The bunker hums with quiet, a sanctuary beneath the chaos of the world. It smells like leather and old books, like warm whiskey and the faintest trace of gunpowder. The lamp on the nightstand flickers, casting gold across rough sheets and the slow rise and fall of his chest.

She watches him, memorizing every shadow and highlight—how his lashes rest against his cheek, how the bruises on his knuckles are already fading. He sleeps like he fights: deeply, recklessly, as if he knows rest is a fleeting thing. But tonight, he’s here. Safe. Hers.

Her fingers twitch with the urge to trace the freckles dusted over his shoulders, to map the scars she already knows by heart. Dean Winchester is battle-worn, sharp edges and old wounds, but here, in the hush of night, he’s something softer. Something whole.

She doesn’t need him to say it. She just knows. Knows in the way he pulls her close even in sleep, in the way his body curls instinctively around hers, like she’s something to protect. Like she’s something to keep.

And maybe she is.

He’s all rough charm and reckless devotion, the kind of man who throws himself into love like he does a fight—headfirst, fists clenched, heart wide open even when he doesn’t want it to be. He’s never been one for forever, but the way he looks at her makes her wonder if maybe, just maybe, he’s starting to believe in it.

She thinks about the way his hands feel on her waist, the way his voice drops when he calls her "sweetheart," like she’s something sacred. Thinks about the way he smirks when he catches her staring, cocky but warm, like he knows exactly what he does to her.

She’d be lying if she said she wasn’t tempted. If she said she didn’t want more.

He makes her want to be reckless. To believe in something bigger than the road ahead.

He makes her want to make him fall in love.