The sunlight was rude in the morning.
It crept in through the blinds like it had every right to, slashing pale lines across Sam's apartment floor. Abigail sat curled up on the edge of his worn-out couch, a blanket around her shoulders and the ache of too many emotions pressed into her chest.
Sam was in the kitchen. Making tea again, probably. Like he had something to offer her besides that — hot water and herbs and the memory of his mouth on hers.
Her lips still tingled.
God, what had she done?
She hadn't meant to stay the night. She hadn't packed a change of clothes, hadn't brushed her teeth, hadn't thought anything through. She'd just fallen apart, and he'd caught her.
Now it was morning. And everything felt... different.
Sam hadn't said much since they woke up. Not that there was much to say. She'd kissed him. He'd kissed her back. His hands had been gentle. His arms had felt safe. But that had been nighttime logic — the kind that crumbled under the weight of sunrise.
He set a mug on the coffee table, not quite meeting her eyes. "Tea."
"Thanks," she murmured.
She didn't reach for it right away. Her fingers were tucked under the blanket, knotted into the fabric like it was the only thing keeping her from unraveling.
They sat in silence. The kind that was loud. The kind where every shift, every breath, felt like a choice.
Sam finally sat across from her, elbows on his knees, eyes flicking up to her and away again. "You sleep okay?"
Abigail nodded. "You?"
He gave a half-shrug. "Didn't really."
The silence stretched again.
She studied him. The mess of his hair. The bruise of tiredness under his eyes. The way he looked like he wanted to say something but didn't know how.
Or maybe he was trying to pretend last night hadn't happened.
She couldn't blame him. Part of her wanted to pretend too.
Except—
Her gaze dropped to his hands. He was fiddling with the hem of his hoodie, knuckles tense.
He wasn't pretending.
He was terrified.
She let the blanket fall from her shoulders and stood, crossing the room in a few slow steps. Stopped in front of him. Watched the way he looked up at her like she might shatter him just by breathing wrong.
"Sam," she said quietly.
He opened his mouth—maybe to speak, maybe to reach for her—but then—
Buzz.
His phone lit up on the coffee table. The screen glared bright with a name she didn't want to see.
Sebastian.
Their third kiss died before it even lived.
Sam didn't reach for the phone. Didn't answer it. Didn't say anything.
But the silence had shifted. Something had cracked.
Abigail stared at the name until the screen went dark again. Then she took a step back.
"I should shower," she said. Her voice felt like someone else's.
Sam nodded. Still didn't meet her eyes.
She disappeared down the hall without another word, leaving the tea untouched, and the phone quiet and glowing in the aftermath.
(...)
The shower hissed around her, steam curling up the mirror, the tiles, her skin.
Abigail pressed her forehead against the cool wall and let the water run down her back in rivulets. Her hair stuck to her neck, her cheeks, her mouth. She didn't bother moving it. Didn't bother holding anything in.
She cried.
Not the quiet kind. Not delicate, movie-scene crying. She sobbed — messy, guttural sounds swallowed by the rush of water. She cried for what she'd lost, for the years she couldn't get back, for the sharp twist in her chest when she saw Sebastian's name on Sam's phone.
She cried because she didn't understand what last night meant. Because part of her wanted to pretend it hadn't happened, and part of her wanted to rewind the clock and do it again, slower, gentler, with both of them fully aware of what it meant.
She cried because Sam had kissed her like he meant it.
And because she'd kissed him like he was the only solid thing left in the world.
When the water finally started to run cold, she turned it off with shaking hands. The bathroom was filled with steam, thick and cloying. Like grief made visible.
A towel had been left for her, folded neatly on the counter.
And beside it — one of Sam's shirts.
She stared at it for a moment. Soft blue cotton, worn at the collar, too big for her by at least two sizes. She picked it up and held it to her chest, breathing it in.
It smelled like detergent and guitar strings. Like wood polish and cinnamon. Like him.
And somehow... like home.
A shiver ran down her spine.
She should've laughed. Should've rolled her eyes and picked something else, something neutral. But her hands didn't listen. She dried off and pulled the shirt over her head, letting it hang loose around her thighs. The sleeves almost swallowed her fingers.
It felt like being held.
Like being wanted.
She sat on the closed toilet lid, hair dripping, shirt clinging, and tried to breathe through the knot building in her chest.
She didn't know what she was doing.
She didn't know if she was still grieving Sebastian, or if she had already started grieving the part of her that would never be able to look at Sam the same way again.
Because something had shifted.
She noticed him now. And she didn't know what to do with it.