#darthmond

Jeffrey laid back against the worn cushions of his couch, the late-afternoon sun casting long, gold-drenched shadows through the blinds. A police chase was unfolding on the muted TV, tires squealing and helicopters circling, but the sound was off, replaced by the soft hum of a phone call still in progress.

Steam still clung to his skin from the shower, and a towel sat low on his hips, clinging more from habit than need. One leg hung off the side of the couch, lazy and half-stretched. A damp hand raked through his hair as he cradled the phone between his shoulder and cheek.

“Is he still being a little prince?” he asked.

On the other end, Christina laughed. “He’s currently asleep on my throw pillows like he pays the rent. You’ve completely ruined this dog, Jeff.”

“Yeah, well, he’s eleven. He’s earned his pillow throne.”

“He ate half a stick of butter today.”

Jeffrey grinned, eyes slipping closed. “You spoil him.”

“Better me than you. Last time you fed him beef jerky and let him sleep on the hotel couch.”

“He deserved the couch. It was a rough travel day.”

“You’re the one who gave him anxiety about suitcases.”

“I have anxiety about suitcases,” Jeffrey countered. “He just mirrors his father.”

“You’re ridiculous.” Christina laughed. “Do you want a picture or not?”

“Of course, I want a picture, Nina. I want twenty. Don’t hold out on me.”

“Check your phone after we hang up.” He could hear that she was grinning.

“You’re a good woman.”

“And you’re still a mess. Call me after the audition, alright?”

“Yeah,” he said, softer. “Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

The call ended, the screen shifting back to his home screen. Seconds later, a ping— image received.

Jeffrey tapped it open. It was Bisou. His greying muzzle was nestled into a blanket, ears perked slightly like he was listening to secrets no one had told yet. Jeffrey’s heart gave a slow, heavy thud.

“Baby,” he murmured aloud, like he always did.

He sat with that for a moment. The quiet. The light was filtering in. The world was narrowing in on the old pup curled in another zip code, and this strange, stretched-out ache in his chest that had been following him around all day like a shadow.

Then, his hand moved without conscious thought, drifting over to the browser icon on his home screen. He stared at it.

He knew what he was doing. He knew what it would look like, even if no one else could see. But he clicked anyway.

In the search bar: Charlotte Kensington

A pause.

Jeffrey nudged the door shut behind them with the heel of his boot, the muted click echoing faintly in the narrow entryway, and placed her shoes that he had carried aside. The air inside was warm, holding the faint scent of coffee and something woodsy— cedar, maybe.

“Coat first,” he said gently, shifting her just enough so he could slide it from around her shoulders. He hung it neatly on a hook near the door before doing the same with his own, then, without missing a beat, adjusted his hold on her and carried her farther in.

Charlotte’s eyes flicked over what she could see from her vantage point—wood floors, low amber lighting from mismatched lamps, a battered but inviting sofa with a knitted throw carelessly draped across it. There were books stacked in uneven piles along the coffee table and by the wall, a record player with an open sleeve resting on top. It was warm in a way that was entirely him—unpretentious, lived-in, but with little details that told her he cared about his space.

“I approve,” she said softly, tilting her head up to catch his eye.

He grinned. “That’s good. I’m pretty sure you’d tell me if you didn’t.”

“Of course I would.”

He chuckled and carried her toward the sofa, lowering her carefully until she was sitting, her ankle propped gently on a folded cushion. Then he crouched in front of her, the same way he had on the street, only now with the luxury of proper light.

“Still tender?” he asked, his voice that deep, even tone had been making her shake and shiver all night.

“A little,” she admitted, her cheeks heating when she realised how willingly she let him tend to her. “I suppose I’ll allow you to continue playing the gallant hero.”

His eyes flicked up at her, amused. “Suppose you’ll allow it?”

“Yes,” she said, letting a faint smile tug at her lips. “But don’t get used to it. I’m not in the habit of letting anyone take care of me.”

His gaze lingered on her then —quiet, thoughtful— like he was remembering something. “I know,” he said, softer now. “That’s why I like it when you let me.”

Something in her chest tightened— half surprise, half something far warmer.

Jeffrey caught her small gasp, grinned and offered her a wink before he disappeared into the kitchen for a moment, his boots soft against the wood, and returned with a small towel, an ice pack, and a glass of water.

“Here,” he said, handing her the glass first. “Hydration. We’ve both had enough drinks to float a small boat.”

Charlotte took it, still watching him as he knelt again in front of her. He folded the towel neatly, resting it between her ankle and the ice pack before setting it gently in place. The first cold shock made her flinch, and his hand immediately steadied her calf.

“Easy,” he murmured, the word slow and low— half comfort, half command.

The sound of it slid right into her, warm in spite of the ice just as his touch was. She sipped her water just to distract herself, but it didn’t help much— not when he was this close.

“Better?” he asked without looking up, his palm still wrapped loosely around her ankle, thumb tracing idle, absent-minded circles over her skin.

“Yes,” she said softly.

His head lifted at that, eyes catching hers, and for a moment neither of them spoke. The air between them felt thick enough to lean on.

“Jeffrey,” she said finally, her voice just above a whisper. “You should stop looking at me like that.”

His mouth curved slowly. “Like what?”

“Like you’re trying to memorise me,” she replied before she could stop herself.

Something flickered in his expression— surprise, maybe, but also something deeper. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he adjusted the ice gently and then, instead of pulling back, leaned in.

“You’re not wrong,” he said quietly. “I like knowing the pieces no one else gets to see.”

Charlotte’s breath caught, the cold on her ankle a sharp contrast to the slow heat crawling up her body, her mind wandering wildly. Her tone deliberately steady even as her pulse betrayed her. “You keep talking like that, and I might—”

“Might what?” he asked, a hint of a challenge under the velvet in his voice.

“Might not make you work so hard for that kiss.”

His eyes darkened, just enough to make her wonder what would happen if she actually said the word now. As his gaze stayed locked on hers, his hand slid from her ankle to the side of her calf, warm against her skin, his thumb tracing slow, deliberate lines. He didn’t lean in—not yet— but his presence filled every inch between them, his voice lowering. “You say that like I’d mind the work,”

Charlotte’s lips curved despite herself. “You make it sound like a privilege.”

“It is.” His answer was so quiet she almost missed it. “You’re… not the kind of woman you get by accident.”

That earned him a flicker of her eyes away —just for a moment— before she returned her gaze to his.

The ice pack shifted as she moved her foot slightly, and his hand caught her ankle again, holding it steady.

“Say the word,” he said, voice thick with a restraint that matched her own. “And I’ll stop making you wait.”

Her pulse thrummed against her throat. Her hand tightened slightly on the edge of the couch cushion. She didn’t move away, didn’t even think about it— her body leaned toward his. Her free hand came up, fingers sliding into the back of his hair as she closed the last inch between them.

But before the kiss could land, Jeffrey pulled back only slightly, leaving her with a frown of confusion. He tsked, bearing a grin. “You need to say it, baby.” His hand moved just above her knee and gave her a firm squeeze. “C’mon, use your words.”

Charlotte felt frustration and slight humiliation awash her body when her attempt was denied. And when he teased her, she started buzzing with need. “Jeffrey,” she breathed, her hand moved to his jaw, nails lightly scratching his beard. “Please…”

For a brief moment, he closed his eyes, humming as he enjoyed her touch. Then his dark eyes found hers again. “Please what, doll?” he drawled.

Her mouth went dry.

It was ridiculous— she’d been kissed before, plenty of times, and she’d never had to ask for it. But the way he was looking at her now… it wasn’t about him denying her, it was about him making her admit she wanted it. Really say it.

Her fingers tightened slightly at his jaw, feeling the bristle of his beard under her nails. “Please… kiss me,” she whispered, her voice low but steady enough to carry the weight behind it.

Something flickered in his eyes— satisfaction, yes, but also something warmer, deeper, like she’d just handed him something he hadn’t expected to want so badly.

The film industry was booming in Vancouver in the 2000s, attracting actors and creatives from all over the world to its lush, forested cityscape. The city buzzed with the excitement of numerous productions. Charlotte Kensington, a vibrant 28-year-old with fiery red hair and a thirst for adventure, had recently arrived in the city. She was spending a few months working as a cultural consultant for a film project, her rich background in European arts and her parents' connections making her a sought-after guest at social gatherings.

One considerably warm evening, Charlotte found herself at a rooftop party in downtown Vancouver. The city lights shimmered against the darkening sky, and a gentle breeze carried the scent of the sea. The event, hosted by a mutual friend who delighted in bringing together a diverse group of people, was alive with chatter and laughter. Charlotte felt at ease in this eclectic crowd, her natural charm and curiosity drawing others to her.

Jeffrey Dean Morgan, a 42-year-old actor who just wrapped up filming Watchmen and another season of Supernatural, noticed her from across the rooftop. He was immediately drawn to Charlotte’s radiant presence. He figured she must be quite something, given the way she was managing the crowd around her so elegantly. And what seemed to be a delicious figure hiding under her flowy dress piqued his interest too. “Hey... Hey, man. Who’s that?” He asked a nearby guest.

“That’s Charlotte Kensington,” Misha replied. “She’s new to America but already making quite an impact.”

Kensington. His manager did mention the possibility of the appearance of some big-shot named Kensington but, boy, did she fail to mention her beauty. “Her family’s quite influential in the industry. You should go talk to her,” his manager had suggested, recognising the potential for a beneficial connection. “It could be good for you.”

Jensen and Jared were engaged in a playful banter across the table until Jeffrey’s interest in the woman caught Jensen's attention. “Oh, that tight ass is so out of your league, bro.”

Danneel, sitting beside them with Genevieve, hit Jensen on the arm. “Hey now, sourpuss, you’re just trying to discourage him because she wasn’t interested in you two’s games.”

Jared smirked at Jensen when his girl saw through him. Instinctively, he pulled Genevieve closer to him. “She’s a, er, culture and art consultant or something in this international project. Apparently, she knew Kim. She was at the funeral.” Jeffrey couldn’t make it to the funeral. “And she knows this new guy that plays the demon. She landed him the job.”

“Mark,” Misha nodded.

“She’s a philanthropist,” Genevieve added. “She was so enthusiastic when we brought up Mish’s new project.”

The couple had shared Misha's contact information with the young woman. Within a few days, Charlotte had reached out to him and they had arranged to meet for coffee to discuss his mission and vision in more detail. During their meeting, Misha had passionately explained his project’s goals and the impact he hoped to achieve, impressing Charlotte with his sincerity and dedication. She had listened intently, captivated by his enthusiasm and commitment to making a difference. By the end of their conversation, she was convinced of Misha's genuine act of kindness and had expressed her eagerness to contribute to the cause. Her willingness to lend her expertise and resources added another layer of excitement and promise to Misha’s endeavours, paving the way for a meaningful collaboration.

“She’s a humanitarian,” Misha corrected Genevieve.  “A kind, down-to-earth soul. Don’t let them get to you, Jeff.”

Jeffrey tapped on Misha’s chest in an appreciative manner and gave Jensen and Jared the finger. Not wanting to miss her and the opportunity to get to know her himself, he carefully navigated through the crowd until he was standing beside her, where the twinkling city lights reflected in her bright green eyes. He wore a wide, charming smile that softened his rugged demeanour. “Well, if it isn’t the most enchanting social butterfly of the evening,” he said, his voice carrying a playful edge. “Hi, I’m Jeffrey. I couldn’t help but notice how you seem to light up the room.”

Charlotte looked up, momentarily taken aback by his direct approach. After collecting herself in a beat, she noticed the warm and easy-going aura the tall, dark and handsome man radiated with his bright smile, big dimples and deep hazel eyes. “Oh, Jeffrey, this is hardly a room.”

A few drinks and a few hours into the night, Jensen and Jared had taken over the dartboard with Mark and Misha, corralling them into another round of tequila shots. Misha didn’t realise he was being used as a distraction, to steer Mark away from the bar, but Jeffrey knew — and he suspected Charlotte did too.

Which left Charlotte and Jeffrey alone at the far end, tucked in close at the counter, half-shadowed by the wall-mounted jukebox.

Jeffrey’s shoulders had loosened, his laugh was easier now, and the edge of a slow drawl slurred just enough to betray that he’d been drinking long before she walked in.

Charlotte had her elbows propped on the scratched wood, nursing something dark and neat, the edge of her wrist just brushing his arm every now and then. She wasn’t entirely sober either— the amber in her glass had made her cheeks glow faintly, her voice that little bit lazier, warmer.

She leaned in, voice low with a smirk: “Come on. One song.”

Jeffrey shook his head slowly, sipping his beer, eyes trained on hers. “I told you maybe you’d hear me sing,” he said, voice smooth and thick with heat, “not maybe you’d see me do karaoke.”

Charlotte raised a brow, playing faux-offended. “That’s a technicality.”

“It’s a very important technicality,” he replied, his hand gesturing vaguely at the stage. “Karaoke involves microphones. Stages. An audience.”

“I thought actors liked an audience.”

Jeffrey laughed, low in his chest, the sound sliding between them like smoke. “Not me. I’ve got limits.”

Charlotte tilted her glass toward him, sipping once before speaking. “What— afraid you’ll lose your mystery?”

He leaned closer, not quite touching, just enough to tilt the air between them. “You saying I’m mysterious?”

“I’m saying,” she said, lips curving around the words, “you look like the kind of guy who learned to play guitar in college to get girls, and then stopped as soon as it worked.”

He barked out a surprised, short laugh. “Damn. Harsh.”

“Am I wrong?”

“… No. But still—” He gestured to her with his glass. “You really do see through bullshit.”

Funky’s was a bar that had somehow outlived three owners, two renovations, and at least one health code citation. The kind of place where the neon beer signs had been flickering since the Clinton administration, where the bartender didn’t ask for a tab until you left, and the booths stuck just enough to your jeans when you shifted in your seat. Comfort in low lighting and soft chaos. Familiar. Safe in its own weird way.

He walked there, jacket collar flipped up against the soft night air, boots hitting the pavement in rhythm with the pulse still steady in his chest. When he pushed through the door, the smell of cheap beer and fried food hit him first. Then the sound— loud, messy, chaotic; spilling out onto the street behind him. Jensen was already onstage, microphone in hand, doing a half-assed version of “Wanted Dead or Alive” like he’d been born for it, laughing halfway through the lines, dragging a couple of extras up onto the makeshift karaoke stage for backup vocals. A few of the crew were shouting along from the side of the room, half-drunk and happy.

Jeffrey huffed a breath through his nose, half a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth despite himself.

He spotted Jared first, easy—tall as hell and playing darts in the corner. Next to him, Mark and Misha stood elbow to elbow, deep in conversation. Mark was nursing something neat in a lowball glass, wearing a semi-scowl, though his eyes were bright. Misha was talking animatedly— half-distracted, gaze flicking toward the karaoke stage with the tiniest smirk.

Jeffrey exhaled and let the tension roll off his shoulders. He threaded his way over, sidestepping a waitress with a tray of shots.

“—thought it was garbage,” Misha admitted. “I thought I was doing a couple episodes of monster-of-the-week nonsense. Thought I’d cash the check and move on.”

“Didn’t we all?” Jeffrey stepped in, wearing a smirk. “Evenin’, gentlemen.”

“Hey! There he is!” Jared turned. He clapped a giant hand on his shoulder, practically jostling Jeffrey into place, voice pitched over the music. “Bout time, man.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jeffrey held him by the arm. His pulse was still running too fast, but he let the easy familiarity of Jared’s warmth anchor him. “Didn’t know there was gonna be a damn concert tonight.”

“That’s not a concert,” Mark deadpanned, voice dry as dust but eyes sharp. “That’s a crime against music.”

Jeffrey barked out a laugh.

“And yet somehow, we’re all still here.” Misha snorted before turning to Jeffrey, giving him a half hug. “Look who decided to crawl out of his cave!”

“I know, buddy. Sorry,” Jeffrey patted his back. “In my defence, I was out of my cave last night.”

Jeffrey made a brief eye contact with Mark.

“That doesn’t count,” Misha rolled his eyes.

“I’m getting the next round,” Jared announced, already moving toward the bar with those ridiculous long legs. “Beer?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Have you two met?” Misha introduced Jeffrey into the conversation.

“Oh, we did,” Mark smirked over his glass. “Papa Winchester, was it?”

Just as the elevator doors were about to close, Jeffrey  stopped it midway and finally broke the silence with a gentle, almost tender, “Shall we?” His voice was low, coaxing her back to the present as he gestured for her to step out first.

Charlotte nodded, a slight smile playing on her lips as she walked out into the quiet lobby. She could still feel his eyes on her, the way he was studying her every movement as if committing them to memory.

They exited the building, the cool night air hitting them as they stepped onto the dimly lit sidewalk. The sounds of the city —a distant siren, the soft murmur of passing cars, the rustle of leaves in a nearby park— seemed to wrap around them, creating a bubble of serenity in contrast to the lively party they’d just left behind.

Jeffrey fell into step beside her, his hands casually tucked into his pockets. There was a quiet confidence in the way he walked, each stride measured, as if he were perfectly at ease with the world around him. Charlotte couldn’t help but feel a flutter in her chest, a blend of excitement and nervousness that made her hyper-aware of every detail—the brush of her dress against her legs, the soft click of her heels on the pavement, the way his shoulder occasionally bumped against hers as they walked side by side.

“So,” Jeffrey began, his voice a deep rumble that seemed to vibrate through her. “What’s next on your sailing bucket list?” he asked, genuinely curious about where her adventures might take her next.

Charlotte smiled at Jeffrey’s question, her eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. “Well, since I’m new to this side of the world,” she began, her tone vibrant with excitement, “I’ve been dreaming of island hopping in the Caribbean. There’s something incredibly alluring about exploring those scattered gems— each island with its own unique charm and culture. I’m particularly drawn to the idea of sailing from one island to the next, experiencing the diverse landscapes and local flavours.”

Jeffrey raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “The Caribbean, huh? You must be one hell of a sailor, kid.”

Charlotte chuckled at Jeffrey’s remark, a playful glint in her eye. “Well, I wouldn’t say you need to be a master sailor to enjoy the Caribbean. I read that the beauty of it is that the waters are generally calm and the islands are well-connected. So even if you’re not a seasoned sailor, you can still have a fantastic time.” She gave a modest shrug, “I’ve got some experience under my belt, but honestly, it’s more about the joy of discovering new places and meeting new people. The Caribbean’s charm lies in its vibrant culture and breathtaking landscapes. So, whether you’re an expert or just getting started, I hear you’re bound to have an unforgettable experience.”

“And do you have any specific island in mind for your Caribbean adventure?” Jeffrey leaned in.

“Oh, definitely!” Charlotte’s eyes sparkled as she responded. “I’ve got my heart set on Aruba for its sunny beaches, Antigua for its gorgeous colonial charm and endless coastline, and St. Lucia for its stunning Pitons and lush rainforests.”

“I’ve heard Aruba’s nightlife is pretty vibrant— almost like a mini-Vegas. Are you sure that isn’t what draws you to it?” Jeffrey playfully nudged her arm with his elbow.

Charlotte laughed, giving Jeffrey a playful nudge back. “Well, you’ve caught me there! I won’t deny that the nightlife and casinos are definitely a part of the appeal. If you’re up for it, you should join me on a trip to Aruba.” She let it slip without thinking, “We could test our luck and enjoy those beautiful beaches together!”

Jeffrey grinned, a spark of excitement in his eyes. “Careful, young lady, I might just take you up on that.”

“So what?” Charlotte teased. She was in good hands after all, as Mark had mentioned. “Who knows, your riding skills might come in handy for getting around the island— or at the very least, you can put your strength to good use around the boat and help carry my bags. Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to pack light just for you.”

Jeffrey let out a hearty laugh, which made Charlotte’s smile widen. “Pack whatever you need, doll.” He couldn’t help but lean in closer. So close that his arm brushed against hers. The light contact sent shivers through his body— Yet, he thought, he was still not close enough. “I could carry your bags, your sails, and your entire damn boat if you wanted.” His voice dropped to a low, teasing drawl. “Just say the word.”