That's just who I am this week

The nightmare clung like cobwebs—something about drowning in black water while hands grabbed from below. You bolted upright, gasping, the bunker's familiar darkness suddenly suffocating. Beside you, Sam slept deeply, his breathing slow and even, one arm flung protectively across your waist. The tenderness of it cracked something brittle inside you. Carefully, you slid out from under his arm, the cool air hitting your sweat-dampened skin like a shock.

Silence pressed in as you padded down the hallway, the concrete floor chilling your bare feet. The weight settled heavier, a familiar, leaden despair seeping into your bones. Why? The question echoed uselessly. There was no why, just the suffocating is. You slipped into the bathroom, locking the door softly, needing the illusion of containment.

The shower hissed to life, steam quickly fogging the tiles. You stepped under the scalding spray, hoping it would burn away the numbness, the hollow ache behind your ribs. It didn't. It just made the tears come faster, hot tracks mingling with the hot water. You slumped against the slick wall, sliding down until you were curled on the floor of the stall, knees pulled tight to your chest. The water beat down on your back, a relentless percussion to your silent sobs.

Then you saw them. Old, faded silvery lines crisscrossing the inside of your left forearm, barely visible unless you looked closely. Tonight, under the harsh bathroom light filtering through the steam, they seemed to glow.

Ghosts of a desperate, hurting teenager you thought you’d buried. A choked sob ripped from your throat. Stupid. Weak. Still broken. The thoughts hissed, venomous and familiar. You traced a finger over the smoothest scar, the memory of that sharp, clarifying pain a stark contrast to the messy, undefined agony filling you now. You pressed your forehead hard against your knees, shoulders shaking violently as silent cries turned into ragged, gasping ones. The water drowned out the sound, or so you thought.

The bathroom door handle rattled softly. "Sweetheart?" Sam's voice, thick with sleep but edged with immediate concern, cut through the roar of the shower. "You okay?"

Panic seized you. Hide. Fix your face. You scrambled, trying to stand, wiping furiously at your eyes. "Y-yeah!" you called, forcing brightness into your voice. It cracked horribly. "Just... just showering! Fine!"

The lock clicked – he must have picked it effortlessly. The shower curtain scraped back a few inches.

Sam stood there, hair tousled, wearing only his sleep pants, his face etched with worry that deepened into profound alarm as he took you in: crumpled on the wet floor, naked, shivering violently despite the hot water, eyes red-raw and overflowing, tear tracks stark against your flushed skin.

"Hey... hey, no," he breathed, the sound barely audible over the water. He didn't hesitate. He stepped into the shower fully clothed, the water instantly soaking his pants and plastering his hair to his forehead. He knelt beside you, ignoring the deluge.

You flinched, wrapping your arms tighter around yourself, trying to shield your scars, shield yourself. "Sam, no, go away! I'm fine, really, I just—"

He reached out, gentle but firm, pulling your hands away from your body. His large, warm hands enveloped yours. "Look at me," he murmured, his voice impossibly soft yet commanding. Reluctantly, you lifted your gaze. His hazel eyes held yours, filled with such raw understanding and pain for you that it shattered the last remnants of your composure.

A fresh wave of sobs wracked you. "I'm s-sorry," you choked out, trembling uncontrollably. "I'm so sorry, Sam. It's... it's not you. I promise, it's not you. You're perfect. Everything is... is good. I just..." You gulped air, the words tumbling out brokenly. "I'm just so sad. All the time, lately. And I don't even know why! I just... I feel so heavy and empty and... and I see these..." You gestured weakly towards your arm, fresh tears spilling. "...and I feel like that scared kid again, and I hate it! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

Sam didn't speak. He simply gathered you into his arms, pulling you onto his lap right there on the wet floor. He cradled you against his soaked chest, one hand splayed protectively across your bare back, the other cradling your head, fingers tangling gently in your wet hair. He held you tightly, anchoring you as your body convulsed with the force of your weeping. The hot water cascaded over both of you, mingling with your tears.

"Shhh," he murmured against your temple, his lips warm against your wet skin. "It's okay. Let it out. Just let it out, sweetheart. I've got you." His voice was a low rumble, vibrating through his chest and into yours. "You don't have to know why. You don't have to apologize for feeling this."

He rocked you gently. "It's okay to be sad. It's okay to not be okay. Especially after everything we've seen... everything you've been through." His thumb brushed tenderly over the old scars on your arm, not with pity, but with aching recognition.

"These are part of your story. A hard part. But they don't define you now. This," he squeezed you tighter, "this strength it took to survive, to be here now, even when it hurts this much... that defines you."

You buried your face deeper into the crook of his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of him mixed with steam and soap. The dam had broken completely, and you cried until your throat was raw and your body felt limp. Through it all, Sam held you, his embrace unwavering, his murmurs a constant, soothing litany against the roar of the water and the storm inside you.

"It's okay," he repeated, pressing a kiss to your hairline. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere. We'll get through this fog, together. One step, one breath at a time. Just breathe with me, okay? Just breathe." He took a slow, deep breath, encouraging you to match it. "That's it. Just feel me here. You're safe. You're loved. So deeply loved."

Exhaustion washed over you, a different kind of heaviness replacing the sharp despair. The tears slowed to hiccups. Sam shifted slightly, reaching up to turn off the pounding water. The sudden silence was profound, broken only by your shaky breaths and the drip of water from his clothes and your hair. He didn't loosen his hold.

"Can I get you out of here?" he asked softly, looking down at you. His eyes were still pools of worry, but also filled with a fierce, protective tenderness. "Get you dry? Warm?"

You nodded weakly against his chest, too spent to speak. Sam moved carefully, supporting your weight as he stood, water sluicing off both of you. He grabbed a large, soft towel and wrapped it around you, rubbing your arms gently before bundling you tightly. He grabbed another towel for himself, quickly drying his face and hair, his soaked clothes clinging uncomfortably, but his focus remained entirely on you.

He guided you back to your shared room, away from the steam and the ghosts in the bathroom. The quiet darkness felt safer now, with him beside you. He sat you on the edge of the bed and knelt before you, using the towel to gently pat your face dry, his touch infinitely careful.

"Sam..." you whispered, your voice raspy. "Thank you. For... for coming in. For... not being scared off."

A soft, sad smile touched his lips. He cupped your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away lingering moisture. "Scared off?" He shook his head, his gaze unwavering. "Never. Seeing you hurt tears me apart, but hiding it... that would hurt worse. You don't ever have to hide this from me. The sadness, the scars... all of it. It's you. And I love every part of you." He leaned forward, pressing a long, tender kiss to your forehead. "Now, let's get you warm. And then... we just rest. However you need. I'm right here."

He helped you into dry pajamas, his movements efficient and gentle. Then he stripped off his own soaked clothes, pulling on dry sweatpants before climbing into bed beside you. Immediately, he opened his arms. You curled into him, your head finding its place on his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. His arms encircled you, strong and secure, one hand resting protectively over the towel-dried skin where your scars lay hidden beneath your sleeve.