Natalia

It starts the first week of training camp.

Normally, Dean is the last one out of the locker room. He likes to hang around, trash-talk Garrett, throw balled-up athletic tape at Tucker, and complain to Logan about the conditioning drills. But on Monday afternoon, Dean is out of his gear, showered, dressed, and heading for the door before Coach Jensen has even left the building.

“Whoa, where’s the fire, Di Laurentis?” Garrett calls out, pausing with his jersey half-pulled over his head.

Dean doesn’t look up from his phone. His thumbs are flying across the screen at lightning speed. “Gotta go. Have a thing.”

“A thing?” Logan echoes, arching a dark eyebrow. He’s sitting on the bench, unlacing his skates. “It’s 4 PM on a Monday. What ‘thing’ could you possibly have?”

“Stuff. Important stuff,” Dean says vaguely, shouldering his duffel bag.

He pushes through the heavy locker room doors, completely missing the baffled looks his teammates exchange.

If they had been close enough to see his screen, they would have seen the ‘important stuff’.

Dean: Practice is over. I am sweaty and exhausted. Pity me.

You: I just spent three hours mediating a contract dispute between two men who make a combined eighteen million dollars a year and were arguing over a company jet. My pity reserves are currently empty.

Dean: I’ll rub your shoulders.

You: You are in Massachusetts.

Dean: I have very long arms.

Dean barks out a laugh at his own joke in the middle of the empty athletic corridor. He stares at the screen, a massive, uncontainable smile stretching across his face. He doesn’t even realize he’s smiling until he catches his reflection in the glass trophy case by the exit.

He stops. He looks at himself. He looks like a massive, lovesick idiot.

He immediately tries to arrange his features into a cool, detached scowl, but his phone buzzes again.

You: Fourteen days until Boston, Di Laurentis.

The scowl vanishes. Dean is grinning so hard his cheeks actually hurt.

He misses you. It is a physical, gnawing ache in his chest that he has never experienced in his life. He misses the smell of your vanilla perfume. He misses the sharp, devastating way you verbally dismantle him. He misses the way you felt underneath him in your apartment, the memory alone enough to make his blood rush south.

He pushes out the front doors of the arena, his thumb hovering over the call button on your contact. He restrains himself. You’re working. He’s supposed to be playing it cool.

But as he walks across the quad, completely ignoring the flirtatious waves from a group of sophomore girls lounging on the grass, Dean realizes that playing it cool is completely out the window.

***

By Friday night, the entire hockey team is aware that Dean has lost his mind.

The first house party of the year is raging. The bass is vibrating the floorboards, the kegs are flowing in the kitchen, and the living room is packed wall-to-wall with students letting off steam.

This is Dean’s natural habitat. This is his kingdom.

Yet, Garrett, Logan, Tucker, and Beau are currently huddled in a circle by the beer pong table, watching him like he’s a science experiment gone wrong.

Dean is standing in the corner of the kitchen. He is holding a red Solo cup. He hasn’t taken a sip in twenty minutes. He is just leaning against the counter, staring at his glowing phone screen, occasionally typing with a small, private smile.

“Okay, I’m calling it,” Beau says, crossing his muscular arms over his chest. “He’s been abducted by aliens. They put a skin-suit on a Martian and sent him to Briar. That’s not Dean.”

“He hasn’t hit on anyone,” Tucker says, his Southern drawl thick with genuine concern. “Not one single girl. Savannah Wagner walked right past him wearing a skirt that was basically a belt, and he didn’t even blink.”

“Maybe he’s sick,” Garrett suggests, frowning. “Like mono? Do you lose your sex drive when you get mono?”

Logan takes a sip of his beer, his eyes narrowed as he studies Dean. “He doesn’t look sick. He looks ... happy. It’s weirding me out. He’s smiling at his phone. Who smiles at their phone?”

“Girls,” Beau supplies immediately. “Girls smile at their phones. When they’re looking at pictures of puppies, or ... or getting texts from guys.”

The four of them fall silent, letting the implication hang in the air.

“No,” Garrett says firmly, shaking his head. “No way. Dean Di Laurentis is not texting a girl. Plural, yes. Singular? Never.”

“Well, let’s test the theory,” Logan says, jutting his chin toward the kitchen archway.

A girl is making her way through the crowd toward Dean. She’s a known quantity — a junior puck bunny named Courtney who has made her intentions toward Dean clear since freshman year. She is wearing a crop top that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination and tight leather pants.

The guys watch with bated breath as Courtney slides up next to Dean.

They can’t hear the conversation over the thumping bass of the music, but they can see it perfectly.

Courtney touches Dean’s bicep. Dean finally looks up from his phone. He offers a polite, tight smile — the kind of smile he usually reserves for professors or his grandmother.

Courtney steps closer. She places her hand on the counter right next to his hip and leans forward. It is a calculated, deeply dramatic lean. She arches her back, sticking her chest out and dropping her shoulders, effectively offering up her cleavage like a platter of hors d’oeuvres.

Dean looks down. He looks back up at her face. He leans back slightly, his brow furrowing in genuine concern.

He points a finger at her spine. Courtney nods enthusiastically, tossing her hair. Dean says something else. Courtney’s face falls. Her mouth drops open in offense. She snatches her hand back off the counter, glares at him, and storms away, pushing through the crowd with furious embarrassment.

Dean shrugs, immediately looking back down at his phone.

“Holy shit,” Beau whispers. “He rejected her.”

“I need to know what he said,” Logan says, already pushing his way through the crowd. The other three follow him like ducklings.

They ambush Dean in the corner.

“Hey,” Garrett says, slapping his hand on the counter next to Dean. “What the hell was that?”

Dean locks his phone and slides it into his pocket, looking at his friends with mild annoyance. “What was what?”

“Courtney,” Beau demands. “She literally served herself to you on a silver platter and you sent her packing. What did you say to her?”

Dean sighs, running a hand through his hair. “I didn’t say anything mean. She was leaning at this really weird, aggressive angle. I just asked her if she had scoliosis. Because my aunt has scoliosis, and it looked painful. I told her she should get her posture checked.”

Dead silence falls over the corner of the kitchen.

Garrett just stares at him. Beau’s jaw actually hits the floor. Tucker blinks rapidly, like he’s trying to process a foreign language.

“You ...” Logan starts, his voice straining. “You asked Courtney if she has a spinal deformity?”

“She looked like she was in pain!” Dean defends, sounding entirely rational. “Her back was completely curved!”

“Dean, you idiot, she was showing her tits to you!” Beau yells over the music.

Dean just shrugs, taking a sip of his warm beer. “Oh. Right. Well. I’m not interested.”

“You’re not interested,” Garrett repeats slowly. He looks at Logan. “He’s broken. The machinery is broken.”

“I’m fine,” Dean says, pushing off the counter. “Actually, I’m gonna head out. I’m tired. Got early practice.”

“You never leave a party before 2 AM,” Tucker points out. “It’s 11:30.”

“I’m prioritizing my sleep schedule,” Dean says, clapping Tucker on the shoulder. “See you guys at the house.”

He walks away, effortlessly dodging the reaching hands of partygoers, entirely focused on the front door.

The four guys watch him leave.

“Okay,” Beau says solemnly. “Emergency meeting. Tomorrow morning. My house. Bring coffee.”

***

The next morning, the sun is streaming through the windows of Beau’s off-campus rental. The remnants of Friday night are scattered around the living room, but the atmosphere on the sagging sectional sofa is incredibly serious.

Garrett, Logan, Tucker, and Beau are sitting in a semi-circle.

In the center, sitting in a mismatched armchair, is Dean. He is wearing gray sweatpants and a backwards Briar cap, clutching a mug of coffee and looking at his friends like they’ve all lost their minds.

“So,” Beau starts, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “We need to talk.”

“I have homework,” Dean lies smoothly.

“You’ve literally never done homework on a Saturday morning in your entire life,” Logan shoots back. “Sit down.”

“I am sitting.”

“Sit harder,” Garrett commands. “Look, man, we’re worried about you.”

Dean takes a sip of his coffee. “Why?”

“Because you’re acting like a pod-person,” Tucker says gently. “You don’t talk to girls. You leave parties early. You’re always on your phone. You smile at walls. We just ... we need to know what’s going on.”

“Nothing is going on,” Dean says, keeping his face entirely neutral. “I told you. I’m focusing on hockey this year. It’s senior year, guys. I’m trying to go pro. I don’t have time for distractions.”

Beau scoffs loudly. “Bullshit. You play better when you’re distracted. You once scored a hat trick after hooking up with twin cheerleaders in the locker room closet.”

Dean feels a sharp spike of panic. He loves these guys. They are his brothers. But if he tells them about you — if he tells them about the twenty-eight-year-old junior partner at his father’s law firm who he is hopelessly, entirely obsessed with — they will never, ever let it go. They will mock him. They will ask a million questions. And frankly, he wants to keep you a secret for just a little bit longer. You feel like something precious, something entirely his, and he isn’t ready to share it with the locker room.

“There’s no bullshit,” Dean insists, tightening his grip on his mug. “I’m just growing up. Maturing.”

Logan snorts. “You? Maturing?”

“Yes,” Dean snaps.

“Dean,” Beau says, his voice taking on a hushed, dramatic tone. He scoots to the edge of his seat. “Look at me. Look into my eyes.”

Dean rolls his eyes but obliges. “What, Beau?”

“Is your dick broken?”

Dean chokes on his coffee. He coughs violently, pounding a fist against his chest as hot liquid burns his throat. “What?! No!”

“It’s okay if it is!” Tucker jumps in quickly, raising his hands in peace. “It happens to guys! Performance anxiety. Stress. The pressure of senior year. There are pills for that now. My uncle took them.”

“I do not have erectile dysfunction!” Dean yells, his face turning a dark shade of red. “My dick works perfectly fine! It is in peak physical condition!”

“Then why did you turn down Courtney?” Garrett demands. “Why are you acting like a monk? If the hardware works, it must be a software issue.”

“Are you in a cult?” Beau asks, his eyes wide. “Did you meet someone in New York? A guru? Did they make you swear a vow of celibacy to reach a higher plane of consciousness?”

“I am not in a sexless cult!” Dean rubs his temples, the headache starting to form behind his eyes. “You guys are insane. I’m just not looking to hook up with random girls right now. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because you’re Dean Di Laurentis,” Logan says simply. “It’s literally your brand.”

“Well, the brand is under new management,” Dean grumbles, standing up from the armchair. “I’m going home. If anyone asks if my dick is broken again, I’m throwing hands.”

He leaves his coffee on the table and stalks out of the living room, ignoring the chorus of protests from his friends as he makes his way down the block.

He jogs up the stairs of the shared hockey house, slipping into his bedroom and locking the door behind him with a heavy click. He lets out a massive sigh, leaning his back against the wood.

Idiots. They are all complete idiots.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket and immediately pulls up your contact, hitting the FaceTime button.

It rings twice before the screen shifts, and there you are.

You are sitting at your kitchen island in New York. You are wearing a pair of thick-rimmed reading glasses that he has never seen before, your hair pulled up into a messy bun secured with a pencil. You’re wearing an oversized Harvard Law sweatshirt.

Dean’s breath physically catches in his throat. He sinks onto the edge of his bed, the frustration of the last twenty minutes instantly evaporating.

“Well, don’t you look cheerful,” you say, looking up from the stack of briefs in front of you. “Did someone steal your hockey stick?”

“Worse,” Dean groans, falling backward onto his mattress and holding the phone above his face. “My friends think I have erectile dysfunction.”

You freeze. The pencil slips slightly in your hair. And then, you burst out laughing.

It is a full, deep, belly laugh that makes your shoulders shake.

Dean watches you, utterly entranced. He loves your laugh. You are usually so composed, so put-together, that getting a real, genuine laugh out of you feels like winning a gold medal.

“I’m glad my suffering brings you joy,” he deadpans, though a smile is already pulling at his lips.

“I’m sorry,” you gasp, pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose. “Why on earth do they think that?”

“Because I wouldn’t hook up with a puck bunny at a party last night,” Dean complains. “I told her she had bad posture, and the guys had an emergency intervention this morning. Tucker offered to get me his uncle’s Viagra. Beau thinks I’m in a celibacy cult.”

You bite your lip, clearly trying to suppress another wave of laughter. “Dean, you poor thing. Your reputation really precedes you, doesn’t it?”

“I’m a victim of my own success,” he sighs dramatically. Then, his voice softens, the playboy bravado melting away entirely. “I just didn’t want to tell them about you yet.”

You pause, the amusement fading into something much softer. You take off your glasses, setting them on the paperwork. “Why not?”

“Because,” Dean murmurs, tracing the edge of his phone case with his thumb. “They’re animals. They’ll ask a million questions. And right now ... I kind of like that you’re just mine. It’s quiet. It’s just us. The second I tell them I’m dating a twenty-eight-year-old high-powered attorney, Beau is going to try to friend you on LinkedIn and Garrett is going to ask if you can look at his draft contracts.”

A soft, fond smile touches your lips. “You know I’d charge Garrett an exorbitant hourly rate, right?”

“Obviously. He can afford it.” Dean rolls onto his side, propping the phone up on his pillow so he can look at you clearly. “What are you doing? Are you working on a Saturday?”

“Just prepping,” you say, gesturing to the papers. “Getting ahead so my schedule is clear when I go to Boston next week.”

At the reminder, the familiar, heavy heat pools low in Dean’s stomach. The thought of having you twenty-five minutes away for three whole weeks has been keeping him awake at night.

“Ten days,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, turning raspy and rough.

You look at him through the screen, and he can see the exact moment the shift happens. The professional, put-together lawyer vanishes, replaced by the woman who screamed his name into the pillows of her apartment bedroom. Your eyes darken, your lips parting slightly.

“Ten days,” you agree softly.

“I have it all planned out,” Dean murmurs, moving closer to the screen. “You have your conference during the day. But your nights? Your nights belong entirely to me.”

“Is that right?” You ask, one perfectly arched eyebrow rising.

“I’m driving down the second you check in. I’m taking you to a steakhouse. I’m buying the most expensive wine on the menu.” Dean’s voice is practically a purr now. “And then I’m taking you back to your fancy executive suite, I’m throwing that Harvard sweater on the floor, and I’m going to spend the next twelve hours reminding you exactly why my friends are so incredibly wrong about my physical capabilities.”

You swallow hard. He can see the faint flush of pink creeping up your neck, even through the pixelated screen.

“Are you taking notes, counselor?” Dean teases gently.

“You’re very confident for a college boy,” you manage to say, though your voice is distinctly breathy.

“I have the track record to back it up,” he promises. “I miss you, Y/N.”

“I miss you too, Dean.”

“Tell me what you’re packing,” he demands, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “Specifically the underwear. I need to know what I’m ripping off you next Friday.”

“Goodbye, Dean,” you laugh, reaching for the camera.

“Wait! Tell me! Wait-”

The call disconnects.

Dean drops his phone onto the mattress, letting out a loud, frustrated groan. But he’s smiling. He is grinning so hard his face aches.

He stares up at the ceiling of his messy bedroom, the sounds of his friends arguing over a video game drifting up through the floorboards.

Let them think he’s in a cult. Let them think he’s broken.

In ten days, none of it is going to matter.

***

The week crawls by at an agonizingly slow pace. Dean has never hated the passage of time more. He attends his classes, he skates hard at practice, and he actively avoids any social gatherings where his friends can corner him about his non-existent sex life.

By the time Friday afternoon finally arrives, Dean is practically vibrating with nervous energy.

He sprints out of the locker room after practice, ignoring Logan’s shouts behind him. He showers in record time, pulling on dark jeans and a fitted black sweater that makes his shoulders look impossibly broad. He grabs his keys, checks his reflection, and bolts for the door.

“Whoa, where are you going?” Beau asks, nearly colliding with Dean in the hallway. “We’re ordering pizza.”

“Can’t. Going out,” Dean says, brushing past him.

“Out where? With who?” Beau demands, trailing after him to the front door. “Dean! Are you going to a cult meeting?! Blink twice if you need me to call the police!”

“I’m going to Boston, Beau!” Dean shouts over his shoulder, already jogging down the driveway toward his SUV.

He climbs into the driver’s seat, starts the engine, and peels out of the driveway, leaving a very confused quarterback standing on the porch.

The drive to Boston takes exactly twenty-two minutes, mostly because Dean speeds the entire way.

He pulls up to the luxury hotel in the Back Bay just as the sun is beginning to set, casting the city in a warm, golden glow. He tosses his keys to the valet, straightens his sweater, and walks into the opulent, marble-floored lobby.

He pulls out his phone.

Dean: I’m in the lobby.

The response is instantaneous.

You: Suite 1512. Door is unlocked.

Dean’s heart performs a massive, heavy thud against his ribs. He strides toward the elevators, bypassing the front desk entirely. The ride to the fifteenth floor feels like it takes a century.

When the doors slide open, he walks quickly down the carpeted hallway until he reaches 1512.

He doesn’t knock. He just pushes the heavy mahogany door open.

The suite is massive, all floor-to-ceiling windows and modern furniture. But Dean doesn’t notice any of the decor.

You are standing in the center of the room.

You have just arrived from your train. Your suitcase is sitting half-unpacked on the bed in the adjoining room. You are wearing a sharp, tailored black pencil skirt and a white silk blouse, your hair falling perfectly around your shoulders.

You look up as the door closes behind him.

For a split second, neither of you moves. The tension in the room is so thick it could be cut with a knife. Six weeks of text messages, late-night phone calls, and agonizing distance suddenly collides with the reality of being in the same room.

Dean’s breathing turns shallow. You are so beautiful it actually hurts to look at you.

“Hi,” you say softly.

“Hi,” Dean rasps.

He doesn’t walk toward you. He stalks toward you.

You barely have time to suck in a breath before his hands are on you. He grips your waist, pulling you hard against his chest as his mouth crashes down onto yours.

The impact is explosive.

You wrap your arms around his neck, sinking into the kiss instantly. Your lips part, and his tongue sweeps in, hot and demanding and desperate. He tastes like peppermint and pure adrenaline.

“God, you feel good,” Dean groans against your mouth, his hands sliding down to grip your hips, lifting you slightly off the floor.

“Dean,” you gasp, your fingers tangling in his blond hair.

“I told you,” he mutters, kissing a brutal, hot path down your jaw to the sensitive skin of your neck. “Twelve hours, Y/N. You are entirely mine.”

He walks you backward, his mouth never leaving yours, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the massive king-sized bed.

He pushes you down onto the mattress, following you instantly, his heavy, solid weight settling perfectly over yours.

As his hands go to the buttons of your silk blouse, Dean Di Laurentis knows one thing with absolute, terrifying certainty.

His friends can think whatever they want.

He is exactly where he belongs.

***

It takes exactly four days for Dean’s friends to reach their breaking point.

For the first half of the week, Dean has been a phantom. He shows up for morning practice, skates harder and faster than anyone else on the ice, and the second Coach Jensen blows the final whistle, Dean is gone. He doesn’t shower at the rink. He doesn’t linger in the locker room. He doesn’t go to the dining hall. He just grabs his duffel bag, sprints to his SUV, and peels out of the parking lot heading straight for the highway to Boston.

By Thursday afternoon, the group chat is in absolute shambles.

Garrett, Logan, Tucker, and Beau are currently sitting in a booth at a diner near campus, staring at Beau’s phone, which is sitting flat on the sticky table.

“I’m telling you, it’s a cult,” Beau says, aggressively stabbing his fork into a plate of fries. “He’s been brainwashed. I bet he’s in Boston right now wearing a weird robe and chanting.”

“He’s not in a cult, Beau,” Garrett sighs, running a hand over his face. “But something is definitely wrong. I tried to talk to him about our defensive strategy on the power play today, and he just stared at the wall smiling, and then he asked me if I knew what a deposition was.”

“What the hell is a deposition?” Logan asks, frowning.

“I don’t know!” Garrett throws his hands up. “But I used his Snap Map location. He’s at a place called Deauxave in the Back Bay. Do you know what kind of place has French in the name? Expensive places. Places where the portions are tiny and nobody wears sweatpants.”

Tucker takes a slow sip of his sweet tea. “So, what’s the plan? We just gonna let him get kidnapped by high-society aliens?”

“No,” Logan says, sliding out of the booth and throwing a twenty-dollar bill on the table. “We’re going to Boston. We are rescuing our boy.”

Forty-five minutes later, Garrett’s Jeep pulls up outside a sleek, aggressively modern bistro in one of the most expensive zip codes in Massachusetts. The four of them tumble out onto the sidewalk. They are wearing a chaotic mix of Briar University hoodies, distressed jeans, and backwards snapbacks. They stick out like sore thumbs against the backdrop of tailored suits and designer dresses filing into the restaurant.

“Keep your heads on a swivel,” Beau whispers as they push through the glass doors. “If anyone offers you a pamphlet, do not take it.”

The hostess takes one look at the four towering, broad-shouldered athletes and opens her mouth to ask for a reservation, but Garrett is already scanning the room.

“There,” Garrett points toward a plush leather booth tucked into a private alcove by the floor-to-ceiling windows.

They march across the restaurant, a formidable wall of muscle, fully prepared to stage an intervention, drag Dean back to his senses, and figure out what the hell has compromised their best friend’s brain.

But as they approach the booth, they all skid to a halt.

Dean is sitting on one side of the table. He isn’t wearing a robe. He’s wearing a crisp, dark green button-down shirt that makes his eyes pop. But it’s not what he’s wearing that stops them in their tracks. It’s what he’s doing.

He is staring across the table with an expression of unadulterated worship. His chin is resting in his hand, his lips are parted in a dopey, infatuated smile, and his eyes are completely glazed over with absolute devotion.

The guys slowly shift their gaze to the other side of the booth.

You are sitting across from him. You are wearing a sharp, tailored black blazer over a silk camisole. Your posture is immaculate. You have a sleek, silver Bluetooth earpiece in your ear, an open laptop taking up your half of the table, and you are currently in the middle of a phone call.

You haven’t noticed the four giants hovering awkwardly a few feet away. You are entirely focused on your screen, your perfectly manicured finger tapping a slow, lethal rhythm against the glass table.

“No, Richard, I am not going to ‘reconsider’ the settlement,” your voice rings out, cutting through the low murmur of the restaurant like a sharpened blade. It’s cool, terrifyingly calm, and drips with absolute authority.

Logan elbows Garrett, his eyes wide.

“Because,” you continue, a dangerous, mocking smile touching your lips, “your client is a moron who clearly didn’t read subsection 4B of his non-compete clause. If you think you can hide offshore assets in a shell corporation and expect me not to subpoena the financial records of his brother-in-law, you are drastically underestimating me.”

You pause, listening to the tiny, frantic voice buzzing in your ear.

Dean shifts in his seat. He lets out a soft, breathy groan, shifting his hips uncomfortably against the leather booth.

Beau’s eyes drop to Dean’s lap, and he immediately slaps a hand over his own mouth to muffle a horrified gasp.

“He’s pitched a tent,” Beau whispers frantically to Tucker. “He has a full-on boner in a fine dining restaurant.”

“Don’t look at it,” Tucker hisses back, looking wildly at the ceiling.

“Listen to me very carefully, Richard,” you say, your tone dropping an octave, turning dark and utterly lethal. “You will accept the original terms of the buyout, you will forfeit the patent rights, and you will sign the NDA by 5 PM today. If you do not, I will personally ensure your client spends the next decade tied up in litigation so expensive he’ll be taking the public bus to his bankruptcy hearings. Am I clear?”

Another pause. A small, satisfied smirk plays on your mouth.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” you say, and tap the earpiece to end the call.

You let out a long, exhausted sigh, pushing your laptop closed.

Dean stares at you, practically panting. He looks like a man who has just witnessed a religious miracle. “God, you are so incredibly hot when you destroy men’s lives.”

“It’s just corporate law, Dean,” you say, reaching for your glass of sparkling water. “It’s standard.”

“It’s not standard. It’s art. Do me next. Sue me for everything I’m worth.”

You laugh, a genuine, warm sound that completely shatters the ice queen persona from thirty seconds ago.

And then, you finally notice the four men standing paralyzed next to your table.

You raise an eyebrow, your sharp gaze taking in their Briar hoodies and completely stunned expressions. “Are you going to introduce me to your audience, Dean, or are they just going to stand there and gawk?”

Dean blinks, finally tearing his eyes away from you. He looks up at his friends, and for a second, a flash of annoyance crosses his face. But he sighs, sliding out of the booth to stand next to the table.

“Guys,” Dean says, gesturing to you. “This is Y/N. Y/N, these are the idiots I told you about. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, and Beau.”

You smile. It’s a polite, professional smile, but it still holds a hint of that razor-sharp confidence. “Ah. The college friends. It’s nice to finally meet you. Dean talks about you constantly.”

“Hi,” Garrett says, his voice cracking slightly. He clears his throat, puffing his chest out to try and regain his usual swagger. “So. You’re the reason our boy has been acting like he got lobotomized.”

“I prefer to think I’ve just given him a healthy dose of reality,” you reply smoothly, taking a sip of your water. You glance down at your glass, noting it’s mostly empty. Without missing a beat, you snap your fingers lightly in Dean’s direction.

“Dean. Still water. Go ask the waiter for a refill, please. And get me another one of those lemon tartlets from the bakery case.”

The four boys freeze. They wait for the explosion. They wait for Dean Di Laurentis — the guy who refuses to carry his own hockey bag from the bus to the locker room because he says it ‘messes with his shoulders’ — to laugh in your face and tell you to get it yourself.

Instead, Dean immediately straightens his posture.

“Still water, lemon tartlet. You want me to get them to put the raspberry glaze on top again?” He asks eagerly.

“Yes, please,” you say, already looking back at your phone.

“Be right back,” Dean says, practically wagging an invisible tail as he scurries off toward the service counter.

Beau watches him go, his jaw hanging completely unhinged. He turns back to look at you. “Are you a witch?”

You look up from your phone, an amused glint in your eyes. “Excuse me?”

“Because he’s ...” Beau gestures wildly toward the counter where Dean is currently charming a waitress to get your tartlet faster. “He’s Dean! He doesn’t fetch! He’s the king! You just told him to sit and stay and he basically barked!”

“Dean is perfectly capable of doing a favor,” you say calmly, crossing your legs under the table.

“Are you his dominatrix?” Logan asks, blunt and entirely serious.

You actually laugh out loud at that. “No, Logan. I am a junior partner at Heyward & Di Laurentis. I am a lawyer. And I am currently dating your teammate.”

“Wait,” Garrett narrows his eyes, his captain instincts kicking in. “Di Laurentis? As in ... his parents’ firm?”

“Exactly.”

“And you’re a junior partner?” Garrett does the mental math. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-eight,” you say. You meet Garrett’s gaze head-on, completely unbothered by his interrogation. You deal with aggressive men in suits every single day, a twenty-two-year-old hockey player in a hoodie is barely a warm-up. “And before you ask, yes, I am well aware of the age gap. Yes, I am aware of Dean’s reputation. And no, I am not playing games with him. Any other questions, Captain?”

Garrett actually takes a step back, intimidated. “Uh. No, ma’am.”

“Don’t call me ma’am,” you say, though your tone softens just a fraction. “Y/N is fine.”

Dean jogs back to the table, carefully balancing a fresh glass of water and a small plate with a beautifully glazed lemon tartlet. He sets them down in front of you gently.

“Perfect. Thank you,” you say, offering him a soft, devastatingly sweet smile.

Dean melts. He literally melts into the leather booth beside you, sliding his arm along the back of the seat, radiating pride. “Did they behave while I was gone?”

“They were perfectly lovely,” you say, taking a bite of the tartlet. “We were just establishing the ground rules.”

“She terrified us,” Tucker whispers to Dean.

“I know,” Dean whispers back, grinning like an absolute lunatic. “Isn’t it amazing?”

***

The first meeting is just the beginning.

For the next three weeks, the hockey team is treated to a front-row seat to the most baffling, fascinating spectacle in the history of the campus.

They watch as Dean Di Laurentis, the untouchable playboy, is effectively and enthusiastically walked like a dog by a woman who doesn’t even come up to his chin.

It starts bleeding into practice.

On a Wednesday afternoon, the team is doing bag skates on the ice. They are exhausted, sweating through their gear, muscles screaming.

Suddenly, the heavy doors to the arena swing open.

You walk in. You are wearing a camel-colored trench coat, a pair of dark sunglasses, and carrying a massive, expensive-looking tote bag. You click your way up the concrete bleachers, take a seat in the second row, and pull out a tablet, completely ignoring the practice.

Down on the ice, Dean stops dead in his tracks.

“Di Laurentis! What are you doing?” Coach Jensen bellows from the center ice.

Dean doesn’t even hear him. He skates directly to the glass right in front of where you are sitting. He taps his stick against the plexiglass to get your attention.

You don’t look up. You simply raise one hand, point your index finger toward the center of the ice, and make a sharp ‘go back’ motion.

Dean nods immediately, turning his skates and sprinting back to the drill with twice as much energy as before.

Garrett skates up beside Logan, watching the interaction. “Did she just remote-control him?”

“She didn’t even look at him,” Logan says, awestruck. “She just pointed. And he did it. Like a goddamn golden retriever.”

After practice, the boys linger outside the locker room, purposely waiting to see the dynamic play out again.

Dean walks out, his hair wet from the shower. He spots you waiting by the vending machines. He bounds over to you, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek.

You return the kiss briefly, then hand him your massive designer tote bag. It looks comically small against his massive, muscular frame.

“It’s heavy,” you say simply. “Carry it to the car. And my feet hurt. Go pull the SUV up to the curb.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean says happily, slinging the designer bag over his shoulder. He literally jogs to the parking lot.

Beau, leaning against the cinderblock wall, wipes a fake tear from his eye. “It’s beautiful. He’s so submissive.”

“It’s unnatural,” Garrett mutters, though there is a growing respect in his eyes.

The climax of the three weeks happens on a Saturday night.

Briar has just won a brutal, hard-fought game against a rival school. The team decides to celebrate at their usual post-game haunt — a loud, sticky-floored sports bar near campus.

Dean doesn’t want to go. He wants to go back to your hotel suite. But you insist.

“You need to spend time with your friends, Dean,” you had told him, straightening the collar of his shirt. “You can’t alienate your team just because I’m in town.”

So, you arrive at the sports bar together.

The second you walk in, heads turn. You are entirely out of place in the dive bar, wearing dark jeans, a silk blouse, and sharp ankle boots. But you project such an aura of untouchable confidence that the sea of drunken college students naturally parts for you.

Dean walks a half-step behind you, his hand resting possessively on the small of your back, glaring daggers at any guy who looks at you for longer than a second.

You reach the large corner booth where the team is already three pitchers deep.

“Make room,” you say, tapping Beau lightly on the shoulder.

Beau immediately scrambles to slide over, giving you the best seat in the booth. Dean slides in next to you, practically pulling you onto his lap.

The dynamic is intoxicating to watch. You don’t try to act like a college student. You don’t dumb yourself down or pretend to care about the intricacies of their frat house drama. You ask sharp, incisive questions. You mock Garrett’s arrogance with a dry wit that leaves him stuttering. You genuinely listen to Tucker talk about his childhood back in Texas.

You command the table without ever raising your voice.

About an hour into the night, Dean excuses himself to go to the bathroom.

The second he’s out of earshot, a guy from a rival fraternity — a notorious jerk named Chad who has a long-standing beef with the hockey team — saunters over to the table.

He leans his hands on the table, completely ignoring the glaring hockey players, and zeroes in on you.

“Well, well,” Chad slurs, looking you up and down. “What’s a classy woman like you doing slumming it with these meatheads? You look like you need a real man to buy you a drink.”

Garrett immediately starts to stand up, his fists clenching.

You hold up a single hand. Garrett freezes, slowly sitting back down.

You turn your attention to Chad. You look at him the way someone might look at a particularly uninteresting piece of gum stuck to their shoe.

“I’m sorry,” you say, your voice perfectly polite and laced with venom. “Did you actually think that line was going to work, or are you just suffering from a severe case of unearned confidence?”

Chad falters, his smug grin slipping. “Excuse me?”

“You’re slurring your words, your pupils are dilated, and you reek of cheap cologne and desperation,” you list off clinically, leaning back in the booth and crossing your arms. “I am sitting with the starting line of a Division I hockey team. I have a law degree that costs more than your parents’ house. And I am currently waiting for my boyfriend, who has approximately sixty pounds of pure muscle on you. So, tell me, Chad. What possible value could you offer me in this transaction?”

The entire booth goes dead silent.

Chad’s face turns a violently mottled shade of red. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. He looks at you, looks at the four massive athletes grinning menacingly behind you, and promptly turns and speed-walks away.

Garrett lets out a low whistle. “Remind me to never cross you.”

Dean returns to the table a moment later, completely oblivious. He slides into the booth, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Did I miss anything?” Dean asks, grabbing his beer.

“Just your girlfriend neutering a guy with her vocabulary,” Logan says, raising his glass in a toast.

Dean looks at you, his eyes immediately darkening with that familiar, heart-eyed worship. “Really? You defended our honor?”

“He was annoying,” you say smoothly, reaching over to adjust the collar of Dean’s shirt. “Now, Dean, it’s loud in here and someone spilled beer on my boot. Go close out the tab.”

“On it,” Dean says instantly, sliding out of the booth and heading for the bar.

Beau watches him go. He looks at you, shaking his head in absolute awe. “You are terrifying. And he is obsessed with you. It’s the craziest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“He just responds well to clear direction,” you say with a small smirk.

“No,” Tucker says quietly, a genuine smile on his face. “He’s just finally found someone he respects enough to listen to. It’s good to see.”

You soften at that, looking over at the bar where Dean is arguing with the bartender to get the check faster. Your heart gives a sudden, hard pull.

You like him. You like him a terrifying amount.

***

It is your last night in Boston.

The three-week conference is over. Your bags are packed and sitting by the door of the hotel suite. Your train back to New York leaves at 8 AM.

The suite is quiet, the city lights of Boston twinkling through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

You are standing in the middle of the room, wearing one of Dean’s oversized gray Briar hoodies and nothing else. You are staring out at the skyline, a heavy feeling settling in your chest.

Three weeks. It felt like a lifetime, and it felt like a single second.

You hear the bathroom door open, the sound of Dean’s bare feet padding across the carpet.

He walks up behind you, wrapping his strong arms around your waist and pulling you back flush against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. He’s fresh out of the shower, smelling like clean soap and the faint spice of his cologne.

“Don’t go,” Dean murmurs, his voice vibrating against your skin.

“I have to,” you say softly, leaning your head back against his shoulder. “I have a firm to help run, Dean. Your dad is already complaining that I’ve been taking too many long lunches to check the Boston market.”

Dean sighs, a heavy, frustrated sound. His arms tighten around you. “I hate it. I hate that you’re leaving.”

You turn around in his arms. He is looking down at you, his hair damp, his eyes completely stripped of any playboy bravado. He just looks vulnerable.

“Your friends think I’m awful to you,” you tease gently, reaching up to run your fingers through his damp hair. “Beau thinks I’m a dominatrix.”

Dean lets out a short laugh, leaning into your touch. “They don’t think you’re awful. They’re terrified of you. Which I love, by the way. Having my girlfriend scare my captain is the biggest turn-on of my life.”

“I am not your girlfriend,” you remind him out of habit.

Dean’s expression turns deadly serious. He steps closer, trapping you against the window, his large hands sliding down to cup your face.

“Yes, you are,” Dean says. The words are firm, unyielding. “You’ve been walking me like a dog for three weeks in front of the entire campus, Y/N. I hold your purse. I fetch your coffee. I skipped a frat party to watch a documentary on Enron with you. Do you honestly think I would do that for anyone else?”

You look into his dark, intense eyes. You see the absolute sincerity there.

“You like being bossed around,” you accuse softly, your thumb tracing his jawline.

“I like being yours,” Dean corrects, his voice dropping to a rough, raspy whisper. “I like that you know exactly what you want, and you aren’t afraid to tell me to give it to you. Out there, on the ice, I have to be in control. I have to be the guy making the plays. But with you? I don’t want to make the calls. I just want to make you happy.”

Your breath hitches. It is the most honest, raw thing anyone has ever said to you.

“Dean ...”

“I love it when you take charge,” he murmurs, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. “I love it when you tell me what to do. But don’t ever think I’m doing it because I’m a pushover. I’m doing it because you earned it. And because I am completely, insanely in love with you.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and solid.

He loves you.

The twenty-two-year-old playboy hockey star who you bumped into in a hallway two months ago just dropped the L-word in the middle of a Boston hotel room, and the terrifying part is you aren’t running away.

You feel a hot sting of tears prick the corners of your eyes.

“You are an idiot,” you whisper, though your voice is shaking.

Dean’s signature cocky grin breaks through the seriousness. “Yeah. But I’m your idiot.”

“Yes,” you breathe, grabbing the front of his shirt and pulling him down to you. “You are.”

You kiss him. It isn’t frantic or rushed like the first time in Brooklyn. It is deep, slow, and devastatingly intimate. Dean answers it immediately, his hands wrapping around your waist to lift you completely off the ground.

You wrap your legs around his waist, burying your hands in his hair as he carries you toward the massive king-sized bed.

He drops you onto the mattress, following you down, his weight pressing you into the pillows.

“Tell me what you want,” Dean whispers against your mouth, his hand sliding up your thigh, under the hem of his oversized hoodie.

You look up at him, the ice queen, the junior partner, the woman who terrifies grown men in boardrooms, completely surrendering to the man hovering above her.

“I want you,” you command softly. “Make me forget about the train.”

Dean’s eyes darken. The golden retriever vanishes, replaced by the lethal, aggressive athlete who knows exactly how to score.

“Yes, ma’am,” he growls.

And as he pulls the hoodie over your head, completely taking over for the first time all night, you realize that Dean is exactly where he wants to be.

And so are you.

***

December in New York City is a glittering, freezing spectacle, and the Heyward & Di Laurentis annual Christmas Gala is the crown jewel of the season.

Held in the grand ballroom of the Pierre Hotel, the room is a sea of opulent wealth. Crystal chandeliers drip light onto a crowd of senators, corporate CEOs, and the most ruthless legal minds on the Eastern Seaboard. The champagne is vintage, the string quartet is playing a muted holiday arrangement, and the air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume and calculated networking.

You are standing near a towering ice sculpture, a crystal flute of champagne resting between your fingers.

You look incredible. You chose a floor-length, deep crimson silk gown for the occasion. It features a plunging neckline, a completely open back, and a slit that rides dangerously high up your thigh. Your hair is swept over one shoulder in classic Hollywood waves, and your red lipstick is sharp enough to draw blood.

You project absolute, untouchable power. You are the youngest junior partner in the firm’s history, and tonight, you are holding court.

“The merger will go through by Q1,” you tell a silver-haired tech magnate, offering him a cool, confident smile. “My team has already drafted the compliance structures. You have nothing to worry about, Richard.”

“With you at the helm, Y/N, I never do,” Richard laughs, raising his glass in a toast.

You take a polite sip of your champagne, your eyes naturally drifting toward the massive double doors of the ballroom.

It has been three months since Boston. Three months of stolen weekends, late-night phone calls, and an agonizing, fiercely guarded secret. You and Dean haven’t explicitly hidden your relationship, but you haven’t broadcast it either. He is at Briar playing the best hockey of his college career; you are in Manhattan winning cases.

But tonight is the hard launch.

Tonight, Dean is coming to the gala. As your date.

A sudden shift in the energy of the room pulls you from your thoughts. The low murmur of conversation near the entrance dips, then spikes with renewed, gossipy interest.

You turn your head.

Dean Di Laurentis has just walked into the ballroom.

Your breath physically catches in your throat. You have seen him in sweatpants, in hockey gear, and completely naked in your bed, but seeing him in a custom-tailored black tuxedo is an entirely different religious experience.

The velvet lapels perfectly accentuate the absurd width of his shoulders. His crisp white shirt contrasts with his blond, messy hair and tanned skin. He looks like a young, lethal James Bond.

He pauses at the top of the carpeted steps, his eyes sweeping over the crowd with a practiced, effortless ease.

And then, he finds you.

Even from fifty feet away, you can feel the physical impact of his gaze. He stops dead. His jaw visibly tightens, and his eyes darken, raking over the crimson silk clinging to your curves. The cocky half-smile he was offering the hostess completely vanishes, replaced by a look of sheer, predatory hunger.

He doesn’t mingle. He doesn’t stop to greet the federal judges or the firm’s major clients.

He walks in a straight line directly to you.

The crowd naturally parts for him, whispers trailing in his wake. As he closes the distance, your heart starts a heavy, frantic rhythm against your ribs.

“Richard,” you say smoothly, not taking your eyes off Dean as he approaches. “If you’ll excuse me for a moment.”

“Of course,” Richard murmurs, stepping away just as Dean breaches your personal space.

Dean stops inches from you. He is so close you can feel the heat radiating off his body, smell the sharp, intoxicating scent of cedar and bergamot.

“Hi, counselor,” Dean says. His voice is a low, rough vibration that sends a shiver straight down your spine.

“You’re late, Di Laurentis,” you reply, keeping your voice cool, though a soft smile pulls at your red lips.

“My flight got delayed out of Logan,” he murmurs, his eyes dropping to the plunge of your neckline before slowly rising back to meet your gaze. “But looking at you right now, I would have run all the way from Massachusetts if I had to. Jesus, Y/N. You are going to give me a heart attack.”

“Keep your hands to yourself, college boy,” you warn softly, highly aware of the dozens of eyes currently burning holes into the two of you. “We are in public.”

“I don’t care,” Dean says. And he proves it.

He doesn’t grab you, but he reaches out, his large hand gently wrapping around your bare arm. He steps into your space, completely ignoring the social boundaries of a professional gala, and presses a lingering, deliberate kiss to your cheek, right at the corner of your mouth.

A collective, silent gasp seems to echo from the associates standing near the bar.

“Dean,” you whisper, your skin burning where his lips touch.

“I’ve missed you,” he breathes against your skin, pulling back just enough to look you in the eye. He isn’t smiling. He is completely, unapologetically sincere. “Fourteen days is too long. Don’t ever let me go two weeks without seeing you again.”

“You had back-to-back away games,” you remind him, though your voice softens. You reach up, lightly adjusting the lapel of his tuxedo jacket. It’s an incredibly intimate, domestic gesture. “I missed you too.”

“Ahem.”

The clearing of a throat behind you sounds like a gavel hitting a soundblock.

You and Dean both turn.

Standing exactly three feet away are Peter Di Laurentis and Lori Heyward.

Dean’s parents. The name partners of the firm.

Peter is wearing a sharp tuxedo, his silver-peppered hair perfectly coiffed, but his face is a mask of absolute, stunned bewilderment. He is staring at Dean’s hand, which is currently resting possessively on the bare curve of your lower back.

Beside him is Lori Heyward. She is a terrifyingly elegant woman in her late fifties, wearing an emerald gown and diamonds that probably cost more than the hotel itself. She is the shark who trained you. You respect her more than anyone else in the building.

Lori is not bewildered. Lori is looking at the two of you with a slow, deeply amused smirk.

“Peter, Lori,” you say, slipping effortlessly back into your professional persona, though you don’t step away from Dean. “Lovely evening.”

“Y/N,” Peter starts, his voice faltering slightly. He looks at Dean. “Dean. What ... what are you doing?”

“I’m attending the gala, Dad,” Dean says easily. His grip on your waist tightens slightly, a silent, grounding anchor. “With my date.”

Peter blinks. He looks at you. He looks back at Dean. “I told you to leave her alone.”

“You did,” Dean agrees, entirely unbothered. He flashes his father that signature, arrogant grin. “And for the first time in my life, I am so incredibly glad I ignored you. Best decision I ever made.”

Peter opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. He looks like a fish out of water.

Lori steps forward, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. She looks Dean up and down, then turns her piercing gaze to you.

“How long?” Lori asks. Her voice is crisp, demanding.

“Since August,” you answer honestly, meeting your boss’s eyes without flinching. “We kept it quiet to ensure there were no conflicts of interest regarding the firm’s hierarchy. But as I am a partner, and Dean is not an employee, HR confirmed there is no policy violation.”

Lori stares at you for a long, silent moment. The tension in the group is palpable. You know how protective she is of the firm’s reputation. You know how protective she is of her son.

And then, slowly, Lori Heyward starts to laugh.

“I knew it,” Lori says, taking a sip of her martini. She turns to her husband. “I told you, Peter. I told you three months ago when he suddenly started reading the Wall Street Journal and asking about contract law. The boy was motivated.”

“You knew?” Peter asks, staring at his wife.

“I have eyes, darling,” Lori says dryly. She turns back to Dean, her expression softening into something fiercely maternal. “You’ve finally done something intelligent, Dean. I was beginning to worry you were going to spend your twenties chasing puck bunnies.”

“I found a better hobby,” Dean says, looking down at you with a gaze so hot it practically singes your eyelashes.

“See that you treat her well,” Lori warns, her tone sharpening back into the ruthless litigator. “Y/N is the best young lawyer this firm has seen in a decade. If you break her heart, Dean, I will personally rewrite your inheritance trust to leave everything to the SPCA. Am I clear?”

Dean laughs, a genuine, joyful sound. “Crystal clear, Mom. But you don’t have to worry. I’m never letting her go.”

Lori smiles, satisfied. She links her arm through a still-stunned Peter’s. “Come along, Peter. Let’s go terrorize the board members from Tech-Com. Have fun, you two.”

As they walk away, you let out a slow, steadying breath.

“Well,” you murmur. “That went better than expected.”

“My mom loves you,” Dean says, turning fully toward you. He takes your champagne flute from your hand and sets it on a passing waiter’s tray. “Everyone loves you. But nobody loves you as much as I do.”

The sudden, intense declaration hits you square in the chest.

“Dean ...”

“You look too good tonight, Y/N,” he growls, his voice dropping an octave. His eyes drag down the length of your crimson dress again, stalling on the high slit exposing your leg. “I’ve been staring at you across this room for ten minutes trying to remember how to behave in polite society, and I’m losing the battle.”

The heat rolling off him is entirely intoxicating. The formal setting, the classical music, the crowd of people — it all heightens the desperate, thrumming tension between you.

You look up at him, your eyes darkening. You lean in, your lips brushing the shell of his ear.

“There’s a private executive library on the second floor,” you whisper, your voice a silky, lethal command. “Room 206. I want you to go up the back stairs. Wait for me inside. Do not speak to anyone.”

Dean shudders against you. His hand grips your waist so tightly it almost hurts. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Five minutes,” you order, pulling back and giving him a pointed look.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He turns and strides toward the back hallway, disappearing into the shadows of the corridor.

You wait exactly five minutes. You make small talk with a federal judge, you compliment a partner’s wife on her earrings, and then, coolly and calmly, you slip out of the ballroom.

You climb the carpeted back staircase, your heels sinking into the plush fabric. The second floor is deserted, quiet and dim. You walk down the hallway until you reach the heavy oak door with a small brass plaque reading 206.

You push the door open and step inside, letting it click shut behind you.

The room is dark, illuminated only by the streetlights filtering through the heavy drapes. It smells like old books and leather.

Before you can even reach for the light switch, a hand shoots out of the darkness.

Dean grabs your waist, pulling you flush against him and slamming you back against the heavy oak door.

You gasp as his mouth crashes down onto yours.

The kiss is feral. There is no slow buildup, no gentle testing of the waters. He kisses you like he’s starving, like he hasn’t breathed in two weeks. His mouth is hot, open, his tongue sweeping inside to completely dominate yours.

“Dean,” you moan against his lips, your hands flying up to grip the lapels of his tuxedo jacket.

“God, I’ve been losing my mind,” he gasps, tearing his mouth away to press hot, wet, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “I saw you in this dress and I wanted to rip it off you in the middle of the ballroom.”

“You’re an animal,” you breathe, tilting your head back to give him better access.

“I’m yours,” he growls, his teeth lightly grazing your pulse point.

You grab his hair, pulling him back to look at you. His eyes are blown wide, pitch black with lust.

“Take the jacket off,” you command softly.

Dean obeys instantly. He shrugs off the expensive velvet jacket, letting it drop to the floor. He tears the black bow tie from his neck, tossing it aside, and quickly unbuttons the top three buttons of his crisp white shirt.

He looks messy, desperate, and devastatingly hot.

He grips the backs of your thighs, lifting you effortlessly off the floor. You wrap your legs around his waist, the high slit of your dress falling away, exposing your bare skin to the rough fabric of his trousers.

Dean walks you across the dark room, pressing you down onto the edge of a massive, polished mahogany desk.

He steps between your thighs. He doesn’t go for his own belt. Instead, his hands smooth up the bare skin of your legs, pushing the crimson silk of your dress up to your waist.

“You wore lace tonight,” Dean whispers reverently, his thumbs tracing the edges of the black lace underwear contrasting against your pale skin. “For me?”

“You’re the only one who gets to see it,” you murmur, your chest heaving as you look down at him.

Dean falls to his knees.

The sudden drop makes your breath catch. He kneels between your parted thighs, looking up at you in the dim light. The absolute devotion on his face is staggering. He is a king on campus, but right here, in the dark, he is completely at your mercy.

He hooks his fingers into the lace of your underwear and pulls them down, tossing them onto the desk beside you.

“Dean ...” you gasp, your hands gripping the edge of the mahogany desk.

He doesn’t answer. He leans forward, pressing his mouth against your center.

You cry out, your back arching violently off the desk. He is incredibly skilled, his tongue hot and relentless, finding the exact spot that makes your vision blur. He holds your hips firmly in place, keeping you pinned exactly where he wants you as he laves at your clit, alternating between broad, flat strokes and sharp, precise flicks.

The contrast of the quiet, formal library and the filthy, overwhelming pleasure he is giving you is too much.

“Please,” you whimper, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, pulling lightly. “Dean, please.”

He hums against your skin, a vibration that sends a shockwave straight through your nervous system. He slips two long fingers inside you, stretching you, curling upward to hit your g-spot while his mouth continues its ruthless assault.

You are thrashing on the desk, your red lipstick smeared, your perfect hair a mess.

“Come for me, baby,” Dean growls, his hot breath ghosting over your slick core. “Let me taste it.”

You shatter. You scream his name into the quiet room, your internal walls clenching violently around his fingers as a massive, blinding orgasm rips through your body. You ride the waves of it, gasping for air, completely boneless on top of the desk.

Dean stands up. He looks incredibly smug, his lips slick with your wetness.

He leans over you, capturing your mouth in a bruising, filthy kiss, letting you taste your own pleasure on his tongue.

“My turn,” he whispers roughly.

You don’t need to be told twice. You reach down, your hands shaking slightly, and undo his belt. You pop the button of his trousers, pulling the zipper down. He is already completely hard, thick and straining against his black boxer briefs.

You pull him free.

Dean lets out a harsh, guttural groan as your cool hands wrap around his hot length.

“Condom,” you remind him, your voice ragged.

Dean practically rips his wallet out of his back pocket, tearing a foil packet open with his teeth. He rolls it on with frantic, shaking hands.

The second he is sheathed, he steps back between your thighs. He grabs your hips, pulling you right to the edge of the desk.

He looks at you. His chest is heaving, his eyes locked onto yours.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, and then he thrusts his hips forward, burying himself completely inside you.

You let out a loud, breathless cry. He fills you entirely, stretching you perfectly.

Dean stops, his forehead resting against yours, his hands gripping the desk on either side of your thighs. He takes a deep, shuddering breath, trying to rein in his control.

“Are you okay?” He rasps.

“Don’t stop,” you demand, wrapping your legs tighter around his waist. “Give it to me, Dean. Hard.”

The command shatters whatever restraint he had left.

Dean starts to move. It is a brutal, punishing pace. He pulls almost all the way out before slamming his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt over and over again. The sound of his skin slapping against your thighs echoes in the large, quiet room.

The friction is unbelievable. You are crying out with every thrust, your fingernails digging crescent moons into the broad shoulders beneath his white shirt.

He angles his hips, hitting that deep, sensitive spot that makes you see stars.

“Dean ... God, Dean!”

“That’s it,” he grunts, his pace becoming wilder, more frantic. “Take it all, Y/N. You’re mine. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob out, completely overwhelmed by the sheer, physical force of him. “I’m yours.”

The dirty talk, the hard, relentless pounding, the heavy weight of his body pressing you into the desk — it pushes you right back to the edge. You feel the familiar, tight coil building in your stomach.

Dean feels it too. He reaches between your bodies, his thumb finding your slick clit, pressing down hard as he continues to thrust like a man possessed.

“Come with me,” he commands, his voice a harsh, animalistic growl.

You climax again, screaming his name as the pleasure rips through you, your walls clamping down hard around his thick length.

Dean throws his head back, a loud, raw shout tearing from his throat. He gives three more rapid, brutal thrusts before his entire body goes rigid. He holds himself deep inside you, emptying his orgasm into the condom with heavy, shuddering pulses.

He collapses forward, his forehead dropping onto your shoulder. He is panting, his chest covered in a fine sheen of sweat despite the cool room.

You lie back on the desk, completely wrecked. Your crimson dress is bunched around your waist, your hair is tangled, and your legs are trembling where they are wrapped around his hips.

The silence of the library returns, broken only by the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

After a few minutes, Dean slowly lifts his head. He looks down at you, an incredibly soft, tender smile breaking through his exhausted features.

“Wow,” he breathes, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your bruised lips. “Best Christmas party ever.”

You laugh, a breathless, exhausted sound. You let your legs drop from his waist, reaching up to smooth his messy hair.

“We are going to go to hell for defiling the executive library,” you murmur.

“Worth it,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.

He steps back, quickly disposing of the condom in a nearby trash can, then zips his trousers and fastens his belt.

He turns back to you. You are sitting up on the desk, trying to smooth your hair and pull the crimson silk back into place.

Dean steps close, gently batting your hands away. “Let me.”

He carefully straightens your dress, smoothing the silk over your thighs. He finds your lace underwear on the desk and helps you step back into them. He reaches up, tucking a stray curl behind your ear, his thumb swiping lightly under your eye to fix a tiny smudge of mascara.

He handles you with such care, such absolute reverence, it makes your chest ache.

“There,” Dean says softly, leaning in to press a kiss to your forehead. “Perfect.”

“I am far from perfect right now,” you say, grabbing his discarded tuxedo jacket from the floor and handing it to him. “You look like you just got out of a street fight.”

Dean laughs, shrugging the velvet jacket back on. He doesn’t bother with the bow tie, shoving it into his pocket, leaving his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. It ruins the formal look, but makes him look dangerously, outrageously sexy.

“I look like a man who just had his world rocked by the smartest woman in New York,” Dean corrects.

He holds out his hand.

You look at his large, calloused palm. You place your hand in his, letting him pull you off the desk.

“Are we going back down there?” Dean asks, his thumb rubbing comforting circles over your knuckles. “Or are we getting a cab to your apartment so I can do that again in a real bed?”

You consider it. You could leave. You’ve made your appearance, you’ve schmoozed the clients, and you’ve effectively hard-launched your relationship to the firm.

But you are Y/N Y/L/N. You don’t retreat.

“We are going back down there,” you say, lifting your chin. “I still need to finalize the contract details with the Tech-Com board.”

Dean throws his head back and laughs, a booming, joyful sound that fills the library.

“God, I love you,” he says, pulling you in for one last, hard kiss. “Lead the way, counselor.”

You open the heavy oak door, stepping back out into the dimly lit hallway.

Dean walks right beside you. He doesn’t trail behind, and he doesn’t walk ahead. He holds your hand firmly in his, his fingers laced tightly with yours, completely unbothered by the messy state of his clothes or the inevitable whispers that will follow them back into the ballroom.

As you descend the carpeted stairs together, the glittering lights of the gala coming back into view, you realize something profound.

The playboy of Briar University is gone.

In his place is a man completely, devotedly yours. And as you walk back into the crowded ballroom, his hand in yours, you know you wouldn’t have it any other way.

***

Two years is a long time, but it also passes in the blink of an eye.

In another life, maybe Dean finishes his senior year at Briar University, gets accepted into Harvard Law School just to prove he can, and then walks away from it to go play professional hockey or coast on his trust fund.

But not in this life.

In this life, Dean is twenty-three years old, sitting in the suffocatingly quiet reading room of Langdell Hall at Harvard Law. He is wearing a faded vintage Briar Hockey t-shirt, gray sweatpants, and a pair of blue-light glasses that make him look devastatingly intelligent.

He is surrounded by a mountain of textbooks, highlighters, and the frantic, chaotic energy of his 1L study group.

“I don’t understand Palsgraf v. Long Island Railroad,” groans a guy named Parker, dragging his hands down his face. Parker looks like he hasn’t slept since August. “I read it three times. The proximate cause argument makes no sense. We are all going to fail Torts. We are going to fail, and we will never be lawyers, and I’ll have to go work at my uncle’s car dealership.”

“Stop spiraling, Parker,” snaps Jenna, a hyper-competitive girl who treats every study session like a life-or-death battle. She aggressively flips a page in her binder. “The issue is foreseeability. If the injury isn’t foreseeable, there is no duty of care. It’s simple.”

“It’s not simple!” Parker argues, his voice rising a dangerous octave for a library setting.

“Actually, it kind of is,” Dean chimes in, leaning back in his chair and spinning a pen effortlessly between his long fingers. “Cardozo’s majority opinion states that duty is bound by the zone of danger. If you’re standing on a train platform and a guy drops a package of fireworks on the other end, how is the railroad supposed to foresee a scale hitting you in the head? You can’t be negligent to someone who isn’t a foreseeable plaintiff.”

The study group falls silent. Four exhausted law students stare at Dean.

“How do you do that?” Parker whispers, looking at Dean with a mixture of deep admiration and profound resentment. “You literally spent the entire weekend in New York. You barely read the brief. How do you just ... know that?”

Dean smirks, taking a sip from his iced coffee. “I have a very good tutor.”

“Right. The mystery girlfriend,” Jenna says, rolling her eyes. “The one who lives in Manhattan and is supposedly this high-powered attorney. Are we ever going to meet her, Dean, or does she only exist in your head?”

Dean laughs, a low, rumbling sound that earns him a harsh shush from a 3L at the next table. “She’s real. And she’s a junior partner, actually.”

“Wait, she made junior partner?” another guy, Craig, asks skeptically. “Isn’t she only in her late twenties? Firms don’t make people partner before they’re thirty unless they’re literal prodigies or related to the boss.”

“Well,” Dean says, his eyes dancing with amusement. “She’ll be both soon.”

Before Jenna can launch into another interrogation about the legitimacy of Dean’s relationship, the heavy oak doors of the reading room swing open.

Normally, no one looks up. Langdell Hall is a place of deep, miserable focus.

But the rhythmic, sharp click of Louboutin heels against the polished hardwood floor is so entirely out of place that heads begin to turn automatically.

Dean doesn’t turn his head right away. He doesn’t need to. The moment that sound registers, a pavlovian rush of heat surges straight to his chest. He knows that walk. He knows that exact, authoritative cadence.

You stroll down the center aisle of the library like you own the building.

And, honestly, given your history at Harvard Law, you practically do.

You are wearing a sharp, tailored camel wool coat over a sleek ivory sheath dress. Your hair is blown out in perfect, soft waves, and a pair of dark tortoiseshell sunglasses is pushed up onto your head. You look like you just stepped out of a boardroom on the forty-second floor of a Manhattan skyscraper — which is exactly what you did three hours ago.

The exhausted law students part for you like the Red Sea. Guys pause their typing to stare; girls lower their highlighters, intimidated by the sheer, overwhelming confidence rolling off your shoulders.

You spot the study group in the back corner.

You don’t break your stride. You walk right up behind Dean’s chair.

Parker’s jaw actually drops. Jenna freezes, her pen hovering an inch above her notebook.

Dean smiles. He doesn’t turn around, but he leans his head back, resting the crown of his head against the top edge of his chair, exposing his throat.

You lean down, your arms sliding over his broad shoulders from behind, loosely wrapping around his chest. You press a soft, lingering kiss to his upside-down forehead.

“You’re in the wrong zip code, counselor,” Dean murmurs, his voice dropping to that low, raspy register that makes your stomach do a familiar flutter.

“I had a meeting in Boston with the Tech-Com acquisition team,” you say smoothly, the scent of your expensive vanilla perfume washing over him. “Finished early. Thought I’d come see if my favorite 1L was studying or distracting his classmates.”

“I am a beacon of academic focus,” Dean defends, tilting his head back further so he can look at your face. He reaches up, his large, warm hand covering yours where it rests on his chest. His thumb traces the heavy, three-carat diamond ring resting on your left hand.

He asked you to marry him six months ago, on a snowy night in Central Park, and you haven’t taken the ring off for a single second since.

You hum softly in amusement, finally straightening up and looking at the four completely paralyzed students sitting around the table.

“Hello,” you say politely, slipping seamlessly into your professional, charming persona. “I hope he isn’t causing too much trouble.”

“Uh,” Parker says. He clears his throat, his face turning a blotchy shade of red. “No. No, Dean is ... he’s great. He just explained Palsgraf to us.”

Dean chuckles, finally standing up from his chair. He towers over the table, sliding his arm securely around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. The casual possessiveness of the gesture makes the guys in the group stare at him with absolute, unadulterated envy.

“Guys,” Dean says, radiating an obnoxious amount of smug pride. “This is my fiancée, Y/N. Y/N, this is the study group. Parker, Jenna, Craig, and Chloe.”

“It’s lovely to meet you all,” you say, offering a polite smile.

Jenna is squinting at you. She pushes her glasses up her nose, her brow furrowing deeply as she studies your face. She looks at the diamond on your finger, then back up to your perfectly arched eyebrows.

“Wait,” Jenna breathes, the color draining slightly from her face. “Y/N? Like ... Y/N Y/L/N?”

You tilt your head slightly. “Yes.”

Craig practically chokes on his own spit. He grabs Parker’s arm, his eyes wide with shock. “No way. The Y/N Y/L/N? Heyward and Di Laurentis?”

“Wait, Di Laurentis?” Chloe gasps, her head snapping toward Dean. “Your last name is Di Laurentis!”

“My parents own the firm,” Dean says cheerfully, thoroughly enjoying the chaos. “She’s a partner.”

“Holy shit,” Parker whispers reverently. He looks at you like you are a mythical creature. “You’re a legend.”

You raise an eyebrow, mildly amused. “Legend is a strong word.”

“No, it isn’t!” Jenna says, her hyper-competitive facade entirely dissolving into absolute fangirl awe. “You’re the one who took down Professor Harrington! In your 3L year! The story is still passed around the dorms. Everyone says he tried to corner you on a cross-examination regarding federal antitrust statutes, and you cited three obscure Supreme Court precedents and pointed out a logical fallacy in his own published textbook!”

“He cried!” Craig adds enthusiastically. “Rumor says he literally cried in front of the whole lecture hall and took an early sabbatical!”

Dean throws his head back and barks out a loud laugh, the sound echoing through the quiet library. He looks down at you, his eyes shining with pure adoration. “God, you are so incredibly hot.”

You flush slightly, though you keep your expression composed. “He didn’t cry. He just became very red. And he needed to reevaluate his syllabus. It was a productive conversation.”

“You made a tenured Harvard professor rethink his life choices,” Parker says, shaking his head. He looks at Dean. He looks back at you. He looks at Dean again. “This is so unfair. It’s completely unfair. You look like ... that,” Parker gestures wildly at Dean’s broad shoulders and athletic build, “you’re a genius at Torts, your parents own a massive law firm, and you’re engaged to the single most terrifying, brilliant woman in the history of this law school.”

Dean grins, completely unashamed. He pulls you a fraction closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “What can I say? I’m a blessed man.”

“It’s sickening,” Jenna mutters, though she is still staring at you with wide-eyed admiration. “Can I ... can I ask you a question about corporate compliance structuring? I’m writing a paper and-”

“Jenna,” Dean interrupts gently but firmly, picking up his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. “My fiancée just took a train from New York and had a three-hour meeting. She is not giving free legal advice to a 1L today.”

“But-”

“Dean is right,” you say smoothly, reaching out to pat Jenna’s shoulder in a patronizing but encouraging way. “I bill at nine hundred dollars an hour. But read up on the Sarbanes-Oxley Act exemptions. It’ll give you a good angle for your paper.”

Jenna looks like she might faint from gratitude. “Thank you.”

“Alright, kids, study hard,” Dean says, grabbing your hand and lacing his fingers through yours. “I’m checking out for the weekend.”

“It’s Thursday!” Parker protests.

“And I have plans,” Dean shoots back with a wicked wink.

He leads you away from the table, leaving the study group in a stunned, silent stupor. As you walk back down the center aisle of Langdell Hall, you can practically feel the eyes of the entire reading room on the two of you.

“You are terrible,” you murmur as Dean pushes the heavy double doors open, leading you out into the crisp, autumn air of the Harvard campus.

“I didn’t do anything,” Dean laughs, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you tightly against his side to shield you from the chilly breeze. “They’re the ones who brought up your reign of terror. I still can’t believe you made a professor take a sabbatical.”

“He was being misogynistic to a 1L girl,” you say simply, as if that explains everything. “He needed to be put in his place.”

“And you put him there,” Dean says, his voice dropping into that tone of absolute worship he reserves solely for you. “God, I love you.”

You smile, leaning your head against his shoulder as you walk down the tree-lined path. The red and gold leaves are falling around you, painting the historic campus in a warm, vibrant light.

“You missed my call last night,” you note, glancing up at him.

“I was in the library until 2 AM,” Dean admits, running his free hand through his messy hair. “Contracts is kicking my ass, Y/N. I don’t know how you did this for three years.”

“You’re doing fine,” you reassure him, your thumb stroking the back of his hand. “Your dad told me you got an A on your first midterm.”

Dean’s chest puffs out just a fraction at the praise. “Yeah, well. I have a legacy to uphold. I can’t be the slacker husband of the firm’s youngest managing partner. It’s a bad look.”

“Managing partner?” You raise an eyebrow. “Lori hasn’t stepped down yet.”

“Give it five years,” Dean says confidently. “She’s already training you to take over. And when you do, I’ll be right there, fresh out of law school, ready to be your favorite associate.”

“You want to be my associate?” You laugh, a genuine, joyful sound. “Dean, you’re the heir to the firm. You’ll probably skip straight to junior partner.”

“No,” Dean stops walking. He turns to fully face you on the brick pathway, catching both of your hands in his. The playfulness fades from his expression, replaced by the deep, serious intensity that made you fall for him in the first place.

“I told you when I started this,” Dean says softly, looking down into your eyes. “I’m not doing it to coast on my dad’s name. I walked away from a pro hockey contract because I found something better. I want to build something. With you. I want to earn it, Y/N. Just like I earned you.”

The words hit you with the same overwhelming force they did the night he told you he loved you in that Boston hotel room two years ago.

You look at him. The twenty-three-year-old former playboy, who gave up the easy route to sit in a library until 2 AM, just so he could stand beside you as an equal.

He really is everything a girl could dream of. And the best part is, he belongs entirely to you.

“You already earned me, Dean,” you whisper, stepping into his space.

Dean smiles, a soft, devastatingly handsome smile. He lets go of one of your hands to slide his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his chest.

“I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving it anyway,” he murmurs.

He lowers his head, capturing your lips in a deep, sweeping kiss right there in the middle of the Harvard quad. It’s warm, familiar, and absolutely perfect. You wrap your arms around his neck, sinking into him completely, entirely oblivious to the passing students.

When he finally pulls away, he is breathless, his eyes shining with mischief.

“So,” Dean says, his hands dropping to lightly squeeze your hips. “You said you have a hotel room in Boston?”

“I have an executive suite at the Four Seasons,” you correct, a wicked smirk playing on your lips. “And I have the entire weekend off.”

Dean groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Lead the way, counselor. You can boss me around all weekend.”

“Oh, I plan to,” you promise.

Dean laughs, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the street to hail a cab.

As you walk away from the library, hand in hand with the man who turned your entire, perfectly organized life upside down in the best possible way, you realize something.

You didn’t just find a partner. You found your perfect match.

He checks his phone, scrolling through three unread texts from three different girls. He replies to none of them, sliding the device into his pocket. He’s here for lunch with his dad, maybe to hustle a little extra spending money for a weekend trip to the Hamptons.

He rounds the corner toward the executive suites, adjusting his Rolex.

And then, he hits a brick wall.

Except the brick wall is soft, smells like expensive vanilla and sharp espresso, and makes a very annoyed, very feminine sound.

“Whoa, hey-” Dean reaches out, his hockey reflexes kicking in instantly. His hands grab onto your shoulders just as the stack of files you’re holding explodes into a chaotic flurry of white paper.

You let out a sharp breath, stumbling back half a step. Your iced coffee sloshes precariously, but by some miracle, the plastic lid holds.

“Jesus,” you mutter, glaring down at the massacre of legal documents scattered across the pristine marble floor.

“My bad. Totally my bad,” Dean says. He doesn’t immediately let go of your shoulders. Instead, he takes a second to actually look at you.

And just like that, Dean’s brain short-circuits.

You are wearing a sharp, tailored cream blazer and matching high-waisted trousers. Your hair is sleek, falling perfectly around your shoulders. But it’s your eyes that hit him — sharp, intelligent, and currently shooting daggers right at his chest.

“You’re squeezing my collarbone,” you say. Your voice is steady. Cool. You aren’t flustered. You’re just irritated.

Dean blinks, dropping his hands as if burned. “Right. Sorry. I didn’t see you.”

“Clearly,” you say, taking a sip of your iced coffee. You don’t crouch down to pick up the papers right away. You just stand there, evaluating him. “Are you lost? The mailroom is on the third floor.”

Dean lets out a bark of laughter. A real, genuine laugh. “Mailroom? Honey, I don’t work in the mailroom.”

“Intern, then,” you say, your tone dismissive. You finally kneel, balancing gracefully in your heels, and start gathering the scattered pages. “If you’re looking for the copy machines, take a left at the water cooler.”

Dean drops down next to you, his knee brushing the fabric of your trousers. He expects you to pull away, to flush, to give him that look — the one women always give him. The fluttering eyelashes. The nervous giggle.

You don’t do any of that. You just yank a brief out from under his hand.

“I’m not an intern,” Dean says, leaning in a fraction closer. He flashes his trademark grin, the one that guarantees him a phone number in under thirty seconds. “I’m Dean. Dean Di Laurentis.”

He waits for the recognition. He waits for your eyes to widen, for the realization to dawn that he is the son of the senior partner whose name is on the wall.

You pause, looking at him. You tilt your head. “Good for you. I’m late for a deposition. Hand me that summary judgement, Dean.”

Dean stares. “The what?”

“The paper right next to your left shoe,” you say, pointing with a manicured finger.

He grabs it and hands it to you. “You don’t know who I am?”

“I literally just met you, and you knocked my entire afternoon onto the floor, so right now, you are my current biggest annoyance,” you say smoothly, standing back up in one fluid motion. You tap the stack of papers against your forearm to straighten them. “But thank you for the help picking them up.”

Dean stands up with you. He is taller, broad-shouldered, used to towering over people and intimidating them into submission or charming them into bed. But as you look up at him, there is absolutely zero intimidation in your gaze. If anything, you look at him like he’s a particularly loud golden retriever puppy.

“I’m Peter and Lori’s son,” Dean clarifies, stepping into your line of sight as you try to walk past him.

“Ah,” you say, your expression shifting from irritation to a kind of amused pity. “The hockey player.”

Dean’s chest puffs out a bit. “Yeah. You follow college sports?”

“No,” you say, taking a sip of your coffee. “Your father complains about your tuition bills. Specifically, the damages you cause to your fraternity house.”

Dean feels a flush of heat hit the back of his neck. “Hey, those damages were highly exaggerated. And it’s not a frat house, it’s an off-campus rental. There’s a difference.”

“I’m sure there is,” you say, giving him a patronizing smile. You reach out and actually pat his bicep. Not a caress. A literal, solid pat. “Run along now, Dean. Your dad is waiting for you. Try not to run into any paralegals on your way.”

“Paralegals?” Dean repeats, his competitive edge flaring up. “Wait a second. What’s your name?”

“Excuse me?” You ask, one eyebrow arching elegantly.

“Your name. You know mine. Seems only fair.” Dean steps closer, dropping his voice an octave to that low, raspy register that usually melts knees. “Come on. Give me a name to put to the prettiest face I’ve seen all summer.”

You stare at him. You actually stare at him for a full five seconds, and then, slowly, your lips twitch into a smile. Dean feels a surge of victory. He’s breaking through. He’s got you.

“You’re adorable,” you say.

Dean freezes. “Adorable?”

“Like a toddler in an oversized suit,” you confirm, completely deadpan. “It’s very cute. But I don’t date college boys. I have actual work to do. Goodbye, Dean.”

And with that, you pivot on your heel and stride down the hallway.

Dean stands perfectly still in the middle of the corridor, watching the sway of your hips as you walk away. His jaw is slightly slack. Adorable? Like a toddler?

He runs a hand through his hair, a slow, disbelieving smirk spreading across his face.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” he murmurs to himself.

He doesn’t feel rejected. He feels electrified. Dean has never had to chase a woman in his entire life. They fall into his lap. They flock to him at parties. They show up at his games holding signs with his jersey number.

But you? You just batted him away like a minor nuisance.

Dean pivots and jogs toward his father’s corner office. He swings the heavy glass door open, bypassing his dad’s secretary with a quick wink that makes her blush, and steps into the massive, sunlit office.

Peter Di Laurentis looks up from his mahogany desk. He has the same blond hair as Dean, though peppered with gray, and the same sharp jawline. “Dean. You’re early.”

“Dad,” Dean says, dropping into one of the leather chairs opposite the desk. He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Who is the rocket in the cream suit? Smells like vanilla. Works here. Thinks I’m a toddler.”

Peter stops typing on his laptop. He lowers his reading glasses, peering over the rims at his son. “You ran into Y/N.”

“Y/N,” Dean tests the name on his tongue. It tastes perfect. “Is she a new paralegal? Or an associate?”

“Y/N is twenty-eight years old,” Peter says, his voice taking on a warning tone. “She graduated top of her class at Harvard Law, and she is the youngest junior partner this firm has ever seen. She single-handedly won the Fraser settlement last month.”

Dean blinks. “She’s a partner?”

“Yes,” his dad says firmly. “And she is out of your league, Dean.”

“Nobody is out of my league,” Dean says automatically, though his mind is spinning. Twenty-eight. A Harvard lawyer. A partner. No wonder you looked at him like he was a child. He’s twenty-two, heading into his senior year at Briar. You are a full-grown, successful, fiercely intelligent woman.

“She is entirely out of your league,” Peter repeats, shutting his laptop. “She eats men like you for breakfast. Don’t bother her, Dean. She works eighty-hour weeks and doesn’t have time for your frat-boy games.”

“It’s an off-campus rental,” Dean mutters defensively. Then he grins. “And she didn’t seem that busy when I bumped into her.”

“Leave my junior partner alone,” his dad sighs, rubbing his temples. “I mean it. If you distract her, I’ll cut off your allowance.”

“You wouldn’t,” Dean laughs.

“Try me.”

***

Down the hall, you sit in the conference room, staring at the deposition transcript in front of you. But for the life of you, the words aren’t making sense.

You press your fingers to your temples, letting out a frustrated breath.

Dean Di Laurentis.

You’ve heard the stories. Peter complains about him constantly — though always with an undercurrent of intense paternal pride. Dean the hockey star. Dean the ladies’ man. Dean the party boy.

You had expected some hulking, brainless jock. You hadn’t expected him to be ... so unfairly attractive. The tailored shirt that hugged his shoulders perfectly. The messy blond hair that looked like he’d just rolled out of bed. And that smile. God, that smile was lethal. It was the kind of smile that could convince a jury to acquit a guilty man.

“Focus,” you whisper to yourself, tapping your pen against the table.

You are a partner at Heyward & Di Laurentis. You worked your fingers to the bone, sacrificed your twenties, gave up weekends, holidays, and relationships to get your name on that letterhead. You don’t have time for distractions. Especially not a twenty-two-year-old college senior who thinks he’s God’s gift to women.

The conference room door swings open.

You don’t look up. “I told you, Brenda, I need the files on the Harrison case by two.”

“I don’t know who Brenda is, but I can definitely grab those files for you if it means you’ll let me take you to dinner.”

Your pen stops. You close your eyes for a brief, painful second, praying for patience. Then, you look up.

Dean is leaning against the doorframe. He looks entirely too comfortable in an environment that usually makes grown men sweat. His hands are in his pockets, and he’s watching you with a look of pure amusement.

“Dean,” you say flatly. “Are you lost again?”

“Nope. Found exactly what I was looking for,” he says, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him.

“You can’t be in here. This is a confidential workspace.”

“I’m a Di Laurentis,” he points out smoothly, pulling out a chair across from you and sitting down. “Technically, my name is on the building.”

“Your father’s name is on the building,” you correct, crossing your arms. “Your name is on the roster for a college sports team. There’s a distinct difference.”

Dean laughs, leaning back in his chair. “You know, you’re really mean. I kind of love it.”

“Are you a masochist?” You ask, genuinely curious. “I essentially told you to screw off in the hallway.”

“You called me adorable,” he corrects, wagging a finger at you. “Which means you noticed me.”

“I noticed you knocking my documents onto the floor.”

“Details, details.” Dean leans forward, resting his elbows on the glass table. The playfulness in his eyes shifts slightly, darkening into something a little more serious. Something that makes your stomach do a very annoying, very sudden flip. “So, junior partner. Harvard grad. Twenty-eight years old.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’ve been asking about me.”

“I ask about things I’m interested in,” he says simply.

“Well, stop being interested,” you say, uncrossing your arms and organizing your pens. You need a barrier. You need something to do with your hands. “I am six years older than you. I am your father’s employee.”

“Technically, you’re his partner. You own equity.”

You shoot him a glare. “The point remains. We are in different stages of life. You are worried about passing midterms and winning hockey games. I am worried about corporate mergers and billable hours. We have nothing in common.”

“We both breathe oxygen,” Dean offers.

You let out a short, breathy laugh before you can stop yourself. “Wow. Brilliant deduction. You a poli-sci major or pre-med?”

“Poli-sci, actually,” he grins, victorious that he got a laugh out of you. “See? We’re learning about each other. This is practically a first date.”

“This is me, tolerating your presence until security comes to escort you out,” you say. But you aren’t picking up the phone to call security. You both know it.

Dean watches you. He drops the cocky grin for a second, and you catch a glimpse of the intelligence beneath the frat-boy persona. “Look, Y/N. I’m going to be in the city for the next two months. My dad wants me shadowing the partners, learning the family business before I head back for my senior year.”

“And?”

“And,” Dean says softly, “I want to take you out. One dinner. No pressure. Just food.”

“I don’t date children.”

“I’m twenty-two. I can legally drink.”

“Fascinating,” you deadpan. “I’ll make sure to get you a gold star.”

Dean stands up. He doesn’t look defeated. He looks energized. “You’re playing hard to get. I respect that. You’re a woman who knows her worth.”

“I am not playing hard to get. I am genuinely rejecting you.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, counselor,” Dean winks.

He turns and walks out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

You stare at the closed door for a long time. The faint scent of his cologne — something crisp and woodsy — lingers in the air.

“Idiot,” you mutter to yourself.

But you are smiling.

***

By week two, the novelty of Dean Di Laurentis should have worn off. That is how these things usually work. A nuisance appears, the nuisance is ignored, the nuisance gets bored and moves on.

But Dean is not a standard nuisance. He is an Olympic-level pest with a jawline carved from marble and a persistence that borders on the pathological.

It is Monday morning, exactly fourteen days since the hallway collision, and you are sitting at your desk, staring blindly at a non-disclosure agreement.

There is a soft knock. You don’t look up.

“I said no interruptions, Brenda.”

“Still don’t know who Brenda is, but I brought offerings.”

You squeeze your eyes shut. A traitorous little thrill zips down your spine, but you shove it down, locking your expression into a mask of cool indifference before you raise your head.

Dean is leaning in your doorway. He’s wearing a tailored charcoal suit today, no tie, the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone. He looks like sin in a Brooks Brothers catalog. In his hands, he balances two cardboard trays containing what smells exactly like your highly specific, heavily caffeinated morning order.

“I am working,” you state.

“You’re glaring at a piece of paper,” Dean corrects, stepping fully into your office. He nudges the door closed with his heel. “Paper can’t glare back, sweetheart. It’s an unfair fight.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

“Noted. How about counselor? Darling? Menace to my sanity?”

You cross your arms and lean back in your ergonomic leather chair. “How about you leave the coffee on the desk and exit the premises before I have security revoke your badge?”

Dean chuckles, a low, raspy sound that does incredibly unfair things to the atmosphere in the room. He crosses the floor and sets one of the cups right in front of your keyboard.

“Iced Americano, two pumps of sugar-free vanilla, splash of oat milk,” he recites. “I even made the barista swirl it. Because I know how you get about the syrup settling at the bottom.”

You stare at the cup. Then you stare at him. “How do you know my coffee order?”

“I’m observant.”

“You bribed the interns.”

“Fifty bucks and a signed Rangers jersey goes a long way,” Dean admits without a shred of shame. He pulls up one of the sleek guest chairs and spins it around, straddling it backwards. He rests his forearms on the backrest, looking at you with that infuriating, lazy smile. “So. Are you going to drink it, or are you going to throw it at me?”

“I’m debating the merits of both,” you say, reaching for the cup. You take a sip. It’s perfect. Damn him. “What are you doing here, Dean? Isn’t your father having you shadow the real estate team today?”

“Real estate is boring,” Dean says, wrinkling his nose. “It’s all zoning laws and arguments about property lines. You’re much more interesting.”

“I am a corporate litigator. I literally argue about contract clauses for a living.”

“Yeah, but you look great doing it.”

You roll your eyes, but you take another sip of the coffee to hide the slight twitch of your lips. Over the last two weeks, this has become your routine. Dean appears, Dean flirts outrageously, you shoot him down, and Dean acts like he just won the lottery.

He’s immune to your icy exterior. It’s baffling. In the courtroom, you can make grown men sweat through their suits with a single raised eyebrow. Dean just looks at you like you’re a fascinating puzzle he can’t wait to take apart.

“So,” Dean says, resting his chin on his crossed arms. “Friday night.”

“No.”

“You didn’t even let me finish.”

“I don’t need to,” you say smoothly. “The answer is no.”

“There’s a new Italian place in SoHo,” Dean presses, completely unbothered. “Reservations are booked out for six months, but I know the owner. Best truffle pasta in the city.”

“I hate truffles.”

“Liar. I saw you order the truffle fries at the firm luncheon on Wednesday.”

You pause, caught. “That was a momentary lapse in judgment.”

“Let me be a momentary lapse in judgment,” Dean fires back instantly.

The room suddenly feels very small. You look at him, really look at him. His eyes are dancing with amusement, but underneath the teasing, there is a laser-focused intensity. He isn’t just throwing lines at the wall to see what sticks. He is actively paying attention to you.

“Dean,” you say, your voice dropping an octave, softening just a fraction. “We’ve been over this. I am twenty-eight. I am a partner. You are twenty-two. You still probably have a fake ID in your wallet right now, don’t you?”

“I do not,” Dean says, feigning deep offense. “I threw it away on my twenty-first birthday. I’m a law-abiding citizen.”

“You’re a child.”

“A child who brought you coffee.”

“A child I will politely ask to leave my office so I can finish this NDA.”

Dean holds your gaze for a long moment. Then, slowly, he stands up. He doesn’t look angry. If anything, he looks incredibly satisfied.

“Alright, counselor. Have it your way,” he says, smoothing the lapels of his jacket. “For now.”

“Goodbye, Dean.”

“See you at lunch,” he winks, and strolls out the door.

You let out a long breath, staring at the empty space he just occupied. You pick up the coffee. You take another sip.

You are definitely starting to enjoy this. And that is terrifying.

***

By the third week, the firm is buzzing with the upcoming deposition for the massive Tech-Com merger. The tension in the office is thick enough to cut with a knife. You’ve been working fourteen-hour days, surviving on adrenaline, espresso, and sheer willpower.

It’s Thursday afternoon. You are standing in the breakroom, aggressively jabbing the button on the vending machine because your favorite protein bar is stuck against the glass.

“Stupid machine,” you mutter, hitting the glass with the heel of your hand.

“You know, physical violence against firm property is technically a fireable offense.”

You don’t even jump. You just rest your forehead against the cool glass of the vending machine and close your eyes. “Not now, Dean. I am not in the mood.”

“Clearly,” his voice is closer now.

You feel his presence before you open your eyes. The warmth radiating off him, the faint scent of cedar and expensive soap. You turn your head. He’s standing right beside you, hip leaning against the counter.

“Rough day?” He asks. There’s no teasing in his tone this time. It’s quiet. Genuine.

“The Tech-Com opposition just dumped three thousand pages of discovery on my desk. Due Monday,” you say flatly. “They’re trying to bury me in paperwork so I miss a loophole.”

Dean looks at the vending machine, then at you. “Step back.”

You frown. “What?”

“Step back,” he repeats, gesturing with his hand.

Too tired to argue, you take a step back. Dean squares his shoulders, lines up his right hip, and delivers a sharp, calculated bump against the side of the machine.

The protein bar drops with a satisfying thud.

Dean reaches into the flap, pulls it out, and hands it to you.

“There,” he says, a small smile playing on his lips. “Consider me your knight in shining armor.”

You take the bar, your fingers brushing against his. The contact sends a sharp jolt straight up your arm. You pull your hand back quickly, clutching the crinkly wrapper.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

“You’re welcome.” Dean doesn’t move away. He stays close, looking down at you. The fluorescent lights of the breakroom buzz overhead, but everything else is strangely quiet.

“You look tired,” he says. The observation isn’t an insult; it’s an acknowledgment.

“I am tired,” you admit. It’s the first time you’ve let your guard down around him. You don’t know why you’re doing it. Maybe it’s the lack of sleep. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s the only person who hasn’t asked you for something in the last twelve hours.

“You shouldn’t be working yourself into the ground,” Dean says, his brow furrowing slightly. “My dad runs this place like a sweatshop. You’re a partner now. You should delegate.”

“If I delegate, things get missed,” you say, opening the protein bar and taking a bite. “I can’t afford to miss things. That’s how you lose.”

“You don’t strike me as a loser.”

“I’m not. That’s why I work the fourteen-hour days.”

Dean watches you chew. His gaze drops to your mouth for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to your eyes. “Has anyone ever told you that you’re intimidatingly competent?”

“Usually men use the word ‘bossy’.”

“Usually men are intimidated by women who are smarter than them,” Dean counters effortlessly. “I think it’s hot.”

You choke slightly on the protein bar. You cough, pressing a hand to your chest. “Excuse me?”

Dean’s grin is back, bright and devastating. “You heard me. The whole brilliant, ruthless, takes-no-prisoners lawyer thing? It really does it for me.”

“You are unbelievable,” you say, shaking your head, though a flush is creeping up your neck.

“I’m honest.” Dean takes a half step closer. You are suddenly very aware of how broad his chest is. “Let me help you.”

You laugh, a breathless, slightly frantic sound. “With the discovery files? Are you kidding? You’re a poli-sci major.”

“A poli-sci major with a 3.8 GPA who reads legislation for fun,” Dean corrects. “I know how to scan for anomalies. Give me five hundred pages. I’ll read them tonight.”

You stare at him. “You want to spend your Thursday night reading dry corporate emails instead of hitting the bars?”

“I want to help you,” Dean says simply. “So you don’t have to stay here until midnight.”

You look for the punchline. You look for the ulterior motive. But his eyes are completely sincere. He isn’t trying to trick you into a date. He’s just offering to lighten your load.

It throws you entirely off balance. You know how to handle cocky, flirting Dean. You do not know how to handle sweet, helpful Dean.

“I can’t let you do that,” you say softly. “It’s highly confidential.”

“I signed the firm’s NDA on day one,” Dean counters. “I’m legally cleared. Come on. Put me to work.”

You hesitate. You really, really need the help. And the thought of leaving the office before ten p.m. is intoxicating.

“Five hundred pages,” you say slowly.

Dean’s smile could light up the entire city grid. “Five hundred pages. Bring them to my dad’s office, I’m camping out in there today.”

“If you miss a single discrepancy-”

“I won’t,” he promises, stepping back toward the door. “See? We make a great team.”

“Don’t push it,” you warn, but the corners of your mouth are turning up.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, counselor.”

***

It is nine p.m. on Friday night. The office is a ghost town.

You are sitting at your desk, the final pile of discovery documents stacked neatly on your left. You did it. With Dean’s help yesterday, you managed to power through the entire backlog. You found the loophole. You drafted the argument. You won.

You lean back in your chair, stretching your arms over your head until your spine pops. You feel exhausted, but triumphant.

You start packing up your briefcase, shoving your laptop and charger inside. You’re dreaming of a hot shower and a glass of wine that costs more than twenty dollars.

As you walk out of your office and into the dimly lit hallway, you freeze.

There is a light on in the small conference room at the end of the hall.

Frowning, you adjust your grip on your briefcase and walk quietly toward the glass walls. You peer inside.

Dean is sitting at the massive table. He isn’t wearing a suit today. He’s in a faded grey Briar Hawks hoodie and dark jeans. His feet are propped up on the adjacent chair, and he’s reading a thick textbook, a highlighter twirling absently between his fingers.

You push the glass door open. It creaks slightly.

Dean looks up, his eyes instantly locking onto yours. He closes the textbook.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, your voice echoing in the quiet room. “It’s Friday night. Shouldn’t you be at a club, doing shots off a model’s collarbone?”

Dean laughs, dropping his feet to the floor. “Graphic. But no. I told you, I’m a changed man.”

“You’re studying?” You ask, walking slowly into the room.

“Summer classes,” he says, gesturing to the book. “Trying to knock out a few credits so I can focus on the hockey season in the fall. Briar’s gunning for the championship this year.”

You nod slowly. You stand on the opposite side of the table, looking at him. The silence stretches between you, thick and heavy, but not uncomfortable. It feels different tonight. The frantic energy of the workday is gone, leaving something much more vulnerable in its wake.

“You stayed late,” you point out.

“I did,” Dean agrees.

“Why?”

Dean leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. He doesn’t break eye contact. “Because I knew you were still here.”

Your breath hitches. You tighten your grip on your briefcase handle. “Dean-”

“I’m not asking you out,” he interrupts softly. “I’m just answering your question. I stayed because you were here. And I figured you might be hungry when you finished.”

He reaches down to the floor next to his chair and pulls up a white paper bag. The smell of garlic and soy sauce hits the air.

“Golden Dragon?” You ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“Pan-fried dumplings, lo mein, and beef and broccoli,” Dean says, opening the bag and pulling out two pairs of chopsticks. “You told my dad last week that it was the only takeout place you actually liked.”

He remembers everything. Every tiny, insignificant detail you drop in casual conversation, he catalogues.

You stare at the cartons of food. Your stomach gives a loud, embarrassing rumble.

Dean smirks, the cocky edge returning for just a second. “Take a seat, counselor. You’ve had a long week.”

You shouldn’t. You should turn around, walk to the elevator, and take a cab back to your perfectly decorated, incredibly lonely apartment. You should keep the boundaries firmly in place.

But you are so tired. And he is sitting there, looking at you with those dark, intent eyes, offering you dumplings in an empty office building.

You set your briefcase down on the floor. You pull out the chair across from him and sit down.

Dean’s smile softens. It’s not the playboy grin. It’s a real, genuine smile that reaches his eyes. He pushes a carton of lo mein across the table toward you, along with a pair of chopsticks.

“So,” Dean says, casually opening his own carton. “Tell me about the loophole. Did you crush the Tech-Com lawyers?”

“I obliterated them,” you say, breaking apart the wooden chopsticks.

“That’s my girl,” Dean murmurs, taking a bite of his food.

The casual endearment sends a flush straight to your cheeks. You open your mouth to correct him, to remind him of the rules, to enforce the boundaries.

But then you look at him. You look at the hockey hoodie, the messy hair, the way he’s watching you like you’re the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

You close your mouth. You pick up a dumpling.

“I found a discrepancy in their asset valuation from 2023,” you begin, your voice steadying as you fall into familiar territory.

Dean listens. He actually listens. He nods at the right times, asks intelligent questions, and laughs when you describe the panic you know the opposing counsel will feel on Monday morning.

You sit in the dim conference room, eating cheap takeout with the twenty-two-year-old college senior you swore you would ignore.

And for the first time in a very long time, you realize you are having fun.

The banter is still there, sharp and quick, but the edges are smoothed out. You trade barbs, you argue about the best neighborhood in Manhattan, you mock his taste in movies. He takes it all in stride, dishing it right back with an effortless charm that makes your heart do a dangerous, irregular flutter in your chest.

At 11 PM, the food is gone, and the conversation lulls.

You are leaning back in your chair, laughing at a story he just told about his hockey captain, Garrett.

“I’m serious,” Dean says, wiping a tear from his eye from laughing so hard. “The guy is terrified of geese. We had to detour practice for a week because there was a flock by the arena.”

“That is pathetic,” you laugh, shaking your head.

“I’ll introduce you to him sometime. You can mock him to his face. He’d probably cry.”

The words hang in the air. They imply a future. They imply that this isn’t just a summer game of cat and mouse.

The laughter fades from your face, replaced by a sudden, sharp reality check.

You clear your throat, sitting up straighter. “I should go. It’s late.”

Dean watches the shift in your demeanor. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t try to hold you back. He just nods slowly. “Yeah. It’s late.”

You stand up, grabbing your briefcase. You feel awkward suddenly, the spell broken. “Thank you. For the food. And for yesterday. With the files.”

“Anytime, Y/N.”

You walk toward the door. Your hand is on the handle when he speaks again.

“I’m wearing you down, aren’t I?”

His voice is low, gravelly, drifting across the empty room.

You stop. You don’t turn around. You just stand there, gripping the cool metal of the door handle.

“No,” you lie smoothly.

“Liar,” Dean says softly. You can hear the smile in his voice. “You like me.”

“I tolerate you.”

“You laughed at my jokes for two hours. You ate my dumplings. You’re starting to look at my mouth when I talk.”

Your breath hitches. You squeeze your eyes shut. He misses absolutely nothing.

“Goodnight, Dean,” you say, pushing the door open and stepping into the hall.

“I’ll ask you out again on Monday,” he calls after you.

“The answer will still be no,” you call back, not breaking your stride toward the elevator.

“We’ll see about that!”

You hit the elevator button, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. The silver doors slide open, and you step inside, hitting the button for the lobby.

As the doors slide shut, cutting off the view of the empty hallway, you finally let out a shaky breath.

You lean back against the mirrored wall of the elevator.

You are in so much trouble.

***

It is week four, and you are starting to lose your mind.

You are a rational, logical human being. You make your living dissecting arguments, finding the flaws in airtight contracts, and remaining emotionally detached from high-stakes situations. But Dean Di Laurentis is a variable you cannot seem to control.

He is everywhere. He brings you coffee. He intercepts your lunch deliveries and replaces them with better food. He leaves sticky notes on your deposition files with terrible lawyer puns. (“What’s a lawyer’s favorite drink? Subpoena colada. Smile, counselor.”)

It’s a Tuesday afternoon when your resolve finally snaps.

You are standing in the elevator, staring blankly at the descending numbers. You’re exhausted. You’ve been arguing with a stubbornly obtuse opposing counsel for three hours, and all you want is a hot shower and a glass of Pinot Noir.

At the thirty-eighth floor, the doors slide open.

Dean steps in.

Of course it’s him. It’s always him. He’s wearing a navy suit today, the jacket unbuttoned, his hands shoved casually into his pockets. He looks up, sees you, and that slow, devastatingly confident smile spreads across his face.

“Going down?” He asks, stepping into the car as the doors slide shut behind him.

“Unfortunately,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest. “Is there a tracker on me? Do you have an alert on your phone every time I leave my office?”

“I have excellent instincts,” Dean says, leaning against the mirrored wall of the elevator. He turns his head to look at you, his eyes trailing over your tailored black skirt and silk blouse. “Rough afternoon?”

“Opposing counsel is an idiot,” you say, too tired to put up your usual icy front. “He spent an hour arguing over the definition of the word ‘reasonable’.”

“Sounds thrilling.”

“It was agonizing.” You rub your temples. “I need this day to be over.”

Dean watches you for a moment. The playful edge in his demeanor softens. He reaches into the inside breast pocket of his suit jacket. “Then it’s a good thing I brought a distraction.”

He pulls out a sleek, white envelope and holds it out to you.

You eye it suspiciously. “What is that? A summons?”

“Just open it, counselor.”

You take the envelope. The paper is thick, expensive. You slide your manicured thumb under the flap and pull out two glossy, heavy-stock tickets.

You freeze.

You stare at the gold foil lettering. You stare at the date. You stare at the seat numbers.

“Orchestra center,” Dean says quietly, watching your face. “Row E. Best seats in the house.”

“These are tickets to Hadestown,” you whisper, looking up at him in pure shock. “Dean, this show is sold out for the next eight months. I’ve been on the waitlist since February.”

“I know.”

“How do you know?”

Dean smirks, pushing off the wall and taking a half-step closer. “I told you. Brenda and I are very close.”

“I am firing her tomorrow.”

“You can’t. She’s my inside man.” Dean reaches out, his fingers lightly brushing the edge of the tickets in your hand. The brief contact sends a jolt of heat straight up your arm. “Dinner at Le Coucou at six. The curtain goes up at eight. Friday night.”

You look back down at the tickets. This is a trap. A beautifully orchestrated, incredibly expensive trap. You should say no. You are twenty-eight. He is a college student. He is your boss’s son. It is a terrible, terrible idea.

“Dean,” you start, your voice wavering slightly. “I can’t-”

“Don’t,” he interrupts, his voice dropping to that low, raspy register that makes your stomach flutter. “Don’t say no. Not this time.”

You look up. His expression is completely open. The cocky frat-boy persona is gone, leaving only a genuine, intense vulnerability that you didn’t expect.

“It’s just dinner and a show,” he says softly. “No pressure. I just want to take you out. You’ve been working yourself into the ground, Y/N. Let me give you one good night.”

The elevator dings, signaling the lobby, but neither of you moves.

You look at the tickets. You look at his pleading eyes. You think about going home to your empty apartment again, eating takeout over a glowing laptop screen.

You let out a long, defeated breath.

“Fine,” you say.

Dean blinks. “Wait. Really?”

“Don’t make me repeat it before I change my mind,” you say, slipping the tickets back into the envelope. “Friday. Six.”

Dean’s smile breaks across his face like sunrise. It’s blinding. “I’ll pick you up at your place. Five-thirty.”

“You don’t have my address.”

“Brenda,” you both say at the same time.

You roll your eyes, stepping out of the elevator into the bustling lobby. “I’m changing the security codes on her computer. I mean it.”

“See you Friday, sweetheart!” Dean calls out behind you.

You don’t turn around, but you can’t stop the smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth.

***

Friday night arrives with a terrifying mixture of dread and anticipation.

You stand in front of your full-length mirror, smoothing your hands over the emerald green silk of your slip dress. It’s elegant but dangerous — clinging to your curves, the thin straps leaving your shoulders and collarbones bare. You’ve paired it with an oversized black blazer and strappy heels.

You look good. You know you look good.

But as the clock on your nightstand clicks to 5:28, your heart starts a frantic, erratic rhythm against your ribs.

Why are you nervous? You mentally scold yourself. He’s a twenty-two-year-old hockey player. You have cross-examined CEOs who are twice your age and made them cry. Pull it together.

At exactly 5:30, the buzzer echoes through your apartment.

You grab your clutch, take a deep breath, and walk to the door. You press the intercom. “Yes?”

“Your chariot awaits,” Dean’s voice crackles through the speaker, layered with a cocky grin you can practically hear.

“Coming down.”

You lock your door and walk down the three flights of stairs in your brownstone. You push open the heavy oak front door and step out into the humid New York evening.

A sleek, black town car is idling at the curb.

Dean is leaning against the back door.

You stop on the top step.

He isn’t wearing a standard business suit. He’s wearing a tailored black suit that fits him so perfectly it looks custom-made. He’s wearing a black button-down underneath, the top two buttons undone, a silver chain resting against his collarbone. His blond hair is pushed back, just messy enough to look effortless.

He looks ... lethal.

Dean turns his head, and his eyes lock onto you. He freezes.

The cocky smirk melts right off his face. His jaw actually parts slightly as he takes you in, his gaze dropping from your face, down the plunge of the green silk, to the slit at your thigh, and back up again.

You walk down the steps, your heels clicking against the concrete.

“You clean up okay, Di Laurentis,” you say, trying to keep your voice cool and detached.

Dean doesn’t say anything for a full three seconds. He just stares at you, a heavy, heated look in his eyes that makes your pulse spike.

“You are ...” he starts, his voice rough. He clears his throat. “You are absolutely stunning, Y/N.”

There’s no tease in it. No game. Just raw, unfiltered honesty.

A flush creeps up your neck. You suddenly feel very exposed under his gaze. “Thank you. The car is a bit much, don’t you think?”

“Not for tonight,” Dean says, finally stepping forward to pull the back door open for you. “Tonight, you get the VIP treatment.”

You slide into the cool leather interior. Dean slides in next to you, the heavy door thudding shut. The space instantly shrinks. He smells incredible — like bergamot, cedar, and something uniquely, intoxicatingly him.

The drive to SoHo is a blur of city lights and easy conversation. Dean doesn’t try to touch you, but his knee rests inches from yours, the proximity sending a constant hum of electricity across the space between you.

When you arrive at Le Coucou, the maitre d’ greets Dean by name and leads you to a secluded, candlelit booth in the back.

“You didn’t have to pull all these strings,” you say, opening your menu as the waiter pours ice water.

“I didn’t pull strings,” Dean says, leaning forward and resting his forearms on the white tablecloth. “I just know how to make a reservation.”

“For a Michelin-starred restaurant with a three-month waiting list?”

“I have my ways.” Dean winks.

Dinner is ... a revelation.

You fully expected to have to carry the conversation. You expected to listen to him talk about hockey drills, frat parties, and his college buddies.

Instead, he asks about you.

“So, Harvard,” Dean says, swirling his wine glass. “Were you always this hyper-focused, terrifyingly competent genius, or did that develop in law school?”

You laugh, taking a sip of your Sancerre. “I was worse in undergrad. I didn’t sleep for four years. I lived in the library.”

“Why?” He asks, tilting his head. “I mean, my dad pays well, but you work like you have something to prove.”

You pause. Most men never ask that. Most men are just intimidated by the results of your ambition; they never care about the root of it.

“My parents were public school teachers,” you say softly, tracing the rim of your glass. “They worked incredibly hard, but we never had much. I got into Harvard on a full academic scholarship. I knew I couldn’t waste it. I had to be the best, because being second best meant I wouldn’t get the job, and not getting the job meant I couldn’t take care of them.”

Dean watches you, his eyes intensely focused on your face. There’s a depth of understanding in his gaze that completely catches you off guard.

“You take care of them now?” He asks.

“I bought them a house in Connecticut last year,” you admit, a small smile touching your lips. “They retired.”

“That’s incredible,” Dean says. He says it like he means it. Like he’s genuinely awed by you. “They must be so proud.”

“They are.” You look at him, shifting the spotlight. “What about you? You have the safety net of the firm, the family money. But you play hockey like your life depends on it. I’ve seen the highlight reels. You’re ruthless on the ice.”

Dean chuckles, a low, rumbling sound. “You looked up my highlight reels?”

You feel a blush hit your cheeks. “Research. Know your enemy.”

“I’m not your enemy, Y/N.” His voice drops, turning smooth and dark. “But to answer your question ... hockey is the only thing I’ve ever truly earned. My name got me the car, the apartment, the internships. But on the ice? The puck doesn’t care who my dad is. The opposing defensemen don’t care. If I score, it’s because I out-skated them. I like the meritocracy of it.”

You stare at him. You are actively revising every single assumption you ever made about Dean Di Laurentis. He isn’t just a spoiled playboy. He’s driven. He’s self-aware.

And he is looking at you like he wants to devour you.

“You’re full of surprises, Dean,” you murmur.

“I’m just getting started,” he promises.

The theater is a dream. Hadestown is everything you hoped it would be, but half your attention is entirely focused on the man sitting next to you.

In the dark of the orchestra section, the boundaries blur.

During the second act, as the music swells into a tragic crescendo, Dean shifts in his seat. His arm rests on the shared armrest. His shoulder brushes yours.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he slides his hand over yours.

Your breath catches in your throat. You look down at your hands. His fingers are large, calloused from his hockey stick, warm and solid as they wrap around your smaller hand.

You should pull away. You are in a public place with your boss’s son.

But you don’t.

Instead, you turn your hand over and lace your fingers through his.

You feel Dean’s chest expand in a sharp inhale. He turns his head to look at you, the stage lights reflecting in his eyes, and he gives your hand a firm, grounding squeeze.

He doesn’t let go for the rest of the show.

By the time the curtain falls and you step out of the theater into the warm night air, your entire body feels like it’s vibrating on a new, highly dangerous frequency.

“Car is waiting,” Dean says, checking his phone.

“It’s only a twenty-minute walk to my place,” you say impulsively. “Do you want to walk?”

Dean looks up, putting his phone in his pocket. “I would walk to Brooklyn if it meant I got to keep looking at you.”

You laugh, shaking your head, but you lead the way.

The walk is quiet. It’s the comfortable kind of quiet, the kind you only share with someone when the conversation doesn’t need to be forced. The city hums around you — the distant wail of sirens, the chatter of people pouring out of bars, the heavy, humid heat of the New York summer.

When you finally reach the steps of your brownstone, the reality of the night ending hits you.

You walk up to your front door and turn around.

Dean stops on the step just below you, which puts you exactly at eye level with him.

The streetlamp casts a warm, golden glow over his face. He has his hands in his pockets, watching you with that same heavy, heated look he gave you when he first picked you up.

“I had a really good time tonight,” you say. Your voice sounds a little breathless.

“Just a good time?” Dean teases gently.

“An amazing time,” you concede. “Thank you. For the tickets. And the dinner.”

“You’re welcome.”

Silence falls between you. The air feels thick, electric.

This is the moment. This is the moment where the playboy makes his move. This is where he steps closer, invades your space, and uses that lethal charm to get himself invited upstairs. You’ve been anticipating it all night. You’ve been preparing your polite, professional rejection.

But Dean doesn’t move.

He stays on the step below you. He pulls one hand out of his pocket and slowly, gently, reaches up.

His knuckles brush against your cheek.

You gasp softly, your eyes fluttering shut for a second at the sheer heat of his touch.

“You have no idea what you do to me, Y/N,” Dean murmurs, his voice rough, barely a whisper over the street noise.

You open your eyes. He is looking at your mouth.

“Dean ...” you breathe. It’s not a rejection. It’s an invitation.

Dean steps up to your level. His hand slides into your hair, his long fingers cupping the back of your neck. He steps into your space, the heat radiating off his chest enveloping you completely.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, his face inches from yours. “Tell me to go home, and I will.”

You look into his eyes. You see the restraint there. The rigid control he is holding onto by a thread.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper.

Dean groans, a low, guttural sound, and captures your lips.

The kiss is not hesitant. It is a collision.

His mouth is hot, demanding, and incredibly skilled. He kisses you like he’s been starving for it, like he’s been thinking about nothing else since the moment he knocked your files onto the floor four weeks ago.

Your hands fly up, clutching the lapels of his suit jacket to anchor yourself.

Dean pulls you flush against his chest. His other hand wraps around your waist, pulling you tight against his body. You part your lips, and he deepens the kiss, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, tasting like mint and red wine.

It is intoxicating. You feel dizzy. You feel completely, utterly consumed by him.

You slide one hand up, tangling your fingers into his thick, blond hair. He pulls you closer, a soft sigh escaping his throat as the kiss turns frantic, desperate, a messy tangle of teeth and tongues and breathless heat.

Every logical thought in your brain evaporates. You are a partner at a law firm. You are a responsible adult. But right now, pinned against your front door by Dean Di Laurentis, you are just a woman entirely at his mercy.

You pull back slightly, gasping for air, your chest heaving against his.

Dean rests his forehead against yours. He is breathing hard, his chest rising and falling rapidly. His thumb gently strokes your cheekbone.

“Come upstairs,” you whisper. You can’t believe you’re saying it, but you are. The words are out there.

Dean freezes.

He looks at you. His eyes are dark, blown wide with desire. He looks at the door, then back at you.

You can see the internal battle playing out across his features. The playboy, the guy who never says no to a sure thing, is fighting a massive war with the man who wants to do this right.

Slowly, agonizingly, Dean steps back.

He drops his hands, taking a deep breath and running a hand through his messy hair.

“No,” Dean says. His voice is tight, strained.

You blink, stunned. A wave of embarrassment crashes over you. Did he just reject you? “Dean?”

“If I come upstairs tonight,” Dean says, taking another step back, putting distance between you so he doesn’t lose his resolve, “it’s just the end of a really great date. We’ll sleep together, we’ll wake up tomorrow, and you’ll find an excuse to push me away because you’ll think this was just a game to me.”

You stare at him, your lips still swollen from his kiss.

“I don’t want you for one night, Y/N,” Dean says, his voice steadying, locking onto your eyes with a fierce, uncompromising intensity. “I want to date you. I want to take you out again. I want to earn it. I want you to know that I am serious about you.”

Your heart does a massive, painful flip in your chest.

He isn’t rejecting you. He is choosing to respect you. He is choosing the long game.

“You are infuriating,” you whisper, but the heat of embarrassment has vanished, replaced by a deep, blooming warmth in your chest.

Dean’s signature cocky grin slowly returns. “I told you. I’m playing to win.”

He takes a step backward down the stairs. “Go inside, counselor. Lock the door. Before I change my mind.”

You turn around, your hands shaking slightly as you pull your keys from your clutch. You unlock the door and push it open.

You look back over your shoulder. Dean is standing on the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, watching you to make sure you get in safely.

“Goodnight, Dean,” you say softly.

“Goodnight, Y/N.”

You close the door, leaning your back against the heavy wood. You press your fingers to your lips.

You are completely, hopelessly doomed.

***

Outside, Dean turns and walks down the quiet street, heading toward the main avenue to hail a cab.

The humid summer air hits his flushed skin. His heart is still hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird.

He just walked away.

Dean, the guy who has a reputation across three college campuses, the guy who never spends a night alone, just walked away from the smartest, sexiest, most incredible woman he has ever met when she practically begged him to come inside.

He climbs into the back of a yellow cab, giving the driver his address.

He leans his head back against the worn leather seat.

He should feel frustrated. He should feel the familiar, burning itch of a missed opportunity. He should feel like he lost.

But as the cab speeds towards the Upper East Side, the city lights reflecting off the dark asphalt, Dean lifts a hand and lightly touches his own lips. He can still taste you. He can still feel the way you gripped his jacket, the way you yielded against him.

He doesn’t feel like he lost.

He feels like he just won the goddamn Stanley Cup.

Dean lets out a slow, disbelieving laugh, staring out the window at blurring skyscrapers.

He is done for. He is completely, utterly ruined for anyone else, and the terrifying part is he doesn’t care.

He pulls out his phone, opens his text thread with his best friend.

Dean: I think I’m gonna marry her.

Beat: You’re drunk. Go to bed.

Dean smiles, locking his phone and slipping it back into his pocket.

He isn’t drunk. For the first time in his entire life, Dean is seeing perfectly clearly.

***

August in New York City is oppressive, wrapping the streets in a heavy, humid blanket. But inside your apartment, the air conditioning is humming, and the smell of garlic, tomatoes, and roasting chicken fills the space.

It has been exactly six weeks since the night of the Broadway show. Six weeks of Dean Di Laurentis slowly, systematically embedding himself into every corner of your life.

You haven’t slept with him yet. You’ve kissed him until your lips were bruised, you’ve spent hours tangled together on your couch watching terrible reality TV, and you’ve let him take you on actual, proper dates. He has been infuriatingly patient, keeping his promise to prove that he isn’t just looking for a summer fling.

But summer is ending.

Dean leaves for Massachusetts in three days to start his senior year and hockey training camp. The ticking clock has been a heavy, unspoken weight hanging over both of your heads all week.

“You’re chopping those onions like they personally offended you,” Dean says.

You look up from the cutting board. Dean is leaning against your kitchen island, arms crossed over a plain black t-shirt that hugs his broad chest perfectly. He’s wearing gray sweatpants — a visual hazard you’ve been trying very hard to ignore for the last hour.

“They’re making my eyes water,” you defend, wiping the back of your wrist across your cheek.

Dean chuckles, pushing off the counter and stepping up behind you. He reaches around your waist, his large, warm hands covering yours. “Here. Let me. I don’t need the youngest partner at Heyward & Di Laurentis losing a finger on my watch. My dad would kill me.”

You let him take the knife, stepping back just enough to let him maneuver, but not enough to break contact. His back is a solid wall of heat against your chest.

“I can cook, you know,” you say, watching his precise, quick knife skills.

“I know you can,” Dean says, glancing over his shoulder with a smirk. “But you’re a corporate litigator. You attack recipes like you’re trying to find a loophole in the ingredients. It’s supposed to be relaxing, counselor.”

“I am relaxed.”

Dean snorts. “You’re vibrating like a guitar string. What’s going on in that brilliant head of yours, Y/N?”

He sets the knife down, turning around to face you. He leans back against the counter, trapping you between his legs. His hands come to rest lightly on your hips.

You look up at him. The teasing light in his eyes dims, replaced by that heavy, focused intensity he saves only for you.

“You leave on Sunday,” you say. You didn’t mean to say it out loud, but the words slip out, betraying the tight knot of anxiety in your chest.

Dean’s jaw tightens. His thumbs stroke lazy, soothing circles against the exposed skin at your waist where your shirt has ridden up. “I do.”

“And you have training camp. And classes.”

“I do.”

“So,” you swallow hard, trying to maintain your usual cool composure. “This is it, then.”

Dean stares at you. A beat of silence passes, the only sound the bubbling of the pasta water on the stove.

“Is that what you want?” He asks. His voice is low, gravelly. “You want this to be it?”

“I am a realist, Dean,” you say, though your voice trembles slightly. “You’re going back to college. You’re going back to frat parties and hockey groupies and a completely different life. I am staying here, working eighty hours a week.”

Dean doesn’t argue. He doesn’t offer empty platitudes. Instead, his hands slide from your hips, trailing slowly up your ribs, sending a shiver of pure electricity down your spine. He cups your face, his calloused thumbs resting on your cheekbones.

“I asked you a question,” he murmurs, stepping closer until there is absolutely zero space between you. “Is that what you want?”

You look into his eyes. You see the same desperate, aching want that has been building inside you for weeks.

“No,” you whisper.

“Good.” Dean’s gaze drops to your mouth. “Because if you think I’m walking away from you, you’re out of your goddamn mind.”

He leans down and kisses you.

It starts slow. A soft, testing press of his lips against yours. But the second you sigh, parting your lips for him, the careful restraint he has maintained for six weeks completely shatters.

Dean groans, one hand dropping to the small of your back to yank you flush against him. His other hand tangles in your hair, holding you in place as his mouth slants aggressively over yours.

It’s hot, wet, and deeply demanding. He tastes like mint and the red wine you opened earlier. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling yourself up onto your toes to meet his fervor. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tangling with yours, a heavy, rhythmic slide that makes your knees buckle.

“Dean,” you gasp against his mouth as he trails kisses down your jaw to the sensitive skin of your neck.

“I’ve been holding back all summer,” he breathes, his lips grazing your pulse point. He bites lightly, drawing a sharp, needy sound from your throat. “I’m done holding back, Y/N. I want you. God, I want you so much.”

“The stove,” you manage to say, your fingers gripping his shoulders tight.

Dean reaches blindly behind him, twisting the burner dials until the clicking stops. “Stove is off.”

Before you can blink, Dean slides his arms under your knees and behind your back, lifting you off the ground with effortless ease.

You gasp, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist.

He doesn’t break the kiss. He carries you out of the kitchen, down the short hallway, and into your bedroom. The room is dark, illuminated only by the streetlights filtering through the blinds.

Dean drops you onto the center of the mattress, following you down instantly. He brackets your body with his arms, hovering over you, his chest heaving.

“Are you sure?” He asks, his voice rough, eyes searching yours in the dim light. “Tell me you’re sure, counselor. Because if I start, I am not going to be able to stop.”

“I have never been more sure of anything in my life,” you say, reaching up and pulling his t-shirt out of the waistband of his sweats.

Dean doesn’t need to be told twice. He pulls his shirt over his head, tossing it onto the floor.

You take a moment to look at him. His shoulders are incredibly broad, his chest and abs cut with the sharp, lean muscle of a high-level athlete. He is gorgeous. Ridiculously, unfairly gorgeous.

He catches you staring, that cocky, ruinous smirk returning to his lips. “Like what you see?”

“Shut up and take my shirt off, Di Laurentis,” you demand.

Dean laughs, a dark, wicked sound. He grabs the hem of your shirt, pulling it off and tossing it aside. He makes quick work of your jeans, his large hands skimming down your legs, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

When you are lying back against the pillows in nothing but matching black lace underwear, Dean stops. He sits back on his heels, dragging his eyes slowly up the length of your body.

“Holy shit,” he whispers, genuine reverence in his tone. “You are beautiful.”

You feel a flush of heat spread across your chest. You reach for him, grabbing his dog tags and pulling him back down to you.

Dean takes control with a dominant, confident ease that drives you completely insane. He pins your wrists above your head with one large hand, his other hand roaming freely over your body. He maps every curve, every dip, learning exactly how to touch you to make you writhe beneath him.

He kisses his way down your throat, over your collarbone, and lower.

“Dean-” you arch off the mattress, a breathless plea escaping your lips as his mouth closes over the lace of your bra, his teeth grazing your nipple through the fabric.

“I got you,” he murmurs against your skin, his hot breath making you shiver. “I’ve been dreaming about this since the day you yelled at me in the hallway.”

He undoes the front clasp of your bra, pushing the lace aside. He spends agonizing minutes worshiping your breasts, using his mouth and tongue until you are tossing your head side to side on the pillows, completely unraveling.

He strips you of your final barrier, his fingers hooking the edge of your underwear and dragging them down your legs. You help him push down his sweatpants and boxers, kicking them off the end of the bed.

He settles between your thighs. You can feel the solid, heavy heat of his erection pressing against your entrance, making you ache with anticipation.

“Look at me,” Dean commands softly.

You open your eyes. He is looking down at you, his expression raw, stripped of all the playboy armor.

“I’m yours,” he whispers.

He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing a condom he must have brought with him, ripping the foil with his teeth. Once he’s sheathed, he places his hands on the mattress by your head.

Slowly, agonizingly, he pushes inside you.

You gasp, your fingernails digging into his shoulders. He is thick, filling you completely. He stops, giving you a moment to adjust, his forehead resting against yours.

“You okay?” He asks, his voice strained with the effort of holding still.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Move. Please, Dean.”

He starts to move. Slow, deliberate strokes that draw long, shuddering sighs from your lips. His pace is measured, entirely focused on your pleasure. He finds the exact angle that makes you see stars, hitting the perfect spot with every deep thrust.

“God, you feel so good,” Dean groans, the pace naturally picking up as his control begins to slip. “Y/N.”

“Harder,” you demand, wrapping your legs around his waist to pull him deeper.

Dean obliges. The slow, sensual rhythm fractures into something wild and frantic. He pounds into you, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing in the quiet room. He reaches between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight, wet circles that send you spiraling over the edge almost instantly.

You scream his name, your back arching violently off the bed as the climax rips through you, your internal muscles clenching tightly around him.

Dean lets out a raw shout. He gives three more deep, rapid thrusts before burying himself to the hilt, his entire body rigid as he empties himself inside the condom.

He collapses against you, his chest heaving, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

You lie there, completely boneless, your fingers tangled lazily in his blond hair as you catch your breath. The heavy, warm weight of him is the best thing you have ever felt.

After a few minutes, Dean rolls off you, disposing of the condom before pulling you flush against his side. He drags the tangled sheet over both of your bodies.

You rest your head on his chest, listening to the steady, slowing beat of his heart.

“Wow,” Dean breathes, kissing the top of your head. “Just... wow.”

“Yeah,” you agree softly, a satisfied smile on your lips.

You lie in comfortable silence for a while. The reality of Sunday is still there, but the sharp edges of anxiety have been blunted by the sheer, overwhelming physical connection you just shared.

“I meant what I said,” Dean says quietly, his hand lazily tracing up and down your spine.

“Which part?” You ask, shifting so you can look up at him.

“All of it,” he says, meeting your eyes. The vulnerability is back. “I don’t want this to be a summer fling. I don’t care that I’m going back to school and you’re staying in the city. I’m taking the train down on weekends. You can come up for games. We’ll make it work.”

He sounds so determined. So incredibly earnest.

You smile, propping yourself up on your elbow. You look down at him, letting your hair fall over your shoulder.

“You’re very bossy when you’re post-coital,” you note playfully.

“I’m serious, Y/N.”

“I know you are,” you say, softening your tone. You trace the line of his jaw with your index finger. “But you might not need to take the train down every weekend.”

Dean frowns in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“I am a junior partner, Dean,” you say, unable to hide the smug smirk that touches your lips. “And as a partner, I am required to attend the American Bar Association’s annual fall conference.”

Dean looks at you blankly. “Okay? Are you trying to turn me on with legal jargon, because it’s weirdly working.”

You laugh, swatting his chest. “No, idiot. The conference is in September.” You pause for dramatic effect. “In Boston.”

Dean blinks. Once. Twice. The realization hits his face like a tidal wave.

“Boston,” he repeats.

“Boston,” you confirm. “Which, according to Google Maps, is exactly a twenty-five-minute drive from Briar University.”

Dean sits bolt upright, entirely uncaring that the sheet falls to his waist. “Are you serious? You’re going to be in Boston?”

“For three weeks,” you say, sitting up with him. “The firm is renting me an executive suite in the Back Bay. Very spacious. Huge bed.”

A massive, blinding grin breaks across Dean’s face. He looks like he just won the lottery. “Three weeks?”

“Three weeks. Assuming you can drag yourself away from hockey practice to come see me.”

“I’ll skip practice,” Dean says instantly, grabbing your waist and pulling you onto his lap. “I’ll quit the team. I’ll live in your hotel room.”

You laugh as he peppers quick, eager kisses all over your face. “Don’t quit the team. Your father will fire me.”

“He loves you too much to fire you,” Dean says, finally capturing your lips for a proper, deep kiss.

When he pulls back, his eyes are dancing with mischief. The tension from earlier is entirely gone, replaced by the familiar, playful dynamic that made you fall for him in the first place.

“So,” you say, resting your hands on his broad shoulders. “Since we have the logistics figured out ...”

“Yeah?” Dean hums, his hands sliding down to grip your bare thighs.

You shift your weight, straddling him completely. You press down, feeling his anatomy already stirring back to life against the junction of your thighs.

Dean groans, his head falling back. “Christ, Y/N.”

“My turn, Di Laurentis,” you whisper.

You flip the dynamic instantly. You push hard against his chest until his back hits the mattress. He looks up at you, his eyes dark, a wicked smirk playing on his lips as he happily accepts the submissive role.

You sit up tall, straddling his hips. You reach down, your fingers wrapping around his growing length.

Dean hisses a sharp breath through his teeth, his hands gripping the sheets. “You play dirty, counselor.”

“You have no idea,” you purr.

You lean down, letting your hair cascade over his chest. You trace your tongue over the flat plane of his stomach, moving lower. Dean’s hips jerk upward off the bed, a low, guttural groan tearing from his throat.

“Y/N,” he chokes out.

You take him into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head. Dean’s hands fly from the sheets to your hair, gripping the strands not to push you away, but to hold you exactly where you are.

He is incredibly responsive. You use your mouth and your hand in tandem, keeping the rhythm steady, relishing the sounds of absolute unraveling coming from the confident, cocky hockey player.

When his hips start to thrust erratically, chasing your mouth, you pull back.

“Wait,” Dean gasps, reaching for you.

“Patience,” you tease, grabbing the discarded box from the nightstand. You rip a fresh condom open and roll it onto him with agonizing slowness.

Once he’s ready, you rise up on your knees. You brace your hands on his chest and slowly lower yourself down, taking him inch by torturous inch.

Dean stares up at you, completely mesmerized. “You are incredible.”

“I know,” you say, a confident smile on your lips as you finally seat yourself fully on his lap.

You set the pace. You ride him, keeping the rhythm slow and grinding, forcing him to endure the sweet, agonizing torture of your absolute control. His hands grip your hips, his thumbs pressing into your skin, helping you set the tempo as you bounce against him.

The angle is entirely different, hitting a deep, intense spot that makes you throw your head back with a loud moan.

“That’s it, baby,” Dean encourages, his voice a dark, raspy growl. “Take it.”

You lean forward, bracing your forearms on either side of his head. He captures your mouth in a bruising kiss as you pick up the pace, riding him hard and fast. The friction is unbelievable.

The heat in the room spikes. You are both sweating, tangled together, completely lost in each other.

You feel the familiar tightening in your stomach, the rush of blood roaring in your ears. “Dean. I’m close.”

“Me too,” he grinds out, thrusting up hard to meet your downward strokes. “Come for me. Come on.”

He reaches between your bodies again, his thumb brushing over your clit right as you slam down against his hips.

It is instantaneous.

You shatter, crying out into his mouth as a blinding, full-body climax rips through you. You collapse against his chest, your internal walls squeezing him in a vice grip.

Dean follows a second later. With a loud, broken shout, he arches his back off the mattress, emptying into you with forceful, deep pulses.

You lie there, plastered against his sweat-slicked chest, both of you gasping for air like you just ran a marathon.

Dean wraps his arms securely around you, holding you tight. He doesn’t say a word. He just buries his face in your hair, pressing soft, lingering kisses against your temple.

The quiet of the apartment settles around you again. The earlier anxiety about him leaving is gone. In its place is a solid, warm certainty.

“So,” Dean finally speaks, his voice a rumbling vibration against your chest. “Boston, huh?”

“Boston,” you confirm, too exhausted to move.

“I’m gonna show you my favorite bars,” he murmurs, his hand idly stroking your back. “I’ll introduce you to Garrett. You can mock his fear of geese in person.”

You laugh, a tired, happy sound. “I look forward to it.”

Dean shifts, pulling the sheet up to cover you both. He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“I’m keeping you, Y/N,” he says. It isn’t a question. It’s a vow.

You close your eyes, smiling into the dark room.

“I know, Dean. I know.”

“Mine,” Garrett snarls, the word vibrating right through your sternum.

He grips the waistband of your soaked sweatpants and tears them down your legs in one brutal, efficient motion, taking your underwear with them. You are completely bare in the center of the nest, slick with your own heat, your skin flushed a feverish, mottled red.

You let out a desperate, keening whine, your hips bucking up off the blankets. “Please. Garrett, please.”

“I know, baby,” Garrett growls, his voice a harsh rasp. “I know.”

He sheds his own clothes in seconds. The sight of his massive, heavy erection makes your mouth go dry. The base is thick, the distinct ridge of his knot already starting to form under the skin from the sheer force of his arousal.

He crawls over you, parting your knees with his thighs. He doesn’t bother with foreplay. Your body has been prepping for this for days, and the slick pooling beneath you on the blankets is evidence enough. Garrett grips your hips, his thumbs pressing hard into your pelvic bones to hold you absolutely still.

“Take it all,” Garrett commands.

He thrusts forward.

You scream as he stretches you open, tearing a ragged gasp from his own throat. He is massive, thick and impossibly hot, filling the hollow, aching void inside you that has been driving you insane. He doesn’t stop. He drives in completely to the hilt, burying himself inside your wet heat.

“Fuck,” Dean curses from the edge of the nest, his voice thick with lust. He’s already completely naked, his own cock fully hard as he watches Garrett stretch you. Logan and Tucker are stripping down, the heavy scents of cedar, mint, and leather spiking into a chaotic frenzy of alpha arousal.

“Garrett,” you sob, your nails digging violently into his broad shoulders. “It’s so full.”

“You’re perfect,” Garrett groans, gritting his teeth as he forces himself to hold still for five agonizing seconds, letting your body adjust to the invasion. “You feel so fucking good, Y/N. So tight.”

He pulls back almost entirely, the slick sound of his retreat echoing in the quiet room, and then he slams back into you.

The sensation is blinding. You throw your head back into the pillows, a continuous, breathless cry tumbling from your lips. Garrett sets a brutal, punishing pace. He isn’t making love to you; he is claiming you. His hips snap against yours with a heavy, wet smack, every thrust driving deeper, hitting exactly the spot that makes your vision white out.

“That’s it,” Logan murmurs, crawling up to your head. He grips your jaw, forcing you to look at him. His dark eyes are blown wide. “Take his knot, baby. Let him fill you.”

You are lost in the friction, the overwhelming smell of pine, and the heavy weight of Garrett’s body. The ache is finally, blissfully being met.

“I’m close,” Garrett snarls, his thrusts turning choppy and erratic. “I’m knotting you. I’m claiming you right now.”

He reaches under your neck, tilting your head to the side, exposing your scent gland.

“Do it,” you beg, your hips rising to meet him. “Bite me.”

Garrett sinks his teeth into the crook of your neck exactly as he drives his hips forward one final, brutal time.

You scream as his teeth break the skin, the sharp pain instantly flooded by the euphoric, blinding rush of the mate bond sealing. At the exact same moment, the base of his cock violently swells inside you. The knot expands, locking him deep inside your canal.

Garrett lets out a deafening, guttural roar against your neck. Hot, thick semen jets directly into your womb, wave after wave of it filling you entirely.

The sensory overload triggers a violent orgasm. You convulse around his knot, sobbing uncontrollably, your hands gripping his hair. Pure instinct takes over. You twist your head, finding the thick muscle of Garrett’s shoulder, right over his own scent gland.

You open your mouth and bite down as hard as you can.

Garrett groans loudly, his hands tightening on your hips as your teeth break his skin, marking him back. The bond snaps completely into place — a two-way street of absolute, unyielding devotion.

You collapse onto the blankets, gasping for air, locked together. Garrett crushes you against his chest, his nose buried in your hair, purring violently as his knot slowly begins to recede.

“One,” Dean whispers from your side, his voice a dark, rough promise.

As soon as Garrett’s knot softens enough, he pulls out with a wet, heavy sound. Your slick, mixed with his semen, spills out onto your thighs. The heat instantly flares back up. The moment Garrett is gone, the hollow ache returns with a vengeance.

“More,” you whine, reaching out blindly.

“I’ve got you, sweetheart,” Dean says.

He slides into Garrett’s place, positioning himself between your legs. Dean is relentless. He grabs your thighs, throwing them over his shoulders, and buries his face directly between your legs.

You shriek as his hot, wet tongue laps at your swollen clit, lapping up Garrett’s mess and your slick without a second thought. Dean groans into your folds, his fingers sliding inside you, stretching you for his own width.

“God, you taste incredible,” Dean mutters, his lips slick. He pulls back, his blue eyes blazing. He wastes no time. He slides his cock home in one long, smooth thrust.

“Dean!” You cry out, arching off the bed.

“Yeah, baby,” Dean praises, his voice a filthy, decadent purr. He begins to move, his thrusts shallower but impossibly fast, rubbing directly against your g-spot over and over again. “Look at you taking my cock. You are the prettiest fucking thing I have ever seen. You’re my omega.”

The praise breaks you. You shatter into another orgasm within minutes, sobbing Dean’s name as he bites down hard on your collarbone, his teeth sinking in to lay his claim. His knot swells, locking him inside you, his hot seed flooding your core. You bite him back, marking the side of his neck, tasting his blood and sweat.

The hours blur into a feverish, chaotic haze of skin, sweat, and pheromones.

Logan takes you from behind. He flips you onto your hands and knees in the center of the nest, pulling your hips back against his thighs. He is the quietest of the four, his dominance expressed entirely through the bruising grip of his large hands on your waist and the deep, relentless power of his thrusts.

“Logan, please,” you sob, your face pressed into a pillow as he completely wrecks you.

“I’m here,” Logan rumbles. He leans over your back, his broad chest pressing you down into the mattress. He bites the back of your neck, his teeth sinking into the sensitive skin just below your hairline. He knots you with a violent shudder, claiming you with absolute, possessive certainty. You twist your head back, sinking your teeth into his jaw, sealing the bond.

By the time Tucker takes you, you are a boneless, exhausted, completely delirious mess.

Tucker is slow. He rolls you onto your back, holding your face in both hands. His dark eyes are full of an intense, reverent love that makes your

heart physically ache. He kisses you deeply, swallowing your moans as he sinks into your wet, overused cunt.

“My beautiful girl,” Tucker whispers, his thrusts deep, agonizingly slow, and completely devastating. He makes love to you in the middle of a feral heat, his control slipping only when you wrap your legs around his waist and beg for his knot. He bites you right over your racing pulse point, filling you with his seed, and you bite his shoulder in return, completing the circle.

Four bites. Four marks. Four mates.

You fall asleep locked around Tucker’s softening knot, completely dead to the world.

***

You wake up to the feeling of a cold, wet cloth wiping down your face.

You pry your eyes open. The living room is dark, the only light coming from the streetlamps outside the large windows. Tucker is kneeling beside you, holding a damp towel.

“Hey,” Tucker murmurs, leaning in to press a kiss to your swollen lips. “Drink this.”

He lifts your head, pressing a straw to your mouth. You suck greedily, the cold Gatorade hitting your dry throat like liquid heaven.

“How long was I asleep?” You croak, your voice completely hoarse from screaming.

“Three hours,” Garrett says. He’s sitting on the edge of the nest, wearing only a pair of sweatpants. He has a massive plate of pasta in his hands. “It’s Thursday night. Day two of the heat.”

Day two.

You try to sit up, but every single muscle in your body screams in protest. You are completely sore, your core throbbing with a heavy, residual ache.

“Don’t move,” Logan says, appearing on your other side. He slides his arm under your back, propping you up against his chest.

Garrett feeds you the pasta. You eat mechanically, your body desperate for the calories. But with every bite you swallow, you feel your core temperature begin to rise again. The Gatorade and food are doing exactly what they are supposed to do: fueling your body for the next wave.

By the time the plate is empty, the itching heat beneath your skin is back.

You let out a soft whine, shifting your hips against Logan’s thigh. The friction sends a jolt of arousal straight to your clit.

“Already?” Dean asks, walking into the room with a fresh towel. He drops it when he sees the feverish glaze returning to your eyes.

“The first heat is always the most violent,” Tucker says, his own scent of fresh mint instantly spiking to match your rising pheromones. “Her body has two years of suppressed biology to burn through.”

You don’t care about the biology. You only care about the ache.

“Garrett,” you whimper, reaching for him.

“I’m right here, baby,” Garrett growls, setting the empty plate on the coffee table.

The second wave is less about the formal claiming and entirely about the feral, unbridled need. The pack dynamic shifts from structured turns into an absolute, chaotic free-for-all.

Time loses all meaning. It is just a cycle of fucking, sleeping, eating, and fucking again.

On Friday, Dean and Logan take you together. You are lying on your back, your legs spread wide. Logan is inside you, driving his thick cock deep into your cunt, his hands bruising your hips. Dean is kneeling over your face, his hard length pressed against your lips.

“Open up, sweetheart,” Dean commands, his fingers threading through your hair.

You take him into your mouth, sucking fiercely while Logan pounds into you from below. The sensory overload is maddening. You are completely stretched, filled on both ends, choking on Dean’s thick cock while Logan hits your cervix over and over again.

“Good girl,” Dean praises, thrusting his hips forward, fucking your mouth in tandem with Logan’s rhythm. “Take it. Take your pack.”

Logan groans loudly, his hips snapping forward. “I’m knotting.”

“Swallow it,” Dean orders, his own climax hitting.

Dean ruins the back of your throat with his hot seed exactly as Logan’s knot swells inside you, flooding your womb for the second time. You gag, tears streaming down your face, but you swallow every drop, your body convulsing around Logan’s knot in a violent, world-shattering orgasm.

On Saturday, the fever peaks. You are practically delirious, your skin burning hot to the touch.

Garrett and Tucker have you pinned against the armrest of the couch. You are completely exhausted, your body barely able to support its own weight, but the biological drive refuses to let you rest.

Tucker is holding you up, his arm wrapped securely around your chest, while Garrett takes you from behind. Garrett’s thrusts are brutal, unforgiving, driven by the pure, possessive need of a captain protecting his center.

“Garrett, it hurts,” you sob, the sensitivity turning into a sharp ache.

“I know, I know,” Garrett murmurs, biting the back of your neck to release a flood of soothing alpha pheromones into your bloodstream. “Just let it out, baby. I’ve got you.”

Tucker kisses you, swallowing your cries, his thumb rubbing rhythmic, soothing circles into your clit while Garrett pounds into you.

“Focus on me,” Tucker whispers against your lips. “Just breathe with me.”

You shatter in Tucker’s arms as Garrett’s knot locks inside you, the force of his climax making your vision go completely black for a few terrifying, blissful seconds.

By Sunday afternoon, the house smells like a warzone. The air is so thick with the mingled scents of sex, sweat, vanilla, and alpha musk that it is almost hard to breathe.

You are in the final wave. The crescendo.

You are on your hands and knees, completely wrecked. Your inner thighs are trembling so badly you can barely hold yourself up. Dean is behind you, his cock sliding in and out of your swollen, slick-drenched cunt.

But it isn’t enough. The heat demands more.

“Please,” you sob, looking blindly over your shoulder. “I need … I need …”

“I know,” Garrett says.

Garrett steps up in front of you. He grabs your hips, lifting you slightly, and positions himself at your second, tighter entrance. He presses his thick head against your slick-covered rim.

You gasp, your eyes flying open. “Garrett-”

“Relax,” Garrett orders softly, his hands moving to massage your thighs. “You can take us both. We’ll be slow.”

Dean slows his thrusting, pulling almost entirely out to give Garrett room. Garrett pushes forward.

You scream as the blunt, thick head stretches you open. The pain is sharp for a fraction of a second before the immense, overwhelming fullness drowns it out. Garrett slides all the way in, locking you entirely onto his length.

“Fuck,” Dean hisses, seeing Garrett buried inside you right next to him.

Dean pushes forward, sliding back into your cunt.

The feeling of being entirely, completely filled by two alphas at once breaks your brain. You collapse forward onto the pillows, unable to support yourself, completely surrendering to them.

“That’s it,” Garrett groans, his chest pressing against your back. He sets a slow, agonizing rhythm.

Dean catches the rhythm perfectly. They move in tandem. As Garrett pulls back, Dean thrusts deep. As Dean retreats, Garrett slams forward.

It is a completely synchronized, devastating assault on your senses.

Logan is at your head, kissing you deeply, his tongue mimicking the brutal rhythm of his packmates. Tucker is beside him, his hands roaming over your flushed, sweaty skin, pressing firm, grounding touches to your shoulders and arms to keep you from flying apart.

“You are so fucking good,” Dean praises, his voice tight with approaching climax. “Taking both of us. Best omega.”

“Mine,” Garrett snarls, his control completely snapping.

He drives his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt, and holds it. Dean slams into you a second later, completely bottoming out.

Both of their knots swell simultaneously.

You let out a shattered, breathless scream. Your body cannot physically handle the stretch. You convulse violently, a full-body climax ripping through you with the force of a hurricane. The pleasure is so intense it hurts.

Garrett and Dean roar in unison, their hot seed flooding both of your canals simultaneously.

Your eyes roll back in your head.

The heat finally, mercifully breaks. The fever drops. The frantic, biological push vanishes, leaving behind a completely empty, thoroughly wrecked shell.

You pass out before Garrett and Dean even pull out.

***

When you finally, fully regain consciousness, the world is quiet.

You are lying on your stomach in the center of the nest. The ruined blankets have been swapped out for fresh, clean ones, though they still smell heavily of the pack.

Your body feels like it was hit by a freight train, but the burning, frantic itch beneath your skin is gone. You feel heavy, grounded, and entirely sated.

You turn your head slowly.

Garrett, Dean, Logan, and Tucker are all in the living room. They are dressed in sweatpants, looking incredibly exhausted but thoroughly at peace. The feral, aggressive edge to their pheromones is gone, replaced by a warm, protective, and overwhelmingly contented hum.

Logan notices you are awake first. He drops his phone on the coffee table and immediately moves to the edge of the nest.

“Hey,” Logan says softly, his voice a deep rumble. “Welcome back to the land of the living.”

You let out a hoarse hum, too tired to speak.

Garrett, Dean, and Tucker immediately abandon what they were doing and crowd around the nest.

You look down at yourself. You are naked, but you feel sticky.

You lift your arm. Your skin is covered in a slick, fragrant sheen.

“We didn’t wash you,” Tucker explains, his voice entirely devoid of shame. He sits on the edge of the mattress, reaching out to gently stroke your hair. “The heat broke, but your body was leaking heavily. Slick, semen. It’s the most concentrated form of our mingled scents.”

Dean kneels beside Tucker, a smug, incredibly satisfied smirk on his face. “In the wild, a pack rubs the excess into the omega’s skin. It seals the scent. It acts as a biological warning to any other alpha who comes near you that you are thoroughly claimed, marked, and bred.”

You blush furiously, the heat rising to your cheeks. “You rubbed it into my skin?”

“Every inch of you,” Garrett confirms, his eyes dropping to your bare shoulders. He looks incredibly proud of himself. “You smell like us. You smell like mine.”

You let your head drop back onto the pillows, a soft, breathless laugh escaping your lips. It’s feral. It’s disgusting. It’s the most beautifully possessive thing you have ever heard.

“I’m so tired,” you whisper, closing your eyes.

“Sleep, sweetheart,” Logan murmurs, sliding into the nest and pulling the heavy duvet over your body. He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in the juncture of your neck, directly over the four distinct, healing bite marks. “We’re right here. We’re not going anywhere.”

Dean crawls in on your other side, throwing his arm over your waist. Garrett settles at your feet, his heavy hands resting on your calves. Tucker sits at your head, keeping watch.

You are completely surrounded. Fully claimed. Thoroughly ruined in the best possible way.

The beta who thought she was destined to be alone is gone. In her place is the center of a pack.

And you wouldn’t trade it for the world.

***

The aftermath of a five-day heat doesn’t leave you glowing. It leaves you feeling like you were tossed in a dryer on the highest setting alongside a bag of bricks.

It’s Tuesday morning. You are sitting at the kitchen island, wearing nothing but one of Logan’s oversized grey t-shirts and a pair of fuzzy socks. You are staring blankly at a mug of Earl Grey tea.

“Drink,” Tucker says, walking past you to pull a carton of eggs from the fridge. He stops, taps the rim of your mug with his knuckle, and waits until you actually pick it up and take a sip. “Good girl.”

You let out a soft sigh, leaning your chin on your hand.

Your entire world has been flipped off its axis. You missed your first full week of college classes. You no longer live in a dorm. You share a house with four massive, ridiculously attractive hockey players who currently treat you like a delicate piece of blown glass.

And then there’s your neck.

Every time you turn your head, the dull, healing ache of four distinct bite marks pulls at your skin. They are perfectly spaced — Garrett’s over your scent gland, Dean’s on your collarbone, Logan’s just beneath your hairline, and Tucker’s right over your pulse point. You catch glimpses of them in the bathroom mirror and your breath still hitches.

You are marked. You are mated.

“What’s going on in that beautiful head of yours?”

Dean slides onto the stool next to you. He’s fresh out of the shower, his blond hair damp and sticking up in every direction. He smells like expensive soap, rain, and absolute contentment. Without asking, he wraps his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side, and buries his face in the crook of your neck right over his bite mark.

He inhales deeply, letting out a low, vibrating hum of satisfaction.

“I need to call my parents,” you say, your voice quiet.

Dean freezes. Tucker stops whisking the eggs.

Logan and Garrett walk into the kitchen from the living room, instantly picking up on the shift in the air. Garrett’s eyes immediately lock onto you, assessing you for distress.

“Your parents,” Garrett repeats, leaning his hips against the counter across from you. “Right. It’s been over a week since you left New York.”

“My mom has texted me forty-two times,” you say, pulling your phone out of your pocket and setting it on the granite counter. “And Mae left six voicemails. They think I’m ignoring them because I’m depressed about being a beta surrounded by omegas at college.”

“You’re not a beta,” Logan states flatly, walking over to press a kiss to the top of your head.

“I know that. And you know that,” you say, dragging a hand down your face. “But they don’t. The last time they saw me, I was packing my beat-up sedan, entirely unbonded, without a drop of scent to my name. If I FaceTime them right now, the first thing they’re going to see are four massive bite marks on my neck.”

Dean lifts his head, his blue eyes crinkling with amusement. “And the problem is …”

“The problem, Dean, is that omegas don’t just magically present at eighteen and instantly find a four-alpha fated pack,” you groan. “It’s medically unheard of. My dad is going to have a heart attack. My mom is going to cry. And Mae is going to ask so many inappropriate questions I might actually die of embarrassment.”

Tucker sets a plate of scrambled eggs and toast in front of you. “They love you. They’ll be happy.”

“They’ll be shocked,” you correct, picking up your fork. “And they’re going to want to know everything. I can’t exactly tell them I got roofied at a frat party my first night here. My dad will drive to Massachusetts and burn the campus down.”

Garrett’s jaw tightens at the mention of the party. The feral, protective alpha in him is still violently angry about what happened, even if Brad the lacrosse player is currently nursing a shattered hand somewhere out of state.

“So don’t tell them about the drink,” Garrett says reasonably. “Tell them the stress of the move triggered a delayed presentation. It happens. Rare, but it happens. And the moment your pheromones hit the air, we smelled you from across campus and the bond snapped.”

“That makes us sound like bloodhounds, G,” Dean snorts.

“We basically are,” Logan points out, stealing a piece of toast off your plate. You smack his hand with your fork, and he just grins, chewing happily.

You look at the four of them. They are so relaxed, so entirely confident in their claim over you. There is no jealousy, no weird posturing. They operate as a single, cohesive unit built entirely around keeping you safe and happy.

“Okay,” you breathe out, pushing your plate away. “I’m going to do it. Right now. Before I lose my nerve.”

“Want us to leave the room?” Tucker asks, already reaching for a dish towel to dry his hands.

“No,” you say quickly. Your inner omega spikes with immediate, irrational panic at the thought of them leaving you to face this alone. “No. Stay. Just … maybe stay out of the camera frame for the first five minutes? Let me ease them into it.”

“We can do that,” Garrett says, crossing his arms over his chest. He leans back against the counter, giving you a clear sightline but staying out of the phone’s camera angle. Logan leans next to him. Tucker stays by the stove, and Dean smoothly slides his stool back a few feet.

You pick up your phone, unlock it, and take a deep breath.

You hit the FaceTime icon next to your mom’s name.

It rings exactly once before the screen connects.

Your mother’s face fills the screen. She’s in the kitchen of your childhood home, the familiar floral wallpaper visible in the background. Her eyes are wide, and she looks incredibly stressed.

“Y/N!” Your mom gasps, practically dropping the phone. “Oh my god, David! Mae! Get in here, she’s calling!”

“Mom, hi,” you say, offering a small, nervous smile.

“Honey, why haven’t you been answering my texts? Are you okay? Is the dorm awful? Are the classes too hard? You look …” Your mom leans closer to the screen, her brow furrowing. “You look different. Are you sick? Your cheeks are so flushed.”

“I’m not sick, Mom.”

There’s a scuffling sound, and suddenly your older sister Mae squeezes into the frame, shoving her face next to your mom’s.

“You’re alive!” Mae says dramatically. “We thought you got kidnapped by a cult.”

“Not a cult,” you say, glancing nervously off-screen at Logan, who is trying very hard not to laugh.

“Well, what is it?” Your mom asks, her tone shifting from panicked to strictly maternal. “You’ve been gone for over a week. We called the freshman dorm yesterday, and your roommate Brooke said you moved out! Y/N, where are you living?”

“Okay, Mom, take a breath,” you say, holding the phone steady. “I have a lot to tell you. But you have to promise not to freak out.”

Your dad’s face appears in the background, looking over your mom’s shoulder. “If you tell us you dropped out of college to join a band, I’m cutting off your credit card.”

“I didn’t drop out,” you roll your eyes. “I just … I’m not in the dorms anymore because I had a medical emergency.”

The color drains from your mother’s face entirely. “Medical emergency? What happened? Are you in the hospital?”

“No, I’m completely fine,” you assure her quickly. “I’m better than fine, actually. I’m … well.”

You pause. You look off-screen again. Garrett gives you a slow, encouraging nod, his eyes steady and warm.

You look back at the screen. You reach up and pull the collar of the oversized t-shirt to the side, exposing the left side of your neck, and take a deep breath.

“I’m an omega,” you say.

The silence on the other end of the phone is absolute. It is a thick, heavy silence.

Mae’s jaw actually drops open. Your dad blinks rapidly. Your mom just stares at you, her eyes darting from your face to the deep, unmistakable claiming bite resting right over your scent gland.

“You …” your mom stammers, her voice breaking. “You presented?”

“Last Friday,” you confirm. “It was sudden. The doctor said the stress of moving and being in a new environment must have triggered a delayed biological response. But I presented. I have a scent. It’s vanilla and rain.”

Tears instantly well up in your mom’s eyes. She covers her mouth with her hand, letting out a choked sob of pure, overwhelming relief. For two years, she had watched you suffer, watched you pull away from the family out of shame.

“Oh, my baby,” your mom cries, wiping her cheeks. “Oh, honey, I’m so happy for you. We were so worried. But wait … you presented last week? Alone? You went through your first heat alone?”

Your dad’s eyes narrow, his protective alpha instincts finally catching up to the shock. He leans closer to the screen, his gaze locking onto your neck.

“You didn’t go through it alone,” your dad says, his voice low and serious. “You have a bite mark, Y/N. Who bit you?”

Mae gasps. “Wait, you found your mate? Already?! You’ve been there for a week!”

“It happened really fast,” you say, a nervous laugh escaping you. You rub the back of your neck. “My pheromones hit the air, and the bond just … snapped. We couldn’t fight it.”

“Who is he?” Your dad demands. “Is he a student? An alpha? What’s his name?”

You bite your lower lip. This is it. This is the part that is going to break their brains.

“Dad, Mom,” you start slowly. “You know how sometimes, fated bonds can be … unique?”

“Unique how?” Your mom asks, wiping her nose with a tissue.

“Well. I didn’t just find a mate.” You clear your throat, feeling the intense heat of four gazes burning into the side of your head. “I found a pack.”

Mae’s eyes bug out of her head. “A pack? Like, an established pack adopted you?”

“No,” you say. “I mean … my fated bond. It tied me to four alphas.”

Complete, utter silence descends on the FaceTime call again.

“Four,” your dad repeats, his voice completely flat.

“Four,” you confirm softly.

“At the same time?” Mae asks, her voice pitching up an octave.

Before you can answer, Dean decides he has been patient long enough.

“Actually,” Dean’s smooth, charming voice cuts in as he rolls his stool right into the camera frame, popping his head over your shoulder. He flashes a blinding, million-dollar smile at your family. “We prefer to think of ourselves as a heavily coordinated unit. Hi! I’m Dean Di Laurentis. It is an absolute pleasure to finally meet you.”

Your mother lets out a tiny, high-pitched squeak.

Dean is shirtless, casually leaning his chin on your shoulder, looking like a literal underwear model. He wraps his arm securely around your waist, his thumb gently stroking your side. The physical intimacy is so casual, so deeply ingrained, it screams of a fully sealed bond.

“Dean,” you sigh, though you lean into his touch instantly.

“What? You said wait five minutes. It’s been six,” Dean reasons.

“He’s not wrong,” Garrett says, stepping into the frame from the left.

Garrett is wearing a tight black t-shirt that highlights every single inch of his heavily muscled chest and arms. He steps right behind you, placing his large, calloused hands heavily on your shoulders. The dominant, authoritative aura radiating off him is palpable even through a phone screen.

“Garrett Graham,” Garrett introduces himself smoothly, nodding at your dad. “Sir. Ma’am.”

Your dad is staring at the screen like he’s watching a hallucination. “Garrett Graham. The hockey player. My buddy watches Briar games. You’re the captain.”

“Yes, sir,” Garrett says. He leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your temple, entirely unfazed by your father’s scrutinizing glare.

“Okay, move, you’re hogging the screen,” Logan mutters, shoving Garrett slightly to the side to squeeze in.

Logan leans down on the counter on your right side. His dark hair is messy, his arm flexing as he rests his weight on the granite. He offers your family a relaxed, easygoing smirk.

“John Logan,” Logan says. “Most people just call me Logan.”

Mae is practically vibrating out of her skin on the other end of the phone. “Are you all on the hockey team? Wait, is this a joke? Y/N, did you hire models to prank us?”

“I assure you, we are very real,” Tucker says, stepping into the background of the frame holding a fresh cup of tea. He walks up and swaps out your empty mug for the full one. He smiles warmly at the camera. “John Tucker. It’s wonderful to meet you all. Y/N has told us a lot about her family.”

Your mother is clutching the edge of her kitchen counter for dear life. She is staring at her youngest daughter, the girl they had pitied for two years as a scentless beta, who is now sitting in a massive, gorgeous kitchen surrounded by four hulking, intensely protective alpha athletes who are quite literally treating her like a queen.

“Four,” your dad says again, apparently stuck on a loop. “You are mated to four alphas. All of them.”

“Yes, sir,” Garrett says, his voice taking on a slightly harder, firmer edge. The captain asserting his claim. “We share the bond. She is the center of our pack. She’s safe with us.”

“And where is she living?” Your mom asks, her voice trembling slightly. “Because she’s not in the dorms.”

“She lives here,” Dean says cheerfully. “With us. In our off-campus house. We went and packed up her dorm last weekend. It wasn’t safe for a newly presented, unbonded omega to be in a freshman dorm anyway. The pheromones were too unpredictable.”

Your dad narrows his eyes. “You moved my eighteen-year-old daughter into a house with four college boys?”

“Four fated mates,” Logan corrects softly, though his dark eyes are entirely serious. “It’s different, sir. You know how the bond works.”

Your dad opens his mouth, likely to argue, but he stops. Because he does know how the bond works. You can see the realization dawning on his face.

He looks at the screen. He sees the way Garrett’s hands are anchored to your shoulders, a grounding, heavy weight. He sees the way Dean is leaning into your side, practically breathing your scent. He sees Tucker making sure you have hot tea, and Logan standing guard.

Most importantly, he sees you.

You aren’t shrinking into yourself. You aren’t forcing a tight, polite smile to hide your pain like you had for two years at every family dinner. You are relaxed, glowing, and completely at peace. You look utterly, thoroughly loved.

Your dad’s shoulders drop. The aggressive alpha posturing drains out of him.

“You’re taking care of her?” Your dad asks, his voice thick with emotion. It’s not a threat. It’s a genuine plea from a father who just wants his kid to be safe.

“With our lives, sir,” Garrett says without a single second of hesitation. The absolute, fierce devotion in his voice leaves absolutely no room for doubt.

Your mom bursts into fresh tears.

“Oh, my goodness,” she cries, waving a hand in front of her face. “I’m sorry, I’m just so overwhelmed. Y/N, honey, I’m so happy for you. We were so worried you would be lonely up there.”

“Definitely not lonely, Mom,” you laugh softly, leaning your head back against Garrett’s stomach.

“I’ll say,” Mae mutters, her eyes raking over the four massive athletes. “Jeez, Y/N. Talk about overcompensating for being a late bloomer. You hit the absolute jackpot.”

“Hey,” Dean points a finger at the camera, a charming grin on his face. “She’s the jackpot. We just got lucky.”

The compliment makes your heart flutter. You look up at Dean, and he winks at you.

“Well,” your dad clears his throat, recovering his composure. “If you’re going to be taking care of my daughter, we expect to meet you in person. Thanksgiving is in two months. I assume you all have a break in the hockey schedule?”

The four alphas freeze.

Meeting the parents over FaceTime is one thing. Walking into a house full of a generational pack to present themselves as the men who claimed the family’s youngest daughter is an entirely different level of terrifying.

“Absolutely, sir,” Tucker says smoothly, saving the rest of them from their panic. “We would be honored. We can drive down.”

“Good,” your dad nods. “We’ll have the guest rooms ready. Though I suppose you won’t be needing all of them.”

A dark blush floods your face. “Dad! Please.”

Your mom laughs, wiping her eyes. “We’ll let you go, honey. I know you missed a lot of classes, you probably have a lot to catch up on.”

“Actually, we handled the administration,” Logan says casually. “She’s got a medical exemption for the first two weeks, and Tucker picked up the syllabi for all her classes. We’re tutoring her.”

Your mom stares at Logan. “You guys … you already took care of all her classes?”

“Of course, ma’am,” Logan says, looking slightly confused as to why that was surprising. “It’s our job.”

Your mom lets out a long, shaky breath. “Well. It’s very nice to meet you boys. Take care of my girl.”

“Always,” Garrett promises.

“Love you, Mom. Love you, Dad. Bye, Mae,” you say, waving at the screen.

“Love you, Y/N! Tell Dean I said hi!” Mae yells right before your dad hangs up the phone.

The screen goes black.

You set the phone down on the counter and let out a massive, explosive breath, slumping forward onto the granite.

“That was incredibly stressful,” you groan into your arms.

Garrett chuckles, a deep, rumbling sound in his chest. His hands slide off your shoulders and down your back, rubbing soothing circles between your shoulder blades. “You did great, baby. They took it well.”

“My dad invited you to Thanksgiving,” you point out, turning your head to look at him. “He’s going to corner you all in the garage and interrogate you about your intentions.”

“Let him,” Logan says, picking up his piece of toast again. “My intentions are to marry you, buy a house in the suburbs, and never let anyone look at you ever again. He can interrogate me all he wants.”

You blink, completely stunned by the casual drop of the ‘M’ word.

Dean bursts out laughing at the look on your face. He wraps both arms around you and pulls you out of your chair, spinning you around until you are caged against his chest.

“Logan’s not subtle, sweetheart,” Dean grins, kissing the tip of your nose. “But he’s not wrong. You’re stuck with us. Forever. Might as well get used to the Thanksgiving interrogations now.”

“I think I can handle it,” you smile, wrapping your arms around Dean’s neck.

Tucker walks over, wrapping his arms around both you and Dean, pulling you into a tight, warm hug. Logan steps in a second later, wrapping his arms around the group. Garrett completes the circle, his massive frame enveloping all of you.

You stand in the middle of the kitchen, entirely surrounded by the physical weight and the heavy, intoxicating scents of pine, cedar, mint, and leather.

You are a long way from the scared, lonely girl packing a suitcase in New York. You are exactly where you are supposed to be.

“Now,” Garrett says, his voice a low, commanding rumble against the top of your head. “Who’s helping her study for History 101, and who is helping me scrub the nesting blankets before practice?”

“I call history,” Dean says immediately.

“Coward,” Logan scoffs.

You just laugh, burying your face in Dean’s chest, letting the sounds of your pack wash over you. Life at Briar University is going to be incredibly, wildly complicated.

But you have never felt safer.

***

“Absolutely not.”

You stand in front of the full-length mirror in the upstairs hallway, holding a tiny wand of liquid concealer. You haven’t even uncapped it yet, and the veto is already unanimous.

“Garrett, be reasonable,” you sigh, looking at the hockey captain through the reflection. He is leaning against the doorframe of his bedroom, his arms crossed over a tight grey t-shirt, looking like a brick wall of stubborn alpha instinct. “I can’t just walk into a freshman seminar looking like I survived a vampire attack.”

“They’re bite marks, sweetheart, not hickeys,” Dean points out, walking past Garrett to stand directly behind you. He plucks the concealer out of your hand and tosses it casually into an open bathroom drawer. “And you didn’t survive a vampire attack. You survived a heat with four fated mates. There’s a difference. A very proud, very biological difference.”

You touch your neck. The four claiming bites have healed from open wounds into neat, silver-pink scars. They form a ring around your collar, an undeniable, permanent collar of ownership.

“I’m going to get stared at,” you grumble, though you lean back against Dean’s chest when he wraps his arms around your waist.

“Let them stare,” Logan calls out from the bottom of the stairs. “If anyone stares too long, I’ll gouge their eyes out. Simple.”

“Please don’t gouge anyone’s eyes out on my first day of college,” you call back. “I’m already a week behind on the syllabus. I don’t need to be an accessory to assault.”

Tucker walks up the stairs, carrying a travel mug of coffee. He hands it to you, his dark eyes scanning your outfit. You are wearing a simple pair of fitted jeans and a white tank top.

“Are you sure you don’t want to wear one of our jackets?” Tucker asks gently.

You take a sip of the coffee. “It’s seventy degrees outside, Tuck. If I wear a team jacket, I’ll sweat to death before I make it to the quad.”

“She’s right,” Garrett concedes, pushing off the doorframe. He steps up to your side, his eyes dropping to your exposed neck. A deep, satisfied rumble vibrates in his chest at the sight of his mark resting right over your scent gland. “The bites are visible. And she smells like us. Anyone with half a working nose will know exactly who she belongs to.”

You roll your eyes, but your omega preens at the possessiveness.

It has been four days since your heat ended. The transition from the hazy, sex-drenched bubble of the off-campus house back to reality has been jarring. You are officially an enrolled freshman at Briar University, and today is your first actual day of classes. The university administration, thanks to a very aggressive phone call from Garrett and some smooth talking from Tucker, excused your first-week absences due to a “medical emergency.”

But you can’t hide in this house forever.

“Alright,” Garrett says, checking his watch. “Pack up. Logan has the truck running. We’re dropping you at the humanities building.”

“You guys don’t all have to walk me to class,” you say, grabbing your backpack from the floor. “Don’t you have your own schedules?”

“We are upperclassmen, baby,” Dean smirks, grabbing his keys. “We schedule our classes for the afternoon so we can sleep in. Which means our mornings are entirely free to escort our beautiful new mate across campus.”

You don’t bother arguing. You’ve quickly learned that arguing with four fated alphas about your personal safety is a completely useless endeavor.

You follow them down the stairs and out the front door. The crisp September air hits your face, a welcome shock to your system. You climb into the middle of the truck’s backseat, sandwiched between Garrett and Dean, while Tucker takes shotgun and Logan drives.

The ride to campus is short. Logan pulls the massive truck right up to the curb of the main quad, illegally parking in a loading zone.

“Logan, you’re going to get a ticket,” you say, unbuckling your seatbelt.

“I’ll pay it,” Logan shrugs, putting the truck in park. He kills the engine. “Let’s go, boys.”

All four of them get out of the truck.

The second your sneakers hit the pavement of the Briar University quad, the atmosphere completely shifts.

The quad is packed with students rushing to their 9 AM classes. Alphas, betas, and omegas are everywhere, laughing, drinking coffee, reading on benches. But as the five of you begin to walk up the main paved path, a strange, rippling silence begins to spread through the crowd.

It starts with the scent.

Your vanilla and rain pheromones are sweet and undeniably omega, but they are heavily, aggressively smothered in the dark, dominant musk of pine, cedar, mint, and leather. To any alpha on campus, the scent profile is a massive, blaring stop sign.

Then comes the visual.

Garrett Graham, Dean Di Laurentis, John Logan, and John Tucker are practically campus royalty. They are the star players of a championship hockey team, notoriously single, and completely out of reach.

And they are currently walking in a tight, protective diamond formation around a tiny, dark-haired freshman.

Logan is walking a step ahead of you, his broad shoulders clearing a path through the crowd. Dean is practically glued to your right side, his hand resting casually but firmly on the small of your back. Garrett is on your left, his expression carved out of absolute stone, his eyes tracking every single male student within a fifty-yard radius. Tucker guards your rear, his calm, imposing presence preventing anyone from walking up behind you.

“They’re staring,” you whisper, ducking your head slightly.

“Keep your chin up, sweetheart,” Garrett orders softly, his hand sliding off his hip to intertwine his fingers with yours. He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze. “You have nothing to hide.”

You force yourself to look up.

A group of upperclassman alphas leaning against a brick wall stop talking entirely as you pass. One of them, a guy wearing a lacrosse hoodie, takes a subtle breath in, trying to catch your scent.

Garrett doesn’t break stride. He just turns his head, his eyes locking onto the lacrosse player with a look of such pure, unadulterated murder that the guy actually takes a physical step backward, dropping his gaze to the pavement in immediate submission.

“Easy, G,” Tucker murmurs from behind you.

“Just establishing boundaries,” Garrett mutters.

You reach the heavy oak doors of the humanities building. Logan pulls the door open, holding it as the pack files inside. The hallway is lined with classrooms.

“Room 104,” you say, checking your schedule on your phone. “It’s right here. Intro to European History.”

“Perfect,” Dean says, leaning down to press a quick, hard kiss to your lips right in the middle of the hallway. Several passing students actively trip over their own feet watching the legendary Dean Di Laurentis kiss a freshman. “Have a good class, baby. Learn about … whatever it is Europeans do.”

“Thanks, Dean,” you smile, your cheeks burning.

“We’ll meet you at the student union for lunch at noon,” Tucker says, smoothing down a stray piece of your hair. “Text if you need anything. Seriously. Anything.”

“I will,” you promise.

You turn to Logan, who bumps his fist gently against your shoulder, and then to Garrett. Garrett pulls you in for a deep kiss, entirely uncaring of the audience, before stepping back.

“See you at lunch,” Garrett says.

You wave to them, take a deep breath, and walk into Room 104.

The lecture hall is huge, tiered with rows of long desks. It’s mostly full of other freshmen. You find an empty seat in the middle row, sliding into the desk and dropping your backpack on the floor.

You pull out your laptop, trying to ignore the blatant staring from the girls sitting a few seats away from you. You know exactly what they are whispering about. The silver-pink bite marks on your neck are on full display under the fluorescent lights.

“Is this seat taken?”

You look to your right. A guy with sandy blonde hair and a friendly, open smile is standing there. He smells faintly of citrus. A beta.

“No, it’s open,” you say politely.

He slides into the seat, dropping his notebook on the desk. “I’m Mark. First day?”

“Yeah. Medical stuff kept me out last week,” you say, opening your laptop. “I’m Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” Mark leans back in his chair, tapping his pen against his notebook. He glances at your neck, his eyes widening slightly before he quickly looks away, trying to be polite. “So, uh, you’re a little late to the party, but the professor is pretty chill. He posts all his slides online.”

“That’s a relief,” you sigh. “I have a lot of catching up to do.”

“I can share my notes with you,” Mark offers, offering a genuinely helpful smile. “If you want. We could study-”

Mark doesn’t get to finish his sentence.

The heavy wooden door at the back of the lecture hall swings open. The professor, a short, balding man in a tweed jacket, is already at the podium setting up his microphone. He looks up, frowning.

“Class has begun, young man,” the professor says.

Logan ignores him.

Logan walks down the tiered steps of the lecture hall, his dark eyes scanning the rows until he finds exactly what he’s looking for. He walks straight down your row.

Your jaw drops. “Logan? What are you doing here?”

“I missed you,” Logan says completely deadpan.

He stops right next to Mark. Logan is towering over the seated beta, his arms crossed over his chest. Logan’s scent — sharp, aggressive cedar — floods the immediate area, a heavy, dominant warning.

Mark pales instantly. He looks up at Logan, then looks at you, then looks at the bite marks on your neck. The math clicks in his head in record time.

“I … I think I left my water bottle in the back,” Mark stammers, frantically grabbing his notebook and practically scrambling out of the seat. He relocates to the absolute farthest corner of the lecture hall.

Logan doesn’t even watch him go. He just slides into the seat Mark vacated, stretching his long legs out under the desk.

“Excuse me!” The professor calls out from the podium, pointing a laser pointer at Logan. “Are you enrolled in this course? I don’t recognize you.”

“Auditing, sir,” Logan calls back, entirely unbothered. He leans back in the chair, pulling a single, crumpled piece of paper and a pen out of his pocket. “Just really passionate about the French Revolution.”

The professor squints at him, recognizes the star defenseman of the Briar hockey team, and apparently decides he isn’t paid enough to argue. “Very well. Let’s begin with the fall of the Bastille.”

You turn your head to glare at Logan. “You’re an upperclassman. You have a business major. What are you doing?”

“Garrett told me to go back to the house,” Logan whispers, clicking his pen. “But I didn’t want to. So I decided to further my education.”

“You scared that poor kid half to death,” you hiss.

Logan glances at the empty seat on your left, and then casually drapes his heavy arm over the back of your chair, his fingers brushing the nape of your neck. “He was flirting with you.”

“He was offering me notes!”

“Notes are a gateway drug to flirting, sweetheart,” Logan says smoothly. He leans closer, his breath warm against your ear. “Besides, I like sitting next to you. Pay attention to the board. We’re learning.”

You let out a huff of exasperated laughter, shaking your head, but you don’t push his arm away.

For the next hour, Logan sits through an entirely useless freshman history lecture just to act as your personal bodyguard. He doesn’t take a single note. He spends the entire time playing with the ends of your hair, casually scent-marking you in front of a room full of two hundred students.

When the bell finally rings, you pack up your laptop.

“Lunchtime,” Logan announces, standing up and stretching. “Come on, baby. The animals are waiting.”

***

The student union is the social epicenter of Briar University. It is a massive, two-story cafeteria packed with different food vendors, long tables, and thousands of gossiping students.

When you and Logan walk through the double doors, the noise level in the room actually dips.

“I feel like an exhibit at the zoo,” you mutter, sticking close to Logan’s side.

“They’re just jealous,” Logan says effortlessly. He points toward the back corner of the cafeteria. “There they are.”

Garrett, Dean, and Tucker have commandeered an entire circular booth near the floor-to-ceiling windows. The table is covered in food — pizza, salads, sandwiches, and fries.

Dean spots you and immediately slides out of the booth, gesturing grandly. “The queen has arrived!”

You laugh, walking over. You slide into the booth. Dean slides in right next to you, pinning you against the window, while Garrett and Tucker take the opposite side. Logan grabs a chair and pulls it up to the end of the table.

“How was history?” Tucker asks, pushing a salad and a slice of pizza toward you.

“It was fine,” you say, shooting a pointed look at Logan. “Until a certain hockey player crashed the lecture and terrorized a friendly beta into switching seats.”

Garrett pauses mid-bite of his sandwich, raising an eyebrow at Logan. “You stayed in the classroom?”

“He was going to give her his notes, G,” Logan defends himself, reaching for a handful of fries. “I was doing my civic duty.”

Garrett looks at you. “Did this guy make you uncomfortable?”

“No, Garrett,” you sigh. “He was literally just saying hi.”

“Good,” Garrett says, though his eyes sweep the cafeteria with a cold, predatory warning. “But Logan’s right. No notes from strange guys. You need notes, you tell Tucker.”

“I don’t know European History,” Tucker points out mildly.

“Then you’ll learn it, Tuck,” Garrett deadpans.

You roll your eyes, taking a bite of your pizza. The sheer, ridiculous alpha hovering would be annoying if it wasn’t so incredibly endearing. They are entirely incapable of turning off their protective instincts.

“Well, well, well.”

You look up. Brooke is standing next to the booth, holding a plastic tray with a sad-looking sandwich on it. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun.

“Brooke!” You say, your face lighting up. You haven’t seen her since the night of the party.

“I was wondering when you were going to emerge from the alpha fortress,” Brooke says, popping a piece of gum in her mouth. She looks around the table at the four massive hockey players, completely unfazed. “Dean. You owe me a coffee.”

Dean grins, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a crisp fifty-dollar bill. He holds it out to her. “For your silence, Brooke. You kept the secret well.”

Brooke snatches the bill, tucking it into her bra. “Pleasure doing business with you. Can I sit? The usual tables are full, and I’m not sitting near the lacrosse team today, they smell like cheap body spray and depression.”

“Sit,” you invite her eagerly.

Logan kicks out a chair for her, and Brooke sits down.

“So,” Brooke leans forward, resting her chin on her hand, looking at your neck. “The rumors are true. The entire campus is losing their minds, by the way. I had three different girls in my lit class ask me if you used a love potion.”

“No potions,” Garrett says smoothly, leaning his arm on the back of the booth. “Just fate.”

“It’s insane,” Brooke shakes her head. “I literally helped you carry your boxes up the stairs because you were a beta. And now you’re wearing four claiming marks. You know there’s a betting pool on whether or not you’re going to survive the semester without dropping out from sheer exhaustion?”

You choke on your pizza.

Dean bursts into laughter, slapping the table. “They think we’re going to tire her out?”

“I mean, look at you guys,” Brooke gestures vaguely at their massive, heavily muscled frames. “And look at her. It’s a valid concern.”

“I am perfectly fine, thank you,” you wheeze, your face burning scarlet.

“She is very well taken care of,” Tucker says, offering you a napkin with a polite, completely unbothered smile.

“I can see that,” Brooke says, taking a bite of her sandwich. She looks at you, her expression turning genuine. “But seriously, I’m glad you’re okay. You vanished at that party, and I felt bad for leaving you by the kitchen.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” you say quickly. “I’m okay. Really.”

The comfortable banter at the table is suddenly interrupted by a sharp, sour scent cutting through the air.

You look up. A group of three girls are walking past the booth. They are all omegas, dressed in expensive clothes, and they are staring directly at you with pure, unfiltered hostility.

“Is that her?” One of the girls, a blonde with a harsh, overpowering scent of lilies, sneers loudly. “The freshman who trapped them?”

The table goes dead silent.

Brooke rolls her eyes. “Ignore them, Y/N. That’s Jessica. She’s a puck bunny. She’s been trying to get Garrett’s attention since sophomore year.”

You shrink back slightly into the booth, your inner omega flinching at the aggressive hostility from another of your dynamic.

Before you can even process the insult, Garrett moves.

He doesn’t stand up. He doesn’t yell. He simply turns his head, locking his eyes onto Jessica. He drops his casual, relaxed posture, and his alpha violently surges to the surface. He floods the immediate area around the booth with a dark, suffocating wave of dominant pheromones — a clear, territorial warning.

“Keep walking, Jessica,” Garrett says. His voice is dangerously quiet, but it carries easily. “And keep my mate’s name out of your mouth.”

Jessica freezes, her face draining of color. The sheer force of Garrett’s alpha command physically pushes her back a step. She whimpers, her scent turning sour with fear, and practically sprints away, dragging her friends with her.

Garrett turns back to the table, his pheromones instantly smoothing out into the comforting, protective pine scent you love. He picks up his sandwich as if nothing happened.

You stare at him, entirely awestruck.

“That was incredibly hot,” you whisper before you can stop yourself.

Dean groans, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “G, you can’t just do the alpha voice in the cafeteria. She’s going to jump you in the middle of the food court.”

Logan smirks, finishing his fries. “She can try. I’ve got next.”

Brooke watches the entire exchange, completely deadpan. “I’m going to go get my coffee before I witness something that violates the student code of conduct. See you in the dorms, Y/N. Oh, wait. No, I won’t.”

You laugh as Brooke waves and walks away.

The rest of lunch passes without incident. Garrett’s display of dominance has clearly sent a message across the cafeteria. No one else dares to approach the table, and the whispers become a lot more hushed.

***

“You don’t have to stay,” Garrett says, adjusting his helmet as he steps off the rubber matting and onto the ice.

The Briar University ice rink is freezing. You are sitting in the front row of the bleachers, wrapped in a massive, heavy Briar Hockey fleece blanket that Tucker pulled out of the equipment room for you.

“I have two hours before my next class,” you say, pulling the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “And Dean said if I didn’t watch him do a slap shot, his ego would permanently deflate.”

“It’s true,” Dean shouts from the ice, skating backward in a flawless, fluid circle. “I require constant validation, sweetheart! Watch this!”

Dean winds up and fires a puck at the empty net. It pings off the crossbar with a loud clatter.

“Missed!” Logan chirps, skating past him and casually knocking Dean’s stick out of his hands.

“You’re a menace to society,!” Dean yells, scrambling to pick up his stick.

You laugh, watching them mess around during the warm-ups. It’s entirely different seeing them in their element. In the house, they are your fiercely protective, attentive mates. On the ice, they are lethal, aggressive athletes. The speed and power they possess is terrifying and incredibly impressive.

Coach Jensen blows the whistle, and the team lines up for drills.

You sit quietly in the stands, watching Garrett lead the team. He is a commanding presence, barking out plays, his strides powerful and effortless. Every time he skates past the glass where you are sitting, he shoots you a quick, heated glance, completely unable to ignore you.

About thirty minutes into practice, the doors to the rink open.

A group of girls walk in, giggling and holding coffees. They climb into the stands, sitting a few sections away from you. The puck bunnies.

They don’t say anything to you, but their presence is a clear, annoying buzz. They are watching your alphas.

Your omega bristles.

Without thinking, you pull the heavy fleece blanket down slightly, exposing your neck. You shift on the bleacher, letting your own scent — sweet, claiming vanilla and rain — drift into the cold air of the rink. It’s a subtle, deeply biological display of ownership.

Down on the ice, Garrett feels the shift instantly.

He stops mid-stride. He turns his head, his eyes locking onto you in the stands. He takes a deep breath, his chest expanding as he catches the spike in your pheromones. He looks at the group of girls sitting a few sections away, puts two and two together, and a slow, devastatingly wicked smirk spreads across his face.

“Logan,” Garrett calls out, tapping his stick on the ice.

Logan skates over. Garrett whispers something to him, pointing at the net.

Logan grins, showing his teeth. He skates back to the blue line.

Garrett takes the puck. He explodes forward with terrifying speed, deking past two defensemen who look completely lost. Logan trails him perfectly. Garrett fakes a shot, completely fooling the goalie, and passes the puck backward between his own legs.

Logan catches it perfectly and roofs it into the back of the net.

The whistle blows.

Garrett and Logan don’t celebrate with the team. Instead, they skate directly to the glass right in front of where you are sitting. Dean and Tucker join them a second later.

All four massive, sweating, incredibly dominant alphas line up on the other side of the plexiglass.

Garrett taps his stick against the glass, right in front of your face. He pulls his mouthpiece out, grinning up at you.

“Did you see that, baby?” Garrett asks, his voice carrying perfectly through the small gap between the glass panes.

“I saw it,” you smile, leaning forward.

“Good,” Dean winks, resting his gloves on the top of the glass. “Because we only show off for our girl. Nobody else.”

The group of puck bunnies in the stands are dead silent. The message is painfully, visually clear. The star players of the Briar hockey team aren’t looking at anyone in the stands except the tiny, marked freshman in the front row.

Coach Jensen blows the whistle again, yelling for them to get back to the center circle.

“Gotta go,” Tucker smiles, blowing you a quick kiss through his cage. “Wait for us after practice. We’ll walk you to your afternoon class.”

“I’ll be right here,” you promise.

They skate away, leaving you sitting in the freezing rink, wrapped in their blanket and their heavy, suffocating devotion.

You look over at the group of girls. They are already standing up, their expressions sour as they grab their coffees and walk out of the rink.

You smile, pulling the blanket back up to your chin.

Your first day of college wasn’t exactly what you pictured when you packed your bags in New York. You didn’t expect to have four bodyguards, a reputation as campus royalty, or a permanent set of claiming marks on your neck.

But as you watch Garrett snap another shot into the net, entirely for your benefit, you realize you wouldn’t change a single thing.

***

The “Welcome to Oakville” sign flashes past the tinted windows of Dean’s massive, matte-black SUV.

You shift in the passenger seat, your knee bouncing with a nervous, frantic energy. The familiar sights of your small New York hometown are rolling by — the local bakery, the hardware store, the single-screen movie theater. It all looks exactly the same as it did two months ago when you left.

But you are entirely different.

“Stop bouncing, sweetheart. You’re going to shake the car off the road,” Dean murmurs from the driver’s seat. He reaches over the center console, capturing your knee with his large, warm hand. The grounding weight of his palm instantly soothes the frantic buzzing under your skin.

“I can’t help it,” you exhale, leaning your head back against the leather headrest. “The whole town is going to be watching.”

“Let them watch,” Garrett says from the seat directly behind you. He leans forward, his massive chest brushing the back of your seat, and buries his nose in your hair, taking a deep drag of your vanilla and rain scent. “You have nothing to be nervous about.”

“Easy for you to say,” you mutter. “You’re not the one who spent her entire high school career being treated like a fragile, scentless ghost. Everyone here knows my business. My aunt Carol is probably standing on the front porch with binoculars right now.”

Logan snorts from the other side of the backseat. “If Aunt Carol gets out of line, I’ll put her in a snowbank.”

“No putting relatives in snowbanks, Logan. That’s a ground rule,” Tucker chimes in from the very back row of the extended SUV.

Dean turns the steering wheel, turning onto your childhood street. The neighborhood is quintessentially suburban, lined with neat houses, manicured lawns, and minivans. Dean’s Range Rover, packed with four massive, elite athletes who smell like a literal alpha strike team, sticks out like a sore thumb.

As the car rolls slowly down the street, you see exactly what you feared. Mrs. Gable from next door is “watering her lawn” in thirty-degree weather, her eyes glued to the incoming vehicle. Mr. Henderson is lingering aggressively by his mailbox.

Dean pulls the SUV into your parents’ driveway, the tires crunching against the pavement.

Your mom and dad are already on the porch. Your older sister, Mae, and her mate, a perfectly nice but entirely average alpha named Ben, are standing behind them.

“Okay,” you whisper, taking a shaky breath. “Showtime.”

Dean cuts the engine. The four alphas move with terrifying, coordinated precision. They are out of the car before you even unbuckle your seatbelt. Logan opens your door, offering his hand to help you down. You take it, stepping out into the crisp November air.

The moment your sneakers hit the driveway, your dad’s posture changes.

He stiffens, his chest puffing out slightly, his own alpha instincts flaring as four massive, unknown dominant males step onto his territory.

It’s entirely biological, a primal reaction to the sheer, suffocating wall of pine, cedar, mint, and leather pheromones rolling off your mates.

Ben, Mae’s mate, actually takes a physical step backward on the porch, completely overwhelmed by the proximity of the Briar pack.

“Mom. Dad,” you say, walking up the front steps.

“Oh, my baby!” Your mom bursts into tears the second she sees you, rushing forward to pull you into a bone-crushing hug. She buries her face in your neck, taking a deep breath, and lets out a watery laugh. “Oh, you smell so beautiful. My sweet omega.”

You hug her back tightly, a lump forming in your throat. “I missed you, Mom.”

She pulls back, cupping your cheeks, her eyes immediately darting to the four silver-pink scars ringing your collar. The claiming marks. Her eyes widen slightly, but she offers a warm, teary smile.

Your dad steps forward. He looks past you, his gaze landing squarely on the four men standing at the bottom of the porch steps.

Garrett takes the lead. He walks up the steps, his eyes steady and respectful, but his posture radiating absolute authority. He doesn’t shrink under your father’s scrutiny. He stops just out of your dad’s personal space, offering a large, calloused hand.

“Mr. Y/L/N,” Garrett says, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble. “I’m Garrett Graham. It’s a privilege to finally meet you in person.”

Your dad looks at Garrett’s hand for a long, tense second before taking it. The handshake is firm, a silent, alpha-to-alpha test of strength. Garrett doesn’t flinch.

“Garrett,” your dad says, his voice tight. He looks over Garrett’s shoulder. “And the rest of you?”

Dean saunters up the steps next, flashing his trademark dimpled smile. He shakes your dad’s hand with easy confidence. “Dean Di Laurentis, sir. Your house is beautiful.”

Logan and Tucker follow, introducing themselves with firm handshakes and polite nods.

“Come inside, it’s freezing,” your mom insists, ushering everyone through the front door.

The moment all five of you are inside the house, the hallway feels instantly claustrophobic. Your childhood home isn’t small, but it wasn’t built to contain four men who all stand over six-foot-two and possess shoulders broad enough to block doorways.

Mae practically tackles you, squealing. “I can’t believe it! Look at you! And look at them!” She lowers her voice to a completely unsubtle whisper. “Y/N, they are huge. Ben looks like a child standing next to them.”

You smack her arm, your face burning as you glance back to see Logan smirking, having clearly heard her. “Be quiet, Mae.”

“Alright, boys,” your dad says, crossing his arms over his chest. “Put your bags in the guest room. Boys … why don’t you two come out to the garage with me. Let me show you the vintage Mustang I’m restoring.”

It’s the universal dad code for an interrogation.

Garrett catches your panicked eye and gives you a slow, reassuring wink. “We’d love to, sir.”

***

Dinner is a beautifully chaotic spectacle.

Your mom went all out, the dining room table groaning under the weight of a massive turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and pies. The pack seamlessly integrates themselves into the flow of the house. Tucker spends an hour in the kitchen helping your mom make gravy, entirely charming her to the point where she is giggling like a schoolgirl. Dean helps Mae set the table, casually dodging her rapid-fire, invasive questions about pack dynamics with smooth, political answers.

When you all finally sit down, the seating arrangement is incredibly telling.

You are seated near the middle. Garrett takes the chair immediately to your left, Logan to your right. Dean and Tucker take the seats across from you. They naturally box you in, creating a physical barrier of protection.

Everything is going perfectly until Aunt Carol, who arrived twenty minutes late smelling strongly of cheap perfume and gossip, decides to open her mouth.

“So, Y/N,” Aunt Carol says loudly, her fork poised over her turkey. “I was just telling the girls at the salon about your … situation. Four alphas! My goodness. I suppose when you wait that long to present, you just take whatever the universe throws at you, huh?”

The entire table goes dead silent.

Your dad’s fork clatters against his plate. Mae’s jaw drops.

A sharp, violent spike of aggression floods the dining room. It’s a bitter, terrifying scent, heavy with the promise of violence. You don’t even have to look to know it’s Logan. His hand, resting on his knee beneath the table, balls into a fist so tight his knuckles pop.

Before you can even formulate a response to the backhanded pity, Garrett speaks.

“Actually, Carol,” Garrett says. His tone is conversational, polite, and entirely lethal. He rests his forearms on the table, fixing your aunt with a cold stare that makes the woman physically shrink back in her chair. “She didn’t ‘take whatever the universe threw at her’. We fought for her. We scented her the night she presented, and the bond snapped because she is perfect.”

Garrett leans back, swirling his wine glass, completely owning the room. “We consider ourselves the luckiest men alive to have been chosen by her biology. But if anyone in this town thinks they need to pity our mate because she was a late bloomer … well. I suggest they keep those thoughts to themselves. Before my pack takes it personally.”

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating.

Aunt Carol swallows hard, her face draining of color. “I … I just meant-”

“Pass the potatoes, would you, Ben?” Dean interrupts cheerfully, completely shattering the tension with a blinding smile.

Ben practically throws the bowl of potatoes across the table.

You look at Garrett, your heart swelling with so much affection it physically aches. Under the table, Logan’s rigid hand relaxes. He slips his hand over your thigh, giving you a warm, reassuring squeeze.

Your dad clears his throat, picking up his fork again. He looks at Garrett, a new level of profound respect settling in his eyes.

“The potatoes are excellent,” your dad says to your mom.

The dinner resumes, but the dynamic has irrevocably shifted. Your alphas have drawn a hard, violent line in the sand regarding your respect in this town. You are theirs. And nobody speaks down to their center.

***

By 11 PM, the house is finally quiet.

Your parents offered the pack the two spare guest rooms, but everyone knew that was a formality. You are currently lying in your childhood bedroom, the space drastically altered by the massive bodies occupying it.

The full-size bed is pushed against the wall. Garrett is lying on his back, his arm wrapped tightly around you, pulling you flush against his chest. Dean is spooning you from behind, his face buried in your neck. Logan is stretched out on a thick air mattress on the floor right next to the bed, one of his hands resting possessively on your dangling ankle. Tucker is in the corner, quietly shucking off his jeans.

The room smells overwhelmingly of them, completely drowning out the lingering scent of your teenage years.

“I can’t believe you threatened my Aunt Carol at Thanksgiving dinner,” you whisper, though there is no heat in your voice. You drag your fingers through the hair on Garrett’s chest.

“I didn’t threaten her,” Garrett rumbles, his voice a low vibration against your ear. “I just clarified her misconceptions.”

“You terrified her, G,” Dean chuckles, pressing a soft kiss to your claiming mark. “Her scent smelled like burnt hair for the rest of the night.”

“She deserved it,” Logan mutters from the floor.

Tucker walks over, wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants. The moonlight filtering through your old lace curtains highlights the heavy, defined musculature of his chest and abdomen. He kneels on the edge of the bed, leaning over Garrett to press a sweet, lingering kiss to your lips.

“Are you okay?” Tucker asks softly, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. “It was a long day. Being back here, dealing with the town gossip.”

“I’m more than okay,” you smile, looking around the small room at your mates. “I used to sit in this room and cry because I thought I was broken. I thought I would never have this.”

Garrett’s grip on you tightens possessively. “You were never broken, baby.”

Dean shifts behind you, his hand sliding under the hem of your oversized sleep shirt. His large, warm palm flattens against your bare stomach, his thumb tracing the dip of your navel. The casual touch sends an immediate, sharp jolt of heat straight down to your core.

“We need to be quiet,” you gasp softly, clamping your hand over Dean’s wrist. “My parents are literally down the hall.”

“We’ll be quiet,” Dean purrs, his hand trailing lower, slipping past the waistband of your underwear. His fingers brush against your slick, swollen center, and a soft, filthy groan escapes his lips. “Fuck, you’re already wet for us. So responsive.”

“Dean,” you whine, biting your lower lip as he strokes you.

Garrett rolls you onto your back, pinning you beneath his heavy frame. His eyes are dark, completely consumed by the feral, predatory instinct that your scent triggers in all of them. He rests his forearms on either side of your head, boxing you in.

“Your dad spent two hours in the garage telling us exactly what he’d do to us if we ever broke your heart,” Garrett whispers, his nose brushing against yours. “He’s a good alpha. Protective. But I need to scent you. I need to claim you in this house. I need every corner of this room to smell like what we do to you.”

“Yes,” you breathe, your omega completely surrendering to his dominance.

Logan rises from the floor like a dark shadow. He climbs onto the foot of the bed, his dark eyes fixed on you. He grabs your ankles, gently but firmly pulling your legs apart, throwing them over his shoulders.

The bed creaks ominously under the combined weight of three massive athletes.

“Shh,” Logan commands softly, pressing a kiss to the inside of your thigh. “Not a sound, sweetheart.”

Tucker moves to the head of the bed, kneeling behind the pillows. He lifts your head, pulling you flush against his chest so you are half-sitting,

half-lying against him. He covers your mouth with his large, warm hand, a physical barrier against the screams he knows are coming.

The sensory overload is absolute.

Garrett sheds his sweatpants in one fluid motion. His thick, heavy erection is fully hard, the ridge of his knot already painfully visible under the skin. He settles between your thighs, replacing Logan, who moves to your side, his hands exploring your breasts through your shirt.

“Look at me,” Garrett orders.

You look up, your eyes wide, your breathing ragged against Tucker’s palm.

Garrett doesn’t bother with preparation, Dean’s fingers have already left you completely slick and ready. Garrett grips your hips, his thumbs pressing bruisingly into your hip bones, and drives forward.

A muffled, broken scream tears from your throat, entirely swallowed by Tucker’s hand.

Garrett fills you completely in one brutal, agonizingly perfect thrust. The stretch is massive, hitting your cervix with a heavy, wet smack. Your nails dig into Tucker’s forearms as your body reflexively arches into the invasion.

“That’s it, baby,” Tucker praises, his lips brushing against your ear. “Take him. Be quiet and take your captain.”

Garrett sets a slow, punishing pace. Because they have to be quiet, there are no loud, slapping thrusts. Instead, he grinds his hips in deep, rolling circles, keeping the thickest part of his shaft buried deep inside you, maximizing the friction against your most sensitive nerves.

“God, you’re so tight,” Garrett groans, his jaw clenched, sweat beading on his forehead. “You feel so good, Y/N.”

Dean is on his knees beside the bed, his face buried in your neck. He bites down exactly over his claiming scar, his teeth pressing into the healed tissue, sending a fresh, euphoric spike of the mate bond directly into your bloodstream. His hand is relentless between your legs, his thumb finding your clit and pressing hard, rhythmic circles into the swollen nub.

“Dean,” you try to sob, but it comes out as a wet, muffled whimper against Tucker’s hand.

You are completely overstimulated. The heat of their bodies, the overwhelming, heavy scents of pine, cedar, mint, and leather completely choking the air in the small bedroom. Logan’s mouth replaces Dean’s at your neck, his tongue swirling over your pulse point, his rough hands squeezing your breasts.

“I’m knotting,” Garrett snarls quietly, his thrusts stuttering, becoming frantic and shallow. “I’m knotting you in your childhood bed, mine, you’re all fucking mine.”

The base of his cock violently swells inside you.

You thrash wildly as the knot locks into place, stretching you to your absolute limit. The intense, searing pressure triggers a catastrophic orgasm. You convulse around him, your hips bucking helplessly off the mattress, tears of pure bliss streaming down your face into Tucker’s palm.

Garrett shudders violently, a guttural, silenced groan ripping from his throat as he pumps wave after wave of his hot, thick seed deep into your womb.

You ride out the climax trembling, completely wrecked, your body slick with sweat.

Tucker slowly removes his hand from your mouth, replacing it with his lips, kissing you deeply, swallowing your exhausted pants.

“My turn,” Logan whispers darkly from your side.

The night blurs into a silent, desperate marathon of claiming. By the time the sun begins to rise, all four of them have knotted you. The small bedroom smells like an absolute den of sin — a heavy, unmistakable cocktail of alpha musk, vanilla, slick, and sex.

You are deeply, comfortably pinned beneath Dean’s heavy arm, completely exhausted, and absolutely glowing.

***

The next morning, Black Friday, is a town tradition. The Oakville Diner is packed with locals grabbing breakfast before hitting the local shops.

When you push through the glass doors of the diner, the bell jingling overhead, the entire restaurant seems to pause.

You are wearing one of Logan’s flannel shirts over your leggings, the sleeves rolled up. Your neck is bare, the claiming marks on full display. And flanking you on all sides are the four most terrifyingly gorgeous men this town has ever seen.

“Table for five?” The hostess asks, her eyes practically bugging out of her head as she looks at your alphas.

“Booth in the back, please,” Tucker requests smoothly.

You follow the hostess through the crowded diner. You can feel the eyes on you. You can hear the hushed whispers.

*Isn’t that the Y/L/N girl? The beta?*

*Look at her neck.*

*Who are they?*

You slide into the large, red leather booth. Once again, you are boxed in. Garrett on your left, Dean on your right. Logan and Tucker take the opposite side.

“I want pancakes,” Dean announces, picking up the laminated menu. “With extra syrup. Knotting takes a lot out of a guy.”

“Dean!” You hiss, kicking him under the table, your face turning scarlet.

Logan laughs, a deep, rumbling sound. “Don’t be shy, baby. You smell like us. Everyone in this diner knows exactly what we spent the last eight hours doing.”

Before you can argue, a shadow falls over the table.

“Y/N?”

You look up. Standing by the booth is Brittani Weston. She was the head cheerleader in your high school, an omega who presented perfectly at sixteen and spent the next two years looking at you with a mixture of pity and smug superiority.

“Hi, Brittani,” you say, keeping your voice even.

Brittani is staring at you, completely bewildered. Her eyes dart to your neck, lingering on the four distinct bites, and then she looks at the four men sitting with you. The unfiltered shock on her face is almost comical.

“I … I didn’t know you were back in town,” Brittani stammers. “And I … you presented.”

“I did,” you smile, a genuine, relaxed expression.

“And these are …” Brittani trails off, her gaze landing heavily on Garrett. She takes a subtle breath, trying to catch his scent, an unconscious, flirty omega response to a dominant alpha.

Garrett’s reaction is instantaneous.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t introduce himself. He simply shifts his weight, leaning his body entirely into yours. He drapes his arm over the back of the booth behind your shoulders, his hand coming to rest possessively on the curve of your neck, his thumb resting directly over his own claiming mark.

He unleashes a wave of dark, territorial pine scent that is so aggressive it makes the air feel thick.

“We’re her mates,” Garrett says, his voice cold and flat. It leaves absolutely no room for conversation.

Brittani physically recoils, her face flushing bright red with embarrassment as she is completely shut down. “Oh. Wow. Well. Congratulations. It was nice to see you, Y/N.”

She practically sprints away from the table.

You look at Garrett, shaking your head, though a huge smile breaks across your face. “You really have zero chill, do you?”

“Zero,” Garrett confirms, leaning down to press a kiss to your temple. “You’re ours. The whole damn town is going to know it before we leave.”

Tucker picks up his coffee mug, taking a sip. “What can we say, sweetheart? We like to make an impression.”

You lean your head against Garrett’s shoulder, your hand finding Dean’s under the table. You look at Logan’s easy smirk and Tucker’s warm eyes. The town of Oak Creek might never recover from the Briar pack’s visit, but as far as you are concerned, it is the best Thanksgiving you have ever had.

***

The morning sun filters through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the master bedroom, falling gently over the tangled mess of limbs and expensive sheets.

You stretch with a soft groan, your toes brushing against a thick, heavily muscled calf. The custom-built, California-king-and-a-half bed was a ridiculous purchase, but an absolute necessity.

“Don’t get up,” a sleep-rough voice mumbles into your ear.

Dean wraps his arm tighter around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. He smells like sleep, expensive cologne, and the sharp, underlying stress of a Harvard Law student during midterms.

“I have a 9 AM seminar, Dean,” you whisper, though you lean back into his warmth.

“Skip it,” Dean argues, burying his face in your hair. “I have to read three hundred pages on tort law today. I need emotional support. I need my omega.”

“You’re a menace to my GPA,” you laugh, finally prying his arm off and sitting up.

You look around the room. Two years changes a lot of things. You aren’t in a cramped off-campus hockey house anymore. When the boys graduated last spring, they passed the Briar house down to the incoming seniors and bought a massive, sprawling estate in an affluent Boston suburb. It sits perfectly nestled between Boston, where the guys work, and Hastings, so you can commute to Briar for your junior year.

It is a literal fortress, equipped with a state-of-the-art security system and surrounded by high walls — because four alphas with a young omega mate do not take chances.

You slide out of bed and pad downstairs to the kitchen.

The domestic chaos of your pack is in full swing.

Tucker is standing at the marble island, dressed in a sharp, tailored navy suit, looking every inch the ruthless, successful businessman he has become. He’s typing rapidly on his phone while simultaneously flipping a perfectly golden pancake on the stove.

“Morning, beautiful,” Tucker says, not looking up from his phone. “Coffee is hot. Pancakes will be done in two minutes.”

“You’re a superhero, Tuck,” you sigh, grabbing a mug.

The back door swings open, and Garrett and Logan walk in. The blast of cold October air follows them, mingling with the heavy scents of pine, cedar, and sweat. They just got back from their morning run.

Garrett looks absolutely massive. Turning pro for the Boston Bruins had only broadened his shoulders and sharpened his lethal edge. When he signed as an undrafted free agent — a move that shocked the sports world but allowed him to dictate his own terms and stay in Boston — the Bruins knew they were getting a generational talent.

Logan is right beside him, wearing a Providence Bruins hoodie. He’s starting his pro career in the AHL, working his way up the Bruins system. And thanks to a chunk of his signing bonus, Logan & Sons mechanic shop back in New York is fully staffed with a manager, freeing Logan to finally live his own life.

Garrett catches sight of you and doesn’t even hesitate. He crosses the kitchen, his sweaty chest pressing against your silk pajama top as he hauls you in for a deep, breathless kiss.

“Morning, baby,” Garrett rumbles, his eyes warm and entirely devoted. He presses a kiss to the ring of silver-pink bite scars on your neck.

“You’re sweaty,” you complain, though you don’t push him away.

Logan walks over, grabbing a piece of bacon off a plate. He bumps his hip against yours. “We have practice at the Garden at eleven. Dean has class. Tucker has a board meeting. Who is driving you to campus?”

“I have my own car, Logan. I can drive myself,” you remind him.

Logan scoffs. “Right. And let you walk from the parking lot to the humanities building alone? Funny.”

“I’ll drive her,” Dean announces, shuffling into the kitchen wearing Harvard sweatpants and a t-shirt. He looks exhausted, but his eyes brighten the second he looks at you. “My first lecture isn’t until 11. I’ll drop you at the quad.”

“Perfect,” Garrett nods, stealing Tucker’s coffee. “We’ll all meet you at the Briar student union for lunch at one-thirty. It’s been a few weeks since we reminded the student body who you belong to.”

“They know who I belong to,” you roll your eyes, taking a bite of the pancake Tucker slides onto your plate. “I literally smell like a pine forest mixed with a humidor. Nobody comes within ten feet of me.”

“Let’s keep it that way,” Tucker smiles, pressing a kiss to your forehead before grabbing his briefcase. “See you at lunch, sweetheart. Don’t let these animals make you late.”

***

The Briar University quad is bustling with autumn energy.

You walk out of your European Literature class, pulling the strap of your backpack higher on your shoulder. You are twenty years old now, a junior, and fully settled into your skin. The agonizing insecurity of your late presentation is a distant memory, replaced by the deep, unshakable confidence of an omega who is thoroughly loved, protected, and completely satisfied.

You walk toward the student union, checking your phone. Garrett texted you five minutes ago saying they were pulling into the visitor parking lot.

You stop near the bronze statue in the center of the quad to wait for them.

“Hey. You’re Y/N, right?”

You look up. A guy you have never seen before is standing a few feet away. He is tall, built like a tank, wearing a Briar Hockey jacket. His scent hits you a second later — a sharp, overly aggressive mix of cheap cologne and sour citrus. An alpha. And a very poorly mannered one, based on how he is actively pushing his pheromones into your space.

“I am,” you say, taking a subtle step back, crossing your arms. “Can I help you?”

“I’m Caleb,” he says, flashing a cocky, uneven smile. “I just transferred here from Minnesota. I’ve heard a lot of rumors about you.”

Your internal alarm bells start ringing. Transfer students never know the unwritten rules of Briar University. They don’t know the legend of the Graham-Di Laurentis-Logan-Tucker pack.

“Rumors are usually boring,” you say smoothly, looking past him to scan the quad for your mates.

Caleb steps closer, invading your personal bubble. He takes a loud, entirely inappropriate sniff of the air. You physically flinch, your upper lip curling in disgust.

“They said you were an omega, but you smell … crowded,” Caleb sneers slightly, his eyes dropping to the scars on your neck. “Four bites. That’s a lot of real estate for a pack of washed-up grads. I mean, they aren’t even on campus anymore to protect you.”

“They aren’t washed up,” you say, your voice dropping into a cold, dangerous octave. Your inner omega bristles with immediate, violent offense on behalf of your pack. “And you need to back up. Now.”

Caleb laughs, reaching out to lazily twirl a piece of your hair around his finger. You smack his hand away instantly.

“Feisty,” Caleb smirks. “Look, a pretty little omega like you shouldn’t be tied down to guys who are too busy working to even walk you to class. Four mates? Sounds to me like none of them are man enough to handle you on their own. You need a real alpha. A present alpha. Drop the dead weight and let me show you-”

“Caleb.”

The voice comes from ten yards away.

You look over Caleb’s shoulder. Two seniors, Mike and Dave, who were freshmen on the hockey team when Garrett was captain, are standing frozen on the pavement. They are both staring at Caleb with expressions of sheer, unadulterated horror.

“What?” Caleb snaps, looking over his shoulder.

“Dude,” Mike says, his voice actually trembling. He takes a physical step backward, raising his hands in surrender. “Back away from her. Right now.”

Caleb scoffs, rolling his eyes. “Relax, Mike. I’m just introducing myself. Showing the omega what a real-”

“Caleb, shut up,” Dave hisses, looking wildly around the quad as if anticipating a sniper. “You are soooo dead. Worse than dead, really. You don’t know who she is.”

“She’s some junior who got knocked up with bites by guys who don’t even go here,” Caleb argues, turning back to you.

“You’re right. We don’t go here,” a voice rumbles.

The temperature around you drops ten degrees. The sour citrus scent of Caleb’s alpha is instantly, violently obliterated by a suffocating, lethal wave of pine, cedar, mint, and leather.

You exhale a shaky breath, a massive smile breaking across your face.

Caleb freezes. The biological urge to submit hits him so hard his knees actually buckle slightly. He turns around slowly.

Garrett, Dean, Logan, and Tucker are standing in a line directly behind him.

They are no longer college boys. They are grown, elite, incredibly successful men.

Tucker is in his bespoke navy suit, his arms crossed, looking at Caleb like the transfer student is a bug he is debating crushing under his Oxford shoe. Dean is wearing a tailored cashmere coat over a black turtleneck, his charming smile entirely absent, replaced by a cold, patrician glare.

Logan is wearing a Providence Bruins quarter-zip, his hands shoved into his pockets, though his jaw is locked so tight a muscle ticks visibly in his cheek.

And Garrett.

Garrett is wearing a Boston Bruins team jacket, his broad shoulders practically blocking out the sun. His eyes are pitch black. The absolute, unhinged feral rage rolling off him is so intense that students walking thirty feet away are actively changing directions to avoid the blast radius.

“We don’t go here,” Garrett repeats, his voice a low, terrifying rasp that vibrates the pavement. He takes one slow, deliberate step forward. “But we still own this campus.”

Caleb swallows audibly, his face draining of every drop of color. He realizes, entirely too late, exactly who he is looking at. “G-Graham. I … I didn’t-”

“You didn’t know?” Dean cuts in, his voice dripping with icy condescension. “You didn’t know she was our mate? Because the four bite marks on her neck didn’t give it away?”

“You touched her hair,” Logan states. It isn’t a question. It is a death sentence. Logan pulls his hands out of his pockets, cracking his knuckles. “I saw you touch her hair from across the quad.”

Caleb looks at Mike and Dave for help, but the two seniors have literally turned their backs and are briskly walking away, entirely unwilling to be caught in the crossfire of the Briar pack’s wrath.

“I was just … we were just talking,” Caleb stammers, his alpha instincts completely crumbling under the sheer weight of four vastly superior, enraged dominants.

Tucker steps forward, smoothly bypassing Caleb to stand right beside you. He places a warm, grounding hand on your lower back. “Did he touch you anywhere else, sweetheart?”

“No,” you say, leaning into Tucker’s touch. You look at Caleb, your eyes narrowing. “He just told me my mates were washed up and not man enough to handle me.”

A collective, deadly silence falls over the five men.

Logan lets out a dark, humorless laugh.

Garrett closes the distance. He doesn’t throw a punch. He doesn’t have to. The sheer physical intimidation of a 6’3“, 220-pound NHL center closing in on you is enough. Garrett stops inches from Caleb’s face, staring down at the trembling transfer student.

“You play right wing, right?” Garrett asks softly.

Caleb nods frantically.

“If you ever speak to my mate again,” Garrett says, his voice perfectly level, “If you ever look at her, if you ever breathe in her general direction … I won’t just break your legs. I will make a phone call to every single scout in the NHL, the AHL, and Europe, and I will make sure you never lace up a pair of skates professionally as long as you live. Do you understand me?”

Caleb is trembling so badly his teeth are chattering. “Yes, sir.”

“Get out of my sight,” Logan snaps.

Caleb turns and practically sprints across the quad, abandoning any shred of dignity he had left.

Garrett watches him go for exactly three seconds before he completely drops the terrifying alpha persona. His shoulders relax, the heavy, suffocating pheromones instantly smoothing out into the warm, comforting pine scent you adore.

He turns to you, his eyes softening completely. “You okay, baby?”

“I’m fine,” you laugh, stepping forward and wrapping your arms around his waist. “You guys have a real flair for the dramatic, you know that?”

Garrett wraps his massive arms around you, burying his face in your hair. “I was fully prepared to go to jail today.”

“I have my law textbook in the car,” Dean says, walking up and wrapping his arms around you from behind, sandwiching you between him and Garrett. He kisses your cheek. “I could have represented him. It would have been great practice.”

“You’re not licensed yet, idiot,” Logan snorts, walking over and ruffling your hair. “Come on. I’m starving. Let’s go get food.”

The five of you walk toward the student union, falling effortlessly into your natural formation. Logan clears the path, Dean and Garrett flank your sides, and Tucker guards your back.

The stares from the students on the quad are different this time. There is no gossip. There is only absolute, unadulterated awe and respect. The legend of the Briar pack has just been violently, definitively reinforced for a whole new generation.

***

Lunch is a loud, chaotic affair.

You sit in the center of a massive circular booth in the student union, eating off everyone else’s plates while they bicker over hockey stats, Harvard professors, and stock portfolios.

It is entirely surreal to sit here and realize how perfectly your lives have woven together.

Two years ago, you walked onto this campus as a broken, terrified beta who thought she would never have a place in the world. You thought you were biologically defective.

Now, you are the center of gravity for four of the most successful, fiercely devoted alphas on the eastern seaboard.

“Are you even listening to me?” Dean asks, nudging your shoulder.

You blink, pulling yourself out of your thoughts. “Sorry. What?”

“I said, Logan owes me fifty bucks because he bet me the Bruins wouldn’t make the playoffs this year,” Dean complains, stealing a fry off your plate.

“I didn’t say they wouldn’t make it, I said they’d get knocked out in the second round,” Logan argues, pointing a fry at Dean. “There’s a difference.”

“Garrett is literally the starting center,” you point out, looking at Logan. “Why would you bet against your own packmate?”

“Because Logan is a cynic,” Garrett smirks, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. “And because he knows I’m going to win the Cup before he does.”

“I’m in the AHL, G, give me a minute to get called up,” Logan groans, rubbing his face.

Tucker smiles into his coffee cup, watching the banter with fond amusement. He meets your eyes across the table, his dark gaze incredibly warm. He reaches under the table, his hand finding your knee and giving it a gentle, grounding squeeze.

You smile back at him, your heart swelling.

“We need to get going,” Tucker says, checking his watch. “Garrett and Logan have afternoon practice, and I have a conference call at three.”

“And I have to go read about personal injury lawsuits,” Dean sighs dramatically, sliding out of the booth. “My life is a tragic, boring shell of what it once was.”

“You love Harvard, Dean, shut up,” Logan laughs, standing up and grabbing his duffel bag.

You all walk out of the student union and across the quad toward the visitor parking lot. The crisp autumn wind whips the red and orange leaves around your feet.

When you reach the massive SUV, the goodbyes are exactly as intense as the hellos.

Tucker pulls you in first, wrapping his arms securely around your waist and pressing a deep, lingering kiss to your lips. “Have a good afternoon, sweetheart. Text me when your last class is over.”

“I will,” you promise.

Dean is next, dramatically dipping you backward over his arm for a cinematic, breath-stealing kiss that makes a group of passing freshmen giggle and blush. “Don’t miss me too much, beautiful.”

Logan grabs the back of your neck, pulling you in firmly. His kiss is rougher, demanding, and tastes like cedar and possessive warmth. “Be safe. Call if anyone even looks at you wrong.”

“I can handle myself, Logan,” you roll your eyes, but you smile against his mouth.

Finally, Garrett steps up. He doesn’t say anything at first. He just frames your face with his large hands, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones. His eyes are incredibly soft, completely stripping away the hardened NHL captain.

“I love you,” Garrett murmurs, leaning down to press a soft, slow kiss to your mouth.

“I love you too,” you whisper back, opening your eyes to look at him. You look past his shoulder, meeting the eyes of Dean, Logan, and Tucker. “I love all of you.”

“We know,” Dean winks.

“Get in the car, you animals,” Garrett says, swatting the back of Dean’s head.

You stand in the parking lot, wrapping your cardigan tighter around yourself against the autumn chill, and watch as the four of them pile into the SUV. Logan rolls the window down, shooting you one last smirk before pulling out of the parking lot.

You watch the taillights disappear down the street.

The hollow, agonizing ache in your chest that you carried for two years before coming to Briar is a distant, almost unimaginable memory. Your biology didn’t make a mistake. It didn’t forget about you. It was simply waiting.

It was waiting for the perfect moment, for the perfect scent of pine, cedar, mint, and leather. It was waiting for a pack that wouldn’t just claim you, but would build an entire world around keeping you safe.

You touch the silver-pink scars on your neck one last time, a soft, involuntary purr vibrating in your chest.

You turn around and walk back toward the quad.

“You don’t have to go,” Mae says. Her voice drops into that soft, placating tone that makes your back teeth grind together. The Pity Tone. “Mom and Dad are worried. Being so far away from the family … from the pack. It’s going to be hard for you.”

“I’m eighteen. I’m going to college. People do it every day.”

“But Briar?” Mae crosses her arms, her scent souring slightly with anxiety. “You don’t know anyone there. And you’re … well.”

“A beta,” you finish for her. You turn to face her, grabbing your duffel bag. “You can say the word, Mae. It’s not a dirty word. I’m a beta. I have no scent, I have no fated mate waiting in the wings to bite my neck, and I don’t need a pack to keep me safe. I just want to play intramural sports, get a degree, and not get looked at like a tragic charity case every Sunday at family dinner.”

“We don’t look at you like a charity case.”

“Right. Which is why Mom left a pamphlet for ‘Finding Fulfillment Outside the Bond’ on my pillow last Tuesday.” You sling the strap over your shoulder. “I’m going to Briar. I need a change of scenery. I need to be somewhere where nobody knows my medical history.”

Mae sighs, stepping aside as you move into the hallway. “Just … call us when you get there. Please?”

“I will.”

You walk down the stairs of the only house you’ve ever known, surrounded by the heavy, mingled scents of three generations of alphas and omegas. It’s overwhelming. It’s suffocating. For the past two years, ever since you turned sixteen and didn’t present, the waiting game had been agonizing. When eighteen came and went without a single heat, a single scent drop, the verdict was final. You’re a beta.

You push out the front door, the crisp morning air a welcome relief against your skin. You toss your bags into the trunk of your beat-up sedan. No mate. No destiny. Just you, the highway, and a desperate need to breathe.

***

Two states away, the kitchen of the off-campus hockey house smells like burnt toast, stale beer, and the distinct, woodsy musk of four agitated alphas.

“I’m telling you, the girl is a menace,” Dean complains, leaning back against the kitchen island with a mug of black coffee. He’s wearing nothing but sweatpants, his hair sticking up in every direction. “She texted me six times before 8 AM. Who does that?”

Logan snorts from the kitchen table, not looking up from his phone. “Maybe she actually likes you, Di Laurentis. Terrifying concept, I know.”

“She likes the idea of me,” Dean corrects, taking a sip of his coffee. “She likes the trust fund and the fact that my parents own half of Manhattan. And the jawline. Mostly the jawline.”

“Your humility is truly a gift to us all,” Tucker says mildly. He’s at the stove, patiently scraping Dean’s ruined attempt at breakfast into the trash and starting fresh with a carton of eggs. Tucker is the only one in the house who actually knows how to use a spatula without setting the smoke alarm off. “You could just tell her you’re not interested.”

“And break her heart? Tuck, I’m a lover. I can’t be cruel.”

“You’re a whore,” Logan corrects, finally setting his phone face down.

There’s a tight set to Logan’s jaw that wasn’t there five minutes ago. Dean notices it. Tucker notices it. As alphas in a pack, the shift in pheromones is impossible to miss — a sharp, bitter spike of stress cutting through Logan’s usual easygoing cedar scent.

“Everything good?” Tucker asks, keeping his eyes on the eggs.

“Fine,” Logan clips out. He taps his fingers against the wooden table. “Just … my brother. Texted about the shop. The old man went on a bender last night, didn’t lock up. Some kids spray-painted the garage doors.”

Dean frowns, setting his mug down. “Do you need to go back? I can wire you cash if they need to cover damages-”

“No, Dean. Keep your money,” Logan says, rubbing a hand over his face. The irritation softens into exhaustion. “My brother handled it. That’s the deal. He holds down the fort with Logan & Sons while I’m here. Once I graduate, I take the shop, take the old man, and he gets his life back. I just hate … I hate that he’s dealing with it alone.”

“He’s not alone,” a new voice cuts in.

Garrett steps into the kitchen. He’s already in his workout gear, a towel draped around his neck. The house immediately shifts. The tension in the air doesn’t vanish, but it stabilizes. Garrett is the captain, on and off the ice.

“Your brother knows what he signed up for, and you’re keeping your end of the bargain by staying here and finishing your degree,” Garrett says, walking over to the fridge to grab a bottle of water. He looks at Logan. “If it gets to be too much, the pack steps in. You know that. We’ll drive down there this weekend and paint the damn doors ourselves if we have to.”

Logan looks up, offering a tired but genuine smirk. “Yeah. Okay. Thanks, G.”

“Don’t thank me yet. I’m bagging you on the ice today for being late to the kitchen.” Garrett unscrews the cap of his water. “Where are we on groceries? Because if I have to eat another one of Tucker’s healthy kale things, I’m going to start chewing on the drywall.”

“Hey, my cooking keeps you animals in peak physical condition,” Tucker defends, flipping an omelet. “And we’re out of everything. Someone needs to do a run.”

“Not it,” Dean says immediately.

“Not it,” Logan echoes.

Garrett sighs. “Fine. I’ll go after practice.”

He turns around, gripping the edge of the counter. His knuckles are white. Dean catches Logan’s eye, a silent conversation passing between them. Garrett’s phone had been buzzing all morning. Every time it rang, the caller ID flashing a New York area code, Garrett’s scent turned dark, heavy, and bruised.

His father.

Nobody says a word. The pack doesn’t push when Garrett gets like this. They just close ranks. Tucker slides a plate of eggs toward him.

“Eat,” Tucker says softly. “We’ve got drills in an hour.”

Garrett nods, his grip loosening on the counter. “Yeah. Let’s eat.”

***

The drive up I-95 is a blur of highway signs and bad radio stations. You keep the windows cracked, letting the wind whip your hair around your face. You’ve been driving for hours, alone with your thoughts.

You think about your parents. You know they love you. You know their pity comes from a place of genuine concern. In a world dictated by biology — by alphas protecting and omegas nurturing — being a beta feels like being a ghost. You don’t trigger instincts. You don’t fit the grand, biological design.

Your mom had cried when you packed the car. Your dad had awkwardly patted your shoulder and told you to keep your pepper spray on your keychain. Because you don’t have an alpha to protect you.

“I don’t need one,” you say aloud to the empty car. Your voice sounds small against the rush of the wind.

You grip the steering wheel tighter. Briar University is a fresh start. A massive campus filled with thousands of students. You can just be a face in the crowd. A girl getting a degree in history, or maybe English. You haven’t decided yet. The point is, you get to decide. Not your biology. Not a fated mate. Just you.

You pull into a rest stop somewhere in Connecticut to get gas and stretch your legs. The air here is different. Colder. Sharper. You walk into the convenience store to buy a coffee, stepping aside as a couple walks out. The guy is massive, clearly an alpha, with his arm wrapped protectively around a smaller omega who smells strongly of peaches and contentment.

You feel the familiar pang in your chest — a sharp, stabbing ache that you quickly push down. It’s not jealousy, exactly. It’s grief. Grief for an experience you were told you would have, a promise the universe broke.

You pay for your black coffee, ignore the cashier’s bored expression, and walk back out to your car.

“No more feeling sorry for yourself,” you mutter, climbing into the driver’s seat. “You’re done with that.”

You put the car in drive and merge back onto the highway. Briar is waiting.

***

The ice is where it all makes sense.

For Garrett, the rink is the only place where the noise stops. The ringing in his ears from his father’s screaming voicemails — calling him a disappointment, a failure, telling him he’ll never be half the player his old man was before he wrecked his knee. The memories of his mother, fading away in a hospital bed, the only person who ever looked at him with something other than expectation or rage.

Out here, the cold bites his lungs, and all that matters is the puck.

“Pass it, G!” Logan yells, his skates carving a sharp turn near the boards.

Garrett doesn’t hesitate. He snaps a perfect, blind pass right to Logan’s stick. Logan catches it, dekes past a freshman defenseman who looks like he’s about to pee his pants, and roofs the puck over the goalie’s shoulder.

The net bulges.

“Yeah, baby!” Dean howls, slamming his stick against the ice in approval.

Coach Jensen blows the whistle. “Alright, that’s it! Bring it in!”

The team gathers around the bench, chest-heaving, sweat dripping from their helmets. The alpha pheromones rolling off the squad are intense — a chaotic mix of adrenaline, aggression, and dominance. But Garrett’s scent cuts through it all, a grounding, authoritative winter-pine that forces the younger guys to straighten up and pay attention.

“Good hustle today,” Coach barks. “Graham, you and the seniors keep the rookies in line. First game is in three weeks. We don’t slack off.”

“Yes, Coach,” Garrett says.

As the team filters into the locker room, the banter starts up immediately. Towels are snapped, chirps are thrown. Dean is already talking about a party off-campus tonight.

“Delta house on frat row,” Dean says, unlacing his skates. “I hear it’s an open invite. We should make an appearance.”

“I have a paper due,” Tucker says, pulling his jersey over his head.

“Tuck, it’s the first week of classes. You don’t have a paper due.”

“I like to get ahead of the syllabus.”

Logan laughs, tossing a roll of tape at Dean’s head. “He’s not going, man. And I’m exhausted. Count me out.”

Dean looks at Garrett, a desperate plea in his eyes. “G. Come on. Captain. Leader. Wingman. Don’t leave me hanging.”

Garrett pulls his skates off, staring at the concrete floor. His phone is in his locker. He knows if he checks it, there will be another message. Another reminder of the man waiting for him back in New York, the man who owns him until Garrett signs an NHL contract and can finally cut him off for good.

“Fine,” Garrett says, standing up. “We’ll go. For an hour. But if you start making out with someone in the kitchen again and leave me standing around holding a red solo cup, I’m walking home.”

Dean grins, a triumphant, blinding smile. “You’re the best, G. Truly a man of the people.”

Logan shakes his head, leaning over to bump his shoulder against Garrett’s. “You don’t have to babysit him, you know.”

“If I don’t, he’ll end up accidentally pledging a sorority,” Garrett deadpans.

Logan laughs, the tight stress from this morning fully melted away. They walk toward the showers, a unified front. The four of them against the world. They don’t need anyone else.

***

You drag your second suitcase up three flights of stairs because the elevator in the freshman dorm is broken. Of course it is.

By the time you find Room 382, you’re sweating, out of breath, and seriously questioning your life choices. You unlock the door and push it open.

The room is tiny. Two twin beds, two desks, one microscopic window looking out over the quad. It smells like industrial cleaner and old dust. But it’s yours.

Your roommate hasn’t arrived yet. The bed on the left is bare. You claim the one by the window, dropping your suitcase onto the mattress with a heavy thud.

You sit down next to it, resting your head against the cool drywall. You can hear the sounds of campus outside — shouting, laughter, the rolling wheels of luggage. You close your eyes, taking a deep breath.

There’s no scent of vanilla. No scent of pine. No pack.

For the first time in your life, you are completely, totally alone.

You smile.

“Okay,” you whisper to the empty room. “Let’s do this.”

You open your suitcase and start unpacking your sweaters. You hang them up one by one in the tiny closet, organizing them by color. You set your books on the desk. You make the bed with the plain grey sheets you bought at Target.

You don’t put up any photos of your family. Not yet. It hurts too much to look at them — to see your parents holding hands, the bond mark on your mother’s neck clearly visible. To see Mae and her mate. To see what you can’t have.

Someone knocks on the open door.

You turn around. A girl with chunky highlights and a nose ring is standing there, holding a massive cardboard box. She smells faintly of cinnamon. An omega.

“Hey,” she says, blowing a bubble with her gum. “You’re Y/N, right? I’m Brooke. Your roommate.”

“Hi,” you say, standing up. “Need help with that?”

“God, yes. This box weighs more than my will to live.”

You walk over and grab the other end of the box, helping her haul it onto the bare bed.

“Thanks,” Brooke pants, wiping her forehead. She looks at you, her eyes narrowing slightly as she tilts her head. She takes a subtle breath in. You stiffen, bracing yourself for the inevitable question. The confusion.

“You’re a beta?” Brooke asks, her tone completely casual.

“Yeah,” you say, your voice tight. “I am.”

Brooke just shrugs, digging into the box. “Cool. Means I don’t have to worry about you going into a rut and destroying our room. My last roommate was an alpha, and she punched a hole in the door over a bad grade. So. Big win for me.”

You blink. “That’s … it? You don’t care?”

Brooke pauses, looking back at you with an amused expression. “Should I? Are you going to steal my clothes?”

“No.”

“Then we’re good.” She pulls out a stack of posters. “Hey, there’s a huge party off-campus tonight. Some guys on the hockey team are hosting, or showing up, I don’t know. You want to go? I hate walking into these things alone.”

A party. Loud music. Sweaty bodies. Alphas and omegas pairing off. Everything you came here to escape.

But you look at Brooke, who isn’t looking at you with pity. She’s just looking at you like you’re a normal eighteen-year-old girl.

“Yeah,” you say, a genuine smile breaking across your face. “Yeah, I’d love to go.”

***

The party is exactly what you expected, and somehow ten times worse.

The Delta house is a massive, sprawling colonial packed wall-to-wall with sweating, dancing, drinking college students. The bass from the speakers rattles your teeth in your skull. Brooke disappeared into the crowd roughly five minutes after you walked through the front door, leaving you standing awkwardly near a sticky kitchen counter.

You grip your red Solo cup like a lifeline. You haven’t actually taken a sip yet. You’re just using it as a prop so you don’t look like a total loser.

“First time?”

You blink, turning to your right. A guy is leaning against the fridge. He’s tall, wearing a backward baseball cap, and he smells like cheap beer and an overwhelming wave of alpha musk. It’s cloying, too sweet and too aggressive all at once.

“Is it that obvious?” You ask, shifting your weight.

“A little.” He flashes a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He steps closer, invading your personal space. “I’m Brad. I haven’t seen you around before.”

“I’m a freshman. I just moved in today.”

“Ah. Fresh meat.” He chuckles at his own joke. You don’t laugh. “Look, you look a little stiff. Here. Let me top that off for you. It’s jungle juice. Best on campus.”

Before you can protest, he takes your cup, dips it into a massive orange cooler on the island, and hands it back.

“Drink up,” Brad says. “It’ll help you loosen up.”

You take a small sip, mostly just to get him to stop staring at your mouth. It tastes like Hawaiian Punch and rubbing alcohol.

“Thanks,” you mutter. “I’m going to go find my roommate.”

You turn your back on him, slipping into the throng of bodies in the living room. You take another sip of the drink as you navigate the crowd, trying to scan the sea of faces for Brooke’s bright pink hair.

Five minutes pass. Then ten.

And then, the floor drops out from under you.

It starts as a bizarre lightness in your head, a dizzying spin that makes the room tilt sideways. You stumble, your shoulder slamming into a girl dancing next to you.

“Hey, watch it!” She snaps.

You try to apologize, but your tongue feels thick. Heavy. You look down at your hand. You’ve dropped your cup. It’s rolling across the floor, splashing red liquid on the scuffed hardwood.

Something is wrong. Very, very wrong.

A cold sweat breaks out across your forehead. Your legs feel like lead, and your vision is tunneling, the edges blurring into a fuzzy grey. The noise of the party suddenly sounds like it’s underwater.

I need to get out of here. I need to sit down. You push past a group of guys, ignoring their annoyed grunts. You need a bathroom. A quiet place. You stumble down a hallway, dragging your hand along the wall to keep yourself upright.

You find a door at the end of the hall, twist the knob, and fall inside. You kick the door shut and lock it, collapsing onto the cold tile floor.

The moment your knees hit the ground, the cold numbness in your limbs vanishes, replaced by an agonizing, explosive heat.

A scream tears from your throat, but it sounds weak, mangled. It feels like someone struck a match inside your veins. Your chest tightens, a violent, crushing pressure seizing your lungs.

This isn’t just whatever was in that drink. This is something else.

You clutch your stomach, curling into a tight ball on the floor. Your skin is on fire. Your bones feel like they are melting, restructuring, breaking apart from the inside.

I’m dying, you think, terror clawing at your fading consciousness. The drug. It’s killing me.

But beneath the terrifying, paralyzing lethargy of the roofie, there is a frantic, biological desperate push. Your body is fighting the sedative. Your biology, dormant for years, is violently ripping itself awake to purge the poison.

You’re presenting.

You’re presenting right now, pumped full of a predatory drug, your body tearing itself apart to force the transition. You sob, but your muscles are too weak from the drug to even thrash. You just lie there, trapped in a paralyzed, burning hell.

***

Two rooms over, Dean is holding court.

He’s currently charming three omegas by the fireplace, flashing his trademark dimples and expertly dodging their subtle attempts to scent him.

Garrett is leaning against the wall beside him, nursing a beer he hasn’t drank from in twenty minutes. His jaw is tight. He hates these parties. The mingled scents of desperate alphas and eager omegas give him a headache.

“So, Dean,” one of the omegas purrs, stepping closer. “Are you guys sticking around for the after-party?”

“Depends,” Dean says smoothly. “Are you going to be-”

Dean stops.

He freezes mid-sentence. His posture completely shifts, the casual, relaxed slouch vanishing, replaced by something rigid and terrifyingly still.

Garrett feels it a split second later.

It hits them like a physical blow to the chest. A scent cuts through the stale beer, the sweat, the cheap perfume. It’s the most intoxicating thing Garrett has ever breathed in. It smells like rain on hot asphalt. Like crushed vanilla beans and something dark, sweet, and entirely consuming.

It’s the scent of an omega.

But not just an omega.

Mate. The word echoes in Garrett’s skull, primal and undeniable. His alpha roars to the surface, violent and possessive. He drops his beer bottle. It shatters on the floor.

He looks at Dean. Dean’s eyes are blown wide, his pupils dilated until almost the entire iris is black.

“Garrett,” Dean chokes out, his voice a ragged whisper.

“I know,” Garrett growls.

But the euphoria of the bond is instantly obliterated by what’s laced underneath the scent.

Terror. Pain. Sickening, chemical distress.

Their mate is in agony.

“Move!” Garrett roars, shoving past the omegas.

He and Dean tear through the living room. They aren’t humans anymore; they are predators tracking a wounded center. People scream and dive out of the way as the two massive hockey players barrel through the crowd, completely feral.

“Where?” Dean snarls, his head snapping back and forth.

“Hallway,” Garrett barks. “End of the hall.”

They hit the hallway at a sprint. The scent is overpowering here, thick and suffocating with distress. Garrett grabs the handle of the locked bathroom door. He doesn’t bother asking who is inside. He doesn’t bother knocking.

He takes one step back, raises his boot, and kicks the door right off its hinges.

Wood splinters. The door crashes inward.

Garrett and Dean freeze in the doorway.

You are curled on the floor, trembling violently. Your skin is flushed a feverish red, covered in a sheen of sweat. You’re making a weak, whimpering sound, your eyes rolling back in your head.

“No,” Dean breathes out, dropping to his knees instantly.

Garrett is right beside him. He reaches out, his large hands hovering over you for a fraction of a second before he gently, carefully rolls you onto your back.

The moment his skin touches yours, a jolt of electricity violently shocks through both of you. You gasp, your eyes snapping open for a second. They are hazy, unfocused, but you stare right up at him.

“Hurts,” you manage to slur, your voice barely a rasp. “Burning.”

“I know, baby, I know. I’ve got you,” Garrett says, his voice thick with an emotion he’s never felt before.

He pulls you into his lap, ignoring the way you flinch. He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in your neck. He releases a heavy, concentrated wave of soothing alpha pheromones, trying to blanket your pain.

Dean grabs your hand, his thumb desperately rubbing circles into your palm. “Garrett. G. Her scent. It’s … it’s mine. She’s my mate.”

Garrett looks up, his eyes flashing a dangerous, possessive. “She’s mine, Dean.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. The two alphas stare at each other over your trembling body, the air between them turning volatile, lethal. A fight over a mate is a bloodbath.

But then Dean takes a sharp breath, his eyes widening. He looks from Garrett to you, and back to Garrett.

“You feel it too,” Dean whispers. “The pull. It’s … it’s anchoring to both of us.”

Garrett swallows hard, the aggressive spike in his chest leveling out into something infinitely more complex. He looks down at you. You belong to him. He knows that down to his marrow. But the bond isn’t fighting Dean’s presence. It’s welcoming it.

They share her.

“We’ll figure that out later,” Garrett says harshly, forcing his focus back to the immediate crisis. He presses two fingers to the pulse point on your neck. It’s erratic, fluttering dangerously fast. “Something is wrong with her, Dean. This isn’t just a bad presentation.”

Dean leans closer, sniffing your hair, your mouth. His face twists into a snarl of pure, unfiltered rage.

“Chemicals,” Dean spits out. “Sedative. Somebody roofied her, G. She’s been drugged.”

Garrett’s blood runs entirely cold. “A late presentation triggered by a roofie? The drug is telling her nervous system to shut down, and the presentation is trying to jumpstart it. Her body is tearing itself apart.”

“We need to get her to a hospital.”

“No,” Garrett says immediately. “You take an unbonded omega in the middle of a traumatic presentation into a crowded ER full of strange alphas, she’ll go into shock and her heart will give out. We need to get her to the house. It’s safe. We can scent her, ground her.”

“She needs a doctor, Garrett!”

“Tucker’s mom is an ER nurse, he knows exactly what to do,” Garrett barks. “And we are not leaving her alone with strangers right now. Call Logan. Tell him to bring the truck to the back door. Now!”

Dean doesn’t argue. The feral edge in Garrett’s voice leaves no room for debate. Dean rips his phone out of his pocket, his hands shaking so badly he almost drops it. He hits Logan’s speed dial.

It rings twice.

“What?” Logan answers, sounding half-asleep.

“Logan, get the truck. Back alley of the Delta house on 4th. Now.”

“Dean? What the hell is going on? You sound-”

“Our mate,” Dean chokes out, tears of sheer panic pricking the corners of his eyes as he watches you seize slightly in Garrett’s arms. “We found our mate. And she’s dying. Get Tucker. Get here now.”

The line goes dead.

Dean drops the phone. He crowds in closer, wrapping his arms around your legs, needing to touch you, needing to flood your system with as much comfort as he can.

“Keep breathing, sweetheart,” Dean begs, pressing a kiss to your sweaty forehead. “Just keep breathing for me. We’re getting you out of here.”

You can barely hear him. The roaring in your ears is deafening. But through the agonizing fire burning in your veins, through the heavy, suffocating fog of the drug, you feel them.

Pine and cedar. Mint and leather.

The scents are wrapping around you, anchoring you to the floor, fighting the darkness trying to pull you under. You lean your head against Garrett’s chest, completely helpless.

***

Logan breaks every single traffic law in the state of Massachusetts getting to the frat row.

He slams on the brakes, the truck fishtailing into the dark, trash-strewn alley behind the omega house. Tucker is in the passenger seat, already unbuckling his seatbelt before the truck even comes to a complete stop.

“Grab the blankets from the back,” Tucker orders, his voice eerily calm, though his jaw is locked so tight a muscle ticks furiously in his cheek.

Logan throws the truck into park and leaps out. They don’t even have to go inside.

The back door of the house bursts open. Garrett stalks down the stairs, carrying a small, limp figure in his arms. Dean is right on his heels, flanking him, his eyes scanning the alley like a predator looking for a threat.

Logan freezes.

The scent hits him from ten yards away.

Rain on hot asphalt. Vanilla.

Logan’s knees actually buckle for a fraction of a second. A raw, guttural sound rips from his throat. Mine. The instinct is absolute. It wipes away every rational thought in his head, replacing it with a singular, violent need to possess and protect.

He looks at Tucker. Tucker has stopped dead in his tracks, dropping the blankets onto the asphalt. Tucker, the calmest, most rational alpha in the pack, looks like he’s about to tear someone’s throat out with his teeth.

“Tucker?” Logan breathes.

“She’s ours,” Tucker says, his voice a dark, lethal rumble. “All of ours.”

There’s no time to process the impossibility of a four-alpha mate bond. Garrett reaches the truck, his face pale and terrifyingly desperate.

“Open the damn door, Logan!” Garrett roars.

Logan snaps out of his shock. He rips the backseat door open. Garrett carefully slides into the back, keeping you cradled in his lap. Dean shoves in right next to him, pressing his body along your side.

Tucker grabs the blankets from the ground, shakes off the dirt, and climbs into the front passenger seat. Logan jumps behind the wheel.

“Drive,” Garrett commands. “Fast.”

Logan hits the gas. The truck peels out of the alley, tires screaming against the pavement.

“What happened?” Tucker asks, twisting around in his seat to look into the back.

The moment Tucker’s eyes land on you, his breath hitches. You look incredibly small. Your face is ashen, save for the unnatural, feverish flush high on your cheeks. You’re barely conscious, your chest rising and falling in shallow, jagged gasps.

“Someone slipped something in her drink,” Dean says, his voice thick with rage. “A roofie. And it forced her to present.”

Logan grips the steering wheel so hard the leather groans. A low, vibrating growl fills the cab of the truck. “Who?”

“I don’t know,” Dean says. “But when I find out, I’m going to kill him. I’m going to actually kill him.”

“We’ll find him later,” Tucker says sharply, forcing his own murderous rage down. He needs to be the medic right now. “G, how hot is she?”

“She’s burning up, Tuck. Her pulse is everywhere,” Garrett says, running a trembling hand through your sweat-soaked hair.

“The drug is a depressant. It’s fighting her adrenaline and presentation hormones. If her fever gets too high, she’ll start seizing,” Tucker explains rapidly. “We need to get her in an ice bath the second we get home to regulate her temperature, and we need to flush her system.”

“Water?” Dean asks.

“Yes. And our scents. She needs all four of us. The bond is the only thing that’s going to guide her biology through the transition right now. We have to overpower the panic.”

Logan runs a red light, swerving around a slow-moving sedan. “Five minutes out.”

In the backseat, you let out a choked, wet sob.

The pain is shifting. The burning is spreading from your veins into your nerve endings. It feels like your skin is being peeled back. You don’t know these men. You don’t know whose truck you are in. But the scents surrounding you are the only things keeping you from completely shattering.

“Please,” you whimper, blindly grabbing a fistful of Garrett’s shirt. “Make it stop. Please.”

“Shh, I know, baby. I’m so sorry,” Garrett murmurs, pressing his lips to the crown of your head. “We’ve got you. We’re right here. Just hold on for us.”

“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling the truck violently into the driveway of their off-campus house.

Before Logan even turns the engine off, Garrett is opening the door. He carries you out of the truck, moving with terrifying speed. Tucker has the front door unlocked and thrown open in seconds.

They bypass the living room, heading straight for the massive master bathroom on the first floor.

“Turn the shower on. Cold. All the way,” Tucker orders Dean.

Dean practically rips the shower knob off the wall, turning the water to freezing.

“Garrett, get her in there,” Tucker says. “Don’t bother taking her clothes off, it’ll take too much time.”

Garrett steps right into the massive walk-in shower with you, his sneakers and clothes immediately soaking through. He sits down on the tiled floor, pulling you into his chest as the freezing water rains down on both of you.

The shock of the cold water makes you gasp, your back arching violently.

“Hold her down, G!” Tucker says, dropping to his knees outside the shower stall.

Garrett wraps his arms tightly around you, holding you flush against his chest. “I’ve got you. I’m not letting go.”

Dean sits on the floor right outside the shower, reaching in to grip your ankle, desperately needing to maintain contact. Logan paces the bathroom like a caged tiger, the space filling with the overwhelming, frantic scents of four terrified alphas.

“Tuck, she’s shivering!” Garrett says, panic bleeding into his voice.

“She has to. It brings the fever down,” Tucker says, grabbing a towel and soaking it in the cold water. He reaches in and presses the wet towel to

the back of your neck. “Talk to her. All of you. Let her know her pack is here.”

You are thrashing now, the drug losing ground to the sheer, overwhelming force of the omega presentation. You are terrified, confused, and drowning in pain.

“Sweetheart,” Dean says loudly, his voice shaking. “Look at me. Can you open your eyes for me?”

You force your heavy eyelids open. You see Dean’s face, pale and streaked with water.

“That’s it,” Dean praises softly. “I’m Dean. This is Garrett holding you. That’s Tucker and Logan. You’re safe. We brought you home.”

“Don’t know you,” you slur, your teeth chattering violently.

“You do,” Logan says, kneeling down next to Dean. His voice is a deep, resonant rumble that vibrates right into your chest. “You just don’t realize it yet. You’re ours.”

“My pack,” you whisper, the word slipping out of you entirely on instinct.

“Yeah, baby,” Garrett breathes, tightening his hold on you. “Your pack.”

The presentation finally hits its peak. A massive, suffocating wave of heat surges out of your body, radiating outward, hitting the four men like a physical wall. Your scent — pure, sweet, unbridled omega — floods the bathroom, drowning out the sour notes of distress and the sharp tang of the chemicals.

It is the most beautiful thing any of them have ever experienced.

And then, just as quickly as it peaked, the energy leaves you. The drug’s last remnants are burned away by the biological shift, and your exhausted body finally gives out.

Your eyes roll back, and you go completely limp in Garrett’s arms.

“Y/N!” Dean shouts.

“She’s okay,” Tucker says quickly, reaching in to check your pulse. He lets out a massive, shaky breath, slumping back on his heels. “She’s okay. Her pulse is stabilizing. The fever broke. She passed out from exhaustion.”

Garrett rests his forehead against your wet hair, closing his eyes. His massive chest heaves as he tries to rein in his feral alpha instincts.

Logan slowly sinks to the floor, leaning back against the sink cabinet, burying his face in his hands.

For a long moment, the only sound in the bathroom is the rush of the freezing shower water and the ragged breathing of four men who just had their entire world permanently altered.

Garrett looks up, his eyes locking onto Dean, then Logan, then Tucker. The pack dynamic has irrevocably shifted. There is no jealousy. There is no competition.

There is only the pack, and the center they must now protect with their lives.

“Tomorrow,” Garrett says, his voice cold and terrifyingly calm over the noise of the water. “We find the guy who gave her that drink.”

Dean looks at your sleeping face, his jaw setting into a brutal line. “And we break every single bone in his hands.”

Logan lowers his hands from his face. “No. We break him entirely.”

***

You wake up to the sensation of being completely, entirely safe.

It’s a foreign feeling. For the past two years, your underlying state of being has been a low-grade, buzzing anxiety. But right now, as you slowly drag yourself out of a deep, dreamless sleep, your muscles are loose. The mattress beneath you is ridiculously soft, and the heavy duvet draped over your body feels like a weighted shield against the world.

You keep your eyes closed for another minute, just breathing.

That’s when you notice the smell.

Your childhood home smelled like vanilla, baking spices, and a chaotic, overwhelming mix of your parents and siblings. It always felt a little suffocating. But the scent wrapped around you right now — soaked into the pillows, the sheets, the very air in the room — is different.

It’s pine needles and crisp winter air. It’s warm cedar wood. It’s fresh mint, and dark, worn leather.

The combination shouldn’t work, but it does. It weaves together into a flawless, intoxicating tapestry that makes a low, rumbling purr start in the back of your throat.

Wait. A purr?

Your eyes snap open.

The panic hits you like a bucket of ice water. You sit up so fast your head spins. This isn’t your tiny dorm room. This is a massive bedroom with dark grey walls, a huge flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, and hockey gear piled in the corner.

You look down at yourself. You aren’t wearing the jeans and t-shirt you wore to the party. You’re drowning in a black Briar University Hockey t-shirt that falls mid-thigh, and a pair of grey sweatpants with the drawstrings pulled as tight as they can go, the waist rolled down three times just to keep them on your hips.

The clothes swallow you whole, and they smell intensely of the four scents blanketing the room.

The memories hit you in broken, terrifying shards. The party. The red Solo cup. The sudden, agonizing heat tearing through your veins. The locked bathroom door crashing inward. Freezing water. The desperate voices.

I’m Dean. This is Garrett holding you. That’s Tucker and Logan.

My pack, you had whispered.

You press your hands to your face, your breathing hitching. You presented. The roofie forced your body into an aggressive, violent presentation. You’re an omega.

You drop your hands and look at your wrists, taking a deep, experimental breath. Beneath the heavy musk of the four alphas, you can smell it. Vanilla, rain, and hot asphalt. It’s yours. You have a scent. You have a dynamic.

And apparently, you have mates. Four of them.

“Okay. Okay, don’t freak out,” you whisper to the empty room. You swing your legs over the edge of the bed. Your body feels slightly bruised, a lingering ache in your joints from the brutal biological shift, but your mind is strangely clear. Sharper, even.

You stand up. The sweatpants pool around your bare feet. You roll the cuffs up a few times so you don’t trip, take a deep breath, and open the bedroom door.

The hallway is quiet, lined with three other closed doors. You pad softly down the hardwood stairs, gripping the banister. You can hear low voices coming from the first floor, the clinking of silverware against ceramic.

You reach the bottom of the stairs and peek around the corner into a massive, open-concept kitchen and living room.

They are all there.

One of them — tall, blond, with a jawline that looks carved out of marble — is sitting on a barstool, nursing a mug of coffee. Another, with a mess of dark curls, is leaning against the fridge, scrolling through his phone. A third guy, built like a brick wall with soft, observant eyes, is at the stove flipping pancakes. And the last one, the one who had held you in the freezing shower, is wiping down the island counter, his broad shoulders shifting under a tight grey t-shirt.

You take a step forward, the floorboard creaking beneath your foot.

Every single one of them stops moving.

It’s instantaneous. The guy at the stove freezes with the spatula in mid-air. The blond guy lowers his mug. The curly guy’s head snaps up. The guy wiping the counter drops the rag.

Four sets of eyes lock onto you.

The silence in the kitchen is deafening. You stand near the edge of the living room, nervously twisting the hem of the massive hockey shirt. By all logical accounts, this should be the most awkward, terrifying moment of your life. You are in a strange house with four massive alphas you barely know, and you were completely incapacitated the last time you saw them. You should be running for the front door.

But your biology is singing.

The moment their eyes meet yours, a heavy, settling warmth floods your chest. The lingering anxiety from waking up vanishes entirely. Your inner omega doesn’t see strangers; she sees safety. She sees pack.

“You’re awake,” the one with the grey shirt says. His voice is a deep, gravelly baritone that sends a shiver straight down your spine. Garrett. You remember his name.

“I’m awake,” you confirm, your voice a little raspy.

Garrett takes a slow step toward you, as if approaching a wild animal that might bolt. His eyes are sweeping over you, taking in the oversized clothes, the messy hair, the way you’re shifting on your feet.

“How do you feel?” He asks, his voice softening into a protective rumble. “The fever broke around 3 AM, but the transition … it was rough. Are you in pain?”

“A little achy,” you admit. “But … I’m okay. Mostly just confused.”

The blond guy practically vaults off his barstool. “I’m Dean. By the way. We sort of introduced ourselves last night while you were seizing, which wasn’t exactly ideal.”

“Dean,” you repeat. You look at the curly-haired guy. “And you’re Logan.”

Logan offers a small, tight smile, his dark eyes never leaving your face. “Yeah. That’s me.”

“And Tucker,” you say, looking at the guy with the spatula.

“Breakfast is almost ready,” Tucker says gently. “You must be starving. The presentation burns a massive amount of calories, and your body was fighting off a sedative at the same time. Come sit.”

They are trying so hard to give you space. You can see the rigid tension in their shoulders, the way they are forcing themselves to stay in their spots, fighting every single alpha instinct in their DNA that is screaming at them to rush forward, close the distance, and touch their newly presented mate.

The restraint is admirable. It lasts exactly thirty seconds.

You take three steps into the kitchen toward the island. That’s all it takes.

The invisible thread snaps.

Garrett is the first one to move. He crosses the kitchen in two massive strides, stopping right in front of you. Up close, he is a giant. He towers over you, his presence entirely consuming. He doesn’t ask. He just reaches out, his large, calloused hands gently cupping your face.

You gasp quietly, but you don’t pull away. You lean into his palms.

Garrett’s eyes darken, a raw, possessive sound vibrating in his chest. He tilts your head slightly, his thumbs tracing the line of your jaw. “You’re perfect,” he breathes, his scent — pine and winter air — flaring with pride and relief. “You scared the absolute hell out of us, sweetheart. But you’re perfect.”

“Hey, don’t hog her, G,” Dean says, his voice entirely lacking its usual confident swagger. It sounds almost desperate.

Dean steps up right beside Garrett. He reaches out and wraps a hand around your waist, pulling you gently but firmly against his side. The contact is electric. You let out a soft sigh, your body naturally molding against his side. Dean buries his face in your hair, taking a massive, deep inhale of your scent.

“God, you smell so good,” Dean mutters against your temple. “Vanilla and rain. It’s making me crazy.”

Logan is there a second later, standing close enough to your back that you can feel the heat radiating off his chest. His hand settles heavily, warmly, on the back of your neck. It’s a purely dominant gesture, laying claim, offering protection.

You should be telling them to back off. You are an independent, rational college student who wanted to play intramural sports and get a history degree without a pack.

But your rational brain has been utterly, entirely hijacked.

You let your eyes flutter shut, a soft, involuntary purr starting up in your chest again. You are surrounded by them. Surrounded by a wall of muscle, heat, and devotion. It feels so right it actually aches. You don’t want them to step back. You want them closer.

“You’re wearing my shirt,” Logan murmurs, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin right at your hairline.

“And my sweats,” Dean adds smugly.

“I slept in Garrett’s bed, though,” you point out, opening your eyes to look up at Garrett’s smug smirk.

Tucker sets a massive plate of chocolate chip pancakes on the island counter, wiping his hands on a dishtowel. He walks over, completing the circle. He reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His touch is softer than the others, but his eyes are just as intense.

“Sit, sweetheart,” Tucker says. “You need to eat.”

They practically escort you to a stool, boxing you in. Logan stands leaning against the counter to your left, Dean takes the stool to your right, Garrett stands directly in front of you, and Tucker places the plate down along with a massive glass of water and a cup of tea.

You pick up the fork, suddenly realizing you are ravenous. You cut a massive bite of the pancakes and shove it into your mouth.

“So,” you say after swallowing, looking around at the four men watching your every move like you’re the most fascinating thing on earth. “Four mates. Is that … normal?”

“It’s rare,” Tucker says, leaning his forearms on the counter. “Extremely rare. Usually, a pack forms around an omega naturally over time, or an omega bonds with a pre-existing pack. But a fated bond tying one omega to four alphas simultaneously? It happens maybe once in a generation.”

“Lucky us,” Dean grins, stealing a piece of bacon off a side plate. “We hit the biological jackpot.”

“I was a beta,” you say, staring down at your plate. “For two years, everyone thought I was a beta. My family, the doctors. I didn’t present when I was sixteen. I came to Briar to get away from the pity.”

Garrett’s jaw tightens. He reaches out, covering your hand with his. “You were never a beta, baby. Your biology was just waiting. Sometimes, an omega needs a massive shock to the system to jumpstart a delayed presentation. The bond snapping into place when we smelled you … and the drug.”

Logan shifts, the easygoing cedar scent suddenly spiking with dark, violent aggression. “The drug.”

The atmosphere in the kitchen shifts violently. The warm, domestic bubble pops, replaced by a suffocating, lethal tension.

“Who gave you the drink?” Logan asks. His voice is dangerously quiet.

You swallow hard, putting your fork down. “Some guy by the kitchen. He said his name was Brad. Tall, wore a backward baseball cap. He handed me a cup of jungle juice. I only took two sips before I started feeling … weird.”

Dean’s hands curl into fists on the countertop. “Brad. I know him. He’s a junior, plays lacrosse.”

“Not anymore he doesn’t,” Garrett says coldly. “Not with broken kneecaps.”

“Guys,” you say softly, a little alarmed by the casual murder in Garrett’s eyes.

“We’re not going to kill him,” Tucker says, though his expression is just as grim as the others. “But we are going to make sure he is permanently expelled, arrested, and incapable of ever looking at an omega again.”

“Logan and I will handle it today,” Garrett says, looking at Logan. Logan nods, a dark promise in his eyes.

“What about me?” You ask, picking up your water glass. “I need to get back to my dorm. Brooke, my roommate, she probably noticed I never came back to the room. I don’t even have my phone, it must have fallen out of my pocket at the party. And I have orientation events tomorrow.”

Silence falls over the kitchen again.

Garrett and Dean exchange a look. Tucker crosses his arms over his chest. Logan picks up a butter knife, spinning it slowly on the granite counter.

“What?” You ask, looking between them.

“You’re not going back to the dorm,” Garrett says. It’s not a suggestion. It’s a statement of absolute fact.

You blink. “Excuse me? Yes, I am. All my stuff is there. My laptop, my clothes-”

“We’ll go get your stuff,” Dean interrupts, his tone soothing but firm. “We can pack up your room this afternoon and move it into the guest room here. Or my room. Or G’s room. Wherever you want.”

“I can’t just move in with you!” You protest, your rational brain finally trying to put up a fight. “I met you twelve hours ago! I have a roommate. I have a life I literally just started building yesterday.”

“You’re an unbonded, newly presented omega who was just targeted at a frat party,” Logan says bluntly, his dark eyes pinning you to your seat. “You have no control over your scent yet. You don’t have a bite mark to signal you’re taken. If you walk onto campus right now, every alpha within a two-mile radius is going to swarm you.”

“I can handle myself,” you say stubbornly, though even as you say it, a small part of you shrinks at the thought of leaving the safety of this kitchen.

Garrett steps closer, invading your space until you have to tilt your head back to look at him. He places both hands on the counter on either side of your hips, effectively caging you in.

“No, you can’t,” Garrett says, his voice dropping an octave into that terrifying, authoritative alpha command. “You are our mate. You belong to this pack. And my instincts are screaming at me to lock the front door and throw away the key just from the thought of you being out of my sight. You are staying here.”

You open your mouth to argue. You want to tell him he’s being ridiculous. You want to tell him he can’t order you around.

But you look up into Garrett’s eyes. You feel the heat of his body, the absolute, unshakable certainty in his voice. He wants to protect you. He wants to keep you safe from a world that literally just tried to poison you.

Your omega completely and utterly folds.

Yes, your inner voice purrs. Keep me.

“I … I have classes on Monday,” you say, your voice much weaker than you intended. It sounds more like a plea for compromise than a demand.

Tucker smiles, a slow, incredibly satisfied smile. He reaches out and gently strokes the back of your hair again. “We’ll figure classes out. The university has protocols for sudden presentations. We’ll get you a medical exemption for the first few weeks if we have to.”

“First few weeks?” Your eyes widen. “How long am I supposed to stay here?”

“Until your first heat hits,” Logan says smoothly. He leans forward, his face inches from yours. His gaze drops to your neck, his eyes darkening. “Until we can officially claim you. Until we can mark you. Once you’re wearing our bites, once your scent is permanently mixed with ours … then you can go back to campus. Because everyone will know you’re ours.”

A shiver wrecks through your entire body. The thought of their teeth sinking into your skin, laying a permanent claim, sends a jolt of heat straight to your core.

You look at Dean. He’s watching you with a hungry, predatory intensity that makes your breath catch. You look at Garrett, who is still caging you in, waiting for your absolute submission to the plan. You look at Tucker, the steady, grounding force, and Logan, the intense, silent protector.

You are entirely trapped.

And you have never felt happier in your entire life.

“Okay,” you whisper, the fight draining out of you entirely. You slump slightly against the counter. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

Garrett lets out a massive breath, his rigid posture relaxing. He leans down and presses a hard, lingering kiss to your forehead. “Good girl.”

The praise makes your toes curl.

“Great,” Dean claps his hands together, the charming, easy-going grin returning to his face. “Now that that’s settled, Tucker, make the girl some more bacon. She needs her strength. Logan and Garrett have a lacrosse player to ruin, and I have to go to a dorm and pack up an obscene amount of sweaters.”

“How do you know I have an obscene amount of sweaters?” You ask, taking another bite of your pancakes.

“Sweetheart,” Dean winks. “You’re from New York, you moved to Massachusetts, and you’re an omega. It’s practically a biological requirement.”

You roll your eyes, but a genuine smile breaks across your face. You take a sip of the tea Tucker placed in front of you. It’s perfectly sweetened, warm, and soothing.

You sit in the kitchen, surrounded by the towering, dominant presence of four fated mates who have completely hijacked your life in less than twenty-four hours. You have no dorm. You have no independence. You are essentially on lockdown until you go into heat.

Your mother’s pamphlet flashes through your mind.

You realize you left it on the bedside table back in New York.

Good. You definitely aren’t going to need it.

***

The lacrosse locker room is empty on a Saturday afternoon, save for one player trying to find his lost practice jersey.

Brad is digging through his duffel bag, nursing a massive hangover, when the heavy metal door of the locker room slams shut. The sound echoes sharply against the tile.

He turns around, annoyance flashing across his face. “Hey, man, watch the-”

The words die in his throat.

Garrett and Logan are blocking the only exit. Neither of them is wearing their usual easygoing campus smiles. They are dressed in dark hoodies, their expressions carved out of absolute, predatory ice.

The air in the room instantly drops ten degrees. The alpha pheromones rolling off the two hockey players are suffocating, heavy with dark, violent aggression.

Brad takes a step back, his instincts screaming at him. “Graham? Logan? What are you guys doing here?”

Garrett doesn’t say a word. He just starts walking forward, his strides slow and measured. Logan falls into step right beside him, pulling a roll of athletic tape out of his pocket and casually tossing it from hand to hand.

“Look, if this is about the ice time dispute between our teams-” Brad starts, holding his hands up defensively.

Garrett closes the distance in a blur of motion. He grabs Brad by the throat, hoisting the taller lacrosse player entirely off the ground, and slams him brutally into the metal lockers.

The metal caves inward with a deafening crash.

Brad chokes, his hands flying up to claw desperately at Garrett’s massive forearm. His feet kick uselessly at the air.

“You were at the frat house last night,” Garrett says. His voice isn’t a yell. It’s a low, terrifying rumble that vibrates through the locker room. “You poured a cup of jungle juice for a freshman. A beta.”

Brad’s eyes widen in sheer terror, his face already turning a splotchy purple. “I—I didn’t-”

Garrett squeezes harder. “Don’t lie to me. If you lie to me, I’ll crush your windpipe right now and tell the cops it was a weightlifting accident.”

“Okay! Okay!” Brad gasps out as Garrett slightly loosens his grip. “Yeah, I talked to her! She was hot. I just gave her a drink to loosen her up!”

Logan steps forward, his dark eyes dead and cold. He stops inches from Brad’s face. “What was in it, Brad?”

“Nothing! Just booze! I swear!”

Logan sighs, shaking his head. He looks at Garrett. “He’s lying.”

“I know,” Garrett says.

Garrett drops Brad. The lacrosse player hits the floor, hacking and gasping for air. Before Brad can even get to his hands and knees, Logan drives his boot directly into Brad’s ribs.

There’s a sickening crack.

Brad screams, curling into a tight ball on the floor.

Logan crouches down next to him, resting his elbows on his knees. “Here’s the thing, Brad. That girl wasn’t a beta. She was a delayed omega. And whatever garbage you put in that cup forced her to present. She almost died in our bathroom last night. Her heart almost gave out.”

Brad whimpers, clutching his side. “I didn’t know! I didn’t know she was an omega!”

“That doesn’t make it better, you piece of shit,” Garrett snarls, grabbing Brad by the collar of his shirt and hauling him halfway up. “And it gets worse for you. Because she isn’t just any omega. She’s our mate.”

All the blood drains from Brad’s face. To drug a girl is a crime. To drug an unbonded omega is a felony. But to drug an alpha’s fated mate? It’s a death sentence.

“Please,” Brad begs, tears spilling down his cheeks. The overwhelming scent of his fear fills the room. “Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t touch her. I just gave her the drink and she walked away. I swear on my life.”

“Your life isn’t worth a dime to me,” Garrett whispers, pulling Brad closer until they are nose to nose. “But you play lacrosse, right? You need your hands for that.”

Garrett shifts his grip, grabbing Brad’s right hand.

“No! Wait, please, God, no-”

Garrett doesn’t blink. He twists, hard and violently.

The snap of breaking fingers echoes through the empty locker room. Brad unleashes a bloodcurdling scream, collapsing onto the tile.

Logan stands up, looking down at the sobbing, broken mess on the floor with absolute disgust. “You’re going to the registrar’s office on Monday morning. You’re going to withdraw from Briar University. You’re going to pack your bags, and you’re going to go back to whatever miserable town you came from.”

Garrett wipes his hands on his jeans, his expression impassive. “If I ever see your face on this campus again, if I ever hear your name, or if you ever breathe a word of this to anyone … breaking your fingers will look like a warm-up. Do you understand me?”

Brad nods frantically, cradling his mangled hand to his chest, sobbing uncontrollably. “Yes. Yes. I’m leaving. I’m gone.”

“Good,” Garrett says.

He and Logan turn their backs on the lacrosse player, walking out of the locker room without a backward glance. The protective, violent rage inside their alphas finally begins to settle.

Their mate is safe. And the threat is gone.

***

Across campus, Dean is using his legendary charm on a very confused college freshman.

“So, let me get this straight,” Brooke says, leaning against her desk, blowing a massive bubble with her pink gum. The bubble pops. “You’re Dean Di Laurentis. Hockey player. Trust fund baby. Campus legend.”

Dean flashes a blinding, dimpled smile, currently folding a stack of your jeans. “Don’t forget incredibly handsome. It’s an important part of the brand.”

“Right. And my roommate, who arrived exactly twenty-four hours ago and explicitly told me she was a beta, is actually an omega.”

“A very late bloomer, yes.”

“And she is fated to you.”

“Yup.” Dean places the folded jeans neatly into a cardboard box.

“And Garrett Graham. And John Logan. And John Tucker.”

“We are a package deal.”

Brooke stares at him for a long, quiet moment. She looks from Dean, to the empty bed, and back to Dean.

“That is the wildest shit I have ever heard in my entire life,” Brooke declares, shaking her head. “I thought this year was going to be boring. Good for her, honestly. Four hot hockey players? She won the lottery.”

Dean chuckles, walking over to your tiny closet. “We’re the lucky ones, Brooke. Trust me.”

He reaches into the closet and pulls out one of your oversized knit sweaters. The moment the fabric gets close to his face, Dean completely freezes.

The sweater is saturated in your scent. Vanilla and rain. It hits Dean’s senses so hard his eyes flutter shut. His alpha purrs violently in his chest, a deep, possessive rumble that he doesn’t even try to suppress. Without thinking, Dean buries his face in the soft wool, taking a massive, deep inhale.

It smells like safety. It smells like home. It smells like you.

Brooke raises an eyebrow. “Are you going to make out with her laundry, or are you going to pack it?”

Dean snaps his eyes open, clearing his throat, though he doesn’t look the least bit embarrassed. He carefully, almost reverently, folds the sweater. “I’m packing it. I just … the bond is new. Her scent is pretty overwhelming.”

“Clearly,” Brooke snorts. “Do you guys need any help carrying this stuff down? The elevator is still broken.”

“I’ve got it,” Dean says, taping the first box shut. “But do me a favor? Don’t mention the mate thing to anyone yet. The university doesn’t know she presented, and we want to keep her under the radar until her heat hits and we can claim her properly.”

Brooke taps her nose. “My lips are sealed. Just tell her she owes me a coffee when she eventually re-enters society.”

“I’ll buy you a whole Starbucks franchise,” Dean winks, lifting two massive boxes as if they weigh nothing at all. “See you around, Brooke.”

Dean carries the boxes down the three flights of stairs, his mind entirely focused on getting back to the house. The protective urge to guard you is a constant, low-level thrum in his veins. He loads your belongings into the back of his Range Rover, slams the trunk shut, and gets into the driver’s seat.

He takes one last look at the freshman dorms. You are never stepping foot in that building again. You are theirs now.

***

“Do you like spicy food?”

You blink, pulling your gaze away from the massive window looking out into the backyard. Tucker is sitting across from you at the kitchen island, a yellow legal pad and a pen in front of him.

“Um. Yeah. A little bit,” you say.

“Noted,” Tucker murmurs, his neat handwriting flowing across the page. “What about allergies? Any aversions? Anything you absolutely hate?”

You rest your chin on your hand, watching him. For the past hour, while Garrett and Logan were out doing God-knows-what, and Dean was packing your room, Tucker had sat you down and started a full-blown interrogation about your dietary preferences.

“I hate mushrooms,” you say. “And I’m not a big fan of seafood. Unless it’s fried.”

“A girl after my own heart,” Tucker smiles softly. “No mushrooms. No baked fish. Got it. Do you like pasta?”

“Tucker, you don’t have to cook every meal for me,” you say gently. “I know how to make a sandwich. I don’t want to be a burden.”

Tucker stops writing. He sets the pen down and looks up at you. His dark eyes are serious, stripping away the casual, domestic banter.

“You are our mate,” Tucker says, his voice slow and deliberate, making sure you hear every single word. “You are the center of our pack. Feeding you, providing for you, taking care of you … that isn’t a burden, sweetheart. It’s literally what we were biologically designed to do. My alpha wants to build a fortress around you and spend the rest of my life making sure you never lift a finger.”

A blush crawls up your neck, heating your cheeks. You look down at your hands, twisting your fingers together. “I’m just not used to it. My family … when I didn’t present, they sort of just stopped treating me like I needed anything. Because betas are independent. They stopped fussing over me.”

Tucker stands up, walking around the island. He pulls the stool out next to yours and sits down, invading your personal space in the best possible way. He smells like fresh mint and warmth.

He reaches out, his large hands gently covering yours, stopping your nervous fidgeting.

“Your family made a mistake,” Tucker says softly. “They looked at you and saw a biology textbook instead of a person. We see you. Beta, omega, it wouldn’t have mattered. If we had met you yesterday before you presented, the bond still would have snapped. We still would have kept you.”

You look up at him, your eyes a little glossy. “Really?”

“Really,” Tucker promises, bringing your hands up to his mouth and pressing a lingering kiss to your knuckles. “Now. Back to pasta. Carbonara or marinara?”

You let out a wet, genuine laugh. “Carbonara.”

The front door suddenly unlocks, swinging open with a heavy thud. The scent of pine and cedar instantly floods the house, but it’s sharp. Bitter. Spiked with aggression and a metallic tang.

You stiffen slightly on the stool.

Garrett and Logan walk into the kitchen. They look entirely unbothered, but Garrett’s knuckles are bruised and slightly split, and Logan is rubbing a dark smudge of dirt off his jaw.

Tucker takes one breath of the air, his eyes narrowing. “You handle it?”

“Handled,” Garrett says flatly, his eyes immediately locking onto you. The cold, violent edge in his gaze vanishes the second he looks at your face. His shoulders drop. He walks straight toward you.

“Are you okay?” You ask, looking at his bruised hand.

“I’m perfect,” Garrett rumbles. He stops right in front of you, bracketing your knees with his thighs. He leans down and presses his face directly into the crook of your neck, taking a massive breath.

His body shudders against yours. The grounding effect of your vanilla scent works instantly, smoothing out the jagged edges of his feral alpha.

Logan walks over a second later, wrapping his arm around your shoulders from behind and kissing the top of your head. “Missed you,” he mumbles into your hair.

“You were gone for an hour,” you point out, though you lean back against Logan’s chest, your omega practically purring at the physical contact.

“An hour too long,” Logan corrects.

The front door opens again, and Dean strolls in, looking like he just stepped off a GQ magazine cover. “The prodigal son returns! And I brought sweaters! So many sweaters!”

You laugh, the sound bright and clear in the kitchen.

Dean dumps the boxes in the living room and immediately jogs into the kitchen, inserting himself into the cuddle pile. He grabs your face in both hands and squishes your cheeks together. “Did you miss me the most? Be honest.”

“I was too distracted by Tucker to miss you,” you tease, your voice muffled by his hands. “He’s making me carbonara.”

“Betrayal,” Dean gasps, pressing a quick, messy kiss to your forehead before letting you go. “Absolute betrayal in my own home.”

Garrett pulls back from your neck, his eyes warm and golden. “Alright, you animals, go shower. You smell like a locker room. I’m calling a pack meeting in the living room in twenty minutes.”

“Ooh, a pack meeting,” Dean wiggles his eyebrows. “Are we organizing a chore chart? Because I’m not cleaning the bathrooms.”

“We’re watching a movie,” Garrett says. He looks down at you, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. “It’s time for the girl’s education to begin.”

***

An hour later, you are entirely trapped.

The massive, U-shaped sectional in the living room is designed to fit a half-dozen massive hockey players, but currently, it is holding exactly five people, and they are all piled into one corner.

You are sitting in the middle. Garrett is sitting to your left, his arm securely wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. Logan is on your right, his long legs stretched out over the coffee table, one of his large hands resting possessively on your thigh. Dean is sprawled out across the chaise part of the couch, his head quite literally resting in your lap. And Tucker is sitting on the floor directly in front of you, leaning his back against the couch between your knees.

The lights are off. The TV is playing the opening credits to Miracle.

“I’m just saying,” you argue softly, running your fingers through Dean’s soft blonde hair, entirely on instinct. Dean lets out a soft, pleased sigh, pressing his face closer to your stomach. “I don’t even like hockey.”

Four gasps echo in the dark room.

“Blasphemy,” Logan says, lightly squeezing your thigh. “Absolute blasphemy.”

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that,” Garrett mutters, pulling you tighter against him until you are practically sitting in his lap. “You are mated to four hockey players. You are going to learn to love the game, sweetheart.”

“Or at least pretend to love it when we score,” Dean mumbles from your lap.

“Pay attention,” Tucker says, pointing at the screen. “Herb Brooks is about to speak.”

You try to pay attention. You really do. Kurt Russell is on the screen, giving a dramatic speech about the Soviet Union. It seems intense.

But you are incredibly distracted.

The physical affection is relentless. It isn’t sexual; it’s purely instinctual. It’s the grounding, tactile reassurance of a pack claiming their center.

Garrett’s thumb is rubbing slow, methodical circles into your hip bone through the fabric of the oversized sweatpants. His chin is resting on your shoulder, his nose occasionally brushing against your scent gland, taking deep, steadying breaths of your vanilla scent.

Logan hasn’t moved his hand from your thigh, his fingers absently tracing patterns on your skin. Every few minutes, he shifts closer, pressing his shoulder against yours, ensuring there isn’t a millimeter of space between you.

Dean is practically asleep in your lap, his entire body relaxed, completely trusting. Every time you stop playing with his hair, he makes a soft, pathetic whining sound until you start again.

And Tucker, sitting on the floor, has one hand resting casually on your ankle, his thumb stroking the bone.

You are drowning in a sea of alphas. The mingled scents of pine, cedar, mint, and leather are so thick in the air it feels like a heavy, warm blanket.

Your omega is in absolute, euphoric heaven. The stabbing pain in your chest that you had carried for two years — the agonizing belief that you were broken, destined to be alone — is completely gone. It has been erased, rewritten by the four men currently treating you like you are the most precious thing in the universe.

On the screen, the hockey players are doing some grueling drill. “Again!” The coach yells.

“Man, Jensen is going to run us like that on Monday,” Logan groans quietly.

“Let him,” Garrett says, his voice a low rumble against your ear. “We’re going to win the frozen four this year.”

“Cocky,” you whisper, tilting your head back slightly to look at him.

Garrett smirks, his eyes catching the light from the TV. “It’s not cocky if it’s true, baby.”

He leans in and catches your lips in a soft, devastatingly gentle kiss. It’s the first time any of them have kissed you on the mouth. It isn’t demanding or rushed. It’s a slow, sweet promise.

Your breath hitches, your eyes fluttering shut as you melt into his mouth. The kiss tastes like mint toothpaste and intense, unfiltered devotion.

“Hey,” Dean complains softly from your lap, cracking one eye open. “No fair. Share.”

Garrett breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against yours with a soft chuckle. “Patience, Di Laurentis.”

Logan leans over and presses a kiss to your temple, while Tucker squeezes your ankle.

You look at the TV screen. You have absolutely no idea what the plot of this movie is. You couldn’t name a single character.

And you genuinely do not care.

You settle deeper into the couch, surrounded by the crushing, beautiful weight of your pack, and for the first time in your life, you are exactly where you belong.

***

It starts as a persistent, maddening itch beneath your skin.

By Wednesday afternoon, the low-grade ache in your joints from your presentation has faded, replaced by an entirely new, entirely terrifying sensation. Your skin feels too tight. The ambient temperature of the house feels like a sauna, yet you are shivering. Every time the fabric of Logan’s oversized hoodie brushes against your chest, a sharp jolt of electricity shoots straight down to your core.

You are sitting on the edge of the kitchen island, swinging your legs, trying very hard to act normal.

It isn’t working.

“You’re flushed,” Tucker says. He doesn’t look up from the stove, where he is currently searing two massive ribeye steaks, but you know he’s hyper-aware of your every movement. “Drink your water, sweetheart.”

You pick up the glass of ice water and press the condensation against your cheek before taking a sip. “I’m fine. Just a little warm.”

“You smell different,” Logan points out. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his broad chest. His dark eyes track the way you shift uncomfortably on the stool. “The vanilla … it’s getting sweeter. Heavier.”

“Like sugar glaze,” Dean chimes in, walking into the kitchen. He drops a duffel bag on the floor and instantly closes the distance between you two. He steps between your swinging legs, planting his hands on your thighs. “You smell absolutely edible, baby.”

You let out a soft, involuntary whine as Dean’s large, cool hands squeeze your bare thighs. The friction of his callouses against your skin sends a spike of wet heat directly between your legs. You clamp your thighs together, trapping Dean’s hands, your breath hitching.

“Dean,” you gasp, your voice trembling.

Dean’s eyes darken instantly. His pupils blow wide, swallowing the blue of his irises until they are entirely black. He leans in, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He inhales so deeply his chest expands against yours.

“Pre-heat,” Dean groans, his voice vibrating against your collarbone. “It’s starting.”

Garrett walks down the stairs, catching the tail end of the conversation. The easygoing, relaxed captain from five minutes ago vanishes. His posture goes rigid, his broad shoulders tensing as the heavy, overripe scent of your changing hormones hits his nose.

“Tucker,” Garrett barks, his voice dropping into that terrifying alpha command. “Food. Now. She needs every calorie she can get before the fever actually breaks.”

“Plating it up, G,” Tucker says smoothly, though his own scent of fresh mint is spiking with sharp, protective arousal.

Tucker sets a plate in front of you. It’s a massive portion of sliced steak, roasted potatoes, and a thick slice of buttered bread.

“I’m not hungry,” you protest, your stomach doing nervous flips. You squirm on the stool again. The core of your body feels hollow, empty, and aching in a way that food is absolutely not going to fix.

“You’re eating it anyway,” Garrett says, stepping up right beside Dean. He reaches out and grips the back of your neck. The sheer dominance in his touch makes your spine melt. “Your body is about to run a marathon, baby. You need the energy. Open up.”

Tucker actually holds a piece of steak on a fork to your lips.

You whine, a pathetic, high-pitched sound that makes all four alphas practically vibrate out of their skin, but you open your mouth. The moment the rich, salty meat hits your tongue, your body’s biological need takes over. You chew and swallow, leaning forward for the next bite.

“Good girl,” Logan praises, his voice a dark, rough rumble. He walks over and presses his hand flat against your lower back, his thumb tracing the curve of your spine. “Eat for us.”

They spend the next ten minutes treating you like a delicate, highly combustible bomb. Tucker feeds you every single bite. Dean refuses to move from between your legs, his hands constantly stroking your thighs, mapping the soft skin. Garrett keeps his heavy hand anchored to your neck, his thumb rhythmically pressing against your pulse point. Logan guards your back, a solid wall of heat.

By the time the plate is empty, your internal temperature has skyrocketed. A slick, heavy dampness is pooling in your underwear, completely unbidden. You squeeze your thighs tighter against Dean’s waist, desperate for friction.

“Okay,” Garrett says, his breathing a little ragged. He steps back, physically tearing himself away from you. “Dean, Logan, let her breathe. We need to go chop wood or run drills or something before I lose my mind and take her right here on this kitchen island.”

“She’s not in full heat yet,” Tucker reminds them, his voice tight. “If we seal the bond before her biology is ready, it’ll hurt her. We wait.”

“I know the damn rules, Tuck,” Garrett growls, running a hand through his hair. He looks at you, his chest heaving. “We’re going to the backyard. Ten minutes. Just to cool off. Tucker, get her settled in the living room.”

Garrett, Dean, and Logan practically flee the kitchen, the sliding glass door slamming shut behind them.

You let out a shaky breath, your body slumping forward. Without their hands on you, the hollow ache inside you amplifies tenfold.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Tucker says softly. He hooks his arms under your knees and back, lifting you off the stool effortlessly. He carries you into the living room and gently deposits you onto the massive sectional couch. “I’ll be right back with some Gatorade. Just rest.”

Tucker disappears into the kitchen.

You are alone in the living room. The TV is off. The house is quiet.

Your skin is on fire.

You twist on the couch, pulling your knees to your chest. The throw pillows beneath you feel rough. The blanket draped over the back of the couch smells like detergent. It’s wrong. Everything is wrong.

A primal, overwhelming instinct violently hijacks your brain.

You scramble off the couch, your legs a little wobbly. You stumble into the downstairs hallway, pulling open the door to the laundry room. A massive pile of clean, folded clothes sits on the dryer, but you ignore it. You dive for the woven hamper on the floor.

It’s full of their workout gear. Sweaty, unwashed, intensely scented clothes.

You let out a low, rumbling purr, dropping to your knees. You grab Dean’s grey sweatpants, Logan’s worn-in flannel shirt, Garrett’s heavy practice jersey, and Tucker’s thermal henley. You bundle them into your arms, pressing your face into the fabric. The overwhelming hit of pine, cedar, mint, and leather makes your eyes roll back in your head.

You carry the pile into the living room and dump it onto the sectional.

But it isn’t enough.

You run up the stairs, practically panting. You go into Garrett’s room and strip his massive, heavy duvet right off his bed. You drag it down the stairs, adding it to the pile. You go back up for Dean’s incredibly soft cashmere throw. You take Logan’s favorite heavily-weighted blanket. You grab Tucker’s pillows.

For twenty minutes, you are a woman possessed. You arrange the blankets in a massive, circular crater on the corner of the sectional. You line the edges with the pillows. You weave their unwashed clothing into the center, creating a soft, overwhelmingly scented dip.

When it is finally perfect, you crawl into the very center. You curl into a tight ball, pulling Garrett’s jersey over your head, burying your nose in the collar. The scents wrap around you, suffocating and perfect.

You let out a long, shuddering sigh, your body finally relaxing as a heavy, continuous purr vibrates in your chest. The slickness between your legs intensifies, soaking the crotch of your sweatpants, but you don’t care. You are in your nest. You are safe.

***

The sliding glass door opens.

“I’m just saying, I could definitely take a bear in a fight,” Dean’s voice rings out, followed by the sound of heavy boots on the hardwood.

“You cry when you get a papercut, Di Laurentis,” Logan snorts.

“That’s different, papercuts are an unnatural evil-”

Dean stops walking.

Garrett bumps into his back, letting out a grunt of annoyance. “Keep moving, idiot.”

“Garrett,” Dean whispers, his voice entirely stripped of humor.

Garrett steps around Dean, looking into the living room. Logan comes up behind them. Tucker walks out of the kitchen, holding two blue sports drinks.

All four men freeze.

The living room looks like a tornado hit a bedding store. But right in the center of the massive, meticulously constructed pile of blankets and clothes, you are curled up, wearing Garrett’s practice jersey.

The scent in the room is blinding. The heavy, intoxicating smell of overripe vanilla, petrichor, and a sharp, musky sweetness that screams omega in pre-heat. It is the most beautiful, devastating thing any of them have ever seen.

“She nested,” Logan breathes, the words barely making it past his lips.

Tucker sets the Gatorade bottles on the coffee table. His hands are shaking. “She took our dirty laundry. She specifically sought out our scents.”

Garrett’s jaw is locked so tight a muscle ticks violently in his cheek. The sight of you, buried in his jersey, purring softly in a nest built of their belongings, utterly shatters the last remaining threads of his civilized restraint.

He stalks forward.

You crack an eye open as he approaches. Your inner omega recognizes the alpha instantly. You don’t shrink back. Instead, you stretch out like a cat, your spine arching, exposing your neck.

“Garrett,” you whine, a desperate, needy sound. “Come here. Please.”

Garrett groans, a harsh, guttural sound that tears from his throat. He drops to his knees right at the edge of the nest. He doesn’t cross the boundary. He knows the rules of the instinct.

“Can I come in, baby?” Garrett asks, his voice raw, pleading. “Let me in.”

You reach out, grabbing the collar of his shirt, and tug him forward. “Yes. Pack. Need you.”

Garrett doesn’t hesitate. He crawls over the barrier of blankets and settles right into the center of the nest with you. He hauls you into his lap, crushing you against his chest.

“God, you smell so good,” Garrett mutters, burying his face in your neck. His teeth scrape lightly against your scent gland, not breaking the skin, but mimicking the claiming bite. The sensation sends a violent shiver through your entire body.

Dean, Logan, and Tucker are right behind him.

They pile into the nest, careful not to disturb the structure, entirely surrounding you.

“My turn,” Dean demands softly, sliding up right behind you. He wraps his arms around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. He immediately slots one of his thick, muscular thighs directly between your legs.

You gasp out loud as the hard ridge of his quad presses directly against your aching, sensitive core through your sweatpants. You instinctively grind down against him.

“Fuck,” Dean hisses, his hips jerking forward. “You’re so wet, sweetheart. I can feel it through your pants.”

“Dean,” you sob, throwing your head back against his shoulder.

Logan is at your side, pulling your legs across his lap. He doesn’t bother with sweet talk. His hands slide directly under the hem of Garrett’s jersey, his large, rough palms skimming up your bare stomach. Your skin is searing hot to the touch.

Logan’s hands find your breasts, covered only by a thin bralette. He squeezes them with a firm, dominant pressure.

“Logan!” You cry out, your hands flying up to grip his forearms.

“I’ve got you,” Logan rumbles, his thumbs expertly flicking over your peaking nipples through the fabric. “You’re doing so good, baby. Just let it burn.”

You are thrashing in their grip, a tangled mess of limbs, blankets, and pure, unfiltered need. The friction is driving you absolutely insane. You grind harder against Dean’s thigh, chasing an elusive release that your body refuses to grant until the full heat hits.

Tucker appears in your line of sight. He is kneeling over you, his beautiful, calm face flushed with deep red desire. He holds an uncapped bottle of Gatorade.

“Drink,” Tucker orders, his voice entirely stripping away its usual softness. It is a pure, dominant command.

He presses the rim of the bottle to your lips. You part your lips obediently, taking frantic gulps of the cool, sweet liquid. Some of it spills, running down your chin and onto your neck.

Tucker sets the bottle down. He leans in and licks the spilled liquid right off your skin, his tongue dragging a hot, wet path up your throat.

“So sweet,” Tucker murmurs, his lips hovering over yours. “You are being so good for us, Y/N. Such a good omega.”

The praise breaks you.

“Please,” you sob, your hips rolling frantically against Dean. You are begging, though you don’t even know what you’re asking for. “Make it stop. Make it ache less. Please.”

Garrett grabs your chin, forcing you to look at him. His eyes are glowing in the dim light of the living room, completely feral.

“We can’t, baby,” Garrett says, his thumb stroking your lower lip. “If we take you now, we can’t knot you. We can’t mark you. Your body isn’t ready. You have to ride out the fever.”

“I can’t!” You cry, tears of frustration spilling down your cheeks. “It burns!”

“Let me help,” Dean whispers in your ear.

Dean’s hand slides around to the front of your sweatpants. He doesn’t pull them down. He just presses his palm flat over the soaked fabric covering your core, applying a heavy, agonizingly perfect pressure.

You let out a loud, keening scream into Garrett’s chest.

Dean begins to move his hand, rubbing the heel of his palm in slow, agonizing circles over your clit through the heavy cotton.

“That’s it,” Dean praises, his voice a filthy, decadent purr. “Grind into my hand, sweetheart. Take what you need.”

You completely lose your mind. You buck your hips up into his palm, chasing the pressure, sobbing openly.

Logan abandons your breasts, moving his hands to grip your hips, holding you perfectly steady so Dean can find maximum leverage. Logan’s grip is bruising, possessive, keeping you anchored in the storm of your own hormones.

Garrett kisses you, a bruising, open-mouthed invasion that swallows your moans. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting like mint and aggressive alpha perfection. You kiss him back with desperate fervor, your hands tangling in his dark hair, pulling him closer.

The sensory overload is absolute. The scent of the nest, the heavy heat of four massive bodies pinning you down, the agonizing friction from Dean’s hand, Logan’s bruising grip, Garrett’s dominating kiss.

Tucker watches the entire thing, his eyes dark, his breathing ragged. He reaches out and gently strokes your hair, a grounding touch amidst the chaos.

“Almost there,” Tucker whispers, checking the flush of your skin, tracking the biological markers of the approaching heat. “Your temperature is peaking, baby. Just hold on a little longer.”

“Dean,” you gasp against Garrett’s lips. “Faster. Please. Please.”

“Needy little thing,” Dean chuckles darkly, his hand speeding up, the friction turning slick and hot. “You’re going to take all four of us so well. We’re going to absolutely ruin you for anyone else.”

“Ours,” Logan growls, his face buried in your stomach, biting lightly at the soft skin there. “You’re ours.”

The pressure building between your legs reaches a screaming crescendo. It feels like a rubber band pulling tighter and tighter, ready to snap. Your vision whites out. Every muscle in your body locks rigid.

You scream, a pure, wordless sound of absolute surrender, as a violent, full-body orgasm rips through you.

You convulse against them, sobbing, your hips bucking helplessly against Dean’s hand as wave after wave of agonizing pleasure floods your system. Garrett holds you tight against his chest, absorbing the tremors, whispering absolute filth and praise into your ear while you fall apart.

It takes a full two minutes for the spasms to subside.

You go completely boneless, slumping back against Dean’s chest, gasping for air. Your skin is covered in a sheen of sweat. You feel thoroughly wrecked, exhausted, and utterly sated.

But as you lie there, blinking up at the ceiling, you realize something terrifying.

The hollow ache inside your core didn’t go away.

In fact, the orgasm only seemed to clear away the fog of the pre-heat, leaving the true, biological imperative bare and raw.

A sudden, aggressive spike of heat flares from your center, radiating outward like a shockwave. It hits the alphas instantly.

Garrett’s head snaps up. Dean’s breathing stops. Logan’s hands freeze on your hips. Tucker’s eyes go completely black.

The sweet, sugary scent of your pre-heat vanishes.

It is replaced by something darker. Heavier. A scent so potent, so violently intoxicating, it demands absolute, feral submission from any alpha in the vicinity.

Your true heat has dropped.

Garrett looks down at you, his eyes completely gone, replaced by the pure, unadulterated instinct of a dominant alpha whose mate is finally ready to be claimed.

“The fever broke,” Garrett rumbles, a sound that vibrates through the floorboards.

He grabs the hem of the practice jersey you are wearing.

“Time’s up, sweetheart.”