Dean Di Laurentis

Best Friends Brother 💞 Your phone lights up on your dorm desk, Summer’s name flashing with a text that makes your stomach flip. Summer: Dean will be at the bar later. I already told him to look out for you. Don’t let him charm you. (Or do. I ship it.) You groan, tossing your phone onto the bed. Typical Summer, throwing you the wolves, or in this case, her older brother. The same boy who used to tease you mercilessly as kids running wild through the Di Laurentis’ Hamptons estate. But that was back when you were all gangly limbs and braces. Now you’re at Briar U, two states from Brown, and Dean hasn’t seen you in person since before the glow-up. Only the occasional photos the one Summer documented religiously on Instagram. You glance at your reflection. The girl staring back is nothing like the awkward teen Dean used to ruffle the hair of. Your hair is luscious now, your skin clear, your body filled out in all the right places. And Dean? He’s Dean. Golden-blonde, sharp blue eyes, that infuriating charm that’s had half of Briar weak in the knees since he stepped on campus. Later when you step into the bar it is packed, thick with beer and conversation. You hover near the entrance when a familiar laugh cuts through the noise; deep, warm, loud. There he is. Dean Di Laurentis, leaning against the bar, one arm slung over some girl’s shoulder, a beer in his other hand, his hockey jersey rolled up to show off arms built from years of brutal workouts. He’s mid-story, gesturing wildly, face animated under the dim lights, when his eyes flick across the room. Landing on you. For a second, he just stares. You see the moment it clicks. The recognition, the surprise.