It started as a whisper in the back of your mind, just a passing comment, something your mother said in a moment of bitterness. The way Sam sometimes got quiet after long hunts. The way his eyes would drift when he was thinking.

He’s tired of you. You’re just holding him back.

Your mom’s voice had always been sharp, especially after your dad died. Grief had turned her sour, bitter toward love, toward connection. So you finally asked.

“Sam… am I holding you back?”

His eyes snapped to yours immediately, his brow furrowed. “What?”

You tried to brush it off, to shrug like it wasn’t breaking your heart just to ask. “It’s just-my mom. She keeps saying things. That I’m not good for you.” Without another word, he took your hand and gently led you down the hall, into his room. He crossed to the far side of the room, dropping to one knee beside his bed.

He reached underneath and pulled out a box: not particularly fancy, just a sturdy wooden one with worn corners. But when he opened it, your breath caught in your throat. There, tucked neatly inside, were everything. The movie ticket stubs from that awful horror film you both laughed through. Birthday cards with your messy handwriting. The little keychain you got him because it “reminded you of him.” A pressed flower from that time you went on a walk after a hunt and actually got to enjoy the world.

He lifted his phone next, opened the voicemail app, and scrolled through a sea of saved messages. Some short and sweet. Some long and rambling. But every single one was yours. “Every part of you matters to me. You’re not holding me back, you ground me. You make me feel something I didn’t think I’d get to have again.“ He stood, coming close, gently cradling your face in his hands. “Don’t let her voice drown out mine. I love you. And I’m not going anywhere. Not today. Not ever.”