#(mini series)

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.

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

hello hello!! i'm so excitedddd for this one you guys! but i just want to put a little disclaimer, i am not in any way experienced with anything having to do with law enforcement, so i probably will get things wrong, but i don't really care because leon is the only cop i care about and he's fictional anyway yay 🩵

this is going to be a mini series, so hopefully no longer than 10 chapters, and it will be updated once every two weeks to allow me to tackle more projects alongside it 💙

“Dispatch to Unit 31, status?"

"31, code four."

"Copy."

A small sigh leaves Leon’s lips at hearing the radio comms. It’s been code four all around for the past hour, and he couldn't be more grateful for that. Swing shifts are the worst. With people coming out of work, traffic in the roads, and bars filling up, it's usually the busiest time for a patrolling officer.

Glancing at the clock, he reads the time: 10:34 p.m. Less than an hour and a half before the end of his shift. He can already picture himself passing out as soon as his head hits the pillow, drowsiness already settling in his senses, which he combats with much needed caffeine.

He stopped at a Wawa’s a few minutes earlier to pick up piping hot coffee and the last surviving Boston cream donut—fully aware of the irony of doing so in uniform.

The steaming liquid sloshes in its lidded container sitting in the cruiser’s cup holder with every turn of the vehicle. With a hand on the wheel, the blonde’s eyes are focused on the road, looking for somewhere he can stop to eat his little treat before wrapping up his shift.

A parking garage comes into view. Free on Sundays, empty, quiet, and in a decently safe area of D.C—it's exactly what he needs. 

Five minutes later and he’s sipping on his coffee quietly, taking bites of the sweet pastry that he chews slowly. It’s not exactly the best tasting food, but he wasn't expecting any better from a convenience store. If anything, the cheap flavor is comforting, nostalgic, and he enjoys the silence of the night with the familiar taste on his tongue.

Despite his seemingly relaxed appearance, Leon, having been a police officer for six years now, knows that being alone means to always be on guard. He makes sure to check his rearview mirror and surroundings every now and then, keeping his instincts on guard at all times.

It’s exhausting, and makes him appreciate all the more the moments he’s not in blue, but for now he finishes his food with as much relaxation as a man on duty can allow himself.

Once done, he wipes his sticky fingers with a napkin, then gathers the trash into a plastic bag before stepping out of his vehicle. Like routine, he throws a glance around him to survey his surroundings, before making his way to the nearby garbage bin.

Dusting his hands once he’s discarded the bag, he stretches his neck until it makes a cracking sound before exhaling deeply. He really can't wait to go home.

When he turns to head back to his car, his heart lurches as he gets quite literally jumpscared by the sudden appearance of a girl. She's standing by the cruiser, her eyes wide and her expression wild with a faint smile on her lips. Almost like she's at the zoo and she just saw her favorite animal for the first time. 

Leon clears his throat to recollect himself, eyeing her appearance to quickly make an assessment of her. Oversized clothes—a large hoodie and ripped jeans—dirty, old sneakers, chipped nail polish, and clearly unwashed hair. He can't tell if she’s purposely trying to look homeless or if she actually is. 

“Can I help you, ma’am?” he puts on his ‘work’ voice.

The young woman does not respond. Instead, she simply continues staring at him with that same sort of awe filled expression that he finds hard to decipher. He’s usually not easily intimidated, but put simply, this girl gives him the creeps.

“Ma’am?” he repeats, and she finally blinks, as if pulled out of a reverie.

“H-hi…” she murmurs with that odd smile still on her face. Then, as if realizing how uncanny she must look, she quickly schools her expression. “Hi, h-hello, mister—uh, Officer… I, um, need help.”

Taking in her stammered response, Leon’s frown deepens. “What kind of help?”

Her eyes dart around, as if searching for something, before she meets his gaze again. “My car broke down… and I don't have insurance to call.”

Clicking his tongue, he gives her a pointed look. “You do realize it's illegal to drive a vehicle without car insurance in D.C, right?” 

“Yes, s-sorry…”

He sighs, already dreading the headache of dealing with this when he could be on his way back to the precinct to clock out. “You don’t have anyone to come pick you up?”

The girl fiddles with her long sleeves as she shakes her head. “No… I’m new in town. Also my car usually just needs a push, nothing too bad. It’s just so damn old,” she chuckles, strained and too loud for her mediocre joke.

With a sharp exhale through his nose, the policeman finally relents. “Alright… Where is it?”

“Uh, fourth floor. I-I just came down here to see if anyone could help me…”

“Right, then. Lead the way,” he gestures towards the elevators.

As she walks ahead slowly, their footsteps echoing in the empty garage, he keeps a safe distance out of precaution. He still has a bad feeling about this, and it doesn't help that she keeps turning around to steal quick glances at him.

“What brought you here?” he asks, prodding for more information about the odd stranger.

“Oh, um, I work at this food place down the street,” she points vaguely in the eastern direction. “I did closing alone tonight.” Another nervous chuckle.

Once they reach the set of steel doors, he watches her hesitate for a split second before pushing the ‘up’ button. Now that he’s standing closer, he can see more clearly the red blood vessels in her eyes giving them a glassy appearance. Then, it all clicks. She's high.

Leon follows her inside the elevator, then presses the correct number while keeping a watchful eye on her. “Ma’am, are you under the influence of any drugs or alcohol?”

Her eyes widen at the sudden question, and she laughs, then looks panicked, then laughs again. “Just a couple of edibles! I swear!”

“And you are planning on driving your car while high?” he scoffs, placing his hands on his hips.

She tracks the movement with her eyes, visibly gulping, before focusing on his face again. “Uh, it's not a c-crime if I haven't done it yet, right?”

The deep sigh he makes is made of pure frustration. “Alright, I’m gonna need to see some I.D,” he makes a motion with his hand.

“No!” she immediately retorts, before coughing nervously. “I-I mean I don’t have it on me… It’s in my car.”

Just as she says that, the elevator dings as it comes to a stop, prompting the man to mutter a sarcastic ‘perfect’ under his breath. 

“After you,” he grumbles.

Her breath audibly hitches at the command, and she doesn't move for an entire two seconds where she just stares at him, before finally stepping out of the lift.

Leon is growing more and more suspicious of the girl, and he’s now starting to realize it may not have been very wise of him to follow her upstairs. With a hand on his radio, he looks around for any lurking threats. After all, this could be a scheme to get him jumped—you never know what to expect these days.

The floor is completely empty, however, with only a few sparse cars parked throughout. They pass car after car, and the young woman shows no sign of stopping just yet. She doesn't even reach in her pockets to pull out a key. 

He definitely has a bad feeling about this.

Once they nearly reach the far end, she slowly comes to a halt. When he also stops a few feet behind her, there is an eerie silence encompassing them that is only interrupted by the buzzing of a flickering light in the corner. She doesn't say anything, just stands there with her head tilted down and her hands trembling lightly.

“Ma’am?” he rasps out, a churning sensation in his stomach.

Finally, she slowly turns to face him, her breathing weirdly uneven, but it's her expression that makes him want to step back. She has that same wide eyed smile she had before, the corners of her mouth twitching and making her look even more uncanny.

Then, she drops to her knees. “CanIpleasesuckyourdick?”

Leon blinks, completely unmoving for a second, before he frowns in utter confusion. “What?”

“S-sorry, um…” she clears her throat and he almost sighs in relief thinking he must've heard her wrong, only for her to reiterate her unhinged demand slower. “Can I, uh… please s-suck you off?”

This time, it's his turn to let out a strained laugh, like he can't believe what in the ever loving fuck she just said. Clearly, she's a lot higher than she claimed, and it's certainly not just ‘a couple of edibles’.

He can see her pleading eyes, her weirdly shy expression, and if he was any other man he might be willing to take the offer just for the ego boost alone. How many guys can say they had a pretty stranger beg for their dick? But that's the thing, pretty strangers don't beg for dick. At least not unless they’re clinically insane.

When she stays kneeling, looking up at him with a hopeful expression as if waiting for him to actually consider her offer, his worry increases tenfold. This feels like the start of a true crime story. He looks around again, his head turning in every direction to catch whoever might come out from a shadowed corner.

“Is this some kind of joke?” he mutters with a locked jaw.

“No… I know it's weird, but I mean it.”

Officially done, he rests his hand on his holster with a stern face. “Alright, that's enough. Stand up.”

In response, she gives him puppy eyes, like a child who wasn't allowed candy. “B-but please! I can be quick if you don't have time!”

“Christ… Are you insane?” he scoffs, and the accusation seems to affect her as she retreats into herself, sitting back on her heels. “Stand up or you're getting arrested for harassing an officer on duty.”

With her head bowed and a small voice, she argues further. “But… I’ll make it so good, I promise…”

Leon feels his eye twitch in irritation. This is the weirdest thing that has ever happened to him, and he can't believe the sheer unhingedness of this woman.

“You know what? I’m not doing this shit tonight, I’m leaving,” he shakes his head, then begins to turn and walk away. “You stay put. I swear to God if you follow me—”

He’s cut off by the sound of shuffling behind him, and sure enough, she's already scrambling on his tail on her damn hands and knees. He feels like this has to be an elaborate prank or else he just met the craziest person ever.

“Please d-don’t leave! I just— I really need this,” she pleads as she continues to crawl closer. “I know you're a good cop, Leon, but damn it, it’s a blowjob! Just take it, it’ll be good. Please!”

The sound of his name brings him into a screeching halt, and suddenly it's no longer just about a crazed individual, but something potentially a lot worse.

“How the fuck do you know my name?” he snaps coldly, and sees her visibly shiver from his tone.

“Uh… Lucky guess?” she tries with an awkward smile.

Leon looms over her with a death glare, his hand back on his holster. “Do you think this is funny?”

“No…”

“Then answer my fucking question.”

He knows his name plate only displays ‘L. S. Kennedy’, so the fact she so casually dropped his first name when he cannot remember meeting her before makes his hair stand up.

With her head bowed like she's being told off by a teacher, she takes a moment to gather her thoughts before murmuring, “I guess you don't remember me but… One time, near Union Station, you were with another officer and I heard him call your name… I asked you for directions that day, but looks like you, um, forgot.”

Leon nearly chokes from her claim, and he would think he’s having a weird dream if not for the cool, humid breeze on his skin feeling all too real. 

“How is that— Who—” he pauses as he struggles to formulate a proper question. “Are you stalking me?!”

“What?! No!” she answers quickly with a fervent headshake. “No, no, look… I just remembered you, a-and saw you come out of your car just now and thought I would, you know, make an offer.”

“Is that what you call harrassment?” he scoffs loudly. “So you planned this shit, huh? You don't even have a car, do you?”

She stays quiet, and that confirms his accusation. This has reached new levels of weird if she truly remembered him from a one time encounter, though he’s not sure if he buys that.

“So what the hell is this? Some kind of fetish?”

“It’s not a fetish. Like I told you… it’s an offer.”

“Yeah, no, that's just called solicitation,” he tsks, his tone dripping with disappointment. “Do you go around giving out ‘offers’ to random cops?”

“No. I’ve never done this before,” she huffs, seemingly offended. “And I’m not asking for money so you can't arrest me.”

Leon feels his jaw clench in pure annoyance. This woman is unbelievable. “Well I sure as hell will if you don't stand up. How many times have I asked you already?”

To his great dismay, she still asks for confirmation as if her demand isn't batshit crazy. “So you’re really saying no?” she murmurs as she slowly stands up.

“Yeah, sorry, I’m not interested,” he clicks his tongue, relieved she's no longer on her knees.

After a moment of silence, he’s about to ask for her I.D again when she speaks quietly. “...I can deepthroat.”

That’s it. 

“Hands behind your head,” he grits out while reaching for his handcuffs.

Her eyes widen like the possibility of actually getting detained somehow hadn't crossed her mind. “Wait, wait, wait! Y-you can’t— I can't get arrested! Look, I’m sorry for what I said. Just f-forget I said anything, please.”

Leon does not care for her regretting once things became serious. This woman is a danger to public safety—including herself, because he is certain plenty of other men would have taken her oh-so-kind offer and then her body would end in a ditch. 

“Hands. Now.” He barks once he’s made his way to stand behind her. Without hesitation, he grabs her wrists that she had raised weakly one by one to restrain them. “You thought I was playing? This isn't some funny prank to pull on an officer.”

She’s tenser than a rock as he snaps the cuffs in place, and then she suddenly makes a sound. A sound Leon tries to ignore, but is certain is in fact a pleasurable moan. 

“Did you just…” he chokes on his own breath. 

He handcuffed her and she moaned. This is unprecedented levels of unhinged.

She doesn't respond, seemingly mortified, and when he begins hauling her back to the elevators she asks quietly, “am I under arrest?”

Clearly, the concept bothers her greatly if she looks so defeated. Good, Leon thinks to himself. She needs to learn a lesson, even if he’s still hesitant to fully arrest her. Why? He isn't sure. But he theorizes it's a mix of pity from the obviously tormented soul, and apprehension of having to deal with her any further.

Especially if she keeps making weirdly tempting offers.

“No. But you will be if you don't cooperate. I’m taking you downstairs for the breathalyzer.”

“I’m not drunk, Leon, I promise!” she gives him those damn puppy eyes again. Christ, why does he always get the lunatics?

“Quiet. And it's officer Kennedy to you.” He pushes the lift call button repeatedly, a sense of urgency filling him with every passing second.

“I’m not lying this time!” she protests again.

He audibly grunts in frustration as he pulls her inside the elevator. “Stop talking or I’m charging you for resisting arrest.”

That seems to do the trick, and she finally keeps quiet as they make their way to his cruiser. He can't help but notice the repeated glances she steals his way, and how the arm he’s holding is awkwardly stiff against his palm. 

Once near the car, he lets go of her to grab a BAC device from inside, then brings it to her mouth with a cold expression. “Blow.”

As soon as the order is out of his mouth, he cringes at the double entendre of the situation. But then, he watches her dart her gaze in sudden shyness as she wraps her lips around the tube, as if she wasn't making outrageous requests a minute ago. 

The numbers on the quadrant flicker as it calculates her alcohol intake, and he can't help but feel there's something oddly intimate about the moment. As soon as he’s able to get a reading, he steps back with a frown as he reads the results: sober. She wasn't drunk after all. Still doesn't change the fact she is most definitely too high to be walking around alone this late at night.

“I told you,” she grumbles under her breath, her arms shifting uncomfortably in the bounds.

Giving her a lingering look, Leon feels himself somewhat lower his guard. Yes, this still takes the cake for the most bizarre encounter he’s ever had, but outside of being oddly horny, she seems to be harmless. He just feels bad for her more than anything.

“What’s your name?” he suddenly asks, his voice softer now.

“Uh…”

Quirking an eyebrow, he observes her with interest. “Don't tell me you forgot your name.”

The girl looks around nervously before meeting his eyes with her bloodshot ones. “If you're not arresting me, can't you just let me go?”

He remains quiet for a moment, then finally clicks his tongue with a nod. He has no legal reason to continue detaining her, especially since he’s letting her behavior slide and not making an arrest. She just looks like someone who needs help more than a criminal.

Gesturing for her to spin around, he undoes her handcuffs when she complies, and this time, she seems to put extra effort into not making a sound. It would be funny if it wasn't infuriating.

“Alright… Off you go,” he mutters as he steps back. “Next time, don't take too many edibles if you can't handle them.”

“R-right,” she nods, and with a final wide eyed look his way, begins to walk away.

Leon watches her from his spot, a sense of worry settling inside him about the fate of this poor, deranged girl. He wouldn't be surprised if her face was on the paper the next day if some sick asshole finds her. Especially if she asks for sexual favors from random men.

He wonders what could drive someone like her to act like that. Drugs, sure, but there is more to it. No one acts like this unless they’re mentally unwell, and from the sight of her demeanor, she clearly isn't.

As he sighs deeply, debating if he should offer her a ride home but not sure if it's the right decision, she stops in her tracks and slowly turns to him with that hopeful expression she had earlier. 

Oh, God. What now?

“Hey, Le—I mean Officer… Do you think it could be possible if, um, since you don't want me to t-touch you… you could maybe, uh, just like, I don't know… spit in my mouth or something.”

Leon’s expression remains completely unmoved for a moment, as still as a statue as his brain short circuits with her incredulous demand. 

This is the weirdest fucking day of his life.

“Alright…” he exhales, and he sees the flicker of hope in her eyes before he continues. “You’re under arrest for disorderly conduct and public intoxication. I’m taking you in.”

Next chapter.