Dean was sprawled across Allie’s bed in nothing but gray sweatpants riding low on his hips, one arm tucked behind his head, his hair still messy from her fingers earlier.

Allie had crashed hard after round two, curled up facing the wall with that soft little snore she swore she didn’t have. Dean, though? Sleep never came easy to him. Too much energy buzzing under his skin, even after a hard practice and better cardio. So when he heard the shower running down the hall—your shower—he’d gotten up. Nosy by nature. Restless. And yeah, a little curious about Allie’s quiet twin sister who drifted through the house like a ghost with a sketchbook glued to her hand.

He slipped into your room without a real plan, the door clicking softly behind him. The space felt different from Allie’s; cozier, more lived-in with stacks of pencils and charcoal bits on the desk, fairy lights casting golden pools across the walls. Your bed was neatly made, a grey hoodie tossed over the chair.

The sketchbook sat on your nightstand like it was waiting for him. Thick, well-worn, the cover splattered with faint paint smudges. Dean picked it up with a lazy grin, flipping it open because why the hell not? You were in the shower. He’d just take a quick peek at whatever artsy shit you were always scribbling.

The first few pages were innocent enough; landscapes, random faces, the rink, some of the guys on the team in motion. But then the tone shifted. Harder. Hotter. Pages filled with him.

Dean’s breath caught.

There he was… his body rendered in obsessive, loving detail. Broad shoulders, the cut of his abs, the V disappearing into low-slung hockey shorts. But it wasn’t just anatomy. It was him needy. Lips parted, eyes half-lidded with lust, head thrown back like he was mid-groan. One drawing had his hand wrapped around 𝓱𝓲𝓶self, veins and tension captured perfectly. Another showed sweat glistening on his chest, muscles flexed like he was 𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓾𝓼ting into someone, that desperate edge on his face he usually only saw in the mirror after a really good night.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered under his breath. Heat pooled low in his gut as he turned another page. There were more. Dozens. Different angles, different expressions—him looking wrecked, hungry, almost vulnerable in that raw, erotic way. You’d drawn his hands, his mouth, the exact way his hair fell when it was sweaty. The detail was insane. Intimate. Like you’d been watching him for months, memorizing every inch.

A stunned grin spread across his face, equal parts shocked and stupidly turned on. You dirty little secret-keeper. His sweet, reserved, always-blushing sister-in-law (technically) had been getting herself off to drawings of him. The thought sent a bolt of pure ego straight through him, mixed with something sharper; curiosity, heat, a flicker of conflict because fuck, this was Allie’s twin. But mostly heat.

The bathroom door opened.

Dean looked up just as you stepped out, towel wrapped tight around your body, water still dripping from your hair onto bare shoulders. Your eyes landed on him, the sketchbook open in his hands at the exact page with one of the filthiest ones, and your face crumpled. The world-ending kind of horror. Cheeks flooding crimson, eyes wide, lips parting in silent panic.

“Well, damn, baby,” he drawled, voice low and playful. “Didn’t know I had a personal 𝓹𝓸𝓻𝓷 artist living down the hall. These are… fuck. Talented. And really, really filthy.”

He flipped one more page slowly, gaze dropping to the drawing of his face mid-or𝓰𝓪𝓼𝓶 before flicking back to you.

“C’mon,” he said, gentler now, though the smirk lingered. “Don’t look like I just kicked your puppy. I’m not mad, sweetheart. Kinda flattered as hell, actually.” His gaze dragged over you again. “These make me look good. Real good. Way you drew my face when I’m about to come? Christ. You’ve been paying attention.”