21. Dean
DEAN
I’m standing outside Michelle’s building, pacing like an idiot. She slipped into a cab before I could stop her, and I barely managed to flag one down. Told the driver I’d triple his fare if he got me here first. He blew through a couple of yellow lights that probably weren’t yellow.
Now I’m watching the door. Heart in my throat, trying not to look as desperate as I feel. Because if she gets upstairs and closes that door behind her, I’m done. Not just locked out of her apartment. Out of everything. And I don’t think I’ll get another chance.
I really messed up tonight.
I told myself I’d let her work the room. Let her do what she needs to do. I know how demanding her job is, how much she’s trying to hold everything together. But then he touched her. Put his hand on her arm, and every calm thought I had disappeared.
I don’t regret stepping in. I’d do it again. What I hate is how I handled it. The things I said after. I crossed a line, and I knew it the second I saw her face. She didn’t look angry. She looked like she didn’t recognize me.
I’m not sure I recognized myself either. I don’t get like this. But with her, I can’t help it.
A cab pulls up and she gets out, eyes finding me immediately. Her face says it: Of course you’re here.
I pay her driver, relieved when she doesn’t walk away. The moment he’s gone, I speak.
“I lost it tonight. I’m sorry.”
She starts to respond, but I cut her off. I can’t let her stop me yet.
“I didn’t know I could get like that. I don’t usually. But tonight—“ I shake my head. “I embarrassed you. If I screwed this up, I’ll fix it. Whatever it takes.”
“Dean,” she says in that tone she uses when I’m being difficult. “I think we should—“
I know where that goes. She thinks we should end this. I won’t let her finish.
“I’m not your ex,” I cut in. “And even if I was, you don’t have any friends, Michelle. Who would I even run off with?”
The second it’s out, I regret it. I was trying to reassure her. To say there’s no one else. That there couldn’t be. But it just sounds cruel.
“I didn’t mean...” I stop, look down, then back at her. I run a hand through my hair, frustrated. “This isn’t coming out right.”
She’s watching me, waiting. And I can feel it all slipping away. Every second I don’t say it, she’s making up her mind about what comes next.
“I love you,” I say finally.
If it surprises her, she doesn’t show it.
“What I was trying to say—before you pointed out that I have no friends—is that I think we should give this a shot.”
“You’ll be my girlfriend?” The words come out a little too eager, but I need to hear her say it.
“Yes.”
I pull her close, my arms tight around her. I feel myself smiling against her hair.
Her voice is muffled against my chest. “I love you too. Not that you gave me much choice.” She pulls back just enough to look up at me. “You dragged this out of me, Dean. I didn’t want this. So if you mess it up—”
“I won’t,” I say. “I can’t.”
Upstairs, Michelle puts Monty in the guest room before letting me in. She steps out of her heels in the entryway, leaving them on the floor.
“Are you hungry?” she asks. “Those portions were tiny and the waiter looked at me like I’d asked for his firstborn when I wanted seconds.”
“I’ll make something.”
I head for the kitchen. She follows to the doorway, then stops, peering past my shoulder into the fridge. The light spills across nearly empty shelves: cheddar, butter, half a loaf of bread.
“Good luck,” she says, and disappears down the hall.
I find a pan and get started. A few minutes later, she’s back in navy sweatpants and a faded university shirt. Her face is clean, the gala makeup gone. She leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching me.
“Well,” she says, looking down at herself. “Here’s the full girlfriend experience. Careful what you wish for.”
“You’ve never looked better,” I say, and I mean it. This is the version of her I want. The one nobody else sees.
She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.
“What’s on the menu?”
“Grilled cheese.”
She steps closer, peering into the pan. “Ready?”
I flip the sandwich. The bread is crisp and golden. “Patience.”
She drifts to the dining table and sits. When it’s done, I plate it, cut it in half, and slide it in front of her.
She picks up a half and bites. Then another. She’s barely tasting it at this point.
“You want any?” she asks, mouth half full. She’s already eyeing the second half.
“I’m good.”
A few more bites and it’s gone. She leans back in her chair and lets out a soft, satisfied breath.
“How do you make grilled cheese taste that good?”
“Trade secret,” I tell her.
She looks at me, waiting.
“Alright,” I say. “Butter on the outside. Low and slow.”
She stands with the plate, but I take it from her and set it down. Then I throw her over my shoulder.
“What are you doing?” she laughs, squirming as I carry her toward the bedroom.
“Taking what I want.”
She’s still laughing when I drop her onto the mattress, hair a mess, cheeks flushed.
She starts to sit up, but I climb over her, pinning her with a kiss just beneath her ear.
I help her out of that oversized t-shirt, then kiss lower.
Down her neck, across her collarbone, over the curve of her breast.
I take my time, flicking my tongue over one nipple before sucking it into my mouth. Then I bite down gently, exactly the way she likes. She swears under her breath, fingers twisting in my hair.
By the time I start kissing lower, her breath is coming faster. I trail my mouth down her stomach, pausing just long enough to watch her squirm before I keep going.
I kiss the inside of one thigh. Then the other. Her breath hitches, her muscles twitching beneath my hands. I spread her open and the second I taste her, everything else falls away.
Buried between her thighs, I take my time. I know exactly what she needs, but I tease it out anyway. I want to hear it. I want to feel her fall apart for me.
Her legs start to shake when I drag my tongue just right, and I do it again, slower this time. She moans and one hand fists the sheets while the other tangles in my hair, holding me there like she’s forgotten how to breathe without me.
She’s already close. I can feel it in the way her hips start to roll, in the soft, desperate sounds spilling out of her mouth. It would be easy to let her come like this, right on my tongue, and I want her to. But I know her.
She loses steam after the first one. She melts, goes soft and slow. And I’m not ready to lose her like that—not yet.
She comes hardest when I’m inside her, when we hit that edge together. So I hold back. I keep her right there, trembling, strung so tight she’s barely breathing.
Then I stop.
She groans, loud this time. Frustrated. Needy. I can feel her glare even before I look up.
I smile, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and reach for a condom. I roll it on without a word.
The moment I push inside. Her legs wrap around me, heels digging into my back like she needs me deeper, like she’ll take it herself if I don’t give it to her.
I move slow in long, deep strokes. I want to feel her every reaction, every breath. Her mouth falls open when I grind just right, and I do it again.
“Right there,” she whispers.
I don’t stop. I keep moving just how she needs, until her moans get sharper and messier.
Her fingers dig into my back, her hips chasing every thrust. I kiss along her throat, her collarbone, the edge of her jaw. She bucks under me, wild now, fucking herself up into me like she’s lost the rhythm and doesn’t care.
Her moans twist into gasped-out curses as she comes apart beneath me. I don’t let up. I stay with her, keep her right there, letting her feel every second of it.
Only when she’s truly done—breathless, spent, clinging to me—do I finally let go.
I grip her hips and drive into her, deep and fast, no more holding back. She takes all of it, and when I come, it hits hard enough to steal my breath. My whole body locks up, jaw clenched, as I empty into the condom, buried inside her as deep as I can go.
I stay there, forehead resting against hers, our breath tangled in the stillness. She's soft beneath me, and for the first time in a long time, I feel still. Like I can stop searching, because I’ve found it.
Eventually, I shift, pulling her in against my chest, my arm draped over her waist.
She glances over and catches me staring. “How do you still have the energy to smirk?” she asks.
“I’m not smirking,” I say. “I’m basking.”
“That’s worse,” she says, shifting closer, wriggling into me like she can’t quite get close enough. A few beats pass in silence.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks eventually.
“You don’t want to know.”
“I do now.”
“I’m thinking about your fridge.”
“What about my fridge?”
“When was the last time you cleaned it?”
“I clean it,” she says, immediately defensive.
“There’s something growing in the back. I reached for the butter and I swear it hissed at me.”
She laughs. “There was not.”
“Next time I’m coming over with gloves and industrial-strength cleaner.”
“You’re ridiculous,” she says, still laughing, the kind of loose, tired laugh that only happens when you feel completely safe.
“Yeah, but you love me anyway.”
“Unfortunately.”
I press a kiss to her temple, then another to the top of her head.
“Say it again,” I say.
She lets out a long, theatrical sigh, the kind that always means she’s smiling even if I can’t see it.
“Michelle.”
She doesn’t move.
“I love you,” she says quietly.
I smile against her hair. “Can’t wait to tell Max you’re mine. Can’t believe he tried to take you home tonight.”
I saw the way he looked at her. I wasn’t about to let that slide.
“It’s not like that.” She shifts, turning to face me. “And can we…maybe not tell him?”
I glance down at her, not quite following.
“How would that work?”
“Just for now,” she says. “With the competition going on. It’s already a lot. I don’t need the gossip on top of everything. Can we just hold off?”
I stay quiet, letting it settle. I don’t like it but I get it. She’s under pressure, and this would only add more.
“Alright,” I say. “After the competition.”
She exhales, visibly relieved. “After.”
I tuck her closer, kiss her temple again, and decide to be okay with it. Not forever. But for now.
When Michelle’s asleep, I slip out of bed and move quietly down the hall.
In the kitchen, I rummage through the cabinet where she keeps Monty’s treats.
The dry ones are packed in crinkly bags, organized with that casual efficiency she brings to everything.
I grab one of the good ones, the kind that actually smell like fish, and head to the spare room.
I ease the door open. The room is dim, lit only by the light coming through the blinds. Monty’s curled in a tight ball on the bed, ears twitching.
“Monty,” I whisper. “Monty,” I say again, a little louder.
He stirs, blinking slowly, and I toss the treat onto the floor in front of the bed. He watches it land, then shifts his gaze to me. For a second, I swear he’s sizing me up. But then he stretches, slinks off the bed, and starts eating.
“You don’t have to like me,” I say. “But you’re going to have to live with me. Alright?”
He ignores me completely, too focused on the treat to acknowledge the gesture. Fair enough. I close the door softly and head back down the hall.
This is part of the deal. Being with Michelle doesn’t just mean showing up for the good parts. It means earning a place in every corner of her life. That includes the cat who’s one swipe away from shredding my Achilles and probably would if I turned my back long enough.
When I make it back to the bedroom, she’s still asleep. One arm stretches across my side of the bed, like she knew I’d come back. I ease in beside her, careful not to shift the mattress too much, and exhale slowly.
Like Michelle, Monty’s not the kind to hand out trust for free. It’s going to take time. Good things usually do.