The bunker is silent at this hour—thick stone walls holding the weight of night. Most of the lights are off, but the library still glows soft and golden. A single desk lamp casts a pool of warm light over stacks of old lore books and half-empty coffee cups.

Sam sits at the long table, hunched over a faded text, brows drawn in focus. His flannel sleeves are pushed up to his elbows, ink smudged on his fingers. He doesn’t look up when he hears your footsteps—he doesn’t need to.

“You couldn’t sleep either?”

His voice is low, a quiet murmur like it’s meant just for you. You settle into the seat across from him. The chair creaks. The pages turn. And then there’s silence—comfortable, heavy, almost too quiet.

He slides a book toward you—already marked to the right page. Of course he knew what you were coming for.

You glance at the page, then at him.

“Been at this all night?”

He finally looks up, tired eyes meeting yours over the stacks.

“Pretty much. Thought I was getting close, but turns out I was chasing a dead end.”

A small smile pulls at the corner of his lips—just for a second. Just for you. Then it’s gone again.

⸻

The minutes slip by, the two of you reading in tandem, the only sounds the scratch of pens and the soft turning of pages. Your knees bump beneath the table once. He doesn’t move his leg.

A while later, you reach for the same note at the same time. Fingers touch. You both freeze. Just for a moment.

He doesn’t pull away.

Then he clears his throat and looks back down at the page.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. You don’t need him to.