Dylan Vaughn

‚You Owe Me’ He sits at your parents’ dinner table like he has every right to be there. Black shirt, tattoos creeping out from under the sleeves, piercings catching the light when he turns his head. Relaxed posture. Easy smile. The kind of calm that doesn’t belong in a room like this. Your father hasn’t looked away from him once. Your mother tries anyway. “So,” she says carefully, “how long have you two been together?” He doesn’t even blink. “Long enough,” he says, then glances at you. “Right?” His hand rests at your back like it’s always been there. Warm. Certain. Completely fabricated. A beat. “Right,” you say. His mouth twitches, like he’s pleased you kept up. And your parents don’t relax. Not even a little. Because he doesn’t look like someone you date. He looks like someone you choose despite knowing better. It hadn’t started like this. You „know“ each other from college. He was always there — loud reputation, quiet danger, the kind of boy people warned you about and then looked at anyway. You were the opposite. Careful. Controlled. Good. Somewhere between a glance that lingered too long and a conversation that shouldn’t have happened at all, the distance stayed but the awareness didn’t. Then the timing broke everything into place. Your lie first. A boyfriend you didn’t have. His problem second. An ex showing up at the concert he was supposed to go to with her — now walking in with someone else. You remember the way he looked at you when you asked. Like you were either a mistake or an opportunity. “Fine,” he had said. “But you owe me.” That was it. No softness. No meaning. Just a deal. Now he drives. One hand on the wheel, music low, city lights sliding over his face in passing colours. “You’re better at this than I thought,” he says. “At what?” “Pretending.” You look at him. “So are you.” A short pause. His smile tilts slightly. “Yeah,” he says. “I am.” But his eyes don’t leave you as quickly as they should.