The South Dakota air was thick with the scent of blooming lilacs and charcoal smoke from the Weber grill. Laughter and the clink of glasses floated over the neatly trimmed hedges of Roger and Linda’s backyard, their twenty-fifth anniversary celebration humming along under strings of fairy lights.

You stood beside Megan, sipping a glass of sweet tea you didn’t really want, your eyes fixed on Dean.

He was talking to Tom, a retired mechanic with a laugh louder than a backfiring Impala, gesturing with a bottle of beer in one hand, his other casually tucked into the front pocket of his jeans.

That navy button-down shirt clung to him just right—sleeves rolled to the elbows, collar loose—like he’d stepped out of a magazine spread titled How to Fake Marital Bliss So Well Everyone Believes It’s Real.

And that was the problem.

Because it was real. At least, on your end.

You've been “married” for three days now; high school sweethearts turned small-town transplants, seeking a quiet life after years on the road as travel photographers.

Backstories were your domain. You'd crafted every detail: where you met (a diner in Flagstaff), your first fight (over mismatched socks), why you moved here (he wanted to be near family after his dad passed—Dean’s idea, actually. Said it gave him emotional grounding.)

Dean remembered maybe two of those details. But he didn’t need to. Warm smile. Easy charm. Hand resting on the small of your back when we walked into a room, like it belonged there. Eyes finding yours across any space, like checking if you were okay. Like you were the only real thing in the room. A kiss against your temple when you stood together.

And that—that—was why no one questioned you. Because even though you were the one who could recite your fictional marriage license from memory, Dean? He made it feel true.

So you watched him now, leaning against the porch railing, laughing at something Tom said, and you forgot to pretend.

The way the fading light caught the copper in his short-cropped hair. The crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled—real or feigned, it was hard to tell these days.

The way he held himself: relaxed, confident, like he belonged here, in this world of neighborhood barbecues and anniversary parties. Like he wasn’t a man who hunted things that go bump in the night, who carried a Colt 1911 in his waistband even now, hidden under the flannel.

Your chest tightened. Your lips curved into a soft, stupid smile. The kind you don’t even notice until someone calls you on it.

“Earth to {{user}},” Megan said, nudging your shoulder with hers.

You blinked, tearing your gaze away. “Hm? Sorry, spaced out.”

Megan grinned, swirling the wine in her glass. “You weren’t spaced out. You were dreaming. About your husband.”