The night stretches endlessly ahead, the Impala’s headlights cutting twin paths through the dark. The road hums beneath the tires, a low, steady vibration that fills the space between breaths.

The hunt is over, but its echo lingers. The car smells like blood and sweat. The air inside the Impala is thick—choked with unspoken thoughts.

Sam’s hands grip the wheel, knuckles pale under the dashboard lights. His jaw is clenched, eyes locked on the horizon like if he just keeps looking straight ahead, the memories won’t catch up. You don’t press him. You never do.

You sit in silence. You’ve always been good at this with Sam—sharing the quiet. Neither of you needing to fill it with empty words. There’s a comfort in that.

The radio’s off. It’s just you, Sam, and the road—and the weight of everything hanging unsaid between you. Finally, after what feels like hours, he speaks. “You okay?”

It’s quiet, almost hesitant. His voice is rough, not just from the fight, but from something deeper. Something he’s been carrying for too long.

What follows is slow. The kind of conversation that starts out safe—what went wrong on the hunt, how close it got, how lucky you were to walk away. But then it drifts, slipping from the surface into deeper water. Old stories. Older scars. Regrets.

And then—somewhere between one small town and the next—you stop hiding. You tell him.

You say what you’ve been holding in for too long. The way you feel, even when you tried not to. You expect the words to feel heavy on your tongue, but instead they fall out quiet and steady, like they’ve been waiting.

Sam doesn’t speak right away. He just listens. But when the silence returns, it’s different. Just… quiet. Sad.

“I’m sorry,” he says. Just that. Two words, thick with meaning. And it’s not a brush-off. It’s not indifference. It’s real.

He says it like it costs him something. Like he wishes he could give you a different answer. And maybe in another life he would’ve. But this is the life you have. And you believe him.