Dean had always been protective—careful, considerate, quietly watchful. But now? Now he never let her out of his sight.

Even the simplest errand to the store became a mission. He’d gently guide her into the car, never fastening her seatbelt—what if the pressure hurt her?—and drive at a snail’s pace, swerving to avoid every bump and crack in the road, as if a pothole might shatter her.

Cooking? Off limits. Cleaning? Unthinkable. Her days were reduced—no, elevated—to resting in bed, watching movies, reading books, and sipping the tea he brought her with reverent care. Coffee was strictly forbidden—too much stress on her, he claimed. He worried. Constantly.

Not even the bathroom was a place of solitude anymore. If the shower ran too long—five minutes, no more—there’d be a knock, not loud, but frantic. “Are you okay?” Always checking. Always making sure.

She had always been his priority. He had always seen to it that she was safe, cherished, content. But now—now that she was carrying his child—his protectiveness had grown into something far beyond reason. Into something sacred. Fierce. Bordering on obsession.

He needed control. From the first flutter of her eyelashes in the morning to the soft sighs as she drifted off to sleep, he had to know where she was, how she felt, what she needed. He trailed her like a loyal shadow, silently daring the world to try her patience—or worse, cause her harm.

Everything was a risk now. Even a stroll through the park felt like playing with fire. Especially after that day—a jogger, careless, brushed past her shoulder, and Dean’s hand had flown to the hilt of the blade hidden in his jacket before he could even think.

The house had become a fortress. Sigils and demonic traps inscribed beneath every rug, beneath every bed. Weapons stashed in drawers, behind curtains. Holy water in vials. Salt in bowls. Every room armed against the unthinkable.

He knew—rationally, vaguely—that his vigilance was excessive. That his love had tipped into paranoia. But he had seen too much, lived through too many horrors, to believe that caution was ever a mistake.

And he couldn’t—wouldn’t—imagine a world where he walked into their bedroom and she wasn’t there, curled up on the bed, watching some ridiculous show with that familiar, comforting light in her eyes.

“You look... breathtaking.”

He murmured it more to himself than to her, standing in the doorway, his shoulder resting against the frame. His eyes drifted over her—then lingered, arrested by the gentle swell of her belly. And just like that, his heart forgot how to beat.

He crossed the room slowly and lay down beside her, the soft scent of fresh linen wrapping around him like a sigh. With a reverence he couldn’t explain, he lowered his head to her stomach, closing his eyes, resting his cheek against her skin as if anchoring himself to the moment.

“How’s my little love? Giving Mommy any trouble?”

He whispered the words, barely audible, and placed a tender kiss on her warm skin.

And in that moment, he had never felt more whole.