Page 93 of The Humiliated Wife

She didn’t have answers yet. Just the weight of questions pressing against her ribs.

CHAPTER 38

Dean

Dean crouchedbeside the driver's side tire, pressure gauge in hand, trying to work as quietly as possible in the pre-dawn darkness. He'd been at this for twenty minutes—checking fluids, replacing the wiper blades that had been streaking, cleaning the headlights.

The spare keys felt heavy in his pocket. He'd kept them out of habit, hadn’t thought to hand them over during that awful conversation on Emma's porch. Now he was grateful for his own negligence.

He adjusted the pressure in the back right tire, trying not to think too hard. But the memory from the night before kept flashing back—Troy Granger’s smug voice, the look on Fiona’s face, the moment her arms crossed. The moment he’d stepped in.

She hadn’t needed him. She hadn’t asked him.

But she’d let him do it anyway.

That meant something.

It wasn’t redemption. But it was something.

He'd gone home afterward and stared at the ceiling for hours, the adrenaline refusing to burn out. All he could see was Fiona—steady in the face of that asshole, graceful even while shaken. And Dean, just standing beside her, wanting to be her shield and knowing he was too late for that.

He’d jerked off anyway.

Rough. Impatient. Not because he thought he’d ever have her again—God, if only—but because he couldn’t hold it all in. The ache. The need. The wretchedness of still wanting her that badly when he’d ruined everything. He came with her name half-formed in his throat and self-loathing thick in his chest. The kind of release that didn’t soothe anything. Just confirmed how much of a mess he still was.

Now, in the gray hush before sunrise, he crouched beside her car with the same hands that had once touched her skin and now only got to twist wrenches and wipe grime off headlights.

He was packing up his tools when the front door opened.

Dean's head snapped up, heart hammering as Fiona stepped onto the porch. She was dressed for work—cream cardigan, jeans, her hair pulled back in that loose bun that always made a few pieces escape to frame her face. She had her travel mug in one hand, her work bag in the other.

And she was staring at him.

"Dean?" Her voice was small, confused. "What are you?—"

He stood slowly, tire gauge still in his hand, feeling caught. Feeling stupid. "Hi."

They looked at each other across the driveway. The space between them felt infinite and electric at the same time.

God, she was beautiful. Even in the gray morning light, even with exhaustion written in the lines around her eyes, even looking at him like he was a problem to be solved. She was so beautiful it made his chest ache.

"The tires were low," he said lamely, holding up the gauge like evidence. "And the wiper blades were getting old. I just—I wanted to…” he trailed off.

Looking at her—really looking at her—made all his rational thoughts evaporate.

She’d always been the most beautiful woman to him. He didn’t understand why the rest of the world didn’t see that as clearly as he did. The fools.

Sexy, too.

His body didn't understand that she wasn't his anymore. Not last night, and not this morning. Didn't understand that he'd forfeited the right to want her, to need her. Even now all he could think about was pulling her against him and burying his face in her hair.

He wanted her so badly it was a physical ache. Wanted to close the distance between them, wanted to kiss her until she remembered what they'd been like together, wanted to drive her home, carry her back to bed and spend the morning reminding her body why it used to fit so perfectly against his.

"The car's fine now," Dean said, stepping away from her space, away from the temptation to reach for her. "Everything's topped off. Tires are good. It should run smooth."

Fiona looked at him for a long moment.

"Thank you," she said finally. As if he deserved thanks.