The porch light flickered above Dean as he finally stood at your door—unshaven, tired, like he knew what was coming. He hadn’t shown up in weeks. No calls. No texts. Just silence and that hollow ache of waiting.

You didn’t ask him in.

He looked at you for a long moment, eyes scanning the way your arms stayed folded and your jaw set. He shifted on his feet, keys jangling in his pocket like they had weight.

“I know I should’ve—” he started, voice rough.

But you cut him off. “I’m tired, Dean. I gave you everything. I don’t have anything left to give.”

He blinked, like the words stung more than he’d expected. Like he thought you’d still be waiting, still be his home.