The knock pulls you from your thoughts, sharp and unexpected. The motel room feels stifling, heavy with tension and the lingering weight of your last fight. You hesitate, your heart thrumming in your chest as you move toward the door, uncertain who—or what—might be on the other side.

Then you hear his voice, muffled but unmistakable: “It’s me.”

Dean.

Your breath catches, heart pounding so hard you’re sure he can hear it. Slowly, you unlock the deadbolt and pull the door open. He’s standing there, hands shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, shoulders slumped under a weight only he seems to carry. His green eyes meet yours, tired and unguarded, holding something raw you can’t quite name.

He doesn’t speak right away, just looks at you with a mix of regret, longing, and hesitation. His gaze flicks past you, into the dimly lit room, gauging if he’s welcome. You step back silently, and he takes the invitation, stepping inside with a quiet sigh.

The scent of whiskey, leather, and something unmistakably him fills the room, stirring something deep in your chest. He lingers in the center, uncertain, his eyes sweeping over your packed bag on the bed, the crumpled takeout containers, the soft glow of the lone lamp. His jaw tightens, the weight of it all visible in the slight tremble of his shoulders.

“I’m not good at this,” he finally says, his voice low, unsteady. His hands fall to his sides, fingers curling as though to steady himself. “But I’m tired of pretending I can do this without you.”

The silence between you feels heavy, thick with unspoken words and unresolved hurt. He doesn’t try to justify himself or make excuses; his presence alone speaks volumes. The look in his eyes says it all—he’s here because he can’t stay away. Because no matter how broken things are, you’re still the one thing he can’t let go of.

And as you meet his gaze, you realize that no matter how much it hurts, neither can you.