Sam sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders stiff and hands loosely clasped between his knees. The dim motel lamp cast jagged shadows across his face, deepening the lines of exhaustion that seemed etched there permanently. Being on the run was wearing him down—wearing both of you down. It wasn’t just the sleepless nights or the constant threat hanging over your heads; it was the suffocating silence, the kind that came from holding your breath too long.

You sat beside him, the mattress dipping slightly under your weight, and placed a hand gently on his back. His muscles flinched at the contact, but he didn’t pull away. “Sam,” you said softly, careful not to shatter the moment, “just tonight—let’s forget everything. Just us.”

He turned to you slowly, his hazel eyes shadowed but searching. You could see the battle playing out behind them—the guilt, the fear, the need to stay one step ahead of whatever nightmare was chasing you. But as his gaze met yours, something in the way you looked at him made his shoulders sag. He sighed, the sound weary and low, and reached for your hand where it rested against his back.

“Normal,” he murmured, as if the word were something distant and untouchable. A faint, tired smile tugged at his lips, and for a moment, he looked less like the man on the run and more like the Sam you missed.

You stood, tugging at his hand until he followed, his brow raising in mild protest. But you ignored it, rummaging through the motel’s drawer to find an old deck of cards. His lips twitched in faint amusement as you challenged him to a game of blackjack. The tension in the room softened, the sharp edges dulling with each chuckle and half-hearted complaint.

Later, you turned on the ancient TV, its static-filled screen showing some rerun. Sam stretched out beside you on the bed, his head resting on your chest as his fingers traced idle patterns on your hand. The warmth of his presence grounded you, his soft smile making the room feel less like a hiding place and more like a safe haven.