The hot water couldn’t scrub the day off you. You stretch your legs out across the bed. Sam’s sitting beside you, a loose t-shirt clinging to his chest. “Give ‘em here.”

You blink. “What?”

“Your feet.” He shifts, pats his lap. “C’mon.”

You smirk. “Is this your subtle way of initiating foreplay?”

“No,” he says, deadpan. “This is my subtle way of being nice before you start whining.”

You scoff, but you give in, stretching your legs across his lap. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to be offended.” His fingers wrap around your ankle and begin to knead slowly into the sole of your foot. “Okay. I take it back. You’re allowed to touch me forever.”

He chuckles softly. “Good to know.”

“You’re really good at this,” you murmur. “Where’d you learn?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, and when he does, it’s quieter. “Jess.” You feel the way he tenses, just for a second, like he didn’t mean to say it.

You lift your head, heart suddenly thrumming in your chest. “It’s okay,” you say gently. “You can talk about her.” He looks at you like you just handed him something fragile. Like you’re offering to hold the worst parts of him without looking away.

“Are you sure?”

You nod. “I want to know.”

“She said if I wanted to be a good boyfriend, I had to master the art of foot rubs.”

You smile faintly. “Sounds like a smart woman.”

“She was.” He pauses. “She was smarter than me in a lot of ways. Better at people.”

You sit up slightly, turning toward him. “What else?”

He’s quiet for a long time. “She used to hum when she cooked,” he says. “Not songs, just little sounds. Almost like she didn’t know she was doing it. I never told her. I didn’t want her to stop.” Your throat tightens. “She talked to the TV. Argued with the characters. She hated tragic endings. Said the world was cruel enough-fiction should be kinder.” He presses harder into the arch of your foot, grounding himself. “She wanted three kids. A house with a yellow door. A golden retriever named Lucy. She never got mad at me for having nightmares. Just held me until I stopped shaking,” he says. His voice is careful. “She laughed like she couldn’t help it. She talked with her hands. She kissed me when I was still learning how to accept love without apology.” You don’t interrupt. His voice cracks. “I didn’t tell her, about anything: my family, hunting. I kept it locked down so tight because I thought I was protecting her.” He swallows. Looks away. “I was just protecting me.” You reach for his hand and you hold it. “I used to think, if I told her, she’d look at me different. That I’d ruin something pure.” He finally looks at you again. “But she died anyway. And I’ll never know if she could’ve handled it, because I didn’t give her the chance.”

The silence sits with both of you. “Do you think she’d hate me?”

He flinches. “No. God, no. She’d love you.”

You let out a shaky breath.

“She believed in second chances,” he says. “Even when I didn’t.” You sit up fully, folding your legs beneath you, your knees touching his thigh. You cup his face with both hands.

“I’m not trying to be her,” you say. “I never will be.”

“I know.”

“I’m not trying to take her place.”

“You haven’t.” He takes your wrist, turns it over, presses a kiss to your pulse. “You carved your own space. And it’s the one I never thought I’d have again.”

You let that sit. Then, with your heart in your throat, you ask, “Do you love me the same way you loved her?”

He’s quiet. Then: “No.” Your breath catches. He meets your eyes. “Not the same. Not more. Not less. Just… different.”

“Different how?”

“She was my first home,” he says. “You’re the place I came back to when I thought I’d never find one again.” Your eyes blur with tears. You crawl into his lap and bury your face into his chest, and his arms wrap around you instantly, like he was just waiting to hold you. He presses his mouth to the crown of your head and breathes. “I loved her in a world before monsters,” he says quietly. “But I love you in the world that exists after. When I’m not perfect. When I’m messy. When I’m scared. And I’ve never loved like that before.”