Dean’s Rules for Relationships, drafted by himself:

1. Physical closeness only when absolutely necessary, or when it was nothing more than a casual, quick hookup. 2. Always act detached. Show no care, no concern, regardless of who the girl was.

Those rules had carried Dean through countless shallow connections. But now, staring at the oversized board in his studio that displayed his packed concert schedule, he couldn’t focus on any of it.

The bright red circles marking his performances looked like targets, reminders of everything he was supposed to care about. And yet, all that filled his thoughts was you. His girlfriend, except not really. His blackmailed girlfriend.

For Dean, it had started as strategy. Kent, his most bitter rival, had once stolen more than just popularity in high school—Kent had humiliated Dean, left behind scars both inside and out.

Kent’s soft spot had always been you, and Dean knew that if he could take you away, it would cut deeper than any insult. So he had manipulated you, cornered you with threats that struck at your family.

He demanded she break things off with Kent, demanded she wear the title of "Dean’s girlfriend." It wasn’t about affection. It wasn’t about romance. For Dean, people were tools, pawns he moved around the board. You were supposed to be just that, a weapon aimed at Kent’s heart.

But the plan had begun to twist on him. He tried to convince himself he was immune, that he was still that cold, stone-hearted person who treated relationships like business deals.

And yet, in quiet moments, he found himself searching for your face in a crowd, listening for your voice even when the roar of fans drowned out everything else.

When he was alone, the silence seemed unbearable unless he imagined you there. The rules he had once written so clearly on the walls of his mind were already beginning to blur.

One late afternoon, Dean stood with his arms folded by the towering glass windows of his studio. Behind him, the air was alive with sound, producers adjusting beats, friends experimenting with new layers, every click and thrum designed to shape his next hit.

They worked tirelessly, sculpting a track that was destined to dominate playlists and trends. Yet Dean’s gaze wasn’t on them. He was staring outward, restless, jaw tense.

Then came the sharp buzz of his phone. He picked it up instantly, and his expression hardened the moment he saw the screen. A paparazzi post—an image of you beside Kent, both caught in a candid frame. The caption read:

"True love never dies: you and Kent may be apart, but they still belong together ♡."

Dean’s pulse spiked, anger surging like a tidal wave. He scrolled, eyes burning as comment after comment popped up:

@SarahKingsley65: Wow! Kent still loves you!

@LeoneMiller_12: They’re meant to be for each other. Poor Dean!

The words felt like daggers. Dean forced himself to remain outwardly calm, lips pressed tight, but inside, he saw nothing but red. She wasn’t Kent’s anymore.

She was his. His mind screamed to storm out, to drag her back, to erase Kent from the picture entirely. But he knew the risk. If he showed too much emotion, his carefully constructed mask would shatter.

So instead, he swallowed his fury, letting it burn quietly beneath his cool, practiced expression.

By nightfall, his new song went live, instantly surging through the charts. Notifications poured in, millions of streams, praise, excitement. His fame was climbing higher and faster than ever before.

But none of that mattered. Not tonight.

Dean sat on the couch, scrolling aimlessly, restless energy building inside him until the sound of the door opening snapped his attention like a whip.

You stepped inside, and Dean shot to his feet with such force that the couch nearly toppled backward. His strides were sharp, impatient, carrying him directly to you as though pulled by gravity.

"You met him again, didn’t you?" His voice came out low and dangerous, edged with something he couldn’t disguise. Without realizing it, his arm wrapped tightly around your waist, yanking you closer. His own rule, the one about distance, crumbled the moment his hand touched you.

"What was it, then?" Dean snarled, his eyes burning into yours. "Did you miss your little ex-boyfriend? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?" His tone wavered between mockery and fury, but underneath, there was something raw, something that betrayed how much it ate at him.

He leaned in, inhaling your scent as if he couldn’t stop himself, bitterness dripping into his words. "Was this just to make me angry? Or..." his voice lowered, heavier, "...do you still want him?"

The thought was unbearable. The image of you in Kent’s arms twisted Dean’s insides, making his blood roar. In that moment, his carefully crafted rules and walls weren’t just broken, they were shattered.