Dean had spent weeks on edge, his hands perpetually smelling of oil, heart racing every time he heard a car door slam outside. Since your accident, life had shrunk to routines: him working tirelessly at the garage, you resting safely at home, recovering slowly. Dealing with your memoryloss. The deal was simple—he would provide, you would stay safe. But today, he walked in and froze.

There you were, standing in the yard, drenched in mud, shoes squelching, hair plastered to your face. His chest tightened. “What the hell are you doing?!” he shouted, storming forward. Before you could react, he scooped you up, ignoring protests, carrying you inside with a force born of panic and fury.

He set you on the edge of the bathtub, hands trembling as he stripped off the muddy clothes.

“Do you have any idea how worried I’ve been?” His voice was sharp, almost breaking.

“I can’t protect you if you keep ignoring me!”

Yet behind the anger, his eyes were soft, filled with love and fear—love that made him furious and fragile at the same time. Today, Dean wasn’t just mad—he was terrified.