1917 Imagines

The Script

Y/n pov

This month has been stressful, to say the least, mostly for Dean. He had to prepare for his upcoming movie and he didn't have any time to take care of his love, you, or even to take care of himself.

You are currently walking to get to his apartment. He invited you over even and you accepted even if you knew he was probably going to practice his text.

You walk into the building and enter the elevator to get to the seventh floor. You walk towards his door and knock."Come in!" he says from the other side of the door.

You open it and make your way to the living room seeing him with his script in his hands. He runs his hand in his hair, a habit of his you quickly picked when you met him. He seems so tense and exhausted. The bags under his eyes gave it away. He looks like a complete mess reflecting his apartment.

"Hey, baby!" You say with a smile.
"Hey!" He replies not even giving you one look. His eyes are glued to his script.

You actually dropped the idea of talking to him as you can clearly see he's preoccupied. You sit down on the sofa in a way to give you comfort.

After some time, you decide to stand up getting your stuff to leave as you are doing nothing but sitting there quietly scrolling through your phone. "What are you doing, love?" He asks, looking at you for the first time since you walked in.

"Hum... leaving, obviously." You respond bluntly. You sounded a bit too harsh. He puts his script on the sofa beside him and looks at you.
"Who told you to go? I invited you over." He says, confused.

"Well, you look like you're in love with that script, so might as well leave and only come back when you're actually available."
"What? C'mon, don't be like that, love."

"I know you need to prepare and all, but don't you think you're too much into it? Because you are clearly forgetting that we exist Dean! That I exist!" 
"What?" He says barely in a whisper, hurt by the realisation of it all.

"You look like a mess, Dean! You don't wear any cologne anymore and you can't even eat a proper meal!" You tell him with tears in the corners of your eyes. You hated to yell at him, but it was for his own good. You hated how he wasn't taking care of himself.

"You even forget to shave, Dean! Something you do almost every day because it annoys you. You forget your basic needs. And mine," you whispered the last part to yourself.

He puts his script down on the coffee table in front of him and looks at you. You felt a tear slide down your cheek. 

"I'm sorry, love. I didn't realise how much you needed me. It's just that it's a big movie and I want to be great, but I now realise that I put you behind. I'm sorry, come here," he opens his arms for you to come.

You walk up to him and sit on his lap. You put your arms around his neck, your face in the crook of his neck while tears slid down your cheeks. He puts his arms around your waist, hugging you tightly. He keeps on whispering in your ear "I'm sorry".

You retract from the hug and he cups your face wiping your tears with his thumbs. He then gently kisses your forehead.

"We can cook together and have a movie night. What do you say, love?" You put your lips on his and look at him smiling. "I would love it, my British beauty." He blushed at the nickname. He always did. Dean loved it when you called him that.