sel

The number of times you've fucked since becoming official can be counted on one hand, but he's leaps and bounds ahead of where he was when you first started being intimate.

It certainly helps he's a dedicated student; throwing himself, as he does with everything, full throttle into any and all efforts to learn the secrets of your body.

A quick learner, it isn’t long before he can make you cum with a skillful twist of his fingers, a harsh rut of the hips that settles him so deep inside your pussy, your thighs tremble.

Not only is he able to wring orgasm after orgasm out of you, his stamina is insane. Almost to the point where you’re having trouble keeping up with him, having to take little breaks between rounds to gulp down water and catch your breath. 

So… when it happens, it’s altogether unexpected.

But so fucking filthy hot you’re pretty sure you astral project to a higher plane of existence. 

You’d been teasing him all day: the brush of your hand across his ass, the skim of your knuckles over the crotch of his pants, pressing close against the wide berth of his back and whispering soft, nasty little nothings into his ear.

Delighting in the blush that crept up the sides of his neck. The cherry red burn of his ears as he gulped, readjusting himself before shooting you that deadpan stare of his.

Pope lasts longer than you give him credit for, though that’s most likely due to his competitive streak. He breaks all the same; however, shoving you into his bedroom as soon as the door closes behind you.

So needy and desperate he can’t wait any longer, even if the rest of the boys are due to arrive at any moment (though getting caught in the middle would be a novel concept in the Cody household, Pope prefers when your noises are kept to, and for, himself).

You only just got undressed, the bed creaking under the combination of your weights when he cages you beneath him. His chest flexes with every hurried breath, his ribs expanding with labored puffs of air as his cock bullies its way inside your pussy, hips slotting into place against yours.

“P-Pope,” you whine, your toes digging into his sides as your thighs fall open across his. “So deep, I - haaah -”

The fat head of his cock nudges against your cervix with every little rut, sparks of pain fissioning out and deepening the warmth fizzling behind your belly button.

Thick and long, he stuffs your pussy to the brim every time without fail, stretching you wide until tears cling to your lashes and your nails dig into his shoulders. It hurts no matter how long he spends prepping you, but you like it better this way.

The pain only enhances the pleasure; deepens, and darkens.

And knowing he has to force his cock those last few inches because your pussy can’t take it without assistance always riles you up. Makes you needy and desperate to take everything he can give like a good girl.

“Yeah, I know,” Pope's breath hitches as his teeth tug on his bottom lip, his eyes half lidded and greedy as they track the hard bounce of your tits, “Feels so - hnn - good inside you.”

“Mm!” Your fingers inch up the corded muscles of his forearms, caressing over the lattice of veins as they shackle themselves to his elbows as he bends you in half. “Right there, right there. Jus like - ohmygod! - like that.”

Pope grunts, rocking into the cradle of your hips harder, the shaft of his cock dragging almost completely out only to slide to the hilt in one thrust. His pelvis grinds against the swollen bud of your clit as he holds himself there, your slick smearing into his skin.

He curses under his breath when your walls flutter, trying to milk him for all he’s worth. “Fuck! Don’t - don’t do that. I can’t - I can’t -”

And then his cock throbs hard once, twice.

A litany of soft, breathy exhalations of pure pleasure accompany the slick echoes of your bodies crashing together. Then his head bends low, the tangled briar of his curls clinging to his damp temples. His jaw drops slack, and a devastated moan punches out of his throat.

Muscles ripple into a full body shiver, Pope's sharp hips stuttering against the backs of your thighs. Sticky warmth floods your cunt, and his hazy, lust-blown eyes stare into yours as he pumps you full of cum, a breathless, unspoken "I love you," hovering on his lips.

You groan, blinking up at him, “Did you just-?”

Pope's arms buckle.

Flopping down onto you, a sweaty, panting mess, he tucks his hot face into the crook of your neck. Moist breath puffs across your skin, a ticklish awareness skittering down your spine like spider's legs. Goosebumps rise along your arms.

His heartbeat hammers against your ribs.

“Yeah, I - I…” Pope huffs, his nose dragging over the length of your collarbone, inhaling the scent of your skin as his tongue flicks over your pulse point when he licks his lips. “I did. ‘m sorry.”

Breathing in through your nose, you card a hand through his sweaty hair. Swallow down the pleading whines sitting on the tip of your tongue. You don’t want to embarrass him any more than he probably is. He hasn’t cum this quick since the early days, and you’d rather not ruin the evening by making him spiral.

So even when your pussy flutters, trapped on the edge of an orgasm as his cum leaks out of you, you bite down on your impulses. Resign yourself to being horny for the foreseeable future until you can sneak away and take care of yourself with a vibrator.

“It’s alright, baby. It happens.” Your eyes close, and you breathe through your nose, trying to calm the gallop of your heartbeat. "I still had a good time."

Relaxing seems almost impossible with Pope's constant shifting, but you try your best to get your body on the same page as your mind. Only for all efforts to go to waste when he pulls back his hips, his cock slipping free with a sticky gush, and shimmies down between your thighs. Damp curls tickle your skin, your lower belly jumping at the sensation.

Furrowing your brow, you peek down at your boyfriend. “Pope, what’re you--?”

Broad palms caress your hips, Pope using his thumbs to trace over the jut of bone. His chest glitters under the light, the muscles shifting beneath his skin almost mesmerizing as he settles on his belly. Forearms hook over the tops of your thighs, and his dark eyes flash with hunger.

His mouth pulls up into an impish smirk. “Can I?” he asks, dropping his gaze to the apex of your thighs. “Please?”

He chuckles low and warm when he sees how flustered you get. Syrupy sweet, boyish; altogether too endearing for the current circumstances.

“...Are you serious?”

You can’t deny the fresh wave of desire the thought brings - Pope with his thick fingers, his tender mouth and soft tongue stroking over swollen, abused flesh - but flap a hand between your bodies in a vague gesture all the same.

“Isn’t that kind of - you just, y’know?”

You aren’t the only one affected by the idea, Pope's cock jerking feebly where it rests against his thigh. A pink tongue flicks out to run along the length of his red-bitten bottom lip as he regards you with predatory anticipation.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “I’ve always wondered what we taste like. Please let me.”

Well… who are you to refuse?

feedback is always appreciated

most recent works ⤷ Fight or Flirt - Part One + Two (Scott Miller) - ex-fwb and baby daddy ⤷ Sympathy is a Knife (Bucky Barnes) - prince with lady-in-waiting ⤷ Showstopper (Scott Miller) - actors movie premiere pwp ⤷ Testing Limits (Bucky Barnes) - fluff with a lil jealousy ⤷ All You Get (Nick Fowler) - DBF angsty pwp

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— collections

ᝰ.ᐟ January Jumble Scribbles - 2026 - COMPLETE Bite-sized stories of our favorite characters.

ᝰ.ᐟ Love, Actually - Holidays 2025 - COMPLETE Five stories. One holiday season. The beautifully messy journey that connects them all. Follow our protagonists as they learn what it means to pursue love, accept love, and recognize the love that has been waiting for them all along.

ᝰ.ᐟ Seb-O-Ween! - Kinktober 2025 - COMPLETE Nine days of trick and mostly treats featuring characters played by Sebastian Stan. Each story was created based on the prompt but includes other kinks and warnings.

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#my work for all my stories #my mb for all my 3x3 moodboards #sam reads and recs ꩜ .ᐟ for fic recommendations (more in @untw1sted) find me on ao3

You sat across from the fire pit in the boys’ backyard, elbows resting on the armrests of your chair while the flames cracked softly in front of you both. The night air had turned colder hours ago, but neither of you had gone inside. Dean kept talking and you kept letting him or trying to.

Every time he opened his mouth, you exhaled slowly through your nose as if physically releasing air might stop you from interrupting him.

“He’s an arrogant son of a bitch,” Dean repeated for probably the fifth time that night. He took another drag from the blunt before passing it toward you, smoke curling past his lips as he leaned back deeper into the chair.

“That’s what pisses me off the most,” he continued, staring hard into the fire like your ex-boyfriend personally offended him. “He had no clue what he was doing in the relationship from day one and still had the confidence to ask you out.” His jaw tightened slightly. “Usually I respect delusion like that, but that guy’s a fucking disaster.”

You accepted the blunt with a quiet sigh.

Dean had been ranting for nearly a week straight now. Anyone overhearing him would’ve assumed he’d been the one publicly dumped in the cafeteria instead of you but he’d been there when it happened, front row seats to your ex fumbling through excuses while half your friends sat frozen around the table pretending not to listen. Maybe that was enough for Dean.

Now, instead of being out partying with the rest of the team, he sat outside with you night after night, sharing weed and acting personally victimized by your breakup.

“Dean,” you finally interrupted, tone firm.

He stopped talking immediately.

You inhaled slowly before looking over at him through the smoke, holding his gaze while you exhaled. “It’s okay.”

Dean’s expression flattened instantly. “We have very different definitions of okay.”

His eyes drifted back toward the fire for a second, replaying the memory again. You could practically see it happening behind his eyes, the cafeteria, your expression and your ex stumbling through his speech.

“You should’ve let me talk to him,” he muttered.

“What good would that have done?” You brought the blunt back to your lips, inhaling before handing it over again. “It’s not his fault.”

Dean’s head snapped toward you so fast he nearly dropped the thing. “The fuck does that mean?”

You almost rolled your eyes at the offense in his tone. Instead, you looked away toward the fire again, watching orange light flicker against the patio stones.

“I’m lost here,” he scoffed. “Is being wrapped around another girl at a party three hours after dumping you not a dick move now?”

A laugh slipped out of you before you could stop it. “Dean,” you said gently, finally turning your head toward him again. “I think I’m the only person who wasn’t surprised by the breakup.”

His brows furrowed.

You shrugged one shoulder lightly. “He just beat me to it.”

“Oh.” The word left him quietly. Dean looked away immediately afterward, dragging a hand over his mouth while he gathered his thoughts before glancing back at you. “That’s the first time I’m hearing about that.”

He passed the blunt over again.

You took it carefully, staring down at it between your fingers for a second before answering.

“Yeah, well...” You inhaled deeply, smoke burning pleasantly in your lungs before you let it back out slowly. “You’ve got other business to worry about.”

Dean huffed out a laugh instantly. “You are my business.” The certainty in his voice made your lips curl before you could stop them. “So start talking.”

He always did that. Dean had this way of making honesty feel inevitable. The two of you talked about everything, always had. He knew things about you your closest friends didn’t. Hell, he’d bought condoms for you the first time you planned on sleeping with someone because you’d been too embarrassed to walk into the store yourself.

You moved deeper into the chair, pulling one leg beneath you while you searched carefully for the right words. “Um…” You inhaled again, then blurted it out before your brain could stop you. “I suck at the sex thing.”

Dean’s face twisted immediately in disagreement as you passed the blunt. “Bullshit.”

You laughed softly. “No, seriously. I do.” You rubbed awkwardly at your neck before continuing. “Turns out not being able to cum eventually becomes an issue when your partner realizes you never actually have with them.”

Dean’s expression changed instantly. Every conversation you’d ever had about sex clearly started replaying in his head at once because confusion hit him violently.

“But you told me–”

“I lied.” The words came out easier than expected. You shrugged lightly, though your stomach still tightened. “I’ve been lying for years...Faking it until I got tired of faking it and started bruising egos.” A humorless smile tugged briefly at your mouth. “Including mine.”

Dean stayed quiet now so you stared into the fire instead.

“I just…” You exhaled slowly. “I don’t think sex is really my thing.” Your shoulders lifted. “I like the idea of it. I enjoy parts of it…but everyone talks about this huge explosive ending and I just…” You shook your head. “Don’t get there…naturally people stop believing you when you say it was still good.”

Dean watched you carefully. “Was it?”

“The sex?” You let the silence drag for a second before shrugging again. “I think so.” Your lips twitched faintly. “It was good enough to build better stories around afterward.”

Dean stopped smoking entirely after that. The blunt burned slowly between his fingers while he stared down at it, suddenly looking far more sober than either of you probably were. He looked like he was trying to organize his thoughts before speaking again.

“How about alone?” The question came softly, carefully.

If you didn’t know him so well, you might’ve mistaken the look on his face for pity. Thankfully, you did know him, which meant you recognized concern immediately.

You shook your head slowly. “That’s why I’m saying it’s not his fault.”

“It’s not yours either,” Dean argued as he flicked the rest of the blunt into the fire pit before continuing. “It just hasn’t happened yet.” His voice softened further. “Doesn’t mean it never will.”

You let out a slow breath, eyes closing briefly as the weed finally started loosening the tension sitting on your shoulders. “It’s definitely not from lack of trying.”

You could feel him staring at you even with your eyes closed.

The silence stretched comfortably after your confession, softened by the crackling fire and the distant chorus of crickets surrounding the backyard. The flames had started dying down, wood collapsing inward with quiet snaps while smoke drifted lazily into the cold night air.

Dean still hadn’t looked away from you. “So what now?” he asked finally.

You swallowed slowly, still keeping your eyes shut. For a second or maybe an entire minute, Dean genuinely thought you’d fallen asleep mid-conversation.

Then your lips twitched. “Celibacy.”

The offended sound that tore out of him made your smile widen. You heard him trying to hold it back too, which honestly made it funnier but this was Dean. Subtle outrage had never once existed in his body.

“Think I’d look hot as a nun?” you asked lazily.

“You’d look hot in a banana costume wearing clown shoes six sizes too big,” he replied instantly. “And you’re absolutely not dropping out of Briar to become a nun. End of discussion.”

His tone came out firm enough to sound ridiculous considering he had absolutely no authority over your life whatsoever.

You finally peeled your eyes open to look at him. The weed had settled into your bones now, leaving you heavy and relaxed against the chair. Dean looked hazy too, hair falling perfectly while the firelight flickered warm across his face.

“You’re not giving up because some five-eleven idiot couldn’t be patient long enough to figure you out.”

You grinned. “He’s six-one.”

Dean scoffed. “He tried out for the Hawks freshman year. Trust me, he’s five-eleven.”

Your brows lifted. Dean kept going without needing encouragement, already slipping into that protective streak he pretended wasn’t there. He always collected information about people around you, quietly filing it away for future use whenever he deemed necessary.

“He was wearing lifts during tryouts,” Dean added smugly. “One bad pivot and the guy almost snapped an ankle.”

A laugh escaped you softly.

“If you wanna stop having sex altogether, God forbid–”

“You should become a priest,” you interrupted.

Dean barked out a laugh, tipping his head back. “Yeah,” he nodded. “It’d probably take a year and a half to cleanse my sins.” He pointed toward himself loosely. “And that’s assuming I don’t burst into flames the second I walk into a church.” His eyes drifted back to you. “Can I continue now?”

“Yes, Father,” you replied through a chuckle.

Dean shook his head, smiling despite himself before settling deeper into his chair again.

“If you really wanna do the celibacy thing, fine.” He shrugged dramatically. “I’ll support you. We’ll find support groups together and hold hands through the trauma.” His mouth twitched. “Though personally, I’d go through withdrawals first.”

“How solidary of you.”

He nodded solemnly. “Exactly. Plus I can probably add it to my extracurriculars somehow.”

You laughed harder at that, shoulders shaking slightly as you leaned back into the chair. “You’re so fucking stupid.”

Dean watched you carefully while you laughed. The sound came out lighter than anything he’d heard from you all week, chest rising and falling unevenly while your eyes squeezed shut again for a second and suddenly the conversation stopped feeling funny to him.

Because underneath the jokes, underneath the weed and the teasing, he kept thinking about what you’d actually said earlier. About you trying and nothing happening.

Dean loved sex. Everyone knew that much about him but you did too or at least you loved wanting it, loved feeling desired, loved the intimacy, the heat and everything wrapped around it and now all he could think about was how frustrating that must’ve been for you. Wanting something everyone else talked about so easily only for your body not to cooperate no matter how hard you tried.

The thought sat badly in his chest. Dean looked down at the dying fire for a second before his eyes lifted back to you.

“Use me,” he blurted out.

Your laughter faded gradually after his words, the smile still lingering at the corners of your mouth while your eyes settled back on him even more carefully this time. 

“What do you mean?”

Dean didn’t even hesitate. “I’ll be your last resort,” he repeated easily, like he’d already thought this through far more than he probably had. “Aren’t you always telling me to make myself useful?”

You narrowed your eyes, blinking slowly through the haze settling heavier behind them.

“What exactly are you suggesting?” You rubbed at one eye with the heel of your hand. “Because I’m starting to think I hallucinated that sentence.”

“I hold my weed better than you,” he reminded you smugly.

That part, unfortunately, was true. Dean leaned forward in his chair, elbows resting against his knees now, all lazy amusement gone strangely sincere beneath the teasing.

“You wanna quit? Fine.” He shrugged. “Quit when you’re actually out of options.”

A quiet huff left you, somewhere between disbelief and laughter. “Didn’t realize Six Flags counted as an option.” Your lips twitched faintly. “I hate rollercoasters.”

Dean nodded decisively. “Then I’ll go out of business.”

“You’ll close the park?”

“I’ll shut the whole thing down,” he promised solemnly. “Just so you can ride the teacups.” The grin spreading across his face warned you half a second too late. “Remember when you threw up on the–”

“Yes,” you cut him off immediately, flat and horrified. “I remember.”

Dean laughed anyway. Full-bodied, warm and entirely too pleased with himself as he pointed at you. “You were crying,” he accused through the laughter. “You kept saying your stomach hated you–”

“I was fifteen.”

“And dramatic.” He added. “But so cute…less mouthy too.”

“You held my hair while I threw up into a trash can behind the funnel cake stand.”

Dean’s laughter softened slightly at that memory. Back then he’d been genuinely terrified something was wrong with you. He’d hovered beside you the entire night looking pale enough to pass out himself while you recovered on a bench wrapped in his sweatshirt. Now he just looked fond.

You glanced away first, eyes dropping back toward the dying fire while your thoughts started turning over his earlier suggestion again despite yourself.

It could go horribly. Actually, no, it would go horribly. There were at least seventeen reasons this crossed every boundary imaginable. You already hated rollercoasters, hated fast turns and hated giving up control over literally anything involving your body and Dean…Well, Dean was Dean.

Confident, experienced, annoyingly good-looking and unarguably good at sex if campus rumors counted for anything and unfortunately they definitely did. You hadn’t exactly conducted research firsthand but after years of hearing stories from girls around campus, the reviews were embarrassingly consistent.

“You really think that highly of your dick?” you asked finally.

Dean shrugged lazily against the chair. “Nobody said anything about using it.”

That made your eyes snap back to him fully. “And if nothing works?” you asked quieter this time.

The question slipped out more honestly than intended because suddenly you weren’t thinking about sex anymore. You were thinking about aftermaths, about what happened if this ruined things between you. Dean had woven himself into your life years ago so naturally that imagining him gone felt impossible now.

You genuinely didn’t know how you’d survive losing him too.

Dean studied you for a second and for once the confidence in his face softened into something steadier. “Then we fail,” he decided.

You swallowed.

His grin returned slowly afterward, softer around the edges. “Fail with me,” he corrected. “Fail better.” He pointed between you both lazily. “Fail together.”

A laugh escaped you despite every effort not to give him one.

You rolled your eyes hard enough to make him grin wider, shaking your head while the weed continued smoothing the sharp corners off your thoughts. The night air no longer felt cold against your skin and embarrassment had slowly stopped existing somewhere during the conversation. Maybe that was the dangerous part and not Dean’s suggestion but how easy it suddenly felt to consider it.

You didn’t bring it up again for the rest of the night and neither did Dean.

When the rest of the guys stumbled back into the house loud and half-drunk sometime after midnight, he changed back into normal so smoothly it almost irritated you. He made sure you had food, water, your charger and then bullied one of the sober freshmen into driving you home while standing outside by the car until you pulled away like he always did.

You slept absurdly well afterward.

A heavy sleep and dreamless night, the type that glued you to the mattress the next morning until sunlight was already cutting aggressively through your blinds. By the time you shuffled out with an oversized hoodie you were certain was your ex’s, your phone was buzzing with unread texts from Dean sent hours earlier, probably before morning practice.

You ignored every single one and it wasn’t because of regret. Embarrassment simply crawled into your chest somewhere between the first and third spoonful of cereal and decided to settle there permanently.

The entire conversation replayed so clearly now that you were sober. “Use me,” You nearly groaned into the bowl.

Three hours of class helped, at least temporarily. You sat near the back of the massive amphitheater classroom while your professor rambled enthusiastically about the new book he’d conveniently written himself and would definitely require students to purchase before midterms. You probably would’ve absorbed more information if you weren’t scrolling mindlessly through Instagram the entire lecture.

The doors behind you opened quietly midway through class.

You barely paid attention at first since nobody descended the stairs toward the lower rows and a second later the seat beside you groaned softly under someone’s weight.

You recognized the cologne immediately.

“How hard do you think you need to scrub for that scent to leave your skin?” you whispered without looking up.

Dean grinned beside you, leaning closer enough for warmth to brush your shoulder as his eyes dropped toward your phone screen.

You locked it quickly and finally looked at him. “You’re not in this class.”

“I see your phone works perfectly fine,” he replied.

The professor thankfully dismissed class early before you could answer, students immediately growing louder as backpacks zipped and people exited the space.

You stood quickly and started gathering your things. “Did you need something, Di Laurentis?” you asked flatly.

Dean remained seated on purpose, forcing you to awkwardly climb past him to leave the row. The asshole looked entirely too pleased with himself while you muttered under your breath and stepped over his legs.

The second you reached the aisle, he stood and followed.

You walked fast, actually, aggressively fast. Dean almost struggled to keep up at first, his legs clearly still wrecked from morning practice while you marched out of the building like escape itself was the objective. He finally caught you outside near the steps leading toward the quad.

“We need to talk.”

You slowed at last before turning toward him. “What we need is space,” you corrected, motioning firmly between your bodies.

Dean looked down between you both thoughtfully, then took exactly one step backward.

You almost laughed, especially because he looked unbearably smug afterward, standing there grinning in the middle of campus like he deserved a reward for basic listening skills.

“You’ve gone to New York with me enough times to know I don’t need more space,” he pointed out. “But fine.” His expression softened slightly afterward, amusement fading as he studied your face more carefully. “What’s going on?”

Of course, he was right. Dean practically crawled into people’s personal bubbles recreationally, so the fact he’d backed off at all made it harder to flee the conversation entirely.

You exhaled slowly. “We said stuff last night.”

He nodded once, blinking at the tension written all over your face. “Yeah. That’s usually how conversations work.”

“Stuff you might regret,” you clarified.

Dean’s brows lifted before a quiet laugh escaped him. “Regret?” He pointed toward himself loosely. “C’mon. It’s me.”

His voice gentled slightly after and the worst part was he looked relieved, because apparently the phrase ‘stuff you might regret’ translated in Dean’s brain to ‘good, she’s not upset’.

“I would’ve said that sober,” he assured you.

His eyes stayed fixed on yours while your attention darted briefly around campus before returning to him again exactly like he knew it would. Dean stepped closer instinctively, lowering his voice enough that the passing students around you blurred into background noise.

“You want me to repeat it?” he asked quietly. “Let me help you cum.”

Your stomach tightened at his tone of voice. “It might not work,” you reminded him softly.

You hoped your face conveyed the actual problem because this had never been about his ego. Dean could survive failure, he’d probably laugh through it, so that wasn’t what scared you.

Dean shrugged anyway, maddeningly calm. “What if it does?”

“And what if it doesn’t?” Frustration finally slipped into your voice. “Dean, I don’t want us to get weird.” You shook your head hard once. “I don’t need ‘optimistic Dean’ right now,” you muttered. “I need ‘realistic Dean’, so pull him out of your ass.”

“You already are weird,” Dean corrected easily, smiling down at you. “I accepted that years ago.” His grin widened then. “Actually, I encourage it.”

You rolled your eyes, though the corner of your mouth betrayed you.

“Let me try,” he insisted again, the confidence in his voice should’ve irritated you more than it did.

Instead, you found yourself studying him in silence, searching for something off in his expression. Some sign this was ego, curiosity or boredom disguised as concern but he just looked…earnest. Enthusiastic, sure, because he was Dean and apparently incapable of approaching anything halfway but not creepy about it and maybe this was partially your own fault.

You’d spent years talking openly with him about sex, relationships and attraction. About wanting something good someday instead of tolerable, about how when you were old and exhausted with kids running around, you still wanted a partner who looked at you and wanted you back because you were almost certain you’d still want them too.

Dean remembered everything you said…unfortunately.

You sighed heavily. “We need rules.”

“Fine.” He agreed so fast it almost startled you. Dean straightened afterward, nodding once with ridiculous seriousness like the two of you were entering business negotiations instead of whatever disaster this actually was.

You almost reconsidered your next words. Almost.

“No kissing.”

Dean’s shoulders visibly dropped. “Why?”

“Because!” you hissed. “And if we’re doing this, you don’t get to question the rules.”

His face twisted in disbelief. “We’ve kissed before.”

You crossed your arms tighter. “That was different.”

Dean scoffed softly. “We were literally each other’s first kiss.”

Again, he was right. You weren’t just each other’s first kiss either, a few firsts existed between you both scattered through years of friendship and growing up side by side, all except for sex. There was awkward teenage curiosity, truth or dare disasters and one regrettable spin-the-bottle incident Garrett still occasionally referenced against your will.

Which was exactly why kissing now felt dangerous. This couldn’t spiral into some ‘why didn’t we do this sooner’ conversation. It needed boundaries and structure, something detached enough that neither of you accidentally ruined the friendship orbiting underneath all this and selflessly, you also didn’t want the group dragged into the fallout if things exploded.

“We’re adults now,” you said firmly. “So no kissing.”

Dean stared at you for another second before exhaling dramatically. 

“Okay,” he relented…Too easily, which immediately made you suspicious he’d already started planning arguments against it for later.

“I’ve also thought about what you said last night,” you continued carefully. “About Six Flags.”

Dean’s brows lifted.

“And shutting down the entire park feels unfair to you,” you explained. “Potentially devastating, honestly.” Your lips twitched slightly. “So you can still hook up with other people if you want. I genuinely don’t care.”

Dean actually looked offended. “Didn’t realize I needed permission.”

“You know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t.” His voice sharpened for the first time since the conversation started. “But no thanks.” He shrugged once. “It makes this more exciting anyway.” A grin tugged briefly at his mouth again. “I’ve got one ride right now and that’s all I need.”

Your face scrunched at his words. “Does weed somehow make you an even bigger asshole?”

Dean ignored that completely. “I’m not doing anything with anyone else until we’re done here,” he repeated firmly. The teasing disappeared entirely from his voice that time and there was no smugness either, just certainty.

You quieted automatically when a group of students passed nearby, a few of them recognizing Dean instantly and greeting him as they crossed the quad. He responded absentmindedly without taking his eyes off you once.

The second they moved far enough away, you continued. “Why?”

Dean’s expression softened at the question. “Because I need you comfortable,” he answered simply. “And I need you to trust me more than you already do.”

You groaned. “Oh my God,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face. “You’re making this weird.”

He grinned at your reaction while you grabbed his sleeve and started pulling him further across campus before more people stopped to talk to him. Dean let you drag him along without resistance, looking far too entertained by the whole thing.

“We don’t even know how long this will take,” you pointed out.

“My fist works perfectly fine in the meantime,” Dean decided easily.

You looked up at him so fast your neck almost hurt.

Dean pressed his lips together, visibly trying not to laugh at the pure disbelief written across your face. His head tilted slightly, hair strands falling over his forehead while he watched you stare at him like he’d just confessed to tax fraud.

Your gaze dropped away first.

Contrary to what everyone on campus believed, Dean didn’t actually need constant hookups to survive. He liked the reputation, liked exaggerating it even more whenever it annoyed you enough to argue back or laugh at him but underneath all that, he could handle himself perfectly fine.

Unfortunately for you, he seemed almost smug about proving that now.

“Can I add rules too?” he asked.

You sighed dramatically. “Sure.”

The two of you kept walking through campus side by side, your pace slower now that the conversation had moved on from terrifying to merely humiliating.

“No scheduling things specifically for this,” Dean decided. “If it happens, it happens.”

You blinked once before nodding slowly. “Yeah. Okay.” Relief actually loosened something in your chest at that. “That’s good. I’ll stress less.”

Dean glanced sideways at you, probably pleased you agreed so quickly…Except his rule immediately created entirely new problems.

“Uh…” Your steps slowed slightly. “How do you…” You scratched awkwardly at your eyebrow. “Take it?”

Dean stopped walking altogether. “How do I take what?” he asked carefully. “My coffee?”

You groaned. “No.” Your hand motioned vaguely between the two of you in a series of gestures that explained absolutely nothing. “Like…how do you like it?”

Dean’s brows lifted as realization hit him almost visibly.

You looked away at once. “Fuck,” you muttered under your breath. “Do I need to be clean shaven constantly or not?” Your voice lowered progressively through the sentence while your eyes darted around campus to make sure nobody nearby overheard you discussing grooming preferences in broad daylight.

Dean stared at you for half a second too long before answering.

“Y/n.” The seriousness in his tone made your eyes flicker back toward him. “The day I tell you what to do with your body, you better knock me unconscious.”

Your mouth parted slightly.

“I’ll literally kneel for it if that makes it easier,” he continued firmly. “Do whatever makes you comfortable.”

And he meant it. Dean would enjoy it either way, obviously, but that wasn’t what mattered to him here. What mattered was getting you out of your own head long enough to actually enjoy yourself instead of performing comfort for someone else.

You blinked slowly at him because suddenly your ex’s comments replayed in your head with uncomfortable clarity. Little preferences disguised as jokes and suggestions repeated enough times to become expectations and judging by the expression tightening briefly across Dean’s face, he’d realized exactly where your question came from too.

That only made you feel worse somehow. Your attention drifted toward the students moving around campus nearby.

You suddenly wondered if people would notice eventually. The same way older women always claimed they somehow knew when girls became sexually active. Weird comments about posture and confidence, wider hips and glowing skin that sounded fake until suddenly you became the target of them too.

Your stomach tightened faintly. “What are we supposed to tell people?”

Dean barely hesitated. “To mind their own fucking business.”

You snorted softly.

He looked over at you again, entirely serious despite the amusement still lingering around his mouth. “Just like I’m doing mine.”

The rest of the week passed almost painfully normal.

There were parties, late-night food runs, afternoons sprawled around the boys’ house while someone yelled at a video game in the background and hockey games while Dean acted exactly the same as always. You spent time with Hannah and Allie between classes and after them, listened to Garrett complain dramatically about assignments he’d started twelve hours before they were due, watched Tucker cook enough food for six grown men while Logan disappeared upstairs with company more often than not.

Nothing changed.

Dean still touched your shoulder when he walked past you, still stole fries off your plate and still looked at you too long whenever you laughed at something stupid and somehow that made the entire thing worse because half the time you genuinely convinced yourself you’d imagined the whole conversation by the fire pit entirely.

Maybe the weed had made you both insane and none of it was real.

You sat curled up on the floor of the boys’ living room later that week with your knees tucked to your chest, a notebook balanced across your thighs while formulas blurred together across the page. Your back rested against the couch and the TV played quietly in the background though neither of you actually paid attention to it.

Dean sat opposite you in the armchair, long legs spread comfortably while he hunched over his own notebook with far more concentration than anyone would expect from him or maybe not because he took hockey so seriously. He took school seriously too, despite pretending otherwise whenever possible but unfortunately for you, he also looked unfairly good doing homework.

You tried focusing on your own work, tried hard. Instead, your eyes kept lifting toward him between equations, your brain repeatedly snagging on the memory of everything he’d said days earlier and the fact neither of you had taken any of it back…or done a single thing about it.

“What’d you get for number three?” Dean’s voice pulled you from your thoughts but still didn’t look up from his notebook.

You blinked down at your own page, trying to remember where your brain had abandoned the assignment entirely.

“C,” you answered eventually. “But I’m not confident about it.”

Dean hummed thoughtfully. “I’ve done the math twice and I keep getting B.”

You reread the problem slowly, trying to force your attention into place. “Then it’s probably B.”

Dean finally looked up at that, one brow lifting. “You’re admitting you’re wrong?”

You snorted softly. Honestly, it was extremely possible. Your brain hadn’t functioned properly all week because you kept thinking about him offering himself up like some absurdly confident science experiment. 

“Don’t need to dig through my family tree to know I’m not descended from Isaac Newton.”

A smile tugged slowly across Dean’s mouth as he leaned back in the armchair. “If you are,” he said, eyes dragging over your face, “I’m glad the ugly recessive genes skipped you.”

Your nose scrunched instantly. “What kind of compliment is that?”

“The kind I’m hoping gets you over here to help me.” He motioned you closer lazily with his pointer and middle fingers.

You sighed before setting your notebook on the coffee table and padding across the room toward him. The house was quieter this late afternoon, though not empty. Hannah was upstairs with Garrett, Logan had disappeared into his room hours ago and Tucker was outside training.

“Let’s see,” you murmured.

You bent slightly over Dean and the notebook resting on the armrest, attention dropping fully to the equations scattered across the page. The movement loosened the collar of your shirt enough for cool air to brush your skin.

Dean noticed and his throat cleared quietly.

Your attention remained on the notebook while his eyes betrayed him completely, dropping for one dangerous second to the visible lace of your bra before forcing themselves back upward toward your face instead.

Dean had promised himself he’d take this slow and naturally because the second he acted weird about it, you would too. You’d overthink every movement, every look and accidental touch and unfortunately for him, you’d always been terrifyingly good at reading him.

He moved the notebook slightly farther from you as one hand settled carefully against your hip, guiding you.

You reached automatically for the notebook before he moved it entirely out of reach, successfully grabbing it just as he tugged you forward enough for your balance to tip. A second later you settled directly onto his lap, knees falling naturally to either side of his thighs.

You blinked once. “Smooth,” you muttered, adjusting yourself carefully without looking at him. “I’ll give you that.”

Dean grinned openly now. You balanced the notebook against his chest like it was a table and reached backward for the pen loosely held in his free hand. His fingers brushed yours before letting go.

“Should be a five,” you corrected while marking over the equation. “Not a seven.” Your brows furrowed slightly. “Your handwriting’s gotten worse over the years.”

“You still read it.”

“I’m not the one grading you.” Your eyes lifted straight into his.

You’d sat on Dean’s lap before, during packed car rides, group trips and random stupid moments over the years where proximity stopped mattering because he was just Dean. This didn’t feel like that, not even close.

“Not in math,” he said quietly.

Only one of his hands touched you still, resting warm and steady against your hip like he was making a conscious effort not to overwhelm you. Whether it was intentional or not, it worked. His eyes drifted downward slowly toward your mouth.

“You should be rating everything else though.” A grin ghosted briefly across his lips. “Pretty sure Six Flags has customer surveys.”

You shook your head once, slow enough that your hair brushed lightly against your cheek. “No ride, no survey.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. His legs spread slightly wider underneath you then, subtle enough that you still felt the change as the apex of your thighs aligned more directly with his. The hand on your hip tightened enough for you to notice. “Go on then,” he murmured.

Your gaze dropped before you could stop it, down to the visible tent pressing insistently against the front of his sweats. Heat climbed your throat immediately.

“Interesting moment you picked,” you muttered softly, eyes flicking briefly toward the rest of the house.

You felt comfortable there. Comfortable enough to leave clothes behind, to wander into the kitchen without asking and to nap on the couch when you got tired during movie nights but knowing the others were still around somewhere made your pulse jump harder instead of calming it.

Dean noticed. “Just focus on me,” he instructed quietly.

Not ‘look at me’, just ‘focus’ which you could do.

You looked at him, seeing the genuine curiosity and lack of judgment in his eyes and for the first time, the wall you'd built around your sexuality felt more like a shield and less like a cage.

Slowly, tentatively, you moved as the gravity of the moment pulled you toward him. You settled your weight directly onto him, feeling the distinct, blunt shape of his cock through the layers of your clothes. He wasn't fully hard yet, just a semi-firm pressure against your clothed pussy but it didn't make you recoil. In fact, it sent a low thrum of anticipation through your nerves.

The air between you grew thick, charged with a tension that felt heavy enough to touch. You remembered your own rule: no kissing. So, you kept your face inches from his but you didn't close the gap. Instead, you focused on the sound of his breathing, which had hitched the moment you sat down. You could feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over your lips, a teasing, invisible touch that made your skin prickle.

Dean’s hand still hovered near your waist, trembling slightly but he didn't grip you. He seemed to be fighting every instinct to pull you closer, respecting the fragile boundary you had set.

"I'm gonna keep my hands off," he whispered, his voice strained and rough. "You just keep moving. Take whatever you're comfortable with."

He pulled his arms back, resting them flat against the seat beside him, leaving you in complete control. The sudden lack of physical contact made the friction between your pelvises feel even more intense. You knew what you were doing, you had enough experience to know how your body worked, even if the 'explosive ending' always eluded you. You began to rock, a slow, tentative grind that pressed your pussy firmly against the length of him as a sharp, jagged exhale escaped his lungs. 

You felt him react instantly, the semi-firmness beneath you surged, his cock thickening and hardening rapidly against your center. You rolled your hips in a circular motion, aiming for the sweet spot, feeling the dampness beginning to soak into your underwear. You were getting wetter, the friction creating a sliding, sensual heat that radiated upward into your stomach.

"You still okay?" he breathed out, voice barely a murmur.

You simply nodded and tried to focus entirely on him, wanting to give him something perfect, something that would leave him breathless. You pushed down harder, grinding your clit against the hard ridge of his dick. You watched his face, head falling back against the headrest, leaving his throat exposed and pulsing but he forced his eyes to stay open. He wanted to see you. He wanted to witness the way your expression changed as you found a rhythm that worked.

The intimacy was suffocating in the best way. There was no kissing to distract you and no wandering hands to break the spell, just the raw, rhythmic pressure of friction. You could feel the heat radiating off his thighs, the way his chest heaved in time with your movements as your own breathing became ragged, mirroring his, the sound of your synchronized gasps filling the quiet space.

You felt a small, involuntary moan escape your throat, a soft sound of pleasure that made Dean’s hips jerk upward instinctively, trying to meet your descent. You pressed closer, your mind racing, trying to synchronize your pleasure with his but as the tension built, a familiar frustration began to creep in. You were so close to that peak, that elusive edge but the more you focused on his perfection, the more you felt yourself slipping away from your own. You wanted it, you wanted to break through the ceiling you'd lived under for years and the frustration made you grind harder, more desperately.

You were just beginning to lose yourself in the friction, your body humming with a desperate, electric need, when the spell was shattered.

The heavy thud of footsteps hit the wooden porch outside, then came muffled voices.

Tucker.

The sound slammed into you like ice water dumped straight down your spine.

You jolted backward instantly, panic snapping through your body so violently that your balance disappeared completely. The friction, the heat, the dizzy haze clouding your brain shattered in one humiliating second as you scrambled away from Dean in pure instinct.

Dean’s hands had actually stayed off, so when you lurched backward, there was nothing anchoring you in place, no arm catching your waist or grip steadying you. You slipped right off his lap in a graceless tangle of limbs and landed hard beside the chair with a muffled curse, your pulse hammering violently against your ribs.

Dean moved at the same time you did. One hand grabbed the nearest couch pillow and yanked it straight into his lap while the other instinctively reached toward you, fingers brushing empty air because you were already halfway onto your feet.

The front door opened and you froze.

Your breathing came embarrassingly uneven as you tried forcing your body back under control, thighs trembling faintly from the abrupt stop, nerves buzzing so hard beneath your skin it almost hurt. Dean leaned back into the chair with his head tipped toward the ceiling for one brief second, chest rising sharply beneath his t-shirt while tortured frustration flashed openly across his face before he forced himself together enough to look toward the entryway.

Tucker walked in distractedly, phone pressed to his ear while he kicked the door shut behind him with his shoe.

“–No, because that’s not what I said,” he argued into the phone before finally glancing up.

Dean’s voice came out rough and annoyed. “Can't you knock?”

The irritation in it made your eyes widen and before thinking better of it, you reached over and smacked lightly at his arm which made him look offended for half a second.

Tucker’s brows pulled together slowly as his gaze moved between the two of you…You standing there awkwardly and Dean spread out in the armchair with a pillow aggressively covering his lap.

The TV was still playing, forgotten in the background too.

“Wait,” Tucker muttered into the phone, eyes narrowing slightly. “Hold on.” He lowered the phone away from his ear and motioned vaguely around the living room. “I live here,” he pointed out flatly. “If you two wanna study in complete silence maybe turn the TV down or go to the library.”

Your mouth pressed into a painfully tight smile.

“Hey, Y/n.” he greeted, much more gently.

“Hi,” you replied weakly with an awkward nod.

Tucker gave you one more lingering look before wandering toward the kitchen, already returning to his phone conversation while opening the fridge like absolutely nothing life-altering had just occurred in his living room.

The second he was no longer looking, your eyes snapped back toward Dean, his were already on you, wide and still dark with frustration and lingering heat and approximately ten other emotions you absolutely did not have time to unpack right now.

You hurried toward where you’d abandoned your bag near the couch and started shoving your things inside far too quickly.

Dean muttered a curse under his breath behind you as the fridge door opened again. “Wait, wait, wait,” he whispered urgently.

You ignored him completely, nearly dropping your belongings while trying to zip your bag shut.

“You don’t have to leave,” he continued quietly, unable to stand for reasons both of you were painfully aware of. The pillow remained trapped over his lap while he leaned forward slightly, voice dropping lower. “Stay for dinner.” Then louder, “Right, Tucker?”

From the kitchen, still mid-conversation, Tucker lifted a distracted thumbs up without even looking over. Of course you could stay, you were always welcome there and it somehow made this infinitely worse.

“Y/n, c’mon,” Dean tried again, even softer this time.

You finally looked at him, at his flushed face and the way he still looked wrecked from you despite the interruption.

Your stomach flipped painfully. “You can text me that survey of yours,” you muttered.

Dean groaned quietly at the reminder, watching as you grabbed your bag and headed straight for the front door before your embarrassment could physically consume you alive.

You didn’t say goodbye or looked back. You slipped outside into the cold early evening air and shut the door behind you, immediately dragging in one huge breath like you’d been underwater too long.

Fresh air hit your lungs sharply, cool and tensionless.

Your legs felt weird as you walked down the porch steps and somewhere beneath the embarrassment sat an even more irritating realization. You needed to change your panties and somehow, you still hadn’t come.

For the first time in your academic career, you were thankful exam week existed.

The chaos of midterms had given you and Dean something else to focus on besides the fact you’d nearly climbed him in the middle of his living room while Tucker casually walked through the front door. Between study sessions, essays, last-minute cramming and the general emotional collapse that overtook Briar every semester, things had settled back into something manageable.

You and Dean had talked afterward, though absolutely not alone.

He’d insisted on meeting in a crowded coffee shop near campus where old women typed aggressively on laptops and students cried quietly over textbooks in the corner booths. Dean had spent most of the conversation reassuring you Tucker didn’t know anything, swearing repeatedly that if Tucker had known, the entire hockey house would’ve heard about it within twelve minutes. More importantly, he’d made sure you still wanted this and despite the embarrassment, the frustration and how badly your body still reacted whenever he looked at you too long, you did.

“Are you seriously not coming?” Allie paced dramatically across the apartment while speaking, changing outfits for what had to be the fourth time in under an hour. Both you and Hannah tracked her movements from the couch like spectators at a tennis match while she disappeared into her room only to emerge seconds later wearing something slightly tighter each time.

Hannah finally peeled her attention away from Allie to look at you instead.

“She’s right,” she agreed. “Exams are over. Maybe partying would actually help.”

You smiled lazily from your spot curled into the couch cushions, blanket draped across your legs while exhaustion sat heavy behind your eyes.

“What’ll help me is eight uninterrupted hours of sleep,” you informed them. “Which I plan on pursuing aggressively the second both of you leave.” Your mouth twitched slightly. “Now see some boys and make questionable use of your mouths elsewhere.”

Allie barked out a laugh loud enough to echo while Hannah groaned.

“When are we finding your rebound?” Allie asked as she finally settled on an outfit and bent down to tug on her boots.

“It’s too soon,” you decided immediately.

“It is,” Hannah agreed with a firm nod. “She doesn’t wanna think about men right now and we’re respecting that.”

You pointed gratefully toward her. “See? Emotional maturity.”

“Sure,” Allie snorted. “I’m still passing your Instagram around tonight though.” She grinned wickedly while crossing toward the couch. “You can decide what to do with the options later.” Before you could answer, she leaned down and squeezed you tightly against her side. “Don’t wait up for us.”

You watched them drag out the goodbye process intentionally, moving toward the door with exaggerated slowness like they expected you to suddenly change your mind and throw on heels at the last second.

You sighed and stood from the couch, physically herding them toward the exit. “Just go,” you laughed while they protested loudly.

“We tried,” Hannah reminded you with a smile while Allie opened the apartment door. “We’ll send you the address anyway.”

“I won’t change my mind.”

“You say that now...”

You waved them off anyway and finally shut the door behind them once they disappeared down the hallway already talking excitedly about shots and music and whatever terrible decisions the night would inevitably produce.

Silence settled across the apartment immediately afterward.

You exhaled slowly…now what? You considered your options while wandering aimlessly through the living space. You could curl up on the couch with your laptop and a movie or crawl into bed and disappear beneath blankets for twelve straight hours like a Victorian woman with mysterious exhaustion. Or…Your thoughts drifted elsewhere automatically, toward your room and the drawer beside your bed.

You grimaced slightly. Maybe tonight was the night you tried again, actually committed to figuring yourself out instead of giving up midway through frustration like usual. You’d bought enough toys over the years based entirely on optimistic reviews and late-night curiosity alone.

Were they even charged? You were approximately two steps away from your bedroom when knocking sounded at the front door.

You groaned at the sound. “Did you guys forget your condoms again?” you called out while turning toward the entrance. Honestly, it happened often enough that the assumption came naturally now.

You unlocked the door and pulled it open. Then blinked at who you saw. “Dean.”

Dean stood casually in the hallway wearing a baseball cap and dark sunglasses despite the fact it was nighttime indoors, which might’ve worked better if he wasn’t also carrying an enormous black bag beside him.

“I always carry condoms,” he informed you smugly.

Your face scrunched instantly as his answer only emphasized how thin the apartment walls actually were. You narrowed your eyes at him while glancing suspiciously down the hallway. 

“Why aren’t you at the party?”

Dean lowered the sunglasses enough to properly look at you over the frames.

You looked soft tonight, comfortable. Wearing sweatpants and an oversized shirt, hair messier than usual from lying around all day. The sight quickly made something warm settle low in his chest.

“Because I’m here with you.”

“No,” you corrected. “You wanted to be here with me.” You pointed vaguely toward campus. “Past tense…You should currently be at that party.”

“No can do.” Dean slipped smoothly past you before you could stop him, nudging the apartment door shut behind him with his foot.

Only then did you fully notice the bag. It was large, rectangular, black and rigid with no visible branding whatsoever. It completely ruined the whole incognito outfit.

Your eyes narrowed harder while Dean looked far too pleased with himself.

“I come bearing gifts,” he announced, then he walked straight toward your bedroom like he paid rent there.

“How did you know I didn’t go to the party?” you asked while following him toward your bedroom.

Dean set the bag carefully onto your bed before finally turning around, fingers hooking beneath the brim of his cap as he pulled it off. The sunglasses followed next, revealing eyes already fixed on you with far too much satisfaction.

“I have my sources.”

You grimaced again. “That sounds vaguely threatening.”

“Hannah asked me the other day to convince you to come out tonight.” He shrugged casually. “I didn’t.”

You crossed your arms. “Who says I would’ve agreed anyway?”

Dean smiled instantly. “Me.” The confidence in his answer came without hesitation. “I’m very persuasive.”

You rolled your eyes before your attention dragged back toward the massive black bag sitting suspiciously at the foot of your bed. “What is that?”

Dean glanced over his shoulder toward it. “Our entertainment for tonight.” His mouth twitched slightly. “Well…mine.”

You narrowed your eyes harder at him before stepping around him toward the bed. The bag gave nothing away from the outside, rigid and sleek and annoyingly mysterious.

Cautiously, you reached inside and your fingers brushed lace first. You blinked then slowly pulled the item free into the light between you both, pinching it delicately between two fingers like it might suddenly attack you.

“Lingerie?” you asked, genuinely confused.

Dean nodded once. “I had to get rid of the boxes,” he explained. “Turns out Agent Provocateur packaging isn’t exactly subtle.”

Your eyes widened immediately. “Agent Provocateur?” You stared at him in disbelief before looking back into the bag. “Are you insane?”

One by one, you started pulling more pieces out. Black lace…cream silk and tiny straps. Things so soft they barely felt real against your fingertips.

Dean watched your growing expression carefully and only then seemed to realize he may have gone slightly overboard. “I got lost on the website,” he admitted. “And then there was free shipping after a certain amount which felt financially irresponsible to ignore.”

You straightened slowly, still clutching one lace bodysuit in your hands while looking at him like he’d lost his damn mind.

“Explain to me,” you said carefully, “how exactly this counts as entertainment.”

“Besides the obvious?”

Your stare sharpened. Dean exhaled quietly before answering, his tone softening as the teasing faded from his expression.

“When you were on my lap the other day…” His eyes flickered briefly toward the floor before returning to you. “You stopped focusing on yourself after a while.”

Your fingers tightened slightly around the lace.

“You started trying to get me there instead,” he continued gently. “Like you were more worried about proving something than actually feeling good.”

Heat crept onto the nape of your neck because he was right. Dean noticed everything.

“And I get it,” he added quickly, voice staying careful. “Probably instinct. You wanted me to enjoy it.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Which I definitely did, by the way. Don’t start doubting that part.”

You stayed quiet while watching him and actually listened instead of acting on your urge to flee.

“Tonight,” he said after a beat, nodding lightly toward the lingerie scattered across your bed, “the lingerie can be for me.” His eyes moved back to yours. “So the rest can just be yours.”

The room went quiet afterward. The plan had probably sounded more coherent in Dean’s head at one in the morning while online shopping half-awake with his laptop balanced on his stomach but somewhere beneath the absurdity of it, you understood what he meant.

Lingerie wasn’t only about someone else seeing you in it, women bought it for themselves too, to feel pretty, desired and confident. Sometimes just to stand in front of the mirror and reclaim something private but eventually, with partners, it often became performative too, something shared and visual. Dean was trying to remove that pressure from everything else.

Your gaze drifted slowly back down toward the pile of lace but you still weren’t entirely sure what happened next. You tried things on and then, what?

Your voice lowered slightly. “What kind of mind games are you playing?”

You hoped it didn’t sound accusing because it wasn’t meant to. You were just struggling to process the fact Dean had seen through you so clearly after one failed attempt, that he’d gone and actually thought about it, considered it and returned with something tangible instead of empty reassurance and blind confidence.

Dean shook his head immediately. “No games.” His voice stayed soft and patient, ready to leave the second you told him this was too much. “Let’s just give it a shot.”

Silence stretched again before you finally reached for a pair of panties instead. The lace slid smoothly through your fingers as you lifted the panties between you both for further inspection.

Dean’s eyes dropped instantly and despite himself, one very clear thought crossed his mind.

‘Yeah. Definitely one of my favorites.’

“How do you even know these will fit?” you asked honestly. The fabric looked expensive enough to disintegrate if handled incorrectly, soft lace brushing against your fingertips while you inspected the tiny details stitched into it.

Dean opened his mouth…closed it and opened it again. “I’m…observant?”

Even he sounded unsure of the answer.

Your lips twitched as you bit back a laugh while digging through the pile until you found the matching bra, then gathered both pieces in your hands.

“Observant and persuasive,” you mused while backing toward the bathroom. “Let me know when there’s something substantial to add to that list.”

Dean nodded solemnly like you’d given him serious criticism to reflect on. “Will do.”

The bathroom door clicked shut behind you and the second it did, Dean exhaled sharply and looked down at himself...for fuck’s sake.

He adjusted himself miserably through his pants while staring at your closed bathroom door in defeat. Lately everything about you affected him differently, your voice, your teasing and the way you looked at him for half a second too long depending on the day.

It was becoming genuinely embarrassing.

Dean barely moved from the spot you’d left him in.

He stayed planted near the foot of your bed, one hand dragging occasionally through his hair while his eyes remained fixed on the bathroom door like staring hard enough would somehow let him see through it. Every few seconds he twitched awkwardly in his pants, dealing unsuccessfully with the consequences of occasionally hearing your hums through the thin wall while knowing exactly what you were changing into behind it.

Inside the bathroom, you stood frozen in front of the mirror for far longer than necessary.

You tried very hard not to think about how closely Dean must’ve paid attention to you over the years to somehow get the sizing exactly right because it fit perfectly.

The lace sat snug against your skin without pinching anywhere, soft black patterns curling over your chest and hugging your hips beautifully. The bra lifted your breasts enough to make your posture straighten instinctively while the matching panties rested low against your hips, delicate enough to feel expensive but comfortable enough not to make you tug at them every two seconds.

You looked good, not just tolerable under dim lights or acceptable after strategic positioning and reassurance and maybe that was what scared you most because now you had to walk back out there and let someone else see it too.

With one last glance toward your reflection, you finally reached for the doorknob and stepped back into your room.

Dean looked up immediately, the reaction was almost embarrassing.

He stopped breathing for half a second entirely, eyes dragging over you slowly enough to make heat climb straight into your throat. He barely blinked while following your movement across the room as you drifted toward your full-length mirror, fingertips lightly tracing the lace resting over your shoulders before moving lower toward the small details connecting the cups together.

The silence stretched thickly.

You kept looking at yourself mostly because looking directly at him felt dangerous right now, even as he moved behind you slowly without touching. He was just standing there close enough for warmth to gather along your back while his eyes followed yours through the reflection. Wherever you looked, he looked too, until eventually your gazes met in the mirror.

You swallowed. “What do you think?”

Dean inhaled deeply through his nose. “I think,” he said slowly, “Six Flags might be going out of business soon.”

Your brows lifted immediately before a quiet laugh escaped you despite yourself.

You turned around to face him fully then, stepping closer until only inches separated you both. Your hands settled carefully against the center of his chest, fingertips brushing lightly against the fabric of his shirt while you looked up at him.

Dean held your gaze steadily, too steadily, sometimes it genuinely felt like he could read your thoughts if he stared long enough. “What do you think?” he echoed softly.

You hummed quietly, eyes flickering downward toward his mouth before lifting back up again.

“I think…” Your hands began sliding slowly down his chest, fingertips grazing over the hard planes beneath his shirt one inch at a time. “Maybe…” Your voice softened further as your palms drifted lower. “I could show you something I actually know how to do.”

Dean’s jaw tightened as your fingers brushed the bulge straining against his pants.

“With my mouth,” you finished quietly.

You didn’t move afterward and neither did he.

In your head, the logic made sense. Dean already thought you were beautiful, so you didn’t need him witnessing your frustration firsthand too. You could give him something good instead, something you knew how to control.

For one dangerous second, he looked like he was genuinely considering it. Then Dean exhaled sharply and turned you around instead, guiding you gently back toward the mirror until your back rested against his chest.

A startled breath caught in your throat as your ass pressed unintentionally against the hard outline of his erection.

Your eyes met his again through the reflection.

“I don’t doubt you can do those things,” he murmured near your ear. “All of them.”

One of his hands settled carefully against your waist while the other slid slowly downward, fingertips brushing beneath the waistband of your panties enough to make your stomach tighten. 

His eyes never once left yours in the mirror. “So why do you?”

The reflection showed the two of you, a study in tension and longing. You could see the intensity in his eyes, the way he watched you not just with desire but with a focused, intentional kind of devotion.

His hand didn't push further, he stopped before his fingertips brushed the outer lips of your pussy, leaving a teasing spark of contact. He held himself there, gaze locking onto yours in the mirror, waiting. He wasn't going to take a single inch more without your explicit permission.

You felt your heart hammer against your ribs, chest heaving. You looked into his eyes and gave a small, shaky nod.

The moment you did, he slid deeper. His fingers glided through the slick already gathering between your thighs, parting you with a gentle pressure that could’ve made your toes curl. He didn't rush, he navigated the wet lips until his fingertip found the small, swollen bud of your clit. He began to circle it slowly with agonizingly steady rotations that sent ripples of electricity shooting straight to your core.

"Tell me what you see," he whispered, voice a low and gravelly vibration against your ear.

You swallowed hard, voice trembling as you focused on the reflection. "You...you touching me," you breathed.

As you spoke, you watched your own body react. Your breathing picked up, turning into shallow, jagged gasps. In the mirror, you saw your breasts heaving, the nipples peaking and hardening into tight, sensitive points through the lace of your bra. As if reading your thoughts, Dean’s other hand reached around, his fingers finding one breast and gripping it. He massaged the hardened peak, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger and you let out a sharp, involuntary swallow, head tilting back slightly.

"And what's at the end of me?" he asked, voice humming with a dark, sensual curiosity.

"Me," you whispered, the word barely leaving your lips.

"What else?" he pressed, fingers continuing that relentless, circling motion. He was forcing you to stay present, stripping away your ability to hide in your head or focus on his pleasure. He wanted you trapped in your own skin.

You stared at yourself, hyper-aware of every inch of your anatomy. "Beauty marks," you murmured, noticing the small moles on your thighs and torso that you usually ignored.

"And here?" he asked, his thumb flicking the tip of your nipple.

"Hardened nipples," you gasped, eyes fluttering.

"And on your skin..." he prompted, his fingers quickening their pace, the friction against your clit becoming more insistent and demanding.

"Goosebumps," you whimpered. You could see them breaking out across your shoulders and arms, a physical manifestation of the arousal peaking within you.

The sensory overload was dizzying. Every time you named a part of yourself, the pleasure seemed to intensify, as if acknowledging your own body was unlocking a door you'd kept bolted shut. Dean’s fingers were no longer just circling, they were fluttering, vibrating against your most sensitive spot with a precision that made your hips instinctively buck back against him. You felt the wetness flooding out of you and coating his fingers, making the sounds of his touch wet and explicit in the quiet room.

You tried desperately to keep your eyes locked on his in the mirror but as the pleasure climbed, the world began to blur. Your eyelids grew heavy, the edges of your vision darkening as the sensation centered entirely on the point where he was rubbing you. You started to moan, the sounds raw but still shy, escaping your throat without your permission. You pushed your backside harder against the rigid length of his erection, craving the friction, the completion.

The tension in your lower belly coiled tighter and tighter, a spring winding up to the point of snapping. You were right there, on the precipice, the beginning of an orgasm shimmering just out of reach. Your breath became a series of broken sobs as your body trembled in anticipation. Was this it?

"I think...I–" you started, voice breaking as the first wave of a climax seemed to form but just before it solidified, just as you were about to believe it would, Dean abruptly pulled his hand away.

The sudden void was shocking. You gasped, body jolting from the abrupt loss of stimulation, the orgasm denied at the very last second of creation. You were left vibrating, aching and halfway undone but before you could process the frustration, he gripped your waist and turned you around in his arms so you were facing him. 

Your eyes were wide, glazed with lust and confusion, chest heaving as you looked up at him.

"What the hell are you doing?" you asked, voice a breathless wreck.

Dean didn't answer immediately. He just looked at you, taking in the desperate hunger in your eyes. He gripped your hips firmly, knuckles white and began backing up toward the bed, pulling you with him.

"Trusting you to do it first," he murmured.

As the back of his knees hit the mattress, he let himself fall back, laying flat on his back and spreading his arms wide, leaving himself completely open and vulnerable to you.

You climbed over him, your movements determined, fueled by a desperate, humming need that had been wound tight in the mirror. You braced your knees against his sides, feeling the hard muscle of his thighs beneath you and planted one hand firmly on his chest. Beneath your palm, you could feel his heart hammering a frantic rhythm, a mirror to your own. With a renewed sense of determination, you slipped your other hand beneath the fabric of your panties, your fingers finding the slick, swollen heat of your pussy.

As you began to touch yourself, you closed your eyes for a moment, repeating the litany he had forced you to acknowledge in the mirror. You focused on the hyper-awareness he had instilled in you, turning that mental lens inward. You found your clit, already engorged and sensitive and began to circle it. Your breathing became ragged, each exhale a shaky shudder that vibrated through your entire frame.

You opened your eyes and looked down at your hand on his chest. You watched the way his pectorals heaved under your touch, his skin flushed and warm. Then, you felt his hands slide up your legs, his large palms gripping your thighs firmly. The sheer intensity of his gaze, the way he watched your every movement with a hunger that felt almost tangible, made a low moan escape your throat.

You had never reached this point before, never felt this close to the edge of something so profound. The pleasure was a rising tide, threatening to pull you under.

"Be patient," Dean breathed, his voice a low, grounding rumble that seemed to vibrate through the mattress and into your bones. "Listen to your body."

You nodded, eyes locked onto his and focused entirely on the sensation. You ignored the noise in your head, everything except the friction of your own fingers. You kept your hand working at a speed you liked, a steady, rhythmic pressure that built a coil of tension in your lower belly. You began to squirm, hips rocking in a slow, undulating motion against your own hand, chasing the spark.

In your haze of arousal, you shifted, pressing your soaking wet clothed cunt directly onto the rigid length of his erection through his pants. The sudden, blunt pressure against your clit sent a shockwave of pleasure through you and you let out a loud, uncontrolled moan. Dean groaned in response, a sound of pure, tortured restraint as he kept his hips from jerking upward to meet you.

You quickly lifted your hips again, holding them high in the air, body arching as you fought to maintain the rhythm.

“Holy fuck,” You were so close now, the world was narrowing down to the point where your fingers met your flesh.

"Attagirl. That's it," Dean whispered, voice thick with praise. "You're doing so good. Just like that...look at you, taking it all in. So fucking worth it."

His words were like fuel to the fire. The praise made you bolder and movements more frantic. You pressed harder, your fingers fluttering with an urgency that bordered on desperation until the tension reached a breaking point, a white-hot spark that suddenly ignited into a roaring flame.

The orgasm hit you like a physical blow. Your head snapped back, your spine arching as the first wave of pleasure crashed over you. Your lips parted and an unreal, unabashed sound, a high, keening cry of release slipped out of you, echoing through the room. It was your first time ever coming and the sensation was overwhelming. It didn't just peak and fade, it rolled through you in long, rhythmic pulses that seemed to last forever, shaking your entire body, leaving your muscles twitching and your mind a complete blank.

Dean didn't move. He looked at you, completely mesmerized, eyes wide and unblinking. He watched the way your throat worked as you gasped for air, the way your breasts heaved and the way your body shuddered under the aftershocks. Beneath you, his cock throbbed and twitched painfully against the constraint of his pants, a visible manifestation of the agony and ecstasy of watching you shatter.

As the waves finally subsided, leaving you limp and floating, you collapsed onto his chest with a sultry whine, skin damp with sweat and breathing heavy and synchronized with his as you caught your breath.

The silence of the room was thick, charged with the lingering electricity of the moment.

You swallowed hard while still catching your breath, voice a mere whisper against his skin. "Is it too soon to say that was the best orgasm I've ever had?"

Dean let out a heavy, uneven breath beneath you, the sound shuddering straight through his chest and into yours. Only then did his hands finally leave your thighs. Slowly, almost cautiously, they slid upward along your sides until his palms settled against your back.

Gone was the restraint that had kept his fingers tense and controlled earlier. Now he touched you lightly, almost reverently, fingertips drifting along the curve of your spine over the lace while he tried to steady his breathing. Every few seconds his hands flexed against you instinctively, like he still couldn’t quite believe what had just happened.

“Definitely the best one I’ve ever had,” he murmured.

His voice sounded wrecked, dizzy, like simply watching you come apart on top of him had pushed him somewhere dangerously close to losing it himself.

You lifted your head slowly from where it rested against his chest, pushing up enough to properly look at him.

Dean blinked up at you lazily, pupils completely blown.

You swallowed once. “Did you…?”

The question barely finished forming before Dean’s expression morphed into something sheepish and amused all at once. He swallowed too before nodding once against the mattress.

Your eyes widened slightly as his hand slid upward from your back, fingertips brushing softly along your jaw while he looked at you with an expression so openly fond it almost hurt to hold eye contact with him.

“Am I still not deserving of a kiss?” he asked quietly. Half joking, half absolutely not.

You hummed thoughtfully like you were genuinely considering it. “You want a cookie and a gold star too?”

Dean’s grin spread slowly across his face, matching yours instantly despite the pleasure still weighing down his features. “Better than the survey.”

You laughed softly through your nose before finally leaning down the rest of the way.

The kiss was warm, searing and long overdue.

Dean’s hand moved instantly to the back of your head, holding you in place like he’d been waiting weeks to finally do exactly this. It started slow for approximately two seconds, soft lips parting against yours carefully, almost disbelievingly, before weeks of tension snapped apart all at once.

You melted into him with a breathless sound as his mouth pressed harder against yours.

Dean kissed like he did everything else, thoroughly.

His thumb pushed lightly beneath your jaw, tilting your head back enough for him to deepen the kiss, tongue sliding against yours slow at first, exploratorily, before the restraint he’d been clinging to all night dissolved completely. The taste of him, the warmth of his mouth and the low groan that rumbled out of his chest when you kissed him back with equal desperation made your stomach tighten all over again.

The kiss quickly turned messy, hungry. You could barely catch your breath between them, mouths reconnecting instantly every time you pulled apart for air like neither of you could tolerate the distance anymore. Dean’s grip tightened on your hair as his other hand spread wide against your back, dragging you flush against him while his tongue swept against yours again, deeper this time, making heat rush straight through your body.

So much for rules.

Seems like Six Flags had just been privatised for a single Agent Provocateur wearer…indefinitely.

☆ Read part 2 here!!

Hockey boys disappeared.

You wished you had known that before you let Dean slip out of your place two nights ago.

They didn’t do it intentionally, never maliciously either but the season swallowed them whole. They vanished into six a.m. skates and afternoon lifts, into physical therapy appointments that patched together bruised shoulders and strained knees. Into mandatory media interviews the athletic department insisted would make the team more marketable, more approachable and into lectures they attended only long enough to collect notes before hurrying off to practice again, then came the exams they'd postponed because hockey had always come first until suddenly it couldn't.

Their schedules folded in on themselves until entire days disappeared without warning.

You only ever seemed to find them again at parties, ones Allie and Hannah practically dragged you to, insisting fresh air, loud music and cheap drinks counted as emotional healing.

Your skin had been buzzing ever since that night, an awareness sitting right beneath the surface no matter how hard you tried to ignore it. Every time you opened your dresser, the tangled pile of Agent Provocateur lace shoved unceremoniously into the back of your drawer stared back at you like evidence from a crime scene. You'd stuffed it in there without folding a single piece, too flustered to deal with it afterward, yet you still couldn't bring yourself to move it somewhere less obvious.

Then there were Dean's texts, you answered them eventually, right after rewriting each reply sufficient times to make yourself question your own sanity. Was starting a sentence with a capital letter too serious? Did ending it with a period make you sound annoyed? Was “okay” different from “ok”? You caught yourself deleting perfectly normal messages simply because they looked too eager before sending something shorter that felt even stranger.

You hadn't mentioned that night once.

You tried not to think too much about the kiss or what had come before and especially not how it had ended. He'd watched you pull your pajamas on without a trace of impatience, giving you the privacy of looking away whenever your eyes met before inevitably finding you again, you kept your focus away from the memory of the gentle press of his lips against your forehead before he'd left, so tender you could still feel the warmth after he’d stepped away. You'd looked completely wrung out, limbs heavy, emotions stripped bare, too tired to pretend you were anything but vulnerable and he'd treated you like something precious instead of fragile.

You hadn't reached for him.

Even now, the memory made your fingers twitch uselessly at your sides. If you'd caught his wrist and tugged him back for even another minute, would anything feel different now? Or would you still be dissecting text messages like they were evidence in a court case, wondering how you had become shy after years of knowing each other better than anyone else?

“So that's what it feels like,” you breathed, the words escaping before you realized you'd spoken them aloud as your heeled boots scraped lazily against the sidewalk.

A few steps ahead, Allie stopped so abruptly she nearly caused a collision. She turned on her heel, her brows knitting together as she looked first at Hannah walking beside you, checking whether she'd heard the same thing, before her attention landed squarely on you.

“That's what what feels like?” she asked, curiosity overtaking whatever conversation you three had been having.

You could feel another exchange of glances pass between them, so quick most people would've missed it. Hannah's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly, Allie's mouth pulled into a thin line before she gave the smallest shrug in return.

Years of friendship had made you fluent in conversations that didn't require words. If you had to guess, it translated roughly to “Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe it was too soon to drag her to a party.” You pretended not to notice. Instead, you let your gaze drift down the street.

Cars lined both curbs, squeezed bumper to bumper beneath the streetlights, while clusters of students spilled across lawns and sidewalks with red cups already in hand. Music pulsed from somewhere ahead, bass so heavy it vibrated faintly beneath your feet and every few seconds another burst of laughter erupted from the overcrowded house at the end of the block where people continuously filtered through the front door, the party breathing them in and out.

You let out a quiet sigh, wondering whether turning around now would actually be more awkward than simply going inside.

Hannah spoke first, her voice light. “We don't have to stay long,” she reasoned, slipping her hands into the pockets of her jacket as she smiled at you. “There's free booze. Let's just treat it like a pregame, then we can head back to the apartment, order something greasy and play poker.”

“No offense, girls,” you replied with the ghost of a smile, “but I'm not stripping naked in front of you two tonight. Sorry to disappoint.”

Allie snorted. “I think she means the normal kind of poker.”

You looked at her with exaggerated disbelief. “We're in college, Allie. There is no other kind.”

A laugh escaped Hannah while Allie rolled her eyes so dramatically you were surprised they didn't disappear into the back of her head permanently.

“Okay…” Allie muttered under her breath, drawing the word out as she pointed an accusing finger at you. “Pessimist.” Then her entire expression brightened again, optimism returning with alarming speed. “Let's not waste good outfits by turning around prematurely. One hour.” She held up a finger. “Two, tops.”

“And no boys–” Hannah added.

You watched Allie's head whip toward her so quickly a strand of hair stuck briefly to her lipstick. “What?” she protested.

Hannah ignored her entirely, keeping her eyes on you instead. “We'll keep them at bay.”

“Who's we?” Allie demanded, her eyes widening in horror. She turned toward Hannah, raising both eyebrows in an elaborate series of expressions that looked suspiciously like she was trying to negotiate exceptions without saying them openly.

“Yeah,” you chimed in before Hannah could answer, “let's not be rash.”

Both of them looked at you at once and you blinked innocently. “I mean…” you amended, scratching lightly at the side of your neck. “Talking's fine, right?” Your shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “If Tucker came up to me, I wouldn't ignore him.”

“You like Tucker?” Hannah asked carefully, the question so gentle that it almost sounded like she was testing the ice before stepping onto it. Her eyes narrowed, though the corner of her mouth betrayed the beginning of a smile. “Though he's not the demographic I'm worried about.”

Your head snapped toward her. “No, I–” You stumbled over the words, making a vague gesture in the air between you. “It was just an example. He's a boy–” You caught yourself. “Man.” The correction did absolutely nothing to restore your confidence as both of them continued staring at you expectantly. You winced. “Okay, it was a bad example,” you admitted, ducking your head.

Before either of them could capitalize on it, you slipped neatly between them and continued walking toward the house, hoping physical distance would somehow end the conversation…It didn't.

“Surprised you didn't use Dean,” Allie remarked quietly.

Your entire body locked up and your next step faltered before stopping altogether. Slowly, you turned back to face them, your expression caught somewhere between horrified and deeply offended. “Let's pick another word.”

Allie blinked. “…What?”

You shrugged awkwardly, refusing to elaborate for a second before mumbling, “‘Use’ just sounds wrong.”

“Since when?” Hannah laughed, looking genuinely confused.

“I meant ‘use him’…” Allie's grin spread wider the second she realized what could’ve happened inside your head. “As in ‘use him as an example’.” She pointed at you dramatically. “Though if you're into that dominatrix shit, I'll just ask you not to do it in the apartment.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “And much less with Di Laurentis. I doubt his ego could handle physically being under a woman and–”

Your eyes widened a little more with every passing sentence. Your mouth opened twice, each time thinking now was the moment you'd interrupt, only for Allie to barrel cheerfully into the next thought before you could squeeze a single word in.

“…he'd probably have trouble performing or something. I don't remember Six Flags having a ride where you stand in line for forty minutes just to leave disappointed. He'd spend more time advertising himself than actually delivering and fuck forbid he finds a captive audience…we'd never hear the end of how 'life-changing' he thinks his d–”

“Allie,” you finally managed weakly, which thankfully made her rant stop.

A few steps away, Hannah made a strangled sound that was half laugh, half cough. “Okay!” she wheezed, trying and failing to compose herself. “I think we'll all stay away from boys tonight.”

A huff of laughter escaped you, the tension finally cracking. “So if Garrett waltzes in,” you asked, “you're just going to keep that man away?” Your eyebrows lifted knowingly. “If what slips through the thinnest walls ever made is any indication, I'd like to see that work in your favor.”

Hannah didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed. “Well, that's different,” she replied with unmistakable pride. “We're together.”

“Better wrap up your French lesson then, Madame,” Allie declared, already marching ahead with exaggerated determination. She shook her head dramatically, muttering loud enough for both of you to hear. “We? Who's we? Far as I know this is still a free country…” She threw one hand into the air in theatrical protest without ever slowing her pace, leaving you and Hannah exchanging an amused glance before following after her.

You grimaced before leaning slightly toward Hannah, lowering your voice as though the woman in question might somehow overhear you from halfway up the walkway. “I think we should start putting the news on as background noise,” you reasoned with complete sincerity.

A laugh escaped Hannah before she bumped your shoulder lightly with hers as the two of you started walking again, unhurried despite Allie steadily increasing the distance between you.

“College is torture enough,” Hannah sighed. “Let's at least wait until we get this semester's grades.”

You nodded thoughtfully. “And gauge exactly how much pain we actually deserve…smart idea.”

Hannah breathed out dramatically. “Or the worst I've ever had.”

You laughed under your breath just as Allie's voice carried across the front lawn. “Are you guys coming or what!?” She stood on the porch with one hand on the doorway of the open front door, the music spilling out around her while impatiently waving both of you over.

“Yeahhh…no,” you replied, motioning toward the overflowing house in the distance, the one she'd insisted would be a good idea in the first place. “I think this one already beats it.” You let out a long, defeated sigh as you and Hannah finally caught up to Allie, meeting her expectant stare. “Poor choice of words again, babe.” You told her, pressing your lips into a thin line.

Allie rolled her eyes with exaggeration, muttering something under her breath that was completely swallowed by the music pouring from the open front door before disappearing inside. The bass had grown strong enough to rattle the loose wooden steps with every beat.

You stepped through the doorway last.

Warm air, thick with perfume, sweat, beer and something unmistakably fruity from whatever jungle juice someone had mixed in the kitchen, hit you instantly. Every room seemed packed wall to wall with students, some danced with complete disregard for personal space while others shouted conversations directly into each other's ears. Plastic cups littered every available surface, laughter rose above the music in uneven bursts and somewhere upstairs someone cheered so loudly, it briefly overpowered the speakers.

“…Or what,” you echoed quietly to yourself as the front door swung shut behind you.

The phrase lingered in your head while your eyes swept over the crowded rental. You spotted Hannah and Allie weaving confidently through the bodies ahead of you, Hannah reaching back once to make sure you were still following before the crowd swallowed her hand again.

“I'm gonna get us something to drink!” you called over the music once you'd caught up.

Allie answered with an enthusiastic thumbs-up that quickly dissolved into dancing with whoever happened to be beside her, already swaying to the beat without a hint of self-consciousness. Hannah, meanwhile, had her phone out before you even finished speaking, her attention dropping to the screen with a smile you recognized instantly as she typed what was almost certainly a message to Garrett letting him know the three of you had made it there safely.

You smiled back at everyone who greeted you on the way through the house, returning waves and quick hellos even when you barely recognized the faces. If you acted normal for a while longer, maybe your brain would eventually believe that this was just another party, another late night. No tangled thoughts or awkward tension sitting beneath your skin, no constant awareness of a pair of hands that had learned you with impossible patience only two nights earlier.

You kept searching for the kitchen instead, hoping the simple task would occupy your mind before it drifted back to your bedroom, to the mirror the two of you had stood in front of, to the way he'd looked at you through your own reflection, the quiet praise, the tenderness and how he'd made you feel seen by expertly opening the walls to your own pleasure.

By the time you reached the kitchen, you were relieved by the mundane sight of overcrowded counters. You pulled it open, grabbed three cans of soda and decided they were probably the smarter choice, experience had already proven that alcohol loosened your tongue far more than your common sense appreciated.

You cracked yours open, taking a long sip as the cold, fizzy sweetness settled pleasantly in your throat, cooling the nervous warmth that had been building there all evening. For a moment, you simply stood there, your eyes wandering over the crowded kitchen. People leaned against countertops with red cups in hand, someone laughed loudly, making the room glance over and two strangers debated mixers in front of the freezer.

Then your gaze caught on the one face you had hoped not to see, your ex.

His eyes found yours in the same instant, his posture straightening automatically. You recognized that look, that subtle shift that always came a second before he decided on his next move which was toward you.

Instinctively, you took a step backward, only to bump into a cluster of people reaching for drinks behind you. Someone muttered a quick apology without looking up, another squeezed past with a bag of ice and before you could sidestep out of the way, the kitchen had filled in around you completely. There was nowhere left to retreat.

He threaded through the crowd anyway, slipping between shoulders and conversations with determination until he stopped in front of you, wearing the careful expression of someone approaching a frightened animal he believed he could still coax closer. “Haven’t seen you around in a while.”

“Let’s make that a little longer then, wouldn’t that be nice?” you replied with a smile that never quite reached your eyes.

He exhaled through his nose, already looking faintly irritated in that familiar way that told you he'd remembered one of the things he'd disliked most about dating you, your sarcasm. “Come on, don’t be like that–”

“Don’t be like what?” you cut in flatly.

He hesitated, his rehearsed opening clearly unraveling. “I just meant…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m trying to apologize here, okay?”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Great fucking job you’re doing,” you noted with a careless shrug. “Fantastic timing too, just like in the cafeteria.”

He sighed heavily, rubbing a hand across his face as though he could erase the last few weeks with the gesture alone. “I know I fucked up, okay? I tried to text you–”

“You’re blocked.” The interruption came so automatically you barely thought about it.

He paused for half a second before giving a slow, unimpressed nod. “I figured.”

“Good.” You took another sip of your soda before looking back up at him. “I was worried guessing would use up the rest of your brain cells and you wouldn’t have any left by the time exam season came around.”

A dry, humorless laugh escaped him. He glanced around the kitchen instinctively, checking whether anyone had overheard the exchange before his attention settled back on you. “This is all just a fucking game to you, huh?” His eyes dragged over you with thinly veiled annoyance.

“Isn’t that what made you leave?” You shot back, “Only one of us hates losing badly enough to flee.”

“Fuck you,” he bit out sharply. “I didn’t flee.”

“You didn’t stick around to try either.” You stepped forward to press a finger firmly against the center of his chest, the contact making him stiffen. “I fucked you.”

His jaw flexed so hard you thought you heard his teeth grind together. Slowly, almost unconsciously, he took a step backward, your finger slipping away from his shirt.

“Don’t text again,” you finished, your voice suddenly much quieter than before. “I think you’ve wasted enough of each other's time.”

He stared at you for another second, searching your face for something that wasn't there anymore, then he looked away first. Without another word, he turned, disappearing back into the crowd until the moving bodies swallowed him entirely.

You remained where you were, blinking slowly as your pulse settled, willing the humiliation from the cafeteria and the anger sitting hot in your chest to dissolve together into something less exhausting. They stubbornly refused.

Your eyes dropped to the soda can still clutched in your hand. You frowned at it as if it had failed you before lifting it for another long drink, the carbonation stung pleasantly at the back of your throat. You swallowed, exhaled through your nose and muttered under your breath, “I fucking hate being sober.”

“No you don’t.” The voice reached you immediately and it made every muscle in your shoulders relaxed before your brain had even caught up. You turned around so quickly a few drops of soda sloshed over the rim of the can. Relief settled into your chest the second you saw him.

Dean stood just a few steps away, both hands shoved into the pocket of a dark hoodie thrown hastily over a wrinkled Briar hockey T-shirt. A baseball cap sat low on his head, hair escaping around the edges and there were faint shadows beneath his eyes that spoke of too many early practices and not nearly enough sleep. He looked nothing like someone who planned on staying at the party and despite looking completely worn out, seeing him made the crowded kitchen feel infinitely less suffocating.

“Get me out of here,” you sighed, the words leaving you in one long breath. “Please.”

Dean's eyebrows lifted in genuine surprise before one corner of his mouth curled upward. The tiredness hanging around his eyes didn't disappear but it softened beneath a grin he was clearly trying and failing to suppress. “Is that begging I hear?”

Your eyes narrowed sharply. “Make yourself useful, Di Laurentis.”

He nodded with exaggerated thoughtfulness, accepting the challenge as he reached over to pluck the two unopened soda cans from your hands, balancing them effortlessly in one hand. “Front jean pocket,” he instructed, nodding toward your right side. “On your right.”

Your gaze followed the gesture before immediately flicking back up to his face, then, despite yourself, it drifted lower to his jeans. You looked back up at him with unmistakable suspicion and slowly shook your head. “I'm not putting my hand in there,” you decided, lowering your voice instinctively beneath the music. “It's inappropriate…and there's a…” Your eyes darted downward again before returning to his. “…lump.” Doubt colored the last word.

Dean stared at you for a beat before an incredulous laugh escaped him. “Those are my car keys,” he clarified, amusement bleeding into every syllable. “I figured you should wait in my car.” His grin only widened the longer he watched realization dawn across your face. Tilting his head slightly, he studied you with obvious delight. “You think I'm hung like that?”

You straightened, refusing to give him the satisfaction of looking embarrassed. “There was a point where we bathed together before it got weird,” you reminded him matter-of-factly. “I think I know exactly how hung you are.”

His eyebrows climbed. “Seen it recently?”

You snorted. “Your pants don't leave much up to the imagination.”

“Trust me,” he replied with effortless confidence, giving a small shake of his head. “They do.” He nodded once more toward his pocket. “Front pocket. Go on.”

You groaned quietly. “You saying ‘go on’ doesn't somehow make this better, you pervert,” you whisper-yelled, stepping closer so your complaint wouldn't carry past the people milling around the kitchen.

Dean mirrored the movement, leaning down until the two of you were close enough that neither of you had to raise your voices. Around you, the party rolled on without a second glance. Someone behind you was arguing over whose turn it was at beer pong, another group erupted into cheers from the living room and a couple squeezed past carrying more drinks, nobody spared the two of you so much as a curious look.

Dean's eyes lingered on your face, taking in the fake indignation you weren't quite managing to sell.

His smile softened, more playful than teasing. “Don't let those fingers stray, then,” he murmured, his tone light, you couldn't tell whether he was trying to fluster you or simply enjoying how easily you flustered yourself. “I'd hate for you to get distracted.”

You reached forward, hooking a finger through one of Dean's belt loops and giving it a small tug that drew him a step closer without either of you thinking much about it. The movement brought him within arm's reach, the familiar scent of clean detergent, cedar and the lingering bite of cold night air clinging to his hoodie crowded out the smell of beer and cheap liquor filling the kitchen.

You intentionally looked everywhere but at his face as you slipped a cautious hand into his front pocket, determined to keep your attention fixed on finding the keys rather than on the warmth radiating through the denim beneath your fingertips. Your fingers searched carefully until they brushed cool metal.

The two of you stood almost chest to chest now, neither acknowledging just how little space remained between you. “New perfume?” he asked conversationally, though the amusement in his voice was impossible to miss. It was probably the safest compliment he could give you, anything more direct and there was a decent chance you'd retaliate by driving a knee into somewhere he valued quite highly.

Then again, he thought with private amusement, doubling over from the pain would technically put him even closer to you.

“Shut up,” you mumbled, refusing to look at him as you heard him unsuccessfully swallow a laugh. Your index finger finally caught the loop of the keychain and with a victorious little huff you pulled the keys free before quickly retreating a full step as though distance alone could erase how aware you'd just become of him.

You held the keys up between two fingers. “Couple of lumps you've got in there.”

Dean stared at you for half a second before slowly shaking his head. “Poor choice of words.”

You pointed vaguely in the air between the two of you. “Yeah, say that to Allie.”

His brows pinched together. “…What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” You answered far too quickly before he could pry further. Gesturing toward the crowded rooms beyond the kitchen, you added, “I don't care if they drink, just make sure they have a driver home. We drove here.”

“Yes, ma'am,” he replied with an exaggerated nod and a mock salute. “Garrett's with them anyway. I'll tell him.” Moving to the side, he tipped his head toward the hallway in a silent gesture for you to go first. You squeezed back through the crowd, Dean falling into step close behind you without needing to be asked.

“Alright,” you muttered, fishing your phone out as you carefully navigated around a couple dancing in the middle of the hallway. “I'll text them too.” Your thumbs were already opening the group chat. “Seeing my fuckass ex is enough of an excuse to call it a night.”

Dean's expression, playful until then, quieted as he glanced back toward the kitchen you'd just left before looking down at you, his pace never slowing to make sure you never had to push your way through the crowd alone.

“He's here?” Dean asked, every trace of amusement now fully gone. His shoulders straightened instinctively as his eyes swept back toward the kitchen over his shoulder. “Where?”

You caught him halfway through turning, already reading exactly where his mind was headed. Before he could take a single step, you reached out, your fingers slipping into the waistband, lightly catching against his jeans to tug him back in the opposite direction. “Not the mission,” you reminded him.

Dean's attention dropped briefly to your hand before he let himself be redirected without resistance, falling back into step behind you. “I'm willing to make an exception,” he muttered, though there wasn't much conviction behind it anymore. After a beat, his voice softened. “Did he talk to you?” The concern sat plainly beneath the question.

You hummed in acknowledgment. “And I talked back.” You shrugged as if it had cost you nothing, even if your heartbeat hadn't entirely settled yet. “He won't invade Troy tonight…problem solved.”

By the time you reached the main room again, you rose onto your toes, scanning over the sea of heads for Hannah and Allie. “I saw them over there last.”

Dean followed your gaze before nodding. “They went out back. I'll go find them.” He jerked his thumb toward the street outside. “My car's up there.”

“No detours,” you warned, pointing a finger squarely at his chest. “I'm serious.” You didn't have to explain which detour you meant.

Dean looked at you for a second before lifting both hands innocently. “I'd say I'll keep my eyes down,” he replied, “but then we'd come face to face.” He punctuated the joke with the most exaggerated, insincere shrug imaginable, very intentionally mocking your ex's height.

You couldn't help the laugh that escaped you. “Face to nose if he's wearing his lifts,” you corrected.

“Told you he wasn't that tall,” Dean added, unable to resist sounding just a little smug as he began walking backward toward the sliding door leading outside, keeping his eyes on you until someone bumped into his shoulder and forced him to glance away.

“Yeah, well,” you mumbled as you headed toward the front door instead, weaving between conversations and dancing bodies, “one pair of fakers we were.”

The cool night air met you the second you stepped outside, washing away the suffocating warmth and noise of the packed house. You drew in a deep breath, the distant bass now muffled behind closed walls and doors instead of vibrating through your ribs. Following Dean's directions, you walked up the street beneath the glow of scattered streetlights until you found his car parked along the curb. You unlocked it with a press of the key fob, climbed into the passenger seat,and shut the door behind you. The silence that settled around you felt almost foreign after the chaos inside. You leaned back, letting your head rest against the seat, absently turning the unfinished soda can between your hands while condensation dampened your fingertips.

It wasn't long before the driver's door opened. Dean slid into the seat beside you, shut the door with a solid thud and for a moment neither of you said anything, both simply appreciating the quiet. The two of you sat without moving, facing the windshield as warm orange streetlights painted long streaks across the hood of the vehicle.

“Forgot how to drive?” you asked quietly, turning your head toward him. The question died when you realized he was already looking at you. He hadn't been watching the street ahead at all.

“Forgot I can't read your mind?” he countered, one eyebrow lifting.

“We both know you can,” you replied just as quietly, the corner of your mouth threatening the smallest smile. “Just won’t advertise it.”

Dean held your gaze for another second, searching your face as though deciding whether to challenge that. Instead, he looked away first. He reached for the ignition, started the engine and shifted the car into drive. It wasn't surprising in the slightest when he drove toward your apartment without asking where you wanted to go.

The drive passed in comfortable silence, it didn’t beg to be filled but still acknowledged some conversations deserved better than red lights and passing traffic. Every now and then your eyes drifted toward him, only to find his attention fixed on the road, one hand resting loosely on the steering wheel while the other tapped absentmindedly against the stick shift in time with a song only he seemed to hear.

He glanced at you once at a stoplight, offering a faint, reassuring smile before looking ahead again.

When he parked on campus, neither of you commented on the fact that he killed the engine immediately instead of lingering in the driver's seat. You climbed out together, your footsteps falling into an easy rhythm as you crossed the silent pathways toward your building.

The night air had cooled further, carrying the scent of damp grass and distant rain and Dean stayed close without crowding you, matching your pace while occasionally glancing your way as though weighing a dozen different openings to a conversation he hadn't quite found yet.

You unlocked your apartment door and stepped inside. He followed a second later, pulling the door shut behind him until the click of the lock left the apartment wrapped in familiar silence.

“Not much of a talker these days, I see.” The words carried no accusation. If anything, there was relief in finally saying them aloud after days of carefully skirting around the obvious.

Your replies had shrunk from paragraphs to sentences, then from sentences to a handful of words. Phone calls that once stretched lazily into the early hours now barely lasted a few minutes before one of you found an excuse to hang up. You wandered farther into the living space, slipping your jacket off your shoulders and draping it over the back of the couch.

Beneath it, the fitted top you'd worn out suddenly felt much less out of place than it had at the party. At home, there was no reason to pull the fabric loose or check how much skin it revealed. Hiding from Dean had never really been an option and after everything the two of you had shared, it felt pointless to start now.

“Not much of anything lately,” you mumbled, avoiding his eyes as you smoothed an imaginary wrinkle from the hem of your top.

Even without looking, you could feel his gaze settle on you. It carried none of the hunger that had unsettled you in front of your bedroom mirror days before. Instead, it was patient, concerned, impossibly attentive and that made it even harder to meet. Warmth crept across your skin anyway, a shiver tracing lazily up your spine under the weight of being so thoroughly seen.

Dean took a couple of measured steps forward, stopping before the space between you disappeared entirely. He tilted his head slightly, trying to catch your eyes and finding only your profile. “Did he get into your head?” he asked gently.

The question lingered for barely a heartbeat before you shook your head and finally looked up.

Your eyes found his. “No,” you answered. “You did.” The words came out quietly, stripped of frustration or blame. They weren't meant as an accusation, they mostly sounded like the first honest thing you'd managed to say all week.

“Well,” he breathed, the corners of his mouth lifting into an easy smile, “think I should've gotten first dibs on it before anyone else anyway.” As he spoke, he closed the remaining distance between you with unhurried confidence, leaving barely enough room for a breath to pass between your bodies.

“Funny,” you answered dryly, though the effort it took to keep your expression straight was entirely wasted. Your lips betrayed you, twitching upward despite your best attempts. You rubbed absently at your eyebrow before letting out a sigh, trying to smooth away nerves that refused to settle. “I don't know how to talk to you anymore,” you admitted, the confession falling somewhere between frustration and vulnerability.

It explained the clipped texts, the shortened calls, every conversation that had ended long before either of you had actually wanted it to. Dean's expression softened as he gave the smallest shake of his head, his voice matching the gentleness in his eyes. “That's okay.”

“No, it's not.” Your gaze dropped to your heeled boots, suddenly fascinated by the floor beneath them.

“You're doing it to me,” he replied with certainty. “I would know.” He stepped forward until there was nowhere left for the distance between you to exist. “Look at me.”

The request carried none of the sharpness of a command. It was patient, warm, spoken with the confidence that you'd meet him there eventually. Slowly, you lifted your eyes just as his hands came up to cradle your face, his palms warm against your cheeks, his thumbs resting lightly close to your ears. “It's okay,” he repeated, searching your face as though he intended to make you believe it through persistence alone.

You exhaled through your nose. “Of course you'd think that.”

“Mhm.” The sound vibrated quietly in his throat as he leaned in, brushing the tip of his nose gently against yours. The tiny gesture stole another reluctant smile from you. “Though if you ever say you're not much of anything again,” he murmured, “I'm afraid we're gonna have issues.”

Your hands rose instinctively, settling against his biceps, feeling familiar muscle beneath the soft fabric of his hoodie. “Don't we already?” you asked, smiling properly now.

“My only issue,” he replied without hesitation, “is that I haven't kissed you in two days.” His thumbs brushed lightly across your cheeks. “What's yours?”

“I already told you.” Your smile lingered as he began guiding the two of you backward through the apartment with tiny, measured steps, never pushing or assuming. Every movement left you room to stop him if you wanted to, though you never did.

“And I know you have a close second,” he said quietly.

You hesitated, swallowing once before admitting the thought you'd spent days trying to bury. “…It's embarrassing when the wanting shows.”

Dean's expression softened further. He shook his head once. “And the only person who ever made you feel ashamed of that isn't here anymore.”

Your fingers tightened around his arms without thinking. “It's gonna take a while to unlearn that,” you whispered.

“I can wait,” he answered. There wasn't a trace of impatience in his voice, only certainty. “I happen to know that what comes after is worth a lot more than passing time.”

Your breathing caught slightly. “What comes after, Dean?” you asked, your hands holding him a little tighter as though the answer might slip away if you didn't.

He leaned down until his lips barely grazed yours, close enough for every word to be felt as much as heard. “You.” The single word lingered between your mouths before he continued softly, “Everywhere else it can wait. Until that happens, you cum first.” A teasing smile slowly returned to his lips. “Still think my choice of words is poor?”

A quiet laugh escaped you, so warm it dissolved the last remnants of tension sitting in your chest. “Not if you prove it to be right.”

That was all the encouragement he needed. His mouth found yours with restrained hunger, patient for only the first heartbeat before deepening the kiss. One hand slipped from your cheek to the place where your jaw met your neck, tilting your face upward to meet him fully, while your own fingers disappeared into his hair, threading through the soft curls at the back of his head as every uncertain conversation from the past two days quietly gave way to something the two of you had always understood better than words.

Your tongues moved together with an ease that made the last two days of awkwardness feel impossibly far away, every hesitant thought dissolving into this. Your fingers gradually slipped from his hair, lingering there for a heartbeat before finding the front clasps of your top instead.

You worked at them absentmindedly, your attention never truly leaving him until the kiss eventually broke with a soft, audible pop, though neither of you moved very far.

Dean rested his forehead lightly against yours, his breathing still uneven as his eyes searched your face rather than wandering elsewhere. “Do you need anything?” he asked, his voice low enough that it barely disturbed the silence filling your room. Even as you continued undoing the clasps, he never looked away from your eyes. “Tell me what I can do.”

A small smile tugged at your lips, heat pooling low in your belly at the intensity of his gaze. You finished with the last fastening and shrugged the fabric from your shoulders, letting it slide carelessly to the floor beside your feet. Your breasts spilled free, nipples already tight and aching from the cool air and the weight of his stare before folding your arms loosely across yourself more out of habit than discomfort. “I was hoping you had a plan.”

Dean nodded, his expression turning thoughtful. His gaze drifted around your room instead of lingering on you, as though sorting through possibilities rather than impulses. The lingerie crossed his mind only briefly before he dismissed it, that had helped once but it wasn't something he wanted either of you to rely on.

He pressed a gentle kiss against your forehead before turning away entirely and walking toward your dresser. Pulling open the top drawer, he began looking through it with surprising confidence, as though he vaguely remembered where things belonged from years of friendship spent around you.

“Sure…” you nodded, watching him with growing amusement as you bent to unzip your boots, kicking each one aside before slipping out of your skirt and underwear as well, letting them pool at your feet, leaving you completely bare before him. “Make yourself right at home.”

“We can argue about it later,” he answered without looking over his shoulder, continuing his careful search. “You'll tell me how forward it was of me and I'll agree with whatever punishment or compensation you decide on afterward.” His hand paused before finally lifting a long, narrow scarf from beneath a folded sweater. “This'll do.”

Your eyebrows lifted. “For what?”

Turning back toward you, he crossed the room at an unhurried pace, stopping within arm's reach. The teasing had disappeared from his face, replaced by the same patience he'd shown you all evening.

Holding the scarf loosely in one hand so you could see it clearly, he asked, “Do you trust me?”

You tilted your head, studying him, trying to read whatever idea was taking shape behind his eyes. “I don't think I've ever had to ask myself that.”

“I need you to ask now,” he replied gently. “Do you trust me?” He let the question sit between you before adding, “And if you don't like where this is going, we stop. Immediately…at any point.” His certainty wasn't performative, it was calm, leaving no room for doubt about whether he meant it.

You held his gaze for another moment before answering, your voice barely above a whisper. “I trust you.” A faint smile softened your features. “It's not something I've ever questioned.”

He waited a beat before speaking again, giving you every opportunity to change your mind.

“Turn around.” The instruction was patient, offered rather than imposed. He didn't repeat it when you hesitated, didn't fill the silence that settled between you.

His eyes simply remained on yours as you swallowed, searching his face one last time before slowly turning your naked body away from him until your back faced his chest. You felt him move closer, heard the faint rustle of fabric as he stretched the scarf carefully between both hands. It rested gently over your eyes, the material impossibly soft against your skin before he drew the ends behind your head and tied a secure knot with care.

His fingers lingered, checking that nothing tugged uncomfortably. “Is this too tight?” he asked.

You instinctively shook your head before remembering he would probably request for it to be spoken. “No,” you managed softly.

His hand settled lightly against your hip, the simple contact making your breath catch. With the gentlest pressure, he guided you back around until you faced him once more. Deprived of your sight, every other sensation sharpened, from the warmth radiating from where he stood, to the rhythm of his breathing and the subtle creak of the floor beneath shifting weight.

You heard the soft thud of fabric landing somewhere nearby once he peeled off his hoodie and t-shirt, followed by another low rustle before his footsteps returned. His hands found yours gently, wrapping loosely around your wrists before guiding them upward until your palms rested against the warmth of his bare chest.

He didn't move them any further, leaving the choice entirely to you. Tentatively, your fingertips traced across firm muscle, learning the shape through touch alone. Your confidence grew by degrees, hands exploring broader paths over his shoulders and chest, your nails lightly grazing the contours beneath his skin before drifting lower over the firm lines of his abdomen, pausing briefly at his navel before following the faint trail of hair disappearing beneath the waistband of his jeans.

Your fingers came to rest just above the button. “I want these off,” you breathed.

Dean couldn't help the smile that spread across his face, though you only heard it in the warmth that colored his reply. “You think you're in a position to make demands?”

“That's exactly what I think, Di Laurentis.” You nodded once beneath the blindfold, a small smile tugging at your own lips. “If you want me to play the game, you're going to have to comply a little sooner.”

A quiet chuckle escaped him before it faded just as quickly. When he spoke again, his voice had lost almost all of its teasing edge. “I don't think this is us playing around anymore.” You felt him lean in, his breath brushing against your forehead as he spoke. “I hate that we used that as an excuse.” The frustration threaded through his words was unmistakable, directed inward rather than at you, carrying the weight of every feeling the two of you had hidden behind jokes because admitting them outright had always seemed far more frightening.

You couldn't help but smile at the memory, warmth creeping into your expression. There had been something absurdly innocent about the two of you back then, trusting each other so completely that curiosity had outweighed embarrassment, stumbling into questions neither of you had been old enough to answer, only to leave them hanging for years.

“We were getting too curious,” you murmured, a quiet laugh escaping with the admission.

“Isn't that what's happening now?” he asked, his voice carrying the faintest hint of amusement.

You tilted your head beneath the blindfold, the smile on your lips widening. “You know how to tie your own laces now, don't you?” you teased. He laughed softly before leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your lips. Your hands rose instinctively, finding the sides of his face, your thumbs brushing lightly along his jaw as you returned the kiss with an ease that had finally replaced the uncertainty of the past few days.

His tongue brushed yours, drawing a soft moan from your throat as heat pooled heavier between your thighs and while you kissed, his hands worked open the button of his jeans. You heard the metallic rasp of the zipper, followed by the rustle of fabric as he shoved them down his hips along with his boxers. He kicked off his shoes and stepped out of the rest of his clothes, leaving him gloriously bare. The heat of his body radiated against yours and you could feel the hard length of his cock brushing against your stomach, hot, heavy and already leaking at the tip.

His strong hands slid down your sides, then gripped your waist, lifting you effortlessly as a surprised yelp escaped you, quickly dissolving into a breathless laugh. Your legs wrapped around his hips as you kept kissing, mouths moving together in perfect sync while his muscles flexed beneath your palms as he carried you across the room, the thick head of his erection nudging teasingly against your inner thighs with every step.

He knelt carefully onto the bed, the mattress dipping under your combined weight and gently laid you back against the pillows. Your legs fell open shamelessly, knees bending and parting wide to make room for him. The cool air kissed your dripping pussy, making you acutely aware of how soaked and ready you already were.

Dean settled between your spread thighs, hips brushing the sensitive skin of your inner legs as his lips left yours to trail hot, open-mouthed kisses along the corner of your mouth, your cheek and down the sensitive column of your throat. Then he pulled back, leaving you waiting in the dark, blindfolded and aching.

You reached for him, fingers tracing and caressing every inch of his face from his cheekbones, the slight stubble on his jaw and the curve of his lips, trying to paint his expression in your mind.

His nose nudged affectionately against yours and you felt the warmth of his breath mingle with your own, the thick tension between you crackling like electricity.

He swallowed. “Can I kiss you?” His voice was hesitant, it didn't belong to the confident grin he usually wore. The uncertainty made your brows draw together for the briefest moment before your expression softened into a small, helpless smile.

“I think we're beyond you asking,” you replied, your heartbeat quickening as the silence stretched comfortably between you.

Dean's eyes lingered on your face, before landing on your lips for only a moment before lifting again. “Not on your mouth, Y/n,” he specified shamelessly.

You swallowed hard and nodded softly against the pillows, chest rising and falling faster as you heard the mattress shift under his weight.

His warm lips finally landed on your shoulder, pressing a slow, open-mouthed kiss there before trailing lower. They brushed along your sternum, then settled between your breasts, his hot breath fanning over the sensitive skin. When his mouth closed around one peaked nipple, you gasped sharply. The wet heat of his tongue swirled around the stiff bud, flicking and sucking with just the right pressure, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. Your back arched instinctively, pushing more of your breast into his mouth as slick arousal coated your outer lips.

The hand not supporting his weight traced a feather-light path from your knee upward, fingers grazing the soft skin of your inner thigh before reaching the neglected breast. He cupped its full weight, massaging slowly, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger while he continued devouring the other, gauging every reaction, squeezing harder when your breathing turned ragged and gentling when you whimpered, learning exactly how you liked to be touched.

When the first nipple was glistening and throbbing from his attention, he switched sides. His mouth claimed the other peak with the same hungry reverence, sucking deeply while his fingers continued to knead the slick, sensitive flesh he’d just left behind, all while low, needy sounds spilled from your throat.

Satisfied, Dean let his tongue drag lower, licking a slow, wet trail down the underside of your breast. He pressed lingering kisses along your ribs, then your stomach, each one audible and intentionally placed, his lips brushed over your navel, teasing the sensitive skin there before venturing even lower. He took his time, kissing the crease where your thigh met your pelvis, then settling fully between your spread legs.

Your heart thundered so loudly in your ears that the rest of the world felt distant. Blindfolded and trembling with need, every other sense was amplified, the heat of his breath against your dripping pussy, the faint scent of your arousal mixing with his and the slight tremble in his hands as he gripped your thighs. He was clearly trying to pace himself, wanting to savor you without rushing, refusing to give your doubts any room to surface.

A broken moan tore from your lips the moment his mouth finally sealed around your swollen clit. The wet heat, the perfect suction and the slow swirl of his tongue, were nearly too much, your hips jerked upward, fingers fisting the sheets as pleasure spread outwards.

He reached up, finding your hand where it gripped the sheets and laced his fingers through yours, squeezing once. The simple touch pulled you back into the moment when your mind threatened to drift.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmured against your pussy, the low vibration of his voice making your clit throb.

Your mind reeled. No one had ever been this patient with you, this attentive, this unwaveringly focused on what you needed instead of how quickly things could move forward. It felt unfamiliar, so much so that part of you didn't quite know what to do with it and the comparison arrived before you could stop it. Your ex had tried a handful of times but his enthusiasm had always faded the moment your body didn't respond on the timeline he expected. He would pull away with a shrug, muttering excuses about not enjoying it or not liking the taste, always making it sound like a matter of preference while leaving the weight of it squarely on your shoulders.

Every abandoned attempt had left you feeling increasingly self-conscious, wondering whether there was something wrong with you, whether you simply asked too much by needing patience instead of urgency.

Your throat tightened around the words before they ever had a chance to leave it. You wanted to explain why his patience mattered so much, why every careful pause and every moment he gave you without expectation made something in your chest ache but the memories felt too tangled, too embarrassing to lay bare.

“I wouldn’t know,” you breathed, voice shaky.

Dean didn't ask what you meant, he didn't press for details you clearly weren't ready to give, nor did he try to fill the silence with speeches that would only skim the surface. He pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss right over your clit, then answered calmly, “Feel it. I know you can.”

He accommodated, strong hands sliding under your ass to tilt your hips slightly, giving himself better access. His tongue flattened and licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance up to your clit, gathering your wetness and savoring it with a quiet hum of approval. The sound was so genuine it made your cheeks burn.

He repeated the motion again and again with broad strokes that coated his tongue and lips in your slick arousal, then circled your clit with the tip of his tongue, learning the exact pressure that made your thighs twitch. He sucked the swollen nub gently between his lips, holding it there while his tongue flicked it softly. The suction was warm and rhythmic, never rushed or demanding and when your breathing grew uneven, he eased off enough to drag his tongue back down, licking through your folds and pressing the flat of his tongue against your entrance, tasting you deeply.

His saliva mixed with your own arousal, dripping down over your ass and soaking into the sheets beneath you. He kissed your pussy like he was kissing your mouth, slowly and attentively, alternating between gentle licks, soft sucks and lazy swirls of tongue that explored every inch of your most sensitive regions.

The blindfold made it impossible to predict where his tongue would go next, keeping your body in a constant state of anticipatory tension while Dean kept your hand firmly in his, thumb stroking soothing circles over your knuckles whenever he felt you start to tense or overthink.

Every so often he would pull back to press a tender kiss to your mound or the crease of your thigh, murmuring soft, wordless sounds of encouragement against your skin before diving back in. The sensations were overwhelming in their gentleness, relentless patience that made your pussy feel swollen and pulsing under his mouth.

After another slow, savoring pass of his tongue through your folds, he moved lower and pressed the tip of his tongue against your entrance. He circled the tight ring of muscle first teasingly, before pushing inside, gently but insistently. The thick of his tongue slid into you, stretching you open in the most intimate way possible. He fucked you with it in slow, shallow strokes, curling and thrusting, coating himself in the fresh rush of slick that leaked around his mouth while his nose pressed firmly against your clit with every forward motion, rubbing in time with the rhythm of his tongue.

Your skin grew damp with sweat, a light sheen covering your chest and stomach, nipples tightened into painful peaks, aching in the cool air. Your hips rolled and twitched against his face, thighs trembling as they tried to close around his head only to fall open wider again.

Your breathing turned into soft, broken whimpers that even you could tell sounded strained and uncertain. Dean noticed and slowed his movements but didn’t yet stop, still fucking you gently with his tongue, still licking up every drop of your arousal like he couldn’t get enough.

“Mngh…Dean–” you barely managed, his name catching on a shaky breath before your voice gave out entirely. His head lifted rapidly as he pulled away, concern replacing concentration as he searched your expression for any hint of discomfort. Every trace of certainty vanished from his posture, his brows drawing together as he studied you.

One of your hands reached down blindly, grabbing at his shoulder and pulling him upward. Your chest heaved as you struggled to steady your breathing, each inhale feeling a little too shallow to quiet the thoughts racing through your mind. Words crowded against one another, half-formed confessions and old fears tangling together until you couldn't tell where one ended and the next began.

Your other hand shook as it slid down your body, covering your throbbing, soaked pussy, clit pulsing hard under your palm, slick, swollen and too painfully sensitive to keep going. You still weren’t anywhere close to coming and all you could think about was saying the wrong thing, about ruining the fragile safety he'd spent so much time building around you. More than anything, you were terrified of disgust, that subtle withdrawal, the excuses and the feeling of being left unfinished.

Your voice came out small and fragile. “I’m sorry. I’m–fuck, I’m so sorry.”

His hand found your cheek, palm warm against your skin as his thumb brushed slowly beneath the blindfold. He studied your face in silence first, as though making sure you were really listening before he spoke and when he did, there wasn't an ounce of frustration in him. “You don't apologize,” he said firmly, thumb stroking gently across your cheek once more before coming to rest beneath your jaw, encouraging you to keep your chin up. “Not to me.”

One hand stayed wrapped tightly around his arm, fingers digging into the firm muscle as if you were afraid he might pull away despite his words. Your heart hammered so loudly in your ears that you barely registered his words at first. “It just takes really long–”

“Hey…” Dean nudged your face gently with his palm, guiding you back to the present until your racing thoughts quieted. “I would’ve sucked you clean off the bone if you hadn’t pulled me up,” he smiled.

The moment you registered his words, you let out a shaky sob that melted into soft laughter, the tension in your chest finally easing.

“We can try again some other time if you want–”

You were already eagerly nodding before the words had fully left his mouth.

He chuckled, the sound low and breathy against your skin. “Yeah? Did you like it? Was that okay?” His fingertips traced feather-light paths along your sides, your ribs and the curve of your waist, keeping the connection gentle but constant, which he knew you needed.

“Overwhelming,” you breathed, still feeling the lingering slick between your thighs as it cooled and the heavy pulse of your swollen clit against your palm.

“Mmm…Yeah?” His voice dipped with interest.

“Overwhelming’s good,” you continued softly. Your body felt flushed and sensitive all over, like it needed that intensity just to begin learning how to let go. “I like feeling you close.”

“How close?” he teased, his nose brushing slowly along the side of your jaw, warm breath tickling your skin.

“Really fucking close,” you whispered, guiding his face until his lips met yours in a deep, slow kiss. You could taste yourself on his tongue, tangy, slightly sweet and undeniably intimate, nothing like you had imagined. Dean moved his tongue against yours with the same patience he had shown between your legs, licking into your mouth with quiet groans of pleasure that vibrated through your chest.

“Tastes like fucking heaven,” he rasped when you finally parted for air.

Your nails dug into his shoulders as you pulled him closer, until your chests pressed together, skin hot and slightly damp with sweat as the hard length of his cock rested heavily against the soft inside of your thigh, twitching every time you moved.

You smiled against his lips, letting out a teasingly doubtful hum. “Careful there…might be disappointed when you go.”

“Doubt it. If there is one, you’re going there too.” The smug happiness in his voice made you laugh, the sound light and breathless. He responded by pressing a flurry of soft kisses all over your face, cheeks, nose, forehead and the corner of your mouth, while his cock dragged teasingly along your inner thighs, leaving a faint trail of precum on your skin.

Your laughter quickly faded into quiet, needy moans, inciting your own hand to apply pressure against your still-throbbing pussy, fingers slipping through the mess of slick there in an attempt to relieve the area. Dean lifted his upper body slightly, looking down between you as he stilled the accidental roll of his hips and you moaned again at the loss of friction.

“I could get closer,” he breathed, voice rough with want. “Want me to do that?”

Your legs parted wider in silent invitation as you nodded against the pillow, heart racing.

“Let me see you,” he spoke softly. It wasn't a command, more of a gentle suggestion, one he waited patiently for you to consider. You slowly moved your hand away, exposing your glistening, swollen pussy to him once more while you tried to picture the expression on his face, the way his eyes would darken with hunger and affection. “Do you have condoms?” he asked carefully.

“Closer, Dean,” you echoed, voice small but sure. “I want you as close as you can get right now.” You paused, ears straining for any change in his breathing. “I’ve never…” You trailed off, taking a deep, steadying breath. “I’m clean. I take my birth control–”

“Me neither.” His forehead dropped against yours, breath warm on your lips. “I just want you to be sure.”

You swallowed, nodding as your hands roamed up and down his arms and across his broad shoulders, feeling the tension and warmth of his muscles. His pulse jumped under your touch. “I would want it to be with you,” you confessed, bare and vulnerable.

He went still above you, the words knocking something loose. “I've always wanted it to be with you,” he breathed, the honesty in his voice wrapping around you like a second skin.

With a deep, measured breath, he wrapped his hand around the thick base of his cock, stroking it once before pressing the blunt, leaking head right against your slick entrance. Hovering over you, he braced his forearm beside your head, eyes remaining locked on your face as he pushed in leisurely until he sank deep in one long, continuous thrust.

Both of you moaned openly, lips falling slack at the intense sensation. He filled you completely, stretching your walls around his girthy length, stealing the breath right from your lungs. At the same moment, he reached up and gently tugged the blindfold away, letting you finally see him, your eyes glassy with overwhelmed tears as they met his, the eye contact undoing you more than the fullness between your legs.

You whimpered, voice breathless. “I hate that you might be right.”

“About?” he chuckled softly, staying buried to the hilt while he gave you time to adjust, eyes tracing over your face like he was trying to memorize it.

“Thinking highly of your dick…” You swallowed hard, your pussy fluttering and clenching around the solid invasion. “It sure is there.”

“Focus on it then,” he grinned, that cocky yet tender expression making your chest tighten. His gaze dropped to your lips, then back up as though he couldn't settle on one place to look.

“Not much else I can do,” you admitted, voice shaky, the words barely making it out whole.

Dean leaned down, catching your mouth with his, searching and wanting to swallow the shakiness right out of you. Only when you softened against him did he begin to move, shallow at first, drawing back only a few inches before sliding back in, letting you feel every inch of him dragging along your sensitive inner walls. Each time he bottomed out, his pelvis pressed firmly against your clit, sending sparks of sharp pleasure through you. Your body rocked beneath him with every careful thrust, the wet, intimate sound of your joined bodies filling the room alongside your shared breathing.

“Talk to me,” he murmured, eyes never leaving your face as he kept an unhurried pace, rolling into you repeatedly. He watched for every flicker, every little crease between your brows and twitch at the corner of your mouth, searching for the exact angle and depth that made your expression soften with bliss instead of tension. “What’s on your mind?”

“You,” you answered immediately, the most honest thing you could say.

His smile deepened with satisfaction but he wanted more than what was at the surface, what he knew you thought he wanted to hear. His thumbs brushed tenderly across your temples, easing your mind. “What’s around it?”

“How…” A moan interrupted you as he rolled his hips just right, cock stroking a spot inside you that made your toes curl. “Just how much I’ll want you to believe me when I say this was good…once it’s over. I know it will be.” Your breathing came in heavy pants now, chest rising and falling against his. “Even when…when I won’t–”

“If,” he corrected gently but firmly, still thrusting steadily as the head of his cock dragged deliciously along your walls on every withdrawal, then pushed back in deep. “That’s if you don’t.” He paused, “Listen to me, I don’t think there’s anything you’d tell me that I wouldn’t believe.”

“Well…I need you to be sure,” you pressed, blinking rapidly to keep the tears from spilling. Vulnerability sat raw in your throat, each word feeling like it cost you something you couldn't get back. Your nails dug crescents into his sides, holding on like he might disappear the second you finished the thought. “Please, be sure.”

“Certain,” he nodded, then leaned down closer, forehead nearly touching yours, eyes locked so you could see the sincerity burning there. “I’m right here with you, now and after this.”

He maintained the thrusts long and measured, pulling almost all the way out until only the swollen head remained inside you, letting you feel the stretch as he sank back in again, its slick glide was audible with every meeting of your bodies. Sweat beaded along his collarbone and dripped onto your chest as he held himself above you, muscles flexing with control.

His pelvis kissed your clit on every downstroke, rubbing in slow circles when he stayed buried deep, grinding the sensitive bundle of nerves until your thighs trembled around his hips.

When your brows creased a little too tightly, he adjusted the angle, tilting his hips until the sensation smoothed your expression again. He watched your eyes and mouth, learning your body in real time, focused entirely on making this feel safe and good rather than chasing his own end, he simply wanted to be connected to you.

Your walls hugged him tightly, fluttering with every push, your wetness coating his shaft and easing each deep slide while you could feel the way his cock throbbed inside you, the subtle twitch it gave when you clenched around him. He drew his cock back slowly so you could feel every ridge and vein dragging along your inner walls before sinking back in.

Your breath hitched sharply, as if that alone told him everything he needed to know, he repeated the motion, slower this time letting you feel the full drag and press of him. He pulled out almost completely on the next stroke, just the swollen tip resting inside you, before sliding back in with one smooth thrust that forced a whimper from your throat, strokes that let you savor the way your pussy stretched around his thickness, the way your walls fluttered and clenched trying to keep him inside.

Your hands roamed his back, nails lightly scoring his skin as another deep thrust made your feet arch and when your brows drew together in concentration, he moved again, tilting his hips, changing the depth. Near the end of a dragging stroke, he reached down and hooked one hand behind your knee. He lifted your leg slowly, draping it over his hip and higher along his side, opening you up further, the new angle letting him press deeper. He rolled his hips upward on the next thrust, driving his cock into you with a smooth, upward grind that rubbed directly against a spongy pillow inside while his pelvis continued to crush against your clit.

Your whole body reacted at once, back arching hard as a broken moan spilled from your lips.

“Right there, mmh?” he cooed, voice low and warm, repeating the exact same rolling motion. “Try that for a bit?”

You nodded quickly, eyes falling shut as you surrendered to the sensation. His cock stroked along that perfect angle with every upward push, the head pressing right where you needed it most, pussy clenching tightly around him and soaking his cock even more with every grind.

Dean kept watching you, even as your eyes stayed closed. He studied the way your head tilted back against the pillow, the rapid rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips trembled on every moan. He adjusted the angle of his hips in tiny increments, searching for the rhythm that would keep those creases of wonder on your face. The emotional weight of his attention made your throat tight, he wasn't just fucking you, he was tuned in completely, making sure you felt safe and cherished in every stroke.

“M–middle,” you moaned, voice breaking on the word.

Dean adjusted accordingly, angling his cock exactly where you needed him but before he could even settle into the new position, a raw, wanton moan tore from your throat and your back arched sharply off the bed as your eyes opened.

“Breathe,” he instructed gently, locking eyes with you and giving a slow, reassuring nod. His thumb brushed over your parted lips. “Breathe,” he repeated, “Focus on what you know.”

He kept moving in that centered, precise rhythm, strokes that dragged his thick cock along the same devastating path inside you.

“Mmpppff,” Your eyes fluttered shut as the pleasure built higher, one hand dug into his shoulder, nails biting into his skin while you struggled to draw full breaths. You tried to focus only on the slick drag of his cock entering and leaving your pussy, the way your walls stretched and clenched around his girth, the constant wet sounds of your bodies meeting.

“There you go. That's it,” he husked, bending lower to press a soft kiss to each of your closed eyelids. The new angle drove him even deeper, he pressed forward, settling his weight fully over you and nudging his face into the crook of your neck. Your moans became continuous, loud and broken, spilling from your open mouth without pause.

Dean groaned against your neck, low and desperate sounds vibrating through your skin and making you even hornier. His own unfiltered whimpers and heavy breathing mixed with yours as the position allowed you to breathe him in, sweat, skin and sex, chest heaving beneath his weight.

For several thrusts, no sound came out of you at all. Your mouth hung open in a silent cry, breath caught somewhere between your chest and your throat, refusing to let go. The pressure inside you coiled tighter than you'd ever known, winding higher with every drag of him, every muscle in your body drawn taut and ready to snap.

It was new, unfamiliar with an edge of fear threading through it, a building intensity you had no name for or memory to compare it to. Your fingers curled hard into his shoulder, keeping yourself against a feeling that seemed too big for your body to hold.

A sudden, sharp gasp tore from your lungs, followed immediately by a sob that shook your entire frame. The orgasm crashed over you, deep, vaginal and violently intense, unlike anything you'd known your body capable of. Your pussy clamped down hard around his cock in rhythmic contractions that squeezed him in waves as pure ecstasy ripped through you. For one disorienting second you didn't know whether to cry or laugh, caught between the shock of it and the sheer relief of finally breaking. You sobbed openly, tears spilling down your temples and into your hair, a startled laugh bubbling up right alongside them.

“Mmhnhgh…fuck, fuck, fuck!” you cried, voice wrecked and trembling as the pleasure kept rolling through you in devastating pulses. Your walls fluttered and pulsed wildly around his thrusting cock, soaking him even more.

Dean groaned deeply at the sensation, his hips stuttering for a moment before he forced himself to keep moving, drawing out every last tremor of your orgasm. A quiet laugh escaped him, disbelieving and reverent, the sound punched loose from his chest before he could stop it. He stared down at you, eyes wide, drinking in the sight of your face gone soft and open, tears streaking your temples and lips parted around broken breaths. You looked undone in the most beautiful way he'd ever seen and for a second his vision blurred, his head going light with it.

He blinked hard, jaw tight, willing himself to hold it together as your walls kept squeezing him greedily, refusing to let him go.

He fucked you through it with careful, deep strokes, prolonging the pleasure until your body trembled beneath him. You felt impossibly wet, your arousal and his precum mixing and leaking out around his cock with every thrust.

The first orgasm had barely begun to fade when his pelvis ground harder against your swollen clit with each rolling thrust. The added stimulation pushed you straight into a second, clitoral orgasm that blindsided you, entirely different from the first and brighter too now as many sensations arrived all at once for your mind to sort through. Your thigh quivered violently against his side as bright pleasure exploded outward from your clit, blending with the deep, pulsing contractions still rippling through your core. You cried out again, fresh tears streaming down your face as the dual sensations overwhelmed every nerve in your body.

Your vision whited out for several seconds, your entire body locking up and then shaking apart in his arms. Sobs mixed with desperate moans as wave after wave rolled through you, leaving you raw and shattered in the best possible way.

Dean bent down and kissed away your tears, the salt of it lingering on his lips. “That's how you're supposed to feel,” he hushed against your temple, voice rough with awe and restraint.

“Nnngh, can’t–” you managed, lips parted, chasing words that wouldn't come.

“I know, I know,” he soothed, voice thick. “Gotta let it happen.”

Dean kept thrusting for as long as he could, fucking you through the tail end of your orgasms. His hips snapped forward a few more times, chasing his own release, less controlled than anything he'd let himself be before.

With a wanton whimper, he buried himself to the hilt and came hard, harder than he ever remembered coming, raw and unguarded, shaking with the force of it. Thick, warm pulses of his cum spilled deep inside you, flooding your pussy with heat that made you shudder, your oversensitive body twitching around him as his cock throbbed and jerked against your walls.

He stayed inside you, breathing heavily against your neck, neither of you speaking and just letting the last tremors settle.

After a moment he pulled back reluctantly, until there was just room between your bodies for both of you to look down and watch. He gave a few shallow, unhurried thrusts, fucking his cum deeper into you, the creamy mixture leaking out around his cock with every small movement. You were both transfixed by the filthy, intimate sight, watching each slow slide, neither of you willing to look away until his cock finally stopped twitching.

With one final thrust he stilled completely, buried deep inside you and let his forehead drop to your shoulder.

Neither of you moved.

The room went quiet except for your shared, rasped breathing and underneath it, the faint hitch of his breath catching, over and over in quiet little hiccups he couldn't smooth out no matter how he tried. You ran your hands slowly up and down his back, soothing the tremor still running through him and caught the small, wet sniffle against your skin, proof that he'd cried too, that this had undone him just as much as it had undone you.

You finally felt like you could breathe again. Every muscle in your body went limp as you melted into the mattress, utterly spent, tears still drying on your cheeks and Dean's warm weight pressing you down in the most comforting way possible.

You kissed while stubbornly blinking back tears, holding yourselves together until you simply couldn't anymore. Time dissolved into something shapeless, measured only by slow breaths, racing hearts and bodies pressed together. The sheets twisted around your limbs and for the first time, your body didn't feel like something you had to apologize for.

When Dean finally moved, he did it with an achingly slow pace. He kissed you deeply, tongue dancing with yours while he began to pull out, as though the press of his lips could somehow stop the inevitable. You whimpered softly into his mouth at the feeling, his thick cock sliding from your sensitive, cum-filled pussy in one continuous, wet glide.

A thick trickle of your shared release followed, leaking slowly down your folds and onto the sheets. The sudden emptiness left you aching and strangely bereft, even as his tongue continued to stroke gently against yours through the loss.

Whatever this was afterward, it was unlike anything you'd ever experienced.

“Stay right here,” he murmured against your lips once they parted.

Dean eased himself out of bed shortly to start the shower, testing the water with the back of his hand until the temperature was just right before returning for you. He wrapped an arm around your waist and picked you up bridal style, carrying you into the bathroom and taking your weight without making you feel incapable.

Then guided you beneath the warm stream. Steam gradually filled the room while he took his time cleaning you, soapy hands moving with care over every inch of your skin, washing away sweat and the evidence of your shared pleasure, pausing every so often to brush a kiss against your shoulders, the back of your neck, the curve of your spine, or inside of your wrist.

He slipped away for a moment with a parting kiss, only to strip the bed and remake it with fresh sheets before returning the instant he heard the water stop.

You couldn't help but stare as he stepped into the bathroom doorway. A clean towel was already waiting in his hands, along with clean underwear and a pair of pajamas he'd unearthed from your dresser, and with obvious satisfaction, one of the hoodies he'd been insisting had mysteriously disappeared months ago.

Another towel hung dangerously low on his own hips, barely clinging to the sharp cut of his pelvis. Droplets of water still clung to his skin, tracing slow paths down the defined lines of his abs and the deep V that disappeared beneath the towel. The sight made your breath catch all over again, his body glistening, relaxed and impossibly attractive in the soft bathroom light.

Dean noticed your gaze and gave you a small, knowing smirk but said nothing. He set the clothes aside and got to work, drying your skin carefully section by section, working moisturizer into every inch of you with soothing strokes and helping you into the soft fabric of your clean underwear and pajamas. Then he carried you back to the freshly made bed despite your quiet insistence that you could walk.

After fluffing your pillows and tucking the blankets around you, he finally took a moment to dry himself off and pull on his boxers. Only then did he return to your bedside, lean down and press a gentle kiss to the crown of your head before lingering there for a moment, as though reassuring himself that you were comfortable and finally at peace.

“I'll go raid your cabinets for something to eat,” he said quietly, palm moving slowly over your hair in absent, soothing strokes as he looked down at you. His thumb brushed lightly against your temple before his hand slipped away.

It was far too late to order food and even if somewhere nearby was still open, you doubted you had the energy for anything more substantial than a few bites. A tired smile tugged at your lips as you gave him a small nod but the moment he stepped away from the bed, your chest tightened unexpectedly, eyes following him across the room as though distance alone suddenly felt wrong.

Dean noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye but kept walking toward the bedroom door. “If you hear something heavy drop,” he said over his shoulder, a teasing grin returning now that the weight of the evening had begun to lighten, “that's probably just me hiding from Hannah and Allie if it comes down to it.”

A quiet chuckle escaped you as you turned your head toward the clock resting on your bedside table, the glowing numbers confirming just how late it had become. “Doubt they'll be back tonight,” you murmured, your voice rough with exhaustion.

Dean paused with one hand resting against the doorframe. Instead of leaving, he turned back to look at you properly. His teasing expression faded as he searched your face, trying to read what you needed without making assumptions but he knew tonight had been overwhelming in more ways than one. Maybe you wanted to be alone now, to untangle your thoughts in private before either of you tried putting words to everything that had changed between you.

He wouldn't force that conversation tonight if you weren't ready. “I can go,” he relented, the offer sincere enough that you knew he'd leave without hesitation if that was what you wanted.

Your hands fidgeted restlessly with the edge of the blanket gathered over your lap, smoothing wrinkles before twisting the fabric between your fingers again. You gave the smallest shake of your head, so slight it was nearly impossible to notice.

“I'd rather you didn't.” The words came out quietly. Your gaze drifted away from him, settling instead on the dark window across the room where your reflection stared back faintly against the glass.

You drew in a slow, steadying breath. If there was ever such a thing as good timing, you doubted either of you had managed to stumble across it tonight, then again, maybe there never would've been a perfect moment for this. All you knew was that you were tired of keeping parts of yourself hidden from him.

Dean remained exactly where he was. He didn't move closer, didn't interrupt or rush to fill the silence stretching between you.

“I think I love you,” you admitted at last, it felt strangely fragile once spoken.

Your eyes finally lifted to meet his as you blinked quickly, trying to keep the fresh sting of tears from spilling over, you'd already cried enough for one night.

Dean's expression didn't morph into surprise. Instead, he nodded once, his head tilting and his answer arriving with a tenderness that marked you more than if he'd been shocked. “I know that.”

A breathy laugh escaped you, your head shaking as you smiled weakly. You should've known he’d say that. The two of you had said those words before, they'd existed between you for years in birthday cards, sleepy phone calls, goodbye hugs and reassurances before exams or after bad days, less frequently as you'd grown older, perhaps but they had never truly disappeared.

This was different, though, you'd hoped he'd hear it in your voice. “No…not like that.” You swallowed, clearing your throat before trying again. “The…the other way.” The confession sat awkwardly on your tongue, still too new to fit comfortably. “It's probably going to take me a while to figure out that one too.” You let out a self-conscious laugh that barely qualified as one. “I just thought…I'd give you a heads-up.” Your fingers tightened around the blanket. “In case…you have time to stick around for that too.”

Your eyes dropped back to your hands, unable to bear watching disappointment if it appeared.

For a long second, the room remained perfectly still, then Dean smiled. It was far from the teasing grin he wore so effortlessly, a smile touched with years of memories only the two of you shared.

“I know, baby,” he ventured.

His fingertips tapped absently against the doorframe as scenes from years ago drifted through his mind of the two of you, younger and convinced you were being impossibly sneaky, sitting shoulder to shoulder in playgrounds you'd long since outgrown after the sun had gone down, hiding behind climbing frames and plastic tunnels simply because they gave you somewhere to be alone together.

Memories of fingers laced together in the dark, shared laughter muffled into sleeves and the first time your mouths had met almost by accident, followed by another and another, both of you pretending each one had been just as thoughtless as the last since acknowledging it felt far more frightening than simply letting it happen again.

“I never thought we'd grow out of it,” he admitted, his eyes never leaving yours. “You've never been an enigma to me…Of course, I have time,” he murmured. “I've loved you for as long as I can remember. For you, I’ve always had time.”

He smiled softly and everything inside you slid into place.

Oh, love. The nostalgia returned with childlike wonder. How long had it been waiting for you to find your way back to the playground?

a/n: Comments, likes and reblogs really do mean the world and help more than you know! More stories will be added to the archive soon, so stay tuned for new content. Thank you so much for reading! 🤍

He spends a lot of time on his phone these days. Scrolling through his camera roll and letting the corner of his lips twitch in amusement at the numerous photos he keeps of Tanner and Penny, flicking through social media and slowly feeling his brain rot away, whatever it takes to keep his mind busy and away from his situation.

Tonight, he lays on the couch, Petunia tucked into the crook between his outstretched legs despite how large she has gotten in the past year. The weight of her against his body is reassuring – a reminder that he’s still loved despite it all, even if it was mainly by his spur-of-the-moment dog. One hand drags a soothing line along the crease between her eyes while the other scrolls through social media, half-lidded in that weird liminal space between boredom and mildly entertained.

Just as he’s about to finally set the device down and let his brain wash away with Survivor re-runs, his phone buzzes with a singular text, peaking his interest again. The name on the message is what has him sitting up so fast that it startles the golden retriever on his lap.

If he looked back on any time in his past, Frank would find you. He had been great friends with your older brother, especially since your family had lived next door for as long as he could remember. He had spent a lot of time at your house or at social mixers that your parents tended to throw for the neighborhood, smiling at the side of your brother as you had bickered as siblings do.

It wasn’t like you had spent a lot of alone time together. A quick conversation in the kitchen as he came down for a snack, a playful taunt from his lips when you had tried a new outfit or hairstyle, splashing you with the hose when you were just watching them gallivant outside during the hot summers.

One of the last times Frank saw you, you were still a teenager. Wide-eyed and yet still believing that the entire world was against you, friendship bracelets littering your wrists and a streak of red in your hair from when your mother had finally allowed you to add just one color.

You had sat behind the shoulder of your brother, arms crossed over your chest as both of your families and numerous friends from the neighborhood crooned their sadness that he was leaving for college. The entire day of his going away party, you had stayed quiet and compliant, although you had never attempted to leave.

That night, as the crowd dwindled and everyone started cleaning up, you had curled one arm around his waist like you were afraid to touch him and murmured an “i’ll miss you” into his ribcage. He had simply pulled you closer until you were forced to add your other arm around him, squeezing you closer and whispering the secret right back into your hair. You’ve talked every now and then since he left. Your parents are still close to his own, which means he tends to see you every time he visits his family, although the two of you never mention the night he left. Sometimes, you’ll send him a quick text asking a medical question. 

How do you know if your sunburn is sun poisoning? 

What’s an emergency-room level fever? 

My finger is swollen but I can move it. Is it broken?

He always entertained the small bits of conversation he could grab from you, even when he had been with Abby. When she had asked about you, he had just called you his childhood friend’s younger sister, even if it made something churn in his stomach.

And now, after a few months of no medical inquiries hitting his inbox, there you are.

YOU: i have a question FRANK: you always do YOU: this isn’t about my health FRANK: didn’t know you could ask questions that weren’t about your health YOU: ha ha YOU: listen YOU: hold on. can i call you?

Frank sits up a little taller, passing an apologetic glance towards Petunia when she lets out an annoyed groan at how much he’s fidgeting. He looks around his apartment like you’re going to be able to see his cluttered living room through the phone before responding with the most nonchalant yes he can muster.

His phone rings only a few moments later, a young photo of you filling his screen from your contact. He answers after letting it vibrate once against his palm, clearing his throat before the microphone turns on. “Hello?”

“Frank!” His name comes out in a squeak. “Uh, hey. How are you?”

He can’t help the small smile that blooms, looking around his empty apartment. You weren’t filled in on his divorce yet, he assumed. “Peachy,” he lies easily. “What’s up?”

There’s rustling on your side of the line before a heavy sigh. “Hey, I need to ask you a favor. It’s big, and it’s okay if you don’t have an answer right now, but I just… I don’t know.” Your words are rushed, nervousness seeping through every word.

“Hey,” he coos calmly. “Stop freaking out or you’re gonna make me think you need help hiding a body.”

“Ha-ha.” A sarcastic response just like the one you had texted him. He grins again at the thought. “Okay. I’ll cut to it.”

Another heavy sigh seeps through the speaker, crackling in his ear. “Is there any way I can stay with you for a week? I know that you have Tanner and Penny, plus I don’t know how Abby will feel about it, but I’m waiting for my new place in Pittsburgh to open up, but my new job needs me to start this week and it won’t be available until Tuesday at the latest and I don’t really know how many nights at a hotel I can afford or mentally stand.”

Frank’s eyebrows raise so high on his forehead that he’s sure they’ve integrated themself into his hairline. His lips part, then close, then part again as he runs your rushed words through his head over and over. Then, he swallows, shaking his head. “You’re moving to Pittsburgh? I thought you were living with a boyfriend or something, a few minutes from home.”

“Uh, yeah.” You laugh, although it sounds strained. He can imagine you now, twirling a strand of hair around your pointer finger as you paced. He saw it a lot during the teenage years, watching you try to convince your parents through the phone that you really wanted to go to a friend’s sleepover, even though you were actually trying to sneak out to some house party. “No boyfriend anymore. No boyfriend, no home. Bye-bye. To Pittsburgh, I go, seeking employment opportunities.”

He’s quiet again for another moment, mulling it over. His thoughts run so fast that he finally peels himself off of his couch, taking a page out of your book and pacing along the line of his rug. 

He must’ve been quiet for way too long, because you speak again. “You can take your time to give me an answer. I’ll drive down there at the end of this weekend, so there’s a few days to think it over. I just wanted to ask in advance rather than show up on your doorstep.”

And thank God you didn’t. You’d find your way to “his” house and be greeted by his ex-wife, who still says his name with a slice of distaste. You’d find out from her about everything that’s happened in the past two years of his life – drug addiction, rehab, divorce, custody agreements, consistent loneliness minus man’s best friend, Petunia.

“Uh,” he says stupidly.

Everything he could say turns into dust on his tongue, unable to get out a single word. How does he explain all of this? That the charming teenager you once knew, who was consistently surrounded by good friends that were always willing to celebrate him, had lost his college sweetheart in a messy divorce after throwing his back out, getting addicted to benzos and almost losing his job?

Lord knows Frank has lost all of his ego at this point in his life, other than his promise of being a good doctor, but he can almost ensure that you liked who he was as a teenager. His childhood and teenage years were filled with your wide eyes, asking him to open jars for you or to drive you to some friend’s house. When your first boyfriend had broken up with you, he had been the one who had picked you up from his house, ignoring the squeeze in his chest at the sight of your red eyes as he promised not to tell your brother.

“Can we talk about it? When you come in on Sunday?” He asks. 

Three days. Three days is all he has to figure out what exactly he’s going to tell you. Three days to come to terms with the fact that you may never see him the same ever again.

He isn’t sure why he cares so much. His parents knew of his divorce, of his ten-month stint in rehab. It’d been hard enough to tell them, and he had survived, but telling you feels like an entire weight sitting on his chest.

Your next words come out too hopeful. “Yeah! Okay!” Then, with a grin so wide he can hear it without seeing your face, you make a last minute addition. “At least I get to see you once, even if Abby ends up saying no to me staying.”

Abby, Abby, Abby. Why did you feel the incessant need to bring her up? Even if he was still married to her, he had known you way before she had even existed, had had numerous conversations about topics that didn’t include her.

Instead of being annoyed about it, he chooses to instead stick to the happy feelings that you being excited to see him gave him. “Yeah. It’ll be good to hang out again,” he responds. “Can update me on what Adrian did to have you runnin’ from him.”

“Adam,” you correct. He knew that, of course, but he feels warm at the laugh that shortly follows. “I’ll happily get into that. My brother doesn’t allow me to talk about him much anymore, so I have a lifetime worth of bad stories and ruined memories and icks to rant about.”

Now, it’s Frank’s turn to laugh. “Noted. I will happily listen.”

“I know you will. You always did.” Your voice gets softer as you trail off. 

Warning bells go off in his head at the first fluttering beat of his heart. Oh, this is wrong. So, so wrong. 

Before you can say anything else and mess with his head more, he lets out a heavy sigh. “Alrighty, sunshine, I have to get to bed so I can get to my shift in time tomorrow. Text me on Saturday and we can figure out a place to meet, okay?”

You let out a soft groan into the phone, probably evidence of a late-night stretch. “Okay, Frank. Talk to you Saturday.”

“See you Sunday,” he responds in a murmur.

He’s not the one that hangs up.

For all of Friday, your name does not grace his phone. He checks every free moment that he gets during his shift, but each time he is met with a blank notification screen.  If it wasn’t for the fact that you sat at the top of his messages and call log, he’d be able to convince himself that he made the whole situation up. You weren’t moving to Pittsburgh, you weren’t asking to stay at his apartment, he didn’t have to finally owe up to all of his transgressions.

Every time Frank reminds himself of the fact, an uncomfortable feeling crawls up his spine until it settles in his chest, pressing down on his lungs until he is aware of every heartbeat. He feels foolish for the way he digs the heel of his palm into his sternum, pressing his eyes closed and trying to will his body to stop punishing him for his brain’s doing.

He’s never been good at being vulnerable. As a child, he’d split his knee open falling off of his bike just to get up a moment later, laughing until he wheezed despite the dull ache in his leg and the blood trickling down his calf. As a teenager, he’d met heartbreak and hard times with a persistent need to show how well he was doing despite it all, even if he was just proving it to himself.

And now, as an adult, he goes the route of just ignoring it. Letting himself indulge in the things that he knows he shouldn’t, not allowing anyone to see past the mirage he has set up. He’s Frank Langdon, MD, an excellent emergency medicine resident with a confidence big enough to outweigh any Olympic athlete.

Unfortunately, with you, he cannot act like everything is okay. He knows that the second he looks into your wide eyes, staring into a memory of what he used to have and what he used to be, everything will fizzle up like the spark at the end of a detonating cord. You’ve always brought out his honesty, a personal truth serum in the form of billowy hair and flavored lipgloss.

Saturday morning, it rains in Pittsburgh. He doesn’t get to see it much due to being in the hospital all day, but the smell of petrichor seeps in the ambulance bay and water droplets cling to the hair of everyone who comes through the doors. Whenever he gets a free chance, he sits in the bay, listening to the rain hit the concrete and letting his mind dull for a moment.

It’s late, moonlight filtering through dark clouds to barely illuminate the flooded street. The thunderstorm that’s been threatening to arrive all week has finally decided to make its dramatic entrance, just in time to add upon Frank’s soured mood.

His mother would throw a fit if she saw what he was doing now. Clothes soaked and stuck to his skin, his hoodie doing absolutely nothing to keep the cold out, perched on his family’s roof. It’d been too easy to climb out of the window in his bedroom, especially with everything in his head screaming at him to just get out of the house.

Now, he sits in the rain, arms wrapped around his knees as he watches the raindrops glide down the shingles and into the gutter. All the collected water pours out into his yard, creating a larger and larger puddle as the night goes on.

He’s not sure how long he’s been out here, listening to the soft patter of the rain and the frequent booms of thunder. His mind has been more occupied by other things, such as the heavy scolding he had gotten from his coach after tonight’s game, or the passive-aggressive brush-off he had gotten from his girlfriend when he had tried to invite her out to the diner afterwards.

It was stupid, how much the sport controlled every aspect of his life. He had no intention of becoming a D1 athlete, and the only reason he had committed to the team in the first place was due to the need for a social life and perhaps the chance at a scholarship. Instead, it had affected everything else in his life. His classmates and teachers opinion of him, his father’s pride, his schedule, his own self-esteem.

“You’re gonna catch a cold! Or get struck by lightning!”

Frank barely hears the yell over the downpour, head turning and eyes squinting to try and look through the mist. Your bedroom light sticks out like a lighthouse on the shore, backlighting your silhouette from where you lean out your window.

His brow furrows. “It is way past your bedtime!” he calls back. It’s all an assumption. He has absolutely no idea what time it is.

Rather than respond, you disappear away from the window. He’s just about to turn around and pretend you had never been there when your outline appears again, now in a thick coat. Before he can even think about what you may be doing, your foot peeks out of your window, finding the thick branch of the tree that stretches between your houses.

“Hey! No!” He scolds. Either his voice is carried away by the storm or you choose to ignore him, because a few minutes later, your boot-covered feet are atop his roof.

As soon as you find solid footing, you unfurl an umbrella that he hadn’t been able to see before. You clutch something to your chest as you slide over to where he sits, thigh pressing against his as you settle.

“Here,” you say. “I brought you a new sweatshirt so you don’t turn into an ice cube. It’s one of my brother’s, I think.”

You hold the umbrella up and pass the hoodie over to him. He palms it for a moment, stealing the warmth before glancing at you in his peripheral. “How am I supposed to change into this?”

“I won’t look, if that’s what you’re worried about. But, just a fair warning, I’ve already seen your bare torso plenty of times in the last years we’ve known each other.” The remark is deadpan, but even in the dark, he can see the amusement in your eyes.

He rolls his eyes, reaching over to gently nudge you in the side. Without another word, he reaches down to pull off his drenched hoodie, setting it beside him. His chest is bare for just a moment before he tugs the new hoodie on, arranging his body so that he doesn’t accidentally stick his now-dry sleeve back into the rain.

After he has it situated, Frank turns back to you. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

You squirm to make sure the both of you fit comfortably beneath the umbrella, pressing closer to Frank. If you notice the way you’re practically tucked into his side, you don’t give any inclination, and he’s not exactly itching to bring it up. 

“Don’t mention it,” you reply sheepishly. “You look sad enough without the wet dog look.”

A cold wind breezes over the two of you, a shudder wracking your body. Without thinking about it too hard, he raises his arm to drape it over your shoulders, fingers pressing into your bicep as he rubs up and down to create friction. Rather than fight, you sink into the touch, relaxing beneath his touch.

This was fine. This is what friends did, he lies.

“Why are you choosing to torture yourself with this weather?” You ask, forehead leaning against his chest. “We could be cozy in bed right now.”

You pause, then quickly add, “Our own beds. In our separate houses.”

He laughs, giving you a soft squeeze. The sound fades out slowly as he thinks more about your question, eyes looking out upon the neighborhood again. “Had a hard day.”

A knowing hum is your answer, plucking at the ends of your sleeves to keep your hands busy. “Because of the game?” You guess.

Now that you’re not shivering anymore, he drops his arm, palm flattening on the roof behind your hips. He’s not exactly ready to uncurl himself from you, but there had to be a bit of distance, for his sake. “Something like that.”

Your lips twitch in dissatisfaction at the answer, brow furrowing as you look up at him. As soon as he finally catches your eye, your palm covers his knee, ignoring the way his jeans stick to his skin. “You can talk about it if you want, Frank. Or even if you don’t want to and it’s just that it’ll help.”

A smile unfurls on his lips before he can stop it, a fond look eclipsing over his face. He wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you in for a hug and letting out a relieved sigh when you prop your chin on his shoulder. “I don’t need to but thank you, sunshine. I‘m glad you came out here.”

Your nose presses into his skin, breath brushing against the side of his neck. “Of course. Couldn’t let you catch a cold all on your own, you’d get lonely.”

After a moment, you finally pull back, lips spreading into a grin. “Wanna come over? We can watch a movie if you’re still not able to sleep.”

“I am not climbing across a tree into your room,” he immediately responds. Your face falls and he scrambles to add, “but you can come over to mine?”

Immediately, that grin is back, making him laugh. He pats at your arm playfully before grabbing the umbrella from you, gesturing towards his window. “Go ahead. I’ll keep you dry.”

Frank’s interrupted from his reminiscing by a few buzzes in his pocket, pulling out his phone with a hefty sigh. Almost like he’s summoned you, his screen is littered with multiple texts from you.

YOU: it is saturday YOU: we need to plan a place to meet tomorrow YOU: and by we, i mean you. i don’t live there YOU: what do you suggest?

He responds quickly with the location of some diner he used to frequent when he just got out of rehab, his second text a simple thumb’s up emoji and a question mark. The less words he used, the better, especially with the way all of his emotions tend to go on overdrive talking to you.

You respond quickly. It’s simple, an agreement and a note about how you were excited to see him, but it still makes his chest tighten.

That night, alone in his apartment yet again, Frank sits down on his couch with a journal on his lap. It’s still wrapped in the plastic, purchased brand new on his way home from work alongside the pack of pens resting next to his thigh. He glances down at Petunia, who’s draped herself over his feet in the exhaustion lingering from her nap, chewing on the inside of his cheek in thought.

Finally, he presses his thumbnail into the plastic until it gives way, ripping the rest of it off soon after. He cracks open the pens next, curling his fingers around one and leaving the rest in the package.

He had journaled a lot during his time in rehab. His therapist had brought it up after he’d stonewalled her during his first few appointments, retreating into an invisible shell as he went through withdrawal and felt the dull pain in his back for the first time in what felt like ages. She’d ran the pad of her finger over the outside of the journal as she explained to him that it’d be good for him to get all of his feelings out, even if he continued to ignore her in person.

At first, he thought it was stupid. Writing until his hand cramped wouldn’t take back the fact that he was an addict, or that he craved these stupid pills that he thought he was only taking for a persistent pinched nerve, or that his wife had looked at him like some kind of criminal as she tucked a crying Tanner behind her back when he said goodbye. The cramps wouldn’t cover up the persistent ache in his chest that everything he had ever worked so hard to have and to keep had been wiped away by a stupid mistake, something that he could’ve controlled if he was even an ounce of a better man.

It started as letters to Abby. She never answered the ones that he actually sent, so he decided to stop embarrassing or restraining himself. He filled up page after page with his crimes and confessions, writing about their good memories in hopes of trying to push away the present. At the end of each letter, he’d tally up how many times he had written out an apology and try to push to add more the next time he wrote, as if any condolences would be enough to cover up what he had done.

Then, he branched out. He wrote to Dana and Robby and his parents, keeping all of the words hidden and safe and locked in his journal. Within the pages he could confirm that none of his words would be twisted by those who already thought negatively of him. He could just be the Frank Langdon he knew himself to be, even if his opinion got a bit shaky sometimes.

He wrote to you. After he had scrawled your name on the page in his doctor handwriting, he stared at it for a while, wondering what had possessed him to think of you in a time like this. Admittedly, he hadn’t remembered the last time you had crossed his mind and it wasn’t because you had shown up at a family event with a new boyfriend and a new hair color.

Rather than stop himself, he let himself write whatever came to mind. He wrote about all the times he had helped you out and you had said “I’m sorry,” until he pinky-promised you that he didn’t mind. A subconscious smile pulled at his lips when he wrote about the time his father had burnt the hot dogs on his grill for the fourth of July and you had still eaten the entire thing, even if he could see the grimace on your face with every bite. 

He talked about how it was now his turn to apologize to you. For not thinking of you as often now that he had moved away and gotten out of medical school. For all the times he had secretly judged you for all of your vices, such as your need for constant change or your inability to find your boyfriends interesting after a few months. For not being the perfect guy you always saw him as.

Frank’s newly eighteen. He sits on his roof, the same spot he’s gone to every single time he finds his mind to become a bit too much. It’s become a sanctuary without walls since that night you had crawled out here and sat with him, even if it ended in the both of you waking up with a cold when the morning light came in. Some nights, you still come out and join him, limbs pressed together as you both acted like they weren’t.

Like clockwork, you join him about ten minutes after he’s settled onto the shingles. You don’t even grace him with a greeting. You just sit down, pulling your knees to your chest and trying to find what his eyes have decided to focus on.

“The cardinal over there?” You guess.

He nods without looking at you. He doesn’t need to look at you, not when the wind brings your perfume to him like an offering and your body heat seeps through his clothes despite how cold your hands always tend to be. 

The both of you are quiet for a moment, listening to the sounds of the cars driving through the neighborhood or the planes flying overhead. Every once in a while, he catches you trying to find what he’s looking at, like a curious child.

You break the silence with a heavy sigh, head turning to look at him. He finally allows himself the grace to look at you, giving you a soft smile to show that he’s okay. 

“I’m going to miss you,” you confess. “While you’re away at school.”

Frank nods again, even though it’s not really a rebuttal to what you had said. Realizing his lack of response, he reaches out to wrap his fingers around your forearm, giving it a soft reassuring squeeze. “I’ll come back,” he promises. “I’m not gonna leave this place in the rearview mirror.”

Now it’s your turn to smile, eyes following his hand as he returns it back to his lap. “Good,” you reply. “Who else is gonna pick me up from bad dates and sneak me cigarettes?” That mischievous grin that you wear like a second skin, or like an armor depending on the conversation, pops up. 

“Some other sucker,” he retorts. 

That silence returns when your giggle ends, hanging over the both of you. Unable to sit in the silence, you break it with another confession.

“I always thought you were too cool for anything when I first met you.” Your thumb brushes over your kneecap, wrinkling and smoothening the fabric of your jeans. “Even as young as we were, you seemed like you didn’t want to hear anything from anyone. Always your way or the highway. And then you became friends with my brother and you were everywhere and you were such a nerd.”

You laugh at his eye roll, passing him a look that tells him to wait for your point and not say anything. “I realized you weren’t too cool very quickly. Your limbs were too lanky and you fumbled over your words and you overcompensated by holding onto that same oozing confidence I had seen the minute we had moved in.”

Your teeth dig into your bottom lip for a moment before you continue. “But even if you’re not as untouchable as I thought you once were, I still think you’re perfect, Frank.” Despite the raw way the words come out, you say them louder than your murmured confessions, sporting a wide grin. “I hope you remember that when you’re becoming a big hotshot doctor.”

Frank sighs as he runs his fingers over the fresh pages of his brand new notebook, listening to the sound of paper fluttering. He grips the pen in his hand tighter, finally cracking the spine of the journal as he peels it open on his lap.

For the first time since he left rehab, he writes.

On Sunday morning, Frank arrives at the diner half an hour early. As he settles into the booth, his fingers tighten around the bag he carries, glancing around like you’d pop up out of nowhere.

While he waits, regretting his decision to have come in early in order to avoid the awkwardness of an introduction, he finishes two glasses of water and asks for another refill. His body feels unbelievably hot and he feels fidgety, adjusting his position in his seat multiple times and squirming at the crack of leather that follows every time he moves.

Five minutes after the time the both of you had agreed upon, the bell above the door chimes. His head turns so fast that a tendon pops, eyes landing upon you.

He wasn’t expecting you to look the same. Every time he sees you, no matter how long or short your time apart has been, there’s something different about you. A new color added to your hair or a complete change, a new style of outfits, another decorative piercing. A new tattoo if you were feeling extra adventurous in some foreign country.

Even knowing that, his breath catches at the sight of you. His blue eyes are wide when you finally look at him, your face brightening while he looks like a deer in headlights. He tries to match your smile, but it’s very obviously shaky.

When you get closer, he finally stands up, hand propped on the back of the booth as he greets you. “Hey, stranger.”

He can not find a single trace of anxiety on your features as you grin, reaching out to jab your finger into his chest. “Says you,” you tease. You slip into the opposite side of the booth, palms flattening on the table. “You’re the one who’s too busy to come home these days. It’s been, what, two years or so?”

Frank’s chest tightens again. He sits down to hide the tremble in his knees, exhaling so hard that a napkin flutters. “It’s been, uh, a busy two years,” he responds. “Would’ve come out if I could.”

You grab a menu, already feeling at home in this diner you’ve never been to. “With what? Saving lives? Or is Abby keeping you busy?”

There’s her name again, falling off her lips as if you get a dollar for every time that she’s mentioned. He grabs his own menu to try and hide the shaking of his hands, holding it up to hide his face.

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.

“Abby and I aren’t together anymore,” he admits. He lets the words drop off of his tongue rather than trying to say them gently. He had tried the gentle approach with everyone else he has told and it had only ended up one of two ways – they either pitied him until he couldn’t take it anymore or felt disgusted by the fact that he let himself cave into his addiction.

He spares a glance at you again once there’s enough quiet to suffocate him. You stare at him, your menu now laying flat on the table, and he decides to just keep going while you’re stunned already to rip off the bandaid. “We divorced after I went to rehab.”

You physically recoil in surprise, blinking your eyes as you try to put together all of the information. “Okay.” You draw out the word, trying to fill the space as if you were afraid he’d suddenly drop another bomb. “That’s not what I was expecting out of this catch-up. I thought you were just going to tell me fun stories about working in an emergency room.”

To his surprise, you thread your fingers together, resting both of your elbows on the table and holding his eyes. “Do you want to explain, or leave it at that?”

Frank’s shoulders lower more and more as he spills it all. Now that the harsh facts are out there, it’s easier for him to let everything else spill out. The back injury, the benzos addiction, the fallout at work, the rehab and the divorce. He tries not to let the emotions of them seep through, tries to stick to just the facts, but there’s a few things that slip through the cracks.

It’s easy to spill his guts to you. His own personal truth serum.

When he finishes, he clears his throat, suddenly bashful. “And there’s one more thing.”

He finally reaches into the bag he brought along, fingers closing around the journals inside and pulling them out. Before he can second guess it, he slides them across the table, watching as your hands move to keep them from falling off. 

“Diaries?” you guess lightheartedly.

“Kind of.” Frank chuckles, reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck. “I wrote a lot in rehab. My therapist recommended it. There’s a, uh, letter in there. For you. It’s where the tab is.” 

His fingers flick at the sticky note that’s just peeking out from the pages, glancing up at you through his eyelashes. “I trust that you won’t dig through the entire thing, but it’s okay if you do. Just know you’ll probably know more about me than you want to.”

You beam up at him before rifling quickly through the pages, taking brief glances at the scrawlings on the pages before letting it shut again. “Are you sure, Frank? This seems really personal.” 

He shrugs, leaning back in the booth and crossing his arms over his chest. “Well, you’re about to stay with me, aren’t you? You’ll see enough of my bad moments this week, so we might as well start now.”

His flaws are completely forgotten as you lean forward, somehow brightening more. The glow of the sunlight through the window is nothing compared to the way you look right now. “Really? You’ll let me stay with you.”

A laugh bubbles out of him before he can stop it, shaking his head. “You’ve bugged me for most of my life, we can’t ruin the tradition now.”

With a huff, you grab the wadded up piece of paper from his straw before tossing it at his forehead, grinning like a madwoman. “Jerk.”

For the rest of the day, Frank helps you move whatever you need into the spare bedroom of his apartment. The both of you pick up where you left off the last time he saw you, bickering over who gets to pick up the larger items and bigger boxes – you because of Frank’s bad back or Frank because he wants to be a gentleman.

After a shared dinner of takeout and him watching you coo over Petunia for half an hour, he finally admits to you that he needs to sleep for work the next day and retreats to his bedroom. With a pep in his step from finally spending a night socializing instead of staring at meaningless social media posts, he showers and gets ready for bed, forcing his dog to roll over onto her side of the bed before settling beneath the duvet.

He’s halfway asleep when there’s a couple knocks at his door. Fatherly instincts have him immediately shooting up, startling Petunia awake. “Yeah?” He calls out tiredly as he runs his fingers through the dog’s fur, soothing her back to sleep.

The door opens to reveal you, donned in soft pajamas and hair pulled up out of your face. The sight of his journal in your hands has him leaning over to click on his bedside lamp, illuminating his room and you in a warm glow. “What’s wrong?”

You hover in the doorway for a moment, lips parted when no words come out. Your mouth closes as you step closer, sitting down on the edge of his bed near his legs. He doesn’t move.

“You didn’t need to apologize,” you finally say. “For all of it.”

Frank runs a hand through his hair, the other still petting Petunia to try and calm the heavy beating of his heart. “I felt… feel like I needed to,” he admits sheepishly.

You prop one knee up on the mattress, somehow getting even closer to him. He tries not to squirm at the familiarity of it all. “None of what you’ve gone through the last couple of years has been your fault, Frank,” you murmur. “Addiction is a disease, not something someone willingly puts themselves through. You did the work through rehab and therapy, which is an apology enough for me.”

Your fingers brush against his duvet, tracing shapes next to his covered knee. “Your letter was sweet.” You continue, watching your fingers. “I’d forgotten about a couple of those things. It was nice to be reminded. I’m surprised you remembered.”

“I’ve been known to have a freakishly good memory,” he muses awkwardly.

That makes you finally look at him, giving him a soft grin. Your hand moves to curve over his knee, a shiver moving down his spine at the contact. “Imagine my surprise when I get to the end, my eyes hurting from squinting at your doctor handwriting, and I find out that –”

“ – that I wanted to kiss you.” He finishes the sentence before you can say the words. “The night of my going away party, when you told me that you were going to miss me again. I wanted to kiss you, because most people hadn’t even told me once and you had told me three times. I wanted to kiss you that night because I had wanted to kiss you many nights before that and never had.”

Frank sits up, hand finally leaving Petunia to grab yours and pull it away from his knee. His other hand moves to cup your cheek, giving a small smile when you lean into his palm. Your cheeks are warm beneath his touch, like only your hands are destined to be cold. Maybe it’s because they’re meant to be held by him, he thinks.

He leans forward until his nose brushes against your cheek. “No boyfriend?” He whispers against your skin. Just checking.

“No boyfriend,” you breathe out.

As soon as the last syllable leaves your tongue, he kisses you, seizing the opportunity of your lips still being parted. He kisses you like he’s trying to steal the air from your lungs, hand curling around the back of your neck to pull your lips closer.

He only pulls away when Petunia nudges at his elbow, jealous of the attention not being on her anymore, laughing breathlessly. He presses his forehead against yours. “You’re wrong to say that I didn’t need to apologize. I have to apologize for not kissing you sooner.”

You copy his breathless laugh, leaning back to breathe some of your own air. “I’ll take that apology,” you respond. You press your lips together to try and hide your giddy smile, staring at him for just a moment.

This is everything he’s ever wanted, he thinks. You’re beautiful like this, freshly kissed by him and euphoric, bathed in the aureate light of his lamp. Being here with you won’t fix any problem that he’s created, but it is the first thing that’s felt right in a very long time.

Then, in the blink of an eye, you stand, still clutching his journal in your hand. “Okay. I’m going to bed.”

Frank scrambles at your sudden pull away, sitting up further, much to the chagrin of the dog laying her head on his thigh. “You’re going to bed? Your bed?”

You stop at the doorway, turning to grin at him. “I’ve bugged you all of your life. We can’t ruin the tradition now,” you mock. 

With that, you give him a small wave, closing his bedroom door behind you.

He lets out an amused scoff at the click of his door, staring at it for a few moments to make sure you were serious and not just pulling his leg. When he faintly hears the sound of your bedroom door shutting, he groans, falling back onto his pillow and letting Petunia drape herself back over his torso. Then, he laughs, raising his hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose.

Of course, that typically just means a long, afternoon nap, but that’s beside the point. 

You should be reveling in the start of what is meant to be a serene Saturday, but there’s something holding you back.

It’s a buzzy, humming feeling in your chest. Not quite anxiety, not quite excitement, but it's been there all morning. As you set up the canopy and the folding table, stacked your peaches and tomatoes so the ripest end up on top, and even as you tied the crocheted bandana around your two braids — a necessary accessory to keep flyaway from escaping in the early morning breeze.

Anticipation. And as you swipe your hands over the apron looped around your waist, you glance down the aisle of booths, and spot the very person you’re anticipating. 

He strides toward you with purpose, ignoring the surrounding booths.

A black scrub top and mocha brown cargo pants, accompanied by work boots that have seen better days. He looks worn down, like he always does when you see him first thing every Saturday morning. But the lines on his face crinkle when he spots you, recognition lighting the smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Good morning, buttercup,” he says when he sidles up, eyeing the pints of strawberries. It's a simple booth: just a folding table filled to the brim with pints of berries, peaches, tomatoes, and a few jars of honey from a local beekeeper. “And how are you today?” 

Buttercup. You glance down at the fruit-centric logo on your apron — Buttercup Farms, a locally owned small batch produce farm, owned and operated by your friend just ten miles past city limits. A nickname born out of weeks of shy, sideways glances and small talk, exchanged both ways until it became too late to ask for your name. 

But you know his— well, his last name, at least. Spotted it on his hospital badge the fifth consecutive Saturday he came to see you.

DOCTOR, it said, in bolded white letters on a green background. Then, just barely readable from where his shirt covered it, a surname that you know but you’ve never been brave enough to test on your lips. Abbot. 

You've found your thoughts drifting on more than one occasion, daring yourself to say his name aloud. Wondering how he might react if you said it to him. Wondering how it might taste on your tongue. Dr. Abbot.

“Good morning!” You chirp, taking your post at the end of the table. There’s some familiarity here — you, standing in the same place each week, and him, making a show of selecting the best produce while making conversation. 

You tried to convince yourself he was just being polite, taking pity on the market girl running a booth all by herself every Saturday morning. But after two months of recalled details, week after week, you can’t help but think maybe he might like talking to you just as much as you like talking to him. 

“I’m good today,” you pause, daring yourself to insert a cheeky Dr. Abbot into the conversation, but instead suffer an awkwardly elongated silence. You clear your throat. “How are you?” 

"Oh, you know. Same shit, different day,” he raises his eyes from the strawberries to shoot you a winsome wink. “No blackberries today?” 

You glance at the folding table with a start. Oh, no, no no. He's right. There are no blackberries. 

“Shit!” You exclaim, hand flying to your forehead in a resounding smack. “Shit, shit, shit.” 

“Woah,” Abbot chortles, extending his hand, but not quite touching you. As if he’s not sure if he’s allowed. “What’s the matter, buttercup?” 

“I left the blackberries in the truck,” you drag both hands over your face. “I left the blackberries in the truck!” 

“It’s okay,” his voice comes out firm and assured, as though he’s already hatching a plan. “Where’s the truck?” 

“It’s—“ your hand flies in the general direction of the parking lot, all the way across the park. It’s probably half a mile, if you had to guess, it doesn't matter. You’re not allowed to drive in the grass. "Oh, my god."

Panic sets in as you rattle off context to the poor man trapped in a predicament he has nothing to do with. “One of the volunteers helps me unload the canopy and the table and all the produce each week, a-and it usually takes two trips, and I must have forgotten the blackberries!" Your voice comes out a puppy whine, reduced to uselessness when you're otherwise perfectly capable of handling things on your own. "Shit, and they’re so ripe, too.” 

But it’s the fact that this isn’t your business that will suffer because you forgot the blackberries that sends you down a spiral. It’s your friend’s. Her profits for the week won’t be nearly as high as expected, all because of your thoughtlessness.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse so much before,” Abbot attempts a joke, to which you crumple even more. An exasperated whine is your only response.

“Hey,” his voice evens out again, and before you can register what’s happening, his beefy, calloused hand cups your bare shoulder. You glance up, meeting eyes the color of a carnival kaleidoscope. You can't decide what the dominating shade is: blue or green or gold. “It’s okay. Will you take a deep breath with me?” 

With his free hand, he mimes a long breath in, then a sustained, steadying breath out. You follow his lead.

“There you go,” he murmurs, the rumble of his voice shooting electric shocks up and down your veins. “That’s a good girl.” 

Your jaw goes slack. It takes everything in you not to shudder.

“How many pints of blackberries are in the truck, angel?” He asks, providing a quick rub to your shoulder before reverting back to his own space. Your skin feels especially cold now that his hand is gone.

“Twenty,” you gulp, guilt clouding over any lust for the older man before you. 

Abbot reaches into his back pocket, tugging out a weathered, camo print wallet. “And how much are they going for this week?” 

“Five dollars.” 

He flips open the wallet, then tugs out two crisp fifties, and a twenty. He extends his hand to you, the bills poised between two fingers.  

“What are you doing?” Your brow furrows, eyes dipping to the money, then back to him. The sun peeks out from the bottom of the canopy, striking him over the bridge of his nose. He's all polka dotted with freckles.

“I’m buying your blackberries,” Abbot husks. You swear the sentence sounds a million times more provocative than it should. Your knees give a little wobble. “You can give ‘em to a food bank or something.” 

“What?” You blink. 

“My arm’s gettin' tired,” he shakes the money at you, though not impatiently. “Take it, buttercup. Please.” 

“What’s the extra twenty for?” You swallow, plucking the cash from him. You move with reluctance, your bones heavy with guilt.

“Whatever a pint of these strawberries is worth, and the rest you can use for a coffee or something,” he shrugs. 

“That’s fifteen extra dollars,” you mutter, dumbfounded.

“Aren't you smart? Even when you’re stunned,” he smirks. It takes you longer than you’d care to admit to realize that he’s teasing. “Coffee and a pastry then. On me, okay?” 

You nod, then shove the cash into the pocket of your apron. On him.

God, your thoughts are veering to a place that would rip the family friendly status away from this farmer's market.

Abbot lifts a pint of strawberries without looking at them, then cradles it close to his chest. “I’ll see you next week, alright, angel?” 

A hum vibrates through you. “Okay…” you pause, nibbling your bottom lip. The breeze picks up, ruffling his delicious, greying curls. “Thank you, Dr. Abbot.” 

The look of bewilderment on his face is enough to make you wish you forgot the blackberries every week. 

He throws his head back in a sharp, heart-shattering laugh. He says goodbye a second time, then stalks off, only stopping to throw you one last grin over his shoulder.

…

“Talk to me, Dani– what do you see?” Tyler asked into the walkie. They’d been tracking a handful of storms for the past few hours– Tyler watching the clouds, and Dani studying the radar. Right now, there were two that had peaked his interest– One was formulating south, the other to the northeast. 

“The storm south has higher wind speeds, but I think it’ll fade if it shifts. The other one has a weaker wind shear, but higher pressure. Either one has the chance to form or go, so I say trust your gut,” they answered.  

Tyler shifted his grip on the steering wheel, studying the dark, circling motion in the distance. 

“What’re you thinkin’, T?” Boone asked, camera trained on Tyler. 

He sunk his teeth into his bottom lip– trying to focus.

“Less moisture, less potential for an updraft, but way higher winds if we go south. Northeast though… she’s already got the motion and momentum, she just needs the winds to shift...” 

Boone stayed quiet– he knew that when Tyler talked out loud, it was generally rhetorical. 

Tyler took his eyes off the sky to study the world around him for a moment. 

“No pressure, T,” Dani said through the walkie. 

“Yeah,” Lilly chimed in. “We just spent all damn day chasing these things–”

“South,” he said suddenly. “I say let’s chase south.”

…

Less than thirty minutes later, Tyler was standing in the middle of a wheat field with his hands on his hips and a frown on his face. 

The storm had fizzled with the shifting winds, leaving them with nothing but a few scattered showers that mixed in with the sweat already pooling on his skin. 

“S’alright, T,” Boone said encouragingly with a shrug. He clapped him on the back. “We can’t catch ‘em all.”

Tyler sighed before joining Dani where they sat on the edge of the truck, scanning for other potential storms in the area. 

“What’s that there?” Tyler asked, pointing to what appeared to be a storm system heading west. 

Dani frowned. “What the hell… I think that’s the storm from earlier– the one moving northeast.”

“So it shifted?” 

“Shifted?” Boone said, lowering his camera for a moment to glance towards Tyler. “Where to? Can we make it in time?”

Tyler frowned, studying the movement. 

“That’s strange,” Dani mumbled under their breath. With a few clicks, they expanded the screen, showing a wider radius.

“What’s strange?” Boone asked.

Ignoring him, Tyler scanned the system, trying to trace the path without actually calculating it. “You don’t think–” 

Dani glanced his way. “Holy shit–”

“Hello?” Boone said. “Y’all gonna share with the rest of the class?” 

“I think she’s headin’ for Lawton,” Dani finally whispered. 

And although he’d been thinking it, all the color drained from his face when it was actually spoken out loud.

“Lawton?” Dexter asked, voice laced with concern. 

“Oh shit-” Lilly whispered.  

Lawton was the closest city to where the two of you lived– if it hit there, thousands of people could be in danger. And if it shifted again, even the slightest bit– it could head right for your small town instead.  

Despite the humidity, everything inside of Tyler went cold as he imagined you at home– puttering around the garden, blissfully unaware of what might be coming. 

“Will you uh, pass me– pass me my phone, Boone?” Tyler stammered, standing up from the truck bed. 

Boone reached into the backpack scattered near his feet and handed over Tyler’s cell phone, placing it in his outstretched hand. Tyler muttered a quick thank you before walking a few strides away as he pulled up your contact information.  

The call rang five times before making it to voicemail– your sweet voice asking him to leave a message and you’d get back to him. 

“Hey, baby– it’s me. Call me back as soon as you can. Alright, love ya.”

He clicked the phone off before immediately trying again. 

“C’mon,” he muttered as the line continued to ring. “C’mon, baby, c’mon,” he hummed nervously, kicking the grass with his boots when he heard your voicemail. “Hey– me again. Listen, I’m not trying to scare ya, but there might be a storm comin’ and I just wanna make sure you’re safe. Give me a call please.”

He paced back towards the group, sending you a quick text just for good measure as he did. 

“Alright, what’s the plan here?” Dexter asked. 

But Tyler wasn’t paying much attention as he obsessively dialed you for a third time. 

“What’s wrong, T?” Boone wondered. 

Without looking up from his phone, Tyler exhaled a frustrated breath. “She’s never got her damn phone on her– that’s what’s wrong.” The second he heard your voicemail for a fourth time, he chucked his phone towards his bag. “Damnit!” 

Boone swallowed thickly. “I’m sure she’s fine–”

Tyler hung his head. After a moment, he nodded, although he wasn’t entirely convinced that would remain the case if he didn’t get in touch with you fast. He ran his hands through his hair and tried to breathe– 

You were fine, he told himself. You were home, you’d hear the alerts if they were necessary, you knew to get into the basement. 

Tyler took a long, steadying breath. “Dani, what’s the speed of this thing?” 

“Uh, it’s moving– thirty-five miles per hour directly west. I think she’s gaining speed, though.”

“Alright, she’s fast,” Tyler remarked. “We have to be faster. Let’s head home, ladies and gents, we can take cover at my place once I know everyone’s safe.”

“You got it, T,” Lilly said. 

“Stay safe everyone,” Dani replied as they all dispersed to their respective vehicles. 

Tyler and Boone climbed back into the truck, tires screeching as they sped west towards Lawton, and home towards you. 

…

You were inside the bakery on Lowell Street– Tyler’s favorite place for any and all pastries, when you heard the thunder. 

Although thunder in Oklahoma wasn’t exactly a rare occurrence, it was enough to make you turn your attention outside, just to see what kind of storm you might be up against on the drive home. 

“It’s gettin’ dark out there,” Gloria, the owner, said. She glanced at you over the counter and blew a strand of graying hair out of her face. 

You nodded in agreement, jumping slightly when another crack of thunder rang through the air. “Sounds like it’s getting closer,” you noticed. 

“I still can’t believe that boyfriend of yours goes out of his way to chase these storms. And his friends, too.”

You scoffed. “Yeah, me either. Bunch of adrenaline junkies.”

“Not me,” Gloria smirked. “We get enough chaos in this life, I don’t need to be chasin’ it.”

You returned her smile, recognizing that you might have more in common with the sixty-something year old baker in town than you did your own boyfriend. But you supposed that your differences were what drew you to Tyler. He was brave and thrilling and so alive. Although what he did scared the absolute shit out of you, there was nothing better than watching him exude excitement and just pure joy after he got home from a particularly powerful storm. 

“Was he and his crew trackin’ anything out here?” Gloria asked, using the tube of blue icing to write the birthday message you’d requested on top of Tyler’s cake. 

“Not here,” you replied. “He was south of OKC last I checked in.”

Which, you realized, had been far longer than you anticipated thanks to not having your phone. You mentally kicked yourself again for leaving it behind. If you’d brought it with you, you could have just given him a call now. Because unless he was smack dab in the middle of a goddamn tornado, he always answered your calls. Just a few reassurances from him could’ve calmed your fears about the storm brewing outside– told you that it was just a thunderstorm passing through. 

Not every thunderstorm means a tornado, he had said, you didn’t even know how many times by now. And each time allowed you to relax a little. Because unlike your boyfriend, you didn’t enjoy weather in quite the same way. In fact, after an EF4 had ripped through your home when you were just a child, you did your best to stay as far from tornadoes as Oklahoma allowed. 

“I’m sure it’s just thunder,” you began. 

But before you could finish your sentence, you heard the sudden pitter patter of hail beginning outside. Gloria lowered the icing tube while you took another step closer to the window to peer out. 

Dark, gloomy clouds swirled through the sky. 

That was when you heard the sirens. Loud and clear, they echoed through your ears in a terrifying, grim warning. 

…

As the storm tracked faster and faster the closer they got, Tyler’s first stop was your shared home just outside of Lawton. 

He didn’t even bother turning the truck off before he was hurling himself across the lawn, towards the front door. But before he even looked inside, his stomach dropped when he noticed your SUV wasn’t parked in its typical spot. 

Regardless, he practically ripped open the front door before running into the house, calling your name loudly into each room he searched, hoping that maybe you’d lent your car to your mom again– or magically parked it in the garage that was stuffed full of his gear. 

But it was no use– you weren’t there. 

He knew that for good as soon as he flung open the door to your shared bedroom. The bed was neatly made, pillows arranged perfectly– and your phone sitting on the nightstand table, plugged in and clearly far away from you. 

“Damnit!” he yelled, kicking the door frame frustratedly. Chest rising and falling rapidly, Tyler pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to think. Frustration and anger brewed inside of him, but he knew that underneath all of that was fear– for you and your safety. All he wanted was to have you in his sights again– although preferably wrapped up in his embrace, the only spot he could ensure you were safe... Where you belonged.

Suddenly, an idea popped into his head. Tyler made his way across the room and picked your phone up from the nightstand. Your background– a picture of you and him taken during your trip to Texas last year, lit up the screen. Accompanying it were the slew of notifications you’d missed– the first was the severe weather alert, the next few were all the missed calls from him. But at the very bottom of your screen was a reminder notification– one that allowed him to finally exhale the breath he’d been holding since he burst into the house. 

Get Tyler a bday cake. 

Sliding your phone into his back pocket, he raced back down the stairs to find Boone standing on the front lawn. 

“She’s in town,” he said, rushing towards his truck. 

Boone followed close behind. “How do you know?”

“If nothing else,” Tyler said, climbing into his truck, “she follows her schedule.”

…

“Gloria, you gotta listen to me–” you pleaded, hurrying around the counter to grab her hand. “If the sirens are goin’ off, it means we don’t have much time. Does the bakery have a basement, or– or a shelter?”

Gloria’s watery eyes met yours. Your heart sank the moment she shook her head dreadfully. 

“Okay,” you said shakily, trying not to panic. What would Tyler do? You looked around the bakery– with its old walls and sagging roof, you knew it wasn’t safe to stay here. 

“Gloria, we gotta go,” you said urgently. “We gotta find somewhere safe to be.”

With that, you tugged her towards the exit. 

As soon as you were outside, you felt the fierce wind whip your face, along with a few staggering pieces of hail. There was debris– leaves and sticks flying around in every which way, making it hard to see past what was right in front of you. 

Although you were trying to be vigilant, you didn’t even see the scrap of metal fly by your face.  “Shit!” you exclaimed, feeling it graze your cheek. Ripped skin was quickly followed by the feeling of warm blood trickling across your skin. 

“Are you alright?” Gloria asked, grabbing your arm. 

You used your free hand to press against your cheek before nodding. “We gotta get out of here,” you said. 

But just as you turned to try and gauge your surroundings, hoping to come up with a shred of a plan, you froze at what was looming in the distance. 

Winds whipped rapidly, the sky boomed, and a dark, wide funnel had formed– it’s tip already touching down on the ground. And it was coming straight for you. 

“Gloria, we gotta go–” you cried. “Now!” 

…

Tyler drove as fast as he could– foot nearly pressed down on the ground. He drove like his life depended on it. Because yours did– 

The truth was– he’d never given much thought to losing you. He was generally too preoccupied with wondering what you’d do if you lost him. He was the one putting himself in danger all the time, he was the one forcing his way in the middle of these storms. 

He didn’t know what he’d do without you– except be a shell of who he was now. 

“Holy shit–” he heard Boone say from the passenger seat. 

Tyler refocused his attention ahead, his eyes widening the second he saw what Boone was fixated on. 

It was hard to miss the giant, fucking tornado barreling right for Lawton’s array of buildings. 

“We’re too late–” Tyler croaked. “We’re too fucking late–”

“She’s smart,” Boone assured Tyler. “She knows where to go and what to do.”

Tyler’s knuckles turned white as he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He pressed his foot down on the accelerator and drove faster. 

…

In retrospect, the laundromat probably wasn’t the best place for you to be. But there were few windows and the back room was lined with secure piping, all which jetted deeply into the ground, creating a solid anchoring point. 

There were a few other people huddled in the same room, already low on the ground and clutching onto one another. 

“Hold on to that!” you cried, practically pushing Gloria towards the corner of the room. She wound her frail arms around the piping before crouching down. You were right beside her, arms locked tightly on the piping as you felt the building start to shake. 

The storm outside was deafening. Winds whistled and boomed. You were pretty sure the woman beside you was screaming– but you couldn’t hear her above the noise of everything else. You tried to be brave– the way you knew Tyler would be if he were here. 

Once, about three years ago, an EF3 hit his parent’s ranch while the two of you were staying there for a long weekend. You remembered the way he stayed so calm, so collected through it all. After ushering everyone into the storm shelter, he wrapped his strong arms around you, anchoring you to him. The ranch didn’t shake like this though… And even though you’d been scared that night, it paled in comparison to what you felt now. 

This building was weak– the structure was unsound. You had no idea how close the tornado actually was, but you knew this thing wasn’t going to stay put. It was just a matter of if the pipes went deep enough into the ground and if you could hold on to them. Because you didn’t have Tyler holding on for you this time. 

You hoped he was somewhere safe– maybe tracking the storm that was about to kill you from a reasonable distance. 

“Everything’s going to be okay,” you told Gloria, sweaty palms making your grip slip. “Just hold on–” 

The building began to shake harder– the very foundation rocking beneath you. Shortly after, pieces of the roof began tearing off, exposing the thunderous storm raging above. 

“I don’t–” Gloria cried. “I don’t think I can hold on!”

You tried loosening your own grip– hoping you could wrap your arms around her like Tyler had done for you before, or do something to help. But then you heard another ear splitting roar, and suddenly, the entire roof was being ripped off from the building. There was nothing you could do. You weren’t strong enough– 

“Hold on!” you screamed, tucking your head into your elbow and squeezing your eyes shut. “Just a little longer!” 

But as the words left your lips, even you didn’t believe them. 

…

By the time they finally reached town, the tornado had already moved on. 

Part of the reason why Tyler loved tornados so much was their power and speed. In his eyes– it was nothing short of an act of God to see what damage a simple funnel of wind could do in just a matter of minutes, sometimes seconds. 

Until he was faced with the inevitable tragedy of it all. 

Because it was one thing to see trees uprooted, or tractors rolled over. It was another to see an entire town had succumbed to a pile of debris– vehicles thrown this way and that– metal and siding and bricks scattered over every inch of the flat land– To know that people, his friends, his neighbors, you could be buried underneath piles of rubble– bodies broken and bleeding and hurt if they were lucky enough to be alive at all.

Tyler brought his truck to a screeching halt, not even hesitating before he was ripping off his seatbelt and hurling himself out of his seat. The second his boots hit the mud, he screamed your name as loud as he could. 

Eyes whipping around, he tried to process the scene before him. But it was hard to gauge where anything used to be– there was practically nothing left. 

“Tyler!” he heard someone scream in the distance. Head whipping to the side, he saw Lilly, waving her arms frantically. 

For a moment, Tyler let himself get his hopes up. He raced across the distance between them as fast as he could, despite all the obstacles in his way. But when he finally reached her, he was devastated to see that you weren’t there at all. Instead, Lilly was staring at a vehicle, flipped over and crunched like it’d been hit head-on by an 18-wheeler. 

And although it was damaged beyond repair, Tyler recognized it as yours immediately. 

He felt his chest tighten. “Christ–” he stammered, unable to fight back the tears burning behind his eyes. He ran his hand through his hair before hunching over, hoping the motion would allow him to finally catch his breath.

“Oh God,” he panted. “God, no– please, no–”

“She might not have been in it,” Lilly said quickly. 

But Tyler barely heard her. He was too fixated on the pounding in his ears–  

A wave of hopelessness washed over him, flooding his insides. He was too late– he couldn’t save you– he was too fucking late. 

“We’re gonna find her, T,” Boone’s voice was suddenly peaking through the fog. 

“Yeah, we won’t stop until we do,” Dani added. 

Tyler forced himself to take a few, steadying breaths. When he could, he straightened his back and glanced around. 

His whole team hadn’t given up on you. 

Neither could he. 

…

When you finally gained the courage to open your eyes, you were met by a fierce brightness. You coughed– lungs heaving as you struggled to breathe. 

“Gloria?” you tried to speak. “Are you okay?” 

You were met by an eerie silence– the calm after the storm. Blinking harshly a few times, you tried to gather up enough strength to sit up. But as soon as you did, you had a chance to look around… And boy, do you wish you hadn’t. 

There was nothing left– the entire town was gone… destroyed, buried in rubble and debris. 

“Gloria?” you called, groaning as you pushed the thick layer of roofing off from your legs. You grimaced once you saw the deep gash down the side of your thigh, oozing blood. 

Breath shuddering, you continued to scan the area– trying to wrack your brain for what the hell you were supposed to do next. The second you moved to turn your head, you winced, vision blurring. Slowly, you grazed along your forehead with your fingertips. When you pulled them away, you grimaced to see them coated in crimson liquid. 

You stared at it for far too long– unsure what else to do. You were hurt– probably worse than it felt, too if adrenaline had anything to say about it. You didn’t know if you could walk on your leg, or if you’d pass out the second you tried to stand up. 

You felt hopeless– completely and utterly alone. 

Until you faintly heard the sound of your name being called in the distance. 

It was enough to make you snap out of your trance, head whipping around to see Boone throwing aside a piece of siding. He called out a second time before turning and locking eyes with you from across the way. 

“Boone,” you said under your breath, like you couldn’t quite believe he was real. Because if Boone was here– calling out for you, that meant Tyler couldn’t be far behind. 

Boone yelled your name again before turning. “I found her!” he screamed, waving his arms. “Over here!” 

You fought back the guilt you felt for still not finding Gloria and moved to stand on shaky legs. 

“I’ll come back for you,” you promised her. 

Wobbly and weak, you limped towards him, trying your best not to fall in the cracks and crevices beneath the debris. You looked down, intending to watch your step, but instead you caught a glimpse of your leg and all the blood now coating your entire thigh and calf. Just the sight of it made you lose your balance. 

“Shit,” you gasped, as you landed harshly on the ground. You looked back up and saw Boone heading your way– only fifty yards or so from you. But then– right behind Boone, was a sight that made everything else melt away. 

“Tyler,” you exhaled, like it was a prayer tumbling from your lips. 

His long legs moved fast– practically running despite everything in his way. 

He’d make it to you– he’d get you. But if you got up and kept moving… he’d get there sooner. So, with whatever you had left inside of you, you pushed yourself up. Ignoring the pounding in your head and the throbbing in your leg, you limped forward. 

“Tyler,” you said again– not loud enough for anyone else to hear. It was like you just needed a reminder that really was right there. “Tyler–” this time, when his name tumbled from your lips, it came out as a sob– every emotion inside of you bubbling to the surface of your skin. Tears slipped down your cheeks, your vision blurred. 

He was so close now– you could hear the rubble shift as he stepped on it. 

He called your name… and God, if his voice wasn’t the sweetest sound you’d ever heard. 

“Tyler–” you cried again, throat choked from dust and tears. 

And then, just like that, his body was colliding with yours. Arms winding tightly around your shoulders, a familiar scent enveloping you, he cradled the back of your head with his hand, anchoring you to his chest. You wrapped your arms around his middle, face buried in his button down shirt. 

“Oh, God,” he whispered above you, lips grazing the side of your head. “I got you,” he said. 

You opened your mouth to speak, but no words came out– only a guttural, uncontrollable sob that made him hold you tighter. 

“I got you, baby. I got you,” he whispered into your hair. 

“Tyler–” was all you managed to choke out. 

His thumb trailed up and down your hair, matted with mud and your own blood. “I’m here. I’m right here. I got you.” 

He held you tight, steadying your shaky frame. It was like he was the one thing keeping you from completely falling apart. Which was why your body almost recoiled when he finally pulled away. You needed him wrapped around you like that forever. 

You tried to resist, to pull him back, but you didn’t even have the energy for that. All you could do was stand there weakly while his wild, concerned eyes scanned the length of you. 

“I’m fine–” you tried to say. 

But he shook his head instantly. “You’re not fine. You’re hurt, we gotta get you out of here. Get an ambulance!” he yelled to Boone, who was lingering nearby, looking like he didn’t quite know how to help. Boone nodded instantly before hurrying off. 

“Tyler–” 

“Okay, I see the leg– what else?” he asked. “What else hurts?”

“My head,” you whimpered. “And my ribs–” you admitted, although you hadn’t quite managed to look at those yet. “But Tyler–” 

Before you could finish, Tyler’s hand gripped the hem of your tank top, pulling it up slightly. You winced as the fabric brushed over your ribs. But when Tyler pressed a hand on the bare skin, you almost screamed out in pain. “Sorry,” he said gently. “I gotta look though, baby. I gotta check it.”

You nodded, fingers squeezing the fabric of his shirt as he did. The pain was excruciating– enough to make your already-dizzy head start to spin. 

“I think they’re broken– at least a couple. Can’t say for certain.”

“Tyler,” you tried to repeat, tears still streaming steadily down your face. 

“It’s okay, you’re gonna be okay,” he said once he saw the shift on your face. 

“It’s Gloria,” you finally spit out. “She’s out here somewhere, Tyler. We have to find her–”

Tyler’s gaze softened at your words. He pulled his eyes away from you long enough to quickly scan the scene. 

“Did you see her? Or know where she went?”

You shook your head, more tears spilling down your cheeks. “No–” you cried. “No, I don’t know where she went. Tyler, I have to find her–”

“Easy,” he soothed, winding an arm around your middle so that he could brace the majority of your weight. “You’ve lost a lot of blood. We gotta get you checked out.”

“I can’t leave her–” you protested. 

“Listen to me,” he said, voice gentle but stern. “You bleeding out on a pile of rubble isn’t going to help her, okay? Let me get you somewhere safe, Boone and Dexter can search for Gloria, alright?” 

After a moment, you nodded solemnly. “You promise?”

“I promise, baby. Now c’mon.”

Before you could protest, you felt Tyler’s arm swoop around the backs of your legs, while the other supported your back. In an instant, your feet are lifted off from the ground. You didn’t have the energy to do anything but lay your head against his chest. 

“There we go,” he soothed. “I got you.”

His thumb trailed along your back gently as he began navigating the pile of rubble around you. 

You felt safe nestled against him– and for the first time since you’d emerged from the rubble, you felt safe enough to allow your eyes to fall shut. 

“Hey, stay awake now, okay? We’re just a short walk to the ambulances– keep lookin’ at me.”

You tried– honestly you did. You opened them up, despite everything inside of you that screamed to close them. And then you fought like hell to keep them trained on Tyler– to study the lining of his jaw and the tan shade of his skin. But Tyler’s embrace was so warm, and his voice was just so soft. And you were so, so tired. There was nothing you could do when they fell shut again. 

Tyler pleaded for you, but unconsciousness got there first. 

… 

Even after the doctors assured him you’d be okay– that it was just exhaustion and blood loss from the trauma you’d endured keeping you out for so long, he couldn’t settle down. 

You looked so goddamn frail– so broken in that hospital bed. He couldn’t stand it. 

It was nearly ten at night before the rest of his team packed up to head back home, making him promise to call them as soon as you woke up. 

“We can stay if you want,” Lilly offered. There was no hint of sarcasm or malice in her tone. She was being genuine. Which was how Tyler knew he must have been an absolute mess. 

“That’s alright,” he croaked, speaking for the first time in nearly an hour. Even he could hear the pain in his voice. 

Boone clapped him on the shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Love you, man.”

“Call us if you need anything,” Dani said. 

Tyler nodded, promised he would. But the only thing he needed was for you to wake up. 

…

His watch read midnight when you finally stirred. 

Tyler was sitting in a chair, pulled all the way up to your bedside, and was clutching your hand with both of his. He had his forehead resting against the hospital bed, but the second he felt movement, he shot up quickly, all the exhaustion fading instantly. 

Your face contorted into a frown as you squeezed your eyes shut once, twice, three times before they fluttered open. 

Scooting forward in his chair, he studied you as you glanced around– clearly trying to take in your surroundings and place where you were. The second you started to shift– like you were sitting up in bed in a panic, he squeezed your hand. 

“Hey, you’re okay,” he said. “You’re in the hospital. You’re okay.”

Your head turned towards him, confusion and fear plastered all over your cut up, bruised face. Just the sight made his chest ache. 

“You’re safe.”

You fell back against the pillow and nodded slowly. 

“Tyler–” you began shakily, he could already hear the sob lodged in your throat. “I– I’m…”

“You’re okay, baby,” he assured you. 

“No– I’m- I’m so sorry–”

He froze, brow furrowing in confusion. “Hey, what’s this? Stop- you got nothing to be sorry for, baby.” 

“I didn’t have my phone. I didn’t hear the alert until it was too late. It was stupid– I just–” your face crumpled as you struggled to find words. “You always tell me not to forget it and I forgot it.”

“It’s okay,” he soothed. “Don’t worry about that.”

“I just– I wanted to get you a birthday cake– I should have gotten it sooner, but I forgot– and…” your voice continued to crack and break with each breath you took. “I know you don’t love birthdays, but I love your birthday–” Tyler leaned forward in his seat, releasing your hand so that he could cup your cheek. He brushed a loose strand of hair from your face before his fingers traced your jawline delicately. 

“I think your cake got destroyed.”

He couldn’t help the soft smirk that spread across his face. “I’d say that’s probably a fair assumption.”

“I’m sorry–”

“Hey,” he soothed. “Fuck birthday cakes– I didn’t want one anyway. I was thinkin’ we could get a nice pie this year. What do ya think? Blueberry? Peach cobbler?”

“But Gloria made it–” 

Suddenly, your face fell and you were back to sitting up eagerly. “Oh my God, Tyler. Gloria– she–”

“She’s safe,” Tyler interjected quickly. “Thanks to you. Boone found her not far from where you wound up, clutching to some pipes. She had a few scratches, but that was it. She said the pipes were your idea.”

A rush of pride flowed through him as he beamed at you. His girl– getting people to safety in the middle of a tornado, despite how scared you must have been. 

Your watery eyes met his, lip quivering as you tried to speak. “Tyler– I didn’t think…” he could hear the tears in your throat before you even let them out. “I didn’t think we were going to make it. God, I don’t know how we made it.”

Your voice broke on the last word, a sob escaping your lips as you doubled over. Instantly, Tyler was out of his chair and sliding into the tiny, hospital bed beside you carefully avoiding your cracked ribs and stitched up thigh. 

Without even hesitating, you curled into his side, fingers grasping as his shirt like your life depended on it. 

“Shh,” he soothed, hand rubbing up and down your arm. “You did make it. You and Gloria both. You made it because you thought on your feet– I’m so proud of you,” he hummed, pressing his lips to the side of your head. 

He had no idea if you believed him or not– no idea if his words were sinking in at all. You clutched his shirt and cried against his chest– frame shaking with each breath you took. Tyler felt so helpless in that moment. All he could do was whisper reassuring comments and words of affirmation in your ear and hold you tightly against him. 

After a while, your breathing started to return to normal. Your grip on his shirt loosened as you let out a sigh. “You came to get me,” you said quietly, voice sounding so tired– like it was moments away from drifting off. 

Tyler pressed his lips to your hair, eyes squeezing shut. “I’ll always come to get you,” he promised. 

You nodded. “I know.” 

Tyler ran his hand up and down your arm a few more times soothingly. “The laundry mat was a good idea– especially with the pipes,” he murmured into your hair. 

With what little energy you had left, you pulled away from him to glance up. With a raised eyebrow, you asked. “Does that mean I can be a tornado wrangler now?” 

He smirked playfully. “That depends, do you want to be?”

You bit your lip, like you were really thinking about it. After a moment, you scrunched your nose up. “And face one of those things nearly everyday? Not a chance.”

You extended your arms over your head, groaning when you felt something lightly pop in your back, before craning your neck from side to side. The air was stifling– thick and humid with little to no breeze for any sort of relief. The heat hadn’t broken in nearly a week, and unfortunately for just about everyone, the truck’s AC didn’t work as well as it used to. 

The parking lot to the diner was relatively empty. Aside from the crew’s RV and truck, there was an SUV parked in one of the front spots and a small sports car with a steady cloud of smoke pouring out the cracked window.  

You let your eyes wander past the diner parking lot at the sprawling field across the road. The windmills were agonizingly still in the stale air– like even they were desperate for some reprieve. 

Your eyes fell shut as you took a few deep breaths, trying to get your bearings. 

Your peace lasted for about thirty seconds. And then the sound of blaring music and screeching tires had you turning your pulsing head. Instantly, you rolled your eyes at the sight of the familiar vans pulling into the lot beside you. 

Merrill Anderson and his crew started chasing in the area almost thirteen months ago. You knew because each and every moment that you’d known about their existence had been more painful than the last. 

Anderson was a meteorologist out of Texas that wore a cowboy hat almost as big as his mouth and an inflated ego to match it. He made sure you and everyone else around him knew that he had a PhD, and therefore, in his opinion, was automatically more entitled to chase. Him and Tyler had hated each other from the moment they met while chasing an EF2 in Arkansas– their feud only grew each time their paths crossed. 

Anderson was grinning at you through the window as soon as his van rolled by. You did your best to avert your gaze– hoping that lack of eye contact would avoid any sort of conversation. 

Unfortunately, you weren’t so lucky. 

“There she is,” he announced, boots scuffing against the dirt parking lot as he hopped out from the driver’s seat. 

“Now what're you doin’ out here all by yourself? Your team finally leave you behind? Realized they didn’t need two uni drop outs on their team?” he asked, tone already dripping in sarcasm. 

He was an antagonizer who got off on provoking others. And although you and Anderson had your fair share of unpleasant exchanges, you knew he only ever bothered you to get under Tyler’s skin. 

Tyler’s biggest weakness was that he was endlessly protective of the people he loved. You saw this particular trait as a strength– but you knew that Anderson fed off Tyler's anger, which you could only imagine was his intention now. Thankfully Tyler was in the diner– hopefully gorging on raspberry pancakes as you spoke. Because if he were to see Anderson talking to you– you knew this whole interaction would escalate quickly. 

“Anderson,” you sighed, leaning casually against the hood of Tyler’s truck. The smile you forced on your face was almost painful. “So lovely to see you, as always.”

You hoped if you withheld from his taunting, he might move on quicker. 

Instead, to your despair, he backtracked from his van to stand across from you. “You guys go ahead,” he instructed his crew. “I’m gonna spend some time with my friend here.”

They nodded before heading towards the diner, leaving the two of you alone. 

“You should teach that hillbilly- boyfriend of yours some manners. If I remember correctly, last time I saw him, he drove through a puddle to splash me.”

You bit back a grin as you recalled the moment he was referring to. “I’m sure it wasn’t on purpose,” you lied (it was absolutely on purpose). 

Anderson chuckled. “You know– I don’t know if we’ve ever had a conversation just us, without him lingering around. You’re much more pleasant. Both in conversation and in looks.” 

You felt a chill run down the length of your spine at his words– but the way he was looking at you was infinitely worse. You watched as his eyes flickered from your face to your chest– currently more exposed than you would like in the tanktop you wore in the stifling Oklahoma heat. You wished you had grabbed a shirt to cover up in– but they were all either dirty and packed away somewhere in your duffel. 

Clearing your throat, you stood up straight and crossed your arms, attempting to shield yourself from his lingering gaze. 

“Oh, hey now darlin’, don’t cover up. I’ve been stuck in the van all day with these jokers, this is the most action I’ve gotten all summer.” 

You could feel the blood rushing to your cheeks as you tried desperately to remain level headed. Anderson was a jerk– and he’d definitely make you uncomfortable… but you couldn’t imagine that he’d ever actually do anything to harm you.  

Then again, you’d never interacted with him for longer than a minute or two with Tyler and the rest of the crew at your side. This was uncharted territory that you didn’t care to explore. You felt your earlier determination to handle him on your own fade away with uneasiness.  

You turned your head towards the diner, hoping you might catch Tyler’s gaze through the window or something. Of course you were too far away for that– all you caught was the glare from the sun. 

“You know I’m not used to seeing you in clothes like this, usually you’re all covered up,” Anderson whistled. 

As soon as he took a step closer, you instinctively moved too. Except your legs collided with Tyler’s truck– preventing you from actually going anywhere. For some dumb reason, you felt obligated to hold your ground– to not let him see how uncomfortable he was really making you. But with each passing comment, you grew more and more fearful. 

Anderson now had his body angled towards you with a look that could only be described as predatorial. “God, it’s true you don’t know what you’re missin’ til you see it. We should have these heat waves more often if it means I get to take a look at this every day.”

You tried and failed to remain stoic. You wanted to yell– to tell him to shut the fuck up. But for some reason, your body and brain weren’t connecting. 

“C’mon, where is she?” he taunted. “You know, your sweet side has its perks. But I much prefer ‘em a little spicy.” 

He took another few steps closer to you. It was subtle, but you noticed. Anderson was so obviously getting a kick out of whatever the hell he was doing here, and you were doing a piss-poor job at withholding from it, like you’d originally planned. 

“Why don’t you come on back in my van with me,” he winked. “I’m not sure how your hillbilly does it, but I can show ya a real good time.” 

Get away from me, you wanted to scream. But your mouth wouldn’t move– your voice was lost somewhere inside of you. And all you could get your body to do was lean away from him slightly. 

“Don’t be like that, darlin’,” he cooed. He was so close that you could almost smell his breath. Your brain told you to fight– to shove or kick or do something to get him away from you. But all those previous instincts you had to fight back faded into paralyzing fear. 

Anderson reached across the space between you to move a loose strand of hair from your face as you began to tremble. “And don’t be afraid, baby doll. I don’t bite… too hard. Owens ain’t gotta know–”

“Anderson!” 

Your head snapped at the sound of a familiar voice… Not just any familiar voice– Tyler’s voice. He was currently storming across the parking lot with a look of pure hatred across his face. The second his eyes landed on you– undoubtedly and obviously terrified, that anger only intensified. 

“Get the fuck away from her,” he demanded. His eyes were narrowed and shockingly darker than their normal shade of sage. 

“Here he is!” Anderson taunted. “Her douche bag in shining armor.”

You couldn’t help but notice Anderson didn’t step away. In fact, if anything, he looked like he was about to step closer, just to really test his limits. But then, to your relief, you saw Boone, Dani, and Lily storming out of the diner in Tyler’s wake– all coming to your rescue. 

In an instant, Tyler was there, stepping between you and Anderson– forming the protective barrier you needed to finally feel safe again. Without thinking, you fisted the back of Tyler’s T-shirt for good measure. 

“Easy, Rambo,” Anderson sneered. “I was just tellin’ your sweetheart here how much I enjoy her new look. Who knew she had all this hidin’ under those baggy shirts? That the reason you keep her hangin’ around, Owens? I knew she had to be good for something–”

But Anderson didn’t get a chance to finish his sentence. Because before you knew what was happening, Tyler was lunging forward and connecting his fist with Anderson’s nose. 

The crack as it broke was deafening, you released Tyler’s shirt to cover your mouth in shock. Tyler hit him with enough force that he went staggering back a few steps, his hands instantly moving to cup his face. 

Tyler was still shaking off his hand when Anderson stood up straight, blood pouring out of both nostrils. 

“Damn, that bitch must be as good as she looks if she’s worth all this,” Anderson continued to taunt. Even with a broken nose, he didn’t back down.  

Without even hesitating, Tyler moved to strike again. But as soon as he did, Boone and Dani were both stepping in front of him to break things up. 

“Easy, T–” Boone said. 

“Stay the fuck away from her,” Tyler snarled in warning, pointing his finger over Boone’s shoulder. You’d never quite heard his voice so malicious or threatening before, and even though it was in your defense, it sent shivers down your spine.   

Suddenly, Lily grabbed your hand from the side, causing you to flinch. “It’s okay,” she said, tugging you a few steps away from the chaos– like she knew how badly you needed space from everything. “You alright?”

You nodded, flustered.  

“Next time you want to settle this without your little army of strays, you let me know, Owens. And next time you want a good time, Y/N, you know where to find me,” Anderson said, offering you a wink that churned your stomach. With that, he wiped some blood from his nose and began sauntering back towards his van. 

“I’m gonna fucking kill him,” Tyler snarled, still being physically held back by Dani and Boone. 

“Yeah, and he’d deserve it. But he’s not worth catchin’ a charge,” Boone said. “It’s been a slow season and we don’t got the kind of money to bail you out of jail.”

“Take a breath, T,” Dani said. “He’s walkin’ away. Take a breath.”

You watched Tyler slowly come back to his body. He listened to Dani and took a deep breath– his shoulders visibly relaxing when he exhaled. It seemed to be enough for his friends to finally release him. 

As soon as he was free from their grasp, Tyler turned around– his attention landing on you. “Are you okay?” he asked, his previously menacing voice now laced with so much care and concern. He stood in front of you– his body blocking all views of Anderson and their vans. His hands moved to cup your cheeks gently. 

“I’m fine,” you said, attempting to convince yourself more than anyone else. But even you knew it didn’t sound convincing. Your voice subtly cracked on the final word. 

Tyler stroked his thumb along your skin. The look on his face told you he didn’t quite believe you as his eyes flickered down to your trembling hands. Thankfully he didn’t ask more. 

“I gotta say that was a nasty right hook, T,” Boone said, clapping Tyler on the back as he approached. “I didn’t know you had it in ya.”

“What’d that asshat say to you?” Lily asked. “You looked really shaken up when we saw you out the diner window.”

“Nothing,” you mumbled, too embarrassed to repeat his taunts. You were shocked by how self-conscious you suddenly felt with everyone’s eyes on you. Anderson’s previous words had made you incredibly aware of every inch of yourself– like there was an electrical current humming underneath the surface of your skin. 

“Just the usual shit,” you tried to brush it off.  

You felt grateful when they didn’t push. 

Eventually, the crew disassembled– everyone focused on getting their stuff together to hit the road again. Anderson didn’t reemerge from his van, but as you sat idly in the passenger seat of Tyler’s truck, you didn’t take your eyes off from where it was parked– like you were anticipating some sort of retaliation. 

You remained hidden from the team– feeling so awkward and uncomfortable– like you didn’t want to be perceived or noticed by anyone. And you hated that Anderson’s words were the ones to make you feel that way. You couldn’t find any shirts in your duffel bag that weren’t disgusting. And currently you didn’t have the time or patience to dig through your second bag in the RV. So instead, you wrapped your arms awkwardly over your chest, trying to make yourself as small as possible just as Tyler climbed into the front seat. 

“Everyone else is riding in the RV, it’s just us,” he said, eyes lingering on you. 

“Okay,” you said, trying your best to sound casual. You wondered if he ordered everyone in the RV so that you’d feel more comfortable. You made a mental note to thank him for that later, he was always so good at reading between the lines.  

Tyler instantly noticed your uneasiness. “Baby, what’d he say to you?” 

You shrugged, refusing to meet his gaze out of sheer embarrassment. “I mean, I think you caught the gist of it at the end there… Just a lot of that.”

You heard his loud exhale. “Just say the word and I’ll barge into that stupid van and kill him right now.”

The corner of your lip tugged into a small smile. “I just want you to stay here,” you admitted. 

He nodded solemnly. Without another word, Tyler passed you something he had scrunched up in his fist. It was one of his T-shirts– like he knew you wanted to cover up without even having to say it. You took the shirt– the thanks you wanted to offer him remained stuck in your throat, but Tyler didn’t seem to mind. 

Instead, he pretended to fiddle with the radio while you silently slipped the shirt on. Almost instantly, you felt like you could relax underneath the fabric of his clothes. 

You curled your arms around yourself and tucked your knees to your chest. When Tyler asked if you were ready to head out, you nodded without another word. 

…

It was only seven when you arrived at the motel. Tyler went into the lobby to book the rooms while everyone else hung back. Boone and Lily were going on and on about using the pool later that night, but once you’d grabbed your bags from the truck, you sort of tuned it all out. 

Tyler found you sitting on the curb once he’d passed out everyone else’s room keys. He picked up your duffel from the ground before speaking for the first time in almost an hour. 

“You ready for bed?”

You nodded, offering him your best attempt at a convincing smile.  

“C’mon,” he motioned his head to the left. “We’re upstairs.”

Tyler led the way to your room– and even though this was a dingy motel, you’d never seen anything more perfect. The shades were dark, the AC worked, and there was a single, plush-looking queen bed in the middle of the room just screaming your name. 

Tyler let you shower first. And when you emerged from the bathroom, all the sweat and grime finally washed from your skin, he was gone. But in his place, he’d laid out one of his T-shirts and a pair of his boxers on the bed for you to use. You almost teared up at the sight of just how thoughtful he was… Still reading between the lines. 

You’d spent the entire duration of your shower trying to convince yourself that what had happened earlier wasn’t that big of a deal. Anderson was a jerk– of course he was going to say some jerk-ish things. It shouldn’t have been a surprise– and yet, you couldn’t shake the discomfort you felt. It was like all the words he’d said to you had nestled underneath your skin and made a home for themselves. 

In an attempt to shake the thoughts away, you quickly shrugged on Tyler’s clothes before sitting on the edge of the bed and wrapping your arms around yourself. 

Almost as soon as you sat down, you heard the front door to the motel open up. Tyler stepped into the room carrying his own bag and a couple of water bottles he must’ve grabbed for the two of you. 

“Better?” he asked, handing you one. 

You nodded and cracked it open. “Much.”

Tyler sighed before joining you on the edge of the bed. “Baby, are you sure you’re okay?” 

“I-” you started and then stopped. Your hands were shaking, but you jumped when you felt Tyler’s hand close around yours, steadying them. His touch gave you just an ounce of courage to speak. 

“It wasn’t even anything that bad–” you admitted. “I meant it earlier, you heard the worst of it… I just, I don't know, I can't explain it. But everything he said made me feel so gross… and dirty, and…” And, well, you didn’t quite know what else. Words were hard to come by tonight. 

“Oh, baby,” Tyler exhaled. He released your hand to wind his arm around your shoulders, tugging you to his chest instead.  

It wasn’t until he shushed you that you even realized you were crying, but it came out in a rush. You clung to him, instantly impressed by his ability to just make you feel so much safer. 

“I’m sorry,” you said. 

“You don’t have to be sorry,” he assured you, only squeezing tighter. 

“I don’t know why this bothered me so much–” 

“Because Anderson is an asshole and he intentionally said some gross shit to shake you up,” he answered for you. “You’re allowed to be upset by that.” 

You exhaled against his shirt, and when you licked your lips, you tasted salt. 

“I’m the sorry one,” he said. 

“What?” you shook your head. “You don’t have to be sorry–”

“I should have been there.”

“You were there,” you reminded him. “Unless I blacked out or something and I was really the one who punched him in the nose…”

Tyler chuckled softly, you felt the vibration against your chest– instantly soothing you. 

You sighed after a moment, trying to decide if you wanted to share what was really bothering you. You bit the inside of your cheek. It was so tempting to keep it to yourself, but more tempting than that was the idea of finally feeling a little more at ease again after just telling Tyler the truth. 

“I just–” you paused again. “I–” 

“Hey,” he said. You looked up at him briefly. “It’s just me.” 

That was the problem– it was Tyler. And you didn’t want Tyler thinking less of you because of what had happened. 

“I didn’t fight back,” you said quietly. “I just froze up– it was like I couldn’t even think straight. And he kept going and going, and I just stood there– taking it.”

Tyler ran his hand up and down your arm reassuringly. “What are you talking about?”

“It just felt like…” your voice tapered off. 

Tyler waited a moment before asking gently, “Like what?” 

“It just felt like I didn’t do anything to stop it,” you whispered so quietly you weren’t even sure he’d heard you. “Like I let it happen.”

“Baby,” Tyler sighed. “Baby, no. Anderson is such a jackass, it wouldn’t have mattered what you said–”

“But I could have told him to get the fuck away from me–”

“You were just trying to keep yourself safe. Baby, we can’t control how we react when we’re scared. It’s fight or flight–”

“Or freeze,” you mumbled, embarrassed. 

“Or freeze. I’m pretty sure fawning is one too, now,” he said. “But it doesn’t matter– what matters is you can’t control that you froze. Just like–”

“Just like you couldn’t control punching him in the face?” you asked. 

You glanced up just in time to see Tyler’s lips tug into a smile. “Exactly,” he said. 

“I just wish my fear reaction was a little more effective,” you pouted. “Freezing didn’t do much.”

You let your eyes fall shut when Tyler tugged you closed to his chest. “I guess it’s a good thing you have a douchebag in shining armor to come help whenever you need it,” he smirked. 

“Thanks for protecting me,” you said quietly. 

“I’ll always protect you, you know that,” he said, planting a soft kiss on the top of your head. 

You smiled against his chest. You really did know that. “And thanks for punching him in the nose.”