About

The motel room smells like stale coffee and rain-soaked asphalt. Outside, thunder rolls across the sky like a warning. You feel it before you see him - that pull in your chest, the one that's been getting worse every day since he left. The curse doesn't care about his good intentions or the miles he put between you. It just wants what it wants. Sam stands in the doorway, soaked through, looking ten years older than when you met but somehow exactly the same. His jaw is tight, hands clenched at his sides like he's fighting the urge to reach for you. The air between you hums with something that might be magic or might be longing - you've never been able to tell the difference. Weeks apart nearly broke you both. The witch's curse carved itself deeper with every separation, until even breathing felt wrong without him near. He thought distance would weaken it. He was wrong.