muñeca

Now, six months in its wake, she can finally say that she’s okay. Mostly. Sure, some nights, she feels his absence like a limb and it gets so fucking lonely she has to physically stop herself from calling him, but her new routine without Garrett Graham by her side has been partly tolerable. The first few months were the worst. It’s like she sees him in every corner of the campus; some days, even when she stays locked inside her dorm, she hears a laugh in the hallways that sounds too much like him that she has to put on headphones at full blast to distract herself. 

And it’s not like she can avoid him forever. Their friend groups overlap. She shares a class with half of his teammates. But the first time she had convinced herself it was fine to go to a party Garrett and his friends are also attending, she’s inside the random frat house for exactly three minutes when she sees him take another girl up the stairs. It’s the first proof that he really isn’t hers anymore. The pain hit her gradually at first, like everything is in slow motion.  And then she drops her red cup to the floor and books it out of there, crying all the way back to her place and feeling like she’s taken a knife to the chest. That’s when she promised herself to do what she can to make sure their paths don’t cross again. Garrett’s moving on; she’s allowed to do that too. 

So she tries going out. She says yes to every date offer, smiles at guys in bars, even lets some of them take her home. But the other problem with having Garrett Graham as her ex-boyfriend is that he’s ruined her for other men. And, for a reason only god and Garrett can probably answer, she can’t fucking orgasm with other guys. 

The first time she hooked up with someone else, a little over two months after they broke up and just three days after seeing him with that other girl at the party, she had brushed it off as a fluke. One night stands were always hit or miss, anyways. So what if she had the worst sex of her life? What did she expect, letting Frank from Econ take her home? And so, a month later, at a frat party her friends dragged her into, she let another random guy go down on her in the upstairs bathroom and–nothing. She doesn’t finish again. She’s frustrated enough that she buys a whole drawer of toys. If other guys can’t do it for her, then she can do it for herself. She’s a strong, independent, modern woman. 

But nothing. 

Again.

It happens enough times that she has to call it for what it is: her new reality. A reality in which Garrett Graham is no longer hers, and in which orgasms have completely evaded her. 

And now it’s six months later, and her friends are bugging her about going to another party. Only–

“You know why I don’t wanna go,” she says, pointedly flipping through another page in her history textbook. Her exam isn’t for another week, but who says she can’t do some advanced studying? 

Anna drags the book from her. “Babe. It’s been six months. Why are you still letting him win?”

That makes her glare up at her. “Who said it’s a competition?”

“Everyone,” Dylan says with a laugh. “Break-ups always are. Besides, you’re the one who broke Garrett Graham’s heart. Why do you have to go into hiding?”

“Stop saying his full name like he’s some celebrity. And I’m not going into hiding,” she shakes her head, drumming her hands on the table lightly. “I just don’t feel like seeing my ex-boyfriend on the prowl. Is that so bad?”

They share a look before turning towards her. “Yes!”

She thinks she needs better friends.

“That means he won! You’re the one affected!” Anna says.

Dylan nods in agreement. “Why not turn it around on him? Pull a guy right under his nose at a house party he’s hosting. You’re hot; you can definitely do it.”

She almost spills the truth right there; how she’s given up on casual hook ups because they always end the same way–the other guy panting like a dog and her wishing she was literally anywhere else. Sex isn’t fun anymore. Now she’s just horny and alone with nothing to do about it. But even just thinking about her little (try: huge) sex problem is embarrassing enough; literally no one can know, and it’s with that in mind that she carelessly agrees to go to the hockey house party. 

Just because she’s not looking to hook up doesn’t mean she can’t look like she is. And maybe some part of her hopes Garrett sees her from afar, the tight black cut out top that accentuates her breasts, the eye make-up that never fails to make her look sultry, the low-waisted jeans exposing her belly button piercing. Maybe it is a competition. And, she realizes while applying a final coat of her lipstick, she’s tired of losing. 

The second the hockey house comes into view, regret pounds in her blood. The porch is too familiar. There’s that wooden bench she once sat on at two in the morning, drunk out of her mind, watching Garrett fumble with the keys. It had taken him a long time to coax her into sitting, his hands warm on her shoulders. When she finally obeyed, he had kissed her forehead for no reason other than because she was right there and he wanted to. 

One quick glance at the driveway and she immediately spots Garrett’s jeep parked in its usual spot. The same jeep she had ridden in almost every day once, to class or to the rink or to whatever new coffee shop or restaurant she wanted to try out. She had kept a stock of her chapstick and emergency kit in the glove compartment; a mid-size pouch with her feminine products and a change of clothes. She wonders when he got rid of them. If he ever did. 

The lump in her throat intensifies. 

Some days, she feels totally okay. Like she’s completely washed him off. During those days, she even lets herself hope a little–that she’d have that kind of love again. That there will be other boys who will make her heart sing just as loud and make her skin vibrate against her bones. Because it can’t be just Garrett. Because if it’s just him then that means she already lost him and she’ll never get that again. 

And then there were the bad days; the ones where one glance at a spot they once stood at all pressed together is enough to derail her entire week. That one corner of the library. The parking spot near the social sciences building. The tunnel at the rink. She’d spend hours in bed, locked in her dorm, staring at the ceiling as if the water stains there held the answer on why it still hurts. Why she still feels his absence like a gaping hole in her chest. 

She had done the breaking, yes. Nothing new with a little self-harm. 

The first thing she registers the second Dylan swings the door open is the pounding music, some techno club hit that works really great for running and other sweaty activities. The living room is packed, several people crowding the air hockey table and squeezing together on the couch. It’s a relief, honestly. The hockey house is more familiar to her when it’s just her and Garrett and his roommates; quiet mornings before they all drag themselves in the backyard for their workouts, warm coffee with her legs tangled with Garrett’s while they wait for Tucker to finish cooking breakfast. 

Crowded is good. Crowded won’t make her think about cuddles on the couch and the candid polaroid picture Jules took of her and Garrett in sophomore year that used to be pinned to the fridge. 

“All good?” Anna asks.

She smiles, a little too wide to be genuine. “Yeah. Totally. I just need a drink, stat.”

The kitchen is slightly less crowded, but the people occupying the space certainly aren't making things better. 

Logan’s the first one who spots her, probably because Tucker is busy leaning over the stove and Dean is preoccupied being Dean (which means he has his tongue stuck down a girl’s throat with no care for an audience). He says her name in shock, looking at her like he’s imagining things other people can’t see. Valid, probably, since the last time he saw her here, she was frantically packing her things while trying not to collapse on her knees, Garrett trailing after her with his hair messed up and his eyes swollen. “You’re here.”

That makes Tucker look up at her. His eyes widens immediately. “Hey!”

“You’re back for real?” It’s Dean this time, pulling away from the girl he’s making out with just long enough to narrow his eyes at her playfully.

“This is an open-invite party, right?” She shrugs, reaching over the sink to get a bottle of beer. 

Her eyes flicker to the fridge. Post-it notes. Practice times. Random magnets. Definitely no polaroid pictures. Logan gestures for her drink, holding up a bottle opener. She hands it over absentmindedly. 

“Yes,” Logan agrees, though she hears a catch in his voice. “It’s just. You know. You haven’t really been back since–”

“Since you broke our captain’s heart and cost us four consecutive games,” Dean butts in, lips pulled to a smirk. 

She knows he means nothing by it, if only for the fact that he actually looks pretty delighted at her being there. For a time, she had tried avoiding Garrett’s friends as well, a combination of thinking they hated her for hurting him and just avoiding Garrett by proximity fueling her decisions. But in the two years that she was with Garrett, Logan and Tucker and even Dean had become her friends, too. Sure, they don’t exactly hang out anymore, but she still thinks of them as such. 

“And after this welcome party, I probably won’t be back at all,” she says with a faux grin, taking back her beer from Logan and raising it up. “Cheers, guys.”

She squeezes back to the living room where her friends are already dancing on the makeshift dancefloor. If she’s proud of herself for not asking about Garrett, then that’s between her and the god currently playing with her life. 

Dylan cheers once she reaches them, holding her hand up and jumping in place.

She laughs at how ridiculous her friend looks. “How are you halfway drunk already?”

“Talent,” she answers with a bright grin. 

Anna tugs the both of them closer by their tops. “Hottie alert. 5 o’clock.”

They all turn in that direction, easily spotting a guy who looks so much like the textbook definition of frat boy it almost makes her laugh. “Cliche.”

“You hets are killing me,” Dylan mutters, taking a swig of her beer. “But since we are trying to find a hook up for you, I guess he isn’t that bad.”

Anna almost jumps in place. “His hair is so tall he’s giving 2012 One Direction a run for their money. And look at his little frat shirt.”

“You’re impossible,” she laughs, but lets her eyes trail over the guy’s figure anyway. He’s cute, she guesses, in that no-strings-fun kind of way. But she’s not really looking to get disappointed tonight. 

Anna basically deflates at her lack of interest. “Oh, well. The night is young. Shots?”

“That, I can get behind,” she points, and with that her friends somehow manage to procure a bottle of tequila and tiny red plastic shot glasses. 

The pour is messy, dripping over her hand in a way she knows will be annoying later when it dries sticky. But her friends are having fun. The music is loud enough to forget anything she wants to forget. With a reluctant smile, she raises the cup up and downs the shot swiftly. 

Her face is still screwed up from the taste when the song abruptly changes. 

Heavy 80s electric guitar fills the air. A few people groan at the vibe change. Most are too drunk to care. And she freezes on the spot, one hand still holding onto the empty plastic cup, the back of her head burning. 

She doesn’t need to turn around to know who she’s going to see.  

It’s not that Garrett Graham is predictable, or that he’s deliberately making an entrance. It’s just that she had spent a good part of two years knowing him like the back of her hand. 

“Oh shit,” Dylan almost chokes on her beer, basically confirming her thoughts. 

Her shoulders tense and then straighten. Her heart is pounding louder than the classical rock song on the speakers. With a clench of her jaw, she turns around, and there he is. 

Garrett Graham.

The love of her life. 

The man she left.

The annoying part is that he isn’t even looking at her. Probably has not noticed her yet. And how could he, with over four girls surrounding him, two of whom are holding onto either of his arms like he’s a messiah. 

The annoying part is that she expected this. It’s his house, after all.

The annoying part is she’s strung like a bow, the past orgasm-free six months making her feel like her skin is melting off, and the only man she’s sure can solve her problem is looking way too good and forbidden in the low light of the party he’s technically hosting. 

He moves his head slightly to the right, and the chain around his neck catches light. That fucking chain. 

She takes another swig of her beer. 

“You okay?” Anna asks, voice more careful and less on-the-verge-of-drunk this time. 

“Fine,” she grits out. “Perfect.”

Garrett says something unintelligible and the girls around him burst in laughter, loud and screechy enough to reach her ears. 

“I think we’re gonna need more shots,” Dylan says wryly, already tilting the tequila bottle in her hands. 

It’s there, with her hand outstretched while her friend pours liquor into her empty shot glass, that Garrett looks in their direction. Their eyes meet immediately. She’s not even embarrassed about getting caught looking. He’s looking too. His eyes don’t widen. His body doesn’t tense up. From anyone else’s point of view, it’s like he doesn’t react at all. 

But like she said. She once knew him like the back of her hand. And people don’t change that drastically in just six months. So she sees the falter; the movement of his Adam's apple; the twitch in his fingers against the beer bottle. She files these observations in the corner of her mind labeled in red capital letters: DO NOT THINK ABOUT HIM, even though she absolutely still does. Because no amount of time or distance will ever erase him from her flesh. 

Dylan, because she was there when they broke up and had rubbed her back while she sobbed and had been around her and Garrett more than Anna ever had, clocks the barely-interaction with a grimace. “Yep. Definitely need more shots.”

She’s not drunk. Not yet. But she’s slowly getting there. There’s something about the loud music, the constant jump-dancing, and the sweat that makes it easier to let go. Most of it probably has to do with the fact that she feels the weight of Garrett’s gaze in the back of her head like a locked target. 

“He’s still looking,” Anna says lightly, peering over her shoulders.

She brushes the comment off. “I need a drink.”

Her friends look at the still half-filled cup in her hand. 

“I meant water,” she corrects with a roll of her eyes. “Be right back.”

She accidentally meets his eyes again on her way to the kitchen. Yep. Definitely still looking, though he’s still managing to converse with the puck bunnies all over him. Good to know he can still multitask. 

The kitchen looks relatively the same as earlier, if a little messier. Dean’s disappeared; he’s probably upstairs with his puck bunny of the night already. Logan is nowhere to be found too. Only Tucker is there still, leaning against the counter and doing something on his phone. 

She makes a beeline for the fridge. Like she expected, the mini bottles of water they always stock up on during parties are right there in the designated compartment. The familiarity is enough to make her pause. 

“Cutting off already?” The voice makes her jump, one hand flying to her chest in an attempt to settle her heartbeat. She doesn’t want to turn around to see him. She doesn’t want to talk to him or hear his voice or even breathe the same air as him. That was the plan; that had been the plan since she saw him with that girl at that party and decided that if she ever wants to move on, then she needs to cut him from her spleen completely. 

But that was before she let herself be dragged to his house. His party. She knew this was coming. Maybe a part of her wanted it, even, if only to prove something. She’s just not sure if it’s proving that she’s moved on or that she’s still stuck where she was six months ago, broken from the loss of him. 

When she turns, she does so slowly, making sure her feet are planted on the ground. She closes the fridge behind her with her foot and uses it to steady herself, leaning her back against the cold metal, unmindful of the magnets digging into her skin. 

This is the closest they’ve been since the break up, so she doesn’t punish herself much for taking her time perusing his appearance. 

Black sweater tight around his biceps. Dark jeans. That fucking chain. Hair messy and curled and falling to his forehead. Neck slightly glistening with sweat. He looks good enough to eat. Not that she can do anything about that observation. 

“And you?” She says when she finally finds her voice. Her eyes flicker to the crowd of girls he left behind in the living room. “Bored already?”

“No,” Garrett says, voice rough. Under his gaze, her clothes feel too much. The cut-out top feels too revealing, her exposed belly button too cold. She doesn’t want him thinking she dressed up for him, even if she technically did. “Not even close.”

They’re silent for a few seconds, just staring each other down. And she hates this. Hates that it feels this tense. That it’s this awkward. Silences between them used to be comfortable and peaceful. There was a time when they didn’t need words at all. He would raise an eyebrow at her and she’d smile at him. He’d give her a look and she’d kiss it off his face. Squeeze her hand and hold entire conversations in that touch. Now, it feels like a performance; like they’re two souls who used to know everything about each other meeting in another life with different bodies that are strangers. 

If she knew it would be this devastating to see him again, she never would have come at all. Because underneath the bitterness and the pretense that she’s moved on, the love is still there, beating stubbornly in her veins. The care and the regret and the hurt. She wants to ask him how he’s been. She wants to know every single thing that happened to him in the last six months down to the minute detail. She wants to say sorry for breaking both of their hearts. She wants him.

His mouth twitches, like he’s about to say something. And then a girl stumbles into the kitchen, his name on her glossy lips and her hands reaching for his arms, and she realizes with a start that she can’t want him. Not anymore. 

She looks at the girl’s manicured nails pulling at his sweater and feels a pang in her chest so violent she has to swallow back a gasp. Her eyes raise to his, and he’s already looking at her, eyebrows furrowed and his face pained. 

“Yeah,” she whispers with a small smile. “Yeah, I can see that.”

She pushes off against the fridge and walks off, back to the living room where it’s safe because Garrett’s not there with his soft eyes and his unreadable face. 

“You okay?” Dylan asks when she reappears. “You get your water fine?”

Something in her face must betray her, because Dylan and Anna share a concerned look before pulling her close. “Oh, babe.”

Anna pulls back enough to study her. “You wanna go? We can go.”

“No,” she shakes her head, letting out a shaky breath. Her eyes flicker towards the kitchen, where Garrett is talking closely with the same girl–Kendall, if she remembered correctly. She’s heard about her. They’ve been spotted together enough times that people think they might be seriously dating. Which is fine. It’s none of her business. “It’s a party. I want to have fun.”

Something catches her eye. Spiked up hair, frat shirt, tall and built and perfectly distracting. She lets herself smile slowly, giving her friends a knowing look.

After all, if Garrett can have his fun, then why can’t she?

Cliche frat boy almost makes it too easy. 

He’s the one who approaches her, first of all, though she and her friends strategically chose to dance within his line of sight. He’s polite, a little shallow, and he keeps glancing down her boobs every minute like he’s afraid they’re going to be taken away. He’s pretty enough, she decides. She’s not looking for anything other than a distraction, anyway, and she’s not expecting him to blow her mind. Not with her track record the last six months. 

Still, when he leans down to speak against her ear, her eyes cut to Garrett’s figure a couple of feet away, no girls around him this time, his arms crossed in front of his chest and his back leaning against the wall. He’s already looking at her. “You wanna dance?”

“Sure,” she grins, downing another shot before letting him lead her to the middle. She meets Garrett’s eyes again as they’re making their way to the dancefloor, and against her better judgment, she raises an eyebrow at him challengingly. His jaw tenses, the grip on his beer bottle tightening. Satisfaction pangs in her stomach, low and hot.

The bass is heavy and thudding, the perfect background noise to grinding under the guise of dancing. She immediately turns to press her back against cliche frat boy’s front, his hands falling to her hips and helping her sway in time with him. 

She throws her head back, resting it on his shoulder and exposing the long line of her neck. He ducks almost immediately, lips brushing against her skin. “You’re so hot.”

“Thanks,” she laughs. The words do nothing to her as expected. But Garrett’s gaze feels heavy, and it’s enough to keep her going. 

Cliche frat boy’s hands go higher, going from her hips to her stomach. She knows he wants her. Can feel it tenting against his jeans and pressing onto her back. Knows his hands are itching to cup her breasts. She’s debating whether the distraction is worth the disappointment when she feels a hand grip her wrist, gentle but firm and all-too-familiar. 

“Come on,” Garrett says, voice a low grumble and eyes dark and muscles tense like he’s readying himself for a fight. 

He drags her away from cliche frat boy, the hand on her wrist burning each second the contact lasts. From behind them, she hears cliche frat boy let out a noise of protest, but like always when Garrett is close enough to touch, everything else falls away, muffled and silent, her whole focus shifting on him and only him. 

“What the hell, Garrett?” She manages to say, trying half-heartedly to tug her hand free. 

“Let’s go,” he says again, still in that rough, final tone she shouldn’t find so sexy but somehow does. 

He leads her to the coat closet, tugging gently until she’s safely inside and closing the door behind her with a flourish. 

“What is your problem?” She hisses, finally snatching her arm away. Her other hand wraps around the wrist he held, not because it hurt, but because it singes with the memory of his touch. 

Garrett turns away from her, hands on his hips, shoulders heaving up and down in time with his heavy breaths. The closet is cramped. She can’t remember the last time she’s been inside; probably the winter of her freshman year when she was still pretending she was a guest at the hockey house and not someone whose clothes belong in the spare drawer and hanging space her boyfriend provided for her. But the distance between them is small enough that her senses are assaulted with his scent. She’s suddenly all too aware of him; of how much space he’s taking up, of how she feels each breath he takes like a gunshot.

“Garrett,” she calls, finally making him turn back around. But he still doesn’t say anything, eyes dark and face pinched like he pulled a muscle. 

Finally, after a few silent seconds, she sighs in defeat, announcing, “I’m leaving.”

He moves so quickly she barely registers it, and before she knows it, one of his hands is on the door beside her head, trapping her in place. 

“Garrett,” her voice is low now, barely a whisper. She feels his hot breath fan against her face and almost closes her eyes. 

She watches him swallow like it pains him to do so. His eyes are dark, a bit wild around the edges, like something inside him has been flayed open. 

“You can be with whoever the fuck you want to be with,” he tells her quietly, voice rough and serious, making her pause in place. “But don’t do it in front of me. Don’t be cruel.”

A shaky breath leaves her mouth before she can control it. She reads the pain and anger and jealousy on Garrett’s face like a book. It’s the first glance of the real Garrett she’s had in months, the Garrett that was hers completely and encompassingly, and the sight goes straight to her core. 

She feels weak and tired and not at all in control, and it’s with resigned acceptance that she throws her arms around his shoulders, gets on her toes, and kisses him. 

She can tell that the kiss catches him by surprise, because she feels him inhale sharply through his nose. For a moment he just stands there, one hand still pressed to the door and another falling limply at his side, lips barely moving against hers. And then his brain finally catches up to him, and suddenly he’s backing her into the door even further, hips pressing into hers, his tongue darting out to trace her lips. 

“Fuck,” he pulls away enough to mutter, both of his hands coming up to cup her jaw. When he presses their lips together again, it’s wet and messy and makes a whimper sound from her throat. 

She hitches one leg up, anchoring it on his hip. He thrusts forward, and the feeling of his hardening cock on her center even through the fabric of their pants is enough to make her head fall back against the door, her mouth opening with cry. 

“Are you drunk?” Garrett asks against her lips, like he can’t possibly pull away or else she’ll disappear right in front of him. “How much have you had to drink?”

She uses one hand to pull at his sweater’s neckline, kissing him chastely. “I’m not drunk.”

“How much have you had to drink?” He asks again, voice more serious, the hand he’s using to support her leg clenching against her skin. She feels the grip burn through the denim of her jeans. 

She raises one hand to grip the back of his neck. “Enough to still know what I’m doing.”

She goes to kiss him again, but he pulls his head away, making her sigh in frustration. “What are you doing?”

Her hips shift against his, impatient and needy. She pulls him closer, until her lips are brushing against his again, not quite a kiss, but close enough. “Please,” she whispers. His other arm snakes around her waist. “Please, Garrett. I need you.”

“Yeah?” He asks, voice a little broken. 

She kisses him, quick but deep, tugging out his lower lip with her teeth as she pulls away. “So bad. I haven’t–I couldn’t–”

“What, baby?” 

The nickname makes her thighs clench together, an action that he doesn’t miss judging from the way his eyes go even darker. 

“Don’t make it a thing,” she almost whines, her hand squeezing the back of his neck. “I haven’t been able to–not since you.”

The words are vague and confusing and embarrassing, but Garrett gets what she’s trying to say immediately. His eyes widen visibly. His chest puffs out. His face does something annoying–all smug and possessive and so Garrett she could almost cry. 

“No?” 

She shakes her head. “I tried, but I couldn’t–”

His eyes flash at that. “Oh, did you?”

She tightens her hold on him, throwing her pride to the window long enough to whimper out, “Please, baby–”

His mouth cuts off the words from her lips, one hand coming up to squeeze her breast. She moans out loud instantly, hips continuing to gyrate against the obvious tent in his pants. One of his hands began to fumble with the button of her jeans, another traveling up her back under her top and unclasping her bra expertly. 

“You’ve probably been so frustrated, huh?” He says lowly, pressing a kiss to her cheek almost delicately, a huge contrast to the way his hands are now tugging her jeans and panties urgently down her legs. “All those boys not knowing how to handle you.”

She hums, kicking her jeans off one leg and not bothering to take it off completely. 

He kisses her again on the mouth, all heat and confidence. “Don’t worry, baby. I got you.”

And then he drops to his knees. 

Garrett’s always been a generous lover. She had never felt like he was prioritizing his needs above her own. She was a virgin when they first got together, but their first time was a fairytale when compared to all the other first time horror stories she’s heard over the years. He never skimps on foreplay. He always makes sure she feels good, often double checking if she’s okay with what they’re doing even in the middle of doing it. 

And Garrett, because he’s been made specifically to torture her and ruin her for other men, is ridiculously gifted in the art of cunnilingus. 

He eats pussy the same way he plays hockey. Controlled. Focused. One goal in mind. 

The first swipe of his tongue has her bracing herself with one arm to the wall and one hand pressed to her mouth to muffle the squeak that involuntarily leaves it. He looks up at her from in between her thighs, his lips pulled into a smirk so annoying it makes her roll her eyes, which only serves to make his eyes light up even more. 

He guides one of her legs so it can rest over his shoulders, pressing soft kisses and nibbling at the skin of her thighs before going back to her center. She’s dripping, almost embarrassingly so. He gives another experimental lick, this time the tip of his tongue snagging on her swollen clit, and she jolts in place hard enough to knock her back against the door. Anyone walking by outside would know exactly what’s going on, and she can’t bring herself to care. 

“You good?” He asks, eyes catching hers in the dim light of the coat closet. 

The question does something to her chest. Melts it into something stupid. Makes her kind of want to cry for different, more pathetic reasons. She nods once, because she can’t trust her voice not to betray her. He looks like he sees through her, anyway, because something in his eye changes, the once dark and lustful look transforming into something warmer. More reverent. 

When he leans down again, she thinks the world stops just a little. Nothing else matters more than his tongue licking up her cunt, the two fingers he suddenly thrusts inside that she greedily sucks up. He finds that sweet, spongy spot inside her instantly, because of course he does, because he’s Garrett and he knows her just as much as she knows him, even after six months of no contact. 

For a moment, the closet is filled with the filthy, wet sounds of him eating her out and his fingers scissoring her open, her breath punching out of her throat with each stroke in quiet “oh’s” that only makes him more enthusiastic. And then his lips close around her clit and he sucks, and the world turns white. 

The orgasm catches her off guard. After six long months without it, her body reacts before her brain can, and her mouth lets out the loudest screech she’s ever made, loud enough that Garrett’s eyes widen from below her, though he doesn’t stop with his ministrations. He laps at her like he’s been starving for it, fucks her with his fingers like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to do it. It takes a couple more seconds, and then she’s twitching again, her cunt pulsing around his fingers for a second orgasm that’s even stronger than the first. 

She can’t help it. Her mouth drops open with another cry and she squirts all over his face. 

“Fuck,” she gasps, legs twitching, trying to move away. “I’m sorry. I–”

His hand grips her leg tightly, voice rough and broken with want. “Don’t. Fucking–don’t.”

He presses frantic kisses all over her thighs, her hips, her legs, her belly button piercing, spreading her wetness all over. He stands up with shaky legs and tugs her forward until his mouth is on hers and she’s tasting herself on his tongue. 

“Fuck, baby,” he hisses, already turning her over and bending her, guiding both of her hands to brace at the door. “That was the hottest fucking thing–I can’t–I need to be inside you. Please.”

She hears his pants and belt hit the floor. She’s still trembling from her long-awaited orgasms, but at least she has enough sense to ask, “Condom?”

A pause. 

He lets out a loud groan. “I don’t have any.”

“Are you serious?” She turns her head back to look at him incredulously. 

He looks physically pained, his eyebrows knotted together and his jaw clenched. “I have some in my room.”

She looks down pointedly at their states of undress.

“Fuck, I know,” he hisses, throwing his head back in frustration. But they’re too close together, so the movement only serves to press her bare ass against his hard cock, making him choke on air. “Shit. Shit. Shit. What do you–I need you to decide because I can’t–”

His hips give an involuntary thrust that has her gasping out loud. 

“I’m clean,” she says, and the words shouldn’t feel that heavy given the situation, shouldn’t sound as vulnerable as it does. But Garrett raises his head to look at her like she’s rewired his brain. Like what she said meant something different. “I’ve never gone without. Not since–well, you know.”

Her heart pounds in her chest heavily. Garrett looks wrecked; like the admission undoes him even more than the sex. When his hands find their way to grip her hips again, they’re trembling almost violently. 

“Me too.” He shifts until he’s close enough to press a kiss on her shoulder. “Fuck. Me too.”

She bends over again, more purposefully this time. “Please, Garrett.”

He exhales through his nose. “Where do you want me?”

She wiggles her ass against him. “Inside, please. Need to feel you inside. ‘M so empty.”

Garrett makes a sound at that. Rumbling and raw from the back of his throat. He squeezes her hips again, once, then twice, and then one of his hands disappears to guide himself to her entrance. 

“Like this?” He whispers, rubbing the head of his cock over her clit and making her bite her lips in an attempt at being quiet. “Are you sure?”

She nods, breathless. “Please.”

The first press inside has her eyes rolling back. Garrett groans, hands gripping her hips tight enough that the skin around his fingers go white. He goes slowly, making her clench around every inch like he’s branding his cock inside her permanently. He might as well have been. It feels like forever before he finally bottoms out, nudging against her cervix and making her choke out his name.

“Fuck,” he breathes out, the entirety of his torso pressed against her back. “You feel so good. Shit.”

She shuts her eyes tight if only to stop herself from tearing up. “Please move.”

He presses another kiss, this time to her jaw. And then he pulls out almost all the way before snapping his hips back. 

“Ah,” she cries out, fingers flexing against the door. Her breasts bounce from the impact, and Garrett reaches up to cup one in his hand. They’re both still wearing their shirts, although her bra is unclasped and hanging loosely from her shoulders. 

It’s never felt this good with anyone else, and some part of her itches to tell him exactly that. That she’s never felt so owned; that he’s the only one who can take her to this place. 

He pinches her nipple, lips hovering close to her ear. “Fuck yes. Feel me?”

“Uh-huh,” she chokes out, her knees shaking and her cunt clenching even tighter around him. 

“You’re perfect,” Garrett grits out, pressing another kiss to her jaw, his thrusts never missing the fast rhythm he set. “I’ve never—fuck. I missed you so bad.”

Her lip trembles at that. “I missed you, too.” Her voice is raw and wet and ugly and he hears it exactly for what it is. His hands turn gentle, until he’s pulling out just enough to get her to turn around. 

He walks them backwards, one of his hands reaching for a random coat and throwing it on the floor. He doesn’t let go of her even as he guides them both down to the floor, the makeshift blanket out of the winter coat scratching their bare legs. 

“Come here,” he rasps out, pulling her until she’s straddling his lap. “Ride me. Please, baby.”

This time it’s her that reaches down to guide his cock inside her. She sinks down on him fast and efficiently, their open mouths pressed together, breathing against each other. The stretch burns something delicious, the angle getting him so much deeper.

“You feel even bigger like this,” she gasps out, her arms hugging his shoulders for support. “You’re so deep.”

The familiar Garrett Graham smirk paints over his face. “Yeah?”

“Garrett,” she cries, hips faltering. 

He holds her steady. “Shh. I got you.”

He begins lifting her up and down his cock, his hips thrusting up to meet her every time. She can’t even pretend to be quiet anymore. And Garrett can’t pretend he doesn’t love it; how out of control she is. How raw and genuine. 

He shifts a little bit, and the change in angle gets another screech from her throat. “Fuck. Yes. Right there. Don’t stop.”

Garret kisses her, messy and wet, his tongue pushing past her lips and teeth. She moans against his mouth, beginning to feel that familiar tightening in her stomach again. Garrett must sense that she’s close again too, because he pulls away from her lips to say, “Come on. You gonna squirt again? You know you want to.”

“I don’t—“ she grips his hair with both hands, head tossing back. “I don’t know if I can.”

“Of course you can, baby,” he tells her, voice almost condescending. “Here you go. Let me help you. Wanna feel you squirt around my cock.”

He reaches down and rubs his thumb against her clit. The reaction is instant: a scream gets caught in her throat, her open mouth pressing against Garrett’s forehead, her pussy pulsing and clinging onto his cock almost violently. She makes a real mess of it; her thighs and Garrett’s wet with her release. 

It lasts longer than is probably healthy. And Garrett fucks her through it steadily, her entire body twitching with aftershocks. His jaw is cinched tight, lips pursed in concentration. She clenches her pussy around him, and a broken groan erupts from his chest.

“I’m– close,” he grits out, pace unrelenting and making her feel lightheaded from overstimulation. “Where can I…?”

She drags him by the neck for another messy kiss. “Inside. Please. Wanna feel you fill me up.”

“Jesus,” Garrett chokes out, the words doing their intended effect. His thrusts falter once, twice, and then he’s painting her insides with his cum, so deep she’s convinced her stomach bulges with it. “Yeah. Take it, baby. Take it all.”

Her eyes closed shut at the feeling, the warmth of it, the closeness she wasn’t sure she’d ever feel again. For a moment, none of them move, even as she feels him softening inside her. Her arms are still around his shoulders, hugging him to her, and his have moved to close around her waist. 

“You good?” Garrett asks after a few seconds, one hand coming up to rub her back gently.

She nods, still lightheaded and breathless. “Yes. Just. I need a second.”

His chest rises up and down harshly as well, evidence of how winded he is, but Garrett only tightens his arms around her and pulls her even closer. “Okay.”

The music from the party continues to thrum outside the closet. She doesn’t know how they can get out with their dignities intact. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever find the strength to pull away from him. It was hard enough the first time.

Garrett moves his head, and then he presses a lingering kiss to her forehead. “Listen—“

A loud knock comes from the closet door, making the two of them jump. “Yo, are you guys done? I need my fucking coat.”

She doesn’t recognize the voice, but the interruption is enough to startle some sense into her. 

“Oh my god,” she says, fighting back a whimper when she shifts her hips to pull herself off of Garrett.

He looks at her, face blanched and eyes trying to catch hers. “Hey, wait—“

But she’s already hopping around to put her pants back on. It’s uncomfortable; her thighs are still messy with their combined release. But her fingers are trembling and her chest feels like it’s caving in and she needs to get out of this damned closet and this damned house. 

Garrett stands slowly, tugging his pants in place. He runs a hand through his messed up hair, silently watching her panic. Her lips are as swollen as his is, both their necks painted with bites and their skin littered with bruises invisible to the eye but ones they both know will last even longer. 

Another loud knock.

“Hold the fuck on,” Garrett snaps, letting one hand pound back on the door once to highlight his words.

She finally stops fumbling, her jeans and her top firmly put in place, her hair finger-brushed, looking as put together as she can manage. She still can’t meet his eyes when she croaks out, “I’m sorry.”

Garrett exhales loudly, tilting his head to the ceiling and closing his eyes in defeat. “You’re running again.”

The fact that he doesn’t pose it as a question stings even more. Like he should have known better. Like she had already hurt him once, so this one’s on him.

She wraps her arms around herself. Her eyes burn, tears clouding her vision. “This shouldn’t have—we shouldn’t—Garrett.” The helpless way she says his name makes his face twitch. “This was a mistake. We’re supposed to be moving on.”

“Stop,” he rasps out, face all screwed up and refusing to look away from her. “If you’re leaving, just go. You don’t need to say anything else.”

“I’m sorry,” she ducks her head, crying softly now. She still feels his touch and his kisses like they’re ironbranded on her skin. Garrett still doesn’t look away; that’s the part that gets to her. 

It was the first home game of the season, and you'd been there in the stands with your roommate Sarah, screaming yourself hoarse when Briar scored in overtime. You'd grown up watching hockey with your dad every weekend, huddled on your worn couch with hot chocolate and a running commentary on every play. When you'd decided on Briar for college, one of the things that sealed the deal was knowing you could keep that tradition alive, even if it meant watching alone in the student section instead of next to your dad.

The after-party was at one of the off-campus houses the hockey team practically owned, all sticky floors and too-loud music and the smell of cheap beer and victory. You were near the kitchen, trying to explain to Sarah why that last goal had been such a brilliant play, when someone knocked into you hard enough that your drink sloshed over the rim of your cup.

"Shit, sorry—" The apology died when you turned around and found yourself face-to-face with Dean Di Laurentis himself, still riding the high of the win, his golden hair damp at the edges, grey eyes bright with alcohol and adrenaline. He looked you up and down with a slow, appreciative smile that probably worked on most girls. "Haven't seen you around before. You a Puck Bunny, or are you here with someone?"

You felt your spine straighten. "Excuse me?"

"You know." He leaned against the wall, all casual confidence. "Puck Bunny. Jersey chaser. Here for the players." His smile widened. "Because if you are, I'm happy to—"

"I'm here because I like hockey," you cut him off, your voice sharper than you'd intended. "Actual hockey. The sport. I've been watching it since I was six years old, and that goal you scored in the second period? It was decent, but you telegraphed the shot. The goalie knew exactly where you were going."

His eyebrows shot up. For a second, he just stared at you, and you couldn't tell if he was offended or impressed. Then he laughed, this genuine, surprised sound that made something flutter traitorously in your chest.

"Telegraphed it, huh?"

"Your shoulder dropped. Dead giveaway."

"And you know this because...?"

"Because I actually watch the game instead of just showing up to get laid afterward."

He laughed again, shaking his head. "Okay, fair. I'm Dean."

"I know who you are."

"And you are...?"

You told him your name, and he repeated it like he was testing how it felt in his mouth. Then he said, "Let me buy you a drink to make up for the Puck Bunny comment."

"This is a house party. The drinks are free."

"Then let me get you a free drink."

You should have walked away then. You should have seen exactly what he was—a player in every sense of the word, someone who collected girls like hockey pucks after practice. But there was something about the way he was looking at you, like you'd surprised him and he wasn't quite sure what to do with that, that made you stay for one drink.

One drink turned into an hour of arguing about hockey, about whether fighting should be allowed in the game, about the best players in the NHL. He was smart and funny and so goddamn charming that you had to keep reminding yourself what he was.

When he asked for your number at the end of the night, you said no.

"Why not?" He looked genuinely confused, like this was a new experience for him.

"Because I'm not interested in being another name on your list, Di Laurentis."

"What list?"

You just looked at him.

He had the grace to look slightly sheepish. "Okay, but what if I want to talk about hockey with you?"

"Then you can find me at the next game."

And he did. He saw you in the stands at the next game, and the one after that. Over the following semesters, Dean Di Laurentis made it his personal mission to get you to go out with him.

He'd find you in the library and leave coffee on your table with notes debating your takes on the latest NHL trades. He eventually secured your number and texted you after games asking if you'd noticed how he didn't telegraph his shots anymore. He showed up at the campus coffee shop where you worked Tuesday mornings, ordering the same terrible black coffee and leaving ridiculous tips.

"Dinner," he'd say, leaning across the counter with that crooked smile. "Just dinner. We can talk about hockey the whole time."

"No."

"A movie?"

"No."

"A walk? Just a walk across campus. Very public. Very innocent."

"Dean, no."

"Why not?" He'd lean closer, and you'd catch the scent of his cologne, something clean and woodsy that made your stomach flip. "Give me one good reason."

"Because you sleep with anything that moves, and I'm not interested in being another notch on your bedpost."

"What if I promised you wouldn't be?"

"Your promises don't mean much when half the girls in my dorm have stories about you."

He'd wince at that, but he never denied it. At least he was honest.

The thing was, part of you wanted to say yes. Part of you noticed the way his face lit up when he talked about hockey, the way he actually listened when you talked, the way he kept showing up even when you kept turning him down. But you'd seen too many girls fall for Dean Di Laurentis and end up crying in the bathroom at parties, and you weren't going to be one of them.

Then you met Mark.

Mark was safe. Mark was a business major who didn't play sports, who took you on actual dates and called when he said he would and introduced you to his parents over Parents' Weekend. Mark was everything Dean wasn't—steady, reliable, boring.

You didn't realize he was boring until after you broke up.

Dean backed off when you started dating Mark. You'd see him sometimes at games or around campus, and he'd nod at you, smile that crooked smile, but he never pushed. Never tried to get between you. You almost respected him for it.

Mark and you lasted a year and a half. You broke up about three months ago. It was mutual and amicable and completely bloodless, which should have told you everything you needed to know about your relationship. When you can break up with someone and feel mostly relieved, you probably shouldn't have been together in the first place.

You didn't tell anyone except Sarah, but somehow Dean knew within a week.

He didn't pounce immediately, which surprised you. Instead, he just started showing up again. At the coffee shop, back to his Tuesday morning routine. At the library, leaving coffee and notes like no time had passed at all.

"I'm sorry about Mark," he said one day, sliding into the chair across from you in the library.

"How did you even know?"

He shrugged. "I pay attention."

"It's fine. It was mutual."

"Still." He was quiet for a moment, spinning his coffee cup between his hands. "You doing okay?"

And the thing was, he seemed to genuinely care about the answer. You talked for an hour that day, and he didn't ask you out once. Didn't make a move. Just talked to you like you were friends, like he actually gave a shit about how you were doing.

He did that for weeks. Just... showed up. Made you laugh. Reminded you why you'd been tempted in the first place.

"Malone's tonight," Sarah said one Friday. "You need to get out of this apartment."

Malone's was the bar where everyone went after games and Briar had won that night, so the place was packed with celebrating students. You were three beers in and finally feeling like yourself again when Dean appeared at your elbow.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself." You had to raise your voice over the music. "Good game."

"You were there?"

"I'm always there."

His smile could have lit up the whole bar. "Want to get some air? It's loud as hell in here."

You should have said no. You should have remembered all your reasons, all your rules. But you were tired of being careful, tired of being the girl who always said no, tired of pretending you didn't feel the pull between you every time he was near.

"Yeah, okay."

Outside, the winter air was sharp and cold, and you could see your breath in the glow of the streetlights. Dean's car was parked at the back of the lot, and you ended up leaning against it, not quite touching but close enough that you could feel the heat of him.

"I've missed you," he said quietly.

"You've seen me like three times this week."

"You know what I mean."

You did. God help you, you did.

"Dean—"

"I know. I know all your reasons. I know what you think of me, and you're probably right. But I can't stop thinking about you. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you since freshman year."

"You've been with plenty of other girls since freshman year."

"Yeah." He turned to face you fully, and in the dim light, his eyes were dark and serious. "Because I couldn't have you."

It was a line. It had to be a line. Dean Di Laurentis had a million lines, and this was just another one.

But when he kissed you, it didn't feel like a line.

It felt like falling, like the moment right before a fight breaks out on the ice when everything goes still and sharp. His hands cupped your face like you were something precious, and when you kissed him back, you felt him smile against your mouth.

"Your place or mine?" he murmured against your lips.

"Car," you said, because you couldn't wait, because if you waited you might remember all your reasons and change your mind.

His car was cramped and awkward, the steering wheel digging into your back, his head hitting the roof when he moved wrong, both of you laughing breathlessly in the dark. It wasn't smooth or practiced. It was fumbling and desperate and real in a way you hadn't expected. His hands were everywhere—tangled in your hair, sliding under your shirt, gripping your hips like he was afraid you'd disappear. You could taste beer and want on his tongue, could feel his heart hammering against yours.

When it was over, you sat in the fogged-up car, your head on his shoulder, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your arm.

"I should drive you home," he said, his voice rough.

"Yeah."

But when you got to your apartment, neither of you wanted the night to end. You ended up in your bed, and this time it was slower, softer. This time you could see his face in the lamplight, could watch the way he looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. He took his time, learning what made you gasp, what made you arch into him. He kissed every inch of skin he could reach, murmured your name like a prayer.

This time, it felt dangerous in a completely different way.

That was two months ago.

Two months of Dean showing up at your apartment at midnight after games, still riding the high of victory or nursing the sting of defeat. Two months of stolen mornings and tangled sheets and the smell of his cologne on your pillows. Two months of inside jokes and late-night food runs and the way he kisses your shoulder when he thinks you're asleep.

Two months of not talking about what this is.

You're not dating. You're not a couple. You're just... this. Whatever this is. And you keep telling yourself you're fine with it, that you knew what you were getting into, that you're not going to be the girl who falls for Dean Di Laurentis and expects him to change.

But sometimes, when he looks at you a certain way, or when he remembers how you take your coffee, or when he texts you in the middle of the day just to say something reminded him of you—sometimes you wonder if maybe you already are.

Sometimes you wonder if maybe he's already changed.

"Babydoll, you coming?" Dean asks, holding his hand out to you as he stands at the entryway of the bar. His cheeks are flushed from the drinks and the warmth of the crowded venues you've already hit tonight.

It's a Saturday night, and he'd convinced you to come out with him and his teammates for a bar crawl. So far the group has made it to three bars with two more to go, and you're about five drinks in—though you've been slacking compared to some of the others, nursing your drinks while they've been throwing them back like water.

You're reaching for his hand when something across the street catches your eye. Outside a nightclub, illuminated by neon lights, sits a vintage photo booth. The kind with the velvet curtain and the promise of four grainy pictures that will probably be terrible and perfect all at once.

You drunkenly point at it, your eyes lighting up. "Look!" you grin, your words slightly slurred. "Dean, look!"

He follows your gaze and chuckles, that warm sound that makes your stomach flip every single time. "A photobooth? What, you wanna go in?"

"Please?" You clasp your hands together in front of your chest, giving him your best pleading expression. It's ridiculous and over-the-top, and you know it, but the alcohol has made you brave and uninhibited in a way you usually aren't.

He stares at you for a moment, and you watch his expression soften. His jaw clenches slightly, and there's something in his eyes—something tender and almost vulnerable—that makes your heart skip. "Since you asked so nicely," he teases, but his voice is quieter than before, more sincere.

He grabs your hand and leads you across the street, weaving through the late-night traffic with the confidence of someone who's had just enough to drink to feel invincible. The photo booth smells like old plastic and the ghost of a thousand other people's memories. Dean fishes some crumpled bills out of his wallet and feeds them into the machine before sitting down on the small bench.

He pulls you into his lap without hesitation, and you giggle as you shift to get comfortable, your back against his chest, his arms wrapped around your waist. His chin rests on your shoulder, and you can feel him smile against your neck.

"Silly face first," you insist, turning to look at him with exaggerated seriousness.

He laughs and leans forward to start the countdown. When the flash goes off, you're both making ridiculous faces—tongue out, eyes crossed, cheeks puffed. The second shot is more of the same, Dean making a face like a fish while you pretend to strangle him.

But by the third photo, something shifts. The silliness fades into something softer. You turn in his lap to face him, and instead of making a face, you just look at him. Really look at him. His dark eyes are warm and focused entirely on you, and when he reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, the gesture is so tender it makes your chest ache.

"Hi," he whispers, like he's seeing you for the first time.

"Hi," you whisper back.

The flash goes off, capturing the moment—his hand still in your hair, your face tilted up toward his, the way you're looking at each other like the rest of the world doesn't exist.

For the fourth and final shot, he kisses you. It's soft and unhurried, tasting like whiskey and want and something that feels dangerously close to love. Your hand finds the back of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, and you kiss him back like you're trying to memorize the feeling of his mouth on yours.

When you pull apart, you're both breathing a little harder than necessary.

"That one's definitely gonna be my favorite," he murmurs against your lips.

You don't tell him that it's yours too. You don't tell him that you're starting to think maybe this—whatever this is—might be more than just two people scratching an itch. You don't tell him that you're terrified of how much you're starting to care.

Instead, you just smile and let him pull you out of the booth, your hand in his, the four photos clutched in your other hand like they're the most precious thing in the world.

Maybe they are.

Skin Care 

Two weeks later, it's a Friday night, and Dean has come over to your apartment. He was supposed to go out with his friends tonight, but when he asked if you wanted to come, you declined. You'd had a headache all day, and you just wanted to stay in and relax without the assault of loud music and a crowded frat house.

Going out every weekend was kinda his thing, but you were like a drug that he needed his fix of, so he'd asked if he could come over. You'd said yes without hesitation—which should have been your first clue that things had shifted between you.

The hookup happened less than five minutes after he arrived, urgent and familiar, your bodies moving together like they'd been doing this for months. Because they have. But afterward, as you lay tangled in your sheets in your favorite pajama set, eating the Chinese takeout he'd ordered, something felt different. Softer. More like a date than a booty call.

Dean got up to use the bathroom a few minutes ago, leaving the door open to talk to you. "This was way better than going out tonight." He says as you hear the toilet flush and the clatter of him putting the seat back down. What a gentleman.

"You're so full of shit, I know you wish you were out getting wasted on frat row with a girl on either arm," you say, rolling your eyes. That's sort of what he's notorious for, but part of you thought if that's what he wanted to do with his night, nothing was stopping him. He chose to skip out on it, to spend time with you.

He doesn't respond right away. You hear the faucet turn on before he speaks. "Well, I wouldn't be here if I preferred that to getting to see the face you make when you cum," He says teasingly, and you blush.

"Shut up," You mutter, stabbing a piece of broccoli from your takeout container. The room is quiet for a couple of minutes as you scroll through Instagram on your phone.

"Do I look like a smurf?" Dean's voice echoes from your bathroom.

You look up from your phone to see him standing in the doorway, your cooling face mask strapped to his head. He looks absolutely ridiculous, and you can't help but laugh.

"What are you doing?" you ask, setting your food aside.

"I found it in the tiny fridge," he says, motioning to your skincare fridge. "Is this like in case you get punched in the face?"

"No, you idiot," you laugh, shaking your head. "It's for depuffing. It's part of my skincare routine, but I usually just use it when I’m hungover or something."

He studies himself in the mirror with exaggerated seriousness. "Maybe I should get one of these."

"Do you want me to do my routine on you?" you ask, already reaching for your phone to snap a picture of him looking ridiculous.

"Hell yeah!"

"It'll cost you," you say with a smirk. "Another round."

He matches your smirk and crosses his arms. "As if I'd say no to that, Babydoll."

You roll your eyes at the nickname, but you're already standing up, taking his hand and leading him back to your bathroom. It's small and warm, lit by the soft glow of your vanity lights. Your products are lined up like little soldiers—serums and essences and creams in glass bottles and sleek tubes.

"Okay, first we need to take that off then we’ll use some cleanser," you say, guiding him to sit on the edge of your bathtub. You move your hands behind his head to undo the straps and gently slip it off his face. Next, you grab a washcloth and wet it with warm water before squeezing a little bit of your cleanser onto it. You rub the cloth over his face, your fingers carefully on his skin as you wipe away the suds. He watches you the entire time, his dark eyes tracking your movements like you're the most interesting thing he's ever seen.

"This is very intimate," he murmurs.

"Shut up," you say, but you're smiling.

You pat his face dry and start with the toner, pouring a small amount onto a cotton pad. As you swipe it across his forehead, his cheekbones, his jawline, he sits perfectly still. There's something vulnerable about him like this—letting you take care of him, trusting you with his face. It's such a stark contrast to the confident hockey player who usually commands every room he enters.

"This smells like flowers," he observes as you move to the essence.

"It's rose and hyaluronic acid," you explain, gently patting the liquid into his skin. Your fingers are gentle, methodical. "It hydrates."

"You're very thorough," he says, and there's something almost tender in his voice.

You apply the serum next, then the moisturizer, your hands moving across his face with practiced ease. By the time you're done, his skin is glowing, and he looks at you with an expression that makes your chest tighten.

"Your turn," he says, reaching for your wrist.

"What? No—"

"Come on. Teach me."

So you do. He stands up and lifts you onto the counter and stands between your legs as he carefully applies each product to your face, his touch uncertain but earnest. He concentrates like he's performing surgery, his brow furrowed, his tongue poking out slightly. It's endearing and ridiculous and somehow the most intimate thing you've done together.

When he's finished, he cups your face in his hands and just looks at you for a long moment.

"What?" you ask softly.

"Nothing," he says. "You're just... really beautiful."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. This isn't what you signed up for. This domestic, tender version of Dean. This version that does your skincare with you and looks at you like you matter.

"Come on," you say, taking his hand. "Let's go to bed."

“What about the other round I owe you?” He asks jokingly. 

“Mmm, you’ll just have to pay me back in the morning.” You say, crawling into bed.

“Deal,” He says, watching you for a moment before settling into the sheets beside you. He pulls you against his chest, his chin resting on top of your head. You fall asleep like that, wrapped up in him, the scent of your skincare products mingling between you.

For the first time in four months, you don't try to convince yourself that this is just physical. You don't try to pretend that what you're feeling is anything less than real.

And that terrifies you more than anything else ever has.

Cigarettes After What?

The snow starts falling on a Tuesday night, fat flakes that stick to your apartment windows and muffle the sounds of the city below. You knew that they were calling for snow tonight, but figured it wouldn’t be much, so Dean still came over after practice. Speaking of Dean, you're too busy with Dean to notice the snow falling. His mouth on your neck, his hands everywhere, the familiar heat building between you until it peaks and breaks like a wave.

Afterward, you're lying tangled in your sheets, your skin still flushed and damp with sweat. The radiator hisses softly in the corner, filling the room with warmth that makes you feel drowsy and content. Dean's fingers trace lazy patterns on your hip—circles, figure eights, abstract shapes that make your skin tingle. You're staring at the ceiling, trying to catch your breath, when you notice how quiet it is outside. The usual sounds of your apartment complex—car horns, distant sirens, drunken college students—are all muted, softened by something.

"It's snowing," you say, turning your head to look at the window. The flakes are coming down thick and fast now, blanketing everything in white. The streetlights cast an orange glow on the falling snow, making it look almost magical.

Dean props himself up on one elbow to look, his hair messy from your fingers, his lips still swollen from kissing. "Shit. That's a lot of snow."

You reach for your phone on the nightstand, squinting at the brightness of the screen. "Winter storm warning. They're saying twelve to eighteen inches. Possibly more."

"Guess I'm stuck here," he says, and there's something in his voice—not disappointment, but something softer. Relief, maybe. Hope.

"Guess so," you murmur, setting your phone down beside you.

You should feel trapped. Anxious. The walls should feel like they're closing in. Instead, you feel something dangerously close to contentment. Like this is exactly where you're supposed to be.

Dean settles back against your pillows, pulling you closer so your head rests on his chest. You can hear his heartbeat, steady and strong. "Put on some music," he suggests, his fingers playing with your hair.

You scroll through your phone with one hand, and without really thinking about it, you pull up Cigarettes After Sex. The opening notes of "K." fill the room, dreamy and atmospheric, all reverb and longing. Dean makes a soft sound of approval, his chest rumbling under your ear.

"Good choice," he says. "I love this band."

"You know them?"

"Babydoll, I'm not a complete Neanderthal," he teases. "I have taste."

You smile against his skin. "Could've fooled me."

He pinches your side gently, and you squirm, laughing. The song shifts to "Affection," and you lie there for a while, listening to the music, watching the snow fall through the window. Dean's hand finds yours under the covers, his fingers lacing through yours like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like you've been doing this for years instead of months. His thumb strokes across your knuckles, back and forth, a soothing rhythm that matches the music.

The weight of his hand in yours feels significant somehow. More intimate than sex. More real.

"I need a cigarette," you say eventually, even though you only smoke when you're drunk or stressed or feeling something too big to name. Right now, you're definitely feeling the latter two. 

"Me too," Dean says quietly.

You extract yourself from the warmth of the bed reluctantly, the cool air of the apartment raising goosebumps on your bare skin. You pull on his hoodie—it smells like his cologne and laundry detergent and something uniquely him—and a pair of sweatpants. Dean tugs on his boxers and t-shirt, not bothering to look around your bedroom floor for his pants. The apartment is warm from the radiator, but you grab a blanket anyway, wrapping it around your shoulders as you unlock the sliding door to your small balcony.

The cold hits you immediately, sharp and clean and shocking after the warmth inside. Your breath comes out in white puffs. Snow has already accumulated on the railing, on the small bistro table you never use, on the two chairs you bought at a yard sale and never sit in. You brush the snow off the railing, the cold biting at your fingers, and lean against it. Dean stands beside you, close enough that you can feel his body heat radiating through the blanket.

The city looks different in the snow. Softer. Quieter. Almost peaceful.

You light two cigarettes with shaking fingers—from the cold or nerves, you're not sure—and pass one to him. The smoke curls up into the falling snow, disappearing into the white. You take a drag and feel the familiar burn in your lungs, the slight head rush that comes with it.

"It's beautiful," you say quietly, watching the snow fall. It's hypnotic, the way the flakes spiral and dance in the wind.

"Yeah," Dean agrees, but when you glance at him, he's looking at you, not the snow. His dark eyes are intense, searching your face like he's trying to memorize every detail.

Your heart does that complicated thing again. That flutter and squeeze that you've been trying to ignore for weeks.

He looks away, takes a drag of his cigarette. The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken things. You can feel the tension building, the weight of everything you've both been avoiding.

"Can I ask you something?" he says after a moment, his voice careful.

"Sure."

He's quiet for a long moment, like he's gathering courage. "What are we doing?"

The question hangs in the air between you, heavy and inevitable. You take a drag of your cigarette, buying yourself time. Your heart is hammering now, your palms sweating despite the cold.

"What do you mean?"

"Come on, Babydoll," he says, and his voice is gentle but firm. "You know what I mean."

You do. You've known for weeks now, maybe longer. You've just been too scared to acknowledge it. Too scared to put words to the thing that's been growing between you, taking root in the spaces between hookups and late-night conversations and domestic moments that feel too real.

"I don't know," you admit finally, your voice barely above a whisper.

Dean turns to face you fully, and you can see the frustration and fear and hope warring in his expression. "I do," he says. "I know exactly what we're doing. At least, I know what I'm doing."

You can't look at him. You stare at the glowing end of your cigarette instead, watching the ash build. "Dean—"

"I'm falling for you," he says, and the words come out in a rush, like he's been holding them back for too long. "Hell, I think I've been falling for you since freshman year, since that first party when you told me you actually liked hockey and weren't just there for the players. But especially these last few months. Every time I'm with you, every time I leave, it gets harder. And I know that's not what we agreed to. I know this was supposed to be casual, just hooking up, no strings. But I can't keep pretending this is just sex."

Your breath catches. The cigarette trembles slightly in your hand, ash falling onto the snow-covered balcony floor.

"Dean—"

"You don't have to say anything," he continues, and now there's desperation in his voice. Vulnerability that you've never heard from him before. "I just needed you to know. Because I can't keep doing this if it's only physical for you. If I’m just your rebound. I can't keep showing up here and pretending I don't want more. It's killing me."

The vulnerability in his voice breaks something open in your chest. This is Dean Di Laurentis, the guy who's had half the campus in his bed, the confident hockey star who never seems rattled by anything. The guy who walks into parties like he owns them, who scores goals and makes it look effortless, who's never met a challenge he couldn't charm his way through.

And he's standing on your balcony in the middle of a snowstorm, half-dressed and shivering, telling you he's falling for you. Telling you it's killing him.

You take another drag of your cigarette, trying to steady yourself. Your mind is racing, your heart pounding so hard you think he might be able to hear it.

"Say something," he says quietly. "Please."

"I don't know what to say," you whisper.

"The truth," he says. "Just tell me the truth. If this is just physical for you, if I'm just another hookup, tell me. I'll deal with it. But I need to know."

You look at him then, really look at him. His dark eyes are pleading, his jaw tight with tension. Snow is catching in his hair, on his bare shoulders, melting against his warm skin. He looks vulnerable and terrified and so goddamn beautiful it makes your chest ache.

"It's not just physical for me either," you whisper.

He goes very still. "What?"

"I'm scared," you admit, and now the words are tumbling out, unstoppable. "I'm terrified, actually. Because I just got out of a year and a half long relationship and I told myself I wouldn't do this. When you started showing up for coffee on Tuesdays again and then the library and texting me after your games… I told myself I wouldn't fall for you. You were supposed to be the guy I said no to. The player, the hockey star who goes through girls like they're disposable. I wasn't supposed to be one of them."

"You're not—"

"But somewhere between the car at Malone's and the photo booth and you doing my skincare routine with me, I did. I fell for you. And I don't know how to unfeel it. I don't know how to go back to not caring."

Dean's face transforms. The fear melts away, replaced by something that looks like wonder. He sets his cigarette on the railing with shaking hands and steps closer, cupping your face in his palms. His hands are cold from the air, but his touch is gentle, reverent. His thumbs brush your cheekbones, wiping away tears you didn't realize were falling.

"Then don't," he says simply. "Don't unfeel it. Don't go back. Just... let yourself feel it. Let yourself have this."

"What if you break my heart?" you ask, and your voice cracks on the last word. "What if this is just new and exciting for you? Like you’re just riding a high after the chase and in a few weeks you get bored and move on to someone else?"

"What if you break mine?" he counters. "What if I give you everything and you decide I'm not worth it? We're both taking a risk here, Babyl. But I think you're worth it. I know you are."

The snow falls around you, soft and silent, accumulating on the balcony floor, on the railing, on both of you. You're shivering now, from cold and emotion and the weight of this moment.

"I've never felt like this before," Dean continues, his voice raw. "I've been with other girls, yeah. But it was never... it never meant anything. It was just physical. Just fun. But with you, it's different. Everything's different. I think about you all the time. When I'm at practice, when I'm with the guys, when I'm supposed to be studying. I think about the way you laugh at my stupid jokes and the way you look when you're concentrating on something and the way you feel in my arms. I think about how you actually watch the games, how you know the plays, how you yell at the refs. I think about how you let me do your skincare routine and how you look in my t-shirt and how you make me want to be better."

Your breath hitches. "Dean—"

"I'm in love with you," he says, and the words hang in the air between you, crystalline and perfect. "I'm in love with you, and I'm terrified too. But I'd rather be terrified with you than safe without you."

The snow falls around you, soft and silent, as you look up at him. His eyes are so dark, so earnest. You can see your reflection in them, can see the hope and fear mirrored back at you.

"Okay," you breathe.

"Okay?"

"Okay. No more trying to unfeel."

Dean's smile is brilliant, transforming his entire face. And then he's kissing you, deep and slow and full of promise. You taste smoke and snow and something that feels dangerously like forever. His hands slide from your face to your hair, tangling in it, pulling you closer. You drop your cigarette, forgotten, and wrap your arms around his neck, pressing yourself against him despite the cold.

The kiss is different from all the others. It's not urgent or desperate or fueled by alcohol and lust. It's tender and deliberate and full of meaning. It's a promise and a confession and a beginning all at once.

When you finally pull apart, you're both breathing hard, your lips swollen, your hearts racing. Snow has accumulated on both of you, melting where your bodies press together.

"We should go inside," you say, but you don't move.

"Yeah," Dean agrees, but he doesn't move either. He just looks at you, his thumb tracing your lower lip. "You're shivering."

"So are you."

"Don't care," he murmurs, and kisses you again, softer this time. Sweeter.

When you finally do go inside, the warmth of the apartment is almost overwhelming. You slide the door closed behind you, shutting out the cold and the snow and the rest of the world. Dean pulls you close, wrapping the blanket around both of you, and you stand there in the middle of your living room, just holding each other.

"So what does this make us?" you ask against his chest.

"Whatever you want," Dean says, his chin resting on top of your head. "But I'd really like to call you my girlfriend."

Your heart swells, expanding until it feels too big for your chest. "I'd like that too."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands framing your face again. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He kisses you again, and you think that maybe falling isn't so scary after all. Not when someone's there to catch you. Not when that someone is Dean Di Laurentis, looking at you like you're the only thing in the world that matters.

The music is still playing from the speaker in your bedroom—"Apocalypse" now, all haunting vocals and dreamy guitar. The snow is still falling outside, blanketing the city in white. And you're standing in your apartment with Dean, officially his girlfriend, feeling like everything has shifted into place.

"Come on," you say, taking his hand. "Let's get back in bed. I'm freezing."

"Best idea you've had all night," he says with a grin, and lets you lead him back to your bedroom.

You climb under the covers together, and he pulls you against him immediately, his arms wrapping around you, his legs tangling with yours. You're both still cold from the balcony, but you warm each other, body heat building between you.

"I can't believe you're my girlfriend," Dean murmurs against your hair.

"I can't believe you're my boyfriend," you reply. "Four months ago, I would've laughed if someone told me this would happen."

"Four months ago, I was already planning how to make it happen," he admits. "I just had to be patient."

You tilt your head back to look at him. "Patient? You?"

"For you? Yeah." He kisses your forehead. "You're worth waiting for."

Your heart does that complicated thing again, but this time it doesn't scare you. This time, you let yourself feel it. Let yourself have this.

Outside, the snow continues to fall, trapping you together in your small apartment. But you don't feel trapped. You feel safe. Warm. Loved.

And for the first time in four months, you're not afraid of what comes next.

His foot bounced impatiently against the hardwood while he stared at his phone for what had to be the fiftieth time that afternoon. One more text couldn’t make it any worse than it already was.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢?

He watched the little “Delivered” appear underneath it. Still nothing.

Dean dragged a hand over his face before opening Instagram instead. He was running out of places to check.

Maybe you’d posted something. Maybe you’d liked somebody’s story. Hell, maybe you’d accidentally give him some tiny sign you weren’t planning on pretending he didn’t exist forever.

Your profile loaded. Then it disappeared. He frowned, searching for your username again. Not found.

He closed the app and opened it again.

Nothing.

His eyebrows pulled together as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, thumb tapping impatiently against the side of his phone. He muttered to himself, shaking his head.

You, meanwhile, had just finished throwing a load of towels into the dryer when your own phone buzzed across the kitchen island.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝙳𝚒 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

Hadn’t you blocked him? You distinctly remembered pressing the button. You’d even smiled a little afterward because you knew it’d drive him insane. You opened his profile. Sure enough. Following.

You scowled, blocked him again, tossed your phone back onto the counter, and went back to the towels.

Three minutes later it buzzed again.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ ✉︎ ꒱ ˎˊ˗ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝙳𝚒 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢.

This time you stopped folding altogether. “…Absolutely not.”

You opened your settings again. Your blocked list was empty.

You stared at the screen for a long second before another thought crossed your mind.

Slowly, you reached for your laptop instead.

Two minutes later you were staring at your account activity, and there it was. One active login. MacBook.

Your eyes narrowed. “Fucking asshole.”

You didn’t even hesitate this time, changing your password completely, logging out of all devices, adding two-factor authentication as a giant fuck you.

Your phone started ringing before you could even set it back down. ˗ˏˋ ☏ ˎˊ˗ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝙳𝚒 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜

You watched it buzz until it stopped. Then it started again. And again. By the fifth call your curiosity finally got the better of you. You answered without saying a word, lifting the phone to your ear while you folded another towel.

“Baby? Holy shit. Hi—Hey,” his voice cracked nervously, fumbling over his words. You stayed silent, folding your laundry, listening to his heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. “Sweetheart?”

You let the washer lid fall with a clap, giving him the only sign of life he deserved for the moment.

“Uh… did you…” He cleared his throat. “Did you change your Instagram password or somethin’?” he asked casually, like that’s a normal thing.

You smoothed the towel across the counter, stacked it neatly with the others, and reached for another. Dean let out a long breath through his nose, his frustration building on the other end.

“Babydoll?”

Silence.

“Honey?”

Still nothing.

“Are you for real?” he asked, his voice tightening with frustration. “I know I pissed you off. I deserve some of this, alright? But all of it? Why are you shuttin’ me out?” He lets out another breath. “Please, baby.”

You stopped for half a second before reaching for another towel.

“Yell at me… Tell me to fuck off. At least tell me to stop calling. Just talk to me—” You heard a commotion on the other end of the phone—Garrett and Tucker walking through the kitchen, talking about something he couldn’t even make out, Logan yelling about his blue tie and where the fuck it was.

Dean clears his throat, forcing some of the softness out of his voice before Garrett or Tucker can hear it. Even though this weeklong silent treatment had lasted six days and twenty-three hours too long, he still knew you’d be at his game.

You always come.

So he keeps grabbing onto that instead.

You’ll yell at him after if you want. Hell, maybe you’ll wait until they’re back at the house and tear him apart in private. He can live with that.

Silence leaves too much room to think, and every time he lets himself, he ends up somewhere worse than before.

“I love you, baby. I’ll see you tonight, alright? Left you some tickets at will-call like always. Just—wish me luck. Something?” Click.

You hang up before you can give him what he wants, already picturing the look on his face.

The ride to the arena feels longer than usual because pretending he isn’t worried in front of the boys is harder than he thought it’d be.

The locker room is loud, music echoing off the concrete walls while sticks clatter against the lockers, equipment bags unzipping and dropping to the floor, the conversations he should be paying attention to like static.

He sits at his stall, staring at his phone one last time before dropping it into his bag. Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. No miracle message telling him to quit overthinking it. You’ll be there after the game.

His fingers fumble his helmet strap twice before it finally clicks into place. He mutters under his breath, frustrated by a task that should’ve been simple. Garrett finally nudges him. Dean ignores it, so the second one comes a little harder.

“You good?” Garrett asks through a weak laugh, searching for Dean’s eyes.

“Yeah,” he hums.

“Everything alright?”

“Great.”

Garrett snorts out a laugh, leaning into a locker, arms crossing over his chest. “…Everything good with your girl?” he asks. “Feels like I haven’t seen her around.”

The words hit harder than Dean expects, and for half a second, he nearly tells him—says he hasn’t heard your voice in almost a week. No texts. Nothing but one-sided voicemails and desperate pleas for anything. That you blocked him. That he got himself kicked out of your Instagram twice before you changed your password.

That he’s one missed hockey game away from driving to your place and refusing to leave until you look at him.

“‘Course it is. She’s just…” Dean shrugs without looking up. “She’s got a bunch of shit goin’ on with school. Just busy.”

“Yeah?” Garrett tears a fresh piece of hockey tape between his teeth, glancing over. “Doesn’t seem like her.”

No, it doesn’t.

Dean can’t even come up with something in reply.

“We’ll catch up with you guys after the game. We just got into it a little bit. Stupid shit. Nothin’ serious.”

Garrett nods, the answer believable enough to let it go for the moment.

The team skates onto the ice to the roar of the crowd, lights flashing around the arena while the student section pounds against the glass.

Dean skates his usual lap, eyes drifting toward the section where you always sit. The girls you usually come with are already there.

Your seat is empty.

His stomach sinks and by the time they line up for the national anthem, Dean catches himself looking over a third time before forcing his eyes back toward center ice.

The puck drops, and from the first shift he knows he’s in trouble.

Every decision feels a stride behind. His reads come just a little too late. By the second period he’s taken an interference penalty trying to recover from another mistake, left sitting in the box staring at the far end of the rink while the game carried on without him.

The scoreboard keeps getting uglier. Four goals against, then five. Every time he hops over the boards he tells himself to wake the fuck up, and every shift somehow ends worse than the one before it.

The final horn sounds sixty miserable minutes later, leaving Briar with a six-to-one loss. He barely remembers lining up to tap gloves with his teammates before they drift toward the tunnel. Barely remembers skating off the ice.

Dean drags both hands over his face, standing in front of his stall as the room empties around him like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do next. He’s exhausted, pissed off, embarrassed as fuck, and somehow still thinking about you instead of the scoreboard.

He wants to be mad at you. He really does. It would be so much easier. Instead, all he can think about is the fact that if he’d acted right in the first place, none of this would’ve happened. Whatever the hell he did, it was bad enough to make you do things you normally wouldn’t. Hell, Graham said it best. “This isn’t like you.”

His phone is already in his hand before he’s even halfway down the hallway, thumb hitting your contact out of muscle memory more than anything else. The call doesn’t even get a chance to ring.

Straight to voicemail.

His jaw flexes, nostrils flaring as his grip tightens around the strap of his hockey bag. Water wicks off his hair, not even bothering to fully towel off before running out the door.

Another call. Another voicemail.

The doors slide open and cold night air hits his soaked skin as he steps into the parking lot. The other team filters toward their bus, still laughing about the game as Dean fishes his keys from his bag without slowing down.

“Rough one tonight, Di Laurentis,” an enforcer from the other team hollers lazily, tossing his bag into the side of the bus.

Dean ignores it—ignores the snickering that follows from the opposing team. Garrett yells something back in Dean’s defense, but he barely hears it over the pounding in his head.

“Guess somebody forgot how to play defense.”

“Fuck you,” Dean barks and Garrett grabs him by the shirt, holding him where he is with a heavy hand.

“Let it go, alright?” he says calmly. “You got shit you wanna do, yeah?”

The chuckles die down, but his blood is still simmering. Garrett nods Tucker and Logan toward his Jeep. Something ugly climbs up the back of his throat before he can swallow it down.

He presses your contact again as he sinks into his car. This time, he can’t hold it in. When the beep comes, the frustration that’s been building for a week finally boils over.

“So that’s it, huh? You’re seriously gonna keep doin’ this? Blocking me, changing your password, ignoring my texts—what, now you can’t even pick up the fucking phone?” His voice comes out sharper than he intends, the words practically tripping over each other.

He turns over the engine, letting out a humorless laugh. “Grow up. If you’re pissed, use your fucking words. Tell me you never wanna see me again. But quit pullin’ this silent treatment bullshit because it’s driving me fuckin’ insane.”

His foot slams on the gas, his car screaming toward the exit as he peels out of the lot, breathing so heavily he can hear it in the receiver of his phone.

“You don’t get to disappear when you’re angry. That’s not how this works.” Beep.

The silence afterward is deafening, weighing heavy on his shoulders. It barely has time to settle before his stomach turns and the guilt washes over him like a wave.

The second the adrenaline starts bleeding off, he knows none of that was what he wanted to say. Not a single fucking word.

You hadn’t screamed at him. You hadn’t called him names. You hadn’t done anything except refuse to answer him.

And he’d just repaid that by leaving the kind of voicemail he’d hate hearing from anyone he loved.

His eyes sting with unfallen tears, his chest aching as his speed creeps higher than it should while the phone rings and rings.

“…Hey,” he breathes, emotion clinging to his words. “So… That last voicemail…” He rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead, dragging away the sweat as he turns into the gas station a block away from your place.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, stepping out of the car. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”

He drags the sleeve of his sweatshirt across his eyes, turning his hat to the front—lower than before, head down as he grabs a bouquet of flowers.

“And I know I said you disappear when you’re angry. That’s not fuckin’ true. You don’t do that. I know that—you know that. This—this isn’t like you, and I still talked to you like it was.”

He walks up to the register, pinning the phone between his shoulder and cheek as he fumbles for his wallet, hand trembling as he flips past the picture he has of you tucked inside, grabbing his card, jogging out as soon as “approved” flashes across the screen.

“That game, baby. That was the worst game I’ve played since I’ve been at Briar. Got yelled at by Coach for a half hour. Got chirped by those pricks from the other team on the way out,” he mutters as he pulls out onto your street. “I took it out on you. I’m pissed off. I’m embarrassed. None of that’s your fault and I made it your problem.”

The phone stays pressed against his ear, capturing the silence. The wordlessness was never the problem. The two of you had always been good at that. But now every time he glances toward the passenger seat, it’s dark and empty. That little smile that’s always waiting for him when he looks over is gone.

And he still doesn’t have an answer.

He’s gone looking for it more than once this week.

He knows where you study and where you stop for coffee between classes. He knows which parking lot you leave your car in during the afternoons.

And somehow all of that only makes it worse. It’s painfully obvious you’re avoiding him.

He’s driven past your house enough times this week to notice you finally fixed the little porch light that used to flicker above the front door.

Every time he gets close, he talks himself out of it. The texts and phone calls already feel like they’re pushing the line. Showing up uninvited means admitting this isn’t just another argument.

It means admitting he might actually be losing you.

If you wanted him there, you’d open the door.

His throat tightens and his hands curl around the steering wheel. “Don’t…” The words scrape past his lips into the phone, so soft and broken you probably won’t even catch them when you play the voicemail back—if you play it back. “Don’t fucking cry.”

His head falls back against the headrest, his arms going rigid as he stares through the windshield. His mind circles the last few weeks again, picking through every conversation, every plan, every promise he’s made.

And still, nothing.

What the fuck did I do, baby?

His thumbs tap nervously against the steering wheel as he pulls up to your house.

For the first time all week, your bedroom window is glowing in the dark.

“I’m here. I’m gonna figure out what’s wrong. I’m gonna apologize. And, I’m gonna make it right, alright? I’m a fucking mess without you.” Beep.

He kills the engine, grabs the flowers, and climbs out into the cool night air. Gravel crunches beneath his shoes as he makes his way up the sidewalk, every step giving him another opportunity to rehearse what he’s going to say.

By the time he reaches the porch, his heart is pounding hard enough to feel it in his throat. He shifts the bouquet into one hand and knocks twice against the front door, the sound echoing through the quiet neighborhood before everything falls still again.

Dean waits, listening hard—nothing. No footsteps. No doors. No muffled voice telling him to give you a second. Just silence.

His stomach twists as the realization settles in. You heard the knock. You heard the bell. And, even though you know exactly who’s standing on your front porch, and you’re choosing not to answer.

Maybe it was the voicemail sitting in your phone. Or, maybe that was just a new addition to the laundry list of bullshit that got him to this point.

He lets out a long breath through his nose before stepping off the porch, backing into the yard so he can see your window a little better.

“Baby!” His voice carries through the stillness of the neighborhood before fading away.

Nothing.

He bends down, picking up a rock, rolling it once between his fingers, before he tosses it. Pop. The little stone kisses the glass with a soft tap before bouncing harmlessly away, clicking against the siding and falling back to the pavement below.

His eyes stay fixed on the window.

The flowers hang forgotten at his side while he waits. “C’mon, baby. Please,” he mumbles under his breath.

What the hell happens after this? Sleep in his car? Sit on your porch until sunrise? One more try.

His fingers close around the smooth stone, drawing back, but something catches his eye. The window—cracked open just enough that he barely notices it.

You can ignore his calls. You can ignore the doorbell. You can ignore the knocks and rocks, but he isn’t going home knowing you’re twenty feet away with your bedroom window open. Absolutely not.

The thought of leaving after the week he’d had, the voicemail he wishes he could take back, and the worst game of his career makes his chest tighten all over again.

He looks up, your bedroom turning glassy behind the tears gathering in his eyes.

He pinches his tear ducts between his big fingers, blowing out a breath. His eyes drift toward the side of the house, to the old wooden lattice that climbs to the roof—thick vines and bright flowers—something he’s seen a hundred times over but never seriously considered climbing it.

Because he’d always assumed he’d be welcome through the front door—climbing to your bedroom was never supposed to be the easier option.

He walks toward the lattice, staring down at the flowers for a second, before he lifts the cellophane-wrapped stems to his lips, biting down before he starts to climb.

The wood protests, letting out a long creak that sounds like a warning. A sharp snap echoing through the breezeway when he doesn’t listen, then a sharp crack that has him looking down at just how far he made it.

By the time he finally hauls himself to the roof, he’s sweating and panting, letting the flowers tumble from his mouth into his limp hand. He lifts his hand, tugging his hat from the front to the back, mentally preparing for whatever happens next.

Dean steadies himself against the old shingles before carefully making his way across the shallow slope of the roof—shoes scraping against the weathered surface while his hand trails along the siding for balance.

His hand finds the window frame before his eyes do.

You’re curled up in bed, laptop glowing softly, lighting up the space around you. You’re facing away from the window entirely, watching some old movie on the network he knows airs right after his game.

You snuggle a little more into your blanket, Dean’s away jersey draped over your frame, just a pair of little black panties peeking out the bottom. He exhales through his nose, taking in the rest of your room, following the little trail that got you there—your discarded jeans, sneakers, your jacket, and at the very end of the line your keys.

You were supposed to be at the game.

You made it right to the point of cracking before talking yourself out of it because you were still too angry to watch him play.

His stomach twists. He’d spent the last seven days missing you, but somehow knowing you almost came hurts even worse than if you’d never considered it at all.

Dean doesn’t think. He reaches forward and wraps both hands around the edge of the window, the old frame sliding upward with a rough scrape.

“…Don’t you fucking dare, Dean.” Your voice cuts through the silence, making him flinch, his feet stumbling a little on the roof.

He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head once as though maybe he’d misheard you.

“Just leave.”

“Well…” He gestures helplessly toward the open window, still trying to smile through the knot twisting tighter in his stomach. “You’re talking to me now… so?” His shoulders lift in a helpless shrug. “Why would I leave?”

Your eyes don’t leave his as you slam your laptop shut and step off the bed. “Yeah?” you ask quietly, the softness in your voice somehow making him more uneasy than if you’d screamed. “And why the hell would you listen to me?”

Dean’s eyebrows pinch together, his heart ramping up at your words. Without another word, Dean lets go of the window frame completely.

Even though he doesn’t fully understand what he did, he knows whatever it was, he’s still doing it.

He lowers himself until he’s sitting on the roof beneath your window, his back settling against the old siding with a dull thud.

He stretches his long legs out in front of him, setting the bouquet beside him, dragging his clammy hands down his thighs.

Dean finally clears his throat, his voice coming out rough enough that it barely carries through the open window. “Please.” He swallows hard, fingers knotting together between his knees. “Please just talk to me, baby.”

The silence stretches in the space he’d hoped you’d fill.

“I miss you,” he whispers. “I need you. I...” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck before tipping his head against the siding, finally finding the nerve to look back through the window. “I don’t know what else to do to make it better, but I will.”

He watches your face for any sign at all that you’re softening, finding none. The uncertainty in his chest only grows heavier before he speaks.

“You’re killin’ me.”

Dean blinks at you through the window as you look back at him like you’re trying to decide whether this conversation is even worth having.

“Baby—”

“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” you mumble, grabbing the frame to shut it, but he rests his fist down, not letting it fall.

“Can’t,” the word breaks past his lips. “I know I fucked up. I know I don’t get to tell you when to forgive me. But I can’t do another night of this. I’m not gonna climb through your window. It’s clear you don’t want me in there. I’m not forcing anything. I’m just sitting here begging you to talk to me.”

“Fucking finally, Dean.”

“What am I missing, baby? Holy shit,” his voice breaks.

“Stop calling me baby right now. I’m not—I’m your baby when it’s convenient for you.”

“What?” he asks, the crease between his brows deepening. “What does that even mean?”

“Why do you suddenly care?”

“I've always cared about you—”

“Always?” you ask with a breathless laugh.

“Yes, always. When haven’t I?”

“Making reservations because my boyfriend couldn’t be bothered to call the restaurant when you told me you’d handle it—”

“I—”

“You forgot. So I made them.”

“Okay,” he answers, shifting on his forearms, desperate to get closer, but the glass stays between you. “I just… I didn’t. I don’t know. I'm sorry—”

“I'm not done.”

His eyes widen on yours, taken aback, his big frame seeming to shrink a little. “Of course,” he assures you quickly.

“I waited all week for you to do it yourself. When I finally called, they told me you never did. So I did. I did my hair. I put on that dress you said you liked. I sat there waiting for your text after the game.”

Dean’s stomach twists because he already knows where this is going. Before he’d texted you, he’d already assured the boys you wouldn’t mind—speaking for you. Without you.

“You texted me let’s do Malone’s.”

“Okay,” he whispers, careful not to cut you short this time.

“And then you said we'd swing through there on our way out.”

“I remember,” he breathes.

“Do you think an Italian restaurant is open after bar close?”

He looks down at your hands braced on the window, his heart breaking even more seeing how much you don’t want him inside.

“No. I think they’d be closed, honey. I’m sorry.”

“Of course they would be. You know what I ate for dinner that night?” you ask, and he purses his lips because honestly he doesn’t know.

“What did you eat?” he asks softly.

“Dry cereal after you passed out when you were done fucking me. Alone in your fucking kitchen after I was done playing captain’s girlfriend all damn night.”

His stomach sinks and the blood drains from his face. “Woah—hey, sweetheart. C'mon," he panics. “That’s not what this is—”

“I kept telling myself it wasn’t a big deal. Hockey season. Captain stuff. Team bonding.”

“You know I wasn’t trying to—”

“I’ve done every single thing you’ve wanted to do because I wanted to spend time with you. I asked for one dinner. One.”

He swallows hard, lashes fluttering as he nods, because for the moment that’s all he can manage without breaking completely before he speaks.

“I want to spend time with you too. That’s why I ask you to come with me. I didn’t know that’s how you were feeling.”

“I keep telling you what I want, and you keep telling me how it’s going to work. You don’t listen to what I want.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“So I stopped…” you whisper, voice tight as you see his eyes shimmer with tears. “I stopped asking. I stopped texting. I stopped calling.”

Dean lifts the sleeve of his sweatshirt, wiping the wet away after it tumbles down his cheeks.

“It took me disappearing for you to finally care.”

He can’t even defend himself anymore because every single thing you’ve said is true—cancelled plans, “let’s do this instead,” “after practice,” “just one beer.”

Every promise turned into another night surrounded by hockey while you quietly lowered your expectations.

“And look,” you sigh, your voice fraying at the edges. “Look how much time you have when you think you’re gonna lose something you love.”

“I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to get your attention. I didn’t know how to handle this, okay? I didn’t know what I did. I was just—”

“How’s it feel?” you ask, cutting off his rambling, nodding at the bouquet.

“What?” he asks.

“Desperately fighting for someone’s attention?” you whisper, your eyes lingering on the little white tag still hanging from the plastic wrap before you look back at him. “I wouldn’t even say you’re there yet. Tag’s still on them, Dean. $2.99? Really?”

He opens his mouth to apologize again, but you don’t let him.

“This probably wasn’t even a part of your gameplan. You didn’t plan anything because you didn’t think you had to.”

Your voice stays level, but every word lands with more weight than the last.

“You thought I’d be in my seat like I always am. You thought I’d meet you after the game like I always do. You thought you’d say you’re sorry, I’d forgive you because I always have, and we’d move on.” You give a small shake of your head. “You didn’t plan for me not to show up.”

He looks away, unable to face you for the moment, gathering the courage to look back at you, drawing in a shaky breath.

“That’s why you’re here, Dean,” you say softly. “Not because you had some grand gesture planned. Because the bare minimum stopped working.”

“Sweetheart…” he starts carefully, his voice softer than it’s been all night. “We’re halfway through the season. It’s been a lot. I know that.” He nods to himself like he’s finally found the answer. “But it’s not forever. Think about this summer.”

A tired smile tries to find its way onto his face. “We practically lived together. We stayed up ’til three in the morning watching shitty movies. We took road trips because we could. Dates all the time. We were good.” His eyes lock onto yours. “We get through this season and everything goes right back to normal.”

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and Dean knows it’s the wrong answer.

You shake your head slowly, looking down at your hands before meeting his eyes again. “I’m not waiting for an entire hockey season to get my boyfriend back. I’m not gonna do this—”

“No. No, hey. I thought you were just giving me the silent treatment,” he blurts, voice shattering around the admission. “Please don’t…” He shakes his head, whatever composure he’d been clinging to finally slipping away. “Don’t break up with me. Please.”

“We’re still together.”

He swallows hard, nodding as his head hangs between his shoulders, tears slipping off his cheeks onto the shingles. “Thank you.”

“You asked me to put our relationship on hold until hockey’s over, and you don’t even realize that’s what you said.”

“I know,” he whispers.

“I don’t want the version of you that’s available when the season ends. I want the one who’s supposed to be my boyfriend while it’s happening—and before you even get it into your head that I’m asking for too much… I’m not. And, it wasn’t just this. It was a bunch of little moments exactly like this.”

He nods in agreement, waiting for more.

“I’m asking for a date once in a while, Dean.”

“Of course, honey.”

“I’m asking for a night where I don’t have to split my boyfriend with twenty hockey players. And, I’m asking that you stick to that plan. Three things. That’s it. If you can’t manage that…” you say quietly, “…then that’s okay.”

“What?” he asks, moving closer like he heard you wrong because nothing about this situation is okay.

“Really. It is. Just means you can’t handle being in a relationship right now. Maybe that’s where you’re at, and I’d respect you a hell of a lot more if you just admitted it.” The words land squarely between the two of you. “Because I’m not spending the few months letting you decide everything we do before summer starts.”

“Of course.”

“And if you can’t give me that, then you can’t handle me.”

Dean bites his cheek, nodding as he takes in every word.

“This summer was amazing… you’re right. Why do you think I’m still here?”

“‘Cause you love me?” he asks pathetically.

“Obviously.”

“I know. I love you too,” he mumbles.

“I know who you are, Dean. That’s why this hurts so much.” You gesture between the two of you. “Because I know you’re capable of loving me better than this.”

His eyes fall to the shitty bouquet by his side, the ones he bought in a panic, his brain on autopilot. The sale sticker covering the barcode only adding insult to injury—the fact that it’s your least favorite color landing like the final nail in his coffin. He pulls the little price tag off the plastic wrap, crumples it into his fist.

“I hate that these still got the fuckin’ tag on ’em,” he says weakly. “Not… Not because you called me out for it. I need that… Just proves exactly what you’ve been trying to tell me all night.”

He nods, rolling everything over just like he has all week, finally seeing what he’d been missing.

His eyes shut softly, thinking about the last weekend, the sound of your voice when you called him between classes, letting him know you made the reservation and the—subtle sound of your disappointment when he yelled over the locker room noise that you should go to Malone’s instead.

His mind lingers on the look on your face at the bar as you smiled for the boys, picking through the bar peanuts as they broke down the game to exhaustion. The way you fucked him just like he liked and then kissed him goodnight. How you were gone when he woke up to piss and he didn’t think twice about it. Just thought maybe you had gone downstairs to get water.

And now, he knows you were all alone.

And this was just a moment, in a collection of moments just like this for you.

His lips tremble, wishing he could rewrite what’s happened but he can’t. And even though you’d said you’re not breaking up, he feels like you have every right to end it—and he can’t risk not telling you everything he wants to say.

“I stopped on the way here because I panicked. I didn’t stop because I planned something. I didn’t stop because I thought about what would actually make you happy.” He pinches his eyes shut—letting the tears fall freely—his pride long gone by now. “I stopped because I realized I was about to lose you.”

He lifts a finger, tapping it against the glass like he’s trying to close a little of the distance between you.

“You’re right about everything… I was counting on you coming.”

He shakes his head, hating what’s going to leave his lips next. “You asked me earlier how it feels. It feels fucking awful.” He laughs but there’s nothing funny about it, he’s just hysterical at this point, leaving it coming out hollow. “I’ve been losing my goddamn mind.”

Your lips draw to the side as you fold your arms across your chest. He doesn’t take this time. His fist slips away from the glass, leaving the space between you completely open—and the next move entirely up to you.

“I got too fucking comfortable.” The words come out, without hesitation. “Not because I loved you less. You just—you’re the one thing I never worried about losing. I treated you like you’d always be there.” His eyes fall for a second, picking at a wilted petal nervously. “That wasn’t me loving you the way I should’ve.” He shakes his head. “That was me taking you for granted.”

You take a step forward, fingers wrapping around the window’s edge, lifting it higher, dropping down to the windowsill yourself.

He takes a breath, blowing it out through his nose. Every instinct tells him to reach for you, but he holds himself back, settling for leaning a little closer instead.

“You asked me if I can handle you.” His eyebrows pull together. “And, baby—Sorry…” He stops himself after the name leaves his lips, shaking his head with a weak laugh. “Just… habit. I’m sorry.”

“Dean—”

“Please,” he stops you cautiously. “Can I… I’m—I’ve got a little more to say. Just…” the word cracks and he lets out a breath, watching as you rest your hand on the roof, so close he can feel his hand tingle.

“Go ahead,” you whisper.

“I don’t want someone easier. I don’t want somebody who expects less from me. I don’t want any girl. I want you. I can handle you.” He nods with absolute certainty. “I should’ve been handling this relationship with the same care I’ve been giving everything else.”

His voice trembles. “I can’t undo this hockey season with one apology.” He reaches a little, palm open, asking for yours. “But I swear…” His eyes shine under the street lights. “If you give me the chance to prove that I heard every single word you said tonight… we’ll never have to have this conversation again. I promise.”

You rest your hand in his and he closes his around you quick like you might change your mind. His eyes cut away for a moment, the contact alone threatening another wave of tears. He takes a deep breath, his shoulders falling.

“You fucking hate this color. I’m sorry,” he mutters, tossing them out toward the driveway, the discount bouquet hitting the hood of his car with a thump. “Shit’s so fucking embarrassing, dear god.”

He hangs his head for a moment, his thumb rubbing absently against your knuckles.

“Tonight is shot,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow, right? Just… Please go out with me tomorrow. Let me make up for a little bit of anything you deserve.” He looks back at you, head resting heavy against the side of your house. “Good flowers, pretty dress, dinner, dessert—I know exactly where you wanna go. Just, please. I’m begging you. And, I know I’m telling you what to do. I’m sorry if you already have plans—”

“I don’t,” you answer with a soft smile. “Seven?”

“I’m tailgating in your front yard. I’m so serious. I’m fucking miserable,” he answers breathlessly, leaning in as you lean in too, your lips meeting with a desperate kiss.

He grabs you, hauling you closer, pulling you into his lap as your fingers slip into the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Tell me you still want me here,” he mumbles between kisses, his voice rough enough that you almost don’t hear it, your thumbs brushing the tears off his cheeks.

“I want you here.”

“Let me in? Please,” he whispers against the corner of your mouth.

“You can ask me sweeter than that, Dean Di Laurentis.”

“Please, baby… Let me come in,” he mumbles, his lips brushing softly against yours. “I’ll be so fuckin’ good for you. I missed you so much.”

“Yes,” you whisper.

Dean’s feet hit the floor a heartbeat later, every bit of tension he’d been carrying for the last seven days finally unraveling. He buries his face against your neck, breathing you in like he’d almost forgotten what it felt like before finally looking back at you.

“Promise me something,” he says as he carries you toward the bed.

You pull his hat free, tossing it somewhere behind you before your fingers disappear into his hair. His eyes close for a second, a tired smile finding its way across his face the moment you scratch lightly at the back of his head.

“Okay,” you breathe.

“Tell me next time. Anything. Right away. Don’t let me keep getting it wrong again.”

“Promise,” you whisper.

“One more promise,” he asks, his voice softer than before.

“Depends,” you whisper teasingly, feeling his trembling lips curl into a little smile.

“Unblock me.”

“Right now?” you whisper through a breathy laugh.

“No—We’re busy. So, so fucking busy,” he hums, holding you a little closer. “Just whenever you get a chance.”

“I promise,” you whisper.

“Thank you, baby.”

“I’m glad you came.”

“Should’ve come earlier,” he says before you can answer. “But I want you to know. I hear you,” he says quietly. “I heard every word you said out there.”

He shakes his head once before speaking again.

“I don’t wanna be the guy that only listens after he fucks up.” His thumb brushes across your cheek. “I don’t want you to play captain’s girlfriend. I want you to feel like you’re mine. You deserve to know how important you are to me. I can tell you—words don’t mean shit. I don’t want you to have to worry about making plans for us ‘cause you’re afraid I won’t.”

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“I’m gonna listen when it’s inconvenient. When hockey’s good. When hockey sucks. When I’m tired. When I’m stressed. When I’m bein’ an idiot…” A weak smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Which apparently is more often than I thought.”

“I love you,” you murmur.

His eyes close as he sits with those words for a second. “Jesus…” he breathes, shaking his head. “Love you so much.”

He sets you on the bed, one hand gripping the jersey on your body as the other cradles the back of your neck.

“Stay?” you ask as he tilts closer, your fingers popping open the button of his pants. “Sleep here.”

He chuckles deeply against your lips before stripping off his hoodie and tugging off his shirt. Your hands rest on his strong chest, feeling his heart bang beneath your palms.

“Yeah?” he asks, his hands finding you again, moving up your arms, over your shoulders, to the sides of your neck, cradling your face like he can’t get close enough. “If that’s what you want.”

“Is that what you want?” you chuckle.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mumbles as his breath mingles with yours. “Thought I lost you.”

“You didn’t lose me,” you whisper, tracing along the top of his jeans lightly with your nails, feeling him shiver.

You lower his zipper slowly and he tugs down his pants, the buckle landing with a thump to the floor, waiting for you to decide what you want from him.

He sucks in a breath as you cup his thick cock through his boxers, a smile spreading a moment later when you squeeze just enough to make him groan for you.

You pinch the cotton between your fingers, tugging his boxers down, teasing inch by stiff inch until you catch his tip on the waistband. His cock springs out—long and hard, blood pumping through him as you hold his length in your hand.

You stroke slowly, watching precum bead at the tip as your thumb drags through it, teasing both of you.

“Fuck me,” he breathes, his head tipping back to the ceiling, his big hands rubbing over his eyes as he laughs breathlessly.

He lifts you easily, your legs curling around his waist. He smiles against your mouth as he eases you back onto the sheets.

You reach for him, drawing him back down, kissing him harder, fingers twisting into his hair. His chest rises and falls against yours, breath ragged.

“Keep this on for me,” he whispers as he lifts the front of the jersey over your chest, dipping down to kiss higher and higher. “Please,” he mutters, voice rough against your skin when you whimper.

Your breath catches and a moan spills from your lips when his weight presses you into the mattress, voice husky as he mumbles praise into your skin, gripping your thighs, making your pussy throb.

“Been so lonely,” he whispers, mouth moving across your chest, catching your nipple between his lips. “Dreaming about this—I swear to god.”

“Yeah,” you whisper as his big hand slides up your side, squeezing your breast as he sucks your bottom lip slow enough to make you tremble.

“Yes,” he hums. You gasp as his hand slides down between you, cupping your pussy, making you moan for him. He chuckles deeply, fingers dragging up the wet fabric between your thighs.

“I need you,” you whisper, lips grazing his.

“I’m gonna take care of you. I promise.” He circles his fingers over your clit—your hands squeezing around his big biceps, feeling them swell and soften with each movement. “I’d eat it through your panties if that’s all you’d give me… gladly.”

“Don’t tease me,” you whisper.

“I hear you, baby,” he sighs, tugging your panties to the side, rough fingers tracing around your entrance.

Dean’s breath catches as you reach between you, your hand wrapping around the base of his cock, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest.

You stroke your hand up, gliding to his fat tip, watching precum glisten and leak out of his slit onto your body.

You grab his neck, pulling him down to your lips, bringing him in closer as he plunges two fingers into your soaked core, making you throw your head deep into the pillow.

Dean kisses your chest as he starts to fuck his fingers into you, wrapping his lips around your nipple, sucking harshly, making your back arch off the mattress.

His long fingers curl deep inside you, coaxing out breathless moans with nothing but the movement of his hand. He watches you for a moment—your chest rising, lips parted, his name half-caught in your throat—and then he lowers himself between your thighs.

Dean trails slow kisses down your body, your heart racing wildly the lower he goes. When your thighs start to tense, he looks up at you, his cool chain dragging unintentionally up your slit, making your breath hitch.

He presses your thighs down, spreading you open with a firm grip as his eyes fall to your soaked pussy, lowering himself between your legs without taking his eyes off you. His tongue flicks against you with a soft, deliberate taste.

“Yes, baby,” you gasp, with a half-laugh, half-moan—right before he wraps his biceps around your legs, forcing you to his mouth with purpose.

He kisses your clit, then seals his lips around it, sucking gently as you thread your fingers through his hair, yanking him closer. One hand drops from your thigh, sliding between your legs again, and you gasp as his fingers push back into you—working in perfect rhythm with his mouth.

Your body arches off the mattress. Everything blurs except the heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, and the relentless pace of it all.

“I’m gonna cum,” you whisper, already trembling.

He groans into your pussy, the vibration pushing you over the edge instantly. You come hard, clenching around his fingers, stars bursting behind your eyes.

He doesn’t let up—his mouth seals tighter, his fingers working you faster, deeper, until your whole body twitches with overstimulation and your eyes sting with tears.

“That was so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmurs against your dripping center, planting lazy kisses on your clit that make you jolt with every touch.

“Dean…” you breathe out, glancing down at him, reaching for him as your breath shakes. “I need you inside me.”

Dean’s eyes roll back at your words, your taste lingering on his tongue. His hands settle on your hips, turning you to your hands and knees, lifting your ass into the air.

He spanks you, the loud crack of his palm against your supple flesh filling the room. You arch your back, making him release a desperate groan as his eyes drop to your slick, watching your wetness leak down your inner thighs.

Dean wraps a hand around himself, slapping his dick against you, running his velvety head up your thighs, sopping up the mess.

Your breath catches as he presses his tip in, feeling him stretch you out already.

Dean pushes in, inch by inch, making your mouth fall open as your body stretches around him.

“You feel so perfect around me, baby,” he mumbles as he presses his body flush with your ass when you’ve finally taken all of him.

You circle your hips, adjusting to his size, feeling his thick dick hit all the right spots. “Feels so damn good—”

“Yeah? Takin’ me so good, babydoll?” he groans. “This body’s mine.” He pulls his hips back, drawing out nice and slow, letting you feel every ridge and vein as his hands work up your back, pushing the jersey all the way up until Di Laurentis is all that’s left, stitched between your shoulders. “All of it.”

“Yes.”

“Made for me, weren’t you?”

“Yes, fuck!” you whine as he snaps his hips forward, the two of you moaning in unison as your pussy sucks him in.

Dean moves inside you, listening to every sound that falls from your lips. He works you just like you like, until your body melts into the mattress.

“Right there, baby,” you whisper and Dean picks up the pace, hitting your sweet spot again and again.

“Yeah, sweetheart? Right there?” he asks through a smirk. “What else does my girl want, huh?”

“Harder,” you whimper.

“Shit, baby,” he laughs breathlessly as he rolls his hips.

Your fingers claw at the sheets as you feel yourself just seconds away from your climax.

“Play with your pussy for me,” he whispers, the way you squeezed around him feeling like he might fall apart himself if he doesn’t get you there fast.

Your fingers press against your clit and your thighs quake, his cock stretching you and filling you as your fingers work in tight little circles.

“Dean—” you gasp, fluttering around his dick as you fall apart.

“Fucking hell,” he moans, dragging out the words as his cock shines creamy white with your release, each push of his hips making it gather in a ring around the base of his hard skin.

Dean pulls out fast, making you gasp as he tosses you to your back, thrusting himself back in before you can even come down from your high.

“I fucking missed you,” he whispers against your lips and you gasp as his fingers press against your clit, too, rubbing messily as he strokes, your nails digging into his muscular back as he pounds your wet cunt.

“Shit,” you squeal, letting out a choked sound as he grabs your knees, pulling and pressing them up to your chest, making him stroke impossibly deep.

“One more time,” he whispers. “Want you to cum with your lips on mine.”

Your eyes roll back as you climax, Dean moaning your name, his muscles strained when he cums deep inside, swallowing each sound that leaves your lips.

Dean moves inside you slow, covering you with the warmth of his big body, his hot skin pressed flush to yours as he lowers your thighs slowly.

You trace the edge of his jaw, feeling him smile under your touch, his nose brushing against yours, and you know there’s no way he’s going to give you an ounce of room tonight—but after a week without this man, that’s the last thing you want.

For the first time in a long time, it feels like you got your Dean back. Relief settles over you, heat building behind your eyes as you hold back happy tears. He sees it.

“Yeah?” he asks, seeing how much you needed this too.

You bite your cheek and nod. He can’t help but bury his face into your neck, pressing a kiss against your skin before whispering, soft and sure, “I love you, baby.”

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In a slow flicker, the recollections of last night presented themselves, settling heavy into the air along with the scent of sweat and faded cologne—The fragile lace of your dress. The dense heat of the club. The dim lighting and how it’d angled across winsome features. The splay of hands across your waist, feeling now as though some distant dream.

How those very same hands had felt teasing your flesh, pinning you to the mattress. 

How one of those hands rested still at the curve of your hip.  

Tentatively, you carefully twisted your frame, turning until you were on your side, facing chiseled contours and tousled golden hair. You pried your memory for any echo of a name, but it was to no avail. 

The man was finely wrought—all defined aspects and strong delineations, with thick, blonde lashes fanning out against his cheeks as he resided still in slumber. This close you could even admire the faint speckling of freckles along his nose and notice even the subtle bump along the bridge of it. With streaks of sunshine hitting him, his skin glowed bronzen, smelling vaguely of cardamom and the remnants of her perfume. 

So in your quiet perusal of his visage, you realized what the slight twitch of his bow-shaped lips meant. Your gaze tarried at the lines of his mouth as the man began to stir awake, recalling then the blazing path his lips had made along your thighs just hours before. 

Languidly, he came to awareness, his eyelids moving in a tepid flutter. Then—before you had the time to steel yourself with a breath—drowsy emerald eyes held you in place. You watched his thoughts stutter in their course of processing the moment, your bodies woven together, the rise of your breathing.  

You watched the mischief rim the edges of his irises, the way it punctuated the serrated grin taking form at his lips. The arm he had strewn across your figure curled, tightening its grip and dragging you closer. You felt the muscles of his arm shift along her bare back as you were pulled atop him, the man situating you onto his chest. 

Reason tore at you, offering whatever relic of sound logic still stood after the events of the previous night. But you found yourself enjoying the gleam reflecting in his eyes, the unbridled warmth of all of him pressed against all of you. So, for now, you allowed him to handle you, for his touch to roam along your frame as if he were trying to remember the dips and swells of your silhouette. 

And when his fingers coiled at your nape, tilting your face lower so that he could softly press his mouth to yours—you allowed too for your eyes to gently seal. He kissed you in the manner of a person still half-attuned to sleep, with the slow and lazy sloping of his lips. 

And when he almost reluctantly seemed to pull back, permitting you breath, the pad of his thumb swept along the plushness of your lower lip. 

Garrett followed Logan into the kitchen, sweaty from a quick weight lifting session in the garage. He grinned, seeing Tucker's perplex express. "Too busy for anything."

"Why-" Tucker cut himself off hearing a thump and giggle from upstairs. "Ohh."

"Exactly," Logan smiled, avoiding Tucker as he left the room with the bowl of pretzels in his hand.

After a few minutes, the slapping of feet coming down the stairs could be heard.

"Finally..." Tucker grumbled under his breath, annoyed to be the only one make this party presentable. He'd already finished laying out all of the snack, although the pretzels had mysteriously disappeared.

Dean appeared in the kitchen, you hanging from his tall frame like a baby koala. You arms were wrapped around his strong shoulders and your legs were snug around his hips. Dean smiled at Tucker, holding his hand out for the tap. He kept on hand lightly on your ass, not appearing to actually support any of your weight. He kept it more there as an armrest of sorts.

"Alright, I'll tap the keg." Dean said, leaning over the keg with the tool in his hand.

Tucker just gawked at him. "How are you doing that?"

Dean just glanced at him, focused on the keg. "What? You've seen me tap the keg before-"

"No," Tucker remarked, pointing to you. Your head was tucked into Dean's neck, your hair covering your face in a way that screamed "go away to outsiders. "Holding her without either hand."

Dean glanced down at you, seeing your eyes peered up from against his throat. He grinned, "Just what a man has to do when he has a clingy girlfriend."

You grumbled, your voice muffled against his chest, "I'm not clingy."

"That's insane." Tucker proclaimed as Garrett and Logan re-entered the room.

"What's insane?" Logan asked.

Tucker gestured to the sight before them of the two most love-sick people on earth.

Logan just shrugged, "They do that all the time. You're usually passed out drunk, but I guess they're starting early in the evening."

Garrett hummed in agreement, the stolen pretzels had somehow ended up in his possession at this point.

"I didn't sleep well." Your muffled voice said.

Tucker snatched the pretzels away from Garrett, "I feel like you guys are punking me."

"Nope," Garrett said, "They're just freaks."

Music pounds through the speakers overhead while people fill the downstairs area. Love Island is still playing somewhere in the background on the flatscreen TV, reruns of the Heart Rate challenge episodes running on a loop while the real one plays out between the people packed into the living room.

Topper sits forward. JJ starts gossiping before anybody can see who’s coming. Because after nearly fifteen minutes of waiting, it’s finally your turn, and every guy on that couch had been counting down to it.

Sorority president, honor roll regular, if you wanted it, you got it.

Most of the guys in the room had only ever seen you at Greek Life events or buried in the library until it closed, somehow still finding time to run the entire house. None of them were mentally prepared for this.

And neither was he. Rafe knew you better than anybody else in the room. You didn’t know how to half-ass anything ever. The second you’d agreed to this challenge, Rafe should’ve known you were going to play to win.

Rafe knows exactly what’s about to happen. You’re going to work your way down that couch. That’s literally the point of the game.

He knows they’re going to enjoy every second of it.

Rafe’s hand freezes halfway to his beer as you step into the doorway wearing a fitted button-down tucked into a plaid skirt.

The sleeves are rolled neatly to your elbows, top few buttons undone just enough to show off the lace bra underneath. A pair of black-framed glasses sit on your nose. Your stockings squeeze your thighs, the little lace detail making him physically weak. High heels. A wooden ruler tapping against your palm as you survey the room—Rafe Cameron was absolutely fucked.

You’re dressed like every college fantasy Topper has ever had in his entire life, and Rafe can already hear him giggling into his cup beside him.

He drags a hand across his mouth and manages to look away for approximately half a second before his eyes drift right back.

You adjust your glasses and smile sweetly at the room. “Alright, boys,” you announce, pointing the ruler toward the crowd. “Class is in session.”

Rafe’s eyes stay locked on the screen in front of him, shutting out the first two dances with some assholes from Alpha Delta. He tries to focus on seeming unaffected, like you weren’t moving exactly how he’d hope someone would given your little arrangement.

Casual, unattached, free to have fun with other people. And in those times when you were seeking something more reliable, more familiar, you’d link up. The issue is, Rafe wasn’t doing that. And he hadn’t for a while, and sitting here in this moment, he realized just how long it’s been since he broke that agreement completely.

You walk over to John B. and he sinks farther back into the couch cushions, looking up at you. The gladiator costume suddenly looks a lot less intimidating when he’s staring at you with the same expression a golden retriever gets when somebody opens a bag of treats.

You slap the ruler against your palm as a slow smile pulls at your mouth.

“Well, Mr. Rutledge,” you say, adjusting your glasses. “I reviewed your grades before class tonight.”

You take a step closer, resting the ruler beneath John B.’s chin before lifting it lightly.

“Questionable,” you decide.

John B.’s eyes go wide before he plays along immediately. “Professor, I can explain.”

“Can you?”

“No.”

The answer comes so fast that even you start laughing.

You sway your hips with the music, one hand settling on John B.’s shoulder while you continue your little routine. Your lips find his skin, your fingers drifting around the back of his neck as he tilts for you, a grin spreading across his face as you dance.

The room breaks in applause as John B. helps you off his lap, the look on his face begging you to stay as a soft “wait” falls from his lips, making everyone laugh.

You make it three steps before stopping in front of Pope. The pirate hat is already halfway off his, his button down shirt opened wide. You look him up and down thoughtfully.

“Hmm,” you hum and he straightens up and you tap your chin with your finger. “You’ve actually been doing really good lately.”

His eyebrows shoot up. “Yeah?” He asks hopefully. The smile tugging at your mouth gets bigger.

“Mhmm,” you smile, opening your shirt, one more button, reaching into the top of your lace bra, pulling the sparkle star sticker out.

“Wooooah,” he slurs and the room hoots and hollers as you peel the sticker off the sheet, opening his shirt a little more to press it against his skin.

Pope’s mouth falls open as the sticker sparkles on his chest, looking down at it like he actually earned this shit.

“Proud of you,” you whisper as you tilt in, smiling against his lips, feeling him sink into the couch before you kiss him softly.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

The words mumbled past Pope’s lips and hit Rafe like a punch to the chest. The knife twists when he chases your lips as you tease him, rewarding him with a kiss.

JJ sits sprawled next to him, beer balanced casually against his knee while his other foot bounces impatiently.

Rafe drops his head into his hand, rubbing at his forehead like maybe if he covered his eyes this would all stop happening as you stand up.

JJ’s hands open subtly in anticipation, ready to take you into his arms when you settle on top.

“Look at this asshole,” Topper chuckles against the rim of his drink and Maybank turns his head, smiling in agreement. JJ doesn’t even deny it.

You stop directly in front of him, and JJ’s eyebrows lift as you slide your glasses off.

You climb onto JJ’s lap, your knees pressing into the old couch cushions. JJ lets out a dark laugh that makes Rafe want to throw his drink at the wall.

“Jesus Christ,” the words leave Rafe before he can stop them, but nobody can hear it over the music.

You turn the glasses and place them directly on his face, tilting in slowly, letting the tension build between the two of you until the corners of his lips curl in a smirk.

“Such a fucking nerd, Maybank,” you whisper and he throws his head back against the couch before looking at you again.

You grab his face between both hands, squishing his cheeks together, kissing his pouted lips before your fingers thread into his hair.

You draw back, tilting away slightly, his gaze catching on the lowest button of your shirt before drifting higher as you grind on top of him. He grins smugly, thoroughly enjoying the moment.

The worst part was that Rafe had already had his chance. Last week the two of you had ended up alone after everybody else left, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder while the party died around you.

The conversation had shifted for a second. Not long, but long enough for him to realize you were giving him an opening, and long enough for him to panic and do what he always did when something started feeling a little too real.

He’d laughed, made some bullshit comment, changed the subject, and spent the rest of the night pretending he hadn’t noticed it happen.

Rafe drags the cold bottle across his mouth and looks down before he does something stupid.

“Can you believe this shit?” Kelce sighs through a smile.

“I am having a terrible, terrible time,” Topper lies, the widest smile stretching across his face as you walk toward Kelce.

Rafe watches JJ watch you walk away.

One of JJ’s hands rests along the back of the couch while the other comes down to adjust the shorts of his officer costume because they’re suddenly too tight. JJ licks his lips, his gaze following the sway of your hips and the brush of your skirt on your upper thighs.

The room feels ten degrees hotter. Rafe shifts in his seat and drags a hand across the back of his neck, trying and failing to ignore the nervous sweat gathering there.

You twirl the ruler once between your fingers as you approach Kelce, dragging the end of it slowly across the front of his chest, over the referee jersey.

Kelce follows the ruler with his eyes.

“Talking in class?”

Kelce doesn’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

“No shame!” Topper adds, tossing up his hands, playing along.

You click your tongue and shake your head.

“That’s disappointing.”

“I’m sorry, professor,” he answers eagerly.

“Turn around,” you breathe, and Kelce scrambles to do just that, and whack! The party breaks out in laughter as you smack him playfully on the ass.

“One,” you call and the party screams out three more along with you.

Kelce spins back around laughing so hard he can barely catch his breath, your hands twist into his shirt, pulling him to your lips, and without warning he lifts you off your feet.

And Kelce’s still grinning when you lean down and kiss him, your hands moving from his shirt to the back of his neck, dragging him close enough to pull a groan from his lips.

He sets you down on your feet and you smile, reaching for a breath, your eyes still locked on Kelce’s as you walk away. Rafe tears his eyes away, his heartbeat pounding in his ears because the touching and kissing was bad enough, but that look—that smile. That’s his.

And he did this all to himself. You hadn’t even wanted to do this.

He remembers standing in the library two weeks ago while they tried to recruit. You’d laughed, called the whole thing silly, and said you’d cheer them on. Rafe had been the one telling you to do it. Told you it’d be fun. Told you people would love you. ‘Just don’t overthink it, baby.’

Now he’s the fuckin’ baby overthinking everything.

“Mr. Thornton,” the words drip honeyed past your lips, and the second they do, Topper cups a hand beside his ear, asking to run that back.

Topper sinks his head back against the couch as he looks back up at you. “Say it again.”

You roll your eyes and laugh, placing your hands on your hips. “Mr. Thornton.”

Topper squeezes his eyes shut for a second, nodding like that scratched an itch he’s had for a while. “Yes, professor.”

Then the second you’re within reach, he grabs your waist and pulls you straight down into his lap. The crowd roars.

Your back lands against his broad chest and Topper drops a quick kiss against the crook of your neck like he just can’t help himself.

“What did I say about phones in class?” You ask as you take his phone off the couch from beside him, flicking a finger to pull up the camera.

Topper’s arms tighten around your waist as the picture snaps. His laughter vibrates against your skin, more than happy to have that saved in his phone while his best friend struggles beside him.

You start to grind on his lap where you sit, his blue eyes tracing over your body. The view is almost too much. That little bra somehow even more distracting than before. His big hands find your thighs, thumbs tracing under the hem of your skirt.

You’re thrown off balance for half a second, reaching out instinctively to catch yourself, resting on the nearest thing, which happens to be Rafe’s thigh.

The contact lasts barely a second.

But Rafe still feels it.

That same hand slides away from Rafe, hooking loosely around Topper’s neck instead. You let the ruler hang loosely at your side before tilting your head.

“Aww…” You coo as you slip off Thornton’s lap, smoothing out your skirt, glancing down at Rafe. “It’s the class pet.”

The entire room erupts. You take another step forward and Rafe’s hands find your waist, pulling you down to him, not waiting for you to settle yourself.

Your nose brushes against his, your fingers drifting up his neck into his hair just like they do when you’re alone. The noise around you fades until all that’s left is the way Rafe is looking at you.

Your lips brush against his as his hands steady you, gripping your ass in his big palms.

“My favorite student.” The words barely leave your mouth.

“Yeah?” He mumbles. “You rehearsing these lines?”

“Maybe,” you smile. “I like to win.”

“Holy shit,” he sighs, because that’s just another thing he loves about you. Cheering swells around you when your lips part and his tongue finds yours, guiding you to rock on top of him to the music.

You pull away and his lips chase after yours, leaving Topper and Kelce snickering beside him, Thornton shoving at Rafe’s shoulder because he’s so far gone and everyone can see it.

But, that was way too fucking short for his liking.

Now he’s sitting here thinking about Topper’s picture, Kelce’s kiss, JJ’s dance, even that stupid fucking sticker on Pope’s chest, somehow convincing himself everybody else got more than he did. He knows it doesn’t even make sense, but he can’t stop keeping score like some petulant little kid.

He’s spiraling.

“You’re up, Cameron,” you whisper against his lips.

Rafe’s eyebrows pull together, his expression saying he’d completely forgotten there was a challenge.

“M’pretty comfortable where I am,” he answers, his rough thumbs catching on the soft lace on your thighs.

“We’re playing a game,” you giggle, stepping off his lap, but he’s quick to stand.

“Are we?” He hums as his face turns in closer to your ear, his hand resting on your waist to keep you close as the other boys move toward the kitchen without him.

He pinches your chin between his fingers and steals another kiss. Your hands land on his stomach, his skin warm and tight underneath your hands before he pulls back, adjusting the cowboy hat on his head.

You watch him disappear into the crowd, settling behind the kitchen island with the rest of the boys as the music pounds through the speakers.

The challenge keeps moving as Rafe stands and waits, a fresh beer in his hand and absolutely no peace left in his body.

Empty cans and cups cover every available surface. Every set of eyes in the room is fixed on the couches. Especially Rafe’s.

The first guy goes, and Rafe can’t even bring himself to watch, scrolling through his phone trying to look busy—pulling up the weather app to pretend he’s doing something.

The president of Alpha Delta, Lane Daniels, drags his attention right back anyway. His name leaves your lips, the familiarity in your voice making Rafe sick.

He leans down and steals the smile off your lips with a kiss and Rafe’s throat tightens, his chest aching as your fingers twist into the front of the construction vest.

Lane flips you on the couch and you gasp, straddling his waist, his hands resting on your lower back.

Rafe bites his lip nervously, nodding like he’s physically trying to tell himself he’s okay. That he can have fun like this.

The crowd starts screaming when John B. pulls the armor over his head. The movement is awkward enough to make you laugh, the plastic getting stuck on one arm before he finally yanks it free.

The grin on his face only gets bigger when you clap for him. By the time he flexes one arm dramatically and kisses his bicep through his laughter, half is chanting his name.

JJ takes a page out of John B.'s book, popping the buttons of his shirt open one by one as the crowd completely loses its mind around him. The second it comes off, he spins it once above his head like a helicopter before tossing it somewhere into the party. He goes for his handcuffs next, binding your wrist before he kisses you deep.

Pope announces that he’s on the lookout for buried treasure, which can only be found by kissing along your foot and working up your thigh.

Kelce’s referee jersey is two sizes too small, riding up enough to expose the hard lines of his stomach when he throws a flag in the air. He stands in front of you, towering over you, dipping down just enough so the whistle dangles in front of your lips, trying to sound sexy, but it comes out through a half-laugh when he tells you to “blow it.” You bury your head in your hands, hiding your smile, your cheeks hot and burning from your grin as you do just that.

Rafe drops his focus to the counter, ring tapping against the surface anxiously. Topper’s phone starts vibrating on the kitchen island, completely unattended.

Rafe reaches for it without a second thought. The camera roll pops open. He finds the picture. The one Topper took while you were sitting in his lap. The one Rafe has been trying not to think about for the last fifteen minutes. He deletes it, opens the recently deleted folder, and does it again so it sticks. Permanent delete.

Not because he doesn’t trust Topper to delete it himself. He doesn’t even think that far. His thumb moves before his brain catches up, erasing the only thing anybody could point at and get the wrong idea from.

The moment it’s gone, Rafe just stares at the screen.

“Yeah, I’m fucked,” he mutters under his breath.

He locks the phone, sets it right back where he found it, and drops his head into his hand with a quiet sigh.

There’s no coming back from this.

“Abs!” The crowd screams and your hands rest on Topper’s stomach, tracing down each one as his hips sway. You gasp when he grabs you, flinging you over his shoulder like a firefighter mid-rescue. Your skirt flips forward, doing nothing to hide your little booty shorts underneath—Rafe’s hand tightening around the bottle as his possessiveness flares.

Kelce claps him on the back, snapping him out of it. “Cameron, you’re up,” he smiles but Rafe’s already pushing off the kitchen island.

He breaks through the crowd. His eyes find yours and the corners of your mouth lift. He takes a breath, focusing on the task at hand, ‘cause he’s got this, right? This is what he wanted.

The first girl smiles up when he approaches, and Rafe can’t help but smile back as he throws an invisible lasso, giving her a wink.

She waits for what comes next—the contact, the kisses. Instead, she gets little more than a bit of movement before he heads to the next one.

He just stands there for a second, completely blanking on what to do next. Her hands reach for his stomach instantly and Rafe’s abs flex as his breath catches, the whistle of approval that slips past your lips, pulling his attention right back to you.

By the time he reaches the third girl, the crowd starts to die down because it’s painfully obvious that Rafe Cameron is not participating in the challenge. He’s cutting through it.

He looks down at the third girl and can’t make himself do it. Not that she isn’t stunning—she is. Her little halo sits lopsided on her head, her corset practically defying gravity.

Rafe glances over at you, and one eyebrow arches in his direction because this is not the Rafe Cameron you know. This is not the Rafe Cameron who can’t keep his hands to himself or his lips off anything. He’s completely lost in thought.

“There we go, buddy,” the boys cheer him on from the kitchen as he helps the next girl to her feet, the crowd going crazy for something—anything.

“Kiss her. Kiss her. Kiss her.” The room breaks out in a chant.

Rafe looks down at her with a polite smile, spinning her under his finger. Her hands wrap around his waist when she gets the opportunity, her chin tilting up for a kiss. He leans down and presses a quick kiss to her forehead and a few people giggle around him.

And by that point he’s over it. He holds out his hand for the fourth, giving her a high five.

“Rafey, this is Love Island, buddy. You’re givin’ the boys a bad name. Shake some ass or somethin’,” Kelce shouts.

Rafe doesn’t even acknowledge it, giving the same treatment to the fifth and sixth girls down the line, all “good game” high fives as they look back at him baffled.

“Here we fuckin’ go,” John B. and the guys cheer from behind the counter and, for the first time all round, the room actually starts paying attention again.

Rafe stops in front of the seventh girl and reaches for the leather vest hanging open on his broad shoulders. People whistle as he strips it down one big arm, then the other, biceps flexing as he slides the vest off nice and slow, tossing it in her direction.

The crowd erupts and Rafe winks, tossing her a set of finger guns. The cheering dies almost instantly when he steps away.

“What the hell was that?” Topper shouts over the music.

“What?” Rafe laughs, throwing both hands up. “I’m participating.”

“You’re not!” Kelce yells from the kitchen.

“Virgin Mary over here,” Topper barks. “Thought you were a slut, Rafey.”

“Fuck off,” Rafe chuckles, taking off his hat with one hand, carding his fingers with the other, blowing out a sigh of relief as he makes his way over to you.

You tip your chin up toward him and smile, so genuinely happy to see him that even he gets a little bashful, especially with you sitting there looking like that. He bites his lip as he leans down, his big hand resting on the back of the couch. “You look so fuckin’ good,” he hums against your lips.

For the first time all night, there’s no one between you and him, no one blocking his view, no one fighting for your attention, and no one making him sit there pretending this doesn’t bother him.

You’re right in front of him now, looking back at him in that little skirt and those cute glasses, your glossy lips tugging into a smile, and Rafe finally feels like he can breathe.

“Princess?” He drawls, settling his hat onto your head, the room responding with catcalls and whistles of approval. He draws back, grabbing your hands, running them down his strong chest, over the ridges of his abs, straight to the top of his shorts.

“Rafe,” you breathe, tilting your head slightly.

“Legs in the air,” he tells you and your heart starts to race, one of your sorority sisters reaches over, grabbing your arm with secondhand fluster. “What did I say, huh?” He asks with a smile, and a sparkle in his eye as he grabs your bare thighs. “Legs in the air.”

You scoot down the couch and the second you do he dives in, hooking his strong arms under your thighs, practically folding you in half as he wraps them tight. You gasp and the crowd roars as he lifts you off your feet, the man bouncing you along with the beat of the song, rutting so hard you have to catch your hat to keep it on your head as you laugh.

He sets you back down on the couch, pawing off the handkerchief around his neck, taking it between his hands. You’re breathing heavily now, smiling ear-to-ear.

“Hands,” he mumbles, and you bind your wrists for him, the man tying the red fabric in a knot around your wrists, binding them together.

He grabs your arms and leads it over your head, pinning it to the back of the couch, pressing his lips against yours in a deep kiss.

“Keep this, yeah? No more touchin’ anyone else, understand? You can take it off when I tell you.”

“Okay,” you whisper through a giddy little laugh and he tugs at the handkerchief for emphasis.

Rafe pushes off the couch, pumping his fist as the crowd cheers. Your hands fall to your lap, heart racing in your chest.

Rafe ends up back behind the kitchen island with the rest of the guys while the judges argue over scores near the living room, half the room shouting over them like their opinions matter any more than the crumpled bills stuffed into the betting jars.

The challenge is technically over, but the party hasn’t settled down at all. Rafe stands with a beer hanging loosely from his fingers, pretending to listen to the guys around him when every bit of his attention keeps drifting back across the room to you.

You’re exactly where he left you, sitting on the couch with his cowboy hat still tilted over your hair and the red handkerchief tied around your wrists in your lap. Rafe keeps trying to look away first and keeps failing almost immediately, the corner of his mouth lifting every time yours does.

“I thought we lost you for a second there,” Kelce says from beside him, leaning back against the counter with his cup lifted halfway to his mouth. Rafe barely looks over, only dragging his eyes off you long enough to shoot Kelce a look before immediately finding you again across the room.

“You did,” he says, and Topper laughs into his beer.

“Yeah, no shit,” Topper mutters, following Rafe’s line of sight toward the couch before shaking his head.

He forces himself to stay where he is anyway, tapping the bottom of his beer against the counter while an underclassman with a clipboard tries to get everyone’s attention over the music.

Someone needs to pick a winner already. Someone needs to count whatever money they’re counting, read whatever dramatic announcement they’re planning, and end this thing before Rafe loses his patience completely.

You finally push yourself up from the couch before they announce anything, and Rafe straightens before he even realizes he’s doing it.

You make it a step before Lane swoops into your path. You glance up with a polite smile already forming, and Rafe’s jaw tightens before the guy even finishes whatever opening line he decided was worth trying.

The guy gestures toward the hat on your head before stepping closer. Apparently whatever he’s saying requires him to lean in, too.

“Fuck that,” Rafe sighs, already pushing away from the island while Kelce turns his head toward him.

“Go easy on him, Cameron. He’s got his whole life ahead of him,” Kelce taunts at the flagrant display of jealousy.

Rafe doesn’t answer because Daniels made you laugh again, and that’s more than enough information for him.

“Hey, baby,” Rafe breathes, reaching out to fix your skirt where it’d ridden up on your hip before wrapping his arm around your shoulders, lips pressing against your temple.

Rafe taps Lane on the arm, a little rougher than necessary. “Hey, man.”

“You need somethin’, Cameron?” Lane asks with an annoyed laugh.

“Need her, yeah,” he answers, his hold around you tightening. “Unfinished business,” he chuckles, tugging the fabric a little between his two fingers.

“Sure,” Lane scoffs in reply.

“Have a great night, yeah?” Rafe smiles, clapping him on the chest, using the contact to push Lane away, ever so slightly. You give him a look and he looks right back down at you—shrugging like the reaction was restraint.

Rafe’s hand traces down to your wrists, grabbing the bandana, tugging it loose.

“Still had it on,” he hums.

“I’m a good listener,” you breathe as he tilts in for a few soft kisses. Your heart is racing in your chest, everything up until this moment taken between closed doors, no public claims to speak of and now you’re in the middle of the frat house all wrapped up in his arms.

“Had you all tied up for me and they still didn’t put it together,” he sighs, your hands finding their way around the back of his neck, nails sliding into his hair. “You wanna go upstairs?” He asks, his voice deep and desperate.

“We don’t know who won,” you whisper, and he rolls his eyes in annoyance with how long this is taking—especially now that he’s got you like this.

“Hey, winners? Who are they?” Rafe’s voice barks across the party impatiently.

“You got places to be, Cameron?” Topper asks teasingly against the rim of his beer bottle, and Rafe’s arm tightens around you, wordlessly sharing the answer with you—absolutely I do.

The underclassmen huddle around the board of tallied tickets while everyone waits. They point at you and JJ and the crowd cheers. You throw your hands in the air and smile, and JJ’s quick to swoop in, celebrating the moment with you.

“So Maybank and my girlfriend. We done here?”

Kelce’s head snaps toward Rafe so fast. “His what?” He mouths to Topper whose eyebrows shoot up on his forehead. John B. physically chokes on his drink. Even JJ’s celebration slows for a second as he sets you back on your feet. But Rafe doesn’t seem to notice a thing when his hand finds your back again.

Around them, Rafe’s reaction to the challenge suddenly makes sense—the jealousy, the focus, and the complete lack of interest in anyone who wasn’t you.

The corner of Kelce’s mouth twitches as he tips his beer in Rafe’s direction. “Could’ve fuckin’ told us,” he mutters, and Topper snorts into his drink.

“A heads up would’ve been nice,” Topper hollers.

Kelce lets out a laugh, but Topper’s already reaching into his pocket for his phone, the picture clearly hitting him at the same time. “Might as well get rid of that picture now,” he says absentmindedly, unlocking it with one hand as he leans into the kitchen island. “…The fuck?”

“What?” Kelce asks, leaning over far enough to look at the screen.

Topper stares at it for another second before a laugh escapes, shaking his head as he locks the phone again. “He already did it.”

“Oh? It’s gone? Rafe? Our Rafe?” Kelce asks, clutching his metaphorical pearls like he’s surprised in the slightest.

Topper slips the phone back into his pocket, still chuckling to himself. “That tracks.”

Rafe’s hand stays locked with yours as he leads you through the crowd, weaving around people. The noise of the party grows quieter the farther you get from the living room, just the sound of your heels clicking against the hardwood and your heart thumping in your chest.

He’s quiet, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t thinking, his mind swirling with images of you with other guys. Guys who’d make you happy too, and if he didn’t step up, they were gonna step in. He’s never been casual about you anyway.

Rafe glances over, catching the smile on your lips.

“What are you smilin’ about?” He asks through a chuckle as you clear the last step, moving upstairs. He uses the momentum to twirl you under his finger, that little skirt about your hips kicking up, the pleats fluttering.

“Nothing,” you answer. “I’m not—”

“Smile’s too pretty not to notice,” he hums as he pushes through his bedroom door. “Seriously?”

Your lips pull to the side as warmth creeps into your cheeks. He walks around you, unable to keep his eyes off you. His gaze works its way up your body before meeting yours.

“You have a girlfriend now?” You ask curiously and Rafe freezes. And for a second, the realization hits him, replaying the moment downstairs when he spoke those words without another thought.

“Oh, shit.” He drags a hand through his hair, standing across from you. “I said that, didn’t I?”

“You did,” you answer, tossing the cowboy hat to the side.

“I didn’t mean to just throw that out there like that,” he says. “M’sorry—”

Whatever he was about to say dies instantly when you kiss him, his hands catching your waist. Your arms wrap around his shoulders, pushing your body closer as he takes two steps, crowding you into his door.

The wood rattles on the hinges and your tongue slips between his lips. His hand falls to grip your thigh, lifting it higher as he presses his hips forward, pushing against you just right.

You whimper against his mouth and he smiles against your lips, kissing along your jaw to your ear.

“Gotta ask you somethin’,” he mumbles, the heat and pressure between the two of you thick when he looks you in the eye. His forehead rests against yours.

He takes a deep breath anyway, smiling despite how badly he wants you, and how nervous he is.

And, even though it’s been weeks of nights just like this, they’ve never ended just like this.

“Will you be my girlfriend?” He asks.

Your nose scrunches and you smile, feeling him move a little closer when he sees your reaction. His other hand drops to your other thigh, pulling you into his arms, your legs hooking around his waist.

“Of course, I will.”

“Yeah?” He asks.

“Took you long enough,” you laugh softly.

“I know,” he sighs, pulling you off the door, not letting you go. “I’m a fuckin’ idiot. Made me sweat it out for a few seconds there.”

“A few seconds?” You ask with a sarcastic bite, playful nonetheless, leaving him laughing and tossing you down on the bed.

“That was a lie,” he mumbles as he crawls onto the bed, pushing his weight and his lips against yours. “I was fucked up all night.”

“You weren’t having fun?” You whisper between kisses.

“No.”

You laugh at his reaction, the word tight and short, feeling his big hand grip your thigh, spreading you wide underneath him.

“Hardest shit I ever had to watch,” he mumbles.

“Yeah?” You ask and he chuckles when he feels your lips tilt into a smile.

“Watching my girlfriend dance on other guys? Kiss other people? Fucking nightmare.”

“I wasn’t your girlfriend yet.”

“You are now,” he hums and you gasp when he rolls you on top.

You giggle as you dip in, kissing the corner of his mouth. “I am.”

“You look so damn good,” he mumbles as his tongue slips between your lips, sliding against yours, one hand working up the back of your button-up shirt while the other squeezes your ass. “I know I already told you that, but fuck. Didn’t even get to tell you. First time I saw you like this and you were climbing into someone else’s lap.”

You gasp when his big hand pushes under your skirt, fingers tracing up the inside of your thigh when he whispers, “You know how insane that made me?”

“You’re the one who told me to do this?” You giggle as he peels off the shorts underneath your skirt.

“Had no idea it was gonna be that hard,” he mumbles with a deep tone that rumbles against your soft lips. You laugh breathlessly, rolling your hips to tease before you push off his chest. His jaw tightens as you pinch the top button of your shirt. He pitches his hips fast, fighting his shorts and boxers down his strong thighs, his heavy cock hitting his skin with a slap when he sees more and more skin.

“You look good, Rafe,” you whisper and he chuckles under his breath hearing that come from you.

“You…” He mumbles, getting distracted when the shirt falls off your shoulders and flicks to the side, leaving you in nothing but heels, stockings, a bra, and that little plaid skirt that’s been tormenting him all damn night. “Fuck, you look so beautiful, baby.”

He wraps his hand around his dick, stroking himself as he looks up at you, lip tucked with his teeth, the muscles in his chest and arms swelling with each stroke as you take off your bra too.

“Oh, shit,” he moans, his eyes rolling back, head pressing into his pillow, before he slides up on the bed, his bare chest pressing against yours.

Your nails work through his hair as his mouth wraps around your nipple, sucking and kissing while his fingers press against your pussy.

He moans into your tits and you whimper as his fingers push inside, your hips rocking back and forth.

“Goddamn,” he mutters. “My baby’s wet, huh?” You can hear the smile in his voice as his fingers curl inside you. “All mine… All fuckin’ mine, huh?” His words come out tight and impatient.

“All yours,” you whisper.

“Get on your knees for me,” he hums, his words buzzing against your lips before he flips, leaving you gasping and clawing for the comforter, not even letting a second pass before he takes what he wants.

“This fucking body,” he groans as his hands grab your hips, palming your ass, spreading you open with a low sound.

You shiver when his spit hits your hot skin, the wet rolling between your ass, catching at your entrance before he stuffs it inside with two thick fingers.

He works his hand fast, palm slapping against your skin, your pussy sounding like water. Your back arches and your muscles tighten, bunching up his blankets in your hands as the pleasure in your body swells.

“Rafe,” you squeal, your words muffled into the bed.

“Yeah?” He asks. “Cum on my hand, baby. Let me have it.”

“Fuck,” you cry out, pussy fluttering around his fingers as they dart in and out, only stopping when you soften around him. Tears spill onto the bed when he leans in, sliding his tongue along your slit, moaning like a slut at the taste.

“Oh my god,” he sighs like he was starving for it, pussy-drunk already when he bunches up your skirt in his big fist, the other wrapped around his dick.

Rafe’s hand finds your neck, pulling you back, pressing his lips against yours as he squeezes. He pushes in slow, moaning against your mouth until his body presses tight against yours. “How could you belong to anyone else, huh?” He asks when he feels your breath catch against his lips. “Fit so fuckin’ good inside you. Wish you could feel how you feel around me. You’d be losing your mind too.”

Your lips tremble against his, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth as he lets you sit with it for a moment before pushing you back down.

He thrusts in rough and hard, making the fat of your ass bounce, his big hands gripping your waist tight, eyes set on the wet place the two of you connect.

Your body falls forward into the mattress, face mashed to the sheet as he drills into you from behind, using the hold on your skirt and your hip to work you over.

Your thighs start to shake uncontrollably, each sound from your lips more pathetic than the last.

“Need you to cum again, yeah?” He asks as his arm slides around your waist, pulling you back against him.

His fingers find your clit, rubbing tight little circles that have your hands flying to his forearm and thigh, nails clawing into his flesh as you whimper you’re cumming, squirting around him with a hoarse sob.

“There she is,” he groans, his fingers working through the wet spurts, thighs losing their rhythm, cum spilling inside you as he curses against your shoulder.

His breath comes out hard and fast against your throat, your thighs soaked and sticky as he chuckles softly into your neck, nuzzling closer.

“Goddamn,” he mutters, his smile curling against your skin. “You fuckin’ own me, you know that?”

“What was that?” You ask, needing to hear it again. He rests his chin against your shoulder, holding you a little closer.

“M’yours,” he whispers. “Say it.”

“You’re mine,” you whisper, and he wraps his arm a little tighter, lips grazing yours.

“That’s my girl.”

🏝️🍹 tag list on my pinned post 🦩 @rafesthroatbaby @hockeygirlyyyy @drewstarkeyswife-7 @ornellastreet @cokewithcameron @loserboysandlithium @buckybarnessweetheart @torturedpoetism @slut-4-rafey @americanboz0 @taliescapes @slxttfadustin @cdiaz18 @tangledinmyfeelings @harrrrystylesslut @st8rkey @obsessedwrafe @my-name-is-baby @dollforafe @abbottjunior01 @seulbeomie @pillowprincess4him @moondustbaby @premiumshitt @gigislover08 @lilithblackkk @babygoddam @harringtonsbowgirl @yesimeasyy @angelicameron @ashleyytatum @stace-041193 @rafesbabygirlx @lhhlver @raf3cam3r0n @rafesbuzzcutseason @jscasmth @bunnyx2 @diasnohibng @ariieeesworld @ilovehughbiggs @willowpains @esmerai-artemis @simp4f1 @mochachocalat @sexychickenmagnet @isastarset

“Mmm, you can be. Very actually, but you make up for it in other ways.” You say staring into his pretty eyes. Dean laughs, one hand coming behind you to unclasp your pretty lace navy bra.

“Something tells me this,” he begins, motioning in between the two of you. Your hands roam his bare chest, loving the way his muscles feel under your fingers. “Is either going to end up in marriage or a restraining order.”

You laugh, tipping your head back and exposing more of your neck to Dean, which he takes full advantage of, his lips kissing his way back up to your own.

“Think I’d rather be your wife than your plaintiff, Di Laurentis.” You say. Dean groans.

“Fuck baby, I want you to be my wife.” He says. “Sounds so hot.” He murmurs against your skin, his fingers unbuttoning your jeans easily.

You smile, tapping his chest. “Easy, Di Laurentis. You’re still in tryouts.”

Dean laughs. “Tryouts? I thought I made the team.”

“You made the roster.” You tease. Knowing very well that your so called roster consists of Dean and only Dean.

Your words die on your lips when Garrett and Wellsy crash down into the booth as well, Tucker and Logan scooting closer, none the wiser.

Dean glances down at the app on his phone before lifting his eyes back to you. “Nobody knows,” he chuckles, relaxing back into the booth and throwing an arm around your shoulder, his mouth brushing your temple. “Trust me—” Buzz!

You press your body back into the seat, eyes pinching shut as you ride out the next wave of vibrations coming from the toy in your panties.

“You doin’ okay, babe?” Hannah asks from across the table and your eyes flash open immediately. Your thighs are already slick when Dean’s hand traces through it. Your legs quake and your hand comes up from its wicked grip on the leather, squeezing his wrist like a warning.

“M’perfect, Han. Just a little hot. Is it hot in here?” You ramble.

Dean’s arm wraps a little tighter around your shoulder. The other hand settles back against your thigh and he has the decency to look pleased with himself.

“Don’t look at me like that,” he murmurs under his breath. “Who do you think bought this for me, huh? Hell of a gift, by the way.”

Your glare sharpens and he tips his drink toward you like he’s proving a point.

Dean is having way too much fun at Malone’s—drink in his hand, shirt half-unbuttoned, chain glinting against his chest every time a laugh works loose.

And even though he’s supposedly lost in a conversation about summer plans, he’s watching. Watching every breath you take. Every little tremble. Every pause while you try to keep up a conversation with Logan and Tucker without coming undone.

“You need another drink, pretty,” he drawls when you go to take a sip.

You gasp, missing the straw completely as another round of vibrations catches you off guard. A little bit of liquid sloshes over the rim of the cup—not much, just enough for Dean’s eyes to drop to it. You quickly lift it to your lips, sucking the rest down.

“Shaky tonight,” he chuckles, putting it on a low, steady vibration.

Dean smiles at you like a bully when he sees you struggling to compose yourself, leaning over to press a kiss against your temple.

“I’m serious, you want anything?” His fingers tap against the glass before he reaches for it like a gentleman—but his eyes are anything but polite, glittering with wickedness as he watches you struggle.

He wraps his hand around the cup too, trying to pull it away, but the death grip you have on it to keep yourself from cracking leaves him chuckling under his breath.

“Dean, please,” you whisper.

“What?” He blinks at you innocently. “You wanna come with me to the bar or somethin’?”

“You’re unbelievable,” you mutter.

“Me?” He presses his hand to his chest, feigning surprise. “Not like I’m waiting for you to beg or anything.”

You look toward your friends, still deep in conversations around you. “I’m not gonna beg,” you whisper.

“Yet,” his lips twitch against the rim of his glass, winking before he tosses the rest back.

You laugh weakly, shoving him out of the booth.

“Where are we goin’?” His hand reaches for yours.

“Anywhere but here,” you press the words through your teeth as you fake a smile, pulling him through the crowd toward the door and he follows.

A long, cruel vibration punches a gasp from your chest as your thighs clamp together, stopping you in your tracks. You whip around, fury and need burning through you all at once. “I swear to God, Dean—”

“What? Did I do somethin’?” He takes a step closer, his voice calm and daring.

“God, I hate you right now,” you whisper-laugh as you glare at him, chest heaving.

“Yeah?” He tilts his head, smile deepening, eyes soft and sharp at the same time. “You don’t mean that, pretty.” He reaches a hand to cradle your face as you look up at him, his thumb rubbing along your trembling lip.

“Stop teasing me, Di Laurentis.”

“Or what?” He asks, condescending. “What are you gonna do, bun? You dragged me over here. Seems like you’re the one without a plan.”

You chuckle helplessly, completely at his mercy while he just stands there enjoying every second of it.

“I want you to stop teasing me.”

“Baby, you don’t even sound convincing.”

“Can you just stop,” you groan through a flustered laugh.

“That’s funny,” he scoffs. “You don’t look like you want me to stop—that’s not what your face is tellin’ me. You are doin’ a hell of a lot of yappin’ I’ll give you that.”

“Fuck you,” you breathe as he dips down for a kiss.

“Fuck me? Now we’re gettin’ somewhere… That sounds like a perfect idea, baby,” he hums. “We can get outta here. Or we can stay right where we are. I’m havin’ a pretty good time either way.”

“I’m aware.”

“Oh, shit… Is it that obvious?” He asks, dimple deepening in his cheeks as he looks down at you. “I know what you want.”

“I’ve said it ten times.”

“You said that twice… ‘Stop teasin’ me, Dean’,” he tries on your voice just to piss you off, dragging you toward his mouth to whisper, “Tell me what you need from me.”

The tension builds between the two of you, thick and heavy with the words you know he wants to hear.

“I want you to fuck me.”

He chuckles, his laugh deep and syrupy, like the night finally went his way.

“There’s my girl,” he mumbles, the words brushing your mouth before he draws back, looking toward the bathrooms, catching the little line of people waiting, backed against the wall. He looks to his left, catching the photo booth, the corner of his lips twitching.

“Dean…”

“Bunny.”

“Dean Di Laurentis.”

“Baby doll.”

“We’re gonna get kicked out,” you giggle, resting your hands on his chest. “Again.”

“And yet,” he hums as he closes the space between you. “They keep lettin’ us back in.” Buzz.

The sharp vibrations nearly buckle your knees and you shove him hard enough to send him stumbling back a step. He catches your wrist immediately, laughing as he pulls you with him.

His eyes flick one way, then the other, checking the crowd before he reaches for the little sign hanging outside the booth. You already know exactly what he’s thinking. The sign spins between his big fingers from Open to Out of Service.

You’re still laughing when he tugs you inside, the curtain swinging shut behind you. His grin matches yours as your hands find his belt. Dean's fingers disappear into your hair. His mouth crashes into yours before either of you can say another word, his body pressing tight against yours.

“How am I supposed to help myself when you’re so fun to tease, baby?” He asks quietly, dragging his lips against yours.

“Enough,” you breathe, your voice shaky and thin as the constant vibration keeps you on edge. You feel him smile against the kiss. “I told you what I need, alright, I—”

“Easy, baby,” he murmurs against your lips, huffing a quiet laugh when you grab another fistful of his shirt. “You’re alright. M’just messin’ with you.”

“Really?” You chuckle against his lips as his big hands drag up your thighs, lifting your skirt up with it. “Who woulda thought?”

“I know,” he mutters, his words ghosting across your lips. “I almost never fuck with you. I should do this more, huh?”

He hooks his thumbs around the lace of your panties, tugging them higher, pressing them harder against your clit as you try to maintain your composure, leaving you twisting his shirt in your fingers for balance.

“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you hum.

“Been enjoying myself all fuckin’ night. Can you blame me?” He buries his face in your neck, hand diving between your thighs.

“Shit!” You gasp.

“Fuck me.” The words drag out of him against your skin as he feels the vibrations hum against his palm, pressing it higher, your hips answering with a slight buck.

The music from the bar pulses around you, his big body taking up most of the little booth leaving the air around you hot and thick. His zipper slides down, and he bends you over just enough, not letting you get far.

“Goddamn,” he breathes, voice roughening as he kisses down your neck, feeling how wet the panties are. “Made a mess of these, huh?”

A couple people pass by, leaving the curtain swaying slightly in the breeze. His head snaps toward it and he draws back the curtain just enough to check, the other hand shoving his jeans down just enough.

You bite your lip, gasping as you feel him, hard and thick, dragging against your thigh, the press of his thick tip maddening. “I can feel your legs shaking, baby.”

“Dean, please…” You breathe, hand flying back to claw at his hip as the other hits the booth’s wall.

Dean breathes out a laugh, nuzzling into your hair, his fingers hooking into your panties to tug them just aside.

His hand curls over your mouth, sealing off the sound as he sinks into you. It’s slow and deep, your moan trembling against his palm while his catches tight through his teeth. His strong arms tighten around you, holding you steady to his chest as he moves.

“Squeezing me,” Dean grunts as his hips snap forward again, rougher this time. His belt clinks at his hips, jeans shoved just low enough, the cold buckle grazing your thigh with every deep, hungry thrust. He buries his face into your neck—groaning against your skin.

You answer with nothing but a whimper, legs trembling, the slap of skin loud in the booth, the bar music louder overhead.

“So good,” he grits out, pulling your hips back to meet every thrust, fingers digging in—cruel and punishing, needy and greedy, desperate to have every part of you.

Your skin claps against his, the sweat and slick between your bodies making each motion obscene. You look back over your shoulder, catching him in the dim light, his shirt caught between his teeth so he can watch the way he slides in and out, his eyes rolling back before his head lulls to the ceiling.

The knot in your stomach tightens, the pleasure that has been building inside you coming to a head. Your thighs tremble beyond belief, Dean’s muscles swelling as he keeps you in place, biceps tugging the sleeves of his shirt taut.

His hips snap forward and you stumble slightly, hands reaching out to catch yourself, the two of you laughing and breathless—Ding. Ding. Ding. Pop!

The photobooth goes off and your stomach sinks as it captures a picture. Dean’s grip locks around your hips with no plans to stop, your body teetering at the edge of ecstasy anyway.

“It’s fine. It’s fine,” he mutters. Ding. Ding. Ding. Pop!

A second photo snaps as you throw your head back, hips tilting, grinding into him as you gasp.

“Fuck, Dean,” you moan as he picks up the pace.

The third and final flash bulb cracks as you shudder, your orgasm breaks and he lets out a guttural groan, almost losing his balance as he fucks into you, spilling deep, clutching you so tight as his head falls between his shoulders.

“Oh my god,” you mumble, forehead pressed to your forearm as you try to get some air through the heat, your body trembling as you fight the panties off your clit, pushing them down your thighs just enough to escape the vibrations, your body still warm and sensitive everywhere Dean touched.

“Fuck, that was good, huh?” He asks, grin spreading as his hand reaches around, hooking under your chin, pulling you back to his chest, pressing his lips to yours. “So beautiful when you cum. You know that?”

His blonde fringe is wet, hanging in his eyes, his shirt opened just a few more buttons, showing off the slick of sweat on his chest.

His laugh melts right into your skin as he kisses his way to your jaw, lips resting on your shoulder, thumb rubbing on your bare hip as he pulls out.

“Absolutely not,” he tuts, smiling against your skin as he pulls the panties back in place, the hum of the toy, so soft you can barely feel it, but it’s there before he smoothes your skirt back down.

“Dean—”

“You complainin’, pretty?” He taunts and chuckles. “What? You want it higher?”

“You’re such a bully,” you whisper as he turns you around, taking two steps back with you, sitting down on the photo booth bench, guiding you to climb on his lap.

He reaches down to his phone, shutting the vibrations off completely, before setting it to the side.

“You turned it off?” You hum.

“M’done messin’ with you, bunny,” he chuckles as you straddle him.

“Why?” You ask like there has to be a catch.

“Just wanted to kiss my girl for a minute,” he mumbles, reaching for you when your body settles, kissing you slow and lazy, so tender it makes you lightheaded. His tongue drags along yours, his other arm binding around your waist with a heavy hand.

“This thing’s always broken?” Someone bitches from outside the curtain and you and Dean freeze, the two of you collectively holding your breaths, while the people stand right outside the curtain.

Dean watches you through half-lidded eyes as you pinch the zipper of his jeans between your fingers, gliding it up slow.

They disappear and Dean pulls back with a laugh, pressing his lips against yours while the two of you try to catch your breath.

“The pictures,” you whisper.

“If they took ‘em I’m gonna lose my shit.”

“Yeah?” You giggle, smiling against his lips.

“Mhmm,” Dean hums as his hand slides up your back, settling between your shoulder blades before he pulls you a little closer. The photo booth suddenly feels too small for him. “Those are mine,” he mumbles as he reaches out, pressing the button.

“They are,” you smile.

“Hell, yeah they are. So are these.”

The camera flashes and neither of you look at it. His hand settles against your cheek, thumb dragging softly against your skin as his gaze settles on you—another flash lights up the booth.

“Just like that,” he hums, shifting for the next shot, smiling when you climb closer.

The next kiss is slower, the corner of his lips curling into a smile as his eyes flash toward the lens as the camera flashes again.

“You’re so beautiful. You know that?”

Your smile tugs against his mouth. “You tell me that every day.”

“Yeah, well.” He looks at you for a second before his thumb drags across your cheek again. “M’gonna keep tellin’ you.”

“Dean.”

“Baby?” His forehead falls against yours as the final picture snaps.

“We should probably get outta here.”

“Probably…” He sighs, arms tightening around your waist. “Couple more minutes.”

One of the things that Dean Di Laurentis loved the most about the Briar weight room was the set of massive windows that looked in on the yoga studio.

It was a show both ways: the guys in the weight room would show off for the sorority sisters in lululemon, and the ladies in the yoga studio were more than happy to ogle the hockey players below.

But over the last couple of months, while his teammates still cheered and grandstanded for the fit young women in downward dog, Dean realized there was only one student that he wanted to see.

She flourished in the liminal space between classes. When her students had left and she was alone in the studio. Dean loved watching her move with the silks. She looked ethereal and angelic, using the delicate silk like a resistance band, suspending her leg in midair as she performed a pose that opened her hips.

She was a goddess, and Dean was so lucky to call her his.

Behind him, Logan wolf-whistled. “Are you going to keep staring at her like a perv, or can I have my spotter back?”

“Fuck off, Logan.” He said quickly. “I’m watching my woman work.”

Logan came to stand next to him as the pair watched her fold herself over the silks in a deep back-bending inversion, effectively suspending herself from the ceiling. Her hands braced against the mat below her, a peaceful expression on her face as she breathed into the stretch.

“Isn’t she amazing?”

He wasn’t going to lie- the flexibility that his girlfriend possessed contributed massively to the success of their sex life. But when he watched her on the silks, it was like watching a work of art.

When the team was finally ready to call it a day, Dean wasted no time drying his hair off before sauntering up the stairs to the studio. The doors, windows and walls were all intended to be soundproof, but he could hear the faint bass of an old pop punk song playing as she sank into another inversion. She looked so relaxed.

He slipped inside the studio as quietly as he could, which was easy when blink-182 was playing so loudly that he couldn’t hear himself think. She had her eyes closed, breathing steadily.

“Nice of you to make an appearance, Di Laurentis.”

Dean laughed, turning the radio down. “How can you focus with the music that loud?”

“It calms me.” She answered. Her eyes were open now, but she was still in the inverted butterfly stretch. “Much better than the white noise I have on for the freshman. If I hear one more whale song I think I’ll scream.”

Dean laughed, hands in the pockets of his Nike shorts as he leaned against a shelf holding yoga blocks. “You going to kiss me, sweetheart, or are you just going to hang there like a vampire bat?”

“Asshole.” She laughed, gripping the sunflower-yellow silk and easing herself into a sitting position, using the silk as a swing.

Dean circled to the other side of her mat, grinning as he pulled her in for a kiss. “You know what terrible idea this is giving me? Two words. Sex. Swing.”

She laughed into the kiss, kicking him lightly. “Not on these. Too much weight will tear the fabric.”

“A man can dream.”

She slipped out of the silk, still giggling as she crossed towards the supply shelves. “Wanna learn something fun?” She grabbed a yoga mat from the shelf, and started examining the silks for length. “Let me show you the inversion. It’ll be a good way to relax before you get on the ice. It will help you get your head in the game.”

She set up a station next to hers, hanging the silk from the metal bar on the ceiling and inspecting it for damage.

“Babe,” Dean started nervously. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Why not?” She beamed, settling back into her own silk. “Come on, it’s easy. Start by sitting in the dead middle of the silk.”

Shaking his head, Dean grabbed a hold of his own silk, awkwardly settling his tall, muscular body in the middle. “Okay, humor me. What now?”

“Grab the silk with both hands. Now you’re going to swing your legs up and around the silk. Watch.”

When she did it, she looked so graceful. She leaned back slightly, looping her legs up and wrapping her toes around the silk.

When Dean tried, he looked like a baby deer trying to walk for the first time, and almost kicked himself in the face in the progress.

She laughed, reaching to tap him on the shoulder. “Make sure that the silk stays under your hips, otherwise you’ll fall.”

It took a bit more fumbling, but centrally Dean managed to contort his legs into something resembling the pose that she herself had done.

“Now, make sure you’re holding the silks tight, and then lean back towards the floor. Trust that the silk will support your weight.”

“Babe,” Deans voice was soft. “I’m a hockey player. I don’t think the silk can hold me.”

“Trust, Di Laurentis.” She scolded, bending her back into a deep stretch, forearms planted on her mat. It was the same inversion she had been in when Dean first entered the studio.

Dean leaned back, caught off guard when the silk began to swing, his body gently swaying back and forth. He took a few deep breaths, steadying himself before he let go of the silks.

He attempted to mimic his girlfriends stretch, planting his hands on the floor as he competed the inversion.

“Hey, this isn’t so bad.” He mused.

Of course, he’d spoken too soon. His arms began to shake under the pressure, and he tried to breathe through it, engaging his core muscles. He could feel his sweaty body sliding out of the sling, and was helpless as his hips lost purchase on the silk, sending his body crashing to the studio floor.

“Dean?” She asked through laughter. “Are you okay?”

She swung up and out of the inversion, gracefully stepping out of the silk as she rushed over to Dean, trying to untangle him from the fabric.

“You must have the fucking core muscles of a Greek God.” Dean laughed as she helped him to his feet. “That shit is impossible.”

You bite your lip and roll your eyes, looking down at your phone.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚝 💕

The second it delivers, his gaze drops to the screen, the light glowing against his face. His mouth curves, that cute little dimple popping in his cheek.

He runs a hand through his hair before typing something, thinking better of it, then typing again when he just can’t let it go.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙲𝚊𝚗 𝙸 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚕 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜?

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙸𝚝’𝚜 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚎.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙻𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚢 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚎.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚋𝚊𝚍? 😂

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚂𝚝𝚘𝚙, 𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚢. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙸 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙱𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚗’𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏.

The lights flicker and dim, and the next act begins. You look up through the curtains again and catch him leaning forward in his seat, forearms braced against his knees.

The rest of the hockey boys are laughing about something beside him, but Dean doesn’t even glance over. His eyes stay fixed on the stage for another second before he finally looks down at his phone.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜?

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙸’𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚕 𝚠𝚑𝚢?

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙰𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙰 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢, 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚍.

The after party rages around you and every time someone leans too close—every time a drunk college boy makes a comment to him about how good you look, he winds up a little tighter until his hand catches your wrist.

“Let’s go. Now.”

Dean wastes no time pushing you into the backstage room, shutting the door with a slam, pressing your back against it. His fingers tilt your chin up, his grip a little rough as his eyes burn into yours.

“You kidding me with this?” He murmurs.

“You don’t like it—”

“I love it,” he stops you before you can even start. His hand skims down your body, over the fabric stretched across your waist and ass, gathering the material in his big hands. “Me and every other guy here.”

“You seem jealous.”

“I am jealous,” he corrects you before his mouth crashes against yours, starved and desperate. You kiss him back just as hard, fingers twisting and tugging at his hair; gasping when he grinds his hard cock against you.

Dean squeezes your ass, dragging his rough hands up your hips before smacking the satin stretched across your skin, letting that satisfying crack fill the room.

The corner of his mouth twitches as he presses his fingers against your clit, cursing under his breath. Sure, you’re in panties, but those little shorts and fishnets are still in his way. That little gasp and a moan don’t tumble from your lips like they usually do. Easy fix.

You break for air, chuckling breathily against his lips. “What’s wrong?” You whisper.

“Can’t get to you,” he pushes out a sharp breath, tugging your shorts off your hips, yanking down your panties between rough kisses, looping his fingers around the fishnets between your thighs just enough to yank a hole.

“Dean!” You gasp and he chuckles.

“Beautiful.” A rough breath leaves him and he rolls his neck once, jaw flexing as his eyes drop to the torn fishnets stretched across your thighs. “Yeah,” he says under his breath. “That was even better than I thought it was gonna be.”

His hands slide to your hips as he kisses you, your heart leaping when he flips you, your hands slapping quickly against the wall.

His lips brush along the side of your neck, chuckling deeply against your skin, pressing wet kisses as his fingers work open the bow of the corset.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans when he feels your ass press back into him, his fingers working at the ribbon faster and faster when it refuses to cooperate. “M’getting—Holy shit,” he mutters. “How do I get you out of this?” His words come out clipped with frustration.

You hear him rummaging through the clutter beside you long enough to snag a pair of scissors. He grabs your hip, huffing out a laugh when you giggle, arching your back to get a better view before—snip!

“Dean!”

“Spare me,” he rasps.

The sound of the blades snapping together makes you gasp as he cuts the ribbon crisscrossed up your back.

He tugs the top ribbon away with a satisfying slip, baring hot skin to the cool air when the corset pulls away. The scissors fall to the dressing room floor with a clatter—the zipper of his pants already down by the time he turns you, lifting you up into his arms, your bare back pressed to the cool brick wall.

Dean pushes his dick into you in one slow, steady stroke. A strangled sound catches in your throat and your hand flies back, grabbing a fistful of his hair while your other hand clamps over your mouth.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Pussy’s so damn good.”

Your head falls back against the wall as he stretches you wide, his big hand tightening on your ass. He rocks back, making you whimper, his lips pressing against yours to swallow your sounds as he pushes back in again.

“Lucky I’m not teasin’ you. Needed you too bad,” Dean sighs, smiling against your lips as you breathe out, hearing just how wet he has you, the sounds of your pleasure filling your room. “These fuckin’ tights, huh? Buying you another pair so I can do this shit again.”

His tongue drags across his bottom lip as his eyes stay locked on yours. Your eyes soften as he slows down, letting gravity do the work, your body sinking down on his cock with his arms locked around you.

“You have any idea how good this feels?” He whispers, burying himself in your neck, thrusting up into you. Your fingers twist into his shirt as he grips you by your hips, drilling into you again and again until your back arches into him, and your pussy gushes, cumming around his while he does everything he can do to keep his pace, but it feels too fucking good.

He grits his teeth, not stopping until he feels your body melt in his arms, his heavy head falling to your shoulder as he breathes out a sigh of satisfaction and relief.

“I was so well behaved, you know that? I could have been so, so much worse,” he says softly, his voice breaking with pleasure as he leans in and presses a slow kiss to your mouth, tender and deep as his rough thumb traces your cheek. “Put on my sweatshirt. Let’s get out of here, huh?” He asks, quiet now, a smile pulling against your lips.

“The after party’s not over,” you tease through a breathless giggle as his nose nuzzles against yours.

He sighs, his big body pressing you up against the wall again, his head falling back with a smirk on his lips when your nails slide through his hair.

“It is for us.”