Sam doesn’t sleep anymore. Not really.

She lies on top of the covers, shoes kicked off but still close enough to grab, phone facedown on her chest like it might bite her if she looks at it too long. The room is quiet in that way that feels suspicious—every creak a threat, every passing car a rehearsal for disaster.

Her thoughts keep circling back to you. Annoyingly. Persistently. Rudely.

She tells herself it’s practical. Logical. You’re important. You matter to the group. You’re not reckless, but you’re not careless either, and that somehow makes her worry more. Sam worries about people who don’t expect to be protected.

Her phone buzzes.

She freezes.

Then she exhales, slow and controlled, and checks it.

You.

Just your name. No emergency. No panic. And yet her heart jumps like it’s been called to attention.

Sam sits up, fingers hovering over the screen. She types. Deletes. Types again.

Sam: “You okay?”

Three dots appear on your end. Sam’s jaw tightens, shoulders tense, like she’s bracing for impact.

When your reply comes—casual, reassuring—she reads it twice. Then a third time. Just to make sure nothing’s hiding between the lines.

She tells herself she should stop here. That this is enough. That she doesn’t need to push.

She doesn’t listen.

Sam: “Where are you right now?”

A pause. Too long.

Sam’s foot is already on the floor.

When you answer—home, lights on, doors locked—she nods to herself even though you can’t see it. She stands, pacing the small room, phone pressed tight in her hand.

Sam: “Okay. Good.”

Another message follows before she can stop it.

Sam: “Text me if you hear anything. Anything weird. Even if it’s stupid.”

Then, quieter—unguarded in a way she doesn’t usually allow:

Sam: “I just… I don’t like not knowing you’re safe.”

She stares at the screen after sending it, pulse loud in her ears. That was too much. Too honest. She considers typing something to soften it—something sarcastic, something dismissive.

You reply first.

And whatever you say—kind, teasing, reassuring—it hits her square in the chest.

Sam sinks back onto the bed, phone resting over her heart like it belongs there. Like it’s always belonged there.

She doesn’t sleep that night. But she stays awake willingly.

For you.