#dbf!jensen

The Texas heat hadn't changed, it still clung to my skin, making me sweat early in the morning. The house of my father's farm looked a bit smaller than I remembered, or maybe I was just bigger now, older. 

– He'll be here any minute. – Henry, my dad, repeated again.

He had been restless all morning, pacing, checking his phone, waiting for his best friend. Jensen is like a brother to him, the boy who he grew up with, and also the man who used to scoop me up with one arm and call me his princess. My mom and dad were pretty young when they had me, unexpectedly, not even out of college yet, and left everything behind to move to the farm. And Jensen was just starting his career. He came to the farm to visit us every time he could. But then, my mom passed away, I went to live with my grandparents for a while, then went to college, and I haven't seen Uncle Jensen since I was fifteen. 

I swallowed and told myself (one more time) that this is fine, normal, he is family. Or close enough. Whatever childish crush I had carried like a secret all this time, had burned out long ago, or at least that's what I want to believe. 

The sound of the truck parking at the front of the house made my dad get up from the kitchen chair, leaving his almost full mug behind. Jensen had finally arrived at the farm. I leant against the porch fence, left boot hooked over the lowest rail, watching him get out of his truck, next to my dad. My heart tripped over itself, stupid and traitorous, my dad straightened like he was about to be inspected. The engine stopped and Jensen stepped out.

Of course he looked older, there were lines at the corners of his eyes now, a heaviness to his shoulders that hadn’t been there before, but it was still him, still my Uncle Jensen, still the same presence that filled space without trying. He took off his sunglasses and scanned the property, a slow smile forming, but then his eyes landed on me and everything stopped. Jensen froze, subtle, anyone else might have missed it, but I saw the way his breath caught, the way his posture shifted. I wasn’t fifteen anymore, skinny knees and scraped elbows, tangled hair and oversized T-shirts, I was standing tall now, sun-warmed skin, curves life had given me without asking permission. My face still carried echoes of the little girl he knew, but the woman staring back at him now was undeniably grown.

Jensen’s stomach dropped. No. Absolutely not. He dragged his gaze away like it burned, turning instead to my dad, pulling him into a tight hug, clapping his back a little too hard.

– It's good to see you, dude. – Jensen said, voice rougher than I remembered. And then, carefully, he turned back to me, the same smile he always gave me, warm, familiar, safe. – Hey there, princess. 

And my chest tightened hearing the nickname leave his lips. 

– Hi, Jensen. – I said, feeling the word "uncle" didn't fit anymore. 

– Look at you, – he said – all grown up. 

I smiled at him:

– It's been a long time. 

What he didn’t say, and what he couldn’t say, was that standing here now, seeing you like this, made him feel like the worst kind of man, because he’d noticed and he wished he hadn’t.

》❈《

Jensen

I followed Henry inside the house, my boots thudding softly against the old wooden floors, the place still smelling like old times: the coffee from the kitchen, wood polish and the summer air drifting through the open windows. Being at the farm again, felt like stepping back in time. 

My friend pushed the door to the guest room open, showing me the place. The room was simple, but clean, sunlight spilled across the neatly made bed, the window open to let the hot breeze in, making the curtains move gently. I stepped inside and nodded, taking it in.

– It's perfect, Henry. – I said and I meant it. – Thank you so much for having me here. 

– You know it's no problem, man. – Henry clapped on my shoulder. – I’ll let you settle, you can call me for whatever you need.

When the door closed behind him, I exhaled slowly, dropped my bag at the foot of the bed and ran a hand through my hair, trying to shake off the feeling that had followed me inside the house: like I had forgotten how to exist without screwing something up.

Then I noticed it, on the nightstand the lamp was angled slightly away from the bed; there was an extra pillow, firm, not fluffy; the window open, just like I liked it, not enough for bugs, but enough for air. I frowned. There was even a faint scent in the room: clean laundry soap, unscented, but familiar. Someone had thought about all of this.

A soft knock sounded at the door and before I could answer, she peeked in.

– Hey… Sorry - she said. – I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.

I straightened immediately, putting my cap back on my head. 

– Yeah. Yeah, everything is great. 

She stepped in a little more, glancing around the room, suddenly seeming self-conscious: 

– I, um… I tried to set it up the way you used to like it. – My chest tightened. It was all her. Her eyes dropping to the floor. – You always complained if the room was too stuffy… And you hated scented candles, and… – she gestured vaguely at the bed – You never liked those super soft pillows. – Silence filled the room, uncomfortable in a way I didn’t know how to fix, but she laughed softly, a little embarrassed. – Sorry. That probably sounds weird. I just… Dad said you were coming, and it felt natural.

The word 'natural' hit me harder than it should have.

– It’s not weird, – I said quickly, maybe too quickly, but all I wanted was to take her embarrassment away. – It’s… Thoughtful. Thank you.

And she smiled at that, smaller than before, but warmer:

– You used to stay here so much, I guess I just remembered. 

And all that was going through my mind, like a scream, was that she was a kid, my responsibility. I nodded, jaw tight. Her eyes met mine, and for half a second, something unspoken passed between us. It wasn't desire, just awareness, the kind that makes the air feel charged, but I looked away first, escaping.

– Well, – I said, clearing my throat – I should finish unpacking.

– Right. Of course. – She took steps back toward the door.

As soon as she left, I sat heavily on the edge of the bed and pressed my palms on my face, part of me already knowing that this summer would ruin me. When she left, closing the door, leaving me on my own, she left her strawberry scent behind. 

– Get it together! - I told myself.

》❈《

It's not until I'm back in my room, door closed, forehead resting against the wood like it might knock some sense into me, that I realize how bad it is. I tell myself it's fucking nostalgia, maybe muscle memory, just my brain being stupid. 

But that's a lie, the thing is my crush on him never died. And I knew it, because I watched every single episode of him playing Dean Winchester, and then Soldier Boy, and then Mark, and then everything he ever did. Of course it was a secret, masking it as just some fan thing. The crush just went dormant, tucked away somewhere safe when he stopped coming around, when life got loud and complicated. I grew up, moved on, dated other men, men who were fine, but who were never him. 

The thing is, now he is here, he is back. And I replied every single moment from the second he arrived, but meanly the way he looked standing in the doorway of the guest room: a lot older, broader, yet quieter somehow. The years had been kind to him in a way that felt unfair. Even the salt-and-pepper at his beard made him hotter; the lines earned, not lost. That low gravity to him that pulled your attention without asking permission. Handsome didn’t even cover it, he looked like a man who had lived, loved, but also lost, and God help me, because I felt it right in my chest. 

– Get a fucking grip – I cursed, alone against the door. – He’s your dad’s best friend. He watched you learn to walk. He used to lift you onto his shoulders so you could see over the crowd at county fairs. He wiped your tears when you scraped your knee and told you scars were proof you were tough. He's Uncle Jensen. – I whispered, trying to convince myself.

Except for the fact that he doesn’t look like Uncle Jensen anymore, and I'm not the same little girl. And what scares me the most isn’t the attraction, but how natural it feels, how easy it was to remember his preferences, how setting up that room felt less like effort and more like instinct, like some part of me had been quietly keeping track all along. I also think about the way his eyes lingered on me for just a beat too long when he arrived, the way he looked away first, the tension in his jaw, like he was holding something back. 

His eyes sent a spark through me, a quick, electric spark, that was immediately followed by shame, because how stupid I can be, he would never look at me like that, to him I'm just "little princess". At the same time, some part of me thinks he noticed that I'm not little anymore, and that makes my stomach flip. 

Wanting him feels like breaking a rule I never consciously agreed to, and yet I can't help but notice him at the dinner table later that day, sleeves rolled up, forearms resting on the table, the sound of his laugh, lower now, rougher, and the way he says my name, not princess, my actual name. Just this makes my breath hitch, impure thoughts circling my mind.

That night, I lay in bed, promising that I'll behave, that I'll keep this crush where it belongs: locked down, buried, harmless.

》❈《

The days pass, blurring together in a way that feels lazy. Mornings start early on the farm, my dad is up before the sun and Jensen is not far behind, even though he loves to sleep late, it's like he needs to follow the farm's way of life. And everyday I tell myself that I will sleep in, but somehow I always end up in the kitchen with Jensen, both of us barefoot, hair messy. I pretend I don't see his eyes chasing mine, I try to keep my distance, I sit at the far end of the table, I keep busy with chores that I don't even need to do. 

I can feel how he is always careful around me, sometimes even almost formal, trying to be polite, but it doesn't work, somehow we end up side by side, shoulders touching, leaning against the same fence post while my dad talks about cattle. His gaze follows me without him even realizing it, like somewhere in his mind, he still has the need to take care of me. We are like magnets. When he steps aside to let me pass and his hand hovers at my lower back, never touching, but close enough that my skin lights up anyway.

The first time he calls me princess again, it slips out without warning. We are outside, mid-afternoon heat wrapping around everything, I was handing him a glass of water while my dad’s on the phone.

– Thanks, princess. – The word lands between us, I freeze, he freezes. Jensen clears his throat immediately. – Sorry. I think it's a habit. 

I smile like I didn't just melt to the sound of the like nickname on his voice, like my heart didn't just stumble. 

– It's fine, no problem. 

After that, it keeps happening, not often, not casually, but when he’s tired, when he forgets he's supposed to hide, when I surprise him with a laugh that sounds exactly like it used to. And the touches are small, innocent, a hand on my shoulder as he passes behind me, his fingers brushing mine when he hands me something, a brief touch on my elbow, to steady me, when I stumble over uneven ground. Every time, he pulls back like he’s been burned and, every time, my pulse spikes. 

I catch him watching when he thinks I'm not looking: when I'm reading on the porch, kneeling in the dirt, tucking my hair behind my ear without thinking, and sometimes I also catch the guilt in his expression afterward, like he is angry at himself for noticing those things, like he is reminding himself of the rules he is supposed to follow. 

At night, I lie awake listening to the house settle, aware of his presence down the hall, imagining he is going to knock on my door any time now, telling me he can't stay away anymore, calling me his princess. 

》❈《

My dad is fixing a fence near our house, and he doesn't even look up before he says: 

– Hey, can you two head into town for me? Hardware place, I need some supplies to fix this. 

I open my mouth to protest, I could totally go alone, or Jensen, because it is easily a one person job, but before I can even open my mouth, Jensen answers: 

– Sure!

My dad grins and says, looking at Jensen: 

– Take my old Ford pickup.

Of course. 

Minutes later, I'm climbing into the passenger seat of the old pickup, the same one Jensen used to let me sit on his lap when I was little, hands barely able to reach the dashboard, pretending I was driving. Now, my knees are able to brush the glove compartment, my body filling the space differently. 

Jensen starts the engine and pulls onto the road, his hands resting casually on the wheel, silence settling between us, but not awkward. I reach for the radio, and the country station from the city is playing Luke Bryan's Drunk on You, immediately both of us start to sing. First is low, a little shy, but when the chorus hits we are singing the song at the top of our lungs, and laughing. 

– It's not fair, your voice is so much better than mine - I say looking at him. 

He doesn't take his eyes off the road, just glances at me, and keeps singing, smiling. 

The song ends, another comes on the radio, and we keep singing. The road stretches out ahead of us, fields rolling by, heat shimmering in the distance. And when we arrive at the city I'm the first to talk, just to say something: 

– So… The town hasn’t changed much.

He huffs a quiet laugh, then looks at me for a second: 

– Neither has this truck.

– I remember… – I tell him, smiling. 

His eyes soften before he schools them back into something neutral and talks again: 

– You were always obsessed with it – he says. – Thought it was the coolest thing in the world.

– I still kind of do – I shrug. 

That earns a real laugh from him, low, warm, and the sound slides straight under my skin. The silence that follows is different now, more dangerous. At a stop sign, Jensen rests his elbow against the open window, fingers tapping absently against the door, the movement draws my eyes, and I can't not notice his hands, they look bigger than I remember, veins visible, freckles, wedding ring conspicuously absent. I look away, annoyed at myself. 

When the truck jolts over a hole on the street, my body shifts, and Jensen’s hand comes out automatically, settling at my thigh, trying to steady me. It lasts less than a second, but it’s enough. His hand is warm against my naked tight. He pulls back like he has just realized what he has done, jaw tightening. 

– Sorry, – he says, rough – reflex.

– It’s okay. – I reply, my breath still a little uneven, but I smile. 

In town, we walk side by side through the aisles, pretending to focus on lists and shelves, he hands me items without touching me and I keep my arms close to my body. 

Back outside, Jensen opens the door of the pickup before I can, like he always used to, a gentleman. 

– Thank you, Jen. – I look in his eyes, entering the car. 

– Always – he replies. 

Now the sound of the radio is lower, the road curves familiar and quiet. We are close to a little lake, where I used to swim during the hottest days of the summer, like today. 

– Hey, Jen… – I call his name and he looks at me. – Can we make a quick stop at the lake?

– Do you wanna swim right now? – he replies, looking concerned, then at the sun shining in the middle of the sky. 

– No… Not right now, I just wanna see it. Is that ok? 

– Of course. – He agrees and a minute later he is making a turn to the little road that takes to the lake. 

There are lots of trees, making the air cooler instantly. The truck stops and I climb off fast like a kid, almost running. I hear Jensen laugh behind, making his way to me. 

– It's exactly like I remember it – he says.

– It's still beautiful. 

The sun shines on the water. I take my boots off, roll up the bottom of my pants and let my toes touch the cold water, and it's an immediate relief to the heat of the summer. The water is colder than I expect, and I hiss softly, toes curling as the chill travels up my legs, but I laugh under my breath anyway. Behind me, Jensen stops a few feet away. I don't have to look to know he is watching me. 

– You always did that – he says quietly. 

– Did what? – I glance back over my shoulder. 

– Run straight for the water like it was calling your name. 

– Some things never change - I smile, turning back to the lake. 

The trees sway gently, leaves whispering, the shade wraps around us both, the air noticeably cooler here. Time feels suspended, like the world decided to give us this moment and nothing else exists beyond it. Jensen steps closer, boots crunching softly on the dirt, not close enough to touch, but close enough that I feel the heat of him at my back.

– I used to worry you’d slip – he says – and crack your head open.

– I never did.

– No – he agrees. – You never did. Thank God. – There’s something in his voice now, fond, aching, careful. I turn fully to face him, water lapping quietly behind me. He looks open  in a way he hasn’t been all summer.

– You okay? – I ask. 

– Yeah, just… Remembering… – He hesitates, then nods once. 

Our eyes meet, and this time neither of us looks away. The pull is instant, like gravity finally giving up the pretense. Jensen exhales slowly, like he’s bracing himself, but doesn't step away from me. Now I'm stepping in the dirty at the margin of the lake and his boots are a little wet. 

– We shouldn’t… – he says, but not moving, yet not touching me, like he’s hoping the words alone will stop him.

– I  know – I whisper. Neither of us step away. 

His hand lifts, stopping halfway between us, hovering near my cheek. He freezes, searching in my face for a sign, maybe my eyes telling him that he is crossing a line or maybe for something that tells him this isn’t a mistake he won’t survive. But I lean into his hand instead. That does it.

Jensen’s fingers curl gently against my cheek, thumb brushing my skin like it’s something precious, fragile. He leans down slowly, like he is giving me every chance to pull away, but I don't. The kiss is soft, barely there at first, just a touch of lips. Then it deepens just a little, but enough to make my chest ache and his breath hitch when he realizes it’s real. My hands go to the hair that is escaping from his cap. 

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine, eyes closed.

– God! – he murmurs. – I’m sorry.

I shake my head, just barely, my eyes open, not leaving his face: 

– Don't be – I whisper. 

His thumb brushes my cheek once more, like he is memorizing the feeling. For a moment, neither of us moves, the lake glimmering behind us, the world still quiet, like it’s holding its breath. Then Jensen steps back, reluctant, careful, controlled once again.

– We should go – he says, voice rough – before I forget how to stop.

I nod, even though every part of me wishes he wouldn’t. As I slip my boots back on and walk toward the truck, my lips still tingle. He still opens the door of the truck for me, waits for me to get in. 

When we are back on the road, I break the silence again:

– Can you bring me back here another day? I really want to swim. – I ask, but we both know that's not exactly what I'm asking. I'm just masking what I really want to ask. 

He takes his eyes off the road to look at me, a small smile at the corner of his lips. 

– Yeah, Princess. We can come back for a swim. 

And you both know, without saying it, that this was only the beginning.

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.

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.