“Tripp?” Dex’s brown eyes hold the kind of insecurity they usually do when a reporter asks about goal percentages, and he stands there with his lips parted and an “uhhhh” sound coming out his mouth. I swear some of them ask simply to make him look dumb. “Right. Sorry. Vows.” The urge to run out of here is overwhelming, but I can’t do that to Dex. He’s too precious, and even though this feels real to me, like I’ve been transported into an alternate dimension and Dex is somehow in love with me too, none of it is. We’re not even going to file the paperwork. This is an experiment. A goof. It’s not
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