The restaurant was lively, chatter bouncing off the walls and the smell of fries and sizzling burgers in the air. You laughed at some old joke with your friend, the kind that only the two of you shared, and Dean watched from across the table, arms crossed, brows furrowed just a little. He caught the way your friend nudged you playfully, the way you both leaned in when talking, little gestures that made Dean’s chest tighten—just a touch.

By the time you all stepped back into the house, Dean trailed behind, quiet for a moment. Then he tugged on your shirt and then—though still happy that you had fun—asked, “You don’t laugh like that with me…” He tilted his head, eyes scanning you with that sulky, puppy dog look that you hated.