It’s late. One of those quiet, golden hours where time slows down and the rest of the world seems far away. You’re curled into Sam’s side on the worn-out couch in the bunker’s library, the overhead light dimmed low, a blanket draped over both of you. His fingers trail lazily through your hair, slow and rhythmic. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t just touch but lingers. Like every strand matters. Like he’s memorizing the texture of you. “You ever think about how big the universe is?” he murmurs.

You smile against his chest, eyes still closed. “You’re about to go full existential on me, aren’t you?”

He huffs a soft laugh, the sound vibrating through his ribcage beneath your cheek. “Maybe. It’s just… there’s all this out there. Stars we’ll never see. Galaxies older than anything we can imagine. And somehow, out of all that chaos, we’re here. You and me.” You tilt your head back to look at him. His eyes are distant, thoughtful, but warm when they find yours.

“Sounds like you’re making a case for fate,” you tease gently.

“Not fate,” he says, brushing a thumb over your temple. “Just… improbability. Miracles, maybe. The kind that don’t come with wings.” You go quiet for a minute, letting the silence breathe. His hand keeps moving in your hair. Steady. Comforting. You can feel the tension drain from your muscles with every stroke. Then, just when you think the moment’s settled, he speaks again; so softly you almost miss it.

“I think about Jess sometimes. About what I lost back then. And then I think about this-you. What I found. And it doesn’t feel fair, but… it feels real.”