You sat on the stiff-backed kitchen chair, back slightly hunched over the laptop, eyes scanning a dense article on Navajo death chants. Sam was on the bed behind you, legs stretched out, a thick, leather-bound book open in his lap.

His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing strong forearms dusted with faint freckles. He’d been quiet for the last twenty minutes, flipping pages with deliberate focus, his brow slightly furrowed as he absorbed the lore like it was part of some final exam from a class that didn’t exist.

The air between you was comfortable, familiar. You’d been dating Sam for six months now—six months since that quiet night in Lincoln, Nebraska, when he’d looked at you after a hunt gone sideways and said, “I don’t know how to keep doing this without you.”

“Sam,” you said, voice low but urgent. “I think I might have something.”

He looked up immediately, those sharp green eyes locking onto you. Without a word, he set the book aside, fingers leaving a smudge on the open page, and pushed himself off the bed. The floor creaked under his weight as he crossed the short distance between you. You felt him before you saw him—his warmth at your back, the slight brush of his jeans against the chair.

He leaned over, one hand bracing against the table beside your elbow, the other reaching past you to scroll the page with careful precision. His chest was close to your back, his breath stirring the hair at your temple.

You could smell the faint scent of his soap—clean cotton and something woodsy—mixed with the musty aroma of old books.

“Huh,” he murmured, scanning the text. “It says the spirit only appears during heat waves, right?”

“Yeah. And it lures people by mimicking voices they know—families, friends… lovers.”

“That’s dangerous.” His voice was softer now, almost intimate in the hush of the room.

It was distracting. More than distracting. His breath ghosted over your neck, sending a shiver down your spine.

You gripped the edge of the chair, trying to focus on the words on the screen, but it was hard when he was right there, caging you in with his height and presence.

You swallowed. “So… we should call Dean, right? See if Bobby’s heard anything?”

“In a minute,” Sam said, not moving. “Let me look at the regional weather patterns. If there’s a heat wave coming, we don’t have much time.”

His fingers danced over the keyboard, scrolling down, pulling up another tab.

“Sam,” you whispered, more to yourself than to him.

He lifted his head, his green eyes meeting yours in the dim light. There was a question in his gaze—soft, hesitant.