chye

The date had been a disaster from the moment you sat down.

The guy, Mark, a friend-of-a-friend who swore he was funny and stable, had spent the entire dinner talking about his ex, his cryptocurrency losses, and how women these days “didn’t appreciate a real provider.” He’d ordered the most expensive bottle of wine without asking, then made passive-aggressive comments when you only wanted one glass. By dessert, he was not-so-subtly suggesting you go back to his place “to end the night right,” even though you’d made it clear this was just dinner. You’d smiled through gritted teeth, declined, and practically sprinted out of the restaurant the second the check hit the table.

Now you were driving home in the pouring rain, still in your date night outfit: a deep emerald green wrap dress that hugged your curves and showed just enough cleavage to feel confident when you’d left the house hours ago. The strappy black heels were currently murdering your feet, and your carefully curled hair was starting to frizz from the humidity even before the storm hit.

You just wanted a hot shower, heat up some popcorn and watch a 2000 rom-com in your bed. Yeah, that’s what you needed.

The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the highway into a blurry black ribbon under your headlights. It was well past eleven, the kind of late where the world felt hollowed out and empty except for the occasional flicker of distant taillights. You gripped the steering wheel tighter, muttering under your breath as the engine started making that awful coughing sound again.

Then it just… died.

The car rolled to a slow, pathetic stop on the shoulder, hazard lights blinking weakly against the downpour. You sat there for a second, staring at the dashboard like it might magically fix itself if you glared hard enough. Your son was safe at your mom’s for the night, thank God for that, but you were still twenty minutes from home with no working vehicle and a dead phone battery hovering at twelve percent.

“Perfect,” you whispered, voice tight. “Just perfect.”

You stepped out into the cold rain, the silky green dress instantly soaking through and clinging tightly to your curves. The long halter scarf hung heavy and wet down your front as you popped the hood. Your strappy silver heels sank into the muddy gravel while you shone your phone’s flashlight into the engine bay. You had no idea what you were doing, but you tried anyway. You tried jiggling hoses, checking the oil, tapping some random parts you didn't really know the name of. Steam rose uselessly into the rain. Nothing worked.

Soaked, shivering, and defeated, you slammed the hood shut and climbed back into the driver’s seat, teeth chattering, water dripping from your hair and the saturated green fabric.

It was well past midnight, there was no way you could call your dad who told you no less than fifteen times to get rid of that piece of crap. Or your mom at the risk of waking Beau and having him to be cranky the whole day. You knew you had no other choice and still, something deep in your chest tighten at the thought of him.

You dialed his number.

The phone rang four times before a deep, raspy, disoriented voice answered. “…Hello?” Dean mumbled, sounding like he was still half-buried in sleep. There was a long pause, sheets rustling, then a confused, “Wait… babe? Is that you?”

You winced. “Dean, you can’t just call me ‘babe’ anymore. We’re divorced, remember?”

Another sleepy pause. You could practically picture him rubbing his face, trying to wake up. “…Shit. Sorry. Old habits die hard,” he muttered, voice thick and groggy. “What’s going on? Is Beau okay? Why are you calling this late?”

“I’m on the side of the road,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “My car broke down on Route 9, past the mill. I tried to fix it myself but I couldn’t. It’s pouring and I’m stuck out here.”

There was another long beat of silence as he processed. Then came a low, tired chuckle that turned into a yawn. “You’re kidding… You actually had to call me?” His voice was still raspy with sleep but the teasing was clear. “Out of all the people in your life, your ex-husband is the midnight roadside rescue guy? Damn, that’s gotta bruise the ego a little.”

“Dean,” you warned, though exhaustion stole most of the heat from it.

He let out another soft, sleepy laugh. “I’m just saying. Miss Independent out here needing me to come save the day. Alright, alright… stay in the car, lock the doors. I’m dragging my ass out of bed. Give me twenty minutes.”

You let out a shaky breath, relieved despite the teasing. “Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, the teasing softening into something warmer. “Always.”

You hung up the phone, and for a moment the only sound was the relentless drumming of rain against the car roof.

Dean’s voice still lingered in your ear like warm smoke. Even half-awake and confused, it had that same low timbre that used to wrap around you on lazy mornings and late nights. The teasing edge in it, the familiar mix of groggy confusion and reluctant protectiveness, hit you harder than you expected. Your chest tightened with something complicated. A mixture of relief, nostalgia, and a sharp little sting of longing you thought you’d buried two years ago.

You closed your eyes and let your head fall back against the headrest, water still dripping from your soaked hair onto your collarbones. His sleepy chuckle echoed in your mind, the way he’d said “you actually had to call me?” with that lazy, affectionate mockery. It was so undeniably him, the man who used to tease you mercilessly but would still crawl out of bed at midnight without hesitation.

Your fingers tightened around the phone. The green halter dress clung cold and heavy to your skin, but the warmth blooming low in your stomach had nothing to do with the temperature. You hated how easily his voice could still do this to you. How safe it made you feel, even now.

“Damn it, Dean,” you whispered into the empty car, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips despite everything. You knew the love was still there. You could hear it in the rustling of his sheet while he was getting up to come to you, in his little smirk you were sure he was sporting, in the way he would look at you when he would come to pick up Beau.

Your divorce had been quiet and civil, almost painfully so. No explosive fights, just a slow, painful drift. After your son was born, Dean’s demanding schedule as a youth hockey coach had taken over. You’d been exhausted from navigating new motherhood alone while trying to hold everything together. The love never disappeared, but the partnership had quietly frayed under the weight of mismatched schedules and growing distance.

You both agreed it was better to separate before resentment set in, especially for your son. Since then, co-parenting had become a careful dance of polite texts, scheduled handoffs, and strict boundaries.

The heater had died with the engine, and the cold was starting to seep into your bones. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the saturated lime-green halter dress clinging like a second skin, the long matching scarf heavy and dripping down your chest.

Headlights finally cut through the rain behind you. You let out a relieved breath as the familiar truck pulled up. You closed your eyes as you could finally relax, but you missed how the driver’s door opened, and a tall figure stepped out into the downpour.

A sharp knock suddenly rattled the windshield right next to your face.

You jumped violently, a startled yelp escaping your throat as your hand flew to your chest. Dean’s face appeared through the rain-streaked glass, his hair already wet and plastered to his forehead, a half-amused, half-apologetic smirk on his lips.

You shoved the door open, heart still racing. “Dean! You scared the hell out of me!”

He stood there in the pouring rain, wearing a dark hoodie and jeans, a large black jacket folded over his arm. Water streamed down his face, but his eyes were soft with concern. “Sorry,” he said, voice still a little raspy from sleep but warm now. “Didn’t mean to give you a heart attack. You just looked so lost in thought.” He held out the jacket toward you, rain dripping from his sleeve. “Here. You sounded cold as hell on the phone. Figured you’d need this.”

You stared at the offered jacket for a second before stepping out of the car. The moment your strappy silver heels hit the muddy gravel, the rain intensified, soaking you even further. The silky lime-green dress was completely drenched now, the fabric molded tightly to your breasts, the short hem clinging high on your thighs, and the long scarf trailing down your side like a wet ribbon. Your hair hung in heavy waves around your face, water tracing glistening paths down your neck and collarbones.

Dean froze.

The teasing remark he’d clearly been about to make died on his lips. His gaze dragged slowly over you, from the soaked dress that left almost nothing to the imagination, to the way the rain made your skin glow under the truck’s headlights, to the strappy heels sinking into the mud. For a long moment, he was completely speechless, lips slightly parted, rain running down his face as he just… stared.

“Jesus…” he finally breathed, the word barely audible over the rain. His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You’re… fuck. You look…” He shook his head slightly, like he was trying to reboot his brain, then forced his eyes back up to your face with visible effort. “Here,” he said, stepping closer and draping the dry jacket around your shoulders before you could protest. His hands lingered for a second longer than necessary, adjusting the collar around your neck.

The warmth of the jacket and the scent of him enveloped you instantly.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher. His eyes flicked down to the dress again for a split second before he caught himself. “Besides the car dying and the terrible date you clearly had?”

You raised an eyebrow, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself. “I never said anything about a date.”

Dean gave you a small, crooked smile, water dripping from his lashes. “You didn’t have to. That dress says enough.” He glanced back at your dead car, then nodded toward his truck. “Come on. Let’s get you out of this rain before you freeze. I’ll call a tow in the morning.”

He started walking toward his truck, parked just ahead of your dead car, but then paused, glancing back at you. The rain was still pouring down in heavy sheets, turning the shoulder of the road into a slick, muddy mess. Without a word, he jogged ahead, boots splashing through the water, and rounded the passenger side of his big black truck. He yanked the door open, the interior light spilling out like a beacon in the downpour.

You took a careful step forward in your strappy silver heels, but the moment you did, you realized the problem. A massive puddle had formed right beside the passenger door, wide enough that there was no graceful way around it. Your already-ruined heels would sink straight into it.

Dean noticed at the same time.

“Hold on,” he called over the rain. In two quick strides he was back in front of you, water streaming down his face and dark hoodie. Without hesitation, he bent slightly and slid one arm behind your back, the other under your knees.

“Dean… wait…”

Too late.

He lifted you effortlessly, one arm cradling your back while the other supported your legs, pulling you flush against his chest. A surprised gasp left your lips as your body left the ground. The wet lime-green halter dress rode up even higher on your thighs from the movement, the silky fabric clinging obscenely to your skin. The long matching scarf dangled and swayed in the rain between you two. You instinctively wrapped one arm around his neck for balance, your fingers brushing the wet hair at his nape.

Dean stilled for half a second, holding you bridal-style in the pouring rain. His breath hitched. Up close like this, he could see every detail, the way the rain made your skin shimmer, how the soaked green fabric molded perfectly to the swell of your breasts and the curve of your waist, how droplets traced down your neck and disappeared into your cleavage. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening as they flicked over your face and body.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear over the rain. “You’re killing me right now.”

Before you could respond, he carried you the few steps to the open truck door, careful not to slip in the mud. With surprising gentleness for a man who’d just been yanked out of bed, he maneuvered you into the passenger seat, keeping you steady as you settled onto the warm leather. His hands lingered at your waist for a moment longer than necessary, thumbs brushing lightly over the jacket he’d given you.

Once you were safely inside, he stepped back, rain pouring off him. He ran a hand through his soaked hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and gave you a crooked, slightly dazed smile.

“Better?” he asked, voice huskier than before. His eyes drifted down to where the green dress had shifted on your thighs before he forced them back up to your face. “Didn’t want you ruining those pretty shoes any more than they already are.”

You clutched the oversized jacket tighter around yourself, heart racing from more than just the cold. “You didn’t have to carry me.”

Dean leaned one arm against the roof of the truck, still standing in the rain, looking at you with an intensity that made your stomach flip. “Yeah,” he said softly, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips even as his gaze stayed serious. “I did.”

He closed the door gently, then jogged around to the driver’s side, leaving you warm, and completely rattled in the passenger seat. You hated how easily your body remembered him. How the simple act of being carried by your ex-husband could unravel two years of careful distance in a single heartbeat. Relief, desire, and a sharp ache of what used to be all twisted together in your chest as you sat in his warm truck, pulse still racing, trying desperately not to let it show on your face.

Dean climbed into the driver’s seat, bringing a rush of cold air and the scent of wet earth with him. The moment he shut his door, the truck felt smaller, warmer, and far too intimate.

Without warning, Dean shook his head like a dog fresh out of a bath, sending droplets of rainwater flying from his blonde hair in every direction. A few cold specks landed on your bare thigh, making you yelp and laugh despite yourself.

“Dean!” you scolded, half-laughing as you swatted at his arm.

He grinned, unrepentant, running a hand through his now-messy hair. “What? Gotta dry off somehow,” he said, voice still carrying that sleepy rasp. He turned the key and the truck rumbled to life, heat pouring from the vents.

As he pulled back onto the road, the windshield wipers swept steadily back and forth through the heavy rain. Dean kept glancing over at you every few seconds, like he couldn’t quite help himself. His eyes would flick from the dark highway to you, your face, his jacket drowning your frame, the bare legs beneath it, before returning to the road.

“So…” he started, settling into the drive. “You gonna tell me what happened tonight or am I supposed to just sit here wondering what happened?”

You let out a tired laugh, pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. “It was bad, Dean. Really bad. The guy spent forty-five minutes talking about his ex-girlfriend and how she was a bitch for not appreciating him. Then he bragged about his crypto portfolio… which he then admitted lost him like thirty grand last month.”

Dean snorted, glancing over at you with raised eyebrows. “Crypto? Seriously?” He shook his head, eyes sliding back to the road for a second before returning to you again. “And he still thought he had a shot with you in that dress? Man’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”

You smiled despite yourself. “I paid for my own dinner and left the second the check came. Then my car decided to die on the way home. Perfect end to a perfect night.”

Dean was quiet for a beat, his thumb tapping lightly on the steering wheel. He looked over at you again, softer this time. “You okay though? For real? You sounded pretty shaken on the phone.”

“I’m fine,” you said, leaning your head back against the seat. “Just cold. And tired. And annoyed at myself for even going on the date in the first place.”

He chuckled low, eyes flicking toward you once more. The warm light from the dashboard caught the sharp line of his jaw and the way his hoodie still clung damply to his shoulders. “Hey, at least you looked incredible doing it. That dress is… something else.” His gaze dropped briefly to the sliver of green fabric visible beneath the jacket before he caught himself and looked forward again. “I mean, Jesus. I almost forgot how to speak when I saw you standing there in the rain.”

You felt heat creep up your neck. “Stop staring at me like that. You’re gonna drive us off the road.”

“Can’t help it,” he admitted with a lazy grin, stealing another glance. “You’re sitting there looking like you just walked off a magazine shoot, soaked green dress and all. It’s distracting as hell.”

He reached over and turned the heat up a little more, his hand brushing close to your leg. “You still freezing?”

“A little,” you confessed. “The dress wasn’t exactly made for roadside breakdowns in a storm.”

Dean’s gaze flicked over to you again, lingering this time. Without saying anything, he reached across the center console and gently placed his large, warm hand on your bare thigh, just below the hem of the soaked lime-green dress. His palm was rough from years of coaching on the ice but incredibly warm, and the sudden heat against your cold skin made you jolt.

You flinched, your breath catching sharply. “Dean,” you said, voice tight as you glanced down at his hand. “We’re not together anymore. You can’t just… do that.”

He didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers gave a gentle, comforting squeeze, thumb brushing slowly back and forth over your chilled skin in an attempt to warm you.

“Just let me do this,” he murmured, voice low and steady, eyes fixed on the dark, rainy road ahead for a moment before sliding back to you. “You’re freezing. I can feel how cold your leg is from here. Let me help.”

You stared at his hand, heart hammering. The contrast between his warm touch and the damp cold of your dress made goosebumps rise across your skin. Part of you wanted to push him away. The other part, the louder, more dangerous part, wanted to lean into it.

After a long beat, you exhaled shakily. “This is confusing, you know that?”

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly, glancing over at you again. His hand stayed right where it was, radiating heat into your thigh. “Tell me about it. I was dead asleep thirty minutes ago, and now I’ve got my soaked ex-wife in my truck wearing a dress that should be illegal, trying not to stare at her legs every five seconds.”

You let out a soft, surprised laugh despite the tension. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m honest,” he countered with a crooked smile, stealing another glance. His thumb continued its slow, soothing strokes. “So… you really went on a date looking like that? You trying to kill the poor guy, or what?”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” you said, shifting slightly in the seat. His hand moved with you, never breaking contact. “I just wanted to feel good for one night. Clearly that backfired spectacularly.”

Dean hummed, eyes flicking between the road and you. “You looked more than good. When I saw you standing there in the rain… soaked, that green dress clinging to you, those heels in the mud…” He shook his head slowly. “I forgot how to form words for a second.”

The cab fell quiet for a moment, filled only by the sound of rain and wipers. His hand felt heavier now, more intentional.“You can’t say things like that,” you whispered, staring at his profile.

“Why not?” he asked, voice dropping. He glanced over again, eyes dark and earnest. “We’re divorced, yeah. But I’m still allowed to notice when my son’s mom looks breathtaking, right?”

You swallowed hard, the warmth from his palm spreading up your leg. “It makes things messy, Dean.”

“Messy’s kind of our thing,” he said with a soft chuckle, giving your thigh another gentle squeeze. “We made a whole kid together in the middle of messy. One late-night car ride isn’t gonna break us.”

You looked out the window at the blurred lights passing through the rain, hyper-aware of every point where his skin touched yours. “I hate that you’re still the person I call when everything goes wrong.”

Dean was quiet for a beat, then said softly, “I don’t hate it. Not even a little.”

The words hung heavy in the warm truck, thickening the air between you. You didn’t know how to respond. The weight of his hand on your thigh, the low rasp of his voice, and the familiar scent of him filled the small space until it felt almost too much. The rain had eased into a steady drizzle by the time Dean turned onto your street. His truck’s headlights swept across the quiet neighborhood as he slowly pulled into your driveway, the tires crunching over wet gravel.

He put the truck in park but didn’t turn the engine off right away. The dashboard lights cast a soft glow over his face as he finally slid his hand from your thigh, leaving a lingering warmth behind. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The tension crackled like static electricity.

“You know,” Dean said quietly, staring straight ahead at your dark house before turning to look at you again, “nights like this make me wonder if we gave up too fast.”

You swallowed, heart twisting. “Dean… we didn’t just give up. We were drowning. You were gone all the time with the kids’ team, I was exhausted with the baby, and we barely saw each other. We agreed it was better this way. For him.”

“I know,” he murmured, his eyes searching your face. “Doesn’t mean I don’t miss coming home to you every night.” His gaze dropped to your lips for a second before lifting again. “Doesn’t mean I stopped caring. Or wanting you.”

The confession settled between you like a stone in still water. You felt exposed in his jacket, in that ridiculous green dress, with your emotions raw after the long night. “I should go inside,” you whispered, reaching for the door handle.

You both stepped out into the light drizzle. Dean walked you to your front door, close enough that his arm brushed yours. When you turned to face him, the words felt stuck in your throat.

“Thank you,” you said softly. “For coming to get me. For… everything.” Before you could overthink it, you rose onto your toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing against the cool, rain-damp stubble there. You lingered just a second too long, breathing him in.

When you pulled back, Dean turned his head slowly, deliberately, until your faces were only inches apart. His breath ghosted across your lips. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto yours. The world narrowed to just the two of you under the soft glow of your porch light, rain misting around you.

The date had been a disaster from the moment you sat down.

The guy, Mark, a friend-of-a-friend who swore he was funny and stable, had spent the entire dinner talking about his ex, his cryptocurrency losses, and how women these days “didn’t appreciate a real provider.” He’d ordered the most expensive bottle of wine without asking, then made passive-aggressive comments when you only wanted one glass. By dessert, he was not-so-subtly suggesting you go back to his place “to end the night right,” even though you’d made it clear this was just dinner. You’d smiled through gritted teeth, declined, and practically sprinted out of the restaurant the second the check hit the table.

Now you were driving home in the pouring rain, still in your date night outfit: a deep emerald green wrap dress that hugged your curves and showed just enough cleavage to feel confident when you’d left the house hours ago. The strappy black heels were currently murdering your feet, and your carefully curled hair was starting to frizz from the humidity even before the storm hit.

You just wanted a hot shower, heat up some popcorn and watch a 2000 rom-com in your bed. Yeah, that’s what you needed.

The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the highway into a blurry black ribbon under your headlights. It was well past eleven, the kind of late where the world felt hollowed out and empty except for the occasional flicker of distant taillights. You gripped the steering wheel tighter, muttering under your breath as the engine started making that awful coughing sound again.

Then it just… died.

The car rolled to a slow, pathetic stop on the shoulder, hazard lights blinking weakly against the downpour. You sat there for a second, staring at the dashboard like it might magically fix itself if you glared hard enough. Your son was safe at your mom’s for the night, thank God for that, but you were still twenty minutes from home with no working vehicle and a dead phone battery hovering at twelve percent.

“Perfect,” you whispered, voice tight. “Just perfect.”

You stepped out into the cold rain, the silky green dress instantly soaking through and clinging tightly to your curves. The long halter scarf hung heavy and wet down your front as you popped the hood. Your strappy silver heels sank into the muddy gravel while you shone your phone’s flashlight into the engine bay. You had no idea what you were doing, but you tried anyway. You tried jiggling hoses, checking the oil, tapping some random parts you didn't really know the name of. Steam rose uselessly into the rain. Nothing worked.

Soaked, shivering, and defeated, you slammed the hood shut and climbed back into the driver’s seat, teeth chattering, water dripping from your hair and the saturated green fabric.

It was well past midnight, there was no way you could call your dad who told you no less than fifteen times to get rid of that piece of crap. Or your mom at the risk of waking Beau and having him to be cranky the whole day. You knew you had no other choice and still, something deep in your chest tighten at the thought of him.

You dialed his number.

The phone rang four times before a deep, raspy, disoriented voice answered. “…Hello?” Dean mumbled, sounding like he was still half-buried in sleep. There was a long pause, sheets rustling, then a confused, “Wait… babe? Is that you?”

You winced. “Dean, you can’t just call me ‘babe’ anymore. We’re divorced, remember?”

Another sleepy pause. You could practically picture him rubbing his face, trying to wake up. “…Shit. Sorry. Old habits die hard,” he muttered, voice thick and groggy. “What’s going on? Is Beau okay? Why are you calling this late?”

“I’m on the side of the road,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “My car broke down on Route 9, past the mill. I tried to fix it myself but I couldn’t. It’s pouring and I’m stuck out here.”

There was another long beat of silence as he processed. Then came a low, tired chuckle that turned into a yawn. “You’re kidding… You actually had to call me?” His voice was still raspy with sleep but the teasing was clear. “Out of all the people in your life, your ex-husband is the midnight roadside rescue guy? Damn, that’s gotta bruise the ego a little.”

“Dean,” you warned, though exhaustion stole most of the heat from it.

He let out another soft, sleepy laugh. “I’m just saying. Miss Independent out here needing me to come save the day. Alright, alright… stay in the car, lock the doors. I’m dragging my ass out of bed. Give me twenty minutes.”

You let out a shaky breath, relieved despite the teasing. “Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, the teasing softening into something warmer. “Always.”

You hung up the phone, and for a moment the only sound was the relentless drumming of rain against the car roof.

Dean’s voice still lingered in your ear like warm smoke. Even half-awake and confused, it had that same low timbre that used to wrap around you on lazy mornings and late nights. The teasing edge in it, the familiar mix of groggy confusion and reluctant protectiveness, hit you harder than you expected. Your chest tightened with something complicated. A mixture of relief, nostalgia, and a sharp little sting of longing you thought you’d buried two years ago.

You closed your eyes and let your head fall back against the headrest, water still dripping from your soaked hair onto your collarbones. His sleepy chuckle echoed in your mind, the way he’d said “you actually had to call me?” with that lazy, affectionate mockery. It was so undeniably him, the man who used to tease you mercilessly but would still crawl out of bed at midnight without hesitation.

Your fingers tightened around the phone. The green halter dress clung cold and heavy to your skin, but the warmth blooming low in your stomach had nothing to do with the temperature. You hated how easily his voice could still do this to you. How safe it made you feel, even now.

“Damn it, Dean,” you whispered into the empty car, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips despite everything. You knew the love was still there. You could hear it in the rustling of his sheet while he was getting up to come to you, in his little smirk you were sure he was sporting, in the way he would look at you when he would come to pick up Beau.

Your divorce had been quiet and civil, almost painfully so. No explosive fights, just a slow, painful drift. After your son was born, Dean’s demanding schedule as a youth hockey coach had taken over. You’d been exhausted from navigating new motherhood alone while trying to hold everything together. The love never disappeared, but the partnership had quietly frayed under the weight of mismatched schedules and growing distance.

You both agreed it was better to separate before resentment set in, especially for your son. Since then, co-parenting had become a careful dance of polite texts, scheduled handoffs, and strict boundaries.

The heater had died with the engine, and the cold was starting to seep into your bones. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the saturated lime-green halter dress clinging like a second skin, the long matching scarf heavy and dripping down your chest.

Headlights finally cut through the rain behind you. You let out a relieved breath as the familiar truck pulled up. You closed your eyes as you could finally relax, but you missed how the driver’s door opened, and a tall figure stepped out into the downpour.

A sharp knock suddenly rattled the windshield right next to your face.

You jumped violently, a startled yelp escaping your throat as your hand flew to your chest. Dean’s face appeared through the rain-streaked glass, his hair already wet and plastered to his forehead, a half-amused, half-apologetic smirk on his lips.

You shoved the door open, heart still racing. “Dean! You scared the hell out of me!”

He stood there in the pouring rain, wearing a dark hoodie and jeans, a large black jacket folded over his arm. Water streamed down his face, but his eyes were soft with concern. “Sorry,” he said, voice still a little raspy from sleep but warm now. “Didn’t mean to give you a heart attack. You just looked so lost in thought.” He held out the jacket toward you, rain dripping from his sleeve. “Here. You sounded cold as hell on the phone. Figured you’d need this.”

You stared at the offered jacket for a second before stepping out of the car. The moment your strappy silver heels hit the muddy gravel, the rain intensified, soaking you even further. The silky lime-green dress was completely drenched now, the fabric molded tightly to your breasts, the short hem clinging high on your thighs, and the long scarf trailing down your side like a wet ribbon. Your hair hung in heavy waves around your face, water tracing glistening paths down your neck and collarbones.

Dean froze.

The teasing remark he’d clearly been about to make died on his lips. His gaze dragged slowly over you, from the soaked dress that left almost nothing to the imagination, to the way the rain made your skin glow under the truck’s headlights, to the strappy heels sinking into the mud. For a long moment, he was completely speechless, lips slightly parted, rain running down his face as he just… stared.

“Jesus…” he finally breathed, the word barely audible over the rain. His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You’re… fuck. You look…” He shook his head slightly, like he was trying to reboot his brain, then forced his eyes back up to your face with visible effort. “Here,” he said, stepping closer and draping the dry jacket around your shoulders before you could protest. His hands lingered for a second longer than necessary, adjusting the collar around your neck.

The warmth of the jacket and the scent of him enveloped you instantly.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher. His eyes flicked down to the dress again for a split second before he caught himself. “Besides the car dying and the terrible date you clearly had?”

You raised an eyebrow, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself. “I never said anything about a date.”

Dean gave you a small, crooked smile, water dripping from his lashes. “You didn’t have to. That dress says enough.” He glanced back at your dead car, then nodded toward his truck. “Come on. Let’s get you out of this rain before you freeze. I’ll call a tow in the morning.”

He started walking toward his truck, parked just ahead of your dead car, but then paused, glancing back at you. The rain was still pouring down in heavy sheets, turning the shoulder of the road into a slick, muddy mess. Without a word, he jogged ahead, boots splashing through the water, and rounded the passenger side of his big black truck. He yanked the door open, the interior light spilling out like a beacon in the downpour.

You took a careful step forward in your strappy silver heels, but the moment you did, you realized the problem. A massive puddle had formed right beside the passenger door, wide enough that there was no graceful way around it. Your already-ruined heels would sink straight into it.

Dean noticed at the same time.

“Hold on,” he called over the rain. In two quick strides he was back in front of you, water streaming down his face and dark hoodie. Without hesitation, he bent slightly and slid one arm behind your back, the other under your knees.

“Dean… wait…”

Too late.

He lifted you effortlessly, one arm cradling your back while the other supported your legs, pulling you flush against his chest. A surprised gasp left your lips as your body left the ground. The wet lime-green halter dress rode up even higher on your thighs from the movement, the silky fabric clinging obscenely to your skin. The long matching scarf dangled and swayed in the rain between you two. You instinctively wrapped one arm around his neck for balance, your fingers brushing the wet hair at his nape.

Dean stilled for half a second, holding you bridal-style in the pouring rain. His breath hitched. Up close like this, he could see every detail, the way the rain made your skin shimmer, how the soaked green fabric molded perfectly to the swell of your breasts and the curve of your waist, how droplets traced down your neck and disappeared into your cleavage. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening as they flicked over your face and body.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear over the rain. “You’re killing me right now.”

Before you could respond, he carried you the few steps to the open truck door, careful not to slip in the mud. With surprising gentleness for a man who’d just been yanked out of bed, he maneuvered you into the passenger seat, keeping you steady as you settled onto the warm leather. His hands lingered at your waist for a moment longer than necessary, thumbs brushing lightly over the jacket he’d given you.

Once you were safely inside, he stepped back, rain pouring off him. He ran a hand through his soaked hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and gave you a crooked, slightly dazed smile.

“Better?” he asked, voice huskier than before. His eyes drifted down to where the green dress had shifted on your thighs before he forced them back up to your face. “Didn’t want you ruining those pretty shoes any more than they already are.”

You clutched the oversized jacket tighter around yourself, heart racing from more than just the cold. “You didn’t have to carry me.”

Dean leaned one arm against the roof of the truck, still standing in the rain, looking at you with an intensity that made your stomach flip. “Yeah,” he said softly, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips even as his gaze stayed serious. “I did.”

He closed the door gently, then jogged around to the driver’s side, leaving you warm, and completely rattled in the passenger seat. You hated how easily your body remembered him. How the simple act of being carried by your ex-husband could unravel two years of careful distance in a single heartbeat. Relief, desire, and a sharp ache of what used to be all twisted together in your chest as you sat in his warm truck, pulse still racing, trying desperately not to let it show on your face.

Dean climbed into the driver’s seat, bringing a rush of cold air and the scent of wet earth with him. The moment he shut his door, the truck felt smaller, warmer, and far too intimate.

Without warning, Dean shook his head like a dog fresh out of a bath, sending droplets of rainwater flying from his blonde hair in every direction. A few cold specks landed on your bare thigh, making you yelp and laugh despite yourself.

“Dean!” you scolded, half-laughing as you swatted at his arm.

He grinned, unrepentant, running a hand through his now-messy hair. “What? Gotta dry off somehow,” he said, voice still carrying that sleepy rasp. He turned the key and the truck rumbled to life, heat pouring from the vents.

As he pulled back onto the road, the windshield wipers swept steadily back and forth through the heavy rain. Dean kept glancing over at you every few seconds, like he couldn’t quite help himself. His eyes would flick from the dark highway to you, your face, his jacket drowning your frame, the bare legs beneath it, before returning to the road.

“So…” he started, settling into the drive. “You gonna tell me what happened tonight or am I supposed to just sit here wondering what happened?”

You let out a tired laugh, pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. “It was bad, Dean. Really bad. The guy spent forty-five minutes talking about his ex-girlfriend and how she was a bitch for not appreciating him. Then he bragged about his crypto portfolio… which he then admitted lost him like thirty grand last month.”

Dean snorted, glancing over at you with raised eyebrows. “Crypto? Seriously?” He shook his head, eyes sliding back to the road for a second before returning to you again. “And he still thought he had a shot with you in that dress? Man’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”

You smiled despite yourself. “I paid for my own dinner and left the second the check came. Then my car decided to die on the way home. Perfect end to a perfect night.”

Dean was quiet for a beat, his thumb tapping lightly on the steering wheel. He looked over at you again, softer this time. “You okay though? For real? You sounded pretty shaken on the phone.”

“I’m fine,” you said, leaning your head back against the seat. “Just cold. And tired. And annoyed at myself for even going on the date in the first place.”

He chuckled low, eyes flicking toward you once more. The warm light from the dashboard caught the sharp line of his jaw and the way his hoodie still clung damply to his shoulders. “Hey, at least you looked incredible doing it. That dress is… something else.” His gaze dropped briefly to the sliver of green fabric visible beneath the jacket before he caught himself and looked forward again. “I mean, Jesus. I almost forgot how to speak when I saw you standing there in the rain.”

You felt heat creep up your neck. “Stop staring at me like that. You’re gonna drive us off the road.”

“Can’t help it,” he admitted with a lazy grin, stealing another glance. “You’re sitting there looking like you just walked off a magazine shoot, soaked green dress and all. It’s distracting as hell.”

He reached over and turned the heat up a little more, his hand brushing close to your leg. “You still freezing?”

“A little,” you confessed. “The dress wasn’t exactly made for roadside breakdowns in a storm.”

Dean’s gaze flicked over to you again, lingering this time. Without saying anything, he reached across the center console and gently placed his large, warm hand on your bare thigh, just below the hem of the soaked lime-green dress. His palm was rough from years of coaching on the ice but incredibly warm, and the sudden heat against your cold skin made you jolt.

You flinched, your breath catching sharply. “Dean,” you said, voice tight as you glanced down at his hand. “We’re not together anymore. You can’t just… do that.”

He didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers gave a gentle, comforting squeeze, thumb brushing slowly back and forth over your chilled skin in an attempt to warm you.

“Just let me do this,” he murmured, voice low and steady, eyes fixed on the dark, rainy road ahead for a moment before sliding back to you. “You’re freezing. I can feel how cold your leg is from here. Let me help.”

You stared at his hand, heart hammering. The contrast between his warm touch and the damp cold of your dress made goosebumps rise across your skin. Part of you wanted to push him away. The other part, the louder, more dangerous part, wanted to lean into it.

After a long beat, you exhaled shakily. “This is confusing, you know that?”

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly, glancing over at you again. His hand stayed right where it was, radiating heat into your thigh. “Tell me about it. I was dead asleep thirty minutes ago, and now I’ve got my soaked ex-wife in my truck wearing a dress that should be illegal, trying not to stare at her legs every five seconds.”

You let out a soft, surprised laugh despite the tension. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m honest,” he countered with a crooked smile, stealing another glance. His thumb continued its slow, soothing strokes. “So… you really went on a date looking like that? You trying to kill the poor guy, or what?”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” you said, shifting slightly in the seat. His hand moved with you, never breaking contact. “I just wanted to feel good for one night. Clearly that backfired spectacularly.”

Dean hummed, eyes flicking between the road and you. “You looked more than good. When I saw you standing there in the rain… soaked, that green dress clinging to you, those heels in the mud…” He shook his head slowly. “I forgot how to form words for a second.”

The cab fell quiet for a moment, filled only by the sound of rain and wipers. His hand felt heavier now, more intentional.“You can’t say things like that,” you whispered, staring at his profile.

“Why not?” he asked, voice dropping. He glanced over again, eyes dark and earnest. “We’re divorced, yeah. But I’m still allowed to notice when my son’s mom looks breathtaking, right?”

You swallowed hard, the warmth from his palm spreading up your leg. “It makes things messy, Dean.”

“Messy’s kind of our thing,” he said with a soft chuckle, giving your thigh another gentle squeeze. “We made a whole kid together in the middle of messy. One late-night car ride isn’t gonna break us.”

You looked out the window at the blurred lights passing through the rain, hyper-aware of every point where his skin touched yours. “I hate that you’re still the person I call when everything goes wrong.”

Dean was quiet for a beat, then said softly, “I don’t hate it. Not even a little.”

The words hung heavy in the warm truck, thickening the air between you. You didn’t know how to respond. The weight of his hand on your thigh, the low rasp of his voice, and the familiar scent of him filled the small space until it felt almost too much. The rain had eased into a steady drizzle by the time Dean turned onto your street. His truck’s headlights swept across the quiet neighborhood as he slowly pulled into your driveway, the tires crunching over wet gravel.

He put the truck in park but didn’t turn the engine off right away. The dashboard lights cast a soft glow over his face as he finally slid his hand from your thigh, leaving a lingering warmth behind. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The tension crackled like static electricity.

“You know,” Dean said quietly, staring straight ahead at your dark house before turning to look at you again, “nights like this make me wonder if we gave up too fast.”

You swallowed, heart twisting. “Dean… we didn’t just give up. We were drowning. You were gone all the time with the kids’ team, I was exhausted with the baby, and we barely saw each other. We agreed it was better this way. For him.”

“I know,” he murmured, his eyes searching your face. “Doesn’t mean I don’t miss coming home to you every night.” His gaze dropped to your lips for a second before lifting again. “Doesn’t mean I stopped caring. Or wanting you.”

The confession settled between you like a stone in still water. You felt exposed in his jacket, in that ridiculous green dress, with your emotions raw after the long night. “I should go inside,” you whispered, reaching for the door handle.

You both stepped out into the light drizzle. Dean walked you to your front door, close enough that his arm brushed yours. When you turned to face him, the words felt stuck in your throat.

“Thank you,” you said softly. “For coming to get me. For… everything.” Before you could overthink it, you rose onto your toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing against the cool, rain-damp stubble there. You lingered just a second too long, breathing him in.

When you pulled back, Dean turned his head slowly, deliberately, until your faces were only inches apart. His breath ghosted across your lips. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto yours. The world narrowed to just the two of you under the soft glow of your porch light, rain misting around you.

The date had been a disaster from the moment you sat down.

The guy, Mark, a friend-of-a-friend who swore he was funny and stable, had spent the entire dinner talking about his ex, his cryptocurrency losses, and how women these days “didn’t appreciate a real provider.” He’d ordered the most expensive bottle of wine without asking, then made passive-aggressive comments when you only wanted one glass. By dessert, he was not-so-subtly suggesting you go back to his place “to end the night right,” even though you’d made it clear this was just dinner. You’d smiled through gritted teeth, declined, and practically sprinted out of the restaurant the second the check hit the table.

Now you were driving home in the pouring rain, still in your date night outfit: a deep emerald green wrap dress that hugged your curves and showed just enough cleavage to feel confident when you’d left the house hours ago. The strappy black heels were currently murdering your feet, and your carefully curled hair was starting to frizz from the humidity even before the storm hit.

You just wanted a hot shower, heat up some popcorn and watch a 2000 rom-com in your bed. Yeah, that’s what you needed.

The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the highway into a blurry black ribbon under your headlights. It was well past eleven, the kind of late where the world felt hollowed out and empty except for the occasional flicker of distant taillights. You gripped the steering wheel tighter, muttering under your breath as the engine started making that awful coughing sound again.

Then it just… died.

The car rolled to a slow, pathetic stop on the shoulder, hazard lights blinking weakly against the downpour. You sat there for a second, staring at the dashboard like it might magically fix itself if you glared hard enough. Your son was safe at your mom’s for the night, thank God for that, but you were still twenty minutes from home with no working vehicle and a dead phone battery hovering at twelve percent.

“Perfect,” you whispered, voice tight. “Just perfect.”

You stepped out into the cold rain, the silky green dress instantly soaking through and clinging tightly to your curves. The long halter scarf hung heavy and wet down your front as you popped the hood. Your strappy silver heels sank into the muddy gravel while you shone your phone’s flashlight into the engine bay. You had no idea what you were doing, but you tried anyway. You tried jiggling hoses, checking the oil, tapping some random parts you didn't really know the name of. Steam rose uselessly into the rain. Nothing worked.

Soaked, shivering, and defeated, you slammed the hood shut and climbed back into the driver’s seat, teeth chattering, water dripping from your hair and the saturated green fabric.

It was well past midnight, there was no way you could call your dad who told you no less than fifteen times to get rid of that piece of crap. Or your mom at the risk of waking Beau and having him to be cranky the whole day. You knew you had no other choice and still, something deep in your chest tighten at the thought of him.

You dialed his number.

The phone rang four times before a deep, raspy, disoriented voice answered. “…Hello?” Dean mumbled, sounding like he was still half-buried in sleep. There was a long pause, sheets rustling, then a confused, “Wait… babe? Is that you?”

You winced. “Dean, you can’t just call me ‘babe’ anymore. We’re divorced, remember?”

Another sleepy pause. You could practically picture him rubbing his face, trying to wake up. “…Shit. Sorry. Old habits die hard,” he muttered, voice thick and groggy. “What’s going on? Is Beau okay? Why are you calling this late?”

“I’m on the side of the road,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “My car broke down on Route 9, past the mill. I tried to fix it myself but I couldn’t. It’s pouring and I’m stuck out here.”

There was another long beat of silence as he processed. Then came a low, tired chuckle that turned into a yawn. “You’re kidding… You actually had to call me?” His voice was still raspy with sleep but the teasing was clear. “Out of all the people in your life, your ex-husband is the midnight roadside rescue guy? Damn, that’s gotta bruise the ego a little.”

“Dean,” you warned, though exhaustion stole most of the heat from it.

He let out another soft, sleepy laugh. “I’m just saying. Miss Independent out here needing me to come save the day. Alright, alright… stay in the car, lock the doors. I’m dragging my ass out of bed. Give me twenty minutes.”

You let out a shaky breath, relieved despite the teasing. “Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, the teasing softening into something warmer. “Always.”

You hung up the phone, and for a moment the only sound was the relentless drumming of rain against the car roof.

Dean’s voice still lingered in your ear like warm smoke. Even half-awake and confused, it had that same low timbre that used to wrap around you on lazy mornings and late nights. The teasing edge in it, the familiar mix of groggy confusion and reluctant protectiveness, hit you harder than you expected. Your chest tightened with something complicated. A mixture of relief, nostalgia, and a sharp little sting of longing you thought you’d buried two years ago.

You closed your eyes and let your head fall back against the headrest, water still dripping from your soaked hair onto your collarbones. His sleepy chuckle echoed in your mind, the way he’d said “you actually had to call me?” with that lazy, affectionate mockery. It was so undeniably him, the man who used to tease you mercilessly but would still crawl out of bed at midnight without hesitation.

Your fingers tightened around the phone. The green halter dress clung cold and heavy to your skin, but the warmth blooming low in your stomach had nothing to do with the temperature. You hated how easily his voice could still do this to you. How safe it made you feel, even now.

“Damn it, Dean,” you whispered into the empty car, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips despite everything. You knew the love was still there. You could hear it in the rustling of his sheet while he was getting up to come to you, in his little smirk you were sure he was sporting, in the way he would look at you when he would come to pick up Beau.

Your divorce had been quiet and civil, almost painfully so. No explosive fights, just a slow, painful drift. After your son was born, Dean’s demanding schedule as a youth hockey coach had taken over. You’d been exhausted from navigating new motherhood alone while trying to hold everything together. The love never disappeared, but the partnership had quietly frayed under the weight of mismatched schedules and growing distance.

You both agreed it was better to separate before resentment set in, especially for your son. Since then, co-parenting had become a careful dance of polite texts, scheduled handoffs, and strict boundaries.

The heater had died with the engine, and the cold was starting to seep into your bones. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the saturated lime-green halter dress clinging like a second skin, the long matching scarf heavy and dripping down your chest.

Headlights finally cut through the rain behind you. You let out a relieved breath as the familiar truck pulled up. You closed your eyes as you could finally relax, but you missed how the driver’s door opened, and a tall figure stepped out into the downpour.

A sharp knock suddenly rattled the windshield right next to your face.

You jumped violently, a startled yelp escaping your throat as your hand flew to your chest. Dean’s face appeared through the rain-streaked glass, his hair already wet and plastered to his forehead, a half-amused, half-apologetic smirk on his lips.

You shoved the door open, heart still racing. “Dean! You scared the hell out of me!”

He stood there in the pouring rain, wearing a dark hoodie and jeans, a large black jacket folded over his arm. Water streamed down his face, but his eyes were soft with concern. “Sorry,” he said, voice still a little raspy from sleep but warm now. “Didn’t mean to give you a heart attack. You just looked so lost in thought.” He held out the jacket toward you, rain dripping from his sleeve. “Here. You sounded cold as hell on the phone. Figured you’d need this.”

You stared at the offered jacket for a second before stepping out of the car. The moment your strappy silver heels hit the muddy gravel, the rain intensified, soaking you even further. The silky lime-green dress was completely drenched now, the fabric molded tightly to your breasts, the short hem clinging high on your thighs, and the long scarf trailing down your side like a wet ribbon. Your hair hung in heavy waves around your face, water tracing glistening paths down your neck and collarbones.

Dean froze.

The teasing remark he’d clearly been about to make died on his lips. His gaze dragged slowly over you, from the soaked dress that left almost nothing to the imagination, to the way the rain made your skin glow under the truck’s headlights, to the strappy heels sinking into the mud. For a long moment, he was completely speechless, lips slightly parted, rain running down his face as he just… stared.

“Jesus…” he finally breathed, the word barely audible over the rain. His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You’re… fuck. You look…” He shook his head slightly, like he was trying to reboot his brain, then forced his eyes back up to your face with visible effort. “Here,” he said, stepping closer and draping the dry jacket around your shoulders before you could protest. His hands lingered for a second longer than necessary, adjusting the collar around your neck.

The warmth of the jacket and the scent of him enveloped you instantly.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher. His eyes flicked down to the dress again for a split second before he caught himself. “Besides the car dying and the terrible date you clearly had?”

You raised an eyebrow, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself. “I never said anything about a date.”

Dean gave you a small, crooked smile, water dripping from his lashes. “You didn’t have to. That dress says enough.” He glanced back at your dead car, then nodded toward his truck. “Come on. Let’s get you out of this rain before you freeze. I’ll call a tow in the morning.”

He started walking toward his truck, parked just ahead of your dead car, but then paused, glancing back at you. The rain was still pouring down in heavy sheets, turning the shoulder of the road into a slick, muddy mess. Without a word, he jogged ahead, boots splashing through the water, and rounded the passenger side of his big black truck. He yanked the door open, the interior light spilling out like a beacon in the downpour.

You took a careful step forward in your strappy silver heels, but the moment you did, you realized the problem. A massive puddle had formed right beside the passenger door, wide enough that there was no graceful way around it. Your already-ruined heels would sink straight into it.

Dean noticed at the same time.

“Hold on,” he called over the rain. In two quick strides he was back in front of you, water streaming down his face and dark hoodie. Without hesitation, he bent slightly and slid one arm behind your back, the other under your knees.

“Dean… wait…”

Too late.

He lifted you effortlessly, one arm cradling your back while the other supported your legs, pulling you flush against his chest. A surprised gasp left your lips as your body left the ground. The wet lime-green halter dress rode up even higher on your thighs from the movement, the silky fabric clinging obscenely to your skin. The long matching scarf dangled and swayed in the rain between you two. You instinctively wrapped one arm around his neck for balance, your fingers brushing the wet hair at his nape.

Dean stilled for half a second, holding you bridal-style in the pouring rain. His breath hitched. Up close like this, he could see every detail, the way the rain made your skin shimmer, how the soaked green fabric molded perfectly to the swell of your breasts and the curve of your waist, how droplets traced down your neck and disappeared into your cleavage. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening as they flicked over your face and body.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear over the rain. “You’re killing me right now.”

Before you could respond, he carried you the few steps to the open truck door, careful not to slip in the mud. With surprising gentleness for a man who’d just been yanked out of bed, he maneuvered you into the passenger seat, keeping you steady as you settled onto the warm leather. His hands lingered at your waist for a moment longer than necessary, thumbs brushing lightly over the jacket he’d given you.

Once you were safely inside, he stepped back, rain pouring off him. He ran a hand through his soaked hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and gave you a crooked, slightly dazed smile.

“Better?” he asked, voice huskier than before. His eyes drifted down to where the green dress had shifted on your thighs before he forced them back up to your face. “Didn’t want you ruining those pretty shoes any more than they already are.”

You clutched the oversized jacket tighter around yourself, heart racing from more than just the cold. “You didn’t have to carry me.”

Dean leaned one arm against the roof of the truck, still standing in the rain, looking at you with an intensity that made your stomach flip. “Yeah,” he said softly, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips even as his gaze stayed serious. “I did.”

He closed the door gently, then jogged around to the driver’s side, leaving you warm, and completely rattled in the passenger seat. You hated how easily your body remembered him. How the simple act of being carried by your ex-husband could unravel two years of careful distance in a single heartbeat. Relief, desire, and a sharp ache of what used to be all twisted together in your chest as you sat in his warm truck, pulse still racing, trying desperately not to let it show on your face.

Dean climbed into the driver’s seat, bringing a rush of cold air and the scent of wet earth with him. The moment he shut his door, the truck felt smaller, warmer, and far too intimate.

Without warning, Dean shook his head like a dog fresh out of a bath, sending droplets of rainwater flying from his blonde hair in every direction. A few cold specks landed on your bare thigh, making you yelp and laugh despite yourself.

“Dean!” you scolded, half-laughing as you swatted at his arm.

He grinned, unrepentant, running a hand through his now-messy hair. “What? Gotta dry off somehow,” he said, voice still carrying that sleepy rasp. He turned the key and the truck rumbled to life, heat pouring from the vents.

As he pulled back onto the road, the windshield wipers swept steadily back and forth through the heavy rain. Dean kept glancing over at you every few seconds, like he couldn’t quite help himself. His eyes would flick from the dark highway to you, your face, his jacket drowning your frame, the bare legs beneath it, before returning to the road.

“So…” he started, settling into the drive. “You gonna tell me what happened tonight or am I supposed to just sit here wondering what happened?”

You let out a tired laugh, pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. “It was bad, Dean. Really bad. The guy spent forty-five minutes talking about his ex-girlfriend and how she was a bitch for not appreciating him. Then he bragged about his crypto portfolio… which he then admitted lost him like thirty grand last month.”

Dean snorted, glancing over at you with raised eyebrows. “Crypto? Seriously?” He shook his head, eyes sliding back to the road for a second before returning to you again. “And he still thought he had a shot with you in that dress? Man’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”

You smiled despite yourself. “I paid for my own dinner and left the second the check came. Then my car decided to die on the way home. Perfect end to a perfect night.”

Dean was quiet for a beat, his thumb tapping lightly on the steering wheel. He looked over at you again, softer this time. “You okay though? For real? You sounded pretty shaken on the phone.”

“I’m fine,” you said, leaning your head back against the seat. “Just cold. And tired. And annoyed at myself for even going on the date in the first place.”

He chuckled low, eyes flicking toward you once more. The warm light from the dashboard caught the sharp line of his jaw and the way his hoodie still clung damply to his shoulders. “Hey, at least you looked incredible doing it. That dress is… something else.” His gaze dropped briefly to the sliver of green fabric visible beneath the jacket before he caught himself and looked forward again. “I mean, Jesus. I almost forgot how to speak when I saw you standing there in the rain.”

You felt heat creep up your neck. “Stop staring at me like that. You’re gonna drive us off the road.”

“Can’t help it,” he admitted with a lazy grin, stealing another glance. “You’re sitting there looking like you just walked off a magazine shoot, soaked green dress and all. It’s distracting as hell.”

He reached over and turned the heat up a little more, his hand brushing close to your leg. “You still freezing?”

“A little,” you confessed. “The dress wasn’t exactly made for roadside breakdowns in a storm.”

Dean’s gaze flicked over to you again, lingering this time. Without saying anything, he reached across the center console and gently placed his large, warm hand on your bare thigh, just below the hem of the soaked lime-green dress. His palm was rough from years of coaching on the ice but incredibly warm, and the sudden heat against your cold skin made you jolt.

You flinched, your breath catching sharply. “Dean,” you said, voice tight as you glanced down at his hand. “We’re not together anymore. You can’t just… do that.”

He didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers gave a gentle, comforting squeeze, thumb brushing slowly back and forth over your chilled skin in an attempt to warm you.

“Just let me do this,” he murmured, voice low and steady, eyes fixed on the dark, rainy road ahead for a moment before sliding back to you. “You’re freezing. I can feel how cold your leg is from here. Let me help.”

You stared at his hand, heart hammering. The contrast between his warm touch and the damp cold of your dress made goosebumps rise across your skin. Part of you wanted to push him away. The other part, the louder, more dangerous part, wanted to lean into it.

After a long beat, you exhaled shakily. “This is confusing, you know that?”

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly, glancing over at you again. His hand stayed right where it was, radiating heat into your thigh. “Tell me about it. I was dead asleep thirty minutes ago, and now I’ve got my soaked ex-wife in my truck wearing a dress that should be illegal, trying not to stare at her legs every five seconds.”

You let out a soft, surprised laugh despite the tension. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m honest,” he countered with a crooked smile, stealing another glance. His thumb continued its slow, soothing strokes. “So… you really went on a date looking like that? You trying to kill the poor guy, or what?”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” you said, shifting slightly in the seat. His hand moved with you, never breaking contact. “I just wanted to feel good for one night. Clearly that backfired spectacularly.”

Dean hummed, eyes flicking between the road and you. “You looked more than good. When I saw you standing there in the rain… soaked, that green dress clinging to you, those heels in the mud…” He shook his head slowly. “I forgot how to form words for a second.”

The cab fell quiet for a moment, filled only by the sound of rain and wipers. His hand felt heavier now, more intentional.“You can’t say things like that,” you whispered, staring at his profile.

“Why not?” he asked, voice dropping. He glanced over again, eyes dark and earnest. “We’re divorced, yeah. But I’m still allowed to notice when my son’s mom looks breathtaking, right?”

You swallowed hard, the warmth from his palm spreading up your leg. “It makes things messy, Dean.”

“Messy’s kind of our thing,” he said with a soft chuckle, giving your thigh another gentle squeeze. “We made a whole kid together in the middle of messy. One late-night car ride isn’t gonna break us.”

You looked out the window at the blurred lights passing through the rain, hyper-aware of every point where his skin touched yours. “I hate that you’re still the person I call when everything goes wrong.”

Dean was quiet for a beat, then said softly, “I don’t hate it. Not even a little.”

The words hung heavy in the warm truck, thickening the air between you. You didn’t know how to respond. The weight of his hand on your thigh, the low rasp of his voice, and the familiar scent of him filled the small space until it felt almost too much. The rain had eased into a steady drizzle by the time Dean turned onto your street. His truck’s headlights swept across the quiet neighborhood as he slowly pulled into your driveway, the tires crunching over wet gravel.

He put the truck in park but didn’t turn the engine off right away. The dashboard lights cast a soft glow over his face as he finally slid his hand from your thigh, leaving a lingering warmth behind. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The tension crackled like static electricity.

“You know,” Dean said quietly, staring straight ahead at your dark house before turning to look at you again, “nights like this make me wonder if we gave up too fast.”

You swallowed, heart twisting. “Dean… we didn’t just give up. We were drowning. You were gone all the time with the kids’ team, I was exhausted with the baby, and we barely saw each other. We agreed it was better this way. For him.”

“I know,” he murmured, his eyes searching your face. “Doesn’t mean I don’t miss coming home to you every night.” His gaze dropped to your lips for a second before lifting again. “Doesn’t mean I stopped caring. Or wanting you.”

The confession settled between you like a stone in still water. You felt exposed in his jacket, in that ridiculous green dress, with your emotions raw after the long night. “I should go inside,” you whispered, reaching for the door handle.

You both stepped out into the light drizzle. Dean walked you to your front door, close enough that his arm brushed yours. When you turned to face him, the words felt stuck in your throat.

“Thank you,” you said softly. “For coming to get me. For… everything.” Before you could overthink it, you rose onto your toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing against the cool, rain-damp stubble there. You lingered just a second too long, breathing him in.

When you pulled back, Dean turned his head slowly, deliberately, until your faces were only inches apart. His breath ghosted across your lips. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto yours. The world narrowed to just the two of you under the soft glow of your porch light, rain misting around you.

The date had been a disaster from the moment you sat down.

The guy, Mark, a friend-of-a-friend who swore he was funny and stable, had spent the entire dinner talking about his ex, his cryptocurrency losses, and how women these days “didn’t appreciate a real provider.” He’d ordered the most expensive bottle of wine without asking, then made passive-aggressive comments when you only wanted one glass. By dessert, he was not-so-subtly suggesting you go back to his place “to end the night right,” even though you’d made it clear this was just dinner. You’d smiled through gritted teeth, declined, and practically sprinted out of the restaurant the second the check hit the table.

Now you were driving home in the pouring rain, still in your date night outfit: a deep emerald green wrap dress that hugged your curves and showed just enough cleavage to feel confident when you’d left the house hours ago. The strappy black heels were currently murdering your feet, and your carefully curled hair was starting to frizz from the humidity even before the storm hit.

You just wanted a hot shower, heat up some popcorn and watch a 2000 rom-com in your bed. Yeah, that’s what you needed.

The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the highway into a blurry black ribbon under your headlights. It was well past eleven, the kind of late where the world felt hollowed out and empty except for the occasional flicker of distant taillights. You gripped the steering wheel tighter, muttering under your breath as the engine started making that awful coughing sound again.

Then it just… died.

The car rolled to a slow, pathetic stop on the shoulder, hazard lights blinking weakly against the downpour. You sat there for a second, staring at the dashboard like it might magically fix itself if you glared hard enough. Your son was safe at your mom’s for the night, thank God for that, but you were still twenty minutes from home with no working vehicle and a dead phone battery hovering at twelve percent.

“Perfect,” you whispered, voice tight. “Just perfect.”

You stepped out into the cold rain, the silky green dress instantly soaking through and clinging tightly to your curves. The long halter scarf hung heavy and wet down your front as you popped the hood. Your strappy silver heels sank into the muddy gravel while you shone your phone’s flashlight into the engine bay. You had no idea what you were doing, but you tried anyway. You tried jiggling hoses, checking the oil, tapping some random parts you didn't really know the name of. Steam rose uselessly into the rain. Nothing worked.

Soaked, shivering, and defeated, you slammed the hood shut and climbed back into the driver’s seat, teeth chattering, water dripping from your hair and the saturated green fabric.

It was well past midnight, there was no way you could call your dad who told you no less than fifteen times to get rid of that piece of crap. Or your mom at the risk of waking Beau and having him to be cranky the whole day. You knew you had no other choice and still, something deep in your chest tighten at the thought of him.

You dialed his number.

The phone rang four times before a deep, raspy, disoriented voice answered. “…Hello?” Dean mumbled, sounding like he was still half-buried in sleep. There was a long pause, sheets rustling, then a confused, “Wait… babe? Is that you?”

You winced. “Dean, you can’t just call me ‘babe’ anymore. We’re divorced, remember?”

Another sleepy pause. You could practically picture him rubbing his face, trying to wake up. “…Shit. Sorry. Old habits die hard,” he muttered, voice thick and groggy. “What’s going on? Is Beau okay? Why are you calling this late?”

“I’m on the side of the road,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “My car broke down on Route 9, past the mill. I tried to fix it myself but I couldn’t. It’s pouring and I’m stuck out here.”

There was another long beat of silence as he processed. Then came a low, tired chuckle that turned into a yawn. “You’re kidding… You actually had to call me?” His voice was still raspy with sleep but the teasing was clear. “Out of all the people in your life, your ex-husband is the midnight roadside rescue guy? Damn, that’s gotta bruise the ego a little.”

“Dean,” you warned, though exhaustion stole most of the heat from it.

He let out another soft, sleepy laugh. “I’m just saying. Miss Independent out here needing me to come save the day. Alright, alright… stay in the car, lock the doors. I’m dragging my ass out of bed. Give me twenty minutes.”

You let out a shaky breath, relieved despite the teasing. “Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, the teasing softening into something warmer. “Always.”

You hung up the phone, and for a moment the only sound was the relentless drumming of rain against the car roof.

Dean’s voice still lingered in your ear like warm smoke. Even half-awake and confused, it had that same low timbre that used to wrap around you on lazy mornings and late nights. The teasing edge in it, the familiar mix of groggy confusion and reluctant protectiveness, hit you harder than you expected. Your chest tightened with something complicated. A mixture of relief, nostalgia, and a sharp little sting of longing you thought you’d buried two years ago.

You closed your eyes and let your head fall back against the headrest, water still dripping from your soaked hair onto your collarbones. His sleepy chuckle echoed in your mind, the way he’d said “you actually had to call me?” with that lazy, affectionate mockery. It was so undeniably him, the man who used to tease you mercilessly but would still crawl out of bed at midnight without hesitation.

Your fingers tightened around the phone. The green halter dress clung cold and heavy to your skin, but the warmth blooming low in your stomach had nothing to do with the temperature. You hated how easily his voice could still do this to you. How safe it made you feel, even now.

“Damn it, Dean,” you whispered into the empty car, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips despite everything. You knew the love was still there. You could hear it in the rustling of his sheet while he was getting up to come to you, in his little smirk you were sure he was sporting, in the way he would look at you when he would come to pick up Beau.

Your divorce had been quiet and civil, almost painfully so. No explosive fights, just a slow, painful drift. After your son was born, Dean’s demanding schedule as a youth hockey coach had taken over. You’d been exhausted from navigating new motherhood alone while trying to hold everything together. The love never disappeared, but the partnership had quietly frayed under the weight of mismatched schedules and growing distance.

You both agreed it was better to separate before resentment set in, especially for your son. Since then, co-parenting had become a careful dance of polite texts, scheduled handoffs, and strict boundaries.

The heater had died with the engine, and the cold was starting to seep into your bones. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the saturated lime-green halter dress clinging like a second skin, the long matching scarf heavy and dripping down your chest.

Headlights finally cut through the rain behind you. You let out a relieved breath as the familiar truck pulled up. You closed your eyes as you could finally relax, but you missed how the driver’s door opened, and a tall figure stepped out into the downpour.

A sharp knock suddenly rattled the windshield right next to your face.

You jumped violently, a startled yelp escaping your throat as your hand flew to your chest. Dean’s face appeared through the rain-streaked glass, his hair already wet and plastered to his forehead, a half-amused, half-apologetic smirk on his lips.

You shoved the door open, heart still racing. “Dean! You scared the hell out of me!”

He stood there in the pouring rain, wearing a dark hoodie and jeans, a large black jacket folded over his arm. Water streamed down his face, but his eyes were soft with concern. “Sorry,” he said, voice still a little raspy from sleep but warm now. “Didn’t mean to give you a heart attack. You just looked so lost in thought.” He held out the jacket toward you, rain dripping from his sleeve. “Here. You sounded cold as hell on the phone. Figured you’d need this.”

You stared at the offered jacket for a second before stepping out of the car. The moment your strappy silver heels hit the muddy gravel, the rain intensified, soaking you even further. The silky lime-green dress was completely drenched now, the fabric molded tightly to your breasts, the short hem clinging high on your thighs, and the long scarf trailing down your side like a wet ribbon. Your hair hung in heavy waves around your face, water tracing glistening paths down your neck and collarbones.

Dean froze.

The teasing remark he’d clearly been about to make died on his lips. His gaze dragged slowly over you, from the soaked dress that left almost nothing to the imagination, to the way the rain made your skin glow under the truck’s headlights, to the strappy heels sinking into the mud. For a long moment, he was completely speechless, lips slightly parted, rain running down his face as he just… stared.

“Jesus…” he finally breathed, the word barely audible over the rain. His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You’re… fuck. You look…” He shook his head slightly, like he was trying to reboot his brain, then forced his eyes back up to your face with visible effort. “Here,” he said, stepping closer and draping the dry jacket around your shoulders before you could protest. His hands lingered for a second longer than necessary, adjusting the collar around your neck.

The warmth of the jacket and the scent of him enveloped you instantly.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher. His eyes flicked down to the dress again for a split second before he caught himself. “Besides the car dying and the terrible date you clearly had?”

You raised an eyebrow, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself. “I never said anything about a date.”

Dean gave you a small, crooked smile, water dripping from his lashes. “You didn’t have to. That dress says enough.” He glanced back at your dead car, then nodded toward his truck. “Come on. Let’s get you out of this rain before you freeze. I’ll call a tow in the morning.”

He started walking toward his truck, parked just ahead of your dead car, but then paused, glancing back at you. The rain was still pouring down in heavy sheets, turning the shoulder of the road into a slick, muddy mess. Without a word, he jogged ahead, boots splashing through the water, and rounded the passenger side of his big black truck. He yanked the door open, the interior light spilling out like a beacon in the downpour.

You took a careful step forward in your strappy silver heels, but the moment you did, you realized the problem. A massive puddle had formed right beside the passenger door, wide enough that there was no graceful way around it. Your already-ruined heels would sink straight into it.

Dean noticed at the same time.

“Hold on,” he called over the rain. In two quick strides he was back in front of you, water streaming down his face and dark hoodie. Without hesitation, he bent slightly and slid one arm behind your back, the other under your knees.

“Dean… wait…”

Too late.

He lifted you effortlessly, one arm cradling your back while the other supported your legs, pulling you flush against his chest. A surprised gasp left your lips as your body left the ground. The wet lime-green halter dress rode up even higher on your thighs from the movement, the silky fabric clinging obscenely to your skin. The long matching scarf dangled and swayed in the rain between you two. You instinctively wrapped one arm around his neck for balance, your fingers brushing the wet hair at his nape.

Dean stilled for half a second, holding you bridal-style in the pouring rain. His breath hitched. Up close like this, he could see every detail, the way the rain made your skin shimmer, how the soaked green fabric molded perfectly to the swell of your breasts and the curve of your waist, how droplets traced down your neck and disappeared into your cleavage. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening as they flicked over your face and body.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear over the rain. “You’re killing me right now.”

Before you could respond, he carried you the few steps to the open truck door, careful not to slip in the mud. With surprising gentleness for a man who’d just been yanked out of bed, he maneuvered you into the passenger seat, keeping you steady as you settled onto the warm leather. His hands lingered at your waist for a moment longer than necessary, thumbs brushing lightly over the jacket he’d given you.

Once you were safely inside, he stepped back, rain pouring off him. He ran a hand through his soaked hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and gave you a crooked, slightly dazed smile.

“Better?” he asked, voice huskier than before. His eyes drifted down to where the green dress had shifted on your thighs before he forced them back up to your face. “Didn’t want you ruining those pretty shoes any more than they already are.”

You clutched the oversized jacket tighter around yourself, heart racing from more than just the cold. “You didn’t have to carry me.”

Dean leaned one arm against the roof of the truck, still standing in the rain, looking at you with an intensity that made your stomach flip. “Yeah,” he said softly, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips even as his gaze stayed serious. “I did.”

He closed the door gently, then jogged around to the driver’s side, leaving you warm, and completely rattled in the passenger seat. You hated how easily your body remembered him. How the simple act of being carried by your ex-husband could unravel two years of careful distance in a single heartbeat. Relief, desire, and a sharp ache of what used to be all twisted together in your chest as you sat in his warm truck, pulse still racing, trying desperately not to let it show on your face.

Dean climbed into the driver’s seat, bringing a rush of cold air and the scent of wet earth with him. The moment he shut his door, the truck felt smaller, warmer, and far too intimate.

Without warning, Dean shook his head like a dog fresh out of a bath, sending droplets of rainwater flying from his blonde hair in every direction. A few cold specks landed on your bare thigh, making you yelp and laugh despite yourself.

“Dean!” you scolded, half-laughing as you swatted at his arm.

He grinned, unrepentant, running a hand through his now-messy hair. “What? Gotta dry off somehow,” he said, voice still carrying that sleepy rasp. He turned the key and the truck rumbled to life, heat pouring from the vents.

As he pulled back onto the road, the windshield wipers swept steadily back and forth through the heavy rain. Dean kept glancing over at you every few seconds, like he couldn’t quite help himself. His eyes would flick from the dark highway to you, your face, his jacket drowning your frame, the bare legs beneath it, before returning to the road.

“So…” he started, settling into the drive. “You gonna tell me what happened tonight or am I supposed to just sit here wondering what happened?”

You let out a tired laugh, pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. “It was bad, Dean. Really bad. The guy spent forty-five minutes talking about his ex-girlfriend and how she was a bitch for not appreciating him. Then he bragged about his crypto portfolio… which he then admitted lost him like thirty grand last month.”

Dean snorted, glancing over at you with raised eyebrows. “Crypto? Seriously?” He shook his head, eyes sliding back to the road for a second before returning to you again. “And he still thought he had a shot with you in that dress? Man’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”

You smiled despite yourself. “I paid for my own dinner and left the second the check came. Then my car decided to die on the way home. Perfect end to a perfect night.”

Dean was quiet for a beat, his thumb tapping lightly on the steering wheel. He looked over at you again, softer this time. “You okay though? For real? You sounded pretty shaken on the phone.”

“I’m fine,” you said, leaning your head back against the seat. “Just cold. And tired. And annoyed at myself for even going on the date in the first place.”

He chuckled low, eyes flicking toward you once more. The warm light from the dashboard caught the sharp line of his jaw and the way his hoodie still clung damply to his shoulders. “Hey, at least you looked incredible doing it. That dress is… something else.” His gaze dropped briefly to the sliver of green fabric visible beneath the jacket before he caught himself and looked forward again. “I mean, Jesus. I almost forgot how to speak when I saw you standing there in the rain.”

You felt heat creep up your neck. “Stop staring at me like that. You’re gonna drive us off the road.”

“Can’t help it,” he admitted with a lazy grin, stealing another glance. “You’re sitting there looking like you just walked off a magazine shoot, soaked green dress and all. It’s distracting as hell.”

He reached over and turned the heat up a little more, his hand brushing close to your leg. “You still freezing?”

“A little,” you confessed. “The dress wasn’t exactly made for roadside breakdowns in a storm.”

Dean’s gaze flicked over to you again, lingering this time. Without saying anything, he reached across the center console and gently placed his large, warm hand on your bare thigh, just below the hem of the soaked lime-green dress. His palm was rough from years of coaching on the ice but incredibly warm, and the sudden heat against your cold skin made you jolt.

You flinched, your breath catching sharply. “Dean,” you said, voice tight as you glanced down at his hand. “We’re not together anymore. You can’t just… do that.”

He didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers gave a gentle, comforting squeeze, thumb brushing slowly back and forth over your chilled skin in an attempt to warm you.

“Just let me do this,” he murmured, voice low and steady, eyes fixed on the dark, rainy road ahead for a moment before sliding back to you. “You’re freezing. I can feel how cold your leg is from here. Let me help.”

You stared at his hand, heart hammering. The contrast between his warm touch and the damp cold of your dress made goosebumps rise across your skin. Part of you wanted to push him away. The other part, the louder, more dangerous part, wanted to lean into it.

After a long beat, you exhaled shakily. “This is confusing, you know that?”

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly, glancing over at you again. His hand stayed right where it was, radiating heat into your thigh. “Tell me about it. I was dead asleep thirty minutes ago, and now I’ve got my soaked ex-wife in my truck wearing a dress that should be illegal, trying not to stare at her legs every five seconds.”

You let out a soft, surprised laugh despite the tension. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m honest,” he countered with a crooked smile, stealing another glance. His thumb continued its slow, soothing strokes. “So… you really went on a date looking like that? You trying to kill the poor guy, or what?”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” you said, shifting slightly in the seat. His hand moved with you, never breaking contact. “I just wanted to feel good for one night. Clearly that backfired spectacularly.”

Dean hummed, eyes flicking between the road and you. “You looked more than good. When I saw you standing there in the rain… soaked, that green dress clinging to you, those heels in the mud…” He shook his head slowly. “I forgot how to form words for a second.”

The cab fell quiet for a moment, filled only by the sound of rain and wipers. His hand felt heavier now, more intentional.“You can’t say things like that,” you whispered, staring at his profile.

“Why not?” he asked, voice dropping. He glanced over again, eyes dark and earnest. “We’re divorced, yeah. But I’m still allowed to notice when my son’s mom looks breathtaking, right?”

You swallowed hard, the warmth from his palm spreading up your leg. “It makes things messy, Dean.”

“Messy’s kind of our thing,” he said with a soft chuckle, giving your thigh another gentle squeeze. “We made a whole kid together in the middle of messy. One late-night car ride isn’t gonna break us.”

You looked out the window at the blurred lights passing through the rain, hyper-aware of every point where his skin touched yours. “I hate that you’re still the person I call when everything goes wrong.”

Dean was quiet for a beat, then said softly, “I don’t hate it. Not even a little.”

The words hung heavy in the warm truck, thickening the air between you. You didn’t know how to respond. The weight of his hand on your thigh, the low rasp of his voice, and the familiar scent of him filled the small space until it felt almost too much. The rain had eased into a steady drizzle by the time Dean turned onto your street. His truck’s headlights swept across the quiet neighborhood as he slowly pulled into your driveway, the tires crunching over wet gravel.

He put the truck in park but didn’t turn the engine off right away. The dashboard lights cast a soft glow over his face as he finally slid his hand from your thigh, leaving a lingering warmth behind. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The tension crackled like static electricity.

“You know,” Dean said quietly, staring straight ahead at your dark house before turning to look at you again, “nights like this make me wonder if we gave up too fast.”

You swallowed, heart twisting. “Dean… we didn’t just give up. We were drowning. You were gone all the time with the kids’ team, I was exhausted with the baby, and we barely saw each other. We agreed it was better this way. For him.”

“I know,” he murmured, his eyes searching your face. “Doesn’t mean I don’t miss coming home to you every night.” His gaze dropped to your lips for a second before lifting again. “Doesn’t mean I stopped caring. Or wanting you.”

The confession settled between you like a stone in still water. You felt exposed in his jacket, in that ridiculous green dress, with your emotions raw after the long night. “I should go inside,” you whispered, reaching for the door handle.

You both stepped out into the light drizzle. Dean walked you to your front door, close enough that his arm brushed yours. When you turned to face him, the words felt stuck in your throat.

“Thank you,” you said softly. “For coming to get me. For… everything.” Before you could overthink it, you rose onto your toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing against the cool, rain-damp stubble there. You lingered just a second too long, breathing him in.

When you pulled back, Dean turned his head slowly, deliberately, until your faces were only inches apart. His breath ghosted across your lips. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto yours. The world narrowed to just the two of you under the soft glow of your porch light, rain misting around you.

The date had been a disaster from the moment you sat down.

The guy, Mark, a friend-of-a-friend who swore he was funny and stable, had spent the entire dinner talking about his ex, his cryptocurrency losses, and how women these days “didn’t appreciate a real provider.” He’d ordered the most expensive bottle of wine without asking, then made passive-aggressive comments when you only wanted one glass. By dessert, he was not-so-subtly suggesting you go back to his place “to end the night right,” even though you’d made it clear this was just dinner. You’d smiled through gritted teeth, declined, and practically sprinted out of the restaurant the second the check hit the table.

Now you were driving home in the pouring rain, still in your date night outfit: a deep emerald green wrap dress that hugged your curves and showed just enough cleavage to feel confident when you’d left the house hours ago. The strappy black heels were currently murdering your feet, and your carefully curled hair was starting to frizz from the humidity even before the storm hit.

You just wanted a hot shower, heat up some popcorn and watch a 2000 rom-com in your bed. Yeah, that’s what you needed.

The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the highway into a blurry black ribbon under your headlights. It was well past eleven, the kind of late where the world felt hollowed out and empty except for the occasional flicker of distant taillights. You gripped the steering wheel tighter, muttering under your breath as the engine started making that awful coughing sound again.

Then it just… died.

The car rolled to a slow, pathetic stop on the shoulder, hazard lights blinking weakly against the downpour. You sat there for a second, staring at the dashboard like it might magically fix itself if you glared hard enough. Your son was safe at your mom’s for the night, thank God for that, but you were still twenty minutes from home with no working vehicle and a dead phone battery hovering at twelve percent.

“Perfect,” you whispered, voice tight. “Just perfect.”

You stepped out into the cold rain, the silky green dress instantly soaking through and clinging tightly to your curves. The long halter scarf hung heavy and wet down your front as you popped the hood. Your strappy silver heels sank into the muddy gravel while you shone your phone’s flashlight into the engine bay. You had no idea what you were doing, but you tried anyway. You tried jiggling hoses, checking the oil, tapping some random parts you didn't really know the name of. Steam rose uselessly into the rain. Nothing worked.

Soaked, shivering, and defeated, you slammed the hood shut and climbed back into the driver’s seat, teeth chattering, water dripping from your hair and the saturated green fabric.

It was well past midnight, there was no way you could call your dad who told you no less than fifteen times to get rid of that piece of crap. Or your mom at the risk of waking Beau and having him to be cranky the whole day. You knew you had no other choice and still, something deep in your chest tighten at the thought of him.

You dialed his number.

The phone rang four times before a deep, raspy, disoriented voice answered. “…Hello?” Dean mumbled, sounding like he was still half-buried in sleep. There was a long pause, sheets rustling, then a confused, “Wait… babe? Is that you?”

You winced. “Dean, you can’t just call me ‘babe’ anymore. We’re divorced, remember?”

Another sleepy pause. You could practically picture him rubbing his face, trying to wake up. “…Shit. Sorry. Old habits die hard,” he muttered, voice thick and groggy. “What’s going on? Is Beau okay? Why are you calling this late?”

“I’m on the side of the road,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “My car broke down on Route 9, past the mill. I tried to fix it myself but I couldn’t. It’s pouring and I’m stuck out here.”

There was another long beat of silence as he processed. Then came a low, tired chuckle that turned into a yawn. “You’re kidding… You actually had to call me?” His voice was still raspy with sleep but the teasing was clear. “Out of all the people in your life, your ex-husband is the midnight roadside rescue guy? Damn, that’s gotta bruise the ego a little.”

“Dean,” you warned, though exhaustion stole most of the heat from it.

He let out another soft, sleepy laugh. “I’m just saying. Miss Independent out here needing me to come save the day. Alright, alright… stay in the car, lock the doors. I’m dragging my ass out of bed. Give me twenty minutes.”

You let out a shaky breath, relieved despite the teasing. “Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, the teasing softening into something warmer. “Always.”

You hung up the phone, and for a moment the only sound was the relentless drumming of rain against the car roof.

Dean’s voice still lingered in your ear like warm smoke. Even half-awake and confused, it had that same low timbre that used to wrap around you on lazy mornings and late nights. The teasing edge in it, the familiar mix of groggy confusion and reluctant protectiveness, hit you harder than you expected. Your chest tightened with something complicated. A mixture of relief, nostalgia, and a sharp little sting of longing you thought you’d buried two years ago.

You closed your eyes and let your head fall back against the headrest, water still dripping from your soaked hair onto your collarbones. His sleepy chuckle echoed in your mind, the way he’d said “you actually had to call me?” with that lazy, affectionate mockery. It was so undeniably him, the man who used to tease you mercilessly but would still crawl out of bed at midnight without hesitation.

Your fingers tightened around the phone. The green halter dress clung cold and heavy to your skin, but the warmth blooming low in your stomach had nothing to do with the temperature. You hated how easily his voice could still do this to you. How safe it made you feel, even now.

“Damn it, Dean,” you whispered into the empty car, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips despite everything. You knew the love was still there. You could hear it in the rustling of his sheet while he was getting up to come to you, in his little smirk you were sure he was sporting, in the way he would look at you when he would come to pick up Beau.

Your divorce had been quiet and civil, almost painfully so. No explosive fights, just a slow, painful drift. After your son was born, Dean’s demanding schedule as a youth hockey coach had taken over. You’d been exhausted from navigating new motherhood alone while trying to hold everything together. The love never disappeared, but the partnership had quietly frayed under the weight of mismatched schedules and growing distance.

You both agreed it was better to separate before resentment set in, especially for your son. Since then, co-parenting had become a careful dance of polite texts, scheduled handoffs, and strict boundaries.

The heater had died with the engine, and the cold was starting to seep into your bones. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the saturated lime-green halter dress clinging like a second skin, the long matching scarf heavy and dripping down your chest.

Headlights finally cut through the rain behind you. You let out a relieved breath as the familiar truck pulled up. You closed your eyes as you could finally relax, but you missed how the driver’s door opened, and a tall figure stepped out into the downpour.

A sharp knock suddenly rattled the windshield right next to your face.

You jumped violently, a startled yelp escaping your throat as your hand flew to your chest. Dean’s face appeared through the rain-streaked glass, his hair already wet and plastered to his forehead, a half-amused, half-apologetic smirk on his lips.

You shoved the door open, heart still racing. “Dean! You scared the hell out of me!”

He stood there in the pouring rain, wearing a dark hoodie and jeans, a large black jacket folded over his arm. Water streamed down his face, but his eyes were soft with concern. “Sorry,” he said, voice still a little raspy from sleep but warm now. “Didn’t mean to give you a heart attack. You just looked so lost in thought.” He held out the jacket toward you, rain dripping from his sleeve. “Here. You sounded cold as hell on the phone. Figured you’d need this.”

You stared at the offered jacket for a second before stepping out of the car. The moment your strappy silver heels hit the muddy gravel, the rain intensified, soaking you even further. The silky lime-green dress was completely drenched now, the fabric molded tightly to your breasts, the short hem clinging high on your thighs, and the long scarf trailing down your side like a wet ribbon. Your hair hung in heavy waves around your face, water tracing glistening paths down your neck and collarbones.

Dean froze.

The teasing remark he’d clearly been about to make died on his lips. His gaze dragged slowly over you, from the soaked dress that left almost nothing to the imagination, to the way the rain made your skin glow under the truck’s headlights, to the strappy heels sinking into the mud. For a long moment, he was completely speechless, lips slightly parted, rain running down his face as he just… stared.

“Jesus…” he finally breathed, the word barely audible over the rain. His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You’re… fuck. You look…” He shook his head slightly, like he was trying to reboot his brain, then forced his eyes back up to your face with visible effort. “Here,” he said, stepping closer and draping the dry jacket around your shoulders before you could protest. His hands lingered for a second longer than necessary, adjusting the collar around your neck.

The warmth of the jacket and the scent of him enveloped you instantly.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher. His eyes flicked down to the dress again for a split second before he caught himself. “Besides the car dying and the terrible date you clearly had?”

You raised an eyebrow, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself. “I never said anything about a date.”

Dean gave you a small, crooked smile, water dripping from his lashes. “You didn’t have to. That dress says enough.” He glanced back at your dead car, then nodded toward his truck. “Come on. Let’s get you out of this rain before you freeze. I’ll call a tow in the morning.”

He started walking toward his truck, parked just ahead of your dead car, but then paused, glancing back at you. The rain was still pouring down in heavy sheets, turning the shoulder of the road into a slick, muddy mess. Without a word, he jogged ahead, boots splashing through the water, and rounded the passenger side of his big black truck. He yanked the door open, the interior light spilling out like a beacon in the downpour.

You took a careful step forward in your strappy silver heels, but the moment you did, you realized the problem. A massive puddle had formed right beside the passenger door, wide enough that there was no graceful way around it. Your already-ruined heels would sink straight into it.

Dean noticed at the same time.

“Hold on,” he called over the rain. In two quick strides he was back in front of you, water streaming down his face and dark hoodie. Without hesitation, he bent slightly and slid one arm behind your back, the other under your knees.

“Dean… wait…”

Too late.

He lifted you effortlessly, one arm cradling your back while the other supported your legs, pulling you flush against his chest. A surprised gasp left your lips as your body left the ground. The wet lime-green halter dress rode up even higher on your thighs from the movement, the silky fabric clinging obscenely to your skin. The long matching scarf dangled and swayed in the rain between you two. You instinctively wrapped one arm around his neck for balance, your fingers brushing the wet hair at his nape.

Dean stilled for half a second, holding you bridal-style in the pouring rain. His breath hitched. Up close like this, he could see every detail, the way the rain made your skin shimmer, how the soaked green fabric molded perfectly to the swell of your breasts and the curve of your waist, how droplets traced down your neck and disappeared into your cleavage. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening as they flicked over your face and body.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear over the rain. “You’re killing me right now.”

Before you could respond, he carried you the few steps to the open truck door, careful not to slip in the mud. With surprising gentleness for a man who’d just been yanked out of bed, he maneuvered you into the passenger seat, keeping you steady as you settled onto the warm leather. His hands lingered at your waist for a moment longer than necessary, thumbs brushing lightly over the jacket he’d given you.

Once you were safely inside, he stepped back, rain pouring off him. He ran a hand through his soaked hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and gave you a crooked, slightly dazed smile.

“Better?” he asked, voice huskier than before. His eyes drifted down to where the green dress had shifted on your thighs before he forced them back up to your face. “Didn’t want you ruining those pretty shoes any more than they already are.”

You clutched the oversized jacket tighter around yourself, heart racing from more than just the cold. “You didn’t have to carry me.”

Dean leaned one arm against the roof of the truck, still standing in the rain, looking at you with an intensity that made your stomach flip. “Yeah,” he said softly, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips even as his gaze stayed serious. “I did.”

He closed the door gently, then jogged around to the driver’s side, leaving you warm, and completely rattled in the passenger seat. You hated how easily your body remembered him. How the simple act of being carried by your ex-husband could unravel two years of careful distance in a single heartbeat. Relief, desire, and a sharp ache of what used to be all twisted together in your chest as you sat in his warm truck, pulse still racing, trying desperately not to let it show on your face.

Dean climbed into the driver’s seat, bringing a rush of cold air and the scent of wet earth with him. The moment he shut his door, the truck felt smaller, warmer, and far too intimate.

Without warning, Dean shook his head like a dog fresh out of a bath, sending droplets of rainwater flying from his blonde hair in every direction. A few cold specks landed on your bare thigh, making you yelp and laugh despite yourself.

“Dean!” you scolded, half-laughing as you swatted at his arm.

He grinned, unrepentant, running a hand through his now-messy hair. “What? Gotta dry off somehow,” he said, voice still carrying that sleepy rasp. He turned the key and the truck rumbled to life, heat pouring from the vents.

As he pulled back onto the road, the windshield wipers swept steadily back and forth through the heavy rain. Dean kept glancing over at you every few seconds, like he couldn’t quite help himself. His eyes would flick from the dark highway to you, your face, his jacket drowning your frame, the bare legs beneath it, before returning to the road.

“So…” he started, settling into the drive. “You gonna tell me what happened tonight or am I supposed to just sit here wondering what happened?”

You let out a tired laugh, pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. “It was bad, Dean. Really bad. The guy spent forty-five minutes talking about his ex-girlfriend and how she was a bitch for not appreciating him. Then he bragged about his crypto portfolio… which he then admitted lost him like thirty grand last month.”

Dean snorted, glancing over at you with raised eyebrows. “Crypto? Seriously?” He shook his head, eyes sliding back to the road for a second before returning to you again. “And he still thought he had a shot with you in that dress? Man’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”

You smiled despite yourself. “I paid for my own dinner and left the second the check came. Then my car decided to die on the way home. Perfect end to a perfect night.”

Dean was quiet for a beat, his thumb tapping lightly on the steering wheel. He looked over at you again, softer this time. “You okay though? For real? You sounded pretty shaken on the phone.”

“I’m fine,” you said, leaning your head back against the seat. “Just cold. And tired. And annoyed at myself for even going on the date in the first place.”

He chuckled low, eyes flicking toward you once more. The warm light from the dashboard caught the sharp line of his jaw and the way his hoodie still clung damply to his shoulders. “Hey, at least you looked incredible doing it. That dress is… something else.” His gaze dropped briefly to the sliver of green fabric visible beneath the jacket before he caught himself and looked forward again. “I mean, Jesus. I almost forgot how to speak when I saw you standing there in the rain.”

You felt heat creep up your neck. “Stop staring at me like that. You’re gonna drive us off the road.”

“Can’t help it,” he admitted with a lazy grin, stealing another glance. “You’re sitting there looking like you just walked off a magazine shoot, soaked green dress and all. It’s distracting as hell.”

He reached over and turned the heat up a little more, his hand brushing close to your leg. “You still freezing?”

“A little,” you confessed. “The dress wasn’t exactly made for roadside breakdowns in a storm.”

Dean’s gaze flicked over to you again, lingering this time. Without saying anything, he reached across the center console and gently placed his large, warm hand on your bare thigh, just below the hem of the soaked lime-green dress. His palm was rough from years of coaching on the ice but incredibly warm, and the sudden heat against your cold skin made you jolt.

You flinched, your breath catching sharply. “Dean,” you said, voice tight as you glanced down at his hand. “We’re not together anymore. You can’t just… do that.”

He didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers gave a gentle, comforting squeeze, thumb brushing slowly back and forth over your chilled skin in an attempt to warm you.

“Just let me do this,” he murmured, voice low and steady, eyes fixed on the dark, rainy road ahead for a moment before sliding back to you. “You’re freezing. I can feel how cold your leg is from here. Let me help.”

You stared at his hand, heart hammering. The contrast between his warm touch and the damp cold of your dress made goosebumps rise across your skin. Part of you wanted to push him away. The other part, the louder, more dangerous part, wanted to lean into it.

After a long beat, you exhaled shakily. “This is confusing, you know that?”

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly, glancing over at you again. His hand stayed right where it was, radiating heat into your thigh. “Tell me about it. I was dead asleep thirty minutes ago, and now I’ve got my soaked ex-wife in my truck wearing a dress that should be illegal, trying not to stare at her legs every five seconds.”

You let out a soft, surprised laugh despite the tension. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m honest,” he countered with a crooked smile, stealing another glance. His thumb continued its slow, soothing strokes. “So… you really went on a date looking like that? You trying to kill the poor guy, or what?”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” you said, shifting slightly in the seat. His hand moved with you, never breaking contact. “I just wanted to feel good for one night. Clearly that backfired spectacularly.”

Dean hummed, eyes flicking between the road and you. “You looked more than good. When I saw you standing there in the rain… soaked, that green dress clinging to you, those heels in the mud…” He shook his head slowly. “I forgot how to form words for a second.”

The cab fell quiet for a moment, filled only by the sound of rain and wipers. His hand felt heavier now, more intentional.“You can’t say things like that,” you whispered, staring at his profile.

“Why not?” he asked, voice dropping. He glanced over again, eyes dark and earnest. “We’re divorced, yeah. But I’m still allowed to notice when my son’s mom looks breathtaking, right?”

You swallowed hard, the warmth from his palm spreading up your leg. “It makes things messy, Dean.”

“Messy’s kind of our thing,” he said with a soft chuckle, giving your thigh another gentle squeeze. “We made a whole kid together in the middle of messy. One late-night car ride isn’t gonna break us.”

You looked out the window at the blurred lights passing through the rain, hyper-aware of every point where his skin touched yours. “I hate that you’re still the person I call when everything goes wrong.”

Dean was quiet for a beat, then said softly, “I don’t hate it. Not even a little.”

The words hung heavy in the warm truck, thickening the air between you. You didn’t know how to respond. The weight of his hand on your thigh, the low rasp of his voice, and the familiar scent of him filled the small space until it felt almost too much. The rain had eased into a steady drizzle by the time Dean turned onto your street. His truck’s headlights swept across the quiet neighborhood as he slowly pulled into your driveway, the tires crunching over wet gravel.

He put the truck in park but didn’t turn the engine off right away. The dashboard lights cast a soft glow over his face as he finally slid his hand from your thigh, leaving a lingering warmth behind. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The tension crackled like static electricity.

“You know,” Dean said quietly, staring straight ahead at your dark house before turning to look at you again, “nights like this make me wonder if we gave up too fast.”

You swallowed, heart twisting. “Dean… we didn’t just give up. We were drowning. You were gone all the time with the kids’ team, I was exhausted with the baby, and we barely saw each other. We agreed it was better this way. For him.”

“I know,” he murmured, his eyes searching your face. “Doesn’t mean I don’t miss coming home to you every night.” His gaze dropped to your lips for a second before lifting again. “Doesn’t mean I stopped caring. Or wanting you.”

The confession settled between you like a stone in still water. You felt exposed in his jacket, in that ridiculous green dress, with your emotions raw after the long night. “I should go inside,” you whispered, reaching for the door handle.

You both stepped out into the light drizzle. Dean walked you to your front door, close enough that his arm brushed yours. When you turned to face him, the words felt stuck in your throat.

“Thank you,” you said softly. “For coming to get me. For… everything.” Before you could overthink it, you rose onto your toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing against the cool, rain-damp stubble there. You lingered just a second too long, breathing him in.

When you pulled back, Dean turned his head slowly, deliberately, until your faces were only inches apart. His breath ghosted across your lips. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto yours. The world narrowed to just the two of you under the soft glow of your porch light, rain misting around you.

The date had been a disaster from the moment you sat down.

The guy, Mark, a friend-of-a-friend who swore he was funny and stable, had spent the entire dinner talking about his ex, his cryptocurrency losses, and how women these days “didn’t appreciate a real provider.” He’d ordered the most expensive bottle of wine without asking, then made passive-aggressive comments when you only wanted one glass. By dessert, he was not-so-subtly suggesting you go back to his place “to end the night right,” even though you’d made it clear this was just dinner. You’d smiled through gritted teeth, declined, and practically sprinted out of the restaurant the second the check hit the table.

Now you were driving home in the pouring rain, still in your date night outfit: a deep emerald green wrap dress that hugged your curves and showed just enough cleavage to feel confident when you’d left the house hours ago. The strappy black heels were currently murdering your feet, and your carefully curled hair was starting to frizz from the humidity even before the storm hit.

You just wanted a hot shower, heat up some popcorn and watch a 2000 rom-com in your bed. Yeah, that’s what you needed.

The rain was coming down in sheets, turning the highway into a blurry black ribbon under your headlights. It was well past eleven, the kind of late where the world felt hollowed out and empty except for the occasional flicker of distant taillights. You gripped the steering wheel tighter, muttering under your breath as the engine started making that awful coughing sound again.

Then it just… died.

The car rolled to a slow, pathetic stop on the shoulder, hazard lights blinking weakly against the downpour. You sat there for a second, staring at the dashboard like it might magically fix itself if you glared hard enough. Your son was safe at your mom’s for the night, thank God for that, but you were still twenty minutes from home with no working vehicle and a dead phone battery hovering at twelve percent.

“Perfect,” you whispered, voice tight. “Just perfect.”

You stepped out into the cold rain, the silky green dress instantly soaking through and clinging tightly to your curves. The long halter scarf hung heavy and wet down your front as you popped the hood. Your strappy silver heels sank into the muddy gravel while you shone your phone’s flashlight into the engine bay. You had no idea what you were doing, but you tried anyway. You tried jiggling hoses, checking the oil, tapping some random parts you didn't really know the name of. Steam rose uselessly into the rain. Nothing worked.

Soaked, shivering, and defeated, you slammed the hood shut and climbed back into the driver’s seat, teeth chattering, water dripping from your hair and the saturated green fabric.

It was well past midnight, there was no way you could call your dad who told you no less than fifteen times to get rid of that piece of crap. Or your mom at the risk of waking Beau and having him to be cranky the whole day. You knew you had no other choice and still, something deep in your chest tighten at the thought of him.

You dialed his number.

The phone rang four times before a deep, raspy, disoriented voice answered. “…Hello?” Dean mumbled, sounding like he was still half-buried in sleep. There was a long pause, sheets rustling, then a confused, “Wait… babe? Is that you?”

You winced. “Dean, you can’t just call me ‘babe’ anymore. We’re divorced, remember?”

Another sleepy pause. You could practically picture him rubbing his face, trying to wake up. “…Shit. Sorry. Old habits die hard,” he muttered, voice thick and groggy. “What’s going on? Is Beau okay? Why are you calling this late?”

“I’m on the side of the road,” you said, trying to keep your voice steady. “My car broke down on Route 9, past the mill. I tried to fix it myself but I couldn’t. It’s pouring and I’m stuck out here.”

There was another long beat of silence as he processed. Then came a low, tired chuckle that turned into a yawn. “You’re kidding… You actually had to call me?” His voice was still raspy with sleep but the teasing was clear. “Out of all the people in your life, your ex-husband is the midnight roadside rescue guy? Damn, that’s gotta bruise the ego a little.”

“Dean,” you warned, though exhaustion stole most of the heat from it.

He let out another soft, sleepy laugh. “I’m just saying. Miss Independent out here needing me to come save the day. Alright, alright… stay in the car, lock the doors. I’m dragging my ass out of bed. Give me twenty minutes.”

You let out a shaky breath, relieved despite the teasing. “Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbled, the teasing softening into something warmer. “Always.”

You hung up the phone, and for a moment the only sound was the relentless drumming of rain against the car roof.

Dean’s voice still lingered in your ear like warm smoke. Even half-awake and confused, it had that same low timbre that used to wrap around you on lazy mornings and late nights. The teasing edge in it, the familiar mix of groggy confusion and reluctant protectiveness, hit you harder than you expected. Your chest tightened with something complicated. A mixture of relief, nostalgia, and a sharp little sting of longing you thought you’d buried two years ago.

You closed your eyes and let your head fall back against the headrest, water still dripping from your soaked hair onto your collarbones. His sleepy chuckle echoed in your mind, the way he’d said “you actually had to call me?” with that lazy, affectionate mockery. It was so undeniably him, the man who used to tease you mercilessly but would still crawl out of bed at midnight without hesitation.

Your fingers tightened around the phone. The green halter dress clung cold and heavy to your skin, but the warmth blooming low in your stomach had nothing to do with the temperature. You hated how easily his voice could still do this to you. How safe it made you feel, even now.

“Damn it, Dean,” you whispered into the empty car, a small, tired smile tugging at your lips despite everything. You knew the love was still there. You could hear it in the rustling of his sheet while he was getting up to come to you, in his little smirk you were sure he was sporting, in the way he would look at you when he would come to pick up Beau.

Your divorce had been quiet and civil, almost painfully so. No explosive fights, just a slow, painful drift. After your son was born, Dean’s demanding schedule as a youth hockey coach had taken over. You’d been exhausted from navigating new motherhood alone while trying to hold everything together. The love never disappeared, but the partnership had quietly frayed under the weight of mismatched schedules and growing distance.

You both agreed it was better to separate before resentment set in, especially for your son. Since then, co-parenting had become a careful dance of polite texts, scheduled handoffs, and strict boundaries.

The heater had died with the engine, and the cold was starting to seep into your bones. You wrapped your arms around yourself, the saturated lime-green halter dress clinging like a second skin, the long matching scarf heavy and dripping down your chest.

Headlights finally cut through the rain behind you. You let out a relieved breath as the familiar truck pulled up. You closed your eyes as you could finally relax, but you missed how the driver’s door opened, and a tall figure stepped out into the downpour.

A sharp knock suddenly rattled the windshield right next to your face.

You jumped violently, a startled yelp escaping your throat as your hand flew to your chest. Dean’s face appeared through the rain-streaked glass, his hair already wet and plastered to his forehead, a half-amused, half-apologetic smirk on his lips.

You shoved the door open, heart still racing. “Dean! You scared the hell out of me!”

He stood there in the pouring rain, wearing a dark hoodie and jeans, a large black jacket folded over his arm. Water streamed down his face, but his eyes were soft with concern. “Sorry,” he said, voice still a little raspy from sleep but warm now. “Didn’t mean to give you a heart attack. You just looked so lost in thought.” He held out the jacket toward you, rain dripping from his sleeve. “Here. You sounded cold as hell on the phone. Figured you’d need this.”

You stared at the offered jacket for a second before stepping out of the car. The moment your strappy silver heels hit the muddy gravel, the rain intensified, soaking you even further. The silky lime-green dress was completely drenched now, the fabric molded tightly to your breasts, the short hem clinging high on your thighs, and the long scarf trailing down your side like a wet ribbon. Your hair hung in heavy waves around your face, water tracing glistening paths down your neck and collarbones.

Dean froze.

The teasing remark he’d clearly been about to make died on his lips. His gaze dragged slowly over you, from the soaked dress that left almost nothing to the imagination, to the way the rain made your skin glow under the truck’s headlights, to the strappy heels sinking into the mud. For a long moment, he was completely speechless, lips slightly parted, rain running down his face as he just… stared.

“Jesus…” he finally breathed, the word barely audible over the rain. His throat worked as he swallowed hard. “You’re… fuck. You look…” He shook his head slightly, like he was trying to reboot his brain, then forced his eyes back up to your face with visible effort. “Here,” he said, stepping closer and draping the dry jacket around your shoulders before you could protest. His hands lingered for a second longer than necessary, adjusting the collar around your neck.

The warmth of the jacket and the scent of him enveloped you instantly.

“You okay?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher. His eyes flicked down to the dress again for a split second before he caught himself. “Besides the car dying and the terrible date you clearly had?”

You raised an eyebrow, pulling the jacket tighter around yourself. “I never said anything about a date.”

Dean gave you a small, crooked smile, water dripping from his lashes. “You didn’t have to. That dress says enough.” He glanced back at your dead car, then nodded toward his truck. “Come on. Let’s get you out of this rain before you freeze. I’ll call a tow in the morning.”

He started walking toward his truck, parked just ahead of your dead car, but then paused, glancing back at you. The rain was still pouring down in heavy sheets, turning the shoulder of the road into a slick, muddy mess. Without a word, he jogged ahead, boots splashing through the water, and rounded the passenger side of his big black truck. He yanked the door open, the interior light spilling out like a beacon in the downpour.

You took a careful step forward in your strappy silver heels, but the moment you did, you realized the problem. A massive puddle had formed right beside the passenger door, wide enough that there was no graceful way around it. Your already-ruined heels would sink straight into it.

Dean noticed at the same time.

“Hold on,” he called over the rain. In two quick strides he was back in front of you, water streaming down his face and dark hoodie. Without hesitation, he bent slightly and slid one arm behind your back, the other under your knees.

“Dean… wait…”

Too late.

He lifted you effortlessly, one arm cradling your back while the other supported your legs, pulling you flush against his chest. A surprised gasp left your lips as your body left the ground. The wet lime-green halter dress rode up even higher on your thighs from the movement, the silky fabric clinging obscenely to your skin. The long matching scarf dangled and swayed in the rain between you two. You instinctively wrapped one arm around his neck for balance, your fingers brushing the wet hair at his nape.

Dean stilled for half a second, holding you bridal-style in the pouring rain. His breath hitched. Up close like this, he could see every detail, the way the rain made your skin shimmer, how the soaked green fabric molded perfectly to the swell of your breasts and the curve of your waist, how droplets traced down your neck and disappeared into your cleavage. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening as they flicked over your face and body.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, barely loud enough for you to hear over the rain. “You’re killing me right now.”

Before you could respond, he carried you the few steps to the open truck door, careful not to slip in the mud. With surprising gentleness for a man who’d just been yanked out of bed, he maneuvered you into the passenger seat, keeping you steady as you settled onto the warm leather. His hands lingered at your waist for a moment longer than necessary, thumbs brushing lightly over the jacket he’d given you.

Once you were safely inside, he stepped back, rain pouring off him. He ran a hand through his soaked hair, pushing it back from his forehead, and gave you a crooked, slightly dazed smile.

“Better?” he asked, voice huskier than before. His eyes drifted down to where the green dress had shifted on your thighs before he forced them back up to your face. “Didn’t want you ruining those pretty shoes any more than they already are.”

You clutched the oversized jacket tighter around yourself, heart racing from more than just the cold. “You didn’t have to carry me.”

Dean leaned one arm against the roof of the truck, still standing in the rain, looking at you with an intensity that made your stomach flip. “Yeah,” he said softly, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips even as his gaze stayed serious. “I did.”

He closed the door gently, then jogged around to the driver’s side, leaving you warm, and completely rattled in the passenger seat. You hated how easily your body remembered him. How the simple act of being carried by your ex-husband could unravel two years of careful distance in a single heartbeat. Relief, desire, and a sharp ache of what used to be all twisted together in your chest as you sat in his warm truck, pulse still racing, trying desperately not to let it show on your face.

Dean climbed into the driver’s seat, bringing a rush of cold air and the scent of wet earth with him. The moment he shut his door, the truck felt smaller, warmer, and far too intimate.

Without warning, Dean shook his head like a dog fresh out of a bath, sending droplets of rainwater flying from his blonde hair in every direction. A few cold specks landed on your bare thigh, making you yelp and laugh despite yourself.

“Dean!” you scolded, half-laughing as you swatted at his arm.

He grinned, unrepentant, running a hand through his now-messy hair. “What? Gotta dry off somehow,” he said, voice still carrying that sleepy rasp. He turned the key and the truck rumbled to life, heat pouring from the vents.

As he pulled back onto the road, the windshield wipers swept steadily back and forth through the heavy rain. Dean kept glancing over at you every few seconds, like he couldn’t quite help himself. His eyes would flick from the dark highway to you, your face, his jacket drowning your frame, the bare legs beneath it, before returning to the road.

“So…” he started, settling into the drive. “You gonna tell me what happened tonight or am I supposed to just sit here wondering what happened?”

You let out a tired laugh, pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders. “It was bad, Dean. Really bad. The guy spent forty-five minutes talking about his ex-girlfriend and how she was a bitch for not appreciating him. Then he bragged about his crypto portfolio… which he then admitted lost him like thirty grand last month.”

Dean snorted, glancing over at you with raised eyebrows. “Crypto? Seriously?” He shook his head, eyes sliding back to the road for a second before returning to you again. “And he still thought he had a shot with you in that dress? Man’s got balls, I’ll give him that.”

You smiled despite yourself. “I paid for my own dinner and left the second the check came. Then my car decided to die on the way home. Perfect end to a perfect night.”

Dean was quiet for a beat, his thumb tapping lightly on the steering wheel. He looked over at you again, softer this time. “You okay though? For real? You sounded pretty shaken on the phone.”

“I’m fine,” you said, leaning your head back against the seat. “Just cold. And tired. And annoyed at myself for even going on the date in the first place.”

He chuckled low, eyes flicking toward you once more. The warm light from the dashboard caught the sharp line of his jaw and the way his hoodie still clung damply to his shoulders. “Hey, at least you looked incredible doing it. That dress is… something else.” His gaze dropped briefly to the sliver of green fabric visible beneath the jacket before he caught himself and looked forward again. “I mean, Jesus. I almost forgot how to speak when I saw you standing there in the rain.”

You felt heat creep up your neck. “Stop staring at me like that. You’re gonna drive us off the road.”

“Can’t help it,” he admitted with a lazy grin, stealing another glance. “You’re sitting there looking like you just walked off a magazine shoot, soaked green dress and all. It’s distracting as hell.”

He reached over and turned the heat up a little more, his hand brushing close to your leg. “You still freezing?”

“A little,” you confessed. “The dress wasn’t exactly made for roadside breakdowns in a storm.”

Dean’s gaze flicked over to you again, lingering this time. Without saying anything, he reached across the center console and gently placed his large, warm hand on your bare thigh, just below the hem of the soaked lime-green dress. His palm was rough from years of coaching on the ice but incredibly warm, and the sudden heat against your cold skin made you jolt.

You flinched, your breath catching sharply. “Dean,” you said, voice tight as you glanced down at his hand. “We’re not together anymore. You can’t just… do that.”

He didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers gave a gentle, comforting squeeze, thumb brushing slowly back and forth over your chilled skin in an attempt to warm you.

“Just let me do this,” he murmured, voice low and steady, eyes fixed on the dark, rainy road ahead for a moment before sliding back to you. “You’re freezing. I can feel how cold your leg is from here. Let me help.”

You stared at his hand, heart hammering. The contrast between his warm touch and the damp cold of your dress made goosebumps rise across your skin. Part of you wanted to push him away. The other part, the louder, more dangerous part, wanted to lean into it.

After a long beat, you exhaled shakily. “This is confusing, you know that?”

“Yeah,” he admitted quietly, glancing over at you again. His hand stayed right where it was, radiating heat into your thigh. “Tell me about it. I was dead asleep thirty minutes ago, and now I’ve got my soaked ex-wife in my truck wearing a dress that should be illegal, trying not to stare at her legs every five seconds.”

You let out a soft, surprised laugh despite the tension. “You’re terrible.”

“I’m honest,” he countered with a crooked smile, stealing another glance. His thumb continued its slow, soothing strokes. “So… you really went on a date looking like that? You trying to kill the poor guy, or what?”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” you said, shifting slightly in the seat. His hand moved with you, never breaking contact. “I just wanted to feel good for one night. Clearly that backfired spectacularly.”

Dean hummed, eyes flicking between the road and you. “You looked more than good. When I saw you standing there in the rain… soaked, that green dress clinging to you, those heels in the mud…” He shook his head slowly. “I forgot how to form words for a second.”

The cab fell quiet for a moment, filled only by the sound of rain and wipers. His hand felt heavier now, more intentional.“You can’t say things like that,” you whispered, staring at his profile.

“Why not?” he asked, voice dropping. He glanced over again, eyes dark and earnest. “We’re divorced, yeah. But I’m still allowed to notice when my son’s mom looks breathtaking, right?”

You swallowed hard, the warmth from his palm spreading up your leg. “It makes things messy, Dean.”

“Messy’s kind of our thing,” he said with a soft chuckle, giving your thigh another gentle squeeze. “We made a whole kid together in the middle of messy. One late-night car ride isn’t gonna break us.”

You looked out the window at the blurred lights passing through the rain, hyper-aware of every point where his skin touched yours. “I hate that you’re still the person I call when everything goes wrong.”

Dean was quiet for a beat, then said softly, “I don’t hate it. Not even a little.”

The words hung heavy in the warm truck, thickening the air between you. You didn’t know how to respond. The weight of his hand on your thigh, the low rasp of his voice, and the familiar scent of him filled the small space until it felt almost too much. The rain had eased into a steady drizzle by the time Dean turned onto your street. His truck’s headlights swept across the quiet neighborhood as he slowly pulled into your driveway, the tires crunching over wet gravel.

He put the truck in park but didn’t turn the engine off right away. The dashboard lights cast a soft glow over his face as he finally slid his hand from your thigh, leaving a lingering warmth behind. For a long moment, neither of you moved. The tension crackled like static electricity.

“You know,” Dean said quietly, staring straight ahead at your dark house before turning to look at you again, “nights like this make me wonder if we gave up too fast.”

You swallowed, heart twisting. “Dean… we didn’t just give up. We were drowning. You were gone all the time with the kids’ team, I was exhausted with the baby, and we barely saw each other. We agreed it was better this way. For him.”

“I know,” he murmured, his eyes searching your face. “Doesn’t mean I don’t miss coming home to you every night.” His gaze dropped to your lips for a second before lifting again. “Doesn’t mean I stopped caring. Or wanting you.”

The confession settled between you like a stone in still water. You felt exposed in his jacket, in that ridiculous green dress, with your emotions raw after the long night. “I should go inside,” you whispered, reaching for the door handle.

You both stepped out into the light drizzle. Dean walked you to your front door, close enough that his arm brushed yours. When you turned to face him, the words felt stuck in your throat.

“Thank you,” you said softly. “For coming to get me. For… everything.” Before you could overthink it, you rose onto your toes and pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, your lips brushing against the cool, rain-damp stubble there. You lingered just a second too long, breathing him in.

When you pulled back, Dean turned his head slowly, deliberately, until your faces were only inches apart. His breath ghosted across your lips. His eyes, dark and intense, locked onto yours. The world narrowed to just the two of you under the soft glow of your porch light, rain misting around you.