The world seemed to fit you like a square peg in a round hole. A land mine of unexpected social pitfalls, traps disguised as sentences wrapping figure eights around your mind. Incessant humming from the bugs or the broken motel fridge that the brothers barely seemed to notice, but you did. You noticed almost everything.

Sometimes, the world became too much. It was bright, unpredictable and loud, filled with judgmental faces. On days like these, you felt yourself squirming in misery, your breathing heavy, stomach twisted into knots as you tried to block out the stimuli, the thoughts. You were seeking oxygen that refused to come. Sam would be there right away, close and big enough to be a solid pillar of support, but not overbearing. “Hey, you good? C’mon, ” he’d say, gently steering you out of a dim, crowded bar. “Let’s get you somewhere quiet. Maybe back to the motel.” He lets you hide in his jacket. He’s gentle like that.

Sam worries about you. Sometimes you’re so far in your own head to really notice. (He doesn’t always come right out and say it, after all.) Because, as much as Sam tries to find peace with himself, he knows what it’s like to feel broken inside. His huge brown eyes follow you around as if seeing who you truly are—a luxury you never get.

You’re so pure and loving even after everyone has shamed and bullied you. Maybe that’s why he loves you so much.