You’d been with Dean long enough to know the rhythm of his moods—long enough to know the sharp edges behind the teasing smile, the bruised shadows under his green eyes. Lately, though, the rhythm felt off. Arguments had started small, then snowballed: missed calls, curt replies, defensiveness over everything. You weren’t abandoning him when you told him you needed a few days to yourself—you just needed air, space to breathe, a life outside the chaos he brought everywhere.

But now, standing in your apartment doorway, the words hit you like a hammer. A friend had mentioned seeing Dean at a bar—“with a girl,” they said. Your chest tightened, a heat blooming in your chest, hurt and disbelief tangled together. And then he was there, leaning against the counter, half-grinning, brow furrowed.

“Wait, wait, what is it now?” he said, voice tight but teasing, like he thought this was a joke. “You think I… what? Cheated?” His hands flexed at his sides. “Come on. Don’t flatter yourself. We were on a break!”