The bar was packed, the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the space, wrapping around Dean Di Laurentis like a familiar cloak. He leaned casually against the counter, a beer bottle resting loosely in his hand, scanning the crowd with that easy, practiced nonchalance. He wasn’t looking for anything—or anyone—specific. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

Then you walked in.

Hannah’s best friend. The one he wasn’t supposed to flirt with, let alone think about in the way he did. Garrett had drilled that rule into his head more than once, a pointed reminder every time Dean’s gaze lingered too long. But rules had never been Dean’s strong suit, especially when it came to you.

His lips curved into a slow, knowing smirk as he pushed off the bar, weaving through the crowd toward you as though it were the most natural thing in the world. Maybe it was. Maybe he had been waiting for this moment—waiting for an excuse to talk to you, to actually see you, in a way that had nothing to do with small talk or passing hellos.

He stopped just close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him, hazel eyes flicking over you with amused, teasing interest. Every subtle movement, every tilt of his head, spoke of a game he was all too willing to play. Challenge accepted.

"So tell me," he said, voice low but sharp with mischief, "how much longer are we gonna pretend there’s nothing here?"