At first, it was subtle—Sam’s eyes lingering a heartbeat too long across the motel room, the air thickening when your gaze met his. He didn’t look away. Not anymore. Whatever softness used to live behind his eyes was gone, replaced by something colder.

There was no warmth left in him, not for anyone. Just that quiet, unsettling stillness. Like he was trying to understand what made you tick, just so he could take it apart later.

He didn’t crack jokes anymore. Didn’t patch your wounds or offer reassurance after close calls. He hovered—too close in hallways, his breath ghosting the back of your neck, and yet maddeningly distant when you reached for something real. His presence was inescapable, pressing in like a shadow you couldn’t shake.

You started waking in the middle of the night, skin prickling, the air charged like a storm was building. You’d turn over in bed, heart thudding—and there he’d be. Standing still in the dark. Always watching. Sometimes he turned away fast enough to pretend he hadn’t been caught. Sometimes he didn’t bother.

But he never touched you. Not once. Until tonight.

The hunt had been brutal but short—sharp, bloody work that left your nerves raw and your clothes damp with sweat and someone else’s blood. You expected the usual: a few muttered words, a cold shower, maybe rest.

But the second the motel door shut behind you, you felt it shift.

His eyes burned into your back as you moved around the room. The air felt too thin. You turned—and he didn’t look away. His jaw was clenched, fists tight at his sides. Something inside him was shaking loose, unraveling inch by inch. That wasn’t fear in his eyes. It was hunger.

“God," he muttered, the word rough, pulled from somewhere deep. “I want to tear you apart.”

Then he was moving. Purposeful. No hesitation, no conscience. Whatever part of Sam once held back was long gone, hollowed out and left behind. What stood in front of you now wasn’t love. It wasn’t even lust. It was obsession.