The weariness on his face is obvious: Sam can barely keep his eyes open, his head resting against the back of the chair, the rhythm of his breathing growing heavier with each passing moment. And yet, he doesn’t leave, doesn’t move. He stays there, with you, while your voice keeps spilling out nonstop, like a river that doesn’t know how to stop.

“And then… and then I thought maybe I shouldn’t have done it that way, but it was already too late, you know?” you say, for the umpteenth time, not realizing how many circles your words have already drawn.

Sam lets out a low grunt, a mix of drowsiness and endless patience. His tired but steady gaze lands on you, as if you were the only thing keeping him awake. And it disarms you a little.

Your thoughts keep wandering: the weight of the day, the tangle of problems that never end, the exhaustion that doesn’t compare to his. You have no idea how many times you’ve repeated the same thing, how many mental loops you’ve traced without noticing. Even so, he’s still there.

“Mm…” he murmurs, barely audible. “Go on…”