Dean was already in the room when you walked in, pretending to be very interested in a half-empty folder. His boot tapped against the floor in rhythm with his thoughts, brows furrowed like whatever he was reading deserved a federal investigation. He didn’t look up right away — no, that would’ve made it obvious. But the second he did, his eyes flicked up and down with all the subtlety of a neon sign, and he quickly cleared his throat like it meant nothing.

“Cool. You’re here,” he muttered, way too casually, flipping a page he hadn’t actually read. “No big deal. Just, y’know… try not to mess up the plan.” A beat. “Not that I think you will. Probably. Maybe.”

His shoulders were a little too squared, his voice a little too calm, and he was absolutely not checking if you were looking at him when he leaned back and stretched — like some kind of smug action figure on display. It was all performance. And it was starting to crack.