The motel room is too small for the anger in it. The neon sign outside flickers through the blinds, painting your face in bruised red light as Sam paces, jaw tight, hands flexing like he wants to tear something apart and cannot decide if it is the world or himself.

“You can’t just run at it,” he snaps. “Not alone. Not after what we saw.”

Your laugh comes out sharp, almost bitter. You are still in your coat, hair damp from the rain, smelling like cold asphalt and iron. “So what, I’m supposed to sit pretty while you decide when I’m allowed to be useful?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.” You step closer, eyes bright with something that is not fear, even though it should be. “You think if you keep your voice calm, I’ll fold. I won’t.”

Sam stops. The silence between you is loud, crowded with unspoken things: the hunt, the blood on your sleeve you did not notice until he pointed it out, the way his hands shook when he saw it. “I’m trying to keep you breathing,” he says, low. “That’s all.”

Your throat works. You swallow, but your voice does not soften. “Funny. It feels like you’re trying to keep me small.”

His eyes flash. “You think I want this? You think I like watching you walk into hell like you’ve got nothing to lose?”

“I do have something to lose.” The words land hard, then tremble at the edges. You hate that they do. You hate that he sees it.

Sam’s shoulders drop a fraction, like the fight slips and something raw takes its place. “Then stop making me—” he cuts himself off, breath catching.

You take another step, close enough that his heat pushes back the cold on your skin. Your hands curl into fists at your sides, not to hit him, just to hold yourself together. “Say it,” you demand, voice breaking into a whisper. “Say what you’re really scared of.”

Sam stares, eyes glassy with restraint. “I’m scared I’ll lose you,” he admits, like it costs him.

The room tilts. Your anger does not vanish, but it shifts, turning into a sharp ache behind your ribs. You lift your chin anyway, because pride is armor and you have worn it too long. “You love me, don’t you?” You ask, the question a challenge and a plea all at once.

Sam’s breath shudders out. For a second he looks wrecked, like the truth is a thing with teeth. Then he reaches for you, careful, like you might disappear, and his voice comes quiet but certain.

“Yes, okay, I love you, I love you!”

You stepped closer immediately.