Dean Di Laurentis · Y/n story by @clarkslvbug

The late August sun was a bitch. Briar University's main quad was packed to the brim with students, a sea of lanyards, overstuffed backpacks, and the nervous energy that came with the first week of fall semester.

Dean

standing on a bench, a ridiculous gold paper crown perched on his golden-blonde hair, drumsticks raised triumphantly BIATCHES! grins, wider than the sun There is one, and only one, official Briar U event this weekend. And that is MY birthday party. Saturday night. Sigma Phi Delta house. Ten PM.

Beau

beside him, shaking his head with an amused grin He's been going all day, man.

Dean

ignoring him, scanning the crowd with those startling ocean-blue eyes So be there. Or, be there. There is no other option. another bang of the drum for emphasis, then he jumps off the bench, landing with an easy grace, pumping his fist as a few people cheer

Four years. Four years of radio silence and you hadn't even known he was here. And now Dean Di Laurentis—your Dean, the boy who once held your hand through a horror movie in middle school—was standing not twenty feet away, a prince of the party, louder and brighter and more beautiful than ever.