My self-discipline hangs precariously in the hands of Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis, a man notorious for his lack of restraint. Thus, it’s safe to say that I’m in quite the predicament. The kind of trouble you don’t just slide out of. But I refuse to give in. I won’t call Sean. It doesn’t matter that just twenty minutes ago he sent me a picture from our trip to Mexico last year, where he had encased our faces in a bright red heart using one of those annoying framing apps. It had been a wonderful trip… but I shove that memory aside, desperate to find a distraction. “Do you have Netflix linked to your TV?” I ask, glancing over at Dean, who still seems agitated by my presence. There’s an undeniable tension simmering in the air— or is it just my imagination? It’s hard to ignore the fact that his body language is charged, not to mention... anything but subtle. But I’m too kind to throw that in his face; after all, he was mere moments away from a wild rendezvous with two girls before I barged in. I can’t help but let my gaze wander to his bare chest. Let’s not kid ourselves— it is jaw-droppingly incredible. Tall and lean, with perfectly sculpted muscles, his frame is accentuated by a sprinkle of scruff—those sexy blond bristles that frame his strong jawline. It’s almost a crime that someone so insufferably cocky can look this good. “Yeah. Go ahead and pick something to watch,” he replies nonchalantly. “I’m just gonna pop upstairs to take care of a little situation first.” “Wait, what?” I manage to say, though he’s already disappeared, leaving me staring incredulously at the empty doorway. Did he really just say what I thought he said? And was he joking? Despite knowing it’s wrong, I can’t help but picture it. Dean, alone in his room—one hand busy while the other... what? Gripping the sheets? Or maybe he’s leaning against his desk, the tension visible on his face as he bites his bottom lip… Good gracious, why am I trying to unravel the mystery of how Dean Heyward-Di Laurentis deals with his urges? I shake off those thoughts, fumbling for the remote control and diving into the realms of Netflix as I browse through the latest titles, desperately trying to forget the absurdity of my thoughts. Not even five minutes later, Dean saunters back into the room, conveniently clothed now, albeit in sweatpants that hang dangerously low on his hips. To my dismay, they’ve left his boxers behind, giving me an unwarranted glimpse of things I’d rather not see. His bare chest still gleams, and a slight flush rises to his cheeks. “So, did you seriously just—” I begin, but he nods as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What? You can’t sit through a movie with blue balls?” My jaw drops. “So, while I’m here, you can’t have sex with anyone, but you can just run upstairs and... do that?” A teasing grin spreads across his face, revealing an altogether different side of him. “I could’ve taken care of it down here, but I figured you’d be tempted to join in. I was trying to be considerate.” I roll my eyes, too exasperated to argue. “Trust me, I would have managed to keep my hands to myself.” “With my equipment right there in plain view? I highly doubt it,” he retorts, arching an eyebrow. “I have an impressive package, you know.” “Uh-huh. Sure you do.” He willfully misinterprets my sarcasm. “Doubt me? I can show you. I have a picture.” His hand reaches for his phone, then he hesitates, clutching the waistband of his sweatpants instead. “Actually, I could give you the real thing if you want.” “No, thank you. I’m good.” I gesture to the TV, desperate to change the subject. “I picked that one. Have you seen it?” Dean grimaces at the poster on the screen. “Seriously? That’s what you chose? There are like three brand-new horror movies that could’ve given you a real thrill! Or we could binge Jason Statham’s entire filmography.” I shake my head vehemently. “No horror movies. I don’t like being scared.” “Alright. So an action movie instead?” “Not into violence,” I insist. The frustration etched on his features deepens. “Baby doll, I’m not sitting through a movie about—” He squints at the screen, “—a woman’s life-changing journey after her terminal diagnosis. No way in hell.” “It won an Oscar!” I shoot back, a little too defensively for my own comfort. Dean crosses his arms, shooting me a skeptical glance. “You know what else won an Oscar? *Silence of the Lambs*. *Jaws*. *The Exorcist*. They’re all horror flicks.” “We can argue about this all night, but I’m not watching anything involving blood, sharks, or explosions. Just accept it,” I declare firmly. His jaw clenches visibly before he releases a deep sigh. “Fine. But if I have to endure this terrible movie, I’m smoking a joint first.” “Whatever gets you through it, sweetheart.” He strides toward the doorway, muttering sarcastically under his breath. “Wait!” I call out. Rummaging through my jacket pocket, I retrieve my phone. “Can you take this with you? I might be tempted to text… someone… if I’m left alone with it.” Dean shoots me a quizzical glance. “Who are you trying not to text?” “My ex. We broke up last night, and he won’t stop blowing up my phone.” Silence hangs between us for a beat, and then he says, “You’re coming with me.” Before I can protest, he crosses the room in three strides, grabbing my arm and yanking me off the chair. My feet hit the hardwood with surprising force, causing me to stumble directly into his solid chest, the motion sending shockwaves of awareness spiraling inside me. “Hey! I was comfortable!” I huff, arms crossed, bracing myself in indignation. Ignoring my protests, he half-leads, half-drags me to the kitchen. I shiver as soon as we step through the back door; he hadn’t let me grab my jacket. Outside, Dean stands in stark contrast to the chilly night—bare-chested and unfazed, while I shiver and scowl at him. “Great. Even your nipples are perfect,” I complain, breaking the spell. A smirk dances across his lips. “Do you want to touch ’em?” “Ew. Never. I’m simply noting their ridiculous perfection— they match your impressive physique.” He glances down momentarily, as if contemplating my statement before gleefully affirming, “Yeah, I am perfect. I should remind myself of that more often.” “Right—because you’re not already insufferably conceited,” I quip. “I’m confident!” he corrects, chuckling. With a small tin box in hand, he pulls out a neatly rolled joint and a Zippo lighter, and I wrinkle my nose in contention. “Why am I out here? I don’t want to smoke weed.” “Sure you do,” he dismisses easily, lighting the joint and taking a deep drag. “You’re acting jittery and weird. Trust me, babe, you need this.” “This is what we call peer pressure,” I retort, crossing my arms defiantly. He raises a brow, holding out the joint. “Come on, baby. Just one puff. All the cool kids are doing it.” Laughter escapes me despite my convictions. “Piss off.” He shrugs. “Suit yourself.” He takes another drag, the fragrant smoke wafting around me like an inviting cloud of relaxation. I can barely remember the last time I got high. Not that I partake often, but tonight certainly warrants it, right? “Fine, give it to me,” I cave, extending my hand. Dean beams, his enthusiasm infectious. “That’s my girl. Just don’t tell Wellsy, okay? She’ll kick my ass if she thinks I’m corrupting her best friend.” I wrap my lips around the joint, inhaling deeply and trying to hold back laughter at the visible apprehension etched across his face. He’s probably right to be wary of Hannah. She’s got a razor-sharp tongue and isn’t afraid to wield it when need be. That’s why I adore her. In silence, we pass the joint back and forth for a few minutes, like mischief-makers hiding behind a gas station, encased in our own little bubble. This is the first real time we’ve spent alone together, and it feels strange—hanging out in the backyard with a shirtless Dean Di Laurentis. He's cocky, flirtatious... superficial. A hint of guilt surfaces for castings judgments, but they linger because I can't help but think: Hannah told me he’s loaded, and it shows, not in a flaunting way but in the confidence etched into his every movement. This dude glides through life carefree, as if he’s never known a moment of struggle. “So, you got dumped?” he finally asks, watching as I take another hit. “I did not get dumped,” I assure, blowing smoke in his face. “I’m the one who ended it.” “The same guy you’ve been with forever? Stan?” “Sean. And yes, we’ve been dating on and off since freshman year.” “Jesus. That’s way too long to be screwing the same person. Was the sex really boring?” “Why does everything revolve around sex for you?” I pass the joint back. “And for the record— the sex was perfectly fine.” “Fine?” He snickers. “What a glowing endorsement.” Feeling the effects of the weed soothe my body into calmness, I lose some of my usual inhibitions. “I guess it wasn’t the best by the end,” I concede, wondering if perhaps all the arguing since summer contributed. “It was a mix of everything.” “But this isn’t the first breakup. Why did you keep going back to him?” “Because I loved him. Or I thought I did,” I reply self-consciously, the truth spilling out faster than I’d anticipated. “The first couple of times we broke up, it was just us getting scared of getting too serious. It felt like freshman year was all about sowing wild oats, you know?” “Sowing oats can be fun,” Dean agrees, nodding seriously. “One time I got with this super hot girl, poured maple syrup all over my...” “Ew.” I grimace, waving my hand dismissively. “And, to be honest, the ‘oat sowing’ didn’t go well for me. I went out with a few guys, and they were all total sleaze bags. It made me realize how good I had it with Sean.” He exhales a cloud of smoke, leaning back into the moment. “Okay. But then you guys broke up again?” “Yeah,” I say, irritation bubbling to the surface. “He got possessively controlling—like a real jerk! One of his frat brothers hit on me at a party, and Sean flipped. He started telling me what to wear, texting me incessantly, poking his nose into everything. It became suffocating.” Dean rolls his eyes, skepticism etched on his face. “And yet, there you were, getting back together.” “He promised it would change. And it did! He stopped being so clingy and was good to me afterward,” I defend, knowing the tension is still there, lingering beneath my resolve. “Which leads us to breakup number four,” Dean prods, his curiosity piquing. “What went down this time?” A wave of discomfort grips me. “Like I said, lots of fighting.” “About what?” he presses. The truth tumbles out before I can stop it. “About graduation and our future. My plan was always to move to L.A. and pursue acting.” Why did I say that? I didn’t want to reveal my plans to Dean. With uncertainty hovering over me, I swallow hard, not wanting to get too deep with him. “Sean was fine with it at first, but over the summer, he decided he didn’t want that for me,” I continue reluctantly. “He thinks he’s going to work for his dad’s insurance firm in Vermont and that I’ll just be the happy homemaker, waiting around for him to come home.” Dean offers another shrug. “Nothing wrong with being a homemaker.” “Sure, but that’s not what I want. I’ve busted my ass for almost four years to earn this drama degree. I want to utilize it! I can’t be with someone who doesn’t support my career aspirations. He—” I pause abruptly, biting my lip as guilt washes over me. “He what?” Dean prompts. “Nothing. Forget it.” Grabbing the joint, I inhale too deeply this time and dissolve into a fit of coughing. My eyes water briefly, and when my vision clears, Dean’s intense gaze meets mine, his expression serious. “What did he do?” Dean asks, his tone low and protective. “And he better watch out. I can handle my own in a fight, but if you need backup, I can unleash Logan on him.” “No one is crushing anyone’s bones,” I quip. “Sean didn’t do anything so terrible. And I don’t need you to go beat him up. The only thing I need is for you to keep this phone away from me this weekend, okay? Give it back only if my dad calls, or Hannah and Stella... or those other people I know. You know what? I’ll check it a few times a day under your oversight. That way, you can catch me if I try to text Sean.” Dean raises an intrigued eyebrow. “So I’m now your relationship sponsor? I’m the one ensuring you don’t fall off the wagon?” “Yep. Congratulations, you finally have something useful to do with your time,” I shoot back wryly. “What’s in it for me?” he retorts, his eyes glinting with mischief. “The satisfaction of knowing you’re helping someone besides yourself?” “Naah. I’ll take a BJ for my troubles,” he proposes with a cocky grin. “Not a chance.” I roll my eyes. “I’m serious, Dean. I have no willpower where Sean is concerned.” As if on cue, my phone buzzes in Dean’s hand. My reflexes kick in, reaching for it, but he darts back, glancing at the screen. “It’s Sean,” he informs, barely hiding his amusement. “He misses the taste of your lips.” My heart lurches painfully. “Another rule—you aren’t allowed to tell me what he says.” “However, you’re burdening me with a lot of responsibilities here, baby doll. And I don’t do responsibility well,” he says with a smirk. “Trust me, you can handle this. I believe in you.” Dean takes one more drag of the joint before extinguishing it in an ashtray, striding confidently towards the sliding glass door—his walk exudes an unbearable level of arrogance. Unbelievable. I can’t help but gawk at the way his sweatpants hug his backside. Oh good grief—why am I so aware of his spectacular ass? “You know,” he starts, pausing just before stepping outside. “The best way to get over someone is to hook up with someone else. Like, as soon as possible.” “Not happening,” I object instinctively. “Why not? Seriously. Just find a rebound,” he insists, his expression earnest. “I volunteer as tribute.” Laughter bursts from my lips, surprising even me. “Keep dreaming.” But a flicker of consideration flickers in the back of my mind. A rebound doesn’t sound so awful, actually. It’s akin to falling off a horse; the common advice is to jump right back on, huh? Maybe that’s precisely what I should do—distract myself from this nagging ache in my heart. “Let’s hold off on that idea,” I decide firmly. “If by ‘putting a pin in it’ you mean bursting this ridiculous balloon of an idea, then sure, let’s put a pin in it,” he jests. As we step inside, Dean turns to me, casting a slow, seductive sweep of his green eyes from my head to my toes. “Honestly, the more I think about it, the more I like the idea of rebounding with you,” he declares, his gaze lingering disturbingly on my chest. “A lot.” Both excitement and irritation bubble within me. “Garrett promised you wouldn’t hit on me this weekend,” I retort, albeit not without a hint of frustration. “G knows better than to make promises on my behalf,” Dean grins mischievously. “So are we going to watch this movie or what?” I follow him into the living room, my mind swirling in a pleasant haze from the weed. But my amusement quickly dissipates once we settle on the couch. Dean flops down, carelessly flinging an arm around my shoulders and pulling me into him as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Whoa, what’s with the arm?” I exclaim, brow furrowing in confusion. “Isn’t that how you watch movies?” he asks innocently. “Right? So, do you put your arm around Garrett too?” I quip back, eyeing him incredulously. “Absolutely. And if he’s nice to me, sometimes I slide my hand down his pants,” he grins, his other hand already teasingly brushing the waistband of my leggings. “Be nice to me, and I promise I'll be nice in return.” “Nice try. Not happening,” I state flatly, pushing his hand away—yet not without a spark of heat igniting between my legs. Somehow, I can’t shake the craving for this interaction. Dean is a god, and he smells great. Like the ocean. No, wait… like coconut? I’m not quite sure why my senses are wavering, but I shake my head vehemently. “What do we have to do now?” “Just watch the movie?” I suggest, desperately deflecting. “I’d rather watch you,” he replies, eyebrows dancing flirtatiously. “You know, when you’re screaming my name as you come.” This statement eclipses any warmth previously shared. It’s now laughter spilling from me in waves, uncontrollable and ebullient. “Jesus, you’re really bad for a man’s ego,” he grumbles disapprovingly. Somewhere between giggles and the haze of the bud, I suck in a gulp of air. “I’m sure, but you’re too self-absorbed most of the time.” I cannot help but laugh again. “Do girls genuinely fall for those lines?” He lets out a discontented grunt. “Put on the damn movie already,” he urges. “Gladly.” I click the remote and shuffle to the far end of the couch, positioning myself with an empty chasm of distance between us. To his credit, Dean manages to remain silent for almost thirty minutes, his eyes glued to the screen while he shifts anxiously next to me, fidgeting as if the couch is ablaze. He taps his fingers against his thigh, running his hands through his tousled hair, until we finally reach a scene where the main character painstakingly prepares an omelet—one unhurried second at a time. Dean snaps after watching her eat it, leaning back with a groan of despair. “This movie sucks!” “What? It’s actually good!” I protest, stubborn. “Liar! You can’t seriously claim you like this movie! I refuse to believe it.” His incredulity presses against me. “I definitely do,” I insist bravely. He glares, his gaze locked to mine. My acting skills give me an edge, allowing me to project utter innocence. “Not a chance. This is a level of atrocious beyond comprehension,” he states sternly, like an aggrieved critic. “Then why not go upstairs and... take care of your… issue?” The words slip out before I consider their implications. Dean’s expression morphs, his eyes flashing with mischief. “Maybe you should do it for me,” he suggests, leaning closer, his tone smooth and enticing. Seriously? “Are we back to this?” I shake my head. “Do you even know what ‘no’ means?” “Not really. No one’s ever said it to me,” he shrugs, muscles flexing. “And come on, let’s make this evening more interesting. We’re home alone, we’re both good-looking…” A chuckle escapes me, but as much as I want to play along, I shake my head vigorously. “Nope.” “I’m a really good kisser…” he adds, letting that statement dangle in the air like a tantalizing challenge. “Right. That just means you probably aren’t,” I reply sardonically. “Heh. Got any empirical evidence backing that claim?” “Not on me.” Dean looks as if he’s about to argue, but is cut short when the abrupt blast of his cellphone interrupts. “Seriously. Can’t we just enjoy this moment?” His expression brightens as he checks the name on screen, picking up without hesitation. “Maxwell! What’s cooking?” A reluctant sigh escapes him as Dean hears his friend’s words. “Wanna go to a party?” “Nope.” I shake my head, fully committed to staying put. He pouts comically, casting me an accusatory glance as he relays information to Maxwell. “Sorry, man. I’m babysitting—” I smack him on the arm in protest. “—and she doesn’t want to go,” he finishes begrudgingly, but not without a mischievous side-glance in my direction. “No, she’s a fully-grown adult.” “What?” “I’m babysitting an adult, dude. G’s girlfriend’s friend,” he expounds, continuing with casual ease. “We’re stuck watching this movie about a woman with cancer, and it blows… Well yeah, cancer sucks in general. I mean, all my sympathies for people who have it. But this movie? Absolutely god-awful.” He hangs up, turning to glare at me. “I could be partying right now.” “Listen, no one’s forcing you to stay with me.” “I’m being nice to you, considering your poor, broken heart,” he insists, his tone softer. “But is there any gratitude? Nope. You won’t even kiss me.” With a teasing pat on his shoulder, I reply, “C’mon, sweetheart. I’m sure some girl from your contact list would be thrilled to come over and stick her tongue down your throat. I, however, have standards.” “What, I’m not good enough for you?” he challenges, lifting his brows skeptically. “I’ll have you know, Wellsy loved kissing me.” I snort. “Oh really? You mean that desperate peck she planted on you to make sure Garrett didn’t know how much she liked kissing him? Yeah, I know about that, darling. Total desperation.” “Desperation? That was not desperation,” he bristles, indignant. “Uh-huh. Keep convincing yourself of that.” His eyes drift back to the movie; the protagonist prepares yet another unnecessary serving of corn. “God, just kill me already,” he groans, slumping back dramatically. “I can’t sit through another second of this,” he exclaims, his tone a mix of impatience and humor. “You know what?” he finally declares, hopping off the couch and scurrying into the kitchen. The sound of cupboards clattering and glasses clinking bounces off the walls before he reemerges, a devious grin plastered across his face, holding a bottle of tequila in one hand, flanked by two shot glasses. “Tequila,” he announces triumphantly. And with that, the evening takes yet another unexpected turn.