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izukuwus · 3 months

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thinking started feeling like burning - nishinoya yuu/reader

m.list - deleted smut scene - read on ao3

A/N: would you believe I wrote the majority of this BEFORE having a complete mental break and quitting my job without any sort of plan? this one is gonna have a smut spinoff oneshot sometime before the end of the month but no clear ETA yet due to school and job hunting. this boy needs more love and goddammit I may not be confident in my noya but I'M GONNA GIVE IT TO HIM

Summary: Nothing had changed since you left. Not him, a brilliant hurricane, and not you, a lost robot moving forward with no goals or dreams of your own. Opposites attract, after all.

Warnings: past minor character death, suggestive themes. reader is gender-neutral but for purposes of the deleted smut scene coming later is afab. reader basically has an anxiety disorder and it's implied they have not great parentage but no major detail is gone into.

Word count: ~8600

desolate

/dĕs′ə-lĭt, dĕz′-/

adjective

1. Devoid of inhabitants; deserted

2. Barren; lifeless

Yeah, maybe that was it. Desolate. In this hotel room—small, furnished but empty—you set aside your phone and its little dictionary definition of what’s wrong with you and the definition imprints itself on your brain all over again. Hardly the first time you’ve known the meaning of the word, but perhaps the first you’ve recognized it in your face.

In high school, you’d occupied your time with almost nothing but studying. There had been friends, one or two, and a blip towards the end in the form of a boyfriend, but you had potential and didn’t need to focus on things like going out to karaoke or making out with a guy when you had exams to study for.

You had so much potential.

You recall, dimly, having memorized the definition for desolate one day among all your vocabulary. More than that, reciting it for a hopeless light in your life who just didn’t get all this school stuff.

Your nose wrinkles at the memory. Best not get caught up in that spiral, yeah?

Against your better judgment, you flop onto the hotel room bed face-first and sigh. What the fuck are you even doing here? None of this was necessary. None of this was planned for.

There’s, of course, the simple textbook facts of the situation: you attended a work event, and halfway through, went to the bathroom and just stared at yourself in the mirror—much like the way you spent the past half an hour in a hotel bathroom—went home, got in your car, and drove to a hotel precariously close to your hometown. Sure, there’d been some kind of internal monologue going on, but you don’t remember any of it anymore. Nothing beyond what you’ve known for the past six years:

Something is fundamentally wrong with you.

“So, what, we get in our car and drive away and don’t show up to work and hope it all works out?”

The desolate room does not answer the desolate you.

Some species of sea turtle have been observed returning to the beach where they were born in order to nest, a phenomenon known as “natal homing”. There are many theories as to how they are able to return to their birthplace…

Like the sea turtle, you swim through endless water and find yourself, of all places, back in Miyagi, staring at a house you only vaguely remember and wondering if your instincts really led you here, or if you’re staring at a random stranger’s house you’ve never been to. Maybe there’s more than one family with his last name in the area.

It looks like all the others—a house in the countryside, standard and homely. You were here… what? Three times? Five?

Not even in the double digits—you know that much. You and Noya had spent more time together at school, or at your house. Your parents hadn’t wanted you to spend too much time alone with a guy at his house. In hindsight, you kind of get it. His grandfather hadn’t exactly been the type to make sure you two were being good kids, or whatever.

Still, you run your fingers over the nameplate, the kanji of Nishinoya’s last name, and try to figure out why this, of all places, is where you’ve drifted to.

“[name]?”

You startle, looking to the voice. Familiar, yet matured. Perhaps a bit lower. Perhaps carrying an emotion you don’t recognize. That, you know, must be him.

You note with a barely-stifled laugh that Noya has not changed his hair in the years since you’ve seen him. Still that stupid, adorable tuft of dyed blond hanging down in his face. Good.

Then, the feeling passes, and the panic sets in.

What the fuck are you doing at your ex-boyfriend’s house?

“Noya,” you breathe. You nod to him, stunned.

“Holy shit, that’s actually you!” He’s closed the distance in an instant, swept you off your feet in a hug that has you crying out in surprise. When he sets you down, you stumble, trying to catch your brain before it falls out your head. He studies you with bright, sharp eyes. “What are you doing here?”

Ah. “Uh, yeah. About that? I… I have no idea.”

He blinks slowly, and then he’s laughing. “That’s not like you at all! Come on, if you’ve got the time to sit down, I’m sure we’ve got something around here to feed you with.”

“Feed me…? Wait, I…”

But he’s already grabbed your wrist, pulled you across the forbidden threshold and right to the front door. Maybe you should have thought about literally anything before showing up at his house.

Too late for regrets, you guess. You’re in way too deep for him to let you slip away now.

In your mind, Nishinoya is steepling his hands together like a stern employer trying to figure out the best way to admonish a bad employee. The image doesn’t really suit him, and you do know that, but you still feel like cubicle fodder waiting to get chewed out.

In reality, he’s resting his chin in his hand, watching you carefully as you run your thumb over the glass of water he’s given you and try not to meet his eyes. (It had taken quite a bit of debating to keep him from actually feeding you. The water was a concession in a valiant fight.)

“So, you don’t know what you’re doing?”

A slow nod.

“You don’t know what you’re doing.” The statement, repeated, does little to hide how astounded he is at the concept.

You sigh. It is easy and so, so heavy as the air escapes you. Maybe you can drown your errant thoughts in water until you understand just what, exactly, you’re trying to do here. You try, but no matter how much you drink, you still don’t have an answer. “Pretty much, yeah. I just sort of ended up here.”

He has an easy smile on his lips, sharp eyes taking you in. “After what?”

“What do you mean, after what?”

“I mean, it’s not like you to just run off and end up anywhere. You’re, you know, thoughtful and stuff! I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of you just doing something without at least three plans ready to go in case something went wrong.”

“I mean, there was you,” you admit with a laugh.

Shit. That was the wrong thing to say, but here you are, panicking and thinking you’ll make things even more awkward than you already feel, and there he is, smiling like he’s looking at…

What?

It isn’t until he’s leaning in further like he’s about to say something dirty that you realize your real mistake in that response.

“You didn’t think before you did me, huh?”

Your cheeks flare, and you hurriedly down the rest of the glass of water while you try to think of a suitable redirect. “You know what I meant!”

“Sure do! You meant—“

“Oh, hush.”

He laughs, and you fall into silence, trying to commit the sound of his laugh to memory.

That’s what sucks about this, oddly enough: you sit at his dining room table, holding a now-empty cup, and it’s just as easy as it always was. He tells you what he’s been up to: how he doesn’t play volleyball anymore (tragic—you loved watching him play) and he’s been traveling a lot (infuriating—you love to travel) and he’s dated once or twice since you last spoke, but nothing really lasting.

(heartbreaking.)

(you love—)

(you loved him when you left.)

“So,” he says, ever enthusiastic to redirect the conversation onto you, “what have you been up to?”

“Nothing, I guess.”

“Oh, come on. You’ve always been amazing. I bet you’ve been doing something awesome with that brain of yours. You wanted to write, right? How’s that going?”

Hah. Amazing. He’s only saying that because you were useful when you tutored him. “No, really. Nothing. Sales, I guess. Convincing people to give up money for a product I don’t believe in for a company I hate. I guess I’m up for a promotion soon. Really though, I think I’ve probably just been dead for the last… what, six years?”

You’d picked the number because it was when you graduated high school. That had made sense to you—college, too, had felt like nothing. No parties, no partners, just studying, exams, and keeping your body moving forward until you had a neat little degree in a field you didn’t care about. But when you spare a glance away from the window, where your attention has been glued in hopes of avoiding letting the awkwardness and pain of this whole situation actually hit you, it’s the first time since he ran into you that Noya isn’t smiling at you.

Oh yeah. And right before you graduated, you’d broken up with him.

“You broke up with me, you know,” he says after a long moment. “Are you saying you’ve been a ghost this whole time?”

And ouch. He’s right, and you hate that. It hadn’t been his fault you’d left. It’d been your insecurities, your inability to handle the weight of your parents’ disapproval, your unwillingness to fight for something that seemed so correct, your stunning realization that Noya would always shine too brightly for you to be the one standing beside him. He always thought you were amazing, but you were nothing compared to his whirlwind personality, his passion, his sense of life.

Maybe this would have been easier if you’d ever told him that.

“I don’t know what I’m saying. Probably just that high school was the last time I felt like a real person, and that ever since, I’ve just been going through the motions and slowly losing my mind and trying not to panic about the fact that not only do I not have any direction in life, I don’t even know how to enjoy it if I did.” Your words come out calm and metered. You try not to betray the worst of it.

For a moment, talking to him, you’d been able to forget the person you’ve been since graduation. You were always moving forward a step at a time, but at some point, you stopped being a hiker on your predetermined life path and just let yourself be a robot. Mechanical step after mechanical step. Just keep moving forward and you’ll get to where you’re going. When you get to where you’re going, you’ll take another stupid, empty step towards where you’re going now. Some successful career, some boring partner that your parents like, kids, wake up, go to sleep, another day, another day, another day doing exactly what you’re expected to do. Just keep following that bright, clear line. That bright, clear line to nowhere at all.

And then you stumbled. And now you’re here, again. Dizzy, sitting at the same table with the same guy.

At some point, you’d trailed off, staring at the table and searching for scars of a life well-used on its surface. You hear the shuffle of him standing over you, and look up to find him reaching out a hand to you. “Alright. Come on.”

“Come… on?”

He leans forward a bit more to take your hand and pull you up. “I’m taking you out to dinner.”

“Huh? Wait, but where?”

“Don’t know yet!”

He drags you out, and you stumble after him in mind and body.

“It’s one o’clock!”

“So we’ll scout places that look good while we get lunch. You don’t have anything to do, right?”

“Well, no, but—“

“Then we’re going!”

He pulls you right past the entryway, nearly has you out the front door before you can protest. “I’m not wearing shoes, Noya! You’re not wearing shoes!”

He only laughs, only pauses, only gives you a moment. “Get them on, then.”

“And do you even have your wallet?”

He blinks and pats his pockets. “Guess not! You’ve got until I’m back with my wallet to get your shoes on and decide to let this happen!”

Decide… to let this happen?

He disappears around the corner, deeper into the house, and at last you sigh, sitting to put your shoes on properly. You doubt he’ll be quick finding his wallet—if he’s anything like you remember (and so far, he’s exactly like you remember) then he has absolutely no idea where he put it last. If you didn’t think he’d absolutely drag you out the door once it was found, you’d kick your shoes back off and help him look.

After getting your shoes on, setting his out in ideal kicking-feet-into-without-stopping position, and five minutes of listening to him rustle about the house, you glance at a table in the entryway and smile at the sight of a plain black wallet in the dish. You inspect it, just in case it’s not his—there’s been no sign of Noya’s grandfather around, but almost nothing’s changed, so he probably still lives here. Better to check.

You open it, just to see that it’s got his ID in there and not someone else’s, and nearly slam it closed again immediately.

Yeah, it’s his missing wallet. ID and everything. And, in the little photo slot, a six-year-old photo of him in his volleyball jersey, million-volt smile on his face as you push him away with your own brilliant smile. He’d just won a game, and you’d been busy trying to get him, gross and sweaty, to stop getting all that gross and sweaty on you even as you laughed the entire time. Tanaka took the picture, you think—there’s a bit of thumb in the bottom right corner.

Noya keeps a photo of the two of you in his wallet. After six years without talking.

A noise bangs from somewhere else in the house, and you close the wallet and force down the warmth welling in your chest and rushing to your face. “All good?” you call out.

“I can’t find my stupid wallet!” he shouts back a moment later. He sounds a bit frustrated. “This isn’t going to work if I spend the whole day trying to—“

“Nishinoya,” you cut him off, half sing-song, “you left it by the door.”

No reply except the thudding of feet as he runs right up to you and plucks it from your hand. “There it is! I found it!”

“Oh, really? You found it?”

“Yep! Are your shoes on? We gotta go now!”

“Go where? You’re in an awful rush. Do you have plans or something?”

He kicks his shoes on and grabs your wrist again. “Nope! You’re gonna love it!”

Really a type of plankton, jellyfish possess extremely limited swimming abilities, if any at all, and rely on the currents to control their horizontal movements through the sea.

It occurs to you, as you make the trek to the bus stop, that you didn’t have to say yes to this. Well, really, it’s not like you said yes so much as didn’t say otherwise, and Noya, ever the trail-blazer, pulled you along for the ride. What’s even the difference in what you’re doing now and what you’ve been doing these past six years?

You barely make the bus. Nishinoya pays the fare for both of you, before you can protest, and when there’s only one open seat, he takes it.

“You’re such a gentleman,” you snort.

He responds by tugging you down into his lap. “I am!”

You’re stronger than you were in high school. Really, you are. You don’t collapse into emotions like embarrassment. You don’t let the sensation of being flustered consume you. You do not.

…you bury your face in your hands. “What are we doing right now?”

Always laughing. Always lighthearted. “What do you mean? We’re taking the bus someplace we can find some restaurants.”

“You know exactly what I mean!”

The bus passes over a bump, and he wraps an arm around your waist to steady you. “You know, you’ve barely changed at all.”

“Neither have you,” you fire back. You meant it as an accusation, but the words come out tender. “You’re still a complete hurricane.”

He laughs, his own tenderness bleeding through. “And you’re still not letting yourself have anything you want.”

“When have I ever—“

“I think you know.” His other arm comes around your waist, holding you in a loose hug, chin resting against your arm.

You try not to stiffen at all the contact. This, too, is something you haven’t felt in ages—simple, casual touch. He had always been that way, resting a hand on your shoulder, your back, running fingers through the ends of your hair, like if he stopped touching you, you’d run away.

Maybe he was right. Maybe he is right.

“You didn’t answer me before. Are you still writing? I’ve been keeping an eye out for your name on the shelves, you know.”

You rest a hand on his arm, half considering pushing his arm off. The bus stops, but apparently not at a stop Noya is interested in dragging you off at—he steadies you as the bus jolts, and as a few passengers file off, you consider admitting the answer.

“Poetry these days, mostly. It’s not like I’d ever get published if I went for it, so I just scribble out a few half-assed lines and—“

“See, stop that. That’s half your problem right there, you know!”

“Another seat just opened up, you know,” you mumble. If you try to fight him on this, he’ll end up talking you into these grand ideas that you’ll never be able to accomplish, and by the end of the day he’ll probably have you in love with him all over again, even though you know it would never work, even though you know you’d never really be anything—as an employee, as a person, as his. “We don’t have to do this… couple-y thing.”

“I want to, though. It’s nice, isn’t it?”

…it is. It really is.

“…I still like to write, but I never have time anymore. It’s work, recovering from work, getting ready for work, waiting to come home from work so I can prep lunches and wash my clothes so I have something to eat and wear at work. I don’t have energy for anything except meetings, emails, and phone calls where no one means anything they say.”

“Damn. No wonder you seem so lost. Why don’t you quit?”

“And do what? It’s not like I have a dream job. I just want to get by and survive—“

“Why? You’re not happy. Don’t you want to do something more than survive?”

“I don’t even know what that would look like, Noya.”

He says everything so simply. Just quit. Just move on. Just move forward. He’s lucky, you think. He doesn’t know what it’s like to have parents planning out your entire life for you.

…okay, that was mean. Add that to the list of things that are wrong with you.

He sighs, shaking you gently in his hold. “It’s worse than I thought. Hey, [name], why’d you come here?”

“I told you already. I have no idea.”

“Alright. Adding it to the list. Today, you’re experiencing adventure for the first time in six years, and you’re gonna figure out what you were doing standing outside my house at noon on a Saturday. If I have my way, you’re also going to be quitting your job and starting a promising career as the greatest writer Japan’s ever seen, renowned the world over, but we can get to that some other time if you want!”

“Noya, I’m not—“ Your words die in your throat as his fingers slide between yours. You hadn’t realized your hand was sliding up his arm, but here he is, holding hands with you like it’s nothing.

God. How old are you, again?

Lunch ends up being crepes. Never mind the fact that crepes are not a meal, not even when Noya suggests buying two each—he proudly declares it lunch, and so lunch it must be. You’re lucky that he graciously allowed you to get a table, though he’d insisted on grabbing one outside even as the sky above has started to loom with rainclouds.

“And what’ll we do if it rains?” you retort drily as he sits across from you.

“We’ll figure it out,” he grins, sliding you a menu. “Dry off after we get rained on, not before.”

You snort. “How about we just try not to get rained on?”

“Then we would be sitting inside, and you wouldn’t get to look up at the clouds while we eat! You always liked the way the sky looked before it rained, right?”

A soft huff leaves you, a small smile unbidden. “You actually remember that? I think I said that to you, like, one time.”

He nods. “Only had to say it once! Besides, I caught you staring up at the sky in the rain more than once.”

“And yet, I had to repeat the same information for you so many times, only for you to still get it wrong on test day…”

“Hey! I was distracted!”

“You weren’t supposed to be,” you tease.

“What was I supposed to do? There was this gorgeous person sitting across from me telling me all these complicated things in a nice voice. I’m a simple man!”

Though your cheeks heat at the declaration, you can’t help but laugh. “Clearly.”

“Yeah. Clearly.” For just a moment, he’s soft, unbearably soft, and you fear looking at him. Quick, change the subject before you have to acknowledge whatever’s going on here!

“S-so!” Smooth! You’re doing great, sweetie! “Any idea what you’re going to get?”

He slaps a finger down on the menu without looking. “A… monte… monte…”

You sigh and peer over to look at the fanciful English he’s pointing to. “A Monte Cristo crepe?”

“Yeah!”

“Did you read the part where it’s got onions as a main ingredient? Don’t you hate onions?”

He wrinkles his nose, but stands firm. “I’m sure!”

You huff softly. “Alright. Far be it from me to stop you.”

“What about you? Make a pros and cons list for each menu item yet?” he teases.

“For your information, I don’t have to do that when ordering in restaurants. That’s for big decisions. But…” You sigh. “I haven’t eaten out in a while. It stresses me out.”

“Why?”

“So let’s say I pick something that looks good, and it sucks. I won’t eat it because it sucks, but then I feel like I’ve insulted the chef and wasted my time and money.”

He narrows his eyes at you. “If you don’t like it, you don’t like it. But at least you’ll know! When’s the last time you actually ate out like this?”

You bite your lip thoughtfully. When was it?

“I… think I did a celebration dinner with my parents when I graduated?”

“College?”

“No, high school. We didn’t celebrate when I graduated college.”

Once again, he’s staring at you in blank disbelief. “[name], that was six years ago.”

You flush. “Yeah, so?”

“That’s so sad. What have you been doing? I’m about to take you on a food tour just so you can catch up on all the restaurants you’ve been missing.”

You wrinkle your nose. “Please, no. I can’t eat that much.”

“Then we’ll spread it out!”

“Noya…”

The waiter drops in at exactly the wrong time. Flustered, you stumble your way into lemonade for you, apple cider for him, and then, as he’s confidently mispronouncing “Monte Cristo” to the waiter, you panic and end up ordering some curry crepe, a concept which intrigues and horrifies you.

“How’d you even find this place? Seems weird for there to be some half-French, half-English upscale crepe restaurant out in Miyagi.”

“What do you mean, how did I find it? We found it together. I’ve never eaten here.”

Right. He’s completely winging everything. “Amazing.”

“Right?”

Drinks come, and you sigh into a masterful lemonade and try to think of things to say to fill the space between you and your ex. (You have to try not to forget that bit—that this isn’t natural, that this can’t lead anywhere. For your sake and his.) “So, how’s your grandfather been?”

The easy smile on Noya’s lips drops. “Oh. He died late last year. Age caught up to him, I guess.”

Oh. Fuck. “Noya, I’m so…”

He shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. Crazy bastard had a hell of a time of it. He’d hate for me to sit around feeling bad about it, anyway.”

He wouldn’t want you to pity him. Doesn’t want you to pity him. You know that. But…

Did Noya ever talk about any other family members when you knew him? You know he lived in that house with his grandfather. No siblings. Never mentioned any cousins. You know he didn’t grow up around his parents, either…

Has he been alone this whole time?

You reach across the table. Place a hand on his. “Maybe I’ll visit more often.”

In silence, the two of you sit and wait for your crepes.

The crepes come out, and with them, new points of conversation that carry you both to finishing—all the way until Noya manages to argue you into letting him pay. He pulls you along, a bit slower than before, a bit easier. You can’t help but let him take your hand and bring you wherever the wind is leading him, half-pitying him and half from the complete lack of will to fight him all day.

“I told you you weren’t gonna like what you ended up ordering.”

“You liked it though, right?”

Predictably, he’d taken one bite of the crepe and instantly realized his mistake. Far too much onions for his tastes. Your curry crepe had been… well…

Let’s just say that you weren’t especially upset when Noya asked you to swap.

“It was really good, if you like onions.”

“I know what I like! Onions aren’t it!”

It’s easy like this, and the day really is nice. There’s rain on the breeze and in the clouds, a pleasant scent and a comforting gloom over the day. You tease and joke back and forth, hand in hand like it’s natural, and it is. It’s easy, being around him. It was easy back then, too. So easy it scares you.

You’re just waiting for the bottom to fall out.

You’re waiting for the bottom to fall out, and it does—with a shriek and loud laughter, rain chases the both of you underneath a tree and within sight of the nearest bus stop, soaking you both through to the bone.

“See?” Noya says, grinning as he pulls you a little closer underneath the tree. “Now we can worry about getting dry.”

“You’re unbelievable,” said with a smile. “What is all this meant to prove again?”

“Well, why’d you come here?”

“Here? You dragged me out here.”

“Yeah, but why’d you come back to Miyagi? I’m just saying, my doorstep is not the first place I expected you to turn up on when the inevitable nervous breakdown hit.”

You fall silent, shiver in the rain. It’s peaceful. You try to focus on watching for a bus, anything except the question you were asked.

“[name].”

You glance at him, yelp a little to find how close the two of you have gotten. This close, in this kind of situation, it’d be only natural for you to lean in, for you to brush your lips against his.

God, have you even kissed anyone since you burned everything down?

You’re not doing this. You’re not falling into a hurricane like him again. You won’t be able to come back if you do that. (Especially with such a fucking cliché.)

You turn away. “You already asked me that. I told you before, I don’t know.”

He hums thoughtfully. Drapes his jacket over both of your heads in an attempt to keep you both from looking any more rained out than you already do.

“I’m just saying, if you want my opinion, you’re going to have to do a lot more adventuring and a lot less sales for a company you hate if you want to remember what ‘happy’ is supposed to feel like.”

“Not sure I ever knew what that was like to begin with.”

“Never?”

“When I was a kid, maybe.”

He tilts his head. “Not even when we dated? Is that why you broke up with me?” He sounds genuinely curious. Would it feel better, you wonder, if he sounded hurt?

You wince. “I didn’t mean… I just…” A sigh. “It’s more like, I was too afraid to let myself be happy when I was with you.” In the close proximity, you find it easier to let your head rest against him a little. “Please don’t misunderstand. I like you. I probably would have been really happy with you if there weren’t something fundamentally wrong with me as a person.” Shit. You definitely misspoke there.

“I don’t really know how to teach you to relax a little, but it’s gotta be easier now that you’re out of your parents’ house. Maybe you need to go somewhere completely new. Get a fresh outlook.”

You arch a brow his way. At least he’s not commenting on your slip of the tongue. “What are you suggesting, Nishinoya?”

“I’m leaving for Italy. Six weeks. That’s enough time for you to plan your little heart out, right?”

“Italy.”

He nods, as though it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Italy.”

“And if I came back after six years to kill you or something?”

He barks a laugh, stark against the pouring rain. His eyes linger on you. The part of you that’s charitable to yourself thinks he might be mentally undressing the clothes sticking to your skin, though you know it’s more of a challenging look. “I’d like to see you try.”

One soaking wet bus ride back to Noya’s house doesn’t save you from this little adventure plan of his. Instead, you’re given a towel or two to dry off with and a change of clothes from his closet, as though it’s the most natural thing in the world. The way he acts, everything is.

So now here you are, wearing a shirt far too large for you that you’ve wrestled into looking somewhat nice with Nishinoya’s jeans. It slides off your shoulder a bit no matter how many times you fix it. You admit, you do manage to pull it off, but the whirlwind of the day still has your head spinning with just how wrong this situation is.

You’re supposed to be at work right now. You should be in office clothes, sitting at a desk in a too-cold cubicle that you never got around to decorating, perfect and polished while you tap out yet another perfectly-balanced email, three-quarters professional, one-quarter gentle familiarity to lure your clients into a false sense of security. Not standing in your ex’s bathroom, tying one of his t-shirts at the waist, adjusting your hair to look closer to “decent” than “drowned rat”. This, this day, this situation, was never supposed to happen.

Is this whole day going to be a stumble? How long will it be until you catch yourself and get back to moving forward? When you do, will you still have a place at your desk?

Do you even want one?

A knock at the bathroom door. “If you give me your clothes, I’ll get them started drying,” his voice filters through the door.

All of these actions have been so easy. Your wet clothes, picked up from where they hung shower-side. Easy to wring them out a bit more to keep from making the floor worse. Easy to open the door. Easy to hand them to him.

Nothing had ever been particularly hard before him, but falling in love with him had been just like this: easy.

Maybe the first easy thing you ever remember.

So you go along with it. Another bus ride, this one less crowded than before. This time with umbrella in hand—just one, because of course Noya didn’t even think about it on the way out the door—and a determination to figure out what the hell you’re doing here to begin with.

Everything is as everything was, you think. Shops lining the street, one familiar sight in particular, one of two things you had never had the strength to deny yourself back in school. At the sight of the bookshop, you tug Nishinoya to a stop. You’re a little surprised when he actually does stop.

“Sorry, can we head in? I used to love this place back in school.” You nod to the bookshop. He smiles and lets you lead the way.

“I think that’s the first time you’ve done something selfish today,” he comments as you lead him in.

You refuse to meet that one with a reply.

The shop is exactly as you remember. High stacks of books, books, books everywhere. The scent of old books and a slight spice in the air, scents blending and mixing until, for just a moment, you’re in high school again, marveling at rare finds coming through the used books section and finding some new world to escape into.

You sigh into the scent and disappear into the stacks. Noya is kind enough to humor you as you pick through, find a title or two to take up to the register. If you really do come back to visit from time to time, you’ll have to make sure to stop in here when you do. The old woman at the register hasn’t aged a day. She smiles when she sees you the same way you’re smiling as you approach her.

“Is that little [name]?” she asks, though you both know she already knows the answer. “Why, I haven’t seen you around here in ages! You’ve grown so well!”

“It’s wonderful to see you again, ma’am.”

“Just as polite as you always were. Find everything you were looking for?”

She’s got a poster on the counter by the register. You steal a glance, then meet her eyes with a smile. “Sure did! I’m glad to see you guys are still here.”

Her smile turns bitter. “I’m not sure how much longer, I’m afraid.”

Ah. There’s the heartbreak, panic, fear. “What?”

“It can’t be helped. It’s getting difficult to watch this place in my age, and my Taka’s not been doing so well lately. The kids are all off worrying about their own lives now…”

Your chest twists at the thought. “Can’t you find help?”

“We’ve been looking, but…”

It cannot possibly be this easy.

There’s no way.

“But…”

Noya slides a few bills over the counter while you’re busy fighting a war in your head.

“Oh, and who’s this? You’ve got to introduce your boyfriend, dear.”

“Oh, he’s not—“

“It’s nice to meet you, Granny! I’m Nishinoya.”

Already, they’re spiraling off into some side conversation, too fast for you to make the obvious correction as the old lady makes your—Noya’s—change. She tucks a little bookmark into the front of the stack, and you slide your new books into your bag in resignation. It becomes his space as easily as it was yours, and somehow, it doesn’t feel wrong.

After you’ve left, you consider clearing the air, bringing up… whatever that was.

…it’s not worth the argument.

Another few shops, another few stops. Another few steps forward, another few hours, and yet again you’re sitting across from him, fretting over being underdressed at the restaurant you’ve both happened across and settled on.

“Are you sure we’re dressed alright?” you mutter.

“They let us in the door, didn’t they?”

…yeah, you don’t know what you expected him to say.

“Besides, you look great,” he adds. His eyes dance over you, over the bare skin on your shoulder where you’ve finally given up on pulling the neck of his shirt back up. “I think you wear that better than I ever have.”

You ignore him in favor of another menu, another decision to make that feels earth-shattering. At least you’re aware you’re being ridiculous when it comes to ordering. Really, what’s going to change if you get the fun-looking drink you might not like over the safe one? How bad would it really be if you didn’t like your meal that much?

Drinking too much. Discovering a new allergy. Food poisoning—

“You’re overthinking again,” he teases.

“I’m always overthinking,” you grumble.

“Maybe you need to take the edge off.”

He’s right, and you know that in theory. But in the practice and the day-to-day, you stare at the drinks menu and feel your chest constrict with that itch of anxiety all over again.

“You’ve just got to jump in before you can talk yourself out of it. Come on, [name], let me distract you a little.”

…you don’t think he’s trying to flirt, but your face feels hot all the same. And, well, shit, Noya is a great distraction. He’s a bit less keyed-up than he was back then, but he’s still endlessly charming, endlessly easy to get wrapped up in if you lower your guard even a moment.

“…fine. So what’s this you were saying earlier about Italy?”

His eyes light up. You rest your chin in your palm, glance over the menu again as he tells you about his dreams of traveling the world, how he wants to seek new thrills and see all these new things. You can see every potential disaster of the situation—for one, he has a house back home that someone’s going to need to care for while he’s away, and he doesn’t seem to have thought of that. For another, he’s got an inheritance and no passive income to work with. His grandfather’s leftover money may be substantial enough for this to work in the short term, but longer-term…

Well, one day, he’s going to run headfirst into a hole he can’t climb out of himself.

The thought scares you. Who’s going to be there for him when that happens?

The waiter stops by. Before you can talk yourself out of it, you pick out something alcoholic and fruity and try not to preen under Noya’s delighted approval.

“I’ve never seen you drunk before. Looking forward to it,” he grins. This time, you’re sure he means it flirtatiously, given the wicked gleam in his eyes.

You reach across the table to bat at his arm. “Keep looking, then. I don’t plan on getting drunk tonight. Just buzzed enough to put up with you.”

“Well, that’s no fun. I wanted to know what you’re like when you finally let loose.”

“Excuse you, I can be plenty fun without getting drunk off my ass.”

“Then let’s see it.”

Drinks come out, food orders are placed. You get your margarita halfway down before the buzz starts really setting in, a pleasant warmth blossoming through you. At least now when Noya makes your face hot with some offhanded comment, you can blame it on something other than your own weak heart.

“You know, this is the most adventurous thing I’ve done since I dated you,” you admit once you’re both walking back to the bus stop. Fully sober you would never have this conversation. You recognize that, but there’s enough pleasant fuzz in your head that for once you do not give nearly enough of a fuck to stop yourself. The night is warm, maybe even romantic. “This whole… running around, stopping at random restaurants, getting drenched in the rain without an umbrella. All that.”

He’s got this soft look in his eyes as he regards you. “Really? I can’t say I’m surprised. You were always worrying about everything.”

You snort. “Someone had to.”

“We were kids, though. You probably could have left at least some of that worrying to your parents.”

“Believe it or not, they gave nearly all of that worry to me. On purpose, I think.” You sigh, lean against him just a touch. Your balance never was all that great sober. “I had to be perfect. You were that one little blip.”

“Hey, it felt perfect to me.”

“Did I make a mistake, do you think?”

He looks a little wounded at that. To your credit, he’s definitely misinterpreting. “Dating me?”

“No. Leaving you.”

He pauses, an awkward motion that has you both stumbling just a bit. He’d drank over dinner, too—you’re both buzzed, and the bubbly, floaty feeling ebbs out as you stare at each other. “Why do you say that?”

“I just… I thought about it a lot,” you mumble. “What it would have been like. If I’d just stayed, instead of letting the thought of my parents scare me into running away.”

He huffs a soft laugh and winds his arm around your shoulder. “I thought about it, too. Come on. You don’t need to make it back to the hotel alone; I’ve got a guest bedroom you can use tonight. That, and I’ve still got your clothes.”

Oh. Right.

You nod and let him walk you back to his home.

“Have you figured anything out yet?” he asks as he finds another oversized t-shirt and a pair of athletic shorts for you to sleep in. “Gotten even a little closer to figuring out how to do something you actually feel like doing?”

“I had fun,” you mumble in reply. “I know that much, at least.”

“Good. That was mostly the point.” He hands the clothes over to you. They’re more neatly folded than you would have given him credit for.

“Mostly?”

“Well,” he grins, “I also wanted to spend the day with you. Didn’t figure you’d ever agree if I didn’t drag you out before you could think about it too hard.”

“It was nice,” you admit. “Thank you. For all of it. I… I still don’t know what I’m going to do tomorrow, though.”

“Is it so bad listening to what you feel like doing every once in a while, though?”

“If I knew what I felt like doing, maybe.” You linger awkwardly in his doorway, bounce your shoulder rhythmically against the frame. “You’ve got your work cut out for you if you think one day is gonna get me that in tune with my brain.”

“That’s why I asked you to come to Italy with me.” He tilts his head, some question lingering unspoken. “Try it now, though. What does [name] feel like doing right now?”

He’s close to you. Too close. He’s close, and pretty, and magnetic, and—

“[name] feels like doing something stupid.”

His grin widens. “Nice to meet you. My name’s Nishinoya Yuu, and I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I am pretty damn stupid.”

—fuck it. You grab him by the collar of his shirt and kiss him before you can talk yourself out of it.

He reciprocates in kind, an eager hand coming to settle on your waist like it’s been waiting to rest there all night. You kiss him hot, heavy, open-mouthed; let your hands slide from gripping his collar to locking loosely behind his neck. When you’re both out of breath, he pulls back and leans in to whisper into your neck:

“Why did you come here, [name]?”

It’s hard to think with his breath on your neck, his hands on your body leaving your skin on fire where he touches, but you are great at thinking and finally off the deep end enough to admit it.

“I wanted to remember what it was like to feel alive,” you breathe out into his ear. His lips brush your throat, and you let out a breathy whine. “You’re the only person who ever—who ever seemed to know how to do that.”

“Let me show you how to let go, then.”

There’s no illusions about what he means. Not this time, not with his lips dancing down your neck to your exposed shoulder. Not with his hips pressing into yours, not with his fingertips toying with the edge of his shirt you’re wearing, and not with his fingertips brushing the bare skin at your waist.

You nod and hope you won’t regret it.

If there’s regret to be had, you expect you’ll see it in the light of morning. As it is, Noya returns from the bathroom and collapses right onto you, a lithe arm pulling you into his chest.

“I’m glad you came back,” he mumbles into your hair. You’re both tired—it’s late, and that might have been the best workout you’ve gotten in a while.

“Because you missed me, or because you got to fuck me?” you tease, sliding a hand over his.

“I missed you,” he replies without missing a beat. “Not too late to come travel the world with me. Quit your job and feel peace for once in your life.”

“Peace? With you around? Not likely. Besides, I’m renting a place in Tokyo. I can’t meet rent if I quit my job.”

He laughs and pulls you in a little closer. “Then just Italy, and you can go back to the way you felt before you turned up on my doorstep looking more lost than I’ve ever seen anyone in my life.”

You sigh. “When you’re traveling the world, who’s gonna take care of your house? It doesn’t seem like you’re selling it, are you?”

“Italy, come home, we’ll break in the place, and then I’ll come home to you between trips while you work on writing an international bestseller.”

Your heart flutters at the thought. Admittedly… it’d solve a lot of the problems you have with his little “plan”.

“And how do you suppose I pay for being alive aside from not having rent?”

“Ask that old lady at the bookshop if you can help at the store.”

“Why do you have an answer for everything?”

“It’s okay if things fall into place once in a while, you know.”

You sigh into him. There’s too many unknowns. How is he going to keep paying for traveling? What if the book never works out? If there’s no space for you at the bookshop? If—

He nuzzles into your neck. “I’m waiting on an answer, baby…”

“It’s late, Noya. I’ll think about it.”

“Do me a favor and think yourself into something for once, instead of out of it. I might die if you leave again.”

He presses one last kiss into the back of your neck before you both draft off, sore and exhausted.

There’s one thing, at least, you can be sure of, at least for tonight: you’re glad you came here.

Epilogue

“You’re looking much better,” your coworker nods to you as you settle back into your desk. “Get some much-needed rest?”

You nod your reply. “I did, thanks. Sorry for disappearing so suddenly. That cold was killer. Think I slept about fourteen hours straight.”

She snorts. “Man, no wonder you weren’t answering your phone. Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

She wanders off to her own desk. You take a long sip of your drink, stretch a bit, and get right to your stupid little emails.

You tap away, pausing between sentences to consider, to answer the phone, to sip your drink. Occasionally, to tab over to some other draft when you worry a passing coworker might see exactly what you’re writing. At one or two points, over to your web browser, either to the wikiHow article you’re referencing, or to one of the many other tabs: your online banking, to confirm that this isn’t going to completely kill you (it won’t—all work and no play gives Jack a hefty savings account), or to any number of other wonderful things on the Internet that you suddenly feel comfortable accessing with the letter you’re drafting in the background.

It takes an hour to settle. The letter is drafted, all the right people are copied. You’ve triple checked everything, gotten all your things already slid into your bag or in a box to carry out with you. Made sure everything you need to leave behind is in clear view on your desk. You’ve even prepped an auto-response on your email client so people know who to bother, if not you. It’d take three, maybe four clicks to blow up your life.

You can’t do it.

You reach for your cell and dial.

Noya, despite all that worries you about him, has always been an early riser. He picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Distract me,” you order in lieu of a greeting.

You hear laughter, a slight shuffle. “From what?”

“Doesn’t matter. Just distract me.”

“Ah, you’re doing something you don’t want to talk yourself out of. I’m proud of you!” You hear the smile in his voice, close your eyes to try to visualize it. “Am I allowed to ask what you’re up to? Where you are?”

“No and no. If I tell you, I’ll back out by the time I finish saying it.”

“I get it. Hey, do you still have that mark on your neck from when I—“

Your cheeks burn, fingers dancing along the bruise in question. It had been a bitch to cover with makeup this morning. You’re still not convinced you did so successfully, but no one’s commented on it yet, at least. “No thanks to a certain someone. I still can’t believe you did that.”

“Hey, you said you felt like doing something stupid. Who was I to deny you?”

“Cheeky bastard.” You smile, lean back in your chair a little bit. Click ‘send’. “Oh god. I did it.”

“Am I allowed to ask what you did now?”

“I might throw up. Not sure yet. Hey, how do you feel about renting bikes?”

“Bikes?”

“In Italy. I was looking up, like, bucket lists and stuff, and there’s this road, the Appian way? You can rent bikes and bike it. Apparently, it’s pretty old, and there’s this café we could eat at, and—“

You hear the thunk of something falling in the background of the call. “You’re coming!?”

“Well, I just emailed my resignation letter to my boss and HR, and I can see him panicking in his office from here, so you better have meant it. Here in a minute or two, he’s probably going to call me in, or come yell at me at my desk—“

“When’s your resignation effective? Did you give a notice?”

“Effective as soon as he stops panicking.”

A bark of laughter sounds in your ear. “So if he comes to yell at you, just leave. You already quit, anyway. What’s he gonna do?”

“Good point. Leaving now.” You stand, scoop up your bag. “I have two months left on my lease. If you didn’t mean that thing about me housesitting while you’re off seeing the world, speak now before I call my landlord and let him know I’m canceling that, too.”

“All yours, but your rent is walking around without pants whenever I’m home.”

You roll your eyes. Pause to wave at your boss on your way out the door. If he shouts after you, you don’t hear it. You’ve got a trip to Italy to plan.

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deanwinchesterswitch · 2 years

Text

Run To You ~ Chapter Eleven

Chapter Summary: Lack of sleep, shared insecurities, and emotions in overdrive lead to words and actions that can’t be taken back.

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Kasey Belmont (OFC)

Warnings: Language-Kasey’s potty mouth makes a vehement appearance(seriously!); Here, there be smut; Angst; Feeeellings; Verbal argument; A little fluff for fun

Rating: Mature 18+ NSFW

Word Count: 13,457

Betas: @princessmisery666 and @wayward-and-worn

Movie Reference/Quote: Gone With the Wind

Author’s Notes: This is an AU. While there are several SPN characters mentioned, basically no one has the same connections as they did in the show, and Dean and Sam are not related.

Series Master Post

Written for: @jay-and-dean -Jay’s 3K Celebration and @spnaubingo. Prompt used: Quote with 3 ~ “I have nothing to offer, 3 dollars and a bad bottle of whiskey, nothing more.”

SPNAUBingo Square Filled: Fugitive AU

SPNQUOTEBingo Square Filled: “You should be kissed—and often—and by someone who knows how.” - Gone with the Wind

**ETA - Updated title card and format 3/14/23**

“Hey, sweetheart, did you miss me?”—the words of endearment Dean had spoken swirl almost reverently around Kasey’s mind as they both pant for breath, and though he was talking to Baby, she wants to answer.

Yes. Yes, I did miss you.

Which is certifiably crazy. How can she miss something she never had?

She says his name softly, pulling away, but he holds her hands against his chest. Eyes squeezed shut. “Don’t. Please don’t say that we shouldn’t or that it’s… a mistake.”

We shouldn’t? No. We most assuredly shouldn’t. But a mistake?

Kasey can’t imagine one circumstance where she would ever consider that kiss a mistake. However, there’s too much at stake to start an entanglement they may not be able to pursue. She knows that kiss was mainly brought on by the surge of emotions from the last few days and seeing his beloved car again.

Dean releases her hands when she flexes her fingers, and she gently slips her arms around his waist, laying her head on his chest. The strong beat of his heart resonates in her ear like a lullaby. If she weren’t so conflicted, she’d remain in his arms and let it quell the burgeoning turmoil inside her, but she needs time to think, weigh the pros and cons, sort through the emotions, and make a level-headed decision.

Spying their reflection in the polished metal of the car, her heart jolts. To an outsider, they would look like a couple entwined in a lovers’ embrace. Pulling away before he can tighten his hold, she whispers, “I’m glad you found her.” His wistful expression prompts her to cup his cheek, and he closes his eyes, leaning into her touch. Her bottom lip quivers with an unexpected rush of emotion, and she drops her hand, clearing her throat as she turns. “Make sure to lock up,” she blurts before walking away.

Once at the porch, she hesitates on the top tread, debating the direction of her next step. It would be so easy to let the remaining threads of logic and common sense drift away on the breeze, race back out there, and throw herself at him.

Lips pressed together to contain the sob rising in her throat, a forced footfall followed by another carries her toward the small lantern. Extinguishing the flame, she grabs the quilt and heads inside, not daring to look over her shoulder.

Until that kiss, she’d been trying to tamp the feelings back down, re-bury them under the guise of helping someone in need. She could tell herself that what she was feeling was simply a thrilling titillation, something she’d feel seeing a handsome actor or a sexy model, nothing more. Now that she knows what he tastes like, what his lips feel like, it’s not so easy to deny.

She makes it to her bedroom, locking the door behind her before losing control. Dean’s lips had unleashed a hurricane of restrained emotions. Like a levee breaking, guilt, anger, fear, shame, loneliness, and heartbreak surge upward, and the tears rain down. Kasey slumps to the floor, back pressed against the footboard of her bed. Pulling them up close to her chest, she wraps her arms tightly around her legs and rests her forehead on her knees, rocking in place, trying to dispel the ache she already feels at not holding him.

How did all this happen? One day, she’s blissfully enjoying a lazy afternoon of peaceful seclusion. Two days later, that carefully crafted isolation was shattered with the force of a crowbar smashing a car window. Dean’s touch made her realize how starved for human interaction she truly is, making her feel a desire only depicted in movies and cheesy romance novels.

The pressure of his lips lingers on hers, and her tongue slides over them, tasting the remnants of toasted oak and caramel from the bourbon they’d been drinking earlier. Heat surges through her veins, remembering how rough-skinned hands that nearly encompassed her head tenderly cradled her face while his beard deliciously chafed at her soft flesh. Her breath hitches, reliving the warmth of his skin beneath her fingers, the smooth silkiness of his hair. Goosebumps dance across her skin as she recalls the shiver of his body when her nails scraped across his neck, pulse rapid and strong beneath her thumb. The thud of his heart beating with hers echoes in her ears, sending her pulse racing. If she’d remained pressed against him for two more seconds, she would have been trapped in his embrace—protected, content, and, as insane as it sounded, loved.

Christ fuck! I am a sensible grown-ass woman, not some starry-eyed Disney princess. This, whatever this is, is not love!

The sting accompanying the hard slap of her palms against the solid floor is a welcome jolt back to reality. Angrily pushing herself up, Kasey begins pacing the room. Dean’s presence has shown how utterly foolish she’s been, unarguably naive, lying to herself that she could make it alone. That somehow, she would be perfectly happy living as a recluse. She had made the choice under duress, a spur-of-the-moment decision. The farm had been a safe haven, a place to escape the cruelties of the world and the mistakes of the past, but, as the saying goes, all actions have consequences. Hers had come barreling at her in the form of a tough-skinned, soft-hearted fugitive.

Kasey leans against her window frame, staring out at the night sky. She can’t see the barn’s door from this angle, but the warm glow of the light still shines over the yard. Her lips curl upward as she pictures him sweet-talking his car. His face had lit up like a 5-year-old given free rein in a toy store. Just as she wonders if he’s thought about climbing into his Baby and just taking off, the rev of the engine can be heard. Momentary panic rocks her back on her heels, fingers twisting into the curtains, but the thought disappears as quickly as it came.

She wouldn’t have left the keys with him if she genuinely thought he would leave—disappear from her life as hastily as he’d materialized in it. Where would he go? The farm is one of the safest places for him to be at the moment, and she’s pretty sure he knows it too.

Besides, if his plea about that kiss is any indication, Dean is wrestling with similar questions regarding their predicament. Well, a predicament for her anyway. After all, sleeping with a client is generally frowned upon in the legal community—conflict of interest and that whole ethics thing.

It feels like an eternity before the night falls silent again, and moments later, the view outside her window darkens as the light in the yard disappears. Several minutes pass before she hears him moving about in the room below her, and she lets the final bit of fear fade away. Tightening her grip on the curtain, she wills herself to stay put, to not run to him, the consequences be damned.

With a heavy eye roll, Kasey goes back to pacing. She needs to be rational here. She’s already walking a thin line by harboring him. Sex would throw a wrench the size of Thor’s ax into an already complicated situation. But, damn, she desperately wants to feel his solidness against her again, feel those hands caress her bare skin.

Kasey’s fingers trace a path down her neck and across her decolletage, drifting down her body. “Hoooo.” The sigh is long and drawn out as she closes her eyes, envisioning Dean’s hands and thick fingers ghosting over skin that he has yet to see or feel.

Stop it!

Throwing herself onto her bed, she rolls to her back and stares at the ceiling, fingers clenched in the sheets as she desperately tries to banish the images now racing through her mind.

Affidavits. Burden of proof. Conviction. Depositions. Evidence…

An hour later, she has filtered through an extensive list of legal terms multiple times, trying to squelch the wayward thoughts of what she wants to do to Dean and have him do to her. However, sleep eludes her, and she still hasn’t come to a decision about whether to remain a legal advisor for him or give in to her desires.

At one point, she’d heard the water pipes rattle, signaling that Dean was taking a shower, which had triggered another round of images that she’d had to quash without much success. Rolling to her side again, she punches her pillow and sits up in a huff.

Sam is going to be furious with her no matter what she decides. She can’t keep her feelings for Dean hidden from him. Sam and Charlie can handle the case without her, but she wants, no, needs to be a part of the process to help secure Dean’s freedom.

Adult enough to admit that she has selfish reasons for getting the charges against him reversed, she prays that Sam won’t follow through on his threat of pulling the plug if it all starts going sideways. She shoves the dread of making that phone call to the back of her mind. Right now, she needs to do something, anything to distract her over-stimulated brain.

The sky is still dark, the predawn light a couple of hours away, but the rising humidity can already be felt. Kasey takes a leisurely shower, puts her hair up in a loose ponytail, then fishes out one of her mother’s old halter-style dresses from the closet. The less material against her skin during the day’s sticky heat, the better. Once dressed, she quietly makes her way down to the kitchen, starting the first of many rounds of coffee.

Dean tried to sleep. He honestly did, he may have dozed off for an hour or two, but it was fitful. Rubbing the backs of his hands over his eyes, he chuckles. The absurdity that he’s gotten less sleep in this big comfortable bed than he did sleeping on cold hard surfaces the last couple of weeks is not lost on him. Turning his head to the side, the small clock in his room reads a little after six in the morning.

He couldn’t get that kiss or the hug she’d given him afterward out of his mind. When she'd placed her hand on his cheek, a flood of unexplainable emotion surged through him, and he’d had to close his eyes to try and keep himself in check. The loss of her touch had left him feeling bereft, and he’d almost run after her—torn between the desire to see where another kiss might lead and knowing he’s not the type of man Kasey needs. He’s not an idiot, he knows there’s an attraction between them, but it’s clearly just sexual tension, lust, nothing more, so best to leave it alone.

Each time they open up to one another and share a little more of themselves, there’s an immediate hesitancy, a guarded cautiousness, from her afterward. He gets it; he does. They’re strangers. He’s a convicted felon, a man most people would fear. She’s a woman that’s been pitted against men for the majority of her life and has been hurt to such a degree that she shut herself away.

Concerned that he had screwed things up with that impromptu kiss, he’d contemplated going after her to make sure things were okay between them, but he also wanted to respect her feelings and apparent need for space. In the end, he’d decided to stay with Baby; she was a known entity. There was no need to fear rejection from her or worry that he would somehow ruin everything good about her, unlike with Kasey.

He’d honestly been surprised that Kasey had left the keys with him and briefly wondered if she had simply forgotten about them. He had a fleeting thought about taking off, not to run away—where would he go anyway? He feels safer here than he has anywhere else in a long time. He doesn’t want to leave the farm… or Kasey. He just wanted to hear the purr of Baby’s engine and feel the thrum of the open road beneath her tires.

As much as he had been jonesing to take the Impala for a drive, he settled for checking her over, ensuring that all her fluid levels were where they should be, that the tire pressure was good, and that there wasn’t any damage on her beautiful body. With everything meeting his satisfaction, he’d started her up, letting the sound and vibrations of the rumbling engine wash over him for a few precious moments while losing himself in memories of more carefree days.

He’d stood at the bottom of the stairs for several minutes, hand on the railing and one foot resting on the bottom tread, when he came back in, contemplating, debating, churning scenarios over in his mind. Ultimately deciding it was best to let things be until the morning, he made his way to the bedroom. After spotting the streak of grease on his forehead in the dresser’s mirror, he decided to take a shower before crawling into bed. Even though he knew the likelihood of getting any sleep would probably prove futile.

Sitting up, he buries his head in his hands, clearing his mind, listening for any movement from the room above him, but no sound is forthcoming. Well, at least one of them is able to sleep.

The air in the room is thick, heavy with heat already—the fan Kasey had given him, not yielding much relief. He looks over at the plastic-covered window, wishing he could open it to let in some fresh air. Deciding that he will offer to finish painting the room for her, maybe do some other repairs around the place as a form of payment for helping him, he slips from the bed.

Opting out of wearing a shirt, he pulls on the pajama bottoms he'd discarded on the end of the mattress. Now that the sun is up, it will get even hotter, and it’s not like she hadn’t seen him shirtless before when she’d stitched him up. Of which she’d done an excellent job.

The skin around the wound is a healthy pink and no longer leaking blood now that it’s properly sealed. Although still tender to the touch, a sharp twinge reminding him of the injury if he turns the wrong way, it is no longer a throbbing, angry red, and thankfully, not infected. He hadn’t had time to stitch the wound before almost getting caught at the clinic he’d broken into and had tried to at least keep it clean and minimize the bleeding.

He’s grateful that Kasey was able to take care of it and that he won’t have a gaping scar. Yeah, he definitely needs to do something to show her his appreciation for saving him. That is, if she doesn’t kick him out after last night.

Opening the bedroom door, his senses are engulfed by the combined scent of coffee, bacon, and something cinnamony sweet. Quickening his pace, he is entirely taken off guard by the sight that greets him as he enters the kitchen. Every inch of counter space is covered in a myriad of ingredients, pans, mixing bowls, baking dishes, and what appears to be a mound of dough. Kasey is nowhere in sight, though. The house is silent except for the whir of the ceiling fan above the table.

His eyes land on the coffee press sitting on the far counter, and he makes his way over to pour a cup of the divine nectar. After the first couple of reviving sips, he roams around the space, peering into bowls and lifting the lids of the pots on the stove, trying to discern what she’s making. From the looks of things, she’s been at it for quite a while, meaning she hadn’t slept much either.

Lifting a corner of a towel draped over a bowl, he immediately drops it back in place, startled by her growl.

“Don’t touch anything.”

Lost in thought about whether they would have slept better if they were in the same bed, he hadn’t heard her come in. “Sorry.” He smiles and raises a hand in mock surrender while taking a step back from the counter, but she isn’t looking at him. Kasey makes her way over to the stove, setting the basket she collected eggs in on the counter next to it.

The dress she’s wearing reminds him of another era, and if he didn’t know better, this would be the second time he would have thought he’d been zapped into some Twilight Zone time warp. The bright turquoise and green print is a stark contrast to the worn, dust-covered boots she just kicked off.

“Hope you like Eggs Benedict,” she says, still not looking at him. “It’ll be ready in about fifteen. I had to go out and get some more eggs.”

He stares at the sun-kissed skin of her back, imagining the arch and twist of her body, the softness of her flesh beneath his fingertips as he trails them down her spine. He huffs out a breath, expelling the images along with it. He’s caught between the need to say something and waiting for a cue from her. Her tone, while not mean, is definitely on the cool side.

Son of a bitch! I knew I fucked it up.

“Uhm, can I help?” If she hears the desperation laced in his words, he doesn’t care. He’d do almost anything to get back to the comfortable camaraderie of last night… before the kiss.

Throwing a glance over her left shoulder, she replies, “You could make more coffee.”

“Awesome.” He nods happily and rubs his hands together, pleased she didn’t shut him out. At least not entirely. Dean sets about emptying and cleaning the press as Kasey gently whisks the hollandaise, moving it to the back burner. By the time she’s done poaching the eggs, the new batch of coffee is ready, and Dean mentally high-fives himself for getting the timing right.

Seeing Kasey’s mug sitting amongst the array of dishes on the island, he quickly rinses it out and makes her a fresh cup, carefully adding the same ratio of cream to coffee she’d taken yesterday. Humming the Eagles tune that’s been stuck in his head since that first day he woke up in her home, he places her cup and the press on the table, then rocks on his heels, waiting for her to join him.

Dean sips his coffee, silently watching as she removes a tray of Canadian Bacon and English muffins from one of the ovens and assembles all of the food on a large cloth-covered tray along with a single plate and set of silverware.

“Take a seat.” She glances up as she nears the table but quickly looks away, waving a hand over the tray she just set down. “There’s plenty, so eat up.”

Not waiting for a response, she picks up her coffee cup, “thanks for this,” and turns on her heel, heading for the second stove. After a quick sip, she sets her cup on the island counter, cracks the oven door, and peeks inside. Slipping on an oven mitt, she reaches in, and Dean’s jaw nearly comes unhinged when she pulls out a pie heaping with apple filling. Placing it on a cooling rack, she then pulls out a cake pan. She heads back to the table, grabbing a small metal bowl and butter knife on the way. Sliding her hand out of the oven mitt, she leaves it beneath the hot pan of what he can now see is full of cinnamon rolls and sets the bowl of frosting next to it along with the knife.

Dean closes his eyes and inhales deeply. “Those smell amazing. Did you make them from scratch?”

“Yes,” is her quick, concise reply. It sounds muffled, and Dean opens his eyes to find that she’s already walked away, and he’s again left staring at her back as she enters the pantry.

Seconds later, she returns with two small jars of what appear to be spices in hand. She lightly drops them on the island and reaches for the rolling pin.

“Kasey.”

“Hmmm?”

“What are you doing?”

“Baking”

“I can see that,” he chuckles. “Uh, I know I’m a big guy and all,” hearing the self-assurance in his tone, she doesn’t dare to look in his direction for fear of being knocked on her ass by the blue-steel swagger that’s most likely plastered on his face, “but there’s a ton of food here. Are you going to sit down and eat with me?”

“I need to finish this.” The heel of her palm lands heavily on the dough round, denting one side. She quickly turns it and slams her palm into it again.

Dean takes a sip of coffee and hums with pleasure. Hoping to prevent the tense silence from encroaching on them again, he says, “I don’t know about you, but I barely slept last night.”

Kasey whirls around, bits of dough skittering to her feet, brandishing the rolling pin before pointing it at him. “DOES THIS KITCHEN LOOK LIKE IT’S BEING MANNED BY SOMEONE THAT IS WELL-RESTED?!”

Wide-eyed and slightly disconcerted, he mumbles into his coffee cup, “Okaaay. Just tryin’ to make conversation here.” He hesitates momentarily before pressing, “We need to talk.”

Ignoring his comment, she grips the rolling pin with both hands and forces it down into the semi-flattened dough, then flicks some flour over the surface before picking up and turning it. The small, thick disc hits the surface with a loud slap, followed by the thud of the wooden pin as she aggressively thins what he assumes is a second pie crust. Between each slap and thud, she huffs out a breath.

Dean takes a bite of the eggs benedict and grunts in approval. Pulling a cinnamon roll from the pan, he immediately drops the hot bun on his plate, shaking his singed fingers in the air. After slathering the roll in frosting, he sinks his teeth into the warm, fluffy dough and takes a large chunk out of the confection. The spicy-sweet concoction literally melts in his mouth, and he can’t hold back the moan of satisfaction. The thunk of the rolling pin is loud, echoing around the kitchen. Sneaking a glance at her, he frowns, watching her take out whatever emotions she’s working through on the innocent pastry.

When the dough is the size of a large pizza crust, he taunts, “If you were making another pie crust, it’s going to be tough as hell now.”

Kasey stops the forward roll of the pin and looks down, seemingly in shock at seeing the almost paper-thin sheet of dough. “Son of a bitch.” Grabbing a spatula, she scrapes the mess into a small pile near the corner of the countertop.

She still has yet to make any meaningful eye contact with him or say anything other than clipped comments. Worried and frustrated, he blurts out, “Are we going to talk about it, or are you going to continue trying to ignore me?”

“Dean.” She tucks her chin, placing her hands flat on the counter as she leans forward. “We’ve only known each other for a little over two days-“

“Almost three,” he interjects, glad she didn’t try and pretend she doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

Paying no heed to the comment, she shoves off the counter and turns away. “I’m your legal advisor.”

Well, damn, got stiff-armed with that one. It’s all good; I get it. At least she’s still willing to help. She’s settin’ boundaries, and obviously, one of us needs to. Wish I was inside those boundaries, though. Deep inside. I mean, look at those legs, that ass, and those hands. Would love to have those hands… oh, for fuck’s sake.

I’ve already screwed this up enough. I need to keep this professional. Stow the personal crap. Bury it like always. Besides, someone like her deserves so much more than I have to offer, which is nothing but a broken heart and a screwed-up life. It doesn’t matter that it feels like we’re perfect for each other. She deserves someone better—better than me.

She opens a cupboard next to the stove and reaches for a dish on the top shelf. Pressing up on her toes, it looks like she’s about to grasp the base but only succeeds in pushing the glassware further back into the cabinet.

When it looks like she’s going to try climbing up on the counter, he shakes his head at her stubbornness. Reticently pushing away from the table, he makes his way over to her. “Here, let me.” Reaching over her head, he draws out the dish, setting it on the counter in front of her. A rush of dopamine sends his pulse skittering when she rocks back into him, making him realize that ‘stowing his personal crap’ will be much more challenging than he imagined.

Entering the house, Kasey nearly drops the basket of eggs she’s carrying upon seeing a bare-chested Dean standing in her kitchen. He’s about to peer into one of the dough-filled covered bowls, tongue peeking out between his lips like a kid getting ready to steal a cookie from the cookie jar. Except he’s not a kid. He’s an Adonis. DaVinci’s divine proportions incarnate. The backdrop of faded wallpaper on her kitchen walls appears even bleaker compared to his stunning vibrance.

She takes a step forward, drawn to him like a tide in the moon’s pull. The rush of blood redistributing itself in her body makes her light-headed, and she presses a hand against the wall to steady herself. In a matter of seconds, she shifts her distress into disgruntlement, annoyed that he has such an immediate effect on her. Kicking off her boots, she growls, “Don’t touch anything.”

How the hell is she supposed to remain professional and rational with him walking around practically naked? To protect her sanity, she decides to avoid looking at him and makes a beeline for the stove to finish preparing breakfast.

Dean tries to engage with her, offering to help. In contrast, she tries to remain unaffected by his presence, offering clipped responses while still trying to sound friendly as she finishes preparing breakfast. Once he’s settled at the table, she returns to her baking tasks, wanting to make one more pie before cleaning up the mess she created.

Baking has always been a soothing pastime, and after her little outburst when he mentioned his lack of sleep, she distinctly needs some soothing. Some of her favorite childhood memories revolve around helping her grandmother bake the multitude of sweet treats they supplied for the harvest festival held at the farm every year.

While reliving memories of her past in an attempt to ignore her indecent thoughts of the man currently making obscene noises while eating her food, she loses focus on the tender dough in front of her. That is until the molasses laced gravel of his voice cuts into her thoughts, and she finds a thin sheet of dough worthy of a strudel layer beneath the wooden pin. Frustrated, she scrapes it all into the garbage.

He had asked her about the kiss without asking her about the kiss. She’s not ready to talk about it, though.

Is it too early in the day for whiskey?

Yeah, it probably is, and she feels like she’ll need some whiskey before talking about it, and they do need to talk. A decision needs to be made about whether to push the feelings aside and get on with business or get on with business.

Ugh. I am so not funny.

Deciding that it’s too early to deal with it, she reminds him that she’s part of his defense team and turns away. Looking for another excuse to continue avoiding him, she decides to pull out her grandmother’s favorite glass-topped cake stand to store the pie on.

Seriously. What the hell does he think he’s doing, walking around looking like that?

Kasey pushes up on her toes to try and reach the dish but only succeeds in pushing it further out of reach. Debating whether to get the step stool or climb onto the counter, she feels the air shift when he steps up behind her.

“Here, let me.” Dean effortlessly reaches above her head to grab the serving dish from the shelf.

Her entire body feels like it’s been set ablaze. Muscles stretch and harden beneath the slide of his bare skin against hers. He places the dish on the counter, and Kasey sighs, flesh skimming over flesh as she flattens her feet back onto the floor. His sharp intake of breath pushes his chest closer to her.

The small scrap of objective reasoning she has left causes her to tense. When he doesn’t move away, she relaxes into him. The solid strength of him pressed against her is ecstasy and torture at the same time.

She’s been starving, depriving herself, and the hunger for human touch is no longer bearable. A moment of tense silence stretches between them, and then Dean whispers, “May I?”

Kasey knows that his touch could break her, that she probably won’t be able to come back from it, but right now, at that moment, she doesn’t care. She’s tried to take a logical approach and argue her feelings away, but it’s no use. It’s more than just the feeling of a warm body or needing that quick high of pleasure. She can’t suppress the way every molecule in her body reacts to him any more than she can stop the sun rising and replies with a breathy, “Yes.”

A hand smooths over her abdomen, pulling her flush to his body. He lifts a stray lock of hair from her shoulder and presses it against his nose, “you smell like ginger and honey,” before tucking it behind her ear. A tilt of his head and his tongue traces the shell of her ear, warm breath skimming over her cheek. Deft fingers chart a path through the dip in her clavicle, “your skin’s so soft,” then glide down her arm to intertwine with hers. Lifting their clasped hands, he kisses the tips of her fingers, “delicate fingers,” her palm, “strong hands,” then her wrist, “you taste like crisp green apples,” soft lips lingering on her pulse.

She closes her eyes and lets her head fall back against his shoulder. He’s trimmed his beard even closer, and the scruff scrapes deliciously against her skin as he lowers their hands, placing a kiss on her temple. She can feel the rapid bassline harmony of his heart, and her pulse picks up the melody, creating a rhythm that will forever be tattooed on her soul.

Like a lit fuse, quick, fervid kisses down the side of her face and across her collarbone leave a trail of smoldering heat. Slapping her palm over the hand on her stomach, she slips her fingers between his, bringing it up to cup her breast, and murmurs, “Fuck, that feels-”

A burst of heat burns the words away and threatens to send her to her knees when sharp teeth graze the curve of her shoulder and deft fingers knead her flesh through the fabric. Never in her life has she been so turned on by a few kisses and a simple touch.

Silken strands tickle her fingers as she snags a fistful of hair, tugging his head down. The pressure of his grip tightens, bordering on pain. Her body bows, forcing her breast further into his grasp and her ass against the hard line of him. Her whine meets his growl, captured between the crush of their lips.

She cranes her neck, fingers still clutching the handful of his hair, body squirming, trying to get a better angle and prolong the kiss. Cool fingers brush along her side, sending ripples of pleasure through her. When they slip beneath the material of her dress to pinch her other nipple, the sensation makes her jolt, a tiny squeak sounding in her throat.

Dean immediately releases her and steps away, leaving her gripping the counter to keep from falling. “I’m sorry.” His voice is low and gruff, filled with regret.

“You-” Struggling to catch her breath, she waves a hand behind her in an attempt to assure him it’s alright, “no-” Kasey brings her hand back to fan herself as she turns and leans her ass against the counter, smile fading as soon as she sees him.

He’s further away than expected, leaning on a fisted hand on the corner of the island, the other rubbing along the side of his thigh, a poker face etched on his features. She tries to catch his eye, but he looks over her shoulder. “I was out of line. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“Hmmm.” She nods, turning to pull a glass from the open shelf. Filling it with water, she faces Dean again, sizing him up over the rim as she slowly quenches her parched throat with the cooling liquid. “Do you want it to?” Her eyes never leave him as she places the empty glass on the counter behind her.

“It doesn’t matter what I want.”

Pursing her lips, she bobs her head. “Huh.” Kasey tugs at the straps of her dress, putting the material back in place. Dean’s eyes flick down, watching as she smooths the fabric over the front of her body, quickly looking away when she arches a brow. “Well, do you think I don’t want it?” She walks her fingers along the countertop and takes a couple of steps toward him. “Because, if that’s what you think, then maybe you’re not as good at this as I imagined you to be.”

“Y-You imagined this?” His eyes snap to hers, brows shooting up, and the pink tip of his tantalizing tongue presses against the backs of his teeth.

“Uh, huh,” she murmurs, tilting her head and smiling, stopping about a foot from him, flattening her hand on the counter. “I imagined it all night. And this morning. Hell, I can’t NOT imagine it.”

Fingers tapping against his thigh, Dean’s eyes narrow; a few tension-filled moments pass, then he clears his throat. “Listen, Kase,” her mouth quirks at the shortening of her name. She likes the sound of it, though, and remains silent as he continues. “I know I asked you not to say that the kiss last night was a mistake, but maybe it was. I mean, I don’t think it was… but maybe… under the circumstances… it was. It’s like you said, you're part of my legal team. You’ve already put yourself at risk by letting me stay here and helping me. You’re an amazing woman. Smart… so smart… it’s fucking hot how intelligent you are. Funny… kind… beautiful… inside and out… seriously. Sexy… fuck… I mean, look at you.” He waves his hand, indicating her entire body. “Uh… sorry.”

He drags a hand over his face. “I have nothing to offer you, well, unless you count three dollars and a bad bottle of whiskey that I found in Baby’s secret compartment, nothing more. Hell, I don’t even own her anymore. I just… I don’t want to endanger you or cause you more trouble.” He opens his fist on the counter, tips of his fingers barely touching hers like he craves the connection but is afraid to make it. “I’m a convicted felon, for christ’s sake. You don’t want or need someone like me around. You deserve better. If I drag you any further into my life… my mess… you'll get hurt…” His shoulders slump, and he slides his hand away from hers.

Well, fuck. How did we get from a steamy make-out session to this?

Dean takes a step back, his hand almost off the edge of the counter, but she reaches out and grasps his wrist, denting her fingers into his skin in hopes of keeping him from pulling away. “Don’t.” Dean stills, but his face remains blank. “‘Please don’t say we shouldn’t or that it’s a mistake.’” She can’t quite tell if the flicker in his eyes is pain, anger, or fear, maybe all of the above. “That’s what you said to me last night. Why did you say that if you were planning on running away? Because when you said that, it sounded like you enjoyed the kiss and wanted to take whatever is going on between us to the next level.”

He remains silent, jaw rippling as he clenches it. He takes another step back, and she moves with him keeping her grip tight.

“No.” She digs her nails into his flesh, it has to hurt, but he doesn’t even flinch. “You are not leaving. I’m not letting you run. We agreed, remember? No more talk of running. Besides, it’s not up to you to decide what I want. It’s certainly not your responsibility to protect me.” Throwing her hand up, she exclaims. “The things you said to me a few moments ago, the way you touched me, what was that? You heard and felt the way I responded to you. What happened? I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone freeze up so fast.” Kasey stops, inhaling sharply.

Why am I pushing this? If he wants to leave, then it’s for the best. Let him leave. I didn’t ask for my life to be thrown into this maelstrom. Once he’s gone, I can get back to my normal, peaceful routine.

Yeah, it might be for the best, but it hurts like hell thinking about it. Fueled by fear, she lets the anger begin to rise. “I call bullshit. You know something is happening. There’s chemistry between us, and you’re scared. You use witty sarcasm and flirty smiles to hide behind and keep everyone at arm’s length so that it’s easier to leave when things get too complicated for you. I’ve seen it before, and I see it in you."

Cocking her head to the side, she sneers, "You think I don’t have the same war going on in my head? You think I don’t know that it’s insane to have these desires that make me question my morality? That I’m not trying to figure out how to deal with your case and my feelings at the same time? It’s fucking overwhelming, but I’m not running.”

The muscles in his arm flex, and he shifts on his feet. Dean’s initial look of shock is quickly overshadowed by what she can only assume to be outrage. The cold intensity of his glare rocks her back a step, and for the first time, she’s afraid of him and what he could do to her, but the controlled composure in his tone takes her completely off guard.

“But you did.”

“What?” Releasing her hold, she crosses her arms over her chest, an instinctive urge to protect herself, taking control.

“You ran. You shut yourself off in this time capsule hideaway with no cell, no television, no computer,” he advances on her, and she takes a couple of steps back, “cut off from the world. You ran because things got too complicated.”

“It- it’s not the same,” she stammers weakly, eyes going wide when the truth of what he’s saying settles in her mind.

Dean is the mirror. He’s the catalyst, the beginning, the end, and every damn thing in between.

“Oh, yes, it is! You-“ He slams his fist on the counter, making Kasey flinch. Apparently noticing her reaction, he sucks in a breath and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Never mind. I knew this would happen. That somehow, I would screw everything up.” Stepping away from her, he puts the island between them. “I would never physically hurt you, Kasey, but you will get hurt if I stay. I will cause you pain, and I’m not worth it.”

The acute anguish and sorrow swimming in his eyes are gut-wrenching. It pisses her off and breaks her heart in the same breath. What happened to him, beyond what she already knows, to make him feel so inconsequential? Adrenaline still running high, the anger retains its precedence.

“I’m not a saint, Dean. You,” she points a finger in his direction, “don’t know shit about me, so don’t put me on some goddamn pedestal and then use it as an excuse to justify that somehow I’m better than you. If you genuinely think I am, then fuck you,” she scoffs, “because I’m not. Your life is worth so much more than you evidently believe. You deserve to have a good life, someone to take care of you, love you,”

Well, he does deserve someone to love him. Honestly, why can’t it be me? Oh, for fuck’s sake, you idiot, because he's your client, well, sort of… It would be unprofessional… wrong.

“and… and you certainly deserve to be free.”

Dean remains silent but shakes his head and backs away when she moves toward him.

Frustrated with everything that’s transpired, she shouts, “You know what?! Go! I won’t, can’t, force you to stay! If you believe you deserve to spend the rest of your life in a six-by-eight cell or living in the shadows, the door is right behind you. You still have the keys to the Impala. Take her and FUCKING go! I won’t tell anyone about you.”

She turns her back on him, leaning against the kitchen sink and staring out the window, hand clasping into a towel nearby. Tears burn a trail down her cheeks. All she wanted to do was help a man that had been wrongly accused, but she can’t force him to see his own worth. He doesn’t know her, not really. She shouldn’t expect him to have blind faith in her, trust that she can help overturn his conviction, and believe that she can genuinely care about him.

Three days. Three goddamn days and her heart feels like it’s been put through the harvester, reaped and threshed until all that remains is the raw kernel, stripped clean of any defenses. The only person who can sustain it is Dean.

What have I done?

The epiphany wracks her body with sobs. She doesn’t want to go back—can’t go back—to the life she had before he stumbled into it. She doesn’t care that it’s only been three days, the obstacles they’ll have to overcome, or what Sam or anyone else might say. Ready to turn and run after him, beg him to stay, she jumps when a heavy hand rests gently on her arm. Dean offers her a weak smile when she looks over her shoulder. Whimpering, she buries her face in his chest, arms wrapping tightly around him.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he says, stroking her hair and kissing the top of her head, arm snug against her back, holding her close. “I’m sorry I scared you.” His voice wavers with the apology. “We’ll figure it out, okay?”

She sniffs and nods, clinging to him like ivy to a tree, unable to speak yet. He continues to run a gentle hand over her head, cheek resting against her temple. His heart's strong, steady beat is soothing and helps to quell the flurry of residual agitation.

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” she whispers after the hiccups pass.

“It’s alright.” He squeezes her tighter. “I had no right to get so angry.”

“No,” she pulls away, grimacing at the wet slide of her cheek against his chest. Reaching for the towel next to the sink, she wipes away the salty dampness her tears left on him, “it’s not. I had no right to talk to you like that. I don’t know you any better than you know me.”

Dean takes the towel from her. With one arm still loosely wrapped around her waist, he squats to her eye level and gently dries her face and neck. “Well, you’re wrong about that. You seem to know me pretty damn well for someone that just met me. Your grandpa was clearly right about that gift of yours.”

Tossing the towel onto the counter, his hands frame her face. “You were wrong about something else, though.” He tilts his head to make sure she sees him. “I’m not afraid of the feelings. I’m genuinely afraid you’ll get hurt somehow. Worse than me making you cry, and I never want to do that again. It felt like Baby was sitting on my chest, listening to you break like that.”

He slides a thumb over her lips to silence her when she opens her mouth. “I’m afraid that the crazy, wonderful,” he pauses, “feelings I’ve been feeling will be ripped away if we start something. So, yeah, I understand why you feel like you’re getting mixed messages. ‘Cause I’m having a really hard time wrapping my head around what’s going on.”

Kasey’s eyes widen. She honestly hadn’t expected him to fully admit his feelings, assuming, correctly, that his first instinct is to shut down, but listening to him openly express his fears and explain why he reacted the way he did, fills her with a sense of relief.

“I feel that, for whatever reason, I don’t understand right now, this—this farm, this house, this time—it’s where I’m supposed to be.” He taps a hand over his heart, and the other drops to cradle her neck. “That I belong here, with you. I have this sense of knowing you forever, yet it’s only been a little over seventy-two hours. And that freaks the hell out of me. What? Why are you grinning at me like that?“

She steps closer to him, wrapping her fingers around his forearm at her shoulder. “That’s exactly how I feel. You know… what you said about being afraid to start something and then having it torn away. But I don’t want to let this slip through my fingers and always wonder… What if? I told you before that I don’t believe in soulmates, fate… or any of that crap, but I don’t know what else to call this. I just know, with absolute certainty, that I’m afraid to lose you, and you're not even mine.”

Kasey’s not certain if Dean’s eyes have glossed over or if the tears welling in hers are distorting the view, but either way, his soft smile sends hers spilling over her lashes. He pulls her against him, cradling her head against his chest and arm holding her firm. Her heart swells with the awareness that it makes her feel exactly how she imagined it would—protected, content, and loved.

Seconds later, she feels his tears dampen her head as he mumbles, “It’d be really awesome if I could shut off the damn waterworks for a while.”

Chuckling, she kisses his chest just above his heart as he places a kiss on the top of her head. As happy as she could be staying just as they are now, she irrefutably knows what she wants and isn’t going to waste another minute stressing over the repercussions. She turns out of his embrace and takes his hand, pulling him with her. After only a moment’s hesitation, Dean lets her lead him down the hall to his bedroom.

Dean pushes the door closed behind them with his foot as she walks backward, drawing him along by the hands. Stopping when she reaches the end of the bed, she cradles his neck, fingers massaging at his nape. “I want you, Dean, but more than anything, I want you to take what you need. I’ll give you everything if you will just kiss me again.”

“Shit, Kasey, I-“

“Shh.” She pushes up on her toes, pulling him down toward her.

Resting his hands on her hips, he presses his forehead to hers, a glimmer in his eye. “Well, you should be kissed—and often—and by someone who knows how.”

“Oh, and I suppose, Mr. Butler, you think you’re the proper person?” she teases in her best southern drawl.

“Yes, I do.” Dean slides his hands up to encircle her ribcage and lifts her from the floor.

Maneuvering her legs beneath her to kneel on the edge of the bed, hands on his shoulders, Kasey stares at him in deference, willing to do almost anything to feel those supple lips roaming her flesh again.

Once she’s settled, his fingers lightly graze over her bare skin, thumbs slipping beneath the material of her dress to caress the underside of her breasts. The glimmer of humor in his eyes shifts, and she gasps, captured in their smoldering depths.

Like a moth drawn to a flame, she tilts forward as Dean sets a hand at her hip, the other cradling the back of her head, thumb caressing her jaw. Kasey sighs against his mouth, eyes drifting closed when their lips finally meet.

It starts sweet and gentle, soft-lip open-mouthed kisses, almost tentative, like each is expecting the other to pull away. They give in to the kiss when neither does, lips moving in sync like a well-choreographed dance they’ve been practicing for years. He claims her mouth, hungry and demanding, steals her breath only to replace it with his own, fueling the fire blooming deep in her center. Her lips part of their own volition, and the first slide of his tongue against hers is electric and delicious. He tastes like coffee and cinnamon, and she whines into his mouth, begging for more.

Thick fingers tangle into her hair, loosening more strands. Reaching back, she frees her hair from the elastic band, letting the loose waves cascade down her back. Weaving a few tendrils through his fingers, he closes his hand and gently tugs, breaking the kiss. He doesn’t go far, scruff scratching over her skin as he trails kisses down her neck. “So beautiful,” he whispers, his breath hot and damp, making her body twist and shiver with pleasure.

Kasey’s fingers slip over the silky strands of his hair on the back of his head, holding him in place as he continues the assault on her neck, nipping and sucking marks into her skin. The muscles of his arm twitch beneath the fingers of her other hand as she traces a path along the dip in his forearm and over the ridge of his tricep, coming to rest at his shoulder. When he hits the sweet spot near the back of her neck, they flutter against him before seizing into his skin.

Continuing to play with his hair, she lightly scrapes her nails over his scalp, waiting for his reaction, and is rewarded with a low moan that vibrates over her skin. The sensation shoots straight through her to pool low and warm in her belly.

Plump lips find hers again, teasing her with quick pecks at the corners of her mouth, a slow slide of his tongue over her top lip, the sharp nip and release of her bottom lip. By the time he presses his full mouth to hers again, she’s wound tight as a guitar string. Ready to snap at the slightest pluck. Ready to fall apart, needy and wet, and all he’s done is kiss her. It’s so not fair. He briefly pulls away, tilting his head in the other direction, rolling a taut nipple between his thumb and index finger with the motion. Blood rushing, heart pounding, she inhales what might be her last breath as his lips seal over hers again.

I’m going to die. I’m going to die from this kiss.

The thought plays on a loop in her head, and just as she’s about to relinquish her soul to whatever entity gifted him with those lips and the knowledge of how to use them, he breaks away. She greedily sucks in a breath along with his bottom lip, roughly grazing her teeth over the sensitive flesh as she slowly releases it. Dean hisses, digging his fingers into her. He looks slightly dazed, eyes stunningly dark, lips swollen and glossy with spit.

His beard is damp with sweat, the short hairs tickling her palm when she cups his jaw. She brushes a thumb over the lush, reddened skin of his mouth, and he grins a cheeky little smirk, tongue slipping between his parted lips to lick the pad before sucking the digit between his lips and gently biting down.

Nope, not a kiss. His mouth. My death certificate will read, Cause of Death: ‘Dean Winchester’s mouth’.

“What a filthy mouth,” she teases. Dean wiggles his eyebrows at her, still holding her thumb captive between his lips. “No… sinful. You’re a wicked little incubus, aren’t you.” She licks at the corner of his mouth, scraping the nails of her free hand down the skin of his side. His body jerks violently, and he releases her thumb with a grunt.

She nearly falls off the bed, hands slapping against his chest to steady herself. “Oh. Someone’s ticklish,” she laughs. Wriggling her fingers, she prepares to dig in, but Dean’s quicker. Grabbing her wrists, he pins her arms behind her back, forcing her closer to him, a smug smile and sparkling eyes meeting her startled expression.

“I don’t think s-” Dean chokes on the words when she nips at the base of his throat, then licks up the underside of his chin and across his jaw.

He smells divine, a scent that’s distinctly him rising over body wash and shampoo, and she inhales deeply, nudging her nose behind his earlobe. She kisses the salt off his skin from ear to chin, his pulse skipping when she lingers over the vein in his neck, giving it a quick bite. “You taste yummy,” she purrs, licking her lips as she straightens up. She kisses a corner of his mouth, “So,” a kiss to the other corner, “Winchester,” looking up through her eyelashes, their lips brushing against each other’s like butterfly wings as she whispers, “what else can you do with this mouth?”

The deep growl rumbles from his chest to echo in hers, making her heart pound faster. Releasing her wrists, large hands encircle her upper arms, and he lifts her from the bed, holding her steady until her feet settle on the floor. She’s always been a sucker for someone big enough to manhandle her yet be gentle too. Her walls clench at the thought of whether he’s big all over. The bulge she felt against her ass earlier seemed pretty impressive, but she’s eager to have a look, feel the weight of him in her hand. Eyes flicking downward, she reaches out to palm him through the loose cotton pants, but Dean stops her once again.

He lightly grips her hand, kissing his way up her arm as he pulls it around the back of his neck. “I want to enjoy this for as long as possible. Besides, you wanted to know what I could do with my mouth, right?”

Kasey brings her other arm up, hands meeting behind his head, twirling a lock of hair through her fingers. “You know, I’ve wanted to tell you since that first day you walked into the kitchen, showered, shaved, hair falling in soft waves, that I thought your hair was the perfect tuggable length.” She snares a handful, “Do you like your hair pulled, Dean?” and yanks his head back. The fingers sliding over her arms dig into her triceps, a gruff croak slipping from his lips as his hips pitch forward. “Oooh, yes… you do,” Angling her hips, she rocks against him, the feeling of how hard he is, inciting a gasp from her.

“Aww, shit,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “I- I can’t wait-”

“Then don’t.”

A hand at the nape of her neck prevents her from stumbling back when his lips crash into hers. Crossing her arms behind his head, pulling him closer, her body arches to meet him. He breaks the kiss all too soon, and just like that, she’s left breathless again. Panting, she presses her forehead against his chest as he unties the knot holding her dress in place. She swirls her tongue over his nipple, alternating between soft kitten licks and sharp flicks of her tongue. The sounds she draws from him make her panties moist with slick. She drops her hands and works the material of his pants down over his ass.

The knot falls loose, and Dean holds her at arm’s length letting the dress slip from her body to pool on the floor. Tilting his head, his mouth falls open as if in awe, eyes raking over her from tip to toe and back again. “Damn, you're gorgeous,” he husks, teeth scraping over his lower lip.

Eyes locked with his, she palms over his hard length before loosely fisting around him. “So thick, just like the rest of you.” Wetting her lips, she slowly strokes him, slipping her thumb over the small V just below the head. Dean sputters and moans, and she kisses the tip of his chin. “Fuck, me.”

Dean tugs the garment down his thighs, and Kasey drops with a heavy bounce as he steps out of the material, pushing her back onto the bed. Keeping him in hand, she strokes the length of him. Pre-cum leaks enticingly from his slit, and the need to taste him, feel that weight of him on her tongue, is overpowering. Pinching her chin between thumb and forefinger, he tilts her head back when she leans forward to lick at him, preventing her from reaching her goal.

Brows pulled together, she flicks her eyes upward and pouts, “I want to show you what I can do with my mouth.” She constricts her grip and tugs. Dean thrusts into her fist, fingers denting into her cheeks, other hand grasping around her wrist to halt any further movement from her.

“I thought you wanted me to fuck you.”

“I want everything, your mouth, your fingers, those hands, that dick.”

He hisses through clenched teeth, looking down at the hand still holding him. “I knew these fingers, this hand,” his thumb strokes over her skin, “would feel good wrapped around me. I didn’t realize just how good it would feel.” He loosens the hold on her face but tightens the one on her wrist. “I need you to stop, or this will be over way too soon.”

She unfurls her fingers and pushes her bottom lip out a little further, whining, “But I’m hungry. I haven’t eaten breakfast yet.”

“Fuuuuucking, hell.” Dean looks like his dick isn’t the only thing about to explode. Releasing her hand, he leans into her, forcing her to lie back. “Are you trying to kill me?”

Kasey smiles as she watches him struggle to regain control, silently reveling in the knowledge that she can rile him up as much as he had done to her. The moment his demeanor shifts, she tries to move up the bed, steeling herself for his next move, but he quickly grips her knee holding her in place as he straightens. “Where do you think you’re going?” His long, lean body is now on full display in all its glory, and she nearly melts into the mattress. The air leaves her lungs in a whoosh, making her dizzy, and she grips the bedding to ground herself. There’s so much to take in that she’s unsure where to look, so she briefly closes her eyes.

No one has a right to look that good. If he were to be arrested for anything, this should have been it. It’s cruel and unusual punishment. Oh! I wonder what kind of punishment he would dish out?

When she finally peels her lids open, her eyes immediately land on his beefy thighs, and an image of her straddling one as large hands guide her over those taut muscles makes her chest heave. The air around her sizzles with heat, or maybe it’s her skin; it could be both. She swallows hard and brushes her tongue over her lips, futilely attempting to slake the thirst of her parched mouth.

“You okay, there?”

The deep bass of his voice is a shock to her already overloaded system, and her shoulders twitch. “Just kill me now.”

“Kase?”

She hadn’t meant to say it aloud. The concern laced in the word brings her frazzled brain into a semi-focused awareness. She manages a smile as she lifts her eyes to his face, all sense of intelligent thought once again fleeing when she’s greeted with a cheeky smile and a knowing gaze. “I, uh, I said, I- I’m fine.”

The arch of a single brow accompanied by the nod of his head ignites a spark of defiance. Dean’s eyes darken and shift, intently watching as she brings a hand up to tweak her nipple. Focused on the hungry glint in his eyes, she’s startled by the feel of her underwear being slipped from beneath her ass and over her ankles.

“Time to let me see.” With a wink and a wicked smile, she brings her knees up and lets her legs fall open. He brings the scrap of fabric to his nose and tugs on his shaft as he inhales deeply. “Who knew you’d be such a tease,” he smirks, tossing the white cotton to the floor.

Kasey gulps, feeling her cunt dripping onto the sheets. She hurriedly scoots up the bed, but Dean moves like a jungle cat, pinning her down before she can reach the pillows, mouth immediately latching onto a breast. She yelps in surprise, the slap of her hands against his shoulder blades echoing through the room. Her back instinctively arches, but she has nowhere to go, his weight hard and heavy on top of her.

“Shit, shit, shit. Give a girl some warning,” she huffs.

He smiles against her skin, tongue flicking across the hardened nub trapped between his teeth before releasing it. “Why? It’s more fun this way.” He turns his attention to the other breast, fingers drifting featherlight down her body, making her leg twitch when he brushes over the crease of her leg and hip. “Huh, seems like someone else might be ticklish,” he murmurs, chuckling softly, the sound vibrating through her body.

Whining his name, she squirms beneath him when he ghosts his fingers over the area again, then gasps as he shifts his body, giving himself room to run a finger through her folds. He sinks his finger in to the first knuckle while his thumb circles her clit.

“You’re so wet,” he taunts, pushing in further before pulling out. “Is that all for me?” Kissing the valley between her breasts, he adds a second finger and starts a slow slide in and out… in and out...

Kasey’s brain short circuits.

Not a kiss. Not his mouth. Him. I’m going to die from all of him.

“Who- who the h- hell else would it be for, you ass.” she manages to splutter. “Just fuck me already.”

“Whoa, no need to get mean. But I do love the sound of nasty words coming from such a pretty mouth.” He sucks a mark into the top of her breast, his fingers picking up the pace as he continues to pump them into her slick heat. “You gonna talk dirty to me? Make me lick that filthy mouth clean?”

She can’t reach what she wants to grab, so she settles for grabbing a handful of hair and pulling his face up to hers. He looks fucking giddy, a shit-eating grin plastered on his lips. She narrows her eyes and snarls, “I’ll spew every fucking filthy word I know. Hell, I’ll even swear in fucking Latin if it helps. All the fucking filth you can goddamn fucking STAND from this pretty mouth; talk so motherfucking dirty to you, you’ll need to shower twice to feel clean if you. will. just. fuck. me.” She’d laugh at the unmitigated shock that adorns his face, but the coil is wound so tight it’s almost painful. “Please,” she sweetly begs.

His eyes hold an ardent enthusiasm, but his smile softens, and he kisses the tip of her nose. “That’s why I need you to come for me, honey. I don’t want to hurt you.”

She keens his name when he scissors his fingers and grinds onto his hand when he adds a third, making her walls convulse. “That’s it,” he whispers in her ear, “I can feel you getting closer.”

“Shit… feels good.” Curling in on herself, she breathes, “p- please.”

He places a peck on her cheek, “I want you to come hard for me, okay?” presses a kiss to her temple, “I want to feel you dripping down my arm,” taps his thumb over her clit, riling her up, enticing her to the edge. “Can you do that?”

“Y- yes…” Slipping a hand around the back of his neck, she thrusts against his hand, “fuck… feels so good,” as the other grips the arm working her over, “right there… right there.” Each thrust of his hand buries those long thick fingers deep, deeper than she could ever get on her own. She writhes next to him, yearning for release but not wanting it to end.

“Good girl.” Dean nips sharply at her earlobe and curls his fingers, thumb pressing into her clit.

Hips canting off the bed, back bowed, her body seizes, breath stalled, sound trapped in her throat, and walls clamped firmly around his fingers.

“That’s my girl,” he coos. “Fuck, that’s tight.” He tries to wiggle his fingers, and she cries out.

It’s all too much—his fingers, his voice, the weight and heat of him, the wave of euphoria that rolls through her. She collapses back onto the bed, her nails digging into his flesh, walls spasming around the fingers still fucking her. “Christ… fuck…” She twists her hips and clenches her thighs together, trying to stop the overstimulation, chest heaving, and heart threatening to burst.

“Nuh, uh.” Dean wedges a leg between hers, keeping them separated, his hand slowing as he eases her down. “Deep breaths.”

Kasey tries to do as he says, sucking in lungfuls of air, slowly exhaling in time with the rhythm of his fingers… in and out… in and out… she dissolves into the mattress, dazed and blissful.

“There you go.” He kisses her deeply, tongue slipping in as he frees his fingers completely.

Hips jerking, she whines, already missing the feeling of fullness he’d provided. Damn, he was right. He needed to prepare her. If she felt that full with just his fingers, that cock of his will split her open. She can’t wait.

Dean bites her bottom lip, bringing her focus back to him. Leaning up on his elbow, he brings his hand up from between her legs, “Look at the mess you made.” Kasey looks down her body to find his entire hand glistening as he wiggles his fingers, her juices dripping from his wrist. “Such a good girl, doing exactly as you were told.”

She can’t lie; the praise makes her feel warm and fuzzy, tightening the coil again a notch or two. He swipes his wrist across her thigh, then scoots down to lick it from her skin. “Tastes so good.” He breathes over the wet trail his tongue left behind, laughing as the goosebumps rise on her flesh, making her whine. Flicking his tongue out, he laps at his palm before shoving a finger into his mouth and moans, then proceeds to suck each finger clean in turn, releasing his thumb with a loud pop when he’s finished.

Fuck him. Fuck him and his thick fingers. Fuck his sinful mouth and talented tongue. Fuck his dreamy eyes and sexy voice, broad shoulders, and ripped arms. Fuck his bowed legs and meaty thighs. Fuck him.

And she categorically does want to… fuck him, that is. Dean rolls over the top of her, resting his weight on his forearms on either side of her shoulders, their noses nearly touching.

“Ever taste yourself?”

The question sounds obscene, depraved, the rasp of whiskey and smoke-filled barrooms pervading the words. It makes her stomach flip and her toes curl. He could be the devil incarnate, and she’d willingly follow him to hell and back if he promised to talk to her like that every day. She shakes her head. She can smell her arousal on his breath, and it turns her on more than she ever thought it would, making her squirm beneath him, wanting nothing more than to taste the tang of her release.

“Seriously?” Eyes dark and hungry, he smiles wide and bright. “Do you want to?”

Nodding eagerly, she unconsciously licks her lips in anticipation.

Dean’s smile is wicked as he breathes, “Go ahead.”

Tilting her chin up, she gives him a tentative peck on the lips, which reveals little in the way of taste. He patiently watches as she bites her lip, then licks along his top lip.

She scrunches her nose at first, and he chuckles, brushing back the strands of hair sticking to her cheek. “Try again.”

He parts his lips further, letting her sweep her tongue in to explore his mouth with the next kiss. Kasey moans, and he pulls away, kissing the tip of her nose, the corners of his eyes crinkling with his smile. “Exactly.” His cock lies heavy against her thigh, and he ruts into her, mouth capturing hers, letting her lick his mouth clean. She pants when they break apart, “I want to taste you now.”

Wincing, he groans, “Later. I want to fuck you hard. Like you’ll feel me for days hard. I almost blew my load watching you fall apart. I can’t hold back much longer, and I really, really want to feel that tight cunt squeeze around my dick as you come.”

“Well, well, look who’s got the filthy mouth now.” she giggles. “Unfortunately, I think we will have to wait for that.”

“Wait? Why?” He looks terror-stricken. “I can’t wait. I mean… if you need to… don’t want to… then, yeah, we can wait. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to… assume… anything. I just thought… with everything you said… what we just did… “

She lets him ramble on a bit more before kissing him to shut him up. Dean blinks down at her, confusion written into every gorgeous angle of his face. Sliding a hand down his side, she traces the edge of the bandage. “I meant the rough sex, but-”

“Ah, phfft.” He cuts her off, rolling his eyes like she’s a crazy person. “I can barely feel it. It’ll be fine.”

Pinning him with a stern glare, she huffs, “May I finish?”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“I have an idea that I think will make you just as happy.”

“Does it involve me feeling that sweet pussy around my dick?”

“Jesus.” It’s her turn to roll her eyes. “Yes.”

“Awesome, what’s the idea?”

“Get off me and lie on your back.”

Dean’s eyes immediately light up, quickly catching on, and he rolls off her, situating himself in a semi-reclining position against the pillows. Kasey sits up on her haunches, then moves to straddle him, only to jerk back when he slaps his palms against the sheets and angrily shouts, “Son of a bitch.”

“What?” Not sure what’s happening, she quickly scans his body paying close attention to the bandage on his injured side. “You okay? What’s wrong?”

Scrubbing a hand down his face, he laments, “Uhm… condoms?”

She blinks rapidly, comprehension taking a moment to set in. “Oh! Well, I’m sure there are a couple around here somewhere, but they won’t be any good.” The forlorn-little-boy look on his face nearly sends her into a fit of laughter, and she bites her lip until she can swallow it back down. “I have an implant,” she tentatively states. Resting her hand, palm up, on his thigh, she taps the skin over the tiny bar.

Dean tilts his head curiously, eyes narrowing a bit. He wraps his fingers around her arm, thumb resting about an inch from the device, and eyes her quizzically.

“You can touch it,” she nods.

Lightly running his thumb over the area, he grimaces. “That feels weird. Does it hurt?”

“No, I don’t even feel it anymore. I got it right before I moved.” Smiling, she carefully watches his face. “So, we’re covered on that front. We good?”

“I’m good,” he nods eagerly.

Dean continues to hold her arm, helping her to balance as she throws a leg over his thighs, settling her ass just above his knees. “What are you doing so far away?” He holds his other hand up, and she flattens her palm against his, forcing their intertwined fingers onto the pillow above his head, moaning in unison with him when her still wet folds slide over his shaft.

She leans in and gives him a short, sweet kiss, sliding her hips back as she bears down on him. Dean grunts and releases the hold on her arm to cup the side of her face. His gaze is intense, but his eyes are soft and apologetic as he brushes his thumb over the apple of her cheek, and for a second, she worries that he might ask her to stop. Instead, he kisses her, sensual and slow. The rush to get where they are is gone, and now he clearly wants to savor the moment. Fingers slipping into her hair, he lifts his chin and pulls her closer. Nose pressed alongside hers, he hesitates, sharing a breath, looking at her with something akin to wonder. Kasey softly wraps her fingers around his wrist and whispers his name. Eyelids fluttering closed, he tilts his head to slot his lips with hers. The emotions he imparts in the kiss are startling. It’s passionate yet tender, intoxicating and exhilarating, loving and sweet. She swears she could come again just from this kiss.

She swirls her hips, his cock slipping through her folds, and he growls into her mouth. The smile it elicits causes him to pull back, smirking at her. “I want you so bad it hurts. But feeling you raw, I think this might end quicker than either of us would like.”

The sincerity in his tone warms her heart, and she responds in kind. Squeezing the hand she’s holding, she turns her head and kisses his palm. “We have all day. I’m sure we will have ample opportunity to find ways of enjoying each other.”

He visibly relaxes under her gaze.

“So let me take care of you.” She rocks her hips, sliding him through her wet heat. After her second pass, he drops his hand to her waist and thrusts against her, and she immediately stills. Lightly smacking his chest, she growls, “You don’t move. I’m in charge now.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The smug smirk falls from his lips when her fingers grip his cock and squeeze. “I mean it. You, don’t move.”

“Got it.” She runs her thumb through his slit and strokes him a couple of times to make sure he’s fully covered in her slick. “N-No moving.” Lifting, she notches his tip at her entrance. “I’ll just…” She slowly eases down an inch or so. “lie h- here and take-”

Grunting, he slams his head back into the pillows, fingers denting into the top of her ass cheeks as she drops, impaling herself on his shaft. Falling forward, she presses her hand into his pec and tucks her chin, taking a moment to let the burn of the stretch dissipate. She knew he’d feel good, but damn, this… this is illusory. The stuff fantasies are made of. He’s broad and long, just like the rest of him, and he fills her so completely.

“Kasey?”

“Yeah, one more sec.” She clenches around him, feeling every thick ridge and throbbing vein.

“Kase, I need you to move.” Voice strained, he begs, “Please.”

Chuckling, she lifts her head to watch him as she slowly rises, then eases back onto him, setting a slow, steady pace. She releases his hand and kisses the tip of his chin as she brushes her knuckles over his cheek. “You’re beautiful.”

Dean scrunches his face at the word, and she smiles sweetly. “You are.” She tucks a section of hair back at his temple, “you’re smart.” Her index finger traces an eyebrow, “your eyes are kind, filled with emotion.” She trails the finger down his nose, tapping the end. “An adorable freckled nose.” Leaning forward, she rubs the tip of her nose against his, continuing to thrust shallow and slow. Her finger slides through the dip of his Cupid’s bow and drags over his bottom lip to his chin. She lets her tongue take over, placing her hand to rest on the bed above his shoulder. Keeping his gaze, she licks along his lower lip and whispers, “This deliciously sinful mouth.” The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles, cock twitching inside her, fingers flexing into her flesh. “Such a gorgeous smile.”

Kasey sits back, and he slips in deeper, stretching her snug walls around him. The sense of fullness and the drag over her g-spot makes her tremble in anticipation. Despite his reservations, she has no doubt that he’ll make her come again.

Dean regards her with rapt attention as she undulates over him, her body slowly twisting and curving, building momentum. “Do you know what I think the sexiest thing is about you?” Perfect white teeth rake over his bottom lip as he shakes his head. She snakes a finger down his chest before tapping two fingers over his heart. “This heart. It’s a good heart.” Her other hand slips between them. “Strong and steady.”

“Fuck… oh… shit…” Dean’s body jerks, and his cock swells when her fingers brush against his shaft as she circles her clit. “Kasey…” His big hands squeeze the globes of her ass, then drop to grip around her ankles, forcing her knees forward and drawing her legs closer to his body.

Fingers curling into his chest, she pitches forward, her other hand landing on his shoulder as she grinds down onto him. Mouth pressed to his ear, she breathes, “Come for me.” And he does, spurting hot and deep inside her with a strangled shout.

Dean’s hands encircle her waist, helping her move as she continues to bounce on him while he throbs inside her. Seconds later, she bites into the skin of his collarbone, clenching around him while he holds her flush against his pelvic bone, the wave of pleasure washing over her even stronger than before.

He wraps her up in his arms when she collapses on top of him, chests heaving against each other and hearts pounding. His skin slips against hers, where the sweat has pooled between them as he flips them over. Brushing damp stray hairs off her forehead, he places quick, tender kisses over her face, then slides down between her legs, laying his head over her heart, using her breasts as a makeshift pillow.

“Damn, that was awesome.” His warm breath tickles her cooling skin.

“It was,” she chuckles, fingers drawing random patterns on his shoulder. “I can’t wait to do it again.” She hooks her heels over his thighs as his laughter shakes the mattress beneath them.

He dips his head to kiss her skin before replying, “Give me a minute to catch my breath.”

She smiles, looking down at him; the weight of his body grounds her. Dean hums, breaths slowing as she cards her fingers through his hair. He slides his arms closer to her body, hands resting against her sides, not quite cupping her breasts, and relaxes further into her, pressing her deeper into the bedding. It’s hot and sticky, but she doesn’t care and has no intention of moving. She closes her eyes, letting the bliss-filled silence stretch between them. She’s on the edge of sleep when he murmurs against her.

“There was one more thing you were wrong about.”

“Sheesh. Is this going to become a thing now? Are you going to start keeping a list?”

He chuckles as he lifts his head, resting his chin in the cleft below her breasts, and she peels her lids up just enough to see him. “Earlier when you said that… that I wasn’t yours. You were wrong. I’ve been yours from the moment I stepped onto your porch.”

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