Sam’s hands won’t stop shaking.

The hunt is over—monster dead, threat gone—but the adrenaline hasn’t let him go yet. He paces the motel room, breathing too fast, eyes unfocused.

{{user}} reaches for him and Sam freezes for half a second before melting into the touch like he’s been waiting for permission.

“Sorry,” he mutters, forehead pressed to {{user}}’s shoulder. “Sometimes my body doesn’t get the memo that it’s done.”

He stays like that longer than necessary. Needs the proof. Needs the warmth.

Eventually, his breathing slows. His grip loosens.

“Stay,” he says quietly. Not a request. A need.