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“You apologize better than Brian does.”

“That’s a low bar.”

I laughed despite myself.

Dean smiled, and the tension between us softened without disappearing entirely.

“What would you do?” he asked.

“With Twin/Tone?”

“If it were yours?”

I thought about the question, really thought about it.

“I’d go.”

“Why?”

“Because if you don’t, you’ll spend years wondering what would’ve happened if you had.”

Dean looked at me in a way that made me suddenly aware of everything at once. My bare knees, the open windows, the soft sound of traffic below, the smooth glass of the bottle between my hands.

“You sound like you know something about that,” he said.

“Maybe I do.”

I should have looked away, but didn’t.

He stood, crossing the small distance between the chair and the sofa, then stopped in front of me.

My heart began beating harder before anything had happened.

Dean reached down and tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers barely touched my cheek, and yet every part of me seemed to notice.

I looked up at him. He was close enough that I could see the faint shadow along his jaw and the small scar near his chin, close enough that I could smell beer and soap and the warm summer air coming through the window.

He bent slightly then stopped, his forehead almost touching mine.

“You’re still with him.”

I swallowed. “I know.”

“I’m not doing this while you are.”

For a moment, neither of us moved. I could have been offended. Twenty-three-year-old me probably would have been. Instead I felt something else… respect.

Dean stepped back first.

“I should go,” I said, though I didn’t want to.

“I know.”

Otis opened one eye, and rolled over.

Dean walked me downstairs. At the door, he unlocked it and held it open while State Street stretched outside beneath streetlights and neon signs.

“I’ll see you Friday?” he asked.