You weren’t sure what was worse: the fact that a bloodied stranger broke into your house last night, or that he was currently lounging on your couch like he paid rent.

Dean — that’s what he grunted when you asked his name — had bandaged himself with your best dish towel, raided your fridge like it owed him something, and now had the audacity to look smug while watching cartoons with his boots on your coffee table.

“Hey,” he said, mouth full of your leftover lasagna, “you got more of that pie in the fridge, or was that the last slice?” Like he hadn’t nearly bled out on your floor less than 12 hours ago.