𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙁𝙞𝙜𝙝𝙩𝙚𝙧'𝙨 𝙂𝙞𝙧𝙡

Ch. 33 - The Truce

"Ew!!!!" I jolted several steps back, throwing my hands up furiously. "What kind of a reaction is that, you freak?!"

"I'm sorry, what do you mean we kissed?!" Dean's eyebrows shot up, coughing and wiping excess water from his mouth.

I groaned, stomping away while scrubbing my hands over my wet face. I almost used the hem of my dress, but there just wasn't enough length to do so without flashing this idiot in front of me. This really isn't my kind of dress.

"The hell are you going?!"

"To find something to wipe off your spit!"

Dean couldn't hold back the loud growl of fustration, as he threw his bottle to the side and again chased after me. He yanked me back toward him by the first thing he could grab, which happened to be the fabric over the butt of my dress, and I was turned around directly into his arms.

"Will you relax! It's just water."

"Out of your mouth! I swear to god, you better have good oral hygiene, Dean!"

I couldn't get another word out before he rolled his eyes, managed to move aside his cargo jacket, and in a swift motion forced my head down to dry my face with the bottom hem of his henley shirt.

His hand weren't rough with it necessarily, but the choked squawk that escaped my throat was beyond embarrassing, and every fiber of my being was utterly mortified at the realization that my face was inches away from being pressed against the warmth of his uncovered and magnificently sculpted torso.

I ripped away from the secure grip, nearly tripping in my haste and making this lunacy even worse. You could cook a ham with the heat currently surging through my cheeks and ears.

"I'm sorry I spit in your face. Now, elaborate."

The sheer gall of this boy.

I'll attack him.

I really will.

I'll definitely, most certainly attack him.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Oh, I'm exceptionally sorry, then. Would you rather we come back another time and revisit the subject?"

My hand didn't hesitate to reach for the nearest piece of broken concrete and chuck it straight at his chest, which of course he effortlessly dodged.

"It was a stupid drunken kiss, alright?! What's to talk about."

By the look on Dean's face showed he --like myself-- clearly wanted to be anywhere but here. Though I had a feeling that if I tried stepping away again, he'd drag me right back. Apparently there wasn't any slinking out of this one.

For a moment it almost seemed as though he was going to accept my blatantly shallow answer. But a deep determination washed over his expression as it seemed he was coming to some big realization.

"Wait," His eyes narrowed, gaze leaving me bare and exposed. "I was drunk. You were not."

The beating in my chest intensified, and for once I couldn't meet his eyes. Silence fell between us, and I refused to let my eyes leave the floor. Only the muted beat of the distant party filled the hall, which suddenly felt far too small and large all at once. A drunken couple stumbled around a corner, giggling flirtatiously to each other before slipping past us to find somewhere private. I cringed.

Dean rested his hand low on his hips.

"Who kissed first?"

My hands started jittering. "Y-you."