Natalia @pucksandpower - Tumblr Blog

girls just wanna

Dean Di Laurentis x pop star!Reader x Garrett Graham

Summary: fuck your ex-man, I’m the man now. Think I feel bad, he was fanned out. Do what you like, you’ve been too nice. He didn’t do right, that’s too bad now

Warnings: 18+ themes, grooming, sexual coercion, and non-consensual psychiatric institutionalization

The bass thumps so hard it rattles your ribcage. You stand in the center of the soundstage, the heat from the overhead lights baking into your bare skin. You’re wearing something that barely qualifies as clothing — a web of rhinestones, leather straps, and sheer mesh that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.

“Cut!”

The music cuts out, leaving a ringing silence in its wake.

Shawn’s voice echoes over the PA system, sharp and irritated. A second later, he’s stepping out from behind the monitors and striding toward you.

Shawn. Your manager. The owner of your record label.

Your boyfriend.

The word feels like ash in your mouth. He’s forty-two. You just turned twenty-one. He’s been the center of your universe since you were fifteen, the man who “discovered” you, molded you, and eventually, when you turned eighteen, moved you into his bed. He tells you he loves you. He tells you nobody else understands you.

Right now, he looks pissed.

“You’re stiff,” Shawn says, stepping into your personal space. He doesn’t care about the dozens of crew members watching. His hands settle heavily on your bare hips, his fingers digging into your skin. “You look like a mannequin out there. Loosen up.”

You swallow hard, wrapping your arms around your torso. The air conditioning in the studio is freezing, but you’re sweating under the lights. “I’m trying, Shawn. But this choreography … it’s a lot. It doesn’t feel like me.”

He sighs, a harsh, condescending sound. He reaches up and brushes a stray piece of hair out of your face, his touch lingering. “Baby. We’ve talked about this. ‘You’ is what I say it is. This is what sells. Do you want the new album to flop? After everything I’ve done for you?”

“No,” you whisper automatically. It’s the answer you always give. “But the floor work-”

“The floor work is the climax of the video,” he interrupts smoothly. “When the beat drops, I want you on your knees. Look up at the camera. Part your lips. Make them want you.”

You stare at him, a knot tightening in your throat. “Make them want me how?”

“Mime it,” he says, dropping his voice, though the mic pack on his hip is probably picking it up. “You know exactly what I mean. Down on your knees. Work the air like you’re taking it. It’s edgy. It’s what the fans want to see from you now.”

The studio spins.

You look past him, catching the eye of the cameraman, the lighting tech, the makeup artist hovering with a powder brush. They all look away. Nobody says a word. Nobody ever says a word.

“No,” you say.

The syllable slips out before you can stop it.

Shawn’s eyes narrow. The charming, paternal warmth he uses in interviews vanishes, replaced by a cold, hard stare. “Excuse me?”

“I said no.” Your voice shakes, but you force the words out. The knot in your chest is expanding, turning into a crushing weight. “I’m not doing that. I’m a singer, Shawn. I’m not doing softcore porn for a music video.”

“You’ll do what I tell you to do,” he snaps, stepping closer. “I made you. You would be singing in dive bars in the Midwest if it weren’t for me. You think you have a career without me? You think anyone gives a shit about your voice? They want to look at you.”

“Stop.” You take a step back, your heel catching on one of the leather straps of your thigh-high boots. You stumble, barely catching your balance.

“Get back on your mark,” Shawn orders, pointing at the tape on the floor. “Music!”

The bass blasts through the speakers again. The lights flash.

“Action!”

“No!” You scream it this time, covering your ears. The noise is too loud. The lights are too bright. The walls are closing in. You can’t breathe. You pull at the tight choker around your neck, ripping the rhinestones away.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing?” Shawn yells over the track.

You don’t answer. You turn and run.

You push past the backup dancers, shove through the heavy soundproof doors of the studio, and burst out into the hallway. You’re hyperventilating, tears streaking your heavy stage makeup, ruining the perfect, doll-like face Shawn paid so much for. You just keep running.

***

EXCLUSIVE: POP PRINCESS GOES OFF THE DEEP END?

TMZ Staff | May 29, 2026

Looks like the pressure of stardom has finally cracked another one, folks.

Sources exclusively tell TMZ that pop sensation and former teen sweetheart had a MASSIVE meltdown on the set of her highly anticipated new music video yesterday afternoon.

Insiders on the set report that the 21-year-old singer completely lost her grip on reality midway through the shoot. According to witnesses, she began screaming at the crew, violently ripping off her custom designer wardrobe, and behaving erratically before fleeing the soundstage in tears.

“It was full-on Britney 2007,” one crew member dishes to us. “She just snapped. She was yelling about the lights and the music, completely out of nowhere. Her boyfriend and manager, Shawn Nichols, was trying to calm her down, but she was completely hysterical.”

But wait, it gets worse.

Sources close to the singer’s camp confirm that following the bizarre outburst, she was transported to a private psychiatric facility in the Los Angeles area and placed on an involuntary 5150 psychiatric hold.

For those keeping track, a 5150 hold means the individual is considered a danger to themselves or others.

Shawn Nichols released a brief statement this morning: “We ask for privacy during this incredibly difficult time. She is receiving the best medical care possible, and we are focused entirely on her mental health and recovery.”

Is this the end of her career? Or just another Hollywood tragedy in the making? Stay tuned.

***

“Dude, this pizza is practically raw in the middle.”

“Then put it in the microwave, Logan. Or starve. I really don’t care.”

Garrett Graham doesn’t look up from his phone as he leans back against the worn fabric of the living room couch. His massive frame takes up entirely too much space, his legs stretched out over the coffee table, narrowly avoiding a stack of empty red Solo cups.

“I’m not microwaving pizza, Garrett. What am I, a savage?” Logan complains, tossing the offending slice back into the cardboard box on the kitchen island.

“You literally ate cereal out of a saucepan this morning because you were too lazy to wash a bowl,” Tucker chimes in from the armchair, not bothering to look up from his textbook. “I’d say savage is an understatement.”

“It’s called efficiency, Tuck.”

In the kitchen, Dean is pouring himself a glass of water. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips, his hair still wet from his post-workout shower. Dean is arguably the most objectively beautiful guy in the house — maybe on the entire Briar University campus. He knows it, too. With a trust fund that rivals the GDP of a small country, courtesy of his high-powered attorney parents and his mother’s luxury hotel empire, Dean’s life has always been a gilded ride.

But for all his wealth, Dean is annoyingly grounded. He’s charming, he’s lethal on the ice, and he rarely spends a night without a different girl in his bed. Usually two, if it’s a weekend.

“Speaking of efficiency,” Dean says, leaning against the counter and taking a long drink. “I need one of you to run interference for me tomorrow night. Jennifer wants to ‘talk about us’ after the party.”

Garrett snorts. “There is no ‘us’, man. You’ve hooked up with her twice.”

“Exactly,” Dean says, pointing a finger at him. “Which is why I need Logan to spill a drink on me, or Tucker to fake a medical emergency. Something. I’m not doing the feelings talk. I don’t do feelings.”

“Handle your own women, Di Laurentis,” Garrett mutters, his eyes scanning the screen of his phone.

He frowns, his thumb freezing over the screen. He clicks a link on his Twitter feed, leaning forward slightly as the page loads.

“What?” Logan asks, catching the shift in Garrett’s demeanor.

“This article,” Garrett says, his deep voice dropping a fraction. “About that pop singer. The one with the new song that plays every five seconds at the gym.”

“Oh, yeah,” Dean says, walking over and peering over Garrett’s shoulder. “The hot one. What about her?”

“Says she had a complete mental breakdown on set yesterday. TMZ is reporting she got institutionalized. Placed on an involuntary psychiatric hold.”

Tucker closes his textbook, suddenly interested. “No shit? Like, actually committed?”

“That’s what it says.” Garrett scrolls down, his jaw tightening. “Says she started screaming, ripping off her clothes, and her manager had to step in. Now she’s locked up.”

Dean pulls a face, sinking onto the other end of the couch. “Man, Hollywood is toxic. But wait …” Dean furrows his brow, thinking. “Isn’t her manager also her boyfriend? The guy who runs her label?”

“Yeah. Shawn Nichols,” Logan says, grabbing a different, hopefully more cooked, slice of pizza. “The guy’s a billionaire.”

“He’s also like, fifty,” Dean says, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

“Forty-two,” Garrett corrects, reading from the article.

“Whatever. She just turned twenty-one, right? I remember seeing pictures of her twenty-first birthday party a few weeks ago.” Dean shakes his head. “That’s fucking gross. He’s literally twice her age. And he’s her boss? How is nobody calling that out?”

“Because he has money,” Tucker says simply. “People with that kind of money control the narrative.”

Garrett stays quiet, staring at the screen. The glowing light reflects in his gray eyes. Something about the article is rubbing him the wrong way. It’s an itch right between his shoulder blades.

It’s too neat. Too perfectly packaged. Pop star goes crazy, heroic older boyfriend tries to save her, ultimately has to lock her up for her own good. Garrett knows a thing or two about controlling a narrative. He grew up in a house with a man who was revered by the public. A man who smiled for the cameras, shook hands, and signed autographs, playing the role of the perfect father and the perfect husband. And then the front door would close, and the monster would come out.

His father had beaten his mother for years. And after she died of lung cancer — after the one person who tried to shield Garrett was gone — the violence had turned entirely onto him.

Phil Graham had crafted a perfect public image while systematically destroying his son behind closed doors. So yeah, Garrett has a very finely tuned bullshit detector when it comes to official statements and perfect PR spins.

“It seems fishy,” Garrett says quietly.

“What does?” Dean asks, leaning his head back against the couch cushions.

“This whole thing.” Garrett tosses his phone onto the coffee table. “She’s twenty-one. She’s been with this guy since she was a teenager. Now suddenly she has a ‘breakdown’ on set, and within twenty-four hours she’s locked in a psych ward on a 5150 hold? That means someone signed off on it. Someone said she was a danger to herself. And I bet you anything it was him.”

Logan stops chewing. “You think he locked her up?”

“I think,” Garrett says, his voice hard, “that it’s really easy to call a woman crazy when she stops doing what you tell her to do.”

The room goes quiet for a second. The boys know Garrett’s history — or at least, they know enough of it. They know not to push when he gets that dark, stormy look in his eyes.

Dean exhales slowly. “Well, if he is grooming her, that’s sick. I mean, my parents deal with high-profile divorces all the time. You wouldn’t believe the twisted shit rich guys pull to keep their wives or girlfriends in line. Locking her in a facility sounds exactly like something a controlling freak would do to keep her quiet.”

“It’s just another crazy Hollywood story,” Tucker says gently, trying to lighten the mood. “Nothing we can do about it from Massachusetts.”

Garrett nods slowly, dragging a hand through his dark hair. “Yeah. You’re right. It’s none of our business.”

He picks up his phone again, closing the browser tab. He forces the image of the girl out of his head. He doesn’t know her. She’s a celebrity, living a million miles away in a world that makes absolutely no sense. He has a hockey season to prepare for. He has a team to captain.

But as he pulls up the team schedule, he can’t quite shake the feeling of unease in his gut. He knows what it feels like to be trapped by someone who claims to love you.

“Anyway,” Dean says, clapping his hands together and breaking the tension. “Back to my actual crisis. Jennifer. Tomorrow night. Who is taking the bullet for me?”

“I’ll do it,” Logan groans, tossing his crust back into the box. “But you’re buying the beer for the bender on Friday.”

“Done,” Dean grins, his easy charm returning in full force. “You’re a lifesaver, Logie.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Whatever you say, Logie.”

The banter flows back into its natural rhythm, loud and effortless. The Briar hockey house goes back to normal. But on the coffee table, Garrett’s phone screen lights up with another notification, another headline flashing across the lock screen.

He flips the phone over, face down.

***

The air in Hastings, Massachusetts, is nothing like Los Angeles. It’s early September, but there’s already a sharp, biting chill in the wind that cuts straight through your oversized flannel shirt. You pull the fabric tighter around your chest, burying your hands in the deep pockets.

“It’s a lot of walking,” David Prescott says, his voice a low, comforting rumble beside you.

David is the Dean of Briar University. He is also your mother’s older brother, the uncle you haven’t seen in almost seven years, not since Shawn systematically cut you off from everyone who wasn’t on his payroll. David is a tall, broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed gray beard and kind eyes that look a little too much like your mom’s.

“I don’t mind the walking,” you say quietly. Your voice is still raspy, a lingering side effect of the screaming, the crying, and the long stretches of absolute silence over the past four months. “It’s nice. The air is clean.”

David pauses on the red brick pathway, gesturing to the sprawling, ivy-covered buildings that surround the main quad. Students are milling everywhere — laughing, throwing frisbees, hurrying to class. They look so young. They are your age, but they feel like a different species.

“The Vocal Performance building is just past the library,” David tells you, pointing toward a grand, modern structure made of glass and dark stone. “It’s one of the best programs in the country. Your professors have been briefed. They know you’re transferring in, and they know you want zero special treatment.”

“And they won’t … ask questions?” You ask, chewing nervously on the inside of your cheek.

“They are professionals,” David says firmly. He turns to you, his expression softening. He places a warm, heavy hand on your shoulder. You flinch — an involuntary reaction that you hate, a reflex deeply ingrained from hands that grabbed, hands that held you down, hands that forced you into a white room.

David immediately drops his hand, taking a respectful half-step back. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m okay,” you force yourself to say, offering a tight, fragile smile.

“Listen to me,” David says, holding your gaze. “You are safe here. Shawn Nichols cannot get onto this campus. He cannot call you, he cannot dictate your classes, and he absolutely cannot dictate your music. You are here to learn how to produce your own sound, write your own music, and take back your voice. You are just another student at Briar.”

You nod, swallowing the thick lump in your throat. Just another student. That’s all you want. You want to disappear into the crowd. You want to forget the sterile, blinding white lights of the psychiatric facility in Malibu. You want to forget the feeling of the sedatives hitting your bloodstream, making your limbs heavy and your mind thick with fog while Shawn stood in the doorway, watching you with that cold, dead expression, telling the doctors you were a danger to yourself.

You spent two months in that facility. Two months of mandated therapy, group circles, and trying to convince the doctors that you weren’t crazy — that your manager was a controlling, manipulative predator. It was only when David saw the news, hired his own high-powered legal team, and threatened Shawn with a very public, very ugly federal investigation for extortion and abuse that Shawn finally backed down and released his medical hold.

“Thank you, Uncle David,” you whisper. “For everything.”

He offers a gentle smile. “Go to class. Call me if you need anything. My office is always open.”

You take a deep breath, adjust the strap of your plain black backpack, and walk toward the music building.

The first hour actually goes well. Music Theory 301. You sit in the very back row, wearing a baseball cap pulled low over your face and a pair of thick, non-prescription glasses. The professor talks about chord progressions and harmonic analysis, and for the first time in years, you feel a genuine spark of interest in music that doesn’t involve a marketing strategy. You take copious notes. You keep your head down.

When the lecture ends, you wait until the classroom is mostly empty before packing up your bag. You slip out into the busy hallway, keeping your eyes trained on the scuffed linoleum floor.

“Excuse me?”

You freeze.

A girl with chunky highlights is standing in front of you, a smartphone clutched in her hand. She’s staring at you with wide, disbelieving eyes.

“Um, yes?” You ask, keeping your voice low.

“Oh my god,” the girl gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. “It is you. I thought—I saw the rumors on TikTok that you were in Massachusetts, but I didn’t believe it! Oh my god!”

Your heart stutters. “I think you have the wrong person.”

You try to step around her, but she moves to block your path. “No, no, I know it’s you! The voice, the eyes! Guys! Guys, look!” She yells to the crowded hallway.

It happens in a matter of seconds. The whisper network is instantaneous. Heads snap in your direction. The casual hum of the hallway completely vanishes, replaced by a rising, electric buzz of recognition.

“Is that her?” “Holy shit, the pop star?” “I thought she was locked up in a psych ward!” “Look at her, she looks awful.” “Get a picture, get a picture!”

Phones. Dozens of them, raised in the air, the camera lenses staring at you like unblinking eyes.

The air in your lungs vanishes.

You stumble backward, your shoulder slamming into a row of metal lockers. The sound is deafening. The crowd is surging forward, a wall of bodies pressing in from all sides.

“Can we get a picture?” “Where’s Shawn?” “Are you having another breakdown?”

The voices blur together into a terrifying, dissonant roar. The hallway lights seem to burn brighter, painfully searing your retinas. Suddenly, you aren’t in the music building at Briar University anymore. You are back on the soundstage. You are back in the hospital.

Hands reach out, grabbing at your flannel shirt, brushing against your arm.

“Don’t touch me!” You scream, slapping wildly at the air.

“Whoa, freak out,” someone laughs. The flash of a phone camera blinds you.

Your chest tightens like a vise. You can’t breathe. There is no oxygen in the room. The walls are closing in, the ceiling pressing down. You slide down the metal lockers, your knees giving out, hitting the floor hard. You pull your knees to your chest and bury your head in your arms, gasping for air that isn’t there.

They’re going to take me back. They’re going to sedate me. They’re going to lock me up.

“Give me some space! Seriously, back the fuck up!”

The voice is a sudden, booming thunderclap. It cuts through the chatter and the camera shutters like a hot knife.

“Move! Put your damn phones away, what is wrong with you people?” Another voice adds, sharper and laced with disgust.

Footsteps pound against the linoleum. Someone is shoving people aside.

“Hey. Hey, look at me.”

You don’t look up. You can’t. You’re hyperventilating, your vision swimming with black spots. You’re shaking so violently your teeth are chattering.

“Garrett, her lips are turning blue, man. She’s not breathing right,” the second voice says, sounding alarmed.

“I know. I got it.”

A large, incredibly warm hand hovers over your knee, not quite touching you, respecting your space. “Hey,” the deep voice says again. It’s calm. Incredibly, impossibly calm, anchoring you slightly to the ground. “I need you to breathe with me, okay? You’re having a panic attack. You are safe. Nobody is going to touch you.”

“Dean, clear a path,” the voice commands.

“Way ahead of you. Back off, vultures! Show’s over!”

“I’m going to put my hand on your shoulder now, okay?” The deep voice tells you. “I’m going to help you stand up, and we’re going to get out of this hallway.”

You manage a jerky nod. You can’t speak.

A large, firm hand grips your shoulder. The touch isn’t aggressive or grasping; it’s steady and supportive. He pulls you up with effortless strength. You keep your eyes squeezed shut, keeping your face hidden under the brim of your hat, trusting this stranger because the alternative is collapsing on the floor again.

“Keep your head down,” he murmurs, tucking you against his side, shielding you from the crowd with his massive frame. “Walk with me.”

You walk. The second guy — Dean — is walking backward in front of you, literally shoving people out of the way. “Move it, prep school. Put the phone down before I shove it down your throat. Yeah, that’s right, keep walking.”

You burst through a set of heavy double doors, and the shock of the cold September wind hits your face. It helps. It shocks your system just enough to force a ragged breath into your lungs.

They guide you down a side path, away from the quad, ducking behind the large stone architecture of the library until the noise of the crowd fades completely.

“In here,” the deep voice says.

A door opens, and you are ushered into what smells like an old, dusty study room. The door clicks shut behind you, instantly plunging the space into a quiet, comforting stillness.

You collapse into the nearest chair, leaning forward and putting your head between your knees. You focus on the scuffed toes of your boots.

In. Out. In. Out.

“Get her some water,” the deep voice says.

“Yeah, checking my pockets, Garrett, hold on — oh wait, I don’t carry water bottles in my sweatpants,” Dean snaps back, though there’s no real heat in it. “There’s a fountain in the hall. Give me ten seconds.”

The door opens and closes again.

You are alone with Garrett.

He doesn’t crowd you. He pulls up a chair a few feet away and sits down heavily.

“You’re doing good,” Garrett says quietly. His voice is a soothing rumble. “Four seconds in. Hold for four. Four seconds out. Try to match my counting, okay?”

He starts counting. His voice is rhythmic and steady. It takes a few minutes, but slowly, agonizingly, the vise around your chest begins to loosen. The black spots fade from your vision. The terror recedes, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion.

You finally lift your head, pulling your glasses off your face and wiping the tears from your cheeks with the back of your flannel sleeve.

You look at him.

Garrett is sitting backward on a wooden chair, his arms crossed over the backrest. He is wearing a Briar Hockey hoodie, his broad shoulders filling out the thick material. He has dark, messy hair and striking gray eyes that are currently watching you with intense, quiet focus. He’s incredibly handsome, but it’s the lack of pity in his expression that catches you off guard. He isn’t looking at you like you’re broken. He’s looking at you like he understands exactly what just happened.

“Better?” He asks softly.

You swallow hard. “Yeah. Yes. Thank you.” Your voice is hoarse. “I’m … I’m so sorry. That was embarrassing.”

“Don’t apologize,” Garrett says, his jaw tightening slightly. “People are animals. You got swarmed. Anyone would have panicked.”

The door clicks open, and Dean walks in, holding a paper cup of water. “They only had the tiny cups by the fountain, but-”

Dean stops dead in his tracks.

He stares at you. He looks at the paper cup in his hand, looks back at you, and then looks at Garrett.

Dean is equally as tall as Garrett, with perfectly styled dirty-blonde hair and the kind of sharp, devastatingly good looks that belong on a billboard. Right now, his mouth is slightly open.

“Here’s the water,” Dean says slowly, walking over and handing you the cup. He doesn’t take his eyes off you.

“Thank you,” you murmur, taking a small sip. The cool water helps soothe your raw throat.

Dean slowly backs up until he’s standing next to Garrett. He leans down, his eyes fixed on your face. “Garrett.”

“What, Dean?” Garrett asks, sounding slightly annoyed at his friend’s weird behavior.

“Garrett. Look at her.”

“I am looking at her,” Garrett says, though he turns his head to study you more closely.

You shrink back in the chair, pulling the baseball cap lower on your forehead. The adrenaline is fading, replaced by a cold dread. They didn’t know. They helped you because they thought you were just a normal girl. Now they know. Now they’re going to look at you the same way everyone else does. Like a sideshow freak. Like the crazy pop star who got locked up.

Garrett’s brow furrows as he looks at you. His gray eyes trace the line of your jaw, the shape of your eyes, the pink flush still staining your pale cheeks. You can see the exact moment the realization hits him. His eyes widen slightly, his posture going completely rigid.

“Holy shit,” Dean whispers into the silence of the room. “You’re … you’re the pop star. From the articles. From the TV.”

You stare down at the paper cup in your hands, your knuckles turning white. “Yes,” you whisper.

“You’re the singer,” Garrett says, his voice completely flat, devoid of its earlier warmth.

You flinch at his tone. You knew it. The compassion is gone, replaced by whatever judgments he’s formed from reading the tabloids.

“Yes,” you say again, your voice shaking slightly. “I am. Please don’t … please don’t tell anyone I’m here.”

Dean crosses his arms, looking completely bewildered. “What are you doing in Hastings? The last time you were on the news, you were being …” He trails off, wincing slightly. “Well, you were in Los Angeles.”

“I was institutionalized,” you say bluntly, finding a sudden, desperate spark of anger. You look up, meeting Dean’s eyes, then Garrett’s. “That’s what you want to say, right? The crazy pop star who had a mental breakdown and got locked in a psych ward. That’s what everyone out there was screaming about. That’s why they had their cameras out.”

Garrett’s jaw clenches. “I didn’t say that.”

“But you thought it,” you snap, standing up. Your legs are shaky, but you refuse to sit there and be analyzed. “Thank you for getting me out of the hallway. I really appreciate it. But I don’t need your pity, and I don’t need you to gawk at me. I’ve had enough of that for one lifetime.”

You grab your backpack from the floor and turn toward the door.

“Hey. Wait.”

Garrett is out of his chair in a flash, stepping between you and the door. He doesn’t touch you — he’s careful to keep his hands down at his sides — but his sheer size makes it impossible to pass him.

“Move, please,” you say, staring fiercely at his chest.

“I wasn’t gawking,” Garrett says, his voice dropping low, losing the edge it had a moment ago. “And I don’t think you’re crazy.”

You look up at him, startled.

Garrett holds your gaze, his gray eyes intense and unwavering. “I read the articles back in May. Me and my buddies, we talked about it. And honestly? The whole thing sounded like complete bullshit to me.”

You blink, completely caught off guard. “What?”

“Your manager,” Garrett says, his voice tight with an anger that surprises you. “The guy who signed off on your hold. He’s older, right? Much older.”

“Yes,” you whisper.

“I know what it looks like when someone with a lot of power controls the narrative to cover up their own abuse,” Garrett says, his words deliberate and heavy. “It’s really easy to call a woman crazy when she stops doing what you tell her to do. That’s what I said back then, and looking at you now? I know I was right.”

The breath catches in your throat. You stare at Garrett Graham, this massive, intimidating hockey player you met five minutes ago, and for the first time since you ran off that soundstage in Los Angeles, you feel seen. Truly, actually seen.

Dean exhales a long breath from across the room. “Damn, G. You called it.”

You look between the two of them, the tension slowly bleeding out of your shoulders. “You … you don’t believe the tabloids?”

“I don’t believe anything TMZ prints,” Dean says, walking over to join Garrett. He shoots you a crooked, incredibly charming smile. “Besides, nobody is crazy enough to willingly move to New England in the winter unless they’re desperate for a fresh start. And lucky for you, you just ran into the two guys who basically run this campus.”

“Speak for yourself, Di Laurentis,” Garrett mutters.

“I speak for both of us, Graham.” Dean turns his attention back to you. “Look. You want to stay under the radar? It’s going to be tough now that people have seen you. But if you hang with us, people will eventually back off. We have a reputation to uphold. Nobody messes with our crew.”

You stare at them, bewildered. “You want me to … hang out with you?”

“We’re offering you protection, sweetheart,” Dean says, winking. “Consider us your unofficial bodyguards. For a very reasonable fee of … helping me pass Music Appreciation.”

Garrett rolls his eyes, but a small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. He looks down at you, the intensity in his eyes softening into something protective and warm. “He’s an idiot, but he’s right. You shouldn’t be navigating this campus alone if people are going to act like that. If you need a buffer, we’ve got you.”

You clutch the straps of your backpack, overwhelmed by the sudden, unexpected kindness. You expected judgment. You expected them to pull out their phones or treat you like a fragile piece of glass. Instead, they are offering you a shield.

“I …” You swallow hard. “I don’t even know your names.”

Garrett holds out a large, calloused hand. “Garrett Graham. Captain of the hockey team. And the idiot is Dean Di Laurentis.”

“Pleasure,” Dean grins.

You look at Garrett’s extended hand. You hesitate for a fraction of a second, the instinct to pull away still strong. But you look up at his face, at the quiet understanding in his eyes, and you reach out.

Your small hand disappears inside his. His grip is firm, warm, and grounding.

“Y/N,” you say softly.

Garrett smiles, a genuine, breathtaking smile that makes your heart do a strange, unexpected flutter.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” Garrett says. “Welcome to Briar.”

***

It takes two full weeks of relentless badgering before you finally cave.

You are sitting in the back booth of Malone’s, picking at a plate of cold fries, sandwiched between two human walls of muscle. Garrett is on your left, scrolling through hockey stats on his phone, while Dean is on your right, actively trying to wear down your defenses.

“I’m just saying,” Dean says, leaning in so his shoulder brushes yours. “You’ve been here a month. You go to class, you go to the library, you come to the diner with us, and you go back to your dorm. You are living the life of an eighty-year-old nun.”

“I like my life,” you say, taking a sip of your milkshake. “Nuns are very peaceful.”

“Nuns are boring,” Dean counters, stealing one of your fries. “And you, Y/N, are not boring. You need to let loose. Just a little. Come to the house tonight.”

“Dean, I don’t do parties.”

“It’s not a party,” Garrett chimes in, not looking up from his screen. “It’s a small gathering.”

“There will be a keg,” you point out.

Garrett finally looks up, a slow, lazy smirk spreading across his face. “There will be three kegs. But it’s still a gathering.”

You sigh, dropping your head into your hands. Since the day they rescued you in the hallway, Garrett and Dean have somehow seamlessly integrated themselves into your daily routine. They walk you to the music building. They eat lunch with you. They scowl at anyone who stares at you a second too long. They are a loud, chaotic, fiercely protective barrier between you and the rest of the world.

But a Briar hockey house party? That’s entirely different.

“I can’t,” you whisper, the anxiety suddenly flaring up in your chest. “The noise. The people. If someone recognizes me, or if the music gets too loud …”

Garrett’s smirk vanishes. He sets his phone face-down on the table and turns to fully face you. His massive frame blocks out the rest of the diner.

“Hey. Look at me,” Garrett says, his voice dropping into that quiet, grounding register that instantly calms your racing heart.

You lift your head, meeting his intense gray eyes.

“Dean and I have a game tomorrow afternoon,” Garrett says softly. “We aren’t drinking tonight. We’re strictly on water and Gatorade. That means we will be completely sober, and completely alert.”

“One hundred percent,” Dean adds, his usual playful tone gone, replaced by something fierce and serious.

“We are going to be right by your side,” Garrett continues, holding your gaze. “Nobody is going to crowd you. Nobody is going to touch you. If the music is too loud, we go upstairs to my room. If you want to leave after five minutes, I will personally drive you back to your dorm and walk you to your door. But you are safe with us. I promise you that.”

You look between the two of them. You see the sincerity radiating off Garrett, the fierce loyalty etched into Dean’s sharp features. They aren’t trying to parade you around. They genuinely just want you to experience a normal college night.

You take a deep breath. “Five minutes. If I hate it, we leave.”

Dean’s face breaks into a massive, triumphant grin. “Yes! You won’t regret it, sweetheart. I’m going to make sure you have the time of your life.”

***

The bass thumps so hard it rattles your ribcage.

For a split second, you freeze on the front porch of the off-campus house, the familiar vibration sending a cold spike of panic down your spine. It feels exactly like the soundstage in Los Angeles.

Then Garrett’s hand is on the small of your back — warm, massive, and incredibly steady.

“You good?” He murmurs, bending down so his mouth is close to your ear over the noise of the music.

You nod, forcing your shoulders to drop. “Yeah. I’m good.”

Dean pushes the front door open, and the three of you step inside. The house is packed. The air smells like cheap beer, sweet perfume, and sweat. Music blares from massive speakers in the corner, and red Solo cups are practically an accessory for everyone in the room.

It’s exactly the kind of environment you’ve avoided for years. But as you walk through the living room, flanked by the captain of the hockey team and his star winger, something incredible happens.

Nothing.

Nobody swarms you. Nobody shoves a camera in your face. A few people glance your way, eyes widening in recognition, but Garrett shoots them a dark, warning glare that has them instantly looking at the floor. Dean flashes his easy, charming smile, parting the crowd like the Red Sea as he leads you toward the kitchen.

“See? Easy,” Dean says, leaning against the kitchen island. “Nobody is going to mess with you when you’re rolling with us.”

“You guys are terrifying,” you say, a genuine laugh escaping your lips.

“We’re cuddly teddy bears,” Garrett corrects, grabbing two bottles of water from the fridge and tossing one to Dean. “What do you want to drink? We’ve got water, soda, or whatever toxic sludge Logan is mixing in that cooler over there.”

You look at the cooler. You look at the red cups.

For the past seven years, your diet, your sleep schedule, and your alcohol intake were strictly monitored by Shawn and his team. You were never allowed to just have a drink. You were a product, and products don’t get hangovers.

“I want whatever is in the cooler,” you say, surprising yourself.

Garrett raises an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you say firmly. The word feels good. It feels entirely your own. “I want to have a drink.”

Dean grins, grabbing a red cup and dipping it into the cooler. He hands it to you with a flourish. “Cheers to autonomy.”

You take a sip. It tastes like cheap vodka and fruit punch, and it burns on the way down. It is the best thing you’ve ever tasted.

The rest of the night is a blur of neon lights, loud laughter, and a profound, beautiful sense of normalcy. You drink. You actually drink, letting the alcohol warm your blood and loosen the tight, coiled anxiety that has lived in your chest for months.

Garrett and Dean never leave your side. They are true to their word, nursing their water bottles and acting as an invisible shield around you. When a drunk frat boy stumbles too close, Garrett simply steps in his path, folding his massive arms over his chest until the guy awkwardly apologizes and backs away. When a girl tries to sneak a photo of you, Dean gently but firmly blocks her camera, charming her into deleting it with a wink and a smile.

For the first time in as long as you can remember, you aren’t a pop star. You aren’t a headline. You’re just a girl at a party, laughing at Logan’s terrible dance moves and arguing with Tucker over which movie franchise is better.

By 2 AM, the house has mostly cleared out. The music has been turned down to a low, rhythmic hum.

You are sitting on the worn fabric of the living room couch, comfortably, beautifully drunk. The edges of the world are soft and fuzzy. You have your legs pulled up underneath you, a throw blanket draped over your lap.

Garrett is sitting on your left, his long legs stretched out under the coffee table, his arm resting on the back of the couch behind your head. Dean is on your right, slouching lazily against the cushions. Logan and Tucker are sprawled out on the floor and the armchair, completely exhausted.

The room is quiet, bathed in the soft glow of a single floor lamp.

“I can’t believe Coach has us on the ice at noon tomorrow,” Logan groans, rubbing his eyes. “It’s a crime against humanity.”

“You literally chose to play college hockey, you idiot,” Tucker says, throwing a crumpled-up napkin at Logan’s head.

You let out a soft, hazy giggle, leaning your head back against Garrett’s arm. He shifts slightly, adjusting his position so you’re more comfortable, his large hand brushing the side of your shoulder. The touch sends a warm shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the alcohol.

“You doing okay, Y/N?” Garrett asks softly, his deep voice rumbling right next to your ear.

“I’m perfect,” you slur slightly, looking up at him with a wide smile. “I’m really, really good.”

“You’re really, really drunk,” Dean chuckles, reaching over to tug playfully at a strand of your hair. “But it’s cute. You’re a happy drunk.”

“I’ve never been drunk before,” you confess, staring at the ceiling. “Shawn never let me.”

The name hangs in the air, heavy and dark. The easy, comfortable silence in the room instantly shifts. Logan stops rubbing his eyes. Dean’s hand falls away from your hair.

Tucker sits up in the armchair, his brow furrowed. He looks at you, his eyes slightly glazed from the beer, lowering his filter.

“Hey, Y/N,” Tucker says slowly. “Can I ask you something?”

“Tuck,” Garrett warns, his voice instantly dropping an octave, filled with a sharp, protective edge.

“No, it’s fine,” you say, waving a hand vaguely in the air. The alcohol has numbed the sharpest edges of the panic. The memories don’t feel like they’re stabbing you tonight, they just feel like a movie you watched a long time ago. “You can ask.”

Tucker hesitates, but the question clearly burns in his throat. “Was it true? That TMZ article. I know you said the tabloids are bullshit, but … were you really involuntarily committed?”

A heavy sneaker flies across the room, nailing Tucker square in the chest.

“Ow! What the fuck, Logan?” Tucker yelps, rubbing his sternum.

“You don’t just ask someone that, you absolute moron!” Logan hisses, glaring at him.

“I was just asking! She said it was fine!”

“Both of you, shut the fuck up,” Garrett snaps. The authority in his voice is absolute. The room goes dead silent.

Garrett looks down at you, his gray eyes dark with concern. His hand moves from the back of the couch to gently grip your shoulder. “You don’t have to say a word to him. You don’t have to explain anything to anyone.”

“It’s okay,” you whisper. You look down at your hands, tracing the lines of your palms. “It’s true.”

The confession drops into the quiet room, fragile and devastating.

Dean shifts closer to you on the couch, the space between you vanishing. “Y/N …”

“He groomed me,” you say, the words spilling out of your mouth. Now that the dam is cracked, you can’t stop the flood. “I was fifteen. He was thirty-six. He told my mom he was going to make me a star. He isolated me from everyone. By the time I was eighteen, I didn’t have any friends. I didn’t have any family I was allowed to talk to. It was just him. He told me that if I didn’t love him back, he would drop me from the label and ruin my life.”

Logan lets out a shaky breath, staring at the floor. Tucker looks like he wants to be sick.

Garrett’s jaw is clenched so tight a muscle ticks furiously in his cheek. His hand tightens slightly on your shoulder, anchoring you to the couch.

“He controlled everything,” you continue, your voice detached, hollowed out by the alcohol and the sheer exhaustion of carrying the secret for so long. “What I wore. What I ate. How much I weighed. And then the new music video …”

You swallow hard, the phantom heat of the stage lights prickling against your skin.

“He wanted me to … he wanted me to do a routine on the floor. It was basically thinly veiled porn. In front of fifty crew members. I told him no. I told him I was a singer, not a porn star. And he …”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

“He lost it. He told me nobody cared about my voice. He told me they just wanted to look at my body. And I just … I broke. I couldn’t breathe. I ripped my costume off and I ran. I just kept running.”

Dean lets out a string of vicious, whispered curses. He reaches out and gently takes your hand, intertwining his long fingers with yours. His grip is grounding, anchoring you from the right side.

“The next day,” you whisper, tears finally pricking the corners of your eyes, “his private security came to my hotel room. They told me I was having a psychotic break. They drove me to a private facility in Malibu. Shawn had already signed the paperwork for a 5150 hold, claiming I was a danger to myself and others.”

Garrett shifts on the couch, his massive body turning fully toward you. He pulls you gently against his side. You go willingly, collapsing against his solid chest, the tears finally spilling over your eyelashes.

“It was so white,” you sob quietly into his shirt. “The walls, the floors, the lights. They didn’t listen to me. I told them he was lying, that he was abusing me, but Shawn had already paid them off. They pinned me down to the bed.”

Your breath hitches, the memory of the heavy hands grabbing your arms making your heart race.

Garrett’s arms wrap entirely around you, pulling you practically into his lap. He buries his face in your hair, holding you so tightly it almost hurts, but it’s exactly what you need. You need the pressure. You need to know you are solid.

“I’ve got you,” Garrett murmurs fiercely into your hair. “I’ve got you, Y/N. Nobody is ever going to hold you down again. I swear to god, I will kill anyone who tries.”

“They sedated me,” you cry, your fingers digging into the fabric of Garrett’s hoodie. “They pumped me full of so many drugs I couldn’t even keep my eyes open. For weeks, I would just wake up and stare at the ceiling. I couldn’t walk. I couldn’t talk. My body … it didn’t even feel like my own body anymore. It felt like I was trapped inside a corpse.”

Dean moves closer, pressing his chest against your back, his arms coming around to wrap over Garrett’s. You are entirely surrounded by them, cocooned in their heat, their strength, and their furious, unyielding protection.

“It’s over,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with emotion, his lips pressing gently against your temple. “You’re here now. You’re with us. Your body is yours, sweetheart. Nobody is ever taking it away from you again.”

You break down completely. You sob into Garrett’s chest, letting out all the grief, the terror, and the profound, agonizing violation of the past six years. You cry for the teenager who was manipulated, and for the woman who was locked in a white room and forced into silence.

And they hold you.

Garrett rocks you slightly, his large hand rubbing soothing circles into your back, his chin resting on the top of your head. He murmurs quiet, fierce promises into the quiet room. Promises of safety. Promises of violence against the man who hurt you.

Dean holds your hand against his chest, right over his heart, so you can feel the steady, rhythmic beating against your palm. He presses his face into your shoulder, sharing the weight of your trauma without a second thought.

On the other side of the room, Logan and Tucker sit in devastated silence, standing guard over the quiet intimacy of the couch.

For the first time in a very long time, as the alcohol slowly burns out of your system and the tears run dry, you don’t feel entirely broken. You feel exhausted. You feel raw.

But surrounded by the fierce, protective embrace of Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis, you finally feel safe.

***

The sanctuary lasts exactly eight days.

Eight days of quiet mornings, shared coffees, and walking to class flanked by two human mountains who have unofficially made your safety their full-time job. You’re currently sitting at the kitchen island, wrapped in one of Garrett’s massive gray Briar University hoodies. It swallows you whole, the fleece smelling faintly of his cedarwood body wash and ice rink chill.

You’re laughing at something Tucker just said about Logan’s disastrous attempt to cook eggs, a genuine, easy sound that you haven’t heard from yourself in years. Garrett is standing behind you, casually leaning against the counter, his large hand resting absentmindedly on the back of your stool. Dean is across the island, scrolling through his phone with a piece of burnt toast dangling from his mouth.

It is peaceful. It is normal.

And then, in the span of a single second, it shatters.

Dean stops chewing. The easy, relaxed posture of his shoulders vanishes, snapping completely rigid. He lowers his phone, his eyes widening as he reads whatever is on the screen.

“Dean?” Logan asks, catching the shift in the room’s energy. “What is it?”

Dean doesn’t answer. His face drains of color. He looks up from his screen, his gaze snapping directly to you. There is a terrifying, naked panic in his eyes that makes the breath lodge in your throat.

“Dean,” Garrett says, his voice low, warning. He pushes off the counter, stepping closer to you. “What are you looking at?”

“Fuck,” Dean whispers. He drops the toast onto a paper plate, his fingers gripping the edges of his phone so hard his knuckles turn white. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Talk to me,” Garrett barks.

“It’s TMZ,” Dean says, his voice sounding hollow. He looks at you, his expression agonizingly apologetic. “Sweetheart … I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t look. Just let me read it.”

The bottom drops out of your stomach. The world tilts on its axis, a loud, ringing sound starting up in your ears. “Read it,” you force out, your voice trembling. “Dean, read it right now.”

Dean swallows hard. He clears his throat, but his voice still shakes as he reads the headline aloud.

EXCLUSIVE: POP PRINCESS IN PERIL? SHAWN NICHOLS FILES FOR CONSERVATORSHIP.

TMZ Staff | October 14, 2026

The drama surrounding the sudden disappearance of the music industry’s brightest young star has just taken a massive, shocking legal turn.

TMZ has obtained exclusive court documents filed late last night in Los Angeles County Superior Court by billionaire music mogul Shawn Nichols. Nichols, the 42-year-old CEO of Supernova Records and the singer’s long-time manager/boyfriend, is petitioning the court for an emergency, full-scale conservatorship over the 21-year-old pop star.

For those who don’t speak legalese, a conservatorship is a legal concept where a guardian or a protector is appointed by a judge to manage the financial affairs and/or daily life of another person due to physical or mental limitations. Yes, folks. The Britney Spears treatment.

According to the explosive 40-page filing, Nichols claims that the singer’s “sudden, erratic relocation to a remote East Coast college” is proof of a “deepening psychotic break” and “severe bipolar disorder.” The documents allege that following her 5150 psychiatric hold earlier this year, the singer went off her prescribed medication and was manipulated by estranged family members into fleeing the state.

Nichols’s legal team argues that the singer is entirely incapable of managing her multi-million dollar estate, her music catalog, or even providing for her own basic food and shelter. He is asking a judge to grant him complete legal authority over her finances, medical decisions, career moves, and personal liberties.

Nichols’s camp released a statement this morning: “Shawn loves her deeply and is heartbroken by her current, rapid mental decline. He is taking these extreme legal measures solely out of fear for her safety and well-being. He hopes to get her the intensive psychiatric help she desperately needs.”

If the judge signs off, the pop star could be legally forced to return to Los Angeles under Nichols’s direct supervision. Will her mysterious East Coast hideaway be enough to keep her out of his clutches? We’re hearing a judge is reviewing the emergency petition as we speak.

The kitchen goes dead silent.

The air is sucked out of the room. You sit frozen on the barstool, staring blankly at the marble countertop.

Conservatorship.

The word echoes in your skull, heavy and suffocating like a wet blanket. It’s a word that Shawn used to throw around in the dark, whispered into your ear when you fought back about a lyric or a photo shoot. I’ll declare you incompetent. I’ll take it all away. You won’t even be allowed to buy a cup of coffee without my permission.

“He’s going to take me back,” you whisper. The sound is barely audible, but in the quiet kitchen, it rings like a gunshot.

“The hell he is,” Garrett snarls.

“Y/N, breathe,” Logan says, taking a step toward you. “Hey, you’re hyperventilating. Breathe.”

You can’t. Your lungs are locked tight. A conservatorship. It means the end of everything. It means the end of Briar, the end of your vocal performance classes, the end of the quiet mornings in this kitchen. It means a judge signing a piece of paper that turns you back into Shawn Nichols’s property. It means forced sedatives, locked doors, and a lifetime of being entirely trapped in your own body.

“No,” you gasp, your hands flying up to grip your hair. “No, no, no, he can’t. He can’t do this. I’m fine. I’m perfectly fine!”

“I know,” Garrett says. His large hands are suddenly on your shoulders, turning you around to face him. He steps between your knees, crowding you, his massive chest blocking out the rest of the room. “Y/N. Look at me.”

“He’s going to send them,” you sob, the panic clawing its way up your throat, raw and agonizing. “He’s going to send the security guards again. They’re going to drag me out of here. He’s going to lock me up, Garrett. He’s going to own me.”

“Nobody is taking you anywhere,” Garrett says. His voice is a low, dangerous rumble, laced with a violence that is terrifyingly comforting. “Do you hear me? I will break the jaw of any man who steps onto this campus looking for you. I will literally tear them apart. He is not touching you.”

“You don’t understand,” you cry, gripping the front of his Briar hockey shirt, your knuckles white. “He’s a billionaire. He buys judges. He buys doctors. He has a whole team of lawyers who do nothing but destroy people for a living. If a judge signs that paper … I won’t have any rights. I won’t even be a person anymore.”

Garrett wraps his arms around you, pulling you off the stool and flush against his chest. He holds you with crushing, desperate strength, burying his face in your hair. “I don’t care how much money he has. I don’t care how many lawyers he has. We’re going to fight this. We’re not letting you go.”

Across the kitchen, Dean is pacing.

He’s pacing so fast his bare feet squeak against the hardwood floor. His phone is pressed to his ear, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle is jumping visibly beneath his skin.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” Dean mutters, dragging a hand through his perfectly styled blonde hair, ruining it. “Come on, Mom. You never go to court on a Monday morning …”

“Dean,” Tucker says quietly. “What are you doing?”

“Calling the cavalry,” Dean snaps. “This guy wants to play dirty with lawyers? Fine. We’ll play with the biggest sharks in the fucking ocean.”

The phone clicks.

“Dean, honey, I’m literally stepping into a deposition,” a sharp, elegant woman’s voice rings out over the speaker. “This better be an emergency.”

“It’s a massive emergency, Mom. Put Dad on speaker too if he’s in the office. Right now.”

There’s a rustle on the other end, a sigh of exasperation, and then the sound of a heavy wooden door clicking shut.

“You’re on speaker,” a deep, commanding voice says. Dean’s father. “Dean, what did you do? Did you get arrested? Did you wreck the car again?”

“I didn’t wreck anything, Dad. Shut up and listen to me,” Dean says, leaning against the kitchen wall, his eyes fixed on you. “I need legal advice. And I need it thirty seconds ago.”

“We practice corporate and high-asset divorce, Dean, we aren’t-”

“Mom. Listen.” Dean holds up a hand, pacing again. “I have a hypothetical question.”

“A hypothetical question,” his father repeats dryly. “For a thousand dollars an hour.”

“Just roll with it, okay?” Dean says, his voice tight. “Hypothetically. Let’s say I have a friend. A very close friend. And let’s say this friend is a twenty-one-year-old girl who is incredibly smart, completely sane, and currently attending college in Massachusetts.”

You sniffle against Garrett’s chest, turning your head just enough to watch Dean. Garrett’s hand is heavy and warm on the back of your neck, stroking your hair in a continuous, grounding rhythm.

“Okay. Go on,” his mother says, her tone shifting. The annoyance is gone, replaced by the sharp, analytical edge of a high-powered attorney.

“Hypothetically,” Dean continues, his eyes locking onto yours. “Let’s say this friend used to be involved with a forty-two-year-old billionaire who controlled her entire life, her finances, and her career. And when she tried to leave him, he had her committed on a bullshit 5150 hold to silence her. Now, she’s escaped. She’s safe. But this billionaire just filed an emergency petition for a full conservatorship in Los Angeles County, claiming she’s psychotic. He’s trying to use her move to the East Coast as proof that she’s erratic.”

The line goes completely silent.

“Dean,” his mother says. Her voice is soft, but it carries a terrifying, lethal weight. “Is this ‘hypothetical’ friend currently sitting in your living room?”

Dean doesn’t blink. “Hypothetically? Yes. And she is terrified.”

A heavy sigh crackles over the speaker. “Jesus Christ, Dean. You’re talking about the pop star. The TMZ article just crossed my desk ten minutes ago.”

“I am talking about a hypothetical friend,” Dean insists stubbornly. “And I need to know how we stop it. Right now.”

“Alright,” his father says, his voice booming into the kitchen. The playful father is gone; this is the partner at a top-tier law firm speaking. “Listen closely. Conservatorships are extremely difficult to establish over a young, able-bodied adult unless there is overwhelming medical evidence of severe cognitive decline. A 5150 hold from months ago is not enough to grant a permanent conservatorship, but an emergency temporary one? If he bought the right judge, it’s possible.”

“So how do we stop the temporary one?” Dean demands.

“You establish jurisdiction in Massachusetts,” his mother answers instantly. “He filed in California. He’s banking on the fact that her primary residence is still listed in LA. If she’s enrolled at a university in Massachusetts, she needs to establish residency immediately. She needs a Massachusetts driver’s license, she needs a local bank account, and she needs to be evaluated by an independent, board-certified psychiatrist in the state of Massachusetts to prove she is of entirely sound mind.”

“Done,” Dean says, pulling a pen out of a drawer and uncapping it with his teeth, scribbling on a napkin. “What else?”

“She cannot go to California,” his father warns. “If she steps foot in that state, she falls under their jurisdiction, and if he gets a temporary order, the police can detain her. She stays on campus. Does she have any family?”

“My uncle,” you whisper. Your voice is raspy and weak.

Garrett turns slightly. “Her uncle is David Prescott. The Dean of Briar University.”

“Wait, David Prescott?” Dean’s mom asks, her voice rising in surprise. “I went to law school with David. He’s her uncle?”

“Yes,” Garrett says, his arm still locked around you like a vice.

“Okay, this just got a lot easier,” his mother says, the sound of a keyboard clacking furiously in the background. “David is incredibly connected. Dean, you take her to David’s office the second you hang up this phone. Tell him to file a preemptive injunction in Massachusetts citing domestic abuse and coercive control. That blocks the California courts from enforcing anything out of state until a federal judge reviews it.”

“Coercive control,” Dean writes it down, underlining it twice.

“And Dean?” His father adds, his voice softening slightly. “This guy is a billionaire. He’s going to play dirty. He’s going to send private investigators. He’s going to leak more stories. Your friend needs to be prepared for this to get very public, and very ugly.”

“She’s not alone,” Dean says fiercely, staring right at you. “She’s got us.”

“Good,” his mother says. “I’m having my secretary clear my afternoon. I’m calling David Prescott myself. We don’t practice entertainment law, but I know the best sharks in the country who do. I’m going to send them an email right now. This Shawn guy thinks he can just buy a human being? He’s about to find out what happens when old money meets new trash.”

A tiny, breathless sob escapes your lips. It’s a sob of pure, overwhelming relief.

“Thanks, Mom. Thanks, Dad. I owe you,” Dean says, his shoulders finally dropping a fraction of an inch.

“You owe us your attendance at Thanksgiving,” his dad replies dryly. “Keep her safe, Dean. Call us if anyone shows up at the house.”

“I will.”

The line goes dead.

Dean tosses the phone onto the counter and exhales a massive breath, running both hands through his hair. He looks at the napkin, then looks at you.

“You heard the lady,” Dean says, a slow, fiercely protective smile spreading across his face. “We are going to war.”

You pull back from Garrett’s chest, wiping your tear-stained cheeks with the sleeves of his oversized hoodie. Your hands are still shaking, but the suffocating, paralyzing terror is beginning to recede, replaced by a tiny, burning spark of defiance.

“He’s going to try to ruin me,” you say quietly, looking between Garrett and Dean. “If I fight this … if I don’t surrender, he’s going to release everything. Every bad photo, every secret. He’ll destroy my reputation.”

“Fuck your reputation,” Garrett says bluntly. He reaches out, cupping your face in both of his massive, warm hands. His thumbs gently wipe away the fresh tears spilling over your eyelashes. “Your reputation isn’t your life. Your life is yours. He doesn’t get to own you just because he has a fat bank account and a big ego.”

“Garrett’s right,” Logan chimes in from the living room doorway, where he and Tucker have been standing guard. “We don’t care what TMZ says. We know who you are.”

“You want to sing, Y/N?” Dean asks, walking around the island and leaning against the counter right beside you. He reaches out and takes your shaking hand, squeezing it tight. “You want to write your own music? Then you fight him. You let my parents and your uncle drop a legal nuclear bomb on this guy. You let me and Garrett stand between you and any paparazzi who try to get close. But you do not give up.”

You look at Dean, at his bright, fierce eyes, and then up at Garrett, whose expression is locked into a mask of pure, unyielding devotion.

You spent years believing you were entirely alone. You spent years believing that if Shawn let go of you, you would simply cease to exist.

But sitting in the kitchen of a dilapidated college hockey house, surrounded by four guys who would literally take a bullet for you just because it’s the right thing to do, you realize Shawn was wrong. You aren’t weak. You just needed the right team to help you stand up.

You take a deep, shuddering breath. The air fills your lungs, crisp and clean.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice gaining a fraction of its strength back. “Okay. We fight.”

Garrett’s face breaks into a slow, breathtaking smile. He leans down and presses a firm, lingering kiss to your forehead. “That’s my girl.”

“Alright,” Dean claps his hands together, the energy in the room instantly shifting from terror to tactical execution. “Logan, Tucker. Perimeter check. Make sure nobody is lurking around the house. Garrett, get your keys. We’re going to the Dean’s office.”

“What about class?” Tucker asks, grabbing his jacket.

“Fuck class,” Dean says, grabbing his own keys from the bowl. He looks at you, his eyes blazing with a thrilling, reckless loyalty. “We’ve got a predator to destroy.”

***

TRANSCRIPT: GOOD MORNING AMERICA

Air Date: October 18, 2026

MICHAEL STRAHAN: We are following breaking news this morning in the legal battle that has completely captivated the entertainment world. The fight for control over the life and multi-million dollar estate of pop music’s biggest young star.

ROBIN ROBERTS: That’s right, Michael. It has been four days since Supernova Records CEO Shawn Nichols filed an emergency petition for a conservatorship in Los Angeles, claiming his 21-year-old girlfriend and client had suffered a severe psychotic break and fled the state. But this morning, there is a massive roadblock for Nichols’s legal team.

MICHAEL STRAHAN: ABC News Chief Legal Correspondent Dan Abrams is here. Dan, what is happening with this case? Because it seems like the singer is not going down without a fight.

DAN ABRAMS: She absolutely isn’t, Michael. And she has some very heavy hitters in her corner. Late yesterday afternoon, a team of high-powered attorneys representing the singer filed an emergency injunction in a Massachusetts federal court. They are claiming that Shawn Nichols does not have jurisdiction because she is a legal resident of Massachusetts, currently enrolled at Briar University.

ROBIN ROBERTS: And they’re making some very serious allegations against Nichols, aren’t they?

DAN ABRAMS: Explosive allegations. The Massachusetts filing explicitly accuses Shawn Nichols of severe domestic abuse, coercive control, and using the initial 5150 psychiatric hold maliciously to silence her. They are asking the federal judge to not only deny the conservatorship but to issue a permanent restraining order against Nichols. It is officially a bi-coastal legal war, and it is going to get very messy.

***

The television clicks off, plunging the living room into heavy, suffocating silence.

You are sitting on the floor, your back pressed tightly against the front of the sofa, your knees pulled up to your chest. The remote slips from your fingers, clattering onto the hardwood.

Your chest tightens, the familiar, icy grip of panic wrapping around your lungs. You close your eyes, but all you see is Shawn’s face. You see the cold, dead look in his eyes when he told you that nobody would ever believe you. You see the flashing lights of the cameras. You feel the heavy, clinical weight of the sedatives pulling you under.

“Hey. Look at me.”

A large, warm hand cups your jaw.

You open your eyes. Garrett is kneeling on the floor right in front of you. He is wearing gray sweatpants and a plain white t-shirt, his hair sleep-mussed. It’s 6:30 in the morning. He hasn’t left your side in four days.

“Breathe, Y/N,” Garrett murmurs, his thumb brushing a stray tear from your cheek. “In and out. Focus on me.”

“He’s going to destroy me,” you whisper, your voice cracking. “The whole world is watching. Everyone thinks I’m crazy.”

“The whole world thinks he’s a controlling piece of shit,” Dean corrects, walking into the living room with two mugs of tea. He sets them on the coffee table and drops onto the floor beside you, his shoulder pressing firmly against yours. “Did you hear what the guy on TV just said? We filed the injunction. He’s blocked. He can’t touch you.”

“But what if the judge in Massachusetts doesn’t believe me?” You ask, your fingers digging into the fabric of your jeans. “What if they look at my medical records from the Malibu clinic? Shawn paid those doctors to say I was bipolar and severely unstable. It’s in black and white.”

Garrett shifts closer, his massive frame effectively shielding you from the rest of the room. He takes both of your shaking hands in his, his grip grounding and solid.

“Then we prove them wrong,” Garrett says, his voice a low, steady rumble that vibrates right into your chest. “You have an evaluation with the state psychiatrist this afternoon. You go in there, you sit down, and you just be yourself. You tell them the truth.”

“I’m terrified,” you admit, the words tumbling out on a broken sob. “I’m so tired of fighting, Garrett. I just want to disappear.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Dean says softly, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you flush against his side. “I know you’re tired. But you don’t get to give up. We aren’t letting you.”

“If you need to fall apart, you fall apart right here,” Garrett adds, his gray eyes fierce and unyielding. “You let us carry the weight for a while. But when we walk into that doctor’s office today, you hold your head up. You show them exactly who you are. Do you understand?”

You look between them. Two gorgeous, massive hockey players who have completely upended their lives to build a fortress around yours.

You take a shaky breath, letting Garrett’s heat and Dean’s solid presence anchor you to the floor. “Okay. I can do it.”

***

THE HOLLYWOOD REPORTER: LEGAL BRIEFS

October 20, 2026 | By Priya Mehta

JURISDICTION DENIED: JUDGE BLOCKS SHAWN NICHOLS’S CONSERVATORSHIP BID IN CALIFORNIA

In a stunning defeat for Supernova Records CEO Shawn Nichols, a Los Angeles County Superior Court judge has officially denied his emergency petition for a temporary conservatorship over his former client and girlfriend.

The judge ruled that Nichols’s team failed to prove immediate, life-threatening peril, and more importantly, agreed with the singer’s legal team that California is no longer her state of legal residence.

Sources close to the singer’s legal team (which is being quietly spearheaded by high-powered East Coast firm Di Laurentis & Associates) confirm that she has successfully established residency in Massachusetts. Furthermore, a court-mandated, independent psychiatric evaluation conducted yesterday in Boston deemed her “entirely competent, lucid, and showing zero signs of cognitive decline or psychosis.”

The battle isn’t over, however. Nichols’s team is expected to appeal the jurisdiction ruling, moving the fight to federal court. But for now, the pop star remains free, and the music industry is left reeling from the allegations of coercive control and abuse that her team has placed on the public record.

***

The waiting room of the federal courthouse in Boston is sterile, freezing, and smells like lemon polish and anxiety.

You are sitting on a stiff wooden bench, wearing a conservative black blazer and slacks that Dean’s mother bought for you yesterday. Your hands are clasped so tightly in your lap that your fingers are entirely numb.

The door to the judge’s chambers is closed. Inside, your uncle David, Dean’s mother, and a team of three terrifyingly sharp entertainment lawyers are currently arguing with Shawn’s legal team via video link.

You weren’t required to be in the room for the procedural arguments, which is a mercy, because just being in the same building as this legal battle is making your skin crawl.

“Drink this.”

Garrett appears in your line of sight, holding out a bottle of water. He is wearing a dark suit that stretches tight across his broad shoulders, making him look less like a college student and more like a lethal, high-end bodyguard. Dean is sitting on your other side, similarly dressed in a custom-tailored navy suit, currently glaring at a paralegal who dared to look in your direction.

You take the water with a shaky hand, managing a tiny sip. “How long has it been?”

“Forty-five minutes,” Garrett says, sitting down heavily next to you. His thigh presses against yours, radiating a comforting heat. “My dad used to drag me to these things when I was a kid. Lawyers love to hear themselves talk. It takes time.”

You flinch slightly at the mention of his father. You know the bare bones of Garrett’s history — the abuse, the pristine public image, the quiet nightmare behind closed doors. You know exactly why he hates Shawn Nichols with such a visceral, violent intensity.

“I feel sick,” you whisper, leaning your head against the hard cinderblock wall behind the bench.

“Do you want to walk?” Dean asks instantly, his attention snapping back to you. “We can walk the hallway. Stretch your legs.”

“No. I just want it to be over.”

Garrett shifts his arm, wrapping it around the back of the bench and letting his hand rest heavily on your far shoulder, pulling you slightly toward him. “It will be. My money is on Dean’s mom. The woman is terrifying.”

“She made a senior partner cry when I was in the fourth grade because he tried to overcharge a client,” Dean says proudly. “Shawn’s Hollywood lawyers don’t stand a chance against my mother. They’re used to bullying people. She’s used to destroying them.”

The heavy oak door to the judge’s chambers suddenly clicks open.

Your heart slams into your ribs. You shoot up from the bench, Garrett and Dean rising instantly beside you, flanking you like gargoyles.

Dean’s mother, Lori Heyward, steps out into the hallway. She looks impeccable. Not a single hair is out of place, and her tailored skirt suit doesn’t have a single wrinkle. She closes the door behind her and looks at the three of you.

Her face is completely unreadable.

“Mom?” Dean asks, the tension in his voice betraying his calm facade. “What happened?”

Lori lets out a slow, deliberate breath. Then, a sharp, predatory smile curves her lips.

“The California petition is officially dead,” Lori says, her voice crisp and echoing in the quiet hallway. “The judge threw it out with prejudice. Shawn Nichols has absolutely zero legal standing to petition for a conservatorship in this state or any other.”

The air leaves your lungs in a massive, dizzying rush.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, your hands flying over your mouth.

“Furthermore,” Lori continues, her eyes softening as she looks at you. “The judge reviewed the independent psychiatric evaluation and the evidence of coercive control we submitted. He granted the permanent restraining order. Nichols cannot contact you, he cannot approach you, and he cannot dictate your finances.”

You break.

The dam that has been holding back years of terror, manipulation, and suffocating control finally snaps. You let out a loud, breathless sob and collapse forward.

Garrett catches you before you can even stumble.

His massive arms wrap around you, lifting you completely off the ground as he buries his face in your neck. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, holding on for dear life, crying so hard your entire body shakes.

“You’re free,” Garrett whispers fiercely into your ear, his own voice thick with emotion. “You’re free, Y/N. He’s gone.”

Dean wraps his arms around both of you, crushing you in a massive, three-person hug in the middle of the federal courthouse. “We got him, sweetheart,” Dean laughs, pressing a kiss to the side of your head. “We totally destroyed him.”

You cry until you can’t breathe, but for the first time in six years, they are tears of absolute joy.

***

@PopCultureTea The Shawn Nichols-Y/N court documents just got unsealed and HOLY SHIT. He didn’t just control her money, he literally weighed her food and had trackers on her phone. #FreeYN is trending for a reason. He’s a monster.

@MusicIndustryInsider Several other female artists formerly signed to Supernova Records are preparing to come forward with similar allegations of coercive control and abuse by Shawn Nichols. The dam is breaking.

@BriarHawksSupportClub Anyone else notice that Y/N has two massive Briar hockey players acting as her personal security detail? Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis haven’t let her out of their sight in weeks. Alpha energy overload.

@TMZ BREAKING: Shawn Nichols steps down as CEO of Supernova Records amidst federal investigation into extortion and abuse allegations.

***

It is snowing in Hastings.

Big, thick flakes are drifting down past the living room window of the hockey house, blanketing the front lawn in pristine white. Inside, the house is aggressively warm, the radiator hissing gently in the corner.

You are sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table, a massive slice of pepperoni pizza in one hand and a red pen in the other. Sheet music is scattered everywhere — pages upon pages of lyrics, chord progressions, and hastily scribbled notes.

“No, that bridge is too slow,” you mutter to yourself, chewing on the end of the pen. “It needs to build. It needs more …”

“More bass,” Tucker suggests from the armchair, where he is aggressively losing a game of Mario Kart to Logan.

“It’s an acoustic ballad, Tuck. It doesn’t need bass,” you laugh, crossing out a line of lyrics and rewriting it.

The front door bangs open, bringing in a rush of freezing air. Garrett and Dean stomp onto the welcome mat, shaking the snow off their heavy winter coats. They just got back from practice, their hair damp with sweat and melted snow, their cheeks flushed pink from the cold.

“I am freezing my balls off,” Dean complains, kicking his boots off. “Whose bright idea was it to go to college in the frozen tundra?”

“Yours, you idiot,” Garrett says, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it onto the hook.

Garrett walks into the living room, his eyes immediately finding you on the floor. The hard, intense lines of his face instantly soften. He walks over, sidestepping the scattered sheet music, and drops down onto the rug right behind you.

He wraps his large arms around your waist, pulling your back flush against his broad chest, burying his cold nose in the crook of your neck.

“Jesus, Garrett, you’re freezing!” You squeal, squirming slightly, though you make no actual effort to pull away.

“Warm me up, then,” he murmurs, his deep voice vibrating against your skin. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, sending a warm shiver straight down your spine. “What are you working on?”

“The new song,” you say, leaning back into his solid heat. “For my final project in Vocal Performance. I’m going to produce it myself.”

Dean walks into the room, grabbing a slice of pizza from the box on the coffee table. He drops onto the couch, casually resting his bare feet near your thigh. “Is it about how much you love your two incredibly handsome, heroic best friends?”

“It’s about how much I hate your ego,” you tease, looking up at him.

Dean winks, taking a massive bite of pizza. “Same thing.”

You look down at the sheet music. It’s been three weeks since the judge’s ruling. Three weeks since Shawn Nichols was legally barred from your life. Three weeks since the music industry completely turned its back on him, launching a massive investigation into his label.

He is gone. Really, truly gone.

And you are still here.

You trace the notes on the page, the melody humming in your mind. It’s a song about a cage. It’s a song about the cold, blinding lights of a soundstage, and the terrifying silence of a white room.

But the bridge … the bridge is about the warmth of a cracked leather couch. It’s about gray eyes and crooked smiles. It’s about the fierce, violent, beautiful protection of the people who saw you when you were completely invisible.

“Play it for me,” Garrett says softly, his arms tightening around your waist.

“It’s not done yet,” you say, sudden shyness gripping you. You haven’t sung in front of anyone since you ran off that set in Los Angeles.

“I don’t care,” Garrett says, resting his chin on your shoulder. “Play what you have.”

Dean mutes the TV, completely ignoring Logan’s indignant protests. Tucker turns around in his chair. The room goes entirely quiet, filled only with the soft hiss of the radiator and the gentle sound of the snow hitting the window glass.

You look at the acoustic guitar resting against the sofa.

You reach out and pull it into your lap. Garrett shifts slightly, giving you enough room to hold the instrument, but he doesn’t let go of you. His solid presence at your back is a physical anchor.

You place your fingers on the frets. You take a deep, clean breath of Massachusetts air.

And for the first time in your life, you sing a song that belongs entirely to you.

***

“I still think you should skip,” Dean says, leaning casually against the brick wall of the music building. He reaches out, tugging playfully at the zipper of your winter coat. “We could go back to the house. I could make you hot chocolate. Garrett could brood in the corner and look intimidating. It would be a great Tuesday.”

“I have a mid-term, Dean,” you say, laughing as you swat his hand away. You adjust the strap of your backpack on your shoulder. “And unlike you, I actually care about passing my classes.”

Garrett snorts, standing on your other side with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark denim jacket. The wind off the quad is biting, rustling through his dark hair, but the cold doesn’t seem to faze him. “She’s got a point, man. Your GPA is currently resting on a razor’s edge.”

“My GPA is a work of abstract art,” Dean corrects smoothly. He pushes off the wall, his bright eyes softening as he looks down at you. The teasing lilt leaves his voice, replaced by the steady, grounding warmth that you’ve come to rely on. “Text us the second you’re out, okay? We’ll be right here.”

“I know,” you smile, the familiar flutter of affection settling comfortably in your chest. “You guys are always right here.”

Garrett reaches out, his large hand gently catching your chin. He tilts your head up and presses a warm, firm kiss to your forehead. His lips linger there for a second, a silent, fierce reassurance. “Knock ’em dead, sweetheart. We’ll see you in an hour.”

You wave at them as you pull the heavy glass doors of the music building open, stepping into the heated lobby.

Garrett and Dean wait on the concrete steps. They don’t move a muscle until they watch you safely scan your student ID and disappear down the main academic hallway. Only when you are completely out of sight do they finally turn away, falling into stride beside each other as they head back toward the main quad.

“I’ve got a seminar in twenty minutes,” Dean groans, pulling his collar up against the wind. “Ethics in Modern Law. It is aggressively boring.”

“It’s a pre-law requirement,” Garrett points out, his long legs eating up the pavement. “If you didn’t want to take it, you shouldn’t have let your parents bully you into the major.”

“They didn’t bully me. They heavily suggested it while holding my trust fund hostage,” Dean smirks. “There’s a difference. Besides, I’m good at arguing. I might as well get paid for it.”

They turn the corner, taking the shortcut behind the campus library. It’s a quiet, shaded walkway, lined with tall oak trees and thick brick archways that block out the wind and the noise of the main campus. Because of the cold, the path is completely empty.

“You think Coach is actually going to bag skate us this afternoon?” Dean asks, stepping over a patch of frozen leaves. “Because I swear, my hamstrings are still-”

Garrett stops walking.

He stops so abruptly his heavy boots scuff loudly against the pavement.

“G?” Dean asks, taking another step before pausing and turning back. “What’s wrong?”

Garrett doesn’t answer. His entire body has gone completely rigid. His broad shoulders are tense beneath his jacket, his hands balled into tight fists at his sides. He is staring straight ahead down the shaded walkway, his gray eyes dark and lethal.

Dean follows his line of sight.

Standing about fifty yards away, near the side entrance of the music annex, is a man.

He stands out instantly. He isn’t wearing a Briar hoodie or a North Face jacket. He’s wearing a tailored, charcoal-gray wool overcoat over a perfectly pressed suit. He has silver hair at his temples, combed back meticulously. He is leaning against the stone railing, casually checking a silver watch on his wrist, his posture oozing a slimy, arrogant confidence.

Dean’s blood goes ice cold in his veins.

“No fucking way,” Dean whispers, the words catching in his throat.

“It’s him,” Garrett says. His voice doesn’t sound human. It is a low, guttural snarl, vibrating with a violence so raw and absolute it makes the air around them feel heavy.

Shawn Nichols.

Here. On their campus. Fifty yards away from the building where you are currently sitting in a classroom, completely unaware that the monster from her nightmares has found her.

“He’s violating the restraining order,” Dean says, his mind instantly racing through the legal parameters. “He has to stay five hundred feet away from her. The music annex is attached to her building. He’s trying to ambush her.”

Garrett doesn’t say a word. He just moves.

He stalks forward, his strides long and aggressive, eating up the distance between them and Shawn. Dean is right on his heels, his own heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. The easygoing, charming Briar University playboy completely vanishes, replaced by a cold, calculating rage.

Shawn doesn’t notice them until they are less than ten feet away. He looks up from his watch, his perfectly manicured eyebrows drawing together in irritation at the heavy sound of their footsteps.

“Excuse me,” Shawn says, his voice dripping with condescension. “The library entrance is on the other side. This path is-”

Shawn cuts off.

He looks at Garrett. He looks at Dean. Recognition flashes in his cold eyes. He’s seen their faces. He’s seen the paparazzi photos of the two massive hockey players flanking you at the diner, flanking you at the courthouse, standing between you and the rest of the world.

Shawn doesn’t look intimidated. If anything, a slick, mocking smile spreads across his face.

“Well. If it isn’t the campus security detail,” Shawn says smoothly, slipping his hands into the pockets of his expensive coat. “I was wondering when I’d run into you boys.”

“You have exactly five seconds to turn around and walk off this campus,” Garrett says, stopping three feet away from Shawn. Garrett’s chest is heaving, his jaw clenched so tight the muscle is visibly jumping. “Before I break both of your fucking legs.”

Shawn chuckles. It’s a dry, hollow sound. “Violent. She always did like the aggressive type. Although, I have to say, I’m surprised she downgraded to a pair of meathead college athletes. The money must be tight now that she doesn’t have my credit cards.”

Dean steps up beside Garrett, his eyes locking onto Shawn. “You are violating a federal restraining order, Nichols. If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the cops, and my mother will personally see to it that you spend the next five years in a maximum-security cell.”

“Ah, yes. The Di Laurentis boy,” Shawn sneers, looking Dean up and down with absolute disdain. “Tell your mother her little legal stunt in Boston was cute. But temporary. You kids don’t seem to understand how the real world works. Restraining orders are just pieces of paper. And she …” Shawn’s eyes flick toward the music building, his smile darkening into something twisted and possessive. “ … she belongs to me.”

Garrett sees red.

“She doesn’t belong to anybody,” Garrett growls, taking a step forward, invading Shawn’s personal space. “You’re a sick, pathetic old man who preys on teenagers because you’re too weak to handle a real woman. You’re nothing without her.”

Shawn’s mocking smile falters for a fraction of a second, a flash of genuine, ugly anger bleeding through his polished exterior. But he recovers quickly, leaning closer to Garrett.

“You think you’re saving her?” Shawn whispers, his voice turning into a venomous hiss. “You think you’re her hero? You’re a temporary distraction. I made her. I built her from the ground up. I know every sound she makes, every secret she has. I know exactly how she likes to be touched.”

The air leaves the alleyway.

“When she’s done playing college dress-up with you boys,” Shawn continues, his eyes glittering with malice, “She’ll come crawling back to me. They always do. She needs the discipline. She likes the control. And when she comes back, I’m going to make sure she never forgets who owns her-”

Garrett snaps.

With a roar of pure fury, Garrett pulls his right arm back, his massive fist curling into a wrecking ball, ready to cave Shawn’s skull in.

“Garrett, wait!”

Dean moves faster than he ever has on the ice. He lunges forward, catching Garrett’s arm mid-swing. The impact of stopping Garrett’s momentum sends a shockwave up Dean’s shoulder, but he holds on with a desperate, iron grip.

“Let me go, Dean!” Garrett roars, his eyes wild, completely consumed by the rage. He tries to rip his arm away, his focus locked entirely on Shawn’s smug face. “I’m going to kill him! Let me go!”

“No! Garrett, stop!” Dean shoves his entire body weight against Garrett’s chest, forcing the bigger man back a step. “Look at me! G, look at me!”

Garrett blinks, his chest heaving, his eyes locking onto Dean’s face.

“He wants you to hit him,” Dean says, his voice low and intense, his hands gripping the lapels of Garrett’s jacket. “Look at him. He’s smiling. He wants you to assault him so he can press charges.”

Shawn adjusts his cuffs, looking entirely unbothered. “Listen to your friend, Graham. A felony assault charge would look terrible for a college player waiting to be signed. What would the Bruins say?”

Dean doesn’t look at Shawn. He keeps his eyes locked on Garrett.

“Garrett, listen to me,” Dean says, his voice deadly calm. “You have the draft. You have an NHL contract waiting for you. You have a spotless record. If you hit him, he ruins your career. He takes everything you’ve worked for since you were a kid. You cannot get your hands dirty on a piece of shit like this.”

Garrett’s breathing is ragged. He looks at Shawn, then back at Dean. The violent rage is still there, burning just beneath his skin, but the logic penetrates the haze. Garrett knows what’s at stake. He knows Shawn is baiting him.

Slowly, agonizingly, Garrett lowers his fist. He steps back, his chest rising and falling heavily.

Shawn smirks, a triumphant, sickening look of victory washing over his face. “Smart boy. Stick to hockey. Leave the grown-up matters to the men. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a conversation to have with my girlfriend.”

Shawn turns to walk toward the music building.

“Hey, Shawn.”

Shawn stops, turning back around with an annoyed sigh. “What now?”

Dean is shrugging out of his heavy winter coat. He tosses it onto the frozen grass. He reaches up, casually unbuttoning the cuffs of his expensive button-down shirt and rolling the sleeves up to his elbows. He takes his silver watch off and hands it to Garrett without looking.

“See, Garrett has a career to protect,” Dean says, his voice smooth, conversational, and completely terrifying. “He has rules.”

Dean rolls his neck, a sharp crack echoing in the quiet walkway.

“Me, on the other hand?” Dean continues, taking a slow, measured step toward Shawn. “I’m not going pro. I have a trust fund that could buy and sell your pathetic little record label ten times over. My parents are the most ruthless, highly connected defense attorneys on the eastern seaboard. I don’t give a single flying fuck about a clean record.”

Shawn’s smug smile finally vanishes. He takes a step back, his eyes darting to the sides, suddenly realizing exactly how alone they are in the shaded alleyway. “If you touch me, I’ll have you arrested.”

“I’ll have my lawyers tie it up in court for the next thirty years,” Dean smiles, a cold, devastating slash of white teeth. “It’ll be a fun hobby.”

Shawn opens his mouth to speak, but the words never come out.

Dean lunges.

It isn’t a hockey fight. There is no jersey grabbing, no wild swinging. Dean is precise, fast, and completely merciless.

His first punch connects squarely with Shawn’s jaw. The crack of bone is sickeningly loud. Shawn’s head snaps to the side, a spray of blood painting the brick wall beside him, and he crumbles to the pavement like a puppet with its strings cut.

“That,” Dean snarls, his voice echoing off the archways, “is for locking her in a hospital.”

Shawn groans, rolling onto his side and spitting a mouthful of blood onto the pavement. He tries to scramble backward, his expensive wool coat scraping against the concrete. “You … you’re dead. I’ll ruin you …”

Dean grabs him by the lapels of his coat, dragging him effortlessly back to his feet. Shawn is taller than you, but against a 200-pound college athlete fueled by pure hatred, he is nothing.

Dean drives his knee directly into Shawn’s stomach. All the air leaves Shawn’s lungs in a pathetic, wheezing gasp. He doubles over, clutching his abdomen.

“That,” Dean says, his chest heaving, “is for the drugs.”

Shawn falls to his knees, gasping for air, his hands trembling as he tries to shield his face. “Please … wait …”

“And this,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a dark, lethal register. “This is for every time you ever laid your hands on her.”

Dean brings his elbow down hard on the back of Shawn’s neck, driving him face-first into the concrete. Shawn goes completely limp, a low, pathetic whimper escaping his bloody lips.

Dean stands over him. He doesn’t stop. He reaches down, grabs Shawn by the collar of his shirt, and hauls him up just enough to deliver another crushing right hook to his cheekbone. Shawn’s head snaps back, and he collapses back onto the ground, unmoving.

He’s conscious, but barely. He is a bloody, broken mess on the freezing pavement, his arrogant veneer entirely stripped away.

Dean stands up straight. His knuckles are split and bleeding, staining his white shirt cuffs red. He’s breathing hard, the adrenaline coursing fiercely through his veins. He looks down at the man who terrorized you for six years, the man who made you fear your own shadow, and Dean feels absolutely nothing but satisfaction.

Dean slowly turns around.

Garrett is standing exactly where Dean left him. His arms are crossed over his chest, his gray eyes dark and incredibly proud.

Dean reaches up, casually running a hand through his hair to fix it. He wipes a drop of Shawn’s blood off his cheek with the back of his hand.

“Hey, Graham,” Dean asks, his voice returning to its normal, casual drawl.

“Yeah, Di Laurentis?” Garrett replies.

“You see any cameras around this corner?”

Garrett takes a slow, theatrical look around the shaded brick alleyway. He looks up at the library roof, then over at the trees. He looks back at Dean, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his handsome face.

“Just brick and ivy, man,” Garrett says. “Total dead zone.”

“Perfect.”

Dean reaches into the pocket of his slacks and pulls out his phone. He unlocks the screen and dials 911, holding the phone to his ear.

He waits for the operator to answer. And then, in a masterclass of acting that would win an Oscar, Dean’s entire demeanor changes. His posture slumps, his voice becomes frantic, breathless, and laced with absolute panic.

“Hello? Yes, 911? I need police and an ambulance at Briar University immediately,” Dean gasps into the phone, sounding genuinely terrified. “I’m behind the campus library. I … I don’t know what happened. This guy just came out of nowhere and attacked me.”

Garrett leans against the wall, watching Dean work with absolute awe.

“Yes, I’m a student,” Dean cries into the receiver. “His name is Shawn Nichols. He’s my friend’s stalker. He has a federal restraining order against him and he showed up on campus looking for her. I told him to leave, and he just went crazy. He lunged at me. I … I had to defend myself. I think I hurt him. Please hurry, I’m so scared.”

Dean gives the operator the exact cross streets, his voice shaking perfectly, before hanging up the phone.

The fake panic instantly drops from his face. He locks his phone and slides it back into his pocket. He looks down at Shawn, who is groaning pathetically on the concrete, blood pooling around his expensive shoes.

“They’re on their way,” Dean says coldly. He steps closer to Shawn, crouching down so he is eye-level with the beaten man.

Shawn looks up at him through a swollen, rapidly bruising eye.

“Listen to me very carefully, Shawn,” Dean whispers, his voice lethal. “When the cops get here, you are going to tell them that you violated the restraining order. You are going to tell them that you attacked me, and I fought back in self-defense. If you try to say anything else, my mother will rip your life apart in court. And when she’s done, Garrett and I will find you again. And next time, there won’t be an ambulance.”

Shawn swallows hard, coughing on his own blood. He gives a weak, terrified nod.

Dean stands back up. He turns to Garrett, casually rolling his bloody sleeves back down.

“You know,” Garrett says, walking over and handing Dean his watch and winter coat. “I always thought you were just a pretty face.”

Dean flashes a bright, bloody grin, slipping his watch back onto his wrist. “I have layers, G. Like an onion.”

“Well,” Garrett claps Dean firmly on the shoulder, his expression hardening into pure brotherhood. “Remind me to never piss you off.”

“Don’t worry,” Dean says, looking toward the music building where you are safely sitting in class. “I only get violent for the people I love.”

They stand side by side in the freezing wind, waiting for the sirens to arrive.

***

The front door of the hockey house opens with a heavy thud, followed by the familiar sound of heavy boots kicking off onto the welcome mat.

You look up from the music theory textbook spread across the kitchen island. You’ve been home for an hour, the quiet of the house slowly settling your nerves after the exam.

“How was the ethics seminar?” You call out, sliding off the barstool and padding into the hallway in your socks. “Did you survive without falling asleep-”

You stop dead in your tracks.

Dean is shrugging off his heavy winter coat, tossing it carelessly onto the hook. His hair is a mess, his chest is heaving slightly, and his tailored white dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar. But that isn’t what stops your heart.

It’s his hands.

His right hand is completely wrecked. The skin across his knuckles is split, raw, and bleeding freely. There are dark, smeared streaks of blood running down his fingers and staining the pristine white cuffs of his shirt a stark, terrifying crimson.

A sharp gasp rips from your throat. “Dean!”

Dean looks up, his eyes widening slightly as he realizes what you’re looking at. He immediately tries to tuck his hands behind his back, a sheepish, almost guilty look crossing his face. “Hey, sweetheart. You’re home early.”

“Oh my god, your hand!” You sprint down the hallway, grabbing his arm and pulling his right hand forward. Your heart is hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against your ribs. “What happened? Did you get into a car accident? Did you fall? Garrett, why didn’t you take him to the hospital?”

Garrett steps into the hallway, casually locking the front door behind him. He doesn’t look panicked at all. In fact, he looks incredibly calm. His gray eyes are dark, intense, and practically glowing with a fierce, protective pride.

“He doesn’t need a hospital, Y/N,” Garrett says, his deep voice a soothing rumble in the frantic hallway.

“Look at him!” You cry, your fingers hovering over Dean’s bleeding knuckles, terrified to cause him more pain. “He’s bleeding everywhere! We need to clean this out, you need stitches-”

“Sweetheart. Hey. Look at me,” Dean says softly.

He uses his clean left hand to gently cup your cheek, forcing your panicked gaze away from the blood and up to his eyes. His thumb brushes across your cheekbone. His bright eyes are warm, grounding, and completely entirely void of pain.

“I’m perfectly fine,” Dean promises, his voice dropping into a low, intimate register. “It barely even hurts.”

“How can you say that?” You whisper, your voice shaking. “Your hand is destroyed.”

“That’s because he hit a brick wall,” Garrett says casually, leaning his massive frame against the hallway wall. “Or, more accurately, a brick wall dressed in a tailored charcoal overcoat.”

You freeze.

The air leaves your lungs in a rush. The blood roaring in your ears suddenly goes deadly quiet.

“What?” You breathe out.

Dean sighs, shooting Garrett a mild glare before turning his full attention back to you. “He was here, Y/N. On campus. He was waiting outside the music annex.”

The name isn’t spoken, but it hangs in the air, a dark, suffocating cloud. Shawn.

Your knees instantly turn to water. You stumble back a step, a primal, deeply ingrained terror seizing your throat. “He was here? How close did he get? Did he see me? I didn’t see him-”

“Hey, hey, stop,” Garrett is there in an instant, his large hands gripping your shoulders, anchoring you to the floor. “He didn’t see you. You were safely inside taking your exam. He didn’t get anywhere near you.”

“Then how …” You look from Garrett to Dean’s bloody knuckles. The realization hits you like a freight train. “You fought him?”

“He didn’t fight him,” Garrett corrects, a slow, dark smirk spreading across his handsome face. “Dean beat him into the fucking pavement.”

You stare at Dean in absolute shock.

“He was waiting for you,” Dean says, his voice losing its playful edge, turning hard and lethal. “He was violating the restraining order, and he was planning on ambushing you when you walked out. Garrett was going to kill him, but … Garrett is going pro. He has an NHL career to protect. So, I stepped in.”

“You … you beat him up?” You ask, your voice barely a whisper.

“Very thoroughly,” Dean nods, a flash of pure, unapologetic satisfaction in his eyes. “I broke his nose. I shattered his jaw. I’m pretty sure I fractured a couple of his ribs. He won’t be doing much besides drinking out of a straw for the considerable future.”

“But … the police!” The panic surges back, hotter and more desperate this time. “Dean, he’s going to press charges! He’s going to ruin your life! He’s going to send you to jail!”

“He’s not sending anyone anywhere,” Dean chuckles, stepping closer to you. “I called the cops myself. I told them this deranged stalker showed up on campus, violated a federal restraining order, and attacked me unprovoked. I acted entirely in self-defense.”

Garrett laughs, a low, booming sound. “It was a masterclass, Y/N. You should have seen it. The cops showed up, Shawn is choking on his own blood, and Dean is playing the traumatized victim. His parents are already handling the paperwork. Shawn is the one who left in handcuffs, straight to the hospital ward under police guard.”

You stand perfectly still in the hallway.

You look at Dean. You look at the blood on his hands — Shawn’s blood. The blood of the man who controlled your every waking breath, the man who locked you in a sterile white room, the man who convinced you that you were entirely alone in the world.

Dean Di Laurentis, the wealthy, charming, carefree playboy of Briar University, shattered his own hands to protect you. He risked assault charges, he risked his reputation, he risked everything, simply because he refuses to let anyone hurt you.

And Garrett. Garrett stood back to protect his future, but he was fully prepared to throw it all away for you.

The overwhelming, crushing weight of their devotion crashes over you like a tidal wave.

Tears prick your eyes, hot and fast. A choked, breathless sob escapes your lips.

“Hey, no, don’t cry,” Dean says instantly, his face falling into genuine distress. He reaches for you, careful not to touch you with his bloody hand. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. It’s over. He’s never coming near you again, I swear on my life.”

You don’t say a word. You step forward, grab the lapels of Dean’s unbuttoned shirt, pull him down to your height, and crash your lips against his.

Dean freezes for a fraction of a second, completely caught off guard. And then, with a low groan that vibrates deep in his chest, he kisses you back. His clean left hand sweeps around your waist, pulling your body flush against his hard chest. The kiss is desperate, bruising, and tasted like salt and adrenaline. It is a profound, messy explosion of everything you have been holding back for months.

You kiss him like he is the only oxygen left in the room. You pour every ounce of your gratitude, your terror, and your overwhelming affection into his mouth. Dean’s lips part, his tongue sweeping inside, entirely commanding, entirely devoted.

When you finally pull back, you are both gasping for air.

Dean rests his forehead against yours, his eyes dark and blown wide. “Christ, Y/N.”

You step out of his arms, your chest heaving, and turn to Garrett.

Garrett is staring at you, his jaw clenched, his gray eyes burning with a heat so intense it practically singes your skin. He doesn’t move. He waits, completely perfectly still, letting you dictate the terms.

You walk right up to him. You slide your hands up his broad chest, feeling the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart beneath his shirt. You wrap your arms around his thick neck, and you pull him down.

Garrett doesn’t hesitate. His massive arms wrap around you, lifting you clean off the floor as his mouth crashes down on yours.

If Dean’s kiss was desperate, Garrett’s is a claim. It is fierce, territorial, and completely consuming. He kisses you with the absolute, unyielding intensity of a man who would gladly burn the world to the ground to keep you warm. You tangle your fingers in his dark hair, whimpering softly into his mouth as his tongue meets yours.

He slowly lowers you back down to the floor, breaking the kiss but keeping his mouth hovering mere millimeters from yours. His breath is hot against your lips.

“Are you sure?” Garrett whispers, his voice thick, heavy with restraint. “You don’t have to do this just because you’re grateful.”

“It’s not gratitude,” you breathe, looking up into his intense gray eyes. You turn your head, catching Dean’s gaze over Garrett’s shoulder. “I’m so tired of being afraid. I’m so tired of feeling like my body doesn’t belong to me. I want … I want you. Both of you.”

Dean exhales a shaky breath, stepping up directly behind you. His chest presses against your back. “You have us. Every single piece of us.”

“Make me forget him,” you whisper, your voice cracking slightly. “Please.”

Garrett’s eyes darken. “Done.”

Garrett leans down, scooping you up into his arms effortlessly, cradling you against his chest like you weigh absolutely nothing. Dean leads the way up the stairs, taking them two at a time. They don’t go to Garrett’s room at the end of the hall. They take the first door on the right — Dean’s room.

Dean kicks the door shut behind them, the heavy click of the lock echoing in the quiet room.

Garrett sets you down gently on the edge of Dean’s massive, king-sized bed. The room smells like expensive cologne and clean laundry.

“Let me wash my hands,” Dean says, his voice raspy. He walks into the attached en-suite bathroom, turning on the faucet.

You sit on the edge of the bed, suddenly feeling a spike of nerves. For six years, sex was a transaction. It was something Shawn demanded, something you endured by going entirely numb and detaching from your own skin. You don’t know how to do this. You don’t know how to participate.

Garrett kneels on the floor between your knees. He sees the sudden panic flash in your eyes, the slight tremble in your hands.

“Hey,” Garrett murmurs, his massive hands coming to rest gently on your thighs. He doesn’t grip you. He just rests them there, a grounding, solid weight. “Look at me.”

You meet his eyes.

“We are not him,” Garrett says, his voice quiet, steady, and an absolute vow. “Nobody is taking anything from you today. Your body belongs to you. You are completely in control. If you want us to stop, you tell us, and we stop. Instantly. If you want something, you tell us. Do you understand?”

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admit, a tear slipping down your cheek. “I don’t know how to be good at this.”

“You don’t have to be good at anything,” Dean says, walking out of the bathroom. He has stripped off his ruined shirt, his sculpted chest completely bare. His knuckles are washed clean, covered in sterile bandages. He drops onto the bed behind you, pulling you back so your back rests against his chest. “You just have to let us worship you.”

Dean presses a soft, lingering kiss to the side of your neck, right below your ear. At the exact same moment, Garrett leans forward, pressing his lips gently to the inside of your wrist.

The dual sensation is a shock to your system. It isn’t demanding. It is absolute, pure reverence.

Garrett slowly unbuttons your shirt, his large, calloused fingers moving with agonizing, beautiful care. He pushes the fabric off your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Dean’s hands slide around your waist, pulling you securely against his warmth.

They strip you slowly. Every time a piece of clothing is removed, a kiss replaces it.

Garrett kisses your collarbone. Dean kisses your shoulder. Garrett’s hot mouth trails down your stomach, making you gasp, while Dean’s hands trace the curve of your hips. You are completely surrounded, entirely enveloped in their heat, their strength, and their devastating tenderness.

For the first time in your life, you are not a doll to be posed. You are a goddess, and this bed is an altar.

“You are so fucking beautiful,” Garrett groans, looking up at you as he pulls your jeans down your legs. His eyes trace every inch of your exposed skin with naked, starving adoration.

Dean’s hands slide up your ribs, his thumbs brushing just beneath your breasts. “Perfect. Every inch of you is perfect.”

They lay you back against the pillows. Dean moves to lie beside you, propping himself up on one elbow, his bright eyes locked onto your face. Garrett remains positioned between your legs, his massive frame kneeling at the edge of the bed.

The heat in the room is suffocating.

Garrett leans down, his mouth replacing his hands. His tongue traces the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, moving upward with agonizingly slow precision.

A sharp, shocked gasp escapes your lips. Your hands fly up, completely instinctively, to grip the bedsheets.

“Relax, sweetheart,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with lust. He captures your hands, gently intertwining his fingers with yours, pinning them loosely above your head. “Let him.”

Garrett’s mouth finds your center.

The pleasure hits you like a lightning strike. It is so intense, so entirely overwhelming, that your back physically arches off the mattress.

“Garrett-” you cry out, your eyes squeezing shut as the sensation completely shorts out your brain.

“I’ve got you,” Garrett murmurs against your wet skin, his breath hot and devastating. His tongue works with absolute, devastating precision, learning exactly what makes you whimper, exactly what makes you shake.

Dean leans over, his mouth capturing yours. He kisses you deeply, swallowing your moans, his tongue mimicking the slow, rhythmic glide of Garrett’s mouth lower down.

You are a live wire. Every nerve ending in your body is screaming, singing, completely overwhelmed by the sheer, unadulterated pleasure they are pouring into you. You don’t have to think. You don’t have to perform. All you have to do is feel.

“Dean,” you whimper into his mouth, your hips lifting instinctively into Garrett’s relentless, driving mouth. “Please … I can’t …”

“Yes, you can,” Dean soothes, his lips trailing down your jaw, nipping lightly at your collarbone. He releases one of your hands, his fingers trailing down your torso, slipping between your legs to join Garrett.

Two of Dean’s fingers slide smoothly inside of you.

You scream into the empty room.

The combination of Dean’s fingers stretching you deep and Garrett’s mouth perfectly working your clit is entirely too much. The pleasure builds instantly, a massive, crushing wave that completely sweeps you away.

“That’s it, Y/N,” Garrett growls encouragingly, his hands gripping your hips, holding you firmly in place as you unravel. “Give it to us.”

You shatter.

Your entire body goes rigid, climaxing so hard your vision goes entirely white. You cry out, your nails digging into Dean’s broad shoulders as the waves of pleasure rock through your system, completely washing away years of trauma, leaving behind only the blazing, brilliant heat of the present.

You are gasping for air, trembling violently, a puddle of absolute, melted exhaustion on the sheets.

Garrett crawls up the bed, his massive body blanketing yours. He kisses you, tasting your release on his own lips. “You are incredible,” he whispers against your mouth.

“I want you,” you breathe, your hands tangling in his hair, tugging him closer. You look over his shoulder at Dean, whose eyes are completely black with lust. “Both of you. Now.”

Garrett and Dean shed the rest of their clothes in a matter of seconds.

The sheer size of them is intimidating, but looking at them now, you feel no fear. You only feel a desperate, burning need.

Garrett positions himself between your thighs, resting his weight on his forearms to avoid crushing you. He looks down at you, checking your eyes one last time. You nod, a silent, desperate plea.

With a low groan, Garrett pushes slowly inside of you.

He is massive, thick and solid, filling you completely. The stretch is intense, but he stops immediately, letting your body adjust to the overwhelming size of him.

“Okay?” Garrett asks, his voice strained, a bead of sweat tracing down his temple.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, wrapping your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Please, Garrett.”

Garrett groans, his hips snapping forward, burying himself to the hilt.

The rhythm starts, a slow, heavy, relentless pounding that steals the breath from your lungs. Garrett is entirely focused, his gray eyes locked onto yours, reading every twitch of your face, ensuring that every thrust brings you nothing but pleasure.

Dean shifts behind you. He kneels on the bed, pulling your torso up so your back rests securely against his chest. He wraps his arms around you, his hands covering your breasts, his thumbs rolling over your sensitive peaks.

“We’ve got you,” Dean whispers in your ear, his teeth grazing your earlobe.

Garrett picks up the pace, his thrusts driving deeper, harder. The friction is incredible. Dean’s hands are everywhere, his mouth trailing fire down your neck, whispering filthy, gorgeous praises into your ear while Garrett completely commands your body.

You are entirely, thoroughly claimed. You are the center of their universe, caught between two massive forces of nature who exist entirely for your pleasure.

“Y/N,” Garrett growls, his control finally beginning to fracture. His thrusts become erratic, frantic. He grabs your hips, his thumbs digging into the soft flesh. “I’m close.”

“Dean,” you gasp, reaching back blindly with one hand, your fingers curling around the thick, hot length of his erection.

Dean hisses a sharp breath as your hand wraps around him. You stroke him, matching the frantic rhythm of Garrett’s hips.

“Fuck, sweetheart,” Dean groans, his hips stuttering forward into your hand.

The climax hits you a second time, entirely unannounced. It rips through you with the force of a hurricane, your inner muscles clamping down fiercely around Garrett.

With a roaring shout, Garrett thrusts deep one final time, completely unraveling inside of you.

Above you, Dean shudders violently, his own release spilling hotly over your hand as he buries his face in your hair, completely spent.

The three of you collapse together in a tangled, breathless mess of limbs, sweat, and completely ruined sheets.

The room is silent except for the heavy, ragged sounds of three people trying to catch their breath.

Garrett rolls onto his side, but he doesn’t pull out, keeping you securely tethered to him. He pulls you against his chest, his large arm wrapping entirely around you. Dean is on your other side, his arm draped heavily over your waist, his face pressed into the pillow next to yours.

You are exhausted. You are a puddle of goo. You have never felt more alive.

You slowly open your eyes, blinking against the dim light of the bedroom. Dean’s right hand is resting near your face, the white bandages stark against his skin.

You gently reach out, pulling his injured hand toward your mouth.

Dean cracks an eye open, watching you through half-lidded, exhausted eyes.

You press a soft, lingering kiss to the bandaged knuckles. You press another kiss to his palm, and another to his wrist.

Dean smiles, a soft, incredibly tender smile that completely transforms his sharp features. He shifts closer, pressing his forehead against yours.

“I love you, you know,” Dean whispers into the quiet room.

Garrett tightens his grip around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest from behind. He presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. “We both do. Always have.”

You close your eyes, surrounded by their heat, completely safe, and completely loved.

“I love you too,” you whisper.

And for the first time in your life, you know exactly what that word is supposed to mean.

***

The Briar University Performing Arts Center smells like floor wax, nervous sweat, and heavily sprayed hairspray.

You are pacing the narrow stretch of the backstage green room, your black leather boots clicking a frantic, irregular rhythm against the linoleum. It is the end-of-year showcase for the Vocal Performance majors. Beyond the heavy velvet curtains, an auditorium packed with five hundred people is buzzing with anticipation.

And you are currently hyperventilating.

“I can’t,” you gasp, your hands flying up to grip the lapels of your oversized denim jacket. “I can’t do it. I’m going to throw up. I need to leave.”

“You are not going to throw up, and you are not leaving,” a calm, impossibly steady voice says.

Garrett m steps into your path, effectively blocking your pacing. He is wearing a dark, charcoal-gray button-down shirt that stretches tight across his broad chest, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He reaches out, his massive hands catching your wrists and gently prying your fingers away from your jacket.

“My throat is closing up,” you whisper, panic lacing every syllable. You look up into his gray eyes, completely terrified. “Garrett, the lights. What if the lights turn on and I just … what if I’m back there? What if I freeze?”

“If you freeze,” Dean says, stepping up right behind Garrett, “then Garrett and I walk right up on that stage, scoop you up, and carry you out the back door. We go get milkshakes, and we try again next year.”

You look past Garrett’s shoulder. Dean is wearing a tailored black suit with no tie, the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone. He looks like a devastatingly handsome menace, entirely out of place among the jittery theater and music students warming up around you.

“You guys aren’t even supposed to be back here,” you say, a hysterical, breathless laugh escaping your lips. “The stage manager said only performers.”

“The stage manager is a sophomore named Kyle who weighs a hundred and twenty pounds soaking wet,” Dean smirks, slipping his hands into his pockets. “I looked at him, Garrett cracked his knuckles, and suddenly Kyle decided we were essential personnel.”

“We are essential personnel,” Garrett murmurs, his hands sliding up your arms to cup your shoulders. His heat seeps through the denim of your jacket, anchoring you to the floor. “Listen to me, Y/N. You are not on a soundstage in Los Angeles. You are not surrounded by a crew of people on Shawn Nichols’s payroll.”

You swallow hard, closing your eyes and focusing entirely on the solid, unyielding pressure of Garrett’s hands.

“You are in Hastings, Massachusetts,” Garrett continues, his voice a low, grounding rumble. “You wrote the arrangement. You picked the song. Nobody is telling you what to wear, and nobody is telling you how to move. This is your voice. This is your stage.”

“And if anyone out there looks at you the wrong way,” Dean adds, his voice dropping its playful edge, turning fierce and protective, “I will personally throw them through the nearest stained-glass window.”

You open your eyes, looking between the two of them.

It has been six months since Dean left Shawn broken and bleeding on the campus pavement. Six months since the restraining order became permanent, and Shawn’s entire empire began crumbling under federal investigations.

Six months of waking up in a warm bed, flanked by two men who worship the absolute ground you walk on. They have piece by piece, day by day, helped you put yourself back together. They didn’t fix you — they gave you the safe space you needed to fix yourself.

“Okay,” you breathe out, the vise around your chest finally loosening. “Okay. I can do this.”

“Of course you can,” Dean smiles, stepping forward to press a soft, lingering kiss to your temple. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

“Y/N?”

A frazzled girl with a clipboard pokes her head into the green room. “You’re up next. Three minutes.”

Your heart does a complicated flip, but the paralyzing terror is gone, replaced by a sharp, electric shot of adrenaline.

“We’re going to head to our seats,” Garrett says, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone. “Logan and Tuck are saving them. Front row, center.”

“Don’t look at the crowd,” Dean orders gently, capturing your hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Just look at us.”

“I will,” you promise.

They both give you one last, lingering look before turning and pushing their way through the backstage doors.

You take a deep breath. You shed the oversized denim jacket, leaving you in a simple, flowing black slip dress. Your hair is loose and natural, cascading down your back. There are no rhinestones. There are no leather straps. There is no heavy, doll-like stage makeup. It is just you.

“Next up, performing an acoustic arrangement on the guitar … Y/N.”

The announcer’s voice echoes over the PA system. The crowd claps politely.

You pick up the acoustic guitar resting on the stand, the smooth wood familiar and comforting under your fingers. You push through the heavy velvet curtains and step out onto the stage.

The lights hit you instantly.

For a fraction of a second, the brightness is blinding. A ghost of the old panic flares in your chest, a phantom echo of a music video set and a screaming manager. But then your vision adjusts, and you look down into the audience.

Front row. Center.

Garrett Graham and Dean Di Laurentis are sitting side-by-side, their long legs practically touching the edge of the stage. Logan and Tucker are sitting next to them, beaming proudly.

Garrett’s gray eyes are locked onto you, burning with a fierce, unwavering pride. Dean shoots you a slow, breathtaking smile, tapping his chest right over his heart.

The ghost of Shawn Nichols instantly evaporates.

You pull the microphone stand a few inches closer, adjust the strap of your guitar, and look directly at Dean and Garrett.

“Hi,” you say into the microphone. Your voice is soft, a little raspy, but it doesn’t shake. “This song is a cover. But the words … the words mean a lot to me. I want to dedicate this to the two people who reminded me what it feels like to be seen. Really seen.”

A hush falls over the auditorium. You can see Garrett’s jaw tighten with emotion, his posture going completely rigid. Dean’s smile softens into something incredibly tender, his eyes shining under the ambient light.

You place your fingers on the frets. You take a breath, close your eyes for just a second, and begin to play.

The acoustic chords ring out, stripped down, haunting, and beautiful. You lean into the microphone, and for the first time in over a year, you sing for an audience.

“And I’d give up forever to touch you …”

Your voice is completely different from the heavily produced, auto-tuned pop tracks Shawn forced you to record. It is raw. It is deeply soulful, carrying the weight of everything you have survived.

“‘Cause I know that you feel me somehow …”

You open your eyes, locking your gaze entirely on Garrett. He is staring at you like you are the only thing in the room. Like you are the only thing in the entire world.

“You’re the closest to heaven that I’ll ever be. And I don’t want to go home right now …”

You shift your gaze to Dean. He is leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together. He looks entirely captivated, entirely yours.

As you hit the chorus, you strum the guitar a little harder, letting the emotion swell, letting the power of your own voice fill the massive auditorium.

“And I don’t want the world to see me, ’cause I don’t think that they’d understand …”

You sing the words not to the crowd of five hundred people, but as a secret shared between the three of you. A confession of the months spent hiding, the months spent terrified of the tabloids, the cameras, and the judgments.

“When everything’s made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am.”

You pour every ounce of your trauma, your healing, and your profound, earth-shattering love for them into that single line. Because they do. They know the girl who cried on the floor of the hockey house, they know the girl who fought a billionaire in federal court, and they know the girl who is finally taking her life back.

The auditorium is dead silent, entirely spellbound by the raw, devastating honesty in your voice.

You finish the song, the final, haunting chord echoing softly through the speakers before fading into absolute silence.

For a heartbeat, nobody moves.

And then, Garrett is on his feet.

He stands up, his massive frame towering over the front row, clapping so hard it echoes like thunder. Dean is up a second later, completely ignoring protocol as he puts two fingers in his mouth and lets out a deafening, piercing whistle.

The rest of the auditorium erupts. Five hundred people stand up, the applause crashing over you in a massive, deafening wave.

You stand in the center of the stage, the guitar resting against your hip. The blinding lights don’t feel like a cage anymore. They feel like a sunrise. You look down at Garrett and Dean, a massive, tearful smile breaking across your face.

You did it. You took it back.

You offer a small bow, wave to the cheering crowd, and turn to walk off the stage.

The second the velvet curtains fall shut behind you, the adrenaline crashes out of your system, leaving your legs feeling like absolute jelly. You lean the guitar against a flight case, taking a deep, shaky breath, completely overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of what just happened.

The heavy stage door bursts open.

“Y/N!”

You turn around just in time to be completely engulfed.

Garrett hits you first, wrapping his massive arms around your waist and lifting you clean off the floor. He spins you around, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “You were perfect,” he growls, his voice thick and entirely wrecked with emotion. “God, sweetheart, you were absolutely perfect.”

“Garrett, put her down, it’s my turn,” Dean demands, his voice cracking with a frantic, desperate joy.

Garrett sets you down, but he doesn’t let go of your waist.

Dean steps right into your space. He is holding the most massive, stunning bouquet of flowers you have ever seen in your entire life. It isn’t a standard dozen red roses. It is an explosion of deep blue hydrangeas, pure white peonies, and trailing green ivy — a completely custom, wildly expensive arrangement.

“For you,” Dean breathes, his eyes blazing as he practically shoves the massive bouquet into your arms.

“Dean, these are beautiful,” you gasp, struggling to hold the sheer weight of the flowers.

“You’re beautiful,” Dean says fiercely.

He doesn’t give you a second to respond. Dean grabs the lapels of your slip dress, pulls you forward, and crashes his mouth against yours.

He kisses you within an inch of your life.

It isn’t a sweet, congratulatory peck. It is a sweeping, desperate, completely devastating kiss. Dean’s mouth is hot and demanding, his tongue sweeping past your lips, tasting the adrenaline and the joy still humming under your skin. He kisses you like he wants to devour you, like he wants to press himself so entirely into your bones that you never doubt how much he loves you ever again.

You melt against him, the bouquet crushed between your chests, your free hand tangling in his perfectly styled hair. You kiss him back with everything you have, a small, breathy moan escaping your throat.

“Hey,” Garrett growls, his large hand wrapping around the back of your neck. “Share.”

Dean reluctantly pulls back, his chest heaving, a dark, incredibly satisfied smirk on his swollen lips. “She’s all yours, G.”

Garrett wastes no time. He slides his hand from the back of your neck into your hair, tilting your head exactly how he wants it, and brings his mouth down on yours.

Garrett’s kiss is a force of nature. It is deep, territorial, and completely commanding. He kisses you with a heavy, unyielding pressure that makes your knees completely give out. If Dean wasn’t holding you up from the other side, you would have collapsed onto the linoleum floor. Garrett’s tongue tangles with yours, slow and purposeful, a filthy promise of what is going to happen the second he gets you back to the hockey house.

“Excuse me? Guys?”

The three of you freeze.

You pull back from Garrett, your lips bruised and swollen, your face flushed dark red.

Kyle, the skinny sophomore stage manager, is standing a few feet away, holding a clipboard and looking completely mortified. He is staring at the ceiling, desperately avoiding eye contact.

“Um, congratulations on a great performance, Y/N,” Kyle squeaks out. “But we really need to clear the backstage wing for the chamber choir. You guys are kind of … in the way.”

Garrett shoots a terrifying, lethal glare over his shoulder. “Give us a minute, Kyle.”

“Sure thing! Take your time!” Kyle practically squeaks, turning around and sprinting back toward the other side of the stage.

You burst out laughing, burying your hot, flushed face in the cool petals of the hydrangeas.

“You guys are going to get me expelled,” you giggle, leaning back against Garrett’s solid chest.

“Worth it,” Dean winks, stepping close and casually wiping a smudge of your lipstick off the corner of his own mouth with his thumb. “Come on, superstar. Logan and Tucker went ahead to start the car. We’re taking you home.”

“Are we having a party?” You ask, looking between them as Garrett places a heavy, protective hand on the small of your back to guide you toward the exit.

Garrett looks at Dean over your head. A slow, incredibly dark, incredibly explicit look passes between the two men.

“No,” Garrett says, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling register that instantly makes your pulse spike. “No party. Just the three of us.”

“We are going to celebrate you properly,” Dean adds, his bright eyes tracking the line of your slip dress with absolute, naked hunger. “Behind closed doors. For a very, very long time.”

A shiver of pure anticipation shoots down your spine.

You step out into the cool Massachusetts night air, the heavy bouquet in your arms, flanked by the two men who saved your life. You look up at the dark sky, the stars entirely hidden by the city lights, and for the first time in as long as you can remember, you aren’t afraid of the dark.

You aren’t afraid of anything at all.

“Take me home, then,” you smile.

Garrett pulls you tight against his side, Dean wraps his hand firmly around yours, and together, you walk away from the stage.

***

THE BOSTON GLOBE | SPORTS SECTION

October 12, 2028 | By Andrew Rhodes

ROOKIE PHENOM GARRETT GRAHAM BRINGS MORE THAN JUST GOALS TO THE GARDEN

The Boston Bruins have a new golden boy, and he’s not just making headlines on the ice.

Garrett Graham, the undrafted free agent out of Briar University, has been tearing up the NHL in his rookie season, boasting a staggering point streak that has Boston fans roaring. But while Graham’s lethal slapshot and commanding presence as a center are the talk of the locker room, the cameras at TD Garden can’t seem to stay away from the VIP box.

For the past two months, the city’s favorite pop star has been a permanent fixture at home games.

Sporting an oversized, vintage Bruins jersey with GRAHAM and the number 44 stitched across the back, the singer has been spotted aggressively cheering on her man from the glass. It’s a remarkable public resurgence for the 23-year-old artist, who famously stepped away from the spotlight two years ago following a highly publicized, brutal legal battle with her former label head.

But Graham isn’t the only man she’s sharing her time with. The internet has been set completely ablaze by the triad’s unapologetic dynamic. Often flanked in the VIP box by Dean Di Laurentis — Graham’s former Briar teammate and currently one of Harvard Law School’s most ruthless top-tier students — the trio has become Boston’s most fascinating, fiercely protective, and deeply private phenomenon.

Whether Graham is tapping the glass with his stick right in front of her seat after a goal, or Di Laurentis is caught on the Jumbotron kissing her cheek, one thing is absolutely clear: the pop princess has found her permanent security detail, and Boston is entirely here for it.

***

TIKTOK TRANSCRIPT | @PopCultureTea

Uploaded: February 15, 2029

(Video shows a shaky, zoomed-in smartphone recording taken on a snowy college campus. The text overlay reads: “Harvard Law just got 100% hotter ☕️💅”)

VOICEOVER (Female, excited): Okay, so I am literally shaking right now. I’m at Langdell Hall at Harvard Law, right? I’m just trying to survive my torts reading, and guess who walks in?

(The video zooms in on a girl wearing a long camel coat, a thick scarf, and dark sunglasses, carrying a tray of three iced coffees. She walks confidently through the heavy wooden doors of the law library.)

VOICEOVER: Yes! It is exactly who you think it is. She is literally hand-delivering iced coffees to Dean Di Laurentis during finals week.

(The camera pans slightly, showing Dean sitting at a massive oak table covered in open textbooks. He is wearing a gray Harvard sweater, glasses perched on his nose, looking deeply stressed. The singer walks up to him, sets the coffees down, and gently pushes his laptop screen down. Dean looks up, his entire face immediately breaking into a massive, gorgeous smile. He pulls her down onto his lap right in the middle of the quiet library.)

VOICEOVER: Look at them! He just pulled her right onto his lap! And for those of you in the comments always asking “who is she actually dating, the hockey player or the law student?” — the answer is both, babes. They don’t hide it. I saw Garrett Graham pick them both up in a Range Rover ten minutes later. We love a thriving, polyamorous, educated, athletic, multi-million dollar throuple.

(The video ends with Dean pressing a long kiss to the singer’s lips before taking a sip of the coffee.)

***

ROLLING STONE | EXCLUSIVE COVER STORY

May Issue, 2029 | By Alexa Simmons

THE LIBERATION: HOW POP’S BRIGHTEST STAR BROKE HER CAGE AND FOUND HER SANCTUARY

She meets me in a quiet, sunlit coffee shop in Cambridge, Massachusetts. There is no publicist hovering over her shoulder. There is no bodyguard standing at the door. She is wearing a faded vintage band t-shirt, her hair pulled up into a messy claw clip, and she orders her own oat milk latte.

It is a stark, jarring contrast to the girl the world knew three years ago — the heavily styled, tightly controlled platinum-selling artist who was never allowed to speak for herself.

Today, she is completely, undeniably free.

Her highly anticipated new album, Sanctuary, drops at midnight tonight. It is her first release since the harrowing federal court case that sent her former manager, Shawn Nichols, to federal prison for extortion, fraud, and coercive control.

“This album is the first time I’ve ever actually introduced myself,” she tells me, wrapping her hands around her warm mug. “Everything before this was a character. It was a doll that was dressed up, handed a script, and pushed onto a stage. Sanctuary is just me.”

The album, which she wrote and produced entirely on her own in a small studio she built in her Boston penthouse, is a raw, acoustic-driven departure from her bubblegum-pop past. It is devastatingly honest. It deals with trauma, survival, and the profound, life-altering power of unconditional love.

When I ask about her old discography — specifically the six multi-platinum albums whose master recordings are currently tied up in the bankruptcy liquidation of Supernova Records — she doesn’t flinch.

“The fans have been campaigning online for you to buy back your masters, or re-record them,” I point out. “Is that the plan?”

She shakes her head, offering a small, peaceful smile.

“No,” she says simply. “I’m not going to buy them, and I’m not going to re-record them.”

“Why not?”

She looks out the window for a moment, watching the busy Cambridge street. “Because those songs belong to a ghost. They were recorded under duress, by a teenager who was terrified of her own shadow. People keep asking me if I want to reclaim my masters so I can own my past. But the truth is … they were never truly mine anyway. Shawn Nichols built a cage, and he painted those songs on the walls to make it look pretty. I don’t want to buy the cage. I broke out of it. I’m leaving it exactly where it belongs: in the dust.”

It is a staggering statement of autonomy.

Before we finish the interview, her phone buzzes on the table. The screen lights up with a picture of two men — Bruins star center Garrett Graham and soon-to-be lawyer Dean Di Laurentis, both wearing matching smirks.

She glances at the phone, and a soft, incredibly tender blush touches her cheeks.

“I have to ask,” I say, gesturing to the phone. “The world is entirely obsessed with the three of you. They are notoriously protective of you. How did that happen?”

“They saved my life,” she says, her voice dropping into a register of pure, unwavering devotion. “When the entire world thought I was crazy, when the media was tearing me apart … they just stood in front of me and refused to move. I wrote the title track of the album about them. They are my sanctuary. It’s really that simple.”

***

THE NEW YORK TIMES | ARTS & CULTURE

June 18, 2029

A TRIUMPHANT RETURN: BEACON THEATRE WITNESSES A REBIRTH

There are no pyrotechnics. There are no backup dancers in leather harnesses. There are no blinding lasers or heavy synthesized bass drops.

When she steps onto the legendary stage of Beacon Theatre for her first public concert in over three years, there is only a single spotlight, a vintage wooden stool, and an acoustic guitar.

The silence in the iconic, 2,800-seat venue was deafening as she walked to the microphone. Wearing a flowing, ethereal white gown, she looked less like the manufactured pop princess of the 2020s and more like a timeless, generational storyteller.

The two-hour, limited-engagement concert was a masterclass in vocal control and emotional vulnerability. Performing the entirety of her critically acclaimed new album, Sanctuary, she left the audience completely spellbound, and in many cases, openly weeping.

The emotional climax of the evening occurred during the encore. Before playing the final song, she stepped away from the microphone, looking up into the private VIP balcony on stage right. The spotlight didn’t follow her gaze, but everyone in the room knew who was sitting there.

“I spent a long time believing that my voice was a commodity,” she told the hushed crowd, her voice echoing perfectly in the legendary acoustics of the hall. “I believed that I was only worth what I could sell. But two people taught me that my voice is a weapon. And a shield. And a gift. This is for them.”

She played the final chord as a standing ovation shook the walls of Beacon Theatre. She has returned to the world, not as a product, but as a powerhouse.

***

The roar of the crowd is still ringing in your ears as the heavy stage door clicks shut, sealing you inside the hushed, carpeted hallway of Beacon Theatre’s backstage suites.

You lean back against the cool wood of the door, closing your eyes, your chest heaving against the silk of your white gown.

You did it. Two hours. Just you and a guitar, in the most iconic venue in the world, and you didn’t panic once.

“There she is.”

You open your eyes.

Garrett and Dean are leaning against the wall at the end of the corridor, waiting for you. They are both wearing impeccably tailored black tuxedos, the bow ties already undone and hanging loosely around their necks.

Garrett pushes off the wall first. He stalks down the hallway, his massive strides eating up the distance between you. He doesn’t say a word. He simply reaches out, his large hands gripping your waist, and lifts you entirely off your feet, crushing his mouth against yours.

The kiss is devastatingly thorough. It tastes like expensive champagne, pure adrenaline, and overwhelming, fierce pride. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, holding on tight as your feet dangle above the carpet.

“Incredible,” Garrett breathes out, tearing his mouth away just enough to rest his forehead against yours. His gray eyes are dark, intense, and completely entirely wrecked with emotion. “You were absolute magic up there, Y/N.”

“I second that,” Dean says, stepping up behind Garrett.

Garrett slowly lowers you back to the floor, keeping one heavy, grounding arm wrapped tightly around your waist. You turn to look at Dean.

Dean’s bright eyes are shining, a soft, incredibly tender smile playing on his lips. He reaches out, his fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “I watched a lot of fancy people in expensive suits crying in the audience tonight. You broke their hearts and put them back together in two hours. You’re a literal superstar.”

“I was so nervous,” you admit, leaning into Dean’s touch, your hands coming up to rest flat against the crisp white cotton of his shirt. “Right before the curtain went up, my hands were shaking.”

“But you didn’t freeze,” Garrett says, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “You walked out there and you owned the entire building.”

Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a soft, deeply affectionate kiss. “We’re taking you home to celebrate. The car is out back.”

The ride back to the penthouse suite they rented at The Plaza is a blur of flashing paparazzi bulbs, heavy velvet privacy curtains in the back of the town car, and the constant, grounding touch of their hands on yours. They don’t let go of you once.

By the time the heavy mahogany doors of the penthouse click shut behind you, the exhaustion of the night is finally beginning to seep into your bones.

You kick off your heels, leaving them abandoned on the plush rug in the foyer. The suite is massive, featuring floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the glittering skyline of Central Park.

“Champagne?” Dean asks, shrugging off his tuxedo jacket and tossing it onto a velvet armchair. He walks over to the wet bar, grabbing a chilled bottle of Dom Pérignon.

“Water, please,” you sigh, reaching behind your back to fumble with the invisible zipper of your gown.

“I got it,” Garrett murmurs.

He steps up directly behind you. His large, warm hands brush against your shoulder blades as he grips the tiny zipper, pulling it slowly down your spine. The cool air hits your skin, making you shiver slightly, but Garrett’s chest presses warmly against your back, instantly combating the chill.

He presses a soft, open-mouthed kiss right between your shoulder blades.

You close your eyes, leaning your head back against his shoulder. “Thank you for coming. I know you had to skip a team practice for this, Garrett.”

“I would have skipped the Stanley Cup finals for this,” Garrett says against your skin, his hands slipping around to your stomach, holding you securely. “There is nowhere else in the world I would rather be.”

Dean walks over, holding a crystal tumbler of ice water. He hands it to you, then simply stands in front of you, his eyes slowly taking in the sight of you standing between them.

The white silk of your gown is pooled around your waist, held up only by Garrett’s arms.

“Did you mean what you said in that interview?” Dean asks quietly, his voice losing its usual playful banter. “About the masters. You really aren’t going to fight for them?”

You take a sip of the water, the cool liquid soothing your raw throat, before handing the glass back to Dean. He sets it on the side table without looking away from your face.

“I meant it,” you say, your voice completely steady. You look from Dean’s beautiful, sharp features back to Garrett’s intense gray eyes. “I spent my entire teenage life fighting for scraps of my own autonomy. Shawn made me believe that my worth was tied to those songs. That if I lost them, I lost myself.”

You reach out, taking Dean’s hand. You trace the faint, silvery scars across his knuckles — the permanent reminder of the day he shattered his own hands to protect your life.

“But I didn’t lose myself,” you whisper, bringing his knuckles to your lips and pressing a soft kiss against the scars. “I found myself. I found you two. Why would I want to go back and buy a cage when I have the entire sky right here?”

Dean exhales a shaky, ragged breath. He takes a step forward, completely closing the distance between you, and wraps his arms around you, sandwiching you entirely between his chest and Garrett’s.

“I love you so damn much it actively hurts,” Dean groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his lips pressing a hot, damp kiss against your pulse point.

“We’re never letting you go,” Garrett adds, his deep voice vibrating right into your spine. He shifts his grip, his large hands sliding up to cup your breasts through the thin silk of the gown, pulling a sharp, sudden gasp from your lips. “You know that, right? You’re stuck with us.”

“I’m counting on it,” you whimper, your head falling back onto Garrett’s shoulder as Dean’s hands slide down to grip your hips.

The emotional weight of the night — the triumph of the concert, the finality of letting go of your past, the profound safety of their arms — suddenly shifts, morphing into a heavy, burning heat that pools low in your stomach.

Dean pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes entirely black with lust. “You were a goddess on that stage tonight. Do you have any idea what it does to us, sitting in the dark, watching five hundred people stare at you, knowing that you belong to us?”

“Tell me,” you challenge softly, a wicked, confident smirk pulling at the corners of your lips.

Garrett lets out a low, predatory growl. He spins you around in his arms, sweeping you completely off your feet. You shriek, a breathless sound of surprise and laughter, as he carries you toward the massive, king-sized bed in the center of the suite.

He tosses you onto the mattress. You bounce slightly against the plush duvet, your silk dress riding dangerously high up your thighs.

Dean is right behind him. He kicks off his dress shoes and crawls onto the bed, hovering over you like a dark, magnificent shadow. Garrett follows, his knee sinking into the mattress on your other side.

You look up at them.

Three years ago, you were a ghost. You were a product, a prisoner, a girl who flinched at sudden movements and thought she had to earn the right to simply exist.

Now, you are lying on a bed in the penthouse of The Plaza, completely untouchable, utterly adored, and entirely in control.

“Take the dress off,” Garrett commands softly, his hands resting on your knees, gently pushing your legs apart to settle himself between them.

You smile, reaching for the fabric at your waist. “Help me.”

Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a devastatingly deep kiss while his hands make quick work of the silk, pulling it down your legs and tossing it onto the floor.

He breaks the kiss, his breathing ragged, his eyes sweeping over your bare skin with absolute worship.

“Perfect,” Dean whispers, his hands tracing the curve of your hips. “You are so incredibly perfect.”

“Mine,” Garrett growls, leaning down to press an open-mouthed kiss to the center of your stomach, his tongue swirling against your skin, sending a violent shiver crashing through your entire body.

“Ours,” Dean corrects, smirking as he unbuckles his belt.

“Ours,” Garrett agrees, his massive hands sliding up your ribs to pin your wrists loosely above your head.

You arch your back, completely surrendering to their heat, their strength, and their unyielding devotion.

The city of New York is alive and glittering outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, but inside this room, you are exactly where you belong. You are completely safe. You are thoroughly loved.

And for the rest of your life, you are finally truly free.

Trending Blogs

Last Seen Blogs

Natalia