✿

As you know, counting sheeps is perfect for sleep. Sheeps take that job very seriously. But some are still learning. It’s fine, I don’t think Wolf Hunter minds. 🐑🐑🐑

Watch with VERY CUTE AUDIO here!:

(Idk how many parts I'll be making or if everything after this will be just a bunch of headcanons)

________________________________

Part 1 / ???

Damian knew there was someone else in the manor. Some hidden presence that nobody else seemed to notice. Just like a new toy that he one day found Titus playing with. Or a small batch of cold pastries and sweets that was left in the dining room each time he returned from the patrol. It wasn't Pennyworth. Whatever he presented them with was always warm and fresh. And there was a clear difference in quality too.

He confronted his siblings and even father about it just to be dismissed as he was just "not used to the new home". It must have been his paranoia playing tricks since he wasn't used to feeling so safe (at least the manor was supposed to be that).But when he talked to the butler about it, he finally got an answer. A name said so casually while the man was doing his chores kept ringing in his ears.

"Who is that?"

"Your half sister, master Damian."

The boy's brain short-circuited in that moment. For several seconds he just stood there, staring at the water running as Alfred was washing the dishes.

Half sister. Half sister...

Half?

Sister?

As in, a blood child of his father?

Damian opened his mouth to say something several times, but words died in his throat with each attempt. Really, what could he even say? What should he ask? His whole life he thought he was the only heir of renowned Bruce Wayne. And now they just drop it on him that there's another one? And a butler of all people is the one to tell him?

Finally, words manage to leave his mouth.

"Why was I not notified of this?"

"That is an excellent question."

That's it. That's the only answer he gets. Because, perhaps, Pennyworth didn't know himself. In a house such as this, where every child is treasured regardless of their background and what they went through, why would one be just... what even was it? Forgotten? Ignored? For God's sake, she literally lived in the same building, why did everyone act like she didn't exist?

Damian especially, as an heir, had every right to know if there were any other rivals for his status, and everyone here seemed to completely disregard that. He'd be certain to confront father about it as soon as he sees him. The man is lucky he is out of the manor for now, otherwise he would have suffered his unadulterated wrath right then and there.

_________________________

Before he knew it, Damian was standing in front of a door. The hallway was quiet and the room seemed to be located further away from all others, in a wing he rarely visited, if ever. And as far as he knew, the rest of the family did too. It was Alfred that directed him towards the elusive sister's room.

The boy clenched his teeth as he brought his hand up to knock. It was just then that he noticed that his heart was beating faster than normal. He was about to meet his rival after all. Yes, that must be it. A measured knock disrupted the silence.

He waited.

No answer.

He knocked again.

Nothing.

Not even a sound.

Strange. It was as if nobody was on the other side at all. It was too early to sleep, so it couldn't be that.

He swallowed hard, took a deep breath and turned the handle... unlocked...

The door opened just a crack and he peeked in. As expected, the bed was empty. He peeked over the door to see the rest of the room to, again, see no one. Furrowing his brows he walked in.

Damian looked around the space. It was clean, the bed was made, windows closed. Some books were placed neatly on the shelves, some were textbooks, others seemed like classic novels of some kind but despite no dust covering them it didn't seem like anyone touched them in a while. The desk didn't hold any trinkets like Steph's, no notebooks, or toys, or anything of the sort. The room looked occupied, but not lived in. Not a single personal belonging seemed to be placed in the open. Nothing to give him even a hint of what kind of person the occupant was. Was that on purpose? A way to conceal their identity just like they concealed their presence in the manor? It was more frustrating than Damian would like to admit.

Just like the fact that he STILL didn't get to meet them. Pennyworth said his sister was currently in the manor, so where the hell was she?

He thought about looking through more rooms or inquiring the butler about her whereabouts again, but then he noticed the clock on the wall, reminding him that it would be soon time for his patrol.

___________

It was infuriating. Not just the presence of a potential rival for his status as an heir. Not even the fact that he failed to corner them or even get a glimpse of them in almost a week. But most of all, it was the way others behaved.

The second Damian saw Bruce on patrol he immediately demanded answers. The man tried to brush it off but to no avail, the boy was relentless. Still, the answer was less than satisfactory. Simple "yes, you have a sister" and as for the reason why nobody told him "it slipped my mind".

Slipped his mind.

The same man that upon arrival introduced him to every single one of the siblings present in the house. Notified him of each one that was absent. And later specifically made time to introduce each one of those as soon as they stepped foot in the manor. That same man claimed that his own blood child just "slipped his mind".

In later days he tried to ask his siblings about it. Tim, naturally, didn't provide any useful information, so he went for Stephanie, as she was the most loud and talkative of the bunch. Her nonchalant reply practically knocked the air out of his lungs.

"Oh, right, I haven't seen her in a while." the blonde said sipping her coffee.

"What the hell do you mean "haven't seen her in a while"?! You live in the same house!"

How this family didn't implode on itself was actually beyond him. For all he knew, she could be a spy gathering information on him and feeding it to whatever of this city's maniacs paid more, and they just had no idea where she was or what she was doing and acted so casual about it too. And when he shared a piece of his mind with them, they also brushed it off as her being just a normal quiet teen.

Damian cussed under his breath as he stepped out of the elevator. He had to end the patrol early tonight. Too early, in his opinion, but father wouldn't allow any argument on that. According to him, Damian was too emotional lately (how could he not be, with everything going on?) , not focused enough during a mission. And most importantly, he had a test tomorrow and needed time to prepare (not really, he was certain he could ace it with eyes closed). So, here he was, fresh out of his costume, walking through the hall towards the dining room to get himself some sort of snack for the night.

A dim light caught his attention. It was rather strange for Pennyworth to be setting anything up this late. Could it be one of his siblings?

Turning the corner he froze. The girl standing at the counter was unfamiliar. She was pulling cheap looking pastries out of a paper bag. Her posture was stiff, as if she knew someone was in the room with her. Before she could turn around to face him the boy moved and katana was already pointing at her throat.

The girl held out her hands in surrender and smiled awkwardly.

"You are not going to believe this," he started in a tizzy.

You put your DDD down, expecting him to launch right into a high-powered vent. Instead, he insisted, "I need to sit down. You need to hear this."

There was plenty of space. Asmodeus plopped down with enough force to bounce you a little bit upwards. In the second it took for you and the cushion to fall back into place, he grabbed your arm and hoisted it to eye level.

You watched, too puzzled and surprised to say anything, as he pulled your feet out from under your legs and pushed them off the couch. Your ankle hit the floor at a painful angle. He pushed your shoulder back so your spine straightened up and nudged you a couple of centimeters closer to the armrest.

Asmodeus spent about a minute arranging you as he saw fit. He picked a loose thread off your shirt and smoothed down the fabric over your thighs before finally laying the back of his head right in your lap. Several seconds of adjusting his neck to find the perfect spot followed. At last, he set your hand down over his chest, the cherry on top of his preferred seating arrangement, where he held your fingers like a fidget toy.

Asmodeus stared up at you, a soothing sight for stress-filled eyes, while his body laid out across the entire rest of the couch. His high-end clothes started to wrinkle.

✮⋆˙ slowly, then all at once au masterlist

✮⋆˙ slowly, then all at once au fics!

summary: in which garrett graham hires a nanny to help raise his daughter, never expecting her to slowly become the person who feels most like home.

pairing: single dad!garrett graham x reader

notes: hi!! i really hope you all enjoy this little teaser! 🥹💌 this au is a little different from my other two, and is inspired by 'caught up' from the windy city series. sending so much love to you all! <3

ꪆৎ

there are exactly three things everyone in the locker room knows about garrett graham.

he's the youngest captain in franchise history, he hates losing more than anyone they've ever met, and if his phone rings during practice with a picture of a little brunette girl wearing a princess crown, everything stops.

"hold on."

he doesn't even apologise, pulling off one glove, skating towards the bench before answering his phone immediately, your contact name flashing across his screen.

"hey, y/n. everything okay?"

it's not you who answers. instead, a tiny voice squeals so loudly he has to hold the phone away from his ear.

"daddy!"

garrett can't help but smile.

"hey, bug!"

Dean’s hoodie smells faintly like laundry detergent, stale beer and whatever cologne he’d sprayed on three days ago.

It’s three sizes too big. She’s disappeared into it completely, sleeves hanging over her hands while she sits sideways on the back porch step beside Dean, the joint moving lazily between them as the winter air turns every exhale into something visible.

Somewhere inside the house, Logan is losing an argument with Tucker about whether cereal counts as dinner. The bass from somebody’s abandoned speaker hums softly through the wall.

Dean passes her the joint. She takes it with exaggerated care, misses his fingers entirely the first time, then dissolves into helpless laughter before she’s even managed a proper inhale.

“I don’t know,” she says, giggling into the sleeve covering half her face. “Everything’s just… so funny.”

Dean laughs because she’s laughing. “Princess, you just spent three full minutes telling me that squirrels probably have little mortgages.”

“They might.”

“They don’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I actually do.”

She narrows her eyes at him with the absolute seriousness only a very high person can achieve. “You’re sounding really close-minded right now.”

Dean doubles over laughing. The back door slides open. Garrett shuffles outside wearing grey sweats and an old Briar t-shirt, curls flattened on one side from sleep, blinking at the porch light.

He looks from Dean. To the joint. To her swimming inside Dean’s hoodie. “…Am I taking you home?”

She tips her head back to look at him, processing the question with visible effort. “Mmm.”

“So… yes?”

Another thoughtful pause. “No.”

Dean snorts into his hand. Garrett sighs the sigh of a man who has captained a hockey team through championship pressure and somehow finds this more exhausting. “You staying here?”

She nods immediately, smile slow and dreamy. “Mhm.”

“Right.” He stands there another second, making sure she isn’t about to fall backwards off the step, before rubbing a hand over his face. “Come inside before you freeze to death.”

She pushes herself upright with surprising determination. The porch tilts dramatically beneath her feet – or at least that’s what her body insists – and Garrett instinctively catches her elbow.

The second they’re inside, warm air rushing over flushed cheeks, his eyes land on the oversized hoodie again.

He clicks his tongue. “Take that shit off.”

She blinks up at him. “…Oh?”

“Yeah, oh.”

A grin spreads slowly across her face. “You jealous?”

Garrett reaches up, hooks two fingers lazily through the hood and starts steering her toward the stairs. “I’m offended.”

“It’s my hoodie now,” she murmurs, grinning up at him.

pairing – garrett graham x princess!reader summary – a little jealousy, a risky bathroom invitation and the newest addition to a very secret deal. warnings – 18+, smut, oral sex, public bathroom hookup, praise kink, jealousy, secret friends with benefits. notes from me – i am so down bad for them. based on these asks combined, thank u babies!! xx word count – 5.8k

navigation – masterlist |

The puck bunnies start looking at her before Garrett even finishes buying his first beer. Not all of them, obviously. She isn’t unreasonable, despite what Garrett claims whenever she asks him to carry something that weighs more than a handbag or move his car because she doesn’t like reversing around it. 

Most of the girls gathered at the far end of Malone’s bar are perfectly occupied with their own drinks, their own conversations and the collection of Briar hockey players taking up the largest booth in the room.

But two of them keep glancing over. One is blonde, wearing a black top with complicated straps. The other has dark hair swept over one shoulder and lip gloss bright enough to reflect the neon beer signs. They look at Garrett. They look at her. They lean closer to each other. Then they look at her again.

She lowers her eyes to the drink sweating beneath her fingers and drags the little black straw around the ice, pretending the movement requires considerably more concentration than it does. The white dress had felt like a very good decision in her dorm room.

It’s still a good decision, objectively. The lace is soft rather than bridal, fitted through her waist with long sleeves that flare slightly around her wrists, and the skirt is short enough to make her check the back of it whenever she bends. It finishes just beneath the curve of her ass, revealing a lot of bare thigh above her boots, and the square neckline sits low without doing anything particularly dramatic.

Except, apparently, inspire hostility in women she’s never spoken to.

pairing – garrett graham x princess!reader summary – months of staring, jealousy, interrupted hookups, and one very dangerous sleepover finally turn garrett and his best friend into friends with benefits. warnings – 18+, explicit smut, fingering, nipple piercings, praise kink, dirty talk, friends with benefits, alcohol/weed mentions. notes from me – AHHHH finally got something out for princess!reader!! i feel like i'm ticking off each trope with each of my !readers hahaha. as requested here, my loves! word count – 10k

navigation – masterlist |

They’ve just escaped a ninety-minute lecture on behavioural economics that Garrett attended physically and she attended with the kind of detailed, colour-coded devotion that makes her notes resemble something sold in a university gift shop. 

The air outside is sharp enough to turn their breath white, the campus paths crowded with students funneling toward the dining hall, everyone bundled in jackets and scarves and expressions of private academic misery.

Garrett walks beside her with his backpack hanging from one shoulder, hands shoved into the front pocket of his Briar hoodie, nodding at the right intervals while she explains the tragic consequences of substituting almond flour without adjusting the moisture content of a cupcake recipe.

“They taste fine,” she says, stepping neatly around a patch of slush while Garrett walks directly through it. “Actually, they taste really good. They’re just very…” She pauses, making a shape with both mittened hands. “Dense.”

“Dense,” Garrett repeats.

“Yes.”

Baby doll {Dean x reader} {COMPLETED} Warnings: Phil Graham, anxiety/panic attacks mentioned, sex, abuse, mentions of death, pregnancy, labour, birth, post partum depression

P1, P2, P3, P4, P5, P6, P7, P8, P9, P10, P11, P12, P13, P14, P15, P16, P17, P18, P19, P20, P21, P22, P23, P24, P25, P26, P27, P28, P29, P30, P31, P32, P33, P34, P35, P36, P37, P38, P39, P40, P41, P42, P43, P44, P45, P46, P47, P48, P49, P50 Epilogue

Summary: You were walking into the hockey house with your friends, Hannah and Allie. Your brother, Garrett Graham, lived here with his teammates and friends. John Tucker, John Logan and Dean Di Laurentis. You all attend Briar University (Briar U). The guys had won a game tonight, which meant that it was party time at the house, the house was packed with people. More specifically, Puck Bunnies.

Fake it until you make it (or try to) {Dean x sick!reader} no warnings

P1, P2

Summary: You get the flu and try and hide it, but Dean finds out. Dean then gets sick, tries to hide it, but you find out.

Change for good {Dean x reader} no warnings

High Maintenance {Dean x reader} no warnings, just fluff :)

My Girl {Dean x reader} no warnings, just fluffy :)

Light as a feather {Dean x curvy!reader} no warnings

One Time Thing {Dean x brat!reader} heavily smutty

Quietly Yours {Dean Di Laurentis x mute!reader}

Summary: Everyone at Briar knows Dean Di Laurentis. Nobody knows you. Not because you aren't friendly, but because people tend to make assumptions the moment they realize you don't speak. Some think you're shy. Others think you're rude. A few even assume you're deaf. You're used to correcting people with a tired smile and a note on your phone. Dean is no different...at first. Until he realizes your silence never stopped you from laughing, teasing, arguing, or caring. He starts discovering that you've always had a voice. It just isn't spoken.

Warnings: mentions of being mute, misunderstandings

P1, P2, P3, P4, P5, P6, P7, P8, P9, P10

Masterlist

Summary: Everyone at Briar knows Dean Di Laurentis. Nobody knows you. Not because you aren't friendly, but because people tend to make assumptions the moment they realize you don't speak. Some think you're shy. Others think you're rude. A few even assume you're deaf. You're used to correcting people with a tired smile and a note on your phone. Dean is no different...at first. Until he realizes your silence never stopped you from laughing, teasing, arguing, or caring. He starts discovering that you've always had a voice. It just isn't spoken.

Warnings: mentions of being mute, misunderstandings

After your conversation in the study room, nothing dramatic changed.

Dean didn't suddenly kiss you.

You didn't suddenly trust him completely.

There was no grand declaration that fixed everything Sophie had stirred up.

Instead, things became... quieter.

More careful.

If Dean said he'd meet you at ten, he was standing outside the library at five to.

If he promised to text after practice, your phone buzzed the second he walked out of the locker room.

If he said he'd learn a sign before tomorrow, he'd greet you with it the next morning, even if he got it wrong three times first.

He stopped making promises with words.

He started making them with consistency.

And, slowly, you found yourself looking for him without meaning to.

The following Tuesday, you were buried somewhere in the middle of three journal articles when a familiar shadow fell across your table.

You didn't look up immediately.

Instead, you slid your phone across the table.

You're two minutes early.

Dean laughed as he sat opposite you.

"I was aiming for five."

You finally looked up.

He looked exhausted.

His hair was still damp from practice, his Briar hoodie was thrown over a grey T-shirt, and there was the faint purple shadow of a bruise forming along his jaw.

You frowned.

He caught the look.

"It's nothing."

You tilted your head.

Dean sighed.

"Garrett's elbow."

You didn't look convinced.

"It genuinely was."

You reached across the table before you thought too much about it, lightly touching the bruise with the backs of your fingers.

Dean stopped talking.

Your touch barely lasted a second.

Still...

Neither of you moved afterwards.

You pulled your hand back first.

Your cheeks warmed almost instantly.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck.

"I, uh..."

He cleared his throat.

"It looks worse than it feels."

You smiled apologetically.

Sorry.

"For what?"

I shouldn't have—

Dean shook his head before you could finish typing.

"No."

His voice was softer than usual.

"I'm glad you did."

The library had become your place.

Not officially.

No one had reserved the corner table by the windows.

But somehow, everyone had quietly accepted that if Dean and you weren't in class, that was where you'd be.

Even the librarian had stopped looking surprised.

She simply smiled when Dean walked in.

"The usual table's free."

"You're my favourite person," Dean replied.

"You said that to the coffee lady yesterday."

"You're tied for first."

The librarian rolled her eyes fondly.

"You flirt with everyone."

Dean opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

He looked at you.

Looked back at the librarian.

"...Not anymore."

The words slipped out before he seemed to realise he'd said them.

The librarian blinked.

"So I've heard."

Dean actually looked embarrassed.

You hid your smile behind your coffee cup.

An hour later, Dean was supposed to be writing an essay.

Instead, he was staring at his notebook with the expression of a man trying to translate ancient hieroglyphics.

"What does 'post-structuralism' even mean?"

You typed.

No idea.

"You've been studying it for an hour."

I'm pretending.

He looked horrified.

"So am I."

You both looked down at your books.

Then back at each other.

Dean started laughing first.

The sound was quiet enough that a student across the room glared at him.

He immediately lowered his voice.

"I've been nodding every lecture."

You typed another reply.

Me too.

"We're going to fail."

Together.

Dean looked at the screen for a long moment.

Then smiled.

"I'd prefer we didn't."

You reached over and tapped the corner of his textbook, reminding him to actually read it.

"Bossy."

You nodded once.

Without looking away from him.

Later that afternoon, Dean walked you across campus.

The autumn air had turned colder over the past week. Leaves skittered across the pavement in little bursts whenever the wind picked up.

You had your hands buried in your coat pockets.

Dean noticed.

Without saying anything, he slowed his pace until you were walking almost shoulder to shoulder.

"So..."

You glanced at him.

"I've got today's sign."

You waited.

He grinned.

"I learned it myself."

You folded your arms.

Sceptical.

"I did."

He lifted his hands.

Slowly.

Carefully.

Beautiful.

You stared at him.

The sign wasn't perfect.

The movement of his hand was slightly too high.

His wrist was stiff.

But it was recognisable.

You looked at him questioningly.

"Did I get it right?"

You hesitated.

Technically...

Almost.

You stepped closer.

Dean stood perfectly still while you gently adjusted his wrist.

"There?"

You nodded.

He smiled.

"I knew you'd fix it."

You raised an eyebrow.

"So maybe I deliberately left it a little wrong."

You narrowed your eyes.

He laughed.

"I'm joking."

You weren't convinced.

The path towards your residence halls was busier than usual.

Students were drifting between afternoon lectures, wrapped in scarves and hoodies against the cold.

As you passed the student union, someone called Dean's name.

He turned instinctively.

A blonde girl waved from the steps.

She was pretty.

Confident.

The kind of person who clearly knew Dean well.

She walked over without hesitation.

"Dean."

"Hey."

She smiled warmly before noticing you.

"Oh."

Her expression changed almost imperceptibly.

"I didn't realise you were busy."

Dean glanced towards you.

"I'm not busy."

The words hung awkwardly in the air.

He immediately corrected himself.

"I mean—"

The girl laughed.

"You don't have to explain."

She looked between the two of you.

"I just wanted to ask if you were still coming on Friday."

Dean frowned.

"Friday?"

"Nicole's birthday."

Recognition crossed his face.

"Oh."

"You said you would."

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"I don't think I can."

"You've never missed one before."

"I know."

She smiled again, but this time it looked forced.

"Right."

There was a beat of silence.

"Well... I'll see you around."

She walked away.

Dean watched her disappear into the crowd before letting out a slow breath.

You reached for your phone.

You cancelled because of me?

He looked genuinely confused.

"What?"

The party.

"No."

He shoved his hands into his pockets.

"I cancelled because I don't want to go."

You studied him.

He understood the look immediately.

"I'm serious."

You typed another question.

Why?

Dean looked across the campus, watching students hurry between buildings.

Then he smiled to himself.

"I spent three years thinking those parties were the best part of university."

He glanced back at you.

"They're loud."

You smiled.

"They're crowded."

You smiled wider.

"And honestly..."

He shrugged.

"I'd rather spend Friday teaching you how terrible I am at your card games."

Your eyebrows lifted.

You've never played them.

"Exactly."

You'll lose.

"I definitely will."

Badly.

"Probably."

A grin spread across his face.

"But I'll lose to you."

You stared at him for a second before your shoulders shook with silent laughter.

Dean smiled too.

Not because he'd made a joke.

Because he realised, somewhere between parties he no longer cared about and afternoons spent pretending to understand post-structuralism, something fundamental had changed.

For the first time in a very long time...

He wasn't trying to impress anyone.

Not even you.

He was simply trying to be someone you could trust.

And somehow, that mattered more than anything else.

Masterlist

Summary: Everyone at Briar knows Dean Di Laurentis. Nobody knows you. Not because you aren't friendly, but because people tend to make assumptions the moment they realize you don't speak. Some think you're shy. Others think you're rude. A few even assume you're deaf. You're used to correcting people with a tired smile and a note on your phone. Dean is no different...at first. Until he realizes your silence never stopped you from laughing, teasing, arguing, or caring. He starts discovering that you've always had a voice. It just isn't spoken.

Warnings: mentions of being mute, misunderstandings

The rumours wouldn’t have bothered you if people had kept them to themselves.

Briar was a university filled with bored students, crowded dormitories and friendships built almost entirely around knowing other people’s business. Someone saw Dean waiting outside your residence hall with coffee, another person spotted the two of you leaving the library together, and suddenly half the campus had decided you were sleeping with him.

It was predictable.

Annoying, but predictable.

You could handle the curious looks. You could ignore the whispers that followed you into lecture halls and the way people suddenly seemed interested in talking to you after spending most of the semester barely noticing you existed.

What you couldn’t ignore was the girl who stopped you outside the student union on Thursday afternoon.

You recognised her vaguely. She had been at the hockey house once when Hannah had convinced you to stop by for less than an hour, though you couldn’t remember her name. She was tall, pretty, and wearing the sort of careful smile that immediately made you suspicious.

“Y/N, right?”

You nodded.

She shifted her bag higher on her shoulder. “I’m Sophie. We haven’t officially met.”

You offered a polite smile.

Sophie waited.

When you didn’t respond verbally, understanding crossed her face.

“Oh. Right.”

There was nothing particularly cruel in the way she said it, but your shoulders still tightened.

You took out your phone.

Can I help you?

She read the screen, then glanced over your shoulder as though checking whether anyone else was close enough to hear.

“I just thought you should know something.”

You waited.

“It’s about Dean.”

Your fingers tightened around your phone.

Of course it was.

Sophie tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “I saw you two together this morning.”

You typed carefully.

Dean and I are friends.

“Sure.”

The word came too quickly.

You raised an eyebrow.

She sighed. “Look, I’m not trying to be a bitch.”

That usually meant someone was about to make a considerable effort to be one.

“I’ve known Dean for a while,” she continued. “Not well, exactly. But well enough.”

You stared at her.

She seemed to realise you weren’t going to make this easy for her.

“We hooked up last year.”

The words landed with less force than she appeared to expect. You already knew Dean had been with a lot of girls. Nobody at Briar treated it like a secret, least of all Dean.

You unlocked your phone again.

That isn’t any of my business.

Sophie’s mouth tightened.

“No, I suppose it isn’t.”

You moved to step around her.

She shifted sideways, blocking your path without quite making it obvious.

“I’m telling you because he does this.”

You stopped.

Does what?

“The attention. The flirting. Making you feel like you’re the only person in the room.”

Her eyes dropped briefly to your hands.

“He probably thinks learning sign language is romantic.”

Your stomach turned.

Not because she sounded convincing.

Because she had found the exact doubt you had tried not to examine too closely.

Sophie’s expression softened, and somehow that made it worse.

“Dean likes the chase. Once he gets what he wants, he moves on. I just don’t want you thinking this means more to him than it does.”

You read the sentence on your screen without typing it.

Why do you care?

Sophie gave a small shrug. “I wish someone had warned me.”

Then she stepped aside.

You walked away without replying.

———————————————————————————

You missed your afternoon lecture.

It wasn’t like you to skip class, but the thought of sitting in a room while everyone watched Dean lean towards you and smile felt unbearable.

Instead, you went back to your residence hall, changed into an old sweatshirt and spent two hours staring at an open book without reading a single page.

Your phone vibrated several times on the desk.

The first message arrived ten minutes after class started.

Dean: Where are you?

Then another.

Dean: Reynolds is talking about symbolism again. Save me.

You left both unanswered.

Twenty minutes later:

Dean: Are you okay?

You turned the phone over.

The silence that followed should have made it easier to concentrate.

It didn’t.

You kept remembering the way Dean had looked at you in his car. The uncertainty in his voice when he admitted holding your hand had felt like something. The careful way he had practised every sign you taught him. How he had waited outside your residence hall in the cold with caramel coffee because he had remembered what you liked.

Those things had felt real.

But Dean had probably made plenty of girls feel special before you.

Perhaps that was what he was good at.

Perhaps you had mistaken effort for intention because so few people had ever made that effort before.

Your phone began vibrating again.

This time, it didn’t stop.

Dean was calling.

You watched his name fill the screen until the call ended.

A moment later, a message appeared.

Dean: I know you don’t like phone calls. I just wanted you to see that I’m worried.

Your chest tightened.

Another message followed.

Dean: Please tell me you’re safe. You don’t have to tell me anything else.

You closed your eyes.

He knew you could answer calls. He knew you could hear him, even if you couldn’t respond in the same way. But he also knew that phone calls made you feel trapped, forced into listening without being able to interrupt or answer quickly.

So he hadn’t expected you to pick up.

He had only wanted your phone to light up in your hand.

You typed a reply before you could talk yourself out of it.

You: I’m safe.

His response was immediate.

Dean: Thank God.

Three dots appeared.

Dean: Can I come over?

Your first instinct was to say no.

You wanted time to pull your thoughts apart and put them back together without Dean sitting in front of you, watching every expression you failed to hide.

But avoiding him wouldn’t change anything.

You: Okay.

———————————————————————————

Dean was outside your building less than fifteen minutes later.

You found him near the entrance, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket and worry written openly across his face. His hair was windblown, and he was still carrying the bag he had taken to class.

The moment he saw you, his shoulders dropped.

“Hey.”

You managed a small smile.

He came closer, then stopped a few feet away.

Dean usually entered your space without thinking. He leaned over your shoulder to read your phone, bumped his knee against yours beneath tables, and touched your arm when he needed your attention.

Now he waited.

“Can we go somewhere?”

You nodded and led him towards an empty study room on the ground floor.

The room was small, containing only a table, four chairs and a whiteboard marked with the remains of someone’s abandoned equations. You sat on one side of the table. Dean took the chair opposite instead of the one beside you.

He placed his bag on the floor.

“You skipped class.”

You looked down.

“I’m not angry,” he said quickly. “I was worried. You always text me if you’re not coming.”

You pulled out your phone.

I’m sorry.

“Don’t apologise.”

You stared at the blinking cursor.

There was no gentle way to ask the question, so you didn’t try.

Did you sleep with Sophie?

Dean’s eyes moved across the screen.

His expression changed immediately.

Not guilt.

Recognition.

“Sophie Mitchell?”

You shrugged. You hadn’t asked for her surname.

Dean leaned back in his chair and rubbed a hand across his jaw.

“Yeah.”

The answer hurt, even though you already knew it would be yes.

“Last year,” he added. “Once.”

You nodded and began typing again.

He waited.

She said you do this with girls.

His brows drew together. “Do what?”

Make them feel important until you get bored.

Dean went very still.

The room seemed smaller than it had a moment before.

You forced yourself to continue.

She said learning to sign is part of the chase.

His eyes lifted from your phone to your face.

For several seconds, he said nothing.

Then he looked away.

You had expected an immediate denial. A joke, perhaps, or the easy confidence Dean used whenever someone challenged him.

His silence frightened you more.

“She isn’t completely wrong.”

Your throat tightened.

Dean noticed.

“No. That came out badly.” He dragged his chair closer to the table but still didn’t reach for you. “I mean she isn’t wrong about the kind of person I’ve been.”

You stared at him.

“I’ve slept with people and not called them afterwards. I’ve flirted because it was fun, even when I knew someone might take it more seriously than I did.” His mouth tightened. “I never lied about wanting a relationship, but I probably let people believe whatever was easiest because correcting them would’ve ruined the moment.”

His honesty made it difficult to stay angry.

It also made trusting him harder.

You typed slowly.

How am I supposed to know this is different?

Dean read it.

His face fell.

For once, he seemed to have no idea what to say.

“I don’t know.”

You blinked.

He gave a quiet, humourless laugh and looked down at his hands.

“I could tell you it is. I could sit here and make some huge speech about how you’re different from everyone else, but that’s exactly what you’re afraid I’ve said before.”

You hadn’t expected that.

Dean rested his forearms against the table.

“So I don’t know how you’re supposed to know yet.”

Yet?

“Because I haven’t had enough time to prove it.”

Your fingers hovered over the screen.

Dean held your gaze.

“I’m learning sign language because I want to talk to you. I bring you coffee because I like seeing you in the morning. I go to the library because you’re there, and somehow sitting in silence with you is better than any party I’ve been to this year.”

His voice was quiet now.

“I’m not doing those things so you’ll sleep with me.”

Heat crept into your face, but you didn’t look away.

“I’m attracted to you. I’m not going to pretend I’m not.” He swallowed. “But if you told me right now that nothing physical was ever going to happen between us, I’d still want to see you tomorrow.”

Something inside you shifted.

Not enough to erase the doubt.

Enough to let you breathe around it.

You typed another question.

What do you want from me?

Dean read it and sat back.

“The honest answer?”

You nodded.

“I don’t know what to call it yet.”

He looked frustrated with himself, as though he wished he could give you something clearer.

“I want more than friendship. I know that much. But I don’t want to rush you into anything because I’m trying to prove a point.”

You studied his face.

There was no grin. No charm. Nothing polished in the way he spoke.

Just Dean, looking almost painfully uncertain.

He raised his hands.

The movement was hesitant at first.

Then he signed one of the words you had taught him.

Friend.

He paused before shaking his head.

“Not only.”

He didn’t know the signs for the rest, so he lowered his hands again.

“I want the chance to show you.”

You stared at him for a long time.

Trust had never come easily to you. People often assumed your silence made you naïve, as though being unable to speak meant being unable to recognise when someone was lying.

Dean wasn’t lying now.

You didn’t know whether that meant he would never hurt you.

You only knew he believed what he was saying.

You placed your phone on the table.

Then you held up one finger.

Dean frowned slightly.

“One?”

You pointed towards him, then yourself, and moved your hands slowly enough for him to follow.

One day at a time.

Understanding gradually crossed his face.

“One day at a time,” he repeated.

You nodded.

His shoulders loosened, but he didn’t smile as though he had won. He only nodded back.

“I can do that.”

You reached across the table and placed your hand palm-up between you.

Dean looked at it.

Then at you.

“Are you sure?”

You nodded.

Only then did he place his hand in yours.

His fingers curled carefully around your palm, warm and steady.

For a while, neither of you moved.

Then Dean lifted his free hand and signed, with considerable concentration—

Thank you.

It was perfect.

Your smile came before you could stop it.

Dean’s eyes softened.

“One new sign every day, right?”

You nodded.

“What’s today’s?”

You thought about it.

Then you released his hand just long enough to show him.

Trust.

Dean watched the movement closely.

When he tried to repeat it, his fingers faltered halfway through.

You corrected him gently.

“Trust,” he murmured.

You nodded.

His second attempt was better.

Not perfect.

But neither of you expected it to be.

Not yet.

Masterlist

Summary: Everyone at Briar knows Dean Di Laurentis. Nobody knows you. Not because you aren't friendly, but because people tend to make assumptions the moment they realize you don't speak. Some think you're shy. Others think you're rude. A few even assume you're deaf. You're used to correcting people with a tired smile and a note on your phone. Dean is no different...at first. Until he realizes your silence never stopped you from laughing, teasing, arguing, or caring. He starts discovering that you've always had a voice. It just isn't spoken.

Warnings: mentions of being mute, misunderstandings

By the next morning, Dean had been awake for nearly an hour before his alarm.

It wasn’t because he had an early practice.

Or because he’d suddenly become responsible.

He’d simply woken up thinking about your last text.

It did.

Two words.

They shouldn’t have been enough to leave him staring at his bedroom ceiling with a stupid grin on his face.

But they were.

He rolled over, picked up his phone and read the conversation again.

Then again.

Then he realised what he was doing.

“…Get a grip,” he muttered to himself.

Pounding on his wall brought him out of his head.

“Would you shut up?” Logan groaned from the room next door. “Some of us are trying to sleep.”

Dean laughed under his breath.

“Sorry.”

“You sound happy.”

“I am.”

There was a pause.

“…That’s suspicious.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By eight-thirty, Dean was standing outside your residence hall with two coffees.

This time he’d only bought one flavour.

Caramel.

He checked his phone.

8:42.

Too early.

He leaned against his car, trying very hard to look like he wasn’t waiting for someone.

Unfortunately, he was wearing a Briar Hockey hoodie.

Trying to be inconspicuous was a lost cause.

Three girls walking past whispered to each other before one of them smiled.

“Waiting for someone?”

Dean smiled politely.

“Yeah.”

“A girlfriend?”

He shook his head.

“Not… exactly.”

They exchanged a look before continuing across campus.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck.

Not exactly.

That was probably the most honest answer he could’ve given.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You spotted him before he saw you.

He was pretending to scroll through his phone, but every few seconds his eyes drifted towards the entrance to your building.

You couldn’t help smiling.

You walked over quietly until you were only a few feet away.

Dean looked up.

His entire face lit up.

“There you are.”

You raised an eyebrow.

He held out the coffee.

“I remembered.”

You accepted it before typing on your phone.

You gambled.

“What?”

You guessed my order.

“I made an educated decision.”

You took a sip.

Dean watched your face with almost painful concentration.

The corner of your mouth lifted.

He pumped his fist.

“Yes!"

You rolled your eyes, laughing silently.

“I knew it.”

You typed another message.

You looked far too proud of yourself.

“I earned this.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The walk across campus was easy.

Students hurried past on their way to lectures, the air carrying the familiar bite of late autumn.

Dean matched your pace without thinking.

“So…”

You looked over.

“I’ve got something to ask.”

You waited.

“Will you teach me one new sign every day?”

You blinked.

He shrugged.

“I’ll forget if I learn loads at once.”

You thought for a moment before nodding.

His grin returned.

“Really?”

You unlocked your phone.

One condition.

“I’m listening.”

You have to use yesterday’s signs correctly before you get a new one.

Dean looked offended.

“I’ve been practising.”

You folded your arms.

He sighed dramatically.

“…Fine.”

He signed hello.

Correctly.

Then thank you.

Almost perfect.

Finally…

Goodnight.

His hand drifted slightly too far to the side.

You gently reached up and nudged it back into place.

“There?”

You nodded.

“Does that count?”

Another nod.

“Excellent.”

You thought for a second before signing slowly.

Hungry.

Dean watched every movement.

“Hungry.”

He copied it.

The first attempt was completely wrong.

You smiled.

Second attempt.

Closer.

Third.

Almost.

By the fourth try…

He got it.

His eyes widened.

“I did it.”

You nodded enthusiastically.

A quiet burst of pride spread across his face.

It was strangely endearing watching someone so naturally confident become excited over getting something small right.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Dean!”

The voice made both of you stop.

A tall hockey player jogged over, still carrying his equipment bag.

One of Dean’s teammates.

He slowed as he reached you.

“You heading to class?”

“Yeah.”

The guy looked between the two of you.

Then smiled knowingly.

“So this is the girl.”

Dean frowned.

“What girl?”

“The one you’ve been disappearing with.”

Dean blinked.

“I’ve not been disappearing.”

The teammate laughed.

“Dude.”

He looked at you.

“We’ve barely seen him this week.”

Dean opened his mouth to argue.

Nothing came out.

Because…

It was true.

Instead of hanging around the locker room after practice, he’d been walking to the library.

Instead of staying for hours at parties, he’d been texting you.

Instead of wasting afternoons flirting with girls around campus…

He’d been practising sign language.

His teammate smirked.

“I’ll see you later.”

As soon as he walked away, Dean let out a long sigh.

“I hate him.”

You were already typing.

Is he wrong?

Dean glanced at the screen.

“…No.”

You looked at him.

He laughed quietly.

“I really have been disappearing.”

You nodded once.

He looked almost surprised by the realisation.

“I don’t even miss the other stuff.”

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The rumour spread faster than either of you realised.

By lunchtime, Hannah found you both sitting outside the student union.

She approached with a smile that looked far too innocent.

“So.”

Dean immediately pointed at her.

“No.”

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’ve got that face.”

“What face?”

“The matchmaking face.”

Hannah gasped dramatically.

“I would never.”

Dean looked at you.

“She absolutely would.”

Hannah ignored him completely and sat beside you instead.

“How are you?”

You smiled and typed your answer.

Good.

She read it before glancing at Dean.

“He’s been driving Garrett insane.”

Dean looked genuinely confused.

“I have?”

Garrett appeared behind Hannah carrying his lunch.

“You’ve asked me if your signs are right twenty-seven times.”

Dean frowned.

“It wasn’t twenty-seven.”

Garrett looked at him.

“It was thirty-two.”

You covered your mouth to hide your laugh.

Dean pointed accusingly at Garrett.

“You counted?”

“I started counting because it became funny.”

Hannah leaned towards you.

“He cornered me yesterday to ask whether he’d accidentally signed ‘microwave’ instead of ‘movie.’”

Dean groaned.

“It looked similar!”

“It wasn’t even close.”

You couldn’t stop laughing now.

Not the polite little smiles you usually gave.

Real laughter.

Silent, but impossible to miss.

Dean stopped arguing halfway through his defence.

He looked at you instead.

Just...

Looked.

Garrett noticed first.

Then Hannah.

Dean was smiling without even realising it.

Not because he’d won the argument.

He hadn’t.

Not because everyone was laughing at him.

They were.

He was smiling because you were happy.

Garrett nudged Hannah’s shoulder.

Quietly enough that Dean couldn’t hear.

“He doesn’t stand a chance.”

Hannah smiled into her coffee.

“No.”

Her eyes drifted towards the two of you.

“I don’t think either of them do.”

Masterlist

Summary: Everyone at Briar knows Dean Di Laurentis. Nobody knows you. Not because you aren't friendly, but because people tend to make assumptions the moment they realize you don't speak. Some think you're shy. Others think you're rude. A few even assume you're deaf. You're used to correcting people with a tired smile and a note on your phone. Dean is no different...at first. Until he realizes your silence never stopped you from laughing, teasing, arguing, or caring. He starts discovering that you've always had a voice. It just isn't spoken.

Warnings: mentions of being mute, misunderstandings

You stayed until nearly midnight.

It wasn’t intentional. Every time you looked at the clock, another half hour seemed to have disappeared.

Tucker brought out the brownies he had apparently made earlier that afternoon, prompting Logan to reappear from upstairs despite insisting he had gone to bed. Hannah tried to teach Garrett how to braid her hair while he complained that his hands were too big, and Dean spent fifteen minutes attempting to learn new signs from you.

He already knew how to spell things, technically. He had practised the alphabet enough to work his way through words if he concentrated, but fingerspelling everything took him so long that Logan threatened to graduate before Dean finished introducing himself.

So instead, you started teaching him actual signs.

Or tried to.

Tucker helped when Dean’s limited vocabulary made your explanations difficult, translating as you showed him simple everyday signs—eat, drink, movie, friend. Dean repeated each one with intense focus, his brows furrowed as he tried to get the movements right.

Dean listened more seriously than you expected him to.

“So I don’t just spell everything?”

You shook your head.

“That’s good,” he said. “Because I think I’d die before finishing a sentence.”

Garrett looked over from Hannah’s half-finished braid. “We can only hope.”

Dean ignored him. His attention stayed fixed on you.

“What else?”

You hesitated, then showed him another sign—thank you.

He copied you, slower this time.

“Like this?”

You nodded.

He repeated it again, more confident.

“Okay. I like that one.”

You smiled.

“Teach me something harder.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Not too hard,” he added quickly. “I’m still new at this.”

You showed him goodnight.

Dean watched closely, then tried it himself. His hand placement was slightly off, so you reached up and adjusted it, guiding his movement gently.

“Like this?”

You nodded.

He repeated it again, this time getting it right.

“That’s actually kind of cool.”

Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten.

Around you, the others had grown suspiciously quiet. When you glanced across the room, Hannah was watching the two of you with a softness in her eyes that made warmth creep into your face.

Garrett broke the silence first.

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Dean didn’t look away from you.

“Way too late for that.”

It was close to midnight when Hannah finally stood and stretched, announcing that she had an early class and Garrett had promised to walk her home.

You began collecting your things, sliding your phone charger into your bag and checking beneath the coffee table for the pen you had dropped earlier.

Dean stood immediately.

“I’ll take you home.”

You straightened and shook your head, reaching for your phone.

I can walk.

“It’s dark.”

I’ve walked home in the dark before.

“I know.”

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, suddenly looking less certain.

“I’d still rather take you.”

The words weren’t controlling. He didn’t block the doorway or try to decide for you. He just stood there, waiting for your answer, as if driving you home was something he wanted rather than an obligation he had assigned himself.

You typed.

Walk or drive?

Dean glanced toward the window. Rain streaked the glass, thin streams illuminated by the porch light.

“Drive.”

You’ve been drinking?

His eyebrows lifted.

“No. I had soda.”

You studied his face.

He placed one hand over his heart. “I swear on my beautiful car.”

Logan snorted. “That’s the only oath he takes seriously.”

You smiled and pulled your coat on.

Okay.

Dean grabbed his keys so quickly that Garrett laughed.

“Try not to look too eager.”

“I always look this good.”

“That isn’t what I said.”

Dean held the front door open for you, then turned to give Garrett a rude gesture behind your back.

You saw Garrett’s reaction and looked over your shoulder.

Dean immediately transformed the gesture into an awkward wave.

You narrowed your eyes.

“Goodnight,” he said innocently.

The rain had grown heavier by the time you reached Dean’s car.

He hurried around to the passenger side and opened the door before you could reach the handle.

You paused.

Dean leaned against the open door. “Don’t make it weird.”

You raised one eyebrow.

“My mother raised me correctly.”

You glanced pointedly back toward the house, where a sock was still hanging over the banister, visible through the front window.

“That has nothing to do with me.”

Your smile widened as you climbed inside.

The car smelled faintly of leather, peppermint gum, and the cologne Dean seemed incapable of applying in moderation. The interior was surprisingly tidy, apart from two empty coffee cups in the centre console and a collection of hockey equipment shoved into the back.

Dean got into the driver’s side and started the engine.

Music immediately blasted through the speakers.

You jumped.

“Shit.”

He turned it down so fast that the knob nearly came off in his hand.

“Sorry. Garrett drove it earlier.”

You looked at him.

He stared back.

Neither of you believed his excuse.

You typed on your phone.

Do you always listen to music that loud?

Dean glanced at the screen and shrugged. “Sometimes.”

You’re going to damage your hearing.

“Then you’ll have to teach me sign language faster.”

You tried to glare at him, but the grin pulling at your mouth ruined it.

He laughed and pulled away from the curb.

For the first few minutes, Dean attempted to keep a conversation going.

He asked which residence building you lived in even though you had already given him the address. Then he asked whether you had enjoyed the movie, only to remember that Logan had talked over most of it. He launched into a story about the time Tucker had banned him from the kitchen after an incident involving a blender and a badly secured lid.

You listened, smiling when appropriate, but responding was harder in the dark car. You couldn’t type easily while he was driving and he didn’t know enough ASL for anything more complicated than a greeting.

Dean seemed to realise it at the same time you did.

His story trailed off.

“Sorry.”

You looked over.

“I’m doing it again.”

You frowned.

“Talking at you instead of with you.”

You shook your head, but he kept his eyes on the road.

“I don’t want you to have to sit there while I fill the entire drive with my voice.”

You unlocked your phone, typed a reply, then waited until he stopped at a red light before holding it toward him.

I like listening to you.

Dean read the message.

For once, he didn’t have an immediate response.

The traffic light turned green, and a car behind him honked.

He lifted a hand in apology before driving forward.

“You like listening to me?”

You nodded.

“That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said.”

You rolled your eyes.

“I’m serious.” He glanced over briefly. “Most people tell me to shut up.”

You typed another message and held it out when the road was clear.

Sometimes I understand why.

Dean laughed.

“There she is.”

The tension that had settled over him disappeared, but you noticed the way his smile lingered afterward.

Your residence hall came into view a few minutes later.

Dean pulled into an empty space near the entrance and put the car in park, leaving the engine running while rain drummed against the roof.

You reached for your seat belt.

“Wait.”

Your hand paused.

Dean was staring through the windscreen, fingers tapping lightly against the steering wheel.

“I want to ask you something.”

You settled back in your seat.

He didn’t look nervous often. You had seen him embarrassed and caught off guard, but never genuinely uncertain. Tonight, uncertainty sat plainly across his face.

“Earlier, when we were holding hands…”

Your stomach tightened.

He glanced at you.

“I wasn’t imagining that, right?”

You stared at him for a moment before reaching for your phone.

Imagining what?

Dean read the words and huffed out a quiet laugh.

“You’re really going to make me say it?”

You waited.

He looked back toward the rain-covered windscreen.

“That it felt like something.”

Your fingers stilled above the keyboard.

There it was.

The thing you had spent the past hour avoiding.

Dean was your friend. A new one, but already a good one. He had made an effort nobody had asked him to make. He looked at you rather than around you. He waited when you needed time and listened when you needed space.

He was also Dean Di Laurentis.

Everyone knew who he was. Everyone knew the stories about the girls, the parties, and the easy way he moved from one person to another without ever seeming particularly attached.

You didn’t know how to fit the version of Dean everyone talked about with the one sitting beside you now.

He watched you type, saying nothing.

It felt like something.

Dean inhaled slowly.

“Okay.”

You added another sentence.

But I don’t know what.

“Neither do I.”

You looked up.

His honesty surprised you.

Dean rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

“I’m usually better at this.”

At what?

“Knowing what I want.”

You held his gaze.

He smiled, but it wasn’t his normal smile. There was no performance in it. No confidence meant to dazzle you into overlooking the nerves underneath.

“I know I want to see you tomorrow.”

You looked down at your phone.

We have class tomorrow.

“I know.”

So you were already going to see me.

“Then I want to see you before class.”

You tried not to smile.

Dean noticed anyway.

“Coffee?”

You typed.

Only if you remember my order this time.

His face fell.

“You didn’t like either of the ones I brought?”

I liked one.

“Which one?”

You started to type, then stopped.

A little revenge for all the teasing.

You opened the passenger door instead.

Dean stared at you. “You’re not going to tell me?”

You climbed out and pulled your hood over your head.

“Y/N.”

You closed the door.

He lowered the window, rain immediately blowing into the car.

“Come on. Which one?”

You stepped back from the car and signed carefully so he could follow.

Goodnight, Dean.

He recognised it.

His expression shifted from frustration to delight so quickly that you laughed.

Dean copied the sign back. His movements were still rough, but the effort was there.

Goodnight.

You turned toward the building.

Behind you, Dean called your name.

You looked back.

He repeated the sign you had just taught him, slower this time, more deliberate.

Then he pointed toward you and signed the one word he had practised more than any other.

Friend.

You smiled.

For a moment, you considered correcting him.

Whatever existed between you didn’t feel as simple as friendship anymore.

Instead, you signed it back.

Dean stayed parked outside until you were safely inside the building.

Your phone buzzed before you reached your room.

Dean: You liked the caramel one.

You smiled as you unlocked your door.

You: Maybe.

His response appeared almost immediately.

Dean: That means yes.

You kicked off your shoes and sat on the edge of your bed.

You: That means maybe. Dean: I’m bringing caramel tomorrow.

You looked at the message longer than necessary.

You: Then I might see you before class.

Three dots appeared.

Disappeared.

Appeared again.

Dean: Goodnight, Y/N.

A second message followed before you could answer.

Dean: Tonight felt like something to me too.

You read it twice.

Then a third time.

Your thumbs hovered over the screen while you tried to find a response that didn’t reveal too much.

In the end, you settled for the truth.

You: Goodnight, Dean.

You waited a few seconds before adding one more message.

You: It did.

Across campus, sitting alone in his car outside your residence hall, Dean smiled at his phone like an idiot.

Masterlist

Summary: Everyone at Briar knows Dean Di Laurentis. Nobody knows you. Not because you aren't friendly, but because people tend to make assumptions the moment they realize you don't speak. Some think you're shy. Others think you're rude. A few even assume you're deaf. You're used to correcting people with a tired smile and a note on your phone. Dean is no different...at first. Until he realizes your silence never stopped you from laughing, teasing, arguing, or caring. He starts discovering that you've always had a voice. It just isn't spoken.

Warnings: mentions of being mute, misunderstandings

By the time everyone had finally settled in the living room, you had already worked out where each person naturally belonged.

Garrett took the end of the couch, one arm stretched along the back while Hannah curled into his side as though she had done it a thousand times before. Logan dropped into the armchair with one foot hanging over the side, balancing a bowl of popcorn on his stomach. Tucker sat on the floor near the coffee table, mostly because he kept getting up to check the food in the kitchen and had apparently decided sitting properly was no longer worth the effort.

Dean sat beside you.

Not close enough to make it obvious.

Just close enough that his knee brushed yours whenever he shifted.

The first time it happened, he immediately moved away.

The second time, neither of you did.

The television was playing some action movie Logan had insisted was a classic, though twenty minutes in, he had already complained about the acting, the dialogue, and the fact that nobody in the film seemed capable of making a reasonable decision.

“That’s the point,” Dean said, reaching into the popcorn bowl between you. “If everyone made good decisions, the movie would be twelve minutes long.”

“It would be a better twelve minutes.”

“You picked it.”

“I didn’t say I had good taste.”

You glanced between them before unlocking your phone.

Dean leaned over automatically when you turned the screen toward him.

You two argue like an old married couple.

Dean read it out loud.

Logan looked deeply offended.

“I could do better.”

“So could I,” Dean shot back.

Garrett didn’t take his eyes off the television. “Neither of you could.”

Hannah laughed, resting her head on his shoulder. You smiled and reached for another piece of popcorn, but Dean was already holding the bowl toward you.

It was such a small thing that you almost didn’t notice it.

Almost.

He had been doing that all evening. Making space without making a performance of it. Waiting for you to finish typing instead of losing interest halfway through and starting another conversation.

He wasn’t perfect at it. Sometimes everyone talked over one another so quickly that following the conversation became impossible.

But Dean noticed.

That was the part you weren’t used to.

Most people only noticed when you stopped trying.

Dean noticed before you had the chance.

Tucker returned from the kitchen carrying a tray of garlic bread, and the living room descended into chaos almost immediately. Logan reached for a piece, Tucker slapped his hand away, and Garrett made the mistake of suggesting they simply put the tray on the table like normal people.

Dean turned to you while everyone argued.

“You good?”

You nodded.

He studied your face for another second, apparently unconvinced.

You raised your eyebrows.

“What?”

You picked up your phone.

Why are you looking at me like that?

“I’m checking.”

Checking what?

He shrugged, though the movement was a little too casual.

“That you’re comfortable.”

You glanced around the room.

It was louder than the spaces you usually chose for yourself, but it wasn’t unbearable. The voices overlapped, the television was too loud, and Logan had somehow managed to spill popcorn down the side of his chair, but none of it felt hostile.

You typed slowly.

I am.

Dean read the answer, then looked back at you.

“You’d tell me if you weren’t?”

You hesitated.

It wasn’t that you intended to lie. You simply had years of practice pretending discomfort didn’t matter. It was easier to smile, wait it out, and leave quietly than risk making everyone else feel awkward.

Dean’s expression softened as though he had seen the answer before you gave it.

“You don’t have to stay just because I asked you to come.”

The conversation around you carried on. Nobody seemed to be paying attention, which made the moment feel strangely private despite the crowded room.

You looked down at your phone again.

I know.

He waited.

You added another sentence.

I want to stay.

Dean’s smile came slowly, beginning at one corner of his mouth before taking over completely.

“Okay.”

That was all he said.

But he shifted back into the couch, and this time when his knee rested against yours, he left it there.

Halfway through the movie, Tucker began signing to you.

It started with a simple question about the food. His movements were slightly rusty but easy enough to follow, and when you answered, his face lit up with recognition.

Dean noticed almost immediately.

“What did she say?”

Tucker looked at him. “She said the garlic bread is good.”

Dean frowned.

“She signed all of that?”

“Yes.”

“That seemed like three movements.”

“It was more than three.”

Dean looked at you suspiciously, as though you and Tucker had conspired to keep secrets from him.

You smiled and signed something else.

Tucker laughed.

Dean’s eyes narrowed.

“What was that?”

Tucker shook his head. “Not telling you.”

“John.”

“No.”

Dean turned to you. “Did you insult me?”

You put one hand against your chest, feigning innocence.

He pointed at your face. “That expression means yes.”

You reached for your phone, but he caught your wrist lightly before you could.

“Wait.”

His fingers were warm against your skin. He released you almost at once, as though only then realizing he had touched you.

You both looked down at the space between you.

Dean cleared his throat.

“Show me again.”

You blinked.

“The sign,” he said. “Whatever you said about me.”

You glanced at Tucker, who was doing a terrible job of hiding his amusement.

Then you turned toward Dean and repeated it slowly.

He watched your hands with complete concentration.

You pointed toward him, made the sign for loud, then followed it with the sign for dramatic.

Dean stared at you.

“I understood loud.”

You nodded.

“What was the second part?”

Tucker answered before you could.

“Dramatic.”

Dean looked betrayed. “You think I’m dramatic?”

Everyone in the room spoke at once.

“Yes.”

Dean threw his hands up. “Unbelievable.”

Your shoulders began to shake with laughter.

He looked at you, trying to maintain the offended expression, but it didn’t last. He smiled because you were smiling, and for a moment the noise of the room seemed to blur around the two of you.

Then Dean copied the signs back to you.

His version of loud was recognizable.

Dramatic was not.

You reached for his hands without thinking.

His fingers stilled beneath yours.

You adjusted his thumb first, then turned his wrist slightly. He didn’t joke or pull away. He simply watched your face while you guided him through it again.

When you finished, you let go.

Dean repeated the sign correctly.

“Dramatic.”

You nodded.

He pointed at himself.

“Dean.”

Then signed dramatic again.

A silent laugh escaped you, and Dean beamed.

“I’m basically fluent.”

Tucker snorted. “You know five signs.”

“Six.”

“You just learned the sixth.”

“Still counts.”

Later, when the movie ended, Hannah and Garrett disappeared into the kitchen to help Tucker clean up. Logan headed upstairs after announcing that he had reached his social limit, leaving you and Dean alone in the living room.

The house felt different without everyone talking.

Not silent, exactly. You could hear the faint sound of plates being stacked in the kitchen, the low murmur of Garrett and Hannah’s conversation, the heating humming behind the walls.

Dean picked at a loose thread on the cuff of his hoodie.

“So.”

You looked at him.

“Was it awful?”

You frowned.

He gestured around the room. “Coming here.”

You picked up your phone.

Why would it be awful?

“I don’t know.” He leaned back, staring at the dark television screen. “We’re a lot.”

That made you smile.

You are.

He glanced over. “See? Awful.”

You shook your head and continued typing.

It was nice.

Dean watched the screen while you wrote.

People don’t always know what to do around me.

His smile disappeared.

They get nervous. Or they try too hard. Or they avoid talking to me because communication takes longer.

You paused, unsure how much you wanted to admit.

Dean didn’t rush you.

He sat still, hands folded loosely between his knees, waiting until you were ready.

Tonight didn’t feel like that.

He read the sentence quietly.

“No?”

You shook your head.

It felt normal.

For some reason, that seemed to affect him more than the other things you had said. His jaw tightened for a second before he looked away.

“It should always feel normal.”

You gave a small shrug.

It doesn’t.

Dean nodded slowly.

He didn’t tell you that people were idiots. He didn’t promise that he would somehow make it all better. He didn’t offer pity dressed up as reassurance.

He simply looked back at you and said, “It will here.”

The certainty in his voice caught you off guard.

Not because it sounded arrogant.

Because it sounded like a promise.

Your fingers hovered over the phone, but you didn’t type anything. There were moments when words, written or otherwise, felt too small.

Instead, you reached over and gently took his hand.

Dean froze.

His eyes dropped to where your fingers rested against his palm.

You turned his hand over and traced a sign against it slowly, guiding his fingers into place.

His brows drew together as he tried to remember.

“Stay?”

You nodded.

Dean looked up at you.

Your hand was still holding his.

“You want to stay?”

Another nod.

His expression changed. It became quieter somehow, stripped of the grin and the confidence he wore so easily around everyone else.

“Then stay.”

You sat beside him until the others came back into the room.

Neither of you moved your hands.

Masterlist

Summary: Everyone at Briar knows Dean Di Laurentis. Nobody knows you. Not because you aren't friendly, but because people tend to make assumptions the moment they realize you don't speak. Some think you're shy. Others think you're rude. A few even assume you're deaf. You're used to correcting people with a tired smile and a note on your phone. Dean is no different...at first. Until he realizes your silence never stopped you from laughing, teasing, arguing, or caring. He starts discovering that you've always had a voice. It just isn't spoken.

Warnings: mentions of being mute, misunderstandings

By October, seeing Dean Di Laurentis walking around campus with you had stopped surprising people.

He'd meet you after lectures.

Walk you to the library.

Bring you coffee more often than either of you cared to admit.

Some days you barely exchanged ten words—spoken or typed.

Other days your phone battery suffered because Dean somehow managed to make you type paragraph-long responses to his endless questions.

He liked hearing what you thought.

Not because your answers were written.

Because they were always honest.

Dean had just finished practice when he spotted you sitting on the bleachers.

You always came a little early on Wednesdays.

The rink wasn't quiet—not with hockey pucks ricocheting off the boards and skates carving across the ice—but it was one of the few places Dean knew you'd never feel left out.

Everyone wore helmets.

Everyone relied on hand signals.

Communication wasn't just verbal.

He skated over to the glass, helmet tucked beneath one arm.

You looked up from your novel.

Dean knocked twice on the glass.

Your eyes lifted.

He grinned.

Then, with exaggerated concentration, he signed—

Hello.

You smiled.

Then signed back.

Hello.

He pointed to himself.

Very slowly.

How... are... you?

His brows furrowed in concentration.

You couldn't help smiling wider.

His grammar was a little clunky.

His movements still stiff.

But he'd clearly been practising.

You answered with slower signs so he could follow.

I'm good.

Dean managed to understand two of the three signs.

His face lit up anyway.

"I understood that!"

Coach blew his whistle from the other end of the rink.

"Di Laurentis!"

Dean winced.

"Coming!"

He pointed between his eyes and then at you.

"I'll be back."

The sign wasn't perfect.

But you understood exactly what he meant.

Practice finished nearly an hour later.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Dean emerged from the locker room with damp hair and a hoodie pulled over his practice clothes.

"You waited."

You shrugged.

Your phone appeared in your hands.

I was reading.

"Still."

He smiled to himself.

"You waited."

You rolled your eyes, but there wasn't much conviction behind it.

As the two of you walked across campus, Dean hesitated.

"So..."

You looked at him.

"The guys are having everyone over tonight."

He rubbed the back of his neck.

"Movie night."

You raised an eyebrow.

Dean laughed.

"Okay... pizza, movie, Logan complaining about the movie, Garrett pretending he doesn't care, and Tucker cooking because apparently frozen pizza isn't good enough."

A small smile appeared on your lips.

"I wanted to ask if..."

He suddenly looked oddly nervous.

"...if you'd come."

You stopped walking.

Dean immediately panicked.

"You absolutely don't have to."

"I know parties aren't really your thing."

"This isn't a party."

"It's just us."

He realised he was rambling and shut his mouth.

You looked at him for a long moment before typing.

Will there be lots of people?

Dean shook his head.

"Just me."

He pointed on one finger.

"Garrett."

Another.

"Logan."

"Tucker."

"Hannah."

"Maybe Allie."

He smiled gently.

"If it gets too much, I'll take you home."

No pressure.

No guilt.

Just an easy way out if you needed it.

You appreciated that.

More than he realised.

Your thumbs moved.

Okay.

Dean blinked.

"Okay?"

You nodded.

His grin was instant.

"Seriously?"

Another nod.

He actually pumped his fist in the air.

"Yes!"

Several students walking past stared at him.

Dean didn't seem to notice.

You laughed silently, covering your mouth.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The hockey house was exactly what you'd expected.

Loud.

Not chaotic.

Just...

Lived in.

A hockey stick leaned against one wall.

Someone had abandoned trainers in the hallway.

The unmistakable smell of garlic and something baking drifted from the kitchen.

Dean opened the front door dramatically.

"Welcome to my humble abode."

You looked around before typing.

You live like this voluntarily?

Dean looked offended.

"This place has character."

You glanced at a sock hanging from the banister.

Then back at him.

One eyebrow lifted.

"...I'll admit the sock isn't helping my argument."

"Dean!" Tucker called from the kitchen.

"Did you remember the drinks?"

"I—"

Dean froze.

"...Forgot."

Tucker sighed dramatically.

"I specifically texted you."

Dean pointed towards you.

"I was distracted."

Tucker appeared in the doorway.

His eyes landed on you.

A warm smile spread across his face.

"You must be Y/N."

You nodded.

He wiped his hands on a tea towel before signing—

Hello.

Your eyes widened.

The sign wasn't perfect.

Not nearly as polished as someone fluent.

But recognisable.

You smiled immediately and signed hello back.

Dean stared.

"You know sign language?"

Tucker shrugged.

"My cousin's Deaf."

Dean looked genuinely impressed.

"Huh."

"You didn't know that?"

"No."

"You've never asked."

Dean laughed.

"Fair."

One by one, the others filtered into the kitchen.

Garrett greeted you with an easy smile.

"Good to finally meet you properly."

You typed a quick reply.

You too.

Logan wandered in carrying two bowls of popcorn.

"So..."

He looked between you and Dean.

"This is the mysterious library girl."

Dean nearly dropped the bottle of soda he was holding.

"You're impossible."

Logan smirked.

"I've heard a lot about you."

Dean whipped around.

"I have not talked about her that much."

Garrett and Tucker exchanged a look.

Neither of them said anything.

They didn't have to.

Logan grinned wider.

"Dude."

He folded his arms.

"You've mentioned her every single day for the past three weeks."

Dean opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

"I..."

Nothing came out.

For possibly the first time in his life...

Dean Di Laurentis was speechless.

You looked from Dean to Logan.

Then slowly reached for your phone.

A few seconds later, you held the screen up in front of Dean.

Looks like you do all the talking after all.

The kitchen fell silent for exactly one beat.

Then Garrett burst out laughing.

Tucker nearly doubled over.

Even Hannah, who had just walked through the front door, covered her mouth to hide a smile.

Dean groaned, dragging both hands down his face.

"I walked right into that one."

You laughed so hard your shoulders shook.

Dean watched you for a moment, smiling despite himself.

If embarrassing himself was the price of seeing you laugh like that...

He'd happily pay it every day.

Masterlist

Summary: Everyone at Briar knows Dean Di Laurentis. Nobody knows you. Not because you aren't friendly, but because people tend to make assumptions the moment they realize you don't speak. Some think you're shy. Others think you're rude. A few even assume you're deaf. You're used to correcting people with a tired smile and a note on your phone. Dean is no different...at first. Until he realizes your silence never stopped you from laughing, teasing, arguing, or caring. He starts discovering that you've always had a voice. It just isn't spoken.

Warnings: mentions of being mute, misunderstandings

By the following week, Dean had become an unexpected regular in the library.

Not because he suddenly enjoyed studying.

He absolutely didn't.

But somehow, whenever he finished practice or had a gap between classes, his feet carried him toward the old brick building tucked away on the quieter side of campus.

It wasn't long before the librarians stopped looking surprised when he wandered in.

One of them even greeted him with a knowing smile.

"Your usual table is free."

Dean blinked.

"I have a usual table?"

"You do now."

He laughed under his breath.

"Guess I do."

You were already there.

Curled up in your favourite corner beside the window, surrounded by a fortress of books that looked heavy enough to cause structural damage if they toppled over.

Dean slid into the chair opposite you.

"You planning on reading all of those today?"

You glanced at the stack before shrugging.

Then you picked up your phone.

You: Probably not.

A second message appeared.

But it makes me look intelligent.

Dean grinned.

"You are intelligent."

You narrowed your eyes playfully.

Flattery won't get you my lecture notes.

"Worth a shot."

The afternoon slipped by comfortably.

Dean worked through an essay that had been due two days ago.

You highlighted passages from a novel for your seminar.

Every now and then one of you would break the silence.

Dean with a quiet comment.

You with a typed joke or a scribbled note pushed across the table.

It felt...

Easy.

Dean wasn't used to easy.

Eventually, you packed your books away.

Dean stood with you.

"Next class?"

You nodded.

The two of you stepped outside together, the crisp autumn air replacing the warmth of the library.

Students filled the walkways between buildings.

Bicycles rolled past.

Someone was playing music somewhere across the quad.

Dean walked beside you, matching your pace without thinking.

"So, what've you got now?"

You unlocked your phone.

History of Modern Literature.

"Ouch."

You smiled.

It's actually interesting.

"I'll take your word for it."

As you approached the humanities building, a voice called out.

"Excuse me!"

The two of you turned.

A girl hurried over, clutching a notebook against her chest.

She looked flustered.

"Sorry," she said, smiling nervously at Dean instead of you. "Could you tell her Professor Lewis moved today's seminar?"

Dean opened his mouth.

Then stopped himself.

He looked at you instead.

You'd already noticed.

With practiced ease, you stepped forward and gently tapped the girl's arm to catch her attention.

She looked at you, surprised.

You pointed to yourself before lifting your phone.

A few quick taps.

You turned the screen around.

Hi. You can tell me directly.

The girl's cheeks immediately turned pink.

"Oh my gosh."

She looked mortified.

"I'm so sorry."

You smiled warmly and shook your head.

She read your phone again before speaking, this time looking only at you.

"Professor Lewis moved the seminar to Room 204."

You nodded gratefully.

Another quick message.

Thank you for letting me know.

She smiled back.

"No problem."

After another embarrassed apology, she hurried away.

Dean watched her disappear into the crowd.

Neither of you moved for a moment.

Finally, he spoke.

"Does that happen a lot?"

You looked down at your phone.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard longer than usual.

Every day.

Dean's smile faded.

People aren't trying to be rude.

Another message followed.

They're just uncomfortable.

He frowned.

"Still."

You shrugged lightly.

I'm used to it.

Dean looked at the words for a long moment.

He didn't like them.

Not because they weren't true.

Because they sounded like something you'd had to accept a long time ago.

The seminar room was already filling when the two of you walked inside.

Professor Lewis looked up from his notes.

"Morning."

You smiled.

Dean took the seat beside you.

Halfway through the class, Professor Lewis asked everyone to split into groups of four to discuss the week's reading.

Dean, you, and two other students pushed your desks together.

One of the students—a guy Dean vaguely recognised from another elective—started talking almost immediately.

"So, I think the narrator represents—"

He stopped.

His eyes landed on you.

Then shifted awkwardly to Dean.

"Can... um... can she..."

Dean could practically see the question coming.

Can she participate?

Can she follow?

Can she contribute?

You didn't wait for him to finish.

You calmly opened your laptop and turned it towards the group.

Across the top of the screen, in large letters, was a blank document.

Your fingers flew across the keyboard.

I have a few thoughts.

The sentence appeared almost instantly.

You rotated the laptop so everyone could read.

Then you typed again.

I think the narrator is unreliable because we're only seeing events through a very biased perspective.

For the next five minutes, your fingers barely stopped moving.

Every point was thoughtful.

Every observation insightful.

The discussion changed almost immediately.

Instead of wondering whether you could contribute...

They started asking what you thought.

Dean leaned back in his chair, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You hadn't needed anyone to speak for you.

You'd handled it yourself.

Just like you always did.

After class, the two of you walked out into the late afternoon sunshine.

Dean shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

"You know..."

You looked at him.

"I was about to jump in back there."

You tilted your head.

He laughed sheepishly.

"I know you didn't need me to."

You smiled.

But you wanted to.

"Yeah."

He sighed.

"I hate seeing people underestimate you."

You stopped walking.

Dean looked back.

You were watching him with that thoughtful expression he'd started to recognise.

The one that meant you were choosing your words carefully.

Your thumbs moved slowly over the screen.

Thank you for wanting to.

Dean waited.

Another sentence appeared.

But if people never learn to ask me... they'll always ask someone else.

He read the words twice.

Then nodded.

"I hadn't thought of it like that."

You smiled softly.

I know.

You slipped your phone back into your bag.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

Then, without saying anything, Dean lifted his hand.

Slowly.

Carefully.

He signed the one word he knew by heart.

Friend.

It wasn't perfect.

He was almost certain he'd bent one finger the wrong way.

You stared at his hand.

Then at him.

A smile spread across your face—bright enough to steal the breath from his lungs.

You reached up.

Corrected his fingers.

And signed the word back.

This time flawlessly.

Dean felt something settle warmly in his chest.

He still had a lot to learn.

But for the first time in years, learning didn't feel like work.

It felt like getting closer to someone worth knowing.

Masterlist

Summary: Everyone at Briar knows Dean Di Laurentis. Nobody knows you. Not because you aren't friendly, but because people tend to make assumptions the moment they realize you don't speak. Some think you're shy. Others think you're rude. A few even assume you're deaf. You're used to correcting people with a tired smile and a note on your phone. Dean is no different...at first. Until he realizes your silence never stopped you from laughing, teasing, arguing, or caring. He starts discovering that you've always had a voice. It just isn't spoken.

Warnings: mentions of being mute, misunderstandings

Dean had always been good at learning plays.

Coach would draw arrows across the whiteboard, bark out instructions, and by the end of practice Dean could skate them in his sleep.

American Sign Language?

That was an entirely different sport.

His fingers wouldn't cooperate.

His wrists felt stiff.

Every sign looked perfect on the video until he tried to copy it.

"...Ow."

Logan wandered into the kitchen just in time to find Dean sitting at the island with his laptop open, a notebook covered in hand drawings beside him.

"What are you doing?"

Dean looked up.

"Homework."

Logan glanced at the screen.

"...Since when does English Literature involve sign language?"

Dean slammed the laptop shut.

"It doesn't."

"So..."

"So mind your business."

Logan folded his arms, grinning.

"Dude."

"What?"

"You've got flashcards."

Dean looked down.

He did, in fact, have flashcards.

One side read:

HELLO

The other showed the handshape.

Logan burst out laughing.

"Oh, this is serious."

Dean threw one of the cards at him.

"Get out."

"I'm telling Garrett."

"You tell Garrett and I'll tell Hannah about that waitress you've been texting."

Logan froze.

"...Low blow."

"It worked."

"It absolutely worked."

Logan backed toward the hallway with both hands raised.

"I saw nothing."

You were shelving books in the campus library when someone tapped lightly on the edge of the shelf.

Looking up, you found Dean standing there with two takeaway coffees balanced carefully in one hand.

He smiled.

"I come bearing peace offerings."

You pointed to yourself with a questioning expression.

He nodded.

"You."

You looked at the cups.

Then at him.

One eyebrow lifted.

"I know," he admitted. "I didn't know what you liked."

He held one cup out.

"So I bought two different ones."

Your lips curved into a smile.

Taking the sleeve from the cup, you pulled your phone from your pocket.

You: That is either incredibly thoughtful...

Dean beamed.

"...Or?"

You typed another line.

...or incredibly inefficient.

He laughed loud enough to earn a stern look from the librarian.

"Sorry."

The librarian shushed him.

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh.

Dean leaned closer, lowering his voice dramatically.

"I've been publicly humiliated."

You nodded sympathetically before typing.

You deserved it.

"I definitely didn't."

You handed him your phone.

You were loud... in a library.

"...That's fair."

The two of you settled into a quiet corner by one of the tall windows overlooking campus.

Rain pattered softly against the glass.

Students hurried across the quad below, jackets pulled over their heads.

Dean stole a glance at you while pretending to stir his coffee.

You'd taken your headphones off, resting them neatly beside your notebook.

A tiny silver ring wrapped around your thumb.

There was a faint ink smudge on the side of your hand.

Your concentration settled fully on the article you were reading.

He smiled to himself.

"You always read this much?"

You looked up.

Nodded.

Your fingers danced through a quick sign before you remembered he couldn't understand.

You reached for your phone instead.

Escaping into books is cheaper than therapy.

Dean laughed softly.

"That's... actually relatable."

You smiled.

What about you?

He leaned back.

"I grew up with an older brother and a younger sister."

You blinked.

"...Talking was survival."

Your silent laugh made his chest feel strangely warm.

A comfortable silence settled between you.

Not awkward.

Not forced.

Just...

Peaceful.

Dean had never realised silence could feel so full.

Most people rushed to fill every quiet moment with chatter.

You never did.

You let silence breathe.

And somehow, sitting beside you, Dean found himself doing the same.

He cleared his throat.

"I've... uh..."

His confidence, usually effortless, seemed to disappear.

"I've been learning something."

Curiosity crossed your face.

Dean rubbed the back of his neck.

"Don't laugh."

You immediately looked amused.

"I mean it."

You folded your arms, smiling.

He took a deep breath.

Then...

Very carefully...

Raised one hand.

His movements were hesitant.

A little stiff.

Not perfect.

But unmistakable.

Hello, How are you?

For a heartbeat, the world seemed to stop.

Your eyes widened.

Not because the sign was flawless.

It wasn't.

His palm had been angled slightly wrong.

His wrist was a little tense.

But he'd done it.

He'd learned.

For you.

Dean immediately grimaced.

"I messed it up, didn't I?"

You were already shaking your head.

Setting your coffee down, you reached across the table.

Slowly.

Giving him every chance to pull away.

He didn't.

Your fingers gently touched his hand.

His breath caught.

Without saying a word, you adjusted the angle of his wrist.

Curled one finger a little more.

Relaxed his thumb.

Then you smiled and nodded once.

Perfect.

Dean looked from his hand to your face.

"So... that was right?"

You nodded again.

A little more enthusiastically this time.

His grin spread so wide it almost hurt.

"I knew YouTube wouldn't fail me."

You laughed silently, shoulders shaking.

People turned to look, drawn by Dean's unmistakable smile rather than any sound from you.

He didn't notice.

He was too busy watching your eyes light up.

You reached for your phone.

Thank you.

Dean frowned.

"For saying hello?"

You nodded.

He looked genuinely confused.

"You don't have to thank me."

Your thumbs hovered over the screen for a moment before typing.

Most people expect me to adapt to them.

You looked up.

You came halfway.

Dean stared at the words.

Something tightened in his chest.

He'd never thought of it that way.

To him, learning a few signs had seemed like such a small thing.

To you...

It meant someone had decided you were worth the effort.

He smiled, softer this time.

"I'm planning on learning a lot more than halfway."

Your eyes searched his face, looking for any hint that he was joking.

There wasn't one.

He meant every word.

For the first time in a very long time, someone had chosen to learn your language—not because they had to.

Simply because they wanted to know you.

Outside, the rain continued to fall.

Inside the library, with a cup of cooling coffee between you and Dean's hand still resting where yours had corrected it only moments before, something quiet and wonderful began to grow.

Neither of you called it anything.

Not yet.

Masterlist

Summary: Everyone at Briar knows Dean Di Laurentis. Nobody knows you. Not because you aren't friendly, but because people tend to make assumptions the moment they realize you don't speak. Some think you're shy. Others think you're rude. A few even assume you're deaf. You're used to correcting people with a tired smile and a note on your phone. Dean is no different...at first. Until he realizes your silence never stopped you from laughing, teasing, arguing, or caring. He starts discovering that you've always had a voice. It just isn't spoken.

Warnings: mentions of being mute, misunderstandings

By the end of the week, Dean Di Laurentis had developed a habit.

It wasn't intentional.

At least, that's what he kept telling himself.

Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, he found himself arriving at his English elective five minutes earlier than usual. Not because he'd suddenly become passionate about nineteenth-century literature, and certainly not because he was worried about missing Professor Reynolds' lecture.

It was because you always arrived early.

And somehow, without either of you ever discussing it, the seat beside you had quietly become his.

Dean dropped into the chair with a familiar grin.

"Morning."

You looked up from your laptop, the corners of your lips lifting into a small smile.

Instead of reaching for your phone this time, you raised one hand.

Dean watched as your fingers moved gracefully through a sign he didn't understand.

His smile faltered for only a second.

"...Was that 'good morning,' or did you just call me an idiot?"

Your shoulders shook with silent laughter.

You picked up your phone.

Wouldn't you like to know?

Dean clutched his chest dramatically.

"I've known you for four days and you're already bullying me."

You typed another reply.

You've survived worse.

"That's true."

He leaned back in his chair.

"Garrett hits me regularly."

You laughed again, and Dean decided—quite confidently—that making you laugh was becoming one of his favourite things.

It was different from everyone else's laughter. Softer. Quieter. It never echoed through a room, but somehow it still filled the space around you.

He found himself chasing it.

Across the room, Garrett walked in with Logan.

Logan's eyes immediately landed on Dean.

"...Seriously?"

Garrett followed his gaze and sighed.

Dean was already talking animatedly while you typed responses on your phone.

"He didn't even wait until class started," Logan muttered.

"I give it another week before he's completely whipped."

Garrett smirked.

"I'll take that bet."

The lecture passed surprisingly quickly.

Professor Reynolds split the class into pairs to analyse a passage from Pride and Prejudice.

Dean grinned.

"Looks like we're partners."

You gave him a mock look of disappointment before opening your notebook.

"You wound me."

You scribbled something before turning the page toward him.

You have approximately forty minutes to prove you're useful.

Dean laughed.

"Oh, so this is a test?"

You nodded once.

"Okay, first of all, rude."

He reached for the novel, reading through the assigned passage.

For the next twenty minutes, the two of you worked surprisingly well together.

Dean talked through his ideas while making sure to pause often enough for you to write or type your thoughts.

He noticed you preferred writing when your responses were longer.

Typing was faster for jokes.

Your eyebrows did a remarkable amount of communicating on their own.

Whenever you disagreed with him, one eyebrow lifted just slightly.

Whenever he said something genuinely clever, your eyes softened.

Whenever he made a terrible joke...

You pinched the bridge of your nose.

"You know," Dean said, "I'm starting to understand your facial expressions."

You froze.

Then slowly wrote:

Dangerous information.

"I know that look."

You tilted your head innocently.

Dean pointed.

"See? That one. That's your 'you're embarrassing yourself' face."

A smile spread across your face before you quickly looked back down at your notebook, trying—and failing—to hide it.

Dean noticed anyway.

He noticed everything.

After class, the hallway buzzed with students discussing assignments and weekend plans.

Dean walked beside you as usual.

"So... coffee?"

You considered it for a moment before typing.

Meeting Hannah.

"Hmm."

Dean nodded.

"I'll allow it."

You stopped walking.

Slowly, you looked up at him.

Then typed.

You'll allow it?

"...Poor choice of words."

You nodded as if agreeing with yourself.

Very poor.

Dean laughed.

"Can I redeem myself?"

You pretended to think.

Maybe.

"I'll take maybe."

Just then, a voice interrupted.

"Dean!"

A blonde girl jogged over, slipping her hand around his arm with practiced familiarity.

"There you are."

Dean looked surprised.

"Oh. Hey... Brittany, right?"

The girl's smile tightened for the briefest moment.

"It's Brianna."

"Right."

You watched the interaction quietly.

Not because you were jealous.

You barely knew Dean.

But because you'd seen this before.

Pretty girls.

Easy smiles.

Dean's effortless charm.

It wasn't your world.

You took a small step backwards, giving them space.

Dean noticed immediately.

"So," Brianna continued, "are you coming to Sigma Phi tonight?"

"I don't know yet."

"You should."

She finally glanced at you.

"Oh."

Her smile turned politely confused.

"Were you two talking?"

Before Dean could answer, Brianna looked directly at him instead of you.

"Can she...?"

Dean's expression changed.

Not dramatically.

Just enough that the easy grin faded.

"She can."

Brianna blinked.

"What?"

Dean nodded toward you.

"Ask her."

There wasn't any irritation in his voice.

Only certainty.

"She can answer you."

Brianna looked slightly flustered before turning to face you properly.

"Oh... sorry."

You offered her a reassuring smile and typed a quick response.

No worries. Nice to meet you.

Relief crossed Brianna's face.

"You too."

After a few more awkward pleasantries, she excused herself.

The moment she disappeared into the crowd, Dean let out a breath.

"I'm sorry."

You frowned.

For what?

"For not stopping her sooner."

You shook your head.

She corrected herself.

"I know."

He looked at you carefully.

"I just... didn't like that she looked through you instead of at you."

Your fingers hovered over your phone.

For a long moment, you didn't type.

Instead, you simply looked at him.

Really looked at him.

Most people needed reminding.

Dean hadn't.

He hadn't answered for you.

He hadn't explained your muteness like it was something to apologise for.

He had simply redirected the conversation back where it belonged.

To you.

Finally, you typed.

Thank you.

Dean smiled.

"You don't have to thank me."

I know.

Another pause.

But I wanted to.

For reasons he couldn't quite explain, those four words settled somewhere deep in his chest.

That evening, after hockey practice, Dean lay sprawled across the couch in the hockey house.

Logan wandered into the living room, towel slung over his shoulder.

"What're you doing?"

Dean quickly locked his phone.

"Nothing."

Logan narrowed his eyes.

"You've got the same guilty face you make when you steal Garrett's protein bars."

"I don't steal them."

"You absolutely do."

Dean sighed dramatically before unlocking his phone again.

On the screen was a beginner's lesson.

American Sign Language – Lesson One: Greetings

Logan blinked.

"...You're learning sign language?"

Dean rubbed the back of his neck.

"I thought... it might be nice."

Logan stared at him for another second before a slow grin spread across his face.

"You like her."

Dean scoffed.

"I've known her less than a week."

"That wasn't a denial."

Dean opened his mouth.

Closed it.

"...Shut up."

Logan laughed all the way upstairs, leaving Dean alone with his phone.

He replayed the lesson once more, carefully copying each movement.

His fingers felt awkward.

Clumsy.

Nothing like yours.

Still, he kept trying.

Because if there was even the smallest chance that one day he'd be able to greet you in your own language...

It would be worth every mistake.