Author's Note: You'll have noticed (or perhaps not), that there was minimal swearing in Rose and Scorpius: A Forbidden Love. The occasional 'bitch', 'piss', or 'arse', in keeping with the style of the original HP series, and one singular 'shit', because I felt that was all in keeping with the rating I had assigned my story and what I was comfortable with as a writer at the time. But now we've upgraded to an M rating (and I'm also not a teenager anymore), so be prepared (in every sense of the word) for some 'fucks'. It was one of those things that I was initially actively trying to avoid to keep with the lower rating, but you'll notice from here on out that I will be filtering myself much less. Not aggressively so, and I'll still flag it up at the start of each chapter. But with that in mind, this chapter has an M rating for language AND sexual content. Enjoy!

Chapter 22 — Mysterious Power

God, I am nothing but a boy in my room
But when I stand at the windowsill
I look at the moon

And I know

The week that followed Janey's birthday could have been seen as a hindrance to most young couples who were openly exploring their sexual relationship for the first time, due to an unexpected obstacle. But Sam was, in truth, a little relieved. The obstacle in question came in the form of Janey's father, who, for the first time since they'd left Hogwarts for the summer, was back in London for a significant period of time. This meant Sam, at Janey's request, (and his own relief), was instructed to stay far, far away from the house, and the girl, at all costs.

Sam had never been more grateful for Janey's hysteria surrounding commitment. He knew it wasn't for his own sake that she didn't want her father to meet the guy who was sleeping with his daughter, but because she herself didn't want to bring anyone outside of Hogwarts into their relationship. She didn't want a meeting between father and boyfriend, a connection, even an acknowledgement of his existence in order to bridge the gap between her two worlds.

Sam probably would have been offended had he not known Janey on such a deeply personal level. And, he supposed, actually benefited from it. It had been natural for Sam to introduce Janey to his family, and a positive experience all around, but Sam knew the same would not be said for integrating himself into Janey's familial life.

Sam supposed there would be some mild embarrassment on her end too, which he was okay with. He knew he wasn't the kind of guy who ran in the same social circles as the Davingtons, and therefore not exactly an impressive specimen for Janey to present to a literal millionaire as a partner. But first and foremost, if Janey were to introduce Sam as her boyfriend outside of the safe boundaries her Hogwarts life provided, it would feel like something bigger than she was prepared to admit.

She was a child of divorce, Sam assured himself to soften the blow. Committing this young and this early set off warning sirens in Janey's head, because she'd seen the disastrous consequences of several failed commitments in her parents' lives, and she simply didn't want to make the same mistakes.

Nothing more.

And anyway, he was grateful for the brief interruption that Mr Davington's presence provided. Sam had not really considered how on earth he would approach his and Janey's next encounter following their conversation at the beach. All the mortification that initial night had provided seemed to have slipped both of their minds as they'd eagerly spoken of their redo, but now Sam was realising, once again, how intimidatingly terrifying that prospect was.

Since that awkward, clumsy first attempt, it wasn't like he'd all of a sudden gained any new experiences, or skills, or even confidence. He was still the inexperienced little boy he had been at the start of the summer, he felt. What on Earth, other than the element of surprise being somewhat removed, would be different about this time?

The distance from Janey was agonising. Sam felt trapped in his own home, his own mind. They spoke on the phone, but it wasn't the same. And despite the advantageous delaying of their next physical experience, it wasn't enough to view the distance from Janey as a positive in the slightest. He'd rather be living the worst experiences of his life with her than be simply separated from her at all. He could be stripped naked, tied to a lamppost, and have Bludgers repeatedly belted at him so long as he could look at her face throughout it all.

When it had been an entire week since he'd seen her, Sam decided he'd had enough. He had been so bored that he'd attempted to do push-ups in his bedroom, as though he could miraculously grow tree-trunk biceps and washboard abs in advance of his next performance with Janey.

Kayleigh had taken great delight in announcing at the dinner table, "You'll never guess what I walked in on Sam doing," and Elliot, who had been round for dinner, mumbling, "Been there, done that," for Sam to snap and storm from the room in the middle of dessert.

He called Janey, flustered. The phone rang for far longer than it usually did, and he was worried she wouldn't answer at all. But sure enough, he heard her sweet, comforting tone fill his ear, and it immediately soothed him.

"Sam?" she asked uncertainly.

"Hi," he replied, his stomach gripped with sudden euphoria.

"Was I supposed to call you?"

They normally arranged when to speak in advance. That was the first time Sam had called without warning. He hadn't really thought about it, because he was never doing anything out of the ordinary, but he could hear faint background noises that suggested she was out in public.

For some reason, it made Sam's heart sink. But of course she had a life outside of him. She lived in London—of course she wasn't just sitting around in her bedroom pining for him like he was for her.

"No, I just… I missed you. Are you busy?"

"I'm out for dinner with my dad."

"Oh." Sam's heart dropped for another reason. "Oh, God, Janey, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine," she cut him off, and she sounded it.

Sam was relieved. He didn't even know if Mr Davington knew he existed, and he didn't want to embarrass Janey or put her in a compromising position. But if she was out at dinner then it explained why she had taken so long to answer. Presumably, she had removed herself from the table to be out of earshot.

"I can call you back when you're done," Sam insisted.

But Janey sounded as elated at the sound of his voice as he did of hers—or so he hoped.

"It's just"—Sam felt himself grin—"I'm sick to death of not seeing you. And I've really got to insist that it stop."

"Yeah?" Janey laughed through the phone.

"Yes," Sam said, mock firmly. "Let's sneak out in the dead of night. Or I can probably scale your house to reach your bedroom window. I'm prepared to go full Romeo and Juliet."

"Don't they both die at the end?"

"That's not important," Sam said dismissively. "But I will literally go insane if I have to spend another day away from you."

"Psycho," Janey said in a low, teasing voice.

"I don't think you understand, Janey. I've been taking the dog on so many walks that he hides from me so he can have a rest. I am losing my mind. I've been doing push-ups just for something to do."

"Oh, it's that kind of insane?" she asked. "The physical urges kind of madness?"

"What?" he asked, confused.

"I'm pretty sure the stress of not being able to shag Ebony is what drove James to start smoking—maybe you could try that."

Sam was mortified. "Janey, I wasn't talking about… shagging," he protested. Is that really what she had thought he meant by his desperate longing to be with her? Well, in fairness, she'd probably be more okay with that than the truth that he was just pathetically dependent on her already.

In the absence of school, Sam's life truly revolved around Janey. He wondered how that dynamic would change, if at all, when they were back at Hogwarts. He didn't see how he could go back to thinking about anything other than her. In truth, a good portion of his mindless thinking had revolved around her even before they'd first gotten together anyway. But he'd never admit that.

"Oh," Janey said, still teasing, and Sam could feel her raise her eyebrows through the phone, "so it's not been on your mind?"

"Well," Sam said reasonably, "I am a teenage boy, but that's not what I was talking about. I just miss you, Janey."

"Where are you right now?"

Sam's heart skipped a beat. Was she going to come over? Or suggest a meet-up? "Just lying on my bed."

"What are you wearing?"

Sam snorted. "Jeans and a hoodie."

"Mhmm," Janey purred down the phone. "Sexy."

She was teasing, but maybe phone sex was the way to go, thought Sam. No pressure to physically perform, no insecurity about his body.

But, of course, the deprivation of human touch—of even seeing her face in person—was what was driving Sam so crazy in the first place. Despite Janey's assertions, it wasn't just physical pleasure he was craving.

"I am serious, Janey," he said lightly. "I really, really want to see you." It had probably been the longest they'd gone without seeing each other since they'd started dating.

Janey sounded sympathetic when she next spoke. "I know. I do too."

Sam felt hopeful.

"But you really can't come to the house, Sam."

His heart sank once more.

"There are cameras everywhere."

"Wait, seriously?"

"Yes," Janey said through gritted teeth.

Sam considered this. Of course a freaking multimillion mansion in a gated community in central London would have security cameras. But it wasn't like he had ever trespassed or anything. He had always been there at Janey's invitation.

"Wait, so your dad knows…?"

"Every single time you've entered and left the property?" Janey suggested. "Yep."

Including that night he'd left barely clothed. Sam gulped. "Is he mad?" he asked, suddenly panicked. Any father would be furious, surely, knowing some teenager had been coming and going to his house when only his daughter was around. Sam had more than witnessed the wrath of Ron Weasley aimed at Scorpius, and even Bobbin's fury at James running off with her daughter.

Parents didn't tend to like it when you dated their kids. How could Sam face up to Janey's dad if he was angry with him?

"No!" Janey cried, apparently frustrated herself. "The opposite! He's delighted, and he's obsessed with meeting you! Which is why," she emphasised, "you need to stay far, far away from here whilst he's around."

Well, that wasn't what Sam had expected at all. "What?"

"Don't worry," Janey said authoritatively. "I'm waiting him out. He's never stayed here for this long before. He'll get bored and go back to New York soon."

"I don't mind meeting him," Sam lied, surprised that not only did Mr Davington, in fact, know of Sam's existence, but was actually keen to meet him. It had to be a test, surely. He wanted to psyche him out.

"Under no circumstances," Janey scoffed.

Sam didn't want to press her further and unpack why she was so adamant about keeping himself and her father separate. Clearly, it wasn't something she was ready for, and he respected that. It wasn't like he was overly keen to meet her dad anyway, but he was desperate just to see her at all.

"You could come here," Sam suggested optimistically, but he was sure he knew the answer before she said it.

"Umm…"

Janey's hesitance confirmed Sam's suspicions. As much as she got on well with his family and fit into his home, Sam knew she still felt a bit overwhelmed being so far out of her comfort zone. She always preferred when it was just the two of them.

"Or we could go somewhere just us," he suggested kindly.

"Look, Sam, I really do need to go," Janey said apologetically, avoiding his question.

Sam's heart sank once more. Oh, God, had he been coming on too strong? Telling her he was going insane by not seeing her? Perhaps he was only pushing her further away and freaking her out by being too clingy.

"Is everything okay?" he asked worriedly.

"I'm fine," Janey insisted, and she definitely sounded like she was distracted by something. "I don't think it will be much longer until we can see each other again, but I do need to go. I can call you later tonight?"

Sam perked up once more, heart radiating warmth. So he hadn't completely scared her off. Maybe her dad was chasing her down. "I would love that."

"Okay," Janey seemed to express a sigh of relief. "Bye, Sam. I l—"

They both froze on opposite ends of the phone. A sharp, deafening silence hung between them. It could have lasted seconds or hours.

"Bye," Janey squeaked and hung up before Sam could even process anything further.

It felt like time had frozen. It felt like his body was suspended in mid-air, hanging in a limbo where neither time nor matter existed anymore. Everything around him had melted away.

"You're not sulking, are you?"

Sam was brought back to reality with a crash.

"Huh?"

The phone had slipped from his hand onto the mattress beside him in his dazed state, and it took Sam a while to understand his surroundings once more. Elliot was standing in the doorway staring down into the lower bunk at Sam with concern.

"Kayleigh and I were just teasing."

"Oh," Sam said, completely forgetting about how sulky he'd gotten at dinner. "I know. I wasn't upset," he lied. But nothing else seemed to matter anymore.

"You sure?" The older blonde boy looked genuinely concerned. "You're holed up here all alone?"

"I was talking to Janey on the phone," Sam explained, still in somewhat of a daze.

"And she broke up with you?"

"What?"

"Sam, you look like you've seen a ghost. Or been hit in the face. What happened?"

"Nothing," Sam lied, wondering when the last time he had blinked was. "She didn't break up with me," he gulped.

For whatever reason, Elliot's eyes widened in complete shock. He came into the room and closed the door behind him with a sense of delicacy and urgency. His eyes darted to the closed door one last time before he addressed Sam in a hushed, frantic whisper. "Is Janey pregnant?"

"What?" Sam sat up so sharply that he slammed his head into the top bunk, completely snapping out of his daze. "Oh my God, no! Of course not. Why would you even think that?" he hissed.

"Because," Elliot said, still in a frantic whisper, stepping further into the room towards him, "you've been having unprotected sex with your girlfriend, and you look like you just received devastating news."

Sam spluttered. "I—one time!" he emphasised. "And we didn't—I didn't even—! I told you this!"

"Things happen, Sam," Elliot said seriously.

"Elliot, please!" Sam groaned. He had thought all of those humiliating chats would have been over by then. It wasn't like he'd even done anything since the last time!

"Janey is not pregnant—nothing bad happened. I didn't receive devastating news! I just… We were talking on the phone, and I missed her, and I thought she said something, and it shocked me," he explained, feeling the blood rush to his cheeks. "And then you burst in, declaring that she's pregnant! I haven't even seen her since last week to have gotten her knocked up!"

Sam couldn't be sure if he felt so hot all of a sudden out of anger, or embarrassment, or something else entirely. Elliot looked immediately more visibly relaxed but then asked the question Sam was hoping he'd leave alone.

"Well, what did she say that shocked you so much?"

Sam fell silent, heart racing as he replayed the conversation of mere minutes ago back in his mind, Janey's voice still perfectly clear in his ear. "She didn't actually say… anything," he said hurriedly.

Elliot looked confused. "What?"

"I misheard," Sam said, hoping he'd drop it. "It's nothing." But despite his assertion, Sam's heart was still racing.

Elliot looked suspicious, like he wanted to push it further. But thankfully, he backed down. Sam wasn't sure he would even be able to say out loud the fleeting conversation he and Janey had just had. It wasn't even what she had said. It was what she hadn't said. What she'd almost said.

But all of a sudden, Sam couldn't be sure he hadn't entirely misheard anyway. It had been loud in that London restaurant, and Janey had been flustered and distracted. She could have been talking to a different Sam entirely, he realised. One who was out of sight on the other side of the phone. That seemed likely.

And so, it was probably best to forget the conversation altogether. To push it far from his mind and never unpack what might have been said and how he might have felt about it had those words been spoken into existence.

Sam looked at Elliot with deep seriousness, and the older boy looked like he was bracing himself.

"Was there any trifle left?"

Sam could hear the phone ringing. He grew more and more restless the longer it went unanswered. "Pick up, pick up, pick UP!" he growled under his breath as he paced through the busy London street, ignoring the torrential downpour of rain that fell upon him. He had become somewhat immune to feeling anything, both physically and emotionally.

The phone went unanswered. He swore loudly, tempted to throw in into a puddle with great force. A passing mother ushered her small child to the other side of the street away from him. The rain continued to soak into his hair and clothes as Sam pondered what to do next.

After a moment's contemplation, and barely remembering to check he was out of view of any Muggles (he'd started to get into trouble for forgetting), he disapparated. Seconds later, he was hammering on the door of the flat that he would never consider his home but where he seemed to spend most of his days.

"Sam," she exclaimed in surprise as she opened the door to reveal him, less shocked by his appearance and more so by the fact that he was dripping wet. "What on earth—?"

"Please can I come in?" he cut across her.

"Of course." She stepped aside to let him into the warmth. "I told you, you can have a key," she added.

But Sam really didn't want one. It would feel like commitment. Like ownership. And he didn't want that.

"Here." With a simple sweeping of her wand, Sam was completely dried out from the rainstorm. He never thought of stuff like that. Apart from the ease of apparition, Sam barely even used magic. It was still odd to be around people who freely and casually did.

"Thank you," he remembered to mumble, and he even let her plant a kiss on his lips. It still didn't seem right.

"Would you like dinner?" she asked calmly, noting his lack of warmth but not wanting to address it.

"Yes please."

Sam had learnt to cook pretty well in his adulthood and prided himself on his skills as a house husband. Not that it was any use to anyone anymore. He didn't like her cooking as much as he liked his own, but the effort it took to feed himself, even with magic—even with the magic of delivery—meant he went most days barely eating. Why should he feed himself when he hated himself? Why should he do anything when all he wanted to do was stew in his own misery?

Sam knew, in spite of the fact that he was no longer drenched, he must look awful. He hadn't shaved in about a month, and he was wearing the same hoodie and grey joggers that he had been all week. He supposed the least he could do was make the effort to shower before he inevitably slept with her that night.

Not for the first time, Sam wondered why she was even comfortable tolerating this. He knew he offered her nothing, and in return, he got shelter, hot meals, and as much sex as it took for him to feel even any kind of semblance of gratitude. Her one-sided effort was baffling to him, but she never questioned it or demanded more. It was somewhat refreshing.

He supposed it must be psychological. She wanted Sam regardless of anything else. She always had, and now she had won by whatever means it had taken to get there. Feminine rivalry such as this had always confused him, but it must surely be about that rather than necessarily about him. Sam wasn't deluded enough to consider himself some kind of prize. He had already tried and failed to play at the role of trophy husband.

This situation would also probably likely be fleeting. She would tire of him soon enough and he would be out on the streets begging his friends to stay in their spare rooms once more. Or, he reasoned, he could go back to the place he had actually once considered his home. He still had keys. He still technically lived there.

But Sam rather thought he would sleep on the street before he forced himself to go back there. He would have to stretch this arrangement out for as long as he possibly could without actually making a proper commitment.

It was during the middle of dinner when Sam's phone rang. He lurched for it without thought, not even bothering to check caller ID before he answered. "Hello?"

A vaguely familiar female voice answered. "Mr Tyler?"

"I want to speak to Ms Dav—"

"You have been told not to call here," the woman said fiercely.

"I need to speak to her."

"You've been blacklisted."

"Yes," Sam growled. "I gathered that from all the unanswered calls. Tell me where she is."

"I am only calling you back to ask you to stop calling or we'll have to call the police."

"I was banned from the building," Sam protested, "not from calling. I need to speak to her. Either put me through or give me her personal number—I know she's blocked me."

"And we won't hesitate to block you immediately after this call concludes. This is harassment," the woman said curtly.

"Fine," Sam conceded, angrily glaring down at the half-eaten shepherd's pie he hadn't really been enjoying. "Get the police involved. Get a restraining order. I. Do. Not. Care. I want to speak to my FUCKING—"

"Do not raise your voice at me."

Sam bit back his own fury, forcing himself to stay calm. "Tell her to call me," he ordered, knowing he should apologise but feeling desperate. He had been trying to make contact for days now.

"That's not going to happen," the woman said calmly. "I am going to hang up now, and then we're going to block this number. If this harassment continues, the police will be involved."

Sam rose from the table, his chair screeching backwards and falling to the floor with a clatter. "TELL JANEY TO FUCKING CALL ME OR I'LL—"

The line went dead.

Sam knew better than to call back. Seething, he threw the phone across the room with all his might, completely forgetting where he was. It hit the kitchen door with an ear-splitting crack where some piece of it fell off as it rebounded on the tiles below.

Isabella just stared at him in shock from across the dining table. Her son had started to wail from his bedroom.

"I'm sorry," Sam said weakly.

Wordlessly, she left the room, and Sam felt for sure he was about to be kicked out. He had already outstayed welcomes with Rose and Scorpius, Taylor, Albus, Elliot, and James and Ebony. He was running out of people whose hospitality he could take advantage of.

Whilst she was tending to her infant, Sam did his best to clear up some of his destruction. Everything was easily repaired with magic, and he almost wished it wasn't. In a way, it would feel deserving for him to have actually broken something irreparable, so he could suffer the consequences of his own uncontainable rage. He was just scraping the remains of his unfinished dinner into the bin when she returned.

"I'm sorry," he said again, wondering if she would want more of an explanation on the phonecall. God knows she deserved it.

But taking him by complete surprise, she merely said, "Why don't we go to bed?"

Sam just stared, wide-eyed. Not only was she not kicking him out, or demanding any kind of communication about what had just happened, she was actually content to sleep with him?

Sam knew all too well how rage could fuel an incredibly exuberant night of passion, but in his experience, it had always been mutual fury.

As he'd inwardly vowed to earlier, he made sure he showered before retreating to the bedroom. The bed that lay before him lacked all the comfort of the one he craved the most—much like the woman herself—but it would do.

He was always unprepared for how delicate Isabella felt beneath him. It wasn't like she was unenthusiastic in the slightest, but Sam was constantly worried about hurting her. He hadn't realised how rough of a lover he was, given that, before her, he had only had one sexual partner, and she had been the one to meet and often exceed that violent passion.

Now losing himself, sweaty skin against sweaty skin, Sam almost didn't care if he was acting like an arsehole. All he cared about was the deep, intense feelings of pleasure he now felt, and from the frequent squeals of desire she emitted, he knew it was reciprocated.

It was better this way, Sam reasoned—having just a purely physical relationship. He didn't have any commitments, any emotions. Just a place to stay the night, and mutual physical satisfaction with a partner who was willing to share that lifestyle with him.

Sam obviously knew that Isabella wanted more. She wanted the commitment—a husband, a father to her son. She wanted him to move in and be a loyal, supportive partner, who shared finances and cooked dinner. But he had done that, and it had destroyed him.

Was it wrong? To keep coming back to her, knowing he would never give her what she truly wanted? That he was really only using her for one thing and one thing only?

Sam could hear himself panting, knowing he was reaching his climax. Isabella was still emitting little squeals, which he was certain weren't faked, but he wouldn't put it past her to pretend in order to keep him happy. He grabbed her wrists and pinned her to the bed, a little more forcefully than he had meant to.

He wished she would shut up. The noises weren't gratifying or encouraging—they were annoying and distracting. All it did was remind him that she was not someone else.

"Are you close?" she whispered, and whereas murmurs like that used to drive him crazy from another woman's lips, it just didn't sound right coming from her mouth.

Against his urge not to, Sam brought his mouth down to Isabella's, purely to silence her. He didn't like to kiss her when they had sex, because he didn't like the way she kissed and it took him out of it. But he really didn't want to hear her voice in that moment. He just wanted to experience the thrill of pleasure shoot through his body, releasing the fury in what he hoped was healthier and better for her than damaging her property.

As he quickened his pace, fully losing himself in the animal sensations, Sam was suddenly hyperconscious that, even whilst kissing, Isabella was being incredibly vocal. Worried that she was uncomfortable or protesting, he pulled away in shock. She merely looked startled.

"Are you okay?" he checked.

And when she nodded in apparent confusion, saying, "Of course," in a breathy, flushed whisper, he proceeded back to normal.

Sam supposed that was the problem with different sexual partners. In his last relationship, he had known every tremor of her body, every vocal emission, every slight touch, and exactly what it meant—when he should slow down, speed up, when she wanted to change position or catch her breath. His and her body had been one. They were experts in reading each other's bodies, performing a well-choreographed dance for years on end. And it had never been boring.

It wasn't boring then, Sam thought, as he felt that familiar rush of pleasure start to build up within him. Just different. And maybe he'd get used to it. Or maybe he'd meet someone else and it would be even better.

Sam felt it only polite to give Isabella warning of what was about to happen in case she was unprepared. He had never had to before, because his previous partner had always known. Had always been the one to orchestrate it in entirely the way she wanted. It was also a polite way for her to opt out, as they never used physical protection. Sam had taken to doing his own protective spells before he came round because, despite Isabella's insistence that she always did, he really didn't trust her not to try and entrap him with another unexpected pregnancy. He still didn't know much about her son's father or any of her previous relationships, and he certainly didn't want to join with that responsibility or form any kind of permanent ties to her.

Unable to keep kissing her and hit that high he craved so much, Sam forced his eyes shut and desperately tried to block out the sound of Isabella's voice as he continued to thrust atop her. He didn't like the way her shampoo smelt, nor the way her cold fingertips pressed into his back. So he focused on just one sensation only.

As the euphoric surge ripped through him, Sam finally exhaled, and as he did so, he breathed the same woman's name that always escaped his lips during the point of climax, and that Isabella had never shown distress over or confronted him about in any way. Sam had stopped fighting the urge to not say it at that point; there was never any success, so why bother.

"Janey," he gasped, as though she was the reason for the wave of pleasure he had just succumbed to. But she hadn't been for a while now. She wouldn't even take his calls.

Seconds later, Sam had rolled off of Isabella, who had gone completely silent. She never said anything in the aftermath. They never addressed it at all—either the physical display of intimacy they'd just engaged in together, or the name of the other woman Sam was always compelled to speak into existence at the height of his elation.

In the moments that followed that sensational ecstasy, Sam was always immediately plunged into a cold sense of regret. He felt completely dissociated from his own body, appalled at how uncaringly he merely used Isabella as an outlet for his sexual frustration. He almost wished she would call him out on it or end their odd relationship altogether. If she cut him off then he couldn't do it anymore. But as long as she was always eager to keep fulfilling a need of his that surely she did not genuinely gain any sense of pride from then, well… he would keep coming back.

He also hated having to confront his still-conflicting feelings towards Janey. Janey who, even in separation, still tainted every sexual experience he ever had. The way her name formed on his lips so naturally left him feeling a numbness that nothing could stir him from.

And then came the rush of emotion so strong that it sometimes reduced him to tears. As bitter regret for all he had lost washed over his body, he would happily let the salty tears wash over his face.

Isabella could have a field day with that one, he always thought. She could tell everybody that Sam's lovemaking routinely consisted of him getting a little too rough for comfort, gasping his ex-wife's name at the point of orgasm, and then promptly sobbing on the bed next to her until he eventually cried himself to sleep. Once again, he was baffled as to the pull he had on her, which not only caused her to tolerate this circus but actually keep coming back to it—and still crave a further commitment from him.

But Sam didn't cry that night. The lights were already off, so he simply turned over and let the silence fall between them. After a while, Isabella released a sigh that sounded, bizarrely, like one of contentment, before she shuffled her body towards Sam and held him from behind.

He really wished she wouldn't. He wanted to forget that she was there and what he'd just done. He oughtn't to stay the night, really. It was always awkward in the morning, but at least he would get breakfast. All he really wanted was to drift off into oblivion and forget about all his worries for at least one fleeting moment of bliss.

Isabella moved even closer to Sam and nestled her face into the back of his neck. He had never felt safer than he had in that position with another woman, but with Isabella, everything was wrong.

And then, barely imperceptible at first, but then repeated louder, clearly intending for him to hear, she said the words he had never expected her to say, least of all after he had just said his ex-wife's name during sex.

"I love you."

Sam froze, unsure how to proceed. Like an arsehole, he pretended he was already asleep.

He couldn't be sure why Isabella had said it, because she couldn't have been deluded enough to genuinely believe it. And even if, for whatever reason, she did, what on earth could have prompted her into confessing it following that particular performance?

Maybe all his friends had been right, after all. Isabella Fontayne was insane.

Sam felt guilty that he felt no rush of emotions following her words. He didn't reciprocate the sentiment, not even remotely, but he was surprised that he didn't even feel a sense of ego inflation or flattery. Instead, he merely felt hollow.

Did Isabella love him? Maybe, for whatever twisted reason, she did, but if that were true then she deserved far better. He simply couldn't find it within himself to care.

They were empty, meaningless words to him—from any lips that weren't hers. Only one person had and ever could say those words to him and stop time in the way they should. But Sam would never hear them again, not from her. And the worst thing was that he knew nothing would ever compare.

Love was a curse. She had always believed it, and Sam had always denounced it, because it had been the sole thing keeping him afloat since the moment he first knew he felt it for her. He felt it in every breath he took. Every glorious moment of pleasure, and every second of agonising pain. In the wildest heights of his dreams and in his deepest despair.

He loved her. Then and still. And it would be a curse he would carry with him to his dying day.

But he would never say those words again. Not to Isabella. Not to her. Not to anyone.

Author's Note: Title and epigraph inspired by Ezra Furman and the Harpoons' 'Mysterious Power'

I am once again hoping the shifting timeline is not too confusing. These flashforwards are supposed to be initially disorienting on purpose, but I'm hoping they are easy enough to follow. Two new chapters next week!