Three days.
That's all this is.
Three days of Dean touching me and kissing me and looking at me like I'm his.
Three days of pretending while actually dying inside.
Three days of having everything I've ever wanted in the worst possible way.
And then we go back to being just friends, and I have to pretend my heart isn't broken and nothing changed when everything changed.
This is going to destroy me.
I know it is.
And I'm going to let it happen anyway because three days of fake Dean is better than a lifetime of nothing.
Tomorrow, there will be more kissing, more touching, more pretending.
I'm not going to survive this weekend.
But God, what a way to go.
===
3
DEAN
Going to Liz's room this morning is a terrible idea.
After last night—after kissing her twice and barely stopping myself from doing a hell of a lot more—being alone with her in a hotel room ranks somewhere between 'monumentally stupid' and 'actively suicidal.'
But it's Liz.
And she needs help.
The walk to the Juliet Rose Building gives me three minutes to get my shit together. Three minutes to remind myself that we're friends. Best friends. That last night was for show, even if it didn't feel like it. Even if I'm still tasting her on my lips.
I knock on 347.
She opens the door, and fuck.
Yoga pants. Oversized t-shirt. Hair messy. Barefoot. And there's a crease between her eyebrows that means she's been overthinking herself into knots.
She's never looked more beautiful.
"Hey." She steps back to let me in. "Thanks for coming. I know this is weird, but Maura's bridesmaid dress is a nightmare, and I needed someone to tell me if I'm being dramatic or if it actually makes me look like a sad eggplant."
I laugh despite myself. "A sad eggplant?"
"It's purple. And shapeless. Like, I don't know in what world this is supposed to flatter me. That ..." She gestures to the dress hanging on the bathroom door "... Help."
The bed's made, but her stuff is scattered everywhere. Laptop open on the desk. Shoes kicked off by the closet.
"Maura picked this specifically to make me look bad. I know she did. It's too tight in the chest and too loose everywhere else, and the color makes me look like I'm dying?—"
"Breathe, Liz."
