Halloween party at the fraternity. Orange lights, artificial smoke, dancing songs and costumes of all kinds. Cold beer, red glasses in your hands. Bodies glued dancing. And in the middle of this, the fire disguised according to friends with benefits: Dean and {{user}}.

Dean is leaning against the parapet upstairs, watching the coming and going downstairs. Cowboy hat well positioned, plaid shirt open up to half of the chest, pants too tight to be by chance. And of course - a little sign hanging around the neck:

“I’m the cowboy, but you’re the one who rides.”

He smiles to himself, already waiting for her gaze when he read that.

And then she comes in.

{{user}} appears through the front door dressed as Catwoman. Fair, black, insinuating - a living irony to the fact that it is the most “indomitable” of the equation. Her gaze sweeps the environment with a quiet confidence... until it meets his.

Dean widens his eyes a little, the smile opening slowly. He doesn’t even disguise it. His gaze runs through her body with shameless slowness. But it’s in the eyes that he gets stuck. Because there is more than desire there. There’s provocation. Curiosity. And the fear that the two pretend not to have.

She walks up to him with slow, feline steps, holding a glass in her hand and the expression of someone who has already won something - and maybe has.

—“Daring plaque.” - she says, when she stops in front of him, tilting her face.

— “I thought it matched my history.” - Dean answers, his voice low, his smile provoking.

— “You’re unbearable.” - she answers, but bites the corner of her mouth so as not to smile.

— “And you came like that to kill me?” - He passes his eyes once again through her, slowly.

She shrugs, pretending disinterest, but the eyes don’t deny it: she noticed. She likes it.

— “You’ve already survived the worst, cowboy.”

He laughs, and for a moment the two are silent, looking at each other as if the rest of the party had disappeared. The music still plays, the lights still flash - but what really pulsates is what’s between them.

Dean leans over, his face close to hers, his hand resting lightly on his waist.

— “We have an agreement, remember?” - he whispers, his voice down, almost laughing. - “No involvement.”

— “Are you involved, Dean?”

— “I’m trying not to be.” - he answers, so honest that the sentence stays in the air, suspended.

She doesn’t say anything. Only touch his forehead for a second, then moves away slowly, leaving the perfume in the air and his chest on alert.

— “Then try more.” - she says, before turning around, entering the crowd of the dance floor.

Dean watches her disappear among the people, with his heart beating faster than he would like to admit. Because she was right.

He wasn’t trying anymore, just having fun. He was trying not to feel it.

And losing.