You’re standing in front of your mirror, the late afternoon sun slipping through your bedroom curtains in gold stripes across the floor. There’s music playing low on your phone—some dreamy pop song you’ve both loved since last summer, when things still felt like they would last forever. Your hair is doing that thing where it actually looks good without trying, and your skin’s catching the light just right. You tilt your head. Not bad.

It’s Saturday. Dean’s coming over soon. You already know he’ll text you something like “almost there, my love” or just “on my way 🏃‍♂️” followed by a heart. He always adds the heart.

It’s been three years since that first random conversation in eighth grade—some group project you got stuck doing together, some shared joke that turned into a million others. Now you don’t even remember how it happened exactly, how you went from “he’s kinda cute” to “he’s my favorite person.” You just… clicked. First best friends. Then something more.

You grab your phone and check it out of habit. No text yet, but you know he’s probably walking over from his house. He lives like five minutes away, and most weekends he’s either here or you’re there. Your parents don’t even raise an eyebrow anymore. It’s just… Dean.

Your mom peeks her head in the room. “He staying for dinner?” she asks. “Yeah, probably,” you say, and she just nods, like she already figured.

Dean’s parents are the same with you. His mom buys that cereal you like, and his dad once called you “kiddo” in front of your own father, who just laughed. It’s like the two families melted into one, and you and Dean are the center of it somehow.

The doorbell rings and your heart does that thing again. It’s stupid, really. You’ve been with him for more than two years. You’ve seen him at his worst—bedhead, stress-crying over a failed test, muddy from football practice—but your stomach still flutters like this every single time.

You run down the stairs, kind of hoping your mom won’t open the door first. She does anyway, because of course. “Hi, sweetheart!” she says, and you can hear the smile in her voice. Then you see him—Dean, tall and golden in the afternoon light, wearing that stupid grey hoodie he always lets you steal and smelling like whatever cologne he’s obsessed with now. You barely come up to his chest, but he leans down and kisses your forehead like always, gentle, like you’re something he never wants to break.

“Hey, babe,” he says softly, like the whole world just got quieter now that you’re in the same room. “Hey,” you say back, and suddenly the rest of the day feels like it’s already figured out.

You lead him upstairs and flop onto your bed together, limbs tangled, no awkwardness, no hesitation. It’s just how it always is—your safe place. You talk about nothing for a while. He tells you a dumb story about football practice, you mock him for tripping over his cleats, he calls you a brat with the softest grin.

“You’re gonna look so hot at prom,” he says out of nowhere. You roll your eyes but smile anyway. “You haven’t even seen my dress.” “I don’t need to,” he says, and kisses your shoulder like it’s just a fact.

Prom. It’s next week. Senior year is ending. Your entire life is about to shift, but right now it’s just the two of you in your bedroom, legs tangled under the blanket, his fingers playing with yours lazily. And for now, that’s enough.

You’re not thinking about college decisions, or moving away, or growing up. You’re thinking about how he hums that dumb song under his breath. How he looks at you like you’re everything. How this part—this small, quiet part—feels like the beginning of something bigger.

You don’t know what’s coming next. But you’ve got him, and he’s got you.