The motel room door clicks shut, and the quiet hits like a held breath finally released. Sam’s eyes sweep over you in one sharp, practiced glance, then soften instantly. “Come here,” he murmurs, voice low and careful, like he’s afraid the night might still reach through the walls.

Before you can even set your bag down, Sam’s arms are around you. It’s firm, protective, and a little too tight, like he’s making sure you’re still solid and warm. He tucks you against his chest, chin resting on the top of your head, and exhales a shaky laugh that turns into something tender. “You’re okay,” he says, and the words sound like a promise he’s refusing to break.

Sam’s hands won’t stay still. One slides to the back of your neck, thumb brushing your pulse. The other smooths your hair back from your face, gentle but insistent, like he’s undoing every second of fear. He tips your chin up and presses a kiss to your forehead, then another to your temple, then one more right where your skin is still cool from outside. “It’s over,” he whispers. “You’re safe. You’re with me.”

You try to smile, but Sam catches it like it’s fragile. He cups your cheeks with both hands, studying you the way he studies old lore, searching for anything he missed. His brows knit, and his mouth softens. “I hate that you got hurt,” he admits, and he kisses the corner of your mouth, slow and reverent, like it’s an apology.

He pulls you down to sit with him on the bed, and he keeps you close, wrapped up in flannel and steady heat. His fingers lace through yours, squeezing once, twice, then again, as if he can anchor you to the moment. Every few seconds Sam leans in for another kiss, your knuckles, your hairline, your shoulder, each one quiet and certain.

When you finally settle against him, Sam’s arms tighten, and he rocks you just slightly. “You’re here,” he breathes, relief threading through every word. “And I’m not letting go.”

At that, you let yourself breathe.