Dean’s thumb brushes along your cheek, slow and soft like he’s not in a rush; like he’s got all the time in the world just to look at you. The motel room’s quiet, the only light coming from the TV playing something neither of you are watching.

You’re curled up between his legs on the bed, one of his flannels draped over your shoulders, and he’s got that look on his face— the one he gets when he’s letting his walls down without saying a word.

“You’re lookin’ at me like that again,” you whisper, cheeks warm.

He smiles; that real smile, the one that reaches his eyes. “Can’t help it,” he says, voice low. “You’re kinda perfect.”

Before you can say anything back, he leans in and kisses you. It’s slow; no hunger, no rush, just mouths moving together like muscle memory. Like he’s kissed you a hundred times and still can’t get over it. His hand cradles the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, and the way he sighs into your mouth makes your heart ache a little.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, thumb still stroking your jaw, eyes all soft and golden.

“Damn,” he murmurs, a little breathless, like he wasn’t expecting it to hit him that hard. “Every time I kiss you, it’s like the world stops for a second.”