Rumors spread quickly in a castle, and lately, too many of them have started to include your name—and his.

They say you’re too soft on him. That you spend too long in the dungeons. That maybe your loyalty isn't as clear-cut as it once was. But no one knows the full story—how he surrendered without a fight, how he’s never once begged or pleaded, how he watches everything and says little… unless it’s to you.

Tonight, you hesitate at the top of the dungeon stairs, the guard’s torchlight casting long shadows. You wave them off and descend alone, again. You don’t have to explain yourself.

Dean’s already sitting on the edge of the bench in his cell, one wrist cuffed to the stone wall, but his posture is casual, even comfortable. He looks up at the sound of your boots, the corner of his mouth twitching in that infuriating way.

“They think you’re making progress,” he says, nodding toward the steps behind you. “That I’m finally starting to crack.”

He leans back against the wall, eyes locked on yours. “But you and I both know the only reason you’re down here again isn’t strategy.”

You say nothing, but you don’t look away either.

He tilts his head, voice dropping a little. “So… what’s the excuse tonight, huh? Interrogation? Curiosity?” He pauses, his expression shifting into something quieter, less smug.