⛥

An abrupt clap of thunder slices through the bedroom. Banshee’s head shoots up between your feet, a soft whine escaping him.

You shush him in a whispered tone, as if that would make any difference. In one swift motion, Banshee launches himself off the bed.

A loud snarl, then a series of barks escape him as he darts out of the room and out through the back door.

“What the hell?” Dean grumbles as he fully comes to. He hastily sits up, the mattress dipping slightly at his movement.

“I’ll go get him, it’s just the storm setting him off. Go back to sleep.”

You plant a kiss on his forehead before untangling yourself from the bedsheets.

You slip quietly out the back door, the wind lashes at your thighs and rainfall spatters your cheeks.

Just as your feet brush the backyard grass, you feel Dean’s calloused palm clasp your wrist.

“Inside. Now.” He orders, a slight caution lacing his gruff tone.

You stand dumbfounded for a moment, then retreat back onto the porch.

Dean swiftly moves past you, one hand cocking his pistol in the air, the other grasping a flashlight.

Banshee’s barking is consistent, as it always is during a storm. But Dean has already switched into hunter mode.

Another crack of thunder stops Dean dead in his tracks, and Banshee flees back to cower beside you in terror.

Dean’s hands drop loosely by his side as he stares out into the black abyss of night, completely still. The rain is relentless, pelting down and completely saturating him.

Your brow furrows in confusion, and you stare at his back for a minute before bracing the rain and crossing the yard towards him.

“Dean…” you trail off, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder.

His attention snapped towards you, his body reacting before his mind has a chance to catch up.

The gun is aimed squarely at your chest before he even realises who is standing in front of him.

His breathing comes in sharp bursts, his shoulders taut and pupils blown wide.

For one terrifying second, he looks straight through you, like he is somewhere else entirely. Like he is someone else entirely.

Your eyes widen in fright, and you instantly stumble back with your hands raised up in defence.

It takes a heartbeat.

Then another.

Then, tension bleeds from his shoulders all at once. His eyes soften and his pistol lowers so fast it almost slips out of his hand.

“…Sweetheart.”

Your lungs forget how to work. Every instinct screams at you to move, to run, but your feet remained rooted to the rain-soaked grass.

He sucks in a breath, one hand dragging down his face as if trying to wake himself from whatever nightmare he just stepped out of.

His eyes find yours again, clearer this time. Horror washes across his face.

“Hey…” His voice cracks. “Hey, I didn’t-”

The words die in his throat.

He holsters his gun before taking a cautious step forward.

You jerk your head away from him, still in shock and processing the sudden shift in his body language.

“I thought…” He swallows hard. “I thought I was somewhere else.”

You stare at him, completely bewildered. The rain drips from his hair, his shoulders slumping beneath the weight of what just happened.

“Where?” you barely whisper.

Dean’s jaw clenches. His eyes drift away from yours, and that tells you everything.

“Dean.”

A shaky breath leaves him. The word is barely audible:

“Hell.”

A lump forms in your throat. You don’t say anything. You just reach for his hand.

For a moment, Dean looks down at your intertwined fingers like he doesn’t understand how or why you’re still touching him.

Then you pull him gently towards the house.

You guide him back through the door and towards the bedroom, the rainwater dripping from both of you onto the floor.

You turn him around gently, placing your hands on his shoulders until he sits on the edge of the bed. You kneel on the carpet in front of him.

“Dean.” His eyes lift to yours. “You’re still having flashbacks?”

He shakes his head at himself. “I don’t know how to turn it off,” he admits quietly.

“The second I hear something, the second it all feels wrong… I’m back there.”

His voice breaks slightly on the last word, and he looks down at his hands in guilt.

Your heart aches at the sight of him, because that hardened exterior is just a facade for a scared kid who has been carrying far too much, for far too long.

There is a pause between you. Slowly, you lift your hands and cup his face. Your thumbs brush gently over his cheeks.

He melts into your touch, his eyes squeezing shut as if he might be able to anchor himself to the memory of earlier.

Back to the warmth of the bed, Banshee curled between you both, a rare feeling of safety.

“Dean, look at me.” You wait until he does. His face twists into an uncomfortable expression at being in such a vulnerable state.

“You’re here. You’re with me.”

For a moment, he doesn’t say anything. Then his hand comes up, covering yours against his cheek. He sighs disjointedly.

“I think I leave more monsters behind in my head than I ever kill out there.”

Your chest tightens at his confession.

Because you know him. You know he has spent his whole life believing his worth comes from how much he can endure.

“Dean,” you whisper. “You don’t have to fight something to be worth coming home to.”

His eyebrows knit together.

“You don’t have to carry every monster you’ve ever faced just to prove you’re still the man I fell in love with. You’re already enough.”

His eyes fall to the floor, and a quiet, broken smile pulls at his lips.

For a while, he just sits there. Like he’s trying to believe you. Like some part of him has been waiting years to hear those words.

Then, a soft whine comes from the doorway, breaking the silence.

Banshee stands there, tail tucked between his legs, looking between the two of you.

Dean lets out a small, breathless laugh.

Eventually, you both climb back beneath the blankets.

Banshee immediately wedges himself between you, reclaiming his spot from earlier.

Dean wraps an arm around you, his fingers tracing slow circles against your skin.

Outside, thunder rumbles again.

Dean’s eyes flicker towards the window for a brief moment.

You feel him tense slightly beneath your hand. But this time, he doesn’t reach for a weapon.

Each time your thumb hovered over his name, you couldn’t quite bring yourself to admit that you needed him.

The morning had been filled with your mother struggling back her tears and hurtful pleas for you to return home.

She was like a shell of her former self, still clinging on to your father’s old clothes and wanting to sit beside you and shuffle through old photographs from your childhood.

All you wanted was to scoop her up into a warm embrace, to tell her that everything was going to be okay.

But it was anything but okay. Everything in that house just reminded you of Dad.

The thought of being there for more than five minutes made your throat close up and your skin feel itchy, almost like you had an allergic reaction to the grief that permeated the air.

You couldn’t stand it. The quiet, the longing, the pain. It was all too much. When you left, all you could think about was how to eliminate that dreadful feeling in your chest.

So you ended up here, in a sketchy dive bar drinking away your problems.

You felt like a classic stereotype, but after each neat glass, the anxiety slipped away and the bottle felt like a new home.

One that asked nothing from you and never reminded you of what you’d lost.

You fiddled with the fraying seam on your jacket. You felt slightly out of place here, but the drunken haze made it feel like you were just another bar fly.

The room was humming with people from all walks of life.

A few of the regulars scattered the bar,

their favourite stools bearing the imprint of years spent sitting in the same spots.

You were perched there amongst them in a slumped posture, propped up by one elbow that was anchoring you to the counter.

You could vaguely see your reflection on a mirrored wall behind the endless shelves of alcohol. Your hair was frizzy, your cheeks were flushed and your eyes were half-lidded.

The barman kept a close eye on you, as if he knew you were troubled. You didn’t pay him any attention.

Your phone sat face down beside your glass, several missed calls lighting up the screen.

Jensen.

You couldn’t bring yourself to answer. Not when you knew the second you heard his voice, those carefully built walls would start to crumble.

You suddenly felt a warmth linger beside you, and your eyes wandered to it.

“Hey, kid,” A man greeted me with a halfhearted smile. He was what looked to be his late forties, salt and pepper beard and tousled brown hair.

You narrowed your eyes at him, annoyed at the sudden pet name from a stranger. You recognised his voice, but not his face.

The room was spinning at this point, so it’s not like you would be able to make him out even if you had tried.

“Hi,” you barely muttered, partly ignorant to the conversation. You grabbed the bottle of Jameson from the counter and lazily poured another shot into your glass.

“Not sure if you remember me,” he started, “I’m an old pal of your Dad’s.” Your body instantly locked up.

“Jordan,” he said plainly, reaching over to shake your hand. You flinch for a second, before cupping his calloused palm in yours.

He could read the expression on your face like a book. A look that said ‘I came here to get away from that memory.’

“I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not really in the mood for chatting.”

“Yeah…I’m sure ya got a lot on your plate right now,” he drawled solemnly, leaning with his arms crossed over the bar next to you.

“Your voice sounds familiar but I can’t place you,” you grumble, rolling your glass between your hands awkwardly.

You see he’s not going to let up, so may as well try and figure him out.

Jordan chuckles, “I spent a lot of time fixin’ up old piles of junk with your Dad on the weekends when you were only small.”

Jordan had a pained expression while rehashing those distant memories. You nod slowly, that grieving feeling trying to creep its way back to the surface.

You both bask in an uncomfortable silence for a moment. You feel out of place again, knowing how much your father would have disapproved of you hanging out in a place like this.

“Kid,” Jordan sighs, turning slightly toward you. “You don’t gotta drown your sorrows like this. Your dad-“

You cut him off mid-sentence, the hard liquor giving you more courage than usual.

“I don’t need whatever lecture you’re about to give me. He’s dead. There’s no changing it. Just leave me be.” You slur the words but the sentiment is there.

Jordan’s demeanour shifts slightly, but not enough to make him stand down.

“I’ve seen the bottom of that bottle more times than I’d care to admit. Trust me, you’re not doing yourself any favours,” Jordan puts it bluntly, years of regret lacing his tone.

His words sting, but you’re too far gone at this point to really give them a second thought.

Jordan’s eyes rose above your head, with a look of relief.

You feel a warm hand settle around your waist. Then, a familiar voice.

“It’s time to go, darlin’.”

Your head snaps and you see Jensen wavering beside you with a confronting gaze. You nearly tumble off your chair at the suddenness of his presence.

He steadies you with a tighter grasp, leaning his body slightly into your side.

“What are you doing here?” You ask meekly, like a child caught in the act of doing something sneaky.

You feel the embarrassment wash over your face at Jensen seeing you in this condition.

You feel Jordan quietly slip away from the conversation, not wanting to intrude. Jensen gives him a subtle nod, then drops his gaze back to you.

He ignores your question, but takes a beat to study your face with those piercing green orbs.

“You look like death warmed up,” he grumbled. He takes the glass from between your fingers and places it back behind the bar. His subtle way of saying ‘you’re done’.

You scoff at his remark. “Didn’t ask you to come save me.”

His brow furrowed, and a muscle in his jaw flexed against his cheek. His voice drops lower.

“You think I wanted to? You told me you were going to your mom’s place, not here. I wouldn’t have let you out of my sight if I’d known any better.”

You roll your eyes, hiding your humiliation from him. You didn’t want to have this talk. Not now while you were plastered and wanting to escape emotion, not be confronted by it.

You try to reach for the glass again, and Jensen grabs you by the wrist. Not enough to hurt, but firm enough to tell you he’s not interested in your behaviour.

You lock eyes with him, a quiet defiance flaring behind yours. “Just go home, Jensen.”

His unamused expression quickly switches to anger, as he leans in closer towards you. Your noses are nearly brushing.

“You’re gonna go out and get in that truck, sweetheart. Don’t make me carry you outta here,” He says as his grip around your wrist tightens a little.

Suddenly, a sobering reality crashes all around you. He’s here because he’s worried about you.

You ripped yourself from his grasp and shoot up from the bar stool, clambering to your feet as best as you can in this state.

You blink rapidly, trying to push any emotion back down into the pit of your stomach, before saying: “You always know how to ruin a good time.”

You didn’t really mean it. Although Jensen’s features were solid, you could tell it hurt him to hear those words spit so easily out of your mouth.

You storm outside in a drunken stupor. He follows close behind you, careful to watch your movements.

The truck is parked across the lot, and you march towards it. Then, you are pulled backwards to face him.

Jensen’s grip on your shoulder was firm, but there was no anger left in it.

Only worry.

“What the hell are you doin’?” he asked, his voice quieter now.

“You don’t get to tell me what to do.” Your eyes start to well up with tears, but you bury them.

“No,” he agreed. “I don’t.”

His answer caught you completely off guard.

“I can’t stop you from hurtin’,” he continued, “but I sure as hell ain’t gonna stand by while you try to drink yourself stupid.”

You laughed bitterly. “Well, it worked.”

“No.” His eyes searched yours. “It didn’t.”

A brief silence stretched between you. The alcohol wasn’t shielding you anymore.

Your chest hurt. Your throat burned. Then your father’s face flashed through your mind.

“I just…” Your voice cracked before you could stop it. “I just wanted it to stop.”

The words came out so quietly you almost wished he hadn’t heard them.

But he did.

Every ounce of fight left your body, while your knees threatened to give out.

Jensen stepped forward instinctively, one hand settling against your upper arm.

For what felt like forever, neither of you said anything.

Then, almost too quietly to hear: “I miss him.”

The confession shattered whatever wall you’d been trying to build. Then the tears came, hard and ugly. Months of repressed grief finally bubbling to the surface.

Jensen looked everywhere except your face, giving you the dignity of pretending he couldn’t see it.

When your breathing finally slowed, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and held out the truck keys.

“C’mon. Let’s get you home.”

You frowned as he opened the passenger door. “You shouldn’t have to look after me.”

His mouth twitched into the faintest smile. “Good thing nobody asked me.”

You clumsily lowered yourself into the seat, trying to secure your belt with glassy eyes.

Jensen hopped into the driver’s seat, leaning over to clip you in. His eyes darkened for a moment.

“You don’t gotta carry this alone. I’ve got you.”

The last three words that escaped him were ones that you hadn’t realized you’d been waiting months to hear.

You stretch your arms above your head, letting out a sigh of contentment.

You had been helping Dean since the early hours of the morning, to restore Baby back to her original condition after she had been flipped on her head by a swarm of demons just outside Crowley’s hideout.

Dad had taken Sam out for a drink, much to Sam’s dismay. He thought it would be a good way to help clear their heads, after such a turbulent few days dealing with Cas’ sudden ‘purgatory power trip’, as Dean liked to call it.

You stayed behind to help Dean mend the wreckage of the Impala, more so to keep an eye on him.

Dad had commented to you in private that he really shouldn’t be left alone with everything that was going on.

Your hands are aching from a hard day’s work, but you take a quiet moment to commend yourself on the back porch, before heading inside.

Dean lingers in the kitchen, standing in front of the open refrigerator with his cheeks full of what looks to be the second leftover burger from this morning’s breakfast run. You smile to yourself at his gluttony, leaning in front of him to grab a beer.

“Good work today,” he grumbles, taking another bite. “She’s startin’ to look good as new again.”

You purse your lips and nod, taking a seat across from him at the pokey kitchen table. “Yeah, she sure is,” you sigh, popping the cap off your drink.

Dean flashes you a quizzical look, “You good?” he prods. You nod slowly, “Just been a big day. How’s your hand?”

Dean had almost crushed his fingers when replacing the engine block this morning. After a series of expletives, he had begrudgingly let you wrap his hand so you both could continue on with the project.

“Fine, I guess. Haven’t looked,” he mumbles between bites. You roll your eyes, standing from the table and closing the gap between you.

“Well, let me look,” you questioned softly, more of a demand than a suggestion. He closes his eyes with an annoyed sigh for a moment, before putting down his meal and extending his hand.

You unwrap the bandage and notice the cut is weeping. Your eyebrows shoot up, insisting: “It doesn’t look good, Dean. You’ve got engine oil in the wound.”

Your eyes lock onto each other. His gaze burns through you, and the silent exchange lingers for a beat too long. He pulls his hand back and covers the wound over again.

“I’ll live,” he retorts. You leave the impending argument alone, because when Dean has mind his mind up about something, it’s not an easy challenge.

“Fine, let it get infected then,” you grunt, turning on your heels. You feel a sudden grasp on your wrist, and you look back at him over your shoulder.

He takes a step forward, his face only inches from yours. He studies you with those dangerous green eyes for a moment. “I didn’t mean-I meant to say thanks,” he rasps out.

For a lingering moment, there is a comfortable silence. Like there are a thousand things left unspoken between you, but they are being understood through a single gaze.

For a long time, you were just Bobby’s daughter; found family for the Winchester brothers. But something had changed between you and Dean in the past few days. Like he suddenly had realised the things that are worth holding onto a little tighter.

His eyes flicker down to your lips, then back to your eyes. “It was nice havin’ a helper for once,” he whispers in a gravelly voice. You can feel the tension rising through the air between you.

You give him a half smile, “Yeah, I enjoyed it,” you admit, your eyes studying him now.

Freckles paint his cheekbones, and his lips are slightly parted. He looks dreamy under the dim light radiating in from the living room.

His pupils dilate as his non-bandaged hand reached up, hesitant for a split second, then pushes a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

His hand then rests against your flushed cheek, softly cradling your jaw.

“What are we doing here, Dean?” you ask, voice as soft as velvet.

His grip on your jaw tightened slightly, the pad of his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

Your breath hitches in your throat, your eyes searching his with curiosity and a subtle hint of desire. He could feel it, too.

A low, rough chuckle rumbles from his chest as he pulls you flush against him. “I’m still hungry,” he murmured, leaning close enough for his warm breath to fan against your lips.

His expression shifts, with something unreadable flickering behind his eyes. Then, ever so gently, he presses his lips to yours.

Your body locks up for a brief moment at the surprise of it, but then you instantly melt back into him.

A low, rough sound escapes him as the kiss deepens. His hand slides from your jaw to the base of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair.

Your hands run up his chest, gripping at his shirt in desperation. You both had needed this for a while, it had just been buried beneath sarcastic comments and busy work on the Impala.

His body vibrated beneath your touch, the air between you charged with an intense electricity.

Dean ushered you towards the living room, and you both collapsed onto the couch without breaking the kiss.

Dean hovered over the top of you, his bandaged hand reaching for the armrest above your head to steady himself.

His free hand traced your body, eventually landing on your hip, gripping down with a forceful touch. His intensity was that of a starving man who had just been offered a hot meal.

Then, he fiddles impatiently with the button on your jeans. When he speaks again, it’s through gritted teeth: “Take them off,” he growls into your mouth.

Your breath catches at the possessive demand, but without a word, you shimmy your jeans and panties down toward your ankles.

Dean’s eyes are blown out with lust. His hips instructively jolt against yours, and he breaks the heat between you to strip off his t-shirt.

Your arms slink around his back, feeling his muscles ripple under your touch as the denim from his jeans rubs up against your wetness.

“Fuck-“ he breathes out huskily, a slight crack in his voice. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” he groans.

You are taken back by his sudden vulnerability, his quiet but passionate admission. You had no idea this was something that had been building up in his head, too.

But you realised in that moment that this was something you both had craved for a long time, repressed because of the fear of the unknown. But not tonight.

“Me too, Dean,” you moan against his lips. His grip on your hip tightens, like he’s fighting the urge to flip you over and take what’s his right then and there.

He flicks the button open on his jeans and frees his throbbing cock from his boxers.

You reach down and take him in your hand.

He claims your mouth with a roughness that borders on violence. A guttural groan rips out of his throat as you start jerking your wrist to pump his hardness, his head slick with precum.

“Christ,” he rasps, his voice rough with need, “You’re killin’ me, sweetheart.” He tilts his head back in sheer ecstasy as he struggles with control.

A smirk creeps onto your lips as you watch him cave into your touch.

He looks down at you with half-lidded eyes, then moves his hand from your hip to your inner thigh, pushing your legs further apart.

His thumb meets your clit and he rubs heavy-handed circles into you.

His shaft grinds against your entrance, your slickness coating him and driving him completely up the wall with desire.

“You feel that? How hard I am for you?” he growls against the curve of your ear, sending shockwaves throughout your entire body.

A breathy moan escapes your lips as the pressure builds up in the hollow of your stomach.

You plant wet, hot kisses down his neck. A dark, hungry sound rumbles in his throat as he pins you down on the couch with excessive force.

His entire body tightens as your hips press desperately into his, a silent but warm invitation.

He lines himself up at your entrance like a predator finally losing its patience. In one quick motion, he sinks to the hilt into your tight, wet heat.

You grind into him, your walls pulsating with pleasure around his thick length. “Fuck me, Dean,” you demand, your eyes black with lust.

His hips pin you to the couch as he suddenly thrusts into you with deep and deliberate strokes.

A gasp escapes you as he stretches you to your limit with a pleasure that is bordering on painful.

A pause as he stares down at you, eyes blazing: “Good girl, take all of me.”

You whimper under him, each stroke building the pressure deep inside you.

Dean wraps a strong, calloused hand around your throat. Not enough to cut off your airway, but enough to make you understand - you’re his.

“Beg for it,” he demands through gritted teeth.

“Please Dean, I need you,” you barely whisper from under the weight of his hand around your throat. That’s enough for him.

Dean’s entire body tightens at your plea. His cock buries deep into you with each violent stroke, hitting that sweet spot inside you.

“That’s my girl,” he chuckles darkly, leaning down so your lips brush together. “You take it so good for me, sweetheart.”

“I’m gonna come soon,” you breathe out, trying to savour this heavenly moment before the dam fully breaks.

A rough, almost animalistic sound erupts from his chest as he feels you clench around him.

He is already so close to the edge himself, but hearing your whimpered confession sends him reeling.

“Fucking do it,” he growls, voice gravelly and demanding.

His hand shoots back to your clit to rub circles at a punishing pace, sending you closer to the edge.

“Let go, I wanna feel you come all over me,” he orders.

Your core tightens, your legs caging him into you as your body spasms beneath him. You let out a guttural moan as the climax takes over.

“That’s it, sweetheart. Fuck, you’re such a good girl,” he groans, slamming deep enough for you to feel every inch.

His thrusts turn rough and uneven as the pressure of your orgasm drags him right to the brink.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he growls as he slams into you one final time, spilling into you.

His hips buck for a moment as he finally releases, his breathing ragged and his weight nearly collapsing onto you.

A rough, breathless chuckle escapes his lips - half satisfaction, half disbelief at what just occurred between you both.

There’s a pause as he stays connected to you, and he leans in to plant a kiss on your forehead.

“Good girl,” he murmurs against you. “You don’t realise how bad I needed that.”

He lazily slides out, and lays his weight onto you, your breaths syncing as a quiet peace falls over the living room.

Something in you changed after your dad passed away. Anyone who knew you well enough could see it.

You might have still laughed and smiled like nothing had changed, and told people you were fine with that same defiant look that your Dad himself had perfected and passed right down to you.

Everyone else bought the smile. Jensen never did.

He’d watched you grow from a stubborn, loud-mouthed teenager into a capable young woman. He was there as you stole a bite of your dad’s fries when you were fourteen, rolled your eyes at his curfew demands when you were sixteen, and argued with him like you were already thirty when you were twenty.

He was a bystander to your entire dynamic with your father, and in one fell swoop, that relationship was ripped out from underneath you.

He knew when you were lying about being okay, and you’d been lying a lot lately.

“I’m okay, Jensen.”

“I’m dealing with it.”

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

That last one almost made him shake his head in disbelief every time.

Not that he would ever admit it, but in those three shared months of burying the grief, he had found himself checking whether you’d eaten, making coffee for two without thinking, and leaving the porch light on when you were out late.

Somewhere along the way, looking after you had become second nature.

——

Jensen was on his own today. You had driven yourself into town to buy groceries and visit your mother, or so you had told him.

Jensen stepped out of the steam filled bathroom, towel draped lazily around his waist with his wet, unkempt hair falling into his eyes.

His phone buzzed on the kitchen counter just after three in the afternoon. Jensen glanced down unknowingly at the screen, expecting a work call.

Instead, it was one of his old buddies from high school, whom he hadn’t heard from since the funeral. He frowned and answered.

“Jordan? That you?” He asked. There was a pause.

“Yeah. This is Jensen, right?” His eyebrows knitted together. He could hear the concern already lacing Jordan’s tone.

“Yeah man, what’s going on?” Jensen muttered.

A nervous breath came through the line. “I’m with some people down here at old Fitzgerald’s…” Jordan trails off.

Jensen’s body immediately locked up, his grip tightened around the phone.

Fitzgerald’s was a seedy dive bar across town.

A place Jensen warned you about visiting multiple times growing up.

The kind that doesn’t check your ID and serves you drinks until you’re plastered.

A place your dad would’ve never let you go, especially alone.

“Why are you calling me?”

Another pause. “Your friend’s kid is here.” Jordan says in a withdrawn tone.

Everything inside Jensen went still.

“What?” He snaps.

“She came in earlier. She’s… well, she’s not in a good way, bud.”

Jensen closed his eyes.

Of fucking course. Because when did you ever obey orders, from Jensen or your dad?

He rubbed a hand over his face, already feeling a headache forming in his temples.

“What is she doing now? Is she okay?” Jensen prods, his voice slightly hoarse.

For once, not worried if he sounds like a wuss for caring too much.

Jordan hesitated.

“She’s sat up at the bar with a bottle of Jameson, and she’s about two thirds of the way through it.”

He utters the words quietly, as if him talking too loud would make you snap your head to him and his cover would be blown.

Jensen exhaled slowly through his nose.

Not angry. Well, not yet at least. Mostly tired.

Because he knew exactly what this was.

You weren’t celebrating. You weren’t blowing off steam. You were hurting. And instead of calling him like you should have, you’d found the one place where nobody knew you well enough to ask if you were doing okay.

He knew exactly why you’d chosen Fitzgerald’s.

Nobody there knew your name, or your story.

Nobody there would have recognised you as the girl whose dad had died.

Jensen let out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. “Is she safe?”

“For now. I would get down here soon though, she’s pretty far gone. A buddy of mine got her away from some guys who were bothering her.”

Jensen’s jaw clenched. “What guys?”

“They left.” That answer did nothing to ease his concern.

“You did the right thing calling me.”

“I figured you’d want to know.”

Yeah. He did. More than he wanted to admit.

“Keep her there. Don’t let her leave.”

Jensen dropped the call and hastily slinked into a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. He grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair, keys already in hand.

For a moment, he just stood there. Then he looked at the framed photo sitting on the counter.

A picture of him and your dad from years ago. Two idiots in their twenties who thought they knew everything about the world.

Jensen sighed.

“Your damn daughter is gonna give me grey hair, you know that?”

The empty room didn’t answer. It never did anymore. He left the quiet behind, the front door slamming behind him.