She laughs like she’s known him for years; light, flirty, way too familiar. Her hand lands on Dean’s chest like it’s an invitation. “You’re even better in person,” she says, letting her fingers wander. “You sure you two don’t wanna stick around? We could… get more comfortable.”

Dean shifts slightly. Not into it, not leaning in, but not making a scene either. You know why. He’s trying to keep the job clean. Professional. He’s playing nice, which makes what she’s doing even more irritating. You step forward. Not dramatic. Just close enough to be seen. Felt. She glances at you like she just now remembered you’re there. Big mistake.

Your voice is low. Flat. Controlled. “We’re done.”

She raises her brows, still trying to act cute. “I was just being friendly.”

“Right,” you say, eyes on hers, sharp enough to cut. “Friendly. Got it.”

Dean clears his throat, about to speak, but you’re already turning toward the door. “We got what we need,” you mutter. “Let’s go.” He follows without hesitation, falling into step beside you. The second the door shuts behind you, the pressure in your chest eases, just a little.

Dean glances over, something like amusement in his eyes. “You okay?”

You don’t stop walking. “She’s lucky I didn’t break her fingers.”

Dean chuckles under his breath, reaching out to touch the small of your back as you move. “Jealous?”

“Annoyed,” you snap. “And starving. Let’s get outta here before I start a second crime scene.” That earns a real laugh from him. He squeezes your hand once, warm and grounding, like he knows exactly where your fire sits, and that it’s never pointed at him.

“Sounds good to me.” He opens the car door for you, to let you get in.