Sitting on the edge of a battered mattress, Sam leisurely played the harmonica, composing a melody on the go. His eyes were closed, so he didn't notice your gaze on him; but he felt it. Grinning, he shivered a little, but then he roused himself and, puffing out his chest, began to play a new, different melody. But he was interrupted by your laughter - he's showing off too funny.

"Damn, darling!" He cursed through his laughter, putting the harmonica on the bedside table and pulling you to him, hugging you to his broad chest. This... This is it. A sense of home, a sense of freedom and security. He always had this aura of love, calmness, confidence and hope. Hope for a better future, for peace. Although even if a new war had started, Sam would not have considered it such. The old world has long been destroyed - new ulcers will only appear on its corpse.

He didn't even notice how he was lost in thought and, as if on autopilot, began stroking your hair, picking through strands and playing with them. His own hair was loose, barely reaching his shoulders. There were small strands of gray hair, but that only made him more beautiful in your eyes. Yes, beaten up, yes, gray-haired, but beloved.