48. Dean
Dean
Dean stood in the kitchen, staring at the contents of the refrigerator like they might hold answers to questions he was afraid to ask.
Fiona was in the shower. Probably thinking about how to extract herself from this situation gracefully. How to leave him again.
This doesn't change anything.
The words echoed in his head as he pulled ingredients from the fridge. Eggs, cheese. He could make her an omelet. Something simple, something that wouldn't take too long, wouldn't trap her here longer than she wanted to be.
His hands moved automatically. How many times had he made her dinner in this kitchen? How many evenings had they spent here together, her reading class worksheets at the counter while he cooked, both of them existing in that comfortable domestic rhythm he'd taken for granted?
He cracked the eggs into a bowl, whisking them with more force than necessary.
She was right, of course. This didn't change anything. One afternoon didn't erase two years of betrayal. Didn't undo the online hurt, the humiliation, the way he'd let strangers mock the woman he claimed to love.
But God, for a few hours, he'd been able to pretend. To hold her and touch her and hear his name on her lips like it used to be. To feel like her husband again instead of her biggest mistake.
The omelet came together perfectly—fluffy, golden, the way she'd taught him to make it during their first month of marriage when they were still learning each other's preferences.
He plated it carefully, adding the sliced tomatoes she liked, the fresh herbs from the plant on the windowsill that somehow hadn't died in her absence.
He set the plate on the counter just as the shower turned off.
She'd eat, she'd thank him politely, and then she'd leave. Go back to Emma's, back to her new life, back to building something beautiful without him.
And he'd let her go. Because that's what you did when you loved someone—you gave them what they needed, even when what they needed was space from you.
Even when it killed you.
Dean leaned against the counter, staring at the plate he'd made with such care, and wondered how many more times he'd have to say goodbye to the same woman.
Or maybe—maybe June had been right. Maybe the person who got to decide what was forgivable was Fiona.
Dean leaned against the counter, staring at the plate he'd made with such care, and felt something take hold.
Determination.
Dean walked her to the car like it was a first date, not the complicated, aching middle of something.
The night was quiet. Cool. The streetlamp above cast a soft amber glow, turning the edges of Fiona’s hair gold. She looked radiant. Exhausted, wary, beautiful. He wanted to memorize her exactly like this.
Dean stepped closer. Close enough to feel the warmth of her, to catch the faint scent of her shampoo. Flowers and something else beneath it. Familiar and devastating.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
A blush crept up her neck, coloring her cheeks pink even in the dim streetlight.
"For dinner, I mean," she clarified quickly, her voice flustered. "Thank you for dinner."
The blush, the way she stumbled over her words—it was so perfectly Fiona that his chest ached. She was trying to be polite, to pretend the afternoon hadn't happened, but her body was betraying her. She was thinking about it too. About what they'd shared.
He didn’t think he’d ever stop thinking about it. “It was my pleasure.” His voice sounded rough.
She hesitated, her fingers curled around the doorframe of the car, and something in his chest twisted at the way she was already halfway gone, even standing right in front of him.
He reached out and pulled her gently toward him.
She came easily, like her body remembered what it meant to be held by him. Like some part of her still trusted him, even if her mind knew what he’d done.
He wrapped his arms around her, breathing her in. She was tense at first, but then he felt it—her shoulders relaxing, her face turning into his chest like it always had.
Dean closed his eyes. This— this —was all he needed.
“I’m going to make you trust me again.”
Fiona shifted slightly, enough to look up at him. Her eyes were wary, soft around the edges, uncertain. It killed him.
He cupped her face. “I’m going to show you. Over and over. Every day. For as long as it takes.”
Her breath hitched.
“If it takes years, fine. If it takes decades, I’ll still be here.” His thumb traced the curve of her cheek. “Until the day you love me again. And even if you never say the words, I’ll still try. Because you’re it for me, Fiona.”
The silence that followed was thick. He could feel her heartbeat against his chest.
She whispered, “You can’t just say things like that.”
“I’m not just saying them. I mean every word.”
And then—God help him—he kissed her.
It was a claiming, a confession, a promise.
She kissed him back like she was falling and didn’t know whether to grab hold or let it happen. Her hands were in his hair, her body flush against his, and for one moment—one perfect, reckless second—he let himself pretend she still belonged to him.
When they broke apart, his breathing was unsteady.
Dean stepped back first. Gave her space even though every molecule in his body screamed to pull her closer again.
"I'm going to show you that you can trust me,” he promised her again, the words coming from somewhere deep and certain in his chest. "I'm going to show you, over and over, no matter how long it takes—years, decades—that you can believe in me again. That you can love me again."
Her breath hitched. "Dean?—"
"I know you said this doesn't change anything," he continued, his thumbs stroking along her cheekbones. "But I can't give up on us, Fi. I won't."
"You can't just decide that," she whispered, but her hands were still gripping his shirt, still holding him close.
"I'm not deciding for you," he said firmly. "I'm deciding for me. I'm deciding to fight for the best thing that ever happened to me. And if it takes the rest of my life to prove I'm worthy of you, then that's what I'll do."
He kissed her again, softer this time, like a promise.
"I love you, Fiona. That's never going to change."