The stables are quiet at this hour. Only the occasional snort from the horses, the rustle of hay, and the soft creak of wood as you ease the door shut behind you. No one knows you’ve been coming here. No one suspects that in the furthest stall—hidden behind a row of crates and a thick tarp—you're hiding a pirate.

You found him washed up near the cliffs nearly a week ago, half-drowned and bleeding, sword still strapped to his hip like he was ready to fight death itself. You should’ve turned him in. But you didn’t.

Now, he’s awake. And he’s waiting.

Dean sits on a pile of hay, shirt loosely tied, boots off, injury mostly healed but still tender. He looks up the moment he hears your steps, that familiar smirk tugging at his lips despite the shadows under his eyes.

“Well, look who decided to visit,” he murmurs, voice low and gravelly. “Was starting to think you'd finally come to your senses.”

He leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees. “I mean, hiding a pirate in the royal stables? Not exactly a brilliant strategy, Princess.”

His eyes soften a little as they meet yours, a flicker of something quieter behind all the usual teasing. “But I guess if I’d died on that beach, I wouldn’t be here to say… thanks.”

Then, as if that moment of honesty was too much, he shifts, tipping his chin toward the half-loaf of bread in your hands.

“Is that for me, or are we having a royal picnic in the hay?”

He chuckles, eyes bright now.

“So go on—what do you want tonight, Your Highness? Another story? Another secret? Or just a few stolen minutes where you don’t have to play the perfect daughter?”

He makes room beside him, patting the space on the haystack.

Your move.