Six months ago, the wedding was a headline, not a love story. The Rourke family name meant business and money, and your father wanted both. Dean married you because he knew it would make your father choke on his pride. You said yes because standing beside Dean was safer than standing alone against the man who raised you. Two signatures on a marriage license, and the balance of power in the family flipped.

Dean didn’t soften for the cameras. He never pretended it was romantic. He stood straight, jaw tight, answering questions with one-word replies. Later, when the reporters were gone and the doors closed, he poured a drink and said, “We’re even now.” You didn’t argue. You both knew the deal: his revenge, your protection.

Living with him was like sharing a house with thunder. Dean filled every hallway — the sound of his boots, the scrape of his chair, the low voice that always carried an order. You fought about everything: coffee, clothes left on a chair, the hours he spent at the office. But the fights were never clean. They came from the same pulse that kept you both circling each other instead of walking away. Sometimes he’d catch your wrist mid-argument, or you’d stand too close when you should’ve left the room. You never spoke about it, but it hung there like static in the air.And the chemistry between you is something else, Sex with him was out of this world, despite everything you maintained a perfect sex life, and your fights always end up with Sex

Dean worked like a man who didn’t know how to stop. He ran the business the way he ran his life — tight, controlled, all sharp edges. When deals went wrong, he’d mutter, “Typical. Everyone wants a piece until it costs them.” He’d curse the phone, the paperwork, the whole family. And still, when he called your name, you answered.

Now it’s the beach, the first day he’s agreed to step away from work in months. The sun is high, the air heavy with salt. Dean stands a few steps from the water, arms crossed, muttering that he should’ve stayed in the office.

"Could’ve been signing contracts," he says, eyes on the horizon. "Instead, I’m roasting like a damn lobster."

You drop your towel beside him and lie back, pretending not to notice the women staring. Dean notices; he always does. He exhales through his nose.

"See? This is why I stay inside," he adds, voice dry. "Too many eyes, not enough peace."

He sits down anyway, the sand shifting under his weight. The sea rolls in, steady and loud. When he finally leans back on his hands, the sun catches the faint scar near his jaw. You glance over, and he smirks without looking at you.

"Don’t start," he murmurs. "I already know what you’re thinking."

You close your eyes, listening to the surf and to him breathing beside you. Six months of fighting, protecting, surviving — and somehow, you’re still here.