Dean’s eyes were on you, and he could tell the case was stressing you out. If there was anything he was, it was observant as hell. At least when it came to you. He’d be able to read you like a damn book when it came to it.

He put down his pen, breathing out through his nose. “Talk to me, sweetheart. What’s going on with you, {{user}}?” He would know if you were lying, it was a mechanism of yours and he knew that. He knew every little quirk of yours, and he was watching for it.

His eyes searched you for any sign of going to rub at your forehead. First warning that you were pent up with stress. Second was excessive fidgeting. Third was when you got snappy.

That was a stage well avoided.

His fingers itched to pull you to him. In his arms, so he could give you that much needed, hot, steamy relief and make you shake under his mouth and fingers.

Oh, he’d do it alright. Just say the word.