A Mirror Too Honest

CHAPTER 1 - THE ASSIGNMENT NOBODY WANTS

Sophia Hayes had survived worse mornings than this-broken printers, delayed sources, last-minute rewrites, and the occasional editor meltdown-but nothing prepared her for the email blinking at the top of her inbox like a dare.

SUBJECT: New Feature Collaboration Assignment - Needed ASAP.

She clicked it, expecting another high-stakes investigative report or a solo deep-dive into one of the rising social dilemmas she'd been pitching all month. Something big. Something worthy of her skillset. Something worthy of her reputation as the journalist who never missed.

Instead, her eyes froze on the words that should have come with a warning label.

"You will be partnering with Dean Mercer for our upcoming feature on modern love."

Sophia stared at the name.

Dean Mercer.

Dean freaking Mercer.

She exhaled through her nose, the way people did seconds before flipping a table.

Everyone in the office knew Dean. Not because he was a serious professional-God forbid-but because his messy curls, loud laugh, and chaotic comic art series had somehow become the magazine's viral golden child. His online fanbase worshipped him. Management adored his ability to turn anything into click-magnet humour. The internet treated him like a charming disaster they wanted to adopt.

Sophia treated him like a walking migraine.

They had spoken exactly twice. Both times he was late. And both times she had warned herself not to get dragged into the orbit of someone who functioned like human confetti-colourful, scattered, and impossible to control.

She read the email again.

"Modern Love: A multi-format feature blending narrative journalism and illustrated storytelling."

"Collaborative structure required."

"Deadline: 6 weeks."

"Schedule a joint kickoff meeting immediately."

Joint.

Collaboration.

Immediately.

Her brain short-circuited.

She closed her laptop before she threw it across the room.

It didn't matter that she had delivered award-nominated pieces. It didn't matter that she had pitched three fully-researched features this quarter. It didn't matter that she was the most reliable writer on staff.

This was her big assignment-

and they stuck her with an artist who didn't believe in schedules.

Perfect.

Just perfect.

Her phone buzzed. A message from her editor, Marianne.

Marianne: Saw the email? Stop making the face. It's good for you.

Sophia: Good for me how exactly??

Marianne: You need to loosen up. He needs to tighten up. Meet in the middle. It'll be magic.

Sophia: Or murder.

Marianne: I believe in you. And in your self-control.

Sophia: Your faith is misplaced.

Sophia dropped her forehead into her hands.

Magic.

Right.

The last time she and Dean had even been in the same room, he'd spilled coffee onto her notes while waving his hands around telling someone about "emotional elasticity in comedic timing."

Whatever that meant.

And now they were expected to write-together-a defining piece on love.

Yes. Murder was more likely.

She stood, straightened her blazer, and marched toward the bullpen with the dignity of someone who absolutely was not contemplating faking her own death.

The office was its usual blend of urgency and caffeine dependency. Phones rang. Keyboards clacked. Someone somewhere shouted about needing fact-checking "yesterday." It was home.

Until she reached his desk.

Dean's workspace looked like a gorgeous explosion. Sketchbooks everywhere. Mismatched pens. Sticky notes with half-ideas. Three empty energy drink cans. A tablet with a half-finished drawing-a cupid wearing headphones and sunglasses. Of course.

Dean himself was nowhere to be found.

Typical.

She folded her arms tightly, mentally drafting what she'd say when he finally wandered in at whatever time suited his artistic flow. Something professional. Something firm. Something that clearly stated: We do this my way or not at all.

But as she stood there, his sketchbook caught her eye.

She shouldn't look.

She absolutely shouldn't.

So naturally, she leaned closer.

The top page held a rough drawing of two figures standing on opposite sides of a city-one tense and precise with clean lines, the other loose and free, drawn in warm messy strokes. Between them, a skyline. With a heart stuck in the middle like an inconvenient truth neither knew what to do with.

She frowned.

Was this... him?

Was this... them?

Before she could decide whether to be irritated or weirdly thrown off balance, a voice behind her said:

"Careful. The characters in that one bite."

She spun around.

Dean Mercer leaned against the wall like he'd been placed there for dramatic effect. Tousled dark curls. Hoodie halfway zipped. A smile that looked too soft to be safe.

He was holding a smoothie with a neon straw like it was part of his personality.

"How long have you been standing there?" she demanded.

"Long enough to watch you almost snoop." He grinned. "I knew you'd cave."

"I wasn't snooping."

"Oh no, of course not. You were... appreciating the art?"

Sophia inhaled sharply.

"Where were you?" she snapped. "We have a mandatory meeting."

He blinked. "I was here."

"No, you weren't."

"No, I was," he said, pointing to a beanbag chair behind his desk she hadn't noticed. "I was lying down and contemplating the emotional architecture of love."

"...you were napping, weren't you?"

He sipped his smoothie. "With purpose."

Her eye twitched.

"Dean, this assignment is important," she began.

"I know." His voice softened unexpectedly. "It's the first meaningful piece they've trusted me with in months. I don't want to screw it up."

She blinked, startled by the sincerity.

But then he added cheerfully:

"So obviously, you're in charge."

"I-what?"

"You're the organised one. The planner. The queen of outlines." He bowed dramatically. "I surrender to the structure."

Sophia stared at him, caught between relief and suspicion.

"Good," she said slowly. "Then let's schedule-"

"But!" he cut in. "I have one request."

Her relief evaporated.

"Dean-"

"Just one," he insisted, raising a finger. "We do this together. Not just your way."

"That's not-"

"You don't get to run everything. I don't get to float around aimlessly. We find a middle. Deal?"

It was reasonable.

Irritatingly reasonable.

Sophia crossed her arms. "Fine. Middle."

Dean brightened like a child handed a paint set.

"Great! We should start by going outside."

She deadpanned. "Why?"

"Because inspiration. Because sunlight. Because humans. Because modern love is literally happening everywhere, and we can't write it from inside an office."

She opened her mouth to argue, but he was already gathering pens, sketchbook, tablet, and his smoothie with the efficiency of someone packing for a day trip he planned twelve seconds ago.

Against her better judgment, she followed him.

Their walk started in silence.

Sophia kept her pace controlled, professional, efficient. Dean, however, walked like he was on a scavenger hunt for life's hidden jokes. He stopped to watch a dog wearing a tiny raincoat. He paused to smile at a couple arguing playfully over a pastry. He sketched a child giving a pigeon a stern lecture.

Sophia watched him, annoyed but... grudgingly fascinated.

Everything seemed to inspire him. Everything had meaning. Everything was a story.

"So what do you think love looks like now?" he asked suddenly.

She wasn't prepared for the question.

"Love?" she echoed. "Love is... complicated."

"That's a cop-out."

"It's a summary."

He gave her a knowing look.

"You don't trust it."

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to."

Sophia stiffened, caught off guard by how easily he read her.

"What about you?" she countered. "What does love look like to you?"

Dean shrugged. "Messy. Chaotic. Unpredictable. But worth it."

"Figures."

"What does that mean?"

"You find beauty in disorder," she said. "I find... danger."

He studied her for a moment too long.

"Well," he said softly, "maybe this assignment is supposed to teach us something."

She ignored the tightening in her stomach.

They walked in tense silence until they reached the waterfront. The breeze was cool, the city glowing beyond the river. Dean sat on a bench and started sketching rapidly, eyes flicking between her and the skyline.

She felt strangely exposed.

"What are you drawing?"

"Nothing important."

"Let me see."

"Nope."

"Dean."

He held the sketchbook against his chest protectively.

"It's not done."

"Then why did you look at me while drawing it?"

He froze.

For one fragile second-the playful mask slipped.

Dean looked at her with an expression she didn't know how to read.

Something softer. Something quieter. Something that made her breath catch.

"I draw what feels real," he said finally.

"And I feel real?" she asked before she could stop herself.

He swallowed.

"You're"-his voice faltered-"you're sharper than most people. Harder to capture. But... yeah. You feel real."

Sophia turned away, unsure what to do with the heat pooling in her chest.

It was too much.

Too early.

Too intimate.

"So," Dean said suddenly, forcing lightness back into his voice, "how do you think we should start the feature?"

"We outline interviews," she said. "We design a timeline. We identify themes."

"And then?"

"And then we begin drafting in segments, merging narrative and visual sections."

Dean nodded slowly.

"That... makes sense."

"Thank you."

"But," he added, "you're forgetting something."

"What?"

He angled his sketchbook, revealing just enough for her to see-

A rough drawing of her standing in the exact spot she was in now, hair tousled by the wind, gaze distant, expression unreadable... but powerful.

And across the page, written in the corner:

"Love doesn't follow structure. It breaks it."

Her breath hitched.

"Dean..."

But he wasn't looking at her anymore. His expression had shifted-darker, heavier, like a shadow had slipped beneath his smile.

"I didn't draw this today," he said, voice too quiet.

She blinked. "What do you mean?"

"I started it... weeks ago."

Sophia froze.

"Why?" she whispered.

Dean closed the sketchbook slowly-too slowly.

"We should head back," he said, standing before she could press further.

"No," she insisted, stepping in front of him. "Dean, why did you draw me before we were assigned together?"

He hesitated.

And then-

A phone buzzed sharply.

Dean looked at the screen.

His face drained of colour.

Sophia had never seen him look frightened.

Not once.

"What's wrong?" she demanded.

He didn't answer.

He just whispered:

"...This can't be happening."

"Dean-"

He turned to her slowly, eyes wide, voice trembling-

"Sophia... we have a problem."

Dean didn't move.

He didn't blink.

He didn't breathe.

He just stared at the glowing phone screen like it was a detonator and he was seconds away from blowing up everything he'd ever built-including the very thin, fragile thread of trust forming between them.

Sophia stepped closer.

"What happened?" she asked, her voice steady even as her pulse kicked up. "Dean, talk to me."

He swallowed hard, thumb hovering over the screen, fingers trembling.

"It's-" He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. Exhaled shakily. "It's someone I didn't think I'd ever hear from again."

Her brows tightened.

"Who?"

Instead of answering, he shoved the phone in his pocket and took a shaky step away from her. The movement wasn't casual-it was evasive, defensive, scared.

Sophia's gut twisted.

Whatever this was, it wasn't small.

"Dean," she said carefully, "you're scaring me."

He laughed-not the warm, disarming laugh he was known for-but a broken, hollow one.

"Yeah," he muttered, "I'm scaring myself too."

She reached out instinctively, fingers brushing his sleeve.

He froze.

But he didn't pull away.

"What's going on?" she whispered.

He opened his mouth-

closed it-

then opened it again-

"It's someone I used to care about," he finally said. "Someone who... didn't exactly leave quietly."

Sophia's pulse stilled.

"A past relationship?"

Dean's jaw flexed.

"You could call it that." He rubbed his forehead. "But you'd be wrong."

She frowned. "Then what-?"

But he cut her off abruptly.

"Look, let's not do this here. Not now." He forced a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "We have work to do."

"You can't just pretend nothing happened," she argued. "You look like you saw a ghost."

He let out a breath.

"...I did."

The wind picked up, brushing cold air between them.

Sophia's voice lowered. "Dean. Who texted you?"

The question hung heavily.

He dug in his pocket again, pulled out the phone hesitantly, as if it physically hurt to show her.

The screen lit up.

One message.

One sender.

One line.

And not just any contact name.

A contact saved with no name at all-just an initial:

"M"

Sophia felt a sting of something she didn't want to name.

Before she could ask anything, Dean's phone buzzed again.

Another message from M.

Dean flinched.

This time, before he could hide it, she read the preview line lighting the screen:

"We're not finished. Answer me."

Sophia's heart dropped into her stomach.

"That doesn't sound like someone harmless," she murmured.

Dean shut off the phone like he was slamming a door.

"Let's go," he said, voice tight. "We need to get back."

But Sophia didn't move.

"Dean."

"Please," he said. "Just-drop it."

"No," she replied quietly. "Not when it clearly affects you. And not when we're supposed to be working closely for the next six weeks."

She took a steady breath.

"You need to tell me what's going on."

His shoulders slumped.

For a long moment, he just stood there, staring at the ground, twisting the strap of his sketchbook between his fingers.

Then-

"I didn't leave things clean," he admitted. "And someone got hurt. Badly."

Sophia's chest tightened.

"Did you... hurt them?" she asked carefully.

Dean met her eyes. His were dark, haunted.

"I didn't mean to," he whispered.

Something about the way he said it-so quiet, so raw-made her stomach flip.

She wanted to step closer. She wanted to step away.

She stayed exactly where she was.

"Is that why you drew me before the assignment?" she asked softly. "Because you knew something from your past was coming back?"

He blinked, startled.

"That-no." He rubbed his face. "That part has nothing to do with... this."

"Then what does it have to do with?"

For the second time that afternoon, Dean struggled to find words.

He opened his sketchbook slowly... but stopped short of revealing the page.

"You don't have to see this," he said, voice almost fragile. "Really. It's just... personal."

"Dean," she said gently, "you're a part of this story too. And whatever is affecting you will affect our work."

He exhaled shakily.

"You're going to think I'm ridiculous."

"Try me."

He hesitated-then finally flipped open the sketchbook.

Sophia looked down.

It was her.

Not polished, not poised-

but soft.

Unarmored.

Human.

A version of herself she didn't show anyone.

Her breath caught.

"It's... beautiful," she said quietly.

Dean's cheeks flushed faintly.

"I didn't mean to draw you," he murmured. "I don't usually draw people I barely know. But that day, you walked past the conference room window and-"

He broke off.

"And?" she whispered.

"You looked... lonely."

Sophia's chest constricted.

"And I thought," he continued, "maybe I should capture that before the world makes you hide it again."

She swallowed hard.

"Dean..."

"I know it was weird," he rushed. "And unprofessional. And probably invasive. I wasn't planning to show it to anyone. Especially not you."

He snapped the sketchbook shut.

"But then this assignment happened and I thought maybe-maybe-it meant something."

Sophia's mind spun.

She didn't know if it was comforting or terrifying that Dean had seen her with that much clarity before they'd even spoken properly.

But before she could decide how she felt-

Dean's phone buzzed again.

This time, he didn't check it.

He didn't have to.

Because seconds later-

Her phone buzzed too.

Sophia frowned and pulled it from her pocket.

Unknown number.

No contact.

Just a single message.

Her blood went cold.

"Tell Dean to answer me. You're with him, aren't you?"

She froze.

Dean saw her expression.

His skin went pale.

"What does it say?" he whispered.

She turned the screen toward him.

He stared at it in horror.

"Oh God," he breathed. "No. No, no-this isn't supposed to touch you."

Sophia felt her heart begin to pound, her body responding before her mind fully processed the fear curling in her stomach.

"Dean," she said slowly, "how does this person know about me?"

He didn't answer.

"Dean," she insisted, louder now, "how do they know I'm with you?"

He closed his eyes like he was bracing for impact.

"Sophia," he said quietly, voice trembling, "there's something I need to tell you. Something I should've told you the moment I got that first message."

She stepped back, adrenaline spiking.

"What did you do?" she demanded.

He met her gaze-haunted, guilty, desperate.

"I didn't tell you the truth," he said. "Not about the past. Not about 'M.' Not about why I drew you. Not about why they care."

Sophia's entire body went cold.

"Why do they care, Dean?" she whispered.

He opened his mouth.

But before he could answer-

Her phone buzzed again.

Another message.

Another line.

This time, it knocked the air from her lungs.

"If he won't answer, maybe you will."

Sophia's breath stopped.

Dean's face drained of every shade of colour.

"Sophia," he said hoarsely, "we need to leave. Right now."

"Dean," she whispered, shaking, "what's happening?"

And he finally said the words that changed everything:

"I think... I think you're in danger because of me."

CHAPTER 2 - LATE, LOUD, AND INFURIATING

The newsroom was never quiet, but today it felt like someone had slapped an amplifier on every single sound-phones ringing, keyboards slamming, printers whirring like they were on the verge of combustion. Sophia sat at her desk drowning in all of it, jaw tight, fingers curled around her mug as she attempted to rehearse patience.

She had been early. She had reorganized her notes three times. She had mentally outlined the feature, the angles, the interview structure, the tone. She was ready.

Dean, however, was thirty-four minutes late.

And counting.

It wasn't even that she disliked him yet. She didn't know him well enough for that. She just knew the idea of him-a comic artist, a "creative free spirit," the kind of man who doodled during meetings, probably smelled like pencils and chaos, and didn't take deadlines seriously.

Which was everything she hated.

Her editor, God bless his chaos-loving soul, had paired them intentionally. "You need someone who can loosen your writing. Something with a heartbeat," he'd said. "And Dean needs someone who can turn his stories into actual structure."

Sophia didn't want to be anyone's structure.

And she definitely didn't want to be waiting on someone who treated punctuality like an optional sport.

She sat there, checking her phone for the time again, muttering under her breath, "Unbelievable."

When the glass entrance doors finally burst open, the newsroom seemed to inhale collectively.

A man stumbled in-hair an unbrushed ocean of dark waves, backpack slung over one shoulder, sketchbooks falling from his arms, a coffee cup tilting dangerously in the other. He apologized to someone who hadn't even glared at him yet. Papers fluttered behind him like confetti.

And he was loud.

Too loud.

"Sorry! Sorry, so sorry-oh God, that wasn't mine-sorry! I'm here, I'm here-wait, no, I'm spilling-okay, alright-hi!"

Everyone turned to stare.

Sophia closed her eyes. The universe was mocking her.

This... this had to be him.

He spotted her instantly-somehow-and his entire face brightened like she was oxygen and he had been suffocating for years.

"You're Sophia?" he asked, breathless, dropping a notebook that bounced off his shoe. "Hi. I'm Dean. Sorry I'm late. I had-okay, long story. I'll explain. No, actually I won't, it's embarrassing. But I'm here now!"

He said it proudly, as if his arrival-thirty-seven minutes late-deserved applause.

Sophia stared at him. "You're late."

Dean blinked. "Yeah, I know. I said that."

"You said sorry," she replied. "You didn't acknowledge the fact that you wasted my time."

His eyebrows shot up. "Wow. Okay. Good morning to you too."

"It was a good morning," she muttered.

He laughed-an easy, warm sound that made her irritation flare hotter. "You're intense."

"You're unprofessional."

"Oh, so this is how it's going to be," he murmured under his breath, amused.

Sophia inhaled sharply. "This is how it's going to be if you can't respect schedules."

He opened his mouth, then closed it, then squinted at her as if trying to decode a puzzle only visible to him.

"Well," he finally said, "you're clearly the brains of this operation."

"And you're clearly the chaos."

"Chaos makes good stories," he countered.

"Deadlines make published ones."

"Oh, we're going to be fun," he said, half-teasing, half-challenging.

He took a seat beside her desk-well, technically he crashed into it, knocking a pen holder over and catching it with surprising reflexes.

Sophia pinched the bridge of her nose.

"This is a nightmare," she whispered.

Dean heard it. Of course he did.

"Hey," he said softly, tone shifting. "I know I'm... a lot. But I'm good at what I do. And I promise I'll take this seriously."

She looked at him then-really looked.

He wasn't smug.

He wasn't defensive.

He looked genuinely hopeful.

And something inside her chest tugged in a way she didn't give permission for.

It annoyed her instantly.

"Let's just get to work," she said.

Dean nodded, pulling out a pencil and sketchpad. "Alright, boss."

She froze. "I'm not your boss."

"Oh, I know," he grinned. "But you really give off that vibe. Like... if vibes could hold clipboards."

She stared at him.

He smirked.

She hated that she almost smiled.

Almost.

The meeting was supposed to last an hour. It took two, because Dean kept interrupting her structure with "What if the opening scene is a doodle?" and "Can we add a panel where modern love is represented by two pigeons sharing a leftover sandwich?" and "Do you think heartbreak is funnier or sadder when animated?"

Sophia resisted the urge to throttle him with her own notebook.

At one point he grabbed her pen from her hand in the middle of her sentence.

"Don't," she said.

"Why not?"

"I was using that."

"You were gripping it hard enough to snap it in half."

"That's because you kept-"

"Existing? Living? Contributing?"

"Interrupting!"

"Oh."

He shrugged, unconcerned.

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to walk away.

She wanted to... understand how someone could be so infuriating and strangely likable in the same breath.

And then, as if the universe wanted to make things worse, her editor passed by, leaned down between them and whispered, "Great chemistry, you two. Keep it going."

Dean grinned.

Sophia glared.

Chemistry?

There was no chemistry.

There was... combustion.

Which wasn't the same thing.

Not at all.

When the meeting finally ended, Sophia stood up, gathering her things with movements so sharp they could slice air.

Dean stood too, towering slightly over her. "So... lunch? To keep brainstorming?"

"No."

"Coffee?"

"No."

"A walk?"

"No."

"A truce?"

She paused.

"What kind of truce?"

"The kind where you don't kill me, and I don't annoy you intentionally."

"You annoy me unintentionally?"

"Yes," he said proudly.

Sophia exhaled. "We don't need a truce. We need boundaries."

Dean brightened. "Boundaries are my favourite! I cross them a lot."

"Exactly my point."

He laughed.

She did not.

"Well," he said, adjusting his backpack, "see you tomorrow?"

"Be on time."

He saluted with exaggerated seriousness. "Yes ma'am."

She watched him walk away, shaking her head, telling herself she didn't notice the way people naturally moved aside for him, the way he smiled at the receptionist, the way his steps bounced like he lived on a different frequency.

A lighter one.

A freer one.

She shouldn't envy that.

But she did.

And that scared her.

Sophia stepped into the hallway alone, hugging her folders tightly. She needed air. She needed silence. She needed-

Her phone vibrated.

Unknown Number: He's going to ruin everything. Don't trust him.

Sophia froze.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Another message popped up.

Unknown Number: You don't know who you're working with.

Her stomach dropped.

She glanced back toward the newsroom-Dean was gone.

Her pulse climbed.

A final message arrived, chilling her spine:

Unknown Number:

If he becomes part of your story... so will you.

Sophia's breath caught.

Her fingers trembled.

And the hallway suddenly felt much, much darker.

The newsroom was never quiet, but today it felt like someone had slapped an amplifier on every single sound-phones ringing, keyboards slamming, printers whirring like they were on the verge of combustion. Sophia sat at her desk drowning in all of it, jaw tight, fingers curled around her mug as she attempted to rehearse patience.

She had been early. She had reorganised her notes three times. She had mentally outlined the feature, the angles, the interview structure, the tone. She was ready.

Dean, however, was thirty-four minutes late.

And counting.

It wasn't even that she disliked him yet. She didn't know him well enough for that. She just knew the idea of him-a comic artist, a "creative free spirit," the kind of man who doodled during meetings, probably smelled like pencils and chaos, and didn't take deadlines seriously.

Which was everything she hated.

Her editor, God bless his chaos-loving soul, had paired them intentionally. "You need someone who can loosen your writing. Something with a heartbeat," he'd said. "And Dean needs someone who can turn his stories into actual structure."

Sophia didn't want to be anyone's structure.

And she definitely didn't want to be waiting on someone who treated punctuality like an optional sport.

She sat there, checking her phone for the time again, muttering under her breath, "Unbelievable."

When the glass entrance doors finally burst open, the newsroom seemed to inhale collectively.

A man stumbled in-hair an unbrushed ocean of dark waves, backpack slung over one shoulder, sketchbooks falling from his arms, a coffee cup tilting dangerously in the other. He apologized to someone who hadn't even glared at him yet. Papers fluttered behind him like confetti.

And he was loud.

Too loud.

"Sorry! Sorry, so sorry-oh God, that wasn't mine-sorry! I'm here, I'm here-wait, no, I'm spilling-okay, alright-hi!"

Everyone turned to stare.

Sophia closed her eyes. The universe was mocking her.

This... this had to be him.

He spotted her instantly-somehow-and his entire face brightened like she was oxygen and he had been suffocating for years.

"You're Sophia?" he asked, breathless, dropping a notebook that bounced off his shoe. "Hi. I'm Dean. Sorry I'm late. I had-okay, long story. I'll explain. No, actually I won't, it's embarrassing. But I'm here now!"

He said it proudly, as if his arrival-thirty-seven minutes late-deserved applause.

Sophia stared at him. "You're late."

Dean blinked. "Yeah, I know. I said that."

"You said sorry," she replied. "You didn't acknowledge the fact that you wasted my time."

His eyebrows shot up. "Wow. Okay. Good morning to you too."

"It was a good morning," she muttered.

He laughed-an easy, warm sound that made her irritation flare hotter. "You're intense."

"You're unprofessional."

"Oh, so this is how it's going to be," he murmured under his breath, amused.

Sophia inhaled sharply. "This is how it's going to be if you can't respect schedules."

He opened his mouth, then closed it, then squinted at her as if trying to decode a puzzle only visible to him.

"Well," he finally said, "you're clearly the brains of this operation."

"And you're clearly the chaos."

"Chaos makes good stories," he countered.

"Deadlines make published ones."

"Oh, we're going to be fun," he said, half-teasing, half-challenging.

He took a seat beside her desk-well, technically he crashed into it, knocking a pen holder over and catching it with surprising reflexes.

Sophia pinched the bridge of her nose.

"This is a nightmare," she whispered.

Dean heard it. Of course he did.

"Hey," he said softly, tone shifting. "I know I'm... a lot. But I'm good at what I do. And I promise I'll take this seriously."

She looked at him then-really looked.

He wasn't smug.

He wasn't defensive.

He looked genuinely hopeful.

And something inside her chest tugged in a way she didn't give permission for.

It annoyed her instantly.

"Let's just get to work," she said.

Dean nodded, pulling out a pencil and sketchpad. "Alright, boss."

She froze. "I'm not your boss."

"Oh, I know," he grinned. "But you really give off that vibe. Like... if vibes could hold clipboards."

She stared at him.

He smirked.

She hated that she almost smiled.

Almost.

The meeting was supposed to last an hour. It took two, because Dean kept interrupting her structure with "What if the opening scene is a doodle?" and "Can we add a panel where modern love is represented by two pigeons sharing a leftover sandwich?" and "Do you think heartbreak is funnier or sadder when animated?"

Sophia resisted the urge to throttle him with her own notebook.

At one point he grabbed her pen from her hand in the middle of her sentence.

"Don't," she said.

"Why not?"

"I was using that."

"You were gripping it hard enough to snap it in half."

"That's because you kept-"

"Existing? Living? Contributing?"

"Interrupting!"

"Oh."

He shrugged, unconcerned.

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to walk away.

She wanted to... understand how someone could be so infuriating and strangely likable in the same breath.

And then, as if the universe wanted to make things worse, her editor passed by, leaned down between them and whispered, "Great chemistry, you two. Keep it going."

Dean grinned.

Sophia glared.

Chemistry?

There was no chemistry.

There was... combustion.

Which wasn't the same thing.

Not at all.

When the meeting finally ended, Sophia stood up, gathering her things with movements so sharp they could slice air.

Dean stood too, towering slightly over her. "So... lunch? To keep brainstorming?"

"No."

"Coffee?"

"No."

"A walk?"

"No."

"A truce?"

She paused.

"What kind of truce?"

"The kind where you don't kill me, and I don't annoy you intentionally."

"You annoy me unintentionally?"

"Yes," he said proudly.

Sophia exhaled. "We don't need a truce. We need boundaries."

Dean brightened. "Boundaries are my favourite! I cross them a lot."

"Exactly my point."

He laughed.

She did not.

"Well," he said, adjusting his backpack, "see you tomorrow?"

"Be on time."

He saluted with exaggerated seriousness. "Yes ma'am."

She watched him walk away, shaking her head, telling herself she didn't notice the way people naturally moved aside for him, the way he smiled at the receptionist, the way his steps bounced like he lived on a different frequency.

A lighter one.

A freer one.

She shouldn't envy that.

But she did.

And that scared her.

Sophia stepped into the hallway alone, hugging her folders tightly. She needed air. She needed silence. She needed-

Her phone vibrated.

Unknown Number: He's going to ruin everything. Don't trust him.

Sophia froze.

Her heart slammed against her ribs.

Another message popped up.

Unknown Number: You don't know who you're working with.

Her stomach dropped.

She glanced back toward the newsroom-Dean was gone.

Her pulse climbed.

A final message arrived, chilling her spine:

Unknown Number:

If he becomes part of your story... so will you.

Sophia's breath caught.

Her fingers trembled.

And the hallway suddenly felt much, much darker.

Someone is watching. Someone is warning. But is the danger about Dean... or something else?

Sophia didn't breathe for a full five seconds.

Not because she forgot how-because her body refused to. The hallway felt narrower. Dimmer. Like the overhead lights had stepped back just enough to make shadows longer.

Anonymous text messages were not new to her; journalism came with its fair share of unhappy readers and defensive sources. But this?

This was different.

This was specific.

Targeted.

Personal.

Her fingers hovered over the screen before she typed, Who is this?

Delivered.

Read.

No reply.

Sophia swallowed hard. She checked the empty hallway again, half-expecting someone to be standing there watching her. Nothing. Just the faint buzz of printers and murmurs from distant desks.

She forced herself forward, heels clicking too loudly, echoing down the corridor.

She told herself not to overreact.

She'd had worse. She'd been threatened before-usually by people who had everything to lose if the truth ever surfaced. But those messages had always followed stories, investigations, leads. Things that mattered. Things dangerous people would care about.

But this message was about...

Dean.

The artist who spilled things. Who talked too much and ran late and sketched strange little characters on napkins. The man who could barely control his coffee cup, let alone cause enough damage to warrant anonymous warnings.

Unless she was missing something.

Unless she didn't know him nearly as well as she thought.

The idea unsettled her.

She shoved the phone into her bag and marched toward the exit. She didn't have time to think about threats. She had a draft to begin. A project to survive. A co-worker who needed to learn punctuality and basic human decibel limits.

That was enough stress.

Right?

Outside, the cold air slapped her in the face, grounding her a little. The city buzzed around her in a way that usually centered her-cars honking, people shouting across streets, distant music from a fruit seller's stall-but today it all felt too loud.

She only got a few steps from the building when someone stepped into her path.

She jumped back, hand flying to her chest.

Dean.

He stood there, breathless again, like he'd run down the stairs instead of taking the elevator. "Whoa-sorry, I swear I wasn't stalking you."

"That is exactly what a stalker would say."

He grinned, and somehow it softened the tension in her chest by a fraction. "No seriously, I forgot to ask-do you have a preferred style for outlining the article? Bullet points? Paragraph summaries? Or do you want to throw my entire structure out the window and create your own?"

Sophia blinked. He remembered the project? And was... eager?

"We can discuss it tomorrow," she said, adjusting her bag on her shoulder. "Right now I need to get home."

His eyes flicked to her expression-just a flick, but he noticed the tightness. The stiffness. "You okay?"

She hesitated. Just long enough for him to read something in her silence.

His face sobered. His voice dropped. "Sophia... what happened?"

She considered telling him. The messages were about him, after all. But sharing them felt too real. Too immediate. Too vulnerable.

And she didn't want him thinking she was frightened by some random unknown texter.

"I'm fine," she said firmly.

He didn't look convinced, but he let it go. "Alright. But... for what it's worth, today was fun."

She raised a brow. "Fun?"

"Yeah," he said, cheeks dimpling. "You're tough. It's cool."

"Annoying is not cool."

"It is when you're the good kind of annoying."

Sophia sputtered. "There's no 'good kind' of-"

"There is. You're organised, determined, and you have this very intense eyebrow thing that tells me when I'm pushing it too far."

"I do not have an eyebrow thing."

"You totally do." He pointed at her. "And there it is. Eyebrow Thing™."

She exhaled in disbelief. "Go home, Dean."

He stepped aside, raising his hands in exaggerated surrender. "Yes ma'am."

She walked past him, trying not to let the corners of her mouth curl.

She failed.

Just a little.

When Sophia got home, the apartment was quiet-exactly how she liked it. But even the silence didn't settle her. She kept replaying the messages, the unknown number, the implications.

She finally sank onto her couch, exhaling slowly as she pulled out her laptop to take refuge in the thing that had always grounded her: work.

But her phone buzzed again.

Her heart stuttered.

Same unknown number.

Unknown: He's not who you think he is.

Sophia locked her jaw.

Before she could type anything, another message came.

Unknown: Check his name.

Her pulse pounded.

Her fingers shook-more with anger than fear now.

She typed back: Stop messaging me or I'll report this number.

A beat.

Then:

Report all you want.

The truth doesn't care who believes it.

Sophia blocked the number immediately.

She tossed her phone to the other side of the couch and rubbed her temples.

This was ridiculous.

Probably a prank.

Probably nothing.

But another intrusive thought formed-the kind that slipped in through the cracks of logic:

What truth?

Across the city, Dean collapsed onto his couch with a groan, throwing his backpack onto the floor. His apartment was messy-coffee cups, sketches everywhere, a half-eaten packet of crisps from two days ago.

He stared at the ceiling, replaying the day.

Sophia had been... intense. Sharp-edged. All structure and precision and barely concealed annoyance.

But she'd also been smart. And brave. And frustratingly beautiful in that way disciplined people often were.

He liked her already.

Too much, maybe.

He grabbed his sketchpad, flipping to a page where he'd doodled earlier during their meeting-a tiny cartoon version of her, frowning at him with the caption: You're late again, Dean.

He snorted.

Then his phone buzzed.

He glanced at the unknown number. "Spam," he muttered.

But the message made him sit up straighter:

Unknown:

You shouldn't be working with her.

Dean frowned.

Then frowned deeper.

Another message:

She's going to dig into things you should leave buried.

His stomach twisted.

Before he could reply, the number sent one final message:

Some stories ruin the people who write them.

Dean's phone slipped from his fingers.

His breathing hitched.

He tried to call the number.

Blocked.

His hands went to his hair as he stood abruptly, pacing.

He wanted to dismiss it as spam.

He wanted to assume it was a prank.

He wanted to believe this had nothing to do with-

He shut his eyes tightly.

No.

Not now.

Not again.

He grabbed his coat, heart pounding as he left his apartment in a hurry, like the walls were closing in.

He needed air.

Distance.

Silence.

He needed-

He didn't know.

Sophia spent the evening trying to write, but her mind kept returning to Dean's face as he asked if she was okay. The sincerity. The softness.

She didn't want to think about him.

She didn't want to care.

But something in today's chaos had unsettled her in a way she hadn't felt in a long time.

She was still lost in those thoughts when her phone-her regular messages-dinged again.

This time, it wasn't the unknown number.

It was her editor.

Editor:

Dean's been trying to reach you.

Everything alright?

Sophia frowned.

Her phone had no missed calls. No messages. No notifications.

Then another message appeared from her editor:

He said someone contacted him.

About you.

Be careful.

Sophia's blood ran cold.

Someone had texted Dean too.

Her chest tightened.

Someone was watching both of them.

But why?

She grabbed her coat and keys with shaking hands. Someone needed to answer questions tonight. And Dean seemed like the only person who could.

She stepped into the hallway, locking her apartment behind her.

Then she froze.

A piece of paper was wedged under her door.

She slowly pulled it out, heart thundering.

It was a printed note.

No sender.

No message.

Just one sentence:

"He's not the one you should fear."

Sophia felt her back press against the door, legs weakening beneath her.

The hallway was silent.

Too silent.

Somewhere inside her apartment, something creaked.

Was it the radiator?

Or was she not alone?

Her breath caught.

She reached slowly for her phone-

Then nearly dropped it when the hallway lights flickered once... twice... then went out completely.

Pitch black.

And in the darkness, she heard it:

A soft, deliberate footstep behind her.

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.