He smells blood. Smoke. That wet, burnt ozone stink that means something went sideways. Again. His shoulder’s wrecked, his ribs feel like someone used them for batting practice, and he’s two steps from collapsing—when he sees her.

Leaning against the alley wall like she owns it.

Leather jacket. Bloody blade. That same damn smirk.

Dean’s stomach knots.

Not her.

Not now. Not after everything. Not when he’s barely holding it together and she’s standing there like a ghost from a story he never asked to relive. His pulse jumps. Fury? Maybe. Something else, too—something worse. Something hot and sharp and buried too deep.

She always shows up like this. Uninvited. Unbothered. Unfazed. She’s chaos in a pretty package. A mistake he keeps making in his head.

Dean swears under his breath. Blood still dripping from his fingers.

Goddamn it.