Deviant Obsession

Chapter 24

Dean

I check my phone for the hundredth time today, pacing circles in my apartment until I'm sure I'll wear a path in the hardwood. Still nothing. The message I sent to Rhea three hours ago sits there unanswered, driving me mad with those little delivered checkmarks that tell me she's seen it and chosen not to respond.

I scroll back through our recent texts, each one more distant than the last.

Four days ago:

Rhea: Can't tonight, swamped at work.

Three days ago:

Rhea: Really behind on studying, maybe next week.

Yesterday:

Rhea: Coming down with something, need rest.

The excuses pile up like bricks in a wall she's building between us. My thumb hovers over the call button, knowing it's probably useless but I’m still unable to stop myself from trying.

One ring. Two. Straight to voicemail.

"Hey, it's me again." I try to keep my greeting light, casual, like I'm not falling apart at the seams. "Just wanted to check how you're feeling. Call me when you can."

The phone flies across the room before I can stop myself, landing with a dull thud on the couch. I should be grateful it didn’t smash to the floor, but I can’t bring myself to care right now. I rake my fingers through my hair, tugging until my scalp stings. This isn't like her. Even when she's busy, she always finds time to send at least a quick message. A heart emoji. Something.

Flopping onto the couch, I check the screen again, in case I missed a notification in the three seconds it was out of my hand. Nothing but my own desperate texts stare back at me:

Miss you babygirl

Let me know if you need anything

Just want to make sure you're okay

Each one more pathetic than the last. What happened to the confident Dean who never chased, never begged? He's apparently been replaced by this anxious wreck who can't go five minutes without reassurance.

Is this how ugly guys feel?

Fuck, I disgust myself.

The walls of my apartment press in closer with each passing minute. Something's wrong. I can feel it in my gut, that same intuition that lets me read Ethan’s mind even when he doesn’t open his mouth. Rhea’s pulling away, and I don't know why. Was it the jealousy? The marking? Did we push too hard, too fast?

I catch my reflection in the window. I look wild, unhinged. Dark circles under my eyes betray how little I've slept since she started dodging my calls. This isn't me. I don't spiral like this over anyone.

But Rhea isn't just anyone. And the thought of losing her makes my chest constrict until I can barely breathe.

I need answers. And if she won't give them to me, I know who might.

The club office feels smaller than usual as I burst in unannounced, my boots heavy against the polished floor. Ethan barely glances up from the stack of paperwork spread across his desk, but I catch the tension in his shoulders. As if he's been expecting me.

"Let me guess," he mutters, scratching something out with more force than necessary. "You can't reach her either."

"When's the last time you heard from her?" I drop into the chair across from him, studying his face for any hint that he knows more than I do.

"Tuesday." He sets his pen down slowly. "Said she needed to focus on an assignment. Hasn't answered since."

The muscle in his jaw ticks, a tell we share when we're trying to maintain composure. At least I'm not the only one she's ghosting. Though that thought brings more dread than comfort.

"This isn't like her," I say, leaning forward. "Even when she's busy, she always?—“

"Finds time to check in?" Ethan finishes, finally meeting my eyes. "Yeah, I know."

We stare at each other across the desk, wordless communication passing between us. For all our recent tension, no one knows me like my twin. No one else would understand this gnawing panic eating away at my insides.

"Maybe we've been taking up too much of her time," Ethan suggests, but his proposal lacks conviction. "Midterms are in full swing. Her scholarship depends on maintaining her GPA."

"Or maybe we fucked everything up." The words taste bitter. "After that night with the marking, and all the jealousy bullshit?—”

"Don't." Ethan cuts me off sharply. "We agreed to move past that."

"Did she?"

Ethan shuffles papers aimlessly, clearly as unsettled as I am beneath his controlled exterior.

When I can’t stand the silence anymore, I huff out a frustrated sigh. "She said she was getting sick. Could be true."

"Could be." Ethan nods. "Only one way to find out."

"Someone should check on her." I try to sound casual, like I haven't been dying to do exactly that for days. "Make sure she's actually okay."

"Agreed." A hint of a smile touches his lips. "And since you're already halfway out of that chair..."

"You sure?" After everything, I feel like I should at least offer him first shot.

"Go." He waves me off, already reaching for his pen again. "Take her some soup or something. Play nurse. Just...text me? Let me know she's alright?"

The concern in his voice mirrors the ache in my chest. Whatever's going on with Rhea, we're in this together. The thought steadies me as I push to my feet.

"I'll keep you posted," I promise, heading for the door. His call stops me with my hand on the handle.

"Dean?"

I turn back. Ethan's expression is carefully stoic as usual, but his eyes give him away.

"If something's really wrong..." He trails off, but I hear the rest anyway. If she's pulling away. If we're losing her.

I manage a tight smile. "I'll fix it."

I just hope that's a promise I can keep.

The fluorescent lights of the grocery store burn my tired eyes as I stare at rows of soup cans, paralyzed by indecision. Chicken noodle feels too basic. French onion too pretentious. My hand hovers over tomato basil. I think she mentioned once that she loved it, but she could also have said she hated it. I was distracted by her lips at the time, but she definitely mentioned tomato basil soup.

A middle-aged woman shoots me a suspicious look as she reaches past me for Campbell's. I must look deranged, glaring at soup like it holds the secrets of the universe. But every choice feels weighted with significance. Like picking the wrong flavor could somehow make things worse.

I grab the tomato basil, then double back for crackers. And tea. And that dark chocolate she always craves during aftercare. The basket grows heavier with each addition, comfort foods becoming a peace offering I'm not sure she'll even accept.

Back in my car, I set the bags carefully on the passenger seat and gun the engine. Music would usually help drown out my thoughts, but right now the thumping beat that automatically bleeds from the speakers just gives me a headache. Instead, I switch it off and grip the steering wheel until my knuckles go white, trying to plan what I'll say when I see her.

"Just wanted to see you" sounds desperate after she’s been avoiding me. "I was in the neighborhood" is an obvious lie. Everything I rehearse comes out wrong, either too casual or too intense. The Dean she first met would swagger in with cocky confidence, certain of his welcome. But that guy feels like a stranger now.

I make it three blocks before nearly turning around. She clearly wants space—maybe I should respect that. Another two blocks and I almost cave again. This is stupid. I'm being stupid.

But the memory of her voice keeps me going. That last phone call a week ago where she sounded so distant, so unlike herself. If she's really sick, she needs someone to take care of her. If she's not...

I can't finish that thought.

Traffic crawls at every light, stretching the drive into an eternity. Each passing minute amplifies my doubts. What if she won't even open the door? What if Ethan's wrong and this isn't about school at all? What if she's finally realized she wants better than two broken men who can't get their shit together?

I park across from her building, killing the engine but making no move to get out. From here, I can see her bedroom window. The lights are on, curtains drawn. She's home at least.

"Get it together," I mutter to myself after I sit for far too long before growing the balls to move. When did I become this pathetic? When did she gain this much power over me?

I know the answer, even if I'm not ready to say it out loud. It happened somewhere between the blindfolds and the quiet conversations. Between the scenes and the stolen moments of tenderness. Between my mark on her skin and the way she’s carved herself into my soul.

When I finally make it there, my knuckles hover over her door for what feels like hours before I finally force myself to knock. I wait, straining to hear movement inside.

Nothing.

But I saw her shadow pass the window just minutes ago. She's in there, probably hoping I'll give up and leave. I knock again, softer this time.

"Rhea?" I keep my voice gentle, like I'm trying not to spook a wild animal. "I know you're home, babygirl. Just want to make sure you're okay."

The silence stretches until I'm ready to admit defeat. Then…footsteps, slow and hesitant. The lock clicks, and the door opens just enough for me to see her face.

My stomach flips over. She looks exhausted, dark circles beneath those emerald eyes I've been dreaming about. Her hair hangs in messy waves like she's been tangling her fingers in it repeatedly. The oversized sweater she's drowning in makes her seem smaller somehow, more fragile.

"Dean." Her voice comes out raspy, either from disuse or actual illness. "I told you I was sick."

"Yeah, you did." I hold up the grocery bags, aiming for a casual smile though my pulse is racing. "That's why I brought supplies. Can't have my girl suffering alone."

She bites her lip, glancing between me and the bags like she's solving a complex equation. I wait, barely breathing, until she finally steps back from the door.

"You didn't have to come. I'm fine, really."

"Humor me?" I move past her into the apartment, noting the blanket nest on the couch, textbooks scattered everywhere. "Let me at least heat up this soup. I stood in the grocery store for ages like an idiot until I chose one."

A ghost of a smile touches her lips, gone so fast I might have imagined it. "You're not an idiot."

"Debatable." I head for her tiny kitchen, desperate to keep my hands busy. "Where's Nat?"

"Working." She hovers in the doorway, watching me dig through cabinets for a pot. "Late shift at O'Malley's."

The conversation feels forced, stilted. Like we're strangers making small talk instead of...whatever we are to each other now. I focus on pouring soup into the pot, trying not to let her see how much this distance is killing me.

"You should sit," I say over my shoulder. "Rest. I've got this."

She doesn't move. When I glance back, she's staring at the floor, fingers twisting in her sweater sleeves. Everything about her screams that she wants to run.

"Dean..." The way she says my name makes my heart drop. Like she's working up to something I don't want to hear.

"Soup first," I cut her off quickly. "Whatever's going on in that beautiful head of yours can wait until you've eaten something."

Please , I add silently. Please just let me take care of you for a few minutes before you break my heart.

She hesitates another moment before nodding slightly. As she turns away, I grip the counter edge, forcing myself to breathe normally.

One step at a time. Get her fed. Get her talking. Figure out what's wrong.

Fix this before I lose her completely.

Ten minutes later, the soup steams between us as Rhea curls into the corner of her couch, blanket pulled tight like armor. I settle on the other end, giving her space while every instinct screams to pull her close.

"You should eat while it's hot." I gesture to the untouched bowl, praying it’s not a flavor she explicitly told me she hates.

She picks up the spoon but just stirs listlessly. "You didn't have to do all this."

"Yeah, I did." I watch her carefully, searching for any hint of what's really going on. "You've been avoiding us. Both of us."

"I've been busy?—”

"Bullshit." The word comes out sharper than intended, making her flinch. I soften my tone. "Talk to me, babygirl. What's really going on?"

She sets the spoon down, still not meeting my eyes. "Nothing's going on. I just needed some space to focus on school."

"Space from what exactly?" I lean forward, heart pounding. "From the club? From the scenes? From us?"

Her silence speaks volumes. I run a hand through my hair, fighting back panic.

"Is it..." I swallow hard, forcing myself to ask. "Is it the marks? Are you freaking out about what we did? Because if you regret letting us?—”

"No!" Her head snaps up, eyes finally meeting mine. "God no, Dean. I don't regret the initials. Not for a second."

"Then what? Please, don't pull away from us. Whatever's wrong, we can fix it."

Tears well in her eyes as she shakes her head. "I don't think you can. I don't think anyone can."

"Try me." I slide closer, relief flooding through me when she doesn't retreat. "Whatever it is, let me help."

"That's the problem." A tear spills down her cheek. "You can't help. Neither of you can. Because this isn't about the marks or the scenes or anything like that. It's about me not being able to handle how much I..." She trails off, wiping roughly at her face.

"How much you what?" I reach for her hand, encouraged when she lets me take it.

"How much I feel." She’s whispering so quietly, I’m barely sure I’m hearing her right. "For both of you. It wasn't supposed to be like this, I tried to shove it down. But now..."

Understanding dawns, hitting me like a freight train. She's not pulling away because she wants less. She's terrified because she wants more.

"Rhea." I squeeze her fingers gently. "Look at me."

She does, those gorgeous eyes swimming with tears. I reach up to brush one away with my thumb.

"You think you're the only one feeling more than you planned?" My heart pounds as I lay myself bare. "You think Ethan and I are just playing here?"

"I don't know what to think anymore." She leans into my touch despite herself. "I'm scared, Dean. Of how deep this is getting. Of how much it would hurt to lose either of you."

"Then don't push us away." I pull her closer until she's practically in my lap. "Let us figure this out together. All of us."

She buries her face in my neck, fingers clutching my shirt. "I don't regret the marks," she mumbles against my skin. "I meant what I said that night. I want to wear both of them. Forever."

I hold her tighter, breathing in her familiar scent. I can’t be sure whether or not to believe her. Something has definitely shifted. But for now, while she's here in my arms, I want to cling to the possibility that she means every word.