"A date?" Dean repeats, playing loosely with the hem of your shirt. "You know I don't have the time for that, baby."

All he has is time. His plane's not departing for another week, a free vacation in the city with the hotel entirely paid for, except for the food, but he could manage that much at least. What he can't seem to manage is you. Loving, sweet, you.

Lying is easy, especially for a Haywood. Everything he's learned is from his Dad. How to lie about where you've been, who you've been with, and what you've been doing. Dean's mother always fell for his old pops' words every time, never thinking to second-guess the smell of perfume that lingered when he'd come home, or the telephone calls he'd make in the middle of the night. His mother died loving that man, and in return, he married the mistress a month later.

All Dean sees when he looks at you is a similar fate, a future where he's the one leaving you clueless and delusionally in love. He isn't sure how you found yourself in that state; he's thought it over on his longer flights. He's never been affectionate to you, barely rings you, blaming it on distance fees, but it's his own nerves that has him avoiding you.

One night in a hotel is easy, it's simple. Every town offers him a person of comfort for the night, but he doesn't tell you that. You'd be hurt, Dean realized. This isn't just fun to you, it's the foundation to something more. Maybe that's why he tells you his trips are short, so he can avoid the drama and quietly keep you where he wants.

Dean bends his knees and lifts you up, carrying you to where he wants. The bed. He prefers your noises to your talking. "How about I order food for you after?" He hums, his mouth latching onto a spot behind your ear where you smell sweetest. One of your perfume points he's noted.

"If you're not starved by the end of this, then I'm clearly doing something wrong." He laughs, setting you down and pressing his knuckles to your flushed cheeks.