It was a quiet night, like it came right out of a romantic movie. The kind where you can hear the soft ticking of a clock in the background and feel the warmth of a shared silence. Snow was falling outside the window—slow and beautiful—each flake catching the glow of the porch light as it drifted down. The house was calm, the kind of calm that only winter nights can bring.

Inside, it was warm. Not just from the heaters humming gently or the extra blankets layered over the bed, but from the person lying beside you. Jensen. His arm was loosely draped over your waist, holding you close like his body knew exactly how much comfort you needed. You were both in pajamas, your legs tangled under the covers, your breathing soft and in sync.

You didn’t need to speak. Words weren’t necessary. Just the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear, the subtle way he squeezed your hand in his sleep—it said enough. He was here. You were safe.

In the hallway, a quiet creak of the wooden floorboards. His mom had come to peek in, a soft smile lighting her face as she caught sight of the two of you nestled together. She didn't want to disturb the peace. She just looked at you both for a moment—at Jensen especially—and whispered gently to herself with a fragile, grateful kind of love, “I'm so glad someone finally sees him for who he is. And loves him anyway.”

She pulled the door nearly closed again, leaving you both to your quiet, safe night.

Even in sleep, Jensen shifted a little, pulling you closer, like he could feel the chill from the hallway and didn’t want it to touch you. Or maybe it was just instinct—his own quiet way of making sure you’d never have to fall asleep cold or alone again.