My Fave Fics

This might’ve been too kinky for the two of you, but the moment you were introduced to clicker training you couldn’t resist buying one and running to Benito to tell him all about it.

“So… like a dog?” Benito chuckled. He was sitting by the island in the middle of his kitchen, hunched over his bowl of lunch.

“Well, not… exactly…” you tried convincing him, and perhaps yourself as well. You were standing right in front of him, leaning over the shiny marble with the clicker in your hand. “It’s supposed to be fun!”

Benito put a fist in front of his lips to swallow before speaking. “Haces clic... ¿y se supone que entonces te sientes bien?” he asked as he reached over to take the clicker in his hand and examined it. It looked like a plastic watch with a button in the middle, it was light and didn’t seem like the ‘sex toy’ he wished to incorporate in the bedroom.

“Well it takes some training first,” you said and gently took the clicker back. “I click it when you feel good and then it sorta… trains your brain to feel that way when you hear the sound.”

Benito smiled, “Quieres tener aún más control sobre mí del que ya tienes...” he said teasingly.

“¿Y no lo quieres?” you replied quickly, barely cracking a smile as you put the counter in your pocket.

Benito liked how easy it was to tick you off, that was mainly the reason he enjoys your praises so much, it makes him feel special. Your response made him automatically straighten his poster and widen his smile. “Yo lo quiero.”

That’s how you found yourself cuddled up on the couch in the evening with your head resting on Benito’s shoulder as he mindlessly ran his fingers along your back. You were watching a sitcom the two of you already watched a thousand times, which is why you got a little bored and decided that now is the time to test out the new toy.

You raised your head to look at Benito, making him do the same.

“¿Que, cariño?” He softly asked.

Your lips slowly met his while you rested your hands on his chest. You kissed him more sensually than usual, which made Benito’s hand freeze for a second as he automatically melted into the kiss. He gently put his arms on your hips as you climbed on top of him, blocking the TV show he forgot was even on.

Sound of lips smacking filled the room, you wanted to take it as slowly as possible in order to tease him as long as you could for your little experiment.

“¿Por qué estás haciendo esto de repente?” Benito asks in between kisses.

Your lips trailed down his jaw and further down his neck. “¿Quieres que me detenga?” you murmured against his skin before sucking on that sensitive spot he likes.

Benito hummed as he tilted his head away from you to expose more skin for you to mark. “No, por favor, no.”

For a man who could sleep with whoever he wanted at any time he never took your touch for granted. His reactions always made you think like you’re the only one that can make him feel like that.

You slid one of your hands down his pants to feel his erection through his underwear. “Already so excited, baby?”

Benito immediately blushed, it happens too often that the simplest touch from you gets him so excited but he’ll never stop getting so flustered around you. You gently squeezed him before bringing your hand near your face and letting spit slowly ooze down from your mouth to your palm. You watched Benito’s reaction, his eyes were locked on your lips, not blinking in order to not miss a second. You brought your hand down again to touch him, he was warm and thick it made you want to give in and get down on your knees so you can have it in your mouth. But you persisted, you needed to stick to your plan.

You gave him a few slow pumps as he tried to buck his hips into your hand, “feels good, Beni?” You asked with a smile.

“Sí, mami,” he panted, his eyes still fixated on your lips.

You leaned in to kiss him, trying to make it agonisingly slow but he clearly couldn’t do that. Desperately trying to taste more of you, Benito hummed every time he crashed his lips into yours.

Speeding up your movement, Benito got louder and his kisses messier. He struggled to close his mouth as his jaw kept going slack from pleasure. You kept kissing him anyways, enjoying how hard he was trying to keep up with you and failing miserably.

You rubbed your thumb against his wet slit just to tease him a little before you pulled out the toy.

“Mami, por favor!” Benito moaned, not sure what he’s even asking for as the words just came out of him in the moment.

“Gonna make a mess for me?” You said, taking the clicker out of your pocket and bringing it close to his ear. You weren’t sure Benito even noticed, he was too busy nodding and whimpering into your mouth the entire time.

Knowing him so well, you could tell he was close by how high his voice was getting. His breathing quickened and his eyes closed shut, and just before his body began to tense up-

click

Benito came all over his stomach and pants, making a mess just as you predicted. You kissed him all over as his orgasm took over and until he calmed down.

“Bien hecho, mi amor,” you whispered in his ear before softly kissing his cheek.

“Coño…” he sighed the moment he was done, sliding his hands up to your waist to ground himself. As soon as he opened his eyes he noticed in the corner of his vision your hand near his ear. Turning his head aside, he furrowed his eyebrows.

“No creo que haya servido para nada.״

You snorted, “well not yet! We’re just starting.”

Benito’s eyes sparkled as he looked at you, not caring what your plan was as long as he could see you smiling at him the way you do now.

The next time you tried to incorporate it in the bedroom was one night the two of you came home tipsy from a party. You both couldn’t stop giggling on your way in and barely remembered to lock the door. Benito laughed at the way you stumbled your way into your shared bedroom, but it wasn’t because you were drunk, your heels were just killing you! At least that’s what you tried to tell Benito, who wasn’t buying it in the slightest.

“Ah, tus tacones, por supuesto!” He chuckled

You sat on the bed and tried your hardest to appear sober as you struggled to undo the straps on your shoes. Your dress was pretty tight and while it did hug you in all the right places and made Benito stare at you all night, it definitely limited your movement.

“¿También tuviste problemas para hablar con claridad debido a los tacones altos?” He asked with a smirk.

You shot your head up at him and gasped. Benito’s smile slightly dropped, he worried the state of mind he was in might’ve made him take it a little too far this time. He immediately kneeled in front of you and lowered his head to focus on your shoes, “Solo bromeaba, mi amor. Déjame ayudarte.”

He gently adjusted the strap so he could slowly pull the heel from your foot. Enjoying his way of apologising, you leaned to the other side and lifted your other foot as a way to tell him to do it again. Benito complied without protest as you took a good look at him.

You’d be lying if you said it didn’t turn you on. A strong man getting on his knees for you without you even muttering a word, you really hit the jackpot with him. You studied him for a moment, taking in his soft curly hair that’s slightly longer than usual and casting a faint shadow on his forehead. His rosy cheeks whose colour spread wider on his face when he drinks. His plump lips that are practically begging to be kissed and his shirt looking a bit too small due to his muscles with a few buttons open at the top… Alright, maybe you were a little more tipsy than you thought.

Benito put your shoes aside and looked up at you. God, those deep brown eyes would be the death of you.

“¿Por qué sonríes así?” He asked with a shy smile, feeling a little embarrassed under your gaze.

You didn’t even realise you were smiling at him until he pointed it out. You thought for a moment before replying. “Eres hermoso,” you said while staring into his eyes.

The quiet moment of intimacy made Benito’s heart race. No matter how many times you compliment him he’d never be able to be normal about it. He couldn’t help but smile widely at that and quickly looked down to hide his face from you. Trying to escape having all your attention on him he got up and began walking away from you, “Es bastante tarde, probablemente deberíamos irnos a dormir-“

“And my dress?” You said as you stood up.

Benito stopped in his tracks and turned to face you. He couldn’t tell if you were joking since your face looked completely serious. He waited for a second until your eyebrows furrowed, as if you were mad he didn’t instantly get the hint.

“L-lo siento, sí,” he said and hurried to get behind you. He gently grabbed the zipper and pulled it down. He did it so slowly and delicately like he was afraid he might hurt you otherwise. Once your dress was fully unzipped you slid it off of you and walked towards your vanity. You planned on taking your makeup off in front of the mirror and catching a glance to see if he tries to follow you, but before you managed to sit down Benito spun you around and began kissing you.

You wanted to be upset at how impulsive he’s being, but as if he could read your mind he whispered into your mouth.

“Lo siento, te necesito… te necesito muchísimo.”

He kissed you with a hunger only you could satisfy. You sat on the vanity and started unbuttoning his shirt. Benito could barely wait to remove all his clothes so he practically ripped off your panties before unbuckling his belt. He didn’t even bother getting his pants completely off as he grabbed one of your legs and paused right before he actually entered you.

He pulled back and looked at you, panting. “¿Puedo?”

He didn’t move an inch until you allowed him to. You almost wanted to laugh at the fact that he’s asking for permission while you’re trying to catch your breath from making out with him. However, it was the hottest thing he could do right now.

You nodded, “yes.”

Benito gave you a small smile and finally entered you. A sigh left his body as he closed his eyes, you felt perfect to him. He slowly started to move his hips as he kept kissing your neck.

Benito was too fucking good at what he does, the way he was kissing your neck and thrusting into you made you roll your eyes and want to scream his name.

“Fuck- Benito,” you whimpered, your hand gripping his shoulder. Your other hand was placed on the surface underneath you to keep you balanced. You got lost in the feeling for a few seconds until you felt your hand touching something. You turned your head to look and you saw the clicker.

You remembered how you took it out of your purse at the last minute after contemplating whether or not to use it on him at the party. This was perfect timing.

You grabbed it and brought it up to his ear.

“Te sientes tan bien,” he whined into your neck. Your skin was so soft against his hands and the smell of your perfume made his brain melt, he wasn’t going to last long and you knew it.

“You wanna cum for me, baby?” You managed to get out, trying to rile him up as much as you can.

“Sí, sí, por favor,” his voice went higher, already excited you’re thinking of letting him cum inside you.

“Yeah? Can you cum for me?”

“Solo p-para ti mami, fuck- no puedo-”

click

Benito bit his lip trying to not moan but all of that effort went to waste as you clenched around him, both of you having an orgasm at the same time. The sound of your moaning alone made him cum harder than he ever did.

Coming down from your high you leaned back and slid your hand down his chest. Benito felt a foreign object on his skin so he looked down and noticed the clicker.

“¿Tuviste esto todo el tiempo?” he smiled, your dedication to this process impressed him.

You shrugged in response, smiling back at him.

The clicker training method went on for some time, you took advantage of every chance you had to add it to your sex life. You never got the chance to see the fruits of your labour until one night right before Benito went on stage.

“Did you look through my purse?” You chuckled as you tried to grab the clicker from Benito’s hand but he kept pulling it away from you. He only had a few minutes before he had to leave his dressing room and you always spend time together before his shows. “You really shouldn’t play with that, you know,” you added.

“Creí que habías dicho que esto era un juguete,” he said playfully with a raised eyebrow.

“You know what I mean,” you said and put your hand out.

Benito smiled and put his finger on his lips. “Besito.”

You laughed and leaned in to give him a peck, he smiled widely and put the clicker in your hand.

“Thank you-“

click

Benito thought it would be funny to press the button as he set it in your hand. His smile slowly faded as he stared at the object. You looked at him and tried to figure out how he’s reacting to the sound.

A knock on the door took both of you out of your trance. “Vas en cinco minutos,” a stage assistant said as she opened the door to look at the two of you for a brief moment before leaving and shutting the door behind her, assuming you’d want privacy together.

“Are you okay-“

Benito shut you up with a kiss, “¿Qué coño es esa cosa?” he whispered into your mouth. He grabbed your hand to put it on his crotch, he became rock hard in a matter of seconds, not understanding what kind of spell this tiny toy put him under.

“I told you not to play with it!” You said and gently pushed him away. “We don’t have time for this.” As much as you enjoyed making out with him, it really had to wait.

“No, no, será rápido,” he whined and began unbuttoning his pants while kissing your neck. “Lo prometo, por favor.”

You quickly shoved his hands away and adjusted his pants, “Baby, we really don’t have time.”

Benito wanted to cry, he wanted you so fucking bad he contemplated locking the door and explaining the delay only once he’s done getting his release. He couldn’t though, he had to go on stage soon while the only thing that can make him feel good right now would be backstage. He took a deep breath and looked at you with the saddest expression you’ve ever seen.

“No te preocupes, estaré aquí para celebrarlo contigo más tarde,” you smiled and gave him a quick kiss. Benito tried to deepen it but you pulled away, being the responsible adult in this situation.

The show was amazing as usual, as soon as he saw the crowd he went into a professional mode and got lost in his songs he almost completely forgot about his little problem. He couldn’t completely ignore how his own lyrics made him think of you but he quickly brushed it off for the sake of finishing the show properly.

He thanked everyone for coming as he went off stage, hugging the crew and wiping down some beads of sweat. You stood in the back of the mass of people, waiting for everyone to finish talking to him. As soon as he noticed you though, he paused and politely excused himself out of the conversation he was having.

Walking towards you, he grabbed your hand and tried his best to make it seem like he’s not in a rush to avoid suspicion.

“Wow, okay, I’m assuming it didn’t wear off?” You joked as you were practically jogging with Benito back to his dressing room.

“Ni un poquito,” he panted and looked around before gently leading you into the room, locking the door behind him. You didn’t get to say another words before Benito’s lips crashed with yours. His hands flew to your waist as he guided you to go backwards until your legs hit the small couch.

“Quiero probarte,” he murmured against your lips, “Por favor, déjame probarte.”

You were getting wet just from how desperate he seemed for you. You pulled away and sat down on the couch with a smile. “Go ahead.”

Benito was sure he bruised his knees from his fast he dropped to them, wasting no time removing any items of clothing separating his mouth from your entrance. Once you were naked from the waist down he brought his tongue to your slit, closing his eyes with a sense of serenity, finally bringing his suffering to an end.

You chuckled at his eagerness, he’d usually kiss your thighs and take it slow but tonight he had no patience for it. He grabbed your legs and threw them over his shoulder for better access.

Luckily for him, you didn’t need much foreplay since he knows exactly what you like. He quickly fixated on your clit and circled it slowly, earning a content hum from you.

“You needed it that bad, huh?” You asked and gently ran your hand through his hair.

Benito looked up at you, your favourite way to make him look at you, and maybe his as well. He hummed in response, not even trying to hide his starvation for you. He closed his eyes again as he worked his tongue on you, inserting it inside you while going back to your clit every once in a while to hear you make those sweet sounds he loves so much.

Benito’s pants felt awfully tight at this point and it was borderline painful how hard he is. He took one hand to unzip his pants and pull his throbbing erection out to stroke it, already leaking.

“Fuck,” you panted, “you’re doing so good, baby.”

Benito involuntarily moaned against you. He knew that if he kept touching himself he wouldn’t last over five seconds, so he took his hand off and focused on pleasuring you instead. He buried his head deep as he kept sucking on your clit, bringing you closer to the edge.

“Fuck, Benito, right there,” you moaned and thee your head back. Benito grabbed the hand you had in his had and tightened your fist, indicating for you to pull his hair a little.

You got the hint and gently pulled on his curls, Benito’s eyes almost rolled back to his head from the sensation. He was already making a pool of precum in the floor listening to your whimpers.

“Gonna cum all over your tongue, do you want that? Yeah?” You moaned as you brought your head back to look at him. He couldn’t look more beautiful, cheeks flushed as he made the most pathetic begging sounds against you.

That’s all it took for you to cum with loud moans as Benito’s tongue helped you ride your high. He didn’t dare to stop what he was doing or move an inch before you told him to stop, letting you enjoy your orgasm as much as possible.

Once you were done, you gently pushed his face away and your body went limp against the couch. Benito watched your chest go up and down as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, thinking about whether or not to lick the remains of you off it.

“If I knew that clicker would make you act like that,” you said with a blissful grin as you were still catching your breath, “I would’ve bought it sooner.”

Benito smiled, proud that he made you happy. You sat up to look at his lower half. “Want some help with that?”

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

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢?

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

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

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

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

He closed the app and opened it again.

Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

Three minutes later it buzzed again.

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

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

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

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

Slowly, you reached for your laptop instead.

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

Your eyes narrowed. “Fucking asshole.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Babydoll?”

Silence.

“Honey?”

Still nothing.

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

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

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

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

You always come.

So he keeps grabbing onto that instead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah,” he hums.

“Everything alright?”

“Great.”

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

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

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

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

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

No, it doesn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

Your seat is empty.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Straight to voicemail.

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

Another call. Another voicemail.

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

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

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

“Guess somebody forgot how to play defense.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he still doesn’t have an answer.

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

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

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

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

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

It means admitting he might actually be losing you.

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

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

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

And still, nothing.

What the fuck did I do, baby?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing.

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

His eyes stay fixed on the window.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His hand finds the window frame before his eyes do.

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

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

You were supposed to be at the game.

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

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

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

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

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

“Just leave.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re killin’ me.”

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

“Baby—”

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

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

“Fucking finally, Dean.”

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

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

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

“Why do you suddenly care?”

“I've always cared about you—”

“Always?” you ask with a breathless laugh.

“Yes, always. When haven’t I?”

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

“I—”

“You forgot. So I made them.”

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

“I'm not done.”

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

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

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

“You texted me let’s do Malone’s.”

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

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

“I remember,” he breathes.

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

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

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

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

“What did you eat?” he asks softly.

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

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

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

“You know I wasn’t trying to—”

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

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

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

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

“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re still together.”

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

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

“I know,” he whispers.

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

He nods in agreement, waiting for more.

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

“Of course, honey.”

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

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

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

“Of course.”

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

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

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

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

“Obviously.”

“I know. I love you too,” he mumbles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And now, he knows you were all alone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dean—”

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

“Go ahead,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I want you here.”

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

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

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

“Yes,” you whisper.

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

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

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

“Okay,” you breathe.

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

“Promise,” you whisper.

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

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

“Unblock me.”

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

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

“I promise,” you whisper.

“Thank you, baby.”

“I’m glad you came.”

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

He shakes his head once before speaking again.

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

“Thank you,” you whisper.

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

“I love you,” you murmur.

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

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

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

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

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

“Is that what you want?” you chuckle.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t tease me,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

“Made for me, weren’t you?”

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

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

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

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

“Harder,” you whimper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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He loves your hand wrapped around him, but he can only deal with it for so long before he needs a break so it gets really frustrating for him. He loves when you guide his hand on himself too, which is easier most of the time, but it’s still touch, and he rarely comes because it just gets a little too overwhelming.

He’s heard about fleshlights from Kurt at work, so thinking about it one night after another failed attempt with you, he orders one online wondering if it’ll feel better than his own hand, if it’ll feel more like your touch, but manageable.

When it arrives he rips the box open, pumps some lube into it and then just… touches it for a while… his thick fingers tracing the shape of the entrance, wondering if that’s anything like the way you might feel. He’s touched you down there, sure, but briefly and only over clothes.

Swallowing hard, he slips a finger inside, pumps it a few times, the lewd sloshing sound and the wet feeling around his finger causing his cock to twitch. He pushes another finger in.

He wishes he could do this to you right now. The longer he plays with it, the more it starts to feel wrong somehow.

He unzips his pants, the slick opening pressed to his glistening tip, but he can’t bring himself go through with it. He needs you.

So he calls, tells you in a needy, husky voice that he needs to see you as soon as you can get to him — and of course you arrive within the hour, finding him red faced and a little shaky, unable to meet your eyes as he kisses you, intense but brief, and whispers, ‘There’s something I want to try.’

Handing the fleshlight to you, he sees your eyes light up as you look it over and dip an exploratory finger inside it yourself. You ask if he’s sure he wants this, and he nods desperately and whines out a desperate little Please-

You hold it still while he guides himself inside, relief relaxing him against you as you start to move it gently, careful at first, to let him get used to the sensation.

It’s not the same as your hand, and he imagines that when he’s ready to fuck you for real it won’t be the same as this either. But for now it’s squeezing around him just right, tight and warm and wet with lube, and you’re here, and all he wants is to chase the feeling.

After a minute or so he’s fucking into it hard, face buried at your shoulder, fingers gripping at your clothes, moaning and panting and whining so prettily until he comes so hard he cries out loud enough for the whole town to hear. You’re sure Karin’s curtains will be twitching at the very least, but you’re safe here, inside with the door locked and the drapes closed.

His chest heaves as he comes down, collapsing into you and whimpering a little at the sensitivity. But he recovers pretty fast. After all, he has years of this feeling to make up for.

And with that, he suddenly has the confidence to slide a hand inside your pants, tentative at the waistband, fingers pausing as he asks, ‘Is this ok?’

He's only had people say that to him who were obligated to say it, and even then that's not something he heard growing up. He doesn't hear it from his brother, or friends, he's had to come to love himself and grow comfortable with him.

"You don't have to say it back." You whisper, scared that maybe you said it too early, or you scared him off, or maybe he just doesn't feel the same.

So you start to feel a sinking feeling in your chest and plan your escape. You look for your keys, your bag, if it's that bad and he doesn't call within the next few days the toiletries, clothes, and random little things you've left here doesn't matter that much.

Lars pushes his hair back, his chest beginning to rise and fall with a pace so fast you think he might be having a panic attack.

He takes a step toward you with one foot, but leaves his other still planed where he was originally stood Incase he heard you wrong.

"What did you say?" He pleads, his voice desperate as his hands cover his mouth. His eyebrows are pinched together and his innocent sappy puppy dog eyes are glassed over with tears threatening to spill.

You hesitate to speak those three words again, opening your mouth where nothing comes out. You stand on your ground, letting out a small breath. "I love you, Lars."

You move toward him. "I love you, Lars Lindstrom."

He covers his face, letting out a helpless whimper before he lunges toward you. One of his hands are on your waist and the other cradles your cheek as he hungrily kisses you.

Your hands slide from his shoulders to his chest, then back up to his neck.

By the thickness of the air and the way Lars is kissing you, you can instantly tell tonight will be different.

Different good.

You've done some things before, mostly hand stuff. You know you have to take it slow with Lars, and that's perfectly fine with you. He's been nothing but kind, gentle, and delicate. He's mindful of every touch he gives you, every word he says.

He has a romantic glow about him, something that resembles the low glow of a lamp when reading at night, or the golden ray of the sun right before the night falls.

He pulls from the kiss, resting his forehead against yours. "I love you." He whispers, his hand reaching up to brush a thumb over your cheek.

You peck his mouth, slowly sliding your nose against his.

He walks you both backward, your legs knocking into the back of the bed which forces you down. He joins you, gently pushing you back so your head falls into the pillow as you continue to kiss.

Without words, you're both aware of what's about to happen. Lars doesn't have to tell you that he's ready, there's no discussion, and there doesn't need to be.

Your hands pull his sweater off, knowing there's layers you're going to have to get through. The layers don't bother you, you are never bothered to take your time with him.

You peel off layer by layer until until he's down to his last one. "It's okay." He says, his kind voice that wraps you up and makes you feel like you're bathing in the sweet stickiness of vanilla marshmallows now slightly shaking.

You nod, pecking him before pulling his shirt off.

You've seen him shirtless, of course. After he showers, a time or two when you're fooling around, when he's overheated when sleeping.

This time was entirely more intimate.

Your hand trails down his chest, small hairs speckled over it and little freckles dusting over him. You smile, unable to stop yourself from kissing him again as you drag your hand down his belly. His breath gets caught in his throat at the feeling which makes him involuntarily suck his stomach in, and you giggle into his mouth.

"Are you okay?" You ask, your eyes searching his for even a drop of uneasiness. He nods, giving you his shy, toothless smile he always does that makes you feel so fuzzy.

He leans back in and slides his hand up your shirt, pulling it off of your head. He struggles to break the kiss, his breath breaks and he lets out a small whimpers when your mouth has to leave his for a split second.

He tries to ignore your bare breasts, wanting to be polite and romantic instead of attaching his mouth directly to your breasts.

Your legs formerly at his sides now push his pants down, leaving them at his ankles, but his tight white briefs still on.

Lars pulls your pajama shorts down, he's not sure if you're supposed to trade off taking each others clothes off, but that seems to be how it's going, and he's not planning to disrupt the pattern. He also desperately wants to see you bare.

He sucks in his breath when your bare pussy is revealed to him. He wants to ask you why you aren't wearing panties, if this is a normal thing. He stops himself from asking, and instead admires you completely bare.

His hands are freezing cold and shaking but he slides his fingers in yours. "You are very beautiful." Lars whispers to you, trying to ignore yours breast in his face and your pussy that is centimeters from his thigh.

"So are you, Lars." You tuck a stray little hair out of his face, thumbing over his mustache for a split second.

You've never felt so comfortable with someone. Your body on full display, completely nude with their own skin just a touch away from yours. You didn't care if all you did tonight was look at each other, because you can feel the heat from love radiating off both of you.

"Can I take these off?" You whisper into his ear, applying a soft kiss before his ear lobe which makes him gulp.

Lars nods, and allows you to push his briefs all the way down. He struggles to kick them off of his ankles along with his pants, but he makes do.

You want to giggle, make fun of the way his sock are on, knowing they will continue to stay on the entire time you make love. But knowing Lars better than you know yourself at this point, you settle your giggle in your chest and instead kiss his neck.

Your lips ghost at the edge of his jaw, a tender and sensitive spot for him. His big hand comes up to press against your bare back while you nip and kiss at his jaw.

"Are you ready? Is this okay? Am I doing it right?" He rushes out, you quickly push your second giggle down. You slide your hand down his cheek, letting your thumb brush against it. You nod, "Everything is perfect, baby. You're perfect Lars." He gives another shy smile looking down to try to line up.

You help him, spreading your legs more so he can fit his hips between. "Oh, hey." You stop him, placing a hand on his chest.

"Protection." You mutter to him, both of you too caught up in the moment to remember one of the most important pieces of the puzzle.

Lars opens a drawer in his nightstand, fiddling with a box to which he pulls out a loose condom that has a nudie model on it. "Kurt gave them to me." He grumbles, trying to explain the embarrassing picture on the round package.

"It's okay, Lars." You whisper, taking the package from him, ripping it open and rolling it into his pretty pink cock. He pinches his eyes hard, moving his head toward the ceiling and blinking up.

You lay back with your head against his pillow, opening your legs for him. You see his Adam's apple bob as he takes a gulp. He fits himself back between your thighs, taking an awkward minute to line up before he pushes in.

A matching gasp escape both of your lips, and Lars' hand quickly finds yours to grip to keep him grounded.

It's a rocky rhythm at first, but as you help him rock his hips in and out of you the pleasure blossoms from between your legs, from your belly, and up to your chest just like a rose now in full bloom.

The heat spreads to your cheeks, an almost calming pin prick sensation taking over as the pleasure builds and climbs you like a vine.

The hand that isn't occupied by your lovers hand is rested on the back of his neck, his nose and lips pressed to your head.

You tap the back of his neck and he pulls away. You see his eyes a little red, the tip of his nose pink and his eyes watered with tears. "Hey, hey." You wipe the little tears leaking down his cheeks. "Is everything okay? Too much? We can stop, Lars." He shakes his head, clearing his throat. He pinches his eyes closed again before looking down at you.

"I'm just happy. I promise." You smile at his words, kissing him. Your noses push together and lips smear. You don't care that it's a messy kiss and that his mustache softly scratches at you, and neither does he.

His mouth falls open, "ha-ahh" he softly whimpers into your mouth, trying to control his breathing now that he's worked himself up to panting like a thirsty dog.

"It's okay." You kiss his open mouth. "It's okay, baby. I love you."

He hardly gets it back out to you, but you can feel his mouth form the words back.

Your hips meet his, enjoying the feeling of him stretching you out. He's the perfect fit for you, as cheesy as it might sound. The first time is alway awkward, and you try to keep your reactions at bay as to not overwhelm him for his first time but he's thick, and he hits all the right places with his slight curve.

"That's it. Right there, baby."

Lars nods at your words, his hips continuing to move as your mouths ghost over each others. His jaw drops, and his hand white knuckles yours. You should've known he was close but missed the signs.

His pubes softly tickle at your clit in the perfect way that would make your knees knock together if not for Lars between them.

You're both close, and soon he's sobbing into your mouth as he drags out sloppy thrusts. You squeeze his hand, whispering sweet nothings to him as he finishes, kissing his cheeks. Your own orgasm approaches soon after his, where he continues ragged and stiff thrust, but they get the job done enough for you to finish on him.

He pulls out a little too fast, leaving you hissing.

You help him pull the condom off, tossing it into his trash by the bed.

You turn back, smiling at him. His head rests on your now shared pillow, his face dangerously close to yours.

"Did I do good?" He whispers, leaning forward to boop your nose with his own. He pulls the sheets over the two of you, already feeling himself growing cold despite the body heat. You nod, leaning to kiss him. "Amazing. You liked it?"

He grabs your hand, holding it to his chest. "Yes. We can do it again? Tomorrow?"

You let the giggle escape this time, nodding while your lips are still on his. "Yes, tomorrow."

“Yes, ma’am.” He takes his turn smiling into the kiss, sending chills down your spine, cocky and desperate all at once. He dips in again, kissing you slower this time, deep enough to make your head spin and everything else fall away.

“Clean sweep,” he murmurs against your mouth.

“Show off,” you whisper and he lets out a low laugh against your lips.

“Cashin’ in on that bet.” His hand wraps around your waist, the other gripping your ass, pulling you off the floor, into his arms again.

Your head swims as you kiss your way to his bed; your body melting into him, legs wrapping around his waist.

Your hands come up, settling around the back of his neck, your fingers drifting into the hair at his nape. Dean lets out a quiet breath and closes his eyes for a second.

“Jesus Christ.”

“What?”

“You got any idea how pretty you are?” A crooked smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “I’m so serious.”

“So sweet when you want to be, Di Laurentis,” you chuckle tiredly.

“Got a little crazy back there, huh, bun?”

“Uh, yeah,” you mumble. “You did.”

“You spent two hours makin' me watch Hunter Davenport touch you,” he mumbles.

“Nobody made you watch—”

“Couldn’t help it.” His gaze drops from your face, lingering for a second before making its way back up again. “You drive me insane,” he sighs before he kisses you again, your hand coming down to reach for the hem of his shirt.

Your fingers hook into the fabric, pulling upward, and he laughs softly against your mouth when he realizes what you’re doing, lifting his arms automatically so you can drag the shirt over his head.

His hands settle right back on you the second the shirt’s gone, leaning in to deepen the kiss.

“You know what the problem is?” He asks.

“What?”

“I don’t even care if you wanna be casual or not,” he mutters half-serious, half-laughing against your mouth.

“Dean—”

“M’serious,” he hums, the zipper of your jeans gliding down slowly beneath his fingers. “Just wanna end as many nights as I can exactly like this. Don’t even care if you make me place stupid bets and I gotta dust his ass every goddamn weekend. I’m in.”

“You’re in?”

“Mhmm.”

“Funny. Took Hunter Davenport talking to me to figure that out.”

“Damn,” he mutters, letting out a weak laugh like those words actually stung. “That’s what you think, huh?”

Your lips draw to the side, eyebrow arching, challenging him to give you a response instead of a question, and he nods like he’s accepting the challenge.

“You’re right… Shoulda told you a while ago. I deserved everything I got tonight.”

“You did,” you remind him.

Dean shakes his head and laughs under his breath. “Yeah. I did.”

He peels your shirt over your head next, leaving you in nothing but soft mesh, and whatever he was about to say disappears completely. His chin drops as he blows out a heavy breath. “What did I do to deserve you—”

“Just fucking kiss me,” you giggle and he lifts you easily off the floor, tossing you back onto the bed.

Your body bounces against the mattress, and before you can settle he’s helping you the rest of the way out of your jeans, tugging them down your thighs impatiently.

By the time you try to prop yourself up on your elbows, he’s already climbing over you, bracing his weight above you while his hands catch your wrists and press them into the mattress on either side of your head.

He looks down at you with a tilted smile, hair falling into his eyes, his chest still rising a little harder than normal.

His shoulders flex every time he shifts closer, his tanned skin warm against yours, his chain dangling off his neck, landing cool against your hot skin.

“Playin’ after you agreed to come up here was impossible?”

“You were winning.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead against yours and closing his eyes for a second, your lips barely brushing. “Still would’ve rather been up here.”

You keep lifting your head off the pillow to follow him when he pulls back even slightly, leaving you chasing his mouth. Each time you do it he lets out the faintest laugh against your lips, the sound making a steady pulse beat between your thighs.

His hands slide up your arms, gathering your wrists above your head in one hand. His body grinds at the same time, the rough denim of his jeans dragging against your panties.

The chill of his belt buckle brushes against your skin, pulling a quiet breath out of you. Your back arches instinctively, fingers tightening into fists, his fingers curling a little tighter to keep you in place.

His stomach tightens, abs going hard every time his hips rock, every little movement making you react.

His free hand drops between you to work at his belt as you kiss him through it, smiling against his lips when he finally manages to shove his jeans down far enough to give himself room to kick them off.

The whole time he keeps finding you again between breaths, refusing to lose you for longer than he has to.

You moan against his mouth when his hand cups your pussy, clicking his tongue like he knew this is exactly how he’d find you—soaking wet. “Yeah?” he rasps. “Thinkin’ about this all night?”

“Maybe,” you whisper.

“Too wet for maybe’s, bunny,” he mumbles.

You giggle, bratty and breathless, before his tongue slips into your mouth, rolling slowly as his fingers do the same, rubbing tight circles on your clit.

“Laughin’ at me, huh?” He asks. “Still think this shit’s funny?”

“Mhmm,” you whimper then gasp against his lips as he pinches your clit between his fingers, his lips sucking and biting down on your bottom lip just enough to pinch.

“Brat,” he mumbles, not sounding bothered by it in the slightest. A grin pulls at his mouth when your hips betray you, bucking into his hand.

Dean slowly rises up onto his knees above you, his eyes never leaving your face as he pulls down his boxers, his cock slapping against his bare skin with a snap. His eyes drop from your face, lingering for a second before making their way back up again.

“So fucking pretty for me.”

Your hands shift instinctively and he catches the movement, snatching your wrists again to push them into the bed with a little more muscle.

“Keep your hands where they are,” he whispers against your lips.

The mesh fabric between your thighs is already clinging to your skin, practically opaque from how wet you already are. He exhales slowly through his nose and shakes his head as he takes his dick in his fist.

“Pink?” He mutters under his breath, tapping the wet fabric with his tip, the precum gathered on his hard skin mixed with your arousal on the slick material separating the two of you. “You wore my favorite color.”

“Is it?” You ask—but you did.

“You wore this for me, huh?” He breathes. “Could’ve told me before I started throwing shit, huh?”

“Unfortunately that was hot,” you whisper.

Dean’s head drops immediately.

“I knew you’d like that shit, bun,” he chuckles. “Damn, we’re a fucking problem, huh?” He laughs against your lips as he traces his dick along your slit. The fabric drags against his sensitive skin, rubbing along you with every slow pass.

He thrusts his hips forward, the tip pressing there, and warmth spreads through your body despite the thin barrier still between you.

The pressure alone is enough to pull a moan from both of you. You bite down on your lip, both of your hands clawing into the sheets beside your head, twisting the fabric between your fingers as his cock rubs over your clit again and again.

Your eyes roll back as he spits on the place where the two of you meet, his hard cock slicking through the wetness, stroking in a rough, steady rhythm.

Your tongue runs along your bottom lip and the knot in your stomach tightens. Your pleasure builds, the sight of his strong body rolling into you without penetration doing nothing but teasing just how deep his cock would go, pre cum dripping off his tip as it drags across your skin.

“Yeah?” He pants. “C’mon, bunny—”

“Shit,” you whimper, matching his movements with a swivel of your hips.

Dean keeps talking you through it, his voice low and warm as the praise slips out between sharp breaths. “Fightin’ so fuckin’ hard,” he tells you, looking up at your hands as you white-knuckle the bedsheets; looking down at your thighs to watch them quake. “You gonna cum for me? I know you want to,” He grunts and you whimper a ‘yes’.

You cum with his name on your lips and your pussy pulsing around nothing as he continues to stroke. Your eyes pinch shut and your hands reach for him quickly, grabbing him by the hair and the neck to pull him to your lips.

He swallows your moans, not letting up his movement until you're melting underneath him, your mind doing the same.

He grips you firmly and shifts your body in one smooth motion, guiding you forward and turning you until you are on your hands and knees, his big body pressing flush behind you, hard cock swinging between your thighs.

Dean’s hands settle on your hips first, sliding a little higher until his palms are full, squeezing and kneading your ass in his hands. His thumbs drag slow circles over your skin while you glance back over your shoulder at him, and the smugness painted all over his face starts to bleed out of him.

“Probably shouldn’t have told me you liked that,” he murmurs quietly, his thumbs tracing along the hem of your panties like he’s deciding whether to move them aside or make you wait, choosing the latter, snapping the fabric against your skin with a smirk. “Gave me way too much information, sweetheart.”

You laugh and roll your eyes, still trying to catch your breath. “And what information did I give you, Di Laurentis?” You mumble as his hand leaves your body and his fingers curl beneath your chin.

He guides you back toward him so your spine arches and your shoulders dip, bringing your mouth close enough that he can lean forward and kiss you over your shoulder.

“That you like me jealous. That you like me losin’ my mind over you. Were you trying to make me jealous, baby?” He murmurs against your lips.

You smile softly at that, catching his mouth for a second, sucking and tugging before you pull away. “I’d never,” you whisper and he laughs against your lips.

“I don’t share real well.” He smiles playfully, spanking your thigh, making you press your ass into him further. His eyes lock onto yours. “And then you’re gonna tell me that's what turned you on?”

“Doesn’t sound like something I’d say,” you mumble and he just smiles, still toying with you.

“Bullshit.” The words come out through a tight laugh as his hands return to your hips, sliding lower again as he shifts behind you. His palms spread over you while he adjusts his position slightly.

Every inch of his body gives him away—you can see it all over his face, feel how painfully hard he is when he slaps his dick against your ass but still he resists.

You reach down instinctively, your fingers brushing the edge of your panties as you start to shift them aside.

“Hands on the bed, bunny.”

“Dean,” you scold, but all he does is snicker, his hand cupped below your lips for spit.

“Put that mouth to good use—been causin’ enough problems with it all night,” he taunts as you spit in his hand. “Knew you were enjoyin’ yourself.”

He rubs the spit over his stiff cock, eyes unwavering on your body. His hands settle on your ass, thumbs spreading you apart as he glides his dick through the narrow space between them.

Stroke after stroke, tease after tease, his heavy balls slap against your clit with each push of his hips, making the muscles in your body jump with sensitivity.

You look over your shoulder with a pout. A quiet chuckle slips out of him. “You think poutin’ is gonna help?” He murmurs, his voice softer now. “Like I’m gonna feel bad for you?”

“Maybe,” you breathe.

A laugh slips out of him. “S’fuckin’ adorable,” he breathes and just when you think you won, he grips your panties and thrusts, his thick dick tracing between your ass, tip pushing against the rough mesh of your panties, still not giving you what you want.

“So damn wet,” he groans as his balls finally slap against your pussy, skin against skin, the wet smack filling the room along with his moans as you whimper and whine. “Shit, I could probably get off just like this—”

You scoff through a sharp breath, feeling yourself getting closer and closer from the smacking of his balls against your clit alone, but you want more.

“Where the fuck are you goin’?” He laughs, catching you as you crawl forward like you've finally had enough, yanking you back, grabbing your panties in his fist, just to wrap them around the base of his cock, binding you together before he pushes deep in your pussy.

Your moans blend together, your head falling forward and his throwing back as he bottoms out completely.

“Oh—Oh shit, baby,” he groans, stalling out for a moment as your wet warmth surrounds him, your body squeezing him tight. So wet he’s pinching his eyes shut, thinking about anything else but the moment to keep from cumming on the spot.

His hips draw back, the panties tightening around his cock the farther he pulls away. The delicate stitching strains with it, sounding like it might snap.

He presses forward slow, watching his dick dip deep. The panties wrapped around him make his cock redder, the veins mapping each inch standing higher—until his body is flush with your ass.

“Fuck, Dean,” you moan, rolling your hips a little, his blunt fingernails digging into your ass at the feeling.

The air knocks out of your chest as he pounds into you, the wet mess that he made squelching through the room, both of you sure you aren’t going to last much longer like this.

“Feels so damn good,” he grits out, one hand landing against your shoulder before dragging down your arm, searching for your hand. His fingers wrap tightly around yours, pinned against your back, your face coming down to press against the mattress as he cracks you at the perfect angle.

You whimper that you’re close, the words barely making it out of your mouth. “Fuck, I’m cumming,” Dean stammers, and his grip tightens around your hand, your pleasure enough for him to break, jaw tightening, brows furrowing, filling you up but refusing to stop until you finish.

You follow close behind him, pussy fluttering around his cock as it throbs inside you, leaving him sucking in a breath as you milk him dry.

Dean’s grip is still locked with yours when he finally shifts. The room around you is heavy with heat and sex, but the weight that had been sitting on your shoulders all night is gone.

He pulls you back against his chest, the two of you still on your knees, his skin damp and his heart thundering against your back as you both try to catch your breaths. He presses a soft kiss against your shoulder and then another against the side of your neck, adrenaline leaving his lips trembling against your hot skin.

His arms wrap around you a little tighter, nuzzling into your neck like he can’t help himself.

“Good thing you wore these for me,” he mutters. “M’sorry, pretty. I’ll buy you a new pair, yeah?” You whimper as he pulls out, the loose panties tumbling uselessly off your hips.

Dean grabs for you, rolling you on top of him. Your hands rest on his chest while his big arms wrap around your body, keeping you close.

He looks up at you and sighs, brushing your hair out of your face, amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth before he speaks.

“Fuck, that was incredible”—ding!

Your phone lights up in the pocket of your jeans half-hanging off the mattress. You blow out a shaky breath, muscles trembling, reaching over for it.

“A deal’s a deal,” he murmurs, warm against your skin, chuckling through the exhaustion. You pull your phone out and look back at it, a message telling you to come find him later, despite knowing full well where you are and who you’re with.

His palm rests solid on your hip, tracing slow circles over your skin absentmindedly.

Dean rolls his eyes and takes the phone from your hand, jaw tightening for half a second before he drops it onto the mattress.

“I don’t give a shit,” he murmurs quietly.

“You don’t care?” you whisper, and a little panic sets in. You can see it on his face. He cups your cheeks in his hands, guiding your gaze to him.

“Woah, bun. Just—no. ‘Bout you? Absolutely. About him? No. I don’t give a fuck. I mean, look at where I am, huh?” He mumbles, pulling you down into a kiss.

You let out a little sigh against his lips, relief and satisfaction mellowing you out.

You melt into him as his rough fingers trace lower, moving down your spine and back up. He smiles up at you before pulling you down into another kiss.

“I’m in,” you breathe and he hums out a satisfied groan that buzzes all the way to your toes. His grip on you tightens and you gasp when he rolls you beneath him.

“You serious?”

“Yeah,” you whisper. Dean stares at you for a second before dropping his head with a laugh, chain swinging loosely off his neck.

“Thank God.”

“What?” You ask curiously as your hands wrap around the back of his neck, fingers sliding into his messy hair.

“Would’ve been real fuckin’ awkward if I went downstairs and lost that bet to Logan.”

Your lips fall open in disgust, nose scrunching up. “You were betting on me?” And again, his eyes go wide as he scrambles to explain himself.

“Bunny—Baby, c’mon now,” he chuckles, his voice raspy and deep. “On us, alright?” He corrects himself. “And I’m just kiddin’, alright?”

You roll your eyes away and he grabs your cheeks with a single hand, turning your face back toward him.

“Besides,” he murmurs, his thumb dragging slowly across your cheek.

“Besides what?”

“Shit wasn’t exactly a fair competition.”

“Why not?”

Your hand drifts down his arm, fingers tracing over the hard curve of his bicep before settling on his skin, squeezing and feeling the muscle tighten underneath when he leans closer.

The corner of his mouth lifts as his lips brush softly against yours.

“Hunter never stood a chance.”

Garrett smiles, catching his girl by the waist next, kissing her deep enough to have the cheering room break into whistles and catcalls.

“Get a room,” Beau calls. Garrett points at him, smiling like Beau just suggested something that was already decided—and it was.

“What the fuck, bro? We won. The fuck are you goin’?” Logan shouts, but Garrett and his girlfriend are already halfway up the steps. “You gotta stay—”

“Can’t,” Garrett answers simply.

“The hell you mean can’t?” Logan scoffs, but Graham’s as good as gone, leaving Logan staring after him in disbelief. “Unbelievable—Dean!” Logan points across the living room, calling him instead. “You’re up.”

Dean glances up from the lip of his beer—uninterested in anything happening around him but you.

“What?”

“Pong,” Logan yells.

Dean opens his mouth to turn him down, but then he looks across the room, right at you, and you don’t notice. And Dean Di Laurentis can have none of that.

You’re too busy laughing at something one of your friends says, drink balanced in your hand. Dean exhales slowly through his nose. “Yeah,” he says before taking another sip of his beer. “I’m down.”

“Let’s fucking go,” Logan smiles.

Dean stands up, stepping toward the table. You’re still deep in conversation when he reaches for one of the pong balls floating in a cup, flicking off the water before he rolls it between his big fingers.

You still haven’t looked over.

He glances away, catching himself staring before he remembers he’s supposed to be pretending he doesn’t do that. He swallows hard, jaw tightening; his entire demeanor shifting in a moment when he looks back.

“Ah, fuck no,” he breathes out a bitter sigh, bouncing the pong ball against the table.

“What?” Logan asks, following his gaze when Dean doesn’t answer. The look on Dean’s face says enough as Hunter Davenport makes his way directly toward you.

The one person on his team Dean has absolutely no fucking patience for. Hate is an understatement. And if Hunter had two working eyes and two brain cells left to rub together, he would’ve noticed Dean’s attention hadn’t left you once all night.

Within seconds the entire group is finding reasons to step away and give you two some space.

“Traitors,” he mumbles.

Dean pinches the pong ball between his fingers, spinning it against the edge of the table as he tries to look unbothered.

Hunter says something and your smile widens. He leans down closer, and Dean straightens immediately. “Need another team over here,” Dean calls out.

It has the intended effect for exactly half a second. Hunter glances toward the table. So do you.

Then he says something else and your attention goes right back to him. “Fucking prick,” Dean mutters under his breath.

“What are you on about?” Logan asks, elbowing him with a laugh, but Dean ignores him.

You laugh again and Dean’s face goes sour instantly.

“He’s not fuckin’ funny,” he huffs, and Logan looks back at him wide-eyed.

“Are you okay?” He laughs.

“Perfect, why?”

“I mean, I have so many questions,” he teases him, “but we can start with why the fuck are you losin’ your shit?”

“Am not,” Dean laughs like it’s beneath him, lifting his drink to drain the rest.

Logan claps a hand on his back, chuckling breathily. “Totally normal reaction, bud. My bad.”

“Shut up,” Dean grumbles as a few underclasses from the hockey team step up to the table. He waves them away, desperate to get you across from him somehow—shit. Dean reaches out fast, grabbing your friend's arm as she walks past.

“You trying to play? Get a friend,” he gestures in your direction just as Hunter’s hand rests on your lower back.

“I think she wants to play with Hunter,” your friend says, tapping Dean on the chest with a look that says she’s figured him out completely.

Davenport nods over to the pong table with a smile, already two steps ahead.

“Good thing you’re not bothered by this, huh?” Logan mumbles against the rim of his drink, watching as the two of you walk closer.

“You tryin’ to play, pretty?” Dean asks with his gaze set on you.

“That okay, boys?” Hunter asks with a smile, cutting in with a response.

“For her, of course. For you, fuck off,” Dean smiles, pointing at Beau instead, waving him over lazily. “You don’t gotta play with him, sweetheart.” The words leave his lips like the punchline to a joke.

“Don’t worry about him,” Hunter bites, his hand settling at your waist, guiding you the rest of the way. “He’s just worried I’m gonna dust his ass.”

Dean just lets out a short laugh as he reaches for a pong ball. He dips it into the cup of water beside him without even looking up.

“Keep talkin’,” he says.

A little smile curls on your lips as you grab the cups in front of you, making a little triangle, avoiding Dean’s gaze for now.

You can’t even remember the last party where some girl wasn’t practically hanging off his arm or finding an excuse to talk to him. Usually he’s the one smiling politely while somebody works way too hard for his attention.

When your eyes lift, Dean's already there, waiting for you. You bite down on the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling. His blue eyes fall down your body for the moment as Hunter's hand wraps around your waist, talking strategy, but honestly the contact is more than enough to get in Dean’s head.

Dean sinks a shot, and you answer with one of your own. “Let’s go, princess,” Hunter laughs, bumping his shoulder into yours.

“You good?” Logan asks, his eyes sliding over to Dean.

“M’fine,” Dean answers too fast.

“Well, man who’s fine, everyone’s waitin’ for you to shoot—”

“Fuck off,” Dean mutters, wetting the ball before he shoots, sending the little ball ricocheting into the crowd.

“M’gonna need you to lock the fuck in,” Logan scolds, turning his chest to Dean, the two of them locked up in a staring contest for a few seconds.

Dean sucks his teeth and forces himself to focus again. It lasts all of five seconds. The second his eyes find you across the table, Hunter’s arm is draped lazily across your shoulders while he points at one of the remaining cups with his free hand, getting your opinion on which shot he should take.

You study the cups for a second before lifting a hand and pointing toward the one on the far side of the table, making your choice with a small shrug.

Hunter nods like you’ve just handed him the answer key.

Water sloshes as Hunter sinks it just seconds later. Before the crowd can even react, his arm is around your waist, hauling you clean off your feet in celebration.

Dean rolls his eyes so hard Logan catches it from beside him.

Logan plants both hands on the edge of the table and lets out a slow breath. At this point he’s not sure whether he’s playing against you and Hunter or dragging Dean across the finish line.

Hunter leans down again, saying something you can’t quite hear over the music, you turn into him a little more because of it, your hand landing against his arm as he grins down at you.

Across the table, Dean watches the whole thing and Logan follows his line of sight. “Handle your shit later,” he warns, and Dean doesn’t answer.

You laugh again and ZIP—the ball leaves Dean’s hand a second later.

“WHAT THE FUCK?” Hunter laughs, jerking back when the ball catches him in the shoulder.

Logan slowly turns toward Dean, equal parts baffled and disgusted. He waits a beat, clearly expecting Dean to explain whatever the hell that was.

“He threw that at me,” Hunter says, rubbing his shoulder.

“I missed,” Dean answers, arms crossing over his broad chest while Logan continues staring at him, waiting for an explanation. “Hand slipped.”

“You threw a ninety-mile-an-hour fastball at his fuckin’ chest.” Logan stares at him. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Shoulder,” Dean corrects him. “I was goin’ for his forehead.”

“Disappointed in you,” he scolds.

“Just—Just throw the ball, alright?” Dean blurts, gesturing toward the four scattered cups at the other end of the table and the nearly hopeless situation.

Logan lofts the ball and it swirls around the rim of the cup. You think fast, dipping down and blowing hard. The ball pops back out before it can drop.

“Goddamn,” Hunter praises, looking down at you before snatching the ball off the table. He dunks it into the water cup and lifts it toward your mouth.

You laugh but lean forward anyway, blowing the excess water from the ball.

“Atta girl.”

Hunter snaps the last few drops off with a flick of his wrist, tongue poked out in concentration as he lines up the shot—and splash!

The crowd explodes and Hunter’s arms wrap around your waist, turning into you as the cups are cleared off the table.

People crowd around the table again, drinks sloshing as somebody sinks a cup and a fresh round of yelling breaks out around the game.

Hunter stays planted beside you anyway. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and hands it to you. “Here. Your number?” He hums, and you look up at him. “Before we get caught up in another win.”

Your nose scrunches, giving him a little smile, nodding and punching in the numbers against your better judgment.

Dean’s staring from across the room as the stupid smirk spreads across Hunter’s face.

And suddenly his phone feels very heavy in his pocket.

“Dean,” Logan warns the second Dean pulls his phone from his pocket. “Leave that woman alone.”

“I’m texting—”

“No shit.” Logan snorts. “You’re also jealous. And you’re making an ass out of yourself.”

“I’m not making an ass out of myself,” Dean mumbles, thumbing through your text conversation from last night.

“You tried to hit him in the head with a pong ball.”

“Yeah, and I missed.”

“That’s somehow worse,” Logan whispers, rubbing his back. “You should have seen the way she was looking at you, alright? They’ll lose. Then, you can talk to her. Just put… the phone… away—”

“I’m working over here,” Dean snaps, jerking the phone away as Logan tries to manually disarm his device before he pulls the trigger and says something he’ll regret. “You don’t get her like I do, okay?”

“Fine,” Logan throws his hands up in surrender. “No more throwin’ shit at people.”

“No promises,” Dean mumbles, thumbs tapping against the screen as a little smile tilts on his lips.

Across the room, your phone buzzes against the table beside your drink. You don’t notice, too busy teasing Hunter about a shot he should’ve made.

Whoosh. The text tone sounds and Logan hangs his head, laughing at Dean. “Tell me what you say, at least?”

Dean shrugs, giving Logan a side-eye. “Nah, you don’t believe in me. You don’t get to see greatness.”

“You fucked it up, didn’t you?” Logan asks, cracking open another beer.

“Shut up,” Dean scoffs, sitting up a little straighter when he sees you unlock your phone.

The first text makes you smile. By the second one, you’re laughing. The third one has your eyes lifting to his, the dimple in his cheek popping as he secures even the smallest win.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎?

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍. 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚗𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚝.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙰 𝚋𝚎𝚝?

You ask him the question, and the three dots barely have time to appear before another message pops onto the screen.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚈𝚎𝚊𝚑.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙰 𝚋𝚎𝚝.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙸𝚏 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚗 𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚖𝚎. 𝙽𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍.

You stare at the message, thinking of what to say next. Hunter leans in again, whispering strategy. You smile and nod, half-turned toward him as you type back.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚝.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚜.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙴𝚡𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙 𝙷𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚞𝚙𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚛𝚜.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙸 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚖𝚢𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙸'𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚒𝚝 💕

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚍𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚖𝚢 𝚎𝚐𝚘.

“Your turn, princess,” Hunter drawls, passing you the pong ball. You slide your phone in your pocket for the moment and Dean blows out an impatient sigh.

Logan pouts sympathetically, squeezing Dean’s shoulder for support.

“Told you so—”

“Fuck you,” he scoffs, shoving him away with a laugh. “It’s fine—I’m… I didn’t fuck it up. She smiled. Did she not?”

“She did,” Logan chuckles.

“She laughed, am I correct?” Dean states his case.

“Yes, I believe she did.”

“She wants me. Period.” His phone buzzes, and he fumbles it, glancing away from you just long enough for you to have sent something back.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝙸 𝚠𝚒𝚗?

“Oh shit,” Dean breathes. Logan leans over his shoulder before he can protest, reading through the thread.

“Damn,” he says, surprised by Dean’s game after all that pageantry earlier, curious where he was gonna take this next.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚒𝚗, 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚏𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙸’𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚌𝚔 𝙷𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚢𝚘𝚞.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚍𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚝𝚜.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍…

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙸’𝚖 𝚓𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚠.

You look up from your phone as that text comes through, and he’s still watching—still holding your gaze from across the room. And for the first time all night, he looks completely serious.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚈𝚘𝚞 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚘𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚗?

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙹𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚘𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙶𝚘𝚘𝚍.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍’𝚟𝚎 𝚛𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙸 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖.

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝚆𝚊𝚒𝚝 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝?

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝚂𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢????

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚂𝚑𝚞𝚝 𝚞𝚙 😂

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙼𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚖𝚎

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙸𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝?

. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙺𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔𝚒𝚗’ 𝚋𝚞𝚗.

Across the room, Hunter Davenport has your number. He just won a game with you and spent the last hour glued to your side, but suddenly Dean doesn’t seem nearly as bothered by it. Every time your phone lights up, you’re smiling down at the screen, and Dean’s grin gets a little harder to hide.

You sink the final cup to win the round and catch his eye from across the room. The corner of your mouth lifts and that’s apparently all the encouragement Dean needs because he’s already crossing the room.

“Fuck, she wants me,” Dean laughs, dragging a hand through his hair.

“Pleasantly surprised by you tonight, Di Laurentis,” Logan tells him.

Dean looks over at him with a grin, rolling the arm he’d nearly separated trying to take Davenport’s out with a pong ball earlier.

You roll your eyes and bite down on your lip to hide your smile, but it doesn’t work.

A pair of freshmen are already hovering around the pong table by the time Dean gets there, the same ones he waved off before you and Hunter stepped up.

“We can wait,” Logan calls after him.

“No we can’t.”

Dean keeps walking.

He claps one of them on the back, then the other, smiling the entire time as he grabs fistfuls of their shirts and physically steers them out of the way.

“Appreciate it, boys.”

The freshmen laugh as they stumble aside.

“Captain of the year, everybody,” Logan announces, throwing an arm toward Dean. “Some real morale-building leadership.”

Dean doesn’t even bother acknowledging him.

Hunter grabs the balls out of the cups, lazily bouncing them to the guys. “Better luck this time, boys,” Hunter says, wrapping his arm around your shoulder.

Dean watches his arm settle there for a second, jaw tightening, before taking the ball from Logan.

“Shoot.”

Logan aims and sinks the first cup, and without missing a beat the second one disappears too. Both balls get tossed back, and Dean tries his best to keep the celebrations in check for a moment, tongue pressed to the inside of his cheek as he watches you lift your cup and take a drink.

After that, every cup came with commentary. Every shot came with a smirk. By the third shot Dean landed in a row, it was looking like a clean sweep.

“That’s tough,” Dean mutters, looking at the state of affairs. You and Hunter didn’t even get a chance to shoot yet.

“We are on a heater, buddy,” Logan smiles. “Six cups back to back. Are you kidding?”

“Sounds like a lot when you say it out loud,” Dean chuckles, winking at you from across the table.

“Just shoot the fucking ball,” Hunter says.

“You know, if I was a betting man, I should have bet… I don’t know. Something,” Dean mumbles, and you fight to keep a straight face.

Logan throws the ball and it hits the rim of the cup, hopping into the other.

By then people were crowding around the table three rows deep, drinks lifted overhead as everyone tried to get a look. Dean rolls the final ball between his fingers and looked across the table at you.

“Not sinking this shit until I get an answer from you, bun,” he chuckles as he lines up the shot. “C’mon, sweetheart, don’t break my fuckin’ heart, huh?”

“The fuck are you talking about?” Hunter snaps from across the table, and Dean blows out a raspberry like Hunter is the last person to know.

Dean lets out a breath through his nose. “That sounds a whole lot of none of your fuckin’ business, Davenport.”

Dean’s eyes slide over to you and he gives you the most pathetic pout you’ve ever seen. “Don’t make me beg, baby. Not here. I’m not above it.”

“Deal,” you chuckle, and with that word he throws the ball, sending it clean into the final cup. And, just like Hunter, Dean doesn’t even wait for the cups to get pulled or the crowd to lose their minds before he’s already stepping out from behind the table, walking toward you.

You barely have time to laugh before his hands find your hips, lifting you off your feet.

His arm tightens beneath your legs as he heads for the stairs without even pretending to care what anybody else thinks.

“You are such an ass,” you laugh, trying unsuccessfully to hide your smile.

“What the fuck?” Hunter calls over the party as he takes the first step.

“What?”

“You can’t just leave.”

“—We absolutely can.”

“Congrats, Di Laurentis. You’ve been waiting all night for this.”

“No shit,” Dean answers honestly. “That’s all you got, Davenport? Cryin’ about her leaving and a half-ass congrats? Waste more time, please—”

“Fuck you.”

“Huh?”

“FUCK YOU!”

“What was that now?” Dean asks, amusement stretching across his lips as he holds a hand to his ear, taking another step up. “You’re gonna need to be a little louder than that, Hunter. Say it with your chest.”

“I’ll be down here, sweetheart.”

The corner of your mouth curls as you bite back a smile.

“You are so fucked, bun,” Dean laughs.

“Me?” You giggle.

“Absolutely you. I—”

“I’ll call you. How does that sound?” Hunter shouts, almost out of earshot, and that stops Dean mid-sentence.

“And I’ll block you,” he calls back. “Everybody wins—”

“Enough,” you breathe, grabbing his face in your hands and turning his attention back to you as he takes the last few steps.

Dean’s grip tightens beneath your thighs. His gaze drops to yours.

“Now,” he says, voice lowering as he leans closer, “where were we?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?” Tucker asks.

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

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

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

“Yeah?” The other guy asks.

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

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

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

Dean stops walking completely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Something must genuinely be wrong with her.

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

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

Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beau winces. “Dean.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beau glances over. “Yeah?”

“Who did McMahon just break up with?”

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

“Just answer the question.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I am absolutely going to track her down.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

“I’m open!”

“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?” Dean demands.

“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No,” Dean says immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beau sighs. “Dean-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right now, Dean is dead serious.

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

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

“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.

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

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

“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.

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

“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

Dean does not usually require props.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lock clicks. The door swings open.

And Dean completely forgets how to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Silence.

Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”

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

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

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

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

“Y/N,” he starts softly.

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

You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.

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

You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.

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

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

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

“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.

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

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

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

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

“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”

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

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

“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.

You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.

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

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

But then the wall goes back up.

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

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

He needs leverage. What does he know about you?

Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.

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

You stop. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare at him.

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

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

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

“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Shirtless,” you say softly.

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

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

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

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

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

“When?” You ask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, he just has to do the impossible.

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do. He is staring at your lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He lowers his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean feels it. He stops immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The coiled spring snaps.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.

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

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

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

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

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

You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Look at me,” he demands softly.

You meet his eyes.

“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And leading the pack is Dean.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s a yes,” you agree.

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

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

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

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

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

“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.

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

The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.

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

And Dean.

Dean is putting on a show.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart does that stupid flip again.

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

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

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

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

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

“I think I can manage that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”

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

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

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

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

Dean isn’t finished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That was perfect,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”

“You love it,” you remind him.

“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”

He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”

“Dean!”

He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.

You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.

You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.

And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.

You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.

The parlor was alive tonight. Hot. Loud. Sweating.

Trumpets cried over the hum of men drunk on cheap liquor and cheaper fantasies. The floor pulsed beneath your feet as you moved hips slow, deliberate, a tease more than a promise.

Chicago hadn’t broken you, but it damn sure tried.

And now you were again back where you started in New Orleans, back in Storyville, back where your name meant something. Back where he was. You didn’t look at him at first didn’t have the time to.

That same heavy presence is sitting somewhere in the room like a loaded gun waiting to go off. You sang anyway. Low. Bluesy. Thick with something that made men lean forward in their seats.

“Makes me feel so sad and hurt inside

Feel embarrassed, so I want to hide

Silly me, I thought your love was true...”

A when your song was over, a few whistles and laughs rang out. But your eyes finally lifted, and there he was.

Louis. Clean suit. Gold watch.

His beautiful eyes on you like he was trying to decide if you were real or just another mistake walking back into his life. Your face broke into a smile without permission. God. You forgot how he looked at people. Like he could own them without lifting a finger. You didn’t even think. You moved through the crowd, dodging hands, ignoring calls, straight to him.

“Louis.”

His name came out softer than you meant it to. He didn’t stand. Didn’t smile. Just leaned back in his chair, looking you over slowly.

“You got a lotta nerve showing up here.” That hurt more than you expected. But you swallowed it.

“I came back,” you said, quieter now. “That gotta count for somethin’.”

His jaw tightened. “For what? That don't change shit for me.”

Chicago flickered behind your eyes, cold streets, colder men, and promises that turned into fists. “I thought I could do better up there,” you admitted.

“And?”

You held his gaze. “I was wrong.” Silence stretched between you.

Then Louis held out his hand. Not for you. For proof. You understood immediately. Slowly, you reached into your stocking, pulling out everything you had folded bills, wrinkled, worn, and placed it in his palm.

Every. Last. Dollar. His fingers closed around it. Testing. Measuring. Then he looked back at you and really looked this time.

“…You ain’t learned nothing,” he murmured. But there was something softer underneath it. Something dangerous.

That’s when you noticed the man beside him.

White. Blond. Too still. Too interested. He smiled at you like he already knew you.

“Wow,” he said smoothly, accent curling around every word, “what a heartwarming reunion.” Your stomach turned.

There was something wrong about him. Something that made your skin itch. You stepped closer to Louis without thinking. His hand shifted slightly on the table subtly but protective.

“This Lestat,” Louis said, almost like a warning.

The man Lestat de Lioncourt tilted his head, amused.

“And you are…?” You didn’t answer. Didn’t want to.

Something in his eyes said answering him came with a price.

Louis noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed.

“She with me,” Louis said, firm. Lestat’s smile widened.

“Oh, I can see that.” You didn’t like the way he said it, didn’t like the way he looked between the two of you like he was in the middle of some play in front of him.

White people are weird as hell...

---

Later that night, Louis walked you home something about how the streets ain't safe.

“You really came back with nothin’?” he asked. You nodded.

“My mama took me in,” you said. “I ain’t got nowhere else.” He exhaled slowly.

“You always had somewhere,” he said, that guilt hit deeper than any man in Chicago ever could.

“I ain’t leaving again,” you said. That made him stop. You turned. He was looking at you like he wanted to believe you. Like he didn’t know how.

“Don’t say that shit unless you mean it,” he said quietly.

“I do.” A long pause. “…Come by the house tomorrow,” he said.

Your heart skipped. “For work?”

His eyes flickered something softe something almost teasing. “Nah I'll figure that out later.” Not like before. Closer. You weren’t just another girl on the floor anymore.

You sat with him. Walked with him. Sometimes, on quieter nights, he took you out. Just the two of you.

No business. No crowd. Just soft music spilling out of distant bars and the sound of your footsteps side by side. One night, he asked.

“You scared of him,” Louis said one night. You didn’t have to ask who.

“…Yeah.” He nodded like he expected it.

“You should be.” That didn’t make you feel better.

“You ain’t scared of him?”

Louis looked ahead, expression unreadable. “…Not in the way you are.” That answer sat heavy. But then his hand brushed the back off your neck. Brief. Intentional. And didn’t pull away right away. You glanced at him.

“Why you let me come back?” you asked softly. He didn’t answer immediately. Didn’t look at you. But he pulled himself closer to you.

“…I missed you.” he said. A beat. And somehow, in that moment, that meant more than anything in the world.

---

Three weeks later...

You noticed it before anyone said a word. The way the room shifted. Like the air itself had teeth. You were laughing, really laughing for the first time in a while. Some man at the bar had been sweet, harmless, tipping well and talking nonsense just to keep you smiling.

It was easy.

And then silence. Not all at once. But enough. Your smile faltered. Because you felt it.

Eyes. Burning into you.

Louis' emerald eyes, standing across the room. Still as death. Watching. The man beside you kept talking, oblivious.

“…so I told him, I said—”

“Go on,” you murmured automatically, but your attention wasn’t his anymore. It was Louis. His jaw was tight. His posture straight.

And his eyes— God.

You’d seen him angry before. But this? This wasn’t anger. This was claiming.

“Will you excuse me,” you said quickly, slipping away before the man could protest. Your heels clicked fast against the floor as you made your way to Louis.

“You look like yo are about to kill somebody,” you muttered when you reached him. “I might.” The way he said it calm, quiet made your stomach flip.

“Louis—” “Who is he?"

Not loud. Not demanding. Just… final. You crossed your arms slightly. “A customer.” His gaze sharpened.

“You laughing with him like he more than that.” That stung.

“I’m working."

“You work for me.”

Your breath caught. There it was. Not said in weeks. Not like that. But it hadn’t gone anywhere. Before you could answer, a voice slid in between you both like silk over a blade.

“Oh, Louis…” You didn’t even turn. You knew.

“You do get so… territorial.” Lestat. Leaning against the bar like he’d been there the whole time. Watching. His eyes flicked to you, slow, deliberate, amused.

“You must forgive him,” he said to you, smiling faintly.

“He hates to see what he considers his… investments… entertain alternatives.”

“I ain’t an investment,” you snapped. Lestat’s smile widened.

“Oh, I know,” he said softly.

“That’s what makes this so much more interesting." Louis stepped forward, then. Subtle. But enough to put himself between you and Lestat.

“Enough.” One word. Heavy. Controlled. Lestat’s expression didn’t change, but something in his eyes did. Something sharp. Something jealous.

“You spend an awful lot of time with her,” Lestat said softly.

“I spend my time how I choose."

“And yet,” Lestat murmured, stepping closer, “you seem to forget… you were never particularly fond of sharing.”

That word lingered. Sharing. Like you were something to be passed between them. Your chest tightened.

“I ain’t nobody’s to share,” you said, firmer now. Lestat’s gaze snapped to you.

And for a second just a second. Something inhuman flickered behind his eyes. Gone as quickly as it came. But you saw it. And it made your skin crawl. Louis noticed. Of course he did. His hand found your wrist.

Firm. Grounding. Possessive.

“She ain’t part of this conversation,” he said quietly. “But she is,” Lestat replied.

“She’s the only reason we’re having it." Silence. Thick. Charged. Then— Louis pulled you with him. Not rough. But not gentle, either. Just… certain.

“Come on.”

You didn’t speak until you were outside. The night air hit your skin like a wake-up call. You pulled your wrist free.

“Louis what the hell was that?” He turned on you fast.

“That man had his hands on you.” “He was tipping me.”

“I don’t care.” “You should,” you shot back.

“That’s money.” “I give you money enough."

“That ain’t the point!” You were breathing hard now. So was he. Standing too close. Too intense. “You don’t get to decide who I smile at,” you said. His eyes dropped to your lips.

Then back up. “You right,” he said quietly.

A beat. Then softer “…but I don’t like it.” That should’ve been simple. It wasn’t. Because of the way he said it.

Not controlling. Not fully. Just… honest. Raw. And worse, it mattered.

“You jealous?” you asked, half-teasing, half-testing.

His expression didn’t change. “Yes.” No hesitation. No shame. Just truth.

Your heart stuttered. “Of a customer?”

“Of anyone who think they can have what’s mine.” The words hit harder than they should have. Because part of you, the part that remembered Chicago, cold and alone, felt something dangerously close to comfort.

“You don’t own me,” you said, softer now.

“The hell I dont.” But he didn’t step back. Didn’t look away. “And I ain’t lettin’ him near you again."

That wasn’t a suggestion. You should’ve argued. Should’ve pushed back. But instead—

“…You really that pressed?” you murmured. His hand lifted slowly. Carefully. Brushing your jaw. Tilting your face just enough so you had to look at him.

“Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Yeah, I am.” You huff out a short laugh.

There's the Louis you know.

---

It started with the feeling.

That same one you got the first night back. Like something in the room wasn’t right. Like the air had weight to it. You weren’t supposed to be here this late.The club had closed hours ago. The music was gone. Just shadows and the faint smell of liquor soaked into wood. And yet Louis told you to wait. So you waited.

“Louis?” You called softly. No answer. Your voice felt too loud in the empty space. You hugged your shawl tighter around your shoulders. Something wasn’t right.

“You feel it now, don’t you?” Your breath caught.

You turned slowly. Lestat stands at the edge of the room. Not leaning. Not relaxed. Just… there. Watching you.

“I don’t like you sneakin’ up on me,” you muttered, trying to keep your voice steady.

He smiled faintly. “But I didn’t sneak, cher.” A pause.

“You simply didn’t hear me.” That wasn’t better.

“Where Lou at?” you asked. Lestat tilted his head.

“Delayed.” Something about the way he said it made your stomach drop. You took a step back. Then another.

“You… you always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m supposed to understand things you ain’t saying.” His smile widened slightly. “Oh, you understand more than you think.” You shook your head.

“No. I don’t. And I don’t want to.” You turned to leave. Fast. And he was suddenly in front of you. You gasped. Actually stumbled back.

“There it is,” Lestat murmured softly. “That moment.” Your heart slammed against your ribs. “You didn’t walk that fast,” you said. “I didn’t walk at all.”

“No.” Your voice came out small. "You lying.”

“Am I?” Your back hit a table. No more room to move.

No more pretending this was normal.

“You’ve been so very brave,” Lestat said, stepping closer. Too close.

“Coming back. Standing beside him. Asking questions your kind usually avoids.”

“My kind?”

He leaned in slightly. “Innocent.”

“I ain’t innocent,” you snapped, fear turning sharp.

His eyes flickered. Amusement.

“No,” he said softly. “But you are human.” The word landed heavy.

Wrong. Like it didn’t belong anymore. “You should leave,” you said quickly. “Right now.”

“I could,” he said a beat.

“But then you’d never understand him.” You froze.

“You think Louis is just a man?”

Lestat continued. “Just a businessman with a temper and a soft spot for you?” Your throat tightened.

“He is—” Lestat laughed. Not loud. But it cut through you.

“Oh, my dear…” And then his face changed. Not all at once. His eyes wrong. Too bright. Too sharp. Too hungry.

His smile wider. Too wide. And when he spoke, you saw it. Fangs. You screamed. Or tried to. His hand was over your mouth before the sound could fully escape. Fast. Too fast. Impossible.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “Don’t ruin this.” Your whole body shook. Tears burned your eyes. You tried to fight. You did. But he held you like it was nothing. Like you weighed nothing.

“See?” he murmured. “Now you understand.”

“No—” you choked against his hand. “No—no—” The door slammed open. “Get your hands off her.”

Louis. You’d never been so relieved to hear a voice. Or so terrified by it. Lestat sighed softly.

“Right on time.” But he let you go. Just like that. You stumbled forward straight into Louis. Your hands grabbed his coat, clutching like he was the only solid thing left in the world.

“Louis—” your voice broke. “Louis, he—he—”

“I know,” he said quietly. Too quietly. You looked up at him. Expecting comfort. Denial. Something. But his face wasn’t surprised. Wasn’t confused. Wasn’t anything you needed it to be.

“…You know?” you whispered.

Silence. Behind you, Lestat chuckled. “Oh, this is the part I enjoy.” Your grip on Louis tightened.

“Tell me he lying,” you said, voice shaking. “Tell me that ain’t real.” Louis didn’t answer. Didn’t look away.

And that’s when it hit you. “You knew,” you breathed. Not a question. His jaw clenched.

“I was going to tell you.”

“When?”

No answer. “When?!” you shouted. “Before it mattered.” Your chest tightened. “It matters now!” Lestat stepped closer again.

“Of course it does,” he said softly. “Because now…” His eyes dragged over you. Slow. Hungry.

“…you’ve seen.”

You backed further into Louis. Fear. Confusion.

“Stay away from her,” Louis snapped. Low. Dangerous. Not human. And for the first time, you noticed it. The stillness. The way he didn’t breathe quite right. The way his eyes… shifted.

“…Louis?” you whispered. He looked at you then. Really looked. And whatever you saw, it wasn’t entirely human either. Your stomach dropped.

“You too?” you said, barely able to get the words out. A pause.

Heavy. Then “…Yes.” The world tilted.

“No,” you shook your head. “No—no, that ain’t—”

“You’re in it now,” Lestat said softly behind you. “Whether you like it or not.”

You turned on him, anger breaking through the fear. “I ain’t ask for this!”

“No,” he agreed.

A smile. “But you stayed.”

That word again. Stayed. Your breath came fast. Your thoughts are faster. Chicago. New Orleans. Louis. The money. The nights. The way he watched you. Protected you. Held you.

“…You was gonna let me keep not knowing?” You asked Louis.

His voice was quiet. “…I was trying to keep you safe.” You let out a shaky laugh.

“Safe?” You gestured wildly toward Lestat. “From what?!”

“From this,” Louis said. “And from me.”

That hurt worse than anything. Silence fell again.

Heavy. Final. Then Lestat spoke. Soft. Certain.

“She’s not leaving.”

You stiffened. “I can leave whenever I want.”

Lestat tilted his head. “Can you?”

Your stomach twisted. Because suddenly you weren’t sure. Louis stepped in front of you again. Protective. Possessive. Conflicted.

“She ain’t part of this life,” he said. Lestat smiled. Cold. Knowing.

“She already is.” And deep down, you knew he was right.

You had tried to invest even more energy into your hunts. Become a little more creative in how you decided to corner and eat your food. But eventually, to your horror, you had lost enjoyment in even that. It was only after your last meal, a virile man in his mid-thirties who barely resembled a human anymore, that you realized this didn't really matter.

Hunting elaborately than ever and existing in general.

If you weren't even enthused or driven to kill, then you sure as hell would have never made a good friend to Armand vampire. You should just walk into the sun or set your unit on fire and be done with it.

But that would never happen. Your brain knew it despite your heart's insistence that you could no longer continue living.

Louis' last text to you was vague. When you tried to reply and see if you could get any more information out of him you were met with a disconnected number pop-up. So your boss and his husband were officially off the grid. You never even got Armand's number. You had screamed into your pillow until your throat was sore enough to give you an excuse to soothe it. You bit into your arm and drank until the itchiness subsided to a slight rasp.

After that, your life was mostly a blur. You thought you'd feel better after getting paid. Or maybe after hunting every single day twice a day for a week straight. Or doing some over the counter 'potion' mixing until your neighbors were fed up with your screams of paranoia and fits of mania, threatening to have you removed from the building if you didn't take your nonsense elsewhere. And then you thought another vampire would make you feel better.

It had been a while since the last time you tried making one, and you were struck with the realization as to why.

As the woman's body hung limply over your couch, you realized that not every human was destined for vampirism. Only the fortunate ones failed halfway through the transformation.

You don't really remember her name or what drew you to her in the first place. You just knew that she was nice, and her jewerly was ornate. Her thoughts were articulate in a pattern that was becoming increasingly rare nowadays. At first she was only meant to be a one night stand, but she had sung so prettily underneath you that you just couldn't help yourself.

She moaned when your fangs found her pulse, then screamed when you pierced flesh. It wasn't hard to reach into her scrambling, wild mind and coax her. You whispered about how wonderful it would be, layering promises of immortality and invincibility into her thoughts. And it worked. Until about half an hour into her transformation she began convulsing a bit too much, gargling on her vomit and blood until nothing could be done.

You repositioned her figure and folded her hands together on her stomach. You wiped away her bodily fluids and closed her glassy eyes shut. There. Now you could pretend she was asleep, tuckered out from the grueling process of being reborn.

Resting your head on her thigh, you looked up at her unmoving face and chest. Novelty was all you had. But you couldn't even do that right.

You only dumped her when the neighbors began to complain about a smell.

—

It was coming up on a month of not eating. But it didn't feel like it. When you had gone on hunger strikes (unwillingly, usually in cities with a high chance of someone overhearing or small towns where a missing person would trigger a day's long search party) you had noticed changes.

For instance, your teeth would become more brittle and prone to chipping. Your hair would lose its natural, ever present texture and dull. It was torture, quite frankly, to exist without indulging yourself on blood every other night.

But you were starting to become suspiscious. Certain items in your space had remained untouched, not a hair was out of place. But things just felt off.

Like the thermostat staying the same despite it's tendency to increase depending on the time. Or the way your balcony plants you had given up on long ago were still alive, not even yellow.

You were either developing a sleepwalking habit, or your home was being kept orderly by a very devoted house spirit. You would've been grateful either way, as it implied that you were at least worthy of being taken care of in such a manner.

You can't remember the last time you were held, truly held. The only thing you had were your thoughts, and fuzzy daydreams of Armand being the one fulfilling that fantasy. It was so stupid, but it made all the difference.

The both of you embracing as close as 'humanly' possible made the heartache bearable. Your mind had made the executive decision to assign Armand his own scent, despite you never being close to him long enough to be certain.

He smelled expensive, but not overwhelmingly so. A mixture of a wood-citrus that was distinctly him. As you lay on your bed, limbs outstretched starfish-style, you pondered whether you should invest in colognes. Spray the artificial essence all around your home until it felt like someone else was here with you. Someone loving, a companion to experience immortality with, never to be lonely again.

Your stomach groaned, and you swatted at your abdomen, willing it to quiet and let you stew in your depression further. More gurgles emitted and you were beginning to hate the way your body was defying you.

If I don't eat something this is just going to get worse…maybe I should get up.

You remained in bed. You suckled at your wrist until your mind shut down, following the disappearance of the moon.

—

Upon the insertion of his key, Armand knew that you were passed out. Perhaps out of exhaustion from living this pitiful lifestyle. He closed the door and gave your apartment an appraising eye. Your television was still blaring, a jingle for a cleaning product ringing throughout the walls of your home.

He found the remote in its spot on the coffee table next to your couch (one he had mixed feelings about in terms of how it clashed with the wallpaper, but he could appreciate its softness) and lowered the volume a modicum amount.

Your breathing pattern reached his ears, confirming his suspicions. Another trait of endearment, the way you emulated human behaviors despite your vampiric nature. It wasn't lost on him the way he steadfastly refused to acknowledge you as anything more than his associate, but the night where you so brazenly hunted had intrigued and enraged him.

Why do you, a young fledging, get to flaunt your true nature without anyone batting an eye? Was the world truly so desensitized that violence was commonplace and his efforts to remain concealed were all for naught? He expected answers that night in the alleyway…but the way that you responded was in a way that he never prepared for.

You were even more of a fool than he thought. You didn't even bat an eye at how everyone in the marketplace had frozen and remained unmoving until you were safely away from the scene of your crime.

Truly, you were an absolute pain in his side.

His eyes followed you all the way home. Louis had dismissed him for the time being, and Armand was always punctual in returning before Louis' preferred time of rest. He watched as you obsessed over cleaning the ring you had bitten off of your victim. A completely unecessary way to retrieve a piece of costume jewerly, but he blamed your blood-drunk state.

Your thoughts were exceptionally loud as well. Everything from 'Let's be friends' to 'I wanna boop you so bad!' were running through your brain. He was fascinated by the way you constructed these elaborate scenarios in which you would imagine him tending to your every whim. His interest piqued as you began speaking aloud what you wished to say to him upon giving him the ring.

"Armand. You have to be the most frustrating and attractive person I have ever met. " You had the ring in one hand, and you sat on your couch talking to the television as an animated movie was playing.

"I know we don't know each other that well, but I don't care! You deserve this ring and bunch of other stuff. Hugs being chief among them. I mean, seriously, when was the last time someone really held you? "

Armand blinked twice. His memory had failed him.

"I don't really miss being a human, but one of the things I do miss that I was able to get was hugs. Real, warm hugs. My mom used to hate when I would yank her into a hug, but she would melt every time. " You scratched the back of your neck. Armand sensed you becoming nostalgic and reached into the memory you were replaying.

He had to be brief, lest you suspected someone watching you, but it was an interesting scene. An older woman, your mother, cried out in annoyance at you launching your arms around her waist. It was just as you said; her voice was irritated, but she made no effort to pull away. She was soft, and he felt your bittersweet attachment to this interaction.

You cleared your throat, pulling him from your mind.

"Anyways, I just think that if you gave me a chance, we could become really good friends, you and I…or is it I and you? Me and you? Ah, whatever. "

You set the ring down on the table beside you, and Armand further concealed himself in the shadows of your balcony. He managed to glimpse at your longing expression, fixated on the fake stones that were encrusted in the piece of jewelry.

He should have found your confession repulsive, considering how much your fledgling tendencies influenced everything you did. He was half a millenia in age, far above you in every sense. He should have been more compelled to designate you as nothing but a deluded lost cause and ask Louis to dismiss you permanently.

But it wasn't like that at all.

As pitiful as you could be, there was a glimmer of something within you that made him compelled to stay and watch over you. Something of his former self, one could say-

"Armand? Are you on your way home? "

"Soon. There is something I must see to first. I will come to coffin before sunset. "

"No need to rush. Daniel's being rather…intrusive, but not any more than usual. Enjoy your trek home, love. "

Armand needed to withhold his response of 'when is he not intrusive? ' before responding,

"Thank you, I think I will. "

—

The first time he spent the night with you was immediately after his separation from Louis. After his web of lies broke apart and left him completely alone.

He couldn't comprehend a time when he was left to his own devices without the possibility of a lover there for him to mold himself around. It was silent, stifling. Was this his true self? A blank canvas for the people in his life to create art and assign meaning to?

The conclusion alone had him reeling…straight into the arms of a certain journalist. He ensured Mr. Molloy's transformation was painful, but not nearly a fraction of the anguish he experienced at the sight of Louis disposing him once and for all.

His screams were swallowed by Armand's mouth and the crimson seeped onto his black garments.

From there, Armand was reset. Mentally, he was stunned by the way a simple human had destroyed the relationship he spent decades cultivating. He felt that neverending wave of despair flood his nervous system, overriding the sensation of blood coating his body. And he was walking to your apartment and knocking on the door.

He couldn't be bothered by the way the deliveryperson stared at him wide-eyed at the sight of his dishelved state. Your nonchalance to how the world perceived you was rubbing off on him.

He stopped in front of the door. He began to understand the gravitas of the situation, how confused you would be at the sight of him. A small droplet of blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, and he didn't feel any urge to wipe it away.

You must understand. This void, the artifice of it all. You wouldn't have tried so hard to connect with me if you didn't.

It was one of the last things Armand allowed himself to think before raising a hand and knocking.

You answered him with open arms, treated him like an old friend who had come over to chat. His eyes wandered, absorbing every detail of the home you made for yourself. It was…snug.

Throughout the messy space of clothes and piling takeout bags, his eyes landed on the ring. How could something so cheaply made remind you of him? grasp your attention for so long?

"-sometimes I imagine someone for me. Someone to love me. To wake up next to, to hunt with. Someone who understands me. " You fiddled with your hands. "Sometimes I imagine it's you. "

Out of all the vampires he had met, you were truly one of the most human.

— It started with the dust. Yes, rather conspicuous, but it was truly astonishing how talented you were at neglecting your household chores. Armand found himself being your full-time caretaker, albeit a rather hands-off one.

After your…sprees, he gathered what was left of your victims (with your own supplies from home, nonetheless) and disposed of them properly. One of these days he would get around to teaching you how to do it without him. It was impressive how efficient you could be with your kills, but he saw your declining interest. How hard you tried to be the hunter and how that mask failed to stay in place after every kill.

As endearing as it was, he failed to see how your attempts at stimulation would solve your heartache. Or perhaps they weren't meant to help at all, they were just supposed to distract…either way, it still left Armand busy.

He ensured that every takeout box was stacked neatly in a corner of the living room. He also made sure that your home was the exact tempertature you prefered it. It required some time to properly learn (and several books. And trips to gardening stores) but he managed to keep your plants alive as well.

He was in the midst of watering one of the succulents when he heard you groaning awake. Odd. You usually awoke far later than this. Not a problem, Armand thought,

"Darling, I'll be there in a moment, you just rest now, alright? "

You moaned out his name, drawing out the syllables. Your speech was slurred as well. Armand set down the small watering can behind the curtain of your living room window and walked unhurriedly to your bedroom. You were still spread out, but you were intermittedly writhing in discomfort. Your eyes were scrunched together and your nails dug into your palms.

Armand took careful steps towards the side of your bed. He picked up and rearranged some pillows that had fallen off before crawling onto the mattress. You felt the weight shift and immediately began seeking him out, your groans now amplifying into a high pitched whine.

He knew what this was. At first, when he began to feed you once you no longer had the desire to, he noticed your odd sleeping habits. Depending on the type of blood you had consumed determined how fitful your rest was. He discovered for himself how much you prefered blood that made you ditsy with recreational and illegal drugs alike. It painfully reminded him of Louis…despite how desperately he wished it didn't. At the very least the blood made you pliant enough for him to hold you...similar to how he was now.

Armand cradled your body close to his own as your sounds quieted. His soft strokes to your skull had lulled you back into a restful slumber. He made sure that your face was right at the junction of his neck so that all you could smell and dream and think and want was him him him

Having to erase your memories was becoming rather tedious. Not a burden, never a burden, but Armand found himself wanting to revist certain memories with you that only he remembered.

He respositioned your legs to drape over his lap. Despite preferring you to be awake, his hypnosis should still work regardless. He lowered his lips close to your ear and began to whisper.

"It is Tuesday the fourteenth. You are my companion, you have been for years now. You love me and I love you. It is Tuesday the fourteenth. You are my companion, you have been for years now. You love me and I love you. It is Tuesday the fourteenth. You are my companion, you have been for years now. You love me and I love you. "

"We have just hunted as a pair but you want to go out again tonight. I will deny, and you will beg. We will hunt again tonight. We have just hunted as a pair but you want to go out again tonight. I will deny, and you will beg. We will hunt again tonight. "

"This is our normal. This is our normal. This is our normal. "

—

You awoke with a splitting headache. You groaned and began sitting up, but you were stopped by a soft hand pulling you close.

"Shh, darling. Let's sleep a little while longer. "

Ah, Armand. Such a cuddler, you thought, wincing through the discomfort of your throbbing temple. You tried to readjust yourself so you could cradle Armand and rub your head, but it was difficult. He seemed to have an allergy to being more than a centimeter away from you.

"Armand, my head. Hurts real bad. " Was all you could manage, your mouth feeling cotton-stuffed. Armand put a hand to the sides of your head and began to massage.

"I told you to not overindulge last night, dear. Such reckless abandon will only lead to pain. " He chided softly. You whined, leaning more into his relaxing touch.

"'m sorry. Won't happen again. "

He gave you a disbelieving look but refrained from saying his real thoughts. Thank goodness, you wouldn't be able to handle a lecture right after waking up. You placed a soft hand on the elbow that was massaging your temples.

"I love you so much, Armand. I dunno what I'd do without you. "

He grinned, "As do I, darling. You would most likely be in a downward spiral without me. Aimless and without purpose. " He lightly booped your nose.

"Thank goodness I'm here to make sure you that never happens. "

You hummed.

"Armand? "

"Yes? "

"Do you think we could go out again tonight though? Not to eat! Just to have a date night, away from this crummy old place. "

"Don't call your home crummy, dear, I enjoy it here. "

"Yeah, I guess it could be worse. But it feels like I haven't been out in a hot minute, and I wanna show you my favorite people-watching spot! "

"The building overlooking the harbor, next to the marketplace? Yes, we've been there already. "

"Oh…well there's the-! "

"We've been to the cemetary, and the floral shop, and the art museum, yes, all of them. " He pursed his lips before continuing,

"I'm beginning to worry for your memory, love. Don't you remember those outings? How lovely the stars were? "

"No, not really..jeez, maybe I'm really starting to lose it. "

"Nonsense. How about I take you to my favorite people-watching spot instead? "

"Ooh! " You exclaimed in excitement before hissing in pain, a white flash of pain bursting behind your eyes. Armand held his wrist, now dripping with blood, to your lips and you eagerly began to suckle.

"I'll take that as a yes, then. " His eyelids began to lower as he watched you drink his blood. Once you had your fill you licked off the excess liquid and pressed a kiss to the healing wound.

"Thank you, Armand. "

He pressed a kiss to your forehead.

"Never apologize for needing me, dearest. "

authors note: this is dedicated to @lolagaming22 thank you for commenting and showing support!!! :D i hope you enjoyed reading!!

You were ovulating.

That was clear.

You had been staring at Armand for quite some time now. Or better, you were staring at his hands busy rearranging his photographs collection.

They were always so elegant and beautiful, even with their sharp nails ready to cut you deeply if he desired.

And deeply you wanted them.

You mentally slapped yourself at the thought. You were not a horny teenager, it was not suitable for you to think or act like one.

"My love, I'm trying very hard not to dig into your thoughts right now, but it appears you're screaming them against the borders of my mind," Armand commented without diverting his attention from his task at hand, though a hint of amusement could be heard in his voice.

You mentally slapped yourself again. "I'm sorry. It's just—"

"Ovulation. Yes, I know."

You opened and closed your mouth a couple of times, eventually giving up when nothing came out. You just sat there on the sofa, staring at him with a blush on your face.

At least, there were a few metres between the two of you, with him standing at the table in the living room. You wouldn’t have been able to breathe properly if he were sitting next to you right now, given your current state.

You'd always had a high libido, but when previous partners pointed out that a woman should be more contained with her desires, you put a shackle on them. Asking less, even when you wanted more.

You applied the same method with Armand. You fucked or made love no more than twice a week, even though your body was ready for him every day. You didn't want him to think you were a nymphomaniac, or something similar.

"Don't push them down, my love."

"What?"

Armand had stepped closer to you while you were lost in your thoughts. He was standing in front of you now, staring you down with a small smile.

"You've been doing this for quite some time now. Are you ashamed of what your body desires?"

You took a deep breath, forcing yourself not to divert your gaze from his. "Maybe ashamed is a strong word, more like embarrassed."

"Why?"

"One of the many views society has of women that was ingrained in my brain since my teenage years. A woman should not be too open about her urges, she should adapt herself based on what her partner's desire, if she doesn't want to be discarded." You were saying the words as if it were a sermon you were forced to learn for Sunday mass.

Armand inclined his head to the side, squinting his eyes slightly. "Do you care about societal norms?"

You shook your head. "Not really. But I cared about what my partners thought of me at the time, and so I am not comfortable in showing the extent of my needs openly anymore."

"Do I make you uncomfortable?"

"Never," you stated firmly. "I just don’t want you to think that I'm with you only for your body, especially considering your history."

Armand kneeled down in front you, the look in his eyes even softer than before. "Do you love me?"

"So much."

"Then you could never hurt me like that. What hurts me is you thinking you should hold back your desires for my sake."

You blinked at him, pondering on his words. "I don't want to ask for too much."

"Nothing you ask is too much," Armand replied, leaving a light kiss on your thigh, one of his hands resting on the back of your knee. "So tell me, what do you need right now?"

You took a deep breath, realizing in that moment you were sitting there in just a long t-shirt and panties. You were wet, and you knew Armand could see it perfectly from his position on the floor.

"I need you to touch me."

"You must be more specific, my love, I'm already touching you."

Fuck it.

"I want you inside me. Is that specific enough?"

Armand let out a small laugh, both of his hands rising and disappearing under the bottom of your shirt to get a hold of your panties. "Perfect."

He took your underwear down your legs with no hurry, his smile not faltering once. Armand seemed extremely pleased by this turn of events.

"Is three fine for you?"

You frowned at him in confusion. "I don't understand."

"Are three orgasms enough or do you want more?"

Your mouth opened in shock. "I never come more than twice."

"Never will not exist after tonight." Armand lifted your legs from the floor, putting them on his shoulders with ease. "Take off your shirt for me, my love."

You did as he asked quickly, before settling back in your previous position. You were fully exposed to Armand's gaze, and you welcomed the pleasant tingle running down your spine at the knowledge.

"Are you sure you're comfortable on the floor?"

"Yes."

Armand's mouth was on you in a second, his lips closing on your clit softly. He gave two tentative sucks, before starting to attack your bud with his tongue.

The sudden spike of pleasure made you moan loudly, your hands darting out to Armand's head holding on to his curls for dear life.

"S-Shit."

You started grinding your hips against his face, trying to keep up with his movements but his tongue was playing with your clit in such a fast paced rhythm, you couldn't even hope to match. Armand was silently telling you to just let go and take what he was giving to you.

He pushed back your legs even more, your knees making contact with your shoulders as you felt his mouth moving lower. The second his tongue breached your entrance, you threw your head back against the back of the couch, mouth opening with no sound coming out.

Armand was fucking you with his tongue. There was no other way to describe it. You weren't even sure he was breathing, and yet your hands still tried to pull him even closer.

Your breathing was getting erratic, punched out of your lungs with every stroke of his tongue inside you. Your climax was coming too soon and too fast.

Armand freed his right hand shifting his left arm in a way that allowed him to keep both your legs in position with a single limb.

You knew what was coming, but there was no way for you to prepare yourself. You could only stay where you were and take it.

Two of his fingers replaced his tongue inside you, as he moved his mouth back up to your clit. Armand kept the same fast pace, the wet squelch of the rough fingering you were receiving echoing in the room alongside your moans. He was hitting the same specific spot over and over again, sparks of electricity lighting up your nerves from the inside.

Armand gave your clit a long and hard suck, and when you felt his teeth grazing against it delicately, you were tipped over the edge. You let out a loud scream, arching your body on the couch as much as the position you were in could allow.

Your mind blacked out for a few seconds, and when you came to, your legs were resting relaxed on the cushions of the sofa with Armand leaving a trail of wet kisses from your belly up to your chest.

"Are you okay, my love?" He asked, finally raising his head to meet your eyes.

"More than okay."

"Good."

In a quick movement Armand stood up from his kneeling position taking you with him. You tried to hold on to him, but your grip was weak with your body still shaking from the aftermath of your orgasm.

Armand put you down gently on the bed, giving you a quick kiss on your forehead before he started undressing. A stark contrast to the filth he committed with it between your legs.

"On your knees, my love. Hands on the headboard."

Your breath hitched in your throat at his command, but you followed through without a single complain. You positioned yourself in the way that was most comfortable to you, as Armand finished taking off his clothes behind you.

A shiver of anticipation traveled along your body from head to toe, reaching its final stop at your core. You waited patiently without turning around, and when you felt the bed dip under Armand's weight, your breath and heartbeat picked up again.

You jumped slightly the moment his arms circled around your torso, his hands coming to rest softly on your chest.

"Is this position comfortable, my love?"

"Yes."

His hands moved back down your sides, a quick squeeze of your waist signaling you to arch your back a bit more. Again, you did as he asked.

He continued his journey down, fingers caressing your entrance with delicate strokes, making you tremble.

"Do you need me to stretch you more?"

"No," you managed to answer. Your voice no louder than a whisper.

Armand entered you in a single slide, your muscles opening for him without any resistance. You squeezed the headboard as the wave of pleasure hit you all at once.

Armand held you with one of his arms wrapped around your waist, while the other joined yours on the headboard. If before the rhythm was fast paced, now Armand opted for long and slow strokes that didn't leave a single nerve ending untouched, making you crumble weakly under his body.

"You always feel so good, my love," Armand breathed against your ear. "You were made for me."

Armand picked up the pace, your hips shooting back to match his rhythm. With how sensitive you were after the first orgasm, it wouldn't take long for you to come again.

"I'm close."

"I know. You're squeezing so beautifully around me." The hand on the headboard shifted on top of yours, giving you comfort as you prepared yourself for your second climax. "Let go."

With two more precise thrusts, you were gone. Your arms gave in at the intensity of the pleasure, but Armand's arms never allowed you to fall down against the bed, holding you up until you came down from the peak.

You found yourself on your back with Armand on top of you the next second. His eyes staring down at you to dissect how you were feeling.

"Ready for a third?"

You let out a quiet laugh. "I don't think my body can, actually."

Armand hummed in thought. "I'll show you. If it gets to intense, you use your safe word, do you understand?"

"Yes."

His hands lifted your hips from the mattress, as he entered you again in a smooth thrust. Armand set a brutal pace from the start, now chasing his own end as well.

The position was hitting your g-spot repeatedly, giving you little shocks with every movement. Your moans turned into whines, your body complete jelly in his hands.

You didn't think it was possible but pleasure was spiking again in your core, spreading quickly along your limbs. Your hands were squeezing the sheets in an attempt to ground yourself, as your mind threatened to disconnect completely from the moment.

"Armand, Armand…"

"I'm here. I got you, little one"

He was reaching his limit, the strain in his voice a clear indicator, but he was holding back until he fulfilled his promise.

His thumb came down to stroke at your clit, a single touch enough to send you over the edge a third and last time. Your muscles seized at the pleasure running in your body, it was so strong that it took away all the energy you had left to scream.

You distantly heard a loud groan coming from above you, Armand reaching his climax as you felt him filling you up with his release.

It took you a few minutes to fully regain your full mental capacity, your eyes opening slowly and with great effort. You were completely spent.

Armand was still lying on top of you, his length getting soft inside you but he didn't seem willing to move even an inch away from your body.

"You did amazing, my love," Armand said softly against your cheek.

"I didn't do anything."

"You took everything I gave you, and you did it splendidly."

If you had any energy left in you, you would have blushed at his words.

Maybe you weren't too much, after all. You were made enough for Armand to come into your life and make you feel finally complete. ---

He thought you didn’t know.

But you saw him.

You always saw him.

The first time, it was only a shadow: a towering figure half-hidden behind the black skeleton of a pine tree, watching you as you hung freshly washed sheets beneath a washed-out winter sky. Another time, you caught the briefest flash of his eyes, pale and aching with something that wasn’t quite hunger and wasn’t quite hatred, as he melted back into the dark.

The creature.

Adam Frankenstein.

The villagers whispered about a monster in the woods, a patchwork horror that should have never drawn breath, but you knew better. Monsters didn’t leave bread on your windowsill on nights you forgot to eat. Monsters didn’t stack kindling by your step after snowstorms, or set down a freshly killed hare just close enough that your old dog could sniff it out in the morning. Monsters didn’t linger at the edge of your light like a shield, taking every blow the world had meant for you.

So you started leaving things for him, too.

A still-warm loaf of bread wrapped in cloth and left on a flat stone near the forest’s edge. A thick, clumsily sewn shirt you’d stitched by candlelight, big enough to fit the breadth of his shoulders as best you could guess. A pair of gloves with uneven fingers. Each offering would be gone by morning, and in their place there’d be… nothing. No note. No mark. Just a silence that somehow felt shy.

Spring came slowly, softening the snow into streams and coaxing green from the hard earth. One bright morning, you took your dog and followed the familiar path beneath the budding branches, letting the cool air kiss your cheeks. You could feel him behind you—no longer a rumour, but a steady presence in the spaces between birdsong and the crunch of twigs underfoot.

He was careful with his distance.

Careful with you.

You felt him before you saw him.

The air behind you changed—thicker somehow, as if the very forest were holding its breath.

Your dog’s ears flicked, tail giving the smallest wag, but he did not bark. He sat at your heel, as though he, too, had long grown used to the giant shadow that haunted the trees.

You stood in the clearing, sunlight painting your skirts in pale gold, fingers resting lightly upon your dog’s head.

“I know you are there,” you said, voice steady despite the pounding in your chest. “You have been there for a very long time, have you not?”

Silence.

The birds went quiet. A breeze stirred the budding branches overhead, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and something else—old smoke, metal, and the faintest trace of soap, as though someone had tried, clumsily, to scrub himself clean.

You swallowed your nervousness and smiled, though he could not see it. Not yet.

“Tell me, Adam,” you continued, your tone turning wry, “how much longer until you understand that I have always known about you… and that you do not frighten me in the least?”

Something shifted among the trees to your left. A heavy footstep, then another, crunching over last year’s leaves. Your dog gave a low, pleased whine.

Slowly, as though dragged forward by some unseen chain, he stepped out from the shadows.

He was larger than you had imagined, even after months of stolen glances. Broad shoulders strained the seams of the very shirt you had sewn by candlelight. The fabric sat oddly upon him, as if he were still unsure he had the right to wear something made with care.

His face—oh, his face.

You had prepared yourself for horror.

Instead, you found sadness.

Features too sharply cut, as though chiseled in haste and anger. Eyes a pale, unnatural blue, ringed by the kind of weariness usually reserved for much older men. There were scars, yes, and those patchwork seams that betrayed the unnatural hand that had pieced him together, but beneath them all… he was simply a man who did not know how to occupy his own skin.

He stopped several paces away, hands held slightly out from his sides, as though to show he carried no weapon.

“You… you ought to run,” he said at last, his voice rough and low, the words strangely precise yet hesitant, like a man learning to speak again after a long illness. “The villagers would tell you to flee.”

“The villagers,” you replied, “have never once stacked firewood by my door after a storm.”

His jaw tightened. He glanced away, as though ashamed.

“That was nothing,” he muttered. “A mere… task. I happened to be near.”

“And the hare left upon my step in January? Was that another mere task?”

He shifted his weight, great hands curling into fists. “You were thin,” he said grudgingly. “There were no tracks near your home. I deduced you did not hunt.”

“And the wolves?” you pressed gently. “The ones that never cross the boundary of my field, though their howls wake me in the night?”

His throat worked. For a moment, the creature looked almost… irritated. “They are foolish animals,” he said. “They do not understand when they trespass upon what is mine to guard.”

Your heart stuttered at that word.

“Yours to guard,” you echoed softly.

At last his gaze met yours. There was a terrible vulnerability in it, like a child braced for mockery.

“You ought not look at me so,” he said, voice rougher now. “You ought to scream. Or at the very least, avert your eyes.”

“I shall do neither,” you answered. “You have been my unseen champion all winter, sir. I should think it discourteous to shriek at you now.”

He frowned, as though the very notion of courtesy applied to him was offensive.

“I am no ‘sir’,” he said. “The man who stitched me together did not deem me fit for such a title.”

“Then what shall I call you?” you asked, ignoring the chill that raced down your spine at his choice of words. “The villagers speak of a monster. A demon. A fiend. I do not care for any of those.”

A shadow of something like humour passed over his face. “He called me Adam,” he said quietly. “As though I were the first of my kind.”

You nodded once. “Very well, Adam.”

Your dog, emboldened by your calm, trotted forward and sniffed at his boots. Adam stared down at him as though the small creature were some strange, new invention.

“He does not fear me,” Adam murmured, almost to himself.

“Animals are often better judges of character than men,” you replied. “He knows you have watched over us.”

A muscle jumped in his cheek. “I watched to ensure no harm came to you,” he corrected. “Whether you knew of it or not is of little consequence.”

“On the contrary.” You took a small step closer. His eyes widened, as though you had moved a mile instead of a foot. “It is of great consequence. You believed yourself unseen, did you not?”

He hesitated, then gave a small, reluctant nod.

“Then you must also have believed that the bread, and the shirt, and the gloves appeared by some miracle of the woods.” You tilted your head. “Or did you imagine the forest itself had begun to sew?”

Colour—faint but unmistakable—rose along the visible seam of his throat. He looked past you, toward the stone where you always left your gifts.

“I thought…” He paused, visibly searching for words. “I wondered if perhaps you had set them out for the poor. For some wandering soul more deserving than I.”

Your chest ached. “And yet you took them.”

“Yes.” His gaze dropped to his hands, as though the gloves were still upon them. “I told myself I had stolen them. That you would never know. That is the sort of thing a monster does, is it not? Take what is not his?”

“If I leave something upon the edge of the wood with no name attached,” you said gently, “is it truly theft for the one I hoped would claim it… to do so?”

His eyes snapped back to yours, startled. “You… hoped…?”

“For whom else do you suppose I stitched sleeves of that length?” you asked, lips quirking. “There is no man in the village with shoulders so broad as yours, Adam.”

He stared at you as though you had struck him. Not in pain—more in stunned disbelief.

“You… knew,” he breathed. “You knew I was there. All this time.”

“Yes.”

“And you were not afraid.”

You considered this. “I was wary,” you said honestly. “At first. One does not wake to strange footprints and dead wolves without a certain degree of alarm. But then I saw you. Hiding like a boy behind those poor trees, trying very hard not to be seen. And I thought—”

You broke off, biting your lip.

He took a half-step forward despite himself. “You thought what?”

“I thought,” you said slowly, “that no true monster skulks in the shadows to keep a woman’s cottage safe through a winter as harsh as this last one. No true monster leaves food instead of taking it. No true monster looks at another living soul the way you looked at my dog last month—do not pretend you were not there, I saw you through the curtain—like you were afraid to even breathe in his direction for fear you might somehow break him.”

He said nothing. His breath misted faintly in the cool spring air, harsh and uneven.

“You should not look so kindly upon me,” he managed at last. “It is… improper.”

“Improper,” you repeated, amusement bubbling up despite the solemnity of his tone. “We are alone in the forest, Adam. There is no vicar here to scold us.”

“It is not the vicar I fear,” he muttered. “It is myself.”

Your smile faded.

“Why?” you asked.

He looked down at his hands again, turning them palm up as though they were strange objects he’d found rather than parts of his own body.

“These hands have done terrible things,” he said quietly. “I have torn wolves apart, as you have seen. I have broken men who sought to harm me. I have throttled hatred at its source and found only more hatred beneath it. I was created in violence and I fear I shall end in it as well.” His eyes lifted to yours, desperate. “I cannot trust myself near that which is gentle.”

Your throat tightened. “You have been near me all winter.”

“At a distance,” he insisted. “A barrier of trees. Of shadow. Of night. It is different now.”

“Is it?” You closed the gap between you by another small step. He sucked in a breath, shoulders going rigid. You could feel the heat radiating from him now, unnatural in its intensity, like standing too close to a forge. “I feel no danger from you, Adam.”

“You should.”

“But I do not.” You lifted your hand, giving him every opportunity to retreat. “May I?”

He stared at your outstretched fingers as though they were some holy relic. “I… do not know.”

“We shall discover it together,” you said softly.

After a moment that stretched thin as spun sugar, he extended his own hand, large and scarred and trembling just enough for you to see. You laid your palm against his.

Warm. Solid. Very real.

He flinched, not from pain, but from the shock of contact.

“See?” you murmured. “You have not broken me.”

“Not yet,” he said hoarsely.

You squeezed his fingers. “Nor shall you, if I have any say in the matter.”

For a heartbeat, the forest was nothing but the two of you and the soft panting of your dog at your side. A bird dared a tentative trill somewhere above, as though deciding the danger had passed.

“You treat me as though I were… a man,” Adam said quietly, almost accusingly.

“You are,” you replied simply.

His brows drew together. “I am a collection of parts stolen from graves. I am a blasphemy against God and nature both.”

“You are standing in the sunlight speaking to me with more courtesy than half the men in town,” you countered. “If that is blasphemy, then perhaps we have misjudged Heaven.”

A startled, rough sound escaped him—half laugh, half exhale. As though he had forgotten how ordinary mirth should feel in his chest.

“You should not say such things,” he chided, but there was no true censure in it. “You are too bold.”

“You have been listening to me mutter to myself all winter,” you reminded him. “You ought to know by now that my tongue is not easily tamed.”

“I know many things about you,” he admitted, voice going soft. “I know you speak kindly to your dog even when he chews your shoes. I know you hum that same song each morning when you light the stove. I know you eat too little when you are anxious. I know you cry when you believe no one can hear.”

Your breath caught. “You ought not watch a lady in such moments,” you said, flustered.

“I know,” he said, guilt flickering through his gaze. “And yet I could not look away. Your sorrow… it frightened me more than wolves ever could. I wished to tear apart whatever had caused it, but there was nothing there. Only you, and your hands shaking, and your tears falling into the dough you were kneading.”

You blinked rapidly, your throat thick. “You saw that.”

“Yes.”

“And you still think yourself a monster,” you whispered.

He hesitated. “Do you not?”

You stepped closer until there was barely a breath between you, your hand still cradled in his. You had to tilt your head back to meet his eyes fully.

“If I say no,” you asked, “will you believe me?”

“I… do not know.” His voice cracked on the words.

“Then I shall tell you as many times as necessary until you do.” Your lips curved into a small, earnest smile. “You are not a monster to me, Adam. You are the reason I have slept safely these many months. You are the reason my dog still runs through these woods without fear. You are the reason I am standing here today, whole and unharmed.”

He swallowed hard. “Any man might have done as much.”

“But no man did.” You lifted your free hand to his chest, pressing your palm lightly over where his heart would be—if it beat. “You did.”

His breath hitched. For a moment, he seemed to forget how limbs functioned, standing utterly still as though one wrong move might shatter the moment into fragments.

“You should not touch me so,” he said weakly.

“And yet,” you murmured, “you do not step away.”

He closed his eyes, jaw clenched. “Because I am selfish. Because I have spent a season watching you from afar and I am not yet strong enough to deny myself this one brief… kindness.”

“Adam,” you said softly. “Look at me.”

He obeyed. Slowly, hesitantly, but he obeyed.

“There is nothing ‘brief’ about what I intend,” you told him. “You have guarded my cottage as though it were a kingdom. Will you not allow me, at the very least, to guard your heart in return?”

His lips parted, but no sound came. You could see the war waging behind his eyes—fear and longing and disbelief all tangled together.

“You… would keep company with me?” he managed at last. “Knowing what I am?”

“Knowing who you are,” you corrected. “A man named Adam who walks the tree line at night so that I may sleep. A man who refuses to let wolves cross my field. A man who looks at my foolish old dog as though he were some creature made of glass.” Your fingers curled briefly against his chest. “If that is monstrosity, I shall gladly consort with monsters.”

Another laugh—clearer this time—escaped him. It transformed his face, smoothing some of the harsh lines, revealing the man beneath the scars.

“You are very stubborn,” he said.

“So I have been told.”

“And you would not… flee, if I came nearer? If I…” He faltered, gaze flickering to your joined hands. “If I visited your cottage when the sun has set?”

“I should be most put out if you did not,” you said lightly. “I have an extra chair by the hearth and no one to fill it. My dog prefers company. As, I suspect, do I.”

He stared at you as though trying to determine whether this were some cruel trick of the mind. At last, cautiously, he lifted his other hand to hover near your cheek, stopping inches away.

“May I?” he asked, echoing your earlier words.

You leaned into the space between, closing the distance yourself. His fingers brushed your skin—calloused, uncertain, trembling. He cupped your cheek as though cradling something far more fragile than you felt.

“You are warm,” he whispered, wonder in his tone.

“And you are real,” you replied.

His thumb swept once, reverently, along your cheekbone. “If I frighten you,” he said softly, “you must tell me at once. I will go, and I shall not trouble you again, though it break what passes for my heart.”

“I do not believe you capable of breaking my heart,” you said. “Guarding it, perhaps. As you have guarded everything else.”

His eyes shone, sudden moisture gathering there. He blinked it away quickly, as though ashamed.

“I do not understand why you would offer such mercy to me,” he murmured.

“Perhaps,” you said gently, “it is not mercy. Perhaps it is simply… affection.”

The word seemed to strike him with more force than any blow.

“Affection,” he repeated, voice barely audible. “For me.”

“For you,” you affirmed. “For Adam, who walks the forest so that I might live another day to bake too much bread and scold my dog and sew shirts far too large.” Your smile softened. “Stay with me, and I shall show you there is more for you than shadows and solitude.”

He drew in a long, shaky breath. When he exhaled, something in his posture eased—the line of his shoulders, the set of his jaw. As though a burden he had carried alone for far too long had shifted, just slightly, into your waiting hands.

“Very well,” he said at last, voice low but resolute. “I shall try.”

Your heart lifted, light as the first spring breeze.

“Good,” you replied. “Then you shall walk me home, Adam. And after that, if you wish, you may sit by my fire and tell me all the things you have seen from the edge of the wood.”

He glanced once toward the deeper forest, then back to you—the woman who had left bread and stitched shirts and dared to speak kindly to the creature everyone else feared.

“As you wish,” he said quietly.