Fiona looked up as he approached with silverware, offering him a soft smile. She fit here, somehow. In this warm, unpretentious house with these good people who knew how to be kind without keeping score.
"Dinner!" June announced, carrying a steaming platter to the table.
They settled around the small table, and Dean found himself directly across from Fiona. Close enough to notice she was wearing the earrings he'd given her for her birthday—the small gold ones she'd said reminded her of leaves. Close enough to see that she still pushed her vegetables to one side of her plate, the way she always had.
"You know," Russell said, cutting another piece of meat, "Dean talks about you constantly."
"Russell," Dean warned.
"What? It's true. Half our conversations are him worrying about whether you're eating enough or if your car needs an oil change.”
Fiona's eyes flicked to Dean's face. "You worry about my car?"
"I worry about everything," Dean admitted. "Whether you're safe, whether you're happy, whether you need anything, whether I’m allowed to give it to you.”
The table went quiet for a moment.
“You want to give me what I need?” Fiona asked.
"That's what husbands do," June said softly. "Even ex-husbands, apparently."
Dean walkedher to the car slowly, the night air cool against his skin. Their shoulders bumped once, then again, like a familiar dance trying to find its old rhythm.
The street was quiet—just the low hum of insects and the hush of a breeze moving through the trees. He wanted to say something, anything, to keep her here a little longer. But her presence felt so sacred, so fragile, he didn’t dare risk shattering it with words.
They reached her car. Fiona paused by the driver’s side door, keys dangling from her fingers. She looked up at him, her expression unreadable in the soft glow of the porch light.
“Dean,” she said quietly.
“Yeah?” His voice was rough with everything he wasn’t letting himself feel.
Her eyes searched his face for a beat.
“Will you kiss me?”
Time stopped.
For a second, he thought he’d misheard. But then she stepped a little closer, breath catching.
He wanted to hear her say the words again.
He didn’t make her.
Dean reached for her like a man who’d been starving.
He kissed her like it was the last thing he’d ever do—like the world was ending and her mouth was the only truth left in it. His hands cradled her face, thumbs brushing the line of her jaw, reverent. She made a small sound against his mouth—half need, half disbelief—and that nearly undid him.
She still tasted like cinnamon rolls and tea. Like home.
She gripped the front of his shirt like she needed to anchor herself, and he let her pull him in, closer, closer. His hands slid into her hair, that familiar softness making his knees go weak.
Dean didn’t think. He justfelt.
The curve of her waist under his hands. The press of her chest against his. The way her breath stuttered when he kissed her deeper, slower, like they had all the time in the world.
God, he loved her.
He could’ve lived in that kiss. Could’ve drowned in it, happy.
