Maylea Orlaith

“How are my boys faring?” Blythe asked as she stood next to them. Both turned to her with a smile, Don hugged her as they talked.

“We are good, ready to take the win.” Ryan said as he looked around them. “Where is y/n?” Blythe smiled before she answered him.

“She went and got a drink, she should be back soon,” She didn’t say anything about the person sneaking up behind him. His hat was taken and he spun around to see who had taken it. 

“You know what they say,” The person said as they placed the hat on her head. 

“I’m sorry to say I already have a wife,” Ryan smiled as he stepped into her space. “She can get very jealous and possessive.” Hands on her hips as she hers wrapped around his neck.

“Is that so?” she questioned.

“Yes, so you may want to hand it back before she comes for you.” She nodded as she started to pull away only to have him tighten his grip and kiss her. He felt her smile into the kiss as he mumbled against her lips. “Hi, my love.” 

“ Hi,” Whispered back as she locked eyes. “You ready?” 

“Born ready.” 

“Like I said, you know the rule,” She grinned leaning up to his ear, “I’ll honor the rule if you win.” Ryan grinned right back just as Don called him over to start getting ready for their turn. 

She went and sat with Blythe as they watched their husbands win the competition, that was no surprise. Hart boys were very competitive after all. 

Her promise was kept.

The end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Masterlist

The first thing you realized was that Dean Di Laurentis wasn’t good at begging without making it dramatic.

The second thing you learned was that Dean absolutely hated being bad at anything.

“No,” you answered.

Dean blinked at you from across the kitchen table as your answer had personally offended him. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“You said, ‘I need a huge favor,’ and then looked at me like you were about to ruin my entire week,” you told him, taking a sip of your coffee. “That was enough.”

Hannah pressed her lips together beside you like she was trying very hard not to laugh.

Allie didn’t bother trying.

She leaned back in her chair, already grinning into her mug. “This is my favorite conversation.”

Dean gave her a look. “No one asked you.”

“You showed up in our dorm at nine in the morning.”

“It’s almost ten.”

“On a Saturday,” Allie added. “That’s basically dawn.”

Dean ignored her and turned back to you, his hands braced on the table. His hair was messy, his hoodie was wrinkled, and he had the faintly panicked look of someone who’d made several bad decisions and was only now realizing consequences existed.

It wasn’t an unfamiliar expression on him.

“Just hear me out,” he tried.

“Absolutely not.”

“[Y/N], come on.”

“Dean, no.”

“I’m serious this time.”

“That’s when you’re usually most dangerous.”

Hannah finally gave up, laughing softly into her hand.

Dean pointed at her. “Don’t encourage this.”

“She doesn’t need encouragement,” Hannah said. “She’s doing great on her own.”

You gave him a sweet smile.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Deeply.”

“You don’t even know what I’m about to ask.”

“I know it involves you, your family, and the phrase ‘huge favor,’ so that tells me everything I need to know.”

Dean exhaled and dragged a hand through his hair. “Okay, fine. I may have accidentally told my parents I’m seeing someone.”

Allie went quiet, Hannah looked up, and you lowered your coffee like the conversation had suddenly earned your full attention.

Dean looked between the three of you, suddenly defensive. “It made sense at the time.”

You stared at him. “No, it didn’t.”

“You don’t have the context.”

“Was the context that you lied?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

Allie leaned forward like she’d been waiting for this. “Oh, this is good.”

Dean let out a groan. “It’s not good.”

“It’s incredible,” she corrected. “Keep going.”

Dean shot her a glare before turning back to you. “They’ve been on my ass lately about taking things seriously.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Wonder why.”

His gaze cut to yours. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m still listening.”

“You’re judging me with your whole face.”

“I’m capable of both.”

Hannah touched your arm like she was asking you, very nicely, to let him finish.

You leaned back with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Go on.”

Dean looked like he was starting to regret coming here, which was satisfying.

“My family’s hosting this charity weekend,” he started. “Country club, hotel, dinner, auction, donor thing, the whole nightmare.”

“That sounds expensive and exhausting,” Allie said.

“It is.” Dean pointed at her as Allie had just proven his point. “Exactly.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m still waiting for the part where this becomes my problem.”

“I’m getting there, okay?”

“I’m getting older,” you added, watching Dean clench his jaw.

Hannah tried to hide another smile.

“My mom asked if I was bringing anyone,” Dean admitted. “And I said yes.”

You waited for him to keep going, and when Dean didn’t, you narrowed your eyes.

“Dean,” you warned, watching him look away. “Dean.”

“I panicked,” he admitted.

“You panicked,” you repeated, because somehow that explained nothing.

“She got weirdly intense.”

“She asked whether you had a date.”

“She asked it like it meant something.”

“Oh my god, Dean.”

“And then my dad made this comment about wanting to meet whoever finally got me to settle down, and I didn’t correct him fast enough, so now my parents think I have a serious girlfriend.”

The room went quiet for about two seconds before Allie burst out laughing.

Dean pointed at her again, which only made her laugh harder. “This isn’t funny.”

“It’s kind of funny,” Hannah admitted.

“It’s actually very funny,” you told him.

Dean looked at you like you’d personally wounded him. “I’m in crisis.”

“You’re dealing with consequences.”

“I need your help.”

“You need a reality check.”

“I need a girlfriend.”

“I need a girlfriend,” Dean blurted, and you nearly choked on your coffee.

Allie made a delighted little sound, and Hannah looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

Dean held up both hands before you could react. “Fake girlfriend.”

“No,” you told him, setting your mug down hard.

“You haven’t even heard the full plan yet.”

“There’s no plan in the world that ends with me pretending to date you.”

“That’s actually hurtful.”

“That feels fair.”

Dean leaned across the table and lowered his voice, as if that would make him more convincing. “It’s one weekend.”

“No.”

“It’s three days.”

“Still no.”

“Two nights, technically.”

“Not a chance.”

“I’ll owe you big.”

“You already owe me after you told Logan I liked his haircut and he thanked me for twenty minutes.”

Dean winced at that. “That was an accident.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘[Y/N] thinks you look hot.’”

“I was just trying to distract him.”

“Distract him from what, exactly?”

Dean paused before admitting, “I don’t remember.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He sighed your name, long and pleading.

You hated that your name always sounded softer when he said it like that, and you hated it even more because part of you noticed anyway. After all, that was the thing, you didn’t hate Dean the way you pretended to.

Hating Dean Di Laurentis would’ve been a lot easier if he weren’t so hard to like.

He was arrogant, irritating, shamelessly dramatic, and way too pleased with himself, the kind of guy who flirted like it was a reflex and teased you because he knew exactly how to get under your skin. He stole fries from your plate whenever you sat with Hannah and Allie at Malone’s, called you “sunshine” when you glared at him, and “sweetheart” when he was clearly trying to get something thrown at his head.

But he was also usually the first one to notice when Hannah got overwhelmed in crowded rooms, to cover Allie’s drink when someone brushed too close to it, and to walk you home when it got late, like it wasn’t a big deal.

Dean was irritating and had always been in trouble, but he also had a way of looking at people that made him notice more than he should.

You found that deeply inconvenient.

“No,” you repeated, because apparently he needed to hear it twice.

Dean’s shoulders slumped. “You don’t even want to know what’s in it for you?”

“No.”

“I’ll get you tickets to the next game.”

“I already know too many hockey players.”

“I’ll make Garrett stop calling you scary.”

“I actually like it when Garrett calls me scary.”

“I’ll get Logan to stop flirting with your friend.”

“You absolutely can’t.”

Dean considered that for a second, then nodded. “Fair.”

Allie leaned closer to you. “You should ask for money.”

Dean looked genuinely offended. “I’m not paying someone to date me.”

“You’re not,” you told him, “because I’m not dating you.”

“Fake dating,” Dean corrected.

“Somehow, still no.”

He looked at Hannah as if he were getting desperate. “Help me.”

Hannah lifted both hands. “I’m not getting involved.”

“You’re already involved,” Dean told her. “This is your apartment.”

“That’s not how involvement works.”

Dean looked back at you, and for the first time since he’d shown up, the panic slipped into something quieter.

“Please,” he murmured.

The word landed differently this time.

It wasn’t dramatic this time. It wasn’t teasing. It was just Dean, looking at you like he really needed you to say yes.

Your chest tightened before you could stop it.

Damn him for making it harder to say no.

You hated that seeing him genuinely stressed made it harder to stay annoyed. It was much easier to say no when Dean was being insufferable, not when he looked like he actually needed you.

“Why me?” You looked at him, trying not to sound like you were already considering it.

Dean blinked, thrown for half a second, like he hadn’t expected you to ask.

Then he straightened slightly, like the answer was obvious once he said it. “Because they’ll believe you.”

You frowned at him. “Why?”

“Because you don’t act like someone who would put up with me unless you wanted to.”

Allie snorted into her mug, and you shot her a look.

She held up both hands, still grinning. “Sorry. That was good.”

You looked back at Dean, trying not to think too hard about what he’d just said, but he was watching you carefully now, without the smirk or the teasing, and that made it harder not to.

“Also,” he added, a little quieter, “you’re good with people. My mom will like you, my dad will think you’re smart, and you won’t get intimidated by my family or let me say something stupid without kicking me under the table.”

“You say stupid things all the time.”

“Exactly. I need supervision.”

You looked away first, which felt annoyingly close to a loss. That was a mistake, because Allie immediately let out a soft little gasp as she’d just witnessed something historic.

“Oh my god,” Allie gasped. “You’re considering it.”

“I’m not.”

Hannah tilted her head like she was trying to be gentle about it. “You kind of are.”

“I’m not,” you insisted, which didn’t help your case. Dean’s eyes lit up with dangerous hope, and you pointed at him before he could say anything. “Don’t look excited.”

“I’m not,” Dean said, looking extremely excited.

“You are,” you told him.

“I’m cautiously optimistic.”

“You should be afraid.”

“I can multitask,” he said, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You dragged both hands over your face.

This was ridiculous. It was ridiculous. It was exactly the sort of thing you shouldn’t agree to under any circumstances.

Dean Di Laurentis was a lot of things, but boyfriend material wasn’t one of them.

He was flirt-at-a-party material, bad-decision-after-midnight material, the kind of guy who looked good leaning against counters and bad for your common sense. Charming when he wanted something, dangerous when he smiled, and completely unqualified to be anyone’s serious boyfriend, especially yours. Fake or not.

“No kissing,” you told him, and Dean went still.

Dean’s smile spread slowly. “So you’re considering it.”

“I’m setting a condition.”

“That sounds a lot like considering.”

“I can still say no, Dean.”

“You won’t.”

“I absolutely can, actually.”

“But you won’t.”

You leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Do you want my help, or do you want to die?”

Dean, for once, made the smart choice and closed his mouth.

You pointed at him. “No kissing unless necessary.”

“Define necessary.”

“You know exactly what necessary means.”

“I do, but I’m getting the feeling your definition is stricter than mine.”

“My definition includes your mouth staying away from mine most of the weekend.”

Dean’s eyes flicked briefly to your mouth, so briefly that you almost convinced yourself you’d imagined it.

Almost.

Then he looked back up at you, expression so maddeningly innocent it had to be fake. “The majority?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, which only made him smile.

You hated him.

You hated him.

You were starting to think that might be a problem.

“No sex,” you added, sharper this time.

Allie choked on a laugh.

Hannah breathed, “Oh my god.”

Dean blinked once, then twice, before his mouth curved. “Sweetheart,” he murmured slowly, “I hadn’t even brought that up.”

Heat rushed to your face. “That’s why I’m bringing it up first.”

“Very responsible of you.”

“I’ll stab you with this spoon.”

Dean’s grin widened. “Fake relationship rule number two. No sex.”

“Rule number one,” you corrected, “is no kissing unless necessary.”

“Right. Very tragic rule.”

“Rule number three,” you went on, ignoring him. “No feelings.”

Dean raised an eyebrow like that was exactly the wrong thing to say. “Were you worried?”

“Yes. For you.”

Dean laughed. “For me?”

“You seem emotionally fragile.”

“I’m already devastated.”

“Rule number four,” you continued. “No calling each other boyfriend or girlfriend when no one is around.”

Dean’s smile shifted slightly, just for a second, before it came back.

“Why not?” Dean wanted to know.

“Because that’s weird.”

“We’re pretending to date for an entire weekend, sharing a hotel room, and lying to my parents, but boyfriend is where you draw the line?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

“It’s not interesting, Dean.”

“It’s kind of interesting.”

“Rule number five,” you went on, louder this time. “When this is over, we go back to normal.”

Dean studied you like he knew there was more beneath the surface. For once, he didn’t immediately make a joke, which somehow made it worse.

The word sat between you in a way you didn’t want to look at too closely, because normal, for you and Dean, had never been simple. It’d always been bickering in kitchens and too-long eye contact, comments that felt like dares, and smiles you pretended not to return. It’d always been his hand hovering near your back in crowded places, never staying long enough for anyone to call it something, but close enough that you noticed every time.

Dean nodded once, like he understood exactly what he was agreeing to. “Deal.”

Your stomach tightened a little. “You’re agreeing too easily.”

“I told you, I’m desperate.”

“That’s very comforting.”

“I mean it,” he promised. “Your rules. I’ll follow them.”

Allie coughed, as if she had thoughts about it.

Dean glanced at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” Allie said, in a way that meant absolutely nothing.

“That sounded like a judgmental cough.”

“I just think ‘your rules, I’ll follow them’ is going to age beautifully.”

You ignored her and held Dean’s gaze like you were trying to figure out whether you believed him.

“You owe me,” you reminded him.

“Anything,” Dean promised.

“You don’t even know what I want yet.”

“Then I’ll find out.”

The words shouldn’t have sounded like that, soft and low and too much like a promise. Your fingers tightened around your mug.

Allie, because she had no mercy, leaned back in her chair. “This weekend is going to be a disaster.”

Dean looked at you, and you looked back at him. For once, neither of you argued.

**

Less than twenty-four hours later, the disaster began.

Dean picked you up at noon, which gave him just enough time to text you seven times beforehand.

dean

wear something my mom will believe i had a shot with

you

so basically nothing?

dean

very hurtful.

you

objectively accurate.

dean

my mom’s going to love you.

you

because i’m obviously charming?

dean

because you’re mean to me. she’ll find it refreshing.

you

your family sounds smarter than you.

dean

everyone says that, actually.

By the time Dean pulled up outside your apartment, you were already on the curb with your overnight bag, pretending your stomach wasn’t twisting.

Dean pulled up to the curb and got out immediately.

You wished he looked worse. It would’ve been helpful if he’d shown up in something ridiculous, like a stained hoodie, bad shoes, or a hat that made him look like an idiot.

Instead, he showed up in dark jeans, a navy sweater pushed up at the sleeves, and sunglasses hooked into the collar like he’d been designed specifically to ruin your life at a family charity weekend.

His eyes moved over you before he seemed to remember he wasn’t supposed to be obvious about it. Too late, though. You noticed.

“You look…” Dean started, then seemed to forget the rest of the sentence.

You raised an eyebrow. “Careful.”

His mouth curved. “Expensive.”

You stared at him because somehow that was worse.

Dean smiled like he couldn’t believe he had to explain it. “That was a compliment.”

“That was a weird compliment.”

“My mother’s going to love it.”

“You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

He took your bag from your hand like it hadn’t occurred to him not to.

“I’m your fake boyfriend,” he reminded you. “That’s my job.”

You froze. Dean froze, too, like he’d realized it at the same time, and then you slowly turned your head toward him.

“What was rule number four again?”

Dean sighed as if this rule were personally inconvenient. “No calling each other boyfriend or girlfriend when no one is around.”

“And are we currently around anyone?”

Dean looked dramatically up and down the empty street before nodding toward a bird. “Does that count?”

“Dean,” you warned.

“Fine.” He put your bag in the trunk. “I’m the man pretending to be emotionally invested in you for social gain. Better?”

“Much better.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You literally begged me.”

“I’m regretting it already.”

“No, you’re not.”

He shut the trunk and smiled at you over the roof of the car like he knew you were right.

“No,” he told you. “I’m not.”

That shouldn’t have warmed something in you. It did anyway.

The drive to the hotel took about 2 hours. Dean spent the first 30 minutes giving you a full family briefing, as if you were about to enter witness protection.

“My mom’s going to ask how we got together.”

“We’re going to need a story.”

“We already have one.”

You looked over at him. “Since when?”

“I flirted with you until you gave up.”

You stared at him until he glanced over. “What?”

“That’s not a story.”

“It’s close enough to the truth.”

“It’s absolutely not.”

Dean grinned as he’d just found a loophole. “So you admit there’s some truth to it?”

“I admit you flirt with anything that has a pulse.”

“Not anything.”

“Sorry,” you corrected. “Anything attractive that breathes.”

Dean tilted his head as he’d just caught you. “So you admit you’re attractive?”

You closed your eyes as that might help. “I hate you.”

“That’s not very fake girlfriend of you.”

“Dean. Rule four.”

“Fake girlfriend,” he insisted.

“That still counts.”

“It doesn’t.”

He smiled at the road like he was enjoying this way too much.

You hated how easy it was to fall into this with him, into the fighting and the rhythm and the way he always seemed ready for whatever you threw at him. It made the fake part feel less fake than it should’ve, and that was dangerous. Very dangerous.

Dean’s phone buzzed where it sat in the cup holder.

He glanced down at it, then passed it to you. “Can you read that for me?”

You picked it up. The text was from his mom, which felt ominous.

Mom

Can’t wait to meet her. Your father says, “Please don’t be late.” I say try not to scare her off before dinner.

You smiled despite yourself as you handed the phone back. “She sounds nice.”

“She’s nice,” Dean admitted. “That’s the problem.”

“Since when is nice a problem?”

“When nice people are disappointed in you, it’s worse.”

Your smile softened. Dean said it casually, but his fingers tightened slightly on the wheel, just enough for you to notice.

That was the problem with fake dating someone you spent so much time pretending not to care about. You knew things, tiny things you weren’t supposed to know, like how Dean joked more when he was nervous, how he tapped his thumb against the wheel when he was thinking too hard, and how his confidence was loudest when he was trying to convince himself of it.

“You’re nervous.”

Dean’s thumb stopped tapping against the wheel.

“I’m not nervous.”

“You are.”

“I’m just focused.”

“On lying to your parents, you mean?”

“On surviving this weekend.”

You studied him for a moment, and when you spoke again, your voice was quieter. “Do they really think you’re that unserious?”

Dean’s mouth twitched, but it didn’t quite turn into a smile. “I mean, I haven’t exactly given them evidence otherwise.”

Something in your chest pulled tight. “Dean.”

He glanced over at you, and for a second, there was no teasing in his expression at all.

“I know what people think of me,” he admitted. “It’s not like they’re wrong.”

You didn’t answer immediately, because you’d thought those things too. Cocky, careless, shameless, charming enough to get away with anything. But then there were the other things, the things Dean pretended didn’t count, like how he’d shown up at Hannah’s after one text when Garrett was spiraling, how he always checked if Allie got home safe even when they were arguing, and how he noticed which teammate needed to be dragged out of a party before anyone else did.

Dean was unserious about a lot of things, but not everything.

“Maybe you’re just bad at letting people see the evidence,” you offered.

Dean looked over at you again, and when the car went too quiet, you looked out the window like that would help.

“Don’t make it weird,” you told him.

His voice was softer than you expected. “You made it weird.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You said something nice to me.”

“That was an accident.”

“Do that again, and I might fall in love.”

Your head snapped toward him, and there it was again, Dean’s grin, annoying and beautiful and infuriating all at once.

“Rule three,” you reminded him.

“No feelings,” he agreed lightly. “Yeah, yeah.”

But his hand stayed tight on the wheel long after that.

**

The hotel was exactly what you expected from a Di Laurentis family charity weekend: expensive, tasteful, and deeply intimidating.

It sat beside a sprawling country club with polished lawns, white columns, and more valet attendants than one entrance could need. People moved through the lobby in tailored clothes and quiet confidence, like they knew which fork went with which course and had opinions about wine regions.

You stepped out of Dean’s car and immediately felt underdressed, which was unfair, considering you’d agonized over your outfit for an hour.

Dean appeared beside you, already grabbing both bags from the trunk. “You okay?”

You blinked at him. “What?”

He looked down at you, brows drawn like he’d noticed before you had. “You got quiet.”

“I’m just observing the rich people’s habitat.”

His mouth twitched. “Careful. They can smell fear.”

“Great. Then I’ll stand behind you.”

“You think I look less scared?”

“You look like you belong here.”

Dean looked toward the hotel, his expression shifting into something you couldn’t quite read.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s the idea.”

Before you could ask what he meant by that, a woman’s voice called his name.

“Dean, sweetheart!”

Dean’s whole posture changed, not dramatically, but enough for you to notice. His shoulders straightened, and his smile shifted into something warmer, brighter, less guarded.

A woman with dark hair and elegant gold earrings crossed the lobby toward you, followed by a man in a blazer who looked like an older, sharper version of Dean.

His parents.

Your stomach flipped when Dean’s hand touched your lower back, light and brief, like a silent check-in. You hated how much it helped.

“Mom,” Dean greeted, leaning down to kiss her cheek when she reached him.

She hugged him tightly, and despite yourself, you smiled. Then her eyes found you, the warmth in them sharpening into curiosity.

“And you must be [Y/N],” she greeted warmly.

You smiled and extended a hand, but she ignored it and pulled you into a hug instead.

“Oh,” you laughed softly, surprised. Beside you, Dean coughed.

His mother pulled back, still smiling. “Sorry, I’m a hugger. Dean should’ve warned you.”

“He left that part out,” you told her.

Dean’s father stepped forward and offered his hand. “It’s nice to meet you finally.”

Finally.

The word made you glance at Dean, but he was looking anywhere except at you.

You shook his father’s hand and smiled. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

His father looked between you and Dean, assessing but not unkind.

“So,” his mother began, slipping her arm through Dean’s like she wasn’t about to interrogate you in the middle of a hotel lobby. “How long has this been going on?”

Dean opened his mouth, but you answered first. “Long enough for him to annoy me into saying yes.”

Dean’s mother laughed instantly. Dean turned to stare at you, and you smiled sweetly up at him.

His father’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “That sounds like Dean.”

“It really does,” you agreed sweetly.

Dean leaned in, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“You literally begged me,” you whispered back.

His eyes flicked down to yours.

For half a second, the lobby disappeared.

His mother looked between you and Dean, smiling. “Well, I already like her.”

Dean’s gaze lingered on yours for a second too long.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That happens.”

Your heart did something deeply inconvenient.

So you looked away first.

Check-in went smoothly, mostly because Dean’s mother handled it while asking you questions with the skill of a woman who had definitely hosted charity events before and knew how to extract personal information without seeming rude.

She wanted to know where you were from, what you were studying, how you knew Hannah and Allie, and, most importantly, how you and Dean had gotten close.

Dean answered the last one before you could. “She hated me at first.”

You blinked at him. “At first?”

His mother’s smile widened. “And now?”

You tilted your head like you were giving it serious thought. “Now I tolerate him.”

Dean pressed a hand to his heart as you’d wounded him. “She’s shy with affection.”

“I’m shy with public displays of murder.”

His father laughed under his breath. Dean’s mother looked delighted, and Dean looked at you like he was trying not to smile.

It was ridiculous how easy it was.

That should’ve been the first warning sign.

The second came when the receptionist handed Dean the room keys and said, “King suite, eighth floor.”

You waited, Dean waited, and his mother smiled pleasantly.

Your stomach dropped.

“King suite?” you echoed.

Dean’s head turned slowly toward his mother like he already knew she was responsible.

She blinked at him with perfect innocence. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Dean said, too quickly.

At the same time, you asked, “One bed?”

Dean’s father raised an eyebrow. Dean’s mother looked between you and Dean, just as his hand came to rest at your waist.

Warm. Steady. Entirely too natural.

“We’re good,” Dean said smoothly. “She likes to pretend she needs her own space.”

You turned your head very slowly toward him.

Dean smiled down at you, the kind of smile that made people believe terrible lies.

“Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

Your nails dug into your palm.

Rule four. No boyfriend or girlfriend in private. Technically, this wasn’t private.

Still.

Dean was enjoying this.

You smiled back, bright and dangerous. “Only because you kick in your sleep, babe.”

Dean’s eyes flashed. His mother made a soft, delighted sound. His father looked like he might be reconsidering everything he knew about his son.

Dean leaned down until his lips were close to your ear.

“Babe?” he murmured, like he was testing the word out.

“You started it,” you whispered back.

“You’re going to regret that,” he murmured, still close to your ear.

“Can’t wait.”

You felt his fingers flex once at your waist, like he’d forgotten himself for half a second.

Then he stepped back, smile still in place.

You were in trouble.

The room was somehow worse.

The suite was beautiful, because apparently Dean’s family didn’t do anything halfway. There was a sitting area, a massive window overlooking the golf course, a marble bathroom, and, right there in the middle of the bedroom section, one enormous king bed.

You stood in the doorway, staring at it. Dean set the bags down behind you.

Neither of you spoke.

Then you said, very clearly, “Absolutely not.”

Dean sighed, already resigned. “Here we go.”

“You knew.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You absolutely knew.”

“I thought there would be a couch.”

You stared at him. “There’s a couch.”

You both turned to look at the small decorative couch near the window.

It looked like it’d been designed exclusively for people without spines.

Dean made a face.

You pointed at the couch. “Enjoy.”

“I’m six foot two.”

“Congratulations.”

“I won’t fit.”

“Fold.”

Dean turned to you like you’d lost your mind. “You want me to sleep on that?”

“You created this problem.”

“I didn’t create the furniture.”

“You created the fake serious girlfriend.”

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Then nodded once, like he hated that you had a point. “Fair.”

You walked farther into the room and crossed your arms. “I’m not sharing a bed with you.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose. “Scared?”

You laughed. “Of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Dean, the only thing scary about you is your ego.”

“My ego and my charm.”

“Your delusion.”

“You like my charm.”

“I tolerate your charm.”

“You said you tolerate me. That’s different.”

“I’m expanding the category.”

He stepped closer, smiling like he knew exactly how annoying he was. “You know, for someone who hates me, you’re very committed to arguing with me.”

“For someone who needs me, you’re very committed to being unbearable.”

“Maybe that’s my love language.”

“Then I pity every woman you’ve dated.”

Dean’s smile faltered, barely enough to notice.

But you noticed.

The joke had landed wrong somehow.

You almost apologized.

Then Dean turned away, walking toward the window like he needed something else to look at. “You can have the bed.”

Your arms loosened before you could stop them. “Dean.”

“It’s fine,” he said, but it didn’t sound like it.

The sudden lack of teasing felt strange. Too strange.

You watched him pull his phone from his pocket, pretending he suddenly had something to check.

Dean was good at pretending, and you were starting to realize that was part of the problem.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

He looked back, grin already in place like nothing had happened. “Relax. I’ve slept in worse places.”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

You didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Dinner was scheduled for seven. Dean had called it “casual,” which apparently meant everyone would be wearing outfits that cost more than your monthly rent.

You managed to unpack in silence for approximately three minutes before Dean ruined it.

“So,” Dean said from the other side of the room, sounding way too casual, “should we practice?”

You looked up from your bag, shoe already in hand. “If the next words out of your mouth are kissing-related, I’m throwing this at you.”

Dean glanced at the heel in your hand and raised both palms like you were the unreasonable one. “Hostile work environment.”

“You created the job.”

“I meant the story.”

“What story?”

“Our story.”

The shoe lowered in your hand. “Right.”

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, which annoyed you because he looked too good there. Relaxed, comfortable, like the room belonged to him, and the weekend wasn’t already beginning to unravel around you.

“How did we get together?” he asked.

“You annoyed me until I had a lapse in judgment.”

“Funny, but my mother is going to want details.”

“Fine. We started hanging out because of Hannah and Allie.”

“True.”

“You flirted.”

“True.”

“I rejected you repeatedly.”

“Debatable.”

“Dean.”

“I’m listening.”

“And then one day, you were slightly less annoying than usual, so I agreed to dinner.”

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I like that.”

“You like being called annoying?”

“I like that your version still has me winning.”

“You didn’t win. I suffered a moment of weakness.”

“I’ll take it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth betrayed you anyway.

Dean saw the almost-smile.

“Careful,” he murmured.

You looked at him, instantly suspicious. “What?”

“You almost looked like you liked me for a second.”

The room shifted. Maybe it was the softness in his voice, or the bed between you, or the fact that in less than an hour, you’d have to walk downstairs and convince his entire family that whatever this was had a name.

You forced a laugh like that would fix whatever had just happened. “Don’t get excited, Di Laurentis.”

“Too late,” he said, smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Your stomach flipped. You turned back to your bag before he could notice.

He probably noticed anyway.

Dinner was both easier and harder than you expected. Dean’s family was warmer than you’d feared, which should’ve helped, except their warmth only made the lie feel worse.

His mother sat beside you at the long table in the hotel restaurant, asking questions with genuine interest. Across from Dean, his father watched him with quiet amusement every time you corrected him or stole the bread basket from his side of the table.

“You two bicker a lot,” his mother said, smiling into her glass.

Dean leaned back, his arm draped over the back of your chair. “It’s part of our charm.”

“Our?” you echoed, eyebrows rising. “Interesting.”

“Fine. Your charm. My patience.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

Dean looked at you, and his smile softened.

His mother noticed.

You could feel it.

“So,” she said, looking entirely too pleased, “Dean tells us you’re the reason he’s been slightly less impossible lately.”

You nearly choked on your water.

Behind you, Dean’s arm stiffened. “I said no such thing.”

His father’s mouth twitched. “You said she keeps you in line.”

“That’s completely different.”

You turned to him before you could stop yourself. “You talk about me?”

Dean’s eyes met yours, and for once, he didn’t look away.

Then he said, “Only to complain.”

“Liar,” you said, but there was no heat in it.

His mouth curved. “Prove it.”

The table faded again.

That kept happening. Little moments where the performance went quiet, and something else slipped in.

You hated it.

You liked it.

You were doomed.

Later, after dessert, after his mother had hugged you again and his father had told Dean not to be late for breakfast, you both made it back to the suite in silence.

The door clicked shut behind you.

The performance dropped, sort of.

Dean let out a breath and leaned back against the door. “You were good.”

You kicked off your shoes. “I know.”

He laughed quietly. “Humble.”

“I was excellent.”

His smile softened. “You were.”

The sincerity made you pause. Dean pushed off the door, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked farther into the room.

“My mom loves you.”

“She has good taste.”

“My dad too.”

“Clearly, good taste runs in the family.”

Dean looked at you then, and something unreadable moved through his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, still looking at you. “They do.”

Your pulse stumbled.

No.

Absolutely not.

You turned toward the bed because that felt like the safer option.

It wasn’t.

The bed was still there, large and waiting and definitely mocking you.

You pointed at the decorative couch. “Your throne.”

Dean followed your gaze and sighed. “You’re really going to make me sleep there?”

“Yes.”

“You’re cold.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I might not.”

“How tragic.”

He walked over to the couch and sat down, only for his knees to immediately look ridiculous.

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh.

Dean stared at you. “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m being respectful.”

“You’re biting your lip.”

“Out of grief.”

He narrowed his eyes, which only made you laugh.

You couldn’t help it.

Dean tried to glare, but his mouth twitched. “You’re enjoying my suffering.”

“Deeply.”

“You know, a loving fake girlfriend would offer to share.”

You froze, and Dean froze too.

For a second, both of you seemed to remember the rule at the same time.

No boyfriend or girlfriend when no one was around.

“Sorry,” he said, quieter this time.

The apology came quickly, too quickly, as he meant it, and that made it worse.

“It’s fine,” you said.

Dean stood, suddenly restless. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You looked at him. Really looked. Noticed how tired he seemed now that his family wasn’t watching, how the weekend had already pulled something tight in him, how he was trying, actually trying, to respect the line you’d drawn.

The bed was huge. Huge enough to avoid touching, probably.

Maybe.

You exhaled. “Dean.”

He looked up, cautious now.

“You can sleep in the bed.”

His eyebrows rose like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

“But,” you said sharply, pointing at him, “there will be rules.”

His mouth curved slowly. “More rules?”

“Yes.”

“I love rules.”

“You break rules.”

“I lovingly challenge them.”

“You stay on your side.”

“Yes.”

“No touching.”

“Yes.”

“No flirting.”

His smile widened. “In my sleep?”

“Especially in your sleep.”

“What if I dream about you?”

“Then wake up ashamed.”

Dean laughed, warm and low, and you hated how much you liked hearing it in the quiet room.

“Deal,” he said, softer than you expected.

You changed in the bathroom, mostly because you didn’t trust Dean and partly because you didn’t trust yourself.

When you came out in sleep shorts and an oversized shirt, Dean was already in bed, shirtless.

You stopped in the doorway, because apparently your body needed a second.

He looked up from his phone. “What?”

“Where’s your shirt?”

Dean looked down at himself like he’d forgotten. “Off.”

“I can see that.”

“I sleep shirtless.”

“Not tonight.”

“You’re policing sleepwear now?”

“Yes.”

Dean’s gaze moved over your face, amused and something else you didn’t want to name.

“You’re flustered.”

“I’m annoyed.”

“You’re standing in the bathroom doorway, glaring at my chest.”

“I’m glaring at all of you.”

“My chest feels singled out.”

You marched to your suitcase, grabbed a pillow, and threw it at him. He caught it easily, laughing.

“Put a shirt on.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because I said so.”

Dean’s smile turned dangerous. “That’s not a reason.”

Your face warmed. His eyes flicked over it, but then he reached down, grabbed a shirt from his bag, and pulled it on.

“There,” he said.

You blinked. “That was… easy.”

“I can be easy.”

“Never say that again.”

His grin returned immediately. “Too tempting?”

You reached for the lamp on your side and turned it off before he could see your expression.

“Go to sleep, Dean.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured.

You climbed into bed carefully, staying as far to the edge as possible. The mattress dipped under Dean’s weight when he shifted. Even with space between you, you could feel him there—his warmth, his breathing, his presence taking up too much of the room.

For several minutes, neither of you spoke.

Then Dean’s voice came quietly from the other side of the bed. “You did save my life today, by the way.”

You stared into the dark. “I know.”

“My mom would’ve killed me if I showed up alone.”

“She still might if she ever realizes this is fake.”

Dean was quiet. Too quiet. You turned your head slightly, but you couldn’t see his face well in the darkness.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

You didn’t mean for your voice to soften. “Are you okay?”

He let out a quiet laugh, not amused exactly.

More surprised.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You went quiet.”

“I’m fine,” he said, too quickly.

You recognized the answer because you used it too.

Fine.

The least convincing word in existence.

You rolled onto your side, turning toward him in the dark.

He lay on his back, one arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you told him.

The words were out before you could think better of them.

Dean turned his head toward you, and even in the dark, you felt his gaze settle on your face.

“That’s funny,” he said softly.

“Why?”

“Because pretending is kind of the whole point, isn’t it?”

Something in your chest tightened. “Not all of it.”

The silence after that was different.

Thicker.

Dean shifted onto his side too, until you were facing each other. Too close. Not touching. Close enough to see his eyes in the low light from the window.

“You’re being nice again,” he murmured.

“It keeps happening by accident.”

“That’s a dangerous habit.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

Your breath caught.

There it was again, that softness. The part of Dean that didn’t feel like a joke.

For a second, neither of you moved. His eyes dropped to your mouth, and this time, there was no pretending you didn’t see it.

Your pulse jumped.

“Dean,” you whispered.

“I know,” he murmured, his voice lower now. Rougher.

He didn’t move closer, and neither did you, but somehow, the space between you felt impossibly small.

“No kissing unless necessary,” you whispered.

His gaze lifted back to yours. “Right.”

“This isn’t necessary.”

“No,” he said, but neither of you moved. He didn’t look away, and you didn’t roll back over.

Almost kissing him was somehow worse than actually kissing him. The possibility of it. The heat. The fact that you could feel how easy it would be to close the distance and ruin every rule on the first night.

Dean’s hand shifted on the mattress between you. Not touching, but close enough.

Your fingers curled into the sheet.

He noticed. His jaw flexed, and then he rolled onto his back, putting space between you with a quiet exhale.

“Goodnight, [Y/N].”

You stared at the side of his face, your heart still racing. “Goodnight, Dean.”

You eventually turned away, facing the window. But sleep didn’t come quickly. Not with Dean lying beside you. Not with the ghost of an almost-kiss sitting between your ribs. Not with the horrible realization that rule number one had already started to feel less like protection and more like a challenge.

━━━━━━━━ 🏒 ━━━━━━━━

💌lmk if you want to be added to my taglist

A small grin grows on your face as you lean forward to look past Dean to the man next to him.

"Thank you, Beau," you say. He gives you a wink with an "Of course." Your eyes drift over to Dean's face as you sit back in your seat. He runs his fingers through his hair while giving you a slow once over.

"It's too early for this," you tell him. He lets out a quiet laugh as he opens his laptop.

"I literally haven't even talked yet," he says.

"And yet, somehow you have found a way to already make an 8am lecture worse."

To be fair, Dean is right. Technically, he hasn't done anything to tick you off today, yet. One would think, however, that the blonde would see you choosing a random seat in the half-filled lecture hall every week as a sign. Especially when all of your classmates have stuck to the same seats the last two and a half months, no doubt watching your game of musical chairs. Today, you chose one of the back corners having hoped that he wouldn't see you.

"You know you'd miss me," he whispers as your professor pulls up the powerpoint to the week's lesson.

"Mhm, would I now? Beau, did he get checked into a wall during last night’s game? He's more delusional than usual." Dean scoffs as Beau snorts trying to cover his laugh.

“No, but I promise I’ll pay one of the hockey guys to if you come to the party tonight.”

“I have a shift tonight until 10:30, but I’ll text you if I’m able to get off earlier.” You tell him as you begin writing what’s on the current slide.

“What? You’ll give him your number, but I have to DM you on Instagram?” Dean whines. A guy two rows in front of you turns to glare at the three of you. You give him a tight-lipped grin and elbow Dean.

“Believe it or not, Beau and I are friends. We’ve been friends for three years. You were quite literally there when we became friends. And I muted you on Instagram.”

Dean’s jaw drops before he tries to recover and act like he’s not affected by this information.

“Well, if you do show up tonight, we could always take a trip down memory lane…” You stop writing and turn your head to stare at him, sure that you heard him wrong.

He chuckles awkwardly.

“Six Flags, right?”

You give him a quick once over, his cheeks turning a light pink.

“Don’t steal my line," you say with a hint of disgust as you point the pen at him, "I’ve heard you’ve been using it on your puck bunnies.”

“Why, jealous?” He asks with a smirk now.

“More like mad because my material is being stolen. I can’t have people thinking I’m associated with you.” His smirk falls away.

“Who else have you used that line on?” He whispers clearly irritated, his eyebrows furrowed.

“You want a list or?”

“Brutal,” you hear Beau mumble.

“Beau,” you say looking Dean in the eyes.

“What?” Beau asks looking above Dean’s shoulder at you.

“Nothing, I’m just giving Dean the list,” you say not breaking eye contact with Dean, his narrowing before he whips his head around to look at Beau. Beau raises his hands in defense.

The rest of the hour goes by with all three of you sitting in silence, much to your relief. You feel Dean's eyes on you a few times more, but he says nothing further. As soon as your professor dismisses class, you sling your bag over your shoulder and grab your papers before quickly making your way down the stairs and out the door.

I'm sorry for throwing that out there like that and then I hope he's not mad at you you send to Beau.

He'll get over it, I told him it was only one time freshman year he responds back. You're about to put your phone back in your pocket when you see the three dots pop back up.

I however, will be very mad at you if you don't come tonight. Consider it your way of making it up to me :)

You roll your eyes, your mouth twitching slightly and quickly type back I'll see what I can do.

It's around 11pm by the time you're able to sneak out from behind the bar of Hemingway's and clock out. You've thrown your apron over your shoulder, said your goodbyes to your coworkers, and are walking out the front door, trying to pull your hair out of the bun that has been giving you a raging headache for the past 5 hours when you hear your name being called. You turn to see Beau standing next to his Land Rover, a smug smirk on his face.

"Ready?"

“Wha-Beau, I literally am wearing my work clothes,” you protest. You let out a low moan as you finally get the hair tie out and shake your hair out, massaging your scalp.

“Correct, but then I remembered I could swing by your dorm and grab you something to throw on after work.” Your eyes lock in on clothes, your clothes, dangling from his outstretched hand.

“...and how did you get into my dorm exactly?” You question, eyeing him with suspicion as you walk over to where he’s waiting. He shakes your clothes teasingly for you to take them.

“I may have possibly happened to run across Maeve in Spruce’s lobby and convinced her I needed to get into your dorm because I left one of my shoulder pads in your room.”

“And she just didn’t question when you left my room with no shoulder pad but my clothes?” He shakes his head.

“Probably had something to do with her going “You’re Beau Maxwell”,” he says mimicking your roommate in an airy voice while batting his eyelashes. You cover your mouth to hide your smile at the accuracy, trying your best to stay serious.

“She probably thinks we’re sleeping together now. She talks,” you warn grabbing your clothes finally. He leans back against his car.

“Oh no, she’s going to gossip that I’m sleeping with a beautiful woman, whatever will that do to my reputation,” he gasps dramatically as he casts the back of his hand against his forehead.

“I’m covered in alcohol. I smell,” you counter changing the subject and he scoffs, cutting you off.

“You’re going to a party, everyone smells like alcohol.”

“I have a shift tomorrow.”

“At 2pm.”

“You seriously left the party just to come pick me up and force me to go to a party?” 

“It’s barely started, and you know I’m not opposed to throwing your ass in the car, so be a good girl and,” he stops, gesturing his hands toward the car. You scrunch your face before groaning and trudging around the car, yanking open the door and climbing into the passenger seat.

Beau gets in and starts the engine, sending a big smile at you. 

“Just get dressed as we drive,” he tells you pulling away from Hemingway’s and all you can think about is how lucky he is that he’s one of your best friends.

Dean’s in the middle of whispering in the ear of the woman who has thrown her arms around his neck, his hand settled on her lower back when he sees Beau walking through the front door. He makes a mental note to ask where he disappeared to tomorrow when he sees you trailing behind him, hand wrapped around Beau’s wrist. Something ugly tightens in his chest seeing you that comfortable with Beau, but he quickly shoves it away seeing Beau leading you two towards him and Megan? Miranda? It starts with an M, he’s sure of that.

Before you look at him, he lets himself take you in, breath stilling at the shirt you’re wearing remembering the first time he saw you wearing it.

It’s the first weekend of your freshman year at Briar. Your roommate had invited you to come to some party she had been invited to, which she immediately abandoned you at as soon as you walked through the front door. You walked into the kitchen of the cramped four-person dorm throwing your now empty plastic cup into the sink as you began looking for a paper towel after someone bumped into you, your chest completely soaked with a vodka cranberry. Dean walks into the kitchen a minute later looking for another drink when he sees you opening random cabinets and slamming them shut after not finding anything on the counters.

“Stupid fucking frat guys, who doesn’t own paper towels,” you grumble to yourself as you stand from looking in the last place they could be. He watches as you sway, hands planting themselves on the counter to steady yourself. 

He chuckles to himself seeing you that frustrated knowing the paper towels are hanging next to the sink in plain view, right next to your head. Your head whips over to him and a smile pulls at the corners of your mouth.

“Dean!” You cheer happily, turning to him with your arms outstretched for a hug. He looks down at your outfit and feels himself stop breathing for a second. Your low cut top accentuating your chest in a way that hits him harder than the 3 drinks he’s had have. He pulls them away and looks back into your eyes, putting an exaggerated frown on his face.

“What happened, sweetheart?” You look down and match his frown looking back up at him.

“One of your dumb frat brothers knocked my drink into me,” you slur, “and I looked so cute too.”

Dean hums as he reaches behind you to grab a couple paper towels, wetting them in the sink and handing them to you. You gasp as you see the paper towels.

“You still look cute,” he whispers, his mouth twitching in amusement at your amazement towards the appearance of the paper towels. He looks away as you start scrubbing the sticky residue off of your skin.

“Do I?” You ask blushing.

“You know you do,” he says, his cheeks turning a light pink too before taking the paper towels from your hands and throwing them away for you. The alcohol still shows on your shirt. You don’t notice.

“I also know that you have had way too much to drink,” he continues. You pout.

“I didn’t even have that much.”

“Oh yeah, and how much would you quantify that as?”

“Ummm,” you say thinking hard for a second before holding up four fingers. His eyebrows raise.

“You’ve had four drinks?”

“Three shots, vodka cran, that one doesn’t count though,” you say pointing to the sink.

“So five drinks?”

“Four and a half drinks,” you argue.

“Okay, well, how about this,” he starts, placing his hands on your shoulders, “I get you one of my shirts and I walk you back to your dorm?”

“But I don’t want to leave,” you look up at him, eyes wide, before pulling yourself up to sit on top of the counter. You cross your arms like that will make you immovable. He stares at you for a solid five seconds before he reaches towards you and gently pulls you off the counter, holding you bridal style as he starts walking towards his bedroom. You hear someone say “Yeah, Dean!” and giggle before looking up at him to see him rolling his eyes before pinching your thigh.

“Mean!” You lightly smack his chest right before he drops you onto his bed. He moves towards his drawers and starts rummaging through them before he finds his favorite. He turns to hand you the shirt only to find you’ve taken off your shoes and jeans which are discarded next to his bed while you’ve made yourself at home under his comforter. He’s grateful you decided to keep your shirt on.

“And what do you think you’re doing?”

You tap the other side of the bed while the other hand is outstretched, your fingers wiggling for his shirt.

“Tired,” you say as he hands over his shirt and looks away so you can change.

“You’re good,” you whisper. He turns back and his eyes widen as he sucks in a sharp breath seeing you sitting on his bed, legs tucked under you, flooding in his shirt. You give him the smallest smile while patting the comforter again. 

“Stay, please.” He hangs his head in defeat and walks over to his door to make sure it’s locked before grabbing a pair of pajamas and changing in his bathroom.

He walks back out only to hear your steady breathing coming from his bed, your eyes closed and face completely relaxed. He turns off the light and then pulls back the comforter to climb into the bed beside you. He watches you sleep, your face being dimly lit by the parking lot lights outside his window. 

"Goodnight, sweetheart."

He falls asleep with a smile on his face.

“Di Laurentis,” he hears. He looks up, you have an eyebrow raised. 

Shit he thinks, how long was I staring at her chest? Megan, Miranda, scoffs and walks away.

Beau gives him an awkward smile having seen it too and is about to turn towards you when he hears someone yell from outside “Di Laurentis, Maxwell, beer pong next round!” You roll your eyes and tell Beau you’re going to go find a drink before leaving the two. He calls your name in what sounds like a warning to Dean.

Dean watches you walk away and disappear into the kitchen without realizing that Beau is watching him watch you. Beau looks away before Dean turns back and walks out the sliding door to the deck. Two guys from the football team stand on opposite sides of the table. Two women stand next to them. The game is nearly over, one side clearly having no chance.

“How about we make this interesting?” Beau says over the music blaring from the speaker in the second floor’s window. He crosses his arms looking over at Dean with a smug look.

“How so?” Dean asks, already intrigued.

“You win, you get to use my family’s Cape Cod house this whole summer, whenever you want. You can bring whoever you want, no need to let me know beforehand, and I’ll even give you a key to the place,” Beau says knowing Dean has been begging for just that the whole year. Dean’s eyebrows raise and he tilts his head back thinking.

“Okay, and what do you get if you win?” He questions suspiciously.

“I’m so glad you asked! You know I love hearing your fanclub circulating your name around campus, but I truly think what would really warm my heart is you finding a special someone to be monogamous with these last two months we’re here,” Beau explains looking over at Dean.

“Terms?”

“I get to pick her out, you cannot sleep with, kiss, or text any other women the whole time, and you have to actually put effort in. And because I am the best friend ever, I’ll even let you still have the Cape Cod house with all the previous terms if you can pull this off.” Dean considers everything Beau has said, considers the length of two months, and then considers how many plans he had already considered which surrounded his access to that house.

“I’ll take those terms," Dean decides extending his hand to Beau who immediately extends his and gives him a firm shake. And if Dean sees the smirk planted on Beau’s face as Beau walks over to the winning side of the table, he doesn’t mention it. And he certainly doesn’t mention the way you walking over to Beau to hand him a drink before settling yourself on a chair next to the table makes him feel a jolt of irrational anger towards his best friend.

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Although your voice was like a sweet melody to his ears. He silences you with another kiss. Insatiable for your taste on his tongue. Breaking the kiss briefly to whisper hoarsely against your lips. "Just let me fuck you babygirl. "

Fingers digging deep into the soft flesh of your bare hips as your satin dress had been hiked up completely. The wings that were part of your outfit for the party, crumpled. He made you keep them on the whole half an hour into the session. Claiming that he found it a turn on.

The air was thick with a mix of your arousal and of his strong cologne. As he continues to kiss you, all tongue and teeth. Sloppy and messy due to one too many drinks from the party. Perhaps from the drink challenge he had with Beau.

"Fucking Logan." He'd growl against your reddened lips. Abusing the soft muscle, before prodding past your lips. Thumbing over your hardened nipples while he does so.

Causing you to moan louder and your stomach to flip as he pushes into you further. Skin slapping against skin in as he gathered your slick. Defining every thrust, the filthy sounds filling the room as he does so. "He can't fucking make you cum like I can."

Breathing heavily as his golden chain swings above you in sync with his rugged thrusts. Honestly, you were so dumbed out that you couldn't respond.

Instead, your fingers tugged at Dean's soft, golden blonde locks. As you both kissed eachother breathlessly. With Dean whispering praises at how good you were to him. Your hips arch upwards out of instinct when you lift off the bed to press against him more. A tug of a smirk plays on his lips at your reaction. So pliant, so needy. Just for him.

Your only response resorting to short, breathy moans while Dean engulfs every delectable noise that you made.

"Fuck princess —" He murmers into the kiss. Your face being held in his large hands, rough and insanely warm. But clammy. Angling your head to get a better angle. While he slowly starts to lose himself in pure bliss. "Mmph. You're so good f' me. So fucking good."

Dean's kisses never failed to leave you wanting more. They felt hot, feverish and like always, very driven. Much like how he was on the ice rink.

Overstimulated and sweaty, he tugs off the top half of his Maverick uniform. Right — he hadn't taken it off yet. He was too focused on making you feel good than to think about himself. Which was a first for him.

After 6 months of not seeing you after you departed for your art trip abroad in England. He was determined to prove you now that he was commited. He didn't have to say it. Because you already knew. You always knew.

And the dark hickeys littered on the inside of your thighs, stomach, chest and neck proved it. Much like a messy painted canvas.

Which makes you wonder. Why did he get mad in the first place?

Dean, like usual, was splayed out on the couch. Shirtless with an empty beer bottle in hand, arm dangling off the edge carelessly. And a random puck bunny who he forgot the name of in his arms. He stared up at the ceiling blankly, with sweat clinging to his skin. His mind starting to drift due to the buzz from the alcohol.

Thinking back to distant memories. Not about the time he spent with the boys in the hockey house. No — But of you.

Dean had a crush on you for a while now. A long time actually. A year and a half be exact. Unusual for a guy with a fuck boy reputation.

Since you were Beau's cousin, he'd see you often at family events or small gatherings with friends. And what started as casual conversations, gradually became something more.

He admires your paint stained fingertips whenever you finished an art piece and showed off your portfolio to him. Bright eyed and relieved whenever Dean complimented your work.

He also loves how you're so observant and kind, yet impossible to impress with Dean's charm. Albeit being a lie. You were actually quite smitten by him but you were good at hiding it from him.

Unlike most girls he's met. You carried yourself with a quiet maturity. Meaning, Dean could rely on you for advice. Or emotional support after a bad hockey match. Feeling safe in your arms whenever you comforted him in rare cases where he felt vulnerable.

Then there was last year. Days spent in the Maxwell's summer home for the holidays. Was a memorable summer that he'd never forget. Beau was there too ofcourse. Protective over you as always, even if your mentality was much more mature than his own.

A summer fling. That's all it was. That's all you were meant to be. Yet Dean was finding it ridiculously hard to keep you off his mind. He was obssesed really. Obsessed with your scent, your smile, your sweet voice whenever he had you writhing beneath him.

Bare, with your legs entangled with his under the fresh bedding in a dazed manner. Whispering sweet yet incredibly dirty nothings into your ear in the morning after a night of intamacy.

But most of all, he missed you.

"Can you guys maybe not makeout on the counter during breakfast." Beau would say with a look of disgust. Walking by the couple in the kitchen with a bowl of cereal in hand. Mouth full as he spoke as he pointed at them with his spoon. "It's fucking gross."

You scramble away from the blonde man with flushed cheeks and messy hair. Dean, however, tried to go in for another kiss without a care in the world. Even with Beau's judging stare burning into his skull from behind.

"Sorry Beau - " you apologise with a shy grin, breathing heavily. Placing a hand infront of Dean's mouth to stop him from kissing you. Only for him to press a cheeky kiss into your palms. Making you laugh softly. Still, you tried to the insatiable man at a distance. "You heard him Dean. No kissing on the counter."

"Bummer. Beau could've been our audience." Dean mused. Reaching forward to tuck hair behind your air with a smug grin. The suggestive comment causing Beau to choke on his cereal. "DUDE! Nuh uh. Don't drag me into this!"

"I agree with Beau on that one." You chimed in. Getting ready to hop off the counter to make breakfast. Dean helped you in the process since last night's antics made it hard for you to walk. You hold onto his shoulders for support before pressing a small kiss to his cheek with an appreciative smile. "Thanks Deanie."

"Thanks Deanie ~" Beau mimicks you in an overexaggerated childish way. Breaking up the otherwise cute moment. When Dean sets you back down on your feet. His hand slides around your waist, tucking you into his side. He had a sense of pride with you wearing his jersey. It fit you like a glove, like it was meant to be yours.

"Ah -" He spots an empty beer can in the corner of his eye. Snatching it quickly then chucked it towards the brunette. Hitting him directly on the head which even caught Dean by surprise. "Oops. Must've slipped from my hands."

"Oh. So you wanna play it that way huh?" Beau sasses back. Setting aside his cereal bowl with a clatter. He then ran towards the cooler to grab a full can of beer, shaking it up violently. Looking straight at the pair with a smirk and playful glint in his eyes.

"Oh fuck no -!" Dean's mutters, eyes widening in fear before turning to you to lift you off your feet. You let out a surprised sound as he makes a beeline towards the backdoor. Beau chases after the couple as he opens the beer can with a click.

Dean almost trips over the wooden stairs that led to the beach down below. Feeling the warm sand beneath his bare feet with Beau not too far behind. Not even bothering to close the door despite being told off about it multiple times.

Dean turned a corner sharply. Kicking up sand when he does so as he made a run for it. All while you clung onto him for dear life as the two of you laugh uncontrollably.

At some point you look over Dean's shoulder to see that Beau's not too far behind. Hitting his chest dramatically to let him know. "He's gaining on us - Run faster! "

Beau catches up to them eventually with the beer can frothing at the surface in a menacing pace. Albeit the lack of oxgen going to his lungs since Dean was well fater than him. "Can't run from me forever bro!"

Unfortunately for him. Those summer nights weren't long enough for him. Soon being brought back to a cold, seemingly lonely reality. When Beau walks into the dimly lit living room. Making a look of disgust when he see's his semi nude friend on the couch.

He sticks his head in the refrigerator to look for cool beverages. Considering how hot and sticky he felt after hanging outside with Tucker out in the garden. "A little birdy told me something that you'd wanna hear."

Dean lifts his head at the mention of your name falling from Beau's lips. Now more aware of his surroundings as he registers the girl in his arms. Then he groggily asks Beau to confirm what he had just heard. "Come again?"

"Right uhh. She's coming back tonight." Beau replies calmly. Chugging from the can casually like he hadn't just dropped a bombshell of valuable info.

"The fuck you mean she's coming back tonight?!"

Beau just sighs with a dramatic roll of his eyes. "Bro. Do you even read your texts? No wait -- did you look at your phone at all today?"

Dean gets up so abrutly that the girl in his arms fell straight onto the floor with a surprised yelp before staring up at the culprit with a dirty look. He mutters a quick apology before frantically searching for his phone ontop of the kitchen counter where he had last left it.

He lets out a sigh of relief when he does then switches it on, the bright screen making him squint as the sound of multiple pings go off. Sure enough, you had actually sent texts and 10 miss calls. All in the past hour or so.

By the time he was reading through the texts in a panicked manner, you had already landed and were on your way by taxi. Turns out, your trip had to be cut short due to delays at the airport. So you made sure both Beau and Dean knew about it beforehand.

Little did you know that your text messages would send the blonde jock into a worried frenzy.

"Fuck! Uhh." Dean pauses for a moment, hand dragging through his messy locks. Trying to process everything. While the girl who had fallen onto the floor gathers her clothes with a scoff. Pissed yet also confused as to what was going on as she mutters curses to herself about Dean on the way to the front door.

Dean could care less. As harsh as that may seem. He then turned to stare at Beau, wide eyed and utterly dazed due to being drunk. "When did she say she was coming over?"

Beau sighs yet again at his best friends lack of awareness and points to the clock with a cheese stick. "In 15 minutes. She said she's near campus. But I guess I could call her again if you're so worried."

Dean nods in agreement, swallowing nervously as his adam apple bobs from the motion. Watching Beau intently as he rings your number on his phone.

"It's alright Beau. I'll be fine." You reassured the fussy brunette over the phone. As he kept on insisting that he could help you with your things. "Thanks anyway. Oh — And say hi to Dean and the others for me too."

"Sure no problem. But you can tell Dean yourself." Beau muses. When a voice that you knew all too well spoke nearby. Despite his words sounding a little slurred, you knew it was Dean. "Come by yourself Maxwell!"

"Missed you too Dean." You smile to yourself after hearing his voice. Knowing he must be right next to Beau with a boyish grin that you grew to love, and a beer in hand. "Oh right. I just got a call from Allie saying that my dorm room's flooded. So I might have to stay over for a couple of days."

Beau being Beau, ignores your last comment entirely and decides to make fun of the situation instead. While Dean starts to freak out at the mention of you staying over. Immediately wondering where you should sleep.

"Aww Deanie she missed you ~" Beau mirrors your comment in a highly exaggerated way. Throwing in kissing noises while he was at it. Causing quite the commotion as the boys started to laugh and you assumed they were also shoving eachother due to the clatter of plates.

Which then earned a good scolding from Tucker in the process. You shook your head with a smile on your face, ending the call not soon after. "Idiots."

It had been a couple of days since your arrival and you seemed to fit in just fine. The boys tried to stay as respectful as the could around you. Meanwhile Dean let you stay in his room. Which came as a surprise to them. Usually because he never brought women to his own bedroom. Notoriously using the living room couch or floor for his hookups.

So imagine Garretts surprise when he walks out his room to see you standing in Dean's bedroom. Quietly painting on your canvas with the faint sound of music playing in the background. As Dean talked to you animatedly behind you with his chin resting ontop of your head.

He didn't really question it. Figuring because you were close with Dean, like a friend, that it should be normal for you to sleep in the same room as him.

"Are you sure you don't want to sleep on the bed?" You ask for the a hundreth time that week. Feeling bad as you peer down at the blonde man, fingers reaching down to brush through his perfectly tamed hair. He looks up at you with a surprisingly soft gaze. For reassurance, he brings your fingers to his lips. Pressing a gentle kiss to your fingertips with a low whisper. "I'm good down here."

What Dean wasn't expecting at all was for Logan to step in and make breakfast for you one morning. A simple, innocent gesture. Yet for some reason, it bugged Dean. Normally he wouldn't be the jealous type. But the way you thanked Logan with such an adoring look in your eyes made him wonder. Should he be jealous?

Another time was when he caught Logan sneaking glances at you at the stands during practice at the hockey rink. Without thinking, the grip around Dean's hockey stick tightens.

Thinking surely, you wouldn't be staring back at him too.

His grip loosens once he see's that you weren't looking at Logan, but at him. Giving him a small wave and a gentle smile. Your fingers like always, covered in paint since you were finishing an art project in your large sketchbook.

A weight lifted off his shoulders as he waves back with his usual boyish grin. Flashing you his dimples that you always adored as he playfully blows you a kiss.

However, that didn't stop you from liking Logan. That was the worst part. Not romantically ofcourse — well, Dean hoped not. But they clicked effortlessly. You two traded sarcastic comments across the dinner table. Logan would remember what items you liked for breakfast, lunch and dinner so that he could help Tucker make them for you. Watched movies together. Spent hours talking together in the living room, helping you with your art projects. Flaunting his 'boy next door' persona.

Meanwhile Dean transformed into some grumpy idiot whenever Logan was around. With the party being his last straw.

The boys decided to throw yet another big party one weekend. Dean was searching for you in the large crowd. His head thumping rigorously and adrenaline pumping through his veins due to the cheap alcohol and beer he consumed in the past hour or so. Doing drink challenges with his friends and most importantly Beau. Considering it was their shared birthday.

It made sense, Dean being dressed as Maverick. While Beau was Goose. An iconic dynamic pair.

Dean wondered who you'd come as. He figured maybe Hannah would come as your partner. He stops dead in his tracks when he see's who you're with.

Logan was with you in the living room. His arms around your shoulder as the pair engage in a conversation on the couch. You wore a satin white dress that stopped just above your knees, exposing your thighs. Paired with little angel wings on your back and a pair of satin embossed heels that looked just like ballerina shoes.

Dean was about to turn around and leave them alone.

That was until he see's Logan whisper something in your ear. And the look you had on your face made Dean wonder what he could have possibly said. You were at a loss for words, mouth agape and the tips of your ears turning pink. Then, Logan smiles at you. A genuine smile. And like the gentleman that he was, he leans in to wipe off the smudges of left over icing on your cheeks.

"Holy shit." Garrett mutters. Interrupting the somewhat intense staring session Dean had just now. Dean turns to look at him with an exhasperated groan. "What?"

"Dude. You're jealous. Don't even deny it."

"No I'm not." Dean scoffs. Quickly glancing at the pair as he picks up a red cup from the counter. Taking a swig before chucking it near the overfilled bin, completely missing it as it lands on the outside.

He takes another look that would inevitably piss him off. Logan whispered something in your ear again that made you laugh. As he not so descreetly point to Dean with his cup.

Garrett starts to wheeze when he see's his friends face. Deciding to put an arm around him and give him some advice. "Just talk to her man. I'm sure it's all a misunderstanding."

Yet Dean could'nt stop looking at the couple. Garretts words going in one ear and coming out the other. Soon he's at a breaking point when he see's Logan lean in impossibly close. Without thinking, he pries away from Grarretts clutches and weaves his way through the crowd.

'Yeah. He's pissed.'

Garrett doesn't stop him, wanting to see what sort of Drama would unfold as Hannah joined his side. Also curious.

Both you and Logan looked up towards the distresses blonde. You were the first to speak up. Growing slightly concerned as Dean seemed to find it hard to say something. Chest heaving and sweat clinging to his skin. "Dean? You okay?"

Logan knew exacly why came over as he fought back a grin. He had an inclining that Dean had a crush on you. But had no reason to make a move unless he witnessed something he couldn't ignore. "Need something?"

"Yeah. You bet I have a fucking problem." Dean replies quick and sharp. Almost catching Logan offguard as the tall man in the khaki green costume reaches for you.

You let out a small gasp as Dean bends down to hook his hands under your thighs. Lifting you effortlessly infront of everyone. Stormy blue eyes staring down at Logan before turning on his heel. While you clung onto him, looking around frantically as your cheeks began to feel warm from everyone staring as Dean walks past to head for the stairs.

Some guests cheered Dean on while others murmured amongst themselves. Jules ofcourse, caught everything with their phone as Dean makes it up the stairs with ease. "Oh this is Gold. "

"Took him long enough." Logan muses while Garrett handed him a $20 bill. With Garrett adding in another comment with a breathy laugh. "Didn't know he had it in him."

"God -- I'm so gonna walk in on them making out on the kitchen counter tomorrow." Beau groans in annoyance. Once again traumatised by the whole ordeal. Also hands Logan the same ammount. Leaving only Tucker as the exempted one since he knew Dean would break at some point.

“Oh, Phil,” the blonde shakes her head in disbelief. “I told you, you were going to run into someone or break your leg. Are you alright, Squeaks?”

You nod, “oh, I’m fine. Your husband on the other hand, is not. You know, I think he tried to do it on purpose.”

“Phil!”

“What?” His eyes widened. “NO! I would never-” His shoulders deflate at the sight of you two giggling. “Oh, real mature, Claire. You’re pulling Squeaks into your evil games.”

She rolls her eyes before gesturing upstairs, “she’s still in bed.”

“Thank you,” you say in a sing-song tone before making your way up the stairs. You’re nearly at her door when the one thing stopping you, Luke. “I didn’t know you’d be here,” he says with a fake forgetful tone. You raise a brow. “Sure, you didn’t just like every other time you “forgot” I was coming over.” He tries to lean against the wall but misses and manages to catch himself before one of the babies toys trips him. You burst out laughing, “holy crap. Oh, I so wish I had a camera on me to record that.”

“Are you going to help me up?” He pouts. You lean over, smiling at him, “no.” You slam the door open, “Alex, get your ass out of bed. We’re going out.” The door slams shut behind you. Claire and Phil share a look. “He takes after you,” Phil tells his wife. She scoffs, avoiding eye contact, “he does not. That’s you right there.” “And eventually he’ll get the girl, hopefully minus a few broken bones.” “Oh god. Do you remember when you tried sliding across the hood of your car “Dukes of Hazzard” style and broke your collarbone?” “I remember crying as they tried moving me to get an x-ray.” You roll your eyes at her laying in bed. “Get up.” “I’m heartbroken.” She whines as you yank her blankets off her. “Give them back.” “Nope,” you nudge her leg, sitting down beside her. “Alex, honey, you know I love you-” A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips. “But for the love of god,” you groan as her smile disappears. “Get up.” She pouts, covering her face. “You got broken up with, I don’t know who did it but this is not the end of the world.” You pull her hand away from her face. “You, Alex Dunphy, the smartest girl there ever was, are going to get through this.”

“You know, you can be persuasive at times.” “Oh, believe me. I know. How do you think Luke got his style?” She narrows her eyes at you. “You did that?” “Yeah, now he’s a babe magnet.” “Gross.” “They say the same about you when you start talking about going on the prowl.” “That’s different.” You shrug, “not really.” You walk behind her, waving off her family as they gawk at the depressed girl walking down the stairs. “There we go,” you direct her to the kitchen. “Let’s get something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.” “Uh huh and I’m a cougar. Let’s grab a snack.” Alex eyed you with a confused look. Luke entered (after being shoved by Haley and his mom) and bumped into you. You gasp at the cold and look down to find the milk spilled all over you. “Oh my- Luke,” you groan. You glare at him as he stares at you with his jaw dropped. “Just move and stay with her.” You move past him, rushing up the stairs. You close the door behind you, not paying attention to it closing as you scramble to find new clothes. You nearly scream as you hug the dry shirt to your chest. “What are you doing?” You open the door and push him towards it, “get out. Get out. Get out.”

“I- I’m sorry,” he tells you through the door. “I really don’t care what’s just happened,” you sigh. “Go and console your sister.” You barely make eye contact with him as you re-enter the kitchen. “Haley?” “What’s up?” She looks behind her, peering at you from over the couch. “I’m taking her out tonight, you want to be baby free for a night and join?” She pouts, “I wish. Dylan already promised me date night and I don’t want to reschedule it… again.” You shrug, “okay. I figured I’d ask.” Alex furrows her brows at your lack of teasing her brother. “Are you okay?” You give her a small smile, “I’m good, unlike you.” You grab her wrist and tug her towards the stairs. “We’re going to ransack your closet before I try and burn your old clothes.”

“I vote second.” “Haley!” Alex whines. You avoid bumping into Luke as you two make your way up the stairs. Once the door closes, that’s when the teasing begins.

“Why don’t you just tell her you like her?” Haley asks out loud, rocking one of the babies in her arms.

“What? Who?”

She raises a brow at her brother. “Really? You nearly mauled her the second she walked into the house.”

“I,” he scoffs, crossing his arms. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Oh, sweetie,” Claire shakes her head. “You are definitely your father’s son. You are doing a horrible job at hiding your feelings right now.”

“Oh, come on. He doesn’t like her,” Phil chimes in, wrapping an arm around Luke’s shoulders. Claire and Haley raise a brow. “Yeah, okay. I didn’t believe me then either. Sorry, buddy.”

“No, you guys are wrong I don’t- I don’t like her.” Haley raises a brow. “That’s exactly what somebody who has a crush would say.” “You guys have no idea what you’re talking about.” He storms off down the hallway. Claire raises her hand and lowers each finger slowly, counting down from three. “Okay, you guys might have a point.”

“Can we go home now?” Alex whines to you. You smile and shake your head. “Nope. We’re just gonna enjoy our girls night out. No boys, no family hiding in a corner, nothing.” You slide the water to her. “Water?” You nod, “yep. I am not about to deal with drunk and sobbing Alex right now. I am not equipped for her just yet.” She shrugs, “I guess- I guess that’s fair.” “We can always get something else if you want but I honestly just wanted to get you out of the house.” The corners of her smile tug, “thank you.”

“What are best friends for?” “We’re best friends?” “Oh, dear God.” You nearly slam your hand against the counter top. “Alex, don’t turn off your brain yet.” “I have never done that.” “Uh huh,” you smirk. “Except when it comes to your first kiss.” She gasps, “that was one-” “At least five.” “That was one time and I thought you said no talk of boys?” You shrug, stirring the ice cubes in your water. “I had to get you talking somehow.” “That was uncalled for.” “You’re having fun, just admit it.” You tell her you’re running to the bathroom, expecting her to follow you but she insists on staying at the table. “What? Now you guys think I’m not capable of taking care of myself?” She snaps at her brother.

“Woah,” he raises his hands slightly, pulling away. “It’s just me and I- uh- I wanted to make sure you two were okay.” She raises a brow, “sure you did.” “Obviously. I mean, why else would I be here?” She smirks, “to admit your feelings for someone.” He rolls his eyes. You find your way back to the table and are confused at the sight of her brother. You stop beside her. “I said girls night. Not girls night plus Luke.” He leans in, “come on, you know you missed me.”

“When have I ever admitted such a thing?”

“I ordered us drinks,” she chimes in. You pout, “without me?” She rolls her eyes, “I can be a big girl and order us drinks.” “Yeah, but it’s always fun watching you shamelessly flirt with the bartender.” She scoffs, “I do not- okay, that was one time and I didn’t see you opposing the free drinks.” “Uh, no because I’m not crazy and also it was one drink that tasted horrible.” You pull the chair away from him and take your seat. “So, what happens during girls' night?”

“Why are you so invested?” You furrow your brows. “Are you upset that your sister is getting more than you?” He grimaces, “gross. Never say that again.” You chuckle, taking a sip of your drink. “I’m going to torture him with this now.” Alex groans. You glance back, double checking she’s in securely in the back as she dozes off. “Are you sure you should be driving?” You ask him.

“What, you think I can’t handle your car?” He teases. You roll your eyes, “you break it, you pay for the damage.” “I’m fine and I got it. You just keep sitting there and look pretty.” Your jaw drops as you eye him for a few seconds, watching as he reverses out the parking lot. You turn to look out the window when he turns around. It wasn’t a long drive back to the Dunphy household but that doesn’t mean it didn’t feel like it. You head to the backseat while Luke unlocks the door. “I told you I make for a good wing woman,” she tells you with a tired smile.

You roll your eyes. “You have done nothing of the sort tonight. Now, come on. I desperately need to get out of these boots before I start crying.” He makes his way back to you as he helps you drag his sister into the house. “You can stay the night, you know.” He tells you after you close her bedroom door. “Yes, I know I can stay, Luke but I have no clothes here.”

“That’s a lie. Mom always keeps a few things here for you, just in case.” You roll your eyes, crossing your arms, leaning against the wall. “Why do you want me to stay so bad? You want to get blackmail evidence of me with bedhead or something?” You tease him. “No, I just,” he scratches the back of his head. “It’s late and you’ve been complaining about how bad your feet are hurting so why push yourself when you can just relax here.” The smile slowly falls as you glance down, looking at your favorite (albeit most tortuous) shoes. “Like you said, it's late.”

“Why do you want to go home so bad?” You lift your head, realizing how close he became in the last few seconds. “Bad things happen when it’s late.” “Exactly and I’m trying to keep you safe so nothing happens to you.” You scoff, “you just might be the bad thing.” He smirks, “I think you meant inappropriate things happen after-” You cover his mouth with a squeak. “Shhh, do not and I mean do not finish that sentence or I swear I will-”

“Will what?” He asks after moving your hand from his mouth. “See, now you’re all quiet. I don’t think you actually have anything to say.” You purse your lips, annoyed with right he is and how close he’s gotten and how sweet he was tonight, especially now and- “Oh, screw it.” You take a deep breath and cup his cheeks, pulling him close- almost expecting him to pull away until he starts kissing you back. You don’t know how long you stood there kissing him but you eventually realized what you were doing and with who then you began to pull back. He leans in closer with his eyes still closed until he opens them and finds you covering your mouth with wide eyes. “Don’t freak out.”

“I’m not,” you scoff as you bend down to pull off your shoes, you almost fall until he helps stabilize you. You stare at him for a second as you stand there holding your heels. “See something you like?” He teases. You let out a quiet squeak and shuffle towards Alex’s room, gingerly closing the door. You press your forehead against the door and nearly combust. “What did I do?” “Go to sleep,” Alex groans. “You nearly scream but eventually calm down and go to bed.

You wake up to a glass of water and tylenol on the nightstand and know who it’s from. You slowly make your way downstairs, still in your pajamas with your hair barely thrown up in a messy bun. You step off the last step when you hear his voice. “Should I take a picture now for your blackmail?” You roll your eyes and take the cup of coffee from him. “It’s too early for this.” You frown, realizing the coffee tastes exactly how you like it. “How did you-”

He shrugs, “I’ve noticed how you take your coffee and thought you might want some.” “Well,” you glance at him from the corner of your eye, “thank you.”  

“Any time.” “He really likes her,” Phil whispers to Claire. She nods, “he really does. How long till you think they finally admit they like each other?” “He’s going to break later.”

“Really?” She turns to her husband, “you think that soon.”

You took in the floor-to-ceiling windows with their glittering view of the skyline, the dark, expansive floors, and the way-too-expensive paintings hanging on every wall. Everything felt curated. The place screamed money. Someone’s parents were absolutely rolling in it.

You felt envious, partly because of the money, but mostly because almost everyone seemed to be close to your age, and you were living a very different life. No one you grew up with had the money to play a sport like hockey. You certainly never had the money to attend college, let alone a fancy private school.

Your mission was simple: make sure the starting line of the Briar University Hawks had an amazing night. The party was in full swing, alcohol flowing and hip-hop blaring from a massive speaker. Three chairs had been set up in the middle of the decadent living room, and three players from the starting line had been ushered into their respective seats.

Beau pointed out your target. The first words that came to mind to describe him were blonde, hunky, and pretty fucking drunk.

“You’ve got Dean. He’s pretty experienced, so I wouldn’t hold back, if you know what I mean.”

That meant pulling out all the stops. Having stripped since you were nineteen, you were no one-trick pony. You were wearing the tiniest black lace mini-dress imaginable. Your heels were impossibly high, but your steps didn’t falter as you approached Blondie. When you danced, you let your alter ego shine, channeling all of your confidence through her. The trick was to stay out of your head and simply feel the music.

Although you’d gotten into this line of work out of necessity, there were parts of it that you enjoyed, including the feeling of having an entire room's attention on you. You started your routine, and in a drunk college boy’s eyes, you probably appeared spontaneous, sensual, and, well, horny. In reality, every move was practiced and automatic at this point.

Everyone was watching and cheering, and you felt your adrenaline begin to surge. Your eyes found Dean’s, and a strange feeling passed through you because he was staring right back at you—only at you. As if there wasn’t a huge party going on around him and other scantily clad women dancing nearby.

You made your way in front of him and deliberately positioned yourself between his legs. Leaning down, you placed your hands on his thighs and spread them farther apart. During the first half of your routine, the dress stayed on, leaving the rest of your body to his imagination. With his hands gripping his own thighs, you could feel his gaze raking over you, and you were grateful he hadn’t started getting handsy yet.

You brushed your hands over his shoulders and down his chest before leaning close to his ear.

“Hi.”

It felt rude not to introduce yourself in situations like this.

“I’m Y/N.”

He didn’t respond immediately. He seemed distracted by your hands and the generous view you were giving him, exactly as planned.

“Dean,” he finally managed, his voice deep and rough. “God, you’re fucking stunning.”

It felt a little strange doing this with someone so young instead of a sleazy middle-aged man. You suspected you wouldn’t mind his attention nearly as much as you would from someone who obviously had a wife and kids waiting at home.

“Thank you, baby,” you purred, matching his tone and feeding the fantasy. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

You turned around, lowering your hips until your backside brushed against his jeans. He was already hard. Not getting there, already there. You moved your hips to the rhythm of the song, and from the corner of your eye, you could see his hands tightening on his thighs as though it took every ounce of restraint to keep them there.

By the time it was time to take off your dress, the air felt electric.

You stepped a few feet away from him and slowly shimmied out of the dress, revealing a tiny black thong underneath. There was a deliberate pause before you lifted the fabric over your chest. You waited for the shift in the room, for the voices to rise and the bass to hit at just the right moment.

Still swaying with the music, you pulled the dress over your head. Your black top was little more than a few strings and tiny black hearts covering your nipples. The rest was left on display.

You tossed the dress against Dean’s chest before dipping low.

Now came your favorite part.

You dropped to your knees and moved through your floorwork, your hair flying through the air, before slowly making your way back toward him. He was leaning forward now, elbows braced on his thighs, his expression strained. A handful of dollar bills sat clenched in one fist.

Your breathing had grown heavier, and your smile turned devilish.

Climbing into his lap, you finally allowed him to touch you, taking his hands and placing them on your ass. A few hundred dollars quickly found their way into your thong, making your smile widen.

You moved against him, feeling the evidence of his interest with every shift. You didn’t hold back, just as Beau had requested. You pulled out every trick you had, and Dean did an impressive job holding on and helping you keep your balance as you moved through the final portions of the routine.

By the time the song ended, both of you looked equally wrecked.

You practically collapsed against him with a breathless laugh.

“God fucking damn.”

Around you, the other girls were finishing up their routines as well.

You climbed off his lap and retrieved your dress from the floor. Leaning down close to his ear again so he could hear you over the music, you said:

“I need a shot.”

Dean looked up at you without hesitation.

“I will give you anything you want.”

One shot leads to five, and after giving a few more lap dances to members of the team, you find yourself alone with Dean in an upstairs den. Away from the music, you finally feel like yourself again. You pull the money you've collected from your dress and begin counting it.

Your total comes to eight hundred dollars, and suddenly you're grateful you came tonight. You'd have to ask one of your friends from the club how much she made and compare. The money fluctuated constantly in your industry, so it always felt like you were chasing the next big payday.

“Not bad. You hockey boys are more generous than I expected.”

He's poured you a glass of Chardonnay, and he hands it to you as he sits down beside you on the white leather couch. He clinks his glass against yours in a toast, and you both take a sip.

It doesn't fully hit you until that moment that you've let him get you completely alone.

While you were giving lap dances to the other guys, Dean had been getting ambushed by college girls fawning all over him, and yet he'd still brought you upstairs. Now that you thought about it, his attention hadn't really left you all night.

He'd made sure you had refreshments and all the alcohol you could want.

Instantly, you felt suspicious.

“You'd be surprised. Most of us are perfect gentlemen.”

You hum. “I'm sure. You most of all, right?”

“I didn't say that. I am a great host, though, right? This party turned out pretty great.”

“This is your house?”

“Uh, yeah. My parents'. So feel free to make yourself at home.”

You take that as your opportunity to free yourself from your too-high heels and pull your legs up onto the couch.

“You grew up here?”

“Yep,” he answers, popping the p.

“Wow. And you're, like, a hockey star?”

“I've been told,” he says, making you laugh. “And I'm very humble.”

You take another sip of your drink before saying, “This is really good.”

“Chevalier-Montrachet Grand Cru,” he says, and your eyebrows shoot up.

“What the fuck did you just say?”

He laughs. “That's the wine.”

“Oh.”

A brief silence settles between you, and the soft way he's looking at you makes your cheeks warm. You shift uncomfortably.

“If you're such a good host, shouldn't you actually be at your own party?”

“You got me.” He sighs. “I'd really rather be here, I think.”

Your eyes narrow, and you finish your glass in one gulp.

“What do you want?”

“What?”

“Don't bullshit me. Why do you want to be alone with me?”

“Shit, I don't know. Maybe because I want to get to know you?”

“Me? The stripper?”

“Well, yeah.”

You tip your head back in drunken laughter.

He takes the empty glass from your hand and sets it on the coffee table. Suddenly, he's closing the distance between you, and when you look at him again, he's only an inch from your lips.

You don't blame him for how he feels. You really don't. An hour ago, you were dancing all over him. But it's all supposed to be a fantasy.

He doesn't know you, and you'll never really know him.

“You're cute,” you admit. “But no—”

Dean moves fast, capturing your mouth with his and wrapping his arms around you. It's effortless, the way he pulls your scantily clad body onto his lap.

The kiss doesn't surprise you nearly as much as how good it is.

How easily he makes the space between you disappear.

He pulls you into his rhythm, and whenever you feel yourself falling behind, he tightens his grip, encouraging you to keep up.

He's hard again.

You never felt turned on while giving lap dances, and you hadn't felt any sparks while performing earlier, but now, sitting in his lap and completely at his mercy, you feel far too much.

You push against his chest until he finally lets you go.

“I need to leave,” you say breathlessly.

Your lipstick is smeared across his mouth, and some of your foundation has transferred to his jaw. Then you begin to wonder how long you'd been kissing him. It felt as though time had stopped.

How long had you let him guide your hips against his?

“Um, thanks for the fancy wine.”

You climb off his lap and reach for your shoes, but he gently catches your wrist before you can get far.

“What's wrong? I'm a really good time.”

“I'm sure you are.”

“Let me make you feel good. Ten minutes. That's all I need.”

“You're not serious.”

“I'm deadly serious, gorgeous. I'm so fucking hard for you. I know you felt it.”

You scoff, but then a dangerous thought crosses your mind.

No one had ever looked at you the way Dean had tonight.

His eyes are desperate, like he might do just about anything to get you to stay.

“For ten minutes...” You pause. “I'd want one thousand.”

“One thousand?”

You nod. “One thousand dollars.”

“You want me to pay you... to have sex with me?”

You're glad he connects the dots quickly.

His blue eyes cycle through several emotions, the strongest of them confusion.

“I've never had to pay for sex before.”

“Good for you. If you hadn't noticed, I'm not one of your little fans, and I'm working right now.”

You shrug and pick your heels up from the floor. Pulling your wrist free, you start toward the door.

“Wait.”

You pause, exactly as he expects you to.

“How much for a whole hour?”

One thing that turned you on more than the average person: money.

You turn around and find him wearing the same expression he'd had earlier when you were crawling toward him on your knees.

Pained.

But now he looks even hungrier.

“For you? Two thousand.”

He bites his lower lip, conflicted, his hands rubbing together nervously.

“What's included in this deal?”

You take a step back toward him, and his gaze drifts over every inch of you.

“What's included in the sex package you're purchasing?”

“Yeah. I mean, can I be rough with you?”

“Rough meaning?” you ask, slightly intrigued. “Hair pulling, face slapping, spanking, things like that?”

Dean nods eagerly.

“Yup. All of those things.”

“Okay,” you say, curious that his mind went there first. “My only hard limits are bathroom stuff and weapons. Oh, and I don't want to go anywhere near your feet.”

“Jesus, I would never—”

“Yeah, yeah. I've met a lot of weirdos. So where are we doing this?”

He stands from the couch and closes the distance between you.

Towering over you, he says, “I am going to rock your world, baby. Follow me.”

You’re not sure what you expected. Scratch that – you expected he’d take you to his room. Or at least a room with a bed. Instead, he pulls you through the still-raging party, out the front door, and toward the building’s staircase.

“Where are we going?” you ask, now considering the possibility that he might be trying to kill you.

“Just wait,” he insists as you climb another four flights of stairs.

A heavy metal door swings open, revealing the New York night air. Immediately, you spot an expansive pool that spans most of the rooftop, its lights glowing in the darkness. Lounge chairs are scattered around the deck, and, of course, the most breathtaking feature is the view of the city.

The space is deserted, though you imagine anyone could wander up here at any time. That doesn’t seem to bother Dean.

“Ta-da,” he says, placing a hand on your waist and urging you forward.

“I’m not swimming,” you state, crossing your arms over your chest as your gaze wanders around the space.

The city noise isn’t so bad this high up, and as he guides you toward the edge, you realize you’re high enough that all the people below look like ants.

“Good, because I’m not paying you to swim.”

He positions himself behind you, hands braced on either side of you. Pulling your hair over one shoulder, Dean dips his head toward the curve of your neck.

“Let me guess,” you say. “You’ve always wanted to have sex up here.”

Dean scoffs.

“You underestimate me. I’ve had sex all over this building.”

You roll your eyes.

“I underestimated your little hockey fans. They let you do that in public?”

“Let me? They beg me to. But you’re the lucky one.”

He presses closer, his teeth grazing a sensitive spot on your neck and drawing a soft sound from your lips.

“Why’s that?” you ask.

“I’m never gonna fuck anyone like how I’m about to fuck you.”

His player vibes work on you, unfortunately, and you can feel your center heating up. You can feel how wet you are as your thighs rub together: “Your hour started about ten minutes ago, you know?”

“What? Are you already ready for me to be inside of you?” He lifts your dress and slides your thong down until it's wrapped around your ankles. “Spread your legs.” He says as he presses your back down, and your stomach touches the edge of the roof. 

You don’t expect his voice to sound so deep and commanding. Following his lead, you spread them for him. He inspects you, his fingers exploring over your folds. “Fuck. Me,” He whispers, and you can practically hear him biting down on his lips. He teases you, large fingers rubbing over your sensitive bud. A moment later, you’re taken aback by Dean grabbing the backs of your thighs and pressing his face into your pussy. 

“Don’t fucking move.” He slaps the back of your right thigh when you start to squirm. Tongue against your clit and nose against your aching hole, he starts to eat you. There’s no tasting or licking. Dean makes a meal out of you, “So good. So fucking good.”

“Oh my God, oh my God.” You try to keep still because every sharp movement your body makes, Dean plants a hard slap against your skin. The pressure he’s applying is completely overwhelming; you don’t think you’ve felt anything like it. Your mouth parts in a gasp as his tongue presses against your sensitive bud. Over and over and over. He sets a good rhythm. No, a perfect rhythm. Now, you have to stay still. You force yourself to stay still because your orgasm is coming quickly. “Oh, fuck, Dean!”

Your orgasm rips through you almost painfully. Dean continues to lap at you, and you’re so oversensitive that you start to close your legs. “Okay, okay, okay, please, please.” You’re begging him to stop but cumming at the same time. When he relents, your legs are shaking, and you’re trying to catch your breath. 

You scream when you feel your legs lift off the ground. “Dean!” His hands wrapped around your torso, Dean lifts you and carries you over to one of the lounge chairs by the pool. He drops you down onto your bottom as he climbs on top of you. His lips smash onto yours, and suddenly you’re tasting yourself, a reminder of how much he’s made you feel. 

He breaks the kiss only so he can focus on putting on the condom. His shirt is off, and his pants are down now, and you have a full view of how large he is. Not to mention he’s sculpted like a God. You’re not sure how well you’re going to take him; you’ve never had anyone as big as him. And your mind is still reeling from your orgasm. It’s a foreign feeling to orgasm with a partner and even more abnormal to orgasm before penetration. 

“Are you ready?”

No. 

“Yes.”

“I can fuck you as hard as I want, right?”

You find yourself doing a mental pep talk. He leans back down, condom on, and grabs your hips. He pulls you toward him in a swift movement before lifting your legs in the air. It’s almost clinical, like the way he felt your folds when you bent over. Dean holds your legs in the air as he positions himself at the entrance. 

You watch him as he pushes inside of you. You find your muscles are much more relaxed after your orgasm, and although you immediately feel full with him inside of you, it doesn’t hurt. His eyes are focused on how his own cock fits inside of you as if it’s the most wonderful thing he’s ever admired. As he smirks, your head tilts back in pleasure. 

“Look at that,” He says, pushing deeper, “You’ve almost got all of me, baby. How does that feel?”

The sound you release in response comes from a place deep inside you. “Fuck.” Is all you can manage, and your hands grab hold of the soft fabric of the chair. Dean holds your legs against his shoulders as he starts to rock his hips into yours. 

“Breathe, baby, or you’ll pass out.”

“I am,” You say, although you’re not sure it’s true. You’re trying to. You really are. He’s stretching you completely, and you could feel that pressure starting to build again as he starts to pick up his pace. He tilts closer, your legs bending, and he presses his body into you. You’re trapped beneath you as he decides how much he’s giving you and how fast. 

You realize he’s been waiting all night for you. 

He squeezes your tits as he pounds into you, “Look at me.”

You hadn’t realized you weren’t. You were so focused on how he was making you feel. “Y/N, look at me while I’m fucking you.”

You listen, but seeing his eyes so focused on you sends you over the edge. “I’m cumming,” You’re whining at this point. 

“Good girl, cum for me,” He keeps his rhythm but fucks you deeper. “Look at you.”

You can’t take it. Your second orgasm is even more intense than the first. Your arms reach for his shoulders, and you push. If you could just have one second to–

“Don’t run from me.” He pins your wrists above your head, and you cry out in pleasure. “I’m not done.”

“Please, Dean, I can’t.” You squeeze around him, and for the first time, you see his composure fading. Your third orgasm comes quickly after the second, catching both of you off guard, and it’s thanks to how relentless Dean is. 

“You’re coming again? Jesus,” He grunts. By the third orgasm, tears are filling your eyes, and your body convulses beneath his. You’re squeezing him too hard. He curses as he slows and pushes into you for the last time. His moan is guttural, which is only fitting given how he fucked you like an animal. 

Dean collapses next to you on the chair. You’re crying, although it’s not from sadness. It feels like he’s altered your brain chemistry. He pulls your body into his, wrapping his arms around you, and he uses his discarded t-shirt to wipe your eyes. 

“You’re really pretty when you cum,” Dean remarks, and you allow yourself to melt into his touch. “Did you know that?”

“No, I … guess not.”

“Well, now you do.” 

A long moment of silence stretches between you, the only sounds the occasional honk of traffic below and the wind whipping across the rooftop.

“Hey.” He says softly. 

Mascara on your cheeks and an ache between your thighs, you glance at him. 

“How much for the whole night?”

I don’t know where this came from, I hope you enjoyed :)

off campus masterlist is coming, but here's my other story

house bunny

main masterlist

You toss and turn in Deans navy blue sheets, it was morning in the off campus house which meant peace, maybe some spared time for a little morning sex, or just some soft kisses. You open your eyes, the sun seeping out of his curtains.

You turn your head to look at your boyfriend, but he wasn’t there. That’s weird, normally he always is up after you. You look at your phone and don’t see any text messages saying goodbye, so he’s clearly still in the off campus house somewhere. You get up from the warm and cozy bed that smells like Dean. You walk over to Deans closet.

You look in his closet and find an oversized shirt. You slip it on your bare skin, it almost shows your underwear but it doesn’t matter, it’s cute and it’s simple, you knew the other hockey players were sleeping so you had to be quiet. You open Deans door. And quietly go by the stairs.

You tip toe down the stairs, making sure they don’t creek. You finally make it to the end of the stairs. You hear noises coming from the kitchen, mixing noises. Was Tucker up cooking breakfast? But when you looked in the hallway earlier his door was closed so no way.

You go into the kitchen and see Dean, in Grey sweatpants, his morning wood still very clear. You look up at deans chest, his abs were to die for. Dean never wears shirts, one of the best parts of dating him.

“Hey baby, did you get a good night sleep?” His voice was groggy from sleep. Dean kisses your lips, his lips were pink and soft, they weren’t chapped or anything.

“Yeah, I slept well” you say as you pull back from the kiss.

Dean plates up the pancakes, “here baby, let me just look for the syrup”

“Hey, theses are like the ones from the TikTok I sent you” you smile, no one has actually paid attention to you with stuff like this.

“They are, I love spoiling my girlfriend, she deserves the world and the universe and everything else” he hands you the sryup

You smile and start laughing, you couldn’t help it. You drizzle the syrup on the pancakes, you cut it slowly with your knife and fork and feed dean.

You love soft moments like this. Dean leans in after he swallows the bite of the sweet golden brown pancake. He kisses you, you put your hands into his soft golden blonde locks. He lifts you up, he carries you up to his room to have some soft morning sex, your favorite kind. You smile, you love this life. You love Sunday mornings.

Every. Single. Morning.

Without fail, his bedroom door would creak open just enough for him to hear the soft shuffle of your footsteps. Half-asleep, he'd crack open one eye and catch a glimpse of you moving through his bedroom like some sort of fitness-obsessed ghost. Always dressed in workout clothes. Always carrying that absurdly large water bottle that was practically the size of a small child.

Where the hell were you going?

Because nobody willingly woke up at six in the morning unless they were being paid, chased, or clinically insane. Yet there you were. Every day. Gone before sunrise. By the time Dean finally dragged himself out of bed at a reasonable hour, you’d already returned. Usually flushed from exertion, a light sheen of sweat still clinging to your skin as you tossed your keys onto the counter.

Your leggings and fitted tank top would be slightly damp, strands of hair escaping your ponytail and sticking to your temples. And you always, always, had that weird green drink in your hand. The thing looked radioactive, Dean swore it practically glowed. "What the hell is that?" He'd asked one morning, staring suspiciously at the cup in your hand. "Matcha." You muttered taking a sip through the straw, eyebrows raised.

"It looks like liquid grass."

"It's tea, Dean."

"It's toxic waste, babydoll."

A laugh escaped you as you shook your head, completely unbothered by his judgmental stare while taking another sip. Sometimes you'd head out alone. Other mornings, Dean would hear even more movement in the hallway before dawn. Additional doors opening. Muffled voices. The unmistakable sound of people who should absolutely still be asleep. Then later that day, Garrett would stumble into the hockey house looking personally victimized.

"Wellsy left at six this morning." Dean barely glanced up from his phone. "Tragic." He teased, lips quirking up in his well-known cocky smirk. "I woke up and she was gone, all I know is that she took Grace and Y/N with her." Now that got Dean's attention. "Where?" Garrett groaned dramatically and collapsed down onto the couch. "I don't know." Across the room, Logan snorted into his coffee cup. "Join the club, G."

"Grace ditched you too?" Garrett pointed accusingly as Logan nodded. "Six fifteen," Logan confirmed darkly dropping down onto the couch beside Dean with all the suffering of a man personally betrayed, scrubbing a hand down his face. "I woke up because she kissed my forehead like she was shipping off to war." Dean looked between them, then slowly lowered his phone.

"Wait," Both men turned toward him, brows raised in silent question. "You both don't know where they're going either?" Both hockey players exchanged a look. Then Logan shrugged as Garrett shook his head. Dean stared at them, then started laughing. Because suddenly this wasn't just his mystery anymore, it was a goddamn conspiracy. Three women. Three clueless boyfriends. Zero explanations.

And suddenly the fact that all of them were somehow managing to sneak out before dawn without providing answers made Dean's curiosity became an obsession and made him even more determined to figure out what the hell was going on. Whatever was dragging you out of bed at six in the morning had to be really fucking important. Or incredibly weird. Either way, he was going to find out.

Which is why on Friday afternoon after multiple rounds of hot, mind blowing sex, is when he finally found the courage to ask. The two of you were sprawled across his bed, tangled in rumpled sheets that had long since been kicked down to your waists. The room smelled faintly of sweat and his cologne, what was left of the evening sunlight streaming through the partially closed blinds and painting lazy golden stripes across the mattress.

“Babydoll?” He asked, his hand halting from tracing absent-minded shapes on your bare back. You hummed softly in response, lifting your head from where it rested on his naked chest. Your chin settled on top of your folded hands as you peered up at him, still looking pleasantly dazed and entirely too comfortable. Dean shifted so he was facing you more directly, propping himself up on one elbow.

"Where do you go every morning?" You blinked, expecting anything but that question. "At a ix a.m.," He stated matter-of-factly. "Every day." The fact that you looked entirely too pleased with yourself made him even more suspicious. The corners of your mouth twitched as if you'd been expecting this conversation for weeks. "See? That right there, that's the face of someone hiding something." Dean pointed a finger at you.

"I'm not hiding anything." You caught his hand before he could continue accusing you, lowering it to the mattress between you. "You absolutely are." You laughed, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear while trying to pull off an expression of complete innocence. Unfortunately, Dean knew you far too well. His gaze narrowed further, there it was again: that smug little smile.

The one that usually meant you knew something he didn't. And Dean hated not knowing things. Especially when those things involved you. "You leave before sunrise," He continued dramatically. "You come back sweaty carrying that suspicious green drink and you've even somehow convinced Wellsy and Grace to join your secret society." At that, you actually snorted. "A secret society?" Your eyebrows shot upward in amusement.

"That's currently my leading theory." You folded your arms across your chest, trying, and failing, not to laugh. The smile threatening to break free gave you away instantly. Dean took that as encouragement. "Either that or you're all secretly training for the Olympics or preparing for some kind of a heist." He delivered the line with complete seriousness, making it impossible for you to hold back any longer.

You finally lost the battle and laughed outright, the sound filling the room. Dean tried not to smile but ultimately failed miserably. Because he loved making you laugh, even when you were laughing at him. "Dean, it's not a secret." Your voice carried the familiar warning that always appeared whenever he was being ridiculous. "The tell me.”He practically whined, green eyes narrowing. You bit your lip in response, a sure sign you were debating whether or not to answer.

However, instead of speaking, you reached over and patted his cheek, thumbs sweeping over his cheekbones. "Babydoll." His eye twitched. God, how you loved riling him up. "Yes, Dean?" You smirked, batting your eyelashes flirtatiously. "You're testing my patience." Your grin turned positively wicked. Then you leaned forward and pressed a quick kiss to his lips, making sure to linger and slip in some tongue just long enough to be distracting. And the worst part? It almost worked.

Almost.

Dean caught your wrist before you could pull away completely, his fingers wrapping loosely around it as he shook his head. "Nice try." Your laughter softened, fondness replacing some of the mischief in your expression. "You're really that curious?" He groaned dramatically, dropping his head back against the pillow. "At this point? It's consuming my life." You stared at him for a second, studying his expression as if trying to determine whether he was serious.

The answer was obvious, he absolutely was. With a small shake of your head, you finally relented. "Fine." Dean immediately perked up, his head snapped back up so fast it nearly gave you whiplash. “If you’re so curious, just come with me tomorrow. Find out for yourself." For a moment, Dean just stared. Then a slow grin spread across his face. After weeks of wondering, and developing increasingly ridiculous conspiracy theories, he was finally going to get answers.

The following morning, Dean was drooling on his pillow when he felt you shift. The room was still dark, the early morning sunlight barely beginning to creep through the gap in the curtains. His brain hadn't fully booted up yet, leaving him somewhere between sleep and consciousness as he instinctively reached for the warm body beside him. Letting out a groan, he tried to pull you back into his chest, burying his face deeper into the pillow. But it was no use, you were already awake.

"Up and at 'em, Di Laurentis." He could practically hear the smirk in your voice. Dean responded with another groan, dragging the pillow over his head in protest. For a brief moment, he considered pretending to be dead. Unfortunately, you knew him too well. A second later, the pillow was yanked away. "Don't make me get the spray bottle Tucker keeps in the kitchen." His eyes cracked open. "You wouldn't." The grin on your face told him otherwise.

With a sigh worthy of an Oscar, he finally pushed himself upright, rubbing a hand down his face. That was when his eyes nearly bulged out of his head. You were bent over tying your shoes, already dressed and ready to go. The fitted workout set left very little to the imagination, the leggings hugging every curve while your matching top disappeared beneath one of his old hockey hoodies.

Your hair was already pulled back into a ponytail, looking far too awake and put together for an hour that should've been illegal. Dean stared, brain completely short-circuited. He was half tempted to drag you right back into bed and forget this entire mystery existed. Curiosity, however, was the only thing stronger than his desire to go back to sleep or have hot morning sex.

Barely.

Sluggishly rolling out of bed, Dean shuffled toward the bathroom. The floor was cold, his eyes burned, and his soul hurt. Five minutes later, after splashing water on his face enough times to resemble a functioning human being, brushing his teeth, and throwing on a pair of gym shorts and a fitted black t-shirt, he emerged from the bathroom looking considerably more awake. Not happy, but awake.

You looked up from screwing the lid onto your giant water bottle, your gaze traveling slowly. Dean immediately noticed. The tight black shirt stretched across his shoulders and defined the muscles in his chest and back, while his shorts sat low on his hips, exposing powerful thighs built from years of hockey practices, conditioning drills, and games. You blinked. Once. Twice.

"You're droolin', babydoll." The smug grin that followed was absolutely insufferable. Snapping out of your thoughts, you rolled your eyes and grabbed your freshly refilled water bottle from the counter. "Please. Your ego doesn't need any more encouragement." Dean gasped dramatically. "That was rude." You simply headed toward the door. "Come on, Dean." You coaxed, hand firmly on your hip leaving absolutely no room for discussion.

He followed behind with another exaggerated sigh, shoving his feet into a pair of sneakers as quickly as possible. "They'll charge us if we're late." That made him pause. One hand still on his shoe, Dean slowly looked up. "Hold on." You were already opening the apartment door. "What do you mean they'll charge us?" A suspicious feeling settled in his stomach. For the first time all morning, Dean wondered if maybe, just maybe, following you had been a terrible idea.

Sure enough, when you led him through the doors of The Pilates Lab, Dean knew he was fucked. The realization hit the second he stepped inside. The studio was bright, spotless, and somehow intimidating despite the soft instrumental music drifting from hidden speakers. Floor-to-ceiling mirrors lined one wall, reflecting rows of sleek reformer machines arranged with military level precision.

Natural light poured through massive front windows, illuminating polished hardwood floors and cream-colored walls that somehow made the place feel both welcoming and terrifying. Terrifying mostly because every person inside looked like they belonged there. Dean, however, did not. The scent of eucalyptus and expensive cleaning products hung in the air. A small reception desk sat near the entrance beside shelves stocked with water bottles, protein bars, grip socks, and enough workout accessories to bankrupt a small nation.

You, meanwhile, looked completely at home. "Morning!" The receptionist greeted cheerfully as you approached. "Morning, Claire." Dean glanced around while you checked in. Women. Everywhere. A few men too, but mostly women. All of them looked suspiciously fit and flexible. Very, very flexible. One woman was casually stretching with her leg resting on a barre at a height Dean was pretty sure violated several laws of physics.

His hockey injuries hurt just looking at her. Then to make matters worse, he noticed the reformers. Rows and rows of reformers. Metal frames, straps, springs, moving platforms. They looked less like exercise equipment and more like devices designed specifically for torture. Dean pointed toward one. "The hell is that?" You followed his gaze, biting back a smile. "A reformer." You replied nonchalantly. "It looks dangerous." The smile at your lips widened at his tone which oozed discomfort.

"It's really not."

"You hesitated."

"I didn't."

"You absolutely did."

You laughed, reaching for his hand and tugging him farther inside to where you usually worked out. Only the deeper you ventured into the studio, the worse his feeling became. As you set your water bottle down beside your reformer and tugged off his sweatshirt, revealing your fitted workout top underneath, Dean stood there questioning every decision that had led him to this moment.

Then his gaze landed on the instructor, the woman looked approximately five feet tall, and somehow absolutely terrifying. The kind of terrifying that came from smiling too much while planning your demise. "Good morning, everyone!" Her voice carried easily across the room as the class immediately began moving toward their reformers. Around him, people adjusted springs, grabbed resistance bands, and clipped straps into place with the confidence of seasoned veterans.

Meanwhile, he was still trying to figure out what half the equipment even did. You noticed the shift in his demeanor next to you as you offered his forearm a reassuring squeeze. His eye twitched, which nearly made you laugh again. "You're going to be fine, Dean." The confidence in your voice wasn't nearly as comforting as you intended. Dean looked around the studio one more time. At the springs. The straps. The weights. The machines. The terrifyingly cheerful instructor. Then finally back at you.

"Babydoll, I think we have very different definitions of fine." It's not like he could leave. Not now. Not when half the class had realized a six-foot-two hockey player was standing in the middle of their Pilates studio looking like he'd accidentally wandered into enemy territory. Huffing, he turned towards the rack of weights lining the mirrored wall, barely hesitating before reaching for the heaviest pair available. The movement immediately caught your attention.

"You're gonna regret that." Dean scoffed, looking personally offended by the suggestion. "Babydoll, please, I bench two-thirty. I can easily handle twenty-pound hand weights." As if to prove his point, Dean was too busy rolling his shoulders and casually curling one of the dumbbells, looking far too pleased with himself. You looked at the weights, then at him, trying, and failing, to hide a smug smile since you already knew exactly how this was going to end for him.

The first five minutes weren't terrible. At least, that's what Dean told himself. The instructor began with slow, controlled movements that looked deceptively simple. Around the room, springs clicked softly against metal frames while reformers glided back and forth with smooth precision. Dean found himself settling into the rhythm quickly enough, or so he thought. Then, the shaking started. It began in his thighs. A subtle tremble at first, barely noticeable.

Then came the burn. The kind of deep, relentless burn that didn't make any sense. He was a Division I hockey player. He spent hours in the gym. He could squat absurd amounts of weight. Yet somehow a tiny movement performed on a sliding carriage had his legs vibrating like he'd just skated three periods back-to-back. Across the room, you looked annoyingly graceful. Dean, meanwhile, was fighting for his life.

Thirty minutes in, the black t-shirt clinging to his back was soaked through. His hair stuck to his forehead. Every muscle seemed to have discovered entirely new ways to suffer. The instructor floated around the room like an executioner disguised as a yoga mom, offering gentle corrections that somehow made every exercise twice as difficult. Whenever Dean thought a set was ending, another variation appeared.

Another hold. Another pulse. Another ten seconds.

Those ten seconds felt like years. At one point he became convinced time itself had stopped moving. The mirrors surrounding the studio only made things worse. Everywhere he looked he could see himself struggling. See the tremor in his arms. The shake in his legs. The tightening of his jaw. And every time he considered lowering a weight or taking a break, his gaze inevitably landed on you. You looked focused. Determined. Completely in your element.

There was a concentration on your face he rarely got to see outside of moments that truly mattered to you. That alone kept him going. That and his pride. Mostly his pride. Because there was absolutely no chance he was quitting before any of the women around him. By the forty-five minute mark, however, Dean was beginning to reconsider several core beliefs. Including his understanding of physical fitness. And maybe even reality itself.

The studio had grown warmer as class progressed, bodies moving continuously beneath the bright overhead lights. Sweat rolled down the back of his neck, his shirt felt suffocating. Eventually he gave up. During a brief transition between exercises, he grabbed the hem of his t-shirt and pulled it over his head before tossing it toward the cubbies lining the wall. A few heads turned. Not many. Most people were too busy suffering.

However, your attention certainly did, so much so that for the briefest moment, your focus slipped. Your eyes tracked across his broad tanned shoulders, defined abs, and muscles earned through years of hockey training. The sight was familiar, yet somehow still distracting. Heat immediately crawled up your neck, luckily Dean didn't notice seeing as he was far too busy trying not to collapse. The distraction lasted only seconds before the instructor was directing everyone into another movement.

The class continued and somehow got harder. The final thirty minutes became a blur of shaking muscles, controlled breathing, and pure stubbornness. At that point, Dean's arms trembled. His core burned. His legs felt like overcooked noodles. Several times he caught you sneaking amused glances his way. Several times he returned them with a look that promised revenge. By the final series, every movement required concentration. The studio had fallen quieter now seeing as no one had energy left for anything else.

When the instructor finally announced the last stretch, a collective sigh swept throughout the entire room. Dean nearly collapsed onto the machine. His entire body felt spent. Not the satisfying exhaustion of hockey. Not the familiar ache of lifting. Something entirely different. Every muscle felt worked. Even muscles he hadn't known existed. As everyone began cleaning equipment and gathering their belongings, Dean remained exactly where he was for a few extra seconds, staring at the ceiling.

Humbled. He was completely, utterly, humbled.

Humiliated by a workout he'd walked into thinking would be easy. Yet despite himself, despite the suffering, despite the shaking, despite the fact that he probably wouldn't be able to sit down tomorrow, a reluctant smile tugged at his mouth. Because somewhere between the torture, the challenge, and stealing glances at you throughout the last ninety minutes, he'd actually had fun. Only he would never admit that part to you out loud.

As a chorus of applause rang out throughout the studio, Dean stayed flat on his back atop the reformer, bare chest glistening with sweat as he fought to catch his breath. The bright overhead lights blurred slightly above him while every muscle in his body protested the simple act of existing. Around the room, people began climbing off their machines, gathering water bottles and towels while chatting casually as if they hadn't just endured ninety minutes of pure torture.

Dean genuinely didn't understand how they were all standing. "You did it!" Your smile was warm and impossibly proud as you leaned down, pressing an encouraging kiss to his sweaty forehead. The simple gesture somehow felt more rewarding than surviving the class itself. You handed him your water bottle and for once, Dean didn't make a single joke about it. He simply took it immediately, drinking like a man who'd just crossed a desert. Cold water hit his throat as he gulped down several desperate mouthfuls.

"I'm so proud of you, baby, you completed your first Pilates class like a pro." He was almost certain you were fucking with him. There was absolutely no way he'd looked professional while shaking like a newborn deer for an hour and a half. Yet despite knowing that, he still preened under the praise. Because it was coming from you. And Dean was embarrassingly weak when it came to anything involving you. A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he finally accepted your outstretched hand, fingers wrapping around yours while you helped haul him upright.

"So," You grinned, raking your nails through his sweaty blonde curls, pushing them away from his forehead. "Have I officially turned you into a Pilates princess?" Dean scoffed, yet his hands on your waist tightened as he pulled you closer, refusing to surrender what little dignity he had left. "Not a fucking chance, babydoll." He shook his head firmly, yet the look on his face made it clear he wasn't finished. "But, I wouldn't be opposed to seeing you in tight workout clothes more often." You instantly swatted his shoulder, which made his sore muscles jump.

The motion lacked any real force, mostly because you were trying not to laugh. Dean's grin immediately grew knowingly. The post-workout flush coloring your cheeks wasn't helping his concentration either. Not that he'd been concentrating much to begin with seeing as he made absolutely no effort to hide the way his gaze lingered. Not when you looked this good. Not when you were smiling at him like that. Not when you were still standing close enough for him to loop an arm around your waist and pull you closer.

You made no effort to move away as he dipped his head, pressing a playful kiss against your neck before blowing a raspberry against your damp skin. The sound echoed loudly enough that your laughter filled the studio as you swatted him again, the bright sound instantly pulling his attention back to you. And just like that, he realized something. He'd willingly gotten out of bed before sunrise. He'd survived ninety minutes of what could only be described as organized suffering. His entire body hurt. Tomorrow would probably be far worse.

The boys were absolutely going to roast him alive when they found out he willingly attended a Pilates class. Yet somehow? He didn't care, not even a little. Because throughout the entire class, every time he'd wanted to quit, he'd looked over and seen you. Smiling. Laughing. Thriving. Happy. And apparently that was enough to make him push through burning muscles, wounded pride, and an instructor who was definitely some kind of sadist in brightly colored workout clothes.

As you gathered your things and reached for his hand, Dean intertwined your fingers without hesitation, thumb brushing across your knuckles as you walked toward the exit together. Maybe he'd never admit that he'd actually enjoyed Pilates. But if it meant spending mornings with you? Dean would survive the teasing, the early alarms, hell, he'd even drink your radioactive green juice. Because when it came to you, Dean was hopelessly, irrevocably gone. And honestly, he wouldn't have it any other way.

It was a little off to the side of the fair, guarded by security in case of anything, and consisted of lavish, crimson red fabric with intricate golden patterns woven into it.

No one considered walking up to him, let alone try to get inside the tent, of course.

No one, except...

"Eyyyyy, it looks niiiiicceeee in here!" Came the voice Zuko didn't even have to look up to recognize. "So cozy, man!" Your speech was slurred, the intonation was off and it was clearly that you were, well, not exactly sober.

"How did you get in?" The Fire Lord asked, the question valid, as while the mouth of the tent was wide open, but he was sitting facing it, and still didn't notice you come inside.

"Took the fun route." You said as you stumbled into view, pointing back over your shoulder.

Zuko took in the unusually dirty state of your clothes and looked at the back to where you were pointing, noticing the crumbled up state of the bottom of the tent canvas and the traces of mud coming from under it.

Did you— Yeah, you totally crawled in..

"So, whatcha doin', all cooped up in here!?" You asked as you dragged a stool over to the side of his much more luxurious armchair, leaning on the arm of it, - that he himself did already have his arm resting on - your movements sluggish and clumsy.

Though, it seemed Zuko wasn't here to entertain your antics. "How much have you had?" He asked, straight to the point.

"Bold of you to assume I keep count." You shot back with a toothy smirk, followed by a hiccup, the force of which almost made you fall off your stool.

The young emperor sighed. If you weren't insufferable before, Drunk You definitely did the magic. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against his hand as he spoke up again.

"Look, I'm really—"

"Busy? Nah, you've been sitting here, doin' nothing." You interrupted quickly, slouching forward to put your chin on his bicep, putting your face at a proximity with his that made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. "Come onnnnnn— don't tell me you'd dismiss your favorite little outlawww."

Zuko just stared at you for a moment, the closeness of your face, the whiny quality of your voice, that cheeky pout on your lips all too much together.

He snapped out of it relatively quickly, though, looking away with a grumble, as his free hand pushed you away by your face.

"You're even worse when you're intoxicated." He murmured gruffly, telling himself that his voice was like this because he was annoyed and totally not because this criminal here had grown on his heart too much.

"Awwww, come onnnnn. How can say thaaat?" You drawled out as you let yourself be pushed away, dramatically throwing your head back as he did. "Who would keep you so entertained if not lil' ole me???"

The firebender scoffed, shaking his head. Much to his dismay, the sound came out a lot more fond than he wanted it to, but he pretended not to notice so you wouldn't, either.

"I'll let you know, I have multiple professional jesters in my court." He said, looking at you with eyes a little too soft.

"Maybe, but–" You insisted, raising a wobbly but determined finger, as if that would make you sound any less ridiculous. "-none of them are as hot as me." You finished with a self-satisfied grin, looking genuinely proud with yourself.

Zuko could only look and blink at you, absolutely speechless. On the outside, he kept a relatively exasperated facade on, even though he was sure his ears were nearly sizzling from how hot they were.

"You're crazy." Was all he said, his voice lower than usual.

"Pffft– No I'm not!"

A beat of silence.

"Okay, maybe I am, but you still looooovee me." You slurred again, laying the side of your head back on his arm.

Zuko stiffened once again, and for a minute, cursed and blessed you in his head for having such poor clarity of personal space.

However, he didn't reply this time.

Didn't say anything - didn't confirm nor deny your accusation.

He knew that normally, you'd already be teasing him to hell and back for this choice, but right now, you were so peaceful, laying on his arm like that.

And yes, he could feel the muscles in it starting to tingle, and he could already tell he will barely be able to move it once you lift your head.

But right now, looking down at you, how you finally managed to fall quiet for once and just sat there, zoning out, your fingers tracing the cravings of his armchair, his heart lurched in his chest at the thought of pushing you away.

So, he didn't.

He gave the guards a warning look when he saw the side-eyes coming from their directions, but didn't move you, still.

He had a suspicion you had passed out — you, not talking his ears off was a one in a trillion chance. Or maybe this was just how alcohol affected you.

Either way, Zuko felt himself relax, now sitting way less rigidly and sternly with you on his arm.

"So I ran into Olivia Tucker — you remember her, right? From church? She had a son named John," she said, not looking at the camera.

You had learned years ago that it was easier to say yes, of course than to endure five minutes of your mom describing a person like she was giving a statement to the police.

"Yeah, of course. I remember Mrs. Tucker."

"She mentioned her son John is attending the same college as you." She said it like she was reading off a notecard. Matter of fact. "She said he's playing hockey now."

Oh. That John Tucker.

"Yeah, I know who he is," you said, cleaning up the mess on your middle finger.

"Isn't that a big coincidence?"

"I mean, not really — he's like a year younger than me, right?"

"Yes, but you two used to play together when you were kids. At church, remember?" You did not remember. Your family went to church maybe twice a year. "Anyway, I gave her your number so she could pass it along to him. So you two could talk."

"Mom — what, that's not really —"

"She's probably not even going to use it."

She used it. Mrs. Tucker called three days later, and with the grace of a good Southern woman, she asked you to keep an eye on John — not in so many words, of course. She said he'd moved into a house with some of the other players and she just wanted to know he was taking care of himself. She didn't want you to do much. Just stop by, take a look around, report back. She'd handle the rest by phone.

What she did not tell you was that Tucker already knew about her plan.

He opened the door looking completely unsurprised to see you, leaned against the frame with his arms crossed and a grin that said nice try. He was, it turned out, perfectly capable of taking care of himself and, annoyingly, other people too.

Which is how you ended up here, almost a year later, sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen island in the off campus house, crying into an onion.

"I'm just saying, get a dicer," you said, keeping your eyes on the knife because you had to. "This is inhumane."

"A real chef doesn't use those kinds of things," Tucker said from across the kitchen, doing significantly less chopping than you were.

"Well, good thing you're not a real chef then."

He turned around, visibly offended. "What did you just say?"

You opened your mouth to repeat it — and then Garrett wandered in from the living room, grabbed an apple from the counter, looked at Tucker's side of the kitchen and then at yours, and pointed at you. "She's doing all the work," he said, to no one in particular, and wandered back out.

"He's right," you said.

"He's a traitor," Tucker said.

You opened your mouth to agree and then the sound of footsteps came down the hallway, and Dean came around the corner fresh out of the shower, towel low on his hips and water still tracking down his chest.

You sniffed, eyes watering, nose red.

Dean stopped. Looked at you. And then let out a slow, deeply entertained laugh.

"Well," he said, "I've heard a lot of reactions from girls seeing me like this. But crying might be a first." He tilted his head. "You alright there, sweet pea?"

"It's the onion," you said flatly. "Tucker's making me cut it."

"Sure." He was already turning toward the stairs, completely unbothered. "Whatever floats your boat."

He winked at you over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner.

You looked back down at the onion.

Tucker was very pointedly not looking at you.

"Not a word," you said.

"I didn't say anything," he said, in the tone of someone who was saying everything.

The party invitation from Tucker arrived as a single text on a Thursday night.

party saturday, be here, i made a playlist

You were in the middle of your readings and you looked at the message for a moment before typing back: do I need to bring anything?

yourself and good energy

You put your phone face down and went back to your reading. Then picked it up again.

what time

nine but come at eight so we can hang before it gets loud

That was Tucker's way of saying he wanted to cook with you beforehand, which you appreciated more than you would ever tell him out loud because he would absolutely use it against you. You sent back a thumbs up and returned to your notes, and you did not think about the fact that Dean would be there, because that was not a relevant consideration.

You thought about it the entire rest of the week.

Not in a dramatic way. Just in the quiet, persistent way of something you kept putting down and finding in your hand again. You were honest with yourself about Dean, had been from the beginning. You knew what he was. Charming in a way that looked effortless because it mostly was, easy with people, the kind of person who filled a room without trying. You'd watched him for almost a year. You knew the way he talked to people, the way he leaned in when something was funny, the way he'd come into the kitchen sometimes when you were there and open the fridge and just stand there for a full thirty seconds like the answer to whatever he was looking for might eventually appear.

You knew that he'd noticed you too. That wasn't ego, just observation. The way his eyes would find you first when he walked into a room where you already were. The way he'd aim a comment at you specifically when he had a whole group to choose from. The way he'd said I've heard a lot of reactions like your reaction was the one that mattered.

You'd been sensible about it for a year. You'd made the choice, every single time, to not do anything about it. And you were fine. You were genuinely fine with that. You knew what Dean was, knew what it would be, and you'd decided the math didn't work out in your favor so you'd left it alone.

It was just that sometimes, quietly, in the back of your head, a voice said but what if you didn't.

You got dressed Saturday night and told that voice to shut up, and went to the party anyway.

Tucker met you at the door at eight on the dot, already in a good mood, which meant either the playlist was really good or he'd already had a drink.

"You look great," he said, holding the door open.

"You say that every time."

"Because it's true every time." He handed you a beer from the counter as you came into the kitchen, already comfortable, already home in the easy way the house had started to feel over the past year. "I was thinking we do something with the leftover rice from yesterday, I got peppers —"

"Tucker."

"What."

"We're not cooking. There are already people here."

He looked genuinely confused. "So?"

You took the beer from him and looked around the kitchen. Logan was leaning against the far counter talking to someone from the team, and Garrett was already in the living room, and the house had that particular pre-party hum to it, not yet loud, still settling into itself.

Dean wasn't in the kitchen.

You noted this the way you noted a lot of things quietly, without making anything of it.

Logan glanced over when Tucker handed you the beer. "You're here early."

"She's basically a resident," Tucker said, like this was a fact.

"I'm a guest," you said.

"Guests don't know where we keep the good knives," Logan said and winked, and went back to his conversation.

You spent the next hour in that easy pre-party mode, moving between the kitchen and the living room, talking to people you knew by name now, accepting a second drink from someone who was mixing them near the back. Tucker orbited you loosely the way he always did at these things, appearing at your elbow every twenty minutes or so to say something that made you laugh and then disappearing again. This was one of your favorite things about him, he was never clingy, never needed to keep you close, just checked in like punctuation.

Dean appeared sometime around ten.

He came down the stairs and into the living room and you saw him before he saw you, which felt important. He was wearing a dark green shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows, and he had that easy unhurried way of moving through a room like it had already arranged itself around him. He said something to Garrett near the bottom of the stairs and laughed, and you looked away before he could look up.

So. He was here. That was fine. That was completely normal and fine.

You went to find Tucker.

The next hour you spent being very deliberate about not being obvious. You talked to people on the back porch when Dean was in the living room. You came inside when he drifted toward the kitchen. You were not proud of it exactly, but you were not going to stand around waiting for him to decide whether tonight was a night he felt like paying attention to you. You'd done a lot of things in your life. That was not going to be one of them.

Your friend Anna, a sorority sister, texted at eleven: how's the party

You typed back: fine. dean's here.

Three seconds.

oh. OH. okay. call me tomorrow.

maybe

that means yes. don't do anything I wouldn't do

You locked your phone and put it in your pocket and thought about the specific, limited list of things Anna wouldn't do and found it unhelpfully short.

The thing was, and you'd been over this, you'd been reasonable about this, you knew what it would be. A night, maybe a few nights, comfortable and uncomplicated and then done. Dean DiLaurentis didn't do anything that looked like what came after. You'd watched him long enough to know that too. And you'd decided that wasn't what you wanted, so you'd kept your distance, and that had been the right call, and it remained the right call.

You were in college at a party on a Friday night and you had been sensible about this for almost an entire calendar year.

The voice in the back of your head said but you knew that going in and it doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to mean.

You told it to shut up.

It had a point though.

You refilled your drink. Stood near the back door where the air was a little cooler and the noise slightly less consuming. Watched the party happen around you. Thought, very clearly and deliberately: you know what it is. you've always known. that doesn't have to be the reason not to.

You were still working through the logic of that when you felt someone come to stand beside you.

"(Y/N). You've been avoiding me."

Dean. Not accusing, just observing, the same way he did most things, like he was simply noting a fact about the universe. He had a drink in one hand and he wasn't looking at you yet, eyes scanning the room like he'd just happened to end up here beside you, which you both understood wasn't true.

"I've been talking to people," you said.

"You've been talking to people on the opposite side of every room I was in."

"Maybe I just like that side of the room."

He looked at you then. Really looked, in that direct way of his that felt like being assessed and appreciated at the same time. The music was loud enough that the conversation existed in its own small space, just between you.

"You've been doing that for a year," he said.

"Has it been a year?" You kept your voice light.

"Almost." He took a drink. "I've been patient."

The word landed simply, without performance. Patient. Like he'd been waiting. Like the last year had been something he'd noticed too, kept track of, decided to let run its course.

You looked at him for a long moment. The party moved around you, loud and warm, and you stood in it and made the decision clearly, with both eyes open, which felt like the important part.

"Bathroom's upstairs," you said.

Something shifted in his expression, not surprise, just confirmation. Like he'd known, and now he knew for certain.

"Yeah," he said.

He followed you up the stairs without touching you, which felt somehow more loaded than if he had. You could feel him behind you the whole way, that particular awareness of someone close, and by the time you reached the top of the stairs your heart was doing something inconvenient.

The upstairs bathroom was at the end of the hall. You went in, he came in behind you, and you turned to click the lock and found him already there, close enough that turning around put you nearly chest to chest with him, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him before he'd laid a hand on you.

He didn't kiss you right away.

That was the first thing. You'd expected him to, he'd been patient for a year, you'd just told him where the bathroom was, you'd expected him to close the distance immediately. Instead he just looked at you, and the looking was its own thing, slow and deliberate, like he was taking his time now that he finally had you here and he wanted you to know it.

"You made me wait a long time," he said.

"You could have said something sooner," you said.

"I said something tonight."

"Barely."

Something shifted in his expression, not quite a smile, more like he'd just decided something. He reached up slowly and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your jaw, and the touch was so light it was almost nothing, which somehow made it worse.

"You're going to be like that," he said. Quiet. Certain.

"I don't know what you mean," you said, which was a lie and you both knew it.

He tilted your chin up with two fingers, not roughly, just — directing. Making you look at him. "Yeah you do," he said, and then he kissed you.

It wasn't tentative. It was a kiss from someone who had thought about this specifically, who knew what he wanted and had decided tonight was when he was going to have it, and you kissed him back and felt a year's worth of deliberate distance dissolve somewhere at the back of your mind.

He walked you backward until your hips met the bathroom counter and left you there, stepped back just enough to look at you again with that same unhurried attention, and you understood then that he wasn't in a hurry. That he'd waited this long and now he was going to enjoy it, and you were going to have to let him.

"Take your jacket off," he said.

You did.

He watched you do it. That was all — just watched, arms loosely crossed, completely at ease, like this was exactly where he'd planned to be tonight. You set the jacket on the counter and looked at him and he looked back.

"Good," he said, like that meant something.

Your heart was doing the inconvenient thing again.

He came back to you slowly, hands finding your waist, and kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding into your hair and gripping, not painfully, just holding you exactly where he wanted you. You made a small sound against his mouth and felt him smile.

"There it is," he murmured.

"Shut up," you said.

"Make me," he said against your jaw, and then his mouth was on your throat and the option to respond coherently became briefly unavailable.

He took his time with your throat, your collarbone, the soft place below your ear that made your fingers curl into his shirt without your permission, and every time you moved to pull him closer he'd ease back just enough to remind you that he was running this. Not mean about it. Just clear.

"Dean —"

"I've got you," he said, against your skin. "I'm not going anywhere."

His hands moved to the hem of your top, pulling it up slowly, and he stepped back to pull it over your head and dropped it somewhere on the floor and looked at you again with that particular focus, and you had to actively resist the urge to cover yourself, because that was not what you did, but the way he was looking at you made you feel like you were already coming apart.

"You have no idea," he said quietly, more to himself than you, and then his mouth was on your collarbone and his hands were at your waist and you gave up on dignity entirely.

His hands moved to the button of your jeans, unhurried, and he looked up at you first — not asking exactly, just checking — and you nodded and he undid it and crouched down to pull the fabric down your legs with a thoroughness that felt like a point being made. He looked up at you from there, and whatever was on your face made him look deeply, quietly satisfied.

"You've been thinking about this," he said. Not a question.

"Don't," you said.

"Don't what?"

"Don't be smug about it."

"I'm not being smug." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, which short-circuited something. "I'm just paying attention."

He stood back up slowly, hands trailing up the outside of your thighs, and lifted you onto the counter like it was nothing, stepping between your knees. You pulled him back in by the collar of his shirt and kissed him harder than you'd meant to and he made a low sound and kissed you back the same way, one hand flat against the small of your back pulling you closer.

"Tell me what you want," he said, against your mouth.

"You know what I want."

"I want to hear you say it."

You pulled back and looked at him. He looked back, completely unbothered, and you understood that he meant it, that he was going to stand here all night if he had to, patient as anything, until you said it out loud.

"Dean."

"I'm right here," he said pleasantly.

"You're so —"

"Tell me."

You told him.

"Please"

The expression that crossed his face was worth it. He kissed you once, hard, like a reward, and said good against your mouth, and then his hand moved and all the words you'd been planning to say next went somewhere inaccessible.

He knew what he was doing in a way that felt almost unfair, thorough, attentive, like he'd already decided exactly how this was going to go and was now simply executing. When you tried to rush it he slowed down. When you made a sound he filed it away and came back to it. The tile was cold at your back and his hands were warm on your thighs and his mouth was at your cunt and the things he said there were quiet and precise and designed specifically to ruin you.

"You've been driving me crazy," he said. Low, unhurried. "All year. You know that."

"Dean —"

"Every time you walked into a room." His hand didn't stop. "Every time you looked at Tucker instead of me. Every single time."

"That's your fault," you managed.

"I know," he said. "I know it is." Something almost rueful in it. "Doesn't change the fact."

When you finally came it was with your head hitting the mirror behind you and holding his shoulder and his name somewhere in the middle of it, and he stayed with you through the whole thing, unhurried, like he had nothing else in the world to do.

He gave you a moment. Then he pulled back and looked at you with an expression that you could only describe as thoroughly pleased with himself, which should have been annoying and wasn't.

"Don't," you said.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to."

"I was going to ask if you were okay," he said, which was such an obvious lie that you laughed, and the laugh broke something open in the room, and he grinned, a real one, unguarded in a way you hadn't seen before, and kissed you again before it could turn into a whole thing.

You worked his belt with hands that weren't entirely steady and he helped without comment, and then his hands were at your hips and he pressed his forehead to yours for just a second.

You watched him look for a condom on his backpocket.

"Yeah?" he said quietly. All the performance gone.

"Yeah," you said.

He pushed into you slow and you exhaled against his jaw, fingers gripping his shoulders, adjusting to the feeling of him. He gave you a moment, forehead still to yours, patient, present, and then he moved and everything else became temporarily beside the point.

It was charged the way it only gets when two people have been waiting too long. Not frantic but urgent, with a focused intensity that felt like something being resolved. His grip was firm and deliberate and you pulled him closer when he slowed down and he got the message and didn't slow down again. The mirror was fogging and somewhere below you the party was still happening and it was completely irrelevant.

"Look at me," he said.

You did. He held your gaze and something passed between you that neither of you named, and you felt it in your chest more than anywhere else.

"Months," he said again. Quieter now.

"I know," you said. "I know."

When he came he buried his face in your neck and went quiet and still, one hand flat against the small of your back holding you against him, and you held onto him too because it seemed like the thing to do, and because you wanted to, and those were the same thing tonight.

You stayed like that for a moment longer than necessary.

Then you both exhaled at roughly the same time, which broke the tension, and Dean huffed a quiet laugh into your shoulder.

You untangled carefully, straightened yourselves out. You hopped off the counter and turned to the mirror, fixing your hair, smoothing your top back into place. He leaned against the wall watching you do it, arms crossed loosely, shirt back on. His hair was a mess and he didn't appear concerned about it.

You met his eyes in the mirror.

"This doesn't have to be a thing," you said. Even, matter of fact. Not cold, just clear. You were giving him an out because you'd rather give it than have him feel like he needed to take it badly.

Something moved across his face. He pushed off the wall slightly. "What if I want it to be a thing?"

You turned around. "What kind of thing?"

He held your gaze. Didn't answer right away, which was an answer, and you'd known it would be, you'd known before you came upstairs, and still it took a small quiet moment to settle.

"Right," you said simply.

Not angry. Not hurt, or at least not visibly. You'd gone in with both eyes open and you'd meant it, and the math was what you'd always known it was. That was fine. You were fine.

You unlocked the door.

"Hey," Dean said.

You looked back.

He opened his mouth, closed it. Something in his expression that you couldn't entirely read. "Nothing," he said finally. "Never mind."

You nodded once and stepped out into the hallway.

Downstairs, the party had peaked without you. The music was louder and the living room was full and Tucker was in the kitchen, which is where Tucker always ended up at some point. He took one look at your face when you appeared in the doorway and turned to open the fridge and produced a beer, which he held out without a word.

You took it.

"Having fun?" he asked, very casually, eyes on the fridge.

"Yeah," you said. "Party's good."

"Cool." He closed the fridge. "I made queso."

"Tucker."

"It's in the pot on the back burner."

You looked at him for a second. He looked back, perfectly neutral, perfectly unbothered, and completely full of information he was choosing not to say.

"Thank you," you said.

"Don't mention it," he said. "Seriously, don't. I have a reputation."

You laughed despite yourself, and some of the tightness in your chest loosened, just a little.

Tucker handed you a chip.

You both stood at the stove and ate queso and said nothing about any of it, and that was, genuinely, one of the nicest things anyone had done for you in a while.

Dean came downstairs eleven minutes later, you weren't counting, you just noticed, and grabbed a beer from the fridge and leaned against the counter across from you, and the three of you stood in that kitchen like nothing had happened at all.

Dean looked at the pot on the stove. "Is that queso?"

"Made it myself," Tucker said.

"You absolutely did not."

Tucker looked at you. You said nothing, scooping queso onto another chip. Dean's eyes moved between you both and landed on you with something unreadable in them.

"Can I have some?" he asked.

"It's your house," you said.

He got a chip. Ate it. Looked at the pot. "That's really good."

"I know," you said.

Tucker stared directly at the wall and smiled at absolutely nothing.

It didn't have a name. That was the thing , it never got one, and neither of you tried to give it one, and somehow that made it easier to just let it exist.

It started simply enough. A week after the party, Dean texted you at eleven on a Tuesday night. Just: you up?

The second text was a trailer link. No context, no explanation, just: this.

You watched it once. Typed back: that looks pretentious.

i know. yes or no.

fine.

The house was quiet when you got there , Garrett's door closed, Tucker apparently out, and Dean was on the couch with a beer and the energy of someone who had been waiting without admitting to waiting.

You sat in the middle of the couch.

He pulled up the movie without comment.

It was pretentious and it was also actually good, and you told him so twenty minutes in when he glanced over to see what you thought. He said told you without looking back at the screen. You said you said it looked pretentious, which is not the same as saying it wasn't good. He said that's a very specific distinction. You said I'm a specific person. He didn't say anything for a moment, and then said: yeah.

Somewhere around the third act the distance between you closed. You weren't sure who moved, maybe both of you, gradually. His arm along the back of the couch and your shoulder under it and neither of you addressed it.

The movie ended and neither of you moved.

He found something else. A documentary, shorter, that turned out to be genuinely interesting. You watched most of it. Somewhere in the second half you were closer still his arm properly around you now, your feet tucked up beside you — and the lamp in the corner was the only light, and in here it was warm, and you were paying attention to about thirty percent of the documentary.

You woke up at two in the morning with a blanket over you that hadn't been there before. Dean was asleep at the other end of the couch, head back, completely unconscious. The TV was still on. You looked at him in the blue light of the screensaver, the line of his jaw, the stillness of someone actually asleep and felt the quiet weight of something you were not going to examine.

Then you got up, folded the blanket, left it on the cushion, and walked home.

You didn't text him about it. He didn't text you about it. Two days later he sent: you around tonight? and you said depends and he said on what and you said what's the plan and he said no plan and you said okay.

That was how it started.

By November it had a shape, even if it didn't have a name.

You came over two or three times a week. Sometimes it was a movie, sometimes it was just you in the kitchen making something with whatever was in the fridge while Dean sat at the counter with his phone and ate everything you put in front of him without comment except occasionally this is really good in a tone that suggested he was a little annoyed about it. Sometimes the whole house was there, Tucker loud and cheerful, Garrett and Logan drifting in and out, the TV on in the background and sometimes it was just the two of you and the house was quiet and those evenings had a quality to them that you tried not to examine too closely.

He texted you things that weren't questions. A link to an article about something you'd both argued about in passing. A photo of a sunset he'd apparently seen from the library roof, no caption. A voice memo once, at midnight, that was just him reading something in the flat unimpressed tone he used when something was genuinely getting on his nerves — listen to this, the message said, and you did, and you laughed, and he sent back a single: right?

You sent him things back. A recipe you thought he'd actually like. A clip of something that reminded you of a conversation you'd had. He always answered. Not immediately, not performatively, just he answered.

Garrett had noticed, in his way. He'd stopped doing double-takes when you were in the kitchen on a Tuesday night, had started just saying hey and opening the fridge like your presence was a given. Logan was less subtle, he'd caught your eye once across the living room when Dean laughed at something you'd said, and raised an eyebrow, and you'd looked away and he'd had the decency not to push it.

You talked to Anna about it on a Sunday afternoon in November, feet up on her bed, staring at the ceiling while she did her readings across from you.

"So it's a situationship," she said, not looking up.

"I didn't say that."

"You described a situationship."

"I described two people who spend time together."

"With benefits."

"Occasionally."

She finally looked up. "How often is occasionally?"

You said nothing.

"That's what I thought." She went back to her reading. "Are you okay with it?"

You thought about it honestly, the way you tried to think about most things. "Yeah," you said. "I went in knowing what it was."

"That's not what I asked."

You looked at the ceiling. "I'm fine," you said. "It's fine. I know what it is."

Anna made a small noncommittal sound that you chose not to interpret.

The physical part of it was easy in a way you hadn't entirely expected. Comfortable in a way that felt like it should have taken longer to get to. He knew what you liked with an attentiveness that might have been alarming if you'd let yourself think about it, and you knew what worked for him, and there was none of the awkwardness of newness anymore.

The only thing you were consistent about was the condom. Every time, without exception. Until one night in late November when Dean caught your wrist gently before you could reach for the nightstand.

"Why do you always —" He stopped. Nodded toward it. "Every time."

"Because I'm not stupid," you said. "You were getting around a lot before this and I don't know what this is and I'm not asking but I'm also not —"

"I haven't," he said. "Since the party. I haven't slept with anyone else."

The room went quiet.

"Oh," you said. A beat. "Me neither."

Something moved across his face that he didn't entirely manage to control. His thumb traced a slow absent line against the inside of your wrist.

"Okay," he said quietly.

"Okay," you said.

The air in the room changed into something neither of you was going to name. Then he kissed you, and it was different, slower, more careful, like something had been confirmed that he hadn't known he was waiting to confirm, and you let yourself feel it without examining it too closely, because that felt fair.

The first sign was the texts.

Not that they stopped completely, that would have been obvious, and Dean was too smart for obvious. They just slowed. A reply that came four hours later instead of forty minutes. A shorter answer where there used to be a real one. The voice memos stopped. The links stopped. You'd send something and get back a single word where there used to be a sentence, and you'd look at it and feel the shape of what was happening without being able to name it yet.

You told yourself it was school. Exams were coming, everyone was disappearing into the library, that was normal. You told yourself he was busy, stressed, in his head about the end of semester and the hockey team. You were busy too. You had your own readings, your own papers, your own life that existed completely separately from the off campus house and always had.

You kept coming over. Tucker needed someone to watch the game with and you'd promised him a recipe you'd been meaning to show him and you were not going to rearrange your life over a shift in text frequency.

But you noticed.

You noticed the way Dean would come into the kitchen when you were there and open the fridge and not look at you the way he used to. Not hostile, just absent. Like you were furniture. Like the awareness he'd always had of you in a room had been switched off at a source you couldn't locate. He ate the food you made without commenting on it. He answered direct questions. He didn't start anything.

You didn't push. That wasn't who you were.

But by the second week of December you were lying in your room at night doing the math and the math was not coming out well, and you were tired of pretending it wasn't.

You went over on a Thursday.

Tucker was at a class. You'd known that, you'd checked, because you wanted the house quiet, because you wanted five minutes of honesty without an audience. Garrett's truck wasn't in the driveway either. You knocked on Dean's door and he opened it in sweats and a Briar hoodie, textbook open on his desk, and the look on his face when he saw you was almost nothing, which was its own answer.

"Hey," you said.

"Hey." He stepped back to let you in, which you took as an invitation, and you came in and stood in the middle of his room and he closed the door and leaned against his desk with his arms crossed. Not aggressive. Just closed.

You looked at him for a moment.

"What's going on with you?" you asked. Quiet, direct. No accusation in it, just the question.

He shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing. Finals."

"Okay," you said. "That's not what I mean and you know it."

A beat. Something moved behind his eyes and then went still.

"I don't know what you want me to say," he said.

"I want you to say what's actually happening."

He looked at you. Then he looked away, jaw tightening slightly, and you recognized the particular quality of someone deciding something, not discovering it, deciding it, and some quiet part of you braced.

"I think this has run its course," he said. Flat. Careful.

You kept your face even. "Okay. What does that mean."

"It means —" He stopped. Started again. "I don't want this anymore. Whatever this is. I don't want it."

"Okay," you said.

He looked at you, and something in your steadiness seemed to irritate him, which you hadn't expected, and that was maybe the thing that cracked something open in him that should have stayed closed.

"I don't know what you thought this was," he said, and his voice had an edge now, "but it wasn't — I wasn't —" He made a short, almost contemptuous gesture. "You've been coming over here for months like you live here. Cooking, watching movies, acting like this is some kind of —"

"I never called it anything," you said.

"No, but you acted like it was something. You act like everything is fine and nothing bothers you and you're so —" He stopped, and the word he landed on was quiet and precise and clearly chosen to land: "You're so comfortable here. Like you belong here. And you don't."

The room was very quiet.

You looked at him. He looked back, and you could see the moment he heard what he'd just said, saw something flicker across his face that might have been regret but came too late to matter.

"You're right," you said. Your voice was completely level. "I don't."

He opened his mouth.

"I'm not going to make this into something," you said. "You don't want it, that's fine. I went in knowing what it was." You picked up your jacket from where you'd set it on the edge of his bed. "I hope finals go okay."

"Hey —"

"Good night, Dean."

You left. You closed the door behind you, not hard, just closed, and you walked down the stairs and through the front door and out into the December cold and you kept your shoulders straight the whole way home.

You didn't cry until you were in your own room with the door locked, and even then it wasn't for very long, because you'd known, you'd always known, and knowing didn't make it nothing but it made it survivable.

You texted Anna: you were right.

She called immediately. You let it ring twice, then picked up.

"I'm okay," you said, before she could ask.

"I know you are," she said. "Tell me anyway."

The hard part came later, at midnight.

You were lying in bed and you saw a link, a restaurant that had just opened, a tasting menu you'd been meaning to mention and you had his name pulled up in your contacts before you caught yourself. Thumb over send. The restaurant unremarkable and the gesture everything.

You put your phone face down on the mattress and looked at the ceiling for a while.

You'd known. You'd always known. That didn't make it nothing. It made it survivable, which was what you'd agreed to, and you were keeping that agreement.

The next afternoon you went to the off campus house.

Not because of Dean. Tucker had texted you at noon — i made something and i think i made it wrong, come look at it — and you'd said what did you make and he'd sent a photo that made you genuinely concerned for his wellbeing, and you'd said I'm coming over because that was what you did.

You showed up at three in the afternoon in your good boots and your coat, hair done, bag over your shoulder, because you had a study session after and you were not rearranging your life. You walked into the kitchen and Tucker was standing over something on the stove that smelled questionable and turned around with the expression of a man who needed saving.

"What is that," you said.

"I was trying to do the thing you showed me with the —"

"Tucker."

"I know."

You put your bag down and took your coat off and hung it over the stool and rolled up your sleeves and looked at whatever was happening in the pot, and Tucker stood next to you like a man watching a surgeon assess a patient.

"It's salvageable," you said.

He exhaled. "I knew it."

"Get me the garlic."

You cooked. Tucker hovered and passed things when you asked and made commentary that you ignored selectively and the kitchen filled up with something that smelled the way the kitchen was supposed to smell, and it was normal. It was completely normal. You were fine.

Logan came through at some point, stopped in the doorway, looked at the pot. "That smells good." Then he looked at Tucker. "Did you make that?"

"We're collaborating," Tucker said.

Logan looked at you. You said nothing. He grabbed a water from the fridge and left, which was exactly the right thing to do.

Dean came downstairs at some point, and you heard him stop at the bottom of the stairs, and you stirred the pot and didn't turn around.

"Hey," Tucker said, in the careful voice of someone being very casual.

"Hey." Dean's voice from the doorway. A pause. "What are you making?"

"She's fixing what I made," Tucker said.

You felt Dean's eyes on your back. You reached past the stove for the spice rack.

"Smells good," Dean said.

You said nothing. Not pointedly — just nothing. Tucker handed you the paprika.

Dean didn't leave. You could feel him still standing there, which told you something you set aside for later. You plated what you'd made, put Tucker's portion in front of him, put the extra in a container that you labeled with a piece of tape and a marker the way you always did, and started washing the pan.

"There's extra," Tucker said, to the room.

"I can see that," Dean said.

Tucker ate a bite. Made a sound of profound relief. "You're genuinely talented, you know that?"

"I know," you said, drying the pan.

You stayed another forty minutes, finishing your tea, going over the recipe with Tucker so he could try again, answering a text from Anna. Normal. Easy. The house the same as it had always been, Tucker the same as he'd always been, you the same as you'd always been.

When you left you said, "Bye Tuck, don't touch the leftovers until tomorrow, they're better the next day."

"Noted," Tucker said.

You pulled on your coat. Picked up your bag. "Later," you said, generally, to the room, and you walked out.

Dean stood in the kitchen after the front door closed.

Tucker was eating. Not looking at him. The kitchen smelled incredible and there was a labeled container in the fridge and the pan you'd used was clean and back on the rack like you'd never been there.

"She labeled it," Dean said.

"She always labels it," Tucker said.

Dean looked at the fridge. "For who."

"I don't know, Dean." Tucker turned a page in whatever he was reading. "Whoever wants it, I guess."

He couldn't focus in class the next morning.

The professor was talking and Dean had his laptop open and his notes half-started and none of it was going in because he kept coming back to the same thing, the same image, which was you standing at his stove with your back to him like nothing had happened.

Not performing like nothing had happened. Actually fine. The difference between those two things was something he understood logically and couldn't reconcile emotionally and it was making him insane.

He'd expected — he didn't know what he'd expected. Something. Some sign that what he'd said had mattered, that he had mattered, that the months of you being in his space and in his kitchen and in his bed and knowing how he took his coffee and showing up when Tucker texted you and falling asleep on his couch and leaving your chapstick on his nightstand —

You'd taken the chapstick. He'd noticed.

You'd taken it and labeled the leftovers and said later to the room and walked out and that was it, apparently. That was the whole thing. He'd said you don't belong here and you'd said you're right and you'd meant it, and that was the part he couldn't get past. You'd meant it not because you believed it but because you weren't going to fight him on it. Because you didn't need to.

You act like you belong here. And you don't.

He'd said that. He'd actually said that.

He stared at his laptop screen.

You'd been coming to that house since before he'd ever spoken a full sentence to you. Tucker's mom had called you, you'd shown up, you'd been folded into the house slowly and completely the way only people who actually fit somewhere ever are, Tucker texting you unprompted, Garrett knowing your coffee order, Logan moving over on the couch without being asked, and Dean had stood in his own room and told you that you didn't belong there and you'd looked at him like you were giving him the chance to hear what he was saying and he hadn't taken it and you'd left.

And then you'd come back the next day and cooked Tucker's disaster and labeled the leftovers and said later.

Later. Like you'd see them around. Like the house was still just a place you came to, unconnected to Dean, existing independently of whatever he'd decided.

Because it was. Because Tucker was your friend. Because you'd built something there that had nothing to do with Dean DiLaurentis and apparently had no intention of dismantling it on his account.

He wrote something down without reading it.

The thing was and this was the part that was sitting in his chest like something he couldn't shift, he'd ended it because it was getting too real. That was the honest answer, the one he hadn't said out loud to anyone including himself until approximately right now, which was not ideal timing. He'd felt it getting heavier and closer and more like something that had a name and he'd panicked, and when Dean DiLaurentis panicked he went cold, and when he went cold long enough he said things he couldn't take back.

You don't belong here.

He closed his laptop. Opened it again.

You hadn't fought for it. He'd said something genuinely cruel and you'd said you're right and you'd left, and the version of events he'd been running in his head where you'd be upset, where you'd pull back from the house, where he'd see the evidence of having mattered somewhere in your behavior, none of that had happened. You'd come back with your boots and your coat and your labeled container and your later and you were fine.

He was not fine.

That felt deeply, profoundly unfair, and he was self-aware enough to recognize that he had no one to blame for it but himself, which made it worse.

Wait, said something in the back of his head, quiet and inconvenient.

He picked up his pen. Put it down.

Wait.

He didn't finish the thought. He stared at his notes until they stopped meaning anything, and outside the window the Briar campus went on being cold and grey and completely indifferent to the fact that Dean DiLaurentis was sitting in class slowly understanding something he wasn't ready to understand yet.

The problem with ending things, Dean was discovering, was that it only worked if the other person let it end.

You hadn't made a scene. Hadn't texted him anything he had to respond to, hadn't shown up at his door, hadn't done a single thing that gave him something to push against. You'd just continued. Existing in the house, in the kitchen, in Tucker's orbit, completely unchanged, like Dean's opinion of the situation was one data point you'd received and filed appropriately and moved on from.

He ate everything you made. That was the humiliating part. Every single time you left something in the fridge he ate it, sometimes within the hour, standing at the counter in the kitchen alone like some kind of punishment he was administering to himself. Tucker never commented on this. Tucker never commented on anything, which was its own form of commentary.

You'd left soup once. Labeled, like always — back burner, twenty minutes, don't let Tucker have more than one bowl he'll eat the whole thing. Dean had read the label four times. Eaten two bowls. Stood at the sink washing the pot afterward feeling like a man losing an argument he wasn't allowed to be having.

Garrett had found him standing there once, staring at nothing, and said "you good?" and Dean had said "yeah" and Garrett had looked at the labeled container still on the counter and said nothing further, which somehow made it worse.

He started noticing everything.

The way you'd laugh at something on your phone and not share it with the room, just smile to yourself and put it face down. The way you always took your shoes off at the door and lined them up neatly to the left, always the left, and he'd started checking for them when he came downstairs, the presence or absence of your boots telling him things about the afternoon before he'd even gotten to the kitchen. The way you said Tucker's name — comfortable, fond, like a shorthand — and the way you had, at some point, stopped saying Dean's name at all. Not pointedly. Just it didn't come up. He wasn't who you were talking to.

He'd done that. He understood that he'd done that.

He just hadn't understood what it would feel like to have done it.

He tried, for a while, to be reasonable about it.

He made a list, mentally, of all the reasons this was fine. He didn't do relationships. He'd never done relationships. He had a plan for his life that had been in place since he was sixteen, and that plan had no room in it for whatever you were. Whatever you'd been. The comfortable weight of your presence, the evenings when you were in the house versus evenings when you weren't, the way he'd started coming across things during the week and thinking you'd have something to say about this —

That was the problem right there. That was the thing he kept running into.

He'd been having conversations with you in his head for weeks. Full conversations, with your actual responses, because he knew how you thought well enough to fill both sides, and that was, that was not the behavior of someone who was fine.

He talked to Garrett on a Tuesday night, which he never did, and talked around the subject for twenty minutes before Garrett said, flatly: "Just tell me what she did."

"She didn't do anything," Dean said.

A pause. "Then tell me what you did."

Dean stared at his ceiling. "I ended it."

"And?"

"And she's fine."

"That's it? She's fine and you are like this?"

"She's too fine," Dean said, and hated how that sounded.

Garrett was quiet for a moment. Then: "Dean."

"What."

"You absolute idiot."

January settled over Briar cold and grey and Dean settled into a particular kind of misery that he was too proud to name properly. He went to class. He did his readings. He played well enough at practice that Coach didn't get on him, which required more effort than it should have because his head was not where it was supposed to be.

You came over on Saturdays, usually. Sometimes Thursdays. Tucker had apparently taken to texting you about things that had nothing to do with cooking, Dean had seen the thread once, accidentally, and it was just the two of you sending each other increasingly unhinged videos with no context, a friendship that existed completely on its own terms, owed nothing to Dean, and was apparently thriving.

Logan had said, once, carefully, over breakfast: "She was here yesterday."

"I know," Dean said.

Logan looked at him. "Just saying."

"I know," Dean said again.

Logan went back to his cereal and didn't push it, which was the right call, and Dean appreciated it and resented it in equal measure.

He watched you from across rooms and told himself he wasn't doing that.

You never looked uncomfortable. That was the thing that was going to actually kill him. You'd come in, take your boots off, left side of the door, say hey to whoever was around, drift toward the kitchen with the ease of someone in a place they belonged, and it would be normal. Warm. Real. And Dean would be somewhere in the same house eating himself alive and you would be completely, genuinely fine.

He thought about the things he'd said. You act like you belong here. And you don't.

He thought about those words with a frequency that was becoming a problem.

It was a random Wednesday in late January.

Dean came home from a late class tired and cold and in the specific bad mood that came from hours with a professor who seemed to find his suffering amusing. The house was lit up when he got there, which meant people were home, and he could hear voices from the kitchen before he'd gotten his coat off.

Tucker's laugh. And then yours.

He stood in the hallway for a second with his coat half off.

"—absolutely not, that's not how that works—" Tucker, indignant.

"I'm telling you, Tucker, I watched you do it, that's exactly how you did it—"

"I was recovering, there's a difference—"

"There is no difference, the result was the same—"

Tucker said something Dean didn't catch and you laughed, full and real, the kind of laugh that meant you'd actually been caught off guard by it, and the sound of it hit Dean somewhere undefended and just stayed there.

He finished taking his coat off. Hung it up. Walked to the kitchen doorway.

You were at the island, Tucker leaning on his elbows across from you, some kind of card game between you that Dean didn't recognize. You had a mug of something and your hair was down and you were still smiling from whatever Tucker had just said, and Tucker was looking at you with the expression of someone who had won a point. Garrett was on the couch in the next room, feet up, barely paying attention, the way Garrett existed in the house like ambient weather.

"Dean," Tucker said. "Tell her that recovering from a bad move is a valid strategy."

"Depends on the move," Dean said, automatically.

"See," Tucker said to you.

"That's not what he said," you said, and glanced at Dean briefly,not long, not loaded, just a glance, the kind you'd give anyone and looked back at Tucker. "Your move."

Dean got a glass of water. Stood at the counter. The card game continued. Tucker accused you of cheating, you denied it with the specific serenity of someone who was absolutely cheating, Dean watched and said nothing and felt the sensation of standing outside something warm.

An hour later you started putting your coat on.

"Okay," you said, gathering your things. "Tucker. Rematch Thursday."

"Thursday," Tucker confirmed. "I'll win."

"You won't." You pulled your bag onto your shoulder. Looked at Tucker with something genuine and warm. "Bye, Tuck."

"Bye." Tucker was already looking back at his phone.

"Later, Garrett," you called toward the living room.

"Later," Garrett called back, not looking up.

You walked toward the door. Past Dean, close enough that he could have said something, close enough that the window was right there, and he stood at the counter with his glass of water and said nothing, and you pulled the door open and walked out, and the door closed, and that was it.

Tucker looked up from his phone.

The two of them sat in the quiet kitchen, the card game still spread out on the island, your mug still on the counter.

"She forgot her mug," Dean said.

"She'll get it Thursday," Tucker said.

Dean put his glass down. Picked it back up.

"She said bye to you first," he said.

Tucker looked at him for a long moment. Set his phone down. "Yeah," he said. "She did."

The kitchen was very quiet.

"Tucker —"

"I'm not doing this, Dean."

"I'm not asking you to do anything."

"Good." Tucker picked his phone back up. "Because I really, genuinely, am not getting involved."

From the living room, Garrett said nothing, which meant he was listening to every word.

Dean looked at the door.

"She left her mug," he said again, quieter, to no one in particular.

Tucker said nothing. Which was, as always, its own kind of answer.

He lasted four days.

Four days of your mug on the counter — Tucker had washed it and left it there — four days of picking up his phone and putting it down, four days of being a reasonable adult who had made a decision and was living with it, and then on Sunday night at eleven p.m. he put on his shoes and his coat and walked across campus to the Kappa house like a man who had exhausted every other option.

He stood outside in the cold and looked up at the second floor windows and felt genuinely insane.

He found a handful of small rocks from the landscaping border. Looked at them. Looked up at the windows.

He threw one.

It hit the wrong window. A light came on and someone looked out — not you, someone he didn't recognize — and he stepped back into the shadow of the tree until the light went off again.

He tried the next window. Nothing. The one after that.

The window opened.

You leaned out, hair messy, clearly pulled from sleep or close to it, and looked down at him in the dark with an expression that moved through several phases: confusion, recognition, disbelief. Before settling on something that was almost exasperated and almost amused and fully of course.

"Dean," you said, not loud. "What are you doing."

"I need to talk to you."

"It's eleven o'clock."

"I know. You weren't answering my texts."

You stared at him. "You texted me twenty minutes ago."

"You didn't answer."

"I was asleep."

"Can I come up?"

The expression on your face did something complicated. "You want to climb the sorority house."

"There's a trellis."

You looked to the left, apparently confirming the existence of the trellis, then looked back down at him. "Dean."

"Five minutes," he said. "I just — five minutes. Then I'll go."

You looked at him for a long moment, and he stood in the cold and let you look, because he'd run out of ways to manage how this went. You could close the window. That was a real option and he'd accept it.

You didn't close the window.

"The trellis is on the left," you said. "Don't break anything."

He made it up without incident, which he felt was frankly more than he deserved. You'd stepped back from the window to let him climb through, and he came in trying not to knock anything over and stood in the middle of your room feeling the full absurdity of the situation settle over him.

Your room was small and warm. Books on every surface, a desk lamp on low, a quilt on the bed that looked like it had been in your family for a while. It smelled like you, something warm, something that had been living in the back of his brain for months without his permission.

You sat on the edge of your bed and looked at him with your arms loosely crossed, not hostile, just waiting. Giving him the floor.

"I need to say something," he said.

"Okay."

"And I need you to let me say it without — I need to actually get through it."

"I'm not stopping you," you said.

He looked at you. You looked back, and there was something in your expression: patient, steady, not giving him anything, and he understood suddenly that you were going to make him do this himself. All the way. No half measures.

He took a breath.

"I said things to you that I can't take back," he started. "That night in my room. And I knew when I said them that they weren't — I knew they weren't true. I said them because I was scared and I was trying to make you leave and I wanted it to work so I made it as —" He stopped. Tried again. "I wanted you gone and I made sure you'd go and then you went and I've been —" He stopped again.

You waited.

"I've been losing my mind," he said. "For weeks. You keep coming over and cooking Tucker's food and laughing at his jokes and you left your mug on the counter and you said bye, Tuck and walked out like I wasn't standing right there and I —" He stopped. The words that needed to come next were the ones he'd been circling for weeks and he was done circling. "I'm in love with you."

The room was quiet.

"I'm in love with you," he said again, because it had come out steadier the second time and it was true and he was done with it living only in his head. "I have been for a while. I didn't know what to do with it so I — I did what I did. And I know that's not an excuse. I know what I said. But I needed you to know that it wasn't because you didn't matter. It was because you mattered too much and I didn't know how to —"

"Dean," you said.

He stopped.

You looked at him for a long moment. Something in your expression that was careful and real and not entirely closed.

"I know," you said quietly.

He blinked. "You —"

"I knew." You said it simply, without cruelty. "I've known for a while. I needed you to know it too." A pause. "And I needed you to say it. Out loud. To me. Without me making it easy for you."

He held your gaze. "Because you're not going to make it easy for me."

"No," you said. Not meanly. Just honestly. "I'm not."

He nodded slowly. That was fair. That was completely fair.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For what I said. You don't belong here — I knew that wasn't true when I said it. That's the worst part. I knew and I said it anyway."

You looked at him. And he watched something in your expression shift, not all the way, but enough, a small careful opening.

"I know," you said again. Softer this time.

"Can we —" He stopped. Tried to find the right shape for the question. "Is there a way back from this. Is that something that exists."

You were quiet for a moment that felt very long.

"Come here," you said.

He crossed the room and you stood from the bed to meet him and he kissed you carefully, like he was asking, and you kissed him back like you were answering, and it was nothing like the first time and nothing like any of the times in between, because those had all been about desire and this was about something that didn't have the same kind of ceiling.

His hands came to your face, gentle, and you let him, and he kissed you like he was trying to say the things that words hadn't been sufficient for the weeks of watching you from across rooms, the soup, the mug, the way your boots on the left side of the door had started to feel like something he needed, all of it, moving through the kiss like it had somewhere to go now.

You pulled back after a moment and looked at him.

"Say it again," you said quietly. Not a test. Just you wanted to hear it again.

"I'm in love with you," he said, without hesitating.

You looked at him for one more second. Then you kissed him again and this time you meant it differently, your hands in his collar pulling him in, and the tenor of the whole thing shifted from careful to something warmer and more certain.

He walked you back to the bed gently, and you sat and pulled him down with you, and he went willingly, propping himself above you, and looked at you for a moment. Your hair on the pillow, your expression open in a way he hadn't been allowed to see in weeks.

"Hi," he said, quietly.

The corner of your mouth moved. "Hi."

He kissed you again, slower this time, and his hands moved over you with a deliberateness that was different from anything before not performing, not proving anything, just present. Your shirt came off and his followed, and he pressed his mouth to your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft curve of your throat, taking his time in the way of someone who wasn't going anywhere.

"Dean," you said softly, fingers in his hair.

"I know," he said, against your skin. "I've got you."

You exhaled like something releasing.

It was slow and close and almost unbearably tender, the kind of thing that didn't have anything to hide anymore. He was attentive in a way that felt different now not just knowing what worked but wanting you to feel it, wanting you to know he was there, all the way there, not halfway out the door. You made soft sounds against his jaw and pulled him closer and he went, and you moved together in the small warm room with the desk lamp still on low and neither of you suggested turning it off.

When you came it was quiet and deep and you said his name and he held you through it with his face pressed to your temple, and afterward he stayed close, closer than strictly necessary, and you didn't move away.

When he followed he was holding your hand, fingers laced, which hadn't been planned and was completely true, and you held on.

Afterward you lay in the small bed in the quiet and the lamp was still on.

Your head was on his chest. He had his arm around you. Neither of you had suggested otherwise.

"You really threw rocks at my window," you said, to the ceiling.

"Small rocks."

"You hit Anna's window first."

"She didn't see me."

"She definitely saw you." A pause. "She texted me twenty minutes ago asking if I had a 'nighttime visitor.'"

Dean closed his eyes briefly. "Great."

You laughed, quiet, against his chest, and he felt it more than heard it and thought: there it is. there's the thing I've been missing.

He pressed his mouth to your hair.

"For the record," he said, "you do belong there. In the house. That was — I need you to know that was the opposite of true."

You were quiet for a moment. "I know," you said. "I always knew."

"You're annoyingly self-possessed, you know that?"

"You've mentioned it."

"Not a complaint."

You tilted your head to look up at him. Something in your expression that was warm and a little careful still, not closed, just real. This was going to take time, he knew that. He'd put something between you that didn't disappear overnight and you weren't going to pretend it had, because you didn't do that.

"Tucker's going to be insufferable about this," you said.

Dean thought about Tucker, who had said absolutely nothing for weeks and washed your mug and left it on the counter. "He already knows," Dean said.

"He's known for months."

"I know."

"He texted me two weeks ago," you said, "and said 'just for the record I think he's an idiot.' I asked who and he said 'you know who.'"

Dean stared at the ceiling. "I'm going to kill him."

"You're not."

"No," he agreed. "I'm not."

A beat.

"Garrett's going to say I told you so," you said.

Dean closed his eyes. "Did he tell you so?"

"He texted me a single thumbs up the morning after the speech. No context."

"I'm going to kill Garrett too."

"You're really not."

"No," he said. "I'm really not."

You settled back against him and the room was quiet and warm and your hand was resting on his chest and outside the world was doing whatever the world was doing and in here it was just this, finally, with a name on it.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," you said.

“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”

Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”

Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”

“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”

He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.

“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”

“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”

“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”

“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”

“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”

They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.

Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.

Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”

“Who?” Tucker asks.

“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”

Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.

“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”

“Yeah?” The other guy asks.

“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”

Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.

McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”

Dean stops walking completely.

Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”

“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.

“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”

“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”

“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”

“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”

“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”

Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.

Something must genuinely be wrong with her.

No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.

“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”

Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.

Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”

Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”

McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”

“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” McMahon snaps. “You don’t know her.”

“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”

Beau winces. “Dean.”

McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”

“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”

For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.

But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.

McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”

Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.

McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.

Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.

“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”

“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”

“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”

They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.

But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.

It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.

He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.

Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.

“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”

He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.

“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.

Beau glances over. “Yeah?”

“Who did McMahon just break up with?”

Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.

“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”

“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”

“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.

“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”

“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.

“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”

Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”

“I am absolutely going to track her down.”

“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.

Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”

“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”

“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”

“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.

“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.

He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.

He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.

***

The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.

“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.

“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”

“I’m open!”

“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”

“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”

“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.

On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.

Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.

He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.

It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.

“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”

“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.

“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”

“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”

“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”

Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”

“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.

“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”

Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”

“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”

The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.

Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.

“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.

“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”

Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”

Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”

“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”

Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”

“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”

Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”

Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”

“Who?” Dean demands.

“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.

Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”

“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”

Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”

Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.

“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”

Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.

“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”

The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”

“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.

“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”

Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.

He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.

It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.

“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.

“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”

“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”

Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”

“No,” Dean says immediately.

“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”

“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”

“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.

“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”

“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.

“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”

Beau sighs. “Dean-”

“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”

The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.

“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”

He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.

“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”

Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”

“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.

“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”

“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”

Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.

Right now, Dean is dead serious.

“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”

Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”

“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.

“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”

Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.

Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”

“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.

“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”

“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”

“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”

“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”

“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.

“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”

“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”

“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.

“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”

Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”

Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.

He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.

And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.

Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.

He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”

Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”

“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”

“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.

“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”

“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”

“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”

He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?

He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.

Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?

That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.

***

Dean does not usually require props.

In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.

But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.

Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.

So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.

He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.

“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.

“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”

“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”

“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.

Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”

He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.

The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.

He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.

He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.

Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.

The lock clicks. The door swings open.

And Dean completely forgets how to speak.

You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.

He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.

You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”

Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.

“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.

“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”

Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”

Silence.

Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.

You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.

Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”

The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.

Before he can even register the hit, you step back.

“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.

Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.

“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”

He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.

“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”

“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”

“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.

“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”

The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.

“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”

Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”

“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”

“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”

You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”

“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”

The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.

“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”

“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”

You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”

“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”

You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.

“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”

“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.

Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.

You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”

“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”

You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.

For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.

“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”

Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.

The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.

You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.

“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”

“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.

“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”

“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”

You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”

Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”

Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”

Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”

Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.

“Y/N,” he starts softly.

“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”

You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.

“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”

You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.

“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.

He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.

This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.

“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.

You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”

“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”

You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”

“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”

“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”

“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”

“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”

“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.

You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.

“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”

You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.

But then the wall goes back up.

“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”

Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.

He needs leverage. What does he know about you?

Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.

“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.

You stop. “What?”

“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”

You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”

“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”

You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”

“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”

“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.

Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.

“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”

You stare at him.

“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”

Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.

The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.

“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.

“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”

You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”

“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”

“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.

“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”

You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.

The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.

Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.

“Shirtless,” you say softly.

“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”

The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.

“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.

You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.

“When?” You ask.

“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”

You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”

Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.

“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”

He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.

He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.

Now, he just has to do the impossible.

***

The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.

Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.

He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.

“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.

“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”

He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”

“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.

“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”

You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”

“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”

Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.

On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.

You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.

Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”

“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.

“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”

“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”

“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”

You do. He is staring at your lips.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”

He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.

A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.

The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”

He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.

You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.

“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”

“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.

He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.

Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.

He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.

You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.

Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.

“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?

“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”

The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.

Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.

He lowers his head.

The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”

He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.

He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.

It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.

Dean feels it. He stops immediately.

“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.

You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.

“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.

“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”

“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”

“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”

“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”

He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.

“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.

“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”

“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.

The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.

“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.

The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.

“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”

He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.

The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.

The coiled spring snaps.

A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.

Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.

When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.

You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.

Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.

He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.

He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”

You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”

“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”

You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.

Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”

Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”

“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”

He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.

You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.

Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.

But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.

You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.

It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.

You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.

“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”

It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.

Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.

He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.

You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.

Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.

“Look at me,” he demands softly.

You meet his eyes.

“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.

And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.

You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.

He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.

It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.

“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”

“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.

The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.

“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”

You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.

Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.

He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.

You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.

He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.

“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”

You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”

“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”

You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.

The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.

But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.

And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.

***

The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.

The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.

“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”

You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”

“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”

You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.

“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”

“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.

You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.

Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.

And leading the pack is Dean.

He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.

A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.

You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.

“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.

“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”

“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”

Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.

“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”

“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”

“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”

You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”

Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.

Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.

“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.

“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”

“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”

Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”

“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”

You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”

“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.

You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.

“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”

“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”

“It’s a yes,” you agree.

“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”

“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”

Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.

You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.

“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.

“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.

“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.

The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.

Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.

And Dean.

Dean is putting on a show.

You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.

Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.

He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.

Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”

“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.

“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”

You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”

Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”

“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.

“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”

You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.

You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.

Your heart does that stupid flip again.

He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.

“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.

Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”

“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”

“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”

You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”

The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.

You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.

You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon. 

He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.

“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”

A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.

Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.

But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.

He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.

All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.

“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.

McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”

Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.

Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.

“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”

McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”

“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”

McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.

“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.

“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”

McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”

The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.

“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”

McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.

Dean isn’t finished.

He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.

“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”

McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.

He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.

The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.

Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.

You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.

No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.

Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.

“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”

You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.

It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.

The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.

You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.

“That was perfect,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.

“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”

“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”

You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”

Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”

“You love it,” you remind him.

“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”

He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”

“Dean!”

He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.

You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.

You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.

And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.

You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.