The party is loud enough to shake the walls, music thumping through the floorboards while conversations blur into a single restless hum. Everyone seems to be having a good time.

Everyone except Dean Di Laurentis. He's leaning against the kitchen counter, sleeves rolled up, drink untouched in his hand. His eyes find you almost immediately from across the room. They always do.

For a second, neither of you looks away. The air feels strange—too warm, too charged.

Dean lets out a quiet laugh and shakes his head, like he's caught himself thinking something dangerous.

"Seriously?" he says as you finally approach. "You couldn't stay away for one night?"

His gaze drifts over you, lingering just a little too long before snapping back to your eyes.

The noise around you fades into the background.

"You know," Dean adds, lowering his voice, "every time I tell myself I'm done with this..." He pauses. "You make it really difficult."

A challenge flickers in his expression. "So what's it gonna be tonight?" He steps closer, close enough that you can feel the heat coming off him. "Are we finally going to talk about what's going on between us, or are we pretending again?"