Page 25 of Wraith’s Promise

"What kind of game?" Dean asks, and his voice is almost steady.

"Hide and seek again!."

"Sure, baby girl. Where do you want to play?"

"The whole house! And Quinn has to play too." She grabs my hand with complete trust. "You're good at finding hiding spots, I bet."

"I've had some practice," I admit.

We spend the next hour playing hide and seek through Dean's house, and I learn its geography through Mariah's eyes: the linen closet that's apparently the best hiding spot, the space behind the living room couch that only works if you're very small, the way certain floorboards creak and give you away if you're not careful.

I also learn that Dean is absolutely terrible at seeking, taking far too long to find his daughter in obvious places and making exaggerated surprised sounds when he finally "discovers" her. Mariah thinks it's hilarious. I think it's one of the sweetest things I've ever witnessed.

By the time Mariah finally tires herself out, it's almost dinner time. She curls up on the couch with Captain and a picture book, fighting sleep with everything she has, and Dean starts pulling ingredients from the fridge.

"I was thinking spaghetti," he says. "Simple, hard to screw up."

"I can help." I move to join him, and we work side by side in a comfortable silence that feels earned somehow, like we've done this a hundred times instead of once.

My shoulder still aches where the crowbar caught me, but it's manageable. Nothing broken, nothing permanent. Just another scar to add to the collection I've accumulated over the years.

"Does it hurt?" Dean asks, noticing me favoring it slightly.

"It's fine."

"That's what you said this morning too." He sets down the wooden spoon he's using to stir sauce and turns to face me properly. "You don't have to pretend with me, Quinn. If you're hurt, you can say so."

"I'm hurt," I admit. "But it's manageable. I've had worse."

"That doesn't make me feel better."

"It wasn't supposed to make you feel better. It was supposed to be honest."

He looks at me for a long moment, something complicated moving behind his eyes. "We should probably talk about what happened. In the kitchen. Before Mariah came back."

My pulse kicks up immediately. "The kiss."

"The kiss," he confirms. "Which probably shouldn't happen again."

"Probably not," I agree, even though everything in me is protesting that assessment.

We stand in his kitchen with pasta boiling on the stove and his daughter half-asleep on the couch and the memory of that kiss hanging between us.

"I don't regret it," Dean adds. "Just so we're clear. I don't regret kissing you, and I'd very much like to do it again. But I also need to be smart about this. For Mariah's sake, if nothing else."

"What does being smart look like?"

"I have no idea." He laughs, short and frustrated. "I can plan a dozen different evacuation routes and calculate timing down to the second, but I have no fucking clue how to handle whatever this is between us."

"Maybe we don't need to handle it right now," I suggest. "Maybe we just... see what happens. One day at a time."

"One day at a time," he repeats, testing the words. "I can do that. I think."

The timer goes off, pulling us both back to practical matters. We drain pasta, heat the sauce, and set the table. Dean wakes Mariah gently, and we eat dinner together like this is normal, like we're a family who does this every night instead of three people still figuring out what we are to each other.

After dinner, Mariah gets her bath and pajamas, then demands three stories instead of the usual two. Dean reads two, I read the third, and by the time we're done she's already half-asleep.

"Night, Daddy," she mumbles. "Night, Quinn."