One for the money, two for the show
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The sun hadn’t let up for hours. It was high, bright, unrelenting—baking the back patio in that golden, late-afternoon haze. The kind of heat that made everything slow down, made skin flush, made the air feel heavy with something unsaid.

Jamie had gone inside maybe ten minutes ago, laughing about getting too much sun and needing a quick rinse before dinner. You heard the screen door creak, then the sound of the upstairs shower kicking on, leaving the backyard unusually quiet.

Too quiet.

You were still stretched out on the lounge chair, sunglasses on, bikini straps carefully pulled down your shoulders to avoid lines, every inch of you humming from the warmth. That kind of perfect, lazy stillness.

Until you heard the screen door again.

Heavy footsteps on the deck. Slower this time. Purposeful.

Dean.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just walked over to the small outdoor fridge near the grill, cracking it open to pull out a beer. You could feel his presence before you even looked—like the gravity around you shifted the second he stepped outside.

He cracked the bottle open with one hand and leaned against the railing, drinking in the heat... and the view.

Another beat passed.

Then his voice came, low, almost too casual:

“You’re gonna burn if you stay out here like that.”

The ice clinked in the bottle as he took another sip, letting his eyes drag across your bare shoulders, down the arch of your back where your bikini barely clung. His gaze lingered—just a little too long to be appropriate.

And then, like it was nothing, he reached behind him and held up a half-full bottle of sunscreen.

“You want help with your back?”

He didn’t smirk. Didn’t wink. That wasn’t Dean’s style. He just stood there, quiet and steady, like he was offering to fix the fence or check the oil in your car.

But the heat in his eyes told a different story.

He took a few slow steps forward, each footfall thudding softly against the wooden deck, the sun catching the sheen of sweat still clinging to his chest and arms. The closer he got, the heavier the air felt.

“You’ll thank me later,” he added, voice smooth and low, like this was just common sense. Like this didn’t cross a line.

But you both knew exactly what it was.

He knelt beside the lounge chair, sunscreen bottle uncapped now, that familiar smell of coconut and salt thick in the heat between you. His hands weren’t touching yet—but they hovered close enough that your skin already tingled.

From inside, the sound of the shower kept running. The only noise besides your own heartbeat hammering in your ears.

Dean glanced toward the house, then back to you, bottle still in hand.

Waiting.

Watching.

And when he finally spoke again, it was barely a murmur:

“Tell me when to stop.”