Druella

Now, Dean pushes open the front door of the house he shares with his teammates, ignores the lingering scent of stale beer from last weekend’s party, and makes a beeline straight for the sunroom.

He leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest, and just watches you.

You are sitting cross-legged on the floor, wearing a pair of paint-splattered overalls that have definitely seen better days. Your hair is piled into a messy bun, held together by a single pencil, and there is a streak of cerulean blue swiped right across your cheekbone. You are completely engrossed in the canvas propped up on the easel in front of you.

“Did you even go to practice, Di Laurentis, or did you just stand by the glass winking at puck bunnies?” You ask, not even bothering to look up from your palette.

Dean grins, pushing off the doorframe. “I resent that. I winked at exactly zero bunnies today. I am a retired man, remember?”

“Retired from what? Being a menace to the female population of Massachusetts?”

“Exactly.” Dean drops onto the battered floral sofa behind you, sprawling his long legs out. “Besides, Coach ran us through skating drills for an hour. I’m too exhausted to be a menace to anyone but you.”

You finally turn your head, giving him a flat look. “You don’t look exhausted. You look exactly like you always do. Smug.”

“It’s not smugness, babe. It’s natural charisma.” He reaches out, tugging gently on the frayed hem of your overalls. “Come here. Tell me about your day.”

You sigh, setting your paintbrush down and wiping your hands on a rag before crawling over the drop cloth. You settle between his knees, resting your back against the sofa as his hands immediately find your shoulders, his thumbs massaging the tight muscles at the base of your neck.

“It was fine,” you say, closing your eyes as his hands work their magic. “I spent four hours in the studio trying to get the lighting right on this piece, and then I had to go argue with the financial aid office about my scholarship disbursement for next semester.”

Dean’s hands still for a fraction of a second before resuming their steady rhythm. “You know you don’t have to do that, right? Argue with them. I could just-”

“Dean,” you warn, your tone carrying a familiar edge.

“I’m just saying! One phone call. My dad would have a check overnighted, and you wouldn’t have to deal with the bureaucratic bullshit.”

“And we’ve talked about this,” you reply gently, tipping your head back to look up at him upside down. “I am doing this on my own. No Kennedy money, and no Di Laurentis money either.”

Dean looks down at you, his green eyes softening. It still blows his mind sometimes, the sheer grit you possess. You are a Kennedy heiress. You grew up in the exact same upper-crust, east-coast circles he did. He still remembers being twelve years old at some stuffy Hamptons gala, watching you in a perfectly pressed pastel dress, looking absolutely miserable while your parents paraded you around.

But the moment you told your fiercely political, legacy-obsessed family that you were majoring in fine arts instead of pre-law, they cut the cord. Shut off the trust fund, canceled the credit cards, the whole nine yards. Most people from your world would have caved. You just packed a bag, took out loans, fought for a merit scholarship, and showed up at Briar University in a pair of scuffed sneakers.

Dean recognized you immediately freshman year. At first, he just wanted to make sure you were okay — a protective instinct taking over. He made sure you knew where the dining halls were, bullied his teammates into helping you move a terrible thrift-store couch into your dorm, and threatened any guy who looked at you sideways. He thought he was just taking you under his wing. He didn’t realize he was falling completely, hopelessly in love with you until it was already far too late.

“I know, I know,” Dean murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead. “You’re a strong, independent artist who doesn’t need my money. But you’re still letting me buy you dinner, right? Because I’m starving, and if I have to eat another one of Logan’s weird protein-powder concoctions, I’m going to hurl.”

You laugh, a bright, clear sound that makes his chest tight. “Pizza? Half pepperoni, half whatever disgusting combination you want?”

“It’s called a supreme pizza, you uncultured heathen, and yes.” He kisses you again, lingering this time, his lips brushing softly against yours. “Go wash the paint off your face. I’ll order.”

***

An hour later, the two of you are sitting on the floor of his bedroom, the open pizza box sitting between you. Outside, the Massachusetts wind is howling, rattling the old windows of the hockey house, but inside, wrapped in Dean’s oversized gray hoodie, you are perfectly warm.

“So, next year is looking good,” Dean says around a mouthful of pizza. “But honestly, after Harvard, I don’t even know. My mom is already sending me listings for apartments in Cambridge.”

“She’s excited,” you say, stealing a pepperoni off his side of the box. “Her son, the legacy, heading to Harvard Law. It’s a big deal, Dean. You should be proud.”

“I am,” he says, leaning back against his bedframe. And he is. He’s worked his ass off to keep his grades up alongside hockey, proving to everyone that he’s more than just a rich party boy with a good slap shot. “But it’s going to be weird. No more Briar. No more living with the guys. Just actual adulthood.”

“Terrifying,” you agree, wiping grease from your fingers.

“Hey, it’s not like you aren’t right there with me,” he points out, bumping his knee against yours. “We’re both graduating. We’re both moving on. Which reminds me — have you checked your email today?”

You freeze, your hand hovering over the pizza box. “No.”

“You haven’t?” Dean sits up a little straighter. “Babe, they said the end of the week. Today is Friday. You need to check.”

“I don’t want to look,” you admit, pulling your knees to your chest. “If it’s a rejection, I want to live in denial for just a few more hours. Let me have my pizza in peace.”

“Nope. Absolutely not.” Dean reaches over, grabbing your laptop off the desk and setting it squarely on your lap. “Open it. If it’s a rejection, I will personally drive to the admissions office and key their cars. But it won’t be. Because you’re brilliant.”

You let out a shaky breath, flipping the laptop open. The screen casts a blue glow over your face as you pull up your email. Dean watches you, his heart pounding a steady rhythm against his ribs. He knows how much this means to you. Your art is your entire world. It’s the reason you gave up your family and your fortune.

“Okay,” you whisper. “There’s an email.”

“Read it,” Dean says, leaning over your shoulder. He can smell your shampoo — something fruity and sweet — mixed with the faint, metallic scent of oil paint.

Your eyes dart across the screen, reading the first few lines. And then, you gasp. Your hands fly up to cover your mouth, your eyes widening impossibly far.

“What?” Dean asks, his voice urgent. “What does it say?”

“Dean,” you breathe out, turning to look at him. There are tears welling in your eyes, but your smile is blinding. “Dean, I got in. They accepted me.”

“Holy shit!” Dean barks out a laugh, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you into his lap. He buries his face in your neck, hugging you so tightly you squeak. “I knew it! I fucking knew it! You’re a genius!”

You are laughing and crying at the same time, throwing your arms around his neck. “I can’t believe it. I really can’t believe it. Full ride, Dean. They’re covering the tuition and giving me a stipend. I don’t have to take out more loans.”

“Because you’re incredible,” he says fiercely, pulling back to frame your face with his large hands. “I am so proud of you. Do you hear me? So damn proud.”

He kisses you, deep and passionate, pouring every ounce of his pride and love for you into it. You kiss him back just as fiercely, your fingers

tangling in his dark blond hair. It’s a moment of pure, unadulterated joy. You did it. Against all odds, without your family’s safety net, you achieved your dream.

“We have to celebrate,” Dean says, pulling back slightly, his eyes shining. “I’m calling the guys. I’m buying kegs. Hell, I’m renting out the entire bar downtown.”

“Dean, no, we don’t need to do all that,” you laugh, wiping a stray tear from your cheek.

“Yes, we do! My girl is getting her Master of Fine Arts. From Stanford!”

He says the word with so much enthusiasm, so much triumph. But as soon as the syllables leave his mouth, the sound hangs in the air between you.

Stanford.

Dean’s smile falters, just a fraction of an inch.

Stanford. Palo Alto. California.

He suddenly feels like he’s just taken a slapshot bare-chested. The air leaves his lungs in a sharp, silent rush. All the adrenaline, all the excitement that was humming through his veins just a second ago evaporates, replaced by a sudden, icy drop in his stomach.

“Stanford,” he repeats, and this time, his voice doesn’t have the same booming volume. It’s quieter.

You seem to catch the shift in his tone. The massive smile on your face dims slightly, your brows knitting together in concern. “Yeah. Stanford. The MFA program.”

“Right. Right, yeah. West Coast.” Dean forces his mouth back into a smile, though it feels a little stiff. “That’s … that’s amazing, babe.”

“Dean?” You shift in his lap, looking at him closely. “Are you okay?”

“Are you kidding? I’m fantastic,” he lies smoothly, leaning in to press a quick kiss to your lips. “I just … realized how far California is. Going to be a bitch of a flight.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, your eyes searching his face. “It’s … it’s really far.”

“But it’s the best program in the country,” Dean jumps in, his voice slightly louder, desperate to fill the sudden quiet in the room. “And you deserve the best. It’s incredible.”

“We’ll figure it out,” you say, resting your hand against his cheek. Your thumb brushes against his jaw. “Right? I mean, you’ll be in Cambridge, and I’ll be in California, but people do long distance all the time.”

“Exactly,” Dean says immediately. “Long distance. Easy. We’ve got FaceTime. We’ll rack up frequent flyer miles. It’s nothing.”

You study him for a long moment, and Dean actively works to keep his expression open and supportive. He cannot ruin this for you. He will not be the guy who makes your greatest triumph about his own selfish panic. He loves you too much for that.

“Okay,” you finally whisper, leaning your forehead against his. “We’ll figure it out.”

“We will,” Dean promises, pulling you tight against his chest.

***

It is 3 AM.

The house is dead silent, save for the hum of the radiator and the steady, rhythmic sound of your breathing.

You are fast asleep, tangled in the sheets, one arm thrown across Dean’s bare chest. Your head is tucked perfectly into the crook of his neck, exactly where you belong.

Dean is wide awake.

He is staring up at the ceiling, his heart hammering a dull, heavy beat against his ribs. The darkness of the bedroom feels suffocating.

Three thousand miles.

The thought loops in his head on a relentless, torturous cycle. Three thousand miles. A six-hour flight. A three-hour time difference.

He turns his head slightly, burying his nose in your hair, inhaling the faint scent of your shampoo. He closes his eyes, trying to force down the rising tide of panic that has been clawing at his throat for the last six hours.

When he told you they’d figure it out, he meant it. He wants to figure it out. But in the quiet, terrifying solitude of the middle of the night, the reality of the situation is crushing him.

He is going to Harvard Law. The curriculum is famously brutal. He’s going to be drowning in case studies and legal briefs, pulling all-nighters in the library. You are going to a highly competitive, intense MFA program on the other side of the continent. You’ll be spending all your time in the studio, surrounded by new people, new artists, a whole new life.

How does this work? How do they survive this?

Dean has never been an insecure guy. He knows what he brings to the table. But the idea of you being thousands of miles away, living a life that he isn’t a part of every single day … it terrifies him.

What if the distance is too much? What if the time zones make it impossible to talk? What if you meet someone in a coffee shop in Palo Alto who understands your art in a way Dean never could? Someone who doesn’t have a meathead hockey past. Someone who is there.

He tightens his arm around your waist, pulling you just a fraction of an inch closer. You murmur softly in your sleep, shifting closer to his heat, your hand curling against his chest.

He loves you. God, he loves you so much it physically aches. You are the best thing that has ever happened to him. You grounded him, you saw past the arrogant hockey star, and you loved him for exactly who he is.

And now, he has to let you go.

He has to smile and pack your boxes and put you on a plane to California, because holding you back would be a betrayal of everything he loves about you.

Dean stares into the dark, his jaw clenched tight, a profound, agonizing fear settling deep into his bones. He is going to lose you. He doesn’t know how, and he doesn’t know when, but as he lies awake holding you in the dark, he is absolutely terrified that this is the beginning of the end. 

***

It has been exactly four days, six hours, and twenty-two minutes since you got the acceptance email from Stanford.

Dean knows the exact timeline because that is exactly how long it has been since he last took a full, deep breath.

It’s Tuesday afternoon, and the hockey house is relatively quiet. Most of the guys are either in class or at the gym. Dean is sprawled on the battered living room couch, his long legs hanging over the armrest, staring blankly at his phone. He’s supposed to be reading a chapter on contract law for his seminar tomorrow, but the textbook is lying face-down on the floor, abandoned.

Instead, he’s doom-scrolling.

His thumb flicks upward. A hockey highlight. Flick. A girl dancing. Flick. A dog falling off a couch. Flick.

The algorithm, sensing his stagnant, depressive mood, throws something different onto his screen. It’s a girl sitting in a bedroom that looks like a library, excitedly tapping a thick paperback book against her chin.

“Okay, BookTok, hear me out,” the girl on the screen says, her voice breathless and enthusiastic. “I just finished the most unhinged dark romance of my entire life, and I am obsessed. The male main character? A total walking red flag, but we love to see it.”

Dean’s thumb hovers over the screen. He doesn’t care about romance books. He’s about to swipe when she says the next sentence.

“He knows she’s going to leave him for her dream job in Scotland,” the girl continues, her eyes wide. “So what does our morally gray king do? He baby traps her. He literally takes a needle to his stash of condoms and microwaves her birth control pills. And the craziest part? It works. She stays. They get married. He loved her enough to be the villain so he wouldn’t lose her.”

Dean freezes.

He stares at the girl on the screen. The video loops, starting over from the beginning.

He baby traps her. Dean scoffs out loud, a harsh, jagged sound in the empty room. He locks his phone and tosses it onto his chest. That is insane. That is genuinely psychotic. He is a good guy. He was raised by a mother who would literally skin him alive if he ever disrespected a woman. He understands consent. He believes in bodily autonomy. The idea of doing something so manipulative, so violating, makes his stomach turn.

But as he lies there staring at the water-stained ceiling, a tiny, insidious voice whispers in the back of his mind. But she stayed.

Dean clenches his jaw. He scrubs a hand over his face, feeling the rough stubble there. He hasn’t shaved in three days. He’s losing his mind. You haven’t even left yet, and he’s already grieving you like you’re dead.

If you love something, set it free.

He has always hated that saying. Whoever came up with that bullshit clearly never loved anyone the way he loves you. If you love something, you fight for it. You hold onto it. You don’t just open the door and watch it walk out of your life.

“You look like you’re planning a murder.”

Dean snaps his head up. Logan is standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen, holding a massive protein shake in a shaker bottle. He’s in his sweatpants, a towel draped over his broad shoulders.

“Just thinking,” Dean mutters, sitting up and letting his phone slide onto the cushions.

Logan walks over and drops into the armchair across from him. “About what? You haven’t spoken a full sentence to anyone in the house since Friday night.”

“I’ve spoken.”

“Grunting when someone asks you to pass the salt doesn’t count, man,” Logan says, unscrewing the cap of his bottle. He takes a long drink, his eyes never leaving Dean’s face. “Talk to me. You’re spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling.”

“You’re wearing the same hoodie you wore to practice yesterday. You smell like despair and cheap body wash.” Logan leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “This is about Stanford, isn’t it?”

Dean glares at him. “Don’t say the word.”

“Stanford? Palo Alto? California? West Coast?”

“Shut up, Logan.”

“Look,” Logan sighs, his tone softening slightly. “I get it. It sucks. But guys do long distance all the time. It’s not the end of the world.”

“It’s three thousand miles,” Dean snaps, his voice rising despite his effort to keep it steady. “Do you know what the success rate is for long-distance relationships in grad school? It’s abysmal. Especially when one person is doing law and the other is doing an intensive art program.”

“So you’re just giving up?”

“No! I’m not giving up!” Dean drags both hands through his hair, tugging hard at the roots. “I want her to go. I want her to have everything she wants. She deserves this. She fought so hard for it, and her family treated her like garbage. I am so proud of her, I could burst.”

“But?”

“But I can’t breathe when I think about her leaving,” Dean admits, the truth tearing out of him. His chest heaves. “I don’t know how to do this, Logan. I don’t know how to wake up and not have her right there. I don’t know how to go days without seeing her. What if she realizes she doesn’t need me? What if she builds this whole new life out there, and there’s no room for me in it?”

Logan watches him for a long moment. “Dean, she loves you. You’re acting like she’s looking for an excuse to leave.”

“Distance changes people,” Dean says darkly.

“So what are you going to do?” Logan asks, arching an eyebrow. “Beg her to stay?”

“No. I’d never ask her to give up Stanford for me. That would make me a piece of shit.”

“Then you support her. You help her pack. You buy a webcam. And you trust her.” Logan stands up, slapping Dean on the shoulder as he walks past. “Get your head out of your ass, Di Laurentis. Don’t ruin her moment because you’re terrified.”

Logan leaves the room, and Dean is alone again.

He grabs his phone off the couch. The screen lights up, still paused on the BookTok video.

He loved her enough to be the villain so he wouldn’t lose her.

Dean swallows hard, his throat dry. He swipes out of the app entirely, tossing the phone onto the coffee table. He is not a villain. He is a good guy.

But as he grabs his keys to drive over to your dorm, his hands are shaking.

***

“Look at this one, Dean,” you say, turning your laptop screen toward him.

You are sitting cross-legged on your narrow dorm bed, your glasses pushed up on your head, holding a mug of green tea. Dean is sitting at the foot of the bed, his back against the wall, trying his hardest to look engaged.

“It’s a converted garage in Redwood City,” you explain, pointing at the screen. “It’s about a twenty-minute commute to campus, but the rent is actually manageable with my stipend.”

Dean looks at the photos. The place is tiny. It has exposed pipes, concrete floors, and a kitchenette that consists of a mini-fridge and a hot plate.

“A garage?” Dean says, trying to keep the judgment out of his voice. “Babe, you can’t live in a garage.”

“I’m an artist, Dean. And I’m on a strict budget,” you say, pulling the laptop back to look at the photos again. “Besides, look at the natural light from that skylight. It’s incredible for painting.”

“It doesn’t have a real kitchen,” he points out, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I survive off coffee, dining hall food, and whatever you force-feed me anyway,” you reply with a laugh.

“Yeah, but when I come visit, where am I supposed to cook for you?” Dean asks. “I can’t make you my famous chicken parm on a hot plate.”

You soften instantly, your eyes lifting to meet his. You set the laptop aside and crawl over the duvet, settling onto his lap. You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder.

“You’re going to cook for me?” You murmur against his neck.

“Someone has to keep you alive while you’re out there playing starving artist,” Dean says, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you tight against him. He presses a kiss into your hair.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” you whisper, and Dean can hear the slight tremble in your voice.

The sound of it hits him like a physical blow. His grip on you tightens until it’s almost painful.

“You don’t have to miss me,” he says, the words spilling out before he can stop them. “I’ll visit all the time. I’ll fly out every weekend.”

You pull back slightly, resting your hands on his chest. You look at him with a sad, gentle smile. “Dean, you’re going to be at Harvard Law. You’re not going to have time to fly out every weekend. You’re going to be swamped.”

“I don’t care,” he says fiercely. “I’ll study on the plane.”

“It’s a six-hour flight,” you remind him softly. “And it’s expensive.”

“I have money.”

“But you don’t have infinite time,” you say, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw. “We have to be realistic about this. It’s going to be hard.”

“I don’t want to be realistic,” Dean mutters, leaning into your touch. “I want you to stay.”

The room goes dead silent.

As soon as the words leave his mouth, Dean wishes he could snatch them back out of the air. He promised himself he wouldn’t do this. He promised he wouldn’t guilt you.

Your hand falls from his face. You look down at your lap, your expression unreadable. “Dean …”

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately, his heart hammering against his ribs. “I didn’t mean that. Forget I said it. I want you to go. I’m just … I’m just having a hard time today.”

You look back up at him, your eyes bright with unshed tears. “Do you think this is easy for me? Leaving you is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.”

“Then don’t,” the dark voice in his head whispers.

He shoves the thought away, physically shaking his head. “I know, baby. I know. I’m sorry. I’m just being selfish. Show me the garage again. Let’s look at the skylight.”

You study him for a long moment, clearly torn between addressing his outburst and letting it go. Eventually, you sigh, reaching for the laptop again. “Okay. Look, the bathroom actually has a decent-sized tub.”

Dean forces himself to look at the screen. He nods, making agreeable noises, pointing out things he likes about the tiny, pathetic apartment. But he isn’t really seeing it. He is looking at the screen, but all he can see is the ticking clock counting down the days until he loses you.

“Hey, I need to use the bathroom,” Dean says suddenly, gently lifting you off his lap and standing up. “I’ll be right back.”

“Okay,” you say, your eyes already back on the Zillow listing. “Don’t take too long, I want your opinion on this complex in Mountain View.”

Dean walks out of the bedroom and heads down the short hallway to the shared dorm bathroom. He flips the light switch, closes the door, and locks it.

He leans heavily against the door, closing his eyes and taking a deep, shuddering breath. He feels like he’s vibrating out of his skin. He can’t do this. He can’t sit there and help you pick out the apartment where you’re going to learn how to live without him.

He opens his eyes and walks over to the sink, turning on the cold water. He splashes some on his face, shivering at the sudden chill. He grabs a hand towel off the rack and presses it to his face.

When he lowers the towel, his eyes catch on something resting on the edge of the sink counter, right next to your toothbrush cup.

It’s a small, rectangular object. A plastic compact.

Dean stares at it. He knows exactly what it is.

He slowly reaches out, his fingers trembling slightly, and picks it up. He flips the compact open. Inside is a blister pack of birth control pills. They are small, pink, and perfectly circular. You take one every night before bed. He watches you do it. Half the time, he’s the one who reminds you when you get too distracted by your painting.

He stares down at the little pink pills.

The video from earlier flashes behind his eyes, vivid and loud.

He literally microwaves her birth control pills.

Dean’s breathing turns shallow. The bathroom feels entirely too small, the air too thin.

He is a good guy. He is Dean Di Laurentis. He respects women. He would never take away your choice. He would never violate your body. He would never trap you.

But she stayed. He loved her enough to be the villain.

If you got pregnant.

The thought crashes into his brain like a freight train, loud and violent and impossible to ignore.

If you got pregnant, you couldn’t go to Stanford. You wouldn’t be able to move across the country, live in a tiny garage, and spend eighteen hours a day in a studio surrounded by toxic paint fumes. You would have to stay in Massachusetts. With him.

He has money. He has family support. He has a massive trust fund. He could buy you both a beautiful house in Cambridge. He could set up a state-of-the-art studio for you in the spare bedroom. You could still paint. You could still be an artist. You just wouldn’t be doing it three thousand miles away from him.

He would take care of you. He would give you everything you ever wanted. He would worship the ground you walk on. You would be safe. You would be loved.

And, most importantly, you would be his.

Forever.

Dean’s thumb moves over the smooth foil of the blister pack. It would be so easy. It takes thirty seconds to pop them in the microwave. The heat destroys the active hormones. They look exactly the same, but they become completely useless. You would take them every night, thinking you were protected, and within a month or two …

His heart is pounding so hard he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. His hands are sweating.

He imagines you standing in this very bathroom, holding a positive test. He imagines the look of shock on your face. He imagines pulling you into his arms, telling you it’s going to be okay, promising you that he will fix everything. He imagines your belly swelling with his child. He imagines you walking down the aisle toward him.

He imagines a life where he never has to watch you pack a suitcase and leave him behind.

“Dean?”

Your voice comes from the other side of the door, slightly muffled. “Everything okay in there? You’ve been in there a while.”

Dean flinches, nearly dropping the compact into the sink. He snaps it shut, his breathing ragged.

He stares at his own reflection in the mirror. His eyes are wild, his pupils blown wide. He looks like a stranger. He looks like a monster.

“Yeah!” His voice cracks slightly, and he clears his throat, trying to sound normal. “Yeah, babe, I’m fine. Just washing up.”

“Okay! I think I found a two-bedroom we could actually afford if I got a roommate. Come look!”

The words twist like a knife in his gut. A roommate. Some stranger. Maybe some pretentious art bro who understands color theory and drinks matcha and gets to see you every single day while Dean is stuck in a torts lecture freezing his ass off in Boston.

Dean looks down at his hand. His knuckles are white from how tightly he is gripping the compact.

The line between love and obsession is so incredibly thin, and Dean suddenly realizes he doesn’t know which side he’s standing on anymore. He has always been a guy who plays by the rules. But when the stakes are this high, when the only woman he has ever truly loved is slipping through his fingers … the rules don’t seem to matter as much.

He slowly opens the compact again.

He stares at the foil backing.

He loves you. He loves you so much it’s making him sick. He loves you enough to do anything to keep you.

Dean closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and makes his choice.

***

The next sixty days are the most agonizing, excruciating two months of Dean’s entire life.

It is a completely different kind of torture, a quiet, invisible agony that eats at the lining of his stomach every single second of the day. Every time he looks at you, his heart performs a violent, jagged leap into his throat. He watches you pack cardboard boxes. He watches you buy bubble wrap. He listens to you excitedly chatter over FaceTime to a potential roommate in California. And every time, the same terrified, frantic questions loop in his mind until he feels like he’s losing his grip on reality.

What if it didn’t take? What if the microwave trick was just some stupid internet myth? What if the hormones were still active? What if it’s all for nothing?

The uncertainty is driving him insane. He has always been a man of action. If he wants something on the ice, he skates hard and takes the shot. If he wants a grade, he studies. But this? This is entirely out of his hands. He has set the wheels in motion, and now all he can do is sit back, play the supportive boyfriend, and wait to see if his gamble pays off.

And the guilt. God, the guilt. It hits him at the most random times. When you look at him with those wide, trusting eyes and thank him for helping you tape up a box of canvases. When you fall asleep on his chest, exhausted from finals, murmuring about how much you love him. He feels like a monster. He is a fraud, a liar, a manipulator playing God with your life. But then he pictures you getting on that plane at Logan International Airport, walking out of his life and taking three thousand miles of distance between you, and the guilt instantly evaporates, replaced by a fierce, possessive resolve.

He cannot lose you. He will not lose you.

Four weeks in, you miss your period.

Dean knows exactly what day it’s supposed to start because he has been tracking it in his head like a madman. But when the day comes and goes, you don’t even blink.

“I’m just stressed,” you tell him one afternoon, waving off his carefully casual question while you aggressively highlight a textbook. “My cycle is always wonky when I’m stressed. Between finals, graduation, and the move, my body is probably just freaking out. It’ll come.”

Dean nods, forcing his face to remain a mask of calm indifference, while inside, a tiny spark of hope ignites.

But as week five turns into week six, and week six bleeds into week seven, the spark turns into a roaring fire.

Because Dean starts noticing the signs. Even before you do.

It starts with the coffee. You are a notorious caffeine addict. You practically bleed espresso. But one morning in the kitchen of the hockey house, Dean sets a fresh, steaming mug of your favorite dark roast on the counter next to you. You reach for it, bring it to your lips, and suddenly pale.

“Ugh,” you grimace, pushing the mug away. “Did you burn this?”

Dean blinks, looking at the coffee pot. “No? I made it the exact same way I always do.”

“It smells like burnt plastic,” you say, pressing a hand to your stomach and stepping back from the island. “Actually, could you just pour it down the sink? The smell is making me nauseous.”

Dean slowly picks up the mug, his eyes fixed on your pale face. He pours it down the drain, his heart doing a slow, heavy thud in his chest. Nausea. Aversion to smells.

Then comes the fatigue.

You have always been a night owl, staying up until two in the morning to finish a painting or study. But right around the eight-week mark, Dean finds you dead asleep at seven-thirty in the evening. You fall asleep on his bed, on the couch, once even sitting straight up at your desk with a paintbrush still in your hand.

“I’m just so tired, Dean,” you murmur one evening, burying your face in his chest as you lie on the couch. “I feel like I haven’t slept in a year. My bones feel heavy.”

“You’ve been pushing yourself too hard,” he soothes, stroking your hair. “Just rest, baby. I’ve got you.”

And then, there are the physical changes. Dean knows your body better than he knows his own playbook. He notices the subtle softening of your

stomach, the slight rounding of your hips. He notices that your breasts are fuller, and that you flinch slightly when he brushes against them.

“They’re sore,” you complain one night as you change into one of his oversized t-shirts. “I think my period is finally coming. PMS is hitting me like a truck this month.”

Dean just smiles softly from the bed, his blood humming with a dark, triumphant thrill. He knows it isn’t PMS. He knows exactly what it is.

It’s working. He did it. You are pregnant. You are carrying his child, and you don’t even know it yet.

But Dean also knows he can’t push it. If he suggests you take a test out of nowhere, you might get suspicious. He has to wait for you to come to the realization on your own. He has to let it be your idea.

The breaking point finally arrives on a rainy Thursday afternoon.

Your apartment is almost entirely packed. There are only two weeks left until your flight to California. The reality of the move has been a dark cloud hanging over Dean’s head, but today, that cloud is about to break.

You are standing in the middle of your living room, taping up a box of books, when you suddenly freeze. The roll of packing tape slips from your fingers, clattering loudly against the hardwood floor.

“Babe?” Dean asks from where he’s sitting on an overturned milk crate, sorting through some of your records. “You good?”

You don’t answer. Your face drains of all color, turning a terrifying, translucent shade of gray. You clap a hand over your mouth, your eyes wide and panicked.

And then, you sprint for the bathroom.

Dean is on his feet instantly, tossing the records aside and chasing after you. He reaches the bathroom just in time to see you drop to your knees in front of the toilet. You retch violently, your shoulders heaving as you empty the contents of your stomach into the bowl.

“Hey, hey, I’m here,” Dean says immediately, dropping to his knees beside you. He gathers your hair in one hand, holding it back from your face, and uses his other hand to rub soothing circles onto your back. “Let it out, baby. I’ve got you.”

You gag again, a miserable, choking sound, before finally collapsing back on your heels. You are trembling violently, tears streaming down your cheeks. Dean reaches up and flushes the toilet, then grabs a damp washcloth from the sink and gently wipes your mouth.

“Food poisoning?” Dean asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral. “What did we eat for lunch?”

“I don’t …” You shake your head, taking a ragged breath. You lean back against the bathtub, pulling your knees to your chest. You look completely terrified. “Dean.”

“What is it?” He asks softly, sitting cross-legged in front of you.

“Dean, what’s today’s date?”

“May sixteenth,” he answers smoothly.

You let out a quiet, strangled gasp. Your hands fly up into your hair, gripping the roots. “Oh my god.”

“What’s wrong? You’re scaring me, baby. Talk to me.” Dean leans forward, placing his hands on your knees, projecting nothing but steady, loving concern.

“I’m late,” you whisper, the words barely audible over the sound of the rain lashing against the bathroom window. “Dean, I’m so late. I missed my period in April. And now May is halfway through. I haven’t … I haven’t had a period in almost two months.”

Dean allows his eyes to widen in perfectly calculated shock. “Two months?”

“I thought it was stress!” You cry out, your voice cracking. A fresh wave of tears spills over your eyelashes. “I thought it was just the graduation stress, and the move, and … oh my god. The coffee. The exhaustion. I’ve been throwing up all morning.”

“Okay. Hey, look at me.” Dean moves closer, framing your face with his large hands. He wipes your tears with his thumbs. “Look at me. Don’t panic. There are a million reasons you could be late. You said it yourself, the stress is insane right now. Nausea could be a stomach bug.”

“Dean, I need to know,” you sob, grabbing his wrists. “I can’t … I can’t just sit here and wonder. I need to take a test.”

“Okay,” Dean says, his voice a soothing, deep rumble. “Okay. I’ll go to the pharmacy right now. You stay here. Get into bed, drink some water. I’ll be back in ten minutes. I promise.”

“Hurry,” you beg, your eyes wild with fear.

“I will.” Dean kisses your forehead, lingering for a second, before standing up and rushing out of the apartment.

The moment he is alone in his truck, the mask drops.

Dean grips the steering wheel, his knuckles turning white, and lets out a massive, shuddering breath. A wild, manic energy surges through his veins. He drives to the nearest CVS, ignoring the speed limit entirely. He buys three different brands of pregnancy tests — Clearblue, First Response, the generic CVS brand — and a pack of prenatal vitamins to keep for later.

When he returns to your apartment, you are sitting on the edge of your bare mattress, staring blankly at the wall. You look incredibly small, swallowed up in one of his Harvard Law sweatshirts.

Dean walks in and gently sets the plastic bag on the bed next to you.

You stare at the bag like there is a live bomb inside it.

“I got a few different kinds,” Dean says quietly, sitting down beside you. He wraps an arm around your shoulders and pulls you into his side. “Whenever you’re ready. I’m right here.”

You swallow hard, your throat clicking audibly. “What if it’s positive, Dean?”

“We cross that bridge when we come to it,” he lies effortlessly. He crossed that bridge two months ago. “Go. Take the test.”

You grab the bag with shaking hands and walk into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.

Dean stands in the hallway outside the bathroom. The wait is excruciating. The box said three minutes. It feels like three agonizing lifetimes. He leans his head back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of plastic rustling from the other side of the thin wooden door.

He knows the result. He engineered the result. But the anticipation is still burning him alive from the inside out.

Five minutes pass.

The bathroom is dead silent.

“Babe?” Dean calls out softly, rapping his knuckles gently against the door. “Are you okay in there?”

Silence.

And then, a sound that sends a shiver straight down Dean’s spine. It’s a sob. A raw, devastating, heartbroken sob that tears from your chest and echoes in the small hallway.

Dean doesn’t hesitate. He turns the handle and pushes the door open.

You are sitting on the tile floor, your back pressed against the vanity cabinets. Your face is buried in your hands, and your shoulders are shaking violently. Three plastic sticks are scattered on the floor in front of you.

Dean drops to his knees. He glances down.

Two pink lines. A bold, undeniable plus sign. And the word Pregnant glowing on the digital screen.

All three. Positive.

Dean’s heart explodes in his chest. A fierce, predatory surge of possessiveness, of ultimate triumph, washes over him so intensely he almost dizzy. He has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep the smile off his face.

You’re his. You’re staying. It worked.

But outwardly, Dean is the picture of a devastated, supportive boyfriend. He shoves the tests aside and scrambles forward, pulling you into his arms.

You collapse against his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck and sobbing hysterically into his shirt. “It’s positive,” you cry, your voice muffled against his collarbone. “Dean, they’re all positive. I’m pregnant. Oh my god, I’m pregnant.”

“Shh, I know, I know,” Dean murmurs, wrapping his arms tightly around you. He buries his face in your hair, holding you as close as humanly possible. “It’s okay. Breathe, baby, breathe. I’ve got you.”

“My life is over,” you sob, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “Stanford. The MFA program. I can’t go to California. I can’t move across the country. I don’t have the money for a baby. My parents cut me off. Dean, what am I going to do?”

“Hey, listen to me.” Dean pulls back just enough to force you to look at him. Your eyes are bloodshot, tears streaming endlessly down your cheeks. He cups your face, wiping away the tears with his thumbs. “Your life is not over. Do you hear me? You are not in this alone. I am right here.”

“But Stanford-”

“Stanford can wait,” Dean says firmly, his voice vibrating with absolute certainty. “Art can wait. But whatever happens, whatever you want to do, I am with you. One hundred percent.”

You sniffle, looking up at him with desperate, seeking eyes. “What do you mean?”

Dean takes a deep breath, preparing to deliver the most manipulative performance of his entire life. He knows you. He knows your heart. He knows exactly which buttons to press to get the outcome he wants.

“I mean, the choice is entirely yours,” Dean says softly, his green eyes locking onto yours. “You are the one who has to carry this burden. It’s your body. It’s your future. If you are not ready for this … if you want to go to Stanford and live your dream …”

Dean pauses, swallowing hard to make it look like the words are physically paining him to say.

“If you don’t want to keep it,” he continues, his voice barely above a whisper, “I will support you. Completely. No judgment. No guilt. I will stand up right now, I will walk you out to my truck, and I will drive you to Planned Parenthood myself. I’ll hold your hand the entire time, and I’ll pay for everything. And we will never speak of it again, and you can get on that plane in two weeks.”

You stare at him, the tears freezing on your cheeks.

Dean holds his breath. It is the ultimate gamble. He is giving you the out. He is offering you the exact thing that would ruin all his plans. But he knows that if he tries to force you, if he acts too possessive or tries to trap you openly, you will run. You have to believe it is your choice.

You look down at the three tests scattered on the floor.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. Dean’s heart is hammering so loudly he is terrified you can hear it.

“No,” you whisper.

Dean exhales, a slow, silent breath out of his nose. “No?”

You shake your head, fresh tears spilling over your lashes. You reach out, your trembling fingers brushing over the digital test that spells out the word Pregnant.

“No,” you say again, your voice shaking but finding a sliver of resolve. You look back up at him, your eyes searching his face. “Dean … this baby is half me. But it’s half you, too.”

“I know, baby,” he whispers, reaching down to take your hand.

“I love you,” you cry, squeezing his hand tightly. “I love you so much. And … and we created this. Together. I can’t … I can’t just end it. I could never do that. Not to a piece of you.”

Dean feels a genuine lump form in his throat, overwhelmed by the sheer, devastating purity of your love for him. You are so good. You are so incredibly, beautifully good, and you are sacrificing your dream because you love him too much to let his child go.

“Are you sure?” Dean asks, his voice thick with fake hesitation. “You don’t have to do this for me, Y/N. I told you, I support whatever you need.”

“I’m sure,” you sob, throwing yourself back into his arms. “I’m sure. I want to keep it. I want our baby. But I’m so scared, Dean. I don’t know how to be a mom. I don’t have a family to help me.”

“You have me,” Dean says fiercely, wrapping his arms around you like a vice. He pulls you flush against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “You have me. I am your family now. I will take care of you. I’ll take care of both of you.”

“What about Harvard?” You cry against his collarbone. “What about my scholarship? Where are we going to live?”

“I’ll handle it,” Dean promises, his voice low and vibrating against your skin. “I’ll handle everything. I’ll call a realtor tomorrow. I’ll buy us a house in Cambridge. A beautiful house, with a room for a nursery and a room with huge windows for your art studio. You can defer Stanford. You can paint at home. I’ll work, I’ll go to school, and I will provide for you. You will never have to worry about a single thing ever again.”

You cling to him, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt like he is a lifeline in the middle of a raging ocean. “Promise me, Dean. Promise me you won’t leave me.”

“I am never, ever leaving you,” Dean vows, his grip on you tightening. “You’re mine. Forever.”

“I love you,” you weep into his chest, completely surrendering to him, completely trusting him.

“I love you too, baby,” Dean murmurs, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the top of your head. “So much.”

He holds you there on the bathroom floor as you cry out the last of your fear and grief for the future you just lost. He rubs your back, he murmurs sweet, comforting words into your ear, and he plays the role of the perfect, supportive partner flawlessly.

But as you press your face against his chest, completely blind to his expression, Dean slowly lifts his head.

He stares at his own reflection in the bathroom mirror.

His eyes are dark, burning with a terrifying, absolute victory. The panic, the agonizing anxiety of the last two months is completely gone, replaced by a cold, settling sense of permanent ownership.

Dean pulls you just a fraction of an inch closer, his hand resting protectively over your flat stomach.

And as you continue to cry into his chest, entirely unaware of the cage that has just locked firmly into place around you, Dean smiles.

***

The smell of stale beer, fried food, and cheap cologne at Malone’s usually brings a sense of comfortable familiarity. Tonight, it just makes you want to gag.

You slide into the worn vinyl booth, wedging yourself into the corner next to Dean. The leather of his jacket squeaks against the seat as he crowds in beside you, his thigh heavily against yours. Across the table, Garrett Graham is already deep into a heated argument with Logan about the Bruins’ defensive woes, while Tucker and Beau are trying to flag down a waitress over the din of the Friday night crowd.

“I’m telling you, it’s a weak blue line,” Garrett says, slapping his hand on the sticky table for emphasis. “If they don’t trade for a solid two-way defenseman, they’re getting swept in the first round. Tell him, Dean.”

“Leave me out of it,” Dean replies, his arm casually slung over the back of the booth behind your shoulders. His fingers idly play with the ends of your hair. “I’m off the clock.”

A waitress finally weaves through the crowd, slamming a tray of water glasses onto the table. “What can I get you guys?”

“Two pitchers of the IPA,” Garrett orders without hesitation. “And a round of tequila shots. We’re celebrating. I passed my sports management final.”

“Barely,” Logan mutters.

“A pass is a pass, John. Don’t be a hater.” Garrett looks over at you and Dean. “You guys in for the shots?”

“No shots for us,” Dean says smoothly, his hand dropping from the back of the booth to rest firmly on your thigh under the table. His thumb strokes a soothing circle against your denim-clad leg. “Just a Coke for me, and an iced tea with lemon for her.”

The entire table goes dead silent.

Garrett slowly lowers his menu. Logan squints at Dean. Tucker, who was mid-sip of water, slowly sets his glass down. Even Beau leans forward, looking between the two of you like you just announced you’re joining a cult.

“A Coke,” Garrett repeats, the words slow and dripping with suspicion. “For Dean Di Laurentis. On a Friday night. At Malone’s.”

“You sick, man?” Beau asks, his brow furrowing.

“And you’re not drinking either?” Logan asks, turning his sharp gaze on you. “You literally just graduated. You should be funneling champagne right now.”

You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry. You look up at Dean. He looks perfectly calm. In fact, he looks incredibly smug, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. He gives your thigh a reassuring squeeze before he meets the stares of his closest friends.

“We’re not drinking,” Dean says, his voice steady and clear over the background noise of the bar, “because we have some news.”

“Oh my god,” Tucker breathes out, his eyes widening dramatically. He points a finger at you. “Are you guys getting married? Did you elope?”

“No,” Dean laughs, shaking his head. “Not married. At least, not yet.” He turns his head to look down at you, his green eyes softening in that specific, devastating way they only ever do for you. “Ready?”

You take a deep breath, your stomach doing a nervous flip, and nod.

Dean turns back to the table. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t sugarcoat it. He just drops the bomb with a grin that could rival the sun.

“Y/N is pregnant. We’re having a baby.”

For three agonizing seconds, no one breathes. The silence at the table is so profound you can hear the ice clinking in Garrett’s water glass.

Then, absolute chaos erupts.

“Holy shit!” Garrett bellows, lunging across the table to grab Dean by the collar of his jacket and shake him. “Holy shit, Di Laurentis!”

Logan is laughing, a booming, genuine sound as he runs a hand over his face. “I don’t believe it. I actually do not believe it. You? A dad?”

“Congratulations, man!” Beau shouts over the noise, reaching over to slap Dean hard on the shoulder.

Tucker looks like he might actually cry. “Oh my god. There’s going to be a little Di Laurentis running around.”

“Hey, easy on the jacket, Graham,” Dean laughs, shoving Garrett off him, but he’s beaming. He looks so incredibly proud, his chest puffed out, absorbing the shock and excitement of his brothers.

“Wait, wait,” Logan says, holding up a hand to quiet the table. He looks at you, his expression softening into something incredibly gentle. “How are you doing? Are you okay? You’re moving to California in like, a week.”

The question hangs in the air. You feel a familiar, heavy ache in your chest at the mention of California, but before you can even open your mouth, Dean steps in.

“She’s not going,” Dean says, his voice taking on a firm, protective edge. “We’re staying here. I’m going to Harvard in the fall, and we’re looking for a place in Cambridge together.”

Garrett leans back in the booth, crossing his arms. He looks at you closely. “Giving up Stanford? That’s huge. You sure you’re okay with that?”

“I am,” you say, and to your surprise, your voice doesn’t waver. And it’s true. The initial devastation has faded, replaced by a quiet, fierce dedication to the tiny life growing inside you. “It wasn’t an easy decision, but … this is our family. Stanford will still be there someday. Right now, I need to be here.”

“Damn right you do,” Tucker says softly, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. “We’ve got your back. All of us. You need anything — groceries, midnight ice cream runs, someone to put together a crib — you call us. You hear me?”

“Yeah,” Logan agrees, raising his water glass. “To the newest Briar mascot. God help us all.”

The guys clink their glasses together, the tension fully dissipating into a warm, chaotic celebration. You lean into Dean’s side, feeling a massive wave of relief wash over you. They aren’t judging you. They aren’t questioning the timeline. They are just happy.

You look up at Dean. He is watching you, that same dark, triumphant light dancing in his eyes. He leans down and presses a hard kiss to your temple.

“Told you they’d be thrilled,” he murmurs against your skin.

***

Two weeks later, the hunt for a house begins.

“It’s just … it’s a lot of money, Dean,” you say quietly, standing on the sidewalk of a quiet, tree-lined street in Cambridge.

In front of you sits a massive, stunning three-story brownstone. It has creeping ivy climbing up the brick exterior, a set of heavy, double oak doors, and huge bay windows that look out over the cobblestone street. It is beautiful. It is perfect. And it is completely, obscenely out of your budget.

“I told you not to look at the price tag,” Dean says, coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist. He rests his chin on your shoulder, looking at the house with you. “My trust fund is built for stuff like this. It’s an investment.”

“It’s an estate,” you correct him. “Dean, it has five bedrooms. There are three of us. Well, two and a half.”

“We need a master bedroom, a nursery, a guest room for my parents or the guys, an office for me to study for law school, and a room for you,” he lists off easily, kissing your cheek. “That’s five. It’s perfectly practical.”

“Practical,” you scoff, though a smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.

The real estate agent, a sharp-looking woman named Sylvia, pushes the front door open and gestures for you both to follow.

The inside is even more breathtaking. Original hardwood floors, crown molding, a massive kitchen with a marble island, and a working fireplace in the living room. It smells like lemon polish and old money.

Dean walks through the rooms with a critical eye, checking water pressure, knocking on walls, and asking Sylvia questions about the roof and the HVAC system. You follow slightly behind, feeling completely out of your depth. A month ago, you were prepared to live in a converted garage with a hot plate. Now, you are touring a multi-million-dollar property in one of the most expensive zip codes in the country.

“And finally, the top floor,” Sylvia says, leading you up a narrow, winding wooden staircase. “The previous owners used it as a storage space, but it has phenomenal potential.”

You reach the top of the stairs and step into the attic.

You gasp.

It spans the entire length of the house. The ceiling is vaulted, with exposed wooden beams, but the true masterpiece is the lighting. There are four massive skylights built into the pitched roof, and the far wall is entirely comprised of floor-to-ceiling windows. The afternoon sun pours into the room, bathing the dust motes in a warm, golden glow.

It is the most spectacular natural lighting you have ever seen in your life.

“Oh,” you whisper, walking slowly toward the windows. You run your hand along the sill. “Wow.”

“You like it?” Dean asks. He is standing by the stairs, watching you intently. He hasn’t looked at the room at all. He is only looking at you.

“It’s incredible,” you breathe out, turning around to face him. “The light in here … you could paint for hours without needing a single lamp. It’s perfect.”

Dean smiles, a genuine, blinding smile, and walks over to you. He wraps his hands around your waist. “It’s yours. We’ll rip up this old carpet, put down some hardwood that you don’t mind getting paint on. We’ll install a huge utility sink over there in the corner for your brushes. Whatever you want.”

“Dean, you don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do,” he says firmly. “This is going to be your studio. Just because you aren’t going to Stanford doesn’t mean you stop painting. You are an artist. You need a space.”

You feel tears prick the backs of your eyes, a hormonal surge of emotion hitting you out of nowhere. You rest your forehead against his chest. “You are too good to me.”

“I’m just taking care of my girls,” he murmurs, his hand dropping to rest flat against your stomach. “Or my girl and my boy. Whichever.”

He pulls back slightly, his expression turning thoughtful. He looks into your eyes, his brow furrowing just a fraction. It’s a perfectly rehearsed look of supportive concern.

“You know,” Dean starts, his voice gentle. “We are in Boston. There are amazing programs here. BU, MassArt, even Tufts. We could look into applications for the spring semester. You could still do your MFA locally. We can hire a nanny for when we’re both in class.”

He offers the words smoothly, laying the trap with expert precision. He knows exactly how you will react, but he needs to say it. He needs to play the role of the partner who is willing to move mountains to keep your dream alive, so you never, ever suspect that he is the one who killed it.

You sigh, leaning back from him slightly to look out the window.

“I appreciate it, Dean. I really do. But … no.”

“No?” He asks, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

“It just doesn’t make sense,” you explain, rubbing your arms. “I’m due in January. Right in the middle of the winter semester. Even if I got in somewhere, I’d have to drop out immediately to have the baby. And I don’t want a nanny raising our newborn while I’m locked in a studio across town. I want to be here. I want to raise our kid.”

“Are you sure?” Dean asks, stepping closer and cupping your cheek. “I don’t want you to resent me. Or the baby. I don’t want you to feel like you gave everything up.”

“I’m sure,” you say softly, turning your face to kiss his palm. “I have this beautiful house. I have you. I’m going to have a baby, and a studio right upstairs. I have everything I need right here.”

Dean pulls you into a tight hug, burying his face in the crook of your neck so you can’t see his face.

He closes his eyes, inhaling the scent of your shampoo, and a massive, shuddering wave of relief and victory washes over him.

You’re done fighting, he thinks, his grip on you tightening possessively. You’re staying. You’re his.

“Okay,” Dean whispers against your skin, his voice thick with a dark, hidden triumph. “Okay, baby. We’ll buy the house.”

***

The true test comes three days later.

Lori Heyward and Peter Di Laurentis are flying into Boston for a legal conference, and Dean has made a dinner reservation for the four of you at Ostra, one of the most exclusive seafood restaurants in the Back Bay.

You are standing in front of the full-length mirror in your dorm room, staring at your reflection, feeling like you are about to throw up.

“I look huge,” you whisper, pulling at the fabric of your black dress.

“You are eight weeks pregnant, you do not look huge,” Dean says from the bed. He is already dressed in a charcoal suit that makes him look devastatingly handsome and terrifyingly grown-up. He walks over to you, swatting your hands away and smoothing the fabric of the dress down your hips. “You look gorgeous. Stop stressing.”

“I can’t stop stressing, Dean,” you say, your voice rising in panic. You turn to face him, your chest heaving. “Your parents are high-powered attorneys. They deal with sharks for a living. They are going to see right through me.”

Dean frowns, his hands resting on your waist. “See through what? You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I am a broke art student who just got pregnant by their son!” You cry out, burying your face in your hands. “They are going to think I trapped you. They’re going to think I poked holes in the condoms. They’re going to think I’m a gold-digger who locked down the Di Laurentis fortune. They are going to hate me.”

Dean flinches.

The words hit him like a physical blow to the chest. The bitter, sickening irony of your fear threatens to choke him. You are terrified of being accused of the exact monstrous thing that he actually did to you.

“Hey,” Dean says sharply, grabbing your wrists and pulling your hands away from your face. “Look at me.”

You blink up at him, tears swimming in your eyes.

“My parents love you,” Dean says, and for the first time in weeks, he is telling the absolute, unvarnished truth. “My mom has been obsessed with you since the day I brought you home for Thanksgiving sophomore year. My dad thinks you’re the only person who can keep me in line. They know who you are. They know you didn’t do this on purpose.”

Because I did, he adds silently in his head.

“But the timing-”

“The timing is a surprise,” Dean interrupts smoothly. “But it’s a happy surprise. Trust me. You are going to be fine. Let me handle the talking.”

He kisses you hard, pouring all of his protective energy into the contact.

An hour later, you are sitting in a plush leather booth at Ostra. The lighting is dim, the clinking of crystal glasses fills the air, and you are vibrating with anxiety.

Lori Heyward is a force of nature. She has sharp, striking features, perfectly blown-out blonde hair, and is wearing a white blazer that probably costs more than your entire college tuition. Peter is a massive, intimidating man with a booming laugh and Dean’s green eyes.

“So, Y/N,” Lori says, elegantly slicing into her sea bass. “Dean tells us the Stanford move is off. I have to admit, I was shocked when he told me. That MFA program is incredibly difficult to get into.”

You freeze, your fork hovering over your plate. You shoot a panicked look at Dean.

Dean reaches under the table, lacing his fingers through yours and squeezing firmly. He clears his throat, setting his own fork down.

“Actually, Mom, Dad … there’s a reason she isn’t going,” Dean says. His voice is calm, authoritative, and totally in control. “We wanted to tell you both in person.”

Peter pauses, taking a sip of his wine. He looks between the two of you, his thick eyebrows raising. “Well? Out with it. Did you fail a class, Dean? Because if Harvard rescinds that acceptance …”

“Harvard is fine, Dad,” Dean says, rolling his eyes slightly. He looks at you, gives your hand another squeeze, and looks back at his parents. “Y/N is pregnant. We’re having a baby.”

The reaction is instantaneous.

Lori drops her fork. It clatters loudly against the fine china plate, but she doesn’t seem to notice. Her mouth falls open, her perfectly manicured hands flying up to cover her lips.

Peter chokes on his wine, coughing loudly into his napkin before staring at Dean with wide, shocked eyes.

You brace yourself. You wait for the narrowed eyes. You wait for the accusations. You wait for Lori to ask for a paternity test or a prenuptial agreement.

Instead, Lori’s eyes well up with tears.

“Oh my god,” she whispers, her voice cracking completely. “A baby?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, a slow, genuine smile spreading across his face. “A baby. Due in late January.”

Lori practically scrambles out of the booth. She completely abandons decorum, rushing around the table and pulling you right out of your seat. She wraps her arms around you in a crushing, fiercely tight hug. She smells like expensive perfume and genuine, overwhelming joy.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Lori cries, pressing a kiss to your cheek. “Oh, this is the best news. This is wonderful! I’m going to be a grandmother!”

You stand there, stunned, your arms hovering awkwardly before you slowly wrap them around Lori’s back. “You … you aren’t mad?”

“Mad?” Peter booms, standing up from his side of the booth and walking over. He wraps his massive arms around both you and Lori, pulling you into a group hug. “Why the hell would we be mad? You’re giving us a grandchild!”

“But … the timing,” you stammer, looking between them as they finally pull back. “We’re so young. And Dean is just starting law school. I thought … I was worried you would think I …”

“Y/N,” Lori says softly, reaching out to cup your face in her warm hands. Her sharp eyes soften completely. “We know exactly who you are. We know you come from that awful, stiff-necked Kennedy family, and we know you walked away from millions of dollars just to paint. You don’t care about our money. You care about our son.”

She looks over at Dean, who is watching the exchange with a soft, satisfied expression.

“We love you,” Lori continues, wiping a stray tear from under her eye. “You are already family to us. The fact that you’re having Dean’s child? It’s a blessing. A complete blessing.”

You finally break. The anxiety that has been coiling in your chest for weeks snaps, and you burst into tears. You cover your face with your hands, sobbing in the middle of the fancy restaurant.

“Oh, honey, the hormones,” Lori coos sympathetically, pulling you back into her arms and rubbing your back. “It’s okay. It’s okay. We are going to spoil this baby rotten. We are going to buy out the entire baby section at Neiman Marcus tomorrow.”

“We’re buying a house,” Dean announces proudly from the table, clearly riding the high of his parents’ reaction. “A brownstone in Cambridge. Closing next week.”

“I’ll have my interior designer call you on Monday,” Lori says immediately, not missing a beat. She pulls back and looks at you warmly. “Whatever you need, Y/N. We are here for you.”

You look over Lori’s shoulder at Dean.

He is leaning back against the leather booth, looking like a king sitting on a throne. He has his parents’ money, he has his Harvard acceptance, he has the house in Cambridge, and, most importantly, he has you. Completely, irreversibly, forever.

He catches your eye and winks, a slow, dark, possessive smirk playing on his lips.

You smile back through your tears, feeling so incredibly lucky to have a man who loves you this much. A man who protects you, provides for you, and stands by you no matter what.

You have absolutely no idea that you are thanking the wolf for guarding the sheep.

***

September in Cambridge brings a crisp chill to the air, turning the leaves on the ancient oak trees into brilliant shades of copper and gold.

It also brings the brutal, unrelenting reality of Harvard Law School.

The transition is jarring. One week, Dean is spending lazy mornings in bed with you, painting the nursery a soft sage green and arguing over crib designs. The next, he is plunged headfirst into a shark tank of hyper-competitive, sleep-deprived geniuses. His schedule is instantly swallowed by torts, contracts, civil procedure, and endless stacks of reading that weigh as much as a small car.

But if anyone expects Dean to crumble under the pressure, they are sorely mistaken. He attacks law school with the exact same ruthless, arrogant confidence he used on the ice. He does the reading, he dominates the Socratic method, and he never, ever lets them see him sweat.

But the biggest change isn’t Dean’s schedule. It’s you.

You are nineteen weeks pregnant, and the nesting instinct has hit you like a freight train.

At first, you spent all your time in the spectacular third-floor studio Dean built for you. You painted for hours, losing yourself in the canvas. But as the weeks drag on and the reality of the brownstone’s quiet emptiness settles in while Dean is at class, a restless, anxious energy begins to vibrate under your skin.

You don’t like the quiet. You don’t like the empty house. Most of all, you don’t like being away from Dean.

So, you find a new project.

“You don’t have to do this, baby,” Dean says, leaning against the marble kitchen island.

He is wearing a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a pair of tailored gray trousers, and a tie hanging loosely around his neck. He looks like a devastatingly handsome young lawyer, but his eyes are entirely focused on you.

You are standing at the stove, wearing a pair of soft black leggings that stretch over the undeniable, perfect little bump at your midsection, and one of Dean’s old Briar Hockey t-shirts. You are carefully placing a homemade, artisanal turkey and brie sandwich into a sleek glass Tupperware container.

“I want to,” you say, snapping the lid shut and tucking it into a brown paper bag along with a container of mixed fruit and a slice of banana bread. “You told me the cafeteria food in the law building tastes like salted cardboard. I am not letting the father of my child survive on salted cardboard.”

“I could just grab something at a café off-campus,” Dean points out, though the massive, self-satisfied smirk on his face completely betrays his words.

“You don’t have time between your civil procedure lecture and your study group,” you counter, grabbing a sharpie from the junk drawer. You quickly draw a small heart on the brown paper bag and hand it to him. “There. Now you have a balanced meal. Eat the fruit, Dean. Don’t just give it to that guy in your study group.”

“Ben is iron-deficient,” Dean jokes, taking the bag from your hands. He sets it on the counter, grabs you by the waist, and pulls you flush against his chest.

His large hands spread out over your lower back, his thumbs resting just above the curve of your hips. He looks down at you, his green eyes dark and warm.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, leaning down to kiss the tip of your nose. “But seriously. You’re supposed to be resting. Or painting. Not playing 1950s housewife for me.”

“I like doing it,” you admit softly, resting your hands flat against his chest. You can feel the steady thud of his heart beneath the crisp cotton of his shirt. “The house gets so quiet when you leave. It makes me anxious. Taking care of you gives me something to focus on.”

Dean’s chest swells. A dark, possessive thrill shoots straight down his spine.

He loves this. God, he loves this so much it makes his teeth ache. He loves that you are seeking him out. He loves that your entire world has shrunk down to this beautiful house, your art, and him. The fact that the silence of the house makes you anxious — that you literally crave his presence to feel grounded — is the greatest victory he could have ever engineered.

“If you get lonely, you call me,” Dean orders softly, his voice dropping an octave. “I don’t care if I’m in the middle of a lecture. You call, and I’ll walk right out.”

“You will absolutely not walk out of a Harvard Law lecture just because I’m feeling a little clingy,” you laugh, swatting his chest.

“Watch me,” he challenges, entirely serious. He kisses you then, deep and lingering, tasting like mint toothpaste and coffee. “I have to go. Contracts wait for no man.”

“Knock ‘em dead, counselor,” you smile, fixing the collar of his shirt.

He grabs his leather messenger bag, his lunch, and heads out the front door.

But by 12:30 PM, the silence of the brownstone becomes suffocating again. You put your brushes down, wipe the cerulean paint off your hands, and look at the clock.

Dean has a break at 1:00.

You make a split-second decision. You go downstairs, pack a fresh container of pasta salad you made yesterday, grab two bottles of sparkling water, and throw on a long, cozy cardigan over your leggings.

***

The courtyard outside Austin Hall is swarming with law students. The air is thick with tension, the smell of burnt coffee, and the frantic sound of people debating case law.

Dean is sitting at a wrought-iron patio table, his long legs stretched out in front of him. He is surrounded by three other first-year students. They all look like they are on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Dean, on the other hand, looks like he’s waiting for a bus. Cool, relaxed, entirely unbothered.

“But if you apply the ruling from Hawkins v. McGee,” a highly strung girl named Katelyn says rapidly, aggressively highlighting a massive textbook, “the expectation damages have to be calculated based on the difference between the promised state and the actual state.”

“Katelyn, breathe,” Dean says lazily, leaning back in his chair. “You’re overthinking it. The professor doesn’t want you to just regurgitate the formula. He wants you to argue why the formula is flawed in this specific application. Pivot to the ambiguity of the contract.”

“Easy for you to say,” grumbles Ben, a pale guy with thick glasses. “You got cold-called today and practically gave a TED talk.”

Dean just smirks, reaching for his water bottle.

“Excuse me,” a soft voice says.

Dean’s head snaps up.

You are standing at the edge of the patio table, holding a canvas tote bag. Your hair is pulled back into a loose braid, and the soft beige cardigan clings perfectly to the distinct, rounded curve of your belly.

The transformation in Dean is instantaneous.

The arrogant, laid-back law student vanishes. He is on his feet before you can even take another step, closing the distance between you and wrapping a protective arm around your shoulders.

“Hey,” Dean says, his voice entirely different — softer, warmer, dripping with devotion. He pulls you in, pressing a kiss to your temple in front of everyone. “What are you doing here? Is everything okay? Is the baby okay?”

“We’re fine,” you laugh softly, leaning into his side. “I just … I finished painting early. And I realized you were probably going to be hungry again after that sandwich, so I brought the pasta salad.”

Dean looks down at you like you just handed him the winning lottery numbers. He doesn’t care about the pasta salad. He cares that you couldn’t stay away from him. He cares that you walked right onto his campus, into his territory, for everyone to see.

“You are incredible,” he murmurs, kissing you again, lingering a little longer this time.

He turns back to the table, keeping his arm firmly wrapped around your waist, pulling your back flush against his side so your bump is proudly on display.

“Guys, this is Y/N,” Dean says, his chest puffed out. “My girl.”

The three law students stare at you in varying states of shock.

“Hi,” you say politely, offering a small wave.

“Oh,” Katelyn says, blinking rapidly. She looks from Dean to your stomach, and then back up to Dean. “Wow. Hi. I’m Katelyn. We didn’t … Dean didn’t mention he was …”

“Expecting?” Ben finishes, adjusting his glasses. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls out the chair he was just sitting in and gently guides you into it. “Sit. You shouldn’t be standing too long.”

You roll your eyes, but you sit down, digging into your tote bag to pull out the Tupperware containers and the forks.

Over the next few weeks, this becomes your routine.

Whenever you feel that creeping, lonely anxiety in the big empty house, you pack a bag and take the short walk to campus. You become a fixture in the courtyard. The terrifyingly intense law students quickly realize that the only way to get Dean Di Laurentis to help them with their outlines is to be extremely nice to his pregnant girlfriend.

They bring you decaf coffee. They offer you their chairs. They ask about the baby.

And Dean? Dean thrives on it.

He loves sitting at a table with his arm draped over the back of your chair, his hand absentmindedly resting on your stomach while he debates property law with his peers. He loves the jealous looks he gets from other guys when you show up looking effortlessly beautiful, carrying his lunch. He loves that everyone on campus knows exactly who you belong to.

It happens on a crisp Tuesday afternoon in October.

You are sitting next to Dean on a stone bench just outside the law library. He is eating a slice of quiche you brought him, and you are resting your head on his shoulder, soaking in the autumn sun.

“Di Laurentis,” a stern voice calls out.

Dean pauses, swallowing his bite of quiche. He looks up as Professor Richards, an intimidating, gray-haired man who teaches constitutional law, stops in front of your bench.

“Professor,” Dean greets easily.

“Excellent brief on the Marbury application today,” Richards says, adjusting his briefcase. “Your argument regarding judicial review limitations was surprisingly concise.”

“Appreciate it,” Dean says, offering a polite nod.

Richards’s sharp eyes shift down to you. You sit up slightly, offering a polite, nervous smile.

“And this must be the famous lunch-delivery service I’ve been hearing about,” Richards says dryly, though there is a hint of amusement in his eyes. He looks at your bump. “Congratulations to you both.”

“Thank you,” you say.

“I don’t believe we’ve formally met,” Richards says, extending a hand. “Robert Richards.”

You reach out and shake his hand. “Y/N Kennedy. It’s nice to meet you.”

Richards’s hand freezes. He doesn’t let go of your hand immediately. His gray eyebrows shoot up toward his hairline, his expression shifting from polite indifference to sharp, sudden intrigue.

“Kennedy?” Richards repeats, the word hanging heavily in the air.

He looks at your face closely, studying your bone structure, your eyes, the tilt of your chin. In elite East Coast circles, that name is royalty. It’s power. It’s money.

“Any relation to Senator Joseph Kennedy?” Richards asks, his tone entirely different now.

You feel your stomach drop. The familiar, sickening knot of anxiety twists in your gut. You hate this question. You hate the association. Since your family cut you off, hearing their names just feels like a raw wound being poked.

“He’s my uncle,” you say quietly, pulling your hand back from his grip. “But I’m not really … involved in politics. Or with the family, right now.”

Richards looks stunned. He looks at Dean, and then back at you. “A Kennedy. Here, in the courtyard. Well. That certainly explains the poise. Your father must be devastated you didn’t choose the law yourself.”

You swallow hard, looking down at your lap. “Something like that.”

Dean feels the exact moment your body tenses. He feels the anxiety radiating off you.

A dark, protective rage flares in his chest, instantly mingling with that deep-seated, possessive pride. He knows exactly what Richards is thinking. Richards is looking at you like you are a prized show pony, an elite piece of political capital. He is looking at you like you belong to the Kennedys.

Dean stands up.

He doesn’t do it aggressively, but the sheer size of him, the broadness of his shoulders, instantly forces Richards to take a half-step back.

Dean steps directly into Richards’s line of sight, blocking his view of you. He reaches down, grabbing your hand and lacing his fingers tightly through yours. He pulls your hand up, resting it firmly against the center of his chest.

“She’s an artist,” Dean says. His voice is perfectly polite, but the underlying steel in his tone is unmistakable. It is a warning.

“An artist,” Richards repeats, clearly recovering his composure. “Well. A Kennedy venturing into the fine arts. How … modern.”

Dean smiles. It is a sharp, dangerous smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah, well,” Dean says, his voice ringing out clearly in the quiet courtyard. He looks down at you, his thumb brushing over your knuckles, before locking his piercing gaze back onto the professor.

“She won’t be a Kennedy for long,” Dean states, his words slow and deliberate.

Richards blinks. “Excuse me?”

Dean’s grip on your hand tightens. He looks at the professor with absolute, unyielding dominance.

“I said, she won’t be a Kennedy for long. She’ll be a Di Laurentis soon.”

The courtyard seems to go completely silent.

Richards stares at Dean for a long, calculating moment. He is a man who understands power dynamics, and he clearly recognizes that he has just stepped directly onto Dean Di Laurentis’s fiercely guarded territory.

“I see,” Richards finally says, clearing his throat. He offers a tight, formal nod. “Well. Best of luck with the wedding. And the baby. Good day, Mr. Di Laurentis. Ms. Kennedy.”

Richards turns and walks briskly away toward the faculty building.

As soon as he is out of earshot, you let out a massive, shaky breath you didn’t even realize you were holding. Your shoulders slump, and you cover your face with your free hand.

“I hate that,” you whisper, your voice trembling slightly. “I hate when people do that. The sudden shift in how they look at me. Like I’m just a walking bank account or a political connection.”

Dean immediately sits back down next to you. He wraps both of his massive arms around you, pulling you onto his lap right there in the middle of the courtyard. He doesn’t care who is watching.

“Hey,” he murmurs fiercely, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “Look at me.”

You drop your hand, looking up into his intense green eyes.

“You are not a walking bank account,” Dean says, his voice low and fierce. “You are the most talented, brilliant, beautiful woman I have ever met. You are going to be an incredible mother. And you don’t need them. You hear me? You don’t need their name, and you don’t need their money.”

“I know,” you sniffle, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I just … it caught me off guard.”

“They’re cut off,” Dean says darkly, his hand resting securely over your baby bump. “They don’t get to claim you. Not anymore. You’re mine now. This is your family. Me and this baby.”

“I know,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him softly. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Dean replies, kissing you back, hard and deep.

He holds you there on the bench, completely ignoring the stares of the passing students. He rubs soothing circles into your back until your breathing evens out and the tension finally leaves your body.

He plays the role of the ultimate protector flawlessly. He makes you feel safe, cherished, and completely shielded from the world that rejected you.

But as you rest your head against his chest, finding comfort in his steady heartbeat, Dean stares out across the campus lawn, his mind racing.

He didn’t just say it to put the professor in his place. He said it because it’s the next logical step.

The baby trap was phase one. It anchored you to him. It kept you in Boston. It forced you to rely on him for housing, for support, for everything.

But Dean knows how fragile that is. You are still technically a free agent. You aren’t married. The baby binds you together, but it isn’t a legal lock.

He needs the lock.

He needs a ring on your finger. He needs your name changed. He needs to legally, permanently bind you to him in a way that you can never, ever escape, no matter what you eventually find out.

Dean’s hand slides from your back to rest gently over the swell of your stomach. He feels a tiny, fluttering kick against his palm. His child. His fail-safe.

He looks down at your peaceful face, blissfully unaware of the cage he is meticulously building around you.

Tomorrow.

He will skip his afternoon seminar tomorrow. He will drive into downtown Boston, he will walk into the most exclusive jeweler in the city, and he will buy the biggest, most undeniable diamond they have in the vault.

Because Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t just play to win. He plays for absolute, total possession. And he is almost at the finish line.

***

December in Massachusetts is a bitter, bone-chilling kind of cold, but inside the grand ballroom of the Harvard Club of Boston, the air is suffocatingly warm.

The annual winter alumni networking gala is in full swing. Crystal chandeliers cast a warm, glittering light over hundreds of Boston’s most elite legal minds, politicians, and high-powered executives. Waiters in crisp white jackets weave through the crowd carrying silver trays of champagne flutes and miniature crab cakes. The dull roar of classical string music and pretentious conversation echoes off the mahogany-paneled walls.

You are standing near a massive, roaring fireplace, holding a crystal glass of sparkling cider and trying very, very hard not to let your exhaustion show.

At thirty-four weeks pregnant, you look like you are about to pop at any second. Your belly is a heavy, undeniable presence beneath the dark emerald velvet of your maternity gown. Your feet, squeezed into a pair of sensible but elegant black flats, are throbbing. You feel massive, clumsy, and entirely out of place among the sleek, tailored crowd.

But you are here for Dean.

Dean is in his element. He is standing about ten feet away, locked in a conversation with a senior partner from a top-tier corporate law firm. He is wearing a custom-tailored black tuxedo that fits his broad, athletic frame to absolute perfection. His dark blond hair is pushed back, his jaw sharp, his green eyes completely focused as he charms the absolute hell out of the partner.

He looks like a king holding court. He looks like he was born to inhabit these rooms, to shake these hands, to command this kind of power.

But even as he laughs at a joke the senior partner makes, Dean’s eyes flick over to you. It’s a constant, rhythmic check-in. Every two minutes, his gaze finds you across the room. He catches your eye, his lips curving into a soft, private smile that is meant only for you, before he seamlessly turns back to his conversation.

You smile back, taking a sip of your cider. You feel a familiar rush of warmth in your chest. He is so incredibly good to you. Even in a room full of people who could make or break his future career, you are still his absolute center of gravity.

“I think I need to sit down,” you murmur to yourself, feeling a sharp ache in your lower back.

You turn slightly, intending to find an empty chair near the edge of the ballroom.

But as you turn, the crowd parts slightly, and the breath is punched completely out of your lungs.

Standing less than five feet away, holding a glass of scotch and looking exactly as terrifyingly composed as you remember, are George and Marie Kennedy.

Your parents.

You freeze. Your feet weld themselves to the plush carpet. Your heart performs a violent, painful leap into your throat, the glass of cider trembling in your suddenly cold hands.

You haven’t seen them in over a year. Not since the day you stood in their sprawling foyer and told them you were going to art school, and your father coldly informed you that you were no longer welcome under his roof.

They haven’t changed at all. Your father looks sharp and imposing in his tuxedo, his graying hair perfectly styled. Your mother is draped in an ice-blue silk gown, a massive diamond necklace resting against her collarbone. They look wealthy. They look powerful. They look completely devoid of warmth.

Marie’s eyes sweep over the crowd and land directly on you.

She stops. Her gaze drops instantly from your face, scanning down the emerald velvet of your dress, and lands squarely on the massive, undeniable swell of your stomach.

Her eyes widen slightly, a flash of pure, unadulterated shock crossing her perfectly Botoxed features. She grabs your father’s arm, her sharp manicured nails digging into his tuxedo sleeve. She whispers something urgently to him, nodding in your direction.

George Kennedy turns. His cold, calculating eyes lock onto you. He takes in your face, the simple elegance of your dress, and the baby bump that you are suddenly, desperately wishing you could hide.

Your instinct is to run. To turn around, push through the crowd, and hide in the bathroom until Dean can take you home. But your legs refuse to move.

Your parents begin to walk toward you.

They move with a slow, predatory grace, parting the crowd without even trying. Every step they take feels like a hammer striking your chest. You instinctively wrap your free hand around your stomach, a protective gesture for the baby that is currently kicking against your ribs.

“Well,” Marie says as they stop in front of you. Her voice is like cracked ice. Smooth, cold, and incredibly sharp. “I suppose congratulations are in order, Y/N. Though I can’t say I’m surprised.”

You swallow hard, your throat feeling like it’s lined with sandpaper. “Mother. Father.”

“Don’t call us that,” George says, his voice low and devoid of any affection. “You lost that privilege the day you decided to embarrass this family.”

The words sting, a fresh lash against an old wound, but you force your chin up. “What are you doing here?”

“We are alumni,” Marie says, taking a sip of her champagne. Her eyes rake over your stomach again, her lips curling into a sneer of pure disgust. “The real question is what you are doing here. And … in this condition. Though, I suppose it doesn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

“Excuse me?” You say, your voice trembling slightly.

“Oh, please, Y/N,” your mother sighs, looking at you with complete, humiliating pity. “We all knew that ridiculous little art school fantasy wouldn’t last. Did the money dry up that quickly? Did the reality of living like a peasant finally set in?”

“This has nothing to do with money,” you say, your heart hammering against your ribs. “I’m here with my boyfriend. He’s a law student.”

“A law student,” George repeats, a harsh, humorless chuckle escaping his chest. “Let me guess. A rich one? Someone with a trust fund?”

“His name is Dean Di Laurentis,” you say, your voice growing firmer, a defensive heat rising in your chest. “And you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Marie leans in slightly, the scent of her expensive Chanel perfume making your nausea spike. “I know exactly what I’m talking about. You realized you had no skills, no family name to fall back on, and no money. So you found a boy with a fat wallet and you did the only thing left to do to secure the bag. You got yourself knocked up.”

The words hang in the air between you, vile and suffocating.

“You trapped him,” George adds, his voice dropping to a harsh, vicious whisper. “You spread your legs and trapped some poor, unsuspecting heir because you were too lazy to work and too stubborn to apologize to us. You are a disgrace. You’re little better than a high-priced-”

“Finish that sentence, and I will shatter your jaw into so many pieces the surgeons won’t be able to put it back together.”

The voice is a low, lethal snarl that cuts through the classical music and the chatter of the ballroom like a blade.

You gasp, turning your head.

Dean is standing right behind you.

The charming, relaxed future lawyer is completely gone. In his place is the Briar University enforcer, the hockey player who used to drop his gloves and beat grown men bloody on the ice. His green eyes are black with fury. His jaw is locked so tightly a muscle is jumping erratically in his cheek. His broad shoulders are tense, his hands balled into massive, white-knuckled fists at his sides.

He looks like he is about to commit a murder in the middle of the Harvard Club.

He steps around you, putting his body entirely between you and your parents. He is significantly taller and broader than your father, and the physical threat radiating off him is so intense that both George and Marie instinctively take a step back.

“Dean,” you whisper, terrified.

Dean doesn’t look at you. His murderous gaze is locked on George Kennedy.

“Who do you think you’re talking to?” Dean demands, his voice a dangerous, vibrating rumble.

“I am speaking to my daughter,” George says, though his voice wavers slightly under the sheer, terrifying intensity of Dean’s stare. “And who are you? The boy she trapped?”

Dean lunges forward.

It’s an involuntary, deeply ingrained reflex. The hockey player in him wants violence. He wants to feel bone crunch under his knuckles. He wants to destroy the man who just made the love of his life look so small and terrified. He raises his right fist, his body coiling like a spring.

“Dean, no!”

You drop your glass. It shatters on the carpet, soaking the floor with cider. You lunge forward, grabbing his raised arm with both hands.

“Don’t,” you beg, your voice cracking. “Dean, please. He’s not worth it. Don’t ruin your career over him. Please.”

Dean freezes.

The desperate, trembling sound of your voice cuts through the red haze of his rage. He looks down at your hands, gripping his tuxedo sleeve, and then at your face. You look terrified, pale, and on the verge of tears.

He takes a harsh, ragged breath. The violent tension doesn’t leave his body, but he slowly lowers his fist. He covers your hands with his, squeezing tightly to reassure you, before turning his attention back to your parents.

He chooses a different weapon.

“My name is Dean Di Laurentis,” Dean says, his voice no longer a snarl, but something much colder. Something smooth, calculated, and infinitely more dangerous. He speaks with the absolute authority of a man who knows exactly how much power he wields. “My father is Peter Di Laurentis. My mother is Lori Heyward. I’m sure you know the names.”

George Kennedy pales. The arrogant sneer drops off his face instantly.

Of course he knows the names. The Di Laurentis family is legal royalty in New England. They own half of the corporate real estate in Boston, and their law firm has the power to destroy entire political campaigns with a single phone call.

“I … I am familiar,” George says tightly.

“Good,” Dean says, a dark, cruel smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “Then you know that I am not some poor, unsuspecting heir. And you know that I am the last person in this room you want to piss off.”

Marie crosses her arms, though her hands are trembling slightly. “Mr. Di Laurentis, we were simply trying to warn you. You are young. You have a bright future. Y/N is manipulative. She knew what she was doing when she let this happen. She wanted your money.”

Dean actually laughs. It is a harsh, mocking sound that makes a few people at the neighboring tables turn their heads.

The bitter, twisted irony of the accusation almost makes him want to scream. They think you trapped him. They think you are the master manipulator. They have absolutely no idea that you cried for hours over losing your dream, while Dean smiled into your hair because his sick, desperate plan worked perfectly.

“Let me make something incredibly clear to both of you,” Dean says, stepping slightly closer to them, forcing them to look up at him. “Y/N didn’t trap me. She didn’t want my money. In fact, she fought me tooth and nail when I tried to pay for her groceries.”

He pauses, letting the words sink in, his eyes burning into theirs.

“I chased her,” Dean states, his voice ringing with absolute, possessive pride. “I begged her to give me a chance. I am the one who fell on my knees thanking God when I found out she was carrying my child. Because she is the best thing that has ever happened to me, and she is entirely too good for the likes of you.”

You let out a soft, choked sob, pressing your face against Dean’s bicep.

“She is a Kennedy,” George snaps, his pride rearing its ugly head one last time. “We gave her everything.”

“You gave her nothing,” Dean fires back, his voice slicing through the air like a scalpel. “You gave her conditions. You gave her a bank account attached to a leash. When she decided she wanted to be her own person, you threw her out like garbage. You threw away the most brilliant, talented, loving woman in this entire city because she didn’t want to go to law school.”

Dean leans in, his face inches from George’s, his voice dropping to a terrifying, deadly whisper.

“You lost your greatest asset, George. And I won.”

George’s jaw tightens, his face flushing a dark, humiliated shade of red.

“Now,” Dean says, his tone shifting into the smooth, ruthless cadence of a future courtroom shark. “This is how this is going to work. You are going to turn around, and you are going to walk out of this ballroom. If I ever see you near her again, if you ever so much as speak her name in public, I will have my father’s firm audit every single one of your offshore accounts.”

Marie gasps, her hand flying to her chest.

“I will bury your political ambitions so deep you won’t be able to run for dog catcher,” Dean continues ruthlessly. “I will make sure every partner in this room knows exactly how the Kennedys treat their pregnant daughters. I will ruin you. Do you understand me?”

George and Marie stare at him. They are completely, utterly defeated. They know he isn’t bluffing. They know he has the resources, the power, and the viciousness to do exactly what he promised.

George grabs Marie’s arm. “We’re leaving.”

Without another word, your parents turn and quickly disappear into the crowd, rushing toward the exit like they are being chased by dogs.

The moment they are out of sight, all the terrifying, cold energy drains out of Dean.

He turns to you immediately. He wraps both of his arms around you, pulling you tightly against his chest, right in the middle of the ballroom. He doesn’t care who is watching. He doesn’t care about networking. He buries his face in your hair, his hands running frantically over your back, your shoulders, the curve of your belly.

“Are you okay?” He asks urgently, his voice rough and breathless. “Did they hurt you? Are you having contractions? Tell me you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” you sob, clinging to the lapels of his tuxedo. The adrenaline is fading, leaving you shaky and exhausted, but the overwhelming surge of love for him is making your chest ache. “I’m okay, Dean. I’m fine.”

“I should have broken his jaw,” Dean mutters darkly against your neck. “I should have put him in the hospital.”

“No,” you say, pulling back slightly to look up into his fierce, beautiful face. You reach up, resting your hands flat against his cheeks. “No. You handled it perfectly. You protected me. You always protect me.”

Dean closes his eyes, leaning into your touch. A heavy, complicated sigh escapes his lips.

“I love you so much,” he whispers, opening his eyes to look at you with such intense, staggering devotion that it takes your breath away. “I love you. You are my family. Just you and this baby. They don’t matter. They will never hurt you again. I won’t let them.”

“I know,” you whisper, fresh tears spilling over your lashes. “I know you won’t. I love you, Dean.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Dean says, gently wiping the tears from your cheeks with his thumbs. “Let’s go home. You need to rest.”

“Okay,” you agree, letting him tuck you securely under his arm.

As Dean guides you through the ballroom, leaving the glittering lights and the staring alumni behind, you rest your hand on your massive stomach. You feel completely safe. You feel entirely loved. You look up at the handsome, powerful man walking beside you, thanking every lucky star that you found someone who would fight so fiercely to keep you.

And Dean?

Dean holds you close, his jaw set in a hard, victorious line. He feels the warmth of your body against his, the weight of his ring sitting in a velvet box in his tuxedo pocket, waiting for the perfect moment.

They accused you of trapping him.

Dean almost laughs at the twisted perfection of it all. He didn’t just trap you with a baby. He trapped you with love. He trapped you with protection. He built a cage out of devotion, and you just handed him the final key.

You will never leave him. Not ever.

And as he helps you into the back of his black SUV, wrapping his coat around your shivering shoulders, Dean Di Laurentis knows that he has won the most important game of his life.

***

“I am going to kill you! I swear to God, Dean, I am going to murder you with my bare hands!”

Your scream tears through the sterile, brightly lit delivery room at Massachusetts General Hospital, echoing off the pale blue walls and completely drowning out the rhythmic, agonizing beeping of the fetal heart monitor.

“I know, baby, I know,” Dean says, his voice a low, steady rumble of absolute devotion. “You can kill me. As soon as he’s out, you can do whatever you want to me.”

“Don’t patronize me!” You sob, your head thrashing back against the sweat-soaked hospital pillow. Your face is flushed, your hair plastered to your forehead in damp, tangled strands.

You grip his left hand with the strength of a dying gladiator. You are squeezing so hard that Dean is genuinely, medically certain you are fracturing the small bones in his knuckles. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t even flinch. He just leans closer, using his free hand to wipe a cool, damp washcloth across your burning forehead.

It is 3:26 AM on a freezing Thursday in late January. Outside the hospital windows, a massive nor’easter is dumping two feet of snow onto the streets of Boston. But inside this room, the air is thick with heat, sweat, and blinding, primal exhaustion.

You have been in labor for nineteen hours.

“Okay, Y/N, you’re doing beautifully,” Dr. Williams says calmly from the foot of the bed. “The contraction is peaking. I need you to take a deep breath, tuck your chin to your chest, and push. Give me everything you have.”

“I can’t!” You cry out, shaking your head wildly. “I can’t do it anymore, Dean. I have nothing left. It hurts too much.”

“Look at me,” Dean commands, his voice firming up, cutting through the haze of your panic. He drops the washcloth and frames your face with his right hand, forcing you to meet his gaze. His green eyes are fierce, burning with an intensity that physically anchors you to the bed. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You look up at him, tears streaming down your cheeks.

“You can do this,” he says, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “You are the strongest person I have ever met. You are going to push, and you are going to meet our son. Do you hear me? We are so close, baby. You are doing so incredibly well.”

Another wave of unimaginable agony rolls through your abdomen. You bear down, squeezing your eyes shut, and let out a guttural, primal scream. You pull on Dean’s hand so violently his shoulder pops, your fingernails digging crescent-moon shapes into his skin.

As you pull, the fluorescent hospital lights catch the massive, flawless piece of jewelry sitting on your left ring finger.

It’s a three-carat oval diamond set on a delicate, crushed-ice platinum band. Dean had dropped to one knee in front of the roaring fireplace in the living room of your new brownstone on Christmas Eve, holding the velvet box. You had cried so hard you could barely choke out the word ‘yes.’

“Ten seconds,” the labor nurse counts down, keeping her hand flat against your stomach. “Eight … nine … ten. Okay, slowly release the breath. Good. Good.”

You collapse back against the pillows, your chest heaving violently. You are panting, staring up at the ceiling with wide, exhausted eyes.

“I am never doing this again,” you gasp out, your voice rough and raw. You turn your head to glare at Dean, your eyes narrowed into vicious slits. “Do you hear me, Di Laurentis? I am never having sex with you again. Ever. We are sleeping in separate rooms for the rest of our lives.”

“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” Dean murmurs easily, pressing a kiss to your sweaty temple.

“I mean it!” You threaten, pointing a shaking finger at him. “If you come within ten feet of me with … with those intentions … I will castrate you.”

“I hear you,” Dean says smoothly, brushing the hair out of your eyes.

But internally? Dean is trying very, very hard not to smile.

Good luck with that, he thinks, his eyes tracing the beautiful, flushed lines of your face.

Separate bedrooms? Not a chance in hell. He hasn’t slept a single night without you tangled in his arms in nine months, and he has no intention of starting now. And as for never doing this again? Dean has already mapped out the timeline. He wants a big family. He wants the massive five-bedroom brownstone in Cambridge filled with noise, toys, and chaos. He wants at least three more babies with you. He is already looking forward to getting you pregnant again.

But he is smart enough to keep that entirely to himself while you are actively trying to push an eight-pound human out of your body.

“Okay, mom and dad, he’s crowning,” Dr. Williams announces, her tone suddenly shifting into high gear. “Y/N, I need you to stay focused. This next push is the big one. We’re going to bring this baby out.”

The panic returns, seizing your chest. “Dean, I’m scared.”

“I’ve got you. I’m right here,” Dean says, climbing halfway onto the side of the hospital bed to brace your back with his arm. He pulls you up slightly, his broad chest supporting your weight. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

“Okay, the contraction is starting,” the nurse says, her eyes glued to the monitor. “Deep breath … and push!”

You scream, bearing down with every single ounce of strength you have left in your battered body. You squeeze Dean’s hand so hard you literally feel something give way in his knuckles, but he doesn’t make a sound. He just holds you, whispering a constant, steady stream of encouragement into your ear.

“That’s it, that’s it, keep going!” the doctor urges. “I have the head! Y/N, give me one more big push! Don’t stop!”

“Dean!” You cry out, your voice breaking into a sob.

“Push, baby, push! He’s right here!” Dean practically shouts, his own voice cracking with emotion. His eyes are wide, locked on the doctor.

You let out one final, agonizing, earth-shattering scream, forcing your body past every known limit.

And then, suddenly, the unbearable, crushing pressure is gone.

It is replaced by a wet, slippery sound, and then, a second later, the most beautiful, piercing wail Dean has ever heard in his entire life echoes through the delivery room.

“He’s here!” Dr. Williams laughs, pulling her mask down. “Time of birth, 3:31 AM. You did it, Y/N!”

You collapse back against Dean’s chest, completely boneless, gasping for air. You are sobbing openly, the tears running into your ears, your entire body trembling with shock and exhaustion.

Dean is frozen.

He is staring at the tiny, screaming, purple, blood-covered creature the doctor has just lifted into the air.

His son.

The breath leaves Dean’s lungs in a staggering, silent rush. Tears, hot and fast, spill over his eyelashes, tracking down his cheeks. He doesn’t even try to wipe them away. He is completely, utterly overcome.

The doctor quickly wipes the baby down with a towel and immediately places him directly onto your bare chest.

“Oh my god,” you sob, bringing your shaking hands up to cup the baby’s tiny, slippery back. “Oh my god. Dean. Look at him.”

Dean leans over you, his large hands trembling as he reaches out. He doesn’t even know where to touch. The baby is so small, so impossibly fragile. Dean gently rests two fingers against the back of the baby’s head, feeling the soft, dark fuzz of hair there.

“I see him,” Dean chokes out, a wet laugh tearing from his throat. He presses his face to yours, kissing your cheek, your jaw, your lips, tasting salt and sweat. “You did so good. You did so fucking good, baby. He’s perfect.”

“He looks just like you,” you cry, looking down at the baby’s face.

And he does. Even scrunched up and screaming, the baby is the perfect mix of the two of you. He has Dean’s strong jawline and thick, dark blond hair, but he has your delicate nose and the exact shape of your eyes. He is a Di Laurentis through and through, but he belongs entirely to you.

“Dad, you want to cut the cord?” The nurse asks, holding out a pair of sterile scissors.

Dean nods, unable to speak. He takes the scissors, his hands shaking slightly, and snips the physical connection between you and the baby.

As the blades snap shut, something profound happens inside Dean’s chest.

For the last nine months, a tiny, deeply buried knot of anxiety has been living at the base of Dean’s spine. It was the fear of discovery. The fear of failure. The fear that somehow, someway, you would pack a bag, figure out the truth about his monstrous deception, and leave him. The fear that the ghost of Stanford and the life you were supposed to have would eventually tear you away from him.

But as Dean looks at his son lying on your chest, as he watches you weep with pure, unadulterated love for the child he gave you, that knot entirely unravels.

It is done.

The trap is sealed. Not just in a lease, not just in an engagement ring, but in blood. In bone. In life.

You are a mother now. You are the mother of his child. You will never walk away from this. You will never walk away from him. The cage isn’t just locked; the key has been completely destroyed.

An intoxicating wave of relief and victory washes over Dean, relaxing muscles in his back and shoulders that he didn’t even realize were wound tight. He feels light. He feels powerful. He feels like a god.

“I love you,” Dean whispers fervently, resting his forehead against yours as the nurses bustle around the room, checking vitals and weighing the baby. “I love you so much, Y/N. Thank you. Thank you for giving him to me.”

“I love you too,” you murmur, your eyes heavy, completely exhausted but radiantly happy. “We have a son, Dean.”

“We have a son,” he repeats, the words tasting like victory on his tongue.

***

Two hours later, the chaos of the delivery room has completely subsided.

You have been moved to a private, luxury postpartum suite that Dean paid to upgrade. The lights are dimmed to a soft, warm amber. Outside the window, the blizzard is still raging, painting the city of Boston in a blanket of silent, isolating white.

But inside the room, it is perfectly quiet and incredibly warm.

Dean is sitting in a leather armchair pulled directly up to the side of your hospital bed. He has finally washed the sweat and blood off his hands, though his left hand is heavily bruised and wrapped in an ice pack. Logan, Garrett, Beau, and Tucker had blown up his phone with thirty different texts from the waiting room downstairs, but Dean had ordered them to go home and sleep.

He didn’t want to share you yet. He wanted this quiet, sacred time to be just the three of you.

You are propped up against a mountain of pillows, wearing a fresh, soft hospital gown. Your eyes are half-closed, the heavy toll of labor visible in the dark circles under your eyes, but you look so peaceful.

“He’s awake,” you whisper, looking down at the bundle resting in the crook of your arm.

Noah Di Laurentis.

Dean leans forward in his chair, his elbows resting on his knees. He watches as Noah roots around, turning his tiny, fuzzy head against your chest, his mouth opening and closing in small, frustrated movements.

“I think he’s hungry,” Dean says, his voice a low, gravelly whisper.

“Yeah. The nurse said I should try to get him to latch as soon as he showed signs.” You take a deep breath, wincing slightly as you shift your weight. “Can you help me?”

“Of course,” Dean says immediately.

He stands up, tossing the ice pack onto a side table, and leans over the bed. With incredibly gentle, careful hands, he helps you unbutton the top of the hospital gown, pulling the fabric aside to expose your breast.

Dean’s breath hitches.

He has seen your body a million times. He has worshipped it, explored it, memorized every single inch of it. But seeing you like this — soft, maternal, your skin flushed and full — sends a completely different kind of shockwave straight to his groin.

You adjust Noah in your arms, guiding his tiny head forward. It takes a few clumsy seconds, but suddenly, the baby latches on perfectly.

You let out a soft, sharp gasp of surprise at the sensation, your eyes widening slightly before fluttering shut in relief. “Okay. Okay, he got it.”

Dean slowly sits back down in the armchair. He doesn’t take his eyes off you.

He sits there in the dim light, completely mesmerized, watching you breastfeed his baby for the very first time.

The sight does incredibly complex, dangerous things to Dean’s mind.

It is the most beautiful, pure thing he has ever witnessed. You look like a Renaissance painting, bathed in the soft amber light, your head tipped back against the pillows, your hand gently stroking the soft curve of Noah’s back. The rhythmic, quiet sound of the baby swallowing is the only noise in the room.

But beneath the awe, beneath the profound, overwhelming love he feels for you, is that dark, feral, possessive core that drives every single thing Dean does.

He watches the baby feed from your body, and the visual confirmation of what he has achieved is intoxicating. His seed. His child. Sustained by your blood, grown in your womb, and now feeding from your body. You are physically nourishing the anchor he used to keep you.

You look down at Noah, a soft, exhausted smile playing on your lips. Then, you lift your eyes and look at Dean.

You catch the intense, dark, heated look on his face. Your cheeks flush a deeper shade of pink.

“What?” You whisper self-consciously, pulling the edge of the blanket up slightly to cover yourself. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” Dean asks, his voice thick and husky.

“Like … like you want to eat me,” you say, letting out a breathy, tired laugh.

Dean smiles, a slow, predatory smirk that makes his green eyes flash dangerously in the low light. He reaches out, trailing his knuckles gently down the side of your neck, his thumb brushing over the pulse point hammering wildly at your collarbone.

“Because I do,” Dean murmurs, leaning in so his face is only inches from yours. He inhales the scent of you — sweat, hospital soap, and that warm, sweet, milky scent of a new mother. It is a potent, addictive drug. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my entire life.”

“Dean, I just gave birth,” you laugh softly, though you lean into his touch. “I look like a train wreck. I’m covered in sweat, and I’m pretty sure my hair is matted to my head.”

“You look like a goddess,” he corrects fiercely. He drops his hand to rest lightly over yours where it cradles the baby’s back. “You gave me everything. You gave me a family.”

“We did it together,” you say softly, your eyes softening with that deep, absolute trust that Dean relies on to survive. “I didn’t think … when we first met, I never thought my life would look like this. I thought I’d be alone in a studio in California right now.”

Dean’s hand stills. The mention of California is a ghost from the past, a fleeting phantom that used to terrify him, but now, it holds absolutely no power.

“Are you sad?” Dean asks, his voice perfectly smooth, perfectly supportive. “That you aren’t in California?”

You look down at Noah. You watch his tiny chest rise and fall as he feeds. You look at the massive diamond ring sparkling on your finger. And then, you look back at Dean, the man who has protected you, provided for you, and loved you fiercely when your own family threw you away.

“No,” you whisper, and the absolute honesty in your voice makes Dean’s heart soar. “No, Dean. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

Dean leans in and kisses you. It is a deep, branding kiss. He pours all of his dark, twisted, possessive love into it, claiming your mouth the same way he has claimed your life.

When he pulls back, he is breathless, his eyes burning with absolute triumph.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, his voice a low, satisfied rumble as he looks at his beautiful fiancé and his perfect son. “You are exactly where you’re supposed to be.”

***

The Cambridge brownstone is exactly as Dean promised it would be ten years ago.

It is massive, stunning, and entirely filled with absolute, deafening chaos.

“Noah! If you do not put your dress shoes on in the next thirty seconds, I am leaving you here to guard the house!” You shout, standing at the bottom of the grand wooden staircase.

“I can’t find the left one!” A nine-year-old boy yells back from somewhere on the second floor. He sounds exactly like his father, complete with the dramatic, exasperated groan.

“Check under the sofa in the den!” You call back, resting a hand on your hip. You turn around, narrowly avoiding stepping on a rogue Lego brick. “Naomi! Nicole! Please stop trying to put lipstick on the dog! The Doberman does not need to look pretty for the reunion!”

“But she’s a girl, Mommy!” Six-year-old Naomi argues from the living room rug, holding a tube of your expensive Chanel lipstick while her identical twin sister, Nicole, tries to hold the extremely tolerant dog still.

“No makeup on the dog!” You command, swooping in to pluck the lipstick out of Naomi’s hand.

You let out a long, exhausted breath, pushing a stray lock of hair out of your face. You are wearing a breathtaking, form-fitting crimson silk dress that pools around your ankles, your hair styled in soft, cascading waves. You look like a movie star, but you feel like a frantic zookeeper.

“You know, when I pictured my gorgeous wife in that dress, I didn’t picture her wrestling a tube of lipstick away from a canine.”

You spin around.

Dean is standing in the doorway of the kitchen, holding two-year-old Jamie perfectly balanced on his hip.

Ten years have done absolutely nothing to diminish Dean Di Laurentis. If anything, time has only made him more devastating. He has traded the hockey jerseys for custom-tailored suits. The boyish charm has sharpened into the lethal, commanding presence of one of Boston’s most feared and successful corporate litigators. His blond hair is perfectly styled, his jaw covered in a faint shadow of stubble, and his broad chest fills out the crisp white dress shirt he’s wearing under his black suit jacket.

He walks toward you, his eyes doing a slow, appreciative sweep over your body that makes your stomach do the exact same flip it did when you were nineteen.

“Well, your gorgeous wife is currently managing a circus,” you sigh, reaching out to fix Jamie’s tiny bow tie. The toddler giggles, grabbing your finger with his chubby hand. “Is the diaper bag packed?”

“Diaper bag is packed, bottles are in the cooler, and Noah’s shoe was in the pantry, for some reason,” Dean says smoothly. “He’s putting it on now. We are ready to go.”

Dean steps into your space, entirely ignoring the chaotic noise of the twins arguing over a toy behind you. He wraps his free arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. He leans down, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply.

“You look unbelievable,” he murmurs, his voice dropping into that low, husky register that is reserved exclusively for you. “I’m half-tempted to cancel the babysitter, skip the reunion, and take you upstairs.”

“Dean,” you warn, though a breathless laugh escapes your lips as you tilt your head, giving him better access to your neck. “We can’t. Tonight is a big deal. The gallery showing first, then Briar.”

“I know, I know,” he sighs, pressing a lingering kiss just below your ear before pulling back. He looks into your eyes, his green gaze bursting with absolute, overwhelming pride. “Tonight is about you. My brilliant, famous wife.”

You blush, looking down at his crisp lapels. “It’s just a local gallery, Dean. I’m not famous.”

“You sold out your last three collections,” Dean corrects fiercely, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. “You have a waitlist of private buyers six months long. You are incredible, and tonight, I am going to show you off to every single person in Massachusetts.”

You smile, wrapping your arms around his neck. Even after a decade, four kids, and a marriage that has weathered the exhausting storms of his law career and your art shows, he still looks at you like you hung the moon.

“Okay,” you whisper, kissing him softly. “Let’s go show off.”

***

The art gallery in downtown Boston is buzzing with quiet, sophisticated energy. Soft acoustic music plays through hidden speakers, and waiters carry trays of sparkling water and champagne.

The walls are lined with your work — massive, vibrant, emotionally charged oil paintings that explore the beautiful, chaotic reality of motherhood, love, and time. You have spent the last two years pouring your soul into this collection, painting in the sun-drenched attic studio Dean built for you when you were pregnant with Noah.

“Excuse me, Y/N?”

You turn away from a couple admiring a piece near the window. The gallery owner, an elegant woman named Beatrice, is practically vibrating with excitement.

“Yes, Beatrice? Is everything okay?”

“Okay? It’s phenomenal,” Beatrice breathes out, leaning in close. “I just got word from the front desk. Five more pieces just sold. To a private, anonymous buyer.”

Your jaw drops. “Five? At once?”

“Yes! They just wired the full asking price. Y/N, the entire collection is sold out. Every single canvas.” Beatrice grabs your hands, squeezing them tightly. “This is unprecedented for a first-night showing. You are a star.”

You are in absolute shock. You excuse yourself, your heart hammering against your ribs, and scan the crowded room.

You find Dean standing in the corner, holding Jamie, while Noah explains the plot of a Marvel movie to him with wild hand gestures. Dean is nodding along, pretending to be deeply invested in the cinematic universe, but his eyes are fixed entirely on you.

You walk over, your heels clicking against the polished hardwood floor.

“Dean,” you say, stopping in front of him. You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms over your chest. “Did you do it?”

Dean blinks, his expression a mask of perfect, innocent confusion. “Did I do what, baby?”

“Did you buy five of my paintings through an anonymous proxy just now?”

“Me?” Dean gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am deeply hurt by this accusation. I am an officer of the court. I uphold the law. I don’t use anonymous proxies.”

“Dean.”

“Okay, it was my dad’s firm acting as the proxy,” Dean smirks, entirely unrepentant. He shifts Jamie to his other hip and reaches out to pull you close. “But I used my money.”

“Dean, you can’t just buy out my gallery!” You laugh, hitting his shoulder. “That’s cheating! You already own half my portfolio. Our house looks like a museum dedicated to me.”

“It’s an investment,” Dean says smoothly, quoting the exact same excuse he used ten years ago when he bought the brownstone. “And I don’t want anyone else owning them. I saw that guy in the turtleneck staring at the self-portrait of you at the beach. He looked like he wanted to buy it. I wasn’t going to let some hipster hang my wife in his living room.”

You roll your eyes, burying your face in his chest to hide your massive, ridiculous smile. He is so possessive, so fiercely protective of everything you create.

“You’re a menace,” you murmur against his suit jacket.

“I’m your biggest fan,” he corrects, kissing the top of your head. “Now, come on. The babysitter is meeting us at the car to take these monsters home. We have a ten-year reunion to crash.”

***

The Briar University campus looks exactly the same. The brick buildings, the sprawling green quads, the crisp, freezing winter air — it’s like stepping into a time machine.

The alumni gala is being held in the main event hall, a massive space decorated in Briar’s signature black and red. The music is loud, the open bar is packed, and the room is overflowing with the Class of 2016.

You walk through the double doors with your hand tightly wrapped in Dean’s. Without the kids pulling you in four different directions, the two of you look like a terrifying power couple. Dean looks immaculate, sharp, and intimidating. You look stunning, glowing with the confidence of a successful woman completely secure in her life.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to show up.”

You hear the booming voice before you see him.

Garrett pushes his way through the crowd, a massive grin on his face. He is holding a beer in one hand, looking exactly like the cocky, legendary hockey captain he used to be. Right behind him are Logan and Tucker.

“Graham,” Dean grins, dropping your hand to catch Garrett in a rough, back-slapping hug. “You look old, man. The NHL is aging you.”

“Shut up, Di Laurentis,” Garrett laughs, shoving him back. “Some of us actually work for a living instead of sitting behind a mahogany desk.”

“Hey, Y/N,” Logan says, pulling you into a warm hug. “How was the gallery?”

“Sold out,” Dean answers for you, his voice ringing with absolute, obnoxious pride. “Every single piece. She’s a certified genius.”

“Congratulations!” Tucker beams, giving you a hug as well. “That’s incredible. How are the kids? Did you guys bring the whole circus?”

“Babysitter has them,” you say, taking a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “If I brought Jamie in here, he would dismantle the ice sculpture in five minutes.”

“Smart,” Garrett nods, taking a sip of his beer. He looks at Dean, shaking his head in disbelief. “I still can’t get over it. Ten years ago, you were getting kicked out of Malone’s for doing body shots off a bartender. Now you’re a partner at a law firm with four kids and a minivan.”

“It’s an SUV,” Dean corrects smoothly, completely unbothered. “And it has heated leather seats. Don’t be jealous just because your life is boring.”

As the guys fall into their familiar, effortless banter, you look around the room.

It is incredibly surreal. You recognize faces from your freshman art history seminars, girls from your dorm, guys who used to throw massive, destructive parties at the hockey house.

And they are absolutely staring at you.

Or, more accurately, they are staring at Dean.

“Oh my god. Is that Dean Di Laurentis?”

You glance over to see a group of women standing by the bar. You recognize two of them instantly. They were notorious puck bunnies, the kind of girls who used to hang around the ice rink practically begging for Dean’s attention.

One of them is staring at Dean with her mouth literally hanging open. She whispers something to her friend, her eyes darting from Dean to you, and then down to the massive, blinding diamond ring on your left hand.

Dean notices the stares. He notices everything.

He smoothly extracts himself from his conversation with Garrett, steps behind you, and wraps both of his arms around your waist. He pulls your back flush against his chest, crossing his arms over your stomach. It is a completely territorial, undeniable claim.

He looks directly at the group of whispering women, his green eyes cold and sharp, before he deliberately leans down and presses an open-mouthed, lingering kiss to the side of your neck.

You gasp softly, your hands flying up to grip his forearms. “Dean, we are in public.”

“I know,” he murmurs against your skin, not stopping. “Let them look. Let them see exactly whose wife you are.”

“You’re impossible,” you laugh, leaning back against him anyway.

Suddenly, a guy in a slightly ill-fitting gray suit approaches your group. He looks nervous, clutching a plastic cup of beer.

“Dean? Dean Di Laurentis?” The guy asks.

Dean slowly pulls his face away from your neck, though he doesn’t loosen his grip on you. He looks at the guy. “Yeah. Evan, right? From constitutional law seminar?”

Evan nods eagerly. “Yeah, yeah! Wow, man. It’s crazy to see you. I follow your firm’s cases. That corporate merger you blocked last month? Phenomenal legal maneuvering. Absolute shark stuff.”

“Appreciate it,” Dean says smoothly.

“And I heard …” Evan hesitates, looking between Dean and you with total bewilderment. “I heard you have kids now? Like, a lot of them?”

“Four,” Dean says, the word completely devoid of any embarrassment. He says it like it’s a badge of honor, like he just won the Stanley Cup. “Two boys, two girls.”

Evan actually chokes on his beer. He coughs, his eyes watering. “Four? You? Dean Di Laurentis has four children? With the same woman?”

“I do,” Dean smirks.

“Man, that’s wild,” Evan says, shaking his head. “I just … I remember you in freshman year. You were an absolute machine. I thought you’d be a bachelor forever, living in a penthouse and terrorizing the dating pool.”

“I found something better,” Dean says, his voice dropping into a register so dark, so completely sincere, that the entire circle goes quiet.

He looks down at you. You tilt your head back to meet his gaze, and your heart physically aches with how much you love him.

“I met my wife,” Dean says, his green eyes locking onto yours, making you feel like you are the only two people in the crowded, noisy room. “And I realized I didn’t want anything else. Just her. And as many kids as she’d let me give her.”

Evan awkwardly clears his throat, clearly realizing he has interrupted a deeply intimate moment. “Right. Well. Congratulations, man. Good to see you.”

He scurries away, and the guys chuckle.

“You really enjoy terrifying the general public, don’t you?” Logan asks, clinking his glass against Dean’s.

“It’s my favorite hobby,” Dean agrees, finally letting go of your waist to take your hand again. “Come on, sweetheart. They’re playing our song. Let’s go terrorize the dance floor.”

“They are playing an EDM remix of a Taylor Swift song, Dean,” you point out, laughing as he drags you toward the center of the room. “This is not our song.”

“It is now,” he declares.

He spins you into his arms, completely ignoring the fast-paced beat of the music, and pulls you into a slow, swaying dance. You loop your arms around his neck, resting your hands in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

You are surrounded by hundreds of people. You are surrounded by the ghosts of your college years, the memories of the broke, terrified, fiercely independent nineteen-year-old girl you used to be.

But as you look at Dean, you realize you don’t miss that girl at all.

You look at the man who saved you. The man who gave you a home, a beautiful family, the freedom to paint, and a love so intense it feels like it could swallow you whole.

“You’re staring,” Dean whispers, his hands sliding down to rest intimately on your lower back.

“I’m just thinking,” you reply softly, stepping closer so your bodies are perfectly aligned. “About how lucky I am.”

Dean’s breath catches.

His grip on you tightens convulsively. He looks into your eyes, seeing the absolute, unwavering trust and devotion shining there.

Ten years.

It has been ten years since he stood in a tiny, cramped dorm bathroom, staring at a blister pack of birth control pills. Ten years since he made the darkest, most selfish, most terrifying decision of his entire life.

He put them in the microwave. He destroyed the hormones. He trapped you, systematically dismantling your chance to leave him, closing every door until the only path forward was exactly where he wanted you.

And you never knew.

You never suspected a thing. You thought the universe had simply handed you a surprise, and you had embraced it, turning that surprise into a beautiful, thriving family. You think he is your savior. You think he is the good guy who stepped up when your family abandoned you.

Dean stares down at you, his heart pounding a heavy, victorious rhythm against his ribs.

Does he feel guilty?

He searches the darkest, most honest corners of his soul.

No.

He doesn’t feel an ounce of guilt. He would do it again, a thousand times over. He would burn the entire world to the ground if it meant keeping you in his arms. He built this life with a lie, but the love is real. The house is real. The four beautiful children sleeping in their beds in Cambridge are real.

He is a monster, maybe. But he is a monster who gets to sleep next to a goddess every single night.

“I’m the lucky one,” Dean murmurs, his voice thick with a raw, primal emotion. He leans his forehead against yours, closing his eyes. “You gave me everything, Y/N. You are my entire world.”

“I love you, Dean,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw.

Dean turns his head, capturing your lips in a slow, deep, devastating kiss. He kisses you until your knees go weak, until you forget about the reunion, the music, and the people staring at you. He kisses you until you are completely, utterly his.

When he finally pulls back, his eyes are dark, a familiar, predatory heat burning in his green gaze. He drops his hands from your back, letting them slide slowly, deliberately over the curve of your hips, resting them flat against your stomach.

“You know,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a dark, seductive rumble that sends a shiver straight down your spine. “The house has five bedrooms.”

You blink, confused for a second, still dazed from the kiss. “Yes?”

Dean smirks. It is the smirk of a man who knows exactly what he wants, and knows exactly how to get it.

“Noah has his room. The twins share. Jamie has the nursery. And we have the master,” Dean lists off, his thumbs brushing slow, lazy circles over the silk of your dress. He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear. “Which means we have some extra square-footage.”

Your eyes widen. You pull back slightly, staring at him in absolute shock. “Dean Di Laurentis. Are you out of your mind?”

“I’m just saying,” Dean laughs, a rich, genuine sound of pure joy. “We have the space. And you look entirely too good tonight. It’s making me reckless.”

“We have four kids!” You whisper-shout, hitting his chest, though you are smiling uncontrollably. “Four! I am not having a fifth! I told you in the delivery room with Noah, I was going to castrate you!”

“You’ve been threatening to castrate me for a decade, sweetheart, and yet, here we are,” Dean points out smugly, pulling you right back into his chest. “Come on. Just one more. I want another little girl who looks exactly like you.”

“You are insane,” you laugh, burying your face in his neck.

“I’m in love,” he corrects fiercely.

He wraps his arms around you, swaying you to the music, holding his entire world perfectly secure in his grasp.

Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t believe in setting things free. He believes in holding on. He believes in fighting, claiming, and keeping.

He looks out over the crowded ballroom of his past, his chin resting softly on top of your head. He has the brilliant career, the massive fortune, the perfect children, and the only woman who ever made his heart stop.

He trapped you.

And as he holds you close, listening to your bright, beautiful laughter, Dean smiles into the dark.

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

You pulled your horse to a gallop as you reached Summerhall once more. The brown mare breathed out in protest but followed your lead as you trotted back to the palace you called home. The guards and servants of the house were all mingling about, half forgetting of your existence as your stable boy took Chestnut away. 

The Redgrass Field was filled with the mangled corpses of the rebels and the Targaryens had won.

In the months following the master of the house’s leave, you could finally breathe the scent of freedom you longed for. The servants and maesters could finally rest easy knowing they will not be under the scrutiny of their lord, but under your careful guidance and grace for you were a Dayne, of the mighty Starfall. Many words and deeds were attributed to your house, many greater than the last, you were a people who believed in the righteousness of the soul, in the spirit of valor and the quiet power of words. You, as a Lady of the House, enjoyed the very same freedoms your brothers received, being trained by your father’s knights and taught the words of the common tongue as well as any poet or counselor.

The smell of vinegar hit your nose like a blow as you walked inside the main hall of the house, the servants had started preparing for tonight’s arrival, scrubbing every inch of happiness off the marble floor and from the walls. Your heart felt heavy. Gone will be the days you could bestow upon each of them the power of peace.

Even if today should be a celebration, you felt as defeated as Daemon Blackfyre. 

Nymella, a Dornish woman, who was born not far from your own home was your personal apothecary. Her black eyes and copper skin reminded you of summer, and truth be told, you regarded her as more friend than employee. She smiled as you walked into her room. Your light lavender riding shirt and white leather pants half covered in the dust dancing from the air at the border of the Dornish mountains heavy on your clothes. 

“Hello, Star.” She was pressing some sort of yellow herbs together. The air smelled of amber and sweet vanilla as you took a seat in one of the chairs she had in the middle of the room. You laid your head back on the pillow behind your head. Wondering. Thinking. What shall you say to him? Would he be changed?

“You look weary, is it because of the ride or the husband?” She took a seat next to your own, mortar and pestle on her lap covered in her dornish wear. 

You sighed. Truly you wished this all would’ve been easier for you. Your sister Dyanna, should’ve been in your place, she was made of tougher steel. She could’ve handled this much better than you. She could’ve handled him much better than you. She always knew what to do. You shook your head.

Nymella could read you like an open book, for she had known far more people than you. You looked into her eyes and searched for words.

“Is it cruel and terrible of me to wish he wouldn’t have returned so soon?” 

“Perhaps. But there isn’t anything we can do about it.” 

You nodded and Nymella laughed. 

“Gods above, Star, you look like you’re heading to war yourself, not in the arms of your Prince.” She giggled all the way through her speech.

“I am heading to war, Nymella. That's all he knows. Every time. He acts as if I am some sort of soldier he must command, not his wife. He treats these beautiful grounds like his own battlement he must order around.” 

“Still, your husband is returning and he brings with him a fire in his belly, doesn’t that sound pleasant to your ears? It should.” Her eyes were mischievous, probably imagining herself in your situation, albeit with a more pleasant knight. 

“No. I… I would rather not think of that.” Your ears felt ablaze with the usual shyness a girl of your experience showed. Memories of the night you became a woman flashed in your mind, your husband's body over your own and the pain between your legs. He left shortly after, the call of war greater than your marriage bed. 

“You shouldn’t let him dominate you like he does some piss poor farmer on the road here. You are his wife.” Nymella rose once more, bringing forward a vial of crimson liquid that smelled like the sweetest flowers in your garden. “Maekar is a man, as all men are men. No blood of his will change that.”

You took the vial from her and held it in your hand as she took her seat again next to you. “That’s easy for you to say, you’ve known a lot more men than me.” 

“Yes I have, so you must listen to the words I say. ” She didn’t understand you. Surely she didn’t see the way your husband filled any room he walked into, how he spread his legs like a Lyseni whore when he sat down, leaving all the etiquette of a Targaryen Prince out the door. How he spit on the ground like he was owed an apology. How he took you that night, and the following nights after, before he had to leave. His much larger hands moving you how he wanted, having you as much as he wanted, before turning his back and snoring like dying Balerion until the morrow. He would stare at you, and you would think to shrink as small as an ant before his gaze, your ancestors are probably turning over ten times in the crypt.

“I can see this brings a lot of thought in your mind,” She reached over, holding your hand in her own. She squeezed, once, for you to listen and twice, for good measure. "I’ve seen enough men and believe me, nothing unmans one faster than a wife who stops trembling and starts reaching. I’ve watched great generals shake like squires and heard of lords tripping over their own shadows just for a taste.” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper “And that husband of yours? He’s just a man with a bigger name and a heavier hammer. He’ll melt, girl. I’ll wager my life on it."

“And what do you suppose I do?” Your voice adopted the same tone as her own. 

“I want you to go to him. Don’t let him take you, have him first and then you can tell me if he frightens you so.” 

You already imagined yourself on your knees before him as he sulked in front of the fireplace of your great chamber. His body a mountain before your own. The night in Summerhall allowed a cool breeze to drift through, and your husband preferred the breeze for his mighty blood ran hotter than the fires on Dragonstone. You quickly pushed that image out of your mind, for you had no idea where to even put your hands.

Would he even let you touch him where his attention would be physical without him making the first move? 

“Besides,” Nymella started once more, seeing your sour disposition and wanting to see your eyes brighten up again “one look at that silver hair of his and you understand why some claim his kind are closer to Gods than to men. You should feel your belly as restless as his is, it’s not everyday a woman gets to ride a dragon.” 

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

The day passed uneventfully afterwards.

You bathed then changed into the milk white dress your servants prepared, the soft silk easy on your clean skin. They braided your hair in the custom of your house and then you were left waiting.

Any sound outside would have the staff snap their heads to the grand oak doors and your heart beat a restless drum in your chest. The sun was leaving the sky to his sister as he painted the world outside in shades of bright orange which reflected off the terracotta hued marble from inside the house and created soft paintings over the walls of your home. You waited. They offered you dinner, but you could barely swallow your own emotions, let alone the roasted lamb your husband preferred.

Outside, in the private gardens, your mourning doves had begun their low, rhythmic lament. Usually, the sound brought you peace, but this evening their crying felt like an omen. Still, you waited. 

Nymella offered you some tea, a steaming cup of liquid gold, smelling of sun drenched fields and the deep, floral bite of saffron for “warming your womb” and calm your restlessness. You toyed with your silver bracelet. Truly, you wished he would just arrive already.

Leave it to him to make you wait and be miserable for hours. Mayhaps, something happened on the road. Bandits, or worse, mercenaries. But who would kill a fourth son? Your husband was so far from the line of succession, the only thing the crown needed him for was to break heads and hands. For he dearly enjoyed doing so.

When you looked up at the sky near one of the sandstone columns outside, you decided you had enough.

He won’t arrive tonight. 

You walked to the grand library you had in your ancient home. Happy you could get to reading a book as you sprawled once more in your colossal bed without a man to ruin your peace. You picked a tome of green and gold, it was the story of a knight who was righteous and understanding, who fell in love with a Lady and wanted to marry her, despite what her destiny might claim. You held the book to your chest as you returned. 

A servant passed you, running.

Then another one, a young boy, carrying a heavy towel. 

Your heart pounded in your chest as the commotion from inside the house reached your ears. 

So he did arrive home after all. 

He had no want for royal protocol, nor for stupid announcers of his presence. You thought for a second you might slip away into the night, get on Chestnut and ride hard and fast past the Red Mountain and the eternal Torrentine to go home. 

You rounded the corner and passed the heavy mahogany doors to see the servants, some having burned hands and fingers, pouring down buckets of boiling water in your copper bathtub to the edge of the room. He smelled of iron and burned leather. Simply overpowering any other scent you sprayed into your grand chambers, perfectly made to allow as much breeze into the room as possible. 

Maekar had his back to you.

Dressed in the black leather and red fur of his house. He knew your light steps better than you. 

“Our chamber smells like a Tyrosh brothel.” His voice traveled right to your ears in a clear, powerful tone. The same voice made for commanding armies, not for whispering sweet nothings into a woman’s ears.

He finally turned and you could finally see the face of your Prince once more. His hair, white as a bone, was swept back and he had a beard now. But it was still, unmistakably, Maekar. “The Anvil” they call him. And you could see no reason why they might call him anything else, for he definitely tried to shape you like iron on him during the last night you had together. His face, scarred from when he was ill with the pox, made his scowl even more terrifying. 

Not that many would be brave, or stupid enough to look him in the eyes.

“Welcome home, my Lord.” You bowed your head in the custom you were taught a Lady should perform as she greets her husband. He moved to the great basin, and started removing his clothes. First he untangled the silk cord holding his tunic in place, dropping it to the floor so the servants would be reminded of their place. The two young boys you saw running  approached him, reaching to help with his heavy boots, but he snarled at them and it was as if they were attending to a pointed sword.

"Fuck off.” he snapped "All of you. Out." They nearly tripped over themselves to flee and you had half the mind to turn around yourself and run to a dark corner he wouldn’t find you in.

Then he removed his tunic, then his undershirt and you, unfortunately so, looked away, even if it was for only a moment when you felt as if a stone was thrown towards your belly. The water was hot enough to blister human skin, yet he didn't even hesitate in swinging a strong leg over the tub.

“The road was long, I imagine.” Your voice sounded small against the splash of water as he lowered his body down with a groan, the sound traveled to your ears, then down between your legs but you didn’t wish to think of that.

“Was the weather kind to you, my Lord?” 

“It rained for three days near Blackwater,” his voice was akin to grinding stones, “The mud was up to the horses' hocks and smelled like a dead man's shit.”

You winced at the crudeness, but tried to maintain the grace your mother had taught you as you tried to not cower before him. "Regardless, I am glad you are home. We have missed your presence at Summerhall."

He looked at you like you said the dumbest jest he had ever heard: “No you haven’t.”

No you didn’t, therefore you didn’t argue.

The chamber was thick with the scent of scalded copper and the sweet perfume that Maekar clearly loathed. His head was tilted back against the rim, his throat exposed with a thick, powerful cord of muscle that looked as though it could weather the strike of a longsword. His eyes remained closed, his face a mask of exhaustion. You thought to say something, anything-

“Well? You’ve had a tongue for the servants and yet with me you are as quiet as a fucking squire.” Of course he knew of your gentle behaviour towards the smallfolk tending to you in the months he was gone, this was, after all, his house. “What has been happening in this nest of silk and song while I was cutting necks for the crown?”

You swallowed hard, the humidity making your white dress cling to your back. All careful words seemed to evade you, any lesson your family had ever taught you useless: “It has been… quiet, my lord. We followed the instructions you left. The harvest was brought in, and the accounts for the winter stores are nearly complete.” Your voice was more mumble than words.

“Speak up!” He snapped, and you, caught completely unaware and used to the grace of the staff, flinched as if he hit you. “I’ve spent almost a year with nothing but the roar of the catapults and the screams of dying men in my ears. I can’t hear your soft, palace whispers.”

“I said the accounts for winter are finished!” you said, forcing your voice to go louder, though it felt brittle and strange in your own ears. 

“Good,” he grunted, his jaw tightening as if he were biting back a curse. A long silence followed, broken only by the crackle of the hearth and the drip of water from his beard to the bath. Then, without moving a single muscle, he asked another question “And who did you have in my bed while I was gone?”

You didn't answer immediately. You couldn’t. The sheer crudeness of the accusation felt like a physical blow and you were left to stare at him as he fixed you with his scrutinous gaze. 

Maekar’s eyes moved over your features like a commander inspecting a breached wall. He looked for a blush of guilt, a downward cast of the eyes, anything he could crush.

“No,” you stammered, the word catching in your throat. “Never. I would… I would never think to do such a thing. My lord, I have been here, waiting. Only waiting.”

His expression was unreadable and grim. He let out a long, ragged breath and closed his eyes again, sinking deeper into the boiling water.

“Good.” he muttered. 

He didn't move for a long time, looking almost like a statue of some ancient, vengeful king. Just as you thought he might have fallen into a trance, his lips moved one last time, the words falling like the blade of an axe.

“I’ll have you dead if I find anything of the sort. I don't give a shit for the songs they sing about your house. If you stain my name, I’ll be the last thing you ever see.”

You were once again left speechless. Mayhaps he had been hardened by the rebellion in ways, his mind already looking for traitors at every moment. But you were, under all and every aspect, a good woman, you hadn’t lain with any man, besides the one now washing himself in front of you.

You didn’t hate him, but you surely didn’t love him either. 

You moved to your vanity and placed your book there, promising yourself that you will finish it one of these days. You turned around as you heard the water splash once more and was greeted with the sight of your naked husband, your eyes traveled immediately between his thighs like an arrow and you averted your gaze to your massive ebony bed in the middle of the room, decorated with dragons and made out of the strongest wood in the Seven Kingdoms. He moved to dry his skin and commanded “Take your dress off and get on the bed, on your back.” like you were one of his soldiers.

You thought for a second about what Nymella said, your arms shaking as you untied your dress, about having him on his back and you on him, holding him there and reminding him that in these bedchambers, in this room and on this bed, you- not him, would be in charge.

You forgot about all of that and more as he grabbed you by your arm, placed you on the bed, raised your dress to your waist and your knees by your chest as he pressed himself between your thighs. You closed your eyes, cheeks aflame and heart in your ears as you grabbed the hand he had on your left outer tight. You much preferred when he took you in the night, where you could barely see him and his colossal shadow was the only thing to remind you that your husband was there. 

The fire from behind him allowed for too much light and too many details. You gasped as he pressed himself in you, the feeling unfamiliar in the long months he was away. Maekar gasped too, albeit quieter as he positioned himself better, his breath quickened and his hands shook, pushing down your gown by your chest until he could see your breasts and grab at them like some boy with the apples in his mother’s garden while he dragged his manhood inside your body. You would remain quiet, not sure if he would like the noises you wanted to make. You didn’t know if that fact annoyed him, but he would drag himself out and push as much as he could inside until you would grab at his shoulders and push him away, moaning from the pain and the pleasure you would feel in your belly. He had you like that for what felt like an eternity and you were sure his guards outside could very much hear. 

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

The fire in the hearth had burned down to a dull, glowing orange and the room was quiet now, save for the rhythmic, heavy sound of Maekar’s breathing. He had fallen into a deep, unshakable sleep almost the moment he was finished, his back turned to you like a wall of stone. Your body felt heavy and distant, still humming with the ghost of his weight and the rough way he had you.

The scent of the "Tyrosh brothel" was gone, replaced by the smell of salt, lye, and the faint, metallic tang of the "Anvil" himself. You stared out at the moon hanging over the Dornish mountains, feeling the ache between your legs. 

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

The days after you tried to make sense of your husband’s presence in the palace. His will was iron and it seemed like even the air bent to it here. He had you every night, and once in his study, when he received a letter from Kings Landing that sent his anger sweeping through the house and finally finding you in the form of a young squire that trembled as he told you your Lord husband is expecting you. 

Nymella remained the same. With the same advice. 

Yet every night, when he bedded you, you could hardly bring yourself to make any action towards him, any sort of conscious thought left you while holding your eyes closed through the whole ordeal. 

One blistering day, a messenger arrived from House Caron, the Lord and Lady wanted to join the Prince and Princess of the Iron Throne for dinner and you, a dear friend of Lady Jeyne Caron, accepted. The Carons were marcher lords from Nightsong and were famous for their singing and their history as the first line of defense against Dorne.

The lamb was well roasted, the vegetables freshly plucked from the garden and the bread was warm as they arrived. Hand in hand, bowing low before you and your stoic husband as the lord steward announced their presence. You hugged Jeyne before you sat and Lord Allun Caron began regalling you with stories. Maekar was drinking the dark crimsoned wine of Dorne. You thought you were above such indulgences, but as you saw the way the two interacted, joking and looking at each other like the other might disappear, you started drinking as well. The wine burned all the way down, but in that moment, you wished for something stronger. 

Maekar was chewing his lamb and swirling the wine in his chalice with a bored look on his face as you maintained the discussion with the Lady and Lord of House Caron. 

Allun interrupted Maekar’s thoughts as he tried to make conversation with the man of many years and experience above his own: “I heard the mud in the Redgrass field was so thick with blood the horses couldn't find their footing. My cousin said the stench of the dead was enough to make a man pray for a head wound just to lose his sense of smell. Must’ve been a hell of a thing to watch the Blackfyre’s line break under that mace of yours, no, Prince? I bet the sound of that iron hitting plate was sweeter than any harp.”

Maekar didn’t look away from the wall with the fireplace casting warm shadows on his face “It sounded like bone breaking,” he says flatly. “There’s nothing sweet to it.”

You watch Lady Jeyne’s hand tighten on Lord Allun’s arm, not in fear, but in support, as if she’s helping him weather the Prince’s attitude. You wonder if you’ll ever have the courage to even touch Maekar’s sleeve when he’s like this, you moved your eyes away from the awkward exchange and stared ahead as Lady Jeyne’s voice cut through the silence and you made eye contact with her.

“The songs don’t do your bride justice, my Lord. They say the Daynes have the stars in their blood and justice in their eyes and your beautiful wife is the clear embodiment of that. Why, you must be the luckiest man in all the Kingdoms.” Jeyne smiled and for whatever reason you felt tears prick at your eyes. You thanked her as Maekar fixed you with a long glance and nodded to Lady Jeyne. You tried to mask your emotion by eating some food while the pair tried to make conversation with the brooding Prince you called husband.

Was it the wine? Mayhaps. But in that moment you felt like reaching over and slapping him so hard he would’ve seen the stars standing mighty over your ancestral seat. How dare he? He couldn’t even agree with her, he couldn’t even say that ‘yes, she is beautiful’ or pretty or comely or whatever else he found in that thick head of his.

You brushed another tear that fell and before you knew it you chin wobbled. 

You really shouldn’t have drank.

The chair scraped over the marble floor as you stood, excusing yourself as your voice broke. You must send a raven to Lady Jeyne, apologizing, tomorrow. But for now, you had to get away. Your feet echoed into the vastness of the great hall, as you rounded the corner and sobs rocked you into two. You cried like you’ve never cried before and you were sure in that moment that you hated him. 

You hated him and his silences and his crass way. You hated that he was more mercenary in expensive leather than Prince of the Blood. You entered your chamber and undressed, laying in your bed and holding your pillow to your face as you felt your sobs rocking you to sleep. 

You heard the grand balcony doors, facing the Red Mountains, open. And yet, you couldn’t be bothered to look at him. 

You hated him, no, you despised him. 

He was undressing. Maekar took the grey fur from the bed you two shared and threw it on the ground as he laid next to you. The bed creaked and the sound of hooves were heard in the distance as your husband sighed. 

He laughed. 

Maekar Targaryen laughed, no, breathed out a noise that was akin to laughter through his nose and you wondered what was it that brought him to this point. You wished to turn and see what the great fuss was about-

“I know you’re awake.” 

You let a moment pass. The moon cast a white light in the room from the window and you turned, opening your eyes as if his rough voice awoke you, not your thoughts. Your eyes were bloodshot and your throat was scraped from all the crying. 

You hated him and you hated your silence and careful words of respect towards him. Maekar Targaryen didn’t deserve them. 

“Why must you be so cold?” you felt a fresh rush of tears to your eyes, and you let them fall, not caring he saw them, “You’re cold and uncaring, has anyone ever told you that?” 

His back was to the ebony headboard he was usually repeatedly slamming to the wall by this time of night. Maekar blinked once, like he was trying to make sense of your words and your boldness. 

You didn’t care what he thought of you anymore “When I was a little girl, I hoped that the Gods would bring me a man like Lord Caron, for he is sweet and caring. But they brought me you- and you are as crass as a mercenary and as unbecoming of a Prince as any soldier is.” You spit out the nearest insult you could find. Words tumbling out as fast as rain with the help of that sweet summer wine you drank. Your head was beginning to hurt, a pounding pain that settled in your skull. “You can barely see me as your wife so why, I ask you-” you hiccuped “-why have you made me so, if you would be uncaring with my soul and my body?”

Emboldened by the fire burning in your belly at finally speaking your feelings towards the stone wall you called husband you continued “Why do I, out of all the women in the Seven Kingdoms get to be with someone like you, while others can get to laugh and kiss their Lords when they please, how often they please- there are others who hold their wives, did you know? They don’t have to take them like some whore on the road.” Hot tears streamed down your face and you hiccuped all the way through your speech.

“Is that what you want me to do? To hold you? And kiss you?” His white hair and beard caught the light from outside and he looked every bit like the Valyrian lords of old he was descended from.

“Nay, my lord, you can keep your embraces to others, I clearly don’t wish for them.” You turned your back to him, still crying. He wouldn’t change for all the might of Valyria or the Iron Throne.

You could feel his presence beside you. He didn’t say anything else afterwards. Your sobs were the only thing heard in the colossal room.

You thought sleep might claim you again as you heard his voice.

“I don’t know how to act towards you so you may not be frightened of me.” Your belly hurt from all the sobs you put her through. Still, you listened. “I find it hard to find words to say to you, or to hold you- Gods know I haven’t been held in my life as you wish to be.” He scoffed at the last part and you realized you didn’t know much of his past. You took a deep breath, scared that any words might frighten him into solemn silence.

“If you wish to be kissed, you can act upon it yourself.” At that, you turned. 

You raised your bum to sit upright, back to the headboard as well. 

“You don’t wish for a husband like Lord Allun, trust me when I say so.” His voice was a whisper and you realized you never heard this hushed tone from him. “He’s had about a hundred whores and has bastarded half his servants” 

You gasped, “You lie!” your tone was a whisper as well. Memories of gossiping with your fellow Ladies came back, though this was surely different.

He shook his head, something akin to a smile forming on his face “It is truth what I speak.” 

You thought to turn and sleep, for you dearly wished to rest, but that godsdammed Dornish wine overpowered you before you could remember your manners before your Lord.

“Have you ever fathered any bastards?” 

A sound came out of him. A sound you never heard before from your man. You had half the mind to call Nymella and the Maester to find a cure. The sound was like that of…of laughter? He was laughing!

“No, I’ve not fathered any bastards. At least none that I know of.” You smiled with him, happy that you could see him happy. You half forgot what you were crying about. 

The dark covered you both in its embrace and maybe that’s why you were so brave. 

“You should sleep, before you bring me any more questions I may not know the answer to.” He laid down and sighed.

Yet, you were not done. No. What did Nymella say to you?

You rested your head once more on the warm pillow as he turned his back to you. You closed your eyes. Nay, maybe not tonight. Though, when else could it be if not tonight? Your heart thrummed in your chest as you lifted your hand.

Only for you to bring it down once more between you two.

You imagined him coming to your bedchambers, sitting down with a groan for his bones were weary, he was not as young as he used to be. You imagined yourself, sitting down on his lap of burned leather and expensive furs and kissing him. Not the closed mouth kissed you bestowed upon him once in a while, when he wanted you to, but open and hungry, like the ones Nymella’s books wrote about. You imagined him grabbing you with his strong hands and not rushing anywhere for once. 

You rubbed your thighs together and for the first time since meeting him you wondered: What in the Seven Hells were you so frightened of? 

You grabbed his shoulder and turned his much bigger body around with a definite pull to sit on his back.

You shuffled closer to him, closing your eyes as you often did when you were near him in such a situation. You opened them back up as you felt the smell of sandalwood and cedar and his broad shoulder land in the middle of your chest. 

He opened his eyes and that’s when you were expecting a remark, a curse, anything. You braced. Nothing came. Only his eyes. And yet, you didn’t cower like a flower in winter.

You touched the left side of his face and grabbed hold of his beard, forcing him to come closer and respond to your kiss. His lips were soft and careful as your own grabbed his upper lip and held it. His mouth tasted of summer wine and you were sure yours did too. You turned your head to the side, see if he tasted sweeter from there and your lips made a sound as they broke apart and then collided again that traveled right to your stomach and between your thighs. Maekar was surely feeling your heart beating out of your chest but you didn’t care for that. 

You moved your body to sit half on top of him as he grabbed your leg and put it across his thighs, legs moving on their own to find any friction between them that may ease the heat you felt. In a moment where you thought he would bring himself above you, as was his rightful place to be, he did the opposite.

Maekar grabbed your behind and pulled you on top.  

With his strong hands, more used to a mace than the soft skin of your waist beneath your nightshift. He settled your heat on top of his growing one as you placed both hands near his head and kept kissing him with as much need as any girl might towards her lover. You found all the long weeks spent dreaming of this moment and longing for it to happen to come crashing down all at once. So it could happen to you too. This wasn’t just books and whispers by friends in court.

He rose up to meet your feverish kisses and you found him pressing his hot mouth to your neck as he held your hair back. The noises that left you were so unlike you that, on any other day, with much less wine drank, you would’ve bowed your head in shame. But it was he who must be shamed, for he had treated you so unkindly.

You touched his broad chest and looked down upon your dragon husband. He looked smaller this way, much less royalty and more man. He grabbed your soft nightshift, raising it, and you threw it over your head and away from the both of you. His gaze swept across your body, to your breasts and waist, towards your thighs and the place he wished with ardent desperation to be inside of. 

You swung your leg off him and took his pants off. He needed the help, for his eyes never left your body. By the time he was in an almost-comfortable position you got on him again, feeling his heat on your own for the first time without rushing, and without closing your eyes so you may not die in shame. 

Your folds parted slightly as you took him beneath you and rubbed down on him. Moaning and looking down at him as he looked away to the canopy above you, lips parted and groaning all the way under your affection. His hands rested on your hips, but he barely commanded you to move.

You smiled. Then you grimaced in pleasure, and then smiled again. For this is what you wanted, no, needed. He looked into your eyes as you stood on your knees and brought him before your already wet entrance. His brows were furrowed and you felt his heart beat fast beneath your palm on his chest. You lowered yourself down and his moan was like that of your own. 

He brought his hands up to your breasts and closed his eyes as you tried to find a pace and a movement that might bring enough pleasure. At one point you stood too straight and a feeling like that of being impaled shot through your flower and towards your belly, you lowered down on him. Elbows on both sides of his head and kissing him like you did before as he rose up to meet your thrusts. The old bed croaked after each press of your body to his. 

The one stoic Maekar was groaning like you’ve never heard him before whenever you would meet him halfway. The only sounds in the room were your wetness and the feeling of damp skin pressing against each other time and time again as you cried into your husband's mouth. 

You rose again as he told you “Slower”, voice smaller than he ever used, but you couldn’t even begin to think about caring for any of his requests as you shoved yourself down on him time and time again. He didn’t seem to mind your pace either as he closed his eyes, and held your hips, grabbing you like you might disappear between his fingers. 

Your most sensitive spot rubbed against his own body time and time again and you grabbed fistfulls of his undershirt as you came. Squeezing him time and time again as he pulled you down once more on him. You wet your throat as he grabbed the back of your head and held you there. He didn’t stop until his thighs were shaking from beneath you and you felt the familiar pulse of his manhood, pressed as deep as he could in you. 

You remained laid with your head on his chest. His heart was beating so hard you could feel it beneath his hot and damp skin. 

After a moment, you looked at him. His cheeks, even in the soft light of the moon, looked impossibly rosy, like a maiden on her wedding night. And his once careful swept back hair was because of your hands, restless and wanting something to cling to, tangled and unkept. 

You kissed him again and he smelled of you.

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

You couldn’t say things remained the same afterwards. 

Meakar wanted you all the same, and yet you found yourself wanting him too. Nymella smiled whenever you came into her chambers with a knowing look.

“Your husband smells like a ‘Tyrosh brothel'  from neck to feet, any wonder why that is?”

The changes were subtle at first, like the slow turning of a season. It wasn't that Maekar suddenly became a man of poetry and flowers, but rather, the sharp, jagged edges of his temper had been filed down. He still scowled, but now, when his eyes caught yours, there was a flicker of something that looked like a secret shared between the two of you. A secret that set your heart on fire and pooled low into your stomach and beneath your thighs as you would be the one to call him to bed when he spent too long in his study.

You knew that his attitude would never touch you again, nor would his words make a dent into your humors as you regarded him as soft as summer air when you two were alone. Gone was the man who towered over you and you shivered in his shadow. He still existed, though you liked to imagine him with those silver locks of his buried beneath your legs as you held him there. 

You found that he loved the tartness of pomegranate juice one of your maids made and that he enjoyed the smell of jasmine. That he would much rather prefer staying in silence, each of you doing something of your own devices as you would often catch his gaze, though it wasn’t scrutinizing, you knew it was, in his own way- the only way he knew. His confession that he cared for you. He cared for you passionately as he extended your library and ordered Chestnut to be brought a wonderful saddle, made of fine leather from his own home, Dragonstone. 

His booming voice regaled you with stories of old, stories from his own family and how cruel he found life in the Red Keep, overshadowed by his brothers. He was glad he would never have to return there. 

He once told you, after you were both spent, with your back to him and his strong arm holding you, that he loved you, that he wished for you to love him back, if you could find it in you. You laughed. How dull could this man be? 

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹

You looked ahead into the horizon as you waited for the Carons to arrive, you had to make amends for the way you treated them last time they visited you, Maekar had no choice but to obey and scowl at the sun.

“Maekar” You turned your purple silk dress towards him “please try to be pleasant- smile, at least.”

“I am smiling.” His face hadn’t moved from a scowl.

“Look at me. Smile,” your face was brought to a grin while you pointed at it “like this, see?”

He looked at you and tried his hardest to replicate your face, yet he looked like a sneezing tiger more than Lord. You doubled over in laughter as he looked away- this time, with a real, genuine smile on his face that made him look a decade younger.

He could be funny when he wanted to be.

“I can’t believe you’re making me do this.”

⊹₊ ˚⫘⫘⫘⟡⫘⫘⫘ ˚ ₊⊹