#grace ivers

summary: in which nobody realises how much of the group's heart y/n holds until she's the one lying in a hospital bed instead of taking care of everyone else.

notes: thank you so much for this very sweet request, i loved writing it! seriously this group owns my whole heart. i love them. i love them. i love them <3

✩.* found family fics!

✩.* found family masterlist

ꪆৎ

the first sign that something was wrong was the fact that you didn't answer your phone. normally, that wouldn't mean much. people missed calls all the time.

except you always answered your phone, or at the very least, sent a text.

especially when it was allie calling, which was why the third unanswered call made something uncomfortable settle low in her stomach, a feeling she couldn't quite explain.

"that's weird."

grace glanced up from where she was sitting across the table at the coffee shop, "what?"

"y/n isn't answering her phone."

sabrina frowned, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "maybe she's taking a nap?"

allie was already shaking her head. "she texted me forty minutes ago."

allie tries calling you again, however to her dismay it goes straight to voicemail, and the knot in her stomach tightens.

twenty minutes later she's outside your shared dorm, digging through her purse for the keys. the door has barely opened before allie's stomach sinks.

you hadn't even made it to your room. you were curled up on the couch in the common area, one of the throw blankets dragged haphazardly over your legs.

for a second you don't even seem to notice she's there. your head is tipped back against the cushions, eyes squeezed shut, one arm wrapped tightly around your stomach. every instinct in allie's body starts screaming.

she knew instantly that something was wrong. you looked awful. completely, genuinely awful.

pale enough to make allie's chest tighten, your face pinched with pain, your breathing shallow and uneven. one hand was pressed so tightly against your stomach that your knuckles had gone white, like letting go for even a second might somehow make it worse.

"jesus christ," allie breathes, dropping her bag by the door. "y/n?"

your eyes crack open slightly at the sound of her voice, and somehow, seeing the tears already gathering in your eyes makes allie feel even worse.

you try to smile, but the minimal action looks painful, like even moving the muscles in your face takes effort.

"hi."

the greeting comes out weak, barely above a whisper and allie's stomach drops even further, because this isn't you.

you're the person who talks with your hands, who fills every silence, who somehow manages to find something funny in every situation.

even when you're sick, especially when you're sick.

right now you sound exhausted.

drained.

like simply getting that one word out had cost you energy you didn't have to spare. "oh my god," allie says immediately, crossing the room.

"you look terrible."

a breath that might have been a laugh leaves you, or maybe a wince, it's hard to tell.

"thank you."

"i'm serious." she drops into a crouch beside the couch, one hand immediately finding your forehead.

"jesus, you're burning up."

your eyes close again. "i don't feel very good."

the understatement is so ridiculous that it would almost be funny if you didn't look like you were about thirty seconds away from passing out.

"what happened?"

"nothing."

"y/n."

you let out a slow breath. "my stomach hurts."

allie stares. you stare back for approximately two seconds before abruptly folding forward, one hand shooting toward the edge of the couch as your eyes squeeze shut.

the sound that leaves you isn't quite a gasp, isn't quite a groan, just pain.

raw and immediate.

allie's heart practically stops, she'd never seen you like this before.

you were the girl who powered through migraines, the girl who submitted assignments with fevers, the girl who insisted she was fine when she very clearly wasn't. seeing you unable to sit upright feels wrong. incredibly, undeniably wrong.

"we're going to the hospital."

"allie-"

"hospital."

"it's probably nothing."

"you literally can't sit up."

"that's dramatic."

allie gestures toward your current position. "you're folded in half, y/n."

you glance down at yourself, consider it, before nodding once. "okay."

a pause.

"maybe only a little dramatic."

-

twenty minutes later the pair were sitting in emergency. allie was drafting out a text to garrett, her fingers shaking.

allie

something's wrong with y/n

i'm taking her to the hospital

don't panic but maybe panic a little

the response came back in less than ten seconds.

garrett

fuck

which hospital

i'm coming

garrett had been halfway through lunch with the boys when the message from allie arrived. one second he was listening to logan argue with dean about something completely ridiculous and the next he was on his feet, chair scraping loudly against the floor.

everyone immediately stopped talking.

dean frowned.

"what?"

garrett was already reaching for his keys.

"y/n is in the hospital."

silence. absolute silence.

"what?"

"why?"

"what happened?"

"which hospital?"

"was there an accident?"

the questions came all at once and garrett didn't have any answers. somehow that was the worst part, because if he knew what was wrong maybe he could handle it.

instead all he had was a text message.

something's wrong.

hospital.

don't panic.

which was exactly the sort of message guaranteed to make him panic.

"i'm driving."

dean was already standing, “we're all coming"

-

by the time they arrived at the hospital sabrina and grace had too, sitting beside allie, waiting.

nobody looked relaxed, nobody looked okay.

the harsh fluorescent lights washed everyone out. the waiting room smelled faintly of coffee, antiseptic and exhaustion. people came and went, televisions murmured quietly overhead, time seemed to move strangely.

too slow, and yet too fast all at once.

dean had started pacing approximately fourteen seconds after arriving.

he hadn't stopped since.

back and forth. back and forth. wearing an invisible path into the hospital floor.

at some point he'd walked such a precise route between the reception desk and the vending machines that the nurse behind reception had started glancing up automatically every time he passed.

every now and then he'd drag a hand through his hair, ask if there were any updates, receive the same answer, before starting to pace again.

logan had bought six coffees, nobody drank them. they sat untouched on a nearby table, slowly going cold.

tucker had six different tabs open on his phone, every single one worse than the last.

"apparently if it ruptures-"

"tucker."

"what?"

"shut up."

"okay."

thirty seconds later.

"apparently recovery time-"

"tucker."

"right. i've got it, sorry"

garrett hadn't said much, which somehow worried everyone more.

he sat with his elbows on his knees and a folded information sheet in his hands. the nurse had given it to him forty minutes ago, he'd read it immediately, then read it again, and again, and again.

by now the edges had started to crease beneath his fingers while tiny white lines appeared where he'd folded and unfolded the paper too many times.

not because he was learning anything new, but because reading it felt better than doing nothing.

because doing nothing, and sitting in the waiting room helpless felt impossible, because every second he wasn't sitting right by your side looking at you felt wrong.

-

the thing nobody talks about later is the surgery.

or the diagnosis.

or even the fact that it had been appendicitis.

what everyone remembers is seeing you in the hospital room. that was the moment it became real.

the moment they finally saw you, hospital blanket wrapped around your shoulders despite the fact it wasn't cold.

hair messy, face pale.

hospital bracelet hanging loosely around your wrist, eyes glassy from exhaustion and pain medication.

small. you looked impossibly small.

for a second nobody moved. they'd all been imagining it, the hospital was abstract when it existed in a text message.

in updates from allie, in worried phone calls, in unanswered questions.

it was something happening somewhere else, something they couldn't quite picture.

but now, it wasn't abstract anymore.

there you were. curled beneath a blanket, one arm wrapped protectively around your stomach. you looked exhausted, fragile. smaller than any of them had ever seen you and suddenly it became terrifying, because this wasn't right.

this wasn't you.

you were supposed to be the person carrying snacks in your handbag for everyone else, the person forcing garrett to eat breakfast before practice, the person who somehow always noticed when somebody's smile looked a little forced.

the person who checked in, constantly, who remembered things, who took care of people. you were never supposed to be the person sitting in a hospital bed trying not to cry.

allie sat beside you, one hand wrapped tightly around yours. garrett was on the other side, not sitting, standing, like if he sat down something bad might happen.

every few seconds his eyes would scan your features.

checking. still there, still breathing, still okay.

or as okay as you could be.

he hadn't let go of your hand once, not once. his thumb moved absently over your knuckles, like he needed the physical confirmation that you were still next to him.

the automatic doors slid open behind him. nurses came and went, phones rang, doctors crossed the corridor.

you winced, barely. just slightly, the sort of movement most people would've missed. seven heads however immediately turned towards you, the reaction so automatic it would've been funny under any other circumstance.

"you okay?"

the words come from four different people at once. you blinked, mildly startled by the attention.

"yeah."

you weren't, everyone knew you weren't. your hand remained pressed protectively against your stomach. your face still tightened every few minutes when another wave of pain rolled through, and every single time it happened somebody in the group visibly tensed with you, as though they could somehow absorb part of it if they worried hard enough.

somehow you still managed a tired smile. "you guys don't have to stay."

logan looked genuinely offended, grace scoffed, sabrina stared, tucker looked like you'd personally insulted him and dean actually stopped pacing.

which might have been the most alarming thing he'd done all night.

"seriously?"

you blinked.

"what?"

"we're obviously staying."

"dean-"

"we're staying."

simple, final.

because there had never been any other option on the table.

you looked down. "i'm okay."

the shared expression around the room suggested absolutely nobody believed you.

"you've cried four times in the last hour," sabrina said gently.

"five," grace corrected.

allie lifted her hand, "six."

"guys."

"you cried because the nurse asked if you had allergies", grace states gently.

"that wasn't why i was crying."

"baby, you cried because they brought you apple juice," garrett said softly.

your face immediately flushed. “i was overwhelmed."

"exactly. that's not helping your argument."

the tiny smile that followed was enough to make the entire group visibly relax, which seemed ridiculous.

you had noticed it. the way they were watching you, the way dean kept pacing, the way garrett wouldn't let go, the way logan's jokes had completely disappeared, the way tucker kept looking up from his phone every thirty seconds just to make sure you were still okay. for the first time all day the brave smile slipped, just slightly.

fear replacing it. raw, honest, small.

everyone noticed and suddenly the room felt quieter, because they'd never seen that expression on your face before.

not once, not ever.

you were the strong one, the steady one, the safe place. seeing fear in your eyes felt wrong in a way none of them could explain.

garrett swallowed hard, dean looked away, grace squeezed allie's shoulder and logan stared at the floor. somehow the scariest part wasn't the surgery to come. it wasn’t the hospital or appendicitis itself.

it was seeing the person who always made everybody else feel safe looking like she needed someone to make her feel safe instead, and none of them were prepared for how much that would hurt.

summary: you hated the guy. he wanted to prove you wrong.

author’s note: i think it needs a second part

"I just don't understand. Why is it that all athletes think the whole world revolves around them?"

You glance over at Allie as you walk across campus. She is completely glued to her phone, thumbs flying across the keyboard with a faint, amused smile playing on her lips. She lets out a vague, rhythmic hum, entirely tuned out but pretending to listen to your rant.

"Tell you what," you continue anyway, pointing a dramatic finger in her direction to demand some semblance of attention. "We should start giving them real-life penalties to stop them. Seriously, put them in a literal timeout."

part 1

pairing: john logan x f!reader

summary: You and John Logan are childhood best friends. You share the kind of emotional intimacy only two people who have seen each other grow up can have, but now you’re no longer kids, you’re college students and trying to navigate the complex time between childhood and adulthood. Before joining John at Briar U a year after him, you were convinced your silly crush had faded, but now that you’re back in his orbit, you’re no longer so sure. You try your best to remain just friends, but watching him turn from the boy down the street to the big man on campus is harder than you thought. And you’re not sure how much more you can take of watching him overlook you time and time again.

contains: friends to enemies (sort of) to lovers, unrequited love, talk of childhood trauma (abandonment, addiction), no use of y/n, Logan calls reader by nickname (Birdie), cursing, kissing, angst, logan being a dummy

author’s note: inspired by one of my favorite songs :) this was stupid long, i got kinda carried away but i love writing about nostalgia <3 this was just the intro so we’ll get into the actual plot/current day next chapter! also, this is gonna be a series :))) i’m not exactly sure how many parts yet, but i’ll keep u guys updated! lmk what you think 💕

series playlist

You remember the exact day that John Logan moved in a few houses down.

It was a seemingly unremarkable afternoon on an uncharacteristically hot Monday in June. You were only about a week into summer vacation and had already grown bored of the monotonous routine of your day without school.

The windows were open and blowing a warm breeze onto your wet toenails where the white-out you had painted on was still drying. You had positioned yourself on the window bench seat in your bedroom to be able to see down the street to where the moving truck currently was and were watching while the new neighbors slowly moved things in.

Your older sister suddenly whirled into your shared bedroom and flopped onto her bed on the other side of your space with a huff, her swimsuit likely still wet from swim practice and making the comforter beneath damp.

“Are they still unpacking?” She asked without looking.

“Mhmm,” you hummed.

In your small community, it was rare when something happened that the whole neighborhood didn’t know about, and the new neighbors who would be moving into the beloved Kershaw house were a hot topic. Especially for your oldest sister who’d had her first kiss with the oldest Kershaw boy, Josh.

She’d been devastated when Josh told her they were moving to Florida, hence her being shut away in her room all day. Apparently it didn’t matter that she and Josh hadn’t hung out in quite some time, she had explained to you that she and Josh shared a connection that transcended time.

She threw a pillow at you when you laughed.

And then, when your mom told you to go knock on her door afterwards and check to see if she wanted lunch, you tentatively obeyed, knocking the softest you could, though the eldest of you still screamed to go away through the door like you had banged on it.

You could faintly hear her strumming her guitar behind the chipped, white wood, only minor chords ringing out as her soft voice sung some heartbroken melody. You were tempted to sit outside and listen, but you knew if she caught you, you’d likely get kicked in the face.

“Did you catch what they look like?” Your other sister was now leaning over you to get a look for herself, her wet hair flopping onto your shoulder and you swatted at her to get her chlorine soaked body away.

“You’re dripping on me,” you complained instead of answering, wiping the droplets of moisture off your arms.

“Sorry,” she muttered distractedly, still staring out the window. You bent down to gently touch your freshly painted nails to check if they were dry and cringed when the white out stuck to your finger like glue and created a gap where the white liquid previously was. “I don’t know why you do that,” your sister commented. “We have white nail polish.”

“I saw it in a movie once,” you grumbled, leaning over to grab a tissue to wipe your finger off.

“Ooh, there’s a boy.” The both of you immediately stood up and squished together to be able to see out the window. And there he was, a boy likely somewhere between your ages carrying a large cardboard box into his new house. “Dibs.”

You groaned in protest. “C’mon, no fair.”

“Sorry, you snooze, you lose.”

“How do you even know he’s your age?” You questioned. Though there wasn’t that big of an age difference between you two, a few years felt like decades. You were a good bit younger than both of your sisters and it felt like it. While they were getting their first phones and having their first kisses, you were still playing with Barbie dolls.

While you were painting your nails with white-out, your eldest sister was writing sad love songs in her room about a real experience she had. You had yet to have any.

Unless you were to count Connor Gregory confessing his love for you on the playground in first grade before picking a cicada off the mulch and eating it.

So no, you didn’t count that.

And if either of your sisters continued to keep calling dibs before you, it would likely be a while before you had any.

“I guess we’ll see.” She wiggles her eyebrows at you before running from the room, still in only her swimsuit, and leaves you there sputtering and scrambling to follow.

You both run outside barefoot, the rough concrete of the sidewalk feeling familiar under your feet as you make your way toward the house with the moving truck and various cardboard boxes lying in the yard out front.

The boy you saw from your window was now carrying a box labeled ‘kitchen stuff’ and paused on the sidewalk as he watched you and your sister approach. A woman, who you assumed was his mother, passed by while carrying another box, and began shouting to someone inside to “help your brother.”

His smile warm and kind, his brown hair a little curly and flopping a bit in his eyes. You watched his attention flick back and forth between the two of you before landing on your sister who wasted no time greeting him in her usual fearlessness.

“Hi. What’s your name?”

“John.” You heard it echo in your head like he had shouted it into a tunnel and you let the word reverberate around you. “What’s yours?”

She told him and then introduced you, and when his gaze landed on you once again, you could feel your cheeks heating as you raised your hand in a shy wave. He returned it kindly, his brown eyes soft and curious.

“We live just a few doors down,” your sister explained. “The one with the yellow door if you ever wanna hangout.” She shrugged like she didn’t care either way and then left before hearing John’s response.

The two of you stood there in silence for a beat, the both of you a little struck by your sisters abrupt departure, your eyes looking anywhere but each other.

“Bye,” you blurted suddenly and turned to leave just as quickly as your sister had.

“Bye,” you heard John gently murmur from behind you, and you struggled not to turn back and look at him once again.

You didn’t see John again until a few days later, when the moving trucks were gone and the boxes were off of their lawn and finally inside of their new house.

It was in the evening, the street lights had just come on with a crackle and buzz to paint the street in an orange sort of glow to match the setting sun. You were sitting in one of your favorite pine trees; one that was easiest to climb and had the least amount of sticky sap drooling from its branches.

The rest of the kids had gone inside for dinner, including both of your sisters, but since your dad usually worked late, you wouldn’t actually eat until he got home, which wasn’t until another hour.

You enjoyed the solitude at the end of the day, when your only company was the chirping of insects and the rustling of the wind through the tree branches. You were humming some tune and watching as a daddy long leg crawled across your palms as you alternated hands.

You hadn’t seen him approach, so you jumped when you heard his voice call from down below to ask, “can I come up?”

The daddy long leg had begun to crawl around your hand and up your arm without your attention, the bug completely indifferent to the nervous fluttering in your chest, so you quickly redirected the eight-legged arachnid and croaked out, “uhm…sure.”

You made yourself wait to look at John until he was seated in front of you, his legs swinging from the branch where he sat and chest rising and falling rapidly from the excursion of his climb. You took in his sports jersey that you didn’t recognize and the worn fabric of his converse before finally meeting his gaze, his smile just as friendly as the first time you met him.

As you stared at each other, you scrambled for something—anything to say. But all you could think was that you weren’t your sisters. You weren’t good with your words.

Luckily, he spoke first. “I noticed you like climbing trees.” You could feel your mouth drying up. How did he know? Had he been watching you? “I saw you the past few days, always sitting in this one. It’s nice up here. I like it.”

“I like the view,” you heard yourself say, sudden and clumsy like you were having to rip the words out. He looked out between the branches and nodded, the field below bathed in the warmth of the sunset. “And one time I found a family of birds. They hatched and flew off last year. I left them alone because my mom told me the mama bird may not come back if I touch them, so I just watched. I was sad when they left, though. Sometimes I still think about where they went. If they ever come back. If birds can recognize people.”

When you dared to look at him again, he was watching you with that smile, the one that made your mouth feel dry and your hands clammy. You continued your nervous rambling and avoided eye contact once again.

“Sometimes I think about what it would be like to be a bird. I bet it feels really cool to fly. Freeing. Sometimes I wonder what clouds feel like, if they’re like cotton candy, if they taste like cotton candy. That’d be cool. But then your hands would probably feel sticky afterwards. That’s another reason why I like this tree. It doesn’t have as much sap on its branches. My mom is always getting mad at me for getting sap on my clothes and in my hair.” You pat down your hair then self consciously, knowing your face is likely as red as a tomato with how warm it feels. He’s still staring at you with that same smile and you almost want to yell at him to stop.

“You remind me of a bird.”

It’s the first time you go still since he came up here to join you.

“What?”

“Yeah. I mean, you sit up in trees like a bird. You’re kind of twitchy like birds.”

“Twitchy?” You repeat, deciding you do not like that word.

He laughs. “I don’t know. You seem gentle like a bird, too.” He shrugs, and this time you don’t totally hate the picture he’s painting of how he sees you. “Where would you go?” You look back up at him, unsure of what he means. “If you could fly. Where would you go?”

“Oh.” You think about it. “I don’t know. I haven’t been many places before.”

“Me neither,” he confesses, beginning to pick at his finger nails.

“Maybe somewhere cold?” You guess. “I like the cold.”

“You do?” He seems to perk up at this.

“Yeah.” You shrug. “I like the winter, when the lake freezes over and everything is kinda quiet. I like skating.”

He scoots closer toward the edge of the branch, his eyes wider and more excited. “You skate? Have you ever played hockey?”

“No, not really. I’m still learning how to not just fall.” You giggle.

“Maybe I could teach you.” You turn your head at his suggestion, a smile overtaking your face.

“Okay,” you agree. He smiles. You sit in silence for a few more moments before suddenly, you’re breaking it again. “How old are you?”

“Ten. How old are you?”

“Nine.” Then he asks you how old your sisters are. “Twelve and fourteen.”

He nods and then asks you to tell him about them and you wonder if you light up like he did when you brought up hockey. This was a topic you knew, this was something you could talk about for hours.

You tell him about Josh Kershaw and about your sister’s friends; the ones you like and don’t like. You talk about movies and TV shows and the music you like to listen to. He tells you about his younger sibling and his mom, how they had to move when his dad left them. You talk until you hear your mom calling from around the corner that dinner is ready, the both of you reluctantly pausing to climb down.

You think you talk more with him than you have with anyone else, outside of your family.

When you arrive at your front door, you both promise to meet back at the tree the next day, excited and grinning at each other.

And when he turns to leave, he offers a small wave, and tells you, “Goodnight, Birdie.”

You feel like you float home.

It wasn’t until about three years later that you realized what you felt for John Logan was not just friendship.

You were twelve, he was thirteen and already in middle school—as popular and talked about as any beautiful boy was in a small town. You were…not.

Your sisters had been, to a certain extent. But they were often mistaken for twins with them being closer in age and more alike with their tameable hair and lithe bodies. They were talkative and somehow always knew what to say. They made friends easily.

You weren’t the antithesis of those things, you were just…different. Something you didn’t previously know to be a bad thing, but somewhere, somehow that word had begun to morph into something else; something much less appealing.

For starters, you were big for your age. Your mom had told you that you were an early bloomer, whatever that meant. You felt like a weed; growing uncontrollably and unwantedly. Your limbs felt too long, your shins ached at night, and you had been made to start wearing a training bra that was itchy and uncomfortable.

The mirror had never been a place you would stand in front of for very long, but recently it seemed to be where your feet would often take you. And there, you couldn’t help but closely examine the parts of you that were foreign, and specifically, different from my sisters. You had messier hair, half because it was a different texture than theirs, and half because you hardly ever brushed it—despite your mother’s protests. You almost always had sap on your hands and dirt on your knees, and you were thicker in places your sisters weren’t. Your thighs were wider, your belly fuller, and your cheeks rounder.

You weren’t as into sports as your sisters were either; always preferring to write a story or play pretend in your head rather than compete in any sort of competition.

It was a year ago now that your mom suggested theater classes to you, which terrified you at first. The thought of having to stand up on a stage in front of a room full of people and talk paralyzed you.

It had taken you a few classes to like it, but not many more to fall in love with it.

It was just like playing pretend, just with someone else making the rules, and you found that you loved not having to think about what to say since someone had already written the script.

You loved the friends you made doing it. You loved who you were while doing it.

And you loved that it was yours and no one else’s.

And that had been another development in recent months that you had come to hate.

The jealousy.

Sometimes it felt like your world shrunk down to your neighborhood and you would forget all you were without it.

You and John had grown close, but that also meant he had grown close to your family as well, and more specifically, your sisters. And you did not like who you were with the two of them and John around.

The three of you bickered more with him there and it made you feel splayed open; your anger never something you felt comfortable displaying to anyone besides your family.

The biggest fight you and your sisters ever had was over John. He had come over to play some video game. You split up into teams and your middle sister kept picking John for hers. You told her she wasn’t being fair, then your eldest sister jumped in and threatened to involve mom, which only escalated the whole ordeal.

Then, the room finally exploded with, “you only want to switch teams because you have a crush on John!”

The basement was dead silent after that. You could feel your face getting hot and your eyes stinging. When your bottom lip started to wobble, your sister’s face crumpled and she immediately started apologizing.

You ran upstairs to your room, unable to look John in the eye. You cried so hard you felt sick and locked everyone out of your room. Your sister had to sleep in the other room that night and the three of you didn’t speak for a week.

Not until your mom made you all sit on the couch and stare at each other until you made up. It took an hour.

Your crush had begun to feel dirty and wrong more than anything else. You hated the feelings it gave you. You hated what it did to your sisters and you.

You didn’t understand why it seemed like you had to keep your worlds separate; one for John and one for your sisters. It didn’t make sense.

When it was just the three of you, you had so much fun. You loved the moments when you were inside playing rummy on a rainy day. You loved watching your favorite movies and quoting each line because you’d seen them countless times. You even loved fighting over who got to hold the popcorn bowl. You loved the rare nights when you would have sleepovers in your shared room, your eldest in the sleeping bag nestled between your beds. You loved how your stomach and cheeks hurt after a night spent laughing. You loved how warm you felt and how full your chest was. You loved the moments right before bed when you were all too tired to fake not liking each other and you could whisper, “I think you guys are my best friends,” into the dark quiet and not get only laughs in reply.

You wondered if this is what boys did to all girls. Made them isolate themselves in bedrooms and write sad songs, or compete with each other to win their affection but lose each other in the process.

Your crush had begun to resemble spoiled milk. It was sour and curdled in your mouth, and when you were alone you would take it out and examine it. You would shuffle through the mess and analyze your interactions.

But when John was in front of you, it was like you could see nothing else. You thought only of the good times. And there were many.

You thought of the nights when you’d laugh so hard you’d risk falling to the ground, out of your tree. You thought about how you didn’t need to speak, how you could communicate with a simple look and understand exactly what the other was thinking. You thought of how thoughtful he was, how kind.

Luckily, he never mentioned what your sister had said that day in your basement. You went on pretending like nothing ever happened, meeting in your tree each night when the rest of the neighborhood had gone inside.

You’re not sure when exactly it became your shared tree, but somewhere between then and now, it had become a ritual.

Most times, you’d sit in the quiet and listen to the bugs and birds and watch the sun set slowly. Even in the winter, you would bundle up in your coats and brave climbing the slippery, snowy branches to sit up where you had created a little break in the needles, your weight bending the branches slowly over time to create a larger window.

One Christmas, John had gotten walkie-talkies as a present, and he brought them to the tree excitedly, climbing up as high as he could, where the branches were thinner, to talk down to you through the small, handheld device. You’d pretend you couldn’t already hear him without it and listen to the crunchy sound of his voice coming through the speaker.

It was a chilly fall night when he climbed up to meet you, thoughts of the two of you swirling around your brain and leaving space for nothing else. His sweatshirt looked soft and warm. You had brought a blanket with you that your mom would undoubtedly be furious with you over later for bringing and getting sap on, but you liked the feeling of bundling up while leaning against the trunk of the tree.

Most nights, he would talk and you would listen, and somewhere between ten and thirteen, the topics got heavier. He would tell you about his mom, how she tended to drink so much she would fall asleep in random places. Then his dad, how he left and he hasn’t seen him since he was eight.

Sometimes you wondered if you were the only person he was telling this to. You wondered if there was a reason for that.

It was that very thought that made you interrupt his speech about the latest Boston Bruins game to ask, “do you think I’m pretty?”

You didn’t look at him, but you could tell he was surprised by the sudden question. He laughed nervously and then asked, “what?”

“Do you think I’m pretty? I know my sisters are pretty. I know my mom is pretty. But…I don’t really look like them, so I’m wondering if I’m pretty.”

You were poking the bubbles of sap in the tree bark as you awaited his answer, trying not to let it show that your breath was stuck in your throat and your cheeks had reddened in the night’s dark.

”I don’t know, you’re just…Birdie.” You looked at him then, unsure of his meaning. You’re not sure if he knew it either. “You’re something different.”

And there was that word again. The one that had begun to mean something much more ugly than it had before. You decided then that you wished you hadn’t asked at all, because somehow his answer was worse than if he had just said ‘no.’

You never allowed yourself to ask another question that toed the line of your friendship. You cherished you and John’s relationship too much to risk muddying the waters and fucking things up.

It wasn’t until the summer before he left for college that things shifted. And to your surprise, it wasn’t your doing.

You had been sitting up in your tree, dreading the coming of fall that meant not only your sisters leaving, but now John as well. And without your sisters around the past few years, the house felt hollow. Everything was too quiet. It was too easy to fill up all the empty spaces with John.

It was the night before he left, and he met you in your tree late, like he had so many nights before, climbing up with ease and then perching on his branch with a relieved sigh.

“I’m gonna miss this,” he confessed after a few beats.

You couldn’t help but smile. “There will be trees at Briar.”

“Yeah,” he conceded, sounded unconvinced. “But none of them will have you. I’ll miss our conversations.”

When you looked over at him, he was already looking at you with this expression you couldn’t quite name. The last few nights had been like this; heavy with something that lingered and left you feeling achy. You swallowed to try and moisten your dry throat, but you found you couldn’t.

You laughed lightly, trying to recover quickly from his confession, trying hard not to seem too affected. “You mean the ones where you talk and I listen?”

“Hey,” he fakes offense. “I listen plenty. When you have something to say.”

“Which is…not often.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” he reasons. You send him a look. “What? It just means when you do say something, I know it’s important. You don’t just talk to talk.”

Again, you’re stunned by his words and unsure what to do with them. You felt like you had been handed something you weren’t sure you were supposed to be carrying.

“Most times. Other times, I babble like an idiot.” He laughs fondly like he remembers the days before you were comfortable enough with him to allow the silences to stretch between you.

“A very cute idiot.” You’re almost angry with him for saying it, though you smile. You don’t understand when or why this shift between you happened. You wondered if it was because he was leaving. Was this some last ditch effort? You tried not to think on it too hard. “At least I won’t have to wait too long. Only a year before you join me at Briar.”

“I don’t know if I’ve got in yet,” you remind him softly, picking at some of the pine needles on the branch beside you.

“Oh come on.” He rolls his eyes. “We both know you’re getting in. If I got in, then you got in.”

“Yes, but you got a hockey scholarship. Briar doesn’t offer those for lowly theater kids like me,” you tease, only half kidding. He extends his leg across the space between you to lightly kick your shin in jest.

“You’ll get in.” He sounds so sure, and you wonder if he’s convincing himself or you. “You have to. I don’t know what I’ll do without you.”

“You’ll survive,” you tell him without doubt. “Briar U’s entire female student population will quiver at the sight of the great John Logan gracing their hollowed halls.”

He snorts a laugh, his eyes alight even in the dimmed hue of the evening.

Your chuckles fizzle out, and then you’re left with this heady sort of air between you, his smile soft and fond, his eyes hazy like he’s tipsy.

“What?” You ask him, though you’re scared to.

“Nothing.” He shrugs, though you know he isn’t finished yet and you wait with bated breath for him to continue his thought. “I just really want you there. I need my Birdie.”

His Birdie.

His.

You stare at him for what feels like hours, trying to find something in his face that would reveal the trick or truth. He stares back openly, like he has nothing to hide.

You find it hard to breathe.

Then, you eat up the space between you quickly, vaguely registering that it’s a miracle you don’t knock the both of you out of the tree with how quickly and forcefully you fling yourself at him to kiss him. You’re standing on the branch just below the one he’s sitting on, his hands immediately going to your hips while yours wrap around his neck.

His mouth is still beneath yours for a few beats before he starts to reciprocate, his mouth curving into a smile as he squeezes your hips. You don’t know how long you kiss for, but it feels like one second and one hour all at the same time.

You don’t climb down until your completely out of breath, your skin feeling tight and sensitive as his fingers find where your shirt has ridden up, or his lips at the hollow of your neck just above where your collar starts. When you do make it down, he’s standing at the bottom and reaching up to grab hold of you by the waist, keeping you suspended in the air there for a moment before kissing you again.

Your back hits the bark when he pushes you against the trunk of the tree and you instinctively wrap your legs around him, his hands moving to the backs of your thighs.

You don’t know how or when you finally make it home. You’d start the walk back and then pause again to kiss like you’re starved for each other. You’re giggling like idiots when you finally make it to your front door, his hand in yours tugging you into him to feel his lips again.

“So what does this mean now?” You hear yourself ask, letting your fingers tangle in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

“What does what mean now?” You watch his swollen mouth move that now resembles a darker pink than usual from your attention. You fight the urge to feel your own then, your mind hazy and limbs heavy like you’re drunk.

“This, us.”

You don’t sober until he pulls back with a sort of concerned look. “What do you mean ‘us’?”

“Well—“ You find yourself at a loss, unsure what to say. “I thought…” you trail off again.

“Birdie,” he says it low, like you’re a child. A kid who got caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Your hands fall to your sides as you back away. ”I’m leaving in a few days.”

“I know,” you reply firmly, your hands balling into fists to keep yourself from reaching back out. You feel shaky all of a sudden, like you’re coming down too quick. You feel desperate to rewind and go back to a few minutes ago.

“We were just…it can’t mean anything.”

And just like that, you feel yourself completely deflate; the needle of truth popping your balloon and you’re yanked back down to reality.

“Why…did you do it then?” You don’t understand and you hate that you don’t. You feel like crying and you hate that you do.

“We were just having fun.”

“Fun?” You echo woodenly, not really sure how what you did constitutes as fun. Enjoyable? Yes. Mind-melting? Absolutely. But fun? Not really. And especially not now.

“I…look, I’m sorry. I just broke up with Janelle and I was feeling lonely. I probably shouldn’t have sought you out like that.” He’s running his hands through his hair, but it just flops back into his face and you itch to push it back but don’t.

“You think?” You laugh bitterly. You hadn’t even known he’d a girlfriend, let alone that her name was Janelle. You feel stupid. You feel used. “So, that’s what these past few days were? Your ego was bruised so you came to me to make yourself feel better? Bigger?”

“No, Birdie—“

“You knew I’d be waiting for you,” You cut him off. “You knew you could kiss me just for fun and I’d let you. That I’d want you to.” You’re not asking because you know. You know your crush hasn’t ever been a secret—not to him, not to anyone. You knew how vulnerable and sad that made you, and yet you didn’t stop him.

“You kissed me,” he corrects, passing blame.

“Because you told me I was yours,” you cry out. “And you knew for years that’s all I’d been dying to be.”

The tears are freely flowing now as you angrily swipe at them. John’s face is crumpled by guilt as he reaches for you but you step away.

“Bird, please. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” Your words lash out like a whip. “I gave you every reason to think you could.”

When you turn to go inside, he doesn’t stop you.

And the next day, he’s gone.

next part

masterlist

requests are open!

comment if you’d like to be added to my taglist :}

dividers by: @pixopix @koosuvi

˗ˏˋ SUMMARY .ᐟ Beau isn’t looking for a relationship, he’s good with where he’s at in life. Football, parties, hookups. You’re still healing from your last relationship that left you in pieces. But what happens when your advisor wants you to focus on writing about the football team, and Beau Maxwell—Briar’s very quarterback—conveniently keeps showing up in your life?

˗ˏˋ PAIRING .ᐟ Beau Maxwell x Journalist!reader

˗ˏˋ WARNINGS .ᐟ drinking/smoking, frat boys ??, eventual smut, making out, lots of mentions of sex, sexual jokes, sexual comments, comments on bodies (men & women), cheating (not beau ofc)

Note ૮ ․ ․ ྀིა — This going to be part smau, part written & I am making all of the social media parts myself so 1. it’ll take longer to put out and 2. it won’t be 100% accurate but it’s going to be based on real social medias

˗ˏˋ CHAPTERS .ᐟ

zero. insta profiles

one. beer pong

two. insta stalking

three. coffee date

four. drunk foolery

five.

˗ˏˋ EXTRAS .ᐟ

. . .

#your husband is coming 🎶

trope: brother's best friend

masterlist

plot: you just broke up with your toxic boyfriend, hunter, and he won't stop coming to your apartment. so, you decide to stay at your brother, garret, house for the weekend. . . . with his roommate dean.

the rain was hitting the windshield so hard, you could barely see the briar university campus signs as you sped away from my apartment.

your phone was vibrating out of control in the cup holder--name after name, text after text, all from the guy you had finally, thankfully, kicked out of your life an hour ago. he wouldn't stop calling, and he knew exactly where you lived. you couldn't stay there tonight.

panicked, you dialed the one person you knew would have your back no matter what.

"hey, what's up?" garrett’s voice came through the speakers, instantly grounding you.

"garrett," you choked out, trying to keep your voice steady. "i just broke up with hunter. he won't stop calling and he's literally outside my door. can i please stay at your place for a couple of days?"

there was a sharp pause, and you could hear the sudden tension in garrett's posture even through the phone. "yeah. absolutely. get over here right now. i’m away for a game with logan and tucker until sunday, but dean's home. i'll text him and let him know you're coming so he doesn't freak out. you're safe there, okay?"

"okay. see you sunday."

ten minutes later, you were sprinting from your car to the porch of the massive hockey house, clutching a duffel bag of hastily packed clothes. you stood on the porch, shivering as the rain poured down around you, clutching your duffel bag tightly against your chest. when nobody answered your first knock, you banged on the heavy wooden door again, harder this time.

finally, the lock clicked, and the door swung open.

dean di laurentis stood there, looking completely caught off guard. he was wearing sweatpants and a rumpled t-shirt, his hair slightly messy. but before you could even say hello, you noticed a girl standing just a few feet behind him in the hallway, putting her coat on and looking equally confused.

dean looked at you, then down at your packed bag, and blinked. "uh, hey? what are you doing here?" dean’s always thought you were beautiful, but he purposely kept his distance out of respect for garrett. plus, everyone on campus knows dean di laurentis strictly avoids relationship drama and commitment.

"garrett didn't text you?" you asked, your voice shaking slightly from the cold and the adrenaline.

dean pulled his phone out of his pocket, tapping the screen. his eyes widened slightly. "oh. shit. my phone was on silent. i didn't see it."

the girl behind him cleared her throat, breaking the awkward silence. "i should probably head out anyway," she said, looking between the two of you. "i'll see you around, dean."

"yeah, sorry about that. night," dean muttered, stepping aside to let her walk out into the rain before shutting the door firmly behind her.

he turned back to you, the casual, easygoing smirk he usually wore completely gone. he took in your dripping wet clothes, your pale face, and the way your hands were trembling on the handle of your bag. the silence in the house suddenly felt very loud.

"hey," he said, his voice dropping into a much softer, more grounded tone than you were used to hearing from him. "garrett's text says you need a place to stay for a few days. what happened?"

you looked down at your wet sneakers, the weight of the entire night suddenly crashing over you. you gripped the strap of your duffel bag tighter, your knuckles turning white.

"it's... nothing," you muttered, your voice barely audible over the sound of the rain still drumming against the door outside. "i just needed a place to crash. garrett said it was okay."

dean didn't move. he just watched you, his eyes scanning your face, clearly not buying the deflection for a second. he was used to being the guy everyone wanted to talk to, but right now, he looked genuinely concerned.

"hey," he said quietly, stepping a little closer but keeping enough distance so you didn't feel crowded. "you're shivering, you're soaking wet, and you look like you just saw a ghost. you don't have to give me the whole story if you don't want to, but you're not standing out here in the hallway all night."

he reached out, his hand hovering for a second before he gently took the heavy duffel bag from your hand. "go upstairs and get out of those wet clothes. garrett’s room is clean. i’ll make some tea or something."

you swallowed hard, nodding gratefully because your jaw was literally chattering from the cold. "thanks, dean," you whispered, avoiding his eyes as you started up the stairs.

by the time you changed into a pair of dry sweatshorts and one of garrett's oversized briar hockey hoodie, the shaking had mostly stopped, but the anxiety was still hovering right under your skin. you walked back down to the living room, finding dean sitting on the couch. two mugs were steaming on the coffee table.

he looked up when you walked in, shifting over to give you space. "better?"

"yeah," you said, sitting down on the opposite end of the couch and pulling your knees up to your chest. you stared at the steam rising from your mug, the silence stretching between you.

dean let the quiet linger for a minute, giving you time to settle. "garrett's text was pretty vague," he finally said, his tone casual but careful. "just said you had some stuff going on at your place and needed to stay here until sunday."

he paused, looking at the way you were practically trying to disappear into garrett's hockey hoodie, before leaning back against the cushions. "how's that little boyfriend of yours anyway? hunter, right?"

hearing his name felt like a physical blow. you bit the inside of your cheek, your gaze dropping instantly back down to the steaming mug between your hands. you didn't say anything, but the sudden stiffness in your shoulders gave everything away.

dean’s eyes narrowed slightly, the trace of casual amusement completely dropping from his expression. he was smarter than people gave him credit for, and it took him about two seconds to put the pieces together--your packed bag, the frantic arrival, and the mention of your boyfriend.

"we broke up," you whispered, finally looking up to meet his eyes. "and he wouldn't leave my apartment. he was outside my door, so i'm here."

dean's jaw tightened, a hard, protective look passing over his features before he forced himself to relax so he wouldn't scare you. "he's not coming near this place," he said, his voice dropping into a firm, steady register. "you're safe here. i mean it."

you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat, but your mind suddenly flashed back to the hallway just ten minutes ago. the image of the girl putting on her coat, looking pretty and completely at ease in dean's space, flared up in your chest. an uncomfortable, sharp twist hit your stomach, making you feel suddenly self-conscious in garrett's giant, oversized hockey hoodie.

"i'm sorry again for interrupting," you muttered, staring down at your thumbs. "with... whoever that was. you didn't have to kick her out because of me."

"who, marissa?" dean let out a short, dry laugh, shaking his head. "trust me, you didn't interrupt anything important. she was already leaving."

"right," you said, a little too quickly. "i just know you usually have a lot of...visitors. i don't want to get in the way of your weekend plans."

dean paused, studying your face. a slow, faint smirk began to creep back onto his lips, though his eyes remained soft. "are you worried about my social life, or are you just jealous?"

"jealous? no way," you lied, feeling your cheeks heat up. you'd always thought dean was impossibly attractive. everyone on campus did, it was a known fact but you'd always kept your distance because he was garrett's friend and a notorious player. now, sitting this close to him on the couch, the sudden urge to defend your territory from random campus girls felt weirdly intense, even if you didn't quite understand why you cared so much.

"well.." dean grinned, his eyes locked on you. "the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else."

you shifted slightly on the couch, your face flushing even deeper at his words. you rolled your eyes, pulling garrett's oversized hoodie tighter around yourself to hide the flutter in your chest.

"is that your professional advice, di laurentis?" you asked, trying to match his playful tone even though your heart was beating a little too fast. "because it sounds like a line you've used about a hundred times."

dean laughed, a rich, genuine sound that made the remaining tension in your shoulders melt away. he leaned back against the cushions, his arm resting along the top of the sofa behind you, not quite touching you but close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him.

"maybe a little cliché," he admitted, his grin softening into something more genuine. "but seriously, you look like you're carrying the weight of the world right now. you don't have to think about him, or campus, or anything else tonight. you're off the grid here."

you took a slow sip of the tea, letting the warmth settle in your chest. looking at him now without the usual crowd of hockey players or random girls surrounding him, he seemed different. less like the untouchable campus legend and more like someone who was genuinely looking out for you.

"okay," you said quietly, meeting his gaze. "no talking about exes. what are we doing instead?"

"well, i have an idea... but they might get me in trouble with your brother."

dean tilted his head, a slow, playful grin spreading across his face that made his eyes crinkle at the corners.

"what kind of trouble?" you asked, raising an eyebrow and holding your mug with both hands.

he moved closer to you, his face now inches from yours. "do you want to find out?" his eyes flicking down to your lips.

you held his gaze, your heart hammering against your ribs as the space between you completely vanished. the playful banter died out, replaced by a sudden, heavy silence that made the breath hitch in your throat.

"yeah," you whispered, the word barely leaving your lips before dean leaned in and closed the distance.

the kiss was instant heat, a sudden release of all the built-up tension from the entire night. it wasn't gentle or tentative; it was hot and messy, his mouth moving against yours with an intensity that took your breath away. dean’s hand slid up your waist, tightening his grasp on your hip and pulling you into his lap.

you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, your fingers gripping the soft fabric of his shirt as the rest of the world completely faded into the background. the rain continued to beat heavily against the living room windows, but the inside of the house felt entirely warm, safe, and removed from everything else.

when he finally pulled back a fraction to catch his breath, his forehead rested against yours. his hands remained securely on your hips, his thumbs tracing slow, calming circles against the fabric of the oversized hockey hoodie.

"i've been wanting to do that for a really long time," dean murmured, his voice lower and rougher than usual, his eyes locking onto yours with total sincerity.

you let out a soft breath, a small smile finally breaking through. "yeah? even with garrett's voice probably screaming in the back of your head right now?"

dean let out a quiet, breathless laugh, his grip tightening just a little as he pulled you a bit closer against him. "honestly? worth it. let him lock me out. i'm not going anywhere."

pairing: Garret Graham x Di Laurentis!Fem Reader

summary: They can insist it’s only sex all they want, but hiding their hookup from everyone is proving harder than expected.

word count: 6.5k

warnings: secret hookup, post-hookup tension, sexual tension, mutual attraction, no strings attached, casual relationship, brother’s best friend, best friend’s sister, forbidden attraction, forced proximity, spring break, beach house, group vacation, college, banter, teasing, enemies-ish, denial, close calls, almost caught, suspicious friends, protective brother, drinking games, never have i ever, awkward tension, hidden secret, secret kiss, stolen kiss, flirting, unresolved tension, messy situation, drama, humor, detective allie hayes & grace ivers, dean di laurentis is stupid sometimes

a/n: this was requested by this ask so if you haven't read part one or part two here they are! we’re making it a series since you guys love it so much! and my asks are open, so i am taking requests if there is anything you guys want to see! and finally, i am making a taglist for this series so please lmk if you want to permanently be on here as i am tagging everybody from my last one too!!

off campus masterlist | i still hate you masterlist!

The hot tub is already crowded by the time you make it outside.

Steam rises into the cool evening air, and the sound of waves crashing against the shore provides a steady backdrop to the chatter and laughter. String lights are draped across the deck, casting everything in a warm, golden glow that makes the whole scene feel like something out of a vacation commercial.

You're wearing your black bikini—the one that fits well but isn't trying too hard—and you've wrapped a towel around your waist for the walk from the house. Your hair is piled on top of your head in a messy bun, and you're very deliberately not thinking about the fact that Garrett is already in the hot tub.

You're also very deliberately not thinking about what happened in the guest house a few hours ago.

"Finally!" Hannah calls out, waving you over. She's wedged between Logan and Tucker, a beer in her hand. "We thought you'd drowned in the shower."

"Just wanted to make sure I got all the sand off," you say, dropping your towel on a nearby chair. The lie comes easily. In reality, you'd spent an extra twenty minutes in the bathroom giving yourself a stern talking-to about acting normal.

You slip into the hot tub, finding a spot between Allie and Sabrina. The water is almost too hot, but after a moment, your body adjusts, and it feels incredible. You let yourself sink down until the water reaches your shoulders, and you close your eyes briefly, trying to relax.

When you open them, Garrett is looking at you.

It's quick—just a flicker of his gaze in your direction—but you catch it. And the heat in his eyes has nothing to do with the temperature of the water.

You look away immediately, focusing on the conversation happening around you. Grace is telling some story about a disastrous group project, and everyone is laughing, and you force yourself to pay attention. To act normal. To not think about the way Garrett's hands felt on your hips, or the way he'd groaned your name, or the way he'd—

Stop.

You take a sip of the beer Dean hands you, grateful for something to do with your hands.

"So what's the plan for tomorrow?" Logan asks, stretching his arms along the edge of the tub. "Beach day?"

"Obviously," Tucker says. "That's literally why we're here."

"I want to try paddleboarding," Hannah says. "There's a rental place down the beach."

"I'm in," Allie agrees. "Grace?"

"Only if someone promises to take pictures when I inevitably fall off."

"We should make the most of this week," Sabrina says, leaning into Tucker. "It's our last spring break before graduation. After this, it's all job applications and real life."

"Don't remind me," Dean groans. "I'm trying not to think about the fact that we have finals in three weeks."

"And then we're done," Logan adds. "No more college. No more hockey season. Just... adulthood."

"Terrifying," you mutter, and several people nod in agreement.

The conversation flows easily, everyone relaxed and happy despite the looming specter of graduation, and you start to think maybe this will be fine. Maybe you can get through this week without anyone noticing that something has fundamentally shifted between you and Garrett.

Then you feel it again—that prickle of awareness that means someone is watching you.

You glance up, and sure enough, Garrett's eyes are on you. This time, he doesn't look away immediately. His gaze drags over your face, down to your collarbone, to where the water laps at your skin, and then back up. It's not subtle. It's not quick.

It's hungry.

You raise an eyebrow at him, a silent what the hell are you doing?, and he seems to snap out of it. He looks away, taking a long drink from his beer, but you can see the tension in his jaw.

Across the tub, Allie is watching both of you with an expression that's far too knowing.

Shit.

You need to do something. Need to reestablish the normal dynamic before anyone else notices. So you do the only thing that makes sense—you go on the offensive.

"Graham," you say, your voice cutting through the conversation. "You're hogging all the jets on that side."

He blinks, clearly caught off guard. "What?"

"The jets. You're sitting directly in front of all of them. Some of us would like to actually enjoy the hot tub experience."

"There are jets on your side too."

"Weak ones. The good ones are all over there." You gesture vaguely in his direction. "But I guess that tracks. You've always had a problem with sharing."

His eyes narrow, and you can see him catching on to what you're doing. "I'm not moving. I got here first."

"How mature."

"Says the person literally complaining about hot tub jets like a five-year-old."

"I'm not complaining, I'm stating facts. You're a jet hog."

"A jet hog?" Dean laughs. "Is that really what we're fighting about right now?"

"It's a legitimate concern," you say, not breaking eye contact with Garrett. "Some people think the world revolves around them."

"And some people think they're entitled to everything just because they showed up," Garrett shoots back. "Newsflash—you're not special."

"Neither are you, despite what your fan club might have told you."

"At least I have a fan club."

"Oh, please. Your ego is already the size of this house. It doesn't need any more inflation."

Tucker is grinning now. "Here we go. I was wondering when you two would start."

"Start what?" you ask innocently, finally tearing your gaze away from Garrett.

"Your usual bullshit," Logan says. "You've been weirdly civil all day. It was freaking me out."

"I'm always civil," you protest.

"You told him his face was an insult to symmetry within five minutes of getting in the car this morning," Allie points out.

"That was civil. I could have said much worse."

Garrett shifts in his seat, and his leg brushes against yours under the water. It's brief, probably accidental, but it sends a jolt of electricity through you that has nothing to do with the hot tub's heating system. You jerk your leg away like you've been burned.

"Can you keep your limbs to yourself?" you snap, perhaps a bit too harshly.

"It was an accident," he says, but there's something in his voice—a strain that wasn't there before. "Not everything is a personal attack."

"With you, it usually is."

"You're paranoid."

"You're insufferable."

"Children," Dean says, but he's laughing. "Can we have one peaceful evening? Just one?"

"He started it," you mutter, taking another sip of your beer.

"I literally did nothing," Garrett protests. "I was sitting here, minding my own business—"

"Your business being taking up half the hot tub?"

"I'm a big guy. I take up space. Sorry if that offends your delicate sensibilities."

"My sensibilities aren't delicate. They're just refined enough to recognize when someone is being inconsiderate."

Grace is watching the exchange with barely concealed amusement. "You know, for two people who claim to hate each other, you sure spend a lot of energy on each other."

You freeze for a fraction of a second before forcing a laugh. "That's what happens when you're stuck in close quarters with someone intolerable. The energy has nowhere else to go."

"Exactly," Garrett agrees, perhaps a bit too quickly. "It's like... forced proximity breeding contempt."

"I think the phrase is 'familiarity breeds contempt,'" Hannah says.

"That too."

There's a beat of silence, and you can feel the weight of several gazes on you. The moment stretches just long enough to feel uncomfortable before Dean clears his throat.

"Earth to Garrett," Dean says, snapping his fingers. "You with us?"

"Yeah, sorry." Garrett shakes his head slightly. "What?"

"I asked if you wanted to go surfing tomorrow. There's supposed to be decent waves in the morning."

"Sure. Yeah. Sounds good."

Dean narrows his eyes slightly, but he doesn't push it. Instead, he turns to you. "What about you? You surfing or paddleboarding?"

"Paddleboarding," you say. "I value my life."

"Since when are you afraid of surfing? You used to beg me to take you when we were kids."

"That was before I developed a sense of self-preservation."

"Fair enough."

"Plus," you add, unable to resist, "I'd rather not spend my morning watching Graham wipe out and pretend he meant to do it."

"I don't wipe out," Garrett says, his tone defensive.

"Everyone wipes out. It's surfing."

"Not everyone. Some of us actually have balance and coordination."

"Right. That's why you tripped over your own hockey stick during the playoffs and it made SportsCenter."

His jaw tightens. "That was one time. And the ice was uneven."

"Sure it was."

"You're really going to bring up a blooper reel from three months ago?"

"If the skate fits."

Logan snorts. "She's got you there, man."

Garrett's eyes flash, and for a moment, you think you might have pushed too far. But then he leans back, deliberately casual, and says, "At least I'm athletic enough to have a blooper reel. What's your excuse for being uncoordinated?"

"I'm not uncoordinated."

"You fell off a paddleboard in two feet of water last summer."

"The board was slippery!"

"It was a paddleboard. They're designed to be stood on."

"By people with better balance than me, apparently."

"So you admit you're uncoordinated."

"I admit the board was defective."

"Sure. The board. Not user error."

You're about to fire back when you realize everyone is watching you both like it's a tennis match. The banter is flowing too easily, too naturally, and you need to dial it back before someone reads into it. You take a breath and settle back into your seat, letting the conversation drift to safer territory.

Tucker starts talking about the bonfire he wants to organize—"massive flames, s'mores, the whole deal"—and Sabrina leans into him, laughing as she teases him about his pyromaniac tendencies.

"You just want an excuse to play with fire," she says, poking his chest.

"Can you blame me? Fire is cool."

"Fire is dangerous," Grace corrects, but she's smiling. Logan wraps an arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer in the water.

"We'll keep him supervised," Logan promises. "Make sure he doesn't burn the beach down."

"I'm helping," Dean announces. "Someone needs to make sure the s'mores are properly engineered."

"Engineered?" Allie raises an eyebrow at him. "They're s'mores, not a science project."

"There's an art to the perfect marshmallow-to-chocolate ratio."

"Of course there is."

The group settles on tomorrow night for the bonfire, and you nod along, hyperaware of Garrett across from you. His leg shifts slightly closer to yours under the water, not quite touching but close enough that you can feel the heat of him radiating through the space between you.

You shift away, putting more distance between you, and you catch the flash of something—disappointment? frustration?—in his eyes before he schools his expression back to neutral.

"We should do one of those drinking games," Hannah suggests, breaking into your thoughts. She's scrolling through her phone, and you catch a glimpse of a text notification—probably Justin—before she sets it face-down on the edge of the tub. "Like Never Have I Ever or something."

"Absolutely not," you say immediately. "Those games always end in disaster."

"That's the point," Tucker says, grinning at Sabrina, who rolls her eyes but doesn't disagree.

"Hard pass."

"Scared, Y/N?" Garrett asks, and there's a challenge in his voice that makes your spine straighten.

"Of what? A juvenile drinking game?"

"Of people finding out your secrets."

Your heart skips a beat, but you keep your expression neutral. "I don't have any secrets worth hiding. Unlike some people."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning you're the one with the carefully curated public image. I'm an open book."

"Right. An open book." His tone is skeptical. "Sure."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Just that everyone has secrets."

"Deep thoughts from Graham. How philosophical."

"I'm a man of many layers."

"Like an onion. The more you peel back, the more you want to cry."

Dean laughs. "Okay, that was actually pretty good."

"Thank you." You take a small bow, or as much of one as you can manage while sitting in a hot tub. "I'll be here all week."

"Lucky us," Garrett mutters, but there's no real heat in it.

"Come on," Hannah presses, setting her phone aside completely. "It'll be fun. We're all adults here. Technically."

"Barely," Logan says. "We're still in college."

"For three more weeks," Grace reminds him. "Then we're real adults with real jobs and real responsibilities."

"Even more reason to play drinking games while we still can," Hannah argues.

"Exactly why it's a bad idea," you say, but you can feel your resolve weakening. The truth is, you're curious—and maybe a little reckless. If you can get through a round of Never Have I Ever without exposing what happened with Garrett, it'll prove you can handle this week.

"I'm in," Grace says, raising her wine glass. "Let's do it."

"Me too," Allie agrees, leaning back against Dean. "Could be entertaining."

Suddenly everyone is nodding, and you're outnumbered.

"Fine," you say, trying to sound reluctant. "But if this goes sideways, I'm blaming all of you."

"Noted," Tucker says. He holds up his beer, looking around the circle. "Okay, I'll start. Never have I ever... hooked up with someone in this hot tub."

Everyone looks around. No one drinks.

"Boring," Hannah says. "Try again."

"Alright, alright." Tucker thinks for a moment. "Never have I ever hooked up with someone at a hockey game."

Logan drinks. So does Garrett. Dean raises his beer with a sheepish grin, and Allie immediately smacks his arm.

"Really?" she says.

"It was before we were together!" Dean protests. "Like, sophomore year."

"Still gross. Where? The bathroom?"

"I'm pleading the fifth."

"That's not how this game works," you point out, grateful for the distraction from your own anxiety.

"Fine. Yes. The bathroom. Happy?"

Allie wrinkles her nose. "Disgusting."

"You asked!"

The group is laughing now, and Hannah jumps in. "Okay, my turn. Never have I ever... gone skinny-dipping in a public pool."

Hannah herself drinks, along with Tucker and Sabrina. Grace gasps.

"When?" she demands.

"Last summer," Hannah says, grinning. "After that party at Miller's place. The community pool was right there, and it was like two in the morning..."

"And you didn't invite us?" Allie looks genuinely offended.

"You were already gone! Besides, we almost got caught by a security guard. It was a whole thing."

"I need to hear this story later," you say, and Hannah nods.

"Deal. Okay, who's next?"

"Me," Logan says. He's got his arm still draped around Grace, and he's smiling. "Never have I ever... gotten kicked out of a bar."

Tucker drinks immediately, and so does Dean. Garrett hesitates, then drinks too.

"Wait, you?" Grace looks at Garrett in surprise. "Mr. Perfect got kicked out of a bar?"

"It was a misunderstanding," Garrett says.

"That's what they all say," you mutter, and he shoots you a look.

"What happened?" Hannah asks.

"Some guy was being an asshole to a girl at the bar. I told him to back off. He didn't. Things escalated."

"You got in a fight?" Dean sounds impressed.

"Not exactly. The bouncer just decided we were both problems and tossed us both out before anything actually happened."

"How noble," you say, unable to help yourself. "Defending random girls in bars. Is that your usual move?"

His jaw tightens. "It's called being a decent human being. You should try it sometime."

"I am a decent human being. I just don't go around picking fights to prove it."

"I didn't pick a fight. I—" He stops himself, clearly realizing you're baiting him. "Never mind."

"Thought so."

Allie clears her throat. "Okay, before you two kill each other... my turn. Never have I ever hooked up with someone in the same room as other people."

Dean drinks immediately, and Allie's eyes go wide. "Dean!"

"What? You already knew about that!"

"I did not!"

"Yes, you did. I told you about the time in college when my roommate—"

"Oh my god, I blocked that out." Allie covers her face with her hands while Dean laughs.

Logan drinks too, and Grace elbows him. "Seriously?"

"It was one time! And everyone was asleep!"

"That's not better!"

Garrett drinks as well, and you absolutely do not think about what that means or who he was with or why the thought of it makes your chest feel tight.

"Never have I ever," Sabrina says, clearly trying to move past the awkwardness, "lied about how many people I've slept with."

A few people drink, including Garrett. You don't, because you've never felt the need to lie about it. Your number is your number, and anyone who has a problem with it can fuck off.

"Higher or lower?" Tucker asks Garrett, grinning.

"Not answering that."

"So higher."

"I said I'm not answering."

"Definitely higher," Logan agrees, and Garrett flips him off.

Dean goes next. "Never have I ever... sent a nude to the wrong person."

Tucker drinks immediately, and everyone laughs. "It was one time!" he protests. "And it was an accident!"

"Who'd you send it to?" Logan asks, barely containing his laughter.

Tucker's face goes red. "My mom."

The group explodes. Sabrina is laughing so hard she's crying, and even Garrett is grinning.

"Oh my god," Grace gasps. "What did she say?"

"She asked if I was eating enough vegetables and then we never spoke of it again."

"I would die," Hannah says. "Actually die."

"I wanted to," Tucker admits. "She was right above my girlfriend in my messages! It was an honest mistake!"

"That's amazing," you say, wiping tears from your eyes. "Thank you for that gift."

"Glad my trauma amuses you."

The laughter eventually dies down, and Grace takes her turn. "Never have I ever... made out with someone within five minutes of meeting them."

Garrett drinks. So does Hannah. Dean looks like he's considering it, then drinks too.

"Dean!" Allie looks scandalized.

"College!" he says defensively. "I was young and stupid!"

"You're still stupid," you point out, and he splashes water at you.

"Never have I ever," Hannah says, "hooked up with someone whose name I didn't know."

Garrett drinks without hesitation, and Tucker whistles.

"Seriously?" Hannah asks, though she doesn't look particularly surprised.

"It happens," Garrett says with a shrug. "Not everyone exchanges life stories."

"That's one way to put it," you mutter.

His eyes narrow. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing. Just that you have a certain... reputation."

"A reputation for what?"

"For being exactly the kind of guy who hooks up with people whose names he doesn't know."

"At least I'm honest about it," he says, and there's an edge to his voice now. "I don't pretend to want something I don't. I don't lead people on."

"No, you just make it very clear that you're not interested in anything beyond one night."

"And what's wrong with that? As long as everyone's on the same page?"

"Nothing. If everyone actually is on the same page. But I've had plenty of girls cry to me about the great Garrett Graham who was so charming and attentive until he got what he wanted and then disappeared."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?"

Dean holds up his hands. "Okay, timeout. This is supposed to be fun, remember?"

You sit back, forcing yourself to relax. The anger in your voice was real—you do resent the way Garrett operates sometimes, the way he keeps everyone at arm's length—but you also know you're using it as cover. If you're fighting with him, no one will suspect what happened between you.

"Sorry," you mutter. "Got carried away."

"Clearly," Garrett says, but his voice is tight.

There's a beat of uncomfortable silence before Sabrina jumps in. "Never have I ever had sex in a car."

Several people drink, including you. It was years ago, with a boyfriend you'd rather forget, but still. You catch Garrett watching you as you take a sip, and there's something in his expression that makes your skin heat.

"Never have I ever," Logan says, moving things along, "hooked up with someone more than ten years older than me."

No one drinks.

"Boring," Hannah declares. "Okay, my turn. Never have I ever... faked it."

Every woman in the hot tub drinks except Allie. Dean looks at her with obvious pride while the rest of the guys look vaguely uncomfortable.

"Really?" Grace asks Allie.

"Really. Dean's very attentive." She pats his chest, and he grins.

"Damn right I am."

"Gross," you mutter, but you're smiling.

"Never have I ever," Dean says, "hooked up with someone I met on a dating app."

Tucker and Sabrina both drink. So does Hannah. Logan drinks too, and Grace raises her eyebrows.

"Before you," he says quickly. "Obviously."

"Mm-hmm."

The game continues, the prompts getting progressively more revealing. You learn that Tucker once hooked up with someone in a library, that Hannah has a thing for musicians, that Logan once got walked in on by his parents. The alcohol is flowing, everyone is laughing, and for a few minutes, you almost forget to be anxious.

Then Grace leans forward with a wicked smile.

"Never have I ever," she says slowly, her eyes moving between you and Garrett, "hooked up with someone I claimed to hate."

Your stomach drops.

The group goes quiet for a beat, everyone looking around to see who drinks. You keep your hand steady on your beer, refusing to move, refusing to even glance at Garrett. Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure everyone can hear it.

Across the tub, Garrett doesn't move either. His expression is carefully neutral, almost bored.

"No one?" Grace asks, her tone innocent. "Really? I thought for sure someone would drink on that one."

"Hate's a strong word," Logan says. "I've hooked up with people I was annoyed with, but hate? Nah."

"Same," Hannah agrees. "Annoyed, sure. Hate? That's intense."

The moment passes, and you exhale slowly, trying not to let your relief show. That was too close.

"Never have I ever," you say quickly, deciding to take control before someone asks something even more dangerous, "pretended to like someone I actually couldn't stand."

It's a safe question—vague enough that it could mean anything. Several people drink, including Dean, who gets a look from Allie.

"What?" he says. "I'm talking about that guy from my econ class who wouldn't stop talking about cryptocurrency."

"Sure you are," Allie says, but she's laughing.

"Never have I ever," Tucker says, "hooked up with more than one person in the same week."

Garrett drinks. So does Logan, which earns him another elbow from Grace.

"Before you!" he insists.

"You better hope so."

Hannah goes next. "Never have I ever... hooked up with someone in the last twenty-four hours."

Your heart stops.

The group goes quiet, everyone looking around. You keep your expression carefully neutral, your hand steady on your beer. You don't move. Don't breathe. Don't look at Garrett.

Across the tub, Garrett is equally still. His face gives nothing away.

"Seriously?" Hannah says. "No one? We're all in a beach house together and no one's gotten any action?"

"We literally just got here," Logan points out.

"So? That's prime time for vacation hookups."

"Not everyone is as impulsive as you," Allie says, but she's smiling.

The moment passes, and you exhale slowly. Another close call. You're starting to think this game was a terrible idea.

"Besides," Dean adds, "some of us are in committed relationships and had to spend the drive here listening to these two fight." He gestures between you and Garrett.

"That's fair," Tucker agrees.

"Never have I ever," Allie says, and there's something in her tone that makes you nervous, "lied to my friends about hooking up with someone."

Your hand twitches toward your beer, but you stop yourself. That would be too obvious. Too revealing. You keep your hand where it is, even though technically, you are lying to your friends right now.

A few people drink—Tucker, Hannah, Logan—but you and Garrett both stay still.

Allie's eyes linger on you for just a moment too long before she looks away.

"Okay," Grace says, stretching. "I think we've thoroughly embarrassed ourselves. Can we be done now?"

"Agreed," Logan says. "I need to maintain some dignity."

"Too late for that," Tucker says, and Logan splashes him.

But before the game can officially end, Grace leans forward again, resting her arms on the edge of the tub. "So, Garrett," she says, and there's something in her tone that makes you tense. "You've been quiet tonight. Everything okay?"

"Fine," he says, but his voice is tight. "Just tired. Long drive."

"Right. The drive." Grace's eyes flick to you, then back to Garrett, and there's definitely something knowing in her expression. "That must have been... uncomfortable."

You freeze.

"It was fine," you say quickly. Too quickly.

Allie is definitely smirking now.

"I mean, being stuck in the backseat for that long," Grace continues innocently. "Must have been cramped."

"It was," Garrett says, and you can hear the strain in his voice. "But we survived."

"Barely," you mutter, and Dean laughs.

"You two are so dramatic. It was two and a half hours, not a cross-country road trip."

"Easy for you to say. You had the comfortable seat."

"And I earned it by organizing this whole trip."

"Debatable," you say, and Dean flicks water at you.

You flick water back, and suddenly there's a small splash war happening. It's childish and stupid and exactly the kind of distraction you need. By the time it dies down, everyone is laughing, and the weird tension from Grace's questions has dissipated.

But then you make the mistake of looking at Garrett.

He's not laughing. He's watching you with an intensity that makes your breath catch, water droplets clinging to his hair and running down his face. His eyes are dark, focused entirely on you, and there's something in his expression that's far too raw, far too revealing.

You look away sharply, your face heating, and you pray the dim lighting and the steam hide your reaction.

But when you glance at Dean, he's watching Garrett with a puzzled expression.

Oh no.

"Dude," Dean says slowly. "Why do you keep staring at my sister?"

The entire hot tub goes quiet.

Your heart stops.

Garrett's eyes go wide, and for a second, he looks like a deer caught in headlights. "I'm not—"

"You are," Dean says, and now he's frowning. "You've looked at her like five times in the last ten minutes."

"I have not."

"You definitely have," Logan says helpfully, and you want to strangle him.

Garrett's jaw tightens. "I was just—I wasn't staring. I was zoning out."

"While looking directly at her?"

"It's not—" Garrett runs a hand through his hair, and you can see him scrambling for an explanation. "I wasn't looking at her specifically. I was just... looking in that direction."

"Right," Dean says, and his tone is skeptical. "Because that's totally different."

You need to say something. Need to deflect. Need to do anything other than sit here while your brother interrogates Garrett about why he's been staring at you.

"Maybe he's plotting my demise," you offer, forcing a laugh. "We do hate each other, remember?"

"Do you though?" Grace asks, and there's definitely amusement in her voice now.

"Yes," you and Garrett say in unison, and the synchronization only makes it worse.

"See?" Dean gestures between you. "That. That's weird."

"What's weird?" you ask.

"You're both being weird. You've been weird all day."

"We're not being weird," Garrett says. "We're being exactly the same as we always are."

"Which is weird," Tucker adds helpfully.

"You know what? Fuck all of you," you say, but there's no real heat in it. "We can't win. If we fight, we're being dramatic. If we don't fight, we're being weird. Make up your minds."

Dean is still frowning, his gaze moving between you and Garrett like he's trying to solve a puzzle. Then, slowly, his expression shifts. His eyes widen slightly, and a look of absolute horror crosses his face.

"Oh my god," he says. "Oh my god, are you two—"

"No!" you say, at the same time Garrett says, "Absolutely not!"

But Dean is already laughing, the horror transforming into amusement. "Holy shit. You guys hooked up, didn't you?"

"What? No!" Your voice comes out too high, too panicked. "That's—that's insane. Why would you even—"

"We didn't," Garrett says firmly, but his face is flushed, and he's gripping his beer bottle so tightly you're surprised it doesn't shatter.

Dean is grinning now, clearly enjoying this. "I'm just saying, it would explain the weird energy. And the staring. And the fact that you both disappeared for like an hour earlier—"

"We were unpacking!" you protest.

"For an hour?"

"There was a lot of stuff!"

"Uh-huh." Dean takes a sip of his beer, still grinning. "Sure. Unpacking."

You can feel everyone's eyes on you now. Hannah looks confused, Tucker is trying not to laugh, and Allie and Grace are both watching with barely concealed delight.

This is a nightmare.

"Okay, seriously though," Dean says, and his tone shifts slightly, becoming more serious. "You guys didn't actually... right? Because that would be—"

"Disgusting," you supply quickly, perhaps too quickly. You need to sell this. "Absolutely disgusting. I'd rather make out with a cactus."

"Unthinkable," Garrett adds, and his voice has taken on a tone of exaggerated revulsion. "I have standards."

"Oh, you have standards?" You turn to glare at him, and the anger in your voice isn't entirely fake. "That's rich coming from someone who's hooked up with half the campus."

"That's an exaggeration."

"Is it? How many girls have you been with this semester alone?"

"That's none of your business."

"It becomes my business when my friends keep asking me why you won't text them back."

"I'm always upfront about what I want. If people choose to ignore that, that's on them."

"Right. Because you're so clear about the fact that you don't do relationships. That you're just looking for a good time and nothing more."

"I am clear about it. I don't lie to anyone."

"You don't have to lie when your reputation does it for you."

His eyes flash. "At least I'm not afraid to actually live my life instead of judging everyone else for theirs."

"I'm not judging. I'm observing. There's a difference."

"Sounds like judging to me."

"Then you're not listening."

"Maybe I don't want to listen to someone who clearly has no idea what they're talking about."

Dean holds up his hands. "Okay, okay, I get it. Jesus. I was just joking. You don't have to act like I suggested you murder someone."

"It would be less offensive than suggesting we hooked up," you mutter, and Garrett makes a noise of agreement.

"A literal nightmare," he says.

"The worst possible scenario."

"Like a horror movie."

"A really bad horror movie. Like, straight to streaming."

"Not even streaming. Straight to the discount bin at a gas station."

Despite everything, you almost smile at that. But you catch yourself, schooling your expression back to irritation.

The damage is done, though. Your heart is racing, your face is burning, and you can't look at Garrett without feeling like everyone will immediately know the truth.

You need to get out of here. Need to escape before you say something stupid or Garrett looks at you again or Dean decides to keep pushing.

"I need another beer," you announce, standing up abruptly. Water sluices off your body, and you grab your towel. "Anyone else?"

There's a chorus of requests, and you're grateful for the excuse to leave. You climb out of the hot tub, wrap the towel around yourself, and head toward the house without looking back.

You're halfway to the kitchen when you hear footsteps behind you.

"Hey."

You turn to find Garrett standing there, dripping wet, his own towel slung low around his hips. He's followed you inside, and the look on his face is somewhere between apologetic and frustrated.

"That was close," he says quietly, glancing back toward the deck to make sure no one else is coming.

"Too close." You lean against the counter, trying to steady your breathing. Your hands are shaking slightly, and you grip the edge of the counter to hide it. "We need to be more careful."

"I know. I'm sorry. I just—" He steps closer, but not too close. There's still several feet between you, enough distance that if someone walked in, it would look innocent. His voice drops even lower. "I can't stop looking at you. Can't stop thinking about earlier."

"Garrett." You cut him off, glancing toward the door to make sure no one followed. Your heart is hammering. "We can't do this here."

"I know." But there's frustration in his voice now, and he runs a hand through his wet hair. "I know we can't. But fuck, this is harder than I thought it would be."

"You think it's easy for me?" You keep your voice low, barely above a whisper. "I can barely look at you without remembering—" You stop yourself, shaking your head. "We agreed. No strings. No one finds out. Especially not Dean."

"I know what we agreed." He takes another step closer, and now there's only about two feet between you. Still enough distance to be plausible, but close enough that you can see the water droplets on his chest, the way his muscles shift as he breathes. "But I meant what I said. I want you. All week. Every chance we get."

"We almost just got caught."

"But we didn't." His eyes are intense, locked on yours. "And we won't. We'll be more careful. But I'm not giving this up."

The intensity in his voice makes your breath catch. "This is just sex, remember? No strings."

"Right. Just sex." But something flickers in his eyes before he masks it. "Still. Best I've had. Not walking away from that."

You should push him away. Should remind him that your brother and all your friends are literally fifty feet away. Should maintain some semblance of boundaries.

But you're already moving toward him, closing the distance, and when you're close enough to feel his body heat, you pause.

"Someone could walk in," you whisper.

"Then we'll hear them." But he doesn't move to touch you. His hands stay at his sides, even though you can see the tension in them, the way his fingers flex like he's fighting the urge to reach for you.

You glance toward the door one more time, listening. The sound of laughter and conversation drifts in from outside, but no footsteps. No indication that anyone is coming.

You kiss him.

It's quick, just a brief press of lips, but it's enough to make you both inhale sharply. When you pull back, his eyes are dark, and his hands have moved to hover near your waist, not quite touching.

"Later," you whisper. "When everyone's asleep. Guest house."

"I'll be there." His voice is rough, strained.

You hear voices approaching—Hannah's laugh, Logan's voice—and you both spring apart. By the time they walk into the kitchen, you're on opposite sides of the room, and Garrett is very intently studying the contents of the fridge.

"Did you get lost?" Hannah asks, grabbing a bottle of wine from the counter. "We sent you for beer like five minutes ago."

"Just trying to find the good stuff," you say, pulling open the fridge and grabbing an armful of bottles. Your hands are steadier now, and you're grateful for it. "Dean hid it."

"Classic Dean."

Logan grabs a bag of chips from the pantry, and the three of them head back outside, leaving you and Garrett alone again.

"That was close," you mutter, not looking at him.

"Getting closer every time." But he's smiling, and when you risk a glance at him, there's something in his expression that makes your stomach flip.

"We need to get back out there before someone notices we're both gone."

"Right." But he doesn't move immediately. "You go first. I'll wait a minute."

"Good idea."

You grab the beers and head toward the door, but you pause at the threshold. "Garrett?"

"Yeah?"

"Try not to stare at me for the rest of the night."

"I'll do my best." But his tone suggests he's not making any promises.

"Your best better be good enough. Because if Dean figures this out—"

"He won't. I promise."

You nod and head back outside, the cool night air hitting your damp skin and making you shiver. When you settle back into the hot tub, you make sure to sit as far from Garrett as possible. Dean is in the middle of some story about a disastrous game during the season, and everyone is laughing, and for a moment, everything feels normal again.

Then Garrett returns, sliding back into his spot, and you feel his presence like a physical weight.

"Took you long enough," Tucker says. "We thought you got lost too."

"Just needed a minute," Garrett says easily. "Too much beer."

The conversation flows on, and you force yourself to participate, to laugh at the right moments, to not look at Garrett more than is absolutely necessary.

But then you catch his eye across the tub, and the heat in his gaze makes it very clear that nothing about this is normal anymore.

Allie leans over, her voice low enough that only you can hear. "You know we all know, right?"

Your heart stops. "Know what?"

"That something happened between you two." She takes a sip of her wine, her expression amused. "Grace and I figured it out in the car. The way you both disappeared, the way he's been looking at you, the way you both panicked when Dean made that joke..."

"Allie—"

"Relax. We're not going to say anything." She glances at Garrett, then back at you. "But you might want to work on your poker face. Because if we noticed, it's only a matter of time before Dean does too."

"It's not—we're not—"

"Sure." She pats your arm. "Whatever you say. Just... be careful, okay? Dean's protective. And Garrett's his friend. If this goes south, it could get messy."

"It's not going to go south because there's nothing to go south," you insist, but even you don't believe it.

Allie just smiles and turns back to the group conversation, leaving you to sit there and contemplate exactly how screwed you are.

Across the tub, Garrett is watching you again, and this time, you don't look away. You hold his gaze, let him see the want in your eyes, let him know that despite the risk, despite the complications, you're not backing down.

His lips curve into a slow smile, and the promise in it makes your toes curl.

This week is going to be absolute torture.

And you can't wait.

Pairing: Dean Di Laurentis x Fem!Reader Genre: Enemies to lovers, rom-com Summary: Dean needs a date to the athletic gala to win a bet, and you refuse to be another conquest. But when Briar's star defenseman starts doing his homework on her niche interests, the ice starts to crack. Note: My masterlist

--

Grace Ivers’ older brother plays for the Briar University hockey team, which means her dating life is constantly under lock and key.

He made a ridiculous rule for the upcoming spring athletic gala. She’s strictly banned from attending unless her fiercely independent roommate like me finds a date first. Her brother knows very well that I despises the athletic department, so he thought his plan was foolproof.

John Logan has a massive crush on Grace. He realized the only way to get her to the gala was to break the system Grace’s brother made. He decided to enlist the help of the most confident guy on campus.

Logan waited until the post-practice chaos fills the Briar locker room. Steam rose from the showers and heavy gear thudded against the floor. Dean Di Laurentis sat on the wooden bench, casually unlacing his skates. Logan walked over and stops right in front of him.

"I need a massive favor, Di Laurentis," Logan said and wiped sweat from his forehead. "It involves the gala."

Dean looked up and gave a lazy smirk. "If this is about your love life, Logan, I am not your romance consultant."

"It is about Grace's roommate," Logan explained. "The rule states that Grace can’t go to the gala unless her roommate gets a date first. And you know how much she hates us."

Dean let out a loud laugh and shook his head. "So you want me to play sacrificial lamb? No way. I heard she has a tongue like a paper cut. I value my peace."

"I'll give you my vintage, signed 1980 Miracle on Ice jersey," Logan said quietly.

Dean stopped unlacing his skates. He looked at Logan with sudden interest. That jersey was a collector's dream, and Logan had guarded it for years.

"The signed one?" Dean asked with a sharp grin spreading across his face. "The one your dad gave you?"

"Yes," Logan sighed. "Just get her to say yes to one date."

Dean stood up, towering over the bench. The skepticism was completely gone, replaced by his usual competitive drive. He considered Logan's deal now, a puzzle that no one else could solve. He patted Logan on the shoulder with a heavy hockey glove.

"Keep that jersey clean for me," Dean said with the voice full of supreme confidence. "I'll have her laughing by tomorrow afternoon."

Logan nodded with relief, though he still looked nervous about the deal. Dean grabbed his towel and headed toward the showers. He was already planning his opening lines for the girl who supposedly couldn't be tamed.

--

The campus coffee shop is quiet and low-lit on a Tuesday afternoon. I sit at a small corner table, pretending to study my psychology textbook, but I'm actually watching the door.

Grace sits just two tables away from me. She has a thick paperback book open in front of her and a cup of black coffee at her elbow. She looks completely focused, entirely cut off from the rest of the world.

The bell above the door chimes, and Dean Di Laurentis walks in. He looks incredibly confident in that leather jacket. He flashes a brilliant smile at the barista. He spots me, adjusts his posture, and struts over to my table. Without asking, he pulls out the empty chair opposite me and sits down.

"That looks like a heavy read for a beautiful day," Dean says. He leans forward and rests his chin in his hand.

I don't look up from her page. I turn the page slowly. My expression is completely blank.

"I'm Dean, by the way," he continues. His voice is smooth and effortless. "But you probably already know that."

Finally, I raise my eyes and stare at him for three long seconds. Her gaze is cold enough to freeze the ice rink.

"I know exactly who you are," I say with my flat voice. "You're the guy whose ego requires its own zip code. I'm trying to read a masterpiece, so please take your corporate white boy energy somewhere else."

Dean freezes. The smooth smile completely vanishes from his face. He blinks, utterly stunned by the sharp delivery of her words. No girl on this campus has ever spoken to him like that. He opens his mouth to reply, but she's already looking back down at her book, and completely ignoring his existence.

Dean stands up slowly and clears his throat. He walks away from her table and stops right next to Grace. He looks shocked.

"Did you hear that?" Dean whispers to her excitedly. "She's absolutely terrifying. I love it."

He walks out of the coffee shop with a massive grin on his face. I watch him go. I realize that my brutal rejection didn't scare him away at all. It just made him completely hooked.

--

The hockey house kitchen was bright and noisy even at midnight, but tonight it felt different. Dean sat at the far end of the long wooden table. He was hunched over his laptop. He frowned deeply at the screen. A pair of large headphones rested around his neck.

Dean scratched his head, completely out of his comfort zone. He clicked on an article. His eyes were scanning a summary of a famous feminist literature book. He's working harder right now than his friends have ever seen him study for his actual university classes.

"What are you listening to?" Garrett asked as he was walking into the kitchen with Tucker right behind him.

Garrett opened the refrigerator, grabbed a carton of milk, and looked over at Dean’s laptop screen. He blinked in confusion.

"Is that a research paper on underground music festivals?" Tucker asked as he was leaning over Dean’s shoulder. "Since when do you care about nineties riot bands, Dean?"

Dean snapped his laptop shut, but he didn't look embarrassed. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

"It's called expanding my horizons," Dean said smoothly. "You guys should try it sometimes. Your playlists are basic."

"You usually listen to commercial rap and aggressive techno before games," Garrett laughed and took a swig of milk. "Now you're reading essays about patriarchal structures. Did you get hit in the head during practice today?"

"She is different," Dean says. He looks past his teammates. "She doesn't care about the hockey team. She doesn't care about my car. If I want to talk to her, I have to actually know something."

Tucker shakes his head and laughs. He is heading toward the hallway. "Good luck with that, philosopher. Let us know when you finish your homework."

Garrett follows him out. Dean sighs and opens his laptop back up. He types something into the search bar, completely focused on his new mission.

Logan watched him flip through another article and realized that this bet was no longer just a joke to him. He's genuinely becoming fascinated by the way Grace's roommate's mind worked, and he's willing to do the reading to prove it.

--

The vintage record store downtown is crowded and dusty on a Saturday afternoon. I stand near the front counter and pretend to flip through a box of classic rock cassettes, but I keep my eyes on the back aisle. I'm hunched over a crate of rare punk records, totally in my zone.

Suddenly, a tall figure steps into the narrow aisle. Dean wears a simple green hoodie, which makes him look a lot more casual than usual. He moves a crate of indie rock vinyl and gently bumps his shoulder against mine.

"Oh, sorry about that," Dean says.

I roll my eyes and try to step away. "Do you follow me everywhere, Di Laurentis?"

"Actually, I'm just looking for the original 1994 press of the Bikini Kill split single," Dean says. His tone is completely casual. "The one on pink vinyl. But they probably only have the boring reissue here."

I freeze. I slowly turn her head to look at him. My eyebrows raise in absolute shock.

"You know Bikini Kill?" I ask with full of suspicion.

"Of course," Dean says. He leans against the wooden shelf. "Though honestly, I think their early cassette releases had a much better, raw energy than the later studio albums."

"The studio albums have better production value," I argue immediately. "The raw energy is great, but you lose the basslines in the cheap cassette recordings."

"The messy bassline is the entire point of punk," Dean counters with a sharp grin. "If you want clean production, go listen to pop music."

I watch from the front counter as they debate back and forth. The banter is fast and sharp, but the cold hostility on my face slowly melts away. A reluctant smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. I'm genuinely amused that the star defenseman actually knows his stuff.

After ten minutes of arguing about tracklists, I grab a record and heads to the register. Dean follows me and carries a jazz album he picked up.

"Alright, hockey boy," I say as they walk out the front door together. "You're slightly less boring than I thought. You can walk me back to campus, but only if you promise not to talk about sports."

"Deal," Dean says with his easy smile as he opens the door for her.

I follow them out at a distance and smile to myself. Dean's homework definitely paid off, and the ice is finally starting to crack.

--

The Briar University Athletic Gala is incredibly glamorous. Crystal chandeliers hang from the high ceiling, and the ballroom is filled with students in formal attire. I stand near the refreshment table, watching Dean and my roommate arrive. They look absolutely stunning together. Dean wears a sharp black tuxedo, and I wear beautiful in a navy velvet dress.

For the first time all semester, my defensive walls are completely down. Dean is a perfect gentleman. He ignores his teammates and fans to focus entirely on me. He guides me out to the quiet balcony, away from the loud music and the crowded dance floor. Through the glass doors, I throw my head back and share a genuine, beautiful laugh with him.

The happy moment doesn't last long. I walk back inside alone to find the restroom. As I pass a quiet alcove near the hallway, I stop. Logan's standing there with Tucker, and they're talking loudly over the music.

"I can't believe Dean actually pulled it off," Tucker laughs. "He really got her to come tonight."

"He wanted that vintage Miracle on Ice jersey bad," Logan says and shakes his head. "I had to promise it to him just to get her on a single date, so I could take Grace tonight."

I freeze in the hallway. The color completely drains from my face. My hands shake against my dress as the truth hits me. The shared interests, the record store, the long conversations, they were all a paid bet.

I march right back out to the balcony with angry tears in my eyes. Dean turns to smile at me, but his expression drops when he sees my face.

"Is everything okay?" Dean asks and take a step toward me.

"Did you enjoy the homework, Dean?" I ask. My voice cuts through the cool night air. "Was the vintage jersey worth all the fake conversations about punk rock?"

Dean’s eyes go wide. His mouth opens in shock. "Wait, let me explain. It started like that, but I swear..."

"You're a total fake," I spit out loud enough that people near the doors turn to look. "You're exactly what I thought you were on day one. A massive, pathetic ego."

I turn on my heels and storm through the ballroom crowd. I leave Dean standing completely alone on the balcony. He looks totally devastated. He realizes his mistake too late as the entire room stares at him in silence.

--

I'm walking with Grace across campus on Monday morning. I'm quiet as staring straight ahead with my backpack slung tightly over one shoulder.

She knows I'm still furious about the gala. Our path takes us right past the heavy double doors of the Briar University ice arena. The hockey team just finished their morning practice, and the faint smell of cold air and ice drifts out into the hallway.

Suddenly, the overhead arena speakers screech to life with a loud burst of static. The sound echoes down the hallway, making my roommate stop in her tracks.

"Testing, testing. Is this thing on?"

Dean's voice booms through the speakers and echoes off the concrete walls. I frown and step toward the open arena doors. Grace follow right behind me. We look inside the massive, chilly stadium.

Dean stands inside the announcer's box up in the stands. He's clutching the heavy microphone. Down on the ice, his teammates are sitting on the bench. They’re all looking up at him with wide eyes and grins.

"I know you're out there," Dean says into the microphone. His voice echoes loudly across the empty ice. "And I know you probably want to punch me in the face. Honestly, I deserve it.”

I stand by the rink doors. My arms tightly cross over my chest. I don't move.

"Logan offered me a vintage jersey to get you to go out with me," Dean says, his voice booming through the stadium. "It was a stupid, arrogant bet. I thought it’d be an easy challenge. But I was completely wrong."

The hockey players on the bench start cheering and banging their sticks against the boards, but Dean waves his hand to shut them up.

"I did the homework because of the bet," Dean continues, looking directly toward the entrance where we are standing. "But I stayed because of you. You are the smartest, sharpest person I have ever met. I fell for you completely, and I don’t care who knows it. I’m sorry for being a jerk."

He drops the microphone, leaving a loud ring of feedback in the air. The team breaks out into wild cheers, yelling and slamming their sticks. Dean looks down at the entrance, waiting for her reaction. My roommate stands frozen for a long moment, her angry expression slowly softening into utter disbelief at how chaotic, embarrassing, and wildly sincere he just was.

--

I stare at the ice for a long time. My mouth slightly opens. The team is still slamming their hockey sticks against the boards. 

I look up at the announcer's box where Dean is watching me, then Grace looks at me. A tiny, reluctant smile finally breaks across my face, but I quickly shake my head to hide it. She turns away and walks out of the arena without saying a word. She leaft Dean hanging in suspense.

For the rest of the week, I don't talk about him, but she sees me listening to that pink vinyl punk record on my phone every night.

The following Monday, the creative writing lecture hall is completely packed. Students fill every single wooden desk, whispering and shuffling their notebooks. Grace's sitting in the middle row, watching me walk up to the wooden podium at the front of the room. I adjust my papers, clears my throat, and looks out at the crowd.

Just as I open my mouth to speak, the heavy back door of the lecture hall creaks open. Dean slips into the room. He is dressed in a simple grey sweater, his hair still a bit messy from practice. He leans casually against the doorframe and folds his arms across his chest. He looks straight at the podium.

I take a deep breath. My eyes narrow slightly when I spot him, but I don't stop. I look down at her paper and begins to read.

"10 things I hate about Dean Di Laurentis," I say clearly and strongly.

A collective gasp and a few chuckles ripple through the classroom. Everyone turns to look at Dean, but he just keeps his eyes on me, a small smirk playing on his lips.

"I hate the way you drive that ridiculously loud truck around campus," I read sharply. "I hate your messy hockey hair and the way you always know exactly how good you look. I hate your relentless confidence that takes up the entire room, and I hate that you think a smile can solve any problem."

I turn the page. The room is completely silent now.

"I hate that you forced yourself to listen to punk music just to break my walls down," I continue. My voice softens just a little bit. "I hate that you made me laugh on the balcony, and I hate that you made a total fool of yourself on the arena microphone in front of the entire team."

I pause. I lift my head and completely ignore my notes now. I look past all the students. I just look directly at the back of the room where Dean stands.

"But mostly, I hate the way I don't hate you," I say. My voice drops to a gentle whisper that carries across the silent room. "Not even close. Not even a little bit."

Dean’s smirk melts into a genuine, beautiful smile. He pushes himself away from the doorframe and starts walking down the long carpeted aisle. The professor doesn't even try to stop him. The students watch in total silence as Dean stops right in front of the podium.

"Not even a little bit, huh?" Dean teases. His voice is low and full of that familiar charm.

"Shut up, Di Laurentis," I murmur.