Work Text:
March 2024 – 21:13
His phone buzzes beside him on the couch. He glances down, expecting some throwaway meme from Nick or one of Alex’s late-night voice notes about a new idea he has.
But it’s her.
You home?
Alone?
He blinks at the screen.
Yeah. Just me. Why?
Fifteen minutes pass. Long enough to get under his skin. Then:
Can you open the gate?
He’s already standing before he finishes reading it.
By the time the headlights cut through the trees, his heart is knocking against his ribs.
She parks like she’s done it before—well, she has. Once or twice. Cocktail nights, group hangs, nothing private. Just laughter and drinks and polite distance. She’s been in this house, sure.
But not like this.
She steps out slowly. Hoodie sleeves pulled down over her hands. Jeans. Hair thrown up like she’d stopped caring hours ago. Her face is blotchy. Raw in a way makeup couldn’t fix.
He opens the door before she even reaches it.
“Hey.”
She doesn’t greet him. Just walks in.
His stomach twists as she passes him, her scent trailing in behind her. Familiar. Unfamiliar. Too much.
She hovers in the open-plan space like she doesn’t quite belong.
“You okay?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
He nods. Doesn’t press.
“You seemed fine this morning,” he says gently.
That stops her. For a second. Her spine stiffens, but she doesn’t turn. Just shakes her head, almost to herself.
He watches her fingertips brush over the back of the couch. A small, unconscious gesture.
“Tea?” he asks.
She exhales. It sounds like it hurts. “Please.”
He moves to the kitchen. Makes it the way she’s always liked it. Strong. Black. Honey, if she’s spiraling.
When he returns, she’s still standing. Like sitting would be too much. Like collapsing would make it real.
He hands her the mug, his fingers brushing hers. Her skin is cold.
“I wasn’t sure you’d still be up,” she murmurs.
“It’s only 21:30,” he replies, slightly confused. “Besides… you’re always welcome here.”
She looks at him finally. Eyes glossy. Shoulders tight. A breath away from breaking.
And then—without a word—she lowers her tea to the table, steps forward and presses her face into his chest.
He doesn’t even hesitate.
His arms go around her in an instant. Strong. Steady. Like he remembers exactly how to hold her when she falls apart.
And he does.
Because once, she was his whole world.
And since then—since before the wedding, before the baby, before the silence—she’s never let herself be held by him like this again.
She shakes in his arms. Just a little. Enough that he presses his lips to the side of her head and closes his eyes.
“I’m here,” he says into her hair. “You don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. We can watch some shit telly and pretend this isn’t happening.”
She lets out a broken laugh. The tiniest thing.
“Shit telly sounds good.”
He nods against her. “Yeah. I’ve got a whole archive of crap. House flippers and dog grooming championships.”
She stays there a second longer. Then pulls away, swiping her sleeve across her eyes.
“Okay,” she says softly. “Let’s pretend.”
He puts on something mindless. Something stupid and bright. She sinks into the corner of the couch and curls up like she’s trying to disappear into it. He sits beside her but doesn’t touch her again. Doesn’t ask.
She sips her tea slowly. Watches the screen like it matters. Like this isn’t the first time she’s let herself not be strong in years.
By the second episode, her mug is forgotten. Her breathing has evened out.
He glances over.
She’s asleep. Just like that. Head tilted, lashes resting against her cheeks, mouth parted slightly.
And fuck if his heart doesn’t twist.
Because that hadn’t happened in a while. Not like this. Not since the days when she used to fall asleep in his arms after long shoots and too much wine. Not since she told him she needed space. A future. A man with less risk.
And now she’s here. In his house. In his space. In the middle of a storm he doesn’t understand but desperately wants to shelter her from.
He pulls the throw blanket gently over her legs, moves her tea, and switches the volume low.
Then he sits back.
He won’t sleep. Not tonight.
She came to him.
And even if he has no idea what the hell it means—
He’ll be right here when she wakes
Three days later – 15:12
They’re in the middle of a scene. Rain machines, backlot mud, everything soaked and freezing. Her wig’s coming loose. He’s too tired to fake another take.
The director calls cut.
As they reset, his phone buzzes in his coat pocket, deep beneath layers of wardrobe.
He checks it between set-ups.
You home tonight?
He doesn’t answer right away. Just looks up across the tented monitors and finds her sitting in a chair under a blanket, looking down at her phone like nothing happened.
He types:
Yeah. Why?
She types back fast.
Takeout around 9? If that’s okay.
He stares at the words longer than necessary. Something in his chest pulls tight.
Course it is.
21:04
She’s four minutes late. He doesn’t mind.
She arrives with a paper bag of Thai food and that same tired look in her eyes, though not as raw as last time. Still no makeup. Hair short and messy. She looks… softer. Still worn, still quiet—but less brittle.
“Hey,” he says, stepping back to let her in.
She holds up the bag with a faint smile. “I brought dinner. Hope you’re hungry.”
“I’m always hungry,” he says, his smile easy, his pulse anything but.
They eat at the kitchen island this time, perched on stools. She doesn’t talk much, but she picks at her food, pushes the rice around, takes a few good bites. She’s not doing that thing she does when she’s anxious and pretending to eat.
She’s… here.
Present.
“You alright?” he asks after a while, voice low.
She looks at him over the rim of her water glass. Doesn’t flinch.
“I just missed this,” she says simply. “That’s all.”
He nods.
Doesn’t ask what this means. Because he thinks he knows.
He feels the same.
“Movie?” he offers, clearing the empty containers into the bin.
She nods without hesitation. “Something stupid.”
He chuckles. “You always say that, then end up crying over Pixar.”
She shrugs. “Pixar’s got emotional range.”
They end up on the couch, again. Not quite touching. Her legs curled under her, his arm slung lazily along the backrest. He doesn’t move closer, doesn’t press. He just lets the silence fill in the spaces between them.
Halfway through the movie, she shifts. Leans a little into his side. Her head resting gently on his shoulder, like it’s been aching to land somewhere for days.
He breathes out slowly. Carefully.
And lets her stay.
She doesn’t fall asleep this time.
When the credits roll, she straightens up, stretches, runs a hand through her hair she’s waking from a dream.
“I should go,” she says, standing.
He nods, though every part of him wants to say don’t.
She moves to the door, pauses with her hand on the knob.
Turns.
“I really did miss this.”
He meets her eyes. “Yeah,” he says. “Me too.”
She doesn’t smile exactly. Just… softens.
Then she’s gone.
And he’s left in the quiet again—wondering if this is the start of something breaking apart.
Or something coming back to life.
Five days later
He sees it in the way she stands between takes. That thousand-yard stare. The way her makeup artist has to nudge her twice before she even notices. She laughs less. Smiles with her mouth, not her eyes.
He tries to ask, lightly, in the makeup trailer.
“You alright?”
She shrugs. “Didn’t sleep much.”
That’s all she gives him.
And that’s the thing about her—when she starts breaking, she does it quietly. Elegantly. Like she’s hoping no one will notice until it’s too late.
That night – 22:57
The knock at the door is soft, but urgent.
He’s already up, already halfway to the entry when it lands.
She stands there with no coat, arms wrapped around herself, hair pulled into a messy knot. Her face is pale. Her hands shake just slightly when he opens the door.
“Sorry,” she says. “I know it’s late.”
He steps aside. “You’re freezing. Come in.”
She doesn’t bring food this time. Doesn’t joke. Doesn’t take off her shoes.
He waits for her to speak. She doesn’t.
Finally, she looks at him.
“Can I have a drink?”
Not tea. Not water.
Something stronger.
He nods once. Quiet. Pours two whiskies and hands her one without a word. She takes it, no hesitation.
He studies her. “Want to sit out back? Bit cold, but—”
“Yes.”
They sit outside, on the back patio, bundled into blankets he pulls from a bench inside. The air is chilly, sharp enough to keep her awake. The lights are dim.
She’s on her second sip when she says, “He asked me why I’m sad.”
Sam turns his head slowly. “Who?”
She hesitates. “My son.”
He swallows hard. Doesn’t speak.
“I didn’t know what to say,” she murmurs, her voice cracking for the first time. “He’s two. He doesn’t know words like… disappointment. Or regret. Or loneliness.”
Sam stares ahead. “Doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it.”
She exhales. A slow, shaky breath. “I know.”
He glances at her, heart heavy. “Is he okay?”
She nods, too fast. “He’s safe. Happy. He’s got routines. A night nanny most nights now. I just… I couldn’t be there tonight.”
“Does Tony—”
“Yes. He knows where I am.”
Sam nods. The glass in his hand is warm now. His mouth tastes like smoke and questions.
“And he doesn’t care?”
She laughs, but it’s bitter. “I don’t know anymore.”
Silence stretches between them, long and aching.
“I’m worried about you,” Sam says eventually, breaking it.
She doesn’t look at him. Just stares out at the dark yard.
“I know.”
“I don’t know what happened,” he says, “but… you don’t have to carry it alone.”
Her voice is barely a whisper. “I don’t want to ruin anything.”
“You’re not.” he says gently.
They sit there a while longer. Neither of them moves.
Then she says, almost to herself, “I miss feeling like myself.”
And that’s when his heart fully breaks.
Later, he walks her to the guest room without saying much. She lingers in the doorway before stepping inside.
“Thank you,” she says softly.
He nods. “Anytime.”
She looks at him like she wants to say something more. But instead, she just closes the door.
He stands there for a long time before going to bed.
It starts slowly, then all at once.
Twice a week, like clockwork. Mondays and Thursdays.
He doesn’t ask why those nights, but he figures it out eventually. Probably something to do with custody or quiet agreements. Some arrangement with Tony—unspoken but firm—where she has evenings free. And she chooses to spend them here.
He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t want to make it fragile by giving it a name.
But soon, it’s a rhythm. A tether. Something solid in the haze of long shooting days and half-lived lives.
On Mondays, he brings takeaway—usually something spicy, always something comforting. They eat on the couch, cross-legged or curled sideways, their knees almost touching. She teases him for the way he never had any napkins. He lets her mock him. He likes her voice when she’s soft like that.
Thursdays, she cooks. Claims it calms her, gives her something to do with her hands. He stands nearby, pretending to help—passing the olive oil, peeling garlic badly—mostly just watching her move. It smells like something real, something warm. She hums sometimes. He loves it.
One night, she falls asleep mid-episode. He gets up to grab her a blanket, and when he turns back, she’s already curled into the corner of the couch, her mouth slightly open, hair falling over her cheek. He doesn’t wake her. Just sits near her, letting the silence stretch. It feels more intimate than anything they’ve said out loud.
After that, she starts staying over more often.
Not always, but often enough that he begins to expect it. She never announces it. She just stays.
And then one Thursday, she shows up with a small overnight bag. Nothing dramatic. Just a canvas tote with a change of clothes, a toothbrush, a few creams he recognizes from her trailer.
She tosses it near the guest room like it’s normal.
Like this is something they do.
He finds her slippers tucked beside it later that night. Grey. Soft. Used. She wears them when she brushes her teeth.
He finds himself thinking about Mondays and Thursdays on the in-between days. Wednesdays feel like waiting rooms. Sundays feel like tension in his chest.
He starts queuing shows she’d like. Buying more groceries. Tidying the house before she arrives, folding blankets neatly, lighting a candle she once said she liked.
He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t touch her more than usual. Just lets the routine grow roots.
It’s not physical, but it’s close.
And sometimes close feels more dangerous than anything else.
One Thursday, she doesn’t come.
No text. No call. Just silence.
He’d set the table. Two plates. He’d prepped dinner. Or tried to. Badly.
He’d queued a documentary she mentioned wanting to watch. Left the porch light on. Turned the heat up in the guest room, just in case.
By nine thirty, he’s checking the gate every few minutes. By ten, he’s pouring himself a glass of whisky and leaving her food covered on the stove.
By eleven, he turns off the lights but doesn’t go to bed. Just sits on the couch in the dark, staring at nothing, thinking about everything.
He tells himself she got busy. Her kid needed her. Something came up.
But it’s Thursday.
And Thursdays are hers.
He doesn’t text.
Not because he’s not worried. He is. But if he reaches out, it’ll become a question. It’ll put pressure where there’s never been any.
And pressure, with Caitríona, always breaks things.
So he lets the silence sit.
It hums in the walls. In the untouched dinner. In the cold side of the couch.
She’s not here.
And he’s too afraid to ask why.
Friday Morning – Set
She’s already in the makeup chair when he walks in. Hair pinned, scripts in her lap, a half-drunk coffee by her elbow.
She looks up when she sees him. Smiles.
Not overly bright. Not overly apologetic. Just a soft, practiced smile.
“Morning,” she says.
He nods. “Morning.”
That’s it.
No mention of Thursday. No sorry I didn’t come. No something came up.
She doesn’t owe him an explanation, he tells himself.
But it still sits in his chest like a stone.
They go through the day as usual. Hit their marks. Hit their lines. Laugh between takes. They’re good at this—at pretending nothing ever touches them. They’ve done it before.
But he doesn’t sit near her during lunch.
And she doesn’t ask why.
Monday – 20:57
He doesn’t expect her.
Not after Friday. Not after the silence. He figured maybe it was done. That something had shifted again and she’d float away like she always does when things get close.
But then he hears the gate.
And her knock, soft but sure.
She’s holding two bags—takeout and her canvas overnight tote.
He opens the door, blinking.
“Hey,” she says, like she hadn’t disappeared.
“You came.”
“I always come on Mondays.”
He steps aside, lets her in.
She moves through the house like nothing happened, like she hadn’t left him with an untouched plate and a full bottle of wine. She sets the food down, starts unpacking cartons.
He watches her.
“You didn’t come Thursday.”
She doesn’t turn around. “No.”
He waits. When she doesn’t offer more, he says it again, quieter. “You always come on Thursdays.”
She exhales, still facing the counter. “My son was sick. Fever. Wouldn’t sleep unless I held him. I couldn’t leave him like that.”
The guilt in her voice isn’t loud, but it’s there. Just enough to make his heart twist.
He softens. “Is he alright now?”
She nods. “Yeah. He’s fine.”
He wants to say you could’ve texted. But he doesn’t.
Instead, he says, “Sometimes I forget you’re not mine.”
That line. The one he’s held back for weeks. The one that’s been hovering behind every glance, every movie night, every cup of tea she’s sipped in his kitchen like she lived there.
It lands in the space between them like a breath that doesn’t get let out.
She freezes.
Turns fully to face him.
Eyes locked.
Silence stretches, taut and loaded.
Then—her voice, steady. “I’m not anyone’s, Sam.”
There’s no anger in it. Just truth.
And something else, something that flickers in her eyes for a moment before she looks down.
“But I came here tonight, didn’t I?”
He nods slowly. “Yeah. You did.”
A beat.
Then she opens the food. “You want your usual or should we mix it up?”
He lets out a quiet breath. Something between disappointment and relief.
“Let’s mix it up.”
Somewhere along the way, it became more than just Monday and Thursday nights. It became them. She started leaving her bag by the door without thinking, curling up on his couch like it was her own, stealing his hoodies, singing in his kitchen, sliding into his mornings like she’d always been part of them.
Their touches lingered now—hands brushing over plates, knees bumping beneath throw blankets, her fingers resting on his wrist longer than necessary as she handed him a glass. They shared old stories, future fears, late-night laughter. Emotion began to bleed through the edges—unspoken, undeniable. The space between them wasn’t just narrowing, it was burning. And every night she stayed, every morning he found her barefoot at his counter, Sam felt it growing louder: the want, the tenderness, the love he hadn’t meant to let back in.
One Monday evening
It’s nearly midnight when he hears her laugh.
He’s half-asleep, passing the guest room for water, when it rings out—bright, sharp, and full-bodied. Her laugh. Unfiltered.
“Sam—come here, look at this—”
She’s curled up in bed wearing his old grey t-shirt, knees tucked to her chest, hair wild and face flushed with amusement. She’s holding her phone out, eyes dancing.
He leans on the doorframe, trying not to smile too much. “What?”
“Watch.” She waves him over. “You have to see this.”
He sits on the edge of the bed. Their knees bump. She doesn’t move.
The reel plays: a dad trying to teach his toddler to say guacamole. The kid shouts “cock” with increasing volume.
She’s crying laughing. “I’ve watched it five times. I can’t—COCK!”
He watches her more than the video. The way her whole face lights up. The way her hand slaps the bed when she laughs. He hasn’t seen her like this in… years, maybe.
“I needed that,” she says, wiping tears from her cheek.
“You’ve been needing a laugh for a while.”
She glances at him. Her smile fades, but her warmth stays. “Yeah.”
He almost kisses her then. Just because she’s there, and real, and glowing.
Instead, he gets up. Says something dumb about brushing his teeth. And walks out with his heart thudding.
One Thursday evening
She’s quiet tonight.
They’re sipping wine, curled up on opposite ends of the couch, legs tangled under the blanket, half-watching something neither of them is paying attention to.
“Can I tell you something I haven’t said out loud?” she asks suddenly.
He mutes the TV. “Always.”
“I’m scared.”
He looks at her. “Of what?”
“When this ends,” she says, gesturing vaguely toward the screen, toward the idea of it all, “I don’t know what’s next. I don’t know who I’ll be without this show.”
“You’ll be Caitríona Balfe.”
She laughs, small and sad. “Yeah. And who the fuck is she?”
He shifts closer, the blanket sliding across them both now. “She’s not done.”
“I didn’t get that Berlin role,” she murmurs. “It was the first audition I actually wanted in a long time.”
“Then they’re idiots.”
She smiles faintly. “You say that about everyone who turns me down.”
“That’s because I’ve never seen anyone do what you do.”
Her eyes soften. “You really believe that?”
He nods. “I believe in you more than you do sometimes.”
The silence swells between them. She doesn’t thank him. She just stares at him, long and unreadable, then sinks deeper into the couch, letting her shoulder rest fully against his.
They stay like that. No more words. Just quiet gravity pulling them closer.
One Friday Morning
He finds her in the kitchen before sunrise, barefoot, hair messy, making coffee in one of his jumpers.
He freezes.
She doesn’t notice him at first—humming softly to herself, reaching for mugs. Her shirt lifts slightly as she stretches, revealing the warm curve of her hip.
It takes everything in him not to move to her. Not to slide his arms around her from behind, kiss the back of her neck, bury his face in the side of her throat.
She turns and catches him staring.
“What?” she asks, a teasing smile pulling at her lips. “You’ve got a face.”
“I always have a face.”
“That one’s new.”
He rubs a hand across his jaw. “What face is that?”
“The one that says, ‘I’m thinking something very inappropriate and don’t know if I’m allowed to say it.’”
He smirks, stepping into the room. “Maybe I’m just admiring your technique.”
“My coffee making technique?”
“Flawless.”
She slides a mug toward him. “You’re welcome.”
He watches her sip. Watches her curl her fingers around the warm ceramic, one foot tucked under the other leg on the barstool.
He should stop watching her like this.
But he can’t.
Because she looks like she belongs here.
One Monday night
They’re on the couch long after the credits roll, a half-drunk bottle of red between them and the air heavy with the kind of silence that only comes when neither of them wants to be the one to end the night.
The lights are low. A blanket is curled around her legs, her socked feet brushing against his thigh.
She’s quieter than usual.
He’s learned not to fill the silence with small talk. Sometimes she just needs to sit in the dark and remember she’s safe.
But then—
“Do you think I’m screwing him up?” she says suddenly. Her voice is quiet. Almost too quiet.
Sam turns to her, forehead creasing. “What?”
“My son.” She’s looking straight ahead, eyes fixed on some invisible point in the room. “He’s in the tantrum phase—like, full screaming, throwing-things, refusing-to-put-on-pants chaos. And I’m trying to stay patient, I really am, but sometimes I snap. Sometimes I yell. And sometimes I just… go hide in the bathroom and cry.”
His heart aches.
She swallows hard, blinking too fast.
“And I wonder,” she continues, “if whatever’s going on at home… if he feels it. If he’s absorbing the tension and the silence... What if I’m already fucking him up?”
Her voice breaks on that last line.
Sam shifts closer, gently. Careful.
“You’re not.”
She shakes her head. “You don’t know that.”
“I don’t have to. I know you.”
She finally looks at him. Her eyes are wet, her chin trembling.
“You’re doing your best,” he says, voice soft. “That’s what matters.”
She doesn’t respond, just wipes at her cheeks with the sleeve of her jumper.
“My mum raised us on her own,” he says after a moment. “And she made mistakes. Loads of them. But we were happy. We knew we were loved. That was enough.”
She breathes, shaky and silent.
He goes on. “Kids don’t need perfect. They just need someone who shows up. Who tries.”
“I’m so tired, Sam,” she whispers. “I feel like I’m constantly giving and never sure it’s enough.”
He leans in, just slightly. “It is enough. You’re doing the hardest job there is—while surviving something else at the same time. Give yourself a little grace.”
She looks down at her hands. Then back up at him.
And then, without thinking, she blurts it:
“Do you ever think about having kids?”
He blinks. Clearly not expecting that. There’s a pause—a long one. She opens her mouth to apologize, but he stops her with a small shake of his head.
“I did,” he says quietly. “I mean… yeah. I thought I’d be a dad by now. Thought I’d be married. Settled. The whole cliché.”
A beat.
“But maybe it’s for the best I didn’t,” he adds, his voice rougher now. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I wouldn’t know how to be one.”
She stares at him. “Why would you say that?”
He shrugs, eyes on the wine glass in his hand. “Didn’t really have a model. No dad growing up. No blueprint. I’d be winging it. And I’m scared I’d… screw it up.”
“No,” she says, immediate and certain. “Look at me.”
He does.
Her hand reaches up, warm and careful, fingertips brushing along the side of his face. A touch so familiar it makes his breath catch. She’s done it a hundred times. As Claire. As Caitríona. But this is different.
“You’d make an incredible dad,” she says, her thumb resting just below his eye.
His lips part slightly. His jaw tightens.
His eyes are shining now too.
“Sam,” she whispers, “you’re kind. You're good. You’re steady. You make everyone feel safe. You’d be… everything.”
And that’s the moment.
Not a kiss. Not a confession.
But something deeper. Quieter. More permanent.
He looks at her—really looks at her—and it crashes into him like a wave he didn’t see coming.
He loves her.
Not in the way he used to years ago. Not in the soft, maybe-it’ll-happen again way.
In the deep in my bones–way.
The I don’t think I’d be able to breathe without you–way.
She’s still cupping his cheek, watching him closely. Something flickering in her eyes, like she might feel it too.
He wants to say it.
Wants to say ‘I love you’ and ‘leave him’ and ‘let’s be something again’.
But he doesn’t.
Because this moment… it’s too fragile.
So instead, he leans his cheek into her palm. Just slightly.
And closes his eyes.
And lets himself feel it.
The door didn’t creak when she pushed it open—it never did—but it still sounded louder than it should have at 21:07.
She dropped her keys on his entry table like it was muscle memory. Slid off her shoes.
Sam was already in the kitchen, back to her, barefoot in sweats, rummaging through the cupboard like a man on a mission.
When he heard the soft thud of her bag hitting the floor, he called out without turning:
“Took you long enough. Thought maybe you’d ghosted me this week.”
“I considered it,” she said, voice hoarse.
“And?”
“Didn’t have anywhere better to be.”
He turned, two wine glasses in hand. “Romantic.”
“Isn’t it?” She walked past him, pausing at the counter. “Is that… The Apartment?”
He nodded at the TV, where the opening credits played quietly. “You mentioned it once. Ages ago. Thought we could try the black-and-white misery angle tonight.”
“Bold choice for a woman already in emotional decline.”
“You’re welcome.” He handed her a glass red.
“You know I’m only here for the wine.”
“Obviously.”
They settled onto the couch. No touching. No lingering glances. Just a ritual now.
She curled under the throw blanket he always left out.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty. The movie flickered. She laughed once—dry, startled—at a line she’d forgotten.
He smiled without looking at her. Then got up.
“You hungry?”
“Not really.”
“That’s a lie.”
He disappeared into the kitchen, and she heard cabinets open. A moment later, he tossed her a bag of crisps and two chocolate biscuits.
“Gourmet as ever,” she said.
“I aim for Michelin-star mediocrity.”
She bit into one biscuit, sighed, then leaned her head back.
“God, I’m pathetic.”
He didn’t reply.
“You should charge me rent at this point,” she added, not looking at him.
Still nothing. She turned her head.
He was watching her, eyebrows drawn.
“Don’t say that.”
“What, the rent?”
“No.” A beat. “The other thing.”
She blinked, caught off guard.
“I’m joking, Sam.”
“Sure. You always are.” He leaned back, stretching his arms over the top of the couch. “Still doesn’t mean you should say that.”
She made a face. “Okay, Gandhi.”
“I just don’t like hearing you talk shit about yourself.”
“It’s not ‘shit’ if it’s true.”
“Then I’ll disagree loudly.”
A small silence settled between them. She picked at the edge of the biscuit wrapper.
“You’re stocking my tea now,” she said suddenly. “That weird brand I like.”
“Am I?” He feigned surprise.
“And my toothbrush is still in the holder.”
“Weird how that keeps happening.”
“My robe was folded on the bed.”
“I must have a ghost. Really thoughtful one.”
She looked at him. Really looked.
“You’ve got a lot of my crap here.”
“Yeah,” he said. “You’ve got a bigger footprint here than I do.”
She looked down at her glass, swirling the wine slowly, her smile fading. Her voice dropped to something quieter.
“I shouldn’t be here this much.”
He didn’t answer. He could feel the weight of it coming.
“But I don’t know where else to go. And when I walk through your door I… breathe again.”
His throat tightened.
“It’s stupid, I know. I shouldn’t—” She cut herself off.
“It’s not stupid.”
“I feel like it’s just noise everywhere, and then I get here and it’s—quiet. Safe. Like… I disappear but in a good way. Like I don’t have to hold my breath.”
Her eyes met his.
“This is the only place I feel like myself again.”
He didn’t blink.
Didn’t smile.
Didn’t make a joke.
He just looked at her—long and hard—like her words had cracked something open in his chest he’d spent a year trying to tape shut.
“That’s all this is to you?” he asked finally, voice low. “A place to disappear?”
She swallowed.
“No, I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s fine. I just— I’ve been sitting here for almost three months, pretending this is normal. That I’m fine with you coming and going and not telling me what the fuck’s going on, but you walk in like you live here, Cait. You bring your bag, your shampoo, your creams—”
“You know,” she said without breathing, “you didn’t have to pretend this doesn’t bother you.”
“What?”
“This. Me. Being here. Then not. Then here again.”
“You think I'm bothered? You think I leave your robe out or buy your stupid overpriced tea because, what? I feel bad for you?”
“No,” she said softly, throat tight. “I think you do it because you care. Because you’re good.”
“No. This isn’t just a pit stop for you, Cait. It’s not a guest room situation. You’re not temporary.”
Her eyes broke then. Glossy and full.
“Sam–”
“I do it because I want you here. And that’s the worst part. I want you here so fucking badly, and I can’t do anything about it.”
She stared at him, eyes wide, glistening. The air between them shifted—tighter now, heavy with something sharp.
“I’ve been quiet. I’ve given you space. But you can’t keep doing this—being here like you’re mine and then walking out like you’re not.”
The silence hit hard.
Then, barely above a whisper:
“I don’t want to walk out.”
He turned his head, chest rising and falling.
She reached out—tentatively—touching his wrist with her fingers, just for a second.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she admitted. “I just know I need this. I need you.”
A pause. Her voice shook.
He looked at her—like he was memorizing her, breaking with it. His jaw clenched, fighting whatever it was inside him that wanted to close the gap. She came closer first.
He caught her wrist, gently. His other hand barely grazed her waist.
“Don’t,” he whispered.
She froze mid-motion, breath trembling.
“Why?” she asked, so softly it nearly broke him.
His voice cracked—lower, rougher than before.
“I need you to tell me the truth, Cait. Please. I need to know what’s going on.”
She swallowed hard, her whole body still angled toward him, one heartbeat away from everything.
Her hand slipped from his chest, but not far. She sat there, suspended—like someone trying to decide whether to fall or flee.
“Okay.”
She took a deep breath. When she finally spoke again, her voice was quiet, exhausted, barely above a whisper.
“I don’t even know exactly when it started. At some point I woke up and realized I felt nothing. Not angry, not sad. Just numb. Hollow. Like the life I was living wasn’t mine anymore. Just… going through the motions.”
Sam didn’t say anything. Didn’t move. But she knew he was listening by the tight set of his jaw.
“It got worse after the baby. I thought maybe he’d change—maybe now he’ll notice how far away I’d gone. But he didn’t. Or he didn’t want to. And then it was just… silence. Awful, heavy silence. Like two strangers forced into sharing space. We don’t fight anymore, we hardly talk anymore. We just exist.”
She laughed softly, bitterly. “I think he’s relieved when I’m here. One less thing to ignore.”
Sam’s eyes flicked toward her, startled by how bluntly she said it.
She didn’t look at him, just stared at the empty space between them. “Started therapy, felt like a joke. Like ticking a box so we could say we tried. But I never really did. I just couldn’t.”
Her voice was shaking now, barely holding together. She forced herself to meet his gaze.
“I keep coming here because it’s the only place I feel like I still matter. Like someone still sees me. You make me feel like I’m interesting, like I’m no BC wanted, Sam. And God, I’ve missed that so much.”
His breath hitched, his fists clenched tight at his sides, but he stayed quiet, giving her space.
“I’m sorry. I know it’s selfish. I know I’m hurting you, and I hate myself for it.” Her voice cracked. “And you’re such a good man. You never push. You just let me have this—whatever this is—without asking for more.”
He swallowed hard.
“But to be honest, I want more,” she said softly, shame coloring her voice. “Fuck, Sam, I can’t stop thinking about you. I think about your bed. Your arms. Your mouth.” she breathed. “And I hate myself for wishing you weren’t so fucking good sometimes.”
Sam looked up sharply, exhaling a harsh breath. His voice was rough, painfully honest when he finally spoke. “Do you really think I haven’t thought about it? Do you really think I haven’t stood there night after night, just fucking dying to crawl into your bed?”
She looked at him, eyes wide, heart thundering.
“You have no idea how ‘bad’ I want to be right now.” He swallowed hard. “But I can’t be your escape route, Cait. I can’t be the borrowed air you breathe when it gets too heavy.”
Her face crumpled. “I’m not trying to use you—”
“I know. But I’m not just here to refill your tank. I’ve got feelings too, and they’re far from casual,” he said, softer now. “You’ve got to figure things out first. And not just for me, for yourself.”
Tears slipped silently down her cheeks. He reached out, brushed them gently away with his thumb.
She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch, desperately soaking in the comfort of his palm against her cheek.
“I know. I will.”
She reached for him, pressing herself into his arms. He pulled her close, fiercely protective, both holding tightly to the one thing they couldn’t yet have.
No kiss. No promises. Just them, wrapped together, breathing in the quiet heartbreak of knowing the hardest part was still ahead.