The motel room smells like cheap coffee and gun oil, and the neon sign outside keeps bleeding red across the curtains. Sam’s already checked the warding twice, but the silence still presses in like something listening. You sit on the edge of the bed with your shoulders drawn tight, your hands curled in the blanket like it’s the only thing keeping you from shaking apart.

You try to breathe through it. You really do. But the fear from the hunt clings to your ribs, and when it finally breaks, the tears come fast and hot, spilling before you can swallow them down. You turn your face away, like hiding it will make it less real.

Sam moves in front of you anyway. Slow. Careful. Like he’s approaching a spooked animal and not the bravest person he’s seen stand their ground against the dark. “Hey,” he says, voice low, steady. “You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

You give a small, broken sound, and the next breath stutters. Sam’s hand finds yours, warm and sure, thumb brushing over your knuckles. “It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to be tough right now. Not with me.”

Your tears slip down your cheeks, and Sam’s eyes soften like something in him aches with it. He leans closer, close enough that you can feel his breath, and then he presses a kiss to the corner of your eye, gentle as a prayer. Another to your cheek, catching the next tear before it can fall. Another, and another, each one unhurried, like he’s rewriting the moment into something kinder.

“Don’t apologize,” Sam whispers when you try to speak. “It’s not weakness. It’s proof you’re still here.”

Your lashes flutter as you look at him, hurt laid bare, and Sam cups your face with both hands like you’re something precious he refuses to let the world break. “You’re not alone,” he says. “Not anymore. You’re with us. You’re with me.”

Your breathing eases, inch by inch, until it’s only the neon and the steady beat of Sam’s presence. He rests his forehead against yours, and the last of your tears disappear under the warmth of his lips—kissed away, like he can take the pain for a while, like it’s his choice to carry it.