Hot Mic - Dean Di Laurentis Pt. 1
Blurb: Everyone at Briar listens to The Briar Wire. No one knows who runs it. That was the whole point, until Dean Di Laurentis becomes the center of campus gossip and decides the girl behind the microphone might be more interesting than the rumor itself.
๊ฐเงงTaglistเป๊ฑ @littlemissclairebiggs, @legendarychrattgirl
also available on wattpad under Hot Mic | Dean Di Laurentis x Reader if youโd rather read there โก
now playing: โtalk too muchโ โ coin
โDid you listen to the latest episode of Briar Wire?โ
The question floated out of the coffee line as you passed, tucked somewhere between the hiss of the espresso machine and the scrape of a chair being dragged across tile.
You kept walking.
That was the first rule of running an anonymous campus podcast. Never stop when someone mentioned it. Never turn your head too fast. Never smile like you knew exactly which episode they meant, which joke they were about to repeat, which line had made half of Briar University decide they were suddenly qualified detectives.
โThe one about the hockey player at the football party?โ another girl asked.
โObviously.โ
Your grip tightened around the strap of your camera bag.
Obviously.
You moved past them toward the pickup counter, eyes on the little cardboard sleeve around your iced coffee like it held state secrets instead of your name spelled wrong in black marker. Y/N had become something entirely different, which felt fitting. Half your life existed under a fake name anyway.
Behind you, the first girl lowered her voice.
โIโm telling you, it was Dean Di Laurentis.โ
You reached for your drink and pretended your fingers did not pause around the plastic cup.
โNo way,โ her friend said. โDean wouldnโt sneak out the back of a football party.โ
โThatโs exactly why it was him. Heโd want people to think he wouldnโt.โ
โHeโd make a speech before leaving.โ
โHe probably did.โ
You bit the inside of your cheek before a smile could get you arrested by your own conscience.
The episode had gone up at midnight, like it always did on Thursdays, when most of campus was either procrastinating, drinking, making questionable decisions, or all three in a sequence they would later try to blame on stress. By eight that morning, Briar Wire had been clipped, quoted, and misquoted across group chats, team texts, and whatever terrifying corner of student life existed inside private Snapchat stories.
You had not named Dean.
You never named names unless something was already public enough that pretending not to know would be insulting. The whole point of Briar Wire was not to ruin people. It was to take the ridiculous little disasters students willingly sent in and turn them into something funny enough to make everyone feel briefly less alone in their terrible choices.
A hockey player crashing a football party he had not been invited to, allegedly arguing with a wide receiver over a girl neither of them was dating, then allegedly leaving through a side door when someoneโs ex showed up and started asking questions?
That was not life-ruining.
That was campus folklore.
And technically, all you had said was, Iโm not naming names, but if the designer jacket fits, maybe stop wearing it to parties you werenโt invited to.
People had filled in the rest.
Briar loved filling in the rest.
By the time you stepped outside, the September air had already warmed enough to take the bite out of the morning. Students crossed the quad in clusters, carrying coffees, backpacks, protein shakes, and the haunted expressions of people who had scheduled Friday classes because they once believed in personal growth.
A guy in a Briar football hoodie held his phone out to his friend as they passed.
โShe said designer jacket. Thatโs Dean.โ
His friend snorted. โHalf the hockey team dresses like theyโre trying to marry into old money.โ
โYeah, but Dean already has old money.โ
โExactly. He doesnโt have to try.โ
You looked straight ahead and took a long sip of coffee to hide your face.
The nice thing about being a student producer for Briar Athletics Media was that people saw the camera before they saw you. You were the girl with the lens, the media badge, the laptop covered in stickers from radio stations and campus events.
You were around enough to be familiar, but not enough to be suspicious. Athletes talked over you. Coaches forgot you were in corners. Girlfriends, ex-girlfriends, roommates, and team managers all seemed to assume that if you were adjusting audio levels, you had stopped having ears.
It was incredible what people said in front of someone holding equipment.
It was also incredible what they submitted anonymously at two in the morning after half a bottle of cheap vodka and one badly timed breakup.
You cut across the quad toward the student union, weaving through the usual Friday crowd. Someone had chalked Briar Wire knows in purple outside the library entrance. Beneath it, someone else had written Dean did it in green.
A third person, in smaller letters, had added, Dean does everything.
You had to give them that one.
Inside the student union, the noise hit you all at once. Chairs scraping, blenders whining from the smoothie counter, someone laughing too loudly near the vending machines, someone else cursing at a printer that had apparently chosen violence.
Mara was already at your usual table, one boot looped around the leg of the chair beside her to keep anyone else from taking it. Her laptop sat open in front of her, untouched, while her iced latte made a slow ring of condensation on the table. She was watching the room more than she was watching her screen, which told you everything you needed to know before she said a word.
The student union had that particular Friday morning buzz to it, loud enough to feel harmless until you started catching pieces of sentences. Deanโs name floated from the smoothie counter. Someone near the vending machines was replaying a clip too loudly from their phone. A girl in a Briar sweatshirt said, โNo, but the designer jacket thing had to be him,โ and three people around her immediately started arguing like they had been there themselves.
Mara looked up when you reached the table. Her gaze moved over your face, then to your coffee, then past your shoulder toward the girls still dissecting the episode near the counter.
She did not say the name of the podcast.
She did not have to.
You sat down in the chair she had saved for you and slipped your camera bag beneath the table, keeping your face arranged into something neutral. It was harder than it should have been. There was a strange feeling that came with hearing people repeat your own words back to each other, like walking through campus with a match hidden in your pocket while everyone searched for the source of smoke.
Mara nudged your drink closer when you forgot to reach for it.
โBig morning,โ she said quietly.
You took the coffee mostly to have something to do with your hands. Across the room, someone laughed at a line you had recorded alone in your dorm at one in the morning, and your stomach pulled tight in a way that was not exactly fear, but lived close enough to it.
Maraโs expression softened just enough for you to notice. โNo one knows anything,โ she said, her voice low under the noise of the union. โTheyโre just bored and loud.โ
That was probably supposed to help. In its own Mara way, it did. She was the only person at Briar who knew why your pulse had picked up, the only person who understood that this was not just campus drama to you. It was a secret with a microphone, a fake email inbox, and a growing number of strangers trying to give it a face.
Across the union, Camden appeared with his iced matcha in one hand and his phone in the other, already wearing the expression he got whenever a mystery had taken over his morning.
He wore a cream sweater even though the weather had not earned sweaters yet. His curls were loose around his forehead, his gold rings flashing as he typed something with his thumb. Camden got dressed for class the way other people got dressed for dinner reservations, which would have been annoying if he did not also lend you lip balm, chargers, and emotional support with no questions asked.
Mara saw him coming and sighed into her latte.
โHe knows something,โ she said.
You glanced over. โDoes he?โ
โNo,โ she said. โBut he thinks he does.โ
Camden slid into the chair across from you both and set his phone on the table, screen-up. There was a notes app open with a messy list of names, majors, arrows, and several question marks. You caught communications, athletics, and girl from North Hall? before he angled it away.
โI think I know who runs Briar Wire,โ he announced.
Your hand tightened around your coffee.
Mara did not look at you. That was how you knew she was trying very hard not to.
Camden tapped the screen. โNot completely. I have categories.โ
โOf course you do,โ Mara said.
โIโm being realistic. The host knows too much about athletics to be random. She knew about the football party before half the people there decided what story they were going with. She knows hockey, but she knows football too. That means she either works near athletes, dates athletes, lives with someone who dates athletes, or has one of those terrifying friend groups where everyone knows everything before it happens.โ
You opened your laptop mostly to give yourself something to look at. โMaybe people submit things.โ
โThey submit details,โ Camden said. โShe knows what to do with them.โ
That landed closer than you wanted it to.
Your screen reflected your face for half a second before the login page loaded. You looked normal enough. A little tired, maybe, but not guilty. Not like someone who had spent the morning walking through campus while strangers repeated her own jokes back to her.
โMaybe sheโs just good at guessing,โ you said.
Camden gave you a look. โThat is what people say when they like someone they donโt know how to defend.โ
Mara reached for her drink. โOr when theyโre trying to eat breakfast without becoming part of your investigation.โ
โIโm not investigating,โ Camden said, then looked down at his phone. โNot officially.โ
You almost smiled, but Camden was still scrolling, still looking at names and majors like the answer might be sitting there if he arranged the evidence neatly enough. He was enjoying it. That was the thing. Not because he wanted to hurt anyone. Camden loved a secret the way some people loved crossword puzzles. He liked the chase. The possibility of being right.
But you were starting to understand that being the answer to the puzzle felt different from solving one.
Mara understood it too.
โYou ever think maybe she stays anonymous because people act like this?โ she asked.
Camdenโs thumb stilled. โLike what?โ
โLike sheโs not a person,โ Mara said. โLike sheโs a game.โ
He looked up fully then.
For a second, the noise of the student union filled the space between all three of you. Someone laughed near the vending machines. A blender shrieked behind the smoothie counter. A group of guys in football hoodies pushed through the doors, still arguing about whether the hockey player from the episode had climbed out a window or simply โleft with strategy.โ
Camdenโs face shifted, just slightly.
โI donโt want her ruined,โ he said. โI just want to know.โ
โThatโs how people get ruined,โ Mara said.
You kept your eyes on the laptop screen, even though it had dimmed from lack of use. The reflection staring back at you looked composed enough to pass. Maybe that was the worst part. You had gotten good at looking normal while other people held your secret in their hands and turned it over like something they had found on the sidewalk.
Camden closed the notes app.
โI wouldnโt tell people,โ he said after a moment. โIf I figured it out.โ
Mara looked at him over the rim of her cup, not challenging exactly, but not letting him off easy either.
โI wouldnโt,โ he said again, quieter. โI like knowing things. I donโt need everyone else to know that I know.โ
That was such a Camden answer, half sweet and half absurd, that it loosened something in your chest.
โBesides,โ he added, picking up his matcha, โif everyone found out who she was, the whole thing would get weird. People would start performing for her on purpose. The podcast would be dead by midterms.โ
โThere it is,โ Mara said, dry but fond. โA moral stance, almost.โ
Camden pointed his straw at her. โGrowth is rarely tidy.โ
Your laptop chimed before Mara could answer.
A new email slid into view at the top of your inbox.
Elaine Porter: Athletics meeting moved up. Arena by 10. Bring camera. Hockey feature.
You read it once.
Then again, because your brain seemed to believe the words might become less threatening if you stared at them long enough.
Mara noticed your face before you could smooth it out.
โElaine?โ she asked.
You nodded and angled the laptop enough for her to see the subject line.
โHockey feature,โ Mara read.
Camdenโs attention sharpened immediately. โWhat hockey feature?โ
You shut your laptop.
He blinked. โRude.โ
โConfidential.โ
โY/N, I saw four words.โ
โAnd those are all youโre getting,โ you said, sliding the laptop into your bag before he could lean any closer.
He glanced toward the student union windows, where a few hockey players were passing outside in Briar sweatshirts. Even through the glass, you could hear one of them laugh.
โIf the feature is about Dean,โ Camden said, less teasing now, โyou have to tell me.โ
โI donโt.โ
โSo it is about Dean.โ
โI didnโt say that.โ
โYou got quiet in a very Dean-specific way.โ
Maraโs foot brushed yours beneath the table, light enough for Camden not to notice. When you looked at her, she gave you that quiet, steady look she got whenever the podcast stopped being funny for half a second.
โText me after,โ she said.
You nodded.
Camden, who had the terrible gift of sensing when people were leaving and choosing that exact moment to become impossible, added, โAnd if Dean brings up the party, I want the wording.โ
โIโm not collecting statements for you.โ
โYou literally collect statements for a living.โ
โI collect approved quotes for Briar Athletics.โ
โThen approve one for me!โ
Mara said his name, low enough that you almost missed it.
Camden settled back, but the interest stayed on his face. โFine. Iโm only saying that if he did use a side door, that matters.โ
Your fingers tightened around your camera bag strap.
โWhat?โ
โBack door implies panic,โ Camden said. โSide door implies planning.โ
You stared at him.
Mara stared too, but for an entirely different reason.
Across campus, you had already heard three versions of the story. None of them had mentioned a side door. That detail had been in the original submission, the part you had changed on air because saying too much would have made it easier to track.
You forced your voice flat. โYou sound like youโve given this a lot of thought.โ
Camden only shrugged, unbothered. โAll Iโm saying is, the wording matters.โ
You gave him one last look, then adjusted your camera bag on your shoulder. โI have to go.โ
โText me if he confirms anything,โ he called after you.
โHe wonโt.โ
Camden smiled down at his drink. โPeople always confirm something!โ
By the time you pushed through the doors and stepped back into the September sun, your phone buzzed again with another email from Elaine.
Also, please tell me you saw the Briar Wire episode before everyone starts asking you about it.
You stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, read it twice, and breathed out through your nose.
Then you typed back:
I heard enough. On my way.
The arena was colder than the rest of campus, even from the outside. It always felt like the building had its own weather system. The closer you got, the more the ordinary sounds of Briar thinned out behind you: bikes clicking over pavement, students talking in clusters, someone blasting music from a dorm window with no concern for taste or volume.
Inside, the air changed. Cleaner. Sharper. Threaded with the permanent scent of ice and equipment that no amount of industrial cleaner could fully erase.
Briar Athletics Media lived in the back hallway between the rink offices and the storage room where old tripods went to die. It was not glamorous, but it was yours in the way campus jobs became yours after enough late nights. You knew which outlet sparked if you plugged in the ring light too fast. You knew which desk drawer had extra batteries and which one only had granola bar wrappers from last semester. You knew the printer jammed when it sensed weakness.
Elaine was waiting near the media room doorway, phone in one hand, clipboard in the other, her hair twisted up in a clip that looked like it had been added during a crisis. She was in her early thirties, which made her ancient by campus standards and young by the standards of everyone she answered to. She had the calm, focused exhaustion of a person who knew exactly how many fires could be put out before lunch and had already exceeded the number.
โThere you are,โ she said.
โIโm four minutes early.โ
โEmotionally, youโre late.โ
โThat sounds like a personal issue.โ
โIt became a department issue at eight sixteen this morning.โ She held up her phone.
On the screen was a paused clip from Briar Wire, someoneโs repost of the line about the designer jacket. The caption underneath read:
DEAN DI LAURENTIS YOU HAVE 24 HOURS TO RESPOND.
Your stomach tightened.
Elaine studied your face. โYou listen to this thing?โ
โEveryone listens.โ
โThat is the answer people give when they do not want to answer.โ
โItโs still true.โ
She sighed like she had been waiting all morning for someone to disappoint her in a new way. โThe administration is pretending not to know about it, which means they know. Hockey is pretending not to care, which means they care. Football is pretending they did not let hockey players into their party, which means they absolutely did.โ
โSounds like everyone has a full schedule.โ
โAnd we are going to redirect the attention.โ
You did not like the way she said redirect. It sounded like a word adults used right before handing you work they already knew would ruin your week.
Elaine passed you the clipboard.
At the top was a printed outline with Beyond the Rink typed in bold.
Below that:
Episode One: Dean Di Laurentis.
You looked up slowly. โNo.โ
Elaine did not blink. โYes.โ
โNo, thank you.โ
โThat would work better if this were optional.โ
โI have concerns.โ
โI have several. Weโll trade later.โ
You looked back down at the page. Interview questions. B-roll list. Practice footage. Casual campus shots. A short personal segment. A line about leadership, which made you wonder if Elaine had ever met Dean Di Laurentis for more than thirty seconds.
โWhy him?โ
โBecause Dean gets views,โ Elaine said. โBecause he is comfortable on camera. Because he doesnโt freeze when someone points a lens at him. Because if I let Coach choose, weโll get seven minutes about discipline, forechecking, and protein intake.โ
โThat sounds peaceful.โ
โThat sounds god-awful.โ
You could not argue there.
Elaine tucked the clipboard back against her chest. โYouโre good with athletes who know theyโre being watched. You donโt buy into the performance, but you donโt punish them for it either.โ
That was almost funny, considering Deanโs performance had already spent the morning following you across campus in sound bites and chalk messages.
โI need ten minutes of interview footage today,โ Elaine said. โSome practice B-roll. Maybe a hallway walk-and-talk if he behaves.โ
โThatโs a large maybe.โ
โStart with the interview.โ
Before you could respond, laughter came from the hall that led to the locker rooms. Not loud enough to be obnoxious, but familiar in the way some sounds became familiar by repetition. You had heard Dean laugh in the background of too many clips, too many post-game hallways, too many celebrations where he was not even the focus and still somehow ended up in frame.
He appeared a second later with two teammates, coffee in hand, Briar Hockey sweatshirt sleeves pushed to his forearms. His hair was still damp, like he had showered after morning skate and run his hands through it once before deciding that was good enough for the day. One of his teammates was grinning at something he had just said. The other looked like he had already heard the joke twice and still found it funny, which was probably Deanโs real talent.
He was mid-conversation when he walked in, his voice carrying into the media hallway like he had not considered the possibility of privacy.
โIโm not saying the story is wrong,โ Dean said. โIโm saying it lacks context.โ
His teammate laughed. โYou want context now?โ
โIโve always valued context.โ
โYou told Ryan to stop texting like a man with a head injury.โ
โThat was a medical concern.โ
The other guy shook his head, still laughing. โIt was a group chat.โ
โThen I was spreading awareness.โ
Elaine looked at you.
You looked back at her.
Absolutely not, you thought.
Dean noticed you then. His eyes flicked to your camera bag, then to the clipboard in Elaineโs hand, then back to your face. Recognition sparked, not personal exactly, but professional. He had seen you around the rink before. Most athletes had. They knew you the way people knew exit signs, necessary when needed and otherwise part of the background.
Today, unfortunately, you were not going to be background.
Elaine stepped forward. โDean. Perfect timing.โ
โThatโs what Iโve been saying for years.โ
โWeโre starting the new player feature series today. Y/N will be producing your segment.โ
Deanโs attention returned to you with more interest.
โY/N,โ he said, like he was testing the name once before deciding what to do with it.
You held out one hand because professionalism, even in the face of a man currently being discussed in half the campus group chats, was still technically your job.
โHi.โ
He shook your hand. His palm was warm from the coffee cup, his grip easy, not the exaggerated kind guys used when they thought firmness could double as personality.
โHi,โ he said. โAre you here to repair my image?โ
โIโm here to film it.โ
His smile came fast, the kind that probably worked on professors, donors, and anyone with a functioning nervous system. It was annoying to discover you were not immune so much as determined.
Elaine checked something off on her clipboard. โWe need a short intro interview today. No party questions.โ
Dean turned to her. โI feel like I deserve a chance to defend myself.โ
โYouโre not on trial.โ
โThat is how trials start.โ
Elaine pointed toward the small interview room. โTen minutes. Keep it clean.โ
One of Deanโs teammates made a sound under his breath, not quite a laugh. โNot what Ryan said about the party.โ
Dean glanced back at him. โRyan called a side entrance a back door. His credibility is gone.โ
Your fingers paused on the strap of your camera bag.
A side entrance.
Camden would have levitated out of his chair.
Elaine only pinched the bridge of her nose. โRoom three. Now.โ
The two teammates disappeared toward the rink, still laughing. Dean stayed where he was, attention shifting back to you.
โSo,โ he said, โhow much creative control do I get?โ
โNone.โ
โI can respect that.โ
Elaine had already turned away, finished with both of you. โY/N, send me the raw clips when youโre done.โ
You nodded and led the way down the hall before Dean could decide to respect anything else.
Room three was barely a room. It was more of a storage closet. There were two folding chairs, a tripod, a small Briar Athletics banner on the wall, and one window that looked directly into another hallway.
You set up the camera while Dean wandered in behind you and looked around.
โThis is intimate,โ he said.
โItโs a repurposed closet.โ
You snapped the camera onto the tripod and adjusted the height. Dean sat in the chair you pointed to, then shifted once under the fluorescent light, trying to get comfortable on a seat that had been purchased by someone who hated spines.
โYouโre not going to ask about the party,โ he said.
โNo.โ
โNot even off the record?โ
You looked at him over the camera. โDo you know what that means?โ
โI understand it deeply.โ
You adjusted the focus to keep your mouth from giving you away. โThis is for Athletics, not Briar Wire.โ
The second the words left your mouth, you wished you could pull them back.
Deanโs eyes sharpened.
Not enough to look suspicious. Enough to notice.
โSo you do listen,โ he said.
You kept your fingers on the camera. โEveryone listens.โ
โThatโs what people keep telling me.โ
โMaybe because itโs true.โ
Dean looked toward the lens, then back at you. โFunny, considering the podcast has never actually named me.โ
โAnd yet you seem pretty sure it was about you.โ
His mouth curved, but it did not quite turn into a smile. โThatโs the strange part, isnโt it?โ
The camera beeped softly when you hit record.
โState your name, year, and position.โ
Dean sat up with enough exaggerated obedience that you already knew the first take would be unusable.
โDean Di Laurentis. Junior. Forward. Victim of implied journalism.โ
You let the silence sit.
He looked at you.
You looked back.
Finally, he exhaled. โFine.โ
You reset the clip.
He gave the answer properly the second time, which somehow annoyed you more than if he had made it difficult. Dean was not stupid. That was the problem with people like him. Everyone treated them like they were all charm and no structure, and sometimes they let people think that because it was easier. Then they turned around and did exactly what was needed the moment it mattered.
You moved through the basic questions. Favorite part of playing at Briar. Best memory with the team. What game-day routine he refused to give up. He gave you enough polished answers for the official cut, then enough ridiculous ones that you knew Elaine would make you delete them and you would probably save them anyway.
Halfway through, you asked, โWhat do you think people get wrong about you?โ
Dean looked toward the camera, then away from it.
The pause was small, but you caught it. You always caught pauses. Audio taught you that people lied most clearly in the space before they spoke.
โThat I donโt notice,โ he said.
You waited.
His mouth tipped like he almost regretted giving you a real answer.
โPeople think I donโt notice what they assume about me,โ he continued. โI do.โ
There was no joke at the end of it.
For a second, the room felt too still.
You glanced down at the question list in your lap, though you had stopped needing it three questions ago. โDoes that bother you?โ
He looked at you then.
The easy answer would have been no. A shrug. A joke. Something about being too attractive to suffer. You could almost see him considering it.
Then he said, โDepends whoโs doing the assuming.โ
That was too good for the athletics page.
That was also too honest for a Friday morning with a camera between you.
You looked at the tiny red recording light and felt, briefly and strangely, like it was looking back.
Dean cleared his throat, and the moment shifted before either of you had to do anything with it.
โWas that tragic enough for the feature?โ
โElaine might cry.โ
โGood. Iโve been trying to expand my range.โ
You stopped the recording before you smiled. โWeโre done.โ
โThatโs it?โ
โFor the interview.โ
โI had more to give.โ
โIโm sure you did.โ
He stood, then lingered while you packed the camera. You could feel him still in the room, not crowding you, just present in a way that made the space feel smaller than it had before.
At the door, he paused.
โFor the record,โ he said, โI didnโt sneak out.โ
You zipped the camera bag. โI didnโt ask.โ
โI left through a side entrance. Walked, actually.โ
You looked up at him.
He looked oddly satisfied, as if this settled everything.
โA side entrance,โ you repeated.
โDifferent thing.โ
โIt sounds like the same exact thing.โ
Deanโs smile widened despite himself. โThat is exactly how reputations get ruined.โ
It should have been nothing. A throwaway line in a room with bad lighting and a camera between you. But Dean was looking at you like he had found something more interesting than the interview, and for one stupid second, you forgot what you were supposed to be doing.
You picked up your bag before the silence could turn into anything else. โI have to get these clips to Elaine.โ
โRight.โ He stepped aside. โWouldnโt want to keep the official story waiting.โ
By late afternoon, the campus had only gotten worse.
Briar Wire was everywhere. Someone had taped a printed screenshot of the episode quote to the bulletin board outside the communications building. A hockey player you recognized from sophomore year passed you on the quad while arguing into his phone that Dean had definitely been at the football party but absolutely would not have climbed through a window, because Dean did not โdo undignified exits.โ At the dining hall, Camden had apparently posted a poll in the group chat asking whether Briar Wireโs host was more likely to be a communications major, an athleteโs ex, or someone hiding in plain sight.
Mara texted you a screenshot with no comment.
Then, thirty seconds later:
Mara: I did not vote.
You replied:
You: That feels worse than voting.
Mara: Iโm preserving the integrity of the investigation.
You: Youโre enjoying this.
Mara: A little.
You stared at your phone in the athletics media room while Deanโs interview files uploaded painfully slowly to the shared drive. His face was frozen on your screen in the middle of an answer, one hand lifted, mouth half-open, looking less like Briarโs favorite rumor and more like a guy who had accidentally said something real and immediately tried to outrun it.
People think I donโt notice what they assume about me.
You hated that you had kept thinking about it, and hated even more that you understood.
People assumed things about you too. Not loudly, not cruelly most of the time. They assumed you were quiet because you were shy. Responsible because you liked rules. Good with cameras because you preferred hiding behind them. They assumed that if you did not fight to be the center of the room, you had no interest in the room at all.
Briar Wire had been the first thing you built that did not ask permission to take up space.
And now everyone wanted to know who built it.
By the time you got back to your dorm, the sun had dropped low enough to turn the windows gold. Your roommate was gone for the weekend, which meant the room was yours. No small talk. No questions. No one asking why you were setting up your microphone at your desk or why your closet had a shoebox full of index cards labeled by episode number.
You changed into a sweatshirt, clipped your hair away from your face, and opened your laptop.
The Briar Wire inbox was a mess.
Some messages were insightful. A freshman had submitted a story about a fake ID getting confiscated by someoneโs own older brother, which had potential. Someone else wanted advice about hooking up with their lab partner and then discovering they had been assigned a semester-long project together, which was less a submission and more a cry for help.
There were twelve messages about Dean.
Four claimed to have proof he was the football party hockey player. Two claimed he was innocent. Three were not remotely helpful but extremely passionate. One simply read:
I donโt care if he did it. Can he call in?
You snorted and took a screenshot for Mara.
Her reply came instantly.
Mara: Do not manifest that.
You were still smiling when the call window opened.
Unknown Caller.
Your smile faded.
Briar Wire did not take many live calls. You had a number people could use for voice submissions, but most came in as recordings. Live calls were harder to manage. Too unpredictable. Too easy for someone to say a name you would have to cut or reveal something you did not want in your ears in real time.
The window pulsed on your screen.
Unknown Caller.
You should have ignored it, which was probably why you put on your headphones instead.
The room seemed to quiet around you as you opened the recording software. The little red button appeared in the corner, waiting. Your heartbeat was too present, too close to the surface.
You accepted the call.
โBriar Wire,โ you said, letting your podcast voice settle into place. Lower than your normal voice. Warmer. More controlled. โYouโre on.โ
There was a brief silence.
Then a male voice said, with far too much confidence for someone pretending to be anonymous, โHi. Long-time listener, first-time caller. My name is Dennis.โ
You closed your eyes.
Dean Di Laurentis.
Of course.
Of course he had chosen Dennis.
You muted yourself and pressed your fingers over your mouth, not because you were laughing, exactly, but because your body had chosen a reaction and none of the options were safe.
On the other end, Dean cleared his throat.
โIโm calling on behalf of a friend,โ he said.
You unmuted yourself.
โA friend.โ
โHe values privacy.โ
โSays the man calling a campus podcast.โ
โIโm not the friend. Iโm Dennis.โ
โRight.โ
โI feel like you donโt believe me.โ
โDennis, I believe in a lot of things. This is not one of them.โ
His laugh came through the headphones before he could stop it. Brief. Unpolished. Not for an audience.
It caught you off guard more than it should have.
โMy friend feels misrepresented,โ he said once he recovered.
โDoes your friend often attend parties he claims he was invited to through men named Matt?โ
Silence.
You felt it the second it happened. Not a dead silence. A listening one.
โHow do you know about Matt?โ
You stared at the waveform jumping across the screen.
โLucky guess,โ you said.
โThere are a lot of Matts on the football team.โ
โSo Iโve heard.โ
โThatโs not the same as knowing one invited me.โ
You sat very still.
โDid I say you?โ
Another silence.
Then Dean laughed again, lower this time, like he had been caught and did not entirely mind.
โDennis,โ he corrected.
โYes,โ you said. โDennis.โ
โDennisโs friend was invited.โ
โAnd yet Dennisโs friend left through a side entrance.โ
He went quiet again.
This time, you smiled before you could stop yourself.
โHow do you know about the side entrance?โ he asked.
You glanced at the red recording dot, the tiny signal that this was all being saved somewhere. Every pause. Every slip. Every little edge in his voice when he realized you knew more than you should have.
โMaybe I have sources.โ
โDo your sources have names?โ
โMaybe.โ
โWould one of them be Matt?โ
You leaned back in your chair. โYou called me, Dennis.โ
โTo seek justice.โ
You should have ended the call then. You had enough for the next episode already. More than enough. Dean Di Laurentis pretending to be someone named Dennis while arguing about the architecture of his exit would carry the entire campus through at least Tuesday.
But the line stayed open.
So did you.
โMy friend wants a correction,โ he said.
โFor what?โ
โThe record should reflect that he did not sneak out. He left.โ
โThrough a side entrance.โ
โWith dignity.โ
You looked at the red recording dot blinking on your screen and let the silence do the work for you.
Dean laughed under his breath. โYouโre kind of mean, Wire Girl.โ
Wire Girl.
It was ridiculous. Barely even a nickname. Still, your fingers paused against the desk like it had reached across the line and touched something it shouldnโt have.
โYou called me,โ you said.
โTo defend an innocent man.โ
โTo defend yourself.โ
A pause.
Then, amused, โI never said it was me.โ
โNo,โ you said. โYou just made it very easy to guess.โ
For a moment, the call went quiet. Outside your door, someone laughed down the hall, normal life carrying on a few feet away while Dean Di Laurentis sat somewhere on campus pretending to be a stranger.
Then he said, โWho are you?โ
Your hand stilled.
There it was. The question everyone at Briar had been asking all morning.
โThat would ruin the show,โ you said.
โNot for me.โ
โEspecially for you.โ
You heard his smile before he spoke again. โI can keep secrets.โ
โGoodnight, Dennis.โ
Then you ended the call.
For a moment, you just sat there, headphones on, staring at the recording file as it saved automatically to your laptop.
Then your phone buzzed.
Mara: I felt a disturbance.
You looked at the file name.
UNKNOWN CALLER 7:42 PM
Your fingers moved over the screen.
You: Dean called in.
The dots appeared immediately.
Disappeared.
Appeared again.
Then:
Mara: Tell me you did not answer.
You looked at the microphone. At the red light. At the saved audio file that now contained Dean Di Laurentis pretending to be a man named Dennis and asking who you were like he had a right to know.
You typed back:
You: I answered.
Maraโs reply came so fast it looked angry.
Mara: Tell me you at least recorded it.
You glanced at the file again.
Despite the nerves still moving through you, despite the rules, despite the fact that Dean had gotten closer to the truth in one phone call than anyone else had managed in eight episodes, you smiled.
You: Obviously.
