Hot fries. Her favorite.

You lounge on your bed, legs kicked up and laptop propped on a pillow, scrolling through half-watched movie options. You crunch another chip between your teeth, smearing a little seasoning on your fingertips as you finally press play on something. The room is dim, lit only by the glow of the screen, and your world is simple and quiet—until a knock breaks through it.

You freeze for a second, mid-bite, and turn your head toward the door. With a soft sigh, you drag yourself up, chip still in your mouth, and pad over to open it.

It's Dean.

He stands there, hoodie on, hands shoved into his pockets like he didn't mean to be a problem. His eyes drop immediately to the chip hanging from your lips.

"Nice," he says with a grin.

You squint at him, unimpressed. He doesn't flinch.

"I'm here 'cause Saddie forgot her pants," he adds, stepping inside before you can decide whether or not to invite him. "You know. The ripped ones."

You blink. Then turn away wordlessly to go dig through the laundry basket.

"Make yourself at home," you mutter over your shoulder.

Dean, ever the opportunist, immediately plops down on the couch and glances at your laptop screen. A laugh slips from his chest. "You watching this?" he calls out, amused.

You come back holding the pants, drop them lazily on the couch beside him, and sit down next to him without comment. The bag of chips returns to your lap.

He looks at the vodka bottle on the table, then at you.

You don't ask. Just pour a little into a red cup and hand it over.

Dean raises his brows, smirking. "Wow. Classy."

You nudge him with your elbow. He nudges back. The usual.

You don't need much to get started. One drink turns into two. Then three. The room starts to hum around you, your laughter getting louder, your limbs a little looser. By the time you're halfway through the movie, you're practically wheezing.

"The damn dog remembered him—!" Dean is dying with laughter, but it's you who's doubled over, tears sliding down your cheeks, trying to hold your breath.

Dean stares at you. "Wait—are you crying or laughing?"

You only laugh harder, hand wiping at your face as you try to breathe.

Eventually, the noise fades. The movie drones on in the background as the room quiets around you both, catching your breath.

Dean leans back against the cushions, the buzz in his body making everything feel slow, warm. You have that lazy little smile again, eyes glassy, fingers still digging in the chip bag. He finds himself watching you longer than he means to.

"You should watch the one with the frog," you mumble, gesturing loosely. "And the butterfly..."

Dean's eyes don't leave your face. You aren't even looking at him.

You blink, trying to focus. "Where's Saddie?"

He shrugs. Then nods. "She's asleep. Sara too. Everyone's boring now. I even hired someone just to make sure."

Another pause. You look at each other again.

"I should go," he says quietly, though he doesn't move.

You just nod.

But neither of you turns away.

His eyes drop to your lips. Yours flick up to meet his. That invisible line between you stretches tighter, and then, without warning, he leans in. Your mouths meet—soft, then urgent. Your back hits the couch, his hands cradling your face like he'd been waiting weeks just to touch you.

The table bumps behind you as you sink deeper into the cushions, one of your feet knocking over a cup. Neither of you notices.