The motel room smelled of cheap whiskey, gun oil, and the lingering embers of last night’s fire. The neon light from the flickering sign outside cast shifting patterns on the ceiling, painting the space in pale reds and sickly yellows. The sheets were tangled, half-hanging off the bed, a testament to the recklessness of what had happened.

Dean stirred a bit beside her, the warmth of her body still pressed against his. His skin felt raw, hypersensitive where her fingers had mapped him out in the dark. A dull ache throbbed in his muscles, not just from the hunt but from the way they’d lost control afterward, colliding like a storm that had been brewing too long.

He blinked up at the ceiling, trying to piece together the weight pressing down on his chest. Regret wasn’t the right word. But something sharp gnawed at the edges of his mind, something close to it. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Not with her.

Because this was how it started, wasn’t it? Someone slipped past his guard, got too close, and then the universe—cruel and relentless—ripped them away. It always did. He could already see the pattern forming, the slow, inevitable pull of fate. She was next. He shouldn’t have let it happen. Shouldn’t have let her in. But last night, he hadn’t cared. Not when she was looking at him like that. Not when the world outside had nearly killed them both.

Turning his head, he watched her sleep, strands of hair spilling across the pillow, the rise and fall of her breath steady. She looked untouched by the chaos. But he knew better. He could still feel her nails on his back, her lips on his throat, the way she’d whispered his name like it was the only thing holding her together.

Dean exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face. He should leave before she woke up. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he didn’t move.

Instead, he let his fingers brush against hers beneath the sheets, barely a touch, barely anything. A ghost of hesitation.

"You gonna run, or should I?"