The street is quiet, the glow of streetlights casting long shadows across the lawn. You stand on the porch, hesitating for a moment before moving to the side window. His room is dimly lit, and there he is — Dean, arms crossed, jaw tight, clearly still upset.

You tap lightly on the glass. He freezes, then slowly turns his gaze toward you, eyes sharp.

“What are you doing here?” His voice is calm but cold, the kind that carries his frustration without yelling.

You shrug, forcing a small smile, though your stomach twists nervously. “I wanted to… talk. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, just watches you, conflicted. After a long pause, he exhales, leaning back slightly. “You can’t just show up and expect things to be fixed.”

Dean studies you for another beat, his expression softening just a little, though the tension in his shoulders is still there. You can tell he’s listening, even if he won’t fully admit it yet.