"I'm sorry, love. Did I wake you?"

MLM

You shift slightly, feeling the soft fabric of Dean's shirt beneath your cheek, warmed by the heat of his body. His hand, still resting on your shoulder, hesitates for a moment, as if unsure whether to continue the gentle strokes or to pull away. You sense the tension in his fingers, the slight twitch that gives away his worry about disturbing you further. His eyes, though drawn back to the book, keep darting down to you, a tender concern lingering in their depths, silently asking if you're okay, if you're still comfortable.

The sound of him turning another page is soothing, like a soft whisper in the quiet room, and you feel the faint tickle of his breath against your forehead as he exhales, relaxing again now that he knows you haven't moved away. There’s a subtle scent that clings to him—something familiar, a mix of his cologne with a hint of the soap he always uses. It feels grounding, a reminder that this is home, that this is where you belong.

Dean’s heartbeat echoes steadily beneath your ear, a gentle reminder of his presence, and the way he adjusts his arm around you, cradling you closer, makes you feel as though he’s trying to shield you from the world. It’s in the little movements—the way his fingers trace small circles absentmindedly on your arm, the occasional shift as he repositions himself just to keep you more comfortable—that you feel the depth of his love. He doesn’t have to say anything, and neither do you; in this quiet moment, the warmth between you says everything.