Page 43 of The Ex-Girlfriend Agreement

"You're not asking. I'm offering." He takes my hand, his palm warm against mine. "But it doesn't have to be all or nothing. That's what I've been trying to tell you. There are options between 'completely together' and 'completely apart.'"

"Like what?" I ask, genuinely wanting to hear his thoughts.

"Like splitting our time between Colorado and New York, at least for a while. Like me commuting part of the month while my foreman handles things on the ground. Like finding a middle point eventually—Denver, maybe, where you could still work in marketing and I could manage the ranch with a reasonable drive."

He's clearly thought about this, and the realization sends a pang through my chest. While I've been panicking about an impossible choice, he's been looking for practical solutions.

"That would be a lot of time apart," I say, focusing on the logistics to avoid the emotional current underneath. "A lot of travel. A lot of disruption."

"At first, yes," he agrees. "But it's a starting point, not the final answer. We'd figure it out as we go, adjust as needed."

His reasonable approach should reassure me, but instead, it makes the pressure in my chest worse. Because underneath his practical suggestions is an emotional certainty I don't share—the absolute conviction that we're worth any inconvenience, any challenge, any compromise.

I do love him. But am I ready to reshape my entire life around that love?

"Maybe we should..." I start, then hesitate, knowing what I'm about to suggest will hurt him but unable to stop myself from seeking the safety of familiar distance. "Maybe we should take things slower. Be friends first, see how we fit into each other's lives before making big changes."

Dean goes still, his hand dropping mine. "Friends," he repeats, the word flat and disbelieving.

"Just until we figure things out," I clarify quickly. "Until we see if there's a practical way forward."

He steps back, something shuttering in his expression. "Let me get this straight. After everything this week—after sleeping together, after telling me you love me, after I bared my soul to you—you want to be friends?"

Put like that, it sounds ridiculous, even to my own ears. But the alternative—diving headfirst into a relationship with no guarantees, no safety net—terrifies me more than the hurt I see building in his eyes.

"I'm trying to be realistic," I say, hating how defensive I sound. "To avoid rushing into something that might not work long-term."

"Realistic." He shakes his head, a bitter laugh escaping him. "Brooke, we're long past 'realistic.' We're long past 'friends.' We've never been just friends, not from the day we met."

"Dean—"

"No." He cuts me off, his voice tight with controlled emotion. "I can't do this again. I can't be your safety option, the guy you keep at arm's length because you're too afraid to fully commit."

"That's not what I'm doing," I protest, though a voice in the back of my mind whispers that it's exactly what I'm doing.

"Isn't it?" He runs a hand through his hair again, agitation clear in every line of his body. "You say you love me, but you still can't take the leap of faith to actually be with me. You still want an escape route."

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes, because he's right. I do want an escape route. I always have.

"I'm scared," I admit, my voice small even to my own ears.

Dean's expression softens slightly, but the hurt remains in his eyes. "I know you are. But at some point, Brooke, you have to decide if what you're running toward is worth more than what you're running from."

He turns away, moving back into the room, and I follow, a sense of desperation building in my chest. "Where are you going?"

"I need some space." He grabs a clean t-shirt from his suitcase, pulling it over his head with short, angry movements. "I'm going for a walk."

"Dean, please." I reach for his arm, but he steps back, avoiding my touch. "Can't we talk about this?"

"We just did." His eyes meet mine, and the pain in them makes my heart clench. "You want to be friends. I can't be just friends with you, Brooke. I've tried. It doesn't work."

The finality in his voice sends panic spiraling through me. "So what, that's it? All or nothing?"

"No, that's not—" He stops, taking a deep breath. "I'm not giving you an ultimatum. I'm telling you a truth about myself. I cannot be just friends with you. It hurts too much, wanting more, loving you the way I do."

He moves to the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "I'll be back later. We've still got appearances to keep up for your family, after all."

And then he's gone, the door closing behind him with a quiet click that somehow sounds more final than if he'd slammed it.

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