Dean stood in his Santa Monica apartment, his heart pounding like it was chasing a distant star. Skyler, half-asleep on the couch, stretched her arms, signaling to be carried, her sleepy charm pulling at him. After the charged moment on Chris's couch—their unspoken spark igniting—Dean hesitated. Another moment this close, and he might cross a line that would unravel their friendship forever.
Her pout softened her features, a quiet plea. "Get up, Sky," he said, leaning closer, his voice low. "My room's warmer. Go sleep there."
Skyler seized his closeness, wrapping her arms around his neck, legs hooking around his waist with playful defiance. "Not letting go till you take me to your bed," she murmured, her tone teasing but heavy with something deeper. Inside, her heart wavered—drawn to him, yet haunted by a memory of her mother's stern voice, warning her to stay focused, to avoid entanglements that could expose her reasons for coming to Santa Monica.
Dean forced a grin, masking the storm in his chest. "You know what that sounds like, right?" he joked, carrying her to the bedroom, each step weighted with unspoken truths.
Her fingers tousled his hair, her breath warm against his ear. "So, you gonna act on it?" she whispered, soft and daring, slicing through his restraint.
He stumbled slightly, balance shaken. Skyler smiled, teasing, "Careful, Dean. I'm fragile." But her eyes held a question she wasn't ready to voice. "Hey, Sky, I'm still a man," he said, half-laughing, trying to keep it light.
In the bedroom, he tried to set her down, but she clung to him. "Let go," he said, voice tight. "I'm taking the couch."
"It's cold out there," she countered, her gaze locking onto his, steady and searching. "The bed's big enough for both of us." Her heart twisted—wanting him close, but fearing her hidden past might unravel if she let him in too far.
Dean couldn't resist her eyes. "Fine," he muttered, desperate to escape their proximity. But as he tried to stand, Skyler's legs tightened, and his exhaustion betrayed him. He fell back onto the bed, their faces inches apart, her breath warm against his. "Are we truly friends?" she whispered, her voice trembling with doubt and hope.
The question hung in the air, heavy and unanswered. Dean's chest tightened, his mind racing with the urge to pull her closer, to admit the truth he'd buried. But fear—of losing her, of breaking what they had—kept him silent. Skyler's cheeks flushed as she gently pushed him away, her pulse racing. She opened her mouth to apologize, but Dean was already asleep, sprawled beside her. Exhaling, she pulled the blanket over them, her mind a tangle of longing and fear as she drifted off, wondering if she could ever share her truth.
Morning light spilled through the blinds, and Dean woke to an empty bed and the acrid smell of burning toast. He rushed to the kitchen, finding Skyler—hair wet, wearing his oversized bathrobe—scrambling to salvage charred bread. "Sorry," she said, laughing, water dripping onto the floor. "Took too long in the shower and forgot the toast." She looked effortlessly cute, and Dean's chest tightened.
"I'll finish breakfast," he said, grinning. "Find the hair dryer. Try the bathroom."
Minutes later, Skyler returned with the dryer, joining Dean on the couch. He gently dried her hair, the hum blending with their soft laughter as she nibbled toast, their ease like a young couple stealing a quiet moment. Skyler's eyes flicked to her phone, and she paused, turning to him. "You up for a dare?" She showed him a reel: Why not live like you have nothing to lose?
"Why the dying person mentality today?" Dean teased, but his smile faded when she showed a recent video call. Her mother—a strict doctor, as Skyler had told him—had been on the other end, her face tight with silent disapproval as she watched Dean dry Skyler's hair. Skyler had frozen during the call, her mother's piercing stare cutting through the screen, no words needed to convey her judgment. Skyler shrugged now, but her eyes betrayed unease.
"It was Mom," she said lightly. "But let's have fun today." Her voice was bright, but her heart carried the weight of her mother's disapproval, a reminder of the past she kept hidden.
They spent the morning in bathrobes, playing games and watching Netflix, their laughter filling the apartment as Skyler's clothes dried. By noon, they were by the complex's pool, still in bathrobes, giggling over Skyler's embarrassment at losing to a kid in Battlegrounds. In a playful huff, she pushed Dean into the pool, and he dragged her in with him, her laughter ringing out.
Dean surfaced first, grinning, but Skyler shivered, the water icy. Instinctively, she locked her legs around his waist, clinging as always. But their bathrobes, heavy with water, slipped open—Dean's, worn with nothing underneath out of habit; Skyler's, her only option since her clothes were drying. Their bare skin brushed, warm against the cold water, a fleeting, electric contact that stole their breath. Skyler froze, her adrenaline fading, her eyes meeting his. In that moment, the world stilled, If this was friendship, then they were both pretending far too well.