Tainted Love

Chapter 1

Dean's POV

I'd been awake since dawn. I barely slept, too wired, too restless, too in love with the idea of tonight. Three years with her, and somehow she still made my chest feel too tight, my hands unsteady, like I was twenty two again and trying to impress her for the first time. Every little thing she did—how she hummed while making coffee, how she tucked her hair behind her ear when reading, how she always stole the corner of the blanket—was burned into me.

Grace had no idea what was waiting for her tonight.

I'd spent months planning this. Every minute, every detail. The place was ours—the rooftop where we had our first date, where the city lights had reflected in her eyes and I realized I could never love anyone else. I'd booked out the whole space, strung it with thousands of tiny lights that looked like stars, brought in a small orchestra because she once said violins sounded like falling in love. There'd be her favorite flowers—white peonies, the ones she said smelled like peace—and a path lined with candles leading straight to the table where I'd set the ring box.

We'd been living together for almost two years now. The apartment still carried her scent—jasmine and vanilla—and there wasn't a corner she hadn't softened. Her shoes under the coffee table, her art prints leaned against the walls instead of hung up because she could never decide where they looked best, her mugs everywhere, mismatched and chipped. My entire world was scattered across that space in the form of her.

And I wanted forever with her. 

She thought tonight was just a dinner. She even teased me earlier when I told her to dress up. 

"What's the occasion?" she'd asked, raising an eyebrow while tying her hair in that low bun that killed me every time. I just smiled, kissed her shoulder, and said, "You'll see."

She rolled her eyes. "If you're about to make me watch another one of those rooftop jazz bands you pretend to like—"

"Not this time, baby."

When we got into the car, she was barefoot for half the ride, humming along to the playlist I'd made of every song we'd ever slow danced to in the kitchen. She rested her hand on my thigh, her head turned toward the window, watching the city blur by in gold streaks.

At the rooftop, she looked around, puzzled at first. "Dean... why is it empty?"

I took her hand, kissed her palm. "Because it's ours tonight."

Her lips parted. The air between us shifted, softer, charged. The violinists began playing in the background, and I watched realization start to dawn in her eyes—slow, hesitant, unsure.

She turned to me, whispering, "What is this?"

I wanted to tell her everything—the months of planning, the letters I'd written and never sent, the way I'd practiced this speech until my voice cracked.

Instead, I just smiled and said, "You'll find out."

I led her down the candlelit path, the city unfolding around us in silver and glass. When we reached the end, she stopped, the wind catching her hair as the lights glimmered against her skin. My heart slammed so hard it felt like a warning.

This was it. The moment I'd been chasing since the first time she laughed in my car three years ago.

I dropped to one knee before I could lose my nerve. Her eyes widened, hands flying to her mouth.

"Grace," I started, voice shaking. "I've been trying to find the right words for months. But nothing I say will ever be enough. Nothing I do will ever come close to what you've done to me."