The elevator ride up to the penthouse was pissing off Dean more than ever. As if it was personally conspiring against him. Dean’s jaw ticked as he rubbed a thumb across his temple, the day’s migraine getting all gussied up and comfy in his head. Some intern—God knows where they plucked the fucking dunce from—deleted an entire quarter’s worth of data analysis reports, and the entire floor had gone into panic mode. Dean had spent hours rummaging through financials, re-approving budgets, and holding back the urge to burn down the entire firm itself.

His cigarette case was already half-empty before he even got home.

The doors parted with a soft ding, and he stepped into the warm, dim lighting of his penthouse. The scent of his cologne still lingered faintly in the air from this morning’s routine, but beneath it was something softer. Familiar. Your perfume. Something sugary and faintly citrus, already branded into his senses like instinct. He loosened his tie as he walked past the foyer, hanging his coat with slow, mechanical movements, the weight of the day still dragging him harder than gravity ever could.

The soft drone of the TV caught his attention—low volume, grainy static hum, the sounds of an old black-and-white movie still running. Judging by the insufferable high-pitched tones and boggling words coming from it, he assumed it couldn’t have been any news he was watching. Dean turned the corner and saw you.

You were curled up on the couch, half-covered in one of the throw blankets, head tilted at an awkward angle as you drifted in and out of sleep. Your eyes fluttered like you were fighting it—trying to stay up for him, probably—but this girl probably lost the war of consciousness before she even saddled up. He stopped in his tracks.

All the irritation and noise in his head dulled. Null and voided out of the files in his head. Dean ran a hand through his slicked-back hair, exhaling through his nose.

Damn, he could look at you forever.

He crouched down in front of you, knees popping in protest. Normally he wouldn’t risk a wrinkle on a ten-thousand-dollar suit, but for you? Shit, you could track mud all over the Italian rug and he’d still think you were precious. He reached out and brushed a few strands of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered near your cheek, then drew back slow, like touching fine silk.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice gravelly and low from the cigarette break he snuck after the office conundrum. “You tryin’ to wait up for me again, baby girl?”

Your eyelids fluttered, shifting faintly toward consciousness, and his tone softened even further—absolutely whipped for you. He smiled amusedly to himself, rubbing his thumb along your temple.

“You keep looking like that, and I’m liable to marry you right here on the damn coffee table.” He was a lawyer, after all; always has access to a judge.

Then, quieter, with a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You eat yet? Or am I ordering from that diner you like again?”