Skyler took a sip of her coffee, the therapy room's silence heavy after Dean's last words. "They said I did." She set the mug down, eyes locked on him. "Thirty minutes of truth," she said. "Let's keep going."
Dean leaned back, hands rubbing his face. "Fine. I took the label—criminal. Embezzler's son. It stuck." He exhaled, voice steady but raw. "Prison broke me down. But it built something too. Nate—he had this… spark. Scribbling rhymes in that cell, talking about stages and crowds. I started hearing beats in my head. That's when I knew—music was my way out."
Skyler's pen hovered. "You became a producer because of him."
Dean nodded. "His rhymes, my beats. We planned a mixtape. London's hardest." A faint smile—then it cracked. "He's not out. He's… in a coma."
Skyler's breath caught. "Why?"
Dean's jaw tightened. "Not today."
She shifted. "The rooftop. You said you wanted to 'sleep under the stars.' What really happened?"
Dean's eyes flicked away. "I was honest, Sky. Just… not about that." His voice was a wall—polite, final.
Skyler's pen stopped. He'd lied. About the central incident that brought him here. Her professional instinct said push. But the exhaustion in his eyes, the shadows under them darker than her cold could explain, said not today.
"When you're ready," she said quietly. "But Dean—I need to know. Eventually."
He nodded. They both knew eventually might be too late.
She studied him another moment. The dark circles, the slight tremor in his hands when he thought she wasn't looking, the way he kept his back to the wall. "Are you sleeping?"
"Enough," he said. Too quick.
"Dean—"
"I manage." His tone closed the subject.
Liar, she thought, but let it go. The clock hit thirty.
"I'll meet you at the restaurant," she said, standing. "Laura's waiting."
Outside, Dean's mother loomed, arms crossed. "What did you talk about?"
Skyler brushed past. "Confidential."
"Barbaric," his mother muttered, eyes narrowing. She'd already scoured Skyler's online profile—impeccable CV, glowing recommendations, no dirt. But that voice… shrill when angry, soft when professional. She'd heard it somewhere before. She'd find the connection.
Dean exited, helmet under his arm. His mother grabbed his sleeve. "What's her deal?"
He pulled free, meeting her eyes. Not anger. Not hatred. Disappointment. She'd discarded him for years—six years ago, she'd let him rot. He walked away without a word.
Dean rode his bike across London, his mother's face stuck in his mind. She'll ruin it. She always does. His hands tightened on the handlebars—too tight. His therapist would call it hypervigilance. He called it survival. Prison taught you to watch everything, trust nothing. Even six years later, some lessons stuck.
The nightmares were getting worse. Three times this week he'd woken at the villa, sheets soaked, Nate's blood on his hands—except it wasn't real. Just memory. Just terror looping until dawn.
He couldn't tell Skyler. Not when the court order hung over him. Not when Laura needed him stable.
But Laura's face—her giggle, her curls—cut through the dark like a spotlight. He exhaled, letting the image steady him.
High-end family restaurant, 7:04 p.m. Skyler arrived straight from the office, her coat still damp from earlier rain. The session with Dean's mother lurking outside had drained her more than she'd admit.
Laura sprinted across the entrance, spotting Dean. "DADDY!" She crashed into his legs, arms wide. Dean lifted her, her warmth pulling a smile he'd never shown in therapy.
Skyler approached, managing a soft smile despite her exhaustion. "Bathroom," she said, heading off.
Chris walked in—three women in tight dresses, all laughter and expensive perfume. His eyes caught Dean, and he froze mid-step.
"Dean? Shit, six years." Chris's voice was careful, friendly mask over shock.
Dean stood, Laura on his hip. "Chris."
Chris's gaze flicked to Laura—blonde curls, hazel eyes, tiny hand clutching Dean's shirt. "Who's this?"
"My daughter," Dean said simply.
Chris blinked. Daughter? When? His eyes dropped to Dean's hand—no ring. Single father? "I didn't know you had a kid."
"Most people don't," Dean said, voice neutral.
"Daddy's old friend Chris," Dean added to Laura, though his tone suggested "friend" was generous.
Laura tilted her head, suspicious. "Who's he?"
Chris laughed, awkward. His dates were getting impatient, heels clicking impatiently behind him. "Catch up soon?"
"Maybe," Dean said, noncommittal.
Chris retreated to the VIP section, but his eyes kept drifting back. Dean Goodwin. A dad. What else changed in six years?
Skyler returned from the bathroom, catching Chris's profile across the room. Her stomach dropped. Please don't let him see me.
Chris didn't turn. His attention was on his dates, pouring wine, playing the charming director. But Skyler saw the way his gaze had lingered on Dean's table. Curiosity planted.
She slid into her seat, face carefully neutral. "Everything okay?"
Dean's eyes flicked toward the VIP section. "Saw Chris. He's... exactly the same."
Skyler's jaw tightened but she said nothing. Laura chattered about her day, oblivious to the tension.
Dinner was quick. Skyler looked drained—more than just a cold. Dark circles, shoulders tight, distracted. Dean didn't ask, but he noticed.
9:20 p.m., Skyler's apartment door. Dean kissed Laura's forehead. "Tomorrow, kiddo."
Skyler nodded, eyes heavy. "Session helped?"
"Some truths are enough for one day."
"And some you're still keeping," she said, voice soft but pointed.
Dean met her gaze. "Yeah. Some I am."
Door closed.
Skyler collapsed on the couch, Laura already asleep in her arms. She thought about Dean's hands—the slight tremor, the way he gripped things too tight. The dark circles that matched her own. The carefully neutral answer: "I manage."
He's not sleeping, she realized. Nightmares? Insomnia? PTSD?
But he hid it well. Too well. Like someone practiced at concealing pain.
She'd have to watch closer. Ask differently. He wouldn't volunteer the truth—not about this.
A knock—soft, insistent.
She stood, half-smiling, Laura still in her arms. "Forget something?"