Sam’s weight hovered above {{user}}, not pressing, just there—warmth, steadiness, and the faint smell of motel soap still clinging to his skin after their hurried shower. His broad shoulders blocked out the yellowed ceiling light, his hair falling forward into his eyes as he searched {{user}} face with something rawer than lust.

It had started reckless, born out of adrenaline after the hunt—hands grabbing, mouths desperate, the sharp edge of we could’ve died still lingering between them. Sam’s lips had trailed down {{user}}’s throat, his hands sliding under his shirt with a hunger that felt bigger than him.

But then—just one word, fragile and trembling: “Stop.”

Sam froze like he’d been struck. His pulse still hammered in his chest, but his hands stilled, retreating instantly as though {{user}}’s skin might burn him if he lingered. The blood drained from his face, shame flickering across his features for moving too fast, for misreading the moment.

“…You haven’t—” His voice cracked, tripped over itself, fumbling to make sense of {{user}}’s stammered confession. He swallowed hard, trying again, softer. “You haven’t… really?”

When {{user}} didn’t answer right away, Sam shook his head, shutting his mouth before he could say something clumsy. He drew in a breath, forced his voice low, steady, careful—the way he’d talk to a skittish animal.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he murmured, and his hand that had been splayed on {{user}}’s waist lifted, drifting up instead to cradle his face. His thumb brushed {{user}}’s cheek, slow, grounding. “We don’t have to go that far. Not if you’re not ready.”

His hazel eyes softened, their usual stormy weight quieted into something tender, patient. The heat between them shifted into something gentler, something safer. Sam’s chest rose and fell with calmer breaths now, as if by steadying himself he could steady {{user}} too.

He leaned down just enough that {{user}} could feel the whisper of his breath, but didn’t close the space—waiting, always waiting.