Break had ended.
The campus was cold again — bitter, northern wind curling around buildings, students wrapped in scarves, rushing between classes. But Camille's dorm room was warm. The radiator clicked every few minutes. A soft candle flickered on the desk (technically against the rules), and Camille's favorite record played low from her speaker.
Dean was lying across her bed, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting on his chest. His wedding band glinted when the flame caught it just right.
Camille stood at her mirror, twisting her hair into a clip. She was talking about something — a girl in her psych class who never stopped raising her hand — and Dean was smiling, eyes half-lidded, the way he always did when he was watching her instead of really listening.
They weren't used to sharing mornings like this. Or nights. But Camille's roommate had an 8 a.m. and preferred sleeping in her own space. So more often than not, Dean was here.
And for a few hours each night — curled around each other in a twin bed too small for love — they felt like something solid. Something safe.
Married.
"Are you even listening?" Camille teased, turning around with one eyebrow raised.
Dean smirked. "Nope."
She threw a sock at him.
He caught it and sat up, reaching for her wrist as she passed by. "Sorry, Mrs. Carter. You were just too busy looking beautiful to focus on."
She rolled her eyes, but smiled anyway.
"Flattery isn't gonna help you when you forget our dinner plans again."
"That was one time," he said, tugging her down into his lap. She landed with a soft laugh, her legs curling against his as she kissed the corner of his mouth.
"Twice," she corrected against his skin. "And don't think I forgot."
Dean leaned his forehead against hers. "You keep track of everything, don't you?"
"Only the important things."
He didn't want to ruin this moment.
Not with what he felt clawing at the edge of his mind — the dreams, the voice, the sense that something was shifting out of his control. He hadn't told her about the last one. Not in detail.
It had been the worst so far.
A corridor that never ended. Camille's voice calling his name, distant and echoing. And then the whisper — low and raspy, like it came from inside his own lungs.
Everything has a cost.
The same sentence from before. And he was starting to get a gut feeling of what the "cost" would be. And it made his heart drop to his feet.
Dean had woken up gasping, hand clenched into the bedsheet. Camille hadn't stirred. He let her sleep. He always did.
She was too bright to carry his darkness.
.....
Now, she brushed her fingers through his hair, slow and rhythmic. "You're quiet today," she said softly.
He shrugged. "Just tired."
She didn't push. She never did. Not when he said it like that — not with the quiet in his voice.
But she kissed his forehead and said, "You're not alone, you know."
"I know."
"Whatever's going on in that brooding brain of yours, it doesn't change this."
She ran her fingers down the side of his face, resting them on the band around his ring finger.
"We're good, Dean."
He swallowed hard. "We are."
And they were. God, they were. But something inside him felt like it was ticking.
That night, Camille fell asleep first, her back tucked into his chest, their legs tangled, the covers pulled all the way up to their chins. She always slept with her hand over his heart, like it grounded her.
Dean stayed awake, staring at the ceiling.
The radiator clicked.
The candle had long gone out.
Her breathing was steady.
And the voice came again — not in a dream this time, but as a thought, as a presence.
She's your light.
And light always costs more than you expect.
Dean blinked, eyes burning.
He hoped that the cost wouldn't be what he thought, but he knew one thing. He loved Camille and he had promised she would be happy in this life. So he'd give anything…. anything to keep her safe and far from danger.