The diner smelled like burnt coffee and fried things that had lived in oil too long. The overhead lights buzzed faintly, casting a yellow hue over the chipped tile and empty booths. It was past midnight—only one waitress, one cook, and the two of you.

Dean opened the door without a word. His jaw was locked, shoulders stiff with the kind of tension that hadn’t let up since the hunt. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak. Just stepped aside and held the door open, like muscle memory.

You walked past him without saying thank you. He didn’t expect one.

Inside, the silence clung like humidity. You found the first table near the window, but Dean was there before you could pull out your seat—grabbing the back of the chair, sliding it out for you.

He still wouldn’t look at you.

“Thanks,” you muttered tightly.

“Don’t mention it.” His voice was low, rough. A warning not to start another fight.

The waitress dropped two menus and left without bothering to smile. You sat stiffly, arms crossed. Dean dropped into the chair across from you, stretching his legs out like he was trying to take up more space. His eyes flicked over the menu like he actually gave a damn about it.

The silence between you pulsed.

“You could’ve gotten yourself killed tonight,” he muttered finally, eyes still on the menu.

You laughed once. Bitter. “Funny. I was about to say the same to you.”

He looked up then. Eyes hard. Tired. But underneath it, something else. Something quieter.

“I told you to wait,” he said.

“I made a call,” you snapped. “Just like you’ve done a hundred times.”

“That’s different.”

“Why? Because it’s you?”

He didn’t answer. Just stared at you like he was trying to memorize you through anger. Then, finally, he leaned back in the booth, exhaling slow.

“You’re impossible.”

You shrugged, chin tilted. “And you love me anyway.”

He didn’t deny it. He didn’t say it, either.

But when your food came—he still passed you the salt before you asked. Still pushed the pickles off his plate and onto yours. Still reached across the table to wipe a smudge of dirt off your cheek with his thumb, so gently it made your throat ache.

Even when he’s mad, he’s still yours.