She’s curled up in the passenger seat, head resting against the window, eyes closed, lips just barely curved like she’s dreaming of something soft. The moonlight’s spilling across her face, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.

My fingers tighten on the wheel. I tell myself it’s just the quiet, just the long drive, just the kind of moment that sneaks up on you when you’re too damn tired to fight it.

But then she shifts, pulls my jacket tighter around her shoulders — my jacket — and it’s like something in my chest twists hard.

I look back at the road, jaw clenched, knuckles white. Get a grip, Winchester. She’s a friend. That’s it. That’s all it’s ever gonna be.

The engine hums, the night stretches on, and I just keep driving, pretending the ache in my chest is nothing but the cold.