10. Dean
Dean
Dean slid into the chair beside Fiona just as the servers began placing dessert—some architectural thing with chocolate and gold leaf that probably cost more than most people's grocery budget.
"Hey," he said softly, putting his hand on her back. Just that one point of contact, and the noise of the room pulled back like a tide. A quiet relief. Like air after being underwater. "Mind if I steal this seat?"
Fiona glanced at him. Her smile was wobbly.
Dean's stomach tightened, but he pushed the feeling down.
Everything was fine. She was just... processing. That's what Fiona did—she needed time to work through things. After they'd talked it through, she'd understand. She'd see that he hadn't meant any harm.
"How's the chocolate thing?" he asked, nodding toward her untouched plate.
"It's lovely." She hadn't taken a single bite.
Dean picked up his own spoon, took an enthusiastic mouthful. "God, that's incredible. You have to try it." He held the spoon toward her mouth, grinning. "Come on, live a little."
Fiona turned her head slightly. "I'm not really hungry."
Dean set the spoon down, his hand moving to rest on her thigh. She didn't pull away, but she didn't lean into his touch either. It was like touching a mannequin.
It was instinct—muscle memory. His anchor. Touching her had always been the thing that made the world tilt back into place.
But right now, there was no ease in it. No warmth rising to meet him. Just the hollow press of fabric and silence.
"Fi," he said, lowering his voice. "Are you okay? You seem?—"
"I'm fine." That same smile. "Just tired. It's been a long night."
Cam tried to pull him into a story about a disastrous client presentation, gesturing wildly with his wine glass. Everyone was laughing—the kind of loose, champagne-drunk laughter that came at the end of successful evenings.
Dean forced himself to chuckle along, but his attention kept drifting back to Fiona. The way she sat perfectly straight, hands folded in her lap. The way she nodded at appropriate moments in conversations but never actually engaged.
She looked... porcelain. Beautiful and fragile and completely untouchable.
"Ready to get out of here?"
She nodded without looking at him.
Dean wrapped his arm around Fiona’s waist as they exited the banquet hall, guiding her through the glittering crowd with exaggerated care.
His voice was low and soothing, murmuring things like “Almost done,” and “Let’s get you home.
” She didn’t resist, didn’t speak—just let herself be led like a guest at her own funeral.
His stomach twisted. But this could be fixed. It had to be.
He opened the car door for her. Once she was seated, he went around the car and slid in, shutting the door with a thud, sealing them inside the quiet.
Fiona stared straight ahead as the car pulled away from the curb.
Dean turned toward her. “You okay?”
A pause. Then, “Sure.”
He exhaled. Okay. She answered. That was something. “Look, the, uh, social media thing. It wasn’t malicious. You know that, right?”
She nodded without looking at him. He could feel something slipping between his fingers, fast, and she wasn’t helping him catch it.
He tapped the steering wheel. “You’re not saying anything.”
Her breath hitched. Barely audible. And then— a sound . Small, raw.
She was crying.
Dean’s chest tightened. No. No, no, no. “Fi—hey—don’t—what are you—don’t cry.”
She turned away, pressing her sleeve to her face.
Panic spiked like a live wire under his skin. “Fiona, it’s not that big of a deal. You’re blowing this way out of proportion.”
She didn’t answer.
“It’s not like I was posting nudes or something.” He laughed a little, hoping she’d laugh too. She didn’t. “It’s just jokes. People love you. You don’t get it, they think you’re adorable.”
Still nothing.
She just didn’t get it yet.
She didn’t understand branding. She didn’t understand audiences. But he did. He’d taken something small and unimportant and made it into something people cared about.
“Seriously?” Dean’s tone sharpened. “You’re going to make me feel like a monster because I posted a couple of funny things about you? That everyone enjoyed? Jesus, Fiona.”
God, she could be so literal sometimes. Like every word had to mean exactly what it said. That might work in a classroom—but not here. Not in real life.
When she finally spoke, her voice was cracked and thin. “I thought you—” She broke off.
Dean shook his head hard, feeling frustrated. She didn’t understand that this wasn’t a big deal.
“It’s the internet, Fi. Nothing important. You’ve got to grow up a little.”
Silence again.
Dean tapped the gas too hard, then had to brake for a red light. He exhaled and tried to soften his voice. “You’re tired. That’s all. It’s been a long night, and everything feels worse when you’re drained. Tomorrow you’ll see this isn’t what you think it is.”
Still no answer. She stared out the window, her reflection ghosted back in the glass. He could see her cheeks, wet with tears.
Dean swallowed. His jaw ached from clenching it.
This would pass. He’d talk her down, make her see reason. He always did. She’d forgive him—she always did that, too.
Dean drummed his fingers on the wheel.
She’d be fine. She had to be.