For Sam, her night passed at a painfully dull pace. She left Malcolm's small, cozy flat in quite a state and nearly ran to get a cab and head home. It was quiet — too quiet — and she sat with her phone on her queen-size mattress in front of her for what felt like ages, the television droning quietly in the background.

It was Hell. Pure, honest Hell. She wanted nothing more than to go back in time and rewind the events of the night. She thought, maybe, by telling him how she felt it would soothe his nerves. Apparently that wasn't the case.

He kissed her back — fervidly. What made him stop? What made him want to stop?

What had she done wrong?

And why oh why couldn't she get the way his hands had felt out of her fucking head? The way his lips felt on hers? The way he'd moaned as she rolled her hips against his? The desire behind his responses? The perfection of it all? She was fucked.

When no text messages or no calls came through, she eventually fell asleep atop her duvet and just barely managed to snag the telly remote to turn off whatever horrible news broadcast was buzzing away on the too-small-for-her-liking flat-screen.

For so long, she'd thought about this night. She'd thought about seeing him again, wondering how long his hair would be or if he let his scruff go with a laziness that she'd rarely ever seen from him. She wondered how his arms would feel around her again. How it would be.

But the reality of it was too terrible for words. He was too thin, too gaunt, still wearing that defeated look that he had been the day they'd parted, excluding the in-between visits in prison. She wanted to be his shelter from the storm — any storm, no matter how terrible it might be.

In the morning, she did only thing before readying herself for work. She sent Malcolm a text:

I'm sorry.

S x

There never came a reply, which, if anything, only made her heart sink all the more. Not that she was expecting one, but a response of any kind — even a "fuck off" — would have been nice. Just to know that he was alright. She was worried.

She left early in the morning for her entirely too normal (even a bit boring) secretarial job, taking lunch a bit later than normal and walking to her favorite coffeehouse for a light, sweet cuppa and a scone and a little something for her new boss as well. Just to be nice. The man's wife was always baking her chocolate chip biscuits and various other treats. It was the least she could do.

It was when she was leaving that night that something startled her. She found Malcolm out on the stoop, as if he'd been waiting and wondering if he could knock on the office's door. Had her brother given him her work address?

"Malcolm—" She froze, fingers hovering over her coat lapels where she'd been fixing them. "What the fuck are you doing here?" Good god, that man's mouth had rubbed off on her over the years. Among other things — like his fiery temper.

"I'm sorry, alright?" It was a soft response. Soft and muttered in that Scottish brogue of his, a gentle lilt, something that seemed to have melted her.

She paused before descending the steps onto the cold London street, a hand firmly holding the strap of her purse. "What are you sorry for, exactly? You don't have a single thing to apologize for."

There was something clipped and cold in her tone, a result of hours upon hours of worry and a terrible, sleepless night. His fault, really. Well, and hers.

He wasn't good at this. She could tell. He never had been, though. And standing there, on the street, dressed in a gray suit without a tie, she felt oddly out of place beside him. Casual Malcolm was not something she was used to. Malcolm in a gray prison outfit wasn't… particularly pleasant, either. But this — this was dangerous because her eyes were lingering and she couldn't seem to be able to help herself.

"I'm sorry about last night," he suddenly said on a windy gust of breath. "We shouldn't… I shouldn't… You know… Ah, fuck everything. I can't seem to say what's on my mind."

For a fleeting moment, they met each other's gazes. He looked as if he may kiss her, she looked as if she may ask him to, but her phone began to ring and she cast a quick glance down towards it.

Fuck.

Her boss.

"I can't do this right now," she told Malcolm, something in her heart constricted by the realization that they might never do this.

She let her phone go into voicemail, prolonging the agony of whatever was to come on a message. Or perhaps an email. Then she glimpsed Malcolm's way and said, "Whatever you came here to say, maybe… it's just best if you don't. You were right. We should have just pretended last night never happened. We could blame it on exhaustion, never talk about it again." She took a small step closer, awkwardly patting his chest and adding, "But it's a shame, you know. I meant every word that I said to you. I'm just sorry it wasn't enough."

I'm sorry I wasn't enough.

The words hung in the air like smoke, eventually dissipating as she turned to go. Her dignity was in tatters and she didn't want him to say one more word about it. Not unless he planned to sweep her off her feet and kiss her. Maybe drag her home and make love to her like he should have last night.

But no — instead, he just let her walk away. That was the problem with Malcolm, wasn't it? He let everyone just walk away. That's what ended his marriage all those years ago. He let her just walk away.

And she kept walking.