Fiona swallowed. “Where?”
There was a pause, and then: “That bar on Eighth.”
She blinked. That bar.Theirbar. The one they used to walk to after long workdays, tucked into a booth with fries between them and his knee touching hers.
Convenient, she thought automatically. Easy for her to get to.
Used to be easy forbothof them.
“I know it’s last-minute,” he added. “But… I’ll be there at seven. If you want to come.”
Fiona didn’t answer right away.
Dean rushed to fill the silence. “It’s not a date. I mean—obviously. It’snota date.” Then, softer, almost a whisper: “Even though I wish it was.”
Fiona closed her eyes. She could feel the warmth of his voice in her chest, the weight of everything unsaid between them pressing down like weather.
“Okay,” she said finally. “I’ll come by. For a little while.”
“Yeah?” His voice lifted in something like hope.
“For a little while,” she repeated.
There was a pause. “Thank you, Fiona.”
She hung up before she could sayyou’re welcome—before she could let herself mean it.
She turned back toward the kitchen and braced her hands on the sink, staring out at the early evening sky.
Their bar. Her apartment. Her life.
But maybe, just maybe, there was room in it to hear him out—one last time.
CHAPTER 58
Dean
Dean stoodin front of the bathroom mirror, adjusting his tie. The charcoal suit fit perfectly—tailored, expensive, the kind that made him look like he belonged in boardrooms and corner offices. His hair was styled just right.
He looked successful. Polished. Like a man who had his shit together.
It was all a fucking lie.
The real Dean was dying inside. The real Dean couldn't sleep.
The real Dean was desperately, pathetically in love with a woman he didn’t deserve. Hadneverdeserved.
He loosened his tie with shaking fingers. This costume—this performance—felt like a betrayal of everything he actually was underneath. Every morning he put on this armor and pretended to be someone worth respecting, when the truth was he was just a broken man who'd destroyed the only good thing in his life.
"Fuck this," he muttered, yanking off the tie completely.
Dean ripped the dress shirt over his head, buttons popping, and threw it across the bathroom. He stood there in his undershirt, chest heaving, looking at himself in the mirror.
This was closer to the truth. Disheveled. Raw. Wrecked.
He walked to his bag and started digging through, pushing aside the carefully folded work clothes, the pressed khakis.
At the bottom, he found it.
