Dean cracks eggs into the pan, methodical, precisely, as if keeping his hands busy won’t prevent him from shattering the fragile calm we’ve built out of ash.
I sip my coffee and watch him, my heart still battered and bruised from last night. He told me the truth. He let me see the part of him he hides from everyone else. That should scare me, but all it does is pull me deeper.
For a moment, it’s almost domestic. Almost normal. Almost like I could belong here, in this house, in his world.
But there’s a tremor under the silence. A shadow I can’t shake.
And when Dean finally sets the plate in front of me, his hand lingering just a second too long against mine, the thought hits me like a chill down my spine.
This safety isn’t real.
It never was.
The house feels different without Kate.
The rooms are larger and quieter, as if everything has lost its pretence. Her laughter used to fill the space, her footsteps darting up and down the stairs like she was keeping the house alive just by existing. Now there’s only silence. Silence, and Dean.
I sit at the counter with my coffee, my fingers tracing nervous little circles in the steam on the mug. Across the kitchen, Dean moves like he belongs to every inch of the space. Shirt sleeves rolled up, forearms taut as he works the skillet, a man who shouldn’t look half as devastating while doing something as mundane as cooking breakfast.
It unsettles me. How normal it feels. How much I want to sink into this version of him—the man who can lean on thecounter, fork in hand, and smirk at me like I’m his wife instead of his daughter’s best friend.
“Eat,” he says when he finally slides a plate in front of me. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, all perfectly golden, like he’s been planning this.
I take a bite, and it’s better than it has any right to be. My stomach knots at the thought—because the moment feels so safe, so ordinary, and I know better than to believe in it.
His gaze lingers while I chew, heavier than the food in my mouth. When I finally swallow, his hand reaches out, brushing a crumb from the corner of my lip with his thumb. Casual. Intimate.
Too much.
My breath stutters. “Dean…”
“What?” His voice drops, all soft gravel, like he already knows the warning on my tongue.
I shake my head, but it doesn’t matter. His thumb lingers just a moment too long, then drags away slowly, like he’s daring me to stop pretending this is anything less than what it is.
The kitchen is warm. The food smells rich. The sunlight spills through the windows as if it’s blessing the scene.
And all I can think is how fragile it feels.
Like safety is an illusion I’m swallowing bite by bite, too sweet to spit out, too dangerous to keep down.
Dean watches me eat like it’s a test, like every forkful is proof I’m still here, still his. The silence between us feels heavy but not empty—charged, like a storm sitting just off the horizon, waiting to roll in.
I force another bite down, trying to pretend this is normal, that the walls aren’t closing in, that I’m not imagining shadows moving past the windows. But the truth sits in my stomach heavier than the food.
Rafe knows where I am.
He made sure of it.
I can still hear his voice from that night, low and smooth, curling like smoke in my ear: “You think you’re safe because you’ve got him? Sweetheart, you’re only breathing because I allow it.”
The fork slips from my hand, clattering against the plate. Dean’s head snaps up instantly, every line of his body tense, protective, like he’s waiting for a gun to go off.
“Brooklyn.” My name is an order on his tongue. “What was that?”
I shake my head, trying to steady my breathing. “Nothing. Just… my mind.”
But his jaw locks, eyes narrowing as if he can see the memory etched behind mine. He knows me well enough now to recognise a lie, and the worst part is—I want him to.
