pero

The bathroom mirror didn’t help.

Which was rude, honestly, because you’d gone in there fully intending to pull yourself together.

That was the whole point of hiding in a bathroom after a morning like that: splash water on your face, stare at yourself until you couldn’t stand it anymore, and eventually walk back out pretending you were the kind of person who could sleep with Dean Di Laurentis and not immediately spiral about it.

Unfortunately, the mirror showed you exactly what you already knew: you looked like hell — not enough for someone to immediately ask if you needed water or an exorcism, probably, but enough that you could see it. Your hair was a little messy, your lips were still swollen from last night, and there was a faint mark low on your neck that you had no memory of getting; apparently, your brain had remembered exactly how everything felt and almost none of how it actually happened.

But it was your eyes that gave you away.

You looked like someone who’d let last night get under her skin, then woken up wondering if she was the only one who’d made it mean something.

You knew you were being dramatic, but you were still thinking it.

Because Dean hadn’t been cruel, that was the problem.

Cruel would’ve given you something sharp to hold on to. You could’ve snapped back, gotten dressed, and spent the whole drive home turning it over in your head until hating him felt easier than wanting him.

But Dean hadn’t been cruel.

He’d sounded nervous, of all things — too light, too quick, too Dean — and somehow, that hurt more, because Dean always joked when things got too real. You knew him well enough by now to recognize the instinct for what it was, his way of putting words between himself and anything that got too close.

Last night, though, you’d seen what happened when he didn’t.

He’d been careful with you, warm in a way you hadn’t expected, patient enough to make your chest ache; he’d said your name in the dark as he meant it, and his hand had hesitated before settling on your waist, like he was still waiting for permission to hold you after everything else.

Then morning came, and Dean gave you both a way out: the wine, because blaming that was easier than admitting what had actually happened, easier than looking too closely at what you were leaving behind.

“So,” Dean had murmured, his voice rough from sleep, his arm still warm around your waist. “We’re blaming the wine, right?”

He hadn’t sounded cruel when he said it.

That was the worst part.

You turned on the sink and let the water run longer than you needed.

“Great,” you muttered to yourself. “Waste water. That’ll help.”

There was a soft knock at the door, and you went still with your hand still under the running water.

“Hey,” Dean said, quiet enough that it made your fingers tighten around the edge of the sink.

Not smug, not teasing, not that lazy morning voice he’d used yesterday before brunch, back when complicated had still felt fun instead of whatever this was, sitting heavy in your chest.

“You okay?”

You closed your eyes for a second. There it was again — that carefulness, that softness he kept offering even after he’d been the reason it hurt.

“I’m fine,” you managed.

For a second, there was only the sound of the water running between you, and then Dean’s voice came softly through the door.

“That was a terrible lie.”

Your throat tightened, which was annoying, because crying over Dean in a hotel bathroom seemed like the kind of thing you should be legally immune to.

“I’m getting ready,” you called back.

“You locked yourself in the bathroom.”

“I’m in the bathroom,” you corrected, because apparently that distinction mattered.

“You’ve been in there for ten minutes.”

“I’m having a moment.”

Dean huffed, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Can you open the door?”

You looked at the lock.

Your hand didn’t move.

“No.”

There was another pause, and somehow, this one was worse.

Dean was good at filling the silence. He usually treated quiet like a personal challenge, something he could flirt or joke or annoy his way through until everyone around him forgot what they’d almost said.

But this time, he didn’t.

“Okay,” he said.

Just that.

No push. No laugh. No dramatic sigh through the door about how mean you were being to him before breakfast. He just accepted it, and somehow that made you want to open the door more than if he’d kept asking.

You didn’t.

You listened to him move away instead, his footsteps soft against the carpet, and only when you were sure he wasn’t right outside anymore did you let yourself breathe.

The worst part was that you still believed him a little.

Not completely. Not enough to make it stop hurting. But a little.

Because Dean hadn’t looked like someone who regretted last night.

Not when he’d asked if you were okay with that serious look in his eyes. Not when he’d come back from the bathroom with a damp towel and cleaned you up gently, his hand resting against your thigh as he needed you to know he was still there. Not when he’d stood beside the bed afterward, waiting for you to lift the blanket before he got back in, as if he hadn’t already had you in every other way but still didn’t want to assume he could hold you.

You remembered lifting the blanket.

You remembered how quickly he slid in behind you.

You remembered thinking, stupidly, that you could survive the sex but not that.

And then he’d woken up and made a joke.

You washed your face twice, brushed your teeth, covered the mark on your neck with more concentration than the task deserved, and stared at yourself until your reflection started to look annoyed with you.

By the time you finally opened the bathroom door, Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed except for his shoes, his phone loose in one hand. His head lifted the second you stepped out, and the relief that crossed his face disappeared so quickly you could almost pretend it hadn’t been there.

Almost.

“You took forever,” he said.

There it was—the attempt.

You appreciated it, somehow, even as it hurt.

You crossed the room to your suitcase and grabbed the first shirt you saw. “I told you. I was having a moment.”

His mouth twitched, but it didn’t last. “Yeah.”

The room went quiet again.

You hated that room now. Last night, it had felt too small because Dean kept standing too close and looking at you like the rules were suggestions. Now it felt too small because everything unsaid was sitting with you in it.

Dean stood.

“About what I said earlier—”

“You don’t have to.”

He stopped.

You didn’t look at him. You folded the shirt badly and shoved it into your bag as it had personally wronged you.

“I kind of think I do,” he said.

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.”

That made you look up.

Dean stood a few feet away, hands at his sides, jaw tight. He looked frustrated, but not with you. With himself, maybe. With the fact that he couldn’t charm his way back three minutes and steal the sentence out of the air before it hurt you.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said.

You forced a small smile. “Like what?”

His eyes searched your face, careful and too direct.

“Like I regretted it.”

There it was.

The word you’d been trying not to touch.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of your suitcase. “Dean.”

“I don’t.”

He said it too fast. Too seriously.

For one awful second, you believed him.

Then your chest caught up, reminding you that believing Dean was becoming a very dangerous habit.

“You don’t have to make it better,” you said.

His face changed. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“It’s okay.”

“Stop saying that.”

You swallowed.

Dean took one step closer, then seemed to think better of it and stopped himself. That carefulness again. That was the worst thing about him now, the fact that even when he hurt you, he was still trying so hard not to hurt you more.

“I panicked,” he said, quieter now. “That’s what the wine thing was. I woke up, and you were right there, and I didn’t know what you wanted me to say.”

Your throat tightened. “So you picked that?”

He winced. “Yeah.”

“Great choice.”

“Yeah, I’m picking up on that.”

The sarcasm should’ve helped.

It didn’t.

Dean dragged a hand through his hair, making it worse. “I’m trying to tell you I fucked up.”

“I know.”

“No, you keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Acting as if you agree fast enough, the conversation ends.”

Your mouth closed.

That was annoyingly accurate.

Dean looked at you, and there was something almost pleading in his face now; not obvious, not dramatic, but there. “Can we not do that?”

You wanted to say yes.

You wanted to let him explain. You wanted to be the kind of person who could sit on the edge of the bed and calmly ask Dean Di Laurentis what last night meant to him, as if the answer wouldn’t either fix you or ruin you.

But his phone rang before you could say anything.

Both of you looked at the screen.

His mother.

Dean stared at it like the phone had personally betrayed him.

You let out a laugh that sounded nothing like you. “You should get that.”

He didn’t move.

“Dean.”

His jaw worked once before he answered. “Morning, Mom.”

You turned back to your suitcase, grateful for the interruption and hating yourself for being grateful.

“Yes, we’re almost ready,” Dean said behind you, his voice shifting into that warmer tone he used with his mother. “No, I didn’t forget breakfast. Yes, I know what time it is.”

There was a pause.

His eyes flicked toward you.

“Yeah,” he said. “She’s ready.”

You were not ready.

You were barely a person.

But you zipped your bag anyway.

Breakfast was worse.

There was something uniquely cruel about sitting across from Dean’s parents after breaking rule three with their son the night before. His mother looked far too happy to see you, which made you feel guilty in a way you hadn’t prepared for. His father was already at the table with a coffee and the kind of calm expression that made it impossible to tell whether he noticed everything or enjoyed making people wonder if he did.

Dean held your chair out for you.

The gesture was automatic.

So was the way you hesitated before sitting.

He noticed. His face didn’t change much, but his hand paused for half a second on the back of the chair before he let go.

You hated that you saw it.

“You two sleep well?” his mother asked, pouring cream into her coffee.

You reached for your orange juice and missed it by an inch.

Dean’s hand moved like he meant to steady the glass for you, then stopped. “Fine.”

Fine.

The word sat between you like an inside joke no one wanted to be part of.

His mother smiled, but her eyes moved from him to you. “Just fine?”

Dean looked at his plate. “It was a long weekend.”

“That it was,” his father said, setting his coffee down. “These things always feel longer when you’re performing.”

You froze.

Dean’s head lifted.

His father didn’t look at either of you when he said it. He reached for the sugar with complete ease, as if he hadn’t just dropped a sentence directly into the center of your fake relationship and walked away from the explosion.

Dean’s mother gave him a look.

“What?” his father asked mildly.

“Nothing,” she said, though it didn’t sound like nothing.

Dean’s jaw tightened.

You took a sip of orange juice so you wouldn’t be required to speak.

The rest of breakfast passed with the particular discomfort of people being kind to you when you felt like a fraud. Dean’s mother asked about your classes. His father asked if you’d enjoyed the gala. Dean answered when you didn’t move fast enough, but not in a way that made you feel dismissed; more like he was trying to cover for you because he could tell you were one wrong question away from becoming emotionally unsupervised.

At some point, you looked at the fruit platter for half a second.

Dean reached for it immediately and passed it to you.

You took it without thinking.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

His eyes met yours.

For one stupid second, everything softened.

Then you remembered his arm around you that morning, his voice saying wine, the way his hand had fallen from your waist when you sat up, and you looked away.

Dean did too.

His mother saw that.

When breakfast ended, she pulled you into a hug in the lobby while Dean spoke quietly with his father near the doors.

“You were wonderful this weekend,” she said.

Your chest tightened. “Thank you for having me.”

“I mean it.” She pulled back, hands still lightly on your arms, and looked at you with a warmth that made you want to hide. “You fit here more easily than most people do.”

You swallowed.

Across the lobby, Dean’s eyes found you.

You looked away first.

“I had a lot of help,” you said lightly.

His mother’s smile softened. “From Dean?”

“That is, unfortunately, who I meant.”

She laughed, and for a second, you understood exactly where he got some of it from: the warmth, the charm, the ability to make something feel like it belonged even when it didn’t.

Or maybe you were just being sentimental because you were sad.

That seemed more likely.

She hugged Dean next, telling him to call when he got back, which he promised to do with the face of a man who had every intention of forgetting. His father shook his hand, then pulled him into a brief hug. Dean accepted it with the stiff awkwardness of someone who liked affection more than he wanted anyone to know.

Then his parents were gone.

Just like that.

No more audience. No more reason to hold hands, stand too close, or pretend you belonged beside him.

Dean turned to you slowly.

The lobby felt too quiet.

“Can we talk before we leave?” he asked.

Your fingers tightened around your suitcase handle.

You wanted to say yes.

The word was right there. Small. Easy. Maybe not safe, but possible.

Instead, you heard yourself say, “We have a long drive.”

Dean’s expression fell just enough to hurt. “That’s not what I asked.”

“No,” you said, pulling your bag closer. “But it’s what I can do right now.”

The drive back to Briar felt longer than the entire weekend.

Dean was quiet for the first twenty minutes, which should’ve been a relief. Instead, it made every inch of the car feel crowded. His hands stayed on the wheel, his jaw tight, his sleeves pushed up to his forearms. He kept glancing at you like he wanted to say something and then deciding against it, which made the silence feel less like peace and more like an argument that hadn’t started yet.

You stared out the window and pretended the trees were interesting.

They were not.

Your phone buzzed in your lap.

Allie.

allie: are you alive?

allie: and by alive i mean emotionally

allie: because hannah said dean looked weird at breakfast

allie: which means you also looked weird at breakfast

allie: answer me before i create a theory

You turned your phone face down.

Dean noticed.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

You almost laughed. “That’s a dangerous question.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Realized that after I asked.”

Silence again.

Then he exhaled. “Please don’t say there’s nothing to talk about.”

You kept your eyes on the road ahead. “I wasn’t going to.”

“That’s new.”

“I was going to say I don’t want to talk about it.”

Dean’s mouth twitched, but it faded quickly. “Less new.”

You finally looked at him.

He was still watching the road, but his face looked tired in a way that made something inside you ache. Not sleepy tired. Dean looked like someone who’d spent the last few hours trying to hold a door open while you kept standing on the other side of it.

“I’m not trying to be unfair,” you said.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

His fingers tightened around the wheel. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Dean said, “I don’t regret it.”

Your throat went tight.

“I know you think I do,” he continued, voice low. “Or that I’m trying to make it less than it was. I’m not.”

The worst part was that he sounded honest.

Dean was many things, but he wasn’t lying right then. You could hear it; you could feel it in the careful way he said the words, like he knew he only had one chance to make them land right.

So why didn’t it make you feel better?

Maybe because not regretting something wasn’t the same as wanting it after.

You looked back out the window. “Then why did you need an excuse?”

Dean didn’t answer fast enough.

That was answer enough.

Your lips pressed together.

“No,” he said quickly. “That’s not—”

“It’s fine.”

“Stop saying that.” His voice sharpened, then softened immediately. “Please.”

You blinked hard, refusing to cry in his car. That felt like an intimacy you couldn’t afford.

Dean took a breath, slower this time.

“I needed an excuse because I panicked. Because I woke up next to you, and for about five seconds, it felt normal.”

Your chest ached.

He glanced at you, then back at the road. “And then I remembered it wasn’t supposed to be.”

You wanted to ask what that meant. You wanted to ask if it scared him because it felt normal or because he wished it could stay that way. You wanted him to say it without you dragging the words out of him first.

He didn’t.

Instead, his mouth pressed into a line, and he swallowed whatever came next.

You nodded once, mostly to yourself.

“There it is,” you said softly.

His eyes cut to you. “What?”

“You keep getting close to saying something real, and then you stop.”

Dean flinched.

You turned back toward the window before you could let that affect you.

“That’s not fair,” he said.

“No,” you agreed. “Probably not.”

His grip tightened on the wheel. “I’m trying.”

“I know.” Your voice cracked just slightly. “That’s what makes it worse.”

Dean went quiet.

The radio played low in the background, a song neither of you was listening to. The whole car felt too full of almosts.

Almost honest.

Almost enough.

Almost real.

“Please don’t make me feel stupid for wanting you,” you said.

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Dean inhaled sharply.

You stared out the window, horrified by yourself.

For several seconds, he didn’t say anything.

Then, quietly, “You’re not stupid.”

That was not enough.

You hated that it wasn’t enough.

“I can’t do this in the car,” you said, because your voice was too close to breaking.

“Okay.”

“And I can’t do it if you’re going to keep giving me almost-answers.”

Dean was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “Okay.”

That was all.

And because he didn’t push, because he let the line stay where you’d put it, the rest of the drive passed in silence.

Back at Briar, everything looked painfully normal.

That was offensive, somehow. The campus didn’t look like anything had happened. The buildings were the same. The sidewalks were the same. Students moved around with coffees and backpacks like you hadn’t spent the weekend pretending to be Dean Di Laurentis’s girlfriend and come back with the very real problem of knowing what he looked like when he was careful with you.

Dean carried your suitcase to your apartment.

You told him he didn’t have to.

He ignored you.

“You know,” you said as you unlocked the building door, “I’m fully capable of dragging a suitcase.”

“I’m sure.”

“That was patronizing.”

“That was supportive.”

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to argue.”

“I’m counting on it.”

For half a second, the banter felt easy.

Then you reached your door, and the ease disappeared.

Dean set your suitcase beside you and stepped back. Not far, but enough. Enough to show you he knew there was no fake-dating reason to follow you inside. Enough to make the line between you visible.

You searched for your keys and fumbled them twice.

Dean’s hand lifted like he meant to help.

You stilled.

His hand dropped.

That small movement hurt more than it had any right to.

You got the door open and turned back. Dean stood in the hallway with his hands in his pockets, looking like he didn’t want to leave and didn’t know how to stay.

“Can I call you later?” he asked.

Your chest tightened.

“You can,” you said.

Hope crossed his face before you could stop it.

Then you added, “But I don’t know if I’ll answer.”

It disappeared.

You almost apologized.

You didn’t.

Dean nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”

“It doesn’t feel fair.”

“No.” His mouth curved faintly, without humor. “But it probably is.”

You looked down at your shoes.

Dean said your name softly.

You hated how quickly you looked up.

“I meant it,” he said.

You didn’t ask which part.

You were too afraid he meant the wrong one.

So you nodded, stepped inside, and closed the door.

For the next two days, you became very good at being busy.

Not okay. Busy.

There was a difference, and you clung to it with the desperation of someone who had no other personality traits left. You went to class. You answered emails. You reorganized the same drawer twice. You bought groceries you didn’t need and then stood in your kitchen, staring at a bag of spinach, which had personally asked you to define your relationship with Dean.

Allie called you on Sunday night.

You ignored it.

She texted.

allie: coward

You ignored that too.

allie: i say that with love

You almost smiled.

Almost.

On Monday, she showed up at your apartment with coffee and Hannah, which felt like a violation of several privacy laws.

You opened the door and immediately said, “No.”

Allie lifted the coffee. “You don’t even know what this is.”

“It’s an intervention.”

Hannah smiled too sweetly. “It’s a visit.”

“You both have intervention faces.”

Allie looked at Hannah. “Do we?”

Hannah nodded. “A little.”

“Work on that,” you said.

Allie pushed the coffee into your hands and walked past you like she paid rent there. “We’re coming in.”

“Apparently.”

Hannah hugged you first.

You hated that it made your throat tighten.

Allie waited until you were all sitting on your bed before she asked, “Did he hurt you?”

You looked down at the coffee lid.

The question should’ve been easy.

No, because Dean had been careful.

Yes, because you still felt bruised somewhere he hadn’t touched.

“Not on purpose,” you said.

Allie’s expression shifted immediately.

Hannah’s face softened.

You hated both of them a little for knowing exactly how bad that was.

“What happened?” Hannah asked gently.

You traced your thumb over the rim of the coffee cup.

“We broke the rule.”

Allie blinked. “The sex rule?”

“No, the tax fraud rule.”

“Okay,” Allie said. “You still have jokes. That’s something.”

You laughed once, but it didn’t last.

Hannah reached for your hand. “Was it bad?”

Your face warmed.

Allie inhaled. “Oh.”

“Don’t oh me.”

“It was good,” Allie said.

“It was very good,” you admitted, miserable.

Hannah made a sympathetic sound that somehow made it worse.

“And then?” Allie asked.

“And then he made a joke about blaming the wine.”

Allie’s face went flat. “I’ll kill him.”

“He said he panicked.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“I know.”

“Do you believe him?”

You didn’t answer.

Hannah squeezed your hand. “Do you want to?”

That was the worst question.

Because yes.

Yes, you wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe every careful look, every shaky breath, every time he’d said he didn’t regret it. You wanted to believe the joke had been fear and not regret. You wanted to believe Dean was just bad at being vulnerable, not at wanting you.

“I don’t know what he wants,” you said.

Allie’s expression softened in a way that made you look away.

“And I don’t want to be something he figures out by accident,” you added.

Hannah’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “That’s fair.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” Allie said immediately. “Annoyingly mature, actually.”

“I hate that.”

“I know.”

Dean texted that night.

dean: can we talk?

You stared at it until the screen dimmed.

Then it lit again.

dean: not tonight if you don’t want

dean: just when you’re ready

You typed three different answers.

Deleted all of them.

Then you put your phone face down and went to bed.

You did not sleep much.

By Wednesday, avoidance stopped being peaceful and started becoming embarrassing.

The problem with having mutual friends was that disappearing from Dean also meant disappearing from everyone else, and by the third declined invitation, even Tucker had texted you, which was how you knew things had gotten serious.

tucker: you good? no pressure. just checking.

That one made you feel guilty enough to agree when Hannah asked you to come by the hockey house for movie night.

You told yourself Dean might not be there.

That was stupid.

Dean was always there.

He was in the kitchen when you arrived, leaning against the counter with Garrett and Logan, laughing at something that clearly wasn’t that funny because the laugh stopped the second he saw you.

It wasn’t dramatic.

Dean was too good at hiding things for dramatic.

But his face changed, just enough.

His eyes moved over you like he was checking if you were okay from across the room, like he knew he wasn’t allowed to ask yet and hated it.

Garrett noticed.

Logan noticed.

You pretended not to notice anyone noticing.

“Hey,” Logan said, too brightly. “The prodigal fake girlfriend returns.”

You pointed at him. “Don’t call me that.”

He held up both hands. “Regular girlfriend?”

Dean went very still.

Logan’s eyes widened.

Garrett closed his eyes like he was praying for strength.

You smiled tightly. “Try friend.”

Logan nodded slowly. “Friend. Great. Love friends. Big fan of friendship.”

Allie elbowed him hard on her way past.

“Ow,” Logan muttered. “That felt personal.”

“It was,” Allie said.

Dean hadn’t said anything yet.

You looked at him because not looking was worse.

“Hi,” you said.

His mouth curved faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Hi.”

That was it.

Two words.

And somehow, the room felt full of them.

Movie night was terrible.

Not because of the movie. You couldn’t even remember what they put on. Something with explosions, probably, because Logan and Garrett had strong opinions and no taste. You sat between Hannah and Allie on the couch while Dean stayed in the armchair across the room, which was so unlike him that it felt deliberate.

He didn’t come closer.

Didn’t sit beside you.

Didn’t brush his knee against yours or lean over to make some terrible comment near your ear.

There was no act anymore, no family watching, no fake-girlfriend label giving him an excuse to touch you.

And apparently, Dean, without an excuse, did nothing.

You told yourself that was proof.

Then you caught him looking at you, as if staying away was physically difficult, and that was proof of something else entirely.

Halfway through the movie, you got up for water, because if you sat there for another second feeling Dean look at you, you were going to either cry or throw a pillow at him.

The kitchen was quieter.

You liked that.

You filled a glass at the sink and took one sip before the floor creaked behind you.

You didn’t turn around.

“Hey,” Dean said.

You looked down at the glass. “You said that already.”

“I know.” A pause. “I was hoping it would go better this time.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched.

Dean saw it, because of course he did.

“You smiled.”

“I did not.”

“It was small, but I’m counting it.”

“You’re desperate.”

“Yeah.”

The word hit harder than it should have.

You turned around.

Dean stood just inside the kitchen, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly tense. He looked tired. Not messy. Not pathetic. Just tired in a way that made you think he hadn’t been sleeping well either, which you hated because it made you want to soften.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you said.

His jaw tightened. “I know.”

“And then you keep saying them.”

“Yeah.” He looked at the floor for half a second, then back at you. “I missed you.”

Your chest pulled tight.

“Dean.”

“I know,” he said, before you could say anything else. “I know that’s not fair. I know I don’t get to say that and then give you nothing solid. I know.”

“Then why say it?”

“Because it’s true.”

That was the problem with Dean when he stopped joking.

He was dangerous.

You gripped the glass with both hands. “I can’t do this if you’re going to keep giving me pieces.”

He swallowed.

“I can’t be the girl you want when you’re in the room and regret when you wake up,” you said, voice quieter now. “And I can’t be practice for whatever emotional thing you don’t know how to handle.”

Dean’s face changed.

“No,” he said immediately. “That’s not what you are.”

“Then what am I?”

The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Dean went silent.

The house noise drifted in from the living room: Logan complaining, Tucker laughing, someone telling them both to shut up. Everything continued around you while Dean stared at you like the answer was there and still impossible to say.

Your heart dropped slowly.

“Right,” you said.

“No.” He took a step forward. “Wait.”

“You don’t know.”

“I do.”

“Then say it.”

Dean’s mouth opened.

Garrett’s voice came from the hallway.

“Dean?”

Dean’s eyes closed briefly.

You laughed once, humorless. “Perfect timing.”

Garrett appeared in the doorway and immediately stopped, eyes moving between you and Dean. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Dean said, sharper than necessary.

Garrett’s eyebrows lifted.

Dean dragged a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I didn’t—”

“It’s fine,” you said.

Dean looked at you.

The words tasted awful.

You set the glass on the counter. “I should go.”

“Don’t.”

It came out fast. Too fast.

Garrett’s expression sharpened.

You looked at Dean for one second too long, then walked past both of them into the hallway. You meant to go back to the living room, tell Allie you needed air, maybe make some excuse about a headache, and leave with whatever dignity you still had.

Instead, you stopped near the stairs when Garrett’s voice carried from the kitchen.

“What the hell is going on?”

You froze.

You shouldn’t have stayed.

You knew that.

After everything, after the weekend, after every misunderstanding built on bad timing and half-finished sentences, you should’ve walked away before you heard something you couldn’t unhear.

But then Dean spoke.

“Nothing.”

Garrett scoffed. “That was convincing.”

“Don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“The captain thing.”

“The captain thing?”

“The thing where you act as if you stare at someone long enough, they’ll confess all their emotional damage.”

Garrett was quiet for a second. “Is it working?”

Dean let out a humorless laugh. “Unfortunately.”

Your fingers curled around the railing.

Garrett’s voice lowered. “Did you hurt her?”

Dean didn’t answer immediately.

The silence was worse than anything he could’ve said.

Then, quietly, “Yeah.”

Your breath caught.

Garrett said, “Dean.”

“Not how you mean.” Dean’s voice was rough now. “Not on purpose. I just—fuck.”

You should’ve left.

You stayed.

“What happened?” Garrett asked.

Dean exhaled hard. “I made a joke.”

Garrett was silent.

“Great start, right?” Dean said bitterly. “Classic me.”

“What kind of joke?”

“The kind you make when you wake up next to someone and realize you’re completely fucked because it felt too normal.”

Your throat tightened.

Dean kept going before Garrett could respond.

“I said we should blame the wine.”

Garrett made a sound that was half disbelief, half disappointment. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Really? Because I was starting to feel good about it.”

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t.” Dean’s voice cracked around the edge of the words; anger turned inward. “That’s the problem. I woke up, and she was there, and I wanted to keep her there. Then I realized I didn’t know if she wanted that too, and instead of asking like a normal person, I opened my mouth and made it sound like I wanted an excuse.”

You closed your eyes.

The hallway blurred for a second.

Garrett’s voice softened, just slightly. “So tell her that.”

“I tried.”

“Try better.”

Dean laughed once. “Thanks, coach.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” There was movement in the kitchen, maybe Dean pacing, maybe him dragging both hands through his hair the way he did when he was frustrated enough to stop caring what he looked like. “Every time I get close, she looks at me like she’s already decided I’m going to make her regret believing me.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Then tell her.”

Dean was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “It’s not real. We had a deal.”

Everything inside you went still.

The house noise faded.

The words settled cleanly, brutally, exactly where the fear had been sitting since that morning.

It’s not real.

We had a deal.

For a second, you couldn’t move.

You felt strangely calm, actually. Not fine. Not even close. But calm in the way people probably felt right before something broke entirely. Because there it was. No hotel room, no morning panic, no wine joke. No family watching. No act to keep standing.

Just Dean, saying it when he thought you weren’t there.

Garrett said something after that.

You didn’t hear it.

Dean answered.

You didn’t hear that either.

Your pulse was too loud. Your chest hurt too much. The hallway felt too narrow, the house too warm, the air impossible to swallow.

You stepped back quietly.

Then again.

The side door was closer than the living room, so you took it. No one saw you leave. Or maybe someone did, but no one stopped you fast enough.

Outside, the air hit your face cold and sharp.

You walked until the house was behind you.

Your phone started buzzing before you reached the corner.

Allie.

You declined it.

Then Hannah.

You declined that too.

Then Dean.

You stopped walking.

His name filled the screen.

For one stupid, humiliating second, your thumb hovered over the answer button.

Then the call ended.

A text appeared almost immediately.

dean: where did you go?

Another came before you could breathe.

dean: please tell me you didn’t hear that

You stared at the message.

A laugh slipped out of you, small and awful.

Please tell me you didn’t hear that.

Not, please let me explain.

Not, I didn’t mean it.

Just proof that there had been something to hear.

Another message appeared.

dean: I need to talk to you

You locked your phone.

By the time you got back to your apartment, your hands were shaking. You shut the door behind you, leaned against it, and stood there in the dark, still wearing your jacket, still holding your phone like it might do something worse if you let go.

It buzzed again.

You looked down before you could stop yourself.

dean: it’s not what you think

Your vision blurred.

That was the thing, though.

You had heard him.

Clearly.

You’d spent days wondering if you were being unfair, if you’d misunderstood, if Dean had only panicked because wanting you had scared him as much as it scared you.

Maybe all of that was true.

Maybe there was another sentence after the one you heard.

Maybe there was a whole explanation sitting in the part of the conversation you didn’t stay for.

But you’d heard enough.

It’s not real.

We had a deal.

For once, you decided to believe him.

💌 lmk if you want to be added to my taglists

DEAN DI LAURENTIS TAGLIST: @05gwyn, @gojodaddy1029, @carlossainzapologist, @cosmosnkaz, @pearled-wings, @parker-barnes-af, @idgasb, @laceyvt3, @coc4aine, @saltyfriendsaladbandit, @ethanthequeefqueen, @fromasgardandback, @stevesxwhore, @itmekelpy, @nellyboosworld, @fandom-princess-forevermore, @kmc1989, @biologicallyyours, @zoereyna, @fentyqloss, @aetherysis, @chickenburger22, @aarohisharma, @homeslices, @indigohazardconduit, @gingerihardlyknowher17, @sammiib444, @kennedy-brooke, @marieisbored, @tita004, @infiremejoon, @cari87, @rexit-mo, @jtheteenagewitch, @justkeepingitpeachy, @hoetel-manager, @freezing82, @elixirandstars, @proooof, @beebeechaos, @cherrypieyourface, @shatteredinkpot, @phoebesatoru, @maybankslover, @aria1108, @stcrmflyy, @genterom903, @loveeverythingsblog, @just-hopeful @nizzasspot

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The bathroom mirror didn’t help.

Which was rude, honestly, because you’d gone in there fully intending to pull yourself together.

That was the whole point of hiding in a bathroom after a morning like that: splash water on your face, stare at yourself until you couldn’t stand it anymore, and eventually walk back out pretending you were the kind of person who could sleep with Dean Di Laurentis and not immediately spiral about it.

Unfortunately, the mirror showed you exactly what you already knew: you looked like hell — not enough for someone to immediately ask if you needed water or an exorcism, probably, but enough that you could see it. Your hair was a little messy, your lips were still swollen from last night, and there was a faint mark low on your neck that you had no memory of getting; apparently, your brain had remembered exactly how everything felt and almost none of how it actually happened.

But it was your eyes that gave you away.

You looked like someone who’d let last night get under her skin, then woken up wondering if she was the only one who’d made it mean something.

You knew you were being dramatic, but you were still thinking it.

Because Dean hadn’t been cruel, that was the problem.

Cruel would’ve given you something sharp to hold on to. You could’ve snapped back, gotten dressed, and spent the whole drive home turning it over in your head until hating him felt easier than wanting him.

But Dean hadn’t been cruel.

He’d sounded nervous, of all things — too light, too quick, too Dean — and somehow, that hurt more, because Dean always joked when things got too real. You knew him well enough by now to recognize the instinct for what it was, his way of putting words between himself and anything that got too close.

Last night, though, you’d seen what happened when he didn’t.

He’d been careful with you, warm in a way you hadn’t expected, patient enough to make your chest ache; he’d said your name in the dark as he meant it, and his hand had hesitated before settling on your waist, like he was still waiting for permission to hold you after everything else.

Then morning came, and Dean gave you both a way out: the wine, because blaming that was easier than admitting what had actually happened, easier than looking too closely at what you were leaving behind.

“So,” Dean had murmured, his voice rough from sleep, his arm still warm around your waist. “We’re blaming the wine, right?”

He hadn’t sounded cruel when he said it.

That was the worst part.

You turned on the sink and let the water run longer than you needed.

“Great,” you muttered to yourself. “Waste water. That’ll help.”

There was a soft knock at the door, and you went still with your hand still under the running water.

“Hey,” Dean said, quiet enough that it made your fingers tighten around the edge of the sink.

Not smug, not teasing, not that lazy morning voice he’d used yesterday before brunch, back when complicated had still felt fun instead of whatever this was, sitting heavy in your chest.

“You okay?”

You closed your eyes for a second. There it was again — that carefulness, that softness he kept offering even after he’d been the reason it hurt.

“I’m fine,” you managed.

For a second, there was only the sound of the water running between you, and then Dean’s voice came softly through the door.

“That was a terrible lie.”

Your throat tightened, which was annoying, because crying over Dean in a hotel bathroom seemed like the kind of thing you should be legally immune to.

“I’m getting ready,” you called back.

“You locked yourself in the bathroom.”

“I’m in the bathroom,” you corrected, because apparently that distinction mattered.

“You’ve been in there for ten minutes.”

“I’m having a moment.”

Dean huffed, though there wasn’t much humor in it. “Can you open the door?”

You looked at the lock.

Your hand didn’t move.

“No.”

There was another pause, and somehow, this one was worse.

Dean was good at filling the silence. He usually treated quiet like a personal challenge, something he could flirt or joke or annoy his way through until everyone around him forgot what they’d almost said.

But this time, he didn’t.

“Okay,” he said.

Just that.

No push. No laugh. No dramatic sigh through the door about how mean you were being to him before breakfast. He just accepted it, and somehow that made you want to open the door more than if he’d kept asking.

You didn’t.

You listened to him move away instead, his footsteps soft against the carpet, and only when you were sure he wasn’t right outside anymore did you let yourself breathe.

The worst part was that you still believed him a little.

Not completely. Not enough to make it stop hurting. But a little.

Because Dean hadn’t looked like someone who regretted last night.

Not when he’d asked if you were okay with that serious look in his eyes. Not when he’d come back from the bathroom with a damp towel and cleaned you up gently, his hand resting against your thigh as he needed you to know he was still there. Not when he’d stood beside the bed afterward, waiting for you to lift the blanket before he got back in, as if he hadn’t already had you in every other way but still didn’t want to assume he could hold you.

You remembered lifting the blanket.

You remembered how quickly he slid in behind you.

You remembered thinking, stupidly, that you could survive the sex but not that.

And then he’d woken up and made a joke.

You washed your face twice, brushed your teeth, covered the mark on your neck with more concentration than the task deserved, and stared at yourself until your reflection started to look annoyed with you.

By the time you finally opened the bathroom door, Dean was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed except for his shoes, his phone loose in one hand. His head lifted the second you stepped out, and the relief that crossed his face disappeared so quickly you could almost pretend it hadn’t been there.

Almost.

“You took forever,” he said.

There it was—the attempt.

You appreciated it, somehow, even as it hurt.

You crossed the room to your suitcase and grabbed the first shirt you saw. “I told you. I was having a moment.”

His mouth twitched, but it didn’t last. “Yeah.”

The room went quiet again.

You hated that room now. Last night, it had felt too small because Dean kept standing too close and looking at you like the rules were suggestions. Now it felt too small because everything unsaid was sitting with you in it.

Dean stood.

“About what I said earlier—”

“You don’t have to.”

He stopped.

You didn’t look at him. You folded the shirt badly and shoved it into your bag as it had personally wronged you.

“I kind of think I do,” he said.

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not.”

That made you look up.

Dean stood a few feet away, hands at his sides, jaw tight. He looked frustrated, but not with you. With himself, maybe. With the fact that he couldn’t charm his way back three minutes and steal the sentence out of the air before it hurt you.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said.

You forced a small smile. “Like what?”

His eyes searched your face, careful and too direct.

“Like I regretted it.”

There it was.

The word you’d been trying not to touch.

Your fingers tightened around the edge of your suitcase. “Dean.”

“I don’t.”

He said it too fast. Too seriously.

For one awful second, you believed him.

Then your chest caught up, reminding you that believing Dean was becoming a very dangerous habit.

“You don’t have to make it better,” you said.

His face changed. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

“It’s okay.”

“Stop saying that.”

You swallowed.

Dean took one step closer, then seemed to think better of it and stopped himself. That carefulness again. That was the worst thing about him now, the fact that even when he hurt you, he was still trying so hard not to hurt you more.

“I panicked,” he said, quieter now. “That’s what the wine thing was. I woke up, and you were right there, and I didn’t know what you wanted me to say.”

Your throat tightened. “So you picked that?”

He winced. “Yeah.”

“Great choice.”

“Yeah, I’m picking up on that.”

The sarcasm should’ve helped.

It didn’t.

Dean dragged a hand through his hair, making it worse. “I’m trying to tell you I fucked up.”

“I know.”

“No, you keep doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Acting as if you agree fast enough, the conversation ends.”

Your mouth closed.

That was annoyingly accurate.

Dean looked at you, and there was something almost pleading in his face now; not obvious, not dramatic, but there. “Can we not do that?”

You wanted to say yes.

You wanted to let him explain. You wanted to be the kind of person who could sit on the edge of the bed and calmly ask Dean Di Laurentis what last night meant to him, as if the answer wouldn’t either fix you or ruin you.

But his phone rang before you could say anything.

Both of you looked at the screen.

His mother.

Dean stared at it like the phone had personally betrayed him.

You let out a laugh that sounded nothing like you. “You should get that.”

He didn’t move.

“Dean.”

His jaw worked once before he answered. “Morning, Mom.”

You turned back to your suitcase, grateful for the interruption and hating yourself for being grateful.

“Yes, we’re almost ready,” Dean said behind you, his voice shifting into that warmer tone he used with his mother. “No, I didn’t forget breakfast. Yes, I know what time it is.”

There was a pause.

His eyes flicked toward you.

“Yeah,” he said. “She’s ready.”

You were not ready.

You were barely a person.

But you zipped your bag anyway.

Breakfast was worse.

There was something uniquely cruel about sitting across from Dean’s parents after breaking rule three with their son the night before. His mother looked far too happy to see you, which made you feel guilty in a way you hadn’t prepared for. His father was already at the table with a coffee and the kind of calm expression that made it impossible to tell whether he noticed everything or enjoyed making people wonder if he did.

Dean held your chair out for you.

The gesture was automatic.

So was the way you hesitated before sitting.

He noticed. His face didn’t change much, but his hand paused for half a second on the back of the chair before he let go.

You hated that you saw it.

“You two sleep well?” his mother asked, pouring cream into her coffee.

You reached for your orange juice and missed it by an inch.

Dean’s hand moved like he meant to steady the glass for you, then stopped. “Fine.”

Fine.

The word sat between you like an inside joke no one wanted to be part of.

His mother smiled, but her eyes moved from him to you. “Just fine?”

Dean looked at his plate. “It was a long weekend.”

“That it was,” his father said, setting his coffee down. “These things always feel longer when you’re performing.”

You froze.

Dean’s head lifted.

His father didn’t look at either of you when he said it. He reached for the sugar with complete ease, as if he hadn’t just dropped a sentence directly into the center of your fake relationship and walked away from the explosion.

Dean’s mother gave him a look.

“What?” his father asked mildly.

“Nothing,” she said, though it didn’t sound like nothing.

Dean’s jaw tightened.

You took a sip of orange juice so you wouldn’t be required to speak.

The rest of breakfast passed with the particular discomfort of people being kind to you when you felt like a fraud. Dean’s mother asked about your classes. His father asked if you’d enjoyed the gala. Dean answered when you didn’t move fast enough, but not in a way that made you feel dismissed; more like he was trying to cover for you because he could tell you were one wrong question away from becoming emotionally unsupervised.

At some point, you looked at the fruit platter for half a second.

Dean reached for it immediately and passed it to you.

You took it without thinking.

“Thanks,” you murmured.

His eyes met yours.

For one stupid second, everything softened.

Then you remembered his arm around you that morning, his voice saying wine, the way his hand had fallen from your waist when you sat up, and you looked away.

Dean did too.

His mother saw that.

When breakfast ended, she pulled you into a hug in the lobby while Dean spoke quietly with his father near the doors.

“You were wonderful this weekend,” she said.

Your chest tightened. “Thank you for having me.”

“I mean it.” She pulled back, hands still lightly on your arms, and looked at you with a warmth that made you want to hide. “You fit here more easily than most people do.”

You swallowed.

Across the lobby, Dean’s eyes found you.

You looked away first.

“I had a lot of help,” you said lightly.

His mother’s smile softened. “From Dean?”

“That is, unfortunately, who I meant.”

She laughed, and for a second, you understood exactly where he got some of it from: the warmth, the charm, the ability to make something feel like it belonged even when it didn’t.

Or maybe you were just being sentimental because you were sad.

That seemed more likely.

She hugged Dean next, telling him to call when he got back, which he promised to do with the face of a man who had every intention of forgetting. His father shook his hand, then pulled him into a brief hug. Dean accepted it with the stiff awkwardness of someone who liked affection more than he wanted anyone to know.

Then his parents were gone.

Just like that.

No more audience. No more reason to hold hands, stand too close, or pretend you belonged beside him.

Dean turned to you slowly.

The lobby felt too quiet.

“Can we talk before we leave?” he asked.

Your fingers tightened around your suitcase handle.

You wanted to say yes.

The word was right there. Small. Easy. Maybe not safe, but possible.

Instead, you heard yourself say, “We have a long drive.”

Dean’s expression fell just enough to hurt. “That’s not what I asked.”

“No,” you said, pulling your bag closer. “But it’s what I can do right now.”

The drive back to Briar felt longer than the entire weekend.

Dean was quiet for the first twenty minutes, which should’ve been a relief. Instead, it made every inch of the car feel crowded. His hands stayed on the wheel, his jaw tight, his sleeves pushed up to his forearms. He kept glancing at you like he wanted to say something and then deciding against it, which made the silence feel less like peace and more like an argument that hadn’t started yet.

You stared out the window and pretended the trees were interesting.

They were not.

Your phone buzzed in your lap.

Allie.

allie: are you alive?

allie: and by alive i mean emotionally

allie: because hannah said dean looked weird at breakfast

allie: which means you also looked weird at breakfast

allie: answer me before i create a theory

You turned your phone face down.

Dean noticed.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

You almost laughed. “That’s a dangerous question.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Realized that after I asked.”

Silence again.

Then he exhaled. “Please don’t say there’s nothing to talk about.”

You kept your eyes on the road ahead. “I wasn’t going to.”

“That’s new.”

“I was going to say I don’t want to talk about it.”

Dean’s mouth twitched, but it faded quickly. “Less new.”

You finally looked at him.

He was still watching the road, but his face looked tired in a way that made something inside you ache. Not sleepy tired. Dean looked like someone who’d spent the last few hours trying to hold a door open while you kept standing on the other side of it.

“I’m not trying to be unfair,” you said.

“I know.”

“Do you?”

His fingers tightened around the wheel. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Dean said, “I don’t regret it.”

Your throat went tight.

“I know you think I do,” he continued, voice low. “Or that I’m trying to make it less than it was. I’m not.”

The worst part was that he sounded honest.

Dean was many things, but he wasn’t lying right then. You could hear it; you could feel it in the careful way he said the words, like he knew he only had one chance to make them land right.

So why didn’t it make you feel better?

Maybe because not regretting something wasn’t the same as wanting it after.

You looked back out the window. “Then why did you need an excuse?”

Dean didn’t answer fast enough.

That was answer enough.

Your lips pressed together.

“No,” he said quickly. “That’s not—”

“It’s fine.”

“Stop saying that.” His voice sharpened, then softened immediately. “Please.”

You blinked hard, refusing to cry in his car. That felt like an intimacy you couldn’t afford.

Dean took a breath, slower this time.

“I needed an excuse because I panicked. Because I woke up next to you, and for about five seconds, it felt normal.”

Your chest ached.

He glanced at you, then back at the road. “And then I remembered it wasn’t supposed to be.”

You wanted to ask what that meant. You wanted to ask if it scared him because it felt normal or because he wished it could stay that way. You wanted him to say it without you dragging the words out of him first.

He didn’t.

Instead, his mouth pressed into a line, and he swallowed whatever came next.

You nodded once, mostly to yourself.

“There it is,” you said softly.

His eyes cut to you. “What?”

“You keep getting close to saying something real, and then you stop.”

Dean flinched.

You turned back toward the window before you could let that affect you.

“That’s not fair,” he said.

“No,” you agreed. “Probably not.”

His grip tightened on the wheel. “I’m trying.”

“I know.” Your voice cracked just slightly. “That’s what makes it worse.”

Dean went quiet.

The radio played low in the background, a song neither of you was listening to. The whole car felt too full of almosts.

Almost honest.

Almost enough.

Almost real.

“Please don’t make me feel stupid for wanting you,” you said.

The words slipped out before you could stop them.

Dean inhaled sharply.

You stared out the window, horrified by yourself.

For several seconds, he didn’t say anything.

Then, quietly, “You’re not stupid.”

That was not enough.

You hated that it wasn’t enough.

“I can’t do this in the car,” you said, because your voice was too close to breaking.

“Okay.”

“And I can’t do it if you’re going to keep giving me almost-answers.”

Dean was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “Okay.”

That was all.

And because he didn’t push, because he let the line stay where you’d put it, the rest of the drive passed in silence.

Back at Briar, everything looked painfully normal.

That was offensive, somehow. The campus didn’t look like anything had happened. The buildings were the same. The sidewalks were the same. Students moved around with coffees and backpacks like you hadn’t spent the weekend pretending to be Dean Di Laurentis’s girlfriend and come back with the very real problem of knowing what he looked like when he was careful with you.

Dean carried your suitcase to your apartment.

You told him he didn’t have to.

He ignored you.

“You know,” you said as you unlocked the building door, “I’m fully capable of dragging a suitcase.”

“I’m sure.”

“That was patronizing.”

“That was supportive.”

“You’re lucky I’m too tired to argue.”

“I’m counting on it.”

For half a second, the banter felt easy.

Then you reached your door, and the ease disappeared.

Dean set your suitcase beside you and stepped back. Not far, but enough. Enough to show you he knew there was no fake-dating reason to follow you inside. Enough to make the line between you visible.

You searched for your keys and fumbled them twice.

Dean’s hand lifted like he meant to help.

You stilled.

His hand dropped.

That small movement hurt more than it had any right to.

You got the door open and turned back. Dean stood in the hallway with his hands in his pockets, looking like he didn’t want to leave and didn’t know how to stay.

“Can I call you later?” he asked.

Your chest tightened.

“You can,” you said.

Hope crossed his face before you could stop it.

Then you added, “But I don’t know if I’ll answer.”

It disappeared.

You almost apologized.

You didn’t.

Dean nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”

“It doesn’t feel fair.”

“No.” His mouth curved faintly, without humor. “But it probably is.”

You looked down at your shoes.

Dean said your name softly.

You hated how quickly you looked up.

“I meant it,” he said.

You didn’t ask which part.

You were too afraid he meant the wrong one.

So you nodded, stepped inside, and closed the door.

For the next two days, you became very good at being busy.

Not okay. Busy.

There was a difference, and you clung to it with the desperation of someone who had no other personality traits left. You went to class. You answered emails. You reorganized the same drawer twice. You bought groceries you didn’t need and then stood in your kitchen, staring at a bag of spinach, which had personally asked you to define your relationship with Dean.

Allie called you on Sunday night.

You ignored it.

She texted.

allie: coward

You ignored that too.

allie: i say that with love

You almost smiled.

Almost.

On Monday, she showed up at your apartment with coffee and Hannah, which felt like a violation of several privacy laws.

You opened the door and immediately said, “No.”

Allie lifted the coffee. “You don’t even know what this is.”

“It’s an intervention.”

Hannah smiled too sweetly. “It’s a visit.”

“You both have intervention faces.”

Allie looked at Hannah. “Do we?”

Hannah nodded. “A little.”

“Work on that,” you said.

Allie pushed the coffee into your hands and walked past you like she paid rent there. “We’re coming in.”

“Apparently.”

Hannah hugged you first.

You hated that it made your throat tighten.

Allie waited until you were all sitting on your bed before she asked, “Did he hurt you?”

You looked down at the coffee lid.

The question should’ve been easy.

No, because Dean had been careful.

Yes, because you still felt bruised somewhere he hadn’t touched.

“Not on purpose,” you said.

Allie’s expression shifted immediately.

Hannah’s face softened.

You hated both of them a little for knowing exactly how bad that was.

“What happened?” Hannah asked gently.

You traced your thumb over the rim of the coffee cup.

“We broke the rule.”

Allie blinked. “The sex rule?”

“No, the tax fraud rule.”

“Okay,” Allie said. “You still have jokes. That’s something.”

You laughed once, but it didn’t last.

Hannah reached for your hand. “Was it bad?”

Your face warmed.

Allie inhaled. “Oh.”

“Don’t oh me.”

“It was good,” Allie said.

“It was very good,” you admitted, miserable.

Hannah made a sympathetic sound that somehow made it worse.

“And then?” Allie asked.

“And then he made a joke about blaming the wine.”

Allie’s face went flat. “I’ll kill him.”

“He said he panicked.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“I know.”

“Do you believe him?”

You didn’t answer.

Hannah squeezed your hand. “Do you want to?”

That was the worst question.

Because yes.

Yes, you wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe every careful look, every shaky breath, every time he’d said he didn’t regret it. You wanted to believe the joke had been fear and not regret. You wanted to believe Dean was just bad at being vulnerable, not at wanting you.

“I don’t know what he wants,” you said.

Allie’s expression softened in a way that made you look away.

“And I don’t want to be something he figures out by accident,” you added.

Hannah’s thumb brushed over your knuckles. “That’s fair.”

“Is it?”

“Yes,” Allie said immediately. “Annoyingly mature, actually.”

“I hate that.”

“I know.”

Dean texted that night.

dean: can we talk?

You stared at it until the screen dimmed.

Then it lit again.

dean: not tonight if you don’t want

dean: just when you’re ready

You typed three different answers.

Deleted all of them.

Then you put your phone face down and went to bed.

You did not sleep much.

By Wednesday, avoidance stopped being peaceful and started becoming embarrassing.

The problem with having mutual friends was that disappearing from Dean also meant disappearing from everyone else, and by the third declined invitation, even Tucker had texted you, which was how you knew things had gotten serious.

tucker: you good? no pressure. just checking.

That one made you feel guilty enough to agree when Hannah asked you to come by the hockey house for movie night.

You told yourself Dean might not be there.

That was stupid.

Dean was always there.

He was in the kitchen when you arrived, leaning against the counter with Garrett and Logan, laughing at something that clearly wasn’t that funny because the laugh stopped the second he saw you.

It wasn’t dramatic.

Dean was too good at hiding things for dramatic.

But his face changed, just enough.

His eyes moved over you like he was checking if you were okay from across the room, like he knew he wasn’t allowed to ask yet and hated it.

Garrett noticed.

Logan noticed.

You pretended not to notice anyone noticing.

“Hey,” Logan said, too brightly. “The prodigal fake girlfriend returns.”

You pointed at him. “Don’t call me that.”

He held up both hands. “Regular girlfriend?”

Dean went very still.

Logan’s eyes widened.

Garrett closed his eyes like he was praying for strength.

You smiled tightly. “Try friend.”

Logan nodded slowly. “Friend. Great. Love friends. Big fan of friendship.”

Allie elbowed him hard on her way past.

“Ow,” Logan muttered. “That felt personal.”

“It was,” Allie said.

Dean hadn’t said anything yet.

You looked at him because not looking was worse.

“Hi,” you said.

His mouth curved faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Hi.”

That was it.

Two words.

And somehow, the room felt full of them.

Movie night was terrible.

Not because of the movie. You couldn’t even remember what they put on. Something with explosions, probably, because Logan and Garrett had strong opinions and no taste. You sat between Hannah and Allie on the couch while Dean stayed in the armchair across the room, which was so unlike him that it felt deliberate.

He didn’t come closer.

Didn’t sit beside you.

Didn’t brush his knee against yours or lean over to make some terrible comment near your ear.

There was no act anymore, no family watching, no fake-girlfriend label giving him an excuse to touch you.

And apparently, Dean, without an excuse, did nothing.

You told yourself that was proof.

Then you caught him looking at you, as if staying away was physically difficult, and that was proof of something else entirely.

Halfway through the movie, you got up for water, because if you sat there for another second feeling Dean look at you, you were going to either cry or throw a pillow at him.

The kitchen was quieter.

You liked that.

You filled a glass at the sink and took one sip before the floor creaked behind you.

You didn’t turn around.

“Hey,” Dean said.

You looked down at the glass. “You said that already.”

“I know.” A pause. “I was hoping it would go better this time.”

Despite yourself, your mouth twitched.

Dean saw it, because of course he did.

“You smiled.”

“I did not.”

“It was small, but I’m counting it.”

“You’re desperate.”

“Yeah.”

The word hit harder than it should have.

You turned around.

Dean stood just inside the kitchen, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly tense. He looked tired. Not messy. Not pathetic. Just tired in a way that made you think he hadn’t been sleeping well either, which you hated because it made you want to soften.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you said.

His jaw tightened. “I know.”

“And then you keep saying them.”

“Yeah.” He looked at the floor for half a second, then back at you. “I missed you.”

Your chest pulled tight.

“Dean.”

“I know,” he said, before you could say anything else. “I know that’s not fair. I know I don’t get to say that and then give you nothing solid. I know.”

“Then why say it?”

“Because it’s true.”

That was the problem with Dean when he stopped joking.

He was dangerous.

You gripped the glass with both hands. “I can’t do this if you’re going to keep giving me pieces.”

He swallowed.

“I can’t be the girl you want when you’re in the room and regret when you wake up,” you said, voice quieter now. “And I can’t be practice for whatever emotional thing you don’t know how to handle.”

Dean’s face changed.

“No,” he said immediately. “That’s not what you are.”

“Then what am I?”

The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Dean went silent.

The house noise drifted in from the living room: Logan complaining, Tucker laughing, someone telling them both to shut up. Everything continued around you while Dean stared at you like the answer was there and still impossible to say.

Your heart dropped slowly.

“Right,” you said.

“No.” He took a step forward. “Wait.”

“You don’t know.”

“I do.”

“Then say it.”

Dean’s mouth opened.

Garrett’s voice came from the hallway.

“Dean?”

Dean’s eyes closed briefly.

You laughed once, humorless. “Perfect timing.”

Garrett appeared in the doorway and immediately stopped, eyes moving between you and Dean. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not,” Dean said, sharper than necessary.

Garrett’s eyebrows lifted.

Dean dragged a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I didn’t—”

“It’s fine,” you said.

Dean looked at you.

The words tasted awful.

You set the glass on the counter. “I should go.”

“Don’t.”

It came out fast. Too fast.

Garrett’s expression sharpened.

You looked at Dean for one second too long, then walked past both of them into the hallway. You meant to go back to the living room, tell Allie you needed air, maybe make some excuse about a headache, and leave with whatever dignity you still had.

Instead, you stopped near the stairs when Garrett’s voice carried from the kitchen.

“What the hell is going on?”

You froze.

You shouldn’t have stayed.

You knew that.

After everything, after the weekend, after every misunderstanding built on bad timing and half-finished sentences, you should’ve walked away before you heard something you couldn’t unhear.

But then Dean spoke.

“Nothing.”

Garrett scoffed. “That was convincing.”

“Don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“The captain thing.”

“The captain thing?”

“The thing where you act as if you stare at someone long enough, they’ll confess all their emotional damage.”

Garrett was quiet for a second. “Is it working?”

Dean let out a humorless laugh. “Unfortunately.”

Your fingers curled around the railing.

Garrett’s voice lowered. “Did you hurt her?”

Dean didn’t answer immediately.

The silence was worse than anything he could’ve said.

Then, quietly, “Yeah.”

Your breath caught.

Garrett said, “Dean.”

“Not how you mean.” Dean’s voice was rough now. “Not on purpose. I just—fuck.”

You should’ve left.

You stayed.

“What happened?” Garrett asked.

Dean exhaled hard. “I made a joke.”

Garrett was silent.

“Great start, right?” Dean said bitterly. “Classic me.”

“What kind of joke?”

“The kind you make when you wake up next to someone and realize you’re completely fucked because it felt too normal.”

Your throat tightened.

Dean kept going before Garrett could respond.

“I said we should blame the wine.”

Garrett made a sound that was half disbelief, half disappointment. “Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Really? Because I was starting to feel good about it.”

“What the hell were you thinking?”

“I wasn’t.” Dean’s voice cracked around the edge of the words; anger turned inward. “That’s the problem. I woke up, and she was there, and I wanted to keep her there. Then I realized I didn’t know if she wanted that too, and instead of asking like a normal person, I opened my mouth and made it sound like I wanted an excuse.”

You closed your eyes.

The hallway blurred for a second.

Garrett’s voice softened, just slightly. “So tell her that.”

“I tried.”

“Try better.”

Dean laughed once. “Thanks, coach.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” There was movement in the kitchen, maybe Dean pacing, maybe him dragging both hands through his hair the way he did when he was frustrated enough to stop caring what he looked like. “Every time I get close, she looks at me like she’s already decided I’m going to make her regret believing me.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

“Then tell her.”

Dean was quiet for a moment.

Then he said, “It’s not real. We had a deal.”

Everything inside you went still.

The house noise faded.

The words settled cleanly, brutally, exactly where the fear had been sitting since that morning.

It’s not real.

We had a deal.

For a second, you couldn’t move.

You felt strangely calm, actually. Not fine. Not even close. But calm in the way people probably felt right before something broke entirely. Because there it was. No hotel room, no morning panic, no wine joke. No family watching. No act to keep standing.

Just Dean, saying it when he thought you weren’t there.

Garrett said something after that.

You didn’t hear it.

Dean answered.

You didn’t hear that either.

Your pulse was too loud. Your chest hurt too much. The hallway felt too narrow, the house too warm, the air impossible to swallow.

You stepped back quietly.

Then again.

The side door was closer than the living room, so you took it. No one saw you leave. Or maybe someone did, but no one stopped you fast enough.

Outside, the air hit your face cold and sharp.

You walked until the house was behind you.

Your phone started buzzing before you reached the corner.

Allie.

You declined it.

Then Hannah.

You declined that too.

Then Dean.

You stopped walking.

His name filled the screen.

For one stupid, humiliating second, your thumb hovered over the answer button.

Then the call ended.

A text appeared almost immediately.

dean: where did you go?

Another came before you could breathe.

dean: please tell me you didn’t hear that

You stared at the message.

A laugh slipped out of you, small and awful.

Please tell me you didn’t hear that.

Not, please let me explain.

Not, I didn’t mean it.

Just proof that there had been something to hear.

Another message appeared.

dean: I need to talk to you

You locked your phone.

By the time you got back to your apartment, your hands were shaking. You shut the door behind you, leaned against it, and stood there in the dark, still wearing your jacket, still holding your phone like it might do something worse if you let go.

It buzzed again.

You looked down before you could stop yourself.

dean: it’s not what you think

Your vision blurred.

That was the thing, though.

You had heard him.

Clearly.

You’d spent days wondering if you were being unfair, if you’d misunderstood, if Dean had only panicked because wanting you had scared him as much as it scared you.

Maybe all of that was true.

Maybe there was another sentence after the one you heard.

Maybe there was a whole explanation sitting in the part of the conversation you didn’t stay for.

But you’d heard enough.

It’s not real.

We had a deal.

For once, you decided to believe him.

💌 lmk if you want to be added to my taglists

DEAN DI LAURENTIS TAGLIST: @05gwyn, @gojodaddy1029, @carlossainzapologist, @cosmosnkaz, @pearled-wings, @parker-barnes-af, @idgasb, @laceyvt3, @coc4aine, @saltyfriendsaladbandit, @ethanthequeefqueen, @fromasgardandback, @stevesxwhore, @itmekelpy, @nellyboosworld, @fandom-princess-forevermore, @kmc1989, @biologicallyyours, @zoereyna, @fentyqloss, @aetherysis, @chickenburger22, @aarohisharma, @homeslices, @indigohazardconduit, @gingerihardlyknowher17, @sammiib444, @kennedy-brooke, @marieisbored, @tita004, @infiremejoon, @cari87, @rexit-mo, @jtheteenagewitch, @justkeepingitpeachy, @hoetel-manager, @freezing82, @elixirandstars, @proooof, @beebeechaos, @cherrypieyourface, @shatteredinkpot, @phoebesatoru, @maybankslover, @aria1108, @stcrmflyy, @genterom903, @loveeverythingsblog, @just-hopeful @nizzasspot

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do not repost, copy, translate, or feed my work into ai.

You woke up with Dean’s arm around your waist, which would’ve been less horrifying if you hadn’t spent most of last night thinking about kissing him again — not that you were thinking about it on purpose, obviously.

You weren’t going to spend the morning lying there, thinking about Dean’s stupid face, his stupid mouth, and the fact that he’d somehow made cuddling feel like a personal attack. You were a grown woman with a working brain and several survival instincts; you were also perfectly aware that Dean was exactly the sort of person your mother would warn you about after five minutes.

Unfortunately, none of that changed the fact that his arm was heavy and warm over your stomach, his chest was pressed against your back, and every slow breath brushed the bare skin near your shoulder, where your shirt had slipped sometime during the night.

You lay there very still, staring at the wall like it might tell you what to do.

This wasn’t ideal.

Rule two wasn’t doing great either, thanks to the photographer telling Dean to kiss his girlfriend, and Dean looking at you like the fake part was suddenly the least believable thing in the room.

Rule three — the no-sex rule — was still technically intact, which meant you needed to move before your body decided to betray you.

You shifted carefully, lifting Dean’s arm with two fingers like it was a dangerous object; unfortunately, Dean had spent too many years getting hit by hockey players to be easily disturbed, so all he did was tighten his hold and pull you back against him.

“Where are you going?” he mumbled, his voice rough with sleep.

Your entire body went hot. “Probably prison.”

Dean’s mouth brushed your shoulder when he laughed, and you hated the way your stomach reacted. “What’d you do?”

“I woke up in a situation.”

“Pretty sure you climbed into my bed.”

“It’s our bed.”

“Right.” His voice was still lazy, amused, too warm. “Our bed. That’s very generous of you.”

You tried to turn your head enough to glare at him, which was difficult considering he still had you trapped against him. “Don’t call me girlfriend before nine in the morning.”

“What time is it?” he asked.

You glanced at the nightstand. “Eight thirty-seven.”

“Then I’ve got twenty-three minutes.”

“Dean,” you warned.

He laughed, loosening his arm enough for you to roll onto your back. That was a mistake, because now you were facing him, and Dean looked unfairly good in the morning. His hair was messy, his eyes still heavy with sleep, one cheek faintly creased from the pillow; somehow, he still looked like the sort of guy who’d never had to try very hard to be forgiven.

He looked at you for a little longer than necessary, and for once, he wasn’t teasing or smirking; he was looking, and your throat tightened.

His mouth curved, saving both of you from whatever that had almost been. “You’re drooling.”

Your face fell immediately. “I’m not.”

“You definitely are.”

“I’m absolutely not.”

“It’s actually kind of cute.”

“You’re saying that to destabilize me emotionally.”

“Maybe.” Dean propped himself up on one elbow, grin widening when you shoved at his chest and mostly hit the blanket. “Is it working?”

“No,” you lied.

“Shame,” he murmured.

You sat up before he could say anything else that would make you want to throw a pillow at him or kiss him, two impulses that were becoming dangerously similar. You reached for your phone to check the time again, then remembered the schedule his mother had sent last night, because apparently, rich people treated family weekends like military operations with better catering.

“We’re supposed to have brunch with your parents in an hour,” you said.

Dean groaned, dropping back onto the pillow. “Cancel it.”

“You can’t just cancel brunch with your parents.”

“I can if I’m dying.”

“You’re not dying.”

“I’m suffering.”

“You’ll survive.”

Dean opened one eye, offended. “That was mean.”

“You’ll manage.”

“I might not,” he said, still not moving.

You climbed out of bed, trying to ignore the way his gaze followed you across the room as you grabbed your clothes from the chair near the window. You’d changed into sleep shorts and an oversized shirt the night before, but now even that felt like too much exposed skin, because Dean was watching you like he knew exactly how close his mouth had been to yours outside the ballroom.

“Stop looking at me,” you said without turning around.

“I’m not,” Dean lied.

“You are,” you told him, still not turning around.

“You have no proof.”

“I can feel you looking.”

There was a pause, and when Dean spoke again, his voice was low enough to make your fingers still around the clothes in your hands. “Yeah?”

Your grip tightened around your clothes.

You hated him a little for that.

Fine, more than a little.

You turned around slowly, ready to say something sharp enough to make him stop. However, Dean was sitting up now, hair still a mess and sheets low around his waist, and whatever insult you’d prepared vanished when you realized he wasn’t smirking; that was the problem, because if he’d been smirking, you could’ve handled it.

If he’d been smirking, you could’ve handled it, because smug Dean was familiar. Irritating, obviously, but familiar. What you hadn’t prepared for was Dean looking at you quietly, like he wasn’t entirely sure what’d just changed between you.

“Dean.” It was supposed to sound like a warning, but it came out too soft.

His eyes moved over your face, and for one stupid second, you thought he might actually say what you were both pretending not to think. Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand, and both of you looked at it.

Dean let out a breath, almost like he’d been holding it, then reached for his phone. “My mom.”

You swallowed, looking away. “You should answer.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, but he watched you for one second longer before answering. “Morning, Mom.”

Whatever had been stretching between you loosened as soon as his mother’s voice came through the speaker, bright and cheerful and asking if you’d both slept well. Dean’s eyes flicked to yours immediately, mischief already creeping into his expression, and you pointed at him in warning.

“Don’t.”

His grin came back immediately. “We slept great,” and your face went hot.

His mother said something you couldn’t hear, but whatever it was made Dean’s grin get worse.

“Yeah, she’s awake. No, I didn’t wake her up. I’m a gentleman.”

You rolled your eyes hard enough that it almost hurt.

Dean looked far too pleased with himself. “She’s rolling her eyes at me right now, actually.”

“Dean,” you hissed.

“She says good morning,” he told you, still grinning.

“I absolutely did not.”

His mother’s laugh came through the phone, warm and far too pleased, and you suddenly understood why Dean was like this: he’d been encouraged.

By the time he hung up, you were already in the bathroom with the door half-closed, your face in your hands.

“This is entirely your fault,” you called out.

“Most things are,” Dean called back.

“Good,” you answered through the half-closed door. “Glad we agree.”

Brunch, unfortunately, didn’t make things better.

Dean’s family had apparently decided the two of you were adorable, which was a problem because Dean kept leaning into it like he had no idea you were fighting for your life. His hand found the back of your chair whenever he stood, his knee brushed yours under the table, and when he noticed you eyeing the fruit platter but refusing to climb halfway across the table for it, he passed it to you without missing a beat.

They were tiny things, fake things, the kind of things Dean could easily explain away if you asked him to. Except none of them felt fake enough.

His mother watched the two of you over the rim of her coffee cup, smiling in a way that made you deeply suspicious.

“You two seem more comfortable with each other today,” she said.

You almost choked on your orange juice.

Dean, because he was a menace, patted your back like this was not entirely his fault. “Careful, sweetheart.”

You glared at him, which only made his smile turn angelic.

“We’re very comfortable,” Dean replied, giving your shoulder another innocent pat.

You kicked his ankle under the table; his smile twitched, but he didn’t break.

His father glanced over the top of the paper he was pretending to read, looking between you and Dean with quiet amusement. “That’s good. Comfort matters.”

Beside you, Dean went still in a way you didn’t understand. It wasn’t enough for anyone else to notice, but you were sitting close enough to catch the slight pause of his fingers against the rim of his glass before he forced them to move again.

You looked at him, but Dean kept his eyes on his plate. That was new. Dean didn’t avoid looking at people; if anything, he made a sport of holding eye contact too long.

His mother kept talking about the charity gala that night — donors, family friends, how lovely the ballroom looked after the decorators had finished — but most of it blurred together, because Dean had gone too quiet beside you.

When brunch finally ended, and his parents walked ahead to greet someone in the lobby, you slowed your steps just enough for Dean to fall into place beside you.

“You’ve been quiet,” you said.

Dean looked down at you like he was grateful for the easy joke. “You keep saying that like it’s illegal.”

“For you? Quiet feels suspicious.”

His mouth curved like he meant to make a joke out of it, but it didn’t quite work. “I’m fine.”

You snorted. “You’re much better at lying when you don’t mean it.”

“That’s offensive.” Dean looked genuinely insulted. “I’m an excellent liar.”

“You’re an excellent flirt,” you told him. “That’s a different skill set.”

Dean looked at you then, his attention sharpening just enough to make the hallway feel too narrow. “You think so?”

You stopped walking; after a beat, Dean stopped too. People moved around you toward the elevators, their voices echoing against the high ceilings, but for a second, the lobby narrowed down to Dean: his loosened collar, the faint shadow beneath his eyes, the look on his face like he wanted to turn the whole thing into a joke but couldn’t quite make himself do it.

“You know you are,” you told him.

“Yeah.” He swallowed, his eyes still on yours. “Maybe that’s the problem.”

You didn’t know what to say. Dean seemed to realize he’d let something slip, because his face closed up in that smooth, practiced way that made you wonder how long he’d been doing it. He nodded toward the elevators, like that settled everything. “Come on. We’ve got a few hours before my mother starts hunting us down with a seating chart.”

And just like that, whatever had been there was gone.

The next few hours should’ve been easy.

You showered, redid your hair twice, and texted Allie because you needed someone to remind you that Dean Di Laurentis’s mouth was not a life choice.

you: this is becoming a serious problem allie: define “this” before I get involved you: dean allie: oh, babe. that became a problem the second you agreed to fake date him you: deeply unhelpful allie: doesn’t make me wrong you: dean keeps looking at me allie: with his eyes? terrifying you: allie. allie: okay, sorry. what kind of look? you: like he keeps forgetting it’s fake allie: and you? you: don’t do that allie: do you? you: i hate you allie: yeah, that’s a no

You tossed your phone onto the bed after that, mostly because Allie had no respect for your suffering.

Dean was in the shower when you started getting ready for the gala, which should’ve been a relief; instead, the room felt too quiet without him. You could hear the water running through the bathroom door, the occasional thud of him moving around, and apparently, that was all it took for your brain and body to ally against your better judgment.

You blamed the kiss, or the almost-kisses, or the bed; maybe you blamed the way Dean had danced with you the night before, his hand warm against your back, his smile too convincing for something that was supposed to be pretend.

By the time Dean came out in dress pants and an unbuttoned white shirt, hair damp and towel slung around his neck, you were already in your dress, trying very hard to fasten the clasp of your necklace without looking at him in the mirror.

You failed, obviously.

Dean went still in the bathroom doorway, and when you looked at him in the mirror, the necklace chain slipped loose between your fingers.

“What?” you asked, suddenly very aware of yourself.

Dean didn’t say anything, which should’ve been satisfying. Dean Di Laurentis rendered speechless felt like the sort of thing you were supposed to document for future reference, but instead, your face heated and your stomach twisted, because for once, there was nothing smug or playful or practiced in the way he looked at you. It was just quiet, careful, and dangerously close to wanting.

“Dean,” you said, careful now.

He blinked, like he had to force himself back into the room, then cleared his throat and walked toward you. “Your necklace.”

You looked down at the chain in your hands. “What about it?”

“You’re going to strangle yourself with that thing.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re twisting it.”

“I’m handling it.”

“You’re making it worse.”

You huffed, but when he held out his hand, you gave him the necklace, because arguing with Dean while he was standing there half-dressed and damp-haired felt unsafe for your dignity.

Your breathing went shallow, which was embarrassing because Dean was literally fastening a necklace, not doing anything that warranted a full-body betrayal. Unfortunately, your brain had apparently decided to provide the image anyway.

Dean’s fingertips grazed the back of your neck while he clasped the chain.

You looked at him in the mirror, and Dean was already looking back at you, his hands still near your neck; neither of you moved.

“There,” he murmured, his voice rougher than before.

You touched the pendant at your throat, mostly because you needed something to do that wasn’t looking at him. “Thanks.”

“Yeah.” But he still didn’t move.

His hand dropped from your neck, but he stayed close.

That was what kept happening: the act should’ve ended, the line should’ve been redrawn, and Dean should’ve gone back to being smug enough that you could breathe properly around him. Instead, he stayed.

You turned slowly, only to find him close enough that your shoulder nearly brushed his chest.

“You should finish getting dressed,” you said.

His eyes flicked down to his unbuttoned shirt, then back to you. “I am dressed.”

“You’re half-dressed.”

His mouth curved. “Technically, more than half.”

“Dean.”

His mouth curved like he wanted to make it a joke. “You nervous?”

“No,” you said, too quickly.

“Liar.”

You frowned at him. “About the gala?”

“That’s not what I said.”

Your pulse jumped, and of course, he noticed; Dean noticed everything when it gave him the upper hand. Except this time, he didn’t tease you for it.

He only stepped back, giving you room at last, then reached for his tie from the chair like nothing had happened.

“Come on,” he told you, his voice lighter now. “Let’s go convince a room full of rich people that I’m boyfriend material.”

You tried to laugh, but it came out too soft to pass for a joke. “That might take a miracle.”

Dean looked at you as he looped his tie around his neck. “Good thing I brought you, then.”

The charity gala looked exactly like the sort of event Dean had probably been attending since he was old enough to be bribed into a suit.

The ballroom was all gold light and white tablecloths, polished floors, and champagne glasses, expensive perfume mixing with the scent of fresh flowers. A string quartet played near the far wall while people in gowns and tuxedos moved through the room, kissing cheeks and shaking hands and laughing politely at jokes that almost definitely didn’t deserve it.

Dean slid his hand into yours just before you stepped through the doors, and when you looked down, he squeezed once, so soft it felt less like part of the act and more like something meant only for you.

“You good?” he asked.

The question was casual, but his voice was not.

You looked up at him, surprised to find something sincere beneath all the charm.

“Yeah,” you said, still looking at him. “You?”

Dean’s mouth quirked. “I was born for this. Rooms full of people pretending to like each other and calling it networking.”

“That might be the saddest thing you’ve ever said.”

“I’ve said sadder,” he said, as that helped.

“You’ve definitely said stupider.”

“Definitely,” he agreed.

You smiled despite yourself, and his eyes flicked to your mouth before he looked away.

There it was again, that tiny slip, that almost-moment neither of you seemed able to stop creating.

You walked into the room with his hand in yours, trying not to think about it.

For the first hour, everything felt easy, which was exactly the problem, because fake dating Dean had started to feel easy, too. He introduced you to family friends as his girlfriend, one hand warm at your waist like the word belonged there, and you smiled until your cheeks hurt. Every so often, he leaned down to mutter something terrible in your ear about a donor’s toupee or a woman’s personal vendetta against the shrimp tray. You had to pretend not to laugh, because his mother was watching from ten feet away like she was collecting evidence.

At some point, Dean’s father pulled him into a conversation about law school contacts, and you ended up near the edge of the room with a glass of champagne you were mostly holding for aesthetic purposes.

That was, unfortunately, when Nathaniel Pierce appeared.

You didn’t know him, but unfortunately, you recognized his type immediately: rich, polished, and smiling like someone had spent his entire life rewarding him for being mildly charming. He introduced himself as a family friend, though the way he glanced over at Dean made it clear he was less interested in being friendly than in being competition.

“So,” Nathaniel said, “you’re Dean’s girlfriend.”

“That seems to be the rumor.”

He laughed like he was already enjoying himself. “I have to admit, I didn’t think Dean was the serious girlfriend type.”

You took a sip of champagne, mostly to hide your reaction. “He’s full of surprises.”

“I’m sure.” Nathaniel’s gaze moved over you, not rude enough to call out but not subtle enough to miss. “Though if he ever stops surprising you, you know where to find me.”

Your brows lifted. Before you could answer, an arm slid around your waist, warm and familiar.

Dean.

You felt him before he said anything, his hand settling against your hip, his body warm and tense beside yours.

“Nate.” Dean smiled like he wanted to bite someone. “Didn’t know you were still doing this.”

Nathaniel’s smile stayed in place, but only barely. “Doing what?”

“Flirting with women whose boyfriends are standing ten feet away.”

The air between them went tight enough that even you noticed. You looked at Dean, caught off guard by the edge in his voice. He was still smiling, perfectly polite to anyone who wasn’t close enough to hear the warning underneath, but you felt his fingers flex once against your waist.

Nathaniel laughed, but it came out too forced to sound careless. “Relax, Di Laurentis. I was just being friendly.”

“Yeah?” Dean tilted his head toward the other side of the room. “Try being friendly over there.”

For one long second, they just looked at each other, both of them still smiling like this was a normal conversation.

Then Nathaniel lifted his hands in surrender, his smile still too wide. “Good seeing you.”

Dean waited until Nathaniel was out of earshot, then looked down at you. The jealousy was still there, not hidden well enough for either of you to pretend otherwise.

You stepped out of his hold.

Dean’s expression shifted immediately. “What?”

“You don’t get to do that, Dean.”

His brows pulled together. “Do what?”

“That.” You gestured vaguely toward Nathaniel’s retreat. “The whole possessive boyfriend thing.”

Dean stared at you, genuinely thrown. “He was flirting with you.”

“So?”

“So?” Dean repeated, as the word had personally offended him.

You lowered your voice because there were people everywhere. “We’re not actually together.”

Dean’s jaw tightened, and you saw it then, the moment your words landed.

“We’re here together,” he said.

“For the act.” In front of you, Dean’s mouth opened, then closed again.

You hated the flicker of hurt that crossed his face because you’d put it there, and what you hated even more was that part of you wanted him to argue; to say it wasn’t just for show, to say something.

Instead, Dean looked away first, jaw shifting like he was trying to keep himself from making things worse.

“Right,” he answered.

Your chest tightened. “Dean—”

But his mother appeared before either of you could fix or ruin anything further, smiling brightly for someone who’d clearly just walked into the wreckage of a conversation. “There you are. They’re starting the next dance, and your father owes me one, but he’s pretending to be busy.”

Dean’s expression shifted instantly, smoothing into something polite, and you hated how good he was at putting the mask back on.

His mother glanced between the two of you. “Everything okay?”

“Yes,” Dean answered smoothly.

“Fine,” you managed at the same time.

She smiled like she didn’t believe either of you. “Wonderful. Then dance.”

You blinked, already shaking your head. “Oh, I don’t really—”

“Mom,” Dean warned, but she was already pushing gently at his shoulder.

“It’s Sinatra.” She said it like that, and it explained everything. “Don’t waste it.”

Then the music changed, slow and familiar, and the room seemed to soften around it. You recognized the voice before you recognized the song: Frank Sinatra, low and sweeping through the ballroom speakers, the melody romantic and almost mournful. The kind of song that made the chandeliers glow warmer, and the room fall farther away, like everything outside the circle of light had stopped mattering for a few minutes.

Dean’s mother only smiled.

“The World We Knew,” she said, softer now, and then she was gone, pulled onto the dance floor by Dean’s father, who’d apparently accepted his fate.

You looked at Dean, and Dean looked back. Neither of you spoke. Then he held out his hand.

You looked at his outstretched hand. “Is this part of the act?”

His face was unreadable for half a second before his voice went quiet. “Does it matter?”

It should’ve mattered, and maybe it did. You took his hand anyway.

Dean led you onto the dance floor, and the second his hand settled at your waist, you knew this had been a mistake. Not because he was bad at it, but because he was good at it. He moved like he’d done this before and held you like he hadn’t held anyone quite this way, which was exactly the kind of thought that would get you into trouble.

“You know how to dance,” you told him, mostly because silence had started to feel too intimate.

“I’m rich.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It answers most things.”

You couldn’t help smiling. “Of course it does.”

His hand tightened slightly around yours. “My mom made me learn when I was eleven. She said charm was only useful if I could survive a ballroom.”

“Your mom’s terrifying.”

“She really likes you.”

“That actually makes her more terrifying.”

Dean laughed softly, and something in your chest tightened at the sound. For a while, you let the room move around you while Dean kept you steady. Couples turned slowly under the gold light, glasses clinked from the tables, and Sinatra’s voice softened the edges of the room until the whole night felt dangerously easy to regret.

Dean’s thumb brushed once against your waist, and when you looked up, he was already watching you.

“You’re making this very difficult,” he told you.

Your breath caught, but you still asked, “The dancing?”

His mouth twitched, faint but there. “No.”

You swallowed his name like it might stop him. “Dean.”

“I know,” he said, but he didn’t look away.

“You don’t even know what I’m about to say.”

“I think I do.”

“You’re not supposed to be doing this.”

His eyes stayed on yours. “You mean dance with you?”

“Make this feel real.”

The words were out before you could stop them.

Dean’s expression changed, something vulnerable breaking through before he could smooth it away. For once, he had nothing clever to hide behind, and you wished he did.

He looked down at your joined hands, then back at your face. “Maybe you’re not the only one having a hard time remembering it’s supposed to be pretend.”

The room tilted slightly, not literally, probably, but it felt close enough. Your fingers tightened around his, and Dean felt it immediately. His eyes dropped to your mouth before lifting again, like being decent had suddenly become very difficult. You hated that his restraint made you want him more.

“You can’t say things like that,” you whispered.

“I know,” he said, but his hand stayed at your waist.

“Then why did you?” Dean swallowed, his eyes still on yours.

For one second, you thought he might answer, but then the song ended. The room applauded politely, and just like that, the moment was over.

Dean stepped back, but his hand lingered in yours for one second too long. That was almost worse.

The rest of the gala passed in a blur of polite conversation and too much champagne, though you only had two glasses, because being drunk around Dean felt like adding gasoline to a fire you were already failing to control. Dean stayed close but careful, his hand brushing your back when needed, his smile there for everyone else and gone whenever he looked at you.

By the time you finally made it back to the hotel room, the silence between you felt unbearable.

You walked in first, slipping off your heels beside the bed and reaching for one of your earrings before you even turned around. You needed something to do with your hands, something normal, because Dean had shut the door behind you and was standing there in his loosened tie, still looking at you like the dance had never ended.

“You can stop looking at me like that now.” You tugged one earring free with more force than necessary. “No one’s watching.”

Dean was quiet for a second before he answered. “I know.”

Your fingers stilled around the second earring.

That wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

He was supposed to smirk, say something obnoxious, remind you this was fake, and make it easy for you to hate him again.

Instead, he stood by the door, his gaze steady and his voice low, and suddenly the room felt much smaller than it had before.

You carefully set the earring down. “Dean.”

“I know,” he repeated, but this time it sounded different, like he was too tired to pretend he didn’t.

You turned to face him. “You keep doing this.”

His mouth pressed into a thin line. “Doing what?”

“Blurring the lines.”

He laughed once, but there was no humor in it. “You think I’m the only one?”

You crossed your arms, mostly so he wouldn’t see your hands shake. “I didn’t ask you to get jealous.”

“No.” He took a step closer. “You just looked at me like I’d no right to be.”

“You don’t.”

“I know.” He took another step closer anyway.

“You don’t get to act as you mean it when this is supposed to be fake.”

Dean stopped a few feet away from you, close enough for you to see the frustration in his face and the way he was holding himself back. “You keep saying that.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Is it, though?”

Your breath caught, and Dean saw it.

His voice softened, which made everything worse. “Tell me I’m the only one who forgot we were pretending.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

Dean’s expression shifted, like your silence had hurt him, even if it told him what he needed to know.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, but there was no victory in it.

You hated how quickly you reacted when he moved closer. The awareness of him had become unbearable, the space between you crowded with every almost-kiss, every touch that had lasted too long, and every time he’d called you his girlfriend and made it sound true.

“Rule three,” you said, because you needed to say something, and the rules were the only thing still standing between you and doing something that would change everything.

Dean stopped immediately, like the words had hit something solid in him.

His eyes searched your face, and all the heat in him turned careful. “Then say no.”

Your throat tightened because he’d made it sound simple.

He didn’t touch you. He didn’t smile.

He just waited.

“Say no,” he repeated, quieter this time, “and I’ll take the floor.”

Your heart twisted, and you hated him for that too: for making it impossible to pretend he was pushing you, for making the choice yours, for wanting you badly enough to shake and still being willing to walk away if you asked him to.

“I don’t want you to stop,” you whispered.

Dean let out a slow breath.

You stepped closer before you could talk yourself out of it. “I don’t want you to sleep on the floor.”

His gaze dropped to your mouth before he forced it back to your eyes.

“You sure?” His voice was quiet—no joke, no tease, no easy escape.

You nodded, even though your voice shook. “Yes.”

Dean crossed the last of the space between you, and even then, he didn’t rush. His hand came to your waist first, warm and steady, and when he kissed you, there was nothing fake about it.

The first one had been necessary. This one was not.

This one was slow at first, almost careful, like Dean was giving you every chance to pull away. But your hands found the front of his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric, and whatever restraint he had left snapped just enough for him to pull you against him.

The sound he made against your mouth made your fingers tighten in his shirt.

You backed into the dresser, and Dean followed, one hand sliding to your jaw while the other stayed at your waist, holding you close without caging you in. He kissed you like he’d been thinking about it too, as the dance, the gala, and every fake smile had only made it harder to stop.

Your fingers caught in his tie, pulling him closer.

Dean huffed a laugh against your mouth. “Still bossy.”

“You like it.”

“Unfortunately.”

You smiled despite yourself, and Dean kissed it off your mouth, which was rude, effective, and deeply unfair.

His fingers found the zipper of your dress and stopped there. When you opened your eyes, Dean was watching you, his breathing uneven, his forehead almost touching yours.

Dean’s voice was quiet. “Tell me now. If you want me to stop.”

Your chest ached at the softness of it.

You shook your head.

“I need you to say it.”

That was unfairly attractive. The care. The restraint. The fact that Dean, who joked through almost everything, was looking at you like this was the one thing he refused to get wrong.

“Don’t stop,” you told him, holding his gaze.

Dean’s jaw tightened. Then he kissed you again, slow and hungry, one hand holding your waist as the other pulled the zipper down inch by inch, leaving your back exposed beneath his touch.

The dress loosened slowly, slipping from your shoulders as his hands drew it down, his fingertips brushing bare skin the whole way. He took his time with it, his mouth moving over your shoulder, your collarbone, the frantic beat of your pulse beneath your skin, until you felt exposed before you were even undressed. When the fabric pooled at your feet, Dean stepped back just enough to take you in.

For once, you wished he’d say something stupid.

He didn’t.

His gaze moved over you, and for once, he looked almost helpless.

“You’re beautiful.” His voice came out rough.

It was simple. No smirk. No line. Nothing for him to hide behind.

You swallowed hard. “That was dangerously sincere.”

“It was.” His eyes stayed on yours.

You looked away because the room was suddenly too warm, and Dean was suddenly too close to all the things you were trying not to feel.

His fingers brushed beneath your chin, gentle as he turned your face back to his. “Hey.”

You made yourself look at him.

“I mean it,” he told you, his eyes steady on yours.

The next kiss was rougher because you needed it to be, all teeth and heat and his body pinning yours to the dresser. You needed heat over honesty, needed his mouth on yours, his hands dragging over bare skin, the solid weight of him against you before you could think too hard about what any of it meant. Dean seemed to understand, or maybe he needed the same thing, because he lifted you easily, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you to the bed without taking his mouth off yours.

You hit the mattress with a breathless laugh, and Dean followed you down, tie hanging loose, shirt half-open, hair falling over his forehead.

“This is a terrible idea.” Your hands slid into his open shirt anyway.

His mouth curved, but there was too much heat in his eyes for the smile to feel harmless. “Probably.”

“You’re doing a terrible job of talking me out of it.”

“I’m trying to be respectful.” His mouth brushed yours. “Not stupid.”

You laughed, and he kissed your jaw, your throat, the bare skin above your bra, until the sound broke into something much less composed.

Dean took his time with you, and that was the part you didn’t expect.

You’d expected confidence, because Dean had enough of that to supply a small country. You’d expected teasing, dirty comments, hands that knew exactly where to go; Dean Di Laurentis had never looked like someone who had to think too hard in bed.

You hadn’t expected patience.

Not this kind.

He kissed you like there was nowhere else he wanted to be, like learning what made you gasp mattered more than proving he already knew. His hands moved over your body with a focus that made you dizzy, slow, and deliberate, and entirely too aware of every reaction he pulled from you. When his mouth moved lower, and his fingers slipped beneath the lace, dragging through the wet heat of you, the smug satisfaction that crossed his face should’ve made you want to wipe it right off.

Instead, you grabbed at his shirt and dragged him back up to kiss him, because if he looked at you like that for one more second, you were going to fall apart before he even touched you properly.

Dean laughed against your mouth, smug even now. “Impatient.”

“You’re wearing too many clothes.”

“Is that a request?”

“It’s a complaint.”

He sat back long enough to pull his shirt off, and you immediately regretted being brave, because Dean without a shirt was exactly as distracting as Dean with a shirt, only with fewer barriers and significantly more evidence that hockey was a public service.

Your gaze moved over him before you could stop it.

His grin returned, softer this time. “You good?”

“Absolutely not.”

His grin widened, gentle but entirely too pleased. “No?”

“I’m annoyed.”

“My body annoys you?”

“Mostly your face.”

He laughed as he leaned down again. “That’s fair.”

After that, it got less funny. Mostly because Dean’s mouth returned to your skin, his hand slid between your thighs again, and suddenly the only thing in your head was the slow drag of his fingers against you. He was good, not in the careless, practiced way you’d expected, but in the attentive way that made every reaction feel noticed. He listened to every sound you made, watched every change in your face, kissed the inside of your thigh when your breathing hitched, and kept telling you how good you were until your fingers twisted in the sheets.

“You okay?” His eyes found yours, careful even now.

Your chest rose and fell too quickly. “If you stop now, I’ll be furious.”

His mouth curved against your skin. “Good to know.”

Then he didn’t stop.

By the time he moved back over you, your body felt loose and overheated, your thoughts scattered somewhere between his mouth, the drag of his hands, and the way he kept saying your name as it belonged there. Dean kissed you again, slower this time, and you felt how badly he wanted you in the tension of his body, in the slight shake of his hand against your hip before he forced it steady.

“Dean.” His name came out unsteady.

His forehead came to rest against yours. “Yeah?”

You looked at him, and for one second, the fear came back.

Not of him.

Never of him.

Of the rule you were about to break the morning after. Of the fact that wanting Dean had started to feel less like a mistake and more like a truth you weren’t ready to say out loud.

He saw the fear cross your face immediately.

“We can stop.” His hand stilled at your hip.

You shook your head, holding his gaze so he would believe you. “I don’t want to.”

His eyes closed for a second, and when he opened them again, they were darker, softer, far too honest.

“Tell me again,” he whispered.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

Dean kissed you as he believed you, then reached blindly for his wallet on the nightstand without taking his mouth far from yours. You looked away while he got the condom, not because you were embarrassed exactly, but because there was something too real about the ordinary practicality of it. Then he was back over you, and there was nothing ordinary about the way he looked at you.

“Still with me?” His eyes searched yours.

You nodded, then remembered he needed words. “Yes.”

His mouth brushed yours, his voice low enough to wreck you. “Good girl.”

The words should not have sent heat through you as fast as they did.

His breath caught, and then he was smiling against your mouth like he knew exactly what that had done to you. “Oh?”

“Don’t.”

“Noted.”

“Dean.” It came out too breathless to be a warning.

“I said noted,” he reminded you.

“That was a smug face.”

“I felt smug.”

You would’ve argued, but then he moved, slow and careful, and whatever you’d been about to say disappeared beneath the feeling of him.

Dean watched your face the entire time, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your waist like he needed something to hold onto as much as you did. When your breath caught at the stretch, Dean stopped immediately, his jaw tight as his eyes searched yours.

“Okay?”

You nodded quickly, your fingers tightening around his shoulder. “Yeah. —Give me a second.”

“You can have as long as you need.”

You turned your face slightly, hiding against his neck. “You’re being too nice to me.”

Dean went still above you.

Then his mouth brushed your temple. “Get used to it.”

You laughed, though it came out shaky.

Dean moved only when you asked him to, and the first few times were slow enough to make your chest ache. It was intimate in a way you hadn’t prepared for: the eye contact, the quiet sounds, the way Dean held himself back, as if taking care of you mattered more than losing control.

Eventually, Dean’s restraint slipped, and the slow, careful pace turned into something rougher. Not completely. Never enough to make you feel unsafe. But enough that his breathing went rough, his grip on your hip tightened, and every measured movement started to feel a little less controlled.

The room became warm and tangled sheets and Dean’s voice low against your ear, telling you how good you felt, how pretty you looked under him, how long he’d wanted this. How badly he was trying not to lose his mind over it. You wrapped your legs around him, pulling him deeper, and his composure cracked, his breath catching hard against your neck.

“Fuck.” His head dipped for half a second. “Don’t do that unless you want this to get embarrassing for me.”

Despite everything, you smiled. “You mean embarrassingly quick?”

His eyes lifted to yours, and there he was again: pure Dean, cocky enough to make you feel steadier somehow.

“Careful.” His mouth brushed yours. “I’m still very committed to proving a point.”

“What point, exactly?”

“That we should’ve broken rule three earlier.”

You laughed, but it broke into a moan when his hand slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding exactly where you needed him. He swallowed the sound with his mouth, kissing you through it as his fingers kept moving, and the pressure built so fast you had to cling to him.

“Dean,” you gasped, and he heard it immediately.

Of course he did.

His pace faltered just enough for his eyes to find yours, one hand still firm at your waist, the other braced beside your head like he was holding himself back by force. “I’ve got you.”

Your chest tightened around the words, which was deeply inconvenient considering your body was already busy falling apart for him. “You always say things like that.”

Dean’s mouth brushed yours, not quite a kiss, not quite anything gentle enough to survive. “Yeah?” His thumb moved between you again, slow and deliberate, and your whole body clenched hard enough to make his breath catch. “Maybe I mean them.”

That was what undid you.

Not just his hand, though that was not helping. Not the way he moved inside you, careful until he wasn’t, controlled until the control started slipping at the edges. Not the praise against your mouth or the weight of him over you, or the rough sound he made every time you pulled him closer. It was the softness underneath all of it, the part he kept letting you see by accident. The way Dean looked at you was like he was done pretending, like this had stopped being about rule three the second you said yes.

The pressure broke all at once, sharp and overwhelming, pulling his name from you in a sound you would’ve been embarrassed by if you’d been capable of embarrassment. Your nails dug into his back, your thighs tightening around his hips, and Dean held you through it, mouth pressed to your temple, voice low and wrecked as he told you he’d you, that you were okay, that you were so fucking pretty like this.

He followed not long after.

You felt the moment he lost the last of his control: the way his body went tense over yours, the way his hand gripped your waist, the way he buried his face in the curve of your neck as he could hide there. Your name left his mouth rough and unsteady, like something he’d been trying not to say all weekend and had finally run out of strength to keep in.

For a while, neither of you moved.

The room was too warm, the sheets tangled around your legs, the air between you ruined in a way that felt impossible to fix neatly. Dean’s weight was still over you, not crushing, just there, solid and familiar and dangerous for reasons that had very little to do with sex anymore.

Eventually, he lifted himself onto one elbow, just enough to look at you.

His hair was a mess, his cheeks flushed, his mouth swollen from kissing you, and for once, Dean Di Laurentis didn’t look smug or polished or like trouble in an expensive suit. He looked young. Unsteady. Like someone who’d finally broken the thing he’d been joking around for days and had no idea what to do with the pieces.

“You okay?” His voice was quiet.

You nodded, still trying to remember how breathing worked.

Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly, but there was no teasing in them. “Words.”

Your heart twisted because, of course, he remembered. Of course, he was still careful now, when it would’ve been so much easier for him not to be. “I’m okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His face softened, and he kissed you once, slow and gentle, which somehow felt more dangerous than everything that had come before it. The sex, at least, had given you something to do with your hands. This just made your chest hurt.

Then Dean pulled away carefully, disappearing into the bathroom before you could figure out what to say. The loss of him was immediate and ridiculous. You hated that too.

He came back with a damp towel a moment later, his expression focused in a way that made your throat feel tight. He cleaned you up gently, one hand resting on your thigh like he was making sure you knew he was still there, and you stared at the ceiling because watching him be careful with you was starting to feel like a personal attack.

You couldn’t decide whether you wanted to cry or kiss him again.

Maybe both.

Probably both.

When he finished, Dean tossed the towel aside and climbed back onto the bed, then stopped.

Actually stopped.

He hovered there for half a second, looking down at you like he wasn’t sure what he was allowed to do now. As if he’d spent the entire night touching you, kissing you, taking you apart with his mouth and hands and body, but still didn’t want to assume he could hold you after.

That was unfair.

That was so unfair, you almost hated him for it.

You lifted the blanket without looking at him. Dean slid in beside you immediately, like he’d been waiting for permission, his arm coming around your waist with a carefulness that made your chest ache all over again.

His chest pressed against your back, just like that morning.

Except now everything had changed.

And somehow, horribly, nothing had.

Dean’s thumb moved slowly against your hip. His mouth brushed your shoulder once, then again, soft enough that you could’ve pretended it was accidental if you needed to.

You didn’t need to.

“Still okay?” he asked quietly.

You closed your eyes. “Yeah.”

His arm tightened just slightly, not enough to trap you, just enough to make you feel held. “Good.”

You let yourself sink back into him.

Just for a minute, you told yourself.

Just until your heart calms down, just until you could remember that this was fake, that rules existed for a reason, that sleeping with Dean Di Laurentis in a hotel room during a fake dating weekend was objectively one of the worst ideas you’d ever had, there would be consequences eventually. There had to be. People didn’t cross lines this big and get to pretend the floor was still exactly where they’d left it.

But Dean was warm behind you, careful and quiet and too much like something you weren’t allowed to want.

So you let yourself pretend.

Not for long.

Just long enough to fall asleep.

Morning arrived with sunlight and consequences.

You woke before Dean, which felt unfair, considering he’d been the one to ruin your life first. His arm was still around your waist, his face tucked close to the back of your neck, his breathing deep and even against your skin. At some point during the night, he’d tangled his legs with yours, and the intimacy of it hit you so hard you went completely still.

That was the problem.

It wasn’t the sex. Not really.

The sex had been confusing and reckless and very much against the rules, but you could almost explain that away if you hated yourself enough. Tension. Attraction. Too much champagne. Too many almost-kisses. A weekend of pretending, finally catching up with both of you in the worst possible hotel room.

This was worse.

This was Dean holding you in his sleep like it was normal. This was waking up safe and warm and wanted, with no audience and no excuse. This was the kind of thing you couldn’t blame on the act, because no one was watching.

Carefully, you shifted under his arm.

Dean stirred behind you. “Mm?”

You froze.

His arm tightened for one sleepy second, pulling you closer on instinct, and your stupid heart nearly climbed out of your body and offered itself to him with both hands.

Then Dean woke up properly.

You felt it happen: the change in his breathing, the stillness that moved through his body, the way the room seemed to remember itself around both of you. His hand was still on your waist, but now he knew it was there.

For one long second, neither of you said anything.

Then Dean cleared his throat softly.

“So,” he said, voice rough from sleep, “we’re definitely blaming the wine, right?”

The words landed wrong.

Not because they were cruel. Cruel would’ve been easier. Cruel would’ve given you something clean to react to, something sharp enough to cut the whole thing loose.

This was worse because you heard the nerves underneath it.

You knew Dean well enough by now to recognize the joke for what it was: too quick, too light, thrown between you like a life raft because casual was what Dean did when things got too real. He was trying to make it easier. Trying to give you both a door to walk through before either of you had to admit there was something to leave behind.

But all you heard was regret.

Your throat tightened so quickly it hurt.

You sat up, pulling the sheet with you, and Dean’s hand fell from your waist. The loss of it was immediate, which made you hate yourself a little.

“Right,” you said, forcing your voice to stay steady. “The wine.”

Dean sat up behind you. “I didn’t—”

“It’s okay.”

You hated that phrase the second it left your mouth.

It’s okay.

The same lie people used when things were absolutely not okay, but saying so felt too humiliating. The kind of lie that made everything easier for the person hearing it and worse for the person saying it.

You reached for your shirt from the floor, keeping your back to him as you pulled it on. Your hands were steady, at least. That felt like a small victory, even if the rest of you felt like it had been turned inside out.

Dean said your name quietly.

You closed your eyes.

For one night, sleeping with Dean had made everything feel simple. Not fake. Not real. Just simple. His hands, his mouth, his voice saying your name like it meant something. His arm around you afterward. His breathing against the back of your neck.

Now morning had come, and apparently both of you were still better at pretending than telling the truth.

“We should get ready,” you said, standing before he could answer. “Your parents wanted breakfast before we leave.”

Dean didn’t say anything.

That almost made you turn around.

Almost.

Instead, you walked into the bathroom and shut the door softly behind you. Only then did you let yourself breathe.

Outside, Dean stayed quiet.

And somehow, that hurt more than if he had knocked.

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The third thing you realized was that sharing a bed with Dean Di Laurentis was a terrible idea. Not because he did anything wrong — annoyingly enough, Dean had stayed exactly on his side of the bed all night. No touching, no flirting, no breaking any of the rules you’d very responsibly created to survive the weekend with your dignity intact.

So, unfortunately, the problem was you.

Because Dean was asleep.

Actually asleep. Peaceful and quiet and entirely unaware that he was ruining your morning by looking like that. His hair was messy against the pillow, his mouth slightly parted, one arm tucked under his head while the other lay loose over the blanket. The shirt you’d forced him to put on the night before had ridden up just enough to show a narrow strip of skin above his sweats. It felt deliberate, even though it absolutely wasn’t.

You hated him for that, just a little. You hated yourself even more for noticing.

You’d woken up facing him, which you were blaming on the mattress, gravity, and whatever ridiculously expensive hotel bedding Dean’s family had paid for. That seemed more reasonable than admitting your body had turned toward him in the night, like he was the safest place in the bed.

Dean’s face was close enough that if you shifted forward even a little, you’d feel his breath against your mouth.

That thought was horrifying.

It wasn’t your fault, obviously.

Probably.

You stared at him for another second before very carefully shifting away, but Dean’s hand found your wrist before you could get far. You went completely still.

For one terrifying second, you thought he was awake. You stopped breathing, eyes wide, already bracing yourself for whatever smug comment he was about to make about you staring at him. At the same time, he slept because Dean would absolutely turn being unconscious into a personal victory if given the chance.

But he only breathed, slow and even.

His brows drew together slightly, and he made a low, sleepy sound before tugging your wrist closer.

Your stomach dropped.

“Dean,” you whispered.

Nothing but another slow, even breath.

Still asleep, somehow.

Apparently, Dean Di Laurentis flirted in his sleep now. Unfortunately, that felt exactly like something he’d do.

You tried to pull your wrist free, but his fingers tightened again — not enough to hurt, just enough to make your whole body go stupidly still. His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist once, so soft it almost felt accidental, like he was comforting himself without realizing it.

You stared at his hand first, then at his face, and finally at the ceiling, like maybe God, or at least the hotel sprinkler system, could explain why this weekend was already becoming significantly more dangerous than you’d planned.

“Dean,” you said again, sharper this time.

His eyes barely opened.

For half a second, he looked sleepy and confused, soft enough to make your chest do something embarrassing.

His gaze dropped to his fingers around your wrist, then lifted back to your face.

Neither of you moved.

“Morning.” His voice came out rough from sleep.

You swallowed. “Your hand’s still on my wrist.”

Dean blinked like he was trying to load the rest of his brain. He looked down at his hand around your wrist. “That does appear to be true.”

“Dean.”

“Right.” He let go slowly, but not before his thumb brushed your skin one more time. Probably accidental. Definitely something you were going to think about later against your will. “Sorry.”

You pushed yourself upright immediately, putting space between you like the bed had caught fire. “Do you always grab people in your sleep?”

Dean rolled onto his back and dragged a hand over his face. “I don’t know. No one’s usually complained.”

“Consider this the first official complaint.”

“Noted,” he said.

“You’re weirdly clingy when you’re asleep.”

“I was literally unconscious.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

Dean turned his head on the pillow, hair falling over his forehead as he looked at you. “Are you always this mean in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“Good to know.” His mouth curved slightly, as if that were information he planned to use later.

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

“Because my mom’s going to ask if we slept okay.”

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out, which was annoying, because he had a point.

Dean seemed to notice at the same time you did, because his mouth curved slowly.

“No.” You cut him off immediately.

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You looked like you wanted to.”

“I’m allowed to think.”

“That’s worse.”

He sat up slowly, still looking far too good for someone who’d just woken up. “If my mom asks, we need to keep our story straight.”

“We need boundaries, Dean.”

“We have boundaries. You made a whole list.”

“You were holding my wrist in your sleep.”

“Again, I was unconscious.”

“You smiled when you realized.”

“I mean, that part I’ll take credit for.”

You grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at his head.

Dean caught it against his chest and laughed quietly, the sound too warm for that early in the morning. Too easy, and too much like the night before, when he’d been lying beside you in the dark, looking at your mouth like kissing you might be the only honest thing he’d done all weekend.

The memory pulled tight in your stomach. Dean’s smile faded, just a little, and you knew he remembered it too.

The room went quiet in a way that wasn’t awkward, exactly.

It was worse.

Careful.

Irritating Dean was easier to deal with. Irritating him was familiar. Safe. It came with the added benefit of letting you insult him without your pulse doing anything weird.

Careful, I made you remember last night, when neither of you had moved away fast enough.

Dean was the first to clear his throat. “Bathroom’s yours.”

You nodded a little too fast. “Great.”

Then you climbed out of bed and walked straight into the bathroom without looking back, because if Dean was still watching you, you had a horrible feeling you’d remember it forever.

The bathroom was cold, too bright, and deeply judgmental.

You stared at yourself in the mirror for a long moment. Your hair was doing whatever it wanted, and your shirt looked like it’d given up sometime around three in the morning. Your face looked far too awake for someone who’d slept terribly, which felt unfair. If you were going to spend half the night replaying an almost-kiss with Dean Di Laurentis, the least your face could do was look tragic and mysterious.

Instead, you looked like a girl who’d made bad choices and was about to have breakfast with the consequences.

You brushed your teeth, washed your face, and gave yourself a look in the mirror like that might solve anything.

“This is fake,” you whispered.

The mirror looked unconvinced.

By the time you came out, Dean was already dressed.

He was standing near the window in dark pants and a white button-down, sleeves rolled up, phone in one hand. His hair was still a little damp from running his fingers through it. He looked like someone’s rich, responsible boyfriend, which was both offensive and inaccurate.

You stopped short in the doorway.

Dean looked up from his phone. His gaze moved over you once, quick enough to pretend it hadn’t happened but not fast enough to be innocent.

“You look good.”

You frowned at him. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you mean it.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly. “You’d rather I lie?”

“Yes.”

Dean’s mouth twitched. “You look terrible.”

“Thank you.”

“Awful, honestly.”

“Much better.”

“Hard to believe my family’s buying this.”

You rolled your eyes and brushed past him to grab your bag. “Your family seems optimistic.”

“My family’s obsessed with you,” Dean said. “My mom’s texted me three times already.”

Your head snapped up before you could pretend you didn’t care. “About me?”

Dean lifted his phone. “Mostly.”

“That feels ominous.”

“She says she hopes you slept well.”

Heat rushed to your face so quickly that it was actually humiliating.

“Why would she say it like that?”

Dean stared at you.

You stared back, already regretting the question.

Then he grinned.

You pointed at him before he could say anything. “Do not.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You had the face.”

“That’s just my face.”

“Exactly. That’s the problem.”

Dean leaned against the window, smiling like your panic was funny. “She just meant because of the hotel, sweetheart.”

Your stomach did that stupid little flip again at the nickname.

You hid it behind a glare. “Don’t sweetheart me when no one’s here.”

“Pretty sure rule four didn’t mention sweetheart.”

“It’s close enough to rule four.”

“Are we making amendments now?”

“I’ll make whatever amendments I need to survive this weekend.”

Dean’s smile softened, which somehow made it worse. “That bad already?”

You held his gaze for half a second too long.

His voice was teasing, mostly, but something sat underneath it — something careful, again, like he was asking without actually saying it, like he remembered how quiet the room had gotten last night and didn’t know what to do with it either.

You could’ve said yes.

You didn’t.

“You’re really annoying before breakfast,” you said instead.

Dean’s expression cleared, his smile slipping back into place. “Only before breakfast?”

“Don’t push it.”

Breakfast was in one of the hotel’s private rooms, because apparently, rich people couldn’t eat eggs around strangers like normal people.

Dean’s hand settled at your lower back the second the elevator doors opened, and your body stiffened before your brain could catch up.

Dean noticed immediately, his mouth dipping close to your ear. “Necessary?”

You glanced into the room ahead and immediately spotted his parents with a group of older couples. His mother turned toward you with a bright smile.

Necessary.

It hung between you like a dare.

You swallowed before nodding once.

Dean’s hand stayed exactly where it was.

Warm. Light. Respectful enough that you couldn’t complain, but present enough that your entire body noticed anyway.

“Relax,” he murmured near your ear.

“I’m perfectly relaxed.”

“You look like you’re preparing for war.”

“I haven’t ruled it out.”

“My mom’s obsessed with you, remember?”

“That only makes it worse.”

Dean let out a soft laugh. “How?”

“Because now I actually feel bad lying to her.”

His fingers flexed against your back once, quick enough that you almost missed it.

“Yeah,” he said, voice quieter now. “I know.”

You looked up at him before you could stop yourself.

For a second, the smile was gone. Then his mother started across the room toward you, and just like that, Dean’s performance was back in place — smooth enough that it should’ve scared you more than it did.

“There you are,” she said, pressing a kiss to Dean’s cheek before turning to you with a smile. “Good morning, sweetheart. Did you sleep okay?”

You were actually going to die.

This was how you were going to go — in a hotel breakfast room, taken out by Dean’s mother asking an extremely normal question.

Dean’s hand pressed a little more firmly against your back, and somehow, annoyingly, it helped.

You smiled, hoping it looked normal. “Really well, thank you. The room’s beautiful.”

Dean made a sound that was very clearly supposed to be a cough.

His mother glanced between the two of you with far too much interest. “I’m glad.”

Dean’s father appeared beside her, coffee in hand, and nodded at you. “Morning, [Y/N]. Dean.”

Dean nodded once. “Dad.”

His father glanced at Dean, then at the hand still resting against your back.

His mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile.

You suddenly understood exactly where Dean got that habit from.

Breakfast was somehow worse than dinner. Everyone was awake, sober, and paying attention.

You sat beside Dean at the round table as his mother introduced you to people whose names you forgot almost immediately. There was a couple who’d known Dean when he was younger, a woman from the charity board, and a man who apparently couldn’t make it two minutes without asking him about hockey.

Dean answered easily, charming when he wanted to be, making everyone laugh like it took no effort at all.

That was the problem.

Dean was good at this.

Not just the fake-boyfriend thing, although he was annoyingly good at that, too.

Dean was good with people. Good at reading a room. Good at knowing when to joke and when to listen. Good at making his mother smile, and his father shake his head like he was disappointed but amused.

He talked with one arm draped over the back of your chair, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Not touching you, not really. Just like it belonged there.

Which was ridiculous, because it absolutely didn’t.

Nothing about any of this was supposed to belong anywhere.

“Coffee?” Dean asked, cutting through your thoughts.

You blinked, dragged back into the room. “What?”

He was already reaching for the carafe in the middle of the table. “Coffee?”

“Oh. Yeah, please.”

“Cream, no sugar?”

You went still.

Dean didn’t even hesitate as he poured your coffee, like remembering your order was nothing and not something he’d any business doing so easily.

Across the table, his mother stopped mid-conversation.

If Allie had been there, she would’ve screamed.

You stared down at the cup Dean placed in front of you, then at him.

Dean looked at you like he’d no idea what he’d done. “What?”

“You remembered.”

His expression shifted for half a second, like he’d only just realized what he’d given away. “You order it like that every time.”

He said it like it should’ve been obvious, like paying attention to you was just something he did.

The woman from the charity board made a delighted little sound. “That’s sweet.”

Dean turned to her with an easy smile, recovering faster than you could. “I have my moments.”

“One moment,” you corrected, lifting your coffee to hide your face.

Dean’s smile widened as you’d just proved his point. “She keeps me humble.”

“Well, someone has to.”

His mother looked entirely too thrilled.

His father seemed quietly amused.

You wanted the floor to open up and swallow you, preferably in a tasteful, expensive way.

The questions started about halfway through breakfast.

They weren’t obvious at first, which somehow made them worse.

His mother asked where the two of you usually went together. His father asked how Dean managed with hockey taking up so much of his time. The woman from the charity board asked whether Dean had a romantic side.

That one nearly took you out.

Dean choked on his coffee.

You smiled sweetly because if you were going down, he was coming with you. “Dean?”

Dean turned to look at you, a warning already in his eyes.

You folded your hands neatly in your lap. “Romantic?”

“Careful,” he said quietly. But people were watching, which meant he couldn’t do anything about it, and that made you brave. Possibly stupid, but brave.

“Well,” you said, pretending to consider it, “he once walked me home in the rain and only complained a little.”

Dean blinked at you, because unfortunately for him, that had actually happened.

Not while you were dating, obviously, because you weren’t dating. But months ago, after Malone’s, you’d forgotten an umbrella, and Dean had insisted on walking you home anyway.

He’d given you his hoodie, complained dramatically the entire walk, and still texted you afterward to make sure you’d warmed up.

You’d pretended it hadn’t mattered, because that was easier than admitting it had.

Something in Dean’s expression softened before he could stop it, and you only caught it because you’d been looking.

“A little?” Dean repeated.

“Twelve minutes, Dean.”

“It was literally raining sideways.”

“You’re a hockey player.”

“That’s a different kind of cold.”

“You’re so ridiculous.”

“You kept my hoodie for three days after that.”

That was enough to shut you up.

Dean’s eyebrows lifted as he realized, too late, that he’d said that out loud.

His mother’s smile softened in a way that felt unbearable, while his father looked down at his plate like that would hide the laugh he was fighting.

You took a very slow sip of coffee and silently prayed for strength.

Dean leaned in, voice dropping low enough that only you could hear. “Did you?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

Dean’s mouth curved slightly. “The hoodie.”

You kept your eyes on your coffee. “I don’t remember.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“I’m selectively remembering.”

Under the table, his knee brushed yours, as if it were an accident.

You glanced over at him, and Dean looked back. For a second, everything else seemed to fade again.

You were starting to hate how easily that kept happening.

His mother cleared her throat, very delicately, and both of you looked away at the same time.

You spent the rest of breakfast in a state of emotional self-defense.

Dean’s mother talked through the charity luncheon later that afternoon, the silent auction, the donor reception, and the formal dinner that night. Dean nodded along like he understood what any of that involved, but you could tell from the way his expression slowly went blank that he absolutely did not.

“So,” his mother said, looking between you and Dean with a smile that immediately made you nervous, “you two will come to the garden reception before the auction, won’t you? There’ll be a photographer.”

Dean’s hand paused near his coffee cup, just for a second.

“Of course,” Dean said, smooth as ever.

You kicked him lightly under the table. Dean didn’t even flinch, which only made you want to kick him harder, especially when his smile didn’t move.

The second breakfast ended, and you were safely out of earshot, you grabbed Dean’s sleeve and dragged him toward one of the quieter hallways off the lobby.

Dean let you drag him away without a fight, which was probably the first bad sign.

“A photographer?” you hissed.

Dean glanced down at your hand still wrapped around his sleeve. “Good morning to you, too.”

“You said there would be dinner and charity things.”

“It does involve those things.”

“You left out the photographer.”

“I didn’t know there’d be a photographer.”

“You are so bad at giving warnings.”

“And yet, here you are.”

“That’s not a warning. That’s tricking me.”

Dean smiled. “Worked, didn’t it?”

You let go of his sleeve when you realized you were still holding it. “We need to look normal.”

“We do look normal.”

“No, we look like two people who are always five seconds away from arguing.”

Dean tilted his head. “That’s normal for us.”

“For a fake relationship?”

“For us.”

The words landed somewhere they had no business landing, and Dean seemed to realize it at the same time you did, his smile fading just a little.

You cleared your throat. “We need picture rules.”

“We have rules.”

“You keep finding loopholes.”

“I lovingly challenge them,” he said, because apparently he remembered saying that and was choosing to make it worse.

“You’re going to stand beside me like a normal person.”

“I’m very normal.”

“You said our dating story was you flirting until I gave up.”

“And yet, everyone believed it.”

“Unfortunately for me.”

Dean stepped closer, not enough to crowd you, but close enough that you noticed.

You always noticed.

“You’re overthinking it,” he said.

“I’m thinking the correct amount.”

“You’re spiraling.”

“I’m being prepared.”

“You’re aggressively preparing.”

You glared at him, which only seemed to prove his point.

Dean smiled, but then something in his face softened. “Hey.”

Your glare weakened because, apparently, gentleness was allowed to be used against you now.

“You’re doing really well,” he said.

Your stomach did that stupid little thing again, which you hated with your entire being.

“Don’t be nice to me when I’m trying to be mad at you,” you said.

Dean blinked like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. “What?”

“It’s confusing.”

Dean’s mouth curved slightly. “Confusing?”

“You’re usually annoying.”

“I’m a complicated guy.”

“You’re a complicated guy with terrible impulse control.”

“Also true.”

You shook your head and headed back toward the lobby before he could say anything else that made your chest feel weird.

Dean fell into step beside you. “For the record, pictures are the easy part.”

You glanced over at him. “The fact that you said that makes me think they won’t be.”

“We just have to stand close and look like we like each other.”

“We barely like each other.”

Dean looked at you.

You looked back.

For a second, neither of you tried to argue. Then Dean smiled, slow and far too knowing. “Right.”

You hated him. You hated him so much it was starting to feel like a problem.

The garden reception started at noon, which gave you exactly two hours to walk around with Dean and pretend to be the kind of couple who could survive a country club lawn without making a scene.

It was harder than it had any right to be, and not because lying was hard. You were alarmingly good at that, apparently. When Dean’s mother introduced you to donors and family friends, you smiled, answered questions, laughed when you were supposed to, and corrected Dean whenever he said something ridiculous.

The problem was Dean, because, of course, Dean kept being good at it. Whenever the crowd got too tight, his hand found your back and guided you through it. When people spoke softly, he leaned in and listened as it mattered. He remembered the name of an older woman’s dog from a conversation ten minutes earlier, which almost made you forgive him for being so annoying.

At one point, his father got pulled into a conversation with a donor who seemed very interested in Dean’s hockey future, and Dean’s expression shifted into that polished look you were starting to recognize.

The one that said he was listening, even though every other part of him wanted to be anywhere else.

You were standing beside him with your arm linked through his, because his mother had insisted it looked sweet, when the donor turned to you.

“And what do you think of all this?” the donor asked.

You smiled like you had any idea what the correct answer was. “All this?”

“Dean’s future in hockey,” he clarified. “Must be quite something, dating someone with that much focus.”

Dean’s arm went tense beneath your hand. His father glanced over like he’d felt the shift too.

Dean smiled, but it wasn’t the one he usually gave you.

This was one of those questions that was really just a test — a polite little trap dressed up as good manners, like Dean’s future was something people could casually assess over champagne.

You looked at Dean, but his eyes were still on the donor, so you answered for him.

“I think people assume Dean doesn’t take things seriously because he makes everything look easy,” you said, and Dean’s head turned sharply toward you. “But he works harder than most people give him credit for.”

The donor looked slightly surprised.

Dean’s father looked at you like he was seeing something he hadn’t expected.

You smiled politely, suddenly aware that you had everyone’s attention and absolutely no idea how to stop talking. So, naturally, you kept going.

“He’s annoying about plenty of things,” you added, because that felt necessary for balance, “but hockey isn’t one of them.”

Dean stared at you, and his father looked at you like he was seeing something he hadn’t expected.

The donor chuckled. “Well, that’s quite an endorsement.”

Dean’s mother appeared at your side like she’d been summoned by emotional honesty. “It is, isn’t it?”

You wanted to disappear, but then Dean’s hand covered yours where it rested against his arm, just for a second.

A quiet thank you.

You didn’t look at him because you had a feeling you’d see something you weren’t ready for.

Instead, you smiled at his mother, because that was safer than looking at him. “He’s still very irritating.”

Dean’s thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles.

“You know I’m standing right here, right?”

“I’m aware.”

“You enjoy reminding people.”

“They deserve to know what they’re getting into.”

Dean’s mother laughed, but Dean kept looking at you, long enough that you had no choice but to look back.

His expression was different again. Not smug, not teasing. Something warmer, which felt worse somehow.

“What?” you asked, quieter than you meant to.

Dean shook his head. “Nothing.”

“That didn’t seem like nothing.”

“It wasn’t.” Dean’s mouth curved, softer this time, and your stomach flipped. “I’ll tell you later.”

That was terrifying, because later, with Dean, it was starting to feel like a very dangerous concept.

The photographer found you fifteen minutes later, proving that God had abandoned you and sent a woman named Marissa, armed with a camera and a clipboard, in your place.

Dean saw her coming first; you knew because his posture changed.

“What?” you asked, following his gaze.

“The photographer.”

Your eyes went wide. “Already?”

“She looks determined.”

“I don’t like determined people.”

Dean laughed under his breath, but then Marissa stopped in front of you with a bright smile.

“Dean, right?” Marissa said with a bright smile. “Your mother sent me to get a few shots of you two before the reception gets too busy.”

“Of course she did,” Dean said, pleasant in a way that sounded deeply forced.

You pinched the inside of his arm, and Dean smiled wider as you’d just encouraged him.

Marissa led you toward one of the flowered arches at the edge of the garden. It was beautiful in a way that made everything feel even more staged, which felt unfair, considering your relationship was already fake.

“Closer,” Marissa instructed.

Dean stepped closer, but apparently not close enough.

“A little closer.”

You both moved closer, which was apparently still not close enough.

Dean glanced down at you, his mouth twitching. “We’re bad at this.”

“We’re doing great,” you muttered.

“We look like cousins who don’t like each other.”

You made a strangled sound. “Dean.”

Marissa lowered the camera slightly, like she’d found the problem. “Maybe his arm around your waist?”

Dean looked at you first. That was new. Or maybe it wasn’t, and you were only noticing now because every small act of consideration from Dean made the weekend feel a little less fake.

You nodded once.

Dean slipped his arm around your waist.

Your body reacted immediately because, apparently, your survival instincts had checked out of the hotel sometime between last night and breakfast.

His hand settled at your side, warm through the fabric of your dress, careful in a way that somehow made it worse.

“Relax,” he murmured, low enough that only you could hear.

“I’m extremely relaxed.”

“You’re standing like you’re being held hostage.”

“I might be.”

“You did agree to this.”

“Under duress.”

“You made five rules and still said yes.”

“The rules were the duress.”

Dean laughed, and Marissa immediately lifted the camera.

“Perfect,” Marissa said, already taking another picture. “That was perfect. Keep looking at each other.”

You stopped laughing first.

Dean didn’t.

He was still looking down at you, his smile lingering as he’d forgotten anyone else was there.

The camera clicked once.

Then again.

You became painfully aware of everything at once. His arm around your waist. Your hand against his chest because Marissa had put it there. His heart beating under your palm, steady and real and entirely too distracting.

“Beautiful,” Marissa said, lowering the camera just enough to smile at you. “Now maybe one where you’re a little more affectionate?”

Your fingers tightened against Dean’s shirt.

Dean’s smile froze.

Slowly, you both looked at her.

She smiled back, oblivious to the crisis she’d just created. “A kiss would be lovely.”

No. Absolutely not. That was your first thought. The second was worse. Necessary.

Dean’s hand tightened slightly at your waist.

Slowly, you looked up at him.

He was already looking at you, his expression carefully neutral in a way that told you it wasn’t neutral at all.

“We don’t have to do this,” he said quietly.

There was no teasing. No smirk. No challenge. Just Dean, giving you a way out in front of a photographer, his mother, several donors, and probably half of the Di Laurentis family’s social circle.

That should’ve made it easier to say no, but somehow it only made everything harder. Dean was trying, everyone was watching, and rule number one had always been the stupidest rule, really, because necessity could stretch around almost anything if you wanted it badly enough.

“It’s necessary,” you said, mostly to yourself.

Dean’s eyes searched your face. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you said, before you could lose your nerve.

Dean didn’t move right away, and that was what ruined you — not the kiss, not yet, but the pause; the way he looked at you like he knew this was a line and didn’t want to be the one who dragged you over it. Like beneath all the teasing and flirting and dramatic fake-boyfriend nonsense, he understood that your yes mattered, even when the whole thing was pretend.

Then his hand came up slowly, giving you every chance to stop him.

You didn’t.

His fingers brushed your jaw, and your breath caught before you could do anything about it. Dean heard it; you knew he did, because something in his eyes shifted, just barely.

Then Dean leaned down and kissed you.

It was supposed to be quick. That was the plan: a short, neat, necessary kiss for the camera. Something easy. Something forgettable. Something you could roll your eyes about afterward, when Dean inevitably made some annoying joke, and you pretended your pulse hadn’t tripped over itself.

But then Dean’s mouth touched yours, and the entire plan fell apart.

He kissed you softly at first, careful in a way you weren’t prepared for, like he was still giving you room to pull away. Like even now, with everyone watching, your yes mattered more than the photograph.

Your hand curled in the front of his shirt, and Dean went still for half a second. Then he kissed you back. Really kissed you back. Not deeper, exactly — not enough for anyone watching to call it inappropriate, but enough that you felt the difference; enough that his thumb brushed along your jaw, his arm tightened at your waist, and your body leaned into him like it had forgotten this was supposed to be fake.

The camera clicked somewhere nearby, but you barely heard it.

Dean pulled back first. His forehead almost touched yours, and for one reckless second, neither of you moved away.

His eyes opened slowly, and so did yours. He looked at you like he’d forgotten anyone else was there. You were almost glad, because for one second, you had forgotten, too.

Then Marissa made a soft, delighted sound. “That was perfect.”

You snapped back to yourself so abruptly that it was almost painful.

You stepped back, and Dean let you go immediately.

Your lips tingled, which was dramatic and embarrassing and exactly the sort of thing you would’ve mocked if it were happening to someone else.

Dean cleared his throat and looked down at his shoes for half a second, like he needed a moment before he could look at you again.

Marissa checked the photos, then smiled. “You two are adorable.”

“Thanks,” Dean said automatically, but his voice sounded slightly off. Good. At least you weren’t the only one dying.

You managed to smile politely until Marissa left, then turned away so fast you nearly walked directly into a decorative shrub.

Dean caught you by the elbow. “Careful.”

You jerked your arm back as his hand had burned you. “I’m fine.”

His brows lifted, and you hated that he looked concerned instead of smug. Concern was not part of the deal.

“You’re spiraling,” he said quietly, like he knew exactly what you were trying to hide.

“I’m absolutely not spiraling.”

“You almost fought the shrub.”

“It came out of nowhere.”

“It’s a planted shrub.”

“You’re planted.”

Dean blinked, and then his mouth twitched.

You pointed at him immediately. “Don’t.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he said, absolutely going to.

“You were absolutely about to laugh.”

“I was going to ask if you needed water.”

“You’re such a liar.”

“I am,” he admitted, and that made you laugh despite yourself, because apparently your body had decided betrayal was its new hobby.

Dean smiled at the sound. Not his usual smile, but a softer one — the kind that made you want to look away. So you did.

“We should probably go back inside,” you said.

“Yeah,” Dean said, but neither of you moved.

You glanced up at him. “Dean.”

Dean blinked, like he’d forgotten what you were talking about. “Right.”

You started walking first, because one of you had to be responsible, and apparently, that person was still you, even after your mouth had been personally betrayed by his.

Dean caught up beside you after two steps, and for once, he didn’t touch your back. You noticed the absence immediately, which was probably the worst part.

The rest of the afternoon passed strangely — not badly, exactly, just strangely.

You made it through the reception, the donor conversations, the silent auction setup, and Dean’s mother introducing you to approximately seventeen people who all seemed to know embarrassing stories about him as a child. Apparently, he had once tried to auction off his cousin’s bike at a family fundraiser because he “understood business.” That felt extremely Dean of him.

Usually, you would’ve enjoyed making fun of him for it. You still did, a little. But the kiss sat between you now like an extra person.

Every time Dean looked at you too long, you remembered his mouth. Every time his hand came near your waist, he seemed to remember, too, stopping himself before he touched you unless someone was watching. Every time someone called you a cute couple, Dean smiled like he was supposed to, and you smiled like you were supposed to, and neither of you looked at each other right away.

Which was fine. It was fine. Completely fine, actually, right up until his mother pulled you aside near the auction table while Dean was talking to his father across the room.

“You’re good for him,” she said softly.

You almost dropped the silent auction pamphlet.

“Oh,” you said, because apparently that was the only word your brain had left.

Dean’s mother smiled at you, warm and terrifyingly sincere. “I know this is probably embarrassing for me to say, but I haven’t seen him this settled in a long time.”

Your stomach twisted. Settled. Dean Di Laurentis, who had lied his way into a fake girlfriend and almost kissed you in bed after one night, apparently looked settled. That was bad. Very bad.

“He’s easy to be around,” you said, and immediately wanted to take it back because it was both too nice and too true. His mother’s expression softened, and you panicked. “When he’s not being impossible,” you added quickly.

His mother laughed softly. “He’s always been a little impossible.”

“Only a little?”

“Fine. Very.” She looked across the room at Dean, her face softening. “But he has a good heart.”

You followed her gaze before you could stop yourself. Dean was standing with his father, one hand in his pocket, listening to something with his head slightly bowed. He looked older like that, quieter, like the version of him who joked and flirted and filled every room was only one part of him, not the whole thing.

“I know,” you said softly, and his mother looked back at you. You realized too late how that sounded, so you cleared your throat. “I mean, I’m aware he has… occasionally decent qualities.”

Her smile widened.

You were absolutely getting worse at this.

Across the room, Dean looked over, and his eyes found yours immediately. The smile faded from his face, replaced by something questioning.

You looked away first. Again.

By the time you made it back to the suite before the formal dinner, you were exhausted in a way that had very little to do with socializing and everything to do with pretending you hadn’t kissed Dean in a garden while a photographer documented your downfall.

Dean shut the door behind you and leaned back against it, like he needed a second before moving again.

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

The room felt too quiet without anyone watching.

You dropped your purse onto the couch and started unfastening your earrings, mostly to give your hands something to do.

Dean watched you for about three seconds. “So.”

You shut your eyes. “No.”

“I only said one word.”

“And I’m stopping you before that one word becomes something worse.”

“You don’t even know what I was about to say.”

“You were going to bring up the kiss.”

Dean paused, which was extremely incriminating. You opened your eyes and found him watching you.

Dean looked mildly offended. “I might not have been.”

“You absolutely were, and you know it.”

Dean pushed off the door, smiling a little in a way that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Fine. I was going to talk about the kiss.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

His eyebrows rose. “No?”

“No.”

“It happened.”

“It was necessary,” you said, as if that explained anything.

Dean looked at you for a long moment, then nodded once. “Right.”

You hated how easily he agreed, which felt like a trick, even if it wasn’t.

“It was for the photo,” you added.

“Yeah.”

“Your mom wanted pictures.”

“Yeah.”

“People were watching.”

“I know.”

“So.” You shrugged, like your heart hadn’t been trying to crawl out of your chest ever since. “Necessary.”

“Necessary,” he repeated, and the word sounded different when he said it — lower, slower, like he knew it was supposed to end the conversation and was choosing to make it worse instead.

You turned away and busied yourself with your bag, because looking at him felt like a terrible idea. “Great. Glad we agree.”

“We agree.”

“Perfect.”

“Very.”

The silence stretched, and you hated him, hated yourself, hated the word necessary.

Dean moved first, crossing to his bag and pulling out his suit for dinner. “For the record,” he said casually, “you’re the one who grabbed my shirt.”

Your head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

His back was to you, but you could hear the smile in his voice. “During the necessary kiss.”

“I was selling it.”

“You sold it aggressively.”

“I did no such thing.”

“My shirt disagrees.”

“Your shirt is biased.”

Dean turned around then, suit jacket hanging from one hand, and there was the smile. Not fully smug, not fully soft. Somewhere in the middle, which was becoming increasingly dangerous for him.

“You’re cute when you panic.”

“I’m not panicking.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because you keep being wrong.”

“I don’t think I am,” he said, and there was something in his voice that made it harder to argue.

His smile faded slightly, and for one horrible second, you thought he was going to say something honest — about the kiss, about last night, about the way he’d looked at you afterward like he’d almost forgotten this was supposed to end.

Instead, he held up his suit. “I need to change.”

You stared at him for a second, then pointed toward the bathroom. “Go.”

His mouth twitched. “Bossy.”

“Go, or I’ll make you change in the hallway.”

Dean started toward the bathroom, then paused in the doorway.

You looked at him, already suspicious. “What?”

He leaned against the doorframe, suit jacket slung over his shoulder. “You know, for someone who made a no feelings rule, you’re very invested in where I take my clothes off.”

You picked up the nearest pillow and threw it at him.

Dean disappeared into the bathroom laughing.

You stood in the middle of the suite, heart still racing, lips still remembering him, with the horrible truth pressing harder against your ribs than it had all day.

The kiss had been necessary. That was what you told yourself while Dean laughed behind the bathroom door. It had been necessary, and that should’ve made it easier to forget. The problem was that nothing about the way you wanted him to do it again felt necessary.

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The first thing you realized was that Dean Di Laurentis wasn’t good at begging without making it dramatic.

The second thing you learned was that Dean absolutely hated being bad at anything.

“No,” you answered.

Dean blinked at you from across the kitchen table as your answer had personally offended him. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“You said, ‘I need a huge favor,’ and then looked at me like you were about to ruin my entire week,” you told him, taking a sip of your coffee. “That was enough.”

Hannah pressed her lips together beside you like she was trying very hard not to laugh.

Allie didn’t bother trying.

She leaned back in her chair, already grinning into her mug. “This is my favorite conversation.”

Dean gave her a look. “No one asked you.”

“You showed up in our dorm at nine in the morning.”

“It’s almost ten.”

“On a Saturday,” Allie added. “That’s basically dawn.”

Dean ignored her and turned back to you, his hands braced on the table. His hair was messy, his hoodie was wrinkled, and he had the faintly panicked look of someone who’d made several bad decisions and was only now realizing consequences existed.

It wasn’t an unfamiliar expression on him.

“Just hear me out,” he tried.

“Absolutely not.”

“[Y/N], come on.”

“Dean, no.”

“I’m serious this time.”

“That’s when you’re usually most dangerous.”

Hannah finally gave up, laughing softly into her hand.

Dean pointed at her. “Don’t encourage this.”

“She doesn’t need encouragement,” Hannah said. “She’s doing great on her own.”

You gave him a sweet smile.

Dean’s eyes narrowed. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Deeply.”

“You don’t even know what I’m about to ask.”

“I know it involves you, your family, and the phrase ‘huge favor,’ so that tells me everything I need to know.”

Dean exhaled and dragged a hand through his hair. “Okay, fine. I may have accidentally told my parents I’m seeing someone.”

Allie went quiet, Hannah looked up, and you lowered your coffee like the conversation had suddenly earned your full attention.

Dean looked between the three of you, suddenly defensive. “It made sense at the time.”

You stared at him. “No, it didn’t.”

“You don’t have the context.”

“Was the context that you lied?”

“It’s more complicated than that.”

Allie leaned forward like she’d been waiting for this. “Oh, this is good.”

Dean let out a groan. “It’s not good.”

“It’s incredible,” she corrected. “Keep going.”

Dean shot her a glare before turning back to you. “They’ve been on my ass lately about taking things seriously.”

You hummed thoughtfully. “Wonder why.”

His gaze cut to yours. “You’re not helping.”

“I’m still listening.”

“You’re judging me with your whole face.”

“I’m capable of both.”

Hannah touched your arm like she was asking you, very nicely, to let him finish.

You leaned back with a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Go on.”

Dean looked like he was starting to regret coming here, which was satisfying.

“My family’s hosting this charity weekend,” he started. “Country club, hotel, dinner, auction, donor thing, the whole nightmare.”

“That sounds expensive and exhausting,” Allie said.

“It is.” Dean pointed at her as Allie had just proven his point. “Exactly.”

You raised an eyebrow at him. “I’m still waiting for the part where this becomes my problem.”

“I’m getting there, okay?”

“I’m getting older,” you added, watching Dean clench his jaw.

Hannah tried to hide another smile.

“My mom asked if I was bringing anyone,” Dean admitted. “And I said yes.”

You waited for him to keep going, and when Dean didn’t, you narrowed your eyes.

“Dean,” you warned, watching him look away. “Dean.”

“I panicked,” he admitted.

“You panicked,” you repeated, because somehow that explained nothing.

“She got weirdly intense.”

“She asked whether you had a date.”

“She asked it like it meant something.”

“Oh my god, Dean.”

“And then my dad made this comment about wanting to meet whoever finally got me to settle down, and I didn’t correct him fast enough, so now my parents think I have a serious girlfriend.”

The room went quiet for about two seconds before Allie burst out laughing.

Dean pointed at her again, which only made her laugh harder. “This isn’t funny.”

“It’s kind of funny,” Hannah admitted.

“It’s actually very funny,” you told him.

Dean looked at you like you’d personally wounded him. “I’m in crisis.”

“You’re dealing with consequences.”

“I need your help.”

“You need a reality check.”

“I need a girlfriend.”

“I need a girlfriend,” Dean blurted, and you nearly choked on your coffee.

Allie made a delighted little sound, and Hannah looked at him like he’d lost his mind.

Dean held up both hands before you could react. “Fake girlfriend.”

“No,” you told him, setting your mug down hard.

“You haven’t even heard the full plan yet.”

“There’s no plan in the world that ends with me pretending to date you.”

“That’s actually hurtful.”

“That feels fair.”

Dean leaned across the table and lowered his voice, as if that would make him more convincing. “It’s one weekend.”

“No.”

“It’s three days.”

“Still no.”

“Two nights, technically.”

“Not a chance.”

“I’ll owe you big.”

“You already owe me after you told Logan I liked his haircut and he thanked me for twenty minutes.”

Dean winced at that. “That was an accident.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘[Y/N] thinks you look hot.’”

“I was just trying to distract him.”

“Distract him from what, exactly?”

Dean paused before admitting, “I don’t remember.”

“That’s what I thought.”

He sighed your name, long and pleading.

You hated that your name always sounded softer when he said it like that, and you hated it even more because part of you noticed anyway. After all, that was the thing, you didn’t hate Dean the way you pretended to.

Hating Dean Di Laurentis would’ve been a lot easier if he weren’t so hard to like.

He was arrogant, irritating, shamelessly dramatic, and way too pleased with himself, the kind of guy who flirted like it was a reflex and teased you because he knew exactly how to get under your skin. He stole fries from your plate whenever you sat with Hannah and Allie at Malone’s, called you “sunshine” when you glared at him, and “sweetheart” when he was clearly trying to get something thrown at his head.

But he was also usually the first one to notice when Hannah got overwhelmed in crowded rooms, to cover Allie’s drink when someone brushed too close to it, and to walk you home when it got late, like it wasn’t a big deal.

Dean was irritating and had always been in trouble, but he also had a way of looking at people that made him notice more than he should.

You found that deeply inconvenient.

“No,” you repeated, because apparently he needed to hear it twice.

Dean’s shoulders slumped. “You don’t even want to know what’s in it for you?”

“No.”

“I’ll get you tickets to the next game.”

“I already know too many hockey players.”

“I’ll make Garrett stop calling you scary.”

“I actually like it when Garrett calls me scary.”

“I’ll get Logan to stop flirting with your friend.”

“You absolutely can’t.”

Dean considered that for a second, then nodded. “Fair.”

Allie leaned closer to you. “You should ask for money.”

Dean looked genuinely offended. “I’m not paying someone to date me.”

“You’re not,” you told him, “because I’m not dating you.”

“Fake dating,” Dean corrected.

“Somehow, still no.”

He looked at Hannah as if he were getting desperate. “Help me.”

Hannah lifted both hands. “I’m not getting involved.”

“You’re already involved,” Dean told her. “This is your apartment.”

“That’s not how involvement works.”

Dean looked back at you, and for the first time since he’d shown up, the panic slipped into something quieter.

“Please,” he murmured.

The word landed differently this time.

It wasn’t dramatic this time. It wasn’t teasing. It was just Dean, looking at you like he really needed you to say yes.

Your chest tightened before you could stop it.

Damn him for making it harder to say no.

You hated that seeing him genuinely stressed made it harder to stay annoyed. It was much easier to say no when Dean was being insufferable, not when he looked like he actually needed you.

“Why me?” You looked at him, trying not to sound like you were already considering it.

Dean blinked, thrown for half a second, like he hadn’t expected you to ask.

Then he straightened slightly, like the answer was obvious once he said it. “Because they’ll believe you.”

You frowned at him. “Why?”

“Because you don’t act like someone who would put up with me unless you wanted to.”

Allie snorted into her mug, and you shot her a look.

She held up both hands, still grinning. “Sorry. That was good.”

You looked back at Dean, trying not to think too hard about what he’d just said, but he was watching you carefully now, without the smirk or the teasing, and that made it harder not to.

“Also,” he added, a little quieter, “you’re good with people. My mom will like you, my dad will think you’re smart, and you won’t get intimidated by my family or let me say something stupid without kicking me under the table.”

“You say stupid things all the time.”

“Exactly. I need supervision.”

You looked away first, which felt annoyingly close to a loss. That was a mistake, because Allie immediately let out a soft little gasp as she’d just witnessed something historic.

“Oh my god,” Allie gasped. “You’re considering it.”

“I’m not.”

Hannah tilted her head like she was trying to be gentle about it. “You kind of are.”

“I’m not,” you insisted, which didn’t help your case. Dean’s eyes lit up with dangerous hope, and you pointed at him before he could say anything. “Don’t look excited.”

“I’m not,” Dean said, looking extremely excited.

“You are,” you told him.

“I’m cautiously optimistic.”

“You should be afraid.”

“I can multitask,” he said, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

You dragged both hands over your face.

This was ridiculous. It was ridiculous. It was exactly the sort of thing you shouldn’t agree to under any circumstances.

Dean Di Laurentis was a lot of things, but boyfriend material wasn’t one of them.

He was flirt-at-a-party material, bad-decision-after-midnight material, the kind of guy who looked good leaning against counters and bad for your common sense. Charming when he wanted something, dangerous when he smiled, and completely unqualified to be anyone’s serious boyfriend, especially yours. Fake or not.

“No kissing,” you told him, and Dean went still.

Dean’s smile spread slowly. “So you’re considering it.”

“I’m setting a condition.”

“That sounds a lot like considering.”

“I can still say no, Dean.”

“You won’t.”

“I absolutely can, actually.”

“But you won’t.”

You leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Do you want my help, or do you want to die?”

Dean, for once, made the smart choice and closed his mouth.

You pointed at him. “No kissing unless necessary.”

“Define necessary.”

“You know exactly what necessary means.”

“I do, but I’m getting the feeling your definition is stricter than mine.”

“My definition includes your mouth staying away from mine most of the weekend.”

Dean’s eyes flicked briefly to your mouth, so briefly that you almost convinced yourself you’d imagined it.

Almost.

Then he looked back up at you, expression so maddeningly innocent it had to be fake. “The majority?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, which only made him smile.

You hated him.

You hated him.

You were starting to think that might be a problem.

“No sex,” you added, sharper this time.

Allie choked on a laugh.

Hannah breathed, “Oh my god.”

Dean blinked once, then twice, before his mouth curved. “Sweetheart,” he murmured slowly, “I hadn’t even brought that up.”

Heat rushed to your face. “That’s why I’m bringing it up first.”

“Very responsible of you.”

“I’ll stab you with this spoon.”

Dean’s grin widened. “Fake relationship rule number two. No sex.”

“Rule number one,” you corrected, “is no kissing unless necessary.”

“Right. Very tragic rule.”

“Rule number three,” you went on, ignoring him. “No feelings.”

Dean raised an eyebrow like that was exactly the wrong thing to say. “Were you worried?”

“Yes. For you.”

Dean laughed. “For me?”

“You seem emotionally fragile.”

“I’m already devastated.”

“Rule number four,” you continued. “No calling each other boyfriend or girlfriend when no one is around.”

Dean’s smile shifted slightly, just for a second, before it came back.

“Why not?” Dean wanted to know.

“Because that’s weird.”

“We’re pretending to date for an entire weekend, sharing a hotel room, and lying to my parents, but boyfriend is where you draw the line?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.”

“It’s not interesting, Dean.”

“It’s kind of interesting.”

“Rule number five,” you went on, louder this time. “When this is over, we go back to normal.”

Dean studied you like he knew there was more beneath the surface. For once, he didn’t immediately make a joke, which somehow made it worse.

The word sat between you in a way you didn’t want to look at too closely, because normal, for you and Dean, had never been simple. It’d always been bickering in kitchens and too-long eye contact, comments that felt like dares, and smiles you pretended not to return. It’d always been his hand hovering near your back in crowded places, never staying long enough for anyone to call it something, but close enough that you noticed every time.

Dean nodded once, like he understood exactly what he was agreeing to. “Deal.”

Your stomach tightened a little. “You’re agreeing too easily.”

“I told you, I’m desperate.”

“That’s very comforting.”

“I mean it,” he promised. “Your rules. I’ll follow them.”

Allie coughed, as if she had thoughts about it.

Dean glanced at her. “What?”

“Nothing,” Allie said, in a way that meant absolutely nothing.

“That sounded like a judgmental cough.”

“I just think ‘your rules, I’ll follow them’ is going to age beautifully.”

You ignored her and held Dean’s gaze like you were trying to figure out whether you believed him.

“You owe me,” you reminded him.

“Anything,” Dean promised.

“You don’t even know what I want yet.”

“Then I’ll find out.”

The words shouldn’t have sounded like that, soft and low and too much like a promise. Your fingers tightened around your mug.

Allie, because she had no mercy, leaned back in her chair. “This weekend is going to be a disaster.”

Dean looked at you, and you looked back at him. For once, neither of you argued.

**

Less than twenty-four hours later, the disaster began.

Dean picked you up at noon, which gave him just enough time to text you seven times beforehand.

dean

wear something my mom will believe i had a shot with

you

so basically nothing?

dean

very hurtful.

you

objectively accurate.

dean

my mom’s going to love you.

you

because i’m obviously charming?

dean

because you’re mean to me. she’ll find it refreshing.

you

your family sounds smarter than you.

dean

everyone says that, actually.

By the time Dean pulled up outside your apartment, you were already on the curb with your overnight bag, pretending your stomach wasn’t twisting.

Dean pulled up to the curb and got out immediately.

You wished he looked worse. It would’ve been helpful if he’d shown up in something ridiculous, like a stained hoodie, bad shoes, or a hat that made him look like an idiot.

Instead, he showed up in dark jeans, a navy sweater pushed up at the sleeves, and sunglasses hooked into the collar like he’d been designed specifically to ruin your life at a family charity weekend.

His eyes moved over you before he seemed to remember he wasn’t supposed to be obvious about it. Too late, though. You noticed.

“You look…” Dean started, then seemed to forget the rest of the sentence.

You raised an eyebrow. “Careful.”

His mouth curved. “Expensive.”

You stared at him because somehow that was worse.

Dean smiled like he couldn’t believe he had to explain it. “That was a compliment.”

“That was a weird compliment.”

“My mother’s going to love it.”

“You really know how to make a girl feel special.”

He took your bag from your hand like it hadn’t occurred to him not to.

“I’m your fake boyfriend,” he reminded you. “That’s my job.”

You froze. Dean froze, too, like he’d realized it at the same time, and then you slowly turned your head toward him.

“What was rule number four again?”

Dean sighed as if this rule were personally inconvenient. “No calling each other boyfriend or girlfriend when no one is around.”

“And are we currently around anyone?”

Dean looked dramatically up and down the empty street before nodding toward a bird. “Does that count?”

“Dean,” you warned.

“Fine.” He put your bag in the trunk. “I’m the man pretending to be emotionally invested in you for social gain. Better?”

“Much better.”

“You’re impossible.”

“You literally begged me.”

“I’m regretting it already.”

“No, you’re not.”

He shut the trunk and smiled at you over the roof of the car like he knew you were right.

“No,” he told you. “I’m not.”

That shouldn’t have warmed something in you. It did anyway.

The drive to the hotel took about 2 hours. Dean spent the first 30 minutes giving you a full family briefing, as if you were about to enter witness protection.

“My mom’s going to ask how we got together.”

“We’re going to need a story.”

“We already have one.”

You looked over at him. “Since when?”

“I flirted with you until you gave up.”

You stared at him until he glanced over. “What?”

“That’s not a story.”

“It’s close enough to the truth.”

“It’s absolutely not.”

Dean grinned as he’d just found a loophole. “So you admit there’s some truth to it?”

“I admit you flirt with anything that has a pulse.”

“Not anything.”

“Sorry,” you corrected. “Anything attractive that breathes.”

Dean tilted his head as he’d just caught you. “So you admit you’re attractive?”

You closed your eyes as that might help. “I hate you.”

“That’s not very fake girlfriend of you.”

“Dean. Rule four.”

“Fake girlfriend,” he insisted.

“That still counts.”

“It doesn’t.”

He smiled at the road like he was enjoying this way too much.

You hated how easy it was to fall into this with him, into the fighting and the rhythm and the way he always seemed ready for whatever you threw at him. It made the fake part feel less fake than it should’ve, and that was dangerous. Very dangerous.

Dean’s phone buzzed where it sat in the cup holder.

He glanced down at it, then passed it to you. “Can you read that for me?”

You picked it up. The text was from his mom, which felt ominous.

Mom

Can’t wait to meet her. Your father says, “Please don’t be late.” I say try not to scare her off before dinner.

You smiled despite yourself as you handed the phone back. “She sounds nice.”

“She’s nice,” Dean admitted. “That’s the problem.”

“Since when is nice a problem?”

“When nice people are disappointed in you, it’s worse.”

Your smile softened. Dean said it casually, but his fingers tightened slightly on the wheel, just enough for you to notice.

That was the problem with fake dating someone you spent so much time pretending not to care about. You knew things, tiny things you weren’t supposed to know, like how Dean joked more when he was nervous, how he tapped his thumb against the wheel when he was thinking too hard, and how his confidence was loudest when he was trying to convince himself of it.

“You’re nervous.”

Dean’s thumb stopped tapping against the wheel.

“I’m not nervous.”

“You are.”

“I’m just focused.”

“On lying to your parents, you mean?”

“On surviving this weekend.”

You studied him for a moment, and when you spoke again, your voice was quieter. “Do they really think you’re that unserious?”

Dean’s mouth twitched, but it didn’t quite turn into a smile. “I mean, I haven’t exactly given them evidence otherwise.”

Something in your chest pulled tight. “Dean.”

He glanced over at you, and for a second, there was no teasing in his expression at all.

“I know what people think of me,” he admitted. “It’s not like they’re wrong.”

You didn’t answer immediately, because you’d thought those things too. Cocky, careless, shameless, charming enough to get away with anything. But then there were the other things, the things Dean pretended didn’t count, like how he’d shown up at Hannah’s after one text when Garrett was spiraling, how he always checked if Allie got home safe even when they were arguing, and how he noticed which teammate needed to be dragged out of a party before anyone else did.

Dean was unserious about a lot of things, but not everything.

“Maybe you’re just bad at letting people see the evidence,” you offered.

Dean looked over at you again, and when the car went too quiet, you looked out the window like that would help.

“Don’t make it weird,” you told him.

His voice was softer than you expected. “You made it weird.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You said something nice to me.”

“That was an accident.”

“Do that again, and I might fall in love.”

Your head snapped toward him, and there it was again, Dean’s grin, annoying and beautiful and infuriating all at once.

“Rule three,” you reminded him.

“No feelings,” he agreed lightly. “Yeah, yeah.”

But his hand stayed tight on the wheel long after that.

**

The hotel was exactly what you expected from a Di Laurentis family charity weekend: expensive, tasteful, and deeply intimidating.

It sat beside a sprawling country club with polished lawns, white columns, and more valet attendants than one entrance could need. People moved through the lobby in tailored clothes and quiet confidence, like they knew which fork went with which course and had opinions about wine regions.

You stepped out of Dean’s car and immediately felt underdressed, which was unfair, considering you’d agonized over your outfit for an hour.

Dean appeared beside you, already grabbing both bags from the trunk. “You okay?”

You blinked at him. “What?”

He looked down at you, brows drawn like he’d noticed before you had. “You got quiet.”

“I’m just observing the rich people’s habitat.”

His mouth twitched. “Careful. They can smell fear.”

“Great. Then I’ll stand behind you.”

“You think I look less scared?”

“You look like you belong here.”

Dean looked toward the hotel, his expression shifting into something you couldn’t quite read.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That’s the idea.”

Before you could ask what he meant by that, a woman’s voice called his name.

“Dean, sweetheart!”

Dean’s whole posture changed, not dramatically, but enough for you to notice. His shoulders straightened, and his smile shifted into something warmer, brighter, less guarded.

A woman with dark hair and elegant gold earrings crossed the lobby toward you, followed by a man in a blazer who looked like an older, sharper version of Dean.

His parents.

Your stomach flipped when Dean’s hand touched your lower back, light and brief, like a silent check-in. You hated how much it helped.

“Mom,” Dean greeted, leaning down to kiss her cheek when she reached him.

She hugged him tightly, and despite yourself, you smiled. Then her eyes found you, the warmth in them sharpening into curiosity.

“And you must be [Y/N],” she greeted warmly.

You smiled and extended a hand, but she ignored it and pulled you into a hug instead.

“Oh,” you laughed softly, surprised. Beside you, Dean coughed.

His mother pulled back, still smiling. “Sorry, I’m a hugger. Dean should’ve warned you.”

“He left that part out,” you told her.

Dean’s father stepped forward and offered his hand. “It’s nice to meet you finally.”

Finally.

The word made you glance at Dean, but he was looking anywhere except at you.

You shook his father’s hand and smiled. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

His father looked between you and Dean, assessing but not unkind.

“So,” his mother began, slipping her arm through Dean’s like she wasn’t about to interrogate you in the middle of a hotel lobby. “How long has this been going on?”

Dean opened his mouth, but you answered first. “Long enough for him to annoy me into saying yes.”

Dean’s mother laughed instantly. Dean turned to stare at you, and you smiled sweetly up at him.

His father’s mouth twitched like he was trying not to smile. “That sounds like Dean.”

“It really does,” you agreed sweetly.

Dean leaned in, lowering his voice so only you could hear. “You’re enjoying this too much.”

“You literally begged me,” you whispered back.

His eyes flicked down to yours.

For half a second, the lobby disappeared.

His mother looked between you and Dean, smiling. “Well, I already like her.”

Dean’s gaze lingered on yours for a second too long.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “That happens.”

Your heart did something deeply inconvenient.

So you looked away first.

Check-in went smoothly, mostly because Dean’s mother handled it while asking you questions with the skill of a woman who had definitely hosted charity events before and knew how to extract personal information without seeming rude.

She wanted to know where you were from, what you were studying, how you knew Hannah and Allie, and, most importantly, how you and Dean had gotten close.

Dean answered the last one before you could. “She hated me at first.”

You blinked at him. “At first?”

His mother’s smile widened. “And now?”

You tilted your head like you were giving it serious thought. “Now I tolerate him.”

Dean pressed a hand to his heart as you’d wounded him. “She’s shy with affection.”

“I’m shy with public displays of murder.”

His father laughed under his breath. Dean’s mother looked delighted, and Dean looked at you like he was trying not to smile.

It was ridiculous how easy it was.

That should’ve been the first warning sign.

The second came when the receptionist handed Dean the room keys and said, “King suite, eighth floor.”

You waited, Dean waited, and his mother smiled pleasantly.

Your stomach dropped.

“King suite?” you echoed.

Dean’s head turned slowly toward his mother like he already knew she was responsible.

She blinked at him with perfect innocence. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Dean said, too quickly.

At the same time, you asked, “One bed?”

Dean’s father raised an eyebrow. Dean’s mother looked between you and Dean, just as his hand came to rest at your waist.

Warm. Steady. Entirely too natural.

“We’re good,” Dean said smoothly. “She likes to pretend she needs her own space.”

You turned your head very slowly toward him.

Dean smiled down at you, the kind of smile that made people believe terrible lies.

“Isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

Sweetheart.

Your nails dug into your palm.

Rule four. No boyfriend or girlfriend in private. Technically, this wasn’t private.

Still.

Dean was enjoying this.

You smiled back, bright and dangerous. “Only because you kick in your sleep, babe.”

Dean’s eyes flashed. His mother made a soft, delighted sound. His father looked like he might be reconsidering everything he knew about his son.

Dean leaned down until his lips were close to your ear.

“Babe?” he murmured, like he was testing the word out.

“You started it,” you whispered back.

“You’re going to regret that,” he murmured, still close to your ear.

“Can’t wait.”

You felt his fingers flex once at your waist, like he’d forgotten himself for half a second.

Then he stepped back, smile still in place.

You were in trouble.

The room was somehow worse.

The suite was beautiful, because apparently Dean’s family didn’t do anything halfway. There was a sitting area, a massive window overlooking the golf course, a marble bathroom, and, right there in the middle of the bedroom section, one enormous king bed.

You stood in the doorway, staring at it. Dean set the bags down behind you.

Neither of you spoke.

Then you said, very clearly, “Absolutely not.”

Dean sighed, already resigned. “Here we go.”

“You knew.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You absolutely knew.”

“I thought there would be a couch.”

You stared at him. “There’s a couch.”

You both turned to look at the small decorative couch near the window.

It looked like it’d been designed exclusively for people without spines.

Dean made a face.

You pointed at the couch. “Enjoy.”

“I’m six foot two.”

“Congratulations.”

“I won’t fit.”

“Fold.”

Dean turned to you like you’d lost your mind. “You want me to sleep on that?”

“You created this problem.”

“I didn’t create the furniture.”

“You created the fake serious girlfriend.”

Dean opened his mouth. Closed it. Then nodded once, like he hated that you had a point. “Fair.”

You walked farther into the room and crossed your arms. “I’m not sharing a bed with you.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose. “Scared?”

You laughed. “Of you?”

“Yeah.”

“Dean, the only thing scary about you is your ego.”

“My ego and my charm.”

“Your delusion.”

“You like my charm.”

“I tolerate your charm.”

“You said you tolerate me. That’s different.”

“I’m expanding the category.”

He stepped closer, smiling like he knew exactly how annoying he was. “You know, for someone who hates me, you’re very committed to arguing with me.”

“For someone who needs me, you’re very committed to being unbearable.”

“Maybe that’s my love language.”

“Then I pity every woman you’ve dated.”

Dean’s smile faltered, barely enough to notice.

But you noticed.

The joke had landed wrong somehow.

You almost apologized.

Then Dean turned away, walking toward the window like he needed something else to look at. “You can have the bed.”

Your arms loosened before you could stop them. “Dean.”

“It’s fine,” he said, but it didn’t sound like it.

The sudden lack of teasing felt strange. Too strange.

You watched him pull his phone from his pocket, pretending he suddenly had something to check.

Dean was good at pretending, and you were starting to realize that was part of the problem.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

He looked back, grin already in place like nothing had happened. “Relax. I’ve slept in worse places.”

And just like that, the moment was gone.

You didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed.

Dinner was scheduled for seven. Dean had called it “casual,” which apparently meant everyone would be wearing outfits that cost more than your monthly rent.

You managed to unpack in silence for approximately three minutes before Dean ruined it.

“So,” Dean said from the other side of the room, sounding way too casual, “should we practice?”

You looked up from your bag, shoe already in hand. “If the next words out of your mouth are kissing-related, I’m throwing this at you.”

Dean glanced at the heel in your hand and raised both palms like you were the unreasonable one. “Hostile work environment.”

“You created the job.”

“I meant the story.”

“What story?”

“Our story.”

The shoe lowered in your hand. “Right.”

Dean sat on the edge of the bed, which annoyed you because he looked too good there. Relaxed, comfortable, like the room belonged to him, and the weekend wasn’t already beginning to unravel around you.

“How did we get together?” he asked.

“You annoyed me until I had a lapse in judgment.”

“Funny, but my mother is going to want details.”

“Fine. We started hanging out because of Hannah and Allie.”

“True.”

“You flirted.”

“True.”

“I rejected you repeatedly.”

“Debatable.”

“Dean.”

“I’m listening.”

“And then one day, you were slightly less annoying than usual, so I agreed to dinner.”

His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “I like that.”

“You like being called annoying?”

“I like that your version still has me winning.”

“You didn’t win. I suffered a moment of weakness.”

“I’ll take it.”

You rolled your eyes, but your mouth betrayed you anyway.

Dean saw the almost-smile.

“Careful,” he murmured.

You looked at him, instantly suspicious. “What?”

“You almost looked like you liked me for a second.”

The room shifted. Maybe it was the softness in his voice, or the bed between you, or the fact that in less than an hour, you’d have to walk downstairs and convince his entire family that whatever this was had a name.

You forced a laugh like that would fix whatever had just happened. “Don’t get excited, Di Laurentis.”

“Too late,” he said, smiling like he knew exactly what he was doing.

Your stomach flipped. You turned back to your bag before he could notice.

He probably noticed anyway.

Dinner was both easier and harder than you expected. Dean’s family was warmer than you’d feared, which should’ve helped, except their warmth only made the lie feel worse.

His mother sat beside you at the long table in the hotel restaurant, asking questions with genuine interest. Across from Dean, his father watched him with quiet amusement every time you corrected him or stole the bread basket from his side of the table.

“You two bicker a lot,” his mother said, smiling into her glass.

Dean leaned back, his arm draped over the back of your chair. “It’s part of our charm.”

“Our?” you echoed, eyebrows rising. “Interesting.”

“Fine. Your charm. My patience.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

Dean looked at you, and his smile softened.

His mother noticed.

You could feel it.

“So,” she said, looking entirely too pleased, “Dean tells us you’re the reason he’s been slightly less impossible lately.”

You nearly choked on your water.

Behind you, Dean’s arm stiffened. “I said no such thing.”

His father’s mouth twitched. “You said she keeps you in line.”

“That’s completely different.”

You turned to him before you could stop yourself. “You talk about me?”

Dean’s eyes met yours, and for once, he didn’t look away.

Then he said, “Only to complain.”

“Liar,” you said, but there was no heat in it.

His mouth curved. “Prove it.”

The table faded again.

That kept happening. Little moments where the performance went quiet, and something else slipped in.

You hated it.

You liked it.

You were doomed.

Later, after dessert, after his mother had hugged you again and his father had told Dean not to be late for breakfast, you both made it back to the suite in silence.

The door clicked shut behind you.

The performance dropped, sort of.

Dean let out a breath and leaned back against the door. “You were good.”

You kicked off your shoes. “I know.”

He laughed quietly. “Humble.”

“I was excellent.”

His smile softened. “You were.”

The sincerity made you pause. Dean pushed off the door, rubbing the back of his neck as he walked farther into the room.

“My mom loves you.”

“She has good taste.”

“My dad too.”

“Clearly, good taste runs in the family.”

Dean looked at you then, and something unreadable moved through his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, still looking at you. “They do.”

Your pulse stumbled.

No.

Absolutely not.

You turned toward the bed because that felt like the safer option.

It wasn’t.

The bed was still there, large and waiting and definitely mocking you.

You pointed at the decorative couch. “Your throne.”

Dean followed your gaze and sighed. “You’re really going to make me sleep there?”

“Yes.”

“You’re cold.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I might not.”

“How tragic.”

He walked over to the couch and sat down, only for his knees to immediately look ridiculous.

You pressed your lips together, trying not to laugh.

Dean stared at you. “Don’t laugh.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m being respectful.”

“You’re biting your lip.”

“Out of grief.”

He narrowed his eyes, which only made you laugh.

You couldn’t help it.

Dean tried to glare, but his mouth twitched. “You’re enjoying my suffering.”

“Deeply.”

“You know, a loving fake girlfriend would offer to share.”

You froze, and Dean froze too.

For a second, both of you seemed to remember the rule at the same time.

No boyfriend or girlfriend when no one was around.

“Sorry,” he said, quieter this time.

The apology came quickly, too quickly, as he meant it, and that made it worse.

“It’s fine,” you said.

Dean stood, suddenly restless. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

You looked at him. Really looked. Noticed how tired he seemed now that his family wasn’t watching, how the weekend had already pulled something tight in him, how he was trying, actually trying, to respect the line you’d drawn.

The bed was huge. Huge enough to avoid touching, probably.

Maybe.

You exhaled. “Dean.”

He looked up, cautious now.

“You can sleep in the bed.”

His eyebrows rose like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

“But,” you said sharply, pointing at him, “there will be rules.”

His mouth curved slowly. “More rules?”

“Yes.”

“I love rules.”

“You break rules.”

“I lovingly challenge them.”

“You stay on your side.”

“Yes.”

“No touching.”

“Yes.”

“No flirting.”

His smile widened. “In my sleep?”

“Especially in your sleep.”

“What if I dream about you?”

“Then wake up ashamed.”

Dean laughed, warm and low, and you hated how much you liked hearing it in the quiet room.

“Deal,” he said, softer than you expected.

You changed in the bathroom, mostly because you didn’t trust Dean and partly because you didn’t trust yourself.

When you came out in sleep shorts and an oversized shirt, Dean was already in bed, shirtless.

You stopped in the doorway, because apparently your body needed a second.

He looked up from his phone. “What?”

“Where’s your shirt?”

Dean looked down at himself like he’d forgotten. “Off.”

“I can see that.”

“I sleep shirtless.”

“Not tonight.”

“You’re policing sleepwear now?”

“Yes.”

Dean’s gaze moved over your face, amused and something else you didn’t want to name.

“You’re flustered.”

“I’m annoyed.”

“You’re standing in the bathroom doorway, glaring at my chest.”

“I’m glaring at all of you.”

“My chest feels singled out.”

You marched to your suitcase, grabbed a pillow, and threw it at him. He caught it easily, laughing.

“Put a shirt on.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

“Because I said so.”

Dean’s smile turned dangerous. “That’s not a reason.”

Your face warmed. His eyes flicked over it, but then he reached down, grabbed a shirt from his bag, and pulled it on.

“There,” he said.

You blinked. “That was… easy.”

“I can be easy.”

“Never say that again.”

His grin returned immediately. “Too tempting?”

You reached for the lamp on your side and turned it off before he could see your expression.

“Go to sleep, Dean.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he murmured.

You climbed into bed carefully, staying as far to the edge as possible. The mattress dipped under Dean’s weight when he shifted. Even with space between you, you could feel him there—his warmth, his breathing, his presence taking up too much of the room.

For several minutes, neither of you spoke.

Then Dean’s voice came quietly from the other side of the bed. “You did save my life today, by the way.”

You stared into the dark. “I know.”

“My mom would’ve killed me if I showed up alone.”

“She still might if she ever realizes this is fake.”

Dean was quiet. Too quiet. You turned your head slightly, but you couldn’t see his face well in the darkness.

“Dean?”

“Yeah?”

You didn’t mean for your voice to soften. “Are you okay?”

He let out a quiet laugh, not amused exactly.

More surprised.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You went quiet.”

“I’m fine,” he said, too quickly.

You recognized the answer because you used it too.

Fine.

The least convincing word in existence.

You rolled onto your side, turning toward him in the dark.

He lay on his back, one arm behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.

“You don’t have to pretend with me,” you told him.

The words were out before you could think better of them.

Dean turned his head toward you, and even in the dark, you felt his gaze settle on your face.

“That’s funny,” he said softly.

“Why?”

“Because pretending is kind of the whole point, isn’t it?”

Something in your chest tightened. “Not all of it.”

The silence after that was different.

Thicker.

Dean shifted onto his side too, until you were facing each other. Too close. Not touching. Close enough to see his eyes in the low light from the window.

“You’re being nice again,” he murmured.

“It keeps happening by accident.”

“That’s a dangerous habit.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Too late.”

Your breath caught.

There it was again, that softness. The part of Dean that didn’t feel like a joke.

For a second, neither of you moved. His eyes dropped to your mouth, and this time, there was no pretending you didn’t see it.

Your pulse jumped.

“Dean,” you whispered.

“I know,” he murmured, his voice lower now. Rougher.

He didn’t move closer, and neither did you, but somehow, the space between you felt impossibly small.

“No kissing unless necessary,” you whispered.

His gaze lifted back to yours. “Right.”

“This isn’t necessary.”

“No,” he said, but neither of you moved. He didn’t look away, and you didn’t roll back over.

Almost kissing him was somehow worse than actually kissing him. The possibility of it. The heat. The fact that you could feel how easy it would be to close the distance and ruin every rule on the first night.

Dean’s hand shifted on the mattress between you. Not touching, but close enough.

Your fingers curled into the sheet.

He noticed. His jaw flexed, and then he rolled onto his back, putting space between you with a quiet exhale.

“Goodnight, [Y/N].”

You stared at the side of his face, your heart still racing. “Goodnight, Dean.”

You eventually turned away, facing the window. But sleep didn’t come quickly. Not with Dean lying beside you. Not with the ghost of an almost-kiss sitting between your ribs. Not with the horrible realization that rule number one had already started to feel less like protection and more like a challenge.

━━━━━━━━ 🏒 ━━━━━━━━

💌lmk if you want to be added to my taglist

Dean and the boys sat in the stands overlooking the rink, bundled against the chill that seemed to seep through every inch of the arena. It still felt strange being on this side of the glass. Usually, he was the one on the ice, skates laced and stick in hand, while other people watched. Now he was the spectator.

But that's what boyfriends did. They showed up. They cheered. They learned the difference between a lutz and a loop, even if they still couldn't identify either with any confidence.

He smiled to himself.

You and Dean had started out exchanging harmless comments in passing. The hockey team finished practice just before your figure skating sessions, and there always seemed to be a few minutes where your paths crossed. At first, it was nothing more than teasing smiles and sarcastic remarks.

Neither of you had planned for it to become anything more.

You had a strict rule about never dating hockey players. Dean, meanwhile, didn't do girlfriends. Casual was easy. Commitment wasn't.

Then one party, one conversation that lasted until nearly sunrise, and one kiss neither of you had expected changed everything.

That had been months ago.

Since then, life had become a whirlwind of road games and competitions, late-night food runs, weekends in New York, and hundreds of quiet moments that somehow meant more than any grand gesture ever could.

Dean had never felt so completely known.

You saw past the jokes and the constant need to make everyone laugh. You recognized the parts of him he usually kept hidden beneath sarcasm and confidence, and somehow you loved those parts just as much.

Talking to you never felt like work. Silence never felt awkward. Whether you were wandering through the city, studying together, or simply sitting in comfortable silence, being with you felt effortless.

For the first time in his life, Dean understood what people meant when they talked about finding home in another person.

Being with you felt steady.

Safe.

Like the most natural thing in the world.

And somehow, despite that comfort, you still made his pulse race. Every date turned into an adventure. Every kiss still made him grin like an idiot. Every time you stepped onto the ice, he found himself staring with the same mix of admiration and disbelief.

He glanced over at Garrett and Hannah sitting a few seats down. He used to give them endless grief about being nauseatingly in love, constantly teasing them whenever they got caught stealing glances at each other.

Now he got it.

As you and your partner glided to center ice, Beau nudged him with an elbow.

"Try not to look too jealous," he teased. "She has to skate with him."

Dean rolled his eyes but couldn't hide his grin.

"Shut up."

The boys chuckled before their attention returned to the ice as the opening notes of your music filled the arena.

Dean loved watching you skate.

It was impossible not to.

The moment your blades touched the ice, everything about you changed. You looked lighter somehow, every movement effortless, every edge deliberate. Graceful. Confident. Completely at home.

It was like watching someone breathe.

He'd seen you perform dozens of times, yet every routine left him speechless.

You made the impossible look ordinary.

The program built toward its final sequence. Dean recognized it immediately.

The grand lift.

Your partner's hands settled at your waist before lifting you high overhead as they gained speed down the length of the rink.

Dean smiled.

Then everything went wrong.

It happened so quickly that his brain couldn't process it.

A slight stumble.

A hand slipping.

Your body tipping just enough to throw off the balance.

Then—

You fell.

Dean swears he heard the crack of your head striking the ice despite the music. A collective gasp swept through the crowd.

His friends all released a string of curse words. 

You didn't move.

Dean was on his feet before he even realized he'd stood.

"Y/N!"

The stairs blurred beneath him as he vaulted down toward the boards, the boys right behind him. Arena staff were only just beginning to react, but Dean was already pushing through the open gate onto the ice.

Someone shouted for him to stop.

He barely heard them.

His skates weren't on, forcing him to half-run, half-slide across the slick surface until he reached you.

You were exactly where you'd landed.

Perfectly still.

Your partner had scrambled backward, horror written across his face as he stared at you, frozen.

Dean dropped to his knees beside you, every instinct screaming at him to pull you into his arms.

He knew better.

Years of athletic trainers and emergency protocols echoed in his head.

Don't move her.

Not if there's a chance of a neck injury.

His hands hovered helplessly over yours before he carefully settled one against the ice beside your fingers, close enough that you could feel his presence if you were conscious.

"I'm here," he whispered, his voice shaking. "Don't try to move, okay? Just open your eyes."

There was no response. The fear that flooded his chest was unlike anything he'd ever experienced.

He had taken hits that left him unable to breathe. He'd broken bones. Played through injuries. None of it came close to this.

Behind him, he heard the pounding footsteps of the medical team racing onto the ice.

"Sir, we need you to step back."

Dean looked at you one last time, fighting every instinct telling him not to leave your side.

"I'm right here," he said softly, his eyes never leaving yours. "I'm not going anywhere."

Unresponsive.

Cervical collar.

Backboard.

Possible neck injury.

Possible spine injury.

Possible head injury.

The words blurred together, each one hitting Dean like another body check.

He sat on the narrow bench in the back of the ambulance, his knees pressed against the cabinets as the vehicle sped toward the hospital. The sirens wailed outside, but inside everything felt strangely controlled.

One paramedic knelt beside you, monitoring your airway while another secured the last of the straps across the backboard. The rigid cervical collar kept your head perfectly still. Electrodes dotted your chest, a pulse oximeter glowed on your finger, and the cardiac monitor filled the compartment with a steady, rhythmic beeping.

Dean couldn't tear his eyes away. Your chest rose and fell on its own, slow but steady, and for some reason, that tiny movement became the only thing he could focus on.

"Is she..." His voice cracked. He cleared his throat before trying again. "Is she going to be okay?"

Neither paramedic lied.

"We don't know yet."

The honesty somehow hurt more than false reassurance ever could.

Dean reached toward your hand before stopping himself, afraid of getting in the way. Instead, he rested two fingers gently against yours where they lay strapped beside your hip.

"I'm here," he whispered. "You don't have to wake up right now... just... keep fighting."

There was no squeeze. No twitch. Nothing.

One of the paramedics glanced at the monitor before speaking into the radio.

"Twenty-one-year-old female. Figure skating fall from an overhead lift. Unresponsive since impact. Cervical collar in place, fully immobilized. Concern for cervical spine injury and traumatic brain injury. Vitals currently stable. ETA three minutes."

Dean closed his eyes for a second.

Three minutes.

It felt impossible that his entire world had unraveled in less than ten.

The emergency department doors swung shut behind the trauma team, leaving Dean standing alone in the hallway.

"Sir, you can't come back here."

The nurse's voice was gentle but firm.

"We need room to work."

Dean looked through the small window in the doors one last time. He caught a glimpse of doctors and nurses surrounding your stretcher before someone pulled a curtain closed.

Then you were gone.

The waiting room was painfully quiet.

Dean sat hunched forward, elbows resting on his knees. Every few seconds, he glanced toward the double doors, hoping someone would come through with an update.

The entrance doors opened. Logan was the first one through, followed closely by Garrett, Hannah, and Beau. Garrett carried your bag over his shoulder. No one spoke at first.

Logan walked straight over to Dean.

"Any news?"

Dean slowly shook his head.

"They took her straight for imaging." His voice was hoarse. "They're worried about her head, neck, and spine."

Logan ran both hands over his face, pacing a few steps before stopping himself.

Garrett quietly set your bag on the floor beside Dean's chair.

"Hannah grabbed everything from the locker room," he said. 

Dean nodded absentmindedly.

"Thanks."

He opened the bag and looked through it, finding your phone.

The lock screen lit up, revealing a picture of the two of us smiling back at him. His chest tightened. He remembered you mentioning the passcode months ago, laughing that it was "the easiest number for Dean to remember."

His birthday.

The phone unlocked.

Dean hesitated for only a second before opening your contacts and finding Mom.

His thumb hovered over the call button.

"I can do it if you want," Garrett offered quietly.

Dean swallowed.

"No."

He took a shaky breath and pressed call.

It rang twice.

"Hi, sweetheart!" your mom answered cheerfully. "How'd the competition go?"

Dean couldn't speak.

Not at first.

"...Mrs. Y/L/N?"

There was a pause.

"Dean?"

Silence. He didn’t know what to say.

Then her tone shifted immediately.

"Dean? Is everything okay?"

He squeezed his eyes shut.

"There was... there was an accident during her program."

Another silence.

"What do you mean, an accident?"

"Her partner dropped her during a lift." Dean felt every pair of eyes in the waiting room turn toward him, but he couldn't look at any of them. "She hit her head on the ice. She was unconscious when the ambulance took her."

The line went completely still.

When your mother finally spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper.

"Is she okay?"

Dean looked toward the trauma bay doors.

"They're still evaluating her. She's in CT right now. The doctors don't know how badly she's hurt yet."

"I'll be there as fast as I can."

"I know."

"Dean, love, she’ll be okay."

Dean's grip tightened around the phone.

After the call ended, the waiting room fell silent once again.

No one knew what to say.

Time crawled.

Every time the emergency department doors slid open, every head in the waiting room snapped up in unison.

A nurse calling another patient.

A family leaving with discharge papers.

Someone from housekeeping pushing a cart.

Never a doctor.

Never anyone coming for them.

Dean had lost track of how long they'd been sitting there. Twenty minutes? An hour? Three? Time had stopped making sense the moment the ambulance doors closed.

The doors opened again.

This time, your skating partner stepped hesitantly into the waiting room.

His competition jacket was draped over his shoulders. His hair was still damp, and his eyes were bloodshot.

The moment he spotted Dean, he froze, guilt written all over his face.

"I..." His voice broke. "Dean, I'm so—"

Dean stood before he could finish. For a split second, Garrett thought he might actually swing. Instead, Dean wrapped him in a hug. The other skater completely fell apart.

"I'm sorry," he choked out. "I lost my grip. I don't know what happened. I tried—I tried to catch her."

Dean closed his eyes, summoning a strength he didn’t know he possessed, "I know."

"I dropped her."

"I know."

"It's my fault."

Dean pulled back just enough to look him in the eye, "No."

Your partner shook his head, tears spilling freely. Dean understood why he blamed himself. He probably always would. But Dean also knew what came with loving an athlete. Hockey players blew out knees. Football players broke bones. Figure skaters trusted another person to throw them into the air and catch them again. Sometimes things went wrong. That didn't make it anyone's fault.

Dean squeezed his shoulder, "She'd tell you the same thing."

Before either of them could say anything else, the doors opened once more. A doctor in navy scrubs stepped into the waiting room, clipboard in hand.

"Dean Di Laurentis?"

Dean's heart lurched.

"That's me."

The doctor smiled—a small one, but enough for Dean's shoulders to loosen for the first time all day.

"I have some good news."

Everyone stood.

"The CT scans of her head and cervical spine are normal. There's no evidence of bleeding, no skull fracture, and no injury to her neck or spine."

Dean let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

"The neurological exam looks reassuring as well. Her strength, sensation, and reflexes are all intact."

Garrett quietly muttered, "Thank God."

"She does have a significant concussion," the doctor continued. "Given the mechanism of injury and the length of time she was unconscious, we're taking it seriously. She's going to have a rough few days with headaches, fatigue, and she'll need plenty of cognitive and physical rest."

Dean nodded, absorbing every word.

"Is she..."

The doctor smiled again.

"She's awake and she's been asking for you."

A laugh escaped him before he could stop it, equal parts relief and disbelief.

"Can I see her?"

"You can."

The doctor handed him a packet of discharge instructions.

"If someone can stay with her continuously for the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, we're comfortable discharging her. We want someone around in case her symptoms worsen, and she'll need to avoid driving, strenuous activity, alcohol, and anything that risks another head injury until she's cleared."

"I'll stay with her," Dean answered immediately.

The doctor nodded.

"I had a feeling you'd say that."

Dean didn't wait another second. He was already halfway to the doors before anyone else had a chance to move.

He stopped just long enough to toss your phone to Garrett.

"Call her mom, please, G. Password's my birthday."

Garrett caught it with one hand.

"You got it."

"Dean-o."

The greeting came out weak and raspy, but it was unmistakably you.

Dean stopped in the doorway.

For a long moment, he simply stared.

You looked exhausted. Your hair was a mess, and your skin had lost its usual color. But the cervical collar was gone.

That alone made his chest loosen.

You turned stiffly toward the nurse as she removed the last of your IV.

"Look at him," you said, gesturing lazily toward Dean. "Isn't he just a beautiful specimen of a man?"

The nurse laughed.

Dean let out a watery chuckle, covering his face with one hand as he tried—and failed—to hide the tears threatening to spill over.

"Seriously?" he asked, crossing the room. "You give everyone a concussion scare, and that's your first line?"

You frowned in mock offense.

"It was..." You paused, clearly searching for the rest of the sentence.

"...a really good line."

"It was."

He bent down, pressing the gentlest kiss imaginable to your forehead before resting his own there for a moment.

"I was so scared."

The smile faded from your face.

"I know."

A beat passed.

"I'm sorry."

Dean shook his head immediately.

"Don't apologize."

"I didn't mean to..."

"I know."

His thumb brushed gently across your cheek. He opened his mouth, ready to make some smart remark to lighten the mood, but the door swung open before he had the chance.

"Fuck," Logan said as he walked in. "I don't think I've ever seen Dean move that fast."

Garrett, Hannah, and Beau filed in behind him.

"There she is," Beau said, relief washing over his face. "The woman who gave three Division I hockey players simultaneous heart attacks."

You blinked at him.

"Only three?"

A sleepy grin spread across your face.

"Must be losing my touch."

Logan folded his arms.

"You can barely keep your eyes open, and you're still making jokes."

"It's called commitment."

Dean laughed.

The sound had barely left him before you winced, squeezing your eyes shut.

Instantly, every smile in the room disappeared.

"You okay?" Dean asked quietly.

"Yeah..." You pinched the bridge of your nose. "Just... don't laugh so loud."

He gave you an apologetic smile.

"Noted."

Garrett stepped closer to the bed.

"We called your mom. She's on her way to the hockey house to meet us."

You nodded slowly.

"Okay."

"Your partner's downstairs in the lobby, too," he continued. "We told him he could come up, but... he didn't want to."

Your expression softened.

"He thinks it's his fault."

No one said anything.

"It isn't," you murmured. "Can you... tell him that?"

"We will," Garrett promised.

The nurse, noticing everyone had finally settled, stepped forward with a clipboard.

"All right, since it looks like you have plenty of people volunteering to keep an eye on you..."

She launched into the discharge instructions, making eye contact with each of them as she spoke.

"No driving until you're cleared."

"No alcohol."

"Lots of rest."

"Limit screen time if it makes the headaches worse."

"If she starts vomiting repeatedly, becomes difficult to wake up, develops worsening confusion, weakness, numbness, or has a seizure, bring her straight back to the emergency department."

Everyone nodded with surprising seriousness.

Dean looked like he was mentally memorizing every word.

By the time the nurse finished, you looked utterly drained.

You let your eyes drift closed, your head sinking carefully against the pillow.

Dean noticed immediately.

"If you guys don't mind..." he said softly, glancing at the others. "Can I have a couple minutes?"

No one argued.

Within seconds, the room emptied.

The moment the door clicked shut, Dean turned back to you.

"Think you can get changed?"

You cracked one eye open.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"Whether you're volunteering to help."

A small smile tugged at his lips.

"I am."

With slow, careful movements, he helped you sit up, one hand supporting your back while the other steadied your arm. Every motion was deliberate, giving you plenty of time whenever you paused because the room threatened to spin.

He slid the sweatshirt Hannah grabbed from your locker gently over your head, careful not to bump the tender spot hidden beneath your hair. Then came a pair of soft sweatpants, guiding your feet through one leg at a time while you leaned against his shoulder for balance.

When you were finally dressed, he crouched in front of you to help you into your sneakers.

Only then did he stop.

He rested his hands lightly on your knees and looked up at you.

"You don't have to be brave with me."

The room fell quiet.

His eyes searched yours, taking in the exhaustion, the lingering confusion, and the effort it was taking just to stay awake.

"How are you really doing?"

For the first time since the fall, there was no audience.

Just the two of you.

You stared down at your hands for a long moment before speaking.

"I think..." Your voice caught.

Dean stayed silent.

"I think I'm done skating."

The words hung in the room.

He knew what they cost you.

Skating wasn't just a hobby. It was early mornings before class. Hours in freezing rinks. Competitions. Blisters. Bruises. Missing holidays. Chasing scores by fractions of a point. It was the language you spoke before you knew how to put your dreams into words.

It was part of who you were.

Dean swallowed hard.

"Hey."

You finally looked up at him.

"You don't have to decide that today."

A tear escaped before you could stop it.

"But what if I never trust another lift again?"

Dean reached up, brushing it away with his thumb.

"Then you don't."

"I almost..." Your voice broke. "Dean, I don't even remember hitting the ice. I woke up in a hospital."

"I know."

"What if next time is worse?"

He took both of your hands in his.

"Then that's a conversation for months from now."

You let out a shaky breath.

"I don't know if I can go back."

"You don't have to."

You searched his face.

"But if I quit..."

"You won't be quitting."

"You don't know that."

"I do."

He squeezed your hands gently.

"If you decide, after you've healed, after the headaches are gone, after you've had time to think—not today, not tomorrow, but when you're ready—that skating isn't what you want anymore..."

He paused.

"...that's not quitting."

"That's choosing."

"You've already proved how tough you are. You don't owe anyone another performance just because you've spent years getting here."

You looked away, tears quietly slipping down your cheeks.

"It feels like I'd be losing part of myself."

Dean's expression softened.

"I don't think skating is what made you who you are."

"It isn't?"

He shook his head.

"You make little kids stop and watch through the glass because they think you're magic."

A watery laugh escaped you.

"You make my teammates feel like family."

Another tear rolled down your cheek.

"You make my mom think I'm finally dating someone good for me."

That earned him a tiny smile.

"You make every room brighter the second you walk into it."

He rested his forehead against yours.

"The ice is just where everyone else got to see it."

Your eyes closed.

For the first time all day, you let yourself cry.

Not because your head hurt.

Not because you were scared.

But because someone had finally given you permission not to have all the answers.

Dean wrapped his arms around you as carefully as he could, mindful of your aching body.

"You don't have to decide today," he whispered again.

"So..."

You sniffled.

"...can I just be your girlfriend for a while?"

He smiled.

"You have never been just anything."

"Can we go home?"