seraphina

Steve grabs at your thighs tugging you close enough that your breasts press tight against his chest. He nips just under your jaw before peppering open mouth along the length of your neck. Catching the small roll of your hips with a smile against your skin, he pulls away confidently showing you the whites of them.

Grabbing your chin between two fingers, he tugs your face down just enough for his lips to ghost against yours.

“Let me guess, this is the last time.” He whispers against your mouth with a knowing smirk.

”Yes, I mean it.” You huff, unable to control your own grin, rocking your hips again. “Last. time.”

”Whatever you say.”

Steve snorts, not waiting for whatever smart comeback you have waiting on the tip of your tongue. Instead, he curls his hand around the back of your neck, and catches it on his own.

The moan that escapes out of your throat comes stirring from deep within your chest. He huffs out a small laugh at it before licking into your mouth with the kind of hunger that lights a fire along your already heated skin. Meeting him with equal enthusiasm, you apply more pressure with the next grind of your hips making his confidence stutter.

“Fuck —“ He breathes in between kisses, the grip on the back of your neck tightening.

Doing it again, it’s your turn to smile against his mouth, lashes fluttering open to admire the furrow of his brows.

“Better enjoy it while you can.”

His eyes open at that, something darkening the amber that swirls inside of them.

“Who are you trying to convince, honey? Me or you?” Steve smirks with a narrowed gaze filled with determination, the hand on your hip tightening.

“Shut u— ohmygod.”

Your bratty response is cut off, when he drags you over his lap, the seam of your jeans pressing into where you need it most.

“What was that? Couldn’t hear you.” He chuckles darkly, tearing his lips from your mouth to wrap around your pulse point.

He sucks hard enough for your eyes to hit the back of your head, leaving a bruise you’ll have to deal with in the morning. But when he drags his teeth along the sensitive skin, you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Steve, are you down there? I forgot my keys.”

Robin’s voice freezes you in place with fingers curled into the roots of his hair. Steve’s teeth stop right over the already blooming purple mark, the grip on the back of your neck tightening.

“Steve —?” The stairs squeak with the first steps she takes, and it’s enough for him to find his voice.

“Y- yeah!” His voice cracks, and your giggle that follows it earns you a glare.

“My keys, are they down there?” She calls out again, another creak following.

“Shit.” He blows out a breath, pulling away to look around the room, groaning quietly when he spots them on the coffee table.

“Yeah, I got them. Give me a second.” He lays back, running both his hands down his face before meeting your playful gaze.

“It’s getting late, I should probably go.” You smirk, using his broad chest as leverage to push yourself off his lap.

“What? No, she’ll be gone in like 2 seconds.” He whispers harshly trying to grab at your hips, but you slip through his fingers just like this moment.

“I said enjoy it while you can.”

“You can’t be serious.”

Steve stares you down, watching you with heated eyes as you straighten out your shirt and tug up your jeans.

“Never been more serious.” You wink, swiping Robin’s keys off the coffee table before calling out to her.

—

By 10:30 AM, every resident that’s been remotely alerted of the newcomer has somehow gathered every possible legal (or illegal) information about him. Dean Winchester. Late twenties. Employee at Miller Automotive. Moved from Illinois—no sorry, Georgia—or was it Kansas? Definitely Kansas. But most of all? He’s unmarried. That’s what gets the older women hyped about the most.

You hear all of this secondhand while writing new recipe ideas in your notebook inside The Sugar Shoppe later that morning. The bakery smells of vanilla and brown sugar, soft instrumental music playing over the speakers while your daughter sits at one of the corner tables, aggressively colouring with a brand new pack of permanent markers she absolutely should not be having anywhere near her nice clothes.

The bell above the front door rings to capture your attention and you look up, already speaking out of instinct. “Hey, what can I—”

The words suddenly die in your mouth when you stare at who’s in the doorway. None other than your new neighbour, looking extremely uncertain about every life choice he’s ever made as he stands there, looking unfairly even more attractive up close. There’s grease faintly staining his forearms, dark attire visibly disturbing the sunshine and rainbows your bakery is practically made out of. But one thing’s for certain—anybody can get lost in those sage green eyes of his.

He glances around, making awkward eye contact with a few ladies in the bakery who are now all staring at him like they want to devour him whole. Which, they do, if you’re being honest. He smiles politely at them and they immediately start whispering and giggling together before his gaze finds yours again. “Looks like Barbie threw up in here,” he jokes blankly, clearing his throat when he approaches the counter.

You blink. Then laugh a little before you can stop yourself. “It grows on you,” you say with a sweet smile. “You’re the new neighbour, right? I live next door.”

You think his eyes light up for a moment—maybe in recognition, or something. Or you’re just being delusional because a really hot guy who seems to be out of your league; single, tired, working mom, is talking to you right now and the overhead lighting is reflecting off his eyes.

Instead, he nods once, eyes trailing over you for longer than necessary which has you sweating a bit. There isn’t any flour on your nose right? God, you hope not. “I’m Dean,” he introduces himself. Dean. You nod, telling him your name in response and he actually smiles. He smiles. You can then only wait patiently as he scans the menu, and then the very carefully crafted glass display filled with endless sugary sweets and pastries with mini chalkboard stands on each plate like a toddler scribbled on them. His gaze slowly drifts over to an actual toddler sitting not too far by—one that looks dangerously similar to you. Like the universe got lazy and decided they were just gonna make a mini clone of you and have you bring it into the world.

.....That is your kid. Right?

“That, uhh—” he stutters nervously, awkwardly gesturing to the child in the corner. He doesn’t want to sound rude, or assume anything. You follow the motion of his finger, spotting your daughter who simply flashes you a big toothy grin. You chuckle, shaking your head as you look at him again, “She’s mine, yeah.”

Phew. He was right, letting out a sigh in relief he didn’t even know he was holding in as your daughter waves furiously at him. He smiles, giving her a small wave back.

“Cute one you have there.”

“Thanks.”

He clears his throat, “....So what’s a uh—macaron.... and a macaroon?”

“Well macarons are kind of like a cookie sandwich. Um, we have vanilla, pistachio, salted caramel....” you explain, listing off the various flavours off the top of your head before moving on. “And macaroons, they uh—look like that, and are usually made with shredded coconut.”

“Who creates two different desserts with only one letter differing them?”

“The French and Italians?”

“....Fair.”

You laugh again, softer this time, and Dean swears the entire bakery suddenly feels a little warmer now. After embarrassing himself trying to pronounce more dessert names, he ends up just ordering a black coffee with two sugars. Valid. Atleast he knows how to say that.

While he’s busy digging for his wallet, you quietly start filling an empty pastry box. Two glazed cinnamon rolls and chocolate croissants, a cherry danish, and three sprinkle-ambushed sugar cookies your daughter, now standing beside you insists on adding herself.

Dean finally glances up, looking half-confused, half-terrified. “Woah, sweetheart—don’t think I ordered all of that,” he says with a laugh.

Sweetheart.

You just smile, ignoring the way your heart skips a beat at the nickname as you fold up the box effortlessly like you’d done this a million times (surprise, you have). “Call it a welcome to the neighbourhood gift. On the house.”

For a second, he just looks at you. Really looks at you. Observing your sweet smile, pouty lips, the way your lashes flutter against your skin when you blink. God, wow. You’re something else.

But then he snaps out of it when your daughter who was previously standing alongside you, waddles over to his side, shoving the pastel pink box with the bakery’s name printed in cursive at the side into his hands abruptly.

“Mommy made these cinnamon rolls at four in the morning,” she takes a loud gasp suddenly—toddlers—before whispering just loud enough for Dean to hear—and you. “Because she’s crazy.”

“Hey—I heard that!”

Dean laughs, shaking his head as he politely accepts the gift, something softer settling into his rough features.