Chapter Text
Dean’s POV
Sigh.
The sound leaves me heavier than it should, a mix of exhaustion and dread. I push myself upright in bed, the mattress creaking under the shift of my weight. My body feels like it’s still stuck in sleep, sluggish and reluctant. The blinds are crooked, spilling thin stripes of light across my blanket, and the dust floating in that sunlight looks like it’s mocking me—free, drifting, unbothered. Meanwhile, I’ve got a knot in my stomach.
A debate.
Later today.
It hovers in my chest like a storm cloud I can’t ignore. Debates always do this to me. They make me restless in the mornings, but not in a “can’t wait to crush this” way. More like a “why do I put myself through this” way.
I rub my eyes with the heels of my palms and glance at the clock on the nightstand: 8:47 a.m. Not too early, but not late enough to justify lying back down. I know myself—I’d only toss and turn, trapped in a loop of overthinking all the possible things I’ll mess up on stage.
“Okay, Dean. Move.” My own voice sounds scratchy.
I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and push myself up. The air is cooler outside the blankets, brushing against my skin. My apartment is quiet, too quiet, every sound exaggerated—the creak of the floorboards under my feet, the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen.
When I open the fridge, a wave of cold air rolls out, brushing goosebumps across my arms. I grab the milk, feel its weight. My hand is unsteady, and I know it’s not just from sleep. I reach into the cabinet for a bowl, the ceramic clinking faintly as I set it down. Then the cereal box—crunch, pour, scrape of flakes against ceramic. I’m hyper-aware of these sounds, like my whole world has been reduced to the mechanics of breakfast.
I sit down on the couch with my bowl balanced on my lap. The cushions dip under me, and I flick on the TV. The screen lights up with talking heads—clips of old debates, commentary, roundtable discussions. Everyone looks so composed, so sharp. They talk fast, they think faster. My stomach tightens.
I shovel a spoonful of cereal into my mouth, crunching absentmindedly as I scroll through my phone in the other hand. Articles, op-eds, statistics. I save a few quotes, jot some notes into my journal. Healthcare. Climate. Taxes. Immigration. Words blur together after a while, the same points circling back to me like a carousel.
I tell myself I’m preparing, but part of me knows I’m just stalling—keeping my brain busy so I don’t think about what’s really coming.
By the time the clock ticks past 10:30, I can’t ignore the inevitable anymore. I set the half-empty bowl in the sink and drag myself into the bathroom.
The mirror greets me with a tired reflection—messy hair, faint shadows under my eyes. I brush my teeth, shower, scrub myself into wakefulness. Then I dress: blazer, button-up, slacks. Clean, simple, safe. Not too flashy, but not sloppy either. I stare at myself in the mirror for a long second. “Good enough,” I mutter, though the words don’t convince me.
The walk to the venue is short, but every step makes my chest feel tighter. The closer I get, the louder the noise becomes—the shuffle of people, the clink of coffee cups, the hum of conversation. My shoes click against the polished floor as I enter.
Inside, they seat me and nineteen others in a circle around a wide, polished table. The room smells faintly of coffee and paper, and the fluorescent lights overhead buzz like an unending chorus. Everyone looks different—some slouched and bored, others sitting upright with confident smirks. Papers shuffle, pens tap nervously. I can feel my own leg bouncing under the table.
And then I see him.
Across the circle.
The world tilts for a second, as if the fluorescent lights decided to spotlight him alone. A man—no, the man. His presence is magnetic, pulling my eyes whether I want them to or not. He’s composed, but not stiff. Relaxed posture, one arm draped casually on the table, yet his sharp expression betrays alertness. His hair is dark and neatly styled, catching the light in a way that seems unfairly perfect. His suit fits him like it was tailored for his body alone.
And the worst part? He notices me noticing him. Our eyes meet for a fraction of a second, and I feel heat crawl up my neck. I look away, fiddling with my notes.
The debate begins. Voices overlap, rise and fall like waves crashing against one another. I try to focus, scribbling notes, but part of my attention is hooked on him. The cadence of his voice, the way he leans forward when he speaks, the slight curve of his lips when he challenges someone’s point.
Then it’s my turn.
I clear my throat and speak, voice a little shaky at first. But as I continue, words start to flow. The adrenaline kicks in, carrying me forward. I make my points, cite my facts, challenge weaknesses in others’ arguments. And then—he responds. To me.
His counterpoint is sharp, but not cruel. Confident, yet calm. He looks directly at me, and for a moment the whole room blurs, like we’re the only two people here. His voice is steady, almost melodic, and every glance feels like both a challenge and a connection.
Back and forth, we go. Debate turns into duel, but not in a hostile way. It feels alive, charged, electric. Like dancing with words. I can’t tell if anyone else notices, but I swear there’s something happening here, something layered under the arguments.
By the time the debate wraps up, I don’t even know who technically “won.” Applause scatters, chairs scrape back, papers are gathered. I move mechanically, but my mind is still tangled in the memory of his gaze, his words, his presence.
Back home, I kick off my shoes and collapse onto the couch. My apartment feels too quiet now, after the rush of voices and energy. My phone is already in my hand before I’ve even fully registered what I’m doing.
His name lingers in my head like a song I can’t shake.
I type it into Instagram.
Tap.
His profile loads.
And just like that—my chest tightens again. His face stares back at me from his profile picture, more casual here than he’d been at the debate. Still striking, still magnetic. My thumb hovers over the screen. Do I follow him? Do I scroll? Do I dare?
The glow of the screen washes over me in the darkened room, and for the first time all day, I forget to feel tired.