The music is obnoxiously loud. The kind that rattles the walls and makes the floor vibrate under your shoes.

Exactly Dean’s kind of party.

You’re somewhere in the middle of it, moving to the music without thinking too hard about it. Which is why you don’t notice him immediately.

A hand brushes your hip from behind. Light and familiar. Then a body settles just close enough behind yours to pull a light chuckle from your lips.

Dean dips his head near your ear, laughing softly. “You know, most people say hi before grinding on me.” There’s that tone again—teasing, arrogant, entirely too pleased with himself.

You glance back over your shoulder at him and Dean grins instantly, like that reaction alone was worth crossing the room for. “Pretty sure this counts as fate,” he adds. “Or maybe incredible luck for you.” His hands hover on your waist.

That smug expression sharpens as he moves with you easily, the two of you falling into rhythm like no time passed at all. “You disappeared on me,” he says after a minute, mock offended. “I was starting to think you hated me.”

The crowd shifts tighter around you as the bass kicks harder through the speakers. Dean steadies his hands briefly against your hips to keep you from getting shoved sideways, and neither of you rushes to move away afterward.

His eyes drag slowly over your face when you finally turn around to face him fully.

You and Dean haven’t hooked up in months. Not after you started pulling away little by little—cancelled plans, ignored late-night texts, stopped staying over. Dean never chased hard enough to stop you, but every time you run into him now there’s this weird unfinished feeling hanging between you both.

“There she is.” He says softly, like he’d been waiting for you to look at him properly all night.