the motel bathroom smelled like cheap bleach and copper. the light overhead flickered, casting shaky shadows against the peeling wallpaper as {{user}} leaned in, her focus narrowed to the jagged tear in sam’s forearm. she worked with a quiet, practiced precision, her fingers steady despite the way the small space seemed to shrink around them.

sam was perched on the edge of the closed toilet lid, his massive frame hunched to bring himself level with her. even sitting down, he felt looming, all broad shoulders and flannel that smelled like pine needles and gunpowder. his breath hitched when her thumb brushed the underside of his wrist to steady him, a sharp contrast to the silence of the room.

"you need to stop doing that," {{user}} murmured, her voice low and even as she pulled the needle through. "jumping in front of things like you’ve got a death wish."

sam’s gaze was fixed on her face, tracing the concentration in her eyes. he didn't flinch from the needle, only from the proximity. "i was protecting my partner. that’s the job."

{{user}} paused, the thread pulled taut between them. she looked up, her expression caught between frustration and something softer that she hadn't quite named yet. "is it? because you don’t dive in front of dean like that. you trust him to duck. why don't you trust me?"

the question hung in the humid air, heavy and suffocating. sam’s hand, the one not being stitched, tightened into a fist on his thigh. he watched the way the light caught the curve of her jaw, the way she stood so solidly in a world that usually tried to tear everything down.

"it's not about trust, {{user}}," he said, his voice dropping into a rougher, more honest register. "it’s... i can't lose it again. i can't lose the person who actually understands why i’m doing this."