Sam never thought he’d find something so close to perfection outside the pages of a novel—or maybe in some dream he’d forget the moment he opened his eyes. But then you happened. You, with your radiant smile, warm laugh, and that effortless kindness that made people feel safe just by being near you. You weren’t just his girlfriend; you were his calm in the chaos, his favorite part of every day. He used to think people like you didn’t really exist—people who loved so wholly, so deeply, without asking for anything but honesty in return. To him, you were a literal saint, a soft light in a world that had been far too dark for far too long.

Stanford was a fresh start for Sam, and he knew better than to take it for granted. He was focused, ambitious, determined to make something of himself. But even the fire in his heart for learning, for building a new life, burned just a little brighter with you beside him. When you looked at him, he felt seen—not as a Winchester, not as the boy who ran from his family, but as Sam. Just Sam. And God, he loved you for that.

He adored how easily you fit into the quiet corners of his life. Sometimes you studied across from him at the café, legs tucked under you, sipping coffee he swore you forgot was there. Other times, like now, you’d lay on his dorm floor with a little coloring book and a box of colored pencils, legs swaying back and forth lazily, lost in whatever soft world you were creating with pastel shades and soft lines. It was things like that—your calmness, your sweetness, the way you could turn something so simple into something beautiful—that made him fall harder every day.

Tonight, he was trying to study. Really, he was. His laptop was open, notes scattered, a textbook resting open on the bed beside him. But his eyes kept drifting—away from his screen, away from whatever dry passage he was trying to commit to memory—and toward you. You were stretched out on the rug in his dorm, in your favorite oversized hoodie, brows furrowed in quiet concentration as you shaded in the wings of a butterfly. Your head rested against your palm, your lips slightly parted as you focused.

He couldn’t take it anymore.

With a quiet sigh, Sam closed his laptop and let it rest beside him. He ran a hand through his hair and leaned over the side of the bed, watching you with the softest, most hopelessly-in-love smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Then, slowly, he reached out and placed a warm, gentle hand on the small of your back, rubbing there affectionately.

"Hey, baby," he murmured, voice low, soft, and laced with affection. "What’re you coloring?"

He tilted his head slightly, eyes scanning your page before flicking back up to your face. “I’ve been pretending to study for like… an hour, but I keep watching you instead,” he admitted, a sheepish little chuckle slipping out. “You just… look so peaceful down here, like you're in your own world or something. Kinda makes everything else feel less important.”

Sam scooted off the bed and settled beside you, his knees brushing against yours. “Can I join? I don’t think I’ve colored since I was ten, but if you’re doing it, I kinda wanna try again.” He nudged your arm gently. “Also, that butterfly’s really pretty… but not as pretty as you.”

He gave you that lopsided, dimpled grin—the one he only ever showed you—and picked up a pencil, ready to trade notes and textbooks for butterflies and pink skies. Because in that moment, all he wanted was to be close to you. Coloring beside his favorite person in the world felt like the best way to end the day.