Venus

“I’m not miserable,” Dean corrects him smoothly. “I’m uninspired.”

Logan snorts from his spot on the ratty couch. “Uninspired? You literally took twins home on Tuesday.”

“That was Tuesday, Logan. It’s Friday. I’m a growing boy. I need fresh stimulation.” Dean sighs, pushing off the doorframe. “I’m going to the kitchen to find something stronger than this watered-down piss.”

“Good luck,” Tucker calls out over the music. “I think the football team raided the liquor cabinet an hour ago.”

Dean navigates the crowded hallway with the effortless grace of a guy who owns the place. He dodges a couple making out against the thermostat and sidesteps a puddle of questionable origin. As he rounds the corner into the kitchen, the noise level shifts. It’s less thumping bass and more rowdy, escalating shouts.

A crowd is gathered around the center island. Specifically, a crowd of massive, tank-like senior football players. And right in the middle of them is you.

Dean stops dead in his tracks.

You are perched on one of the barstools, looking entirely out of place and yet completely in control. Your hair falls over your shoulders in messy waves, and you’re wearing a cropped leather jacket over a tight top that leaves exactly the right amount to the imagination. But it isn’t just the way you look — though you are undeniably, breathtakingly stunning. It’s the way you’re holding court.

“You are slowing down, big guy,” you say, your voice carrying over the chanting. It’s smooth, slightly raspy, and laced with a heavy, unmistakable Russian accent.

You push a brimming shot glass of clear liquid toward a guy Dean recognizes as Meathead Mike, a defensive lineman who weighs close to three hundred pounds.

“I’m not slowing down,” Mike grunts, looking slightly green around the gills. “I’m pacing myself.”

“Pacing,” you repeat, a smirk playing on your lips. It’s a wicked, self-assured smirk. You pick up your own shot glass. “In Moscow, pacing is for the weak. We drink, or we go home to sleep. Which one are you doing, Mishka?”

Dean is instantly fascinated.

“I’m drinking,” Mike growls, snatching the glass.

You tap your glass against his. “Na zdarovye.”

You toss the vodka back effortlessly, not even a flinch crossing your features. You set the glass down with a sharp clack against the granite. Mike follows suit, but he gags halfway down, coughing violently into his elbow. His buddies groan and slap his back.

“Alright, alright, he’s done,” one of the other linebackers laughs. “Jesus, girl. What are you made of?”

“Mostly spite,” you reply, your face deadpan, though your eyes gleam with amusement.

You glance over your shoulder at a blonde girl standing nervously by the fridge. Your roommate, Morgan, the quintessential all-American girl next door whom you dragged here because you were bored.

“Morgan,” you say, snapping your fingers lightly. “Pass the bottle. I think the offense wants a turn.”

Morgan looks terrified. “Um, I think maybe we should stop? That’s, like, a lot of vodka.”

“It is barely a warm-up,” you insist, reaching over to grab the handle of Smirnoff yourself. You look at the bottle with a mix of pity and disgust.

Dean watches you, completely captivated. He knows the type of girls who hang around Briar parties. They giggle, they flirt, they bat their eyelashes at the hockey players. You are doing none of that. You look like you could buy and sell everyone in this room, and honestly? You probably could.

Six years younger than Ilya Rozanov, the infamous, cocky Boston Bruins center, you are practically a miniature version of him. Ilya brought you to the United States the second you turned eighteen, pulling you out of Moscow and away from your emotionally abusive father and older brother. He bought you a luxury apartment just off the Briar campus, filled your bank account, and told you to get an education — mostly because, in Ilya’s words, “hockey players are dumb, and we need at least one brain in the family.” Ilya spoils you rotten and guards you like a dragon hoarding gold. But right now, nobody in this kitchen knows that.

Dean takes a step forward, sliding into the gap left by one of the retreating football players.

“I don’t think you should waste your time with the offense,” Dean says, leaning his hip against the counter right next to you. He flashes you his trademark, million-dollar smile — the one that usually has girls melting into puddles. “They drop the ball when it counts.”

You pause, the vodka bottle hovering over a glass. You turn your head slowly, raking your eyes up and down Dean’s frame. You take in his messy blond hair, his sharp jawline, the casual but expensive fit of his casual sweater.

Your expression doesn’t change. You don’t melt. You don’t even blink.

“And who are you?” You ask, your tone bordering on bored. “The waterboy?”

A few of the remaining football players snicker. Dean’s eyebrows shoot up. Okay. Not the usual reaction.

“Dean Di Laurentis,” he says, offering his hand. “I live here. Play hockey.”

You look at his hand, then back up to his face. You don’t shake it. “Congratulations on paying rent, Dean Di Laurentis. But as you can see, I am busy.”

Dean lets his hand drop, entirely unbothered. The chase is the best part, and you just handed him a massive head start.

“Busy giving the entire offensive line alcohol poisoning,” Dean notes, glancing at the bottle. “You know, that’s cheap shit. It’ll eat straight through your stomach lining.”

You snort, pouring yourself another shot anyway. “Please. I am Russian. This,” you tap the bottle of Smirnoff, “is practically flavored water.”

“A Russian,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “That explains the accent. What brings you to a sweaty college basement in Massachusetts? Boston isn’t exactly Moscow.”

“Thank God for that,” you mutter under your breath. You pick up the shot glass, twirling it between your fingers. “I go to school here. First semester. Which means I am currently trying to enjoy a party, but people keep talking to me instead of drinking.”

Dean laughs, a genuine, startled sound. “You’re a freshman? Could’ve fooled me. You’re holding court like a senior.”

“Age is a number,” you say dismissively. “Maturity is knowing when a man is trying to hit on you with terrible opening lines.”

“Terrible?” Dean clutches his chest in mock offense. “Ouch. I’ll have you know my opening lines have a very high success rate.”

“Then the women here have very low standards.” You toss the shot back. Again, no chaser. No wince.

Dean shakes his head in amazement. “Okay, color me impressed. You’re completely unbothered by that.”

“I am unbothered by most things,” you reply. You slide off the barstool, landing lightly on your feet. You’re a few inches shorter than Dean, but the way you hold yourself makes you seem taller. You have this undeniable, gravitational pull.

You turn to your roommate. “Morgan. Are we having fun yet, or do you want to go?”

Morgan jumps, startled to be addressed. “Um! I’m having fun! But, uh, maybe no more shots?”

“Fine. No more shots.” You look back at Dean. “See? I am very compromising. A delight to be around.”

“I can tell,” Dean says, his eyes tracking the movement of your mouth. “But you know, you never told me your name.”

“I did not,” you agree.

Dean waits a beat. “Are you going to?”

“No.”

Dean laughs again. He loves this. He is completely, hopelessly intrigued. You are stunning, sharp-tongued, and just the right amount of a bitch. It’s a breath of fresh air. “Come on. Give me something. A fake name? A nickname?”

“You can call me when you have better vodka,” you deadpan. You step around him, your shoulder brushing lightly against his chest. The contact sends a sudden, sharp jolt of electricity straight down Dean’s spine.

“Hey, wait,” Dean says, turning to follow you as you start walking toward the living room. “At least tell me what you’re studying. Let me guess. Business? Political science?”

You don’t stop walking, but you glance back over your shoulder, a patronizing smile on your lips. “Do I look like I want to wear a pantsuit and argue in a boardroom?”

“You look like you’d win every argument,” Dean fires back effortlessly.

“Obviously. But I don’t need a degree for that.” You weave through the crowd with expert precision.

Dean keeps pace, ignoring the people calling his name. “So what is it then? Art history? Bio?”

“You ask too many questions for a hockey player,” you tell him. “Aren’t you supposed to just grunt and hit things?”

Dean grins, stepping directly into your path to force you to stop. “I can do that too, if you’re into it.”

You look up at him, your eyes narrowing slightly. It’s a purely assessing gaze, like you’re weighing his worth on a scale and finding him somewhat lacking, but not entirely useless.

“You are very confident,” you note.

“I have reason to be,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction of an octave, turning rougher, more intimate. “I’m a good guy to know around here. I throw the best parties. I know the best places to eat. I can get you out of that dorm and into places you actually want to be.”

“I do not live in a dorm,” you say smoothly. “And I go wherever I want to go.”

Dean’s grin widens. “An off-campus freshman. Interesting. Who’s funding that? Rich daddy?”

A shadow crosses your face so fast Dean almost misses it. The mention of your father in Moscow hits a nerve, pulling at the dark memories Ilya dragged you away from. Your jaw tightens.

“Not my father,” you say, your voice suddenly cold enough to freeze hell over. “My brother.”

Dean instantly realizes he stepped on a landmine. “Hey, I didn’t mean anything by it. Just making conversation.”

“You are making assumptions,” you correct him sharply. You take a step back, the playful banter completely evaporating from your posture. You look at Morgan, who is hovering a few feet away. “We are leaving.”

“Wait,” Dean says, reaching out instinctively. He catches your wrist, his fingers wrapping around the warm, soft skin.

You freeze. You look down at his hand on your wrist, and then slowly bring your eyes back up to meet his. The look you give him is so lethally calm it actually makes Dean’s heart skip a beat.

“Remove your hand,” you say softly.

Dean lets go immediately, holding both hands up in surrender. “My bad. I’m sorry. Seriously.”

You brush off your sleeve, even though he barely gripped you. You are Ilya’s sister through and through, you don’t take shit from anyone, especially not pretty-boy athletes who think they own the world.

“Do not touch me again,” you say.

“I won’t,” Dean promises, and he means it. He watches as you turn on your heel and stalk toward the front door, Morgan trailing anxiously behind you.

“Hey!” Dean calls out, unable to help himself. He takes a few steps after you. “Can I at least get your number? To apologize properly?”

You stop at the front door and look back at him. The coldness has receded a bit, replaced by that same haughty, amused superiority from the kitchen.

“You do not need my number, Dean Di Laurentis,” you call back over the thumping bass of the music. “You are clearly used to girls making things easy for you.”

“And you’re not going to?” Dean asks, a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

You smile — a full, devastatingly gorgeous smile that hits Dean like a physical blow to the chest.

“I do not make anything easy for anyone,” you say.

With that, you open the front door and step out into the cool September night, pulling it shut behind you.

Dean stands in the hallway for a long, silent moment. The party rages on around him, people bumping into his shoulders, girls laughing in his direction, but he doesn’t notice any of it. He is staring at the closed front door, his mind completely blank except for the echo of your heavy Russian accent and the sharp, burning realization that he needs to see you again.

Garrett appears out of the crowd, clapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Hey man, who was that? She completely ghosted you.”

“I don’t know,” Dean murmurs, still staring at the door. “But I’m going to find out.”

Garrett laughs. “Looked like she was about to rip your throat out.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, a slow, entirely genuine smile spreading across his face. He finally turns to look at his teammate, his eyes bright with a sudden, fierce energy. “I think I’m in love.”

***

Outside, the air is crisp, biting at your exposed skin. You pull your leather jacket tighter around yourself as you walk down the sidewalk, the rhythmic click of your boots echoing in the quiet street.

“Oh my god,” Morgan gasps, rushing to keep up with your long strides. “Are you insane? Do you know who that was?”

“Some guy named Dean,” you say dismissively, checking your phone. A text from Ilya sits on the lock screen: Are you home? Drink water. Lock door. Love you.

“Not just some guy!” Morgan insists, practically vibrating with anxiety and awe. “That’s Dean Di Laurentis! He’s, like, Briar hockey royalty. He’s gorgeous, he’s rich, and he literally never gets turned down. You just rejected the hottest guy on campus!”

“He is arrogant,” you reply, typing a quick reply to Ilya: I am fine. Going home now. Do not be annoying.

“Well, yeah, they all are!” Morgan huffs. “But he was so into you! Why did you blow him off?”

You slide your phone back into your pocket and look at Morgan. You like her — she’s sweet and harmless — but she clearly doesn’t understand how the world works. At least, not your world.

“Because, Morgan,” you say patiently, your Russian accent softening in the quiet night air. “Men like that are used to getting what they want the moment they want it. They think the world is a vending machine. You put in a little charm, and a woman falls out.”

“And you’re not a vending machine,” Morgan finishes, nodding slowly.

“Exactly.” You smile, looking ahead down the dimly lit street toward your luxury apartment building. “I am the prize. If he wants me, he is going to have to work for it. And I am going to make him work very, very hard.”

You know exactly what you’re doing. You saw the look in Dean’s eyes when you walked away. The shock, the frustration, the desperate, clawing hunger. It’s the exact reaction you wanted.

Ilya taught you a long time ago that on the ice, you never let the opponent know your next move. You make them chase you. You make them exhaust themselves trying to figure you out, and then, when they’re completely off balance, you strike.

Dean Di Laurentis thinks he’s a player. He thinks this is a game he knows how to win.

But as you walk back to your apartment, a small, triumphant smile playing on your lips, you know one thing for absolute certain.

He has absolutely no idea who he is playing with.

***

The sharp, scraping sound of steel biting into ice is the first thing that actually makes you feel like you can breathe since you landed in America.

You sit in the third row of the arena, the chill of the rink seeping through your designer sweater, and you close your eyes for just a second. The smell of the cold, the faint metallic tang of sweat and Zamboni fumes — it’s universal. It smells like Moscow. It smells like the freezing, dilapidated local rinks where you used to sit huddled in a thick coat next to your mama, her gloved hands wrapped around a paper cup of awful coffee, watching a scrawny, angry little Ilya learn how to check kids twice his size into the boards.

Hockey is in your blood just as much as it is in Ilya’s. Before your mother passed away, the rink was your sanctuary. It was the only place your father didn’t care to go, which meant it was the only place you, Ilya, and your mama were truly safe. Now, there are very few things in this world you genuinely love: Ilya, expensive clothes, fast cars … and this.

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Morgan complains loudly over the roar of the crowd, pulling you out of your memories. She is shivering beside you, holding a foam finger she bought at the concession stand. “Why are they hitting each other so much? Isn’t the puck over there?”

“It is a forecheck,” you say, not taking your eyes off the ice. “They are establishing physical dominance to force a turnover in the defensive zone. Keep up.”

“I thought we were just here to look at hot guys,” she mutters, taking a sip of her hot chocolate.

“You are here to look at hot guys,” you correct her smoothly. “I am here because I appreciate the sport.”

And you do. But as you watch the Briar Hawks cycle the puck in the offensive zone, your eyes inevitably track back to number sixty-six. Dean Di Laurentis.

You haven’t seen him since the party last weekend. You haven’t texted him, and since you didn’t give him your number, he hasn’t texted you. But on the ice, he is impossible to ignore. For a guy who spends his weekends trying to charm freshmen out of their clothes, he is undeniably lethal on the blue line. He’s a defenseman, playing right side, and his skating is fluid, almost effortless.

“Oh, look,” Morgan gasps, pointing. “It’s Dean! He’s the guy you yelled at!”

“I did not yell at him,” you say calmly. “I simply declined his unsolicited advances. There is a difference.”

“He’s really good, isn’t he?”

You narrow your eyes as Dean receives a pass at the point. He fakes a slap shot, dragging the puck around a sliding defender, and fires a wrist shot through traffic. It clangs hard against the post and deflects out.

“He is decent,” you allow, your voice flat. “But his gap control is inconsistent, and he relies too heavily on his forehand.”

Morgan stares at you blankly. “Is that English?”

“It is hockey,” you reply, leaning back in your seat. “Which is better.”

The buzzer sounds a few minutes later, the scoreboard flashing a 4-3 victory for Briar. The crowd erupts into a deafening cheer, the student section banging on the glass. You offer a polite, golf-clap level of applause. It was a sloppy third period. Briar let up on the gas, allowing two unanswered goals in the final ten minutes. Ilya would have been screaming on the bench if his team played like that.

“Okay, they won! Can we go now?” Morgan begs, teeth chattering. “I can’t feel my toes.”

“We can go,” you agree, standing up and brushing invisible lint off your jeans. “Your toes are weak.”

You navigate the crowded concourse, weaving through the sea of Briar hockey jerseys and drunken college students. You are halfway to the main exit, your mind already jumping ahead to the heated seats in your car, when a voice cuts through the noise.

“Hey! Moscow!”

You don’t stop walking. You know exactly who it is, but you are not a dog to be called.

“Hey, wait up! Come on, I know you hear me!”

Footsteps jog up behind you, and suddenly Dean is stepping right into your path, forcing you to stop or physically walk into his chest.

You pause, looking up at him slowly.

Dean is slightly out of breath, his chest heaving under a crisp, perfectly tailored charcoal suit. His blond hair is still damp from the post-game shower, pushed back casually, and his tie is already loosened at the collar. He looks ridiculously, unfairly handsome, and the smug, triumphant grin on his face tells you he knows it.

“You know,” you say, your accent thick and unbothered, “usually, the players wait until they have left the arena to harass the fans.”

Dean laughs, dragging a hand through his damp hair. “I saw you walking out. Had to run to catch up. I didn’t peg you for a hockey fan.”

“I am full of surprises,” you reply dryly. “Now, if you will excuse me, my friend is freezing to death.”

Morgan, standing a few feet away, gives a tiny, terrified wave. Dean shoots her a dazzling smile that makes her blush furiously, before immediately turning his full attention back to you. The laser-focus in his eyes is intense. It’s the same look he had on the ice.

“So you came to watch me play,” Dean says, his voice dropping into that smooth, confident purr. “I’ve gotta say, I’m flattered. You played hard to get at the party, but you show up to my game? That’s a mixed signal, sweetheart.”

You let out a soft, patronizing laugh. “I came to watch a hockey game, Di Laurentis. You just happened to be on the ice. Do not flatter yourself.”

“Ouch,” Dean says, though his grin doesn’t waver. “You’re killing me here. But hey, we won. You can’t deny we put on a good show.”

“A good show?” You tilt your head, crossing your arms over your chest. You look him up and down, your expression perfectly deadpan. “Is that what you call that third period?”

Dean blinks, the smugness faltering for a fraction of a second. “Uh. Yeah. We got the win.”

“You got lucky,” you correct him seamlessly. “Your team played a neutral zone trap for the first two periods, which was effective against a slower offensive line. But in the third, they adjusted their breakout, and your defense collapsed. You were scrambling.”

Dean is staring at you now. The playful, flirtatious energy completely drains out of him, replaced by genuine, unadulterated shock. “Wait. You actually … you know the systems?”

“I know when a team stops moving their feet,” you say, stepping a fraction closer. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, but the hockey analysis is completely taking over. “Your forwards stopped backchecking, which left you and your partner hung out to dry on odd-man rushes. You were playing on your heels for the last ten minutes.”

Dean’s mouth opens slightly. He looks like he’s just been hit by a truck. “I … yeah. Garrett was pissed on the bench. We gave up the blue line way too easily.”

“You specifically,” you point out, tapping a finger lightly against his expensive suit jacket. “You pinched on the boards with four minutes left. It was a stupid risk. If their winger had been half a second faster, that was a breakaway, and the game goes to overtime.”

Dean swallows hard. He’s looking at you like you just sprouted a second head, but more importantly, he’s looking at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen in his entire life. His eyes track the movement of your finger on his chest, then snap back up to your lips.

“You saw that,” he murmurs, his voice suddenly sounding a lot rougher.

“I have eyes,” you say dismissively. “But the real problem is your transition game. You are fast, I will give you that. But you are predictable.”

“Predictable?” Dean echoes, his competitive streak flaring up. He steps closer, closing the distance between you so that you have to crane your neck slightly to maintain eye contact. “I’m the leading scoring defenseman in the conference.”

“Because you play against college boys,” you fire back, unimpressed. “But you rely entirely on your forehand. Every time you pick up the puck behind the net, you pivot right. Every single time. You never transition to your backhand to make the breakout pass up the left wing.”

“Because my forehand is stronger,” Dean argues, a defensive edge creeping into his tone. “The pass is more accurate.”

“Because your backhand is weak,” you correct him bluntly.

Silence falls between you.

Even the dull roar of the crowd leaving the arena seems to fade into the background. Dean just stares down at you, his green eyes wide, his chest rising and falling visibly under his shirt.

He is completely silent.

For a defenseman who prides himself on his skill, being called out like that should infuriate him. It should make him defensive, angry, or at least dismissive. But you watch as a slow, dark flush creeps up his neck. You watch the way his jaw tightens, and the way his gaze drops to your mouth again, heavy and hot.

Holy shit, Dean thinks. His brain has short-circuited.

He’s spent his entire life surrounded by puck bunnies. Girls who wear his jersey, girls who tell him he played great even when he knows he played like garbage, girls who only care about the post-game parties and the status of hooking up with a Briar hockey player.

And then there is you. Standing in the middle of a crowded lobby, ripping apart his blue-line transitions and calling his backhand weak with a heavy Russian accent and an expression that says you couldn’t care less if you bruised his ego.

He has never been so incredibly turned on in his entire life. It’s actually a little terrifying. His pants suddenly feel uncomfortably tight, a heavy knot of pure lust coiling in his gut.

“My backhand is weak,” Dean repeats slowly, his voice dropping an octave, practically vibrating with tension.

“Very weak,” you confirm, completely oblivious to the internal crisis you are causing him. Or maybe you aren’t oblivious. Maybe you just don’t care. “If you ever make it to the pros, a smart forechecker will notice that in the first period and shut down the right side of the ice. You will be useless in your own zone.”

“Useless,” Dean whispers. He licks his lips, stepping even closer. The scent of his expensive cologne mixed with the faint, lingering smell of his body wash hits you. “God, you are brutal.”

“I am honest,” you reply, though your breath catches slightly as he invades your personal space. You hold your ground, refusing to back up. “Do you want me to stroke your ego and tell you that you are perfect, Di Laurentis?”

“No,” Dean says immediately, and he means it. “I want you to tell me everything else I did wrong.”

You pause, caught off guard for the first time. You expected him to get mad. You expected him to puff up his chest and rattle off his stats. You did not expect him to look at you like he wants to drag you into the nearest broom closet and let you dissect his entire life.

“You missed a wide-open pass to Graham on the power play in the second period,” you say, your voice a fraction softer, the air between you suddenly thick and electric.

“Keep going,” Dean murmurs, his eyes dark, his body angled entirely toward you.

“You … you over-commit on the penalty kill.” You feel a flush rising to your own cheeks now, furious at yourself for losing your composure. Why is he looking at you like that? “You chase the puck instead of holding the box.”

“What else?” Dean asks, his voice practically a gravelly whisper. He reaches out, and for a second you think he’s going to touch you, but he just rests his hand on the wall next to your head, leaning in. “Tell me my gap control is shit again.”

You swallow hard. Ilya warned you about American boys. He did not warn you about this.

“Your gap control is shit,” you say, forcing your voice to stay steady. You lift your chin, meeting his intense gaze head-on. “And if you do not fix it, you are going to cost your team the championship.”

Dean lets out a harsh breath, shaking his head slightly as a slow, wicked smile spreads across his face. “Jesus Christ. Who are you?”

“I am the girl who is leaving,” you say, ducking swiftly under his arm.

The spell breaks. You grab Morgan by the sleeve of her coat, practically dragging her toward the glass doors.

“Wait!” Dean spins around, his dress shoes slipping slightly on the tile. “Seriously! What’s your name? I can’t keep calling you Moscow!”

You push through the double doors, the freezing night air hitting you like a physical wall. You don’t stop, but you look over your shoulder one last time. Dean is standing inside the lobby, framed by the bright fluorescent lights, looking after you with a mixture of desperation and awe.

“Fix your backhand, Di Laurentis,” you call back, a smirk finally breaking through your icy exterior. “Maybe then you will earn my name.”

You turn away, letting the doors swing shut behind you.

“Oh my god,” Morgan gasps as you speed-walk toward the parking lot. “What just happened? What was that? Was that flirting? Because it sounded like you were insulting him, but he looked like he wanted to eat you alive.”

“It was hockey analysis,” you say firmly, though your heart is hammering against your ribs in a way that has absolutely nothing to do with the sport.

“No, that was … that was aggressive sexual tension disguised as hockey analysis,” Morgan insists, pulling her keys out of her pocket. “Y/N, I am not joking. I think you just broke Dean Di Laurentis.”

You reach your car, leaning against the cold metal door as you wait for Morgan to unlock it. You think about the look in Dean’s eyes when you called out his play. The sudden shift from arrogant playboy to entirely, intensely captivated. You didn’t expect him to care about the sport as much as the glory. You didn’t expect him to listen to you.

And you certainly didn’t expect to feel this sudden, terrifying urge to see him again.

“I did not break him,” you say softly, mostly to yourself as you pull open the passenger door. You stare out at the darkened arena one last time, the cold air biting at your cheeks.

“But I think I might.”

***

Inside the arena lobby, Dean is still standing exactly where you left him.

He feels like he’s just been hit by lightning. His heart is pounding against his ribs, his blood rushing hot and fast through his veins. He replays the last five minutes in his head on a loop. The way your eyes flashed when you criticized his transition game. The heavy, intoxicating purr of your Russian accent. The absolute, unshakeable confidence radiating off you.

Garrett walks out of the locker room hallway a minute later, dressed in his own suit, his gym bag slung over his shoulder. He spots Dean standing completely still in the middle of the empty concourse.

“Hey,” Garrett says, walking over and waving a hand in front of Dean’s face. “Earth to Dean. You good, man? You look like you just saw a ghost.”

Dean slowly turns his head to look at his captain.

“Garrett,” Dean says, his voice totally deadpan.

“Yeah?”

“I need to run drills.”

Garrett frowns, confused. “What? Now? We just played a game, dude. We’re going to Malone’s to celebrate.”

“No,” Dean says, shaking his head. He looks back at the doors you just walked through, that wicked, determined smile returning to his face. He has never wanted a challenge more in his entire life. He has never wanted a girl more in his entire life. “I need ice time. Right now.”

Garrett stares at him. “Are you sick? Are you concussed? What drills do you even need to run?”

Dean adjusts the cuffs of his suit jacket, his eyes gleaming.

“Backhand passing,” Dean says simply. “I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

***

The Briar University quad is a rare picture of New England perfection today. The sun is shining, the sky is a crisp, cloudless blue, and the temperature is hovering right around seventy degrees — an absolute miracle for early October.

Because of this, half the student body has decided that classes are optional. The sprawling green lawns are covered with students lounging on blankets, throwing Frisbees, and pretending to study.

You are one of the people pretending to study.

You sit on a plaid blanket under the shade of a large oak tree, a heavy microeconomics textbook propped open on your lap, and a pair of oversized, dark sunglasses resting on your nose. You have a highlighter in one hand, but you haven’t marked a single page in twenty minutes.

It is entirely too loud to focus, mostly because of the pickup soccer game happening fifty yards away.

Normally, you would just pack up and go back to the quiet luxury of your off-campus apartment. But there is a reason you are still sitting here, pretending to read about supply and demand curves.

Dean Di Laurentis is playing soccer.

He is running around the makeshift field with his teammates along with a guy you recognize from a party as Beau, the star quarterback of the Briar football team. They are loud, obnoxious, and taking the game far too seriously for a Thursday afternoon.

“Pass it, Di Laurentis, you puck hog!” Beau shouts, jogging backward as Dean weaves the black-and-white ball between his feet.

“It’s a ball, Beau, not a puck,” Dean fires back, his footwork surprisingly nimble for a guy who spends his life on ice skates. “And maybe I’d pass if you knew how to finish a play!”

“I throw seventy-yard bombs for a living,” Beau laughs, trying to steal the ball. “I finish plenty.”

“Yeah, but your footwork is trash,” Logan calls out from across the grass. “Stick to using your hands, golden boy.”

You watch them over the top of your textbook, hidden safely behind the dark lenses of your sunglasses. Dean is wearing a grey Briar Hockey t-shirt and athletic shorts, his blond hair sticking up in sweaty, messy spikes. He is laughing, completely in his element, shouting trash talk at his friends.

And then, he turns around to jog backward, scanning the perimeter of the quad.

His eyes sweep over the crowds of students, past the girls clustered on a nearby blanket who have been practically drooling over him for the last hour, and land squarely on the oak tree.

He stops. He actually trips over the soccer ball, stumbling forward a few steps before catching his balance.

“Hey, watch it!” Tucker yells as he steals the abandoned ball. “Head in the game, Di Laurentis!”

Dean completely ignores him. He is staring straight at you. Even from fifty yards away, you can see the exact moment the cocky, playful grin melts off his face, replaced by that sharp, predatory focus he had in the arena lobby.

You do not wave. You do not smile. You simply flip a page in your textbook, pretending you haven’t noticed him at all.

“Man, it’s hot out here, isn’t it?” You hear Dean say loudly a moment later.

“It’s seventy-two,” Garrett replies, sounding thoroughly confused.

“Scorching,” Dean insists. “Absolutely boiling.”

You glance up just in time to see Dean grab the hem of his grey t-shirt and pull it over his head in one smooth, practiced motion. He tosses the shirt onto the grass, running a hand through his damp hair, and stands there in the dappled sunlight.

He is built exactly the way a Division I athlete should be built. Broad shoulders, a sculpted chest, and a torso lined with sharp, defined abdominal muscles that disappear down into the waistband of his shorts. He looks like a centerfold for a fitness magazine, and he absolutely knows it.

The group of girls on the blanket nearby actually let out a collective gasp.

You, however, slowly raise an eyebrow behind your sunglasses. Really? “What are you doing?” Logan demands, hands on his hips. “Put your shirt back on, nobody wants to see that.”

“I’m cooling down,” Dean says easily, though he is looking directly at you. “Gotta let the skin breathe, right?”

“You’re an idiot,” Garrett mutters.

Dean ignores them. He leaves the soccer game entirely, jogging across the grass at a slow, deliberate pace. He is making sure you have plenty of time to look. You make sure your eyes are glued firmly to the page about market equilibrium.

“Hey there, Moscow,” a smooth, slightly out-of-breath voice says a minute later.

A shadow falls over your textbook. You wait three full seconds before you slowly tilt your head up. Dean is standing at the edge of your blanket, his chest rising and falling from the run, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his stomach. He has his hands planted on his hips, flashing you that million-dollar, dimpled smile.

“You are blocking my light,” you state plainly.

Dean’s smile widens. He drops down onto the grass, sitting directly across from you on the edge of your blanket, completely uninvited.

“You’re studying,” he observes, leaning back on his elbows. He stretches his long legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “Econ. Boring.”

“It is only boring if you lack the intelligence to understand it,” you reply, picking up your highlighter. “Which, I suppose, explains your opinion.”

Dean barks out a laugh, entirely unoffended. “God, I missed you. Where have you been hiding? I’ve been checking the stands at practice every day.”

“I do not hide,” you say smoothly, turning a page. “And I do not attend practices. I have a life.”

“A life that involves sitting on the quad, reading a textbook, and secretly watching me play soccer?”

“I was not watching you.”

“Right. You were just staring intently in my general direction.” Dean shifts closer, the scent of fresh air, grass, and masculine sweat washing over you. It is entirely distracting. “Did you enjoy the show, at least?”

You pause. You look up from the book, sliding your sunglasses down the bridge of your nose so you can look him directly in the eyes. You let your gaze drop down his chest, over his abs, and back up to his face.

“You took your shirt off in seventy-degree weather,” you say dryly. “It was the most obvious display of male ego I have ever witnessed.”

“Did it work, though?” Dean challenges, a teasing spark in his green eyes.

“I am not a fan of theatrics.” You push your sunglasses back up. “Put your shirt on, Di Laurentis. You look ridiculous.”

“You’re lying,” Dean murmurs. His voice drops into that low, gravelly register that he used at the arena, the one that makes the hair on the back of your arms stand up. He leans forward, closing the distance between you. “I saw the way you looked at me just now. You like the theatrics.”

Your breath hitches slightly, but before you can fire back a cutting remark, a sharp, loud ringing cuts through the tension.

Your phone, sitting on the blanket beside your leg, is vibrating. The caller ID flashes brightly in the sunlight.

You let out a soft sigh, breaking eye contact with Dean. “I have to take this.”

“Boyfriend?” Dean asks, his voice suddenly losing its playful edge. His jaw tightens, a flash of genuine territorial annoyance crossing his face.

“None of your business,” you say smoothly. You pick up the phone and swipe to answer, bringing it to your ear.

Dean doesn’t move. He sits right there, completely invading your personal space, watching you intently. He clearly expects you to get up and walk away, or lower your voice.

Instead, you lean back against the trunk of the oak tree and slip effortlessly into your native tongue.

“Hello, Ilyusha,” you say in Russian, your voice softening just a fraction, the sharp consonants and flowing vowels rolling off your tongue perfectly.

Across from you, Dean practically stops breathing.

His eyes widen, locking onto your mouth. He doesn’t understand a single syllable of what you just said, but the sound of it hits him like a physical blow. Your voice is huskier in Russian, deeper, and the cadence is incredibly intimate.

“Y/N. Little bird,” Ilya’s booming voice comes through the speaker, loud enough that you have to pull the phone away from your ear for a second. “Why did it take you three rings to answer? Are you safe? Is someone bothering you?”

You roll your eyes, though a fond smile touches the corner of your lips. “I am sitting on the grass at school, Ilya. I was reading. Nobody is bothering me.”

You glance at Dean. He is staring at you with an intensity that is bordering on feral.

“Well, except maybe one idiot,” you add, a smirk forming.

Dean shifts his weight, leaning closer. “What did you just say?” He whispers, his voice thick. “Are you talking about me?”

You ignore him.

“An idiot?” Ilya demands, his protective instincts instantly flaring. “What kind of idiot? A boy? Do I need to fly back to Massachusetts and break someone’s kneecaps? Because I have a game in Dallas tomorrow, but I can make the flight tonight.”

“Do not be dramatic,” you sigh, switching your phone to the other ear. “It is just a hockey player. He thinks he is charming.”

“A hockey player?” Ilya groans. “God, Y/N. I told you to stay away from them. They are stupid. They only want one thing. Trust me, I know. I am one.”

“I know you are,” you laugh softly. “I am handling it.”

“You better be,” Ilya grumbles. “But listen to me. You are in college. You are beautiful. You are going to have boys chasing you. I do not like it, but I cannot stop it.”

“You are remarkably self-aware today.”

“Shut up and listen,” Ilya says, though there is warmth in his voice. “I am your brother, so it is my job to threaten to kill them. But I am also realistic. If you find a boy you actually like — which is highly unlikely because your standards are terrifying — you have fun. Do you hear me? Have fun. Use protection. Make him buy you dinner.”

You feel a flush creeping up your neck. Having your older brother give you sex-positive dating advice is always a bizarre experience.

“I am hanging up now,” you tell him, embarrassed.

“Wait, wait! Let me finish,” Ilya laughs. “If he crosses a line, you break his heart. If he makes you cry, I break his legs. It is a very simple system.”

“I understand the system, Ilyusha.”

“Good. Give them hell, little bird.”

“I always do. Good luck with the game tomorrow. Love you.”

“Love you too. Call me this weekend.”

You hang up the phone, tossing it back onto the blanket. You let out a breath, centering yourself, and then you turn your attention back to Dean.

You fully expect him to have a smug comment ready. You expect him to ask who you were talking to, or tease you about the foreign language.

Instead, Dean is staring at you like a starving man looking at a feast.

His pupils are blown wide, almost entirely swallowing the green of his irises. His chest is rising and falling rapidly, and there is a dark, heavy flush high on his cheekbones. He is leaning so far forward that his face is only inches from yours.

“Di Laurentis?” You ask, frowning slightly. “Are you having a stroke?”

“What the fuck was that?” Dean asks, his voice so raw and raspy it barely sounds like him.

“It was a phone call.”

“In Russian.”

“Yes,” you say slowly, as if explaining something to a child. “I am Russian. I speak Russian to my family. This is not a new development.”

“You didn’t sound like that when you spoke English,” Dean breathes, his eyes tracking the movement of your lips. “Your voice … it dropped. It was completely different.”

“It is a different language,” you point out. “The inflection changes.”

“Do it again,” he demands softly.

You raise an eyebrow, your heart suddenly giving a hard, erratic thump against your ribs. The sheer, overwhelming wave of lust rolling off him is palpable. It is thick enough to choke on.

“Do what again?” You ask, keeping your tone carefully neutral.

“Speak it,” Dean says. He reaches out, and this time you don’t pull away when his fingers lightly brush against the side of your knee. The touch sends a jolt of pure electricity straight up your thigh. “Say something else. Anything.”

You look at him, really look at him. You see the desperate curiosity, the absolute fascination. But beneath that, you see exactly what he is thinking.

Dean doesn’t just want to hear you speak Russian. He wants to hear you speak it in his bed. He wants to hear you whisper it in his ear when the lights are out. He wants to know what you sound like when you lose that rigid, icy control.

The realization makes the breath catch in your throat. It is intoxicating. The power you hold over this guy right now is absolute, and you both know it.

You lean forward, mirroring his posture. You let your sunglasses slide down your nose slightly, locking eyes with him.

“You are completely out of your mind,” you say in Russian, your voice a soft, husky murmur.

Dean lets out a ragged exhale, his eyes slipping shut for a fraction of a second. “God. I have no idea what you just said, but say it again.”

“No,” you say, slipping back into English. You sit back against the tree, pulling your leg away from his touch. The sudden loss of contact leaves a cold spot on your skin. “The show is over.”

“Come on,” Dean groans, running a hand over his face. He genuinely looks pained. “You can’t do that to a guy and just stop. It’s cruel and unusual punishment.”

“I told you at the party,” you remind him, picking up your highlighter and turning back to your textbook. “I do not make things easy for anyone.”

“I don’t want it to be easy,” Dean says. The playfulness is completely gone from his voice. It is replaced by a quiet, fierce sincerity that makes you look up again.

He is staring at you, not with the smug arrogance of a playboy, but with the focused, unwavering determination of a D1 athlete who has his eyes on the championship.

“I don’t care how hard you make it,” Dean tells you, his voice steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You hold his gaze for a long moment, your pulse hammering a frantic rhythm in your ears. Ilya’s voice echoes in the back of your mind. If you find a boy you actually like … give them hell.

A slow, wicked smirk curves your lips.

“We will see, Di Laurentis,” you murmur.

“Yo, Dean!” Garrett’s voice echoes across the quad, breaking the heavy tension. “Are you playing or are you just going to sit there and bother the girl all day?”

Dean doesn’t take his eyes off you. “I’m busy!” He yells back.

“We’re down a man!” Beau shouts. “Get your ass back over here!”

Dean finally tears his gaze away, looking over his shoulder at his friends. He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Duty calls. But this isn’t over.”

“It has not even begun,” you correct him.

Dean smiles. It’s a softer smile this time, smaller and much more dangerous. He pushes himself up off the grass, grabbing his discarded t-shirt. He doesn’t put it back on, much to the delight of the girls on the nearby blanket, but simply slings it over his shoulder.

“Have dinner with me,” Dean says, looking down at you.

It isn’t a question. It is a demand.

“I am busy tonight,” you reply without missing a beat.

“Tomorrow, then.”

“I have plans.”

“Saturday.”

“I study on Saturdays.”

“Sunday night,” Dean counters, refusing to back down. “My treat. Any restaurant in the city. You pick.”

You tap your highlighter against the page of your textbook, pretending to consider it. You are pushing him, testing the limits of his patience. Most guys would have walked away by now, their egos bruised.

Dean just stands there, waiting.

“Sunday,” you finally say, your tone conceding an inch. “But I pick the place, and you pay.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly, looking like he just won the Stanley Cup. “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

“You do not know where I live.”

“I’ll figure it out,” Dean promises, taking a step backward toward the soccer game. “See you Sunday, Moscow.”

“Do not call me that,” you call after him.

“Then give me your real name!” He shouts back over his shoulder, jogging backward.

You smile, looking back down at your textbook. You wait until he is halfway across the quad before you answer, your voice carrying easily over the grass.

“It’s Y/N.”

Dean stops. He turns around, a massive, genuine grin breaking across his face. He points a finger at you, backing away toward his friends.

“Y/N,” Dean repeats, testing the sound of it on his tongue. He nods slowly. “Sunday, Y/N. Be ready.”

You watch him turn and jog back to the game, immediately tackling Beau to the ground in a mess of limbs and laughter.

You let out a long, shaky breath, closing your textbook. Studying is officially impossible now. You pull your knees up to your chest, resting your chin on your arms as you watch the group of boys on the grass.

Dean is laughing, shoving Logan out of the way to steal the ball. He looks carefree, happy, and entirely out of your league when it comes to emotional availability. He is exactly the kind of guy Ilya warned you about. A player. A distraction.

But as Dean suddenly looks over his shoulder, catching your eye from across the field and shooting you a quick, blazing wink, you know exactly what is happening.

You are giving him hell.

And you are enjoying every single second of it.

***

The date is, annoyingly, perfect.

You expected Dean to stumble. You picked an upscale, impossibly hard-to-book French-Asian fusion restaurant in the heart of Boston — the kind of place with a six-month waiting list that you only bypassed because Ilya knows the owner. You expected Dean to look out of place, or complain about the portion sizes, or act like the typical, uncouth college athlete he pretends to be.

Instead, he showed up at your apartment building right on time, wearing a tailored black button-down that made his shoulders look impossibly broad, and a pair of dark jeans that hugged his legs in all the right ways. He opened the car door for you. He ordered wine in flawless, unaccented French. He kept up with your sharp, biting banter effortlessly, matching you insult for insult with that constant, devastating smirk on his face.

He didn’t just survive the test. He passed it with flying colors.

“You look annoyed,” Dean observes as he steers his sleek black SUV off the highway, taking the exit back toward the Briar campus.

“I am not annoyed,” you say, looking out the passenger window at the passing streetlights.

“You’re a little annoyed,” he teases, glancing over at you. The dashboard lights cast a warm glow across his sharp jawline. “You thought I was going to embarrass myself. You thought I’d order chicken fingers and ask for ketchup.”

“I thought you would be a hockey player,” you correct him, turning your head to meet his gaze. “Instead, you were surprisingly tolerable.”

Dean laughs, a rich, genuine sound that fills the quiet interior of the car. “Tolerable. Wow. I’ll have to add that to my resume right under top scoring defenseman.”

“Do not let it go to your head.”

“Too late.” Dean reaches across the center console. He doesn’t ask. He just slides his hand over yours where it rests on your thigh, lacing his long, warm fingers through yours.

Your breath catches slightly, but you don’t pull away. His palm is rough with calluses from his hockey stick, a stark contrast to the soft leather of the car seats and the smooth fabric of your slip dress. The casual intimacy of it sends a sudden, sharp jolt of heat straight to your core.

“So,” Dean murmurs, his thumb brushing a lazy circle against your skin. “The date is over. I paid. I was charming. I didn’t embarrass you in front of the waiter.”

“Barely.”

“Where to now, Y/N?” He says your name softly, testing the weight of it. “I can take you back to your ivory tower. Or …”

He lets the sentence hang in the air, thick and heavy with implication.

You look at his hand holding yours, and then up at his profile. You can feel the electric tension radiating off him. You know exactly what he’s asking, and you know exactly what the answer is. You made up your mind somewhere between the second glass of wine and the way his eyes darkened when you laughed at one of his jokes.

“Your house is on the way,” you say, your voice perfectly steady, though your heart is suddenly hammering against your ribs. “It would be inefficient to drive all the way to my apartment.”

The SUV actually swerves a fraction of an inch as Dean’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. He exhales a harsh, shaky breath.

“My house,” he repeats, as if making sure he heard you correctly.

“Unless you are scared your roommates are awake.”

“I don’t give a fuck if my roommates are awake,” Dean says instantly. He hits the turn signal, taking a sharp left onto the residential street that leads to the off-campus hockey house. “My door has a lock.”

The drive takes less than five minutes, but it feels like an eternity. The air in the car is so thick with anticipation you can barely breathe. When Dean finally throws the SUV into park in the driveway, he doesn’t wait for you. He is out of the car in a flash, opening your door and offering you his hand.

The house is surprisingly quiet. The usual thumping bass and smell of stale beer are absent. As Dean unlocks the front door and ushers you inside, you see exactly one person.

Logan is sprawled on the ratty living room couch, a bowl of cereal balanced on his chest, watching SportsCenter on low volume.

He looks up as the door clicks shut. He sees Dean. Then he sees you.

Logan’s spoon freezes halfway to his mouth. His eyes dart between the two of you, taking in Dean’s dark, focused expression and your thoroughly unimpressed, perfectly manicured appearance.

“Di Laurentis,” Logan says slowly, lowering the spoon. “You brought a girl home.”

“Astute observation,” Dean says, not stopping as he guides you toward the stairs by the small of your back.

“No, I mean, you brought a girl home,” Logan insists, sitting up slightly. “Not a puck bunny. Not a sorority girl. You brought an actual woman who looks like she could murder you and hide the body.”

“I will not hide the body,” you tell Logan calmly over your shoulder as you start up the stairs. “I will leave it in the living room for you to clean up.”

Logan’s eyes widen. He looks at Dean with pure, unadulterated respect. “Good luck, man. You’re going to need it.”

“Shut up, Logan,” Dean snaps, though he is smiling as he pushes you gently up the final few steps and down the narrow hallway.

He opens the door at the end of the hall, pulling you inside, and kicks the door shut behind him. The heavy click of the lock sliding into place echoes in the quiet room.

Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly clean. The bed is large and freshly made, there are no clothes on the floor, and the faint scent of his expensive cedar and citrus cologne lingers in the air.

You barely have a second to take it in before Dean is right in front of you.

The playful banter is completely gone. The energy shifts so fast it gives you whiplash. He crowds you against the heavy wooden door, his hands coming up to bracket your head. He looks down at you, his green eyes completely dilated, dark and hungry.

“I’ve been wanting to do this since you yelled at me in the kitchen,” Dean whispers, his voice rough and vibrating with need.

“I did not yell at you,” you breathe.

“Shut up,” he murmurs, and then his mouth crashes down onto yours.

It is a devastating kiss. There is nothing hesitant or gentle about it. It is pure, unfiltered demand. His lips are hot, his tongue immediately parting your lips, tasting the expensive wine and sweeping inside to claim every inch of your mouth.

A sharp, electric shock rips through your body. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your hands flying up to grip the lapels of his black shirt. He lets out a low, guttural groan, sliding his arms around your waist and pulling your hips flush against his.

He is hard. Achingly, brutally hard against your stomach.

The realization sends a thrill of pure power straight to your head. Ilya taught you to never let anyone dictate the pace of the game. You pull your mouth away from his, leaving him chasing your lips with a frustrated sigh.

“My turn,” you say smoothly.

Before Dean can process what you mean, you grab the collar of his shirt and push. He stumbles backward, completely caught off guard. You advance, pushing him again until the back of his knees hit the edge of his mattress, and he falls backward onto the bed with a soft thud.

Dean looks up at you, his chest heaving, his dark hair messy from your hands. He looks completely thoroughly derailed. “What are you doing?”

“Taking control,” you tell him. You step between his spread thighs, looking down at him with a wicked, predatory smile. “You are very used to running the show, Di Laurentis. But you are playing my game now.”

Dean swallows hard. He leans back on his elbows, watching you with wide, fascinated eyes. “Okay. Show me your game, Moscow.”

You climb onto the bed, straddling his hips. He groans instantly at the friction, his hands twitching at his sides, but he doesn’t touch you. He lets you set the pace.

You reach down, your fingers deliberately slow as you start undoing the buttons of his tailored shirt. You watch his face as you work, taking in the rapid pulse at the base of his throat, the way his jaw tightens with every agonizingly slow brush of your knuckles against his bare skin.

Once the shirt is fully unbuttoned, you push it off his shoulders, letting it fall onto the sheets. You run your hands flat over his sculpted chest, feeling the heavy, frantic thud of his heart beneath his ribs.

“You are impatient,” you murmur, leaning down to press a soft, teasing kiss to the center of his chest.

“I’m dying,” Dean corrects roughly. His hands come up, gripping your hips tightly. “Y/N. Please.”

“Please what?” You ask, your voice dropping into a sultry, teasing purr. You shift your weight, grinding down against his hard length right through his jeans.

Dean’s head throws back, his hips automatically bucking up against you to chase the friction. “Fuck,” he gasps. “Take it off. All of it.”

You smile. You reach down, finding the hem of your slip dress, and pull it up over your head in one smooth motion, tossing it to the floor. You are wearing nothing but a matching set of sheer, black lace lingerie.

Dean stares at you. He actually stops breathing for three full seconds.

“Holy shit,” he whispers reverently. “You are … you are perfect.”

“I know,” you say confidently.

You lean down, capturing his lips again. The kiss is deep, wet, and incredibly hot. You move your hips in a slow, rhythmic grind that has Dean cursing into your mouth. He is letting you ride him, letting you dictate the rhythm, his large hands resting on your waist, guiding your movements but not forcing them.

You reach for the buckle of his belt, your fingers completely steady, but before you can even undo the clasp, the dynamic shifts.

Dean’s patience completely snaps.

“Okay. You’ve had your fun,” Dean growls softly against your lips.

Before you can even react, his hands tighten on your waist. He lifts you effortlessly — like you weigh absolutely nothing at all — and in one fluid, powerful motion, he flips you.

You let out a startled gasp as your back hits the mattress. Suddenly, Dean is hovering over you, his broad shoulders blocking out the overhead light. His eyes are entirely black now, the playful, indulgent boy completely gone, replaced by something dark, dominant, and terrifyingly hot.

“You think you’re the only one who likes control?” Dean murmurs, leaning down so his mouth is a breath away from your ear. “You think you can just climb on top of me, grind against me like that, and I’m just going to lay there and take it?”

“You were doing a very good job of it,” you try to say haughtily, but your voice is suddenly a little breathless.

“I was letting you win the first period,” Dean corrects, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your earlobe. “But the game is mine now.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to argue. His hands are everywhere. He unclasps your bra with a single, practiced flick of his fingers, tossing it aside. He takes your mouth again in a bruising, dominant kiss, swallowing your soft gasp as his warm, rough palm cups your breast. His thumb drags firmly over your nipple, and a jolt of pure pleasure shoots straight down to your core.

You arch your back, your hands tangling in his thick blond hair. The icy, untouchable Russian princess act is rapidly melting under the sheer, scorching heat of his attention.

Dean breaks the kiss, moving his mouth down your neck, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone. At the same time, his hand slides down your stomach, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your lace panties and pulling them down your legs.

He steps off the bed for exactly three seconds. The sound of his zipper dragging down, his jeans hitting the floor, and the tear of a foil wrapper are deafening in the quiet room.

When he comes back over you, he is completely bare, beautiful, and completely focused. He settles between your thighs, his knees pressing your legs wider.

He reaches down, his fingers finding your slick, aching center. He strokes you once, two fingers pressing deep inside, and you let out a sharp, genuine cry.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” Dean groans, his voice dark with triumph. He leans down, his mouth hovering over yours. “Tell me you want this.”

“I want it,” you breathe, your accent heavy. “Do not make me wait, Dean.”

He doesn’t. He grips your hips, aligning himself with your wet heat, and pushes forward.

He fills you completely in one long, agonizingly slow thrust. You gasp, your nails digging half-moons into the hard muscles of his back as he buries himself to the hilt. It’s incredibly deep, stretching you so perfectly it makes your vision swim.

Dean freezes, a low shuddering groan tearing from his throat. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his jaw clenched tight as he fights for control.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, his body trembling over yours. “You are so tight. So incredibly tight.”

“Move,” you demand softly, your hips instinctively arching up to take him deeper.

Dean’s eyes snap open. “Yes, ma’am.”

He starts to move. He pulls back almost completely before driving his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you again. The friction is immediate and explosive.

“Oh!” You gasp, your head throwing back against the pillows.

Dean sets a brutal, relentless pace. He isn’t rushing, but he isn’t being gentle either. Every thrust is deep, hard, and perfectly angled. He hits the exact spot that makes your toes curl with every single stroke. The skin-on-skin slap of his hips meeting yours echoes loudly in the quiet room, a dirty, incredibly erotic sound.

“Is this good?” Dean asks, his voice thick, thrusting hard into you. “Is my form okay for you, Moscow?”

“Shut up,” you moan, your hands gripping his shoulders desperately.

“You had a lot of opinions about my performance on the ice,” Dean taunts darkly, dropping his head to bite lightly at your neck as he pounds into you. “Critique this.”

“Dean-”

“Say my name again,” he demands, his grip on your hips tightening. He angles his hips differently, grinding hard against your clit with his pelvis as he thrusts deep inside you.

The sensation is so sharp, so overwhelming, that your brain completely short-circuits. The English language entirely evaporates from your mind.

“Bozhe moy,” you cry out, your voice fracturing.

Dean freezes for a fraction of a second, his head snapping up. His eyes are wide, wild with sudden, explosive heat.

“What did you just say?” He breathes, thrusting back into you with sudden, renewed ferocity.

“Da,” you gasp, completely unable to stop yourself. The pleasure is mounting too fast, spiraling out of control. “Da, pozhaluysta.”

“Russian,” Dean groans, the sound completely animalistic. “Fuck, yes. Keep doing that. Talk to me in Russian.”

He speeds up, his thrusts becoming a rapid, punishing rhythm. You are completely lost in it, clinging to his broad shoulders as the world spins around you.

“Sil’neye,” you beg, your nails scratching down his back. Harder. “I don’t know what that means,” Dean rasps, his chest heaving, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your collarbone. “But I fucking love it. Tell me you’re mine. Tell me in Russian.”

“Tvoya,” you sob, the word slipping out as the tension in your core finally snaps. “Ya tvoya.”

The climax hits you like a freight train. You cry out loud, your back bowing off the mattress as wave after wave of intense, blinding pleasure rips through your body. Your inner muscles clamp down hard around his thick length, milking him perfectly.

Dean lets out a loud, raw shout. He drives into you two more times, impossibly deep, and then completely falls apart. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his body shaking uncontrollably as he empties himself inside the condom, completely surrendering to you.

For a long time, the only sound in the room is the ragged, desperate sound of both of you fighting to catch your breath.

Dean’s heavy weight is crushing you into the mattress, but you don’t care. You feel thoroughly, beautifully wrecked.

Slowly, the haze begins to clear. Dean shifts his weight, pulling out of you with a soft, wet sound, and carefully rolls off to the side to dispose of the condom. When he comes back, he drops onto the mattress beside you, throwing one heavy arm and a leg over your body, pulling you flush against his side.

You rest your head on his bare chest, listening to his heart still hammering against his ribs.

“Wow,” Dean breathes into the quiet room.

“Yes,” you agree softly, your voice still a little raspy.

Dean presses a soft kiss to the top of your head, his fingers lazily tracing the curve of your hip. “You completely lost your mind there at the end, didn’t you?”

You feel a flush creeping up your neck. “I do not know what you are talking about.”

“Liar,” Dean laughs softly. “You lost your English entirely. It was the hottest fucking thing I have ever experienced in my entire life.”

You turn your head, resting your chin on his chest so you can look up at him. His eyes are soft now, completely completely devoid of the cocky arrogance he usually wears like armor. He just looks entirely, thoroughly captivated by you.

“You played a good game, Di Laurentis,” you tell him, your accent soft and thick in the quiet room.

Dean smiles, reaching up to tuck a damp strand of hair behind your ear. “Good enough for a second round?”

You raise an eyebrow, your old, haughty confidence returning in full force. “Do not flatter yourself. Let us see if you can handle the conditioning drills first.”

Dean throws his head back and laughs, a bright, happy sound that makes something warm and completely foreign bloom in the center of your chest. He pulls you up slightly, capturing your lips in a soft, lazy kiss that tastes like contentment and the promise of a very long night.

“Whatever you want, Moscow,” Dean murmurs against your mouth. “I’m not going anywhere.”

***

The house living room smells like stale pepperoni, cheap beer, and the distinct, aggressive musk of four college athletes who have been yelling at a television for the past two hours.

Dean is sprawled in the worn armchair, a long-necked bottle of Corona resting on his stomach. On the ratty couch, Garrett, Logan, and Tucker are packed shoulder-to-shoulder, their eyes completely glued to the sixty-inch screen mounted on the wall.

It is a Tuesday night, which means the Boston Bruins are playing the Toronto Maple Leafs, and in this house, an NHL game is basically a religious event.

On the screen, Ilya Rozanov, the Bruins’ star center and arguably the most terrifying, arrogant, and talented player in the league, intercepts a pass at center ice. With a burst of speed that defies the laws of physics for a man of his massive size, he blows past two Toronto defensemen, dekes the goalie out of his crease, and casually roofs the puck on his backhand.

The goal horn blares through the TV speakers, shaking the floorboards of the living room.

“Holy shit,” Garrett breathes, leaning forward so fast he almost knocks over his beer. “Did you see that edge work? The guy is an absolute machine.”

“It’s disgusting,” Logan agrees, shaking his head in awe. “He makes NHL defensemen look like Pee-Wee players. It’s physically embarrassing for them.”

“And there are still idiots out there who claim Shane Hollander is a better player,” Tucker snorts, reaching for a slice of cold pizza from the box on the coffee table. “Hollander is great, sure. He’s got the golden boy reputation. But Rozanov? Rozanov is a killer. He has zero conscience on the ice.”

“Hollander has better defensive metrics,” Garrett points out, ever the captain. “But yeah, offensively, Rozanov is in a league of his own. If I ever meet him, I think I’d actually ask him to sign my chest.”

Dean laughs, taking a slow sip of his beer. “You literally have a poster of him in your bedroom, Garrett. It’s creepy. You’re twenty-two years old.”

“It’s not a poster, it’s a framed print,” Garrett corrects defensively. “And it’s about respecting greatness, Di Laurentis. Try it sometime.”

Dean just grins, leaning his head back against the armchair. He feels relaxed. Better than relaxed, actually. He feels completely, terrifyingly anchored. It’s been three weeks since that first date with you, and his life has practically flipped upside down. He spends half his nights sneaking into your luxury apartment, and the other half trying to convince you to stay at his place. You are demanding, brilliant, ruthlessly critical of his defensive zone coverage, and the best thing that has ever happened to him.

He hasn’t looked at another girl since the night you called his backhand weak.

On the TV, the broadcast cuts away from the Bruins’ bench celebrating the goal.

“An unbelievable individual effort from Ilya Rozanov,” the play-by-play commentator announces over the roar of the TD Garden crowd. “His tenth goal of the season already, and we’re not even fully into November.”

“And you know who’s loving it up there?” the color commentator chimes in. “Let’s take a look up at the Bruins’ friends and family suite.”

The camera cuts from the ice to the luxury boxes high above the lower bowl. The shot zooms in on two young women sitting in the plush front-row seats, leaning over the glass barrier to look down at the ice.

Dean’s brain instantly short-circuits.

He stops breathing. The bottle of Corona slips dangerously in his grip.

It’s you.

You are right there on the sixty-inch screen, wearing a flawless black leather jacket over a form-fitting white top. Your hair is styled in perfect waves, and you are currently in the middle of an animated, laughing conversation with the woman sitting next to you.

“Whoa,” Logan says, leaning forward. “Who are they? The one on the left is gorgeous.”

“Shut up, John,” Dean croaks, his voice cracking horribly.

The broadcast graphics flash at the bottom of the screen, highlighting the two of you.

“That’s Svetlana Vetrova on the right,” the commentator explains cheerfully. “Daughter of the legendary Soviet goaltender Sergei Vetrov. She and Rozanov grew up together in Moscow.”

The camera pans slightly, focusing entirely on your face as you laugh at something Svetlana says.

“And with her is Ilya Rozanov’s younger sister,” the broadcaster continues, the words echoing through the dead silent living room like gunshots. “She just moved to Boston this fall to attend university locally. The Rozanov siblings are famously close. Ilya practically raised her, and rumor has it he is incredibly protective.”

The TV screen shows Ilya skating back to the bench. He looks up toward the suite, pointing a gloved finger directly at you. You smile, rolling your eyes affectionately, and give him a small, sarcastic golf clap.

In the house, the silence is so heavy it could shatter glass.

Garrett’s jaw is practically on the floor. He slowly, mechanically turns his head to look at Dean.

Logan and Tucker follow suit, their eyes wide with absolute, unadulterated horror.

Dean is frozen in the armchair. All the blood has rushed out of his face, leaving him pale and dizzy. His heart is hammering a frantic, terrified rhythm against his ribs.

He thinks about the way he pushed you against his bedroom door. He thinks about the sheer, insane volume of highly explicit texts he has sent to your phone in the last forty-eight hours. He thinks about the massive, bruised hickey he left just below your collarbone two days ago — a hickey that Ilya Rozanov could probably see with his naked eye from center ice.

“Dean,” Garrett whispers, his voice trembling slightly. “Is that …”

“Yes,” Dean says hollowly.

“That’s Moscow,” Tucker confirms, sounding like he’s at a funeral. “That’s your girl.”

“She didn’t tell me,” Dean gasps out, clutching the beer bottle like a lifeline. “She told me her brother paid for her apartment! She never said her brother was the most dangerous player in the National Hockey League!”

“You’re sleeping with Ilya Rozanov’s little sister,” Logan says, the reality of the situation finally crashing down on him. A slow, hysterical laugh bubbles up in his chest. “Dean. He is going to literally kill you. He is going to break your legs with his bare hands.”

“I have a poster of her brother in my room,” Garrett says, staring blankly at the wall. “I’ve been in the same room as you two while you were making out, and I have a poster of her brother on my wall.”

“What do I do?” Dean demands, panic finally settling in. He drops the beer onto the side table and runs both hands through his hair, gripping the blond strands tightly. “Do I text her? Do I ask why she didn’t tell me? Do I change my name and move to Mexico?”

“You can’t move,” Tucker says solemnly. “Rozanov has Russian mob connections. He will find you.”

“He does not have mob connections!” Dean yells, though his voice pitches up nervously. “Does he?”

“Dude, he led the league in penalty minutes for three consecutive seasons,” Logan points out, highly unhelpful. “He shattered a guy’s jaw last year just for looking at his goalie wrong. If he finds out you — Briar’s biggest, sluttiest defenseman — are hooking up with his baby sister? You’re dead. They’ll never find your body.”

Dean stares at the television screen. The broadcast has moved on, showing a replay of the goal, but Dean can’t see the puck. All he sees is his own impending doom.

He is so incredibly fucked.

***

Two hours later, you are sitting in a private booth at one of the most exclusive steakhouses in Boston.

The post-game adrenaline is still buzzing in the air. Ilya is sitting across from you, casually dressed in a dark designer sweater that stretches tight across his massive shoulders. He has a faint, purpling bruise on his jaw from a high stick in the second period, but his mood is absolutely electric.

“I told you,” Ilya says, cutting into a massive, rare ribeye steak. “Toronto defense is weak this year. They leave the middle of the ice wide open. It is insulting.”

“You showboated on the breakaway,” you point out, sipping your sparkling water. “You did not need to go to the backhand. The five-hole was open.”

“I am an entertainer, Y/N,” Ilya replies smoothly, chewing his steak. “The fans pay a lot of money to see me play. I must give them a show.”

You roll your eyes, picking at your truffle fries. You love him, but his ego takes up ninety percent of any room he walks into. Still, the dinner is nice. Sibling bonding time is rare during the NHL season, and you cherish the moments when it’s just the two of you, speaking Russian and acting entirely normal.

“Sveta looked well,” you say, changing the subject. “I hear she is thinking of taking a job with the Bruins.”

“She is good,” Ilya nods. “She asks about you. She says you are distracted lately.”

You pause, a fry halfway to your mouth. You lower it back to the plate, keeping your expression completely neutral. “I am not distracted. I am adjusting to a new country and a new curriculum. Economics is demanding.”

Ilya stops chewing. He swallows, rests his forearms on the heavy mahogany table, and pins you with a dark, intensely knowing look.

“Do not lie to me, little bird,” Ilya says softly, his heavy accent wrapping around the Russian words. “You have been living here for months. You were not distracted in September. But the last three weeks? You are checking your phone during the game. You are smiling at your screen.”

“I look at memes,” you lie smoothly.

“You do not understand American memes,” Ilya shoots back without missing a beat. “So, let us skip the part where you insult my intelligence. Who is putting that smirk on your face?”

You let out a slow sigh, leaning back against the leather booth. You knew this conversation was coming. Ilya is overprotective on a good day, and completely tyrannical when it comes to the men in your life. You intentionally haven’t told him about Dean because you wanted to enjoy the early stages without your brother accidentally ending Dean’s hockey career.

“It is nothing serious,” you say carefully, sticking to Russian so the waiter passing by won’t understand. “Just a boy from the university.”

Ilya’s eyes narrow instantly. “A boy. Does this boy play a sport?”

“That is irrelevant.”

“It is highly relevant. If he is a hockey player, I need to know immediately so I can arrange an accident on the ice.”

“Ilya.” You give him a sharp, warning look. “I am nineteen years old. I am allowed to have fun. You told me to have fun.”

“I told you to have fun with respectable men,” Ilya argues, jabbing his steak knife in your direction. “Not college athletes. They are animals. They do not know how to treat a woman.”

“He treats me very well, actually,” you fire back, defending Dean instinctively. The memory of Dean’s complete devotion — both in and out of the bedroom — flashes through your mind. “He takes me to nice places. He is polite.”

“Polite,” Ilya snorts, taking a large gulp of his red wine. “Sure. And what does this polite boy think is happening between you two? Does he know it is casual? Because men like that, they get attached. They get possessive.”

“He knows,” you say smoothly, though a tiny flicker of doubt sparks in your chest. Does Dean know it’s casual? He certainly hasn’t been acting casual lately. He acts like he owns you, and worse, you find yourself letting him.

“He knows,” Ilya repeats sarcastically. He shakes his head, cutting another piece of steak. “I worry about you, Y/N. You play these games, but eventually, someone gets hurt. You cannot just keep things casual forever. Eventually, you have to commit or walk away.”

You stare at your brother. The sheer hypocrisy of his statement actually leaves you speechless for a moment.

You slowly pick up your glass of wine, swirling the dark red liquid. You look at Ilya over the rim of the glass, a slow, lethal smirk curling the corners of your mouth.

“You are giving me advice on commitment?” You ask, your tone dangerously soft.

Ilya pauses, a flicker of unease crossing his features. “I am your older brother. It is my job to give you advice.”

“Interesting,” you note, leaning forward and resting your elbows on the table. “Because as far as I can tell, you have been in a situationship for the last six years, and you still refuse to put a label on it.”

Ilya’s jaw drops slightly. The smug, overprotective older brother act completely shatters. A dark, furious blush creeps up his neck, disappearing into his hairline.

“I do not know what you are talking about,” Ilya says rigidly.

“Oh, please.” You take a sip of your wine, enjoying the sudden shift in power. “How is Jane?”

Ilya actually chokes on his wine. He coughs, grabbing his napkin and pressing it to his mouth, his eyes watering.

You watch him without an ounce of pity. You have known about “Jane” for years. You know exactly who “Jane” is. You know that Jane is not a woman, and you know that Jane happens to be a certain golden boy captain of the Canadian national team who plays in Montreal. You know that Ilya and Shane Hollander have been hooking up in secret hotel rooms across North America for years, wrapped up in a bitter rivalry that is a very thin cover for a desperate, consuming obsession.

Ilya refuses to admit it out loud, but he knows that you know.

“Jane is fine,” Ilya grits out finally, glaring at you across the table.

“Good. Tell her I say hello,” you say pleasantly. “And tell her that if she ever breaks your heart, I will break her legs. That is the system, yes?”

Ilya stares at you. For a long, tense moment, the air between you crackles with unspoken threats and sibling stubbornness.

And then, slowly, the tension breaks.

Ilya lets out a low, rumbling laugh, shaking his head. He wipes his mouth with the napkin, looking at you with a mixture of immense pride and total defeat. You really are his exact replica.

“You are a menace, Y/N,” Ilya says softly.

“I learned from the best,” you reply smoothly.

Ilya sighs, raising his glass of wine toward you in a gesture of surrender. “Fine. You win. I will stop asking about the boy from university. For now. But if he hurts you, Y/N, I am serious. I will end him.”

“He will not hurt me,” you say confidently, clinking your glass against his. “I would never give him the power to do so.”

“Za zdarovye,” Ilya murmurs.

“Za zdarovye.”

You take a sip of the expensive wine, feeling a rush of affection for your brother. You handled him perfectly. He is backed off, your secret is safe, and your casual arrangement with Dean remains uninterrupted.

But as you set your glass down, your phone buzzes in your purse.

You pull it out, glancing at the screen under the table so Ilya can’t see.

It’s a text from Dean.

Actually, it’s six texts from Dean, sent in rapid succession.

Dean: Tell me right now you’re not actually Ilya Rozanov’s sister.

Dean: Holy shit.

Dean: They showed you on the broadcast.

Dean: Garrett is hyperventilating into a paper bag.

Dean: Why didn’t you tell me?

Dean: Are you with him right now? Don’t let him look at your neck.

You stare at the screen. Your carefully constructed, compartmentalized life is suddenly colliding in real-time.

You look up across the table. Ilya is casually cutting into his steak, completely oblivious to the absolute meltdown happening on your phone. He is relaxed, happy, and entirely unaware that his beloved little sister is sleeping with a hockey player.

You look back down at the screen, your thumb hovering over the keyboard.

A tiny, wicked thrill races down your spine. The game just got a lot more interesting.

You: I am having dinner with him now.

You: Do not panic, Di Laurentis. He does not know about you. Yet.

You hit send, slide the phone back into your purse, and pick up your fork, completely unbothered.

Across town, Dean receives the text.

He stares at his phone screen for a full minute, the words burning into his retinas. The terrifying confidence of your reply does nothing to soothe his racing heart.

“Well?” Logan asks nervously from the couch. “What did she say?”

Dean slowly lowers his phone, looking at his three best friends. His expression is completely haunted.

“She told me not to panic,” Dean whispers.

“Oh, you’re dead,” Tucker nods sagely. “That’s exactly what people say right before they execute you.”

“Can I have your signed Marchand stick when you die?” Garrett asks, entirely serious.

Dean ignores them. He falls back against the armchair, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. He is terrified. He is absolutely, completely terrified of Ilya Rozanov finding out that Dean has had his hands all over his little sister.

But beneath the terror, beneath the very real threat of physical violence, there is another feeling. A feeling that Dean can’t ignore, no matter how hard he tries.

He thinks about you sitting across from the most intimidating man in the NHL, calmly texting him, completely in control of the situation. He thinks about the way you challenge him, the way you speak Russian against his skin in the dark, the way you make him want to be better, faster, stronger just to earn a shred of your approval.

Dean drops his hands, staring blankly at the ceiling of the hockey house.

He is terrified. But he isn’t going to run.

“I’m keeping her,” Dean says suddenly, his voice quiet but incredibly firm.

The three guys on the couch stop talking. They stare at Dean like he has just lost his mind.

“Dean,” Garrett says slowly. “Did you hear what we just said? Her brother will end your career. He will end your life.”

“I don’t care,” Dean says, sitting forward. The panic is fading, replaced by that fierce, undeniable stubbornness that makes him the best defenseman in the conference. He grabs his beer, taking a long pull. “Let him try. I’m not letting her go.”

Logan sighs, rubbing his temples. “We’re going to need to buy so many deadbolts.”

Dearest Lovergirls, It is with the greatest honor and pleasure that I announce the official wedding of our lovely couple, YN YLN and Jack Abbot. The happy couple has asked our team to present you all with official wedding invitations, which will be hosted in Oak Bluffs.

As you are all aware, we've watched this couple grow from their first accidental meeting at the ER to their first intimate moments with each other. You've all been there for every step of the way on this spectacular journey. I can't thank you all enough for being here and supporting them through it all. We've laughed, we've cried, we've made freaked-out comments about Jack Abbot, and some of us have even been placed in timeout. Nonetheless, we have made it to our big moment. Before our wedding chapter, we will have the wedding weekend, which will include all of the activities that our happy couple does before the big day. To reserve your seat for this special ceremony, I do ask that you RSVP either in the comments or by reblog! Thank you all so much. I look forward to seeing you all at the ceremony!

link to the series here:

The Guest List (taglist):

@cosmicneptune @abschaffer2 @slvtformyman @naibaby

@blyffe @xxohsnapitspatxx @accountforreading123

@danielle143 @butterpas2 @thebabykashmere @1dhoe93

@heyimmisunderstood @chubbyblackhottie @hollddgk

@tyinek @dynasty1996 @a-true-janian-reply @nainai5243

@amacohet @blueblizzardreview @itzpixiebabe

@periesque @ace-spades-1 @silovicbaird @no-effortlol

@thatonecarebear @pitstop-piastri @slytherclaw1978

@closetednerd @ifyoubewooedingoodtime @mirathebookworm

@irissunshines @beas-mind @kellthegreatest @twilight0306

@expensiveazzqu33n @hi-im-dr-spencer-reid @osoyums

@jsamara52 @tinypalacehumanpsychic @anniebelsworld2

But this was the first time you’d watched something happen to your boyfriend. And somehow that made everything feel slower.

One second Noah had been yelling at one of his teammates to back off after a shove near midfield. The next, he was trying to separate two players before things escalated. Then someone from the other team swung.

You still remembered the sound. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just sickeningly solid.

Noah stumbled backward immediately, hands flying to his face as blood started pouring between his fingers almost instantly.

Training took over before your brain did.

By the time you reached him, you already had gloves on and gauze pressed firmly against his nose. Noah was swearing under his breath while blood soaked through the first pad almost immediately.

“Don’t tilt your head back,” you snapped automatically when he tried to lean his head upward.

“I know that,” he muttered, voice thick and congested.

“You’re literally doing it right now.”

One of the other sports med girls was already radioing for EMS while the coach tried, and failed, to calm down the screaming players still arguing near midfield.

“Think it’s broken?” Noah asked.

You gave him a look.

His nose was visibly crooked already.

“I think you should stop talking.”

That earned the tiniest laugh from him before he winced hard and spit blood onto the grass.

Okay. Cool. Awesome.

Your stomach turned a little at that.

The paramedics arrived quickly after that, kneeling beside Noah while you gave a rushed report automatically.

“Male, seventeen, punched in the face during an altercation,” you said, still holding pressure to his nose. “Brief dizziness immediately after impact but no loss of consciousness, no vomiting, pupils equal and reactive. Heavy epistaxis initially but slowing with pressure.”

One of the paramedics glanced at you, impressed.

“You planning on med school?”

“My dad works in an ER,” you answered automatically.

That somehow explained everything.

They transferred Noah onto the stretcher mostly because of the amount of blood and the dizziness, though everyone seemed pretty confident it was a nasal fracture more than anything life-threatening. Still, facial injuries could be tricky, and they wanted imaging done to rule out anything worse.

You barely even registered following the stretcher toward the ambulance until one of the paramedics opened the doors.

“Family only, sweetheart.”

“Oh.” You blinked quickly. “Right.”

Noah reached for your wrist before they could close the doors.

“Meet me there?”

“Obviously.”

One of the paramedics told you they were heading to PTMC, and you nodded quickly before jogging toward your car.

The entire drive there, adrenaline buzzed uncomfortably beneath your skin. Not because Noah was dying. Rationally, you knew he wasn’t. But because this was going to become a whole thing the second your dad found out.

So here you were pulling into the staff parking lot, because Jack got tired of hearing you complain about the walk from visitor parking months ago and added your car to the access list, and speed-walking toward the ambulance bay entrance of the ED.

You checked your phone while you moved quickly towards PTMC.

6:34 p.m.

Perfect.

Robby was still here and Jack wasn’t on shift yet. Which meant you could probably explain the situation to him first before having to explain to your father that you’d had a boyfriend for six months and somehow forgot to mention it.

That felt manageable. Slightly humiliating, but manageable.

Before you knew it, you were pushing through the sliding ambulance bay doors, immediately getting hit with the familiar noise of the ED. Phones rang nonstop somewhere near the nurses’ station, monitors beeped in uneven rhythms, and someone down the hall was loudly asking for a psych consult.

None of it really phased you anymore. You’d spent enough time in this department growing up that it almost felt normal. Which was probably concerning.

You moved through the chaos quickly toward the hub, hoping to spot either Dana or Robby. Usually at least one of them was hovering somewhere nearby trying to keep the entire department from collapsing in on itself.

Neither were there.

Great.

You glanced around before looking up toward the patient tracking board overhead, scanning for Noah’s name among the list of room assignments and triage notes.

“Excuse me, you can’t just come back here.”

The voice came from beside you.

You turned to see a tall, lanky guy with shaggy light brown hair and an expression that somehow managed to be both smug and exhausted at the same time. Scrubs. Badge clipped crookedly to his waistband. Probably a med student or resident.

Definitely new.

“Oh, I’m just looking for my boyfriend. He just got brought in by EMS—”

“You still need to get a visitor pass,” he interrupted. “I can show you to the front desk.”

You let out a short breath somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “I know where the front desk is, I—”

“Good,” he cut in again, already gesturing toward the waiting room. “So let’s head over there, get you checked in properly, and then you can go find your boyfriend.”

“No,” you said plainly, turning back toward the board. “I’m gonna go see him right now.”

The guy blinked at your tone before letting out an incredulous scoff.

“Look, if you don’t come with me to get a visitor pass, I’m gonna have to call security to—”

“Do what?”

Robby’s voice cut cleanly through the conversation.

You looked over immediately to see him approaching from the sink area near the trauma rooms, still rubbing sanitizer between his hands as he walked over. His expression already carried the exhausted irritation of someone who’d dealt with three separate disasters in the last ten minutes and was prepared for a fourth.

The guy beside you straightened slightly.

“Dr. Robby, this girl just came in through the ambulance bay, and I told her she needs to get a visitor pass, but she’s refusing, so I think we might need security—”

“‘This girl,’” Robby interrupted calmly, “is Dr. Abbot’s daughter.”

You watched the man’s face change instantly.

Robby continued before he could recover. “And she also happens to be my niece.”

The guy’s entire posture shifted into immediate panic.

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” you said, unable to help yourself.

Robby finally looked over at you fully now, one eyebrow lifting slightly.

“You came through the ambulance bay again?”

“You gave me the code.”

“That was your takeaway from that sentence?”

You shrugged.

“Where’s Noah?” you asked quickly before he could start lecturing you.

Robby’s expression softened slightly at the genuine concern in your voice.

“South fourteen. Probably getting sent for imaging soon.” He paused, giving you a once-over. “You okay?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure?”

You nodded once. “I’m fine. He got punched in the face, not hit by a bus.”

“Good,” Robby said. “Because your dad is already having a bad enough day, and if I have to add ‘teenage relationship reveal during shift change’ onto it, I might actually quit medicine.”

You winced.

“Can we maybe… not tell him yet?”

Robby stared at you for a long second.

Then he sighed heavily. “Oh, this is gonna be a disaster.” He motioned with his head toward the hallway. “Come on, I’ll walk you over there.”

“I know where South Fourteen is—” you started.

“I know,” Robby interrupted, softer this time. “But I haven’t seen you in a while.”

The slight sentimentality in his voice caught you off guard enough that you decided not to make fun of him for it.

Barely.

You just nodded and moved over beside him so the two of you could walk together through the department. As you did, Robby glanced back toward the guy from earlier.

“Ogilvie, go check on your patient.”

The man, apparently Ogilvie, immediately pivoted and disappeared toward one of the rooms without another word.

You looked back at Robby. “He’s new?”

Robby let out a long sigh through his nose. “Yeah.”

“That explains a lot.”

“He means well.”

“He threatened to call security on me.”

“He threatens to call security on everybody.”

That actually made you laugh a little.

The two of you continued down the hallway, weaving around nurses, stretchers, and an environmental services cart parked halfway in the middle of the corridor for absolutely no reason. A trauma alert was being called overhead somewhere nearby, and you instinctively stepped closer to the wall to let a team rush past.

It was strange how normal all of this felt to you now. Most people your age would probably find the ED overwhelming. Loud. Chaotic. Maybe even scary. To you, it just smelled like antiseptic wipes and bad coffee.

“So,” Robby said after a moment, “you haven’t told him yet?”

You shot him a look immediately.

“Hey, I’m just asking,” he defended. “You guys have apparently been dating for, what, six months now?”

“About that.”

“And Jack has no idea?”

You exhaled slowly, already annoyed by the conversation. “I mean, it’s not like he’s ever home.”

“That’s not true,” Robby said automatically, instinctively defending him.

You gave him a look. A very pointed look.

Robby sighed.

“Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe not the best argument.”

“Exactly.” You crossed your arms tighter over your chest as you walked. “He’s either picking up extra hours here, doing SWAT stuff, asleep because he worked a night shift, or off doing something with Samira.”

Robby stayed quiet.

“And now that I’m a senior,” you continued, “it’s like he thinks I can just handle everything myself.”

“You can, though,” Robby pointed out carefully, clearly very familiar with your aggressively independent personality.

“I mean, yeah,” you admitted. “But that’s not the point.”

Robby glanced sideways at you but didn’t interrupt this time.

“The only time I see him is if I make time for him,” you said, voice quieter now but sharper somehow. “It’s never him making time for me.”

You shrugged like it didn’t matter. Like you hadn’t clearly been thinking about it for months.

“So honestly,” you finished, “it’s not really his business.”

The bitterness in your voice lingered between you.

Robby was quiet for a few steps. When he finally spoke, his tone had shifted completely.

“You know he loves you, right?”

“That’s not the point,” you shot back almost immediately.

Robby looked over at you for a long moment as the two of you slowed near the South hallway rooms.

“So what is the point?”

The question hit harder than you expected.

You glanced away quickly, eyes drifting around the department instead of looking at him. A nurse pushed a portable monitor past you. Someone laughed loudly from behind the nurses’ station. Overhead, another page echoed through the ED speakers.

Anything was easier to focus on than that question. Because the annoying thing was that you didn’t even fully know the answer yourself. You knew your dad loved you. Objectively, logically, unquestionably.

Jack Abbot wasn’t exactly great at talking about feelings, but he showed up when things mattered. He remembered stupid little details about you even when he forgot to sleep. He made sure your car always had gas in it. He texted you reminders to eat before exams even when he was working fourteen-hour shifts.

But somewhere along the line, it had started feeling less like having a parent and more like having a really overworked roommate who occasionally checked your location. And admitting that out loud felt cruel. Especially because you knew how hard he worked. Especially because everyone else in the hospital constantly reminded you how amazing he was.

“Oh look,” you said suddenly, spotting the room number ahead of you. “It’s South Fourteen.”

Robby narrowed his eyes immediately, recognizing the escape attempt.

“Bye, Robby,” you continued quickly, already stepping away from him toward the room.

“You know you can’t avoid the conversation forever,” he called after you.

You grabbed the door handle, turning back just long enough to flash him a quick smile.

“Bye, Robby!”

Then you slipped inside the room before he could say anything else, letting the door swing shut behind you.

The noise of the department dulled instantly.

Noah was sitting upright on the stretcher with an ice pack balanced awkwardly against his face while dried blood stained the front of his jersey. His nose was swollen enough now that the crookedness was even more obvious.

And somehow, despite all of that, the first thing he said when he saw you was:

“You look stressed.”

You stared at him. “You got punched in the face.”

“Yeah, but you look stressed.”

“I mean this is probably the day my dad is gonna find out about you so,” you said flatly.

Noah’s expression shifted immediately into understanding. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” You dropped into the chair beside the stretcher. “And I’m not exactly sure how it’s gonna go, Robby said it’s gonna be a disaster.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes.”

Noah winced slightly, though this time it was probably emotional rather than physical.

“Cool. Cool, cool, cool.”

You snorted despite yourself.

Princess walked in a second later carrying supplies for bloodwork, glancing between the two of you before looking at Noah.

“Radiology should be ready for you soon,” she explained while tying the tourniquet around his arm. “CT maxillofacial without contrast. Dr. Langdon wants to rule out any orbital fractures.”

You relaxed slightly at that, at least Frank was the one working on him.

Standard imaging. Precautionary. Nothing sounding immediately catastrophic.

Noah, meanwhile, looked horrified by the needle now approaching his arm.

You blinked at him. “You literally got punched in the face and this is what scares you?”

“I contain multitudes,” he muttered.

“Uh huh,” you said skeptically, shifting your chair closer so you could take his free hand before the nurse stuck him with the needle.

Noah immediately relaxed a little at that.

“You are such a baby,” you informed him.

“Says the person who almost started a fight with hospital staff ten minutes ago.”

“He started it.”

Princess snorted softly under her breath while labeling the blood tubes.

“Vitals are stable,” she said after glancing at the monitor again. “Dr. Langdon will probably come by after CT.”

“Thanks,” you said automatically.

Princess gave you a quick smile before leaving the room, and Noah immediately looked back at you.

“So,” he said carefully, “how bad is this gonna be with your dad?”

You leaned back in the chair dramatically. “I genuinely don’t know.”

“That’s reassuring.”

“I mean, he’s either gonna be weirdly calm about it or become emotionally constipated and avoid the conversation for three months.”

Noah considered that. “The second one sounds worse.”

“It is.”

He squeezed your hand lightly. “For what it’s worth, I’m not scared of him.”

You stared at him for a second.

“He literally works trauma medicine, is a SWAT medic for fun, and was in the army.”

“Okay, I’m a little scared of him.”

“That’s smarter.”

— — — — —

“Well, this is gonna be great.”

Robby sounded deeply unenthused as he approached the hub where Dana had finally returned.

“What is?” Dana asked, looking at him over the top of her glasses while scrolling through something on her tablet.

Robby dropped into the rolling chair behind the counter with the exhaustion of a man who had already worked twelve hours too many.

“Y/n just came in,” he started, rubbing a hand over his face, “with her boyfriend Jack doesn’t know about.”

Dana looked up immediately. “Noah’s here?”

Robby froze mid-spin in his chair. “You know about Noah?”

Dana blinked at him. “Of course I know about Noah.”

Robby looked genuinely offended by that.

“She talks to me,” Dana continued simply. “That girl needs somebody normal to discuss her life with.”

“I thought she only told me,” Robby muttered.

Dana’s mouth twitched. “What? Jealous?”

Robby just stared at her.

Dana laughed quietly to herself before looking back down at the tablet in her hands.

“Why’s he here?”

“I don’t know,” Robby admitted. “Apparently he got punched in the face during a soccer game.”

Dana grimaced sympathetically. “Ouch.”

“Yeah. Sounds like probable nasal fracture. Maybe orbital involvement, so they sent him for a CT.”

Dana nodded once, unsurprised. Then her expression shifted slowly into amusement again.

“Oh, Jack is gonna lose his mind.”

Robby pointed at her immediately. “See? That’s what I said.”

“No,” Dana corrected. “You said this was gonna be a disaster. I said it was gonna be entertaining.”

“What’s gonna be entertaining?”

Jack Abbot’s voice cut into the conversation as he walked toward the hub, stopping a few feet away from them. Dark scrubs on, coffee in one hand. Already looking exhausted before his shift had even technically started.

Robby reacted immediately.

“Brother, hey,” he said quickly, standing up so fast his chair rolled backward into a cabinet. “Ready for shift change?”

He moved toward Jack almost aggressively, grabbing onto his shoulder and steering him slightly away from the desk in what was possibly the least subtle distraction attempt in human history.

Jack narrowed his eyes instantly.

“What’s gonna be entertaining?” he repeated.

“Um—”

Robby visibly searched for literally anything else to say.

“Y/n’s here,” Dana answered calmly from behind the desk.

Robby whipped around to stare at her. Dana just shrugged without looking up from her tablet.

“What?” she said. “He was gonna find out eventually.”

Jack’s attention snapped back immediately. “Why is she here?”

The exhaustion disappeared from his face in less than a second, immediately replaced with alertness. Concern. That very specific ER-doctor hyperfocus that made people start answering questions before he even asked them.

“She’s not hurt or anything,” Robby said quickly.

Jack raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for the rest of the explanation.

Robby hesitated just a fraction too long. Which, unfortunately, was enough.

Jack’s expression shifted immediately into suspicion. “Robby.”

“It’s not a big deal.”

“That sentence has literally never once been true.”

Dana snorted quietly. Robby ignored her.

“She came in with someone,” he admitted carefully.

“With who?”

Another pause.

Jack’s eyes narrowed further.

“With her boyfriend.”

Silence. Complete silence.

Even Dana looked up for this one.

Jack blinked once. Then again. “…Her what?”

“Oh boy,” Dana muttered under her breath.

Robby held both hands up immediately like he was trying to de-escalate an active hostage situation.

“Before you react—”

“How long has she had a boyfriend?”

Robby glanced at Dana briefly like maybe she wanted to take over now.

Dana absolutely did not.

“About six months,” Robby admitted.

Jack stared at him. “Six months.”

“Roughly.”

“And everybody knew except me?”

“Not everybody,” Dana corrected. “Just us.”

“That is not helping, Dana.”

Jack rubbed a hand over his face slowly, looking somewhere between offended and genuinely confused now.

“She has a boyfriend,” he repeated, like he still couldn’t fully process the sentence.

“She’s seventeen,” Dana pointed out reasonably.

“I’m aware of how old my daughter is.”

“Questionable based on how surprised you seem right now,” Dana said.

Robby actually had to bite back a laugh at that.

Jack ignored both of them completely. “Where is she?”

Robby hesitated.

Jack pointed a finger at him immediately. “Don’t do that thing where you hesitate because then I assume it’s worse.”

“She’s in South Fourteen.”

“With the boyfriend?”

“Yes.”

“What happened to him?”

“Soccer fight,” Robby answered. “Probably broken nose. CT’s pending.”

Jack exhaled sharply through his nose. Then, without another word, he turned and started toward the South hallway.

Robby watched him go.

“…Should we warn her?”

Dana considered it for half a second.

“Nah.” She took a sip of coffee. “This feels educational.”

— — — — —

You had been alone in the room for maybe five minutes.

Noah had just been taken down for his CT scan, leaving you behind with the uncomfortable plastic chair, the faint smell of antiseptic, and hospital Wi-Fi that apparently operated using pure spite.

You frowned down at your phone as Instagram attempted, and failed, to load for the third time.

“How does this place have million-dollar CT scanners but the world’s worst internet connection?” you muttered to yourself.

The loading circle continued spinning mockingly.

You let out a sigh and slumped farther down in the chair, one leg bouncing restlessly against the tile floor. Honestly, now that Noah was gone for imaging and you weren’t actively distracted anymore, your brain had started circling back to the real problem here.

Your dad.

Because there was absolutely no way Robby and Dana had managed to keep this from him for long.

Right as that thought crossed your mind, the door swung open. You glanced up only halfway at first, expecting a nurse or maybe Noah coming back from radiology.

Instead, you nearly launched yourself out of the chair.

“Oh my God—”

Jack stood in the doorway, arms crossed tightly over his chest. Not yelling. Which somehow felt more threatening.

“Hey, Dad,” you said quickly, instinctively holding your hands up a little like that would somehow help. “Are you starting your shift in a bit, or—”

“You have a boyfriend?”

Straight to it.

Cool.

You let out an awkward laugh immediately.

“Um… yeah.” You shifted your weight uncomfortably. “Surprise?”

Jack just stared at you. You knew that look. It was the exact same expression he used on patients who insisted they “accidentally” fell onto obviously dangerous objects.

“You’ve had a whole relationship for six months and didn’t think to mention it to me?”

“Well, now it sounds bad when you phrase it like that.”

“How else is there to phrase it?”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it again.

Fair enough.

Jack looked around the room briefly before looking back at you.

“So where is he?”

“CT.”

“What happened?”

“Soccer game fight,” you answered automatically. “Got punched trying to break it up. Possible nasal fracture, maybe orbital involvement, but he was neurologically intact at the scene. No LOC, no vomiting, pupils equal and reactive—”

Jack held up a hand.

“You gave EMS report?”

You shrugged a little. “I was already there.”

Of course you were.

Jack’s expression softened for exactly half a second at the reminder that you’d probably been helping on the field before it shifted right back into full Dad Mode.

“You should’ve told me,” he said firmly. “At least asked for permission.”

You stared at him.

“Permission?” you repeated incredulously. “Dad, it’s not the eighties anymore. If I want to date someone, I’m gonna date someone.”

The second the sentence left your mouth, you regretted the wording. Because now it sounded way more confrontational than you’d meant it to.

Jack looked irritated immediately. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Really?” you shot back. “Because I’m pretty sure that’s exactly what you said.”

“I said you should’ve talked to me.”

“And when exactly was I supposed to do that?” you asked, crossing your arms over your chest. “Between your extra shifts or before you disappeared for another SWAT call?”

Jack’s jaw tightened instantly. “That’s not fair.”

“No, actually, it is.”

“You think I want to miss things?”

“I think you do miss things,” you snapped back. “Constantly.”

Jack looked taken aback for a second before frustration replaced it just as quickly.

“I am working to provide for you.”

“I know that!”

“Then stop acting like I’m choosing not to be around.”

“But you are!” you shot back louder now. “Every single time you pick this place over literally anything else!”

The words echoed harder than you intended in the small exam room. Jack stared at you. Outside in the hallway, a monitor alarm sounded somewhere distant before abruptly shutting off again.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, voice low and controlled in that way that somehow made it worse.

You laughed sharply. “Oh, I don’t?”

“No.”

“You missed parent night.”

“I was working.”

“You missed Senior awards.”

“I was working.”

“You forgot my interview for college counseling because you picked up someone else’s shift!”

Jack rubbed a hand down his face, visibly trying not to lose his temper now too.

“And you think I don’t feel bad about that?”

“You never even talk about it!” you argued. “You just act like everything’s fine because I’m ‘independent’ or whatever.”

“You are independent.”

“Because I had to be!”

The second that left your mouth, the room went completely still.

Jack looked like you’d slapped him. And honestly, maybe you had.

You were breathing too fast now, adrenaline and anger mixing together in a way that made your chest hurt.

“I’m not saying you’re a bad dad,” you said quickly, though your voice still shook. “But you don’t get to act surprised that I didn’t tell you about Noah when half the time it feels like you’re barely home long enough to know what’s going on with me anyway.”

Jack opened his mouth immediately.

But before he could respond, the door swung open.

“Alright, we’re back from CT—”

Princess stopped mid-sentence as she helped Noah back into the room.

Noah still had the ice pack against his face, dried blood faintly visible near the collar of his shirt, but he looked significantly more alarmed by the tension in the room than by his possible broken nose.

His eyes moved between you and Jack instantly.

“Oh,” he said carefully.

Princess looked between all three of you exactly once.

Then immediately turned to Noah.

“…You did not mention the dad worked here,” Princess said carefully.

“I didn’t know he was here yet,” Noah muttered back.

Jack straightened slightly, visibly trying to pull himself back together now that there were other people in the room. You, meanwhile, looked away immediately, blinking hard a couple times because your eyes suddenly burned in the worst, most embarrassing way possible.

God. Great.

Now you were crying.

Fantastic.

Noah glanced awkwardly between the two of you, immediately noticing both the tension and the noticeable amount of space now between you and your dad.

“Um… hi, Dr. Abbot,” he said carefully.

He stepped forward a little, awkwardly balancing the ice pack against his swollen nose with one hand while sticking the other out for a handshake.

“I’m Noah.”

You let out a shaky breath as one tear slipped down your face.

And then Jack just…

Stared at Noah’s hand. Arms still crossed. Not moving. The silence lasted maybe two seconds. But it felt way longer. And suddenly the anger that had already been building in your chest flared right back up again.

Seriously?

You wiped at your face quickly, glaring at your dad now.

“Are you kidding me?”

Jack looked over at you immediately.

“What?”

“He’s trying to be nice!”

“I’m aware of that.”

“Then shake his hand!”

Princess took one very deliberate step backward toward the computer in the corner of the room. Noah still looked horrified, hand awkwardly half-extended between the two of you.

Jack finally uncrossed his arms with a frustrated sigh before giving Noah a quick handshake.

Too quick. Barely even a handshake.

Noah immediately pulled his hand back.

“Sorry,” Noah muttered. “This is probably a bad time.”

“No, apparently this is a great time,” you snapped before Jack could answer.

“Y/n—” Jack warned.

“No, because what is this?” you demanded, gesturing between him and Noah. “He didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I didn’t say he did.”

“You don’t have to say it!”

Your voice cracked slightly at the end, which only made you angrier. Jack noticed immediately, his expression shifting. But you were too upset now to stop.

“He got punched in the face tonight and still somehow has better manners than you do right now.”

Princess physically turned away at that point, very obviously pretending to check Noah’s blood pressure so she didn’t have to witness the argument directly.

Jack exhaled sharply through his nose.

“I’m not doing this in front of your boyfriend.”

“Oh my God,” you laughed incredulously. “You can barely even say the word.”

“That is not the issue here.”

“Then what is the issue?” you shot back. “That I didn’t tell you? Or that I have a life you don’t know about because you’re never around long enough to actually see it?”

The room went quiet again. Noah looked like he wanted to disappear into another dimension entirely. Jack’s jaw tightened hard enough you could see the muscle move.

“That’s enough.”

“No, it’s not enough,” you said immediately. “You don’t get to walk in here and act like I betrayed you because I didn’t tell you about Noah when you barely know anything going on in my life lately!”

Jack looked genuinely angry now too. “I know plenty about your life.”

“Really?” you challenged. “What colleges did I apply to besides Pitt?”

Jack opened his mouth.

Stopped.

Your chest hurt.

“There it is,” you said quietly, tears falling faster now no matter how quickly you tried wiping them away. “Exactly.”

Jack looked genuinely stunned. Not defensive anymore. Not angry. Just stunned. And somehow that made everything hurt worse. Because it proved your point.

The room had gone painfully quiet around you. Even the usual ED noise felt distant now.

Noah shifted awkwardly near the stretcher, still clutching the ice pack against his face while Princess stood frozen beside the monitor like she was trying to decide whether this counted as a medical emergency.

You laughed once under your breath, shaky and miserable. “You didn’t even know I applied to UCLA until Robby brought it up at dinner.”

Jack finally found his voice again. “That’s not true.”

“It literally is.”

“I knew you were applying out west.”

“That is not the same thing.”

“Y/n—”

“No, because you keep acting like I shut you out for no reason!” you interrupted. “I stopped telling you things because every time I do tell you something, you’re either too tired to listen or halfway out the door.”

Jack’s expression hardened slightly again. “That’s unfair.”

“How?” you demanded. “Tell me how.”

“I am doing my best.”

The words came out sharper this time. More frustrated. More exhausted. And for some reason, hearing that finally snapped something in you.

“I know you are!” you shouted back immediately. “That’s the problem!”

Jack blinked at the sudden volume.

“You think I don’t know why you work this much?” Your voice shook violently now. “You think I don’t get it? Mom died and you buried yourself in work because it was easier than being home!”

The second the words left your mouth, the room went dead silent. Complete silence.

Noah looked absolutely stricken. Princess slowly lowered the blood pressure cuff from her hands.

And Jack went completely still.

You could actually see the moment regret hit you. But you were too upset to stop now.

“You act like I’m supposed to understand everything all the time because you’re helping people,” you continued, crying openly now. “And I do understand it. I understand it all the time.”

Jack’s face had lost all color.

“But sometimes I wanted you to stay home with me instead of picking up another shift!” you admitted, voice breaking completely now. “Sometimes I wanted my dad more than I wanted some amazing trauma doctor everybody else gets to brag about!”

“Y/n,” Jack said quietly.

But you kept going anyway.

“And then you started acting like I didn’t need anything anymore because I got older and handled things myself and—”

“Enough.”

The word cracked through the room hard enough that even you stopped talking immediately. Jack almost never raised his voice at you. Which made it worse when he did.

His chest rose sharply with one uneven breath, eyes glassy now in a way you’d almost never seen before.

“You do not get to stand there,” he said, voice tight with emotion and anger and grief all tangled together, “and act like I stopped loving you because I was trying to survive losing her too.”

Your breath caught instantly.

Jack dragged a hand over his face hard, clearly trying to pull himself back under control.

“You think being at work fixed any of that?” he asked, quieter now but somehow more intense. “It didn’t. It just kept me moving.”

You couldn’t even answer. Because suddenly all the anger had crashed into guilt so hard it made you feel sick. Jack looked at you for another long second before glancing away completely, jaw tight.

Then, finally, he spoke again.

“I need a minute.”

And without another word, Jack Abbott turned and walked out of the room. The door swung shut behind him with a soft click. Silence followed immediately after. Heavy silence.

The kind that pressed against your chest and made everything feel too warm and too tight all at once.

You just stood there staring at the closed door, breathing unevenly while tears continued sliding down your face faster than you could wipe them away.

God. What had you just done?

“I’ll be back in a little while,” Princess said gently after a moment, clearly trying to give you space. “Dr. Langdon should be coming in soon to go over the CT results.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t really answer. You just kept staring at the door like maybe your dad would walk back through it if you looked long enough.

Beside you, Noah gave Princess a small apologetic smile and a nod.

“Thanks.”

Princess squeezed his shoulder lightly before slipping out of the room quietly, leaving the two of you alone.

More silence.

Then:

“It’s okay.”

Noah’s voice was soft, slightly congested from the swelling in his nose as he lowered the ice pack from his face and sat back against the hospital bed. You shook your head immediately at his words.

“No, it’s not.” Your voice cracked completely.

You pressed the heels of your hands against your eyes hard, trying unsuccessfully to stop crying.

“I’m horrible,” you muttered.

“No, hey,” Noah said instantly. “No, you’re not.”

You laughed weakly through your tears.

“I just threw my dead mom into an argument.”

“You were upset.”

“I said horrible things.”

“You said honest things.”

“That doesn’t make them okay.”

Noah watched you quietly for a second before holding his hand out toward you carefully.

“Come here.”

You finally turned to look at him fully.

His nose was bruised purple now beneath the swelling, gauze still tucked loosely beneath one nostril in case the bleeding restarted. He looked exhausted and uncomfortable and probably concussed enough to not even fully be processing what had just happened.

And somehow he was still worried about you.

“Come on,” he said again gently.

This time, you moved. You crossed the small space between you and sat carefully beside him on the edge of the hospital bed. Noah immediately wrapped an arm around you, pulling you against his side as carefully as he could considering his face was probably in agony.

The second he did, you broke again. You buried your face against his shoulder, crying quietly while Noah held you without saying anything for a minute.

Outside the room, the muffled chaos of the ED continued on like normal. Somebody laughed down the hall. A monitor alarm beeped repeatedly. Overhead paging echoed faintly through the ceiling speakers.

Meanwhile your entire chest felt hollow.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” you whispered finally.

“I know.”

“I know he loves me.”

“I know.”

You pulled back just enough to look at Noah.

“He looked so hurt.”

Noah nodded slowly.

“Yeah.”

Fresh guilt twisted painfully in your stomach.

“When my mom died,” you said quietly, voice shaky, “everybody kept telling me how hard it was for him. And I remember thinking that I had to make everything easier because he already looked like he was barely surviving.”

Noah stayed quiet, letting you talk.

“So I stopped asking for things,” you admitted. “I stopped complaining when he missed stuff. I stopped crying in front of him because every time I did, somebody would look at me like I was making things harder for him.”

Your throat tightened painfully.

“And I know that sounds selfish—”

“It doesn’t,” Noah interrupted immediately.

You swallowed hard.

“It just felt like everyone gave him grace because he lost his wife,” you continued softly, staring down at your hands now. “Which, obviously they should’ve. I’m not saying they shouldn’t have.”

Noah nodded once.

“But nobody ever really talked about me like that,” you admitted. “People would ask if he was okay. If he was eating. If he was sleeping. And I’d just be standing there.”

Your voice cracked again.

“And I know he was hurting. I know he still is. But I lost my mom too.”

The words came out quieter than everything else. Smaller. Like admitting it still felt wrong somehow.

“I was a kid,” you whispered. “And everybody acted like I was supposed to understand why he disappeared into work all the time because he was grieving, but nobody really stopped to think maybe I was grieving too.”

Noah’s arm tightened around you carefully.

You laughed weakly through the tears slipping down your face again.

“I think after a while I just got really good at being ‘easy,’” you admitted. “Like if I handled everything myself, then nobody had to worry about me.”

Noah looked at you sadly.

“That’s a lot for anybody to carry around.”

You shrugged even though your chest hurt.

“And now whenever I get upset about him missing things or not noticing stuff, I feel guilty immediately because I know why he’s like this.”

“That doesn’t mean your feelings stop mattering.”

You looked away.

“But it feels like they’re supposed to.”

Noah was quiet for a second before speaking carefully.

“You know two things can be true at once, right?”

You frowned slightly.

“He can be a grieving husband who tried his best,” Noah said softly, “and you can still be hurt by the fact that you needed more from him.”

The two of you sat quietly with his words for a moment. The steady beeping of the monitor beside the bed filled the silence while the chaos of the ED carried on outside the room like nothing life-altering had just happened in here.

You wiped at your face again, exhausted now more than anything.

“You guys will be okay,” Noah said gently after a minute.

You nodded slowly against his shoulder, tears still slipping down your face even though they’d finally started slowing.

Because you knew he was right. You and Jack loved each other too much not to be okay eventually. That didn’t magically fix everything. But it mattered.

“But seriously,” Noah added after another beat, “do you think he actually hated me or…?”

You immediately pulled back enough to punch him lightly in the arm.

“Ow—”

“Oh my God, shut up,” you muttered, sniffling. “That is not important right now.”

“I mean,” Noah said, clearly trying to make you laugh now, “I personally think it’s extremely important.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“Your father looked at my handshake like it offended him.”

Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escaped you.

Noah pointed immediately. “There it is.”

“Don’t.”

“You laughed.”

“I did not.”

“You literally did.”

You rolled your eyes, scrubbing at the last of the tears on your face.

Noah smiled a little at that, though he winced immediately after because apparently smiling hurt his broken nose.

“Okay, ow,” he muttered, pressing the ice pack back against his face.

“That’s what you get.”

“I’m injured.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I got assaulted protecting the integrity of high school soccer.”

“You got punched because Tyler can’t regulate his emotions.”

Noah gasped weakly. “Way to minimize my trauma.”

You snorted softly, shoulders finally relaxing for the first time in the last twenty minutes. Noah looked disproportionately proud of himself for managing to make you laugh even a little.

Then his expression softened again.

“For what it’s worth,” he said quietly, “your dad definitely doesn’t hate me.”

You raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“He shook my hand eventually.”

“After staring at it like he was considering putting you back in the ambulance.”

“That’s basically approval from a trauma doctor dad.”

Another laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

Noah smiled again, gentler this time.

“He was scared,” he said quietly. “Not about me. About realizing he missed something important.”

Your expression faltered slightly.

“And honestly?” Noah continued carefully, “you scared him too.”

You frowned. “How?”

“You yelled at him like somebody who’d been holding all that in for years.”

The words hit a little too accurately.

You looked down at your hands. “I didn’t want to hurt him.”

“I know.”

“But I did.”

Noah was quiet for a second.

“Sometimes hurting somebody’s feelings and being honest aren’t the same thing.”

You let out a slow breath. “Robby says things like that too.”

“Robby’s emotionally intelligent. It’s upsetting.”

You smiled faintly again. “He’s only emotionally intelligent sometimes, don’t give Robby so much credit.”

Then the room fell quiet once more, though this time it wasn’t suffocating. Just tired.

Eventually Noah nudged your shoulder lightly. “So… hypothetically.”

“Oh no.”

“If your dad does kill me, do you think Dana would testify that I was charming?”

You groaned loudly. “Please stop talking.”

What you couldn’t stomach, was the fact that your father then chose to settle down with perhaps the only other person who could compete with your mothers patheticness. But you really didn’t expect much more from said “mediocre parent” if you were being honest. 

When Maria came into your life you were glad you were about to leave the nest. Sure, 11th grade was made more difficult than it would have been considering you had to deal with your dad’s absence on the week nights, had to stomach him going to dinners with some random woman, had to answer said random woman’s intrusive questions and pretend you were completely fine with her waltzing into your house and making comments about how you lived, and what you should’ve and shouldn’t have been doing. Of course, after raising her golden boy– her oh so perfect son who she couldn’t shut up about, she knew best. He was at university, studying criminology, after-all. 

Safe to say you were ecstatic when you were notified the two got married at the courthouse while you spent the winter with your mother. Shocked, horrified, hurt? You weren't even sure what you felt after a point. Tired, would probably be the best fit. The only saving grace was that you didn’t have to attend the ceremony. 

When you learnt that Maria’s son was also not in attendance to witness the vows, you were almost certain the “spontaneous, and unplanned” union surely took your absences in mind. 

There was that word again– tired. 

But what could you have done? You just had to grit your teeth and focus on what mattered- getting out of that house. There was no benefit in paying attention to the antics of your “parents”, any of the three. So that’s exactly what you did, pushed through till you were walking across your graduation stage and securing a spot at the university you’d always wanted.  

And so when summer came you were hell bent on recuperating after a hard few year’s work. There was nothing more you desired than relaxing, lounging by the pool, and repairing your social life– the one that you had been criminally neglecting over the past few years. All was looking good, you were rather optimistic despite having to share a house with two of the most insufferable people on the planet. 

There was also this other problem you had to take care of. See, because you had spent your entire high school career being a massive nerd, you didn’t really get any. And sure, you’d made out with half a dozen jock types since the summer began, but none of them seemed to know what they were doing. You didn’t want to go to college a virgin. You were hot, single and horny, and you were not going to waste the rest of the summer on another good for nothing Zach or Cody. You needed to get laid. And it was time you started exploring other avenues. 

And then, as usual, the universe threw a wrench in your plans. Or rather, your lovely stepmother did.  

“My Javi’s gonna come spend the summer with us! Oh, it’ll be wonderful, you two could get to know each other! He’s got so many of his old friends from here he can introduce you to! Get you out of the house for once!!” you nodded your head as you poured your morning coffee, but on the inside you were losing your shit. First thing in the morning, she really had her ways, didn't she?

“And he's got so much insight on university, I'm sure you’d really like speaking with him about that. You know, after finishing top of his class the third year in a row, you could catch some good pointers!” You bet Javi knew all about “university”. Whatever that meant.  

Life was bad enough being bothered by these two, but now you had to endure playing second fiddle to some ivy league hot shot? Yeah, sounded like a splendid time. 

And you knew that’s exactly what he was. Sure, you’d only seen him in one picture, with his american sweetheart, blonde, beautiful, perfect girlfriend. Because of course he had a perfect, blonde, girlfriend. 

You were surprised your stepmother didn’t shove pictures of him down your throat all day every day, but she only seemed to make reference to her son when she was bragging about him. Your mother was quite like her, so you wouldn’t be surprised if she didn't receive many pictures of him to begin with. 

And of course, he was criminally good looking. Sure, you only caught his face in three quarters profile, but that's all you needed to know he was hot. 

What you weren’t expecting was for him to be as hot as he was, at least. You were not prepared to see him walk through your front door– duffle bag slung over his shoulder– his broad, muscular shoulders. It was only seven in the morning and you were glad you were ready for tennis because you would have hated to receive him– in his messy, tousled hair, tight jeans and post travel glory in your pyjamas. 

“Well hello.” He ran a hand through said hair as he spoke, and set his laptop on the kitchen counter where you were sipping on a morning shake. You were 99% sure you caught him sneaking a peak at your pink lacey bra where it poked out of your top. 

He had this air about him– the confident jock vibe that would usually annoy you. But no no no, Javi was no cocky, overconfident high school boy. He was in university after all. If this was a sample of what college boys were like you were more than excited for the next few years ahead. 

His hand laid respectfully on your back as he leaned for a hug and introduced himself. The press of his firm, warm chest against your scantily clad top had your breath hitching. Especially when he shot you that smile as he pulled away. 

It definitely felt a little sacrilege to be thinking such thoughts about your stepbrother. But he was hardly that. As much as his mother liked to pretend that yours never existed, that your father and her were the perfect little couple. That you were the perfect little family– with your prestigious university placements, and picket fence house, with the high paying jobs and respect of the neighbourhood. 

You never really cared about what she had to say anyway. She was irrelevant, and in more ways than one. But her son. You had decided he was the most relevant thing on the planet. In those pool shorts, those tight, thin, t-shirts that were snug in all the right places. With those arms of his.  He was a piece of art– like some guy you’d have on a poster in your bedroom, who you’d dream about and wake up with a mess between your legs. 

And he had to know how hot he was. How charming he was when he opened doors for women or complimented the ladies at your neighbourhood barbeque. He had to know how all the school girls in your area dropped dead like flies when he stopped by the after school  fundraiser in his leather jacket and those tight, dark wash jeans. 

He had to know what he was doing when he put his hand on your waist to get past you at the kitchen counter, had to know you noticed him raking his eyes over your body when the both of you lounged by the pool. 

Because you sure knew what you were doing when you walked past his room, soaking wet from the rain, your transparent clothes leaving little to the imagination. You knew what you were doing when you batted your lashes at him– asked him to get your mug off the top shelf even though you could manage doing it yourself. You could barely contain your giggles when you sauntered up to him, a can of cola in your hand, politely requesting him to open it because you didn’t want to chip your freshly painted nails. 

If the talk of the town was going to take over your summer, you might as well have some fun. 

—

“And how is Loraine? Why didn’t you bring her along?” you knew the question would crop up eventually. Yet another reason to feel guilty about thirsting for your stepbrother. His American sweetheart girlfriend. God, how you loathed her. You were glad she didn’t tag along. Sure, Maria’s desire to show her future daughter in law off had been trampled upon, but you think you would have drowned yourself in your pool if you had to stomach seeing Javier getting cosy with another woman. 

“We’re um” Javier put his fork down and reached for his glass of water. “We’re not together anymore, mom.” 

That was not the answer you were expecting. By the looks of it, neither was Maria. With an exasperated sigh she set down her cutlery to gesture with her hands, in that annoying, exaggerated manner that she always did when she didn’t get her way. 

“Oh my god, Javi! Why the hell didn’t you tell me!!” Javier raised his brows and took a drink of his water in a way that really called to attention the “this is why” sentiment that was plastered all over his face. You should’ve been ashamed that your first instinct was to smile out of sheer giddiness. But regardless of whether you stood a chance or not- the fact that he was no longer tied up made you unreasonably happy. 

Sure, you’d heard a lifetime's worth of advice about “not dating college boys” and staying away from the charming, playboy variety at that. But in a few month’s time you were going to be a college girl, and you ought to familiarise yourself with the items offered on the menu. 

Either way it was Javier’s life that was on the table that day, up for dissection, and as bad as you felt for him, you were glad it wasn’t yours.

“Javier, why would you do that?....” 

The conversation around you slowly drowned out into senseless chatter, as it always did, and you took the time to enjoy Javi’s face under the veil of witnessing the nasty argument that his revelation broke out. 

—

It had been a few days since that riveting discussion at the dining table, and things had gone pretty much as usual. You saw and indulged in conversation with Javi once in a while, but for the most part you kept to yourself. As much as you wanted to make a move you didn’t want to come off too desperate to take up your step-mother’s instructions to “bond” as it were. 

What went down at dinner had surprised you, you had to admit. From the way Maria boasted about her son, you really expected the two to get along swimmingly. So to say you were surprised to see Javi’s disregard for his mother, and the general lack of bother he showed at her antics, would be an understatement. 

Then again Maria didn’t seem to bring up Javi outside of her boasting, and if that argument was any indication, you knew their relationship was a lot more complicated than your stepmother had ever let on. You took solace in the fact that the summer wouldn’t be the three against one misery fest you were initially expecting. 

It didn’t help that Maria was trying to get Javi and Lorraine back together. She was so desperate to mediate their premarital conflict. Just a taster for how any marriage of Javi’s would go. But Javi himself didn't seem so enthusiastic about the whole thing. Sure, he’d agreed to try to mend things for his mother’s sake, but just saying Lorraine’s name around him got him ticked off at this point. 

But that solace motivated you to new heights, inspired you to take up a stride in the Javi department of your life. Maybe he would be receptive to your company? Who knew. After spending a sleepover’s sleepless night gushing about him to your best friend Connie, the two of you hedged a plan. 

Everything seemed meant to be– Connie was throwing a house party with her brother Steve in their house the following night. As it happened, Javi Peña had been far closer to your inner circle than you could have ever anticipated. In fact, you were surprised you hadn’t crossed paths before, considering he and Steve played soccer together in high school. The same high school you began to attend the year they graduated. 

“Javier?!” Steve grabbed a slice of pizza from the box on the kitchen counter and leaned against the marble, looking over at you and Connie sitting at the island. “You didn’t tell me the Maria you’ve been bitching to Connie about is Maria Peña.” You rolled your eyes and wiped your face with a napkin. “Were you in the same class or something too?” Steve nodded his head and reached for his beer. 

“Fuck yeah we were! We’re pals! Did sociology together and all.” he took a sip of his beer and placed the bottle back on the counter. “Ms. Peña was really sweet– she’d bring us snacks to practise and stuff.” you and Connie shared a look. Of course she did– she loved being the perfect mom, didn’t she?! 

“Get Peña over tomorrow, would ya? Bastard didn’t even tell me he was back in town.” you try your best to conceal your smirk, you’ll bring him around, Steve didn't need to worry. “Don’t get too upset at him, he only got back like a week ago– and if I can’t convince him to tag along, you’ve gotta promise to give him a call, okay?” Steve snickered, then nodded his head. 

“Bet your ass I will.” 

— 

Morning came quicker than you expected, and before you knew it your father was backing out of the lunch date he had promised you to celebrate the beginning of summer. On top of that, he took a whole hour to respond to your “will you at least pick me up?” text.  Now you had no lunch plans and no ride home from Connie’s. 

“Sending Javier to pick u up. sorry, maybe tmr? <3”  his text had read. Expected. You should have been surprised he’d stuck to the plans as long as he did. 

But there was always a silver lining– at least that's what you’d told yourself your whole life. This time it actually felt a bit more meaningful than the pathetic mantra it had become over the years. It was commendable how Javi managed to be more involved in and committed to your well being than your own father.  

Either way, this might have been a good opportunity for you to ask Javier to come to the party later, maybe use your persuasive skills and finally make some progress on getting to know him better. You psyched yourself up as you waited on Connie’s porch, watching intently but trying to remain cool and calm as you watched Javi’s red vintage mustang near. 

Even his car was sexy and cool. Ugh. 

You hopped in and chucked your bag in the backseat. 

“Had fun?” you continued to try and be nonchalant when he tipped his sunglasses down to address you.  “Yeah, was fun.” you shifted to get comfortable, one leg up on the leather of the seat, your skirt riding up. Javi sure noticed. Even if it was just for a second. 

His hair blew in the wind as he got going. Christ he was so sexy when he was driving. Good god. Should've been illegal.

“Not staying another night? No party?” He seemed genuinely interested. It was the bare minimum but he sure had a way of making the bare minimum charming. With those expressive eyes, upturned lips and teasing tone. He was not much older than you but boy did he feel like he came from a different planet. So relaxed, so confident, at ease. It put you at ease too. “Yeah, but only at 10.” you paused and looked over at him, the sun was in his eyes so he reached atop his head to drag down his sunglasses. “Connie’s brother Steve asked me to ask you to come.” 

“Steve?” he paused to look at you for a brief second.“Murphy?!” “He laughed, then turned the corner. “Steve Murphy is Connie’s brother? Him and I went to high school together!” 

“Yeah, I know! Crazy right?!” you were quick to continue before he could interject. “Anyway, he wants you to come too, and he’s extra upset cuz you haven’t told him you’re back in town yet.” Javier snorted, turned to you again and playfully and gently shoved your shoulder. “Yeah, I've been a little preoccupied, haven't I?l.” he asked rhetorically, shooting you a teasing look. Poor guy, Maria had been on his ass from the moment he had gotten back, playing show and tell with him at her various parties. 

The warm summer air hit you square in the face, smelling like fresh flowers, grass and the sea. You closed your eyes momentarily and tried not to get too distracted by the ideal weather. “Well, then you’re gonna come tonight, aren’t you? Make it up to him?” 

He paused at a traffic light, and shook his head just enough for you to notice.“I don’t know, doll… I’ll have to see how I'm feeling..”. Oh no, you couldn’t let him get out of this one. You turned in your seat and pushed yourself closer, placing a gentle hand on his knee. 

“Why? Do you have plans or something?” It didn't last long, you were startled off him when the light went green and he started back on the road. 

The wind hit you in the face yet again as you picked up speed, swaying Javi’s soft waves in a way that was far too entertaining. He shrugged and checked the rearview mirror. “Not tonight I don't.” Oh well, that was perfect news, was it not? “Oh well that's perfect then. We can finally get on that “bonding” thing, your mom’s been on about.”

He laughed and eyed you as if to tease. “Looks like you were paying more attention to all that crap than I was.” There it was, more reassurance of Maria’s tendency to be a pain in the ass. You laughed– great you were bonding already. “Been running around town with mom all day– can’t lie that I'm a bit tired..”

“Oh please, come on, it’ll be fun!!” You leaned over yet again, this time placing both hands on his knee and scooting closer. You knew he would see your tits push up in your skimpy top. “Please, Javi?” 

And you were right to think he was simple enough of a man for that to work, “Okay, okay” he conceded and put his right hand over yours. You gave his knee a squeeze and turned towards the front again. “Yay! See!! Two birds with one stone– Maria will be happy too– bonding and all!!” 

He pulled up in front of your home, and you were already leaping out of the seat to grab your bag. You caught his eyes raking up your legs once again. “She might be onto something there though, I must admit.” he had got to know what he was doing– the way he was looking, the way those words left his mouth. He was one of those naturally flirty types, despite not needing to be. 

“Mother knows best!” Your voice travelled across your front lawn, and Javi shut the car door, watching as you skipped inside. He wasn’t much far behind you. 

“See you tonight then.” You dropped your bag on the couch and watched him click the door shut behind him. He leaned against it and observed you strut about the kitchen. “Don’t ditch me when we get there, doll.” If you were a better person the nickname would have appalled you, but you were not strong enough to resist whatever it was that was going on. 

You sauntered over to him, letting him get one last look at your perfect summer outfit before heading for the stairs. You got close enough to where you were standing between his legs. He was even broader and taller up close, if that was even possible. And it wasn't helping your horniness that you could smell the herb and bergamot of his perfume. You looked up at him through your lashes. 

“Pinky promise.”  

— 

You ended up leaving for the party before Javi did, mostly to solicit Connie’s help with your look, but also to help set up the lights with Steve. You wished you could have left together, especially when you walked past his room and smelt the fresh scent of his shampoo as he showered. You weren’t even ready to see what he’d show up in. You were hoping for the leather jacket. 

And boy did he not disappoint. Javier showed up alright. Looking better than ever. The full package, tight dark wash jeans, his short sleeve button up, and of course, the leather jacket. You were at the bar counter on the far end of the room when he entered the Murphy residence. You had the perfect view of all the girls who immediately migrated to his side. Your insides turned with jealousy. 

All night you watched him, kept an eye on him whilst you danced in the middle of the dance floor. You watched him out of the corner of your eye sipping his beer and smoking a cigarette. He was chatting with Steve. The both of them kept to themselves the entire evening. You’d heard from Connie they didn’t really like the people they went to school with too much, anyway. 

You were pleased with that however, since apart from Steve, there was no one at the party who was getting in the way of him giving you attention. It was the perfect set up for your ulterior motives. Anytime he wasn’t chatting with the tall blonde, his eyes were on you as yours were on his. He tried to be nonchalant about it. You had the feeling he had gotten quite expert at this type of stuff over the years. He was all calm and collected, taking in your borderline sinful dancing with his cigarette dangling between his lips. 

The fact that he smoked in the first place was enough to get your panties soaking. With all the no smoking PSAs you’d been subjected to over the years you never really had a chance to get within fifty miles of one yourself. The forbidden allure of it all made your brain buzz around in your head. Now that was a man who could take your virginity. 

It was definitely hindering your odds of getting into heaven, the way you yanked your skirt up just that little bit when you danced, swayed your hips a little too suggestively the moment you took notice of Javier’s looking. But hey, wherever you were putting down, the man was picking up, so at the very least the both of you shared the blame. 

Intermittently through the night you stumbled to the bar, leaning your body onto his as you asked for another drink. At some point, Steve had moved elsewhere so you had Javi all to yourself. He wrapped an arm around you as you waited for your sixth cocktail of the night, already struggling to see straight. He chatted with you and indulged your little flirtatious advances without going too far. The fact that he didn’t push it only made him more sexy.

You felt lucky that besides the Murphy siblings, no one at the party was privy to your real relationship, and those who might have been had either already taken their leave, or were too busy getting it on with others. Not unlike the Murphy siblings themselves. 

So when you leaned it a little further than you usually do, when the bar was empty, and everyone else in the house was rather preoccupied, Javier finally pulled you all the way in. You stood fully between his legs as he sat on the barstool, cigarette still in hand. You looked up at him, finally close enough to catch the scent of his perfume again. 

In your drunken courage, you slung your arms around his neck, playing gently with the tips of his hair as you spoke. About what you barely remember. Just a whole lot of senseless flirting. He called you “doll” at some point. It made you shiver and you pushed yourself even closer to his chest. 

“You've been havin fun?” he removed one hand from your waist to take a sip of his beer. Your hands moved to play with the collar of his jacket. 

“Hmhm. I am now”. It was hard to squeeze out all these cheeky responses when he was drawing those circles on your waist with his thumbs. God he was so big and imposing. And he moved around and with your body like he had known it for years. When he wasn't drawing circles he was smoothing his hand down your back, grazing your lower hips just enough to leave you wanting more. This was so obviously not his first rodeo. 

The boys you knew only bragged about their many escapades. So much so they were hard to believe. Javi clearly didn’t have to. You didn’t even want to know how many girls he’d taken to bed. You wondered what his hands could do to you. He was probably so experienced, so attuned to the whims of the body. 

Another thing he was good at doing was laughing at your rather provocative one liners. His chuckle reverberated across his entire chest. It was so deep and low and perfect. God, it was so difficult to have any amount of sense around this man. 

You spent another good ten minutes rocking side to side to the music in Javi’s arms. Getting a little too close for supposed “siblings”, letting your hands wander a little too far, your lips get a little too close. To say you were enjoying yourself would have been a severe understatement. With every second he looked at you, stroked your skin or man handled you ever so slightly, you were one step closer to jumping his bones. He had quite literally smooth talked his way into getting your panties wet. 

You would have stayed there forever too, getting progressively more drunk and unhinged. Well bold, you got bolder with what you said, where you teased, and the way you looked at him from under your lashes. 

By the time Steve Murphy had snuck up behind you, you were far too drunk to be anywhere but your bed. So much so that you almost cussed Javi out for unceremoniously making distance between you two because you didn't realise. 

Safe to say you huffed and puffed whilst the two had their conversation. Well, for a little bit, until you really needed to go home. 

You stumbled into Javi’s arms, wrapping your own around his neck and pressing your body against his again. His warmth enveloped you, his embrace was firm around your waist and there was nothing you wanted more than to climb right onto him right then and there. But you were too dizzy to hold yourself up on two feet, and he was way too well adjusted and respectful to take advantage of you so you buried your face in his chest and groaned. 

“C’mon, silly, let's get you home.” You heard Steve laugh, but you were not 100 percent sure it really was him. Javi’s arm got a steady hold around your waist and he manoeuvred you towards the door. 

Javier had only had one beer, ever mindful that he needed to drive you home. And you were glad for it. You put your entire body weight on him as he led you to the car out front, opening the door and sliding you into the passenger seat with caution.  He sure had a fine temperament, putting up with your senseless chatter and mindless yappery the whole drive home. At one point, exhausted by your own talkativeness, you collapsed beside him, head in his lap and everything. This was probably the better of the two options, the second one being getting sick all over his car.  

As you drifted in and out of sleep-land you felt his hand gently smooth over your head, then rest on the curve of your waist. The rough of his jeans brushed your cheek as The Rolling Stones played on the stereo. 

—

“Shhh, baby.” his thumb pressed against your swollen lips, so soft. “You gotta be quiet, yeah?” he craned his neck to look up and towards your parent’s bedroom. “Gonna wake up the wicked witch of the west” he laughed out the last part of his sentence, thumb swiping your bottom lip when you joined him. “But Javi…” His hand moved to cup your cheek, and he grimaced at your loud voice. 

“Dolly ” mocking your whining he brushed his thumb against your skin. He was so perfect.  your skin tingled with how close he was, his breath fanning your lips every time he whispered, his deep brown eyes so difficult not to get lost in. Maybe if he kissed you he could’ve gotten you to keep quiet. 

“That’s what’ll get ya to keep that mouth shut?” 

You could have sworn you didn’t say that out loud, your eyes widened in realisation and you burst into a fit of giggles. The deep brown eyes you had been losing yourself in turned affectionate, and crinkled at the corners. 

“‘Fraid you did, kiddo.” And there you’d done it again. He didn't let go of your cheek, still stroking it with his thumbs, only whispering a bit more desperately in the hopes your parents wouldn't wake up thanks to the commotion. “Well then, I promise I will, but first we got to get past the grouches, remember?”  

Your eyes lit up and you placed your hands on his chest to get a better look up at him. The pout on your lips deepened and you curled your fingers around the collar of his jacket to shake him lightly. “Such a party pooper. Javi! You're a party pooper.”  At least you tried to feebly jostle him around. It only made him snicker. 

It made him grab your hands in his and bring them to his lips. “I know doll, I know” he laughed and  placed a kiss on your knuckles then leaned his forehead against yours. “But will you listen to me? Will you keep quiet for me?” 

His voice was so soft it made your stomach flip flop, put you in a daze and feel all floaty in his arms. “For you, Javi?” You tried your best not to slur your speech but boy was it difficult. His eyes softened and he brushed his knuckles across the apple of your cheek. “Yes baby, can you keep it quiet for your Javi?” 

Now that made you hush. You reached your hand to your mouth and made a zipping motion to shut yourself up indefinitely, then locked your lips around the corner for good measure. Grabbing Javi’s hand you handed him the “key” with that face of determination, and he chuckled at your newfound commitment to keeping quiet. 

“Thanks baby.” he put the “key” in the pocket, then twisted his arms back around your waist and guided you up the flight of stairs. “Come on now.” stumbling and stumbling your way through your house, up the stairs and down the corridors you revelled in every second you leaned on Javi and let him support your weight, hold you in his arms and guide you as you tripped over yourself. If getting drunk meant having him practically carry you everywhere you sure enjoyed it– no matter how gross you felt. 

Eventually, you remember feeling the plush of your covers tickle the side of your face as you collapsed on your bed. You heard Javi break into a laugh behind you but you found it hard to respond with how dizzy and uncomfortable you had become. You groaned and kicked your shoes off– at least you tried until Javier bent down and did it for you. 

You couldn't stifle your giggle when he pressed a kiss below your ankle where your shoe had scuffed at your skin and left a tiny mark. With much fuss, some encouragement and a lot of struggle, Javier did manage to get you to sit upright and eventually got you into the bathroom to change into some pyjamas. 

Safe to say you did little work– it was him that fetched your nightwear from your dresser, helped you hobble into the bathroom and stood outside the door to make sure you didn't fall and crack your head open. When you did emerge from the bathroom, it was he that threw your alcohol laced clothes in the hamper, and handed you a wipe to swipe along your face. 

“I feel sick..” you leaned your head against his shoulder– perched on the bed and barely able to hold up your own weight. That was not a problem since Javier had no qualms supporting said weight in his big, strong arms. So much so you were ready to fall asleep sitting up right there. 

“I know doll, that’s why we’ve gotta get you some rest…” He caught your legs in his grasp and helped you lay back against the mattress. The whole room spun and you reached for him in frantic desperation– afraid you would fall right through your bed and to your inevitable demise. 

Javi was quick to hush you, gently shifting the duvet from under your restless form and tucking you in. Sure, to say you were feeling great would be a little bit misleading– but boy your bed had never felt as comfortable as it did in that moment. The covers swallowed you like a giant, marshmallow like cloud, and you felt your muscles relax and give in to the exhaustion. You felt the tickle of the covers– completely and cosily tucked in. Your eyes fluttered shut, and you were prepared to drift to dreamland. But how could you forget…. 

“Where's my kiss?” you rolled over under the duvet, twisted in a position between your side and on your back– too dizzy to align yourself correctly with the mattress. Even you found it difficult to recognise your own voice, far more slurred and sleepy and small than it usually was. Your eyes struggled to remain open. 

Javi laughed, and helped you turn around to face him in a way that wouldn’t compromise your back. He shifted the covers around you to tuck you back in again, and you couldn’t help but snuggle into the plush of your bedding. You watched with hooded eyes as he reached forward and ran his knuckles across your cheekbones.  

Javier leaned in to press his lips to your forehead, letting them flutter against your skin ever so gently, and smoothed his palm over your head. You were asleep before he pulled away. 

“Goodnight, doll.” 

—

You woke up with perhaps the worst hangover to have ever existed. Turns out endless sugar and alcohol really didn’t sit well in your system. The sun peaking in through the blinds made you groan and toss the sheets off your body. It was hot and mucky in your room. Too hot and mucky for the morning. 

But it wasn’t the morning. 

When you rolled over and checked your phone it was well into the evening. 18:00hrs to be exact. You didn't know it was possible to sleep in that late and still feel like shit. The previous night must have really been something. 

You couldn’t remember much from the previous night if you were being honest, well, besides the fact that you spent quite a significant part of it cozying up to Javier. You still smelt him on your skin, and felt what his mere presence did to you between your legs. Your panties clung to your cunt as you stepped out of bed. 

Your own reflection in the bathroom mirror frightened you, but you brushed your teeth and hopped in the shower despite your overall ickiness and lethargy. You knew Javier would be downstairs looking handsome as ever, and after probably looking a little ridiculous the night before, you couldn’t really risk walking out there looking like a clown. 

Besides, it was late already, and there was nothing more you could use at the moment than a cold fruit juice and a soak in the pool. 

When you sauntered down the staircase and made your way towards the kitchen, you were surprised to find your house rather empty. The sun was setting and both Maria and your dad should have been home for dinner by this time.  You called a few names but to no avail. 

Deciding that you couldn’t be bothered you fixed yourself an ice cold lemonade and moseyed on over to the pool, only then to be jumpscared by a rather unexpected shirtless figure laying in the shallow end, relaxing with his eyes closed. 

Before you could speak, he did. “Sleep well I reckon?” his head was still tilted towards the sky, his torso stretched out as he laid his head on the edge of the pool deck. The water gently crashed against his navel. 

“Probably not as well as you were a second ago” you approached him, his eyes were still closed but he outstretched an arm, making space for you beside him. “Well, I didn't sleep in till six now, did I? I was just taking a little nap, doll” 

You rolled your eyes and climbed into the water, but instead of cozying up to him you swam in front and gently parted his knees to kneel on the pool step. “Where are the oldies?” By this time, Javier had actually opened his eyes and he watched with a smirk as you ran your hand over his leg. 

“They’re out, baby- gonna be out till breakfast tomorrow.” He reached forward and pulled you fully towards him. “Well that's fortunate isn't it”. Surely he could tell you were pushing your tits in his face. He clearly didn't mind either way. You slung your arms over his shoulders again as he spoke.

“Oh yeah? What for” he moved his face towards yours and his hands moved dangerously to the cut of your breasts. “Gives us time to swim, you know, relax in the pool.”  You couldn’t even keep a straight face as the words left your mouth. You pushed yourself off his knees and swam towards the deeper end. Javier chuckled and followed behind you slowly, playfully threatening to grab your leg as you squealed away from him. 

“That’s all you out here to do?” He caught up to you and gently cornered you against the edge of the pool. “I don’t know why you’d think otherwise..” You were in shallow enough waters that you could stand on your tip toes. You grabbed him by the sides and pulled him closer. His own hand snuck under the water and brushed against the cut of your bikini bottoms. “Just the way you’ve been squeezing your thighs since last night.” 

Your breath hitched, “Didn’t Maria say she wanted you to mend things with Lorraine again?” His hand was still dangerously close to your already dripping pussy. This was definitely better than any wet dream you’d had over the past week Javi had been visiting. The feeling of his skin against yours, the rough waistband of his pool shorts brushing against your waist, his unbelievably huge arms caging you against the warm stone of the pool deck- it made you melt more than the evening heat ever could .  

Speaking of the heat, the sun had almost fully set. The lights in the pool had turned on automatically and the way they shimmered lit up Javi’s face in the most spectacular fashion. You noticed the gleam of the water against his warm, tanned skin as he spoke. “Since when do you want her to have her way, doll?”

He was so close you felt his entire chest vibrate with his chuckle. His hand gripped your waist and forced you up until your legs had no choice but to wrap around him. It was then you felt his hard, thick, length pressing up against the inside of your thigh. You squealed and tried to get your words out straight.  “I don't know… feels a bit unholy whatever's going on here.”

“It does  feels sacrilege" his hands toyed with the straps of your swim top, he continued speaking, voice getting lower by the second. “Wonder what our parents would say if they found out”

Javi’s hips pushed further into yours and you gasped, your pussy aching at the feel of his cock rubbing against you. It was a struggle to choke your words out, but nevertheless you managed. “They’d be furious.” He could definitely tell you were struggling. In fact he seemed to enjoy it quite a bit. He leaned down and ran the tip of his nose against your collarbone, his hips continued to rock against yours and you felt your swimsuit cling to your wet, messy, cunt. “Mom would lose her mind.”

In your delirious state you struggled to keep up with what he was saying. Sure, you’d had sloppy makeouts with boys before. But all those boys were losers, obsessed with getting off and too stupid to know what they were doing in the first place. None of them were  competent enough to speak to you this way, get you all worked up and caught up in their words. The thought of Maria finding out what was happening under her nose made you giggle a little giggle of revenge. “She’d lose her mind at what's going on here.” you sighed as you spoke, revelling in the feeling of Javi’s lips on your neck. But just as those words left your mouth, he pulled back playfully. 

“What is going on here?”  You felt his cock swell and rut against you and you gasped. Your hands grasped his shoulders for some stability. “What is it you want from me, baby?” You were so wet you bared down on him and you heard him groan. His hand moved to your breast and stayed there tauntingly. 

“See that's the thing….”  you took in a breath, then ran your hands over his chest before slinging your arms over his shoulders and pulling him closer. “What's the thing..” Javier squeezed your breast in his hand and you moaned. He leant back into your neck and sucked the skin, rocking you once again gently into the wall of the pool. You felt your pussy clench around nothing. 

“How much do you think it would piss the oldies off if you say..” you tangled your fingers in his hair and whispered gently in his ear. “I don't know, took my virginity?”

Javi rocked his hips into yours so hard he slammed you against the wall. You shivered as you heard him groan beside your ear. His cock strained against his swim trunks and sat nuzzled against your wet, hot pussy. “Quite a lot I think..” 

“Call it a favour.” His hand made its way between your bodies as he spoke and he ran his thumb over your clothed clit. He pulled back and looked at your face as if to say he was rather unsurprised by the fact you were a virgin. For a split second you wondered how he would know but were quickly distracted by his hips thrusting into yours. There was a glint in his eyes. He looked excited, almost like he could eat you alive right then and there.  “Is this why you’ve been such a tease the past week?” 

Elated, and basking in all the new sensations, the movement of his expert fingers over your sweet spot you smiled and let out a rather enthusiastic “Maybeee.”

His fingers continued to rub your clit as he spoke and you bucked your hips into his hand. “Want me to stretch you out so you can have some fun once you get to college?” Those words sent your eyes rolling back into your head. You tightened your hold around his waist with your legs and tugged at his hair. Unable to speak. 

“Someone’s quiet..” with your lips inches from his all you could manage were quiet, strained pants “Just trying to make your whole break-up easier.”

Javier chucked and slipped his fingers under your bikini bottoms, he groaned at your wetness and you gasped at the feel of his rough fingertips against your most sensitive spot. “You’re doing good, baby, haven’t thought about that cheater for a week.” 

Oh, what a revelation that was

“See, it's a win-win” his lips finally came crashing down on yours after those words. They were soft and he tasted like cigarettes and vodka. He moved his mouth expertly against yours just as he moved his fingers against your pussy. The feelings rose in your chest and you moaned into his lips. You took a chance and nipped at them while you were there. 

“Naughty little thing you are.” By this time you were so needy and desperate, the grinding wasn’t cutting it. Every other time you had a guy between your legs he'd already finished, and in the rare case he didn’t he was still rutting against your leg like a rabid dog. Not Javi though, Javi had got the stiff peak of your nipple between his fingers, he pinched gently and then reached behind you to untie your swim top. You took the time to reach down and feel him through his swim trunks. You didn’t know where you got the courage from, but when you saw his eyes flutter close and his lips part, you knew it was worth it. He grabbed your hand and brought it back up over the water. When you looked between you, you saw your swim top and your bottoms floating away from you. Before you knew it, he was slamming you back against the wall, his thick fingers teasing at your opening. He nudged your nose with his “Tell me to stop, and I’ll stop okay?”

You nodded, and felt yourself melt into his arms when he placed a gentle kiss on your cheek. God, this was just second nature to him, wasn’t it?! “Well then baby, how do you want it?”

Gasping, you clutched at his soldiers when you felt him push his finger into your weeping entrance. The water crashed against your body and you seized as he placed his thumb on your clit and rubbed. 

“Want it slow and romantic?” His fingers moved in languid strokes, drawing out your moans from deep within your chest, his lips locked to the skin of your chest, kissing and nipping. You arched your back with every move. 

“Gentle and sweet?” Whatever he was doing, it was working. You don’t remember the last time even you managed to get yourself that worked up. 

“You know what I think?” He slipped another of his tick fingers in and you winced at the stretch. He pumped his digits in the perfect rhythm and you twitched in his hold.

“I think you’ll take it the way I give it to you..” his pace picked up and you felt him rubbing his hard cock against your thigh. “Think you know that I know what you want.”

“Know what you want before you do, baby.” The thought made you squeak, and he laughed at your enthusiasm. “You like that doll?” his rutting got faster, and you took the cue to nip at his neck, suck little kisses on his salty, summer kissed skin. “Fuck, you sure you haven’t done this before?” Your hands roamed his body as your hips bucked into his hand. He groaned when you tugged at his hair again. 

“So fucking pretty..And so fucking tight….” His eyes raked over your form as you squirmed and turned in his hold. His fingers scissored you open. 

“Look at you, so wet for my cock.” Much to your dismay he pulled his hand away from your spasming cunt just as you neared your release, instead reaching into his swim trunks and sliding his cock between your swollen folds. 

“Ready for me baby?” You bit your lip at the feel of his head pressing against your entrance. “You sure feel ready”. The comment made your cheeks heat but your nods couldn’t be more emphatic. At that point you were shivering and quivering with need. The image of Javi towering over you, his big hands grabbing at your flesh, it was too much. 

“That's my girl..” with a single, deep stroke, he pushed in. Dear god was he big. So big in fact that had you been any less wet he would have split you in half. Even with how wet you were you flinched at the sting. Every vein, every contour of him you could feel inside you. Your walls pulsed when you heard him groan. 

Javi shushed you and cupped your cheek in his hand, he let you adjust to his size with slow movements of his hips. You struggled to take his huge cock but the pleasure was too strong to stop. The stretch was so delicious. 

“Doing such a good job baby, such a good job taking my cock..” you clenched your eyes shut at the pleasure, the pain almost completely dissipating each passing second. 

“Dont worry, the other boys won’t be this big.” he chuckled and forced your eyes to meet his. “Won’t have any trouble after I’m done with you.” His lips crashed into yours. “They’ll slide right in, doll.” 

You heard the water crash against the walls of the pool, spilling over the edge and onto the deck. Your pussy fluttered at Javi’s dirty words and you moaned his name in an expectedly desperate plea. As if he knew what you were asking he picked up his speed just a little, the hand that was grabbing your waist moved up to toy with your nipple. 

“Bratty little thing teasing me since the day I got here, just begging me to fuck your brains out the moment your daddy looked away.” He gained his rhythm, your thighs slapping against his under the water. “Dancing for my attention, falling all over me.” He leaned down to swirl his tongue against your nipple as it rested above the water. “Just needed some cock in your pure little pussy didn’t you”. You felt the cool evening air hit your chest but your skin still felt like it was on fire. “Fucking tease.”

Like a prayer yet again his name fell from your lips. Your body struggled to make any other sounds beside that anyway. He seemed to like it, his cock pulsing inside you as he fucked you hard and fast. 

“Say it again baby.” You did. It was hard not to listen to his every word when he was inside you, hitting all those spots you could never reach with your fingers. Ones you barely knew existed. 

“Whose fucking you so good?” He growled in your ear. 

“Javi” 

“Whose poppin’ your sweet cherry?” At this point you were screaming and moaning so loud the neighbours probably thought someone was being murdered in your backyard. But you couldn’t care less. You had no idea sex could even feel this good. God knows your ability to get yourself off was mediocre at best, and you didn’t have many good things to say about any boy that tried to put his hand up your skirt before Javi. 

He just had the amazing ability to make you feel like your body was the centre of the universe. And that filthy mouth of his was enough to have you teetering on the edge. 

“Gotta be prettiest girl I’ve ever fucked” you opened your eyes to find him staring down at you. His eyes scanned every inch of your body and took every curve in.  “Oh baby, it's not even a competition.” His thrusts only got faster and you yelped as he hit that sweet spot inside you over and over and over again. “All those girls all over me last night, just couldn’t stop thinking of you.”

You were so close, you tightened your legs around him and arched your back. Before you could even warn him that you were cumming you felt yourself tumble off the edge. Your pussy quivered and gushed around his swollen cock, your eyes rolled to the back of your head. You could barely register where you were, and you made out the sound of him cussing from the ringing in your ears. 

When you finally came to you found his thrusts getting sloppy. Javi’s eyes clamped shut and before you knew it you felt his hot spend coating the inside of your walls. Your pussy clenched around him once again and you wrapped your arms over his shoulders as he collapsed on top of you. You pressed your naked chest against his as the both of you caught your breath. 

“That was the best thing ever” you were almost starstruck. Javi snorted and kissed your neck. “Was it now?” He placed a kiss on your jaw and mumbled into your skin.

“We should do that again.” you turned to him as you spoke, biting your bottom lip. Javi grabbed your cheeks between his fingers and ran his thumb over said lip. 

“Well, baby, now you’re the one that owes me a favour.” 

— 

Evil, we've come to tell you that she's evil, most definitely

Evil, ornery, scandalous and evil, most definitely

The tension, it's getting hotter

I'd like to hold her head underwater