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Chapter 1

The last exam of your third year at NYU ended with the familiar scrape of chairs against polished floors and a chorus of relieved sighs echoing through the lecture theatre.

Three years of Business almost behind you leaving you with a year left, then the real world.

A grin spread across your face as you stepped out into the cold Manhattan afternoon. The city buzzed around you despite the chill, your breath visible in the air as yellow taxis crawled through traffic, impatient horns filling the streets. Tourists huddled in scarves and coats at intersections, students spilled out of nearby campus buildings bundled in layers, and the smell of roasted coffee drifted from cafés offering warmth against the December cold.

For once, you had nowhere to be, no lectures, assignments or presentations. Just an empty calendar stretching out in front of you, begging to be filled with a plethora of selfcare rituals.

You pulled your coat tighter around yourself, adjusting the oversized sunglasses perched on your nose more out of habit than necessity, and started the familiar walk back towards your apartment in SoHo.

Your phone vibrated inside your shoulder bag which you fished out immediately.

Mom

A smile appeared before you'd even answered.

"Hey, Mom. It hasn't even been a week."

"I know," she replied brightly. "Am I only allowed to call on Sundays now?"

"Oh, absolutely." You joked.

"Too bad, I ignored that rule."

You laughed as you crossed the street, boots crunching lightly over patches of old snow pushed to the curb.

"What if I just wanted to hear my daughter's voice?"

"You absolutely did not call me just because you missed me."

"I do miss you."

"But?"

"But I also have news."

"There it is."

Your mom laughed, rich and warm, the kind of laugh that always made you smile no matter how bad your day had been, an effect she had on everyone.

She could start conversations with complete strangers in grocery store queues. She remembered birthdays without reminders. She sent you photos of random dogs she'd met on walks because she thought you'd like them. Your dad had always joked she'd somehow befriended half of America.

"So," you said, weaving around tourists who had somehow managed to stop in the middle of the footpath. "What’s the news?"

"Oh, sweetheart." There was the dramatic sigh. "We finally did it."

"You?"

"We settled the acquisitions."

You slowed your pace. "The Chicago one?"

"And Miami."

"No way."

"And Dallas."

Your eyebrows shot up. "Seriously?"

"Mhm."

"The ones you've both been working on for, what, three years?"

"Exactly those."

You smiled despite yourself.

Your parents owned businesses across the country, and closing one deal usually meant opening another. The last few years had been nonstop meetings, overseas flights and endless negotiations.

Family holidays had quietly disappeared somewhere in the chaos.

"We're finally free," your mother continued.

"You sound relieved."

"I sound younger."

You laughed. "I think your dad cried after signing the paperwork."

"Dad? Cry?"

"He'd deny it."

"Obviously."

"So..." Her voice became noticeably lighter. "We're going back to St. Barts."

Your footsteps stopped completely. People brushed past you with irritated mutters, but you barely noticed. "What?"

"We're going back."

You blinked. "The beach house?"

"Yup."

"When?"

"In two days."

"Two days!?" You echoed, eyes widening.

"We've already had the staff open everything up."

You couldn't stop smiling. You could imagine the warm escape from the New York biting cold. The white sand, impossibly blue water, morning swims before breakfast, evenings watching the sunset from the balcony with your parents.

Then your thoughts wandered to the familiar estate next door. The family who had shared every St. Barts holiday with yours for as long as you could remember.

Then another thought entered your mind. Trying to sound casual, you cleared your throat. "So..."

"So?"

"Just us?"

"As much as I adore spending time with only you and your dad."

There it was.

"The Di Laurentises will be joining us."

Your heart skipped. "Oh."

"And before you ask..."

"I wasn't going to ask."

"Dean's coming too." Your mom practically sang his name.

You rolled your eyes despite the warmth spreading through your chest. "Hah. I don't care if he comes or not."

"Mhm."

"I don't."

"For sure."

"You sound unconvinced."

"I've known you for twenty one years, darling."

"Mom."

She laughed again. "I'll stop teasing."

"You'd better."

"Although you've been smiling this entire conversation."

"I have not."

"You have."

You caught your reflection in a shop window. Damn it, you so were.

"So," your mom continued innocently, "have you spoken to him lately?"

You shrugged even though she couldn't see it. "I mean... we follow each other on Instagram."

"That's not what I asked."

You hesitated for half a second. "No. Not really."

"Mhm."

"I mean it."

"I believe you."

She didn't, but she let it go. Because even as you kept walking, even as you kept talking, your mind had already drifted back to that phone call.

It had been late. One in the morning too late for a normal phone call.

You'd been curled up on your couch in your apartment, wrapped in a blanket, laptop balanced on your knees, half-watching Love Island.

Your phone had buzzed against the cushion beside you.

Dicky.

You'd stared at his nickname lighting up your screen for a second longer than necessary.

Then answered. "Hello?"

The deafening music hit you first, chaos on the other end of the line as voices were shouting over each other. There wasn’t anything but background noise until, “-Hello?” His voice was slightly slurred and definitely louder than it needed to be.

You sat up a little straighter. "Dean?"

"Hey." There was a loose and careless laugh. "You picked up."

You frowned slightly. "Yeah... why wouldn't I?"

"I don't know." More noise in the background, someone yelling, a burst of laugher. "You could've ignored me."

"But, I didn't."

He paused, then softer, "I know."

Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten. "What are you doing?" you asked.

"Celebrating."

"Celebrating what?"

"We won."

"Hockey?"

"Yeah."

Another voice cut through the phone. "Is that her?"

You blinked. "What—"

"Dude, let me talk to her!" the mystery guy shouted.

"Shut up," Dean muttered, though he was laughing.

You could practically picture it, Dean in the middle of a crowded room, surrounded by teammates, red cups, music too loud and energy too high. "You should've come here," he said suddenly.

"What?"

"You would've liked it."

"I doubt that."

"No, you would've." His voice dipped, more serious now. "You would've liked them."

"Your boys?"

"Yeah."

Another voice, different from the one before, shouted in the background. "You always talk about her but you never let us meet her!"

Heat crept up your neck. "Dean—"

"I do not always talk about her," he shot back, though there was no real conviction behind it.

"You literally—"

"Shut up!"

You couldn't help it but you laughed. "What is happening over there?"

"A lot."

"I can tell."

There was a shuffle, like he'd moved somewhere quieter since the music dulled slightly. His voice came through clearer. "I miss you."

The words landed without warning and you went still. "What?"

"I said I miss you."

"You’re drunk."

"Yeah." A beat went by. "But I still mean it."

Your fingers tightened slightly around your phone as the silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

"You should've gone to Briar," he added, quieter now.

"You say that every time we talk."

"Because it's true."

"I like NYU."

"I know." Another pause. "But still."

You smiled despite yourself. "You sound ridiculous."

"I am ridiculous."

You laughed softly.

There was something about hearing him like this, unguarded, and unfiltered, that made everything feel strangely familiar, like those three years hadn’t passed at all.

Voices started getting louder again.

"Dean!"

"Hang up, man!"

"Let us talk to her!"

He groaned. "I gotta go."

"Okay."

"I'm glad you picked up."

Your heart did something stupid. "Me too."

The line went dead.

Around midday, your phone had been flooded with messages.

Dicky: I’M SO SORRY Dicky I was fucked, lowkey still am. Hungover AF Dicky: Please ignore everything I said Dicky: Seriously Dicky: I don't even remember half of it

You'd stared at them for a while before replying.

You: I figured, dickhead

She let the laughter settle before speaking again. "I hope your suitcases are ready"

"I'll pack tonight."

"And maybe wash those beach dresses you love." Your mom always knew you. "I'll text you the flight details."

"I love you."

"I love you more, sweetheart."

The call ended.

You stood on the sidewalk staring at the black screen for several seconds, cold air brushing against your cheeks.

St. Barts, with your parents and the Di Laurentis Family.

Dean.

You refused to admit his name was the reason your stomach suddenly felt full of butterflies.

Sleep barely found you over the next two nights.

You blamed the excitement of finally escaping the freezing New York winter after months of exams.

Not Dean. Definitely not Dean.

The warm Caribbean sun greeted you the second you stepped off the private jet. The familiar salty breeze carried memories you hadn't realised you'd missed, and after the biting cold of New York, the heat felt unreal against your skin.

By the time the black Range Rover pulled through the gates of your parents' beachfront villa, your smile hurt from how long it'd been there. The house looked exactly the same, with its white stone, towering palms and the ocean stretching endlessly beyond the infinity pool.

Before you'd even reached the front entrance, the front door burst open. "There's my girl!" Your mom wrapped you in a hug before you'd fully climbed the steps, your shoulder bag slipping from your grasp and landing on the stone path with a dull thud.

Your dad followed moments later, smiling as he squeezed you just as tightly. You'd missed them more than you’d realised.

“Let’s get you inside, everyone’s waiting,” he said, picking up your shoulder bag and bringing it into the house.

The cool marble floors met your sandals as you stepped inside, the familiar scent of the villa wrapping around you instantly, salt air, fresh linen, and something citrusy lingering in the background.

Then you heard the voices, familiar laughter and movement.

“Finally!” Mrs. Di Laurentis beamed, stepping forward to pull you into a warm hug before you could even properly take in the room. “Look at you, sweetheart.”

“Hi,” you laughed softly, hugging her back before Mr. Di Laurentis followed, greeting you just as warmly.

“You’ve grown up on us,” he said with a smile.

“I’ve been grown,” you teased, earning a chuckle.

Your name rang out across the room. You barely had time to react before Summer crashed into you, arms wrapping tightly around your shoulders as she squeezed you.

“Oh my god, I missed you so much,” she rushed out, pulling back only to grab your hands and tug you further into the living room. “You look insane. Like hot insane. NYU is treating you well, clearly, and your hair? Don’t even get me started, I need to know everything, like everything—”

She didn’t stop, not for a second.

Words spilled out of her faster than you could process, her excitement bubbling over as she dragged you further inside, her grip firm like she was afraid you might disappear again. But you weren’t really hearing her.

Your heart had started racing, too fast and too loud for your liking. Your eyes flickered around the room, scanning faces, corners, doorways.

Nick leaned casually against the kitchen counter, giving you a grin and a nod of greeting.

Your parents were talking with Dean’s.

Summer was still talking, something about Brown, about classes, about someone named Chloe, but her voice had faded into background noise.

Because Dean wasn’t anywhere. And suddenly, all you could think about was whether he didn’t come at all, or whether something had happened to him.

Why wasn’t he—

Strong and firm arms wrapped around you from behind. Familiar in a way that made your breath catch.

Before you could even react, you were lifted clean off the ground, a surprised laugh escaping you as you were spun mid-air. “Got you.”

Your heart stuttered then raced even faster.

He said your name, breath warm against your ear.

You laughed, breathless, instinctively grabbing onto his arms as he set you back down, though he didn’t let go. Not immediately.

You turned in his hold, and suddenly he was right there. Closer than you’d expected and closer than you remembered in the last three years. Everything about him hit you all at one, his scent, somehow unfamiliar but still him, his arms, stronger, broader and holding you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You'd always had to tilt your head slightly to look at him, but now you had to tilt it even further.

Your eyes flickered up to meet his, and he was already looking at you, a grin spreading slowly across his face like he couldn’t quite believe you were actually here. “Miss me?” he asked, voice low, teasing.

The words struck something in you.

I miss you.

For a split second, you were back in your apartment, phone pressed to your ear, hearing those three slurred words through the noise of a crowded party.

You blinked the memory away and huffed out a quiet laugh, willing your heartbeat to settle. “In your dreams.”

“Every night,” he shot back easily.

You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop smiling.

Around you, the room had gone quiet, everyone watching the two of you with knowing smiles.

“Oh my god,” Summer groaned dramatically, crossing her arms. “Dean, can you not steal her the second she walks in? She’s mine.”

You laughed, glancing over at her.

“Excuse you,” Dean replied, not even looking away from you. “I saw her first.”

“No, you didn’t,” Summer shot back. “I literally tackled her.”

“And yet,” he shrugged, tightening his hold just slightly, “she’s still here.”

“Unbelievable,” Summer muttered, though she was smiling. “We’re supposed to be besties. Remember that?”

“I do,” you laughed, finally stepping back just enough to breathe, though the warmth of his hands lingered where they’d been.

Dean’s gaze didn’t leave you, and somehow, being here suddenly felt even more real.

Dinner preparations quickly became the organised chaos they always had whenever the two families were together. Mrs. Di Laurentis had already tied an apron around her waist before anyone else had even unpacked, insisting nobody made homemade pasta quite like she did.

Your mom, naturally, refused to let that statement slide. "Oh please," she scoffed, pulling vegetables from the fridge. "Everyone knows my lemon herb chicken disappears before your pasta even makes it to the table."

"Only because you make enough to feed an army."

"I have to. Your family eats like one."

Laughter bounced around the open plan kitchen. Without needing to be asked, you rolled up the sleeves of your linen shirt and moved beside your mom at the island bench. "What do you need?"

She handed you a chopping board. "Everything."

Summer appeared beside you moments later. "And I was voluntold too."

"You looked available," Mrs. Di Laurentis replied sweetly.

"I literally walked into the room."

"Exactly."

The two of you spent the next hour doing whatever needed doing. Chopping vegetables, peeling garlic, washing fruit and the best task of all: taste testing.

"You two are terrible judges," your mom commented after catching Summer sneaking another spoonful of sauce.

"We're ensuring quality control," Summer defended, mouth full.

"You're stealing."

"Tomato, tomahto."

Meanwhile, the men had migrated to the outdoor dining area overlooking the ocean, drinks already in hand. You'd heard enough conversations, similar to the one they’re having now, growing up to tune them out entirely.

Every now and then, though, you caught yourself glancing towards the patio. Only to find Dean already looking at you. Each time, he'd casually look away as if he'd been paying attention to whatever his father had just said.

A few minutes later, while you were focused on slicing lemons, movement caught your eye.

Dean had quietly pulled out his phone, but before you could react an audible click resonated from the phone’s speaker.

His thumb hit send before you could stop him.

Dean: when she cooks

Barely three seconds passed.

Tuck: you sure you aren’t in love with her or smn

Logan: bro folded years ago

G: that’s wife behaviour and you’re taking paparazzi pics

Dean snorted.

You lunged for the phone.

He lifted it above his head with insulting ease, smiling down at you while you reached for absolutely nothing.

“Delete it.”

“No.”

“Dean.”

“It’s already been appreciated by the group chat.”

You pointed the wooden spoon at him. “I’m telling your mother.”

Mrs. Di Laurentis looked up from the stove. “Dean.”

His expression turned innocent. “Yes?”

“Behave.”

He slipped the phone into his pocket. “See? Handled.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I’ll remember this.”

Not long after, both mothers finally declared dinner ready.

The dining table had been transformed, with a spread of fresh pasta, roast chicken, grilled vegetables and salads. There was definitely enough food to feed twice the number of people sitting here.

Everyone found their seats naturally, slipping into a routine that hadn't changed in years. Your parents sat together at one end the Di Laurentis parents opposite. Summer dropped into the chair beside you before anyone else could claim it. Nick beside Dean, the latter sitting directly across from you, probably for the best.

Conversation flowed as easily as the wine. Summer barely paused long enough to breathe, jumping from university gossip to beach plans to celebrity scandals she'd become strangely invested in.

Halfway through dinner, you reached for another piece of chicken on your plate. It disappeared and when you looked up, Dean had already taken a bite. "Seriously?"

"What?"

"There is an entire table covered in food."

"Yours looked better." He shrugged. “Plus, you weren’t eating it.”

"I was literally reaching for it."

"I got there first."

You stared at him in disbelief. "You've got issues."

"And yet," he said, stealing a roasted potato from your plate this time, "you keep sitting across from me."

Summer groaned. "Oh my god."

Your mother tried very hard not to laugh and Mrs. Di Laurentis failed entirely.

The next two days slipped by far too quickly. Some things, however, never changed. Namely, Dean's unwavering commitment to making your life as difficult as humanly possible. Three years apart clearly hadn't matured him. Physically, sure. He'd grown broader, taller and somehow even more confident. Mentally? He was still the same menace you'd grown up with.

Not twenty minutes ago, you'd been peacefully curled up on a sun lounge by the pool, completely absorbed in your book, when he'd appeared out of nowhere and cannonballed into the water beside you. The wave he'd created had drenched you from head to toe. Your book, your dress, your hair, everything.

His response? A completely unapologetic, laugh-until-he-couldn't-breathe kind of laugh. You'd chased him halfway around the pool with a rolled-up towel while the rest of the family watched like it was prime-time entertainment.

Christmas crept closer with every passing day, and both villas slowly transformed alongside it. Fairy lights wound around towering palm trees instead of pine. Wreaths adorned white stone walls. Garlands draped elegantly from balconies overlooking the endless stretch of turquoise water, glowing softly once the sun dipped below the horizon.

There was something wonderfully surreal about celebrating Christmas where the air smelled of salt instead of cinnamon, where bare feet replaced boots, and swimsuits replaced woollen sweaters. Yet beneath the excitement lingered a quiet sadness. The holiday suddenly felt painfully short.

After Christmas came New Year's, and after New Year's came packed suitcases. Then flights. Back to New York. Back to your fourth year at NYU. Back to assignments, internships and a calendar that always seemed too full. Although neither family had said it aloud, everyone knew the same thing. No one knew when life would slow down enough for all of you to be together like this again.

"So..." Summer interrupted your thoughts, tossing a box of ornaments onto the outdoor lounge. "Annual decorating committee?"

You smiled. "As always."

It had become an unspoken tradition growing up. Every year your families were together, the three of you decorated the villas while everyone else somehow found reasons to disappear.

Nick had once been part of it too, but he barely looked up from his laptop. "I'm preparing for court," he called from the dining room.

"You've been preparing for court since we got here," Summer shouted back.

"It's called being responsible."

"It's called being boring."

"I'm billing you for emotional damages."

Summer snorted.

With that settled, the three of you got to work. Music drifted through portable speakers balanced on the kitchen windowsill.

Summer untangled fairy lights, dictating there weren’t enough spread around the villa. Dean wrestled with extension cords that seemed determined to knot themselves together. You handled everything else. By late afternoon, almost every corner of the property glowed with Christmas decorations.

Almost.

You stepped back onto the patio and frowned. "The balcony looks empty."

Dean glanced up. "It looks fine."

"It absolutely does not."

"It absolutely does."

"It needs lights."

"It doesn't."

"It does."

Summer looked between you both before wisely deciding not to involve herself. "I'm staying out of whatever this is."

You wandered towards the garage before either of them could stop you. A few moments later, you emerged dragging a folding ladder behind you.

Dean didn't notice. He was still arguing with an extension cord.

You leaned the ladder carefully against the back wall beneath the second storey balcony. One string of warm white lights later and the whole patio would look complete.

The ocean stretched behind you, afternoon sunlight dancing across the water as you reached over the railing to secure the final section. "There."

You smiled to yourself.

Perfect.

Just as you reached to fasten the very last clip—

"What are you doing?" Dean's voice rang out sharply behind you.

You startled completely that your shoulders jerked and your foot slipped, “Oh-” For one suspended second, nothing happened, until gravity won. You instinctively reached for the ladder, but missed. Your stomach lurched as your body tipped backwards.

"Oh my God!" Summer screamed.

You had just enough time to realise there was absolutely nothing beneath you except—

You squeezed your eyes shut as a fat splash resonated through the villa. The water swallowed you whole. Cold crashed into your back like concrete before bubbles surrounded you, pulling every sound away.

For a brief second, everything was quiet. Then movement. Fast as if someone had jumped in after you. Before you'd even broken the surface, strong arms found your waist.

You burst through the water coughing once before laughter escaped you instead. "Oh my God." You wiped water from your face, still laughing. "I actually fell!" Dean was right beside you, one arm still firmly around your waist to keep you afloat. You lightly smacked his shoulder. "Don't sneak up on me like that!"

He didn't laugh, not even a little. His grip tightened. "What the fuck were you thinking?"

Your smile faltered. "Dean?"

"What were you thinking?"

"I was putting up lights."

"By yourself. On a fucking ladder. With no one watching!"

"There was a pool."

"What if there wasn't!?"

The smile slowly disappeared from your face. He wasn’t annoyed or teasing, he was angry.

"What if you'd fallen onto the tiles?" he continued, his jaw clenched. "Or hit your head on the edge?"

His eyes searched yours frantically, as though checking for injuries you hadn't noticed yet. "What if you'd landed on your neck?”

He swallowed hard. "What if..." His voice caught. "You'd cracked your head open?"

Silence settled between you, and you finally understood. He wasn't picturing what had happened, he was picturing everything that could have happened. His arm around you wasn't letting go because he hadn't realised he was still holding you.

You reached up slowly, resting a hand against his forearm. "Dean."

He didn't answer.

"Dean." His eyes finally met yours. "I'm okay."

Nothing.

"You don't need to think about all the 'what ifs.'"

His jaw flexed. "But—"

"They didn't happen." You offered him a small smile. "I fell into a pool."

"I still watched you fall."

The quiet admission hit harder than anything he'd said so far. You softened, "I know."

“You scared the shit out of me.”

The words landed hard. For once, nobody had anything to say. Even Summer went quiet above you, her usual commentary dying before it reached her tongue. You stared at him, water dripping from your lashes, your laughter completely gone now. Dean wasn’t trying to be funny. He wasn’t annoyed. He was scared. And somehow that unsettled you more than the fall itself.

You softened, your hand resting lightly against his forearm. “I’m sorry.”

His grip loosened slightly, but he still didn’t let go.

“I’m fine,” you said gently. “I promise.”

He looked at you for a long second before finally exhaling. “I’m still hiding that ladder.”

You laughed quietly. "I figured."

"And next time-"

"There won't be a next time."

"You don't do anything involving heights without one of us."

"Yes, Sir."

Something flashed in his eyes, you excused it for the worry he felt.

Summer finally leaned over the edge of the pool, hands on her knees. "Can I speak now?"

The two of you looked up.

She pointed dramatically at the water. "You two have been floating there having an emotional breakthrough while I'm still recovering from the heart attack you both gave me."

Despite himself, Dean let out a reluctant laugh and the tension broke.

The Di Laurentis family had wandered back to their own villa shortly after dinner, promising they'd see everyone in the morning before disappearing down the stone pathway that connected the neighbouring properties.

The house suddenly felt... quiet. Your parents had retired upstairs not long ago, the distant murmur of their voices fading as another door clicked shut. You, on the other hand, were nowhere near tired. You lay sprawled across your bed, staring lazily at the ceiling fan turning overhead. Your brain had simply decided now was the perfect time to replay every interaction you'd had with Dean since arriving.

His stupid grin. The photo he'd secretly taken. The way he'd looked genuinely terrified when you'd fallen into the pool. You rolled onto your side with a groan. "Get a grip."

There was no chance you were sleeping anytime soon, so, an idea popped into your head. The centre of St. Barts would still be buzzing. The restaurants, the little jazz bars tucked between boutiques, the waterfront cafés that stayed open well past midnight. Summer would absolutely be awake.

She'd happily spend three hours talking your ear off over overpriced mocktails while pretending to enjoy live jazz she secretly knew nothing about. You reached for your phone on the bedside table. You met a black screen.

"Seriously?" you pressed the power button. Nothing. A frown settled on your face as you followed the charging cable to the wall. The switch beside the outlet had been flicked off. You sighed dramatically before flicking it back on. There went calling Summer, but then again, who needed a phone when your best friend’s house was literally next door? The connected pathway between the two villas meant you could be there in less than a minute.

You wandered into your walk in wardrobe, scanning the rows of dresses before settling on one of your favourites. The halter neck dress flowed effortlessly to your knees, the fabric fading from warm sunset orange into soft golden yellow, light enough that it danced with every breeze. You slipped into a pair of sandals, quickly brushed your hair, then padded downstairs and out onto the stone pathway illuminated by warm garden lights.

The Caribbean night wrapped around you instantly. The air was warm despite the late hour, carrying the scent of saltwater and blooming jasmine. The Di Laurentis villa glowed softly through the palm trees ahead.

Most of the downstairs lights had already been switched off and only one upstairs room remained lit, Summer's room. Rather than walking all the way around to the front entrance, you followed the old route the two of you had used since you were kids.

The stone retaining wall, hooking onto the narrow ledge onto the balcony. You'd lost count of how many times you'd climbed up here over the years. Balancing carefully, you hoisted yourself onto the balcony and brushed imaginary dust from your dress.

Voices drifted through the closed glass doors, meaning she was definitely awake. You knocked twice against the glass, but nothing came of it. You knocked again, then finally, the curtains shifted.

Your brain stopped working as Dean stood there, behind the glass door, shirtless. Once he’d noticed it was you, the sliding door rolled open. Fresh from what looked like a shower, his dark hair still damp, loose grey sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips. You very deliberately did not let your eyes wander.

But you’re just a girl and they wandered anyway."Oh."

Brilliant. Fantastic first word.

Dean's eyebrows lifted. "Hi?"

You blinked rapidly, forcing your attention back to his face. "I thought this was Summer's room."

"It used to be." He stepped aside slightly. "We swapped years ago."

"Right." Of course you hadn't known that.

There was a brief pause. Then his expression changed completely, concern replacing it almost instantly. "Everything okay?"

You frowned. "What?"

"Your head." His eyes flicked across your face. "Does it still hurt from earlier?"

It took you a second to realise he was talking about your spectacular drop into the swimming pool. "Oh." You smiled reassuringly. "No, I'm fine."

"You sure?"

"Dean."

"I'm serious."

"So am I." You tapped your forehead. "Hard as concrete."

"I noticed."

You narrowed your eyes. "Rude."

He smiled, finally relaxing. "So..." He leaned casually against the doorframe, you couldn’t help but watch as his muscles shifted, mouth growing dry. "What're you doing climbing onto my balcony at midnight?"

"I couldn't sleep."

"So naturally your solution was breaking and entering."

You rolled your eyes. "I wanted to see if Summer wanted to head into town."

He tilted his head. "Now?"

"Mhm. The jazz bars are probably still open."

"You like jazz?"

"Three years can do wonders, Dean." You teased.

Dean laughed. "Fair enough." He finally took a proper look at you. Until now he'd been too busy making sure you weren't concussed, but now, his words caught in his throat.

The soft colours of your dress glowed beneath the balcony lights, your hair moving gently with the sea breeze. For one dangerously long second he forgot what conversation you were having. "You're wearing that?"

You placed both hands on your hips. "What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing." He cleared his throat. "I just..." His eyes drifted toward the ocean. "It gets cooler near the waterfront."

You looked pointedly around. "It's still warm."

"You'll still get cold later in the night. Trust."

You laughed. "I'll steal something from Summer's wardrobe then. Where is she anyways?"

"Sleeping." However, somewhere inside the villa, a muffled laugh echoed faintly. Dean ignored it, but you didn't seem to notice.

"Oh." You looked genuinely disappointed. "I'll just leave then." You turned slightly, already preparing to climb back down.

"You know..." His voice stopped you. "I could come."

You looked back.

"Unless my presence is that unbearable."

A smile tugged at your lips. "I don't know." You pretended to consider it. "You can be pretty insufferable."

"I've been told."

"But." You shrugged. "I suppose having a six foot two hockey player walking around with me isn't the worst idea."

"I knew you liked having me around."

"Don't push it."

You started turning back towards your own villa. "I'll just grab a sweater."

"Nah." He disappeared into his room before you could question him. A few seconds later he returned carrying a cream cable knit cardigan. Without warning, he tossed it towards you and you caught it against your chest. "Wear that."

"Dean, I have plenty of sweaters."

"I know, but this one’s closer than walking back to yours."

You looked down at it. It was enormous. The sleeves alone looked long enough to swallow your hands. "You realise I'm going to drown in this."

"It'll build character."

Rolling your eyes, you slipped your arms through the sleeves. The cardigan hung loosely over your dress, almost reaching your thighs. It was absurdly oversized, but it also happened to match your outfit surprisingly well. You folded the sleeves back twice before looking up. "Happy?"

Dean forgot how to answer. The oversized knit, the warm colours of your dress peeking beneath it, the breeze catching strands of your hair. He'd never seen anything quite so unfair. "Yeah." His voice came out quieter than intended. "Looks good."

You smiled. "Thank you."

He looked away before you noticed he was still staring. "Come on." He cleared his throat. "The town won't walk to us."

Together, the two of you climbed down from the balcony and headed towards the beach, neither of you noticing the curtains in Summer's room shift ever so slightly before quickly closing again.

The beach was almost deserted. Moonlight shimmered across the gentle waves, turning the ocean into a sheet of silver that stretched endlessly toward the horizon. The tide rolled in lazily, foaming around your ankles before retreating again. After a few minutes, you kicked off your sandals.

Dean watched you hook your sandals over two fingers before stepping barefoot into the cool sand. "Better?"

You sighed contentedly as another wave rolled over your feet. "Way better."

He shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. "You lasted, what... five minutes?"

"They were cute sandals."

"Were?"

"They've officially been demoted."

The conversation faded after that, replaced by the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore. Neither of you felt any pressure to fill the silence. After nineteen years of friendship, quiet moments had become just as comfortable as conversations.

After a while, you glanced sideways at him. "So... how's hockey?"

His face lit up almost instantly. His shoulders relaxed and his smile became effortless. You hadn't realised how much you'd missed seeing that look.

"It's been really good," he admitted. "We had a great season."

"I remember."

"You do?"

"You drunk called me, remember?"

Dean groaned loud enough for the ocean to hear. "Oh my God, are you ever going to let me live that down?"

"Absolutely not."

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, laughing to himself. A comfortable silence settled between you again before he spoke. "I started helping coach a primary school hockey team this semester."

Your eyebrows lifted. "Seriously?"

He nodded. "They're absolute disasters, but they’re honestly the best part of my week." He looked ahead as he spoke, his voice growing more animated with every story. "There was this little bloke who spent nearly a month trying to learn how to stop properly. Every lesson he'd either spin around or end up flat on his ass."

"And did he finally get it?"

"He did." Dean laughed to himself.

Ahead, faint laughter carried across the beach. A group of children, no older than twelve, stood barefoot in a loose circle, kicking a football between themselves without letting it touch the sand. One of them spotted you immediately.

"Pretty lady!"

Every head turned and you froze. A little boy sprinted towards you. "Will you play with us?"

You looked back at Dean and he simply shrugged. "Looks like you've been recruited."

The children were already pulling you towards their circle before you could answer. "Oh, okay," you laughed. "I'm coming."

Within seconds you were attempting to keep the ball in the air. Key word, attempting. The ball bounced off your knee before dropping straight into the sand. The kids erupted into dramatic groans.

"I'm sorry!"

"You have to do better than that, miss!"

"I've been set up to fail."

One of the girls giggled before demonstrating the proper technique. "There!"

"Like this?"

"No!" More laughter.

Dean stayed where he was for a while, watching. He'd spent months coaching children and he knew how long it usually took them to warm up around strangers. Yet somehow, you'd become part of their game within minutes. You laughed every time you messed up. Celebrated whenever one of them managed an impressive kick. High fived the youngest boy after he'd kept the ball in the air three times in a row. You never once tried to make yourself the centre of attention. You simply made everyone around you feel included. Dean found himself smiling without realising it.

"You!" One of the boys suddenly pointed at him. "Come play!"

Dean blinked. "Me?"

"Yes!"

You looked over your shoulder. "Dean!"

He didn't answer, too busy watching you.

"Dean!"

"Huh?"

You laughed. "Earth to Dean."

The children started chanting his name until he reluctantly wandered over.

"I'm warning you," he said. "I'm terrible at soccer."

"You play hockey."

"Different feet."

You rolled your eyes before reaching for his hand, and without thinking, your fingers slipped between his. “Come on.”

Dean's entire train of thought derailed. He'd held your hand before, hundreds of times. You'd fallen asleep leaning against him more than once growing up. So why did this feel any different? Your hand was warm, comfortable and natural. Yet his pulse had somehow doubled.

For the next half hour, the two of you stumbled through the game together. You laughed whenever Dean accidentally kicked the ball into the ocean. The children declared him "the worst player ever." He took the title surprisingly well.

Eventually, the youngest girl wrapped her arms around your waist. "Will you come play again tomorrow?"

You smiled. "If we're around."

"You promise?"

"I promise."

One by one they hugged you goodbye before waving enthusiastically as they disappeared further down the beach. You watched until they were out of sight.

"They loved you."

You looked sideways at Dean. "They loved you too."

As you continued walking towards the lights of the town, your fingers brushed against his again. Neither of you reached for the other's hand this time. But neither of you moved away, either.

The lights of Gustavia slowly came into view, glowing like scattered lanterns against the shoreline. Music drifted through the warm night air. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed loudly enough to echo down the street. Restaurants overflowed onto the footpaths, couples lingered outside little cafés, and tiny boutiques remained open long past what should've been closing time.

The two of you wandered without much direction, ducking into little souvenir shops, stopping to watch a street musician perform outside a wine bar and sharing a paper cone of hot cinnamon coated churros from a vendor who insisted they were "the best on the island." They probably weren't, but at one in the morning, they tasted incredible.

You nudged Dean with your elbow."You know..."

"Hm?"

"I've seen your Instagram."

He glanced over with a grin. "You stalk me? I’m flattered."

"I happened to be online when you posted."

"How convenient."

"It was." You looked at him knowingly. "I've seen the girl."

His smile faltered. "Girl?"

You stopped walking, hands on your hips. "You know exactly what I mean."

He scratched the back of his neck. "Which one?"

Your jaw dropped. "What do you mean, which one?"

His silence answered everything.

"Oh my God." You laughed, shaking your head. "Don't tell me there've been so many you genuinely don't know who I'm talking about."

"It sounds worse than it is."

"It sounds exactly like what it is."

He sighed. "I wasn't looking for anything serious."

"So Briar really has turned you into one of those hockey boys."

"I was one before Briar."

"Disappointing."

"I thought you'd be proud."

"I'm reconsidering our friendship."

He clutched his chest dramatically. "Ouch."

You smiled despite yourself as you continued walking. After a moment, curiosity got the better of you. "So... is there anyone now?"

His smile faded. "Yeah."

The answer caught you off guard, and your heart clenched painfully. "Oh."

He slipped his hands into his pockets. "I don't think she knows."

Your brows knitted together. "She has no idea?"

He shook his head. "I don't think she's ever looked at me that way."

"Well," you said, looking over at him, "she's blind."

He laughed quietly. "You don't even know who she is."

"I don't need to." You shrugged. "I've known you almost twenty years."

"And?"

"You're funny."

"I am."

"You weren't supposed to agree."

"I'm also incredibly humble."

You rolled your eyes. "You're kind."

His teasing smile softened.

"You care about people."

He looked at you without saying anything.

"You always have."

The sounds of the town faded into the background. "You'll tell her eventually?" you asked.

"Maybe."

"You should."

"What if it ruins everything?"

You thought about it for a moment. "If someone matters enough that you're scared of losing them..." You offered him a small smile. "They're probably worth the risk."

Dean held your gaze for a long second before smiling to himself. "Yeah."

You bumped his shoulder. "See? Problem solved."

"If only it were that easy."

You laughed, turning your attention back to the lights of the harbour. You never noticed the way Dean watched you walk beside him. Or that he hadn't been talking about anyone else.

By the time you left the town, the streets had grown quieter. The walk back felt easier somehow. Conversation drifted from childhood memories to university stories, from embarrassing family holidays to arguments over whether pineapple belonged on pizza. Dean insisted it did. You threatened to walk home alone. He apologised immediately.

The moon sat high overhead by the time the villas came back into view. Neither of you seemed particularly eager for the night to end. Eventually, you stopped outside your front door.

"I had fun tonight," you admitted.

Dean folded his arms."That's usually the effect I have on people."

You laughed. "No, seriously."You smiled at him. "Thank you."

"For?"

"For coming with me."

His expression softened. "I would've regretted letting you wander around by yourself."

"You really thought I'd get kidnapped?"

"I thought you'd somehow convince strangers to adopt you."

"That's... surprisingly possible."

"I know."

You looked at him for a moment. Longer than either of you expected. Then, before you could overthink it, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. Dean froze. Not because the hug itself was unusual. The two of you had hugged countless times over the years, but something about this one felt different. Maybe it was because there was no audience. Maybe because you were no longer awkward teenagers. Maybe because your cheek rested against his chest just long enough for him to hear you sigh.

Slowly, his arms came around you. One settled against the small of your back. The other cradled the back of your head with practiced gentleness, his fingers slipping into your hair almost absentmindedly.

He rested his chin lightly against your temple. "Sleep well," he murmured. Then, quietly, he said your name.

Your heart skipped. When you finally stepped back, the oversized cardigan slipped from one shoulder. "Oh." You laughed softly. "I almost forgot."

Your fingers reached for the hem."I should give this back."

Dean caught your wrist before you'd managed to take it off. His touch was light. "Keep it."

You blinked. "But you'll need it."

"I've got plenty."

"Dean—"

"I'll get it back before we leave." His smile returned. "Eventually."

You studied him for another second before giving in. He started walking backwards toward the pathway connecting the villas. "Night."

"Night."

You watched until he disappeared into the darkness between the palm trees. Only then did you unlock your front door. Inside, the house was quiet. You slipped off your sandals, climbed the stairs, and wandered into your bedroom without switching on the lights. Moonlight spilled across the floor, silver and soft, catching on the hem of Dean’s cardigan where it hung loose around your thighs.

You reached to take it off. Then stopped. The fabric smelled like him, cedarwood, sea salt from the walk and that new cologne you still were’t used too. You should have folded it over the chair. You should have changed into pyjamas. You should have gone to sleep and blamed the strange warmth in your chest on the island air. Instead, you pulled the cardigan tighter around yourself and looked at your reflection in the mirror.

You climbed into bed, still wearing his cardigan. This was supposed to be simple. A holiday, with old friends, familiar families and a warm beach with a few weeks away from New York. So why did one walk with Dean feel like the beginning of something you couldn’t undo?

The smartwatch on your wrist vibrated, and you glanced down.

Dean: Wanna come to Malones w da boys?

"We're going to put an IV in to help replace some of what your body's been depleted of," the doctor explained.

You looked up at her, too drained to answer, and simply nodded.

"I'll get one of the nurses and we’ll start, okay, hun?"

She disappeared behind the curtain surrounding your little corner of the emergency department.

Your watch buzzed again.

Dean: Helllooooo???

You let out a tired sigh. With what little energy you had left, you reached for your phone on the bedside table and typed a reply.

You: Soz can't rn

His response came almost instantly.

Dean: Why nut?

Despite everything, you smiled. Before you could think of a believable excuse, your phone lit up with his contact.

FaceTime.

Of course.

"Shit," you muttered.

You didn't want Dean worrying. You already felt ridiculous for ending up here over something that would probably pass after a few bags of fluids and some sleep.

You answered, holding the phone far too close to your face so none of the monitors or hospital bed could be seen.

"Ew. Why are you so close to the screen?" Dean laughed, his grin practically lighting up the display.

"Hello to you too."

Your face filled the entire camera, which wasn't exactly flattering considering the dark circles under your eyes and the handful of stress pimples you'd acquired from weeks of surviving on caffeine and poor decisions.

Dean chuckled before his expression slowly changed. "Why's there so much beeping?" His brows furrowed.

As if the universe had decided you hadn't suffered enough, the doctor returned with a nurse. Without thinking, you lowered your phone so you wouldn't look like an idiot video calling someone while being treated.

Unfortunately, it also gave Dean a perfect view of the room.

He called your name sharply. "What the fuck? Is that the hospital?"

You barely had time to react before the doctor started checking your chart.

The last thing you heard before the call disconnected was Dean saying, "I'll be there in twenty."

Your stomach twisted.

He was supposed to be out with the boys. This wasn't worth dragging him away for.

Dean had been your best friend since first year. Between sharing nearly every law class and spending more time arguing hypothetical court cases than actually studying them, the friendship had formed naturally. You'd always suspected law wasn't really what he wanted though. Sometimes it felt like he was only here because it was expected of him, but that was a conversation for another day.

The nurse checked your observations before inserting a cannula into your arm and hooking up another bag of fluids. Instead of feeling better, you only felt heavier, your eyelids refusing to stay open.

You just wanted to go back to your dorm, sleep for twelve hours, then pretend the mountain of assignments waiting for you didn't exist.

The curtain suddenly slid open. You looked up, ready to tell the nurse you weren't hungry anymore.

Instead, Dean stood there in his black jeans, white T-shirt and brown leather jacket.

His hair was windswept, his chest rising and falling as though he'd sprinted through the hospital.

You blinked. "It's only been like... ten minutes."

His breathing hadn't even settled.

"Did you speed?" you asked, suddenly finding enough energy to sit up.

Whether that burst of energy came from worrying he'd wrapped his car around a pole or simply because he was standing there was something you chose not to examine.

Definitely the first one.

Dean barely reacted. He dragged a chair beside your bed and sat down, concern written all over his face. "You're worried about whether I sped," he said quietly, "when you should be worried about yourself."

Silence settled between you.

Finally, Dean broke it. "Why didn't you tell me you were here?"

You looked away, chewing the inside of your cheek. "It wasn't a big deal. I didn't want anyone worrying, and you were already going out..."

"Fuck going out with the boys!" The words came so suddenly you stared at him. "I don't care where I am or what I'm doing," he continued, frustration slipping into every word. "I care whether you're okay. So don't give me that crap about not wanting to worry me."

His jaw tightened before he exhaled.

"You're my best friend."

Your chest tightened. You wished you were more.

"I'd rather you call me over nothing than sit here alone pretending everything's fine."

You swallowed hard. "I…I'm sorry." Your voice barely came out above a whisper. "I've just got so much work. I need to stay on top of everything, Dean. You know I do."

Your vision blurred before you realised tears were already slipping down your cheeks.

Dean reached over without hesitation, brushing one away with his thumb before pulling you gently into his arms.

His familiar scent, sandalwood and cedar, wrapped around you.

Home.

You buried your face against his shoulder as every bit of exhaustion you'd been holding together finally cracked.

He held you tighter.

"Don't ever tell yourself I'm better off not knowing." His voice was quiet against your hair. "I'll always show up."

Those four words settled somewhere deep inside you.

You hadn't realised how badly you needed someone to say them.

A polite cough interrupted the moment.

You both looked up as the doctor stood there trying very hard not to smile. Dean cleared his throat and leaned back, rubbing the back of his neck.

"We'll just run through your final observations and you'll be free to head home."

You quietly thanked her while the nurse finished checking everything one last time before removing the equipment.

"You look much better," the doctor smiled. "Just promise me you'll actually rest."

"I'll try."

Dean snorted beside you. "She will."

The doctor laughed. "I figured."

By the time you left the hospital, the sun had disappeared and the night air bit at your skin. You instinctively folded your arms across yourself. Without a word, Dean shrugged off his leather jacket and draped it over your shoulders.

You looked up at him. "Thanks."

He simply nodded, opening the passenger door like he always did.

Some habits never changed. You sometimes wondered if he did this for every girl.

You hoped he didn't.

Dean climbed into the driver's seat, started the car, then immediately switched on the heater and heated seats.

"Warm enough?"

You pulled his jacket tighter around yourself.

"It smells like you."

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Dean glanced over, amused. "I shower occasionally, thanks."

You rolled your eyes. "I meant in a good way."

"I'll take the win."

The drive home passed quietly. Your eyelids grew heavier with every passing streetlight until your stomach growled loud enough to make you wince.

Dean smirked. "Hungry?"

"Apparently."

"We're almost home. I'll heat something up."

True to his word, he parked outside Hockey House and walked you inside.

Holding the front door open, he gave an unnecessarily dramatic bow. "M'lady."

You couldn't help laughing.

"There she is," he grinned. "I was starting to think the hospital stole your personality."

"Don't push it."

"Sit on the couch. I'll make you food."

You didn't argue.

The cushions practically swallowed you whole as you collapsed face first into them, letting out the deepest sigh you'd breathed in weeks. Somewhere in the kitchen you heard the microwave beep.

Your eyes drifted shut.

Dean walked back into the lounge carrying a steaming plate. "Alright, eat..."

He stopped. You were already asleep.

He smiled to himself before setting the plate down on the coffee table and pulling the throw blanket over you. Carefully, he crouched beside the couch, brushing a loose strand of hair away from your face.

The front door suddenly opened.

"Honey, I'm ho..." Logan froze as Dean shot upright, raising a finger to his lips.

Dean spoke through gritted teeth, barely louder than a whisper. "This is the most sleep she's gotten in weeks. If you wake her up, I'm cockblocking you."

Logan slowly zipped his lips shut before raising both hands in surrender.

Dean looked back at you. For the first time all day, your face looked peaceful.

He realised then that seeing you like this, finally resting instead of constantly pushing yourself, made something inside his chest ache. He wasn't about to admit that the ache had very little to do with friendship.

Some feelings were easier left unsaid.

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

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

It wasn't hers.

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

Then panic hit.

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

"What-"

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

Her dress was still on.

Her shoes were gone, but she was clothed.

Completely clothed.

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

A quiet voice came from the corner of the room.

"Hey. Easy."

Y/N's head snapped toward it.

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

The second she saw him, everything came flooding back.

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

His door.

Heat rushed to her face.

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

"Nothing happened."

Y/N swallowed.

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

Y/N stared at him.

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

Just exhaustion.

"I remember…" she whispered.

Silence settled between them.

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

Then she noticed the hoodie draped over the blanket.

It was black, oversized, and unmistakably his.

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

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

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

Y/N's chest tightened.

"Oh."

Another silence.

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

Y/N accepted it with slightly shaky hands.

"Thanks."

"You should sip it slowly."

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

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

"You look tired."

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

"Did you sleep?"

He shrugged, too casually. "Not really."

"Why?"

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

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

"You stayed in the chair all night?"

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

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

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

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

That hurt more than it should have.

Not because of anything cruel.

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

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

Dean frowned. "For what?"

"For worrying you."

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

"You don't apologize for that."

"I still worried you."

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

The attempt at casualness almost made her smile.

Almost.

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

"You okay?"

"Just dizzy."

"Then don't stand up yet."

"I wasn't going to."

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

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

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

A shiver ran through her.

Dean noticed immediately. "Hey."

She looked up.

"You're safe now."

The words settled somewhere deep in her chest.

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

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

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

Dean didn't speak.

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

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

Dean was silent for a long moment.

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

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

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

"You don't have to."

"I know."

"I’ll call someone."

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

Y/N blinked. "Dean..”

"You're still dizzy."

"I'll be fine."

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

Y/N hesitated.

Part of her wanted to refuse out of principle.

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

Finally, she sighed. "Fine."

Dean nodded once, almost relieved. "Good."

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

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

Y/N raised an eyebrow.

Dean looked offended. "Okay, rude."

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

Dean noticed.

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

—

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

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

Seconds later Dean returned with another hoodie in his hands.

He held the hoodie out toward her.

“Wear it.”

She blinked.

“…Dean.”

“It’s freezing.”

“I’ll be fine.”

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

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

“I’ll manage.”

“Poorly.”

She opened her mouth to argue.

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

“It’s just until you get home.”

She looked between him and the sweatshirt.

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

“You really don’t give up, do you?”

“No.”

“Noted.”

She slipped the oversized hoodie over her head.

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

Dean looked at her for a second. Then another.

Y/N narrowed her eyes.

“…What?”

He pressed his lips together.

“I’m deciding.”

“About?”

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

She looked down.

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

She sighed dramatically.

“I look ridiculous.”

Dean’s shoulders shook with a quiet laugh.

“…A little.”

She pointed at him.

“I knew it.”

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

She rolled her eyes.

“You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

—

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

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

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

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

For a while, neither of them spoke.

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

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

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

After several minutes, he broke the silence.

“Do you remember much from last night?”

Y/N looked ahead.

“Bits and pieces.”

She frowned thoughtfully.

“I remember feeling fine.”

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

“What is it?”

She shook her head.

“I keep trying to remember everything exactly.”

Her eyebrows pinched together.

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

Dean nodded once.

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

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

Dean frowned.

“To what?”

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

Dean stopped walking. Completely.

Y/N turned toward him. “What?”

His expression had hardened. “No.”

She blinked.

“No?”

“You don’t get to blame yourself.”

“I wasn’t…”

“You were.”

His voice stayed calm.

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

She stared at him.

Dean continued more quietly.

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

“Dean…”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

The certainty in his voice left no room for argument.

Y/N looked away.

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

“…Thanks.”

Dean simply nodded.

They resumed walking.

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

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

Dean did.

He watched her for several seconds.

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

“…Don’t.”

Y/N froze.

Dean froze.

Both of them looked down.

Dean’s hand covered hers completely.

Warm.

Steady.

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

Why did he…?

He almost let go.

Instead, he cleared his throat.

“You’ll make it bleed.”

His explanation sounded surprisingly reasonable.

Y/N looked at their hands again.

“…I always do that when I’m nervous.”

“I noticed.”

“You noticed?”

“You’ve done it before.”

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

He really should let go.

Probably.

Instead…

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

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

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

“…Okay.”

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

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

Dean glanced sideways.

“So.”

“So?”

“I learned something.”

“Oh?”

“You apparently judge people’s hoodies.”

“I judge everyone’s hoodies.”

He looked offended.

“This one’s high quality.”

“It’s three sizes too big.”

“That’s the point.”

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

He grinned.

“You kind of did.”

She laughed.

A real laugh this time.

Dean smiled without realizing it.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“You laughed.”

She bumped his shoulder lightly.

“You are unbelievable.”

“I’ve also been told that.”

“You’ve been told a lot of things.”

“Most of them are true.”

“I’m sure.”

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

Dean slowed to a stop.

“…Well.”

“Well.”

For a moment, neither moved.

Y/N looked down at the oversized hoodie.

“I’ll wash it.”

Dean looked at her.

“And I’ll bring it back.” She added.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“You don’t have to rush.”

She smiled too.

“I wasn’t planning on stealing it.”

“I wasn’t accusing you.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You absolutely were.”

Dean laughed.

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

For a heartbeat, both of them went quiet.

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

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

“…Thanks.”

This time she wasn’t talking about the hoodie.

Dean understood anyway.

He gave a small nod.

“Get some rest.”

“I will.”

She disappeared inside the building.

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

The walk had taken maybe twenty minutes.

It hadn’t been nearly long enough.

Eventually, he turned toward campus.

His hands instinctively slid into the pockets of his jeans.

One pocket felt strangely empty.

Then he remembered.

His hoodie.

A small smile spread across his face.

He’d be getting it back eventually.

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

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

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

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

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

Hannah nudged her shoulder. "Relax."

"I am relaxed."

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

"I'm mentally preparing."

"For Dean?"

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

Hannah laughed as they stepped inside.

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

"Go," Y/N said.

"You sure?"

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

"You might if Dean starts talking."

"I'll survive."

"I sure hope you do."

Y/N shoved her lightly.

"Go."

Hannah laughed and disappeared into the crowd.

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

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

"You look hot," Hannah had declared.

"I look dressed."

"You look hot."

"I look like someone attending a party."

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

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

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

"Dude."

Dean barely looked at him.

"What?"

Logan nodded toward the front hall.

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

"...Oh."

Logan smirked.

"Oh?"

Dean recovered almost instantly.

"So?"

"So…?" Logan echoed.

Dean shrugged.

"She cleans up okay."

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

"Yeah."

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

"I absolutely have not."

"You absolutely have."

Dean tore his eyes away.

"I was observing."

Logan’s grin widened.

"Observing."

"Shut up."

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I almost didn't recognize you."

"No?"

"Nah."

He tilted his head.

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

She smiled sweetly.

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

A couple of people nearby chuckled.

Dean nodded once.

"Fair."

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

"I wasn't complimenting you."

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

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

"I know I am."

"Hm."

He folded his arms.

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

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

Dean did.

"So does your personality," she replied evenly.

He smiled again.

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

She stared at him.

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

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

"So do people invite me."

He looked around theatrically.

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

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

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

"I'm not."

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

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

"Must've been exhausting."

He stepped just a little closer.

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

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

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

Dean chuckled.

"There she is."

"What?"

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

Y/N held his gaze.

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

"No?"

She smiled.

"Just you."

The surrounding group burst into laughter.

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

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

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

Silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean frowned.

"What?"

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

Dean scoffed.

"I always act like an ass."

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

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

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

—

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

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

Shit…

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

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

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

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

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

So why had that one landed?

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

It had just been... Mean.

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

She closed her eyes. Of course.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She gave a small shrug.

"Good for Logan."

"So you're not gonna defend yourself?"

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

"You know what your problem is?"

She sighed.

"Please. Enlighten me."

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

A tiny laugh escaped her.

"No."

"No?"

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

He scoffed.

"That's adorable."

"It works most days."

"Clearly not tonight."

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

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

He should've left it there. Instead….

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

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

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

The kitchen suddenly felt very quiet.

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

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

She always had one. Always.

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

Dean blinked. "What?"

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

He opened his mouth. Nothing came out.

She gave one small nod, as though answering herself.

"Okay."

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

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

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

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

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

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

A couple of people laughed.

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

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Dean." A familiar voice.

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

"I've been trying to find you."

"Have you?"

"Mhm."

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

"I thought maybe you disappeared."

Dean looked down at her hand.

Then back up.

"Huh."

She laughed.

"I was wondering if you wanted to dance."

Normally? He would've said yes without thinking.

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

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

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

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

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

He blinked. "Maybe later."

The girl looked surprised.

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

She disappeared back into the crowd.

Dean watched her go.

That was… weird.

He took another sip.

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

"Dean!" Another voice.

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

"You owe me a rematch in pong."

"Do I?"

"You destroyed me last weekend."

"I probably did."

She laughed, looping an arm through his.

"You sound thrilled to see me."

Dean looked at her.

She was gorgeous. Dark hair. Bright smile.

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

She squeezed his arm playfully.

"So?"

"So?"

"The rematch."

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

Then looked back at her.

"I think I'll pass."

Her smile faltered.

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

"Not really."

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

"Okay..."

She walked away looking thoroughly confused.

Dean was, too.

What the hell?

He never turned down beer pong.

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

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

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

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

He waved without looking.

Another voice.

"Dean, come dance!"

He ignored it.

A hand caught his wrist.

He turned. Another girl. She smiled brightly.

"You've been avoiding me all night."

"Sorry."

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

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

Not even annoyance.

Just... Nothing.

"I'm actually heading upstairs."

Her smile slipped.

"Oh."

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

Halfway up, he stopped.

He looked down.

The entire house stretched beneath him.

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

Tonight it wasn't.

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

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

Silence.

Dean leaned back against the door.

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

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

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

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

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

—

Outside, the party only seemed to get louder.

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

Y/N stood in the middle of it all.

She couldn't hear herself think.

At first, she assumed it was the music.

Then she realized the room itself had started to move.

She frowned.

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

"Weird." She blinked hard.

Maybe she'd stood up too fast.

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

No.

Something wasn't right. She lowered the cup.

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

Someone bumped her shoulder as they squeezed past.

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

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

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

Y/N squeezed her eyes shut.

Okay.

Okay, breathe.

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

Too many people.

Too much noise.

Too little air.

Her fingers tightened around the plastic cup until it crumpled.

"Oh, shit."

Her voice trembled.

"Oh, shit..."

She looked down at the drink in her hand.

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

She needed Hannah.

That thought came immediately.

Hannah.

She'd know what to do.

Y/N turned toward the hallway.

Then remembered.

Garrett had quietly stolen Hannah away almost twenty minutes ago.

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

Privacy.

Right.

Y/N swallowed.

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

Absolutely not.

Her breathing grew uneven.

The hallway stretched farther than she remembered.

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

Think.

Who else?

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

An ambulance?

No.

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

No, no...

She wasn't even sure what was wrong.

She just... She just needed someone.

Someone she knew.

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

Dean.

She almost laughed.

It would've been funny under different circumstances.

Dean Di Laurentis.

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

She hated him.

He was an ass.

Cocky.

Infuriating.

Meaner than he realized.

But...

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

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

She knew that with complete certainty.

Her feet were already moving.

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

Come on.

One more.

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

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

"No..."

She squeezed the railing harder.

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

Another breath.

Another step.

Then another.

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

Dean's door.

End of the hallway.

So close.

She took one step. Then another.

Her foot caught slightly against the carpet.

She stumbled, catching herself against the wall.

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

Everything suddenly felt so far away.

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

—

Inside, Dean didn't move.

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

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

A knock sounded.

Dean sighed.

Without getting up, he called toward the door.

"Occupied."

Silence.

Good.

Probably another couple looking for somewhere quiet.

Not happening.

He leaned back against the headboard again.

Another knock.

More insistent this time.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I said go away."

Nothing.

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

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

He yanked the door open. And froze.

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

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

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

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

Was he angry? No.

Panicked? Confused? Terrified? Yes.

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

Her eyes began slipping shut.

Dean's expression shattered.

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

"Y/N!"

He caught her before she could hit her head.

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

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

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

Nothing.

"Come on."

Her eyes opened halfway. Just enough.

"There you are."

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

"What happened?"

She blinked slowly and closed her eyes.

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

"What did you have to drink?"

She frowned.

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

"Did you hit your head?"

A tiny shake. "No."

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

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

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

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

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

"I've got you."

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

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

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

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

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

"I'm trying."

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

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

"I'm here."

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

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

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

A lump settled painfully in his throat.

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

"I'm here." Dean whispered.

Her breathing slowed again. Her eyelids drooped lower.

"No, no."

Dean gently squeezed her hand.

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

"Tired."

"I know."

"Just..." Her words were fading.

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

She tried.

God, she tried.

He could see it.

The effort it took just to keep her eyes open.

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

"Y/N?"

No answer.

Just the quiet rhythm of sleep.

Dean stayed exactly where he was.

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

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

"I’m just saying," John Logan argued from across the sticky table, pointing a french fry at Tucker, "if you actually passed the puck instead of trying to be the hero, we would’ve scored in the second period."

"I was open!" Tucker shot back. "You’re just blind, Johnny!"

Garrett Graham, wedged next to them, rolled his eyes and stole a sip of Hannah’s beer. "You’re both idiots. Just drink."

You tuned out the hockey talk, mostly because Dean’s fingers were currently drawing lazy, distracting circles on the denim of your jeans, right at your knee.

When you transferred to Briar to escape the wreckage of your last relationship, your plan was simple: keep your head down, go to class, and stay invisible. You didn't plan on meeting Dean Di Laurentis. You definitely didn't plan on sleeping with him.

Twice.

The problem? The sex was mind-blowing, and Dean was shockingly attentive, which meant you had to pull the emergency brake. Two hookups could be written off as a fluke. Three times was a pattern. Three times meant you were knocking on the door of a relationship, and you didn't do boyfriends anymore. Not after the suffocating mess you’d left behind in your hometown.

You’d drawn a hard line.

Dean, however, treated that line like a mild suggestion.

"I'm going to grab another round before Logan and Tuck start throwing punches," Hannah announced, sliding out of the booth. "Don't kill each other."

"You're ignoring me," Dean murmured. He dropped his arm over the back of the booth behind your head, leaning in so close you could smell his expensive cologne mixed with draft beer.

"I'm listening to Logan and Tuck," you replied, keeping your eyes on your cup. "It’s very educational."

"I can think of better things to do than listen to Logan." Dean's voice dropped to that low, raspy pitch he knew exactly how to use. His thumb dragged a fraction higher on your thigh."You're wearing that perfume again," he murmured, a sound that completely bypassed your brain and went straight to your stomach.

"Shut up, Di Laurentis," you shot back, taking a desperate sip of your drink.

"I know you have this ridiculous rule about a third time meaning we're suddenly married, but come on, beautiful," he chuckled, his breath ghosting over your jaw. " You can’t stop thinking about it either. I promise I’ll make you forget why you ever made that rule in the first place."

"Read my lips, Di Laurentis," you said, turning your head just enough to give him a flat look. "We are done."

He just smirked, his thumb pressing a little firmer against your thigh. "Liar."

You opened your mouth to tell him his ego was writing checks his charm couldn't cash, but Hannah suddenly slid back into the booth, thumping a heavy plastic pitcher onto the table.

"Malone's is officially a zoo," she announced, dropping into the space next to Garrett. She wiped condensation off her hands, then paused, her eyes darting over to you. "Hey, did you tell someone we were coming here?"

You frowned. "No. Why?"

"Because some guy just stopped me by the bar," Hannah said, her brow furrowed. "Tall, dark hair, preppy polo shirt. He had this crazy intense look on his face. He asked if I knew a Y/N who just transferred here. I told him no, but... It gave me the creeps, honestly."

The buzz from the vodka evaporated.

Your stomach did a horrific, Olympic-level flip. It was an instant, violent spike of adrenaline. A cold sweat broke out across the back of your neck, and suddenly the loud, chaotic noise of the bar felt like it was pressing against your eardrums.

He’s here.

You stared at the condensation pooling on the wooden table, your brain short-circuiting.

Beside you, Dean completely misread the situation. He thought you were just giving him the silent treatment. He leaned his weight against you, his chest pressing into your shoulder.

"Come on, beautiful," Dean coaxed, his voice dropping right into your ear. "Stop playing hard to get. Let's get out of here."

The feeling of being boxed into the booth suddenly shifted from annoying to terrifying. You felt trapped.

You snapped your head up to tell Dean to back the hell off, your heart hammering against your ribs. But as you looked past him, your eyes landed on the front entrance.

Standing by the bouncer, looking exactly like the entitled prick he was, was your ex-boyfriend.

Your breath caught in your throat. Fight or flight kicked in, and your body chose flight.

You didn't care about looking cool, and you didn't care about explaining yourself. You just needed to get out of his line of sight before he spotted you.

You shoved Dean’s arm away and scrambled to get your feet under you.

"Move," you choked out.

Dean looked startled. "Whoa, hey, what—"

"Dean, let me out!" you snapped, practically climbing over his knees. You abandoned your jacket, hit the sticky floor, and bolted toward the back hallway. You pushed past a group of frat guys and burst through the heavy metal door into the freezing alleyway.

A second later, the heavy door swung open again. You heard Garrett swearing under his breath, followed by Hannah’s worried voice.

The night was officially over.

The heavy front door of the house slammed shut, cutting off the biting wind.

Garrett took one look at you—at the way your arms were wrapped tightly around your ribs, your face completely bloodless—and didn't ask a single question.

"Upstairs. Now," he muttered, shoving Logan and Tucker down the hall before they could open their mouths.

Hannah hesitated, giving you a tight, worried smile, before following Garrett's lead.

You walked straight into the kitchen on autopilot, grabbing the edge of the marble island to keep your knees from buckling. You were shaking like a leaf, and it definitely wasn't the weather.

Footsteps squeaked against the hardwood floor.

Dean walked into the kitchen and stopped a good five feet away, leaning his hip against the opposite counter.

The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.

"I’m an ass," Dean said.

His voice was flat, totally stripped of its usual lazy drawl. You looked up. He was running a hand through his blond hair, his jaw tight, looking genuinely stressed.

"Dean—"

"No, let me finish," he interrupted, holding up a hand. "I'm an idiot. I completely misread that," Dean dragged a hand down his face, dropping his gaze to the floor. "We had a deal—you said two times was it, and I kept pushing. I crowded you in that booth, and you looked like you were suffocating. I crossed a line, and I’m sorry."

You let out an exhausted breath. Dean Di Laurentis—actual playboy extraordinaire—was standing in his kitchen apologizing because he thought his flirting had sent you into a panic attack.

"Dean," you said softly, your voice shaking. "It wasn't you."

His brow furrowed, his hazel eyes snapping up to meet yours. "What are you talking about? You couldn't get out of that booth fast enough."

"I wasn't running from you," you admitted, hugging yourself tighter. "I panicked because of what Hannah said. And because when I snapped my head up to tell you to back off... I saw someone."

Dean went perfectly still. The confusion on his face lingered for a split second before sharpening into intense focus. "Saw who?"

"My ex-boyfriend." The words tasted like ash. "The guy I transferred here to get away from."

Dean didn't move. "He was at Malone's?"

You nodded, a humiliating tear spilling over your lashes. "I didn't move to Briar for a fresh start. I came here because I was running away from him."

Dean stayed quiet, letting you set the pace. He didn't pace the room, and he didn't raise his voice.

"He didn't hit me," you said, your voice cracking. "I know people always assume that's what it takes to run. But he just... he owned me. If we had an argument, he would literally stand in front of the door so I couldn't leave the room until I gave in and apologized. He alienated my friends. He made me feel like I was crazy for wanting to exist outside of his control. By the time I finally packed my car and left, I felt like a ghost."

You wiped angrily at your cheek, staring at the marble counter. "I moved here to be invisible. I thought I was safe. And he was standing right there by the bouncers."

The air in the kitchen completely changed.

The guilt that had been weighing Dean down evaporated, swallowed up by a profound, heavy stillness. You could see the exact moment the pieces clicked together in his head—the realization of why you hated feeling cornered, why you were so fiercely independent, why you put up so many walls.

Dean was a hockey player; he had a temper. You could see the anger flare in his eyes, dark and sharp, but he brutally forced it down. He seemed to understand, instinctively, that you didn't need to see another man lose his temper right now.

"Okay," Dean said softly. His voice was incredibly calm, level, and steady. "Did he see you?"

You shook your head, "I... I don't think so."

"Good." He took a slow, deliberate step forward, keeping his hands visible and his body language completely relaxed. "He doesn't know where you live. He doesn't know who you're with."

Dean slowly reached out. He just offered his hand, palm up, resting it on the marble counter between you. An invitation, not a demand.

You stared at his large, calloused hand for a second before slowly sliding yours into it. His fingers immediately wrapped around yours in a warm, solid grip.

"I know we have an arrangement," Dean said, his thumb brushing a slow, rhythmic circle over your knuckles to help ground you. "You call your own shots. I respect that."

He paused, making sure you were looking him in the eye.

"But you are my friend," Dean continued, "And you are standing in my house. Which means you are officially under my protection. I don't care how annoying this guy is. He doesn't get to breathe the same air as you."

The quiet, absolute certainty in his voice did more to calm your racing heart than any loud threat ever could. He wasn't posturing for his own ego; he was just stating a fact.

A small, surprised laugh escaped you. "You're going to act like my bodyguard now, Di Laurentis?"

A faint, familiar smirk finally touched the corner of Dean's mouth, though his eyes remained entirely serious. "Somebody has to keep the country club rejects away from you. Besides, Garrett would kill me if I let a guy in a polo shirt terrorize our house."

It had been four days since Malone’s, and you were almost convinced you were safe.

You were sitting in your Tuesday morning Psychology lecture, tucked into your usual seats near the back. Dean slouched next to you, his long legs stretched out into the aisle. He tapped his pen rhythmically against his notebook while the professor droned on about cognitive dissonance.

The heavy doors at the front of the lecture hall swung open.

A guy walked in and handed a slip of paper to the professor. A transfer student.

One look at the arrogant set of his shoulders, the dark hair, and the expensive preppy sweater sent all the blood rushing out of your head. The air vanished from your lungs. You shrank back against your plastic chair, your hands immediately curling into tight fists in your lap as a cold sweat broke out across your skin.

He had actually enrolled at Briar.

Beside you, Dean felt the violent shift in your posture. The tapping stopped. "Hey," he whispered. "What is it?"

You gave a tiny, almost imperceptible shake of your head, keeping your eyes fixed on the front of the room.

Dean followed your line of sight. He studied the new guy finding a seat three rows down. The pieces clicked together instantly in Dean's head—the preppy clothes, the dark hair, and the sheer terror radiating off you. He recognized the guy from the door at Malone's.

Dean sat up straight, locking his jaw into a hard, rigid line. For the remaining forty minutes of the lecture, he remained terrifyingly still, his eyes burning a hole into the back of your ex's head.

"Class dismissed," the professor finally announced, snapping his laptop shut and briskly walking out the side door.

The hall erupted into the chaotic noise of zippers, scraping chairs, and overlapping conversations. You shoved your notebook into your backpack with shaking hands, desperate to blend into the crowd and escape through the back doors before he spotted you.

But your ex was already turning around. His eyes locked onto yours.

That familiar, entitled smirk crawled onto his face. He grabbed his bag and marched up the stairs, heading straight for your row.

Dean stood up. He slung his backpack over his left shoulder and stepped smoothly out of your row, planting his massive, athlete frame directly in the middle of the aisle to block the stairs.

Your ex stopped a few steps below him, letting out an annoyed sigh. "Excuse me, buddy. You're in the way."

Dean held his ground, staring down at him with a look of cold, absolute apathy.

Your ex scoffed, his ego flaring up. "Hey, deaf guy. Move. I need to talk to my girlfriend."

Dean dropped his backpack, shifted his weight, and threw a brutal, devastating right hook.

The sickening crack of Dean's knuckles connecting with bone echoed sharply in the thinning lecture hall.

The force of the punch lifted your ex entirely off his feet. He flew backward, crashing hard into a wooden desk before crumpling to the linoleum floor in a heap. A few remaining students gasped, freezing in their tracks. Nobody dared to intervene.

Your ex groaned, rolling onto his side. He clutched his face, blood instantly pouring from his shattered nose and dripping onto his pristine sweater. He looked up at Dean, his eyes wide with genuine shock and pain.

"What the hell?!" your ex yelled, his voice thick and nasally. He scrambled backward against the desks, staring at Dean like he was a monster. "What the hell was that for?! I don't even know you!"

Dean stood over him, breathing evenly, casually rolling his shoulders. He flexed his right hand once, his eyes dark and completely devoid of mercy.

"You know why," Dean said. His voice was deathly quiet, carrying a promise of so much worse if the guy ever tried to get up.

Dean held his gaze for three agonizing seconds, making sure the message was received loud and clear. Your ex stayed frozen on the floor, too terrified to reach for his fallen bag.

Satisfied, Dean smoothly bent down and picked up his backpack by the strap. The cold, lethal hockey player vanished in a fraction of a second as he turned back to you.

His hazel eyes softened instantly. He stepped back into your row, gently placing his uninjured hand on the small of your back.

You tried to get past it, understand the situation you're in, but you can't wrap your head around it. How the hell did Garrett manage to convince seven people to squeeze into his car without holding a gun to their head?

The scene you're greeted with when you make your way downstairs is baffling, suffocating almost. 

Garrett and Hannah sit comfortably in the front, giggling over a stupid joke he made as Hannah presses some random buttons to get the music working. Your eyes drift to the back, and that's when you see the disaster.  

Jesus Christ. 

You can't even tell people apart from how cramped it is inside. Logan's sitting by the window, with Jules on the edge of his lap. Tucker sits next to him, tense and looking very uncomfortable. 

Beau is glued to Tucker's side, with Allie comfortably positioned on his lap. They're giggling together as she shows him something on her phone. It's a very warm sight, they've grown really close after their trip to New York together. 

As if things couldn't get any worse, Dean is here. His side of the car is definitely... emptier. He's positioned in the seat behind Garret with his legs stretched over the rolled down window. The door to his side wide open, letting in much needed air. 

He's busy scrolling on his phone, only noticing your presence when your voice erupts through the chaos. 

"Wow, you should've invited a few more people," your tone fills with sarcasm, statement directed towards your brother. "Too much space." 

An amused chuckle escapes Dean's throat at your snarky comment, legs back on the ground as his attention shifts to Garrett. 

"Haha, very funny, Graham." Garret rolls his eyes, causing Hannah to shove his side. "Get in, you kept us stalling forever." 

"Where am I supposed to sit?" You argue, pointing towards the rammed car. 

Your eyes flicker back to Dean, who adjusts his position at your question. His legs spread apart, fingers lightly patting his lap, the silent gesture an invitation, something he voluntarily did to catch your attention. 

The idea of straddling Dean's lap for the entire car ride makes your heart flutter, cause air to get stuck in your throat. You can barely act normal when he's around, turning into a stuttering mess as soon as he joins any conversation, and now you have to sit on his lap for the next thirty minutes. 

"You're the only one complaining," Garrett interrupts through your thoughts, gesturing for you to get in the car. "Quit being a baby and find yourself a place to sit." 

A sigh dreads past your lips, dragging a deep exhale out as you step towards the vehicle. Dean clears his throat, fumbling around to put his phone away and straighten his back. You almost scoff if not for how nervous you are. 

"Hi," you start, avoiding Dean's gaze. 

"Hi," he repeats, but his tone is teasing, amused by how flustered you seem. You pause for a second, mustering up the courage to ask him to scoot, but Dean beats you to talking. "What are you waiting for?"

"Huh?" You hum, caught off guard. 

"Sit," his voice lowers into a whisper, gesturing you to sit on his lap. Your stomach twists into knots, the demand carrying so much tension, it makes your knees grow weak. "Sit on my lap." 

You fight the choked breath threatening to leave your chest, flashing him a tight-lipped smile, but still doing as you're told. You shuffle around to get in the car, carefully propping yourself across Dean's lap. 

Your whole body's tense, and you're sitting uncomfortably at the edge of his lap, barely providing yourself any space. The length of his legs is of no help, unnecessary long, you're practically holding onto the headrest to keep yourself from falling. 

"I'm gonna fucking kill you, Garrett Graham." You mutter through gritted teeth, causing your brother to freeze in his spot.

"Alright, now that everyone's here," Hannah bursts into laughter at Garrett's change of topic, completely ignoring the threat you threw in his direction. 

Annoyance fades into surprise when Dean slings his arms around your waist, using your astonishment as an opportunity to tug you close. Your back hits his firm chest with a thud, the proximity of the touch overwhelming you in an instant. 

Your body radiates with heat, as Dean's breath fans over your ear, the feather-like sensation causing goosebumps to break out across your back. He's so close, you can smell his stupid cologne, the aroma intoxicating, it almost melts you in your spot. 

You try to shuffle back into your old position, in case you're too heavy or causing Dean any discomfort, but the hand he presses to your hips interrupts those thoughts from rummaging through your head.

"You should get comfortable," he whispers in your ear, drawing circular motions to the sliver of skin just above your skirt. "It's a long ride." 

Fuck. 

Heat travels to in between your legs, gaze lowering to the arms caging you in place. His grip is firm, unwavering even when you move around to adjust yourself into a comfortable position. 

Dean doesn't budge, he pretends you're not even in his lap. He laughs, makes jokes, sings along as Hannah plays music, and it's like you're not even there. Unlike him, you're having a hard time playing this off as casual, nothing about this is normal, you skipped from ground zero to a thousand in the span of minutes. 

You try not to pay him too much attention, or his fingers as they're tracing small patterns to your hips, or his breath gradually blowing over your neck. All of it is so overwhelming, you want nothing more than to break free and breathe. 

This feels intimate, maybe too intimate, even more so because you're aware his touches are for you only, everyone else is doing their thing, and you two are in your own little world. 

After a while of resisting, you eventually settle back and relax against Dean's chest, satisfied by the way he tenses beneath you. His breath grows ragged, but he doesn't let you have it, tightening his arms in response, his hold engulfing most of your frame. 

This is okay, it's totally fine that you're tangled in this position with your brother's best friend, whom you've had a crush on since forever. 

You can get used to it. 

But you can't. Not when he's pulling every string to get your attention and get a reaction out of you. 

A few minutes pass by, and your body feels stiff from maintaining the same stance for too long. You shuffle around to find a comfortable position, hips stuttering when you feel something twitch underneath you. 

You're mistaken, have to be. It's all in your head, there's no way what you felt just now is real. 

"Fuck," Dean grunts, confirming your suspicions. 

Oh. 

Oh. 

He sighs, very shaky, but delibaret, the sound ringing in your ear, and making you pulse in reaction. You can feel hie semi-hard erection growing beneath you, failing to keep it under control. 

Fuck, Dean Di Laurentis is hard. 

You hate how much it's turning you on, your heat heaving with arousal when you feel another pulse through the thin fabric of his sweats. 

You angle your face towards the window, casually, without causing any suspicion, and Dean fights the embarrassment he feels to spare you a glance, regretting it soon as your hips move forward, instantly earning a choked breath out of him. 

It's not on purpose, you only realize what happens after he reacts. 

"Do you want me to–" he gives your hip another squeeze, locking you in place as the words die on your tongue. 

"Don't fuckin' move," he warns, practicing restraint. "Please." 

How can you not when his crotch is practically poking at your entrance, drenching your pussy from how tingly it's making you feel. 

"Dean," you whisper through a breath, causing his cock to twitch with need. The reaction you receive is immediate, anticipated, the only sign you need to grind down against his hardened length. 

His lips part in a hefty moan, barely dismissed by the loud music occupying everyone else. 

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?" He whispers, toying with the hem of your skirt, as his other hand caresses the exposed flesh around your stomach. 

"Maybe." You coyly offer him a response. 

This is your brother's best friend, someone way out of your orbit. You shouldn't cross the line, and let your lust drive you over the edge when you fought to keep yourself under control. 

Your brain short circuits, and panic rises in your chest before you can even stop it, but the pleasure surging through your body takes over when Dean's hips meet yours halfway, completely dismissing the guilt you're feeling. 

You've avoided Dean just fine till now, so why is it that you're involuntarily rolling your hips down for a mere fraction of his cock? 

Your pedicured nails dig into his arms, the force of the touch forming red marks all over his flesh. Dean smoothes out the fabric of your skirt to hide the circular motion of your hips. You ground him into place, repeatedly rubbing your wet cunt over his crotch. 

Pleasure builds through your insides, and you start to lose control over your grinds, messy and needy. Dean encourages you with a hand to your side, guiding you down to chase his own high, slowly building.

His cock aches, leaking with precum that stains a a patch in his underwear, wet and sticky, but he doesn't feel disgusted from it, but more so turned on because you're the cause of it. You're the reason he's in this mess, risking one of the most precious things to him just to touch you, feel you, even for a little. 

"I'm–" You fight the whimper threatening to leave your lips, leaning your head against the head rest to avoid locking eyes with anyone. 

Your pussy drenches in your arousal, thrusts growing sloppy as you feel your orgasm reaching its peak. Dean can almost tell that you're close, grip tightening around your stomach as he thrusts into you, rolling his hips once more before you came undone. 

Your legs shake from the overstimulation, Dean uses his hands to stabilize you in his lap. You ride him through your orgasm, sensitive, but desperate to please him and make him feel good. 

"You don't have to," he whispers, like he knows exactly what you're thinking. "I can take care of myself, darling."

"I want to," you reply, out of breath, with sweat forming at your forehead. Your face flushes with heat, and your energy goes down the drain in an instant, but you're persistent on making Dean come. 

His breath gets caught in his throat, and he uses your back as a shield to hide his expression as he reaches his own high. It only takes you a few more grinds for him to come undone. 

He releases into his pants, sticky stripes of semen coating a mess in his underwear. He stills your hips as he comes down from his high, a sigh of relief escaping his throat in the process. 

"That was– fuck." He chokes out, "So good for me, baby." 

You almost mewl at the praise but hold it back for the sake of not being caught. 

That was... insane. Probably the best orgasm you've had. 

The rest of the car ride seeps into silence on both your ends, too tired to engage with the rest of the group as they broke into a whole karaoke session.  It's not uncomfortable, nor is it unbearable, just... silence, you almost find it comforting. 

Garrett announces your arrival soon after, wrapping up the karaoke session as everyone engaged in another conversation.

You use their banter as an opportunity to pull at the strings of your thong, wiggling around on Dean's lap in an attempt to get them off. They slide down your thighs, bunching around your knees before eventually falling down your legs.

Dean doesn't do anything, simply sits back and observes you with a hint of confusion, eyebrows pinching as you bent down to grab it into your hold. 

And as everyone's busy getting out, you turn around and hand him the lacy material. 

"Huh?" He questions, taken aback by the sudden offer. 

You get off his lap, and land on the ground, smoothing down your skirt. Your gaze flickers back to him, a teasing grin smeared all over your lips. 

"A gift." You reply, attention shifting down to the mess on his lap. "Good luck cleaning that up." 

And with that, you take off with the rest of the group, barely sparing him a second glance. 

Fuck, now he has to deal with another boner.