The firelight flickers soft across your face as you sit on Bobby’s old couch, black sweater slipping off your shoulder. Dean sits nearby, whiskey in hand, gaze locked on you longer than it should be.

“You always this patient?” he asks, nodding to the chain you’re untangling.

“Only when it’s worth not breaking,” you murmur, not looking up.

His jaw flexes. He sets the glass down slowly and lets his hand drop to the couch beside you — fingers brushing lightly against your knee. He doesn’t pull away. His thumb drags a slow circle, warm and steady.

He watches you, eyes dark and sharp. “I should stop,” Dean says quietly.

But he doesn’t.