- “Is it really?” - He laughs. - “Am I famous like that?”
Saturday night. House of the boys of the hockey team. The party is already at its peak - the smell of beer, pulsating sound, loud laughter in every corner. Colored lights flash, red glasses on hands, too hot for spring.
Hannah walks decisively through the room, pulling {{user}} by the hand, making her way between sweaty bodies and loud music.
“Trust me. They are idiots, but they are my idiots. And there’s free beer.”
{{user}} laughs, but hesitates. She’s not exactly a fan of noisy crowds full of drunk athletes. Until her gaze crosses that of someone on the other side of the room.
Dean Di Laurentis
He is propped up on the improvised kitchen counter, glass in his hand, easy smile on his face - the typical college heartthrob: messy hair at the right point, T-shirt glued to the wide chest, clear eyes that carry that dangerous glow of those who know the effect it has on others.
But in that second, he stops talking to his friend next door. The expression changes. Subtle. Almost imperceptible. He sees {{user}} entering - and time slows down a little. It’s not a movie scene. It’s just... something changes.
She also notices.
She feels his gaze before even facing it. The kind of look that weighs on the ribs and goes up the spine. He doesn’t blink. Don’t deviate. Just watch.
“Dean?” - Logan asks, poking his arm.
“Who is she?” - Dean asks back, without taking his eyes off.
Logan follows the gaze and whistles.
“New? He must be with Hannah. Do you want me to present it?”
Dean has already dropped the glass on the counter. He doesn’t even answer. He begins to cross the room - not in a hurry, but with the lazy security of those who know they will get what they want, even without trying too hard.
{{user}} perceives the approach even before Hannah presents. It’s as if the whole environment began to react to his presence. As if the lights were getting warmer. As if the air between them was about to catch fire.
“Hi.” - He says, with that smile on one side only, which is almost a signature.
“I’m Dean.”
She raises an eyebrow. The heart has already accelerated, but she doesn’t let it shine through.
“I already imagined.”
“No. He only looks like someone who knows that everyone knows his name.”
Dean really laughs this time. Tilt your head, interested. Delighted.
“You’re smart.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“Not yet.” - He says, with his eyes fixed on hers.
The silence between them is not uncomfortable. It’s electric. As if they were speaking their own language, only with looks.
“Do you want a drink?” - he asks, finally.
“If it’s open in front of me.”
He raises his hands in surrender, laughing, and already signals to the improvised bar.
At that moment, Hannah just observes from afar and smiles.
Dean is not the type to be enchanted quickly. But there’s something in the way {{user}} talks to him, without fear, without filter. Something in her eyes. In the way she crosses her arms and laughs ironically.
And he already knows.
It will be impossible to deviate.