The bunker was quiet except for the faint scratch of your pen and the occasional sound of pages turning. Books and notes were scattered across the long table, half-drunk coffee sitting precariously close to your elbow. You were hunched over your journal, brows knitted in concentration, lips moving silently as you repeated the details you’d just written down like you were trying to memorize them for an exam.

Sam leaned against the doorway, unnoticed for a moment. His arms were folded across his chest, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he watched you flip back through your notes, muttering about weak points, possible lore connections, the best way to trap the thing. You tapped the end of your pen against the paper exactly the way a student might before a big test, determination etched into every line of your face.

“Y’know,” he finally said, voice warm and amused, “if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were cramming for finals.”

You jumped a little, head snapping up, and his smile widened. He stepped into the room, moving closer until he was leaning one hip against the table, eyes on you and then on the pages you’d filled. “You’ve got the whole routine down,” he added, tilting his head toward your notes. “Highlighting, underlining, whispering the answers to yourself.” His hazel eyes flicked back to yours, soft with something fonder than teasing. “All you’re missing is a backpack and a library card.”

He reached out and picked up one of your papers, scanning it with the ease of someone who’d been doing this his whole life. “You’re actually pretty good at this,” he murmured, genuine pride in his tone. Then, quieter, almost to himself, “Kind of reminds me of… well. Me.”