His presence hit before his touch did—warm, steady and grounding, like he’d been summoned by my subconscious alone. “I see you’ve met Tom and Trisha,” he said smoothly, his voice low in my ear as his arm slid easily around my waist. “I hope they haven’t scared you off already.”
Thomas laughed, raising his glass. “Only a little. We were just telling Viv about how we thought you made her up.”
Dean’s mouth curved, his breath brushing against my cheek. “Honestly,” he said, his tone so casual it almost hid the sincerity beneath, “when I first saw her, I thought I was imagining her too.”
His arm tightened around me as he said it—protective, practiced, but still somehow real. I forced a smile, aware of how perfectly we fit together, how easily this illusion could almost pass for truth.
Then, quieter than the music swelling around us, his voice dropped closer to my ear. “Sorry I left for so long. Are you okay?”
The concern was so genuine that it rocked me a little.
I nodded, not trusting my voice to speak. My cheek brushed his jaw as I inhaled, and something inside me shifted—slow, sharp, yet fragile at the same time. I’d played pretend with men before. A thousand different versions of it. I knew the rhythm well, the choreography of seduction and charm. Yet, this felt different.
Thomas grinned at Trisha, then tipped his glass toward us. “You know, Viv, I’ve known Dean a long time. I’ve seen him argue cases that made grown men sweat. I’ve seen him take on partners twice his size, never once flinching.”
Trisha’s eyes sparkled. “He doesn’t flinch ever. Even when the world’s on fire, he’s calm as stone. It’s infuriating.”
Dean huffed a quiet laugh but didn’t let go of me.
Thomas leaned in conspiratorially, his voice lowering just enough to draw me in. “But he’s softer with you. I can see it.”
Dean’s hand flexed subtly at my waist—just once, a small tell he probably didn’t even realize he gave. It was such a simple gesture, but it made me wonder what he was thinking.
Something in my chest fluttered, quiet but undeniable.
Without thinking, I shifted slightly, just enough to catch Dean’s face in the corner of my eye. There was a faint color along his cheeks that made something inside me ache. He didn’tlook like the untouchable man Thomas described. He looked… human. Real. And suddenly, I wasn’t sure which of us was pretending anymore.
Dean must’ve felt the weight of the silence, because he cleared his throat and said lightly, “I heard there was a birthday recently. How old is she now?”
Trisha’s eyes lit up and met mine almost instantly. “Our daughter,” she explained, “Emma.” and just like that, the tension dissolved from the air. “She just turned four.”
Thomas grinned. “You should’ve seen it. Balloons, glitter, chaos…and so much drama!”
Trisha swatted his arm playfully. “Don’t listen to him. Emma is at that age where everything feels like the end of the world…” Her smile softened. “Last week, she found a beetle in the backyard that wasn’t moving. She made it a little shoebox hospital to nurse it back to health and wouldn’t let it out of her sight. I was so worried. I thought I was going to have to tell her about death… Can you imagine? Explaining that to a four-year-old? We tried to prepare her. We said ‘sweetie, there are some things in life that can’t be saved.’”
“She told us we were wrong,” Thomas said proudly.
Trisha smiled. “But the next morning––I snuck into her room to check on that darned beetle, and it was walking around like nothing had ever happened. I thought Thomas had snuck out in the middle of the night to replace it.”
“Swear it wasn’t me.” Thomas lifted his hands, backing up a step.
I smiled at their story, but mostly the sentiment of it made me a little emotional. There was something so sweet about it that settled deep in my chest. It was simple and pure and—somehow—exactly what I needed to hear.
I opened my mouth to reply, but a voice came from behind us—deep, calm, and familiar.
“Dean,” the man said warmly, “are you going to introduce me to your fiancée, or do I have to do it myself?”
We turned, finding Mr. McHenry there, posture straight, expression kind yet discerning.
“Mr. McHenry,” Dean said, his tone respectful, almost reverent. “I’d like you to finally meet Vivienne.”
Mr. McHenry’s gaze found mine—warm, patient, the kind that made you feel seen without ever feeling small. “Are you enjoying the party, dear?” he asked.
I nodded too quickly. “Yes. It’s… lovely,” I said, my voice thinner than I meant it to be. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, gentle and knowing, like he could tell that I was nervous.
He nodded once, then reached into a canvas bag hanging from his arm. “For you,” he said kindly, handing me a perfectly wrapped gift. “A little something for the retreat at Pine Ridge next month.”
Dean arched a brow as Mr. McHenry handed him one too. Dean quickly began unwrapping his, and I followed along too, careful not to tear the paper. Inside was a neatly folded jersey—mine, red; his, black.
