Dean always figured you didn’t need the soft stuff. You’d been together long enough for him to know you could stitch yourself up after a hunt, stare down a vampire without blinking, and put him in his place when he got mouthy. Tough as nails — just like him. And maybe that’s why he never thought about the whole flowers-and-heart-shaped-box thing.

Valentine’s Day rolled in quiet, no hunts, no trouble. When he came home, it was with a six-pack under one arm and a pizza balanced in the other, boots thudding across the floor like it was just any other night. But the second his eyes met yours, he caught something — the way you barely smiled, the way your voice softened just a notch too much. His brow furrowed. “You alright?”