Natalia

A heavy, warm hand slides up your spine. Calloused fingertips trace the line of your vertebrae with agonizing gentleness, right up to the nape of your neck, before a soft pair of lips presses against the healing mating bite over your scent gland.

“Morning, beautiful,” Dean’s voice rumbles, low and gravelly with sleep.

You let out a soft, contented sigh, shifting backward until your body is perfectly flush against his solid chest. The bond humming beneath your skin flares to life, vibrating with a deep, answering affection. “Morning.”

“How are you feeling?” He asks, his arm wrapping around your waist to pull you even closer. “The fever is completely gone. You feel cool.”

“I feel like I ran a marathon,” you mumble, keeping your eyes closed. “Or maybe ten marathons. I can barely lift my arms.”

Dean chuckles, the sound vibrating against your back. “That’s fair. You put in a lot of work this week, sweetheart.”

You flush hotly, the memories of the past seven days rushing back. It had been a blur of skin, heat, and absolute biological demand. Every time you thought the wave was cresting, it would pull you back under, and Dean had been there for every single second of it. He hadn’t just taken care of you; he had worshipped you. He fed you when you were too weak to sit up, carried you to the bath when you were slick with sweat, and answered every single one of your omega’s frantic pleas with absolute, unyielding devotion.

“You must be exhausted,” you say, finally cracking your eyes open and turning your head to look at him over your shoulder.

Dean looks beautifully wrecked. His blonde hair is sticking up in every direction, his jaw is covered in a week’s worth of golden scruff, and there are faint, dark circles under his eyes. But his green eyes are bright, practically glowing with a fierce, settled contentment.

“I’ve never felt better in my entire life,” Dean says honestly. He props his head up on his hand, looking down at you. “You’re perfect. You did so good. I’m so damn proud of you.”

Tears immediately prick your eyes. Your emotions are still completely raw, sitting right on the surface. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true,” he promises, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “Now, stay here. Don’t move a muscle. I’m going to make us some coffee and get some actual food in you. Room service brought up a massive breakfast spread about an hour ago.”

He climbs out of the nest, completely unbothered by his lack of clothing, and pulls on a pair of grey sweatpants low on his hips. You watch him walk out to the main living area, admiring the broad slope of his shoulders and the way his muscles shift under his skin.

He’s your mate. The reality of it still knocks the breath completely out of your lungs.

A few minutes later, Dean returns carrying a tray loaded with pancakes, bacon, fresh fruit, and two massive mugs of coffee. He sets it on the nightstand and climbs back into the bed, carefully pulling you up so your back is resting against the headboard. He grabs one of his oversized Briar hockey hoodies from the edge of the nest and gently pulls it over your head, completely cocooning you in his scent and warmth.

“Eat,” he commands gently, handing you a fork.

You actually have an appetite this morning. The two of you eat in comfortable, easy silence, occasionally stealing bites from each other’s plates. It feels incredibly domestic. It feels like the start of the rest of your life.

When the plates are mostly cleared, Dean sets his coffee mug down and clears his throat.

“So,” he begins, leaning back against the pillows and crossing his arms over his chest. “We need to make some phone calls.”

Your stomach does a complicated, nervous flip. “Phone calls?”

“To our parents,” Dean says. He watches your face carefully, instantly picking up on the spike of anxiety pushing through the bond. He reaches out, wrapping his hand around your ankle under the blankets. “Hey. It’s okay. I want to call mine first. I want them to know I found you. Is that alright?”

You swallow hard and nod. “Yeah. Yes, of course.”

“Do you want me to step out into the living room?”

“No,” you say quickly. “No, stay here. I want to hear.”

Dean smiles, a soft, incredibly tender expression. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabs his phone, and dials. He hits the speakerphone button and tosses the phone onto the mattress between you.

It rings twice before a bright, elegant voice answers.

“Dean? Honey, it’s barely ten in the morning on a Sunday. Are you actually awake, or is the frat house on fire?”

Dean laughs. “No fire, Mom. I’m wide awake. Is Dad there?”

“Peter!” His mother calls out, her voice slightly muffled as she pulls the phone away. “Pick up the line in the study! It’s Dean!” A second later, a deep, authoritative voice clicks onto the line.

“Morning, son. Everything alright?”

“Everything is perfect,” Dean says, leaning forward. He reaches out and takes your hand, lacing his fingers tightly with yours. “Better than perfect, actually. I found her.”

The silence on the line is instantaneous and absolute.

Then, his mother gasps. “Dean? Are you … are you serious?”

“I’m completely serious,” Dean says, his chest puffing out with undeniable alpha pride. “She’s right here with me. Her heat just broke this morning.”

“Oh my god,” his mother breathes, her voice suddenly thick with emotion. “Peter, he found his mate! Dean, this is incredible! Oh, darling, congratulations. We are so, so happy for you.”

“A fated mate,” his father adds, the strictness in his voice completely replaced by a warm, booming joy. “Well done, son. That’s the best news we’ve had in years. What’s her name? Is she a Briar student?”

Dean looks at you, his eyes shining. “Yeah, she goes to Briar. And she’s amazing. She’s the most beautiful, perfect omega I’ve ever met.”

You blush furiously, hiding your face in the oversized collar of Dean’s hoodie.

“Well, don’t keep her all to yourself!” His mother insists. “You need to bring her down to Greenwich immediately. We have to celebrate! I’ll have the staff air out the guest wing, or if she’d prefer, we can come up to Massachusetts. We can take you both out to dinner. Oh, I need to go shopping, I need to get her a welcoming gift-”

“Mom, hold on,” Dean interrupts gently. He gives your hand a firm squeeze. “I need you to listen to me for a second, okay? We aren’t coming to Greenwich right now, and you can’t come up here just yet.”

“Why?” His father asks, immediately picking up on the shift in Dean’s tone. “Is everything alright? Was the heat too hard on her?”

Dean takes a deep breath. “She had a rough time. A really rough time before I found her. Her family … they’re betas. Only betas.”

“Oh,” his mother says, her tone shifting to cautious understanding.

“They put her on suppressants when she was fourteen,” Dean continues, his voice hardening slightly at the memory. “Heavy, industrial-grade blockers. They tried to medicate her designation away because they thought it was an inconvenience. When I found her on campus a week ago, she was seizing on the concrete. She had Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome from the toxicity. She almost died.”

A sharp, horrified intake of breath comes from the phone.

“My god,” his father murmurs, completely appalled.

“They put a child on those poisons?” His mother asks, her voice trembling with genuine outrage and heartbreak. “Dean, that’s barbaric. That poor darling. Is she okay? Is she healthy?”

“She’s healthy now,” Dean assures them quickly. “We flushed her system at the hospital, but coming off them threw her straight into her first heat. She was terrified. Her parents completely convinced her that fated mates were a myth and that her biology was something to be ashamed of.”

“That is unacceptable,” his father states firmly, the high-powered attorney coming out in full force. “Absolutely unacceptable.”

“I know,” Dean says. “Which is why I’m telling you this. When we do finally come down to visit, or when you come up, I need you to be extra gentle with her. She’s never had a proper pack. She’s never seen how an omega is supposed to be treated in a real family. I need you guys to show her that this is a blessing, not a curse.”

“Dean, you don’t even have to ask,” his mother says, her voice thick with unshed tears. “You just tell us what she needs. We will spoil her absolutely rotten. We will show her exactly what it means to be cherished by this family. You just take care of her right now, okay? Let her recover. Let her get her bearings.”

“We’re sending a care package,” his father adds decisively. “Expect it by tomorrow. And Dean … tell her welcome to the family.”

“I will,” Dean says, a massive smile breaking out on his face. “Thanks, Dad. Thanks, Mom. I’ll call you guys later.”

“We love you, Dean. Send her our love!”

Dean hangs up the phone and looks at you.

You are openly crying, the tears spilling down your cheeks and soaking into the collar of the hoodie. You have never, not once in your entire life, heard adults talk about an omega with that level of reverence, care, and desperate protection. And they haven’t even officially met you yet. They just immediately accepted you because you are their son’s mate.

“Hey, no tears,” Dean murmurs, dropping the phone and pulling you onto his lap. He cradles you against his chest, pressing kisses into your hair. “They love you already. I told you, you’re a queen now.”

“They’re so nice,” you sob, clinging to his shirt. “They didn’t even care that I missed class for a week. They just cared if I was okay.”

“Because you’re what matters,” Dean says, rubbing your back. “Not your grades, not your schedule. You.”

You stay there for a long time, letting his words and the overwhelming support from his parents settle into your bones. It makes you feel brave. It makes you feel incredibly grounded.

You pull back slightly, wiping your eyes with the oversized sleeves of the hoodie. You take a deep, shaky breath.

“I need to call my parents.”

Dean frowns, his protective instincts immediately flaring. “You don’t have to do that right now. You can wait. Send a text.”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. “I need to. I’ve been missing for a week. They’re probably worried sick. Or angry. Mostly angry. But I have to tell them.”

Dean studies your face, seeing the determination in your eyes. He hates it. He hates knowing what is likely waiting on the other end of that line, but he refuses to take your agency away.

“Okay,” Dean says softly. “But I’m right here. If they start their bullshit, I’m cutting it off.”

You nod, pulling your own phone off the charger on the nightstand. Your hands are shaking slightly as you scroll to your mother’s contact and hit call. You leave it off speakerphone, holding it tightly to your ear.

It rings four times.

“Hello?” Your mother’s crisp, impatient voice answers.

“Hi, Mom,” you say, your voice remarkably steady despite the racing of your heart.

“It’s about time,” she snaps immediately, the reprimand sharp and instant. “Do you have any idea how irresponsible you’ve been? I have been texting you for six days. I called your roommate, and she gave me some nonsense excuse about you being out of town. What is going on with you?”

You flinch slightly. Dean feels the spike of distress through the bond and immediately wraps his arm securely around your waist, anchoring you to him.

“Mom, I’m sorry I didn’t call,” you start, trying to keep your tone reasonable. “I was in the hospital.”

There is a brief pause. “The hospital? I saw a charge hit the insurance from Boston General, but when I called, they wouldn’t release your records to me because you’re an adult. What did you do to yourself?”

What did you do to yourself. Not are you okay? Not I was so worried. “I didn’t do anything,” you say, your voice hardening just a fraction. “The suppressants you and Dr. Davidson put me on caused a toxic reaction. I had a severe tonic-clonic seizure on the quad. I almost died, Mom.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” your mother sighs, a deeply irritated sound. “Dr. Davidson warned us that there might be some adverse side effects when we upped the dosage. It was just your body adjusting. You just needed to push through it. If you went to the hospital, I’m sure those doctors overreacted and pulled you off of them.”

You stare blankly at the wall, the sheer, willful ignorance of her words staggering you. “Yes, they pulled me off of them. Because they were poisoning me. Because they caused Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome.”

“Well, now what are we going to do?” Your mother demands, completely ignoring your near-death experience in favor of logistics. “You’ve been off them for a week. You must have missed your midterms. Do you know how hard it’s going to be to get those professors to let you retake them? You’re jeopardizing your entire semester for a temporary biological hiccup!”

“It’s not a hiccup!” You finally raise your voice, frustration bleeding through. “It’s my biology! Coming off the pills triggered my heat.”

“Ugh,” she groans, the sound dripping with disgust. “I knew it. A whole week wasted wallowing in a dorm room. We are calling Dr. Davidson on Monday. There has to be a different brand, something lower dose that won’t cause the seizures but will still keep you regulated-”

“I’m not taking them ever again.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, I’m never taking suppressants again,” you say firmly, the mating mark on your neck pulsing warmly, giving you strength. “I’m an omega. I’m done hiding it.”

“You are a modern woman,” your mother corrects sharply, her voice rising in anger. “You are not an animal ruled by hormones. I will not let you throw your life away just because you had a bad reaction to one medication. We worked too hard to make sure you were independent.”

“I am independent!” You argue, tears springing to your eyes again, this time entirely out of frustration. “But I also found my mate, Mom.”

The line goes dead silent.

“What did you just say?”

“I found my fated mate,” you repeat, your voice shaking but defiant. “The guy who found me on the quad when I was seizing … he’s an alpha. We mated. Everything you said was just a fairytale, everything you told me didn’t exist in real life … it’s real. And it’s better than I ever imagined.”

Your mother scoffs. It is a loud, derisive, mocking sound.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Really? This is what this is about?” Her tone is dripping with absolute condescension. “You had a medical emergency, you got scared, and some frat boy alpha fed you a line about being fated to get you into bed during your heat. And you fell for it. You used a fairytale to justify throwing away your medication schedule.”

“That’s not what happened!” You gasp, completely horrified by her cruelty.

“It’s exactly what happened,” your mother says ruthlessly. “Fated mates aren’t real. It’s just a chemical reaction, a biological trap to keep women subservient. And now you’ve bound yourself to some random college boy who is going to expect you to play house instead of focusing on your career. I am so deeply disappointed in you.”

The words hit you like physical blows. You curl in on yourself, a fractured sob tearing from your throat. “Mom, please. Just listen to me-”

“I have heard enough. You are going to pack your bags, you are going to march into your professors’ offices tomorrow and beg for make-up exams, and then you are going to call Dr. Davidson. Until you are ready to act like an adult and take control of your biology, I have nothing else to say to you.”

Before you can even try to respond, Dean’s hand completely covers yours.

He physically pulls the phone out of your grip. His face is a mask of pure, terrifying alpha fury. The air in the room practically drops ten degrees as his scent spikes with sharp, aggressive warning pheromones.

He brings the phone to his mouth.

“Listen to me very carefully,” Dean snarls into the receiver, his voice a lethal, vibrating threat. “Do not ever speak to my omega like that again. You lost the right to call yourself her mother the second you put your prejudice above her life. Do not call this number again.”

“Excuse me, who do you think you are-”

Dean hits the red end-call button, cutting her off mid-sentence.

He tosses the phone onto the floor, completely dismissing its existence, and immediately turns all his attention to you.

You are shaking violently, sobbing into your hands. The rejection cuts so incredibly deep. It’s exactly what you had always feared — that if you embraced who you were, your family would throw you away.

“Shh, baby, hey,” Dean murmurs, pulling your hands away from your face. He wraps his arms completely around you, dragging you fully onto his lap and pressing your face into his neck. “I’ve got you. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

“She hates me,” you cry, gripping handfuls of his t-shirt. “She didn’t even care that I was happy. She just cared that I ruined her perfect plan.”

“She’s toxic,” Dean says firmly, his hand rubbing soothing circles into your back. He pushes out waves of calming cedar, actively using the mating bond to try and force the panic and heartbreak out of your system. “She is a toxic, miserable person who can’t handle the fact that you have something she will never understand. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I just wanted her to be happy for me,” you whisper brokenly.

“I know, sweetheart. I know.” Dean kisses the top of your head, resting his cheek against your hair. “But you don’t need her. You don’t need any of them.”

You sniffle, looking up at him with red, swollen eyes. “I don’t?”

“No,” Dean says, his gaze burning with absolute certainty. He brings a hand up to cup your cheek, his thumb sweeping away a fresh tear. “Because you have me. And you have my family. We are your pack now. You hear me? You belong to us. We are going to celebrate you, and we are going to love you exactly the way you are.”

He leans in and kisses you, a deep, grounding kiss that tastes like salt and coffee and absolute devotion.

“I’m never letting anyone make you feel small again,” Dean vows against your lips. “You’re my omega. My beautiful, perfect omega. And from now on, your life is going to be a goddamn fairytale. I promise.”

You close your eyes, leaning into his strength, letting his scent wash away the lingering sting of your mother’s words. It hurts. The rejection hurts terribly.

But as Dean holds you tight against his chest, safe in the center of the nest he built just for you, you realize that for the first time in your life, you are finally, truly home.

***

Stepping out of the hotel feels like crossing the threshold between a dream and reality. Only, as Dean’s hand rests heavily and securely on the small of your back, guiding you toward his car in the underground garage, you realize reality is suddenly far better than any dream you could have conjured.

The air in the parking garage is cool, but you are wrapped in one of Dean’s thick, grey Briar Hockey zip-ups, perfectly insulated by the soft fleece and the overwhelming scent of your mate. Your body still hums with a lingering, pleasant ache from the past week, a constant physical reminder of the bond that now firmly tethers your soul to his.

“You good?” Dean asks, opening the passenger door for you. He pauses, his green eyes scanning your face with that intense, focused dedication he hasn’t dropped since he found you on the quad. “Not too tired?”

“I’m good, Dean,” you promise, offering a soft smile as you slide into the leather seat. “I promise. I just feel … different. Lighter.”

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a lingering kiss to the mating bite resting over your scent gland. The jolt of electricity that shoots through your veins makes you gasp softly. Dean smirks against your skin, clearly pleased with his effect on you, before pulling back and shutting the door.

He climbs into the driver’s seat, starting the engine. “First stop, the dorms. We need to grab your essentials.”

“I should probably text Grace,” you say, pulling your phone out of your bag. You hadn’t looked at it since the disastrous call with your mother yesterday. True to his word, Dean had actively pushed out waves of calming alpha pheromones, completely smothering your anxiety and replacing it with a deep, settled peace. “She’s probably going to yell at me for going off the grid.”

“She can yell all she wants,” Dean says lazily, backing the SUV out of the parking spot. “As long as she doesn’t stress you out. If she stresses you out, I’m throwing her out the window.”

You roll your eyes, though a giggle escapes your lips. “She’s my best friend, Dean. And she’s a beta. You can’t throw her out a window.”

“Watch me,” he deadpans, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward.

The drive to campus is short. Dean navigates the familiar streets of Briar with practiced ease, pulling the heavy SUV right up to the curb outside your dorm building. He throws it into park, hopping out to open your door before you can even reach for the handle.

Walking into the dorm building with Dean Di Laurentis is an experience. Usually, you keep your head down, practically blending into the cinderblock walls to avoid drawing attention to yourself. Today, keeping a low profile is entirely impossible.

Dean entirely envelopes your space. He keeps one hand firmly laced with yours, his broad shoulders practically acting as a shield as he guides you through the crowded lobby.

Heads turn. Whispers instantly break out. Dean is a minor celebrity on campus, and the sight of him fiercely guarding a girl wearing his oversized hoodie sends shockwaves through the Sunday morning crowd. But Dean completely ignores them. He only has eyes for you.

When you reach your door on the third floor, you take a deep breath and push it open.

Grace is sitting at her desk, entirely surrounded by flashcards and empty coffee cups. She looks up, her eyes widening in immediate relief.

“Oh my god, you’re alive!” Grace shouts, jumping up from her chair and rushing toward you. “I have been calling you for-”

She stops dead in her tracks, about three feet away.

Her eyes dart from your face, down to your violently bruised lips, to the massive hockey hoodie, and finally, to the tall, imposing figure standing right behind your shoulder.

 Grace’s jaw practically hits the linoleum floor.

“No way,” Grace breathes, her eyes wide as saucers. She looks at you, then at Dean, then back at you. “No freaking way. You … and him? Dean Di Laurentis?”

Dean offers a charming, completely unapologetic grin, stepping forward to wrap his arm around your waist and pull your back flush against his chest. “Nice to meet you.”

“You … you smell different,” Grace says, taking a step back, her nose wrinkling slightly as she tries to process the heavy, mixed pheromones filling the small dorm room. Even as a beta, she can easily pick up on the intensity of the bond. Her eyes suddenly snap to your neck, catching a glimpse of the bruised, healing skin peeking out from the collar of the hoodie.

 Grace gasps, clapping a hand over her mouth. “You’re mated! You actually did it! You stopped taking the pills!”

“I did,” you say, a massive, genuine smile breaking across your face. You lean back against Dean’s chest, entirely unashamed. “Grace, this is Dean. My mate.”

“But … he’s Dean Di Laurentis,” Grace stammers, entirely bewildered. “He’s Briar’s resident man-whore! He literally had a line of girls waiting outside his frat house last week!”

Dean winces slightly, a faint dusting of pink hitting his cheeks. He tightens his grip on your waist. “Hey. Former. I’m retired. And technically, it’s not a frat house, it’s an off-campus rental. I only slept with betas because I was waiting for her.”

Grace stares at him for a long, calculating moment. She looks at the way his hand rests possessively on your hip, and the way his green eyes soften every time he looks down at you. The protective, devoted aura rolling off him is entirely undeniable.

Slowly, Grace smiles. “Well. It’s about damn time somebody treated you like a queen.”

“That’s exactly what I told her,” Dean says, instantly warming up to your roommate. He looks around the cramped, sterile dorm room. “Alright, beautiful. Where are your bags?”

You blink, looking up at him. “My bags? I only have a backpack for class tomorrow.”

“No,” Dean says patiently, pressing a quick kiss to the tip of your nose. “Your duffel bags. For your clothes.”

“Why do I need to pack my clothes?” You ask, completely confused.

Dean stops. He looks down at you, his brow furrowing slightly, before a slow, devastatingly arrogant smirk spreads across his lips. “Because you’re not sleeping here anymore, sweetheart. You live with me now.”

A rush of heat floods your cheeks, turning your face a brilliant shade of crimson. “I … I do?”

“Yes, you do,” Dean says, the humor fading into absolute, unshakeable sincerity. “You’re my omega. You think I’m going to let you sleep in a twin-sized dorm bed across campus from me? Not a chance in hell. You’re coming home. To our house.”

You stare at him, your heart doing a frantic, joyful flutter against your ribs. Moving in with a guy you technically met a week ago should feel terrifying. It should feel reckless. But it doesn’t. It feels like the most natural, inevitable thing in the world.

“Okay,” you whisper, the blush still burning on your cheeks. “Okay. Under the bed. There are some suitcases.”

Dean is a man on a mission. For the next thirty minutes, he practically tears through your side of the room. He pulls out your suitcases, expertly folding and packing your clothes with a terrifying efficiency.

Grace sits on her bed, entirely entertained by the sight of Briar’s hottest alpha meticulously folding your fuzzy socks and organizing your skincare routine into a vanity bag.

“I’m going to miss you,” Grace says softly as Dean zips up the final suitcase. “But I’m really, really happy for you.”

“I’ll still see you in class,” you promise, walking over to pull her into a tight hug. “And I’ll text you. Thank you, Grace. For always telling me not to settle.”

“Anytime,” she smiles, pulling back. She points a warning finger at Dean. “You break her heart, Di Laurentis, and I don’t care how big you are. I will destroy you.”

Dean hoists two massive suitcases over his shoulders like they weigh absolutely nothing. He looks at Grace, his expression dead serious. “If I ever do anything to hurt her, you have my full permission.”

He gestures toward the door with his chin. “Ready, baby?”

“Ready,” you say, grabbing your backpack.

***

The house Dean shares with his hockey teammates is massive, sprawling, and exactly what you would expect a group of athletic college guys to live in. It sits at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac just off campus, boasting a massive wrap-around porch and a perfectly manicured lawn that you heavily suspect Dean pays someone to maintain.

Dean pulls into the driveway, cutting the engine. He turns in his seat, reaching out to gently cup your cheek.

“Nervous?” He asks, his thumb stroking your skin.

“A little,” you admit, biting your lower lip. “I know who your roommates are, Dean. Everyone knows who they are. What if they think this is weird? What if they don’t want an omega in the house?”

Dean’s expression hardens instantly. “It’s my house. My grandfather bought it, the lease is in my name. And even if it wasn’t, Garrett, Logan, and Tuck are my brothers. They were at the hospital pacing the waiting room right next to me. They already know you’re mine, and they already respect you. You have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

He leans in, pressing a firm, reassuring kiss to your lips. “You’re pack now. They’ll treat you like it.”

Dean hops out of the car, grabbing your heavy suitcases from the trunk. He refuses to let you carry a single thing, hip-checking the front door open and ushering you inside.

The house smells like fresh pine, leather, and the distinct, overlapping scents of three other alphas. It’s a little overwhelming, but underneath it all, the foundation is Dean’s comforting cedar and rain, anchoring you immediately.

“Di Laurentis! Is that you?” A deep voice calls out from the living room.

“Yeah, we’re in the hall!” Dean shouts back, dropping your bags near the staircase. He reaches for your hand, lacing his fingers tightly with yours as he leads you into the main living space.

Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are all sprawled across a massive sectional sofa, entirely surrounded by empty pizza boxes and video game controllers. The massive flat-screen TV is currently paused on a game of FIFA.

The moment the three of them catch your scent — the rich, undeniable sweetness of a newly mated omega — they all freeze.

It’s pure instinct. One by one, the three massive hockey players stand up, completely abandoning their game. The easy, frat-boy energy completely vanishes, replaced by a deep, biological respect.

“Guys,” Dean says, his voice carrying the calm, authoritative rumble of a pack leader. He tugs you slightly forward, keeping you tucked safely against his side. “This is my mate.”

Garrett is the first to move. He steps forward, offering a warm, genuine smile that completely transforms his usually intense features. He keeps his distance, making sure not to crowd you. “It’s really nice to officially meet you. I’m Garrett.”

“I know who you are,” you say softly, offering a small, shy smile in return. “Hi.”

“I’m Logan,” Logan says, giving you a two-finger salute from across the coffee table. “Glad to see you’re looking a hell of a lot better than the last time we saw you on the quad. Dean was about two seconds away from ripping someone’s head off.”

“Ignore him,” Tucker drawls, his thick Southern accent smooth and welcoming as he steps up beside Garrett. “I’m Tucker. Welcome to the madhouse, darlin’. If this idiot forgets to feed you or starts acting up, you just let us know, and we’ll handle him.”

Dean rolls his eyes, though the tension completely bleeds out of his shoulders. “I think I can handle feeding my own mate, Tuck.”

“Just putting it out there,” Tucker grins.

You look at the three alphas. You have spent your entire life being told that alpha-heavy spaces are dangerous, that they are overwhelming and oppressive to omegas. Your mother had warned you to stay away from the hockey houses, claiming they were toxic environments.

But standing here, surrounded by four massive alphas, you have never felt safer. They aren’t looking at you like prey. They are looking at you with respect, entirely acknowledging Dean’s claim and welcoming you into the fold without a single moment of hesitation.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice much steadier now. “It’s nice to meet you guys, too.”

“Alright, show’s over,” Dean announces, clapping his hands once. “We have unpacking to do. Don’t eat all the pizza.”

Dean guides you up the wide wooden staircase, easily carrying both of your massive suitcases. He leads you down a long hallway, pushing open the heavy oak door at the very end.

“Welcome home,” Dean says softly, dropping the bags on the floor.

You step inside, and your breath catches in your throat.

Dean’s bedroom is massive, almost the size of a studio apartment. It has high ceilings, massive windows overlooking the backyard, and a king-sized bed in the center of the room. But what stops you in your tracks is the fact that the room is completely, immaculately clean.

“You cleaned,” you observe, walking further into the room.

Dean rubs the back of his neck, looking slightly sheepish. “Tuck might have come up here and helped me scrub the place down yesterday while you were sleeping. I wanted it to be nice for you. I know I’m usually kind of a slob, but I swear, I’ll be better. I want you to be comfortable.”

Your heart melts entirely. You walk over to him, wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your face into his chest. “It’s perfect, Dean. Thank you.”

He lets out a long exhale, wrapping his arms around you and burying his face in your hair. “Good.”

For the next two hours, Dean helps you unpack. And he doesn’t just clear out a single drawer for you; he completely reorganizes his massive walk-in closet, physically pushing all of his designer suits and hockey gear to one side to give you exactly half of the space. He sets up your skincare on the master bathroom vanity. He clears off the top shelf of the bookcase so you can put your textbooks there.

He doesn’t just make room for you. He completely integrates your life into his, physically and emotionally claiming you with every single sweater he hangs up.

By the time the last bag is unpacked, you are exhausted all over again. Dean pulls back the heavy comforter on the bed and ushers you in, pulling you flush against his chest and entirely burying you in his scent.

As you drift off to sleep, surrounded by the smell of cedar and rain in a house full of protective alphas, you realize you have finally found exactly where you belong.

***

The sharp, annoying blare of your phone alarm rips you out of a deep sleep the next morning.

You groan, reaching a hand blindly out from under the heavy comforter to smash the snooze button. The bed is incredibly warm, perfectly molded to your body.

A low, deep chuckle rumbles from the pillow next to you.

“Five more minutes?” Dean asks, his voice thick with morning gravel.

You open your eyes, blinking against the bright morning sunlight streaming through the windows. Dean is propped up on his elbow, looking down at you with a stupidly fond expression on his face. He is shirtless, the morning light catching the golden dusting of hair across his broad chest.

“I have an eight AM,” you grumble, pulling the blankets up to your chin. “I can’t miss it. I already missed a whole week.”

“I know,” Dean says, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m taking you.”

You frown slightly, your sleepy brain trying to catch up. “You don’t have to walk me to class, Dean. I know you’re a political science major. You’re on the other side of campus.”

Dean smirks, a completely devastating look that makes your stomach flip. “Sweetheart, look at your schedule again. We’re in the same Intro to Political Theory lecture on Mondays and Wednesdays. I’ve been sitting three rows behind you since September.”

Your eyes widen drastically. “You … you have?”

“Yeah,” Dean says softly, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “I always wondered why you smelled like vanilla body spray instead of an actual scent. Now I know.”

He throws the blankets back and hops out of bed, completely unashamed of his nakedness as he walks toward the bathroom. “Come on. Up. I’ll make coffee while you shower.”

Getting ready with Dean is a completely new experience. In your dorm, mornings were a frantic rush of fighting Grace for the mirror and running out the door with a granola bar.

With Dean, everything is slow, deliberate, and entirely focused on you.

He stands behind you in the bathroom, brushing his teeth while you do your makeup, his free hand resting heavily on your hip. When you walk out to the kitchen, he has a travel mug of hot coffee and a perfectly toasted bagel waiting for you.

“Ready?” He asks, grabbing his own backpack and slinging it over one shoulder.

“Ready,” you smile, taking the coffee.

As you step out onto the front porch, you move to sling your heavy tote bag over your shoulder. But before the strap can even touch your arm, Dean’s hand catches it.

“I got it,” he says smoothly, taking the bag from your hand and sliding it onto his own shoulder, right next to his massive hockey backpack.

“Dean, it’s heavy,” you protest weakly. “You don’t have to carry my bag.”

“I’m an alpha, sweetheart,” he smirks, grabbing your free hand and lacing his fingers with yours. “Carrying heavy things for my incredibly beautiful mate is literally in my biological job description. Let me spoil you.”

You don’t argue again. You let him pull you down the driveway, a warm, bright feeling blooming in your chest.

Walking across campus with Dean is entirely different this time. You aren’t rushing, you aren’t hiding, and you certainly aren’t invisible.

The campus is buzzing with the morning rush. And almost instantly, people start staring. Dean Di Laurentis, the guy notorious for refusing to commit to anyone, the alpha who supposedly only slept with betas, is walking across the quad holding hands with a girl. And he’s carrying her floral tote bag.

You shrink slightly under the weight of the stares, instinctively moving closer to Dean.

He senses your anxiety immediately. His arm wraps securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He pushes out a wave of sharp, protective cedar, a clear, biological warning to anyone staring too hard.

“Keep your head up,” Dean murmurs, leaning down so his lips brush against your ear. “You’re with me. Let them look.”

His confidence is infectious. You straighten your spine, leaning into his solid strength, and let the rest of the campus blur into the background.

You reach the massive lecture hall just as the previous class is filing out. Dean guides you through the double doors, leading you down the carpeted stairs toward the middle section.

He stops at a row of empty seats, but he doesn’t sit down immediately. Instead, he drops his backpack onto the floor, places your tote bag gently on the desk, and physically pulls out a chair for you.

“Here,” Dean says softly.

You sit down, completely overwhelmed by his attentiveness. Dean slides into the seat directly next to you, his massive frame making the small university desk look entirely inadequate.

He reaches into his bag and pulls out a sleek, insulated thermos. He unscrews the top and slides it across the desk toward you.

“What’s this?” You ask, looking at the pale green liquid inside.

“Iced matcha,” Dean says casually, pulling out his notebook. “I noticed you always get one from the campus cafe before this lecture. But since we didn’t have time to stop today, I made it at the house.”

You stare at the drink, completely speechless. He had noticed. He had been watching you closely enough since September to know your exact morning coffee order, and he had taken the time to make it for you before you even woke up.

“Dean,” you whisper, your heart swelling with so much affection it physically aches. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to,” he says simply, looking at you with those deep, devoted green eyes. He reaches under the desk, taking your hand and resting it on his muscular thigh, tangling his fingers with yours.

The professor walks in, a stern-looking older beta, and immediately begins writing on the whiteboard. The dull hum of the lecture hall settles as students open their laptops and notebooks.

You try to focus on the lecture. You really do. But it’s nearly impossible when Dean is sitting inches away from you, his thumb slowly, rhythmically stroking the back of your hand under the desk.

About twenty minutes into the class, the professor starts droning on about the philosophical implications of Rousseau’s social contract.

Dean shifts slightly in his seat. Without looking away from the front of the room, he lifts your joined hands from his lap. He turns your hand over, brings your knuckles to his lips, and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your skin.

A sharp jolt of electricity shoots up your arm. You practically stop breathing, your eyes darting to look at him.

Dean is perfectly calm, completely unfazed by the public display of affection. He lowers your hand back to his leg, keeping his fingers tightly laced with yours. A faint, incredibly satisfied smirk plays on his lips.

You look down at your hand resting on his leg. You look at the iced matcha waiting perfectly on your desk. You inhale the rich, heavy scent of cedar and rain that entirely surrounds you, acting as a permanent, invisible shield against the rest of the world.

Your mother was wrong.

Being an omega isn’t a weakness. It isn’t a liability, and it isn’t a biological trap.

It is exactly this. It is feeling completely, undeniably safe. It is being cherished, protected, and adored by an alpha who looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars.

You shift in your plastic chair, leaning entirely into Dean’s space. You press your shoulder firmly against his massive bicep, nuzzling your face subtly into the crook of his neck to inhale his scent directly from the source.

Dean lets out a low, rumbling purr that completely vibrates through his chest. He wraps his arm around the back of your chair, pulling you flush against him, completely ignoring the professor and the fifty other students in the room.

He drops his head, pressing his lips to the crown of your hair.

“I love you,” Dean breathes, the words meant entirely for you, completely lost under the droning voice of the professor.

“I love you too,” you whisper back, meaning it with absolutely every fiber of your newly awakened soul.

Reality had finally begun. And as you sit there, anchored to the alpha you were quite literally born to be with, you realize that your fairytale was going to last a lifetime.

***

The heavy silk of your dress slips over your curves, settling perfectly around your hips. You turn slightly in front of the floor-to-length mirror in the luxury hotel suite, adjusting the thin straps.

It’s been three months since you moved into the hockey house. Three months of waking up completely wrapped in Dean’s scent, of Garrett and Tucker teasing you in the kitchen, of Logan complaining when Dean kisses you too long before practice. Three months of feeling completely, unapologetically alive.

But right now, staring at your reflection, a familiar knot of anxiety is twisting tight in your stomach.

“You’re overthinking.”

Two massive, warm hands slide around your waist from behind, pulling your back flush against a broad, solid chest. Dean rests his chin on top of your head, his green eyes meeting yours in the mirror. He is already dressed in his suit — a bespoke, charcoal-grey masterpiece that fits his muscular frame so perfectly it should be illegal.

“I’m not overthinking,” you lie, leaning back into his heat. “I’m just adjusting the zipper.”

Dean smirks, his hands sliding flat over your stomach. “Sweetheart, I can literally feel your heart racing through the bond. And your scent is spiking with anxiety. You smell like sour vanilla.”

You sigh, dropping your hands. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” Dean says softly. He turns you around in his arms, his expression instantly shifting from playful to fiercely devoted. “I told you, we don’t have to go. We can stay right here in this hotel room, order room service, and I can spend the next forty-eight hours ruining that pretty dress. You have absolutely zero obligation to see those people.”

“It’s Jenny’s wedding,” you remind him gently, reaching up to smooth the lapel of his suit jacket. “She was the only one in my extended family who actually treated me like a person growing up. She snuck me romance novels when my mom confiscated them. She always checked on me when the suppressants made me sick. I’m not going to miss her wedding just because my parents are on the guest list.”

Dean’s jaw ticks, a flash of pure alpha protectiveness darkening his eyes at the mention of your parents. He still hasn’t forgiven them. He likely never will.

“Okay,” Dean says, leaning down to press a firm kiss to your lips. “But we have a deal. The second they step out of line, the second they make you feel even a fraction of an inch small, I am stepping in. And then we’re leaving. I don’t care if they’re about to cut the cake.”

“Deal,” you smile, the anxiety already melting away under the heavy, grounding weight of his cedar and rain scent. “You look incredibly handsome, by the way.”

Dean grins, his trademark arrogant swagger snapping right back into place. “I know. It’s a burden. But wait until they get a load of you.”

He catches your wrist, his thumb gently brushing over the stunning diamond and sapphire claiming bracelet that hasn’t left your skin since the night in Greenwich. Above it, peeking just over the neckline of your dress, is the dark, permanent scar of his mating bite.

You belong to him. Completely and entirely.

“Let’s go show them what they’re missing,” Dean murmurs.

***

The country club reception hall is beautiful, entirely bathed in warm candlelight and soft floral arrangements. It is also entirely full of betas.

The moment you and Dean step through the double doors, the shift in the room’s atmosphere is instantaneous. Betas don’t have the acute, hyper-sensitive olfactory senses of alphas or omegas, but they aren’t entirely blind to biology. The sheer, overwhelming gravity of a fully mated alpha and omega walking into the room creates an undeniable ripple.

Heads turn. Whispers start up immediately.

Dean doesn’t falter. He walks with the kind of relaxed, predatory grace that demands the room’s attention, his hand resting possessively on the small of your back. He keeps you tucked firmly against his side, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic circle against your spine.

“They’re staring,” you whisper, keeping your eyes trained on the ice sculpture in the center of the room.

“Let them stare,” Dean says smoothly, grabbing two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and handing one to you. “They’ve probably never seen an actual mated couple before. Half of them are probably wondering why their own marriages feel like business transactions compared to this.”

You let out a startled laugh, almost spilling your champagne. “Dean! You can’t say that.”

“I just did,” he smirks, clinking his glass against yours. “Drink up, beautiful. We have a bride to congratulate.”

You spot Jenny near the sweetheart table. She looks radiant in her white gown, laughing with her new husband, a perfectly nice, perfectly average beta named Greg.

When Jenny sees you approaching, her eyes light up.

“You made it!” She shrieks, abandoning her husband to practically sprint across the dance floor. She throws her arms around you, squeezing you tight. “I am so happy you’re here. I was so worried your mom was going to convince you to stay in Massachusetts.”

“I don’t really listen to my mom anymore,” you say, pulling back with a bright smile. “You look absolutely stunning, Jenny.”

“Thank you,” she beams, before her eyes slide to the massive, imposing man standing directly behind you. Her eyes widen slightly, taking in Dean’s sharp jawline, broad shoulders, and the intense, protective way he’s watching the room around you. “Oh my god. Is this …”

“Jenny, this is Dean,” you say, reaching back to grab his hand. “My mate.”

Dean steps forward, offering a charming, devastating smile that completely melts the bride. “Congratulations, Jenny. She talks about you all the time. It’s an honor to finally meet you.”

“The honor is mine,” Jenny breathes, slightly dazed. She looks at you, her eyes dropping to the mating bite on your neck and the glittering bracelet on your wrist. “Wow. You guys … wow. You look amazing. Both of you. The energy between you two is practically vibrating.”

“It’s a fated thing,” Dean says simply, pulling you flush against his chest and wrapping both arms around your waist from behind. He rests his chin on your shoulder, entirely unashamed of the public display of affection.

You watch the other couples on the dance floor. The beta partners are swaying together, polite and pleasant. There is love there, absolutely. But it lacks the gravity, the desperate, magnetic pull that exists between you and Dean. When Dean touches you, it isn’t just a physical action, it’s a soul-deep reassurance. He doesn’t just hold your hand; he anchors your entire existence.

“I’m so incredibly happy for you,” Jenny says softly, her eyes shining with genuine tears. “You deserve the fairytale. I always knew it was real for you.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning back into Dean’s solid heat.

“Enjoy the open bar,” Jenny grins, turning back toward her husband. “And brace yourself. Your parents are at table four, and they’ve been glaring holes into the back of your head since you walked in.”

The warmth instantly drains from your face.

Dean feels the spike of cold dread through the bond immediately. His arms tighten around you, his chest rumbling with a low, barely audible growl. “I’ve got you,” he murmurs against your ear. “Want me to go tell them to get lost?”

“No,” you say, taking a deep breath and squaring your shoulders. “No, I’m not hiding. We’re going to get a drink, we’re going to dance, and if they have something to say to me, they can come say it.”

Dean spins you around, a look of pure, blazing pride on his face. “God, you are so incredibly hot when you’re brave.”

He kisses you hard, right in the middle of the ballroom, before leading you toward the bar.

For the next hour, it’s perfect. You drink champagne, you introduce Dean to a few of your nicer aunts and uncles — who are all entirely captivated by his old-money charm and sheer alpha presence — and you dance. When a slow song comes on, Dean pulls you into the center of the floor. He doesn’t leave space between you like the beta couples. He pulls you flush against his body, his hands roaming freely over your back, your hips moving together in perfect, effortless synchronization.

You are laughing at a joke he just whispered in your ear when the music fades into a low hum.

“Having fun?”

The voice is cold, sharp, and instantly recognizable.

You freeze. Dean immediately stops swaying, his body going rigid as he turns you both to face the edge of the dance floor.

Your mother is standing there, flanked by your father. She is wearing a stiff navy dress, her lips pursed in a thin, deeply disapproving line. Her eyes rake over you, taking in the close proximity of your bodies, the flush on your cheeks, and finally, the heavy claiming mark on your neck.

“Mom. Dad,” you say, your voice perfectly even, though your heart is hammering against your ribs.

“I’m surprised you showed up,” your father says bluntly, crossing his arms. “After the stunt you pulled.”

“It’s my cousin’s wedding,” you reply, keeping your chin high. “I wasn’t going to miss it.”

Your mother scoffs, an ugly, condescending sound. She looks directly at Dean. “And I suppose this is the boy you threw away your medication schedule for. The one who convinced you that acting like an animal in heat was somehow romantic.”

Dean lets out a low, vibrating snarl that is so purely alpha it actually makes your father take a physical step back.

“Speak to my mate with respect, or I will have security throw you out of this venue,” Dean says. His voice is dangerously quiet, entirely completely devoid of his usual charm. It is a lethal, unyielding command.

“Excuse me?” Your mother bristles, her face flushing with anger. “This is a family event. You don’t get to dictate-”

“I dictate everything concerning my omega,” Dean cuts her off, stepping slightly in front of you to shield you with his body. “You gave up your right to be called her family the day you decided her biology was an inconvenience. The day you nearly killed her with toxic suppressants.”

“We were trying to protect her future!” Your mother hisses, keeping her voice low to avoid a scene, though several nearby guests are already staring. “She was on track to graduate early. Now she’s probably failing half her classes because she’s too busy playing house with some arrogant frat boy.”

“Actually,” you say, stepping out from behind Dean. The fear is completely gone now. Staring at the bitter, close-minded woman in front of you, you only feel pity. “I have a 4.0 this semester. Because instead of fighting my own body, I’m actually healthy. I’m happy. And Dean isn’t a frat boy. He’s my mate.”

Your mother looks at the diamond and sapphire bracelet on your wrist, her lip curling in disgust. “A temporary chemical bond. He’ll get bored of you the second he graduates and goes back to his rich little alpha circles.”

Dean actually laughs. It’s a dark, humorless sound that sends a shiver down your spine.

“Temporary,” Dean repeats, shaking his head. He reaches out and grabs your hand, lifting your wrist so the diamonds catch the chandelier light. “My grandfather bought these sapphires in Paris for my grandmother on the night he claimed her. They’ve been in my family for sixty years. And now they belong to her. She is wearing my mark, my family’s legacy, and she has my entire soul in her hands. There is absolutely nothing temporary about this.”

Your parents stare at him, completely silenced by the sheer, overwhelming weight of his devotion.

“You don’t understand it because you’re incapable of feeling it,” Dean continues, his eyes locking onto your mother’s. “And that’s fine. But you will not stand here and project your miserable, sterile worldview onto my mate. We’re done here.”

Dean turns to you, his expression softening instantly. “Ready to go, baby?”

“Yes,” you breathe, your chest swelling with so much love for him it physically aches.

You don’t look back as Dean leads you off the dance floor, out of the reception hall, and straight to the valet.

***

The silence in the elevator ride up to your hotel suite is heavy, thick with the lingering adrenaline of the confrontation.

Dean’s jaw is clenched tight, his grip on your hand almost painfully firm. His alpha is entirely agitated, the protective instincts pushed into overdrive by the perceived threat to his omega.

The second the suite doors click shut behind you, Dean drops the keycard on the entry table and turns to you.

“I should have ruined them,” Dean snarls, running a hand aggressively through his perfectly styled blonde hair. “I should have completely torn into them. The way she looked at you-”

“Dean,” you say softly, dropping your small clutch onto the table.

You step into his space, sliding your hands up his chest to grip the lapels of his suit jacket. You look up into his dark, storming green eyes.

“You defended me,” you whisper, the words heavy with awe. “You stood in front of my parents, and you defended me. No one has ever done that for me.”

Dean’s breathing hitches. He looks down at you, the blazing anger slowly morphing into a deep, desperate hunger. “I will always defend you. I will burn the entire world down before I let anyone make you feel ashamed of being mine.”

Your omega practically screams in response to his dominance. A hot, slick rush of arousal pools instantly between your thighs. The sheer display of his protective, primal nature has completely short-circuited your brain.

“Show me,” you beg, your voice dropping to a breathy, desperate rasp. You pull on his lapels, forcing him to step closer until your bodies are flush. “Show me I’m yours.”

Dean groans, a guttural, vibrating sound that makes your knees weak.

He grabs you by the hips and physically lifts you off the floor. You let out a startled gasp, immediately wrapping your legs around his waist and crossing your ankles behind his back.

Dean doesn’t even bother walking to the bedroom. He backs you up two steps, slamming your back against the heavy wooden door of the suite. The impact knocks the breath out of you, completely replaced by his mouth crashing down onto yours.

It is a devastating, bruising kiss. There is no gentleness in it, only raw, desperate possession. He parts your lips with his tongue, tasting you deeply, drinking in the soft moans escaping your throat.

“So fucking perfect,” Dean breathes against your mouth, his hands dropping to grip the backs of your thighs.

He pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are pitch black, completely feral. He reaches up and grips the neckline of your expensive silk dress.

With one sharp, violent tug, the silk tears down the center, the sound of ripping fabric echoing in the quiet entryway.

“Dean!” You gasp, entirely shocked by his aggression, but it only fuels the fire burning in your belly.

“I’ll buy you a hundred more,” he growls, shoving the ruined fabric off your shoulders. The dress pools around your waist, leaving you in nothing but a sheer lace bra and a matching thong.

Dean’s eyes rake over your exposed skin, darkening even further. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth scraping heavily over the mating mark he left there months ago. You throw your head back, arching your spine off the door as a jolt of pure lightning shoots straight down to your core.

“You handled them so beautifully, baby,” Dean praises, his voice a rough vibration against your skin. “You were so brave. My perfect omega.”

“Take it off,” you plead, your hands frantically tugging at his suit jacket. “Dean, please, I need you. I’m so empty.”

He drops you to your feet, letting your ruined dress fall completely to the floor. You step out of it, entirely focused on him.

Dean rips his suit jacket off, tossing it blindly into the room. He tears at his tie, popping the top three buttons of his crisp white dress shirt before he completely abandons it, unable to wait. He reaches for his belt, his breathing harsh and ragged as he sheds his slacks and boxers in a matter of seconds.

He stands before you, perfectly cut and entirely hard, the heavy, thick length of his arousal pulsing with demand.

You drop to your knees.

Dean’s breath catches violently in his throat as you look up at him through your lashes. “Sweetheart, what are you doing?”

“Claiming you back,” you whisper.

You reach out, wrapping your small hands around his thick base, and take him completely into your mouth.

Dean roars, his hands instantly flying to tangle in your hair. His head throws back, hitting the door behind him with a thud. “Fuck! God, baby, yes.”

You swallow him as deeply as you can, the sheer size of him stretching your jaw comfortably. You swirl your tongue around the sensitive ridge, swirling and sucking with a desperate, greedy rhythm. You want to taste every inch of him. You want to make him lose that perfect, arrogant control.

Dean’s hips begin to buck involuntarily, entirely at your mercy. He grunts with every agonizingly wet pull of your mouth. His fingers tighten in your hair, holding you in place as he sets a brutal, driving pace.

“I can’t-” Dean gasps, his entire body trembling violently. “Baby, stop. I’m going to finish in your mouth, let me go.”

You don’t listen. You hum against his length, increasing the suction, entirely determined to wreck him.

Dean curses, a filthy, desperate sound. He pulls back roughly, ripping himself from your mouth before he completely loses his mind.

He grabs you under the arms, hauling you to your feet. He spins you around, slamming your chest against the smooth wood of the door.

“You’re a menace,” Dean snarls, his chest heaving as he presses his massive body against your back. “A beautiful, entirely too eager menace.”

He reaches around your hips, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your lace thong. He rips it down your legs, leaving you completely bare and entirely exposed to him.

“Spread your legs,” Dean commands softly.

You obey instantly, stepping your feet shoulder-width apart.

Dean reaches down, his fingers completely coated in the slick, wet heat pouring from your core. He doesn’t bother with any preamble; you are already soaked, completely primed and desperate for him.

He aligns his thick, blunt tip against your entrance, leaning forward to bite down sharply on the junction of your shoulder and neck.

As you gasp at the pain, Dean drives his hips forward, burying himself completely inside you in one brutal, merciless thrust.

You scream his name, your fingernails digging frantically into the wood of the door. The feeling of him completely filling you up, stretching your inner walls taut, is the most intense, overwhelming sensation in the world.

“So fucking tight,” Dean groans, his forehead resting heavily against your back. He stays perfectly still for a moment, letting you adjust to his massive size. “You feel like heaven, baby. You feel so good.”

“Don’t stop,” you sob, throwing your hips back against him, demanding friction. “Dean, please move!”

He chuckles darkly. He grips your hips, holding you firmly in place, and pulls back almost entirely. And then he slams his hips forward, bottoming out with a loud, wet slap of skin.

You completely lose your mind.

Dean sets a punishing, relentless pace. He takes you from behind with pure alpha dominance, entirely feral and completely lost in the overwhelming high of the mating bond. His thrusts are hard and deep, hitting the exact spot inside you that makes your vision white out.

“That’s it,” Dean praises, his voice a low, rough growl in your ear. “Take all of me. Show me how much you need me.”

“I need you,” you cry, your head thrashing back and forth. “I love you, Dean. Please, please!”

He slides one hand around to your front, finding the slick, swollen bundle of nerves between your thighs. He rubs his thumb in a tight, fast circle right over your clit while continuing his brutal assault from behind.

It is entirely too much. The sensory overload snaps the last shred of your control.

“Dean!” You scream, your body bowing violently off the door as a massive, blinding climax rips through you. Your inner walls clench frantically around his length, completely milking him.

Dean snarls, his own control completely shattering. He drives his hips forward in rapid, erratic thrusts, chasing his release.

“Mine,” he roars, burying himself to the hilt as the heavy knot at his base swells, completely locking him inside you.

He unloads deep inside your womb with a devastating, earth-shattering force.

You cry out as his climax hits, the sheer volume of his heat sending you spiraling straight into a second, paralyzing orgasm. You ride the devastating aftershocks together, the physical tie of his knot anchoring you as the mating bond flares brilliantly in your chest, linking your souls in absolute, unshakeable harmony.

For a long time, the only sound in the entryway is your synchronized, ragged breathing.

Dean slowly collapses forward, pressing his sweaty chest entirely against your back. He keeps his heavy arms wrapped securely around your waist, holding you upright as your legs tremble uncontrollably.

“God,” Dean breathes, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your shoulder blade. “You are going to be the absolute death of me.”

“You started it,” you murmur, turning your head to smile weakly back at him.

Dean chuckles, his chest rumbling against your back. His knot slowly begins to recede, allowing him to carefully pull out of you.

He turns you around, catching you immediately as your knees buckle. He scoops you up into his arms like you weigh absolutely nothing, carrying you down the hall and into the master bedroom.

He drops you gently into the center of the massive king-sized bed, crawling in right beside you. He pulls the heavy duvet up over both of your damp, exhausted bodies, instantly pulling you flush against his chest.

“I’m sorry the wedding was stressful,” Dean murmurs, his thumb stroking a soothing rhythm up and down your bare arm. “I’m sorry they were there.”

“I’m not,” you say softly, resting your head on his shoulder.

Dean looks down at you, surprised. “You’re not?”

“No,” you smile, looking up into his devoted green eyes. “Because looking at them tonight, looking at how miserable and bitter they are, it just made me realize how lucky I am. I used to be so afraid of this. I used to think being an omega was a curse.”

You reach up, tracing the strong, sharp line of his jaw.

“But you showed me the truth,” you whisper. “You gave me the fairytale, Dean. I’ll never be afraid again.”

Dean’s expression melts into pure, undeniable adoration. He leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, impossibly tender kiss that completely steals the breath from your lungs.

“I’m just getting started, sweetheart,” Dean vows, his lips brushing against yours. “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you know exactly how perfect you are.”

You close your eyes, inhaling the deep, comforting scent of cedar and rain. As you drift off to sleep in the arms of your fated mate, wrapped entirely in his love and protection, you know with absolute certainty that he is telling the truth.

The happily ever after wasn’t just a story. It was finally yours.

***

Five years.

It feels like an entire lifetime ago that you were a terrified college student, choking down pale blue pills and trying to smother the very essence of your soul. Sometimes, when the house is quiet, you still marvel at the sheer, impossible trajectory of your life since the day you collapsed on the Briar University quad.

But right now, the house is perfectly, beautifully quiet, and you aren’t thinking about the past at all. You are entirely captivated by the present.

You are sitting in the direct center of the most magnificent nest you have ever built. It takes up the entirety of the massive, custom-made mattress in the master bedroom of the home you and Dean bought just outside of Boston. The nest is a masterpiece of biology and absolute luxury — woven together from Dean’s worn-in college hockey hoodies, the ridiculously expensive cashmere throws Dean’s mother gifts you every Christmas, and the softest silk sheets money can buy.

And resting perfectly against your chest, wrapped in a pale pink blanket, is your daughter.

Celia Di Laurentis is four days old.

You stare down at her tiny, sleeping face, your heart expanding so rapidly in your chest that it actually aches. She is impossibly small, with a full head of soft, spun-gold hair that exactly matches her father’s, and a tiny, perfect button nose. Her little chest rises and falls in a steady, peaceful rhythm, and every time she lets out a soft, mewling sigh, your omega instincts absolutely roar with a fierce, all-consuming wave of protective love.

She smells like sweet milk, baby powder, and the undeniable, distinct genetic blend of vanilla and cedar. Your pup. Your perfect, beautiful pup.

The heavy oak door of the master bedroom clicks open, the hinges entirely silent because Dean had personally oiled them the day before you went into labor.

You don’t even have to look up. The rich, grounding scent of rain-soaked asphalt and deep cedar immediately floods the room, completely blanketing your senses and making the mating mark on your neck tingle with warmth.

“Hey,” a low, achingly gentle voice whispers.

You look up. Dean is standing in the doorway, holding a silver tray loaded with a massive spread of food, a pitcher of ice water, and your postnatal vitamins. He is wearing soft grey sweatpants, entirely shirtless, his broad, heavily muscled chest currently acting as a canvas for the tiny, dark ink of your initial over his heart.

He is twenty-seven now. The cocky, arrogant college playboy has long since matured into a devastatingly handsome, fiercely commanding alpha who runs a massive division of his family’s luxury hotel empire. He wears bespoke suits to the office and commands boardrooms with lethal precision.

But right now, looking at you and Celia, he just looks like a man who has been completely brought to his knees by his own heart.

“You’re awake,” Dean murmurs, stepping into the room and gently kicking the door shut behind him. He moves with an incredible, practiced quietness, setting the heavy tray down on the bedside table before turning his full attention to the nest.

“I couldn’t sleep,” you whisper back, your voice raspy. You brush a gentle finger over Celia’s soft cheek. “I just wanted to watch her.”

Dean’s green eyes soften into pools of pure, liquid devotion. He steps up to the edge of the mattress, dropping to his knees so he is perfectly at eye level with you and the baby. He doesn’t cross the boundary of the nest yet; even as your mated alpha, his biological respect for your nesting space during the immediate postpartum period is absolute.

“How is she?” Dean asks, his gaze tracing every single line of his daughter’s face as if he is trying to memorize it for the thousandth time today.

“Perfect,” you say, a completely genuine, exhausted smile spreading across your lips. “She ate about an hour ago, and then she just milk-drunk passed out. She hasn’t even fussed.”

“She’s a Di Laurentis,” Dean smirks, reaching out slowly. He rests his massive, calloused hand on the mattress, just inches from where your knee is tucked under the blankets. “She knows how to appreciate a good nap in a luxury bed.”

You let out a soft, breathless laugh. “You are completely ridiculous.”

“I’m serious,” Dean says, though his smile is wide and painfully bright. He looks up from Celia, his eyes locking onto yours. “How are you feeling, sweetheart? Really. Don’t lie to me to make me feel better. You’re exhausted.”

“I am exhausted,” you admit, the truth of it settling heavily in your bones. The labor had been long, a grueling eighteen hours that tested every ounce of your physical strength. But Dean had been a rock, an immovable anchor holding your hand, pushing his scent into your lungs, and practically growling at any nurse who didn’t move fast enough for his liking. “My body aches. But it’s … it’s a good ache, Dean. It feels like exactly what I was meant to do.”

Dean’s breathing hitches. He reaches forward, his large fingers gently tracing the line of your jaw, sweeping a stray piece of hair behind your ear.

“You did so incredibly good,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with a raw, overwhelming emotion. “I have never been more terrified or more in awe of anyone in my entire life than I was watching you bring her into the world. You are so goddamn strong, baby.”

Tears immediately prick your eyes. Your hormones are still wildly fluctuating, keeping your emotions right on the surface, but this isn’t sadness. It is sheer, overwhelming gratitude.

“I wasn’t alone,” you remind him, leaning your cheek into the warmth of his palm. “I had you.”

“Always,” Dean vows, pressing his palm firmly against your skin. “You have me forever.”

He lets out a long breath, finally pulling his hand back to gesture to the tray on the nightstand. “I made you a turkey club. Extra bacon, extra mayo, exactly how you’ve been craving it since Monday. And Garrett dropped off those pastries from the bakery downtown.”

“Garrett was here?” You ask, your eyebrows lifting in surprise.

Dean chuckles, running a hand through his messy blonde hair. “Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have all been sitting in our living room for the past three hours. They refuse to leave. Tucker brought a massive stuffed bear that is literally bigger than the baby, and Logan has been aggressively trying to put together that luxury baby swing my dad sent over.”

A warm, bright feeling blooms in your chest. The Briar boys had never stopped being your pack. They had stood by Dean at your wedding, they had aggressively vetted the neighborhood before you bought this house, and the moment you announced you were pregnant, they had collectively lost their minds.

“You should let them come up,” you say softly. “They haven’t even seen her since we brought her home from the hospital.”

“Absolutely not,” Dean says instantly, his alpha completely rejecting the idea. He shakes his head, his jaw setting in a firm, protective line. “No other alphas in your nesting space right now. Not even them. You need quiet, you need your space, and you need to heal. They can look at her through the crack in the door tomorrow, maybe. From the hallway.”

You roll your eyes, but your omega practically purrs at his intense, territorial protection. It makes you feel entirely safe, completely guarded from the outside world.

“You’re a tyrant,” you tease.

“I’m a father,” Dean corrects smoothly, puffing his chest out just a fraction. He looks back down at Celia, and the fierce alpha completely melts back into a massive softie. “Look at her, baby. I mean, actually look at her. We made that.”

“I know,” you whisper, adjusting the pink blanket slightly. “She has your hair. And your absolute refusal to be put down in a crib.”

“She knows where the good snuggles are,” Dean defends, grinning. He shifts his weight on his knees. He looks at the edge of the nest, the chaotic wall of blankets and pillows you’ve spent the last four days meticulously arranging. He looks up at you, a silent, deeply respectful question in his eyes.

Your heart flutters. He never assumes. Even with his ring on your finger, even with his bite permanently scarred into your neck, he treats your biology with the ultimate reverence.

“Come in, Dean,” you say softly, pulling your legs back to make a massive space for him. “We want you.”

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He climbs over the edge of the mattress, carefully navigating the pillows so he doesn’t disturb the structural integrity of your nest. He settles in right beside you, stretching his long, muscular legs out and wrapping his heavy arm around your shoulders.

He pulls you flush against his side, his body heat seeping instantly into yours. You lean your head against his chest, tucking Celia safely between the two of you.

The moment the three of you are completely connected, the atmosphere in the room shifts. The chaotic, exhausting energy of the postpartum haze completely vanishes. The mingling of your scents — cedar, rain, vanilla, honey, and the sweet, powdery scent of your pup — creates an intoxicating, entirely perfect environment.

This is what heaven looks like.

“You’re warm,” you murmur, closing your eyes and just breathing him in.

“You’re perfect,” Dean replies, his lips pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head.

He reaches down, his massive, calloused index finger gently stroking Celia’s impossibly small hand. Even in her sleep, her tiny fingers instinctively curl around his, holding on tight.

Dean lets out a shaky breath, completely captivated by the movement.

“My mom called while you were sleeping,” Dean says quietly, not looking away from his daughter’s hand. “She and my dad are flying in from Greenwich tomorrow. They promised they’d stay at the hotel downtown so they don’t crowd you, but my mom is threatening to break down the front door if I don’t let her hold her granddaughter by noon.”

You smile. Lori and Peter have been the ultimate parents to you for the past five years. They embraced you entirely, completely filling the void your own parents left behind. They had paid for your dream wedding, they celebrated every single one of your career milestones, and Lori had spent the last nine months buying out every luxury baby boutique on the East Coast.

“Let her break the door down,” you say softly. “I want to see them. I want them to meet her.”

“I’ll tell security to stand down, then,” Dean jokes softly. He continues to stroke Celia’s tiny knuckles.

A quiet, comfortable silence stretches between you. It is the kind of silence that only exists between two people who know the absolute depths of each other’s souls. The heavy, gold wedding band on his left hand catches the soft light of the bedside lamp as it rests near the baby.

“Have you heard from Grace?” Dean asks, his voice careful.

“She texted me this morning,” you say, a genuine warmth filling your chest. “She’s demanding to be named the godmother. She said if you give the title to anyone else, she’s going to organize a beta uprising.”

Dean snorts, a quiet, amused sound. “Auntie Grace it is, then. I’m not dealing with an uprising.”

He shifts slightly, pulling you even closer. His hand slides up your arm, his fingers gently tracing the familiar, sparkling line of the diamond and sapphire tennis bracelet that still rests on your wrist. He hasn’t stopped draping you in jewelry since that night in Greenwich, but this piece never comes off.

“Did you … did you tell anyone else?” Dean asks, the hesitation in his voice letting you know exactly who he is referring to.

Your parents.

You look down at Celia’s sleeping face. Five years ago, the thought of cutting your parents out of your life entirely would have sent you into a paralyzing panic. The conditioning was so deep, the fear of their rejection so absolute. You had spent years agonizing over the fact that they chose their prejudice over their own daughter.

But looking at the family you have built — looking at the fiercely devoted alpha holding you, the perfect, beautiful pup resting against your chest, the unshakeable pack waiting in the living room below — the ache is entirely gone.

“No,” you say simply, your voice steady and completely devoid of regret. “I didn’t. And I don’t plan to.”

Dean lets out a quiet exhale, his chest relaxing completely against your back. He presses a firm, reassuring kiss to your temple. “Okay. Good.”

“They wouldn’t understand this anyway,” you continue, tracing the soft edge of Celia’s pink blanket. “They would look at me sitting in a nest, completely overwhelmed by my biology, and they would see a victim. They would see someone trapped by their hormones.”

You tilt your head back, looking up into Dean’s eyes. The absolute devotion in his gaze takes your breath away every single time.

“But I’m not trapped,” you whisper, the absolute truth of it ringing crystal clear in the quiet room. “I have never been more free in my entire life. They told me this was all a fairytale, Dean. They told me that fated mates and biological bonds were just romanticized traps to make omegas subservient.”

Dean’s jaw ticks slightly at the memory of their cruel words, his protective instincts flaring, but he forces himself to stay calm for you. “They were idiots, sweetheart. I told you that on day one.”

“They were,” you agree, a soft, triumphant smile playing on your lips. “Because this isn’t a fairytale. Fairytales are fake. This is real. This is my life. And it is so much better than any stupid story.”

Dean’s expression shatters into something so incredibly soft it almost breaks your heart.

He shifts entirely, carefully maneuvering around Celia so he can lean directly over you. He frames your face with his large, warm hands, his thumbs sweeping gently over your cheekbones.

“You gave me everything,” Dean says, his voice a rough, desperate whisper. The arrogant, wealthy CEO is completely gone. In the center of this nest, he is just your mate. Just an alpha completely entirely devoted to his family. “You gave me a home. You gave me a purpose. And now you gave me her.”

He looks down at Celia, then back at you.

“I am going to spend the rest of my life making sure you both know exactly how worshipped you are,” Dean vows, his green eyes burning with absolute, permanent certainty. “I am going to build an entire empire just to lay it at your feet. You are my queen, and she is our princess. And nothing in this world will ever touch you.”

You reach up, wrapping your hands around his wrists. The mating bond pulses violently in your chest, a bright, blazing star of pure, unadulterated love.

“I know,” you whisper back.

Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, devastatingly tender kiss. It is a kiss that holds five years of history. It holds the terror of the hospital, the blinding intensity of your first heat, the quiet Sunday mornings in the hockey house, and the profound, life-altering weight of the vows you took in front of his parents.

It is the promise of forever.

When he finally pulls back, resting his forehead against yours, Celia lets out a tiny, soft squeak. She stretches her little arms, her tiny nose scrunching up as she slowly blinks her eyes open.

“Hey,” Dean breathes, completely distracted. He looks down at his daughter, his entire face lighting up with absolute wonder. “Look who’s awake.”

Celia blinks, her unfocused, dark green eyes slowly finding the shape of her father’s face. She lets out a tiny yawn, perfectly content.

You look at the two of them. The beautiful, impossible family that the universe had carved out specifically for you. You lean your head against Dean’s shoulder, pulling the soft cashmere blanket tighter around your perfect little pup.

Your mother had told you to run from this. She had told you to medicate it away, to hide in the sterile, practical world of betas.

But sitting in the center of your nest, completely enveloped in the scent of cedar and rain, listening to your alpha whisper promises of the world to your newborn daughter, you know exactly what you are.

You are an omega. You are a mate. You are a mother.

And as Dean wraps his heavy arm around you, pulling you completely into his chest as the sun begins to set outside your window, you finally let out a long, perfectly contented sigh.

The story didn’t end with a happily ever after.

Logan snorts from the bench across the room, tossing a roll of tape that bounces directly off Dean’s shoulder guard. “You’re an animal. Does your dick ever get tired, or is it powered by some kind of endless trust-fund energy?”

“It’s powered by charisma, Logan,” Dean says, catching the tape on the rebound and tossing it into his bag. “And the fact that I actually know what to do with it, which is more than I can say for some of the tragic beta performances I’ve heard about.”

“Hey, leave us out of it,” Tucker drawls in his thick Southern accent, leaning against the doorframe with a protein shake in hand. “Some of us prefer a little quality over quantity.”

“I offer exceptional quality,” Dean says, finally kicking off his left skate. “Ask anyone.”

“Oh, we don’t have to,” Garrett mutters, rolling his eyes. “They literally line up outside the frat house. I tripped over a sophomore trying to get to the kitchen this morning.”

Dean chuckles, running a hand through his damp blonde hair. He knows what they think of him. To the guys, to the whole campus, he’s exactly what he appears to be: Briar’s resident playboy alpha. He’s got the wealthy attorney parents, the maternal family money tied up in luxury hotels across the globe, the looks, the charm, and the seemingly insatiable appetite.

But there’s a line he doesn’t cross. A line the guys love to give him shit for.

“Was she a beta too?” Tucker asks, taking a slow sip of his shake.

Dean pauses, his easy smile tightening just a fraction before he forces it back into place. “Always. You know the rule, Tuck.”

“It’s a stupid rule,” Logan points out, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “I mean, I get the whole old money, traditional thing your family has going on. But only sleeping with betas? Refusing to even look at an omega unless you think she’s the one? It’s archaic, man. It’s the twenty-first century.”

“It’s not archaic, it’s respect,” Dean fires back, his tone dropping its playful edge for a fleeting second. He stands up, pulling his t-shirt over his head. “When I meet my fated mate, she’s going to be the only omega I’ve ever touched. She gets all of me. The whole alpha package, untainted by anyone else’s scent or biology.”

Garrett groans. “You sound like a Victorian romance novel. What if you never meet her? Or what if she doesn’t care if you’ve slept with other omegas?”

“She’ll care,” Dean says simply, his voice firm. He grabs his duffel bag and hoists it over his shoulder. “Because I care. Betas are fun. They’re safe. There’s no biological complication, no scent-bonding, no risk of an accidental mating bite during a heat. It’s just physical.”

“So you’re just going to keep running through the beta population of Massachusetts until this mythical girl shows up?” Logan asks, amused.

“Pretty much,” Dean says, flashing his signature grin again, burying the sudden, sharp pang of longing that hits him square in the chest. “Keeps my skills sharp. When she finally shows up, I need to be ready to worship the ground she walks on. See you at the house, boys.”

He pushes through the locker room doors, the heavy scent of alpha pheromones fading into the sterile smell of the hallway. Dean keeps his smile locked in place as he walks out to his car, but the bravado slowly bleeds out of him.

He plays the part perfectly. He loves the attention, the sex, the careless fun. But God, he is so fucking tired of the emptiness of it. He was raised in circles where the alpha-omega bond was sacred, something to be revered. His parents had it. His grandparents had it.

He wants the fairytale. He wants the intoxicating, head-spinning rush of a fated scent hitting his system. He wants to fiercely protect someone, to provide for them, to spoil them absolutely rotten with every dime his family has to their name. He wants to be looking at a beta girl across a crowded room and suddenly realize she means nothing, because his mate just walked in.

He grips the steering wheel of his car, staring out at the campus parking lot.

“Where are you?” He murmurs to the empty car. “Come on, baby. I’m waiting.”

***

You stare at the tiny, pale blue pill resting in the center of your palm.

It looks entirely harmless. It looks like a breath mint, or a generic painkiller. It doesn’t look like something that is actively destroying you from the inside out.

Your stomach performs a violent, rolling flip just looking at it, and you have to close your eyes and grip the edge of the bathroom sink to steady yourself. The porcelain is cold under your hands.

“Hey,” a voice calls out, accompanied by a soft knock on the bathroom door. “You alive in there?”

It’s Grace, your roommate. You swallow hard, fighting the rising bile in your throat. “Yeah. Just … getting ready.”

“You’ve been staring at the mirror for ten minutes. The pizza is getting cold.”

“Coming,” you manage to say.

You look at the pill again. The suppressants. Grade-A, top-of-the-line, incredibly expensive synthetic hormones designed to completely mute your omega biology. Your parents, both highly pragmatic, fiercely independent betas, had insisted on the absolute strongest prescription available the moment you presented.

To them, being an omega is a biological inconvenience. A liability in the modern world.

You take a deep breath, tossing the pill to the back of your throat and immediately chasing it with a massive gulp of tap water. You gag as it goes down, your body instinctively rejecting it. You lean over the sink, breathing heavily, waiting to see if it’s going to come right back up.

When your stomach finally settles into a dull, throbbing ache, you wipe your mouth and open the door.

Grace is sitting cross-legged on her bed, a slice of pepperoni pizza in one hand and her laptop balanced precariously on her knees. She looks up, her eyes immediately narrowing.

“You look like garbage,” she says bluntly.

“Thanks,” you mutter, shuffling over to your own bed and curling up into a tight ball, pulling your oversized hoodie down over your hands. You don’t want the pizza. The smell of the grease is making your head spin.

“Seriously,” Grace presses, setting her pizza down on a paper plate. “You’re completely pale, and you’ve been shivering since you got back from class. Are you sick?”

“It’s just the new dosage,” you whisper, closing your eyes. “Dr. Davidson upped my suppressants last week. My body is just … adjusting.”

Grace sighs, a very loud, very beta sigh. She doesn’t have a malicious bone in her body, but she doesn’t understand. She can’t. “I don’t get why you let your parents push you into taking those things. Especially the intense ones. They make you miserable.”

“Because according to them, the alternative is worse,” you say, your voice muffled by your pillow. “They think heats are degrading. They think the whole dynamic is outdated.”

“And what do you think?”

You open your eyes, looking at the faded poster on your wall. “I think I feel like I’m constantly walking underwater. I feel … muted. Like a part of me is just locked in a box.”

Grace softens a bit. “Have you tried talking to them again? Telling them how sick you feel?”

Right on cue, your cell phone vibrates on the nightstand. The screen lights up with Mom.

You groan, reaching out a trembling hand to grab it. You swipe to accept the call, bringing it to your ear. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetie,” your mother’s brisk, efficient voice comes through the speaker. There is no background noise, she’s likely in her corner office.

“I only have a minute before a conference call, but I wanted to check in. Did Dr. Davidson confirm the new prescription went through?”

“Yes,” you say, your voice flat. “I just took it.”

“Good. That higher dose should completely eliminate any residual pre-heat symptoms you were having. You can’t afford to be distracted right now, not with midterms coming up.”

“Mom, it’s making me really sick,” you say, forcing the words out before you can lose your nerve. “I threw up twice yesterday. I can barely eat. I feel weak all the time.”

There’s a brief pause on the other end. Not of sympathy, but of calculation. “It’s a transition period. Your body is just fighting the regulation. Give it another week.”

“What if I don’t want my body to be regulated?” You ask, your voice cracking slightly. “What if I just want to be normal?”

“You are being normal,” your mother corrects sharply. “You’re a modern woman. You don’t need your biology dictating your schedule, or your emotions, or who you choose to partner with. We’ve talked about this. Those old fairytale ideas about fated alphas swooping in to take care of you? They’re fantasies. They don’t happen in the real world, and relying on some archaic bond is a recipe for losing your independence.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, hot and frustrating. “I know.”

“You’re a smart girl. You’re going to get a great degree, build a career, and find a nice, stable beta partner who respects you as an equal, not as a biological imperative. Okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper, the fight completely draining out of you.

“Good. Call me on Sunday. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

You drop the phone onto the bed.

“That sounded like it went well,” Grace notes sarcastically.

You roll onto your back, staring at the popcorn ceiling. You love your family, you really do. But being the only omega in a house full of betas is like speaking a language no one else understands. They look at you and see a problem that needs to be medicated away.

But sometimes, when you’re alone in the dark, you let yourself remember the dreams you used to have. Before the pills started.

You dream of a heavy, comforting warmth. You dream of a scent that smells like home, of strong arms wrapping around you and making the rest of the world disappear. You dream of an alpha who looks at you like you are the center of their entire universe. An alpha who wants to protect you, who wants to provide for you, who wants to adore you exactly as you are, biology and all.

You close your eyes, letting a single tear slip down your cheek into your hairline.

Fantasies, your mom called them.

Maybe she’s right. Maybe fated mates only exist in Hallmark movies and trashy romance novels. Maybe you just need to accept that you’re going to spend the rest of your life taking little blue pills and pretending you aren’t half-empty.

***

The bass from the speakers is rattling Dean’s teeth, and he is painfully, agonizingly bored.

He’s currently trapped in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while a stunning brunette — a junior named Alice, or maybe Alyssa, he honestly can’t remember — runs her hand up and down his bicep. She smells perfectly nice. Like vanilla body spray and vodka.

She smells like a beta.

“So,” she purrs, leaning in close so he can feel the heat of her body. “I was thinking maybe we could go upstairs? It’s getting kind of crowded down here.”

Dean looks at her. She’s beautiful. She’s eager. She’s exactly his type, or at least, the type he pretends to have. A year ago, he would have already had her pinned against the wall of his bedroom.

Tonight, he just feels … tired.

“You know, sweetheart, I’m actually really beat tonight,” Dean says, offering her a perfectly practiced, apologetic smile. He reaches out and gently untangles her fingers from his shirt. “Coach ran us into the ground at practice. I think I’m just gonna grab a water and crash.”

The beta pouts, clearly taken aback. Dean Di Laurentis turning down a sure thing? It’s practically a campus anomaly. “Are you sure? I give really good massages.”

“I bet you do,” Dean says, leaning in to press a brief, charming kiss to her cheek. “Next time, I promise.”

He slips past her before she can argue, navigating through the sweaty bodies of his classmates with the practiced ease of a guy who owns the room. He makes his way to the back patio, shoving the sliding glass door open and stepping out into the cool night air.

He lets out a long exhale, running a hand over his face.

“Well, that’s a first.”

Dean turns to see Tucker sitting on the patio railing, nursing a beer.

“Shut up,” Dean mutters, walking over and leaning against the railing next to him.

“I’m just saying,” Tucker drawls, looking amused. “I just watched you turn down a ten. Are you feeling okay? Do we need to call a doctor? Maybe a priest?”

“I’m fine,” Dean says, staring out at the dark expanse of the backyard. “Just not in the mood.”

Tucker chuckles, taking a sip of his beer. “You know, for a guy who sleeps around as much as you do, you’re surprisingly miserable doing it.”

Dean glares at him. “I’m not miserable.”

“You’re empty calories, man,” Tucker says, shrugging. “You’re eating junk food when you really want a steak. You’re waiting for this magic omega to drop out of the sky, and until she does, you’re just going through the motions to keep yourself occupied.”

Dean wants to argue, but the words die in his throat. Because Tucker is right. He’s so right it hurts.

“What if she’s not out there?” Dean asks, the vulnerability slipping out before he can stop it. He hates sounding like this. He’s Dean Di Laurentis. He’s confident. He’s cocky. He doesn’t whine about feelings.

“She’s out there,” Tucker says simply. “You just haven’t crossed paths yet. But you will. The universe has a funny way of sorting these things out. And when you do …” Tucker grins. “I fully expect to see you turn into a pathetic, lovesick sap.”

“I am never pathetic,” Dean scoffs, some of his usual bravado returning. “I’ll be a goddamn delight. I’m going to spoil her rotten.”

“Sure you will, buddy. Sure you will.”

Dean looks back up at the sky, the stars mostly obscured by the campus light pollution. He wonders where she is right now. He wonders what she’s doing. Is she at a party? Is she studying? Is she waiting for him, too?

Hold on, he thinks, sending the thought out into the universe like a prayer. Just hold on. I’m looking for you.

***

You are practically shivering under your blankets, despite the fact that your dorm room is perfectly temperature-controlled.

The nausea from the suppressant has finally passed, leaving behind a dull, hollow ache in your chest. You have your laptop propped up on your stomach, playing a painfully cheesy rom-com from the early 2000s. On screen, the male lead is currently running through an airport to catch the female lead before she gets on a plane.

It’s cliché. It’s dramatic. It’s completely unrealistic.

You can’t look away.

Grace walks back into the room, fresh from the shower, a towel wrapped around her hair. She glances at your screen and sighs.

“Again?” She asks, walking over to her dresser. “You watched this same movie three days ago.”

“It’s comforting,” you say defensively, pulling the blankets up higher around your neck.

“It’s masochistic,” Grace corrects gently. She turns to look at you, her expression softening. “You watch these movies, and you read those books about fated mates, and then you let your parents convince you to take pills that stop you from ever actually having it. You’re torturing yourself.”

“They’re just movies, Grace,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “It’s not real life.”

“How do you know?” She challenges. “You’ve never even given yourself the chance to find out. You’ve been on suppressants since the day you presented. You hide your scent under perfume. You avoid alpha-heavy places like the plague. You’re terrified of your own biology.”

“I’m not terrified,” you snap, though the lie is weak even to your own ears. “I’m being practical.”

“You’re being miserable,” Grace says, walking over and sitting on the edge of your bed. She reaches out, gently resting a hand on your blanket-covered leg. “Look, I’m a beta. I know I don’t get the whole scent-bond, fated-mate thing. To me, it sounds totally overwhelming. But you’re an omega. It’s in your blood. And watching you try to squash it down to make your parents happy is really hard.”

You look away from her, staring at the screen. The male lead has finally caught the female lead. They are kissing passionately while a sweeping orchestral score plays in the background.

“What am I supposed to do?” You whisper, a tear finally escaping and tracking down your cheek. “My family thinks it’s a weakness. They think if I let myself be an omega, I’ll just end up completely dependent on some alpha who treats me like property.”

“Then find an alpha who treats you like a queen,” Grace says simply. “They exist, you know. Not every alpha is some dominating jerk. Some of them actually like the romantic stuff as much as you do.”

You let out a wet, humorless laugh. “Right. Where am I going to find a romantic alpha at Briar? Have you seen the guys here? They’re all frat bros and athletes who sleep with a different girl every night.”

“Not all of them,” Grace points out.

“Name one.”

Grace hesitates. “Okay, fine, a lot of them are like that. But you won’t know if you don’t look. And you definitely won’t know if you keep taking those pills and pretending you’re a beta.”

You look back at the movie. The couple is walking hand-in-hand, smiling, completely wrapped up in each other. A deep, agonizing ache settles in the pit of your stomach. It’s a physical craving, a biological imperative that the pills are desperately trying to smother, but it’s still there. Faint, but undeniable.

You want to be cherished. You want to be protected. You want to belong to someone, and have them belong to you.

“I have to take them,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “If I stop, if I go into heat,  it’ll ruin everything. My classes, my family’s expectations …”

“Is it really ruining things if it makes you happy?” Grace asks softly.

She doesn’t wait for an answer. She just squeezes your leg once more, stands up, and walks over to her desk to dry her hair.

You lay there for a long time, the glow of the laptop screen illuminating the dark room. You reach a hand up, resting it over your heart. It’s beating a steady, rhythmic thud.

I’m here, it seems to say. I’m still here.

You look over at your nightstand. The small, orange plastic pill bottle is sitting there, looking entirely unassuming.

For the first time in your life, you look at the bottle, and instead of feeling a sense of dutiful obligation … you feel a spark of resentment.

***

The summer heat is usually oppressive, but today, you can’t feel it at all. In fact, you’re freezing.

You grip the strap of your backpack, your knuckles turning white, and force yourself to take another step down the crowded brick pathway of the Briar University quad. Your teeth are chattering so hard your jaw aches. Every muscle in your body feels like it’s been pulled taut, vibrating like a violin string right before it snaps.

“I’m telling you, you need to go to the campus clinic,” Grace’s voice sounds tinny and distant coming through your AirPods. “You looked like a ghost when I left for my eight AM. I seriously considered skipping to stay with you.”

“I’m fine,” you lie, your voice breathless and shaky. You stumble slightly over a crack in the pavement. “It’s just … it’s just the adjustment period. Like my mom said. It’s normal.”

“It doesn’t look normal, and it doesn’t sound normal,” Grace snaps back, her tone sharp with genuine worry. “You were sweating through your sheets, but you were shivering. That’s a fever. Please, just skip the midterm. Professor Harrington is a hardass, but he’s not going to fail you for a medical emergency.”

“I don’t have a medical emergency, Grace,” you say stubbornly, though black spots are beginning to dance at the edges of your vision. “I just need to sit down. Once I’m in the lecture hall, I’ll be fine.”

You don’t feel fine.

Your skin feels too tight. There’s a strange, metallic taste in the back of your mouth, and your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You reach up to wipe a bead of sweat from your forehead and realize your hand is trembling uncontrollably.

“Just … let me call you after the test, okay?” You mumble, not waiting for her response before you tap your ear to disconnect the call.

The campus around you seems to blur. The voices of passing students melt into a loud, ringing hum in your ears. You try to take another step, but your legs feel like lead. Your knee buckles.

You manage to catch yourself against a large oak tree, pressing your back against the rough bark. You just need to breathe. Just a deep breath.

But your chest won’t expand. The muscles in your torso are locking up, rigid and unyielding. Panic flares hot and bright in your chest.

Something is wrong, your brain finally screams, cutting through the haze of your mother’s assurances. Something is really, really wrong.

You try to push off the tree, to ask the guy walking past you for help, but your vocal cords seize. A sudden, violent tremor rips through your body. The world tilts sharply to the left.

The last thing you feel is the harsh impact of the concrete against your shoulder before the darkness swallows you whole.

***

“I’m just saying, if she asks me to explain the offside rule one more time, I might actually lose my mind,” Logan groans, taking a massive bite of his breakfast sandwich.

Dean chuckles, adjusting the strap of his gym bag on his shoulder. He and Logan are walking back from a brutal morning lift session, the sun beating down on the bustling campus. “Maybe she doesn’t care about hockey, man. Maybe she just likes watching you get all worked up trying to explain it.”

“It’s not cute,” Logan argues around a mouthful of egg and bacon. “It’s a foundational rule of the sport. It’s an insult to my life’s work.”

“Your life’s work is putting a piece of rubber into a net,” Dean points out lazily.

“Yeah, well, my life’s work pays my tuition.”

Dean grins, shaking his head. He feels good today. The lingering annoyance from last night’s party has faded, replaced by the familiar, comfortable rhythm of his routine. Workout, class, practice, sleep. It’s easy. It’s manageable.

He’s about to make another joke at Logan’s expense when a sudden, collective gasp ripples through the crowd of students about fifty yards ahead of them.

Dean stops walking.

“Whoa,” Logan says, swallowing his bite. “What’s going on over there?”

A cluster of students is rapidly forming near one of the large oak trees lining the path. People are pointing, pulling out their phones, taking hesitant steps backward.

“Someone fell,” Dean says, his eyes narrowing as he tries to see over the crowd.

Then, the murmurs turn into alarmed shouts.

“Holy shit, is she having a seizure?”

“Someone call 911!”

“Don’t touch her, you’re supposed to put something in her mouth, right?”

“No, idiot, don’t do that!”

Dean doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he’s sprinting. The heavy gym bag drops from his shoulder, hitting the grass with a thud, but he doesn’t look back. His heart is suddenly pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs. His alpha instincts, usually tightly leashed beneath his charming exterior, roar to life with blinding suddenness.

“Move!” Dean barks, his voice carrying the deep, resonant command of an alpha that has the surrounding students instantly stepping aside. “Get the fuck back, give her some space!”

He pushes through the inner circle of onlookers and drops to his knees on the concrete.

It’s a girl. She’s small, swallowed up by an oversized Briar University hoodie, and she is violently convulsing against the hard pavement. Her head is thrashing, perilously close to the brick border of a flower bed.

“Logan!” Dean yells, not looking away from her. “Call 911! Now!”

“Already on it!” Logan shouts from somewhere behind him.

Dean strips off his thick varsity jacket in one fluid motion, rolling it up. He moves quickly but carefully, sliding the jacket under her head to cushion the brutal impacts.

“Hey,” Dean says loudly, his hands hovering over her trembling shoulders, wanting to restrain her but knowing better. “Hey, I’ve got you. You’re okay. Just let it happen, sweetheart. Help is coming.”

Her eyes are rolled back, and a sickening, strained sound is pushing past her lips.

“What happened?” Dean snaps at a terrified-looking sophomore standing nearby.

“I-I don’t know!” The guy stammers. “She was just leaning against the tree, and then she just … dropped. She was shaking before she even fell.”

Dean curses under his breath. He reaches out, carefully checking her wrist for a pulse.

The second his skin makes contact with hers, he recoils.

“Christ, she’s burning up,” Dean mutters, his eyes widening. She’s radiating heat like a furnace. Her skin is drenched in sweat, yet her muscles are locked in terrifying rigidity beneath the convulsions.

“Dispatch says EMTs are three minutes out,” Logan says, kneeling next to Dean. He takes one look at the girl and pales. “Man, she looks bad.”

“She’s boiling,” Dean says, his voice tight. He shifts closer, using his body to block the harsh sunlight from hitting her face. “Her muscles are completely locked. This isn’t just a normal seizure.”

He leans in closer, checking to make sure her airway is clear. As he drops his face near her neck, he inhales sharply.

It hits him like a freight train.

At first, it’s nothing but the sharp, sterile, metallic stench of pharmaceuticals. It’s the distinct, bitter smell of clinical suppressants. It burns his nose, making his alpha recoil in disgust.

But then …

Underneath the chemical blockade, forced to the surface by the intense heat of her raging fever, is a scent.

It’s faint. It’s a whisper. It’s barely there.

But Dean feels it in his teeth.

It’s vanilla. Warm, rich vanilla, and spun sugar, and rain-soaked earth. It’s a scent so perfect, so impossibly right, that for a split second, the entire world goes completely, deafeningly silent.

Dean stops breathing.

His pupils blow wide, his irises flashing from their usual warm green to pitch black. A possessive, ferocious roar tears through his mind, so loud he almost claps his hands over his ears.

Mine.

The realization doesn’t tiptoe in. It kicks the door down and shatters every window in the house.

Mine. Omega. Mine.

“Dean?” Logan’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “Hey, man, you good? The ambulance is pulling into the quad.”

Dean blinks, the world rushing back in with a dizzying rush of noise. He looks down at the girl — his girl, his mate, his omega — and a wave of terror so overwhelming t makes him nauseous crashes over him.

The convulsions are finally slowing down, tapering off into violent, whole-body shudders. But she isn’t waking up. Her lips are taking on a faint blue tint, and her breathing is shallow and ragged.

“Where the fuck are they?!” Dean snarls, his head whipping around. He spots the flashing lights of the ambulance navigating the crowded pedestrian path.

He looks back down at you. The acrid smell of the suppressants is choking the beautiful, perfect vanilla scent, suffocating it. Suffocating you.

“What did they do to you?” He whispers, his voice breaking. His hands are shaking now. He reaches out, gently brushing a damp lock of hair away from your sweaty forehead. “What did you take?”

“Step back, please! Let us through!”

Two paramedics shove their way through the crowd, carrying heavy jump bags.

“Move, Logan,” Dean barks, shoving his friend back to give the medics room. But Dean doesn’t stand up. He shifts to the side, refusing to break contact with the girl, keeping one hand firmly planted on her shoulder.

“Sir, you need to step back,” the first paramedic, a stern-looking woman, says as she drops to her knees beside you.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that makes the medic pause. It’s pure alpha command, unyielding and terrifying. “Tell me what to do.”

The medic shares a quick, cautious look with her partner before turning back to the patient. “What happened?”

“She collapsed,” Dean says rapidly, his eyes tracking the medic’s every movement. “A seizure. Lasted about two minutes. She’s burning up, her muscles are rigid, and she smells like she swallowed a pharmacy.”

The second medic pulls out a thermometer and presses it to your ear. It beeps almost instantly.

“104.2,” he calls out grimly. He grabs your arm, checking the rigidity. “Severe muscle rigidity. Tachycardia. Is she a friend of yours? Do you know what she’s taken?”

“I don’t know her name,” Dean says, the admission tasting like ash in his mouth. “But she’s an omega. And she smells like heavy, heavy suppressants. Industrial-grade blockers, or stronger.”

The female medic curses sharply. “Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. Her body is having a toxic reaction to the suppressants. We need to cool her down immediately and get her an IV, or her organs are going to shut down.”

Dean’s heart stops. The words echo in his head. 

“Do it,” Dean snarls, the terrifying helplessness morphing into blistering rage. “Fix her.”

“We’re loading her up,” the male medic says, unrolling a stretcher. “Let’s go, let’s go!”

They hoist you onto the stretcher with practiced efficiency. Dean grabs his jacket from the ground and stands up, his eyes never leaving your pale, unconscious face.

As they start wheeling the stretcher toward the ambulance, Dean falls into step right beside them.

“Sir, you can’t ride in the back,” the female medic says over her shoulder.

“Watch me,” Dean says flatly.

“Dean,” Logan says, grabbing Dean’s arm. “Hey. Stop. You can’t just jump in the ambulance. You don’t even know her.”

Dean rips his arm out of Logan’s grip with a viciousness that makes his best friend stumble backward.

“Don’t touch me,” Dean snaps, his eyes flashing black again. He points a shaking finger at the stretcher. “She’s mine. That’s my mate.”

Logan freezes, the color draining from his face. He looks at the girl, then back at Dean, his mouth falling open. “Holy shit. Are you … are you sure?”

“Yes,” Dean breathes, the anger cracking to reveal the absolute terror underneath. “And she’s dying, Logan. I just found her, and she’s dying.”

Logan swallows hard, nodding quickly. “Go. Get in the ambulance. I’ll get Garrett and Tucker and we’ll follow you to the hospital in my truck. Go!”

Dean doesn’t need to be told twice. He sprints to the back of the ambulance, jumping in right before the doors close.

The medic glares at him. “I told you-”

“I’m her fated mate,” Dean says, his voice thick with a desperation he’s never felt before in his entire life. “I am not leaving her. Do your job, and let me stay.”

The medic looks at the absolute devastation on his face, the frantic, protective set of his jaw, and sighs. “Sit in the corner. Stay out of my way.”

“Thank you.”

The ambulance sirens wail to life, the sound deafening in the confined space. The vehicle jerks into motion, throwing Dean back against the metal wall.

He watches as the medics cut away the sleeve of your favorite hoodie, swabbing your arm to start an IV. They place a cold compress on your forehead and an oxygen mask over your mouth and nose.

You look so incredibly fragile.

Dean leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped so tightly together his knuckles ache.

He’s dreamed of this moment for years. He thought he knew exactly how it would happen. He thought it would be at a party, or a coffee shop, or maybe a fancy gala his parents dragged him to. He thought their eyes would meet across the room, the scent would hit him, and he would sweep her off her feet with his charm and his smile. It was supposed to be a fairytale.

Instead, it’s a nightmare.

He watches the steady, agonizing drip of the IV fluid. He listens to the erratic beep of the heart monitor they hooked you up to.

Underneath the smell of the sterile ambulance and the heavy, toxic blockers, that tiny whisper of vanilla and honey reaches him again. It’s so weak, struggling to survive under the chemical warfare going on inside your body.

Whoever prescribed those pills, whoever pushed her to take them … Dean is going to find them. And he is going to destroy them.

But right now, all that matters is you.

Dean carefully reaches out, ignoring the medic’s warning glance, and gently wraps his large, warm hand around your freezing fingers.

“I’m here,” he whispers, leaning in close so only you can hear him over the sirens. “I’m right here, sweetheart. I finally found you. Don’t you dare leave me now.”

Your hand remains limp in his grip.

Dean squeezes tighter, bowing his head as a single, hot tear tracks down his cheek.

Please, he begs the universe. Just let her be okay.

***

The emergency room at Boston General is a chaotic clamor of shouting doctors, crying children, and blaring alarms.

Dean is pacing. He has been pacing for two hours.

The small waiting area off the main ER floor is practically vibrating with his nervous, angry alpha energy. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are sitting in a row of plastic chairs, watching him with varying degrees of concern and awe.

They’ve never seen Dean like this. None of them have. The easy-going, arrogant playboy is gone, completely erased. In his place is a terrifyingly focused, lethal-looking man who looks like he’s ready to tear the hospital down brick by brick if someone doesn’t give him an answer soon.

“Man, you’re going to wear a trench in the linoleum,” Garrett says quietly, leaning forward. “You need to sit down. You’re making the nurses nervous.”

Dean stops abruptly, turning his fierce glare on Garrett. “I don’t give a shit about that. I want to speak with a doctor. They took her behind those doors two hours ago and no one will tell me anything!”

“They’re working on her, Dean,” Tucker says, his Southern drawl slow and soothing, trying to de-escalate the situation. “NMS is serious business. They have to flush her system and get her temperature down. It takes time.”

“She was freezing when I touched her,” Dean mutters, running both hands through his disheveled blonde hair. He starts pacing again. “She was shaking so hard. And the smell of those pills … Tuck, it was repulsive. It smelled like bleach and metal. Who the fuck puts an omega on that kind of dosage?”

“Someone who doesn’t want her to be an omega,” Logan says quietly.

Dean stops dead. He looks at Logan, his jaw ticking. “What?”

“You said she was dressed in a massive hoodie, trying to hide. She’s taking industrial-strength blockers,” Logan explains gently. “A lot of omegas from beta families do it. They don’t want the stigma. They don’t want the heats. They try to suppress it so they can live ‘normal’ lives.”

“Normal?” Dean scoffs, his voice thick with disbelief and rising anger. “She almost died on the pavement! How the hell is that normal? It’s biology! You can’t just medicate it away!”

“We know that,” Garrett says. “But clearly, she didn’t. Or someone convinced her otherwise.”

Dean closes his eyes, trying to reign in the explosive fury building in his chest. He remembers the fragility of your wrist in his hand. He remembers the agonizingly weak scent of vanilla fighting through the poison.

He wants to wrap you in a blanket and lock you in his bedroom where the world can never hurt you again. He wants to buy you a new wardrobe, throw every pill bottle you own into the ocean, and spend the rest of his life making sure you never look that pale again.

“Family of the Jane Doe from Briar University?”

Dean’s eyes snap open. A tired-looking doctor in blue scrubs is standing by the double doors, holding a clipboard.

Dean covers the distance between them in three massive strides. “That’s me. I’m with her.”

The doctor looks him up and down, raising an eyebrow. “Are you a relative?”

“I’m her mate,” Dean says, the words feeling heavy and permanent and incredibly right on his tongue.

The doctor’s expression softens immediately. In their world, a fated bond overrides almost everything else. It’s an undeniable biological link. “Ah. I see. I’m Dr. Goldstein. Come with me, please.”

Dean follows the doctor down a quiet, sterile hallway, his heart thumping erratically. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker stay behind, giving him space.

“How is she?” Dean asks, his voice surprisingly steady despite the chaos in his head.

“She’s stable,” Dr. Goldstein says, pushing open the door to a private room. “The EMTs were right, it was a severe case of Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome brought on by a toxic buildup of synthetic suppressants. We’ve managed to bring her fever down, and the muscle rigidity is subsiding. We have her on IV fluids and muscle relaxants.”

Dean steps into the room, and the breath leaves his lungs in a rush.

You are lying in the hospital bed, looking incredibly small amidst the stark white sheets. Your eyes are closed, your breathing steady but shallow. The bluish tint is gone from your lips, replaced by a pale, exhausted pallor. The IV is taped securely to the back of your hand.

“She’s sleeping,” Dr. Goldstein continues softly. “Her body has been through an immense trauma. It’s going to take a few days for the suppressants to completely flush out of her system.”

“And then what?” Dean asks, his eyes glued to the slow rise and fall of your chest.

“And then … her biology is going to rebound,” the doctor says carefully. “When an omega comes off suppressants cold turkey like this, especially at the dosage she was taking, it usually triggers an immediate, intense heat.”

Dean swallows hard. He steps closer to the bed, entirely captivated by you.

“She can’t take those pills ever again,” Dean says, his voice low and hard. It’s not a question. It’s a fact.

“I strongly advise against it,” Dr. Goldstein agrees. “Her system clearly can’t tolerate them. But she’s going to need a lot of support through the withdrawal process, and the subsequent heat. It will be overwhelming for her.”

“She’ll have it,” Dean says immediately. “She’ll have me.”

The doctor nods, offering a small, sympathetic smile. “I’ll leave you to it. Press the call button if she wakes up and seems disoriented.”

The door clicks shut, leaving Dean alone with you.

The silence in the room is heavy, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the monitors.

Dean pulls a chair up to the side of the bed and sits down. He reaches out, slowly, reverently, and takes your hand in his. Your skin is cool now, lacking that terrifying, burning heat from the quad.

He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to your skin.

Now that the suppressants are beginning to wash out of your system, your scent is getting stronger. It’s filling the small hospital room, wrapping around him like a physical embrace. Vanilla. Honey. Rain. It’s the most intoxicating thing he’s ever breathed in.

His alpha settles, a deep, rumbling purr vibrating in his chest. Mate. Safe.

“You really scared the shit out of me, sweetheart,” Dean whispers, his thumb stroking soothing circles over the back of your hand. “We haven’t even officially met, and you’re already giving me gray hairs.”

You don’t move, but Dean doesn’t care. He has all the time in the world.

He leans back in the chair, his eyes never leaving your face. He maps out the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheekbones, the soft part of your lips. He tries to imagine what color your eyes are. He tries to imagine what your voice sounds like when you aren’t screaming in agony.

“I don’t know who told you that you had to hide,” Dean says quietly to the empty room. “I don’t know who made you feel like you weren’t perfect exactly the way you are. But they were wrong.”

He squeezes your hand gently.

“I’m going to show you,” he promises, his voice a vow. “I’m going to take care of you. You’re never taking another one of those pills again. You’re going to be a queen. My queen.”

Dean settles in, letting the steady beat of your heart anchor him. The playboy of Briar University is dead.

And as he watches you sleep, inhaling the sweet, perfect scent of his fated mate, Dean Di Laurentis has never felt more alive.

***

Coming back to consciousness is a slow, heavy process. Your eyelids feel like they have lead weights attached to them, and your mouth is as dry as cotton. A steady, rhythmic beeping sound echoes somewhere to your left, pulling you inch by inch out of the dark.

But before you can even force your eyes open, a smell hits you.

It’s completely overwhelming, wrapping around your senses like a thick, warm blanket. It’s sandalwood and cedar, rain-soaked asphalt, and a deep, purely masculine musk. It doesn’t smell like your dorm room. It doesn’t smell like your childhood bedroom in your parents’ sterile, modern house.

It smells like home. Like a place you’ve never been, but have spent your entire life desperately searching for.

Your breath hitches, your omega biology — newly freed from the chemical cage of the suppressants — flaring to life with a desperate, greedy hunger. You inhale deeply, chasing the scent, and finally manage to blink your eyes open.

The harsh, fluorescent light of a hospital room makes you wince, but a large shadow immediately shifts, blocking the glare.

“Hey,” a low, incredibly gentle voice rumbles. “Take it easy, sweetheart. Don’t rush.”

You blink the blurriness away, your vision slowly coming into focus. Sitting in a plastic chair pulled right up against the edge of your bed is a guy. A devastatingly handsome guy. He has messy, golden-blonde hair, striking green eyes that are completely locked onto you, and the kind of broad, muscular shoulders that a varsity jacket was practically invented for.

You don’t recognize his face. But the second you inhale again, you know exactly who the scent belongs to. It’s him. He is radiating it.

Panic spikes in your chest. You try to sit up, but your muscles feel entirely hollowed out, weak and trembling.

“Whoa, hey, stay still,” he says, instantly standing up. His hands hover over your shoulders, close enough to offer comfort but respectful enough not to touch without permission. With one hand, he reaches up and hits the red call button above your bed. “You’ve been through a lot. Just lay back.”

“Where …” Your voice comes out as a harsh, painful croak. Your throat feels like sandpaper.

“You’re at Boston General,” he explains calmly, his eyes tracing your face with an intensity that makes your breath catch. He reaches for a plastic pitcher on the bedside table and pours water into a cup, sliding a bendy straw in. “Here. Just a little sip at first.”

He leans over, guiding the straw to your lips. You are so thirsty you don’t even hesitate, taking a slow, glorious pull of the ice-cold water.

“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning your head back against the pillows. You look at him, really look at him, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of your memory. “I was on the quad. I was walking to my midterm, and then …”

“You collapsed,” he finishes for you. The easy gentleness in his expression hardens just a fraction, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You had a severe seizure. Your body was rejecting your suppressants.”

The word hits you like a bucket of ice water.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, your hands immediately flying to your face. “My mom. My mom is going to kill me. She told me it was just an adjustment period. I have to call her, she has to talk to Dr. Davidson-”

“Hey. Look at me.”

The command in his voice isn’t loud, but it vibrates straight through your bones. Your hands drop, and your eyes lock onto his.

“No one is calling anyone to adjust those pills,” he says, his tone firm, brooking absolute zero argument. “They were poisoning you. You had Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. If I hadn’t been walking by when you went down …” He stops, swallowing hard. The absolute terror in his eyes is raw and jarring. “You’re done with them. Forever.”

You stare at him, completely bewildered. Why is this beautiful, random alpha hockey player looking at you like the thought of losing you physically pains him?

“Who are you?” You ask softly.

He smiles, and it’s a beautiful, devastating thing. The harshness completely melts out of his face. “I’m Dean. Dean Di Laurentis.”

“I don’t know you, Dean,” you say, your brow furrowing. “Why are you sitting here? Why do you smell like …”

You trail off, your cheeks flushing a deep, embarrassed crimson. You can’t just tell a stranger that his scent makes you want to curl up into his chest and never leave.

Dean’s smile softens even more, turning into something completely wrecked and reverent. He slowly reaches out, giving you plenty of time to pull away, and gently wraps his large hand over yours where it rests on the blanket. His skin is so warm.

“I smell like home,” Dean finishes for you, his voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper. “Don’t I?”

You can only nod, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“That’s because I’m your mate, sweetheart,” Dean says, the words hanging in the quiet hospital room like a religious vow. “Your fated mate.”

Your entire world stops.

You stare at him, your brain desperately trying to process the words. Your fated mate. The thing you had secretly dreamed of. The thing your mother had ruthlessly mocked. The thing you had been medicated to avoid.

You yank your hand out from under his, shaking your head frantically. “No. No, that’s … that’s not real. That’s a fairytale.”

Dean looks at his empty hand for a second before his gaze snaps back up to yours. “Excuse me?”

“My family,” you stammer, pushing yourself backward against the pillows, trying to put distance between you and the intoxicating pull of his scent. “They told me it’s not real. It’s just biological chemistry that gets romanticized in Hallmark movies. Fated mates don’t actually exist in real life. It’s just an archaic myth.”

Dean stares at you for a long, silent moment. The air in the room suddenly feels very heavy, his alpha presence expanding, pressing against the walls.

“Then your family,” Dean says, his voice dangerously quiet, “is full of idiots.”

“Don’t call them that,” you say automatically, though your defense sounds incredibly weak.

“I’ll call them whatever I want if they’re the ones who filled your head with that garbage,” Dean fires back, leaning closer. The intensity rolling off him is entirely focused on you. “Look at me. Look at how my hand is shaking right now. I smelled you underneath whatever toxic sludge you were taking, and my heart literally stopped beating in my chest. You are my omega. Mine. The universe literally carved my soul to match yours. Don’t tell me that’s a goddamn myth.”

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You want to believe him. You want to believe him so badly it hurts.

Dean sees the tears and his entire demeanor fractures. “Hey, no, don’t cry. Shh, I’m sorry.” He sits on the very edge of your mattress, ignoring the hospital rules, and carefully reaches out again. This time, he doesn’t take your hand. He brings his fingers up to your face, gently wiping a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I’m sorry. I’m just … I’m angry. Not at you. Never at you.”

He traces the line of your jaw, his touch so achingly tender it makes a sob catch in your throat.

“Who put you on those pills?” Dean asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Who gave you a dosage that high?”

You look away, ashamed. “Dr. Davidson. My family doctor.”

“And who asked for it?” Dean presses, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “Because an omega doesn’t walk into a clinic and ask for an industrial-grade chemical lobotomy on their own.”

You close your eyes. “My mom.”

The silence that follows is deafening. You open your eyes to see Dean staring at the wall, his jaw locked so tight the muscle is twitching wildly. His green eyes have darkened, the pupils blown wide in pure, unadulterated fury. You have never seen a man look so lethal.

“Dean?” You whisper nervously.

He blinks, forcing his focus back to you. “Whoever she is,” Dean says, his voice flat and deadly cold, “I have never hated a human being more in my entire life.”

“You can’t say that!” You defend, the lifelong habit of protecting your parents kicking in. “She’s a beta. My whole family is full of betas. They don’t understand the alpha-omega dynamics, okay? To them, it’s a liability. She just wanted me to be independent. She wanted me to have a normal life, a good career, without being tied down by my biology. She thought she was protecting me.”

“Protecting you?” Dean snarls, the anger finally slipping the leash. He stands up, pacing away from the bed before whirling back around to face you. “You were seizing on the concrete! You were freezing to death and burning up at the same time! Is that her version of protection? Forcing you to suppress a fundamental part of who you are just because it inconveniences her worldview?”

“She didn’t know the pills would do this!”

“She didn’t care!” Dean shouts, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “Just because she’s a beta and she’ll never experience the absolute fucking magic of having a fated mate doesn’t give her the right to try and rip it away from you! It is a gift, and she treated it like a disease!”

You flinch, pulling your knees up to your chest. The truth of his words hits you like a physical blow, breaking through the decades of conditioning your parents had carefully layered over you.

Dean sees you flinch and curses violently under his breath. He crosses the room in two strides, dropping to his knees right beside your bed so he’s perfectly eye-level with you.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m yelling,” he breathes, his hands coming up to grip the metal bedrails. “I’m just so angry that you got hurt. You have no idea what it did to me, watching you on that pavement. Thinking I finally found you, only to watch you die.”

He reaches through the rails, gently taking your left arm. He turns your wrist over, exposing the pale skin of your inner forearm. Right over your pulse point, where a mating gland sits dormant beneath the skin.

He lowers his head and presses a long, firm, agonizingly soft kiss directly over the gland.

A jolt of pure electricity shoots up your arm, straight into your chest. Your omega purrs, a deep, vibrating sound of absolute contentment that you didn’t even know you were capable of making.

Dean pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, his lips still hovering mere inches from your skin.

“She’s not in charge anymore,” Dean vows, his voice a low, rough rumble. “I’m here now. I am your mate. I will take care of you, I will protect you, and I swear on my life, you will never experience anything like that ever again. You are done hiding.”

You stare down at him, entirely captivated. For the first time in your life, you don’t feel broken. You don’t feel like a problem that needs to be solved. Under Dean’s heavy, devoted gaze, you feel perfect.

Before you can formulate a response, the heavy wooden door to your room pushes open.

“Ah, you’re awake,” a female voice says briskly.

Dean immediately stands up, though he doesn’t step away from your bed. He slides his hand down to tangle his fingers firmly with yours, presenting a united front as the doctor walks in, followed by a nurse holding a chart.

“I’m Dr. Goldstein,” the doctor says, offering a warm smile as she approaches the foot of the bed. “It’s good to see your eyes open. How are you feeling?”

“Weak,” you admit honestly, your voice still raspy. “My muscles ache.”

“That’s to be expected,” Dr. Goldstein says, flipping through your chart. “You suffered a severe tonic-clonic seizure caused by a toxic buildup of synthetic suppressants. Your body went into a state of Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. Frankly, you’re very lucky your mate here acted as quickly as he did, and that the ambulance was close.”

You look up at Dean. He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, though his eyes remain locked sharply on the doctor.

“We’ve pumped you full of fluids and muscle relaxants, and we’ve successfully flushed the majority of the chemical toxicity out of your system,” Dr. Goldstein continues. She lowers the clipboard, looking at you with serious, sympathetic eyes. “But we need to talk about what comes next.”

The knot of anxiety in your stomach, which Dean had momentarily smoothed away, twists tight again. “What comes next?”

“You cannot go back on suppressants,” Dr. Goldstein says firmly. “Your body has developed a severe, life-threatening allergy to them. If you try to take even a low dose, you could go into anaphylactic shock, or worse.”

“Never again,” Dean states, his voice leaving absolutely no room for debate.

You swallow hard. “Okay. No more pills. But … what does that mean?”

Dr. Goldstein sighs softly. “It means your biology is going to rebound. Hard. You’ve been forcibly suppressing your omega nature for years. Now that the dam is broken, your hormones are going to spike to compensate. I need you to be prepared. Within the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, you are going to go into heat.”

The blood completely drains from your face.

Heat. The thought echoes in your head, a terrifying, abstract concept that your mother had always spoken about in hushed, disgusted tones. A loss of control. A feverish, degrading biological imperative.

“No,” you whisper, true, visceral panic setting in. You start to shake, pulling your hand out of Dean’s grip to clutch at the hospital blanket. “No, I can’t. I don’t know how. I’ve never had one.”

Dr. Goldstein looks surprised. “Never?”

“My parents put me on suppressants the day I presented at fourteen,” you say, your breathing turning shallow and frantic. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how it feels. Please, isn’t there something else you can give me? A lighter pill? An injection? I can’t just … I can’t!”

“Sweetheart, hey, look at me,” Dean says, his voice cutting through the rising tide of your panic.

You look at him, tears freely spilling down your cheeks.

Internally, Dean is a hurricane of pure, unadulterated violence. The realization that your parents essentially chemically sterilized you at fourteen — robbing you of every natural milestone of your secondary gender out of their own beta prejudice — makes him want to find them and tear them apart with his bare hands. The rage is so hot and blinding he can barely see straight.

But outwardly? Outwardly, he is a mountain. Unshakeable. Calm.

He sits back down on the edge of the bed, completely ignoring the doctor and nurse. He frames your face with both of his large, warm hands, his thumbs sweeping away your tears.

“Breathe with me,” Dean murmurs, locking his green eyes onto yours. He takes an exaggerated, deep breath in. “Come on. In.”

You drag a ragged breath into your lungs, mirroring him.

“Good. Out,” he praises softly.

He keeps his scent deliberately calm, pushing out waves of soothing cedar and rain, blanketing your panic in layers of alpha protection.

“I’m terrified,” you sob, your hands coming up to grip his wrists. “My mom always said heats make you lose your mind. She said it’s humiliating.”

“Your mom doesn’t know a damn thing about what it means to be an omega,” Dean says, his voice dripping with absolute certainty. “She lied to you. It’s not humiliating. It’s natural. It’s beautiful.”

“But I don’t know what to do!”

“You don’t have to know what to do,” Dean says gently, leaning in until his forehead is resting against yours. “Because I know what to do. That’s what mates are for, baby. I am going to be right by your side the entire time. I’ll take care of everything. You won’t have to think, you won’t have to worry, you just have to let your body do what it was meant to do.”

“You promise?” You whisper, closing your eyes and leaning into his solid strength.

“I swear it on my life,” Dean vows, his lips brushing against your forehead. “I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time. I’m not going to let anything scare you ever again. We’re going to get through this together.”

Dr. Goldstein clears her throat softly, a small smile playing on her lips. “He’s right. A mate bond makes the biological transition significantly smoother. You’re in very good hands.”

You open your eyes, looking at Dean. The arrogant, charming playboy of Briar University is entirely gone. In his place is a devoted, fiercely protective alpha who is looking at you like you hold the stars in your hands.

For the first time in your life, you stop fighting your own biology. You take a deep breath of sandalwood and rain, and finally, you let yourself just be an omega.

***

The next thirty-two hours are a masterclass in anticipation.

The hospital staff insists on keeping you for observation to ensure the suppressants are completely flushed from your system and that your organs haven’t suffered any lasting damage from the toxicity.

Dean never leaves your side. He sleeps in the wildly uncomfortable plastic chair next to your bed, his hand tangled with yours. He eats terrible cafeteria food. He charms the nurses into bringing you extra pillows and smuggled-in hot chocolate.

He only leaves once. On the second morning, he kisses your forehead, promises he’ll be back before you can even miss him, and vanishes for two hours. He returns smelling like his expensive cedar body wash, wearing fresh clothes, and carrying a massive duffel bag.

“I had to prep,” Dean explains simply when you ask about the bag, a devastating smirk playing on his lips. “And I had to threaten Logan with bodily harm if he ever breathed a word about my panic attack.”

When Dr. Goldstein finally signs your discharge papers, the shift in your body is undeniable.

You feel … heavy. There is a deep, pulsing warmth settling low in your abdomen, a completely foreign sensation that makes your breath catch every few minutes. Your skin feels highly sensitized, the friction of your sweatpants against your legs sends tiny shocks up your spine.

But the most obvious change is the scent.

As Dean leads you out to his car, you notice the way his nostrils flare. His jaw is tight, his grip on your hand firm and possessive. The faint, smothered vanilla scent that had barely survived the suppressants has bloomed. It’s rich, thick, and intoxicatingly sweet, dripping with the undeniable pheromones of an omega on the absolute precipice of her first heat.

“We aren’t going to my house,” Dean says, opening the passenger door for you and helping you climb inside. “Logan and the guys are great, but you don’t need three other alphas in the house right now. And you definitely aren’t going back to your dorm.”

“Where are we going?” You ask, your voice already a little breathless. The leather of the car seat feels incredibly soft against your back.

“My family owns the Heyward Harbor Hotel downtown,” Dean says, shutting your door and walking around to the driver’s side. He climbs in, immediately locking the doors and starting the engine. “There’s a private penthouse suite on the top floor. It’s soundproof, secure, and completely ours. The staff knows not to come up unless I call.”

You swallow hard, your heart doing a nervous, excited flutter. “You really planned this out.”

Dean shoots you a dark, heated look as he pulls out of the hospital parking lot. “Sweetheart, I’ve been planning for you since I was sixteen years old. And right now, you smell so incredibly sweet that it’s taking every ounce of my willpower not to pull this car over and climb into the backseat with you.”

You flush a deep crimson, a rush of slick heat pooling between your thighs at his words. “Dean …”

“I know,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. “Hold on for me. Just a little longer.”

The drive is a blur of city lights and the heavy, electric tension filling the cabin of the car. By the time Dean pulls into the private underground garage of the hotel, you are practically vibrating.

He leads you to a private elevator that opens directly into the penthouse. The space is massive, all floor-to-ceiling windows, modern art, and sleek furniture. But Dean bypasses the living area entirely, guiding you straight into the sprawling master bedroom.

You stop dead in your tracks.

The king-sized bed in the center of the room has been completely transformed. It’s a nest. A massive, chaotic, incredibly inviting pile of faux fur blankets, high-thread-count sheets, and enormous plush pillows. And woven through every single layer of fabric is the heavy, comforting scent of sandalwood, cedar, and rain. Dean’s scent.

“You built this?” You whisper, staring at the bed. Your omega instincts are practically screaming at you to dive into the center of it and roll around until you are completely coated in his scent.

“When I went back to shower,” Dean says, stepping up behind you. He rests his hands on your hips, pulling your back flush against his solid chest.

“I bought every soft blanket I could find in a ten-mile radius. Does it look okay?”

“It looks perfect,” you breathe, leaning back against him.

“Good. But you can’t get in it yet,” Dean says, his hands sliding up to grip your waist. He kisses the side of your neck, sending a violent shiver down your body. “You need a bath. And you need to eat. Once the heat fully hits, you aren’t going to care about food, and you need your strength.”

He is as good as his word. Dean leads you into a massive marble bathroom and starts the water in a deep soaking tub. He helps you strip out of your hospital clothes with a terrifyingly gentle reverence, his eyes dark and hungry, but his hands entirely respectful.

The warm water feels like heaven on your aching muscles. Dean kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves, and actually washes your hair. His large fingers massage your scalp with a perfect, agonizingly slow pressure.

“You’re shaking,” Dean notes softly, rinsing the shampoo from your hair.

“I feel … weird,” you admit, your eyes fluttering shut. The ache low in your belly is turning into a sharp, demanding throb. “It’s like there’s a wire pulled tight inside me, and it keeps getting tighter.”

“That’s the pre-heat,” Dean explains, his voice a soothing rumble. “Your body is prepping. It’s waking up. Just breathe through it.”

After the bath, he wraps you in a massive, fluffy towel and carries you out to the kitchen island. He’s ordered room service — a massive plate of carbonara, warm bread, and fruit.

“Eat,” he commands gently, pushing a fork into your hand. “As much as you can.”

You manage to eat half the pasta, though your appetite is rapidly being eclipsed by a different kind of hunger. The scent in the room is overwhelming now. Your vanilla and honey has mixed entirely with his cedar and rain, creating a thick, heady atmosphere that makes your head spin.

You drop the fork, a sudden, violent hot flash tearing through your body. You gasp, your hands gripping the edge of the marble counter.

Dean is there in a second. “Hey. Look at me.”

You look up, panting slightly. “Dean … it hurts. It’s so hot.”

“I know,” Dean says, his eyes flashing to a pitch-black, predatory dark. The leash he’s been keeping on his alpha is snapping. He reaches down and effortlessly scoops you up into his arms, carrying you back to the bedroom. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

He drops you gently into the center of the nest. The sheer volume of his scent embedded in the blankets hits your system like a drug. You instantly curl onto your side, burying your face in one of his oversized t-shirts he left in the pile, a loud, desperate whine tearing from your throat.

Dean strips off his shirt in one fluid motion, tossing it aside. He kicks off his shoes and jeans, left only in his boxer briefs, before he crawls into the nest with you.

The moment his bare skin touches yours, the final thread snaps.

The heat hits.

It is a tidal wave of biological demand. The dull ache turns into a blinding, searing need that completely consumes your mind. You don’t think. You just react. You scramble toward him, your hands desperately clutching at his broad, muscular shoulders, pulling him down over you.

“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice a fractured sob. You arch your hips upward, seeking the heavy, solid weight of him. “Please, I need … I need …”

“I know what you need,” Dean growls, his voice a guttural, vibrating sound that makes your core clench. He pins your wrists gently above your head with one hand, his chest hovering inches from yours. “You are so incredibly beautiful. You smell like pure sugar, baby.”

He lowers his head, his mouth capturing yours in a devastating, bruising kiss. It’s nothing like the polite, gentle care he’s shown you for the last two days. This is raw, possessive, and entirely alpha. He parts your lips with his tongue, tasting you deeply, drinking in your soft moans.

You writhe beneath him, your legs tangling with his. You are soaked, a slick, hot mess of arousal that your body has naturally produced in terrifying abundance.

Dean breaks the kiss, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw and the sensitive column of your neck. He pauses right over your scent gland, inhaling sharply.

“You’re mine,” he breathes against the skin, his hot breath making you arch off the mattress. “Only mine. Tell me.”

“Yours,” you gasp, your eyes rolling back. “Dean, please, it’s so empty. Please.”

“Impatient,” Dean chuckles darkly. His free hand trails down your torso, slipping past the waistband of your underwear. “We have to do this right, sweetheart. I need you completely ready for me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

His hand slips between your thighs, and you let out a high, fractured cry at the contact. His fingers are large, calloused from years of gripping a hockey stick, but they are impossibly gentle. He parts your slick folds, tracing the sensitive bundle of nerves at your peak.

You thrash against his hold, completely overwhelmed by the sensation. “Dean!”

“I’m here,” he murmurs, his thumb applying a steady, rhythmic pressure. “Let go for me. Come for me, baby.”

He slides two fingers deep inside you, and you completely shatter. Your body bows off the bed, a scream tearing from your throat as your first orgasm rips through you. It’s blinding. It’s a rush of pure pleasure that leaves you gasping for air, your muscles trembling violently as your inner walls clench around his fingers.

Dean watches you unravel, a look of pure worship on his face. He doesn’t stop. As you ride out the agonizingly long waves of the climax, he shifts lower down the bed.

“Dean, wait, I’m too sensitive-” you stammer, trying to push yourself backward.

“I’m not done,” he says simply.

He parts your thighs wider, settling between your legs. He grips your hips to hold you completely still, and then he lowers his mouth to your core.

You scream his name, your hands flying to tangle in his blonde hair. The slide of his tongue is expertly cruel, lapping up your slick with a greedy, starving desperation. He finds your clit again, sucking gently before swirling his tongue over it, sending you plummeting right back into the fire.

Your mind goes completely blank. There is only the heat, the overwhelming scent of cedar, and the devastating perfection of his mouth. You climax again, harder this time, sobbing into the pillows as your vision literally whites out.

Dean pulls back, his chest heaving as he crawls back up your body. His eyes are glazed, completely feral. He strips away your underwear and tears his boxers off, discarding them off the edge of the bed.

You feel the heavy, thick press of him against your entrance. The sheer size of him makes you gasp, a fleeting moment of apprehension piercing through the haze of the heat.

Dean senses it immediately. He pauses, his forearms bracketing your head, and looks down into your eyes.

“Look at me,” he commands softly.

You meet his gaze.

“I’m going to take care of you,” Dean vows, his voice a rough, desperate rasp. “I am going to fill you up, and I am going to make you feel so goddamn good. Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” you whisper, meaning it with every fiber of your being. “I trust you. Please.”

Dean groans, a deeply satisfied, rumbling sound. “Good girl.”

He pushes his hips forward, burying himself inside you in one long, agonizingly slow thrust.

You cry out, your fingernails digging into his shoulders. It is the most intense, overwhelming feeling you have ever experienced. You are completely full, stretched taut, the physical connection bridging the gap your soul has been aching to fill for years.

Dean rests his forehead against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants. He stays perfectly still, giving your body time to adjust to his massive size. “Fuck. You feel … you feel like heaven. So tight. So wet for me.”

“Don’t stop,” you beg, lifting your hips to meet him. “Dean, please move.”

He chuckles, a dark, breathless sound, and begins to pull back. The friction is absolute torture in the best way possible. He sets a brutal, driving pace, his hips snapping against yours with audible slaps of skin.

You are completely lost in it. You match his rhythm perfectly, meeting his thrusts, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist to draw him in even deeper. The room smells like sex and alpha command and the intoxicating sweetness of an omega in the throes of a mating heat.

“That’s it,” Dean praises, his voice strained. “Take it all, baby. You’re doing so good.”

The pressure is building again, twisting into a tight, coiled spring low in your belly. Dean recognizes the shift in your breathing, the frantic, desperate hitch in your chest.

He slides one hand under your lower back, angling your hips up to hit a spot deep inside you that makes you see stars.

“Dean!” You scream, your head thrashing side to side.

“I’ve got you,” he growls. He shifts his weight, pinning you down, and buries his face in the crook of your neck. His lips brush directly over your scent gland. “I’m going to claim you now. I’m going to make you mine permanently. Let me mark you.”

“Yes,” you sob, the word a desperate plea. “Yes, mark me!”

Dean bites down.

His sharp canines pierce the delicate skin over your scent gland. The pain is a sharp, brief sting, instantly swallowed by a blinding, explosive rush of euphoria.

The bond snaps into place.

It is physical. It is emotional. It is a sudden, brilliant tether forming between your chest and his, locking your souls together with an undeniable, permanent gravity. You can feel him. You can feel his love, his possessiveness, his absolute devotion flooding into your mind.

At the exact same moment his teeth break the skin, Dean drives his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt, and unloads deep inside you.

Your own climax hits like a freight train, your body convulsing violently around his knot as it swells, locking you together. You scream his name, your hands desperately clutching at his back.

“Bite me,” Dean commands, his voice muffled against your skin. He pulls back just enough to expose his own neck, baring his throat to you in the ultimate display of alpha submission. “Mark me back, sweetheart. Claim me.”

You don’t hesitate. You surge upward, your lips finding the pulsing scent gland on the side of his neck. You sink your teeth in, tasting the salt of his sweat and the sharp, metallic tang of blood.

Dean lets out a roaring groan, his head falling back as the bond solidifies on his end. The tether snaps tight, completely unbreakable. He grips your hips, riding out the devastating aftershocks of your shared climax, completely lost in the overwhelming high of the mating bond.

For a long time, neither of you moves.

The room is silent except for your ragged, synchronized breathing. Dean’s knot is still firmly locked inside you, keeping you intimately tethered. He collapses completely against you, his heavy weight a comforting, grounding presence.

He gently buries his face in your hair, pressing soft, reverent kisses to your temple.

“Mine,” he whispers, the word laced with pure awe. “You’re actually mine.”

“Yours,” you echo softly, running your hands through his damp blonde hair.

Slowly, the frantic racing of your heart begins to settle. The feverish edge of the heat dulls into a bone-deep, lethargic exhaustion. Your eyelids droop, the sheer physical toll of the last few hours finally catching up to you.

Dean senses it. He shifts slightly, wrapping his arms securely around your waist. “Tired?”

“Exhausted,” you murmur, nuzzling your face into the hollow of his shoulder. “Is it … is it over?”

Dean chuckles softly, his chest rumbling against yours. He reaches up, gently petting your hair, his fingers smoothing the tangled strands.

“Not even close, sweetheart,” Dean says, pressing a kiss to the healing bite mark on your neck. “A normal heat usually lasts anywhere from four to seven days, depending on the omega.”

Your eyes widen slightly, and you try to pull back to look at him, but he keeps you flush against his chest. “Four to seven days? Of that?”

“Usually,” Dean continues, his voice soothing and calm. “But given the circumstances … given how long your parents had you on those heavy suppressants, and how violently your body rejected them … Dr. Goldstein warned me that this one is going to be different. Your biology is rebounding. Hard. This heat is going to be significantly longer, and the peaks are going to be a lot more extreme.”

A spike of nervous anxiety flares in your chest. “Dean, I don’t know if I can-”

“Hey,” Dean interrupts gently, his hand sweeping down your back in a steady, calming rhythm. “Stop. What did I promise you in the hospital?”

You swallow hard. “That you’d take care of me.”

“Exactly. And I will,” Dean says, his gaze burning with absolute certainty. “I am not going anywhere. I’ve got enough food and water in this suite to last us two weeks. I’ll be here for every single wave. You don’t have to think, you don’t have to worry. You just have to let your body do what it needs to do, and I will handle the rest.”

You look at him, really look at the beautiful, devoted alpha who has completely upended your entire life in the span of three days. The fear melts away, completely smothered by the warm, buzzing hum of the mating bond currently singing in your veins.

“Okay,” you whisper, resting your head back against his chest.

“Okay,” Dean echoes. His knot slowly begins to recede, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he shifts, pulling the heavy faux fur blankets up over both of you, completely cocooning you in the nest.

He wraps his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin. His thumb resumes its slow, hypnotic petting of your hair.

“You did so good for me, baby,” Dean murmurs, his voice growing heavy with his own exhaustion. “So perfect. Try to get some sleep. You need to rest before the next wave hits.”

You close your eyes, the scent of cedar and vanilla wrapping around you like a physical shield. The ache is still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but it’s no longer terrifying. It’s natural. It’s right.

For the first time in your life, you aren’t fighting who you are. You aren’t suppressing the deepest, most fundamental parts of your soul. You are exactly where you are supposed to be, safe in the arms of an alpha who looks at you like you are the center of his entire universe.

This is the fairytale. This is everything your mother said didn’t exist.

As you drift off to sleep, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of Dean’s heart beneath your ear, you realize one simple, absolute truth.

The reality is so much better than the dream.

It’s been four hours since you ran out of the Briar hockey house. Four hours since you willingly pressed your scent gland against Garrett Graham’s neck and let him do the same to you.

“You’re losing your mind,” you whisper to the empty bathroom. “It was just a biological misfire. It means nothing.”

But your body violently disagrees.

You wrap a towel around yourself and trudge back to your room. The moment you open the door, Jackie sits straight up on her futon. She takes one look at you, her nose twitching, and her eyes go as wide as dinner plates.

“Holy mother of alphas,” Jackie breathes out, dropping her phone. “Y/N. You … you smell like a lumberjack wrapped in an expensive cologne ad. What happened? Did you fight him or fuck him?”

“Neither!” You snap, marching over to your dresser and yanking out an oversized sweatshirt. “I went over there to yell at him for the book. I gave it back.”

“You did not just yell at him,” Jackie says, standing up and crossing the small room. She leans in, sniffing the air near your shoulder, and shudders. “My god, that is potent. That is a straight-up claiming scent. You scented him? The president of O.M.E.G.A. scented the most toxic alpha on the ice?”

“I didn’t mean to!” You groan, burying your face in your hands. “I walked in, and his house smelled like him, and my stupid biology just … hijacked my brain! I couldn’t control it, Jackie. It was terrifying. It felt so good, and I couldn’t stop it.”

Jackie’s teasing expression softens. She reaches out, gently rubbing your back. “Hey. It’s okay. It’s just instincts. You’re an omega, he’s an alpha, and clearly, you guys are highly compatible. There’s no shame in your body responding to that.”

“There is shame in it,” you argue, pulling your sweatshirt over your head. “It goes against everything I stand for. I refuse to be a slave to my hormones. I’m going to sleep this off, wake up tomorrow, and pretend none of this ever happened.”

But sleep does not come.

You lie in your narrow twin bed, staring at the ceiling, the glow-in-the-dark stars mocking you.

Your omega is awake. And she is absolutely furious with you.

Where is he?

The instinctual demand is a relentless, dull ache in the center of your chest. You curled up in your blankets, trying to create a makeshift nest to soothe the anxiety, but your cheap sheets don’t smell like him. They don’t feel like the crushed velvet and silk he bought for you.

Every time you close your eyes, you feel the scrape of his jaw against your neck. You hear the deep, rumbling purr vibrating against your collarbone.

Alpha. Need our alpha. Go back.

“Shut up,” you hiss into your pillow, squeezing your eyes shut.

You toss. You turn. You kick the blankets off. You pull them back on. The physical ache of separation is agonizing. Scenting an alpha is a promise of proximity. By initiating that contact and then running away, you threw your own nervous system into shock. Your biology thinks you’ve been abandoned by your mate.

A soft, pathetic whine slips out of your throat. You clamp your hand over your mouth, utterly humiliated by the sound.

You spend the entire night trapped in this purgatory. Whining, tossing, fighting your own tears.

***

By Thursday, you are a walking corpse.

You haven’t slept more than forty-five minutes at a time. The dark circles under your eyes look like bruises. Your bones ache, your skin feels too tight, and your concentration is completely shattered.

You sit in the back of your Advanced Gender Theory seminar, staring blankly at the whiteboard. The professor is talking about the societal constructs of omega submission, but the words just sound like white noise.

All you can think about is cedar and bergamot.

The scent on your skin finally started to fade this morning, and instead of feeling relieved, you felt a crushing, devastating wave of panic. Your omega is starving for him.

The bell rings, signaling the end of class. You sluggishly pack your notebook into your tote bag, your movements heavy and uncoordinated.

“You okay, Y/N?” A beta classmate asks, eyeing you with concern. “You look really pale.”

“Just pulling an all-nighter for a paper,” you lie, forcing a weak smile. “I’m going to get some coffee. Lots of it.”

You stumble out of the academic building and into the cold, damp Boston afternoon. The sky is a heavy, overcast gray, threatening rain. You pull your coat tighter around yourself, shivering. You need caffeine if you’re going to survive the O.M.E.G.A. board meeting tonight.

You walk two blocks off campus to a small, independent coffee shop tucked between a used bookstore and a laundromat. It’s a neutral zone, caught halfway between BU’s campus and Briar University. You come here when you need to escape the campus bubble.

The bell above the door chimes cheerfully as you step inside. The air is warm, smelling of roasted espresso beans and baked pastries. You let out a sigh of relief, stepping up to the counter.

“Large black coffee, please,” you say to the barista. “Actually, make it a red-eye. Add a shot of espresso.”

You pay, dropping a dollar in the tip jar, and move to the pickup counter near the back of the shop, right next to the narrow hallway that leads to the restrooms and the rear exit door.

You lean your hip against the counter, closing your eyes and rubbing your temples. Just a few more hours, and you can go back to your room and try to sleep again.

The bell above the front door chimes again.

And then, the air in the coffee shop changes.

It happens in a split second. The smell of espresso and pastries is violently overwritten.

Crisp winter air. Bergamot. And heavy, dominant cedar.

Your eyes snap open. Your heart literally stutters in your chest, missing a beat before slamming against your ribs in a frantic, double-time rhythm.

Alpha. Alpha is here.

Your omega violently thrashes to life, a rush of warmth flooding your veins and instantly erasing the exhaustion of the past three days.

You slowly turn your head.

Garrett is standing by the pastry display. He’s wearing a Briar hockey hoodie, his dark hair messy, looking impossibly broad and devastatingly handsome. He’s looking down at his phone, completely unaware of your presence.

Panic, cold and sharp, spikes through your chest.

If he sees you, you’re done. If he gets close to you, your omega will absolutely take over and you will embarrass yourself in the middle of a public coffee shop. You cannot let him touch you.

“Order for Y/N!” The barista calls out, sliding a paper cup onto the counter.

Garrett’s head snaps up at the sound of your name.

His blue eyes lock onto yours across the crowded room. Even from thirty feet away, you can see the exact moment his pupils blow wide. The casual, relaxed posture vanishes, replaced instantly by the rigid, predatory focus of an alpha who just found his missing mate.

“No,” you whisper.

You grab the coffee cup, ignoring the scalding heat against your palm, and bolt.

You don’t go for the front door — he’s blocking it. You spin around and dive into the narrow hallway leading to the back exit. It’s dimly lit, lined with stacked boxes of coffee cups and cleaning supplies.

You reach the heavy metal door at the end of the hall and slam your hand against the push-bar.

It doesn’t budge.

“Come on,” you hiss, throwing your weight against it. It’s locked.

Heavy, deliberate footsteps echo on the linoleum behind you.

You spin around, your back pressing flat against the cold metal door, your coffee cup clutched to your chest like a shield.

Garrett steps into the hallway.

He fills the narrow space completely. He takes a step toward you, the shadows contouring the sharp lines of his jaw and the intense, dark hunger in his eyes.

“Running again?” Garrett asks, his voice a low, vibrating rumble that sends a treacherous shiver straight down your spine.

“Stay back, Graham,” you warn, trying to sound authoritative. It comes out breathless and weak.

He doesn’t listen. He takes another slow step. Then another. Until he is standing right in front of you.

He reaches out, taking the hot coffee cup from your trembling hands. He sets it casually on a stack of boxes next to you. Then, he brings his hands up and places them flat against the metal door, one on either side of your head.

He cages you in.

He doesn’t touch you, but he doesn’t have to. The heat radiating off his massive body is enough to make your knees weak. His scent is a thick, invisible blanket wrapping around your senses, soothing the agonizing ache that has been tearing you apart for three days.

Home, your omega purrs happily. Finally.

“You look exhausted,” Garrett murmurs, leaning in closer. His eyes drop to the dark circles under your eyes, his brow furrowing in genuine concern. “You haven’t been sleeping.”

“Gee, I wonder whose fault that is,” you snap, looking up at him. You try to glare, but your eyes keep dropping to his lips.

“It’s your own fault, sweetheart,” he says softly. “You started a bond and then starved it. Your omega is punishing you for leaving me. You can’t just fight biology and expect to win.”

“I can,” you insist, your voice wavering. “I will. I’m not giving in to this. I’m not giving in to you.”

Garrett sighs, a sound of profound patience. He slowly shifts his weight, leaning closer until his chest is barely an inch from yours.

“Why?” He asks, his voice dropping into that hypnotic, gravelly register. “Why are you fighting this so hard? You know how good it felt. You know you belong in my space. Stop fighting destiny, Y/N.”

“Because I know exactly what destiny looks like!” You explode, the frustration and exhaustion finally boiling over. You press your hands against his chest, trying to push him away, but it’s like pushing against a brick wall. He doesn’t budge an inch. “I know exactly what being an alpha’s destined mate means! I won’t do it!”

Garrett’s expression sharpens. “What does it mean, then? Tell me.”

“It means giving up my life!” You yell, your voice echoing slightly in the narrow hallway. “It means giving up my autonomy! I am the president of O.M.E.G.A. I have a career planned. I have goals! I refuse to become your stay-at-home, submissive omega wet dream, Garrett! I won’t sit in a penthouse and pop out pups and wait for you to come home from hockey practice so I can fetch your slippers!”

Silence falls over the hallway.

You breathe heavily, staring up at him, waiting for the anger. Waiting for the traditional alpha ego to rear its ugly head and demand obedience.

But Garrett doesn’t look angry. He looks fascinated.

Slowly, he moves his right hand from the door. He lifts it, his large, calloused fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The touch is so incredibly tender it makes your breath hitch.

“Is that really what you think I want?” He asks softly.

“It’s what all alphas want,” you say stubbornly, refusing to lean into his touch.

“I’m not all alphas.” Garrett cups your cheek, his thumb slowly stroking across your cheekbone. The warmth of his skin sends a wave of lethargy crashing over you. “I read the book you left on my coffee table, Y/N.”

You blink, completely caught off guard. “You read it?”

“Cover to cover,” Garrett says, his eyes never leaving yours. “Dr. Richter makes some good points about systematic oppression. I agree with her. Alphas have abused their biological advantage for centuries to exert control. It’s bullshit. And it’s exactly what my father did to my mother.”

Your anger falters. The fight starts to drain out of your muscles. 

“I swore a long time ago,” Garrett continues, his voice thick with raw emotion, “that I would never, ever make my mate feel trapped. I would never take her choices away.”

He leans his forehead against yours. The proximity is dizzying.

“I don’t want a maid, Y/N,” he murmurs, his breath dusting across your lips. “I don’t want a quiet little doll who sits at home. I want the fierce, beautiful girl who stood on the steps of the student union and threw my own courting gift at my chest.”

You let out a shaky breath, your hands uncurling against his chest, the fabric of his hoodie soft under your fingertips. “Garrett …”

“I want your fire,” he whispers, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “I want you to run your movement. I want you to change the world. I will stand right behind you and bankroll the entire goddamn thing if you let me. I will fight anyone who gets in your way.”

Tears prick the corners of your eyes. The absolute devotion in his voice is overwhelming. It shatters the armor you’ve spent years building.

“But I’m an alpha,” Garrett says, his voice darkening, a heavy, possessive edge slipping back in. “And you are my omega. And I need you to understand something very clearly.”

You swallow hard, your eyes wide as you look up at him. “What?”

“I would never force you to be submissive in your life,” Garrett says, his gaze dropping to your lips. He leans in closer, his nose brushing against yours. “I only want you submissive voluntarily. When you’re in my bed. When you are under me, completely undone, and I am making you feel good the way only I can.”

A hot, heavy flush explodes across your entire body. Your knees literally buckle at the visual, at the unapologetic dominance in his tone.

Garrett catches you instantly, his strong arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you flush against his solid frame. He holds you up effortlessly.

“You need to stop fighting,” Garrett purrs, the sound vibrating through his chest and directly into yours. “You are killing yourself trying to run from something that is already written in our blood. Accept it, sweetheart. You’re mine. And I’m yours.”

He doesn’t order you. He doesn’t use heavy pheromones to force your compliance. He just states it as an absolute, undeniable fact.

And looking up into his gray eyes, feeling the agonizing ache in your chest finally, completely vanish … you know he’s right.

The last ounce of fight drains out of your body. The exhaustion, the anger, the stubborn defiance — it all melts away, leaving behind only the pure, burning need of your omega.

You slide your arms up, wrapping them around his thick neck. You bury your fingers into the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

Garrett lets out a ragged, triumphant groan.

“Please,” you whisper, the word a surrender.

He doesn’t hesitate.

Garrett leans in and captures your lips with his.

The kiss is explosive. It is nothing like the gentle, tender caresses from a moment ago. It is demanding, hungry, and completely territorial. His mouth is hot and desperate, tasting like espresso and pure alpha heat.

And this time, you don’t fight back.

You melt against him with a soft, desperate whimper, opening your mouth for him. Garrett’s tongue sweeps inside, claiming you, tasting you, tangling with yours in a slick, feverish dance. His hands slide down your back, gripping your hips and pulling you agonizingly flush against him, letting you feel exactly how much he wants you.

The biological click is instantaneous. The bond snaps into place, a rush of pure, golden euphoria flooding your senses.

You kiss him back with everything you have, your hands gripping his hair, pulling him closer. He tastes like victory. He smells like home.

Garrett breaks the kiss just long enough for you to catch a jagged breath. He presses a string of hot, open-mouthed kisses along your jawline, working his way down to the sensitive skin of your neck.

“Mine,” he growls against your pulse point, his fangs grazing lightly against your skin, sending a jolt of electricity straight to your core. “Finally.”

“Yours,” you gasp out, your head falling back against the metal door, completely surrendering to the alpha making you feel better than you ever thought possible.

Garrett kisses you again, deeper this time, swallowing your moan as he backs you fully into the door. The coffee shop, the protest, the movement — it all fades away. There is only Garrett, his scent, and the undeniable truth that you have finally found exactly where you belong.

***

You don’t remember the drive from the coffee shop.

You only remember the heavy, intoxicating scent of cedar filling the cab of Garrett’s truck, the heat of his massive hand resting possessively on your thigh the entire ride, and the absolute, terrifying surrender singing in your veins.

Garrett doesn’t even let your feet touch the ground when you arrive at the house. He kills the engine, rounds the hood of the truck, and scoops you up into his arms like you weigh absolutely nothing. You bury your face in his neck, inhaling the crisp winter air and bergamot that clings to his skin, your omega purring in a continuous, frantic vibration against his chest.

He kicks the front door open with his heavy boot.

The loud bang echoes through the house.

“Whoa, what the-” Dean starts, looking up from the living room couch.

Logan and Tucker are in the kitchen, but the moment Garrett steps fully into the entryway, all three alphas freeze. The air in the house instantly thickens, completely saturated by Garrett’s dominant, territorial pheromones and the sweet, heavy scent of your slick vanilla and rainwater.

It is the unmistakable scent of an alpha bringing his mate home to claim her.

“Out,” Garrett snarls.

It isn’t a request. It is a primal, chest-deep command that vibrates off the walls. He doesn’t even look at them. His eyes are entirely black, blown wide with absolute lust and instinctual focus. He holds you tighter against his chest, shielding you from their gaze.

“We’re going, we’re going,” Logan says instantly, holding his hands up in a gesture of pure surrender. He grabs Dean by the back of the shirt, hauling him off the couch. “Tucker, grab your keys. Let’s move. Now.”

Within ten seconds, the front door slams shut behind them. The house is completely, blissfully empty.

“Mine,” Garrett growls softly, his lips pressing a hot kiss to your temple. “Nobody else. Just you and me.”

“Garrett,” you whimper, your hands clutching the fabric of his hoodie. The ache in your lower stomach is becoming unbearable. A heavy, pooling heat

throbs between your thighs, your slick soaking your underwear as your body aggressively prepares for him.

He carries you up the stairs taking them two at a time. He kicks his bedroom door open, steps inside, and kicks it shut behind him, the heavy click of the deadbolt locking sounding like a gunshot in the quiet room.

The room is exactly as he prepared it. The heavy curtains are drawn, plunging the space into dim, intimate shadows. The massive bed in the center of the room is piled high with the crushed velvet pillows, the faux-fur throw, and the expensive silk sheets he bought just for you.

Garrett gently sets you down on your feet at the edge of the mattress.

Your knees immediately buckle. The biological exhaustion and the sheer weight of his pheromones are too much.

Garrett catches you instantly, his strong hands gripping your waist to keep you steady. “I’ve got you, sweetie. I’ve got you.”

“It’s too much,” you gasp, leaning your forehead against his broad chest. “Garrett, please. It hurts. I need you.”

“I know, baby. I know,” he murmurs, his voice a thick, gravelly purr that sends a fresh wave of slick rushing down your thighs. “But we’re not rushing this. We’ve waited three months. I’m going to savor every single second of you.”

He reaches for the hem of your oversized sweatshirt. “Lift your arms for me.”

You obey without a single thought of rebellion. The fierce, independent president of O.M.E.G.A. is entirely gone, replaced by a desperate, aching omega who finally, willingly yields to her alpha.

Garrett pulls the sweatshirt over your head and tosses it onto the floor. He makes quick work of your jeans, sliding them down your hips and legs, leaving you standing in nothing but a simple lace bra and panties.

He takes a step back.

You shiver, suddenly exposed in the dim light. But when you look up at him, the expression on his face completely steals your breath.

He isn’t just looking at you. He is worshipping you. His black eyes trace every curve, every dip, every soft line of your body like he’s memorizing a sacred text.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” he breathes out, his voice practically trembling with reverence.

He steps forward again, his massive hands reaching out to cup your shoulders. He drags his palms slowly down your arms, his calloused skin tracing paths of fire across your sensitive nerves. He unhooks your bra, letting it fall away, and then his thumbs hook into the waistband of your panties.

He slides them down, his knuckles brushing against your slick-soaked curls.

You let out a jagged gasp as the cool air hits your wet heat.

“So ready for me,” Garrett purrs, his eyes dropping to the glistening wetness between your thighs. “You smell like heaven, Y/N. You smell like mine.”

He grips your hips and lifts you, laying you back onto the center of the massive bed. The silk sheets are incredibly soft against your bare skin, a stark, luxurious contrast to the rough, feral energy radiating off the man standing over you.

Garrett grabs the hem of his hoodie and yanks it off in one fluid motion, discarding his t-shirt right after. His chest is broad, carved with heavy, athletic muscle and dusted with golden hair. He sheds his jeans and boxers, kicking them aside.

He is fully aroused, thick and heavily veined, his length bobbing against his flat stomach. The sight of him — so big, so dominant, so entirely focused on you — makes your heart hammer wildly against your ribs.

Garrett crawls onto the bed, positioning himself between your spread thighs.

But instead of looming over you to claim your mouth, he stays low. He grips the backs of your thighs, his large hands easily wrapping around your legs, and pulls your hips right to the edge of the mattress.

“Garrett,” you breathe, your fingers twisting into the luxurious silk sheets.

“Shh,” he murmurs, his breath hot against the inside of your knee. “Just let me take care of you. Let me show you how good it can be.”

He presses his face directly against your slick, wet core.

You scream his name, your spine arching entirely off the bed as his hot, rough tongue drags right up your center.

It is a sensory overload. Garrett doesn’t just taste you; he devours you. He groans into your slick, his hands gripping your thighs so tightly they will definitely leave bruises — a possessive, undeniable mark. His tongue flicks over your sensitized bundle of nerves with agonizing precision.

“Garrett! Please!” You sob, your head thrashing side to side on the crushed velvet pillows.

“I’m right here,” he rumbles against your wetness, his breath sending violent shivers through your entire body. “I’ve got you. Fall for me, sweetie. Let it go.”

He sucks you into his mouth, his tongue swirling and lapping as you shatter completely.

The orgasm rips through you like a hurricane. You cry out, your vision flashing white as your inner muscles clench and spasm around empty air.

But Garrett isn’t done.

Just as the peak of your climax hits, just as you are hovering in that terrifying, blissful free-fall, Garrett turns his head. He finds the delicate, highly sensitive scent gland tucked right into the crease of your thigh, where your leg meets your pelvis.

He opens his mouth and sinks his fangs directly into the gland.

You shriek, a wild, primal sound tearing from your throat.

The bite is a sharp, blinding pinch of pain that instantly morphs into the most intense, earth-shattering pleasure you have ever experienced. Biting the thigh gland is a deep, instinctual claiming act — an alpha flooding their omega’s lower nervous system with their own venom and scent, forcing a secondary, even more violent climax.

Your body arches so hard your hips lift off the mattress. A fresh wave of slick floods out of you, completely drenching Garrett’s face.

Garrett pulls back from the bite, his chest heaving, his mouth and chin slick with your essence. He looks like a starved beast who finally caught his prey. He leans back down and licks the excess slick from your thighs, lapping at you like a dying man at an oasis.

“God, you taste so sweet,” he groans, crawling up your body.

He covers you completely, his massive weight pressing you down into the mattress. It is the most grounding, secure feeling in the world. His broad chest crushes your soft breasts, his heart hammering in perfect synchronization with yours.

“Look at me,” Garrett orders, his voice thick and raspy.

You flutter your eyes open, your vision still swimming from the sheer force of the climax. You look up into his dark, entirely feral eyes.

“You belong to me now,” Garrett says, his hands coming up to frame your face. His thumbs stroke your cheeks. “You are my destined mate. You are my omega. Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you whisper, tears of pure relief slipping down your temples. “I belong to you.”

A guttural, triumphant growl tears from Garrett’s throat.

He reaches down, guiding his thick, blunt tip to your slick, swollen opening.

“Wrap your legs around my waist,” he commands softly.

You obey, crossing your ankles over his lower back, opening yourself completely for him.

Garrett pushes forward.

You gasp, your fingernails digging into his broad shoulders. He is so big, stretching you incredibly wide. But your body is entirely prepared for him, practically melting around his girth as he sinks in.

He pushes all the way to the hilt in one long, agonizingly slow thrust.

The friction is incredible. The feeling of being entirely filled, of having the agonizing emptiness inside you finally answered, draws a deep, soulful sob from your lips.

It feels like coming home. It feels like a puzzle piece finally snapping into its perfect, designated place. You were made for him, and he was made for you.

Garrett buries his face in your neck, letting out a fractured, breathless groan. “Fuck. Y/N. You feel … you feel so perfect.”

He begins to move.

His thrusts are slow at first, deep and deliberate, making sure you can accommodate his size. He pulls almost entirely out before sinking back down to the hilt, the wet sound of your slick echoing in the quiet bedroom.

“Yes,” you moan, your hands trailing down his sweaty back to grip his tight hips, silently urging him to move faster. “Garrett, please. Harder.”

“I’ve got you,” he pants, his rhythm picking up.

He shifts his weight, propping himself up on one forearm while his other hand slides beneath your lower back, angling your hips up to meet his violent thrusts.

He pounds into you, his hips slapping against your thighs with loud, wet smacks. Every thrust hits the deepest part of you, sending shockwaves of pleasure rolling through your stomach. It is a total, absolute claiming. He is branding you from the inside out, erasing every thought, every doubt, every protest you ever had.

The heat in the room is suffocating. The air is thick with the scent of cedar, bergamot, vanilla, and heavy, musky sex.

“Garrett,” you cry out, your head tossing back against the pillows. The pressure is building again, a tight, coiled spring winding up in your core. “I’m close. Please, I’m so close.”

“Me too,” Garrett grits out, his jaw clenched tight, a vein pulsing at his temple. “Come for me, sweetheart. Come for your alpha.”

He reaches between your bodies, his thick thumb finding your swollen clitoris. He presses down, rubbing in a harsh, frantic circle while he continues to pound into you from below.

The dual stimulation shatters your restraint.

“Garrett!” You scream, your inner walls violently clamping down around his thick length.

Garrett roars, his hips stuttering as his own climax hits him. He drives into you one final, brutal time, burying himself as deep as physically possible.

But this time, the biological script demands the final step.

As you both free-fall over the edge of the cliff, Garrett’s mouth opens wide. He lines his sharp fangs up directly over the prominent scent gland on the side of your neck.

At the exact same moment, driven by a purely instinctual, undeniable urge, you turn your head and bare your own teeth, pressing your open mouth against the scent gland on the side of his thick neck.

You bite down.

Garrett bites down.

The pain is sharp, piercing, and entirely eclipsed by the blinding, supernatural rush of the mating bond snapping into place.

It is an explosion of light behind your eyes. Your souls violently crash into each other, fusing together at a cellular level. You can feel him in your mind — his fierce protectiveness, his overwhelming love, his possessive triumph. And you know he can feel you — your fiery spirit, your deep, your submission, your absolute devotion.

You taste his blood, rich and metallic, mixing with the heavy cedar of his scent.

Garrett groans against your neck, his fangs deeply embedded in your flesh, marking you for the rest of your life. He pumps his hips, his base pressing flush against you.

The knot at the base of his shaft suddenly swells, locking him firmly inside of you.

You gasp, your eyes flying open as the immense pressure stretches you to your absolute limit. “Garrett …”

“I’m not pulling out,” Garrett growls against your marked skin, his hot breath ghosting over the fresh bite. “I’m never pulling out.”

He unleashes a torrential, scorching flood of his seed deep inside of you. You can feel every powerful pulse of his release, painting your womb with his claiming mark. He imagines his seed taking root, imagines filling you with his pups, securing his ultimate, permanent hold on his destined mate. The alpha breeding instinct is completely unrestrained, and your omega happily, greedily drinks it all in.

He stays clamped to your neck, riding out the violent waves of his climax, until he finally goes limp.

He collapses on top of you, his massive chest heaving for air, completely crushing you into the mattress.

You don’t care. You wrap your arms around his sweaty back, holding him as tightly as you can, a deep, continuous purr vibrating from your chest.

Garrett gently pulls his fangs out of your neck. He presses a soft, tender kiss to the bleeding mating mark, his tongue soothing the broken skin.

“Mine,” he whispers, his voice exhausted but unimaginably happy. “My beautiful, perfect mate.”

“Yours,” you hum, your fingers playing with the damp blonde hair at the nape of his neck.

You lie there tangled together for a long time. Garrett’s knot slowly, gradually begins to recede, but he refuses to move. He keeps you pinned beneath him, periodically dropping soft kisses on your jaw, your nose, your lips.

Eventually, the biological exhaustion wears off, replaced by a strange, humming energy.

Your omega is fully awake now. She is deeply satisfied, fully bonded, and entirely safe. But looking around the messy, disheveled bed, an undeniable urge begins to pull at you.

“Garrett,” you murmur, gently tapping his shoulder. “You need to move.”

Garrett groans, nuzzling his face into your neck. “No. Never moving again. I live here now.”

“Alpha, please,” you say softly.

The word makes Garrett freeze. He lifts his head, his blue eyes entirely clear and focused, staring down at you with raw devotion. Hearing you call him ‘alpha’ voluntarily is the sweetest sound he has ever heard.

He slowly rolls off of you, though he keeps a heavy hand resting on your hip.

You sit up. You are completely bare, your body flushed, covered in sweat, slick, and his scent. Your neck throbs slightly where the mating mark rests, a permanent claim.

You look at the pile of crushed velvet pillows that were kicked to the end of the bed during your frantic claiming. You look at the silk sheets, the heavy faux-fur throw.

The nesting instinct hits you like a physical wave.

You crawl to the foot of the bed, entirely unashamed of your nakedness in front of him. You grab two of the heavy burgundy pillows and drag them to the center of the mattress.

Garrett shifts onto his side, propping his head up on his hand. He watches you in complete, mesmerized awe.

You arrange the pillows in a half-circle. You pull the silk sheets up, bunching them together to create a soft, protective wall. You grab the faux-fur throw and lay it gently in the center.

But it’s not enough. It doesn’t smell enough like him.

You look over the edge of the bed at the clothes he discarded earlier. You scramble off the mattress, your legs shaking slightly, and snatch his Briar hockey hoodie and his gray t-shirt off the floor.

You climb back onto the bed and meticulously weave his clothing into the center of the nest. The heavy scent of cedar and bergamot radiates from the fabric, making the small, enclosed space feel incredibly safe and secure.

It is your first nest. It is messy, chaotic, and absolutely perfect.

You crawl into the center of the nest, curling your legs underneath you. The faux-fur tickles your skin, and the scent of your mate wraps around you like a protective shield. You look up at Garrett.

He is staring at you with an expression of such intense, overwhelming love that it makes your chest ache. He is a traditional alpha, an ex-abused kid who just wanted to provide for his omega and protect her from the world.

Seeing you voluntarily build a nest in his bed, with his clothes, is everything he has ever dreamed of.

You smile, a soft, yielding expression that melts the last of his hardened exterior.

You reach your hand out toward him across the silk sheets.

“Come here, alpha,” you whisper softly. “Come into the nest.”

Garrett doesn’t hesitate.

He crawls across the mattress, his massive frame carefully maneuvering into the small, soft sanctuary you built. He wraps his heavy arms around you, pulling your back flush against his chest, and buries his face in your hair.

“Good girl,” Garrett murmurs, his deep purr vibrating right through your spine. “Such a perfect, beautiful omega.”

You close your eyes, leaning back into his solid warmth. The war is over. The rebellion is done. And wrapped in the arms of your alpha, surrounded by the nest you built together, you have never felt more free in your entire life.

***

The morning sun filters through the heavy curtains of Garrett’s bedroom and over the tangled mess of the bed.

You wake up slowly. Your entire body feels heavy, deliciously sore, and incredibly warm. You shift slightly, the expensive silk sheets brushing against your bare skin. Instantly, a massive, muscular arm tightens around your waist, hauling you backward until your spine is pressed flush against a broad, hard chest.

“Don’t move,” Garrett grumbles, his voice a thick, sleep-heavy rasp that vibrates against your shoulder blades. “Nest is too comfortable. We live here now.”

You let out a soft laugh, tilting your head back against his shoulder. “Garrett, it’s 8:30. I have a nine o’clock seminar.”

“Skip it,” he murmurs, burying his face into your hair and inhaling deeply. The deep, rumbling purr starts up in his chest again, a constant, soothing hum that your omega eagerly responds to. “You’re a mated omega now. You don’t need seminars. You just need me.”

“Nice try, Graham,” you say, gently prying his heavy arm off your waist and rolling over to face him.

He looks devastating in the morning light. His hair is a messy halo, his jaw is dark with stubble, and his gray eyes are already entirely focused on you. He reaches out, his large fingers gently brushing your hair aside to expose your neck.

His eyes darken as he looks at the mating mark. The bruised, broken skin is a permanent brand against your collarbone. He traces it lightly with his thumb, his expression shifting into something fiercely protective and deeply awed.

“Does it hurt?” He asks softly.

“A little,” you admit, shivering at his touch. “But it’s a good hurt.”

Garrett leans in and presses a soft, reverent kiss directly over the mark. “Mine. God, you smell so good. You smell exactly like me.”

“I smell like a lumber factory,” you tease, pushing against his chest to sit up. “Seriously, I need to get ready. And I don’t have any clothes here.”

Garrett sits up, the sheets pooling around his waist, putting his heavily muscled torso on full display. He grabs the Briar hockey hoodie you used to build the nest last night and tosses it to you. “Wear this.”

You catch the heavy gray fabric. “I’m going to walk onto the Boston University campus wearing the Briar University hockey captain’s hoodie?”

“Yes,” Garrett says, completely unapologetic. “It has my scent on it. And my name on the back. It’ll keep every single alpha on that campus exactly where they belong — far away from you.”

You roll your eyes, but you pull the hoodie over your head anyway. It’s huge on you, the hem reaching halfway down your thighs, and the scent of cedar and bergamot wraps around you like a warm hug. It makes you feel incredibly grounded.

You grab your jeans from the floor and quickly pull them on. “Are you driving me?”

“I’m driving you everywhere,” Garrett states, sliding out of bed and grabbing a pair of sweatpants. “I’m dropping you off at the door. I’m picking you up the second you’re done. Deal with it.”

You don’t fight him. The truth is, the thought of being separated from him right now makes a tight knot of anxiety form in your chest. The new bond is settling, and your omega craves his proximity.

Forty-five minutes later, Garrett pulls his heavy black truck up to the curb outside your academic building.

He kills the engine and turns to you, his hand immediately reaching out to cup your cheek. “You sure you don’t want me to walk you in?”

“I think the hoodie is enough of a statement, Garrett,” you say, leaning into his palm.

“Call me the second you’re out,” he orders, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. He leans in and kisses you, a deep, slow, claiming kiss that leaves you breathless. “I love you.”

The words make your heart stutter. He says it so easily. So confidently.

“I love you, too,” you whisper back, feeling a rush of pure euphoria.

You grab your tote bag, open the door, and step out into the crisp morning air. You wave as his truck pulls away, merging into the Boston traffic.

You turn and walk toward the building, adjusting the strap of your bag. You feel amazing. You feel complete, centered, and terrifyingly happy. You are still you. You still have your brain, your goals, your passions. You just happen to share your life with an alpha who worships the ground you walk on.

But the moment you step through the glass double doors into the crowded lobby of the humanities building, the atmosphere shifts.

It happens instantly.

A group of three alphas standing by the vending machines abruptly stop talking. They all turn their heads, their nostrils flaring. One of them actually takes a physical step backward, his eyes widening.

You frown, walking past them toward the stairs.

As you climb the steps, the reaction ripples through the hallway. Betas pause and stare. Omegas cast nervous, wide-eyed glances in your direction. The scent rolling off you — the heavy, dark, aggressive cedar of a highly dominant alpha who has just mated — is practically a physical wall. It’s a biological warning sign flashing neon red CLAIMED, DO NOT TOUCH.

You walk into your seminar room and take your usual seat in the second row.

Jackie is already there. She turns to say something to you, but the words die in her throat. Her eyes drop from your face to the heavy Briar hoodie, and then to the collar of the sweatshirt, which is slightly askew, exposing the angry, bruised mating mark on your neck.

“Oh my god,” Jackie whispers, her hand flying up to cover her mouth.

The entire classroom falls dead silent.

Every single head is turned toward you. The professor isn’t there yet, and the silence is deafening.

“What?” You ask, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of twenty stares.

“You did it,” Jackie breathes out, leaning in. Her eyes are wide with shock. “You actually did it. You mated him.”

“I did,” you say, lifting your chin. You refuse to be ashamed. You refuse to hide it. “And?”

“Y/N, you’re wearing a Briar hockey hoodie. You smell like an alpha’s wet dream. You have a bite mark the size of a golf ball on your neck.” Jackie shakes her head, looking completely bewildered. “You’re the president of O.M.E.G.A.”

“My personal life doesn’t invalidate my activism, Jackie,” you say firmly, pulling your notebook out of your bag. “I can have a mate and still fight for equality in the workplace. The two aren’t mutually exclusive. Josephine Richter herself said that autonomy includes the right to choose your partner.”

Jackie slowly nods, though she still looks stunned. “Okay. I mean, I’m happy for you. If you’re happy. But … people are going to talk.”

“Let them talk,” you say dismissively.

And they do talk. The whispers follow you all day. In the dining hall, in the library, in the campus quad. It’s annoying, but the heavy, comforting weight of the bond in your chest keeps you anchored. Whenever the stares get to be too much, you just inhale the scent of Garrett from the collar of your hoodie, and the anxiety melts away.

By the time Wednesday evening rolls around, you are ready to get back to business.

The weekly O.M.E.G.A. chapter meeting is held in a large, tiered lecture hall in the student union. It’s your sanctuary. The place where you built a community of strong, independent individuals who refuse to be defined by their secondary genders.

You walk into the lecture hall ten minutes early to set up. You’re wearing a turtleneck sweater today — not because you want to hide the mark, but because the New England wind is brutal. Still, the scent of your alpha is undeniable. It clings to you permanently now.

The hall fills up quickly. Almost sixty members file in, taking their seats. But the energy in the room feels wrong. It’s tight. It’s uncomfortable. Usually, the meetings start with loud chatter and music, but tonight, there is only a tense, heavy murmur.

You stand behind the wooden podium at the front of the room, tapping your microphone.

“Alright, everyone, let’s get started,” you say, your voice projecting clearly across the room. “Thank you all for coming. Tonight, we need to finalize the logistics for our petition to the university board regarding the beta-omega housing disparity.”

You look down at your notes.

“Wait,” a loud, sharp voice cuts through the room.

You look up.

Becca, a junior omega and the chapter’s treasurer, stands up from her seat in the third row. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, and her expression is hard and unforgiving.

“I’m sorry, Y/N, but we can’t do this right now,” Becca says, her voice ringing out in the quiet hall.

You frown, gripping the edges of the podium. “Can’t do what, Becca? The petition is due on Friday.”

“We can’t pretend like everything is normal,” Becca shoots back. She steps out into the aisle. “Some of the members have been talking. Actually, a lot of us have been talking.”

“About what?” You ask, though a cold, sinking feeling begins to pool in your stomach.

“About you,” Becca says bluntly. She points a finger at you. “You reek of alpha, Y/N. The entire campus knows what happened this weekend. You went to the house of the most toxic, aggressive alpha in the collegiate hockey league, and you let him claim you.”

A collective gasp ripples through the room, followed by a harsh, biting silence.

Your heart stammers. You stand up taller, forcing your voice to remain steady. “My personal relationship is not up for discussion at this meeting. What I do in my private life has nothing to do with my ability to lead this chapter.”

“It has everything to do with it!” Becca yells, her voice rising in pitch. “You stood on the steps of this very building last week and told us that we shouldn’t submit! You told us that biology isn’t destiny! And then you turned around and spread your legs for a guy who literally beat your brother to a pulp because of territorial aggression!”

“Hey! Back off!” Jackie shouts, standing up from her seat in the front row. “You don’t know the whole story, Becca!”

“I know what I can smell!” Becca snaps back. She turns to address the room. “Look at her! She’s wearing his scent like a collar! She let him bite her! She submitted to the very system we are trying to dismantle! How are we supposed to take her seriously as the face of our movement?”

The room erupts into a chaotic murmur. People are nodding. People are whispering. The hostile energy is suffocating.

“Becca, you are completely misunderstanding the core tenets of our own philosophy!” You argue, your voice shaking slightly, amplifying over the microphone. “O.M.E.G.A. is about choice! It is about not being forced into a role. I made a choice. I chose my mate. Submitting in the bedroom does not mean I am submitting in my life, or my career, or this movement!”

“You’re a hypocrite,” a voice calls out from the back row.

“You sold out!” Another yells.

“You let an alpha buy you with his status!”

The accusations hit you like physical blows. You stare out at the sea of faces — people you mentored, people you marched with, people you fought for. They are looking at you with disgust. With betrayal. They don’t see a leader anymore. They just see a traditional, mated omega.

“I move for a vote of no confidence,” Becca announces loudly, cutting through the noise.

The words freeze the blood in your veins.

“Becca, you can’t do that,” Jackie says, her voice laced with panic. “She founded this chapter! She built this from the ground up!”

“I second the motion,” a beta from the executive board says, standing up next to Becca.

“The motion has been seconded,” Becca says, her eyes locked onto yours with cold, righteous fury. “All those in favor of removing Y/N as president of the Boston University O.M.E.G.A. chapter, effective immediately, raise your hands.”

You stand perfectly still behind the podium. You literally cannot breathe.

One by one, hands begin to rise.

First, Becca’s. Then the executive board members. Then the omegas in the middle rows.

You watch in absolute, paralyzing horror as the room turns against you. It’s not a close vote. It is an overwhelming, crushing majority. Dozens of hands held high in the air, a silent, damning verdict on your character.

Jackie doesn’t raise her hand. She looks at you, her eyes swimming with tears. “Y/N …”

“The motion passes,” Becca states, her voice ringing with finality. “Please step down from the podium, Y/N. You are no longer welcome to lead this group.”

The silence that follows is heavier than anything you have ever experienced.

You don’t argue. You don’t scream. You don’t try to defend yourself again. The rejection is so complete, so absolute, that it hollows you out from the inside.

With trembling hands, you reach down and gather your notes. You slide them into your tote bag. You don’t look at Becca. You don’t look at the crowd.

You step out from behind the podium.

The crowd parts for you as you walk up the center aisle. No one meets your eye. They just watch you leave, their faces set in hard, judgmental lines.

You push open the heavy wooden doors at the back of the lecture hall and step out into the hallway.

You keep walking. You walk past the student union desk, past the bulletin boards covered in flyers for the movement you built, and out the front doors into the biting cold of the Boston evening.

You make it exactly fifty feet down the concrete sidewalk before the shock wears off.

It hits you all at once. The adrenaline crashes, leaving behind a raw, gaping wound. Your identity on this campus — your friends, your cause, the thing you dedicated two years of your life to — is gone. Stripped away in a matter of three minutes.

Your knees buckle.

You stumble toward a concrete bench under a large oak tree and collapse onto it. You drop your bag onto the ground.

And then, you break.

A ragged, agonizing sob tears its way up your throat. You bend over, burying your face in your hands, and cry. You cry so hard your ribs ache. You cry for the unfairness of it all. For the absolute, suffocating narrow-mindedness of the people who claim to champion open-mindedness.

A sharp, terrified whine rips from your chest.

Your omega panics. The emotional trauma triggers a massive biological distress signal. You need your mate. You need safety. You need the one person in the world who promised never to make you feel like this.

Your hands shake violently as you dig into your coat pocket and pull out your phone.

You don’t even look at the screen. You just hit his contact on your favorites list.

It rings exactly once.

“Hey, baby,” Garrett’s voice comes through the speaker, deep, warm, and relaxed. There are loud shouts and the sound of pucks hitting the glass in the background. He’s at the rink. “I thought your meeting went until nine. You want me to come grab you early?”

“Garrett,” you gasp out, the word fracturing into a choked sob.

The background noise on the phone vanishes instantly. The casual warmth in Garrett’s voice disappears, replaced by a cold, terrifyingly sharp focus.

“Y/N. What happened? Are you hurt?” The absolute panic in his tone is palpable. You hear a loud clatter — the sound of him dropping his hockey stick onto the ice. “Who touched you?”

“N-no one,” you cry, struggling to pull air into your lungs. “No one touched me. I just … they voted me out. They kicked me out, Garrett. Everyone. They all raised their hands.”

“Where are you?” Garrett demands. His voice is a low, dangerous snarl. You can hear the heavy thud of his skates as he practically sprints off the ice.

“Outside the union. On the bench near the quad.”

“Stay exactly where you are,” he orders. “Do not move. I am coming right now.”

“You’re at practice-”

“Fuck practice!” He roars, the sound echoing through the phone. You hear a door slam open. “I am getting in my truck right this second. I’ll be there in five minutes. Keep me on the line. Talk to me, sweetheart. Breathe for me.”

“It hurts,” you sob, wiping uselessly at your face as the tears keep coming. “They said I was a hypocrite. They said I sold out.”

“They’re fucking idiots,” Garrett says viciously. The sound of an engine roaring to life fills the speaker. Tires screech against pavement. “They don’t know you. They don’t know shit. You are the strongest person I have ever met. You hear me? You’re brilliant, and you’re mine, and I’m going to fix this.”

“You can’t fix it,” you cry, pulling your knees to your chest.

“I can fix anything if it means keeping you safe,” he promises, his voice a steady, grounding anchor amidst the storm of your panic. “I’m turning onto Commonwealth now. Two minutes. Keep breathing, baby. I’m almost there.”

You sit on the freezing bench, the phone pressed hard against your ear, listening to the roar of his truck engine. Students walk past you, casting curious or pitiful glances at the sobbing girl on the bench, but you don’t care.

Headlights sweep across the quad.

The heavy black SUV jumps the curb, parking illegally right on the edge of the grass, hazard lights flashing wildly.

The driver’s side door flies open before the truck is even fully in park.

Garrett jumps out. He is still wearing his black compression gear from practice, his skates swapped hastily for slide sandals. He looks massive, terrifying, and completely frantic.

His eyes scan the darkness, locking onto you huddled on the bench.

“Y/N!”

He sprints across the grass.

You drop your phone and stand up, your legs trembling.

Garrett crashes into you, his massive arms wrapping around you and hauling you off your feet. He crushes you against his chest, burying his face into your neck right over the mating mark, inhaling your scent in desperate, ragged gasps.

“I’ve got you,” he says thickly, rocking you back and forth. “I’ve got you, baby. You’re safe. Alpha’s here.”

The physical contact, the overwhelming flood of his heavy cedar scent, shatters whatever fragile restraint you had left.

You bury your face in the crook of his neck and wail. Your fingers dig into the tight fabric of his compression shirt, holding onto him like he is the only solid thing left in the universe.

“Let’s get out of here,” Garrett murmurs, kissing the side of your head.

He doesn’t put you down. He carries you to the truck, yanks the passenger door open, and carefully sets you inside. He grabs your bag from the bench, tosses it into the back seat, and slams the door shut.

A moment later, he climbs into the driver’s seat. He cranks the heat up to the max, ignoring the blaring horn of a passing car as he throws the truck into reverse and speeds off the BU campus.

The cab of the truck is warm, dark, and utterly safe.

You curl into a tight ball in the passenger seat, your face buried in your hands, the sobs wracking your small frame.

Garrett doesn’t say anything at first. He drives with one hand on the wheel, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes dark with a murderous fury. His other hand reaches across the center console, resting heavily on your thigh, his thumb stroking back and forth in a constant, soothing rhythm.

He drives away from the city. He doesn’t go back to the house. He just drives until the city lights begin to fade, taking you away from the campus that rejected you.

Finally, he pulls into an empty parking lot overlooking a dark, quiet stretch of the Charles River. He puts the truck in park and kills the headlights, leaving the engine running for heat.

He unbuckles his seatbelt, slides across the wide center console, and pulls you firmly into his lap.

“Come here,” he orders softly.

You collapse against him, wrapping your arms around his thick neck. He wraps both of his arms around your waist, pulling you so close there isn’t a millimeter of space between you.

“They hate me,” you whisper brokenly against his shoulder. “They looked at me like I was a traitor. Like I’m some brainwashed, submissive little pet just because I love you.”

Garrett’s arms tighten around you. “You are nobody’s pet, Y/N. You are a queen. And those girls in that room? They’re terrified.”

“Terrified of what?” You sniffle.

“Of you,” Garrett says fiercely. He pulls back just enough to frame your tear-stained face with his large hands. His thumbs gently wipe the wetness from your cheeks. “They built their entire identity around fighting biology because they think biology means weakness. And then you walked in. Strong, independent, brilliant. And mated. You proved that you can have an alpha and still be entirely your own person. It shattered their narrative. So they attacked you.”

“I lost my chapter, Garrett,” you cry, a fresh wave of tears welling up. “I lost everything I worked for.”

“No, you didn’t,” he says, his voice a low, vibrating rumble of absolute certainty. “You lost a room full of hypocrites. The movement is bigger than that classroom. And you are bigger than them.”

He leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead, then to each of your eyelids, kissing away the tears.

“I am so sorry I put that mark on you, if it caused this,” he whispers, his voice cracking slightly with guilt. “I just … I wanted everyone to know you were mine.”

“Don’t,” you say, your voice suddenly firm despite the tears. You reach up, your small hands gripping his wrists. You press your own wrist against his pulse point, letting your vanilla scent mix with his cedar. “Don’t you ever apologize for claiming me. I wanted this. I want you.”

Garrett lets out a ragged breath, his forehead resting against yours. “I will burn that entire school to the ground for making you cry.”

“You don’t have to burn anything down,” you murmur, closing your eyes and letting the deep, rumbling purr in his chest soothe the fractured pieces of your heart. “Just hold me. Please, just hold me.”

“Always,” Garrett promises, shifting you closer, wrapping his massive body around you like a human shield. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’m never letting go.”

***

The green room at the Boston Convention Center smells like expensive hairspray, stale coffee, and the sharp, grounding scent of cedar.

You stand in front of the full-length mirror, taking a deep breath. You smooth your hands down the front of your tailored, navy-blue maternity dress. At seven months pregnant, your belly is a prominent, beautiful curve. You rest your palms against it, feeling a sharp, familiar flutter as the pup inside gives a vigorous kick.

“Easy in there,” you murmur, a soft smile touching your lips. “Mommy has a big night tonight.”

The heavy wooden door to the green room swings open.

“I’m telling you, buddy, if you don’t eat your broccoli, you’re never going to get drafted,” a deep, rumbling voice announces.

You turn around just as Garrett walks into the room. He is wearing a sharp, custom-fitted charcoal suit that stretches perfectly over his broad shoulders. But the most striking thing about him isn’t the suit or the fact that he’s currently among the top-scoring centers in the NHL.

It’s the fact that he is currently holding your four-year-old son, Cole, completely upside down by his ankles.

Cole, a wildly energetic toddler with your eyes and Garrett’s unruly dark hair, is shrieking with absolute delight.

“I don’t like broccoli! I want chicken nuggets!” Cole yells, his face turning red from laughing as Garrett swings him like a pendulum.

“Chicken nuggets do not build strong hockey players,” Garrett counters playfully. “Right, sweetheart? Tell him.”

“Garrett, please put our son upright before he throws up the apple juice he just drank,” you laugh, crossing the room.

Garrett immediately flips Cole right-side up, catching the boy easily against his massive chest. He presses a loud, exaggerated kiss to Cole’s cheek, making the toddler groan and wipe it away. Garrett looks up at you, his gray eyes instantly softening, completely melting the fierce alpha exterior he presents to the rest of the world.

“Look at you,” Garrett breathes out, his gaze dropping to your rounded stomach before coming back up to your face. He steps forward, wrapping his free arm around your waist and pulling you flush against his side. “You are the most gorgeous woman in this entire building. They’re going to vote for you just so they can keep looking at you.”

“I’m hoping they vote for me because of my policy platform, actually,” you say, though you lean into him, instinctively rubbing your scent gland against his lapel.

Even after seven years, the bond is just as electric as the day it snapped into place. If anything, it’s deeper. Richer.

“They’ll vote for you because you’re a force of nature,” Garrett corrects smoothly, pressing a kiss to your temple. “How are the ankles?”

“Swollen,” you admit with a sigh. “These heels are a torture device invented by someone who clearly never had to carry an extra twenty pounds of alpha-pup in their uterus.”

“Take them off,” Garrett says immediately. “You can do the speech barefoot.”

“I am running for the United States Congress, Garrett. I cannot walk out onto a national stage in my bare feet.”

“Why not? You’re the boss. You make the rules.” Garrett sets Cole down on the plush leather sofa. “Cole, stay right there. Don’t mess up your bowtie. Your mom is about to make history.”

“Okay, Dad!” Cole says, immediately grabbing a toy firetruck from his small backpack and running it over the sofa cushions.

Garrett turns back to you, his expression turning entirely serious. He reaches out, taking both of your hands in his. His thumbs trace the sensitive skin of your wrists, sending a calming wave of heavy cedar pheromones into your system.

“Are you nervous?” He asks quietly.

“Terrified,” you whisper, looking up at him. “There are three thousand people out there, Garrett. And national news cameras. If I mess this up …”

“You aren’t going to mess anything up,” he says, his voice a low, vibrating anchor. “You have been preparing for this your entire life. You are going to walk out there, and you are going to tell them exactly what they need to hear. And I am going to be standing right in the front row, cheering louder than anyone else.”

You swallow hard, your eyes shining. “You really think they’re ready for this?”

“They don’t have a choice,” Garrett smiles, a wicked, proud smirk playing on his lips. “You’re going to change the world, sweetie. You already changed mine.”

Before you can respond, the door flies open again.

Jackie bursts into the room, a clipboard clutched to her chest and a Bluetooth earpiece blinking on her ear. As your campaign manager, she has been running on espresso and pure anxiety for the last eight months.

“Five minutes!” Jackie announces, slightly breathless. She stops, taking in the sight of you, Garrett, and Cole. “Oh, thank god, no one is crying. Y/N, you look phenomenal. Garrett, you look like a very expensive bodyguard. Cole, do not put that truck in your mouth.”

“I wasn’t!” Cole protests, lowering the toy defensively.

“Alright, let’s review,” Jackie says, marching over to you. “The introduction will be given by Senator Johnson. When he says your name, the music hits, and you walk out. The teleprompters are loaded, but honestly?

Just speak from the heart. That’s what the polls are showing people want. They want your authenticity.”

“I can do authenticity,” you say, taking a deep breath and smoothing your dress one last time.

“I know you can.” Jackie smiles, her eyes softening. “I am so incredibly proud of you, you know that? The girl who used to make Sharpie posters on our dorm room floor is about to become a Congresswoman.”

“We aren’t there yet,” you warn her, though a smile breaks across your face.

“We’re basically there. The incumbent is trailing by twelve points.” Jackie taps her clipboard. “Alright. It’s time. Let’s go make some noise.”

Garrett steps forward, pulling you into one last, tight embrace. He leans down, his lips brushing against your ear. “Knock ‘em dead, baby. I love you.”

“I love you too,” you say.

Garrett scoops Cole up, settling the boy on his broad shoulders. “Come on, monster. Let’s go watch Mom save the world.”

***

The roar of the crowd hits you like a physical wall the second you step out from behind the heavy velvet curtains.

The Boston Convention Center is packed to the rafters. Three thousand people are on their feet, waving signs, clapping, and cheering as you walk across the stage toward the clear acrylic podium. The bright stage lights are almost blinding, but as you approach the mic, your eyes immediately find the front row.

Garrett is standing exactly where he promised. He is holding Cole on his shoulders, beaming up at you with such intense, unfiltered pride that it makes your breath hitch.

You reach the podium, gripping the edges, and look out over the sea of faces. Betas. Alphas. Omegas. People of all ages and backgrounds, holding signs that read EQUALITY IN INSTINCT and VOTE FOR PROGRESS.

You smile, letting the applause wash over you for a long moment before raising a hand to quiet the room.

Slowly, the roar fades into an excited hum, and then into total silence.

“Thank you,” you say, your voice echoing through the massive hall. “Thank you all so much for being here tonight.”

You look out at the crowd, your heart hammering a steady, powerful rhythm against your ribs. You don’t even look at the teleprompter. You know exactly what you want to say.

“Seven years ago,” you begin, your voice clear and unwavering, “I stood on a concrete bench outside the student union of my college campus, and I cried until I couldn’t breathe.”

A quiet hush falls over the audience. It isn’t the standard political opening they expected.

“I cried because the political movement I had dedicated my entire life to — the movement for omega rights and equality — had just kicked me out,” you continue. “And they kicked me out for one simple reason. Because I had found my destined mate, an alpha, and I chose to let him claim me.”

You pause, letting the words settle. Down in the front row, Garrett is watching you with rapt attention.

“When I was younger,” you say, gripping the sides of the podium, “I used to think that the world was entirely black and white. I believed that submitting to an alpha, in any capacity, meant giving up my independence. I thought it meant surrendering everything our movement stood for. I was angry. I looked at the history of how alphas have used biology to oppress and control omegas, and I decided the only way to be free was to deny my own instincts.”

You look out into the crowd, locking eyes with a young omega girl holding a sign a few rows back.

“But I learned that couldn’t be further from the truth,” you say, your voice rising with passion. “Just as feminism fights for women to have equality and the absolute right to make a choice about what they want to do with their lives, so does omeganism.”

A smattering of applause breaks out, quickly growing louder.

“Omeganism is not about fighting who we are!” You project over the noise. “It is not about suppressing our biology or pretending we don’t have natural instincts! It is about dismantling the systemic, societal roles that tell us those instincts make us weak!”

The crowd cheers loudly. You press forward, your adrenaline surging.

“Submitting to my alpha in the privacy of our home does not make me submissive in a boardroom!” You declare, your voice ringing with fierce authority. “Nesting for my family does not mean I cannot write legislation! Being a mother to my pups does not mean I cannot lead this district!”

The applause turns into a roar. People are standing up, cheering and clapping.

“We are told that we have to choose,” you continue, speaking directly into the camera broadcasting your speech to the nation. “We are told that we can either be a traditional, mated omega, or we can be a strong, independent career professional. I am standing here tonight to tell you that the narrative is a lie!”

You point out into the crowd.

“True autonomy,” you shout, “true freedom, is having the power to choose your own path without society dictating your worth based on your secondary gender! We demand equal pay! We demand equal representation! We demand the right to embrace our biology without sacrificing our equality!”

The convention center absolutely erupts. The sound is deafening.

You smile, tears of pure joy pricking the corners of your eyes. You look down at Garrett. He is cheering so loudly you can see the cords of his neck straining, his hand firmly holding Cole’s leg so the boy doesn’t fall off his shoulders.

“If you elect me to Congress,” you promise, your voice cutting through the cheering, “I will fight every single day to tear down the archaic laws that keep us boxed into these roles. I will fight for a future where our pups — alphas, betas, and omegas alike — can grow up knowing that their biology is a beautiful part of who they are, not a limitation on what they can become.”

You step back from the podium, raising your hand as the campaign music begins to blare through the speakers.

“Thank you, Boston! Let’s go win this!”

The crowd loses their minds. Confetti begins to rain down from the ceiling.

You turn and walk off the stage, your heart soaring, your body buzzing with the kind of high that only comes from knowing you just spoke your absolute truth to the world.

The second you cross the threshold backstage, you are engulfed in a pair of massive, familiar arms.

“You were incredible,” Garrett growls, pressing you back against the cinderblock wall of the hallway and kissing you deeply.

“Garrett,” you laugh against his mouth, kissing him back, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“Ew! Gross!” Cole complains from beside you.

Garrett breaks the kiss, turning to look at his son, who is currently covering his eyes with his small hands. “Hey, watch it, kid. I’m kissing the next Congresswoman of Massachusetts. Show some respect.”

“I want ice cream,” Cole demands, dropping his hands.

“Ice cream sounds perfect,” you say, bending down slightly to ruffle Cole’s hair. You look back up at Garrett, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. “Did I do okay?”

“Are you kidding me?” Jackie says, marching down the hallway with her phone pressed to her ear. She covers the receiver. “CNN is already playing clips of the speech. They’re calling it the defining moment of the campaign. You killed it, Y/N. Absolutely killed it.”

“See?” Garrett says, offering you his arm. “I told you. Force of nature.”

***

Three hours later, the adrenaline of the rally has finally faded, leaving behind a deep, comfortable exhaustion.

The sprawling, luxurious house you and Garrett bought out in the Boston suburbs is quiet. The only sound is the gentle hum of the central heating and the distant, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

You stand in the doorway of Cole’s bedroom. The room is painted a soft sage green, filled with hockey sticks, building blocks, and an absurd number of stuffed animals.

Garrett is sitting on the edge of Cole’s toddler bed. He’s traded his expensive suit for a pair of gray sweatpants and a white t-shirt. He is reading a picture book about a very confused moose, doing distinct, ridiculous voices for every single character.

Cole is tucked under his blankets, his eyes already closed, his breathing slow and even.

You watch them for a long moment, leaning against the doorframe.

This is the man the O.M.E.G.A. chapter members warned you about. The “toxic, aggressive brute.”

And yet, here he is. One of the NHL’s heaviest hitters, using a high-pitched squeak to voice a cartoon squirrel so his son will fall asleep. He is the most devoted, involved, incredible father you have ever seen. He splits the parenting duties effortlessly. If you have a late-night campaign meeting, he handles dinner and bath time without a second thought. He attends every parent-teacher conference, packs Cole’s lunches, and brags about your political career to anyone in the locker room who will listen.

He didn’t just give you a family. He gave you a true partnership.

Garrett finishes the book, closes it softly, and sets it on the nightstand. He leans over, pressing a gentle kiss to Cole’s forehead. He stands up, his movements surprisingly graceful for a man of his massive size, and tiptoes out of the room.

He spots you in the doorway, his eyes warming immediately.

“He’s out,” Garrett whispers, pulling the door partially shut behind him.

“You’re a good dad, Graham,” you say softly, reaching out and taking his hand.

Garrett laces his fingers through yours, lifting your hand to press a kiss to your knuckles. “I have good motivation.”

He leads you down the hallway and into your master bedroom.

The room is vast, elegant, and completely dominated by the massive, custom-built nest in the center of the king bed. Even after seven years, the nesting instinct is something you never let go of. It is your sanctuary. It is a physical manifestation of your bond, a blend of your expensive silk sheets and Garrett’s softest hoodies, heavily saturated in both of your scents.

You let go of his hand and walk over to your vanity, reaching up to unclasp the delicate necklace you wore for the rally.

Garrett steps up behind you. His large hands find your shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the tight muscles at the base of your neck, beginning to massage away the tension of the long day.

“Mmm,” you groan, letting your head fall forward. “That feels amazing.”

“You carry all your stress right here,” Garrett murmurs, his hands working magic on your tired muscles. “You did so good tonight, baby. I was so proud of you I thought my chest was going to crack open.”

“I meant every word,” you say, opening your eyes to look at him in the mirror. “Everything I said up there … I only know it’s true because of you. Because you showed me what it really means to be claimed.”

Garrett meets your gaze in the reflection. He leans down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, right over the faded, permanent scar of his mating mark. He inhales deeply, the steady, comforting purr starting up in his chest.

“You’re mine,” he says softly against your skin. “And I’m yours. That’s the only truth that matters.”

He slides his hands down your arms, wrapping them around your waist from behind, his large palms coming to rest gently over the pronounced swell of your pregnant belly.

He holds you there, the two of you swaying slightly in the quiet room.

Suddenly, your stomach jumps. A sharp, distinct kick against Garrett’s palm.

Garrett lets out a soft, surprised laugh, his eyes lighting up. “Hey there, little one. You awake in there?”

“She’s been kicking like crazy all night,” you smile, covering his hands with your own. “I think she liked the speech.”

“She knows her mom is a badass,” Garrett says, gently rubbing his thumb over your stomach. He presses a kiss to your cheek. “You think she’ll be an omega like her gorgeous mother?”

“I don’t care what she is,” you say honestly, leaning back against his solid chest. “Alpha, beta, omega. As long as she’s healthy. And as long as she inherits your wrist shot.”

Garrett chuckles, a deep, rich sound that fills the room. “She’s going to have a wicked slapshot. I’ll have a hockey stick in her hands before she can walk. Cole is already practically skating.”

“You’re going to turn my children into rink rats,” you sigh affectionately.

“Hey, we need to secure the Bruins’ future draft picks,” Garrett teases.

He gently turns you around to face him. His expression softens, the playful banter fading into something deeply emotional and utterly sincere.

“I love the life we built, Y/N,” Garrett whispers, his thumbs lightly tracing the curve of your jaw. “I love our house. I love our boy. I love this little girl you’re carrying. I love that you’re going to Washington and you’re going to show the whole damn country what an omega can do.”

You look up at the man who barged into your life seven years ago and completely turned it upside down. The alpha who bought you expensive pillows, who stood his ground when you threw his courting gift at his chest, who held you while you cried outside the student union.

He didn’t break you. He didn’t cage you. He simply stood beside you, an immovable, unshakable pillar of support, and let you fly.

“I love it too,” you whisper, rising up on your toes to wrap your arms around his neck.

Garrett leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, sweet, and intensely passionate kiss. It isn’t the feral, desperate claiming of your early college days. It is the deep, steady, unshakeable devotion of a bond that has weathered storms, built a family, and changed the world.

He pulls back just slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

“Come on, future Congresswoman,” Garrett murmurs, sweeping you effortlessly up into his arms, just like he did the very first day he brought you home. “Let’s get you into the nest. You need your rest.”

You laugh, burying your face in the warm, cedar-scented crook of his neck as he carries you toward the bed.

“Take me to the nest, alpha,” you whisper against his skin.

Your roommate, Jackie, sighs from her spot on the ratty futon. She’s meticulously painting her nails a violent shade of crimson, her knees pulled up to her chest. “Because biology is a bitch, and alphas smell good. It’s not that deep, babe.”

“It is that deep, Jackie,” you argue, sitting back on your heels to admire your work. The sign reads MY BIOLOGY IS NOT MY DESTINY. “That’s literally the entire point of the Omega Movement for Empowerment, Growth, and Autonomy.”

“O.M.E.G.A. is a mouthful,” she mutters, blowing gently on her left hand.

“It’s an acronym,” you correct her, tossing the red marker aside and picking up a black one. “And we have a meeting tomorrow night. You should come. We’re discussing the systematic dismantling of second-gender workplace bias, specifically in corporate leadership.”

“Sounds like a rager. Can’t wait.” Jackie rolls her eyes, though she’s smiling. “You know, for an Omega Studies and Sexuality major, you spend a lot of time completely denying your own instincts.”

“I am not denying my instincts. I am refusing to be ruled by them,” you say firmly. You grab your BU Terriers hoodie off the floor and pull it over your head. “I refuse to be a stereotype. I’m a sophomore in college. I want a career. I don’t want to be locked in a penthouse somewhere popping out pups for an arrogant, territorial alpha who treats me like a fragile piece of porcelain.”

“Hey, if some rich alpha wants to lock me in a penthouse and pay off my student loans, I am not fighting it,” Jackie teases.

“You’re impossible.” You laugh, zipping up your canvas tote bag. You love BU, and you love your major — even if your parents think it’s a colossal waste of tuition. You are fiercely independent. The whole concept of a destined mate makes you want to gag. You don’t need protection. You don’t need a provider. You just need people to treat you with basic human respect.

“Are you still coming to the game tonight?” You ask, checking your phone.

“To watch your brother get demolished by Briar University? Absolutely.” Jackie carefully caps her nail polish. “The Hawks are basically walking wet dreams on ice skates. Have you seen their captain? Garrett Graham?”

“I don’t care what he looks like. He’s an alpha, which means he’s probably an arrogant Neanderthal.”

“A hot, arrogant Neanderthal,” Jackie corrects. “Seriously, your brother is a decent third-line center, but Briar is number one in the country right now. It’s going to be a bloodbath. Graham is merciless.”

“He’s my brother. I have to support him.” You shove your phone into your pocket. “Plus, he promised me he’d take me out for pizza after the game. I am holding him to that, even if he’s bruised.”

“Assuming he survives,” Jackie says, grabbing her jacket. “Come on. If we don’t leave now, we’re going to get stuck sitting behind the glass where all the obnoxious frat alphas bang on the plastic.”

***

Garrett stares at the glowing screen of his phone, the white text bubbles burning into his retinas.

Don’t embarrass me tonight. Scouts are watching. Play like a man, not a bitch.

That’s it. That’s the pre-game motivational text from his father. Phil Graham, NHL legend, all-star defenseman, and world-class piece of shit.

Garrett locks the phone, the screen going black, and throws it roughly into his duffel bag. He leans forward on the wooden bench of the visitor’s locker room at the BU arena, resting his elbows on his knees. He runs a heavy hand over his face, breathing in the familiar, comforting scent of tape wax, sweat, and the chill of the ice rink.

This is his sanctuary. The ice. Briar. His team. Out here, Phil can’t touch him.

“You good, G?”

Garrett looks up. Logan is standing there, leaning his weight casually on his expensive composite hockey stick, his dark eyebrows raised. Logan is his best friend, his right-hand man, a fellow alpha, and the only person on earth who knows exactly what kind of monster Phil Graham really is behind closed doors.

“Yeah,” Garrett says, his voice rough. He clears his throat and forces the trademark cocky captain smirk onto his face. The mask falls into place easily. “Just thinking about how bad we’re gonna crush BU tonight in their own barn.”

“That’s the spirit,” Dean calls out from three stalls down. He is tossing a roll of white athletic tape in the air and catching it flawlessly. “I hear they have a weak defense. I’m planning on scoring at least a hat trick so I can impress those bunnies I saw waiting by the tunnel.”

“You literally couldn’t score a hat trick if the goalie was blindfolded and facing the wrong way, Dean,” Tucker says mildly. Tucker is adjusting his shoulder pads, his southern drawl cutting through the locker room noise.

“Fuck you, Tuck. My wrister is lethal, and you know it.”

Garrett chuckles, the lingering tension in his shoulders bleeding out. These guys are his brothers. The family he chose.

He turns his attention down to his skates, his mind drifting back to his mom as he pulls the laces tight. She was a beta. Soft-spoken, kind, with a warm laugh that used to fill their massive, empty house before the lung cancer took her away. Before she got sick, Phil had been an overbearing, traditional alpha. But behind closed doors, he was abusive. The yelling. The shattered plates. The bruises she tried so hard to hide with concealer.

Garrett had been too small, too young to stop it back then. By the time his own alpha presentation hit, flooding his system with the strength and size he needed to fight back, she was already gone. And the abuse turned fully onto him. Verbal. Physical. Every failure on the ice punished.

He shakes his head, forcefully clearing the dark memories. He made a promise to himself a long time ago. When he found his omega, she would never know a single day of fear. He’d be a traditional alpha in the best sense of the word. A protector. A provider. He would spoil her rotten and treat her like a princess.

“Alright, boys,” Garrett says, his voice booming. He stands up, his massive frame towering in the room. The locker room goes instantly quiet, all eyes turning to their captain. “Listen up. BU thinks they have home-ice advantage tonight. Let’s show them they don’t own shit. We play fast, we play hard, we don’t let them breathe in the neutral zone. We hit them hard and we keep hitting.”

“Hell yeah,” Logan says, slamming his stick against the floor.

“Let’s go!” Dean yells.

The chorus of shouts and barking echoes off the concrete walls as the Briar Hawks file out of the locker room, their skates clattering against the rubber mats as they head for the tunnel.

Garrett takes a deep breath, letting his alpha instincts rise to the surface. He’s ready for war.

***

The arena is absolutely deafening.

The smell of popcorn, stale beer, and the heavy, musky scent of overexcited alphas in the crowd presses in on you from all sides. You wrinkle your nose, instantly regretting your decision not to apply a scent blocker to your pulse points before leaving the dorm.

“This is exactly why I hate hockey games!” You yell over the roar of the crowd, leaning close to Jackie. She is sitting next to you, a giant red foam finger on her hand, practically vibrating with excitement.

“What? I can’t hear you over the sound of my own ovulation!” Jackie yells back, pointing frantically down at the ice. “Look at them! Look at Briar’s captain! Number 44! Oh my god, he’s massive.”

You roll your eyes, groaning, but let your gaze follow her pointing finger anyway.

Garrett Graham.

He’s big. Even under the bulky pads, you can tell he’s built like an absolute tank. He skates with a terrifying, aggressive fluidity. A natural predator on the ice. He stops abruptly at the blue line, sending a spray of crushed ice into the air, and rips his helmet off for a second to run a thick, gloved hand through his messy, sweat-dampened dark hair.

Okay, objectively? The man is gorgeous. Jawline carved from marble, broad shoulders, arrogant smirk.

Subjectively? He’s everything you despise. The alpha posturing. The aggressive chest-puffing. The way the crowd roars for him just because he exists.

“He’s just a guy playing a game,” you say flatly, crossing your arms over your chest.

“He is a literal god,” Jackie counters, fanning herself with a game program. “Oh look, your brother’s line is going out for the shift.”

You lean forward, your focus immediately shifting away from the Briar captain. Your brother skates out to the center circle. It’s midway through the first period, and the energy in the building is already chaotic.

“Come on,” you whisper, clutching the cold edge of your plastic seat. “Win this face-off.”

***

Third period. Ten minutes left on the clock. The score is tied 2-2.

Garrett skates slowly to the center dot, his chest heaving. His muscles are burning — a good, familiar burn. He feels alive. He feels utterly dominant. He already has one goal and an assist under his belt tonight, but he wants the game-winner.

He coasts to a stop, the steel blades of his skates biting sharply into the ice.

The BU center skates up to the dot opposite him. Some sophomore kid. Number 13. Garrett doesn’t even know his name. He just knows the kid is a third-liner trying to punch above his weight class.

Garrett bends his knees, resting the blade of his stick on the ice, waiting for the ref to drop the puck.

He takes a deep, grounding breath through his nose, pulling in the icy air to cool his burning lungs.

And then it hits him.

It’s not just a scent. It’s a violent explosion in his brain.

Vanilla. Fresh rainwater. And a sharp, wild hit of sweet jasmine.

It bypasses every logical thought process in his mind and hooks directly into his brainstem. His alpha instantly roars to life, clawing desperately at the inside of his skull.

Omega.

My omega.

Garrett freezes. His pupils blow wide, consuming his irises. His vision tunnels, the edges of the brightly lit arena blurring into darkness. The deafening roar of the BU crowd fades into absolute, dead silence in his ears.

He breathes in again, harder this time. The scent is intoxicating. It’s the most incredible thing he’s ever smelled in his entire life. It makes his blood run boiling hot, his heart slamming against his ribcage like a sledgehammer trying to break out.

He snaps his head up, his neck cracking, looking around wildly. Where is she? Where is his mate?

But the scent isn’t coming from the stands behind the glass.

It’s coming from directly in front of him.

Garrett’s crazed gaze snaps down to the BU center. Number 13. The kid is an alpha — Garrett can smell the faint, bitter undertone of male alpha hormones — but it’s completely smothered, drowned out by the sweet, overwhelming scent of Garrett’s omega.

The realization hits him like a freight train to the chest.

This alpha has his omega’s scent on him.

Not just a passing brush in a hallway. The scent is deep. It’s lingering. It’s embedded in the fabric of his jersey, soaked into his skin. This alpha has been touching her. Holding her.

Mine.

A low, guttural snarl rips from Garrett’s throat. It doesn’t even sound human. It sounds like a wild animal cornered in a cage.

The BU center looks up from the ice, his eyes widening in confusion. “What the-”

Garrett doesn’t think. He doesn’t process. The rational, calculating captain of the Briar Hawks vanishes in an instant, replaced entirely by a feral, territorial alpha staring at a direct threat to what is his.

“Why do you smell like her?” Garrett growls, his voice vibrating with absolute venom.

“Excuse me?” the BU player says, gripping his stick tighter, stepping back slightly at the sheer hostility rolling off the Briar captain.

“Why. Do. You. Smell. Like. My. Omega.”

Before the kid can even open his mouth to answer, Garrett snaps.

He drops his expensive stick onto the ice. His heavy, padded gloves shoot out, grabbing the front of the BU center’s jersey and twisting the fabric tight into his fists. With a violent, explosive shove, Garrett slams the guy backward off his skates.

The kid hits the ice hard.

The referee’s whistle blows shrilly, piercing the air.

Garrett doesn’t hear it. He falls on top of the guy, his heavy fist pulling back and coming down. Hard.

The BU player’s helmet flies off, skittering across the ice.

“Don’t touch her!” Garrett roars, his vision completely red. He lands another brutal punch to the guy’s jaw. “Don’t you ever fucking touch her!”

“Graham! What the fuck!”

Hands are suddenly grabbing at his jersey. Pulling at his shoulder pads.

“Get off me!” Garrett thrashes wildly, throwing an elbow blindly backward to shake off the hands. He needs to get back to the alpha beneath him. He needs to obliterate this guy. He needs to erase him from existence for daring to lay hands on his destined mate.

“Garrett, stop! Stop!”

It’s Logan’s voice, shouting directly in his ear. Logan has his massive arms wrapped securely around Garrett’s chest, hauling him backward with pure, desperate alpha strength.

Dean is there a second later, grabbing Garrett’s right arm, while Tucker grabs his left. Two referees are swarming the pile, one of them throwing himself over the bleeding BU player to shield him.

“Let me go!” Garrett snarls, his fangs fully descended, his chest heaving violently. He fights against his own teammates, his boots scrambling frantically for purchase on the slick ice to launch himself forward again.

“Garrett, snap the fuck out of it!” Logan yells, shoving him forcefully back against the glass boards. “What the hell is wrong with you? You’re going to get suspended!”

Garrett blinks, panting heavily, his breath pluming in the cold air. His knuckles ache. The thick, red haze of pure, instinctual rage slowly starts to recede, leaving behind a frantic, clawing panic in his chest.

“He smells like her,” Garrett gasps out, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His eyes dart frantically toward the BU bench where the athletic trainers are dragging number 13 off the ice. “Logan, he smells like my mate.”

Logan stares at him, his face pale under his visor. “What?”

“My omega,” Garrett says, his voice breaking with sheer desperation. “He had her scent on him.”

***

You are on your feet, your hands clamped tightly over your mouth in absolute horror.

It happened so fast. One second, your brother was lining up for the face-off. The next, Garrett Graham had morphed into a literal monster, tackling him to the ice and wailing on him like a madman.

The entire arena is in an absolute uproar. Boos, screams, and curses echo off the vaulted rafters.

“Oh my god,” Jackie gasps beside you, her foam finger forgotten on the floor. “What just happened? Was that a dirty hit? I didn’t even see a hit!”

“He just attacked him!” You yell, your voice shrill with panic. “He didn’t even do anything! He just stood there!”

You watch, trembling violently, as three Briar players have to physically drag their captain away from your brother. Graham looks insane. He’s fighting them, screaming something you can’t hear over the deafening noise of the crowd. His face is twisted in a mask of pure rage.

That’s your brother on the ice. Bleeding.

“I have to go,” you say, grabbing your tote bag and shoving past Jackie.

“Wait, Y/N, you can’t go down there! Security won’t let you!”

“He’s my brother, Jackie! He might be seriously hurt!”

You squeeze past the knees of the people in your row, ignoring their annoyed grunts and spilled beer. You practically run down the steep concrete steps of the bleachers. Your heart is lodged in your throat, beating a frantic rhythm against your windpipe.

This is exactly what you preach against. This is exactly the kind of volatile, dangerous alpha behavior that society constantly excuses because ‘biology made them do it.’ Garrett Graham is a brute. An animal. He is everything wrong with the system.

You reach the bottom of the stairs and sprint toward the restricted tunnel that leads to the locker rooms and the medical bay. A large security guard steps into your path, holding up a hand.

“Miss, you can’t be down here. Authorized personnel only.”

“My brother is the player who just got attacked!” You say, your voice cracking with emotion. “Number 13! Please, I need to make sure he’s okay!”

The guard softens slightly, checking the radio clipped to his shoulder. He sighs. “Alright. Just stay close to the wall and don’t get in the medics’ way.”

“Thank you!”

You hurry down the dimly lit concrete hallway. You can hear the muffled shouting from the ice above you, the angry roar of the BU crowd.

You hate him. You absolutely despise Garrett Graham. You don’t even know the man, but you hate everything he stands for. He thinks he can just do

whatever he wants, hurt whoever he wants, because he’s a star alpha? Because he wears the captain’s C on his jersey?

You’re going to make sure he faces consequences. You’re going to take O.M.E.G.A. and start a campus-wide protest if the league doesn’t suspend him.

You turn the corner, rushing toward the BU medical room, completely unaware of the intoxicating scent you’re leaving behind in the cramped hallway.

Sweet vanilla. Fresh rainwater. And wild jasmine.

***

The concrete walls of the tunnel blur as Logan and Tucker practically drag Garrett away from the ice. The deafening roar of the BU crowd slowly muffles behind the thick, soundproof doors, but the pounding in Garrett’s skull is louder than any arena.

He’s fighting them every step of the way. His skates catch and drag on the rubber floor mats.

“Get your hands off me!” Garrett snarls, thrashing his shoulders. “I have to go back out there!”

“You’re not going anywhere near that ice, G!” Logan barks, his grip tightening on the collar of Garrett’s jersey. “You’re done for the night. You’re lucky if you’re not done for the season!”

“You don’t understand!” Garrett shoves Tucker hard enough that the defenseman stumbles against the cinderblock wall. Garrett spins around, chest heaving, his alpha fully dialed up to a ten. His fangs are still descended, pressing sharply against his bottom lip. “He had her scent on him. The BU center. He smelled like my mate.”

Tucker recovers his balance, his easygoing southern expression completely wiped away, replaced by deep concern. “Garrett, man, you’re not thinking straight. You don’t even have a mate.”

“I do now!” Garrett roars.

And then, he smells it.

It hits him like a physical blow to the sternum. The scent isn’t buried under sweat and masculine alpha pheromones this time. It’s pure. It’s fresh. It’s hanging heavy and sweet in the stagnant air of the restricted hallway.

Vanilla. Fresh rainwater. And wild, intoxicating jasmine.

Garrett freezes. The violent thrashing stops instantly. His pupils dilate so fast his vision swims.

“She’s here,” he whispers, his voice trembling.

He inhales deeply, his chest expanding as he tries to pull every single molecule of her scent into his lungs. It’s coming from further down the corridor. Toward the medical bay.

She was just here. She walked right through this hallway.

“Oh, fuck no,” Logan says, seeing the terrifying, predatory shift in his best friend’s eyes. “Don’t you even think about it.”

But Garrett is already moving. He rips himself out of Logan’s grasp with a violent surge of adrenaline, his heavy hockey skates clattering awkwardly against the floor as he lunges down the hallway.

“Mine,” he growls, the word tearing from his throat. He needs to find her. He needs to see her. He needs to wrap her up and hide her away from every other alpha on the planet, especially the one currently bleeding on the ice.

“Grab him!” Logan shouts.

Before Garrett can make it ten feet, a heavy weight slams into his back. Tucker tackles him around the waist, taking them both down to the rubber matting. Garrett hits the floor hard, his elbow pads taking the brunt of the impact. He roars, twisting like a feral animal, throwing an elbow back to dislodge Tucker.

“Graham! Stop!”

Smitty, the Briar Hawks’ head athletic trainer, comes sprinting down the hall, his medical kit swinging wildly from his shoulder. He takes one look at the chaotic pile on the floor — Garrett snarling and clawing at the floorboards to crawl forward, Tucker desperately holding him back, and Logan diving in to pin Garrett’s shoulders — and instantly knows what’s happening.

“Hold him down!” Smitty orders, dropping to his knees beside the pile. He rips open his medical kit, his hands moving with practiced, frantic speed. “He’s scent-drunk. He’s totally lost in an alpha drop.”

“She’s down there!” Garrett screams, his voice cracking with pure, agonizing desperation. “Let me go! She’s my omega! I have to get to her!”

“Keep his head still, Logan!”

Logan wraps his thick arms around Garrett’s chest and neck, locking him in a wrestling hold. “I got him. Hurry up, Smitty. He’s strong as shit right now.”

Smitty tears open a sterile foil packet with his teeth. Inside are three heavy-duty scent blocker patches — industrial strength, the kind usually reserved for alphas who go into uncontrollable rut in public spaces.

Garrett realizes what they are doing a second too late.

“No!” He thrashes violently. “No, don’t! I need to smell her! Don’t take her away from me!”

It’s heartbreaking. The raw, unfiltered panic in his voice makes Logan wince, but he holds firm.

Smitty slaps the first cold, gel-lined patch directly over the scent gland on the right side of Garrett’s neck. He presses it down hard. He rips open a second packet and slaps it onto the left side. Then he grabs Garrett’s bare wrist, right where his glove ends, and slaps a third one over his pulse point.

The reaction is almost instantaneous.

The heavy, pharmaceutical chemicals in the patches flood Garrett’s system, aggressively suppressing his olfactory receptors and numbing the frantic misfiring of his alpha hormones.

The sweet, beautiful scent of vanilla and jasmine vanishes.

It’s like someone turned off the sun. The world goes cold, gray, and completely empty.

Garrett stops fighting. The adrenaline drains out of him so fast he feels physically sick. His head slumps back against Logan’s arm, his breathing ragged and shallow. He stares blankly at the ceiling, a hollow, agonizing ache carving itself out in the center of his chest.

She’s gone. He can’t feel her anymore.

“You good, G?” Logan asks quietly, cautiously loosening his grip.

Garrett doesn’t answer. He just closes his eyes, a single tear slipping out and tracking through the sweat and grime on his cheek.

“Get his gear off,” Smitty says gruffly, standing up and brushing off his khakis. “I want him in street clothes and on the team bus in five minutes. He’s going straight back to campus. He does not pass go, he does not collect two hundred dollars. Do not let him take those patches off until tomorrow morning.”

“What about the game?” Tucker asks, climbing off Garrett’s legs and offering a hand down to help him up.

“The game is over for him,” Smitty says flatly. “And if the league reviews that footage, his season might be over, too.”

***

You sit on the edge of the vinyl exam table in the BU medical bay, your leg bouncing a mile a minute. You are chewing furiously on your thumbnail, your eyes locked on the doctor shining a penlight into your brother’s eyes.

“Follow the light, please. Good. Now the other side.”

Your brother sits there, looking miserable. His bottom lip is split wide open, swollen to the size of a grape. There’s a nasty, purple bruise already blooming over his left cheekbone, and he’s holding an ice pack against his jaw.

“He’s lucky,” the doctor finally says, turning off the penlight and stepping back. “No concussion. Just some deep contusions and a busted lip. He’ll need a few days off the ice, but structurally, his jaw is fine.”

“Fine?” You snap, sliding off the table. “He got mauled by a rabid animal in front of five thousand people! He’s not fine!”

“Y/N, calm down,” your brother mutters, wincing as the movement pulls his split lip. “It’s hockey. Fights happen.”

“That wasn’t a fight!” You yell, throwing your hands in the air. “He jumped you! You didn’t even drop your gloves! He just snapped and attacked you for absolutely no reason!”

“Actually,” your brother says slowly, lowering the ice pack. He frowns, looking confused. “He was screaming at me.”

“Yeah, because he’s an unhinged, steroid-pumped Neanderthal.”

“No, he … he was screaming about his omega.” Your brother looks at you, his brow furrowed. “He kept asking why I smelled like his omega.”

You freeze. The anger bubbling in your chest hits a sudden, strange roadblock. “His … what?”

“His omega. He said I had her scent on me.” Your brother shakes his head, wincing again. “I don’t even know what he was talking about. I haven’t hooked up with anyone in weeks. And I definitely haven’t been near any Briar girls.”

A cold, uneasy prickle washes over the back of your neck. You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly feeling very exposed in the sterile room.

“It’s just alpha bullshit,” you say quickly, forcing a dismissive scoff. “He was trying to justify his violent behavior by blaming it on his biology. It’s the oldest excuse in the book. ‘My instincts made me do it.’ It’s pathetic.”

“Maybe,” he says softly. “But he looked … terrified. And pissed. Like I had actually taken something from him.”

“Well, he’s delusional,” you state firmly. You grab your tote bag from the chair. “I’m just glad you’re okay. I’m filing a complaint with the athletic commission tomorrow. O.M.E.G.A. is not going to let this slide. We are going to make an example out of Garrett Graham.”

***

The off-campus house is usually a hub of noise, video games, and chaotic energy. Tonight, it feels like a morgue.

Garrett has been pacing the length of the living room hardwood floor for two hours straight. Back and forth. Window to kitchen island. Kitchen island to window.

He’s wearing gray sweatpants and a tight black t-shirt, his hair wet from the shower he was forced to take. The three medical patches are still stark and ugly against his skin. They make his head feel thick and fuzzy, like his brain is wrapped in cotton. He feels nauseous. He feels disconnected from his own body.

But beneath the heavy chemical blanket of the blockers, his alpha is still screaming. Pacing its cage. Clawing at the walls.

Mate. Omega. Where is she? Find her.

Logan sits on one of the leather barstools at the island, nursing a beer. Dean is sprawled on the sectional sofa, silently tossing a tennis ball up in the air and catching it. Tucker is sitting at the dining table, his laptop open, the screen illuminating his face in the dim room.

“You gotta sit down, G,” Logan says quietly. “You’re wearing a trench in the floorboards.”

“I can’t,” Garrett grates out, running both hands harshly through his damp hair. “I can’t sit still. I feel like I’m going to jump out of my own skin.”

“The blockers are messing with your equilibrium,” Tucker chimes in without looking up from his screen. “Smitty said to give it time.”

“Fuck Smitty. Fuck the blockers.” Garrett stops pacing and grips the edge of the granite countertop, his knuckles turning white. He looks at Logan, his blue eyes bloodshot and wide with manic energy. “You don’t understand what it felt like, Logie. It was … it was her. I know it was her. My chest physically hurts right now. Like I’m missing a vital organ.”

Logan sighs, setting his beer down. “I believe you, man. I do. But you can’t go feral on the ice. You beat the shit out of a guy for existing in the same airspace as your supposed mate.”

“He had her scent all over him!” Garrett snaps, a low growl rumbling in his chest despite the patches. “It wasn’t just in the air. It was on his skin. On his jersey. He touched her.”

“Okay, so let’s use our heads,” Dean says, catching the tennis ball and sitting up. “If this guy had her scent on him, that means he knows her. He’s been close to her. Which means he’s our only lead.”

Garrett’s head snaps toward Dean. “What?”

“Dean’s right,” Tucker says, his fingers flying across the keyboard. “If we want to find this girl, we start with the guy you used as a punching bag.”

Garrett abandons the counter and marches over to the dining table, pulling up a chair and leaning over Tucker’s shoulder. Logan and Dean follow suit, the four alphas crowding around the glowing screen.

“What are you doing?” Garrett asks, his voice tight.

“I pulled up the BU athletics roster,” Tucker explains, clicking a few links. “The guy you fought was number 13. Here he is. Center. Sophomore. Hometown is just outside of Boston.”

“Pull up his social media,” Logan orders.

Tucker nods, opening a new tab and typing the kid’s name into Instagram. His profile pops up immediately. It’s public.

Garrett stares at the screen, his jaw clenched so hard his teeth ache. He hates looking at this guy’s face. His alpha demands he smash the laptop, but he forces himself to breathe. He needs the information.

Tucker scrolls through the feed. Lots of hockey pictures. Pictures with his buddies at parties. Pictures of a golden retriever.

“Look for girls,” Dean says eagerly. “Any girlfriends? Exes? Fling?”

Tucker clicks on a photo from a few months ago. The BU center has his arm thrown around a pretty blonde girl. “Maybe this is her?”

“No,” Garrett says immediately, pointing at the screen. “That’s a beta. I can tell just by looking at her. My mate is an omega. A strong one.”

“How the hell can you tell from a picture?” Dean scoffs.

“I just can,” Garrett snaps. “Keep scrolling.”

Tucker scrolls further back. “Okay, let’s look at tagged photos. Family events. Holidays.”

He clicks on a photo from what looks like a high school graduation a couple of years ago. The BU center is standing in a cap and gown, smiling brightly. Standing next to him is a girl.

You have a radiant smile, your arms wrapped tightly around his waist in a clear display of affection. You’re beautiful. Strikingly beautiful.

Garrett’s breath hitches in his throat. Even through the heavy, suffocating fog of the scent blockers, a jolt of pure electricity shoots straight down his spine. His heart stutters, then slams into a frantic, double-time rhythm.

“Stop,” Garrett whispers.

Tucker pauses the mouse cursor.

“Who is that?” Garrett asks, his voice suddenly hoarse. He leans closer to the screen, his eyes hungrily tracing the lines of your face. The curve of your cheek. The spark in your eyes.

Tucker clicks on the tag hovering over your face. It opens your profile in a small popup window.

Sophomore @ BU. Omega Studies & Sexuality. President of the Omega Movement for Empowerment, Growth, and Autonomy (O.M.E.G.A).

A heavy silence falls over the dining table.

“Oh, no,” Dean groans, dragging a hand down his face.

“Bro,” Logan says, letting out a long, slow whistle. “You are so screwed.”

Tucker clicks to open your full profile. The grid loads, and suddenly the screen is filled with pictures of you.

Some are normal. Selfies with a friend. Coffee cups. Stacks of textbooks. But a massive chunk of you feed is dedicated to you activism.

There are pictures of you standing on the steps of a campus building holding a megaphone. Pictures of you holding up protest signs made of poster board and Sharpie.

MY BIOLOGY IS NOT MY DESTINY.

ALPHA PRIVILEGE IS A POISON.

EQUAL PAY, EQUAL SAY. END SECOND-GENDER ROLES.

“She’s one of those omegas,” Dean says, shaking his head in sheer disbelief. “The militant ones. The ones who take hormone suppressants and refuse to nest. Man, she’s practically denying her own biology.”

“Performative activism,” Logan mutters, crossing his arms. “They think fighting their true nature makes them independent, but they just end up miserable and stressed out all the time. Being an omega isn’t a weakness, it’s just how they’re wired.”

“She hates alphas,” Tucker points out, gesturing to a particularly aggressive infographic you posted about toxic alpha territorial behavior. “And considering you just proved her entire thesis correct by beating her brother to a bloody pulp on live television … I’d say your chances are hovering somewhere in the negative digits.”

Garrett ignores them. He tunes out their groans and their commentary entirely.

He reaches out and takes the mouse from Tucker’s hand. He clicks on a close-up selfie of you. You’re looking off-camera, laughing at something, the wind blowing your hair across your face. You look so vibrant. So fiercely alive.

You are the BU center’s sister. That’s why he smelled like you. It wasn’t a lover’s scent. It was familial. Protective.

A massive, overwhelming wave of relief washes over Garrett, so intense his knees actually weaken. You aren’t claimed. You aren’t with another alpha. You are his.

He stares at the picture, taking in the stubborn tilt of your chin. The fire in your eyes.

You’re a fighter. You think you have to fight the world to prove you’re worth something. You think being an omega means being a victim, being weak, being subservient. You’ve built a fortress around yourself, armed to the teeth with protests and slogans and defiance.

Garrett’s lips slowly curve into a small, terrifyingly confident smirk.

He isn’t disappointed. Not even a little bit. If anything, the challenge thrills him. His alpha hums with dark, possessive approval.

“You guys are looking at this all wrong,” Garrett says, his voice low and steady.

Logan raises an eyebrow. “Enlighten us, G. Because from where I’m standing, your destined mate is the president of the I Hate Alphas fan club.”

“She doesn’t hate alphas,” Garrett says, clicking to the next picture. It’s a photo of you looking exhausted but determined, sitting at a library desk at 2 AM. “She hates the way alphas have treated her. She hates feeling like she has to rely on guys who see her as property instead of a partner.”

“And you don’t?” Dean asks skeptically. “You literally just claimed her as yours after smelling her once.”

“She is mine,” Garrett states, factually, like he’s discussing the weather. “Fate decided that. But I’m not going to treat her like property. I’m going to treat her like a goddamn queen.”

He stands up, his massive frame towering over his friends. The frantic, manic energy from earlier is gone. It’s been replaced by a cold, laser-focused determination. The target has been acquired. The mission is set.

“She thinks biology is her enemy,” Garrett says softly, looking back down at the screen. He reaches out and gently traces the edge of the monitor, right over her smiling face. “She thinks giving in to her instincts means losing her freedom. She’s spent her whole life fighting against exactly what I am.”

“So, what’s your play?” Tucker asks, leaning back in his chair. “You can’t exactly walk up to her with a bouquet of roses and say, ‘Hey, sorry I hospitalized your brother, but we’re destined to be together. Let’s go make a nest.’“

“No,” Garrett agrees. “I can’t. She’d probably mace me.”

He turns away from the laptop, a terrifying, beautiful clarity settling over his mind. The scent blockers are still numbing his senses, but his purpose is crystal clear.

“She thinks she doesn’t need an alpha,” Garrett says, a dark thrill running through his veins. “She thinks she can do it all on her own. Fine. Let her think that.”

He cracks his knuckles, the bruised skin from the fight pulling tight.

“I’m not going to force her into anything,” Garrett continues, his voice vibrating with absolute, unshakable conviction. “I’m going to work for it. I’m going to prove to her that being mine isn’t a cage. I’m going to show her exactly how good it feels to be protected, to be cherished, to be taken care of.”

Logan watches him for a long moment, then slowly shakes his head, a wry smile touching his lips. “You’re insane, you know that?”

“I’m motivated,” Garrett corrects him.

“She’s going to fight you every single step of the way, G,” Tucker warns him. “Omegas like her … they don’t break easy. They don’t submit just because you smell nice and buy them things.”

“Good,” Garrett says, his smirk widening into a full, genuine smile. For the first time since he stepped off the ice, he looks like himself again.

The cocky, unstoppable captain of the Briar Hawks. “I like a challenge. And she’s not going to break. I don’t want her to break.”

He looks back at the laptop screen one last time, making a silent vow to the fiery, stubborn girl in the photos.

“I want her to fall,” he whispers. “And I’m going to be the one to catch her.”

***

The high-end bedding boutique in downtown Boston smells like lavender, sterile cotton, and the overwhelming scent of a very stressed-out Logan.

“I’m just saying, G, three hundred dollars for a single blanket is extortion,” Logan mutters, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He looks completely out of place, a massive hockey player surrounded by delicate displays of pastel throw pillows and scented candles. “We’re college students. We sleep on futons we found on the curb. This is madness.”

Garrett ignores him. He runs a large, calloused hand over a faux-fur throw draped over a display bed. It’s incredibly soft. Like a cloud. But is it soft enough for her?

“She’s an omega, Logan,” Garrett says, his voice low and intensely focused. He drops the faux-fur and moves to a display of crushed velvet pillows. “Her skin is sensitive. Her nesting instincts are going to kick in eventually, no matter how much she tries to suppress them. When she comes to the house, I want her to have the best. I want her to feel completely surrounded by comfort.”

Logan sighs, leaning against a display table. “Okay, first of all, she doesn’t even know you’re courting her yet. Second of all, you beat up her brother. She’s not exactly going to be eagerly jumping into a nest in our spare room.”

“It’s not the spare room,” Garrett corrects him smoothly. “It’s my room. And she’ll be there.”

“You’re dangerously delusional, man.”

“I’m prepared.” Garrett grabs four of the crushed velvet pillows in a deep, rich shade of burgundy and shoves them into Logan’s chest. Logan grunts, instinctively catching them. “Hold these. I need to look at the Egyptian cotton sheets. Smitty took the blockers off this morning, and my senses are dialed to a hundred. If a sheet feels scratchy to me, it’ll feel like sandpaper to her.”

Since the scent blockers were removed, Garrett’s entire world has snapped back into razor-sharp focus. The crushing, suffocating emptiness is gone, replaced by a relentless, thrumming energy. His alpha is awake, demanding action, demanding progress.

He spent the entire morning tearing apart his bedroom. He scrubbed every inch of it, threw away his cheap college sheets, and vacuumed until the carpet looked brand new. Now, he’s building the foundation. An alpha provides. It’s the most basic, fundamental instinct in his DNA. He couldn’t protect his mother, but he can provide for his mate. He will build her a sanctuary so perfect she won’t ever want to leave.

“Garrett!” Tucker’s voice cuts through the quiet hum of the boutique.

Garrett turns to see Tucker jogging through the glass doors, holding his phone up like a trophy.

“I’ve got a visual,” Tucker says, slightly out of breath as he navigates around a tower of decorative towels. “The O.M.E.G.A. Instagram account just went live. They’re hosting a protest. Right now.”

Garrett’s posture instantly straightens. The softness of the boutique vanishes from his mind. “Where?”

“BU quad. Right in front of the student union.” Tucker taps the screen. “Looks like a decent turnout. They’re protesting toxic alpha aggression in collegiate sports.”

Logan barks out a harsh laugh. “Gee, I wonder what sparked that particular topic?”

“This is it,” Garrett says, his pulse beginning to race. He steps away from the sheets. “This is the moment.”

“You’re going to crash an anti-alpha protest?” Tucker asks, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. “Garrett, they will literally tear you apart. You are public enemy number one right now.”

“I don’t care about them. I only care about her.” Garrett reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a small, plush object.

It’s a teddy bear. A ridiculously soft, expensive-looking bear with a little ribbon tied around its neck. But it’s not just a bear. For the last twenty-four hours, since he bought it at a boutique near the arena, Garrett has kept it pressed securely against the scent gland on his neck beneath his jacket.

It is saturated. Absolutely soaked in his natural scent — crisp winter air, sharp cedar, and a deep, grounding undertone of bergamot. It is a traditional first courting gift. A piece of the alpha, offered to the omega for her nest, to surround her with his scent and offer protection.

“A stuffed bear?” Logan asks, eyeing the plush toy. “Really?”

“It’s tradition,” Garrett says firmly, slipping the bear back into his pocket. He turns to the cashier, an older beta woman who is staring at them wide-eyed. “Ring up the pillows. And the silk sheets. Highest thread count you have. Logan will pay. I have to go.”

“Wait, I have to pay?” Logan yells as Garrett is already pushing through the glass doors, the bell chiming loudly overhead.

Garrett doesn’t look back. The blood is roaring in his ears. He’s going to see her.

***

The Boston University quad is buzzing with nervous, electric energy.

You stand on the concrete steps of the student union, the heavy megaphone gripped tightly in your hand. The wind whips your hair across your face, but you barely notice. You are running on pure adrenaline and righteous anger.

Over a hundred students are gathered on the lawn in front of you. Most are omegas and betas, holding up hastily made cardboard signs.

HOCKEY IS NO EXCUSE FOR ASSAULT.

HOLD ALPHAS ACCOUNTABLE.

INSTINCT DOES NOT EQUAL INNOCENCE.

“We are told, time and time again, that biology dictates behavior!” You shout into the megaphone, your voice echoing off the brick buildings. “We are told that alphas cannot control their territorial aggression. We are expected to just accept it when they treat us, and each other, like property to be fought over!”

A cheer of agreement ripples through the crowd. Jackie is standing in the front row, holding up a sign and nodding fiercely.

“Just three nights ago, we all witnessed this exact, toxic behavior on the ice!” You continue, your chest heaving. The memory of your brother bleeding on the ice is a fresh, burning brand in your mind. “An unprovoked, brutal attack! And what does the league do? They review it. They hesitate. Because ‘boys will be boys,’ right? Because ‘alpha instincts are complicated.’ No! It is a choice! Violence is a choice!”

You lower the megaphone for a second to catch your breath. Your hands are shaking slightly. It’s terrifying to stand up here, but you refuse to back down. You refuse to let the system win.

Suddenly, a strange ripple moves through the back of the crowd.

The chanting dies down. The cheering stops. People are turning around, their voices dropping into hushed, anxious whispers.

You frown, lifting the megaphone again. “Listen, we can’t let them-”

“Y/N,” Jackie says sharply from the front row. She isn’t looking at you. She’s staring wide-eyed toward the edge of the quad. “Look.”

You follow her gaze.

The crowd of students is physically parting. They are stepping back, creating a wide, empty path through the center of the lawn, as if repelled by a magnetic force.

And walking right down the middle of that path is Garrett Graham.

Your breath catches in your throat.

He is not in his hockey gear. He’s wearing dark jeans, a black t-shirt that stretches tightly across his broad chest, and a leather jacket. He looks massive. Imposing. Dangerous.

And the scent.

Oh god, the scent.

The wind shifts, carrying it directly up the steps and wrapping it around you like a physical blanket. Crisp winter air. Heavy cedar. Bergamot. It is intoxicating. It bypassed your brain completely and hooks straight into your chest. Your omega, the part of you that you spend every single day suppressing and ignoring, violently thrashes to life.

Alpha.

Your knees actually weaken for a split second. You have to lock your joints to stay standing. You grip the megaphone so tightly your knuckles turn white.

He stops at the bottom of the steps, looking up at you. His gray eyes are piercing. Unblinking. They strip away the crowd, the signs, the noise, leaving only you and him in a silent, high-stakes vacuum.

“What is he doing here?” someone mutters nearby.

“Is that the guy from Briar?”

You swallow hard, forcing the primal, biological panic down into the pit of your stomach. You are the president of O.M.E.G.A. You will not cower. Not in front of him.

You lift the megaphone to your mouth. “Are you lost, Graham?” You project, your voice echoing loudly across the silent quad.

Garrett doesn’t flinch. He just tilts his head slightly, a slow, infuriatingly confident smirk spreading across his lips.

“Or,” you continue, your voice dripping with venom, “are you here to voluntarily suspend yourself for the rest of the season? Because the athletic commission office is in the next building over.”

A few nervous chuckles break out in the crowd, bolstered by your defiance.

Garrett takes a step up the concrete stairs. The movement is slow, deliberate, and entirely predatory. He doesn’t look at the crowd. He never breaks eye contact with you.

“That’s adorable,” Garrett says. He doesn’t have a megaphone, but his voice is a deep, rich baritone that carries easily in the sudden silence. “But no. I’m not here for the athletic commission.”

He takes another step up. The distance between you is closing, and his scent is growing stronger, richer, wrapping around your senses and making your head spin.

“Then why are you here?” You demand, lowering the megaphone. You don’t need it. He’s close enough now.

“I think you know,” he says softly.

He stops two steps below you. He is still taller, his broad shoulders blocking out the sun. He looks at you with an intensity that borders on madness. It’s terrifying, but it’s also … magnetic. It takes every ounce of your willpower not to lean into the space between you.

Garrett reaches into the pocket of his leather jacket.

The crowd tenses. A few people gasp.

But he doesn’t pull out a weapon. He pulls out a small, incredibly soft-looking teddy bear.

You stare at it, completely thrown off balance. “What is that?”

“A gift,” Garrett says, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that vibrates straight into your bones.

He holds it out to you.

The moment the bear leaves his pocket, the scent hits you in a concentrated wave. It smells exactly like him. But deeper. Richer. It smells like safety. Like home. Like everything your biology is screaming at you to claim.

You recognize it instantly from your Omega Studies textbooks.

A courting gift. Scent-saturated. The first official step in an alpha claiming an omega.

A hot flush of pure, unadulterated outrage burns through your veins, instantly vaporizing the biological haze.

“Are you out of your goddamn mind?” You ask, your voice a harsh, disbelieving whisper. “You put my brother in the hospital, and now you’re bringing me a stuffed animal? You think you can just show up here and … and court me?”

“I don’t think,” Garrett says, his eyes darkening with possessive heat. “I know. You’re mine.”

“I am not yours!” You explode. You don’t even care that a hundred people are watching. “I am not property! I don’t belong to you, and I certainly don’t belong to a violent, out-of-control brute who attacks people because of some archaic biological glitch!”

Garrett’s jaw clenches, a muscle ticking in his cheek. But he doesn’t yell back. He doesn’t raise his voice. He just keeps the bear held out toward you.

“Take the gift,” he says quietly. It’s not a request. It’s a command, laced with heavy alpha pheromones meant to compel an omega into submission.

Your breath hitches. For a terrifying second, your hand actually twitches. Your fingers ache to reach out, to grab the soft plush, to press it against your nose and drown in his scent.

You violently yank your hand back, furious at your own body’s betrayal.

“Get off my campus,” you sneer.

Without breaking eye contact, you snatch the bear out of his hand.

Garrett’s eyes flare with immediate triumph, thinking you’ve accepted it.

But you don’t hold it. You don’t smell it. Using all your strength, you wind your arm back and throw the bear directly at his chest.

It hits his leather jacket with a soft thump and falls to the concrete step between his boots.

The entire quad gasps in collective horror. To throw an alpha’s courting gift back at them is the ultimate insult. It is a direct challenge. It is a rejection of their protection and their scent. In traditional circles, it’s enough to start a war.

Garrett looks down at the bear on the concrete.

Silence stretches so tight you can hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears. You brace yourself. You prepare for him to snap, to roar, to turn into the monster you saw on the ice.

Slowly, Garrett bends down. His large hand scoops the small bear off the step.

He doesn’t look angry.

He straightens up, brushing a speck of dust off the bear’s ear. He lifts the plush toy right up to his face, resting it just beneath his nose.

He closes his eyes and inhales deeply.

When his eyes open again, the blue irises are entirely blown out, swallowed by blown pupils. He looks feral. But not with rage.

With pleasure.

“You’re magnificent,” Garrett breathes out, a dark, wicked smile curving his lips.

You falter, stepping back. This wasn’t the reaction you expected. “What?”

“You touched it,” he says, his voice rough and thick. “Your hands were on it.”

He lowers the bear, looking at you like you are the only thing that exists in the entire universe.

“You think this is a game,” you say, your voice wavering just a fraction. “You think you can wear me down. I am telling you, Graham, I will fight you until my last breath. I will never submit to you.”

“I know,” Garrett says smoothly. He takes a step back, moving down the stairs. “That’s exactly what I’m counting on.”

He doesn’t say another word. He just turns around and walks back through the parted crowd. He doesn’t look back. He walks with the terrifying, easy swagger of a man who knows he has already won the war, even if he lost the first battle.

You stand frozen on the steps, your heart hammering against your ribs. Your hand, the one that touched the bear for a split second, tingles.

And the worst part? The absolute, most infuriating part?

The wind shifts again, and you can still smell him.

***

The house is dark by the time Garrett finally walks through the front door.

Logan, Dean, and Tucker are in the living room, a hockey game playing silently on the massive flat-screen TV. They all turn their heads as Garrett walks in.

“Well?” Logan asks, muting the TV. “How’d it go? Did she accept the gift? Are we planning a mating or a funeral?”

Garrett doesn’t answer immediately. He walks into the kitchen, tossing his keys onto the counter. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out the teddy bear.

He stares at it in the dim light coming from the stove hood.

“G?” Tucker asks, walking into the kitchen. He looks at the bear. “Did she reject it?”

“She threw it at my chest,” Garrett says.

Dean bursts into laughter from the living room. “Oh, man. I told you. She’s ruthless. You’re never going to break that one.”

“I don’t want to break her,” Garrett says softly.

He brings the bear up to his face again. The scent on the plush fabric is different now. It’s no longer just his sharp cedar and crisp winter air.

Intertwined with his scent, clinging to the fabric from the fraction of a second her hands gripped it, is the delicate, breathtaking scent of vanilla and rainwater.

His scent. And yours. Tangled together.

It is the most intoxicating thing he has ever experienced. It sends a spike of pure, primal satisfaction straight to his brain. She touched it. She infused it with her essence. Even in rejection, she left a piece of herself with him.

“She’s a fighter,” Garrett murmurs, his thumb stroking the soft fabric of the bear’s ear. “She’s angry, and she’s stubborn, and she’s absolutely perfect.”

Logan walks into the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe. He watches Garrett smell the toy like a man possessed. “You’re sick in the head, man. She publicly humiliated you in front of a hundred BU students, and you look like you just won the Stanley Cup.”

“I won something better,” Garrett says, finally lowering the bear. He looks at Logan, a terrifying, calm certainty in his eyes. “She thinks her rejection pushed me away. She thinks I’m going to give up.”

“And you’re not.”

“I’m just getting started.”

Garrett walks past Logan, heading for the stairs. “I’m going to sleep. We have practice at 8 AM. We have to prepare for the playoffs.”

“What about the suspension?” Tucker calls out. “The league is still reviewing the tape!”

“They won’t suspend me,” Garrett says without looking back. “They’ll fine me. The commissioner loves money, and Briar brings in the ratings. I’ll be on the ice this weekend.”

He climbs the stairs to his bedroom — the room he spent hours scrubbing and preparing. He walks in and closes the door behind him.

The moonlight filters through the blinds, illuminating the ridiculous amount of luxury bedding piled onto his mattress. It looks excessive. It looks insane.

Garrett doesn’t care.

He strips down to his boxers, tossing his clothes into a hamper. He climbs into the bed, the expensive silk sheets cool and smooth against his skin. He pulls one of the crushed velvet pillows toward him, adjusting it.

Then, he brings the teddy bear up to his chest.

He tucks it right under his chin, his nose pressed directly into the plush fabric.

He breathes in. Deep and slow.

Vanilla. Rainwater. Cedar. Jasmine.

It’s a promise. It’s a taste of the future. She is out there, right now, across the city, probably seething with anger, writing another speech about how much she hates alphas.

Garrett closes his eyes, a soft, satisfied groan rumbling in his chest.

You’re so feisty, he thinks, the darkness pulling him under. It’s just going to make claiming you that much more satisfying.

He falls asleep instantly, his heart beating in steady rhythm, his lungs filled with the scent of his destined mate.

***

Three months.

That is exactly how long you have been locked in a silent, infuriating war of attrition with Garrett Graham.

It started with the teddy bear at the protest, but it didn’t end there. Oh, no. For a guy who spends his weekends brutally slamming other men into fiberglass walls, the Briar Hawks’ captain possesses an absolutely terrifying amount of patience.

He didn’t text you. He didn’t call. He didn’t show up at your dorm to harass you.

Instead, he launched a highly coordinated, psychological courting campaign.

During finals week in December, when you were running on three hours of sleep and pure anxiety, a courier delivered a massive box to the library reference desk with your name on it. Inside were six different blends of expensive, organic loose-leaf tea meant to soothe omega stress, a ceramic mug, and a pair of top-tier noise-canceling headphones.

You donated the tea to the campus food pantry and gave the headphones to Jackie.

In January, when the Boston winter became unbearable, a custom-made, heated weighted blanket appeared at the O.M.E.G.A. student office. It was incredibly soft, ridiculously heavy, and smelled distinctly like crisp winter air and cedar. You threw it in the campus dumpster.

Every gift was practical. Every gift was thoughtful. Every gift was a glaring, neon sign blinking I am an alpha who can provide for you better than you can provide for yourself.

And it drove you absolutely insane.

Now, it’s late March. The snow is beginning to melt, turning the BU campus into a slushy mess.

You are sitting on your bed, staring at the small, unassuming cardboard box sitting on your desk. It arrived thirty minutes ago. Jackie is sitting on her futon, eating popcorn and watching you stare at the box like it’s a bomb about to detonate.

“Just open it,” Jackie says, tossing a kernel into her mouth. “What’s the worst it could be? A diamond ring? Keys to a Porsche? The horror.”

“He’s escalating,” you say, crossing your arms over your oversized sweatshirt. “It’s a small box. That means it’s not a blanket or a fruit basket. It’s something specific. It’s a calculated strike.”

“You talk about this guy like he’s a supervillain,” Jackie laughs. “He’s just a guy who is biologically obsessed with you. It’s actually kind of romantic, in a twisted, obsessive way.”

“It’s not romantic. It’s stalking with a budget.”

You slide off the bed and walk over to the desk. You pull a pair of scissors from your cup holder and slice through the packing tape. You fold back the cardboard flaps.

Inside, resting on a bed of black tissue paper, is a book.

You frown. A book? You carefully lift it out. It’s an older edition, the dust jacket slightly faded at the edges. You turn it over to read the cover.

The Autonomy of Instinct by Dr. Josephine Richter.

All the air leaves your lungs in a sharp, sudden rush.

“What is it?” Jackie asks, noticing your sudden stillness.

“It’s … it’s Josephine Richter,” you whisper, your fingers trembling slightly as you trace the embossed letters of the title. “She’s the founder of modern-day omeganism. This book is the foundational text of the entire O.M.E.G.A. movement.”

“Okay, so he bought you a textbook. That’s a weird flex for a hockey player.”

“Jackie, it’s not a textbook,” you say, flipping the cover open. You stare at the title page, your heart dropping into your stomach.

There, written in faded black ink, is a personalized note and the loopy, unmistakable signature of Dr. Josephine Richter herself.

To a brighter future - J. Richter, 1964

“It’s a signed first edition,” you say, your voice cracking. “These are practically impossible to find. They belong in museums. They cost … I don’t even want to know how much this cost.”

Jackie stops chewing her popcorn. “Damn. Okay. That is a flex.”

You slam the book shut, a hot, blinding wave of fury washing over you.

This isn’t a blanket. This isn’t tea. This is him holding your entire belief system in the palm of his hand and wrapping a bow around it. It’s a message. It says: *I see your movement, I see your rebellion, and I can buy it. I can buy anything you care about.*

It’s patronizing. It’s arrogant. It’s the ultimate alpha power play.

“That’s it,” you snap, shoving the book into your canvas tote bag.

“Whoa, where are you going?” Jackie asks, sitting up.

“I am going to put an end to this,” you say, grabbing your keys and your winter coat. “He thinks he can just wear me down with a credit card. He thinks he knows me. I’m going to march right into his obnoxious frat house and give him a piece of my mind.”

“Y/N, wait, are you sure that’s a good idea?” Jackie calls out as you march toward the door. “Going onto his turf? Your omega is going to absolutely freak out.”

“My omega is perfectly under control,” you throw back over your shoulder. “I’m going to Briar.”

***

Garrett sits at the large kitchen island in his off-campus house, nursing a protein shake.

The house is relatively quiet for a Tuesday afternoon. Tucker is at class, and Dean is asleep on the couch with a textbook covering his face. Logan is sitting across from Garrett, scrolling through his phone.

“Playoffs start next week,” Logan says without looking up. “Coach is going to run us into the ground at practice tomorrow. Make sure you hydrate.”

“I’m always hydrated,” Garrett mutters, staring blankly at the granite countertop.

“You’re always something,” Logan replies, finally looking up. He eyes Garrett critically. “You’ve been on edge all week. Let me guess. You sent her something else?”

Garrett’s jaw ticks. “Maybe.”

“G, it’s been three months. She’s thrown away everything you’ve given her. Including that weighted blanket I helped you pick out, which I am still deeply offended by, by the way. Don’t you think it’s time to admit defeat?”

“I don’t lose, Logan.”

“This isn’t a hockey game. You can’t just out-skate her.” Logan sighs, putting his phone down. “You have to consider the fact that maybe she really just doesn’t want an alpha.”

“She wants one,” Garrett says softly, his blue eyes darkening. “Her head is just getting in the way of her instincts. I just have to find the right key to unlock the door.”

Before Logan can respond, three sharp, aggressive knocks hammer against the front door.

Dean jolts awake on the couch, the textbook sliding off his face and hitting the floor with a thud. “What the hell? Who’s banging on the door like a cop?”

Garrett frowns, sliding off the barstool. He walks through the living room and pulls open the heavy wooden front door.

He stops dead in his tracks.

You are standing on his porch.

Your cheeks are flushed bright red from the cold wind. Your hair is a bit messy, and your eyes are blazing with absolute, unadulterated fury. You look like a valkyrie ready to burn his house down, and Garrett has never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

For a solid three seconds, Garrett’s brain completely short-circuits. His alpha roars to life so fast it makes him dizzy.

Mate. Home. You came home.

“You,” you snarl, pointing a single, accusatory finger directly at his chest.

“Me,” Garrett replies, his voice immediately dropping into a low, rumbling purr. He grips the edge of the doorframe, trying to keep himself from reaching out and dragging you inside.

“Don’t you purr at me, Graham,” you snap, stepping forward.

You are entirely too close. The scent of vanilla and fresh rainwater hits him like a freight train. It’s been three months since he smelled you this close. He has been surviving on the fading remnants of your scent on the teddy bear he keeps in his bed, but this? This is the real thing. It’s intoxicating.

“Who’s at the door, G?” Logan calls out from the kitchen.

You don’t wait for an invitation. You push past Garrett, stepping right into the entryway of the house.

The moment you cross the threshold, the dynamic shifts.

You don’t notice it at first because you are blinded by rage. You march right into the living room, digging into your tote bag. Dean is sitting on the couch, staring at you with wide, shocked eyes. Logan walks into the living room, stopping dead when he sees you.

“Holy shit,” Dean whispers. “It’s the omega.”

“Out,” Garrett orders softly, closing the front door behind you. The click of the lock echoes loudly in the room.

Logan and Dean don’t need to be told twice. They take one look at Garrett’s face — the dark, blown-out pupils, the rigid posture — and they practically sprint for the back door.

“Nice meeting you!” Dean calls out before the back door slams shut.

You ignore them. You pull the vintage copy of The Autonomy of Instinct out of your bag and slam it down onto the glass coffee table.

“Explain this,” you demand, turning to face Garrett.

Garrett doesn’t look at the book. He walks slowly toward you, his massive frame moving with predatory grace. “Did you like it?”

“Like it?” You scoff, throwing your hands in the air. “Are you insane? It’s a first edition Josephine Richter! You can’t just casually mail this to someone’s dorm room!”

“Why not? I thought it would make you happy.”

“It doesn’t make me happy! It makes me furious!” You yell, your chest heaving. “You think this is some kind of game! You think you can just buy my submission! You think because you have money you can purchase a piece of my movement and hand it to me like a shiny toy!”

“I don’t want your submission,” Garrett says, stopping just two feet away from you. He looks down at you, his expression completely serious. “I wanted to show you that I listen to you. I see what matters to you. And I support it.”

“You don’t support it! You embody everything O.M.E.G.A. is fighting against!” You argue, but your voice wavers slightly.

Because suddenly, the anger is starting to slip.

You are standing in his house.

The entire space is saturated in his scent. Sharp cedar. Crisp winter air. Bergamot. It’s in the couches. It’s in the rug. It’s in the very oxygen you are breathing.

It is overwhelmingly, suffocatingly alpha.

Your pulse begins to race, but not from anger. A deep, heavy heat starts to pool low in your stomach. Your breathing turns shallow.

“You …” you start, trying to regain your train of thought. You look at the broad expanse of his chest in his gray t-shirt. “You think you can just …”

Garrett watches the shift happen. He sees the exact moment your righteous fury falters. Your pupils dialate, a beautiful, liquid black swallowing the color of your eyes. Your rigid posture softens.

“I think,” Garrett says softly, his voice a hypnotic rumble, “that you’re fighting a war that ended the second we met.”

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. But you don’t step back.

Your omega is waking up.

It’s been suppressed by stress, by blockers, by pure, stubborn willpower. But standing here, in the den of the alpha who has been relentlessly pursuing you, providing for you, proving his dedication … your biology simply takes the wheel.

You feel a sudden, desperate urge to close the distance. Your skin feels too tight. You feel cold, and the only source of warmth in the entire world is the massive man standing in front of you.

“Y/N,” Garrett murmurs, seeing the glazed, hazy look in your eyes. He knows exactly what is happening. He keeps his hands firmly at his sides, refusing to push you. He needs you to come to him.

You let out a soft, fractured breath. The smell of cedar is so heavy it feels like a physical weight on your tongue.

Without thinking, without a single shred of rational thought, you take a step forward.

You close the gap between you. You are so close you can feel the heat radiating off his body. You look up at him, your lips parted, your breathing ragged.

“You smell so good,” you whisper. The words slip out of your mouth before your brain can stop them.

Garrett’s eyes flare with dark, possessive triumph. His chest rises and falls with a heavy breath, a low, rumbling purr starting deep in his chest. It vibrates in the air between you, a sound meant to soothe and encourage a distressed omega.

It works.

The purr shatters the last of your restraint.

You lift your hands. You place your palms flat against his chest. His heart is hammering wildly against your fingertips. The muscle beneath his shirt is rock hard.

Garrett remains completely still, letting you explore him. He is terrified that if he moves too fast, he’ll break the spell and you’ll run.

You slide your hands up his chest, over his broad shoulders. You step up onto your tiptoes.

Your omega demands comfort. It demands recognition. It demands to be claimed.

You tilt your head, exposing the sensitive skin of your own neck, and you press the inside of your wrist directly against the pulse point on the side of Garrett’s neck. Right over his scent gland.

Garrett lets out a harsh, jagged groan. The sound sends a violent shiver straight down your spine.

You rub your wrist against his neck, a slow, deliberate circle. You are scenting him. You are marking him with your scent, claiming him as yours in the most primal, instinctual way possible.

“Fuck,” Garrett breathes out, his hands finally coming up to grip your hips. His touch is firm, grounding, but he doesn’t pull you closer. He just holds you there, letting you work.

You switch hands, bringing your other wrist up to rub against his jawline. You press your face into his chest, inhaling deeply, letting the cedar and bergamot fill your lungs. It feels so right. It feels like the safest place in the entire world.

“My turn,” Garrett whispers, his voice thick with lust and alpha instinct.

You whimper softly, tilting your head back further, offering yourself to him.

Garrett leans down. He doesn’t use his wrists. He uses his face. He presses his nose directly against the scent gland on the side of your neck, right below your ear.

He inhales so deeply you can feel the pull of air against your skin.

Then, he rubs his cheek against your neck. The slight stubble on his jaw scrapes deliciously against your sensitive skin. He drags his scent gland directly over yours, mixing his heavy cedar with your sweet vanilla.

He is marking you. Claiming you. Overwriting every other scent on your body with his own.

It feels incredible. A wave of pure, heavy euphoria crashes over you, making your knees buckle.

Garrett catches you instantly. His strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against his body. He holds you up, his face still buried in your neck, purring loudly into your skin.

“Perfect,” he murmurs against your collarbone. “You’re perfect. Mine. So incredibly sweet.”

He presses an open-mouthed kiss against your pulse point.

The wet heat of his mouth against your skin is like a bucket of ice water to your brain.

The euphoria shatters. The biological haze cracks, letting the cold, harsh light of reality flood back into your mind.

What are you doing? You are practically making out with Garrett Graham’s neck in his living room. You are scenting him. You are letting him scent you. You are submitting.

Panic, sharp and violently bright, erupts in your chest.

“No,” you gasp, your eyes snapping wide open.

You plant your hands flat against his chest and shove him backward with all your strength.

Garrett stumbles back a step, clearly caught off guard. His eyes are entirely black, glazed with lust and alpha satisfaction. He reaches for you again instinctively. “Y/N-”

“Don’t touch me!” You scream, stumbling backward until the back of your knees hit the couch.

You look at him, horrified. You look at your own hands, trembling violently. You can smell him all over you. Your skin is practically humming with his scent.

“I’m sorry,” Garrett says quickly, his hands raised in surrender. He takes a deep breath, forcing his alpha down, trying to clear his head. “I didn’t mean to scare you. You initiated it, sweetheart, I just-”

“Don’t call me that!” You shout, grabbing your tote bag off the coffee table. You leave the book sitting there. You don’t care. You need to leave. You need to get out of this house before you do something permanent. Before you let him bite you.

“Y/N, wait, please. Let’s just talk.” Garrett takes a step forward, his voice pleading.

“There is nothing to talk about!” You back away toward the front door, your breathing erratic. “This … this was a mistake. A biological misfire. It doesn’t mean anything!”

“You know that’s a lie,” Garrett says, his voice dropping an octave, serious and firm. “You felt it just as much as I did. You feel safe with me.”

“I feel suffocated by you!” You lie, your voice cracking.

You turn around, grab the doorknob, and yank the front door open. The freezing March air hits your face, snapping the last lingering threads of the scent-haze.

“You can run,” Garrett calls out from the living room, not moving to chase you. He stands perfectly still amidst the wreckage of your restraint, looking like a king who has just breached the castle walls. “But you can’t wash me off! You smell like me now! Everyone on campus is going to know exactly who you belong to!”

You let out a choked sob of frustration and sprint out the door, slamming it shut behind you.

You run down the front steps and down the sidewalk, ignoring the slush seeping into your boots. You run until your lungs burn and the Briar hockey house is completely out of sight.

You stop at a corner, leaning against a brick wall to catch your breath.

You bring a trembling hand up to your neck. The skin there is still warm. It’s tingling.

You close your eyes and take a shaky breath.

He was right.

You smell like him. You smell like crisp winter air, heavy cedar, and absolute, undeniable safety.

And the most terrifying part of all?

Your omega is already crying out to go back.

***

Garrett stands in the quiet living room for a long time after the door slams shut.

The house feels empty again. Colder.

But the air is permanently changed. Woven into the heavy cedar of his own scent is the sweet, bright trail of vanilla and rainwater. You were here. You willingly walked into his den. You touched him. You scented him.

The back door creaks open. Logan cautiously sticks his head into the kitchen.

“Is the coast clear?” Logan asks quietly. “Did she kill you?”

Garrett slowly turns around.

Logan pauses, taking in the sight of his best friend. Garrett’s hair is messy, his eyes are still dark, and there is a terrifying, triumphant smile playing on his lips.

“Logan,” Garrett says, his voice thick and rough.

“Yeah, G?”

Garrett reaches up and touches the side of his own neck, right where you pressed your wrist against his pulse point.

“She scented me,” Garrett whispers, the awe and victory clear in his voice. “My omega scented me.”

Logan lets out a long breath, stepping fully into the kitchen. He walks over to the fridge and pulls out two beers, twisting the caps off and handing one to Garrett.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Logan says, clinking his bottle against Garrett’s. “Congratulations, man. You broke the ice.”

Garrett takes a long pull of the beer, his eyes drifting down to the vintage book left abandoned on the coffee table.

“I didn’t just break the ice,” Garrett says softly, his thumb tracing the condensation on the glass bottle. “I started an avalanche. And now, she has nowhere left to run.”

He looks to his left. His mother’s eyes are red-rimmed, her makeup flawlessly intact but her expression completely shattered. Beside her, his father sits with a stoic, grave expression, his jaw tight. They are high-powered attorneys, people who rip apart witnesses for a living and negotiate million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. But right now, they just look like two devastated parents grieving a boy who practically lived at their house over the summer.

“I’m fine, Mom,” Dean lies, his voice a low, raspy gravel.

“You don’t have to be fine,” his father murmurs, leaning in slightly. “Not today. Not for a long time.”

Dean swallows hard and looks away. He isn’t fine. Beau is in that box. His best friend. His blood brother. Briar University’s star quarterback, the guy with the golden arm and the shit-eating grin.

Dead.

The word still doesn’t make sense in his brain. It’s a typo. A bad joke. Dean knows a lot of things. He knows how to throw a party, how to close down a bar, and how to charm his way out of a parking ticket. He knows how to live. He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to look at a wooden box and accept that his best friend is never going to throw a football at his head again.

“Hey,” a low voice says from the pew behind him.

Dean turns his head. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are sitting right behind him, all wearing dark suits, looking equally as wrecked.

“You see her yet?” Logan asks, keeping his voice strictly to a whisper.

Dean shakes his head. “No. Have you?”

“Joanna walked in a few minutes ago,” Garrett says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said they were right behind her. Beau’s dad is in a wheelchair. Neck brace. It’s … it’s bad, man.”

Dean exhales a shaky breath, turning his attention to the front row. The family pews. Empty so far.

His chest tightens at the thought of you.

You and Beau. Beau and you. The Maxwell twins. You were glued to the hip from day one. When Dean met Beau freshman year, he met you by extension. As a cheerleader, you were always around the athletic department, but even without the pompoms, you would have been there. The three of you became inseparable.

Dean closes his eyes, a memory hitting him so hard it physically aches.

***

“Dude, she’s my twin. You can’t look at her like that,” Beau says, tossing a crumpled-up napkin across the booth at Malone’s

“Like what?” Dean deflects, catching the napkin with one hand and smirking. “I’m looking at her like she’s hoarding the last order of chili cheese fries.”

“I am hoarding them,” you say, pulling the greasy basket closer to your chest. “And if you try to take them, Di Laurentis, I’ll stab you with this plastic fork. I’m not playing around.”

“Fierce. I like it,” Dean laughs, leaning across the table.

“Stop flirting with my sister,” Beau groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Seriously, Dean. You have a new girl in your room every night. Leave this one alone.”

“I’m not flirting,” Dean argues, kicking your shin lightly under the table. “I’m just appreciating her aggressive approach to saturated fats.”

“You’re a pig,” you tell him, though you’re trying not to smile. You spear a fry and point it at him. “And for the record, Beau, I can handle Dean. He’s all talk.”

“I am definitely not all talk,” Dean says, winking at you.

“Gross,” Beau deadpans. “Both of you. Gross. Eat your fries, Y/N, before I steal them myself.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you gasp.

“Try me,” Beau challenges, his eyes lighting up with that familiar, competitive fire.

***

The heavy oak doors at the back of the church open, snapping Dean back to the present. The low murmur of the packed church falls completely silent.

Dean turns.

You are walking down the center aisle.

His breath catches in his throat. You look completely empty. Your spine is rigidly straight, holding you up purely on autopilot. You are wearing a simple black dress, your face pale and completely devoid of makeup. There are dark, bruised-looking circles under your eyes. Beside you is your older sister, Joanna, gripping your arm, and behind you, your mother is pushing your father in a wheelchair.

Dean watches as you walk right past his pew. You don’t look at him. You don’t look at anyone. You are staring straight ahead at the casket, your eyes locked onto the polished wood like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored to the floor.

He wants to reach out. He wants to grab your hand, pull you into his lap, and hide you from the hundreds of pitying eyes staring at you. But he stays frozen in his seat.

You sit down in the front row. Joanna sits beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You just sit there, perfectly still.

The service begins. The pastor steps up to the podium, his voice echoing through the massive sanctuary. He talks about God, about mysterious ways, about Beau’s bright light. Dean tunes it all out. It’s all bullshit. There is no mysterious reason for a deer to sprint across a dark Wisconsin road. There is no divine plan for black ice. It’s just a stupid, senseless accident.

“And now,” the pastor says softly, stepping back. “Beau’s sister has asked to say a few words.”

Dean’s head snaps up. He watches as Joanna whispers something in your ear. You nod once, a sharp, jerky movement.

You stand up.

A ripple of uneasy tension sweeps through the church. You look fragile, like a stiff breeze could snap your bones in half. You walk up the three small steps to the altar. You don’t look at the casket as you pass it.

You step up to the wooden podium and grip the edges. Your knuckles instantly turn white.

You stand there for a long time. The silence stretches, thick and agonizing. Dean leans forward, his hands braced on his knees, every muscle in his body coiled tight.

“Hi,” you whisper into the microphone. It squeals slightly, and you flinch.

You take a shaky breath, looking out at the crowd. Your eyes sweep over the sea of dark clothing.

“I’m … I’m Beau’s sister,” you start, your voice trembling. “His twin sister.”

You stop, swallowing hard.

“Most of you know Beau as the quarterback,” you say, your voice gaining a tiny fraction of strength. “You know him as the guy who threw the game-winning pass in the championships. You know him as the guy who was always smiling, always laughing. The guy who threw the best parties.”

A few soft, sad chuckles ripple through the Briar football team sitting on the right side of the church.

“But that’s just … that’s just the stuff he let everyone see,” you continue, staring down at the wood of the podium. “Beau was … he was my other half. We shared a womb. We shared our childhood. We shared everything.”

You look up, and for the first time, your eyes meet Dean’s.

Dean feels a sharp, physical pain in his chest. Your eyes are completely shattered.

“He was the most fiercely protective person I’ve ever known,” you say, holding Dean’s gaze. “If I was sad, he wouldn’t just ask what was wrong. He would rip the world apart trying to fix it. He loved his friends. He loved his family. He loved his life.”

You look away, your gaze drifting down to the front row, resting on your dad in his wheelchair.

“We went to Wisconsin for my grandma’s birthday,” you say. The tremble is back in your voice, more pronounced this time.

Dean’s jaw clenches. He knows this part. Beau had texted him right before they left the house. 

“My dad was driving,” you say softly.

Your father bows his head, his shoulders shaking in the wheelchair.

“It was snowing,” you whisper. You let go of the podium with one hand, wrapping your arms tightly around your own waist. “A deer ran out. Dad swerved. He hit black ice. The car spun and hit a tree.”

You stop. You take a breath, but it hitches, turning into a wet, jagged gasp.

“Take your time, sweetheart,” the pastor says gently from behind you.

“No,” you say, shaking your head rapidly. “No. You don’t understand.”

You grip the podium again, leaning into the microphone. Your breathing is speeding up, erratic and panicked.

“I stayed behind,” you say, your voice cracking loudly over the speakers. “My grandma … she asked me to stay a little longer. For another slice of pie. Just a stupid piece of cherry pie.”

“Y/N,” Joanna whispers loudly from the front pew, standing up.

“If I hadn’t stayed,” you say, your voice rising in volume, cracking with a sob. “I would have been in the car. I always sit in the passenger seat. Always. It’s my seat.”

Tears start spilling down your cheeks, fast and heavy.

“Beau took my seat,” you cry out, the sound echoing off the high vaulted ceilings. “He sat in the passenger seat because I wasn’t there.”

Dean is already moving. He doesn’t consciously decide to stand up. He just does.

“Y/N, honey, please,” your dad chokes out from his wheelchair, reaching a hand toward you.

“It should have been me!” You scream, your voice completely breaking. You grip the podium like it’s the only thing keeping you from floating away. “The impact was on the passenger side! It snapped his neck! It should have been my neck!”

“Oh my god,” Dean’s mom whispers behind him, covering her mouth.

“I want to trade!” You sob, looking up at the ceiling, looking at the casket, looking anywhere. “Please, God, let me trade! I’ll take his place! It’s supposed to be me! Put me in the box, please, please let him out!”

You let go of the podium to cover your face, and the moment you do, your legs give out.

You collapse.

You completely fold in on yourself, crumbling to the floor of the altar like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Y/N!” Joanna screams, rushing forward.

But Dean is faster.

He clears the row of pews, shoving past the pastor and dropping to his knees on the hard marble floor right beside you.

“I’ve got her,” Dean barks at Joanna, his voice sharp and authoritative enough to make the older sister freeze. “Give her air. Back up.”

Dean reaches out and gathers you into his arms. You are violently shaking, gasping for air in short, panicked bursts. You are having a full-blown panic attack right in the middle of the altar.

“Y/N,” Dean says, keeping his voice steady despite the absolute terror racing through his veins. He pulls you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your trembling frame. “Look at me. Hey. Look at me.”

You thrash against him weakly. “No! No, Dean, it’s my fault! It’s my fault!”

“It is not your fault,” he says fiercely, grabbing the sides of your face with both hands. His thumbs brush roughly over your tear-soaked cheeks. “Do you hear me? It was a fucking accident. It is not your fault.”

“I want him back!” You scream against Dean’s chest, burying your face into his expensive suit jacket, your hands fisting in his lapels. “Dean, please, please bring him back. Tell him to get up.”

Dean feels something hot and wet slide down his own cheek. He doesn’t care who sees him crying. He doesn’t care about the hundreds of people staring at them. Right now, there is only you. You are the only piece of Beau he has left, and he will be damned if he lets you fall apart on this floor alone.

“I know, baby,” Dean whispers, his voice cracking as he presses his lips hard against the top of your head. He pulls you tighter, rocking you slightly. “I know. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

“I can’t breathe,” you gasp, your fingers clutching his shirt tight enough to rip the buttons. “Dean, I can’t breathe. My chest hurts. Make it stop.”

“Follow my breathing,” he commands, forcing his own erratic lungs to slow down. He exaggerates the rise and fall of his chest. “In and out. Come on, Y/N. In and out.”

“I can’t live without him,” you sob, the sound so broken it physically tears at Dean’s heart. “I don’t know how to be a person without him.”

“You don’t have to figure it out today,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He keeps his arms wrapped like a vice around you, shielding you from the eyes of the crowd. “You just have to breathe right now. That’s all you have to do. Just breathe for me.”

Joanna is hovering nearby, crying into her hands. The pastor is awkwardly standing off to the side. The entire church is dead silent, save for the agonizing sound of your sobs echoing off the walls.

“He would have hated this,” you whisper hysterically, your forehead pressed against Dean’s collarbone. “He would have hated everyone looking at us.”

Dean lets out a wet, genuine laugh, the sound rough with grief. “Yeah. He would’ve called us dramatic.”

“He would’ve thrown a football at your head,” you add, letting out a broken sob that sounds half like a laugh.

“And told me to stop holding his sister,” Dean adds softly.

You grip his jacket tighter, burying your face deeper into his chest. “Don’t let go, Dean. Please don’t let go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean promises. And he means it. He means it more than he’s meant anything in his entire twenty-two years of life. Beau trusted him. Beau loved him. And Beau loved you more than the sun.

“I’m right here,” Dean whispers into your hair, completely ignoring the pastor trying to resume the service. “I’m right here, and I’m not leaving. I swear to god, I’ve got you.”

***

Briar University looks exactly the same, and Dean hates it.

He stands in the middle of the quad, his hockey duffel slung over one shoulder, staring at the brick buildings and the swarms of students rushing to class. The sun is shining. Someone is throwing a frisbee near the library. A group of freshmen are laughing too loudly by the fountain.

It makes him sick to his stomach.

How can they just keep going? How is the bell still ringing? How is the cafeteria still serving terrible eggs? Beau is gone. The loudest, brightest, most invincible guy on this campus is in the ground, and Briar is just … moving on.

Dean adjusts his grip on his bag and forces his legs to move. He has to go to his Development of Sociological Thought elective. He doesn’t want to. He hasn’t wanted to do anything but lock himself in a dark room and drink until his liver gives out, but he can’t. He has to go to class. Because you are supposed to be in that class.

He walks into the lecture hall and immediately zeroes in on the fourth row, middle section.

Empty.

Dean’s jaw clenches. He drops into the seat next to yours, ignoring the sympathetic glances from a few girls in the row ahead. He stares at your empty desk for the entire fifty-minute lecture. You haven’t been to class all week.

“Hey, Dean?”

Dean blinks, snapping out of his daze as the lecture hall empties out. He looks up. Lacey, the co-captain of the cheer squad, is standing awkwardly by his desk. She looks nervous, her manicured fingers twisting the strap of her tote bag.

“What’s up, Lacey?” Dean asks, his voice flatter than he intends.

“It’s about Y/N,” Lacey says quietly, glancing over her shoulder as if she’s sharing state secrets. “Have you talked to her? Seen her?”

“No,” Dean admits, a cold spike of anxiety hitting his chest. “I texted her a few times, but she hasn’t answered. I figured she just wanted space. The funeral was … it was a lot.”

“I know,” Lacey says sympathetically. “But she hasn’t shown up to practice all week. Coach is starting to ask questions. I tried knocking on her door yesterday, but she didn’t answer. I’m just … I’m worried about her, Dean. She shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“She’s not answering her door?” Dean asks, standing up sharply.

“No,” Lacey shakes her head. “And her roommate moved into her boyfriend’s frat house for the week to give Y/N some privacy, so nobody has actually been inside the room since she got back from Wisconsin.”

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay. Thanks, Lacey. I’ll handle it.”

He doesn’t wait for her response. He grabs his bag and takes the stairs two at a time, bursting out the doors of the academic building.

The walk to your dorm takes exactly eight minutes. Dean does it in four.

His heart is hammering against his ribs in a chaotic, uneven rhythm. Space is one thing. Grief is one thing. But radio silence for days, locked in an empty room? That isn’t just taking time to adjust.

He hits the third floor of the dorm building and strides down the hall, dodging a couple of guys tossing a lacrosse ball. He stops in front of Room 314 and knocks. Three sharp raps.

“Y/N? It’s Dean. Open up.”

Silence.

He knocks again, louder this time. “Come on, I know you’re in there. Lacey said your roommate is out for the week. Open the door.”

Nothing. Not a shuffle of feet, not a rustle of blankets. Nothing.

Panic, cold and sharp, slices straight through his veins.

Oh god. He digs frantically into his pocket, his fingers fumbling with his keychain. He, Beau, and you all swapped emergency keys sophomore year. He shoves the brass key into the lock, twists it, and throws the door open.

The room is completely pitch black. The heavy blackout curtains are drawn tight, blocking out every ounce of midday sun. The air is stale, thick, and smells faintly of sweat and something metallic.

“Y/N?” Dean asks, his voice cracking.

He flips the light switch.

You are a small, unmoving lump in the center of your bed.

Dean stops breathing. For one terrifying, heart-stopping second, his brain jumps to the absolute worst conclusion. You are too still. The silence in the room is too heavy. Did you take something? Was it on purpose? Did the grief finally swallow you whole and tell you the only way out was to follow your twin?

“No, no, no,” Dean chokes out, dropping his bag. He practically tackles the bed, his knees hitting the mattress hard. “Y/N! Hey!”

He grabs your shoulder and flips you onto your back.

Your eyes are open.

A massive, shuddering wave of relief crashes over Dean, making his head spin. You are breathing. The shallow rise and fall of your chest is there.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean gasps, pressing his forehead against the mattress beside your arm. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stop his hands from shaking. “You scared the absolute shit out of me.”

But you don’t respond.

Dean lifts his head, his relief evaporating instantly. You are staring straight up at the ceiling, but you aren’t looking at anything. Your eyes are completely vacant. Empty. Dead.

Your lips are chapped and peeling, your skin a sickly, translucent pale. There are deep, bruised hollows under your cheekbones, and your hair is tangled in a chaotic, matted mess around your face. You look like a ghost.

“Hey,” Dean whispers, his voice softening into something incredibly tender. He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair off your forehead. “I’m right here. I’m right here.”

You don’t blink. You don’t acknowledge him.

Dean’s heart physically aches. He knows exactly what this is. He’s been dancing on the edge of this exact void since the funeral. If it wasn’t for you — if it wasn’t for the desperate need to make sure you were okay — he would be face down on a sticky frat house floor right now, so high or so drunk he wouldn’t know his own name. He would be self-destructing in spectacular fashion.

But he can’t. He has to anchor you, which means he has to anchor himself. You are the only living piece of Beau he has left in this world.

Without hesitating, Dean kicks off his sneakers. He crawls fully onto the bed and lies down beside you. He wraps his arm securely around your waist, pulling your stiff, unresponsive body flush against his side. He tucks your head beneath his chin, wrapping his leg over yours to cage you in.

“I know,” Dean whispers into the crown of your head. He rubs his hand up and down your spine, feeling every single vertebrae through the thin cotton of your t-shirt. You’ve lost weight. In just a week, you’ve withered away. “I know it hurts. I know it feels like you can’t breathe.”

You blink slowly, but you don’t speak.

“I miss him too,” Dean says, his voice thickening. A tear slips down his cheek and lands in your hair. He doesn’t bother wiping it away. “God, I miss him so much I feel like I’m dying. But you’re not dying. I’m not going to let you.”

He lies there with you for a long time. The dorm room is silent except for the harsh sound of his own breathing and the agonizingly slow rhythm of yours. He traces soothing circles on your back, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours.

“Alright,” Dean finally says, his tone shifting. He sits up, gently untangling his limbs from yours. “Party’s over. You can’t rot in this bed forever.”

You don’t protest. You don’t do anything.

Dean grabs your hands and pulls you up into a sitting position. You flop forward like a ragdoll, your head resting against his chest.

“Come on,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you to keep you upright. “You need to get dressed. And you need to eat before you pass out and I have to call an ambulance. I don’t think either of us wants to deal with the Briar medical center today.”

He stands up, pulling you to your feet. Your legs buckle instantly.

Dean catches you effortlessly, lifting you slightly so your feet are barely touching the ground. “Whoa, okay. Easy. I got you.”

He guides you toward your closet. You lean heavily against his side, your bare feet dragging on the carpet.

“What do we want to wear?” Dean asks, opening the wardrobe. He talks to keep the silence at bay, forcing a casual lightness into his voice that he absolutely does not feel. “Sweatpants? Yeah, sweatpants feel right. High fashion is overrated anyway.”

He pulls out a pair of grey joggers and turns to look at you. You are staring blankly at the bottom of the closet.

“Okay, here,” Dean says gently. He crouches down. “Step in.”

He physically dresses you. He guides your legs into the sweatpants, pulls them up, and ties the drawstring. It’s intimately tragic. Two weeks ago, you would have slapped his hands away and called him a pervert for even being near your clothes. Today, you just let him maneuver you like a mannequin.

He stands up and reaches into the closet for a shirt, but your hand suddenly shoots out.

Your fingers, cold and trembling, latch onto the sleeve of a piece of clothing hanging in the back corner.

Dean freezes.

It’s a grey hoodie. Briar Football printed on the front. Beau’s hoodie.

Dean feels like someone has taken a baseball bat to his ribs. The sight of the fabric, the memory of Beau wearing it just a few weeks ago at a bonfire, laughing with a beer in his hand, is suffocating.

He wants to put it back. He wants to hide it. But he looks at your face. For the first time since he walked into the room, there is a flicker of emotion in your eyes. It’s raw, bleeding desperation.

“Okay,” Dean whispers, his voice completely wrecked. He reaches past you and unhooks the hoodie from the hanger. “Okay. Raise your arms.”

You lift your arms, and he pulls the heavy fabric over your head. The hoodie is massive on you. It swallows you whole, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips. The moment it’s on, you bring your knees to your chest and bury your nose in the collar, inhaling deeply.

A tiny, broken sob escapes your lips.

Dean swallows down the giant lump in his throat. He grabs a pair of your Ugg boots and slides them onto your feet.

“Let’s go,” he says softly.

He puts his arm around your waist, supporting most of your weight, and walks you out of the dorm.

***

Malone’s is packed. It’s prime lunchtime for the Briar athletic crowd, the air thick with the smell of cheap burgers, fryer grease, and loud conversations.

The moment the bell above the door jingles, announcing their arrival, heads turn.

Dean ignores them. He keeps a tight grip on your waist, steering you through the maze of tables toward a private booth in the far back corner. He slides you onto the vinyl seat, pushing you gently toward the wall so you’re tucked away safely, before sliding in right next to you. He doesn’t sit across the table. He sits beside you, his thigh pressed warmly against yours.

“Hey, Dean,” a waitress says, popping her gum as she approaches the table. Her eyes flick to you, her expression turning immediately sympathetic. Everyone on campus knows. “What can I get you guys?”

“Two waters,” Dean says, not looking at the menu. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”

“You got it,” she says softly, walking away.

Dean turns slightly in the booth to look at you. You are staring at the scuffed surface of the table, your hands tucked into the oversized sleeves of Beau’s hoodie.

“You’re going to eat,” Dean states. It’s not a question. “And you’re going to drink the entire milkshake. I’m not leaving until you do.”

You don’t respond.

A loud burst of laughter erupts from a table of frat guys a few booths down. One of them, a guy Dean vaguely recognizes from a business seminar, stands up to stretch and looks directly at your booth. He stares, his eyes lingering on your pale face and the oversized football hoodie. He nudges his buddy, pointing openly.

Dean’s blood turns to absolute ice.

“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice slicing through the diner chatter like a knife.

The frat guy blinks, looking at Dean.

Dean leans forward, his eyes narrowed into a lethal, terrifying glare. “Take a picture. It lasts longer. Or keep staring, and I’ll come over there and break your fucking nose. Your choice.”

The frat guy pales, quickly sitting down and turning his back. The surrounding tables suddenly get very quiet, everyone suddenly fascinated by their own food.

Dean exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders to bleed off the adrenaline. He turns back to you. You haven’t moved. You didn’t even flinch at his shouting.

The waitress quickly drops off the fries and the milkshake, avoiding eye contact with Dean before scurrying away.

“Alright,” Dean says softly, his voice dropping completely from the dangerous growl of a moment ago. He grabs a fry, dipping it in ketchup.

He holds it up to your mouth.

“Open,” he says.

You keep your lips pressed together, your eyes fixed on the table.

“Y/N, look at me,” Dean says, his tone firm but incredibly gentle.

Slowly, agonizingly, you lift your eyes. The emptiness in them is starting to crack, replaced by a deep, hollow exhaustion.

“I know everything tastes like ash right now,” Dean murmurs, holding the fry steady. “I know you don’t care if you starve. But I care. Beau cared. He would beat my ass if I let you waste away. So, open up. For me.”

You stare at him for a long, heavy second. Then, your lips part slightly.

Dean places the fry in your mouth. You chew mechanically, your jaw moving without any enthusiasm. It takes you an eternity to swallow.

“Good girl,” Dean whispers, grabbing the milkshake. He pushes the straw past your lips. “Drink.”

You take a small sip.

They sit there for an hour. Dean doesn’t touch a single fry for himself. He patiently, methodically hand-feeds you piece by piece, sip by sip, ignoring the curious and pitying stares from the rest of the diner. Whenever someone’s gaze lingers a little too long, Dean shoots them a look so murderous they immediately look away.

“I’m tired,” you whisper. It’s the first time you’ve spoken since the funeral. Your voice is raspy, unused, and incredibly fragile.

Dean’s heart stutters. He sets down the milkshake, moving his arm to wrap it around your shoulders. He pulls you against his side, tucking you into the crook of his arm.

“I know,” he says gently, resting his cheek on the top of your head. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

“He’s gone,” you say, a tear finally escaping and tracking through the dust on your cheek. “Dean, he’s really gone.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, his own throat burning. “He is.”

“What are we supposed to do?” You ask, turning your face to press into his shoulder. Your fingers grip his shirt, twisting the fabric. “How do we do this?”

“I don’t know,” Dean admits honestly, holding you tighter. He kisses your temple, his lips lingering against your skin. “I have no fucking clue. But we’re going to figure it out. Together. I promise you, Y/N. You are not doing this alone.”

And sitting there in the middle of the crowded diner, smelling like grease and grief, Dean realizes it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. You are his tether to the world now. And he will burn the entire campus down before he lets you slip away.

***

The sharp click of the lock tumbling in the door echoes through the quiet dorm room.

It’s eight in the morning, the sun brutally bright as it forces its way through the crack in your blackout curtains. You squeeze your eyes shut, pulling the heavy comforter up over your head. You don’t want to be awake. Being awake means remembering.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” a bright, unapologetically loud voice announces.

The comforter is suddenly ripped away, exposing you to the cold morning air. You shiver, curling into a tighter ball, pulling Beau’s oversized hoodie down over your hands.

“Go away, Dean,” you croak. Your voice sounds like sandpaper.

“Not a chance,” Dean says cheerfully.

The mattress dips as he sits down near your knees. You peek out from under your arms. He’s already fully dressed in dark wash jeans and a Briar Hockey t-shirt, his blond hair perfectly styled, looking infuriatingly awake.

“I brought a peace offering,” he says, holding up a plastic cup with a green siren logo. Condensation drips down the sides.

You blink at it. “What is that?”

“Icy, caffeinated heaven,” Dean replies, shaking the cup slightly so the ice clinks. “Venti iced brown sugar oat milk shaken espresso. Exactly the way you like it. I even bullied the barista into adding the extra cinnamon you always ask for.”

Your stomach gives a hollow twist, but the smell of the espresso wafting toward you does something to cut through the fog in your brain.

“I don’t want it,” you lie, turning your face into the pillow.

“Bullshit,” Dean counters smoothly. “Sit up, Y/N.”

“Dean, please,” you whisper, the exhaustion heavy in your bones. “I just want to sleep.”

“You slept all yesterday afternoon and all night,” Dean says, his tone shifting from playful to firm. “You’re getting up today. We have lecture in forty-five minutes.”

“I’m dropping that class,” you mutter into the pillow.

“No, you’re not.”

Before you can protest, Dean’s hands are on your arms, hauling you upright. You flop against his chest, dead weight. He chuckles softly, his chest vibrating against your cheek, and uses one arm to hold you up while he grabs the coffee with his free hand.

“Drink,” he orders, pressing the green straw to your lips.

You glare at him through half-open eyes, but you part your lips and take a sip. The hit of cold espresso, sweet brown sugar, and sharp cinnamon is incredible. It wakes up a tiny part of your brain that has been completely dormant for a week.

“There we go,” Dean praises, a satisfied smirk pulling at his mouth. He pulls the cup away. “Now, up. Go brush your teeth. Put on pants that don’t have a stain on the knee.”

“These are my depression sweatpants,” you argue weakly, looking down at the grey joggers he forced you into yesterday.

“They’re a tragedy to fashion, is what they are,” Dean deadpans. “Up. Now. Or I’ll literally carry you to the bathroom and brush your teeth for you. Do not test me, because I will do it.”

You look at him. His jaw is set, his green eyes completely serious despite the light tone. He isn’t going to let you rot. He is going to drag you back to the land of the living, kicking and screaming if he has to.

“Fine,” you sigh, pushing yourself off the bed on shaky legs. “You’re a tyrant.”

“I’m a visionary,” Dean corrects, handing you the coffee. “Ten minutes, Y/N. I’m timing you.”

***

The lecture hall is packed, the air thick with the smell of cheap body spray and stale coffee.

Dean steers you toward the middle row, his hand resting securely against the small of your back. You keep your head down, acutely aware of the glances thrown your way. You haven’t been back to class since the accident. You feel raw, like you’re walking around without a layer of skin.

You drop into your seat, pulling Beau’s hoodie tighter around yourself. Dean sits right next to you, his thigh pressing against yours. He slung his arm over the back of your chair the second he sat down, acting as a physical shield between you and the rest of the room.

“Just breathe,” Dean murmurs, leaning in close so only you can hear. “You’re doing great.”

Professor Higgins walks in a moment later, dropping a massive stack of papers onto his podium. He’s a terrifying, tenured man who takes his sociology lectures way too seriously.

“Alright, settle down,” Higgins barks, turning on the projector. “Last week, we discussed the functionalist perspective on societal norms. Who can summarize Durkheim’s concept of anomie?”

Silence descends over the room. Everyone suddenly avoids eye contact with the professor.

Higgins scans the room, his hawkish eyes darting from row to row. And then, horrifyingly, his gaze lands directly on you.

“Miss Maxwell,” Fowler says, his voice booming through the microphone. “Perhaps you can enlighten us. How does anomie relate to sudden structural changes in a person’s life?”

The air is instantly sucked out of your lungs.

Your heart hammers frantically against your ribs. Over two hundred students turn in their seats to look at you. The room feels incredibly small, the walls closing in. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your brain is entirely blank. A sudden structural change. The sudden, violent severing of your other half. The irony of the question is so sharp it physically hurts.

Panic starts to rise in your throat, choking you.

Under the desk, a large, warm hand slips over yours.

Dean intertwines his fingers tightly with yours. He gives your hand a firm, grounding squeeze. His thumb strokes the back of your knuckles, a steady, rhythmic motion.

“You know this,” Dean whispers, his voice barely a breath against your ear. “You explained it to me last month when I almost failed the quiz. Normlessness. Disconnect.”

The sheer, solid weight of Dean sitting beside you, his hand anchoring you to the present, cuts through the rising panic. You swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs.

“Anomie,” you start, your voice trembling slightly before you force it to steady. “It’s … it’s a state of normlessness. Durkheim argued that when society experiences rapid change or disruption, the normal rules and social structures break down. People feel disconnected from their community and their sense of purpose, leading to psychological distress and a breakdown of social order.”

Professor Higgins stares at you for a long moment. Then, he gives a sharp, approving nod.

“Exactly, Miss Maxwell. A textbook definition,” Fowler says, turning back to the whiteboard. “Now, to apply this to modern institutional structures …”

The spotlight is off you. The students turn back around.

You let out a shaky exhale, slumping slightly in your chair.

Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. He keeps his fingers laced with yours for the entire fifty-minute lecture, his thumb lazily tracing circles on your skin. Every time you start to drift into the dark, pulling back into your grief, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze, reeling you back to him.

***

When classes finally end for the day, you walk out to Dean’s car expecting him to drive you back to your dorm.

Instead, he takes a left at the campus gates, heading off campus.

“Where are we going?” You ask, watching the familiar streets of Briar disappear.

“My place,” Dean says smoothly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the radio.

“Dean, I just want to go to bed,” you protest, closing your eyes and leaning your head against the cool glass of the window.

“You’ve been in bed for a week,” Dean counters. “It’s bad for your muscles. Atrophy, Y/N. Science says so. Besides, Tucker is making his famous chicken parm for dinner, and if I don’t bring you, he’ll hold back my portion.”

“I don’t want to see people,” you whisper, the anxiety spiking again.

“They aren’t people, they’re just our idiot friends,” Dean says softly, throwing a quick glance your way. “They know what happened. Nobody’s going to ask you stupid questions or give you the pity eyes. I already threatened Logan with physical violence if he makes things weird.”

You let out a tiny, breathless huff that almost sounds like a laugh.

Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the driveway of the off-campus house he shares with three of his teammates. The house is a chaotic mess of hockey gear, empty beer boxes, and mismatched furniture.

Dean unlocks the front door and ushers you inside.

“We’re here!” Dean yells, tossing his keys into a bowl by the door.

“In the kitchen!” A deep voice calls back.

Dean guides you down the hall and into the massive, open-concept kitchen. Tucker is standing at the stove, an apron tied over his t-shirt, stirring a pot of marinara sauce that smells absolutely divine. Logan and Garrett are sitting at the kitchen island, arguing over something on Logan’s phone.

They all stop when you walk in.

There’s a split second of heavy silence. You tense, waiting for the awkward condolences, the tilted heads, the sad smiles.

But then Garrett simply raises a hand. “Hey, Y/N.”

“Hey,” you manage to say, your voice quiet.

“Good, you’re here,” Tucker says, gesturing with a wooden spoon. “Tell Logan that a hotdog is legally considered a sandwich. He’s being deliberately ignorant.”

“It’s a piece of meat surrounded by bread,” Garrett argues immediately, pointing at Logan. “By definition, it’s a sandwich.”

“It’s a tube of mystery meat in a bun!” Logan protests, throwing his arms up. “A bun is not two slices of bread! If you ask for a sandwich and someone hands you a hotdog, you’d be pissed!”

“I would be thrilled, actually,” Dean chimes in, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and handing it to you. “Hotdogs are elite.”

“You’re all idiots,” you murmur, leaning against the counter beside Dean.

Logan grins, a completely normal, easy expression. “See? Y/N agrees with me. The tie-breaker has spoken.”

The tension you didn’t even realize you were holding completely bleeds out of your shoulders. Dean was right. They aren’t treating you like a piece of fragile glass. They’re just treating you like … you.

Tucker dishes out massive plates of chicken parmesan and pasta, forcing the largest portion directly in front of you. You manage to eat half of it, which is the most you’ve eaten in over a week. Dean sits beside you the entire time, seamlessly intercepting any questions directed your way if you take too long to answer, covering for you without making it obvious.

After dinner, you all migrate to the living room. It’s dominated by a massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch that Dean definitely paid for.

“Alright, hand over the remote,” Dean demands, vaulting over the back of the couch to land next to you.

“We were watching the game,” Garrett protests from the recliner.

“We’re watching something else,” Dean says, snatching the remote from the coffee table. He navigates to a streaming service and pulls up The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

“Dude, really?” Logan groans, falling back onto the other end of the couch. “It’s Tuesday. Can we at least watch a movie?”

“Shut up, Logan,” Dean says comfortably, hitting play. “This is high-stakes drama. You learn a lot about human psychology from these women.”

“You just like watching rich people yell at each other at dinner parties,” Tucker points out, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch.

“Exactly,” Dean says, smirking.

He shifts on the couch, sprawling out and kicking his feet onto the coffee table. He casually drapes his arm along the back of the sofa, right behind your shoulders.

The episode starts, filled with immediate, ridiculous conflict about a stolen dress and a charity gala. It’s loud, colorful, and completely mindless.

“Wait,” Logan says ten minutes in, pointing at the screen. “Why is she mad? Didn’t she invite the other lady to the party?”

“She invited her as a formality,” Dean explains, not looking away from the TV. “She didn’t actually expect her to show up. It’s a power move.”

“That’s so passive-aggressive,” Garrett mutters, shaking his head. “Just drop the gloves and fight it out.”

“You can’t body-check someone at a charity gala, G,” Tucker laughs.

You sit quietly, listening to four massive, intimidating college hockey players aggressively analyze the social dynamics of middle-aged reality stars. The sheer absurdity of it chips away at the cold, dark wall surrounding your heart.

You let out a soft, genuine laugh when Logan vehemently defends one of the housewives for throwing a glass of wine.

Dean immediately looks at you. His eyes are soft, the corners crinkling just slightly. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand drops from the back of the couch, resting his palm warmly against your shoulder.

As the evening wears on, the exhaustion of the day finally catches up with you. The adrenaline of surviving classes and the heavy, carb-loaded dinner hit your system all at once.

The mindless arguing on the screen turns into a soft hum. The warmth of Dean sitting so close to you is intoxicating. Slowly, unconsciously, you tilt sideways. Your head comes to rest heavily against Dean’s shoulder.

Dean freezes for a fraction of a second. Then, he shifts his body entirely, angling himself to give you better access. He wraps his arm securely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.

You bury your face into his neck, the scent of his cologne — cedarwood and something uniquely, cleanly Dean — filling your senses. It’s so safe. It’s the safest you’ve felt since the phone call that destroyed your world.

Your eyes flutter shut, and for the first time in a week, you fall asleep without crying.

***

Dean wakes up to the quiet roll of the end credits playing on the TV screen.

The living room is empty. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker must have quietly headed upstairs to their rooms at some point, leaving just the soft glow of a lamp in the corner.

He looks down.

You are fast asleep against his chest. Your face is pressed into the crook of his neck, your soft breath puffing steadily against his skin. One of your hands is fisted loosely in his t-shirt. You look incredibly peaceful, the lines of grief completely smoothed out from your forehead.

Dean stares at you for a long time. His heart aches in a way that has nothing to do with Beau, and everything to do with you.

He gently shifts, sliding his arm under your knees and his other arm around your back. He stands up smoothly, lifting you against his chest. You are criminally light.

You stir slightly, mumbling something incoherent, but you don’t wake up. Your head falls against his shoulder, your face turning into his neck.

“I’ve got you,” Dean whispers, turning off the lamp with his elbow.

He carries you up the stairs, navigating the hallway to his bedroom at the end of the hall. He kicks the door open with his foot and steps inside. His room is surprisingly neat, a contrast to the rest of the house, dominated by a massive king-sized bed.

He walks over to the bed and gently lowers you onto the mattress. You immediately curl onto your side, pulling Beau’s hoodie tightly around yourself.

Dean pulls the heavy duvet back and tucks it over your shoulders. He stands by the edge of the bed, watching you sleep. He should go to the guest room. Or he should sleep on the couch downstairs. He knows that’s what a normal, respectful friend would do.

But Dean feels nothing close to normal right now. The thought of leaving you alone in this dark room, waking up in a panic not knowing where you are, makes his skin crawl.

Quietly, Dean strips off his jeans and his t-shirt, leaving just his boxer briefs.

He walks around to the other side of the king-sized bed and slides under the covers.

He keeps a respectful distance, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. The room is dead silent, save for the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing. It’s a soothing, constant reminder that you are here, that you are breathing, that you are alive.

About twenty minutes later, a soft rustle comes from your side of the bed.

Dean turns his head.

You are seeking warmth. Still completely asleep, you roll across the mattress until you hit his side. You throw one leg over his, tangling your limbs together, and press your face flat against his bare chest. Your arm drapes over his stomach.

Dean’s breath hitches. He goes perfectly still, terrified of waking you.

But you just let out a soft sigh, settling deeper into him.

A heavy sense of peace washes over Dean. He slowly lifts his hand, wrapping his arm around you, resting his hand gently on your back. He pulls you just a fraction closer, letting his chin rest on top of your head.

He closes his eyes, matching the rhythm of his breathing to yours. And for the first time since he lost his best friend, Dean finally falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

You wake up to the absolute pitch black of an unfamiliar room.

For a span of three seconds, your brain is blissfully, mercifully blank. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know what day it is. You are just a person waking up in a warm bed, wrapped in heavy, expensive-feeling sheets, with the steady rhythm of someone breathing beside you.

Then, the fourth second hits.

The memories do not trickle in; they crash over you like a tidal wave of ice water. The screech of tires. The polished mahogany casket. The smell of floor wax and white lilies. The suffocating, gaping hole in the center of your chest where your twin brother used to be.

Your breath hitches, a sharp, ragged sound that cuts through the silence of the room.

You open your eyes fully, staring up at the dark ceiling. You are in Dean’s room. You remember the diner. You remember Tucker’s chicken parmesan, and the ridiculous Housewives argument, and falling asleep on the couch.

And now, you are in Dean’s bed.

You turn your head slowly against the pillow. Dean is lying right beside you, on his back, his face turned slightly toward yours. In the faint sliver of moonlight slipping through the gap in the blinds, he looks completely different. The cocky, effortless charm is smoothed away by sleep. His jaw is relaxed, his blond hair completely mussed. One of his arms is draped casually across your waist, his large hand resting warm and heavy against your ribs.

The sheer intimacy of it should be jarring, but it isn’t. It just feels like a lifeline.

You swallow hard, fighting the familiar, toxic burn of tears building in the back of your throat. You don’t want to cry again. You are so tired of crying. Your eyes are swollen, your head is pounding, and every muscle in your body aches from the physical exertion of pure grief.

But the silence of the room is too loud. In the quiet, your brain starts supplying the highlight reel. Beau throwing a football perfectly spiraled directly into your hands. Beau laughing so hard beer came out of his nose at a frat party. Beau putting you in a headlock because you stole the last slice of pizza.

He’s gone. He’s really gone. The thought circles your mind, a relentless, vicious predator. You try to take a deep breath to quell the rising panic, but your chest feels too tight. It feels like someone is sitting on your lungs.

You need to anchor yourself. You need the noise to stop.

“Dean,” you whisper.

The sound is barely louder than a breath, incredibly hesitant. You shouldn’t wake him. He has done so much for you today — he fed you, he clothed you, he protected you from the stares on campus. He deserves to sleep.

You try to pull back, intending to slip out of the bed and go to the bathroom until the panic attack passes, but the moment you shift your weight, the heavy hand on your ribs tightens.

“I’m awake,” Dean says instantly.

His voice is rough and gravelly with sleep, but there is no grogginess in it. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly for a second before his gaze locks onto yours in the dark. He shifts closer, his brow furrowing.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, his tone immediately dropping into that fierce, protective cadence. “Are you sick? Do you need water? What do you need?”

“No,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “No, I’m … I’m okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Dean lets out a short, dismissive breath. He rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his hand so he’s looking down at you. His other hand moves from your ribs to gently brush a tangled strand of hair away from your cheek.

“Don’t ever apologize for waking me up,” he says, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “Never. If you need me, you wake me. Understand?”

You nod, biting your lower lip hard enough to taste copper.

Dean studies your face in the shadows. He doesn’t press you. He just waits, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, letting you find the words at your own pace.

“I woke up,” you finally whisper, your voice cracking completely, “and for three seconds, I forgot.”

Dean’s hand stills against your cheek.

“I forgot he was dead,” you continue, the tears finally spilling over, hot and fast down your temples and into your hairline. “I thought I was in my dorm. I thought tomorrow I was going to call him and complain about Professor Fowler. And then … and then I remembered.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes out, the word sounding like it was scraped from the very bottom of his lungs.

“It happens every time,” you sob, bringing your hands up to press against your eyes, trying to physically hold the tears back. “Every time I fall asleep and wake up, I have to lose him all over again. I have to relive it every single morning. I don’t know how many more times I can do it, Dean. I can’t do it.”

“Hey. Look at me,” Dean says, gently but firmly pulling your hands away from your face. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You open your wet eyes.

Dean’s face is entirely stripped of the Briar hockey star persona. There is no smirk, no arrogant confidence. He just looks completely broken. His eyes are shining in the dim light, wet with his own unshed tears.

“It happens to me too,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I wake up, and my first thought is always to text him. Yesterday, I saw a stupid meme about Tom Brady, and I literally pulled up his contact in my phone before my brain caught up with reality. I stared at his name for twenty minutes.”

You let out a jagged, broken sound, your fingers wrapping tightly around Dean’s wrist.

“It’s not fair,” you cry, the anger finally bleeding into the grief. “It’s not fucking fair, Dean.”

“I know,” he says, his voice breaking.

“He was twenty-two!” You say, your voice rising in the quiet room. You don’t care who hears you. You don’t care if you wake up Tucker or Garrett or Logan. You just need to get the poison out of your system. “He was twenty-two years old! He was supposed to get drafted! He was supposed to play in the NFL and buy our parents a stupidly huge house and get married and have annoying, athletic little kids! He was supposed to be here!”

“He was,” Dean agrees, a tear finally tracking down his own cheek. He doesn’t bother wiping it away.

“Why him?” You sob, your chest heaving with the force of your breakdown. “Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been … I don’t know, anybody else? Why did he have to get in the passenger seat?”

“Stop,” Dean says softly, sliding his arm completely under you and pulling you flush against his chest. “Stop doing that to yourself. You can’t play the what if game. It’ll eat you alive.”

“I want to trade,” you repeat the same desperate plea you screamed at the church, burying your face into his bare chest. “I’d give anything. I’d give my own life right now if it meant he could come back.”

“Don’t say that,” Dean chokes out, his arms wrapping around you like a vice. He buries his face in your hair, his own shoulders starting to shake. “Don’t ever fucking say that, Y/N. I can’t lose you too. I can’t.”

The raw, desperate agony in his voice shatters whatever remaining defenses you have.

You break.

You fully, completely break down. The quiet, polite sobbing of the last week turns into ugly, chest-heaving wails. You fist your hands in the sheets behind Dean’s back, clinging to him like he is the only solid object in a world made of quicksand.

And Dean breaks right along with you.

The guy who always has a joke, the guy who never lets anything touch him, the guy who floats through life on charm and trust funds, finally lets the dam burst. He cries against your neck, harsh, racking sobs that shake his entire massive frame.

You hold him, and he holds you.

You mourn the boy who was supposed to be your forever partner in crime. He mourns the brother he chose.

You cry for the empty seat at graduation. You cry for the Thanksgiving dinners that will never be the same. You cry for the locker room that will be entirely too quiet, and the passenger seat that will always be empty.

You cry until your throat is completely raw and your eyes burn like fire. You cry until there are physically no more tears left in your body, leaving you hollow and incredibly light-headed.

The room is filled only with the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

Dean slowly pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks streaked with wetness. He sniffs deeply, wiping his face with the back of his hand before reaching out to gently wipe the tears off your cheeks with his thumbs.

“You’re right,” Dean says, his voice a raspy whisper. “It isn’t fair. It’s the most unfair, fucked up, bullshit thing that has ever happened. And it sucks. It completely, totally sucks.”

You let out a watery, exhausted laugh. “It really does.”

“I’m so angry,” Dean confesses, his jaw tightening. He traces the shell of your ear, his touch grounding. “I’m so fucking angry at the world. I’m angry at the snow. I’m angry at that stupid deer. I’m angry at people walking around campus laughing like the world didn’t just end.”

“Me too,” you whisper, closing your eyes and leaning into his touch. “I hate them all right now.”

“We can hate them together,” Dean says without missing a beat. “We’ll be terrible, bitter people. We’ll throw things at happy couples. We’ll key cars. Whatever you want.”

You laugh again, the sound weak but real. It feels bizarre to laugh. It feels like a betrayal, but at the same time, it feels like the first full breath of air you’ve taken in a week.

Dean’s face hardens, his expression turning completely serious. He shifts closer, pressing his forehead gently against yours.

“Listen to me,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a weight that completely demands your attention. “I know I can’t fix this. I know I can’t bring him back, and I know I can’t make it stop hurting.”

You look into his eyes, inches from your own.

“But you are not doing this alone,” Dean vows, his words fiercely determined. “You hear me? You are stuck with me, Y/N. For as long as it takes. For the rest of our lives, if that’s what you need. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning and you need to scream, or if it’s middle of the day and you need someone to just sit in the dark with you. You call me. I will always answer. You will always have me.”

The sincerity in his eyes is blinding. It’s not a platitude. It’s not empty comfort. It’s a blood oath.

Your heart, bruised and battered, swells painfully in your chest.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice trembling with a new wave of emotion.

You slide your hands up his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck, and pull yourself closer until there is absolutely no space between you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.

“And you have me,” you promise, your words muffled against his skin but entirely resolute. “I know you’re hurting too, Dean. You don’t have to pretend to be strong all the time for my sake. When you need to break down, you come to me. Okay? Promise me.”

Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, locking you against him.

“I promise,” he murmurs into your hair.

The heavy, suffocating weight that has been crushing you since the accident doesn’t disappear. You know it won’t. The grief is going to be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. It’s a scar you will carry forever.

But lying there, tangled in the sheets with Dean, the weight shifts. It stops feeling like a boulder crushing your chest, and starts feeling like something you can actually carry. Because you aren’t carrying it alone anymore.

“Go back to sleep, Y/N,” Dean whispers, his hand lazily stroking up and down your spine, a repetitive, soothing motion. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

“Don’t let go,” you murmur, your eyes heavy with emotional exhaustion.

“Never,” Dean replies instantly.

You close your eyes, listening to the steady, strong beating of his heart under your ear. The fear of waking up to the nightmare is still there, but the terror is gone.

For the first time since the world ended, you drift off to sleep feeling entirely, completely safe.

***

Grief is not a straight line.

It doesn’t slowly fade out like the ending of a sad movie. It comes in waves. Some days, you wake up and the air feels light, and you can almost convince yourself that things are normal. Other days, the ghost of your brother is so heavy you can barely pull yourself out of bed.

But as the brutal winter bleeds into a messy, slushy spring, the good days slowly start to outnumber the bad ones. And the main reason for that is the six-foot-two hockey player who absolutely refuses to let you sink.

Dean is a constant. He is the first text you read in the morning and the last voice you hear at night.

The buzzer blares through the Briar ice arena, signaling the end of the second period. The crowd erupts into a deafening roar.

You stand up, cheering along with the rest of the student section as the Briar Hawks skate off the ice. Down below, Dean pulls his helmet off. His blond hair is soaked with sweat, his face flushed with adrenaline. He glances up toward the stands, his green eyes scanning the sea of blue and white until they lock onto you.

He shoots you a quick, cocky wink before disappearing into the tunnel.

A warm flutter erupts in your stomach. It’s a new feeling, one that has been slowly building over the last few months, completely distinct from the safe, platonic comfort he offered in the beginning. You actively try to ignore it, terrified of ruining the most important relationship you have left, but Dean makes it incredibly difficult.

“He’s staring again,” Lacey says, nudging your shoulder as you both sit back down on the cold bleachers.

“He’s just making sure I didn’t leave to get nachos without him,” you deflect, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself.

Lacey raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Right. Because guys totally look at their platonic friends like they want to devour them whole on center ice. Sure.”

“Shut up,” you laugh, shoving her arm playfully.

“I’m just saying,” Lacey sing-songs, leaning back. “It’s been four months. You practically live at his house. Everyone sees it, Y/N.”

You look down at your hands, tracing the seam of your jeans. “It’s complicated, Lacey. We’re just … we’re surviving together. We lost Beau.”

“I know,” Lacey’s voice softens instantly. She reaches out and squeezes your knee. “And I’m not minimizing that. But you’re allowed to live, too. You’re allowed to be happy.”

You nod slowly, your eyes drifting down to the empty ice.

Happiness feels like a complicated concept these days. It used to be so simple. It used to be standing on the sidelines of the football turf, shaking pompoms while Beau threw a perfect spiral down the field.

You haven’t touched a pompom since the funeral.

The first time you tried to go back to a cheer practice, they were holding it on the indoor turf. You took one step onto the artificial grass, saw the goalposts, and immediately threw up in a nearby trash can. The panic attack that followed lasted for two hours. The realization was sharp and undeniable: you could not cheer for a football team that didn’t have Beau Maxwell leading it. It felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal.

So, you quit.

It broke your heart a little more, losing another piece of your identity, but Dean was right there to pick up the pieces.

***

“You don’t have to do it,” Dean had said, sitting on the floor of your dorm room while you cried over your folded uniform.

“But I love it,” you hiccuped, wiping your eyes aggressively. “I love tumbling. I love the girls. I just can’t look at that field.”

“So tumble somewhere else,” Dean said simply, taking the uniform from your hands and tossing it onto the desk. “Briar has an Acrobatics and Tumbling team. They do meets in the gym. No turf. No footballs. Just you guys flipping around like ninjas. I saw a flyer by the athletic office today. Tryouts are next week.”

You had looked at him, completely stunned by the casual, practical solution. “You read flyers?”

“Only when they involve girls in spandex,” he smirked, the joke landing perfectly, pulling a wet laugh out of you.

***

He went with you to the tryouts. He sat in the top row of the bleachers, doing homework while you flipped and vaulted across the mat. When you made the team, he bought you a celebratory milkshake and forced Logan, Tucker, and Garrett to listen to him brag about how high you could jump.

The third period of the hockey game ends with a resounding Briar victory.

You wait outside the locker room twenty minutes later, leaning against the cinderblock wall. The door swings open, and a blast of hot water, damp towels, and cheap body wash rolls out.

Dean steps into the hallway, a heavy black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing dark jeans and a tight black t-shirt, his hair still slightly damp from the showers. The moment he sees you, the tired line of his shoulders relaxes.

“Hey,” he says, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, casually tugging on the zipper of your jacket. “Did you see my assist in the third?”

“I did,” you smile, tilting your head up to look at him. “It was almost as impressive as the way you completely face-planted into the boards in the second.”

Dean scoffs, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “That was a tactical maneuver. I was distracting the goalie.”

“Right. Very stealthy,” you laugh.

“Come on,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your arm to casually interlace his fingers with yours. It’s a natural, effortless movement. He does it all the time now. “Tucker has a celebratory brisket in the crockpot. If we don’t hurry, Logan is going to eat half of it and feed the rest to the stray cat he refuses to admit he’s adopted.”

You let him pull you down the hallway, the warmth of his hand seeping into yours.

The house is already loud when you walk in. Music is playing from a Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen, and the smell of slow-cooked meat fills the air.

“The king has arrived!” Logan shouts from the living room, holding a beer in the air.

“And he brought Y/N, so try to use polysyllabic words tonight, Logan,” Garrett quips from the kitchen counter.

“I know big words,” Logan argues, tossing a throw pillow at Garrett. “Photosynthesis. Boom.”

You laugh, dropping your bag by the door. You walk into the kitchen, immediately moving to the island where Tucker is slicing brisket. Without asking, Tucker plates a massive portion and slides it across the counter to you.

“Thanks, Tuck,” you say, grabbing a fork.

“Eat up,” Tucker says, giving you a warm smile. “You got a meet on Saturday. Need fuel.”

“Wait, the meet is Saturday?” Logan asks, jogging into the kitchen. “What time?”

“Two o’clock,” you answer through a mouthful of food.

“I’m in,” Logan says, grabbing a beer from the fridge. “I love watching you throw people in the air. It’s violent. I respect it.”

“We’re all going,” Garrett adds, stealing a piece of brisket off your plate. “We don’t have a game until next weekend.”

You look around the kitchen at the massive, intimidating hockey players who have somehow adopted you as their own over the last four months. They don’t walk on eggshells around you anymore. They treat you like a little sister, relentlessly teasing you, eating your food, and showing up unconditionally when you need them.

You catch Dean’s eye across the kitchen. He is leaning against the refrigerator, watching you with a soft, affectionate expression. He raises his beer bottle to you in a silent, private toast.

You smile back, the flutter in your stomach returning full force.

Hours later, the house finally quiets down.

Garrett went to his girlfriend’s dorm, and Tucker and Logan retired to their rooms after a highly competitive, aggressively loud game of Mario Kart that you ultimately won.

You and Dean are left alone in the living room.

The TV is playing a muted rerun of a sitcom. You are sitting on the floor, your back pressed against the front of the leather couch, your legs stretched out over the rug. Dean is sitting on the couch right behind you.

“I think Logan actually cried when you hit him with the banana peel,” Dean muses, his voice low and raspy in the quiet room.

“He deserved it,” you say, resting your head back against the cushion. “He bumped my kart into the lava on Bowser’s Castle. I hold grudges.”

Dean chuckles. You feel the vibration of it against the back of your head.

Slowly, his hands come up to rest on your shoulders. He begins to gently massage the tense muscles at the base of your neck. You let out a soft groan, your eyes fluttering shut as his thumbs press into a particularly tight knot.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs, shifting closer so his knees are bracketing your waist.

“Acro practice was brutal yesterday,” you sigh, leaning entirely into his touch. “We’re working on a new pyramid. I got dropped twice.”

Dean’s hands pause. “You got dropped?”

“Onto a mat,” you clarify quickly, opening your eyes and tilting your head back to look at him upside down. “It’s fine, Dean. It’s part of the sport.”

His green eyes are dark, his brow slightly furrowed in that protective way you’ve grown to recognize instantly. “Tell your bases to stop dropping you, or I’m going to show up to practice and have a polite conversation with them.”

“Please don’t,” you laugh softly. “A polite conversation with you usually involves a terrifying glare and a subtle threat of physical harm.”

“It’s highly effective,” Dean points out, his hands resuming their slow, rhythmic massage.

The room lapses into a comfortable, thick silence. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the quiet dialogue from the muted TV.

You stare up at the ceiling, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace. You miss Beau. The ache is still there, a hollow cavity in your chest that will never fully close. But it doesn’t consume you anymore. It doesn’t stop you from breathing.

“Thank you,” you say quietly into the dimly lit room.

Dean’s hands slow down. “For what?”

“For this,” you say, gesturing vaguely around the room. “For making them go to my meet on Saturday. For checking on me. For … just not letting me drown.”

Dean goes entirely still. Then, he shifts, sliding off the couch to sit on the floor right beside you. He folds his long legs, turning his body so he’s facing you completely.

The playful, relaxed energy that was hovering between you dissipates, replaced by something suddenly heavy and incredibly charged.

“I didn’t do it as a favor, Y/N,” Dean says, his voice losing any trace of humor. He looks at you, his gaze intense and searching. “I did it because I wanted to. Because you’re important to me.”

“I know,” you whisper, suddenly acutely aware of how close he is sitting. You can feel the heat radiating off his body. You can smell the mint of his toothpaste and the faint trace of his cologne.

“Do you?” Dean asks, leaning slightly closer. His eyes drop down to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to your eyes.

Your breath catches in your throat.

The air in the room suddenly feels entirely too thin. The platonic line you have both been carefully walking on for months is suddenly nowhere to be found. It’s been erased, completely obliterated by the intense, burning look in his eyes.

“Dean,” you breathe out, his name sounding more like a question than a statement.

He reaches out, his large hand gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, his touch feather-light but sending a violent shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.

“I’ve been trying to be good,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a rough, strained register. His eyes are locked onto yours, completely vulnerable. “I’ve been trying so damn hard to just be the guy you need. The friend. The shoulder to cry on.”

“You are,” you say quickly, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“But I want more,” Dean confesses, the words tumbling out like he can’t hold them back anymore. He leans in closer, his forehead almost resting against yours. “God, Y/N. I look at you, and it’s all I can think about. I want to hold your hand, and I don’t want to let go. I want to take you on terrible, cliché dates. I want to kiss you so badly I’m losing my mind.”

You stare at him, completely paralyzed.

For months, you convinced yourself that the small touches, the lingering looks, the fierce protectiveness was just trauma. It was just two broken people clinging to each other because they were the only ones who understood the pieces.

But looking at him now, feeling the frantic, desperate pounding of your own heart, you realize it’s not trauma at all. It hasn’t been for a long time.

“Then kiss me,” you whisper.

Dean exhales a sharp, shaking breath. He doesn’t hesitate.

He leans the rest of the way in, his lips brushing against yours. It’s incredibly gentle at first, a soft, hesitant question. You close your eyes and let out a tiny gasp, your hands coming up to grip the front of his henley.

The moment your fingers twist into his shirt, the hesitation vanishes.

Dean groans, a low, guttural sound, and pulls you flush against his chest. His hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. It’s messy and desperate and completely overwhelming. The taste of him is intoxicating. Every ounce of suppressed emotion, every stolen glance over the last four months, pours into the space between you.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, wrapping your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him. He tastes like mint and beer and something distinctly, perfectly Dean. His other hand drops to your waist, gripping you tightly, pulling you so close you can feel the heavy thud of his heartbeat against your own chest.

It feels like waking up. It feels like stepping out of a freezing room and into the sun.

When you finally break apart, you are both gasping for air.

Dean rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his chest heaving. His hand remains tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking behind your ear in a repetitive, soothing motion.

“Wow,” you whisper, completely breathless.

Dean lets out a short, rough laugh. He opens his eyes, looking down at you with an expression so open and raw it makes your chest ache.

But then, the smile fades. He pulls back just slightly, creating an inch of space between you. His jaw sets, a serious, almost anxious look crossing his features.

“Y/N, listen to me,” Dean says, his voice completely level. “I need you to know something. And I need you to actually hear me.”

You blink, confused by the sudden shift in tone. “Okay.”

Dean brings both his hands up, framing your face delicately. “I didn’t do this because I’m sad. I didn’t do this because I’m confusing grief with something else, or because you’re Beau’s sister, or because we bonded over a tragedy.”

You swallow hard, holding his intense gaze.

“I did this because I like you,” Dean states firmly, articulating every single word. “I like you. I like how fiercely you argue about reality TV. I like how you refuse to give up when things get hard. I like that you joined a completely different sport just so you wouldn’t have to quit entirely. You are the strongest, most incredible person I’ve ever met.”

Tears, completely unbidden, prick at the corners of your eyes. But this time, they aren’t tears of grief.

“I’m not trying to replace him,” Dean whispers, his thumb brushing a stray tear off your cheek. “I know neither of us ever can. But I want to be here for you. As yours. If you’ll have me.”

The absolute sincerity in his voice strips away any lingering doubts. He isn’t holding onto you to keep a piece of his best friend alive. He’s holding onto you because he wants you.

You reach up, placing your hands over his where they rest on your cheeks.

“I’m not doing this out of grief, either,” you tell him, your voice steady and incredibly sure. “You didn’t just save me, Dean. You made me want to actually live again. I look forward to waking up because I know I’m going to see you.”

A breath shuddering out of Dean’s chest, his shoulders dropping a massive weight.

“I like you,” you confess, a bright, genuine smile finally breaking across your face. “I’ve liked you for a really long time. I was just too terrified to admit it.”

Dean’s trademark, cocky smirk slowly returns, lighting up his entire face. “Well, to be fair, I am incredibly charming. It was only a matter of time.”

You roll your eyes, slapping his chest lightly. “And the arrogance ruins the moment.”

“I haven’t ruined anything,” Dean laughs, leaning in again.

He kisses you softly, lingering on your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to speak against your mouth.

“I’m going to take you on a date,” he murmurs. “A real one. I’m going to open doors and pay for an overpriced dinner and everything.”

“I look forward to it,” you whisper back.

“Good,” Dean says. He wraps his arms completely around you, pulling you into his lap. You go willingly, curling against his chest, tucking your head under his chin.

He holds you tightly, resting his cheek against the top of your head. The TV drones on in the background, the house perfectly quiet around you.

For the first time in months, you don’t think about what you lost. You don’t think about the empty passenger seat or the quiet dorm room.

You just sit there, wrapped in the arms of the boy who held you together until you were strong enough to hold yourself, and realize that out of the absolute worst tragedy of your life, you somehow found your future.

***

“Hold still, sweetheart. Your tassel is completely tangled.”

Your mother’s hands are warm, slightly trembling, as she fusses with the black mortarboard on your head. You stand in the middle of your dorm room suffocating under the heavy, unforgiving polyester of your graduation gown.

“Mom, it’s fine,” you say gently, reaching up to cover her hands with yours. “It’s just going to blow around in the wind anyway.”

Your mother stops. She looks at you, her eyes already shining with unshed tears. She offers a tight, fragile smile and smooths her hands down your shoulders. “I know. I just want it to be perfect. You look so beautiful.”

“She looks like a giant bat,” Joanna announces from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a cup of coffee in her hand. “A very smart, educated bat, but a bat nonetheless.”

“Ignore your sister,” your dad says, walking into the room. He’s been out of the neck brace for over a year now, though his movements are still careful and deliberate. He looks sharp in a navy suit, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes you in. “You look perfect, kiddo. I am incredibly proud of you.”

You swallow down the sudden, thick lump in your throat. “Thanks, Dad.”

The front door swings open without a knock, the hinges squeaking loudly.

“Delivery for the graduate!” A bright, booming voice calls out.

Dean strolls into the living room, completely bypassing the concept of personal boundaries, as usual. He is also wearing his graduation gown, though he wears it unzipped over a tailored charcoal suit. He holds a massive bouquet of blush pink peonies.

“Dean, honey!” Your mom gasps, immediately stepping away from you to pull him into a tight hug. “You look so handsome.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says smoothly, hugging her back with one arm and handing her the flowers with the other. “I clean up alright. Though the hat is doing terrible things to my hair.”

“Your hair is indestructible, Di Laurentis,” Joanna snorts, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Jealousy is an ugly color on you, Jo,” Dean shoots back with a perfectly executed smirk.

He steps past your mother and walks right up to you. The playful arrogance drops from his face the second he meets your eyes. He reaches out, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, meant entirely for you.

“Hey,” you whisper back.

“You doing okay?” He asks, his eyes searching yours for any sign of a crack.

Graduation day. The day you and Beau talked about since you were freshmen. The day you were supposed to take thousands of ridiculous pictures together, throwing your caps in the air and spraying cheap champagne on the lawn.

“I’m okay,” you say honestly, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “It’s heavy. But I’m okay.”

Dean leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. “I’m right beside you today. Every step.”

***

The football stadium is packed. Thousands of parents, grandparents, and siblings fill the bleachers, fanning themselves with commencement programs under the late spring sun.

You sit in the folding chairs on the field, surrounded by a sea of black gowns. Dean is twelve rows ahead of you, seated in the D section, but he turns around every five minutes to catch your eye and flash a ridiculous, exaggerated thumbs-up.

The heat is sweltering, and the speeches drag on. The valedictorian talks about the future, the dean of students talks about perseverance, and the university president talks about the legacy of the graduating class.

You tune most of it out, your fingers twisting the fabric of your gown.

Then, the tone of the ceremony shifts. The university president steps back up to the podium, adjusting his glasses. The low murmur of the crowd immediately quiets down.

“Before we begin conferring the degrees for the graduating class,” the president says, his voice echoing through the massive stadium speakers, “Briar University would like to take a moment to honor a student who is not sitting on the field with us today.”

Your breath hitches. Your heart starts hammering a frantic, heavy rhythm against your ribs.

“Beau Maxwell was a vibrant, exceptional part of our campus community,” the president continues. “He was a leader on the field, a dedicated student in the classroom, and a beloved friend to many. Though his time with us was tragically cut short, his impact on this university remains profound.”

A heavy, solemn silence blankets the stadium.

“Today, we are honored to award Beau Maxwell a posthumous honorary degree,” the president announces. “Accepting on his behalf is his sister.”

The crowd erupts into applause.

It isn’t polite, golf-clap applause. It is thunderous. Down in the front rows, the entire Briar football team stands up, their cheers echoing across the turf.

You stand up, your legs trembling so violently you aren’t sure they will hold you.

“You’ve got this,” Lacey whispers from the seat next to you, giving your hand a tight squeeze.

You step out into the aisle. The walk to the stage feels like walking underwater. The applause roars in your ears, a beautiful, devastating sound. You keep your eyes locked on the wooden stairs leading up to the platform.

You walk up the steps, the heat of the sun beating down on your black cap. The university president meets you halfway across the stage, holding a leather-bound diploma cover.

He hands it to you with a gentle, sympathetic smile. “Congratulations, Miss Maxwell. He would be very proud.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, clutching the leather tightly against your chest.

You turn to face the crowd. You look down at the front row of the bleachers. Your dad is crying, unabashedly wiping tears from his cheeks while your mom holds onto his shoulder, openly sobbing. Joanna has her hand over her mouth.

Then, you look down at the graduates on the field.

Dean is standing up. He is the only one in his section on his feet, clapping entirely entirely too hard, staring at you with an expression of such raw, overwhelming pride it completely knocks the breath out of your lungs.

A single tear slips down your cheek. You grip Beau’s diploma, close your eyes for a fraction of a second, and send a silent, desperately aching thought up into the sky. We did it, B.

You walk down the opposite set of stairs.

You don’t even make it back to the aisle before Dean is there. He slipped out of his row, ignoring the ushers, and meets you at the bottom of the steps.

He doesn’t say a word. He just pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your shoulders. You bury your face into his neck, letting out a single, shaky breath against his collarbone.

“I’ve got you,” Dean murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “I’m right here.”

***

The rest of the ceremony moves smoothly.

You sit back in your seat, holding Beau’s diploma in your lap, watching the Ds get called.

“Dean Di Laurentis,” the announcer booms.

Dean struts across the stage like he completely owns the space, flashing a blinding, camera-ready smile as he shakes the president’s hand. From somewhere near the back, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker let out a series of deafening, aggressive whoops.

“That’s our boy!” Logan screams at the top of his lungs.

Dean laughs, grabbing his diploma and pointing directly at the hockey section before his eyes scan the field, finding you. He winks.

Thirty minutes later, they hit the Ms.

You walk across the stage for the second time today. This time, the weight on your chest is lighter. You accept your own diploma, smiling genuinely for the photographer. As you walk down the stairs, you hear Dean’s voice cutting through the crowd.

“Yeah, baby! That’s my girl!”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath as you walk back to your seat.

***

Dinner that night is a spectacular, chaotic collision of your two worlds.

Dean’s parents booked a massive private dining room at a high-end Italian restaurant downtown. The mahogany table easily fits both your family, the Di Laurentises, and somehow, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker, who simply invited themselves and refused to take no for an answer.

“I’m just saying,” Logan argues loudly, waving a breadstick at Dean’s father, “if you’re a corporate lawyer, you basically argue for a living, right?”

Peter Di Laurentis throws his head back and laughs loudly. “That is a severe oversimplification, Logan, but yes. Essentially.”

“See? I’m practically a lawyer,” Logan declares, biting into the breadstick.

“You failed Business Ethics twice, Logan,” Garrett points out dryly, taking a sip of wine.

“Ethics are subjective,” Logan dismisses immediately.

You sit between Dean and your dad, watching the beautiful chaos unfold. Your mother is deep in conversation with Dean’s mother, discussing the horrors of trying to find good tailoring, completely bonded over their shared fussiness. Joanna is mercilessly roasting Tucker for his terrible taste in country music, and Tucker looks completely thrilled by the attention.

Dean slides his hand under the table, resting his palm warmly against your bare thigh. He traces soothing, absent circles with his thumb, completely relaxed as he leans back in his chair.

“This is nice,” you murmur, leaning closer to him.

Dean turns his head, his green eyes soft in the dim lighting of the restaurant. “Yeah? Not too overwhelming?”

“No,” you say truthfully, looking around the table. “It’s exactly what I needed. It feels … full.”

Dean’s gaze drops to your mouth for a second before he looks back into your eyes. He squeezes your thigh affectionately. “Good.”

“Dean, pass the burrata, will you?” Your dad asks from your other side.

“Absolutely, sir,” Dean says, leaning forward to hand the plate over.

“And drop the sir, kid,” your dad adds, smiling warmly. “I think we’re past that.”

Dean smiles, a genuine, uncocky expression. “You got it, Mr. Maxwell.”

Your dad chuckles, accepting the plate.

The dinner lasts for hours, filled with multiple toasts, entirely too much wine, and endless storytelling. They toast to your graduation, to Dean’s, to the future. And halfway through the night, your dad raises his glass, his hand perfectly steady.

“To Beau,” your dad says, his voice thick but strong. “He’s the brightest star in the sky tonight.”

“To Beau,” the entire table echoes, raising their glasses.

You clink your water glass against Dean’s wine glass. You don’t cry. The ache is there, a phantom limb that you will always carry, but surrounded by the people who love him, the love you feel for your brother completely overshadows the grief.

***

By eleven o’clock, the families have gone back to their respective hotels, and the hockey boys have gone out to terrorize a local bar.

You are sitting in the passenger seat of Dean’s car, completely exhausted but utterly content. The streetlights wash over the interior of the car in rhythmic, yellow flashes.

Dean pulls up to a red light and shifts the car into park. He turns to look at you.

“You look tired,” he observes softly, reaching over to run his knuckles down your cheek.

“I am,” you admit, leaning into his touch. “It was a long day. A good day, but long.”

“Do you want to go home?” He asks, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “I can take you back to your dorm. Or my place.”

You think about the quiet of your dorm, or the massive emptiness of his house without the roommates there. Neither sounds right.

“Actually,” you say, a slow smile spreading across your face. “I’m kind of hungry.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You just ate half a pound of handmade pasta.”

“I stress-ate pasta,” you correct him. “Now I’m actually hungry. For garbage.”

Dean barks out a laugh, shaking his head as the light turns green. He shifts back into drive. “Garbage, huh? Your wish is my command.”

Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the familiar, pothole-riddled parking lot of Malone’s.

The neon sign is buzzing loudly in the cool night air. The diner is practically empty at this hour, save for a couple of truckers in the booths by the window and a tired-looking waitress wiping down the counter.

You walk inside, the bell jingling above the door. Dean doesn’t even hesitate. He walks straight to the back corner, sliding into the exact same vinyl booth you sat in all those months ago. You slide in right next to him, pressing your hip against his.

It feels like a lifetime has passed since that day.

The waitress walks over, pulling a notepad from her apron. She does a double-take, looking at Dean in his tailored suit and you in your nice dress, a contrast to the hollowed-out versions of yourselves she saw in the winter.

“Well, don’t you two look fancy,” she says, popping her gum and smiling genuinely. “Graduation?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean smiles back, flashing his trademark charm.

“Congratulations,” she says. “What can I get you? The usual?”

Dean looks at you, his eyes dancing with amusement. “What do you think, baby? The usual?”

“Two waters,” you say, perfectly deadpan, reciting the order from memory. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”

Dean bursts out laughing, throwing his head back. The waitress chuckles, writing it down quickly. “You got it. Be right back.”

As she walks away, Dean wraps his arm entirely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side. He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there.

“You’re a brat,” he murmurs against your skin.

“You literally forced me to drink a milkshake against my will,” you remind him, resting your head on his shoulder. “I think I’m allowed to tease you about it.”

“I was keeping you alive,” Dean argues playfully, resting his chin on your head. “I was a hero.”

“You were very bossy.”

“And you loved it.”

You smile, tilting your face up to look at him. “I did. I really did.”

The playful banter fades, replaced by that heavy, magnetic pull that always seems to exist between the two of you. Dean’s eyes darken, dropping to your mouth.

The waitress suddenly appears, dropping the basket of fries and the milkshake onto the table before quickly retreating to give you privacy.

Dean looks at the fries, then looks back at you. A slow, wicked smirk completely takes over his face.

He reaches out, plucking a single fry from the basket. He dips it entirely too aggressively into the ketchup.

He holds it up to your mouth.

“Open,” he says, his voice a perfect, gravelly mimic of that terrible day.

You laugh, swatting at his hand. “Dean, stop. I can feed myself.”

“I don’t know,” he teases, pulling the fry back an inch. “You look pretty helpless right now. I think you need me to hand-feed you.”

“I will bite your finger,” you threaten, though you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

“Promises, promises,” Dean fires back, holding the fry steady. “Come on. For old times’ sake. Open up.”

You roll your eyes, but you lean forward and bite the fry off his fingers. You chew deliberately, maintaining direct eye contact.

“Good girl,” Dean whispers, his voice suddenly losing every ounce of humor. The teasing drops away, leaving only raw, burning affection.

Your breath hitches.

Dean drops his hand, grabbing the milkshake. But instead of offering you the straw, he sets it aside entirely. He reaches out, cupping your jaw with both hands, and pulls you flush against him.

He kisses you. It isn’t tentative or gentle. It is a deep, consuming kiss that tastes like salt and ketchup and everything you’ve ever wanted. You melt against him instantly, your hands coming up to grip the lapels of his expensive suit jacket, kissing him back with everything you have.

When you finally break apart, you are both breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other.

“I love you,” Dean whispers, the words slipping out into the quiet diner like they’ve been waiting there all along.

You freeze.

Your heart stops completely, then restarts at double the speed. He has never said it before. You have danced around it, you have shown it in a thousand different ways, but the actual words have remained unspoken.

Dean pulls back just enough to look you directly in the eyes. There is no hesitation in his gaze. There is no fear. There is just absolute, unflinching certainty.

“I love you,” Dean repeats, his voice incredibly steady. “I loved you when you were completely broken, I loved you when you started putting yourself back together, and I love you right now. I am entirely, completely in love with you.”

The air completely leaves your lungs.

You look at the beautiful, complicated, endlessly loyal boy sitting beside you. The boy who dragged you out of the dark. The boy who held your brother’s memory in one hand and your heart in the other.

“I love you too,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest until it feels like it might burst. “I love you so much, Dean.”

Dean’s entire face lights up. The breathtaking smile that breaks across his features is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He lets out a ragged exhale, burying his face in your neck, wrapping his arms around you tightly enough to bruise.

You hold him back just as fiercely, closing your eyes and breathing him in.

You survived the absolute worst day of your life. You walked through the fire, and you didn’t burn to ash. You are still here.

And as you sit in the corner booth of Malone’s, surrounded by the smell of cheap fryer grease and holding onto the boy you love, you realize something profound.

The world didn’t stop turning when Beau died. It kept going. And finally, for the first time in a very long time, you are incredibly grateful that you get to keep going with it.

***

The smell of burning toast is what finally wakes you up.

You groan, burying your face deeper into the mountain of pillows you’ve constructed around yourself. At twenty weeks pregnant, sleep has become less of a biological necessity and more of a strategic, highly negotiated truce with your own body.

“Damn it,” a voice mutters from the kitchen, followed by the loud clatter of a pan hitting the stove. “Okay. Pivot. We’re pivoting to pancakes.”

You crack one eye open. The morning light is streaming through the massive windows of the master bedroom you share with Dean.

It’s been five years since graduation. Five years of navigating adulthood, careers, and the beautiful, messy reality of building a life together. You’re married now, but the core of it all is exactly the same. It’s just you and Dean, fiercely guarding the peace you fought so hard to find.

You push the heavy duvet off your legs and slowly maneuver yourself out of bed. Your hand instinctively rests on the undeniable, rounded swell of your stomach.

You pad barefoot down the hallway of your shared house, the hardwood floors cool against your feet. You stop in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the frame.

Dean is standing at the island, wearing grey sweatpants and a backwards cap, looking extremely focused as he whisks a bowl of batter. There is flour on his cheek.

“You’re making a mess, Di Laurentis,” you point out, your voice still thick with sleep.

Dean’s head snaps up. The moment he sees you, the intense concentration completely vanishes, replaced by that soft, devastatingly bright smile he reserves exclusively for you.

“Hey,” he says, abandoning the whisk. He crosses the kitchen in three long strides, wrapping his arms around your waist. He pulls you in, careful of your stomach, and kisses you deeply. “Good morning, Mrs. Di Laurentis.”

“Good morning,” you smile against his lips. “I smell casualties.”

“The toast didn’t make it,” Dean admits, completely unbothered. He drops to his knees, his face suddenly level with your stomach. He presses a gentle kiss to the center of your t-shirt. “Good morning to you, too, little menace. Please let your mother eat these pancakes without kicking her in the bladder.”

You laugh, running your fingers through the hair sticking out from the back of his cap. “The baby doesn’t take orders, Dean. Much like its father.”

“The baby is going to be perfectly behaved,” Dean argues, standing back up. “Sit. Eat. We have a big day today. The anatomy scan is at eleven.”

Your heart immediately does a familiar, anxious flutter.

The pregnancy wasn’t exactly planned, but the moment you saw the two pink lines on the plastic stick, your entire world shifted. Dean had completely short-circuited. He had stared at the test for five straight minutes, asked you if you were absolutely sure, and then picked you up and spun you around the bathroom until you both fell over laughing.

He has been a hovering, overprotective nightmare ever since. He reads every baby book. He vetoes anything that even vaguely resembles a soft cheese. He treats you like you’re made of spun glass.

“I know,” you say softly, tracing the rim of the empty coffee mug he sets in front of you. “I’m nervous.”

Dean stops pouring the batter. He sets the bowl down and walks around the island, stepping into the space between your knees. He takes both of your hands in his.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. The doctor said everything was perfectly on track last month. Heartbeat is strong. You’re healthy.”

“I know,” you sigh, leaning your forehead against his chest. “It’s just … it makes it all very real. Today we find out if it’s a boy or a girl. It’s an actual person, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, holding you tight. “It’s our person. Half you, half me. We’re going to be okay, Y/N. I promise you.”

***

The ultrasound room is dark and freezing cold.

You lie on the crinkly paper of the exam table, your shirt pulled up to expose your stomach. Dean is sitting in the plastic chair right beside you, completely ignoring the lack of space. His chair is pulled so close his knees are practically touching the table, and he hasn’t let go of your hand since you walked into the clinic.

“Alright, let’s take a look at this little one,” the ultrasound technician, a kind woman named Dana, says cheerfully.

She squirts a massive dollop of freezing blue gel onto your stomach. You flinch.

“Cold, sorry!” Dana laughs, pressing the wand against your skin.

You turn your head to look at the monitor. At first, it’s just a blurry, static-filled screen of greys and blacks. But then, Dana moves the wand, and suddenly, there it is.

A perfectly formed, tiny spine. A little head. Two small arms waving sluggishly in the amniotic fluid.

Your breath completely catches in your throat.

“Oh my god,” Dean whispers loudly, his grip on your hand tightening to the point of pain. He leans forward, his eyes absolutely glued to the screen. “Y/N. Look.”

“I see it,” you breathe out, tears instantly pricking the corners of your eyes.

“There’s the heartbeat,” Dana says, clicking a button on the keyboard.

The room is suddenly filled with the rapid, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of your baby’s heart. It’s the most beautiful, incredible sound you have ever heard in your entire life. It sounds like a galloping horse. It sounds like a miracle.

Dean lets out a wet, choked sound. You look over at him.

He is crying. He doesn’t even try to hide it. The arrogant, charming, impenetrable Dean Di Laurentis is sitting in a dark clinic, openly weeping at the sight of a grainy black-and-white monitor. He brings your knuckles up to his lips, pressing a desperate, reverent kiss against your skin.

“It’s perfect,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “You’re perfect.”

“You guys are doing great,” Dana smiles, clicking a few more buttons to take measurements. “Baby is measuring exactly at twenty weeks and three days. Everything looks incredibly healthy. Ten fingers, ten toes.”

A massive wave of relief crashes over you, washing away the anxiety that has been building all morning.

“Now,” Dana says, pausing the wand and looking between the two of you with a knowing smirk. “Did you two want to know the gender today?”

You look at Dean. He looks back at you, his eyes still shining.

“We want to know,” you say, nodding. “But … can you write it down? We want to open it at home. Just the two of us.”

“Absolutely,” Dana says. She turns the screen away slightly so you can’t see, clicking a few buttons before pulling out a small, white envelope. She writes something on a card, slips it inside, and seals it tight.

She hands the envelope to Dean.

Dean takes it like he’s being handed a live explosive. He stares at the white paper, his jaw tight.

“Thank you,” you say, grabbing a paper towel to wipe the gel off your stomach.

“Congratulations, you guys,” Dana says warmly. “I’ll see you in four weeks.”

***

The car ride back to the house is agonizingly tense.

The small white envelope is sitting completely undisturbed in the center console. It is the loudest object in the vehicle.

Dean is gripping the steering wheel with both hands, driving five miles under the speed limit, his eyes darting between the road and the envelope every thirty seconds.

“Stop staring at it,” you laugh, resting your head back against the leather seat.

“I’m not staring at it,” Dean lies immediately. “I’m focusing on the road. Because I have precious cargo in the car.”

“You’ve looked at it twelve times since we left the clinic,” you point out.

“It’s mocking me,” Dean mutters, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel. “It knows that I have zero patience. It’s a test of my willpower.”

“Do you have a preference?” You ask softly, turning your head to look at his profile.

Dean is quiet for a long moment. He signals, turning into your neighborhood.

“No,” he says honestly. “I really don’t. If it’s a girl, I’m going to spoil her so completely that she’ll be an absolute terror to society. I’m going to buy her a pony. I don’t care where we put it. And if it’s a boy, I’m going to teach him how to throw a football before he can walk, and I’m going to teach him how to treat women like absolute royalty.”

You smile, your heart swelling painfully in your chest. “You’re going to be an incredible dad.”

“We’re going to be incredible parents,” Dean corrects you, pulling into the driveway and shifting the car into park.

He kills the engine. He turns in his seat, looking down at the center console. He takes a deep breath, reaches out, and picks up the envelope.

He hands it to you.

“Let’s go inside,” he says, his voice low and raspy.

You walk into the house together. It’s quiet, the afternoon sun spilling across the living room rug. You walk over to the massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch and sit down.

Dean sits right next to you, completely invading your personal space. He drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.

You look down at the envelope in your lap.

“Okay,” you whisper. Your hands are actually shaking.

“We do it together,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He reaches down, his large hand covering yours, his fingers resting over the flap of the envelope.

“On three,” you say.

“One,” Dean counts.

“Two,” you whisper.

“Three.”

Together, you slide your fingers under the seal and rip the envelope open. You pull out the small, stiff piece of cardstock.

There are only three words written on the card in Dana’s neat, cursive handwriting.

It’s a boy!

The world completely stops spinning.

You stare at the words. The letters blur together as a fresh, overwhelming wave of tears immediately fills your eyes. A boy. You are having a boy.

Beside you, Dean goes perfectly, rigidly still.

“A boy,” Dean breathes out, the sound barely more than a whisper.

“It’s a boy,” you repeat, a wet, hysterical laugh escaping your lips.

Dean suddenly moves. He takes the card out of your hand and tosses it onto the coffee table. He wraps both of his arms around you, burying his face into your neck. He holds you so incredibly tight you can feel the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart against your ribs.

“A little boy,” Dean says against your skin, his voice cracking completely. “God, Y/N. We’re having a son.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him back just as fiercely. You are crying freely now, happy, completely unburdened tears. You survived the absolute worst thing the universe could throw at you, and now, you are sitting in your living room, holding the man you love, creating a brand new life.

When Dean finally pulls back, his face is a mess of tears and the biggest, most breathtaking smile you have ever seen.

He drops one of his hands down to rest flat against your stomach.

“We need to talk about names,” Dean says, his thumb gently stroking back and forth over your t-shirt.

You look at him.

For months, you have avoided the topic of baby names entirely. It felt like bad luck to talk about it before the anatomy scan, before you knew for sure that everything was okay. You haven’t bought a single book. You haven’t made a single list.

But looking into Dean’s eyes right now, you realize you don’t need a list.

There is no discussion. There is no debate. There is no what if.

“We don’t need to talk about names,” you say softly, placing your hand over his where it rests on your bump.

Dean searches your eyes, his breath hitching slightly. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life,” you promise him, your voice completely steady.

Dean swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he fights back a new wave of emotion. He looks down at your stomach, his hand trembling slightly under yours.

“Beau,” Dean whispers.

Hearing the name out loud — speaking it not in grief, not in mourning, but in absolute, pure joy — sends a shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.

“Beau,” you agree, the name feeling perfectly, incredibly right on your tongue.

Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale. He leans forward, pressing his forehead gently against yours.

“He would be so arrogant about this,” Dean laughs, a wet, choked sound. “He would absolutely never let us live this down.”

“He would tell everyone we named him after the greatest quarterback Briar University ever saw,” you laugh through your tears, the memory of your brother suddenly incredibly vivid, bright, and completely devoid of pain.

“He would demand to be the godfather,” Dean adds, closing his eyes. “Even though he’s a terrible influence. He would have bought the kid a tiny, obnoxious football jersey before he was even born.”

“He would have loved him so much,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest.

“He still does,” Dean says fiercely, opening his eyes to look at you. “He’s up there right now, watching us, and he is completely insufferable about it. I guarantee it.”

You let out a watery laugh, leaning forward to press your lips against Dean’s. It’s a slow, deep kiss, completely anchored in the reality of the life you have built together.

When you break apart, Dean shifts back. He moves down again, dropping to his knees on the rug right in front of the couch.

He rests his chin on your thighs, looking directly at your stomach.

“Hey, little Beau,” Dean says, his voice incredibly soft, dropping into a tone of pure, unconditional reverence. “It’s your dad.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, completely undone by the sight of him.

“You’re making your mom cry again, so we’re going to have to work on that,” Dean tells your stomach, a small, teasing smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “But I need to tell you a few things before you get here.”

Dean reaches up, resting both of his large hands on either side of your bump.

“First of all, you are so incredibly loved,” Dean promises, his voice completely serious now. “You have no idea. You hit the absolute jackpot with your mom. She is the strongest, most amazing person in the world, and you are going to listen to everything she says.”

He pauses, taking a deep breath.

“And secondly,” Dean murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your skin. “You’ve got a big name to live up to, buddy. You are named after my best friend. The best guy I ever knew. Your uncle Beau.”

A single tear slips down Dean’s cheek, but he is smiling. It is a genuine, peaceful smile.

“He was fearless,” Dean tells your son, his voice thick with a love that has never faded, only evolved. “He loved to laugh, he loved his family more than anything, and he always, always took care of the people he cared about. And that’s what we want for you. We just want you to be happy. And brave.”

Dean leans forward and presses a long, lingering kiss to the center of your stomach.

“I’ve got you, Beau,” Dean whispers against your skin, repeating the exact same promise he made to you on the floor of the church all those years ago. “I swear to god, I’ve always got you.”

He rests his forehead against your stomach, closing his eyes.

You sit there on the couch, your hands gently resting in Dean’s hair. The afternoon sun washes over the two of you in a warm, golden glow.

The grief is still a part of you. It always will be. It is woven into the very fabric of your history, a scar that proves you loved someone entirely too much to let them go without a fight.

But as you look down at the man kneeling before you, and feel the tiny, miraculous flutter of your son moving inside of you, you realize that the story didn’t end with the crash. It didn’t end in the dark dorm room, or at the altar of the church.

It continued.

It grew into late-night dinner runs, and stolen kisses in the kitchen, and a love so fierce and protective it physically takes your breath away. It grew into the life you are living right now.

You survived the end of the world, and you found something completely beautiful in the ashes.

“I love you,” you whisper down to Dean, your heart completely, entirely full.

Dean turns his head, resting his cheek against your stomach, and looks up at you with eyes full of a bright, unbreakable future.

His pregnant wife.

He’s still getting used to both of those facts. Wife. Pregnant. Both feel surreal, like a dream he’s afraid he’ll wake up from.

But you’re very real, currently lying on a lounger on the private beach in a white bikini that’s barely there, reading a book and looking like every fantasy he’s ever had.

“You’re staring,” you say without looking up from your book.

“I’m admiring,” Sidney corrects, taking a sip of his drink. He’s in the lounger next to you, supposedly reading, but he’s been on the same page for twenty minutes because he can’t stop looking at you.

“You’re staring,” you repeat, but you’re smiling. “You’ve been staring since we got here three days ago.”

“Can you blame me?” He asks. “My wife is gorgeous and barely wearing anything. I’m only human.”

You set your book down and turn to look at him. “Your wife is also getting hot. Want to go in the water?”

“Sure,” he says, standing and offering you his hand.

You take it, letting him pull you up, and he can’t help but glance at your stomach. Still flat, no visible sign of the baby yet, but he knows it’s there. His child, growing inside you.

“Stop looking at my stomach,” you tease.

“Can’t help it,” he admits. “There’s a baby in there.”

“A very tiny baby,” you remind him. “Probably the size of a lentil right now.”

“Still a baby,” he insists. “My baby.”

You laugh, pulling him toward the water. It’s perfectly clear, perfectly warm, and you wade in up to your waist before diving under. Sidney follows, the salt water cool against his skin.

When you surface, you’re grinning, water streaming down your face. “This is paradise.”

“It really is,” Sidney agrees, pulling you close. The water makes you buoyant, and you wrap your legs around his waist easily.

“Best honeymoon ever,” you say, kissing him.

“We’ve only been here three days,” he points out. “Don’t jinx it.”

“Nothing could ruin this,” you insist. “Private beach, perfect weather, handsome husband. What more could I want?”

“Food?” Sidney suggests. “Georges is making dinner in a few hours.”

“Okay, food too,” you concede. “But mostly the handsome husband part.”

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and feels your body respond against him. Even in the water, even in broad daylight, his body responds immediately to having you this close.

“Careful,” you murmur against his lips. “Keep kissing me like that and I’m going to want you to fuck me right here.”

Sidney pulls back slightly. “In the water?”

“Why not?” You ask. “Private beach. No one around. When are we ever going to get this chance again?”

“Because sand and salt water are not ideal for that,” Sidney says practically. “And because I’m not risking anything that could hurt you or the baby.”

You sigh dramatically but unwrap your legs from his waist. “Fine. You’re probably right.”

“I’m definitely right,” he says, though he’s already regretting being practical because you look disappointed.

You swim for a while longer, splashing and playing like kids, before heading back to the loungers. Sidney towels off while you reapply sunscreen, and he tries very hard not to think about the way your hands move over your body.

“Can you do my back?” You ask, holding out the bottle.

“Trying to kill me,” he mutters, but he takes the sunscreen.

You lie face-down on your lounger and he straddles it behind you, smoothing sunscreen over your shoulders, your back, the curve of your waist. Your skin is warm from the sun and soft under his hands, and he’s very aware of how little clothing there is between you.

“Lower,” you instruct. “I don’t want to burn.”

He moves lower, to the small of your back, the curve of your ass. His hands are professional, medical almost, but his brain is decidedly not professional.

“Okay, done,” he says, pulling back.

“Thank you,” you say, rolling onto your back and adjusting your bikini top. “You’re very thorough.”

“I’m very careful with you,” he corrects.

“I know,” you say softly. “It’s one of the things I love about you.”

You pick up your book again, and Sidney picks up his, and you read in companionable silence for a while. Or rather, you read. Sidney continues to pretend to read while actually watching you.

He’s made it through maybe three actual pages when you speak again.

“Sidney?”

“Hmm?”

“What would you do if I took this off?” You gesture at your bikini top.

Sidney’s brain short-circuits. “What?”

“My top,” you clarify. “What would you do if I took it off? We’re on a private beach. No one’s around.”

“I would-” He clears his throat. “I would tell you to put it back on.”

“Would you?” You ask, and there’s a challenge in your voice now.

“Yes,” he says firmly. “Because even though this is a private beach, someone could theoretically see. A boat could go by. Someone could be on the cliff with binoculars. And I’m not sharing that view with anyone.”

“Possessive,” you tease.

“Extremely,” he confirms. “You’re mine. All of you. I’m not risking anyone else seeing what’s mine.”

“What if I want to?” You challenge. “What if I want to feel the sun on my skin?”

“Then we’ll do it at night,” Sidney says. “When it’s dark and no one can see.”

“You’re no fun,” you complain, but you’re smiling.

“I’m plenty of fun,” he defends. “I’m just not interested in anyone else seeing my pregnant wife naked.”

“I’m barely pregnant,” you point out. “You can’t even tell.”

“I can tell,” he says. “Your breasts are already getting fuller. I notice.”

You look down at yourself. “Are they?”

“Yes,” he says definitively. “And they’re more sensitive. I noticed that too.”

“Very observant,” you say. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I think you should fuck me on this beach.”

Sidney nearly chokes on his drink. “What?”

“You heard me,” you say, sitting up and swinging your legs off the lounger. “I want you to fuck me. Right here. On the beach. In the sun.”

“Absolutely not,” Sidney says immediately.

“Why not?” You ask. “It’s private. No one’s around. And I’m your wife. You can do whatever you want with me.”

“I can do whatever I want with you in the villa,” Sidney counters. “In the bedroom. Behind closed doors. Where no one can see.”

“But I want you here,” you say, standing and walking toward him. You straddle his lounger, one knee on either side of his hips, and lean down to kiss him. “I want you to take me right here on this beach. I want to feel the sand and the sun while you fuck me.”

“You’re being a brat,” he says, but his hands have already gone to your hips, holding you.

“Maybe,” you agree. “But you like it when I’m a brat.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to give you what you want,” he says, even though his body is very clearly interested in giving you exactly what you want.

“No?” You ask, rolling your hips against him. You can feel how hard he is through his swim trunks. “You sure about that?”

“Very sure,” he says, though his voice is strained. “I’m not fucking you where someone could see.”

“No one’s going to see,” you insist. “Look around. There’s no one. Just us and the ocean and the sun.”

“Someone could come by,” he argues. “A boat. A person walking. Someone on staff.”

“The staff knows not to come to the beach when we’re here,” you counter. “And boats stay outside the reef. And there’s no one for miles. We’re completely alone.”

“The answer is still no,” Sidney says, even though every part of him wants to say yes.

“Fine,” you say, and you slide off his lap and stand. “Then I’ll just have to convince you.”

“That’s not going to-” Sidney starts, but he stops because you’re reaching behind you and untying your bikini top.

“What are you doing?” He asks, his voice climbing.

“You said you didn’t want anyone else to see,” you say, letting the top fall away. “But there’s no one here to see. Just you. So I’m taking it off.”

Sidney’s mouth goes dry. You’re standing there, topless in the sun, and you’re right, there’s no one around. But the principle of the thing-

“Put it back on,” he says, but it comes out more like a plea than a command.

“Make me,” you challenge.

“You-”

“Or you could fuck me,” you suggest. “Right here. And then I’ll put it back on.”

“That’s blackmail,” he says.

“That’s negotiation,” you correct. You hook your thumbs in your bikini bottoms. “Should I take these off too?”

“Don’t you dare,” Sidney warns, standing.

“Why not?” You ask innocently. “You just said no one can see. So what does it matter?”

“It matters because-” Sidney stops, realizing he’s walked into your trap.

“Because?” You prompt.

“Because you’re mine,” he finally says. “And I don’t want to risk anyone seeing what’s mine. Even if the chances are basically zero.”

“Then claim me,” you say softly. “Right here. Show me I’m yours.”

Sidney looks around. The beach is completely empty. The villa behind them is closed up for privacy. There are no boats visible on the horizon.  You’re completely alone.

“You’re really not going to let this go,” he says.

“Not a chance,” you confirm. “I want this, Sidney. I want you. Right here, right now.”

He looks at you — his wife, standing topless on a private beach, asking him to fuck you — and his resolve crumbles.

“If anyone sees,” he warns.

“They won’t,” you promise.

“If I see so much as a hint of another person-”

“Then we’ll stop,” you agree. “But we won’t. Because we’re alone.”

Sidney closes the distance between you, his hands going to your waist. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” you counter.

“I do,” he admits, and then he’s kissing you, hard and possessive.

You melt against him, your bare breasts pressing against his chest, and he groans into your mouth. His hands slide down to your ass, cupping you through your bikini bottoms.

“Here,” you murmur against his lips. “Right here.”

He walks you backward toward one of the loungers, lowering you onto it. You lie back, looking up at him, and he takes a moment just to look at you. His wife. Pregnant with his child. Asking him to fuck you on a beach in paradise.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. “So beautiful.”

“Then touch me,” you say. “Stop staring and touch me.”

He does, his hands skating up your thighs, over your stomach, to your breasts. You arch into his touch, gasping, and he can feel how sensitive you are already.

“Sidney,” you moan. “Please.”

“Please what?” He asks, even though he knows.

“Please fuck me,” you beg. “Right here. Right now. I need you.”

He hooks his fingers in your bikini bottoms and pulls them down slowly. You lift your hips to help, and then you’re completely naked on the lounger, spread out for him like an offering.

“Anyone could see,” he says one more time, but it’s weak now.

“But they won’t,” you say. “It’s just us. Just you and me and the sun and the ocean. Please, daddy. Fuck your pregnant wife.”

The combination of words obliterates any remaining resistance. Sidney strips off his swim trunks and positions himself between your legs.

“You’re already so wet,” he observes, his fingers sliding through your folds.

“I’ve been wet since you put sunscreen on me,” you admit. “Been thinking about this for hours.”

“Thinking about me fucking you on the beach?” He asks, working you with his fingers.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Thinking about you inside me. Thinking about you claiming me out here where anyone could theoretically see. Thinking about how possessive you’d be.”

“I am possessive,” he confirms. “And if anyone did see, I’d have to kill them.”

“Good thing we’re alone then,” you say breathlessly.

He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you. “Last chance to go inside.”

“Not a chance,” you say. “I want you here. Now.”

He pushes inside slowly, and the feeling of you, warm and wet and tight around him, makes him groan. The sun is hot on his back, the ocean breeze cool, and you’re underneath him, taking him, looking up at him with those eyes.

“God, you feel perfect,” he groans.

“So do you,” you gasp. “So deep.”

He starts to move, slow and controlled, acutely aware that you’re outside, exposed. Every sound seems louder — your moans, his breathing, the slap of skin against skin.

“Harder,” you demand. “Stop being gentle. Fuck me like you mean it.”

“Someone could hear,” he protests.

“So let them hear,” you counter. “Let them know how good you fuck your wife. Let them know I’m yours.”

Something primal takes over. Sidney braces one hand beside your head and hooks the other under your knee, opening you wider, and starts fucking you in earnest. Hard, deep, claiming.

“That’s it,” you moan. “Yes, just like that-”

“Mine,” he growls. “You’re mine. My wife. My pregnant wife. No one else gets to see this. No one else gets to hear you moan like this.”

“Only you,” you agree breathlessly. “Only ever you-”

“Carrying my baby,” he continues, his hand sliding to your stomach even as he keeps thrusting. “Everyone’s going to know I knocked you up. Everyone’s going to see you pregnant and know I fucked you.”

“Yes,” you cry out. “Want everyone to know-”

He adjusts the angle and you arch off the lounger, gasping. “Right there?”

“Right there,” you confirm. “Don’t stop-”

He doesn’t. He fucks you hard and deep, the lounger creaking underneath you, and he keeps one eye on the horizon because he really will stop if anyone appears, but there’s no one. Just you and him and paradise.

“Touch yourself,” he commands. “Make yourself come on my cock.”

Your hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit, and you work yourself while he fucks you. The visual of it — you touching yourself while he’s inside you, out in the open air, the sun shining down — is almost too much.

“Close,” you gasp. “So close-”

“Look at me,” he demands. “I want to see your face when you come.”

You do, your eyes locking with his, and he can see the pleasure building in your expression.

“Come for me,” he says. “Come for your husband. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You fall apart with a scream that echoes across the empty beach, your whole body trembling, and Sidney follows immediately after, burying himself deep and filling you up.

“Mine,” he groans. “All mine.”

He collapses on top of you, careful not to put his full weight on your stomach, and you wrap your arms around him.

“That was incredible,” you breathe.

“That was reckless,” he counters, but he’s smiling.

“That was perfect,” you correct. “Admit it. You loved it.”

“I loved it,” he admits. “But I’m never doing that again. My heart can’t take it.”

“Sure,” you say, clearly not believing him. “We’ll see.”

He pulls out carefully and reaches for your bikini, handing it to you. “Put this on. Before I have a heart attack worrying someone saw.”

“No one saw,” you assure him, but you start putting your bikini back on. “We were completely alone.”

“This time,” he mutters, pulling on his swim trunks. “Next time we’re staying in the villa.”

“Next time?” You tease. “I thought you were never doing that again.”

“Next time we have sex,” he clarifies. “Which will be in the villa. With walls and doors and privacy.”

“If you say so,” you say, but you’re grinning.

Once you’re both dressed again, Sidney pulls you into his lap on the lounger. “You’re a menace.”

“You married me anyway,” you point out.

“Best decision I ever made,” he says, kissing your temple.

“Even when I make you do reckless things like fuck me on a beach?”

“Especially then,” he says. “Keeps life interesting.”

You cuddle into his chest, content. The sun is starting to lower in the sky, casting everything in golden light, and Sidney holds you close.

“This really is paradise,” you murmur.

“It is,” he agrees. “But the paradise part isn’t the beach or the villa or the ocean.”

“No?”

“No,” he confirms. “The paradise part is you. Having you here. Knowing you’re my wife. Knowing you’re carrying my baby. That’s the paradise.”

You lift your head to kiss him. “You’re very sweet.”

“I’m very in love,” he corrects.

“That too,” you agree.

You sit like that for a while, watching the sun move across the sky, completely at peace.

“Sidney?” You say eventually.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for this. The honeymoon, the privacy, all of it. I know you had to work around your training schedule.”

“Worth it,” he says. “Every minute with you is worth it.”

“Even when I’m being a brat?”

“Especially when you’re being a brat,” he says. “Keeps me on my toes.”

You laugh, the sound happy and free, and Sidney thinks about how much has changed in three years. From arguing about hockey statistics at a charity gala to this — married, pregnant, on a honeymoon in the Seychelles.

“What are you thinking about?” You ask.

“How far we’ve come,” he admits. “How lucky I am.”

“We’re both lucky,” you correct. “I’m the one who got to marry Sidney Crosby.”

“You’re the one who got to marry Sidney,” he corrects. “Not Sidney Crosby the hockey player. Just Sidney.”

“Best Sidney there is,” you say. “My Sidney.”

“Your Sidney,” he agrees. “Always.”

The sun continues its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, and Sidney holds his wife on a beach in paradise and thinks that this — this moment right here — is what happiness looks like.

The thing about Sidney Crosby is that he knows what matters.

Not the trophies or the fame or the records.

This. You. Your baby. A lifetime of moments just like this one.

Garrett is shoved backward as a swarm of people in scrubs and high-visibility jackets descends on the back of the ambulance. He trips over his own heavy boots, his shoulder colliding hard with the metal frame of the door, but he barely feels the impact.

He is completely numb.

He watches, trapped in a terrifying, out-of-body disassociation, as they pull the stretcher out into the freezing night.

You are entirely swallowed by the chaos. The yellow backboard, the rigid plastic brace locked around your neck, the tangle of IV lines and monitor wires — it all looks so incredibly wrong. You are small. You are fragile. You are supposed to be safe in his kitchen, laughing at Dean and stealing Logan’s hoodies.

You are not supposed to be bleeding out on a gurney.

“Sir, step back!” A voice yells, but it sounds like it’s underwater.

Garrett stumbles out of the ambulance, his boots hitting the pavement of the ambulance bay. He blindly follows the chaotic rush of medical personnel pushing your stretcher through the automatic sliding glass doors.

The emergency room is a madhouse. Phones are ringing, people are shouting, monitors are beeping in a discordant, terrifying symphony.

“Trauma Bay One is prepped!” A male nurse shouts, jogging backward as he helps guide your stretcher down the wide linoleum hallway. “What’s her status?”

“She’s tachycardic, GCS is a seven and dropping,” the paramedic barks, practically running to keep up with the rolling bed. “She briefly regained consciousness on the scene but she’s been unresponsive for the last eight minutes.”

They wheel you past the triage desk. They wheel you past the crowded waiting room.

And then, it happens.

A young nurse, wearing the same standard-issue hospital blue scrubs you usually hate, is walking out of a supply closet with a stack of clean towels. She glances casually at the incoming trauma rushing past her.

Her eyes lock onto the stretcher.

The stack of towels slips from her hands, hitting the floor with a soft, muffled thud.

“Oh my god,” the young nurse gasps, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. Her eyes go completely wide, pure, unadulterated horror stripping the color from her face. “Is that … is that Y/N?”

The question cuts through the noise of the ER like a knife.

The male nurse pushing the foot of your stretcher looks down. He really looks. The heavy blood, the swelling, the terrifying distortion of your features makes it hard, but underneath the violence, the recognition clicks into place.

“Fuck,” the male nurse curses loudly, his voice cracking with panic. “It’s Y/N! Hey! It’s one of ours! It’s Y/N!”

The shift in the room is instantaneous and absolute.

A hospital emergency room is trained to handle trauma. They deal with tragedy objectively, separating their emotions from the physical mechanics of saving a life.

But not this time.

The objective professionalism shatters into a million pieces. The name echoes down the hallway, passed from nurse to doctor to orderly like a devastating electric shock.

It’s Y/N. The pediatric nurse. The girl with the patterned scrubs who stays late to hold the preemie babies.

“Get Dr. Gardner down here right fucking now!” A voice screams from down the hall.

“Page trauma surgery! Page neuro!”

Garrett trails behind the stretcher like a ghost. People are running past him, sprinting toward Trauma Bay One. The urgency has multiplied tenfold. This isn’t just a patient anymore. This is their family.

They push the stretcher into the large, glass-walled room of Trauma Bay One. The doors slide shut, but the chaos inside only amplifies.

Garrett hits the glass.

He slaps both of his hands flat against the cold pane, his face pressing close, his dark eyes wide and terrified as he watches them transfer you from the stretcher to the hospital bed.

There are at least ten people crowded around you.

“On my count!” Dr. Gardner, the same doctor who stitched Garrett’s forehead a month ago, yells over the din. He looks completely frantic, his usual calm demeanor entirely gone. “One, two, three!”

They lift the backboard and slide you over. Your arm flops limply off the side of the bed. A nurse immediately catches it, her own hands shaking as she secures the IV line.

“Someone get me the portable ultrasound!” Dr. Gardner barks, grabbing a pair of trauma shears from the counter. “We need to check for internal bleeding. Her abdomen is rigid. I need two units of O-negative blood, stat!”

Garrett presses his forehead against the glass. He is trapped on the outside, a helpless, useless spectator to the most terrifying moment of his entire life.

He feels a heavy hand land firmly on his shoulder.

Garrett flinches violently, spinning around with his fists instantly raised, ready to fight, ready to destroy whoever is touching him.

But it’s not a threat.

Standing in front of him is a short, stocky older woman in dark blue scrubs. Her silver hair is pulled back into a tight bun, and her name tag reads Helen - Charge Nurse. Her face is lined with years of exhaustion and ER stress, but right now, her eyes are blazing with a fierce, terrifying intensity.

“Lower your hands, son,” Helen says. Her voice is calm, gravelly, and brooks absolute zero argument.

Garrett slowly lowers his fists, his chest heaving as he fights for air that doesn’t seem to exist. “I-I have to …”

“You have to stay out of their way,” Helen says firmly, stepping directly into his line of sight, forcing him to look at her instead of the bloody scene behind the glass. “They are doing everything they can. You being in there will only distract them, and she needs every single ounce of their focus right now.”

Garrett’s jaw trembles. He looks down at his hands.

They are coated in your blood. It has dried into the creases of his knuckles, stained the cuffs of his black Henley, and smeared across his palms. The sight of it sends a fresh, violent wave of nausea rolling through his stomach.

“Come here,” Helen murmurs, her tone softening marginally.

She grabs him by the bicep. For a woman half his size, she has a grip like a vise. She pulls him a few feet away from the glass window, steering him toward a small alcove near the nurses’ station that offers a sliver of privacy.

She pushes him down into a plastic chair.

“Sit,” she orders.

Garrett collapses into the chair, his elbows coming to rest on his knees. He buries his face in his bloodstained hands, a ragged, broken sob tearing its way up his throat. He can’t hold it back anymore. The adrenaline is crashing, leaving behind nothing but the agonizing, crushing reality of what just happened.

Helen doesn’t offer him empty platitudes. She doesn’t pat his back or tell him everything is going to be okay. She’s an ER nurse; she knows better than to make promises she can’t keep.

Instead, she turns to a nearby sink, wets a thick stack of brown paper towels with warm water, and walks back over to him.

“Give me your hands,” Helen says.

Garrett slowly lifts his head. He drops his hands to his lap.

Helen kneels in front of him, entirely uncaring about the linoleum floor. She takes his massive, shaking hands in her own and begins to methodically wipe the drying blood from his skin.

“You were in here a month ago,” Helen says quietly, her eyes focused entirely on the task of cleaning his knuckles. “I remember you. The hockey player with the concussion.”

“Yeah,” Garrett rasps, his throat burning.

“She was terrified that night,” Helen continues, scrubbing a stubborn patch of crimson from his palm. “I’ve been a nurse for forty years. I know what a victim of domestic abuse looks like. I knew what she was going home to. I tried to get her to talk to me, but she wouldn’t. She protected him.”

Garrett closes his eyes, the memory of that night in the exam room flashing vividly behind his eyelids.

“She left with you,” Helen says, tossing the bloody paper towels into a nearby biohazard bin and grabbing a fresh, wet stack. “I watched her walk out of those sliding doors with you, and for the first time since she started working here, she looked like she had a sliver of hope.”

“I told her I’d protect her,” Garrett chokes out, the guilt a physical, crushing weight on his chest. “I promised her she was safe. I moved her into my house. We were careful. We were so fucking careful.”

“Careful doesn’t matter when you’re dealing with a monster,” Helen says bluntly.

She finishes wiping his hands, tossing the last of the towels away. She doesn’t stand up. She stays kneeling in front of him, forcing him to meet her steely, hardened gaze.

“What’s the story?” Helen asks, her voice dropping to a dangerous, deadly whisper. “And don’t you dare lie to me. Who did this to my girl?”

Garrett looks at her. He sees the absolute, uncompromising love this woman has for you. He sees the fury vibrating in her jaw.

“My father,” Garrett says, the words tasting like poison on his tongue. “Phil Graham.”

Helen’s eyebrows twitch, a brief flash of recognition crossing her face, but she doesn’t seem to care that the man is a famous athlete. She only cares that he is a monster.

“He tracked her down,” Garrett continues, the words pouring out of him in a disjointed, frantic rush. “She went to the grocery store after her shift. He must have been waiting. He must have followed her. We found her in the alley out back. He beat her, Helen. He beat her until she couldn’t stand, and then he just left her there to die.”

Helen’s expression hardens into something akin to carved stone. She slowly stands up, smoothing down the front of her scrubs.

“The police are already on their way,” Helen says, her voice cold and absolute. “Protocol for assault victims. They’ll be here any minute to take a statement.”

She steps closer to him, leaning down slightly so her face is inches from his.

“You tell them everything,” Helen orders, pointing a stern finger at his chest. “You tell them about tonight. You tell them about the bruises you saw a month ago. You give them his name, his address, and the make of his car if you know it.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Garrett whispers, the terrifying, homicidal calm returning to his blood. It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.

“No, you are not,” Helen snaps, her voice cracking like a whip. “You are not going to throw your life away for a piece of garbage like that. You are going to let the police arrest him, and you are going to make damn sure that whoever did this to sweet Y/N never sees the light of day again. You bury him with the law. You don’t let him ruin your life too.”

Garrett stares at her, his jaw locked tight. He doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t argue.

“I need to get back to my floor,” Helen says, stepping back. Her eyes flick toward the glass window of Trauma Bay One, a flash of profound sadness breaking through her tough exterior. “You sit right here. You don’t move until the doctors come out to speak with you.”

“Is she …” Garrett swallows hard, terrified to even ask the question. “Is she going to make it?”

Helen looks at him, her eyes softening with a deep, tragic sympathy. “She’s young. She’s strong. And she has the best trauma team in the state working on her right now. But Garrett … it’s bad. Prepare yourself.”

Helen turns and walks away, disappearing back into the chaotic flow of the emergency room.

Garrett is left alone in the plastic chair.

He turns his head, his eyes immediately locking back onto the glass wall of the trauma bay.

It looks like a warzone inside.

Dr. Gardner is standing on one side of the bed, his white coat stained with your blood, shouting orders. Two nurses are frantically hanging bags of blood and clear fluids, the plastic lines tangling together in their rush.

Someone is cutting away your dark jeans, exposing the pale skin of your legs.

“We have fluid in the abdomen!” Dr. Gardner yells, staring at the screen of a portable ultrasound machine. “She’s bleeding internally. We need an OR prepped right now! Call the surgical team, tell them we’re coming up!”

Garrett stands up, drawn magnetically toward the glass.

He watches as a respiratory therapist pushes through the crowd, holding a terrifying array of plastic tubes and a metal laryngoscope.

“Her airway is swelling!” The therapist shouts. “She’s not getting enough oxygen. I need to intubate!”

“Do it!” Dr. Gardner barks. “Push the propofol and rocuronium. Get her under.”

Garrett presses his hands against the glass again. He watches in pure, unadulterated agony as they tilt your head back. He watches them slip the metal blade into your mouth, forcing your jaw open, slipping a plastic tube down your throat to breathe for you because your broken body can no longer do it on its own.

It is the most violated, terrifying thing he has ever witnessed.

He feels like his heart is being slowly, methodically crushed in a vise. Every time the monitor beeps — a frantic, irregular sound — he flinches. Every time a new drop of blood hits the white hospital floor, a piece of his soul breaks off.

This is his fault.

The thought is a toxic, pervasive cancer in his mind. He brought you into his world. He challenged a man he knew was a volatile, violent psychopath, and he arrogant enough to believe he could just walk away. He thought a locked door and three college hockey players were enough to stop a monster with decades of experience in terrorizing people.

He underestimated Phil. And you are paying the ultimate, agonizing price for his mistake.

“Garrett!”

The frantic shout cuts through the noise of the ER.

Garrett turns his head.

Bursting through the main sliding glass doors are Logan, Dean, and Tucker. They look entirely unhinged. Dean’s face is stained with tears, Logan’s eyes are wild and frantic, and Tucker is deathly pale, his jaw locked tight.

They spot him standing by the glass and immediately sprint across the waiting room, completely ignoring the protests of the security guard at the desk.

“Where is she?” Logan demands, grabbing Garrett’s shoulder. “Is she okay? What are they saying?”

Garrett doesn’t answer. He just turns his head back toward the glass window.

The boys follow his gaze.

They freeze. All three of them, these massive, imposing athletes who fear absolutely nothing on the ice, stop dead in their tracks.

Dean lets out a broken, horrifying sob, covering his mouth with his hand. He turns away instantly, unable to look at you with the tube down your throat, your face a swollen, bloody mess. He leans against the wall, his shoulders shaking violently.

Tucker closes his eyes, a tear escaping to run down his cheek. He reaches out and grips Garrett’s shoulder, a silent, desperate attempt at grounding them both in a reality that feels completely surreal.

Logan doesn’t look away. He stares through the glass, his eyes tracking the frantic movements of the doctors, the blood on the floor, the terrifying array of machines keeping you alive.

“He’s dead,” Logan whispers. The words are utterly devoid of emotion. They are a statement of fact. “Phil Graham is a dead man.”

“Get in line,” Garrett rasps, his voice hollow.

Suddenly, the doors to Trauma Bay One slide violently open.

“Move! We’re moving!” Dr. Gardner yells, running alongside the bed as two orderlies push the stretcher out into the hallway. “Clear a path to the elevators! OR 4 is waiting!”

Garrett steps forward automatically, trying to get to you, trying to grab your hand one more time.

“Stay back!” Dr. Gardner shouts, not unkindly, but with absolute urgency. “She’s bleeding internally. Her spleen is ruptured and we suspect a severe traumatic brain injury. We are taking her to surgery right now.”

“Can I …” Garrett chokes on the words. “Can I come up?”

“You wait in the surgical waiting room on the third floor,” Dr. Gardner says, the stretcher already moving rapidly down the hall. “We will find you when we know more. Just pray, boys. Just pray.”

And then, they are gone.

The stretcher rounds the corner toward the surgical elevators, disappearing from sight, leaving behind nothing but a smeared trail of blood on the linoleum floor and a terrifying, ringing silence in Garrett’s ears.

Garrett stands in the middle of the hallway, staring at the empty space where you just were. He feels completely hollowed out. There is nothing left inside him but a cold, desolate wasteland of terror and guilt.

“Garrett Graham?”

A deep, authoritative voice echoes from behind them.

Garrett turns slowly.

Standing a few feet away are two uniformed police officers. They look grim, their hands resting on their utility belts, their eyes scanning the four massive hockey players standing in the middle of the trauma wing.

“I’m Garrett,” he says, his voice flat.

The older of the two officers, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a heavy mustache, steps forward and pulls a small notebook from his breast pocket.

“I’m Officer Miller, this is Officer Davis,” he says, his tone strictly professional but carrying a weight of understanding. “We were called in regarding the assault victim that just came through here. Y/N. The charge nurse said you were the one who found her.”

“I found her,” Garrett confirms.

“We need to ask you some questions, son,” Officer Miller says gently. “Can you tell us exactly what happened tonight? And do you have any idea who might have done this to her?”

Garrett looks at the officer. He thinks about Helen’s words. You bury him with the law. You make damn sure he never sees the light of day again.

He thinks about the way you looked in that alleyway, curled into a ball, apologizing to him while your face bled onto the asphalt. He thinks about the violent, terrifying reality of his father.

Logan steps up to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Garrett, a silent, imposing wall of support. Tucker moves to his other side. Dean wipes his face and steps up right behind them.

They are a united front. They are your family.

“I don’t just have an idea,” Garrett says, his voice ringing with a terrifying, absolute clarity that echoes in the quiet emergency room. He locks eyes with the police officer. “I know exactly who did it.”

Officer Miller clicks his pen. “Who?”

“Phil Graham,” Garrett says, the name echoing like a death sentence. “He’s my father. And I want him put in a cage for the rest of his miserable life.”

***

“I want to make sure I have this entirely straight, son,” Officer Miller says, his pen hovering over the small spiral notebook. The harsh fluorescent lights of the emergency room hallway cast deep, exhausted shadows under the cop’s eyes. “You are accusing your father, Philip Graham, former professional hockey player, of this assault.”

“I’m not just accusing him,” Garrett says. His voice is dangerously calm. He sits rigidly in the plastic waiting room chair, his elbows resting on his knees. “I’m telling you it was him.”

Officer Davis, the younger cop, shifts his weight. “And you said you witnessed him abuse her previously?”

“Thanksgiving,” Garrett answers without missing a beat. “I went to his house in Connecticut for dinner. It was the first time I met her. She reached across the table, and her sleeve slid up. She had finger-shaped bruises all over her bicep. The exact same size and shape as the bruises I just saw on her arm in the ambulance.”

Officer Miller frowns, jotting down the notes rapidly. “Did you report the abuse then?”

“No,” Garrett grits out, the admission tasting like ash in his mouth. “She begged me not to. She was terrified. She told me it was her fault for dropping a glass. I got in my face with him, told her to run, and I left. But three weeks later, she ended up in this ER as my nurse. He had beaten her again because my exit embarrassed him. So I took her home with me.”

“She’s been living with us for almost a month,” Tucker interjects. He is standing right behind Garrett’s chair, a solid, immovable presence. “In our off-campus house. We’ve been keeping the doors locked. She bought a burner phone so he couldn’t track her GPS. She was terrified he would find her.”

“But he did,” Logan adds, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his blue eyes hard as ice. “She texted us at 6:05 PM that she was clocking out and going to the Market Basket down the street. When she wasn’t home by 7:15, Garrett tried to call. It went to voicemail. So we tracked her Life360 location to the parking lot.”

Officer Davis looks up from his own notepad. “You found the car first?”

“Row G,” Dean says. His voice is shaky, completely lacking its usual arrogant bravado. He looks sick to his stomach. “Driver’s side door was wide open. Groceries all over the ground. Her phone was smashed on the pavement. Garrett told us to split up.”

“I took the back alley,” Garrett takes over, staring blankly at the far wall. “Behind the hardware store and the loading docks. That’s where I found her.”

“Did you see anyone else in the alley?” Miller asks. “A vehicle leaving the scene? Anyone fleeing on foot?”

“No,” Garrett says. “It was empty. He was already gone. But I’m telling you, it was him. Check the security cameras at the grocery store. Check the traffic cams at the intersection. You’ll see his car. He drives a black BMW.”

Officer Miller closes his notebook with a definitive snap. “We have units at the Market Basket securing the scene right now. They’re pulling the surveillance footage as we speak. We’re also dispatching state troopers to Phil Graham’s residence to bring him in for questioning.”

“Questioning isn’t going to be enough,” Garrett says, finally looking up to meet the officer’s eyes. The dark, lethal promise in Garrett’s gaze makes the older cop pause. “He nearly beat her to death. He left her in an alley to die. If you don’t lock him up, I will handle him myself.”

“Garrett,” Tucker warns quietly, his hand squeezing Garrett’s shoulder.

Officer Miller exhales a long, heavy breath. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, son. Let us do our jobs. If what you’re saying lines up with the evidence at the scene, Philip Graham won’t be seeing the outside of a jail cell for a very, very long time. Attempted murder is a heavy charge.”

The words ring in the air, echoing violently in Garrett’s skull.

“We’ll be in touch,” Officer Davis says gently. “Don’t leave the hospital without letting the front desk know. We might need a formal written statement later tonight.”

“We aren’t going anywhere,” Logan says flatly.

The two officers turn and walk away, their heavy boots squeaking against the polished linoleum.

As soon as they are out of earshot, the last of Garrett’s adrenaline completely evaporates. It leaves behind a crushing, suffocating exhaustion that makes his bones ache. He leans forward, burying his face in his hands, his fingers tangling roughly in his dark hair.

“This is my fault,” Dean whispers from a few feet away.

Garrett lifts his head. Dean is pacing a tight circle near the vending machines, his hands tugging at the roots of his blonde hair.

“Dean, stop,” Logan says tiredly, rubbing his eyes.

“No, think about it,” Dean insists, his voice cracking. He looks at the three of them, completely devastated. “She asked if we needed anything. I asked for the damn Bagel Bites. If I had just kept my mouth shut, she would have driven straight home. She wouldn’t have stopped. He wouldn’t have caught her.”

“Don’t do that,” Tucker says firmly, stepping away from Garrett’s chair to intercept Dean. He grabs Dean by the shoulders, forcing the pacing to stop. “Listen to me. Do not do that. Phil Graham is a predator. If he found her at the grocery store, it means he was already watching her. He probably followed her from the hospital. If she hadn’t stopped at the store, he might have tried to pull her out of her car at a stoplight, or ambushed her in our driveway.”

“Tuck’s right,” Logan agrees, stepping up beside them. “This isn’t on you, Dean. It’s on Phil. And we are going to make sure he pays for it.”

Garrett listens to his friends, but the words just wash over him. Dean can blame himself for the grocery list all he wants, but Garrett knows the real truth.

It’s his fault.

He is the one who dragged you into this mess. He is the one who provoked Phil. He is the one who arrogantly assumed he could play the hero and save you from the dragon, without realizing the dragon would simply burn the whole castle down in retaliation.

The waiting room clock ticks loudly on the wall.

It’s 11:42 PM.

You have been in surgery for over three hours.

The surgical waiting room on the third floor is suffocatingly quiet. The ER was loud, chaotic, and terrifying. But this room is worse. It’s just beige walls, uncomfortable chairs, old magazines, and the agonizing, stretching silence of not knowing.

“I’m getting coffee,” Logan announces, pushing himself up from the stiff couch. “Garrett? You want anything?”

Garrett shakes his head silently. He hasn’t moved from his chair in hours. He hasn’t washed his hands again. There is still a faint smear of your blood on his left cuff. He can’t bring himself to scrub it out. It feels like throwing away a piece of you.

“Get him a black coffee,” Tucker tells Logan. “And get Dean some water.”

Logan nods and slips out the door.

Dean drops onto the couch across from Garrett, staring blankly at his phone screen. “How long does a surgery take? It’s been hours.”

“As long as she needs,” Tucker says softly, taking the seat next to Garrett.

Silence falls over the room again.

Garrett closes his eyes. Every time he does, he is trapped in a horrific highlight reel.

He sees your open car door. He sees the shattered marinara sauce. He sees you lying in the dirt, curled into a ball, your face beaten beyond recognition.

He said you couldn’t keep me. He said I belonged to him.

Your weak, agonizing whisper tears through his mind, shredding his sanity.

Garrett leans his head back against the wall, his jaw clenching so tight his teeth ache. He doesn’t just want you to survive. He needs you to survive. He needs you to wake up so he can look you in the eyes and tell you everything he’s been too cowardly to say for the last month.

He wants to tell you that the house feels empty when you aren’t in it. That he purposefully sits on the edge of the couch just so his leg can brush against yours. That the sound of your laugh when Dean makes a stupid joke is the only thing that actually settles the dark, anxious noise in his brain.

He is falling in love with you.

He knows it with a terrifying, absolute certainty. He has been falling since the night you walked into his exam room in those ridiculous pink scrubs and touched his face with hands so gentle they made him want to cry.

“Garrett Graham?”

Garrett’s eyes snap open.

Standing in the doorway of the waiting room is Dr. Gardner.

The surgeon looks entirely exhausted. He has changed out of his blood-stained white coat and is wearing fresh green surgical scrubs. A blue surgical cap is still tied around his head, and his face is deeply lined with fatigue.

Garrett shoots up from his chair so fast it tips backward, crashing loudly against the floor.

Tucker and Dean are on their feet a split second later. Logan jogs back into the room, holding a cardboard tray of coffees, freezing in his tracks at the sight of the doctor.

None of them speak. The air is completely sucked out of the room. Garrett feels his heart climb directly into his throat, beating a frantic, terrifying rhythm.

Dr. Gardner looks at the four massive hockey players. He lets out a slow, measured breath.

“Before I say anything,” Dr. Gardner starts, his voice low and serious, “I need you to understand that legally, I am not supposed to give you this information. You aren’t family. You aren’t her emergency contacts.”

Garrett’s chest caves in. “Please.”

It’s the only word he can manage. It’s a broken, desperate plea.

Dr. Gardner holds up a hand, his expression softening into profound empathy. “However. I have worked with her for over a year. And for the last three and a half weeks, she has not shut up about the four hockey players she lives with. She talks about how Tucker cooks better than a five-star chef. How Dean is a menace but means well. How Logan is secretly a giant softie.”

The doctor turns his gaze directly to Garrett.

“And she talks about you,” Dr. Gardner says softly. “She talks about how you saved her life. So, as far as I’m concerned, you boys are her family. And you deserve to know what’s going on.”

“Is she alive?” Garrett asks, his voice trembling so violently he barely recognizes it.

“She is alive,” Dr. Gardner confirms immediately.

The collective exhale in the room is staggering. Dean literally sags against the wall, burying his face in his hands. Tucker grips the back of a chair, his eyes dropping to the ceiling in silent prayer. Logan sets the tray of coffees down on a side table with shaking hands.

Garrett feels his knees threaten to buckle, but he forces himself to stay standing. “What happened? How bad is it?”

Dr. Gardner rubs the back of his neck, shifting into his clinical, professional mode. “It’s bad, Garrett. I won’t sugarcoat it. The blunt force trauma she sustained was severe.”

Garrett braces himself. “Tell me.”

“When she arrived, her blood pressure was plummeting due to internal bleeding,” Dr. Gardner explains, keeping his voice steady. “We rushed her into surgery and discovered a Grade 4 laceration to her spleen. It was ruptured beyond repair. We had to perform a full splenectomy to stop the bleeding. She’ll have a compromised immune system moving forward, but she can live a full life without it.”

“Okay,” Garrett nods rapidly, processing the information. “Okay, what else?”

“She has three broken ribs on her left side, and two cracked on the right,” the surgeon continues. “The defensive bruising on her forearms is extensive, but luckily, there are no fractures in her arms or wrists.”

“And her face?” Logan asks, his voice thick with anger. “She was completely unrecognizable.”

Dr. Gardner’s jaw tightens. “The facial trauma was significant. She has a severe orbital blowout fracture on her left side — the bone underneath the eye socket was crushed. We had an oral and maxillofacial surgeon come in to set a titanium plate to rebuild the floor of the socket and save her vision. Her nose is broken in two places, we reset it in the OR.”

Garrett feels a fresh wave of violent nausea wash over him. The visual of his father taking his massive, heavy fists and crushing the delicate bones of your face is enough to make him want to put his fist through the waiting room drywall.

“What about her brain?” Tucker asks gently. “She was unconscious when the paramedics took her.”

“That is our primary concern right now,” Dr. Gardner says, his expression turning grave. “She suffered a severe concussion. We did a CT scan before taking her up to the OR. There is no active brain bleed, which is a massive relief, but there is significant swelling. A traumatic brain injury.”

“So what does that mean?” Garrett demands, stepping closer to the doctor. “When does she wake up?”

“Right now, she is heavily sedated and intubated in the ICU,” Dr. Gardner explains. “We are keeping her on a ventilator to protect her airway while the facial swelling goes down, and to keep her brain resting. We will slowly wean her off the paralytics and sedation over the next twenty-four hours to see how she responds.”

“But she’s stable?” Garrett pleads.

“She is in critical but stable condition,” Dr. Gardner corrects carefully. “She made it through the surgery. That was the hardest part. Now, we just have to wait for her body to heal.”

“Can I see her?” Garrett asks instantly. He doesn’t care about ICU rules or visiting hours. If Dr. Gardner tells him no, he will tear this hospital apart barehanded to find you.

Dr. Gardner looks at Garrett, taking in the bloodstained clothes, the wild, desperate exhaustion in his dark eyes.

“ICU protocol says immediate family only,” Dr. Gardner says quietly. He reaches into his scrub pocket and pulls out a visitor pass. “But like I said. As far as I’m concerned, you’re family. Just you, Garrett. The rest of the boys can come in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Garrett breathes, taking the pass. “Doc, I … thank you.”

“Room 219,” Dr. Gardner says. “She looks worse than she did down in the alley, Garrett. The swelling from the surgery is peaking. Brace yourself.”

Garrett doesn’t hesitate. He turns to the guys.

“Go home,” Garrett tells them. “Get some sleep. Bring some fresh clothes tomorrow.”

“We’re not leaving, G,” Logan says firmly, already walking over to the waiting room couch and throwing his jacket down like a blanket. “We’ll sleep right here.”

“I’m not leaving without seeing her,” Dean adds stubbornly, crossing his arms.

Garrett looks at his best friends. He doesn’t have the energy to argue, and honestly, knowing they are right outside the ICU doors brings him a strange sort of comfort.

“Okay,” Garrett whispers.

He turns and walks out of the waiting room.

The Intensive Care Unit is a completely different world from the emergency room. The lights are dimmed, casting a quiet, clinical hush over the wide hallways. There is no shouting, no running. Just the rhythmic, terrifyingly steady beeping of heart monitors and the mechanical whoosh of ventilators keeping people alive.

Garrett walks down the hall, his boots silent against the floor.

He stops outside Room 219.

The door is made of heavy glass. He can see right inside.

He puts his hand on the metal handle, but for a second, he can’t bring himself to push it down. Dr. Gardner warned him. But nothing could have prepared him for the reality of seeing you like this.

He pushes the door open and steps inside.

The room is freezing cold, designed to keep bacteria at bay. It smells like sharp antiseptic and iodine.

You are lying in the center of the room, completely surrounded by machines.

Garrett walks slowly to the side of your bed, his heart breaking into a million jagged pieces.

You look incredibly small. The heavy hospital blankets are pulled up to your chest, hiding the bandages from your surgery and the wrap around your broken ribs. But he can’t hide from your face.

Dr. Gardner was right. The swelling is horrific. Your entire face is bruised, puffed, and distorted. Your left eye is completely swollen shut, covered by a white sterile patch protecting the newly placed titanium plate. A heavy plastic brace encompasses your neck, keeping your spine perfectly still.

And sticking out of your mouth, taped securely to your cheek, is the thick, ribbed plastic tube of the ventilator.

The machine beside your bed hisses and clicks, forcing air into your lungs, making your chest rise and fall in a harsh, mechanical rhythm.

“Y/N,” Garrett whispers.

He reaches the side of the bed. He wants to touch your face, to stroke your hair, but he is terrified of hurting you. He is terrified of adding even a fraction of an ounce of pain to what you are already enduring.

He looks down at your right hand. It rests on top of the blue hospital blanket. There is an IV port taped to the back of your hand, wires running from your fingertips to the monitor above your head.

But your palm is open.

Garrett sinks into the hard plastic chair beside your bed. He slowly, carefully reaches out and slides his large, calloused hand under yours.

Your skin is cold. The contrast to the vibrant, warm girl who was teasing him about grocery shopping just six hours ago is devastating.

He gently wraps his fingers around yours, securing your small hand safely within his grip. He avoids the IV lines, mindful of the bruises painting your forearm.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and brings your knuckles to his lips.

He presses a long, agonizingly gentle kiss to your bruised skin.