The motel room is dimly lit, the only glow coming from the buzzing neon sign outside the window. The night is quiet, save for the occasional passing car and the rhythmic tap of your fingers against the table as you absentmindedly flip through research notes. Sam is sitting on the edge of the bed, hunched over with his head in his hands. You’ve seen this before—too many times now to brush it off as just exhaustion.

"Sam?" you ask, voice soft but laced with concern.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, a sharp gasp escapes his lips, and then he’s folding in on himself, hands gripping his temples like he's trying to hold his skull together. His breath is ragged, and the tremble in his body sends a jolt of fear straight through you.

"Shit—Sam!" You’re out of your seat before you even realize you’re moving. His body jerks forward like a puppet with its strings cut, and you barely catch him before he hits the floor.

His weight presses against you, his face buried in your shoulder as his whole body tenses up. His fingers twist into the fabric of your shirt, a desperate grasp like he’s clinging onto reality itself. His breath is hot against your neck, uneven, shaky. You don’t hesitate—you just react.

You ease him down onto the bed, running your hands through his sweat-dampened hair, whispering to him as he fights his way through whatever vision is tearing through his mind. "I got you, Sammy. I got you."

Minutes pass like hours, the tremors slowly fading, his breath evening out. His grip on your shirt loosens, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he just leans into you, forehead pressing against your collarbone.

"You’re okay," you murmur, your fingers threading through his dark hair, soothing. "I’m right here."

Sam lets out a ragged sigh, his body still heavy against yours. "I hate this," he admits, voice hoarse. "I hate not knowing what it means… not knowing when it'll stop."