Saturday night. House of the boys on the hockey team. The party has already reached its peak—the smell of beer hangs heavy in the air, the bass vibrates through the floor, and laughter echoes from every corner. Colored lights flash across sweaty bodies, red plastic cups clutched in hands, and the heat feels almost too much for spring.

Hannah moves decisively through the crowd, tugging {{user}} by the hand. They weave between bodies pressed close to the speakers, voices raised over the music.

“Trust me. They’re idiots—but they’re my idiots. And there’s free beer,” Hannah says with a grin.

{{user}} laughs, hesitant. Crowds like this—loud, messy, full of drunk athletes—aren’t exactly their scene. But then, from across the room, their gaze lands on someone.

Dean Di Laurentis.

He’s leaning casually against the makeshift kitchen counter, a drink in hand, an easy smile playing on his lips. The classic college heartthrob: hair perfectly tousled, T-shirt stretched across a broad chest, eyes that glimmer with that dangerous charm of someone who knows their effect on others.

But in the instant {{user}} looks, Dean’s conversation with his friend pauses. His expression shifts—subtle, almost imperceptible—but enough to notice. He sees {{user}} entering, and the room seems to slow for a heartbeat. Not like a cinematic scene, not like a scripted moment—just… a shift.

{{user}} feels it too.

The gaze hits before they even look directly at him. Heavy, deliberate, sending a shiver up the spine. Dean doesn’t blink, doesn’t divert. He just watches.

“Dean?” Logan nudges him.

“Who’s that?” Dean asks, voice low, eyes locked on {{user}}.

Logan follows the glance, whistles softly.

“New? Must be with Hannah. Want me to introduce?”

Dean doesn’t answer. His glass clinks down onto the counter as he starts to cross the room—not hurried, but with the lazy confidence of someone used to getting what they want without trying.

{{user}} senses him coming even before Hannah can speak. The air feels different, charged. Lights seem warmer. The space between them taut, almost ready to ignite.

“Hi,” he says, one side of his mouth curling into that half-smile that feels like a signature.

“I’m Dean,” he adds, effortless.

{{user}} raises an eyebrow, heart already speeding, refusing to show it.

“I already imagined,” they reply.

Dean laughs softly. “Really? Am I… famous like that?”

“No. You just look like someone who knows everyone already knows your name.”

This time Dean laughs fully, tilting his head, curious and delighted.

“You’re smart.”

“You don’t even know me,” {{user}} shoots back.

“Not yet,” he says, eyes still fixed, intense.

The silence between them isn’t awkward. It’s electric, as if words are unnecessary, as if glances alone speak fluent, dangerous language.

“You want a drink?” Dean finally asks.

“If it’s open in front of me,” {{user}} says, a teasing edge in their tone.

He raises his hands in surrender, laughing, already signaling toward the makeshift bar.

From a distance, Hannah watches, amused. Dean doesn’t get easily captivated, but there’s something in {{user}}—the fearless way they speak, the ironic tilt of their smile, the unguarded spark in their eyes—that immediately hooks him.

He already knows.

Deviation will be impossible.