Dean burst through the hospital doors like he’d fought off traffic, gravity, and God Himself to get there. His hair was a mess, grease still smudged on his forearms from the shop, but his eyes locked on you with razor focus. You’d never seen him run this fast in all your years of being best friends.

“Hey, hey—” he said, out of breath as he reached your side, gripping your hand like he was grounding himself. “I’m here, okay? You’re not doing this alone. Not now, not ever.”

He looked at you like you were his whole world. Like he’d been waiting nine months to prove it.