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it was your choice, you reminded yourself, repeating the mantra that had kept you upright for the last twelve weeks. you chose to walk out of his room. you chose not to call.

"he's not your father," your roommate and best friend, trinity, had argued just the night before.

she had been pacing the worn linoleum floor of your shared campus apartment, her eyes tracking you with a mix of fierce worry and frustration while you sat on the bathroom floor, throwing up into a plastic trash can.

"dean is a lot of things. he's a flirt, he's loud, he's a massive distraction, and he lives in a house that smells like stale beer and hockey sweat. but he isn't a monster. you have to tell him, or i swear to god i'm going to find tucker at the rink and have him do it for you." she sighed as you shook your head.

you knew trinity meant well.

you really, truly did.

she was the one who bought you saltine crackers at two in the morning, the one who held your hair back, and the one who looked up single-mother grant programs on her laptop when you were too exhausted to think.

she wasn't trying to force your hand out of malice; she just hated seeing you carry an entire universe on your shoulders when there was a perfectly capable guy who helped put it there.

but trinity didn't have your history.

she hadn't grown up listening to the bitter, cautionary tales of a mother who got pregnant at a college party by a boy (your father) who vanished into thin air the second the test turned pink.

she hadn't seen the quiet, exhausting toll of a woman working two jobs just to buy school supplies, always reminding her daughter that boys with bright smiles and big reputations were nothing but a beautiful trap.

to you, dean di laurentis was the ultimate manifestation of that danger.

he was briar university's golden boy, a hockey legacy with a jawline carved by the gods and an easy, effortless charm that made everyone in his orbit feel like the center of the universe.

he possessed a reputation for a rotating door of admirers that preceded him everywhere he went, from the campus coffee shops to the crowded lecture halls.

you had been one of those quiet admirers for semesters, harboring a private, desperate crush from the safety of the upper student section at the arena.

you were a psychology major, someone who spent her days analyzing behavior and defense mechanisms, yet you couldn't analyze yourself out of the way your chest tightened every time he took the ice.

then came a party in early november.

emboldened by a little too much vodka and the sheer, infectious electricity of the team's victory, you had actually pursued him.

you hadn't just watched from the corner this time; you had walked right up to him at the kitchen island, matched his easy, arrogant banter with a sharp wit he hadn't expected, and when the chance arose to leave the noise behind and go up to his room, you took it.

and god, he had been wonderful.

that was the part that terrified you the most.

he wasn't the careless, selfish playboy you had braced yourself for; he was attentive and entirely intoxicating.

he had asked you questions, looked at you like he actually wanted to hear the answers, and held you like you were something fragile and precious.

but when you woke up the next morning wrapped in his sheets, the freezing weight of reality had set in.

the morning sun filtered through his blinds, illuminating the hockey medals on his dresser and the stray red plastic cups on the floor.

you were just a tuesday night after a massive win.

to save yourself the humiliation of a polite, dismissive text three days later, you had gathered your clothes from the floor, slipped your shoes on, and walked out of his life before he even stirred.

three weeks later, the morning sickness had started.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

"patient 114?" a nurse called out, holding an electronic chart and looking around the waiting room with an expressionless, practiced gaze.

you swallowed the lump in your throat, stood up completely alone, and smoothed down the front of your sweater.

you walked past the couple, feeling the immense, crushing gravity of a secret that was growing bigger by the second.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the briar u campus was experiencing an unseasonably warm spring afternoon two months later.

winter had finally cracked, leaving the quad packed with students lounging on blankets, tossing frisbees, and desperately trying to absorb enough vitamin d to survive the final stretch of the semester.

you sat under the deep, cool shade of a massive oak tree near the psychology building. you were wearing a loose dress—a highly tactical choice. at five months, you couldn't hide the changes with just oversized hoodies and clever posture anymore. the dress camouflaged the distinct, rounded curve of your belly perfectly, as long as you remained sitting down with your knees pulled slightly toward your chest.

you opened your heavy developmental psychology textbook, trying to focus on a chapter about early childhood attachment styles, but the heat and the persistent, dull ache in your lower back were making your eyes heavy.

your mind kept wondering how you were going to afford a crib and how you were going to explain to a child one day why their father was just a face on a hockey trading card.

more than anything, you were determined to continue your studies.

you hadn't spent years maintaining a high gpa just to drop out.

you were going to graduate from briar, baby or no baby.

your due date was calculated for mid-august, right before the fall semester began.

it was going to be a logistical nightmare, juggling a newborn and upper-level psychology seminars, but you were already mapping out a rigid study schedule in your planner.

you would survive it.

you had to.

a loud, booming laugh echoed across the lawn, instantly making your chest tighten so fast you lost your breath.

you looked up from the pages.

a dozen yards away, the hockey team was walking back from an afternoon workout at the campus gym.

they were a loud, boisterous pack, trailing duffel bags over their shoulders and laughing at some inside joke.

at the very center of the group was dean.

his damp hair was pushed back from his forehead, his gray briar athletics t-shirt clinging to his chest, and that trademark, effortless smile was polished across his face as he joked with garrett graham.

your hand moved automatically to your stomach, protectively covering the life growing inside you.

you pulled your massive textbook higher up against your chest, freezing like a deer caught in the high beams of a semi-truck.

please don't look over here. please just keep walking to the dining hall.

dean was laughing, his shoulders shaking as garrett gestured wildly, but as his eyes scanned the quad, his gaze inadvertently drifted toward the shade of your tree.

you looked down instantly, staring so hard at a paragraph on cognitive dissonance that the black ink blurred into meaningless lines.

dean paused mid-stride.

his brow furrowed, his sneakers digging into the soft grass.

the easy, permanent smile faltered as a sharp, incredibly vivid memory flashed through his mind.

the specific, soft scent of your skin, the quiet, grounding confidence you had shown when you walked up to him at the party, and the sudden, confusing sting of disappointment he had

felt when he woke up to a cold, empty bed.

he had looked for you for weeks after that night.

he had asked around, looked through social media, but briar was a massive university, and you had intentionally made yourself a ghost.

"hey, dean, you coming or what? the burrito place fills up fast on thursdays," tucker called out, noticing his friend had suddenly dropped back from the group.

"yeah. go ahead, man. i'll catch up with you guys in a minute," dean muttered, his eyes locked entirely on the girl under the oak tree.

he started walking across the grass.

every step he took felt like a countdown to an explosion you couldn't prevent.

you saw his shadow fall over your open textbook, blocking out the filtered sunlight, before you finally forced yourself to look up.

"hey," dean said. his voice was softer than it usually was, completely stripped of the loud, easy bravado he carried around his teammates.

he rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically nervous, his fingers twitching against his duffel bag strap. "it's... you. right? from my place, a few months ago? you kind of vanished into thin air."

"dean. hi," you managed to choke out. your heart was hammering against your ribs so violently you were certain he could see it through your clothes.

your palms were slick with sweat against the cardboard cover of your book. "yeah. i—i have a class to get to, actually—"

terrified of what he might see if he looked too closely at your posture, you scrambled to gather your things.

but your balance was off, your center of gravity completely shifted by the pregnancy.

your coordination failed, and the heavy psychology textbook slipped from your fingers, hitting the grass with a dull thud.

papers and highlighters tumbled out.

you instinctively reached down to grab it, but the physical restriction of your five-month belly made the movement clumsy.

as you bent over, the fabric of your dress pulled tight across your torso, outlining the unmistakable and beautifully rounded curve of your stomach.

dean bent down at the exact same time to grab the book for you, his large hand reaching for the cover, but his movements froze entirely.

from his angle, right at eye level with your lap, there was no hiding it.

the truth was standing between you, loud and undeniable.

dean's eyes widened, the blue of his irises bright with absolute shock.

his mind, usually so quick with a joke or a strategic play on the ice, ground to a screeching, chaotic halt.

he looked from your stomach, up to your terrified face, and back down again.

the timeline crashed into his head like a brutal body check against the boards. late fall. the championship party. five months ago. the night she left.

"is that..." dean's voice cracked, losing all of its usual suave composure. he dropped the textbook entirely back into the grass, his hands hovering in the air between you as if he were afraid to touch reality, his fingers trembling slightly. "wait. hold on. is that mine?"

panic, cold and sharp as ice water, flooded your veins.

the judgment of the campus, the ghost of your mother's past, the terrifying fear of him laughing or calling you a liar—it all hit you at once, blinding your senses.

you grabbed your tote bag, shoving the loose highlighters inside with trembling hands, and pushed past him, your boots skidding on the dirt.

"i have to go, dean. just leave it alone."

"hey, wait. please. stop." dean scrambled after you, his long, athletic strides easily catching up before you could even reach the paved pathway.

he didn't grab you roughly, but he placed a gentle, pleading hand on your forearm, just enough to anchor you, his grip warm and remarkably steady despite his shock.

when you spun around to face him, you had tears blurring your vision, the quad spinning around you.

dean looked entirely breathless, his chest heaving under his t-shirt as he stared at you. there was immense shock in his eyes, yes, but beneath it, moving in like a tidal wave, was an intense, unexpected expression of sheer protectiveness.

"please don't run away again," dean whispered, his gaze dropping down to the curve of your dress, then right back up into your tear-filled eyes. "just... talk to me. please. you don't have to run."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

an hour later, you were sitting in the farthest corner booth of a quiet, dim, off-campus diner that was usually empty between the lunch and dinner rushes.

the jukebox in the corner was dark, and the only sound was the low sizzle of the kitchen grill behind the counter.

dean had bought you a grilled cheese sandwich and a massive, condensation-covered glass of milk.

he hadn't forced you to say a word since he had guided you into his car. he just sat across from you, his large frame filling the vinyl booth, watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle, his hands clasped tightly on the table.

"why didn't you tell me?" he asked quietly, breaking the long silence.

his fingers traced the ring of water left by his glass on the tabletop. "i've been racking my brain for the last hour trying to figure out if i did something wrong that night. what did i do? did i hurt you? did i make you feel like i wouldn't care? did i say something stupid?"

"no," you said, your voice cracking as you looked out the window at the passing traffic.

your fingers tore off a tiny piece of the sandwich crust, though your stomach was too twisted to eat. "you were great, dean. it wasn't you. it was... everything else. it was me."

"it's obviously not just you," he said gently, leaning forward, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that demanded honesty. "help me understand. please. because waking up to an empty room was bad enough, but finding out you've been carrying this around for five months by yourself? that hurts."

and then, because the weight of the last twenty weeks was simply too heavy for your shoulders to bear anymore, the dam broke.

the psychological walls you had meticulously built up over years crumbled into dust.

you told him everything.

you told him about your mother.

you told him about growing up in a tiny house where every bill was a crisis, listening to the story of a popular college athlete who had promised your mother the world under the red solo cup lights of a fraternity house, only to pack his bags and transfer schools the second the word baby was spoken.

you told him about the terrifying statistics of single-parent households you read in your text books, the deep-seated fear of being a burden, and the agonizing weight of those clinic appointments where you sat alone in a sea of happy, supportive couples.

"i looked at them, dean," you whispered, a tear finally escaping and slipping down your nose. "i sat there every month, watching these guys hold their wives' hands, carrying their bags, looking at the sonogram photos like they'd just won the lottery. and i was just... patient 114. i didn't want to see the look on your face if you thought i was trying to trap you. i didn't want to see you walk away like he did."

dean listened to every single word, his body perfectly still.

his jaw clenched tighter and tighter with every sentence that left your mouth, not with anger directed at you, but with a profound, simmering fury at the ghost of the man who had raised you to believe that all men were cowards.

his chest rose and fell heavily.

when you finished, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, dean didn't hesitate.

he reached across the table, his arm bridging the distance between your separate worlds, and took your hand in his.

his palm was rough from hockey sticks, warm, and incredibly solid.

"i am not him," dean said, his voice dropping an octave, completely fierce and steady. there was no hesitation in his eyes, no panic, no calculation. "i don't care about my reputation. i don't care that we're still in college. this is my kid, too. and more importantly, it's you. i'm not going anywhere. do you hear me? i am right here."

you looked down at his large hand covering yours, desperately wanting to believe the warmth of it, but the old survival instincts were hard to kill.

"dean, you don't have to pretend for my sake. you have a life. you have scouts coming to games, you have a professional career ahead of you, you have your friends—"

"hey," he interrupted gently, his thumb rubbing circles against the back of your hand, mimicking the gesture you had envied in the waiting room months ago. "let's make a deal. no pressure. i know i have a lot to prove to you. just let me be your friend. let me carry your bags. let me take you to the doctor. let me show you that you don't have to do this alone anymore."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

true to his word, dean shifted his entire universe within forty-eight hours.

the transformation was nothing short of a statistical anomaly to anyone who knew him.

the guy who used to sleep until noon on days off and survive on cold pizza and protein shakes was suddenly standing outside your dorm building at 9:00 am.

he would be waiting in his idling car, the passenger seat already stocked with saltine crackers and pre-packaged ginger ale because he had spent the previous night reading medical forums about morning sickness trends in the second and third trimesters.

at first, it was kind of awkward.

you were protective of your routine, used to relying only on yourself and trinity but dean was persistent in the most gentle way possible.

he became your shadow on campus.

he would meet you outside your difficult seminars, completely unbothered by the lingering stares and whispers of his teammates or the girls who used to follow him around the quad.

he would silently take your heavy canvas backpack from your shoulders, slinging it over his own massive arm alongside his hockey gear, and walk at your slower, deliberate pace without a single complaint.

"you know people are talking, right?" you asked him one afternoon as you walked toward the library, your hand resting on the small of your aching back.

"let them talk," dean said, shrug of his shoulders easy and unbothered. "they're just jealous i get to hang out with the smartest girl on campus. besides, tucker tried to ask me about it yesterday, and i told him if he didn't shut his mouth i would chuck him into the net during practice. he hasn't brought it up since."

you couldn't help the small laugh that escaped you, the sound surprising even yourself.

dean looked down at you, his eyes softening at the sound, a faint spark in his gaze that made your stomach do a completely different kind of flip.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

by the sixth month, your apartment had become a secondary storage unit. dean had told his parents. you had been terrified of that phone call, expecting high-society rejection, but his mother had apparently gone into full grandmother mode within thirty seconds.

huge boxes began arriving weekly—baby blankets, organic cotton onesies, a high-tech stroller, and specialized maternity pillows.

but the most significant change was inside dean's shared house. he had cleaned out the small spare room on the first floor, moving out old fitness equipment and broken hockey sticks.

in its place, he had moved in a massive, incredibly plush velvet rocking chair.

"what is this?" you asked, standing in the doorway of the room during a saturday visit where he had insisted on making you lunch.

"it's a glider," dean said proudly, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel as he stood behind you. "i read that the movement helps with lower back pain during the third trimester.

and, you know... just in case you ever want to visit and your back hurts, you have a place that's yours."

you looked at the chair, then at the hockey star who had bought it, feeling the cold, icy edges of your old trauma melting away a little bit more every day.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the true turning point came during the eighth-month ultrasound appointment.

the clinic waiting room looked exactly the same as it had during your first trimester—same low hum, same couples holding hands.

but this time, the space felt completely different. you weren't hiding under an oversized sweater, and you weren't staring at a frayed thread.

you were sitting next to dean. his large frame was crammed into the small plastic waiting room chair, his knees nearly touching his chin, but he didn't look impatient at all.

he was reading a pamphlet on newborn sleep cycles with a level of concentration usually reserved for analyzing a rival team's defensive plays.

"patient 114—sorry, i mean, by your last name?" the nurse called out, correcting herself with a warm smile as she recognized you.

you stood up, and before you could even reach for your purse, dean was already on his feet, grabbing your coat and slinging your tote bag over his shoulder.

he extended his free hand to you, his fingers open, waiting.

you hesitated for a fraction of a second before sliding your hand into his, letting his warmth steady you as you walked down the narrow hallway.

the ultrasound room was dim, the monitor glowing with a soft blue light.

you laid back on the paper-covered table, pulling up your shirt to expose the massive, high, tight curve of your eight-month belly.

dean sat in the chair right next to your head, his eyes wide as the technician squeezed the cold, clear gel onto your skin.

he didn't look away for a second, his grip on your hand tightening as the technician pressed the transducer against your stomach.

at first, there was only static—a rushing, hollow sound of fluids and movement. then, with a slight adjustment of the plastic wand, the audio cleared, and a loud, rhythmic sound filled the small room.

thump-thump, thump-thump.

"there we go," the technician said gently, pointing a finger at the grainy, gray-and-white screen. "there's a strong heartbeat. looks like baby is growing right on schedule."

you looked over at dean, expecting him to look overwhelmed by the sheer finality of the sound.

instead, you found him staring at the monitor with thick, silent tears streaming straight down his cheeks.

his jaw was slightly slack, a soft, breathless laugh escaping his lips as he stared at the little flickering shape on the screen.

"that's... that's our baby," he whispered, his voice thick and raspy with an emotion so raw it made your own eyes well up with tears.

he leaned over the edge of the table, completely unbothered by the technician's presence, and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to the back of your knuckles, his forehead resting against your hand for a long moment. "look at that, sweetheart. we made a little athlete. listen to that pace."

in that exact moment, the final, stubborn, defensive walls around your heart—the ones built by your mother's warnings, the ones built by years of watching men walk away from hard things—completely crumbled into nothing.

you realized that trinity had been right from the very start. dean wasn't your father.

he was entirely, undeniably his own man.

and he was already a father.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

by the time your ninth month arrived, the unseasonably warm spring had turned into the suffocating heat of late summer.

walking across the campus pavement felt like trekking through a desert, and your ankles had reached a level of swelling that made shoes feel like instruments of torture.

the platonic friendship dean had insisted on maintaining had grown desperately fragile over the last few weeks—not because it was failing, but because the sheer, undeniable gravity of the romantic tension between you had become too loud to ignore.

every touch lingered a second too long; every look held a weight that had nothing to do with doctor's appointments or crib instructions.

one evening, a thunderstorm was rolling in over the campus, the sky a bruised purple color that brought a temporary coolness to the air.

you were sitting on the plush sofa in dean's living room, surrounded by a mountain of freshly washed baby clothes that needed to be sorted into bins.

dean's teammates were away for the weekend, leaving the house uncharacteristically quiet, save for the low rumble of thunder outside.

dean was sitting on the hardwood floor right by your feet, a bottle of lavender lotion in his hand.

he had your bare, swollen left foot resting on his knee, his large, calloused thumbs working in slow, rhythmic circles across your arch with a level of focus that made your heart ache.

"dean?" you said softly, breaking the steady sound of the rain against the windowpane.

"yeah, sweetheart?" he murmured, his gaze remaining down on his hands, his thumbs never stopping their steady, soothing pressure.

"why are you doing all of this?" you asked. the question had been sitting on your tongue for weeks, a final, lingering piece of uncertainty that needed to be aired out. "the baby isn't even here yet. you've spent every weekend for months building furniture, reading parenting manuals, handling my moods, and taking care of me. you didn't have to go this far just to prove you're a good guy. you proved that a long time ago."

dean stopped his movements.

his hands remained cupped around your foot for a long, silent moment while the thunder rolled outside the house.

slowly, deliberately, he let go of your foot and shifted his weight, rising until he was kneeling on the floor right in front of you, his face level with yours.

he reached up, his hands large and incredibly warm as he placed them gently on either side of your face, his thumbs wiping away the sudden, familiar spike of anxiety in your eyes.

"you really are a psychology student, aren't you? always trying to find the hidden motive," he said, a soft, incredibly tender smile breaking across his lips—a smile that was completely devoid of his usual arrogance, leaving only the raw truth underneath. "i stopped doing this just for the baby a long time ago."

your breath hitched in your throat, your fingers tightening against the fabric of the baby blanket in your lap. "dean..."

"i love this kid, yeah. i would do anything for them," he confessed, his blue eyes burning into yours with absolute, unshakable certainty. "but i fell completely, totally in love with you. i love how fierce you are. i love how hard you tried to protect this baby from the world, even when you were terrified. i love the way you laugh when you think i'm being an idiot. i don't want to just be a great co-parent, and i don't want to just be the guy who carries your backpack. i want the whole thing. i want you."

your tears, warm and entirely relieving, spilled over your eyelashes, wetting his thumbs.

for the first time in your entire life, the ghost of your mother's past was entirely gone, vanished into the air like smoke.

there was no trap here.

there was only the beautiful, terrifying, certain reality of the man kneeling in front of you.

"took you long enough to finally say it," you whispered, a watery, breathless smile breaking through your tears.

dean let out a low, rough laugh as he leaned up the remaining few inches to press his lips against yours.

the kiss was sweet, slow, and full of a million quiet promises he had already spent the last four months keeping.

it tasted like rain and lavender lotion and home.

his fingers slid through your hair, holding you close, while his other hand moved down, flattening completely against the large, warm curve of your belly, feeling the faint, rhythmic kick of the life you had created together.

when he finally pulled away, just enough to breathe, he rested his forehead against yours, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones.

"we're going to be completely fine," dean whispered against your skin, his voice a fierce, unbreakable vow meant for both you and the little heartbeat inside you. "the three of us. i promise you. i'm right here."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the rhythmic click of a ballpoint pen was the loudest sound in the massive, tiered lecture hall.

you sat in the middle row of your advanced cognitive psychology seminar, your notebook laid out flat on the folding desk, your hand flying across the page to copy down the professor's slides on memory retrieval mechanisms.

beside your desk, tucked safely into the wide aisle, sat a heavy car seat wrapped in a soft navy blanket.

inside, just thirteen weeks old, rowan di laurentis was dead to the world.

his tiny fists were curled up next to his cheeks, a soft, rhythmic whistle puffing past his parted lips with every breath.

when the professor paused to switch slides, you glanced down, your heart swelling with a fierce, possessive warmth.

rowan had been born right on schedule in mid-august, and while the rest of your class spent the last week of summer partying, you and dean had been operating on two-hour sleep cycles, mastering the art of the swaddle, and staring at this tiny boy like he held the secrets to the universe.

some of your classmates had looked surprised to see you walk in three months after college had began with a stroller, but you had just offered them a polite, unbothered smile.

you were going to be a psychologist and rowan wasn't a reason to stop—he was the reason to run faster.

you dipped your hand down, gently brushing your index finger against rowan's minuscule knuckles.

his tiny hand instinctively locked around your finger, holding on tight even in his sleep.

you smiled, unhooked your finger, and went right back to typing your notes.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

across campus, the atmosphere was entirely different.

coach jensen's whistle blew, a sharp, piercing sound that sent the players scattering toward the benches for a two-minute hydration break.

dean skated hard over to the boards, his chest heaving under his heavy briar jersey, his face flushed red from the intense cardio drill. but he didn't reach for his water bottle first.

instead, he skated right toward the end of the team bench where a familiar, high-tech stroller was parked just behind the safety plexiglass, safely out of the way of any stray pucks.

trinity was sitting on the bench next to it, typing on her phone, fulfilling her promised shift of baby duty while she studied for her own classes.

dean ripped his heavy padded gloves off with his teeth, dropping them onto the ice, and leaned over the boards.

rowan was awake now, wearing a miniature, custom-made briar hockey jersey over his onesie, his massive brown eyes staring up at the bright stadium lights.

"how's my little winger doing?" dean breathed, his voice dripping with an absurd, high-pitched softness that made garrett graham laugh from three feet away.

dean reached over the plexiglass, his hand gently resting against rowan's tiny chest, his thumb stroking the soft cotton of the jersey. "you being good for auntie trinity? you watching daddy's skating form?"

rowan let out a tiny, erratic gurgle, kicking one foot up.

"he's been perfect," trinity said, looking up from her phone with a smirk. "a lot better behaved than you usually are during practice, di laurentis. now drink some water before jensen screams at you."

"yeah, yeah," dean grinned, finally grabbing his water bottle and taking a long swig. he looked back down at his son, a fierce, determined spark in his blue eyes.

balancing division one hockey and fatherhood was the hardest thing he'd ever done, but he had never felt more alive.

he was going to give his kid the world, and he was going to do it right alongside you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

later that evening, the winter heat finally broke as dusk settled over the town.

dean's black suv pulled into the gravel driveway of a small, neat house on the edge of the university district.

the porch light was already on, casting a warm, golden glow over the front steps.

dean hopped out of the driver's seat, walking around to your side to open the door before you could even reach for the handle.

he offered you his hand, pulling you up gently, his fingers lingering against your palm before he turned to unbuckle rowan's car seat from the back.

you walked up the steps together, the familiar scent of garlic and homemade pasta sauce drifting through the screen door long before you even knocked.

before your knuckles could even touch the wood, the door swung open.

your mother stood there, her apron tied around her waist, her eyes instantly bypassing the two of you to lock onto the plastic car seat in dean's hand.

a massive, radiant smile broke across her face, smoothing away the lines of a lifetime of hard work.

"there's my grandson," she beamed, her arms already reaching out as she stepped onto the porch.

dean smiled, handing the car seat over with a practiced ease that showed just how natural this had become for him.

"hi, mom. he slept the whole ride over." you smiled as your mother carried the seat inside, cooing at the sleeping baby.

you and dean stood on the porch for a quiet second.

dean looped his arm around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest, his chin resting comfortably on the top of your head as you both watched your mother unbuckle her grandson through the front window.

there was no ghost of the past in this house anymore.

there was no fear of a running man or a broken promise.

there was only the smell of a warm dinner, a grandmother's laughter, and the solid, heavy weight of the man who had promised to stay—and meant every single word.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the dining room of your childhood home was small, but tonight it felt entirely full. the air was thick with the rich, comforting scent of your mother's signature marinara sauce, a recipe that had historically been reserved only for birthdays or the rare moments when a budget stretch allowed for a celebration.

dean was sitting at the worn wooden table, a space that had only ever known the quiet presence of two women.

his massive, athletic frame practically engulfed the modest chair, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow against the floral wallpaper.

yet, he looked completely at ease.

he had rolled up the sleeves of his cotton blue shirt, exposing his forearms as he expertly navigated a massive bowl of spaghetti, passing it to your mother with a respectful, easy smile.

"seriously, alisha, this is incredible," dean said, calling your mother by her first name just as she had insisted he do three visits ago. "if you ever want to open a restaurant near campus, the entire hockey team would probably fund it. tucker survives entirely on frozen burritos and sheer willpower. he would cry if he tasted this."

a sound of genuine, lighthearted laughter escaping her lips as she leaned over to scoop another portion onto his plate. "don't flatter a woman, dean. but please, eat up. god knows you burn enough calories on that ice rink."

you watched them from across the table, your fork twirling slowly in your pasta.

a strange, dizzying wave of emotion hit your chest.

for twenty-one years, this room had been a fortress of caution.

it was the place where you sat while your mother meticulously balanced checkbooks, reminding you that reliance on anyone else was a vulnerability.

it was where you learned to be fiercely independent, wrapped in the protective armor of her warnings.

and now, briar university's golden boy was sitting in the center of it, arguing playfully with her about whether garlic bread should be baked or broiled.

from the corner of the room, a soft, low grunt came from the portable bassinet.

rowan was waking up, his tiny limbs stretching beneath his blanket.

before you could even set your fork down, dean's hand was already moving.

he caught your eye across the table, offering a reassuring nod.

"i got him, sweetheart. finish your dinner," he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, intimate tone he reserved just for you.

you watched as he stood up, his tall frame moving with a practiced, gentle fluidity as he navigated the tight space between the table and the bassinet.

he reached down, his hands completely cradling rowan's tiny torso as he lifted him out.

rowan let out a tiny, soft squeak, his little face puckering before he settled instantly against dean's chest, his small head tucking perfectly into the crook of his father's neck.

dean walked back to the table, shifting rowan effortlessly to one arm while he picked up his fork with the other, completely unfazed by the logistics of eating one-handed.

your mother stopped eating.

she watched dean—watched the way his thumb absentmindedly traced small circles on the back of rowan's custom jersey, the way his eyes constantly flicked down to check on the baby's breathing, the way he didn't even hesitate to put his own comfort second.

when she looked back at you, her eyes were bright with a quiet, profound sheen of tears.

she didn't say anything out loud but she didn't need to.

the unspoken apology and the sheer validation of your choices was entirely written in the soft smile she gave you across the table.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

by eleven o'clock, the drive back to the campus apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the car tires against the asphalt and the steady, rhythmic breathing of a fast-asleep baby in the backseat.

the apartment was dark when you unlocked the door.

trinity was out for the weekend, leaving the small living space peaceful.

dean carried rowan inside, the car seat clicking quietly as he set it on the floor, while you carried the diaper bag and the heavy tote containing your psychology textbooks.

you dropped the bags by the kitchen counter, a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion finally settling into your limbs.

finals week was creeping up, the stack of case studies you needed to analyze was growing, and your body was still recovering from the monumental task of bringing a human into the world.

you leaned against the counter, closing your eyes for just a second.

two warm hands slipped around your waist from behind, a familiar, solid chest pressing into your back.

dean buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.

"hey," he whispered, his lips brushing against your jawline. "go take a hot shower. i'll handle the nighttime bath and get him down in his crib."

"dean, you have a 6:00 am video review session" you protested softly, turning around in his embrace to look up into his tired, beautiful blue eyes. "you spent three hours on the ice today. let me do it."

"absolutely not," dean smiled, a faint, stubborn dimple appearing in his cheek.

"we're a team, remember? you aced your seminar quiz today, you took ten pages of notes, and you didn't complain once when rowan spit up on your favorite sweater earlier. let me take the night shift, sweetheart. go relax."

you stared at him, the old, defensive instinct to say 'i can do it myself' rising to your throat out of sheer habit. but looking at the absolute, unwavering certainty in his gaze, you let it go.

you let the breath out of your lungs, your forehead coming to rest against his chest, right over the steady, pounding rhythm of his heart.

"thank you," you breathed into his shirt.

"anytime," he murmured, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to the crown of your head before stepping back and picking up the sleeping bundle from the floor.

half an hour later, you stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a plush robe, your skin warm and smelling of vanilla soap.

the apartment was silent.

you padded softly down the short hallway toward rowan's small nursery.

the dim, amber light of the moon-shaped nightlight illuminated the room.

dean was sitting in the massive velvet glider he had proudly bought months ago.

rowan was freshly changed, wrapped tightly in a swaddle blanket, fast asleep against his father's bare chest.

dean was rocking back and forth in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, his hand completely cupping the back of rowan's head.

he wasn't asleep.

he was staring down at his son, his expression so fierce, so intensely protective, it took your breath away.

in his lap, balanced precariously on the armrest of the chair, was his hockey playbook, his eyes flicking between the diagrams of defensive strategies and the tiny, perfect face of the boy in his arms.

he was balancing it all. the pressure of the scouts, the demanding expectations of his legacy, the exhaustion of college life—he was holding it all in his hands, and he wasn't letting a single piece drop.

you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

dean looked up at the sound of your breathing, his eyes softening instantly as he caught sight of you. he didn't speak, not wanting to break the fragile silence of the nursery, but he extended his free hand toward you, his fingers open.

you walked across the small room, sliding your hand into his warm palm.

dean pulled you down gently until you were sitting on the wide armrest of the glider beside him.

he leaned his head against your hip, his grip on your hand tightening into a silent, unbreakable vow.

you looked down at the two of them.

the future was going to be chaotic.

there would be exams to study for while rocking a crying infant; there would be away games where you would have to manage the nighttime routine alone and there would be endless loops of exhaustion.

but as the glider rocked gently in the quiet apartment, the absolute certainty of his warmth against your skin told you everything you needed to know.

the pattern was broken.

it’s the cinnamon and clean laundry that brings him back. on the quiet nights, before the heavy silence of the present takes over, you can still trace the timeline of you and john logan.

two kids who didn't know a single thing about the world, but decided, instantly, that they knew everything about each other.

by the time you both walked across the stage at eighteen to grab your high school diplomas, you weren’t just a couple—you were a package deal.

logan was woven so deeply into the fabric of your family that his presence felt as permanent as the oak tree in the front yard.

“logan! look what i made!"

the memory is so sharp it almost stings. your little sister soleil had been five then—a tiny, chaotic blur of mismatched socks and sticky fingers.

anyone else would have patted her on the head and gone back to their phone, but logan had dropped straight to his knees on your mom’s kitchen floor, completely ignoring the grass stains on his jeans.

he had taken the lopsided paper crown she held out and placed it solemnly on his dark hair.

"for me, princess sol? i’m honored," he had said, his signature smirk softening into something so incredibly gentle it made your chest ache. he had spent the next hour letting a five-year-old boss him around the backyard, playing "royal knight" without a single complaint. he had loved your family. he had loved you.

"are you thinking about him?"

the quiet voice snaps you back. you blink, the golden memory evaporating, replaced by the cool, dim light of the kitchen.

you turn to find soleil standing in the doorway. she’s ten now—taller but she still has those same observant eyes.

"nope just... thinking," you say, offering a tight smile as you lean against the counter.

soleil walks over, hopping onto the barstool logan used to claim as his own. she traces a small scratch on the wooden counter. "do you think logan still plays hockey?" she asks quietly. "he promised he would teach me how to ice skate when i got bigger. he hasn't called in a long time."

the words twist like a knife. because how do you explain to a ten-year-old that sometimes, the boy who wore paper crowns in your backyard grows up, leaves for college, and becomes someone you only know through headlines and hearsay?

"yeah, sol," you whisper, swallowing the lump in your throat. "he still plays."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

it was 1:57 am. at this hour, the world was supposed to be asleep.

instead you were standing in aisle fourteen, frozen in place, staring at the glass doors of the ice cream section.

the cold air leaked through the rubber seals, dusting your bare shins with a chill that made you shiver.

you looked down at yourself, suddenly, painfully aware of exactly how you looked: a pair of wrinkled pajama shorts featuring a faded print of patrick star, a fleece sweatshirt, and a pair of cheap flip-flops that made a loud, pathetic slap against the linoleum with every step you took.

your fingers hovered over a carton of cookie dough ice cream—the exact same brand, the exact same flavor, that had once been the cure-all for every bad day you had ever had.

you had been back in this town for exactly three weeks of summer break, operating like a ghost.

you stayed inside during the day, took long scenic routes to avoid the familiar blocks, and only went out when you knew the streets would be empty.

you had managed to avoid him for two whole years. two years of passing through the same suburban grid without once crossing paths.

until tonight.

squeak.

the sharp sound of rubber soles on polished linoleum broke the quiet.

it wasn't the slow, heavy drag of a tired employee pushing a stocking cart.

it was a firm, rhythmic stride. a stride you could recognize with your eyes closed, even after twenty-four months of silence.

"i knew one day, i would find you here."

the voice didn't just startle you; it felt like a physical blow to the chest. it was deeper than you remembered, carrying the low, scratchy gravel of someone who spent his winters yelling over the roar of stadium crowds at briar university.

but the cadence—the soft, trailing way he ended his sentences—was exactly the same.

your breath hitching, your lungs freezing over. you slowly turned around, your hand still pressed flat against the cold glass of the freezer door, your flip-flops squeaking slightly.

standing at the end of the aisle, leaning with an agonizingly casual grace against a shopping cart, was john logan.

he was massive.

the boy who used to fit perfectly against your side in your parents' basement had completely filled out.

the grueling, relentless training schedule of briar's varsity hockey team had carved him into something formidable—his shoulders were impossibly broad beneath a dark charcoal hoodie, his jawline littered with stubble sharp enough to look dangerous.

his dark hair was slightly damp and messy, falling over his forehead in a way that made him look like he had just stepped out of a locker room.

but it was his eyes that anchored you to the spot.

they were a deep, intense brown—the color of warm whiskey, of dark espresso, of things that were thick and warm and rich and incredibly hard to forget. right now, those brown eyes were narrowed, tracking the rapid rise and fall of your chest with a quiet, guarded intensity.

"logan," you whispered. the name felt heavy, like a stone rolling off your tongue.

"hey," he said. his voice was soft, but there was a distinct, cool distance to it. his lips didn't curve into the easy grin you were once so used to. instead, his mouth remained a straight, hard line. "still craving cookie dough at ungodly hours?"

the silence that followed was suffocating. the air between you was dense with two years of unread texts, a blocked phone number, and a driveway screaming match that had ended with you driving away in tears.

you looked at him, and against your will, the faces of every single guy you had met on the west coast flashed behind your eyelids.

there was the polite pre-med guy from your sophomore year who bought you expensive dinners and spoke in a tone so perfectly measured it made you feel completely hollow.

there was the golden-boy surfer who tried to teach you how to ride the waves, whose laugh was loud and easy, but whose eyes never actually saw you when you spoke.

there were others—half-hearted dates, empty conversations over cheap drinks, guys who tried to touch your waist or hold your hand in crowded bars.

but none of them were john logan.

none of them possessed that fierce, protective intensity.

not a single one of them knew how to make you laugh until your ribs ached, or how to silence your worst anxieties with a single, heavy look.

he was the gold standard.

you had spent twenty-four months trying to find his ghost in other men, only to realize that nobody could ever measure up to the boy who had broken your heart.

he had ruined you for anyone else, and the sheer unfairness of it tasted like poison on your tongue.

what you didn't know—what you couldn't possibly know from the quiet, agonizing distance you had kept—was that you had done the exact same thing to him.

at briar, logan was a star.

he was a handsome, charming varsity athlete, and the girls on campus made it ridiculously easy.

but to the absolute dismay and relentless teasing of his teammates, especially dean, logan had practically lived like a monk for the last two years.

he didn't bring girls back to the house.

he didn't do the mindless, easy hookups that the rest of the team treated like breathing.

every time a girl tried to flirt with him at a party, every time someone leaned in to kiss him in a dark corner of a crowded bar, he found himself pulling back.

he was holding out for you.

as stupid and as unrealistic as it sounded to him, he couldn't shake you.

and it made him furious.

he was angry at you for blocking him, angry at you for leaving, but most of all, he was deeply annoyed because you had ruined him for anyone else.

he couldn't find a single girl who was just like you, and he hated how much power you still held over his heart without even trying.

logan took a slow, deliberate step forward, the wheels of his cart squeaking in protest. his brown eyes scanned your face, noting the way you winced, the way your fingers tightened on your sweatshirt.

seeing him step closer was like falling backward through a rip in time.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

"logan, stop it! put me down, people are looking!"

your laughter echoed through the empty bakery section of this very store, bright and breathless. it was 12:14 am on a tuesday, three weeks before graduation.

logan had dragged you out of bed because you had a craving, and he never, ever said no to you.

"let them look," logan grinned, his chest vibrating against yours as he lifted you easily by the waist, spinning you around. he didn't care about the bored cashier or the fact that you both had ap exams in twelve hours.

he set you down slowly, his large hands sliding under your jacket to grip your hips, pulling you flush against him.

his face dipped into the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a warm, lingering kiss right below your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

when he pulled back, his eyes were crinkled at the corners, filled with a terrifyingly pure, unshakeable affection.

"you're stuck with me forever, you know that, right?" he murmured, his thumb rubbing soothing circles into your hip. "west coast, east coast, i don't care. i'll fly out every single weekend. we're going to make this work. i'm not letting you go."

you had kind of believed him then. you had pressed your forehead against his chest, inhaling the scent of his skin, believing that the two of you were invincible.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

"you're staring," logan's rough voice broke the memory, shattering it into a thousand sharp, jagged pieces.

you blinked, cold reality rushing back in.

he was standing barely three feet away from you now.

the warmth from the flashback evaporated, replaced by the bitter, icy draft of the freezer aisle.

you pulled the sleeves of your sweatshirt over your hands, shifting your weight in your flip-flops, wishing desperately that the cold floor would just open up and swallow you.

"i didn't think you would be in town," you managed to say, your voice tighter this time. you clutched the tub of cookie dough icecream to your chest, a pathetic, freezing shield. "you usually stay at briar for summer training."

"i came back for a couple of weeks to see some family," he said, his voice flat, his posture guarded. he crossed his arms over his broad chest, creating a physical barrier between you. "but i see you're still running on the same schedule. some habits die hard, i guess."

there was no shouting, no explosive anger, but the wall he had built was high and thick.

he wasn't the boy who used to tease you mercilessly; he was a man who had been deeply hurt, and he was keeping his guard up.

"logan, we were going to different sides of the country," you whispered, the old defense mechanism kicking in, though it felt incredibly weak now. "we would have grown to hate each other. i did what i thought was best."

"i never cared about where you were going," logan corrected quietly, his brown eyes locking onto yours with a heavy, simmering sadness. "i was proud of you. i wanted you to go to that school. what broke me was that you didn't even want to try. you just decided we were over before we even packed our bags. you decided for the both of us, blocked my number, and left. you made me feel like those years we spent together weren't even worth a shot the second things got a little complicated."

"that's not true," you said, a tear threatening to spill over your eyelashes. "it broke my heart, logan. and i... i still care. i heard about your mom."

the words hung in the cold, sterile air between you. the mention of his mother's battle with alcohol—a shadow that had hovered over his entire household and left him and his younger sibling, jules, carrying weight they were far too young to bear—made the silence turn razor-sharp.

you remembered the late-night phone calls where he would whisper to you from the hallway, exhausted and terrified, while you tried to comfort him from three miles away. you weren’t sure how to do it over three thousand miles away.

logan froze. his jaw clenched so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek.

"what about her?" he asked, his voice suddenly dangerously quiet.

"i heard she's in rehab again," you murmured, taking a small, tentative step forward. your chest ached for him, the instinct to comfort him still so deeply ingrained in your bones. "i'm so sorry, logan. i know how hard it is on you. and on jules. i really—"

"don't," he quickly cut you off.

for a split second, the hard line of his jaw softens. his dark eyes flicker down, then rise to search yours with a sudden, aching vulnerability. his mouth opens, a name hovering on the very tip of his tongue. he wants to ask if soleil still makes her infamous paper crowns.

he wants to ask if she misses him. if you missed him.

but the moment passes as quickly as it came. the shutter slams down behind his eyes, the heavy wall of his anger sliding back into place. he isn't going to give you the satisfaction of knowing how much of your world he still yearns for.

a short, humorless scoff escaped his lips—a sound so hollow and bitter it made you flinch. he shook his head, looking down at the linoleum floor before raising his brown eyes back to yours, entirely guarded.

"don't act like you care now," he said, the words dripping with a quiet, devastating resentment. "if you actually cared, you wouldn't have kept me blocked. you would have reached out a long time ago when everything was falling apart. everyone else did. but you? you were too busy pretending we never happened."

he didn't know.

he had no idea that his private instagram account had been a brick wall you stared at on your loneliest nights, desperate for a glimpse of his face.

he didn't know that you had spent the last two years quietly keeping up with his life through the back door—how you had found his teammate and friend, dean di laurentis, on social media because his profile was public, zooming in on the background of his photos just to make sure logan was okay.

but you were so incredibly tired of the silence.

you were tired of the walls, tired of the assumption that you had just walked away unscathed while he bled out.

you weren't going to let this be another night where you both walked away harboring a quiet, misunderstood resentment.

you weren't going to let him believe a lie just to protect your pride.

"i blocked you because if i didn't, i would have begged you to come to california," you said, your voice cracking, but the words came out fast, desperate, and completely unfiltered. "i blocked you because every time my phone buzzed, i hoped it was you, and it was killing me. i didn't pretend we never happened, logan. i spent the last two years completely miserable."

logan flinched, his posture stiffening as he stared at you. his mouth parted slightly, the scoff dying on his lips.

"what?" he whispered.

"i didn't reach out because i thought you hated me," you pleaded, tears finally spilling over, hot against your cold cheeks.

"i thought i had ruined everything," you said, your voice cracking as you finally forced yourself to meet his eyes. "and i was terrified of hearing you tell me that you had moved on."

you took a sharp, shallow breath, looking down at your hands as if the memory alone had weight. "i sat in my dorm room and cried for hours when i heard about your mom. because i knew how much you and jules were hurting, and i hated myself for not being able to call you." you let out a bitter, humorless laugh, shaking your head. "but i didn't think i had the right to anymore. i didn't do this because it was easy."

logan didn't move, but the tension between you pulled taut, almost vibrating.

"and if you want to know the absolute worst part?" you took a step closer, the raw honesty of it stripping away whatever pride you had left. "i've tried to date. i've gone out with guys who were perfectly nice, guys who did everything right. and i couldn't stand any of them. because none of them were you."

you stopped just inches from him, your chest heaving. "you set the bar so high that i can't even look at anyone else without wishing they had your eyes, or your laugh, or the way you used to hold my hand." reaching out, your fingers hovered near his jacket before you pulled them back, curling them into a tight fist. "you ruined me, logan. so don't you dare stand there and tell me i didn't care."

the silence that followed was entirely different now. it wasn't heavy with awkwardness anymore; it was electric, thick with a truth that had been buried for two long years.

then, a loud, agonizingly slow squeal of wheels broke the high-stakes emotional gravity.

a tired-looking teenage employee pushing a towering, uncoordinated stack of blue plastic crates stopped dead at the end of the aisle.

he looked at your tear-stained face, looked at logan's defensive frame, and then looked down at the carton of cookie dough ice cream.

he blinked slowly, let out a soul-weary, minimum-wage sigh, and silently began pulling his cart backward, retreating into the canned goods section like a crab disappearing into the sand.

you let out a wet, breathless sound that was half-sob, half-gasp, hastily wiping your nose with the sleeve of your sweatshirt. "great. we're the 2 am grocery store circus."

logan's jaw worked, his chest expanding as he took a deep breath. for a fraction of a second, the tiniest, almost imperceptible ghost of a smile tugged at the very corner of his mouth, softening the hard edge of his face.

"well," his voice was quiet, the rough edge still there but momentarily lighter. "to be fair, you are having a life-altering breakdown in neon pink flip-flops and patrick star pajama shorts."

"they're comfortable," you mumbled, looking down at your toes, a faint blush warming your cheeks despite the cold.

he laughed softly but as quickly as the lighthearted beat came, it evaporated, swallowed by the cold, heavy reality of the last two years.

the silence returned, sober and demanding. logan took a slow, heavy step toward you, the distance between you evaporating until you could feel the heat radiating from his chest.

he raised his hand, his fingers trembling slightly as they hovered just inches from your wet cheek, hesitating.

his hand lingered in the air, his knuckles barely brushing your cheekbone as he looked at you, utterly torn.

chase was now entirely back to full health, the hives long gone and her life completely back to its usual teenage rhythm.

she was currently fast asleep in her second bedroom across the city, completely safe. the crisis was long over and yet unfortunately the shift it had caused inside you hadn't settled a single inch since.

the terror of that night had receded from the house, but it remained firmly lodged under your ribs, a heavy, jagged stone that refused to dissolve.

daniel was saying something soft against your neck—something sweet, no doubt—his breathing shallow and patient as he tried to coax you into the rhythm of a moment you had actively initiated.

he was trying so hard.

he always tried.

his lips pressed against the sensitive skin beneath your ear, his touch light and undemanding, offering a steady, gentle warmth that should have been comforting.

you had your eyes squeezed shut, your fingers gripping his shoulders, consciously forcing yourself to stay present.

be here, you commanded your brain, the words repeating like a desperate, frantic mantra behind your eyelids. be here with the man who actually belongs in your life now. look at him. appreciate him. choose him.

but your mind was an absolute traitor.

every time daniel's hands shifted over your hips, your skin instinctively remembered a completely different, slightly heavier grip.

your nerves didn't fire instead they misfired, translating the gentle pressure into an agonizing phantom sensation of calloused hands that used trace your skin.

when daniel kissed your jaw, your chest didn't tighten or ache instead it remained completely flat.

but you weren't in your bedroom. well not mentally at least.

smells that you only associated with hospitals rushed back into your nose. you kept seeing the terrifying, deep rumble of jack's chest.

the way his frame had effortlessly shielded you from the chaos of the hospital lobby, the sheeer, unyielding force of his voice telling you i've got her, i won't let anything happen to her.

you remembered how the absolute terror of losing your daughter had been met by the immovable, terrifyingly solid wall of jack's presence.

he had been a force of nature that night, holding you together with nothing but the sheer weight of his grip, and breathing life back into a room that felt like it was running out of oxygen.

now daniel shifted, his weight pressing down on you, his lips finding yours. it was a good kiss. it was supposed to be intimate, a needed reassurance after a frantic, terrifying month.

it was the kind of kiss that belonged in a stable, healthy relationship.

but you felt entirely hollowed out, like a detached spectator in your own bedroom, watching your own body go through the motions from somewhere near the ceiling.

you were reaching for a feeling that simply wasn't there, desperately trying to project jack's sharp, intense gravity onto daniel's quiet, undeserving kindness.

you tried to force the spark, but failed instantly.

you were lying beneath a good man, wishing he was a completely different one.

when it was over, daniel rolled to the side, pulling the sheet over both of you and drawing you into his side.

he kissed the top of your head, his arm heavy but lax across your waist.

within minutes, he fell asleep, his chest rising and falling peacefully against his shoulder, entirely unaware of the wreckage occurring inches away from him.

you stared up at the dark ceiling for hours, the guilt pooling heavy, toxic, and hot in your stomach.

it wasn't fair to daniel, who loved you with a quiet, uncomplicated devotion, and the absolute weight of it was driving you insane.

you didn't want to want jack.

you had spent months building a meticulous fortress to keep him out, brick by agonizing brick, reinforcing the walls with logic, memory of your old fights, and the desperate need for peace.

and a single thursday night with an allergy scare had leveled it entirely to the ground.

a few hours in jack's orbit, and the fortress was nothing but dust.

you were irritable and furious that your own heart refused to cooperate, angry that months of progress could be obliterated by the simple memory of a man's hand on your back.

so three days later, you broke up with daniel.

it happened in the living room on a quiet sunday afternoon.

it was quiet, gentle, and devastatingly polite—which somehow made you find the whole situation even more infuriating.

he didn't yell or even demand any answers.

he just looked at you with a sad, knowing understanding in his eyes that made you feel like a monster.

he packed his small duffel bag, kissed your cheek, and walked out.

there was no closure in it, only the profound, hollow ache of failing at something that should have been simple.

you were officially alone again, and you were completely pissed off about it.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the subsequent three weeks were an exercise in absolute exhaustion. you usually found solace in the rigid structure of your job in academia.

you usually graded papers and delivered lectures in ways that kept you grounded. instead, you found yourself staring blankly at student essays, the words blurring into a meaningless haze as twenty-one days of isolation slowly began to wear on your sanity.

max held out a paper cup of tea. behind him priya slipped into your cramped campus office, quietly closing the door and dropping a bakery bag onto your desk.

"croissants," priya announced gently. "because we know you haven't eaten a real meal since sunday. how are you holding up?"

you leaned back in your desk chair, rubbing your temples. "i'm fine. just... adjusting. it's been nearly a month, and the house is still entirely too quiet."

"it's quiet because you did the right thing, even if it feels awful," priya said, sitting on the edge of your desk. "daniel is a wonderful guy, but if the spark isn't there, keeping him around would have been cruel. you spared him a lot of long-term heartache."

"i still feel like a terrible person," you admitted, your voice dropping, the residual guilt of the breakup heavy in your chest. "he didn't do anything wrong. he was steady. he was exactly what i thought i wanted. and the guilt with chase is just killing me. i swore to myself that i wouldn't be that parent—the one introducing random men into her life only for them to turn out to be temporary fixtures. she liked him. she deserved stability, and i just disrupted her world again."

"how did she actually take it?" max asked softly.

"that's the weirdest part. she seemed... completely fine with it, surprisingly," you muttered, shaking your head in confusion.

"when i told her daniel and i were parting ways, she just nodded, gave me a hug, and went back to her homework. no questions. i thought she would be devastated, but she barely blinked."

what you didn't know—what you couldn't possibly see from inside your own blind spot—was that chase wasn't indifferent at all.

deep down, your teenage daughter was actively, desperately rooting for her parents to get back together.

she knew it was stupid to think so. she remembered the slamming doors from years ago, and she knew the statistics on divorced parents.

but chase was also the one who watched the two of you from the stairs and when you interacted behind closed doors when you thought she wasn't paying attention.

she knew that even when you and jack were being completely distant, cold, or fiercely closed off with each other, the room still practically hummed with electricity.

she saw the heavy, unsaid weight that hung in the air between her mother and her father every time they were in the same room.

daniel had been nice, but to chase, daniel had been a ghost in a house that still belonged to a storm.

"intensity isn't always a flaw," priya offered gently, reaching over to squeeze your hand, bringing you back to the present. "sometimes it just means the fire never actually went out. you spent a while trying to convince yourself that a quiet life was the same thing as a happy one. it's okay to admit that jack still holds the keys to the castle."

you couldn't answer.

the truth of priya's words felt like a physical weight in your chest, a truth you weren't ready to face, let alone voice aloud.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

to make matters more stressful, the house was about to get even quieter.

chase had been scheduled for an end-of-year school trip which was a three-day camping and hiking excursion.

you had been entirely reluctant to let her go. with the cashew allergy debacle still fresh in your mind, the thought of your daughter being hours away from the nearest hospital, surrounded by wilderness, made your stomach twist into violent knots.

you had nearly canceled her registration three times.

but you knew you couldn't keep her locked inside forever.

she was a growing teenager, yearning for independence, and jack had gently reminded you over a brief, strained phone call that "you can't wrap her in bubble wrap, as much as we both want to."

so, with a heavy heart and a backpack stuffed with four epipens, you had dropped her off at the school bus that morning.

the anxiety had settled into the empty house by midafternoon, wrapping around your throat until you were practically climbing the walls.

a sudden, sharp craving hit you out of nowhere—a desperate, phantom itch for a cigarette. you hadn't smoked in seven years.

back during the worst, most turbulent years of your marriage, you used to keep a secret pack hidden in the back of the pantry, slipping out into the dark of the back garden to smoke when jack wasn't looking, just to catch a single breath of artificial calm.

but jack had found out.

he hadn't yelled which you had kind of expected him to.

he had looked at you with this fiercely protective, agonizingly gentle worry, talking you out of it by quietly listing the health risks and gently pulling the lighter from your hand.

the memory made you scoff out loud in the empty kitchen, a wave of bitter irritation washing over you.

it was infuriating.

even your old, hidden vices were completely tangled up in him.

you couldn't even crave a bad habit without his memory standing there, blocking the doorway.

which made the events of the afternoon all the more confusing.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the thunder rumbled low in the distance, a dark purple wall of bruised clouds rolling over the horizon, but the air remained heavy with pre-storm humidity.

inside the house, the atmosphere felt just as pressurized, the walls closing in on you as the afternoon light prematurely died.

you were in the kitchen, aggressively scrubbing a dish that was already perfectly clean, just to have something to do with the restless, angry energy vibrating violently under your skin.

the sponge rasped against the porcelain, the water running scalding hot over your hands, but nothing could distract you.

suddenly, the roar of a small, sputtering engine flared to life in your front yard, cutting through the quiet house like a chainsaw.

you froze, the sponge dripping soapy water onto the linoleum.

your chest instantly tightening, you threw the dish towel onto the counter and marched to the front window, ripping the blinds back with a sharp snap.

there was jack.

the sight of him hit you like a physical blow to the sternum.

he was wearing a faded, grey t-shirt that clung to the broad span of his back, the fabric stretched tight across his shoulders.

his greying curls were already damp with sweat, clinging to the nape of his neck as he pushed your old, temperamental lawnmower across the overgrown grass.

he moved with efficiency, his forearms flexing with every turn.

he wasn't supposed to be here.

chase was away.

it wasn't his weekend, he hadn't texted, and he certainly hadn't asked for permission.

he had simply showed up, an uninvited storm inside an already broken perimeter.

you yanked the front door open, stepping out onto the porch just as the first massive, heavy drops of rain began to slam violently into the dry dirt.

"jack!" you yelled over the deafening rumble of the engine, the wind picking up, whipping your hair across your face.

he didn't look up.

he just turned the mower around at the edge of the fence, his jaw set in a stubborn, rigid line that you knew all too well.

he kept his eyes locked on the path ahead, his frame leaning into the machine as if he could outrun the weather through sheer force of will.

"jack, stop!" you marched down the porch steps, the summer rain immediately soaking through your thin shirt, cold and sudden against your hot skin, plastering your hair to your forehead.

the storm was unleashing now, a wall of water descending on the neighborhood, but you didn't care.

you stopped right in front of the mower, crossing your arms and forcing him to either kill the engine or physically run you over.

jack clamped down on the safety lever, pulling the machine to a halt inches from your sneakers.

the motor sputtered and died with a heavy, mechanical shudder, leaving only the loud, rushing sound of the downpour beginning to unleash around you.

"what the hell are you doing?" you snapped, your voice sharp, laced with all the venom and irritation that had been building like a pressure cooker for weeks.

you were soaking wet, shivering despite the slight heat, and absolutely vibrating with a rage that had very little to do with the grass.

jack wiped a mix of sweat and rain from his eyes with the back of his forearm.

his gaze locked onto yours—dark and entirely unyielding.

"your grass was a foot high," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated beneath the sound of the rain. "the storm's gonna turn it into a swamp, and then it will take you a month to clear it with this piece of shit mower."

"i didn't ask you to do it!" you shouted back, the rain coming down harder now, bouncing violently off the hot metal of the mower between you, sending up small plumes of steam. "i don't need your help, jack. i don't want you here. leave the damn mower and just go home."

"i'm half-way done," he argued, his hands tightening on the rubber grip of the handle until his knuckles turned white, the veins in his forearms standing out in sharp relief. "go back inside before you freeze."

"it's eighty-five degrees out here, i'm not going to freeze. leave it now."

when he wouldn't listen frustration boiled over, hot and blinding.

you stepped around the machine, reaching down and grabbing his wet, solid wrist to physically pull him away from the handle.

the moment your fingers wrapped around his bare skin, the tension snapped. it was like touching a live wire.

jack exploded.

he yanked his arm back violently, dropping the mower handle entirely and grabbing your upper arms instead. his grip was firm, massive, but careful—never enough to hurt, but completely unmovable—as he pulled you a step closer, twisting his body to use his broad frame to physically shield your body from the driving, icy wind.

"i'm finishing the lawn." he still argued with you, his face inches from yours, his hot breath mixing with the cold rain that pooled in the hollows of his collarbones. "stop fighting me on every single thing i do."

"i am fighting you because you don't belong here." you screamed back, the lie tasting like ash in your mouth, your voice breaking against the sheets of water cascading around you.

jack stared at you, the rain streaming down the sharp, rugged angles of his face, catching on his eyelashes and dripping from his chin.

his eyes were burning with a raw, angry frustration that mirrored your own agony, a look that said he knew exactly how much of a lie that was.

for three agonizing seconds, neither of you moved, the heat radiating between your bodies thick enough to choke on despite the deluge.

then, the sky completely opened up in a blinding sheet of white water, a violent, deafening crack of lightning splitting the air directly overhead and rattling the windows of the house.

jack swore loudly under his breath, letting go of your arms only to catch your hand—his palm rough, scorching hot, and completely soaking wet—and yanked you toward the porch.

you didn't fight him this time. you couldn't.

you stumbled up the wooden steps, your wet sneakers slipping slightly before jack caught your waist, guiding you with an aggressive urgency. he kicked the front door open with the heel of his heavy boot, shoving you into the dry interior before slamming the heavy wood shut behind him, cutting off the roaring chaos of the storm in a single, definitive thud.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the sudden silence of the house was suffocating.

the only sound was the frantic, heavy breathing of two people trapped in a space entirely too small for the energy between them.

you stood in the entryway, water pooling rapidly around your sneakers onto the hardwood floor, your clothes sticking translucent and heavy against your skin.

jack was a foot away, his back against the door, breathing hard.

his wet t-shirt was completely molded to his chest and abdomen, showing every ridge, every scar, every line of a body you used to know better than your own.

"you're a lunatic," you breathed, shaking your head as you tried to wring out the hem of your shirt, your fingers trembling with a mix of chill and sheer, unadulterated aggravation. "you're tracking mud everywhere. why can't you just leave things alone? why do you have to force your way into everything?"

"because you wouldn't have done it." jack snapped, tossing his wet truck keys onto the entryway table with a loud, aggressive clack that sounded like a gunshot in the quiet house. "you let everything pile up until you're drowning, and god forbid anyone tries to take a single thing off your plate."

"i was doing just fine. i've been doing fine without you playing the hero."

"yeah? is that why you broke up with the boyfriend?"

jack stepped directly into your space, the sudden movement cutting off your exit, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous frequency that made every single nerve ending in your body snap awake.

the sheer pheromonal weight of him pressed down on you. "because you're doing so great? i'm not blind, and i'm not stupid. lena told me you called the trauma desk asking about chase's follow-up paperwork three separate times when you could have just texted me. you're losing your mind, and you're taking it out on me."

"i am taking it out on you because you are the entire problem." you yelled, the dam inside you finally bursting, all the weeks of performance, all the hidden longing, all the sleepless nights turning into pure, unadulterated rage.

you stepped right up into his chest, your hands coming up to aggressively push against his shoulders. "you show up when whether i tell you to or not, you look at me like you still own me, you say things you shouldn't say—"

"i say things i mean." jack said, his hands coming up like lightning to catch your wrists mid-air.

he didn't push you away.

he pulled.

the collision was total.

your chest slammed hard against his, the raw heat radiating off his skin instantly cutting through the damp chill of your wet clothes.

the impact knocked the air straight out of your lungs, and before you could even draw a breath to argue, jack's mouth descended onto yours.

it wasn't a gentle kiss. it was a dam breaking after months of agonizing, suffocating pressure.

but as the initial shock faded, the desperation shifted into something devastatingly intimate.

his lips softened just enough to mold perfectly against yours, a familiar, agonizingly sweet fit that rushed through your memory like a flood.

this was the man who used to hold you in the quiet hours of the morning.

this was the mouth that had whispered promises in the dark before the world got too heavy and complicated for the two of you to carry.

the familiar scent of him swirled around you, pulling you back to a time when his touch was your anchor, not your undoing.

you let out a soft, broken sigh against his mouth, and jack groaned, taking the invitation.

his tongue slid past your teeth, deep, fluid, and fiercely possessive, yet carrying a profound, aching tenderness that made your knees instantly turn to water.

your hands, which had been meant to push him away, completely betrayed you.

they slid up his chest, feeling the frantic, hammering beat of his heart, before tangling deep into his wet curls to pull him down harder, destroying any semblance of regret or restraint.

jack's hands left your wrists, one wrapping securely around the back of your waist, his massive palm anchoring against your lower back to hoist you up against him, lifting you nearly off your feet.

his other hand cupped your jaw, his thumb digging into your cheekbone, holding you perfectly still for him as if he were trying to memorize the very shape of your soul through his fingertips.

he bit your lower lip before soothing the ache with his tongue, his kisses moving frantically from your mouth, dragging down the rigid line of your jaw, to the sensitive, pulsing skin right beneath your ear.

you arched into him, a soft, broken whimper escaping you as his heavy stubble scraped ruthlessly against your neck.

every single inch of your body was on fire.

this was what you had been starving for. this was the gravity you couldn't escape, the terrifyingly intense friction that made you feel alive in a way no one else ever could.

jack dragged his mouth back to yours, his kisses turning thicker, slower, and heavy with a desire that had been locked away, fermenting in the dark for over a year.

he pinned you ruthlessly against the hallway wall, the plaster cold against your back while he was nothing but pure, unadulterated heat.

his thigh forced its way between yours, anchoring your hips against the wall, tilting your pelvis up into his.

you could feel the rigid, hard line of him pressing directly against you through the damp fabric of your clothes, the sheer, overwhelming physical size of him completely consuming your senses.

your hands tore at the fabric of his wet shirt, gripping his shoulders, wanting skin, wanting the burning touch that used to be your everyday life.

you pulled your head back just an inch, both of you panting heavily, the air between you thick and scorching.

your lips were swollen, dark red, and wet, your chests heaving violently against one another in the dim light.

a massive, surging crest of adrenaline completely swallowed up any residual guilt.

your nerve endings were screaming, your brain short-circuiting under the sheer velocity of the moment.

you couldn't think about the past or the future; you just needed the friction to continue.

you needed to drown out the suffocating quiet of the last three weeks in the only safe harbor you had ever truly known.

"jack," you choked out, your hands gripping his soaking shoulders, your body moving on pure, unbridled impulse. "jack, just... come upstairs. let's just do this. let's get it out of our systems. please."

jack froze.

the sudden, rigid stillness in his posture was louder than the thunder crashing outside. it was a physical deceleration so violent it felt like a car crash.

his eyes, dark and heavy with a blatant, agonizing lust, stared down at yours. his chest was heaving, his muscles trembling under your fingers, and it was glaringly, terrifyingly obvious how badly he wanted to pick you up and carry you up those stairs. as he had so many times before even though you would tell him to think of the pressure he was putting on his leg.

he was practically vibrating with the urge to succumb.

but his hands slowly, agonizingly dropped from your waist.

his fingers uncurled from your hair, the wet strands falling back against your cheeks.

he took a heavy step back, then another, creating a cold, gaping void between your bodies in the narrow hallway.

the absence of his heat made you shiver instantly.

he looked down at you, his chest still rolling with heavy, jagged breaths, but the raw, unbridled heat in his eyes had instantly hardened into something sharp, fractured, and incredibly dark.

"get it out of our systems?" jack repeated, his voice dropping into a dangerously quiet, ragged whisper that cut deeper than any shout he had leveled at you in the yard.

"jack, we're losing our minds—"

"no," he cut you off, his jaw tight, a sharp muscle leaping violently in his cheek.

he looked at you with an overwhelming amount of respect, a gaze that was heavy with a protective, fierce care that extended even to protecting you from yourself.

"you don't get to do that to me. and i'm sure as hell not doing that to you. i know it's been three weeks, but you still just walked away from a relationship. you're exhausted, you're stressed out of your mind, and you are hurting."

"that's not what i meant," you whispered, the sudden shift freezing the blood in your veins.

you reached out a trembling hand for him, desperate to pull the warmth back, but he stepped back again, completely out of your reach, his back hitting the front door.

"that's exactly what you meant," jack said, his voice cracking with a raw, agonizing vulnerability that made your throat close up with tears.

he shook his head, his eyes glassy under the dim entryway light, staring at you with a profound, exhausting sadness. "if i go up those stairs with you tonight... if i touch you like that again, i'm all in. i don't know how to do it halfway with you. i never did. i would be yours completely, by tomorrow morning. i would be right back to where i was, completely at your mercy."

he took a sharp, shaky breath, his shoulders collapsing inward just a fraction as he looked at you, utterly defeated by his own honesty.

"and if we do it just to 'get it out of our systems,' tomorrow morning you're going to wake up, regret it, remember why we broke up, and build those walls right back up. i'd lose you all over again."

jack looked down at the floor, his voice dropping so low it was almost entirely swallowed by the sound of the rain punishing the house outside. "i barely survived losing you the first time. i can't afford to do it twice."

before you could say a single word, before you could even process the devastating, heavy weight of what he had just admitted, jack turned around.

he snatched his keys from the table, pulled the heavy front door open, and walked straight back out into the pouring rain, leaving you entirely alone, shivering in your quiet hallway.

layla garcia, your captain and best friend, was the one who was originally signed up for this pr nightmare.

but at exactly 10:43 a.m. this morning, she had texted you a string of coughing emojis claiming a "sudden, mysterious 24-hour stomach bug" had completely taken her out.

you knew for a fact layla had been perfectly fine at dinner last night, eating four slices of pepperoni pizza and talking about how excited she was to go to hawaii with her boyfriend dallas.

you were 100% confronting her about this fake illness the second you got back to your dorm room, but for now, you were stuck covering her shift.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

you hadn't even had time to go back to your room to change into your training kit (or to strangle layla).

so you were wearing your briar athletics gear—the official white and navy blue soccer jersey with your number 7 on the back, black spandex shorts that hit mid-thigh, and your high-top training socks pulled up over your shins.

but see you weren't usually this cynical.

in fact, you actually loved the rest of the hockey team.

john tucker was a total sweetheart who always let you borrow his notes, and garrett graham was the kind of supportive captain who always texted you good luck before big games.

you loved them all except dean. dean was the only one who rubbed you entirely the wrong way, pushing buttons you didn't even know you had.

but you knew exactly what he was. unfortunately.

unfortunately, you had had a front-row seat to the di laurentis effect when two of your own teammates fell victim to his devastating charm last semester.

you had spent subsequent weekends playing damage control, comforting crying girls on the locker room floor after dean inevitably moved on without a backward glance.

he was a certified player, a serial heartbreaker who treated romance like a non-contact sport, and you had zero intention of becoming casualty number three.

or casualty twenty nine if you counted his victims outside of your team.

"can you stop that?"

you looked up. dean was standing in front of a full-length mirror, casually smoothing down the front of his pristine, number 66 briar hockey jersey.

he didn't look at you directly, just caught your eyes in the reflection, a lazy, amused smirk playing on his lips. "the tapping. it's really distracting, sweetheart."

"then don't be distracted," you snapped, your voice clipped. "and don't call me sweetheart. if i miss film review because you wanted to perfect your blowout, i'm going to fucking pop all your tires."

dean turned around slowly.

he didn't look offended but if anything, your irritation seemed to act like a shot of espresso straight to his ego.

he walked over, his steps slow and deliberate, until he was standing directly over your chair.

he was broad—built for absorbing hits on the ice—and he used his size to completely crowd your space.

"so hostile," he murmured, leaning down slightly so his face was level with yours.

up close, you could see the very very small flecks of amber in his mostly blue eyes, and the faint, clean scent of him hit your senses, making your stomach do an annoying, treasonous flip. "we're supposed to be the faces of the briar athletic campaign. the pr director said we need chemistry."

"we do have chemistry," you said, staring right back, refusing to back down an inch. "the kind that causes a massive explosion and burns the lab down. move, di laurentis."

you weren't even remotely intimidated by him.

you grew up surrounded by wealthy, powerful men who thought they owned every room they walked into—your own father being the blueprint.

you knew the exact corporate, high-society language your parents used when they subtly implied your soccer career was just a cute little hobby instead of a real future.

you had an inheritance waiting for you, trust funds you hadn't touched, and parents who would rather see you at a charity gala than a sports complex.

you never had to worry about rent, or student loans, or what would happen if your body gave out on the pitch. you had it easy, financially speaking, and you weren't going to play the victim about it.

but that safety net felt a lot like a golden cage. you were desperate to prove to them—and maybe even to yourself—that you were someone on your own merit, not just a name on a tax return.

you wanted the sweat, the bruises, and the victories to be yours, earned entirely by your own lungs and legs, not paid for by a family checkbook.

so a spoiled, handsome hockey player with a silver spoon? please. you practically held a degree in dealing with guys like him.

in fact, you had briefly dated a carbon copy of dean during your freshman year—a lacrosse player named hayes who genuinely believed 'compromise' meant letting you choose which of his family’s lake houses you visited for the weekend.

you ended things when you realized his deepest personal struggle in life was deciding between a career in asset management or just playing golf for the rest of his twenties.

so you knew the exact playbook dean was using, and you were completely immune to it.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

now instead of moving, dean took a step closer, his thighs practically brushing against your knees.

the air between you instantly thickened, heavy with a sharp, combative heat.

he reached down, and for a second, you thought he was going to touch your face but his fingers bypassed your cheek to grab the soccer ball from under your foot.

"let's see what you've got then, co-captain," he challenged, spinning the ball on his finger with an arrogant wink.

"give it back," you said, standing up and because you were on your feet now, the distance between you vanished.

you were chest-to-chest with him. honestly, it wasn't hard to match his stare, considering you were teetering on 6ft when you were in your cleats.

you could feel the heat radiating off his body, see the way his eyes dropped to your lips for just a fraction of a second before snapping back to your eyes.

the tension was loud enough to drown out the hum of the studio lights.

you hated how much he affected you and you hated that he knew it.

"come and get it," he whispered.

before you could snatch it, the pr director clapped her hands, shattering the moment. "alright, we're shooting the 'rapid fire q&a' tiktok. sit together on the bench. i want cute, playful, competitive. got it?"

"we do competitive," you muttered, walking past dean, intentionally brushing your shoulder hard against his.

"i can do cute," dean called out after you, his voice dripping with smooth confidence. "you on the other hand might need to practice, though."

you took your seats on the locker-room prop bench.

the camera was set up right in front of you.

"and... action!"

dean instantly switched on the charm, leaning back against the bench with a casual arm conveniently resting just behind your shoulders, his fingers almost brushing your bare neck.

"hey guys, i'm dean from briar hockey," he said, flashing his million-dollar smile at the lens.

you forced out your name out, keeping your posture rigid and your focus laser-sharp.

the pr director held up a flashcard from behind the camera. "first question: who is the bigger trash-talker on the field?"

"oh, definitely her," dean answered without missing a beat, turning his head to look at you.

"she looks like an angel, but she told the dartmouth center-back that her ancestors were ashamed of her last week. it was brutal."

you cut him a glare. "you literally got a game misconduct last month for telling a referee he needed to invest in a pair of glasses with a high prescription."

dean's grin widened. he leaned in closer, his voice dropped, entirely forgetting the camera. "i was defending my teammate. i'm a protector. you would know that if you ever came to a game."

"i'm too busy actually winning my own games," you fired back, your heart hammering against your ribs. you could feel his breath on your cheek.

"next question!" the pr director called out, sounding thrilled by the raw friction radiating off the screen. "who has the better endgame?"

the question hung in the air, suddenly feeling entirely too loaded.

dean's eyes darkened, the playful smirk fading into something much hungrier, much more intense. he didn't look at the camera. he just stared at you, his gaze heavy and deliberate as it traced the line of your jaw down to your collarbone.

"i don't know," dean said softly, his voice a low, rough growl that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "she is all about focus. strategy. but me? i'm highly adaptable. i know exactly how to find the blind spots. i never lose."

your breath caught. the hate, the annoyance, the sheer, unadulterated attraction—it all tangled together in your chest until you could barely breathe.

you hated his arrogance, but god, the way he looked at you made you feel like you were the only person in the room.

you leaned an inch closer, your eyes locking onto his.

"you've never played against a defense like mine, di laurentis," you whispered, your voice fiercely competitive, laced with an unspoken challenge.

"you wouldn't even get past the perimeter."

dean's fingers finally slid down, brushing against the bare skin of your nape, sending a jolt of electricity through your entire body.

his thumb caught your jawline, tilting your face up just a fraction.

"is that a dare, sweetheart?" he murmured, his thumb pressing just firmly enough against your skin to make your pulse spike. "because i'm more than willing to go into overtime to prove you wrong."

"and... that’s a wrap! that was perfect, oh my god, the energy was insane!" the pr director yelled, completely oblivious to the fact that you were both about to combust.

the lights clicked off and the interns started quickly moving around, packing up cords.

dean didn't move. his hand stayed on your jaw, his thumb smoothing over your skin.

the playful, arrogant boy from ten minutes ago was gone, replaced by a man who looked entirely consumed by the fierce, unyielding girl sitting in front of him.

"you have film review," he stated, his voice thick, his eyes scanning your face.

"i do," you breathed, your focus completely shattered for the first time all season.

"and i also have a game tomorrow." he leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "but after your match tomorrow night... i'm coming to break down your defense. be ready."

he pulled back, giving you one last, devastatingly hot smirk, before letting his hand drop.

he stood up, grabbed his hockey gloves, and strolled out of the media room without looking back.

you sat on the bench for a full minute, your heart racing, staring at the empty doorway.

you took a deep breath, trying to force your laser-focus back into place.

but as you picked up your soccer ball, you realized your hands were shaking.

gathering your gear, you finally walked out into the corridor. you didn't even make it past the vending machines before a familiar, broad-shouldered figure stepped into your path.

dean was leaning against the tiled wall, tossing his car keys lightly in one hand. he had a wicked, completely unbothered grin on his face.

"you know," dean said casually, his voice dropping into that smooth, intimate register now that the pr crew was out of earshot. "garcia texted me this morning apologizing for dropping out of the shoot. she swore she was dying of some plague."

you stopped in your tracks, clutching the soccer ball tight to your ribs. "layla is a terrible liar."

"oh, absolutely. but honestly?" dean took a single slow step forward, crowding you against the hallway wall just like he had in the studio. his amber eyes locked onto yours, a heavy, dangerous wave of heat washing over you. "i'm glad she flaked. i would much rather have you in my space."

your face heated up instantly at his sheer audacity.

"well, layla is dead to me, and i'm only here because i'm a good co-captain. get out of my way, di laurentis."

instead of stepping aside, dean leaned a fraction closer. his eyes dropped to the dip of your collarbone, tracking the thin, delicate gold chain resting against your skin.

resting at the center of it was a tiny, polished gold soccer ball pendant—a piece you rarely took off these days.

before you could register the shift in his movement, dean reached out. his index finger hooked casually right under the chain, his knuckle brushing the warm skin of your collarbone.

with a slow, deliberate tug, he used the necklace to pull you forward until you were practically pressed against his chest.

the sudden lack of space made your breath catch, but you refused to let him see you rattled.

"careful," you said, your voice dripping with sweet, dry sarcasm as you looked up at him. "you break that, and my trust fund might actually have to sue your trust fund. and i really don't think our lawyers want to spend their weekend comparing yachts."

dean's lips twitched, a low, genuine chuckle vibrating in his chest.

he loved it—loved that no matter how much he crowded you, you still had a sharp hook ready to swing back.

"i'll keep that in mind," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for one intense, heavy second.

then, slowly, he unhooked his finger, letting the gold pendant snap gently back against your chest. he stepped aside with a lazy, mock salute that made your pulse skyrocket.

"see you tomorrow night, co-captain."

dean di laurentis was a menace.

and tomorrow night, you were going to make him work for every single inch.

a persistent wave of anxiety had trailed you all morning, starting the moment you woke up to an empty mattress, and you had finally hit a wall.

your yellow school tote bag sat heavy in the passenger seat, stuffed to the brim with flashcards, your green lanyard, plastic math cubes, and a half-finished fiction manuscript you hadn't found the energy to touch in three weeks.

writing used to be your escape, but lately, the words wouldn't come.

you were exhausted, and when your thoughts started to spiral like this, jack was always the one person who could talk you down and make the world quiet down.

you didn't do this.

you never did this.

visiting jack at work was a boundary you both respected; his shifts were a meat grinder, and your own career kept you firmly in your own lane.

but three months of time wasting had finally worn you down to a raw nerve.

you had left early under the guise of needing to prep your classroom, but you had driven here instead.

you just needed to see your husband for five minutes. that’s all you needed.

see the thing was the intimacy between you hadn't died; it had just been compressed into tiny, desperate fragments. it was a hunger that never quite got satisfied, a constant, low-burning longing that made the edges of your vision blur with frustration.

it felt incredibly cruel, considering the two of you were newly married.

you had bought a huge house together, a beautiful, sprawling place with high ceilings and endless natural light.

you had both fallen in love with it initially, but lately, you were starting to really hate it.

all the spare rooms felt completely unlived in, a stark, hollow contrast to the explosion of color and life in your classroom.

at home, the silence echoed off the pristine, neutral walls in a way that felt incredibly heavy.

in moments like that, surrounded by too much empty space, your mind would wander to strange places.

you would think about how easy it would be to fill those rooms with the sound of a full-of-life little girl sprinting down the hallway, or a quiet, shy son reading a picture book in the corner of the living room. or both.

but the thought always dissolved as quickly as it came. the truth was, neither you nor jack wanted children.

you just wanted each other.

you wanted the house to be full of him, not empty square footage that reminded you of his absence.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the heavy diamond and matching gold band sitting securely on your ring finger were a constant, beautiful reminder of the commitment you had made, but the physical reality of marriage had lately felt like passing notes in the dark across a giant, quiet home.

on the rare nights your schedules miraculously aligned, the air in those high-ceilinged rooms always felt thick with a quiet, starved urgency. the only night you had shared a bed in weeks happened three days ago.

you had been asleep for hours when the mattress shifted, the heavy, now unfamiliar weight of jack sinking into the sheets beside you.

even in your deep sleep, your body instinctively sought his heat, rolling over until your forehead pressed against his bare shoulder.

"hey," he had whispered, his voice a gravelly, midnight rumble. his hand had slid around your waist, pulling you against him. "i didn't mean to wake you."

"you didn't," you lied, blinking through the darkness, your hand coming up to trace the stubble on his jaw, your wedding ring cold against his warm skin.

the anxiety that had been simmering in your chest all day evaporated the second his skin touched yours.

you became entirely needy in those quiet hours, craving the sheer volume of his presence. "just missed you."

jack hadn't answered with words.

he had just shifted, his thighs tangling with yours, his lips finding the sensitive spot beneath your ear.

the lovemaking that followed wasn't fast or frantic; it was deliberate, and heavy with a quiet devotion.

in the dark, jack moved over you like a man trying to imprint himself into your very skin, his fingers locking tightly with yours against the mattress.

every touch was an anchor.

when he buried his face in your neck, his breathing ragged and heavy, you held him just as tightly, wishing you could freeze the clock.

but by 6:00 am, your alarm had shattered the peace.

you had to slide out from under the covers, leaving him buried deep in the mattress, only to return home to an empty house and jack already back in his scrubs, bracing himself for another overnight shift.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

now you walked through the sliding glass doors, holding a bag of fresh breakfast sandwiches. the atmosphere was rushing staff, and shouting, a stark contrast to the quiet morning routine you usually tried to maintain.

"well, look who finally graced us with her presence."

you turned to see robby with a chart tucked under his arm. his eyes widened in genuine surprise at your unexpected appearance.

it had been months since you had last set foot in the hospital. "wow. hey. i honestly forgot what you looked like." he joked as warm smile broke through his fatigue.

"hey, robby," you replied, offering a small, self-deprecating smile as you held up the brown paper bag. "i know it's weird for me to just show up on a weekday. i brought some breakfast. is he... is it a bad morning?"

robby let out a sharp, dry laugh, running a hand over his face. "it's a disaster. we had a six-car pileup on the interstate at 3:00 am. jack's been in surgery or running traumas since midnight." robby's expression softened, his eyes glancing at the bag. "honestly, he's at his breaking point. go on through. he would definitely love to see you today."

"thanks, robby," you murmured, a new layer of worry settling into your stomach.

you hadn't realized how heavy his own day had been. let alone his week.

as you walked toward the presentation boards, you had to pass the main breakroom. the door was ajar by a few inches. you were about to walk past when a burst of sharp laughter cut through the gap, making you slow down.

"oh, come on, you saw the way he handled that chest tube in trauma three," a voice snickered. you recognized the sharp tone of one of the floor nurses. "if dr. silver fox asked me to stay late for a 'private consult' in the call room, i would clock in for a double shift before he could even finish the beginning of the sentence."

"please," another voice chimed in, accompanied by the rustle of a plastic wrapper. "dr. silver fox doesn't do private consults with the staff. he goes straight home to his wife. though, god knows how she keeps his attention. he looks like he could chew glass and she looks like a slightest breeze could knock her over."

a cruel, low laugh followed. "maybe he likes them fragile. easier to manage between shifts. keep them desperate enough on the back burner and they will wait around forever while you play god at work."

the words didn't just hurt but they also confirmed every ugly doubt you had harboured for weeks.

fragile.

desperate.

easier to manage.

waiting around forever.

you hadn't even realized you had dropped the breakfast bag until you were already halfway down the hall, your chest heaving, your feet moving on autopilot until you pushed through the heavy fire door of the stairwell.

now, you sat with your knees pulled to your chest, your chin resting on your arms.

your right thumb was at your left hand, spinning the gold wedding band around your finger.

over and over.

a restless, rhythmic click of metal against diamond that only happened when the walls started closing in.

the heavy fire door groaned open above you.

footsteps descended the stairs—uneven and echoing with a rhythm you had know anywhere. you didn't look up. you just kept spinning the ring.

the scuffed leather of his work shoes halted on the step right below yours.

jack didn't say anything at first. his hazel eyes went straight to your left hand, watching your thumb mindlessly tear at the gold. he knew that gesture. he knew exactly what it meant.

"hey," he said. his voice was breathless, carrying the flat, heavy fatigue of a shift that had already pushed him past his limit. he lifted the crumpled brown paper bag in his hand. "and thank you. for this. i haven't eaten since yesterday."

"i dropped it on the ground," you whispered, your eyes tracing the grease stain on the bottom of the bag. "you should go back... i heard the floor is busy."

jack let out a long, ragged breath. he went to lower himself onto the step below you, but his jaw suddenly tightened as his prosthetic leg caught at a bad angle on the narrow concrete.

he paused, a brief flash of frustration crossing his face as he struggled to find his balance on the cramped staircase.

"i'm fine," he muttered quickly, his stubborn pride flaring as he tried to adjust.

you didn't argue.

you just held a steady hand out to him.

jack looked at your open palm for a split second, let out a quiet sigh, and grudgingly took it. he leaned into your grip just enough to steady his weight, easing his frame down until he was safely settled on the step, setting the food down between his feet.

he dropped his head into his hands, his broad shoulders dropping with sheer exhaustion.

"i told robby to cover," jack muttered into his palms. "if i have to look at another chart or have another administrator talk to me about something unimportant while we're short-staffed, i'm going to go insane." he slowly lifted his head. his eyes were shadowed and laced with a deep, private ache.

he looked at your face, his eyes narrowing slightly as he took in your expression. "you bolted away from the break room. what happened?"

he reached out, his palm securely covering your left hand, instantly silencing the frantic movement of your fingers. he squeezed, his grip tight but also comforting.

"nothing," you whispered, trying for a small, fragile smile to deflect. "just... overhearing the nurses. apparently, you're the hottest doctor on the floor. i had to see if the rumors were true."

jack blinked, looking entirely blank for a second as the comment registered. he let out a dry, incredulous huff, gesturing to his heavily shadowed eyes and the faint smudge of standard-issue hospital grime on his scrubs. "the hottest? i look like a corpse, sweetheart."

"shush," you murmured lovingly, leaning down just enough to press your forehead against his temple. "don't say that."

a soft, genuine trace of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and he let his head rest heavily against yours for a second. "pretty sure langdon still has better hair than me, even on a double shift."

the brief, oblivious deflection helped the knot in your chest loosen just a fraction, but the reality of why you were hiding on the stairs caught up to you.

"i shouldn't have come," you admitted quietly, your voice dropping. "i have my lesson plans to do but i woke up and the house felt too big. i just wanted five minutes. i didn't mean to bring my mess into yours. i heard what they were saying in there about how much space family takes up on a heavy shift, and i just—i felt like a burden."

jack's jaw clenched, a sudden, sharp anger flaring in his eyes, though it wasn't directed at you.

he shifted up one step, narrowing the space until his chest was inches from your knees.

he didn't let the silence hang between you this time. his hands slid up to your shoulders, his thumbs finding the tight, knotted muscles at the base of your neck.

he began to work them out with a slow, firm, and deeply grounding massage, his touch telling you everything his words hadn't yet.

his hand moved to your face, his thumb catching a stray tear before it could drop.

"don't do that," jack whispered, leaning forward so his forehead came to rest gently against yours.

"don't apologize for needing me, and you think you're the only one losing your mind? i am drowning down there. every person in this building wants a piece of me. they want a miracle, or they want a doctor." he looked at you, his eyes intensely raw. "you're the only person who just wants me as i am."

he leaned in closer, his lips brushing yours in a soft, desperate kiss that tasted like pure relief. when he pulled back just a fraction, he pressed a lingering, heavy kiss right against your forehead.

"i don't need you to be perfect, and i don't need you to be strong all the time," he muttered, his hands sliding down to rub comfortingly across your upper back. "i just need my wife. i feel like i live in this hospital and i'm just a ghost passing through our house. i miss waking up next to you so much it hurts. i need to know there's still a real life waiting for me outside these doors. you're not a chore, sweetheart. you're the only thing keeping me sane."

the weight of his words and the steady, warm rhythm of his hands against your back shifted something tight in your chest.

the distance wasn't a sign of failure; it was just a storm you were both weathering together.

"jack," you breathed, leaning forward into his space as the tension finally began to bleed out of your shoulders.

he pulled your hand up to press a brief, heavy kiss against your knuckles, right over the gold band.

he hovered there for a second, his arms twitching as if he wanted to wrap you up entirely, before he reluctantly let his hands drop back to his sides. "i want to keep holding you," he muttered, a small, frustrated edge to his voice. "but i know you've got to get to the school. i don't want to make you late for work."

you let out a soft, breathy laugh at that, the heavy weight in your chest lifting just a little more. "i can stay ten minutes, i'm not going to be late."

"okay so we’ve got ten minutes," jack murmured, shifting so he could pull you against his side. his arm wrapped securely around your waist, his fingers idly stroking your arm as his breathing finally slowed down to match yours. "just sit with me."

you let your head lean against his scrub-clad shoulder, your fingers locking into the fabric.

the laptop screen cast a sharp, blue glow over your face as you frantically tried to format the final pages of your design portfolio.

it was due for a massive internship review at eight o'clock the next morning, and dean had promised—no actually he had sworn—that he would let you work in peace, maybe even help you proof the layout text.

instead, his own laptop lay closed on the floor.

dean’s thumbs were hooked under the waistband of your joggers, dragging you backward until your spine was pressed against his chest.

his fingers pressed into your skin with an easy, practiced familiarity, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

the distracting heat of his mouth made your finger slip on the trackpad, almost deleting an entire paragraph of text.

"dean, stop, i'm being serious," you muttered, your voice breathless with rising panic as you tried to tilt your head away. "i need to align these final grids or the review board is going to completely throw out the application."

"they're not gonna throw it out, sweetheart," he murmured against your skin, his voice laced with that effortless, devastating confidence.

his lips tracked a slow, burning path up the sensitive line of your jaw, his warm breath fanning across your cheek.

his hands slid up under the hem of your t-shirt, his palms warm and slightly rough against your bare waist, his fingers splaying wide as he tried to subtly pull you down against the pillows beneath him.

"come on. take a break. you've been staring at those pixels for hours."

"because the formatting is wrong," you insisted, your hands coming up to press against his chest, feeling the solid, rhythmic thud of his heartbeat beneath his shirt. "you promised you would let me finish."

dean sighed, a soft, amused sound, and pulled back just enough to look at you. he flashed his signature, crooked smirk—the one that usually made you forget whatever you were complaining about.

he reached out, playfully tapping the tip of your nose with his index finger. "and i will let you finish. later. let's just go to sleep first. or, you know, not sleep." he winked, his eyes dark with a heavy, playful heat as he already began to lean back in for your lips, completely untroubled by the actual panic tightening in your chest.

see he wasn't trying to be malicious, he wasn't the malicious type. dean just assumed everything was always fine.

he couldn't see the quiet fraying of your nerves because he didn't know how to look that closely.

the disconnect made a dull, heavy ache settle in your stomach, cooling the heat his touch had ignited. "i need some water," you said quietly, closing your laptop with a soft click and shifting away from his heavy frame.

dean groaned into the pillow, letting his arms drop limply over the side of the mattress. "bring me one too, please."

you didn't answer him.

you pushed yourself off the bed, stepped over your heavy backpack, and quietly shut his bedroom door behind you.

the house downstairs was dark and freezing.

you padded into the kitchen, your fluffy socks sliding slightly against the cold tile, sending a sharp shiver up your spine.

you opened the fridge, staring blankly into the light of the shelves, feeling a sudden, overwhelming wave of frustration and exhaustion threaten to spill over.

the contrast between the intense, physical heat in dean's room and the cold reality of your deadline tomorrow was dizzying.

you leaned your forehead against the cool edge of the open fridge door, closing your eyes and taking a shaky breath, trying to blink back the hot tears stinging the backs of your eyelids.

"you okay?"

you jumped, the fabric of your fluffy socks catching against the tile as you turned around quickly.

john tucker was standing by the counter, holding a steaming mug of tea.

the dim light from the hallway caught the sharp angle of his jaw, highlighting his deep tan skin and the dark curls that he had tied back out of his face in a loose, low bun.

he wore a faded grey sweatshirt that made his broad shoulders look even wider, casting a long, steady shadow across the room.

"yeah," you lied, your voice cracking slightly. you quickly wiped at your eyes with the back of your hand before a stray tear could fall, clutching a plastic water bottle against your chest like a shield. "yeah, just getting a water."

tucker didn't move.

he set his mug down on the counter with a soft, deliberate click, his warm brown eyes scanning your face with a quiet, intense focus.

he took in the tight line of your shoulders, the way your t-shirt hung loosely off your frame, and the stress written across your brow.

he knew dean loved having you around—he knew dean considered you a permanent fixture in his life—but tucker also knew his best friend could be completely blind to anything outside his own immediate radius.

as tucker looked at you, your mind flashed back through the last few weeks.

this wasn't the first time you had found him down here in the dead of night.

whenever your mind was spinning too fast to sleep, or whenever the casual, superficial nature of things upstairs left you feeling completely untethered, you would slip down to the kitchen under the guise of getting a beverage of sorts.

and almost every single time, tucker would already be there, or he would wander down a minute later, claiming he couldn't sleep either.

those quiet, late-night rendezvous had secretly become the anchor of your week.

you would sit on the counter in the dark, speaking in hushed, rhythmic whispers so you wouldn't wake the rest of the house.

you would talk about your childhood, both your dreams and aspirations, his upcoming games—things you never really spoke about with dean.

tucker would listen with a rare, undivided attention, completely respecting the fact that you were upstairs with his best friend.

but he made it undeniably clear that he saw you in a way dean never could.

where you and dean shared a physical alignment, you and tucker shared a soul-deep connection that grew stronger in the quiet hours of the night.

tucker sighed, a low, heavy sound that seemed to vibrate in the quiet kitchen.

he walked over to the cabinet, pulling out a clean mug, and quietly poured some tea into it.

he slid it across the counter toward you, just like he had on so many of those sleepless nights before.

"sit down," he said softly. "you look like you're about to collapse."

you hesitated, but the warmth radiating from the mug was too enticing to ignore. you sat on one of the barstools, wrapping your cold hands around the ceramic.

"he's just trying to get me to relax," you defended weakly, trying to justify the routine you both knew was wearing you thin. "he doesn't mean anything by it. we're not... you know it's not official or anything. we're just casual."

"i know exactly what you two are," tucker said softly. he didn't corner you against the fridge. instead, he leaned his hip against the counter opposite you, crossing his arms over his chest.

he kept a respectful distance, but his brown eyes were burning with the accumulated weight of the past few weeks. "dean is one of my good friends, and i know he doesn't do it maliciously. but it's killing me."

the air in the kitchen suddenly felt entirely too thick to breathe. "what do you mean?"

"it's killing me to watch from the sidelines, and it's killing me to keep pretending these nights down here don't mean anything," tucker whispered, his voice thick with a painful honesty he had spent months burying.

"i've been keeping it to myself because he got to you first, but seeing you look this exhausted while he's upstairs completely ignoring what you actually need? i just can't look away anymore."

a tear you couldn't stop slipped down your cheek, hot and fast.

this time, tucker didn't control himself. he crossed the small distance between you, his movements slow and deliberate, giving you every chance to pull away.

his thumb brushed against your cheekbone, catching the tear before it could drop.

the touch was entirely different from dean's urgent, possessive grip—it was soft and heavy with a quiet devotion.

his hand lingered against your jaw, the warmth of his palm seeping into your skin, grounding you completely.

"if you were mine," tucker murmured, his voice breaking just a fraction, his thumb tracing a comforting circle against your skin. "you wouldn't be begging for someone to listen to you. you wouldn't just be a late-night option when he feels like it. i don't want to hurt him... but god, i want you."

you sat frozen on the barstool, the physical contact sending an electric, terrifying spark of recognition straight to your core.

your heart was hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs, because the truth—the heavy, hidden truth you had been denying during every single one of those midnight talks—flooded your chest all at once.

you wanted him, too. badly.

you remembered crowding onto the living room couch on sunday nights, where you and tucker would always somehow end up sitting next to each other, your knees brushing under the low coffee table.

you hadn't pulled away instead you had leaned into his steady, solid warmth while dean was on the other side of you fully engaged in a different conversation.

for weeks you were lying to yourself, pretending you were just being a good friend to dean's housemate and teammate, when in reality, you were secretly starving for the quiet safety tucker carried with him like a shield.

"tucker," you breathed out, your voice a faint, trembling sound. your hand came up to rest over his wrist, your fingers tightening against his skin.

under your touch, tucker's gaze darkened, his focus snapping completely down to your mouth.

the gravity of the past month, the late-night whispers, the unspoken tension that had been coiling tighter and tighter between you with every passing week, finally broke.

a sharp wave of guilt crashed over you—he was dean's best friend, you were upstairs in dean's bed just minutes ago—and you could see that exact same conflict tearing through tucker's eyes.

his jaw flexed, his chest rising and falling in a ragged breath as the wrongness of it battled the sheer, undeniable desperation of how long he had waited.

but the pull was too strong.

weeks of restraint dissolved in a split second.

tucker leaned down, his face tilting as he slowly closed the final inch between you.

your eyes fluttered shut, your breath hitching as your lips parted, the air between you turning agonizingly hot.

you could feel the warmth of his breath against your mouth, a split second away from a collision that would change everything.

a kiss that felt as inevitable as it did dangerous.

before your lips could actually touch, the heavy wooden stairs groaned loudly in the quiet house.

the sudden noise pulled you apart.

tucker jerked back just a fraction as you both scrambled, guilt and adrenaline making your heart kick violently against your ribs.

a second later, the overhead light clicked on, flooding the room with a blindingly bright glare.

dean was standing at the bottom of the stairs with his phone in his hand, his hair messy from the pillows.

the easy, arrogant smirk was still lingering on his face as he walked in. "hey, what's taking so long with that—"

the words died instantly in his throat.

dean stopped dead in his tracks. even though tucker had pulled back, the thick, undeniable air of emotional and physical intimacy in the room was a physical entity.

dean's blue eyes narrowed sharply, cutting between his best friend and you.

he took in your tear-stained face, the extra mug of tea, the way tucker was still standing entirely too close to you. the breathless, guilty shock written all over your features which was vulnerability you had never once shown him was glaringly obvious.

"hey," dean said.

the usual playful, effortless lilt in his voice was completely gone, replaced by something flat, and sharp.

he stepped fully into the kitchen, trapping the three of you in a suffocating, heavy quiet.

dean looked at you, his eyes scanning your face, then shifted his gaze entirely to tucker.

his jaw tightened so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek as he crossed his arms over his chest. "what the fuck is going on in here?"

tucker didn't back away completely.

he kept his brown eyes locked dead on yours for one final, silent second, a desperate plea burning in his gaze, waiting to see if you were finally going to admit what you both felt.

you finally blinked, breaking your hyper-focus, and glanced down at your forearm. "oh. i banged it against the library turnstile yesterday because i was trying to balance a stack of research books, my laptop case, and a bagel. it's fine."

dean stared at you like you had just confessed to wrestling a bear on the campus quad. "the library turnstile did that?"

you snorted, flipping a page in your binder and reaching out to playfully swat his thigh. "dean, it's just a bruise."

"well it's a giant bruise."

"it is literally the size of a quarter. now please shush, i need to finish this outline before my lecture tomorrow."

but dean was already crossing the room, completely ignoring your mild protests.

he didn't care about your study guide, or the fact that you were currently top of your class and perfectly capable of managing your own life.

he knelt right beside your chair, his calloused hands—the ones usually wrapped tightly around a hockey stick—were surprisingly gentle as he lifted your arm.

he inspected the dark mark like a detective working a high-profile case, his thumb softly brushing the edge of the discoloration.

ever since you had explained your heart condition and the routine blood thinners that came with it, dean had become absurdly, beautifully attentive.

he wasn't overbearing—he never tried to stop you from going to your hot yoga classes, he never complained when you dragged him to the quiet floors of the library for grueling study sessions, and he never babied you when you were stressed about keeping your gpa up.

he respected your independence completely and loved how fiercely dedicated you were to your goals. but he worried about you. constantly.

the first time you had mentioned inr levels and how thinning your blood actually was, he had gone back to his shared house and researched them for three hours, much to his teammates' utter confusion.

and when your cardiologist had offered to add him to your patient portal notifications for emergencies? dean had accepted so fast he had nearly cracked his phone screen.

"you're making fun of me," dean muttered, his thumb gently tracing the unbroken skin around the bruise.

"always," you smiled, your expression softening completely as you reached out with your free hand to ruffle his messy hair, tugging him closer until he rested his chin on your knee. "but i'm okay. promise. now let me finish this section so i can beat your ass at mario kart later."

the tension finally left his shoulders, replaced by that cocky, familiar smirk that always made your stomach do backflips. he leaned up, pressing a warm, lingering kiss to your kneecap through your ripped jeans. "you're not beating me, sweetheart. keep dreaming."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the next morning was your routine cardiology follow-up. it was a beautiful wednesday, and honestly, you had planned to swing by the clinic on your scooter between your morning lecture and your afternoon study group at the library.

naturally, dean insisted on driving.

"dean," you sighed, adjusting the passenger-side visor to check your earrings. "you know you don't have to skip your morning practice for this. it's literally a fifteen-minute check-in."

"i didn't skip it, i rescheduled with the guys," he lied smoothly, keeping one hand on the steering wheel while his other hand reached across the console, wrapping tightly around yours and resting them over the gear shift. "besides, i want to be there. i like hanging out with you, even if it's in a boring waiting room."

your chest tightened, a warm, heavy feeling blooming in your throat. you squeezed his hand back, leaning over to press a quick kiss to his shoulder. that was the thing about dean. he never made your condition about him. he didn't treat you like you were fragile or broken.

he just showed up. which was more than you could ask for.

the appointment itself was entirely mundane.

you spent the first ten minutes chatting with the nurse about a hilarious argument your professor had gotten into with a student earlier that week.

you sat on the crinkly paper of the exam table, swinging your legs in your favorite boots, while dean watched you from the corner chair, his eyes bright with that effortless affection he only ever showed to you.

then, two phones buzzed simultaneously.

your phone chirped. dean's pocket practically vibrated off his hip.

you both looked down.

"oh no," dean whispered.

"what?"

"your inr," he said, staring at the screen like it was a ticking bomb. "it says 1.9."

you blinked, letting out a soft laugh. "dean—"

"isn't that low? your target is 2.0 to 3.0. 1.9 is low."

"it's slightly low. but it's totally fine."

"it’s fine according to who? the app hasn't given a green checkmark!"

before you could defend your body's right to be a single decimal point off, the door swung open and dr. evans walked in, flipping through your digital chart. "alright, everything looks great in the lab work—"

"the inr is 1.9," dean interrupted, sitting up so straight in his chair he looked like a soldier reporting for duty.

dr. evans stopped, looking between the two of you, a slow, amused smile spreading across her face. she was very used to dean's presence by now. "yes, mr. di laurentis. it is."

"and? is she at risk for a clot? do we need to adjust the dosage? should she be cutting back on her study hours this week?"

"dean, stop interrogating her, i'm fine," you hissed, though you couldn't help the fondness tugging at your lips as you reached out to nudge his leg with your boot.

"it's a perfectly fair question," dr. evans reassured him, tilting her laptop toward him so he could see the graphs. "1.9 is slightly below target, but given how active you are with school, and how well you're managing your stress and diet, it's completely stable. no medication changes needed. just keep doing what you're doing. go to class, pass your exams, live your life."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the moment the clinic doors slid open and the crisp afternoon air hit your face, dean let out a massive, lung-emptying exhale that made his broad shoulders drop three inches.

you bumped your shoulder against his arm as you walked toward his car. "you know, normal boyfriends don't try to take over the appointment from a woman with a medical degree."

"i promise i wasn't taking over. i was just gathering data."

"dean, you were panicking over a 0.1 difference."

he stopped walking just before you reached the passenger side, reaching out to catch your waist and pulling you flush against his chest.

his thumbs brushed over the fabric of your sweater, his fingers warm and reassuring through the material. the teasing, confident facade dropped away for a split second, leaving only the raw, vulnerable boy underneath.

"can you blame me?" he asked quietly, his eyes looking down into yours, entirely devoid of his usual arrogance.

you looked up at him, your heart aching with pure, unfiltered affection. because there it was—the truth beneath every overreaction, every extra first-aid kit he kept stuffed in his gym bag, every panicked look.

dean wasn't afraid of numbers on a screen.

he was just fiercely, terrifyingly in love with you, and the thought of anything ever hurting you made him feel entirely powerless.

"no," you softened, wrapping your arms around his neck and stepping fully into his space until there was no distance left between you. "i don't blame you."

"i know you're a badass," dean murmured, his head tilting down, his breath warm against your cheek. "i know you run circles around me, and you've got your classes and your whole life handled. you don't need me to protect you. but sometimes... i just get scared."

"i know," you whispered. you leaned up on your tiptoes, cupping his jaw, and pulled him down into a slow, lingering kiss right there in the hospital parking lot.

it was sweet, tasted like the mints he had chewed anxiously in the waiting room, and carried all the deep reassurance you couldn't put into words.

when you finally pulled away, dean blinked, a soft flush on his cheekbones as he looked slightly dazed. "that was unfair."

"what was?"

"you know i can't keep being a dramatic protective boyfriend when you kiss me like that. it completely wipes my brain."

you grinned, turning to unlock the passenger door. "sounds like a skill issue, di laurentis."

his jaw dropped. "a skill issue? i am literally devoted to your health and wellness!"

"you called a paper cut a 'medical emergency' last week when i was trying to open a package of highlighters."

"it looked deep, i swear." he shouted defensively, though a gorgeous laugh broke through his voice as he climbed into the driver's seat.

you laughed, leaning your head back against the headrest as he started the car, feeling entirely safe, entirely seen, and completely yourself. "and yet, you love me."

dean shifted the car into reverse, glancing over at you. his expression softened into that warm, effortless smile that was reserved only for you, his hand reaching over to rest comfortably on your thigh, his thumb drawing slow circles.

"yeah," he said, his voice thick with affection. "yeah, i really do, sweetheart."

he began to back out of the space, but just as he cleared the lane, his eyes darted down to the edge of your shirt sleeve. "wait. what is that dark smudge on your wrist?"

you groaned loudly, throwing your hands over your face. "it is ink, dean! from a ballpoint pen!"

"are you sure? because it looks kind of blue, like a new bruise—"

"oh for goodness sake, drive the car, di laurentis!"

one of his hands was resting on your knee, his thumb tracing slow, lazy circles through the fabric of your jeans, creating a soothing, radiating warmth.

every couple of minutes, he would shift, tilting his head up just enough to press a soft, lingering kiss to your bare wrist, or whatever patch of skin was closest to his lips, humming contentedly against your skin.

"tuck," you murmured.

you glanced around the sunny campus grounds, your shoulders tensing slightly as a group of students walked past. "you're doing it again."

he looked up at you, a lazy, utterly content smile spreading across his handsome face. "doing what?" he asked, his voice smooth, gentle, and thick with affection.

"you know what i mean," you said, as you could feel a familiar embarrassment coming over you once again. "we're outside. literally anyone could walk by."

see, thing was it wasn't that you didn't love him.

you loved him fiercely, but you also inherently preferred the quiet corners of life.

you kept your head down and preferred to keep your personal life strictly personal. it wasn't some dramatic defense mechanism, nor did you think you were superior for being low-key.

you liked your privacy. it was your way of life.

any sudden influx of attention made you instinctively guarded, and tucker's open, unashamed affection was honestly a lot to adjust to.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

truthfully, his intensity was the exact reason you had been so reluctant to have anything to do with him in the first place.

you had met at a mutual friend's birthday dinner at a diner off-campus. you had been trying to quietly eat your burger and chat with the girls next to you when tucker sat across from you, completely throwing you off balance.

you would’ve liked to say it was because he lacked charm but it wasn’t that because he had too much of it. he was effortlessly sweet, attentive, and so insanely attractive that it made you nervous.

when he asked for your number at the end of the night, you had actually hesitated, gently telling him that you didn't think you were his type.

you assumed his interest was a passing whim and you didn't particularly want to get swallowed up by his massive social world.

unfortunately for you, tucker had been relentlessly patient. he didn't push, but he didn't disappear either.

he would prove, look by look, that he was willing to learn your boundaries if it meant getting close to you. he respected your wishes, but he also made it clear with every sweet text and gentle smile that he wasn't necessarily going to be going anywhere.

little by little, those boundaries started to soften. you found yourself looking forward to his goodnight texts, and your heart would do a dangerous little skip whenever you saw his name pop up on your phone.

you were falling for him and there was absolutely nothing you could do about it.

as it turned out, tucker was in the exact same boat. for all his easy confidence, he had been entirely helpless against how deeply he was tumbling for you, completely enchanted by the grounding presence you brought into his world.

a few weeks later he had offered to walk you to your car after a long afternoon of studying, and right before you got in, he gently pulled your heavy class textbook out of your arms.

you watched in confusion as he opened it up to the exact page you had bookmarked, sliding a custom, glossy card stock bookmark inside.

right in the center of the it you read: i know i'm not your usual type, but will you let me be your boyfriend anyway?

below it, tucker had checked a tiny box next to the words 'yes', 'definitely yes', and 'ask me again after practice'.

when you looked up, the athlete was flushing a faint pink, holding the textbook out to you like a nervous kid handing over a valentine.

you had taken a pen from your bag and checked 'definitely yes' on the spot.

but the first real test of your tolerance for exposure had happened a couple of weeks into dating, during a weekend beach trip.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the beach was beautiful, but it was vast and incredibly loud.

the shoreline was dotted with young adults, families, and tucker's rowdy teammates playing an aggressive game of beach volleyball a few yards away.

you weren't particularly miserable, but you were definitely feeling the pressure of your surroundings.

you were sitting near the back of the sand, your knees pulled casually to your chest, with a large pink beach towel completely wrapped around your shoulders.

your sunglasses covered your eyes, acting as a kind of protective barrier between you and the crowded shoreline.

"hey, we're heading down to the water, do you want to come?" allie asked, jogging up to you with a bright smile, her sunglasses pushed up into her wavy hair.

you offered her a genuine, easy smile, pulling the pink towel just a little tighter around your shoulders.

you liked allie immensely, but you simply didn't have the energy to engage in socialising just yet. "go ahead without me. i'm actually good right here. just taking it all in."

"are you sure?" allie checked, looking at you closely to make sure you weren't just being polite. "i don't want you feeling left out."

you reassured her that it was okay, your tone warm and entirely steady.

"alright, but i am stealing you for food later." she called out with a laugh as she turned back toward the water.

you watched her go, satisfied with your spot, until a shadow fell over you.

tucker had just jogged over from the volleyball game, glistening with sweat and sea spray, his curls damp and wild. he looked vibrant, perfectly at ease in his own skin, and entirely in his element.

he dropped to his knees on the sand next to you, kicking up a tiny spray, completely unbothered by the chaos around him.

"you're missing a legendary comeback, sweetheart," he breathed, flashing a bright, dimpled grin as he reached for his water bottle.

his eyes scanned your posture—from the pink towel clutched tightly at your throat to the slight tension in your jaw. his smile softened instantly into something incredibly tender. "hey. you doing okay out here?"

"yeah," you said, your voice steady, though you kept your eyes on the horizon. "it's nice. just a lot of people."

without a word, he smoothly shifted his body, positioning his broad frame directly between you and the crowded shoreline, effectively blocking out the rest of the beach.

it was a deliberate, protective move, creating a physical wall of privacy just for you.

he reached out, his cool, damp hands gently nudging your ankles, encouraging your legs to uncurl from your chest.

you gave him a dry look, but the steady, patient humor and warmth in his eyes made you yield.

you guided your legs out straight, and he immediately laid down right beside you, propping his head up on his hand, his shoulder firmly and comfortingly pressed against yours.

"talk to me," he murmured, his thumb brushing over your ankle. "are the guys being too loud?"

"the guys are fine," you whispered, adjusting your sunglasses. "it's just... never mind."

tucker looked at you for a long moment, his chest rising and falling with a slow, deliberate breath.

he reached over, his fingers gently sliding your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose just enough so he could look directly into your eyes.

there was no pity in his gaze, only an immense, grounding warmth that felt entirely safe.

"look at me," he asked softly, to which you did.

"who's on this beach right now?"

"garrett, dean, allie, logan... a million other people." you sighed.

"no," tucker interrupted, a small, heart-melting smile tugging at his lips. he leaned a fraction closer, shutting out the rest of the world. "right here. in this particular square foot of sand. who is here?"

"just you," you whispered.

"just me," he agreed firmly.

he reached out and gently nudged the edges of the large pink towel away from your chest, his movements slow, deliberate, and free of any rush.

he peeled the fabric back from your shoulders, letting the warm sun hit your skin.

your instinct was to pull it back around yourself, but tucker immediately placed his warm palms flat against your collarbones, smoothing down over your bare shoulders, melting your tension away.

he shifted, draping his large, heavy arm over your waist and pulling your back flush against his chest, tucking you perfectly into his side while the pink towel now draped loosely over both of your laps.

all wrapped in his scent and his heat, the crowded beach completely faded away.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

but even after that afternoon on the sand, navigating his complete lack of a filter when it came to affection was still a daily exercise.

just yesterday, you had been waiting for him in the stands after hockey practice. you had chose a seat a few rows up, fully expecting to just wave, wait for him to change, and walk out together like normal.

but tucker had spotted you instantly. he didn't care that he was still half-dressed in his gear, or that the rest of the team was skating by.

he had jogged right up the bleachers, his skates clacking loudly and heavily, drawing everyone's eyes right to your row.

when he reached you, he had wrapped his arms around you, planting a lingering, unapologetic kiss right on your cheek, murmuring how glad he was that you came.

you had frozen up as you felt the weight of his teammates' teasing glances from the ice. you could hear garrett shouting a joke over his shoulder, and while you knew it was all in good fun, you wished he would have just saved the enthusiasm for the privacy of the car.

tucker had noticed your sudden stiffness then, his expression shifting to something more mindful, but the self-consciousness of the moment had lingered.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

tucker noticed that same familiar, reserve taking over your features right now against the tree on the campus lawn.

the playful smirk faded from his lips, replaced by a gaze so soft and fiercely tender it made your breath hitch.

he didn't move away. instead, he rolled over completely, propping his elbows on either side of your thighs so he was hovering over you, creating a little bubble just for the two of you.

he reached up, his knuckles lingering against your flushed cheek, rubbing a gentle circle there. his deep brown eyes held yours with absolute certainty.

"let them look," tucker said softly, addressing the silent hesitation from yesterday. "i just care about you."

"it's just a lot sometimes. not you, tuck. just... yesterday at the rink, i felt like i was part of a show," you sighed, looking down at his collarbone because looking into his eyes felt too intense.

tucker understood completely. he knew you valued your privacy and that it took time for you to let someone into your space, and he wanted nothing more than to make sure you felt secure.

he made it his personal mission to meet you halfway and make sure you always felt safe with him.

he gently caught your chin, tilting your face back up. when you looked at him, his smile was so sweet, so full of pure, unadulterated adoration, that your heart did a clumsy flip.

"i'm sorry about yesterday, i got ahead of myself," he promised, leaning up to press a soft, slow, lingering kiss to your lips. completely private and entirely for you.

"but i'm never gonna stop wanting to show you off. you're the best thing in my life. you're allowed to be held, you know. anywhere." he whispered.

a soft, amused laugh escaped you, the lingering tension in your chest finally unraveling into pure warmth. "you're actually so ridiculous."

"i'm crazy about you, there's a difference," he grinned, his beautiful dimples flashing.

he shifted, laying his head back down in your lap, but this time he took your hand, intertwining his fingers perfectly with yours and resting them directly over his racing heart. "see? look at that smile. i love seeing you happy."

you let out a soft breath, finally relaxing completely against the tree. you didn't look around to see if anyone was watching. you just looked down at tucker, whose eyes were closed as he contentedly soaked up your presence like.

you hesitantly brought your free hand up to slide your fingers through his soft curls, gently twisting the thick strands and massaging his scalp.

tucker let out a low, pleased hum, burying his face closer into your thigh, pressing a sweet, hidden kiss there.

because you weren't one for big declarations or public displays, you poured your love for him into the quiet, invisible details of his life.

tucker loved purely and loudly, but you loved him intentionally.

he didn't know it yet, but you were the one who always made sure his favorite gatorade flavor was stocked in the fridge.

you had also quietly started reading up on hockey regulations just so you could fully understand the plays he talked about with such wild passion.

you showed up for him in the background, anchoring him while he took center stage.

behind closed doors, away from the crowds and the watchful eyes of the campus, your own form of affection came alive.

it had taken you a while to get there, a steady building of trust as tucker proved time and time again that your boundaries were safe with him.

but when it was just the two of you in the quiet, cozy sanctuary of his bedroom, you didn't hold back.

you were the one who would pull him down by his collar, losing yourself in deep, unhurried kisses that left him completely breathless and reeling.

in those private hours, you would map the line of his spine with your fingers, holding his heavy body close against yours, letting him know exactly how deeply he was wanted.

you just preferred saving the best parts of your love for an audience of one.

"stay like this for a bit?" he mumbled, his voice thick with a sudden wave of sleepiness, his chest rising and falling in a steady, comforting rhythm beneath your intertwined hands.

"i have chapters to read, tuck," you teased softly, though your fingers didn't stop moving through his hair, untangling the stubborn knots with gentle, loving precision.

"the book can wait. i can't," he murmured, tightening his grip on your hand just a fraction and pressing closer to you.

you smiled, the last remnants of your apprehension melting away into the warm, quiet afternoon.

"ten minutes," you bargained softly, though your fingers didn't stop their soothing rhythm through his hair. "and then i'm turning the page. if your head is in the way, i'm using your forehead as a bookrest."

tucker let out a low, vibrating chuckle against your thigh, his eyes remaining closed, a soft smile playing on his lips. "deal. you're ruthless, you know that?"

"someone has to keep you in line," you murmured.

you leaned your head back against the rough bark of the tree, finally letting the rest of the campus blur into completely irrelevant background noise.

you didn't need to change who you were to fit into his world, and he didn't need to dim his light to fit into yours.