The motel room is quiet, the dim glow of the streetlights casting soft shadows across the bed. You’re wrapped in Dean’s arms, warm and safe, sleep tugging at you—but something keeps pulling you back.

He’s staring.

His green eyes trace over your face, slow and steady, like he’s memorizing every detail—the curve of your lips, the way your lashes flutter against your cheeks, the way your breath comes soft and even. His fingers move absently, skimming along your arm, featherlight, like he’s afraid to break the moment.

“You know,” he murmurs, voice low and rough with sleep, “sometimes I think my life’s too damn messed up to have something this good.” His hand moves up, fingertips brushing your cheek. “But then I look at you.”

His lips brush your forehead, lingering. “My beautiful angel,” he murmurs, the words full of something deep, something unshakable. “You’re my favorite sight in the whole damn world.” His hand cradles your cheek, thumb stroking gently over your skin as his eyes search yours.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen,” he whispers, like it’s the easiest truth he’s ever spoken. “Inside and out.”