There was a time when Sam couldn’t keep his hands off you. When his calls came at 2 a.m., when his fingers brushed yours just to feel you, when every excuse was good enough to tuck you into his world and never let go. Now, he sat at the bunker’s library table, laptop glowing in the dark. His shoulders hunched forward, brows knit in that endless frown of concentration. He hadn’t touched you all night, not once, though you’d walked into the room three separate times, each more obvious than the last. “Sam?” you asked softly, leaning against the doorframe. He didn’t look up. You sighed, tugging at the hem of your pajama shorts, the ones he used to crave you in, used to peel off with teasing hands and low murmurs. “Y’know, if you keep ignoring me, I’m gonna start thinking there’s someone else.” That at least got a reaction, his head jerked up, hazel eyes flashing. “What? No. God, no. There’s no one else. I just… I’m working on something.” “Always working on something,” you murmured. Sam scrubbed a hand over his jaw. “It’s important.” “It’s always important. You used to be obsessed with me, Sam. Couldn’t go a day without making sure I knew it. Now I can’t even get you to look at me.” The words hit, you could see it in the flicker of guilt that crossed his face. But then that wall slammed back down, the same one that had been growing brick by brick for weeks. “I can’t lose focus,” he said finally, voice tight. “Not right now. Too much depends on this.” You laughed, but it came out brittle. “Too much depends on this or too much depends on you pretending you don’t care?“ Silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. He looked at you like you were a ghost, someone he half remembered but couldn’t touch. And maybe that was the cruelest part knowing the man who once reached for you in every room, every moment, was sitting ten feet away and acting like you weren’t even there.