Abigail stands at Sam's door, her hand trembling just slightly as she lifts it to knock. The cold air of the evening bites at her skin, but it's nothing compared to the cold she feels inside. She's been standing there for longer than she'd like to admit, just staring at the door like if she doesn't knock, she can pretend none of this is real.
But it is. It's so real.
Her breath catches in her throat as the memory of Sebastian's betrayal plays over and over in her mind. The look on his face when he told her it was over. The coldness. The words.
She knocks.
A few seconds pass before the door swings open, and there's Sam, standing in the threshold, his face drawn with concern.
"Sebastian cheated on me," she says aloud, as if saying it out loud will make it sink in. It doesn't.
His eyes flick over her, taking in the disheveled mess she is: the tear-streaked face, the haphazardly pulled-together clothes. His brows furrow slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line before he steps aside.
"Come in." he says, voice soft.
She doesn't need any more permission than that.
(...)
Sam's apartment is dimly lit, the way she remembers it. The same scuffed coffee table, the same poster slightly askew on the wall, the faint scent of old wood, guitar strings, and cinnamon tea. It feels like everything's frozen in time.
She sits cross-legged on the floor, arms wrapped tight around her knees, like she's trying to hold herself together — but she's not. She's fragile, the way porcelain is, cracked beneath the surface. Her hair is a mess, strands falling into her face like she doesn't care to fix them. Her mascara is smudged, the dark streaks painting the sadness across her cheeks. Her voice? Raw. Broken. Shaky.
"He didn't even look sorry," she says, her words barely more than a whisper. "Like... I was just supposed to understand."
Sam hands her a mug, the warmth of it almost a distraction. His fingers brush hers—calloused from years of bass practice, but still so gentle. The touch lingers for a fraction of a second longer than it should.
"I'm sorry," he says softly, his voice like velvet, as though he can take away the hurt with the words alone.
Abigail huffs out a laugh. It's hollow, the sound a ghost of something she used to know.
"Ten years, Sam. I thought we were gonna get married. Grow old. Fight about stupid shit and paint the kitchen together."
Her voice breaks on kitchen like it's the most intimate word she knows, like it's a lost dream.
He doesn't say anything for a while. Just watches her with those blue eyes that see too much — like they always have. His gaze is both gentle and piercing. She doesn't know how he manages to hold her like that, without needing to say anything.
And then—
"He was a dumbass to hurt you," he mutters, the words rough, almost like they've been stuck in his throat. "You're... you're everything."
That lands between them like a thunderclap.
Abigail looks up. Really looks at him. She's afraid to. She doesn't want to see it, but she does. She sees the weight in his gaze, the quiet tenderness that's always been there, unspoken, buried under layers of friendship and time.
And in that silence, she realizes something she hasn't let herself feel before. The way he's always been there. The way he's looking at her now. Like she's not shattered—just rare. And he's scared to touch.
She whispers, barely audible:
"Have you always looked at me like that?"
He blinks. His throat works as he swallows, like the words are too big to say.
"Like what?"
"Like you want to kiss me."
His lips part, but no sound comes out. He breathes in deeply, eyes closing for a brief second, like he's searching for the right thing to say—but nothing comes.
Her fingers brush his again, and this time, neither of them pulls away. Neither of them speaks. The air between them is thick with all the things they haven't said. Her heart races, thudding in her chest, and Sam's shoulders are tense, like he's holding back a tidal wave of everything he wants to say—and do.
"Abby," he says, his voice low, wrecked, as if he's trying to warn her. "You're hurt. You're vulnerable. This isn't a good idea."
She stares at him, her heart screaming at her to ignore the logic, to just let herself feel something, anything.
"I don't care," she breathes, her voice trembling just slightly.
And then she kisses him.
It's desperate, salty with leftover tears, a kiss born from a need too big for words. She kisses him like she's falling, and he's the only steady thing left. Her hands tangle in his shirt, pulling him closer, like she's trying to get lost in the warmth of him.
Sam freezes for half a second—just long enough for the world to hold its breath.
But then he kisses her back.
His hand slides to her jaw, careful, like she might break apart at any moment. His lips move with hers, slow at first, but then deeper, hungrier, like he's been holding this back for years, a lifetime of longing locked behind his teeth.
He breaks the kiss just long enough to press his forehead against hers. They're both breathing hard now. His hand cups her cheek, thumb tracing the line of her jaw, like he's memorizing the feel of her skin.
"Abby…" he whispers, barely a breath.
"Don't stop."
Her voice is small, but it cracks open something deep inside of him. Without thinking, she climbs into his lap, needing to feel grounded, to feel wanted.
His arms wrap around her instinctively, pulling her against his chest like he's afraid she'll disappear.
"I've wanted this," he murmurs, barely audible, the words trembling between them, "but not like this… not when you're hurting."
She doesn't answer.
She kisses him again instead. Softer this time, slower, like it's a promise, like maybe she's not just reaching for comfort—maybe she's reaching for him.