Dean sat still for once, shoulders loose but held in place like he didn’t trust himself to move. The sting of antiseptic dragged across his cheek, sharp, clean. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t say anything. Just watched your hands—steady, careful, like this wasn’t routine, like he wasn’t.

“Looks worse than it is,” he muttered, voice low, more out of habit than truth.

He’d worked extra shifts for this. Late nights, crap jobs, saving whatever he could without thinking too hard about it. It sat in the back of his mind now, heavier than the bruise blooming under his eye.

His jaw tightened. Loosened.

“You don’t gotta keep fixing me up like this,” he added, glancing away, then back. A pause stretched, awkward, unfamiliar. “But… I mean.”

He swallowed, shifting just enough to feel the edge of the chair.

“I was thinking—there’s this place off campus. Not bad.” Another pause, shorter this time. “You could come. With me.”

His gaze flicked to you, then held, quieter now.

“Just… figured I’d ask.”