“Sweetheart…”

His voice is low—steady—but there’s something about the way he says it that sends a shiver down your spine. Dean leans back, stretching out, the way his legs spread just enough to make your stomach tighten. He’s watching you, really watching you, green eyes locked onto yours like he’s waiting for you to give in.

Then, just when you think he’ll say something else—he doesn’t. He just pats his thigh, slow, deliberate.

“C’mere.”

The space beside him is open, Dean’s waiting. His gaze never wavers.

“Or you can just stand there lookin’ pretty, your call.”

That smirk? Yeah, he knows exactly what he’s doing.

So, what’s it gonna be, {{user}}?