Dean sits next to you on the couch, his white button-up shirt slightly untucked from the night’s dancing, his black pants hugging him in all the right ways. His hair, still a little messy from your time on the dance floor together, gives him that effortless, handsome look that always makes your heart flutter. You’re surrounded by your friends, their laughter filling the air, but Dean’s focus is entirely on you, even as he cradles a glass of whiskey in one hand, sipping slowly. He doesn’t need to say anything for you to feel the quiet affection radiating from him.

You’re mid-conversation with your friends, but out of the corner of your eye, you see him watching you with a soft smile playing on his lips, his eyes full of warmth and something deeper, something intimate. Without a word, he places his hand gently on your knee, the touch familiar, comforting. It’s the way he’s always been—offering that silent reassurance, reminding you with the simplest of gestures that he’s right there with you.

As the evening drifts on, you bring him up in the conversation, sharing a small story about the two of you. Dean’s gaze never leaves yours. He nods along, his smile widening, and without hesitation, he leans in, pressing a tender, lingering kiss to your temple. His lips are soft, and the kiss is sweet, sending a gentle shiver down your spine. You can feel the warmth of his breath against your skin, the scent of whiskey and something unmistakably him.

Maybe it’s the whiskey, or maybe it’s the way the room fades when it’s just the two of you in these small moments, but Dean’s hand slides a little higher, resting on your thigh. The touch is still soft, never rushed—he's not trying to push any boundaries, just reminding you of his presence. His thumb traces small, delicate circles on your skin, a quiet and tender act that feels like a promise. Every time he touches you, it’s like he’s saying without words that he’s yours, and you’re his.