Work Text:
His reply to her message came nearly an hour later.
Sorry. Was on a call.
Caitriona looked at the screen.
At half past nine?
Some of us still work.
She smiled despite herself.
I’ve heard rumours.
How was the flight?
Awful. Yours?
Worse. I had to sit beside a man who talked through the entire safety demonstration.
Did you tell him who you were?
Yes. He asked if I was in Bridgerton.
Sam’s laugh appeared almost immediately.
She waited, expecting another message.
Nothing came.
Caitriona set her phone down, then picked it up again.
How are you?
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Fine. Tired.
She stared at the answer.
You seemed tired before the flight.
That was because I was looking at you.
There he was.
She smiled again, but the relief was brief.
They had been back from Los Angeles for four days. They had exchanged pictures, links to interviews, comments about things other people had posted. They had not actually spoken.
During the final weeks of promotion, they had rarely been more than a few feet apart, yet she could not remember the last time they had managed a complete conversation without someone opening a door, adjusting a microphone or telling them where they needed to be next.
She pressed the call button before she could overthink it.
Sam answered on the fourth ring.
“You know it’s customary to ask before ringing someone.”
“You know it’s customary to answer a question honestly.”
“I said I was fine.”
“You typed it. That barely counts.”
His laugh was quiet.
There was no music behind him, no television, no voices. Only the slight hollow sound of his flat.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
“Absolutely nothing.”
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
“I’m branching out.”
“How’s it going?”
“Terribly.”
She settled farther into the corner of her sofa.
For the first few minutes, they spoke about nothing important. The flight. An interview clip that had already been taken out of context. A picture of Sam from one of the final press events in which he appeared to be incredibly bored.
“I was listening,” he insisted.
“You looked like you’d left your body.”
“It was the eighth time I’d been asked what I took from set.”
“What did you say?”
“My dignity.”
“That went years ago.”
“Cruel.”
“Accurate.”
He laughed again, more genuinely this time.
Caitriona closed her eyes for a second and listened to it.
He sounded more like himself with her. He usually did. That was partly why she had struggled to explain what had troubled her in Los Angeles. He could still turn towards her and make a face during an interview. He could still lean close and whisper something inappropriate when a journalist repeated a question they had already answered six times.
But the moment passed more quickly than it used to.
The light went out again as soon as he looked away.
“We never had our drink,” she said.
“We had several.”
“Not properly.”
“What constitutes a proper drink?”
“One where nobody is waiting outside the room with a schedule.”
“You’ve become very demanding since you started doing films.”
“I was always demanding.”
“True.”
She could hear the smile in his voice.
“We should do it,” she said.
There was a short silence.
“What, now?”
“Not this second.”
“Relieved. I’m not dressed for company.”
“I can come by tomorrow.”
The silence lasted just long enough for her to notice it.
“To mine?”
“Yes.”
“Why do you sound uncertain?”
“I don’t.”
“You do a bit.”
“I was being polite. You might have plans.”
“I don’t.”
“Then I’ll bring dinner.”
Sam was quiet again.
Caitriona frowned. “What?”
“I don’t think you’ve ever been here on your own.”
“Of course I have.”
“Not this flat.”
She tried to remember.
There had been gatherings. Birthdays. People coming in and out after events. A few drinks with friends. She had collected something from him once, but had remained in the doorway because Tony and her son were waiting downstairs.
“You might be right.”
“I usually am.”
“Don’t ruin it.”
“So this is a first.”
“It’s hardly momentous.”
“Speak for yourself.”
She laughed, but the words left an odd warmth beneath her ribs.
“What do you want to eat?”
“I don’t mind.”
“That means you’ll complain about whatever I bring.”
“Probably.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Cait?”
“Yeah?”
“Are you all right?”
The question caught her off guard.
“I’m fine.”
“Yeah?”
She didn’t answer immediately.
“Yeah.”
“Cait…”
“Tomorrow,” she said.
“Tomorrow.”
She arrived shortly after nine with two paper bags and a bottle of wine tucked beneath her arm.
Sam opened the door wearing a dark jumper and jeans, his hair still slightly damp.
He looked better than he had in LA. Or perhaps simply more familiar.
His expression changed as soon as he saw her.
“Hey love.”
“Were you expecting someone else?”
“I was hoping for the delivery driver.”
She held up the bags. “I am the delivery driver.”
“Then you’re late.”
“I’m fifteen minutes early.”
“Still somehow late.”
He took the bags from her before she could answer and bent to kiss her cheek.
The gesture was ordinary. They had greeted each other that way for years. But without a publicist, assistant, cast member or husband standing nearby, Caitriona became suddenly aware of the quiet around them.
Sam seemed to feel it too.
He drew back and looked at her for half a second longer than necessary.
“Come in.”
The flat was warm and unusually tidy.
Caitriona slipped off her jacket and glanced towards the sitting room.
“You cleaned.”
“I live like this.”
“No, you don’t.”
“You’ve already admitted you’ve never been here alone. You have no evidence.”
“I’ve seen how you live, Heughan.”
“You know nothing.”
She followed him into the kitchen.
“What did you bring?”
“Thai.”
“I said I didn’t mind.”
“And I correctly interpreted that as Thai.”
He opened one of the bags.
“You got the good noodles.”
“I know what you like.”
The words came out naturally.
Neither reacted to them, though Caitriona felt the same slight shift she had noticed on the phone.
Sam removed the containers and arranged them on the counter. She reached for plates.
“Other cupboard.”
“I knew that.”
“You were opening the one with glasses.”
“I was checking.”
“For plates?”
“Your organisational system.”
He watched her move around his kitchen, smiling faintly.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“It’s strange.”
“What is?”
“You being here.”
“I’ve been in your flat before.”
“Not like this.”
She looked over her shoulder.
“You keep saying that.”
“Because you keep pretending it isn’t true.”
Caitriona found the plates and placed them on the kitchen island.
“What way is this, exactly?”
“Just us.”
He said it lightly, but something in his eyes made her look away.
“Well,” she said, “we used to spend plenty of time alone.”
“At work.”
“And outside work.”
“When?”
She turned towards him. “Are you serious?”
“Completely.”
“Hotels. Pubs. Trailers. Cars. That horrible rented flat in Glasgow where your heating didn’t work.”
“You came over to mock me.”
“I brought you soup.”
“You brought yourself soup and allowed me to have some.”
“You were ill.”
“I was dying.”
“You had a cold.”
Sam smiled.
“That feels like another lifetime.”
“It does.”
For a moment, they stood on opposite sides of the kitchen island, looking at each other.
The years between those early nights and the present seemed suddenly visible. Not only in their faces, but in everything surrounding them. The flat, the careers, the people waiting elsewhere in their lives.
Caitriona reached for the wine.
“This is becoming sentimental.”
“Your fault.”
“Open it.”
They ate at the island rather than the dining table, leaning towards the containers between them. The conversation remained easy.
Sam told her about a disastrous meeting with a distributor. Caitriona described a director who had spent an entire afternoon changing his mind about the colour of a wall.
“You’re very important now,” Sam said.
“I was always important.”
“Now you have film people arguing about walls for you.”
“They weren’t doing it for me.”
“They should’ve been.”
She rolled her eyes, but he was still looking at her with quiet pride.
“You’ve done well,” he said.
The sincerity in his voice embarrassed her more than the teasing ever did.
“So have you.”
“We’re talking about you.”
“You hate that.”
“I’m capable of sustained attention.”
“No, you aren’t.”
“For limited periods.”
Caitriona smiled and looked down at her plate.
Sam continued.
“The films suit you.”
“What does that mean?”
“You get something different from each one. Different people. Different worlds. You always wanted that.”
“I did.”
“And you’re good.”
She looked up.
He was not joking now.
“You’re really good,” he said. “You’re going to do incredible things.”
Something tightened in her chest.
“Thank you.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
He sat back and lifted his wine.
“To the future film star.”
“Don’t.”
“Academy Award winner.”
“Stop.”
“Too important to answer my messages.”
“You’re the one who takes an hour to reply.”
“I was on a call.”
“At half past nine.”
“International business.”
She smiled, but his expression had already shifted.
It was only a fraction. A shadow beneath the warmth.
Caitriona watched him drink.
“What about you?” she asked.
“What about me?”
“What do you want to do next?”
Sam looked at the wine in his glass.
“Plenty of things.”
“Such as?”
“The businesses. There are things happening with the distillery. Potential partnerships. Events over the summer.”
“I meant acting.”
“I know what you meant.”
He set the glass down.
Caitriona waited.
“I’ve got something,” he said. “Or I might have something.”
“The New Zealand thing?”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t sound excited.”
“It’s early.”
“That’s never stopped you before.”
Sam smiled briefly.
“No.”
She pushed her plate aside.
“Did you enjoy the last one?”
“Yeah.”
The answer came too quickly.
Caitriona studied him.
Sam glanced at her.
“What?”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You don’t have to.”
“Did you?”
He rubbed one thumb slowly along the side of his glass.
“It was work.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“I know.”
Caitriona waited again.
He looked across the room, towards the dark windows.
“I thought Macbeth would help,” he said eventually.
“With what?”
“I don’t know. Remind me I could still do it, maybe.”
“You were brilliant.”
“You have to say that.”
“I absolutely do not.”
He smiled, but it disappeared almost immediately.
“It was hard.”
“It was supposed to be hard.”
“No, I know. I wanted that.”
He searched for the words.
“I thought I’d come out of it feeling clearer. Like I’d proved something to myself.”
“And you didn’t?”
“Not really.”
Caitriona said nothing.
Sam leaned back on the stool and folded his arms.
“Some nights were good. Some were really good. And some nights I could hear everything I was doing wrong while I was doing it.”
“That’s normal.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“For you, maybe.”
“Especially for me.”
“You always know what you’re doing.”
Caitriona stared at him. “That is the stupidest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“Strong competition.”
“I spend half my life convinced someone is about to realise I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
He considered that.
“You don’t look like it.”
“Neither do you.”
The words settled between them.
Sam looked down.
Caitriona softened her voice.
“You don’t have to know what comes next yet.”
“Easy for you to say.”
It was not bitter. Only tired.
She let it pass.
“The distillery isn’t where I thought it would be,” he said. “It’s doing all right. It’s not failing. But it costs more than people think. Everything costs more than people think.”
“The expansion?”
“Everything. Production, distribution, staff, events. Keeping people interested.”
Caitriona nodded.
“And now you’re worried the acting work won’t be steady.”
“I haven’t had to worry about that for ten years.”
His mouth tightened.
“I complained about the schedule. We all did. But I knew where I was going. I knew when I was working. I knew what I was being paid. I knew what people wanted from me.”
“And now?”
“Now I’m selling whisky and cocktail books and pretending every meeting is the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Caitriona gave him a small smile.
“You are very enthusiastic.”
“I’m unbearable.”
“Occasionally.”
He laughed under his breath.
For a moment, he looked like himself again.
Then he said, “I don’t think I’ve found my feet since we stopped filming.”
Caitriona’s smile faded.
There it was.
Not everything, perhaps, but more than he had said to anyone in months.
Sam looked at the bottle between them.
“I thought I had. I kept busy. Macbeth. The distillery. Embassy. Travelling. Whatever came next.”
“But?”
“I don’t know who I am in any of it.”
Caitriona watched him.
He gave a small, embarrassed shake of his head.
“That sounds pathetic.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“It does a bit.”
“It sounds like you lost something that structured your entire life.”
“We all did.”
“Yes.”
“But you moved on.”
The words were quiet.
Caitriona looked at him carefully.
“So did you.”
“Did I?”
“You’re here.”
“That’s a low bar.”
“You did Macbeth.”
“And came out wondering if I was any good.”
“You are.”
“You’re biased.”
“Very.”
That drew a real smile from him.
Caitriona reached across the island and touched the back of his hand.
The movement was instinctive.
Sam looked down at her fingers.
She almost withdrew them, then made herself leave them there.
“I’m proud of you,” she said.
He looked at her.
“For what?”
“For all of it. For surviving the show. For building things from nothing. For going onstage when you were terrified. For still being here even when you don’t know what it looks like yet.”
His eyes lowered again.
Caitriona felt his hand turn slightly beneath hers, not quite holding it, but acknowledging the contact.
“I’ve been worried about you,” she said.
“I gathered.”
“Not only in Los Angeles.”
He was quiet.
“Since Stratford.”
Sam gave a soft sigh and withdrew his hand to reach for his glass.
“I was tired.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
“It isn’t all of it.”
He did not argue this time.
Caitriona watched him adjust the strap of his watch over the faded spiral at his wrist.
“You were different,” she said. “Quieter when nobody was looking. Almost absent.”
“I had a lot on my mind.”
“I could see that.”
“Could you?”
“Yes.”
He glanced at her.
Caitriona continued carefully.
“In LA it was worse. You did everything you had to do, but you didn’t seem present in any of it.”
“It was a strange week.”
“You weren’t sad about the show.”
“I was.”
“You were, but that wasn’t what I was seeing.”
Sam held her gaze for a few seconds.
Then he looked away.
“What were you seeing?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
He rubbed a hand over his jaw.
“Confusion, mostly.”
“About work?”
“Everything.”
She waited to see whether he would say more.
When he did not, she asked, “Are you happy?”
Sam gave her a tired smile.
“That’s a very large question for a Tuesday night.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“Are you?”
He looked around the flat as though the answer might be somewhere in the room.
“Not particularly.”
Caitriona’s chest tightened.
“With any of it?”
“There are good things.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
He glanced at her.
“You’re relentless.”
“I’ve been told.”
Sam picked up his glass and turned it slowly between his fingers.
Caitriona hesitated.
“Does she make you happy?”
Sam’s hand stopped.
He did not ask who she meant.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he placed the glass back on the counter.
“No,” he said.
Caitriona held his gaze.
“No,” he repeated, more quietly. “She doesn’t.”
Sam looked away first, reaching for his glass again. He turned it slowly between his fingers, watching the wine move along the sides.
“Does she know that?” Caitriona asked.
“That she doesn’t make me happy?”
“That you feel this way.”
“I haven’t exactly announced it.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“I know.”
He took a small drink.
Caitriona waited, but he did not continue.
“Then why are you still with her?”
Sam exhaled through his nose.
“I don’t know.”
“It’s been nearly a year.”
“I’m aware of how calendars work.”
“I’m not judging you.”
“I know.”
“Because you keep acting as though I am.”
He gave her a tired smile.
“Maybe I’m preparing myself.”
“For what?”
“The verdict.”
Caitriona shook her head. “There isn’t one.”
Sam leaned back slightly, studying her.
“What do you think of her?”
The question caught her off guard.
“Steph?”
“No, the other woman I’ve been seeing for a year.”
“Sam.”
“I’m asking.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re my best friend.”
Something in the way he said it made her uncomfortable. Not because the words were wrong, but because he appeared to be watching her reaction to them.
“And?”
“And I care what you think.”
Caitriona looked down at her glass.
“I don’t know her very well.”
“You’ve met her enough.”
“Not really.”
“The wedding. Stratford. New York. Los Angeles.”
“A few dinners and crowded events.”
“That’s more than most people.”
She gave him a look.
Sam smiled faintly. “Go on.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“The truth would be novel.”
“I’ve been telling you the truth all evening.”
“You’ve been very careful.”
“I’m always careful.”
“I know.”
The softness of the answer unsettled her more than teasing would have.
Caitriona ran her thumb along the edge of the glass.
“She seemed nice when I first met her.”
“At the wedding.”
“Yes.”
“And after?”
Caitriona hesitated.
Sam noticed.
“You didn’t like her in Stratford.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“I barely spoke to her.”
“You watched her.”
Caitriona’s eyes lifted to his.
“I watched both of you.”
“That isn’t a denial.”
She looked away again.
Sam felt something small and shameful stir beneath his ribs. Satisfaction, almost.
“What didn’t you like?” he asked.
“I didn’t say I disliked her.”
“You said she seemed nice when you first met her. That normally means the next meeting went less well.”
Caitriona sighed.
“She was different.”
“How?”
“More performative.”
Sam’s mouth twitched.
“You think she performs.”
“Sometimes.”
“And I don’t?”
“You do it for work.”
“So?”
Caitriona shifted on the stool.
“She seemed very conscious of being with you.”
“She was with me.”
“You know what I’m saying.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
His tone was still light, but the request beneath it was not.
Caitriona looked at him more directly.
“She wanted people to notice.”
“Maybe she was happy.”
“Maybe.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“You asked what I thought.”
“I did.”
“She seemed more interested in making the relationship visible than in whether you were comfortable.”
Sam blinked and looked down at his glass.
The accuracy of it irritated him, but not as much as the fact that Caitriona had noticed.
“She’s affectionate,” he said.
“I saw.”
There was the smallest change in her face.
A tightening near her mouth. A brief drop of her eyes towards the counter.
Sam saw it.
Something warm and vindicated rose in him before turning almost instantly into resentment.
“You really didn’t like that,” he said.
Caitriona’s gaze returned to his.
“Like what?”
“Her touching me.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it?”
“Yes.”
“You looked as though you wanted to remove her hand yourself.”
“I did not.”
Sam smiled, and this time there was genuine pleasure in it.
“You did.”
“Don’t flatter yourself.”
“It wasn’t me you were looking at.”
The smile left her face.
For a few seconds, neither spoke.
Caitriona picked up her glass.
“I thought we were talking about whether you were happy.”
“We are.”
“Then why are you trying to turn it into something else?”
“I asked what you thought of her.”
“And I told you.”
“You told me she’s performative and you don’t like her touching me.”
“I did not say that.”
“You didn’t need to.”
Caitriona set the glass down.
“You seem remarkably pleased with yourself.”
“I’m not.”
“You are a little.”
“Maybe I’m enjoying seeing you admit you have an opinion.”
“I never said I didn’t.”
“You’ve spent a year pretending you barely noticed her.”
“Because it isn’t my relationship.”
“Exactly.”
The pleasure had already begun to drain from his face.
Caitriona noticed the change but did not understand it yet.
“She’s with you,” she said. “What I think shouldn’t matter.”
“But it does.”
“To you?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you matter to me.”
The answer came naturally. Honestly.
It should have softened the room.
Instead, Sam looked away.
Caitriona watched the muscle shift in his jaw.
“Why are you still with her?” she asked again.
“Because she’s there.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means she’s available.”
“That sounds awful.”
“It’s practical.”
“You’re describing a calendar.”
“You asked.”
“She comes when you need someone to attend an event.”
“Sometimes.”
“And when you don’t need her?”
“She has her own life.”
“So that’s what she is to you? Someone who comes when you don’t want to arrive alone?”
Sam’s shoulders tightened.
“No.”
“Then what?”
“She’s my girlfriend.”
“That’s what you call her.”
“It’s what she is.”
“But you just said she doesn’t make you happy.”
“Not every relationship makes people happy all the time.”
“No, but you didn’t say sometimes. You said no.”
Sam took another drink.
“Perhaps happiness is an unrealistic standard.”
Caitriona stared at him.
“That doesn’t sound like you.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“No.”
He looked at her over the glass.
“You don’t always look particularly happy with Tony.”
The remark landed cleanly.
Caitriona’s expression closed.
Sam regretted it immediately, but not enough to retract it.
“We’re not talking about Tony.”
“No. We never do.”
“That isn’t true.”
“Not when anything actually matters.”
“I didn’t come here to discuss my marriage.”
“But you came to discuss my relationship.”
“I came because I was worried about you.”
“And now you’re asking whether I love my girlfriend.”
“I haven’t asked that.”
“You were about to.”
Caitriona folded her arms.
“Do you?”
Sam’s eyes hardened slightly.
“No.”
The answer came without hesitation.
Caitriona had expected it. Hearing it still affected her.
She looked down before she could stop herself.
Sam saw that too.
“You seem relieved.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Why would I be relieved?”
“That’s what I’d like to know.”
Caitriona looked at him sharply.
The openness with which he had spoken about his work and his uncertainty had begun to disappear. He was not closed yet, but tension now sat beneath every movement.
She softened her tone.
“I’m sorry. I’m not trying to pick apart your relationship.”
“You’re doing a fair job of it.”
“I’m trying to understand why you’re staying in something you’ve just admitted doesn’t make you happy.”
“Because someone finally wants to be with me.”
Caitriona stopped.
Sam looked down at his hands.
The words had come out more bitterly than he intended.
“Steph wants to be there,” he continued. “She wants to come to things. She wants to travel with me. She wants people to know we’re together.”
His fingers moved to the watch at his wrist, pulling the strap down over the faded spiral.
“I’m forty-six,” he said. “It gets humiliating after a while.”
“What does?”
“Showing up alone.”
Caitriona’s expression softened.
“That isn’t humiliating.”
“It feels like it.”
“To whom?”
“To me.”
She did not answer.
Sam gave a small, self-conscious laugh.
“Every event, everyone has someone. A wife. A husband. Someone waiting at the hotel or going home with them. Eventually you start wondering why you’re always the one walking in by yourself.”
“And Steph fixes that.”
“She helps.”
“But only at the events.”
“No.”
He blinked several times and rubbed his thumb over the watch strap.
Caitriona watched the tension collect in his shoulders.
“She comes when I ask,” he said. “If I’m away and want company, she comes. If I’m working or I need space, she doesn’t make a fuss.”
“Does she want more?”
“Yes.”
“What?”
“More time. A proper routine. She’s mentioned living together.”
“And you don’t want that.”
“It isn’t practical.”
“That isn’t what I said.”
Sam looked away.
“No,” he admitted.
Caitriona considered him for a moment.
“Do you like her?”
He gave her an irritated look.
“Of course I like her.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
The answer sounded defensive rather than certain.
Caitriona waited.
Sam saw the next question forming.
“I just don’t,” he said.
“What?”
“Love her.”
The room fell quiet.
Caitriona looked towards the windows.
Sam studied her profile.
There it was again. Something she was trying very hard not to show.
He felt that same sharp, involuntary satisfaction.
Then came the anger beneath it.
“You really are relieved.”
She turned back to him.
“I’m not.”
“Stop lying.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You didn’t want me to love her.”
“That is not what this is about.”
“Then what is it about?”
“You’re unhappy.”
“So are plenty of people.”
“Don’t bring Tony into this again.”
“I didn’t.”
“You were thinking it.”
He gave a humourless laugh.
Caitriona’s eyes narrowed.
“I asked about Steph because I can see what happens to you when you talk about her.”
“What happens?”
“You tense up. You start blinking. You keep pulling at that watch as though you’re trying to hide the tattoo underneath it.”
His hand dropped immediately.
Caitriona saw the reaction.
“I’m not saying she caused what’s happening to you,” she continued.
“Then leave her out of it.”
“I’m wondering whether the relationship is adding pressure you don’t need.”
“She doesn’t pressure me.”
“She wants to move in.”
“And I said no.”
“She wants more time.”
“Most people do.”
“And you don’t want to give it.”
Sam stood and carried his glass towards the counter, though there was nowhere he needed to take it.
“She’s not the problem.”
“I didn’t say she was.”
“You keep saying that, then saying everything except the words.”
Caitriona remained seated.
“I think she likes the version of you that worries me.”
He turned.
“What version?”
“The one who never stops. The events. The travelling. The drinking. Always needing another plan, another crowd, another thing to announce.”
“And that’s her fault?”
“No.”
“But she enjoys it.”
“I think she might.”
Sam’s jaw tightened.
Caitriona saw that she had reached the truth before he could hide it.
“She doesn’t make you stop,” she said more gently. “She doesn’t seem to ask whether all of this is actually making you happy.”
“And you do?”
“Yes.”
The answer was immediate.
Sam stared at her.
Caitriona held his gaze.
There was no triumph in her face. Only concern.
That should have calmed him.
Instead, something in him twisted.
“Of course you do,” he said.
Her brow furrowed.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You get to come here and ask whether I’m happy. You get to decide she doesn’t know me properly. You get to be relieved that I don’t love her.”
“I am not relieved.”
“You flinched every time I mentioned her touching me, being here, wanting more.”
Caitriona stood now.
“You asked what I thought.”
“I wanted to know.”
“And now you’re angry because I answered.”
“I’m angry because you care just enough to be jealous.”
Her expression changed.
Sam’s voice remained quiet, but the openness was gone.
“You don’t want her to have me,” he said. “But you don’t want me either.”
“That isn’t fair.”
“Isn’t it?”
“No.”
“Then tell me what part I’ve got wrong.”
Caitriona stared at him.
She had come prepared to ask how he was. To listen. To help if he let her.
She had not prepared for this.
“I think you’re in a bad place,” she said carefully. “And I think you’re staying in a relationship you don’t want because being wanted feels better than being alone.”
Sam’s face hardened.
“And who made being alone feel like the only other option?”
The question silenced her.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was the low hum from the refrigerator.
Then Caitriona said quietly, “I think we’ve stopped talking about Steph.”
Sam held her gaze.
“Yeah,” he said. “I think we have.”
“She asked me if we’d ever been together,” Sam said.
Caitriona’s expression changed.
“What did you tell her?”
“I told her something happened during the first season.”
“Something.”
Sam looked at her.
“What would you call it?”
“I wouldn’t call sleeping together something.”
His eyes held hers for a beat too long.
The words altered the air between them. Not because either had forgotten. They had simply become very skilled at placing those months inside a locked room and walking past the door.
Sam’s gaze dropped briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes.
“No,” he said. “I suppose you wouldn’t.”
Caitriona shifted against the counter.
“What exactly did you tell her?”
“That we were involved for a while. That it ended.”
“Did you tell her why?”
“No.”
“Did she ask?”
“Of course she asked.”
“And?”
“And I said it was complicated.”
Caitriona gave a small, humourless laugh. “That useful word.”
“It was complicated.”
“It was cowardly.”
“Whose?”
She looked at him sharply.
Sam did not smile. He was not trying to provoke her now. The question was sincere.
“Both of ours,” she said.
He nodded once.
“That’s what I thought.”
Caitriona folded her arms, aware that the gesture looked defensive and unable to stop herself.
“What else did she ask?”
“Whether it was actually over.”
Her eyes moved to his.
“And what did you say?”
Sam hesitated.
“That we hadn’t slept together since.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“No.”
The admission came softly.
Caitriona looked away first.
Sam remained beside the island, close enough that she could smell the faint trace of his aftershave beneath the food and wine. There was still space between them, but not much. It had always been like that. Even at their most careful, they occupied one another’s physical space as though their bodies had never accepted the rules their lives required.
“Did she believe you?” Caitriona asked.
“I don’t think she knew what to believe.”
“I can understand that.”
“Can you?”
Caitriona glanced at him.
“She’s not wrong to ask.”
“No.”
“She knows how close we are.”
“Yes.”
“She’s probably seen enough photographs to know we’ve never been particularly good at looking like ordinary friends.”
Sam’s mouth moved into the faintest smile.
“No.”
Caitriona saw it and frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You looked pleased.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“Maybe a little.”
“Why?”
He looked down at the counter, then back at her.
“Because you said it.”
“Said what?”
“That we don’t look like ordinary friends.”
Her face warmed.
“That isn’t a compliment.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“For the first time tonight, slightly.”
She shook her head, but there was no real annoyance in it.
Sam’s gaze lingered on her. For a moment the tension softened into something older and more familiar. Something that had once ended with doors closing, clothes on the floor and both of them pretending the following morning that they understood what they were doing.
Caitriona felt it too.
She stepped away from the counter and picked up her glass, creating distance deliberately.
Sam noticed.
The brief warmth left his face.
“She also asked about Tony,” he said.
Caitriona went still.
“What about him?”
“Whether he knew.”
“Knew what?”
“That we’d slept together.”
“That isn’t any of your business.”
Sam looked at her carefully.
“You were happy to ask whether Steph knows.”
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“Because you brought her into the conversation.”
“You asked whether she made me happy.”
“Because I’m worried about you.”
“And I’m asking about Tony because I’m trying to understand you.”
Caitriona’s expression closed.
“There’s nothing to understand.”
“That’s not true.”
“Sam.”
“Does he know you’re here?”
She stared at him.
“I don’t need Tony’s permission to visit you.”
“I didn’t ask whether you needed it.”
“Then what are you asking?”
“Whether he knows.”
Caitriona took a drink she did not want.
“I didn’t give him my itinerary.”
“So, no.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
“You’re making it sound as though I’ve done something wrong.”
“No.”
His voice remained calm.
“That’s what you think I’m doing whenever I ask a question you don’t want to answer.”
“I came here because I was worried about you. Somehow I’m now defending my marriage.”
“You spent the last half hour asking whether my relationship is making me worse.”
“I asked whether you were happy. You said no.”
“And if I ask you?”
Caitriona did not respond.
Sam watched her face.
“Are you happy with Tony?”
“This isn’t about Tony.”
“It is now.”
“No. You’re changing the subject because you don’t like what I said about Steph.”
“I don’t particularly care what you think of Steph.”
“That isn’t true. You asked me.”
“I care what you think because it’s you.”
The answer stopped her.
Sam stepped slightly closer. Not enough to touch her, but enough that she had to lift her eyes to hold his gaze.
“I wanted to know,” he said. “I wanted to know whether seeing me with her affected you.”
Caitriona’s grip tightened around the glass.
“And did you get your answer?”
“Not quite.”
“Perhaps that should tell you something.”
“It tells me you don’t want to answer.”
“That is an answer.”
“No. It’s how you avoid one.”
Caitriona looked away.
Sam’s voice softened.
“Cait.”
“Don’t.”
“I’m not attacking you.”
“It feels like it.”
“I’m asking you to tell me the truth.”
“I came here to talk about you.”
“I know. You came here because you saw me struggling and wanted to make sure I was all right.”
“Yes.”
“And I’m grateful.”
The sincerity in his voice made her look at him again.
“I mean that,” he said. “You’re the only person I’ve said half of this to.”
Her expression softened despite herself.
Sam continued before she could respond.
“But you can’t come here and ask me why I’m with a woman I don’t love, then act as though your life has nothing to do with the answer.”
Caitriona’s eyes narrowed.
“You were with other women before Steph.”
“Yes.”
“You could have had relationships.”
“I tried.”
“Did you?”
His jaw tightened slightly.
“That’s unfair.”
“So is making me responsible for the fact that none of them lasted.”
“I’m not making you responsible.”
“It sounds remarkably like it.”
Sam took a slow breath.
“I’m responsible for staying.”
“Good.”
“I’m responsible for every time I answered the phone, every Christmas, every dinner, every time you asked me to come and I did.”
“Yes.”
“But you knew why I always came.”
Caitriona’s shield rose again.
“You’re assuming far too much.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I knew when you married him that you’d made your choice.”
“Then why are we having this conversation?”
“Because you never treated it like you had.”
Her face changed.
Sam saw the hurt and immediately gentled his tone.
“I don’t mean you cheated.”
“Good.”
“I don’t mean you deliberately promised me anything.”
“You’re getting closer.”
“I mean you kept me close.”
“You wanted to be close.”
“I did.”
“Then stop speaking as though I forced it on you.”
“I’m not.”
“You are a grown man, Sam. You had every opportunity to walk away.”
“I know.”
“You dated people. You travelled. You built businesses. You had an entire life that had nothing to do with me.”
“I had a life.”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t the one I wanted.”
The words were quiet.
Caitriona’s face became very still.
Sam did not press immediately. He looked down, rubbing his thumb over the strap of his watch.
When he spoke again, the anger had receded. What remained was far more exposed.
“I’m not trying to blame you for that.”
“It feels like you are.”
“I’m trying to understand whether I got it wrong.”
“Got what wrong?”
“You.”
Caitriona’s throat tightened.
Sam looked at her.
“I told myself you chose Tony because you loved him and wanted a life with him. Fine. That hurt, but I understood it.”
“Sam…”
“I’m not asking you to apologise.”
“Then what are you asking?”
“Whether that’s still true.”
She turned her face away.
Sam’s focus sharpened immediately.
“Cait.”
“No.”
“You asked me whether I was happy.”
“That does not give you the right to interrogate my marriage.”
“No. But you being here does make me wonder.”
She looked back at him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means it’s nearly ten at night. You’re in my flat alone for the first time. You brought dinner and wine because we never had our moment together. You’ve spent months keeping a bit of distance from me, and now you’re here asking whether I love Steph.”
“I asked because you looked miserable.”
“I know.”
“Then stop trying to make it into something else.”
“I’m not making it into anything. I’m asking whether there is something else.”
Caitriona’s eyes began to shine with frustration.
“Things with Tony are complicated.”
Sam became completely still.
It was the smallest opening, but it changed him instantly.
The anger left his face.
“How complicated?”
“I shouldn’t have said that.”
“But you did.”
“I’m not discussing it.”
“Are you separated?”
“No.”
“Are you going to be?”
“I don’t know.”
Sam moved one step closer before catching himself.
Caitriona saw it. Saw the hope he tried and failed to hide.
“Don’t,” she said.
His expression tightened.
“Don’t what?”
“Do that.”
“Do what?”
“Look at me as though I’ve just promised you something.”
“You said you don’t know.”
“That isn’t a promise.”
“No. But it isn’t nothing.”
“Sam.”
“Would you tell me if it was over?”
Caitriona blinked.
“With Tony.”
“I know what you meant.”
“Would you?”
She set her glass down, needing both hands free.
“I don’t know.”
His eyes stayed fixed on hers.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know what would happen after.”
“With me?”
She did not answer.
Sam’s breath caught softly.
The silence was enough to pull him closer again. Not physically this time, but in every other way. His face opened with a hope so immediate that it frightened her.
“Cait.”
“Please don’t.”
“Tell me I’m wrong.”
“I can’t have this conversation with you tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re angry.”
“I’m not angry now.”
That was true.
He was standing in front of her with every trace of defensiveness gone, ready to abandon whatever was left of his relationship at the first clear word from her.
That was precisely why she could not give him one.
“You’re vulnerable,” she said.
“So are you.”
“I have a child.”
“I know.”
“You don’t know what that means.”
“Then tell me.”
“It means I don’t get to make decisions based only on what I want.”
“What do you want?”
Caitriona took a step back.
Sam did not follow.
But the space between them felt charged, crowded with every answer she would not give.
“You see?” she said quietly. “This is why I didn’t want to talk about Tony.”
“Because I’d ask?”
“Because you’d hear a possibility and run straight towards it.”
“Of course I would.”
The honesty startled her.
Sam’s voice remained gentle.
“You know I would.”
Caitriona looked down.
“And that scares you,” he said.
“Don’t tell me what I feel.”
“All right.”
He waited.
“What scares you?”
She gave a shaky, disbelieving laugh.
“You make that sound so simple.”
“It isn’t simple.”
“No.”
“But it can be honest.”
Caitriona’s eyes lifted to his.
“You want honesty?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. You keep talking as though I chose Tony after you stood in front of me and offered me a life.”
Sam’s face changed.
“You didn’t,” she continued. “You never said, ‘Choose me.’ You never told me you wanted marriage or children or ordinary life. You loved me, yes. I knew that. But you never asked me to risk everything for something concrete.”
“You were with him.”
“You knew me before I was.”
Sam said nothing.
“You keep telling yourself I refused you,” she said. “I didn’t. You never asked.”
“Would it have mattered?”
The question came quietly.
Caitriona stopped.
Sam held her gaze.
“If I had asked,” he said, “would it have mattered?”
She could not answer.
He saw it.
The hope returned immediately, but he restrained himself this time.
“That isn’t a no,” he said.
Her eyes closed briefly.
“It isn’t a yes either.”
“No.”
They stood in silence.
The tension between them had become almost unbearable now, sharpened not by touch but by the knowledge that either could close the distance in two steps.
Sam looked at her mouth again.
Caitriona saw it.
Neither moved.
He drew a breath and forced his gaze back to her eyes.
“I’m not going to do anything,” he said.
“I know.”
“You don’t look as though you know.”
“That’s not why.”
“Then why?”
She shook her head.
Sam’s voice softened further.
“You’re safe with me.”
The words nearly undid her.
Her eyes filled, and she turned away before he could see too much.
Sam did not reach for her, though every part of him wanted to.
“I’m not trying to be cruel,” he said. “I’m not asking you to leave here and blow up your life tonight.”
“It feels like you’re asking for something.”
“I’m asking whether there is anything to ask for.”
Caitriona pressed her lips together.
Behind her, Sam remained still.
“I could leave Steph tomorrow,” he said.
She turned sharply.
“Don’t say that.”
“Why?”
“Because you shouldn’t end your relationship because of something I might or might not feel.”
“I wouldn’t.”
“You just said you would.”
“I’d end it because I don’t love her.”
“Then do it for that reason.”
Sam studied her.
“You want me to?”
Caitriona’s expression tightened.
“This is exactly what I mean.”
“What?”
“You’re looking for permission from me.”
“No.”
“You are.”
“I’m looking for a reason to believe you care what happens after.”
Her eyes filled again.
“Of course I care.”
“As my best friend.”
She flinched.
Sam immediately regretted the edge in his voice.
“I’m sorry.”
“No. You’re right. That’s what I always say.”
“Because it’s true.”
“Yes.”
“But?”
Caitriona shook her head.
“No.”
Sam did not press the word. He only watched her, giving her time to either leave or speak.
She picked up her coat.
His face fell, though he tried to hide it.
“I should go.”
“All right.”
She slipped one arm into the jacket.
Sam remained where he was.
Caitriona looked at him as she pulled the other side around herself.
“I really did come because I was worried.”
“I know.”
“I wasn’t trying to interfere.”
“I know that too.”
“And I don’t want you staying with someone who makes you feel worse.”
He nodded.
“But you can’t make what happens next about me.”
Sam looked at her.
“I think it already is.”
Her breath caught.
He did not sound accusatory. Only tired and honest.
Caitriona reached for her bag.
Sam spoke before she could turn away.
“Does Tony know we’d slept together?”
Her hand stopped.
“Yes.”
“Does he know you still think about it?”
Caitriona looked up.
The question had not been cruelly delivered. If anything, he looked almost afraid of the answer.
She held his gaze for several seconds.
Then she said, very quietly, “Goodnight, Sam.”
She walked towards the door.
He did not follow her.
But before she reached it, she heard him speak behind her.
“Cait.”
She stopped without turning.
“I’m not asking you to choose.”
Her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag.
“I just need you to stop pretending there was never a choice.”
Caitriona closed her eyes.
Then she opened the door and left.