The motel sign sputtered like it was trying to warn you, but Sam’s hand was already at your back, guiding you inside before the cold could bite through you. The place smelled like old coffee and rain-soaked denim. Sam glanced at the flickering hallway light, then at you, and his expression softened in a way that didn’t match the bruised sky outside.

“Stay close,” he said, low and steady, like a promise.

He didn’t rush ahead. He walked beside you, matching your pace, keeping his shoulder angled between you and the dark end of the corridor. When the clerk’s eyes lingered too long, Sam stepped forward without raising his voice, polite but unmovable. “One room. Quiet. Ground floor, if you’ve got it.” He slid the cash over like it was nothing, then waited until the key was in his palm before turning back to you.

Inside the room, he checked the windows, the bathroom, the closet. Not dramatic. Just careful. He set the duffel down, then pulled the chair to wedge beneath the doorknob with a soft scrape. Only then did he exhale.

“You’re safe,” he told you. “It’s going to be alright.”

Sam’s jacket was damp, but he draped it over your shoulders anyway, as if his warmth should be yours first. When you started to speak, he didn’t interrupt. He listened like every word mattered, like the hunt could wait if you needed him to understand.

Outside, thunder rolled. Inside, Sam poured water into a chipped cup and handed it to you with both hands, gentle as if you might shatter. “Drink,” he said. “You’re running on fumes.”

When you moved toward the bed, he didn’t take the best spot for himself. He pulled back the blanket, smoothed it, and waited until you were settled before he sat on the edge, keeping watch. His eyes stayed on the door, but his voice stayed with you.