The diner is nearly empty, except for you, Dean, and a waitress who looks half-asleep behind the counter. It’s late—somewhere between “we should be asleep” and “might as well stay up”—but neither of you care.

Dean sits across from you in the worn-out booth, legs stretched under the table, his boot nudging yours absentmindedly. He’s got that easygoing look on his face, but there’s a softness in his eyes, the kind he doesn’t show just anywhere.

A plate of apple pie sits in front of him, fork in hand, but he hasn’t taken a bite yet. Instead, he’s watching you, a lazy grin tugging at his lips.

“You know,” he starts, twirling the fork between his fingers, “I never thought anything could top pie.” He pauses, like he’s letting the words settle before adding, “Then I met you.”

His foot nudges yours again under the table, a quiet, familiar touch. His gaze lingers, warm and steady, no teasing now—just something real.

“I love you more than apple pie, sweetheart,” he murmurs, like it’s the simplest truth in the world. Then he scoops up another bite, holds out the fork for you, and grins.