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I beam, completely unbothered. “Aw. That’s so sweet.”

Chapter Twelve

Maple

It took forever to pack up all of Holden’s things. For a guy living off-grid like a sexy hermit raccoon, he sure had a lot of stuff. Useful supplies, sure, but also weird little keepsakes. A photo in a cracked frame. A keychain with a compass that doesn’t point north. The worn-down copy of The Stand he’s clearly read more than once.

Dean and I worked like a fucking moving crew while Holden snored obliviously in the car, strapped in with a blanket and a seatbelt like a cranky wilderness toddler.

No way was I leaving anything behind. Not with things spiraling out there the way they are. People are starting to panic, the flu’s spread going exponential, and I’ve worked too hard to build something good and safe. I’m not losing a single fucking mug or lucky multitool to some looter with a weak immune system and bad hygiene.

By the time we get back and I have Holden tucked and cuffed into bed like the world’s hottest hospital patient, I’m sore all over. My arms ache, my back’s tight, and I might be smiling like I just pulled off the heist of the century, but my body wants to melt into a puddle.

Dean sees it. Of course he does.

And God bless him, he doesn’t say anything. Just grabs my wrist, kisses the inside of it, and pulls me toward the shower like I’m a prize he’s won.

The water’s already running by the time we’re in the bathroom, steam curling around us like we’re stepping into some kind of sacred space. He strips me slow, like he’s unwrapping a gift, eyes dark and mouth filthy with whatever he’s already planning.

“You carried more than I did,” I mumble, half-protesting, as he peels my shirt off and drops it to the tile. “I should be washing you.”

“Oh, you will,” Dean murmurs, pulling me into the stall. “But later. Right now, I want to see how many times I can make you whimper before the water turns cold.”

And then his hands are on me, slick, soapy, worshipful in the dirtiest way. He doesn’t rush. He scrubs my shoulders, thumbs digging into knots like he’s angry at them, and every glide of his palm over my skin feels like some unholy prayer.

I lean into it, into him, the heat and the weight of his hands anchoring me in the best kind of haze.

When he gets between my thighs, I brace on the wall and gasp.

“Dean,” I manage, which is honestly impressive considering I’m halfway to orgasm already just from the way he’s looking at me, like I’m dinner and dessert and a post-apocalyptic wet dream all rolled into one.

His fingers slip between my folds, slick and slow, and I bite my lip to keep from moaning so loud it wakes Holden.

“You’ve worked so hard today,” Dean murmurs into my ear, his breath hot on my neck. “You deserve this.”

I arch into him, whining shamelessly as he works me with that same goddamn precision he uses on busted generators. The pads of his fingers circling, teasing, pressing deep while his other hand snakes around to palm my breast, thumb brushing my nipple in time with the rhythm building below.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Let me feel it.”

And I do.

It crashes through me sharp and fast and filthy, one hand slapping the tile and the other fisting in his hair as I cry out and come so hard I see stars behind my eyelids. He doesn’t stop until I’m twitching, legs shaking, water pounding.

And then I hear a slow clap.

I blink, heart still racing, and turn my head.

Evan’s leaning in the doorway, arms crossed, wearing nothing but sweatpants and a smirk. “Well. That was a hell of a thank you.”

Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “She’s got more in her. Want in?”

I expect Evan to be snarky, to roll his eyes and disappear.

Instead, he shrugs, pushes off the doorframe, and walks toward us like he’s done thinking and decided he deserves nice things too.

I don’t know if we’re going to rinse off or make an even bigger mess, but I already know one thing:

This is the best fucking family in the world.