fiction love club

Jared stood in front of the hallway mirror a few days later, tugging a hoodie over his head as he slipped on his sneakers, movements a little sharper than usual, like he was still carrying something under his skin he hadn’t let go of yet.

Jensen, sitting on the couch for the first Saturday night in a week, finally ventured a question. “Where you headed?”.

His voice was casual. Too casual. Like he hadn’t been a ghost in his own apartment for days. Like the tension hadn’t been thick enough to choke on.

Jared didn’t look up. Just grabbed his keys from the side table and muttered, “Out”.

Jensen frowned, lifting a brow. “Out where?”.

“(Y/N)´s place”, Jared’s voice was clipped, intentional. “Gonna run some lines, maybe order takeout. Get her mind off some fucking douchebag”.

Jensen went still. The pause was long, just long enough for Jared to shoot him a look in the mirror. Not angry exactly, but not soft either. He didn’t have to explain who he meant. Jensen knew. And Jared made sure he saw it in his face. The judgment. The disappointment. The “you made this bed” weight behind every syllable.

Jensen leaned back slightly, jaw tight. “You really think that’s a good idea?”.

“I think”, Jared said evenly, turning to face him fully now, “that someone should be showing up for her. Since the guy who should’ve hasn’t been”.

Jensen swallowed hard, but said nothing.

Jared pulled open the door. “You broke something she didn’t even get a chance to protect. The least I can do is keep her from blaming herself for it”.

-

Your apartment was quiet in that way only true exhaustion could make it. The kind of stillness that had nothing to do with peace and everything to do with giving up.

You’d lit a candle earlier, maybe to feel like things were soft, warm, normal, but it had burned halfway down by the time Jared knocked once and let himself in. You barely looked up from the script on your lap. You hadn’t been reading it. Just holding it. Like muscle memory.

“Hey”, he said gently, shutting the door behind him.

You offered a ghost of a smile. “Hey”.

Jared didn’t say anything at first. He crossed the room in a few easy strides and plopped down on the couch beside you like it was his job. Because lately, it kind of was.

Your legs were curled under you, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, the cherry necklace lying on the table nearby, untouched. You hadn’t worn it once since Jensen walked out of your life without so much as a backward glance.

“You look like shit”, Jared said softly, not unkindly.

You huffed, the breath somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Thanks”.

“Didn’t mean it like that. Just… y’know. You’ve been trying so hard to keep it together that I think your face forgot how”.

You didn’t respond. Just stared at the coffee table, jaw tight.

“You wanna talk about it?”, he asked.

“I already did”, you said, voice small. “To myself. A hundred times. It didn’t help”.

He nodded. “Okay. Then how about we just sit here and let me be the one who doesn’t walk away?”.

That did something. It cracked a part of you that had been holding on too tightly, too long. Your throat bobbed. You nodded once.

Jared leaned back, handed you the other half of the takeout he brought, and didn’t press. And for the first time in a week, the quiet wasn’t heavy. It was human. It was kind. And it held.

A few hours later, the half-empty bottle of wine sat crooked on your coffee table, one of Jared’s giant hands loosely cupped around his glass while the other absently rested on the curve of your shoulder. Your head was in his lap, your legs curled up across the couch, socked feet tucked under the blanket he’d pulled over both of you earlier.

The apartment was dim. Quiet. Safe, in that fuzzy, wine-soft way that made everything feel more bearable.

“I know I should hate him”, you mumbled, not for the first time, voice muffled against the fabric of his jeans. “I mean… I do. Kind of”.

Jared hummed, taking a sip. “That’s fair”.

You sighed, drawing little circles on your stomach through your hoodie. “But I still miss him”.

Jared didn’t say anything.

“I miss his stupid face”, you continued. “I miss the way he’d touch the small of my back without thinking. I miss the way he’d say my name like it was a secret”.

Jared let his head fall back against the couch cushion. “Yeah. I figured”.

“And I miss the orgasms”, you said suddenly, more to the ceiling than to him.

There was a beat. Then Jared made a sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh. “Okay. Gonna need you to warn me next time before you take a sharp turn into That Territory”.

You giggled—actually giggled—and covered your face with both hands. “Oh my… I’m sorry”.

“No, no”, He grinned down at you, shaking his head. “Let’s just pretend you said… popcorn. You miss the popcorn”.

You peeked through your fingers, eyes glassy but lighter than before. “I really, really miss the popcorn”.

“Yeah”, Jared muttered into his glass, smiling to himself. “Bet you do”.

He shifted under you slightly, adjusting the way your head rested against his thigh, but he didn’t push you off, didn’t pull away.

You, on the other hand, had clearly passed the point of caring.

“The first time”, you said, eyes drifting toward the ceiling, “he was so damn careful. Like he thought I’d break. But then…”. You trailed off, a dreamy sigh escaping. “He figured it out. It was like—like he knew what I needed before I even said anything”.

“Shit”, Jared muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “This is happening”.

“I mean, you’re the one who poured the fourth glass”, you reminded him, lifting your wine lazily and tipping it toward your lips.

“I was trying to be a supportive friend. Not get a full director’s commentary”.

You snorted, eyes closing. “I’m just saying… I thought sex would be clumsy or awkward or… I don’t know, fumbly. But with him? It was—gosh—it was like flying”.

Jared groaned into his hands, but his voice was warm when he spoke again. “Okay, I’m officially cutting you off. We are now in Too Much Information territory, and I like my sanity intact, thank you very much”.

You rolled your eyes, but smiled. “You’re just mad I’m talking about your grumpy roommate like he’s some kind of orgasm wizard”.

“I am deeply mad about that, yes”.

You laughed again, softer this time, head turning so your cheek pressed against the soft denim of his jeans. “Sorry. I just… I don’t know. It’s like if I don’t say it out loud, it’ll start to feel like it didn’t happen. Like it wasn’t real”.

Jared’s hand returned to your shoulder, thumb brushing a gentle path over the fabric of your sleeve. “It was real”, he said after a long moment. “You were real to him. That’s why he’s acting like a complete idiot”.

You were quiet for a while, your body finally settling, the emotional edge giving way to that slow, inevitable pull of sleep.

Jared felt your body soften more against his leg, your fingers curling lightly into the blanket over your stomach. Your voice came out quieter now—like it was meant only for you, but still loud enough that he heard it.

“I was just stupid to let him have me”, you mumbled, eyes closed. “Should’ve known better”.

He didn’t answer right away. The silence between you stretched, not heavy, just full of all the things neither of you wanted to feel too deeply. Then, he let out a slow breath, his hand still gently resting on your shoulder.

“You weren’t stupid”, he said softly. “You trusted someone. That’s not dumb. That’s brave”.

You let out a dry laugh, but there was no amusement in it. “Brave people don’t get left like that”.

“Brave people get left”, Jared countered, his voice steady. “All the damn time. Because the world doesn’t always reward people who show up with their heart in their hands. But that doesn’t mean you were wrong to offer it”.

You blinked slowly, eyes still on the ceiling, your voice drifting out in a hush that barely carried beyond the blanket pulled up to your chest. “Did he…”, you paused, lips pressing together before trying again, quieter, “Did he talk about me? These last few days?”.

Jared didn’t answer at first. And his silence said more than words ever could.

Your breath caught. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just that small, aching skip in your chest when hope finally hits the wall it’s been pretending isn’t there.

He sighed, the kind of sigh that comes from wanting to lie but knowing you won’t.

“No”, Jared said, honest but gentle. “He hasn’t”.

You nodded slowly, though it made your stomach turn. “Right”.

“He’s not—he’s not okay”, Jared added, shifting slightly so he could look down at you. “But that doesn’t excuse it. I just… I think he’s trying so hard to keep everything together that he’s letting the wrong things fall apart”.

You didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. Your face stayed turned toward the ceiling, but your eyes were glassy again, and Jared could tell you were blinking hard, trying to keep it in. That quiet kind of heartbreak that doesn’t make a scene, just settles into your bones, heavy and unwelcome.

“I shouldn’t care”, you whispered. “But I still do”.

“I know”, he said, softly. “But he should’ve made it easy not to”.

And that was the hardest part, he hadn’t. He’d made it impossible.

-

Meanwhile—across town, in the dim stillness of their apartment—Jensen sat in the dark. No TV. No music. Just the low hum of the refrigerator and the occasional creak of old floorboards.

He sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands like he could squeeze the noise out of his own skull if he pressed hard enough.

He knew where Jared was.

He’d asked because he couldn’t help himself, because part of him needed to hear your name, even if it was mumbled, even if it was soaked in guilt.

Reading scenes, Jared had said. Getting her mind off some fucking douchebag.

Jensen had wanted to argue. Wanted to tell Jared to back off, to stop making it worse. But he hadn’t. Because Jared was right.

It should’ve been him. It should’ve been him sitting beside you right now, bringing the wine, the jokes, the warmth. It should’ve been him brushing your hair back and listening to you talk until you forgot, even just for a second, how much he’d let you down.

But it wasn’t.

He’d told himself every day now, that distance was the cleanest option. That cutting you off now would hurt less than dragging you through his chaos. That you deserved something whole, and he had nothing left to give.

But the silence didn’t bring peace. It brought rot.

And in that silence, every version of you his mind created, every imagined look, every what-if, only made it worse.

He rubbed a hand over his mouth, jaw clenched hard enough to hurt. His eyes burned, but he didn’t blink it away. Just sat there, letting it hollow him out.

You’d probably already moved on. Hell, you should. He told himself that again, just to feel the sting.

But deep down, the worst part wasn’t that you might. It was that you still hadn’t and that Jared was the one keeping you warm while Jensen stayed exactly where he always did. Alone. Because he told himself that was safer.

-

The call sheet had warned you it was coming.

INT. MOTEL ROOM – NIGHT. Dean pulls her in. Kisses her like the world’s ending.

You’d skimmed it when it first came through, heart tightening but brushing it off. It was work. You were professionals. You’d handled worse, colder. But that was before everything. Before Jensen had loved you with his hands and his mouth and his silence.

Now it felt like walking barefoot through the wreckage of something still smoldering.

The last few weeks had been tolerable, at best. You managed to get through scenes, basic ones. Dialogue-heavy, choreographed, no real skin-to-skin contact. A brush of fingers here. A lingering look there. And every time you touched him, every time you faked wanting him for the camera, you felt like a ghost inside your own body.

And Jensen acted like you were air. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. Just hit his marks, said his lines, and made it all look easy. Like you hadn’t once laid tangled in his sheets, wearing nothing but that cherry necklace and a smile you’d only ever given him.

So today was a whole new kind of cruelty.

You stood off to the side while they adjusted lighting, arms folded over your chest, costume zipped halfway up, pretending like your stomach wasn’t twisted in knots.

Jensen stood a few feet away, talking to a PA. Laughing, even. That easy, gravelly laugh that once made you feel like you were home.

You caught yourself staring. Looked away.

When they called you to set, you nodded once, calm on the outside, and took your place.

The director gave the usual rundown, where the camera would be, how long the kiss should hold, when to break for the shot, but it was all static in your ears. White noise. Because Jensen still hadn’t looked at you. Not really. Not like before.

And when the slate clapped and the director called, “Action”, something cold and familiar settled in your chest.

He stepped toward you like Dean. Like nothing had ever happened. Like you weren’t still bleeding from a cut he refused to acknowledge.

His hand curled at your waist. His other slid up the side of your neck. Every movement practiced. Perfect.

Then he kissed you. And it was exactly what it needed to be for the scene, rough, breathless, desperate. But it wasn’t real. And that, somehow, was worse than if he’d kissed you like a stranger. Because he kissed you like someone who’d forgotten. Or was trying damn hard to.

“Cut!”.

The kiss ended with the sharp bark of the director’s voice, but it felt more like a gasp in your chest, the moment snapping in half like it never belonged to you in the first place.

You took a step back. Jensen did too, eyes already elsewhere, his hands dropping away from your waist like you were radioactive.

Wardrobe and makeup swarmed quickly. The usual touch-ups. Adjustments. A mic check. Then came the part you’d been dreading in silence all morning.

“Okay”, the AD called, flipping pages on her clipboard. “Reset for the blanket coverage scene”.

You exhaled slowly, already feeling the weight of it as the intimacy coordinator approached you gently with the fabric patches, pasties, and adhesive, her voice low, respectful, clinical. You’d done this before, of course. But never like this. Never this naked. Never with someone who knew what your skin actually felt like.

You disappeared into the private screen set up by wardrobe, undressing with quiet fingers, sticking the modesty patches in place over your chest and hips. They weren’t perfect coverage, but that was the point. The illusion.

When you stepped out, you were wrapped in a robe, but it barely helped.

They were already prepping the bed, rumpled sheets, low lighting. A motel room set, dressed in tired browns and soft shadows. The camera would catch the suggestion of bodies under the blankets, but what mattered was the tension, the nearness, the breathless pause before everything goes too far.

You climbed under the covers first, careful with the way your limbs moved. The cotton sheets were thin, warm from the set lights, but they didn’t offer much comfort. Especially not now.

A murmur came from behind the monitor, then, “All right, Jensen. Let’s get you in”.

You turned your head slightly, eyes flicking toward the edge of the bed as he stepped back onto set.

He was already stripped down to the black boxers wardrobe had prepped—low-slung on his hips, the band riding that familiar dip of muscle that used to make you forget to breathe. He’d always worn his clothes like armor, but this? This was bare. His torso caught in the soft light, the cut of his waist exposed as he moved with quiet precision.

No one else in the room blinked. Everyone was professional. Focused. But you felt everything.

He met your eyes for a second and then looked away. You couldn’t read it, whatever flickered across his face. But you felt it. Like the air shifted when he dropped the robe and stepped onto the bed.

Carefully, he lowered himself beside you.

Then over you.

The intimacy coordinator’s voice cut through, clear but calm. “Jensen, remember to keep one hand anchored on the bedding. Cue the left hip for the transition on line three”.

He nodded without looking at anyone. “Got it”.

Jensen’s hand braced beside your head, steady, practiced. His chest hovered over yours, not touching, but close enough that you could feel the warmth of him under the thin stretch of air and expectation.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke.

“Gonna make some room for me?”, he murmured, low, almost mechanical. Like the words were muscle memory, like he’d said them a hundred times on camera. But you heard it. The shift. Like it hurt to ask.

You swallowed and nodded, adjusting your legs with care. One thigh lifted, just slightly, the same way the intimacy coordinator had walked you through earlier. But it felt different now, with his weight there, the blanket catching on the curve of your knee as it opened just enough to give him space.

Jensen moved, lowering himself between your legs with a slow, steady slide, the mattress dipping beneath your hips. His thigh brushed against yours. His boxers pressed flush to the modesty patch covering your pelvis, and your breath caught.

Still, he didn’t look at you.

A crew member approached quietly from the side, tugging at the corner of the blanket to reposition it, covering the illusion, making the scene appear real without showing anything.

“Okay?”, Jensen whispered, the word barely audible over the hum of lights and quiet shuffle of the crew around you. It wasn’t part of the script. Just a whisper tucked in the space between takes, meant for you, not the camera.

You didn’t answer right away. Couldn’t. The lump in your throat was too thick. His voice, soft, cautious, threaded with something like guilt, scraped right across the rawest part of you.

“Yeah”, you murmured finally. Just one syllable. Brittle and tight.

Neither of you looked at the other. Not really. Because if your eyes met, the scene would crack. The illusion would fall apart. Or worse, reveal something neither of you were ready to see.

He adjusted his weight slightly—more out of necessity than intimacy—hand steadying itself on the mattress beside your shoulder. You were close. Too close. Close enough to feel every bit of him that had once been yours, and now wasn't. Not really. Not anymore.

Still, the director didn’t call “Action” just yet. He was adjusting a lens, tweaking the camera angle to catch the exact line of shadow across Jensen’s back. And in the silence, beneath the low buzz of set noise, there was only this: The rustle of sheets. The scent of his skin. Your heartbeat hammering in your throat. And the way his breath trembled ever so slightly above your lips, as if his body still remembered you, even if his voice no longer did.

Just as the crew finally backed away and the countdown for the scene loomed, Jensen leaned in, barely shifting. Just enough for his lips to brush the curve of your ear, breath warm and trembling.

And he whispered it. So soft, so quiet, you weren’t even sure you heard it right.

“I still think about how you sounded the first time”.

Your body reacted before your mind could. A slow, helpless squeeze of your thighs around his hips, just a subtle draw in, like your body remembered every inch of him, like it betrayed you on instinct.

Jensen didn’t move. But you felt the ripple of tension roll through him. The tightening of his jaw. The sudden intake of breath against your neck that didn’t belong to his character, only to him.

And still, you didn’t look at each other. Couldn’t.

The camera rolled. The slate clapped. “Action”.

The cameras rolled, and Jensen—no, Dean—settled deeper into the space between your thighs. His weight shifted just slightly, one arm bracing beside your head while the other pulled the blanket higher, shielding just enough.

You felt him breathe against your throat.

His mouth lowered, brushing just beneath your jaw, a slow drag of lips that lingered longer than scripted. The scene called for closeness, for heat. But the way his chest pressed to yours, the way his hand found the side of your waist like muscle memory, that wasn’t just acting.

You moved under him on cue, arching up, a breath catching in your throat right where it should. But the way your body responded wasn’t in the script. It was real.

And then you felt it. The subtle shift. The low press of something unmistakable through the thin layer of fabric between his body and yours.

He stilled. For the briefest moment.

Then kept moving, adjusting his position like it was part of the choreography, but his face told a different story. His jaw was tight. His breath, slightly uneven. And his eyes… they flicked toward yours just once, like he didn’t mean to, like something inside him slipped before he could catch it. But you saw. You both knew.

Your legs, still cradling him loosely, flexed instinctively. Another squeeze. Another shared breath of tension.

“Cut!”.

The word rang out like a breath of mercy or a warning bell.

You stayed still beneath him, heartbeat hammering so hard you could feel it in your fingertips.

From across the soundstage, Kripke’s voice carried. “All right, that was good, but I want it again. Two more angles—overhead and tight close from Jensen’s side”.

A quiet murmur of movement rippled through the crew, camera grips already repositioning gear.

Jensen didn’t move. Didn’t even lift his head.

You felt him exhale, sharp and silent against your collarbone. Then came the smallest shift of his hand on the mattress beside your ribs, like he was trying to ground himself, like he didn’t trust his own body.

“You okay?”, you whispered. It was barely a sound.

But he heard it. His jaw tightened. “Not even close”.

The blanket still covered both of you, heavy with the illusion of intimacy, his body still half-draped over yours. Close enough that you could feel how careful he was trying to be. How hard he was working not to react to the heat between you. To the press of your legs. To the memory of everything he’d tried so hard to bury.

“Don’t look at me like that”.

Your eyes fluttered. “Like what?”.

“Like you still want me”.

You blinked once, your gaze soft but steady. “You’re the one on top of me”.

His mouth twitched, more ache than amusement. “Yeah. That’s the problem”.

The clatter of a lens lock and a muffled “Almost ready!” filtered through the blanket, but the world outside the two of you might as well have been on mute.

Jensen’s hand, fisted in the sheet, loosened. He finally met your eyes, just for a split second. There was nothing empty in his gaze now. No distance, no careful remove. Only heat, confusion, regret, and want, tangled up together.

Then the director’s voice: “Okay, we’re rolling!”.

You expected him to settle back into the choreography. You expected the script. You expected the measured, practiced touch that kept everything just this side of safe.

But what you got was different.

Jensen kissed you, harder this time, mouth finding yours not just with muscle memory but with all the frustration, longing, and ache he’d kept in his chest for weeks. The camera didn’t matter. The blocking didn’t matter. His kiss was deep, messy, desperate, his hand cradling the side of your face, thumb trembling at your cheek.

He pressed into you, hips shifting with unintentional honesty beneath the blanket. The heat of him, the weight, was suddenly real and unmistakable. His body knew you, even if his mind kept trying to forget.

Your moan, quiet, broken, wasn’t in the script. It was too real, too sharp, slipping out from somewhere you couldn’t hide, a shudder that ran through your whole body.

Jensen froze for just a heartbeat. You felt the moment, where you could both pretend this was still acting, or admit it was something neither of you had left behind.

He didn’t stop. He kissed you again, slower this time, lips parted, breath hot against your mouth. The world narrowed to the press of his body, the tangle of your legs, the helpless, aching sound you made that only he heard.

“Cut. That’s it. We’ve got it”.

The set didn’t erupt into applause or chatter like it sometimes did. There was a beat of silence.

Jensen exhaled sharply through his nose, jaw locked as he shifted just enough to the side, subtle, practiced, adjusting himself beneath the blanket before he moved. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough. Enough to keep anyone from noticing the obvious.

Still, he didn’t get up right away.

His arm reached across your body, heavy, shielding, and held the blanket in place over your chest, over the exposed edges of modesty patches and skin and heat that hadn’t cooled yet. You watched him from beneath your lashes, your pulse still a live wire.

Crew members approached. Someone called for robes. Jensen stayed. A second passed. Then a third.

One camera operator drifted too close, maybe to adjust an angle, maybe just on autopilot and Jensen’s voice cracked through the quiet like a whip.

“Turn around”.

The man blinked, startled.

“Now”.

There wasn’t anger in his tone, just steel. Final. The kind that didn’t need a second warning.

The camera guy nodded quickly, spun on his heel. A few others followed suit, giving space.

A moment later, a wardrobe PA stepped in with both robes, yours draped over her arm, Jensen’s in the other. She kept her eyes politely down, handing yours to him first.

He didn’t even think. Just held the blanket firmly over you and slipped the robe around your shoulders himself, fingers grazing your skin in a way that was too careful to be casual. Not now.

“Got it?”m he asked under his breath, not cold, not warm. Just taut.

You nodded, slipping your arms into the sleeves. He only moved once the robe was fully around you, standing up without looking back and tugging his own on in one fluid, practiced motion.

“Thank you, folks”, the AD called. “That’s a wrap for today!”.

And the room began to dissolve around you, crew buzzing, cables dragging, lights dimming.

But Jensen was already walking away. Like he hadn’t just kissed you like he still belonged to you. Like his body hadn’t told you every truth his mouth wouldn’t.

-

That night, your room was quiet, too quiet. The kind of silence that makes your own thoughts louder.

You were curled on your side in bed, the lamp beside you still on, casting a warm spill of light across the ceiling. The script lay forgotten on your nightstand. You hadn’t touched it since coming home. Your fingers had hovered over the page, over and over, but your mind wouldn’t stay still.

It never did anymore. Not since him.

The day’s scenes kept replaying. Flashes of touch, breath, heat. But more than that, the weight of how it all still felt like him. Real. Tangled. Bare.

You blinked at the ceiling, throat tight.

You’d told yourself you were done hoping. That you wouldn’t let him crack you open again. But when your phone buzzed against the nightstand, you didn’t even hesitate. You knew who it was before you looked.

Jensen: You awake?

Your heart kicked once, then twice. You stared at the screen. You didn’t answer immediately. Part of you didn’t trust it. But part of you… always would.

A minute passed. Then another buzz.

Jensen: Can we talk?

The ache in your chest pulsed. Hot. Familiar. You sat up slowly, thumbs hovering above the keyboard.

Jensen: I mean it. I’m outside.

You stared at the screen, rereading the message twice, then once more for good measure, like the words might change. Like maybe you were imagining them, wanting them into existence. But they were real.

Your heart leapt and twisted in the same breath as you threw the blanket off and padded barefoot to the window. You peeked through the blinds.

And there he was. Leaning against the hood of his truck in a hoodie and jeans, hands stuffed deep into his pockets like he didn’t quite know what to do with them. His head was down. Shoulders hunched. But he was there.

In the silence of your room, the world spun too fast and too slow at once.

Another buzz.

Jensen: You don’t have to come down. If you want me to leave, I will. I just… I needed to see you. I needed you to know that.

Your chest ached. Not from pain exactly, but from how hard you were working to hold still, to not feel too much too fast.

You didn’t text back. Didn’t need to. Instead, you reached for the little silver button on the wall just beside your door, the buzzer for the front entry. Your thumb hovered over it for a heartbeat. Then you pressed it. A long, low buzz echoed down the stairwell. You imagined him hearing it from the street—his head lifting, eyes scanning the building like he wasn’t sure if it was really for him. But it was.

You stepped back, heart pounding as the old security door groaned open below. You didn’t go to the door right away. You didn’t fix your hair, or check your face. You just stood there. In your robe. Barefoot. Raw.

You could hear his footsteps on the stairs. One at a time. Steady. When he knocked, it was softer than you expected. You opened it.

Jensen stood there, damp curls clinging to his forehead from the late-night mist, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie, eyes locked on yours. He looked like he hadn’t slept. Or maybe like sleep hadn’t meant anything without you.

“I didn’t know if you’d let me up”, he said, voice low.

You swallowed. “I didn’t either”.

A beat passed. Then you stepped aside. Silently. He walked in and the door clicked shut behind him.

He didn’t move further in. Didn’t take off his shoes. Just stayed close to the door like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to stay at all.

You waited, watching him with your arms loosely crossed, more to keep yourself together than to guard anything.

“I didn’t come to fix things”, Jensen said after a long pause, voice tight and tired. “I came to say I’m sorry”.

You blinked, once. Not in surprise. Just… bracing.

He kept going, looking anywhere but directly at you. “The last couple weeks, the media’s been going insane. Ever since the divorce went public, it’s been all over every feed, every headline. They’re watching everything. Everyone I talk to. Every place I go. My agent called me twice today just because I liked a goddamn photo”.

You nodded slightly, your voice quiet but steady. “I know. I read the articles”.

That made him look at you.

“And the comments”, you added, softer. “I saw it all”.

His expression flickered, guilt, shame, something heavier underneath. You couldn’t quite tell if it was for how the world was treating him… or how he’d treated you in the middle of it.

“People are brutal”, you said simply. “Even when they don’t know half the truth”.

He let out a breath. “They don’t know any of it”.

You just nodded, slow and silent, arms still folded like you were holding something inside that didn’t want to stay there.

Jensen shifted on his feet, then cleared his throat, like the next words were harder than all the ones he’d already forced out. “Anyway… shooting’s over in a few weeks”, he said, voice low, almost rehearsed. “And I just—I didn’t want you to walk away from all this remembering me as the biggest di—”.

You cut him off, your laugh bitter and tired. “As the man who ignored me on my first days, then slowly took over my heart… and my virginity… and then broke my heart and made me hate cherries?”. Your lips twisted into a sharp little smirk that didn’t reach your eyes. “Oh no”, you added, dry and sarcastic. “Of course I won’t”.

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, it was sharp. Stinging. Like the air between you had teeth now.

Jensen looked like he’d been slapped, but he didn’t argue. Didn’t defend himself. Just dropped his gaze, nodding once like he deserved it. Because he did.

“Yeah”, he muttered, voice rough. “I guess I had that coming”.

You didn’t answer. Because there wasn’t anything else to say. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

Jensen’s mouth parted like he wanted to say something, anything, but you didn’t let him.

Your voice was quiet. Firm. A thread pulled too tight to fray anymore. “You should go now”, you whispered.

He blinked, caught off guard by how calm you sounded. Like the damage had already been done and this, this was just clean-up.

He stepped forward slightly, something breaking across his face, a crease in his brow like he needed one more chance to explain, to take the sting out of what he’d already shattered. “(Y/N), I—”.

But you cut him off. Same tone. Same quiet edge.

“Fuck it”.

The words hit the air like glass. His shoulders stiffened, his jaw worked, but he didn’t try again. Because he knew exactly where he’d heard that before. From his own mouth. The night he walked out on you.

Now it was yours.

You stepped back without another word, arms still crossed, eyes not even on him anymore, like turning away was the only way to keep yourself from unraveling all over again.

Jensen stood there a second longer. Just breathing. And then he left. The door shut behind him with a soft click. Nothing dramatic. Nothing loud. But it echoed, anyway.

-

The next few weeks passed like something underwater.

You were there, physically. You showed up. Hit your marks. Delivered your lines. Smiled when people needed you to smile. But everything around you felt a few layers removed. Muted. Like you were watching yourself from outside your own body.

And now… it was the last day.

The final scene had been blocked and rehearsed, the crew moving with the quiet focus that always came at the end of something long and meaningful. There were too many coffee cups half-drained. People hugging tighter than usual. Everyone pretending they weren’t counting down.

It wasn’t clear yet if Supernatural would actually end here. There were whispers. Talks of maybe. Talks of maybe not. Streaming deals. Delayed decisions. But whether or not the show came back for Season 17, you were pretty sure you wouldn’t.

Not because of the character, who you loved in a strange, painful way. Not even because of the show, this odd, twisted family that had taken you in and chewed you up and made you better.

It was him.

And the truth you hadn’t said out loud yet: you couldn’t go through another year pretending it didn’t hurt.

You stood just outside the soundstage, wrapped in your jacket despite the spring heat, watching the crew break down a motel set for the last time. There was a bittersweetness in the air, thick and unspoken. Some people were crying. Others just quietly… avoided each other. Everyone said see you soon like it wasn’t code for maybe never.

Jared passed you on the way to his trailer, gently bumping your shoulder with his as he went. You smiled without looking up. He didn’t say anything, and he didn’t have to. He’d been quietly protective since that night, never asking more than you could give. Always close enough to be steady.

Jensen hadn’t said a word to you all day. Not that you expected him to.

The scene you'd shot earlier was with Dean, yes. But it hadn’t needed to be with Jensen. Not really. He’d looked through you again. Like a colleague. A shadow. You’d kissed him on camera one last time, the way the script demanded, and then walked away before the word cut even finished echoing.

You weren’t sure if he’d noticed. You weren’t sure if it would’ve mattered if he had.

-

The wrap party was already starting to buzz in the background, laughter echoing through the lot, the clink of bottles, the crackle of someone dragging a speaker out of their trailer. People were celebrating the way they always did after finishing something big: like it would never end, and like they were all trying to outrun the moment it would.

They asked if you were coming.

You gave them a smile—a real one, small but warm—and shook your head. “I’ve got a flight to catch. L.A. tonight. Early call Monday”.

A few people groaned playfully, hugging you tight, wishing you luck, asking where to watch your new role. You told them. You thanked them. You meant it. And then you kept moving down the line of crew and cast, hugging them one by one.

Jared hugged you last before him.

He held you tighter than the others. Whispered a quiet, “Text me when you land”. You nodded. Promised you would. Your throat tightened when he didn’t let go right away. Like he knew this wasn’t just goodbye for now. Like he saw what you hadn’t said.

And then it was him.

Jensen stood there, hands in the pockets of his jacket, jaw clenched like he was bracing for something. Like he wasn’t sure if you were going to skip him… or break him.

You stopped in front of him.

The noise of the party faded into the background. For a second, it was just the two of you. Like it always ended up being.

“I heard you’re leaving tonight”, he said, his voice low, unreadable.

“Yeah”. You didn’t look away. “New job”.

He gave a slow nod. “Of course”.

You waited a second longer. Then stepped forward and hugged him. Brief. Polite. Almost professional.

But his hand still flattened against your back like it used to. His nose still barely brushed your hair. And for the smallest, sharpest moment, you felt the breath catch in his chest.

You felt his hand press lightly between your shoulder blades, the weight of that one simple contact heavier than anything he could’ve said.

But then he did say something.

“See you in May”, Jensen whispered.

It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t even hope. Just a placeholder, like he was trying to give himself more time he’d already wasted.

You nodded once.

Then, before you pulled back, before you let the moment dissolve, you reached into the pocket of your coat.

You didn’t look at him when you placed it in his hand, fingers curling his closed with a soft finality.

His brows drew in slightly, confused, until his thumb brushed the smooth bead of red glass.

The cherry necklace.

You didn’t wait for him to speak. You leaned in, your voice so low it was practically a breath against his throat.

“Put it next to my virginity. Or my heart. Or my fucking self-respect”. You pulled back. Your eyes met his one last time. “You choose”.

And then you turned. No pause. No second look. Just the steady rhythm of your boots against pavement as you crossed the lot and stepped out into the night, into the next thing, the next you.

Behind you, the party kept going.

And somewhere in Jensen’s hand, the cherry necklace curled cold and small in his palm, quiet and cruel in its honesty. It was the only thing of you he had left.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Every now and then Dean would glance up to see you while you were working. He’d smile when he heard your voice as you greeted a customer or joked around with your work friends. If someone told him a year ago he’d spend most weekdays sitting in a burger joint just to see the girl he loved he would have rolled his eyes. Yet, there he was. 

What you didn’t even know was that he was studying for his damn GED. You’d urged him to at least look into it, telling him how smart he was, and how maybe one day he’d want to go to school- he’d need that stupid piece of paper. You believing in him gave him the push. 

Today, however, he was looking at Prince Eric costumes. He could tell how much you’d love to go as Ariel, and wanted to make that happen. He’d need to actually do some work to be able to order it, though. Which would likely mean less time with you. 

Before he knew it, you were making your way towards him with your bag over your shoulder. “Ready?” You smiled. 

“Sure am, sweetheart.” He closed his laptop and slid out of the booth. “I, uh, had a question.” His voice gave away his nerves. 

You tilted your head slightly. “Do you have a date and need me to call my mom to come get me?” You chuckled. 

He furrowed his brows at that. “What? No. I’m your ride.” Like he’d have a date. “What if I was your Prince Eric?” Licking his lips, he watched the emotions play across your face. First there was confusion, then contemplation, then…excitement? Slowly, you full on grinned at him. 

“Really? Like, as friends or? So we’re on the same page.” You added quickly, not wanting to get your hopes up. Your heart was hammering in your chest. You’d thought Dean was cute the first time you saw him as an awkward freshman, when he was a sophomore. Then you’d found out what a good guy he was and had a full blown crush on him.

Dean swallowed at that. “Hopefully as a date?” His voice was soft, worried he’d just ruined the friendship that he’d come to care so much for. When your eyes lit up he knew he chose the right answer. “I’m gonna have to do some odd jobs here and there to buy my outfit, so I might have to miss some of our walks.” 

You looped your arm with his and led him out the door. “First of all, you’re staying when you drop me off. Mom wanted to invite you to dinner as a thanks for walking me to work and getting me home safe. She’s making lasagna.” You giggled when he groaned (in a good way, clearly excited for it). “ Second of all, my dad had to fire one of his workers. We can ask him over dinner if you can be a temp while he looks for a new guy?” 

“Yeah, we can do that. He works construction, right?” He opened the car door for you as you nodded. “Well, don’t they usually get of about 5? I can always just work for him so he doesn’t have to hire someone, and I can still drive you home. I mean the earliest you get out is 7. I can do that easy.” 

That logic did make sense to you. You waited to say something until he was in the car with you. “That would probably work out really well. And I’ll still provide cheeseburgers." 

“Deal.” 

Four years later Dean was standing at the end of the isle while your two your old daughter made her way towards him (ignoring her job of spreading the flowers, but everyone thought she was the cutest). He chuckled as she waved at him and yelled ‘hi, Daddy!’ before your mother scooped her up to hold her. Dean not only still worked for your father, but they were currently working on making him part owner. Your father knew that he wouldn’t want to do this forever and saw Dean as the best man to take over.

The large church doors opened and there you were with your father. He teared up as he saw you were wearing a white version of Ariel’s pink dress you wore to that homecoming. Taking a deep breath, he was so thankful he got the guts to ask to be your Prince Eric. 

The next few days were hard. Not in any loud or dramatic way, but in that quiet, creeping way that starts in your chest and settles behind your ribs.

Jensen was stressed. You could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the way he rubbed the back of his neck more than usual, the clipped tone he used when speaking with anyone on set who even hinted at needing something from him.

So you did the one thing you’d learned was most helpful in moments like this.

You gave him space. And you didn’t take it personally. Even when it hurt.

It was like something inside him had closed off again, not completely, but just enough to lock you out of the parts he wasn’t ready to share. He wasn’t cold. He wasn’t cruel. He just wasn’t… available. Not the way he had been.

At first, you tried to keep things light. A few texts. Memes. One quiet Thinking about you sent late one night with no expectation attached.

He responded, sometimes. But it was always brief. Sometimes just a heart. A thumbs-up. Once, a Sorry, crazy day. Talk soon.

But soon turned into seven days.

Seven full days of seeing him only on set, passing each other in the makeup trailer, blocking out scenes like professionals, sharing the screen like nothing had shifted. And every time you tried to catch his eye across the tent during lunch or slip into a spare trailer for a minute alone, he was already on the phone. Always with the same tone, clipped and tired, words like custody, settlement, timeline floating to your ears before he turned away to keep them private.

You weren’t mad. But God, you were lonely.

You told yourself not to spiral. You told yourself this wasn’t about you. And in truth, you knew it wasn’t. But the silence started to sting anyway.

Jared noticed, of course. Jared always noticed. He didn’t say anything outright, but he sat beside you more often during breaks, and one afternoon, handed you a second cup of coffee without asking, just quietly said, “Extra strong today” and tapped his knuckles lightly against your knee.

-

Today was your day off. The rare kind that used to feel like a gift, a deep breath between the chaos of production. A chance to rest, to reset.

But today, the silence felt louder than it ever had.

Jensen had gone home for the weekend. To Danneel and the kids. You hadn’t heard it from him. No text, no “Hey, I’m taking off for a few days”, no "I’ll miss you", no anything.

You found out from Jared. In passing. As if it were something obvious.

“He just needed to take care of some things, y’know?”, Jared had said gently, careful not to look you too long in the eyes.

You nodded then. Smiled. Even said, “Of course, totally”. Like it didn’t cut a little deeper than you wanted to admit. Like you hadn’t been quietly waiting for a message that never came.

Now, your phone lay quiet beside you on the couch, untouched. A cruel kind of still.

You were still in your pajamas, a half-eaten slice of toast on your plate, the TV playing something you weren’t watching.

And that creeping thought, the one you’d been pushing down for days, was starting to take shape.

Maybe this is it. Maybe he isn’t your person. Maybe he can’t be.

Not because you weren’t good enough. Not because you didn’t love him enough. But because maybe loving him wasn’t enough.

His life was complicated. Tangled. Full of unfinished chapters and emotional landmines. And you’d thought, hoped, you could be a soft place for him to land. A steadying force. A light.

But lately, it felt like you were just another thing he had to manage. Another thing to keep afloat.

And the thought settled low in your stomach, cold and bitter: What if he needs space because it’s easier to be without you right now?

You curled up tighter on the couch, pulling the throw blanket around your shoulders. You didn’t cry, there was nothing dramatic about it. Just that quiet ache of uncertainty spreading beneath your skin.

You didn’t want to resent him. You didn’t want to walk away. But you were starting to understand something no one prepares you for: Sometimes, love isn’t the loud thing. It’s not the night on the couch or the cherry-print laughter. Sometimes love is silent. Missing. Absent. And you're left wondering if it’s still yours.

You picked up your phone once, just held it, thumb hovering over his name. But you didn’t text. Because today, for the first time since this whole thing began, you weren’t sure he’d text back. And worse, you weren’t sure you could survive it if he didn’t.

-

Sunday night came quietly. No call. No message. No him.

By the time the sun went down, you’d accepted it. Not easily, not cleanly, but with that exhausted sort of numbness that settles in after disappointment stops surprising you. You’d taken a long shower, crawled into bed early, and told yourself—again—that this didn’t mean anything definitive. That people go through things. That he just needed space.

And maybe that was true. But it didn’t make the silence hurt less.

You drifted off with your phone facedown on the nightstand, the apartment dark and still.

Until, there was a knock. The knock wasn’t polite. It was urgent. Unapologetic. A little too hard. The kind of knock that demanded attention, even as it made your heart leap into your throat.

You shot upright in bed, chest thudding. Another knock followed, faster now.

“Shit”, you whispered, scrambling to your feet and crossing to the door barefoot, pulse racing.

You didn’t need to look through the peephole. You already knew. You opened the door and there he was.

Disheveled, flushed. His Henley wrinkled, hair a mess, one hand braced on the frame like he needed it to stand. His eyes met yours, and they were glassy, too bright. He’d been drinking. Not wasted, but not sober either. That raw, unraveling edge hung around him like static.

You crossed your arms over your chest instinctively, the thin cotton of your sleep shirt doing little to hide the way your body tightened at the sight of him, half from the chill of the hallway air, half from the sudden crash of emotions rising in your throat.

He stood there, blinking slowly, still braced against your doorframe like he wasn’t sure if the floor would hold steady under him. “Hi”, he said, a crooked little grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was sheepish, tired and cracked at the edges.

You didn’t smile back. Just stood there, silent, letting the weight of the last few days press down between you both. Letting him feel what it meant to leave someone waiting in the dark, wondering.

His eyes dropped briefly to your bare legs, then flicked away fast, like he didn’t think he had the right to look. Not tonight. “Can I come in?”, he asked softly, the grin already gone. “Just… talk”.

Your jaw tensed. “Now you want to talk?”.

He winced. “I deserve that”.

“Yeah”, you said, your voice quiet. “You do”.

For a beat, neither of you moved. The hallway buzzed faintly with the hum of someone’s late-night TV. The world kept turning, oblivious.

You stepped aside. Not because he’d earned it yet. But because part of you still hoped he would.

Jensen stepped in, slow and cautious, like he knew what he’d done, like he knew this wasn’t just a missed call kind of mistake.

You shut the door behind him, crossing your arms again as he turned to face you in the low lamplight of your apartment. His gaze searched your face like he didn’t know where to start. And maybe he didn’t.

Jensen shifted awkwardly in the middle of your living room, rubbing the back of his neck. The alcohol on his breath wasn’t overwhelming, but it was there, just enough to fray his edges.

He tried, stupidly, to lighten the tension. “So…”, he said, stepping closer with a forced smirk, “if I had to guess, I’d say your phone wasn’t the only thing that missed me this week”. He tilted his head slightly, like it was a harmless joke, something to tease the mood off its ledge. “Bet your pussy was mad as hell, too”.

You stared at him. Blank. Unmoving.

It landed like a stone on ice, shattering whatever thin ground he thought he might still be standing on.

He blinked. “What?”.

You let out a short breath through your nose, not quite a laugh. Not even close. “Wow. That’s what you think this is?”.

“No, I just—”. He hesitated, visibly scrambling. “I thought maybe… I don’t know. We could laugh for a second. You’re so… mad”.

“I’m tired, Jensen”, you cut in, your voice low. Even. Exhausted. “I waited for you. For over a week. And then you just disappeared. You didn’t call. You didn’t say where you were going. I found out you left from Jared”.

“I didn’t mean to shut you out”, he said, frowning now, some of the haze lifting from his expression. “It wasn’t about you. I just had so much going on and—”.

“And you didn’t tell me”, you snapped, more sharply than you meant to, but not sorry for it. “That’s the part you’re not getting. You didn’t trust me enough to say, ‘Hey, I need a couple days to deal with my life’. You just disappeared. Like I was some… some background character in your world”.

His jaw worked, and he looked down.

“You’re mad because I didn’t say the right thing”, he said quietly. “Because I didn’t define us the right way”.

You shook your head. “I’m upset because I’m not just a hookup, Jensen. Not to me. And maybe we never said it out loud, maybe we didn’t slap a label on this… but you made me feel like I mattered. Like I was something solid in your life. And then the second it got hard, I wasn’t even a text”.

He exhaled hard, raking a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like that”.

“But you did”.

Jensen’s mouth opened, and for a second, you hoped he was about to say something real. Something that met the moment. But instead:

“You’re overreacting right now”.

The words were quiet. Defensive. Not cruel, but careless in a way that hurt even worse.

You blinked, your face still, the silence around those four words louder than anything he’d said all night. “Excuse me?”.

He looked at you, frustrated, still trying to explain his side, still missing the point. “I didn’t cheat on you or some shit. I didn’t lie to you. I just needed space. I get that I handled it wrong, but this—”, he gestured vaguely between you, “—this feels like way more than what happened”.

You stared at him for a long beat, that tired, hollow ache behind your ribs turning into something sharper.

“No", you said, your voice cool now. “It’s exactly about what happened. You think I’m overreacting because I expected basic respect? Because I wanted you to talk to me, not vanish like I was nothing?”.

He looked like he wanted to answer, but didn’t.

You stepped back a little, just enough to give yourself room to breathe, but held his gaze for another long second. Something fractured in the way he stood there, tired and tangled in his own mess, but still not fully grasping what he’d done.

Then you exhaled slowly, something shifting in your expression. Not rage. Not even disappointment anymore. Just enough clarity to know what you needed.

“You know what, Jensen?”, you said, voice even. “Go get some sleep”.

His brow furrowed.

“I won’t deal with you like this. Not tonight”.

You turned, not dramatically, just firmly. You’d given him space. Now you were giving it to yourself.

But before you could take a full step, his hand came to your hip. Gentle, not forceful. Just enough to stop you.

“C’mon, baby”, he murmured behind you, voice thick and low. “You know me… I’m sorry, okay?”.

You stilled. His fingers stayed light against you, not pulling, just… hoping. And his voice cracked just slightly on the last word, real, maybe for the first time since he walked through your door.

You stayed still for a beat longer, heart thudding in that slow, painful way. Because you did know him. That was the problem.

You closed your eyes. “I do know you”, you said quietly. “But that doesn’t mean I’m okay with being treated like I don’t matter”.

Silence. Then, softer: “Let go”.

Jensen hesitated… then let his hand fall away.

You didn’t look back as you walked to your bedroom. You didn’t slam the door. You just closed it.

Jensen stood there for a long moment, staring at your closed door like he didn’t quite believe this was how it was ending tonight.

Then he groaned. Loud, frustrated, exhausted.

He ran both hands down his face and muttered to the empty room, “Geez. The one thing in my life that wasn’t supposed to be fucking drama”. His words hit the walls and fell flat, unanswered.

He paced once, just one angry lap through your living room, fists clenched like he didn’t know whether to shout or collapse. Then he stopped, looked toward your bedroom door again, and shook his head.

“Fuck this”, he said. Then he left.

The door didn’t slam. He didn’t look back. He just walked out into the night, letting it close quietly behind him like it hadn’t just carried all of him out with it.

And of course you heard it.

-

The next day on set was a blur of motion and make-believe. Costume. Makeup. Camera rolls. Take two. And Jensen.

Jensen, who barely looked at you. Who hit his marks. Said his lines. Gave the camera everything, except you. He didn’t meet your eyes unless the scene called for it. Didn’t speak between takes. Didn’t ask if you’d slept. Didn’t ask anything.

And you waited. You waited through blocking. Through coffee breaks. Through the quiet beat of your heart hoping he’d pull you aside, even just to say something real.

But he didn’t. He acted like you were air. A fixture. Something he had to move around but not through. And it hurt in a way that didn’t burn, it just hollowed. Like someone had scooped you out from the inside.

By noon, you were halfway through your second water bottle and avoiding craft services altogether when Jared found you near the back of the lot, sitting on a step with your script in your lap, pretending to read.

He sat next to you without asking. His silence said he already knew something was wrong. Then: “He’s not talking”, Jared said. “Not to me. Not to anyone. Won’t even look at his damn phone”.

You didn’t look at him, just nodded once.

“So… what happened?”.

You hesitated. But you trusted Jared. And there was something about the raw concern in his voice that made you realize you didn’t want to carry the weight of it alone anymore.

You exhaled, eyes on the concrete. “He showed up at my apartment late last night. Drunk. Tried to joke his way past the fact that he’d ignored me all week”.

Jared swore softly under his breath.

“He said I was overreacting. That I was making something big out of nothing”, you continued, voice flat now, worn thin. “And when I told him I couldn’t deal with him like that… he said, ‘Fuck this”.

Jared turned to look at you, his expression tight. “He left?”.

You nodded. “Didn’t fight. Didn’t try to stay. Just walked out”.

“Shit”.

You laughed once, bitter and quiet. “We weren’t even officially together, Jared. But somehow, it still felt like he broke up with me”.

Jared was quiet for a long moment, then said, “Yeah. Because he did”.

And hearing someone else say it, out loud, hit deeper than you expected. Final. Real.

You swallowed hard, the bitterness softening into something quieter, like grief in slow motion.

Jared sat with it, elbows resting on his knees, watching the gravel beneath his boots for a second like it might offer him better words than the ones he was holding. Then, gently, “That’s… typical Jensen”.

You looked at him.

He sighed. “When he gets overwhelmed—when life starts closing in—he shuts down. He ghosts people, even the ones he loves. Not because he doesn’t care. But because he doesn’t know how to be when everything’s messy”.

You nodded slowly, but the sting didn’t leave your throat.

“I was just trying to be there for him”, you murmured. “Give him space when he needed it, hold the line when he didn’t. And yeah, maybe I did get too emotional when he finally showed up. Maybe I was too tired. Maybe I should’ve handled it differently”.

“You think you overreacted?”, Jared asked, turning to face you.

You hesitated.

He shook his head, firm and steady. “No. Definitely not”.

Your eyes stung. That quiet sort of pain that doesn't demand to be seen, but wants to be understood. “I didn’t ask for anything crazy”, you said, softer now. “Just not to be invisible”.

Jared exhaled through his nose, leaning back against the steps beside you. “That’s not crazy. That’s basic. Jensen's the one who blew it. And he knows it”.

You looked over at him. “Does he?”.

“He hasn’t said it out loud”, Jared admitted. “But the way he’s acting today? The silence, the way he won’t talk to anyone—not even to me? That’s guilt. That’s Jensen when he knows he fucked up and doesn’t know how to fix it”.

You nodded, but your jaw tightened. “I don’t want to be the next thing he doesn’t know how to deal with”, you said.

Jared gave a sad little smile, nudging your shoulder with his. “You never were. You were the one thing he didn’t think he could lose. That’s what’s killing him”.

-

When the day finally wrapped, the sun was already sinking low behind the trailers, casting long shadows across the gravel lot. The bustle of crew wrapping cables, slamming cases, and calling goodbyes faded into the kind of quiet that made your pulse louder in your ears.

You waited outside Jensen’s trailer, heart steady but heavy, the ache of uncertainty rooting your feet in place.

You didn’t want a fight. You just wanted honesty. Clarity. Something other than silence.

When he finally appeared, coming around the corner with his shoulders tense, you straightened. He saw you immediately, but didn’t stop walking. Didn’t blink. Just kept heading for the steps like you weren’t there.

“Jensen—”, you started.

But he cut you off.

“I don’t have the nerves for this right now”, he muttered, brushing past you like your presence was a problem he didn’t have time to solve.

It hit like a slap made of ice, small, sharp, fast. You turned to face him, stunned more than hurt. “You don’t even know what I was going to say”.

He paused at the top step, his back to you, keys clenched in his hand. His shoulders rose and fell with a slow, deep breath, but he didn’t turn around.

“I don’t need to know”, he said, voice flat. “I just… can’t, okay?”.

The door creaked open. That was it. No apology. No explanation. Just walls. Again.

“Right”, you said quietly, more to yourself than to him.

And then the door shut behind him.

-

The water had long since run hot, then cold, then back again. Jensen stood under it anyway. Head bowed. Shoulders hunched. Palms pressed to the tile like it could hold more weight than he could. Steam curled around him, a temporary silence in a world that had turned far too loud the moment he saw you waiting outside his trailer.

He hadn’t meant to be cruel. Not really. But something about your presence had struck a nerve he’d spent all week trying to deaden. And when you opened your mouth, when your voice called his name like it still had the right to, he’d panicked. Closed the door. Again.

Because if he let you speak, he might’ve heard something he wasn’t ready to deal with. But deep down, Jensen knew: whatever line he thought he was holding had already broken.

An hour later, hair still damp, T-shirt sticking to his skin, he moved quietly through the apartment toward his room, hoping, stupidly, that Jared would let it go.

He should’ve known better. Jared was already leaning in the doorway to his own room, arms crossed, face unreadable in the dim hallway light. Jensen didn’t stop.

“You know I’m not gonna drop it”, Jared said calmly.

Jensen sighed, running a hand through his hair as he paused at his door. “Then make it quick”.

Jared blinked once. “You’re not sleeping until you say it out loud, man”.

Jensen’s jaw tightened. His hand rested on the doorknob, unmoving. “Say what?”.

“What the hell you’re doing”, Jared said. “With her. Or without her. Because whatever this is, it’s messing you up—and it’s starting to look like you don’t even care”.

“I do care”, Jensen snapped, finally turning around. “That’s the problem”.

“Then why are you treating her like she’s the enemy?”.

Jensen didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

So Jared did. “You love her. Or you’re damn close. And instead of dealing with that, you’re running. From her. From yourself. From the fact that for the first time in years, someone actually saw you—and it scared the shit out of you”.

Silence stretched long and sharp.

Jensen exhaled, long, heavy, like it had been trapped in his chest for days. His shoulders sagged under the weight of everything he hadn’t said, and for once, there was no fire in his voice when he finally spoke. “I can’t have more drama, man”, he muttered, not even looking at Jared. “I can’t”.

Jared didn’t move, didn’t speak, just listened.

Jensen kept going, voice rough. “These last few days, it’s been nonstop. Calls with my lawyer, my manager. Damage control, finances, press strategy… custody timelines, man. All of it. Every time I turn around, someone’s telling me what I should be doing, who I need to answer to. It’s constant”.

He leaned his back against the wall beside his door, eyes shut. “And I kept thinking—she’ll be the quiet in the noise. She’ll be the place I can breathe”.

A pause.

“But then she starts coming at me about not being there, about not talking, about what I didn’t say. And I get it. I do. But I just… I thought this would be easy. I needed it to be easy”. He looked at Jared now, something raw in his eyes. “But it’s not. Clearly it’s not”.

Jared scoffed, loud and sharp, a sound full of disbelief more than anger. He shook his head, taking a step closer, arms folded tight across his chest. “So you just shut it off?”, he asked, voice laced with that hard-earned blend of honesty and brotherly bite. “Before it even had a chance to be something? That’s your move?”.

Jensen’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything.

“She didn’t want drama, man”, Jared continued, firmer now. “She wasn’t asking for fireworks and ultimatums. She wanted you to talk to her. Like a grown-ass man. Like someone who actually gives a shit”.

“I do”, Jensen said under his breath.

“Then act like it”.

The silence between them stretched, thick and tense.

Jared ran a hand through his hair, exhaling. “You think you’re the only one going through it? You think she hasn’t had to figure out how to deal with you balancing lawyers and court dates and a divorce that´ll be all over the damn industry?”.

Jensen flinched at that, but Jared didn’t back off.

“She gave you space. She didn’t make demands. She let you be—until you started shutting her out like she was just some extra in your life instead of the girl you couldn’t keep your hands or your heart off of three weeks ago”.

Jensen’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his voice low and ragged when he finally spoke. “She’s too young, Jared. She’s got her whole life ahead of her, and I’m—”. He cut himself off, jaw tight. “She wants things from me I can’t give right now. Stability. Time. A clean slate. I don’t have any of that”. He let out a breath that sounded more like a surrender. “It’s better if this stops before it goes any deeper”.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Jared let out a bitter laugh. “Wow”.

Jensen turned to look at him, just in time to catch the fury tightening Jared’s features.

“Real convenient timing”, Jared said, voice low and sharp. “You figure all that out now? After you’ve slept with her? After you’ve pulled her into your mess, made her think she mattered, made her trust you with something she didn’t even know how to trust someone with yet—and then you decide it’s too complicated?”.

Jensen flinched.

Jared didn’t care. He was in it now. “You’re not some scared college kid, man. You’re not a frat boy who panicked after getting laid and ghosted the next morning. You’re a grow ass man. So act like it”.

Jensen leaned back against the wall, dragging a hand down his face. His voice, when it came, was rough and too honest. “I didn’t want all of that”, he said. “I didn’t ask for it. I didn’t go looking for her”.

Jared’s jaw clenched, but he waited.

“I tried to shut it down before it started”, Jensen went on, his voice quieter now. “Tried to keep it surface. Keep it easy. But she… she wasn’t surface”. He swallowed hard, staring at the floor like it might offer an answer. “Every time I got close, I told myself to pull back. That I couldn’t do this. That it wasn’t smart. That I couldn’t give her what she needs. But I kept going anyway”.

Jared’s voice was sharp now, but quieter too. “Because you wanted her”.

“Yeah”, Jensen said, broken and bare. “Because I fucking wanted her”.

“And now that it got real, you’re bailing?”.

Jensen rubbed his face again, like he could wipe away the truth clinging to it. His shoulders were rigid, the kind of tension that didn’t come from one bad night, it came from months of pressure building behind his ribs.

Jared stepped forward, arms folded. “Where the hell is this all coming from now?”.

Silence. Jensen didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

But Jared knew that look. He’d seen it after bad meetings, after network calls, after PR firestorms.

“This isn’t just about her, is it?”, Jared said, voice low and even now. “This is someone in your ear”.

Still, nothing.

“Your manager?”, Jared pushed. “Publicist? They finally say the word ‘optics’ and you fold?”.

Jensen’s jaw twitched. That was all the answer Jared needed.

“Jesus”, he muttered, dragging a hand down his own face. “What’d they say?”.

Jensen finally looked at him. Tired. Gutted. But clearer now. “They told me I needed to stay clean. Stay solo. Even after the papers are signed. No public dates. No whispers. Especially not when the season drops”. He swallowed. “Said if I’m seen with someone new—especially someone younger—while this is still fresh, it could tank everything. Audience trust. Media spin. Branding. You name it”.

Jared scoffed. “So what, she’s a liability now?”.

“No”, Jensen snapped, sharper than he meant. Then quieter, “No. She’s… everything. That’s the problem. She’s too real to hide. And if I can’t give her all of it, I’m just hurting her every day I pretend”.

Jared stared at him. “So your answer is to hurt her once, really bad, and walk away?”.

“I don’t see a version of this where I don’t ruin her eventually”, Jensen said, voice raw. “At least this way, she gets to hate me and move on”.

Jared shook his head. “Or she carries it. For years. Because you convinced her she mattered—then made her feel like she didn’t”.

Silence hung again, heavier this time.

“You want to do the right thing?”, Jared said finally. “Then stop making it about you. Stop making it about fear and press and the what-ifs. Sit with her. Tell her the truth. Let her choose if she wants the mess. That’s love, man. Not hiding it. Not throwing it away”.

Jensen’s jaw clenched. His eyes had that shuttered look again, the one he wore when he’d already made up his mind, even if it was killing him.

“No”, he said finally. Quiet. Final. “I won’t”.

Then, without another word, he turned and disappeared into his room. The door didn’t slam, but it might as well have.

Jared stood there alone in the hallway, staring at the closed door like it had personally let him down. His chest rose with a long, disappointed breath.

“Coward”, he muttered under his breath, before walking away.

In the silence that followed, the apartment felt colder. Stiller.

-

The next day passed like the one before it. Cold. Mechanical. Quiet.

You moved through your scenes like muscle memory, like someone playing a version of themselves who didn’t care. And maybe that was true. Maybe that’s what you were trying to become, someone who didn’t care that Jensen hadn’t looked at you. That he still hadn’t said a word. That you were starting to feel more invisible than if he’d just told you he hated you.

By lunch, your stomach was tight with something closer to grief than hunger. You didn’t even head to the tent with the others. You waited, pacing near the hallway that led to the trailers. And when you spotted him, finally, coming out of the bathroom alone, you stepped forward before you could stop yourself.

“Jensen—”.

He paused. Shoulders tense. Expression unreadable.

You took a breath. Forced the words out, low and careful and a little too desperate. “Can we just talk?”.

He didn’t answer right away. His jaw worked, teeth grinding behind it. And something in his eyes, briefly, flickered. Like he hated hearing your voice like that. Like part of him wanted to say yes. But he’d made his decision.

“Please”, you added, softer now. “I—I’m not trying to fight. I just want to understand. I just want—”.

His eyes met yours for the briefest moment, just long enough for you to see it. The war behind them. The regret. The ache. The part of him screaming not to say it.

But then his expression shut down. Like someone flipping a switch. And when he spoke, it wasn’t him, it was the version of himself he’d spent years perfecting. The one that didn’t let people in. The one that knew how to sever a connection clean.

“You’re not the problem, okay?”, he said, voice low, clipped. “But you need to stop making something out of this that it wasn’t”.

You blinked, breath catching. “Wasn’t it?”.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t soften.

“It was what it was. And now it’s done. I don´t need anything complicated right now”.

Your throat tightened so fast it felt like it might close. The hallway blurred a little at the edges, your vision narrowing not from tears, but from the weight of hearing something that your body didn’t quite know how to carry.

He stepped past you, again. No goodbye. No final word. Just the sound of his boots on gravel fading down the corridor.

And that was it.

You didn’t cry. Not really. Not on set.

You didn’t have any more scenes with Jensen that day, thank God. You didn’t think you could’ve gotten through another take with his voice that close, his eyes that distant, pretending like the last months hadn’t happened. Like he hadn’t learned your body like a secret. Like you hadn’t laid your trust bare beneath his hands.

But even without him next to you, the damage lingered. It rippled. Especially with Jared and Misha. They felt it instantly. Jared more than anyone. The way you barely spoke during blocking. The way your lines came out hollow, like the words weren’t really yours anymore. The way you flinched every time someone said Jensen’s name like it wasn’t already stamped across every aching inch of your ribs.

At one point, Misha cracked a joke between takes—some dumb, weird thing about demon babies and improv bloopers—and you didn’t even smile. You just gave him a tight nod, eyes already drifting toward the far end of the lot where Jensen’s trailer sat, door shut like a sealed vault.

Misha’s brows pulled together. “You okay?”.

You opened your mouth. Closed it again. Then lied. “I’m just tired”.

He didn’t believe you. Neither did Jared, who watched you for the rest of the day like he wanted to fix something but didn’t know where the cracks started.

They tried to make up for it—light teasing, little jokes, coffee runs—but everything felt… off. Like everyone was pretending the temperature hadn’t dropped. Like no one wanted to admit the air between you all had shifted.

By wrap, the crew was quieter than usual. And so were you. Because the truth was: Jensen didn’t just shut the door on what the two of you were becoming. He locked something in you down, too.

You sat on the small bench in your trailer, half-dressed, fingers absently running along the chain of the cherry necklace Jensen had given you.

It felt colder than it used to. Lighter, like it had lost something.

You didn’t put it back on. You just stared at it in your palm for a while, the tiny enamel cherries catching the light like they still held meaning. Like they weren’t part of something unraveling now.

Your eyes stung. You hated it. You hated the fact that someone like him—someone you had let in, piece by piece, night by night—could now walk past you like you were a footnote. Like none of it had ever landed.

Was he really that good of an actor?

You'd watched him disappear into roles for years. You knew what he could do with a script. With a glance. A smile. A slow build of tension across a room.

But the way he held you? The way he touched you like he was memorizing everything? The way he looked at you when you weren’t even talking, like you were the only steady thing in his orbit?

None of that felt like performance. And yet—here you were.

A week of silence. A drunken apology that never landed. A cold, final line outside a set bathroom that felt like the end of something that hadn’t even gotten the chance to breathe.

He hadn’t promised you the world. He hadn’t whispered forever into your skin.

But he’d never once made it feel like you were just something he could walk away from. And definitely never like you were just sex.

And yet… that’s exactly what it felt like now.

You clenched the necklace in your fist until the edges dug into your skin, jaw tight, throat thick. If it had all been fake, then he was better at pretending than you’d ever imagined.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Dean Winchester Tag List (Part 1):

@luci-in-trenchcoats @waynes-multiverse @lamentationsofalonelypotato @chevroletdean @deans-spinster-witch

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@siampie @masked-lost-girl @suckitands33 @cheynovak @spnaquakindgdom

@mimaria420 @megara0224 @globetrotter28 @illicithallways @castielscaplan

That night, Jensen kept his promise.

There was no music, no candles, no pretense. Just two takeout containers, a bottle of red wine you both pretended to understand, and his living room, quiet, dimly lit, intimate in the kind of way that had nothing to do with lighting and everything to do with how easy it felt to finally just be.

You talked. About everything.

You told him about the weird childhood dream you had of becoming a wildlife vet, how you still sometimes Googled animal rescue jobs at 2 a.m. when you couldn’t sleep.

You swapped stories. Insecurities. Old hurts. Soft, stupid hopes.

At some point you were both curled up at opposite ends of the couch, your feet in his lap, his hand absently circling your ankle. The wine was half gone, and your cheeks were flushed, not just from the alcohol, but from everything that hung between the silences.

You stretched, just a little, the hem of your oversized hoodie riding up as you flexed your toes in his lap. The wine had your limbs loose, your thoughts even looser, and the quiet safety of the room made you bold.

“I wore the cherry underwear tonight”, you said casually, eyes flicking toward him. “Figured it’d keep your no-naked-distractions rule nice and intact”.

Jensen’s hand froze against your ankle.

You grinned. “Y’know, my least sexy pair. Cartoon pits and all. Practically a chastity belt”.

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink at first.

Instead, he inhaled—sharp—like your words had knocked the wind out of him. Then his jaw ticked as he shifted slightly, adjusting how he sat with the least casual movement you’d ever seen from him. One hand subtly moved to the seam of his jeans, like he could pass off the obvious discomfort as a repositioning of his glass, or some couch slouch correction.

You blinked, then slowly narrowed your eyes. “Oh my… Jensen Ackles!”:

Jensen coughed, avoiding your gaze entirely. “What?”.

“You really like the cherry ones”.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about”, he said, suddenly very interested in the label on the wine bottle.

“Oh, wow”. You sat up straighter, heart stuttering with shock and amusement. “I wore them because I thought they were the most unsexy thing I own”.

“They’re not”, he said quickly, then winced. “I mean—shit”.

You laughed, light, breathless, a little stunned at the whole ridiculous truth of it. “Why those?”, you asked, eyebrows raised, the grin spreading across your face despite the heat blooming in your cheeks. “Seriously, I have so many hot sets. Like actual, grown-woman, lacey, matching lingerie. Black, red, even that ridiculous emerald one with the garters I’ve never worn”.

Jensen dragged a hand down his face, as if that would stop the images you were clearly feeding him. “Geez, you’re not helping”.

You tilted your head, amused and a little incredulous. “And those are the ones that did it for you? The cheap cherry-print cotton ones I got in a three-pack?”.

He groaned, low and guttural, slouching further back into the couch as if he could sink into it and disappear. “Yes. Shit, yes. They’re innocent and accidental and completely you. And the second I caught a glimpse of them in the costume trailer, it was like my brain short-circuited”.

Your jaw dropped, but your laugh followed immediately after. “You’ve been mentally spiraling over my $6 underwear for weeks?”.

He lifted his glass, muttering into it, “Don’t say it like that”.

You leaned in a little, voice dropping into a teasing whisper. “So what? Lace doesn’t do it for you, but a dumb pair of cotton panties with fruit on them makes you hard?”.

The effect was instant. Jensen tensed again, jaw locking as he set the wine glass down with exaggerated control. His eyes flicked up to yours, dark, sharp, and burning now.

“Don’t play with me like that”, he said, low, voice edged with warning and restraint that only made your stomach flip harder.

You blinked, breath catching. “I’m not. I just… I didn’t know”.

“Yeah, well”, he said, leaning in slightly, “you do now”.

And then he reached out—not rushed, not reckless—and placed one hand on your thigh, just above the knee. His thumb stroked lightly over the fabric of your leggings, grounding, deliberate. “I’ve pictured them more times than I want to admit”, he murmured.

You grinned. It was slow, shameless, and completely unguarded, the kind of grin that said you knew exactly what you were doing now. That you liked the way he looked at you when the guard dropped. That you wanted more of it.

Without breaking eye contact, you leaned forward and set your wine glass gently on the table, the clink of glass-on-wood sounding louder in the quiet than it should’ve.

Then, with the ease of someone who no longer needed permission, you shifted off your end of the couch and onto him, settling into his lap like it was the only place you’d ever belonged.

Jensen tensed for a half-second, like his brain needed a moment to catch up to his body, like he was trying to remind himself of rules, but the way his hands instinctively slid to your hips told you all you needed to know.

His eyes dragged up to meet yours, that same hungry, reverent heat simmering behind them, and you just smiled—soft, sure—and slowly raised your arms over your head.

An invitation. A dare. “Still no distractions?”, you asked, voice low, teasing, but steady.

Jensen stared at you like you were something he was terrified to ruin. And then, he exhaled, the kind of breath that sounded like surrender, and pressed his forehead to your chest for one long, still moment. “You’re gonna undo me”, he whispered against the fabric.

You slid your fingers gently through his hair. “Then let me”.

When he looked back up, there was no more restraint. Only want. Only you.

His hands, steady now, slid under the hem of your oversized hoodie. Slow. Reverent. His fingers grazed the soft skin of your waist, sending a ripple of heat up your spine as he gently pushed the fabric upward.

You held your breath, heart hammering in your chest, not from nerves, but from the weight of how quietly intense it felt.

And then, inch by inch, your hoodie rose, until the cotton caught beneath your arms and the softest blush of red on white came into view.

Cherry red.

Tiny cartoon fruit scattered across the fabric of your bra, just like the ones on the panties he hadn’t stopped thinking about for weeks.

Jensen’s breath hitched audibly. His hands paused.

“Fuck”, he murmured under his breath, gaze locked to the ridiculous, innocent thing stretched across your chest. “You actually wore them”.

You smiled, almost shy now, suddenly hyper-aware of his hands still on your sides, his eyes on you like you were something holy wrapped in humor and heat.

“I told you”, you whispered, voice barely there. “Trying to keep things… safe”.

He looked up at you slowly, his expression wrecked in the most beautiful way. “This is the opposite of safe”.

His hands moved again, up, over your ribs, the hoodie finally pulled off and dropped behind you, his fingertips grazing the edge of the bra strap like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or kiss you stupid. Probably both.

He traced a thumb over the cherry print, feather-light. “You have no idea what this does to me”, he murmured.

“I think I’m starting to”, you breathed, your fingers curling in the fabric of his t-shirt, anchoring yourself to something steady, something real.

Seconds later, you were straddling him.

The hoodie lay forgotten on the floor. Your leggings had followed, discarded somewhere between a whispered yes and the way Jensen had kissed the side of your neck like it was sacred ground.

Now, it was just you. Cherry bra. Matching cherry panties. The delicate cherry necklace he’d given you catching the light between your collarbones.

His hands rested on your thighs, but he wasn’t moving. Just looking. Like he couldn’t believe this was real. Like you weren’t just some moment, but a memory in the making.

You bit your lip, suddenly hyper-aware of how exposed you were, how this felt different. Not just physically. But you, like this. On top. In control. You’d never been here before. Not like this. But you wanted to be.

Jensen’s eyes flicked up to yours. He saw it, the hesitation behind your teeth, the wild want behind your stare.

“I want to try”.

Jensen’s lips parted, but he didn’t speak right away. He just let his hands trace a slow path from your thighs to your hips, his touch feather-light, reverent. Then, with a quiet exhale, he leaned back slightly, reclining into the couch cushions, arms loose at his sides in a kind of surrender.

But his eyes? Still on you. Dark. Wanting. So tender it made your breath catch.

“Go on then”, he murmured, voice low and wrecked with restraint. “Show me”.

Your heart thudded. You placed your hands on his chest, steadying yourself, feeling the heat of him beneath your palms. Every muscle under your fingers twitched like he was waiting. Holding still only because you asked him to.

You rocked your hips, just barely, just enough to test your balance, to see how it felt with his body beneath yours like that.

Jensen let out a soft sound, one that lived somewhere between a groan and a laugh. His hands flexed again on your hips, but he didn’t guide you. Didn’t take over. Let you learn.

He loved this. The way your brows furrowed in concentration. The way you bit your lip and looked down, cheeks flushed, trying to figure out what felt good, what you were doing to him.

There was a softness in his gaze, behind all that heat, that said everything he didn’t say out loud: That he adored how new this was for you. That he would’ve waited forever for this. That your innocence, your want, your intention, it was undoing him.

You shifted again, slower this time, more sure. The warmth in Jensen’s eyes didn’t falter for a second. He was still there, still letting you lead, even though his jaw was tight and his fingers twitched like he was barely holding back.

And then, gently, so gently, his hand moved. He didn’t rush, didn’t pull you to him, didn’t make it about control. Just hooked his thumb under the soft edge of your panties, brushing against your hip bone, and slid the fabric aside. His other hand came up to cradle your waist, steadying you.

You exhaled, eyes fluttering for half a second, before you reached down between your bodies with careful fingers, nervous, but not unsure. You found him, warm and ready, and the moment your hand closed around him, his breath left his lungs in a soundless groan.

“Yeah”, he whispered, eyes locked on yours, voice rough and reverent. “Just like that”.

You guided him slowly, carefully, your breath shallow, chest rising and falling as you aligned your bodies. It wasn’t perfect, wasn’t seamless. But Jensen was patient. His hands never moved from your hips, his grip never tightened beyond what you gave him.

And when you started to sink down—just a little—his eyes fluttered shut, mouth parting in quiet disbelief. But he didn’t move. Didn’t thrust up. Didn’t take it from you. He let you give. Let you discover.

You sank down a little more, slow and careful, still not all the way, but enough to feel the shift in him, the way his breath caught sharp in his throat and his fingers curled against your skin like he was holding onto the last threads of his control.

“That okay?”, you asked softly, your voice tight, edged with nerves but undercut by something steadier, pride. You were doing this. You were learning him, and yourself, all at once.

Jensen looked up at you like he might come undone just from the question.

His smile unfurled slow and crooked, something warm and deeply male about it—like you’d given him the most exquisite kind of torture and he was grateful for every second.

“That’s very okay”, he said, voice low and rough. “Shit, you feel…”.

He didn’t finish the sentence. Just let his head fall back for a second, his eyes fluttering closed as you rocked your hips again, tentative, experimental. He groaned, low and raw, and the sound lit a fuse in your belly.

You braced your hands on his chest, shifting just enough to tease him deeper—still not fully—but close enough to feel him pulse against you, close enough to feel your body tremble in response.

“You’re killing me”, he muttered, eyes opening just enough to meet yours.

You smiled, breathless. “Good”.

His fingers slid up your sides, skimming your ribs, pausing just beneath the edge of your bra.

You bit your lip and started to move, slow, unsure at first, but guided by instinct and the look in his eyes. That look, equal parts awe and hunger, like you were something rare, something sacred he’d never expected to hold.

Your rhythm was uncertain, learning as you went, but every shift of your hips, every soft gasp from your lips, had Jensen sinking deeper into the couch, his hands still framing your waist but never taking over.

And the more you moved, the more confident you became. You found a rhythm. And when you hit the right angle, the sound that tore from Jensen’s throat made your whole body tighten.

“Shit”, he breathed, his hands tightening just slightly. “You’re doing—fuck—amazing”.

That lit something inside you, hot and dizzying and unstoppable. His praise, his surrender, it made you bolder. You rolled your hips again, then again, chasing that heat building low in your spine, and Jensen’s head tipped back against the cushion, jaw slack, completely gone for you.

You leaned forward, planting your hands on his chest again, the cherry necklace dangling just above his heart, your breath shallow as you moved with more purpose now, his name a whisper you didn’t even realize you were saying under your breath.

“Jensen…”.

He looked up at you then, eyes wide with something more than lust.

You barely realized how close you were until it crashed over you.

The heat had been building slow, steady, wrapped in Jensen’s hands and the way he looked at you like you were breaking him apart with every breath, but the moment it hit, it was instant. Overwhelming. A tidal wave of sensation that tore through your body with no warning.

Your rhythm faltered, a gasp caught in your throat before it spilled out into a raw, unfiltered moan, your head tipping back, fingers digging into his chest as your body arched. “Jensen—”.

He caught you with both hands, steady and sure, his grip tightening on your hips as he took over. Guiding you. Moving you through it when your body stopped knowing how.

“That’s it”, he murmured, voice wrecked and reverent, watching you fall apart. “I’ve got you. Just let go”.

And you did. Completely. The intensity had your breath shattering, your muscles trembling as you came harder than you ever had and it was his name on your lips, again and again.

You were still shaking, heart racing and breath caught somewhere between disbelief and afterglow, when Jensen shifted beneath you, his arms wrapping around you carefully as he turned you with him, laying you on your back against the couch cushions.

His gaze met yours, before he leaned down and kissed you. Not soft. Not tentative. Claiming.

You barely had time to catch your breath before he moved, deep, sure, and undone. He buried himself in you with a low, strangled groan that vibrated through your chest, his restraint finally breaking in the wake of your release.

“Fuck, you feel—”, he choked out, his body trembling against yours as he pressed into you again, harder this time.

You wrapped your legs around him instinctively, pulling him closer, gasping into the crook of his neck as he moved again. One thrust, then another, deep and desperate, not rushed but needed. Like everything he’d been holding back was pouring into this moment.

And then he was gone for you, completely.

With one final thrust, he stilled, body shaking, hands fisted into the cushions beside your head, breath broken as he let go inside you, buried deep, his voice catching in a sound that was more than just release.

He stayed there for a moment, braced above you, eyes closed, his forehead pressing against yours like it was the only way he could stay grounded.

You slid your hands into his hair, still catching your breath, and he let out a soft, shaky laugh against your skin.

“Damn cherry panties”, Jensen mumbled into your neck, his voice thick and breathless, laced with something between awe and total defeat.

You laughed softly, chest still rising and falling against his. “You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”.

He smiled against your skin, then nuzzled his nose just beneath your jaw. “Not a chance”.

You were still wrapped around him, bodies tangled and warm, the room spinning with silence and intimacy, when the door creaked open.

“Ackles, do you—”.

The voice froze. Your body froze. Jensen’s head lifted so fast it almost knocked into yours.

“Fuck!”, you hissed, diving instinctively under the throw blanket at your feet, barely managing to pull it across your chest as Jensen scrambled to shift beside you, his arm thrown out as if his sheer body mass could shield you from what had already happened.

“Seriously?”, Jared stood in the doorway, one hand over his face, the other holding what looked like a forgotten water bottle. “It’s clear after eleven. Clear, Jensen!”.

Jensen groaned, covering his eyes with one hand. “You weren’t supposed to be home!”.

“You said I could come after 11!”, Jared shot back, still keeping his hand firmly over his eyes like a horror movie survivor. “I texted. Twice”.

“You also once said you wouldn’t eat all my leftovers and yet—here we are!”, Jensen barked, still half-draped over you, as if his broad back was going to somehow reverse what Jared’s eyes had clearly already seen.

You groaned into the blanket. “This is actually my nightmare”.

“Mine too!”, Jared shouted from somewhere just outside the doorway, his voice muffled now as he pivoted to flee, one hand clamped over his face. “Burn that couch! Burn everything!”.

The front door opened. Then closed. Then silence.

You peeked out from beneath the blanket and caught Jensen’s expression, somewhere between sheepish, mortified, and deeply amused.

Jensen let out a long, low groan, running both hands through his hair before muttering under his breath, “Unbelievable".

You sat up, the blanket still wrapped around you, grinning as you watched him stand, naked and absolutely done with everything. He grabbed your hand, tugging you gently but firmly to your feet.

“Come on”, he grumbled. “Shower. Before I get any more Jared-related trauma”.

You laughed all the way down the hall.

-

The next morning, sunlight poured lazily through the apartment’s kitchen window, golden and too honest. You padded in barefoot, hair still damp from another shower, after another round, wearing one of of Jensen’s shirts. Jensen followed a few seconds later, only in sweatpants.

Jared was already in the kitchen. And he did not look amused. He stood by the coffeemaker, mug in hand, looking like someone who’d just survived a battlefield, barely. He didn’t say a word. Just turned slowly to face the two of you, expression flat.

“Morning”, you offered cautiously, trying not to smile.

He raised a single hand. Not a wave, more like a warning. Then pointed at the couch. “That”, Jared said, voice hoarse with too much regret and not enough caffeine, “was sacred ground”.

Jensen opened his mouth to respond, but Jared held up a finger.

“And if I ever so much as look at a cherry again—pie, soda, anything—I will need therapy”.

You choked on your laughter and had to bury your face in Jensen’s arm to contain it.

Jared turned back to his coffee like a soldier reclaiming his peace. “And I’m burning that blanket”.

Jensen leaned into your ear and whispered, “He’ll get over it”.

You whispered back, “Should we… offer him new throw pillows?”.

He smirked. “Only if they’re cherry red”.

You both lost it—quiet, breathless laughter shared over stolen coffee and one very grumpy roommate.

-

Set that day was chaos, as usual. Lights being repositioned. Scripts rustling. Crew weaving between trailers like a choreographed storm. But for once, none of it felt particularly real.

What was real, at least for Jensen, was the memory of last night and the ache of this morning. You. Every detail.

He stood by the Impala, script in one hand, pretending to focus on his lines. But it was useless. All he could think about was the heat of your skin under his hands, the way your breath had broken when you came apart in his arms and the soft, wicked little smile you gave him this morning just before you slipped your jeans over bare skin.

“No panties today”, you’d whispered against his jaw, lips still swollen from sleep. “You ruined the cherries”.

And then you just… walked out the door. Like it wasn’t going to wreck his concentration for days.

“Dude”. Jared’s voice broke through his trance.

Jensen blinked. “What?”.

Jared was standing two feet away, arms crossed, a suspicious grin tugging at his mouth. “You just stared at page four for, like, a full minute”.

“I’m… thinking”, Jensen muttered, flipping the page even though he hadn’t read a single word.

Jared snorted, stepping closer. “Yeah”, he said, glancing down at the script Jensen clearly wasn’t processing. “Thinking about blocking or… blocked blood flow?”.

Jensen didn’t dignify that with a response. He kept his eyes on the page, even though the words blurred together, because the only thing burned into his brain was the way your voice had gone all low and innocent when you whispered no panties today. And how you’d kissed the corner of his mouth, like it was nothing.

Jared leaned in, lowering his voice. “She got you good, huh?”.

Jensen didn’t look up. “You don’t know what you’re talking about”.

“Oh, come on”, Jared laughed under his breath. “You’re walking like a guy who’s stuck between a out of this world moment and a crime scene”.

That got a faint twitch from the corner of Jensen’s mouth.

“Thought so”.

Jared glanced around, making sure no crew were close enough to hear, then added, “Look, man… I give you crap, yeah. But seriously? I haven’t seen you this out of your head since—well. Ever”.

That made Jensen look up. Not defensive. Just… quieter. “Yeah”, he said. Just that one word, but it was heavy. Honest.

Jared nodded, a little more serious now. “You’re into her”.

Jensen hesitated, then gave a small, lopsided smile. “Yeah”, he admitted. “I am”.

Jared didn’t tease this time. Just clapped him on the back once and turned to head toward his mark. “Then stop acting like you’ve been cursed. And go tell her after this take that she’s got you completely fucked”.

Jensen laughed, quiet and a little wrecked.

-

Two weeks later however, the tension in the air was different. Quieter. Heavier. Not bad, just real.

You were sprawled out on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, a blanket half-draped over your lap. Jared sat beside you with a bowl of popcorn balanced on his stomach, eyes glued to some mindless show on TV. You weren't really watching, though. Your gaze kept drifting toward the dining table a few feet away.

Jensen sat hunched over it, elbows braced on the wood, papers spread across the surface like a slow, careful storm. His phone was pressed to his ear, one hand raking through his hair every few minutes, the other tapping restlessly against a notepad filled with scribbled notes and underlined phrases.

You couldn’t hear all of it, just pieces.

“Yeah. I understand… No, that’s fine. She can have the guest house. Just make sure she knows the school fund stays untouched…”.

A pause. Then softer: “No, I’m not fighting her on this. We’re not dragging it out”.

You shifted slightly on the couch, your heart pinching. Not with jealousy, but with the raw ache of watching someone you care about go through the slow process of letting go. Not just of a person, but a life. A rhythm. An entire version of themselves.

Jared glanced sideways at you, then back at Jensen. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. Just nudged the popcorn bowl toward you in silent solidarity. You took a handful. Didn’t eat it.

Jensen finally hung up, dragging a deep breath into his chest before setting the phone face-down and rubbing both hands over his face. He didn’t say anything at first. Just sat there, staring at the paper in front of him. Still. Quiet.

Eventually, Jensen looked up, eyes tired but clear. “Papers are finalized Friday. It’ll be official by the end of the month”.

The room was quiet for a second, the TV still playing something irrelevant in the background.

“Want me to make you a drink?”, Jared asked, already halfway up.

“No”, Jensen said. Then paused. “Yeah. Maybe. Something that tastes like not-married”.

Jared gave a half-grin, squeezing Jensen’s shoulder as he passed.

You sat still, watching him, uncertain if you should move. If you should give him space or close the distance.

He looked at you and the answer was there. “Come here”, he said quietly.

You got up without a word, crossing the space between the couch and the table. He turned in the chair, and you stepped between his legs, his hands sliding instinctively to your hips like he didn’t even need to think about it anymore.

You cradled his face in your hands. “You okay?”.

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I think… I think I finally will be”.

You kissed his forehead, soft and certain, and he exhaled into you like he’d been holding his breath for months.

You bit your lip as you pulled back just enough to see his face, really see it. The fatigue in his eyes. The weight around his shoulders. The quiet resolve, sitting just beneath the surface of his exhaustion.

Your fingers brushed along the edge of his jaw, slow and gentle, grounding you both. “You’re doing that for yourself, right?”, you asked, your voice soft but steady. “Not… not because of me”.

The words felt too fragile once they were out, like they might fracture the stillness between you. But you had to ask. You needed to know. Because the last thing you ever wanted was to be a reason for something that should’ve come from within.

Jensen blinked, like he hadn’t expected the question. Then his brow furrowed, not in irritation, but something closer to hurt. That you’d even had to wonder.

He reached up, wrapping his hand around your wrist where it hovered near his face, and brought it down gently to rest against his chest. “This was ending a long time before you and I started”, he said, voice low, raw. “You didn’t cause it. You didn’t push it. You just… showed me I didn’t have to keep pretending it wasn’t already over”.

You looked at him, your chest tight, but not with fear. Just with feeling.

He gave you a faint, lopsided smile, thumb brushing softly against the inside of your wrist. “I’m doing this because it’s time. Because I want to live honestly again. And yeah”, he added, eyes flicking back up to yours, “because I want to build something that isn’t built on guilt or silence”.

You swallowed, emotion catching somewhere in your throat. Then you nodded, leaning down and pressing your forehead to his. “Okay”.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

It wasn’t until the soft rustle of fabric and the barely-there creak of your bedroom floor that your eyes fluttered open.

Light filtered gently through the curtains, casting soft shadows across the room, and for a moment, everything felt suspended in warmth, the kind that lingers after being touched in all the right ways, after being wanted so completely.

Jensen was at the edge of the bed, crouched slightly as he tugged on his jeans. Shirtless, hair still a little mussed, he moved carefully, like he didn’t want to wake you… but he should’ve known better.

You watched him quietly for a second, blinking against the morning haze, heart aching in that quiet, swollen way where affection lives.

“I can feel you trying not to wake me”, you said, voice still husky from sleep.

He stilled, then looked over his shoulder at you with a sheepish smile. “Yeah?”, he murmured. “Guess I’m not as subtle as I thought”.

You gave a small shrug, shifting slightly under the sheets. “You’re six feet something, trying to sneak out of a creaky bed. You never had a chance”.

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck as he stood. “Didn’t want to wake you. You should rest. You’re off set for a few days”.

Your smile softened at the reminder. “Yeah. But you’re not”.

“I gotta head in early”, he said, slipping on his shirt.

You sat up slightly, careful of your ankle, propping yourself against the pillows. “You don’t have to explain, Jensen”.

“I know”, he said, turning to face you fully now, pulling his shirt over his head. “But I want to”.

You nodded. Silence fell between you for a beat. Not awkward,just full.

He crossed back to the bed, leaned down, and kissed your forehead. Soft. Lingering. “I’ll check on you later”, he whispered, thumb brushing gently across your cheek. “Stay off that foot. Seriously”.

You caught his wrist lightly before he could pull away. “Jensen?”.

“Yeah?”.

“I’m okay”, you said, searching his eyes. “With last night. With… all of it”.

Relief flickered behind his eyes. Gratitude, too. “Good”, he said softly. “Me too”.

And then he straightened, gave you one last, reluctant look and slipped out the door, leaving the scent of him on your pillow and the memory of his mouth still on your skin.

-

Jensen barely made it two steps onto set before Jared spotted him from across the lot.

He was standing next to the catering table, coffee in hand. He raised his brows slowly as Jensen approached, taking in the t-shirt and jeans from the day before.

“Really?”, Jared said, voice pitched with amusement. “You didn’t even try to change?”.

Jensen didn’t break stride. He reached for a fresh cup of coffee. “Morning to you, too”.

“Let me guess—you dropped her off, one thing led to another, and now your shirt smells like her shampoo”.

Jensen didn’t respond. Which was answer enough.

“Oh my God”, Jared muttered under his breath, trying—and failing—to hold back a shit-eating grin. “You dog”.

Jensen shot him a dry look, unbothered. “It wasn’t like that”.

Jared snorted. “Please. You stayed the night. You came straight from her place. You’re wearing the same damn jeans, man”.

Jensen rubbed the back of his neck, finally letting the smallest smirk tug at one corner of his mouth. “Alright, yeah. I stayed”.

“Uh huh”, Jared said, sipping his coffee, then glancing sideways at him. “You good?”.

That question landed heavier than the teasing ones. Jensen looked off for a second, eyes narrowing toward the trailers across the lot, yours somewhere behind them.

“Yeah”, he said. And he meant it. “Better than I’ve felt in a long time”.

Jared nodded slowly, the grin fading into something softer. “Then good for you, man”.

Jared watched Jensen walk a few paces before falling into step beside him, lowering his voice as crew members buzzed around them.

“So… the divorce”, Jared said, keeping it casual, but his eyes flicked toward Jensen’s face. “It’s really happening, then?”.

Jensen’s jaw tensed slightly. He took another sip of coffee before answering, eyes forward. “Yeah”, he said quietly. “I texted her last week. We talked. It’s not like she didn’t see it coming”.

Jared nodded, his features tightening with something more serious now. “How’d she take it?”.

Jensen exhaled through his nose. “She’s not angry. Just tired. Sad, maybe. But we’ve been living separate lives for a long time. This… it just made it real”.

Jared didn’t say anything right away. Just walked beside him, absorbing the weight of it.

After a moment, Jensen added, “She deserves better than what I’ve been giving her. I think we both do”.

Jared finally nodded, eyes soft with a kind of brotherly understanding that didn’t need to be spoken aloud. “And this thing with her?”, Jared asked, meaning you, no name needed.

Jensen looked away briefly, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. One of the real ones. “That’s real, too”, he said.

Jared gave him a look, half teasing, half proud. “Just don’t screw it up, man”.

“Planning not to”, Jensen said, and this time, the weight behind his voice was unmistakable.

They walked in silence for a few beats, until Jared—never able to leave well enough alone—flashed that wide grin of his.

“So…”, he drawled, glancing sideways. “How was it?”.

Jensen didn’t answer right away. Just kept walking, jaw set, sipping his coffee like maybe that would hide the faint pink climbing up his ears.

Jared bumped him again. “Come on, man".

“Jared”, Jensen muttered, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I’m just saying”, Jared pressed, eyes glittering. “You’re glowing. Like, weirdly glowing".

“Drop it”, Jensen said, half-laughing, half-serious. “I’m not talking about it with you”.

“Which means it was really good”, Jared shot back with zero shame. “Come on. Did you break the bed? Did she make those little gaspy noises she does when she’s fake dying on camera—”.

Jensen stopped walking, brow furrowed as he gave Jared a pointed look. “Seriously. Drop it”.

Jared held up his hands in mock surrender… but the grin didn’t budge. After a few more steps, Jared sighted. “You know I’m not dropping this, right?”.

Jensen didn’t answer. Just kept walking.

Jared shrugged dramatically. “Alright, fine. We’ll just circle around it. Did she climb you like a tree? Or was it one of those slow-burn, candlelight, soul-melting—”.

“Geez, Jared”.

“Or wait, wait—was it one of those quiet, intense, meaningful ones?”, he teased. “Because your face says meaningful”.

Jensen stopped again. Slower this time. And for a second, he didn’t say anything. His jaw flexed, coffee halfway to his mouth, eyes locked on something far away.

Then, under his breath, too low for anyone else to hear, but not low enough to escape Jared’s ever-attuned ears, he muttered, “It was… new for her”.

Jared blinked. His mouth opened. Then shut again.

Jensen didn’t look at him. Just sipped his coffee like he hadn’t said anything at all.

Jared blinked again, something unreadable flickering across his face. “Well… fuck”, he muttered finally, voice lower now. No teasing. No punchline. He glanced sideways, really looking at Jensen this time. “That’s… different. For you”.

Jensen gave the smallest nod. His jaw worked like he might say something else, but didn’t.

Jared blew out a slow breath, processing.

He knew Jensen. Knew what his past looked like, especially after a few drinks, after the harder days. Jensen was the guy who didn’t do soft unless he trusted you with something real. And he definitely didn’t slow down for anyone unless they mattered.

Jared rubbed the back of his neck. “You okay?”.

Jensen’s mouth twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “I’m better than okay”.

“Yeah”, Jared said quietly. “I figured”.

They walked a few more steps in silence, both of them watching the trailers up ahead come into view.

And then Jared glanced over again, lighter this time. “So, you break the bed or what?”.

Jensen let out a breath—part laugh, part groan—and shoved his arm into Jared’s. “Shut the hell up”.

-

Later, between takes, while Jensen was flipping through sides for the next scene, his phone buzzed beside him. A message from you.

You: I can still feel you.

He blinked. Then sat very, very still.

The words settled into his chest like heat, low and slow. And just like that, the memory of last night hit him like a rush. Your skin under his hands, the way you gasped his name, the way your body trembled around him. How tightly you’d held onto him when you came. How soft your voice had sounded after.

He swallowed hard, setting the script down as he shifted in his chair. Unmistakable tension bloomed under his jeans. He pressed his palm against his thigh, trying to will it away.

Jensen: You’re not making it easy to focus today.

You: That’s not my fault. You’re the one who broke me.

Jensen stared at the screen, his smirk growing slower, heavier. His fingers hovered before typing back.

Jensen: Pretty sure you did some damage yourself, sweetheart.

You: I mean it. My legs still feel like jelly. If I tried to stand up too fast, I’d fall on my face. You should be proud of yourself.

Jensen let out a soft exhale through his nose, shaking his head slightly. He adjusted in his seat, shifting the growing tension in his jeans again.

Jensen: I am. But now I’m stuck on set pretending to care about demon lore when all I can think about is the sound you made right before you came.

Another pause.

You: That sound? I didn’t even know I could make that sound. I kinda hope no one outside my window heard it.

Jensen huffed a quiet laugh, fingers moving quickly this time.

Jensen: I hope they did. Let them know what I’m working with.

You: Cocky much?

Jensen: Just accurate.

A longer pause this time. You were typing… then not. Then typing again.

You: When do you wrap today?

He bit back a grin.

Jensen: Why?

You: Because I’m sore, a little bored, and the thought of your hands back on me is suddenly the only thing getting me through the day.

His thumb hovered before replying.

Jensen: Then it’s a good thing I’ll be at your place by 6.

You didn’t reply right away, but when you did, it was one line that hit him like a spark to dry kindling.

You: Promise you’ll wreck me all over again?

His pulse thudded low and steady as he stared at the screen.

Jensen: Not a chance I’ll do anything less.

-

The evening moved slowly, intentionally.

Jensen had shown up exactly when he said he would. With food. With that careful smile. With a steadiness in his eyes that told you he hadn’t spent the day second-guessing anything.

You’d eaten together with easy conversation, hands brushing occasionally, every glance still charged but lighter this time. Like something unspoken between you had settled. And after, just like the night before, you found yourselves tangled again, not rushed, not frantic. Just… drawn.

And when it happened, when he eased himself into you again with that same quiet care, it was even better.

More familiar. Still slow. Still gentle. But this time, your body welcomed him like it remembered.

You were less tense. More vocal. More present.

And for Jensen, it wasn’t hard—like he thought it might be—to hold back. To keep it soft. Because watching your face, feeling you hold him like you never wanted to let go, was enough. More than enough. His pleasure came from you: your reactions, your trust, your breathless little gasps when he hit just the right place. Your fingers digging into his back. The way you clung to him when you came, sighing his name like a secret.

Afterward, you lay across his chest, naked and flushed and glowing. The sweat still clung to your temples, your breath still a little uneven, but your smile… that grin was unstoppable. Stretched wide across your whole face like someone had drawn it there and dared the world to take it away.

Jensen’s hand traced lazy circles against your spine, his heartbeat calm and strong beneath your cheek.

“You’re smiling like you just got away with something”, he murmured, voice rough but warm.

“I did”, you said into his chest.

“Oh yeah?”, he chuckled, fingers brushing your shoulder.

You tilted your chin up, eyes gleaming. “I got you”.

That shut him up for a second. The room had gone still.

Jensen’s hand drifted from your back to your collarbone, fingers finding the little cherry pendant resting against your skin. He rolled it gently between his fingers, thoughtful, distracted.

You glanced up at him from his chest, your smile softening when you caught the crease between his brows. “What?”, you asked quietly.

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept playing with the necklace for another beat, the pendant clicking softly between his fingers.

Then finally, he said it, low and careful, like he didn’t want to push too hard. “Was it okay for you?”. His eyes dropped to yours. “I mean… all of it. You’re not—regretting anything, are you?”.

The question settled in the air, weighty but honest. You didn’t answer immediately. Not because you didn’t know, but because the tenderness of his asking tugged at something deep inside you.

You reached up, covering his hand with yours, stilling the pendant between your fingers. “I don’t regret anything”, you said, steady and clear. “Not even for a second”.

He let out a quiet breath—relief, gratitude, maybe even disbelief—and looked at you again, more fully this time. “You sure?”, he asked, voice lower. “I know it’s a lot. Everything about this…”.

“I’m sure”, you replied, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “I’ve never been more sure of anything”.

A beat passed. He let the necklace go, choosing to hold your hand instead.

“Okay”, he whispered.

And then he kissed you like it was the first time all over again, slow and deep and reverent, as if you were still the thing he couldn’t quite believe he got to keep.

His lips lingered at the edge of yours, but there was hesitation behind the softness now. A quiet shift. Something in his breath changed, a weight returning that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

Jensen exhaled slowly and leaned his forehead against yours, still cradling your hand in his. “This… whatever this is”, he murmured, voice low and rough, “it has to stay between us. For now”.

You blinked. Pulled back slightly just to see his face.

“I can’t be seen jumping into something while my divorce’s still ink-wet”, he said. “Even if it’s already over… it’s not settled”.

You stared at him, surprised, but not hurt. Not exactly.

He kept talking, gaze steady on yours. “It’s not about you. It’s about how it looks. How fast it’ll spread. How quick people are to spin their own version of things”.

You swallowed, nodding slowly. It made sense. The press, the fans, the rumors. One blurry photo and suddenly you’d be a headline.

But still… “I thought that was obvious”, you said, almost laughing under your breath. “You think I can afford to be seen dating you?”.

He raised an eyebrow.

“I’m the new girl”, you said, voice lighter than you felt. “Twenty-something nobody. First job with real weight. If people think I’m with you, they won’t say I earned this. They’ll say you handed it to me”.

His expression darkened, jaw working. “I’d never let anyone say that about you”.

You smiled, sad but soft. “They will anyway”.

A long pause settled between you, quiet but mutual. Like the storm had passed and left something still standing behind it.

“So”, you said gently, “we keep it quiet”.

He nodded. “Yeah. Just… for now”.

You looked down at where your fingers were still laced together on his chest.

“And after?”.

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you, his gaze steady and a little sad, like he already knew how many unknowns still waited on the other side of this moment. Then he leaned forward—slow, deliberate—and kissed you again. Soft. Certain.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“We handle it when we’re there”, he whispered.

You nodded.

He tightened his arm around you, pulling the blanket up around your bare shoulders as he exhaled quietly, like he’d been holding that breath for days.

-

The water was hot. Steam rolled down the fogged glass, clinging to your skin in beads as you leaned your head back under the spray. You hadn’t heard the front door open. Hadn’t heard his boots. Hadn’t expected him yet.

So when two strong arms suddenly wrapped around your waist from behind, you jumped with a yelp that echoed off the tile.

“Shit—Jensen!”.

He was already laughing under his breath, the sound low and rough in your ear.

You spun around—slipping just a little—smacking a hand against his chest with a wet slap. He caught you easily, grinning despite himself, water streaking down his jaw and over his shoulders. He was already naked, his skin warm even under the water, pressed full against yours.

“You left the door open… again”, he muttered, voice thick, the edge of his mood still simmering under the surface. “I could’ve been anyone”.

“I wasn’t expecting… anyone”, you shot back, still breathless, the surprise not fully worn off. “And you could’ve knocked like a normal person instead of sneaking up like a horror movie”.

His arms slid back around your waist, slower now. His hands splayed across your lower back. “Not sneaking”, he murmured, mouth grazing your temple, “just checking. You shouldn’t leave it unlocked”.

You softened a little at that. His tone wasn’t playful now, it was protective. Tense.

You tilted your head to meet his eyes. “Rough day?”.

He didn’t answer right away. Just exhaled hard through his nose and pressed his forehead to yours. “You could say that”.

You let your fingers trail over the side of his neck, still slick with water. “Want to talk about it?”.

He closed his eyes, kissed your cheek. “Later”.

And then he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, a little hungrier. Like he needed to feel something certain. Something soft. Something real.

You tipped your head back, letting the water slide over your shoulders and down your spine. The steam curled around both of you, blurring the edges of his body, freckles, scars, muscles all washed in gold and shadow.

Your gaze lingered on the trail of droplets rolling down his chest, tracing every freckle, every line. Your pulse thundered in your throat.

Then, through the shower mist, you looked up at him, lashes wet, eyes bright with excitement and want. “Shower sex?”, you teased, your voice soft, playful, not shy at all.

He blinked, a slow, incredulous smile spreading across his lips. There it was again, that awe, that adoration, that quiet hunger only you seemed able to draw out of him. He cupped your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek.

“You’re trouble”, he murmured, but it was full of affection, full of warmth.

You grinned, hands roaming over his hips, tugging him closer until your bodies pressed, slick and hot, under the spray. “That’s not a no”.

He laughed—quiet, breathless—shaking his head, his hands sliding down to cup your ass, lifting you easily against him. “It’s never a no with you”.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, back pressed against the slick tile, and pulled his mouth down to yours, the kiss messy, eager, all tongue and teeth and water.

His hands steadied you as he adjusted, the tip of him teasing at your entrance. He paused, searching your eyes one more time for permission, for that spark of “yes”.

You nodded, biting your lip, breath trembling with anticipation. “Jensen, please—”.

He pushed in slowly, groaning low against your mouth, the heat and the water making everything more intense, more overwhelming.

You gasped, clutching at his shoulders, the world spinning around the feel of him inside you, deeper, hotter, so much at once you almost sobbed with it.

The water beat down around you, steam rising in thick clouds as Jensen pressed you harder against the tile, your legs tight around his waist. His pace was rougher than before, hungry, desperate, every thrust sending you shivering up the wall, forcing tiny gasps and broken moans from your lips.

He swallowed every sound with his mouth, teeth grazing your jaw, his hands gripping your hips tight, almost bruising. You barely had time to breathe between kisses, between the relentless push and pull of his body against yours.

The slick heat, the slide of your skin, the thunder of your pulse, it all blurred into one long, dizzying rush. “Shit, Jensen—”, you whimpered, barely audible above the water.

He shuddered, groaning against your neck, his control slipping with every second. “Come for me”, he demanded, voice rough, need straining every word.

His words snapped something loose inside you.

The command, the grit in his voice—so different from the careful gentleness of the last two weeks—made you shudder in his arms. Your body obeyed before your mind could catch up, every muscle tightening, your breath catching in your throat.

You came hard, your fingers digging into his shoulders, a desperate moan breaking free as the intensity crashed through you. It wasn’t just his touch, it was the way he owned the moment, the way he demanded everything you had.

Jensen felt you clench around him, heard your strangled cry, and lost control right after, thrusting deep, his own release tearing a groan from his chest. His grip on your hips tightened, grounding you as you both shook through the aftershocks, the water washing away everything but the heat and the sound of your heartbeats.

He pressed his forehead to yours, panting, his hands still holding you close, possessive and gentle all at once.

You buried your face in his neck, still gasping, every nerve lit like a live wire. The world felt distant, drowned beneath the echo of your pulse and the warm slide of water over your bodies.

But as your fingers shifted, tightening around his arm for balance, you felt it, his sudden flinch. Subtle, but unmistakable. His muscles jumped beneath your touch, and his breath hitched, not with pleasure this time, but pain.

You pulled back, blinking through the haze. “What was that?”.

Jensen shook his head, too quickly. “Nothing”, he muttered, trying to shift his weight, to keep holding you like nothing happened.

But your eyes narrowed, and your hand returned to the spot—gently, now—and this time he couldn’t hide it. He winced.

“You’re hurt”, you said flatly.

“It’s fine”. He tried to smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Just a bruise. Got knocked around a bit during the stunt. No big deal”.

You stared at him, utterly unimpressed. “No big deal? You didn’t think maybe to mention it? Before, you know, throwing me around like a damn rag doll?”.

He chuckled, the sound low and sheepish. “Didn’t want to ruin the moment”.

You rolled your eyes, hard. “You’re unbelievable”.

“I’m dedicated”, he countered, the smirk starting to return, though softer now.

You exhaled and shook your head, brushing wet hair from his forehead. “You’re a stubborn idiot”.

“Yeah, yeah”, he mumbled, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to argue but couldn’t quite find the energy. He eased you down carefully onto the bottom of the shower, cradling you like you were breakable, even though he was the one hurting. Still, that same mix of grit and tenderness lingered in his touch, the one that wrecked you minutes ago.

He winced a little as he straightened up, and you shot him a look. He caught it, smirked, and raised his hands in surrender. “Okay, now it’s starting to feel like a big deal”.

“You think?”, you muttered, reaching for the soap and starting to gently lather his shoulder, your movements slower, more deliberate now, more about care than heat. He let you, silently, his eyes locked on you like you were something he couldn’t stop watching, even when his body was worn to hell.

Afterward, you both stepped out of the shower, steam curling off your skin in lazy spirals. Jensen grabbed a towel and wrapped it around your shoulders first, then handed you another for your hair, pausing to press a kiss to your temple.

“Hey”, he said softly, as you tucked the towel tighter around yourself. “How’s your ankle? Still limping around like a baby deer?”.

You shot him a dry look, then flexed your foot, testing it. “Way better”, you said, standing a little straighter to prove your point. “Swelling’s down, bruising’s mostly gone. I’ll be back on set Monday”.

He raised an eyebrow. “You sure about that?”.

“Yeah, I’m sure. I’m not the one trying to hide a torn shoulder for the sake of a shower quickie”.

He grinned at that, wide and unrepentant. “It wasn’t quick”.

You snorted, shaking your head as you walked past him. “It was reckless”.

“Admit it”, he called after you, limping just a little as he followed, towel slung low on his hips. “You liked reckless”.

You paused in the doorway, glancing back over your shoulder with a crooked smile. “I like you. The rest is just collateral damage”.

-

Monday came fast. Too fast, honestly.

The second your boots hit set gravel, it was like flipping a switch, game face on, script in your hand, and a mental firewall built brick by brick between real and pretend. You were her again, Dean’s girlfriend. Smirking, bantering. The cameras rolled, the crew buzzed, and everything looked exactly the same.

But it wasn’t.

Not after the last two weeks. Not after the way Jensen had looked at you in the shower, like you were something he could drown in. Not after the way he’d touched you—claimed you—and then held you afterward like you were fragile and vital all at once.

And now, you had to pretend like none of it happened.

You felt him before you saw him. Jensen’s presence always came with weight. He stepped onto the lot with that same easy charm, sunglasses on, coffee in hand, tossing a lazy wave at the makeup trailer as he passed. Business as usual. And only you knew the truth behind that practiced ease, the way he still couldn’t fully lift his right arm, the way he barely slept the night before because he was worried about how you’d hold up pretending nothing had changed.

He caught your eye from across the lot. Just a flicker. A second too long. Then he looked away.

-

The makeup trailer buzzed with low conversation, curling irons hissing, brushes tapping against compacts. You slid into the seat between Jensen and Jared, your reflection catching in the mirror lined with round bulbs. Business as usual. Almost.

Jensen was already halfway through his coffee, looking relaxed, but you saw the twitch in his jaw when your shoulder brushed his. Nothing in his expression gave anything away, but you felt it. That quiet tether strung tight beneath the surface.

Then there was Jared, grinning like the damn golden retriever he was, boots kicked up on the edge of the counter, script resting on his lap. But today? Today, he had a look.

You clocked it immediately. A barely contained smirk. Eyes cutting between you and Jensen a little too often. You narrowed yours in warning.

“What?”, you asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned back in his chair and gave you a look that made the hairs on your neck stand up.

Jensen sighed softly beside you, almost inaudible, but it was enough.

You froze. Your fingers tightened around the edge of your script, eyes still locked on Jared. He was practically vibrating with barely-contained glee, and it hit you like a freight train: This idiot knows.

But the makeup girls were still there. Two of them. One dabbing at Jensen’s jawline with a sponge, the other smoothing powder across Jared’s forehead, chatting about weekend plans like nothing in the room was simmering just below the surface.

So you did what any sane, freshly-deflowered woman would do with her very public, very divorcing co-star sitting beside her and a giant Labrador of a man trying not to burst out laughing next to that, you smiled sweetly and leaned closer to Jared.

“Don’t you dare”, you hissed under your breath, smiling wide, like you were complimenting his new cologne.

He bit his lip like he might explode. “I’m just saying”, he whispered back, sing-song quiet, “someone’s walkin’ like she spent the weekend riding a bull”.

You kicked him. Under the counter. Not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to earn a muffled oof and a sharp glance from the makeup artist standing over him. “You okay, Jare?”, she asked, lifting a brow.

“Yeah, yeah”, he coughed, rubbing his shin. “Muscle cramp. Definitely not from getting my ass kicked by a hundred-pound menace”.

You smiled sweetly at her. “He’s getting old. Stairs probably did it”.

She laughed and went back to powdering.

Meanwhile, Jensen sat impossibly still, jaw locked, clearly trying not to react. But the corner of his mouth twitched, traitor.

You turned to him slowly, voice syrupy, sweet as poison. “So. Did you tell anyone else?”.

His hand slid off his thigh, where it had been clenched tight beneath the cape, and he gave the faintest shake of his head. “Just him. I swear”.

You studied his face. That maddeningly sincere tilt of his brows. The quiet apology buried in his voice.

“Just him”, he repeated, a little softer, meant only for you.

You wanted to be angry. You were angry, at least, you thought you were. But then he tilted his head just the slightest bit and looked at you like he always did now, like there was no air in the room that wasn’t shared between the two of you.

It made staying mad near impossible.

You exhaled through your nose and turned forward again, catching Jared’s reflection in the mirror. He was grinning like a damn idiot, clearly enjoying every second of your unraveling composure.

You just shook your head, lips twitching despite yourself. There was no winning with either of them, not when Jensen looked at you like that, not when Jared smelled blood in the water. You could only hope to endure.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of lines, lighting tweaks, and holding positions. You stayed professional. Sharp. Untouchable. But the undercurrent between you and Jensen never let up, each stolen glance, every too-casual brush of fingertips, heavy with memory and restraint.

-

Two weeks later, by the time break hit, you and Jensen peeled off from the crowd like clockwork, disappearing around the far side of the trailers where the noise of the crew faded into a lazy hush. Like the last few days. Jensen slumped onto the steps of his trailer, unwrapping his sandwich and handing you yours without a word. The quiet between you was easy now. Familiar.

You both knew the crew was gathered under the big tent. Which meant this moment was yours. Or it should have been.

Until Jared rounded the corner, his own lunch in hand and that shit-eating grin already on his face. “Figured I’d give the lovebirds some company”, he announced like a damn town crier, plopping down on a crate across from you.

You groaned. “Please tell me there was nowhere else to sit”.

“There’s plenty of places”, he said through a mouthful of turkey. “But none this entertaining”.

Jensen closed his eyes. “Don’t”.

Jared grinned wider. "You told me you were gonna take it slow. Ease into it”. He waved his sandwich like it was a gavel. “Dude. She could barely sit on Monday”.

Jensen groaned, head falling into his hands. “Dude”.

You kicked Jared’s boot lightly. “Shut up”.

“Hey, no shame!”, Jared laughed. “You’re just… you’re so sweet usually. Who knew all it took was a few nights with Mr. Stuntman over here to turn you into a walking thirst trap?”.

You turned your sandwich toward him like it was a weapon. “Do you want to choke?”.

“I’m just saying”, he continued, laughing now, “you two better keep this under wraps, or people are gonna start noticing. Especially if Jensen keeps looking at you like a guy who got hit by a freight train full of orgasms”.

Jensen made a strangled sound. You nearly dropped your sandwich.

“That’s it”, Jensen muttered, glaring at Jared. “You’re eating in the parking lot from now on”.

“Fine”, Jared shrugged. “But when Entertainment Weekly breaks the story, I’m telling them I called it first”.

You and Jensen exchanged a glance. He was the worst. He was also kind of the best.

You sighed, resting your head briefly on Jensen’s shoulder. “He’s not gonna shut up, is he?”.

“Nope”, Jensen murmured, resting his cheek on top of your head. “We’re doomed”.

Jared lifted his sandwich like a toast. “To true love and pulled hamstrings”.

And Jensen, without looking up, flipped him off.

Just then, Jensen’s phone buzzed against the step beside him. The screen lit up, face-up—bright and unmistakable. Danneel. You saw it the same moment he did.

His entire body went still. That low-simmer ease he’d had with you just seconds ago vanished, like a switch had been flipped. Jaw tight, eyes flat, breath caught halfway in his chest. He grabbed the phone before the second ring even finished, already rising to his feet.

“I’ll be right back”, he muttered, eyes not meeting yours.

You blinked. “Jensen—”.

But he was already walking off, head down, one hand raking through his hair as he disappeared around the corner of the trailer.

The silence he left behind felt louder than anything Jared could’ve said. You sat there for a moment, sandwich forgotten in your hands, pulse drumming just under your skin.

Jared cleared his throat beside you, quiet now, careful. “I didn’t mean to hit a nerve”.

You gave a tiny shake of your head. “You didn’t. She did”.

Jared hesitated, then leaned forward on his knees, elbows resting on them. “They’re close to being done, y’know. The papers. He told me”.

“I know”, you murmured.

“He’s just trying to handle it right. Doesn’t wanna blow things up more than they already are”.

“I know, Jared”. You hadn’t meant to snap, but it came out sharp anyway.

He didn’t flinch. Just looked at you for a long, quiet second. “So do you need to walk off, or can I keep teasing you again in like five minutes?”.

That pulled a reluctant laugh from your throat, bitter-edged but real. “You really don’t have an off switch, do you?”.

“Nope”, he said, grinning faintly. “But I do have brakes. I’m just not great at using them”.

You leaned back, staring at the spot Jensen had vanished around. “He always looks like that when she calls?”.

Jared nodded slowly. “Yeah. Lately more and more. It’s like… he knows what he wants now. He’s just stuck waiting for the timing to catch up”.

You let out a breath and looked down at your hands, your half-eaten sandwich still sitting there like the punchline to a joke no one wanted to hear anymore.

“You think he’s really done with her?”, you whispered, before you could stop yourself. The words were already out, soft, brittle, traitorous. You hated the thought. Hated that it had teeth.

Jared didn’t answer right away. Didn’t tease. Didn’t deflect. Instead, he sat with it, let the question hang in the air like smoke.

Finally, he spoke, voice low and steady. “Yeah. I do”.

You looked up at him, heart twisting. “Then why does it still feel like he’s in it?“.

Jared leaned forward again, elbows on his knees, brows drawn together in a rare kind of seriousness. “Because he’s still getting out. You don’t just wake up one day and stop caring about someone you’ve been with for over a decade. Doesn’t mean he’s in love with her. Doesn’t mean he wants to stay. It just means there’s still weight”.

You swallowed, nodding slowly, the lump in your throat thick and unyielding. You stared down at your hands. Then, quieter than you meant, more to yourself than to Jared: “Maybe I should’ve taken things slower…”.

That caught his attention like a whipcrack. He turned to you sharply. “Hey. Don’t do that”.

You glanced up, eyes glassy but steady.

“I mean it”, Jared said, his voice firm but kind. “Don’t start second-guessing just because shit got complicated”.

“I’m not—”, you started, then stopped, pressing your lips together. “I just… maybe I rushed into something I didn’t understand. Maybe he wasn’t ready. Maybe I wasn’t”.

“Maybe”, Jared interrupted, “you’re just scared now that it’s real”.

You blinked. The air between you felt too still, too exposed.

“Listen”, he continued, softer now, like he was walking you back from a ledge you didn’t realize you were standing on. “I know Jensen. He’s not perfect—God knows. He overthinks, he carries shit until it breaks him, and he’s got this self-sacrificing streak that makes me wanna punch walls. But one thing he doesn’t do? He doesn’t fake it. Not with people he cares about”.

You looked away, blinking fast. “It’s just hard, Jared. Being the second chapter. The new thing while he’s still finishing the last”.

“I know”, he said gently. “But he’s not juggling you both. He’s closing one door before he opens another. And yeah, maybe it doesn’t feel fast enough, or clean enough. But he’s trying to leave it right. That says more about who he is than anything”.

You didn’t respond at first, your voice caught somewhere between your chest and your pride. But Jared didn’t press. He just sat there beside you, quiet, patient. Then you finally said it, barely audible: “I don’t want to be something he regrets”.

Jared looked at you like you’d just punched him in the heart. “He won’t. I promise you—he won’t”. Jared exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair as he leaned back, eyes soft but heavy with the weight of someone who’s seen more than he says. “Look”, he said quietly, “you gotta give him some time. All this? It’s still fresh. The divorce, the shift, you two… It’s a lot. And I get it—it doesn’t always feel fair. But it doesn’t mean it’s not real”.

You didn’t move, just stared at the ground like it might offer some clarity, like if you looked hard enough, the answers would carve themselves into the dirt.

“I’m not saying don’t feel what you’re feeling”, Jared went on. “You’re allowed to be unsure. To want more. Hell, you should. But don’t overthink yourself into a place that doesn’t exist yet”.

You glanced up, meeting his eyes. “And if I already have?”.

“Then you climb back out of it”, he said simply. “Because he’s worth it. And you are too”.

You blinked fast again, pressing your thumb hard against the corner of your eye. “I hate that this is complicated”.

Jared gave you a crooked smile. “Yeah, well. Complicated usually means it matters”.

You didn’t want that to be true, but deep down you knew it was. Things that don’t matter fall apart easily. This wasn’t falling apart. It was straining. Bending. Growing.

You nodded, slowly. Not in agreement with everything he said, but with the truth you couldn’t keep denying: Jensen was trying. You were both trying.

“I just want it to feel simple”, you admitted.

Jared laughed, soft and warm. “Simple is overrated. Boring, even”.

You gave him a look.

“Okay, less painful maybe”, he conceded.

A ghost of a smile touched your lips. “That’s better”.

And right then, you heard the creak of footsteps behind you, slower this time. Hesitant. You didn’t have to turn to know it was Jensen.

“I’ll give you guys a minute”, Jared said quietly, standing and brushing crumbs off his jeans. But before he stepped away, he paused, lowering his voice just enough for only you to hear. “You’ve got him more wrapped up than he knows what to do with”, he said. “He’s not going anywhere. Don’t let the past talk you out of the future”.

Then he was gone.

And you sat there, sandwich still untouched, heart still knotted, as Jensen came to stand next to you, hands in his pockets, gaze searching your face with quiet intensity. “You okay?”, he asked.

You looked up at him, and this time, you didn’t lie. “I’m trying to be”.

Jensen didn’t say anything right away. He just looked at you for a moment. Like he was trying to memorize the exact way you sat there, guarded and vulnerable all at once. And then, with that same quiet care you were beginning to recognize as his truest language, he reached out and gently took your hand.

His palm was warm. A little rough. Familiar in a way that made your chest ache. “Come here”, he said softly, coaxing you to your feet.

You rose without thinking, like gravity didn’t apply when it came to him. He didn’t let go.

You stood in front of him, close, too close, really, for where you were. The side of the trailer wasn’t a closed door. It was still part of the world. Still exposed. But in that moment, it felt like the only place that existed.

His eyes searched yours, slower this time. Measured. Like he wasn’t just checking if you were okay, but if you were still with him. If you were still his.

And maybe you were doing the same.

He lifted a hand, hesitated, then placed it lightly on your hip. Just his fingers. Barely there. “I know this isn’t easy”, he murmured, eyes never leaving yours. “You’re still figuring things out. Life, people… yourself. And I’m not pretending I don’t come with shit. A lot of it”.

Your breath caught in your throat. You didn’t interrupt. You couldn’t.

“I’ve got a whole past that doesn’t just disappear because I want to start over”, he continued. “And I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared that one day you’re gonna look at all of it—all of me—and decide you don’t want the mess”.

You felt your lips part, the beginnings of something, maybe comfort, maybe denial, but before you could speak, he leaned in just slightly, voice dropping low enough to steal your breath. “What are you doing tonight?”, he whispered, like it wasn’t just a question but a lifeline.

And then, his thumb brushed just slightly against the hem of your shirt, right where it met your waist. The smallest touch. Intimate in a way no one around you should see.

He caught himself a second too late. His hand dropped. His body shifted back. His eyes broke from yours like it hurt to do it. Jensen cleared his throat and looked down, voice suddenly quieter. “Sorry. We’re still in public”.

You nodded slowly, throat tight. “Yeah”.

But you didn’t step back. And neither did he. Instead, he looked up again, more careful now. “Come over tonight“.

He searched your gaze, the tension between you pulled taut but no longer fragile, just real. Honest in a way that felt scarier than anything physical ever had.

“I think we still have a lot we don’t know about each other”, Jensen said, his voice a notch lighter, the edges of his mouth curling into the smallest smile. “So… come over tonight. No pressure. No naked distractions”.

You raised an eyebrow. “No naked distractions?”.

He let out a low, quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay, maybe a little pressure”. Then his smile softened. “But I mean it. Just… me and you. Talking. No pretending, no dodging. Just figuring each other out”.

You nodded, slower this time, letting the meaning settle in. The intimacy of that offer—not sex, not heat, not secrecy—but truth. The kind of intimacy that couldn’t be rushed.

“Okay”, you said quietly. “I’d like that”.

He breathed out like he’d been holding it in, his whole posture easing. He didn’t reach for you again, maybe because of the space, or maybe because he knew the weight of restraint was just as powerful.

“I’ll make dinner”, he said, a little brighter now, clearly relieved by your answer. “Something terrible. Something I’ll pretend is homemade but is actually from a frozen bag I’ll bury in the trash before you arrive”.

You grinned. “Looking forward to your culinary lies”.

He grinned back, and for a second, the heaviness between you lifted. Then he stepped back, just enough to let the world filter in again, voices from the tent, footsteps a few trailers down.

“See you tonight”, he said.

“Yeah”, you murmured. “Tonight”.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

smosh

♡ 💬 40K ➤ smosh Coming up on the finale of Smosh Summer Games 2005 we have a new visitor in attendance...

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user can't believe they used that ss of angela 😭

user who is it omggg

user I KNOW THOSE BOOTIES ANYWHERE

user omg omg omggg

user okay WHAT is going on here?

user CANNOT WAIT FOR THIS EPISODE

ynhaas 🤭

user stfu it cant be...

"And finally, would our guest judge say yes to you or not?" A gasp rippled through the auditorium. Eyes shot wide as both Chanse and Angela turned to one another, mouths opened wide. Damien's arm stretched out. "Introducing our guest judge, Y/n Haas!" As a round of applause echoed, Angela's mouth stayed firmly low. She choked on the air. Chanse cackled beside her, beginning to holler out in glee when, true as ever, Y/n timidly waved to her new audience and stepped out of the shadow. "Oh I'm fucked." Angela whispered, mouth quirking up in shock. She turned to Chanse with panic, a nervous laugh tipping off her tongue. "I'm so fucked!" Y/n tucked her hands behind her back and smiled out. "Hey, guys."

Angela smiled widely at the confessional camera. "The second she walked out I knew I was fucked. I have literally never heard Chanse laugh so hard in his life."

Promposal through promposal, Angela stewed in nerves and discomfort. Practically half of her black nail polish had been gnawed off from her teeth. "Is it too late to drop out of Arahsa? She doesn't really need me." Chanse sent her a look, unimpressed with brows tight together. "Girl you are not making me hold her by myself–" Angela rolled her eyes. "Oh come on, you guys can find somebody else." "Nuh-uh, you're doing it." A whine painted her voice and a pout against her lips as Chanse dragged her up by the wrist.

To say she was humiliated was an understatement as she kneeled beside Chanse, Arasha's own digging into her back but a flutter flew up her chest at the sound of your stifled laughter. She took a breath. It was going to be fine. Fuck why hadn't she asked someone to join her? Anyone that could draft an actual promposal with her and not the bit she had been shoving together. For anyone else? Sure it'd be funny but you? Absolutely not. The need to be better coiled in her gut, not unfamiliar.

So the time finally arrived, the distant sound of Ian's monologue slowly dwindling. She summoned a deep breath as her shoes clapped in nerves. "Angela, you're fine." Chanse assured her. "It's not that bad, you don't even have to look at her." Angela looked up at him, brown eyes puppy-like. "But what if she hates it? This is like her first real impression of me since a year ago." A year ago that she completely fumbled her chance with you, only making a fool of herself on BOARDAF from across. Sure you had laughed politely and it was the sweetest sound she'd ever heard but it was nothing compared to the giggling that Courtney had sent you into.

"Come on, it's your turn!" Chanse encouraged, a hand on her shoulder and pushing lightly. He sighed. "Do you really want me to go with you?" Anegla bite her lip, hesitance filling her chest. "No, I...No. I'm gonna do it. It's like what? Five minutes?" "Exactly! Go get 'em, tiger!" He shoved her out, forcing her to stumble and fake an entrance. She slumped herself back into her persona, slanting lined eyes and dragging her heels to the keyboard. She sucked in a deep breath and screeched at the top of her lungs, drowning out her eardrums as she slammed hard on the keyboard. The room burst into a chorus of laughter and surprise. "Prom! Prom! Prom!" She cried, missing how you doubled over and clutched your stomach. "Prom!" She committed, stretching her face from the force that she screamed. She pulled out her double act of instruments, unable to hold back her own laughter anymore.

She hardly heard the approaching footsteps as they made their way to her. Until she looked up to smell the wave of perfume wafting over you and see the wide smile you reserved for her. She almost choked on the tube. Your nails dragged across the keyboard, mashing them haphazardly. No matter how stupid this bit had become, she couldn't stop the warmth that smouldered her heart as you joined in it. Eventually she drew out one final scream while you pressed hard on the highest note. As silence finally returned, a grouped applause enveloped you both as you bore your teeth at her in a grin. Angela forced her persona back on, faux nonchalance creeping in atop her flaming pink cheeks. She looked down at her feet as she kicked one against the stage. "So, you gonna go to prom with me or what?" She asked, voice gruff and raspy. Finally the giggle she had long awaited for swam through her ears. "Totally." You agreed, smile dangerous and beautiful.

ynhaas

♡ 63.4K 💬 1.3K ➤ ynhaas thank you for having me again @/smosh! i had a wonderful time time travelling with you. 🖤

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user omg i loved her sm

user smosh needs to BRING HER BACK

co_mill my wife came back to me! ⤷ ynhaas missed you too bbg ⤷ user chat this affected me HARD

user damien stop hiding her i beg

user i would deadass watch her and ange interact for HOURS

user girl can you stay in 2005? that look was ICONIC ⤷ giving gothic angelina jolie LMAO

keithleakjr blaming damien for the yn drought

user i think everyone can tell which team she was on lmao ⤷ user literally accepted EVERY dd promposal aha

user angela could not make eye contact to save her life 🤣

user ok so when's the marriage proposal ep????

damienhaas give me my job back please ⤷ ynhaas no.

It was almost half an hour after filming wrapped that you had finally built up the courage to walk up to her. Angela Giarratana. The girl that you had been crushing on from afar ever since you got to see Nerdy Prudes Must Die live. Every time she appeared in your feed, casually beside your brother or a goofy clip going viral, you couldn't help but feel a blush rush to your face. It tinged your ears, too engrossed in her humour, her smile, her everything. You took a breath of courage as you tapped her on the shoulder. A shy smile twitched your lips. "Hey, Angela!" Her eyes snapped wide, surprised somehow that you even remembered her name. You could see her gulp. "I was just-well, I was just wondering whether you'd like to hang out sometime? Just the two of us?" Your fingers fiddled together, your sudden act of bravery slowing. She stared blankly ahead at you for a moment. "What?" Embarrassment flooded you until she snapped out of it and stood bolt-upright. "Yes! Yes, totally that'd be really cool. Yes, please, I 'd like that, I'd really, really like that."

Relief flooded you, drooping your shoulders. "Thank god." You smiled. She fumbled for her phone suddenly. "Can I get your number? I know this super good place down the road, I mean–if you're not busy of course! We could go for dinner and–" "I'd like that."

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angelagiovanagiarratana posted!

♡ 114K 💬 202 ➤ angelagiovanagiarratana Goodnight smosh summer games 2005

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ynhaas

♡ 46K 💬 355 ➤ ynhaas the time of my life these two weeks