[ Jensen Ackles ]

The frat house was quieter these days. Less beer pong, more whispered conversations and awkward glances when you walked in. Jensen used to be at the center of every crowd — red cup in hand, arm around someone’s shoulder, laughter carrying through the halls. Now, his arm was more likely to be around your waist, guiding you through uneven pavement while you adjusted your hoodie over your growing stomach.

Five months. That was how long it had been since that night — messy, unplanned, unforgettable. Five months since two pink lines turned everything upside down. Jensen hadn’t disappeared. Not even close. He showed up to doctor appointments, skipped parties, even argued with his frat brothers when they complained about his absence. His trust fund helped, but it was his mother who surprised you both the most. “Finally,” she’d said over the phone, “a girl with some actual sense.”

Today, Jensen was already waiting outside your class building, hoodie pulled over his head and hands in his pockets, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. When he saw you, his smile appeared instantly — tired, soft around the edges, real.

“Hey,” he said, offering his hand like he always did now. “How’s our little alien doing today?”