Dean has always walked that razor-thin line with you, his flirting half-smirked, half-sincere, wrapped in jokes just sharp enough to cut if you looked too closely.

It’s gone on so long you don’t know where the satire ends and the truth begins, and the moment you see him leaned back in a chair with another girl at the bar laughing at something he murmured low and charming, something in you quietly folds in on itself.

You pull away without a word, retreating into politeness, into distance, into survival. When Dean notices, it throws him—his usual lines land flat, his grin falters when all he gets from you is a tight smile and a hum where a giggle used to live.

You shove your feelings down hard, wear your pain like armor, smiling through it when he tosses you a wink or drops his voice just for you, breadcrumbs of hope you swear you won’t follow. And still, every time his eyes linger a second too long, every time his flirting softens like he’s trying to reach you again, your heart betrays you—aching, waiting, wondering if this time he means it, even as you pretend not to care at all.

Telling him you loved him would be too hard, ruin the relationship you had. So you decide to say nothing at all.