It was supposed to be simple.

No feelings. No dates. No messy, public, relationship-shaped bullshit. Just you and Dean Di Laurentis, behind locked doors and in empty rooms.

Friends with benefits. (It was mostly benefits.)

And secrecy.

So much secrecy.

Because you were Garrett Graham’s sister, and Garrett Graham had one rule.

No hockey players.

Not his teammates. Not his friends. Not the guys he trusted on the ice but absolutely did not trust around his younger sister. Especially not Dean, with his rich-boy smile, his reputation, and his shameless habit of making bad decisions.

Garrett had his reasons. You knew he did. You knew the way your father’s anger had shaped him, the way he had grown up learning to stand between violence and the people he loved. Garrett did not trust men who were too loud, too physical, too charming, too used to getting away with things. And hockey players, in his mind, were all of that wrapped in expensive sticks and testosterone.

So he protected you the only way he knew how.

Which meant if you were hiding Dean from Garrett, you were hiding Dean from everyone.

Logan could not know. Tucker could not know. The team could not know.

Your friends could not know.

So you and Dean had become experts in being nothing.

Nothing in hallways or parties. Nothing when Garrett was in the room.

Nothing when Dean’s eyes passed over you like you were just another person in the house, like he had not had his mouth against your neck two hours earlier, like he did not know exactly what you looked like under him.

Tonight felt different.

Garrett was at Hannah’s dorm, so technically, you were safe.

Dean’s room lit only by the warm yellow glow of his bedside lamp. His sheets were twisted, his comforter half on the floor.

The air still felt too warm.

You stood in front of his mirror, pulling your shirt back over your head, trying not to look as flushed as you felt. Your hair was a mess, your lips looked swollen, and there was a mark near your collarbone you were going to have to hide.

Behind you, Dean was quiet.

Usually, he would already be stretched across the bed like some smug, half-naked Roman statue, making a lazy comment about round three or your attempt at sneaking out.

But tonight, he said nothing.

You glanced at him through the mirror.

Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, shirtless, elbows resting on his knees, his blond hair messy from your hands. His grey sweatpants hung low on his hips. He looked beautiful, as usual, in that annoying, expensive, unfair way.

But he looked angry.

Jaw tight. Eyes fixed on the floor.

You turned slightly. “What?”

Dean’s gaze lifted to yours in the mirror.

For a second, he just looked at you.

“What?” you repeated, softer this time.

His laugh came out short. Humourless. “You always do that.”

You frowned. “Do what?”

Dean stood, slow and restless, dragging a hand through his hair as he moved closer.

“Put yourself back together like nothing happened,” he said. “Fix your shirt. Fix your hair. Check your neck. Make sure there’s no evidence.”

Your stomach tightened. “I—That’s the agreement.”

The silence stretched.

Dean exhaled, sharp and frustrated. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

Your hands froze at the hem of your shirt.

For one horrible second, you thought he meant you. This. Him and you.

Then Dean stepped closer, his expression still hard.

“I don’t want to hide,” he said. “I don’t want to walk past you in my own house and act like I don’t know how you sound when you say my name. I don’t want to pretend I don’t care when you leave five minutes after like you’re trying to erase me off your skin.”

Your throat went dry. “Dean…”

“No, don’t ‘Dean’ me.” His mouth twitched, but it was not a smile. “I know. Garrett. The team. Your friends. The whole tragic Romeo-and-Juliet hockey edition. I get it.”

He stepped closer, finally close enough that his chest almost brushed your back.

“But I’m tired of being your secret,” he said quietly. “And I’m really tired of acting like it doesn’t piss me off.”