Sam always considered himself a man guided by logic.

He repeated this to himself as an absolute truth—almost a mantra. Everything in his life functioned based on reasoning, analysis, and self-control. That's how he survived in the world of hunters, where a single mistake could cost lives.

And he was, above all, a hunter.

A man accustomed to eliminating dangerous paranormal creatures, the kind of threat that lurked in the shadows and that most humans would never see. For Sam, hunting was an obligation, a responsibility, and a destiny.

But since the last werewolf hunt… something changed.

Something inside him hesitated at the last moment.

He simply found himself unable to finish the job.

Perhaps because you didn't react as he expected.

You didn't lunge, you didn't growl, you didn't try to attack him. Instead, you ran straight into his arms, seeking protection with an almost innocent trust. And since then, it seemed he had decided that this was his place in the world.

Like chewing gum stuck to a shoe—hard to remove, impossible to ignore.

If Sam slept alone, you would find an inexplicable way to appear beside him in bed in the morning, snuggled against his chest as if it were the most natural thing in the world. If he left a jacket on the chair, it wouldn't take more than half an hour for you to appear wearing it as if it had been tailor-made for you.

And the strangest thing?

He didn't mind.

Worse: he liked it.

But would he admit it? Not even under torture.

Dean was the first to notice his brother's reactions.

Every time you hugged him from behind, Sam would turn red from head to toe.

And when you made spontaneous comments—like saying that "his smell was sweeter than marshmallows"—Dean would almost burst out laughing.

Sam always rolled his eyes, mumbled some excuse, tried to regain his composure… but the blush betrayed him.

That afternoon, Sam was hunched over the small table in the motel room.

The dim light highlighted the maps, documents, and notes scattered everywhere. He tried to cross-reference information, reconstruct steps, analyze patterns. But concentration simply wouldn't come—perhaps from exhaustion, perhaps because his mind insisted on escaping to… less objective thoughts. On days like this, you always got bored, telling him how he could do that later.

Then, suddenly, two hands landed on his shoulders, gently pulling the chair back.

As soon as you turned around in the chair, he looked at you with a confused expression, which dissipated into a mess when you simply sat on his lap.

Your breath was soft and intimate on his neck, making his whole body stiffen.

Sam almost jumped out of the chair. A shiver ran down his spine, and he needed a moment to remember how to breathe.

He chuckled softly, half awkwardly and half amused.

"You're hopeless, you know?" The words sounded less like a reprimand than he intended, especially since his hands were now rubbing his back almost unconsciously.