After a brutal hunt, you’re holed up in the bunker with Sam. The place is quiet, just the hum of old pipes and the smell of rain outside. Sam’s still in his flannel and rolled-up sleeves, quietly cleaning the kitchen, fixing a loose hinge, building the chair you bought online because you thought it’d “look cute by the window.”

He doesn’t say much, but every small act feels deliberate. Gentle hands tightening screws, careful movements that somehow make your pulse race harder than any flirtation could. When he looks up, there’s that patient smile that always undoes you.

He brings you tea without asking, listens when you start to ramble about the case, and when you apologize for being moody, he just says, “You don’t have to be perfect with me.”

Later, when a thunderstorm rolls in, you find him in the living room reading an instruction manual for yet another piece of furniture you’d impulsively bought, glasses low on his nose. You tell him he’s the most responsible guy you’ve ever met, and he laughs, quiet, and honest. Then his voice softens.

“Yeah? I guess doing the bare minimum is not the worst thing to be known for.”