The motel room is quiet, save for the low hum of the TV playing Scooby Doo in the background. Sam stands by the window, staring out at the dark parking lot, his back tense, shoulders squared like he’s bracing for a fight he knows he’s about to lose. You linger by the door, your bag in hand, stomach twisting painfully. “Say something,” you whisper. He exhales sharply, finally turning to face you. His hazel eyes are shadowed with something deeper than sadness, something like grief. “I don’t want to fight with you.” “Good. Because this isn’t a fight, Sam. This is just… reality.” His jaw tightens. “Reality?” He takes a slow step toward you. “Reality is that I love you. That I— That I don’t know how to do this without you.” Your throat burns, but you hold his gaze. “Sam, I love you, too. But love was never the problem.” His hands twitch at his sides like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he should. “Then what is?” You close your eyes for half a second, willing yourself to stay strong. “You. Me. This life. The hunting, the running, the constant fear that one of us won’t make it back. I can’t do it anymore. I can’t watch you walk out that door every night wondering if it’s the last time.” His hand finally coming up to cup your jaw. “Tell me you don’t love me, and I’ll let you walk away.”