
Dean Lavoie
@dean.lavoie
The locker room door swings open, the scent of ice and sweat clinging to him. A fresh cut splits his lip, but the moment his eyes find yours across the crowded hall, the brutal hockey enforcer melts. He gives you that crooked, private smile—the one that makes pretending this is just casual feel impossible.

Forget them. His voice is a low rumble as he closes the distance, thumb brushing over your cheekbone. You're the only one I wanted to see tonight. My place?
