The Lamborghini Urus purred through Santa Monica's darkened streets, city lights casting fleeting shadows across the dashboard.
Skyler slept in the passenger seat, her breath soft against the window. In the backseat, Mia leaned forward, her eyes fixed on Dean through the rearview mirror—sharp and knowing, like she'd unraveled everything: his feelings, the couch, the unspoken pull between him and Skyler.
The drive to Mia's house was long, and Dean's tiredness weighed on him, the road blurring as his eyelids grew heavy.
He pulled up to Mia's place, the car slowing to a stop. She leaned close, her breath warm against his ear.
she whispered something, half-teasing, half-serious, before stepping out.
Skyler stirred, her eyes cracking open just as Mia's face hovered near Dean's. A surge of jealousy hit—sharp and sudden—but she buried it fast, forcing a smile.
"That's a beautiful sight," she said, her voice light, teasing, no hint of the storm inside. It was easier to joke than admit how much it stung.
Mia blinked, thrown off. She'd thought Skyler's feelings were as obvious as Dean's, but that voice carried nothing but calm. She smiled faintly, puzzled, and slipped into her house, wondering if she'd misread it all.
Skyler, though, felt the weight of the act. She had no right to be jealous—Dean wasn't hers, no matter how her heart screamed otherwise. As Dean pulled back onto the road, she stayed silent, staring out the window. Her usual spark had dimmed, replaced by a quiet ache.
Dean gripped the wheel, frustration rising. Skyler's teasing words had cut deeper than they should have—not because she sounded hurt, but because she didn't. Something felt off.
His fatigue didn't help; his driving grew sloppy—swerves, hard brakes—and even Skyler noticed.
"Let me crash at your place," she said, voice firm. "You're not gonna make it home after dropping me off."
"No way," Dean shot back. "I'm fine. I'll get you home."
They went back and forth, voices rising in the quiet car.
"Dean, you're driving like crap," Skyler snapped. "I'm not letting you crash because of me."
He opened his mouth to argue—but as they passed his apartment complex, Skyler's face paled. "Pull over."
Dean swerved to the curb. She stumbled out, leaning against the railing separating the road from the beach. He rushed after her, worry spiking.
"You okay?"
Skyler turned, her nausea fading, and gave him a smile that outshone the stars. "Stop being so stubborn and listen to me," she said, tone leaving no room for argument. "I'm not getting back in that car. Meet me at your place. Keys."
Her eyes sparkled—cute, commanding—and Dean's heart stumbled.
He hesitated. Then handed her the keys. "Fine."
She walked off, her smile lingering in his mind.
Twelve minutes later, he stepped into his apartment—cleaner than usual. No dishes, no clothes tossed around. Skyler was curled up on the couch, asleep beneath a thin blanket, the cool Santa Monica night creeping in.
He thought about carrying her to his bed but stopped himself. Too raw after last night. Instead, he knelt beside her, nudging her gently.
"Sky, go sleep in my room."
She stirred, eyes fluttering open, looking at him with a gaze so soft it made his heart race. She mumbled something, barely awake, and shuffled to his room.
Dean stayed frozen, her look burning into him—the truth of his feelings harder to bury with every second she was near.