62. Dean
Dean
Dean looked at her like she was the only real thing in the room. Fiona sat at the small kitchen table, curled slightly forward, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea June had silently placed in front of her. Her hair was a little frizzy from the morning humidity. She looked tired. Messy. Soft.
Beautiful.
He leaned back against the counter and tried to play it cool. He should check the dough rising—or not rising, frankly—behind him in the bowl, but he didn’t move. If he looked away from her, she might disappear.
“I wasn’t trying to impress you,” Dean said, because he couldn’t not say it. “With the baking. Or the folder. Or anything, really. I’m just—trying to show you that I see that now. What matters. What you gave me.”
Her fingers tightened slightly on the mug.
“I used to think that being a man meant... being impressive,” Dean said quietly. “Being successful. Getting applause. I thought if I worked hard enough, everyone would know I mattered. That we mattered.”
Fiona finally looked up.
“And I forgot,” he said. “That what mattered most was already in my house. Laughing at her own jokes and bringing home glitter in her hair.”
He saw her mouth twitch, just slightly.
“You never asked me to be perfect,” Dean said. “You just wanted me to be present.”
She didn’t respond. He didn’t expect her to.
“I think,” he added, voice lower now, “that you coming here today is the most hopeful thing that’s happened to me in months.”
“I didn’t come to say anything big,” Fiona said. “I don’t know what I’m doing, Dean. I just... needed to see you.”
“You can see me,” he said. “Whenever you want. No conditions.”
That made her laugh—a small, soft, exhausted sound.
Her fingers curled around the mug. “Is it too late to go back to what we had?”
Dean’s jaw tightened. What they had wasn’t good enough. It wasn’t enough for her and he was never going to let life give Fiona less than the best ever again.
“I don’t want to go back,” he said and she looked up, wounded.
“What we had was shit, Fiona. What we had was me being too fucking stupid to see that I was married to the most amazing person in the world. I don’t want that again. I want something better. I want to build something new. Properly. The hard way. Even if it takes years.”
Fiona looked at him like she was trying to see through him. Trying to make sure he was solid this time. Real.
“I don’t know what I want yet,” she whispered.
“That’s okay,” he said. He could wait. He would wait. For the rest of his life if necessary. “You don’t owe me anything.”
She stood slowly and crossed the kitchen, mug still in hand. She stopped just a foot from him.
“I don’t know if I’m ready to forgive you,” she said. “But I think I’m ready to remember why I loved you.”
Dean swallowed. His hands twitched at his sides. “That’s more than I hoped for.”
Fiona smiled—small, crooked, tired. “Can I stay a little while?”
He nodded, heart in his throat. Yes, his heart shouted. Yes, stay forever. “Stay as long as you want,” he managed.
She sat back at the table. Dean turned to the counter. The dough was still a disaster. But for once, he didn’t care about getting it right.
She was here. That was enough.
For now.
Dean stood at the kitchen sink, scrubbing flour from under his fingernails, trying not to stare at Fiona in the window's reflection. She was sitting at June's kitchen table, hands wrapped around her third cup of tea, laughing at something Russell was saying.
Her laugh. Christ, he'd missed that sound.
"You're going to wear a hole in that pan," June said quietly, appearing beside him with a dish towel.
Dean realized he'd been washing the same mixing bowl for the past five minutes. "Sorry."
"She looks happy," June observed, glancing toward the table where Fiona was now asking Russell about his photo of June from their college days.
"She does," Dean agreed, setting the bowl in the drying rack.
He wanted to memorize this. The way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was really listening.
The way she leaned forward when Russell talked about his early advertising days, genuinely interested in stories that had nothing to do with her.
"Dinner's almost ready," June said. "Think you can manage not to drop anything?"
The weight of having Fiona in this house, at this table, felt enormous. Like he was being given a chance he didn't deserve and couldn't afford to mess up.
Fiona looked up as he approached with silverware, offering him a soft smile. She fit here, somehow. In this warm, unpretentious house with these good people who knew how to be kind without keeping score.
"Dinner!" June announced, carrying a steaming platter to the table.
They settled around the small table, and Dean found himself directly across from Fiona.
Close enough to notice she was wearing the earrings he'd given her for her birthday—the small gold ones she'd said reminded her of leaves.
Close enough to see that she still pushed her vegetables to one side of her plate, the way she always had.
"You know," Russell said, cutting another piece of meat, "Dean talks about you constantly."
"Russell," Dean warned.
"What? It's true. Half our conversations are him worrying about whether you're eating enough or if your car needs an oil change.”
Fiona's eyes flicked to Dean's face. "You worry about my car?"
"I worry about everything," Dean admitted. "Whether you're safe, whether you're happy, whether you need anything, whether I’m allowed to give it to you.”
The table went quiet for a moment.
“You want to give me what I need?” Fiona asked.
"That's what husbands do," June said softly. "Even ex-husbands, apparently."
Dean walked her to the car slowly, the night air cool against his skin. Their shoulders bumped once, then again, like a familiar dance trying to find its old rhythm.
The street was quiet—just the low hum of insects and the hush of a breeze moving through the trees. He wanted to say something, anything, to keep her here a little longer. But her presence felt so sacred, so fragile, he didn’t dare risk shattering it with words.
They reached her car. Fiona paused by the driver’s side door, keys dangling from her fingers. She looked up at him, her expression unreadable in the soft glow of the porch light.
“Dean,” she said quietly.
“Yeah?” His voice was rough with everything he wasn’t letting himself feel.
Her eyes searched his face for a beat.
“Will you kiss me?”
Time stopped.
For a second, he thought he’d misheard. But then she stepped a little closer, breath catching.
He wanted to hear her say the words again.
He didn’t make her.
Dean reached for her like a man who’d been starving.
He kissed her like it was the last thing he’d ever do—like the world was ending and her mouth was the only truth left in it. His hands cradled her face, thumbs brushing the line of her jaw, reverent. She made a small sound against his mouth—half need, half disbelief—and that nearly undid him.
She still tasted like cinnamon rolls and tea. Like home.
She gripped the front of his shirt like she needed to anchor herself, and he let her pull him in, closer, closer. His hands slid into her hair, that familiar softness making his knees go weak.
Dean didn’t think. He just felt.
The curve of her waist under his hands. The press of her chest against his. The way her breath stuttered when he kissed her deeper, slower, like they had all the time in the world.
God, he loved her.
He could’ve lived in that kiss. Could’ve drowned in it, happy.
When she finally pulled back—barely—her lips were swollen, her eyes wide and dazed.
Dean’s chest rose and fell like he’d just sprinted a mile.
"I love you," he said, the words pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. "I love you so much it scares me."
"I love you too," she whispered back. "That's what makes this so hard."
Dean pressed another soft kiss to her lips, trying to pour everything he couldn't say into the touch. Thank you. I'm sorry. I'll do better. I'll be worthy of this.
She unlocked her door, slid inside, and pulled it shut. He stood there, motionless, as she started the engine and backed out of the driveway.
When her taillights disappeared around the corner, Dean let himself breathe again.
He touched his lips. Still tingling. Still hers.
She loved him.