Dean was already moving before Y/N’s feet hit the floor.

Coffee? Brewing. Her favorite mug? Warmed. The playlist she liked on slow mornings? Already humming low from the speaker.

She padded into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from her eyes, only to find him standing there with a crooked grin and a steaming mug held out like an offering.

“Morning, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and syrupy. “Didn’t think I’d let you touch a damn thing today, did you?”

Y/N blinked, amused. “Dean, it’s just coffee.”

He stepped closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face with the back of his knuckles. “It’s not just coffee. It’s your coffee. Which means it’s sacred.”

She laughed, but he wasn’t joking. Not even a little.

“You’re ridiculous,” she murmured, taking the mug.

Dean leaned against the counter, watching her like she was the sunrise itself. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“I can make my own breakfast, you know.”

“Nope.” He was already pulling out the skillet. “Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever, if I have anything to say about it.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “So what, I’m your pampered princess now?”

Dean turned, eyes dark with something deeper than amusement. “Not princess,” he said. “Queen.”

She stilled.

“I mean it,” he continued, voice soft but firm. “You don’t lift a finger unless you want to. You want something, I get it. You need something, I handle it. You breathe, and I thank God for it.”

Y/N swallowed hard, the weight of his words settling over her like velvet.

“Dean…”

He stepped closer, tilting her chin up with two fingers. “Let me spoil you. Let me worship you a little. You’ve been strong for too damn long.”

She didn’t argue. Not when he looked at her like that. Not when the love in his eyes felt like a warm blanket wrapped around her soul.

And as he cooked, humming under his breath, she sat at the counter and watched him — her protector, her partner, her obsessive, tender-hearted man who made her feel like royalty without ever asking for a crown.