Natalia

He looks to his left. His mother’s eyes are red-rimmed, her makeup flawlessly intact but her expression completely shattered. Beside her, his father sits with a stoic, grave expression, his jaw tight. They are high-powered attorneys, people who rip apart witnesses for a living and negotiate million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. But right now, they just look like two devastated parents grieving a boy who practically lived at their house over the summer.

“I’m fine, Mom,” Dean lies, his voice a low, raspy gravel.

“You don’t have to be fine,” his father murmurs, leaning in slightly. “Not today. Not for a long time.”

Dean swallows hard and looks away. He isn’t fine. Beau is in that box. His best friend. His blood brother. Briar University’s star quarterback, the guy with the golden arm and the shit-eating grin.

Dead.

The word still doesn’t make sense in his brain. It’s a typo. A bad joke. Dean knows a lot of things. He knows how to throw a party, how to close down a bar, and how to charm his way out of a parking ticket. He knows how to live. He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to look at a wooden box and accept that his best friend is never going to throw a football at his head again.

“Hey,” a low voice says from the pew behind him.

Dean turns his head. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are sitting right behind him, all wearing dark suits, looking equally as wrecked.

“You see her yet?” Logan asks, keeping his voice strictly to a whisper.

Dean shakes his head. “No. Have you?”

“Joanna walked in a few minutes ago,” Garrett says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said they were right behind her. Beau’s dad is in a wheelchair. Neck brace. It’s … it’s bad, man.”

Dean exhales a shaky breath, turning his attention to the front row. The family pews. Empty so far.

His chest tightens at the thought of you.

You and Beau. Beau and you. The Maxwell twins. You were glued to the hip from day one. When Dean met Beau freshman year, he met you by extension. As a cheerleader, you were always around the athletic department, but even without the pompoms, you would have been there. The three of you became inseparable.

Dean closes his eyes, a memory hitting him so hard it physically aches.

***

“Dude, she’s my twin. You can’t look at her like that,” Beau says, tossing a crumpled-up napkin across the booth at Malone’s

“Like what?” Dean deflects, catching the napkin with one hand and smirking. “I’m looking at her like she’s hoarding the last order of chili cheese fries.”

“I am hoarding them,” you say, pulling the greasy basket closer to your chest. “And if you try to take them, Di Laurentis, I’ll stab you with this plastic fork. I’m not playing around.”

“Fierce. I like it,” Dean laughs, leaning across the table.

“Stop flirting with my sister,” Beau groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Seriously, Dean. You have a new girl in your room every night. Leave this one alone.”

“I’m not flirting,” Dean argues, kicking your shin lightly under the table. “I’m just appreciating her aggressive approach to saturated fats.”

“You’re a pig,” you tell him, though you’re trying not to smile. You spear a fry and point it at him. “And for the record, Beau, I can handle Dean. He’s all talk.”

“I am definitely not all talk,” Dean says, winking at you.

“Gross,” Beau deadpans. “Both of you. Gross. Eat your fries, Y/N, before I steal them myself.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you gasp.

“Try me,” Beau challenges, his eyes lighting up with that familiar, competitive fire.

***

The heavy oak doors at the back of the church open, snapping Dean back to the present. The low murmur of the packed church falls completely silent.

Dean turns.

You are walking down the center aisle.

His breath catches in his throat. You look completely empty. Your spine is rigidly straight, holding you up purely on autopilot. You are wearing a simple black dress, your face pale and completely devoid of makeup. There are dark, bruised-looking circles under your eyes. Beside you is your older sister, Joanna, gripping your arm, and behind you, your mother is pushing your father in a wheelchair.

Dean watches as you walk right past his pew. You don’t look at him. You don’t look at anyone. You are staring straight ahead at the casket, your eyes locked onto the polished wood like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored to the floor.

He wants to reach out. He wants to grab your hand, pull you into his lap, and hide you from the hundreds of pitying eyes staring at you. But he stays frozen in his seat.

You sit down in the front row. Joanna sits beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You just sit there, perfectly still.

The service begins. The pastor steps up to the podium, his voice echoing through the massive sanctuary. He talks about God, about mysterious ways, about Beau’s bright light. Dean tunes it all out. It’s all bullshit. There is no mysterious reason for a deer to sprint across a dark Wisconsin road. There is no divine plan for black ice. It’s just a stupid, senseless accident.

“And now,” the pastor says softly, stepping back. “Beau’s sister has asked to say a few words.”

Dean’s head snaps up. He watches as Joanna whispers something in your ear. You nod once, a sharp, jerky movement.

You stand up.

A ripple of uneasy tension sweeps through the church. You look fragile, like a stiff breeze could snap your bones in half. You walk up the three small steps to the altar. You don’t look at the casket as you pass it.

You step up to the wooden podium and grip the edges. Your knuckles instantly turn white.

You stand there for a long time. The silence stretches, thick and agonizing. Dean leans forward, his hands braced on his knees, every muscle in his body coiled tight.

“Hi,” you whisper into the microphone. It squeals slightly, and you flinch.

You take a shaky breath, looking out at the crowd. Your eyes sweep over the sea of dark clothing.

“I’m … I’m Beau’s sister,” you start, your voice trembling. “His twin sister.”

You stop, swallowing hard.

“Most of you know Beau as the quarterback,” you say, your voice gaining a tiny fraction of strength. “You know him as the guy who threw the game-winning pass in the championships. You know him as the guy who was always smiling, always laughing. The guy who threw the best parties.”

A few soft, sad chuckles ripple through the Briar football team sitting on the right side of the church.

“But that’s just … that’s just the stuff he let everyone see,” you continue, staring down at the wood of the podium. “Beau was … he was my other half. We shared a womb. We shared our childhood. We shared everything.”

You look up, and for the first time, your eyes meet Dean’s.

Dean feels a sharp, physical pain in his chest. Your eyes are completely shattered.

“He was the most fiercely protective person I’ve ever known,” you say, holding Dean’s gaze. “If I was sad, he wouldn’t just ask what was wrong. He would rip the world apart trying to fix it. He loved his friends. He loved his family. He loved his life.”

You look away, your gaze drifting down to the front row, resting on your dad in his wheelchair.

“We went to Wisconsin for my grandma’s birthday,” you say. The tremble is back in your voice, more pronounced this time.

Dean’s jaw clenches. He knows this part. Beau had texted him right before they left the house. 

“My dad was driving,” you say softly.

Your father bows his head, his shoulders shaking in the wheelchair.

“It was snowing,” you whisper. You let go of the podium with one hand, wrapping your arms tightly around your own waist. “A deer ran out. Dad swerved. He hit black ice. The car spun and hit a tree.”

You stop. You take a breath, but it hitches, turning into a wet, jagged gasp.

“Take your time, sweetheart,” the pastor says gently from behind you.

“No,” you say, shaking your head rapidly. “No. You don’t understand.”

You grip the podium again, leaning into the microphone. Your breathing is speeding up, erratic and panicked.

“I stayed behind,” you say, your voice cracking loudly over the speakers. “My grandma … she asked me to stay a little longer. For another slice of pie. Just a stupid piece of cherry pie.”

“Y/N,” Joanna whispers loudly from the front pew, standing up.

“If I hadn’t stayed,” you say, your voice rising in volume, cracking with a sob. “I would have been in the car. I always sit in the passenger seat. Always. It’s my seat.”

Tears start spilling down your cheeks, fast and heavy.

“Beau took my seat,” you cry out, the sound echoing off the high vaulted ceilings. “He sat in the passenger seat because I wasn’t there.”

Dean is already moving. He doesn’t consciously decide to stand up. He just does.

“Y/N, honey, please,” your dad chokes out from his wheelchair, reaching a hand toward you.

“It should have been me!” You scream, your voice completely breaking. You grip the podium like it’s the only thing keeping you from floating away. “The impact was on the passenger side! It snapped his neck! It should have been my neck!”

“Oh my god,” Dean’s mom whispers behind him, covering her mouth.

“I want to trade!” You sob, looking up at the ceiling, looking at the casket, looking anywhere. “Please, God, let me trade! I’ll take his place! It’s supposed to be me! Put me in the box, please, please let him out!”

You let go of the podium to cover your face, and the moment you do, your legs give out.

You collapse.

You completely fold in on yourself, crumbling to the floor of the altar like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Y/N!” Joanna screams, rushing forward.

But Dean is faster.

He clears the row of pews, shoving past the pastor and dropping to his knees on the hard marble floor right beside you.

“I’ve got her,” Dean barks at Joanna, his voice sharp and authoritative enough to make the older sister freeze. “Give her air. Back up.”

Dean reaches out and gathers you into his arms. You are violently shaking, gasping for air in short, panicked bursts. You are having a full-blown panic attack right in the middle of the altar.

“Y/N,” Dean says, keeping his voice steady despite the absolute terror racing through his veins. He pulls you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your trembling frame. “Look at me. Hey. Look at me.”

You thrash against him weakly. “No! No, Dean, it’s my fault! It’s my fault!”

“It is not your fault,” he says fiercely, grabbing the sides of your face with both hands. His thumbs brush roughly over your tear-soaked cheeks. “Do you hear me? It was a fucking accident. It is not your fault.”

“I want him back!” You scream against Dean’s chest, burying your face into his expensive suit jacket, your hands fisting in his lapels. “Dean, please, please bring him back. Tell him to get up.”

Dean feels something hot and wet slide down his own cheek. He doesn’t care who sees him crying. He doesn’t care about the hundreds of people staring at them. Right now, there is only you. You are the only piece of Beau he has left, and he will be damned if he lets you fall apart on this floor alone.

“I know, baby,” Dean whispers, his voice cracking as he presses his lips hard against the top of your head. He pulls you tighter, rocking you slightly. “I know. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

“I can’t breathe,” you gasp, your fingers clutching his shirt tight enough to rip the buttons. “Dean, I can’t breathe. My chest hurts. Make it stop.”

“Follow my breathing,” he commands, forcing his own erratic lungs to slow down. He exaggerates the rise and fall of his chest. “In and out. Come on, Y/N. In and out.”

“I can’t live without him,” you sob, the sound so broken it physically tears at Dean’s heart. “I don’t know how to be a person without him.”

“You don’t have to figure it out today,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He keeps his arms wrapped like a vice around you, shielding you from the eyes of the crowd. “You just have to breathe right now. That’s all you have to do. Just breathe for me.”

Joanna is hovering nearby, crying into her hands. The pastor is awkwardly standing off to the side. The entire church is dead silent, save for the agonizing sound of your sobs echoing off the walls.

“He would have hated this,” you whisper hysterically, your forehead pressed against Dean’s collarbone. “He would have hated everyone looking at us.”

Dean lets out a wet, genuine laugh, the sound rough with grief. “Yeah. He would’ve called us dramatic.”

“He would’ve thrown a football at your head,” you add, letting out a broken sob that sounds half like a laugh.

“And told me to stop holding his sister,” Dean adds softly.

You grip his jacket tighter, burying your face deeper into his chest. “Don’t let go, Dean. Please don’t let go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean promises. And he means it. He means it more than he’s meant anything in his entire twenty-two years of life. Beau trusted him. Beau loved him. And Beau loved you more than the sun.

“I’m right here,” Dean whispers into your hair, completely ignoring the pastor trying to resume the service. “I’m right here, and I’m not leaving. I swear to god, I’ve got you.”

***

Briar University looks exactly the same, and Dean hates it.

He stands in the middle of the quad, his hockey duffel slung over one shoulder, staring at the brick buildings and the swarms of students rushing to class. The sun is shining. Someone is throwing a frisbee near the library. A group of freshmen are laughing too loudly by the fountain.

It makes him sick to his stomach.

How can they just keep going? How is the bell still ringing? How is the cafeteria still serving terrible eggs? Beau is gone. The loudest, brightest, most invincible guy on this campus is in the ground, and Briar is just … moving on.

Dean adjusts his grip on his bag and forces his legs to move. He has to go to his Development of Sociological Thought elective. He doesn’t want to. He hasn’t wanted to do anything but lock himself in a dark room and drink until his liver gives out, but he can’t. He has to go to class. Because you are supposed to be in that class.

He walks into the lecture hall and immediately zeroes in on the fourth row, middle section.

Empty.

Dean’s jaw clenches. He drops into the seat next to yours, ignoring the sympathetic glances from a few girls in the row ahead. He stares at your empty desk for the entire fifty-minute lecture. You haven’t been to class all week.

“Hey, Dean?”

Dean blinks, snapping out of his daze as the lecture hall empties out. He looks up. Lacey, the co-captain of the cheer squad, is standing awkwardly by his desk. She looks nervous, her manicured fingers twisting the strap of her tote bag.

“What’s up, Lacey?” Dean asks, his voice flatter than he intends.

“It’s about Y/N,” Lacey says quietly, glancing over her shoulder as if she’s sharing state secrets. “Have you talked to her? Seen her?”

“No,” Dean admits, a cold spike of anxiety hitting his chest. “I texted her a few times, but she hasn’t answered. I figured she just wanted space. The funeral was … it was a lot.”

“I know,” Lacey says sympathetically. “But she hasn’t shown up to practice all week. Coach is starting to ask questions. I tried knocking on her door yesterday, but she didn’t answer. I’m just … I’m worried about her, Dean. She shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“She’s not answering her door?” Dean asks, standing up sharply.

“No,” Lacey shakes her head. “And her roommate moved into her boyfriend’s frat house for the week to give Y/N some privacy, so nobody has actually been inside the room since she got back from Wisconsin.”

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay. Thanks, Lacey. I’ll handle it.”

He doesn’t wait for her response. He grabs his bag and takes the stairs two at a time, bursting out the doors of the academic building.

The walk to your dorm takes exactly eight minutes. Dean does it in four.

His heart is hammering against his ribs in a chaotic, uneven rhythm. Space is one thing. Grief is one thing. But radio silence for days, locked in an empty room? That isn’t just taking time to adjust.

He hits the third floor of the dorm building and strides down the hall, dodging a couple of guys tossing a lacrosse ball. He stops in front of Room 314 and knocks. Three sharp raps.

“Y/N? It’s Dean. Open up.”

Silence.

He knocks again, louder this time. “Come on, I know you’re in there. Lacey said your roommate is out for the week. Open the door.”

Nothing. Not a shuffle of feet, not a rustle of blankets. Nothing.

Panic, cold and sharp, slices straight through his veins.

Oh god. He digs frantically into his pocket, his fingers fumbling with his keychain. He, Beau, and you all swapped emergency keys sophomore year. He shoves the brass key into the lock, twists it, and throws the door open.

The room is completely pitch black. The heavy blackout curtains are drawn tight, blocking out every ounce of midday sun. The air is stale, thick, and smells faintly of sweat and something metallic.

“Y/N?” Dean asks, his voice cracking.

He flips the light switch.

You are a small, unmoving lump in the center of your bed.

Dean stops breathing. For one terrifying, heart-stopping second, his brain jumps to the absolute worst conclusion. You are too still. The silence in the room is too heavy. Did you take something? Was it on purpose? Did the grief finally swallow you whole and tell you the only way out was to follow your twin?

“No, no, no,” Dean chokes out, dropping his bag. He practically tackles the bed, his knees hitting the mattress hard. “Y/N! Hey!”

He grabs your shoulder and flips you onto your back.

Your eyes are open.

A massive, shuddering wave of relief crashes over Dean, making his head spin. You are breathing. The shallow rise and fall of your chest is there.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean gasps, pressing his forehead against the mattress beside your arm. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stop his hands from shaking. “You scared the absolute shit out of me.”

But you don’t respond.

Dean lifts his head, his relief evaporating instantly. You are staring straight up at the ceiling, but you aren’t looking at anything. Your eyes are completely vacant. Empty. Dead.

Your lips are chapped and peeling, your skin a sickly, translucent pale. There are deep, bruised hollows under your cheekbones, and your hair is tangled in a chaotic, matted mess around your face. You look like a ghost.

“Hey,” Dean whispers, his voice softening into something incredibly tender. He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair off your forehead. “I’m right here. I’m right here.”

You don’t blink. You don’t acknowledge him.

Dean’s heart physically aches. He knows exactly what this is. He’s been dancing on the edge of this exact void since the funeral. If it wasn’t for you — if it wasn’t for the desperate need to make sure you were okay — he would be face down on a sticky frat house floor right now, so high or so drunk he wouldn’t know his own name. He would be self-destructing in spectacular fashion.

But he can’t. He has to anchor you, which means he has to anchor himself. You are the only living piece of Beau he has left in this world.

Without hesitating, Dean kicks off his sneakers. He crawls fully onto the bed and lies down beside you. He wraps his arm securely around your waist, pulling your stiff, unresponsive body flush against his side. He tucks your head beneath his chin, wrapping his leg over yours to cage you in.

“I know,” Dean whispers into the crown of your head. He rubs his hand up and down your spine, feeling every single vertebrae through the thin cotton of your t-shirt. You’ve lost weight. In just a week, you’ve withered away. “I know it hurts. I know it feels like you can’t breathe.”

You blink slowly, but you don’t speak.

“I miss him too,” Dean says, his voice thickening. A tear slips down his cheek and lands in your hair. He doesn’t bother wiping it away. “God, I miss him so much I feel like I’m dying. But you’re not dying. I’m not going to let you.”

He lies there with you for a long time. The dorm room is silent except for the harsh sound of his own breathing and the agonizingly slow rhythm of yours. He traces soothing circles on your back, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours.

“Alright,” Dean finally says, his tone shifting. He sits up, gently untangling his limbs from yours. “Party’s over. You can’t rot in this bed forever.”

You don’t protest. You don’t do anything.

Dean grabs your hands and pulls you up into a sitting position. You flop forward like a ragdoll, your head resting against his chest.

“Come on,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you to keep you upright. “You need to get dressed. And you need to eat before you pass out and I have to call an ambulance. I don’t think either of us wants to deal with the Briar medical center today.”

He stands up, pulling you to your feet. Your legs buckle instantly.

Dean catches you effortlessly, lifting you slightly so your feet are barely touching the ground. “Whoa, okay. Easy. I got you.”

He guides you toward your closet. You lean heavily against his side, your bare feet dragging on the carpet.

“What do we want to wear?” Dean asks, opening the wardrobe. He talks to keep the silence at bay, forcing a casual lightness into his voice that he absolutely does not feel. “Sweatpants? Yeah, sweatpants feel right. High fashion is overrated anyway.”

He pulls out a pair of grey joggers and turns to look at you. You are staring blankly at the bottom of the closet.

“Okay, here,” Dean says gently. He crouches down. “Step in.”

He physically dresses you. He guides your legs into the sweatpants, pulls them up, and ties the drawstring. It’s intimately tragic. Two weeks ago, you would have slapped his hands away and called him a pervert for even being near your clothes. Today, you just let him maneuver you like a mannequin.

He stands up and reaches into the closet for a shirt, but your hand suddenly shoots out.

Your fingers, cold and trembling, latch onto the sleeve of a piece of clothing hanging in the back corner.

Dean freezes.

It’s a grey hoodie. Briar Football printed on the front. Beau’s hoodie.

Dean feels like someone has taken a baseball bat to his ribs. The sight of the fabric, the memory of Beau wearing it just a few weeks ago at a bonfire, laughing with a beer in his hand, is suffocating.

He wants to put it back. He wants to hide it. But he looks at your face. For the first time since he walked into the room, there is a flicker of emotion in your eyes. It’s raw, bleeding desperation.

“Okay,” Dean whispers, his voice completely wrecked. He reaches past you and unhooks the hoodie from the hanger. “Okay. Raise your arms.”

You lift your arms, and he pulls the heavy fabric over your head. The hoodie is massive on you. It swallows you whole, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips. The moment it’s on, you bring your knees to your chest and bury your nose in the collar, inhaling deeply.

A tiny, broken sob escapes your lips.

Dean swallows down the giant lump in his throat. He grabs a pair of your Ugg boots and slides them onto your feet.

“Let’s go,” he says softly.

He puts his arm around your waist, supporting most of your weight, and walks you out of the dorm.

***

Malone’s is packed. It’s prime lunchtime for the Briar athletic crowd, the air thick with the smell of cheap burgers, fryer grease, and loud conversations.

The moment the bell above the door jingles, announcing their arrival, heads turn.

Dean ignores them. He keeps a tight grip on your waist, steering you through the maze of tables toward a private booth in the far back corner. He slides you onto the vinyl seat, pushing you gently toward the wall so you’re tucked away safely, before sliding in right next to you. He doesn’t sit across the table. He sits beside you, his thigh pressed warmly against yours.

“Hey, Dean,” a waitress says, popping her gum as she approaches the table. Her eyes flick to you, her expression turning immediately sympathetic. Everyone on campus knows. “What can I get you guys?”

“Two waters,” Dean says, not looking at the menu. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”

“You got it,” she says softly, walking away.

Dean turns slightly in the booth to look at you. You are staring at the scuffed surface of the table, your hands tucked into the oversized sleeves of Beau’s hoodie.

“You’re going to eat,” Dean states. It’s not a question. “And you’re going to drink the entire milkshake. I’m not leaving until you do.”

You don’t respond.

A loud burst of laughter erupts from a table of frat guys a few booths down. One of them, a guy Dean vaguely recognizes from a business seminar, stands up to stretch and looks directly at your booth. He stares, his eyes lingering on your pale face and the oversized football hoodie. He nudges his buddy, pointing openly.

Dean’s blood turns to absolute ice.

“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice slicing through the diner chatter like a knife.

The frat guy blinks, looking at Dean.

Dean leans forward, his eyes narrowed into a lethal, terrifying glare. “Take a picture. It lasts longer. Or keep staring, and I’ll come over there and break your fucking nose. Your choice.”

The frat guy pales, quickly sitting down and turning his back. The surrounding tables suddenly get very quiet, everyone suddenly fascinated by their own food.

Dean exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders to bleed off the adrenaline. He turns back to you. You haven’t moved. You didn’t even flinch at his shouting.

The waitress quickly drops off the fries and the milkshake, avoiding eye contact with Dean before scurrying away.

“Alright,” Dean says softly, his voice dropping completely from the dangerous growl of a moment ago. He grabs a fry, dipping it in ketchup.

He holds it up to your mouth.

“Open,” he says.

You keep your lips pressed together, your eyes fixed on the table.

“Y/N, look at me,” Dean says, his tone firm but incredibly gentle.

Slowly, agonizingly, you lift your eyes. The emptiness in them is starting to crack, replaced by a deep, hollow exhaustion.

“I know everything tastes like ash right now,” Dean murmurs, holding the fry steady. “I know you don’t care if you starve. But I care. Beau cared. He would beat my ass if I let you waste away. So, open up. For me.”

You stare at him for a long, heavy second. Then, your lips part slightly.

Dean places the fry in your mouth. You chew mechanically, your jaw moving without any enthusiasm. It takes you an eternity to swallow.

“Good girl,” Dean whispers, grabbing the milkshake. He pushes the straw past your lips. “Drink.”

You take a small sip.

They sit there for an hour. Dean doesn’t touch a single fry for himself. He patiently, methodically hand-feeds you piece by piece, sip by sip, ignoring the curious and pitying stares from the rest of the diner. Whenever someone’s gaze lingers a little too long, Dean shoots them a look so murderous they immediately look away.

“I’m tired,” you whisper. It’s the first time you’ve spoken since the funeral. Your voice is raspy, unused, and incredibly fragile.

Dean’s heart stutters. He sets down the milkshake, moving his arm to wrap it around your shoulders. He pulls you against his side, tucking you into the crook of his arm.

“I know,” he says gently, resting his cheek on the top of your head. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

“He’s gone,” you say, a tear finally escaping and tracking through the dust on your cheek. “Dean, he’s really gone.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, his own throat burning. “He is.”

“What are we supposed to do?” You ask, turning your face to press into his shoulder. Your fingers grip his shirt, twisting the fabric. “How do we do this?”

“I don’t know,” Dean admits honestly, holding you tighter. He kisses your temple, his lips lingering against your skin. “I have no fucking clue. But we’re going to figure it out. Together. I promise you, Y/N. You are not doing this alone.”

And sitting there in the middle of the crowded diner, smelling like grease and grief, Dean realizes it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. You are his tether to the world now. And he will burn the entire campus down before he lets you slip away.

***

The sharp click of the lock tumbling in the door echoes through the quiet dorm room.

It’s eight in the morning, the sun brutally bright as it forces its way through the crack in your blackout curtains. You squeeze your eyes shut, pulling the heavy comforter up over your head. You don’t want to be awake. Being awake means remembering.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” a bright, unapologetically loud voice announces.

The comforter is suddenly ripped away, exposing you to the cold morning air. You shiver, curling into a tighter ball, pulling Beau’s oversized hoodie down over your hands.

“Go away, Dean,” you croak. Your voice sounds like sandpaper.

“Not a chance,” Dean says cheerfully.

The mattress dips as he sits down near your knees. You peek out from under your arms. He’s already fully dressed in dark wash jeans and a Briar Hockey t-shirt, his blond hair perfectly styled, looking infuriatingly awake.

“I brought a peace offering,” he says, holding up a plastic cup with a green siren logo. Condensation drips down the sides.

You blink at it. “What is that?”

“Icy, caffeinated heaven,” Dean replies, shaking the cup slightly so the ice clinks. “Venti iced brown sugar oat milk shaken espresso. Exactly the way you like it. I even bullied the barista into adding the extra cinnamon you always ask for.”

Your stomach gives a hollow twist, but the smell of the espresso wafting toward you does something to cut through the fog in your brain.

“I don’t want it,” you lie, turning your face into the pillow.

“Bullshit,” Dean counters smoothly. “Sit up, Y/N.”

“Dean, please,” you whisper, the exhaustion heavy in your bones. “I just want to sleep.”

“You slept all yesterday afternoon and all night,” Dean says, his tone shifting from playful to firm. “You’re getting up today. We have lecture in forty-five minutes.”

“I’m dropping that class,” you mutter into the pillow.

“No, you’re not.”

Before you can protest, Dean’s hands are on your arms, hauling you upright. You flop against his chest, dead weight. He chuckles softly, his chest vibrating against your cheek, and uses one arm to hold you up while he grabs the coffee with his free hand.

“Drink,” he orders, pressing the green straw to your lips.

You glare at him through half-open eyes, but you part your lips and take a sip. The hit of cold espresso, sweet brown sugar, and sharp cinnamon is incredible. It wakes up a tiny part of your brain that has been completely dormant for a week.

“There we go,” Dean praises, a satisfied smirk pulling at his mouth. He pulls the cup away. “Now, up. Go brush your teeth. Put on pants that don’t have a stain on the knee.”

“These are my depression sweatpants,” you argue weakly, looking down at the grey joggers he forced you into yesterday.

“They’re a tragedy to fashion, is what they are,” Dean deadpans. “Up. Now. Or I’ll literally carry you to the bathroom and brush your teeth for you. Do not test me, because I will do it.”

You look at him. His jaw is set, his green eyes completely serious despite the light tone. He isn’t going to let you rot. He is going to drag you back to the land of the living, kicking and screaming if he has to.

“Fine,” you sigh, pushing yourself off the bed on shaky legs. “You’re a tyrant.”

“I’m a visionary,” Dean corrects, handing you the coffee. “Ten minutes, Y/N. I’m timing you.”

***

The lecture hall is packed, the air thick with the smell of cheap body spray and stale coffee.

Dean steers you toward the middle row, his hand resting securely against the small of your back. You keep your head down, acutely aware of the glances thrown your way. You haven’t been back to class since the accident. You feel raw, like you’re walking around without a layer of skin.

You drop into your seat, pulling Beau’s hoodie tighter around yourself. Dean sits right next to you, his thigh pressing against yours. He slung his arm over the back of your chair the second he sat down, acting as a physical shield between you and the rest of the room.

“Just breathe,” Dean murmurs, leaning in close so only you can hear. “You’re doing great.”

Professor Higgins walks in a moment later, dropping a massive stack of papers onto his podium. He’s a terrifying, tenured man who takes his sociology lectures way too seriously.

“Alright, settle down,” Higgins barks, turning on the projector. “Last week, we discussed the functionalist perspective on societal norms. Who can summarize Durkheim’s concept of anomie?”

Silence descends over the room. Everyone suddenly avoids eye contact with the professor.

Higgins scans the room, his hawkish eyes darting from row to row. And then, horrifyingly, his gaze lands directly on you.

“Miss Maxwell,” Fowler says, his voice booming through the microphone. “Perhaps you can enlighten us. How does anomie relate to sudden structural changes in a person’s life?”

The air is instantly sucked out of your lungs.

Your heart hammers frantically against your ribs. Over two hundred students turn in their seats to look at you. The room feels incredibly small, the walls closing in. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your brain is entirely blank. A sudden structural change. The sudden, violent severing of your other half. The irony of the question is so sharp it physically hurts.

Panic starts to rise in your throat, choking you.

Under the desk, a large, warm hand slips over yours.

Dean intertwines his fingers tightly with yours. He gives your hand a firm, grounding squeeze. His thumb strokes the back of your knuckles, a steady, rhythmic motion.

“You know this,” Dean whispers, his voice barely a breath against your ear. “You explained it to me last month when I almost failed the quiz. Normlessness. Disconnect.”

The sheer, solid weight of Dean sitting beside you, his hand anchoring you to the present, cuts through the rising panic. You swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs.

“Anomie,” you start, your voice trembling slightly before you force it to steady. “It’s … it’s a state of normlessness. Durkheim argued that when society experiences rapid change or disruption, the normal rules and social structures break down. People feel disconnected from their community and their sense of purpose, leading to psychological distress and a breakdown of social order.”

Professor Higgins stares at you for a long moment. Then, he gives a sharp, approving nod.

“Exactly, Miss Maxwell. A textbook definition,” Fowler says, turning back to the whiteboard. “Now, to apply this to modern institutional structures …”

The spotlight is off you. The students turn back around.

You let out a shaky exhale, slumping slightly in your chair.

Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. He keeps his fingers laced with yours for the entire fifty-minute lecture, his thumb lazily tracing circles on your skin. Every time you start to drift into the dark, pulling back into your grief, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze, reeling you back to him.

***

When classes finally end for the day, you walk out to Dean’s car expecting him to drive you back to your dorm.

Instead, he takes a left at the campus gates, heading off campus.

“Where are we going?” You ask, watching the familiar streets of Briar disappear.

“My place,” Dean says smoothly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the radio.

“Dean, I just want to go to bed,” you protest, closing your eyes and leaning your head against the cool glass of the window.

“You’ve been in bed for a week,” Dean counters. “It’s bad for your muscles. Atrophy, Y/N. Science says so. Besides, Tucker is making his famous chicken parm for dinner, and if I don’t bring you, he’ll hold back my portion.”

“I don’t want to see people,” you whisper, the anxiety spiking again.

“They aren’t people, they’re just our idiot friends,” Dean says softly, throwing a quick glance your way. “They know what happened. Nobody’s going to ask you stupid questions or give you the pity eyes. I already threatened Logan with physical violence if he makes things weird.”

You let out a tiny, breathless huff that almost sounds like a laugh.

Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the driveway of the off-campus house he shares with three of his teammates. The house is a chaotic mess of hockey gear, empty beer boxes, and mismatched furniture.

Dean unlocks the front door and ushers you inside.

“We’re here!” Dean yells, tossing his keys into a bowl by the door.

“In the kitchen!” A deep voice calls back.

Dean guides you down the hall and into the massive, open-concept kitchen. Tucker is standing at the stove, an apron tied over his t-shirt, stirring a pot of marinara sauce that smells absolutely divine. Logan and Garrett are sitting at the kitchen island, arguing over something on Logan’s phone.

They all stop when you walk in.

There’s a split second of heavy silence. You tense, waiting for the awkward condolences, the tilted heads, the sad smiles.

But then Garrett simply raises a hand. “Hey, Y/N.”

“Hey,” you manage to say, your voice quiet.

“Good, you’re here,” Tucker says, gesturing with a wooden spoon. “Tell Logan that a hotdog is legally considered a sandwich. He’s being deliberately ignorant.”

“It’s a piece of meat surrounded by bread,” Garrett argues immediately, pointing at Logan. “By definition, it’s a sandwich.”

“It’s a tube of mystery meat in a bun!” Logan protests, throwing his arms up. “A bun is not two slices of bread! If you ask for a sandwich and someone hands you a hotdog, you’d be pissed!”

“I would be thrilled, actually,” Dean chimes in, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and handing it to you. “Hotdogs are elite.”

“You’re all idiots,” you murmur, leaning against the counter beside Dean.

Logan grins, a completely normal, easy expression. “See? Y/N agrees with me. The tie-breaker has spoken.”

The tension you didn’t even realize you were holding completely bleeds out of your shoulders. Dean was right. They aren’t treating you like a piece of fragile glass. They’re just treating you like … you.

Tucker dishes out massive plates of chicken parmesan and pasta, forcing the largest portion directly in front of you. You manage to eat half of it, which is the most you’ve eaten in over a week. Dean sits beside you the entire time, seamlessly intercepting any questions directed your way if you take too long to answer, covering for you without making it obvious.

After dinner, you all migrate to the living room. It’s dominated by a massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch that Dean definitely paid for.

“Alright, hand over the remote,” Dean demands, vaulting over the back of the couch to land next to you.

“We were watching the game,” Garrett protests from the recliner.

“We’re watching something else,” Dean says, snatching the remote from the coffee table. He navigates to a streaming service and pulls up The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

“Dude, really?” Logan groans, falling back onto the other end of the couch. “It’s Tuesday. Can we at least watch a movie?”

“Shut up, Logan,” Dean says comfortably, hitting play. “This is high-stakes drama. You learn a lot about human psychology from these women.”

“You just like watching rich people yell at each other at dinner parties,” Tucker points out, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch.

“Exactly,” Dean says, smirking.

He shifts on the couch, sprawling out and kicking his feet onto the coffee table. He casually drapes his arm along the back of the sofa, right behind your shoulders.

The episode starts, filled with immediate, ridiculous conflict about a stolen dress and a charity gala. It’s loud, colorful, and completely mindless.

“Wait,” Logan says ten minutes in, pointing at the screen. “Why is she mad? Didn’t she invite the other lady to the party?”

“She invited her as a formality,” Dean explains, not looking away from the TV. “She didn’t actually expect her to show up. It’s a power move.”

“That’s so passive-aggressive,” Garrett mutters, shaking his head. “Just drop the gloves and fight it out.”

“You can’t body-check someone at a charity gala, G,” Tucker laughs.

You sit quietly, listening to four massive, intimidating college hockey players aggressively analyze the social dynamics of middle-aged reality stars. The sheer absurdity of it chips away at the cold, dark wall surrounding your heart.

You let out a soft, genuine laugh when Logan vehemently defends one of the housewives for throwing a glass of wine.

Dean immediately looks at you. His eyes are soft, the corners crinkling just slightly. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand drops from the back of the couch, resting his palm warmly against your shoulder.

As the evening wears on, the exhaustion of the day finally catches up with you. The adrenaline of surviving classes and the heavy, carb-loaded dinner hit your system all at once.

The mindless arguing on the screen turns into a soft hum. The warmth of Dean sitting so close to you is intoxicating. Slowly, unconsciously, you tilt sideways. Your head comes to rest heavily against Dean’s shoulder.

Dean freezes for a fraction of a second. Then, he shifts his body entirely, angling himself to give you better access. He wraps his arm securely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.

You bury your face into his neck, the scent of his cologne — cedarwood and something uniquely, cleanly Dean — filling your senses. It’s so safe. It’s the safest you’ve felt since the phone call that destroyed your world.

Your eyes flutter shut, and for the first time in a week, you fall asleep without crying.

***

Dean wakes up to the quiet roll of the end credits playing on the TV screen.

The living room is empty. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker must have quietly headed upstairs to their rooms at some point, leaving just the soft glow of a lamp in the corner.

He looks down.

You are fast asleep against his chest. Your face is pressed into the crook of his neck, your soft breath puffing steadily against his skin. One of your hands is fisted loosely in his t-shirt. You look incredibly peaceful, the lines of grief completely smoothed out from your forehead.

Dean stares at you for a long time. His heart aches in a way that has nothing to do with Beau, and everything to do with you.

He gently shifts, sliding his arm under your knees and his other arm around your back. He stands up smoothly, lifting you against his chest. You are criminally light.

You stir slightly, mumbling something incoherent, but you don’t wake up. Your head falls against his shoulder, your face turning into his neck.

“I’ve got you,” Dean whispers, turning off the lamp with his elbow.

He carries you up the stairs, navigating the hallway to his bedroom at the end of the hall. He kicks the door open with his foot and steps inside. His room is surprisingly neat, a contrast to the rest of the house, dominated by a massive king-sized bed.

He walks over to the bed and gently lowers you onto the mattress. You immediately curl onto your side, pulling Beau’s hoodie tightly around yourself.

Dean pulls the heavy duvet back and tucks it over your shoulders. He stands by the edge of the bed, watching you sleep. He should go to the guest room. Or he should sleep on the couch downstairs. He knows that’s what a normal, respectful friend would do.

But Dean feels nothing close to normal right now. The thought of leaving you alone in this dark room, waking up in a panic not knowing where you are, makes his skin crawl.

Quietly, Dean strips off his jeans and his t-shirt, leaving just his boxer briefs.

He walks around to the other side of the king-sized bed and slides under the covers.

He keeps a respectful distance, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. The room is dead silent, save for the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing. It’s a soothing, constant reminder that you are here, that you are breathing, that you are alive.

About twenty minutes later, a soft rustle comes from your side of the bed.

Dean turns his head.

You are seeking warmth. Still completely asleep, you roll across the mattress until you hit his side. You throw one leg over his, tangling your limbs together, and press your face flat against his bare chest. Your arm drapes over his stomach.

Dean’s breath hitches. He goes perfectly still, terrified of waking you.

But you just let out a soft sigh, settling deeper into him.

A heavy sense of peace washes over Dean. He slowly lifts his hand, wrapping his arm around you, resting his hand gently on your back. He pulls you just a fraction closer, letting his chin rest on top of your head.

He closes his eyes, matching the rhythm of his breathing to yours. And for the first time since he lost his best friend, Dean finally falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

You wake up to the absolute pitch black of an unfamiliar room.

For a span of three seconds, your brain is blissfully, mercifully blank. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know what day it is. You are just a person waking up in a warm bed, wrapped in heavy, expensive-feeling sheets, with the steady rhythm of someone breathing beside you.

Then, the fourth second hits.

The memories do not trickle in; they crash over you like a tidal wave of ice water. The screech of tires. The polished mahogany casket. The smell of floor wax and white lilies. The suffocating, gaping hole in the center of your chest where your twin brother used to be.

Your breath hitches, a sharp, ragged sound that cuts through the silence of the room.

You open your eyes fully, staring up at the dark ceiling. You are in Dean’s room. You remember the diner. You remember Tucker’s chicken parmesan, and the ridiculous Housewives argument, and falling asleep on the couch.

And now, you are in Dean’s bed.

You turn your head slowly against the pillow. Dean is lying right beside you, on his back, his face turned slightly toward yours. In the faint sliver of moonlight slipping through the gap in the blinds, he looks completely different. The cocky, effortless charm is smoothed away by sleep. His jaw is relaxed, his blond hair completely mussed. One of his arms is draped casually across your waist, his large hand resting warm and heavy against your ribs.

The sheer intimacy of it should be jarring, but it isn’t. It just feels like a lifeline.

You swallow hard, fighting the familiar, toxic burn of tears building in the back of your throat. You don’t want to cry again. You are so tired of crying. Your eyes are swollen, your head is pounding, and every muscle in your body aches from the physical exertion of pure grief.

But the silence of the room is too loud. In the quiet, your brain starts supplying the highlight reel. Beau throwing a football perfectly spiraled directly into your hands. Beau laughing so hard beer came out of his nose at a frat party. Beau putting you in a headlock because you stole the last slice of pizza.

He’s gone. He’s really gone. The thought circles your mind, a relentless, vicious predator. You try to take a deep breath to quell the rising panic, but your chest feels too tight. It feels like someone is sitting on your lungs.

You need to anchor yourself. You need the noise to stop.

“Dean,” you whisper.

The sound is barely louder than a breath, incredibly hesitant. You shouldn’t wake him. He has done so much for you today — he fed you, he clothed you, he protected you from the stares on campus. He deserves to sleep.

You try to pull back, intending to slip out of the bed and go to the bathroom until the panic attack passes, but the moment you shift your weight, the heavy hand on your ribs tightens.

“I’m awake,” Dean says instantly.

His voice is rough and gravelly with sleep, but there is no grogginess in it. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly for a second before his gaze locks onto yours in the dark. He shifts closer, his brow furrowing.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, his tone immediately dropping into that fierce, protective cadence. “Are you sick? Do you need water? What do you need?”

“No,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “No, I’m … I’m okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Dean lets out a short, dismissive breath. He rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his hand so he’s looking down at you. His other hand moves from your ribs to gently brush a tangled strand of hair away from your cheek.

“Don’t ever apologize for waking me up,” he says, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “Never. If you need me, you wake me. Understand?”

You nod, biting your lower lip hard enough to taste copper.

Dean studies your face in the shadows. He doesn’t press you. He just waits, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, letting you find the words at your own pace.

“I woke up,” you finally whisper, your voice cracking completely, “and for three seconds, I forgot.”

Dean’s hand stills against your cheek.

“I forgot he was dead,” you continue, the tears finally spilling over, hot and fast down your temples and into your hairline. “I thought I was in my dorm. I thought tomorrow I was going to call him and complain about Professor Fowler. And then … and then I remembered.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes out, the word sounding like it was scraped from the very bottom of his lungs.

“It happens every time,” you sob, bringing your hands up to press against your eyes, trying to physically hold the tears back. “Every time I fall asleep and wake up, I have to lose him all over again. I have to relive it every single morning. I don’t know how many more times I can do it, Dean. I can’t do it.”

“Hey. Look at me,” Dean says, gently but firmly pulling your hands away from your face. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You open your wet eyes.

Dean’s face is entirely stripped of the Briar hockey star persona. There is no smirk, no arrogant confidence. He just looks completely broken. His eyes are shining in the dim light, wet with his own unshed tears.

“It happens to me too,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I wake up, and my first thought is always to text him. Yesterday, I saw a stupid meme about Tom Brady, and I literally pulled up his contact in my phone before my brain caught up with reality. I stared at his name for twenty minutes.”

You let out a jagged, broken sound, your fingers wrapping tightly around Dean’s wrist.

“It’s not fair,” you cry, the anger finally bleeding into the grief. “It’s not fucking fair, Dean.”

“I know,” he says, his voice breaking.

“He was twenty-two!” You say, your voice rising in the quiet room. You don’t care who hears you. You don’t care if you wake up Tucker or Garrett or Logan. You just need to get the poison out of your system. “He was twenty-two years old! He was supposed to get drafted! He was supposed to play in the NFL and buy our parents a stupidly huge house and get married and have annoying, athletic little kids! He was supposed to be here!”

“He was,” Dean agrees, a tear finally tracking down his own cheek. He doesn’t bother wiping it away.

“Why him?” You sob, your chest heaving with the force of your breakdown. “Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been … I don’t know, anybody else? Why did he have to get in the passenger seat?”

“Stop,” Dean says softly, sliding his arm completely under you and pulling you flush against his chest. “Stop doing that to yourself. You can’t play the what if game. It’ll eat you alive.”

“I want to trade,” you repeat the same desperate plea you screamed at the church, burying your face into his bare chest. “I’d give anything. I’d give my own life right now if it meant he could come back.”

“Don’t say that,” Dean chokes out, his arms wrapping around you like a vice. He buries his face in your hair, his own shoulders starting to shake. “Don’t ever fucking say that, Y/N. I can’t lose you too. I can’t.”

The raw, desperate agony in his voice shatters whatever remaining defenses you have.

You break.

You fully, completely break down. The quiet, polite sobbing of the last week turns into ugly, chest-heaving wails. You fist your hands in the sheets behind Dean’s back, clinging to him like he is the only solid object in a world made of quicksand.

And Dean breaks right along with you.

The guy who always has a joke, the guy who never lets anything touch him, the guy who floats through life on charm and trust funds, finally lets the dam burst. He cries against your neck, harsh, racking sobs that shake his entire massive frame.

You hold him, and he holds you.

You mourn the boy who was supposed to be your forever partner in crime. He mourns the brother he chose.

You cry for the empty seat at graduation. You cry for the Thanksgiving dinners that will never be the same. You cry for the locker room that will be entirely too quiet, and the passenger seat that will always be empty.

You cry until your throat is completely raw and your eyes burn like fire. You cry until there are physically no more tears left in your body, leaving you hollow and incredibly light-headed.

The room is filled only with the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

Dean slowly pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks streaked with wetness. He sniffs deeply, wiping his face with the back of his hand before reaching out to gently wipe the tears off your cheeks with his thumbs.

“You’re right,” Dean says, his voice a raspy whisper. “It isn’t fair. It’s the most unfair, fucked up, bullshit thing that has ever happened. And it sucks. It completely, totally sucks.”

You let out a watery, exhausted laugh. “It really does.”

“I’m so angry,” Dean confesses, his jaw tightening. He traces the shell of your ear, his touch grounding. “I’m so fucking angry at the world. I’m angry at the snow. I’m angry at that stupid deer. I’m angry at people walking around campus laughing like the world didn’t just end.”

“Me too,” you whisper, closing your eyes and leaning into his touch. “I hate them all right now.”

“We can hate them together,” Dean says without missing a beat. “We’ll be terrible, bitter people. We’ll throw things at happy couples. We’ll key cars. Whatever you want.”

You laugh again, the sound weak but real. It feels bizarre to laugh. It feels like a betrayal, but at the same time, it feels like the first full breath of air you’ve taken in a week.

Dean’s face hardens, his expression turning completely serious. He shifts closer, pressing his forehead gently against yours.

“Listen to me,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a weight that completely demands your attention. “I know I can’t fix this. I know I can’t bring him back, and I know I can’t make it stop hurting.”

You look into his eyes, inches from your own.

“But you are not doing this alone,” Dean vows, his words fiercely determined. “You hear me? You are stuck with me, Y/N. For as long as it takes. For the rest of our lives, if that’s what you need. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning and you need to scream, or if it’s middle of the day and you need someone to just sit in the dark with you. You call me. I will always answer. You will always have me.”

The sincerity in his eyes is blinding. It’s not a platitude. It’s not empty comfort. It’s a blood oath.

Your heart, bruised and battered, swells painfully in your chest.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice trembling with a new wave of emotion.

You slide your hands up his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck, and pull yourself closer until there is absolutely no space between you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.

“And you have me,” you promise, your words muffled against his skin but entirely resolute. “I know you’re hurting too, Dean. You don’t have to pretend to be strong all the time for my sake. When you need to break down, you come to me. Okay? Promise me.”

Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, locking you against him.

“I promise,” he murmurs into your hair.

The heavy, suffocating weight that has been crushing you since the accident doesn’t disappear. You know it won’t. The grief is going to be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. It’s a scar you will carry forever.

But lying there, tangled in the sheets with Dean, the weight shifts. It stops feeling like a boulder crushing your chest, and starts feeling like something you can actually carry. Because you aren’t carrying it alone anymore.

“Go back to sleep, Y/N,” Dean whispers, his hand lazily stroking up and down your spine, a repetitive, soothing motion. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

“Don’t let go,” you murmur, your eyes heavy with emotional exhaustion.

“Never,” Dean replies instantly.

You close your eyes, listening to the steady, strong beating of his heart under your ear. The fear of waking up to the nightmare is still there, but the terror is gone.

For the first time since the world ended, you drift off to sleep feeling entirely, completely safe.

***

Grief is not a straight line.

It doesn’t slowly fade out like the ending of a sad movie. It comes in waves. Some days, you wake up and the air feels light, and you can almost convince yourself that things are normal. Other days, the ghost of your brother is so heavy you can barely pull yourself out of bed.

But as the brutal winter bleeds into a messy, slushy spring, the good days slowly start to outnumber the bad ones. And the main reason for that is the six-foot-two hockey player who absolutely refuses to let you sink.

Dean is a constant. He is the first text you read in the morning and the last voice you hear at night.

The buzzer blares through the Briar ice arena, signaling the end of the second period. The crowd erupts into a deafening roar.

You stand up, cheering along with the rest of the student section as the Briar Hawks skate off the ice. Down below, Dean pulls his helmet off. His blond hair is soaked with sweat, his face flushed with adrenaline. He glances up toward the stands, his green eyes scanning the sea of blue and white until they lock onto you.

He shoots you a quick, cocky wink before disappearing into the tunnel.

A warm flutter erupts in your stomach. It’s a new feeling, one that has been slowly building over the last few months, completely distinct from the safe, platonic comfort he offered in the beginning. You actively try to ignore it, terrified of ruining the most important relationship you have left, but Dean makes it incredibly difficult.

“He’s staring again,” Lacey says, nudging your shoulder as you both sit back down on the cold bleachers.

“He’s just making sure I didn’t leave to get nachos without him,” you deflect, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself.

Lacey raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Right. Because guys totally look at their platonic friends like they want to devour them whole on center ice. Sure.”

“Shut up,” you laugh, shoving her arm playfully.

“I’m just saying,” Lacey sing-songs, leaning back. “It’s been four months. You practically live at his house. Everyone sees it, Y/N.”

You look down at your hands, tracing the seam of your jeans. “It’s complicated, Lacey. We’re just … we’re surviving together. We lost Beau.”

“I know,” Lacey’s voice softens instantly. She reaches out and squeezes your knee. “And I’m not minimizing that. But you’re allowed to live, too. You’re allowed to be happy.”

You nod slowly, your eyes drifting down to the empty ice.

Happiness feels like a complicated concept these days. It used to be so simple. It used to be standing on the sidelines of the football turf, shaking pompoms while Beau threw a perfect spiral down the field.

You haven’t touched a pompom since the funeral.

The first time you tried to go back to a cheer practice, they were holding it on the indoor turf. You took one step onto the artificial grass, saw the goalposts, and immediately threw up in a nearby trash can. The panic attack that followed lasted for two hours. The realization was sharp and undeniable: you could not cheer for a football team that didn’t have Beau Maxwell leading it. It felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal.

So, you quit.

It broke your heart a little more, losing another piece of your identity, but Dean was right there to pick up the pieces.

***

“You don’t have to do it,” Dean had said, sitting on the floor of your dorm room while you cried over your folded uniform.

“But I love it,” you hiccuped, wiping your eyes aggressively. “I love tumbling. I love the girls. I just can’t look at that field.”

“So tumble somewhere else,” Dean said simply, taking the uniform from your hands and tossing it onto the desk. “Briar has an Acrobatics and Tumbling team. They do meets in the gym. No turf. No footballs. Just you guys flipping around like ninjas. I saw a flyer by the athletic office today. Tryouts are next week.”

You had looked at him, completely stunned by the casual, practical solution. “You read flyers?”

“Only when they involve girls in spandex,” he smirked, the joke landing perfectly, pulling a wet laugh out of you.

***

He went with you to the tryouts. He sat in the top row of the bleachers, doing homework while you flipped and vaulted across the mat. When you made the team, he bought you a celebratory milkshake and forced Logan, Tucker, and Garrett to listen to him brag about how high you could jump.

The third period of the hockey game ends with a resounding Briar victory.

You wait outside the locker room twenty minutes later, leaning against the cinderblock wall. The door swings open, and a blast of hot water, damp towels, and cheap body wash rolls out.

Dean steps into the hallway, a heavy black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing dark jeans and a tight black t-shirt, his hair still slightly damp from the showers. The moment he sees you, the tired line of his shoulders relaxes.

“Hey,” he says, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, casually tugging on the zipper of your jacket. “Did you see my assist in the third?”

“I did,” you smile, tilting your head up to look at him. “It was almost as impressive as the way you completely face-planted into the boards in the second.”

Dean scoffs, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “That was a tactical maneuver. I was distracting the goalie.”

“Right. Very stealthy,” you laugh.

“Come on,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your arm to casually interlace his fingers with yours. It’s a natural, effortless movement. He does it all the time now. “Tucker has a celebratory brisket in the crockpot. If we don’t hurry, Logan is going to eat half of it and feed the rest to the stray cat he refuses to admit he’s adopted.”

You let him pull you down the hallway, the warmth of his hand seeping into yours.

The house is already loud when you walk in. Music is playing from a Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen, and the smell of slow-cooked meat fills the air.

“The king has arrived!” Logan shouts from the living room, holding a beer in the air.

“And he brought Y/N, so try to use polysyllabic words tonight, Logan,” Garrett quips from the kitchen counter.

“I know big words,” Logan argues, tossing a throw pillow at Garrett. “Photosynthesis. Boom.”

You laugh, dropping your bag by the door. You walk into the kitchen, immediately moving to the island where Tucker is slicing brisket. Without asking, Tucker plates a massive portion and slides it across the counter to you.

“Thanks, Tuck,” you say, grabbing a fork.

“Eat up,” Tucker says, giving you a warm smile. “You got a meet on Saturday. Need fuel.”

“Wait, the meet is Saturday?” Logan asks, jogging into the kitchen. “What time?”

“Two o’clock,” you answer through a mouthful of food.

“I’m in,” Logan says, grabbing a beer from the fridge. “I love watching you throw people in the air. It’s violent. I respect it.”

“We’re all going,” Garrett adds, stealing a piece of brisket off your plate. “We don’t have a game until next weekend.”

You look around the kitchen at the massive, intimidating hockey players who have somehow adopted you as their own over the last four months. They don’t walk on eggshells around you anymore. They treat you like a little sister, relentlessly teasing you, eating your food, and showing up unconditionally when you need them.

You catch Dean’s eye across the kitchen. He is leaning against the refrigerator, watching you with a soft, affectionate expression. He raises his beer bottle to you in a silent, private toast.

You smile back, the flutter in your stomach returning full force.

Hours later, the house finally quiets down.

Garrett went to his girlfriend’s dorm, and Tucker and Logan retired to their rooms after a highly competitive, aggressively loud game of Mario Kart that you ultimately won.

You and Dean are left alone in the living room.

The TV is playing a muted rerun of a sitcom. You are sitting on the floor, your back pressed against the front of the leather couch, your legs stretched out over the rug. Dean is sitting on the couch right behind you.

“I think Logan actually cried when you hit him with the banana peel,” Dean muses, his voice low and raspy in the quiet room.

“He deserved it,” you say, resting your head back against the cushion. “He bumped my kart into the lava on Bowser’s Castle. I hold grudges.”

Dean chuckles. You feel the vibration of it against the back of your head.

Slowly, his hands come up to rest on your shoulders. He begins to gently massage the tense muscles at the base of your neck. You let out a soft groan, your eyes fluttering shut as his thumbs press into a particularly tight knot.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs, shifting closer so his knees are bracketing your waist.

“Acro practice was brutal yesterday,” you sigh, leaning entirely into his touch. “We’re working on a new pyramid. I got dropped twice.”

Dean’s hands pause. “You got dropped?”

“Onto a mat,” you clarify quickly, opening your eyes and tilting your head back to look at him upside down. “It’s fine, Dean. It’s part of the sport.”

His green eyes are dark, his brow slightly furrowed in that protective way you’ve grown to recognize instantly. “Tell your bases to stop dropping you, or I’m going to show up to practice and have a polite conversation with them.”

“Please don’t,” you laugh softly. “A polite conversation with you usually involves a terrifying glare and a subtle threat of physical harm.”

“It’s highly effective,” Dean points out, his hands resuming their slow, rhythmic massage.

The room lapses into a comfortable, thick silence. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the quiet dialogue from the muted TV.

You stare up at the ceiling, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace. You miss Beau. The ache is still there, a hollow cavity in your chest that will never fully close. But it doesn’t consume you anymore. It doesn’t stop you from breathing.

“Thank you,” you say quietly into the dimly lit room.

Dean’s hands slow down. “For what?”

“For this,” you say, gesturing vaguely around the room. “For making them go to my meet on Saturday. For checking on me. For … just not letting me drown.”

Dean goes entirely still. Then, he shifts, sliding off the couch to sit on the floor right beside you. He folds his long legs, turning his body so he’s facing you completely.

The playful, relaxed energy that was hovering between you dissipates, replaced by something suddenly heavy and incredibly charged.

“I didn’t do it as a favor, Y/N,” Dean says, his voice losing any trace of humor. He looks at you, his gaze intense and searching. “I did it because I wanted to. Because you’re important to me.”

“I know,” you whisper, suddenly acutely aware of how close he is sitting. You can feel the heat radiating off his body. You can smell the mint of his toothpaste and the faint trace of his cologne.

“Do you?” Dean asks, leaning slightly closer. His eyes drop down to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to your eyes.

Your breath catches in your throat.

The air in the room suddenly feels entirely too thin. The platonic line you have both been carefully walking on for months is suddenly nowhere to be found. It’s been erased, completely obliterated by the intense, burning look in his eyes.

“Dean,” you breathe out, his name sounding more like a question than a statement.

He reaches out, his large hand gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, his touch feather-light but sending a violent shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.

“I’ve been trying to be good,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a rough, strained register. His eyes are locked onto yours, completely vulnerable. “I’ve been trying so damn hard to just be the guy you need. The friend. The shoulder to cry on.”

“You are,” you say quickly, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“But I want more,” Dean confesses, the words tumbling out like he can’t hold them back anymore. He leans in closer, his forehead almost resting against yours. “God, Y/N. I look at you, and it’s all I can think about. I want to hold your hand, and I don’t want to let go. I want to take you on terrible, cliché dates. I want to kiss you so badly I’m losing my mind.”

You stare at him, completely paralyzed.

For months, you convinced yourself that the small touches, the lingering looks, the fierce protectiveness was just trauma. It was just two broken people clinging to each other because they were the only ones who understood the pieces.

But looking at him now, feeling the frantic, desperate pounding of your own heart, you realize it’s not trauma at all. It hasn’t been for a long time.

“Then kiss me,” you whisper.

Dean exhales a sharp, shaking breath. He doesn’t hesitate.

He leans the rest of the way in, his lips brushing against yours. It’s incredibly gentle at first, a soft, hesitant question. You close your eyes and let out a tiny gasp, your hands coming up to grip the front of his henley.

The moment your fingers twist into his shirt, the hesitation vanishes.

Dean groans, a low, guttural sound, and pulls you flush against his chest. His hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. It’s messy and desperate and completely overwhelming. The taste of him is intoxicating. Every ounce of suppressed emotion, every stolen glance over the last four months, pours into the space between you.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, wrapping your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him. He tastes like mint and beer and something distinctly, perfectly Dean. His other hand drops to your waist, gripping you tightly, pulling you so close you can feel the heavy thud of his heartbeat against your own chest.

It feels like waking up. It feels like stepping out of a freezing room and into the sun.

When you finally break apart, you are both gasping for air.

Dean rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his chest heaving. His hand remains tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking behind your ear in a repetitive, soothing motion.

“Wow,” you whisper, completely breathless.

Dean lets out a short, rough laugh. He opens his eyes, looking down at you with an expression so open and raw it makes your chest ache.

But then, the smile fades. He pulls back just slightly, creating an inch of space between you. His jaw sets, a serious, almost anxious look crossing his features.

“Y/N, listen to me,” Dean says, his voice completely level. “I need you to know something. And I need you to actually hear me.”

You blink, confused by the sudden shift in tone. “Okay.”

Dean brings both his hands up, framing your face delicately. “I didn’t do this because I’m sad. I didn’t do this because I’m confusing grief with something else, or because you’re Beau’s sister, or because we bonded over a tragedy.”

You swallow hard, holding his intense gaze.

“I did this because I like you,” Dean states firmly, articulating every single word. “I like you. I like how fiercely you argue about reality TV. I like how you refuse to give up when things get hard. I like that you joined a completely different sport just so you wouldn’t have to quit entirely. You are the strongest, most incredible person I’ve ever met.”

Tears, completely unbidden, prick at the corners of your eyes. But this time, they aren’t tears of grief.

“I’m not trying to replace him,” Dean whispers, his thumb brushing a stray tear off your cheek. “I know neither of us ever can. But I want to be here for you. As yours. If you’ll have me.”

The absolute sincerity in his voice strips away any lingering doubts. He isn’t holding onto you to keep a piece of his best friend alive. He’s holding onto you because he wants you.

You reach up, placing your hands over his where they rest on your cheeks.

“I’m not doing this out of grief, either,” you tell him, your voice steady and incredibly sure. “You didn’t just save me, Dean. You made me want to actually live again. I look forward to waking up because I know I’m going to see you.”

A breath shuddering out of Dean’s chest, his shoulders dropping a massive weight.

“I like you,” you confess, a bright, genuine smile finally breaking across your face. “I’ve liked you for a really long time. I was just too terrified to admit it.”

Dean’s trademark, cocky smirk slowly returns, lighting up his entire face. “Well, to be fair, I am incredibly charming. It was only a matter of time.”

You roll your eyes, slapping his chest lightly. “And the arrogance ruins the moment.”

“I haven’t ruined anything,” Dean laughs, leaning in again.

He kisses you softly, lingering on your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to speak against your mouth.

“I’m going to take you on a date,” he murmurs. “A real one. I’m going to open doors and pay for an overpriced dinner and everything.”

“I look forward to it,” you whisper back.

“Good,” Dean says. He wraps his arms completely around you, pulling you into his lap. You go willingly, curling against his chest, tucking your head under his chin.

He holds you tightly, resting his cheek against the top of your head. The TV drones on in the background, the house perfectly quiet around you.

For the first time in months, you don’t think about what you lost. You don’t think about the empty passenger seat or the quiet dorm room.

You just sit there, wrapped in the arms of the boy who held you together until you were strong enough to hold yourself, and realize that out of the absolute worst tragedy of your life, you somehow found your future.

***

“Hold still, sweetheart. Your tassel is completely tangled.”

Your mother’s hands are warm, slightly trembling, as she fusses with the black mortarboard on your head. You stand in the middle of your dorm room suffocating under the heavy, unforgiving polyester of your graduation gown.

“Mom, it’s fine,” you say gently, reaching up to cover her hands with yours. “It’s just going to blow around in the wind anyway.”

Your mother stops. She looks at you, her eyes already shining with unshed tears. She offers a tight, fragile smile and smooths her hands down your shoulders. “I know. I just want it to be perfect. You look so beautiful.”

“She looks like a giant bat,” Joanna announces from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a cup of coffee in her hand. “A very smart, educated bat, but a bat nonetheless.”

“Ignore your sister,” your dad says, walking into the room. He’s been out of the neck brace for over a year now, though his movements are still careful and deliberate. He looks sharp in a navy suit, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes you in. “You look perfect, kiddo. I am incredibly proud of you.”

You swallow down the sudden, thick lump in your throat. “Thanks, Dad.”

The front door swings open without a knock, the hinges squeaking loudly.

“Delivery for the graduate!” A bright, booming voice calls out.

Dean strolls into the living room, completely bypassing the concept of personal boundaries, as usual. He is also wearing his graduation gown, though he wears it unzipped over a tailored charcoal suit. He holds a massive bouquet of blush pink peonies.

“Dean, honey!” Your mom gasps, immediately stepping away from you to pull him into a tight hug. “You look so handsome.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says smoothly, hugging her back with one arm and handing her the flowers with the other. “I clean up alright. Though the hat is doing terrible things to my hair.”

“Your hair is indestructible, Di Laurentis,” Joanna snorts, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Jealousy is an ugly color on you, Jo,” Dean shoots back with a perfectly executed smirk.

He steps past your mother and walks right up to you. The playful arrogance drops from his face the second he meets your eyes. He reaches out, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, meant entirely for you.

“Hey,” you whisper back.

“You doing okay?” He asks, his eyes searching yours for any sign of a crack.

Graduation day. The day you and Beau talked about since you were freshmen. The day you were supposed to take thousands of ridiculous pictures together, throwing your caps in the air and spraying cheap champagne on the lawn.

“I’m okay,” you say honestly, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “It’s heavy. But I’m okay.”

Dean leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. “I’m right beside you today. Every step.”

***

The football stadium is packed. Thousands of parents, grandparents, and siblings fill the bleachers, fanning themselves with commencement programs under the late spring sun.

You sit in the folding chairs on the field, surrounded by a sea of black gowns. Dean is twelve rows ahead of you, seated in the D section, but he turns around every five minutes to catch your eye and flash a ridiculous, exaggerated thumbs-up.

The heat is sweltering, and the speeches drag on. The valedictorian talks about the future, the dean of students talks about perseverance, and the university president talks about the legacy of the graduating class.

You tune most of it out, your fingers twisting the fabric of your gown.

Then, the tone of the ceremony shifts. The university president steps back up to the podium, adjusting his glasses. The low murmur of the crowd immediately quiets down.

“Before we begin conferring the degrees for the graduating class,” the president says, his voice echoing through the massive stadium speakers, “Briar University would like to take a moment to honor a student who is not sitting on the field with us today.”

Your breath hitches. Your heart starts hammering a frantic, heavy rhythm against your ribs.

“Beau Maxwell was a vibrant, exceptional part of our campus community,” the president continues. “He was a leader on the field, a dedicated student in the classroom, and a beloved friend to many. Though his time with us was tragically cut short, his impact on this university remains profound.”

A heavy, solemn silence blankets the stadium.

“Today, we are honored to award Beau Maxwell a posthumous honorary degree,” the president announces. “Accepting on his behalf is his sister.”

The crowd erupts into applause.

It isn’t polite, golf-clap applause. It is thunderous. Down in the front rows, the entire Briar football team stands up, their cheers echoing across the turf.

You stand up, your legs trembling so violently you aren’t sure they will hold you.

“You’ve got this,” Lacey whispers from the seat next to you, giving your hand a tight squeeze.

You step out into the aisle. The walk to the stage feels like walking underwater. The applause roars in your ears, a beautiful, devastating sound. You keep your eyes locked on the wooden stairs leading up to the platform.

You walk up the steps, the heat of the sun beating down on your black cap. The university president meets you halfway across the stage, holding a leather-bound diploma cover.

He hands it to you with a gentle, sympathetic smile. “Congratulations, Miss Maxwell. He would be very proud.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, clutching the leather tightly against your chest.

You turn to face the crowd. You look down at the front row of the bleachers. Your dad is crying, unabashedly wiping tears from his cheeks while your mom holds onto his shoulder, openly sobbing. Joanna has her hand over her mouth.

Then, you look down at the graduates on the field.

Dean is standing up. He is the only one in his section on his feet, clapping entirely entirely too hard, staring at you with an expression of such raw, overwhelming pride it completely knocks the breath out of your lungs.

A single tear slips down your cheek. You grip Beau’s diploma, close your eyes for a fraction of a second, and send a silent, desperately aching thought up into the sky. We did it, B.

You walk down the opposite set of stairs.

You don’t even make it back to the aisle before Dean is there. He slipped out of his row, ignoring the ushers, and meets you at the bottom of the steps.

He doesn’t say a word. He just pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your shoulders. You bury your face into his neck, letting out a single, shaky breath against his collarbone.

“I’ve got you,” Dean murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “I’m right here.”

***

The rest of the ceremony moves smoothly.

You sit back in your seat, holding Beau’s diploma in your lap, watching the Ds get called.

“Dean Di Laurentis,” the announcer booms.

Dean struts across the stage like he completely owns the space, flashing a blinding, camera-ready smile as he shakes the president’s hand. From somewhere near the back, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker let out a series of deafening, aggressive whoops.

“That’s our boy!” Logan screams at the top of his lungs.

Dean laughs, grabbing his diploma and pointing directly at the hockey section before his eyes scan the field, finding you. He winks.

Thirty minutes later, they hit the Ms.

You walk across the stage for the second time today. This time, the weight on your chest is lighter. You accept your own diploma, smiling genuinely for the photographer. As you walk down the stairs, you hear Dean’s voice cutting through the crowd.

“Yeah, baby! That’s my girl!”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath as you walk back to your seat.

***

Dinner that night is a spectacular, chaotic collision of your two worlds.

Dean’s parents booked a massive private dining room at a high-end Italian restaurant downtown. The mahogany table easily fits both your family, the Di Laurentises, and somehow, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker, who simply invited themselves and refused to take no for an answer.

“I’m just saying,” Logan argues loudly, waving a breadstick at Dean’s father, “if you’re a corporate lawyer, you basically argue for a living, right?”

Peter Di Laurentis throws his head back and laughs loudly. “That is a severe oversimplification, Logan, but yes. Essentially.”

“See? I’m practically a lawyer,” Logan declares, biting into the breadstick.

“You failed Business Ethics twice, Logan,” Garrett points out dryly, taking a sip of wine.

“Ethics are subjective,” Logan dismisses immediately.

You sit between Dean and your dad, watching the beautiful chaos unfold. Your mother is deep in conversation with Dean’s mother, discussing the horrors of trying to find good tailoring, completely bonded over their shared fussiness. Joanna is mercilessly roasting Tucker for his terrible taste in country music, and Tucker looks completely thrilled by the attention.

Dean slides his hand under the table, resting his palm warmly against your bare thigh. He traces soothing, absent circles with his thumb, completely relaxed as he leans back in his chair.

“This is nice,” you murmur, leaning closer to him.

Dean turns his head, his green eyes soft in the dim lighting of the restaurant. “Yeah? Not too overwhelming?”

“No,” you say truthfully, looking around the table. “It’s exactly what I needed. It feels … full.”

Dean’s gaze drops to your mouth for a second before he looks back into your eyes. He squeezes your thigh affectionately. “Good.”

“Dean, pass the burrata, will you?” Your dad asks from your other side.

“Absolutely, sir,” Dean says, leaning forward to hand the plate over.

“And drop the sir, kid,” your dad adds, smiling warmly. “I think we’re past that.”

Dean smiles, a genuine, uncocky expression. “You got it, Mr. Maxwell.”

Your dad chuckles, accepting the plate.

The dinner lasts for hours, filled with multiple toasts, entirely too much wine, and endless storytelling. They toast to your graduation, to Dean’s, to the future. And halfway through the night, your dad raises his glass, his hand perfectly steady.

“To Beau,” your dad says, his voice thick but strong. “He’s the brightest star in the sky tonight.”

“To Beau,” the entire table echoes, raising their glasses.

You clink your water glass against Dean’s wine glass. You don’t cry. The ache is there, a phantom limb that you will always carry, but surrounded by the people who love him, the love you feel for your brother completely overshadows the grief.

***

By eleven o’clock, the families have gone back to their respective hotels, and the hockey boys have gone out to terrorize a local bar.

You are sitting in the passenger seat of Dean’s car, completely exhausted but utterly content. The streetlights wash over the interior of the car in rhythmic, yellow flashes.

Dean pulls up to a red light and shifts the car into park. He turns to look at you.

“You look tired,” he observes softly, reaching over to run his knuckles down your cheek.

“I am,” you admit, leaning into his touch. “It was a long day. A good day, but long.”

“Do you want to go home?” He asks, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “I can take you back to your dorm. Or my place.”

You think about the quiet of your dorm, or the massive emptiness of his house without the roommates there. Neither sounds right.

“Actually,” you say, a slow smile spreading across your face. “I’m kind of hungry.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You just ate half a pound of handmade pasta.”

“I stress-ate pasta,” you correct him. “Now I’m actually hungry. For garbage.”

Dean barks out a laugh, shaking his head as the light turns green. He shifts back into drive. “Garbage, huh? Your wish is my command.”

Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the familiar, pothole-riddled parking lot of Malone’s.

The neon sign is buzzing loudly in the cool night air. The diner is practically empty at this hour, save for a couple of truckers in the booths by the window and a tired-looking waitress wiping down the counter.

You walk inside, the bell jingling above the door. Dean doesn’t even hesitate. He walks straight to the back corner, sliding into the exact same vinyl booth you sat in all those months ago. You slide in right next to him, pressing your hip against his.

It feels like a lifetime has passed since that day.

The waitress walks over, pulling a notepad from her apron. She does a double-take, looking at Dean in his tailored suit and you in your nice dress, a contrast to the hollowed-out versions of yourselves she saw in the winter.

“Well, don’t you two look fancy,” she says, popping her gum and smiling genuinely. “Graduation?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean smiles back, flashing his trademark charm.

“Congratulations,” she says. “What can I get you? The usual?”

Dean looks at you, his eyes dancing with amusement. “What do you think, baby? The usual?”

“Two waters,” you say, perfectly deadpan, reciting the order from memory. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”

Dean bursts out laughing, throwing his head back. The waitress chuckles, writing it down quickly. “You got it. Be right back.”

As she walks away, Dean wraps his arm entirely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side. He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there.

“You’re a brat,” he murmurs against your skin.

“You literally forced me to drink a milkshake against my will,” you remind him, resting your head on his shoulder. “I think I’m allowed to tease you about it.”

“I was keeping you alive,” Dean argues playfully, resting his chin on your head. “I was a hero.”

“You were very bossy.”

“And you loved it.”

You smile, tilting your face up to look at him. “I did. I really did.”

The playful banter fades, replaced by that heavy, magnetic pull that always seems to exist between the two of you. Dean’s eyes darken, dropping to your mouth.

The waitress suddenly appears, dropping the basket of fries and the milkshake onto the table before quickly retreating to give you privacy.

Dean looks at the fries, then looks back at you. A slow, wicked smirk completely takes over his face.

He reaches out, plucking a single fry from the basket. He dips it entirely too aggressively into the ketchup.

He holds it up to your mouth.

“Open,” he says, his voice a perfect, gravelly mimic of that terrible day.

You laugh, swatting at his hand. “Dean, stop. I can feed myself.”

“I don’t know,” he teases, pulling the fry back an inch. “You look pretty helpless right now. I think you need me to hand-feed you.”

“I will bite your finger,” you threaten, though you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

“Promises, promises,” Dean fires back, holding the fry steady. “Come on. For old times’ sake. Open up.”

You roll your eyes, but you lean forward and bite the fry off his fingers. You chew deliberately, maintaining direct eye contact.

“Good girl,” Dean whispers, his voice suddenly losing every ounce of humor. The teasing drops away, leaving only raw, burning affection.

Your breath hitches.

Dean drops his hand, grabbing the milkshake. But instead of offering you the straw, he sets it aside entirely. He reaches out, cupping your jaw with both hands, and pulls you flush against him.

He kisses you. It isn’t tentative or gentle. It is a deep, consuming kiss that tastes like salt and ketchup and everything you’ve ever wanted. You melt against him instantly, your hands coming up to grip the lapels of his expensive suit jacket, kissing him back with everything you have.

When you finally break apart, you are both breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other.

“I love you,” Dean whispers, the words slipping out into the quiet diner like they’ve been waiting there all along.

You freeze.

Your heart stops completely, then restarts at double the speed. He has never said it before. You have danced around it, you have shown it in a thousand different ways, but the actual words have remained unspoken.

Dean pulls back just enough to look you directly in the eyes. There is no hesitation in his gaze. There is no fear. There is just absolute, unflinching certainty.

“I love you,” Dean repeats, his voice incredibly steady. “I loved you when you were completely broken, I loved you when you started putting yourself back together, and I love you right now. I am entirely, completely in love with you.”

The air completely leaves your lungs.

You look at the beautiful, complicated, endlessly loyal boy sitting beside you. The boy who dragged you out of the dark. The boy who held your brother’s memory in one hand and your heart in the other.

“I love you too,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest until it feels like it might burst. “I love you so much, Dean.”

Dean’s entire face lights up. The breathtaking smile that breaks across his features is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He lets out a ragged exhale, burying his face in your neck, wrapping his arms around you tightly enough to bruise.

You hold him back just as fiercely, closing your eyes and breathing him in.

You survived the absolute worst day of your life. You walked through the fire, and you didn’t burn to ash. You are still here.

And as you sit in the corner booth of Malone’s, surrounded by the smell of cheap fryer grease and holding onto the boy you love, you realize something profound.

The world didn’t stop turning when Beau died. It kept going. And finally, for the first time in a very long time, you are incredibly grateful that you get to keep going with it.

***

The smell of burning toast is what finally wakes you up.

You groan, burying your face deeper into the mountain of pillows you’ve constructed around yourself. At twenty weeks pregnant, sleep has become less of a biological necessity and more of a strategic, highly negotiated truce with your own body.

“Damn it,” a voice mutters from the kitchen, followed by the loud clatter of a pan hitting the stove. “Okay. Pivot. We’re pivoting to pancakes.”

You crack one eye open. The morning light is streaming through the massive windows of the master bedroom you share with Dean.

It’s been five years since graduation. Five years of navigating adulthood, careers, and the beautiful, messy reality of building a life together. You’re married now, but the core of it all is exactly the same. It’s just you and Dean, fiercely guarding the peace you fought so hard to find.

You push the heavy duvet off your legs and slowly maneuver yourself out of bed. Your hand instinctively rests on the undeniable, rounded swell of your stomach.

You pad barefoot down the hallway of your shared house, the hardwood floors cool against your feet. You stop in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the frame.

Dean is standing at the island, wearing grey sweatpants and a backwards cap, looking extremely focused as he whisks a bowl of batter. There is flour on his cheek.

“You’re making a mess, Di Laurentis,” you point out, your voice still thick with sleep.

Dean’s head snaps up. The moment he sees you, the intense concentration completely vanishes, replaced by that soft, devastatingly bright smile he reserves exclusively for you.

“Hey,” he says, abandoning the whisk. He crosses the kitchen in three long strides, wrapping his arms around your waist. He pulls you in, careful of your stomach, and kisses you deeply. “Good morning, Mrs. Di Laurentis.”

“Good morning,” you smile against his lips. “I smell casualties.”

“The toast didn’t make it,” Dean admits, completely unbothered. He drops to his knees, his face suddenly level with your stomach. He presses a gentle kiss to the center of your t-shirt. “Good morning to you, too, little menace. Please let your mother eat these pancakes without kicking her in the bladder.”

You laugh, running your fingers through the hair sticking out from the back of his cap. “The baby doesn’t take orders, Dean. Much like its father.”

“The baby is going to be perfectly behaved,” Dean argues, standing back up. “Sit. Eat. We have a big day today. The anatomy scan is at eleven.”

Your heart immediately does a familiar, anxious flutter.

The pregnancy wasn’t exactly planned, but the moment you saw the two pink lines on the plastic stick, your entire world shifted. Dean had completely short-circuited. He had stared at the test for five straight minutes, asked you if you were absolutely sure, and then picked you up and spun you around the bathroom until you both fell over laughing.

He has been a hovering, overprotective nightmare ever since. He reads every baby book. He vetoes anything that even vaguely resembles a soft cheese. He treats you like you’re made of spun glass.

“I know,” you say softly, tracing the rim of the empty coffee mug he sets in front of you. “I’m nervous.”

Dean stops pouring the batter. He sets the bowl down and walks around the island, stepping into the space between your knees. He takes both of your hands in his.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. The doctor said everything was perfectly on track last month. Heartbeat is strong. You’re healthy.”

“I know,” you sigh, leaning your forehead against his chest. “It’s just … it makes it all very real. Today we find out if it’s a boy or a girl. It’s an actual person, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, holding you tight. “It’s our person. Half you, half me. We’re going to be okay, Y/N. I promise you.”

***

The ultrasound room is dark and freezing cold.

You lie on the crinkly paper of the exam table, your shirt pulled up to expose your stomach. Dean is sitting in the plastic chair right beside you, completely ignoring the lack of space. His chair is pulled so close his knees are practically touching the table, and he hasn’t let go of your hand since you walked into the clinic.

“Alright, let’s take a look at this little one,” the ultrasound technician, a kind woman named Dana, says cheerfully.

She squirts a massive dollop of freezing blue gel onto your stomach. You flinch.

“Cold, sorry!” Dana laughs, pressing the wand against your skin.

You turn your head to look at the monitor. At first, it’s just a blurry, static-filled screen of greys and blacks. But then, Dana moves the wand, and suddenly, there it is.

A perfectly formed, tiny spine. A little head. Two small arms waving sluggishly in the amniotic fluid.

Your breath completely catches in your throat.

“Oh my god,” Dean whispers loudly, his grip on your hand tightening to the point of pain. He leans forward, his eyes absolutely glued to the screen. “Y/N. Look.”

“I see it,” you breathe out, tears instantly pricking the corners of your eyes.

“There’s the heartbeat,” Dana says, clicking a button on the keyboard.

The room is suddenly filled with the rapid, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of your baby’s heart. It’s the most beautiful, incredible sound you have ever heard in your entire life. It sounds like a galloping horse. It sounds like a miracle.

Dean lets out a wet, choked sound. You look over at him.

He is crying. He doesn’t even try to hide it. The arrogant, charming, impenetrable Dean Di Laurentis is sitting in a dark clinic, openly weeping at the sight of a grainy black-and-white monitor. He brings your knuckles up to his lips, pressing a desperate, reverent kiss against your skin.

“It’s perfect,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “You’re perfect.”

“You guys are doing great,” Dana smiles, clicking a few more buttons to take measurements. “Baby is measuring exactly at twenty weeks and three days. Everything looks incredibly healthy. Ten fingers, ten toes.”

A massive wave of relief crashes over you, washing away the anxiety that has been building all morning.

“Now,” Dana says, pausing the wand and looking between the two of you with a knowing smirk. “Did you two want to know the gender today?”

You look at Dean. He looks back at you, his eyes still shining.

“We want to know,” you say, nodding. “But … can you write it down? We want to open it at home. Just the two of us.”

“Absolutely,” Dana says. She turns the screen away slightly so you can’t see, clicking a few buttons before pulling out a small, white envelope. She writes something on a card, slips it inside, and seals it tight.

She hands the envelope to Dean.

Dean takes it like he’s being handed a live explosive. He stares at the white paper, his jaw tight.

“Thank you,” you say, grabbing a paper towel to wipe the gel off your stomach.

“Congratulations, you guys,” Dana says warmly. “I’ll see you in four weeks.”

***

The car ride back to the house is agonizingly tense.

The small white envelope is sitting completely undisturbed in the center console. It is the loudest object in the vehicle.

Dean is gripping the steering wheel with both hands, driving five miles under the speed limit, his eyes darting between the road and the envelope every thirty seconds.

“Stop staring at it,” you laugh, resting your head back against the leather seat.

“I’m not staring at it,” Dean lies immediately. “I’m focusing on the road. Because I have precious cargo in the car.”

“You’ve looked at it twelve times since we left the clinic,” you point out.

“It’s mocking me,” Dean mutters, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel. “It knows that I have zero patience. It’s a test of my willpower.”

“Do you have a preference?” You ask softly, turning your head to look at his profile.

Dean is quiet for a long moment. He signals, turning into your neighborhood.

“No,” he says honestly. “I really don’t. If it’s a girl, I’m going to spoil her so completely that she’ll be an absolute terror to society. I’m going to buy her a pony. I don’t care where we put it. And if it’s a boy, I’m going to teach him how to throw a football before he can walk, and I’m going to teach him how to treat women like absolute royalty.”

You smile, your heart swelling painfully in your chest. “You’re going to be an incredible dad.”

“We’re going to be incredible parents,” Dean corrects you, pulling into the driveway and shifting the car into park.

He kills the engine. He turns in his seat, looking down at the center console. He takes a deep breath, reaches out, and picks up the envelope.

He hands it to you.

“Let’s go inside,” he says, his voice low and raspy.

You walk into the house together. It’s quiet, the afternoon sun spilling across the living room rug. You walk over to the massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch and sit down.

Dean sits right next to you, completely invading your personal space. He drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.

You look down at the envelope in your lap.

“Okay,” you whisper. Your hands are actually shaking.

“We do it together,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He reaches down, his large hand covering yours, his fingers resting over the flap of the envelope.

“On three,” you say.

“One,” Dean counts.

“Two,” you whisper.

“Three.”

Together, you slide your fingers under the seal and rip the envelope open. You pull out the small, stiff piece of cardstock.

There are only three words written on the card in Dana’s neat, cursive handwriting.

It’s a boy!

The world completely stops spinning.

You stare at the words. The letters blur together as a fresh, overwhelming wave of tears immediately fills your eyes. A boy. You are having a boy.

Beside you, Dean goes perfectly, rigidly still.

“A boy,” Dean breathes out, the sound barely more than a whisper.

“It’s a boy,” you repeat, a wet, hysterical laugh escaping your lips.

Dean suddenly moves. He takes the card out of your hand and tosses it onto the coffee table. He wraps both of his arms around you, burying his face into your neck. He holds you so incredibly tight you can feel the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart against your ribs.

“A little boy,” Dean says against your skin, his voice cracking completely. “God, Y/N. We’re having a son.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him back just as fiercely. You are crying freely now, happy, completely unburdened tears. You survived the absolute worst thing the universe could throw at you, and now, you are sitting in your living room, holding the man you love, creating a brand new life.

When Dean finally pulls back, his face is a mess of tears and the biggest, most breathtaking smile you have ever seen.

He drops one of his hands down to rest flat against your stomach.

“We need to talk about names,” Dean says, his thumb gently stroking back and forth over your t-shirt.

You look at him.

For months, you have avoided the topic of baby names entirely. It felt like bad luck to talk about it before the anatomy scan, before you knew for sure that everything was okay. You haven’t bought a single book. You haven’t made a single list.

But looking into Dean’s eyes right now, you realize you don’t need a list.

There is no discussion. There is no debate. There is no what if.

“We don’t need to talk about names,” you say softly, placing your hand over his where it rests on your bump.

Dean searches your eyes, his breath hitching slightly. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life,” you promise him, your voice completely steady.

Dean swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he fights back a new wave of emotion. He looks down at your stomach, his hand trembling slightly under yours.

“Beau,” Dean whispers.

Hearing the name out loud — speaking it not in grief, not in mourning, but in absolute, pure joy — sends a shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.

“Beau,” you agree, the name feeling perfectly, incredibly right on your tongue.

Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale. He leans forward, pressing his forehead gently against yours.

“He would be so arrogant about this,” Dean laughs, a wet, choked sound. “He would absolutely never let us live this down.”

“He would tell everyone we named him after the greatest quarterback Briar University ever saw,” you laugh through your tears, the memory of your brother suddenly incredibly vivid, bright, and completely devoid of pain.

“He would demand to be the godfather,” Dean adds, closing his eyes. “Even though he’s a terrible influence. He would have bought the kid a tiny, obnoxious football jersey before he was even born.”

“He would have loved him so much,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest.

“He still does,” Dean says fiercely, opening his eyes to look at you. “He’s up there right now, watching us, and he is completely insufferable about it. I guarantee it.”

You let out a watery laugh, leaning forward to press your lips against Dean’s. It’s a slow, deep kiss, completely anchored in the reality of the life you have built together.

When you break apart, Dean shifts back. He moves down again, dropping to his knees on the rug right in front of the couch.

He rests his chin on your thighs, looking directly at your stomach.

“Hey, little Beau,” Dean says, his voice incredibly soft, dropping into a tone of pure, unconditional reverence. “It’s your dad.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, completely undone by the sight of him.

“You’re making your mom cry again, so we’re going to have to work on that,” Dean tells your stomach, a small, teasing smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “But I need to tell you a few things before you get here.”

Dean reaches up, resting both of his large hands on either side of your bump.

“First of all, you are so incredibly loved,” Dean promises, his voice completely serious now. “You have no idea. You hit the absolute jackpot with your mom. She is the strongest, most amazing person in the world, and you are going to listen to everything she says.”

He pauses, taking a deep breath.

“And secondly,” Dean murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your skin. “You’ve got a big name to live up to, buddy. You are named after my best friend. The best guy I ever knew. Your uncle Beau.”

A single tear slips down Dean’s cheek, but he is smiling. It is a genuine, peaceful smile.

“He was fearless,” Dean tells your son, his voice thick with a love that has never faded, only evolved. “He loved to laugh, he loved his family more than anything, and he always, always took care of the people he cared about. And that’s what we want for you. We just want you to be happy. And brave.”

Dean leans forward and presses a long, lingering kiss to the center of your stomach.

“I’ve got you, Beau,” Dean whispers against your skin, repeating the exact same promise he made to you on the floor of the church all those years ago. “I swear to god, I’ve always got you.”

He rests his forehead against your stomach, closing his eyes.

You sit there on the couch, your hands gently resting in Dean’s hair. The afternoon sun washes over the two of you in a warm, golden glow.

The grief is still a part of you. It always will be. It is woven into the very fabric of your history, a scar that proves you loved someone entirely too much to let them go without a fight.

But as you look down at the man kneeling before you, and feel the tiny, miraculous flutter of your son moving inside of you, you realize that the story didn’t end with the crash. It didn’t end in the dark dorm room, or at the altar of the church.

It continued.

It grew into late-night dinner runs, and stolen kisses in the kitchen, and a love so fierce and protective it physically takes your breath away. It grew into the life you are living right now.

You survived the end of the world, and you found something completely beautiful in the ashes.

“I love you,” you whisper down to Dean, your heart completely, entirely full.

Dean turns his head, resting his cheek against your stomach, and looks up at you with eyes full of a bright, unbreakable future.

His pregnant wife.

He’s still getting used to both of those facts. Wife. Pregnant. Both feel surreal, like a dream he’s afraid he’ll wake up from.

But you’re very real, currently lying on a lounger on the private beach in a white bikini that’s barely there, reading a book and looking like every fantasy he’s ever had.

“You’re staring,” you say without looking up from your book.

“I’m admiring,” Sidney corrects, taking a sip of his drink. He’s in the lounger next to you, supposedly reading, but he’s been on the same page for twenty minutes because he can’t stop looking at you.

“You’re staring,” you repeat, but you’re smiling. “You’ve been staring since we got here three days ago.”

“Can you blame me?” He asks. “My wife is gorgeous and barely wearing anything. I’m only human.”

You set your book down and turn to look at him. “Your wife is also getting hot. Want to go in the water?”

“Sure,” he says, standing and offering you his hand.

You take it, letting him pull you up, and he can’t help but glance at your stomach. Still flat, no visible sign of the baby yet, but he knows it’s there. His child, growing inside you.

“Stop looking at my stomach,” you tease.

“Can’t help it,” he admits. “There’s a baby in there.”

“A very tiny baby,” you remind him. “Probably the size of a lentil right now.”

“Still a baby,” he insists. “My baby.”

You laugh, pulling him toward the water. It’s perfectly clear, perfectly warm, and you wade in up to your waist before diving under. Sidney follows, the salt water cool against his skin.

When you surface, you’re grinning, water streaming down your face. “This is paradise.”

“It really is,” Sidney agrees, pulling you close. The water makes you buoyant, and you wrap your legs around his waist easily.

“Best honeymoon ever,” you say, kissing him.

“We’ve only been here three days,” he points out. “Don’t jinx it.”

“Nothing could ruin this,” you insist. “Private beach, perfect weather, handsome husband. What more could I want?”

“Food?” Sidney suggests. “Georges is making dinner in a few hours.”

“Okay, food too,” you concede. “But mostly the handsome husband part.”

He kisses you again, deeper this time, and feels your body respond against him. Even in the water, even in broad daylight, his body responds immediately to having you this close.

“Careful,” you murmur against his lips. “Keep kissing me like that and I’m going to want you to fuck me right here.”

Sidney pulls back slightly. “In the water?”

“Why not?” You ask. “Private beach. No one around. When are we ever going to get this chance again?”

“Because sand and salt water are not ideal for that,” Sidney says practically. “And because I’m not risking anything that could hurt you or the baby.”

You sigh dramatically but unwrap your legs from his waist. “Fine. You’re probably right.”

“I’m definitely right,” he says, though he’s already regretting being practical because you look disappointed.

You swim for a while longer, splashing and playing like kids, before heading back to the loungers. Sidney towels off while you reapply sunscreen, and he tries very hard not to think about the way your hands move over your body.

“Can you do my back?” You ask, holding out the bottle.

“Trying to kill me,” he mutters, but he takes the sunscreen.

You lie face-down on your lounger and he straddles it behind you, smoothing sunscreen over your shoulders, your back, the curve of your waist. Your skin is warm from the sun and soft under his hands, and he’s very aware of how little clothing there is between you.

“Lower,” you instruct. “I don’t want to burn.”

He moves lower, to the small of your back, the curve of your ass. His hands are professional, medical almost, but his brain is decidedly not professional.

“Okay, done,” he says, pulling back.

“Thank you,” you say, rolling onto your back and adjusting your bikini top. “You’re very thorough.”

“I’m very careful with you,” he corrects.

“I know,” you say softly. “It’s one of the things I love about you.”

You pick up your book again, and Sidney picks up his, and you read in companionable silence for a while. Or rather, you read. Sidney continues to pretend to read while actually watching you.

He’s made it through maybe three actual pages when you speak again.

“Sidney?”

“Hmm?”

“What would you do if I took this off?” You gesture at your bikini top.

Sidney’s brain short-circuits. “What?”

“My top,” you clarify. “What would you do if I took it off? We’re on a private beach. No one’s around.”

“I would-” He clears his throat. “I would tell you to put it back on.”

“Would you?” You ask, and there’s a challenge in your voice now.

“Yes,” he says firmly. “Because even though this is a private beach, someone could theoretically see. A boat could go by. Someone could be on the cliff with binoculars. And I’m not sharing that view with anyone.”

“Possessive,” you tease.

“Extremely,” he confirms. “You’re mine. All of you. I’m not risking anyone else seeing what’s mine.”

“What if I want to?” You challenge. “What if I want to feel the sun on my skin?”

“Then we’ll do it at night,” Sidney says. “When it’s dark and no one can see.”

“You’re no fun,” you complain, but you’re smiling.

“I’m plenty of fun,” he defends. “I’m just not interested in anyone else seeing my pregnant wife naked.”

“I’m barely pregnant,” you point out. “You can’t even tell.”

“I can tell,” he says. “Your breasts are already getting fuller. I notice.”

You look down at yourself. “Are they?”

“Yes,” he says definitively. “And they’re more sensitive. I noticed that too.”

“Very observant,” you say. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I think you should fuck me on this beach.”

Sidney nearly chokes on his drink. “What?”

“You heard me,” you say, sitting up and swinging your legs off the lounger. “I want you to fuck me. Right here. On the beach. In the sun.”

“Absolutely not,” Sidney says immediately.

“Why not?” You ask. “It’s private. No one’s around. And I’m your wife. You can do whatever you want with me.”

“I can do whatever I want with you in the villa,” Sidney counters. “In the bedroom. Behind closed doors. Where no one can see.”

“But I want you here,” you say, standing and walking toward him. You straddle his lounger, one knee on either side of his hips, and lean down to kiss him. “I want you to take me right here on this beach. I want to feel the sand and the sun while you fuck me.”

“You’re being a brat,” he says, but his hands have already gone to your hips, holding you.

“Maybe,” you agree. “But you like it when I’m a brat.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m going to give you what you want,” he says, even though his body is very clearly interested in giving you exactly what you want.

“No?” You ask, rolling your hips against him. You can feel how hard he is through his swim trunks. “You sure about that?”

“Very sure,” he says, though his voice is strained. “I’m not fucking you where someone could see.”

“No one’s going to see,” you insist. “Look around. There’s no one. Just us and the ocean and the sun.”

“Someone could come by,” he argues. “A boat. A person walking. Someone on staff.”

“The staff knows not to come to the beach when we’re here,” you counter. “And boats stay outside the reef. And there’s no one for miles. We’re completely alone.”

“The answer is still no,” Sidney says, even though every part of him wants to say yes.

“Fine,” you say, and you slide off his lap and stand. “Then I’ll just have to convince you.”

“That’s not going to-” Sidney starts, but he stops because you’re reaching behind you and untying your bikini top.

“What are you doing?” He asks, his voice climbing.

“You said you didn’t want anyone else to see,” you say, letting the top fall away. “But there’s no one here to see. Just you. So I’m taking it off.”

Sidney’s mouth goes dry. You’re standing there, topless in the sun, and you’re right, there’s no one around. But the principle of the thing-

“Put it back on,” he says, but it comes out more like a plea than a command.

“Make me,” you challenge.

“You-”

“Or you could fuck me,” you suggest. “Right here. And then I’ll put it back on.”

“That’s blackmail,” he says.

“That’s negotiation,” you correct. You hook your thumbs in your bikini bottoms. “Should I take these off too?”

“Don’t you dare,” Sidney warns, standing.

“Why not?” You ask innocently. “You just said no one can see. So what does it matter?”

“It matters because-” Sidney stops, realizing he’s walked into your trap.

“Because?” You prompt.

“Because you’re mine,” he finally says. “And I don’t want to risk anyone seeing what’s mine. Even if the chances are basically zero.”

“Then claim me,” you say softly. “Right here. Show me I’m yours.”

Sidney looks around. The beach is completely empty. The villa behind them is closed up for privacy. There are no boats visible on the horizon.  You’re completely alone.

“You’re really not going to let this go,” he says.

“Not a chance,” you confirm. “I want this, Sidney. I want you. Right here, right now.”

He looks at you — his wife, standing topless on a private beach, asking him to fuck you — and his resolve crumbles.

“If anyone sees,” he warns.

“They won’t,” you promise.

“If I see so much as a hint of another person-”

“Then we’ll stop,” you agree. “But we won’t. Because we’re alone.”

Sidney closes the distance between you, his hands going to your waist. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” you counter.

“I do,” he admits, and then he’s kissing you, hard and possessive.

You melt against him, your bare breasts pressing against his chest, and he groans into your mouth. His hands slide down to your ass, cupping you through your bikini bottoms.

“Here,” you murmur against his lips. “Right here.”

He walks you backward toward one of the loungers, lowering you onto it. You lie back, looking up at him, and he takes a moment just to look at you. His wife. Pregnant with his child. Asking him to fuck you on a beach in paradise.

“Beautiful,” he breathes. “So beautiful.”

“Then touch me,” you say. “Stop staring and touch me.”

He does, his hands skating up your thighs, over your stomach, to your breasts. You arch into his touch, gasping, and he can feel how sensitive you are already.

“Sidney,” you moan. “Please.”

“Please what?” He asks, even though he knows.

“Please fuck me,” you beg. “Right here. Right now. I need you.”

He hooks his fingers in your bikini bottoms and pulls them down slowly. You lift your hips to help, and then you’re completely naked on the lounger, spread out for him like an offering.

“Anyone could see,” he says one more time, but it’s weak now.

“But they won’t,” you say. “It’s just us. Just you and me and the sun and the ocean. Please, daddy. Fuck your pregnant wife.”

The combination of words obliterates any remaining resistance. Sidney strips off his swim trunks and positions himself between your legs.

“You’re already so wet,” he observes, his fingers sliding through your folds.

“I’ve been wet since you put sunscreen on me,” you admit. “Been thinking about this for hours.”

“Thinking about me fucking you on the beach?” He asks, working you with his fingers.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Thinking about you inside me. Thinking about you claiming me out here where anyone could theoretically see. Thinking about how possessive you’d be.”

“I am possessive,” he confirms. “And if anyone did see, I’d have to kill them.”

“Good thing we’re alone then,” you say breathlessly.

He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you. “Last chance to go inside.”

“Not a chance,” you say. “I want you here. Now.”

He pushes inside slowly, and the feeling of you, warm and wet and tight around him, makes him groan. The sun is hot on his back, the ocean breeze cool, and you’re underneath him, taking him, looking up at him with those eyes.

“God, you feel perfect,” he groans.

“So do you,” you gasp. “So deep.”

He starts to move, slow and controlled, acutely aware that you’re outside, exposed. Every sound seems louder — your moans, his breathing, the slap of skin against skin.

“Harder,” you demand. “Stop being gentle. Fuck me like you mean it.”

“Someone could hear,” he protests.

“So let them hear,” you counter. “Let them know how good you fuck your wife. Let them know I’m yours.”

Something primal takes over. Sidney braces one hand beside your head and hooks the other under your knee, opening you wider, and starts fucking you in earnest. Hard, deep, claiming.

“That’s it,” you moan. “Yes, just like that-”

“Mine,” he growls. “You’re mine. My wife. My pregnant wife. No one else gets to see this. No one else gets to hear you moan like this.”

“Only you,” you agree breathlessly. “Only ever you-”

“Carrying my baby,” he continues, his hand sliding to your stomach even as he keeps thrusting. “Everyone’s going to know I knocked you up. Everyone’s going to see you pregnant and know I fucked you.”

“Yes,” you cry out. “Want everyone to know-”

He adjusts the angle and you arch off the lounger, gasping. “Right there?”

“Right there,” you confirm. “Don’t stop-”

He doesn’t. He fucks you hard and deep, the lounger creaking underneath you, and he keeps one eye on the horizon because he really will stop if anyone appears, but there’s no one. Just you and him and paradise.

“Touch yourself,” he commands. “Make yourself come on my cock.”

Your hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit, and you work yourself while he fucks you. The visual of it — you touching yourself while he’s inside you, out in the open air, the sun shining down — is almost too much.

“Close,” you gasp. “So close-”

“Look at me,” he demands. “I want to see your face when you come.”

You do, your eyes locking with his, and he can see the pleasure building in your expression.

“Come for me,” he says. “Come for your husband. Show me how good I make you feel.”

You fall apart with a scream that echoes across the empty beach, your whole body trembling, and Sidney follows immediately after, burying himself deep and filling you up.

“Mine,” he groans. “All mine.”

He collapses on top of you, careful not to put his full weight on your stomach, and you wrap your arms around him.

“That was incredible,” you breathe.

“That was reckless,” he counters, but he’s smiling.

“That was perfect,” you correct. “Admit it. You loved it.”

“I loved it,” he admits. “But I’m never doing that again. My heart can’t take it.”

“Sure,” you say, clearly not believing him. “We’ll see.”

He pulls out carefully and reaches for your bikini, handing it to you. “Put this on. Before I have a heart attack worrying someone saw.”

“No one saw,” you assure him, but you start putting your bikini back on. “We were completely alone.”

“This time,” he mutters, pulling on his swim trunks. “Next time we’re staying in the villa.”

“Next time?” You tease. “I thought you were never doing that again.”

“Next time we have sex,” he clarifies. “Which will be in the villa. With walls and doors and privacy.”

“If you say so,” you say, but you’re grinning.

Once you’re both dressed again, Sidney pulls you into his lap on the lounger. “You’re a menace.”

“You married me anyway,” you point out.

“Best decision I ever made,” he says, kissing your temple.

“Even when I make you do reckless things like fuck me on a beach?”

“Especially then,” he says. “Keeps life interesting.”

You cuddle into his chest, content. The sun is starting to lower in the sky, casting everything in golden light, and Sidney holds you close.

“This really is paradise,” you murmur.

“It is,” he agrees. “But the paradise part isn’t the beach or the villa or the ocean.”

“No?”

“No,” he confirms. “The paradise part is you. Having you here. Knowing you’re my wife. Knowing you’re carrying my baby. That’s the paradise.”

You lift your head to kiss him. “You’re very sweet.”

“I’m very in love,” he corrects.

“That too,” you agree.

You sit like that for a while, watching the sun move across the sky, completely at peace.

“Sidney?” You say eventually.

“Hmm?”

“Thank you for this. The honeymoon, the privacy, all of it. I know you had to work around your training schedule.”

“Worth it,” he says. “Every minute with you is worth it.”

“Even when I’m being a brat?”

“Especially when you’re being a brat,” he says. “Keeps me on my toes.”

You laugh, the sound happy and free, and Sidney thinks about how much has changed in three years. From arguing about hockey statistics at a charity gala to this — married, pregnant, on a honeymoon in the Seychelles.

“What are you thinking about?” You ask.

“How far we’ve come,” he admits. “How lucky I am.”

“We’re both lucky,” you correct. “I’m the one who got to marry Sidney Crosby.”

“You’re the one who got to marry Sidney,” he corrects. “Not Sidney Crosby the hockey player. Just Sidney.”

“Best Sidney there is,” you say. “My Sidney.”

“Your Sidney,” he agrees. “Always.”

The sun continues its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, and Sidney holds his wife on a beach in paradise and thinks that this — this moment right here — is what happiness looks like.

The thing about Sidney Crosby is that he knows what matters.

Not the trophies or the fame or the records.

This. You. Your baby. A lifetime of moments just like this one.

Garrett is shoved backward as a swarm of people in scrubs and high-visibility jackets descends on the back of the ambulance. He trips over his own heavy boots, his shoulder colliding hard with the metal frame of the door, but he barely feels the impact.

He is completely numb.

He watches, trapped in a terrifying, out-of-body disassociation, as they pull the stretcher out into the freezing night.

You are entirely swallowed by the chaos. The yellow backboard, the rigid plastic brace locked around your neck, the tangle of IV lines and monitor wires — it all looks so incredibly wrong. You are small. You are fragile. You are supposed to be safe in his kitchen, laughing at Dean and stealing Logan’s hoodies.

You are not supposed to be bleeding out on a gurney.

“Sir, step back!” A voice yells, but it sounds like it’s underwater.

Garrett stumbles out of the ambulance, his boots hitting the pavement of the ambulance bay. He blindly follows the chaotic rush of medical personnel pushing your stretcher through the automatic sliding glass doors.

The emergency room is a madhouse. Phones are ringing, people are shouting, monitors are beeping in a discordant, terrifying symphony.

“Trauma Bay One is prepped!” A male nurse shouts, jogging backward as he helps guide your stretcher down the wide linoleum hallway. “What’s her status?”

“She’s tachycardic, GCS is a seven and dropping,” the paramedic barks, practically running to keep up with the rolling bed. “She briefly regained consciousness on the scene but she’s been unresponsive for the last eight minutes.”

They wheel you past the triage desk. They wheel you past the crowded waiting room.

And then, it happens.

A young nurse, wearing the same standard-issue hospital blue scrubs you usually hate, is walking out of a supply closet with a stack of clean towels. She glances casually at the incoming trauma rushing past her.

Her eyes lock onto the stretcher.

The stack of towels slips from her hands, hitting the floor with a soft, muffled thud.

“Oh my god,” the young nurse gasps, her hands flying up to cover her mouth. Her eyes go completely wide, pure, unadulterated horror stripping the color from her face. “Is that … is that Y/N?”

The question cuts through the noise of the ER like a knife.

The male nurse pushing the foot of your stretcher looks down. He really looks. The heavy blood, the swelling, the terrifying distortion of your features makes it hard, but underneath the violence, the recognition clicks into place.

“Fuck,” the male nurse curses loudly, his voice cracking with panic. “It’s Y/N! Hey! It’s one of ours! It’s Y/N!”

The shift in the room is instantaneous and absolute.

A hospital emergency room is trained to handle trauma. They deal with tragedy objectively, separating their emotions from the physical mechanics of saving a life.

But not this time.

The objective professionalism shatters into a million pieces. The name echoes down the hallway, passed from nurse to doctor to orderly like a devastating electric shock.

It’s Y/N. The pediatric nurse. The girl with the patterned scrubs who stays late to hold the preemie babies.

“Get Dr. Gardner down here right fucking now!” A voice screams from down the hall.

“Page trauma surgery! Page neuro!”

Garrett trails behind the stretcher like a ghost. People are running past him, sprinting toward Trauma Bay One. The urgency has multiplied tenfold. This isn’t just a patient anymore. This is their family.

They push the stretcher into the large, glass-walled room of Trauma Bay One. The doors slide shut, but the chaos inside only amplifies.

Garrett hits the glass.

He slaps both of his hands flat against the cold pane, his face pressing close, his dark eyes wide and terrified as he watches them transfer you from the stretcher to the hospital bed.

There are at least ten people crowded around you.

“On my count!” Dr. Gardner, the same doctor who stitched Garrett’s forehead a month ago, yells over the din. He looks completely frantic, his usual calm demeanor entirely gone. “One, two, three!”

They lift the backboard and slide you over. Your arm flops limply off the side of the bed. A nurse immediately catches it, her own hands shaking as she secures the IV line.

“Someone get me the portable ultrasound!” Dr. Gardner barks, grabbing a pair of trauma shears from the counter. “We need to check for internal bleeding. Her abdomen is rigid. I need two units of O-negative blood, stat!”

Garrett presses his forehead against the glass. He is trapped on the outside, a helpless, useless spectator to the most terrifying moment of his entire life.

He feels a heavy hand land firmly on his shoulder.

Garrett flinches violently, spinning around with his fists instantly raised, ready to fight, ready to destroy whoever is touching him.

But it’s not a threat.

Standing in front of him is a short, stocky older woman in dark blue scrubs. Her silver hair is pulled back into a tight bun, and her name tag reads Helen - Charge Nurse. Her face is lined with years of exhaustion and ER stress, but right now, her eyes are blazing with a fierce, terrifying intensity.

“Lower your hands, son,” Helen says. Her voice is calm, gravelly, and brooks absolute zero argument.

Garrett slowly lowers his fists, his chest heaving as he fights for air that doesn’t seem to exist. “I-I have to …”

“You have to stay out of their way,” Helen says firmly, stepping directly into his line of sight, forcing him to look at her instead of the bloody scene behind the glass. “They are doing everything they can. You being in there will only distract them, and she needs every single ounce of their focus right now.”

Garrett’s jaw trembles. He looks down at his hands.

They are coated in your blood. It has dried into the creases of his knuckles, stained the cuffs of his black Henley, and smeared across his palms. The sight of it sends a fresh, violent wave of nausea rolling through his stomach.

“Come here,” Helen murmurs, her tone softening marginally.

She grabs him by the bicep. For a woman half his size, she has a grip like a vise. She pulls him a few feet away from the glass window, steering him toward a small alcove near the nurses’ station that offers a sliver of privacy.

She pushes him down into a plastic chair.

“Sit,” she orders.

Garrett collapses into the chair, his elbows coming to rest on his knees. He buries his face in his bloodstained hands, a ragged, broken sob tearing its way up his throat. He can’t hold it back anymore. The adrenaline is crashing, leaving behind nothing but the agonizing, crushing reality of what just happened.

Helen doesn’t offer him empty platitudes. She doesn’t pat his back or tell him everything is going to be okay. She’s an ER nurse; she knows better than to make promises she can’t keep.

Instead, she turns to a nearby sink, wets a thick stack of brown paper towels with warm water, and walks back over to him.

“Give me your hands,” Helen says.

Garrett slowly lifts his head. He drops his hands to his lap.

Helen kneels in front of him, entirely uncaring about the linoleum floor. She takes his massive, shaking hands in her own and begins to methodically wipe the drying blood from his skin.

“You were in here a month ago,” Helen says quietly, her eyes focused entirely on the task of cleaning his knuckles. “I remember you. The hockey player with the concussion.”

“Yeah,” Garrett rasps, his throat burning.

“She was terrified that night,” Helen continues, scrubbing a stubborn patch of crimson from his palm. “I’ve been a nurse for forty years. I know what a victim of domestic abuse looks like. I knew what she was going home to. I tried to get her to talk to me, but she wouldn’t. She protected him.”

Garrett closes his eyes, the memory of that night in the exam room flashing vividly behind his eyelids.

“She left with you,” Helen says, tossing the bloody paper towels into a nearby biohazard bin and grabbing a fresh, wet stack. “I watched her walk out of those sliding doors with you, and for the first time since she started working here, she looked like she had a sliver of hope.”

“I told her I’d protect her,” Garrett chokes out, the guilt a physical, crushing weight on his chest. “I promised her she was safe. I moved her into my house. We were careful. We were so fucking careful.”

“Careful doesn’t matter when you’re dealing with a monster,” Helen says bluntly.

She finishes wiping his hands, tossing the last of the towels away. She doesn’t stand up. She stays kneeling in front of him, forcing him to meet her steely, hardened gaze.

“What’s the story?” Helen asks, her voice dropping to a dangerous, deadly whisper. “And don’t you dare lie to me. Who did this to my girl?”

Garrett looks at her. He sees the absolute, uncompromising love this woman has for you. He sees the fury vibrating in her jaw.

“My father,” Garrett says, the words tasting like poison on his tongue. “Phil Graham.”

Helen’s eyebrows twitch, a brief flash of recognition crossing her face, but she doesn’t seem to care that the man is a famous athlete. She only cares that he is a monster.

“He tracked her down,” Garrett continues, the words pouring out of him in a disjointed, frantic rush. “She went to the grocery store after her shift. He must have been waiting. He must have followed her. We found her in the alley out back. He beat her, Helen. He beat her until she couldn’t stand, and then he just left her there to die.”

Helen’s expression hardens into something akin to carved stone. She slowly stands up, smoothing down the front of her scrubs.

“The police are already on their way,” Helen says, her voice cold and absolute. “Protocol for assault victims. They’ll be here any minute to take a statement.”

She steps closer to him, leaning down slightly so her face is inches from his.

“You tell them everything,” Helen orders, pointing a stern finger at his chest. “You tell them about tonight. You tell them about the bruises you saw a month ago. You give them his name, his address, and the make of his car if you know it.”

“I’m going to kill him,” Garrett whispers, the terrifying, homicidal calm returning to his blood. It’s not a threat. It’s a promise.

“No, you are not,” Helen snaps, her voice cracking like a whip. “You are not going to throw your life away for a piece of garbage like that. You are going to let the police arrest him, and you are going to make damn sure that whoever did this to sweet Y/N never sees the light of day again. You bury him with the law. You don’t let him ruin your life too.”

Garrett stares at her, his jaw locked tight. He doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t argue.

“I need to get back to my floor,” Helen says, stepping back. Her eyes flick toward the glass window of Trauma Bay One, a flash of profound sadness breaking through her tough exterior. “You sit right here. You don’t move until the doctors come out to speak with you.”

“Is she …” Garrett swallows hard, terrified to even ask the question. “Is she going to make it?”

Helen looks at him, her eyes softening with a deep, tragic sympathy. “She’s young. She’s strong. And she has the best trauma team in the state working on her right now. But Garrett … it’s bad. Prepare yourself.”

Helen turns and walks away, disappearing back into the chaotic flow of the emergency room.

Garrett is left alone in the plastic chair.

He turns his head, his eyes immediately locking back onto the glass wall of the trauma bay.

It looks like a warzone inside.

Dr. Gardner is standing on one side of the bed, his white coat stained with your blood, shouting orders. Two nurses are frantically hanging bags of blood and clear fluids, the plastic lines tangling together in their rush.

Someone is cutting away your dark jeans, exposing the pale skin of your legs.

“We have fluid in the abdomen!” Dr. Gardner yells, staring at the screen of a portable ultrasound machine. “She’s bleeding internally. We need an OR prepped right now! Call the surgical team, tell them we’re coming up!”

Garrett stands up, drawn magnetically toward the glass.

He watches as a respiratory therapist pushes through the crowd, holding a terrifying array of plastic tubes and a metal laryngoscope.

“Her airway is swelling!” The therapist shouts. “She’s not getting enough oxygen. I need to intubate!”

“Do it!” Dr. Gardner barks. “Push the propofol and rocuronium. Get her under.”

Garrett presses his hands against the glass again. He watches in pure, unadulterated agony as they tilt your head back. He watches them slip the metal blade into your mouth, forcing your jaw open, slipping a plastic tube down your throat to breathe for you because your broken body can no longer do it on its own.

It is the most violated, terrifying thing he has ever witnessed.

He feels like his heart is being slowly, methodically crushed in a vise. Every time the monitor beeps — a frantic, irregular sound — he flinches. Every time a new drop of blood hits the white hospital floor, a piece of his soul breaks off.

This is his fault.

The thought is a toxic, pervasive cancer in his mind. He brought you into his world. He challenged a man he knew was a volatile, violent psychopath, and he arrogant enough to believe he could just walk away. He thought a locked door and three college hockey players were enough to stop a monster with decades of experience in terrorizing people.

He underestimated Phil. And you are paying the ultimate, agonizing price for his mistake.

“Garrett!”

The frantic shout cuts through the noise of the ER.

Garrett turns his head.

Bursting through the main sliding glass doors are Logan, Dean, and Tucker. They look entirely unhinged. Dean’s face is stained with tears, Logan’s eyes are wild and frantic, and Tucker is deathly pale, his jaw locked tight.

They spot him standing by the glass and immediately sprint across the waiting room, completely ignoring the protests of the security guard at the desk.

“Where is she?” Logan demands, grabbing Garrett’s shoulder. “Is she okay? What are they saying?”

Garrett doesn’t answer. He just turns his head back toward the glass window.

The boys follow his gaze.

They freeze. All three of them, these massive, imposing athletes who fear absolutely nothing on the ice, stop dead in their tracks.

Dean lets out a broken, horrifying sob, covering his mouth with his hand. He turns away instantly, unable to look at you with the tube down your throat, your face a swollen, bloody mess. He leans against the wall, his shoulders shaking violently.

Tucker closes his eyes, a tear escaping to run down his cheek. He reaches out and grips Garrett’s shoulder, a silent, desperate attempt at grounding them both in a reality that feels completely surreal.

Logan doesn’t look away. He stares through the glass, his eyes tracking the frantic movements of the doctors, the blood on the floor, the terrifying array of machines keeping you alive.

“He’s dead,” Logan whispers. The words are utterly devoid of emotion. They are a statement of fact. “Phil Graham is a dead man.”

“Get in line,” Garrett rasps, his voice hollow.

Suddenly, the doors to Trauma Bay One slide violently open.

“Move! We’re moving!” Dr. Gardner yells, running alongside the bed as two orderlies push the stretcher out into the hallway. “Clear a path to the elevators! OR 4 is waiting!”

Garrett steps forward automatically, trying to get to you, trying to grab your hand one more time.

“Stay back!” Dr. Gardner shouts, not unkindly, but with absolute urgency. “She’s bleeding internally. Her spleen is ruptured and we suspect a severe traumatic brain injury. We are taking her to surgery right now.”

“Can I …” Garrett chokes on the words. “Can I come up?”

“You wait in the surgical waiting room on the third floor,” Dr. Gardner says, the stretcher already moving rapidly down the hall. “We will find you when we know more. Just pray, boys. Just pray.”

And then, they are gone.

The stretcher rounds the corner toward the surgical elevators, disappearing from sight, leaving behind nothing but a smeared trail of blood on the linoleum floor and a terrifying, ringing silence in Garrett’s ears.

Garrett stands in the middle of the hallway, staring at the empty space where you just were. He feels completely hollowed out. There is nothing left inside him but a cold, desolate wasteland of terror and guilt.

“Garrett Graham?”

A deep, authoritative voice echoes from behind them.

Garrett turns slowly.

Standing a few feet away are two uniformed police officers. They look grim, their hands resting on their utility belts, their eyes scanning the four massive hockey players standing in the middle of the trauma wing.

“I’m Garrett,” he says, his voice flat.

The older of the two officers, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and a heavy mustache, steps forward and pulls a small notebook from his breast pocket.

“I’m Officer Miller, this is Officer Davis,” he says, his tone strictly professional but carrying a weight of understanding. “We were called in regarding the assault victim that just came through here. Y/N. The charge nurse said you were the one who found her.”

“I found her,” Garrett confirms.

“We need to ask you some questions, son,” Officer Miller says gently. “Can you tell us exactly what happened tonight? And do you have any idea who might have done this to her?”

Garrett looks at the officer. He thinks about Helen’s words. You bury him with the law. You make damn sure he never sees the light of day again.

He thinks about the way you looked in that alleyway, curled into a ball, apologizing to him while your face bled onto the asphalt. He thinks about the violent, terrifying reality of his father.

Logan steps up to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Garrett, a silent, imposing wall of support. Tucker moves to his other side. Dean wipes his face and steps up right behind them.

They are a united front. They are your family.

“I don’t just have an idea,” Garrett says, his voice ringing with a terrifying, absolute clarity that echoes in the quiet emergency room. He locks eyes with the police officer. “I know exactly who did it.”

Officer Miller clicks his pen. “Who?”

“Phil Graham,” Garrett says, the name echoing like a death sentence. “He’s my father. And I want him put in a cage for the rest of his miserable life.”

***

“I want to make sure I have this entirely straight, son,” Officer Miller says, his pen hovering over the small spiral notebook. The harsh fluorescent lights of the emergency room hallway cast deep, exhausted shadows under the cop’s eyes. “You are accusing your father, Philip Graham, former professional hockey player, of this assault.”

“I’m not just accusing him,” Garrett says. His voice is dangerously calm. He sits rigidly in the plastic waiting room chair, his elbows resting on his knees. “I’m telling you it was him.”

Officer Davis, the younger cop, shifts his weight. “And you said you witnessed him abuse her previously?”

“Thanksgiving,” Garrett answers without missing a beat. “I went to his house in Connecticut for dinner. It was the first time I met her. She reached across the table, and her sleeve slid up. She had finger-shaped bruises all over her bicep. The exact same size and shape as the bruises I just saw on her arm in the ambulance.”

Officer Miller frowns, jotting down the notes rapidly. “Did you report the abuse then?”

“No,” Garrett grits out, the admission tasting like ash in his mouth. “She begged me not to. She was terrified. She told me it was her fault for dropping a glass. I got in my face with him, told her to run, and I left. But three weeks later, she ended up in this ER as my nurse. He had beaten her again because my exit embarrassed him. So I took her home with me.”

“She’s been living with us for almost a month,” Tucker interjects. He is standing right behind Garrett’s chair, a solid, immovable presence. “In our off-campus house. We’ve been keeping the doors locked. She bought a burner phone so he couldn’t track her GPS. She was terrified he would find her.”

“But he did,” Logan adds, his arms crossed tightly over his chest, his blue eyes hard as ice. “She texted us at 6:05 PM that she was clocking out and going to the Market Basket down the street. When she wasn’t home by 7:15, Garrett tried to call. It went to voicemail. So we tracked her Life360 location to the parking lot.”

Officer Davis looks up from his own notepad. “You found the car first?”

“Row G,” Dean says. His voice is shaky, completely lacking its usual arrogant bravado. He looks sick to his stomach. “Driver’s side door was wide open. Groceries all over the ground. Her phone was smashed on the pavement. Garrett told us to split up.”

“I took the back alley,” Garrett takes over, staring blankly at the far wall. “Behind the hardware store and the loading docks. That’s where I found her.”

“Did you see anyone else in the alley?” Miller asks. “A vehicle leaving the scene? Anyone fleeing on foot?”

“No,” Garrett says. “It was empty. He was already gone. But I’m telling you, it was him. Check the security cameras at the grocery store. Check the traffic cams at the intersection. You’ll see his car. He drives a black BMW.”

Officer Miller closes his notebook with a definitive snap. “We have units at the Market Basket securing the scene right now. They’re pulling the surveillance footage as we speak. We’re also dispatching state troopers to Phil Graham’s residence to bring him in for questioning.”

“Questioning isn’t going to be enough,” Garrett says, finally looking up to meet the officer’s eyes. The dark, lethal promise in Garrett’s gaze makes the older cop pause. “He nearly beat her to death. He left her in an alley to die. If you don’t lock him up, I will handle him myself.”

“Garrett,” Tucker warns quietly, his hand squeezing Garrett’s shoulder.

Officer Miller exhales a long, heavy breath. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that, son. Let us do our jobs. If what you’re saying lines up with the evidence at the scene, Philip Graham won’t be seeing the outside of a jail cell for a very, very long time. Attempted murder is a heavy charge.”

The words ring in the air, echoing violently in Garrett’s skull.

“We’ll be in touch,” Officer Davis says gently. “Don’t leave the hospital without letting the front desk know. We might need a formal written statement later tonight.”

“We aren’t going anywhere,” Logan says flatly.

The two officers turn and walk away, their heavy boots squeaking against the polished linoleum.

As soon as they are out of earshot, the last of Garrett’s adrenaline completely evaporates. It leaves behind a crushing, suffocating exhaustion that makes his bones ache. He leans forward, burying his face in his hands, his fingers tangling roughly in his dark hair.

“This is my fault,” Dean whispers from a few feet away.

Garrett lifts his head. Dean is pacing a tight circle near the vending machines, his hands tugging at the roots of his blonde hair.

“Dean, stop,” Logan says tiredly, rubbing his eyes.

“No, think about it,” Dean insists, his voice cracking. He looks at the three of them, completely devastated. “She asked if we needed anything. I asked for the damn Bagel Bites. If I had just kept my mouth shut, she would have driven straight home. She wouldn’t have stopped. He wouldn’t have caught her.”

“Don’t do that,” Tucker says firmly, stepping away from Garrett’s chair to intercept Dean. He grabs Dean by the shoulders, forcing the pacing to stop. “Listen to me. Do not do that. Phil Graham is a predator. If he found her at the grocery store, it means he was already watching her. He probably followed her from the hospital. If she hadn’t stopped at the store, he might have tried to pull her out of her car at a stoplight, or ambushed her in our driveway.”

“Tuck’s right,” Logan agrees, stepping up beside them. “This isn’t on you, Dean. It’s on Phil. And we are going to make sure he pays for it.”

Garrett listens to his friends, but the words just wash over him. Dean can blame himself for the grocery list all he wants, but Garrett knows the real truth.

It’s his fault.

He is the one who dragged you into this mess. He is the one who provoked Phil. He is the one who arrogantly assumed he could play the hero and save you from the dragon, without realizing the dragon would simply burn the whole castle down in retaliation.

The waiting room clock ticks loudly on the wall.

It’s 11:42 PM.

You have been in surgery for over three hours.

The surgical waiting room on the third floor is suffocatingly quiet. The ER was loud, chaotic, and terrifying. But this room is worse. It’s just beige walls, uncomfortable chairs, old magazines, and the agonizing, stretching silence of not knowing.

“I’m getting coffee,” Logan announces, pushing himself up from the stiff couch. “Garrett? You want anything?”

Garrett shakes his head silently. He hasn’t moved from his chair in hours. He hasn’t washed his hands again. There is still a faint smear of your blood on his left cuff. He can’t bring himself to scrub it out. It feels like throwing away a piece of you.

“Get him a black coffee,” Tucker tells Logan. “And get Dean some water.”

Logan nods and slips out the door.

Dean drops onto the couch across from Garrett, staring blankly at his phone screen. “How long does a surgery take? It’s been hours.”

“As long as she needs,” Tucker says softly, taking the seat next to Garrett.

Silence falls over the room again.

Garrett closes his eyes. Every time he does, he is trapped in a horrific highlight reel.

He sees your open car door. He sees the shattered marinara sauce. He sees you lying in the dirt, curled into a ball, your face beaten beyond recognition.

He said you couldn’t keep me. He said I belonged to him.

Your weak, agonizing whisper tears through his mind, shredding his sanity.

Garrett leans his head back against the wall, his jaw clenching so tight his teeth ache. He doesn’t just want you to survive. He needs you to survive. He needs you to wake up so he can look you in the eyes and tell you everything he’s been too cowardly to say for the last month.

He wants to tell you that the house feels empty when you aren’t in it. That he purposefully sits on the edge of the couch just so his leg can brush against yours. That the sound of your laugh when Dean makes a stupid joke is the only thing that actually settles the dark, anxious noise in his brain.

He is falling in love with you.

He knows it with a terrifying, absolute certainty. He has been falling since the night you walked into his exam room in those ridiculous pink scrubs and touched his face with hands so gentle they made him want to cry.

“Garrett Graham?”

Garrett’s eyes snap open.

Standing in the doorway of the waiting room is Dr. Gardner.

The surgeon looks entirely exhausted. He has changed out of his blood-stained white coat and is wearing fresh green surgical scrubs. A blue surgical cap is still tied around his head, and his face is deeply lined with fatigue.

Garrett shoots up from his chair so fast it tips backward, crashing loudly against the floor.

Tucker and Dean are on their feet a split second later. Logan jogs back into the room, holding a cardboard tray of coffees, freezing in his tracks at the sight of the doctor.

None of them speak. The air is completely sucked out of the room. Garrett feels his heart climb directly into his throat, beating a frantic, terrifying rhythm.

Dr. Gardner looks at the four massive hockey players. He lets out a slow, measured breath.

“Before I say anything,” Dr. Gardner starts, his voice low and serious, “I need you to understand that legally, I am not supposed to give you this information. You aren’t family. You aren’t her emergency contacts.”

Garrett’s chest caves in. “Please.”

It’s the only word he can manage. It’s a broken, desperate plea.

Dr. Gardner holds up a hand, his expression softening into profound empathy. “However. I have worked with her for over a year. And for the last three and a half weeks, she has not shut up about the four hockey players she lives with. She talks about how Tucker cooks better than a five-star chef. How Dean is a menace but means well. How Logan is secretly a giant softie.”

The doctor turns his gaze directly to Garrett.

“And she talks about you,” Dr. Gardner says softly. “She talks about how you saved her life. So, as far as I’m concerned, you boys are her family. And you deserve to know what’s going on.”

“Is she alive?” Garrett asks, his voice trembling so violently he barely recognizes it.

“She is alive,” Dr. Gardner confirms immediately.

The collective exhale in the room is staggering. Dean literally sags against the wall, burying his face in his hands. Tucker grips the back of a chair, his eyes dropping to the ceiling in silent prayer. Logan sets the tray of coffees down on a side table with shaking hands.

Garrett feels his knees threaten to buckle, but he forces himself to stay standing. “What happened? How bad is it?”

Dr. Gardner rubs the back of his neck, shifting into his clinical, professional mode. “It’s bad, Garrett. I won’t sugarcoat it. The blunt force trauma she sustained was severe.”

Garrett braces himself. “Tell me.”

“When she arrived, her blood pressure was plummeting due to internal bleeding,” Dr. Gardner explains, keeping his voice steady. “We rushed her into surgery and discovered a Grade 4 laceration to her spleen. It was ruptured beyond repair. We had to perform a full splenectomy to stop the bleeding. She’ll have a compromised immune system moving forward, but she can live a full life without it.”

“Okay,” Garrett nods rapidly, processing the information. “Okay, what else?”

“She has three broken ribs on her left side, and two cracked on the right,” the surgeon continues. “The defensive bruising on her forearms is extensive, but luckily, there are no fractures in her arms or wrists.”

“And her face?” Logan asks, his voice thick with anger. “She was completely unrecognizable.”

Dr. Gardner’s jaw tightens. “The facial trauma was significant. She has a severe orbital blowout fracture on her left side — the bone underneath the eye socket was crushed. We had an oral and maxillofacial surgeon come in to set a titanium plate to rebuild the floor of the socket and save her vision. Her nose is broken in two places, we reset it in the OR.”

Garrett feels a fresh wave of violent nausea wash over him. The visual of his father taking his massive, heavy fists and crushing the delicate bones of your face is enough to make him want to put his fist through the waiting room drywall.

“What about her brain?” Tucker asks gently. “She was unconscious when the paramedics took her.”

“That is our primary concern right now,” Dr. Gardner says, his expression turning grave. “She suffered a severe concussion. We did a CT scan before taking her up to the OR. There is no active brain bleed, which is a massive relief, but there is significant swelling. A traumatic brain injury.”

“So what does that mean?” Garrett demands, stepping closer to the doctor. “When does she wake up?”

“Right now, she is heavily sedated and intubated in the ICU,” Dr. Gardner explains. “We are keeping her on a ventilator to protect her airway while the facial swelling goes down, and to keep her brain resting. We will slowly wean her off the paralytics and sedation over the next twenty-four hours to see how she responds.”

“But she’s stable?” Garrett pleads.

“She is in critical but stable condition,” Dr. Gardner corrects carefully. “She made it through the surgery. That was the hardest part. Now, we just have to wait for her body to heal.”

“Can I see her?” Garrett asks instantly. He doesn’t care about ICU rules or visiting hours. If Dr. Gardner tells him no, he will tear this hospital apart barehanded to find you.

Dr. Gardner looks at Garrett, taking in the bloodstained clothes, the wild, desperate exhaustion in his dark eyes.

“ICU protocol says immediate family only,” Dr. Gardner says quietly. He reaches into his scrub pocket and pulls out a visitor pass. “But like I said. As far as I’m concerned, you’re family. Just you, Garrett. The rest of the boys can come in the morning.”

“Thank you,” Garrett breathes, taking the pass. “Doc, I … thank you.”

“Room 219,” Dr. Gardner says. “She looks worse than she did down in the alley, Garrett. The swelling from the surgery is peaking. Brace yourself.”

Garrett doesn’t hesitate. He turns to the guys.

“Go home,” Garrett tells them. “Get some sleep. Bring some fresh clothes tomorrow.”

“We’re not leaving, G,” Logan says firmly, already walking over to the waiting room couch and throwing his jacket down like a blanket. “We’ll sleep right here.”

“I’m not leaving without seeing her,” Dean adds stubbornly, crossing his arms.

Garrett looks at his best friends. He doesn’t have the energy to argue, and honestly, knowing they are right outside the ICU doors brings him a strange sort of comfort.

“Okay,” Garrett whispers.

He turns and walks out of the waiting room.

The Intensive Care Unit is a completely different world from the emergency room. The lights are dimmed, casting a quiet, clinical hush over the wide hallways. There is no shouting, no running. Just the rhythmic, terrifyingly steady beeping of heart monitors and the mechanical whoosh of ventilators keeping people alive.

Garrett walks down the hall, his boots silent against the floor.

He stops outside Room 219.

The door is made of heavy glass. He can see right inside.

He puts his hand on the metal handle, but for a second, he can’t bring himself to push it down. Dr. Gardner warned him. But nothing could have prepared him for the reality of seeing you like this.

He pushes the door open and steps inside.

The room is freezing cold, designed to keep bacteria at bay. It smells like sharp antiseptic and iodine.

You are lying in the center of the room, completely surrounded by machines.

Garrett walks slowly to the side of your bed, his heart breaking into a million jagged pieces.

You look incredibly small. The heavy hospital blankets are pulled up to your chest, hiding the bandages from your surgery and the wrap around your broken ribs. But he can’t hide from your face.

Dr. Gardner was right. The swelling is horrific. Your entire face is bruised, puffed, and distorted. Your left eye is completely swollen shut, covered by a white sterile patch protecting the newly placed titanium plate. A heavy plastic brace encompasses your neck, keeping your spine perfectly still.

And sticking out of your mouth, taped securely to your cheek, is the thick, ribbed plastic tube of the ventilator.

The machine beside your bed hisses and clicks, forcing air into your lungs, making your chest rise and fall in a harsh, mechanical rhythm.

“Y/N,” Garrett whispers.

He reaches the side of the bed. He wants to touch your face, to stroke your hair, but he is terrified of hurting you. He is terrified of adding even a fraction of an ounce of pain to what you are already enduring.

He looks down at your right hand. It rests on top of the blue hospital blanket. There is an IV port taped to the back of your hand, wires running from your fingertips to the monitor above your head.

But your palm is open.

Garrett sinks into the hard plastic chair beside your bed. He slowly, carefully reaches out and slides his large, calloused hand under yours.

Your skin is cold. The contrast to the vibrant, warm girl who was teasing him about grocery shopping just six hours ago is devastating.

He gently wraps his fingers around yours, securing your small hand safely within his grip. He avoids the IV lines, mindful of the bruises painting your forearm.

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and brings your knuckles to his lips.

He presses a long, agonizingly gentle kiss to your bruised skin.

He closes his eyes, letting the tears fall freely now. They slip down his cheeks and soak into the fabric of the hospital blanket.

“I’m so sorry,” Garrett cries softly, his voice breaking in the quiet room. “I should have gone with you. I should have made sure you were safe. I promised you he wouldn’t get near you again, and I broke my promise.”

The ventilator hisses. The heart monitor beeps. You don’t respond.

Garrett keeps your hand pressed tightly against his mouth. He breathes in the faint scent of the surgical soap they used to wash you, desperate to find even a trace of the vanilla shampoo he knows so well.

“But I’m making a new promise,” Garrett whispers into the quiet room. He lifts his head, his eyes locking onto your battered face.

The homicidal rage from the alleyway is still there, burning like a low, hot coal in his chest, but right now, it is entirely eclipsed by his love for you.

“I’m not leaving,” Garrett vows, his voice steadying, hardening with absolute resolve. “I am going to sit in this chair until you wake up. I don’t care if it takes a day, or a week, or a month. I’m right here.”

He gently runs his thumb over the unbruised patch of skin on the back of your hand.

“And when you wake up,” Garrett says, fresh tears filling his eyes, “I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never look over your shoulder again. You hear me? You’re mine now. And nobody touches what’s mine.”

He leans forward again, pressing another soft kiss to your knuckles.

“Just come back to me,” he pleads. “Please, Y/N. Just come back.”

Garrett settles back into the uncomfortable plastic chair. He doesn’t let go of your hand. He keeps his thumb brushing back and forth over your skin, his eyes locked on the steady rise and fall of your chest.

Outside the glass doors, the hospital continues its chaotic rush. Outside the building, the police are hunting down the monster who did this.

But inside Room 219, there is only the quiet, desperate vigil of a boy who finally realizes what he has to lose, and the slow, mechanical breathing of the girl he intends to save.

***

Time in the Intensive Care Unit does not exist.

There is no day, no night. There is only the harsh, unnatural glow of fluorescent lights, the rhythmic, hissing plunge of the ventilator, and the agonizingly slow crawl of the digital clock on the wall.

It has been forty-eight hours since the paramedics wheeled you through the sliding glass doors of the emergency room.

Garrett has not left the hard plastic chair beside your bed.

He is a ghost of himself. The charismatic, untouchable captain of the Briar Hawks is gone, replaced by a terrified, hollowed-out boy. His dark hair is wild and greasy. A thick, dark layer of stubble covers his jaw. He is wearing the same black t-shirt and dark jeans, though Tucker managed to sneak a clean Briar Hockey hoodie over his shoulders at some point during the first night.

The boys have been a constant, rotating presence. Logan slept on the waiting room floor the first night. Dean spent yesterday pacing a groove into the linoleum hallway outside the ICU doors. Tucker has been acting as a ruthless gatekeeper, bringing Garrett black coffee and forcing him to eat half a stale hospital sandwich every twelve hours.

But none of them can reach him.

Garrett’s entire world has shrunk to the three feet of space between his chair and your bed. His eyes are perpetually locked on the steady, artificial rise and fall of your chest. His large hand remains wrapped tightly around your cold, limp fingers, a desperate physical tether keeping you grounded to the earth.

“Garrett.”

The soft voice comes from the doorway.

Garrett doesn’t turn his head. He just blinks, his red-rimmed eyes burning with exhaustion.

Dr. Gardner steps into the quiet room, holding a tablet. He looks slightly more rested than he did two nights ago, but his professional demeanor is still laced with deep concern.

“We need to talk about the sedation,” Dr. Gardner says quietly, moving to the foot of your bed.

Garrett finally looks up. His chest tightens. “Is something wrong? Did the swelling get worse?”

“No,” the doctor reassures him immediately. “Actually, the swelling in her brain has stabilized. Her intracranial pressure is holding at a safe level. Her vitals are strong. She’s fighting, Garrett.”

Garrett lets out a ragged, trembling exhale, closing his eyes for a split second. “Okay. That’s good. Right?”

“It’s very good,” Dr. Gardner nods. “Which means it’s time to take her off the paralytics and lower the propofol. We need to see if she can breathe on her own. We need to extubate her.”

Garrett grips your hand a fraction tighter. “Will it hurt?”

“Taking the tube out is uncomfortable,” the surgeon admits honestly. “Her throat is going to be incredibly raw, and waking up with a broken ribs and a shattered orbital floor is going to be a shock to her system. We have her on a heavy morphine drip for the pain, but the disorientation is going to be severe. She might panic.”

“I’ll keep her calm,” Garrett says instantly. His voice leaves absolutely zero room for doubt. “Just do whatever you have to do to get that thing out of her throat.”

“Alright,” Dr. Gardner says. He turns to the cluster of machines. “I’m going to dial back the drip. A respiratory therapist will be in shortly. Once the tube is out, it might still take a few hours for her to fully wake up. Be patient.”

The doctor adjusts the monitors, checks your chart one last time, and quietly leaves the room.

Garrett turns his attention entirely back to you.

The wait is excruciating. The respiratory therapist comes in, performs the awful, gag-inducing procedure of pulling the thick plastic tube from your airway, and replaces it with a simple oxygen cannula resting under your broken nose.

You cough weakly during the process, a terrible, wet sound that makes Garrett want to put his fist through the wall, but you don’t open your eyes. You just slip right back into a deep, drug-induced sleep.

So, Garrett waits.

Another three hours pass.

The silence in the room is different now. The mechanical hissing of the ventilator is gone, replaced by the soft, shallow sound of your own natural breathing.

Garrett leans forward, resting his forehead against the edge of your mattress. His thumb traces a slow, methodical circle over the back of your hand.

“Come on, baby,” he whispers into the quiet room, his voice cracking with raw desperation. “Please. Just open your eyes. I need you to open your eyes.”

And then, a miracle happens.

Your fingers twitch.

It’s a tiny movement, barely a flutter against his palm, but Garrett feels it like a lightning strike.

His head snaps up.

“Y/N?” He breathes, his heart launching into a frantic, violent rhythm against his ribs.

He stands up, hovering over the side of the bed.

You groan. It’s a low, raspy, agonizing sound that scrapes against the rawness of your throat. Your head shifts a fraction of an inch against the

pillow, immediately halted by the rigid plastic of the cervical collar locked around your neck.

“Don’t move,” Garrett says instantly, his free hand flying up to hover gently over your shoulder, terrified to actually touch you and cause you pain. “Don’t try to move. You’re in a neck brace. You’re safe.”

Your uninjured right eye flutters. The eyelashes tremble against your swollen cheek.

It takes an agonizingly long minute, but slowly, fighting against the heavy weight of the sedatives, your eye opens.

The world is a blurry, confusing mess.

The light is too bright. The room is too cold. A localized, blinding agony radiates from the left side of your face, completely shielded by a thick white patch. Your chest feels like someone dropped an anvil on it, every shallow breath sparking a sharp, stabbing fire in your ribs.

Panic, thick and immediate, begins to claw its way up your throat.

Where are you? Why can’t you move your neck? Why is it so hard to breathe?

The heart monitor by your bed begins to beep faster, matching the sudden, terrified spike of your pulse.

“Hey,” a voice says.

A shadow blocks the harsh overhead light.

You blink, trying to force your single open eye to focus. The blurry shape above you slowly sharpens into recognizable features.

Dark hair. Broad shoulders. Eyes so impossibly warm that they anchor you to the earth.

Garrett.

He is leaning over you. He looks terrible. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a year. His eyes are bloodshot, his jaw covered in scruff, his face pale and tight with an anxiety so profound it practically vibrates off him.

But he is here.

“I’m right here,” Garrett whispers. His voice is a rough, gravelly rasp, trembling with unshed tears. “I’ve got you. You’re in the hospital. You’re safe.”

You try to swallow, but your throat feels like it’s coated in broken glass. You let out a small, pained whimper.

Garrett’s face crumbles. “I know. I know it hurts. God, I know. You had a breathing tube in. Don’t try to talk.”

You look at him. You really look at him.

The panic slowly begins to recede, beaten back by the heavy, comforting weight of his hand wrapped around yours.

The memories hit you in disjointed, terrifying flashes.

The dark alleyway behind the Market Basket. The blinding pain. The suffocating terror of Phil’s massive hands. The feeling of the cold asphalt pressing into your cheek as you waited to die.

You squeeze your eye shut as a tear escapes, hot and stinging against your battered skin.

“Hey, look at me,” Garrett pleads softly. He reaches up with a trembling hand and gently, so incredibly gently, wipes the tear away with his thumb. “He’s gone. The police arrested him at his house in Connecticut yesterday morning. He’s locked up, Y/N. He can never, ever hurt you again.”

You open your eye, staring up at the beautiful, broken boy standing beside your bed.

He caught the monster. He kept his promise.

Garrett lets out a shuddering breath, his broad shoulders suddenly caving inward as if the structural integrity of his entire body has just failed.

He drops to his knees beside your bed.

He presses his forehead against the mattress, right next to your hip. He doesn’t let go of your hand; he brings it to his lips, kissing your knuckles over and over again, completely uncaring that his tears are soaking into your skin.

“I am so sorry,” Garrett chokes out. The words are a broken, ragged sob, torn from the deepest, most wounded part of his soul. “I am so fucking sorry.”

You frown, confusion cutting through the heavy haze of the morphine.

Why is he apologizing?

“Garrett,” you try to say.

It comes out as a harsh, breathless croak. It hurts. It burns your throat and pulls at the muscles in your neck.

Garrett’s head snaps up. “Don’t talk. Please, baby, save your strength.”

He just called you baby. Not in the casual, teasing way the college guys at Briar throw the word around. He said it with a devastating, reverent kind of love.

“I did this to you,” Garrett cries, the guilt pouring out of him like blood from a severed artery. He shakes his head frantically, his dark eyes wide and tortured. “This is my fault. I brought you into my mess. I thought I could just walk into his house, scream in his face, and walk away. I thought I was protecting you by taking you to my house, but all I did was paint a target on your back.”

You stare at him, completely horrified by the words coming out of his mouth.

He actually believes this. He has been sitting in this miserable, freezing hospital room for two days, convincing himself that he is the villain. Convincing himself that Phil’s violence is a direct result of his own actions.

“If I had just kept my mouth shut,” Garrett spirals, the tears tracking freely down his face, cutting paths through the exhaustion. “If I hadn’t humiliated him in front of you. If I had driven you home myself instead of letting you go to the store alone. I promised you were safe, and I left you alone.”

He drops his head back to the mattress, a harsh, guttural sound of pure self-hatred tearing from his throat.

“I’m a monster,” Garrett whispers into the blankets. “I’m just like him. I destroy everything I touch.”

The words hit you harder than any physical blow Phil landed in that alleyway.

The physical pain radiating through your body is excruciating. Your ribs scream every time you breathe, your head is pounding with a blinding, concussive pressure, and your throat is on fire.

But none of that matters right now.

What matters is the man weeping beside your bed. The man who gave up his bedroom for you. The man who stood between you and his teammates like a human shield. The man who is currently drowning in a sea of toxic, misplaced guilt.

You tighten your grip on his hand. You don’t have much strength, but you squeeze his fingers as hard as you possibly can.

Garrett lifts his head, his eyes immediately searching your face. “What? Does something hurt? Should I press the call button?”

You slowly, painstakingly, shake your head. The movement jostles the neck brace, sending a fresh spike of pain down your spine, but you ignore it.

You look him dead in the eye.

“Not,” you whisper.

The single word tears at your raw vocal cords. It sounds terrible. But you don’t stop. You force the breath from your bruised lungs, pushing past the agonizing pain in your ribs.

“Your,” you croak, your voice shaking with effort.

Garrett stares at you, his chest heaving, his eyes wide. “Y/N, stop. Please.”

“Fault,” you finish.

The three words hang in the quiet air of the ICU, heavier than gravity, louder than a gunshot.

Garrett freezes. He completely stops breathing.

He looks at you, taking in the horrific swelling of your face, the white patch over your eye, the thick plastic collar, the wires snaking across your chest. You have been beaten to within an inch of your life. You have had an organ removed. Your face has been rebuilt with titanium.

And the very first thing you do when you wake up is comfort him.

You don’t ask for pain medicine. You don’t ask what happened. You don’t complain about the agony you are in.

You look at the boy who thinks he ruined your life, and you use your incredibly limited, agonizing strength to absolve him.

The absolute, uncompromising selflessness of it shatters the very last defense mechanism Garrett possesses.

The wall he has spent twenty-one years building — the wall that survived his father’s fists, the wall that survived his mother’s death, the wall that made him the ruthless, untouchable hockey captain — crumbles into dust.

Garrett breaks. He completely falls apart.

A sob rips its way out of his throat. He practically collapses against the side of your bed. He buries his face in the space between your arm and your ribcage, mindful not to put any weight on your actual injuries, but needing to be as close to you as physically possible.

His massive shoulders shake violently. He weeps. Hard, ugly, breath-stealing sobs that wrack his entire frame.

“God,” Garrett cries, his voice muffled by the hospital blankets. “God, I love you. I love you so much it feels like I’m dying.”

Your single open eye widens slightly.

He loves you.

The confession is messy, desperate, and completely lacking any sort of romantic, cinematic polish. It is delivered in a freezing ICU room, smelling of iodine and fear, by a boy who is actively having an emotional breakdown against your arm.

And it is the most beautiful thing you have ever heard.

You can’t move much. Your left arm is restricted by the IV lines, and your ribs scream in protest when you try to shift your torso.

But you manage to lift your right hand.

Your fingers are shaking, weak and uncoordinated from the sedatives. But you slowly guide your hand up, past the heavy blankets, until your palm finds the back of his neck.

Your fingers tangle in the dark, greasy hair at his nape.

Garrett gasps at the touch. He shudders violently, leaning heavily into your weak caress as if your hand is the only thing keeping him from falling off the edge of the earth.

“Shh,” you manage to whisper. The sound is barely a breath, but he hears it.

You stroke his hair. It’s a slow, repetitive motion. You don’t have the strength to do anything else.

Garrett cries for what feels like an eternity. He cries for the terrifying night in the alleyway. He cries for the hours spent staring through the glass of Trauma Bay One. He cries for his mother, for the little boy who couldn’t save her, and for the man who almost lost the only other woman he has ever truly loved.

He pours all of his poison, all of his trauma, all of his fear out onto the sheets of your hospital bed.

And you just hold him.

You let him break. You let him fall apart, completely and totally, because you know that for the first time in his life, he has someone who is going to help him put the pieces back together.

Eventually, the violent shaking of his shoulders begins to slow. His ragged, torn sobs quiet into deep, stuttering breaths.

He doesn’t lift his head right away. He just lies there, his face buried in the blankets, his hand still locked in a death grip around yours.

“I’m sorry,” Garrett mumbles, his voice thick and exhausted. He sniffles loudly, a very un-captain-like sound. “I’m supposed to be taking care of you. I’m not supposed to be falling apart on your bed.”

You let out a tiny, breathy sound that is meant to be a laugh, but quickly turns into a wince as it pulls at your ribs.

Garrett’s head snaps up instantly, panic flaring back to life in his eyes. He wipes his face roughly with the back of his sleeve, smearing tears and exhaustion together.

“Did I hurt you?” He asks frantically, hovering over you again. “I put too much weight on the bed. I’ll get the nurse-”

“Garrett,” you croak, stopping him before he can hit the call button.

He freezes. “Yeah. Yes, baby, I’m here.”

You swallow hard, fighting the sandpaper dryness in your throat. You look at his red, swollen eyes. He looks completely wrecked. But the dark, heavy shadow of toxic guilt that has been suffocating him for the last forty-eight hours has lifted.

“I love you, too,” you whisper.

The words are weak. They are raspy. They lack volume.

But they hit Garrett with the force of a freight train.

He stares at you. His lips part, his dark eyes searching your face as if he’s afraid he hallucinated the sound.

“You do?” He asks, his voice cracking on the question. It’s the most vulnerable you have ever seen him. The arrogant hockey star is nowhere to be found. He is just a boy, desperate for love, terrified of rejection.

You give him a tiny, incredibly slow nod, mindful of the neck brace.

“Since the ER,” you admit, the truth slipping out easily, despite the pain it takes to speak.

Garrett lets out a sound that is half-laugh, half-sob.

He leans down. He is incredibly careful, treating you like you are made of spun glass. He supports his own weight on his forearms, ensuring he doesn’t press against your chest or your injured side.

He bypasses the heavy white patch over your left eye. He avoids your broken nose and your split lip.

Instead, he presses his mouth gently against the unbruised skin of your forehead, right at your hairline.

His lips are warm, soft, and trembling. He lingers there, breathing you in, pressing all of his relief, all of his devotion, and all of his love into that single, agonizingly gentle kiss.

“I am never letting you go,” Garrett whispers against your skin, his breath fanning across your face. “Do you understand me? You’re stuck with me. Forever.”

“Good,” you whisper back, your eye fluttering shut as exhaustion begins to drag you back under. The morphine is heavy in your veins, pulling at your consciousness.

Garrett pulls back just far enough to look at your face. He sees the heavy droop of your eyelid, the sluggish blink.

“Go to sleep, baby,” Garrett murmurs, his thumb resuming its gentle stroke across the back of your hand. “You’re safe. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?” You mumble, the word slurring slightly.

“I swear to God,” Garrett says fiercely.

He settles back into the uncomfortable plastic chair. But he doesn’t look like a terrified ghost anymore. He looks like a man who has just been handed the entire universe.

You let your eye close.

The pain is still there. The road to recovery is going to be incredibly long, terrifying, and grueling. There will be police statements to give, trials to attend, physical therapy to endure, and nightmares to fight.

But as the steady rhythm of the heart monitor lulls you back to sleep, and the warm, calloused hand of the boy who loves you holds you tight, the paralyzing fear that has dictated your life for the past year is finally gone.

Because Phil Graham is in a cage.

And you are exactly where you are supposed to be.

***

The sound of the door clicking open pulls Garrett from a light doze.

It has been two hours since you fell back asleep. Garrett hasn’t moved an inch. He is exhausted down to the marrow of his bones, but his heart is lighter than it has been in years.

He turns his head.

Standing in the doorway of the ICU room are Logan, Dean, and Tucker.

They look terrible. They are all wearing Briar Hockey sweats, their hair messy, their faces drawn with exhaustion. Logan is holding a cardboard tray with four coffees. Dean is clutching a small, stuffed teddy bear wearing a miniature nurse’s uniform.

They freeze in the doorway, staring at you.

“Hey,” Garrett says softly, not wanting to wake you.

The three massive hockey players snap their attention to Garrett. They take in the change in his posture. He is no longer hunched over like a man waiting for an execution. He is sitting back in his chair, a small, weary, but incredibly genuine smile touching the corners of his mouth.

Tucker’s eyes widen. “Garrett …”

“She woke up,” Garrett whispers.

The reaction is instantaneous.

Dean drops his head back against the doorframe, a loud, shuddering breath escaping his lips. “Oh, thank God. Thank fucking God.”

Logan sets the coffee tray down on a nearby rolling cart with a hand that is visibly shaking. He walks over to the bed, stopping on the side opposite Garrett. He looks down at your bruised, swollen face, the white eye patch, the heavy neck brace.

“Is she …” Logan swallows hard. “Is she okay?”

“She’s hurting,” Garrett says honestly. “She can barely talk. But she knows where she is. She knows we’re here. And she knows they caught him.”

“Good,” Tucker says, stepping into the room. He looks at you, his expression softening into that familiar, protective warmth. “Because if they hadn’t caught him, I was going to buy a shovel and take a road trip.”

“You wouldn’t have gone alone,” Dean mutters, walking over and placing the small stuffed nurse bear gently on the nightstand next to your bed. “I brought her a friend. Figured she could use another nurse on duty.”

Garrett looks at the ridiculous little bear, and then back at his best friends.

These guys didn’t hesitate. They didn’t ask questions. They took you in, they protected you, and they sat in a miserable hospital waiting room for two days because you are family.

“Thanks, guys,” Garrett says, his voice thick with emotion. “For everything.”

Logan waves him off. “Shut up, G. We didn’t do shit.”

“You did,” Garrett insists. He looks back down at your sleeping face. “You kept me from losing my mind. And you gave her a home.”

“She gave us a home,” Tucker corrects softly. He pulls a chair over from the corner of the room and sits down. “This house was a disaster before she started organizing the triage center and making Dean eat vegetables.”

Dean nods solemnly. “I miss the vegetables. I really do.”

Garrett actually laughs. It’s a quiet, rusty sound, but it feels incredibly good.

The four of them settle into the room. It’s cramped, it’s cold, and it smells like antiseptic.

But as Garrett sits there, surrounded by his brothers, holding the hand of the girl he loves, the ICU room doesn’t feel like a hospital anymore.

It feels like the beginning of the rest of his life.

***

Two and a half years.

That is how long it takes to put the shattered pieces of a life back together.

It takes months of grueling physical therapy, a second surgery to adjust the titanium plate beneath your left eye, and countless hours sitting on the worn couch in the off-campus house, letting Garrett, Logan, Dean, and Tucker simply exist around you until the phantom footsteps in the hallway no longer make your heart race.

It takes Phil Graham being sentenced to fifteen years in a maximum-security prison without the possibility of early parole, his legacy as an NHL player erased by the horrifying reality of his domestic abuse convictions.

And it takes time.

But as you stand in the tunnel of the TD Garden, the phantom roar of eighteen thousand fans vibrating through the concrete floor beneath your feet, you know every single agonizing second was worth it.

You watch the ice through the glass.

Garrett is a blur of black and gold. He wears number seventeen, his broad shoulders easily carrying the weight of the iconic spoked B on his chest. He skates backward, his eyes scanning the play, and intercepts a pass with a fluid, effortless grace that makes the crowd erupt into a frenzy.

He is twenty-three years old, newly graduated from Briar University, and currently the most beloved undrafted free agent the Boston Bruins have signed this century.

The whistle blows, signaling the end of the morning skate. The players begin filing off the ice, their skates clattering against the rubber mats of the tunnel.

Garrett takes his helmet off, running a gloved hand through his sweat-dampened dark hair. He is joking with one of the veteran defensemen, a relaxed, brilliant smile lighting up his face.

Then, he sees you.

The smile softens, turning instantly intimate. He breaks away from the pack and skates straight toward the open gate where you are standing.

“Hey,” Garrett breathes, stepping off the ice. He smells like fresh sweat, cold air, and athletic tape. It is the best smell in the world.

“Hey yourself,” you smile, reaching out to rest a hand on the solid plastic plating of his chest pad. “You looked good out there. Your line is clicking.”

“We’re getting there,” Garrett says, leaning down to press a quick, cold kiss to your lips, uncaring of the equipment managers and staff rushing past. He pulls back and traces his thumb gently over your cheekbone, right over the faint, pale scar that rests beneath your eye. “You ready to head back to the apartment? The guys are coming over for dinner tonight. Tuck’s making lasagna.”

“I’m ready,” you nod. “Go shower. You stink.”

Garrett laughs, a deep, rich sound that settles deep in your chest. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

You watch him jog down the tunnel toward the locker room, your heart swelling with an overwhelming, terrifying amount of love.

Life is good. It is safe.

But safety, especially when you are suddenly thrust into the blinding spotlight of professional sports, is a fragile illusion.

***

The shift happens later that afternoon.

You and Garrett are sitting at the kitchen island of your new, shared off-campus apartment. It’s a massive upgrade from the chaotic Briar hockey house, though you only live three blocks away from the guys. You are currently chopping vegetables for Tucker’s impending lasagna invasion, while Garrett is sitting on a barstool, scrolling casually through his phone.

Suddenly, Garrett freezes.

The easy, relaxed posture of his shoulders vanishes, instantly replaced by rigid, coiled tension. The color drains completely from his face, leaving his skin a sallow, ashen gray.

“Garrett?” You ask, putting the knife down. You wipe your hands on a dish towel, your heart rate spiking in response to his sudden shift. “What is it?”

He doesn’t answer. His dark eyes are locked onto the screen of his phone, scanning the text with a terrifying, absolute stillness. His jaw ticks violently.

“Garrett, talk to me,” you urge, stepping around the island and placing a hand on his shoulder. His muscles feel like solid rock under his t-shirt. “What’s wrong?”

Garrett slowly lowers the phone. He looks at you, and the sheer, unadulterated fury in his eyes makes you take a half-step back. He isn’t angry at you — he could never be angry at you — but the violent, protective rage practically bleeding off him is suffocating.

“They found a picture,” Garrett says. His voice is a low, deadly rasp.

“Who?” You ask, confusion clouding your mind. “A picture of what?”

Garrett looks down at his phone again, his thumb hovering over the screen as if he wants to crush the glass into dust. Without another word, he turns the phone around and slides it across the granite counter toward you.

You look down.

It is an article from a notorious, sleazy sports gossip blog. The headline is blazoned in bold, aggressive text.

BOSTON’S NEW GOLDEN BOY AND HIS TWISTED FAMILY SECRET: IS GARRETT GRAHAM DATING HIS DAD’S EX?

The air in your lungs vanishes.

Below the headline is a split-screen image. On the left is a recent, high-definition photo of you and Garrett walking out of the TD Garden, holding hands, laughing at something he said.

On the right is a photo you haven’t seen in three years.

It’s a blurry, poorly lit paparazzi shot from a charity gala in New York. You are standing next to Phil Graham. You are wearing a stiff, uncomfortable evening gown, your face pale and hollow, your smile tight and forced. Phil has a heavy, possessive hand gripping your waist.

The text of the article is sickening.

Bruins rookie sensation Garrett Graham has been winning over the hearts of Boston with his stellar play and squeaky-clean image. But sources have recently uncovered a highly questionable skeletons in the Graham family closet. The mystery brunette Garrett has been parading around the city? That’s Y/N. A twenty-five-year-old nurse who, just a few short years ago, was playing arm candy for Garrett’s disgraced, currently-incarcerated father, Phil Graham.

Talk about keeping it in the family. While the details of Phil’s sudden imprisonment remain strictly sealed under state records, one has to wonder if this twisted love triangle had something to do with the NHL legend’s sudden fall from grace. Did the son steal the father’s girl? Or is Boston’s new golden boy just picking up his dad’s leftovers?

You stare at the screen, your vision blurring as a cold, terrifying numbness spreads from your chest all the way down to your fingertips.

The world begins to tilt.

The smell of the chopped basil on the cutting board makes you violently nauseous. You hear the phantom, heavy thud of Phil’s boots on the stairs. You feel the cold, sharp bite of the asphalt against your cheek.

“Hey,” Garrett’s voice cuts through the rising panic, firm and immediate.

His large, warm hands grip your arms, physically anchoring you to the present moment. He pulls you away from the phone, stepping into your line of sight so all you can see is his face.

“Look at me,” Garrett demands softly. “Y/N, look at me.”

You force your eyes to focus on him. You are trembling. The phantom pain in your ribs, a ghost from three years ago, suddenly flares hot and bright.

“They put his face on the internet next to mine,” you whisper, your voice cracking completely. “They think … Garrett, they think …”

“I know what they think,” Garrett says, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles over your biceps. His eyes are blazing with a terrifying intensity, a ruthless, protective fire that burns away the shadows in the room. “And it doesn’t matter. They don’t know the truth. They’re bottom-feeding scum looking for clicks.”

“Everyone is going to see this,” you sob, the panic finally breaking through. “The team. The fans. Your coaches. They’re going to think you’re involved in some sick, twisted drama. I’m going to ruin this for you.”

“Stop,” Garrett says instantly. He gives your arms a gentle, bracing shake. “Do not do that. Do you hear me? You are not ruining anything. You are my life. I don’t give a flying fuck what some garbage blog says. I don’t care what the fans think. I only care about you.”

He pulls you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around you, burying his face in your hair. You grip the fabric of his t-shirt, burying your face in his neck, drawing in deep, desperate breaths of his cedarwood scent.

Suddenly, Garrett’s phone buzzes on the counter. Then it buzzes again. And again.

Garrett doesn’t let go of you. He reaches out blindly, grabs the phone, and checks the screen.

“It’s Logan,” Garrett murmurs. “The guys saw it.”

He answers the call and puts it on speaker, tossing the phone back onto the island.

“Tell me you saw it,” Logan’s voice barks through the speaker. He doesn’t sound like his usual laid-back self; he sounds absolutely homicidal.

“We saw it,” Garrett says, his arm tightening around your waist.

“I’m going to burn their server room to the ground,” Dean chimes in, his voice vibrating with rage. “I have a buddy who knows a guy in cyber security. We can take the whole site offline.”

“We are not committing a federal crime, Dean,” Tucker’s voice cuts in, calm but completely deadly. “Garrett, is she okay?”

You pull your face away from Garrett’s neck. You lean toward the phone, forcing your voice to steady. “I’m okay, Tuck.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Tucker says softly. “We’re on our way over. We’re bringing the lasagna, and we are locking the doors, and we are ignoring the internet for the rest of the night.”

“The team’s PR director just texted me,” Garrett says, picking up his phone and swiping down to read the notification. His jaw clenches. “They want me at the facility tomorrow morning for a media availability. They want to get ahead of the narrative before the game tomorrow night.”

“What are they telling you to say?” Logan demands.

“They want me to decline comment,” Garrett reads the text out loud, a harsh, bitter laugh escaping his lips. “They want me to say it’s a private family matter and redirect to hockey.”

“Bullshit,” Dean spits. “You can’t let them drag her name through the mud like that. They called her leftovers, G. If you don’t say something, I’m going down there to the press pit myself.”

“You aren’t going anywhere,” Garrett says. His voice is dangerously quiet. It is the voice of the captain who dragged a broken team to a national championship. It is the voice of a man who watched the woman he loves nearly die in an alleyway.

“I’m handling this tomorrow,” Garrett promises, his dark eyes locking onto yours. “I’m ending this. Permanently.”

***

The media room at the Bruins’ practice facility is packed.

It is usually a routine, boring affair. A few beat reporters asking about line chemistry and power-play percentages. But today, the room is buzzing with a chaotic, electric energy. The gossip blog post went viral overnight, picked up by mainstream sports outlets who are desperate to uncover the details behind the squeaky-clean rookie’s scandalous private life.

You are not at the hospital today. You called out.

Instead, you are sitting on the couch in your apartment, flanked by Logan on your left and Dean on your right, with Tucker standing behind the couch, his arms crossed.

The four of you are staring at the massive flat-screen TV, watching the live feed of the press conference.

Garrett walks up to the podium.

He is wearing a sharp, tailored black suit, a crisp white shirt, and a dark tie. He looks incredibly handsome, but his face is completely devoid of its usual easy charm. His posture is rigid. His eyes are cold, dark, and utterly merciless.

The Bruins’ head of PR, a nervous-looking man in his late forties, steps up to the microphone first.

“Good morning, everyone,” the PR director says, holding up a hand to quiet the murmuring reporters. “Garrett will take a few questions regarding tomorrow night’s matchup against the Devils. We ask that you keep all questions strictly related to hockey. Garrett will not be commenting on any personal matters or internet rumors at this time.”

The PR director steps back, gesturing for Garrett to take the podium.

Garrett steps up to the microphones. He looks out over the sea of flashing cameras and hungry reporters.

A reporter in the front row, a guy notorious for asking sleazy, boundary-pushing questions, immediately raises his hand and speaks without waiting to be called on.

“Garrett, Terrance Reilly from Boston Sports Daily,” the reporter says loudly. “Your PR guy said no personal questions, but the fans want to know. The article that dropped yesterday regarding your girlfriend and your father, Phil Graham — can you confirm the timeline of that relationship? Is it true you started dating her while she was still involved with your father?”

The PR director immediately lunges forward, reaching for the microphone. “I said no personal questions, Terrance. We’re moving on-”

“No.”

Garrett’s voice cuts through the room like a crack of thunder.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t raise his voice. But the absolute, lethal authority in that single word makes the PR director freeze in his tracks, his hand hovering over the mic.

The entire press room goes dead silent.

Garrett leans forward, resting his hands on the edges of the podium. His knuckles are white. He stares directly at the reporter, his gaze so intense the reporter actually shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“I’m going to answer that question,” Garrett says, his voice vibrating with a dark, controlled fury. “And I am only going to say this once. So I suggest you all make sure your recorders are on.”

Back in the apartment, Logan leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his eyes glued to the TV. “Give it to them, G.”

“The woman in that photograph,” Garrett begins, his voice carrying clearly through the speakers, “The woman this city has seen me with for the last two years, is my girlfriend. She is an incredible, brilliant pediatric nurse who spends her life taking care of sick children. And she is the bravest person I have ever met.”

Garrett pauses, taking a slow, measured breath. He is dismantling his privacy, tearing down the walls he spent years building, all to protect you.

“The article implies that my father’s imprisonment and my relationship with her are part of some scandalous love triangle,” Garrett continues, the disgust heavy in his tone. “It implies that she was playing us against each other. That is a lie. It is a disgusting, misogynistic piece of fiction designed to sell clicks.”

The reporters are furiously typing, completely silent, captivated by the raw, unscripted emotion pouring from the rookie.

“The truth,” Garrett says, his eyes turning hard as obsidian, “is that Phil Graham is not a hockey legend. He is a violent, cowardly abuser.”

A collective, shocked gasp ripples through the press room.

You suck in a breath on the couch, your hand flying up to cover your mouth. He is doing it. He is laying it all out there.

“He abused my mother until the day she died,” Garrett states flatly, refusing to shy away from the horrific reality of his past. “He abused me for eighteen years. And when he moved a young, vulnerable woman into his house, he abused her, too.”

Garrett’s jaw ticks. He looks out at the sea of cameras, but you know, deep in your bones, that he is speaking directly to you.

“I met her at a Thanksgiving dinner,” Garrett says, his voice softening just a fraction, the memory clearly visible in his eyes. “I saw the bruises he left on her arm. I told her to run, and I left. But she was trapped. She didn’t have anywhere to go.”

Garrett grips the podium tighter, leaning closer to the microphones.

“Three weeks later, I ended up in the emergency room at the hospital with a concussion,” Garrett says. “She was my nurse. And when she walked into my room, I saw what he had done to her. I saw the bruises on her face. I saw the terror in her eyes. I refused to leave that hospital without her. I moved her into my house, and I swore I would protect her from him.”

Garrett pauses, the heavy, suffocating silence of the press room hanging on his every word.

“He tracked her down at a grocery store a month later,” Garrett says, his voice dropping to a harsh, gravelly rasp that makes the hairs on your arms stand up. “He beat her so badly she required emergency surgery to rebuild her face and remove a ruptured organ. She nearly died in an alleyway because she had the courage to escape him.”

A reporter in the second row lowers her phone, her eyes wide with horror, a hand resting over her heart.

“Phil Graham is sitting in a maximum-security prison right now because he is a monster,” Garrett declares, his voice ringing with absolute finality. “He isn’t a victim of a love triangle. He is a domestic abuser who tried to murder the woman I love.”

Garrett stands up straight, stepping back from the podium slightly. He looks directly at Terrance Reilly.

“So, to answer your question,” Garrett says, his tone dripping with lethal contempt. “No, I didn’t steal my father’s girlfriend. I pulled a victim out of a nightmare. She is the strongest person I know, and I spend every single day thanking God that she survived. The only scandal here is that a garbage blog decided to re-traumatize a survivor of domestic violence for a headline.”

Garrett doesn’t wait for another question. He doesn’t look at the PR director.

He turns his back to the cameras, steps off the podium, and walks out of the press room, the heavy wooden door shutting firmly behind him.

The television broadcast cuts to a stunned anchor sitting at a news desk, fumbling for words.

Dean hits the mute button on the remote.

The apartment is dead silent.

You are crying. The tears are falling freely down your cheeks, hot and fast. You aren’t crying from fear, or from the trauma of the memories. You are crying because you have never felt so completely, unconditionally protected in your entire life.

Tucker reaches over the back of the couch and gently squeezes your shoulder. “He loves you. He loves you so damn much.”

“He just nuked his own privacy for me,” you whisper, wiping at your cheeks. “His past with his mom, his own abuse … he never talks about it. And he just put it on national television to defend me.”

“Because you’re worth it,” Logan says firmly, turning his head to look at you. “You’re his entire world, Y/N. He would burn the whole league to the ground if it meant keeping you safe. You know that.”

You do know that.

***

It takes Garrett forty minutes to get through the Boston traffic and back to the apartment.

When the front door unlocks and swings open, the guys are already gone. They left five minutes after the press conference ended, claiming they needed to go secure the perimeter, but really, they knew you needed to be alone with him.

Garrett walks into the apartment.

He looks exhausted. He has taken the suit jacket and tie off, his white dress shirt unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to expose his muscular forearms. He drops his keys onto the console table, closing the door behind him.

He looks up, and his dark eyes lock onto you standing in the middle of the living room.

The tension that was radiating off him during the press conference is completely gone. He just looks incredibly vulnerable, his chest heaving with a deep, shaky sigh.

“You saw it,” Garrett says quietly. It’s not a question.

“I saw it,” you whisper.

You don’t wait for him to take his shoes off. You cross the living room in three rapid strides and throw yourself at him.

Garrett catches you effortlessly. His massive arms wrap around your waist, hauling you flush against his body, lifting your feet off the hardwood floor. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath ghosting hot across your skin.

You wrap your arms around his neck, tangling your fingers in his dark hair, holding him as tightly as your healed ribs will allow.

“I’m sorry,” Garrett murmurs into your skin, his voice thick. “I’m sorry it got out. I’m sorry you had to see his face again.”

“Don’t apologize,” you cry softly, pulling back just far enough to cup his face in both of your hands. You look into his beautiful, tortured dark eyes. “Garrett, don’t you dare apologize. What you did today … what you said up there …”

“I meant every word,” Garrett says fiercely, leaning into your touch. He slides his hands up your back, resting them gently on your shoulder blades. “I wasn’t going to let them paint you as some sort of villain. You survived him. We survived him. And I am so damn proud to be yours.”

You trace your thumb over his cheekbone, your heart overflowing with a love so absolute it feels like gravity.

“You told the whole world about your mom,” you whisper, the magnitude of his sacrifice settling heavy in the quiet room. “You protected her memory, too.”

Garrett’s eyes soften, a sheen of tears making them shine in the afternoon light. He rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes.

“He doesn’t get to control the narrative anymore,” Garrett says, his voice steadying, finding peace in the truth. “He doesn’t get to hide behind his hockey stats or his money. The world knows exactly what he is now. And more importantly, the world knows exactly who you are.”

“Who am I?” You ask softly, a watery smile touching your lips.

Garrett opens his eyes. The darkness, the fear, the shadows of the past — they are all completely gone, replaced entirely by the bright, unyielding warmth of the future you have built together.

“You’re the girl who fixed my scrambled brain,” Garrett smiles, a genuine, breathtaking curve of his lips that reaches all the way to his eyes. He leans down, brushing his nose gently against yours. “You’re the center of my universe. And you’re never getting rid of me.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” you whisper.

Garrett kisses you.

It isn’t frantic or desperate like the kisses in the hospital room two years ago. It is deep, slow, and devastatingly certain. It is a promise written in skin and breath, a vow that the nightmare is truly, finally over.

You kiss him back, pouring every ounce of your love into the man who stood in front of the world and fought for you.

When you finally pull away, resting your head against his chest, listening to the strong, steady beat of his heart, you look around the quiet, sunlit apartment. You think of Logan, Dean, and Tucker, who are probably arguing over who gets to beat up Terrance Reilly first.

You think of the long, terrifying road that led you from a cold alleyway to this exact moment.

Garrett holds you tight, his chin resting on top of your head, swaying you gently back and forth in the quiet apartment.

The monsters are locked away. The shadows are gone.

He drags a hand down his face, feeling the tension already knotting in his shoulders. Being the captain and star center of the Briar University hockey team means he handles pressure for a living. He faces down two-hundred-pound defensemen who want to separate his head from his neck on a nightly basis, and he does it with a smirk. But this? Coming back here? It makes his chest tight.

He grabs his duffel bag from the passenger seat, shoves his door open, and steps out into the biting November chill. The Thanksgiving air is crisp, biting at his cheeks as he walks up the long driveway.

Before he even reaches for the doorbell, the heavy oak door pulls open.

Phil Graham stands in the doorway. He’s a big man, built like a brick wall, still holding onto the bulk from his days as an NHL star defenseman for the Rangers. He’s wearing a crisp button-down shirt and a fake, easy smile that doesn’t reach his cold eyes.

“Garrett,” Phil booms, clapping a heavy hand on Garrett’s shoulder as he steps inside. “You actually made it. I was starting to think you’d find an excuse to stay on campus.”

“I said I was coming,” Garrett says, his voice flat. He steps out of his father’s grip as quickly as politely possible, shrugging off his jacket.

“Well, I’m glad you did. Come on in. Y/N is finishing up the last of the food in the kitchen.” Phil turns and gestures down the wide, sterile hallway. “Y/N! He’s here!”

Garrett follows his father into the living room, his jaw tight. He doesn’t want to meet the new girlfriend. He doesn’t want to know anything about the woman who is willingly spending her time with a man like Phil.

Then, you step out of the kitchen.

Garrett stops dead in his tracks.

You’re wiping your hands on a small dish towel, a nervous but warm smile on your face. You’re wearing a soft oversized sweater and dark jeans. But that’s not what makes Garrett’s stomach drop.

It’s how young you are.

You can’t be more than twenty-three, maybe twenty-four. You’re barely older than Garrett himself. The realization hits him like a physical blow, a sudden, sickening wave of nausea washing over him.

“Hi,” you say, your voice soft, almost hesitant as you step forward. You extend a hand. “I’m Y/N. It’s so great to finally meet you, Garrett.”

Garrett forces himself to take your hand. Your grip is light, your skin warm. “Yeah. Nice to meet you too.”

Phil wraps a thick, possessive arm around your waist, pulling you against his side. Garrett watches the way you subtly stiffen, the way your smile falters for a fraction of a second before recovering.

“She’s been cooking all day,” Phil says, leaning down to kiss the side of your head. “Wanted everything to be perfect for the big college star.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” Garrett says, looking directly at you, trying to ignore his father entirely.

“I wanted to,” you say quickly. “I love cooking. And Phil’s told me so much about you. Your season is going really well, right? Undefeated so far?”

“Yeah,” Garrett says, surprised you actually know that. “We’re having a good run.”

“She’s a nurse,” Phil interrupts, waving a dismissive hand. “Works crazy shifts at the hospital. I tell her she works too much, but she won’t listen.”

“I like my job,” you say gently, stepping out of Phil’s hold under the guise of gesturing toward the dining room. “Dinner is ready. We should sit before it gets cold.”

The dining room table is groaning under the weight of the food you prepared. A massive turkey, bowls of mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry sauce, roasted vegetables — it’s a feast. A feast for three people. It feels excessive. It feels like you’re trying too hard to impress.

Garrett takes a seat at the far end of the table, putting as much physical distance between himself and his father as possible. You take the seat next to Phil, directly across from Garrett.

“So,” Phil says, carving the turkey with sharp, aggressive strokes. “How are your grades, Garrett? Still scraping by with those easy electives so you can stay on the ice?”

Garrett’s grip on his fork tightens. “I’m a history major, Dad. My GPA is a 3.8.”

“History,” Phil snorts, tossing a slice of dark meat onto Garrett’s plate. “Right. Because that’s going to pay the bills when you blow out your knee and your hockey career is over.”

“Phil,” you say softly, reaching out to touch his arm. “Don’t say things like that. Garrett has a very bright future.”

Phil glances at you, his eyes narrowing slightly. “I’m just being realistic, Y/N. Someone has to keep the boy grounded.”

You give Garrett a sympathetic, apologetic look across the table. He ignores it. He doesn’t want your sympathy. He wants to know what the hell you’re doing here.

“So, Y/N,” Garrett says, leaning back in his chair. “A nurse. That’s a tough gig. ER?”

You perk up, eager for the change in subject. “Pediatrics, actually. I love it. The kids are incredibly resilient.”

“That’s awesome,” Garrett says. And he means it. You seem genuine. You seem kind. Which makes your presence in this house all the more confusing and disturbing to him. “Have you been doing it long?”

“Just over a year,” you say, passing the bowl of mashed potatoes across the table. “I graduated last spring.”

Garrett does the math in his head. Just over a year. Barely out of nursing school. She’s twenty-three. His dad is forty-eight.

“She gets too emotionally attached,” Phil chimes in, loading his plate with stuffing. “Comes home crying half the time. I keep telling her she needs a thicker skin if she wants to survive the real world.”

“It’s not a weakness to care about my patients, Phil,” you say, your voice dropping a fraction in volume.

“I didn’t say it was a weakness,” Phil snaps, his tone instantly sharper. “I said you need a thicker skin. Don’t put words in my mouth.”

The temperature in the room seems to drop ten degrees. Garrett watches you carefully. You look down at your plate, your shoulders hunching slightly.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur. “You’re right.”

Garrett’s stomach twists. The dynamic is terrifyingly familiar. It’s the exact same tone, the exact same manipulative pivot his father used to pull on his mother. Make her feel crazy. Make her apologize for his bad behavior.

“It takes a lot of strength to care about sick kids,” Garrett says loudly, breaking the sudden, suffocating silence. He locks eyes with his father. “I think it’s badass.”

Phil glares at him, his jaw ticking. “Eat your turkey, Garrett.”

The rest of the meal is agonizing. It’s a masterclass in awkward, strained tension. You try your best to keep the conversation going, asking Garrett about Briar, about his teammates, about his classes.

“Do you have a girlfriend, Garrett?” You ask, trying for a bright, casual tone as you take a sip of your water.

“No,” Garrett says. “No time. Between practice, games, and classes, I’m pretty booked.”

“He just hasn’t found a girl who can put up with him,” Phil chuckles, but there’s no humor in it. “He’s just like his mother. Stubborn. Thinks he knows everything.”

Garrett freezes. The mention of his mother feels like a live wire in the room. His mother, who battled lung cancer while living in this hellhole. His mother, who took the brunt of Phil’s rage for years before Garrett became the primary target.

“Don’t talk about her,” Garrett says, his voice deadly quiet.

“I’ll talk about whoever I want in my own house,” Phil shoots back, leaning forward, his massive frame intimidating. “You think because you play a little college puck you can come in here and give me orders?”

“I said,” Garrett repeats, every muscle in his body coiled and tight, “don’t talk about my mother.”

“Please,” you interrupt, your voice shaking slightly. You look panicked, your eyes darting between Garrett and his father. “Please, let’s just have a nice dinner. I made pumpkin pie. I can—I can go get it right now.”

You push your chair back, moving a little too quickly.

“Sit down, Y/N,” Phil says sharply. “We’re not finished eating.”

“I just wanted to get the pie,” you stammer, already half-standing.

“I said sit down!” Phil’s voice echoes off the dining room walls.

You flinch. It’s a small, violent jerk of your shoulders, a conditioned reflex.

Garrett sees it. He feels the anger boiling in his veins, hot and volatile.

You slowly lower yourself back into your chair, your eyes glued to the tablecloth. “Okay. I’m sorry. I’ll wait.”

“Good,” Phil says, picking up his fork again as if nothing happened. “Now, pass the gravy.”

You reach across the table for the gravy boat. As you extend your arm, the loose sleeve of your oversized sweater rides up, pushed back by the edge of a serving bowl.

Garrett’s eyes lock onto your wrist.

High up on your forearm, just below the elbow, is a cluster of dark, purplish-black bruises. They aren’t random smudges. They are distinct, unmistakable ovals.

Finger marks.

The shape of a large hand gripping violently tight.

Garrett stops breathing.

The dining room fades away. The smell of the roasted turkey, the clinking of Phil’s silverware against the china — it all vanishes. All Garrett can see is that bruised skin.

He knows those bruises. He used to have them on his own arms, his own ribs. He saw them on his mother’s pale skin, hidden under long sleeves in the middle of July.

Phil never changed.

The monster who terrorized Garrett and his mother for years is sitting at the head of the table, pretending to be a normal man, and he’s doing it to this poor, young girl.

Garrett stands up.

He moves so fast, so violently, that his heavy wooden chair tips backward and crashes into the hardwood floor with a deafening bang.

“Garrett!” Phil barks, startled. “What the hell is your problem?”

Garrett doesn’t look at his father. He can’t, because if he looks at him right now, he will reach across this table and kill him.

He looks at you.

You’ve quickly yanked your sleeve down, your face pale, your eyes wide with terror as you realize what he just saw.

“I’m leaving,” Garrett chokes out. His chest is heaving. He wants to vomit. He actually feels the bile rising in his throat.

“You just got here!” Phil yells, throwing his napkin onto the table. “Sit your ass back down!”

“No,” Garrett says, his voice shaking with a dangerous, barely controlled fury. “I’m done. I’m done with you. I’m done with this fucking house.”

He turns on his heel and storms out of the dining room.

“Garrett!” Phil roars, the sound of a chair scraping loudly behind him.

Garrett doesn’t stop. He stalks down the hallway, his heart pounding in his ears. He reaches the coat rack by the front door and snatches his heavy jacket off the hook, nearly ripping the hook out of the wall in the process.

Footsteps hurry down the hall behind him. Light footsteps.

“Garrett, wait!”

He pauses, his hand on the brass doorknob. He turns around.

You are standing a few feet away, wringing your hands together. You look terrified. Phil is looming in the doorway of the living room behind you, his face red with rage.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Phil demands. “You ungrateful little punk.”

Garrett ignores him. He focuses entirely on you.

“Garrett, please,” you whisper, stepping closer to him, keeping your voice low so Phil can’t hear over his own ranting. “Please don’t go like this. It’s … it’s my fault. I made him mad earlier. I dropped a glass and I shouldn’t have talked back. It’s not what you think.”

The words hit Garrett like a physical blow. The excuses. The self-blame. It’s a script he has heard a thousand times before.

He lets go of the doorknob and steps toward you. You shrink back slightly, anticipating anger.

But Garrett isn’t angry at you.

“Stop,” Garrett says, his voice remarkably steady now, cutting through your panicked excuses. “Stop talking.”

You snap your mouth shut, tears brimming in your eyes.

Garrett looks you dead in the eye. He needs you to hear this. He needs you to understand.

“It is never your fault,” Garrett says, emphasizing every single word. “Do you hear me? Never.”

“You don’t understand,” you shake your head, a tear spilling over your eyelashes. “He just gets stressed, and I pushed him-”

“I understand perfectly,” Garrett cuts you off, his tone fierce. “I lived in this house for eighteen years. I watched him do it to my mother. I watched him do it to me.”

Your breath hitches. Your eyes widen in shock, glancing back at Phil, then back to Garrett.

“He is an abusive piece of shit,” Garrett says loudly, making sure his voice carries down the hall to where his father is standing in stunned silence. “And he will never stop. He will never change. I don’t care how much he cries and pretends to apologize after every time he hurts you. He will do it again.”

“Garrett, shut your damn mouth!” Phil shouts, taking a step forward.

“Fuck you, Phil!” Garrett roars back, the raw, unadulterated hatred pouring out of him.

He turns back to you. Your face is crumpled, the illusion shattered. You’re trembling.

“Get the hell away from him,” Garrett tells you, his voice lowering to an urgent, desperate plea. “Before it’s too late. Please.”

He doesn’t wait for your response. He can’t stay here another second.

He yanks the front door open, steps out into the freezing night, and slams the heavy door shut behind him. The sound echoes across the quiet suburban street like a gunshot.

He practically runs down the driveway to his Jeep. He rips the door open, throws himself into the driver’s seat, and jams the key into the ignition. The engine roars to life.

Garrett throws it into reverse, peels out of the driveway, and hits the gas, desperate to put as much distance between himself and that house as possible.

He drives for ten minutes before he finally pulls over on the shoulder of an empty highway.

He shoves the car into park.

And then he loses it.

He slams his hands against the steering wheel. Once. Twice. A scream of pure, visceral frustration tears from his throat. The horn blares into the dark night.

He rests his forehead against the leather of the steering wheel, his chest heaving, his breathing ragged.

He closes his eyes, but all he sees are those bruises. Those dark, brutal marks on your pale skin.

You’re a nurse. You’re sweet. You smiled and baked a damn pie and you are trapped in a house with a monster. A girl who can’t be much older than he is, taking the hits that his mother used to take.

Garrett grips the steering wheel until his knuckles turn white. He told you to get away. He hopes to God you listen. But as he sits there in the cold, dark car on the way back to Briar, a sickening feeling settles deep in his gut.

He knows this isn’t over. He can’t just walk away and leave you there.

***

The hit comes out of nowhere.

One second, Garrett is flying down the center of the ice, the puck a familiar, comfortable weight on the blade of his stick. The Briar arena is deafening, thousands of students screaming as he crosses the blue line. He spots the opening. He sets up the shot.

The next second, a two-hundred-and-twenty-pound defenseman from Harvard blindsides him.

The elbow catches Garrett right under the edge of his helmet. The crack is sickeningly loud, echoing in his own skull before the ice rushes up to meet him. He hits the frozen surface hard, sliding into the boards in a tangled mess of limbs and composite sticks.

The whistle blows shrilly. The crowd erupts into angry boos.

Garrett lies there for a few seconds, staring up at the blinding stadium lights. His head is ringing. A high-pitched, sustained whine blocks out the sound of his teammates rushing to his defense. There’s a sharp, burning pain right above his left eyebrow, and when he blinks, something warm and wet runs down his face.

“Graham! Hey, Graham, don’t move.”

Robby, the Briar athletic trainer, is suddenly leaning over him, his face pinched with concern.

“I’m fine,” Garrett groans, trying to push himself up on his heavy gloves. The ice tilts precariously. “Just a scratch. Get me back out there. We’re on a power play now.”

“You’re not going anywhere near a puck tonight, kid,” Robby says, gripping Garrett’s shoulder to keep him down. Robby presses a thick wad of gauze against Garrett’s forehead. Garrett winces as white-hot pain flares. “You’re bleeding like a stuck pig, and your eyes are rolling. We’re going to the locker room, and then you’re going to the hospital.”

“Hospital?” Garrett snaps, instantly irritated. “Robby, come on. Just glue it shut. Do the concussion protocol. I know what month it is.”

“I need imaging, Garrett. That hit was dirty, and your helmet shifted. I’m not playing games with your brain. Up you get. Slowly.”

Forty-five minutes later, Garrett is sitting on the edge of a crinkly, paper-covered bed in a sterile room at the local emergency department. He’s still in his bottom gear — his bulky hockey pants, his skates replaced by slide sandals Robby grabbed from his locker, and his Briar hockey hoodie pulled over his t-shirt.

He smells like sweat, ice, and metallic blood. He feels like a caged animal.

Robby did the initial check-up and handed him off to the triage nurse, who promised someone would be in shortly to clean the wound, stitch him up, and get him down to CT. That was twenty minutes ago.

Garrett taps his foot impatiently against the linoleum floor. His head throbs in time with his heartbeat. He hates hospitals. He hates the smell of antiseptic, the stark white lights, the feeling of vulnerability.

Most of all, he just wants to go to sleep.

He leans back, closing his eyes and trying to breathe through the dull nausea rolling in his stomach.

The heavy wooden door to his exam room clicks open.

“Sorry for the wait,” a soft, hurried voice says, followed by the squeak of rubber-soled shoes. “It’s a zoo out there tonight. Full moon or something.”

Garrett opens his eyes, a sarcastic remark already loaded on his tongue about how long it takes to get a needle and thread in this place.

The words die instantly in his throat.

You are standing by the rolling metal cart, pulling on a pair of purple nitrile gloves. You’re wearing scrubs. Not the standard-issue, depressing hospital blue, but a light pink top covered in tiny, cartoonish stethoscopes and smiling Band-Aids. It’s undeniably cute. It’s the kind of uniform designed to make terrified kids feel safe.

You snap the second glove onto your wrist and finally turn around to look at the patient.

You freeze.

Your hands hover in mid-air. The professional, welcoming smile you walked in with vanishes so fast it’s like it was never there. The color drains completely from your face, leaving you looking like a ghost in the harsh fluorescent lighting.

“Garrett,” you breathe, the name barely a whisper.

Garrett stares at you. His heart does a strange, painful stutter in his chest.

Of all the hospitals. Of all the nurses.

He hasn’t stopped thinking about you since Thanksgiving. It’s been three weeks. Three weeks of replaying that disastrous dinner in his head, hearing his father’s booming, aggressive voice, and seeing those dark, finger-shaped bruises on your arm.

He had hoped, with a desperate kind of optimism, that you had listened to him. That his dramatic exit had been the wake-up call you needed. He hoped you packed your bags, walked out of Phil Graham’s massive, oppressive house, and never looked back.

But as you stand there, clutching a clipboard to your chest like a shield, Garrett’s stomach sinks.

“What are you doing here?” Garrett asks. His voice is hoarse, the concussion making him sound rougher than he intends. “I thought you worked pediatrics.”

You blink rapidly, seemingly trying to reboot your brain. You take a cautious step back, closer to the door, as if preparing to bolt.

“I do,” you say, your voice remarkably shaky. You clear your throat and try again, fighting for a professional tone. “I do work pediatrics. We’re … we’re short-staffed down here tonight. A nasty flu bug wiped out half the ER nurses. They floated me down because I’m the newest on my floor.”

“Right,” Garrett says, his eyes locked on you.

The tension in the tiny exam room is thick enough to cut with a scalpel. Neither of you moves.

“I can,” you stammer, your eyes darting from the bloody gauze taped to his forehead to his skates-less feet, avoiding direct eye contact. “I can go get someone else. Another nurse. If you’re … if you’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Garrett says immediately.

He doesn’t want you to leave. He needs to know what happened after he drove away. He needs to know if you’re okay.

You hesitate, your grip on the clipboard turning your knuckles white. You bite your bottom lip, a nervous habit that sends a jolt of protective instinct straight through Garrett’s chest.

“Okay,” you finally whisper. You force yourself to take a step forward, slipping into nurse-mode like a protective second skin. “Okay. Let’s … let’s take a look at that cut, Mr. Graham. The doctor will be in shortly for the stitches, but I need to clean it and do a standard neuro check first.”

“It’s just Garrett,” he mutters, hating the formal ‘Mr. Graham’. It makes him think of his father.

“Garrett,” you correct yourself softly.

You pull a rolling stool over to the side of his bed and sit down. You’re close now. Close enough that he can smell the faint, clean scent of your vanilla shampoo over the harsh hospital antiseptics.

“Can you look straight at me?” You ask, pulling a small penlight from your scrub pocket.

Garrett turns his head. He looks straight at you.

And that’s when he really sees it.

The harsh, unforgiving overhead lights of the ER leave nothing in shadow. You are wearing makeup. A lot of it. Far more than you wore at Thanksgiving. The foundation is thick, expertly applied to look matte and flawless.

But it’s not flawless.

Underneath the heavy-duty concealer on your left cheekbone, there is a distinct, yellowish-green discoloration. The fading remnants of a severe bruise. And when you lean forward to shine the light in his eyes, the v-neck of your cute, patterned scrub top gapes just a fraction.

Right on your collarbone, peeking out from the fabric, is a mottled patch of dark purple and black. It looks fresh.

Garrett’s breath hitches.

“Follow the light with your eyes, please,” you say softly, your brow furrowed in concentration. “Without moving your head.”

Garrett tries. He really does. But his eyes drop from the penlight to your cheekbone. Then down to the edge of your collar.

A wave of nausea hits him, so intense and violent he actually grips the edges of the exam table to ground himself. It’s not from the concussion. It’s from the crushing, suffocating weight of guilt.

He did this.

He knows he did this.

He remembers the look on his father’s face when he slammed the door. He remembers the rage, the wounded pride. Phil Graham doesn’t just get yelled at in his own house by his son and let it go. Phil Graham retaliates. He takes his anger out on whatever is closest. On whoever is weakest.

At Thanksgiving, that was you.

Garrett left you alone with a monster he had just purposely provoked.

“Are you feeling dizzy?” You ask, misinterpreting his sudden rigidity. You click the penlight off, your eyes scanning his face with genuine concern. “Do you feel like you’re going to be sick?”

“Yeah,” Garrett whispers, his voice cracking. “Yeah, I feel sick.”

You immediately stand up, reaching for a plastic basin on the counter. “Okay, lean forward. Deep breaths-”

“Not because of my head,” Garrett interrupts.

He reaches out and grabs your wrist.

He does it gently. He’s incredibly aware of his own strength, of the sheer size difference between them. His large hand loosely encircles your delicate wrist over the purple nitrile glove.

You freeze instantly. Your entire body goes rigid, a startled gasp slipping from your lips.

“Garrett, let go,” you whisper, panic suddenly flaring in your eyes. You glance frantically at the closed door.

“He did this,” Garrett says, his voice thick with a rage that threatens to choke him. He doesn’t let go, but he doesn’t squeeze, either. He just holds you there, forcing you to look at him.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say automatically. The denial is fast, practiced. You tug your arm, trying to pull away. “Please, I need to clean your wound.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Garrett pleads. He lets go of your wrist, raising his hand to point a shaking finger at your face. “The makeup. Your cheek. Your collarbone. I can see it, Y/N.”

You flinch as if he struck you. You immediately reach up, your gloved hand self-consciously covering your collarbone, pulling the fabric of your scrubs higher. You look away, your jaw trembling.

“It’s nothing,” you say, staring fixedly at the rolling cart. “I’m clumsy. I bumped into an open cabinet door in the kitchen.”

“A cabinet door doesn’t grab your collarbone,” Garrett says, his voice dropping to a harsh, heartbroken whisper. “A cabinet door didn’t leave finger marks on your arm at Thanksgiving. Stop protecting him.”

“I’m not protecting anyone,” you snap, finally looking back at him. Your eyes are bright with unshed tears, defensively angry. “You don’t know anything about my life, Garrett. You don’t know anything about me.”

“I know my father,” Garrett fires back, leaning forward, ignoring the throbbing pain in his head. “I know exactly what he is. I lived with it for eighteen years. You think you’re the first person he’s done this to? You think you’re special? My mother used to use the exact same brand of heavy concealer you’re wearing right now.”

The words hit you hard. Your defensive anger crumbles in an instant, leaving behind a raw, terrified vulnerability that makes Garrett want to punch a hole through the wall.

A single tear escapes, cutting a track down your powdered cheek. You quickly swipe it away with the back of your wrist, smudging the concealer and revealing more of the fading bruise beneath.

“Why didn’t you leave?” Garrett asks, the desperation bleeding into his tone. “I told you to get away. I told you what he was. Why are you still there?”

You let out a shaky, bitter laugh. It’s a terrible sound. “Leave? And go where, Garrett? He moved me into his house. My name isn’t on the lease of my old apartment anymore. I have student loans that are drowning me. When I met him, he … he was so generous. He offered to help me get on my feet. He bought my car.”

Garrett closes his eyes. He feels sick all over again. Classic Phil. Financial control. Isolate the target. Make them dependent so they feel like they can’t survive on their own. It’s a textbook maneuver, and Garrett hates himself for not realizing it sooner.

“So you’re trapped,” Garrett states flatly, opening his eyes to look at you.

“I’m managing,” you say stubbornly, though your voice lacks conviction. “He’s just … he’s been under a lot of pressure lately.”

“Bullshit,” Garrett practically growls.

“Don’t yell at me!” You whisper-shout, looking panicked at the door again. “I’m at work, Garrett. Please. I can’t do this right now. If my charge nurse hears …”

Garrett forces himself to take a deep breath. He forces his muscles to uncoil. You’re right. This is your place of work. You’re already terrified, and him losing his temper — even on your behalf — is only making you more scared.

“Okay,” Garrett says softly, gentling his tone. “Okay, I’m sorry. I won’t yell.”

You let out a trembling sigh, your shoulders slumping slightly. You reach for a sterile saline wipe from the tray. Your hands are shaking.

“I have to clean the cut,” you murmur, keeping your eyes down. “It’s going to sting.”

“Do it,” Garrett says, sitting perfectly still.

You lean in close again. You gently press the saline wipe against the gash above his eyebrow. It burns like a bitch, but Garrett doesn’t even flinch. He is completely hyper-focused on you.

Up this close, he can see the exhaustion etched around your eyes. He can see the faint tremor in your fingers. He can feel the anxiety radiating off you in waves.

“He took it out on you, didn’t he?” Garrett asks quietly, the words meant only for the two of you. “After I left on Thanksgiving. I made him furious, and I walked out the door, and he took it out on you.”

Your hand pauses. The saline wipe hovers over his cut. You don’t look at his eyes; you just stare blindly at his forehead.

“Garrett, please,” you whisper, your voice breaking completely. “Don’t.”

“I need to know,” he insists, the guilt gnawing at his insides like acid. “Did he hit you because of me?”

You swallow hard. A fresh tear falls, splashing softly against the plastic bib covering Garrett’s chest.

“He was mad,” you finally admit, your voice barely audible over the hum of the hospital air conditioning. “He said I embarrassed him in front of you. That I was stupid for engaging with you.”

Garrett closes his eyes. He feels like he’s been sucker-punched by that Harvard defenseman all over again. Only this time, the pain is a thousand times worse.

“I’m so sorry,” Garrett breathes. The apology feels entirely inadequate, but it’s all he has. “Y/N, I’m so fucking sorry. I thought … I thought if I called him out, if I showed you I saw it, you’d realize it wasn’t normal and you’d run. I didn’t think about the fallout. I left you alone with him.”

“It’s not your fault,” you say automatically, returning to cleaning the wound. Your touch is incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to the violence you go home to. “You were right. Everything you said was right. I just … I didn’t know how bad it was going to be.”

“How bad did it get?” Garrett asks, his chest tight.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say quickly, tossing the bloody wipe into the biohazard bin and reaching for a fresh one. “I’m fine. He apologized the next day. He cried. He promised he’d never do it again.”

“And you believed him?” Garrett asks, unable to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

You finally look him in the eyes. The profound sadness in your gaze breaks his heart.

“No,” you whisper. “I didn’t believe him. But I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Silence falls over the small exam room. It’s a heavy, suffocating silence. Garrett stares at you, a fierce, protective determination hardening in his chest.

He doesn’t care that he only met you once. He doesn’t care that you’re technically his father’s girlfriend. All he cares about is the fact that you are a kind, gentle person who spends your days taking care of sick kids, and you are going home to a nightmare.

A nightmare Garrett knows intimately.

“You’re not going back there,” Garrett says suddenly.

You pause, looking at him with utter confusion. “What?”

“When your shift is over,” Garrett says, his voice firm, leaving no room for argument. “You are not going back to his house.”

“Garrett, be reasonable,” you sigh, shaking your head. “I have to. All my stuff is there. My life is there.”

“I don’t give a shit about your stuff,” Garrett says. “Stuff can be replaced. You can’t. If you go back there, he’s going to kill you, Y/N. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but eventually, he will cross a line he can’t uncross. You know it, and I know it.”

“You’re scaring me,” you whisper, taking a step back from the bed.

“Good,” Garrett says intensely. “You should be scared. You should be terrified. Because he is dangerous. And I am not letting you go back to him.”

“You can’t control what I do,” you say, a spark of defiance finally flaring in your eyes. “You don’t get to order me around. You’re just as bossy as he is!”

The comparison stings, but Garrett takes it. He deserves it. “I’m not trying to order you around. I’m trying to save your life. Because I couldn’t save my mother’s, and I’ll be damned if I sit back and let him do it to someone else.”

You stare at him, the defiance melting away, replaced by shock. You didn’t know the full extent of it. Phil certainly wouldn’t have told you the truth about his marriage.

“Garrett …” you start, but you don’t know how to finish the sentence.

“I have a house,” Garrett says, the plan forming rapidly in his mind. “Off-campus. I live with three of my teammates. We have a couch. It’s not fancy, and it constantly smells like hockey gear and stale pizza, but it’s safe. He doesn’t know where it is. He doesn’t have a key.”

Your eyes go wide. “You want me to … to come home with you?”

“Yes,” Garrett says, without a second of hesitation.

“I can’t do that,” you say, shaking your head frantically. “I can’t impose on you and your roommates. I barely know you. Phil would lose his mind if he found out.”

“Phil is going to lose his mind anyway when he realizes you’re gone,” Garrett counters. “Let him. Let him tear the house apart. By the time he realizes you aren’t coming back, you’ll be gone. And you won’t be alone.”

“Garrett, this is crazy,” you whisper. You look around the room, as if expecting Phil to jump out of the medical supply cabinet. “I have a shift until 7 AM. I can’t just leave with you.”

“I’ll wait,” Garrett says stubbornly.

“You have a concussion!” You argue. “You need to rest. You need to be monitored.”

“I’ll rest in the waiting room,” Garrett fires back. “I’m not leaving this hospital without you.”

“You are impossible,” you say, but there is a distinct lack of heat in your voice. You look incredibly tired. The kind of tired that seeps into your bones and makes it hard to stand.

“I’m stubborn,” Garrett corrects, echoing his father’s insult from Thanksgiving, but reclaiming it. “Just like my mother.”

Before you can argue further, the heavy wooden door swings open.

A tall, exhausted-looking doctor with a clipboard steps into the room. “Alright, Mr. Graham. Sorry for the wait. Let’s get a look at that-” The doctor stops, glancing between Garrett and you. The tension in the room is palpable, even to a stranger. “Is everything alright in here, Y/N?”

You jump slightly, instantly stepping back from Garrett’s bed and smoothing down your scrub top. You plaster that fake, professional smile back on your face.

“Everything is fine, Dr. Gardner,” you say brightly. “Just finished cleaning the laceration. He’s all ready for you.”

“Excellent,” Dr. Gardner says, stepping up to the bed and clicking on a bright overhead surgical light. “Alright, Garrett, let’s get you stitched up so we can get you down to CT. Y/N, can you prep a local anesthetic tray, please?”

“Right away, Doctor,” you say.

You move mechanically, pulling supplies from the cart, avoiding Garrett’s gaze entirely.

Garrett doesn’t say a word as the doctor numbs his forehead. He doesn’t flinch as the needle pierces his skin to pull the wound shut. He keeps his eyes locked on you the entire time.

He watches you hand the doctor the scissors. He watches you dispose of the bloody gauze. He watches the way your shoulders stay rigidly tense, the way you constantly glance at the clock on the wall.

You are terrified. You are trapped.

But not anymore.

Garrett made a mistake at Thanksgiving. He let his anger blind him to the consequences. He walked away to protect himself, and he left you in the line of fire.

He isn’t walking away this time.

Dr. Gardner finishes the final stitch and snips the thread. “There you go. Seven stitches. We’ll get a bandage on that, and an orderly will be in shortly to take you down to imaging.”

“Thanks,” Garrett grunts.

“Y/N will get you bandaged up,” Dr. Gardner says, already heading for the door. “Keep an eye on him, Y/N. If he gets nauseous again, let me know.”

“I will,” you say softly.

The door clicks shut. You are alone again.

You pick up a square white bandage and peel off the backing. You step back up to Garrett’s side, keeping your eyes meticulously focused on his forehead.

“Hold still,” you murmur, pressing the bandage carefully over the stitches.

“I’m serious, Y/N,” Garrett says quietly, his voice vibrating with absolute certainty.

Your fingers pause against his skin. You finally look down into his eyes.

“When your shift ends,” Garrett says, holding your gaze, refusing to let you look away. “I will be sitting in the waiting room. And you are walking out of those doors with me.”

You stare at him. Your bottom lip trembles. The professional mask you’ve been clinging to finally cracks, and for the first time, Garrett sees a tiny, desperate flicker of hope in your eyes.

You don’t say yes.

But you don’t say no, either.

You just finish pressing the edges of the bandage down, your touch lingering for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. Then, you step back, grab your clipboard, and hurry out of the room without another word.

Garrett watches the door close behind you. He leans his head back against the wall, ignoring the throbbing pain, and settles in to wait.

He isn’t going anywhere.

***

The drive from the hospital to the house is agonizingly silent.

Garrett keeps his eyes glued to the dark roads of Briar, his hands gripping the steering wheel of his Jeep at ten and two. The white bandage over his left eyebrow stands out starkly in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. He hasn’t said a word since you both walked out of the sliding glass doors of the ER.

You sit rigidly in the passenger seat, still wearing your pink patterned scrubs, your coat pulled tightly around your shoulders. You stare out the window, watching the streetlights blur past, a million thoughts racing through your mind at a frantic, dizzying pace.

What are you doing? You just walked out on a shift. You just got in a car with your abusive boyfriend’s estranged, concussed son. You are heading to a house full of college hockey players you’ve never met.

You are terrified.

But as you steal a glance at Garrett’s hardened profile, you realize something else. For the first time in months, you aren’t terrified of the person sitting next to you. You’re terrified of the fallout, of what Phil will do when he finds out you’re gone. But Garrett makes you feel inexplicably safe.

Garrett pulls into the driveway of a large, slightly weathered off-campus rental house. A couple of other cars are parked haphazardly on the pavement. The porch light is on, illuminating a rogue red Solo cup resting on the railing and a pair of muddy sneakers near the welcome mat.

Garrett kills the engine. He doesn’t immediately move. He just sits there, his chest rising and falling with a deep, bracing sigh.

“We’re here,” he says quietly, his voice raspy.

You look at the house. It looks huge, chaotic, and entirely intimidating. “Garrett, I really don’t think this is a good idea. Your roommates …”

“My roommates are fine,” Garrett interrupts, turning his head to look at you. His dark eyes are serious, the bruising around his cut already turning an ugly shade of purple. “They’re idiots most of the time, but they’re good guys. They aren’t going to care that you’re here. The only thing they’re going to care about is making sure you’re okay.”

You swallow hard, your fingers twisting the fabric of your scrub top. “They don’t even know me.”

“They know me,” Garrett says simply. “And that’s enough for them. Come on.”

He pushes his door open and steps out into the crisp night air. You take a shaky breath and follow suit.

Garrett leads you up the porch steps. He doesn’t knock. He just pushes the front door open, stepping aside to let you enter first.

The inside of the house is exactly what you would expect from four college athletes. It smells faintly of stale beer, citrus cleaner, and the undeniable musk of hockey gear. The living room is massive, dominated by a huge sectional couch, an enormous flat-screen TV, and a coffee table littered with empty pizza boxes and video game controllers.

Despite the late hour, the house isn’t asleep.

The TV is on, playing some sports highlight reel at a low volume. A guy with dark hair and striking blue eyes is sprawled across the couch, tossing a lacrosse ball into the air and catching it. Another guy, blonde and built like a Greek god, is sitting on the floor leaning against the couch, a game controller in his hands.

From the kitchen, the sound of sizzling bacon and the smell of coffee drift out.

The dark-haired guy catches the ball and sits up as the front door closes. “Look who finally decided to show up. We saw the hit on Twitter, man. Robby texted the group chat and said you were getting stitched up.”

“I got stitched up,” Garrett says flatly.

The blonde guy pauses his game and looks back over his shoulder. He takes one look at Garrett’s face and winces. “Damn, G. You look like you went ten rounds with a meat grinder. How many stitches?”

“Seven,” Garrett mutters, toeing off his slides.

“Is he alive?” A third voice calls out from the kitchen. A tall, broad-shouldered guy walks out, wiping his hands on a dish towel. He has a kind face and a calm demeanor that instantly sets him apart from the other two. “Because I’m making breakfast at 2 AM and if he’s dead, I’m not making him eggs.”

“I’m alive, Tuck,” Garrett says, stepping further into the room.

As Garrett moves, he reveals you standing nervously behind him in the entryway.

The dynamic in the room shifts instantly.

Logan, the dark-haired guy, freezes with the lacrosse ball in his hand. Dean, the blonde, drops his controller entirely. Tucker stops wiping his hands, his eyebrows shooting up toward his hairline.

They stare at you. You stare back, feeling painfully out of place in your cartoon-stethoscope scrubs and heavy winter coat.

A slow, wicked grin spreads across Dean’s face. He lets out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

Logan starts to laugh, shaking his head as he pushes himself up off the couch. “Only you, Graham. Only you could get a level-three concussion, go to the emergency room bleeding from the head, and somehow manage to pull the hottest nurse on the floor.”

“I didn’t even know they made scrubs that cute,” Dean chimes in, leaning back on his hands, his eyes raking over you with playful, unabashed appreciation. “Hi there. I’m Dean. If you’re looking for a second opinion on that head injury, I’m practically a doctor.”

“You’re a poli-sci major,” Tucker points out dryly, though a slight, amused smile tugs at his lips. He looks at you. “Ignore them. They’re animals. I’m Tucker.”

Under normal circumstances, you might have blushed or laughed. They are objectively gorgeous, charismatic guys, and the banter is effortless.

But there is nothing normal about tonight.

You don’t smile. You just shrink back slightly, crossing your arms tightly over your chest, hyper-aware of the dark bruise blooming on your collarbone hidden beneath your coat.

Garrett doesn’t laugh, either.

His body goes entirely rigid. He steps in front of you, physically blocking Dean and Logan’s view of you. The protective instinct is so sudden and absolute that it changes the entire temperature of the room.

“Shut up,” Garrett snaps.

His voice is quiet, but it cracks like a whip. It lacks any of his usual playful arrogance. It’s hard, sharp, and deadly serious.

Logan’s smile vanishes. Dean sits up a little straighter, his playful demeanor evaporating. Tucker frowns, immediately reading the heavy, suffocating tension radiating off his captain.

“Whoa,” Logan says, holding his hands up defensively. “Relax, man. We’re just messing around.”

“I’m not,” Garrett says, his jaw ticking. He looks at his three best friends, his teammates, his brothers. “Turn the TV off. Sit down. All of you.”

Dean scrambles up from the floor and takes a seat on the couch next to Logan. Tucker slowly walks out of the kitchen, tossing the dish towel onto a chair, and sits down on the loveseat.

Nobody says a word. The house is completely silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator in the other room. They watch Garrett, waiting.

Garrett turns back to you. His expression softens marginally. “Take off your coat,” he murmurs. “Sit down.”

You shake your head slightly. “I prefer to stand.”

Garrett looks like he wants to argue, but he nods. He doesn’t sit, either. He stands in the center of the living room, a defensive barrier between you and the rest of the room.

He runs a hand through his messy, blood-matted hair, wincing as he brushes too close to the bandage. He takes a deep breath.

“You guys know about my dad,” Garrett starts.

It’s not a question. It’s a statement.

Logan nods slowly. “Yeah. Phil Graham. NHL legend. Played for the Rangers. Hardass.”

“Right,” Garrett says, the word dripping with pure, concentrated venom. “The legend. The great Phil Graham. The guy everyone thinks hung the moon because he could check a guy through the glass.”

Garrett starts pacing, just a few short steps back and forth, the nervous energy impossible to contain.

“Everything you think you know about him is a lie,” Garrett says, his voice thick with years of repressed anger. “He’s not a hero. He’s not just a strict, demanding hockey dad.”

Tucker leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Garrett, what’s going on?”

“He’s a monster,” Garrett says bluntly. He stops pacing and looks directly at Logan. “You know how I never go home? You know how I stayed here over the summer? How I only went back for Thanksgiving because he threatened to cut off my tuition if I didn’t show my face?”

Logan nods again, his expression growing darker.

“It’s because he used to beat the shit out of me,” Garrett says.

The words drop like a physical weight into the room.

No one breathes.

Dean’s mouth falls open slightly. Logan’s hands clench into tight fists on his knees. Tucker closes his eyes, a muscle feathering in his jaw.

You stand by the entryway, your heart pounding in your throat. You didn’t know the extent of it until tonight, but hearing him say it out loud, in front of these people, feels incredibly raw.

“He did it to me,” Garrett continues, his voice unwavering now, the dam finally breaking. “And he did it to my mother. For years. He’d get drunk, or he’d get angry that a game didn’t go his way, or his food was cold, and he’d take it out on us. He broke my mom’s wrist when I was twelve. Told everyone she fell down the stairs.”

“Jesus,” Dean whispers, looking physically ill.

“Garrett,” Tucker says quietly, pain lacing his tone. “Why didn’t you ever tell us?”

“Because it’s my shame,” Garrett spits back automatically. Then he catches himself, shaking his head. “No. That’s what he wanted me to think. Because nobody believes that the great Phil Graham is a wife-beating piece of shit. Because I thought I left it behind when I came to Briar.”

Garrett stops. He turns slightly, his eyes finding yours across the room. The pain in his gaze is profound, but there is also a fierce, unyielding resolve.

He turns back to the guys.

“When I went home for Thanksgiving,” Garrett says, “He forced me to have dinner so I could meet his new girlfriend. He wanted to show off. Play the happy family.”

Logan looks confused. “Okay. What does this have to do with …” His voice trails off. His eyes slowly shift from Garrett to you.

The realization hits the room in waves.

You can literally see the progression on their faces.

First, Logan. His brow furrows, his eyes widening as the math clicks into place in his brain.

Then, Dean. He looks at you, really looks at you this time, taking in the youthful softness of your face, the fact that you can’t be more than a year or two older than them. He physically recoils on the couch.

“No,” Dean says, the word slipping out as a breathless exhale. “No fucking way. She’s … she’s a kid. She’s our age.”

“She’s twenty-three,” Garrett confirms, his voice turning cold and clinical. “And my dad is forty-eight.”

The guys glitch.

It’s the only word for it. Their brains visibly short-circuit trying to process the information. The cognitive dissonance of the beautiful, young nurse standing in their hallway and the aging, massive, abusive NHL enforcer is too much to compute.

“Are you serious right now?” Logan asks, his voice dropping an octave, a dangerous edge creeping into his tone. He isn’t angry at Garrett. He’s furious at the situation. “That’s … Garrett, that’s sick.”

“It gets worse,” Garrett says.

He closes the distance between himself and you. He stands right beside you. You shrink back slightly, instinctively grabbing the lapels of your coat, holding it tighter around your neck.

“At dinner,” Garrett says, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper that commands the entire room. “She reached for the gravy. Her sleeve slid up. And she had bruises all over her arm in the shape of a hand.”

A heavy, violent silence descends on the living room.

Tucker stands up. He doesn’t say anything, but his entire posture changes. The calm, relaxed guy who was making bacon two minutes ago is gone, replaced by a wall of silent, protective fury.

“I called him out,” Garrett continues, the guilt bleeding heavily into his words. “I yelled at him. I told her to run, and then I left. I got in my car and I drove back here. I left her there with him.”

Garrett turns to you. He reaches out, his large hand hovering over your arm. He doesn’t touch you. He asks for permission with his eyes.

You stare at him. You are trembling, a fine, uncontrollable shake that you can’t suppress. But you slowly nod.

You let go of your coat.

Garrett gently hooks his fingers under the lapel of your jacket and pulls it back just a few inches. He gestures to your neck, to the v-neck of your scrub top.

Under the harsh, bright lights of the living room, the heavy concealer you applied in the hospital bathroom doesn’t stand a chance. The yellowish bruise on your cheekbone is visible. But worse is the dark, mottled purple bruise peeking out from the collar of your scrubs, covering your collarbone.

Logan curses. It’s a harsh sound. He stands up so fast he knocks the coffee table with his shin, completely ignoring the impact.

“He did that tonight?” Logan demands, pointing a finger at your collarbone, his eyes blazing with a protective rage that genuinely shocks you.

“No,” you say, your voice remarkably small in the large room. “He … he did it after Garrett left on Thanksgiving. Because I embarrassed him.”

Dean puts his head in his hands, burying his face in his palms. “Jesus Christ.”

“She was floated to the ER tonight,” Garrett explains, stepping in front of you again, shielding you from their intense stares. “She was my nurse. He didn’t know I was coming in. If I hadn’t taken that hit tonight, I never would have seen her again. I never would have known.”

“So you brought her here,” Tucker says softly. It’s not an accusation; it’s a confirmation.

“I brought her here,” Garrett nods firmly. “Because if she goes back to that house, he’s going to put her in the hospital as a patient, not a nurse. Or worse. She doesn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Garrett looks at his three best friends. The vulnerability in his eyes is something they have never seen before. Garrett Graham doesn’t ask for

help. He doesn’t show weakness. He leads the team, he carries the weight, and he never complains.

“I’m keeping her here,” Garrett says, his voice leaving absolute zero room for debate. “She takes my room. I’ll sleep on the couch. But I need to know you guys are with me on this. Because Phil is going to figure out she’s gone, and he’s going to lose his goddamn mind.”

Logan doesn’t even hesitate.

He walks around the coffee table and stops directly in front of you. He is tall, broad, and imposing, but when he looks down at you, his blue eyes are completely devoid of the mischievous glint they held earlier. They are dead serious.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” Logan says, extending a massive hand.

You look at his hand, then up at his face. You slowly reach out and shake it. His grip is firm, but incredibly gentle.

“I’m Logan,” he says softly. “And no one is laying a hand on you ever again. You understand me? That guy steps foot on our property, he’s going to have to go through all four of us. And I promise you, we fight a hell of a lot dirtier than he does.”

“He’s a washed-up, geriatric bully,” Dean says, walking over to join Logan. He doesn’t smile, but there’s a ruthless kind of confidence in his posture. “We’re in our prime. Let him come. I could use the target practice.”

Tucker is the last to approach. He stops beside Garrett, looking at you with a gentle, fatherly sort of warmth.

“You’re safe here,” Tucker says, his voice deep and soothing. “You can stay as long as you need. No rent, no questions asked. We’ve got plenty of space.”

He pauses, sniffing the air, and then gestures toward the kitchen. “Now, I’ve got bacon burning. Have you eaten anything tonight?”

The sudden shift from intense, life-or-death protection to breakfast food gives you mental whiplash. You blink rapidly, staring at the three massive hockey players who just promised to violently defend a girl they met five minutes ago.

“I … um,” you stammer, completely overwhelmed. The tears you’ve been fighting all night finally break free, hot and fast down your cheeks. “No. I haven’t eaten.”

“Right,” Tucker nods, clapping his hands together once. “Logan, grab some blankets. Dean, go make up Garrett’s bed. Use the clean sheets, you animal, not the ones from the laundry pile.”

“On it,” Dean says, immediately jogging down the hallway.

“I’ll get the good pillows,” Logan says, heading for the stairs.

Tucker turns and heads back into the kitchen. “Garrett, sit her down. Coffee or tea?”

“Tea,” Garrett calls out.

Suddenly, the living room is empty, leaving just you and Garrett.

You stand there, a tear slipping off your chin, completely stunned by the whirlwind of the last five minutes.

Garrett turns to you. The intense, hardened captain who just laid down the law with his team is gone. He just looks incredibly tired, his shoulders slumping slightly.

“Hey,” he murmurs, reaching out to gently catch a tear on your cheek with his thumb. His touch is impossibly light. “It’s okay. You’re okay.”

“They didn’t even ask questions,” you whisper, your voice thick with emotion. “They just … they just accepted it.”

“They’re my family,” Garrett says, a small, genuine smile finally touching his lips. “And when someone messes with family, we circle the wagons. You’re part of the wagon now.”

He gently takes your coat by the lapels and slides it off your shoulders. He drapes it over the arm of the couch, then guides you by the elbow to sit down on the soft cushions.

“Wait here,” Garrett says softly. “I’m going to go help Dean make sure my room is actually clean. Then you’re going to sleep for a week.”

You look up at him, the heavy, crushing weight of the last few months suddenly lifting just a fraction off your chest.

“Garrett?” You ask as he turns to leave.

He pauses, looking back over his shoulder. “Yeah?”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

The words feel woefully inadequate, but Garrett understands the weight behind them.

He gives you a slow, solemn nod. “We’ve got you, Y/N. I promise.”

And as he walks down the hall, leaving you in the warmth of the living room with the smell of bacon drifting from the kitchen, for the very first time, you actually believe it.

***

It’s been three and a half weeks since you walked through the front door of the Briar hockey house in your pink patterned scrubs, terrified and trembling.

In that time, a lot has changed.

The heavy, suffocating fear that used to dictate your every waking moment — the constant anxiety of checking your phone, of listening for the heavy tread of Phil’s boots — has slowly begun to thaw. It hasn’t vanished entirely. You still jump when a door slams too loudly, and your phone remains powered off and stuffed in the bottom of your duffel bag, replaced by a cheap burner phone Tucker bought you at a gas station.

But the house itself is a sanctuary.

It turns out that living with four massive, Division I hockey players is exactly the kind of chaotic distraction you needed.

The front door bangs open, followed instantly by the sound of heavy equipment bags hitting the hardwood floor of the entryway with synchronized thuds.

“I’m telling you, the ref was blind! He was looking right at the guy when he tripped me!” Dean’s voice echoes down the hallway, dripping with dramatic outrage.

“You tripped over the blue line,” Logan retorts, his voice rougher, exhausted. “Nobody touched you. It’s on tape. Stop trying to rewrite history.”

“My ankle is practically shattered,” Dean argues, dropping his keys onto the console table. “I need medical attention. Stat.”

You are already waiting for them in the kitchen.

The large kitchen island has been temporarily converted into what Logan affectionately calls “the triage center.” You have a large first-aid kit open on the granite counter, flanked by instant ice packs, athletic tape, a bottle of ibuprofen, and a stack of clean towels.

You lean against the counter, wearing an oversized Briar Hockey hoodie that Tucker practically forced over your head on day three. You cross your arms and wait as the boys drag themselves into the kitchen.

They look terrible. It was a brutal, incredibly physical Friday night game against Cornell, and the evidence is written all over their bodies.

Dean dramatically limps into the room first, clutching his chest as if he’s taking his final breaths.

“Y/N,” Dean gasps, leaning heavily against the island. “I am a broken man. Patch me up, Doc. Tell me I’ll walk again.”

You roll your eyes, a genuine, easy smile breaking across your face. “Sit on the stool, Dean. You look fine.”

“Fine?” Dean squawks, hoisting himself onto a barstool with a wince. “I took a slash to the calf that would have felled a lesser man. And I think I pulled a muscle in my back.”

“You pulled a muscle reaching for the last slice of pizza in the locker room,” Tucker says dryly as he walks into the kitchen. He opens the refrigerator and pulls out a massive jug of water. He looks over at you, his expression softening into a fond, older-brother smile. “Hey, Y/N. How was your night?”

“Quiet,” you say, tossing an ice pack to Dean, who catches it clumsily. “Put that on your calf, you big baby. How’s the rib, Tuck?”

Tucker lifts the hem of his t-shirt, revealing a nasty, yellow-purple bruise blossoming over his lower ribs. He played through the pain, but the grimace on his face betrays him.

“Stiff,” Tucker admits, taking a seat at the island next to Dean. “Took a stick right under the padding in the second period.”

You immediately step forward, all business. You pull a fresh roll of wide athletic tape from your kit. “Stand up. Let me wrap it. It’ll give you some compression and keep it from aching when you breathe.”

“You are an angel sent from heaven,” Tucker groans, standing up and raising his arms so you can wrap the heavy tape tightly around his torso.

“She’s not an angel, she’s a tyrant,” Logan grumbles, shuffling into the kitchen last.

Logan looks like he got the worst of it. There is a fresh cut high on his cheekbone, held together by a hasty butterfly bandage from the team trainer, and he’s favoring his left shoulder heavily. He drops into the stool on the opposite side of the island and rests his head against the cool granite counter.

“Don’t be a baby, Logan,” you scold gently, finishing the wrap on Tucker’s ribs and snipping the tape with a pair of medical scissors. “Let me see the shoulder.”

“It’s just bruised,” Logan mumbles into the counter.

You walk around the island and gently smack the back of his head. “Sit up. Shirt off. Now.”

Logan groans, but he obeys instantly.

This is the routine. Somewhere around the end of week one, when they all came home from a particularly brutal practice nursing various ailments, your professional instincts kicked in. You couldn’t sit on the couch and watch them clumsily apply ice packs and struggle to bandage their own cuts.

Before you knew it, you had practically adopted them. Or, more accurately, they had adopted you.

The dynamic shifted rapidly. The awkwardness of your arrival faded, replaced by an easy, familial banter. Dean stopped trying to casually flirt with you after Logan pulled him aside and threatened to rearrange his teeth. “She’s our sister now, bro,” Logan had told him. “Keep your dick in your pants or I’ll cut it off.”

And they mean it. The protective instinct they showed on that first night has only deepened. If you walk to the campus library to return a book, one of them is walking with you. If you need something from the grocery store, Tucker goes to get it. They screen every call to the landline, and they keep the front door double deadbolted.

They are your brothers.

You pull Logan’s t-shirt over his head, being careful of his left arm. His shoulder is already swelling, the skin hot to the touch.

“Ice,” you declare, cracking another instant cold pack and pressing it firmly against his shoulder joint.

Logan hisses sharply. “Fuck, Y/N, warn a guy.”

“Language,” you chide automatically, holding the ice pack in place. “Twenty minutes. If you take it off early, I won’t make those chocolate chip pancakes you asked for tomorrow morning.”

“You fight dirty,” Logan mutters, reaching up with his good arm to hold the ice pack himself. But he looks at you, his blue eyes warm with affection. “Thanks, kid.”

“Anytime,” you smile.

You wipe your hands on a towel and look toward the entryway. The house is suddenly very quiet.

“Where’s Garrett?” You ask.

The atmosphere in the kitchen shifts almost imperceptibly. Dean clears his throat, focusing intently on his phone. Tucker takes a long sip of his water.

“He’s coming,” Logan says carefully. “He stayed back to talk to Coach for a minute. Took a pretty bad hit into the boards in the third period.”

Your stomach tightens immediately. “Is he hurt?”

“He’s fine,” Tucker says quickly, though his eyes meet Logan’s for a fraction of a second. “Just got the wind knocked out of him.”

It’s a lie. You know it’s a lie. You’ve learned to read the micro-expressions of these three guys over the last month, and right now, they are hiding something.

Before you can interrogate them, the heavy front door opens and clicks shut.

Footsteps sound in the hallway, slower and heavier than usual.

Garrett walks into the kitchen.

He looks exhausted. The dark circles under his eyes stand out sharply against his pale skin. He’s wearing his Briar hockey sweats and a grey t-shirt, his gym bag slung over his right shoulder. But it’s the way he holds himself that catches your attention. He’s stiff, his posture unnaturally rigid, as if moving too quickly will shatter him.

He stops in the doorway, his dark eyes instantly locking onto yours.

The air between you crackles, thick and heavy with an unspoken, unresolved tension that has been building since the night he brought you here.

With Logan, Dean, and Tucker, the boundaries are clear. They are the overprotective older brothers. You are the little sister they never had. The relationship is simple, platonic, and incredibly healing.

With Garrett, there is nothing simple about it.

He is the reason you are here. He is the one who saved you. He is the one who gave up his own bed to sleep on the uncomfortable living room couch for almost a month, refusing to let you sleep anywhere else.

But he keeps his distance.

He watches you. You catch him staring at you when he thinks you aren’t looking — when you’re making coffee in the morning, when you’re laughing at one of Dean’s stupid jokes, when you’re simply reading a book on the couch. His gaze is always intense, brooding, and unreadable.

He doesn’t banter with you the way the others do. He speaks to you softly, carefully, as if you are something fragile that might break if he raises his voice. He treats you like precious glass, and while the respect is a beautiful contrast to Phil, the physical distance he maintains aches in a way you don’t fully understand.

“Hey, G,” Dean says, breaking the heavy silence. “You alive?”

“Barely,” Garrett grunts, his eyes finally dropping from yours. He walks over to the refrigerator, moving with a distinct lack of his usual fluid grace.

“Sit down, Garrett,” you say, your voice shifting back into its authoritative, nurse cadence.

Garrett pauses, his hand on the handle of the fridge. He looks over his shoulder at you. “I’m fine, Y/N.”

“No, you’re not,” you fire back, crossing your arms. “You’re moving like an eighty-year-old man with arthritis. Come sit at the triage center.”

Logan snorts a laugh, instantly wincing as it jostles his shoulder. “Listen to the boss, man. Don’t fight it.”

Garrett sighs, a heavy, resigned sound. He lets go of the fridge and walks slowly over to the only empty stool at the island, directly in front of you. He sits down, resting his forearms on his thighs, looking up at you from beneath his dark lashes.

“Where does it hurt?” You ask, stepping closer.

You are close enough to smell the familiar, masculine scent of his cedarwood body wash mixed with the sharp tang of sweat. Your heart does a ridiculous, completely unprofessional flutter against your ribs.

“Lower back,” Garrett admits quietly. “Got cross-checked into the boards. Hit the edge of the gate.”

You nod, keeping your expression neutral. “Shirt off.”

Garrett hesitates.

He has watched you patch up his roommates dozens of times. He has seen you casually pull off their shirts, wrap their ribs, ice their shoulders. But whenever it comes to him, he balks. He has spent the last month actively avoiding any physical contact with you. If you pass each other in the narrow hallway, he flattens himself against the wall to ensure you don’t brush shoulders.

“Garrett,” you prompt gently. “I can’t see the bruise through the cotton.”

He swallows hard, his jaw clenching. He reaches down, grabs the hem of his t-shirt, and pulls it over his head.

You hear Dean suck in a breath through his teeth.

“Jesus, G,” Tucker mutters.

You bite the inside of your cheek hard to keep from gasping.

The bruise is massive. It covers the entire right side of his lower back, stretching from his spine to his hip bone. It is an angry, mottled tapestry of black, deep purple, and swollen red. The skin is visibly raised, the impact point raw and ugly.

“You played the rest of the period with this?” You ask, your voice tight with professional disapproval and a sudden, sharp spike of personal concern.

“Yeah,” Garrett says simply, staring straight ahead at the granite counter.

You don’t say anything else. You reach into your kit and pull out a large tube of arnica cream and a heavy-duty ice pack.

“Lean forward,” you instruct softly. “Rest your arms on the counter.”

Garrett complies, leaning forward and resting his head on his crossed arms. The muscles in his broad back tense tightly under his skin.

You squeeze a dollop of the cooling arnica cream onto your fingers. “This is going to be cold.”

“Okay,” he whispers.

You press your fingers against the unbruised skin just above the swelling, gently working the cream into his muscles before moving down toward the agonizingly tender center of the bruise.

The moment your skin makes contact with his, Garrett flinches violently.

A full-body shudder violently rips through his frame. He sucks in a sharp, jagged breath, his hands gripping the edge of the granite counter so hard his knuckles turn white.

You freeze instantly, yanking your hands back as if you burned him.

“I’m sorry,” you gasp, panic flaring in your chest. “I’m so sorry, Garrett, did I press too hard? I know it’s tender-”

“No,” Garrett grits out, his voice incredibly strained, his eyes squeezed shut. “No, you didn’t press too hard. You’re fine.”

You stare at his back, your hands hovering uselessly in the air. “Garrett, you practically jumped off the stool.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats, harsher this time. He slowly opens his eyes and sits up, turning his head to look at you. His dark eyes are wild, storm-tossed, and completely overwhelmed. “Just put the ice on it.”

You swallow hard, hurt flashing hot and fast through your chest. You grab the instant cold pack and crack it, handing it to him without a word.

He takes it, pressing it clumsily against his lower back.

The silence in the kitchen is suddenly deafening. The easy banter from ten minutes ago has vanished completely.

Logan, Dean, and Tucker exchange a highly loaded, silent conversation over Garrett’s head.

“Alright,” Tucker says smoothly, standing up and stretching. “I need a shower. The smell of Dean’s whining is making me nauseous.”

“Hey!” Dean protests, but Logan immediately reaches out with his good arm and grabs Dean by the collar of his t-shirt, hauling him off the stool.

“Shower time,” Logan says firmly, dragging Dean toward the hallway. “Leave the nurse alone. She’s off the clock.”

“My calf!” Dean yelps as he’s dragged away.

Within seconds, the three of them are gone. The sound of their bedroom doors shutting echoes down the hall, leaving you and Garrett entirely alone in the brightly lit kitchen.

The air is practically vibrating with tension.

You stand on one side of the island; Garrett sits on the other. He keeps the ice pack pressed to his back, staring intensely at a spot on the granite counter near your hand.

You reach out and slowly begin packing up the first-aid kit. You zip the bag shut, the sound obnoxiously loud in the quiet room.

“I’m sorry,” Garrett says suddenly.

His voice is low, rough like gravel. It stops you dead in your tracks.

You look up at him. “For what? Being injured?”

“For snapping at you,” Garrett says, finally lifting his head to meet your gaze. The vulnerability in his eyes makes your breath hitch. “I didn’t mean to yell. You didn’t hurt me.”

“Then why did you flinch?” You ask quietly, the question slipping out before you can stop it. You cross your arms, suddenly feeling incredibly small in the oversized hoodie. “You avoid me, Garrett. You’ve been doing it for weeks. You won’t even sit on the same couch as me.”

Garrett closes his eyes, a muscle feathering wildly in his tight jaw. He lets out a long, ragged breath, letting his head fall back in defeat.

“I don’t avoid you because I don’t want to be near you,” he confesses, the words sounding like they are being ripped out of his chest.

“Then why?”

Garrett drops the ice pack onto the counter. He stands up. He doesn’t put his shirt back on. He walks slowly around the kitchen island, closing the physical distance between you until he is standing just inches away.

You have to tilt your head back to look at him. His chest is broad, marked with pale scars and the faint remnants of old bruises. He is an imposing, powerful force, but as he looks down at you, he looks completely broken.

“Because my brain is scrambled,” Garrett whispers, lifting a hand as if to touch your face, before violently forcing it back to his side, his fingers curling into a fist. “Because every time you walk into a room, I can’t breathe.”

You stare at him, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “Garrett …”

“You are so gentle,” he continues, his voice cracking, the raw emotion finally bleeding out. “You touch Logan and Dean and Tucker, and you fix them. You’re so good. And I am …” He chokes on the word, shaking his head. “I am my father’s son.”

The words hit you like a physical blow. You physically recoil, shock radiating through your entire body.

“No,” you say instantly, your voice fierce and immediate. “No, you are not.”

“You don’t understand,” Garrett argues desperately, taking a half-step back, trying to maintain the wall he has built between you. “You saw the violence in that house. You lived it. And I have that same blood in my veins. I play a violent sport. I get angry. I lose my temper.”

He runs both hands through his messy hair, pulling at the roots.

“When you touched my back just now,” Garrett admits, his voice dropping to an agonizing whisper, “when I felt how soft your hands were … it made me sick to my stomach. Because I know what my father’s hands did to you. I know what he did to my mother. And I am terrified that if I let myself get close to you, if I let myself touch you, I will somehow taint you. I will ruin you just like he did.”

Tears well up in your eyes, hot and blinding.

The profound, crushing weight of his guilt is devastating. He isn’t avoiding you because he doesn’t care. He is avoiding you because he cares too much. He is punishing himself for the sins of his father, terrified of a phantom inheritance he doesn’t even possess.

“Garrett Graham,” you say, your voice shaking but absolutely resolute.

You close the distance between you. You don’t ask for permission. You reach out, placing both of your hands flat against his bare chest, right over his rapidly beating heart.

He gasps, a sharp intake of air, his entire body going rigid under your touch. But he doesn’t pull away.

“Look at me,” you demand softly.

He slowly opens his eyes. A single tear escapes, cutting a clean track down his cheek.

“You are nothing like him,” you whisper, holding his gaze with everything you have. You press your hands firmly against the solid warmth of his chest, refusing to let him flinch away from your touch. “Do you hear me? Nothing. You are the man who pulled me out of a nightmare. You gave up your bed for me. You protect me. You gave me a home.”

“Y/N …” he breathes, his hands trembling at his sides.

“Phil controlled me through fear,” you say, the absolute truth of it ringing clear in the quiet kitchen. “You gave me back my life. Your hands …” You slide one of your hands up his chest, resting your palm against his cheek. His skin is hot, the scruff of his beard slightly rough against your sensitive fingers. “Your hands are safe.”

Garrett leans into your touch, his eyes fluttering shut. A broken, shuddering sigh escapes his lips, the sound of a man who has been holding his breath for twenty years finally exhaling.

He slowly, hesitantly, raises his own hands.

He doesn’t grab you. He doesn’t pull you in. He just gently, reverently, rests his large hands on your waist. His grip is impossibly light, his thumbs brushing lightly against the fabric of the oversized hoodie.

It is the first time he has truly touched you since the night in the emergency room.

“I want you,” Garrett whispers into the quiet space between you, the confession heavy and undeniable. He opens his eyes, staring down at your lips before meeting your gaze. “I’ve wanted you since the second you walked into that ER room and I realized I had a chance to get you out.”

Your breath hitches. The professional boundaries, the nurse-patient dynamic, the complicated tangle of his father — it all fades into the background, leaving only the undeniable, electric connection thrumming between you.

“I want you too,” you breathe back, the truth terrifying but exhilarating.

Garrett’s eyes darken. The tension in his jaw shifts from anxious to something entirely different, something intensely focused and overwhelmingly male.

His hands tighten marginally on your waist, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer. You can feel the heat radiating off his body, the heavy, rhythmic thud of his heart beneath your palm.

He leans down, his face so close to yours that his warm breath fans across your lips.

Suddenly, the harsh, shrill ring of the phone on the kitchen counter shatters the silence.

You both jump violently.

Garrett pulls back, his eyes wide, his chest heaving as if he’s just run a marathon.

You spin around to look at the phone. It sits on the granite counter, ringing incessantly. The caller ID screen glows with a bright red, blocked number.

The heavy, suffocating reality of your situation crashes back down onto you like a physical weight.

You aren’t just a girl flirting with a guy in a kitchen. You are a girl hiding from a monster. And that monster is still out there.

Garrett stares at the phone, his expression hardening instantly. The vulnerable, open man from a moment ago vanishes, replaced entirely by the fierce, protective captain.

He steps in front of you, shielding you from the ringing phone as if it can physically hurt you.

“Don’t answer it,” Garrett says, his voice cold and deadly serious.

You don’t need to be told twice. You stare at the flashing red light, your heart pounding a frantic, terrifying rhythm.

The phone rings a fifth time. Then a sixth.

Then, it stops.

The kitchen is plunged back into silence, but it is no longer the intimate, charged silence of a moment ago. It is a tense, vigilant quiet.

Garrett turns back to you. He reaches out and gently cups your face, his thumb stroking your cheekbone, right over the spot where the yellow bruise has finally faded away completely.

“I’ve got you,” Garrett promises, his voice a fierce, unyielding vow. “He’s never getting near you again.”

You lean into his touch, drawing strength from his steady presence. The threat is still out there, looming in the shadows of blocked calls and unanswered questions.

But as you look up into Garrett Graham’s determined eyes, surrounded by the quiet walls of a house filled with four guys who would literally fight for you, you know one thing for absolute certain.

You are exactly where you are supposed to be.

***

The air in the house has been different since the night the phone rang.

There’s a new, fragile understanding between you and Garrett. The invisible wall he built between you is gone, replaced by a magnetic, undeniable pull that hums in the background of every interaction. He doesn’t avoid you anymore. If you’re on the couch reading, he sits on the other end, his foot casually resting against your leg. When he hands you a cup of coffee in the morning, his fingers linger against yours.

But the threat of that blocked caller ID still hangs over the house like a dark cloud. The boys are doubly vigilant. Someone is always awake. The doors are always locked.

Which is why leaving for your Tuesday day shift feels like a military operation.

“I’m just going to the hospital,” you say, laughing as Tucker practically inspects the locks on your car doors. “I work in a building filled with security guards and police officers, Tuck. I promise, I’m safe.”

“Humor me,” Tucker murmurs, leaning against your driver’s side window. “Text the group chat when you get into the breakroom. Text us when you leave.”

“I will,” you promise.

You look toward the front porch. Garrett is leaning against the wooden railing, his arms crossed over his broad chest. He’s wearing a fitted black Henley that makes his shoulders look impossibly wide, his dark hair messy from sleep. He catches your eye, and that familiar, intense heat flares between you.

“I’m stopping at Market Basket on the way home,” you call out to the porch. “Do you guys need anything?”

The front door flies open. Dean leans out, a piece of toast in his mouth. “Bagel Bites! The pepperoni kind, not the cheese kind. And some of those sour gummy worms!”

“Protein powder,” Logan yells from somewhere inside the house. “Chocolate peanut butter!”

“Actual food,” Tucker corrects, shooting Dean a dirty look. “Grab some chicken breasts and a bag of spinach. I’m making stir-fry tonight.”

You smile, pulling a small notepad from your scrub pocket and jotting it down. “Bagel Bites, protein, chicken, spinach. Got it.”

You look back at Garrett. “What about you? Anything you want?”

Garrett pushes off the railing and walks slowly down the steps, not stopping until he is standing right outside your open car window. He rests his hands on the roof of your car, leaning down so his face is level with yours.

“Just come straight home after,” Garrett says, his voice low, meant only for you. His dark eyes scan your face, taking in the soft, natural makeup you started wearing again now that there are no bruises to hide. “Don’t loiter in the aisles.”

“It’s a grocery store, Garrett,” you tease gently, the corner of your mouth tipping up. “I’m not exactly going to be partying in the produce section. I get off at six. I’ll be home by seven.”

Garrett reaches through the open window. He gently tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, his knuckles grazing your cheek. The simple, affectionate gesture makes your heart skip a beat.

“Seven,” he repeats firmly. “Text me when you leave the hospital.”

“I will.”

“Drive safe.”

The shift is brutally busy. A nasty strain of RSV is making its way through the local elementary schools, and the pediatric ward is overflowing. You spend eight hours running from room to room, charting, soothing terrified toddlers, and administering breathing treatments.

By the time six o’clock rolls around, your feet are aching, and all you want is a hot shower and Tucker’s chicken stir-fry.

You pull your burner phone out of your locker and shoot a quick text to the group chat: Clocking out. Heading to Market Basket. See you animals soon.

Four immediate replies light up your screen.

Dean: BAGEL BITES

Tucker: Drive safe

Logan: Jif > Skippy

Garrett: See you at home

You smile, shoving the phone into your bag, and head out into the crisp, darkening December evening.

***

7 PM comes and goes.

Garrett is sitting on the edge of the living room coffee table, his elbows resting on his knees, his phone loosely gripped in his hands. The TV is playing a muted hockey game, but he hasn’t looked at the screen in twenty minutes.

He taps his thumb rhythmically against the edge of his phone case.

“Relax, G,” Logan says from the couch, tossing a lacrosse ball up and catching it. “The grocery store is probably packed with people buying milk because the weather channel threatened a flurry.”

“She said she’d be home by seven,” Garrett says, his voice tight.

“It’s 7:15,” Tucker points out reasonably from the kitchen, where he’s chopping vegetables. “She had to get Dean’s processed garbage and Logan’s overpriced chalk powder. Give her a minute.”

Garrett stands up, the nervous energy impossible to contain. He starts pacing the length of the living room. “I’m calling her.”

He hits your contact name and puts the phone to his ear.

It rings twice, and then goes straight to voicemail.

Garrett stops pacing. The blood turns to ice in his veins. “It went straight to voicemail.”

Dean pauses his video game, the playful atmosphere in the room instantly evaporating. “Maybe her battery died? Those cheap burner phones Tucker bought have terrible battery life.”

“She charged it this morning,” Garrett snaps, the panic beginning to claw its way up his throat. “I saw it plugged into the kitchen wall.”

He hits redial.

“Fuck,” Garrett breathes, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looks at his three best friends. “Something’s wrong.”

Tucker sets his knife down on the cutting board. He doesn’t argue. He doesn’t tell Garrett he’s overreacting. He just reaches for a dish towel, wipes his hands, and grabs his keys from the counter.

“Let’s go,” Tucker says.

The drive to the local Market Basket is a blur of reckless speeding and suffocating silence. Garrett is in the passenger seat of Tucker’s truck,

his knee bouncing violently up and down. Logan and Dean are crammed in the back, both holding their phones, constantly refreshing your location on the Life360 app they forced you to download last week.

“Her dot hasn’t moved,” Logan says, his voice grim. “It’s showing her right at the Market Basket parking lot. Has been for forty minutes.”

“Step on it, Tuck,” Garrett grits out, his hands clenched into tight, white-knuckled fists.

Tucker runs a red light, swerving around a slow-moving sedan, and takes the turn into the shopping plaza so fast the tires squeal in protest.

The parking lot is moderately full, but not packed. The bright, fluorescent lights of the grocery store spill out onto the pavement, illuminating the rows of cars.

“There,” Dean points from the backseat. “Row G. Under the light.”

Tucker slams on the brakes, throwing the truck into park before it even fully stops.

Garrett is out of the door before the engine cuts off.

He sprints toward your small, sensible sedan. From a distance, it looks completely normal. But as Garrett gets closer, the horrifying details snap into sharp, devastating focus.

Your driver’s side door is wide open.

“Y/N!” Garrett shouts, his voice tearing through the quiet parking lot.

He reaches the car. You aren’t inside. The keys are still in the ignition. Your hospital badge is resting on the center console.

But it’s the ground outside the car that makes Garrett’s stomach drop out from under him.

Groceries are scattered across the black asphalt. A plastic Market Basket bag is torn open. A box of Dean’s Bagel Bites is crushed under the tire. A jar of marinara sauce has shattered, the red liquid pooling on the ground, looking terrifyingly like blood in the dim light.

And right next to the shattered glass is your burner phone. The screen is spider-webbed with cracks, completely dead.

“Oh, god,” Logan breathes, coming up behind Garrett.

Dean and Tucker arrive a second later. They take one look at the abandoned car, the scattered groceries, the open door, and the reality of the situation hits them like a freight train.

“Split up,” Garrett barks, the sheer, primal terror hijacking his brain and turning it into pure, unadulterated adrenaline. “Check the store. Check the bathrooms. Logan, with me. We take the back alley.”

Garrett doesn’t wait for a response. He turns and sprints toward the dark, narrow alleyway that runs between the Market Basket and the neighboring hardware store, leading back toward the loading docks and dumpsters.

It’s dark back here. The streetlights from the parking lot don’t reach the alley. The only illumination is the faint, yellow glow of a single security bulb high above the receiving doors.

“Y/N!” Garrett screams again, the sound raw and desperate, echoing off the brick walls.

“Garrett, over here!” Logan yells from somewhere near the dumpsters.

Garrett pivots, his heavy boots pounding against the pavement. He rounds the corner of a massive green dumpster.

And then he stops.

His brain simply refuses to process what his eyes are seeing. It’s too much. It’s too horrific. The cognitive dissonance is so severe that for a fraction of a second, the world goes completely silent and still.

You are lying on the cold, dirty asphalt, shoved up against the brick wall.

You are crumpled into a fetal position, your pink scrubs stained dark with mud and something much, much worse.

“No,” Garrett whispers, the sound completely broken.

He closes the distance in two massive strides and drops to his knees on the hard pavement, completely ignoring the sharp sting as his skin scrapes against the ground.

“Y/N,” he chokes out, his hands hovering over your body, terrified to touch you, terrified to cause more pain.

You don’t move.

The security light catches the side of your face, and a violent, sickening wave of nausea rolls through Garrett.

You are unrecognizable.

Your face is a swollen, bloody mess. Your lip is split open, still sluggishly bleeding. Your left eye is completely swollen shut, the skin around it already blooming into an angry, terrifying black-and-purple mass. There is a deep, jagged cut across your cheekbone, and your nose is visibly broken, pushed off to an unnatural angle.

But it’s not just your face.

Your scrub top is torn at the shoulder. Your arms are wrapped defensively around your torso, but Garrett can see the dark, brutal bruises forming on your forearms — defensive wounds. Someone kicked you. Someone beat you until you couldn’t stand, and then they kept going.

“Call 911!” Garrett roars, turning to Logan, who is standing frozen in pure shock. “Logan, call 911 right fucking now!”

Logan snaps out of it, fumbling for his phone, his hands shaking so violently he almost drops it. “I got it. I got it.”

Garrett turns back to you. His heart is pounding so hard it feels like it’s going to shatter his ribs. He strips off his heavy winter coat, uncaring of the freezing temperature, and gently, so incredibly gently, drapes it over your trembling body.

Because you are trembling. A violent, terrifying, full-body shudder.

“Y/N,” Garrett begs, his voice breaking into a sob. He carefully rests a hand on the side of your uninjured face. Your skin is like ice. “Baby, please. Please look at me. Open your eyes.”

You don’t open your eyes. But a weak, agonizing whimper escapes your lips.

“I’m here,” Garrett says, the tears hot and fast down his own face now. “I’m right here. I’ve got you. The ambulance is coming.”

“They’re on their way,” Logan says loudly, his voice tight with panic. He crouches down on the other side of you. “Tucker and Dean are directing them to the alley.”

Garrett doesn’t acknowledge Logan. He can’t look away from you.

He carefully slides his hand down your neck, pressing his two fingers against your carotid artery. Your pulse is there, but it’s weak, thready, and far too fast.

He shifts slightly, trying to pull the coat tighter around your shoulders to trap whatever body heat you have left, and as he does, your arm falls limply to the side.

Your scrub sleeve slides up.

There, stark against your cold skin, are the fresh, dark shapes of a massive handprint gripping your bicep.

The exact same size. The exact same shape.

Garrett’s breath stops.

The terror, the frantic panic that has been driving him for the last thirty minutes, suddenly crystallizes. It hardens into something cold, sharp, and infinitely dangerous.

It wasn’t a mugging. Your purse is still lying three feet away, your wallet sticking halfway out. It wasn’t a random attack.

It was Phil.

Garrett looks down at your broken, bleeding body. He remembers the bruises on his mother. He remembers the nights she would cry quietly in the bathroom, applying ice packs to her ribs. He remembers his own broken bones, the split lips, the concussions.

But it was never, ever this bad.

Phil hit them to control them. He hit them to establish dominance. He hit them to instill fear.

He didn’t do this to instill fear. He did this to punish.

You escaping, slipping through his fingers, finding refuge with his own son — it must have enraged Phil to a point of sheer, psychotic violence. This was retaliation. This was a message. This was Phil trying to beat the defiance out of you permanently.

A dark, terrifying rage explodes in Garrett’s chest. It is a violent, primal urge that eclipses everything else.

He wants to kill him.

The thought isn’t an exaggeration. It isn’t a figure of speech. As Garrett kneels on the freezing asphalt, the blood of the woman he is falling in love with staining his hands, he feels a terrifyingly calm certainty settle into his bones.

He is going to find his father, and he is going to beat him to death with his bare hands. He is going to commit patricide. And he doesn’t feel an ounce of remorse about it.

“Garrett,” Logan says, his voice cutting through the ringing in Garrett’s ears. Logan reaches out and grips Garrett’s shoulder hard. “Hey. Look at me.”

Garrett slowly turns his head. His dark eyes are completely void of any humanity. They are pitch black, lethal, and terrifying.

Even Logan, who faces down two-hundred-pound defensemen every night, flinches slightly at the look on his captain’s face.

“Don’t do it,” Logan whispers, reading Garrett’s mind with the terrifying accuracy of a best friend. “Don’t go there right now. She needs you here.”

“He did this,” Garrett says. His voice doesn’t sound like his own. It’s a low, guttural rasp that sounds like it’s vibrating straight from hell. “My father did this to her.”

Logan looks down at you, his own eyes filling with tears. “I know. I know he did, G. And we will deal with him. I swear to god, we will deal with him. But right now, you have to keep her awake.”

The wail of sirens cuts through the night air, growing louder, closer.

Red and blue lights begin to bounce off the brick walls of the alleyway.

“Garrett,” you whisper.

The sound is so quiet, so weak, Garrett almost misses it over the sirens.

He snaps his attention back to you instantly. The murderous rage is shoved violently into a box in the back of his mind, locked away for later. Right now, there is only you.

“I’m here,” Garrett says frantically, leaning in closer, pressing his forehead gently against your uninjured temple. “I’m right here, baby. Don’t try to talk. Just breathe.”

Your uninjured eye flutters open. The pupil is blown wide, completely unfocused. You look incredibly confused, your gaze darting around the dark alley before finally landing on his face.

A fresh tear slips out of the corner of your eye, cutting a clean path through the blood on your cheek.

“He found me,” you sob, a weak, wet sound that shatters whatever is left of Garrett’s heart. “Garrett, he found me.”

“I know,” Garrett chokes out, grabbing your cold, trembling hand in both of his, pressing it to his lips. He kisses your knuckles, tasting salt and copper. “I know, Y/N. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

“He said …” You have to stop, gasping for a shallow breath. Every movement clearly causes you immense agony. “He said you couldn’t keep me. He said I belonged to him.”

“You don’t belong to him,” Garrett says fiercely, his voice vibrating with absolute conviction. “You hear me? You are not his.”

“Hurts,” you whimper, your eye fluttering shut again. “Garrett, it hurts so bad.”

“I know it does,” Garrett cries, completely uncaring that Logan is watching him break down. “Stay with me, Y/N. The paramedics are right here. They’re going to give you something for the pain. Just hold on for me. Please, baby, just hold on.”

Footsteps thunder down the alleyway.

“Over here!” Dean’s voice yells, completely frantic. “She’s over here! Bring the bag!”

Two paramedics round the dumpster, carrying heavy trauma bags and a backboard. Tucker is right behind them, his face deathly pale.

“Sir, you need to step back,” the first paramedic says, a no-nonsense woman who immediately drops to her knees on the other side of you.

“No,” Garrett says, his grip on your hand tightening. “I’m not leaving her.”

“You don’t have to leave, but you need to give me room to work,” the paramedic insists, already pulling a penlight and a pair of heavy trauma shears from her pockets. “What’s her name?”

“Y/N,” Garrett says, his voice trembling. “She’s a nurse. She’s twenty-three.”

The paramedic flashes the light into your eyes. You moan in protest, trying to turn your head away from the beam.

“Pupils are sluggish,” she barks to her partner. “Significant facial trauma. She’s guarding her abdomen. I need a C-collar and an IV setup, stat. Let’s get her on the board. She’s critical.”

The word rings in Garrett’s ears like a gunshot.

Logan hooks his hands under Garrett’s armpits and hauls him backward, pulling him away from you so the paramedics can work. Garrett fights him for a second, a pure, instinctual need to protect you taking over, before logic finally pierces through the panic.

He stands there, supported entirely by Logan, as they cut away your blood-soaked scrub top. He watches as they secure a rigid plastic collar around your neck, as they stick an IV into your bruised arm, as they carefully roll your broken body onto the hard yellow backboard.

“We need to go,” the paramedic says, strapping you down. “She’s dropping.”

They lift you up and start moving fast toward the waiting ambulance.

Garrett stumbles forward, breaking out of Logan’s grip. “I’m riding with her.”

“Only one person in the back,” the paramedic shouts over her shoulder, not breaking stride.

“It’s me,” Garrett says, leaving zero room for argument.

He turns back to the guys. Dean is crying openly. Tucker looks like he’s about to be sick. Logan looks like he’s ready to go to war.

“Follow us to the hospital,” Garrett says, his voice flat and dead. “Call Robby. He knows one of the trauma surgeons.”

“We’re right behind you, G,” Tucker promises, his voice thick.

Garrett turns and sprints after the stretcher. He climbs into the brightly lit back of the ambulance, the harsh fluorescent lights illuminating the true horror of your injuries.

He takes a seat on the small bench by your head as the ambulance doors slam shut.

The siren wails, a deafening, terrifying sound, as the vehicle lurches forward.

The paramedic is working frantically, attaching heart monitors, pushing fluids through your IV, checking your vitals.

Garrett reaches out, his trembling fingers gently finding yours amidst the tangle of wires and straps. He holds your hand, his eyes locked on your pale, battered face.

You are barely conscious, fighting a losing battle against the pain and the shock.

But as the ambulance races through the dark streets, Garrett makes a silent, unbreakable vow.

If you survive this. When you survive this.

Phil Graham is a dead man.

Now, Dean pushes open the front door of the house he shares with his teammates, ignores the lingering scent of stale beer from last weekend’s party, and makes a beeline straight for the sunroom.

He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest, and just watches you.

You are sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing a pair of paint-splattered overalls that have definitely seen better days. Your hair is piled into a messy bun, held together by a single pencil, and there is a streak of cerulean blue swiped right across your cheekbone. You are completely engrossed in the canvas propped up on the easel in front of you.

“Did you even go to practice, Di Laurentis, or did you just stand by the glass winking at puck bunnies?” You ask, not even bothering to look up from your palette.

Dean grins, pushing off the doorframe. “I resent that. I winked at exactly zero bunnies today. I am a retired man, remember?”

“Retired from what? Being a menace to the female population of Massachusetts?”

“Exactly.” Dean drops onto the battered floral sofa behind you, sprawling his long legs out. “Besides, Coach ran us through skating drills for an hour. I’m too exhausted to be a menace to anyone but you.”

You finally turn your head, giving him a flat look. “You don’t look exhausted. You look exactly like you always do. Smug.”

“It’s not smugness, babe. It’s natural charisma.” He reaches out, tugging gently on the frayed hem of your overalls. “Come here. Tell me about your day.”

You sigh, setting your paintbrush down and wiping your hands on a rag before crawling over the drop cloth. You settle between his knees, resting your back against the sofa as his hands immediately find your shoulders, his thumbs massaging the tight muscles at the base of your neck.

“It was fine,” you say, closing your eyes as his hands work their magic. “I spent four hours in the studio trying to get the lighting right on this piece, and then I had to go argue with the financial aid office about my scholarship disbursement for next semester.”

Dean’s hands still for a fraction of a second before resuming their steady rhythm. “You know you don’t have to do that, right? Argue with them. I could just-”

“Dean,” you warn, your tone carrying a familiar edge.

“I’m just saying! One phone call. My dad would have a check overnighted, and you wouldn’t have to deal with the bureaucratic bullshit.”

“And we’ve talked about this,” you reply gently, tipping your head back to look up at him upside down. “I am doing this on my own. No Kennedy money, and no Di Laurentis money either.”

Dean looks down at you, his green eyes softening. It still blows his mind sometimes, the sheer grit you possess. You are a Kennedy heiress. You grew up in the exact same upper-crust, east-coast circles he did. He still remembers being twelve years old at some stuffy Hamptons gala, watching you in a perfectly pressed pastel dress, looking absolutely miserable while your parents paraded you around.

But the moment you told your fiercely political, legacy-obsessed family that you were majoring in fine arts instead of pre-law, they cut the cord. Shut off the trust fund, canceled the credit cards, the whole nine yards. Most people from your world would have caved. You just packed a bag, took out loans, fought for a merit scholarship, and showed up at Briar University in a pair of scuffed sneakers.

Dean recognized you immediately freshman year. At first, he just wanted to make sure you were okay — a protective instinct taking over. He made sure you knew where the dining halls were, bullied his teammates into helping you move a terrible thrift-store couch into your dorm, and threatened any guy who looked at you sideways. He thought he was just taking you under his wing. He didn’t realize he was falling completely, hopelessly in love with you until it was already far too late.

“I know, I know,” Dean murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “You’re a strong, independent artist who doesn’t need my money. But you’re still letting me buy you dinner, right? Because I’m starving, and if I have to eat another one of Logan’s weird protein-powder concoctions, I’m going to hurl.”

You laugh, a bright, clear sound that makes his chest tight. “Pizza? Half pepperoni, half whatever disgusting combination you want?”

“It’s called a supreme pizza, you uncultured heathen, and yes.” He kisses you again, lingering this time, his lips brushing softly against yours. “Go wash the paint off your face. I’ll order.”

***

An hour later, the two of you are sitting on the floor of his bedroom, the open pizza box sitting between you. Outside, the Massachusetts wind is howling, rattling the old windows of the hockey house, but inside, wrapped in Dean’s oversized gray hoodie, you are perfectly warm.

“So, next year is looking good,” Dean says around a mouthful of pizza. “But honestly, after Harvard, I don’t even know. My mom is already sending me listings for apartments in Cambridge.”

“She’s excited,” you say, stealing a pepperoni off his side of the box. “Her son, the legacy, heading to Harvard Law. It’s a big deal, Dean. You should be proud.”

“I am,” he says, leaning back against his bedframe. And he is. He’s worked his ass off to keep his grades up alongside hockey, proving to everyone that he’s more than just a rich party boy with a good slap shot. “But it’s going to be weird. No more Briar. No more living with the guys. Just actual adulthood.”

“Terrifying,” you agree, wiping grease from your fingers.

“Hey, it’s not like you aren’t right there with me,” he points out, bumping his knee against yours. “We’re both graduating. We’re both moving on. Which reminds me — have you checked your email today?”

You freeze, your hand hovering over the pizza box. “No.”

“You haven’t?” Dean sits up a little straighter. “Babe, they said the end of the week. Today is Friday. You need to check.”

“I don’t want to look,” you admit, pulling your knees to your chest. “If it’s a rejection, I want to live in denial for just a few more hours. Let me have my pizza in peace.”

“Nope. Absolutely not.” Dean reaches over, grabbing your laptop off the desk and setting it squarely on your lap. “Open it. If it’s a rejection, I will personally drive to the admissions office and key their cars. But it won’t be. Because you’re brilliant.”

You let out a shaky breath, flipping the laptop open. The screen casts a blue glow over your face as you pull up your email. Dean watches you, his heart pounding a steady rhythm against his ribs. He knows how much this means to you. Your art is your entire world. It’s the reason you gave up your family and your fortune.

“Okay,” you whisper. “There’s an email.”

“Read it,” Dean says, leaning over your shoulder. He can smell your shampoo — something fruity and sweet — mixed with the faint, metallic scent of oil paint.

Your eyes dart across the screen, reading the first few lines. And then, you gasp. Your hands fly up to cover your mouth, your eyes widening impossibly far.

“What?” Dean asks, his voice urgent. “What does it say?”

“Dean,” you breathe out, turning to look at him. There are tears welling in your eyes, but your smile is blinding. “Dean, I got in. They accepted me.”

“Holy shit!” Dean barks out a laugh, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you into his lap. He buries his face in your neck, hugging you so tightly you squeak. “I knew it! I fucking knew it! You’re a genius!”

You are laughing and crying at the same time, throwing your arms around his neck. “I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it. Full ride, Dean. They’re covering the tuition and giving me a stipend. I don’t have to take out more loans.”

“Because you’re incredible,” he says fiercely, pulling back to frame your face with his large hands. “I am so proud of you. Do you hear me? So damn proud.”

He kisses you, deep and passionate, pouring every ounce of his pride and love for you into it. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers

tangling in his dark blond hair. It’s a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. You did it. Against all odds, without your family’s safety net, you achieved your dream.

“We have to celebrate,” Dean says, pulling back slightly, his eyes shining. “I’m calling the guys. I’m buying kegs. Hell, I’m renting out the entire bar downtown.”

“Dean, no, we don’t need to do all that,” you laugh, wiping a stray tear from your cheek.

“Yes, we do! My girl is getting her Master of Fine Arts. From Stanford!”

He says the word with so much enthusiasm, so much triumph. But as soon as the syllables leave his mouth, the sound hangs in the air between you.

Stanford.

Dean’s smile falters, just a fraction of an inch.

Stanford. Palo Alto. California.

He suddenly feels like he’s just taken a slapshot bare-chested. The air leaves his lungs in a sharp, silent rush. All the adrenaline, all the excitement that was humming through his veins just a second ago evaporates, replaced by a sudden, icy drop in his stomach.

“Stanford,” he repeats, and this time, his voice doesn’t have the same booming volume. It’s quieter.

You seem to catch the shift in his tone. The massive smile on your face dims slightly, your brows knitting together in concern. “Yeah. Stanford. The MFA program.”

“Right. Right, yeah. West Coast.” Dean forces his mouth back into a smile, though it feels a little stiff. “That’s … that’s amazing, babe.”

“Dean?” You shift in his lap, looking at him closely. “Are you okay?”

“Are you kidding? I’m fantastic,” he lies smoothly, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your lips. “I just … realized how far California is. Going to be a bitch of a flight.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, your eyes searching his face. “It’s … it’s really far.”

“But it’s the best program in the country,” Dean jumps in, his voice slightly louder, desperate to fill the sudden quiet in the room. “And you deserve the best. It’s incredible.”

“We’ll figure it out,” you say, resting your hand against his cheek. Your thumb brushes against his jaw. “Right? I mean, you’ll be in Cambridge, and I’ll be in California, but people do long distance all the time.”

“Exactly,” Dean says immediately. “Long distance. Easy. We’ve got FaceTime. We’ll rack up frequent flyer miles. It’s nothing.”

You study him for a long moment, and Dean actively works to keep his expression open and supportive. He cannot ruin this for you. He will not be the guy who makes your greatest triumph about his own selfish panic. He loves you too much for that.

“Okay,” you finally whisper, leaning your forehead against his. “We’ll figure it out.”

“We will,” Dean promises, pulling you tight against his chest.

***

It is 3 AM.

The house is dead silent, save for the hum of the radiator and the steady, rhythmic sound of your breathing.

You are fast asleep, tangled in the sheets, one arm thrown across Dean’s bare chest. Your head is tucked perfectly into the crook of his neck, exactly where you belong.

Dean is wide awake.

He is staring up at the ceiling, his heart hammering a dull, heavy beat against his ribs. The darkness of the bedroom feels suffocating.

Three thousand miles.

The thought loops in his head on a relentless, torturous cycle. Three thousand miles. A six-hour flight. A three-hour time difference.

He turns his head slightly, burying his nose in your hair, inhaling the faint scent of your shampoo. He closes his eyes, trying to force down the rising tide of panic that has been clawing at his throat for the last six hours.

When he told you they’d figure it out, he meant it. He wants to figure it out. But in the quiet, terrifying solitude of the middle of the night, the reality of the situation is crushing him.

He is going to Harvard Law. The curriculum is famously brutal. He’s going to be drowning in case studies and legal briefs, pulling all-nighters in the library. You are going to a highly competitive, intense MFA program on the other side of the continent. You’ll be spending all your time in the studio, surrounded by new people, new artists, a whole new life.

How does this work? How do they survive this?

Dean has never been an insecure guy. He knows what he brings to the table. But the idea of you being thousands of miles away, living a life that he isn’t a part of every single day … it terrifies him.

What if the distance is too much? What if the time zones make it impossible to talk? What if you meet someone in a coffee shop in Palo Alto who understands your art in a way Dean never could? Someone who doesn’t have a meathead hockey past. Someone who is there.

He tightens his arm around your waist, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer. You murmur softly in your sleep, shifting closer to his heat, your hand curling against his chest.

He loves you. God, he loves you so much it physically aches. You are the best thing that has ever happened to him. You grounded him, you saw past the arrogant hockey star, and you loved him for exactly who he is.

And now, he has to let you go.

He has to smile and pack your boxes and put you on a plane to California, because holding you back would be a betrayal of everything he loves about you.

Dean stares into the dark, his jaw clenched tight, a profound, agonizing fear settling deep into his bones. He is going to lose you. He doesn’t know how, and he doesn’t know when, but as he lies awake holding you in the dark, he is absolutely terrified that this is the beginning of the end. 

***

It has been exactly four days, six hours, and twenty-two minutes since you got the acceptance email from Stanford.

Dean knows the exact timeline because that is exactly how long it has been since he last took a full, deep breath.

It’s Tuesday afternoon, and the hockey house is relatively quiet. Most of the guys are either in class or at the gym. Dean is sprawled on the battered living room couch, his long legs hanging over the armrest, staring blankly at his phone. He’s supposed to be reading a chapter on contract law for his seminar tomorrow, but the textbook is lying face-down on the floor, abandoned.

Instead, he’s doom-scrolling.

His thumb flicks upward. A hockey highlight. Flick. A girl dancing. Flick. A dog falling off a couch. Flick.

The algorithm, sensing his stagnant, depressive mood, throws something different onto his screen. It’s a girl sitting in a bedroom that looks like a library, excitedly tapping a thick paperback book against her chin.

“Okay, BookTok, hear me out,” the girl on the screen says, her voice breathless and enthusiastic. “I just finished the most unhinged dark romance of my entire life, and I am obsessed. The male main character? A total walking red flag, but we love to see it.”

Dean’s thumb hovers over the screen. He doesn’t care about romance books. He’s about to swipe when she says the next sentence.

“He knows she’s going to leave him for her dream job in Scotland,” the girl continues, her eyes wide. “So what does our morally gray king do? He baby traps her. He literally takes a needle to his stash of condoms and microwaves her birth control pills. And the craziest part? It works. She stays. They get married. He loved her enough to be the villain so he wouldn’t lose her.”

Dean freezes.

He stares at the girl on the screen. The video loops, starting over from the beginning.

He baby traps her. Dean scoffs out loud, a harsh, jagged sound in the empty room. He locks his phone and tosses it onto his chest. That is insane. That is genuinely psychotic. He is a good guy. He was raised by a mother who would literally skin him alive if he ever disrespected a woman. He understands consent. He believes in bodily autonomy. The idea of doing something so manipulative, so violating, makes his stomach turn.

But as he lies there staring at the water-stained ceiling, a tiny, insidious voice whispers in the back of his mind. But she stayed.

Dean clenches his jaw. He scrubs a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble there. He hasn’t shaved in three days. He’s losing his mind. You haven’t even left yet, and he’s already grieving you like you’re dead.

If you love something, set it free.

He has always hated that saying. Whoever came up with that bullshit clearly never loved anyone the way he loves you. If you love something, you fight for it. You hold onto it. You don’t just open the door and watch it walk out of your life.

“You look like you’re planning a murder.”

Dean snaps his head up. Logan is standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen, holding a massive protein shake in a shaker bottle. He’s in his sweatpants, a towel draped over his broad shoulders.

“Just thinking,” Dean mutters, sitting up and letting his phone slide onto the cushions.

Logan walks over and drops into the armchair across from him. “About what? You haven’t spoken a full sentence to anyone in the house since Friday night.”

“I’ve spoken.”

“Grunting when someone asks you to pass the salt doesn’t count, man,” Logan says, unscrewing the cap of his bottle. He takes a long drink, his eyes never leaving Dean’s face. “Talk to me. You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling.”

“You’re wearing the same hoodie you wore to practice yesterday. You smell like despair and cheap body wash.” Logan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “This is about Stanford, isn’t it?”

Dean glares at him. “Don’t say the word.”

“Stanford? Palo Alto? California? West Coast?”

“Shut up, Logan.”

“Look,” Logan sighs, his tone softening slightly. “I get it. It sucks. But guys do long distance all the time. It’s not the end of the world.”

“It’s three thousand miles,” Dean snaps, his voice rising despite his effort to keep it steady. “Do you know what the success rate is for long-distance relationships in grad school? It’s abysmal. Especially when one person is doing law and the other is doing an intensive art program.”

“So you’re just giving up?”

“No! I’m not giving up!” Dean drags both hands through his hair, tugging hard at the roots. “I want her to go. I want her to have everything she wants. She deserves this. She fought so hard for it, and her family treated her like garbage. I am so proud of her, I could burst.”

“But?”

“But I can’t breathe when I think about her leaving,” Dean admits, the truth tearing out of him. His chest heaves. “I don’t know how to do this, Logan. I don’t know how to wake up and not have her right there. I don’t know how to go days without seeing her. What if she realizes she doesn’t need me? What if she builds this whole new life out there, and there’s no room for me in it?”

Logan watches him for a long moment. “Dean, she loves you. You’re acting like she’s looking for an excuse to leave.”

“Distance changes people,” Dean says darkly.

“So what are you going to do?” Logan asks, arching an eyebrow. “Beg her to stay?”

“No. I’d never ask her to give up Stanford for me. That would make me a piece of shit.”

“Then you support her. You help her pack. You buy a webcam. And you trust her.” Logan stands up, slapping Dean on the shoulder as he walks past. “Get your head out of your ass, Di Laurentis. Don’t ruin her moment because you’re terrified.”

Logan leaves the room, and Dean is alone again.

He grabs his phone off the couch. The screen lights up, still paused on the BookTok video.

He loved her enough to be the villain so he wouldn’t lose her.

Dean swallows hard, his throat dry. He swipes out of the app entirely, tossing the phone onto the coffee table. He is not a villain. He is a good guy.

But as he grabs his keys to drive over to your dorm, his hands are shaking.

***

“Look at this one, Dean,” you say, turning your laptop screen toward him.

You are sitting cross-legged on your narrow dorm bed, your glasses pushed up on your head, holding a mug of green tea. Dean is sitting at the foot of the bed, his back against the wall, trying his hardest to look engaged.

“It’s a converted garage in Redwood City,” you explain, pointing at the screen. “It’s about a twenty-minute commute to campus, but the rent is actually manageable with my stipend.”

Dean looks at the photos. The place is tiny. It has exposed pipes, concrete floors, and a kitchenette that consists of a mini-fridge and a hot plate.

“A garage?” Dean says, trying to keep the judgment out of his voice. “Babe, you can’t live in a garage.”

“I’m an artist, Dean. And I’m on a strict budget,” you say, pulling the laptop back to look at the photos again. “Besides, look at the natural light from that skylight. It’s incredible for painting.”

“It doesn’t have a real kitchen,” he points out, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I survive off coffee, dining hall food, and whatever you force-feed me anyway,” you reply with a laugh.

“Yeah, but when I come visit, where am I supposed to cook for you?” Dean asks. “I can’t make you my famous chicken parm on a hot plate.”

You soften instantly, your eyes lifting to meet his. You set the laptop aside and crawl over the duvet, settling onto his lap. You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder.

“You’re going to cook for me?” You murmur against his neck.

“Someone has to keep you alive while you’re out there playing starving artist,” Dean says, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you tight against him. He presses a kiss into your hair.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” you whisper, and Dean can hear the slight tremble in your voice.

The sound of it hits him like a physical blow. His grip on you tightens until it’s almost painful.

“You don’t have to miss me,” he says, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “I’ll visit all the time. I’ll fly out every weekend.”

You pull back slightly, resting your hands on his chest. You look at him with a sad, gentle smile. “Dean, you’re going to be at Harvard Law. You’re not going to have time to fly out every weekend. You’re going to be swamped.”

“I don’t care,” he says fiercely. “I’ll study on the plane.”

“It’s a six-hour flight,” you remind him softly. “And it’s expensive.”

“I have money.”

“But you don’t have infinite time,” you say, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. “We have to be realistic about this. It’s going to be hard.”

“I don’t want to be realistic,” Dean mutters, leaning into your touch. “I want you to stay.”

The room goes dead silent.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Dean wishes he could snatch them back out of the air. He promised himself he wouldn’t do this. He promised he wouldn’t guilt you.

Your hand falls from his face. You look down at your lap, your expression unreadable. “Dean …”

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, his heart hammering against his ribs. “I didn’t mean that. Forget I said it. I want you to go. I’m just … I’m just having a hard time today.”

You look back up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears. “Do you think this is easy for me? Leaving you is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

“Then don’t,” the dark voice in his head whispers.

He shoves the thought away, physically shaking his head. “I know, baby. I know. I’m sorry. I’m just being selfish. Show me the garage again. Let’s look at the skylight.”

You study him for a long moment, clearly torn between addressing his outburst and letting it go. Eventually, you sigh, reaching for the laptop again. “Okay. Look, the bathroom actually has a decent-sized tub.”

Dean forces himself to look at the screen. He nods, making agreeable noises, pointing out things he likes about the tiny, pathetic apartment. But he isn’t really seeing it. He is looking at the screen, but all he can see is the ticking clock counting down the days until he loses you.

“Hey, I need to use the bathroom,” Dean says suddenly, gently lifting you off his lap and standing up. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” you say, your eyes already back on the Zillow listing. “Don’t take too long, I want your opinion on this complex in Mountain View.”

Dean walks out of the bedroom and heads down the short hallway to the shared dorm bathroom. He flips the light switch, closes the door, and locks it.

He leans heavily against the door, closing his eyes and taking a deep, shuddering breath. He feels like he’s vibrating out of his skin. He can’t do this. He can’t sit there and help you pick out the apartment where you’re going to learn how to live without him.

He opens his eyes and walks over to the sink, turning on the cold water. He splashes some on his face, shivering at the sudden chill. He grabs a hand towel off the rack and presses it to his face.

When he lowers the towel, his eyes catch on something resting on the edge of the sink counter, right next to your toothbrush cup.

It’s a small, rectangular object. A plastic compact.

Dean stares at it. He knows exactly what it is.

He slowly reaches out, his fingers trembling slightly, and picks it up. He flips the compact open. Inside is a blister pack of birth control pills. They are small, pink, and perfectly circular. You take one every night before bed. He watches you do it. Half the time, he’s the one who reminds you when you get too distracted by your painting.

He stares down at the little pink pills.

The video from earlier flashes behind his eyes, vivid and loud.

He literally microwaves her birth control pills.

Dean’s breathing turns shallow. The bathroom feels entirely too small, the air too thin.

He is a good guy. He is Dean Di Laurentis. He respects women. He would never take away your choice. He would never violate your body. He would never trap you.

But she stayed. He loved her enough to be the villain.

If you got pregnant.

The thought crashes into his brain like a freight train, loud and violent and impossible to ignore.

If you got pregnant, you couldn’t go to Stanford. You wouldn’t be able to move across the country, live in a tiny garage, and spend eighteen hours a day in a studio surrounded by toxic paint fumes. You would have to stay in Massachusetts. With him.

He has money. He has family support. He has a massive trust fund. He could buy you both a beautiful house in Cambridge. He could set up a state-of-the-art studio for you in the spare bedroom. You could still paint. You could still be an artist. You just wouldn’t be doing it three thousand miles away from him.

He would take care of you. He would give you everything you ever wanted. He would worship the ground you walk on. You would be safe. You would be loved.

And, most importantly, you would be his.

Forever.

Dean’s thumb moves over the smooth foil of the blister pack. It would be so easy. It takes thirty seconds to pop them in the microwave. The heat destroys the active hormones. They look exactly the same, but they become completely useless. You would take them every night, thinking you were protected, and within a month or two …

His heart is pounding so hard he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. His hands are sweating.

He imagines you standing in this very bathroom, holding a positive test. He imagines the look of shock on your face. He imagines pulling you into his arms, telling you it’s going to be okay, promising you that he will fix everything. He imagines your belly swelling with his child. He imagines you walking down the aisle toward him.

He imagines a life where he never has to watch you pack a suitcase and leave him behind.

“Dean?”

Your voice comes from the other side of the door, slightly muffled. “Everything okay in there? You’ve been in there a while.”

Dean flinches, nearly dropping the compact into the sink. He snaps it shut, his breathing ragged.

He stares at his own reflection in the mirror. His eyes are wild, his pupils blown wide. He looks like a stranger. He looks like a monster.

“Yeah!” His voice cracks slightly, and he clears his throat, trying to sound normal. “Yeah, babe, I’m fine. Just washing up.”

“Okay! I think I found a two-bedroom we could actually afford if I got a roommate. Come look!”

The words twist like a knife in his gut. A roommate. Some stranger. Maybe some pretentious art bro who understands color theory and drinks matcha and gets to see you every single day while Dean is stuck in a torts lecture freezing his ass off in Boston.

Dean looks down at his hand. His knuckles are white from how tightly he is gripping the compact.

The line between love and obsession is so incredibly thin, and Dean suddenly realizes he doesn’t know which side he’s standing on anymore. He has always been a guy who plays by the rules. But when the stakes are this high, when the only woman he has ever truly loved is slipping through his fingers … the rules don’t seem to matter as much.

He slowly opens the compact again.

He stares at the foil backing.

He loves you. He loves you so much it’s making him sick. He loves you enough to do anything to keep you.

Dean closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and makes his choice.

***

The next sixty days are the most agonizing, excruciating two months of Dean’s entire life.

It is a completely different kind of torture, a quiet, invisible agony that eats at the lining of his stomach every single second of the day. Every time he looks at you, his heart performs a violent, jagged leap into his throat. He watches you pack cardboard boxes. He watches you buy bubble wrap. He listens to you excitedly chatter over FaceTime to a potential roommate in California. And every time, the same terrified, frantic questions loop in his mind until he feels like he’s losing his grip on reality.

What if it didn’t take? What if the microwave trick was just some stupid internet myth? What if the hormones were still active? What if it’s all for nothing?

The uncertainty is driving him insane. He has always been a man of action. If he wants something on the ice, he skates hard and takes the shot. If he wants a grade, he studies. But this? This is entirely out of his hands. He has set the wheels in motion, and now all he can do is sit back, play the supportive boyfriend, and wait to see if his gamble pays off.

And the guilt. God, the guilt. It hits him at the most random times. When you look at him with those wide, trusting eyes and thank him for helping you tape up a box of canvases. When you fall asleep on his chest, exhausted from finals, murmuring about how much you love him. He feels like a monster. He is a fraud, a liar, a manipulator playing God with your life. But then he pictures you getting on that plane at Logan International Airport, walking out of his life and taking three thousand miles of distance between you, and the guilt instantly evaporates, replaced by a fierce, possessive resolve.

He cannot lose you. He will not lose you.

Four weeks in, you miss your period.

Dean knows exactly what day it’s supposed to start because he has been tracking it in his head like a madman. But when the day comes and goes, you don’t even blink.

“I’m just stressed,” you tell him one afternoon, waving off his carefully casual question while you aggressively highlight a textbook. “My cycle is always wonky when I’m stressed. Between finals, graduation, and the move, my body is probably just freaking out. It’ll come.”

Dean nods, forcing his face to remain a mask of calm indifference, while inside, a tiny spark of hope ignites.

But as week five turns into week six, and week six bleeds into week seven, the spark turns into a roaring fire.

Because Dean starts noticing the signs. Even before you do.

It starts with the coffee. You are a notorious caffeine addict. You practically bleed espresso. But one morning in the kitchen of the hockey house, Dean sets a fresh, steaming mug of your favorite dark roast on the counter next to you. You reach for it, bring it to your lips, and suddenly pale.

“Ugh,” you grimace, pushing the mug away. “Did you burn this?”

Dean blinks, looking at the coffee pot. “No? I made it the exact same way I always do.”

“It smells like burnt plastic,” you say, pressing a hand to your stomach and stepping back from the island. “Actually, could you just pour it down the sink? The smell is making me nauseous.”

Dean slowly picks up the mug, his eyes fixed on your pale face. He pours it down the drain, his heart doing a slow, heavy thud in his chest. Nausea. Aversion to smells.

Then comes the fatigue.

You have always been a night owl, staying up until two in the morning to finish a painting or study. But right around the eight-week mark, Dean finds you dead asleep at seven-thirty in the evening. You fall asleep on his bed, on the couch, once even sitting straight up at your desk with a paintbrush still in your hand.

“I’m just so tired, Dean,” you murmur one evening, burying your face in his chest as you lie on the couch. “I feel like I haven’t slept in a year. My bones feel heavy.”

“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” he soothes, stroking your hair. “Just rest, baby. I’ve got you.”

And then, there are the physical changes. Dean knows your body better than he knows his own playbook. He notices the subtle softening of your

stomach, the slight rounding of your hips. He notices that your breasts are fuller, and that you flinch slightly when he brushes against them.

“They’re sore,” you complain one night as you change into one of his oversized t-shirts. “I think my period is finally coming. PMS is hitting me like a truck this month.”

Dean just smiles softly from the bed, his blood humming with a dark, triumphant thrill. He knows it isn’t PMS. He knows exactly what it is.

It’s working. He did it. You are pregnant. You are carrying his child, and you don’t even know it yet.

But Dean also knows he can’t push it. If he suggests you take a test out of nowhere, you might get suspicious. He has to wait for you to come to the realization on your own. He has to let it be your idea.

The breaking point finally arrives on a rainy Thursday afternoon.

Your apartment is almost entirely packed. There are only two weeks left until your flight to California. The reality of the move has been a dark cloud hanging over Dean’s head, but today, that cloud is about to break.

You are standing in the middle of your living room, taping up a box of books, when you suddenly freeze. The roll of packing tape slips from your fingers, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor.

“Babe?” Dean asks from where he’s sitting on an overturned milk crate, sorting through some of your records. “You good?”

You don’t answer. Your face drains of all color, turning a terrifying, translucent shade of gray. You clap a hand over your mouth, your eyes wide and panicked.

And then, you sprint for the bathroom.

Dean is on his feet instantly, tossing the records aside and chasing after you. He reaches the bathroom just in time to see you drop to your knees in front of the toilet. You retch violently, your shoulders heaving as you empty the contents of your stomach into the bowl.

“Hey, hey, I’m here,” Dean says immediately, dropping to his knees beside you. He gathers your hair in one hand, holding it back from your face, and uses his other hand to rub soothing circles onto your back. “Let it out, baby. I’ve got you.”

You gag again, a miserable, choking sound, before finally collapsing back on your heels. You are trembling violently, tears streaming down your cheeks. Dean reaches up and flushes the toilet, then grabs a damp washcloth from the sink and gently wipes your mouth.

“Food poisoning?” Dean asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “What did we eat for lunch?”

“I don’t …” You shake your head, taking a ragged breath. You lean back against the bathtub, pulling your knees to your chest. You look completely terrified. “Dean.”

“What is it?” He asks softly, sitting cross-legged in front of you.

“Dean, what’s today’s date?”

“May sixteenth,” he answers smoothly.

You let out a quiet, strangled gasp. Your hands fly up into your hair, gripping the roots. “Oh my god.”

“What’s wrong? You’re scaring me, baby. Talk to me.” Dean leans forward, placing his hands on your knees, projecting nothing but steady, loving concern.

“I’m late,” you whisper, the words barely audible over the sound of the rain lashing against the bathroom window. “Dean, I’m so late. I missed my period in April. And now May is halfway through. I haven’t … I haven’t had a period in almost two months.”

Dean allows his eyes to widen in perfectly calculated shock. “Two months?”

“I thought it was stress!” You cry out, your voice cracking. A fresh wave of tears spills over your eyelashes. “I thought it was just the graduation stress, and the move, and … oh my god. The coffee. The exhaustion. I’ve been throwing up all morning.”

“Okay. Hey, look at me.” Dean moves closer, framing your face with his large hands. He wipes your tears with his thumbs. “Look at me. Don’t panic. There are a million reasons you could be late. You said it yourself, the stress is insane right now. Nausea could be a stomach bug.”

“Dean, I need to know,” you sob, grabbing his wrists. “I can’t … I can’t just sit here and wonder. I need to take a test.”

“Okay,” Dean says, his voice a soothing, deep rumble. “Okay. I’ll go to the pharmacy right now. You stay here. Get into bed, drink some water. I’ll be back in ten minutes. I promise.”

“Hurry,” you beg, your eyes wild with fear.

“I will.” Dean kisses your forehead, lingering for a second, before standing up and rushing out of the apartment.

The moment he is alone in his truck, the mask drops.

Dean grips the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, and lets out a massive, shuddering breath. A wild, manic energy surges through his veins. He drives to the nearest CVS, ignoring the speed limit entirely. He buys three different brands of pregnancy tests — Clearblue, First Response, the generic CVS brand — and a pack of prenatal vitamins to keep for later.

When he returns to your apartment, you are sitting on the edge of your bare mattress, staring blankly at the wall. You look incredibly small, swallowed up in one of his Harvard Law sweatshirts.

Dean walks in and gently sets the plastic bag on the bed next to you.

You stare at the bag like there is a live bomb inside it.

“I got a few different kinds,” Dean says quietly, sitting down beside you. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side. “Whenever you’re ready. I’m right here.”

You swallow hard, your throat clicking audibly. “What if it’s positive, Dean?”

“We cross that bridge when we come to it,” he lies effortlessly. He crossed that bridge two months ago. “Go. Take the test.”

You grab the bag with shaking hands and walk into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.

Dean stands in the hallway outside the bathroom. The wait is excruciating. The box said three minutes. It feels like three agonizing lifetimes. He leans his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of plastic rustling from the other side of the thin wooden door.

He knows the result. He engineered the result. But the anticipation is still burning him alive from the inside out.

Five minutes pass.

The bathroom is dead silent.

“Babe?” Dean calls out softly, rapping his knuckles gently against the door. “Are you okay in there?”

Silence.

And then, a sound that sends a shiver straight down Dean’s spine. It’s a sob. A raw, devastating, heartbroken sob that tears from your chest and echoes in the small hallway.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He turns the handle and pushes the door open.

You are sitting on the tile floor, your back pressed against the vanity cabinets. Your face is buried in your hands, and your shoulders are shaking violently. Three plastic sticks are scattered on the floor in front of you.

Dean drops to his knees. He glances down.

Two pink lines. A bold, undeniable plus sign. And the word Pregnant glowing on the digital screen.

All three. Positive.

Dean’s heart explodes in his chest. A fierce, predatory surge of possessiveness, of ultimate triumph, washes over him so intensely he almost dizzy. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep the smile off his face.

You’re his. You’re staying. It worked.

But outwardly, Dean is the picture of a devastated, supportive boyfriend. He shoves the tests aside and scrambles forward, pulling you into his arms.

You collapse against his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck and sobbing hysterically into his shirt. “It’s positive,” you cry, your voice muffled against his collarbone. “Dean, they’re all positive. I’m pregnant. Oh my god, I’m pregnant.”

“Shh, I know, I know,” Dean murmurs, wrapping his arms tightly around you. He buries his face in your hair, holding you as close as humanly possible. “It’s okay. Breathe, baby, breathe. I’ve got you.”

“My life is over,” you sob, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “Stanford. The MFA program. I can’t go to California. I can’t move across the country. I don’t have the money for a baby. My parents cut me off. Dean, what am I going to do?”

“Hey, listen to me.” Dean pulls back just enough to force you to look at him. Your eyes are bloodshot, tears streaming endlessly down your cheeks. He cups your face, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. “Your life is not over. Do you hear me? You are not in this alone. I am right here.”

“But Stanford-”

“Stanford can wait,” Dean says firmly, his voice vibrating with absolute certainty. “Art can wait. But whatever happens, whatever you want to do, I am with you. One hundred percent.”

You sniffle, looking up at him with desperate, seeking eyes. “What do you mean?”

Dean takes a deep breath, preparing to deliver the most manipulative performance of his entire life. He knows you. He knows your heart. He knows exactly which buttons to press to get the outcome he wants.

“I mean, the choice is entirely yours,” Dean says softly, his green eyes locking onto yours. “You are the one who has to carry this burden. It’s your body. It’s your future. If you are not ready for this … if you want to go to Stanford and live your dream …”

Dean pauses, swallowing hard to make it look like the words are physically paining him to say.

“If you don’t want to keep it,” he continues, his voice barely above a whisper, “I will support you. Completely. No judgment. No guilt. I will stand up right now, I will walk you out to my truck, and I will drive you to Planned Parenthood myself. I’ll hold your hand the entire time, and I’ll pay for everything. And we will never speak of it again, and you can get on that plane in two weeks.”

You stare at him, the tears freezing on your cheeks.

Dean holds his breath. It is the ultimate gamble. He is giving you the out. He is offering you the exact thing that would ruin all his plans. But he knows that if he tries to force you, if he acts too possessive or tries to trap you openly, you will run. You have to believe it is your choice.

You look down at the three tests scattered on the floor.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. Dean’s heart is hammering so loudly he is terrified you can hear it.

“No,” you whisper.

Dean exhales, a slow, silent breath out of his nose. “No?”

You shake your head, fresh tears spilling over your lashes. You reach out, your trembling fingers brushing over the digital test that spells out the word Pregnant.

“No,” you say again, your voice shaking but finding a sliver of resolve. You look back up at him, your eyes searching his face. “Dean … this baby is half me. But it’s half you, too.”

“I know, baby,” he whispers, reaching down to take your hand.

“I love you,” you cry, squeezing his hand tightly. “I love you so much. And … and we created this. Together. I can’t … I can’t just end it. I could never do that. Not to a piece of you.”

Dean feels a genuine lump form in his throat, overwhelmed by the sheer, devastating purity of your love for him. You are so good. You are so incredibly, beautifully good, and you are sacrificing your dream because you love him too much to let his child go.

“Are you sure?” Dean asks, his voice thick with fake hesitation. “You don’t have to do this for me, Y/N. I told you, I support whatever you need.”

“I’m sure,” you sob, throwing yourself back into his arms. “I’m sure. I want to keep it. I want our baby. But I’m so scared, Dean. I don’t know how to be a mom. I don’t have a family to help me.”

“You have me,” Dean says fiercely, wrapping his arms around you like a vice. He pulls you flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “You have me. I am your family now. I will take care of you. I’ll take care of both of you.”

“What about Harvard?” You cry against his collarbone. “What about my scholarship? Where are we going to live?”

“I’ll handle it,” Dean promises, his voice low and vibrating against your skin. “I’ll handle everything. I’ll call a realtor tomorrow. I’ll buy us a house in Cambridge. A beautiful house, with a room for a nursery and a room with huge windows for your art studio. You can defer Stanford. You can paint at home. I’ll work, I’ll go to school, and I will provide for you. You will never have to worry about a single thing ever again.”

You cling to him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt like he is a lifeline in the middle of a raging ocean. “Promise me, Dean. Promise me you won’t leave me.”

“I am never, ever leaving you,” Dean vows, his grip on you tightening. “You’re mine. Forever.”

“I love you,” you weep into his chest, completely surrendering to him, completely trusting him.

“I love you too, baby,” Dean murmurs, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head. “So much.”

He holds you there on the bathroom floor as you cry out the last of your fear and grief for the future you just lost. He rubs your back, he murmurs sweet, comforting words into your ear, and he plays the role of the perfect, supportive partner flawlessly.

But as you press your face against his chest, completely blind to his expression, Dean slowly lifts his head.

He stares at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.

His eyes are dark, burning with a terrifying, absolute victory. The panic, the agonizing anxiety of the last two months is completely gone, replaced by a cold, settling sense of permanent ownership.

Dean pulls you just a fraction of an inch closer, his hand resting protectively over your flat stomach.

And as you continue to cry into his chest, entirely unaware of the cage that has just locked firmly into place around you, Dean smiles.

***

The smell of stale beer, fried food, and cheap cologne at Malone’s usually brings a sense of comfortable familiarity. Tonight, it just makes you want to gag.

You slide into the worn vinyl booth, wedging yourself into the corner next to Dean. The leather of his jacket squeaks against the seat as he crowds in beside you, his thigh heavily against yours. Across the table, Garrett Graham is already deep into a heated argument with Logan about the Bruins’ defensive woes, while Tucker and Beau are trying to flag down a waitress over the din of the Friday night crowd.

“I’m telling you, it’s a weak blue line,” Garrett says, slapping his hand on the sticky table for emphasis. “If they don’t trade for a solid two-way defenseman, they’re getting swept in the first round. Tell him, Dean.”

“Leave me out of it,” Dean replies, his arm casually slung over the back of the booth behind your shoulders. His fingers idly play with the ends of your hair. “I’m off the clock.”

A waitress finally weaves through the crowd, slamming a tray of water glasses onto the table. “What can I get you guys?”

“Two pitchers of the IPA,” Garrett orders without hesitation. “And a round of tequila shots. We’re celebrating. I passed my sports management final.”

“Barely,” Logan mutters.

“A pass is a pass, John. Don’t be a hater.” Garrett looks over at you and Dean. “You guys in for the shots?”

“No shots for us,” Dean says smoothly, his hand dropping from the back of the booth to rest firmly on your thigh under the table. His thumb strokes a soothing circle against your denim-clad leg. “Just a Coke for me, and an iced tea with lemon for her.”

The entire table goes dead silent.

Garrett slowly lowers his menu. Logan squints at Dean. Tucker, who was mid-sip of water, slowly sets his glass down. Even Beau leans forward, looking between the two of you like you just announced you’re joining a cult.

“A Coke,” Garrett repeats, the words slow and dripping with suspicion. “For Dean Di Laurentis. On a Friday night. At Malone’s.”

“You sick, man?” Beau asks, his brow furrowing.

“And you’re not drinking either?” Logan asks, turning his sharp gaze on you. “You literally just graduated. You should be funneling champagne right now.”

You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. You look up at Dean. He looks perfectly calm. In fact, he looks incredibly smug, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. He gives your thigh a reassuring squeeze before he meets the stares of his closest friends.

“We’re not drinking,” Dean says, his voice steady and clear over the background noise of the bar, “because we have some news.”

“Oh my god,” Tucker breathes out, his eyes widening dramatically. He points a finger at you. “Are you guys getting married? Did you elope?”

“No,” Dean laughs, shaking his head. “Not married. At least, not yet.” He turns his head to look down at you, his green eyes softening in that specific, devastating way they only ever do for you. “Ready?”

You take a deep breath, your stomach doing a nervous flip, and nod.

Dean turns back to the table. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t sugarcoat it. He just drops the bomb with a grin that could rival the sun.

“Y/N is pregnant. We’re having a baby.”

For three agonizing seconds, no one breathes. The silence at the table is so profound you can hear the ice clinking in Garrett’s water glass.

Then, absolute chaos erupts.

“Holy shit!” Garrett bellows, lunging across the table to grab Dean by the collar of his jacket and shake him. “Holy shit, Di Laurentis!”

Logan is laughing, a booming, genuine sound as he runs a hand over his face. “I don’t believe it. I actually do not believe it. You? A dad?”

“Congratulations, man!” Beau shouts over the noise, reaching over to slap Dean hard on the shoulder.

Tucker looks like he might actually cry. “Oh my god. There’s going to be a little Di Laurentis running around.”

“Hey, easy on the jacket, Graham,” Dean laughs, shoving Garrett off him, but he’s beaming. He looks so incredibly proud, his chest puffed out, absorbing the shock and excitement of his brothers.

“Wait, wait,” Logan says, holding up a hand to quiet the table. He looks at you, his expression softening into something incredibly gentle. “How are you doing? Are you okay? You’re moving to California in like, a week.”

The question hangs in the air. You feel a familiar, heavy ache in your chest at the mention of California, but before you can even open your mouth, Dean steps in.

“She’s not going,” Dean says, his voice taking on a firm, protective edge. “We’re staying here. I’m going to Harvard in the fall, and we’re looking for a place in Cambridge together.”

Garrett leans back in the booth, crossing his arms. He looks at you closely. “Giving up Stanford? That’s huge. You sure you’re okay with that?”

“I am,” you say, and to your surprise, your voice doesn’t waver. And it’s true. The initial devastation has faded, replaced by a quiet, fierce dedication to the tiny life growing inside you. “It wasn’t an easy decision, but … this is our family. Stanford will still be there someday. Right now, I need to be here.”

“Damn right you do,” Tucker says softly, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. “We’ve got your back. All of us. You need anything — groceries, midnight ice cream runs, someone to put together a crib — you call us. You hear me?”

“Yeah,” Logan agrees, raising his water glass. “To the newest Briar mascot. God help us all.”

The guys clink their glasses together, the tension fully dissipating into a warm, chaotic celebration. You lean into Dean’s side, feeling a massive wave of relief wash over you. They aren’t judging you. They aren’t questioning the timeline. They are just happy.

You look up at Dean. He is watching you, that same dark, triumphant light dancing in his eyes. He leans down and presses a hard kiss to your temple.

“Told you they’d be thrilled,” he murmurs against your skin.

***

Two weeks later, the hunt for a house begins.

“It’s just … it’s a lot of money, Dean,” you say quietly, standing on the sidewalk of a quiet, tree-lined street in Cambridge.

In front of you sits a massive, stunning three-story brownstone. It has creeping ivy climbing up the brick exterior, a set of heavy, double oak doors, and huge bay windows that look out over the cobblestone street. It is beautiful. It is perfect. And it is completely, obscenely out of your budget.

“I told you not to look at the price tag,” Dean says, coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder, looking at the house with you. “My trust fund is built for stuff like this. It’s an investment.”

“It’s an estate,” you correct him. “Dean, it has five bedrooms. There are three of us. Well, two and a half.”

“We need a master bedroom, a nursery, a guest room for my parents or the guys, an office for me to study for law school, and a room for you,” he lists off easily, kissing your cheek. “That’s five. It’s perfectly practical.”

“Practical,” you scoff, though a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.

The real estate agent, a sharp-looking woman named Sylvia, pushes the front door open and gestures for you both to follow.

The inside is even more breathtaking. Original hardwood floors, crown molding, a massive kitchen with a marble island, and a working fireplace in the living room. It smells like lemon polish and old money.

Dean walks through the rooms with a critical eye, checking water pressure, knocking on walls, and asking Sylvia questions about the roof and the HVAC system. You follow slightly behind, feeling completely out of your depth. A month ago, you were prepared to live in a converted garage with a hot plate. Now, you are touring a multi-million-dollar property in one of the most expensive zip codes in the country.

“And finally, the top floor,” Sylvia says, leading you up a narrow, winding wooden staircase. “The previous owners used it as a storage space, but it has phenomenal potential.”

You reach the top of the stairs and step into the attic.

You gasp.

It spans the entire length of the house. The ceiling is vaulted, with exposed wooden beams, but the true masterpiece is the lighting. There are four massive skylights built into the pitched roof, and the far wall is entirely comprised of floor-to-ceiling windows. The afternoon sun pours into the room, bathing the dust motes in a warm, golden glow.

It is the most spectacular natural lighting you have ever seen in your life.

“Oh,” you whisper, walking slowly toward the windows. You run your hand along the sill. “Wow.”

“You like it?” Dean asks. He is standing by the stairs, watching you intently. He hasn’t looked at the room at all. He is only looking at you.

“It’s incredible,” you breathe out, turning around to face him. “The light in here … you could paint for hours without needing a single lamp. It’s perfect.”

Dean smiles, a genuine, blinding smile, and walks over to you. He wraps his hands around your waist. “It’s yours. We’ll rip up this old carpet, put down some hardwood that you don’t mind getting paint on. We’ll install a huge utility sink over there in the corner for your brushes. Whatever you want.”

“Dean, you don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do,” he says firmly. “This is going to be your studio. Just because you aren’t going to Stanford doesn’t mean you stop painting. You are an artist. You need a space.”

You feel tears prick the backs of your eyes, a hormonal surge of emotion hitting you out of nowhere. You rest your forehead against his chest. “You are too good to me.”

“I’m just taking care of my girls,” he murmurs, his hand dropping to rest flat against your stomach. “Or my girl and my boy. Whichever.”

He pulls back slightly, his expression turning thoughtful. He looks into your eyes, his brow furrowing just a fraction. It’s a perfectly rehearsed look of supportive concern.

“You know,” Dean starts, his voice gentle. “We are in Boston. There are amazing programs here. BU, MassArt, even Tufts. We could look into applications for the spring semester. You could still do your MFA locally. We can hire a nanny for when we’re both in class.”

He offers the words smoothly, laying the trap with expert precision. He knows exactly how you will react, but he needs to say it. He needs to play the role of the partner who is willing to move mountains to keep your dream alive, so you never, ever suspect that he is the one who killed it.

You sigh, leaning back from him slightly to look out the window.

“I appreciate it, Dean. I really do. But … no.”

“No?” He asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” you explain, rubbing your arms. “I’m due in January. Right in the middle of the winter semester. Even if I got in somewhere, I’d have to drop out immediately to have the baby. And I don’t want a nanny raising our newborn while I’m locked in a studio across town. I want to be here. I want to raise our kid.”

“Are you sure?” Dean asks, stepping closer and cupping your cheek. “I don’t want you to resent me. Or the baby. I don’t want you to feel like you gave everything up.”

“I’m sure,” you say softly, turning your face to kiss his palm. “I have this beautiful house. I have you. I’m going to have a baby, and a studio right upstairs. I have everything I need right here.”

Dean pulls you into a tight hug, burying his face in the crook of your neck so you can’t see his face.

He closes his eyes, inhaling the scent of your shampoo, and a massive, shuddering wave of relief and victory washes over him.

You’re done fighting, he thinks, his grip on you tightening possessively. You’re staying. You’re his.

“Okay,” Dean whispers against your skin, his voice thick with a dark, hidden triumph. “Okay, baby. We’ll buy the house.”

***

The true test comes three days later.

Lori Heyward and Peter Di Laurentis are flying into Boston for a legal conference, and Dean has made a dinner reservation for the four of you at Ostra, one of the most exclusive seafood restaurants in the Back Bay.

You are standing in front of the full-length mirror in your dorm room, staring at your reflection, feeling like you are about to throw up.

“I look huge,” you whisper, pulling at the fabric of your black dress.

“You are eight weeks pregnant, you do not look huge,” Dean says from the bed. He is already dressed in a charcoal suit that makes him look devastatingly handsome and terrifyingly grown-up. He walks over to you, swatting your hands away and smoothing the fabric of the dress down your hips. “You look gorgeous. Stop stressing.”

“I can’t stop stressing, Dean,” you say, your voice rising in panic. You turn to face him, your chest heaving. “Your parents are high-powered attorneys. They deal with sharks for a living. They are going to see right through me.”

Dean frowns, his hands resting on your waist. “See through what? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I am a broke art student who just got pregnant by their son!” You cry out, burying your face in your hands. “They are going to think I trapped you. They’re going to think I poked holes in the condoms. They’re going to think I’m a gold-digger who locked down the Di Laurentis fortune. They are going to hate me.”

Dean flinches.

The words hit him like a physical blow to the chest. The bitter, sickening irony of your fear threatens to choke him. You are terrified of being accused of the exact monstrous thing that he actually did to you.

“Hey,” Dean says sharply, grabbing your wrists and pulling your hands away from your face. “Look at me.”

You blink up at him, tears swimming in your eyes.

“My parents love you,” Dean says, and for the first time in weeks, he is telling the absolute, unvarnished truth. “My mom has been obsessed with you since the day I brought you home for Thanksgiving sophomore year. My dad thinks you’re the only person who can keep me in line. They know who you are. They know you didn’t do this on purpose.”

Because I did, he adds silently in his head.

“But the timing-”

“The timing is a surprise,” Dean interrupts smoothly. “But it’s a happy surprise. Trust me. You are going to be fine. Let me handle the talking.”

He kisses you hard, pouring all of his protective energy into the contact.

An hour later, you are sitting in a plush leather booth at Ostra. The lighting is dim, the clinking of crystal glasses fills the air, and you are vibrating with anxiety.

Lori Heyward is a force of nature. She has sharp, striking features, perfectly blown-out blonde hair, and is wearing a white blazer that probably costs more than your entire college tuition. Peter is a massive, intimidating man with a booming laugh and Dean’s green eyes.

“So, Y/N,” Lori says, elegantly slicing into her sea bass. “Dean tells us the Stanford move is off. I have to admit, I was shocked when he told me. That MFA program is incredibly difficult to get into.”

You freeze, your fork hovering over your plate. You shoot a panicked look at Dean.

Dean reaches under the table, lacing his fingers through yours and squeezing firmly. He clears his throat, setting his own fork down.

“Actually, Mom, Dad … there’s a reason she isn’t going,” Dean says. His voice is calm, authoritative, and totally in control. “We wanted to tell you both in person.”

Peter pauses, taking a sip of his wine. He looks between the two of you, his thick eyebrows raising. “Well? Out with it. Did you fail a class, Dean? Because if Harvard rescinds that acceptance …”

“Harvard is fine, Dad,” Dean says, rolling his eyes slightly. He looks at you, gives your hand another squeeze, and looks back at his parents. “Y/N is pregnant. We’re having a baby.”

The reaction is instantaneous.

Lori drops her fork. It clatters loudly against the fine china plate, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her mouth falls open, her perfectly manicured hands flying up to cover her lips.

Peter chokes on his wine, coughing loudly into his napkin before staring at Dean with wide, shocked eyes.

You brace yourself. You wait for the narrowed eyes. You wait for the accusations. You wait for Lori to ask for a paternity test or a prenuptial agreement.

Instead, Lori’s eyes well up with tears.

“Oh my god,” she whispers, her voice cracking completely. “A baby?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. “A baby. Due in late January.”

Lori practically scrambles out of the booth. She completely abandons decorum, rushing around the table and pulling you right out of your seat. She wraps her arms around you in a crushing, fiercely tight hug. She smells like expensive perfume and genuine, overwhelming joy.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Lori cries, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Oh, this is the best news. This is wonderful! I’m going to be a grandmother!”

You stand there, stunned, your arms hovering awkwardly before you slowly wrap them around Lori’s back. “You … you aren’t mad?”

“Mad?” Peter booms, standing up from his side of the booth and walking over. He wraps his massive arms around both you and Lori, pulling you into a group hug. “Why the hell would we be mad? You’re giving us a grandchild!”

“But … the timing,” you stammer, looking between them as they finally pull back. “We’re so young. And Dean is just starting law school. I thought … I was worried you would think I …”

“Y/N,” Lori says softly, reaching out to cup your face in her warm hands. Her sharp eyes soften completely. “We know exactly who you are. We know you come from that awful, stiff-necked Kennedy family, and we know you walked away from millions of dollars just to paint. You don’t care about our money. You care about our son.”

She looks over at Dean, who is watching the exchange with a soft, satisfied expression.

“We love you,” Lori continues, wiping a stray tear from under her eye. “You are already family to us. The fact that you’re having Dean’s child? It’s a blessing. A complete blessing.”

You finally break. The anxiety that has been coiling in your chest for weeks snaps, and you burst into tears. You cover your face with your hands, sobbing in the middle of the fancy restaurant.

“Oh, honey, the hormones,” Lori coos sympathetically, pulling you back into her arms and rubbing your back. “It’s okay. It’s okay. We are going to spoil this baby rotten. We are going to buy out the entire baby section at Neiman Marcus tomorrow.”

“We’re buying a house,” Dean announces proudly from the table, clearly riding the high of his parents’ reaction. “A brownstone in Cambridge. Closing next week.”

“I’ll have my interior designer call you on Monday,” Lori says immediately, not missing a beat. She pulls back and looks at you warmly. “Whatever you need, Y/N. We are here for you.”

You look over Lori’s shoulder at Dean.

He is leaning back against the leather booth, looking like a king sitting on a throne. He has his parents’ money, he has his Harvard acceptance, he has the house in Cambridge, and, most importantly, he has you. Completely, irreversibly, forever.

He catches your eye and winks, a slow, dark, possessive smirk playing on his lips.

You smile back through your tears, feeling so incredibly lucky to have a man who loves you this much. A man who protects you, provides for you, and stands by you no matter what.

You have absolutely no idea that you are thanking the wolf for guarding the sheep.

***

September in Cambridge brings a crisp chill to the air, turning the leaves on the ancient oak trees into brilliant shades of copper and gold.

It also brings the brutal, unrelenting reality of Harvard Law School.

The transition is jarring. One week, Dean is spending lazy mornings in bed with you, painting the nursery a soft sage green and arguing over crib designs. The next, he is plunged headfirst into a shark tank of hyper-competitive, sleep-deprived geniuses. His schedule is instantly swallowed by torts, contracts, civil procedure, and endless stacks of reading that weigh as much as a small car.

But if anyone expects Dean to crumble under the pressure, they are sorely mistaken. He attacks law school with the exact same ruthless, arrogant confidence he used on the ice. He does the reading, he dominates the Socratic method, and he never, ever lets them see him sweat.

But the biggest change isn’t Dean’s schedule. It’s you.

You are nineteen weeks pregnant, and the nesting instinct has hit you like a freight train.

At first, you spent all your time in the spectacular third-floor studio Dean built for you. You painted for hours, losing yourself in the canvas. But as the weeks drag on and the reality of the brownstone’s quiet emptiness settles in while Dean is at class, a restless, anxious energy begins to vibrate under your skin.

You don’t like the quiet. You don’t like the empty house. Most of all, you don’t like being away from Dean.

So, you find a new project.

“You don’t have to do this, baby,” Dean says, leaning against the marble kitchen island.

He is wearing a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a pair of tailored gray trousers, and a tie hanging loosely around his neck. He looks like a devastatingly handsome young lawyer, but his eyes are entirely focused on you.

You are standing at the stove, wearing a pair of soft black leggings that stretch over the undeniable, perfect little bump at your midsection, and one of Dean’s old Briar Hockey t-shirts. You are carefully placing a homemade, artisanal turkey and brie sandwich into a sleek glass Tupperware container.

“I want to,” you say, snapping the lid shut and tucking it into a brown paper bag along with a container of mixed fruit and a slice of banana bread. “You told me the cafeteria food in the law building tastes like salted cardboard. I am not letting the father of my child survive on salted cardboard.”

“I could just grab something at a café off-campus,” Dean points out, though the massive, self-satisfied smirk on his face completely betrays his words.

“You don’t have time between your civil procedure lecture and your study group,” you counter, grabbing a sharpie from the junk drawer. You quickly draw a small heart on the brown paper bag and hand it to him. “There. Now you have a balanced meal. Eat the fruit, Dean. Don’t just give it to that guy in your study group.”

“Ben is iron-deficient,” Dean jokes, taking the bag from your hands. He sets it on the counter, grabs you by the waist, and pulls you flush against his chest.

His large hands spread out over your lower back, his thumbs resting just above the curve of your hips. He looks down at you, his green eyes dark and warm.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose. “But seriously. You’re supposed to be resting. Or painting. Not playing 1950s housewife for me.”

“I like doing it,” you admit softly, resting your hands flat against his chest. You can feel the steady thud of his heart beneath the crisp cotton of his shirt. “The house gets so quiet when you leave. It makes me anxious. Taking care of you gives me something to focus on.”

Dean’s chest swells. A dark, possessive thrill shoots straight down his spine.

He loves this. God, he loves this so much it makes his teeth ache. He loves that you are seeking him out. He loves that your entire world has shrunk down to this beautiful house, your art, and him. The fact that the silence of the house makes you anxious — that you literally crave his presence to feel grounded — is the greatest victory he could have ever engineered.

“If you get lonely, you call me,” Dean orders softly, his voice dropping an octave. “I don’t care if I’m in the middle of a lecture. You call, and I’ll walk right out.”

“You will absolutely not walk out of a Harvard Law lecture just because I’m feeling a little clingy,” you laugh, swatting his chest.

“Watch me,” he challenges, entirely serious. He kisses you then, deep and lingering, tasting like mint toothpaste and coffee. “I have to go. Contracts wait for no man.”

“Knock ‘em dead, counselor,” you smile, fixing the collar of his shirt.

He grabs his leather messenger bag, his lunch, and heads out the front door.

But by 12:30 PM, the silence of the brownstone becomes suffocating again. You put your brushes down, wipe the cerulean paint off your hands, and look at the clock.

Dean has a break at 1:00.

You make a split-second decision. You go downstairs, pack a fresh container of pasta salad you made yesterday, grab two bottles of sparkling water, and throw on a long, cozy cardigan over your leggings.

***

The courtyard outside Austin Hall is swarming with law students. The air is thick with tension, the smell of burnt coffee, and the frantic sound of people debating case law.

Dean is sitting at a wrought-iron patio table, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He is surrounded by three other first-year students. They all look like they are on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Dean, on the other hand, looks like he’s waiting for a bus. Cool, relaxed, entirely unbothered.

“But if you apply the ruling from Hawkins v. McGee,” a highly strung girl named Katelyn says rapidly, aggressively highlighting a massive textbook, “the expectation damages have to be calculated based on the difference between the promised state and the actual state.”

“Katelyn, breathe,” Dean says lazily, leaning back in his chair. “You’re overthinking it. The professor doesn’t want you to just regurgitate the formula. He wants you to argue why the formula is flawed in this specific application. Pivot to the ambiguity of the contract.”

“Easy for you to say,” grumbles Ben, a pale guy with thick glasses. “You got cold-called today and practically gave a TED talk.”

Dean just smirks, reaching for his water bottle.

“Excuse me,” a soft voice says.

Dean’s head snaps up.

You are standing at the edge of the patio table, holding a canvas tote bag. Your hair is pulled back into a loose braid, and the soft beige cardigan clings perfectly to the distinct, rounded curve of your belly.

The transformation in Dean is instantaneous.

The arrogant, laid-back law student vanishes. He is on his feet before you can even take another step, closing the distance between you and wrapping a protective arm around your shoulders.

“Hey,” Dean says, his voice entirely different — softer, warmer, dripping with devotion. He pulls you in, pressing a kiss to your temple in front of everyone. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay? Is the baby okay?”

“We’re fine,” you laugh softly, leaning into his side. “I just … I finished painting early. And I realized you were probably going to be hungry again after that sandwich, so I brought the pasta salad.”

Dean looks down at you like you just handed him the winning lottery numbers. He doesn’t care about the pasta salad. He cares that you couldn’t stay away from him. He cares that you walked right onto his campus, into his territory, for everyone to see.

“You are incredible,” he murmurs, kissing you again, lingering a little longer this time.

He turns back to the table, keeping his arm firmly wrapped around your waist, pulling your back flush against his side so your bump is proudly on display.

“Guys, this is Y/N,” Dean says, his chest puffed out. “My girl.”

The three law students stare at you in varying states of shock.

“Hi,” you say politely, offering a small wave.

“Oh,” Katelyn says, blinking rapidly. She looks from Dean to your stomach, and then back up to Dean. “Wow. Hi. I’m Katelyn. We didn’t … Dean didn’t mention he was …”

“Expecting?” Ben finishes, adjusting his glasses. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls out the chair he was just sitting in and gently guides you into it. “Sit. You shouldn’t be standing too long.”

You roll your eyes, but you sit down, digging into your tote bag to pull out the Tupperware containers and the forks.

Over the next few weeks, this becomes your routine.

Whenever you feel that creeping, lonely anxiety in the big empty house, you pack a bag and take the short walk to campus. You become a fixture in the courtyard. The terrifyingly intense law students quickly realize that the only way to get Dean Di Laurentis to help them with their outlines is to be extremely nice to his pregnant girlfriend.

They bring you decaf coffee. They offer you their chairs. They ask about the baby.

And Dean? Dean thrives on it.

He loves sitting at a table with his arm draped over the back of your chair, his hand absentmindedly resting on your stomach while he debates property law with his peers. He loves the jealous looks he gets from other guys when you show up looking effortlessly beautiful, carrying his lunch. He loves that everyone on campus knows exactly who you belong to.

It happens on a crisp Tuesday afternoon in October.

You are sitting next to Dean on a stone bench just outside the law library. He is eating a slice of quiche you brought him, and you are resting your head on his shoulder, soaking in the autumn sun.

“Di Laurentis,” a stern voice calls out.

Dean pauses, swallowing his bite of quiche. He looks up as Professor Richards, an intimidating, gray-haired man who teaches constitutional law, stops in front of your bench.

“Professor,” Dean greets easily.

“Excellent brief on the Marbury application today,” Richards says, adjusting his briefcase. “Your argument regarding judicial review limitations was surprisingly concise.”

“Appreciate it,” Dean says, offering a polite nod.

Richards’s sharp eyes shift down to you. You sit up slightly, offering a polite, nervous smile.

“And this must be the famous lunch-delivery service I’ve been hearing about,” Richards says dryly, though there is a hint of amusement in his eyes. He looks at your bump. “Congratulations to you both.”

“Thank you,” you say.

“I don’t believe we’ve formally met,” Richards says, extending a hand. “Robert Richards.”

You reach out and shake his hand. “Y/N Kennedy. It’s nice to meet you.”

Richards’s hand freezes. He doesn’t let go of your hand immediately. His gray eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline, his expression shifting from polite indifference to sharp, sudden intrigue.

“Kennedy?” Richards repeats, the word hanging heavily in the air.

He looks at your face closely, studying your bone structure, your eyes, the tilt of your chin. In elite East Coast circles, that name is royalty. It’s power. It’s money.

“Any relation to Senator Joseph Kennedy?” Richards asks, his tone entirely different now.

You feel your stomach drop. The familiar, sickening knot of anxiety twists in your gut. You hate this question. You hate the association. Since your family cut you off, hearing their names just feels like a raw wound being poked.

“He’s my uncle,” you say quietly, pulling your hand back from his grip. “But I’m not really … involved in politics. Or with the family, right now.”

Richards looks stunned. He looks at Dean, and then back at you. “A Kennedy. Here, in the courtyard. Well. That certainly explains the poise. Your father must be devastated you didn’t choose the law yourself.”

You swallow hard, looking down at your lap. “Something like that.”

Dean feels the exact moment your body tenses. He feels the anxiety radiating off you.

A dark, protective rage flares in his chest, instantly mingling with that deep-seated, possessive pride. He knows exactly what Richards is thinking. Richards is looking at you like you are a prized show pony, an elite piece of political capital. He is looking at you like you belong to the Kennedys.

Dean stands up.

He doesn’t do it aggressively, but the sheer size of him, the broadness of his shoulders, instantly forces Richards to take a half-step back.

Dean steps directly into Richards’s line of sight, blocking his view of you. He reaches down, grabbing your hand and lacing his fingers tightly through yours. He pulls your hand up, resting it firmly against the center of his chest.

“She’s an artist,” Dean says. His voice is perfectly polite, but the underlying steel in his tone is unmistakable. It is a warning.

“An artist,” Richards repeats, clearly recovering his composure. “Well. A Kennedy venturing into the fine arts. How … modern.”

Dean smiles. It is a sharp, dangerous smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, his voice ringing out clearly in the quiet courtyard. He looks down at you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, before locking his piercing gaze back onto the professor.

“She won’t be a Kennedy for long,” Dean states, his words slow and deliberate.

Richards blinks. “Excuse me?”

Dean’s grip on your hand tightens. He looks at the professor with absolute, unyielding dominance.

“I said, she won’t be a Kennedy for long. She’ll be a Di Laurentis soon.”

The courtyard seems to go completely silent.

Richards stares at Dean for a long, calculating moment. He is a man who understands power dynamics, and he clearly recognizes that he has just stepped directly onto Dean Di Laurentis’s fiercely guarded territory.

“I see,” Richards finally says, clearing his throat. He offers a tight, formal nod. “Well. Best of luck with the wedding. And the baby. Good day, Mr. Di Laurentis. Ms. Kennedy.”

Richards turns and walks briskly away toward the faculty building.

As soon as he is out of earshot, you let out a massive, shaky breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. Your shoulders slump, and you cover your face with your free hand.

“I hate that,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly. “I hate when people do that. The sudden shift in how they look at me. Like I’m just a walking bank account or a political connection.”

Dean immediately sits back down next to you. He wraps both of his massive arms around you, pulling you onto his lap right there in the middle of the courtyard. He doesn’t care who is watching.

“Hey,” he murmurs fiercely, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Look at me.”

You drop your hand, looking up into his intense green eyes.

“You are not a walking bank account,” Dean says, his voice low and fierce. “You are the most talented, brilliant, beautiful woman I have ever met. You are going to be an incredible mother. And you don’t need them. You hear me? You don’t need their name, and you don’t need their money.”

“I know,” you sniffle, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I just … it caught me off guard.”

“They’re cut off,” Dean says darkly, his hand resting securely over your baby bump. “They don’t get to claim you. Not anymore. You’re mine now. This is your family. Me and this baby.”

“I know,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him softly. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Dean replies, kissing you back, hard and deep.

He holds you there on the bench, completely ignoring the stares of the passing students. He rubs soothing circles into your back until your breathing evens out and the tension finally leaves your body.

He plays the role of the ultimate protector flawlessly. He makes you feel safe, cherished, and completely shielded from the world that rejected you.

But as you rest your head against his chest, finding comfort in his steady heartbeat, Dean stares out across the campus lawn, his mind racing.

He didn’t just say it to put the professor in his place. He said it because it’s the next logical step.

The baby trap was phase one. It anchored you to him. It kept you in Boston. It forced you to rely on him for housing, for support, for everything.

But Dean knows how fragile that is. You are still technically a free agent. You aren’t married. The baby binds you together, but it isn’t a legal lock.

He needs the lock.

He needs a ring on your finger. He needs your name changed. He needs to legally, permanently bind you to him in a way that you can never, ever escape, no matter what you eventually find out.

Dean’s hand slides from your back to rest gently over the swell of your stomach. He feels a tiny, fluttering kick against his palm. His child. His fail-safe.

He looks down at your peaceful face, blissfully unaware of the cage he is meticulously building around you.

Tomorrow.

He will skip his afternoon seminar tomorrow. He will drive into downtown Boston, he will walk into the most exclusive jeweler in the city, and he will buy the biggest, most undeniable diamond they have in the vault.

Because Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t just play to win. He plays for absolute, total possession. And he is almost at the finish line.

***

December in Massachusetts is a bitter, bone-chilling kind of cold, but inside the grand ballroom of the Harvard Club of Boston, the air is suffocatingly warm.

The annual winter alumni networking gala is in full swing. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, glittering light over hundreds of Boston’s most elite legal minds, politicians, and high-powered executives. Waiters in crisp white jackets weave through the crowd carrying silver trays of champagne flutes and miniature crab cakes. The dull roar of classical string music and pretentious conversation echoes off the mahogany-paneled walls.

You are standing near a massive, roaring fireplace, holding a crystal glass of sparkling cider and trying very, very hard not to let your exhaustion show.

At thirty-four weeks pregnant, you look like you are about to pop at any second. Your belly is a heavy, undeniable presence beneath the dark emerald velvet of your maternity gown. Your feet, squeezed into a pair of sensible but elegant black flats, are throbbing. You feel massive, clumsy, and entirely out of place among the sleek, tailored crowd.

But you are here for Dean.

Dean is in his element. He is standing about ten feet away, locked in a conversation with a senior partner from a top-tier corporate law firm. He is wearing a custom-tailored black tuxedo that fits his broad, athletic frame to absolute perfection. His dark blond hair is pushed back, his jaw sharp, his green eyes completely focused as he charms the absolute hell out of the partner.

He looks like a king holding court. He looks like he was born to inhabit these rooms, to shake these hands, to command this kind of power.

But even as he laughs at a joke the senior partner makes, Dean’s eyes flick over to you. It’s a constant, rhythmic check-in. Every two minutes, his gaze finds you across the room. He catches your eye, his lips curving into a soft, private smile that is meant only for you, before he seamlessly turns back to his conversation.

You smile back, taking a sip of your cider. You feel a familiar rush of warmth in your chest. He is so incredibly good to you. Even in a room full of people who could make or break his future career, you are still his absolute center of gravity.

“I think I need to sit down,” you murmur to yourself, feeling a sharp ache in your lower back.

You turn slightly, intending to find an empty chair near the edge of the ballroom.

But as you turn, the crowd parts slightly, and the breath is punched completely out of your lungs.

Standing less than five feet away, holding a glass of scotch and looking exactly as terrifyingly composed as you remember, are George and Marie Kennedy.

Your parents.

You freeze. Your feet weld themselves to the plush carpet. Your heart performs a violent, painful leap into your throat, the glass of cider trembling in your suddenly cold hands.

You haven’t seen them in over a year. Not since the day you stood in their sprawling foyer and told them you were going to art school, and your father coldly informed you that you were no longer welcome under his roof.

They haven’t changed at all. Your father looks sharp and imposing in his tuxedo, his graying hair perfectly styled. Your mother is draped in an ice-blue silk gown, a massive diamond necklace resting against her collarbone. They look wealthy. They look powerful. They look completely devoid of warmth.

Marie’s eyes sweep over the crowd and land directly on you.

She stops. Her gaze drops instantly from your face, scanning down the emerald velvet of your dress, and lands squarely on the massive, undeniable swell of your stomach.

Her eyes widen slightly, a flash of pure, unadulterated shock crossing her perfectly Botoxed features. She grabs your father’s arm, her sharp manicured nails digging into his tuxedo sleeve. She whispers something urgently to him, nodding in your direction.

George Kennedy turns. His cold, calculating eyes lock onto you. He takes in your face, the simple elegance of your dress, and the baby bump that you are suddenly, desperately wishing you could hide.

Your instinct is to run. To turn around, push through the crowd, and hide in the bathroom until Dean can take you home. But your legs refuse to move.

Your parents begin to walk toward you.

They move with a slow, predatory grace, parting the crowd without even trying. Every step they take feels like a hammer striking your chest. You instinctively wrap your free hand around your stomach, a protective gesture for the baby that is currently kicking against your ribs.

“Well,” Marie says as they stop in front of you. Her voice is like cracked ice. Smooth, cold, and incredibly sharp. “I suppose congratulations are in order, Y/N. Though I can’t say I’m surprised.”

You swallow hard, your throat feeling like it’s lined with sandpaper. “Mother. Father.”

“Don’t call us that,” George says, his voice low and devoid of any affection. “You lost that privilege the day you decided to embarrass this family.”

The words sting, a fresh lash against an old wound, but you force your chin up. “What are you doing here?”

“We are alumni,” Marie says, taking a sip of her champagne. Her eyes rake over your stomach again, her lips curling into a sneer of pure disgust. “The real question is what you are doing here. And … in this condition. Though, I suppose it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

“Excuse me?” You say, your voice trembling slightly.

“Oh, please, Y/N,” your mother sighs, looking at you with complete, humiliating pity. “We all knew that ridiculous little art school fantasy wouldn’t last. Did the money dry up that quickly? Did the reality of living like a peasant finally set in?”

“This has nothing to do with money,” you say, your heart hammering against your ribs. “I’m here with my boyfriend. He’s a law student.”

“A law student,” George repeats, a harsh, humorless chuckle escaping his chest. “Let me guess. A rich one? Someone with a trust fund?”

“His name is Dean Di Laurentis,” you say, your voice growing firmer, a defensive heat rising in your chest. “And you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Marie leans in slightly, the scent of her expensive Chanel perfume making your nausea spike. “I know exactly what I’m talking about. You realized you had no skills, no family name to fall back on, and no money. So you found a boy with a fat wallet and you did the only thing left to do to secure the bag. You got yourself knocked up.”

The words hang in the air between you, vile and suffocating.

“You trapped him,” George adds, his voice dropping to a harsh, vicious whisper. “You spread your legs and trapped some poor, unsuspecting heir because you were too lazy to work and too stubborn to apologize to us. You are a disgrace. You’re little better than a high-priced-”

“Finish that sentence, and I will shatter your jaw into so many pieces the surgeons won’t be able to put it back together.”

The voice is a low, lethal snarl that cuts through the classical music and the chatter of the ballroom like a blade.

You gasp, turning your head.

Dean is standing right behind you.

The charming, relaxed future lawyer is completely gone. In his place is the Briar University enforcer, the hockey player who used to drop his gloves and beat grown men bloody on the ice. His green eyes are black with fury. His jaw is locked so tightly a muscle is jumping erratically in his cheek. His broad shoulders are tense, his hands balled into massive, white-knuckled fists at his sides.

He looks like he is about to commit a murder in the middle of the Harvard Club.

He steps around you, putting his body entirely between you and your parents. He is significantly taller and broader than your father, and the physical threat radiating off him is so intense that both George and Marie instinctively take a step back.

“Dean,” you whisper, terrified.

Dean doesn’t look at you. His murderous gaze is locked on George Kennedy.

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Dean demands, his voice a dangerous, vibrating rumble.

“I am speaking to my daughter,” George says, though his voice wavers slightly under the sheer, terrifying intensity of Dean’s stare. “And who are you? The boy she trapped?”

Dean lunges forward.

It’s an involuntary, deeply ingrained reflex. The hockey player in him wants violence. He wants to feel bone crunch under his knuckles. He wants to destroy the man who just made the love of his life look so small and terrified. He raises his right fist, his body coiling like a spring.

“Dean, no!”

You drop your glass. It shatters on the carpet, soaking the floor with cider. You lunge forward, grabbing his raised arm with both hands.

“Don’t,” you beg, your voice cracking. “Dean, please. He’s not worth it. Don’t ruin your career over him. Please.”

Dean freezes.

The desperate, trembling sound of your voice cuts through the red haze of his rage. He looks down at your hands, gripping his tuxedo sleeve, and then at your face. You look terrified, pale, and on the verge of tears.

He takes a harsh, ragged breath. The violent tension doesn’t leave his body, but he slowly lowers his fist. He covers your hands with his, squeezing tightly to reassure you, before turning his attention back to your parents.

He chooses a different weapon.

“My name is Dean Di Laurentis,” Dean says, his voice no longer a snarl, but something much colder. Something smooth, calculated, and infinitely more dangerous. He speaks with the absolute authority of a man who knows exactly how much power he wields. “My father is Peter Di Laurentis. My mother is Lori Heyward. I’m sure you know the names.”

George Kennedy pales. The arrogant sneer drops off his face instantly.

Of course he knows the names. The Di Laurentis family is legal royalty in New England. They own half of the corporate real estate in Boston, and their law firm has the power to destroy entire political campaigns with a single phone call.

“I … I am familiar,” George says tightly.

“Good,” Dean says, a dark, cruel smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Then you know that I am not some poor, unsuspecting heir. And you know that I am the last person in this room you want to piss off.”

Marie crosses her arms, though her hands are trembling slightly. “Mr. Di Laurentis, we were simply trying to warn you. You are young. You have a bright future. Y/N is manipulative. She knew what she was doing when she let this happen. She wanted your money.”

Dean actually laughs. It is a harsh, mocking sound that makes a few people at the neighboring tables turn their heads.

The bitter, twisted irony of the accusation almost makes him want to scream. They think you trapped him. They think you are the master manipulator. They have absolutely no idea that you cried for hours over losing your dream, while Dean smiled into your hair because his sick, desperate plan worked perfectly.

“Let me make something incredibly clear to both of you,” Dean says, stepping slightly closer to them, forcing them to look up at him. “Y/N didn’t trap me. She didn’t want my money. In fact, she fought me tooth and nail when I tried to pay for her groceries.”

He pauses, letting the words sink in, his eyes burning into theirs.

“I chased her,” Dean states, his voice ringing with absolute, possessive pride. “I begged her to give me a chance. I am the one who fell on my knees thanking God when I found out she was carrying my child. Because she is the best thing that has ever happened to me, and she is entirely too good for the likes of you.”

You let out a soft, choked sob, pressing your face against Dean’s bicep.

“She is a Kennedy,” George snaps, his pride rearing its ugly head one last time. “We gave her everything.”

“You gave her nothing,” Dean fires back, his voice slicing through the air like a scalpel. “You gave her conditions. You gave her a bank account attached to a leash. When she decided she wanted to be her own person, you threw her out like garbage. You threw away the most brilliant, talented, loving woman in this entire city because she didn’t want to go to law school.”

Dean leans in, his face inches from George’s, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly whisper.

“You lost your greatest asset, George. And I won.”

George’s jaw tightens, his face flushing a dark, humiliated shade of red.

“Now,” Dean says, his tone shifting into the smooth, ruthless cadence of a future courtroom shark. “This is how this is going to work. You are going to turn around, and you are going to walk out of this ballroom. If I ever see you near her again, if you ever so much as speak her name in public, I will have my father’s firm audit every single one of your offshore accounts.”

Marie gasps, her hand flying to her chest.

“I will bury your political ambitions so deep you won’t be able to run for dog catcher,” Dean continues ruthlessly. “I will make sure every partner in this room knows exactly how the Kennedys treat their pregnant daughters. I will ruin you. Do you understand me?”

George and Marie stare at him. They are completely, utterly defeated. They know he isn’t bluffing. They know he has the resources, the power, and the viciousness to do exactly what he promised.

George grabs Marie’s arm. “We’re leaving.”

Without another word, your parents turn and quickly disappear into the crowd, rushing toward the exit like they are being chased by dogs.

The moment they are out of sight, all the terrifying, cold energy drains out of Dean.

He turns to you immediately. He wraps both of his arms around you, pulling you tightly against his chest, right in the middle of the ballroom. He doesn’t care who is watching. He doesn’t care about networking. He buries his face in your hair, his hands running frantically over your back, your shoulders, the curve of your belly.

“Are you okay?” He asks urgently, his voice rough and breathless. “Did they hurt you? Are you having contractions? Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” you sob, clinging to the lapels of his tuxedo. The adrenaline is fading, leaving you shaky and exhausted, but the overwhelming surge of love for him is making your chest ache. “I’m okay, Dean. I’m fine.”

“I should have broken his jaw,” Dean mutters darkly against your neck. “I should have put him in the hospital.”

“No,” you say, pulling back slightly to look up into his fierce, beautiful face. You reach up, resting your hands flat against his cheeks. “No. You handled it perfectly. You protected me. You always protect me.”

Dean closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. A heavy, complicated sigh escapes his lips.

“I love you so much,” he whispers, opening his eyes to look at you with such intense, staggering devotion that it takes your breath away. “I love you. You are my family. Just you and this baby. They don’t matter. They will never hurt you again. I won’t let them.”

“I know,” you whisper, fresh tears spilling over your lashes. “I know you won’t. I love you, Dean.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Dean says, gently wiping the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs. “Let’s go home. You need to rest.”

“Okay,” you agree, letting him tuck you securely under his arm.

As Dean guides you through the ballroom, leaving the glittering lights and the staring alumni behind, you rest your hand on your massive stomach. You feel completely safe. You feel entirely loved. You look up at the handsome, powerful man walking beside you, thanking every lucky star that you found someone who would fight so fiercely to keep you.

And Dean?

Dean holds you close, his jaw set in a hard, victorious line. He feels the warmth of your body against his, the weight of his ring sitting in a velvet box in his tuxedo pocket, waiting for the perfect moment.

They accused you of trapping him.

Dean almost laughs at the twisted perfection of it all. He didn’t just trap you with a baby. He trapped you with love. He trapped you with protection. He built a cage out of devotion, and you just handed him the final key.

You will never leave him. Not ever.

And as he helps you into the back of his black SUV, wrapping his coat around your shivering shoulders, Dean Di Laurentis knows that he has won the most important game of his life.

***

“I am going to kill you! I swear to God, Dean, I am going to murder you with my bare hands!”

Your scream tears through the sterile, brightly lit delivery room at Massachusetts General Hospital, echoing off the pale blue walls and completely drowning out the rhythmic, agonizing beeping of the fetal heart monitor.

“I know, baby, I know,” Dean says, his voice a low, steady rumble of absolute devotion. “You can kill me. As soon as he’s out, you can do whatever you want to me.”

“Don’t patronize me!” You sob, your head thrashing back against the sweat-soaked hospital pillow. Your face is flushed, your hair plastered to your forehead in damp, tangled strands.

You grip his left hand with the strength of a dying gladiator. You are squeezing so hard that Dean is genuinely, medically certain you are fracturing the small bones in his knuckles. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t even flinch. He just leans closer, using his free hand to wipe a cool, damp washcloth across your burning forehead.

It is 3:26 AM on a freezing Thursday in late January. Outside the hospital windows, a massive nor’easter is dumping two feet of snow onto the streets of Boston. But inside this room, the air is thick with heat, sweat, and blinding, primal exhaustion.

You have been in labor for nineteen hours.

“Okay, Y/N, you’re doing beautifully,” Dr. Williams says calmly from the foot of the bed. “The contraction is peaking. I need you to take a deep breath, tuck your chin to your chest, and push. Give me everything you have.”

“I can’t!” You cry out, shaking your head wildly. “I can’t do it anymore, Dean. I have nothing left. It hurts too much.”

“Look at me,” Dean commands, his voice firming up, cutting through the haze of your panic. He drops the washcloth and frames your face with his right hand, forcing you to meet his gaze. His green eyes are fierce, burning with an intensity that physically anchors you to the bed. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You look up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“You can do this,” he says, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “You are the strongest person I have ever met. You are going to push, and you are going to meet our son. Do you hear me? We are so close, baby. You are doing so incredibly well.”

Another wave of unimaginable agony rolls through your abdomen. You bear down, squeezing your eyes shut, and let out a guttural, primal scream. You pull on Dean’s hand so violently his shoulder pops, your fingernails digging crescent-moon shapes into his skin.

As you pull, the fluorescent hospital lights catch the massive, flawless piece of jewelry sitting on your left ring finger.

It’s a three-carat oval diamond set on a delicate, crushed-ice platinum band. Dean had dropped to one knee in front of the roaring fireplace in the living room of your new brownstone on Christmas Eve, holding the velvet box. You had cried so hard you could barely choke out the word ‘yes.’

“Ten seconds,” the labor nurse counts down, keeping her hand flat against your stomach. “Eight … nine … ten. Okay, slowly release the breath. Good. Good.”

You collapse back against the pillows, your chest heaving violently. You are panting, staring up at the ceiling with wide, exhausted eyes.

“I am never doing this again,” you gasp out, your voice rough and raw. You turn your head to glare at Dean, your eyes narrowed into vicious slits. “Do you hear me, Di Laurentis? I am never having sex with you again. Ever. We are sleeping in separate rooms for the rest of our lives.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” Dean murmurs easily, pressing a kiss to your sweaty temple.

“I mean it!” You threaten, pointing a shaking finger at him. “If you come within ten feet of me with … with those intentions … I will castrate you.”

“I hear you,” Dean says smoothly, brushing the hair out of your eyes.

But internally? Dean is trying very, very hard not to smile.

Good luck with that, he thinks, his eyes tracing the beautiful, flushed lines of your face.

Separate bedrooms? Not a chance in hell. He hasn’t slept a single night without you tangled in his arms in nine months, and he has no intention of starting now. And as for never doing this again? Dean has already mapped out the timeline. He wants a big family. He wants the massive five-bedroom brownstone in Cambridge filled with noise, toys, and chaos. He wants at least three more babies with you. He is already looking forward to getting you pregnant again.

But he is smart enough to keep that entirely to himself while you are actively trying to push an eight-pound human out of your body.

“Okay, mom and dad, he’s crowning,” Dr. Williams announces, her tone suddenly shifting into high gear. “Y/N, I need you to stay focused. This next push is the big one. We’re going to bring this baby out.”

The panic returns, seizing your chest. “Dean, I’m scared.”

“I’ve got you. I’m right here,” Dean says, climbing halfway onto the side of the hospital bed to brace your back with his arm. He pulls you up slightly, his broad chest supporting your weight. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

“Okay, the contraction is starting,” the nurse says, her eyes glued to the monitor. “Deep breath … and push!”

You scream, bearing down with every single ounce of strength you have left in your battered body. You squeeze Dean’s hand so hard you literally feel something give way in his knuckles, but he doesn’t make a sound. He just holds you, whispering a constant, steady stream of encouragement into your ear.

“That’s it, that’s it, keep going!” the doctor urges. “I have the head! Y/N, give me one more big push! Don’t stop!”

“Dean!” You cry out, your voice breaking into a sob.

“Push, baby, push! He’s right here!” Dean practically shouts, his own voice cracking with emotion. His eyes are wide, locked on the doctor.

You let out one final, agonizing, earth-shattering scream, forcing your body past every known limit.

And then, suddenly, the unbearable, crushing pressure is gone.

It is replaced by a wet, slippery sound, and then, a second later, the most beautiful, piercing wail Dean has ever heard in his entire life echoes through the delivery room.

“He’s here!” Dr. Williams laughs, pulling her mask down. “Time of birth, 3:31 AM. You did it, Y/N!”

You collapse back against Dean’s chest, completely boneless, gasping for air. You are sobbing openly, the tears running into your ears, your entire body trembling with shock and exhaustion.

Dean is frozen.

He is staring at the tiny, screaming, purple, blood-covered creature the doctor has just lifted into the air.

His son.

The breath leaves Dean’s lungs in a staggering, silent rush. Tears, hot and fast, spill over his eyelashes, tracking down his cheeks. He doesn’t even try to wipe them away. He is completely, utterly overcome.

The doctor quickly wipes the baby down with a towel and immediately places him directly onto your bare chest.

“Oh my god,” you sob, bringing your shaking hands up to cup the baby’s tiny, slippery back. “Oh my god. Dean. Look at him.”

Dean leans over you, his large hands trembling as he reaches out. He doesn’t even know where to touch. The baby is so small, so impossibly fragile. Dean gently rests two fingers against the back of the baby’s head, feeling the soft, dark fuzz of hair there.

“I see him,” Dean chokes out, a wet laugh tearing from his throat. He presses his face to yours, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your lips, tasting salt and sweat. “You did so good. You did so fucking good, baby. He’s perfect.”

“He looks just like you,” you cry, looking down at the baby’s face.

And he does. Even scrunched up and screaming, the baby is the perfect mix of the two of you. He has Dean’s strong jawline and thick, dark blond hair, but he has your delicate nose and the exact shape of your eyes. He is a Di Laurentis through and through, but he belongs entirely to you.

“Dad, you want to cut the cord?” The nurse asks, holding out a pair of sterile scissors.

Dean nods, unable to speak. He takes the scissors, his hands shaking slightly, and snips the physical connection between you and the baby.

As the blades snap shut, something profound happens inside Dean’s chest.

For the last nine months, a tiny, deeply buried knot of anxiety has been living at the base of Dean’s spine. It was the fear of discovery. The fear of failure. The fear that somehow, someway, you would pack a bag, figure out the truth about his monstrous deception, and leave him. The fear that the ghost of Stanford and the life you were supposed to have would eventually tear you away from him.

But as Dean looks at his son lying on your chest, as he watches you weep with pure, unadulterated love for the child he gave you, that knot entirely unravels.

It is done.

The trap is sealed. Not just in a lease, not just in an engagement ring, but in blood. In bone. In life.

You are a mother now. You are the mother of his child. You will never walk away from this. You will never walk away from him. The cage isn’t just locked; the key has been completely destroyed.

An intoxicating wave of relief and victory washes over Dean, relaxing muscles in his back and shoulders that he didn’t even realize were wound tight. He feels light. He feels powerful. He feels like a god.

“I love you,” Dean whispers fervently, resting his forehead against yours as the nurses bustle around the room, checking vitals and weighing the baby. “I love you so much, Y/N. Thank you. Thank you for giving him to me.”

“I love you too,” you murmur, your eyes heavy, completely exhausted but radiantly happy. “We have a son, Dean.”

“We have a son,” he repeats, the words tasting like victory on his tongue.

***

Two hours later, the chaos of the delivery room has completely subsided.

You have been moved to a private, luxury postpartum suite that Dean paid to upgrade. The lights are dimmed to a soft, warm amber. Outside the window, the blizzard is still raging, painting the city of Boston in a blanket of silent, isolating white.

But inside the room, it is perfectly quiet and incredibly warm.

Dean is sitting in a leather armchair pulled directly up to the side of your hospital bed. He has finally washed the sweat and blood off his hands, though his left hand is heavily bruised and wrapped in an ice pack. Logan, Garrett, Beau, and Tucker had blown up his phone with thirty different texts from the waiting room downstairs, but Dean had ordered them to go home and sleep.

He didn’t want to share you yet. He wanted this quiet, sacred time to be just the three of you.

You are propped up against a mountain of pillows, wearing a fresh, soft hospital gown. Your eyes are half-closed, the heavy toll of labor visible in the dark circles under your eyes, but you look so peaceful.

“He’s awake,” you whisper, looking down at the bundle resting in the crook of your arm.

Noah Di Laurentis.

Dean leans forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. He watches as Noah roots around, turning his tiny, fuzzy head against your chest, his mouth opening and closing in small, frustrated movements.

“I think he’s hungry,” Dean says, his voice a low, gravelly whisper.

“Yeah. The nurse said I should try to get him to latch as soon as he showed signs.” You take a deep breath, wincing slightly as you shift your weight. “Can you help me?”

“Of course,” Dean says immediately.

He stands up, tossing the ice pack onto a side table, and leans over the bed. With incredibly gentle, careful hands, he helps you unbutton the top of the hospital gown, pulling the fabric aside to expose your breast.

Dean’s breath hitches.

He has seen your body a million times. He has worshipped it, explored it, memorized every single inch of it. But seeing you like this — soft, maternal, your skin flushed and full — sends a completely different kind of shockwave straight to his groin.

You adjust Noah in your arms, guiding his tiny head forward. It takes a few clumsy seconds, but suddenly, the baby latches on perfectly.

You let out a soft, sharp gasp of surprise at the sensation, your eyes widening slightly before fluttering shut in relief. “Okay. Okay, he got it.”

Dean slowly sits back down in the armchair. He doesn’t take his eyes off you.

He sits there in the dim light, completely mesmerized, watching you breastfeed his baby for the very first time.

The sight does incredibly complex, dangerous things to Dean’s mind.

It is the most beautiful, pure thing he has ever witnessed. You look like a Renaissance painting, bathed in the soft amber light, your head tipped back against the pillows, your hand gently stroking the soft curve of Noah’s back. The rhythmic, quiet sound of the baby swallowing is the only noise in the room.

But beneath the awe, beneath the profound, overwhelming love he feels for you, is that dark, feral, possessive core that drives every single thing Dean does.

He watches the baby feed from your body, and the visual confirmation of what he has achieved is intoxicating. His seed. His child. Sustained by your blood, grown in your womb, and now feeding from your body. You are physically nourishing the anchor he used to keep you.

You look down at Noah, a soft, exhausted smile playing on your lips. Then, you lift your eyes and look at Dean.

You catch the intense, dark, heated look on his face. Your cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink.

“What?” You whisper self-consciously, pulling the edge of the blanket up slightly to cover yourself. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” Dean asks, his voice thick and husky.

“Like … like you want to eat me,” you say, letting out a breathy, tired laugh.

Dean smiles, a slow, predatory smirk that makes his green eyes flash dangerously in the low light. He reaches out, trailing his knuckles gently down the side of your neck, his thumb brushing over the pulse point hammering wildly at your collarbone.

“Because I do,” Dean murmurs, leaning in so his face is only inches from yours. He inhales the scent of you — sweat, hospital soap, and that warm, sweet, milky scent of a new mother. It is a potent, addictive drug. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my entire life.”

“Dean, I just gave birth,” you laugh softly, though you lean into his touch. “I look like a train wreck. I’m covered in sweat, and I’m pretty sure my hair is matted to my head.”

“You look like a goddess,” he corrects fiercely. He drops his hand to rest lightly over yours where it cradles the baby’s back. “You gave me everything. You gave me a family.”

“We did it together,” you say softly, your eyes softening with that deep, absolute trust that Dean relies on to survive. “I didn’t think … when we first met, I never thought my life would look like this. I thought I’d be alone in a studio in California right now.”

Dean’s hand stills. The mention of California is a ghost from the past, a fleeting phantom that used to terrify him, but now, it holds absolutely no power.

“Are you sad?” Dean asks, his voice perfectly smooth, perfectly supportive. “That you aren’t in California?”

You look down at Noah. You watch his tiny chest rise and fall as he feeds. You look at the massive diamond ring sparkling on your finger. And then, you look back at Dean, the man who has protected you, provided for you, and loved you fiercely when your own family threw you away.

“No,” you whisper, and the absolute honesty in your voice makes Dean’s heart soar. “No, Dean. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

Dean leans in and kisses you. It is a deep, branding kiss. He pours all of his dark, twisted, possessive love into it, claiming your mouth the same way he has claimed your life.

When he pulls back, he is breathless, his eyes burning with absolute triumph.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, his voice a low, satisfied rumble as he looks at his beautiful fiancé and his perfect son. “You are exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

***

The Cambridge brownstone is exactly as Dean promised it would be ten years ago.

It is massive, stunning, and entirely filled with absolute, deafening chaos.

“Noah! If you do not put your dress shoes on in the next thirty seconds, I am leaving you here to guard the house!” You shout, standing at the bottom of the grand wooden staircase.

“I can’t find the left one!” A nine-year-old boy yells back from somewhere on the second floor. He sounds exactly like his father, complete with the dramatic, exasperated groan.

“Check under the sofa in the den!” You call back, resting a hand on your hip. You turn around, narrowly avoiding stepping on a rogue Lego brick. “Naomi! Nicole! Please stop trying to put lipstick on the dog! The Doberman does not need to look pretty for the reunion!”

“But she’s a girl, Mommy!” Six-year-old Naomi argues from the living room rug, holding a tube of your expensive Chanel lipstick while her identical twin sister, Nicole, tries to hold the extremely tolerant dog still.

“No makeup on the dog!” You command, swooping in to pluck the lipstick out of Naomi’s hand.

You let out a long, exhausted breath, pushing a stray lock of hair out of your face. You are wearing a breathtaking, form-fitting crimson silk dress that pools around your ankles, your hair styled in soft, cascading waves. You look like a movie star, but you feel like a frantic zookeeper.

“You know, when I pictured my gorgeous wife in that dress, I didn’t picture her wrestling a tube of lipstick away from a canine.”

You spin around.

Dean is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, holding two-year-old Jamie perfectly balanced on his hip.

Ten years have done absolutely nothing to diminish Dean Di Laurentis. If anything, time has only made him more devastating. He has traded the hockey jerseys for custom-tailored suits. The boyish charm has sharpened into the lethal, commanding presence of one of Boston’s most feared and successful corporate litigators. His blond hair is perfectly styled, his jaw covered in a faint shadow of stubble, and his broad chest fills out the crisp white dress shirt he’s wearing under his black suit jacket.

He walks toward you, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative sweep over your body that makes your stomach do the exact same flip it did when you were nineteen.

“Well, your gorgeous wife is currently managing a circus,” you sigh, reaching out to fix Jamie’s tiny bow tie. The toddler giggles, grabbing your finger with his chubby hand. “Is the diaper bag packed?”

“Diaper bag is packed, bottles are in the cooler, and Noah’s shoe was in the pantry, for some reason,” Dean says smoothly. “He’s putting it on now. We are ready to go.”

Dean steps into your space, entirely ignoring the chaotic noise of the twins arguing over a toy behind you. He wraps his free arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He leans down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply.

“You look unbelievable,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, husky register that is reserved exclusively for you. “I’m half-tempted to cancel the babysitter, skip the reunion, and take you upstairs.”

“Dean,” you warn, though a breathless laugh escapes your lips as you tilt your head, giving him better access to your neck. “We can’t. Tonight is a big deal. The gallery showing first, then Briar.”

“I know, I know,” he sighs, pressing a lingering kiss just below your ear before pulling back. He looks into your eyes, his green gaze bursting with absolute, overwhelming pride. “Tonight is about you. My brilliant, famous wife.”

You blush, looking down at his crisp lapels. “It’s just a local gallery, Dean. I’m not famous.”

“You sold out your last three collections,” Dean corrects fiercely, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “You have a waitlist of private buyers six months long. You are incredible, and tonight, I am going to show you off to every single person in Massachusetts.”

You smile, wrapping your arms around his neck. Even after a decade, four kids, and a marriage that has weathered the exhausting storms of his law career and your art shows, he still looks at you like you hung the moon.

“Okay,” you whisper, kissing him softly. “Let’s go show off.”

***

The art gallery in downtown Boston is buzzing with quiet, sophisticated energy. Soft acoustic music plays through hidden speakers, and waiters carry trays of sparkling water and champagne.

The walls are lined with your work — massive, vibrant, emotionally charged oil paintings that explore the beautiful, chaotic reality of motherhood, love, and time. You have spent the last two years pouring your soul into this collection, painting in the sun-drenched attic studio Dean built for you when you were pregnant with Noah.

“Excuse me, Y/N?”

You turn away from a couple admiring a piece near the window. The gallery owner, an elegant woman named Beatrice, is practically vibrating with excitement.

“Yes, Beatrice? Is everything okay?”

“Okay? It’s phenomenal,” Beatrice breathes out, leaning in close. “I just got word from the front desk. Five more pieces just sold. To a private, anonymous buyer.”

Your jaw drops. “Five? At once?”

“Yes! They just wired the full asking price. Y/N, the entire collection is sold out. Every single canvas.” Beatrice grabs your hands, squeezing them tightly. “This is unprecedented for a first-night showing. You are a star.”

You are in absolute shock. You excuse yourself, your heart hammering against your ribs, and scan the crowded room.

You find Dean standing in the corner, holding Jamie, while Noah explains the plot of a Marvel movie to him with wild hand gestures. Dean is nodding along, pretending to be deeply invested in the cinematic universe, but his eyes are fixed entirely on you.

You walk over, your heels clicking against the polished hardwood floor.

“Dean,” you say, stopping in front of him. You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “Did you do it?”

Dean blinks, his expression a mask of perfect, innocent confusion. “Did I do what, baby?”

“Did you buy five of my paintings through an anonymous proxy just now?”

“Me?” Dean gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am deeply hurt by this accusation. I am an officer of the court. I uphold the law. I don’t use anonymous proxies.”

“Dean.”

“Okay, it was my dad’s firm acting as the proxy,” Dean smirks, entirely unrepentant. He shifts Jamie to his other hip and reaches out to pull you close. “But I used my money.”

“Dean, you can’t just buy out my gallery!” You laugh, hitting his shoulder. “That’s cheating! You already own half my portfolio. Our house looks like a museum dedicated to me.”

“It’s an investment,” Dean says smoothly, quoting the exact same excuse he used ten years ago when he bought the brownstone. “And I don’t want anyone else owning them. I saw that guy in the turtleneck staring at the self-portrait of you at the beach. He looked like he wanted to buy it. I wasn’t going to let some hipster hang my wife in his living room.”

You roll your eyes, burying your face in his chest to hide your massive, ridiculous smile. He is so possessive, so fiercely protective of everything you create.

“You’re a menace,” you murmur against his suit jacket.

“I’m your biggest fan,” he corrects, kissing the top of your head. “Now, come on. The babysitter is meeting us at the car to take these monsters home. We have a ten-year reunion to crash.”

***

The Briar University campus looks exactly the same. The brick buildings, the sprawling green quads, the crisp, freezing winter air — it’s like stepping into a time machine.

The alumni gala is being held in the main event hall, a massive space decorated in Briar’s signature black and red. The music is loud, the open bar is packed, and the room is overflowing with the Class of 2016.

You walk through the double doors with your hand tightly wrapped in Dean’s. Without the kids pulling you in four different directions, the two of you look like a terrifying power couple. Dean looks immaculate, sharp, and intimidating. You look stunning, glowing with the confidence of a successful woman completely secure in her life.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to show up.”

You hear the booming voice before you see him.

Garrett pushes his way through the crowd, a massive grin on his face. He is holding a beer in one hand, looking exactly like the cocky, legendary hockey captain he used to be. Right behind him are Logan and Tucker.

“Graham,” Dean grins, dropping your hand to catch Garrett in a rough, back-slapping hug. “You look old, man. The NHL is aging you.”

“Shut up, Di Laurentis,” Garrett laughs, shoving him back. “Some of us actually work for a living instead of sitting behind a mahogany desk.”

“Hey, Y/N,” Logan says, pulling you into a warm hug. “How was the gallery?”

“Sold out,” Dean answers for you, his voice ringing with absolute, obnoxious pride. “Every single piece. She’s a certified genius.”

“Congratulations!” Tucker beams, giving you a hug as well. “That’s incredible. How are the kids? Did you guys bring the whole circus?”

“Babysitter has them,” you say, taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “If I brought Jamie in here, he would dismantle the ice sculpture in five minutes.”

“Smart,” Garrett nods, taking a sip of his beer. He looks at Dean, shaking his head in disbelief. “I still can’t get over it. Ten years ago, you were getting kicked out of Malone’s for doing body shots off a bartender. Now you’re a partner at a law firm with four kids and a minivan.”

“It’s an SUV,” Dean corrects smoothly, completely unbothered. “And it has heated leather seats. Don’t be jealous just because your life is boring.”

As the guys fall into their familiar, effortless banter, you look around the room.

It is incredibly surreal. You recognize faces from your freshman art history seminars, girls from your dorm, guys who used to throw massive, destructive parties at the hockey house.

And they are absolutely staring at you.

Or, more accurately, they are staring at Dean.

“Oh my god. Is that Dean Di Laurentis?”

You glance over to see a group of women standing by the bar. You recognize two of them instantly. They were notorious puck bunnies, the kind of girls who used to hang around the ice rink practically begging for Dean’s attention.

One of them is staring at Dean with her mouth literally hanging open. She whispers something to her friend, her eyes darting from Dean to you, and then down to the massive, blinding diamond ring on your left hand.

Dean notices the stares. He notices everything.

He smoothly extracts himself from his conversation with Garrett, steps behind you, and wraps both of his arms around your waist. He pulls your back flush against his chest, crossing his arms over your stomach. It is a completely territorial, undeniable claim.

He looks directly at the group of whispering women, his green eyes cold and sharp, before he deliberately leans down and presses an open-mouthed, lingering kiss to the side of your neck.

You gasp softly, your hands flying up to grip his forearms. “Dean, we are in public.”

“I know,” he murmurs against your skin, not stopping. “Let them look. Let them see exactly whose wife you are.”

“You’re impossible,” you laugh, leaning back against him anyway.

Suddenly, a guy in a slightly ill-fitting gray suit approaches your group. He looks nervous, clutching a plastic cup of beer.

“Dean? Dean Di Laurentis?” The guy asks.

Dean slowly pulls his face away from your neck, though he doesn’t loosen his grip on you. He looks at the guy. “Yeah. Evan, right? From constitutional law seminar?”

Evan nods eagerly. “Yeah, yeah! Wow, man. It’s crazy to see you. I follow your firm’s cases. That corporate merger you blocked last month? Phenomenal legal maneuvering. Absolute shark stuff.”

“Appreciate it,” Dean says smoothly.

“And I heard …” Evan hesitates, looking between Dean and you with total bewilderment. “I heard you have kids now? Like, a lot of them?”

“Four,” Dean says, the word completely devoid of any embarrassment. He says it like it’s a badge of honor, like he just won the Stanley Cup. “Two boys, two girls.”

Evan actually chokes on his beer. He coughs, his eyes watering. “Four? You? Dean Di Laurentis has four children? With the same woman?”

“I do,” Dean smirks.

“Man, that’s wild,” Evan says, shaking his head. “I just … I remember you in freshman year. You were an absolute machine. I thought you’d be a bachelor forever, living in a penthouse and terrorizing the dating pool.”

“I found something better,” Dean says, his voice dropping into a register so dark, so completely sincere, that the entire circle goes quiet.

He looks down at you. You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, and your heart physically aches with how much you love him.

“I met my wife,” Dean says, his green eyes locking onto yours, making you feel like you are the only two people in the crowded, noisy room. “And I realized I didn’t want anything else. Just her. And as many kids as she’d let me give her.”

Evan awkwardly clears his throat, clearly realizing he has interrupted a deeply intimate moment. “Right. Well. Congratulations, man. Good to see you.”

He scurries away, and the guys chuckle.

“You really enjoy terrifying the general public, don’t you?” Logan asks, clinking his glass against Dean’s.

“It’s my favorite hobby,” Dean agrees, finally letting go of your waist to take your hand again. “Come on, sweetheart. They’re playing our song. Let’s go terrorize the dance floor.”

“They are playing an EDM remix of a Taylor Swift song, Dean,” you point out, laughing as he drags you toward the center of the room. “This is not our song.”

“It is now,” he declares.

He spins you into his arms, completely ignoring the fast-paced beat of the music, and pulls you into a slow, swaying dance. You loop your arms around his neck, resting your hands in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

You are surrounded by hundreds of people. You are surrounded by the ghosts of your college years, the memories of the broke, terrified, fiercely independent nineteen-year-old girl you used to be.

But as you look at Dean, you realize you don’t miss that girl at all.

You look at the man who saved you. The man who gave you a home, a beautiful family, the freedom to paint, and a love so intense it feels like it could swallow you whole.

“You’re staring,” Dean whispers, his hands sliding down to rest intimately on your lower back.

“I’m just thinking,” you reply softly, stepping closer so your bodies are perfectly aligned. “About how lucky I am.”

Dean’s breath catches.

His grip on you tightens convulsively. He looks into your eyes, seeing the absolute, unwavering trust and devotion shining there.

Ten years.

It has been ten years since he stood in a tiny, cramped dorm bathroom, staring at a blister pack of birth control pills. Ten years since he made the darkest, most selfish, most terrifying decision of his entire life.

He put them in the microwave. He destroyed the hormones. He trapped you, systematically dismantling your chance to leave him, closing every door until the only path forward was exactly where he wanted you.

And you never knew.

You never suspected a thing. You thought the universe had simply handed you a surprise, and you had embraced it, turning that surprise into a beautiful, thriving family. You think he is your savior. You think he is the good guy who stepped up when your family abandoned you.

Dean stares down at you, his heart pounding a heavy, victorious rhythm against his ribs.

Does he feel guilty?

He searches the darkest, most honest corners of his soul.

No.

He doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt. He would do it again, a thousand times over. He would burn the entire world to the ground if it meant keeping you in his arms. He built this life with a lie, but the love is real. The house is real. The four beautiful children sleeping in their beds in Cambridge are real.

He is a monster, maybe. But he is a monster who gets to sleep next to a goddess every single night.

“I’m the lucky one,” Dean murmurs, his voice thick with a raw, primal emotion. He leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. “You gave me everything, Y/N. You are my entire world.”

“I love you, Dean,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.

Dean turns his head, capturing your lips in a slow, deep, devastating kiss. He kisses you until your knees go weak, until you forget about the reunion, the music, and the people staring at you. He kisses you until you are completely, utterly his.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark, a familiar, predatory heat burning in his green gaze. He drops his hands from your back, letting them slide slowly, deliberately over the curve of your hips, resting them flat against your stomach.

“You know,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a dark, seductive rumble that sends a shiver straight down your spine. “The house has five bedrooms.”

You blink, confused for a second, still dazed from the kiss. “Yes?”

Dean smirks. It is the smirk of a man who knows exactly what he wants, and knows exactly how to get it.

“Noah has his room. The twins share. Jamie has the nursery. And we have the master,” Dean lists off, his thumbs brushing slow, lazy circles over the silk of your dress. He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. “Which means we have some extra square-footage.”

Your eyes widen. You pull back slightly, staring at him in absolute shock. “Dean Di Laurentis. Are you out of your mind?”

“I’m just saying,” Dean laughs, a rich, genuine sound of pure joy. “We have the space. And you look entirely too good tonight. It’s making me reckless.”

“We have four kids!” You whisper-shout, hitting his chest, though you are smiling uncontrollably. “Four! I am not having a fifth! I told you in the delivery room with Noah, I was going to castrate you!”

“You’ve been threatening to castrate me for a decade, sweetheart, and yet, here we are,” Dean points out smugly, pulling you right back into his chest. “Come on. Just one more. I want another little girl who looks exactly like you.”

“You are insane,” you laugh, burying your face in his neck.

“I’m in love,” he corrects fiercely.

He wraps his arms around you, swaying you to the music, holding his entire world perfectly secure in his grasp.

Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t believe in setting things free. He believes in holding on. He believes in fighting, claiming, and keeping.

He looks out over the crowded ballroom of his past, his chin resting softly on top of your head. He has the brilliant career, the massive fortune, the perfect children, and the only woman who ever made his heart stop.

He trapped you.

And as he holds you close, listening to your bright, beautiful laughter, Dean smiles into the dark.

You’re beautiful. Devastatingly, impossibly beautiful. Your dress is simple and elegant, flowing in the late summer breeze, and you’re carrying a bouquet of white roses and greenery. Your hair is half-up, half-down, with small flowers woven through it, and you’re smiling at him like he’s the only person in the world.

Your father is walking you down the aisle, and Sidney can see him blinking back tears. Hell, Sidney is blinking back tears. He’s pretty sure half the guests are crying already and you haven’t even reached him yet.

The chairs are set up on the lawn overlooking the water. The arch where Sidney is standing is covered in white flowers and greenery, and the whole scene is so perfect it doesn’t feel real.

But then you’re there, standing in front of him, and your father is placing your hand in his.

“Take care of her,” your father says quietly, his voice thick.

“Always,” Sidney promises.

Your father nods, kisses your cheek, and steps back. And then it’s just you and Sidney, standing together, facing the officiant as the ceremony begins.

Sidney barely hears the opening remarks. He’s too focused on you, on the way you’re looking at him, on the fact that in a few minutes you’re going to be his wife.

His wife.

Dr. Crosby.

The mother of his children — though only he knows that last part might already be true.

“Sidney and Y/N have chosen to write their own vows,” the officiant says, and Sidney’s attention snaps back to the moment. “Sidney, would you like to begin?”

He nods, pulling the folded paper from his pocket with shaking hands. He’d written and rewritten these vows a dozen times, trying to find the words to express what you mean to him.

“Y/N,” he starts, and his voice cracks slightly. He clears his throat and tries again. “Y/N. I’m not great at speeches. You know this. You’ve sat through enough of my awkward press conferences to know that I’m better at doing things than talking about them.”

A ripple of laughter goes through the crowd, and you smile at him, your eyes shining.

“But I need to try to tell you what you mean to me,” he continues. “You came into my life at a charity gala two years ago and immediately challenged me on my hockey statistics. Most people don’t do that. Most people tell me I’m great and leave it at that. But you looked at my Corsi percentage and told me I was wrong about my defensive zone coverage.”

More laughter. You’re biting your lip, trying not to cry.

“And I fell in love with you right then,” Sidney admits. “Because you weren’t intimidated by me. You weren’t impressed by the trophies or the championships. You just saw me — Sidney, not Sidney Crosby the hockey player — and you treated me like a person worth arguing with.”

He pauses, looking down at his notes, then back up at you.

“You’re the smartest person I know. Watching you earn your PhD, watching you defend your dissertation, seeing how hard you work and how brilliant you are … it’s humbling. You could have anyone, and somehow you chose me.”

“Best decision I ever made,” you whisper, and he has to stop to compose himself.

“You make me better,” he says. “You keep me grounded when my head gets too big. You call me out when I’m being stubborn. You support my career but you also have your own career, your own goals, your own life. You’re my partner in every sense of the word.”

He folds the paper, deciding to speak from the heart for the rest.

“I promise to support your dreams the way you support mine. I promise to make you laugh, even when you’re frustrated with me. I promise to always be honest with you, even when it’s hard. I promise to be your teammate, your best friend, your safe place to land.”

He takes a breath.

“And I promise to love you for the rest of my life. Every day. Every moment. For better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and health. You’re it for me. You’re everything. And I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life showing you that.”

You’re crying now, tears streaming down your face, and Sidney wants to wipe them away but the officiant is already turning to you.

“Y/N?” She prompts gently.

You take a shaky breath, reaching into your bouquet where you’ve apparently tucked your own notes.

“Sidney,” you start, your voice wavering. “When I met you two years ago, I thought you were cocky and arrogant and way too confident about your defensive zone coverage.”

Sidney laughs, and so does everyone else.

“I was fully prepared to dislike you,” you continue. “But then you actually listened to my arguments. You asked me questions about my research. You treated me like an equal, not like some fan trying to get your attention. And by the end of the night, I was completely gone for you.”

You wipe your eyes with one hand, still holding the bouquet with the other.

“You’ve supported me through four years of my PhD. You read every draft of my dissertation, even the boring parts about methodology. You came to every defense, every presentation, every milestone. You celebrated my successes like they were your own.”

Your voice breaks and you have to pause.

“You make me feel seen,” you say quietly. “You make me feel valued. Not despite my career, but because of it. You’re proud of me, and that means everything.”

Sidney squeezes your hands, his own eyes burning.

“I promise to be your biggest fan, just like you’re mine. I promise to keep calling you out when you’re being stubborn, because someone has to. I promise to make our house a home, wherever that is. I promise to be your partner, your equal, your teammate.”

You look directly into his eyes.

“And I promise to love you for the rest of my life. Through every season, every game, every challenge. You’re my person, Sidney. You’re my home. And I can’t wait to build a life with you.”

There’s not a dry eye in the crowd. Sidney can hear his mother sobbing, and he’s pretty sure Geno is crying too.

The officiant goes through the rest of the ceremony — the rings, the pronouncement, the “you may kiss the bride” — and then Sidney is kissing you, dipping you back dramatically while everyone cheers and applauds.

“Hi, wife,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Hi, husband,” you say back, and the words send a thrill through him.

The recessional is a blur of hugs and congratulations. Your mother is crying, his mother is crying, your father is shaking his hand and pulling him into a hug, Kris is making jokes about Sidney finally settling down.

Photos take forever — you and Sidney, the wedding party, family photos, candids on the beach. The photographer keeps making you pose and re-pose, but Sidney doesn’t care because he gets to keep holding you, keeps getting to call you his wife.

“Mrs. Crosby,” he says during a quiet moment while the photographer is adjusting equipment. “Dr. Crosby.”

“I like the sound of that,” you admit.

“Me too,” he says, kissing you again.

The reception is at a venue overlooking the water — a luxury glass structure that’s been filled with so many flowers it looks like a garden. White roses, peonies, hydrangeas, greenery cascading from the ceiling and wrapping around the columns. String lights everywhere, creating a warm glow as the sun starts to set.

“This is incredible,” you breathe as you enter.

“You’re incredible,” Sidney counters. “This is just decoration.”

Dinner is a blur of toasts and laughter. Your maid of honor tells embarrassing stories from grad school. Nate, as best man, tells stories about Sidney that make everyone laugh and Sidney groan. Geno gives a toast that’s mostly in Russian but still somehow makes everyone cry.

Sidney toasts you, keeping it short because he already said everything he needed to in his vows, but he can’t resist adding “To my wife, Dr. Crosby. The smartest, most beautiful, most patient woman I know. Thank you for putting up with me.”

The first dance is to a song you both chose together, something slow and romantic. Sidney holds you close, swaying gently, acutely aware that this is the first of many dances you’ll share as husband and wife.

“Happy?” He asks quietly.

“So happy,” you confirm. “This is perfect. You’re perfect.”

“Not perfect,” he corrects. “But I’m yours.”

“Same thing,” you say, and kiss him.

The party continues late into the evening. Dancing, cake cutting, more toasts. Sidney dances with his mother, you dance with your father. There’s a moment where all of Sidney’s teammates lift him up and parade him around the dance floor while you laugh so hard you’re crying.

But eventually, late in the evening, you lean close to Sidney and whisper, “Can we go home?”

“Absolutely,” he says, because he’s been waiting all day to get you alone.

You make your excuses, say your goodbyes, and slip out to the car. The drive back to the house is quiet, your hand in his, both of you too content and overwhelmed to need words.

When you pull into the driveway, Sidney parks and comes around to open your door.

“What are you doing?” You ask, laughing.

“Carrying my wife over the threshold,” he says, scooping you up. “It’s tradition.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you say, but you’re smiling as you wrap your arms around his neck.

He carries you to the front door, managing to unlock it one-handed, and steps inside. But instead of putting you down, he just holds you, standing in the foyer of the house you’ve shared for over a year.

“We’re married,” he says, still processing it.

“We are,” you confirm. “I’m your wife.”

“My wife,” he repeats, and then he’s kissing you again, deep and thorough, and you’re laughing against his mouth.

“Put me down,” you say. “I have something for you.”

“What kind of something?” He asks, setting you on your feet.

“A wedding gift,” you say, and there’s something in your voice that makes his heart skip. “Wait here.”

You disappear upstairs, leaving Sidney standing in the foyer in his tuxedo, wondering what you’re up to. You’re gone for maybe two minutes before you come back down, holding something small in your hands.

“Close your eyes,” you instruct.

“What-”

“Just close them,” you insist.

He does, holding out his hands. You place something in them — something small and plastic.

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Open.”

He opens his eyes and looks down.

It’s a pregnancy test. And there are very clearly two pink lines.

Sidney’s brain short-circuits.

“Is this-” His voice comes out strangled. “Is this real?”

“Very real,” you confirm, and you’re crying again, happy tears this time. “I took it this morning. And then three more to be sure. I’m pregnant, Sidney. We’re having a baby.”

Something absolutely feral takes over Sidney’s brain. He sets the test down carefully on the entry table, and then he’s on you, kissing you desperately, his hands everywhere.

“You’re pregnant,” he says against your mouth. “You’re actually pregnant.”

“I am,” you gasp. “I’m carrying your baby. You knocked me up just like you promised.”

“Fuck,” he breathes, his hands moving to your stomach. It’s still flat, no visible sign yet, but knowing that his baby is in there, growing-

“Bedroom,” he says roughly. “Right now.”

“Sidney-”

“I need to-” He can’t even articulate what he needs. He just knows he needs to get you upstairs, needs to worship you, needs to show you exactly what this means to him.

You seem to understand, nodding, and he practically drags you up the stairs. Once in the bedroom, his hands find the zipper of your wedding dress.

“Careful,” you warn. “This dress was expensive.”

“I’ll buy you ten more,” he says, but he’s careful as he lowers the zipper and helps you step out of it. You hang it carefully on a hanger while Sidney strips off his tuxedo jacket, his bow tie, his vest.

When you turn back to him, you’re in white lace lingerie, and he realizes you planned this. You knew you were going to tell him tonight. You wore this for him.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he says. “My wife. My pregnant wife.”

“Not very pregnant yet,” you point out. “Maybe four weeks? Five? It’s early.”

“Don’t care,” he says, closing the distance between you. “You’re pregnant. You’re carrying my baby. That’s all that matters.”

His hand splays across your stomach again, reverent. “There’s a baby in here. Our baby. Part of me, part of you.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Your baby. The one you put in me.”

“Fuck,” he groans. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” You challenge. “It’s true. You bred me. You knocked me up. You got me pregnant.”

He’s kissing you again, walking you backward toward the bed. You go willingly, and soon you’re on your back with Sidney hovering over you.

“I can’t believe this is real,” he says, his hands tracing over your body. “Can’t believe you’re mine. Can’t believe we’re married. Can’t believe you’re pregnant.”

“Believe it,” you say, reaching for his belt. “Your wife is pregnant with your baby. And she needs you.”

“What does she need?” He asks, even though he knows.

“Needs her husband to fuck her,” you say bluntly. “Needs you to show her what it means that she’s carrying your child.”

Sidney groans, making quick work of the rest of his clothes. You remove your bra and panties while he strips, and then you’re both naked, pressed together.

“You’re already pregnant,” he says, his hand moving between your legs and finding you wet. “Already carrying my baby. But I’m going to fuck you anyway. Going to fill you up even more. Going to make sure you know exactly who you belong to.”

“Yours,” you moan as his fingers work you. “Always yours.”

“My wife,” he says. “My pregnant wife. Mother of my children.”

He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you. “Ready?”

“Please,” you beg. “Please, husband. Need you inside me.”

The word ’husband’ sends a thrill through him. He pushes inside slowly, savoring the feeling of your body accepting him.

“God,” he groans. “You feel so perfect.”

“So do you,” you gasp. “So deep.”

He starts to move, slow and deep, one hand braced beside your head, the other on your stomach.

“There’s a baby in here,” he marvels. “Our baby. Growing inside you because I bred you.”

“Yes,” you moan. “You knocked me up. Got me pregnant. Made me yours.”

“Already were mine,” he counters, his pace increasing. “But now everyone’s going to know. Going to see you get round with my baby. Going to know I fucked you so well you got pregnant.”

“Everyone’s going to know,” you agree breathlessly. “Going to see me pregnant and know what you did to me.”

“What we did,” he corrects. “You begged for it. Begged me to breed you. Stopped taking your pills because you wanted my baby.”

“Wanted it so much,” you confess. “Wanted to give you everything. Wanted to be pregnant with your child.”

He adjusts the angle, hitting deeper, and you cry out.

“That’s it,” he encourages. “Take it. Take my cock. You’re so good at it. So perfect for me.”

His hand moves from your stomach to your breast, cupping it. “These are going to get bigger. Fuller. You’re going to be so sensitive when you’re pregnant.”

“Can’t wait,” you gasp. “Want you to see me change. Want you to watch your baby grow in me.”

“I’m going to worship every change,” he promises. “Every pound, every curve, every new thing your body does. You’re growing my baby. Nothing is more beautiful than that.”

“Sidney,” you moan, and he can tell you’re getting close.

“What do you need, wife?”

“Need to come,” you gasp. “Need you to make me come.”

His hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit. “Come for me then. Come on your husband’s cock. Show me how good I make you feel.”

“Keep talking,” you beg. “Tell me about the baby. Tell me about being pregnant.”

“You’re going to be so beautiful pregnant,” he says, his fingers working faster. “So round and glowing. Everyone’s going to see you and know you’re mine. Know I knocked you up. Know you’re carrying my baby.”

“Yes,” you sob. “Want that-”

“Going to take such good care of you,” he continues. “Going to worship you every day. Going to fuck you whenever you want, keep you satisfied, make sure you know how perfect you are.”

“Close,” you gasp. “So close-”

“Come for me,” he commands. “Come for your husband. Show me how good it feels to be pregnant with my baby.”

You fall apart with a scream, your whole body trembling, and Sidney follows immediately after, burying himself deep and filling you up.

“Mine,” he groans. “All mine. My wife. My baby. Everything.”

He collapses beside you, both of you breathing hard, and immediately pulls you against his chest.

“That was intense,” you say after a moment.

“You told me you’re pregnant on our wedding night,” he points out. “What did you expect?”

“Exactly that,” you admit, laughing. “I know you, remember?”

His hand finds your stomach again, splaying across it protectively. “I can’t believe it. We’re having a baby.”

“We are,” you confirm. “In about eight months, give or take.”

“Eight months,” he repeats. “That’s … that’s soon.”

“That’s why I told you now,” you say. “We have our honeymoon, and then we need to start preparing. Nursery, baby things, all of it.”

“We’ll figure it out,” he says. “Together.”

“Together,” you agree.

There’s a comfortable silence for a moment, and then Sidney says, “When did you know?”

“I suspected a few days ago,” you admit. “I was tired, and my breasts were sore, and I just had a feeling. So I took a test yesterday morning. And then three more this morning because I couldn’t believe it.”