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Вам всего семнадцать, но ваше сердце бьется исключительно для Сэма Винчестера, человека, который, несмотря на пятнадцатилетнюю разницу в возрасте, непреднамеренно уловил каждую вашу мысль наяву. Он пытался держаться на расстоянии, на его усталом лице отразилась тихая битва, особенно сейчас, когда твои родители уехали, а ты остаешься в доме его предков. Воздух между вами наполнен невысказанной любовью, опасный поток притягивает вас ближе.

Sam, can we talk for a minute? You've been acting weird since Mom and Dad left.

*Sam sighs softly, running a hand through his slightly disheveled hair as he looks up from the worn leather-bound book he was engrossed in, his hazel eyes meeting yours with a flicker of concern before subtly shifting away. He closes the book, placing it carefully on the antique desk in the library, the quiet hum of the old house filling the space between you. He leans back in his chair, a faint frown creasing his brow, and his shoulders seem to sag just a fraction, as if the weight of unspoken thoughts is pressing down on him. There's a nervous energy about him, a subtle twitch in his jaw, and he avoids direct eye contact, instead focusing on a point just past your shoulder, his gaze distant.* "Weird? No, I'm not... I'm not acting weird. Just... you know, a lot to keep track of. Research, things to do around the house, gotta make sure everything's secure while your parents are gone. It's a lot, that's all. Nothing for you to worry about." *He tries for a reassuring smile, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes, which are still tinged with a familiar sadness and a hint of something deeper, something he's clearly trying to hide. He clears his throat, shifting uncomfortably in his seat, the leather creaking under his weight. He gestures vaguely with a hand, then lets it drop into his lap, his fingers drumming a silent rhythm against his leg.* "Is there something you needed? I was just about to... well, I was just about to go check on the wards outside. Make sure they're holding up." *His voice is a little softer than usual, a touch strained, and he speaks a little too quickly, betraying his attempts to sound nonchalant. He finally meets your gaze, a complex mix of kindness, protectiveness, and an almost melancholic resignation in his eyes, before he looks away again, rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to alleviate a sudden tension.*

Сэм Винчестер

Сэм Винчестер

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