“Oh, it’s not a problem.” I pat down my pockets as if a set of keys to Dean’s place might materialize if I wish for it hard enough. “I just don’t know where I put them. I’m always misplacing things.”

Dean digs inside a drawer near the fridge and pulls out a set of keys. “They’re right here, silly. You put them there last night.”

“Right,” I say, clearing my throat, then smacking my forehead. “How could I forget? Anyway, have fun, you two!”

“Take lots of pictures,” Dean says, waving like a pageant queen.

When the door shuts after them, I collapse against the counter. “Faking a relationship is exhausting.”

“I don’t know,” Dean says with a shrug. “I think it’s been kind of fun.”

I stare up at him, my mouth agape. “Yeah, you’re definitely a clone. How are you not stressed about this?” I’m seconds from full-on whining, and I want to slap myself.

He arches an eyebrow and tilts his head. “Oh, I’m stressed about this, all right. But probably not for the same reason you are.”

“What’s your reason, then?”

“It’s hard to pretend to be your boyfriend and not want to hold you. For real.”

God, I know the feeling. But we’re supposed to be burying it deep inside our psyches, where it can’t do us any harm. He’s not sticking with the program. Damn him. “I think the stress is finally getting to me.”

He rounds the island and opens his arms, silently coaxing me to fall into his embrace. In that moment, it’s what I want most in this world, so I rise from the stool and erase the space between us, my arms sliding around his waist and my hands settling on his back. Grounded. That’s what being in Dean’s arms does to me. It’s as though he’s steadying my body and my mind. Whatever happens next, tomorrow, and beyond, I will always remember the perfection of being hugged in this way. Never mind that the person doing the hugging is Dean. Never mind that I’m definitely not supposed to be enjoying this to the extent that I am.

Too soon, he loosens his hold on me. I don’t let go, however. No, I want to hang on as long as I can.

Dean pushes a few curly strands away from my face, and I look up at him.

“You okay now?” he asks, his voice soft and comforting.

“Yeah, thanks.” I shake my head. “You must think I’m a mess. Would you be willing to erase the last few minutes from your memory?”

He shakes his head. “Sorry, can’t. I’d have to forget what you feel like in my arms.”

“Then why’d you pull away?” I ask.

His eyes narrow, as though he’s assessing whether I’m being serious.