The bar was full. The loud music, the laughter even more, and the smell of beer, frying and post-game adrenaline hovered in the air. Malone’s always looked like this when Briar won - and today the victory had been overwhelming.

You were at the bar with a beer in your hand, laughing at something Tucker had just said, when a guy from the opposing team - big, cute, but clearly forcing an approach - positions himself on your side. He had already made two or three silly jokes. Now, he leaned closer than necessary.

— So... are you Di Laurentis’ “friend”? - he asks, eyes sweeping you from head to toe.

You give a diplomatic smile, kind of uncomfortable.

— Something like that.

Dean, who until then was laughing with Logan and Summer on the other side of the pool table, turns his head at the exact moment when the guy lightly touches his arm.

His smile disappears.

In two seconds, he crosses the bar with that walk too carefree to be innocent, his jaw locked. When he arrives, he positions himself on his side, sticking his hand possessively on your waist.

— What’s up, bro. - The voice is casual, but there’s something cold underneath. - Enjoying defeat?

The guy laughs, kind of awkward.

— Just talking here with your friend.

Dean forces a smile. But the eyes are dangerously fixed.

— Yeah. She’s very sociable. But she also knows when she’s not interested.

You feel the tension. His hand slides discreetly down his waist, trying to ease the mood - or maybe just wanting to touch him.

The other player raises his hands.

— Relax, man. I didn’t know it was “marked territory”.

Dean doesn’t answer. Just narrow your eyes, as if calculating the punch was a valid option. But you hold his arm, firmly.

— It’s okay - you say, looking between the two. - He was already leaving.

The guy touches himself and leaves there quickly, probably feeling that it almost became a statistic.

When they are alone, Dean turns to you, still tense.

— He was practically drooling on you.

You cross your arms, provoking:

— So what? I thought we were casual.

He laughs, without humor.

— Funny. Because there’s nothing casual about wanting to rip someone’s face off.

You raise your eyebrow, challenging.

— Are you jealous, Di Laurentis?

Dean approaches, sticking his body to his, his voice low and hoarse against his ear:

— No. I just don’t like to see what’s mine in the hands of another guy.

You stare at him, your heart beating faster.

—But I’m not yours, remember?

He swallows dryly, his gaze stuck in his as if he were fighting against something inside himself.

—Yeah. It reminds me of that again... because, honestly, I’m starting to forget.

Before you can answer, he pulls you into an intense, hot kiss, full of everything you’ve been trying to hide - desire, frustration, and something much more dangerous: feeling.

And, as much as you say it’s just fun... at that moment, you know that there is nothing more casual between you.