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The room was quiet except for the faint tick of a clock and rustle of fabric. Sam sat at the edge of their bed, a little bit hunched, with boots halfway off. He watched in silence as Belle peeled out of her vest and tossed it onto the chair. Then with some extra carelessness, she tugged her shirt loose from its buttons and shrugged it off.
She didn’t reach for another. Didnt bother covering herself. She just stood there in the lamplight, bare from the waist up, the amber glow catching on the gold of her right arm and the pale lines of scars running across her ribs, her shoulders, her breasts, and the soft curve of her stomach.
Sam’s eyes followed, steady but unreadable.
Belle turned, catching him staring, “what’re you gawkin’ at!? Actin like you ain’t seen me without a shirt before.”
Sam didnt blink. His voice stayed low, calm. “Ive seen ya plenty. Doesn’t mean Im ever gonna stop lookin’.”
Belle scoffed, “that supposed to be flattery?”
“Truth” Sam said simply.
Belle rolled her eyes and bent down to tug at her boots, trying to shake off the weight that had suddenly pressed itself into the room. But she still felt his gaze, constant and unmoving, and it set her on edge.
She straightened again, crossing her arms over her chest; not out of modesty, but irritation. “Don’t you dare start pityin’ me, Sam, these-“ she gestured at the scars, pale lines on pale skin “-ain’t for soft looks and sweet words.”
Sam leaned forward slightly, eyes still fixed on her. “Ain’t pity.”
“Then what the hell is it?!” Her voice was sharper now, defensive.
“Respect,” he said, without hesitation.
The word made her pause, just for a breath. She covered it up with a scoff, pacing a few steps. “Respect. you make it sound noble. They ain’t noble, Sam. They’re just.. reminders. Ugly ones.”
“Ugly to you,” he murmured.
She snapped her head toward him, bristling. “Ugly to anyone with eyes.”
But Sam still didn’t look away. He leaned back slightly, steady and calm. “No. They mean ya lived. Ya took the hits and yer still here. thats all that matters.”
Her jaw tightened. The words stuck to her ribs in the way she hated. She turned her back on him, hands fussing with her discarded shirt as if she might put it on again, but she couldn’t bring herself to. Not yet.
“You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about..” She muttered, voice losing its sharp edge.
Sam stood then, slow enough that the floorboards barely made a sound. Belle didn’t look at him, but she felt him move, the quiet weight of him, steady and close.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “I do.”
Belle didn’t turn, her hands stilled halfway through smoothing her shirt. “You think ya do,” she said softly the edge thinner.
Sam took another step closer. “I was there for most of em. Maybe not every one but enough to know what it took.”
Belle turned then, eyes sharp trying to hold onto her edge. He looked down at her, not by much but just enough that she had to tilt her chin to meet his eyes.
“Ya don’t gotta hide em,” he said. “not from me.”
She scoffed, though her voice came out quieter than she meant. “Ya always gotta talk like that?”
“Only when I mean it.”
For a moment, neither of them moved. Then Belle stepped closer, stopping right in front of him. His hand came up, slow and careful brushing against her shoulder where gold met skin.
“Yer a damn fool,” she murmured.
Sam’s mouth twitched, the edge of his moustache curving with it. “Yeah. Yers though.”
She tried to glare at him for that, but it faltered. Her hand found his jaw, thumb brushing along the edge of his sideburns.
The coarse bristle caught against her skin and she huffed softly. “Still tickles,” she muttered.
“Good,” he said, low and easy.
He leaned in, and so did she, neither reaching far just meeting in the middle. The kiss was slow, steady, the faint scrape of his moustache warm against her lips. It wasn’t perfect, but it was theirs.
When they parted, she stayed close, breath catching against his mouth. “You really don’t know when to quit do ya?”
Sam smiled, small and sure “wouldn’t be me if I did.”
Belle huffed, a quiet laugh breaking through. “Guess not.”