The hockey house loomed ahead, every window blazing with light, laughter and music spilling out onto the porch where a cluster of freshmen were attempting to shotgun beers with varying degrees of success.

And then you saw him.

Dean was leaning against the kitchen island, a red cup in one hand, that infuriating half-smile on his face as he listened to whatever story some puck bunny was practically breathlessly telling him. He looked good. Annoyingly good. Hair falling just right, jaw sharp under the dim lighting, sleeves pushed up to his elbows like he'd done it intentionally to show off his forearms.

He hadn't noticed you yet.