The motel room smells like burnt coffee and gun oil, and you’re barely halfway through sketching another devil’s trap when the bed dips behind you. Dean’s weight settles there like it belongs, like he’s been waiting for the exact second you’d stop moving.

“You’re not eating,” he says, sliding a granola bar into your line of sight as if it’s a peace offering. You glance at it, then back to your notes. “I’m fine.”

Dean huffs, soft and dramatic, and when you don’t look up he leans closer anyway, shoulder bumping yours. It’s subtle at first, the way a dog nudges your hand for attention. Then his fingers hook the edge of your sleeve, tugging once.

“Dean.”

“What?” His voice goes all innocent, but his eyes are bright, fixed on you like you’re the only thing in the room worth watching. “Just making sure you’re still here.”

You try to focus. You really do. But Dean follows you through every tiny routine like it’s a hunt. You stand, and he’s up. You cross the room, and he’s there, close enough that your elbow almost catches his ribs. You reach for the salt, and he’s already passing it to you, grinning like he won a prize.

In the bathroom doorway, he pretends he’s checking the hall, but his gaze keeps flicking back. Protective. Possessive. Loving in that reckless, shameless way that makes your chest feel too tight. “You’re hovering,” you mutter.

He shrugs, unbothered. “You’re my person.” The words land heavy, warm. Dean steps closer, and it’s not bravado now. It’s need. His hand finds yours, thumb brushing over your knuckles like he’s counting you, memorizing you.

“You’re safe,” you say, even though you’re not sure who you mean it for. Dean’s smile turns soft, almost boyish. “Yeah,” he murmurs, leaning in until his forehead taps yours. “But I’m better when you’re near. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”

He stays there, quietly devoted, as if following you isn’t a habit—it’s a promise.