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You stood in front of the mirror in Allie’s dorm room, tugging at the hem of the simple black dress she’d convinced you to wear. Your usual weekend uniform was sweatpants and a hoodie in the safety of your own room, curled up with a book or watching something low-key with Hannah.

“I don’t know about this,” you said, voice soft as you adjusted the neckline again. “Parties aren’t really my thing. Too loud. Too many people. I’ll just stand in the corner and feel awkward the whole time.”

Allie, already in a cute red top and jeans, spun around from her vanity with a bright smile. “Come on, YN! You’ve been cooped up in your room studying for weeks. One night out won’t kill you. Hannah’s coming too it’ll be fun. We’ll stick together.”

Hannah, sitting on the bed in a soft blue sweater and skirt, gave you an encouraging nod. “She’s right. We won’t let you get lost in the crowd. And if it sucks, we can leave early. Promise.”

You sighed, fiddling with the strap of your small bag. The three of you had become close friends quickly Allie the bubbly, outgoing one who dragged everyone into adventures, Hannah the sweet and grounded middle ground, and you the quieter, more reserved one who preferred staying in. Parties made your stomach twist with anxiety, but Allie had been begging for weeks.

“Fine,” you relented, smoothing your hands down the dress one last time. “But if I hate it, we’re out after an hour.”

Allie squealed and pulled you into a quick hug. “That’s my girl! You look hot, by the way. Someone’s definitely going to notice.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks warming. “I’m not there to get noticed. I’m there to survive.”

Hannah smiled softly as she stood up. “You’ll do great. And if anyone’s too much, we’ve got your back.”

The three of you headed out, Allie chattering excitedly the whole walk to the football house party. The music was already thumping when you arrived, the front yard littered with people laughing and drinking. Your nerves spiked immediately the noise, the crowd, the unfamiliar energy. You stuck close to Allie and Hannah as they led you inside.

The living room was packed, bodies moving to the beat, red cups everywhere. You found a relatively quiet spot near the edge of the room, nursing a water (you’d politely declined the stronger stuff) while Allie and Hannah chatted with a few people they knew.

That’s when he spotted you.

Beau Maxwell the charming, golden-boy quarterback everyone on campus seemed to know was standing with Dean and a couple of his teammates across the room. His eyes landed on you and stayed there, something shifting in his expression. He’d seen you around campus before, always with Allie or Hannah, always looking like you’d rather be anywhere else. Something about your quiet presence had stuck with him.

He excused himself from the group and made his way over, that easy, warm smile on his face.

“Hey,” he said, stopping a respectful distance away. “You’re Allie and Hannah’s friend, right? I’m Beau.”

You looked up at him, surprised he’d approached. Most people didn’t bother with the quiet girl in the corner. “Yeah. I’m YN.”

“Nice to meet you, YN.” His smile widened, genuine and bright. “First time at one of these?”

You nodded, fiddling with your cup. “Allie dragged me. I don’t usually do parties.”

“Smart choice,” he said, leaning against the wall beside you. “They can get pretty wild. But you look like you’re handling it better than most first-timers.”

You gave a small, shy smile. “Barely. I’m mostly people-watching and hoping no one spills a drink on me.”

Beau chuckled, the sound warm and easy. “I can help with that. I’ll be your personal bodyguard tonight. No spills on my watch.”

The conversation flowed surprisingly easily after that. Beau was charming without being overwhelming asking about your classes, what you liked to do when you weren’t being dragged to parties, sharing funny stories about his teammates that made you laugh softly. He stayed right there with you, never pushing, never leaving your side even when his friends waved him over.

From across the room, Dean nudged Allie. “Look at that. Beau’s down bad already. He’s been staring at her like she hung the moon since he walked over.”

Allie grinned. “She thinks he’s just being friendly. She has no idea how gone he is.”

Beau was, in fact, completely gone. Every quiet laugh you gave, every shy glance you sent his way, every time you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear it all hit him harder than any tackle on the field. He wanted to know everything about you. Wanted to be the reason you smiled more. Wanted to pull you closer and keep you there.

But he played it cool, keeping the conversation light, even as his heart raced every time you looked at him.

The night stretched on, the party swirling around you, but Beau stayed right there pining quietly, yearning in every glance, already completely hooked on the shy girl who didn’t realize she had his full attention.

The party noise swirled around you, but Beau’s attention stayed fixed on you like you were the only calm point in the chaos. He leaned a little closer to be heard over the music, his shoulder brushing yours in a way that felt intentional but not overwhelming.

“So, what do you do when you’re not being dragged to parties by Allie?” he asked, voice warm and genuinely curious. “You seem like the type who has a favorite quiet spot on campus.”

You glanced up at him, surprised by how easy the conversation felt. Most guys at parties tried too hard loud jokes, over-the-top compliments. Beau was just… steady. Listening.

“I like the library’s top floor,” you admitted softly. “Or the bench by the old oak tree when it’s not too crowded. Reading. Sketching sometimes. Nothing exciting.”

Beau’s smile softened, eyes crinkling at the corners. “That sounds perfect. I’m usually stuck on the field or in the weight room, but I get it. Sometimes the quiet is the best part of the day.”

From the corner of your eye, you saw Allie and Hannah watching with matching grins. Allie gave you a not-so-subtle thumbs up. You felt your cheeks warm and looked back at Beau, assuming he was just being nice the friendly, popular guy chatting with the shy friend of his friend’s girlfriend.

He wasn’t. Inside, Beau’s chest felt tight in the best way. The way you spoke quietly, the small smile that tugged at your lips when you mentioned your favorite spots, the way you didn’t try to impress him it all hit him harder than he expected. He wanted to know more. Wanted to be the one who got to sit on that bench with you, sharing the quiet. He was already down bad, pining in a way that surprised even him.

“You should show me that bench sometime,” he said, voice light but sincere. “If you want. No pressure. I promise I won’t talk too much.”

You gave a small, shy laugh. “You seem like the type who talks a lot.”

Beau grinned, rubbing the back of his neck. “Guilty. But I can be quiet when it counts. Especially if it means spending time with someone interesting.”

The compliment made your stomach flutter, but you pushed the feeling down. He’s just being friendly, you told yourself. Popular guys like him don’t go for the quiet girl who prefers staying in.

Allie appeared then, looping her arm through yours. “There you are! Dean’s looking for you, Beau. Something about a bet with the guys.”

Beau glanced at Dean across the room, then back at you, reluctance clear in his eyes. “Duty calls. But I’ll find you later? If that’s okay.”

You nodded, a small smile breaking through. “Yeah. Okay.”

He gave you one last warm look before heading off, heart racing as he walked away. She smiled at me, he thought, already replaying the conversation in his head. God, I’m in trouble.

Allie squeezed your arm as soon as he was gone. “He’s so into you. Did you see the way he looked at you?”

You shook your head, cheeks warm. “He’s just being nice. We were just talking.”

Hannah, who had joined you, smiled softly. “He doesn’t look at just anyone like that. Trust me.”

You brushed it off, the shy part of you convinced it was nothing more than friendly conversation. But across the room, Beau kept stealing glances your way, pining quietly, already counting down the minutes until he could talk to you again.

The night continued, the party loud around you, but every time your eyes met Beau’s across the crowd, something warm and unspoken passed between you even if you didn’t quite believe it yet.

The campus quad was quiet in the late afternoon, sunlight filtering through the leaves of the old oak tree. You sat on your favorite bench with a book open in your lap, legs tucked beneath you, completely absorbed in the story. The world around you felt distant the occasional student walking by, the soft rustle of leaves overhead. This was your place. Peaceful. Safe.

Beau spotted you from across the quad and felt that familiar pull in his chest. He’d been thinking about you nonstop since the party the way you’d smiled shyly when he approached, the quiet way you listened when he talked, the way you seemed to prefer the edges of the crowd rather than the center. He crossed the grass toward you, heart beating a little faster with every step.

He stopped a respectful distance away, not wanting to startle you. “Mind if I join you?”

You looked up, surprised but not displeased. “Sure.”

Beau sat on the other end of the bench, giving you space, but his eyes stayed on you. God, he was down bad. The way the sunlight caught in your hair, the focused expression on your face as you read it all made something warm and aching settle in his chest. He wanted to know what you were reading. Wanted to know what made you smile like that. Wanted to be the reason for more of those small, private smiles.

“What are you reading?” he asked softly, not wanting to break the peaceful moment too much.

You glanced at him, then back at the page. “An old favorite. Fantasy. Escapist stuff.”

Beau nodded, leaning back against the bench. “Sounds perfect. I could use some escape after practice today. Coach ran us hard.”

You gave a small nod, turning a page. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable. Beau was content to just sit there, stealing glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking. Every little detail the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the slight furrow in your brow when something in the book surprised you made his yearning deeper. He wanted to pull you closer. Wanted to know everything about you. Wanted to be the person you felt comfortable enough to share those quiet moments with.

After a while, you closed the book and looked at him. “You don’t have to sit here in silence if you don’t want to.”

“I like the silence,” he said honestly, voice warm. “Especially with you. Most people fill it up. You don’t. It’s nice.”

You gave a small, shy smile, looking down at the book in your lap. Beau’s heart did that stupid flip again. He was completely gone for you the shy girl who preferred books to parties, who listened more than she spoke, who made him feel like he could just be without performing.

The afternoon stretched on like that quiet conversation mixed with comfortable silences. Beau asked about your classes, about what you liked to read, about anything you were willing to share. He hung on every word, storing it away like treasure. Every time you smiled, even a little, he felt it in his chest.

When the sun started to dip lower, he stood reluctantly. “I should let you get back to your book. But… can I walk you to your next class sometime? Or sit with you here again?”

You looked up at him, the shyness still there but something warmer underneath. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

Beau’s smile was bright and genuine as he walked away, heart full and yearning stronger than ever. He was already counting down the minutes until he could see you again.

The lecture hall was emptying out after the guest speaker on modern literature, students filing out in a steady stream. You lingered near the back row, gathering your notes with careful precision, the shy habit of double-checking everything before leaving. The talk had been interesting insightful enough to keep your full attention and you were still mentally replaying a few key points as you slipped your bag over your shoulder.

Beau had been sitting three rows behind you the entire time. He’d chosen the seat deliberately, telling himself it was just because the view was good, but the truth was simpler: he couldn’t stop watching you. The way you leaned forward slightly when something caught your interest, the small nod you gave when a point resonated, the quiet focus that made you seem like you were in your own world. He was starstruck in the most ordinary way completely captivated by how present you were in moments like this, how you absorbed everything without needing to be the center of attention.

He waited until most of the crowd had left before approaching, heart beating a little faster than usual. “Hey. That was a good talk, right? The part about unreliable narrators really stuck with me.”

You looked up, surprised but offering a small, genuine smile. “Yeah, it was. I liked how she connected it to everyday storytelling. Made me think about my own writing.”

Beau’s chest tightened at the way you shared that small piece of yourself so naturally. God, she’s so effortlessly interesting, he thought, fighting the urge to step closer. He wanted to know everything about your writing, about the stories you kept in your head, about the way your mind worked when no one was watching. Instead, he kept his tone light, friendly on the surface while his feelings ran much deeper.

“I’d love to read something of yours sometime,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “If you ever feel like sharing. No pressure.”

You gave a shy laugh, looking down at your notes for a second. “It’s nothing special. Just personal stuff. But… maybe. Thanks for asking.”

Beau felt that familiar pull again the starstruck kind of awe that hit him every time you let him see even a small part of your world. You thought he was just being friendly, the nice guy who chatted with his friends’ friend. He was anything but. He was completely gone, replaying every small smile, every quiet laugh, every time you looked at him like he was just another person in the room while he felt like the luckiest guy alive just to be near you.

They walked out of the lecture hall together, the afternoon sun warm on the quad. Beau matched your pace, stealing glances when he thought you weren’t looking. She has no idea, he thought, heart aching in the best way. How much I think about her. How I replay every conversation. How I want to be the person she feels safe sharing those personal stories with.

You chatted lightly about the lecture as you walked, your voice soft and thoughtful. Beau hung on every word, nodding, asking questions that showed he was truly listening. Inside, he was a mess of yearning wanting to reach for your hand, wanting to tell you how much he looked forward to these moments, wanting to be more than just the friendly guy who happened to be in the same class.

When you reached the path that split toward your next destination, you gave him that small, shy smile again. “Thanks for walking with me. See you around?”

“Definitely,” Beau said, smiling back even as his chest felt tight with everything he wasn’t saying yet. “Looking forward to it.”

He watched you walk away, hands in his pockets, heart full and aching with how much he wanted this wanted you to be more than friendly conversations and shared lectures. He was starstruck, completely and quietly, by the girl who had no idea she’d already taken up so much space in his thoughts.

The bell above the door jingled as you stepped into Della’s, the familiar scent of coffee and fried food wrapping around you like a warm hug. It was a quiet afternoon, the lunch rush long gone, leaving the diner peaceful with only a few scattered customers. You slid into a booth near the window, pulling out your notebook to review notes for your next paper. The soft hum of the jukebox in the corner and the clink of dishes from the kitchen made the perfect background noise for focusing.

Beau spotted you the moment he walked in with Dean. His heart did that familiar flip the one that had become routine whenever he saw you on campus. He’d been thinking about you constantly since that afternoon in the lecture hall: the way you’d smiled shyly when he asked about your writing, the quiet way you listened, the small details that made you so uniquely you. He was completely gone for you, starstruck in the quietest way possible. Every time he saw you, he wanted to know more. Wanted to be the person you felt comfortable sharing those small pieces of yourself with.

Dean noticed immediately. “There she is. Go say hi, lover boy.”

Beau shot him a look but didn’t deny it. He crossed the diner and stopped by your booth, hands in his pockets to keep from fidgeting. “Hey. Mind if I join you? Dean’s meeting someone, so I’m on my own for a bit.”

You looked up, surprised but offering a small, genuine smile. “Sure. Have a seat.”

Beau slid into the booth across from you, his eyes soft as he took you in the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the focused expression that made his chest ache with how much he wanted this to be more than friendly. “What are you working on?”

“Just notes for a paper,” you said softly, closing the notebook slightly. “Nothing exciting.”

“Everything you do seems exciting to me,” Beau replied, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He rubbed the back of his neck, a little embarrassed but honest. “I mean… you always look so focused. Like you’re really in it. I admire that.”

You gave a shy laugh, looking down at the table. “It’s just school stuff. You’re the one out there winning games. That seems a lot more exciting.”

Beau shook his head, leaning forward a little. “Nah. I see the same guys every day. You… you’re different. In a good way. I like hearing about what you’re working on. Makes me feel like I’m getting to know the real you.”

The waitress came by then, and Beau ordered for both of you your usual black coffee and a muffin, remembering from the times he’d seen you at the library. You smiled softly when he did, the shyness making your cheeks warm.

As you talked, Beau felt that familiar yearning settle deeper in his chest. Every small detail the way you played with the edge of your notebook when you got thoughtful, the quiet laugh you gave when he made a dumb joke, the way you listened like his words actually mattered made him want more. He wanted to be the person you called when you needed someone. Wanted to be the reason you smiled more. Wanted to pull you closer and tell you how much he thought about you when he was on the field, in class, lying awake at night.

“You know,” he said after a while, voice softer, “I keep thinking about that lecture. The way you talked about unreliable narrators. Made me want to read more. Made me want to know what else you think about.”

You looked at him, the shyness still there but something warmer underneath. “I like talking about books with you. You actually listen.”

“I always will,” Beau said, the words carrying more weight than he let on. Inside, his heart was racing. She has no idea how much I want this. How much I want her.

The conversation flowed easily after that books, classes, small stories from your lives. Beau hung on every word, starstruck and yearning, while you felt that quiet pull toward him growing stronger, even if you still thought he was just being friendly.

The afternoon stretched on like that, the diner quiet around you, the connection between you deepening one small, careful moment at a time.

One Thursday evening, Allie and Hannah convinced you to join them for a low-key movie night in their dorm instead of anything loud or crowded. You arrived feeling comfortable and relaxed, ready for the cozy familiarity of just the three of you unwinding.

You had barely settled onto the floor with blankets and pillows when a knock sounded at the door.

Allie bounced up to answer it. “Perfect timing!”

Beau stepped in behind Dean, holding a couple of takeout bags from the pizza place everyone liked. His eyes found you immediately, softening in that warm way that always made your pulse quicken just a little.

“Hey,” he said, voice low and easy as he set the bags down. “Hope we’re not crashing. Dean mentioned you guys were doing movies, and I figured extra pizza never hurts.”

Hannah smiled and scooted over to make room. “You’re always welcome. Especially with food.”

Garrett followed a moment later, dropping down beside Hannah and pulling her close with that effortless affection the two of them shared. “Couldn’t let Logan and the guys drag me into some loud hangout when this was an option,” he said, grinning as Hannah leaned into him.

You shifted comfortably on the blanket, a small smile tugging at your lips. Beau dropped down right beside you, close enough that his presence felt steady and reassuring without overwhelming the space.

The movie starteda laid-back mystery everyone had pickedand the room filled with soft commentary, laughter, and the rustle of pizza boxes. Beau stayed right there with you the whole time. When the lights were low, you noticed him glancing your way more than at the screen, his expression warm and focused. Every quiet laugh you let out drew a matching smile from him, like he was collecting those moments.

Inside, Beau was a mess of yearning. The way you relaxed into the evening, the soft focus in your eyes during the tense scenes, the easy way you existed in the middle of the groupit all hit him deeply. He wanted to pull you closer, to wrap an arm around you the way Garrett did with Hannah, to make sure you felt as safe and wanted as you made him feel just by being near. But he kept it light on the surface, content for now to share the same blanket and the same quiet space with you.

Halfway through, Allie paused the movie for snacks. Hannah and Garrett slipped into the little kitchen area together, leaving you and Beau in a gentle pocket of quiet on the floor.

“You okay?” he asked softly. “Not too much noise or anything?”

You shook your head, meeting his eyes. “It’s nice. Really nice, actually.”

Beau’s chest tightened with hope. “Yeah? Good. I like this too. Being here with you.”

The words carried more weight than either of you said out loud. You looked down for a second, still convinced he was just being his usual kind, friendly self. Beau, meanwhile, fought the urge to say everything he was feelingthat these quiet nights with you had become his favorite part of the week, that he thought about you constantly, that he was already completely gone for the girl who preferred calm evenings and still saw him as just a good friend.

When the others returned, the movie resumed, but the air between you and Beau felt warmer, a little more charged. He stayed until the credits rolled, helping clean up even when you told him it was fine. At the door later, he lingered while the others headed out first.

“Walk you back?” he offered, hands in his pockets.

You nodded, and the short walk across campus was peaceful under the evening lights. Beau matched your pace, his shoulder brushing yours now and then in a way that felt natural. At your door, you turned to him.

“Thanks for tonight. It was really good.”

Beau smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Anytime. Text me if you want to hit the bench or the library tomorrow… or just hang out. Whatever works for you.”

“I will,” you said softly, that small genuine smile appearing again.

He waited until you were inside before walking away, heart full and aching with how much he wanted more. The pining had only grown stronger, quiet and steady, as he replayed every moment from the night and counted down the hours until he could see you again.

Beau couldn’t stop thinking about the movie night. Days later, the memory still lingeredthe way you had relaxed beside him on the blanket, the soft sound of your laugh during a quiet moment in the film, how perfectly you fit into the group without ever trying to take up space. It left him restless in the best and worst ways. Practice felt longer than usual, every drill interrupted by thoughts of you. He wanted more of those evenings. He wanted to be the person you looked forward to seeing, the one you turned to when the world felt a little too loud.

That afternoon, after a tough session on the field, Beau found himself back at the off-campus house Dean shared with Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. The place was familiar, filled with the usual chaos of hockey gear, half-eaten snacks, and loud banter. Dean was sprawled on the couch, flipping through channels, when Beau dropped into the armchair across from him with a long sigh.

Dean raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Alright, spill. You’ve been walking around like you got sacked in practice but there’s no bruise. What’s going on in that quarterback head of yours?”

Beau rubbed the back of his neck, staring at the floor for a second before meeting Dean’s knowing look. “It’s… her. Y/N. I can’t stop thinking about her, man. The movie night the other night? I sat there the whole time trying to play it cool, but every time she laughed or leaned in a little closer to hear something, it felt like I got hit harder than any tackle. She’s just so… real. Quiet in this way that makes everything else fade. I keep replaying how she smiled when I offered to walk her back. Small, shy, but genuine. God, I’m down bad.”

Dean let out a low whistle, sitting up straighter with a grin. “Finally admitting it out loud, huh? I’ve seen the way you look at her. You’ve been gone since that first party Allie dragged her to. The way you parked yourself next to her the whole night, ignoring everyone else? Classic. And don’t think I missed how you brought her favorite coffee to the library last week without her even asking.”

Beau groaned, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “She has no idea. She thinks I’m just being friendly because of you guys and Allie and Hannah. I sit there on that bench with her under the oak tree, listening to her talk about her books or whatever paper she’s working on, and all I can think about is how much I want to reach over and tuck that strand of hair behind her ear. How I want to be the reason she feels comfortable enough to stay out longer instead of heading straight home. I replay every conversation. The way her voice gets softer when she’s sharing something personal… it kills me. I’m out here counting down the minutes until I can see her again, and she probably just sees me as the nice guy who hangs around the group.”

Dean chuckled, but there was real understanding in his eyes. He’d been there himself with Alliechasing, wanting, figuring it all out. “Look, Maxwell, you’re doing it right. She’s shy. She doesn’t do the big parties or the loud scenes. You’re giving her space, showing up in the quiet moments. That’s not nothing. Hannah’s the same way in a lot of respectsGarrett had to learn to slow down and meet her where she was. You keep showing up like that and she’ll start to see it. The way you remember the little things? The coffee, the bench, asking about her writing? That stuff sticks. She might not realize it yet, but you’re already different from the rest of these idiots on campus.”

Beau nodded slowly, the yearning tightening in his chest like a familiar ache. “I just… I want to do this right. I don’t want to push. Last night after the movie, when I walked her back, it took everything not to tell her how much I look forward to every single time we run into each other. How the field feels easier knowing I might see her after. How I turned down a team thing the other night just because there was a chance she’d be at that low-key hangout. I’m starstruck, Dean. Like, actually starstruck by how steady and thoughtful she is. Most people fill the silence. She doesn’t. And I could sit in it with her forever.”

Dean clapped him on the shoulder, expression turning more serious. “Then keep doing exactly what you’re doing. Be there. The rest will come. And heyif you need backup, Allie and Hannah have been rooting for this since day one. Garrett too, probably. He gets the whole ‘quiet girl who changes everything’ thing.”

Beau managed a laugh, some of the tension easing. Talking it out helped, even if the feelings only burned brighter afterward. He spent the rest of the afternoon hanging around the house, but his mind kept drifting back to youwondering what you were doing, if you were reading on that bench, if you’d text him about meeting up again.

Later that week, the group gathered again at Della’s Diner for a casual lunch. Garrett and Hannah sat close on one side of the booth, his arm draped casually behind her. Allie and Dean were across from them, trading playful jabs. You slid into the booth comfortably, and Beau took the spot right beside you without hesitation.

Conversation flowed easilystories from recent classes, Garrett recounting a funny practice moment, Hannah sharing a song she was working on. Beau hung on every word you said, asking gentle follow-up questions about your notes or the book you’d mentioned last time. Under the table, his knee brushed yours once and stayed there, a small point of contact that sent warmth through him.

Inside, the yearning surged stronger than ever. She’s right here, he thought, stealing another glance while you laughed softly at something Allie said. And I want this every day. The easy talks, the shared spaces, the way she makes everything feel calmer. He was completely hooked, pining in every quiet moment, already imagining walking you back after this, hoping for just a few more minutes alone with you.

The afternoon stretched on, filled with good food and better company, but for Beau it all circled back to youthe shy girl who had no idea she’d already taken up every spare corner of his heart. He was patient, steady on the outside, but inside he was falling deeper with every passing day, waiting for the moment you might finally see it too.

The group lunch at Della’s stretched pleasantly into the afternoon. Garrett and Hannah eventually had to head out for one of her music rehearsals, while Allie and Dean lingered a little longer before Dean dragged Allie off with a wink about “studying.” That left just you and Beau in the booth, the diner quiet around you now that the lunch rush had passed.

Beau’s heart hammered against his ribs as the comfortable silence settled. He had been thinking about this for daysrehearsing it in his head during practice, on the walk back from Dean’s the other night, even while sitting on the bench with you. Every moment with you made the yearning sharper: the way you listened so attentively, the small smiles that felt like rewards, the steady calm you brought to his chaotic world. He wanted more than friendly hangouts. He wanted dates. Real ones. But the thought of messing it up, of making you uncomfortable, had kept the words stuck in his throat until now.

He fiddled with the edge of a napkin, clearing his throat awkwardly. “So… um. This was nice. Like, really nice. I always like when it’s just… us. Talking. Or even not talking.” He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks warming as he realized how clumsy that sounded. “What I mean is… I was wondering if maybe… you’d want to do something? Just us? Like… not with the whole group this time.”

You looked up at him, surprised, a flicker of warmth in your expression that only made his nerves worse.

Beau pushed on, the words tumbling out in a rush that was far from the smooth delivery he’d imagined. “There’s this little bookstore-café thing a couple blocks off campus. They have good coffee and it’s quiet, and they do this thing on weekends where people can just sit and read or whatever. No pressure or anything loud. Or if that sounds terrible, we could… I don’t know, walk around the quad or get food somewhere else. Or not. You don’t have to. I just… I really like spending time with you. A lot. More than just the group stuff. So… yeah. Would you want to? Go out? With me?”

He winced internally at how awkward it came outstilted, rambling, nothing like the confident quarterback everyone else saw on the field. His hands had gone clammy, and he forced them still under the table. Smooth, Maxwell. Real smooth. But he couldn’t take it back now. The yearning had built up too much; he needed you to know, even if it was messy.

You blinked at him, processing, a shy smile slowly forming. The surprise was clear, but there was something softer underneath it toolike the idea wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

Beau’s chest tightened with hope even as embarrassment lingered. “You don’t have to answer right now,” he added quickly, voice gentler. “I know you like things low-key, and I don’t want to make it weird or anything. I just… keep thinking about how much better everything is when you’re around. The bench, the library, movie nights… all of it. So if you’re free this weekend, or whenever, I’d really like to take you out. Properly.”

He met your eyes, the earnestness winning out over the awkwardness. Inside, the pining roared louder than ever. He wanted this so badlythe chance to show you how much he meant it, to be the person who made your quiet world feel even better. Every second waiting for your answer felt endless, his heart laid out more openly than he’d planned, but he didn’t regret it. Not when it was for you.

The diner hummed softly around you both as Beau waited, hopeful and vulnerable, the golden-boy quarterback reduced to an awkwardly smitten guy who was completely, undeniably down bad for the shy girl across from him.

Beau shifted in the booth, his fingers crumpling the edge of the napkin a little more as the words hung between you. The silence stretched for what felt like forever to him, though it was only a few seconds. His pulse thrummed in his ears, the yearning that had been building for weeks pressing hard against his chest. He wanted thiswanted you so much it made his usual confidence waver.

“I mean… on a date,” he clarified, voice dropping lower and a little rough around the edges from nerves. “I’d really like to take you on a date. Just us. The bookstore-café sounds good because it’s quiet and you can pick whatever you want to read or drink, and I promise I won’t talk the whole time if you don’t want me to. Or we can do something else. Anything you’d like. I just… I like you, Y/N. Like, like you. Not just as friends. So yeah… would you go on a date with me?”

He looked at you then, eyes warm and hopeful despite the awkward stumble of his delivery. His cheeks were flushed, and he rubbed the back of his neck again, clearly out of his element but too sincere to hide it.

You felt a flutter in your stomach, the surprise giving way to a genuine, shy smile. The way he had been showing up for you all the quiet conversations, the way he listened, the steady presence that never pushed had slowly chipped away at your assumption that it was purely friendly. “Yes,” you said softly, warmth coloring your voice. “I’d like that. A date sounds nice.”

Beau’s face lit up, relief and joy breaking across his expression so openly it made your own smile widen. “Really?” he breathed, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “Okay. Great. Awesome. This weekend? Saturday afternoon? I can pick you up, or meet you there, whatever works best for you.”

“Saturday sounds perfect,” you replied, the shyness still there but mixed with a quiet excitement you hadn’t expected.

The rest of the time in the diner passed in a softer haze. Beau couldn’t stop smiling, even as he tried to play it cool. Inside, the yearning had transformed into something brighter, more hopeful, but no less intense. She said yes. The thought looped in his head as he walked you back toward your dorm afterward, stealing glances at you the whole way. He wanted to reach for your hand but held back, not wanting to rush. Instead, he kept the conversation light asking what kind of books you might want to browse, promising not to embarrass himself by trying to impress you with football stories.

When you reached your door, he lingered, hands in his pockets. “I’m really glad you said yes. I’ve been wanting to ask for a while. You make everything better, you know that?”

You gave him that small smile again, the one that always hit him right in the chest. “I’m looking forward to it too, Beau.”

He waited until you were safely inside before walking away, heart racing with a mix of triumph and deeper longing. The pining hadn’t disappeared it had only grown warmer, more focused. He already couldn’t wait for Saturday, imagining the quiet moments ahead, the chance to show you how much he truly saw you.

Word spread quickly through the group. Allie squealed when you told her and Hannah the next day, pulling you into a hug. “I knew it! He’s been so obvious.”

Hannah smiled softly, Garrett’s arm around her as they all hung out later that evening. “He’s a good one,” she said. “Garrett says he’s been talking about you nonstop.”

Garrett chuckled. “Understatement. The guy’s whipped.”

Beau, sitting across the room, caught your eye and offered a sheepish but happy grin. The awkwardness of the ask was already fading into anticipation. He was still quietly starstruck, still yearning for every future moment, but now there was the sweet knowledge that you had said yes. Saturday couldn’t come soon enough.

The Saturday afternoon sun was warm as Beau pulled up outside your dorm to pick you up for the date. He looked a little nervous but genuinely happy when you climbed in, offering you that warm, crinkly-eyed smile that always made your stomach flutter.

“Ready?” he asked, gripping the wheel a bit tighter than usual.

You nodded, smiling shyly. “Ready.”

The plan had been the quiet little bookstore-café just off campus, but when you arrived, it was unexpectedly packedstudents spilling out the doors, loud chatter filling the space that was supposed to be peaceful. Beau’s face fell for a second before he recovered with an apologetic laugh.

“Wow, okay… not as low-key as I thought. We can find somewhere else, or”

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, not wanting him to feel bad. “We can adapt.”

Beau brightened at that. He drove to a nearby coffee spot instead, where you both grabbed drinks yours exactly how you liked it. Once back in the car, the ride felt surprisingly comfortable. Soft music played from the speakers as he navigated away from campus, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally gesturing as he talked.

“I’m sorry about the café,” he said after a few minutes, glancing over at you. “I wanted it to be perfect. Quiet. Your kind of place.”

You took a sip of your coffee, feeling more at ease. “This is already nice. I don’t mind the change.”

Beau’s heart did that familiar flip. God, she’s so understanding. Every small reassurance from you only deepened the yearning that had taken root weeks ago. He wanted to pull over and tell you how much this meant to him, how he’d been thinking about this date nonstop, but he kept it light for now.

While you were looking out the window at the passing scenery, Beau quickly pulled out his phone at a stoplight and typed a fast message to the group chat with Dean, Garrett, Logan, and Tucker.

Beau: Café was packed. Heading to the spot now. Everything set up?

Dean: All good, lover boy. Picnic blanket down, food arranged, fairy lights ready if it gets dark. You owe us.

Garrett: Don’t screw this up, Maxwell.

Logan: Tucker picked the flowers. Don’t say we never did anything for you.

Beau slipped the phone away before you noticed, a grateful smile tugging at his lips. His teammates had come throughsetting up a quiet spot at a secluded clearing by the lake just outside town. No girls involved; he wanted this to feel like it was just from him, even if he’d needed a little backup to make it special on short notice.

After about twenty minutes of easy driving and conversation, Beau turned onto a quieter road and parked. “Come on. I’ve got a backup plan.”

He led you down a short, grassy path with the coffee cups still in hand. When the trees opened up to the clearing, your eyes widened. A large blanket was spread out under the shade of a big oak tree overlooking the calm lake. There were fresh sandwiches, fruit, snacks, even a small bouquet of wildflowers in the center. Soft pillows were arranged for sitting comfortably, and a couple of lanterns waited in case the sun went down.

“Beau…” you breathed, genuinely touched. “Did you do all this?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, cheeks flushed with a mix of pride and lingering awkwardness. “I wanted it to be nice for you. The guys helped set it up while we were getting coffeeDean mostly coordinated. I just… I really wanted it to be just us. No crowds. No noise. Just this.”

The two of you settled onto the blanket. Beau sat close but respectful, the yearning evident in every glance he stole when you weren’t looking. Watching you relax into the peaceful setting, the way the breeze moved through your hair, the soft smile on your face as you took in the lake view it all hit him hard. This is what I want. Her, comfortable and happy, with me. He was completely starstruck, heart full and aching with how much he already cared.

Conversation flowed naturally as you ate. He asked about your favorite quiet spots, listened intently when you shared more about your writing, and opened up about the pressure of the football season in a way he rarely did with anyone else. Every laugh you gave, every time you met his eyes a little longer, made the pining sweeter and deeper.

As the sun began to dip lower, painting the lake in golden hues, Beau leaned back on his hands, content in the comfortable silence that fell between you.

“I meant what I said the other day,” he said quietly after a while. “I like you a lot, Y/N. This… being here with you… it’s better than any win on the field. I’ve been wanting this for weeks.”

He didn’t push for more, happy to let the moment sit. The date had turned out even better than he’d hoped, and as he looked at you across the picnic blanket, the yearning settled into something warm and certain. He was falling hard, and he couldn’t wait to see where this whatever it was becoming would go next. Just the two of you, in the beautiful quiet he knew you loved.

The picnic by the lake turned out even better than either of you expected. You spent a comfortable couple of hours talking, sharing food, and watching the sunlight dance across the water. Beau kept the conversation balanced never letting it drag, always checking in with gentle questions about your classes or the stories you liked to write. When the sun dipped lower, he packed everything up with care, refusing to let you help carry the heavier basket back to the car.

The drive back to campus was peaceful, windows down, the warm evening air flowing through. Beau kept stealing glances at you, his chest tight with that familiar deep yearning. She said yes. She’s here with me. Every quiet smile you gave him on the way home made him want a thousand more afternoons just like this.

He walked you all the way to your door, lingering for a moment under the soft glow of the porch light. “Thank you for today,” he said, voice warm and sincere. “I had a really good time. Best date I’ve ever been on.”

“Me too,” you admitted softly, cheeks warm. “The picnic was perfect, Beau.”

He smiled, bright and a little shy himself. “Good. I’d love to do it again. Soon. Whenever you want.”

You nodded, and with one last lingering look, he headed off, heart racing the entire walk back.

The next couple of weeks passed in a sweet blur of new moments. Beau didn’t overwhelm you he kept things at your pace. A quiet study session in the library where he brought snacks and sat across from you, stealing glances while pretending to focus on his playbook. Another evening walk around campus after his practice, ending with ice cream from a small stand near the quad. Each time, his pining only grew. He found himself thinking about you during team meetings, replaying the way your hand had brushed his when you reached for the same book, or how peacefully you looked sitting beside him by the lake.

One evening, the whole group gathered at Garrett and Hannah’s place for a casual dinner. Dean immediately clapped Beau on the back the second he walked in. “How’s it going, Casanova? Heard the picnic was a hit.”

Beau shot him a look but couldn’t hide his grin. “It was perfect. Thanks again for the setup, man.”

Garrett chuckled from the kitchen where he was helping Hannah. “Tucker picked some solid flowers. Logan almost knocked over the lanterns twice.”

You sat comfortably beside Beau on the couch, listening to the easy banter. The group’s teasing was light and supportive, making everything feel natural. Beau’s knee rested gently against yours the whole night, a small point of contact that sent warmth through him every time.

As the weeks went on, the two of you grew closer in small, meaningful ways. Beau’s yearning never faded it simply evolved. He wanted to hold your hand on walks. He wanted to pull you close during quiet movie nights with the group. He wanted to be the person you called first when you needed someone steady.

One Friday night after another successful low-key date this time a sunset walk followed by takeout in his car he finally worked up the courage again as he parked outside your dorm.

“Hey,” he said softly, turning toward you. “I know we’ve been taking things slow, and I love that. But… I really like where this is going. A lot. Would you want to make this official? Be my girlfriend?”

The question came out a touch awkward, just like the first ask, but filled with honest hope. His eyes stayed on yours, heart laid bare once more.

You smiled, warm and genuine, the shyness mixing with clear affection. “Yes, Beau. I’d like that.”

His face lit up with pure joy. He let out a relieved laugh and, after a moment of hesitation, reached over to gently squeeze your hand. The contact felt right warm, steady, and full of promise.

The next few days after making things official felt like a gentle step forward. Beau still kept things at a comfortable pace, but his affection showed in the little ways walking you to classes when their schedules overlapped, sending good-morning texts that made you smile, and always making sure you had a quiet escape plan whenever the group got too rowdy.

One warm evening, after a relaxed dinner with Garrett, Hannah, Dean, and Allie, Beau offered to walk you back alone. The campus paths were quiet under the soft glow of the streetlights, the air carrying the faint scent of blooming flowers. Conversation came easily as always, but there was a new, charged undercurrent between you now.

When you reached your dorm building, neither of you moved to go inside right away. Beau turned to face you fully, his usual easy confidence softened by nerves and something deeper. He stepped a little closer, eyes searching yours with that warm, steady gaze that always made your heart skip.

“I’ve been wanting to do this for a while,” he murmured, voice low. One hand lifted slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away, and gently cupped the side of your face. His thumb brushed lightly over your cheek, tender and careful.

He leaned in, hesitating for just a heartbeat, before his lips met yours in a soft, sweet first kiss. It was gentle at first almost tentative, like he was savoring the moment he’d imagined so many times. When you kissed him back, the touch deepened slightly, warm and full of quiet emotion. Beau’s free hand found yours, fingers intertwining as the world narrowed to just the two of you under the lamplight.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for a moment, a soft smile playing on his lips. His heart was racing, every part of him completely wrapped up in you the way you tasted, the shy way you looked at him now, the perfect fit of your hand in his. He was utterly captivated, already craving the next kiss, the next touch, the next quiet moment that was just yours.

“That was… wow,” he whispered, a little breathless and grinning. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since that first party. Probably shouldn’t admit that, but it’s true.”

You laughed softly, cheeks warm, and he kissed you once more quicker this time, but no less heartfelt before stepping back with clear reluctance.

“Night, beautiful,” he said, waiting until you were safely inside before heading off, already replaying the kiss in his mind with a smile he couldn’t wipe away.

The relationship had grown beautifully over the following weeks. You and Beau were solidly together now comfortable, affectionate, and deeply happy in that quiet way that suited you both perfectly. He still stole your breath with how attentive he was, always balancing his busy football schedule with time for you. The group loved seeing it; Dean and Garrett gave him constant playful grief, while Hannah and Allie beamed with approval.

One rainy Thursday evening, Beau came over to your dorm room for the first time. You’d mentioned it casually before, but things had finally aligned for a cozy night in. He knocked softly, and when you opened the door, his face lit up at the sight of you in your comfortable clothes, hair a little messy from the day.

“Hey,” he said, stepping inside with a warm smile and a bag of takeout in one hand. His eyes scanned the small space curiously your neatly organized desk stacked with books and notes, string lights casting a soft glow, and the little window overlooking the quad now streaked with rain. “This is nice. Feels very you.”

Before he could say more, a small meow came from the bed. Your cat, a fluffy gray tabby named Whiskers, lifted his head from the pillow and blinked sleepily at the newcomer.

Beau’s expression softened instantly. “You have a cat? You never told me that.” He set the food down and crouched slowly, holding out his hand for Whiskers to inspect. “Hey, buddy. Nice to meet you.”

Whiskers sniffed his fingers, then bumped his head against Beau’s hand with a contented purr. Beau laughed quietly, the sound warm and delighted, as he gently scratched behind the cat’s ears. Watching him be so gentle and immediately charmed by your pet made something warm bloom in your chest.

“He likes you,” you said, smiling as you sat on the edge of the bed.

Beau looked up at you, eyes full of open affection. “Good. Because I’m planning on being around a lot.” He stood, pulled you into a soft kiss, then settled beside you on the bed with the takeout. Whiskers curled up between you two like he belonged there, purring steadily.

The evening unfolded lazily. You ate straight from the containers while a low-volume movie played on your laptop. Beau kept one arm around you, fingers tracing lazy patterns on your shoulder as you leaned into him. Every so often he’d press a kiss to the top of your head or your temple, completely content in the quiet intimacy of your space.

“I love this,” he murmured during a lull in the movie, voice sincere and low. “Just us. Your room feels like a little safe bubble. The rain outside, your cat purring, you right here… I could do this every night.”

He was so in love it showed in everything the way his gaze lingered on you when you talked about your day, the gentle way he played with Whiskers to make you smile, the soft kisses he stole between bites of food. Being in your personal space for the first time made him feel even closer to you, like he was being let into the heart of your world.

Later, as the rain tapped steadily against the window and Whiskers dozed on the pillow, Beau pulled you closer, wrapping both arms around you in a warm embrace. “Thank you for letting me come over,” he whispered against your hair. “I’m really happy, you know that?”

You nodded, cuddling into him, and he kissed you again slow and sweet, full of all the love he felt. The night stretched on like that, cozy and perfect, just the two of you (and Whiskers) in the quiet glow of your dorm room. Beau couldn’t imagine a better way to spend an evening. He was utterly, completely in love, and every moment like this only made him fall harder.

The weeks after that first evening in your dorm blurred into a comfortable rhythm. Beau started spending more and more time at your place. What began as occasional study sessions or movie nights quickly turned into him showing up with dinner or coffee multiple times a week, lingering longer each visit until it felt natural for him to stay over.

One particular Friday night, after a long week for both of you, he ended up spending the night for the first time. The rain was falling steadily outside again, making the cozy dorm room feel even warmer. Whiskers had claimed his usual spot on the pillow, purring loudly as Beau stretched out on your bed beside you, one arm wrapped securely around your waist.

“This is becoming my favorite place,” Beau murmured, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. He had borrowed a pair of your oversized sweatpants (which were a little short on him) and looked ridiculously content lying there with you. “I love my house with the guys, but here… it’s quieter. Just you, me, and this little guy.” He reached over to scratch Whiskers under the chin, earning a happy trill from the cat.

You smiled, curling closer into his chest. Beau’s hand rubbed slow circles on your back, his touch warm and soothing. He was so in love it showed in every small action how he remembered exactly how you liked your tea when he made you a cup earlier, how he’d dimmed the string lights just right, how he held you like he never wanted to let go.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” you whispered.

“Me too,” he replied softly, tilting your chin up for a gentle kiss. It started sweet and slow, the kind of kiss that had become familiar between you, but lingered with quiet depth. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. “I could get used to falling asleep with you like this every night.”

He spent the night wrapped around you, one leg tangled with yours, Whiskers curled at your feet. Beau slept better than he had in weeks, waking up to the soft sound of rain and the sight of you still nestled against him. Mornings like that quickly became routine.

From then on, Beau was at your dorm almost as much as his own place. He’d come over after practice, still a little sweaty and tired, collapsing onto your bed with a dramatic groan before pulling you down with him for cuddles. Some nights you studied together he’d quiz you on your notes while Whiskers tried to sit on his lap. Other nights you’d order food and watch shows, his head in your lap as you played with his hair

Whiskers had fully adopted him too, often demanding attention the moment Beau walked through the door. Beau never minded. He’d talk to the cat seriously while you laughed, scratching his ears and letting him knead on his chest during evening cuddles.

One lazy Sunday afternoon, as golden light filtered through the window and Whiskers dozed between you, Beau rolled onto his side to face you. “I know I say it a lot, but I’m really happy with you,” he said, voice full of warmth. He leaned in, kissing you softly at first, then deeper, pouring all the love he felt into it. His hand rested on your waist, holding you close as the kiss lingered.

These moments in your dorm tangled up together, cat purring nearby, world shut out by the rain or sunshine outside had become his safe haven. Beau was head over heels, completely content to spend as many nights as you’d let him right there with you, building something real and beautiful in the quiet space you called home.

Beau pulled you closer on the bed that lazy Sunday, his brown eyes soft as golden light filtered across the room. Whiskers dozed between you, but Beau barely noticed, too focused on tracing slow kisses along your jaw and down to your neck. “Love these quiet days with you,” he murmured against your skin, voice warm and low. His hand rested on your waist, thumb brushing gentle circles as he captured your lips in a deep, unhurried kiss. You melted into it, fingers threading through his dark hair, and he sighed contentedly when you kissed him back with the same easy affection.

The weeks that followed felt like a natural extension of what you two had built. After tough practices, Beau would show up at your door with takeout, kicking off his shoes and immediately drawing you into his arms for a lingering hug that turned into soft kisses. “You’re my reset button,” he’d say between pecks, brown eyes crinkling as he smiled. One evening, after a big win, he surprised you with a blanket fort in your dorm using extra sheets and string lights. You laughed as he tugged you inside, pulling you onto his lap for slower kisses that built warmth between you. His hands stayed respectful but intimate, holding your face as he whispered how you made every victory sweeter.

Comfort wrapped around you both like a favorite hoodie. During late-night study sessions, Beau would quiz you from across the bed, then reward right answers with quick kisses that grew longer when focus slipped. “Best study partner ever,” he teased, nuzzling your temple. On a crisp fall afternoon, he took you for a drive outside campus to a quiet overlook, parking so you could watch the leaves change. He kept one hand on your thigh, stealing glances and soft kisses at stoplights, talking about future plans like post-grad life and how he saw you in all of them.

Even group hangouts felt more connected now. At a casual bonfire with Dean, Allie, Garrett, and Hannah, Beau sat with you tucked against his side, pressing occasional kisses to your hair or shoulder while chatting with the guys. Back in your room afterward, he was all tenderness helping you unwind with shoulder rubs that led to lazy makeout sessions under the covers, Whiskers ignoring you both from the pillow.

Allie Hayes – the confident, beautiful, outgoing girl who managed to lock down Dean fucking DiLaurentis just by wearing a J-Lo costume at a party.

And sure, you shared the same confidence and beauty as her, but following her around like a lost puppy, literally and figuratively, only seemed to reinforce the idea that you were really just known as ‘Allie’s little sister’. The thoughts race through your head as you bike over to the hockey house, Allie insisting you come by and hang out. Music plays loudly in your headphones as you pedal down the street before arriving at the house, pulling up to the steps.

Climbing off your bike, you unbuckle your helmet, running your hands through your hair. Your back faces the front door as you take your bag out of the front basket of your bike. Taking your phone out, you pause the music, removing the headphones and putting them in your bag. Before you can lock your bike up, the front door swings open.

You turn around, seeing Logan rushing down the stairs.

“Lemme grab that for you,” he insists as you step back, hiking your bag up on your shoulder. 

“Oh hey, thanks,” you smile. You toss the lock in the basket as he effortlessly lifts the bike, walking up the stairs as you follow him. He perches your bike up against the house.

“I… haven’t seen you around lately,” Logan says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Oh, you know with finals around the corner, studying is taking up most of my time,” you say, nervously laughing, half telling the truth.

The full truth being you’re harboring the world’s biggest crush on John Logan, and you know he’d never feel the same way about you so you’re avoiding him as much as possible in the hopes that your crush will eventually go away. A mission that’s currently failing as his brown doe eyes look into yours, captivating you.

“Huh, I can’t imagine you struggling with finals, or anything really,” he says, the compliment going straight to your heart, a confidence boost radiating through you at the idea that maybe, just maybe, he was flirting with you. A light smile crawls onto your face, the blush on your cheeks definitely noticeable.

“Well, I gotta keep that scholarship somehow, right?” you joke, trying not to blatantly flirt with him, just in case you’re misjudging this entire conversation.

“Right…” he trails off. He looks as if he’s about to say something, when the front door swings open, a mop of blonde hair peeking out behind Logan’s shoulder.

“What up Lil Hayes,” Dean says, peeking out the front door, immediately killing the moment, that same feeling of feeling small rushing over your body once again, depleting any confidence you had. Logan notices the subtle shift in your body language as you press your lips in a fine line before meeting Dean’s gaze.

“Hi Dean,” you reply.

“Allie’s looking for you,” he says, looking from you to Logan before heading back inside. Your eyebrows raise for half a second before your eyes meet Logan’s again. He turns to the side, holding his arm out, motioning to let you walk in first. You smile at him as a ‘thanks’ before he follows you in, shamelessly letting his eyes trail down your body as you walk inside.

Logan knew he liked you after your first interaction. The way your smile lit up the room, your confidence and personality had him whipped from the start. As bubbly as you were, you were a bit hard to read. He struggled to gauge how you felt about him, and the thought of ruining the friendship you had already developed scared the shit out of him, so he just felt it was better to keep these feelings to himself. In the meantime, he resorted to little flirty comments here and there, going above and beyond for you, not just to impress you.

But because he wanted to.

Clearly, he didn’t keep them hidden well enough, Dean winking at him as he makes his way into the kitchen. Logan slightly shakes his head at him in confusion, walking past you and Allie on the couch, chatting about something you clearly had interest in. Your smile big and your eyes widening, him truly thinking your eyes could sparkle if they wanted to. Dean’s eyes follow Logan’s to the couch before looking back at Logan when the realization dawns on him.

Logan approaches Dean in the kitchen, questioning the very smug grin on his face. “You like Lil Hayes, don’t you,” he says, the first time those words ever leaving someone’s mouth making his heart drop into his stomach.

Logan didn’t know why, but he didn’t like the nickname. Sure, it was cute and quirky, but something about it rubbed him the wrong way. It was almost as if it made you seem like you weren’t your own person, you were just Allie’s sister. But you were so much more than that. He could tell you didn’t like it either.

The subtle way your body would tense up when you hear it, trying to hide any discomfort as you swallow down the emotions, it happening just moments ago on the porch. After he saw your negative reaction to it the first time, he made a promise to himself.

He would never call you that.

“She’s really cool and we get along, how does that mean I have a crush?” he asks Dean, trying to deflect.

“I know what it looks like to be captivated by a Hayes,” he says, a hint of humor in his voice as he continues, “And she definitely likes you too, so you should go for it,” he says, making Logan’s head whip towards Dean.

“What?” he says, unsure he heard Dean correctly. Dean just shrugs, taking a sip of Gatorade and patting Logan’s chest before heading out to the backyard where Garrett and Tucker already are, working out. Logan’s eyes find you again, laughing at something Allie said. Your eyes glance over to him, the smile staying on your face that he gladly returns, before he heads up to his room to change to join the guys for a workout.

“You so like him!!” Allie says, grabbing your hands and bouncing lightly on the couch.

“Will you keep your voice down?! And no, I don’t” you deny, the lie falling a little too easily off your lips. 

“I love you, but you are so naive if you think he doesn’t like you back,” Allie sternly says. One of the many things you admired about your sister was her bluntness to call things like she sees it. And Allie was never one to lie to anyone. About anything.

You and Allie go back and forth as Logan eventually catches your eye once more, rushing back down the stairs, before he heads to the backyard. Your eyes follow him as he walks through the living room, the cut sleeveless hoodie allowing your eyes to be blessed with the sight of his arms flexing while he ties the red bandana behind his head as he continues walking outside.

“Yeah, that wasn’t subtle at all,” Allie sarcastically states, watching you basically eye fuck him. You look back at her, rolling your eyes, laying your body onto the back of the couch, hugging a pillow close to your chest.

“I don’t like him.” 

“Whatever you say…” 

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

“Thank you all for coming,” Allie says, having a presentation style hangout a few days later as Hannah, Garrett, Dean and Tucker sit around the couch watching her.

“Aren’t we missing two…? Tucker asks, looking around noticing you and Logan missing.

“No no my sweet Tuck, they are the reason we are all here right now.” Allie says very adamantly before continuing, “It’s so obvious they like each other but they’re both too scared to do anything about it. We have to intervene,” she finishes. The rest of the group looks around at each other, waiting for someone else to speak up. 

“I’m in,” Dean says, “I talked to Logan about it the other day in the kitchen and he clammed up. He totally likes her,” he says. The rest of the group nods, more than willing to help their friends out. Allie’s eyes widen in excitement.

“Exactly. I love my sister, but I also know her, she’s gonna clam up the second he makes some cute comment, which is his passive way of trying to let her know he’s into her and then that stupid voice in her head is gonna sike her out and she’s gonna shut down,” she rambles, exhaling at the end.

“Okay, so how do we do this?” Hannah asks.

“It’s gotta be something good, no inviting her to a game or any of that crap,” Garrett chimes in.

Allie smirks, “I have the perfect idea.”

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

“You stole her fucking bike chain??!”

Allie stands there, having not been gone 30 minutes, her hands now all greased up, a bike chain dangling in one hand, a pair of pliers in the other. “Just trust me, okay? She’s gonna get out of class, realize it’s stolen and go to the one person we all know who can fix it. We all just need to be out of the house when it happens so they’re alone when they get back here,” Allie says, a smile on her face.

The group looks at her with a mix of emotions – impressed, shocked, concerned – as Garrett checks his watch.

“Logan’s probably still at the rink,” he says, mentioning how lately he’s been staying after practices to get extra skating time.

“Perfect, she gets out of class any minute now, that’s enough time for Logan to still be there while she realizes she’s screwed and reaches out to him all ‘damsel in distress’ like. This is gonna be great you guys, trust me!” she exclaims, the group just nodding in agreement, not wanting to hurt her feelings at the extremity of her way of trying to get the two of you together. It really was sweet how she just wanted you to be happy.

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

Your heart sinks as you approach your bike, the chain clearly missing from your bike. Who the hell even robs someone of a bike chain? The bike route from the campus building to your place was long enough as is, having to lug a broken bike all that way definitely not an ideal situation. You sigh, eyes darting around as you try to come up with a solution.

Logan’s phone buzzes repeatedly in his hockey bag, him catching the tail end of it after his shower before rushing over to his bag. Pulling his phone out, a light smile on his face seeing your name. Then, a wave of concern. You never call him. 

“Hey, what’s up?” he asks. The panic in your voice sets alarm bells off in his head.

“Hey, sorry, are you free right now? I just got out of class and some asshat stole my bike chain. It’s a long way to my place to have to drag the bike with me. I didn’t know if you had a spare chain or anything to help me…” you trail off, sighing, embarrassed at your rambling.

“I’m actually still at the rink, I don’t have any tools or anything with me, but I can come by and take a look at it,” he offers. He grins, hearing the sigh of relief that came from the other end of the call.

“You’re a lifesaver,” you say, telling him which building you’re at before the calls ends. Logan arrives about ten minutes later, the sad look on your face making his heart ache before that look turns into your face brightening up when you see him. You greet each other before he takes a look at the bike.

“Yep… It’s definitely missing,” he says, a hint of sarcasm in his voice as you look down at him blankly, trying not to laugh. “Wow, thanks” you reply sarcastically, crossing your arms.

“It’s weird, it looks like it was yanked it out with pliers or something,” he says, confused.

“Yeah, who steals a fucking bike chain?” you rhetorically ask, rubbing your hands over your face, this being the last thing you need right now. The tense sigh that leaves your lips catches Logan’s attention, him standing up, wiping his hands before coming up to you. Your hands go back down to your sides as he speaks.

“Hey, we’ll figure it out. We can just take the bike to the hockey house, I’ll stop by the shop on our way to get a chain and it’ll be as good as new,” he reassures you, a light smile arriving on your face, incredibly thankful for his willingness to help you.

“There’s that pretty smile. Alright, let’s go,” he says, turning his back to you to grab the bike and put it in the bed of his truck.

Your brain nearly malfunctions, replaying that in your head, making sure you heard him correctly. He pulls the passenger door open for you. You hop in and before he can shut the door, you turn your body towards him. “Thank you so much, seriously, I owe you,” you say sincerely. 

“I’d help you any time,” he replies, closing the door gently, the butterflies swarming inside your stomach.

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

One new bike chain later and you and Logan are sitting on the hockey house couch facing each other, the conversation flowing effortlessly. Your elbow is perched on the top of the couch, your head resting in the palm of your hand as Logan’s arm is sprawled across the top of the couch, his fingers dangerously close to your arm.

“I don’t know that we’ve ever hung out just the two of us… It’s nice,” you admit, his eyes softer than ever as he looks at you.

“It is nice,” he reaffirms, adjusting his arm as his hand gets even closer to you. Your eyes flicker down to his hand before quickly making eye contact with him again. The tension in the air feels incredibly thick, you both soaking in the moment.

“You are so beautiful,” he says, the intention in his voice clearer than ever, all the negative thoughts swarming in your head dissipating as you look down shyly, a blush creeping up on your cheeks, smiling as you look back at him.

“You think so?”

“I know so.”

Before you can come back with any self-deprecating comments hidden inside a joke, Logan continues,

“I know sometimes it can feel like you’re living in your sister’s shadow. But I want you to know that I see you for you. And I think you’re incredible,” he finishes, the warm feeling in your body radiating all throughout as your eyes slightly well up, lightly smiling at him.

“Thank you,” you say, your eyes telling a much larger story. And Logan was an expert in reading.

Logan’s position on the couch changes, him still facing you as he sits up, scooting even closer to you. You sit up too, the air getting heavier as he leans in slightly, gauging your reaction. Your eyes flicker from his eyes to his lips as Logan leans in, connecting your lips.

Describing the kiss as fireworks would be an understatement, his hand coming up to hold your face as you lean into him, deepening the kiss. His other hand finds your waist, pulling you in even closer, your hand placing itself on his shoulder, slowly trailing down to his arm, squeezing his bicep, taking full advantage of the opportunity.

Smiling into the kiss, you slowly pull away, giggling lightly. Fighting the smiles growing on your faces was a lost cause, the both of you feeling giddy like kids again.

A smack on the window snaps the two of you out your bliss, your heads whipping over to the window, catching several heads quickly ducking, including a very delayed duck by a bright blonde mop of hair. You stare in bewilderment,

“Are they fucking watching us?”

✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧･ﾟ*✧

“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”

Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”

Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”

“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”

He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.

“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”

“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”

“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”

“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”

“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”

They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.

Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.

Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”

“Who?” Tucker asks.

“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”

Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.

“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”

“Yeah?” The other guy asks.

“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”

Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.

McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”

Dean stops walking completely.

Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”

“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.

“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”

“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”

“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”

“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”

“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”

Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.

Something must genuinely be wrong with her.

No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.

“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”

Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.

Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”

Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”

McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”

“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” McMahon snaps. “You don’t know her.”

“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”

Beau winces. “Dean.”

McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”

“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”

For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.

But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.

McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”

Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.

McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.

Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.

“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”

“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”

“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”

They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.

But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.

It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.

He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.

Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.

“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”

He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.

“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.

Beau glances over. “Yeah?”

“Who did McMahon just break up with?”

Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.

“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”

“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”

“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.

“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”

“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.

“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”

Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”

“I am absolutely going to track her down.”

“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.

Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”

“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”

“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”

“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.

“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.

He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.

He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.

***

The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.

“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.

“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”

“I’m open!”

“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”

“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”

“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.

On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.

Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.

He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.

It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.

“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”

“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.

“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”

“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”

“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”

Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”

“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.

“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”

Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”

“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”

The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.

Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.

“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.

“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”

Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”

Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”

“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”

Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”

“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”

Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”

Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”

“Who?” Dean demands.

“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.

Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”

“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”

Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”

Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.

“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”

Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.

“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”

The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”

“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.

“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”

Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.

He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.

It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.

“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.

“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”

“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”

Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”

“No,” Dean says immediately.

“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”

“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”

“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.

“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”

“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.

“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”

Beau sighs. “Dean-”

“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”

The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.

“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”

He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.

“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”

Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”

“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.

“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”

“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”

Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.

Right now, Dean is dead serious.

“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”

Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”

“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.

“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”

Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.

Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”

“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.

“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”

“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”

“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”

“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”

“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.

“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”

“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”

“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.

“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”

Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”

Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.

He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.

And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.

Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.

He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”

Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”

“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”

“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.

“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”

“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”

“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”

He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?

He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.

Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?

That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.

***

Dean does not usually require props.

In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.

But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.

Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.

So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.

He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.

“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.

“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”

“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”

“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.

Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”

He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.

The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.

He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.

He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.

Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.

The lock clicks. The door swings open.

And Dean completely forgets how to speak.

You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.

He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.

You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”

Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.

“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.

“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”

Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”

Silence.

Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.

You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.

Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”

The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.

Before he can even register the hit, you step back.

“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.

Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.

“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”

He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.

“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”

“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”

“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.

“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”

The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.

“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”

Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”

“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”

“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”

You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”

“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”

The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.

“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”

“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”

You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”

“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”

You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.

“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”

“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.

Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.

You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”

“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”

You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.

For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.

“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”

Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.

The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.

You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.

“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”

“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.

“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”

“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”

You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”

Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”

Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”

Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”

Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.

“Y/N,” he starts softly.

“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”

You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.

“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”

You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.

“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.

He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.

This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.

“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.

You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”

“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”

You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”

“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”

“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”

“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”

“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”

“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.

You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.

“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”

You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.

But then the wall goes back up.

“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”

Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.

He needs leverage. What does he know about you?

Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.

“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.

You stop. “What?”

“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”

You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”

“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”

You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”

“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”

“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.

Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.

“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”

You stare at him.

“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”

Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.

The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.

“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.

“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”

You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”

“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”

“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.

“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”

You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.

The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.

Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.

“Shirtless,” you say softly.

“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”

The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.

“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.

You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.

“When?” You ask.

“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”

You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”

Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.

“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”

He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.

He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.

Now, he just has to do the impossible.

***

The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.

Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.

He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.

“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.

“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”

He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”

“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.

“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”

You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”

“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”

Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.

On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.

You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.

Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”

“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.

“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”

“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”

“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”

You do. He is staring at your lips.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”

He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.

A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.

The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”

He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.

You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.

“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”

“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.

He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.

Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.

He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.

You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.

Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.

“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?

“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”

The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.

Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.

He lowers his head.

The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”

He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.

He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.

It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.

Dean feels it. He stops immediately.

“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.

You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.

“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.

“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”

“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”

“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”

“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”

He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.

“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.

“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”

“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.

The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.

“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.

The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.

“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”

He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.

The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.

The coiled spring snaps.

A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.

Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.

When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.

You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.

Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.

He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.

He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”

You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”

“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”

You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.

Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”

Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”

“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”

He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.

You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.

Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.

But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.

You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.

It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.

You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.

“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”

It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.

Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.

He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.

You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.

Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.

“Look at me,” he demands softly.

You meet his eyes.

“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.

And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.

You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.

He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.

It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.

“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”

“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.

The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.

“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”

You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.

Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.

He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.

You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.

He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.

“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”

You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”

“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”

You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.

The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.

But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.

And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.

***

The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.

The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.

“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”

You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”

“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”

You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.

“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”

“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.

You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.

Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.

And leading the pack is Dean.

He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.

A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.

You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.

“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.

“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”

“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”

Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.

“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”

“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”

“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”

You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”

Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.

Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.

“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.

“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”

“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”

Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”

“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”

You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”

“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.

You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.

“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”

“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”

“It’s a yes,” you agree.

“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”

“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”

Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.

You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.

“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.

“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.

“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.

The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.

Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.

And Dean.

Dean is putting on a show.

You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.

Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.

He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.

Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”

“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.

“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”

You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”

Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”

“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.

“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”

You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.

You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.

Your heart does that stupid flip again.

He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.

“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.

Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”

“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”

“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”

You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”

The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.

You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.

You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon. 

He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.

“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”

A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.

Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.

But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.

He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.

All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.

“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.

McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”

Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.

Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.

“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”

McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”

“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”

McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.

“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.

“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”

McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”

The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.

“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”

McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.

Dean isn’t finished.

He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.

“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”

McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.

He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.

The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.

Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.

You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.

No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.

Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.

“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”

You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.

It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.

The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.

You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.

“That was perfect,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.

“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”

“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”

You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”

Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”

“You love it,” you remind him.

“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”

He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”

“Dean!”

He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.

You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.

You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.

And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.

You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.

You walked in with Allie, a third wheel, after breaking up with your douche of a boyfriend. Sean wasn't a very good Ben Affleck, but after being sent away, you fit in as a good duo next to Allie's JLo outfit. Allie begged you to match with her, so naturally, you had to stick to the VMA theme. In a green top and blue skirt, you decided to go out as Britney for her iconic Slave 4 U performance. You wanted to be as close to the original as possible, so you bought a cheap yellow snake to keep over your shoulders.

"Let's go dance!" Allie shouted over the loudspeakers, not hesitating to drag you towards the living room, which was a makeshift dance floor. The middle of the living room was empty, with nobody actually bothering to dance and embarrass themselves. Allie, being Allie, didn't care about other people, and naturally, you were sucked into that mentality too.

Lady Gaga played over the partygoers' shouts and cheers, and Allie pulled you in, moving your arms back and forth as she shimmied. You laughed and turned your head side to side, letting yourself get into the music. No sane person doesn't dance to Gaga.

Dean was at the counter, zeroing in on you like a moth to a flame. He could see Allie catch her breath, pointing behind her. "I'm gonna go find Sean!" She shouted over the music. "He needs his cup!" Allie turned and pushed through a lifeguard and a schoolgirl to find her boyfriend. You sighed, finding yourself not only a third wheel, but now just alone, which was what you were avoiding from the get-go. Nonetheless, the only thing worse than dancing alone is standing alone like a loser. You looked around before getting into the music.

Dean smacked Tucker beside him, who was wearing a bumblebee costume. "Who's that?" Dean questioned, turning Tucker's and Beau's attention to you across the room. You put your arms up and moved your hips side to side, the sashes you stuffed into your shorts swaying with every movement.

"Whoa," Beau muttered. "I don't know her personally, but I'm pretty sure that's Britney," Beau said sarcastically.

Dean deadpanned at him. "That's really helpful. Thank you."

Tucker looked at his phone, which was conveniently Bluetoothed to the speakers, and scrolled through his playlist. He smacked Dean in the chest before scrolling some more. "I've got an idea." He said, tapping on his screen, cutting off Gaga's song halfway through.

I'm a Slave 4 U started to play through the speakers, and you paused, having no one to be excited with. If Allie was still beside you, she would be squealing and shaking you. "Oh, my god!" You said to a couple dressed as sexy referees. "This is my song!" You couldn't help but squeal before doing a body roll with your arms up.

Dean grinned with a shake of his head and turned to Tucker, giving his head a dramatic kiss. "Who says you're struggling with your assists, huh?" He questioned before making a beeline for you.

"I can still change the song, dick!" Tucker called out, rolling his eyes. But he wouldn't kill the blonde's vibe.

Dean snuck up behind you as your back was to him, still doing slow body rolls. He pressed himself against your back, his hands going to the top of your hips as he matched your movements.

"But I feel like talking, feel like dancing when I see this guy."

You looked at Dean over your shoulder, fully turning around so you could see him properly. His green eyes stared at you with a grin, and he kept his hands at your sides before he slowly lifted his arms up, and you copied him.

"I'm a slave for you, I cannot hold it, I cannot control it."

Your lips spread into their own form of a smile, having too much fun with this stranger. You had a perfect view of his chest, and he had the same with yours.

"Baby, don't you wanna dance upon me?"

Dean maintained eye contact with you, slowly lowering himself to his knees. Your eyes followed him as he paused just in front of your belt before standing up again.

"Do you like it? Yeah, now watch me."

He put his hands back on your hips and leaned his head forward to press his forehead against yours, his green eyes glowing under the overhead lights.

"I really wanna dance tonight with you. I really wanna do what you want me to."

Dean licked his bottom lip and tilted his chin down, tasting your lip gloss. He licked a small stripe up your bottom lip.

"I'm a slave for you."

You decided to give in to his need for a few seconds, able to take the liquor on his tongue.

"I won't deny it, I'm not trying to hide it, baby."

You pulled your head back, causing Dean to blindly chase your lips before giving up. You held up your plush snake's head and tail with both hands, with a lip bite in his direction.

Dean looked you up and down with a tiny smirk, slightly amused by your game.

"I'm a slave for you. I cannot hold it; I cannot control it."

You gave him a wink and walked around him, giving a small strut with the faux snake out of the living room. Dean stared at your empty spot with his jaw dropped. The 'ladies' man' was turned down for the first time at Briar U.

"I'm a slave for you. I cannot hold it; I cannot control it."

Two girls, one in a clown costume and the other as Red Riding Hood, didn't hesitate to dance up on Dean once he was alone. He didn't pay much attention to the two, though, only watching you walk further into the kitchen before noticing Tucker and Beau staring at him. They both gave him a thumbs up from the counter. Dean pursed his lips and put an arm up, dancing with the girls.

"I won't deny it, I'm not trying to hide it."

He didn't even get your name, yet you're already coiled around his neck like a python ready to strike. The costume did feel fitting, though; he was turning into a slave 4 u.

"Like that?"

The waiting room smells like antiseptic and stale coffee. Macklin sits beside you, scrolling through his phone with one hand while the other rests protectively on your knee. You're trying to act casual, but your heart is racing like crazy.

"Nervous?" Macklin asks, glancing up from his phone with those warm eyes that make your stomach do flips.

"Just a little," you admit, fidgeting with the hem of your shirt. "I've never had surgery before."

"It's not really surgery," he says reassuringly. "They're just taking out a few teeth. You'll be fine."

Easy for him to say. He's the one who's not about to be put under anesthesia. You've been crushing on Macklin for months now, ever since he became your best friend really. But you've never had the courage to tell him how you actually feel.

The nurse calls your name and Macklin stands up with you. "I'll be right here when you wake up," he promises, squeezing your hand.

You're led into a small room where they explain the procedure and administer the anesthesia. The last thing you remember is Macklin's smiling face before everything goes fuzzy.

When you open your eyes again, the world is blurry and your mouth feels like it's stuffed with cotton. Someone is gently shaking your shoulder.

"Hey, sleepyhead. Time to wake up."

Macklin's voice cuts through the fog in your brain. You blink a few times until his face comes into focus. He's grinning at you and his hair is slightly messy like he's been running his hands through it.

"Mackie?" you slur, your voice muffled by the gauze in your mouth.

"That's me," he says softly. "How are you feeling?"

You try to sit up, but he gently pushes you back against the pillows. "Easy there. You just had surgery."

"Did it hurt?" you ask, your words still coming out slurred.

"You were asleep the whole time," he explains. "But now it's time to get you home and into some comfy pajamas."

As he helps you into the car, you can't stop staring at him. The anesthesia has lowered all your inhibitions and your filter seems to have completely disappeared.

"You know, Mackie," you say as he buckles your seatbelt, "you have really nice hair."

He chuckles. "Thanks, I think?"

"And your eyes," you continue, "they're beautiful. I could stare at them all day."

Macklin glances at you with a raised eyebrow but doesn't say anything as he starts the car.

The ride home is a blur of trees and buildings, but your focus remains entirely on the man beside you. You've never seen him from this angle before, profile illuminated by streetlights, jaw set in concentration as he navigates traffic.

"You're so good at driving," you announce suddenly. "And hockey. And being my best friend. You're just good at everything."

"I try," he says, keeping his eyes on the road.

When you arrive at your apartment, Macklin helps you inside and settles you on the couch with a pillow and blanket. He returns with a glass of water and your pain medication.

"Here," he says, holding out two pills. "This will help with the pain."

You look at the pills, then back at him. "Are you trying to drug me, Celebrini?"

He laughs. "I'm pretty sure you're already drugged enough."

You take the pills with a sip of water, then lean your head back against the couch. The room is spinning slightly, but Macklin's presence anchors you.

"You know what's funny?" you say, looking at him with unfocused eyes.

"What's funny?"

"I'm in love with you."

The words tumble out before you can stop them and the room falls silent. Macklin freezes mid-motion, his eyes wide with shock.

"What?" he asks, his voice barely above a whisper.

"I'm in love with you," you repeat, the medication making you bold. "I have been for months. But I was too scared to tell you because I didn't want to ruin our friendship."

Macklin sits down on the coffee table in front of you, his expression unreadable. "You're serious?"

"Dead serious," you say, nodding vigorously. "I love your smile and the way you laugh at your own jokes. I love how passionate you are about hockey and how you always check to make sure I'm okay. I love everything about you."

You reach out to touch his face, but your hand is clumsy and you end up poking his nose instead. He catches your wrist gently, his eyes searching yours.

"You're not just saying this because of the medication, are you?" he asks, his voice hopeful.

"Nope," you say, shaking your head. "I've been holding this in for way too long. It feels good to finally say it out loud."

A slow smile spreads across Macklin's face, and your heart does a little flip. "Well, in that case…"

He leans forward, his eyes fixed on yours. "I'm in love with you too."

Your breath catches in your throat. "Really?"

"Really," he confirms. "I have been for a while now. But I was also scared to say anything because I didn't want to make things weird between us."

You can't help but laugh, which sends a sharp pain through your jaw. "Ouch," you mutter, clutching your cheek.

Macklin's expression immediately softens. "Easy there. Don't move too much."

He stands up and disappears into the kitchen, returning with an ice pack. "Here," he says, gently placing it against your cheek. "This should help."

You close your eyes as the cold soothes your throbbing jaw. When you open them again, Macklin is watching you with such tenderness it makes your heart ache.

"So," you say, your voice slightly clearer now. "What happens now?"

"Now," he says, taking your free hand in his, "we take things slow. You go to sleep and if you tell me that you love me again tomorrow, while you're not high on drugs, we'll see where things go."

"Okay," you agree, squeezing his hand. "But can we at least kiss?"

He chuckles. "Not with your mouth full of gauze, we can't."

"Right," you say, feeling slightly disappointed. "Later then?"

You had a deal with your dad. If Garrett made it into Briar, he would pull every string he could to get you there. Garrett also researched ahead of time and found that they had amazing student disability services, including student ASL interpreters, assignment excuses (for you, such as doing a speech for a class), and extra time on exams. Phil also felt more comfortable sending you somewhere with Garrett cause then at least one person would know ASL or look out for you. Before you came to Briar, Garrett had told his teammates about you. Only his close friends were aware that you were mute, and he taught them basic ASL signs to prepare when you visited. 

Now, as an incoming freshman at Briar, you were nervous because most people don’t know ASL, so you sometimes opted for text-to-speech as well. At the beginning of the semester, Garrett made an effort for the guys to watch out for you and not be afraid to step in if other first-year students made fun of you. After your calculus class, Garrett insisted you visit his house and meet his roommates. He assured you that they knew you were mute and that they knew some ASL. All you knew was that these were the guys Garrett played hockey with and that they were good. 

“Hey, guys! Come meet my sister!”

You see a guy with curly hair behind the kitchen, cooking something that smells like a stew. You then see another guy with wavy brown hair and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, holding a hammer. They both wave at you. 

“Hey, I’m Tucker, this is Logan.” the one with the pink apron mentioned. 

“Hi, I’m Y/N.” You replied. 

“Dude, I thought you said she was mute.” Logan spoke up.

“It’s called speech therapy, dumbasses. She can say basic words but not a full conversation.” Garrett shot back. 

You rolled your eyes. 

“My apologies, Y/N,” Logan meekly replied. 

It’s okay. I get it a lot.

“I remember that’s the sign for ok, so I think I’m in the clear.” Logan cheered.

You sighed at his sentiment. You then hear the door open behind you. It's a tall blonde with a wide frame and bright blue eyes. 

“Yo Graham! And baby Graham, you look just like your brother.” Dean bent down to look at you. 

Gross

“What does that one mean?” Dean looked perplexed

“She said, gross dude.” Tucker chirped. 

“How did you know that?!” Dean shot his head up at Tucker.

“It’s called reading, I wanted to know the important words in case she tried my cooking. Did you not look over the basic ASL language Garrett sent us?”

“Not going to lie, I glanced over it for a few seconds.”

“Seriously, dude?” Garrett looked at Dean, pissed.

“What? I thought I had more time to study.”

What’s the loud blonde dude’s name? 

Logan squinted at you again, trying to think. “I think she’s asking your name dude.”

Dean looked back at you and pulled his hand back. “Dean. Dean Di Laurentis. Don’t you forget it,” and then Dean winked at you. You looked disgusted. 

“Damn harsh crowd, I’ve never been rejected so subtly before. And what’s your name baby Graham?”

“Y/N.” You quietly replied. 

“So she speaks. Nice to meet you, Y/N.” Dean smiled before heading towards the kitchen. While they all sat, you turned to Garrett, already annoyed by this whole interaction. 

You told me they knew ASL, but they barely know anything, especially that blonde one. You signed. 

“They’re trying their best, ok? They didn’t have 18 years with it. They had, at most, probably had two weeks.” Garrett whispered low so they couldn’t hear. 

Should I just do the text-to-speech thing? It’s probably easier for them to understand.

“No, Y/N, just do what makes you feel comfortable, worst case I’ll be here to translate.” Garrett rubbed your shoulder in reassurance. 

Good, cause honestly, whatever the curly-haired one was making smelled good.

“Tucker’s a great cook, you can always come over for a free dinner if the dining hall food isn’t up to par.”

Last week, they had undercooked chicken, and I almost gagged.

Garrett laughed as he brought you back to the group. 

“She’s staying for dinner, guys!” Garrett cheered. 

·༻𐫱༺·

When Dean walked over after meeting you, he was debriefing with Tucker and Logan. 

“So that’s Garrett’s sister?” Logan inquired

“Yeah, dude, can’t you see the resemblance? They both got dark curly hair, and she also has his Angry Bird eyebrows.” Dean responded.  

“She’s just as expressive as him for sure.” Tucker added while stirring his chicken and dumpling soup. 

“How can you even tell? She can barely talk.” Dean, perplexed. 

“You can tell a lot from a person by just their face, unlike you, talking your ear off to someone any chance you get.” Tucker rolled his eyes. 

Dean looked over at you and Garrett talking, even though you were signing, he looked at your face, which looked a little concerned as your eyebrows furrowed. A part of Dean wished he knew what you were saying. He turned back to Tucker and Logan in the kitchen.

“How long do you think it takes to learn ASL?” Dean spoke out of the blue.

“My guess is probably one or two semesters, they have classes on campus for it.” Logan responded before heading upstairs to fix something in the bathroom. 

“Do you think it’s too late to register?” Dean frantically pulled out his phone to see if it fit in his schedule. 

“I’m sure you can email someone, I don’t think people are fighting over a spot in that class.” Tucker started tasting his broth before adding salt and other spices.

Garrett then walked over with Y/N and cheered, “She’s staying for dinner!” 

“I hope she likes chicken and dumplings.”

“What is that?” Garrret asked. 

“Its like a creamy chicken soup with bits of dough in it, its my mom’s recipe.”

Sounds delicious.

Tucker looked excited, “I know she just said delicious, and trust it will be!”

Garrett smiled, seeing how much effort he had put into communicating with you, unlike Dean, who still looked confused. 

“Yo G!” Logan had come back downstairs. “Dean was interested in taking some ASL classes. Do you know of any?”

“Oh? Already trying to make up embarrassing me in front of my sister?” Garrett patted Dean’s shoulder. 

“I just thought it’d be cool since I’m taking less credits this semester.” 

“Well, congrats Dean, you just won yourself a ticket to be my sister’s personal body guard. She’s taking an ASL course, you can join her class.”

Garrett, are you out of your mind? He’s going to bother me all semester. I’ve only met him for a few minutes, and he’s already on my nerves.

Garrett signed back, so Dean or the other guys wouldn't hear his response. I don’t want you wandering campus alone, plus Dean is intimidating enough that no one will bother you. 

What if the person bothering me is going to be around me almost every day? You signed at Garrett and rolled your eyes. 

Just stick it out for two weeks. If he’s really bothering you, I’ll tell him to fuck off, and I’ll drive you to school. 

You sighed, agreeing to Garrett's pleas and putting on a fake smile, excited that Dean would be joining your ASL class. 

Tucker looked up at both of you before serving dinner. “You guys good?”

“Yeah, she’s totally excited to show Dean the wonders of ASL,” Garrett smiled. 

You fake-smiled with two thumbs up, looking at Dean. Everyone eventually transitioned to the dining room table to enjoy the chicken and dumplings Tucker made. Despite never having it before, you found it delicious. When Tucker asked how it was, you said it was good, and then Tucker started to dance with excitement at your compliment. 

You had wished you could just enjoy your food and your brother's company, but unfortunately, there was a certain blonde who wouldn’t stop bothering you. 

“So, Y/N, what’s your major?”

Graphic Design

“What’s your favorite color?” Purple

“What’s your favorite food?”

Mac and Cheese

“What’s your favorite animal?”

Whale shark

“What do you do in your free time?”

Draw or paint.

Dean looked up at Garrett in anticipation. “I got none of that. What did she say G?”

“She said she's a graphic design major, purple, mac and cheese, whale shark, and draw or paint. If you’re going to ask her all these things, you'd better pay attention in your ASL class.”  

You looked down at your soup, hoping the blonde would give up on trying to talk to you, but he kept trying to get you to speak. You got up abruptly to refill a bowl of soup, and, like a puppy dog, Dean followed. 

“Allow me,” Dean grabbed the ladle. You rolled your eyes. Dean poured you a bowl and noticed it was mostly made of broth. There was barely any chicken, vegetables, or dough in your bowl. Your eyebrows furrowed. Dean noticed your annoyed expression and realized there was nothing in your bowl. He grabbed it out of your hands, dumped the soup, and dug deeper into the pot to get you more solids. 

“Thank you.” You quietly replied before scurrying off back to the table. Garrett asked if everything was ok and you nodded, continuing to eat. Dean came back shortly with another bowl, busy eating it this time, figuring you enjoyed some silence. You had finished the last drops of water in your glass before Garrett and Dean awkwardly got up at the same time to grab the pitcher from the fridge to refill it. You can hear them whispering and bickering by the fridge. 

“Dude, why are you also grabbing the pitcher?”

“I wanted to refill Y/N’s water.”

“Why are you being so nice all of a sudden to my baby sister? I swear to god if you even try to pull one of your stupid flirty moves, I will personally slam you across the table. I bet it won’t even work on her”

“Watch me.”

Dean came back with the pitcher and accidentally spilled some water on your shirt while trying to refill your cup. You groaned before noticing Dean take off his shirt and wipe the table down with it. Dean looked over, hoping to see you blush at his figure, but was only met with a disgusted look and you turning to say something to Garrett. Dean didn’t even get to the part where he offered you one of his shirts to use in his room before you stormed upstairs towards Garrett's room.

“Nice one Dean. I bet she’s going to toss up her dinner after seeing that one.” Garrett laughed. Now Dean was the embarrassed one. Upstairs in Garrett's room, you grabbed one of his Briar U Hawks shirts and, without thinking, started changing with the door open. 

·༻𐫱༺·

Dean went upstairs to toss his shirt in the laundry and get a new one when he froze, noticing you in just a bra, mid-change. Without a word, he saw you rush and slam the door in his face. You were on the verge of feeling overwhelmed, sitting on the floor behind the slammed door. Why wouldn’t stupid Dean leave you alone? Garrett, hearing the slam, nervously rushed upstairs before knocking on the door. 

“Y/N? Are you alright?” Garrett sounded worried, so you slowly opened the door, letting Garrett into his room before closing it again. 

“What’s going on? Are you okay? I heard the door slam.”

Dean is just too much right now. The questions. Spilling water on me. He also saw me in my bra.

“He did what?!” You grabbed Garrett’s arm before he could think about storming to kill Dean. 

It was an accident. It’s mostly my fault for not closing your door while I was changing. I’m sorry. 

“Y/N, there is nothing to be sorry about. I know my friends can be a lot but trust me they have good hearts.”

Is it just hard, you know? To keep up with all that energy.

“I know you’re trying your best. I’ll tell Dean to tone it down, especially since it’s going to be harder to draw a conversation out of you.”

Thank you.

Garrett pulled you in for a hug. It was one of the best things about Garrett. He was always understanding, not just about your disability, but also that you tended to be more introverted than he was. Garrett didn’t realize how extraverted all his friends were, and Dean was the king of it. He regretted suggesting that you put Dean in your ASL courses and probably should’ve tried to convince Logan or Tucker instead. Garrett then decided to take you home since it was getting dark out. You said your goodbyes to Logan and Tucker, and you assumed Dean stayed in his room after your interaction. Garrett dropped you off at your dorm before heading back to his house. Dean was still nowhere to be found before Garrett knocked on his door. 

“Yo Dean! My sister left, can I talk to you?”

Dean, now freshly showered in clean clothes, slowly opened his door. 

“For the record, G, it was a complete accident.”

“I know, she told me. But don’t get too comfortable now, cause that’s the last time you’re ever seeing that again. Am I clear?” Garrett 

“Crystal.”

“Also, I gotta ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Look, man, I know you love talking and socializing, but do you mind toning it down a bit around my sister?” Dean looked up, confused

“What do you mean?”

“She’s more of the introverted, artsy type, and we’re all outgoing jocks, you can probably guess how those two things don’t mix well.”

“Well how do you tone it down? I’ve never seen you more gentle with someone than her.”

“The first thing I do is listen. I let her do the talking so I can figure out how much she wants to socialize. Sometimes she ices me out, and I leave her alone.”

“But how do people just operate like that? I feel like I can’t go a few minutes without needing to speak to someone.”

“Believe it or not, Dean, people’s brains have different levels of social battery. I think yours never runs out. Just try to not pry or force conversation out of her, you have all semester to talk to her.” 

Garrett patted him on the back before going to bed. That was the one problem with Dean. He wanted to talk to you all semester, get to know everything about you. He was fascinated by you. Besides ignoring every attempt at flirting, he couldn’t believe you weren’t attracted to him. Every girl on campus wanted him, so why didn’t you?

·༻𐫱༺·

You returned to your dorm, and thankfully, the disability services gave you a single with your own bathroom. You set your backpack down from class before hopping into a quick shower. To take your mind off things, you decided to draw a little. You keep a small sketchbook of all your favorite foods you’ve eaten. Whether it was restaurants, home-cooked meals, or fun things you’d bake, you added them to it. You took out your phone and sketched the photo of Tucker’s chicken and dumplings. Despite trying to reminisce about how good the dinner was, you kept thinking about Dean. His stupid blue eyes were on you when you were disappointed with your soup. Without even saying anything, he knew exactly what you wanted. You thought Garrett could only do that. How could a random guy I just met know what was wrong even though I didn’t say anything? You figured it was just a coincidence and continued sketching. 

You realized it was getting late and also remembered that your ASL class was tomorrow with the loud blonde. You sighed, finishing up your sketch and finishing your nighttime routine before setting your alarm and going to bed. Tomorrow’s definitely going to be a disaster. 

You walked into your ASL class expecting Dean to skip or back out. But surprisingly, he was there early, reading an ASL textbook. Unfortunately, he noticed you, waved, and called your name, excited to see you. You had been avoiding the stares from some of your classmates before you sat down next to him. You pulled out your laptop to work on some designs for another class. Shortly after, Dean peeked over your shoulder and couldn’t help but talk to you. 

“Woah! That’s so cool what class is that for?”

You opted to use a text box in the corner to type your responses. “It’s for 2D Design, I have to align some shapes.”

“It looks fun”

Then your professor walked in. They spoke while signing. Even though Dean missed the first week, they were going over the alphabet and the history of ASL. Dean surprisingly took out his own laptop, writing notes and pulling up visuals of hand signs. You, still focused on your design, weren’t paying attention. You already knew ASL, but the course was mandatory for students who utilize it daily or student interpreters. 

“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be paying attention?”

“I already know ASL, if you didn’t know.”

“Some of this stuff is interesting you know, like how it can have different variations.”

“It is a language you know, not everyone has a thick New York accent.”

“Hey! I’m from Connecticut. Not everyone can be from Boston.” Dean fired back, placing heavy emphasis on saying "Boston" in an exaggerated Bostonian accent. You rolled your eyes as you finished up on your designs, which you planned to print later. You still had about 45 minutes of class left and opted to pull out your food sketchbook. You turned to the chicken-and-dumpling drawing to finish coloring it in and add some shading. Dean naturally couldn’t keep his mouth shut. 

“Woah, is that Tucker’s dinner from last night?” You nodded.

“How do you get the soup to look like that cream color?”

You sighed, and then Dean caught himself for thinking what Garrett said. He realized he was probably talking too much and let you continue drawing in peace. Eventually, class ended, and you had finished the final picture. Dean, not wanting to bother you, started packing his bag and heading out. You tugged at his shirt, and he looked down at you. You showed him the final picture, and he looked at you in awe. 

“Y/N, this looks awesome! Do you mind if I take a photo of it to send to Tucker?” You nodded as he quickly grabbed his phone to snap a photo. He smiled at you before you both walked out of the classroom. The moment you stepped out, a group of girls walked over to Dean to talk to him. They didn’t even notice you, and one girl shoved past you, causing you to trip and drop your sketchbook. Some pages were falling out and getting trampled. You had tried to call out to Dean, but you couldn’t really scream or even say the word “Dean” yet.  You then opted to wave your hands in the air to where Dean saw your eyeline. Knowing Dean only knew the alphabet, you spelled it out simply. 

DEAN HELP

Dean squinted, trying to read the words you were spelling out, before he realized you were signing “help”. He excused all the girls out of the way to find you on the ground, trying to pick up your trampled sketches. 

“Everyone back up! You’re stepping on her things!” Dean shouted. Before all the girls cleared out to let Dean help you, they made comments about who this nobody is or why Dean is helping you. You ignored it and focused on making sure your sketches are ok. You realized the page you just finished had gotten crinkled, and there was mud and dirt all over it. You looked at it in disappointment and felt like crying. Dean saw your disappointed face and turned to face you. 

“Hey, hey, it’s ok, I took a photo of it, I can text it to you!” Dean handed you his phone. You typed in your number, and he made your contact name “Baby Graham”. He texted it to you, and you thanked him, changing his contact name to “Loud Blonde.” He apologized to the group of girls, saying it won't happen again. Maybe Dean wasn’t the most annoying for now. He escorted you outside the building, where Garrett was waiting. Dean had to head to another class, and he said his goodbyes. 

·༻𐫱༺·

“So, how was he?”

He was ok, still talked a little too much, but he left me alone when I was drawing. 

“That’s good, I told you he could tone it down.”

Can I ask you something, Garrett?

“Of course.”

Is Dean popular with girls?

Garrett reached behind his neck. “Unfortunately, the whole hockey team is flooded by girls. But Dean gets around, if you get what I mean. Why did something happen?”

Some girls just trampled us after class, and some stepped on some art I just finished. 

“You better believe I will be having another talk with him.”

It's ok, Garrett. He helped me and told them to go away. He said it won’t happen again.

“So, it wasn’t the end of the world having him around?”

I’d say he was tolerable. I still don’t hate him.

“I’ll take it as a win. If he continues to bother you, you let me know ok?”

You nodded as you headed to Garrett’s car. Garrett dropped you off at your dorm before heading back to his house. You worked on some homework for your typography class. A text from Dean pulled you out of your zone for a second. 

Loud Blonde: Hey, I just wanted to apologize again for earlier. The boys want to frame your drawing in the house lol. 

Baby Graham: It’s ok, I still have plenty of sketches in my book. 

You thought about how difficult it is not knowing how to say Dean’s name, and about how he’s going to be around you all semester. You probably should at least know how to say it in case something happens again. You call Garrett to ask for help and whip out a notebook to take phonetic notes. 

“What’s up, sis?”

You texted him, “Can you teach me how to say Dean?”

“Oh, sure. You’d take the de- from door. And you remember what you’d say when I’d take away your Barbies?”

“Mean.”

“Yeah, so the end -ean part and you put those two together.”

“Doorean.”

“Oh, just the D part, -duh” 

“Duh-ean”

“Better, but it’s one syllable. I texted how it's pronounced phonetically to you.”

“Deen?” 

“Yup, you got it. Just keep practicing it. Is there anything else you need from me?”

“Nope.”

“Alright, goodnight sis, don’t stay up too late!”

·༻𐫱༺·

You kept practicing by saying it to yourself and looking up videos on how people pronounce it. After a few tries, you got it mostly down. You finished up the rest of your work before heading to bed. You woke up, packed your bags, and headed to the campus cafe before your classes. You got a quick coffee before putting your headphones in, listening to music, and walking to your class. As you're looking at your phone, you hear someone calling your name over your music. You paused it and turned to see Garrett’s curly-haired friend. 

“Hey! Y/N!”

“Oh, hi.”

“My name's Tucker, in case you forgot. Are you also heading to a pre-calculus class?”

You nodded. 

“Nice, I’m also in that class. Sorry if you’re confused, but I’m also a Freshman here at Briar. I just got an off-campus living exemption for being on the hockey team. Do you want to head to class together?”

You agreed as you both quietly strolled to class. You also gave Tucker your number so you could easily communicate with him. He wasn’t as loud as Dean and enjoyed being in the moment, enjoying the weather. It was nice. You both sat together as you brought out your tablet for notes, while Tucker was busy on his laptop watching some hockey highlights. You texted him, nosy about what he was doing. 

Y/N Graham: Why are you watching Harvard’s hockey highlights?

Tucker: We have a game this weekend, Gar is drilling all the freshman on studying how they play. He really wants us to win.

Y/N Graham: Sounds like my brother alright.

Tucker: There’s a lot of extra pressure since they’re our rivals. The whole team is kind of on edge.

Y/N Graham: If my brother gives you guys a hard time, you let me know. I’ll knock some sense into him. 

Tucker laughed as you both went back to each other’s work. You took notes and practice problems, while Tucker wrote down formations and potential strategies. You compared this experience to Dean. It was calm, no forced conversation, just both of you in your own worlds. Even though you appreciated how much quieter Tucker was, a small part of you wished someone would text or tap your shoulder every 10 minutes. Time had passed so quickly that the lecture was over, and both of you stepped out to see Garrett, Hannah, Logan, and Dean waiting for Tucker. 

“There he is. Did you see the new videos I sent you?” Garrett motioned to Tucker. 

“Yeah, I also tried to come up with some ideas to try on the ice.”

Garrett then turned to you. “I hope he didn’t distract you in class.”

Nope. Unlike him, I actually took notes on our pre-calculus lecture. 

Garrett turned back to Tucker. “So, what do you know about the unit circle?" Tucker looked dumbfounded. Ashamed about being caught for not paying attention in class, Tucker kindly asked if he could have your notes. You smiled, motioning that you’d text it to him. You then saw Hannah pop up behind Garrett. She signed 

Hello, my name is Hannah. I’m Garrett’s girlfriend.

I know, he really likes you.

Hannah smiled at your response. You appreciated that at least his girlfriend is trying better than Dean did. Speak of the devil, the annoying blonde couldn't help but chirp up at you. He looked excited to show you something. 

Hello, Y/N.

Hello, Dean.

How was class?

Good.

“Did you see that? Was that good?” Dean looked down at you in anticipation. You nodded, and Dean excitedly cheered. “He practiced that conversation a hundred times with Garrett. Your name alone took thirty minutes.” Logan jumped in, putting his arm around Dean. 

You were impressed. Maybe the blonde wasn’t as dumb as you thought. 

“Yo, are we all heading back to the house? Y/N, you’re always invited.” Tucker motioned. 

Garrett quickly looked, counting that not everyone could fit in his car. 

“Logan, Dean, did either of you bring your car?”

Dean pulled his keys from his pocket, jingling them. “Who’s riding with me?”

Logan and Tucker were fighting, playing rock, paper, scissors to see who’d get to ride in Dean’s car. Unfortunately, Tucker lost. You all started to walk towards the parking lot when you opened the car door to a strong smell of stinky hockey gear and saw one of the seats down to fit Garrett’s hockey sticks. 

“Oh shoot, I forgot I had my gear in here.” Garrett put his hand on his forehead. 

Logan was about to offer you his seat when you stopped him, insisting he could go. Garrett translated that you mentioned that Logan fought for that seat fair and square and you’d go with Dean. Before you went with them, Garrett pulled Dean aside.

“If anything happens to my baby sister, you are dead, Di Laurentis.” 

Dean assured Garrett nothing would happen before walking off to Dean’s car. It was a silver BMW sports car. You could tell it was expensive. Tucker, being the gentleman, let you sit in the passenger seat while he sat in the back. Thankfully, his car just smelled like musk and whatever cologne Dean wears. He had leather seats and fancy buttons all over the car. 

“Better than Garrett’s car right?” Dean smirked.

“No.”

“C’mon, his smelly Jeep is not better than mine.” Dean pouted. 

You huffed and looked away from him. 

“I’ll prove it to you.”

Dean turned his car on, and it let out a roar. That didn’t really impress you, but his phone automatically connected and started to play “Party Monster” by The Weeknd. You turned your head to stare at it. 

“Oh? You like The Weeknd? He’s one of my favorite artists.” 

You nodded when you saw that Dean’s backup camera was extra special, with overhead, rear, and side views. You noticed the lights in his car bounced to the beats of the song, and there was basically a huge tablet as his control panel. During the quick 10-minute drive, you took the time to watch Dean as a driver. He was smooth, driving with one hand, and was very fluid. You had never seen him so focused. He drove surprisingly safely. You were sure he would speed or try to race Garrett home. But it was anticlimactic to say the least. You all made it to the house before getting out of his car, thanking him for driving. Tucker opened the house door for you and let you in first.

·༻𐫱༺·

You walked in to see Hannah sprawled out with her legs on Garrett as he had now transitioned to putting the hockey highlights on their TV. Tucker and Dean groaned at the sight of it. 

“G, seriously, we’ve been at this all day let’s take a break.” Logan pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“If we want to beat this guys, we have to study their new freshman, too.” Garrett showed a 20+ video playlist of highlights from all the players. You all looked in horror. You tapped Garrett on the shoulder.

Give them a break, you guys will be fine. Don’t get all stressed because Dad’s coming.

Dean noticed parts of what you said. Specifically, you mentioned that Garrett’s dad will be coming. It made him understand why Garrett was so intense about this game.

“Fine, everyone do their homework. But after dinner we’re watching this!” 

The group sighed in relief before they all split off. Before Garrett went into his room with Hannah, you had asked him if he had any scissors at the house because you needed them for a project.

“Yo, do any of you guys have scissors?”

“I have some kitchen scissors if that works?” Tucker asked. You shook your head, not wanting food or to ruin his blades with your materials. 

“I have a pair in my room, you can come with me.” Dean noted. You reluctantly followed him to his room. Unlike Garrett, he was a little messier. The bed wasn’t made, a basket full of laundry was on the floor, and his desk was covered in books. Even though it was messy, it smelled nice like cedarwood and pepper. You noticed an “ASL For Beginners” Book on there and smiled. Dean rummaged through his desk, found it, and handed it to you. You thanked him before heading downstairs. Dean, being curious, followed you down and watched your every step. Seeing you pull out the designs you worked on the other day, along with some other construction paper. He asked you about each step in the process, but you reluctantly replied in basic ASL or via text. 

It was strange that everything you told Dean fascinated him. It was like you were from another world and he was just born yesterday. You never thought you’d be sitting at the kitchen counter teaching a 6-foot-2 blonde how negative space works. He’d look at you with those innocent blue eyes, eager to find out what you’d say next. You noticed he would hold back more than the first time you met him, offering to help or bringing down his own work to leave you alone to do your project. He’d occasionally chime in to ask if you wanted a glass of water, snacks, or something to complement your progress. Unlike Tucker, it was nice to have someone who constantly cheered you on and checked in on you. Even though you were listening to your music, Dean would always find some way to get your attention. At one point, he found himself cutting out shapes for you. He’d ask you if it was right before handing it to you, looking in anticipation each time. 

·༻𐫱༺·

Garrett walked down with Hannah, commenting on the sight. 

“Interesting, I’ve never seen Dean be so gentle with…construction paper?” Hannah turned to Garrett for a reaction. Garrett had a confused and angry look. 

“What is he doing?”

“Aw c’mon Gar, they look cute.”

“Don’t you dare, if Dean makes a move-”

“Relax, he’s just helping her. I’m sure it's harmless. I mean you know Dean, he’s definitely busy with a bunch of puck bunnies. Plus, if she was annoyed I’m sure she’d text you to rescue her.”

Garrett and Hannah joined Tucker and Logan on the couch, who were fighting over a video game. It was strange to see Dean get along with you, let alone with a few words. Usually, when a girl came over, Dean would be all over her, or you could hear loud laughter from upstairs. It was eerily quiet to see both of you quietly working without much noise. Logan turned to notice Garrett had come back downstairs.

“Hey G? When are we heading to Malone’s? The team’s asking for an informal meeting.” 

“We’ll go in a few, depends on if Dean’s done playing arts and crafts.”

Dean’s head perked up. “Hey! I’m learning the importance of color theory!”

You smiled at his comment and turned your head to look at Garrett, worried.

What’s wrong, Garrett?

Nothing. Is Dean bothering you?

No, he’s helping me. I’ll be done in 10 minutes. 

“Do you want to join us at Malone’s? You can meet the rest of the team.” Dean interjected.

You were scared Dean understood your and Garrett’s conversation and nodded. 

“Great! I can’t wait to watch you draw a Malone’s burger.” 

·༻𐫱༺·

You and the group piled into the same groups, and you all pulled up to Malone’s. The group walked in as a giant roar of cheers came from a group of men that you assumed was the hockey team. Dean floated over and looked like he was his usual loud self. You, wanting to avoid dealing with a bunch of hockey jocks, drifted over to the bar and sat on a stool. You pulled out your sketchbook, intrigued by the food and atmosphere. 

“Hey! You’re Garrett’s sister right?” A girl with brown wavy hair asked you. 

You nodded, “Yeah, Y/N.”

“It’s nice to meet you Y/N! I’m Allie, Hannah’s roommate, can I get you anything?”

You pointed at a glass of water. Allie nodded as she poured you one. You then noticed a flood of girls come in. They squealed, pointed at the hockey team, and immediately went over to flirt with them. You saw various girls fawn all over Dean. Garrett wasn’t kidding. Girls love the hockey boys. You watched as Dean smiled, wrapping his arms around them. For some reason, you felt a twang against your heart. Watching Dean flirt and banter so easily. You wish you could match his energy as those girls did. From far away, it looked like they were a well-oiled machine, never losing steam every chance they opened their stupid mouths. Shit. Why did you care? He’s your brother’s best friend. He probably would want someone who could talk back anyway. 

You had always found it hard to date, which was why you never did. You believed no one could ever be understanding enough to learn ASL for you or be patient when you’d type out a response. The only person who would do that is. You thought Dean would be a refreshing change of heart, but he seemed to prefer the company of those girls anyway. As long as they were around, you were invisible, just like the other day after class.

“Y/N? Are you alright?” Allie perked behind you. You swiveled in your bar stool to face her. You tipped your head towards the crowd.

“Ah, the puck bunnies? They’re a bunch of girls who are obsessed with hockey and hockey players. Don’t worry about Garrett though, he’s very loyal to Hannah.”

If only that’s what you were worried about. Whatever, at least Dean won’t be bothering you tonight. You sipped on your water as you sketched out the interior of Malone’s. A few minutes later, you felt a small tap on your shoulder. You anticipated Dean, but were surprised to see Logan. 

“Hey, how are you holding up? G sent me over to check on you.”

You gave him a thumbs up. 

“You want something? I promise I won’t tell G.”

“No thank you.” You quickly replied before focusing on your drawing. 

“That looks sick, G always mentioned you were a talented artist. I’ll see you around.”

Allie served Logan a beer before nodding to you and heading back to the crowd. You then watched Logan report to Garrett as he smiled and texted you. 

Garrett: If you ever want to leave, just text me, and we’ll go.

You gave him a smile before focusing back on your sketch, starting to outline it in pen.

·༻𐫱༺·

You then heard a larger crowd enter. You assumed there were more students before you heard whispers and rustling. It was a group of guys who looked similar in build to the hockey team. You figured they were on the football or lacrosse team. You felt their presence come up behind you. 

“Who’s this pretty girl?” A guy started.

Another yanked your sketchbook out of your hands and dangled it in the air. “Look, she’s a little Picasso with all these drawings. Why don’t you focus on me instead?”

You were completely flustered. You weren’t sure whether you should punch one of them or scream loud enough to break their eardrums. 

“Hey, you’re Garrett Graham’s sister, right? The one who can’t talk? I’ve always wanted to date a girl who can’t talk back.” Another guy leaned, laughing very close to your face. You had had enough and threw your glass of water at his face.

“Asshole.” You slapped him in the face. 

The whole room then focused its attention on the scene you just caused.

“Why, you little bitch, I’ll teach you to shut up for good.” One started to charge at you before you felt a large set of arms pull you behind him. You, thinking it was Garrett, instinctively hugged the back of his head, bracing for what would happen. 

“You bastards need to leave her alone. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” Dean threatened. Wait a minute. Dean? Shit. You were holding onto Dean for dear life. Dean could sense your arms shaking. 

“She slapped me and threw the water at me first! We were just messing with her.”

“You think it’s funny to mess with someone who can’t easily speak up for herself? Imagine if someone was beating you down and you couldn’t scream for help, then what?” 

“C’mon Di Laurentis, she’s just a quiet, weird, art nerd, is she really worth your time?” That comment made your eyes burn. Sure, you were more of the artsy type, but the dumb lacrosse meathead was right. Why is Dean wasting his time on you?

“She is. She is a million times kinder, gentler, and better yet, quieter than your annoying loud mouth.” You peeled yourself off Dean before tugging on his shirt to have him look down at you. He flashed you a bright smile before turning back to the other loudmouth. 

“So either get the fuck out of Malone’s or I’ll make you.” Dean got closer to the guy’s face. He huffed and gestured for the rest of the team to leave, cursing Dean as he went. Dean turned back to you and crouched down to your level. 

“Are you ok? Did he touch you or anything?”

“No.” 

“Good.” Dean brought you in for a brief hug. 

A girl floated by to gush over Dean. She put a hand on his shoulder and brushed his bicep and explained how manly and sexy it was to see him go to bat to defend someone. You meekly turned your head away, jumping back to reality. Dean probably only sees you as your brother’s sister. Swooping in to protect you because he promised Garrett he would. Not because he had any feelings for you. Why in the world would Dean Di Laurentiis even go out with someone like you? You’re complete opposites. 

·༻𐫱༺·

Garrett quickly got up to check on you. You assured him you were okay, and he insisted on taking you home. Hannah insisted she’d just get a ride from Logan or Dean, so you and Garrett left to drop her off at her dorm. Shortly after you got back, you decompressed what just happened. Slightly overwhelmed, you began to cry, upset at yourself for putting yourself in that dangerous situation. You were also angry at Dean for coming in to help you when you wished it were Garrett. It would help your head stop spiraling as you replay what Dean said about you. You heard a knock on your door. It was probably the RA coming to do room checks, but you opened the door to see Dean. 

“Hey, you left your sketchbook at Malone’s, I thought you’d want it back.”

“Thanks, Duh-ean”

“Duh-ean, I like it,” Dean laughed to himself. 

You wanted to slap yourself for saying that in front of him. 

“It’s ok, don’t be so hard on yourself about it.” Dean noticed your puffy eyes and red nose. 

“Have you been crying?” Dean asked. 

You were quiet. 

“Do you mind if I come in? You could use a friend if you want to talk about it.” You debated the idea before looking up at his eyes. They had genuine concern. Not wanting him to report back to Garrett and have Garrett pester you all night, you let him in. 

You both sat on your floor against the wall next to your shoe rack. 

“So, what’s going on?”

I’m overwhelmed

“I know.” Dean put his arm around you and pulled you into his chest.

“I’m sorry I jumped in like that, I know you can handle yourself. Nice move with the water though.”

“Thanks.” You giggled.

“I was worried about you. Trust me they won’t be bothering you anymore.”

You smiled.

“I went through your sketches. You really are talented.” Dean turned to a page, and it was a sketch of a purple orchid.

"This one is my favorite." Dean noted.

“Mom.”

“Mom? Is this your mother’s favorite flower?”

“Yeah. Orchids.”

“It’s beautiful.” 

You both had a moment looking at it. Dean could notice every small stroke you made and the little details in each petal. After seeing your sketch, Dean was at a loss for words for the first time. You hadn’t seen this sketch in a while. It was one of the things you drew when you missed your mom. A tear lightly rolled down your cheek. Dean noticed, cupped your cheek, and wiped it away with his thumb. You looked beautiful, your skin glowing from the galaxy projector you turned on at night. Dean lightly pulled away and apologized. 

“Sorry, I know you’ve had a rough night. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Dean removed his arm from you. You two just sat in silence. Dean wanted to say something so badly to break the silence, but held back, not trying to ruin the moment. You were so different than the girls Dean would usually go for. They'd always want to talk or gush about him, it was refreshing to just sit in silence and enjoy each other's presence. You slowly reached out to hold Dean’s hand. 

“Thanks, Dean.” You spoke.

Dean turned to you. “Hey, you got it right this time, good job, Y/N.” Dean reached to pat your head. “And don’t mention it. You Graham’s can easily hold your own.” Dean continued to stroke your hair.

A few minutes had passed, and Dean was about to say something before he heard light snoring against his shoulder. You had passed out from dozing off at your projector, with Dean's warmth next to you. Dean smiled as he gently lifted you off of him and carried you bridal style towards your bed. You were half asleep as he placed you down. He brushed hair out of your face before Dean tucked you in. He had turned to leave when you grabbed his arm. You gestured to him to come closer to you. He bent down to meet you at eye level. You kissed him on the forehead. 

“Sweet. Dean. Thank you.” 

You couldn’t see it, but Dean felt a light blush rush to his ears. If he had a tail, it would be wagging, patting against the floor. 

Dean smiled, “Goodnight, Y/N.”

Dean left quietly, closing the door behind you, this was the first time Dean didn’t want to leave a girl’s room. But you’re Garrett’s sister. What’s he thinking?

Dean got back to the house to find Garrett waiting for him, anticipating his sister. 

“How is she? Is she alright?”

“She’s fine Gar, she’s strong-willed, just like her big brother.” Dean patted his side as they both went up to their rooms.

Dean didn’t even notice his phone had blown up from a bunch of puck bunnies, the team, and the roommates texting him. When he was with you, he was in another world, ignoring all the noise from the outside. Dean ignored the text from Puck Bunnies and was torn about whether to admit he had feelings for you. For one, Garrett would murder him, and for two, he didn’t want to hurt you. He hated seeing you sad. The night you met, he felt it. He didn’t know that one simple look could give his heart a small poke. Seeing you with those puffy eyes made him only want to beat up the entire lacrosse team. As Dean lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, he pondered what in the world he should do. 

·༻𐫱༺·

By the end of the week, it was finally the day of the hockey game. It was a weekend, so you got to sleep in a bit for once. Your mind kept drifting to that night with Dean. Even so, your dreams were flooded with him, always ending with you kissing him, causing you to wake up as if it were a nightmare. But it wasn’t. You were more worried about the idea of Garrett finding out. Fuck, you like Dean Di Laurentis. The game went just as planned. Briar nearly won, 3-2 in overtime. Garrett and Logan scored goals, and you saw Dean body nearly half of Harvard’s bench. As you were walking towards the locker room to congratulate them, right outside the door, you heard some familiar voices.

“Well, aren’t we lucky boys? It's the little water tossing bitch from Malone’s”

“Stop.” You warned.

“Or what? You’re going to throw water at me again? Oh wait, I don't see any.” The cocky lacrosse player laughed.

You backed up towards the wall until you felt a large cup of ice-cold water fall on your head. You screeched out at how cold it was, and now you were drenched in water.

“Wow, for a girl who’s mute, you surely can scream.” 

Garrett immediately recognized your scream and ran out, fresh out of a shower. He almost broke the door off with how hard he slammed it open. Naturally, his teammates, including Dean, ran out to see you, crying and drenched in water. 

“You motherfuckers.” Garrett noted before punching one of the guys on the lacrosse team. All the other teammates jumped in to punch some other guys before the staff and coaches broke them up. Garrett and Dean got pretty beaten up. Hannah pulled Garrett off and walked him towards the medical area. You helped Dean up and noticed him wincing against his chest and arms. Dean thanked you as he looked up at you. 

“You’re wet, we should get you to the medical team, they can warm you up.”

“Dean.” 

“What?”

“Chest. Arm. Pain?”

“I’m f-fine, I promise.” 

“Liar.”

“Fine, I’ll go if you go.”

You agreed, holding onto him as he hobbled towards one of the medical rooms they typically use for PT. They gave you a towel and blankets as they propped Dean up on the examiner’s table. The athletic trainer motioned for Dean to take off his shirt, and he obliged, catching you off guard as you looked away, lightly blushing. You could see the various black-and-blue bruises on Dean’s body out of the corner of your eye. You knew what he did was taxing on his body, but seeing it only made you feel pain. Dean hissed as the trainer stretched him out and asked if various places hurt. 

“Good work, Di Laurentis, you didn’t fracture anything. Just ice your face tonight. Your girlfriend can help you hold it up for you.” 

You waved your arms, trying to deny it.

Dean laughed and thanked him as the trainer left the two of you alone. Dean tried to get up and winced before you walked up to help him. You were still a little cold, so you clung to Dean’s warmth. 

“Warm.”

“Gee thanks, for a second there I thought you were trying to help me.”

You hit him on the arm, causing him to drop his ice pack. You picked it up and handed it back to him. A little hurt, he pouted. 

“Wow, my ‘girlfriend’ is already trying to kill me.”

You wanted to punch him again, but he’s lucky he’s beaten up and needs your help. Garrett and Hannah catch up with both of you walking in the hallway. Garrett runs up to you. 

“Y/N! My sweet baby sister, are you alright, they didn’t hit you did they?”

“No, only water.” 

Garrett gave out a relieved sigh, mentioning that he and Hannah are heading out soon. Dean offered to drive you home, and Garrett didn’t argue. He trusted Dean. Plus, it looked like he needed someone to help him to his car. You helped Dean into the locker room, helping him pack his hockey bag as he lugged it over his shoulder. You were still on his other side, helping him walk. Even though he was limping, he reached to open the passenger side door for you. He slowly but surely got into the driver’s side, still wincing at his pain. 

Are you sure you’re ok to drive?

“Yes, I don’t want my ‘girlfriend’ to worry.” You were shocked at how much ASL Dean could comprehend in a week. 

Why do you keep saying that?

“I like it because I think it suits you.” 

You went quiet, staring at him. 

“U-Unless you don’t like it, I’ll stop saying it. You know what? Just forget about that whole thing together. It was a really funny joke? Haha?”

You kept staring at the bumbling idiot. 

“You don’t like it. Or do you like it? Just give me a sign Y/N!” Dean put his face into the wheel, causing the car to let out a small beep. 

“I like you, Dean.” 

Dean pulled his head up and pulled you in for a hug. 

“Are you sure? Did I say it too soon? I wasn’t sure how you felt.” Dean held the sides of your shoulders. You leaned into him for a gentle kiss. 

“I don’t hate you.”

“But…you like me right?”

“Yes, Dean.”

“What about Garrett?”

How about we just keep this our secret, for now? You winked. 

“Now we need our own secret language to flirt around Garrett, is there a Pig Latin version of ASL?”

You laughed as you both drove off to the house, then arrived and helped Dean up the stairs. You gave him one more kiss before going inside. 

“Boyfriend.” You spoke.

“Girlfriend.” Dean replied, smiling brighter than he had ever before. He’d been waiting for you to say those words and can’t wait to hear them again. 

You think you’re the worst aunt in the world. No, you don’t think that you are. You know that you are.

It’s a week until your niece’s birthday and you didn’t have a present planned. You felt like shit. You haven’t seen her in a year and yet you completely forgot to get her a gift. 

And it wasn’t like it was because you were busy! You were actually free. Free as you could be anyway. You got laid off from your job and were staying with your friend, Bob and his superhero team until you could find a new place to live and a new way to get money. 

You bury your face in your palms, your laptop was discarded nearby on the couch. Everything Emma wanted either couldn’t get shipped in time or was way too expensive for you to get even if you didn’t get fired. 

Maybe you could ask someone on the team for help. You’ve grown close to them over the months you’ve stayed at the watchtower. You somehow became part of the their little family which you were always thankful for. In Yelena’s words, a friend of Bob is a friend of theirs. 

Bob’s a no, so is Ava, Yelena and Alexei… would they be of help? Bucky’s my best bet-

“What’s up with you?” You jolt up, glaring at the man who startled you. John Walker. You got along with him well enough but your dynamic leaned more towards bickering compared to the other members of the team. And you were not in a mood to start a fight. He laughs at your expression. “Geez, I forgot how grumpy you are.”

“Go to hell, Walker. I’m sulking about how much of a bad aunt I am.” You lean your head back to hit the armrest.

He sits next to you with an eyebrow raised. “Didn’t even know you were an aunt.”

“There’s lots of things I don’t tell you,” you grumble. “That’s beside the point. It’s my niece’s birthday and I have nothing to show for it. I feel as bad of an aunt as you’re a bad dad.”

“Hey!” He playfully hits your arm. “Cut me some slack, will you? I’m showing up more.” He opens his mouth to say something but he sees your distressed  and the teasing dies on his tongue. He rubs the back of his neck. “Look, Valentina’s been nagging me to clear up some storage in one of the vacant rooms. Says it might be useful one day. You can probably make use of some of the stuff there.”

You sit up, intrigued. “Depends. What’s in there?”

“Just a couple of merch that never got sold.” He waves dismissively. “The people of New York don’t really like us after all.” 

“Yeah,” you sigh. “I mean, Emma is a fan of Bucky and Yelena. I bet she’d love a gift about them.”

“Great!” He drags you up, leading you to the elevator. “Now Valentina will stop being up my ass about it.”

You turn to look at him. “Are you just using my situation to get out of doing work?”

That silence you received was your answer.

———

When you entered the room John was talking about, it didn’t look that much different compared to the other rooms in the watchtower. 

Well, other than the boxes of course. And holy shit, were there a lot. You saw John rummaging through all of them. You manage to spot out some shirts, posters, mugs and even action figures which he was delighted to find.

“Check this out!” He exclaims, picking up a Bucky action figure. He presses the button at the back which led to the figure yelling out: Armed and Dangerous! in a voice that sounded undeniably like Bucky’s. You grinned, trying to stifle a laugh. “How’d Valentina get him to do this?” 

“No clue. But Emma would love this.” You take the toy from him and press the button multiple times to hear the same line. You grab another action figure that looked like Yelena. You press the button on the back. Widow’s Bite! said the figure. You chuckled, pressing it a few more times.

“I should keep some of the ones of me.” John mumbled to himself. “You think my son would like this?” He looked up and saw you staring at another pile of boxes. 

You move towards it and open it. There stood a lot of merchandise in blue and yellow. He loomed above you to see what you were looking at. “Oh shit, didn’t know Bob had some stuff Valentina scrapped.” He shrugs. “Make sense. Don’t think anyone knows that Bob’s Sentry. Aside from us and now, you.”

You stare at its contents. It wasn’t much. You found shirts with Sentry’s logo, blankets with the yellow and blue color scheme with some sun patterns on it,  hoodies with the same colors and the logo on the pocket. 

But one caught your eye the most. A plush of Sentry which looked accurate to how the team described what Bob looked like, wearing the exact same suit that you saw him wear when he had to train as Sentry. You supposed it made sense, Valentina wanted him to be the perfect hero after all, but looking down at the plush just made your heart flutter. You pick up the box, John crossed his arms and looked at you skeptically. “What’d you need that for?” He squints.

Heat rose to your cheeks. “Do you want me to help clear stuff out or not?” You snap defensively. “I already got all I needed anyway. I’m just helping.”

John didn’t look convinced. He looked amused. You wanted to punch him in the face but decide against it as he was a super soldier. Not that you would land a hit if he wasn’t one though.

You hear him trying not to laugh. You ignore him, gritting your teeth.

This is why he’s Emma’s least favorite Avenger, you bitterly remind yourself.

———

The box stood near your door but the contents inside were scattered all around your room. You made use of the blanket due to its soft material. You wore the shirt when you went to bed. You put on the hoodie when going out to take a stroll around New York. And you slept with the miniature and softer (probably) version of Sentry. 

No one in the team knew about it. Aside from John who saw you carry the box to your room, the team had no idea you were hoarding a bunch of Sentry merchandise. For a while, it worked. You’d wear the clothes in the comfort of your room or when they weren’t around to see you wear it. You weren’t ashamed per se. It was more of the mortification you felt once they would find out. How do you explain that you’ve been surrounding yourself in merchandise that resembles your best friend? It’d sound weird no matter what.

It even sounded weird to you. Was it a way to get closer to your best friend? Was it a comfortable luxury to have around for free? Was it a way to support your best friend? Was it because the quality was that good? Was it all of the above? Who’s to say?

What matters the most is that no one can find out. You didn’t feel like explaining yourself. 

That was until the day of Emma’s birthday. 

You pressed the Sentry plush tight against your chest, dragging the blanket up to shield yourself from the cold that suddenly entered your room.  

Then you hear the door close and someone calling your name. “Uh, You awake…?” 

You must have thought it was Ava. You did tell her and someone else to wake you up earlier than usual. They were the only ones available since John and Bucky had a mission and Alexei and Yelena were on their own side quest in the city.

Then it dawns on you. Ava wouldn’t have used the door. The other person was…

“Bob?” You squint your eyes, trying to adjust your vision. He stood next to your bed, looking around at your room, surprised that it was decked out in Sentry merchandise. You flinch. “Bob!” 

“Where did you get all this stuff?” He looked flustered yet you’ve never seen him smile that wide in all the years you’ve known him. “Did you make it?” 

“No, it was just lying around…” you weakly defend yourself, tucking the Sentry plush between you and the blanket. “I helped Walker get rid of some stuff lying around so Valentina can have more space.”

His smile dropped. “Oh, okay. Well, you told me to wake you up for Emma’s birthday. You want me to come with you?” 

“It’s fine.” You shake your head. “Think she’s still scared of you because you’re too tall.” 

That gets a laugh out of him. “What did you get her?”

“I would have given her all this Sentry stuff but I forgot that she doesn’t know who that is,” you lied through your teeth. You wouldn’t have given all of it away. At least most of them. “So I got her a Yelena and Bucky action figure. She loves them to death.” 

He smiles. “Tell Emma I said hi and your “evil step sister” Marina.” He says, teasingly. “I’ll see you later.” 

“Yeah, yeah, make fun of me all you want. She’s just nice cause she knows I like you.” You smirk as you see the tips of his ears turn red as he closes the door.

You get up from your bed and open your closet. You realized you had nothing to wear for the cold weather outside. Nothing except a certain yellow and blue hoodie that was staring at you from the corner of your eye.

“Oh, Fuck me.” 

You left the room with a sour expression on your face. Ava, who was leaning against the kitchen counter, noticed what you were wearing right away and hid her smile behind her fist. “Nice outfit. Don’t you think, Bob?”

Bob was sitting on a chair, trying to hide his red face behind a book to no avail. It’d probably be more convincing had the book not been upside down.

“Shut up,” you made your way to the elevator in hopes that they couldn’t see how flustered you really were. 

It was only a matter of time before the rest of the team found out too. You gave yourself a pat on the back for even lasting this long.

———

Once you got back to the watchtower from Emma’s birthday party, you still felt like the worst aunt in the world. The party was fine, great even. You got to see some of your family again, make small talk, one of them even said that you could stay with them for a while as you get back on your feet. You declined of course. You already had a home after all.

Still despite all that, the highlight of your day was Emma making a gift for you even if it was her birthday. Marina mentioned that she was taking up crocheting and so, she gave you a tiny crocheted doll that was her school project. 

Apparently, she did remember Bob. She made him as well. He was wearing that stupid blue sweater that you remember vividly when you saw him on the news as part of the New Avengers. 

She also made it so that you and Bob couldn’t be separated. You both had a magnet connecting you. In Emma’s words, it was so that you wouldn’t lose each other again. You nearly cried on the spot.

You stare at the dolls in your hands, a smile creeping up on your face. You place them both on your bedside table, staring at them for a bit. 

You move them some more so that they face each other. Maybe I can move them together some more-

“You going to shower?” John asked, barging into your room. You wince, heat rushing to your face, both of the dolls drop to the floor. Were you actually about to do that? “What were you doing?”

“Knock next time, will you?” You glare at him but ultimately, get up and get your clothes. He notices the hoodie you’re wearing and opens his mouth to speak. “Don’t even think about it.” 

You walk past him and he walks the opposite way to get to the training room. You weren’t aware that someone went in your room and took something. Not even until you came back.

You were tired and thanks to already eating at the party, you were full and ready to go to bed. You pick up the crocheted Bob from the floor and put him next to the miniature Sentry before getting underneath the covers.

It completely slipped your mind that his other half was missing. 

Bob didn’t though. After all, he took it. He promised in his mind to return it tomorrow but for now, it was in his hand as he stared at the ceiling. 

He’ll apologize tomorrow for taking it but it still felt nice to have a piece of you with him.

Weird guy keeps hitting on you so you go to logan for help

“It’s Block Party! You have to go!” Allie insisted, dragging you to your closet. You huffed an argument but she pretended not to hear it. “If Hannah’s coming, so are you.”

“Hannah doesn’t want to go either!” You reasoned, to which Hannah tried to offer an agreement.

“Hannah does want to go because it’s a chance to talk to Justin.” Allie cut in. “You are going because you never go out with us anymore. It’s one night, Y/N/N. It won’t kill you.”

“It might.” You mumbled but sighed in defeat. “Alright, fine. Go on then. Pick my outfit.”

Allie clapped in triumph and focused back on your clothes, flipping through hangers and voicing her internal monologue regarding the selection.

“You definitely need more going out tops.” Allie shook her head. “Remind me to take you shopping this weekend.”

“I don’t need going out tops if I don’t go out.” You countered.

“Or you don’t go out because you don’t have going out tops.”

“Whatever works, Al.”

After a few more minutes of her rummaging in your closet and drawers, she finally found an outfit she approved of. You changed and she insisted on doing your hair and makeup as well. You knew better than to fight her at that point.

When you and your friends got to the block party, it was in full swing. You had pre-gamed at your apartment so there was a light buzz in your head. You still didn’t want to be out but it wasn’t as bad as you were anticipating.

After a while of dancing with your friends, you needed to sit for a bit. You loved Allie and her sense of style, but she managed to pick the most uncomfortable shoes in your closet. They were definitely meant for sitting events, but you had to agree when Allie said they made your legs look nice and long.

“Any man would be lucky to be wrapped up in those legs.” She had commented when she saw your whole look put together.

You were looking around for an open table when your caught sight of the one person at Briar that you didn’t want to see.

“Fuck.” You whispered, quickly turning so your back was to him.

“What is it?” Hannah asked quickly.

“Remember that guy I’ve been complaining about?” You answered, trying to mask the instant annoyance that came from seeing him. “Behind me.”

You watched as Hannah looked over your shoulder, searching for a moment, then nodded in understanding.

“We can go if you want.” She offered.

“No.” You shook your head a little. “We came for you to finally make a move, so we’re not leaving until you do… I’m gonna get something else to drink cause I’m too sober to deal with this. If I get in trouble, I’ll call you.”

“Don’t hesitate, okay?” Hannah urged.

“Never do.” You flashed a smile before separating from your group.

You snuck through the crowd, keeping your eyes forward. You doubted he would recognize you just from the back of your head so you could at least make it to the drinks. Getting back to your friends would be a separate issue, but at least you’d have some more liquor in your system.

Once you got your drink, you swallowed a mouthful. It burned slightly and you sucked a breath in through your teeth.

“I thought that was you.” A grossly familiar voice came from behind you and you jumped.

“Hello, Eli.” You said tightly, eyes scanning the crowd for an out.

You didn’t care who it was. Allie, Hannah, you’d even settle for Justin.

“I thought you said in class that you weren’t going to come.” He continued.

“I didn’t talk to you about tonight in class.”

“I know. I heard you talking to-”

“You were eavesdropping.”

“A little, yeah.” He laughed, trying to appear embarrassed about it. You looked over at him, a slight curl in your lip. “You look great. Beautiful, even.”

You rolled your eyes and looked back to the crowd.

“Yeah…” You mumbled, not really paying attention.

Where were your friends?

“I uh, assume this outfit is courtesy of one, Miss Allie Hayes.” He continued. Without looking, you could feel he had taken a step closer.

“No, they’re my clothes.”

“I’ve never seen you wear anything like this.”

“Yeah, cause I don’t need a mini skirt for class. T-shirt and jeans work just fine…”

“And your ‘boyfriend’. He doesn’t mind you dressing like this?”

Your head snapped his way and he feigned innocence.

“You did say you were seeing someone. Didn’t you? Why are you here and not with him? Why isn’t he getting your drink?”

You shook your head and turned away again. Something about that man made your skin crawl.

Across the party, you saw a different group of familiar faces. Dean Di Laurentis, Garrett Graham, John Tucker, and John Logan. You stood a little straighter at the realization. You had the same class with Eli as you did with Logan. You had talked to him a few times, worked on projects and assignments before. He had even invited you to parties before. Not that you ever went.

You smiled slightly to yourself, mumbled a polite goodbye, then ducked away. You slipped through the crowd, narrowing avoiding spilling your drink as you ducked and dodged couples dancing.

Finally, you popped out on the other side and made it to the guys.

“Logan!” You called for his attention. He looked your way and smiled.

“Hey! I thought you weren’t coming.” He greeted.

“The girls dragged me out.” You nodded. “I hate to do this but I actually came over here for a favor.”

“Pause.” Dean cut in, pointing to you as his eyes raked up and down. Lingering on your legs. “Logan. Who is this?”

“Right, sorry. Guys, this is Y/N. We have Consumer Behavior together.” Logan introduced. “Her work has saved my ass on more than one occasion.”

“Dean Di Laurentis.” Dean bowed slightly and you had to laugh a little. “Nice to meet you.”

“I know who you are.” You shook your head with a laugh. “Everyone knows who you are, all four of you guys.”

“Which also means she knows what you’re up to.” Garrett told Dean, who was offering you a freshly poured shot.

“I’m not up to anything.”

Your eyes flicked to Logan in question and he gave a small shrug. Dean poured another and Logan took both small cups, holding the other one out to you. You accepted it, nodded in thanks, and tapped the two together in a toast before downing the liquor. You winced slightly and coughed, which earned a laugh from Logan beside you.

“Dude.” Tucker added. “You’re always up to something.”

“I resent that. Just because she-”

“I’m sorry but can this-” You gestured vaguely to Dean, handing the now empty cup back to him. “-wait? I need to borrow Logan.”

“Shit, yeah, my bad.” Logan laughed and gestured for you to go with him. You two walked a few feet away and then he faced you again. One hand in his pocket, the other holding his original drink. “What’s going on?”

“You know Eli from class?” You began, inching a bit closer as if you were telling a secret. You were a little convinced that Eli would pop up as soon as you said his name like some freaky version of Beetlejuice. Well, freakier version.

“Uh, yeah, a little. The guy’s a little…”

“Weird.” You filled in. “He’s fucking weird, Logan.”

“He bothering you?”

“I’ve tried being nice about it. He DMs my Instagram every other day. He likes my old posts. He comments on old posts. I’ve had to delete his comments and restrict his account. He won’t leave me alone. It’s like he thinks I’m playing hard to get or something.”

“You didn’t just block him?”

“I don’t trust that I can block him and he’ll let it go, not when we have a class together.” You confessed. “I’ve even tried telling him I’m seeing someone.”

“And he doesn’t care?”

“He doesn’t believe me! He said that I don’t have anyone posted, that I don’t go out, I’m never walking with a guy, and that none of my friends have posted anything either.”

“That is a bit much.” Logan nodded, looking over your head for a moment.

“He found me when I was getting a drink a few minutes ago. I don’t know what else to do so I just thought…”

“That I could get him to back off?”

“Yeah, maybe.” You shrugged a little. “Sounds a little pathetic now that you say it.”

“So what do you need? Just to hang out and put on a show?”

“Maybe?” You laughed nervously. “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead, and I wasn’t even sure you would say yes.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“It’s not like we talk much outside of class.”

“Yeah, but that’s cause you never come to anything I invite you to.”

“Oh, come on. You guys invite everyone.”

“I don’t.”

“So I’m special?”

“Yeah, maybe…” He flashed a smile but nodded. “Okay, yeah. I’ll help you.”

“Really?” You brightened. “You’re a lifesaver. Thank you.”

“But you owe me.” He pointed at you.

“The times I saved your grade isn’t enough?”

“No, not at all.”

“Alright, fine, I’ll do your next Consumers assignment.” You waved him off. “I appreciate you talking to him.”

“Oh, I’m not talking to him. Not unless he comes to us.” He laughed, taking his empty hand out of his pocket. He gestured for your cup and you offered it to him in confusion. “And you’re not drinking that.”

Without explanation, he dropped it in the nearest trashcan. He came back, offering you his now empty hand.

“My drink.” You frowned.

“I’ll get you a new one.” He offered with an amused smile.

“That one was fine.”

“You ever look away from it?”

You nodded slightly.

“You don’t trust to block the guy. You trust to not see your drink?”

“Fair point.”

You took the hand he offered and he gave you a slight tug to follow him. You did, looking back to try and find your friends. They were still lost in the crowd.

They wouldn’t miss you for a little while, right?

“Shit, Logan.” Garrett laughed as the two of you made it back to his friends. “I think Dean owes you an apology.”

“For what?” Dean spun around. “Oh, shit.”

“It’s not-” You tried.

Logan freed his hand from yours and put his arm over your shoulders instead.

“You two sneak off for a chat and come back… What? Dating?” Tucker asked and you just looked up at Logan.

You felt your phone buzzing in your pocket so you checked it.

Hannah was calling.

Maybe they would miss you.

“Shit.” You whispered and answered, turning slightly away from the boys’ conversation and blocking your other ear. “Hey, Han.”

“Y/N/N! What happened to you? We couldn’t find you.” Hannah answered. Even though she was likely yelling, the music was fighting to drown out her voice.

“Yeah, well. Long story short, Eli.”

“Shit.” She breathed. “Where are you? Allie and I will come help.”

“Another long story short, Logan.”

“Lo- Like John Logan from the hockey team?!”

“Yeah… I’ll explain later.”

“Alright… Call if you need a rescue, okay?”

“Absolutely. Thanks, lovey.”

You ended the call and turned back, shifting closer to Logan and unintentionally leaning some of your weight onto him.

“Everything okay?” Logan asked, looking over at you.

“I let Allie pick my shoes and they are not meant for standing.” You laughed.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Logan laughed. 

“Because Allie was so proud of the outfit she put together despite her hating my closet.” You gestured to yourself and you didn’t miss the way his eyes followed the path of your hand. “She said…”

Logan met your eyes with a silent question.

Any man would be lucky to be wrapped up in those legs.

“She said the shoes make my legs look longer.” You filled in.

“She was right.” Logan nodded.

“She also said the skirt distracts from my boring shirt.”

“I see what she means.” Logan laughed and you found yourself smiling in response.

“You’re wearing a plain shirt and a Carhartt.” You tugged on his jacket slightly. “But you’re telling me that my outfit is boring?”

“Not the whole outfit.”

“Oh, so just half of it?”

“Yeah, basically.”

“I am regretting coming over here already. Remind me why I thought this was a good idea.”

He laughed as he guided you to the nearby picnic table his friends had claimed. He sat on the table and left a gap between his legs. Again, he reached for your hand.

You accepted, though the questioning look in your eyes didn’t falter. He just winked and smiled, and that was enough for you to go along with whatever plan he had. You took your seat, crossing one leg under yourself and adjusting your skirt accordingly. You leaned back against Logan’s leg and looked over at the stage, watching the band perform. Logan was laughing and joking with his friends. Whatever was so funny, you didn’t know or didn’t really care.

You did realize you liked hearing him laugh.

“Oh, wait. You know her.” Garrett said suddenly, then he showed you his phone screen. “The waitress from Malone’s.”

“Hannah.” You corrected, glancing at the photo of her on his screen. “What about her?”

“What’s her deal?”

You leaned forward, crossing your arms over Logan’s leg. His hand found its way to your back, fingers tracing slight patterns between your shoulder blades that almost made you shiver.

“What do you mean?”

“Like… Okay, I have a class with her and she was the only one to ace a paper.”

“Not surprising.” You shook your head. “She knows her stuff.”

“So I try to get her to help me out so I don’t fail again and she said no.” Garrett lifted his hands for a dramatic shrug.

“Well it could have something to do with you not knowing her name.” You offered. “Or she just doesn’t want anything to do with you.”

“No, it’s not that.”

“No? You sure? Can’t blame her if it is.”

“Couldn’t possibly be that.” Logan joked.

“If it’s not personal, she is usually pretty busy.” You explained. “I think she has three jobs, and then her classes and her music.”

You felt a hand tap your arm and you turned to face Logan.

“I think he’s coming over here.” Logan warned and you frowned, deflating a little.

Logan chuckled, tapping his fingers under your chin. “Trust me, okay?”

“What other choice do I have?” You gave a small shrug.

“Yo, Dean!” Logan called and the blond came over, a slight wobble in his step from too much to drink too fast. “You see that guy coming over?” Logan shamelessly pointed at Eli. That seemed to make him hesitate and change course. “Would you think he has a shot with Y/N?”

“Fuck no.” Dean answered with a laugh and no hesitation. “Logan, you barely have a shot with her. No offense.”

You scoffed in offense and whacked at Dean’s arm, earning a laugh from him and Logan.

“Does he seriously try?” Dean asked you.

“Relentlessly.” You nodded. “I can show you the DMs. It’s at least twice a week.”

“Please do.” Dean laughed and sat near you on the bench.

“Once, he commented ‘be my waifu’ on an Instagram post from two years ago.”

You pulled your phone, seeing a series of texts from Allie.

WTF!?!?!

LOOK UP!!!!

YOURE KIDDING ME

!!?!?!??!?!

You swiped the messages away before opening the one sided thread in your Instagram DMs. You passed Dean your phone before looking towards the last place you saw your friends. Allie had found something to stand on and was waving frantically towards you. You smiled and offered an awkward wave. She looked down for a moment, head moving as she was likely typing an aggressive message, then she looked back up. Her eyes were wide and her hands were swinging wildly still when you felt Dean tap you with your phone.

“That’s sad, actually.” Dean said, fake empathy in his voice. “Oh, also Allie is very confused.”

“You read my text!?” You snatched your phone and saw it was open to yours and Allie’s messages.

IS THAT JOHN FUCKING LOGAN!?

YOURE DATING JOHN LOGAN?????

WHEN DID THIS START!?!?

Y/N Y/L/N STOP IGNORING ME

“She’s gonna kill me.” You sighed.

“She’ll get over it.” Logan answered.

“No.” You shook your head as you thumbed your response.

don’t make this a thing. i’ll explain later… call if hannah goes to make a move tho and i will come RUNNING

“This is gonna be her go-to for quite literally anything. ‘Remember when you didn’t tell me about you and John Logan?’ Allie will definitely hold a grudge over this.”

“Yeah, but is it something?”

You shifted to look up at him. His head was cocked slightly, his cup abandoned beside him and both hands bracing the way he leaned back on the table.

“Just a favor...” You answered after a hesitation. That was the truth, but it still felt suddenly wrong.

Before either of you could say anything else, there was a new presence beside you. You expected to turn and see Allie had stomped her way over to demand answers or Hannah had come with some excuse to whisk you away. Instead, you turned and saw Eli standing there.

Immediately, you tugged the hem of your skirt down and shifted to be facing straight. Logan leaned forward, an arm coming across your chest and pulling you slightly closer. You reached up and put one hand on his arm, the other going for his hand. His thumb ran gently back and forth over your knuckles. A heat raced up your neck as your cheeks burned but you tried not to acknowledge it. Prior to the last few minutes, you hadn’t considered anything with Logan but now that the thought had been planted…

Now that you knew how easy it was to be around him…

“This’ll be good.” Dean mumbled.

“Hey, man.” Logan said casually. “You’re in our Consumers class, right? Elliot.”

“Eli.” Eli corrected sharply. “I just wanted to talk to Y/N about something.”

“Up to her.”

“Can’t we talk here?” You asked politely, offering an easy and comfortable smile. “It’s not like we’re telling secrets or anything.” You laughed a little.

“I was hoping to save some embarrassment.”

“For who?”

“Fine… I just wanted to see why you lied to me.” He said sharply, as if you had offended him.

“I didn’t.”

“Yeah, you said you weren’t looking for anything.”

“Wasn’t.” You shrugged. “But I did also say I was already seeing someone.”

“Why are you here, Y/N?” He asked, nearly desperate. You tried to keep your face neutral. “You talk and you tempt me but then you leave.”

“I’ve never given you that idea.” You had to laugh.

“You expect me to believe you, a beautiful and innocent and sweet and kind and smart woman, would date him?”

“Have you been bothering her outside of class?” Logan cut in, a new edge to his voice.

“No.” Eli said quickly.

“No, I've seen the way you try to corner her.”

“Yeah and I’ve seen the messages.” Dean added with a small, almost pitiful laugh. “You bother the fuck outta her. She’s just too nice to tell you to fuck off. We, on the other hand, aren’t. So fuck off.”

“Who was talking to you, blondie?” Eli turned on Dean. 

“Wrong fucking answer, buddy.”

“Don’t you have some other girl to make question her morals?”

Dean went to stand but Logan grabbed his friend’s arm.

“Blondie here can still kick your ass. I wouldn’t pick a fight with hockey players.” You commented, squeezing Logan’s hand slightly. “You won’t win.”

“I like her.” Dean smiled to Logan, who gave a small chuckle in return.

Garrett and Tucker had now come closer, as if recognizing the tension. Eli took a step back.

“Just leave her alone, alright?” Logan said calmly. “She doesn’t want shit to do with you.”

“But she suddenly wants you?” Eli snapped.

You didn’t bother trying to keep your expression neutral. Your brows raised and you let out a quiet “wow”.

“Why are you here, Eli?” You asked plainly. “You don’t respect anything I tell you. You don’t believe I’m seeing someone. You literally see me with him. But you come over here and… What? Think I’ll run off into the sunset with you? I see your DMs. I see the comments. You ever think that maybe there’s a reason I ignore all of them?”

“You’re better than this, my darling.”

“Alright.” Logan announced. You felt him lean forward, his chest against your back. “You heard her. It’s time for you to go.”

“Or what?” Eli lifted his chin, almost trying to challenge Logan.

Part of you wondered if Logan would’ve moved differently had you not been sitting in front of him, tucked under his arm. Would he have been more like Dean, ready to fight? Would he have been like Garrett and Tucker, a quiet but strong presence? Or would he be the same he was, tense but in control?

“What more proof do you need that I don’t want anything to do with you?” You said sharply. You moved Logan’s arm and stood, coming nearly eye to eye with Eli thanks to the lift of your heels.

“It won’t last. He will break your precious heart and toss you aside like you’re worthless.” Eli nearly pleaded. “I will treat you like a princess. Like a queen. You deserve so much better.”

You looked over at Logan, at Dean, then Tucker. Garrett had disappeared.

“I like where I am.” You gave a small, nonchalant shrug. “Take a fucking hint and-”

You were cut off by your phone buzzing. You looked down at it, ignoring the pleas from Eli.

It was Allie.

“No fucking way.” You said when you answered. “Is she really?!”

“Yes, get your cute ass down here now!”

“Okay, yes, coming!”

“You’re not off the hook for whatever that is with Logan.”

You laughed and hung up the phone. Still ignoring Eli, you turned and grabbed Logan’s hand. You didn’t need to bring Logan with you. Surely, if Eli still tried to follow and talk to you, the boys would block him, but you just wanted to bring him along.

“Come with me!” You said in excitement and gave a slight tug.

He laughed, said something you weren’t listening to, but gave in to your efforts. He stood, waved to his friends, and followed you back towards the main party. As you reached the crowd, you had to slow down.

Logan was close behind you, one hand still in yours and the other was now on your hip. You glanced down at it and felt the heat on your cheeks again. With the people around you, there was no way Eli could see much. He didn’t have to put on a show for anyone, yet he still went out of his way to keep hold of you.

You liked it.

When you finally got through the crowds, you found Allie and Dexter already watching Hannah.

“Girl. I thought you were kidding.” Dexter told Allie, offering a double take as you approached with Logan in tow.

“John Logan, this is Allie and Dexter. Allie and Dexter, John Logan.” You introduced quickly, though it was likely they knew who he was. “We have Consumer Behavior together and he is my savior tonight.”

“Okay.” Dexter gave a nod of approval.

“Shut up! We can talk about that later.” Allie insisted, smacking yours and Dexter’s arms. “She’s doing it.”

You turned and saw Hannah making her way to Justin. Her attempt was cut short by someone knocking into her and spilling their drink. You turned and dropped your head against Logan’s arm, huffing in defeat. He laughed a little and patted your back.

“Oh, hell no!” Allie said firmly and you looked back up. Dexter pulled her back and when you followed their focus, you saw Garrett Graham offering Hannah his jacket.

You turned back to Logan.

“What the hell is he doing?” You asked in shock.

“I have no idea.” He laughed a little, though his expression was just as confused. “Guess that’s why he was asking about her.”

“Huh…” You nodded slowly. “I guess rejection is the way to Graham’s heart.”

“Or he just really wants help with that next paper.” Logan joked.

You smacked his chest slightly but laughed a little bit.

“The things we do for our grades, huh?” You teased.

“Hey, I’m doing this for more than a grade.” He put his hands up in surrender.

“Are you?” You cocked your head.

The sun had fully set by now and there was a slight chill in the air. A chill ran down your spine, making you regret agreeing to the skirt. As cute as it was, it was not weather appropriate.

“Oh, shit. Here.” Logan noticed, quickly taking off his jacket. He offered it to you, but you tried to push his hands away.

“I’ll be fine. I don’t think I’ll stick around much longer anyway.” You tried.

“Shut up and take it.” He urged gently, pushing the jacket back at you.

With a sigh, you did. It was already warm and you could smell his cologne on it.

“Thank you.” You said, shoving your hands in the pockets. “For all of it, tonight.”

You felt a tap on your shoulder and looked over to see Dexter pointing between him and Allie. He took her wrist and began to pull her away, despite Allie’s protests. Dexter gave you a pointed look, to which you rolled your eyes, then they blended into the crowd.

“They are gonna have a field day with this.” You laughed.

Logan took hold of the front of his jacket and pulled you closer, flush against his chest. You let out a small noise of surprise at the action and he just smiled at you.

He had a very pretty smile. How had you not noticed it earlier?

“Can I tell you something?” Logan asked, his voice low as if he was telling you a secret.

“Sure.” You nodded.

“I’m glad you came up to me tonight.”

“I’m glad you agreed. Otherwise, I would’ve had to sick Allie on him and that would not have been pretty.”

“You still can, I mean…” He shrugged and you laughed. You drew your hands out of the pockets and rested one on his arm while the other fiddled with the chain around his neck. “Y/N…”

“John.” You titled your head back to meet his eyes.

“Let me take you to dinner tomorrow.” He nodded slightly.

“Seriously?” Your brows raised. “Shit, not- Not that I don’t want to, just… It’s kinda out of nowhere.”

“Yeah, a little, but…” He smiled but he almost seemed nervous.

“John Logan, am I making you nervous?” You laughed.

“Do you want to go or not?” He laughed, ignoring your question.

It starts with a shower. 

You’re freshly awoken and groggy and you had been so tired the previous night that you went to sleep without washing your hair. You, unsurprisingly, woke up with your hair still greasy and unkept which just isn’t right. You curse yourself for not doing anything self-care related the night before, but it’s hard to really care for yourself when you’re teaching five-year-olds for seven hours and then running to the coffee shop for another five hour shift. New York is expensive. 

It’s so expensive that you have to work your ass off to make ends meet, and you’re still living in a shitty apartment on the Lower East Side. The type of apartment where you make sure to make a whole show of opening your apartment and slamming the door shut to alert any lingering mice that a human is home and could hurt them (you could never hurt a fly). The type of apartment where you have to make-do with the fact that your front door doesn’t properly shut unless you turn the knob and click the door closed just right. It’s not the ideal living situation. But you make do: your cat, Chester, is a good tool to scare away mice and you installed a second lock on your door just in case. It’s fine. 

What’s not fine, however, is you stripping off your pajamas before turning the faucet on your tub. 

And no water comes out. 

“What the fuck,” you say, a loud declaration to yourself since no one is around and you really don’t have time for this. You turn to your sink and twist the spout. No water. 

You press your hands to your eyes and hope this is just an unlucky start to your day. You tell yourself that you’ll leave it alone for a few minutes and you’ll come back to the water working, whether it’s ice cold or lukewarm you will shower. You grab your bathrobe and toe your way to the kitchen. 

Thankfully, everything else seems to be working okay. Your toaster perfectly heats the piece of sourdough and you lather it in butter. Everything is going to be okay. You eat your bread silently, eyes double checking that Chester’s bowl is filled with food and water. You smile; as if on queue, the cat makes his way to the bowl and starts eating. At least someone is having a good start to the morning. 

When you’re properly fed and manage to look through your closet for an outfit for the day (there's a maxi skirt that you bought last week that you’ve been dying to show off), you trudge back to the bathroom to try again. You say a little prayer to a God you’re no longer sure you believe in if He would let your day start like this, and turn the faucet again. 

No water.

You don’t have it in you to pull a string of curses from your throat. You have forty minutes to get to work and you’re completely unprepared, and your eyes still haven’t de-puffed. You think you may cry, but that would do you no good. Instead, you go back to your bedroom and to your vanity and decide that you will cope in any way you can. You place your hair into two braids and secure it with cedar-scented hairspray to mask any smell (gross). You still put on your butter yellow maxi skirt with a matching long-sleeve and slip on your loafers. You use your half-empty cold cream to get rid of any residue on your face before applying your makeup as usual. By the time you’re finished, you check the clock to see that you have thirty minutes to make it to the elementary school. 

Before you leave your apartment building, you knock at the apartment across from you. You’re fidgety because you’re running a little late, but you don’t think you’ll be able to function unless your questions are answered. 

Frances, your elderly neighbor, opens the door. She has a book in her hand, the corner of a page dog-eared but she still has a finger in the novel to hold her place. Her eyes light up. “Good morning, dear! How are you?”

“Hi, Frances, I’m doing well.” You feel bad for not exchanging the pleasantry back, but you’re in a rush and you were already late to work last week when your train got delayed. “I’m not gonna lie, though, I’m running late for work but I need to ask—is your water working?”

Frances glances back into her apartment. “Well I just washed the dishes, so yes. I would say it’s working pretty well. Although, it was pretty murky when I first turned it on, which happens all the time! My advice is to let it run for a minute or two and the water will clear right up!”

God. How is this building still livable? You wonder how many health code violations your landlord must’ve dodged, or failed to take care of. 

Your smile is tight, incredibly forced as you thank your neighbor and wish her a good day. 

This, you think, is the worst start to your day that you’ve ever had. 

٠࣪⭑

You find Rachel in her classroom, grabbing her coat from the back of her chair. And when she finally takes notice of your presence and smiles, an immediate warmth flushes you over being looked at in a deeply maternal way. She, you think, has that kind of effect. Many years your senior, Rachel has still managed to become your closest friend at work, always spreading some sort of teaching-wisdom from years of doing a profession that you only started two years prior. For a second, you forget about your troubles. 

You two move in a synchronized manner, exiting the school doors and walking towards Yancy Street. It’s been a ritual for some time now that you two go to Maisie’s during your lunch hour. You think you’ll soften around the edges once you get your hands on a slice of lemon blueberry cake. 

Rachel is the first to break the comfortable silence. 

“You look really pretty today.”

You smile. “Thanks. I don’t feel it, though,” you reply honestly. “You wouldn’t believe it—the water in my apartment isn’t working.” You recount your shower story, and the sink, and how you asked Frances only to realize you’ve just been handed the worst luck for the day. 

“Murky water? Honey, how are you still living there?”

“The rent is so good, someone must’ve been murdered there.” Your mouth had nearly dropped when you saw the ad in a newspaper almost a year ago, bragging to all your friends at the amazing deal you caught. Most of them even seemed impressed by your search. Only, there had been one friend in particular who had seemed skeptical by the cheap price; the same friend who had put in your head that someone was probably murdered for the price to drop that low. You brushed him off at the time. 

“Well, until your water starts working again, please know that my place is always open for you.”

You mutter another thanks as you round the corner to Maisie’s, though you know you’ll never take Rachel up on her offer. You never liked the feeling of intruding in someone’s personal space, and to do that to your coworker seems to be the worst case scenario. You follow her into the shop and begin contemplating what exactly you’re going to do with your water not working. You suppose asking Frances if you could use her shower isn’t a terrible idea. She likes company, anyway. 

You and Rachel spot Ben Grimm before he can even notice. He’s a few people ahead of you, already ordering at the counter with his form towering over the people in front of you. You don’t hesitate to nudge Rachel with her elbow, to which she nudges you back. She tries to hide her blush. You don’t bother hiding your smirk. 

“Hey, Ben!” you call out once he steps to the side of the counter. 

He turns his head the wrong way at first, and you laugh. He follows the sound of your voice, turning the other way as he scans down at the crowd of people. His eyes light up when they meet yours, awkwardly shifting through the people around him until he’s next to you. Your name and Rachel’s slip delightedly from his lips as he clutches his bag of cookies to his side. “How are you guys?”

You and Rachel reply at the same time. 

“Good—“

“—Horrible.”

Ben’s eyes widen. “Okay, let’s backtrack.”

You and Rachel look at each other, and you motion for her to go first. 

“Well, we did finger-painting today. And no fights broke out, no one got paint in their clothes—which is the first year I can say that that’s ever happened. So, I’m feeling pretty great. I’m sure the kids do, too!”

You scoff. “I can’t even get my kids to not get crayon on their uniforms. I don’t know how Leo did it, but his collar is still stained red. Good luck with him in two years.”

Rachel looks like she’s filling that thought into her brain. “Noted.”

Ben shifts his look to you.

You sigh. “My water doesn’t work. I can’t shower.”

“Yikes. You know, I thought I smelt something when you guys entered—“

“Oh, shut up,” you swat his arm. It does more harm to you than him. 

The line moves forward, and you step with it, glaring at him despite the smile threatening to break across your face. You know Ben well enough to understand that the teasing is affectionate. You also know him well enough to understand that the more visibly annoyed you become, the more he enjoys himself.

“I’m serious, though,” he says. “What’re you gonna do?”

You just need to get through the day first; to deal with rambunctious kids before your own problems. You shrug, choosing not to answer.

٠࣪⭑

You hear his voice before you see him. 

You’re too busy sorting through your array of keys, entering the front of your apartment building. Your mind is half on the pesto pasta you plan to reheat in the oven, half on the fact that you have two hours of alone time until your shift at the coffee shop. You hoped that you would spend it watching television with your reheated food, but now you think it’ll be spent trying to get a hold on your landlord. Who always seems to be on vacation. You climb two flights of stairs, fiddling with your apartment key. 

“I wanna see it.”

You jump, a small gasp escaping you as you clutch your chest and follow the sound of the voice. 

Johnny is leaning against your apartment door, eyes crossed and giving you a pointed look that leaves no room for questioning. 

“Johnny,” you lightly scold. “You scared me.”

He repeats, “I wanna see it. For myself.”

“See what?” You push him to the side and stick your key in the hole, turning it and entering your apartment, already knowing he’s a step behind you. You never questioned when Johnny shows up randomly, you just wish he wouldn’t scare you in the process of doing so. You turn back to him and raise a quizzical eyebrow. 

He closes the door behind him, turns the knob and clicks it just right to close. He’s observant like that. “Your water,” he replies. His head tilts as he looks up. “Or lack of.”

You shouldn’t be surprised. “I assume Ben told you.” 

“Like a good friend, yes. I didn’t even get a call.”

You fight a roll of your eyes. “Because it’s not your problem, Johnny.” Still, you guide him to your kitchen sink where he stands in front of it, kneeling down dramatically to stare at it close. When you turn the spout, no water comes out. You do it a second, third time for good measure. He continues to stare at it. 

After a few moments, he sighs and gets back up to his regular height, towering over you. He looks down at you with a frown, like you’re a puppy found in an alleyway. “Your problems are my problems. And this just won’t do.”

You try—you really do—to ignore the flutter in your chest at his words. After all these years, he still manages to disarm you. 

Being best friends with Johnny Storm should be a good thing. While the world only recently discovered his greatness, he’d been your little secret for a bit longer than that. You met when you were still in college, accidentally spilling coffee on his shirt. You’d been more shy back then, less comfortable with his presence, and was sputtering apologies faster than the cars driving by. You guess Johnny had taken a liking towards you, buying you a new coffee despite him being the one with the ruined shirt. He’s just thoughtful like that. 

And it should be a good thing—he’s a good friend! He knows your coffee order by heart, even knowing how to make it himself with just the right amount of cream and sugar. He cooks for you when you’re sick, and does your laundry when you’re fully healed to get rid of the excess germs and grossness that comes with the flu. He brings over leftovers of Ben’s cooking when you’re too tired from work to come to family dinner. Hell, he’s become an amazing hat trick when it comes to career days at school—he came in once with printed science worksheets that he somehow managed to convince Reed to help him put together. 

Being best friends with Johnny Storm should be a good thing. 

Except for the fact that you think you’re in love with him. Which may be the dumbest non-decision you’ve ever made in your life. 

And his words don’t really help. 

“It ‘won’t’ do’?” you manage to choke out. You hope he doesn’t hear the change of inflection in your voice. The way your words sound like it had to do somersaults in your throat before exiting. 

“No,” he says, thankfully still in his head, “it won’t.” His head snaps up, eyes locking on you. Your heart races. “Where’s Chester?”

You both do a once-over of your apartment, eyes lighting up when you spot Chester by the window, soaking up the fall sun. His head instinctively turns, as if sensing the two pairs of eyes on him. He purrs, and turns back to the window. You smile.

“Okay, headcount complete,” says Johnny, clapping his hands once. “Pack your bags.”

Your face contorts. “Huh?”

“Pack your bags,” he says, the way a person would say obviously. “You’re not living here.”

“And why is that?” 

He looks at you deadpan. “You don’t have working water.”

“And where would we stay?” you reply defiantly. “I hope whatever hotel you’re thinking of will come out of your pockets.”

He rolls his eyes. “Don’t be silly. You’re staying with me—with us, I mean. Me, Reed, Sue, Ben. At the Baxter Building."

You’ve been to the Baxter Building a handful of times, more than a handful. You do remember, though, a time you actively avoided the entirety of the building, too intimidated that Johnny lived there and you were still living with your parents in their two-bedroom at the time. The first time you entered was when you and Johnny were supposed to catch a floral exhibit at the MET, but he’d forgotten a coat. He barely spared you a second glance before pulling you into the building, nodding at the lift attendant and entering the elevator. You thanked God that day that no one was home, and you tried your best to not stare in awe at the floor-to-ceiling windows and slick sofas, waiting for Johnny to return from his bedroom. After that day, you’d been invited to family dinner because Sue was just extremely upset that she missed you the first time. Then, family dinners had become a regular occurrence for a while, until you finished your degree and you got a job—two, at that—and the dinners dwindled. You were too tired for the commute and traded Ben’s stellar cooking for your cooking that’s… less so. 

So you’re quite familiar with the layout and sense of comfort Johnny’s home can bring. 

But you gulp. You don’t think you can live there. 

“Johnny—“ you heave a breath, trying to piece your words together carefully. If you say the right things, he might leave this issue alone. “I’m calling my landlord later. He’s going to get my water fixed, I don’t need to go anywhere. I promise.”

He scoffs. He’s walking to your bedroom before you can stop him, “What, your landlord that’s always surfing in California? Yeah, let’s give him a call!” He opens your closet and reaches up on the top shelf where you keep your suitcase, lifting it down with ease. Your eyes turn away from where his shirt rides up, instead turning to stare at your bed because, wow, your throw blanket is super pretty. 

“I’m not asking you to move in with me,” he tries to rationalize the thoughts in your head. “Just pack the essentials, you know, some clothes, cat food, shower supplies, obviously. We’ll call your surfer landlord, and knowing him, he won’t get to it in at least five business days. Once this is all fixed, you’ll come back. Simple as that.” 

“I just—I just really don’t think this is a good idea.” The thought of living with Johnny makes your stomach churn, to be so close to him. Not only do you not want to do it for obvious reasons, but you don’t want to get in his way. His head is always in the clouds, and when it’s not, there’s something to get done. You imagine your perfume getting in the way of blueprints on his dresser. Chester sniffing at his clothes and leaving cat hair in his wake. It’s not a good idea. 

“It’s a great idea,” he says. “I’ve decided. You can’t change my mind, you know that.” 

You do know that. He’s always been the stubborn one. And you thought your stubbornness for not wanting to live in the Baxter Building would rival his own, but you feel your resolve slipping—as it always seems to do around Johnny. 

“I don’t want to get in your way, Johnny,” you say honestly; a last resort that will hopefully make him come to his senses. He’ll hopefully realize that you’re right, that he is very meticulous to how he spends his time and he doesn’t want you there for most of it. It’ll hurt, yeah, but it’ll stop him from doing something he’ll regret. 

He mulls over your statement, arms crossing as he eyes you. You look away, feeling suddenly scrutinized under his gaze. You contemplate if it’s a bad time to ask him to put your suitcase back above your closet (you can’t reach it). 

Finally, after moments that stretch out, he exhales. “Is that really what you think?”

“I mean, I don’t know. I’m just trying to be realistic.”

“Well,” he takes a step closer to you. “I would argue that I function better when you’re around. Johnny loves company, didn’t you know?”

Your nose scrunches. “I hate that. When you refer to yourself in third person.”

“I’m just stating the obvious! Since we’re being realistic.” He places a hand on your shoulder and it’s searing hot, not from any of his abilities. “I’m offering you to stay because I want you too. It’ll be like a really long sleepover—we barely have those! You’re always busy.” 

You bite your lip, contemplating. You feel the weight of his gaze, eyes searing into yours as if they’ll help convince you (they do, that’s the problem). You think about your morning, how pissed you were when the water wouldn’t work. How if it did, it still probably would’ve been cold and you’d be shivering your way into your robe. 

You think of the Baxter Building, considerably more luxurious than yours. You’ve been inside their bathroom before—there were multiple shower heads. 

You think of how much closer the building is to your school. 

You look back up at him, a conclusion beating into your brain. “Permission to be selfish?”

Johnny smirks. “The floor is yours.”

“… A shower at your place does sound nice.”

“Yes!” Johnny pumps a fist in the air, face contorting in a way that has WINNER plastered on it. “Yes! Keep being selfish! You can use Sue’s fancy soaps, and we have really nice towels. Hell, we can even try to give Chester a bath if he's down for it!” He places his hands on your shoulders and levels his head with yours. “This is going to be good. Think of it like a getaway. From this shitty apartment. That I’m still going to try to convince you to move out of, by that way.”

You laugh at that. “Okay, okay, fine. I’ll stay with you.”

His smile has been lighting up your world for a couple of years now, grin always made up of sunshine and a softness you could never properly place. It’s disarming, and magical—for lack of a better word in your vocabulary. It’s the reason he’s always been easily convincing you of his antics over the years. It’s the reason you go out of your way to do things you wouldn’t normally do, like picking him up an apple turnover at Maisie’s, just to see a glimpse of the upturned corners of his lips and sparkle in his eye. 

You file the smile he gives you under Top Five Johnny Smiles and grin back. 

“Okay, okay,” his words echo yours, but with the bewilderment of someone who finally got through to someone (does he know you never stood a chance?), “let me help you pack.” He turns back to your closet and eyes the array of clothes. “What shirts do you bring? Oh—what about that red sweater your kids love? The one they said is soft when they hug you.”

You exit your trance now that he’s preoccupied with something else. You quickly scan the suitcase and eye how much you can actually fit because you’re known as a chronic over-packer. You went on a weekend trip with your girls last month, and two days at a hotel in Montauk translated to two suitcases and your purse filled to the brim. You just operate like that, unfortunately. 

“No, not that one,” you reply. “I spilled yogurt on it two days ago.” It’s currently sitting on your ever-growing laundry pile, left unkept as you went about your week. 

Johnny turns to you and rolls his eyes, no bite behind it at all. “We can wash it, anyway. Bring it.”

The next thirty minutes of your life are taken up by going through your closet with Johnny. He holds up various pieces of clothing from your closet and flashes them at you, waiting for your hum of yes or your shake of the head no. If it’s a no, he places it neatly back into your closet. If it’s a yes, he takes it off the hanger and unceremoniously tosses it over your suitcase. He probably thinks he’s being the pinnacle of a helpful best friend—and while yes, he is—but in reality, his trivial sifting gives you a chance to pack more personal matters, like your underwear and bras and journal that you never let Johnny read. Then, you go into your tiny bathroom and collect all your soaps because you’re not actually going to use Sue’s fancy ones, despite what her brother offered. 

He peaks his head into the bathroom door, brows furrowed. “What do you mean you don’t want to bring your green cardigan?”

You side-eye him, zipping up the small pouch you’re using to pack toiletries. “Because I already said yes to two other ones! I’m only staying for a few days, not moving out.”

Your words settle to him as he looks away thoughtfully. “I’m just trying to give you options while you’re there,” he says, “You’re pretty indecisive—“

“Thanks.”

“But anyway, can I switch out your yellow cardigan for this one? This is my favorite.”

You try to stomach the thought of Johnny noticing you enough to have a favorite anything of yours. “I didn’t know my wardrobe was your personal fashion catalogue,” you manage to reply. 

“It’s fall,” he says plainly. “Green is perfect.” 

The rest of your packing journey is uneventful. You make your bed because you don’t want to leave your apartment a disaster while you’re gone. Johnny does your dishes. You manage to stuff Chester’s food and a few toys in the sliver of room left in your suitcase, having to sit on the top to zip it shut. You silently congratulate yourself, though, since you managed to fit everything you need into one suitcase this time. 

Johnny dusts off his hands as he comes out of your bedroom, shutting off the light after he did one last sweep of the area. 

He picks up your suitcase without difficulty, muscle flexing under his t-shirt (not that you noticed). “Lesson plans?” 

“Got it.”

“Chester’s food?”

“I somehow managed to stuff it in his suitcase.”

“Laundry you want to wash?”

You hum, more focused on wrangling Chester into his cat carrier. Surprisingly, he goes in without much of a push. He must know something is wrong with the apartment, or maybe he’s excited about spending a few days in the Baxter Building. 

“Good,” mutters Johnny. “I don’t wanna come back here if you forgot something.”

You let Johnny think that he’s involved in a life-or-death situation, as if the distance between your apartment and the Baxter Building isn’t a thirty minute commute. You wander off to double-check that every light is closed, your lamp is unplugged, and the little water stain Chester left is cleaned. You don’t even contemplate the fact that you might be stalling until Johnny is grabbing your wrist from where you were gonna float past him to make sure perishables aren’t out on your kitchen counter. 

“We double-checked everything,” he says softly. His eyes are boring into yours again your brain goes haywire for a moment because, fuck, his eyes are so blue and soft and staring at you with a tenderness you would give a small kitten. “I know you’re nervous. You don’t need to be.”

You open your mouth to argue—to say you’re not nervous, that you just don't like change, or that you’re fine here in your broken, waterless apartment. But the way Johnny is looking at you makes every excuse dry up before it reaches your tongue. His thumb lingers where it caught your wrist, rubbing small circles at your pulse point. You try to stop your mind from clouding. 

Thankfully, Johnny spares you from having to reply. He clutches your suitcase tighter and guides you to the front door. “C’mon, let’s go before you change your mind on me.”

You mindlessly follow him, nerves building up in your stomach. But also something else entirely. Something more selfish, excitement. At the idea of being in Johnny’s vicinity for a period of time longer than you ever had before. 

“Mice!” Johnny calls out for one last time, turning his head to the expanse of your apartment with a boisterous voice. “Don’t ruin the place while we’re gone!” 

٠࣪⭑

You really could not focus for the duration of the train ride, your mind blended with a mix of excitement and sheer nervousness. 

You don’t know why you’re so nervous. The Baxter Building isn’t some new, unlocked setting. The last time you entered the living quarters of the Fantastic Four was merely a month ago, following Johnny across the expanse of the floor to the dinner table. Ben made whiskey grilled ribs, and the night was filled with quiet giggles because Johnny kept getting sauce in his face. At one point, you grew tired of the mess on his mouth and used your napkin to reach over and wipe the excess sauce on his lips. You remember the moment vividly, your proximity to Johnny slowly growing less and less in your head as you reached over to delicately tap his lips. His eyes had widened considerably, mouth sealed shut as he let you clean his mouth. You tried to make the moment less intimate, tossing the napkin to his lap and muttering to him something about having manners. You blamed the wine you consumed for the flush of your cheeks and the boldness you carried that night. 

You had gone home that night and mulled over your life choices and how they all somehow led to wiping Johnny’s mouth. It felt silly, really. Your face still felt hot. 

You think hard at that moment because something like that may happen again—God forbid a few drinks are in your system—only this time, you would have no private area to return to and question everything. No, you would still be in the same vicinity as Johnny. You pray you don’t embarrass yourself. 

The train stops at 43rd and Madison Avenue. Johnny is hauling you up from your seat before you can further question yourself. Chester meows tragically at the sudden stop. 

“Johnny,” you ponder, mindlessly following him as you peer down at your furry friend. You dodge a few people getting onto the subway cart as you’re exiting. “Will Chester get lost in there?”

“I doubt it,” replies Johnny. “It’s not like the floor is messy, there’s nowhere he can really hide—Ben keeps it as sleek as possible. And we can have H.E.R.B.I.E. follow him around for the first day so we can know any of his hiding spots.”

You nod, satisfied with his response to keep your cat safe. “Sounds good.”

The Baxter Building immediately takes form the second you step up from the stairs of the subway, looming over every other building. It’s daunting, but you’re behind the self-confidence of Johnny Storm, so you let him take the lead. As you get closer to the building, you take notice of the amount of people—tourists, most likely—taking pictures on their cameras of the building. Their eyes can’t even inch away from the spectacle to notice that the Human Torch is in front of them, nearly blocking their shot. 

Johnny takes notice of the overcrowded space in front of the building and leads you to the side entrance—the fancy kind where you need to put a specific pin in to unlock the door. He doesn’t even try to block the numbers he types in as he gets the door open, though you don’t bother trying to remember it. 

You make your way through the expanse of a hallway, coming to a stop where a security guard sits behind a desk. Johnny doesn’t spare him a glance. And, because you’re with him, the guard doesn’t spare you one. You don’t recognize the guard and were moving too fast to catch a glimpse of his name tag, but you assume he must be new. You would be lying if you said you didn’t have a favorite security guard you’ve come across (his name is Robert, and he’s got one of those curly mustaches and kind eyes and his eyes don’t glaze over you, instead giving you hellos and trading conversations). 

Once you’re in the elevator, Johnny shifts your luggage from one hand to the other and places his free hand on the small of your back. He leans down, breath fanning your face that has you wanting to squirm where you’re standing. 

“Final moments of peace before you’re part of the family,” he mutters softly, a grin playing at his lips. 

The way Johnny is saying it can make a person think you got hitched in between the time you saw Ben earlier in the day to now. You’re thankful you’re the only person to hear it, or else there might be an innuendo from Ben or one of those knowing looks from Sue that has you feeling nervous. 

The elevator chimes and the doors open, and you immediately spot the two people who had been at the forefront of your mind. Johnny ushers you in, hand still warm on your back. 

They don’t notice you at first. Ben is farther away, balancing two cups in one hand as the other nurses a boiling pot. He lightly mutters a curse to himself as he stares down at the stove. And Sue is sitting on the couch, surprisingly languid for a woman who has the entire world at the palm of her hand, flipping through pages of what looks like notes in her hand. 

You think for a second that you and Johnny will manage to slip past them without being noticed. It’s not that you don’t want to greet them, but you’re already a bundle of nerves and feel out of place at the thought of staying with them. 

But Johnny clears his throat and the two look up from what they are doing. 

Your name slips warmly from Sue’s lips, who immediately puts down the stack of papers in her hand and stands up. She’s swift in a way not a lot of people are when kicking her feet off the coffee table. “I feel like it’s been forever.”

“Feels like it,” you reply as she walks up to you. “Teaching children can make seconds turn into minutes.”

“Well, I’m glad you’re here.” She takes you into your arms, slightly towering over you in her red heels. She has a similar aura to Johnny, a comforting one that makes you feel warm and safe in her arms—though, for completely different reasons. She hugs like a fresh blanket from a dryer, or your favorite mittens in the winter time. “And Johnny says that you’ll be staying with us?”

You part from her and smile. “I hope that’s okay?”

“More than okay,” she replies, eyes going wide at the thought of you even questioning it. “You’re welcome anytime. I should be upset that it’s under these circumstances, but I’m a bit more excited that there’s someone to babysit Johnny.”

“She’s not a babysitter!” he interjects. “… she just happens to control me better than any of you ever could.”

“Yeah,” Ben calls out from the kitchen. “We know.” He calls your name and motions you over with his now-free hand. 

You smile at him, motioning your pointer finger, gesturing that you’ll only be a moment. You look at Johnny. “Is this a good place to put down Chester?” 

“A perfect place,” he replies. “H.E.R.B.I.E.!” 

The robot slides over at the call of his name. 

“You’re in charge of watching Chester,” says Johnny, rubbing his head softly. “Don’t let him out of your sight.”

A few beeps of agreement that you don’t necessarily understand, and you’re unzipping Chester’s bag. 

The three of you, and Ben from afar, watches curiously to see what the feline does next. He starts by peeking his head out and sniffing. His nose crinkles in a way you’re all too familiar with, like when you change his kibble to something more healthy or bring home a new toy from the store. When his eyes finally land on H.E.R.B.I.E, he steps out, in a trance at the small robot. He sits in front H.E.R.B.I.E and observes. 

“Well, looking after him will be easy,” says Johnny. 

“He’s never seen a robot before,” you say. 

“Clearly.”

“I’ve always wanted a cat,” says Sue. “This will be exciting.” 

You grin up at her, happy that Chester will be welcomed warmly by the family. When you’re sure that your cat isn’t going to run off to the nearest hiding spot, you turn your head back to Ben and make your way over to him. He traded staring at Chester for continuing to stir the pot on the stove. 

“Hi,” you say once you reach him, rounding the corner of the stove to stand beside him. 

If you were to rank your closeness with everyone in the Fantastic Four, you think you rank Ben second to Johnny. Your fondness for him happened by chance, really. You both frequent the same bakery and he seems to orbit around Rachel, who you’re constantly with. This allowed for more moments between you two outside the Baxter Building, often sharing a four-pack of meringues while you wait for your lunch hour to end. You exchange baking tips, the kind your grandma passed down onto you, like butter over margarine and adding a pinch of salt to brownie batter. He keeps them in the small notebook he carries everywhere. You feel a comfortability in his presence that you don’t get from Sue, trading maternal for friendly. 

“Try this.” He picks up a spoon from beside the stove and dips into the pot. The red concoction covers the spoon. He leans down to bring the spoon to your lips. 

You don’t hesitate to encompass your lips around the spoon, taking in the savory taste as you hum. The spice hits after you’ve swallowed. And, once again, you’re wondering why Ben doesn’t run a cooking show. You certainly know that he can just snap his orange-stoned fingers and have top producers waiting for him. “That’s really good!”

“Right? It’s for dinner,” he says. “So you better shower, stinky, I can’t have your aroma powering my dish.”

Your nose scrunches. You’re quite used to Ben’s teasing, you like it in a way. No one ever is quite close enough to you where they can comfortably jab you without it hurting a little (Johnny certainly can, but he never does. He saves his digging for Reed). With Ben, you know it’s without malice. “Got it, Captain,” you say. 

“Speaking of a shower,” a voice cuts in. 

You and Ben jump, not even noticing the Johnny had materialized behind you. He looks at you both pointedly before eyeing the spoon that’s still being held up by your mouth. 

“She can be your taste tester later. Let me show her around.”

You ignore the fact that you already know the Baxter Building quite well, and nod. Johnny and Ben exchange a conversation with their eyes that you don’t even try to decipher. 

“Hey, the girl who borrowed my headphones.” Dean drawls as soon as his blue eyes lock on yours.

“I figured girls names would be hard for you to remember.” You mutter, trying to shift your attention back to your laptop. But then he says your name, and you look up again.

“You also taking public speaking?” He asks, amusement tugging the corners of his lips up.

“Unfortunately,” You sigh. “Why are you taking it? Don’t you do enough post-game interviews to be skilled at it?”

“That’s exactly why coach wants us to do it. Sometimes we’re tired. Angry. He wants us to be able to deliver regardless.” Dean shrugs, taking a seat across from you in the hallway.

“So, you’re struggling.” You jab, raising a brow.

“That’s not what I said.” He chuckles, eyes darkening as he stares you down. “Just extra practice. I’m actually great at interviews.”

“Sure.” Your voice drips with sarcasm.

“Okay, kid. Look up one of my interviews on that laptop of yours. You’ll see.”

“Sounds boring.” You pretend to yawn, now enjoying getting under his skin.

“I promise it’s not,” He smirks. “But I guess I’ll have to settle for knocking your socks off in this class. First presentation, just you wait.”

“If you say so.” You shrug.

Once the professor arrives, a middle-aged woman with long, dark hair, you and Dean shuffle into the classroom. You sit towards the back, and Dean immediately sits beside you like there isn’t an entire classroom of seats to choose from. You give him a look and he just shrugs in response, smiling to himself.

“Back of the room? Solid choice. Less pressure.” He comments.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone to sit next to me.” You admit with an edge to your voice.

“Well, someone’s gotta keep you company back here. Although, sometimes sitting in the back makes the professor call on you more, you know.” He nudges your shoulder ever so slightly.

“Hopefully she calls on you more.” You flush, elbowing him back hard. But the man’s built like a tank, and you’re pretty sure that just hurt you more than it would ever hurt him. You try to hide your wince as pain radiates up from your elbow.

“You’re probably right. I have a bad habit of talking or texting during class.” His blue eyes glint at you in amusement. You pull out your laptop, trying again to focus on your classwork and not Dean Di Laurentis.

More students come into the classroom the closer the clock gets to 6:30. Almost all of them see Dean and their eyes light up, choosing to sit near him. Some of them know him, the boys giving high fives with the girls give flirty waves. Only a few people don’t acknowledge him and sit on the other side of the room.

Dean talks to people easily. He charms them in a way that makes them all smile and relax. It makes you jealous. You overhear him without meaning to, his voice filling up the small classroom. He remembers names. People clamor to talk to him, excited and in awe.

As class starts and the professor introduces herself and goes over the syllabus, you can’t help but wonder what it would be like if your life was more like Dean’s. Popular. Surrounded by people. Happily soaking up the attention. You couldn’t fathom it. And yet, any time you glanced over at him, he was peering at you from the corner of his eye. Like he was trying to figure you out.

Something with anxiety and panic attacks, overwhelmed by the noise, was probably pretty foreign to Dean. If he was ever scared, he probably handled it easily. His brain was built for that. He also probably didn’t understand what kind of girl wouldn’t be falling at his feet from a little bit of attention. That made you feel a little smug.

“To start this class off,” Miss Malcolm announces, scanning the room. “I’d like you all to take a moment to introduce yourselves. Stand up, tell everyone your name and major, and what you like to do for fun.”

Dread seeps in your veins like poison. You were really hoping this would be a quick syllabus review and maybe a textbook reading before heading out. You hadn’t plan on speaking to the class today. As each student in the front takes their turn, you barely hear them, trying to get yourself calm and think about what you’ll say.

It’s your turn too quickly, and you stand fast, legs shaking and chair scraping loudly on the tile floor. Taking a steadying breath, you say your name, your business major, and your hobbies. Your talking speed is probably too high to be understood. Voice breathless. Stuttering and shaky. But you manage despite feeling all the blood rushing to your cheeks.

You slump back in your chair in relief, seeing Dean give you a thumbs up out of the corner of your eye. That surprisingly makes you smile. He stands with his chest out and shoulders back, oozing confidence.

“I’m Dean Di Laurentis, if you didn’t know,” He extends his hands, waiting for the chuckles that plenty of classmates give him. “I’m Pre-Law. And I like to play hockey, almost as much as I like to party.” He bows dramatically as the chuckles turn into laughter, sitting back in his chair like he’s lounging at the beach. “One day you’ll learn from the master.” He whispers to you, and you roll your eyes.

You want to comment that it was just a class introduction, not an Oscar-winning speech. But since it really was that simple, it shouldn’t have made you panic as much as it did. It shouldn’t have felt like the first hurdle to cross. It was the easiest thing you’d do all semester. You sink into your chair for the rest of class.

“I take it you’re not coming back to the hockey house anytime soon.” Dean comments when class is over, ignoring his small crowd of fans. It was a solid observation. That place was tainted by your last panic attack. Going there again would remind you of it. Your body would brace itself whether you wanted it to or not.

“Maybe.” You reply anyway. You liked to try to go back to the places you’d had your panic attacks. The large, 200+ Briar classrooms. The quad where they had information booths for orientation. The campus gym when you’d tried to workout like a normal person. If you could go back, you could eventually convince your brain that it was safe there. “Britt and John seem to be getting along.”

“Well, if you do come back, Logan’s a nice guy. He’ll keep an eye on you.” Dean promises, smile gone. His face shows concern more than anything. Something you didn’t expect.

“Why does he have to? Why can’t you?” The joke slips out before you can stop yourself. The last thing you actually wanted was Dean’s attention for an entire night.

“Not sure if you noticed,” Dean chuckles. “I’m very easily distracted.”

“What if I need your headphones again?” You try to pivot and make things sound more reasonable. Casual.

“Oh, if you’re ever at the hockey house, consider them yours.” He says easily. “But only within those walls.”

“Fair. Thanks, I guess.” You head out of the classroom with a smile, and Dean follows close behind.

“I promise I’m a nice guy,” His voice insists playfully from behind you as he pulls ahead to open the buildings front door for you. “Next hockey house party is Friday. I’d like to see you there.”

Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think, and comment if you want to be on the taglist! Asks, reblogs, and comments mean so much to me.

"Okay, but with traffic now we're not going to get there until after dinner," you grumble and lean back in the passenger seat.

He smirks as he climbs into the driver's seat after tossing his bag into the truck bed. As he buckles, he takes his sweet time and reaches out at a glacial pace, sticking his keys in the ignition. Logan hesitates for a second and just as you're about to groan out in annoyance, he kicks the engine to life and the truck rumbles underneath your thighs.

He chuckles and throws his head back, his hair falling around his face as he does. He throws the truck into drive and starts off.

You'd met John Logan during freshman year and had hit it off due to your love of bad 80's movies and action in general. What started as casually running into each other at Malone's after class or practice had grown into you showing up to his games or him showing up to your dorm with a pizza unannounced and some deep cut action film you'd never heard of before. When the Hawks would descend upon Malone's now a days, you have your very own designated spot, right next to Logan.

And yet, you were friends.

Friends who snuggled after a movie would cause their attention spans to wander and start chatting about class or life in general. You were his friend that wore the alternate version of his jersey at his games and you were the friend that he invited on the boys' trip to the Shore; along with Hannah and Allie.

He reaches out and turns on the radio mindlessly and the sounds of the local metal station starts to fill the cab of the truck. He taps the steering wheel and looks over at you.

"You have everything?" he asks in a serious tone as he merges towards the freeway. He's staring at you over the rim of his sunglasses that cover his dark eyes and you think for a second.

You have everything you packed last night, that you had triple checked that you had every essential that you could possibly need for the four day trip. You have no idea what is in store for you this weekend but if it's anything like what a normal Hawks Hockey party is, your liver will be begging in submission by the time the sun goes down on the second day.

Not that Logan would ever let you get too crazy. Not while he was around. He went into protective mode whenever you went too hard at a party. You rarely did, so he never really felt the need to intervene when you finally let loose.

"Yes, I have everything," you nod affirmingly as he gets onto the highway and merges into the far left lane as traffic permits. It's in the middle of rush hour traffic on a Thursday evening — Boston is out in full force.

He rolls the windows down as they're in stop and go traffic on the middle of the interstate and his head lulls back against the headrest and he groans.

"Sorry, sorry," he says knowingly. "I had to make sure my term paper was perfect before I hit submit," Logan informs and you glance over.

You don't know if all hockey players are like this or just Logan but you realize how much of a rarity this weekend is going to be. John Logan is going to be on vacation, away from the ice and away from school for all intents and purposes. If anybody could use a break, you think to yourself, it was Logan.

"You're already passing the class with flying colors," you reason and he shrugs.

"The paper is worth 40% of my grade," he tells you and he's about to continue but you hold out a hand to stop him.

"No more school talk," you declare with a matter of fact tone. You reach over and turn the volume knob as Metallica floods the inside of the truck and you start to bob your head gently.

"Yes, Queen Y/N," he says in a royal accent that makes you roll your eyes and reach over the console, shoving his arm.

"No, I'm serious, you've got to just relax this weekend, Lo, you have to promise me that you will," you say as you turn slightly in your spot so you can get a good glimpse of him.

He rolls his head over to glance at you, "Alright, I'll tap into Hockey Logan, just for you," he nudges you as he sees how eager your face has turned. "Within reason, but yes, I will let Hockey Logan out this weekend if you promise to behave," he holds out a pinky and gives an expectant look your way.

You eye his pinky up before linking yours with his and nodding firmly. "Pinky promise."

About halfway, you're about to burst and are begging Logan to pull off for you to be able to use the bathroom somewhere. And after about six miles of telling you that he's just going to force you to pee on the side of the road 'like one of the boys', Logan pulls into a gas station off the main drag and you bolt inside of the gas station as he climbs out of the driver's seat.

The bathroom is dingy and you can't get out of there fast enough as you wash your hands furiously and open the door with your hip. When you walk towards the truck, you catch Logan with his arms above his head, stretching.

His jeans are hanging low with his belt buckle and you can see the defined lines that lead right down to his —

"You good?"

You snap back to attention and blink before realizing that you were just staring at your friend like he was a piece of meat. He smirks gently and tilts his head to the side as if he knows just what you were up to. There's a glint in his eyes that you can see now that the sun has gone down and his sunglasses are now safely in the console.

You simply nod your head and smile gently, "Yeah, I'm good."

"I'm gonna get some snacks, c'mon," he motions for you to join him and he holds open the door to the gas station for you. You scurry under the arm that is holding the door open and he follows behind as you instantly make your way to the candy aisle.

He watches you with an amused look on his face as you grab a couple of different types of candy and he raises an eyebrow.

"Sweet tooth?" he asks, grabbing a bag of Skittles and a can of Pringles. He shoves the chips under his arm gently and walks towards the row of fridges, grabbing a Red Bull and offering you one.

"When I drink," you say rationally as you place all of the snacks up on the counter and the cashier starts to ring everything out. "I want snacks when I get home, I don't know why you're acting like you've never seen me in action," you ramble, trying to find your wallet inside of your purse.

Logan watches you for a moment as he places his items next to yours before he taps his credit card quickly, staring at you.

"Yeah, I've seen you with a double cheeseburger at 3am," he says like he's witnessed a homicide.

You make a face and place your wallet back slowly into your bag before grabbing your multitude of snacks with a simple and grumbled 'thank you'. You make a note to leave a $20 in the cup holder of the truck.

He walks alongside you back to the truck and hops back in, handing you the bag of junk food. "Alright, you are officially copilot," he announces seriously with a clap of his large hands. He places them on the steering wheel and raises an eyebrow at you, "Your job is to make sure that driver has everything he needs to get us safely to our destination," he states with a very serious look on his face, starting up the engine and getting back onto the highway.

"Snack me," Logan opens his mouth and leans against the console and you stare at him blankly before he motions to his can of Pringles. "C'mon, I'm driving!" he whines.

You huff playfully and lean forward, grabbing the can of chips that was rolling around by your feet. You open it slowly and grab a potato chip and Logan sticks his tongue out as he turns his turn signal on and turns to glance in his blind spot with ease.

"C'mon, Y/N, I'm fucking starving," he says and you quickly place the chip onto his tongue and he pulls it back inside of his mouth, chewing graciously. He hums happily.

"Thank you, Copilot," he winks and you roll your eyes gently.

You lean back in your seat and start to eat some gummy bears from your stash and Logan speaks.

"So, you gonna go hard this weekend?" he asks gently, curious if he was going to be on babysitting duty or if he was going to be able to relax.

"The jury is still out," you tell him seriously. "I might do a 50/50, half drunk, half sober," you chew on the inside of your cheek as you think about how crazy you want to go. It's the Jersey Shore, a place you grew up watching on MTV when you had zero business doing so.

He nods gently, "That's not a bad idea," he tells you. "If I know Dean, he's already three sheets to the wind right now," he glances at the clock. It's only 9pm and you can't put it past Dean.

This trip comes at the very end of the hockey season and right as the school year wrapped up. This was the Hawks final bash before they went their separate ways for the summer and you know that they're all going to be celebrating hard.

"I'm gonna have fun," Logan tells you as if he's come up with this idea all on his own. "I'm gonna let loose," he nods with a grin.

"Hockey Logan rides again," you grin happily. He's got so much on his plate, sometimes you wonder how he keeps it all under control. He was able to handle whatever was thrown at him with a calm sense of ease — something you wish you could do.

He grins.

"Promise me you'll save a dance for me this weekend?" he asks hopefully, as if you two weren't going to be attached at the hip this entire trip. He's making it seem like he's dropping you off and will pick you back up when the trip was done. Like he wasn't going to see you until the ride home where he hoped he'd get a recap of your break.

You laugh gently and roll your eyes, "I'll save you a dance," you agree. "And basically my entire weekend," you smirk.

"You know everybody there!" Logan exclaims.

You shrug, "And I remember who invited me," you say simply as you stick your hand out the window and let it play against the breeze that's whipping past.

The rental house for the weekend is oddly quiet when the pair of you arrive about an hour later and you eye up the front of the house as Logan grabs your bags. He leads the way up to the door and punches in a door code before kicking the door open gently and letting you in first.

It's a typical party house off the boardwalk and when you and Logan split up to explore, he finds a movie theater downstairs and you find a hot tub up on the roof patio that overlooks the boardwalk. You meet Logan back in the kitchen once you find a bed and drop off your things.

"Party's going on somewhere," he muses as he motions to the stack of red solo cups that are scattered around the kitchen island and some liquor that's spilled. He's got a knowing smirk on his face.

He hears Allie's howl of laughter from above them and Logan looks up. "No fucking way there's a rooftop bar," he mumbles under his breath.

Ten minutes later, you're clutching a solo cup just above the surface of the hot water sitting beside Logan inside of the hot tub. You're crammed in across from Garrett, Hannah and Allie.

You look into your cup. Logan's made some concoction with something fruity and something strong like Everclear. It's strong but starting to go down smoother with every sip. You feel the bikini strings of your top dancing against the back of your neck and you shiver slightly.

Garrett calls out as Dean joins the party, casually late as usual and he leans lazily over the edge of the hot tub, greeting Allie with a sloppy kiss.

You try not to be jealous as you take a sip from your cup again.

The rooftop is illuminated by strands of fairy lights that are giving everybody under them a gentle glow — you try to ignore how it makes Logan seem even more welcoming and safe.

Logan reaches out and places his arm across the edge of the hot tub, his hand inches behind your head and he reaches over and pokes the back of your neck once and you twitch, swimming forward slightly.

He chuckles at your reaction and in a swift motion reaches down into the water and grabs your waist, tugging you against him with a small smile on his face. His fingertips trace against the edge of your bikini bottoms slightly and he hesitates before letting you drift into his lap.

If you asked him why he did it, he'd use Dean stripping down into his boxers and climbing into the jacuzzi as his excuse for wrapping an arm around your waist and holding you close. He takes a long sip from his drink and relaxes.

After a beat, you can't tell what's more relaxing: the water or the feeling of his strong arm wrapped around you the way that it was. Like he was holding you steady.

Allie and Hannah are giggling about something that happened on their ride up with the boys and you can't help but find yourself feeling like you're apart of the group when you start to tell them about how you had to play copilot on your way.

Dean grins, "That's a smart ass move," he says simply and Allie smacks his chest playfully.

"Don't even think about it," she warns and he holds his hands up in defense.

"Maverick, baby, you get to be my copilot," he grins and buries his face into her neck and she rolls her eyes as she lets him with a grin painting across her lips.

You're trying to stay focused on the conversation but you can't think about anything other than his fingertips that are playing with the bikini strings of your bottoms mindlessly. And while it's making you feel like you're on fire, he seems to be fine because he's chatting away with Garrett about the Bruins and how much of a help Garrett will be when he graduates.

You listen quietly as he lists of stats like it's no big deal and you feel his palm rest on your stomach, pressing your back against his chest even more. You're straddling his leg and he's holding you in said position.

Tucker is playing with a lighter and you find yourself staring at the flame obsessively as it appears and disappears every few seconds with a 'flick'. You're feeling good, the alcohol is buzzing through your body and the water is most definitely making you feel more relaxed than earlier. Maybe you just needed to sit in a hot tub more often?

Maybe you just needed John Logan to touch you more often.

Your eyes are locked on the lighter when you hear Logan's rough voice behind you, "You good, gorgeous?" he asks gently and he squeezes your thigh underneath the water.

You nod gently and lean back against him mindlessly. His hands rest on your hips and he pulls you into the center of his lap, readjusting you and ignoring the looks from his teammates. Logan reaches up and lets his fingertips brush a strand of your hair behind your ear and he yawns once.

"I'm gonna head to bed," he tells the party who all groan and make cracks about Logan being lame and the Captain being unable to turn it off. He greets the crowd's outburts with two middle fingers and his tongue sticking out before he nudges your thigh. "You coming?" he asks.

You blink quickly before nodding once, "Yeah, I'll come," you agree and stand up.

"Yea, you will," Dean cracks under his breath and the entire jacuzzi laughs and you splash him before climbing out and wrapping a towel around your frame.

Logan rolls his eyes and swings his leg out of the hot tub before smacking Dean upside the head. Garrett chuckles and gives Logan a dap before wrapping his arms around Hannah and pulling her close.

You walk barefoot back downstairs and glance over your shoulder at Logan who is staring at you.

"You coming with me?" he asks gently, reaching out and tugging at the towel. He yanks and you fall forward into his chest. Your hands rest on his pecs and you raise an eyebrow.

"With you?" you ask and he laughs.

Logan reaches up and strokes your cheek gently, "Yeah, do you want to sleep in my room?" he asks innocently. "I've got a king sized bed," he offers with a gesture over his shoulder towards his room. "It's either that or you can sleep in a bunk bed," he smirks and you groan.

"My bunk bed looks very comfortable, I'll have you know," you say as you push past him and walk towards your room. He's about to press when you return with a change of clothes in your hands and you walk past him and towards his bedroom.

He clenches his fist in excitement when you walk past and he waits a beat before following and entering into the bedroom behind you a moment later, trying to play it cool.

Logan shuts the door behind him and grabs a pair of boxers from his suitcase. He motions towards the attached bathroom and nods, "You can change in there," he tells you.

You quickly roll your eyes and pull your pajama top over your wet bikini top and untying the strings once you're covered. You pull the same move with your pajama shorts and leave Logan staring in awe at how you'd just done that.

He shakes his head and motions for you to turn around. Once you've done what he'd asked, he pulls his swim trunks down towards his ankles and quickly replaces them with the dry boxers, looking back over his shoulder at you.

"You're good," he gives the go-ahead and you spin around on your heel before crawling up onto the bed.

He watches you get comfortable before he lays on the bed. Logan leans against the headboard and starts to scroll on his phone mindlessly. He doesn't even notice the way that you inch closer to him until your head is resting on his chest and you're curled up entirely into his side. He smirks softly and lifts his arm to drape around you, pausing his video and looking at you.

"Can I help you, sweetheart?" he asks playfully.

Your lips turn up into a smile.

"Thank you for inviting me," you say softly and he laughs.

"Oh, Jesus Christ, Y/N, don't start with the sentimental-"

"I mean it!" you continue with a pointed tone but the smile is growing. "It means a lot that you invited me, seems like it's kind of a team-only thing," you reason and he shrugs.

"Plus Hannah, Allie and Beau," he corrects and you huff gently.

"You know what I meant," you reason and Logan nods softly.

"Yeah, I know what you meant," he says. He lets a beat pass before he rubs at your shoulder gently, "I'm just glad you came, sometimes the boys can be a lot," he states. He's said this statement to you multiple times over the years and yet you still hang out with them. The chaos is maddening but also addictive.

"They're fun," you say and he barks out a laugh.

"You have to say that, you're stuck with them," he grins and your eyebrow quirks playfully.

"I'm stuck with them?"

"Of course you are," Logan states simply. Like he's speaking nothing but facts. "You're stuck with me, therefore, you're stuck with them," he smirks.

"And who said I'm stuck with you?" you ask him seriously.

Logan grins.

"Me."