Fool Me Twice, Shame On Me ✓

[ 28 ] I n t e r m i s s i o n

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• C H A P T E R

T W E N T Y   E I G H T •

This has to be a figment of my imagination.

Just yesterday, he had no qualms of letting me know how he felt about me and now he's telling a different version.

I pinch myself to make sure this isn't a dream.

Dean's eyebrows slightly furrow for a moment before a spasm of amusement contorts his face.

"Did you just try to pinch yourself?" he asks while simpering, a sight I haven't quite gotten used to.

"Yesterday, you said something entirely different." I dismiss his question and try to act coolly but it's hard to focus when his gaze freezes me in place.

How we're still standing so close to each other is beyond me.

"I always say a lot of shit I don't mean," he summons a neutral look as he shrugs in nonchalance. "Comes with the package." I watch him stroll over to his bed.

With his back turned to me, he sits down to remove his shoes. As minutes pass, I'm having a hard time coping with his behaviour. He's acting completely calm despite the turn of events.

Does he seriously expect me to forget all about his confession?

This is so typical of him to do when things get too intense for him.

"Spit it out!"

Perplexed, I blink twice. "Spit what out?"

He finally rotates and glances my way. "You've awfully been silent and you're definitely not the quiet type. So I assume you have a lot on your mind."

"You're acting like the talk we just had never happened." I express.

A grumble escapes his throat and he runs a hand through his hair.

After a bit, he rolls over to sit on the left side of his bed.

"You're always so uptight," he remarks while holding my gaze, "learn to loosen up every once in a while."

My expression hardens. His calm attitude is not doing anything to help the case.

"I just have a hard time believing you." I say, rather pointedly. "I mean if you claim to care, you've been doing a shitty job at showing it."

Dean diverges his gaze to the floor and doesn't say a word. He slowly takes his suit off and unfastens the buttons on the sleeve of his shirt. Before I know what's happening, he removes the only piece of clothing that covers up his chest.

Strained, I avoid looking at him when I can feel my face flush. How can he just get shirtless when I'm in the room?

He gives a whole new meaning to the word 'nonchalant'.

From my peripheral vision, I can see him get into a standing position.

"I know I mostly treat you like a punching bag," he mutters, "and I can understand if it's hard to believe me but I did mean every word."

I can barely focus with him being shirtless and all.

Clearing my throat, I build up the courage to glance his way. "Can you please put a shirt on?"

He stares down at his bare chest before returning his eyes to me with furrowed brows.

"Why should I do that?"