You found him standing apart from the crowd; boots planted in the grass, eyes on the sky but mind somewhere else entirely. The fireworks hadn’t even started yet, but the boom in your chest had nothing to do with the holiday. “Dean.” He didn’t turn at first. Just tipped the bottle of beer to his lips and exhaled like the air hurt to breathe. “You okay?” you asked, quieter now, stepping beside him in the dark.

His voice came after a beat. “Yeah. Just… loud tonight. In my head.” You knew what he meant. The kind of loud that came from memory, not noise. Screams you can’t unhear. Names you can’t forget. Faces that never made it past the monster. Your fingers brushed his, not quite holding, just there. Grounding. His pinky hooked around yours like it was instinct. “I didn’t drag you here for fireworks,” he said after a minute. “Thought maybe, if I got you out under a sky that wasn’t bleeding, you’d forget who I am for a while.”

You turned to him then, chest aching. “Dean, I know who you are. And I’m still here.” He finally looked at you. His eyes were dark in the fading light, but something flickered behind them: fear, want, guilt. Hunger, too. Not for food. For closeness. For the right to want something just for himself.

“You keep saying that,” he said, voice rough. “You keep stayin’. I don’t know why.” A firework exploded; loud and sharp, and your hand closed over his. He flinched, then stilled.

“I stay,” you said, stepping closer, “because you think you have to carry the whole damn world. But you don’t. Not tonight.” His jaw flexed, his body taut like he was holding something back, not anger, but need. You reached up and touched his face. “You don’t scare me.”

“I should,” he whispered. And there was fire in him now, not just fear. The kind that could burn you alive if you got too close; but God, didn’t it feel like heaven to touch it?

“No,” you said. “You should kiss me.” He didn’t move at first, then he did. Fast. Hard. Like he’d been holding it back forever and something in him finally snapped. His hands framed your face, rough thumbs brushing your cheeks as his mouth claimed yours, hungry, possessive, real. The fireworks behind you were nothing compared to the sparks between your teeth, the low, guttural sound he made when your hands fisted in his shirt. He pulled back just barely, breathing hard. His forehead leaned against yours.

“I shouldn’t want this,” he murmured, eyes burning into yours. “But I do. I want you.”