing.”

His brow furrowed slightly. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking something.”

She smiled, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “I was thinking you just discovered babies smell nice.”

“Well, I didn’t know.” He looked down again, faintly defensive. “I don’t hang out with a lot of babies.”

“Your loss.”

“Clearly. Pippa and I are boys now.”

“She’s a girl.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

He nudged her knee with his. “Don’t start.”

She smiled down at Pippa, asleep against the big Briar captain like this was a perfectly reasonable place for a nap. Her cheek was squished into the soft cotton of Garrett’s hoodie, one hand curled near his collar, one sock already trying to escape again. Garrett followed her gaze and, with great seriousness, adjusted the sock before it could fall.

Her stomach did something deeply stupid. His eyes flicked to her face, and the grin that spread this time was slow. Warm. A little cocky around the edges, because Garrett Graham could hold a baby for ten minutes and immediately become insufferable about it.

“What?” he asked.

“You look very pleased with yourself.”

“I am.”

“Because you’re holding a sleeping baby?”

“Because I’m good at it.”

“You were shaking when I handed her to you.”

“Yeah, and now look at me.” He nodded down at Pippa with all the confidence of a man who had survived one diaper-free interaction and was ready to write a parenting manual. “Growth.”

“She’s asleep. That’s mostly her doing.”

“Team effort.”

“Sure.”

His grin widened, then softened again when Pippa moved, tiny mouth working against the fabric of his hoodie. Garrett’s eyes dropped, and his hand stilled until she settled. He looked ridiculous. Gorgeous and too big for the couch and smug over the smallest possible achievement, with a baby asleep in his arms and his original plans for the night lying somewhere dead in the entryway beside his gym bag.

She leaned up and kissed the corner of his jaw.

Garrett’s eyes cut to hers, interested immediately despite Pippa, because he was still Garrett and there were some instincts not even a sleeping infant could fully neutralise. “Careful.”

She smiled against his skin. “What?”

“You start kissing me while I’m holding a baby, and I can’t do anything about it.”

“That’s tragic for you.”

“That’s cruel.”

“It’s one kiss.”

“Yeah, that’s how it starts.”

She laughed under her breath, and Pippa didn’t wake this time, only snuggled closer into Garrett’s chest like she had decided he was acceptable and possibly permanent. 

Garrett watched her for a second, then looked back at the girl beside him, his mouth softer than his voice when he spoke. “So,” he said. “How long until your sister gets back?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Garrett.”

“What?” He looked almost offended, except his grin was doing too much damage. “I’m asking because I care about Pippa’s schedule.”

“You are so full of shit.”

“I’m deeply invested in her routine.”

“Her routine is bottle, nap, diaper, maybe scream at a lamp for no reason.”

“Sounds like Dean.”

She pressed her face into his shoulder to muffle the laugh, and Garrett smiled down at her, his hand still steady over Pippa’s back. For a while, they stayed like that. Pippa asleep. Garrett pretending not to be proud. Her tucked into his side with one hand resting lightly on his thigh, feeling the warmth of his body, the slow rhythm of his breathing, the tiny rise and fall of the baby between them. The evening hadn’t gone where he wanted. Not even close.

But when her phone buzzed twenty minutes later with a text from her sister saying they were on their way, Garrett looked down at Pippa, then at her, and frowned. “Already?”

She stared at him.

He shrugged, defensive. “What? We were hanging out.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“You like her.”

“She likes me.”

“She’s asleep.”

“Exactly. Trust.”

She smiled so hard she had to look away. His knee knocked gently into hers, and when she looked back, he was watching her with that soft, stupid, dangerous warmth that always made her feel like she’d missed a step coming down stairs.

“What?” she asked, quieter.

He shook his head once, eyes dropping briefly to Pippa before coming back to her. “Nothing.”

“That’s not a nothing face.”

“Yeah,” he said, and leaned in carefully, Pippa still asleep between them, to kiss her once. Soft. Quick. Warm enough to make her toes curl against the edge of the rug. “But you like it.”

She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling when he pulled back, and Garrett, holding her sleeping niece like he’d been trusted with the Stanley Cup and maybe something more important, looked far too pleased to be proven right.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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