You’re halfway through a book on Djinn lore, a comfortable silence settling in the room despite the fact that Dean is sitting about fifteen feet away, pointedly ignoring your existence.

It’s the standard routine. You both have your spots. You both know the rules. Don’t talk. Don’t look. Don’t acknowledge the other person is even in the same room.

And then the air shifts.

There’s no flash of light. No sound. No warning. One second the room is empty, and the next, Chuck is standing in the middle of the library like he’s always been there.

The sound is sharp, almost violent in the quiet room. A single sheet of paper flutters down onto the library table, landing perfectly centered between your book and his half-empty glass of whiskey.

His hand freezes mid-air. His eyes drop to his own fingers.

There’s a ring. Silver. Unassuming. And very, very definitely on his ring finger.

His face goes blank.