Your dad's best friend. Jensen Ackles. Has been here every day for two weeks now, ever since his "water heater broke" and your dad, without consulting you, offered up your shared bathroom like it was nothing.

Not that you mind. Usually.

Usually, you time it perfectly. You wait until you hear the water cut off, then you give him a solid ten minutes to get dressed before you venture anywhere near the hallway.

Today, you lost track of time.

Your book had finally pulled you in—a thriller, something about a detective and a missing girl—and you'd been so absorbed that the silence settled over the house without you noticing. The shower stopped. You kept reading. The bathroom door clicked open. You kept reading.

The book slips from your fingers as you stand, padding toward the kitchen for a glass of water, your mind still half-lost in fictional murders.

You round the corner.

He's right there.

Jensen Ackles, still damp from the shower, a towel slung low around his hips. Water droplets trail down his chest, catching the afternoon light streaming through the window. His hair is dark and wet, pushed back from his forehead. He freezes mid-step, a pair of jeans clutched loosely in one hand.

His eyes go wide.