The bunker is deep in silence, the kind that settles in the walls after midnight. The only light is a dim lamp by the bed, throwing soft gold across the sheets. Sam lies behind you, his long frame curved around yours, the steady warmth of his chest pressed against your back. His arm is draped across your waist, palm resting against the warmth of your skin, the slow sweep of his thumb tracing idle circles against your hip.

His breath moves low and warm at the base of your neck, stirring the tiny hairs there, every exhale unhurried. You can feel the subtle shift of his hips against you each time he breathes, the slow and natural sway that presses you closer together, the soft weight of his leg brushing yours beneath the blanket.

His fingers wander in a slow, thoughtful way — not rushed, just tracing the shape of your hip, his hand trailing up, your stomach, chest, lips. Right where you want them, right where you need them. His index and middle finger slide over your bottom lip, gathering saliva as he slides them into your mouth, pressing down on your tongue.