Chapter 3 DEADLINES VS. DOODLES

CHAPTER 3 - DEADLINES VS. DOODLES

The next morning, the newsroom felt too bright. Too awake. Too normal for what had happened last night-texts from a stranger, a note slipped under her door, the lights going out, footsteps in the dark.

Sophia had barely slept. She had barely breathed.

She told herself she wasn't scared. She told herself fear was a luxury for people who didn't have deadlines. She told herself she needed coffee, not therapy.

But as she stepped into the buzzing office, she could feel her pulse beating in the hollow of her throat.

Dean was already there.

He never arrived early. Never.

Yet here he was-sitting at a desk, tapping a pencil nervously against his notebook, eyes flicking up the second she walked in.

"Sophia."

Her name carried something different today. Less teasing. More... searching.

"You're early," she said.

"You're pale."

She stiffened. "I'm fine."

"That's what people say right before they faint or commit tax fraud."

"Dean."

"Sorry." He ran a hand through his hair. "I just... wanted to see if you're okay. After last night."

Sophia swallowed. "You got messages too."

He nodded, jaw tightening. "And they weren't random."

"No," she whispered. "They weren't."

For a moment-just a tiny flicker-fear passed between them like a shared shadow.

But then Sophia shut it down. Hard.

"Let's focus," she said, taking her seat and opening her laptop with clipped movements. "We have a project. We have deadlines. And our editor expects progress today."

Dean hesitated before pulling his sketchpad closer. "Right. Work. Sure."

They sat in silence.

Not the peaceful kind.

The thick, suffocating kind that builds walls instead of easing tension.

Sophia typed-fast, precise, intentional.

Dean doodled-loudly, dramatically, with exaggerated pen strokes that grated on her nerves.

After five minutes she slammed her laptop shut.

"Can you not?"

Dean blinked. "Can I not... what?"

"That." She pointed aggressively at his sketchpad. "You're scribbling like you're trying to carve through the table."

He glanced at the page. "I'm brainstorming."

"It sounds like you're sawing wood."

"You type like you're punishing the keyboard."

"I'm efficient."

"You're violent."

Sophia inhaled through her nose. "Dean, deadlines require structure."

"And stories require creativity."

"This is journalism. Not a cartoon strip."

He sat up straighter. "Comics are storytelling too."

"With pigeons sharing sandwiches?"

"That was a metaphor."

"For what?!"

"For modern love!" he said loudly, gesturing so wildly the pencil flew from his hand and hit a nearby intern, who yelped.

Sophia closed her eyes. "This is unworkable."

"You know what's unworkable?" Dean snapped. "Trying to collaborate with someone who thinks everything has to be done her way."

"Because my way works."

"For robots!"

"For adults!"

"Oh, okay," he said, pointing at himself. "So I'm a child now?"

"If the description fits."

"Wow." He leaned back, arms crossed. "You really don't like me, do you?"

Sophia froze.

She hadn't meant to say it aloud.

She hadn't meant for it to sound like a confession.

"I don't know you," she corrected quickly. "And I don't dislike you. I dislike chaos."

"And you think that's all I am?"

She didn't reply.

Dean's jaw clenched in a way she hadn't seen before. It startled her. He had always been disarmingly warm, annoyingly bright, frustratingly playful. But now?

Now he looked hurt.

And when he spoke again, his voice was quiet:

"I'm trying, Sophia. I know I'm not easy to work with. But neither are you."

The honesty rattled her.

Before she could answer, their editor appeared out of nowhere-coffee in hand, eyebrows raised so high they nearly left his forehead.

"What is happening?" he asked.

Sophia straightened immediately. "We're working."

"It sounds like you're auditioning for a courtroom drama."

Dean pointed at her. "She thinks I'm chaos."

"She is chaos," Sophia snapped.

The editor sighed so deeply it could've powered a wind turbine.

"Okay. Enough." He gestured between them. "This isn't a debate club. This is a feature on modern love, not modern war."

Sophia crossed her arms. "We need clear roles."

Dean lifted his sketchpad. "We need creative space."

"You need boundaries."

"You need breathing room."

The editor pinched the bridge of his nose. "I need aspirin."

They both fell silent.

He sat on the corner of a desk, looking between them like he was piecing together a diplomatic treaty.

"Here's what we're doing," he said. "You two are not allowed to work separately."

Sophia choked. "What?"

Dean's mouth dropped open. "Why?!"

"Because," the editor continued, "your conflict is strangling the story. You need to learn each other's style. Learn how to communicate without homicide. And most importantly-find a rhythm that combines structure and creativity."

"I have a rhythm," Sophia argued.

"No," he said bluntly. "You have a schedule."

Dean lifted a hand. "I have rhythm."

"You have... enthusiasm," the editor corrected.

Dean pouted.

Sophia couldn't believe this.

"So," she said, voice dangerously calm, "your solution is to force us into each other's space?"

"Yes."

Dean nodded slowly. "Okay but-like-how close are we talking? Because I don't want to accidentally breathe her air and trigger a coronary."

Sophia glared. "You take up too much space as it is."

"And you vacuum oxygen out of yours."

The editor clapped his hands sharply. "Enough. Today you two are going out."

"Out?" they echoed in horrified unison.

"Yes. Out into the real world. Interview people. Couples, singles, strangers, whoever. Talk to them about modern love. Together."

Sophia groaned.

Dean was already grabbing his backpack. "Field trip! Let's go!"

Sophia held up a hand. "No. No field trip. I don't need-"

"This is an order," the editor said, tone final. "And Sophia-take notes. Dean-do sketches. Don't come back until you have something usable."

Sophia wanted to protest.

Dean wanted to ask for snacks.

But the editor walked away like a man who had survived too many of their arguments and was now entirely immune.

Sophia took a slow breath. "Fine. Let's just get this over with."

Dean grinned. "Oh yeah. Great energy. Super excited to spend the day with you too."

"Dean. Not today."

"Every day is today."

She punched his arm lightly.

He smiled wider.

They stepped outside into the bustling street. The sun was too bright, the wind too sharp, and the tension between them too thick.

"Where do we start?" Dean asked, swinging his backpack like a hyperactive pendulum.

"Somewhere quiet."

"Somewhere lively."

Sophia closed her eyes. "We need a neutral location."

"There's a park," Dean suggested. "People walk dogs. Dogs are emotional creatures. That's basically modern love."

"That sentence made no sense."

"Love rarely does."

She ignored the part of her chest that warmed at that.

"We're going to the café," Sophia declared. "Couples talk there. Singles talk there. And people sit still long enough to listen."

Dean shrugged. "Coffee shop it is."

He followed her down the street, quiet at first.

Too quiet.

Finally he said, "So... about last night."

Sophia stiffened.

Here it was.

The conversation she didn't want.

"Let's not," she whispered.

"You were scared." His voice was gentle. Too gentle.

She didn't look at him. "I was surprised."

"No. You were scared."

She stopped walking.

Turned.

Met his eyes.

"I don't get scared," she said.

His expression softened. "Everyone gets scared."

"Not me."

"You're human, Sophia."

She held his gaze for a long second-long enough to feel something crack dangerously inside her.

Before she could answer, someone brushed past them, bumping Sophia's shoulder hard enough to make her stumble.

Dean reacted instantly, grabbing her arm to steady her.

"You okay?" he asked.

She nodded... but her heart had begun hammering.

The person who bumped her didn't stop. Didn't apologize. Didn't even look back.

They just kept walking-hood up, hands in pockets.

Sophia watched them disappear into the crowd with a sinking feeling.

Dean followed her gaze. "What is it?"

"Nothing," she lied.

But the unease followed her like a shadow.

The café was warm and loud. A small bell chimed as they entered. Couples chatted, friends laughed, waiters rushed between tables.

Dean chose a corner booth before she could object.

Sophia opened her notebook. "We'll start with simple questions. We approach people politely, ask about their experiences with-"

Dean had already wandered off.

"Dean!" she hissed.

He approached the first table-a couple in their sixties holding hands-and smiled charmingly. "Hi! We're doing a feature on love and-"

The couple lit up instantly.

Sophia watched from across the room, unwillingly impressed.

His voice was gentle.

His posture relaxed.

His presence open.

People spoke easily to him.

Too easily.

In minutes, he was sketching them-quick strokes, fluid lines-while they laughed.

Sophia exhaled.

She stood up, approaching a young woman at the counter and beginning her own interview. It was efficient. Focused. Structured.

She could do this.

She would do this.

Twenty minutes later, she returned to the booth and froze.

Dean's sketchpad was open.

He had drawn her.

Not cartoonish.

Not exaggerated.

Not mocking.

A soft, thoughtful portrait-capturing the tension in her posture, the fierceness behind her eyes, the storm she hid in her shoulders.

It was intimate in a way that made her stomach tighten.

"You drew me," she said quietly.

Dean looked up. "You looked... distant. Like your mind was somewhere else. I wanted to capture it."

Her throat dried. "Don't draw me without permission."

He closed the sketchpad slowly. "Got it."

Something shifted between them-something she wasn't ready to name.

Before either of them could speak, someone walked into the café.

Sophia's blood turned to ice.

It was the same person who had bumped her on the street.

Same hood.

Same hands buried in pockets.

And now?

They were staring directly at her.

Dean saw her expression change instantly. "Sophia?"

She didn't answer.

The figure stepped further inside... then slipped something onto the café counter.

A note.

Directed at her.

Dean followed her gaze.

"Sophia... who is that?"

"I don't know," she whispered.

The figure turned-

-and vanished out the door.

Sophia rushed to the counter, heart pounding as she grabbed the note with trembling fingers.

Dean was right behind her.

She unfolded it.

One sentence.

Just one:

"You're both running out of time."

Sophia's breath caught.

Dean's voice broke low beside her:

"Sophia... someone's following us."

The café lights flickered.

Her stomach dropped.

Someone was here.

Someone was watching.

Someone wanted them frightened.

And they were succeeding.

Dean doesn't follow her at first.

Of course he doesn't.

Sophia hears the faint shuffle of him gathering his things, the soft thud of a sketchbook closing, the mechanical click of a pen being capped. Slow. Too slow. He's doing it deliberately. That casual, infuriating rhythm of someone who's never been afraid of losing anything-jobs, deadlines, consequences.

The opposite of her.

She reaches the hallway before she hears his footsteps behind her, longer and looser than hers. Somehow even the sound of him walking sets her teeth on edge.

"Sophia," he calls.

She doesn't stop.

If she stops, she'll explode. And she refuses to explode in front of him. In front of anyone.

"Sophia-wait."

She stops.

But she doesn't turn.

Dean moves to stand beside her instead of behind her. That small choice irritates her more than the argument itself. He wants to look at her face. He wants to engage. He wants to understand.

She doesn't want to be understood.

"What?" she asks flatly.

Dean rubs the back of his neck. "Look, I know you're mad."

"I'm not mad."

"You're mad."

"I'm not mad," she repeats, even though her left eyelid is twitching.

"You're doing that thing," he says.

"What thing?"

"The jaw thing. It's like... clenched to death. Like your teeth are writing a resignation letter."

Her jaw tightens even more. "Dean, I swear-"

"Okay, okay." He lifts both hands in surrender. "Let's start over."

"We didn't even finish starting the first time."

His laugh is too soft, too warm, too unbothered. "Fair point."

Sophia wants to be immune to his charm. She wants to remain a fortress, impenetrable and controlled. But Dean has this ridiculous, infuriating, gently chaotic energy that makes everything feel...

Lighter.

Even when she's furious.

She hates that.

Dean shifts, looking genuinely uneasy for the first time since they met.

"You were right," he says quietly.

The four words Sophia least expects to hear from him.

She slowly turns to face him. "About what?"

"About my sketches," he replies. "About the tone. About the research. About... all of it, I guess."

She blinks. "Are you being sarcastic?"

"No. I mean it." His eyes don't break contact. That's how she knows he's serious. "I didn't take the feature seriously. Not the way you did."

She crosses her arms but not tightly anymore. "Why not?"

Dean exhales, and it's the kind of breath someone uses before they tell the truth.

"Because whenever I try too hard at something important," he says, "I screw it up."

Sophia's arms fall to her sides.

She wasn't expecting vulnerability. Not from him. Not after the past few days of chaos, noise, and disorder.

She doesn't know what to do with vulnerability. Especially not his.

"You haven't screwed this up," she says, softer than she intends.

"Not yet."

There's a flicker of something in his expression. Something he tries to hide. Something that looks like fear.

Dean Morgan is afraid.

She wouldn't have guessed.

"So..." he says, clearing his throat. "Truce? Can we try again?"

Sophia hesitates. "I don't know if we can keep clashing like this."

"That's fair."

"I mean it. I have standards."

"I know."

"And deadlines."

"I definitely know."

"And systems."

"That I know too."

"And-"

He steps closer.

Too close.

Close enough that she feels his breath on her hairline.

"And what else?" he asks, not teasing this time.

Sophia freezes. This is what she didn't want: closeness. Emotional or physical. Closeness complicates everything. Closeness is messy. Closeness leads to cracks. And she is not allowed to crack.

"We need rules," she says abruptly, stepping back.

Dean nods slowly. "Okay. Rules."

"Rule one: we stick to the schedule."

"Done."

"Rule two: we communicate clearly."

"Good."

"Rule three: no distractions."

Dean smirks faintly. "Define distractions."

"You. Mostly you."

He laughs, the sound low and genuine. "Alright. I'll be less distracting."

"And rule four," she says, lifting her chin. "We don't interfere in each other's personal lives."

Dean's expression flickers. "Why would we?"

"Because you're... you," she says helplessly.

"And you're... you," he counters.

She opens her mouth, then closes it, because that's a dead-end argument and they both know it.

Dean extends his hand. Another truce gesture. A simple handshake.

But when she places her hand in his, something shifts.

Dean notices it at the same moment she does-an awareness, a spark, a warmth that lingers too long. His fingers tighten just slightly, not enough to be considered inappropriate, but enough to be felt.

Sophia pulls away first.

"Good," she says, clearing her throat. "Then let's get back to work."

Dean nods and follows her down the hallway.

But the moment they step back into the shared workspace, the editor is waiting for them.

And she does not look pleased.

The Editor's Verdict

Angela's arms are crossed. Her expression is apocalyptic.

"Sit," she orders.

Dean sits immediately.

Sophia sits more slowly, mentally bracing for impact.

Angela drops a printed stack of their drafts on the table.

"This," she says sharply, "is not collaboration. This is two people fighting through a document."

Sophia stiffens. "I can explain-"

"No," Angela cuts in. "I don't want explanations. I want results."

Dean slouches lower.

Angela's gaze is razor-sharp. "You two need to figure this out. Because right now, the board thinks pairing you was a mistake."

Sophia's stomach drops.

Dean's too, judging by how he straightens immediately.

Angela continues, "You have seventy-two hours to show me progress. Real progress. Or I reassign the piece."

Sophia's heart stops.

Reassign the piece?

After everything she's put in?

After the late nights?

After the sacrifices?

"No," Sophia says instantly. "We can handle it."

Angela raises a brow. "Are you sure? Because right now, Sophia, you look like you'd rather strangle him than work with him."

Sophia glances at Dean.

He gives a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. Not disagreeing. Warning.

Angela leans forward. "Seventy-two hours. Consider this your final stretch."

Then she leaves.

And the silence she leaves behind is suffocating.

Dean finally exhales. "Well. That went... great."

Sophia's pulse is a storm. "We need a plan."

"Yeah," he agrees. "But maybe first?"

His voice softens.

"We need honesty."

She looks up sharply. "About what?"

He looks directly into her eyes.

"Why working with me scares you so much."

Her throat goes dry.

She almost blurts out the lie she always uses-I'm not scared.

But he sees through her too easily.

And that is terrifying in ways she can't articulate.

"Dean..." she begins softly.

"Sophia," he interrupts. "Just answer one thing."

His voice is no longer playful.

No longer careless.

No longer a joke.

"Do you hate me," he asks quietly, "or are you afraid you don't?"

Her heart slams against her ribs.

She opens her mouth-

But the office door swings open.

A staff member appears, breathless.

"Um... Sophia? Dean? You two need to come with me. It's urgent."

"What happened?" Sophia demands, straightening instantly.

The staff member swallows hard.

"It's your feature," she says. "Someone just leaked your draft."

Sophia freezes.

Dean stands so fast his chair scrapes.

"What do you mean leaked?" Sophia asks, rising to her feet.

The staff member's voice trembles.

"It's online. All of it. And the comments are... bad. Really bad."

Sophia's pulse spikes. "How? Who-?"

But the staff member shakes her head.

"We don't know. But Angela wants both of you. Now."

Dean looks at Sophia.

Sophia looks at Dean.

Everything freezes.

Everything changes.

Because someone doesn't just want their feature to fail.

Someone wants to sabotage them.

Together.

Their draft has been leaked. Someone is sabotaging their collaboration. And Sophia is forced to confront whether she hates Dean-or fears that she doesn't.