cami

Most people who know Dean Di Laurentis do not consider him serious. Dean is lightweight; he’s carefree, fun, and loud. He’s a breath of fresh air after a hard test or a ray of sunshine through the clouds. 

Most people didn’t truly know Dean Di Laurentis, though, did they?

Because if there’s one thing Dean Di Laurentis takes seriously, it’s his friends. 

Dean has never been one to fuck around when it comes to the importance of friendships in his life. Yes, Allie is his girlfriend, and he loves her, but Beau is his day one, his ride or die. Garrett, Tucker, and Logan were close behind. Hannah had formed a solid spot in Dean’s heart in the few months he’s gotten to know her. 

But you? The girl he’d come to know and care about so deeply? Not only was Dean open with you about things he hadn’t been with other people, but you cared for him in a way that healed unspoken wounds. And knowing how important you were to Garrett made the relationship with you even more of a priority. 

So getting a call that something had happened, and that it involved you? Dean was not fucking around. 

Any ounce of him that was interested in partying was gone. He’s keeping Allie on the line while desperately searching the room for the people he came with; the only goal in his mind is to get to you as soon as he can.

He catches sight of Tucker, easily chatting it up between familiar faces in the kitchen. Dean’s grabbing him by the sleeve and yanking without a word, barely giving his friend enough time to call out a rushed goodbye. 

“Yo?” Tucker’s asking, but not really, as he follows Dean through the crowd. The music is giving him a slight headache anyway, so he’s not opposed to leaving at the moment.

Dean isn’t offering any explanation as he weaves his way through. His heart is nearly in his throat from the tone Allie gave him over the phone, and knowing that she was supposed to be picking you up.

“Dude.” Dean is grabbing the front of Logan’s t-shirt this time to redirect his attention from a girl leaning against the wall. “It’s Bug, we have to go.”

Logan’s mumbling an apology, to which the girl (Gracie, Grace maybe?) nods in understanding. Dean still doesn’t give his friends any details as they exit the newly forming party to the outside air. 

“Dude, what the fuck is going on?” Logan’s asking in between greetings and goodbyes as they depart the busy house.

Dean’s BMW is parked close by, thankfully, and he doesn’t hesitate to climb in the driver’s seat, finger pressing the ignition. Allie’s call connects to the speakers shortly after.

“Okay, baby, explain it again?” Dean’s asking as he pulls away from the house. Logan is in the passenger seat next to him, with Tucker leaning over the center console in concern.

Allie’s voice is practically a whisper over the speakers. “I showed up to get her, right? And-and I get in here, and she’s not answering me, so I come in her room, and there’s just… there’s a note, Dean. And messages, and she said Garrett is mad at her, so I didn’t know who else to call and-”

“Wait, wait, slow down,” Logan is taking over the conversation, taking responsibility for Garrett’s adjacent place as they drive through campus streets. “Is she okay?”

There’s a pause. 

“Physically?”

The three boys curse. Tucker sits back in his seat, mentally cataloguing the instances of what they’re about to walk into. There isn’t much information to go off of until they can see it for themselves, but is it enough for Allie to be panicking in this way? And for Dean to be ripping them out of a party? There’s zero doubt that it’s serious.

“Where’s G?” Dean’s question is directed to the people in the car this time as he turns the corner onto your street. Nobody asked how fast he drove, or if he even stopped at the stop signs, because their minds are set on getting to you as soon as they can.

“Location says the house, I’ve texted and called,” Logan offers, pulling his phone away from his ear once he hits voicemail again.

Allie crackles to life again on the other line. “Hannah isn’t answering either. Her phone says it’s out of battery on Life360.”

“Fuck,” Dean curses this time as he pulls into a parking spot, shutting the transmission off as they pile out of his car with zero hesitation. “Okay. Baby, open the door. We’re on our way in.”

--

Garrett wouldn’t say he’s attached to his phone. He wouldn’t outwardly say that, but he’s not gonna deny that he’s on it a lot. Between puck bunny notifications, team chats, and the possibility of a Bruins contract, he does, however, check it pretty often. 

The missing weight of it in his sweatpants pocket is enough that he notices the device isn’t with him.

The call from Hannah came shortly after he’d nearly smashed his forehead into his steering wheel from fighting with you. Why the fuck would he do that? To you, of all people. So, while he was stewing in self-hatred, Hannah called.

Her date with Justin hadn’t gone as well as she thought, not in a bad way, Garrett, I promise. But also not great, and the girl didn’t really feel like riding home in a car with Justin after it was all said and done. Her phone was almost dead, and she felt like that was a sign to avoid walking in the dark. So, she called Garrett when Allie didn’t pick up.

Garrett, who had no idea that his friends were literally running to get to your side while actively blowing up his phone that he didn’t have.

The silence in the Jeep isn’t necessarily uncomfortable. Garrett keeps one hand on the steering wheel while the other drums absently against his thigh. Some acoustic song plays through the radio as he drives through a green light. The streets are mostly empty, minus the occasional passing Uber or college student driving home from work. 

Beside him, Hannah stares out the window with her arms crossed over her chest. Her phone is dead now, another great addition to her night. She doesn’t seem too upset, which made Garrett feel a little better, but she wasn’t exactly energetic either. 

“So.”

Hannah groans but smiles. “Oh, my God, please don’t.”

Garrett can’t stop the small laugh that slips out at her reaction. “That bad, huh?”

“That bad,” She certifies. The tension leaves her body with the casual conversation, and she finds herself really grateful he answered the phone.

Hannah wasn’t a liar. She’d been through her fair share of shit to protect herself, but she wasn’t a liar. She liked Garrett. It was easy to fall for him while they were faking a relationship, and it was even easier to feel comfortable around him and his friends. After what happened in high school, Hannah didn’t know if she’d ever really be able to have relationships like that anymore. But with Garrett, it was easy. So yeah, she liked him. She didn’t know if it was necessarily a crush, per se, but it wasn’t just friendship either.

“We just, uh… we just don’t work,” She offers up, picking the loose skin near her nails. The answer isn’t necessarily frustrated or sad, just disappointed. 

Garrett understands that more than he would like to. Sometimes you can like someone, really care about them, and want things to work. But you still end up standing in a parking lot saying all the wrong things to the person who matters most.

The thought arrives uninvited, jarring, and the guilt follows soon after. He tries to shove it away, but Hannah notices anyway.

“You’re thinking about her.”

“No.”

“She’s right, you are a terrible liar.”

He doesn’t answer because, honestly? He doesn’t want to think about you right now. He doesn’t want to think about the look on your face. Doesn’t want to hear himself say hovering over and over like a complete asshole. 

“You should call her.”

Garrett’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. He tries to breathe through the tightness in his chest, but it’s useless. He fucked up. The loss of you weighed around every inch of him in ways he never really noticed. You had blended in so easily into his life that he didn’t even realize how much of you was there until you weren’t. 

By the time they’d reached his house (where he figured everyone was, btw), neither of them had said anything else. It’s the kind of exhausted quiet that settles after a long day.

Garrett expects to walk in on someone pouring shots in the kitchen, and he has already prepared a half-ass decline, but he’s even more shocked when the floor is empty. The TV is still playing an NHL game, and there’s evidence of drinks getting poured, but there’s nobody around.

“Do you think they already left for Hudson’s?” Hannah asks, taking in the scene. She’s met with silence. 

Something feels off, and Garrett tries not to act like it, but it settles deep in his gut. He catches sight of his phone on the counter where he’d likely set it when he pulled his shoes on to get Hannah. 

The second the screen lights up, that gut feeling turns into panic lacing his veins. 

Notifications fill the lockscreen from various chats. Missed calls, texts, voicemails, Dean pinging his Find My Friends app. The group chat icon has so many messages that the number can’t even fit on the screen. Garrett’s used to a lot of notifications, but this is different. This is wrong. 

He clicks the boys’ group first.

--

For a second, he just stares at the words on the screen and then slides to the next chat. Allie. 

The messages blur together. Dozens of them with questions, updates, like they’re narrating what’s happening in front of them so he can catch up like a TV episode. His heart is racing in his chest, and he’s so focused that he can’t hear Hannah calling his name.

“Garrett!” She’s shaking his shoulders now, and he finally blinks back into reality. She’s staring at him with wide eyes and concern. “What happened?”

This can’t be real. 

Because while everyone was searching for him, while Dean and Tucker and Logan and Allie were blowing up his phone, you were crying and terrified in your apartment.

And Garrett had been halfway across campus, completely unaware, with Hannah.

“We have to go.”

He doesn’t give any explanation, but there’s only one thing running through his head right now: For once in his life, you’d needed him, and he wasn’t there.

--

The bell above the diner door gave a weak little jingle at half past midnight, and you looked up from wiping down the counter just in time to see them spill inside, still flushed from the cold, hair messy from the wind, jackets half-zipped, laughing about something that probably involved either hockey, alcohol, or somebody making a bad decision.

Garrett was at the center of it, broad-shouldered and grinning, with a faint bruise near his jaw and snow melting in his dark hair.

You looked down before he caught you staring.

That was the rule.

Look once. Maybe twice, if he was distracted. Never long enough for him to notice.

"Please tell me you still have pie," Dean said, dropping into their usual booth like he was personally offended by the concept of closing hours.

"We close in forty-five minutes," you said, grabbing menus they never used.

"So that's a yes?" Logan asked.

"That's a 'you're lucky I haven't locked the door already.'"

Tucker smiled, quiet and polite. "Good to see you too."

You liked Tucker. Tucker tipped well and didn't make you feel like your pulse was doing something stupid.

Garrett slid into the booth last, stretching one arm along the back of it. He watched you approach with that easy, lazy confidence that made your stomach tighten before he even opened his mouth.

"Hey," he said.

One word. That was it.

Ridiculous.

"Hey," you said, setting the menus down. "Usual?"

Logan's head snapped toward Garrett. Dean's grin spread instantly.

Garrett didn't look away from you. "You remember?"

You gave him a look, trying to keep your face calm. "You've ordered the same thing every time you've come in."

"Maybe I like hearing you say it."

Dean made a choking noise into his hand.

You ignored the heat climbing up your neck. "Burger, no tomato, extra fries, chocolate shake."

Garrett's smile tilted. "See? Perfect."

You told yourself he meant the order.

Obviously he meant the order.

You turned before he could see your face betray you, but you heard Logan whisper, not quietly enough, "Dude."

Garrett kicked him under the table.

The diner was quiet except for them. It usually was at that hour. The after-bar rush had already come and gone, leaving behind sticky tabletops, half-empty ketchup bottles, and a tired yellow glow from the lights above the counter. Outside, the parking lot was nearly empty, the neon sign buzzing red against the black windows.

You put in their order and busied yourself refilling coffee, stacking clean mugs, pretending you didn't feel Garrett's attention every time you crossed the floor.

That was the thing about him. Garrett looked at people like he meant it. Like he had never accidentally done anything in his life. When he smiled at customers, they smiled back. When he joked with the cook, even the cook softened. When he said your name, you had to remind yourself it was probably because he'd read it off your name tag the first time and had a good memory.

Not because he cared.

Not because he noticed you.

Girls like you did not get noticed by Garrett Graham.

Girls like you served his booth, took his tip, and watched him leave with the kind of girls who belonged in his world.

Pretty girls. Loud girls. Confident girls who knew exactly how to lean into him when they laughed.

You knew how to balance three plates along one arm and how to smile when men twice your age called you sweetheart. That was about it.

When you brought their food over, Dean and Logan were arguing about whether one of their teammates had actually hooked up with twins or had just lied so badly that everyone let him keep the story out of pity. Tucker was shaking his head. Garrett was quiet for once, leaning back with his eyes on you.

You set his plate down in front of him.

"Extra fries," you said.

His fingers brushed yours when he reached for the plate.

It was nothing. Barely contact.

Still, your breath hitched.

Garrett noticed.

Of course he noticed.

His gaze flicked up to yours, sharp and amused, but not cruel. "Careful."

You pulled your hand back. "I'm the one carrying hot food. Pretty sure you're the one who should be careful."

Logan laughed. "Oh, I like her."

Garrett's eyes stayed on you. "Yeah. Me too."

For one awful second, you forgot how to move.

Then Dean whistled low, and you snapped back into yourself.

"Enjoy your food," you said quickly, turning away.

You made it halfway to the counter before you heard Tucker murmur, "Subtle."

Garrett muttered something back, too low for you to catch.

You spent the next twenty minutes pretending to clean things that were already clean.

Every time you glanced over, Garrett was either eating, laughing, or looking at you like he was waiting for you to look back. It made you feel too aware of yourself. Of the old diner dress you wore under your apron. Of your tired feet. Of the way your hair had started slipping loose after a long shift. Of the fact that you probably smelled like coffee and fryer oil instead of perfume.

At one point, Dean asked for more napkins, and when you brought them over, he leaned forward with a grin that could only mean trouble.

"So," he said, "what time do you get off?"

Garrett's head turned so fast it was almost funny.

You froze with the napkins in your hand.

Logan coughed into his fist. Tucker looked down at his plate like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

Dean blinked innocently. "What? I meant because we're keeping her here late."

"No, you didn't," Garrett said.

Dean's grin widened. "No, I didn't."

You should have been mortified. Maybe you were. But Garrett looked genuinely irritated, and that caught you off guard more than the joke did.

"It's fine," you said lightly, setting the napkins down. "I'm used to customers being annoying."

Dean put a hand over his chest. "That hurts."

"It was supposed to."

Garrett smiled then, but it was smaller than usual. Warmer, maybe. Like he liked that you didn't fold under the teasing.

You went back behind the counter before you could think too much about it.

Eventually, the boys finished eating. Logan tried to steal the last of Garrett's fries and nearly got stabbed with a fork. Dean left a dramatic tip in quarters until Tucker silently replaced it with actual bills. They got up in a loud, chaotic wave of scraping boots and zipped jackets.

You were carrying a stack of plates when they headed for the door.

"Night," Tucker called.

"Don't miss us too much," Dean added.

"Impossible," you said.

Logan laughed and pushed him outside.

Garrett lingered.

Not long enough for it to be obvious to anyone else, maybe. But long enough for you to notice.

He stood near the end of the counter, hands in his jacket pockets, watching you with an expression you couldn't quite read.

"You done soon?" he asked.

You glanced toward the clock. "After I clean up."

"By yourself?"

"It's a diner, Graham. Not a war zone."

His mouth tugged at the corner. "You walk home?"

You hesitated.

That was answer enough.

Garrett's smile faded a little. "You walk home this late?"

"It's not far."

"That wasn't what I asked."

You shifted the plates in your hands, suddenly self-conscious. "I've done it plenty of times."

He looked toward the window, where the parking lot sat dark and mostly empty beneath the buzzing neon sign. Then he looked back at you.

"I'll wait."

Your stomach flipped. "You don't have to do that."

"I know."

"I'm serious. I still have closing stuff. It'll take a while."

"Good thing I'm patient."

You almost laughed. "You?"

Garrett grinned again, and there he was. Easy. Cocky. Impossible. "I can be."

"Somehow I doubt that."

"Guess I'll prove you wrong."

You stared at him for half a second too long. Then you looked away, busying yourself with the plates.

"Suit yourself," you said, hoping your voice sounded normal.

It did not feel normal, having Garrett Graham sitting at the counter while you closed. He didn't make it easier either. He took off his jacket and draped it over the stool beside him, sleeves pushed up his forearms, watching you move around the diner like he had nothing better to do.

You flipped chairs onto tables. He helped with the ones near the windows before you could tell him not to.

"You're going to get me in trouble," you said.

"For helping?"

"For touching things."

He held up his hands. "My mistake. Wouldn't want to ruin your very complicated chair system."

"There is a system."

"I believe you."

"No, you don't."

"No," he admitted, smiling. "But I like listening to you explain it."

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling before you could stop yourself.

That was the problem with him. He made it too easy. He talked to you like you weren't just the girl bringing him coffee at one in the morning. He asked how long you'd worked there. He remembered that you hated the graveyard shifts but liked the quiet after everyone left. He noticed the little bandage on your thumb and asked if you'd cut yourself.

He noticed too much.

By the time you locked the register and grabbed your coat from the back, the diner had settled into silence. Garrett waited near the door, his broad frame outlined by the neon glow bleeding through the glass.

"You really waited," you said softly.

His brows drew together like the idea of leaving had never occurred to him. "I said I would."

Something about that made your chest feel too tight.

You turned off the last row of lights and stepped outside with him. The cold hit immediately, sharp enough to make you suck in a breath. Garrett noticed that too. Before you could protest, he shrugged off his jacket and held it open.

"Put it on."

"I have a coat."

"You have a thin piece of fabric pretending to be a coat."

"It works fine."

He gave you a look.

You lasted three seconds before taking his jacket.

It was warm from him, heavy over your shoulders, and it smelled like soap, cold air, and something clean you didn't want to think about too closely. You tugged it tighter around yourself as he locked the diner door behind you after you handed him the keys, then gave them back with a little twirl around his finger.

His Jeep was parked beneath the diner sign.

Of course it was.

You had noticed it before. More than once. Black, slightly dirty from winter roads, somehow fitting him perfectly. He opened the passenger door for you, and you paused.

Garrett looked over. "What?"

"You don't have to drive me home."

His mouth curved. "You already said that."

"And you ignored it."

"Because it was stupid."

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

"It's late. It's freezing. You're tired. I have a car." He leaned one arm on the open door, looking entirely too comfortable. "Let me give you a ride."

The pause that followed was small.

Tiny, really.

But the way his mouth twitched told you he heard it too.

Your cheeks heated despite the cold. "You're enjoying that wording a little too much."

Garrett's grin spread slowly. "I wasn't going to say anything."

"Liar."

"Yeah," he said, voice dipping just enough to make your stomach flutter. "Probably."

You climbed into the Jeep before you could embarrass yourself further.

The inside was warm, the seats worn leather, the faint scent of him everywhere. Garrett shut your door and walked around the front, and you used those few seconds to breathe like a normal person.

It did not help.

He slid into the driver's seat, close enough that the whole Jeep seemed to shrink around him. His knee nearly brushed yours when he started the engine. The heater kicked on with a low hum, blowing warm air over your cold hands.

"Where to?" he asked.

You gave him your address, and he repeated the street name like he was committing it to memory.

The drive should have been simple. Five minutes, maybe seven with the lights. But the air inside the Jeep felt too charged, too quiet in the aftermath of the diner. Outside, the streets were slick and empty, glowing under streetlights. Inside, Garrett's hand rested on the gearshift, fingers relaxed, and you tried very hard not to stare.

"You're quiet," he said after a minute.

"I'm tired."

"Is that the only reason?"

You looked out the window. "What other reason would there be?"

He huffed a laugh. "I don't know. You tell me."

You could feel him glancing over at you between looks at the road. You wished he wouldn't. You wished he would keep doing it forever.

"It's just weird," you admitted.

"What is?"

"This."

"Me driving?"

"You driving me."

"Why?"

You picked at the sleeve of his jacket. It swallowed your hands. "Because you're Garrett Graham."

He was quiet for a beat.

Then, "That supposed to explain something?"

You laughed under your breath, but it came out nervous. "It explains a lot."

"Not to me."

Of course not.

You glanced over at him. The passing streetlights cut across his face in flashes, catching the strong line of his jaw, the bruise near his cheek, the curve of his mouth. He looked unreal like that, one hand on the wheel, hair messy, eyes focused but soft at the edges.

You looked away first.

"It means guys like you don't usually wait around after closing to drive girls like me home."

The Jeep slowed.

You immediately regretted saying it.

Garrett pulled into the empty side lot behind a closed laundromat, tires crunching lightly over old snow. He put the Jeep in park but left the engine running. The heater hummed between you.

Your pulse started climbing.

He turned in his seat to face you. "Girls like you?"

You swallowed. "Garrett—"

"No, I want to hear this." His voice wasn't harsh, but it had lost the teasing edge. "What does that mean?"

"It means..." You let out a breath, embarrassed now. "It means you could have anyone."

His brows lifted slightly. "And?"

"And I'm not exactly the kind of girl people expect to see you with."

"People?"

"You know what I mean."

"I really don't."

You gave him a look. "Yes, you do."

Garrett stared at you, and for once, he didn't look amused. He looked almost offended, but not at you. More like he hated the thought itself.

"You think I've been coming into that diner for the fries?"

You blinked.

His mouth twitched, but his eyes stayed serious. "They're good fries. Not that good."

Your chest tightened.

"I thought you were just being nice," you said.

"I'm nice to old ladies and kids selling raffle tickets." He leaned a little closer. "I flirt with you."

"You flirt with everyone."

"Not like that."

You wanted to believe him. That was the dangerous part. You wanted to believe him so badly that it scared you.

"Garrett," you said softly, "you don't have to say all this."

"I know."

There it was again.

I know.

Like wanting you was not an accident. Like being here with you was not charity or boredom or a joke his friends would laugh about tomorrow.

He reached across the center console, slow enough that you could pull away if you wanted to. His fingers touched the edge of his jacket where it sat around your shoulders, tugging it a little closer around you.

"I've been trying to get you to look at me for weeks," he said.

You let out a small, disbelieving laugh. "I look at you all the time."

His gaze dropped to your mouth. "Not when I can see it."

Your breath caught.

The windows had started to fog at the edges, the cold night pressing in from outside while the heater filled the Jeep with warmth. You could hear the soft rumble of the engine. You could see the diner sign in the distance, still glowing faintly red across the lot.

Garrett's hand stayed near your collar, his knuckles brushing the side of your neck.

"You really didn't know?" he asked.

You shook your head.

Something changed in his expression.

Not smugness. Not victory.

Want.

Clear and focused and enough to make your whole body go still.

"I know now," you whispered.

His eyes darkened.

"Yeah?" he asked.

You nodded, barely.

Garrett leaned in slowly at first, giving you every chance to stop him. You didn't. You couldn't. The space between you disappeared inch by inch until his mouth brushed yours, once, light enough to make your heart stumble.

Then again.

Deeper.

Your hand found the front of his shirt before you realized you had moved. Garrett made a low sound against your mouth, and that was all it took for the kiss to change. His hand slid into your hair, angling your face up as he kissed you harder, like every quiet look across the diner had been leading to this exact moment.

You forgot the cold. Forgot the empty lot. Forgot every reason you had ever convinced yourself he was too far out of reach.

There was only Garrett, warm and solid and kissing you like he had been waiting all night to stop being careful.

Garrett pulled back just enough to breathe, his forehead nearly touching yours, his hand still firm at your waist. The space between you felt too small now, every inch of it getting in the way. His eyes dropped to your mouth again, darker than before, and when his thumb slipped beneath the edge of his jacket on your shoulders, your breath caught.

"Tell me to stop," he said, low enough that it barely carried over the hum of the heater.

You shook your head before you could think better of it. "Don't."

Something in his expression shifted, the last bit of restraint leaving him.

Then he kissed you again, and there was nothing gentle about it anymore.

His hand tightened at your waist, pulling you closer as far as the front seat would allow. Your own hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, feeling the hard strength of him under your palms. The kiss turned messy, impatient, full of weeks of pretending you hadn't noticed him and one night of Garrett proving he had noticed everything.

When his mouth moved along your jaw, your head tipped back against the seat.

"Garrett," you breathed.

He went still for half a second.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you, his breathing uneven, his eyes dark and fixed on yours like he was giving you one last chance to tell him no.

You didn't.

You reached for him again.

Garrett's restraint snapped in his expression first.

"Back seat," he rasped against your lips. "Now."

He shoved your shirt up, his mouth finding your neck, kissing and biting until your back arched and his name slipped out of you.

He worked your pants down with impatient hands, like he had been trying not to touch you all night and had finally run out of reasons not to. When he freed himself, he was already hard and slick at the tip. You reached down, your fingers wrapping around him, and he let out a choked sound, his eyes fluttering shut.

"Please," you whispered, your own legs wrapping around his waist, pulling him flush against you. "Garrett, please."

He didn't make you wait. He guided himself against you, paused just long enough to look at your face, and then pushed in with one deep, steady thrust. You gasped, your eyes widening at the sheer size of him filling you completely. Your breath caught at the feel of him, your fingers tightening in his shirt.

"Fuck," he groaned, burying his face in your shoulder. "You're so tight… so fucking perfect."

He began to move, the rhythm frantic. Because of the cramped space, every thrust was deep, sending sparks of pleasure radiating through your entire body. The Jeep shifted beneath you, the small cabin filled with rough breathing, quiet curses, and the low hum of the heater.

You clung to him, your nails digging into the muscles of his back. Every time he pushed into you, you felt how much he wanted you, the way he was focusing entirely on your reactions.

"Do you believe me now?" he panted, his pace increasing, his breath hot against your ear. "Do you know how much I want you?"

"Yes," you cried out, your voice breaking. "Yes, I do!"

The pleasure built until you couldn't hold it back anymore. You tightened around him, and Garrett groaned against your neck, holding you close as he came inside you. He collapsed against you, his chest heaving, both of you breathless.

For a long time, the only sound was your breathing and the ticking of the cooling engine. Garrett didn't pull away immediately; he stayed tucked against you, his heart drumming against your ribs.

Slowly, he pulled back, a cocky, satisfied smirk returning to his face, though his eyes were soft. He reached down, gently helping you pull your clothes back together, his fingers lingering on your skin.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice returning to that low, steady tone. He reached over to the front seat, grabbing a hoodie and draping it over your shoulders.

You laughed softly, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the heater. "I think I'm okay."

He kissed your forehead, then leaned back just enough to look at you like he still wasn't done proving his point.

"So," he said, his tone teasing. "I think I might need to start coming to the diner more often. Maybe every day."

You smiled, leaning your head on his shoulder. "You might get banned from my section, Graham."

He chuckled, squeezing your hand. "Worth it. Besides, I think I owe you another ride home soon. Maybe somewhere with a bed next time."

The arena buzzed with pre-game energy, the distant roar of the crowd rolled through the concrete corridors like a living heartbeat, every chant, whistle and burst of applause bleeding into the next until the whole building seemed to vibrate beneath everyone's feet, while the clock crept dangerously closer to puck drop and Garrett's patience finally snapped. 

"Where the hell is Dean?" he demanded for what had to be the third time in as many minutes, voice slicing through the tense locker room as helmets clattered against benches and sticks were shoved into waiting hands. 

Dean had stepped out for what was supposed to be a quick phone call, barely sparing anyone a glance before disappearing through the door but now his phone went unanswered, his stall sat untouched and every passing second tightened the knot settling over the team. 

Out in the stands, Hannah frowned as her phone buzzed in her lap, the glow of the group chat reflecting across her face before she looked up. 

"Dean's missing," she announced, angling the screen so you and Allie could read the frantic string of messages piling in. 

Wedged comfortably between your friends, hard plastic seat pressed cold against the backs of your thighs through your jeans, your attention snapped away the instant your own phone let out a single, familiar ping. The only notification you still kept unmuted was reserved for Dean alone, paired with a ridiculous contact name hidden safely behind your privacy screen protector from the inevitable curiosity of anyone nearby. 

Your pulse kicked a little harder against your ribs as you read the short message waiting for you. 

“We need to talk.”

Questions came immediately the moment you pushed yourself to your feet. "Where are you going?" Allie asked, brows knitting together as she moved to let you pass. 

"Bathroom," you answered without missing a beat, already turning sideways to squeeze through the impossibly narrow row, muttering quick apologies as your knees brushed strangers' and you accidentally stepped on more than one pair of shoes before finally reaching the aisle with a relieved exhale. 

His text sat heavily in your mind as you descended the concrete steps, the choice of words carrying too many meanings between the two of you to ever be simple. Sometimes it ended with clothes abandoned across the floor in a rush neither of you truly acknowledged afterward, other times it meant sitting shoulder to shoulder in silence until one of you found the courage to admit something neither of you wanted to say out loud but receiving it minutes before one of the biggest games of the season, twisted your stomach into an anxious knot. 

You had no idea what waited on the other end of that message, only that if Dean had reached out, there had to be a reason, because beneath the practiced smirk, the effortless confidence and the cool-guy act he wore as naturally as his jersey, you were beginning to catch glimpses of the man underneath, the one who only seemed to surface when no one else was looking. 

Meanwhile, several corridors away, Dean stood alone with one hand braced against the cool cinderblock wall, jaw working as he stared blankly at his phone before slipping it back into his pocket with a frustrated sigh, unable to drown the restless energy buzzing beneath his skin no matter how many deep breaths he forced himself to take. 

His chest felt strangely tight, shoulders refusing to relax and every instinct that usually sharpened before a game seemed hopelessly distracted by whether you'd actually come. He checked the hallway without meaning to, caught himself listening for footsteps instead of the muffled roar pouring in from the ice, rubbed the back of his neck hard enough to ease the tension gathering there, then huffed under his breath at himself. 

It was ridiculous and he knew it. He just wanted to clear his head before the game, that was all. 

So why the hell did the thought of you ignoring his text without answering feel worse than facing the opening faceoff?

You followed the directions Dean had fired off in a rush, leaving the bright, crowded concourse behind as the arena slowly transformed around you, polished concrete giving way to older, scuffed tile worn smooth by years of staff traffic, each turn pulling you farther from the crowds until the deafening roar of thousands of fans dissolved into a distant, muffled hum buried beneath the walls. 

The service hallways twisted in every direction, narrow and dimly lit with exposed pipes snaking across the low ceiling and fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, a few flickering enough to cast shadows that stretched across the floor as you passed doors stamped with Staff Only, Equipment Storage and Maintenance, wondering more than once if you were about to get caught somewhere you definitely weren't supposed to be. 

The air carried the stale scent of concrete dust mixed with machine oil and the lingering sweetness of popcorn drifting in from somewhere impossibly far away, while the bass from the arena speakers reached you only as a faint vibration through the walls, your own footsteps suddenly sounding too loud in the quiet. 

By the time you found the room he'd described, your pulse had climbed higher than you'd care to admit, your hand hesitating only briefly before pushing against the heavy door. 

It creaked open to reveal a cramped storage room swallowed in shadow, cluttered with haphazard towers of labeled cardboard boxes, battered equipment trunks, racks of old practice jerseys, spare goalie pads, broken sticks shoved into corners and enough forgotten arena gear to fill an entire locker room, dust drifting lazily through the thin strip of light spilling in from the narrow window set into the door. 

You barely had a second to take it in before a large hand closed around your upper arm and tugged you firmly inside, the sudden movement pulling a startled breath from your lungs as the door clicked shut behind you and Dean guided you farther into the room, away from the window, until your back met the cool cinderblock wall with a soft thud. 

Your eyes adjusted to the darkness little by little, finding him standing far closer than you expected, broad shoulders drawn tight beneath the half-fastened layers of his gear, blond hair slightly mussed from dragging frustrated fingers through it and jaw clenched. 

"What the fuck was that?" you hissed, voice barely above a whisper as you looked up at him, still catching your breath. 

"Where were you?" he shot back immediately, the words coming lower than usual, rough around the edges with something that reached beyond pre-game nerves, his hand lingering around your arm for another heartbeat before he seemed to realize he was still holding you. 

The warmth of his grip disappeared as you gently pulled free, smoothing the sleeve of your jacket more out of habit than necessity. 

"I'm not from around here, remember?" you muttered, shooting him an unimpressed look. "These hallways all look exactly the same." 

Dean let out a quiet exhale through his nose, his eyes flicking instinctively toward the narrow window in the door, checking for passing shadows before returning to you almost immediately, as if reassuring himself you were actually standing there. 

The tightness that had been sitting in his chest ever since he walked away from the locker room eased so subtly he didn't even register it, his shoulders dropping a barely noticeable inch, though he would've sworn it was simply because he could finally get this conversation over with. 

"Yeah," he replied, one corner of his mouth twitching despite himself, "I do. Every time you curse me out over text in a language I can't understand."

"That's what dictionaries are for." You folded your arms across your chest, watching him with growing suspicion as Dean let out a long, exhausted sigh that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his lungs, his shoulders lifting and dropping beneath the weight of his pads. 

"I'm aware," he muttered. "I ordered one."

Despite everything, you couldn't stop the corner of your mouth from twitching. "Great. Did you want the audio version too?" You reached forward and gave the center of his chest a light punch, more teasing than reprimanding, your knuckles meeting solid muscle that barely budged beneath the protective layers, hoping the familiar banter would snap him out of whatever strange headspace he'd worked himself into. "And you can't just grab me like that." 

Dean didn't react to the joke the way he normally would. His eyes stayed fixed on yours, unusually intent, his expression caught somewhere between frustration and unsettlement. 

"You're leaving," he said quietly, the words falling heavily into the silence between you. 

You stared at him, confusion replacing the irritation that had flared when he'd dragged you into the room. You didn't exactly object to him throwing you around under the right circumstances but hidden inside a storage room five minutes before puck drop definitely wasn't one of them. 

"Let me get this straight," you said slowly, lifting a brow. "You called me down here minutes before the game just to tell me to leave? I like being told what to do, Dean but preferably when we're both naked and horizontal…I thought I made that clear." 

Normally that would've earned you an eye roll or one of his cocky grins but instead his chest rose sharply as he sucked in another deep breath, dragging both hands through his blond hair until it stood up in messy directions before falling untidily across his forehead again. 

The dim lighting carved hard shadows beneath his cheekbones, making the strain on his face impossible to miss. 

"You're leaving," he repeated, slower this time, watching you with an expectant look that somehow made even less sense than before. 

You frowned harder. "The game hasn't even started. Why the hell are you breathing like that?" Your eyes swept over him properly now, noticing details you'd brushed past when he'd first pulled you inside. The faint flush climbing his neck, the sheen of sweat gathering at his temples despite the cool room, the restless way his fingers kept flexing at his sides as though he couldn't get comfortable inside his own body. 

"Do you have asthma?" you asked, genuine concern slipping into your voice despite yourself. "Or did you take a puck to the head already?" 

For half a second Dean almost smiled because hearing you ramble somehow eased the pressure squeezing at his ribs, your voice grounding him more effectively than those deep breaths he'd been forcing ever since he left the locker room. 

It irritated him that it worked. He had no explanation for why the frantic, inexplicable feeling clawing under his skin had only gotten worse while you were gone and quieted almost immediately now that you were standing in front of him, safe, talking and looking at him with that familiar mix of annoyance and concern. 

It couldn't possibly have anything to do with you…He was just stressed, that had to be it. 

"Can you focus?" he asked, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, his voice rougher than intended. 

"Can you make some fucking sense?" you fired back immediately. "What do you mean?" 

Dean's brows knitted together so tightly they nearly touched as he pointed at his own chest with obvious disbelief. "What do you mean, what do I mean? It was a question." 

A short, breathless laugh escaped you, completely devoid of amusement as you stared at him. 

"No...what you just said was a statement, it has that flat inflection at the end." You gestured between the two of you as though explaining something painfully obvious. "You said, 'You are leaving.' Full stop. That's not a question, Dean, the words are literally in the wrong order." You pinched the bridge of your nose with a quiet groan, shaking your head. "I mean...I knew partying was going to mess with my English eventually but apparently it's taking yours down with it by association."

He nodded once, his jaw still set so tightly you could see the muscle ticking beneath his skin. 

"Fine...okay." He paused, visibly thinking through it before trying again. "Are you leaving..." His mouth twisted with faint irritation. "Question mark." 

You almost rolled your eyes. "The question mark is implied, genius, and no..." The answer had barely left your mouth before you caught it, the change in him so immediate it was almost startling. 

His shoulders sagged as if someone had quietly lifted a weight off them, the rigid line of his chest loosening with a long breath he didn't seem to realize he'd been holding, his fingers finally going still instead of drumming anxiously at his sides. 

Dean only knew the tightness squeezing his ribs had eased, the strange pressure behind his sternum faded into something manageable and his brain eagerly filed it away as relief over having an answer…nothing more. 

"What made you think that?" you asked, voice softening. 

He scrubbed both hands through his hair again, leaving the blond strands even messier. "Winter break. Some guy Logan knows is an exchange student too." He looked away for a second, jaw flexing. "He said he's leaving and isn't sure he'll come back." 

Your eyebrows climbed. "And that got your nuts in a twist?" you asked, blinking at him in disbelief. "You're about to play one of the biggest games of the season and your team thinks you've disappeared–" 

"But are you leaving?" he interrupted again, the question slipping out before he could stop it. He was impatient with himself for needing to hear the answer twice. 

"No, I'm not leaving!" you repeated, meeting his eyes without looking away, even though holding his gaze still had an annoying habit of making your stomach somersault. "Jeez…I'm not dropping all that money just to sit bored out of my mind in my room back home for two weeks." You tilted your head. "Are we done here?" 

"Not even close." The grin spread slowly across his face, easy and genuine, transforming him so completely it was hard to believe he'd looked ready to crawl out of his own skin less than a minute ago. "What will you be doing then?" 

You threw your arms out dramatically, shrugging with exaggerated indifference. "Having tons of sex. Who the fuck knows?" You reached over and poked a finger firmly into the center of his chest. "You need to focus." 

His grin only widened, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he looked down at you with unmistakable amusement. "You care about me performing well." His voice dipped into something teasing. "That's cute." 

"In bed? Sure…On the ice?" You shrugged, fighting the smile threatening to betray you. 

Dean laughed under his breath, the sound low and unguarded, eyes lingering on your face. It struck him, not for the first time, just how effortlessly you filled silence, how every expression crossed your face before you could hide it and how animated your hands became whenever you talked to anyone you felt comfortable with. 

He found himself watching those tiny details without thinking, memorizing them for reasons he couldn't explain and every time he caught himself doing it, he blamed simple curiosity. 

"You should come to New York with me." The invitation escaped before he'd thought it through, tumbling out naturally enough that he couldn't grab it back and his own eyebrows lifted a fraction as if surprised he'd said it aloud. 

Still, he didn't look away. His eyes searched your face shamelessly, catching every flicker of surprise, every twitch at the corner of your mouth and every tiny shift in your expression. He'd discovered somewhere along the way that his favorite part of talking to you wasn't even the conversation itself, it was watching you have it, watching your face give away thoughts before your words ever could.

Your eyes narrowed, suspicion replacing anew the concern that had settled there only moments before. "I hope they test you for drugs before you go out there, because something's..." You trailed off, studying him like you were trying to solve a puzzle. "Off." The word hung between you before your expression changed again. "New York? Are you–" Your brows knitted together as the implication finally caught up with you but just as quickly you seemed to shove the thought aside, lifting a hand to point toward the door instead. "See that door right there?" 

Dean didn't even bother looking, his attention never leaving your face. 

"I'm gonna leave the way I came." 

A quiet, breathy laugh escaped him. "Good luck kiss?" he asked, trying to sound casual, though there was an unmistakable note of hope tucked beneath the teasing. 

Your lips twitched. "Good game fuck," you corrected matter-of-factly. "Because that's what we do." You gave him another pointed poke against the chest before stepping around him. "Now go do your fucking job and we'll talk." 

He stepped aside without complaint, giving you room to pass even as his eyes followed you across the cramped storage room with an absent sort of focus he couldn't seem to switch off. 

"You're obsessed with good sex," he noted, shaking his head with a grin that reached all the way to his eyes. 

Your hand was already wrapped around the door handle when you glanced back over your shoulder. "You would be too if you could squirt your stress away." 

The door eventually swung open and shut behind you with a hollow click, leaving Dean alone in the sudden silence. 

He stood there for another second, looking down at the toes of his skates before a laugh slipped out under his breath, quiet and helpless as he rubbed the back of his neck. 

"I've created a monster," he muttered to the empty room, the words swallowed by the cluttered space. Still, he didn't move. His eyes drifted toward the closed door, lingering there without any real reason, as if part of him expected it to open again and when he caught himself staring, he huffed out another laugh at his own expense before reaching up to adjust the collar of his gear, trying to shake off the strange pull that made leaving feel oddly difficult. 

You, meanwhile, had only made it a handful of steps down the dim service hallway before your pace slowed. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as you stopped in the middle of the corridor with an exasperated groan, scrubbing a hand over your face. 

"Don’t…Your visa was too fucking expensive for this. Just too…fuck." you muttered to yourself, already turning on your heel before your brain had fully committed to the decision. 

You marched back, shoved the heavy door open and crossed the cramped storage room in quick, determined strides. Dean barely had time to register your return before both of your hands fisted in the front of his jersey, dragging him down to meet you. 

Your lips crashed into his with all the urgency you'd been pretending not to feel for the past week, the kiss stealing the rest of his surprise before it could reach his face. He froze for the briefest heartbeat, then melted into it instinctively, one large hand finding your jaw while the other settled carefully against your side, thumb brushing the curve beneath your ear as he tipped your face upward. The faint taste of the mint gum he always chewed before games lingered between you, familiar enough to make the distance of the past week disappear in an instant and the kiss deepened naturally, unhurried despite the clock counting down somewhere beyond those walls, every anxious thought that had chased him all afternoon dissolving into the simple fact that you were there. 

For ten perfect seconds nothing else existed, not the game, the waiting locker room or the noise outside, until you finally pulled back with a quiet, reluctant breath, your foreheads nearly touching as both of you stood there breathing a little harder than before.

"Didn't want to be responsible for the team losing tonight," you murmured, the confidence from moments earlier giving way to vulnerability as your eyes wandered everywhere except his face, settling briefly on a stack of dusty equipment before darting toward the floor. "That's me being charitable..." You cleared your throat awkwardly, waving a hand as if you could dismiss your own words before they sounded as ridiculous as they felt. "You should probably look that up in your dictionary and highlight it or something...just in case it happens again, you know?" 

Dean's expression softened, the teasing edge melting away as his voice dropped into that low, unhurried register you usually only heard in dark bedrooms after the jokes had run out. "Of course..." His thumb brushed slowly across your swollen lower lip, lingering for a heartbeat as though committing the feeling to memory before he smiled to himself. "You just hate repeating yourself and it's definitely not because you wanted a kiss." 

Warmth crept into your cheeks before you could stop it. "That's not good for the brand," you muttered, catching his wrist and pushing his hand away from your face before giving the center of his chest another light shove. 

Dean let you move him without resistance, rocking back half a step with an easy chuckle. "Right...because Y/n has a very strict program that doesn't include boyfriends." His grin grew wider. "Only sex." 

You nodded with exaggerated seriousness, trying very hard to ignore the way your pulse still hadn't settled. "It's good that you know that, because I was about to remind you of your position." You cleared your throat again, pointing toward the door with as much authority as you could fake. "You should go first. It's you they're looking for." 

He nodded, then ignored your attempt at ending the conversation by stepping back into your space one last time. His fingers slipped beneath your chin, tilting your face up just enough for him to press one final kiss against your lips. It was nothing like the one before, soft, brief, almost careful and somehow that made it infinitely more disarming, lingering long enough to feel like gratitude before he pulled away again. 

He turned toward the door, wrapped a hand around the handle, pushed it open, then paused halfway through the doorway as though another thought had caught up with him.

Looking back over his shoulder, he asked casually, "Ever been to Central Park?" 

You rolled your eyes so hard they almost disappeared, intentionally looking somewhere over his shoulder instead of at him. 

"Fuck you, Dean," you answered, though there was barely any heat left in the words. 

His laugh echoed quietly down the hallway. "I know you want to do both," he shot back. "I'll see to it." 

Then he disappeared into the corridor, the soft thump of his guarded skates fading over the worn tile until it blended with the distant noise of the arena, leaving you alone in the dim storage room as the heavy door clicked shut behind him. 

For several long seconds you didn't move. You simply stared at the closed door, absentmindedly touching your lips before catching yourself and dropping your hand with an exasperated sigh. Normally your brain would've seized on every tiny detail, turning each sentence over until you convinced yourself there had to be a hidden meaning buried somewhere underneath it, dissecting every glance and every pause until you could no longer tell what was real and what you'd invented. 

That version of you would've spent the entire walk back constructing theories that would only leave you more confused than before but that version of you was exactly who you'd promised to leave behind when you boarded a plane for the other side of the world. 

Your exchange year had never just been about another university or another country, it had been about unlearning the exhausting habit of searching for answers to questions nobody had actually asked, of carrying every uncertainty until it became unbearable. 

If Dean wanted to tell you something, he would. If he didn't, you refused to do the work for him. 

With one last glance at the closed door, you drew a slow breath, squared your shoulders and headed back toward the arena, letting the roar of the crowd grow louder with every step until it drowned out the temptation to overthink altogether.

The moment you found your seat again just as the puck hit the ice, it became painfully obvious that whatever labels the two of you had so carefully built around your arrangement had started to bend under the weight of something you hadn’t agreed to allow. 

You told yourself you were only watching the game, yet your eyes kept finding Dean without permission, tracking every powerful stride across the ice, every hard check into the boards and collision that made your stomach tighten before you could remind yourself he did this for a living. 

Whenever he was knocked down, your fingers curled instinctively around the edge of your seat and whenever the whistle sent him to the penalty box, your heart lurched with an irrational frustration that had nothing to do with the score. 

Across the rink, Dean fought the same losing battle. 

Every so often, his gaze drifted toward the stands until it found you effortlessly, lingering only long enough for him to catch himself before dragging his attention back to the play, jaw tightening as though forcing himself to focus.

It became a quiet exchange that you didn’t mean to participate in, two separate worlds orbiting each other across the ice without ever truly meeting. 

As expected, the game ended in victory, the arena erupting into deafening cheers while teammates celebrated, fans screamed themselves hoarse and congratulations echoed through every hallway of the building, yet beneath the smiles you each wore for everyone else's benefit lingered a strange distance that neither of you seemed capable of shaking. 

You slipped out before the celebration had the chance to grow louder, offering quick excuses before retreating to your dorm instead, feeling oddly detached from the endless parties already spilling across campus, the idea of forcing yourself into another crowded room suddenly exhausting. 

Dean disappeared just as quickly the first chance he got, exchanging the post-game chaos for a hood pulled low over his damp hair as he crossed campus unnoticed, taking advantage of the fact that most students had already scattered toward bars and apartments. 

He knew the walk to your building by heart now, every turn familiar and staircase automatic but when he finally reached your door his confidence faltered for the first time. 

There had been no text or call, none of the casual messages that usually brought one of you to the other's room. Just a quiet knock and the hope that with whatever had taken home uneasily between you earlier that evening, you wouldn't send him away. 

The door opened after only a moment, revealing you standing in the warm glow of your desk lamp, the room behind you dim and comfortably lived in. 

Your eyes met his and without a single word you stepped aside to let him in. The silence that followed wasn't uncomfortable, only heavier than usual, lingering as the door clicked shut behind him. 

There was no frantic rush to close the distance this time, none of the familiar race against the clock that usually accompanied stolen evenings together. 

Shirts were shrugged off absentmindedly, shoes abandoned near the door, your movements slower and more careful. 

You asked where he'd been hit during the game, fingertips brushing lightly over the places he admitted were already beginning to bruise while he answered in short, distracted replies, unable to ignore how often his eyes wandered back to your face instead of the spots you were checking. 

The room remained hushed around you, the muffled sounds of distant parties drifting through the window, every small gesture carrying an unfamiliar tenderness, both choosing, at least for tonight, to let the comfort of being close speak louder than the questions waiting patiently beneath the surface.

You lay beneath him, legs spread wide and open, thighs trembling slightly from the effort of staying that way. Dean’s weight pressed you deeper into the mattress, the heat of his body sinking into your skin as he reached for the drawer. The foil wrapper crackled sharply in the quiet room when he tore it open and you watched, breath shallow, as he rolled the condom down his length, the latex gleaming with the slickness already coating him.

A flash of memory hit you then, of the first time you’d ever been penetrated. You hadn't told him then and you weren't about to start now, though the way he moved told you he already knew. He was too observant, too attuned to the slight tremors in your frame and his gentleness was a testament to that unspoken knowledge.

Your mind was a blur of conflicting instincts. When he had reached down earlier, you’d declined the fingering. Your body felt wound tight, like a spring pushed to its limit and you feared that any more preparation would make you snap. You were still navigating the map of your own desire, caught between the logical fear of the unknown and the primal, aching need to be claimed. 

Right now, your body didn't want a tease, it wanted to be intruded upon.

He hovered above you, chest rising and falling as he nudged the blunt, heavy tip of his cock against your soaked entrance, sliding through your wetness with a filthy, audible sound. He held there, eyes locked on yours and waiting until you gave him a small, shaky nod. Only then did he begin to press forward.

A sharp gasp tore from both of you as he started to breach you. The stretch burned instantly with a tight, searing pressure that made your walls clamp down hard around his girth. 

Inch after thick inch pushed its way inside, the slick drag of the condom against your drenched heat creating a heavy, obscene friction. Your legs jerked, heels digging into the sheets as your body fought the overwhelming invasion, forcing a broken whimper to slip from your throat. 

Being opened like this felt terrifying and perfect all at once, as though your body was being remade around him.

He paused halfway, buried deep enough that you could feel the pulse of him throbbing inside your tight channel. The stillness let the sensation bloom, from the way your pussy stretched obscenely around his cock, to the slick heat of your arousal coating him and the heavy fullness pressing against every sensitive spot deep in your belly. 

His thumb found your swollen clit then and started rubbing slow, firm circles, sending sparks of sharp pleasure shooting through the ache.

Your walls fluttered and gradually softened, growing wetter, slicker and yielding to the relentless stretch. You moaned softly, eyes fluttering as the burn melted into something hotter, deeper. 

Dean felt it too, deciding to rock forward again, gliding deeper with one long, smooth thrust until he bottomed out completely, hips flush against yours as the head of his cock kissed your pulsing cervix.

A long, high whine escaped you, back arching off the bed, nipples tight and aching as your body struggled to adjust to the sheer size of him splitting you open. The wet, squelching sound of your bodies joining filled the small room, embarrassingly loud in the quiet.

You remained locked together, chests heaving and skin already slick with sweat as you felt his heart hammering against your breasts. Dean’s gaze dragged slowly downward, drinking in the sight of your puffy, glistening pussy stretched wide around the base of his cock, your juices shining on his skin and dripping down to soak the sheets beneath you. Then his eyes traveled up over your heaving chest, stiff nipples begging for attention, until they reached your face again.

“Talk to me,” he rasped, voice rough and low, raw with need. “You know I can’t read your mind.”

You swallowed, throat tight and let your trembling hand slide down his sweat-damp abs until your fingers reached the place where he disappeared inside you. 

The feeling was dizzying. Your pussy felt impossibly full, stretched taut and throbbing around every inch of his girthy cock, the heat of him radiating through your core.

“I’m just…” Your voice came out shaky, barely a whisper. “I feel so full of you.”

Dean groaned softly at your words, leaning down to brush his lips hot and wet along your shoulder and across your collarbone, leaving open-mouthed kisses that made you shiver. The contrast between his gentle mouth and the heavy, throbbing fullness buried deep between your legs sent another rush of slick flooding around him. 

Your walls clenched hard, failing to milk his length as fresh wetness coated you both.

He stayed there, buried to the hilt, letting you feel every inch while his thumb kept working your clit in steady, slippery circles. The vulnerability of being so completely opened, so helplessly wet and full beneath him, only made the heat between you burn hotter.

Tentatively, he gave a slow roll of his hips, the weight of his cock dragging heavily inside you. 

The latex slid through your soaked walls with a slick, audible squelch, sending a raw jolt of pleasure-pain straight through your core, pushing a broken whimper from your lips as you clung to him, fingers pressed tight against the messy, dripping place where your bodies joined.

"Move your hand, baby...you’re okay," he breathed against your neck, the low rumble of his voice sending fresh shivers across your skin.

You obeyed, fingers slipping away from the drenched heat. They left a shiny trail of your arousal across his forearm as you wrapped your hand around the strong muscle there, gripping him hard for something solid to hold onto while the rest of the world narrowed to the obscene fullness splitting you open.

"There you go..." he whimpered, the sound raw and desperate, almost broken. He rolled his hips again, deeper this time, grinding his cock into your pussy with slow, heavy strokes. Each movement dragged against your sensitive walls, stretching you so wide it stole your breath. 

It simultaneously filled the room with wet, filthy sounds every time he pushed in, your slick coating the condom and leaking out around his shaft and soaking his balls.

He paused for a moment, eyes searching yours as his chest heaved against your breasts, sweat slicking your skin together. "We’re okay, right?"

You could only nod, lips parted and breath coming in shaky little gasps as the mix of the stinging stretch and building pleasure twisted tight in your belly. Overwhelmed by it all, you turned your face into the pillow, muffling the desperate noises you couldn’t hold back.

An unabashed moan vibrated against the fabric as he moved again, pussy clenching hard around his cock, fluttering and squeezing with every inch that pushed deeper. Your fingers dug into his arm, nails biting into his skin, leaving little red crescents while your other hand fisted the pillow.

Dean groaned loudly, the sound rumbling through his chest into yours as he could feel the way your walls pulsed and fluttered around him, producing a hot and silky substance that kept gushing around his cock with every slow thrust, your whole body trembling underneath him.

"We can slow down," he offered, voice rough with worry even as his hips kept rolling in that same devastating rhythm.

You shook your head quickly, pulling your face from the pillow. You didn’t want ‘slow’, you wanted to feel every inch of him ruining you, filling you up until there was nothing left but him and the desperation must’ve shown clearly on your face because his expression changed, need bleeding through the concern.

He eased his thumb off your clit, the sudden absence making your breath catch sharply. The pleasure narrowed down to the heavy, throbbing pressure of his cock alone, buried so deep inside your soaked pussy.

"Better?" he whispered.

You nodded, breath hitching anew. Without the extra stimulation everything became sharper, more intense. He continued moving, rolling his hips in long, deep strokes, angling upward to hit that perfect spot that made your toes curl tight and your back arch off the bed.

He leaned down further to press his lips to yours, messily and desperately, tongues sliding together as he moaned into your mouth. The sound was primal and needy, breaking into a whimper every time your pussy squeezed him especially tight or when your body pressed against one of his forming bruises, until kissing was no longer possible. 

“You…you should be at a party,” you whined, voice shaking with every thrust, trying so hard to cling to some scrap of sense while your body melted around him. “Celebrating.”

Dean let out a low, breathy laugh that melted into a soft moan against your neck, the sound smug and hungry all at once. You couldn't help grinning through the pleasure, head falling back against the pillow as another shaky whimper slipped out. “What? Got lost around campus…and…fuck–ended up here?” you gasped, fingers digging hard into his broad shoulders. “You have no excuse, Dean.”

“Gonna decide for me now?” he teased, voice dropping low and rough. He answered his own question by rolling his hips deeper, a slow, grinding circle that forced his cock even farther inside you. The thick head rubbed right against that sensitive spot, stretching you wide and making your pussy flutter wildly around him. 

He paused there for a brief second, buried to the hilt while watching with dark, hooded eyes as your lips fell open and your breath caught in a silent, desperate plea. He continued thrusting then.

You nodded frantically, vision blurring at the edges. “I…should.”

“What’s so wrong about this?” he murmured, though the question sounded more like a tease than anything else. He was too busy savoring the way your dripping cunt clung to him and the obscene wet sounds it produced.

You lost yourself in it too, eyes fluttering shut as a long, broken moan poured out of you.

“Mm, pretty?” he called softly, the velvet in his voice pulling you back to him while he kept rolling his hips in those lazy, devastating circles.

You swallowed hard, mind hazy. “New York,” you breathed, the word jagged and barely there. “That’s what’s…w-wrong.”

The second it left your lips, Dean dropped his head into the crook of your shoulder with a guttural “fuck.” His hot breath fanned across your skin as he kept moving, hips rolling steadily, the pressure building tighter and hotter with every deep grind. His cock throbbed inside you, stretching you so perfectly it made your toes curl.

He eventually lifted his head again, eyes intense and understanding as they locked onto yours. “Can’t be alone that long…bored,” he murmured, voice thick and rough with lust. “I want you to come–”

Your pussy clamped down hard around him at his words, squeezing his cock in tight, rhythmic pulses that made him stiffen above you, a sharp hiss escaping through his teeth as the sudden grip made his head spin.

“Right here…and to New York too,” he added, voice strained and breathy.

A whiny and breathless laugh bubbled out of you, half disbelief and half aching longing, the sound melting into a soft moan as he kept moving. Your eyes snapped open to meet his and the hunger on his face looked almost cataclysmic but underneath it sat something devoted that made your chest tighten in return.

“I’m serious,” he confessed, the words vulnerable. 

He rolled his hips slower now, intentionally dragging every inch along your fluttering, greedy walls so you felt every ridge, every vein and throbbing pulse of him. 

You opened your mouth, ready to give him that familiar warning tone, to tell him he was pushing for more than he knew how to handle but the words never made it out. Your eyes widened suddenly as a sharp jolt of pleasure ripped through you and one of your hands flew up, palm pushing against the headboard as your back arched off the mattress, pushing your peaked nipples to his burning chest.

"Dean..." you gasped, voice cracking.

He shifted above you without a word, catching the back of your knee and pushing a leg higher, folding it toward your chest. The new angle opened you up even more, letting him sink impossibly deeper as his hips switched to shorter, sharper snaps that made the wet, filthy slap of skin on skin echo through the room. Every quick thrust pulled a broken moan straight from your throat, the slick sounds of your dripping pussy taking his cock growing louder and messier with each measured snap.

You couldn’t stop moaning when pleasure coiled progressively tighter in your belly, as his cock dragged against that perfect, newly found, spot inside you over and over with precision. Your soaked walls fluttered and clenched around him, fresh slick leaking out around his shaft with every thrust, coating his pelvis and making everything slippery and loud.

Your gazes met and neither of you could look away, breaths mingling hot and heavy between your parted lips. His face hovered just above yours, sweat glistening on his forehead, blond hair damp and messy as he stared down at you in a manner you couldn’t quite read. 

The usual cocky smirk had faded, replaced by something open and stripped bare.

You felt so vulnerable like this, leg hiked high, body completely spread open beneath him while he fucked you with those relentless shallow strokes. You pushed against the headboard harder while your other hand clutched desperately at his back, nails shamelessly leaving marks into his skin.

"D-Dean," you whispered again, voice timid and trembling even as another moan slipped out. "I’m right there, please…I’m…I’m gonna cum."

The words came out shaky and sincere but shy, as if admitting it made the pleasure even more intense. Your pussy clenched hard around his cock at the confession, squeezing him in wet, rhythmic pulses as the pressure inside you built higher and higher while your breathing turned frantic.

He groaned low in desperation but held that steady eye contact, gaze becoming more exposed as he watched every flicker of overwhelming pleasure cross your face. 

You stayed right on the sharp, deep edge, leg trembling in his grip, body arching and clenching, eyes locked with his as the orgasm hovered dangerously close.

Both of you were breathing hard now, chests heaving in sync against each other with every shallow, snapping thrust as a sudden and strange wave of emotion crashed over you without warning. 

It was thick and impossible to name, lodging itself in your throat until swallowing became difficult, eyes stinging as tears gathered without warning. 

Dean's brows knit together, a sharp breath catching somewhere in his chest as his own eyes began to glisten, confusion flashing across his face because neither of you understood where it had come from. The feeling swelled between you, overwhelming in its intensity, tangled with something far deeper than either of you was ready to confront, all while your bodies raced toward release.

Tears slipped down your cheeks first, hot and startling, catching you so off guard that you barely noticed them until they blurred your vision. Dean's eyes widened almost imperceptibly, searching your face for an explanation you couldn't give but before either of you could speak, his own tears spilled over, carving short tracks through the flush coloring his cheeks. You were both crying now, breaths meeting in uneven, trembling exhales, unable to tear your eyes away from each other as confusion settled, while he kept fucking you with those short, desperate rolls of his hips. 

Instead of breaking the moment, it only seemed to sharpen it. Your pussy clenched hard around his cock, fluttering wildly as the orgasm finally crested.

A broken, sobbing moan tore from your throat as it hit you. Your back tensed violently, leg trembling in his faltering grip while wave after wave of intense pleasure ripped through your core. Your walls pulsed and squeezed around him in powerful, rhythmic contractions, gushing wet heat around his cock as you moaned openly. Dean groaned deep and raw, his own tears falling faster as he kept thrusting through it, hips stuttering but never stopping. 

His cock throbbed hard and heavy inside you, buried to the hilt as your orgasm milked him in powerful, rippling squeezes. He let out a broken groan that cracked into a sob as the pleasure finally overwhelmed him.

He came hard, hips stuttering against you in short, desperate thrusts. You felt every pulse as he spilled into the condom, thick, hot spurts filling the latex barrier while your clenching pussy kept squeezing around him. The condom swelled slightly with each heavy rope, the warmth of it noticeable even through the thin layer as he emptied himself deep inside your soaked cunt. 

The pleasure rolled on and on, leaving you shaking with tears streaming down your face and into the pillow while you stared at him through blurred vision. He looked just as lost, just as wrecked, jaw tight and eyes shining with the same strange uncertainty as his hips kept moving, drawing every last tremor out of you.

When the last trembling aftershock finally ebbed away, leaving nothing but the echo of it humming beneath your skin, the spell between you shattered all at once. Dean pulled out of you so abruptly that you both sucked in startled breaths at the loss, scrambling backward until his spine hit the wall at the end of the bed, his chest rising and falling in frantic, uneven pulls as though he couldn't draw enough air. 

You reacted just as instinctively, scooting backward until your shoulder blades met the headboard, folding your knees tightly against your chest and wrapping your arms around them, curling inward as if making yourself smaller might somehow quiet whatever had just happened. 

Silence rushed in to fill the room, broken only by your shared, ragged breathing, while tears continued slipping unchecked down both your faces. 

Without thinking, your hand fumbled for the rumpled sheet tangled beside you, dragging it over your body in one desperate motion and across from you Dean snatched the nearest pillow from the mattress, clutching it awkwardly across his lap as if the flimsy barrier could restore some distance that no longer existed. 

Neither of you spoke. 

You only sat there shaking, pussy still pulsing with the aftereffects and heartbeat refusing to slow down, the warmth lingering beneath your skin now overshadowed by a confusing ache that settled deep in your chest, because whatever had existed between you moments ago had felt impossibly right while it was happening, only to leave you feeling painfully exposed afterward in a way that had nothing to do with nudity. 

You couldn't understand the tears still falling and judging by the bewilderment written across Dean's face, neither could he. 

His unfocused gaze wandered aimlessly around the room until it caught on the open suitcase sitting in the corner, half-packed with neatly folded clothes for the upcoming break and he stared at it without blinking, fresh tears gathering along his lashes as something behind his expression quietly crumpled. 

Your eyes followed his, settling on the same suitcase and suddenly the ordinary object seemed unbearably heavy, loaded with all the clauses the two of you should've underlined in the terms and conditions of this arrangement before either of you ever agreed to it, the reality of time, distance and a decision that still hadn't been made staring back at both of you from the corner of the room.

Another tear slipped free before you could stop it, your breath catching as the unanswered questions thickened inside the room, leaving the two of you stranded at opposite ends of the bed, still breathing hard, crying and unable to explain why.

You shifted the vodka bottle in your hand, thumb rubbing over the edge of the label. You weren’t even sure when you’d picked it up. One second, you were in the kitchen, wedged between a counter full of red cups and some guy loudly arguing that he could outdrink half the hockey team, and the next, you were standing there with the bottle in your hand like it was a decision.

Not a drink.

A decision.

“Give it here.”

You turned your head.

Hannah stood beside the island, one hand extended, her expression too soft for you to fight with. That was the worst part. If she’d come over snapping at you, you could’ve snapped back. If she’d rolled her eyes and made a joke, you could’ve pretended this wasn’t anything. But she just looked at you the way she had been looking at you all week.

Like she could see the damage even when you kept smiling over it.

“Hannah—”

“No.” Her voice was quiet, but firm. “Not tonight.”

“I wasn’t going to do anything.”

“You’ve been standing here for five minutes trying to decide if you want to feel worse now or later.”

That shut you up.

Your fingers tightened around the neck of the bottle, not because you wanted it that badly, but because there was something humiliating about being seen so clearly. Hannah didn’t move closer. She just kept her hand out, patient in that stubborn way of hers.

You looked away first.

The party kept going around you. Someone laughed too loudly near the fridge. A cabinet slammed. Music poured through the doorway, some terrible playlist Logan had probably taken credit for even though it sounded exactly like every other party playlist at Briar.

You swallowed. “I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” Hannah’s voice softened. “And that’s why I’m taking it.”

For a second, you thought about arguing. You thought about saying you were an adult, that you could handle one drink, that everyone else in this house was drinking and no one was hovering over them like you were a cracked glass.

But then Hannah’s eyes flicked to your phone on the counter, face down beside your elbow.

You hated that, too.

How everyone knew.

How everyone could look at you and know there was a boy-shaped bruise sitting right in the middle of your chest.

Slowly, you handed her the bottle.

Hannah took it without making a big production out of it. She set it behind her on the counter, out of your reach but not dramatically. Not like she was punishing you. Like she was helping you put something down before it got heavier.

“You can be upset,” she said. “You can be angry. You can hate him. You can cry in my room later if you need to. But I’m not letting you drink until you don’t recognize yourself tomorrow morning.”

Your throat tightened before you could stop it.

“That’s very bossy of you.”

“I learned from Garrett.”

Across the room, Garrett Graham was leaning against the doorway with a beer in his hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself despite the fact that he had no idea he’d just been insulted. Or maybe he did. With Garrett, it was always hard to tell. He caught Hannah’s eye, smiled at her like the party had gone quiet and she was the only thing in it, and lifted his beer in a lazy salute.

Hannah rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth twitched.

You looked away before the ache in your chest could turn mean.

You loved them. You did. Garrett and Hannah were good together in a way that made the world feel less terrible sometimes. But tonight, their easy little glances felt like a hand pressing down on a bruise. You didn’t want to resent them for being happy.

You just didn’t know where to put your own hurt.

“I’m getting you water,” Hannah said, studying your face. “And you’re staying here.”

“I’m not a child.”

“No, you’re my friend.” She pointed at you as she backed toward the fridge. “Different thing. Same level of supervision.”

You huffed despite yourself.

That tiny almost-laugh must have been enough for her, because Hannah gave you one last look before turning away.

You barely had a second alone before a voice slid in from behind you, smooth and amused and much too familiar.

“She’s scary when she gets quiet.”

You closed your eyes for half a second.

Of course.

Of course he was here.

Dean Di Laurentis was leaning against the opposite counter like he’d been placed there for decoration, all golden hair and expensive ease, looking like he’d never had to stand in a kitchen and talk himself out of doing something pathetic. He wore a faded Briar Hockey sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up his forearms, and somehow even that looked deliberate on him. Like casual was a rich man’s costume he wore better than everyone else.

His eyes weren’t on the bottle.

They were on you.

“You were listening?” you asked.

Dean’s mouth curved. “Hard not to. Wellsy has range.”

“Nobody invited you into this conversation.”

“I was already here.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“I was in the area.”

“That means nothing.”

“It means I’m innocent.”

“You’ve never been innocent a day in your life, Di Laurentis.”

His smile widened, pleased like you’d complimented him. That was the thing about Dean. Insulting him only worked if he agreed it was an insult, and most of the time, he seemed to take everything as proof that people were paying attention to him.

Which, annoyingly, they usually were.

He pushed off the counter and reached past you for a bag of chips, moving close enough that his shoulder almost brushed yours. He smelled clean and expensive, soap and cologne and something warm beneath it.

You hated noticing.

“You know,” he said, opening the bag, “for the record, she’s right.”

You gave him a flat look. “Still not your conversation.”

“No, but I thought I’d bring a male perspective.”

“God forbid.”

“It’s valuable.”

“It’s unwanted.”

Dean popped a chip into his mouth and looked at you with that lazy half-smile of his. “Those things aren’t mutually exclusive.”

You should’ve walked away. Really, you should have. Dean was exactly the kind of person you didn’t have the emotional energy for tonight. Too confident, too pretty, too aware of both. The kind of guy who made flirting seem like breathing, who probably didn’t even know when he was doing it because the world had always flirted back.

And still, you didn’t move.

Maybe because he wasn’t hovering.

Hannah had been careful with you all night. Garrett kept giving you space in that quiet, protective way of his. Allie had spent the first half hour checking your face whenever you got too quiet, like she was waiting for the moment you finally broke down.

Dean just looked at you like he was trying to figure you out.

It should have annoyed you. It did annoy you, actually. He had no right to stand there in the middle of the kitchen with that lazy, golden-boy confidence, watching you like your bad decisions were something he could see coming from a mile away.

His eyes dropped to the phone in your hand.

“You’re going to regret that,” he said.

You looked up. “Regret what?”

Dean tilted his head, gaze flicking over your face with irritating accuracy. “Whatever you’re about to do with that phone.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Sure.” He took one step closer, close enough that you caught the clean, expensive smell of his cologne beneath the beer and noise of the party. “You’ve only looked at it six times since I walked in.”

You hated that he’d counted.

You hated even more that he was right.

“Maybe I’m checking the time.”

Dean glanced at the clock on the microwave behind you. “It’s been ten twenty-three for the last four minutes.”

You stared at him.

He smiled a little. “Bad lie.”

“God, you’re annoying.”

“I’ve been told.” His eyes went back to your phone. “So what is it? Waiting for him to text you, checking if he posted something, or writing out some pathetic little ‘hope you’re doing okay’ message you’ll hate yourself for sending?”

The words landed harder than you wanted them to.

Your fingers tightened around your phone.

Dean’s smile faded just enough for you to notice.

“Don’t do that,” you said.

“What?”

“Act like you know me.”

“I don’t have to know you to know that texting him tonight is a bad idea.”

“You don’t know what happened.”

“I know Hannah took vodka out of your hand like she was defusing a bomb.” His voice lowered, less teasing now. “And I know you looked more upset when your phone didn’t light up than you did when she called you out for it.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

That was the problem with Dean Di Laurentis. Half the time he sounded like he was joking, and then suddenly he’d say something too sharp, too close to the truth, and you had no idea what to do with it.

Your phone buzzed.

The sound cut between you.

Your whole body reacted before you could stop it.

Dean noticed.

Of course he noticed.

You looked down before pride could stop you.

His name sat on the screen.

you out?

Not an apology. Not an explanation. Not even enough effort to pretend he missed you.

Just a hook.

A stupid, lazy hook.

And still, for one awful second, your thumb hovered.

Dean moved fast.

The phone was gone from your hand before you could unlock it.

“Hey—”

“Nope.”

You blinked at him. “Give it back.”

“No.”

“Dean.”

His brows lifted slightly when you said his name, but he only held the phone higher. “Absolutely not.”

You reached for it, and he stepped back, his stupid mouth curving like this was funny to him. Like he hadn’t just snatched the one thing in the room you were trying not to need.

“Give me my phone,” you snapped.

“Say you’re not answering him.”

“That is none of your business.”

“Then you don’t need the phone.”

You lunged again, catching his wrist this time. Dean let you shove him back a step, still holding the phone above your head, still looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Dean, I swear to God—”

“You keep saying my name like that, and I’m going to start thinking you want my attention.”

“I want my phone.”

“No,” he said, eyes dropping briefly to your mouth. “You want a reason not to answer him.”

Your hand stilled against his chest.

Dean noticed.

His smile softened into something worse. Something knowing.

“See?” he murmured. “That’s the first honest thing you’ve done all night.”

You pushed at his chest, trying to reach around him, but Dean caught your wrist with his free hand and turned you before you realized what he was doing.

Your back hit the wall beside the kitchen doorway.

Not hard.

Just enough to stop you.

Just enough for the air to change.

Dean was suddenly right there, one hand around your wrist, the other still holding your phone out of reach. His body wasn’t pressed against yours, not fully, but he was close enough that you could feel the heat of him. Close enough that your breath caught before you could hide it.

His eyes dropped to your mouth.

Then back up.

The fight in you stumbled.

Dean saw that too.

Of course he did.

“Still want it back?” he asked, voice quieter now.

You swallowed. “Yes.”

“Then tell me you’re not going to text him.”

You glared at him, but it didn’t work the way it should have. Not with him this close. Not with his thumb resting against the inside of your wrist, right over your pulse.

“I hate you,” you said.

“No, you don’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

His mouth tipped near your ear, and your entire body went still.

“I know you’re mad,” he murmured. “I know you’re embarrassed because you were about to answer a guy who gave you nothing and still knew you might come running.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “And I know you’re looking for something stupid enough to make you forget him for five minutes.”

Your breath hitched.

Dean paused.

For one second, he didn’t move. He waited, like he was giving you room to shove him away, to make this nothing.

You didn’t.

His lips brushed the shell of your ear when he spoke again.

“I could help with that.”

The words slipped down your spine.

You turned your head just enough to look at him.

Dean’s face was close. Too close. His gaze was darker now, the teasing still there but buried under something hotter, something less polished.

“That’s your offer?” you whispered.

His eyes flicked to your mouth.

“It’s a better one than his.”

You should have laughed. You should have shoved him back and taken your phone and gone to Hannah, because Hannah was safe and smart and probably sitting on the couch with pretzels, waiting for you to make the right choice.

But Dean’s hand was still on your wrist.

Dean’s body was still crowding yours.

And for the first time all night, you weren’t thinking about the text.

Dean leaned in, his mouth almost touching your cheek.

“He doesn’t deserve an answer,” he said. “He definitely doesn’t deserve you standing here looking like this because of him.”

“Like what?”

Dean’s jaw flexed.

“Like you forgot what it feels like to be wanted properly.”

Your pulse jumped hard beneath his fingers.

His grip tightened for half a second, not enough to hurt. Just enough to tell you he felt it.

Then he said, right against your ear, “I could fuck you better than he ever did.”

Heat went through you so fast your knees nearly betrayed you.

Dean felt that too.

The bastard smiled.

You shoved at his chest, but it was weak, and you both knew it.

“Don’t say things like that.”

“Why?” His mouth hovered close to your skin. “Because it’s rude, or because you’re thinking about it now?”

You closed your eyes.

That was a mistake.

With your eyes closed, he was everywhere. His voice. His hand. His cologne. The wall at your back. The low noise of the party barely a room away.

“Dean,” you breathed.

Dean’s hand loosened around your wrist, giving you room he clearly didn’t want to give.

“Say no,” he said, voice low against your ear, “and I’ll hand you the phone back and pretend I didn’t notice how badly you wanted me to be right.”

Your breath caught.

He pulled back just enough to look at you.

You didn’t say no.

Instead, you looked at the phone still in his other hand.

Then back at him.

“Don’t give it back yet.”

Dean’s expression shifted.

Slowly.

Like you’d just handed him something better than the phone.

“No?”

“No.”

His smile spread, but there was nothing playful about the way he looked at you now.

“Good choice.”

You grabbed the front of his sweatshirt and pulled him down.

Dean kissed you like he’d been waiting for permission to ruin the night properly.

His mouth was hot, confident, too good for someone already so full of himself. The second you kissed him back, he made a low sound against you and stepped in closer, pinning you more firmly between him and the wall. His hand slid from your wrist to your waist, fingers flexing there like he was trying to decide how much of you he was allowed to touch.

You decided for him.

You wrapped your hand around the back of his neck and dragged him closer.

Dean groaned softly, the sound disappearing into your mouth. His phone hand dropped to his side, still holding yours, while the other curved around your hip. He kissed like he wanted you focused. Like he wanted every thought in your head narrowed down to him, his mouth, his body, the hard line of him pressing closer every time you made the mistake of breathing like you wanted more.

He broke away only when someone laughed too loudly near the hallway.

His forehead hovered near yours.

Both of you were breathing too hard.

Dean glanced toward the living room, then back at you, eyes dark and amused and completely wrecked around the edges.

“Hannah’s going to kill me,” he said.

“Probably.”

“Garrett might help.”

“Definitely.”

Dean looked down at your mouth again. “Worth it.”

You should not have liked that as much as you did.

He kissed you once more, slower this time, like he was proving he could. Like the first one had been to take the thought of your ex out of your head, and this one was to put himself there instead.

When he pulled back, your phone was still locked in his hand.

You reached for it, more out of habit than actual want.

Dean lifted it away, his mouth curving.

“Not yet.”

Your brows rose. “Seriously?”

“You’ll thank me tomorrow.”

“I doubt that.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower for half a second before dragging back up. “Maybe not for the phone.”

Your stomach flipped.

A laugh sounded from the living room, too close this time. Dean glanced toward it, jaw tightening, like he had just remembered the entire party was still happening around you. Hannah was somewhere on the couch. Garrett was probably watching the hall like he had a sixth sense for Dean making bad decisions.

Dean looked back at you.

“Upstairs,” he said quietly.

Your pulse jumped.

“Dean—”

“Yeah, I know.” His thumb brushed over the side of your hand. “Bad idea.”

You stared at him.

He leaned in, mouth close to your ear again.

“But you’re not thinking about him anymore, are you?”

No.

God, no.

You weren’t thinking about the text. You weren’t thinking about the drink. You weren’t thinking about anything except the heat of his body and the way his voice made your thighs press together before you could stop it.

Dean’s eyes darkened like he’d caught that too.

He took your hand.

This time, you let him.

The two of you slipped out of the kitchen when no one was looking, his fingers tight around yours, your phone hidden in his other hand. He didn’t rush until you reached the stairs, and then he glanced back once, grinning like trouble, before pulling you up after him.

Halfway up, your phone buzzed again.

Dean didn’t look.

This time, neither did you.

The bedroom door clicked shut with a quiet, secretive finality, sealing out the muffled bass and chatter of the party downstairs. The sudden silence of the room felt heavy, charged with the kind of tension that had been building between you and Dean all night.

Without breaking eye contact, Dean reached over to the dresser and slid your phone far across the polished wood, placing it well out of reach. A smug, amused smile played on his lips. "Let it ring," he murmured, his voice a low, teasing drawl. "I think you've had enough distractions for one evening."

He didn't rush. Instead, he stepped back just an inch, his gaze traveling over you with a slow, confident appreciation. He looked at you like he already knew how this was going to end, and the worst part was, you weren’t sure he was wrong. The air between you practically hummed.

The stripping was a messy, hurried blur of mutual desperation. You reached for his shirt at the same time he found the hem of your dress, both of you tugging and fumbling with fabric in a way that felt reckless and right. He pulled the dress over your head, tossing it aside, and as he looked down, his eyes widened slightly.

“Nothing under this?” Dean’s smile went slow, his gaze lingering on your bare skin. “And you were really going to waste tonight answering him?”

You backed toward the bed, and Dean followed.

He slid his hand down, fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs before slipping between them, and the first touch made your breath catch.

“All that arguing downstairs,” he murmured, “and you were already this wet?”

He leaned in, capturing your lips in a deep, slow makeout. It was a conversation of tongues and breath, a mutual exploration where he savored every gasp and shiver you gave him. He broke the kiss to trail a path of soft, biting nips along your jawline, lingering at the curve of your neck.

He moved lower, his breath hot against your skin as he kissed his way down to your chest. He focused on your nipples, swirling his tongue around them and teasing them with light tugs of his teeth. He watched your face, leaning back occasionally to see the way your eyes fluttered and your breath hitched, clearly enjoying the way you reacted to him.

Then, he shifted downward. He parted your legs and leaned in, his tongue finding your clit with a controlled, teasing precision. He didn't rush. He took his time, flicking and swirling, making you arch your back and grip the sheets. He used his fingers to open you up, sliding one deep inside while his tongue continued to work on your center, creating a friction that had you whimpering. He paused for a moment, looking up at you with a smug whisper. "Forget everything else. Just focus on this."

He went back to it with more intensity, sucking your clit into his mouth and using a rhythmic, wet pressure that pushed you closer and closer to the edge. Every time you tried to pull him closer, he slowed down, teasing you, making you beg for the release before he finally let you peak, your body shaking under his touch.

As the haze began to clear, you reached down, your fingers tangling in his hair to pull him up. You didn't want to just receive. You wanted him. You guided his hard cock against your wet opening, and with a brief, shared look of intense desire, he sank into you in one smooth, deep motion. There was nothing between you, just skin on skin, the raw heat of him filling you completely.

Dean stayed on top, his movements steady and focused. He was cocky, his eyes locked onto yours, watching the way your expression shifted with every thrust. He wasn't trying to overpower you. He was attuned to you, adjusting his pace to keep you right on the edge.

“You’re not thinking about him now,” he whispered, his voice rough. “Look at me.”

You wanted him to stop looking so pleased with himself. So you pushed at his chest, caught him off guard, and rolled them until he was beneath you. Dean blinked up at you, breathless for half a second. Then his grin spread.

“Okay,” he said, voice rougher now. “Didn’t know we were doing that.”

You shifted, sliding down onto him and taking full control. You began to ride him, your hips rolling in a slow, sensual grind that forced a sharp hiss of breath from his lungs. You watched the cocky mask slip from his face, replaced by raw, unfiltered need as you set the pace.

“That’s it,” he groaned, his hands gripping your hips to help drive you down onto him. “Keep doing that.”

The friction built rapidly, the feeling of him deep inside you driving you both toward the peak. You increased the speed, your breath coming in short, jagged gasps, while Dean watched you with an expression of pure, focused heat. As you reached your climax, your internal muscles clenched tightly around him, triggering his own release. Dean let out a low growl, his body stiffening as he came deep inside you, the heat of it flooding your center.

As you both collapsed against each other, panting and spent, the phone on the dresser buzzed again. The vibration rattled against the wood, a persistent reminder of the world outside.

Dean noticed it. He glanced toward the phone, then looked back up at you. You didn't even turn your head. You didn't even blink. You just stayed draped over him, completely immersed in the afterglow.

Y/N’s year was defined by grueling 5:00 AM practices and preparations along with her equally demanding degree. Her social life was almost non-existent at that point. But it all paid off and as that reality sunk in, her eyes filled with tears.

At the award ceremony, she accepted the gold medal, the weight of it in her palm grounding her. The coldness of its surface was a stark contrast to the heat radiating from her hand. Pressing it against her chest Y/N closed her eyes for a second to let the victory sink in. And yet, even in that moment of triumph, a strange hollowness bloomed in her gut. The applause , the cameras, everything suddenly felt like a performance. Her eyes flickered instinctively toward the front row and scanned the faces of those who had come to watch the most important tournament of her year. Her gaze darted to the spot where he should have been. Or, where he used to be. Garrett Graham. Her boyf– well, ex-boyfriend.

The seat where he used to sit was now occupied by someone she had never seen before. Even though Y/N felt like she had won the tournament, even the happiness felt distant. The trophy was hers and her future was secure. She almost had everything she wanted. Almost. Because, as the realisation settled in that Garrett wasn't there to share the win, the victory felt less meaningful. She had fought so hard to keep her world from unraveling at the seams. She had won every battle on the court only to lose the one person who had been her anchor. The silence of their breakup had pulled them into separate tides.

Her eyes searched and searched for his face in the crowd but he was nowhere to be found.

Did he hate her that much that he didn't even show up for the finals? Maybe he did. After all, she was the one who had made him believe she couldn't handle a relationship. She couldn't even blame him for hating her anymore, because she hated herself, too.

Even though they were broken up, a small part of her had still hoped he would come, that he would be there in the stands, cheering her on, just one last time. Maybe she'd made sure he'd never want to be anywhere she was again. And maybe she deserved that. The hurt felt like an ugly monster sinking its teeth into her heart. She couldn't stay there any longer. Needing to be alone, Y/N walked back to her locker room, swinging her tennis bag onto her shoulder right after the award ceremony ended. The gold medal was tucked safely into the front pocket. Every congratulation felt like being pricked with needles, but she politely took them all with a smile that did not reach her eyes.

Finally reaching the locker room, she kicked the door shut behind her. She didn't even make it to the bench. She slid down the door, her back hitting the cold metal. Tears streaming down her face, she pulled the gold medal out, staring at it through blurred vision. It was beautiful. It was a testament to years of her dedication, but she had never felt more heartbroken.

As the tears fell, the silence of the locker room brought back the ghosts. It brought back the memory of the last time she had felt his arms around her, and the conversation that had ruined everything they had built and the love she had lost.

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The air was thick with tension. She hated it when they fought like this. Which wasn't often, but she hated to be on the receiving end of his disappointment. Garrett paced the room, carding his fingers through his hair in frustration.

“I’m just saying, Y/N, it’s not about the sport. I'm talking about us. Sometimes, I feel like I’m dating a ghost. I’m dating someone who’s always at practice, always in the library, always exhausted, always somewhere else.”

Y/N sat at the kitchen table, her laptop open, a stack of notes spread out. She was exhausted with everything.

“I told you, Garrett, I have a match on Friday. I have to be in the training room by six. You are an athlete too, you know how it is.”

“If you can’t make time for a dinner, or a movie, or just sharing a few moments with me, what is the point?” The thing was that Garrett didn't say it with malice, but it cut deeper because of how tired he sounded.

“And like you said, I'm an athlete too. I too have practice and classes and I still make time for you, don't I? Why is it so hard for you to prioritise me?”

The words hung in the air. It was weighted with a logic that she couldn't refute without revealing her biggest secret. She couldn't tell him that his scholarship was a safety net for him, whereas if she didn't win, she would lose her tuition, and her future. To Y/N, this was survival, but she was not gonna let him know that. Why, you might ask. It was because she refused to let Garrett see her as someone who was struggling. Her pride was the only thing she had left that wasn't tied to a bank account or a ranking. So she stayed silent, even though she felt her throat closing up. If she tried to explain the desperation, she knew she would start crying and she didn't want to let him see that side of her.

“See? This is exactly what I mean. You just shut down. You don’t tell me what’s going on, you just act like I’m an inconvenience to your schedule or whatever.” Garrett said, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He looked sad.

“I’m not acting like you’re an inconvenience, I’m just trying to keep my head above water, Garrett. I don’t have the luxury of being carefree,” she whispered, trying so hard not to let him hear the tremor in her voice.

“Carefree? That's what you think my life is? Wow. I’m just asking for a partner, Y/N. I’m asking for a girlfriend who wants to be with me as much as I want to be with her. If that’s too much to ask, then maybe we shouldn't be doing this at all.” he said, the words surprising him in the process as well.

Y/N’s eyes widened in shock. She couldn't even form a coherent thought. She had waited for him to take it back. She waited for him to see the panic in her eyes, to soften, or to at least to realise he was asking for things she physically couldn't give. But he was just as proud as she was. Maybe he was waiting for her to fight for him, and she was waiting for him to understand her silence.

“If that’s how you feel, then maybe you’re right.” she said after what felt like an eternity.

The look on his face as she said that to him, that flash of shock followed immediately by a hardening of his expression, was a memory she would carry for the rest of her life. Nodding at her with tear filled eyes, Garrett grabbed his coat, looked at her one last time with a mixture of hurt and disbelief, and walked out of the apartment.

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Flinching at the memory, Y/N whimpered. She was still sitting on the floor of the locker room. Remembering it was like rubbing salt into a fresh wound. And now, with everything else finally falling into place, she couldn't shake the feeling that she had lost one of the most important people in her life. Before he was her boyfriend, he had been one of her closest friends. He was someone who had stood by her through everything. He was a constant source of comfort and support. And now he was gone for good and she had no one to blame but herself.

She stood up, her legs wobbly, and moved toward the shower stalls. She needed to wash away the feeling of being an impostor in her own victory. As she reached for her towel, she heard the locker room door open. Y/N spun around expecting a teammate or her coach. But what she saw instead was him. Garrett Graham. In all his glory.

Garrett stood in the doorway. The hockey hoodie he was wearing was pulled low and his eyes were red, like he was crying too. He looked at her tear-streaked face, though his own was unreadable.

“You… you came” she whispered. Her voice was barely audible.

Garrett didn't answer right away. He closed the distance between them until he was standing just a few feet away. His gaze dropped to the medal, then back to her face. “I wasn't going to come. I really wasn't.”

He ran a hand through his hair. It was a nervous gesture. “But then Allie came over with Dean and she asked me why I wasn't going. I told her it wasn't my place anymore.”

He swallowed hard but his eyes never left hers. “She asked me if I knew why you had been pushing yourself so hard this year.”

Y/N felt her stomach drop. Allie told him?

“I told her it was because you wanted to win.” His jaw tightened but Y/N could see the shame flashing across his features. “ but she just looked at me like I was the biggest idiot she'd ever met. And I was. And then she told me about your scholarship.”

Silence settled between them. Y/N didn't know what to say and Garrett didn't know how to continue the conversation. After a moment of silence, she said quietly,

“She wasn't supposed to tell you.”

“I know. She only told me after I kept insisting that you had chosen tennis over me. She couldn't listen to me say that anymore.” his voice cracked.

Y/N lowered her gaze to the floor, suddenly not knowing how to look at him.

“I didn't know. God, bab– Y/N... I swear I didn't know.”

He sniffled.

“I didn't know that every practice was not just practice, or that every tournament determined whether you'd still be able to afford to stay here. I didn't know that while I was asking you to make more time for me, you were trying to make sure you even had a future to come back to.”

Tears welled in his eyes.

“I thought you were choosing tennis over me. But you weren't choosing between me and tennis at all, were you?” He laughed bitterly, shaking his head.

“You were choosing whether you got to stay at Briar.”

“I wanted to tell you,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

“So many times. Every single time we fought, I wanted to tell you. But I couldn't.”

She wrapped her arms around herself as though trying to hold the pieces together.

“Why?”

“Because I didn't want you to look at me any differently. I didn't want you to see me as someone who couldn't afford to be here without a scholarship. I didn't want you to stay with me because you pitied me. I've spent my whole life trying to prove that I deserved to be here. That I earned my place. The thought of you looking at me and seeing someone who needed saving was just unbearable.” She shook her head.

Garrett closed the remaining distance between them, holding her close to him and hugging her tightly.

“I have never pitied you. In fact, I've only admired you since the day I met you.”

She looked up at him.

“I was just too caught up in feeling lonely to realise that you were drowning.”

His words were laced with regret.

“I should've asked why. Instead, I kept asking you for more. I made you feel like you had to choose, and for that, I'm so so sorry.” He blinked away the tears gathering in his eyes.

“I looked for you today. I knew you wouldn't be there, but I still looked anyway.” Y/N confessed softly and Garrett's eyes fluttered shut for a brief second.

“I was there. I just couldn't bring myself to sit where I used to. So I sat all the way at the back.” A sad smile tugged at his lips. A line tear made its way down his cheek, but she wiped it away with the pad of her thumb. He looked at her,

“I’m not here to ask for forgiveness, because I don’t think I deserve it. I’m here because I couldn't stay away from the girl who showed me what love looks like. I shouldn't have put you on the spot or demanded answers from you like that. I'm so sorry, baby. Do you forgive me?”

Y/N felt a fresh wave of tears, but these were different. They were the first flicker of hope she’d felt in months. She saw the honesty in his eyes. She nodded,

“Yes, and I'm sorry too, for making you feel like you were not a priority. I love you more than I love myself. I wouldn't forgive myself if I had lost y–”

She couldn't even complete the sentence before a sob took over. Garrett was quick to wipe her tears and kiss her forehead in an attempt to calm her down,

“Hey, hey…none of that, baby. It's all in the past, yeah? We're okay, yeah? I'm not going anywhere.”

After she had calmed down, he pulled away from her, his gaze drifting towards the medal on the table. Picking it up, he slipped the it over her head,

“Would you just look at that? My girl's the fucking Champion!”

She gave him a bashful smile and he pulled her in till their lips were almost touching.

“I’m so proud of you,” he breathed against her lips, closing the distance with a kiss that wordlessly conveyed every emotion he felt. They kissed and kissed until it was physically impossible for them to breathe, but he didn't let her go out of his grasp.

“God, I have missed you so much it physically hurts.”

He kissed her again like he had been starving for months. As his hands moved to the small of her back, pulling her flush against him, Y/N felt like nothing else mattered anymore. Everything faded into the background. There was only the warmth of his skin and the beating of his heart beneath her hand. With devotion in his gaze, he looked at her,

“Will you let me show you how much I love you? Let me spend tonight proving what words never could?” he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.

She smiled, her answer written in the way she closed the distance between them.

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Your cheeks heat, anger the only emotion you could feel. Dean Di Laurentis. One of Briar’s beloved defenseman for the hockey team. Everyone loved him, including all of your friends.

But you couldn’t stand him, and he couldn’t stand you.

It was a mutual hatred between the two of you, but typically, you were both good at avoiding each other. Tonight however, you’ve unfortunately found yourself in the same close proximity as the defenseman.

“Only in your dreams do I wish to fuck you, Dean, but even in your dreams, you’d never be that lucky.”

Dean breathes out a laugh, leaning his elbows on the counter, his face now inches from yours. You can’t help but let your eyes search his bright blue ones, dropping down to his lips every now and again.

You’d be crazy to say Dean wasn’t attractive, and maybe that’s why you hate him so much, you’re not sure. His perfectly styled blond hair. Those big, bright blue eyes that shine whenever he smiles, speaking of his smile… Two words.

Panty. Dropping.

He was damn near perfect, and you think that’s what truly irritated you the most about him. Well, that and the fact that he believes that everyone and their mother is in love with him.

“Hey, sweetheart, maybe less daydreaming about fucking me, and more listening when I speak.”

Your narrowed eyes land on his again, that arrogant smirk back in place. Rolling your eyes, you scoff. “As I said, fuck you, Dean.”

You shove your solo cup into his chest, quickly turning on your heels and rushing up the stairs, the sound of Dean’s obnoxious laughter following you up until you slam the bathroom door shut behind you.

Fuck Dean. He’s been in your life for two years now, and it’s never gotten easier. The hatred has only grown, but the unfortunate sexual tension has also grown. You’re not even sure why you feel sexual tension when you’re around him… Why do you have thoughts of fucking the one person you can’t stand? It’s confusing and frustrating all the same.

Hands on your face, you slide down the back of the door until your ass meets the floor. You let out a frustrated groan, placing your hands on the ground to stand, wanting to just leave and go home. You’ve had enough of the night.

Giving yourself one more look in the mirror, you turn on your heels, gripping the door handle and ripping it open. Your eyes go wide before quickly narrowing when you see Dean standing there, fist balled and ready to knock on the bathroom door.

“What do you want, Dean?” you breathe out, frustrated that you can’t seem to escape him tonight.

He smiles, and you truly wish you could slap the smile right off his face. “Just wanted to talk.”

The tone in his voice is laced with sarcasm, that smile on his lips only growing, irritating you more and more with every second that passes.

“Talk about what, exactly? How you’re an arrogant piece of shit who thinks he can say or do whatever the hell he pleases?” you pause, giving him a smile of your own, but it’s dripping in hatred. “I’m good, now if you don’t mind I’m trying to lea-”

Your words die on your tongue when Dean’s large hand presses into your stomach, pushing you back into the bathroom. Your back hits the counter, your eyes now wide as he follows you inside, closing and locking the door behind him.

“Dean…” you whisper, your heart pounding in your chest at how close he is to you.

Dean steps forward, his hands finding your waist, his pretty eyes staring down into yours.

“Why don’t we do what we both actually want, huh? Take care of some of the tension surrounding us.”

You scoff. “What tension?”

The lie tastes bitter on your tongue, there’s obviously a shit ton of tension between the two of you, but you refuse to cross this line with him. It’ll make everything worse.

Smiling, Dean dips his head down, his lips ghosting over yours. The warmth of his breath against your skin sends shivers down your spine, the smell of mint and beer invading your nostrils.

“You know exactly what tension, sweetheart. You and I can’t stand one another, doesn’t mean we’re blind. I’d be lying to myself if I said you weren’t fucking beautiful, a real ten out of ten, and you know you think I’m attractive, I mean, you can’t stop eye-fucking me whenever I’m around you.”

Your breath hitches in your throat, anxious butterflies swarming in your belly. That liquid heat grows between your legs, your thighs squeezing together to try and satiate the ache you feel between them.

Dean’s eyes drop down to your thighs, a smirk playing on his lips again. “So how ‘bout it? We fuck, dissolve some of the tension between us, go back to hating each other in public?”

Your eyes find his, noting his blown pupils, the black nearly swallowing up all of the bright, shining blue. You swallow the knot in your throat, really dancing on the line of giving into him and telling him to go fuck himself.

Without a second thought, you lift up on your toes, pressing your lips against Dean’s in a quick and hesitant kiss. You quickly pull back, unsure of why you just did that. Your heart is now in your throat, your eyes frantically searching Dean’s, wanting to gauge his reaction on the fact that you kissed him.

Dean just smiles, bringing his bottom lip between his teeth before he’s lifting your feet up off the floor, setting you down on the counter and shoving your thighs apart.

Stepping between your parted thighs, Dean settles his hands on your waist, pulling you further down the counter and claiming your mouth in a searing kiss.

Your fingers grip the fabric of his t-shirt, pulling him further into you, deepening the kiss before abruptly pushing him back. Dean’s lips are swollen, slightly parted as he breathes erratically, his eyes searching yours.

“This is just sex, Dean, nothing more. We fuck, we go our separate ways. This doesn’t mean we’re friends, this doesn’t change our dynamic…” you pause, searching his face for any sign of disagreement. When you find none, you continue. “Okay then, let’s do this.”

Dean smiles, swiping his tongue across his bottom lip before he’s kissing you again.

While his mouth moves in quick succession with yours, his hands grip the hem of your shirt, tugging at it. He breaks his lips from yours long enough to pull the flimsy fabric up and over your head, tossing it to the floor behind him.

Your hands find the buckle of his belt, quickly undoing it and pulling it through the loops of his jeans. Dean’s tongue sweeps the inside of your mouth, his teeth biting on your lower lip and pulling a needy moan from you.

“Mmm, I like the sound of that.” Dean rasps, his lips leaving soft kisses on your jaw, down to your neck.

Goosebumps litter your skin, your panties growing wetter with every passing second. Your fingers make quick work on the button and zipper on his jeans, shoving him backward so he can pull them off the rest of the way.

“You’re very needy, aren’t you?” Dean says, his voice smug.

Rolling your eyes, you scoff, working on removing your own jeans as well.

“Fuck you, Di Laurentis, I’m not needy… I’m just horny, and you’re the one who came to me.”

Dropping yourself off the counter, your feet softly hit the floor. You smirk when you see Dean’s eyes devouring you, his bottom lip between his teeth as he watches you slowly slide your jeans down your thighs.

“You’re very needy, aren’t you?” you mock Dean’s words, pulling a laugh from the defenseman.

He steps towards you, roughly shoving your jeans all the way down, making them pool at your ankles. You kick them off the rest of the way, leaving yourself in nothing but black lacey underwear and a matching bra.

“Fuck,” Dean groans, his hands finding your waist again. “Why is it the girl I hate most, is a fucking stunner? Because you are…” Dean’s words halt, his hands running down your waist to your ass, his large palms gripping you and squeezing. His roughly spins you around, your hands finding the cold counter top. “Fucking. Stunning.” Dean breathes out, his hand pressing into your lower back, pressing your stomach and upper half into the countertop.

His hands dip into the top of your underwear, slowly sliding them down your legs, his fingertips leaving goosebumps in their wake.

The cool air from the house hits your slick center the second you’re bared, a shiver running up your spine. “Dean..” you whimper, swaying your hips from side to side.

“She’s got a pretty pussy too, who would’ve thought.”

The gravelly tone of Dean’s voice has your clit throbbing, your thighs squeezing together to try and relieve the ache.

“Dean, stop teasing…” you whimper, arching your back, pressing your ass out further for him.

Dean chuckles, the heat of his body leaving yours as he turns to find his discarded jeans. You look over your shoulder, watching as he digs in his back pocket, finding his wallet and pulling a condom from it.

You close your eyes, breathing in deep through your nose as Dean works on putting the condom on.

Your eyes pop open the second you feel his thick, lubricated head teasing at your entrance. A small gasp escapes you when he slowly pushes the head inside, only to pull it back out and rub it through your folds, teasing your clit.

“Dean Di Laurentis, stop fucking teasing me and fu-”

The words die on your tongue, a loud, drawn out moan taking their place. Dean shoves himself inside you, bottoming out instantly and holding himself there.

“Shit you feel good…” he rasps, his dick twitching inside you.

You grin, clenching yourself around him. He groans, his hands tightly holding onto your hips as he slowly starts to slide out. He pulls out to the head, leaving just the tip inside before harshly shoving back in, making your stomach dip from the feeling.

Dean continues to slide out and shove back in, over and over until he finally sets a steady pace, his hips snapping into your ass in quick succession. Every thrust has your eyes crossing, pussy pulsing.

Wrapping one hand around your hair, Dean yanks your head back, his other hand snaking around your neck and squeezing. You choke on a moan, your pussy tightening around him as he fucks himself inside you, groaning with every thrust.

Dean’s mouth finds yours, his tongue instantly shoving into your mouth and brushing against your own. He pulls back, strings of your saliva still connecting your mouths. His blue eyes bore into yours, his thrusts picking up in speed as he says, “Fuck, why haven’t we done this sooner? Your pussy feels so good, who knew hate sex could feel so damn good?”

You groan, that warm, tingling sensation building in your lower stomach. Your pussy pulses, clenching around Dean over and over again as you near your orgasm.

“Dean, I- Fuck, I’m gonna cum..”

Dean’s hand tightens around your throat, subsequently cutting off your oxygen. Your lips slightly part, desperate to suck in a breath of air as Dean’s other hand tightens around your hair, fisting it and keeping your head held back against his chest.

Picking up his pace, Dean’s dick swells and twitches inside of you, signaling that he’s also close to his release.

Pressing his lips harshly against yours, Dean thrusts deep inside you once, twice, three more times before you’re falling over the edge, black spots taking over your vision as you come undone around him. Dean’s not far behind, shoving himself deep inside you before he too is coming inside the condom.

After the two of you come down from your shared highs, Dean removes his hands from your throat and hair, letting you suck in precious oxygen you’d been craving. He slowly removes himself from inside you, a shudder running through you as he does.

The thoughts of what you just did start to creep in, making your face heat. Why did you just have sex with Dean Di Laurentis? You swore to yourself you’d never give into him, and now here you are, thoroughly fucked and satisfied, but pissed at yourself for it all at the same time.

You hate that he was actually good at sex more than anything.

Quietly, you begin picking your discarded clothes up off the floor, quickly redressing. As you go to pull your shirt over your head, an already fully dressed Dean circles your elbow with his hand, pulling you into him.

You slap at his chest, trying to shove him back, but it just makes him laugh.

“Dean, let go!” you shout, but he doesn’t listen, only tightens his grip.

“This was fun, Y/L/N, let’s do it again sometime, yeah?”

You roll your eyes, shoving his chest again. “No. We agreed, one time, no more.”

“That was before I knew how good you felt wrapped around me.” Dean retorts.

“I- No, Dean. We’re never doing this again.”

Dean finally releases you, that smug smile on his face, those dimples popping and making you hate him even more for making you want him again.

“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

Releasing your arm, Dean steps back, allowing you to slip your shirt on. You keep your eyes on him, hating the way he’s smiling at you.

“Move, Dean.”

He steps to the side, hands up in surrender. You grab the door handle, yanking it open to find multiple pairs of eyes on you. Dean moves to stand behind you, everyone now seeing him in the bathroom with you. Your face turns a bright shade of red, turning to face Dean.

The smile on his face has you annoyed, he’s enjoying this.

“Fuck you, Dean.”

“Time and place, baby. Time and place.”

“It’s not that I didn’t go to prom, but honestly, it wasn’t that great. The decorations were tacky and still had the tags from the dollar store on them, and I just couldn’t enjoy myself knowing that my Nana had just been moved to palliative care.”

“Shit.” Garrett breathed, settling next to her on the couch. “It’s okay, I didn’t go to mine. I had hockey commitments.”

She had laughed grimly, leaning back into the cushions. “And now my brother is going to prom and he’s going to have such a great time, and all it’s doing is reminding me what I missed out on.”

She had almost forgotten about that conversation. Why would she have remembered? Life moves on, and you don’t often get a chance for a do over. She was learning to make her peace with that.

Until one night in May when she got a text from Garrett asking her to wear something nice and come over to the hockey house that weeekend. She didn’t know what to expect when she donned a floor-length dress from Winners and a pair of heels, driving her ancient Tiguan to Garrett’s house.

What she certainly had not expected was to walk into the hockey house’s back yard to find string lights everywhere, a massive balloon arch and a dance floor made out of plywood and shipping pallets.

In the middle of it all was Garrett Graham, holding a plastic box from the local florist. Inside was a corsage that matched the flower pinned on the jacket of his suit.

“Garrett,” she breathed, almost giggling as Garrett took her hand, wrapping the ribbon from the corsage around her wrist. “what is all of this?”

Garrett beamed, his cheeks slightly flushed under the slowly setting sun. “The prom we never had.”

“Hi, YN!” Logan called from the balcony above them. “What do you think of the balloon arch? Tucker and I spent days working on it!”

“Looks great, Logan!” She laughed, craning her head to look up at him.

“Awesome! Just grabbing the extension cord for my speaker and Grace and I will be right down!”

Laughing, she turned back to Garrett, pulling him for a soft kiss. The only thing Garrett had done wrong was allowing Taylor Swift’s most overplayed songs to worm their way into the playlist- at Hannah’s request, and YN knew that Garrett wouldn’t want to risk pissing off Justin Kohl and causing problems in Hannah’s relationship.

“I love it.”

Linking arms with Garrett, she allowed the hockey player to lead her towards the wooden dance floor, which creaked concerningly under the weight of Tucker and Sabrina, who were dancing in the center.

“YN!” Hannah called, thrusting her drink into Justin’s waiting hands before rushing over towards her. “Come dance with us!”

The song changed, and Allie’s scream echoed across the back yard. A rockabilly guitar track started to play in the background, and YN allowed Hannah to pull her over to the dance floor as they started to sing Paradise By The Dashboard Light.

“Who put the bloody show tunes on?” Justin complained from his seat at the patio table.

Dean shrugged, stepping off the dance floor to grab a fresh beer from the cooler. “It’s Meat Loaf. Hardly qualifies as show tunes.”

“Fuck right off, this is the official Broadway recording.”

Tucker shook his head, joining the men at the table. “I was raised on Meat Loaf. The original beats the Broadway version any day.”

“Care to weigh in, G?” Dean asked, guzzling his Miller Lite.

Garrett had a lot to say on the matter, mostly about how fucking stupid the argument was, but as he stared at the way that his girlfriend danced with her friends, screaming along to the chorus, he couldn’t find the desire to argue.

She looked fucking stunning. More so than that, she looked happy.

Growing tired of the current track, Dean grabbed the wireless microphone and his iPhone, dramatically allowing the show tunes to fade out.

“Ladies and gentlemen, and Jules, we love you, welcome to the first annual Briar Hockey Prom!” He shouted, pausing dramatically as Jules threw an ice cube at him. “None of this wouldn’t have been possible without the one and only Garrett Graham. You may now clap.”

Garrett flipped Dean off as the backyard offered up snaps and laughter. She hooked her arm around Garrett’s, laughing as she kissed his cheek.

“This one is for Garrett and YN.”

Dean bowed dramatically as the opening bars of No One Like You by the Scorpions began to play.

Garrett laughed, turning to face her. “Care to have this dance?”

She giggled, glowing as she followed Garrett onto the makeshift platform, allowing him to spin her around a few times while Jules and Grace blew from bubble wands around them.

“This is fantastic.” She laughed, pressing up against Garrett and draping her arms around his shoulders. “Far better than my actual prom was.” She pressed her forehead against his, swaying her body gently and in time with his.

“You deserve the world, sweetheart. And I’ll stop playing hockey before I fail to give it to you.”

He kissed her gently, his hands warm through her dress. She felt at home in his arms. In her $30 dress from Winners and her cheap high heels that she’d had for years, she felt happier than she had in a long time.

“I love you, Garrett Graham.”

Garrett opened his mouth to respond, not watching where he was going as he stepped backwards. He stumbled off the end of the pallets, almost pulling YN down with him.

“Son of a bitch!” Garrett cursed. “Who built this goddamn thing?”

“There’s nothing wrong with my handiwork, G!” Logan shouted from the lawn, where he was dancing with Grace. “Watch where you’re going next time.”

Laughing, she rolled off him, kicking off her shoes and sinking her bare feet into the damp grass. She helped Garrett to his feet, and he couldn’t erase his smile as he danced with her in the grass.

The final buzzer sounded, and for a second, you stood there, unable to breathe — not because you hadn’t seen it coming, but because you’d watched the clock bleed down for the last minute, your heart lodged in your throat with every brutal second.

The Bruins had been up by one, the other team’s goalie pulled, the entire arena on its feet and screaming so loudly you could feel it more than hear it. But when the horn finally went off, when the gloves started flying, and the bench spilled onto the ice, you went completely still.

Garrett Graham had won — the boy you’d known at Briar before Boston, before the cameras, before the whole world started saying his name as they’d always known who he was. The boy who’d carried more than he ever let anyone see and still acted like nothing hurt badly enough to keep him off the ice.

After everything, Garrett had won the Stanley Cup.

Around you, the arena erupted. People were crying and hugging, screaming into their phones, grabbing at your shoulders like you needed someone to tell you what’d just happened, but you understood what this meant, maybe better than anyone else in the arena. You understood the late-night phone calls after bad games, the ice packs, the silent drives home, and all the nights Garrett walked through the door, exhausted but still trying to smile, because he hated making you worry.

And on the ice, half buried beneath his teammates and a mess of black-and-gold jerseys, Garrett was laughing.

You caught glimpses of his face between helmets, his mouth open in a grin that looked almost too big for him, eyes bright, and damp hair a mess from where someone had ripped his helmet off in the chaos. One of his teammates caught him by the shoulders and hauled him upright, only for another to crash into him from behind, arms locking around him as laughter, shouting, and tears blurred together around them. Somewhere in the middle of it all, someone kept yelling Garrett’s name.

And then, in the middle of all that noise, Garrett turned.

He wasn’t looking for the Cup.

His eyes searched the glass, the family section, the blur of hands and towels and camera flashes, and your hand came up to your mouth before you realized you were moving, because there he was, looking right at you.

The noise, the cameras, the crowd — all of it fell away.

His grin changed the second his eyes landed on yours, still bright with disbelief, but softer now, as if in the loudest moment of his life, he’d found the one quiet thing he needed.

You didn’t realize you’d started crying until the glass blurred in front of you.

Garrett pointed at you, then at the ice beneath him, like you were supposed to know exactly what he meant.

Get down here.

You laughed through the tears, shaking your head because your shoes were absolutely not made for championship ice, but Garrett only said something you couldn’t hear, his face making the meaning clear.

Baby.

He gestured again, more impatient this time, and you laughed through your tears because, obviously, he wasn’t going to let this go.

By the time someone helped you down to the ice, your hands were shaking. You stepped forward carefully, gripping the boards with one hand while the other pressed uselessly to your chest, like that might keep your heart where it belonged.

Garrett was already skating toward you, still in full gear, sweaty and breathless and looking at you like the Cup could wait.

“Careful,” he said, laughing as he caught you by the waist. “I didn’t win the Cup just to watch you eat shit on national television.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out closer to a sob. “You won.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, like he was still trying to believe it. “I won.”

He pulled you against him hard enough that the pads made it clumsy, and somehow that only made you cry harder. You clutched the back of his jersey, your fingers brushing over the name across his shoulders — GRAHAM — like you needed to feel it before you could believe it.

“You did it,” you whispered.

Garrett’s arms tightened around you. “We did it.”

You pulled back just enough to see his face. “Garrett.”

“I’m serious.” His eyes were red now, and he looked almost annoyed about it, which was so painfully him that you nearly laughed. “You were there for all of it.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“No.” His gloved hand came up carefully, clumsy against your cheek. “You were there for everything that mattered.”

The tears came harder. Someone was calling for Garrett to lift the Cup, but all you could feel was his hand against your cheek, still shaking from the win and trying to be gentle with you even through the gloves.

“You should go,” you whispered, even though you still hadn’t let go of him. “They’re waiting for you.”

Garrett looked over his shoulder, where his teammates were already gathering around the Cup, bright under the arena lights and waiting for him, before looking back at you.

“I wanted to see you first.”

Your breath caught. “What?”

His forehead touched yours, his breath warm against your face despite the cold coming off the ice. “Baby, I just won the Stanley Cup. You really thought I wasn’t coming to you first?”

You kissed him because if you tried to answer, you’d only cry again.

Garrett made a rough sound against your mouth and kissed you back like he didn’t care who was watching, like he’d spent the last minute of the game holding himself together and you were the first place he could finally let go. One hand stayed at your waist while the other slid to the back of your neck, keeping you close as the arena roared around you.

When you pulled back, Garrett was grinning again, all breathless and stupidly pleased with himself.

“There she is,” he murmured, his grin softening.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m a Stanley Cup champion.”

“You’re still an idiot.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, still grinning. “You’re an idiot.”

You glanced down at your ring, glittering under the arena lights, then back at him. “Apparently.”

Garrett laughed, bright and breathless, and it hit you all over again how happy he was.

Someone yelled his name again, louder this time, and Garrett groaned like having to leave you to lift the Stanley Cup was a personal inconvenience.

You pressed a hand to his chest. “Go.”

He pointed at you, already backing away. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“I’m standing on ice, Garrett. Trust me, moving is not my priority.”

His grin went crooked. “That’s my girl.”

His grin went crooked. “That’s my girl.”

Heat rushed to your face so fast you were grateful for the noise around you.

His eyes darkened for half a second, just enough to make your stomach dip, even with half the arena watching. Then he kissed your forehead and skated backward, still watching you until one of his teammates finally shoved him toward the Cup.

The rest of it blurred after that.

The rest of it blurred after that: the photos, the champagne, the locker room interviews, Garrett lifting the Cup over his head with a laugh like he still couldn’t believe it was real. And still, between every obligation, he found you — a hand at your waist as he passed, a kiss to your temple, his fingers squeezing yours like he needed to make sure you were still there.

By the time you made it back to the hotel, his medal was still around his neck, his dress shirt was half-unbuttoned, and his hair was damp from a shower he’d clearly rushed through, because patience had never been one of Garrett Graham’s strengths after a win.

He shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, his eyes dragging over you like he was finally allowed to look.

You kicked off your heels, trying not to smile under the weight of his stare. “What?”

Garrett shook his head, a slow smile tugging at his mouth. “Just looking.”

“You’ve been staring all night.”

“Yeah.” His eyes moved over you, slow enough to make your pulse jump. “I’m not done.”

He crossed the room before you could answer, catching you by the waist and pulling you into him. The medal pressed cold between your bodies, and you gasped into his mouth. Garrett smiled as he knew exactly why.

“You know,” you murmured, fingers slipping into his damp hair, “most Stanley Cup champions would be downstairs celebrating.”

“Most Stanley Cup champions don’t get to come back upstairs to you.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Not bad.”

“It was smooth,” Garrett protested.

“You used the Cup. That’s cheating.”

Garrett kissed you again, deeper this time, until whatever smart comment you had left disappeared against his mouth. He tasted like champagne and mint, and his hands moved over you with the kind of hunger that made it obvious he’d been holding himself back all night, every camera, every interview, every hand pulling him away only making him want you more.

His mouth found your neck, and your head tipped back before you could stop yourself.

“Garrett,” you breathed.

He hummed against your skin. “Again.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “Your name?”

“Yeah.” His hand slid under the hem of your dress, warm on your thigh. “Everyone’s been saying my name all night. I like it better from you.”

Your fingers tightened in his damp hair.

His mouth curved against your throat. “That’s it.”

The bed hit the back of your knees, and Garrett followed you down, still careful despite the adrenaline humming under his skin. That was Garrett — possessive enough to make your whole body go hot, gentle enough to wreck you.

He pushed your dress higher, spreading your thighs with a slow, deliberate kind of focus before pressing his mouth to the sensitive skin there. “Everyone kept wanting the Cup,” he murmured, voice low.

“And what did you want?”

His eyes lifted to yours, dark and steady. “I wanted my girl.”

The words hit low in your stomach, and his mouth followed, kissing higher until your breath caught. After that, there wasn’t much room left for teasing — only his hands on you, your fingers twisting in the sheets, and the medal pressing cool against your stomach when Garrett moved back over you. He kissed you through every shaky sound he pulled from you, murmuring praise against your lips like he couldn’t get enough of being the reason you came apart.

When he finally slid into you, slow and careful despite the way his whole body was tense with wanting, his forehead dropped to yours.

“You with me?”

You nodded, breathless and overwhelmed. “Yeah.”

His jaw tightened; his body held tense above yours. “Use your words, baby.”

Your heart twisted, because even now, with all that want shaking through him, he was still Garrett — careful where it mattered.

“I’m okay,” you whispered. “Don’t stop.”

His control slipped just enough for his next thrust to go deeper, rougher, stealing the breath from your lungs. After that, he kept the same relentless rhythm, pushing you closer every time you tried to swallow a sound and he caught you doing it.

“No,” he murmured, catching your jaw in his hand. “Let me hear you.”

“Garrett—”

“That’s it,” he breathed.

You came around him with his name breaking out of you, the medal pressed cool between your bodies as your nails dragged down his back and he held you through every second of it. Garrett followed not long after, face buried in your neck, your name coming out rough and wrecked against your skin, the sound making your chest ache.

Downstairs, the celebration was still going. Up here, Garrett stayed pressed against you, his breathing slowly evening out against your skin.

You touched the back of his neck, smiling softly. “You won the Stanley Cup.”

He lifted his head, eyes soft and smug and fixed entirely on you.

“Yeah,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your ring. “And somehow, this is still the best part of my night.”

You rolled your eyes, even as your throat tightened. “That was terrible.”

Garrett grinned and kissed you again.

“You love me,” he murmured against your mouth.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I really do.”

Before the Cup, before the cameras, before everyone else got to celebrate him, Garrett had looked for you first.

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You're a big fan of easy. Casual sex leaves you with enough time to spend on your real commitments. You're the president of your sorority, a full time student and you volunteer at a local animal shelter. Overall, a pretty good amount of you time is spent not on boys, and you prefer it that way.

Meeting Garrett Graham was like all the stars were aligning. You were like two non-monogamous puzzle pieces fitting together perfectly. It was fantastic.

Garrett Graham was a beast in bed. He had a reputation for his skills, but actually experiencing it was a whole other thing. He was strong, throwing you around like a ragdoll in the sheet in a way that made your breath catch and adrenaline pumping. He was the perfect way to blow off steam after a hard day.

As time went on, you got to know each other a bit better. The more you knew about each other, the better the sex was. It wasn't about becoming closer for sappy reasons, at least that's what you told yourself.

You started coming to his games. Not because you were being supportive, but because he was so high on the win he was likely need you to take it out on. He would show up to sorority events, buying raffle tickets and whatever else you were selling, giving you that dashing smile and a wink as he did so. Obviously, he wasn't doing it for you. He was donating to a good cause, that's all.

There were no labels. Not even when both of you stopped seeing other people subconsciously. Not even when he would sneak into your sorority house to spend the night. Not even when you wore his jersey to a game. Not even when you spent entire parties in his lap, playing with his hair and him playing with your fingers. You were not dating, and that should be obvious to anyone with common sense.

It was until you were setting up your most recent philanthropist event with your Vice-President.

She casually asked you, "Isn't your 6 month anniversary coming up soon? What are you guys doing?"

You were in the middle of hanging the balloon arch and didn't fully register her question, humming a quick. "With who?"

She scoffed, looking at you like had sprouted a second head. "With Garrett?"

You froze, the arch slipping out of your hands. It had not only been 6 months, but even one of your close friend thought you were dating. This wasn't supposed to be happening. You weren't supposed to be so attached to one guy that you have an unofficial anniversary.

That night you came to a conclusion that made you stomach flip. You convinced yourself the queasy feeling you had was due to some bad sushi from earlier. You had to convince the rest of the student body you were not dating Garrett Graham.

The next day was a major philanthropist event for your sorority. You were raising money for a local organization that supports at-risk youth, and you needed it to be a success.

There was live music, lots of socializing and few spiked drinks floating around as donation fluttered in.

As usual, Garrett and the other hockey boys showed up fashionably late. They likely had practice before this, you thought, as Garrett's curls were damp from a recent shower. He looked good with his hair not perfect and a fitted tee shirt defining his chest.

"You're drooling." Your Vice-President whispered, a smirk on her face.

You scoffed, turning away quickly and focusing on the refreshments in front of you. Some guy from the football team approached you, a big dumb grin on his face like he knew he was hot shit. It made you eye twitch.

"Ladies," He nodded at the two of you. "Looking good, as usual."

Your Vice-President gave him a thin lipped smile and you fought the urge to roll your eyes. You caught Garrett's eye over the meathead's shoulder. He was watching you, his own lips pursed in a way that worried you. Was that jealousy?

You forced back you disgust, plastering a smile on your face would put a beauty queen to shame and held out a cup of punch. "Thanks, Jeff."

He looked surprise at your reaction, eyes widening as he took the cup. "It's Jake."

"Uh huh." You lightly acknowledged, glancing at Garrett again. His fists were clenched around the neck of his beer bottle so hard you feared it would shatter.

Jeff left, accepting your pitiful excuse for conversation. You weren't done though. Everyone had to know you were still out there, as free as ever to flirt and fuck whoever you wanted. Despite this mission, none of the guys appealed to you. They were good looking, sure. But everytime your eyes scanned the room for you next victim, they landed on Garrett.

Even though you couldn't find someone to peak your interest, you seemed to have caught the eye of someone else. A tall guy approached you, his floppy dark hair and eyes were at least appealing. You spoke to him for a while, letting him eye you up like you were a slab of meat being served to him. Did you used to like this? Being eyed this way? Maybe you did, but right now your brain was screaming at you to find an excuse to slip away covertly.

A crash came from somewhere in the room make some people gasp. Although you didn't know where it came from, and didn't care about it in general, you used as a get out quick scheme, "Excuse me." You said, smiling gently. You walk away like a lady, wiping your sweaty palm on your pink dress as your expression shifted to one of annoyance.

You escaped into the back of the kitchen by the pantry, taking the moment to breath. You hated this. Why did you hate this?

Footsteps approached, slapping on the hard tile of the room and echoing off the walls. You prayed it wasn't whatever his name is, following you into the pantry like you were implying wanting a quickie.

You let out a sigh of relief as Garrett came into view, his hands in his pockets. You couldn't help yourself. You threw your arms around his neck, holding him tightly.

"You have no idea how happy I am to see you." You promised, letting the scent of his woodsy body wash float around you.

Garrett's big hand held you, but he was tense. "You sure? You seemed determined to talk to every guy here but me."

You pulled back, studying his face. He was angry, but was great at masking it. "Are you jealous?" You blurted out before you could stop yourself.

He took in a deep breath, pacing in a little circle in deep thought. "I didn't like seeing you with other guys."

You bit your lip, the statement making you buzz with an odd happiness. "Why? We're casual-"

"I know," Garrett interrupting, putting a hand out to stop you. His tongue poked the inside of his cheek, "I'm not sure I want that anymore."

You cocked your head, "You're a boyfriend-girlfriend guy now?"

Garrett shook his head. "No."

You snorted, crossing your arms. "Then why-"

"Only for you," He was developing a habit of interrupting you. "I only want to a boyfriend for you."

You felt like someone knocked the wind out of you. As you stared at the brunette before you, something clicked. You didn't want to talk to those guys because you wanted to talk to Garrett. You didn't find any of them attractive because you only found Garrett attractive. Just like when you met, all the puzzle pieces were fitting together perfectly.

"Oh honey," You breathed, stepping forward to hold his hand. He took in a deep breath, anticipating your rejection. "I only want you be your girlfriend too."

You're tired, exhausted in fact, it's been one of the longest days you've had in a while. Your professors synced up to be the biggest assholes ever, lectures running long making you late to the others, You had a long shift at your job at the library that resulted in missing your boyfriend's hockey game and now you two were fighting, you don't even know what the beginning of the argument had been, just that it had been going on for too long and it was making your headache worse but you refused to lose.

"We've been through this before" Garret huffed.

"And I've told you before, I'm not interested so drop it" You retaliated.

"We've gotta compromise here babe" He uses the pet name as a weapon.

"You have to compromise" You're not even trying to make sense anymore "I dont care, I'm done with this argument" You sit down on the desk and pull the makeup remover wipes you keep there out to start getting out of your makeup.

"Well I'm not, and while we're on this topic-" You cut him up by turning around, sighing and lifting your shirt to flash him, it stuns him for a second and that's enough for you to decide the discussion's over, you turn back to the little mirror and start wiping away "No… no, you can't just use your boobs as a weapon" He frowns "We're still talki-"

You turn around and do it again "I swear to God if you keep talking I'll just take it off and do the rest of my nightime routine shirtless"

"Is that supposed to make me shut up? Because it feels more like an insentive to keep-"

You cut him off once more "Garrett, I have a pounding headache, have had the longest day ever and all I want is to crawl into bed and pass out for a few days, keep talking and I'm putting you on a sex ban"

His face melts, he realizes how tired you look and instead of fighting back he nods and leaves the room, you think it is because he's still mad and finish your routine with a frown on your face, you would go downstairs and look for him but you're exhausted, so instead you get into his bed and bury yourself into the blankets, you'll talk to him tomorrow, apologize and compromise or whatever it was he wanted you to do.

Garrett was't angry though, he wasn't looking for apologies and he hadn't left to give you space, he makes his way back upstairs and enters his room with a pill in one hand and a glass of water in the other "Here baby" His voice is soft, a complete contrast to the volume he'd been using before while you were arguing "Take this before you fall asleep, so you don't wake up with a headache"

You take the pill, swallow it with some water and then move aside signaling for him to lay next to you "'m sorry" You mumble.

"I'm sorry too" He kisses your forehead "But don't think flashing me your boobs will win you every argument ever"

You hum into his chest "We'll see"