Abigail wakes up tangled in Sam's sheets, her head tucked into the pillow he probably uses every night. It smells like his shampoo — citrus and something earthy — and the sun is filtering through the window in slats that stripe across her arms.
He's not there.
Her heart clenches for a split second — irrational panic — but then she hears the clatter of a pan, the gentle hum of a radio. He's just in the kitchen.
She lies there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. She doesn't regret last night. At least... she doesn't think she does. Her body remembers his warmth, the way he held her like she was made of something fragile and holy. The kind of kiss that stays with you long after your lips part.
She pulls the blanket tighter around her. Her eyes sting, but she blinks the feeling away.
The door creaks open. Sam steps inside with a tray balanced in his hands — eggs, bacon, toast, a mug of coffee that smells like heaven. He's wearing that dumb band tee he's had since high school and a hopeful sort of smile.
"I, uh... thought you might be hungry," he says, setting the tray on the nightstand. "Didn't know how you like your eggs, so I made both scrambled and fried."
She stares at the tray. Then up at him. Something warm blooms in her chest.
"That's... really sweet, Sam."
He shrugs, awkward. "It's no big deal."
But it is. She can feel it. In the way his hand hesitates, then reaches for hers. Their fingers brush, then link. His thumb moves in slow circles against her skin.
She shifts closer. Their foreheads touch.
She can feel his breath on her face — warm, steady, grounding.
Her phone buzzes.
It's like a thunderclap through the quiet.
She doesn't need to look to know who it is. She knows the vibration pattern by heart.
Sebastian.
Abigail stiffens. Her hand slips from Sam's. Her stomach twists into knots.
She isn't ready. She can't answer. Because if she hears his voice — if she sees him again — she might fold.
Sam sees the name. He sees her face.
And he reaches for the phone.
He answers.
He doesn't put it on speaker. He doesn't say her name. Just walks a few paces away, voice quiet but firm.
"No. She's not coming by." A pause. "Yeah. I'll come get her stuff."
Another pause.
"I said I'll get it. Don't call her again."
Click.
Abigail's breath shudders out of her. She's sitting up now, arms wrapped tight around her knees.
"Sam..."
"You don't have to see him," he says, still holding her phone like it might burn her. "I'll go. You don't have to do this alone."
And just like that, she feels it again — the warmth.
The safety.
She nods, barely. But it's enough.
(...)
Abigail stood alone in Sam's kitchen, the silence pressing in around her like fog. Her phone sat facedown on the table. She hadn't touched it since he left.
He didn't say much—just that he'd be back, that she didn't have to do this alone.
So she hadn't.
She should've. Should've gone back and faced it. Faced Sebastian. Faced the last four years of her life boxed up into a bedroom and a half. But instead, she'd curled in on herself like a ghost afraid of mirrors. And Sam had looked at her with that softness she didn't feel she deserved, and said, "I'll go."
And now he was out there, carrying the weight of her choices in cardboard boxes.
She felt… everything.
Confusion. Guilt. A thread of regret, not for Sam, but for the girl she'd been. For all the signs she'd missed. For all the things she never said. Maybe just fear, really. Because Sam had always seen her too clearly. And now he was looking at her like he might never stop.
She started to clean. Swept the floor. Did the dishes. Wiped down the counters like her hands had forgotten how to be still. Sam's place wasn't messy, just lived in. But making it shine gave her something to do other than feel.
She took another shower. Hot water, steam. Let it scald her cheeks like that could wash away the tears.
Later, she pulled one of Sam's DVDs from the shelf—Kiki's Delivery Service. Worn-out cover. They'd watched it a dozen times as teens, wrapped in mismatched blankets and stupid laughter.
She sat cross-legged on the couch, hair still damp, Sam's oversized shirt slipping off her shoulder. The opening chords played and she started crying before the opening credits even finished.
It wasn't about the movie. Or maybe it was. Nostalgia hit harder when your heart was already cracked. She cried for that summer when everything was simpler. She cried because she missed who she was back then. She cried because Sam had always been there, and she had never really seen him.
When the movie ended, she wiped her eyes and stood up with purpose.
If Sam could carry her heartbreak for her, she could damn well make him dinner.
She went out, hoodie pulled tight around her, into the golden-grey of a Fall afternoon. Bought pizza ingredients—tomatoes, fresh mozzarella, basil. A block of chocolate, flour, eggs. A cake that said thank you. A pizza that said I'm sorry. A table full of warm food to say all the things she hadn't found the words for yet.
By the time the sky darkened, the house smelled like melted cheese and cocoa and maybe a second chance.
The front door opened.
She turned from the oven, wiping her hands on her sleeves.
Sam stood there, framed by twilight, jacket dusted with fallen leaves. He was carrying two boxes, her life stacked in his arms.
"I didn't know how much of it you'd want," he said quietly. "So I brought what I could."
She walked to him, took one of the boxes from his arms.
Their fingers brushed. A familiar hum.
"Thank you," she whispered.
They set the boxes down by the wall. He looked around, then at her. "You… cooked?"
She nodded. "Didn't know what else to do. You've done so much for me. I thought… I could do this. For you."
His eyes softened, and something tired in his shoulders gave way.
They ate sitting on the floor, backs against the couch. The pizza was messy. The cake was lopsided. Sam said it was perfect.
Later, she poured them each a cup of tea. Chamomile and cinnamon.
And they talked.
About high school. About Sebastian. About everything and nothing and all the things in between.
She told him she was scared.
He said he knew.
"You don't have to be sure yet," he murmured, "You don't owe me anything. But I'm here. If you want to try."
She looked at him over her tea, steam curling between them like a question.
And then she smiled.
A small thing. Quiet. Shy.
But real.
"I think I do want to try," she said.
Outside, the rain had started. A soft patter against the windows. Gentle. Forgiving.
And in the space between their mismatched mugs and tentative hearts, something like hope began to bloom.