The house is quiet except for the low hum of the fridge in the kitchen and the distant sound of crickets outside the open window. The day’s warmth has faded into the soft coolness of a summer night, and the living room is lit only by the faint golden glow of a lamp in the corner.

You’re curled up on the couch with Dean, the two of you settled into the kind of comfortable closeness that feels unhurried and entirely your own. His arm is wrapped securely around you, his palm warm and rough where it rests against your hip, fingers drawing slow, absent shapes against the fabric of your shirt.

The steady beat of his heart is a quiet reassurance beneath your cheek as you rest your head against his chest, his t-shirt soft and smelling faintly of soap and motor oil. Every so often, he dips his head to press a lazy, unhurried kiss against your hairline, your temple, the corner of your mouth—small, tender gestures that feel more like breathing than like anything planned, making you forget the stress of college when Dean is around.

Outside, the night is deep and dark, the curtains swaying faintly with the summer breeze, and the whole house seems to settle into the hush of the hour. Dean’s voice is a soft rumble when he murmurs something low and half-teasing, his breath warm against your ear, but mostly he stays quiet, content just to hold you. His hands roaming your body lazily, fingers dipping under your shirt, slipping under your waistband, everywhere.