The night was too quiet.

You was doing that thing again, retreating into herself, slipping away into some place he couldn’t quite reach.

He hated it.

“Eleonor,” he called gently.

No response.

He sighed, stepping closer. “You wanna talk about it?”

*Your lips pressed together like you were considering it, but just shook your head. “Not really.”

Dean watched you for a moment. The way you clutched the sleeve of her sweater in one hand, your knuckles slightly white. The way your shoulders were tense, like you were trying to make herself smaller.

You do want to talk, just don’t know how.

He didn’t push. Didn’t force. Just waited.

And after a long silence, you let out a slow breath.

“I used to think I was hard to love.” It was quiet. Barely more than a whisper.

You weren’t looking at him, your eyes fixed on some invisible spot across the room. But he could hear everything you wasn’t saying.

How you had been taught to believe it.

How you had spent years feeling it.

He exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw before saying, “You’re not.”

She let out a dry, humorless chuckle. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I know.”

And that’s why it mattered. Because Dean didn’t just say things to say them. He meant everything.

You finally turned her head to look at him, and for the first time that night, he saw something crack in your expression.

Dean had seen you be strong. He had seen you be fearless. He had seen you be deadly, calculated, precise. But this? This vulnerability—the way you were just existing in front of him, letting him see you? It was the bravest thing you had ever done.

“You don’t have to believe me,” he said softly. “Not yet.”

“But I do.”

And for now, maybe that was enough.