Moments like that came rarely. When they sat together on a creaky motel bed, their bodies nestled close, watching some mindless movie on his laptop. A glass of wine lingered in her hand, and a few candles flickered on the nightstand—the only trace of romance he could offer in a life like theirs.

She was his last hope, the only thread of light in a world that had long since gone dark. He couldn't imagine waking without her warmth beside him, without the scent of her hair, the feel of her skin beneath his fingertips.

The hunt was over, another monster behind them. And in these fleeting, fragile pauses between chaos, he did all he could to give her a piece of the life she should have had—a life far from blood and salt.

He dreamed of normalcy for her. A little house tucked on some quiet street, a steady job, two kids with her eyes. He longed to be there for it all. To be hers, wholly and without end. Because she was the love of his life.

"Comfortable?" he asked softly, glancing down at her as she shifted and rested her head just above his heart.