Single blues pt.2 | dean di laurentis
Warning: comfort, intimate talk, dean being such a softie, angst and fluff.
The ride back to the hockey house is quiet, save for the low, rhythmic hum of the car’s engine and the soft indie-rock track playing from the speakers. You are pressed against the passenger door, your knees pulled up toward your chest inside the giant knit sweater, staring blankly out the window as campus fades into the background.
Stuart’s vicious words are still looping in your head like a broken record, heavy and toxic. Every time you try to swallow the lump in your throat, a fresh wave of exhaustion hits you.
Dean keeps one hand firmly on the steering wheel, but his right hand is resting on the center console, his fingers open, waiting. After a few minutes, you slowly reach out and slip your smaller hand into his. He instantly closes his fingers around yours, squeezing tightly, bringing your knuckles up to his lips for a soft, reassuring kiss without taking his eyes off the road.
He spokes softly, his tone laced with a quiet, grounding warmth. “Almost there, sweetheart. Just hold on a little longer.”
The house is blissfully quiet when Dean unlocks the front door. The morning-after chaos from the weekend has been completely cleared away, likely thanks to Tucker, and the afternoon sun streams warmly through the high living room windows.
Dean doesn't let go of your hand, he guides you straight past the kitchen, up the stairs, and into the familiar, neat sanctuary of his bedroom. The heavy scent of sandalwood instantly wraps around you, bringing a sudden, desperate sense of safety.
He dropped his leather backpack onto his desk chair and turning to you. “Alright, babe. Sit on the bed. And don't argue with me, just get comfortable.”
You slide onto the edge of his mattress, your energy completely depleted, you feel incredibly small, the emotional weight of the morning pressing down on your chest.
Dean walks over to his closet, pulls out a massive, insanely soft grey blanket that says: "I love hockey boys" and wraps it entirely around your shoulders. He kneels down in front of you, gently unlacing your sneakers and sliding them off your feet so you can tuck your legs under the covers.
Dean look up at you, his thumb softly wiping away a stray, dry tear track on your cheek. “I’m going to go downstairs and grab you some water, and I'll see if Tucker left those chocolate chip pancakes in the fridge.” he made a pause and smiled. “While I’m gone, you need to text your little girl-gang. Allie and Hannah have probably texted me six times already demanding to know why you skipped lit class.”
You nodded quietly, a small, fragile smile appearing. “Okay captain, I'll text them.”
He leaned up to kiss your forehead, lingering there for a long second. “Good girl, I'll be back in five minutes.”
The door clicks shut behind Dean, leaving you in the warm, quiet room. You pull your phone out of your sweater pocket, sure enough, your lock screen is flooded with notifications from the group chat with Allie, Hannah, and Brianna.
With trembling fingers, you open the chat and begin to type.
you: Hey guys... sorry I skipped the literature lecture. I ran into Stuart on the quad before class. He said some really horrible things to me and I completely broke down.
you: But Dean found me. He picked up all my papers and brought me back to the house. I'm okay-ish, just really down and tired. Don't worry about me, I'm just going to rest here for a bit. ❤️
The response is instantaneous, the three dots appear immediately, flashing wildly.
allie: STUART? Are you fucking kidding me?! I will literally find him and beat him over the head with his own leather briefcase!
hannah: Oh, honey. I am so sorry. Do not listen to a single word that narcissistic robot says, he’s just mad because he knows you’re thriving without him.
brianna: Sending you the biggest hug ever!!! 😭 Please stay with Dean, he will keep you safe. Do you want us to come over later and bring you some chocolate?
allie: Yes, we can launch a full rescue mission, but honestly, if Di Laurentis is on duty, you’re in good hands, lean on him. We love you! Text us if you need anything at all!
You stare at the screen, a genuine, warm tear slipping down your face, not from sadness this time, but from the sheer relief of having people who love you exactly as you are. You type a quick “Love you guys too, thank you,” and set the phone face-down on the nightstand just as the door opens.
Dean walks back into the room holding a large mug of hot chocolate topped with a ridiculous mountain of whipped cream, along with a plate of warmed-up chocolate chip pancakes. He sets them on the nightstand and slides into the bed right next to you, propping his back against the headboard.
Without a word, he pulls you into his side. You instantly sink into him, burying your face against his chest, clutching the grey fleece blanket tightly around yourself.
He wrapped his strong arm securely around you, resting his chin on top of your messy hair. “Did you text them?”
You nodded against his chest, your voice muffled. “Yeah, they want to beat him up with his briefcase.”
Dean let out a low, dark chuckle, his chest vibrating against your cheek. “Good, I might let Allie have the first swing, but I get the second. Seriously, sweetheart. Let the heavy stuff go, you’re here now.”
He reaches over to his backpack on the floor, unzipping it and pulling out your giant, messy English literature binder and textbook. He lays them across his lap, flipping to the bookmarked page for your Tuesday midterm.
Dean is navigating the textbook smoothly, his voice dropping into that confident, incredibly attractive rhythm. “Alright, popstar. Let's get to work. What’s the first definition we need to crush? Is it deconstructionism? Because I’m ready to deconstruct your ex's entire ego if you want, but we can start with the poetry instead.”
You let out a soft, breathy laugh, the heavy cloud over your head finally beginning to dissipate in the warmth of his presence. You look up at his perfect profile, entirely captivated by how effortlessly he protects your peace.
“Let's start with the poetry, Dean.” you said and he smirked, flipping the page.
“Your wish is my command, sunshine.”
The soft rustle of the textbook pages flips by as Dean casually breaks down a complex literary theory, his deep voice carrying a strange, effortless authority that leaves you blinking in surprise. He explains it so simply, so completely devoid of the academic jargon that usually knots your stomach, that you find yourself staring at his profile instead of the words on the page.
You shifted slightly against his chest, tilting your head up to look at him. “Wait a minute... How do you do that?”
He looked down, a faint, amused smirk playing on his lips. “Do what, sweetheart?”
“Make that sound so incredibly easy! You just read a three-paragraph definition of postmodernism and explained it to me like we were ordering a pizza. Aren't you a Political Science major? Why do you know so much about English literature?” you asked Dean with a deep interest.
Dean tossed the binder lazily to the foot of the bed, wrapping his arm a little tighter around your shoulder. “Political Science is basically just reading thousands of pages of dead guys arguing about how the world should work, then writing a twenty-page paper convincing a professor you care. Literature isn’t that different, it’s all just about finding the underlying angle. And besides, I told you, I’ve got a massive brain under this perfect hair.”
You're softly smiling, tracing a small pattern on the sleeve of his dark jacket. “I'm starting to believe you. But... why Political Science? Most of the guys on the team are in Sports Management or Communications, Garrett complains if he has to read an article longer than two pages! Why did you choose something so heavy?”
Dean goes quiet for a second, the easy, cocky grin fades from his face, replaced by a thoughtful, introspective look that you haven’t seen on him before. He stares out the window at the afternoon sun hitting the trees, his fingers gently tracing lazy circles on your arm.
Dean let out a soft, breathy laugh. “You really want to know, or are you just trying to avoid studying?”
You nod, looking right into his intense blue eyes. “I really want to know. Everyone on campus talks about you like you're just... you know. The hockey player who's always at the best parties and has a line of girls outside his door. But you’re smart, Dean. Like, effortlessly brilliant. Why Pre-Law? What’s the dream?”
He sighed smoothly, leaning his head back against the headboard. “The dream changes depending on who you ask. If you ask my dad, the dream is for me to graduate top of my class at Harvard or Yale Law, join his high-profile corporate firm in New York, and wear a ten thousand dollar suit while protecting the assets of billionaires.”
“And if I ask you?" you asked him, sensing the subtle tension in his jaw.
He looks at you, his gaze shifting into something incredibly vulnerable and raw. “If you ask me... I chose Political Science because I like the puzzle of it. I like the debate, I like finding the loopholes, understanding the power structures, and knowing exactly how to manipulate a system to get the desired outcome. But I hate the corporate stuff. My dad represents people who use the law as a shield to do whatever they want because they’re rich. It’s boring, it’s clinical.” he pauses, running a hand through his hair before looking back at you, a soft, self-deprecating smile on his face. “Honestly? If I go to law school, and that’s a big if, because the hockey scouts are still breathing down my neck, I want to do defense work or constitutional law. Something where the stakes actually matter to real people, not just corporate boards. I pretend I don’t care about a lot of things, sweetheart, but when I’m in those seminar classes, and some guy starts spouting elitist nonsense... I can't help but tear his argument to pieces. It’s addicting.”
You stare up at him, your heart swelling in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with how attractive he is. In the quiet of his room, stripped of his jersey, his teammates, and his playboy reputation, Dean di Laurentis is completely fascinating.
You spoke again, whispering, your hand is resting gently against his chest. “Stuart told me this morning that you were just a brainless jock who didn't respect my intellect. He said you couldn't handle a real, adult relationship with expectations.”
His eyes darkening instantly, his grip on your waist tightening just a fraction. “Stuart is a moron who uses big words to hide the fact that he has zero personality. Don't let his insecurity define who I am, and sure as hell don't let it define who you are.”
He leans down, his face inches from yours, his voice dropping into a raspy, intense whisper that sends a shiver straight down your spine.
“I like that you asked me that. Most girls who come into this room don't give a damn about my major, or my career, or what I think about constitutional law. They just want the hockey captain. But you... you look at me like you actually want to see me. The messy, nerdy girl from Malone’s is the only one who bothered to ask what’s behind the curtain.”
Your cheeks turning a light pink, but you don't look away this time. “Well... I think what’s behind the curtain is pretty amazing, Dean.”
Dean freezes for a fraction of a second, his gaze dropping to your lips before lifting back to your eyes. A slow, breathtaking, genuine smile spreads across his face, not the wicked smirk he gives the crowd, but a warm, private smile meant only for you.
You nodded shyly. “Yeah, I do.”
Dean leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth, making your breath hitch. “Then I guess I’ll have to keep showing it to you. Now, come here. Let’s get back to those literature definitions before I completely lose my train of thought and start kissing you properly.”
You laugh softly, tucking your head back into the crook of his neck as he pulls the textbook back onto his lap, his voice resuming its confident rumble as he reads the next line, the heavy cloud of the morning completely forgotten.
The past few weeks had been a dizzying whirlwind of shared library tables, midnight texts that made you kick your feet under your covers, and a slow, beautiful realization that Dean di Laurentis wasn't going anywhere. He had officially claimed you, shielding you from the campus gossip mill and completely erasing the lingering ghosts of your past relationship... And tonight had been your first official date.
It had been everything you never expected from Briar University’s notorious playboy, yet completely tailored to you. Knowing how easily you got overwhelmed by loud crowds, Dean hadn't taken you to a flashy college bar or a rowdy team hangout. Instead, he had driven you forty-five minutes out of town to a hidden, dimly lit Italian bistro nestled in a quiet historic district. He had pulled out your chair, laughed at your terrible jokes, fed you bites of his tiramisu, and spent the entire evening holding your hand across the white tablecloth, looking at you like you were the only person in the room.
Now, walking down the quiet hallway of your dorm building, your hand is securely linked with his and your heart is doing a frantic, happy tap-dance against your ribs. You’re wearing a pretty, soft dress that makes you feel beautiful, and his heavy fitted jacket is draped over your shoulders to protect you from the night chill.
You look up at him, a wide, giddy smile stretching across your face. “I still can't believe you actually convinced the chef to give you the secret ingredient to that pasta sauce. You are completely shameless.”
Dean flashed a brilliant, wicked smirk, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over the back of your hand. “Hey, it’s all in the charm, sweetheart. Besides, you said it was the best thing you’d ever tasted. So I had a moral obligation to get the recipe for you.”
You stop right outside your dorm door, the hallway is completely empty, the quiet rustle of the building's heater the only sound between you. You fumble slightly with your keys, your signature clumsiness kicking in because your nerves are suddenly running sky-high.
You cleared your throat, your voice is a little shy. “My roommate is staying at her boyfriend's dorm tonight... so, the place is completely empty.”
Dean’s eyes darken instantly. The easy, playful banter melts away, replaced by an intense, burning focus that makes your breath catch in your throat. He takes the keys from your trembling fingers, unlocks the door with a swift, practiced motion, and pushes it open, guiding you inside.
The door clicks shut behind you, sealing out the rest of the world. The only illumination comes from the soft, warm glow of the string lights draped over your headboard, casting long, intimate shadows across the cozy room.
You turn around to face him, suddenly feeling that familiar, sweet shyness creeping up your neck. You wrap your arms around yourself, shifting your weight from heel to heel.
You whisper, looking up through your eyelashes. “Thank you for tonight, Dean. It was... it was the best date I’ve ever had, truly.”
Dean doesn't answer right away, he slowly slips his hands into the pockets of his jeans, taking a deliberate step closer to you. The sheer size of his athletic frame completely dominates your small space, yet you don't feel crowded, you feel entirely encased in his warmth.
His voice dropped into a deep, raspy register that vibrates straight to your core. “You don't need to thank me for that, popstar. I’ve been waiting weeks to finally have you all to myself without Graham or Tucker interrupting us. But right now... I'm looking at you, and I am running entirely out of patience.” he says and your heart skips a violent beat.
Your voice is small, innocent, but filled with a fierce longing. “Patience for what?”
Dean lets out a low, breathy growl, stepping into your personal space until there is zero distance left between you. He reaches up, his large, warm hands gently grasping the lapels of his own jacket which is still draped over your shoulders. He slides the heavy fabric off you, letting it drop carelessly onto your desk chair, leaving you standing before him in your dress.
His hands move from the jacket to your waist and his broad palms are incredibly warm through the fabric of your dress, his fingers splaying wide across your lower back, pulling you flush against his chest. You instinctively rest your hands on his broad shoulders, your fingers curling into his collarbone as you look up at him, completely captivated.
Dean stares down at your mouth, his jaw tensing, his thumb lightly stroking the bare skin of your hip where your dress rises slightly. “For weeks, I've been sleeping next to you. I've been holding you while you study, listening to you giggle, watching you drop your highlighters... and every single second, all I’ve wanted to do is this.”
He lifts one hand, his fingers tangling gently into the hair at the back of your neck, tilting your head up. His other hand stays firmly anchored on your waist, holding you so securely against him that you can feel the heavy, rapid thudding of his own heart against his ribs.
You just whispered, your eyes searching his burning blue ones, your lower lip is trembling with anticipation. “Dean...”
His eyes locked onto yours, completely stripped of his playboy armor, showing you nothing but pure, unadulterated devotion. “I'm going to kiss you now, sweetheart. And I need you to know that once I start... I am never letting you go.”
You don't have time to reply. Dean leans down, closing the final inch between you, and presses his lips to yours. The contact is electric, a soft, breathless gasp escapes your mouth, and Dean instantly uses the opportunity to deepen the kiss. It’s not the rushed, practiced kiss of a campus playboy looking for a quick thrill, it is slow, intensely deliberate, and deeply, overwhelmingly passionate.
His lips are incredibly soft against yours, moving with a confident, possessive rhythm that completely melts the last remnants of your shyness. You let out a tiny, soft whimper against his mouth, your hands sliding up from his shoulders to tangle into the thick, perfect blonde hair at the back of his head, pulling him closer, desperately wanting more.
Dean responds to your touch with a low, dark rumble in his chest. His grip on your waist tightens, lifting you slightly so you’re on your tiptoes, pressing you hard against his muscular frame. His tongue slips past your lips, tasting you, devouring you with a hunger that leaves your head spinning.
The world completely disappears, the loneliness you had carried for months, the heavy insults from your ex, the anxiety of school, it all evaporates into the warm, sandalwood-scented air of your room. Every single nerve ending in your body is on fire, entirely consumed by the taste of him, the strength of his arms around you, and the intoxicating reality that this beautiful, brilliant boy is completely yours.
He kisses you until your knees feel like absolute jelly, until you are entirely breathless and clinging to him like an anchor in a storm.
Slowly, agonizingly, Dean pulls back just a fraction of an inch. His lips brush against yours as he takes a deep, ragged breath, his forehead resting against yours and his eyes are still closed, a look of pure, blissful contentment on his face.
He whispers against your mouth, his chest heaving as he holds you tight. “Jesus, popstar... you are completely dangerous. I thought I knew what I was getting into, but you just entirely ruined me for anyone else.”
You open your eyes, your vision a little swimmy, your lips tingling and slightly parted. A soft, giddy smile spreads across your face as you wrap your arms tightly around his neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder, listening to the frantic, erratic beat of his heart.
You whispered happily into his neck. “Good... Because you're stuck with me now, Di Laurentis.”
Dean lets out a rich, triumphant laugh, wrapping his arms around you and lifting you completely off your feet, swinging you gently in the quiet, golden light of your room.
You turned on your heel, you slide out of his embrace and take a few steps deeper into the warm, golden territory of your bedroom.
As you walk toward your closet, you can hear the heavy, deliberate thud of his sneakers right behind you. You glance over your shoulder and find Dean tracking your exact movements. The untouchable, arrogant hockey player, the guy who rules the ice and commands every room he walks into, is trailing after you with a soft, entirely captivated expression. He looks less like a campus playboy and more like an adoring puppy completely tethered to his owner, completely content to just exist in your shadow.
You bite your lower lip, a soft smile tugging at your mouth. “Dean, you're hovering. You're practically walking on my heels.”
Dean speaks unapologetic, a lazy, helpless smile on his face as he folds his arms over his chest, refusing to take a single step back. “Can't help it, sweetheart. I told you, I'm entirely ruined. You move, I move. It’s a biological reflex at this point.”
You turn to face your mirror, your face flushing a pretty, deep pink. The dress you wore for the date has a delicate, intricate set of satin ribbons that crisscross down the center of your back, holding the fabric together. You reach your hands behind your shoulder blades, your fingers fumbling blindly as you try to find the knot. But between the lingering adrenaline of your first kiss and your natural, messy-girl clumsiness, your fingers just end up tangling the silky fabric into a tighter knot.
You huffed in frustration, your shoulders dropping. “Oh, great. My hands are acting like little clubs again. I can't untie this! I’m going to have to sleep in this dress and cut myself out of it tomorrow with safety scissors.”
Dean lets out a low, rich chuckle that vibrates through the small room. He steps in closer, his massive chest pressing flush against your back, his familiar sandalwood and fresh air scent completely enveloping you.
He grabbed your wrists gently and lowering your hands away from your back. “Hey, stop torturing the fabric. Drop your hands, popstar. Let the professional handle it.”
You let your arms drop to your sides, looking at his reflection in the mirror as he positions himself behind you. His large, broad hands, the ones covered in hockey callouses and built for raw athletic power, look absolutely massive against the delicate, soft material of your dress. He bends his knees slightly, lowering his head so he can see the intricate knot, his brow furrowing in deep, intense concentration.
You watched his reflection, a sudden bubble of amusement rising in your throat. “Dean... are you sticking your tongue out?”
He muttered seriously, his fingers carefully picking apart the tight satin knot with unbelievable patience. “Shut up babe, I'm focusing. This is high-stakes engineering right here. One wrong pull and I ruin the prettiest dress on campus. I don't see Graham or Logan trying to solve a puzzle this complicated.”
The contrast is just too much, seeing Briar University's most feared left-winger treating a tiny, dainty dress ribbon like a piece of delicate bomb defusal is the most endearing thing you have ever witnessed.
A breathless, joyful giggle bursts from your lips, echoing softly in the quiet room. You cover your mouth with your hand, your shoulders shaking with mirth.
Dean lifted his eyes to the mirror, a devastatingly handsome, mock-offended smirk spreading across his lips. “Oh, you think my dedication is funny? I am giving you five-star luxury service here, lady.”
You giggled through your fingers, your eyes sparkling. “I’m sorry! It’s just... you look so fierce, like, your jaw is clenched and everything. You look like you're trying to win the Frozen Four, but you're just untying a bow.”
His gaze softening completely as he watches you laugh, his thumb gently brushing against the bare skin of your lower back as the knot finally gives way. “I told you... anything that involves you is high-stakes for me now... There, knot undone.”
The satin loops loosen smoothly under his fingers, the fabric of the dress parting just enough to expose the delicate line of your spine. Dean doesn't pull the dress down; instead, he keeps the fabric held up safely against your front, his touch entirely respectful, keeping your boundaries completely intact.
He leans down, his lips brushing softly against the sensitive skin at the crook of your neck, sending a massive wave of goosebumps cascading down your arms. You let out a soft, shaky breath, your eyes closing as you lean back against his solid chest.
Dean whispered against your skin, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you securely against his heart. “You have the best laugh in the world, you know that? I could listen to you giggle in this room for the rest of the night.”
You turn around slowly within the safe circle of his arms, holding the front of your dress up against your chest, your innocent, sweet eyes locking onto his intense blue ones. The lingering fear of being alone, the old anxieties of your past, completely shatter under the sheer weight of his devotion.
You whisper too, your heart full to the absolute brim. “I think I’m going to be laughing a lot more now that you're around, Dean.”
He leaned down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, his smile warm and brilliant. “Damn right you are. Now, go grab one of my big hoodies from your closet, because I know you kept at least three of them, and let’s get under the covers. I’m not leaving until you’re fast asleep.”
You nod happily, your inner nerdy girl completely at peace as you shuffle toward your drawer, wrapped in his warmth, his love, and the beautiful certainty that you will never have to face the dark alone again.
The soft rustle of the comforter settles as you slide under the heavy blankets, completely swallowed by one of Dean’s thick, oversized black hoodies. It smells heavily of him: comforting, warm, and utterly safe. A second later, the mattress dips significantly as Dean slides in right next to you. He doesn't hesitate for a fraction of a second; his long, muscular arms reach out, pulling you flush against his bare chest until you are completely wrapped in his embrace.
The room is quiet, illuminated only by the faint, amber glow of the fairy lights over your bed. For a few minutes, nobody speaks, Dean just holds you, his lips pressed softly against the top of your head, his fingers tracing slow, soothing patterns up and down your back through the heavy cotton of the hoodie.
Slowly, you tilt your head up to look at him and Dean shifts his gaze down, his intense blue eyes softening completely. He leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your nose, then to your cheek, before finally finding your lips in a gentle, slow kiss that leaves you feeling beautifully warm from head to toe.
“You're going to spoil me, Di Laurentis.” you say whispering against his lips.
He rest his chin on top of your head, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. “That’s the whole point, popstar. You’ve been running on empty for way too long... It’s my job to fill the tank.”
The comfortable silence returns, but you can feel a subtle shift in the way Dean is holding you. His breathing is steady, but his fingers have stopped their lazy tracing. He’s gently twirling a strand of your sleep-tousled hair around his finger, his expression growing uncharacteristically pensive.
He speaks again, quietly, his eyes are staring at the faint lights on the wall. “Hey, sweetheart?”
You're nuzzling closer into the crook of his neck. “Yeah?”
Dean paused for a moment, his jaw tightening just a fraction before he speaks. “Can I ask you something? And you can tell me to shut the fuck up if it’s too much, but... it’s been bothering me since I found you on the quad a few weeks ago.”
You pull back just enough to look into his face, your innocent, sweet eyes wide with curiosity.
“Of course you can ask me anything, Dean. What is it?”
He brought his gaze down to meet yours, his expression completely stripped of his usual cocky armor, showing only raw, fierce protectiveness. “It's about Stuart. I know he’s a massive tool, and I know he made you feel like garbage when he cornered you. But... I need to understand. How was your relationship with him, really? Did he ever make you feel good? In any aspect? Because every time you talk about him, it sounds like you were living in a prison.”
You freeze slightly at his words, your fingers tensing against the fabric of his t-shirt. A familiar, protective wall of shyness tries to creep up your throat, making you want to look away, but Dean gently catches your chin with his thumb and forefinger, holding your gaze with absolute tenderness.
“Talk to me, popstar. I’m not asking to judge you. I'm asking because I want to know exactly what kind of damage I need to undo.” he whispered, his thumb brush slightly your lower lip.
You let out a long, shaky breath, your hands flattening against his broad chest, feeling the steady, calming beat of his heart.
Your voice is quiet, laced with a lingering, old vulnerability. “It wasn't... it wasn't a normal relationship, Dean. At least, I don't think it was... Stuart treated everything like an assignment, like a project he had to manage. He didn't really praise me or make me feel special... he just tolerated me. If I dropped something, or if I got too excited about a book, he’d just sigh and tell me to be more mature. I always felt like I was failing a test I didn't even know I was taking.”
Dean’s eyes darken with an icy, dangerous fury, his grip on your waist tightening just a fraction as he listens. “And... what about when it was just the two of you? When things were private. Did he ever make you feel desired? What about the intimacy, sweetheart? Did he at least had the decency to take care of you in bed?” he asked you.
Your cheeks instantly turn a bright, fiery crimson. You bury your face in his chest for a second, overwhelmed by the raw honesty of the question, but the sheer safety of Dean's arms gives you the courage to speak the truth. You lift your head, your voice dropping into an incredibly soft, hesitant whisper.
“No, not really. Intimacy with Stuart was... it was like everything else with him, it was clinical. He had a schedule for it. It was always on a Friday night, always with the lights completely off, and it was never about... passion. It was just a routine. He never asked me what I liked, or if I was comfortable. He just did what he wanted, and when it was over, he’d just turn over and go to sleep.” you swallow hard, a stray tear of old frustration threatening to spill over. “He made me feel like my body was just a box to check on his to-do list. I used to lie there in the dark afterward feeling so incredibly, horribly alone. It actually made me think that intimacy was just supposed to be boring and uncomfortable... He made me feel like I was broken because I didn't feel anything.”
A heavy, profound silence fills the room. For a long moment, Dean doesn't say a word. But you can feel the raw, vibrating energy of his anger radiating off his skin. His chest rises and falls in sharp, deep breaths, his knuckles turning white where he’s holding the comforter.
“Jesus Christ. I am going to find that guy, and I am going to absolutely destroy him.” he muttered under his breath, there's a dark edge to his voice.
You reached up, gently touching his jaw to soothe him. “Dean, it's okay. It’s in the past.”
Dean snapped instantly his gaze back to you, his eyes burning with an intensity that takes your breath away. “No, sweetheart, it is not okay. It makes my blood boil that some arrogant, selfish coward made you feel like you were a chore. You are the sweetest, most breathtakingly beautiful girl on this campus. Intimacy isn't supposed to be a clinical routine, it’s not a checklist.”
He shifts his weight, rolling over until he is hovering completely over you, his large hands coming up to cradle your face with an overwhelming, reverent gentleness. He looks down at you in the warm glow of the fairy lights, his voice thick with a profound, unyielding sincerity.
“When the time comes for us, popstar... it is going to be the exact opposite of everything he did to you. The lights are staying on, because I want to see every single expression on your face. There is no schedule, there is no rush, and every single second is going to be about making sure you know exactly how worshiped you are. I am going to spend hours finding out exactly what makes you gasp, what you like, what makes you smile, and I am going to make sure you never, ever feel alone in the dark again.”
Your heart leaps into your throat, your entire body trembling with a rush of pure, dizzying giddiness and emotional relief. The lingering shame Stuart had left behind completely evaporates under the scorching heat of Dean's words.
“Dean...” you whispered, your eyes are swimming with happy tears.
He leaned, his lips brushing against yours with a tenderness that makes your soul ache. “I mean it, sunshine... Every single word. You’re not broken, he was just too stupid to realize what he had. But I know exactly what I have right here.”
He closes the final distance, catching your lips in a deep, slow, profoundly emotional kiss. It’s a promise, sealed in the quiet safety of your room, erasing the old shadows and replacing them with a brilliant, golden light that belongs entirely to the two of you.
The transition from autumn to winter has turned the campus air biting and sharp. The trees are completely bare, their dark branches skeletal against a heavy, slate-grey sky. Students are hurried, wrapped tightly in heavy wool coats and thick scarves as they rush between heated brick buildings to escape the incoming chill.
Walking down the wide stone path leading away from the athletic complex is the familiar front line of the Briar hockey team: Dean, Garrett, Tucker, and Logan are walking shoulder to shoulder, their massive frames packed into dark team jackets. The mood among them is steady, focused on the upcoming winter tournament, their breath turning to white mist in the freezing air.
Logan shivers slightly, pulling his beanie lower over his ears. “I swear, if the temperature drops another five degrees, I’m personally moving my bed into the locker room with the heater on. I mean, the heating in our house is completely ancient.”
Garrett laughed, slinging his gear bag over his shoulder. “Oh, stop complaining Logan. It builds character! Besides, Tucker’s keeping the kitchen at a permanent eighty degrees with all that holiday baking.”
Dean doesn't join in on the casual ribbing, his hands are buried deep in his jacket pockets, his sharp jawline set as his eyes scan the path ahead. He's been thinking about you all morning, counting down the hours until he can slide back into your dorm room, pull you into his arms, and let the rest of the world fade away.
But as they approach the crowded courtyard near the student union, the easy momentum of the group grinds to a sudden, jarring halt.
Coming from the opposite direction is Stuart and three of his fraternity brothers, because somehow he's in a fraternity, Stuart is wearing a pristine, expensive wool coat, a smug, untouchable smirk plastered across his face as he talks loudly to his friends.
Months have passed since he cornered you in the quad, and because he was never publicly put in his place, his arrogance has only grown. He still thinks he's the smartest, most dominant guy on campus.
And the second his eyes lock onto Dean and the hockey players, his smirk turns malicious.
Instead of walking past on the wide path, Stuart intentionally alters his stride, stepping directly into the center of the walkway, forcing Dean to either stop or collide with him. Dean stops, his blue eyes instantly locking onto Stuart with a freezing, dangerous stillness.
Behind Dean, Garrett, Tucker, and Logan immediately square their broad shoulders, their casual expressions vanishing as their lethal, on-ice instincts take over.
Stuart stopped two feet away, hands casually in his coat pockets, looking Dean up and down with an insulting, patronizing sneer. “Di Laurentis! Still trailing around campus in a pack, I see. Tell me, do you guys do everything together, or do you occasionally allow your little girlfriend to have a thought of her own?”
One of Stuart’s friends lets out a low, goading chuckle. Stuart steps closer, entirely miscalculating the situation, believing that because they are in a public campus space, the hockey players won't risk their athletic scholarships by making a scene.
He leaned in, his voice dripping with venomous provocation. “Honestly, I don't know what you think you're protecting! She’s fragile, she’s clumsy, and she’s completely out of her depth at a school like this. I gave her structure, and the second I let her go, she runs straight to a brainless jock who uses a stick for a living. You’re just a temporary distraction for her, Dean... A phase before she realizes she needs a real man with a real future.”
The air in the courtyard goes completely, terrifyingly dead. Tucker’s jaw clenches so hard a muscle jumps in his cheek, Logan steps to the side, positioning himself to block Stuart’s friends from intervening, while Garrett’s eyes darken into slits.
They are waiting for the word, they are waiting for Dean to give the signal... But Dean stands perfectly still for exactly three seconds, he doesn't yell, he doesn't trade petty insults. Slowly, deliberately, he takes his hands out of his pockets. He unzips his team jacket, tossing it back toward Garrett, who catches it without a word. When Dean looks back at Stuart, his blue eyes are completely stripped of humanity.
Dean's voice an incredibly low, gravelly whisper that cuts through the wind like a razor. “I’ve been incredibly patient with you, Stuart. I let you walk away the last time you put your hands near her, because I wasn't close to her at that moment, but you just crossed a line you can’t uncross.”
Stuart is trying to maintain his smug composure, though a flicker of genuine panic passes through his eyes as he takes a step back. “What, you think you can threaten me, Di Laurentis? In broad daylight? Go ahead, hit me. Let’s see what the athletic board thinks about-” Stuart never gets to finish the sentence.
Dean steps forward with blinding, explosive speed. His large, calloused hand shoots out, grabbing the thick wool collar of Stuart’s expensive coat and twisting the fabric, completely cutting off his air. With a single, effortless display of raw athletic power, Dean hauls Stuart forward, throwing him violently against the brick wall of the student union building.
The heavy, hollow thud of Stuart’s back slamming into the brick echoes across the courtyard, instantly drawing the attention of dozens of nearby students.
Stuart’s friends instantly try to surge forward to help him, but they are met by a solid wall of muscle. Garrett and Logan step directly into their path, their massive chests blocking them completely, their expressions terrifyingly calm.
Garrett pointed a heavy, warning finger at Stuart’s friends. “Stay exactly where you are if you want to keep all your teeth, this is private legal counsel.”
Meanwhile, Dean has Stuart pinned completely against the brick. Stuart is gasping for air, his hands frantically clawing at Dean’s iron grip on his collar, his face turning a panicked, mottled red.
Dean leaned in so close his breath fogs Stuart’s vision, his voice a dark, murderous growl. “You think because you study books all day you understand how the world works? You think you can use her name to try and make yourself look big in front of your little friends?”
Dean releases his grip on the collar for a split second, only to bring his fist back and drive a devastating, heavy punch straight into Stuart’s midsection. The breath is violently ripped from Stuart’s lungs. He lets out a strangled, pathetic gasp, his knees instantly buckling beneath him as he collapses into the dirt and slush at the base of the brick wall. He curls into a tight, pathetic ball, clutching his ribs, tears of shock and agonizing pain pricking his eyes.
Dean doesn't stop, he reaches down, grabs Stuart by the front of his shirt, and hauls him back up to his knees, forcing him to look up. Dean delivers a brutal, sharp open-handed strike across Stuart’s jaw, a sound like a whip cracking in the quiet afternoon. Stuart’s head snaps back, his lip instantly splitting open, a thin trickle of dark red running down his chin.
Dean's shouting now, his fury completely unchained, his grip on Stuart’s shirt shaking with rage. “She is a thousand times better than you will ever deserve to look at! You treated her like garbage, a chore, you made her feel small, and you think you can stand on my path and disrespect her? I will absolutely destroy you, do you hear me?!”
Dean drops Stuart back into the dirt like a piece of worthless trash, Stuart lies there, trembling violently, his pristine coat covered in mud and slush, his hands cradling his bleeding lip as he whimpers in the cold air. The crowd of students watching from the edges of the quad is completely silent, nobody daring to take a single step toward the fury of the hockey captain.
Dean stands directly over him, his chest heaving in sharp, deep breaths, his knuckles slightly bruised but completely steady. He looks down at Stuart with an expression of cold, absolute disgust, completely stripping him of any remaining dignity.
Dean pointed down at Stuart’s face, his voice carrying an unyielding, terrifying authority across the entire courtyard. “Listen to me very carefully, you pathetic coward... If I see you within fifty yards of her dorm building, if I see you look at her in the library, or if I even hear that you breathed her name to anyone on this campus... I am not going to use my hands next time. I will personally make sure you are carried off this campus in an ambulance. Do you understand me?”
Stuart nods frantically through his tears, his body shaking with a mix of intense physical pain and absolute, paralyzing terror. He has been completely, thoroughly broken.
Dean turns away from him with absolute indifference, he walks back to the guys, and Garrett hands him his team jacket. Dean slides it smoothly back over his broad shoulders, his breathing slowly returning to a controlled, calm rhythm.
Dean is looking at Logan and Tucker, his eyes finally losing that murderous edge as he thinks of your safe, warm room. “Let's go, guys. I’m done wasting my time on garbage... Let's go to practice.”
The four athletes turn as one, their broad shoulders cutting through the parting crowd of stunned students, leaving Stuart bleeding and shivering in the dirt behind them. As they walk away, the heavy shadow of your past is officially, physically obliterated, replaced entirely by the fierce, protective love of the boy who will tear down the world before he lets anyone hurt you again.
The heavy, metallic tang of sweat, wet leather, and skate tape hangs thick in the humid air of the locker room. The low, rhythmic thud of hockey pads hitting wooden benches echoes through the space as the team unwinds after a brutal, two-hour skating practice. Usually, the room is a chaotic symphony of shouting, blasting rap music, and flying rolls of tape.
Tonight, the volume is dialed down significantly, because the boys are moving quietly, casting frequent, guarded glances toward the far corner of the room. Dean sits on the bench, his jersey pulled down to his waist, exposing his broad, damp chest, he is methodically unlacing his skates, his jaw set in a rigid, unyielding line. His knuckles are slightly raw, a faint purple bruise blooming across his right hand, a physical souvenir from the afternoon's encounter in the quad.
Garrett and Tucker are sitting on either side of him, acting as a silent, imposing wall of security while Logan takes a shower. Nobody on the freshman line dares to even look in Dean's direction, everyone on campus has already heard about what happened to Stuart.
The heavy steel door at the front of the locker room suddenly swings open with a loud, echoey clang. The chatter in the room instantly dies out completely.
Coach Jensen steps into the room. He’s dressed in his official Briar Hockey tracksuit, a silver whistle hanging around his neck, and a clipboard tucked tightly under his arm. His weathered, stern face is completely unreadable, his eyes scanning the room until they lock directly onto his star player and team captain.
His voice cutting through the quiet room like an air horn. “Di Laurentis... My office, right now. The rest of you, hit the showers and get out of my sight.”
Dean stands up without a word, he doesn't look at Garrett or Tucker, who both offer a brief, supportive nod. He walks down the narrow hallway, his bare feet slapping against the cold rubber flooring, and steps inside the coach's office.
The room is small, smelling heavily of stale coffee and industrial floor cleaner.
The walls are covered in framed championship photos, bracket sheets, and whiteboards covered in scribbled power-play drills. Coach Jensen walks in behind him, slamming the heavy door shut, and slides into the leather chair behind his desk. He doesn't tell Dean to sit.
Dean stands completely straight, his shoulders squared, his chin lifted. He looks less like a caught student and more like a soldier prepared to defend his position.
Coach Jensen leaned back, crossing his arms, his eyes drilling into Dean. “Do you want to tell me why the dean of student affairs called my personal cell phone three hours ago, Dean? Because from where I’m sitting, it sounds like one of my starting players decided to use the main campus quad as a personal boxing ring.”
Dean's voice is low, a steady, gravelly rumble. “Stuart provoked the team, Coach. He was looking for a reaction, and he got one.”
Coach Jensen slimmed his fist down onto the desk, the wooden surface rattling. “Don't give me that lawyer talk, Di Laurentis! You didn't just give him a reaction. You threw another pre-law student against a brick wall and split his face open in broad daylight! There were fifty witnesses! Half the student union saw one of the top players of the hockey team absolutely dismantle a guy who doesn't even weigh a hundred and seventy pounds!”
The reminder of Stuart’s face doesn't make Dean flinch. If anything, the icy blue in his eyes deepens, his chest expanding as he takes a deep, controlled breath.
Dean stepped closer to the desk, his voice dropping into a dangerous, deadly quiet register. “He was talking about her, Coach. He was standing in the middle of the path, loudly broadcasting misogynistic garbage about the girl I love to his friends. He called her broken, he bragged about manipulating her. I let him walk away months ago when he cornered her, but I am not going to stand by and let a pathetic, bitter coward drag her name through the mud just to soothe his own ego.”
Coach Jensen freezes, his furious expression faltering for a fraction of a second. He has known Dean for years; he knows about Dean’s old reputation as a detached, carefree playboy who never let anyone get close enough to matter. Seeing his player stand here, completely ready to throw away his athletic career to defend a girl’s honor, catches the older man completely off guard.
Coach Jensen let out a long, heavy sigh, rubbing his temples in frustration. “Jesus Christ, Dean... I know the guy is a tool. The whole athletic department knows he’s a toxic prick, but you are part of this team! You represent Briar Hockey! If the administration decides to press charges or issue an academic suspension, you are off the ice for the winter tournament. Do you understand the kind of jeopardy you just put this entire program in?”
Dean's jaw is clenching, his voice fierce and unyielding. “With all due respect, Coach, some things are more important than a hockey game. If someone insults my team on the ice, I drop my gloves. If someone tries to humiliate and degrade the most innocent, brilliant girl on this campus, the girl who is the only reason I’m even focusing on my future right now, I am going to end them. I don't care about the optics, I’d do it again right now.”
A heavy, suffocating silence fills the small office. Coach Jensen stares at Dean for a long, agonizing minute, measuring the absolute, immovable determination in the boy's eyes.
Finally, the coach lets out a rough, breathy chuckle, shaking his head as he reaches for a mug of cold coffee. “Look... from a man’s perspective? I respect what you did. A real man doesn't let anyone talk about his woman like that. Stuart deserved exactly what he got, and frankly, I’m glad someone finally closed his mouth.” he pauses, his expression instantly snapping back into a stern, authoritative scowl. “But as your coach? You are in deep, deep trouble, Di Laurentis. The athletic board is furious, and the only reason you aren't currently sitting in a campus security holding cell is because Garrett’s dad called the dean of students and threatened a massive legal counter-suit for harassment based on Stuart's past behavior toward your girl.”
Dean’s shoulders drop just a fraction, a wave of relief washing through him at the mention of Phil Graham's intervention.
Coach Jensen pointed a stern finger at Dean's chest. “Here is how this goes down... You are on official team probation for the next three weeks, that means extra conditioning after every single practice. You are going to skate lines until your lungs burn, Dean. You are going to do ten hours of community service at the local youth rink, and if you so much as breathe in Stuart’s direction for the rest of the semester, I will personally strip that 'A' off your jersey and bench you for the finals. Do we have an understanding?”
Dean nodded firmly, a small, grateful smile finally breaking through his tense expression. “Yes, Coach. Loud and clear, thank you.”
Coach Jensen dismissed him with a wave of his hand, turning back to his clipboard. “Get out of here, kid. Go get showered, go get your girl, and keep your hands to yourself out in public. I don't want to hear your name on the campus radio unless it’s because you scored a hat trick.”
Dean turns and walks out of the office, closing the glass door behind him. The moment he hits the hallway, the tight, suffocating pressure in his chest completely evaporates. He doesn't care about the extra lines, the burning lungs, or the community service. It was worth every single second.
He walks back into the now-empty locker room, throwing his wet gear into his duffel bag and hopping into the hot shower. As the steaming water washes away the sweat of practice and the residual adrenaline of the day, his mind completely shifts away from the ice, away from the coach, and away from Stuart.
He checks his phone the second he’s dressed, seeing a sweet, simple text from you asking if he wants to come over to study. A brilliant, incredibly happy grin spreads across his handsome face. He slings his heavy bag over his shoulder and walks out into the cold winter night, heading straight toward your dorm room, ready to slide into the safe, warm sanctuary of your arms and let the rest of the world completely disappear.
The quiet safety of your room is illuminated by the familiar, soft golden glow of the fairy lights. Outside, the winter wind rattles faintly against the windowpane, but inside, the heater hums a steady, comforting rhythm. You are sitting cross-legged on your bed, a textbook open on your lap, but your eyes haven't actually read a single line in thirty minutes.
Suddenly, a heavy, familiar, rhythmic knock echoes against the wood of your door.
Your heart does a violent, frantic skip against your ribs. You throw the textbook aside, slide off the mattress, and practically sprint across the carpet.
The moment you unlock the door and pull it open, the cold air of the hallway rushes in, carrying with it the intoxicating, unmistakable scent of crisp winter air, a fresh shower, and a heavy undertone of sandalwood. It's Dean, he’s standing in the doorway, his massive frame clad in a heavy black Briar Hockey hooded sweatshirt and dark sweatpants. His oversized gear bag is slung over one broad shoulder, looking incredibly heavy. His thick hair is still slightly damp from the post-practice shower, curling lazily at the nape of his neck. He looks physically exhausted, the sharp lines of his jaw tight, but the absolute second his intense blue eyes land on your face, his entire posture visibly melts.
He drops his heavy duffel bag onto the floor with a loud, hollow thud, steps across the threshold, and slams the door shut behind him. Before you can even utter a single syllable, his long arms reach out, wrapping securely around your waist, and he hauls your body flush against his broad, solid chest.
Dean buries his face deeply into the crook of your neck, letting out a long, ragged, incredibly heavy sigh that vibrates right through your collarbone. He holds you with a desperate, possessive tight grip, as if he’s verifying that you are actually here, safe and untouched in his arms. Your hands automatically slide up his back, your fingers curling tightly into the soft cotton of his hoodie as you hold him right back, breathing him in.
You're whispering softly into his shoulder, your heart's swelling with an intense, dizzying warmth. “Dean... you're squeezing me so tight I can barely breathe, honey.”
He muttered sleepily against your skin, his voice an incredibly deep, gravelly rumble. “Just give me a second, baby. Just let me hold you like this. Today was... it was a lot, I just needed to get back to my sanctuary.”
You let him hold you for a long, quiet minute, the silence of the room wrapping around the two of you like a shield. Slowly, gently, you pull your head back just enough to look up into his handsome face. In the warm amber light, you can see the faint exhaustion shadowing his eyes. But as your gaze travels down, your breath catches sharply in your throat.
You reach out, your smaller, delicate fingers gently capturing his right hand. Across his knuckles, the skin is raw, scraped, and a deep, angry purple bruise is blooming heavily across the bone, it is the physical proof of the punches he landed on Stuart's jaw this afternoon.
Your voice trembling slightly with a mix of shyness and deep, aching concern, your thumb lightly brushing the edge of the bruise. “Oh, Dean... your hand, it looks so painful. Does it hurt bad?”
He looked down at your hands, a lazy, incredibly tender smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he captures your fingers, bringing your palm to his mouth to press a soft, lingering kiss right in the center. “I didn't even feel it, sunshine. Trust me, the guy's jaw was remarkably soft. It was worth every single scratch.”
You guide him slowly toward your desk chair, your brows furrowing with anxiety. “Sit down, please. Tell me what happened... Dean, I’ve been worried sick for hours. Are you in trouble with the athletic board?”
Dean doesn't sit in the desk chair, instead, he completely ignores it, sinking his massive frame onto the edge of your twin bed. He hooks his hands around your waist and effortlessly guides you down until you are sitting sideways right on his lap, your legs draping over his thighs. He locks his arms around you, trapping you in his warmth, and rests his chin on your shoulder.
He let out a breathy chuckle, his blue eyes staring straight ahead as he recaps the meeting. “Jensen called me into the glass cage right after we took our skates off. The dean of student affairs had been breathing down his neck all afternoon because Stuart’s little fraternity buddies tried to make a massive academic case out of it. Coach was furious, he slammed his fist down, yelled a lot, gave me the whole spiel about representing Briar Hockey and the optics of the program.”
Your fingers are anxiously tightening on the fabric of his sleeve, your voice small. “And? What did he say? Are you suspended?”
He shakes his head, his chest expanding in a deep breath against your back. “No, I’m not suspended, we actually got a massive break on that front. Garrett’s dad, Phil Graham, found out about the situation and called the university administration immediately. He threatened a massive, multi-million dollar harassment countersuit against the school and against Stuart based on the documentation of how Stuart cornered you in the quad months ago. The school panicked, so they dropped the suspension entirely.”
You let out a massive, breathless sigh of relief, your forehead resting against his temple.
“But... Jensen couldn't just let me walk away completely free. The athletic board demanded a punishment. So, the coach handed down the official team sanction, I’m on official probation for the next three weeks. Starting tomorrow, I have extra conditioning after every single practice, it means I’m skating suicide lines until my lungs burn and I can barely stand up. On top of that, I have to do ten hours of community service volunteering with the little kids at the local youth rink on weekends.”
A heavy wave of sudden guilt washes over your chest. You look at his bruised knuckles, think about him skating extra lines until he's exhausted, all because he chose to stand up and destroy the shadow of your past in front of the entire campus.
You whispered shyly, your eyes swimming with sudden, happy but emotional tears. “Dean... I am so sorry, this is all because of me. If you hadn't been walking with me, if you hadn't protected me from him, you wouldn't be on probation, you wouldn't have to risk your position at the team.”
Dean freezes. Slowly, he pulls his head back, his hands moving up from your waist to firmly cup your face. He forces your innocent, wide eyes to look directly into his burning blue ones. The sheer, unyielding devotion in his gaze is so intense it completely strips your throat of words.
His voice dropping into a fierce, raspy, unshakeable whisper. “Listen to me very carefully, popstar. Don't you dare say you're sorry, don't you dare think for a single second that this is a burden to me. Jensen told me he'd strip the 'A' off my jersey if I look at Stuart again. And you know what I told him? I told him I didn't care about the hockey game, I told him that some things are more important than a championship.”
He leans in closer, his forehead resting firmly against yours, his thumbs gently wiping away a stray tear before it can even fall down your cheek.
“I would skate lines until my legs literally fell off, sunshine, I would do a thousand hours of community service, and I would drop my gloves and fight every single guy on that law bench before I ever stand by and let a pathetic coward try to make you feel small. You are the most perfect, brilliant thing in my life. Protecting your name isn't a punishment, it’s the easiest choice I’ve ever made.”
The sheer, breathtaking honesty of his words completely shatters the last remaining walls of your shyness. A brilliant, radiant smile breaks across your face through your tears. You slide your arms fully around his neck, burying your face in his hair as you giggle softly, the intense giddiness and relief finally spilling over.
Dean lets out a low, rich, deeply content chuckle, shifting his weight to pull you down onto the mattress with him. He tucks you securely under the heavy comforter, locking his massive arms around you and pinning your hoodie-clad body directly against his chest. Inside the golden, safe circle of his embrace, the coldness of the campus and the stress of the team sanctions completely cease to exist, entirely replaced by the steady, unyielding heartbeat of the boy who chose you above everything else.
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