His hand was still between your thighs. You laid back against the motel bed, breathing slow and shallow, eyes on the cracked ceiling. The cheap bedside lamp cast amber light across Dean’s shoulders, highlighting the bruises he never explained and the veins in his forearms: tight from holding your hips down half an hour ago like he couldn’t stand the idea of you moving without him. He hadn’t spoken since. And neither had you. He always went quiet afterward. Sometimes he’d light a cigarette. Sometimes he’d pass out with his arm still draped across your stomach. And sometimes, like now, he’d just sit there. Watching you. His eyes on your face. Your chest. Your mouth. You turned your head slowly to meet his gaze. You shouldn’t have. Because whatever was on your face, he caught it. “What was that?” he asked, quiet but sharp.

You blinked. “What was what?”

“That fucking look. Where you think this actually means something.”

Your stomach twisted. “I wasn’t-”

“Bullshit.” He sat up, swung his legs over the edge of the bed, and grabbed his jeans from the floor. The warmth was already draining from the room, replaced with something sharper. You pulled the sheet over your chest. Not out of modesty but instinct. Dean lit a cigarette with a hand that didn’t shake. Took a long drag. Blew it toward the window without turning to you, before throwing it out the window cause he could. “I give you a place to stay. A fuckin’ car. Money you don’t even count anymore. Need I remind you how this works? You let me fuck the stress off, you get spoiled. We don’t do pillow talk, we don’t do hearts and flowers, and we sure as hell don’t do feelings.” You couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. “I don’t want you close,” he said quietly. “I want you obedient. There’s a difference.” He grabbed his wallet from the nightstand. Pulled a thick envelope from inside and tossed it at the foot of the bed. It landed like a slap. “There’s your cut.”

You stared at it. “I don’t need it,” you said softly.

“I didn’t ask if you need it. Take the damn money.” You didn’t move. You stared at the ceiling, blinking back nothing. “I said take it.” You angrily grab it. “It’s so you remember what this is.” You bit the inside of your cheek. The heat rising in your throat was not from embarrassment. It was humiliating grief. You swallowed it like everything else. Dean’s jaw locked. His next words were clipped. Controlled. Cruel. “You’re not my girl,” he said. “You’re my expense. Don’t forget that.” Dean stepped back. Slid on his jacket. Lit another cigarette with the same steady hand that had been wrapped around your throat an hour ago. “I let you stay the night,” he said, voice calm now. Hollow. “That was a mistake. Don’t make me correct it. Are we clear?”