Chapter Text
You’ve had better nights.
Granted, none of them have involved stumbling into what appears to be the beating heart of a Cornish sea shanty festival mere hours after a near-death experience. But still - better nights.
The pub is packed elbow to elbow, timber walls lit low; fiddles sawing sharp, rolling harmonies from deep voices, floor rumbling with rhythmic stomping, faces hot and flushed with perhaps one pint too many; it’s all an atmosphere you’d usually love.
Unfortunately, today it’s all muddling into one big stew of noise in your skull, spinning your thoughts like soggy laundry - you feel fuzzy, stress-saturated, and quite frankly, overstimulated as fuck.
“What’s up, chick?”
You jolt, nearly spilling half your third pint of cider down your front.
“Hmm? Nothing.”
Scott raises a skeptical brow.
Your pulse kicks and you force a smile. Fine. He doesn’t believe you. But what are you meant to say? ‘Sorry, Scott, just debating whether or not my brain is on the brink of imploding on itself. Just wondering if I’m dying. Internal bleeding, maybe. Aneurysm? Do they give you nosebleeds, aneurysms? What about a brain tumor? ’
You saw a documentary once. Tumors pressing against nerves, blurry vision, random blackouts, bloody noses and bursts of irritability… Or maybe you’re dealing with something less terminal but still fucked.
Ha! At this point, you wouldn’t even rule out something supernatural.
You take a hurried swig. Perish the thought.
Blood disorder? Iron problems? Bad concussion? You used that one on Sam - seemingly shutting him up about getting checked out. Until your slip-up earlier. No. Nope. You refuse to overthink your slip-up. You’ll get checked out as soon as this is over. It won’t be much longer. You’re so close now.
“Y’know I’m all ears if there’s something on your mind.” And he gives you a look. Try again.
You look at him over the rim of the glass as you gulp down another mouthful. You sigh, swirling the dregs of your drink.
“It’s just… there’s this hum. Like - at the base of my skull.”
Scott doesn’t interrupt. There’s something inviting about the way he sits there; quiet, patient, like he’s giving you permission to keep going.
“It creeps in whenever I’m still for too long,” you go on. “Like tonight. Sitting here with all this music and noise, and all I can think about is the bridge earlier. The exact second I thought 'that’s it. That’s my last breath'.”
You laugh down at the sticky table. “And Sam-” You glance across the pub, half pulled out of yourself, and catch sight of him over the crowd. He’s mid-sentence, leaning in toward the landlady as she pulls a pint, all easy grin and devil-may-care charm, his eyes bright and crinkled at the corners like he’s forgotten just for a second that things have been nothing short of horrendous lately.
He’s laughing. Actually laughing - nothing polite or performative about it - and it sets off that maddening flutter low in your chest all the way to your abdomen before you can stop it.
God, his eyes. All that second-nature charisma, winding its way into everyone around him, curling warm around throats and commanding attention. You drop your eyes back to Scott almost instantly, heat rising at the back of your neck, the moment gone before you’ve even fully caught hold of it.
“The stupid prat, he - He put himself in blatant danger to help me... And all I said was ‘thank you.’ Like he’d just held the door open.”
Scott’s eyes don’t waver. His kind smile prompts you to continue.
You rub a hand across your face. “And then there’s last week. Waking up in all that-” Your throat constricts, and the rest of the sentence sticks. The blood’s metallic smell rolls up your nose and down your throat. You force yourself to move on. “That man’s head caved in. You telling me you…” You falter again, not wanting to give the words too much oxygen. “Killed him." You mouth to avoid attention, "To protect me. There's a theme here.”
Scott finally takes a slow sip of his pint and sets it down again.
“And… on top of all of that, the headaches. The nosebleeds. Why I keep keeling over like some Victorian invalid-”
“Yeah, but the doctors told you what’s up,” Scott cuts in. “That’s at least gotta be some weight off your shoulders.”
You grimace.
He tilts his head, squinting. Then he smacks back into the seat with a groan. “You never saw a doctor, did you?”
“Fuuuuck,” you mutter, leaning forward as your hands scrape down your face. It's warm. “Please don’t tell him.”
Scott shakes his head, arms folded over his chest. “Not my place. But you’re not exactly doing yourself any favours.”
You both drink. Scott frowns, holding the beer in his mouth for a moment before swallowing slowly as though he’s weighing something up, tasting the thought more than the drink.
He looks at you, eyes narrowed as if to drive home what he's telling you. “At least make your feelings clear, darl'.”
Make your feelings clear?
You freeze. “What?”
Scott quirks a brow, like he can see straight through you.
Heat floods your face. You’re suddenly, absurdly convinced he’s clocked the childish pining. “I don’t - what are you talking about?”
Scott shrugs, raising his pint again. “If you think you didn’t thank him enough, then just tell him. Say you’re grateful.” He takes a long sip. “Never know what tomorrow's gonna bring.”
Your gaze slides toward the bar. He’s still there with the barmaid, black shirt, sleeves shoved to the elbow - Hmm, he should wear black more often. You look back and find Scott prodding at his cracked phone, tutting when the screen refuses to register his thumb.
“You gonna get that fixed?” you ask.
He scoffs without looking up. “Been a bit busy since I got jumped, unfortunately.” He tries another tap. Nothing. “Cunt.”
Your eyes catch on the neat little scar cutting his lip. That's all it takes to get that whole horrible disorienting night flashing in your vision again - him slumped, blood, the taste of bile and the smell of copper.
You tilt your head at him, brows knitting. The alcohol has your filter wearing thinner by the second.
“How are you so calm about it?”
Scott doesn’t answer right away. He puts the phone face down, and trades it for the pint glass that he rolls between his palms.
“I’m not.” He shrugs one shoulder, eyes tracking the foam that clings to the sides as he lets out a sigh. When he finally looks back, his expression is steady; his voice comes out lower.
“But what’s done is done. Tracks are covered. No one saw us, no one’s come sniffing around. And whoever those guys were? We haven’t seen them since, have we?”
You shake your head. He's right.
“Exactly,” he says, leaning forward slightly, his tone firmer now, not with the intent to patronise - more so to reassure. “So, we keep our heads down, and we get on with it. We’ve got three of us. We’re smart. If it ever came down to it, creating an alibi would be easy. Just have to be ready to move fast.”
You shift uncomfortably, teeth worrying at your lip. He doesn’t flinch at the thought of it, doesn’t let the weight of it linger. Instead, he leans back and eyes the band as they start a new song - The drum rattles the floorboards and gets half the pub scraping their chairs back before any sort of melody has even begun.
Scott glances at the dancers, a small smile tugging at his mouth. Then he looks at you again, and there’s something different in his eyes.
“What you need,” he says, raising his voice just enough to carry over the fiddle and stomp of boots, “is to loosen up. Shake some of this shit off you, so you can actually focus when it matters.”
"Alright, Mr. Telepathy."
He flashes a grin, "I'm good, aren't I?"
Before you can respond, he tips back the last of his pint, the glass empty with a dull clunk as he sets it down. He scrapes his stool back, the sound lost in the swell of music, and rises to his feet. Then he extends a hand, palm open, grin lopsided.
“Come on. Dance with me.”
Your eyes go wide. “Ha! Get fucked.”
He barks a laugh. “Just one. Nobody’s watching.”
“They’re literally all watching.”
“They’re literally all seven pints deep. No one will remember you making a fool of yourself.” His grin widens, teasing now.
You groan, face in your hand for a second. The cider burns down your throat as you down the rest in one go, grimacing as you slam the glass back onto the table.
“Fine,” you mutter, taking his hand. “You’re lucky I’m tipsy.”
//
Sam’s still grinning from whatever the barmaid just said when he peels himself off the counter, two pints sweating in each hand, a third pinned against his chest. Classic balancing act. He shoulders through a knot of dancers, dodges an elbow, murmurs a “’Scuse me, bud,” and angles toward their table.
It’s empty. Hm.
He scans the room for a few seconds before he spots Scott twirling her through a ring of locals like he’s auditioning for a tourist board advert. She’s laughing, face hot with embarrassment but letting herself be hauled around anyway. A strand of hair shakes loose and sticks to her cheek.
Sam sets the drinks down with a careful thunk and just… watches.
There’s a nip of jealousy, if he’s being honest, because it’s Scott putting that smile on her face. He swallows it with a mouthful of beer. This is better. This is fine. Let it pass. Enjoy her from a distance, be professional up close. That’s the line.
He stands by the table, sipping his pint, warmth spreading slow. The band kicks harder, floorboards thudding. She stumbles, then recovers with an exaggerated spin Scott drags out of her, and she throws her head back, mortified and delighted in equal measure.
Scott clocks Sam and gives a grand, theatrical beckon; come on, then. Sam snorts, shakes his head, mouths no way, and lifts his glass in salute.
She catches his eye. For a second the room narrows to a clear line between them. She gives a helpless little shrug - I don’t know what the hell I’m doing - and he can’t help it, he grins back.
It reminds him of that first night he saw her in person, after closing - doing Bowie a great injustice, mop for a dance partner, thinking she was alone. He still hasn’t deleted the video.
He tips the glass again, taps his finger against the rim in time with the chorus, and lets the moment be what it is as he takes a seat: her laughing, him watching, the ache and the relief sitting side by side and, for once, not tearing him in half.
Sam drags his eyes off her and forces his head back to the job. One night of celebration. That’s allowed. A reward for a hell of a find. A handful of days left, maybe. A few more nights of restraint. Then, if all goes to plan, they’ll find the treasure, shake hands, part ways amicably, cleanly.
He’ll move on.
Let it pass.
Maybe cut contact all together and go back to doing the ad hoc shit himself. That’s the plan. Stick to the plan.
He drinks, warmth licking up his spine. The buzz loosens his grip on the rail just enough for memory to slip in: the pool. Her skin slick against his forearms when he scooped her up after she ‘passed out’. The flash of teeth, the water beading on her lashes. His mind skids further downhill, toward the places it shouldn’t - mouth, throat, the hiding of her stomach as she hunched on the side as if it was something to be ashamed of - the warmth of her back under his palm; he slams the brakes when the guilt barrels through.
He pushed her in.
After that, the headaches, the nosebleeds, the fainting spells.
Correlation isn’t causation, sure, but try telling his stomach that.
Restraint, Drake. Be the adult. Don’t make it worse. Every time he gets too close, she pays for it. That’s the pattern. So yeah, restraint isn’t just noble. It’s necessary.
He takes another pull, lets the strong cider sand the edges down, and before he can dig deeper into his chivalry complex, Scott arrives breathless, hair askew, grin toothy. He drops into the chair with a theatrical wince.
“Fuck me. I’m callin’ it before I dislocate a shoulder,” he pants, still laughing.
Sam swallows a mouthful of beer and gestures vaguely at the drinks he’s just brought back. “C’mon, man, I just got you another-”
“Eh, share it.” Scott says with a dismissive flick of the wrist, already pushing back from the table.
Sam scoffs, shaking his head to himself. “Your loss.”
Scott grins, rolling his neck. “Tell her goodnight for me, yeah?”
Sam watches him retreat, mild panic stirring as it dawns on him that he’s about to be left alone with her. Again. Several pints in. Again. Fantastic.
He grabs his pint, trying to summon the willpower to also call it a night, before he gets hooked into another near miss-
“Where’s he going?”
He turns. And there she is. Hair a mess, cheeks flushed, breathless from the dancing. He blinks, momentarily winded.
“He’s headed back,” Sam says, voice rougher than he intends. “Said he’s callin’ it.”
She scowls.
Sam gestures to the table. “I was, uh, thinkin’a doing the same.”
She looks horrified. “Bullshit!” She jabs, clumsily climbing up onto the stool. “You just bought more drinks.”
Sam raises a brow, ready to protest, but she gets there first.
“Enjoy my dancing?”
He pouts, letting his eyes dart around in mock confusion, “D- dancing? Thought you were just flailing about in circles.”
She laughs, barking, unbothered, and leans across the table, grabbing one of the pints. “Yeah, well, all that flailing was thirsty work. Cheers.” She raises her glass toward him, grin wide.
“Cheers.”
The clink is sharp, and he tries - really tries - to suppress the smile tugging at his mouth, but it breaks through anyway. He hides it with a long sip, hoping she won’t notice.
She doesn’t, seeing as she’s too busy chugging half her pint in one go.
He watches her throat work, the faint flush deepening across her cheeks, and - ah, hell. Fine . He’ll finish his drink. Then it’s bed. That’s the line.
She tips the glass again, overzealous this time, a dribble of liquid slipping down her chin. She wipes it away with the back of her hand, unbothered, scoffing at her clumsiness.
“Well, at least you didn’t get me on camera this time.” she says, brushing hair behind her ear with exaggerated dignity.
Sam huffs out a low laugh, his thumb tapping against the side of his glass.
“Can’t say I wasn’t tempted. Could start a gallery.”
She narrows her eyes at him playfully.
“You deleted the other one, right?”
He shrugs.
“Sam!” she half-laughs, half-scolds, kicking his shin gently under the table. “That’s blackmail material.”
“I call it leverage.” He grins. “Never know when it’ll come in handy.”
Their laughter lulls into a surprisingly comfortable silence given his tumultuous thought cogs whirring away, instead letting the music fill the space. He exhales through his nose, resigning himself to the seat across from her, drink in hand.
She grins faintly, resting her chin on her knuckles, eyes flicking toward the sea of dancers like she’s trying to commit every laugh and stomp to memory. Tipsy contentment, slow and syrupy. Her knee knocks his under the table again, and again, and he lets it happen.
Sam clears his throat and most certainly does not look directly at her mouth.
He drinks again and shifts just a little, like that’ll help. It doesn’t.
She turns then, dreamily, back to him.
He barely catches the movement in time to pretend he wasn’t watching her, and she tilts her head at him like she might just be able to read his thoughts.
Then, gently, she asks “You okay?”
Not accusatory or rude, but… soft. A little nervous, like she’s been holding the question for a while and finally found the moment to ask.
It knocks the wind out of him. He blinks, beer halfway to his lips again, the question dangling.
Am I okay?
No. Of course not. You’re here, aren’t you?
He nods, a second too late. “Yeah. Fine.”
She doesn’t buy it. He can see it in the slight purse of her lips, the way her eyes stay on him just a beat longer than necessary. But she lets it go. For now.
And thank God. Because if she pushed even slightly harder, he doesn’t know what he’d tell her.
“‘Cause I‘ve noticed,” she twists her mouth into a restrained grin, leaning forward conspiratorially.
He raises a brow as he swallows. Great.
She studies him with a look that’s far too focused for someone three pints deep. “You’ve got this… talent.”
He narrows his eyes, already wary. “I’m not sure I like where this is goin’.”
“Well - talent’s maybe the wrong word.” She smirks. “More like a switch you’ve got where you go from being this charming, funny, charisma-riddled idiot-”
Sam barks a laugh, feigning outrage. “Idiot?”
“Yes, idiot,” she repeats firmly, grinning wider now. “But then something wobbles and suddenly that side of you just… doesn’t exist. You go quiet. Start brooding… it-”
Sam takes a slow sip of his pint, smirking over the rim. “Scares you off?”
She doesn’t laugh. Just shakes her head, eyes steady. “No. If anything, it makes me want to dig deeper. Find out what’s going on in that wonderful brain of yours.”
That lands heavier than she probably means it to.
Sam lowers his glass, thumb sliding along the condensation, eyes dropping to the foam as he tries to swallow down the weight of it. He watches her linger on him, the smile on her lips softening into something less playful.
Oh dear God, he's being read.
Sam shifts in his seat, caught off guard by the sudden turn in her tone. It’s not the first time she’s thrown him for a loop, but tonight, it feels different.
“Well,” he says, clearing his throat, trying to deflect, “if I had a nickel for every time someone tried to crack the code…”
She smiles faintly, but she doesn’t let him off the hook. “You don’t make it easy, do you?”
“Don’t see the point in makin’ it easy.”
“Of course you don’t.” She leans back, crossing her arms, but her eyes stay fixed on him, assessing in a way that makes him feel both exposed and oddly intrigued.
She tongues her back teeth for a second, then bites her lip thoughtfully. “You like being a mystery.”
He huffs a laugh, shaking his head.
“You give me way too much credit.”
“Eh,” she says, her tone light but her stare unrelenting. “I don’t think you give yourself enough.”
Oof.
He tries to laugh it off, to brush it aside, but there’s something about the way she’s looking at him - like she’s seeing past all the bullshit, right down to the part of him he’s not sure he wants her to see - and he doesn’t like it.
Her words linger. Makes me want to dig deeper . No one’s said anything like that to him in a long time. Not without an edge, not without an agenda.
And Christ, he wants to let her. Wants to lean across the table and tell her she’s not wrong, that half the time he’s acting the lovable rogue is because if he stops he might not start again, that the silence and the brooding aren’t a choice so much as a habit he can’t shake when things don’t go the way he wants them to. He wants to let her see all of it, all the broken and half-fixed parts that keep him up at night.
But then what? She already nearly got killed twice in as many weeks. The last thing she needs is him dumping his mess on top of hers.
She leans in then, her mouth twisting into something that isn’t quite a smile. “It’s just, sometimes when you go quiet, when you shut down like that… it makes me wonder if it’s me. If having me here is what’s stressing you out.”
Sam stares at her, floored. If she only knew.
“And… that’s fine, if it is. I’m sorry if it is.” She continues, suddenly finding the wood grain fascinating, “I just want to know if I can do anything to stop it.”
“No,” he says quickly, sharper than he means to. Her brows lift at the suddenness of it, startled, but he shakes his head, lowering his voice. “That’s not it. At all.”
She blinks at him, searching his face like she’s not sure whether to believe him. For a second, he thinks she might press, might keep pulling on the thread until the whole damn thing unravels.
But then her shoulders ease, just a fraction. She lets out a small breath and sits back, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. Almost like she wants to believe him, even if she isn’t entirely convinced.
Sam swallows down the rest of it and forces a smirk, setting his glass aside.
“Alright,” he says, lighter now, tugging the conversation back into safer waters. “Your turn.”
She frowns. “For what?”
“For the psychoanalysis. Since we’re playin’ this game.”
Her mouth quirks, suspicious but intrigued.
He watches the way she rolls the glass between her hands, weighing whether to rise to the bait. And all the while, he tells himself this is safer, turning the spotlight back onto her. Safer than letting her see just how close she’d gotten in the space of a single sentence.
“Fire away.”
He smirks, elbows braced on the table. “Don’t worry, I’ll go easy.”
“Doubtful.”
“Alright then…” He scratches at his jaw, pretending to deliberate, but in truth he doesn’t have to think very long. He’s been collecting this stuff for weeks. “You’re stubborn as hell. Smart, yeah, but stubborn. You’ll run yourself into the ground before you admit you need help.”
Her brows lift, but she doesn’t interrupt, only tips her head slightly as if to say go on.
“You hate feelin’ like a passenger,” he continues. “Always gotta prove you’re pulling your weight.”
She lets out a soft laugh, rolling her eyes, though the colour in her cheeks betrays her.
“That’s what you’ve got? That I’m… stubborn?”
Sam leans back, lifts his glass. “Reckless too. Don’t forget reckless.”
Her mouth curves, fighting a smile. “You dirty hypocrite.”
He grins into his beer. Fair.
But when he sets the glass down, his tone dips lower, almost without meaning to. “You fill silence… twenty-four-seven. Always joking, askin’ questions, running commentary. Like you’re scared of what happens if you stop.”
That lands heavier than he intends. Her eyes flicker down, then back up, wary but open, and for a moment he wishes he could take it back.
She swallows, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. “Not bad. You missed your calling as a shrink.”
Sam chuckles at the ease with which she lets him in despite the fact that he doesn’t deserve it.
And Christ, if that isn’t the most dangerous part.
She tilts her head at him, glass dangling from her fingers. “So that’s me then? Stubborn, reckless, scared of silence. Any other insults you want to declare?”
Sam shrugs, smirking. “Nope. Think that’s about it.”
She laughs softly, but there’s heat behind it. “All a bit rich, coming from you.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You’re the one who can’t sit still. Always gotta keep moving, keep talking, keep making jokes.” She pokes a finger against the table between them, nearly missing in her tipsy aim. “You’re just louder about it.”
Sam chuckles, shaking his head, but she’s got him grinning despite himself. “So we’re both insufferable assholes. Congratulations.”
She lifts her glass in mock salute.
He clinks his pint against hers, then drains another mouthful. The zing is festering in his veins now, smoothing over the edges of common sense.
Her grin lingers as she leans forward, propping her chin in her hand. “You’ve been thinking about all this for a while, haven’t you?”
He arches a brow. “All what?”
“This little… profile of me you’ve got running. That wasn’t just off the cuff.”
Sam huffs a laugh, rubbing his thumb across the rim of his glass. “I just came up with it.”
She squints at him, unimpressed. “Pretty detailed for something you’ve ‘just come up with.’”
“See?” he shoots back, smirking. “ Always gotta fill the silence.”
She grins, eyes half-lidded, cheeks flushed from drink and dancing. They hold each other’s gaze for a beat too long, like a pair of stubborn kids refusing to blink first.
Sam feels the pull of the buzz, the warmth, the way her laugh still hums through his chest - and before he can stop himself, the words tumble out-
“Guess I’ve been payin' attention.”
Hm. That should've stayed in his head.
She huffs a quiet laugh, shaking her head as she looks back at him, eyes searching his face. “Hmm,” she says, voice light again, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you like paying attention to me.”
Jesus.
He knows it’s a joke, the kind of teasing deflection she throws back at him when things get too real, but it's got him in a bit of a chokehold. So, he doesn’t answer right away - ha - he doesn’t trust himself to. Drunk words, sober thoughts, etcetera.
He does like paying attention to her. Likes it more than he has any right to.
Sam leans back again, reclaiming some distance before he lets something slip. He picks up his glass, giving her a sideways look that’s a little too careful.
“You talk enough to keep me interested,” he says casually, forcing a grin.
She snorts. “Oh, it’s an honour .”
He feels his eyes dragging across her face as he leans back again, pretending like his chest isn’t tight, or his skin isn’t itching under her attention.
He swirls the last film of foamy beer in his glass, his eyes fixed on the remnants of the amber liquid. Don’t let this get away from you.
He grimaces . The alcohol’s fuckin’ talking to him, now.
But then she tilts her head, her expression full of challenge - something playful but edged with intent.
“You haven’t answered my question, you know.”
His brow lifts. “What question?”
She gives him a look, one that sees straight through his bullshit. “Whether you like paying attention to me or not.”
Sam could dodge. He should dodge. It’s easy. He's done it for weeks now. Deflect with a joke, lean back behind the walls he’s spent a lifetime building, and let her think she’s imagining things.
“You say that like it’d be a bad thing.” He swallows, looking down at his glass momentarily. “And besides, you didn't frame it as a question.”
Her lips part slightly, surprise flickering across her face before it softens into something that makes his pulse throb harder.
"Well, do you like paying attention to me?"
Sam studies her from across the table, the amber light casting shadows over her face, softening the sharper edges of her expression. She’s waiting for him to answer her, head tilted in that expectant way she does when she knows she’s got him cornered.
Do you like paying attention to me? Her words reverb inside his skull, and he knows he should brush it off. A joke. A smirk. Even a good old dismissive grunt would work. Anything to keep her from seeing more than she already has.
She doesn’t pitch it like anything sultry. But inebriated as he is, that’s how it lands. To Sam, it’s weighty. Flirtation tied into a noose, slipped across the table for him to choke himself with.
And choke he does. His throat works around a swallow that isn’t there. He forces a laugh, though it comes out strained. She doesn’t reciprocate. He huffs.
“Yeah,” he says finally, his voice quieter than he intended. “I do.”
Shit .
Her lips part, and for a second, the noise of the pub seems to drop away. She blinks, clearly surprised, but her reaction isn’t what he expected. There’s no teasing comeback, no deflection. Just her, staring at him like she’s not sure she heard him right.
“Well,” she says softly, her fingers brushing the rim of her glass, “that’s… surprising.”
He raises an eyebrow, forcing a smirk to cover the sudden tightness in his chest.
“Surprising? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means… I thought I was a nuisance half the time.” she replies, her tone light, but there’s a flicker of something vulnerable in her eyes. Genuine surprise, too.
“Oh, you are. ” He grins as she laughs, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes - she's waiting for more. “But you also… complicate things.”
“Complicate?” Her brow furrows faintly, but her smile doesn’t waver.
“Yeah.” Sam exhales sharply, shaking his head like he’s annoyed at himself. “You sit across the table with that grin of yours, runnin’ your mouth, making me think about-”
Stop. He cuts himself off, clenching his jaw as he looks down briefly, fingers flexing against his glass before he lets it go. It's empty. There's nothing to hide behind now.
“Think about what?” Her voice is softer now, pulling him back to her. When he meets her eyes again, there’s nothing teasing about it. In fact if anything, she looks wrung out. Self conscious.
Shit.
“You’re…” He pauses, searching for the right words, but they get tangled up somewhere between his brain and his mouth. “You’re not what I expected, that’s all.”
Her brow furrows slightly, but she doesn’t look away. “Not what you expected how? You’ve known me for.. What? Two years?”
“Yeah, of course - just…” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. Damnit, what is she doing? “You’re sharp. Smart. Even more so in person. You don’t take crap from anyone. You’ve got this way of lighting up a room, and half the time, you don’t even realise you’re doing it.”
The words tumble out before he can stop them, and when he looks at her again, her expression is completely unreadable. He swallows hard, feeling suddenly exposed, but he doesn’t take it back.
“That’s a lot of compliments for one sentence,” she says after a moment, like she’s not quite sure how to handle what he’s just said. "Did I make you break character for a sec?"
Sam shrugs, his smirk faltering as he lets out a nervous chuckle. “Just calling it like I see it.”
She leans back in her seat, her fingers tracing the drips down the side of her glass. “And what if I said you’re not what I expected either?”
He stiffens slightly, caught off guard by the shift in her tone. “Oh yeah? How’s that?”
“You act all ‘rough around the edges’, or plaster on the charm offensive,” she says, her voice low, deliberately so, like she’s making her words digestible. “But underneath that… you’re good. Selfless. Sweet, sometimes. Better than you think you are.”
Sam feels his throat tighten again, the walls threatening to crumble. He forces a laugh, leaning back. “You’ve had too much to drink.”
“Maybe,” she concedes, her smile faint, but her eyes never leave him. “But I mean it.”
Sam feels like he should say something, anything, to break the tension, but nothing comes.
The noise of the pub swells once more; the scrape of chairs, the next song striking up, the whoop of someone at the bar, but it all fades under the weight of her eyes on his.
Sam clears his throat, reaching for his rapidly-diminishing pint just to do something with his hands. Idiot. She’s right. Should’ve kept your mouth shut.
Her mouth curves, just slightly. She lowers her eyes, drains the last of her drink in one go, and sets the glass down with a dull clink.
“Maybe Scott had the right idea,” she says, voice a little quieter.
Sam swallows, nodding once, relieved for the parachute pull.
He pushes his stool back, the scrape half-drowned by the fiddle starting up again on stage, and stands. She does the same, tugging her jacket over her shoulders.
Outside, the air is cool and briny, carried up from the waves below. The night’s quiet in comparison to the pub’s friendly chaos, only the distant crash of the sea and the clunk of shoes on cobblestone filling the space.
Ten minutes back to the hotel. Just long enough for the tension he’s created to get abraised away by the salt in the air.
She walks a step ahead of him, her gait loose and languid, the kind of unsteady confidence that comes from a few too many drinks.
He watches her for a moment before catching up. Now, he feels a thrumming in his chest that has nothing to do with the whiskey and everything to do with her.
She glances over her shoulder at him, her grin widening as he matches her pace. “You know, for a guy who prides himself on being unreadable, you’re really giving yourself away tonight.”
He raises a brow - an attempt at hiding the panic as he swallows it down. “We're still on this, huh?”
“Mhm.” Her steps falter slightly, and he reaches out instinctively, his hand brushing her elbow to steady her. She doesn’t pull away, her eyes flicking up to his with a playful gleam.
“You’ve been looking at me like you’ve got some big, life-changing epiphany you’re trying to work out.”
Sam huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he drops his hand. “Maybe I’m just wondering how someone so clumsy hasn’t managed to trip over herself yet.”
“ Yet ,” she echoes, her grin turning wicked. “So you’re expecting it to happen?”
“Let’s just say I’ve got good odds on it.”
She laughs, the sound ringing out in the quiet street, and he can’t help the way it pulls a grin from him.
“Hmm,” she murmurs, her lips quirking as her eyes narrow slightly. “Maybe you’re not as dense as you look.”
“ Dense ? Gee, thanks.”
Her laughter bubbles up again, and she turns away, walking round the last bend before the hotel. Sam follows, the horrible, cloying feeling in his gut intensifying with every glance she throws his way. Eventually, she grins.
“What’s that smile about?”
She glances sideways at him, cheeks flushed as he catches up.
“Nothing. Just thinking.”
“Uh oh.” He smirks. “That never ends well.”
She bumps her shoulder against his arm.
“Rude. I was thinking about what comes after all this. Like… finishing my thesis. Getting a better job. And, you know…” she trails off, the grin twitching wider, “spending some of that treasure money on a new green pen.”
Sam huffs a laugh through his nose. “Figured you’d start there.”
“Well, it’s important,” she insists. “I’ve been lost without it. And once I get that sorted, I’m gonna buy myself a pair of bright yellow shoes. Proper obnoxious ones. I’ll wear them to my new job at a museum or an archive or whatever I end up doing. Because successful people,” she announces, jabbing a finger in the air, “wear ugly yellow shoes with pride.”
Sam laughs, the sound rolling easy out of him. “Yellow shoes, huh? That’s the big dream?”
“Pfft. Yeah,” she says, smiling like she means every word. “That’s if I don’t get myself killed first.”
Sam’s smile falters. “Hey.”
She shrugs quickly, waving it off. “Joking. Sort of.”
He shakes his head, eyes back on the path.
She glances at him sideways, that shy smile dissolving into something more neutral. He wants to flip the script and ask her what she’s really thinking. But he feels too ill-equipped for whatever her response might be.
The hotel’s lights come into view down the lane.
He pulls the door open, and holds it a beat too long like some half-baked gentleman before following her inside.
She smiles politely at the receptionist on duty; he gives a little nod, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, and they make their way toward the elevator.
Sam presses the button, the hum of machinery rattling somewhere above. He leans against the wall, feeling a slight spinning in his head.
“Yellow shoes,” he mutters with a grin.
She rolls her eyes, but she’s grinning too. “You’ll see. It’s gonna be a thing.”
The lift arrives with a ding, and they step inside. The doors close, and suddenly it’s just them again, shoulders close in the cramped box. She hiccups once, laughing under her breath at herself, and it hits him in the chest harder than it should.
The lift doors close and they both lean against opposite walls, the quiet a strange relief after the pub’s chaos. She sways a little, flushed and grinning, and breaks the silence first.
“So,” she says, pointing at him. “What are you gonna spend all that Sadir cash-money on? New bike? One-way trip to Amalfi?”
He grins. “You know me so well.”
She tilts her head, the grin going a little coy. “You’re not the only one who likes paying attention.”
That slips under his ribs, lodging there as the floor number ticks past. He tries to laugh it off, but to no avail. Instead, his throat constricts and his palms get a little sweaty. He confines them to his pockets.
The lift dings before he does something stupid, doors opening with a sobering clank .
They walk the corridor in step, quiet now, the soft thud of carpet underfoot. Her door comes up first. She pulls out her keycard, fumbling slightly with tipsy fingers.
Sam hangs about to make sure she gets in okay, hands buried in his pockets to stop himself reaching for her. His eyes travel down the corridor to his own room. He’s in the home stretch now.
This has been nigh on impossible. He’s never drinking near her again.
She swipes the card. BEEP. Red. She mutters something under her breath that makes him snort. She tries again, tongue poked in concentration. Red again. She tuts and Sam momentarily considers leaving her to it until she swipes a third time and the light goes green. The lock chirps and she gives a victorious grin as she nudges the door open an inch and spins to face him, holding it open by her hip. She leans on the frame, steadying her slightly intoxicated sway.
“Well, this is me,” she says, then winces like that wasn’t the line she meant to use.
“This is you.” He responds with a lopsided smile that quickly develops into a smirk when he takes in the alcohol-derived flush in her cheeks. “Drink some water.”
“ You drink some water.” She retorts, face scrunched.
For a second, Sam doesn’t move. Doesn’t know if he’s meant to. Stay? Go? She looks like there’s a sentence sitting on her tongue and nowhere to put it.
Then she laughs; small, breathy, almost like she’s laughing at herself.
He chuckles back, confused. “What?”
She shuts her eyes, bites her lip, gives that little shake of her head that reads this is stupid .
He feels her self-consciousness hit and lets the smirk drop, unfolds his arms, opens himself to it - okay. Go on. I’m here.
She sighs. Looks up. “You-“ she bites her lip and smiles nervously up to the ceiling. He tilts his head, movement snagging her attention. She finally finds his eyes and holds them.
“You saved my life today.”
She swallows. Her eyes flick down a little then back up to his, pleading silently for some kind of response.
He registers that; shuts his eyes for half a second, shakes his head. The automatic rebuttal queues up- what else was I supposed to do, let you fall? - but it sticks, useless, because she’s right there and he can’t think past the way she’s looking at him.
He’s thinking so hard he almost misses her palm coming up, tentative, careful, tucking around his jaw. He flicks his eyes sideways to check, and yep, that’s her hand. Warm. A little shaky. Thumb hovering like she’s not sure she’s allowed, but doing it anyway.
Wait- what is she-
Her lips.
What is she doing?
Her lips .
Oh, shit, they’re on his.
Just a graze. Soft. Off-centre. Their noses bump; vanilla balm and tart apple ghost across his mouth. His eyes go wide, instincts piling up: freeze, lean, answer , don’t- and his body makes the choice for him.
His hand bolts from his pocket like it’s just oiled up enough to fire from its rusted spring, reaching to cradle her face- let me - please - but all he gets is the barest scrape of fingertips along the tepid curve of her cheek, a flash of skin under his touch-
She jerks back with a sharp little gasp, realisation hitting her as if she’s just touched scorching metal.
Her elbow cracks the edge of the door as she flings herself backwards.
“ Ohmygod ,” she blurts, horrified.
He gawks, mouth half open, brow knotting, hand still suspended in the space where her face just was. Say something. Tell her she’s done nothing wrong-
She stumbles backward, disappearing into her room, and the door swings with her, skimming his knuckles before closing with a slam that makes him jolt.
Sam is left in dumbfounded silence.
He can’t move.
Dear God, what is he playing at? He’s kissed a dozen people. More. Enough to know how this is supposed to feel - but this? His entire body feels like it’s been flipped inside out. Drunk, dizzy, completely off balance.
Sam’s hovers in front of her door, his forehead almost brushing the wood, eyes honed in on the gold numbers and stupid serif, hoping that they might morph themselves into some sort of instruction in his tipsy haze.
They don't, of course.
The hallway feels unbearably quiet, the faint hum of the hotel’s air conditioning the only sound other than his breathing. His heart is hammering, blood rushing so loud in his ears that he can’t think straight.
That split second of soft heat, the unmistakable intention behind it. It wasn’t playful. It wasn’t some drunken slip. It was… what? Meaningful? Her way of thanking him?
He needs to get a grip. It’s messing with his head.
He scrubs a hand down his face, letting out a low, shaky breath. Part of him wants to leave - needs to leave. Go back to his room, lie down, sleep off whatever this night has turned into. But his legs don’t move.
His room is right there, a merciful oasis three doors down. Except, he doesn’t move because the command to leave runs into the raw need to verify and his fingertips find his mouth. He touches where she was, as if he might catch her heat still there. He does. Or he imagines he does. He tastes again and feels the tiniest sting of teeth where maybe they caught in the haphazardness of the action.
He can’t tell what’s memory and what’s wishful thinking. The line’s gone fuzzy.
He’s still replaying the look on her face right before she shut the door. The way her eyes had flickered with something - nervousness, maybe, or regret. Maybe both.
Or maybe she’s in there right now, thinking he didn’t want it.
God, he’s an idiot.
No. No, shit. He needs to walk away from this door. He’s not some love-struck moron, and he sure as hell doesn’t get all twisted up over one kiss.
He can wait. He’s done it for months. He’s built a life on wanting and not getting, on standing at the edge of the thing you want and calling it prudence. He’s good at hunger. He’s spent half of his life learning how to leash it.
His stomach flips again, and he swears under his breath, dragging a hand down his flushed face. Okay. Pull it together.
He turns away toward his room. Stops. Turns back. Lifts a hand to knock. Lowers it without touching the wood. “Jesus,” he mutters, a breathy swear at himself, and pushes off down the corridor before he does something he can’t reel back.
One step. Two. Three-
The latch snaps; the door yanks open and he stops dead.
He whips around, wide-eyed - there she is again, standing there, equally as wide-eyed and flustered, looking like she’d barely waited more than a second before throwing it open.
“I’m sorry-“
It spills out of her in one breath, hands half-lifted like she’s trying to catch the words, cheeks hot and eyes too wide for someone who’s usually all steel and wit.
“I- I misread… you were- are - you’re so -“
He can hear the good decision from a safer universe: walk. He also hears the quieter one, pulsing right under his ribs: go.
She’s frantic and embarrassed and so fucking pretty, eyes bright as she starts to babble apologies that collide and tangle and spill - fucked up and overstepped not that drunk sorry sorry sorry- and all he can do is watch from the small space between them, feeling the last of his control burn off.
Heart wins. Head be damned.
He makes the decision in that space between her inhale and his. After a few strides back in her direction, he leans in and takes her mouth.
She startles, eyes flying wider, one hand splaying against his chest. It lingers there, feeling the thud in him, feeling him, and the shock melts: fingertips curl; her lashes flutter down; her mouth tips up to meet the pressure. The apology shattered as he stops her from stumbling backwards with a hand to the small of her back.
Greed drowns him from the inside as months of restraint find an emergency exit. His hand tightens at her jaw; the other slides up to her waist and shapes to it. She answers with pure intent- the little sound at the back of her throat, the way her fingers hook the fluff of his lapel and tug.
He lets her pull. They stumble together over the threshold, his knuckles scraping the frame as he keeps her gathered close. The door swings on its hinge; he follows her pivot, not for a second pulling his mouth from hers.
The panel meets her back with a soft thud, and he’s suddenly got her bracketed - one hand braced high on the wood to steady the spin, the other banding low around her, pulling her flush as if this is the only correct geometry for the repressed human body.
Her initial shock flickers again- an instinctive little flinch at the contact- then it turns into something else entirely. Her pupils blow; her mouth opens for him. She rises to give his neck a break and there’s nothing polite left. No residual restraint.
He presses her to the door and takes his time like a man who has none. He drags the kiss slow, then deep, then breaks and takes another, unable to pick a pace and unwilling to settle for one. His palm maps what his eyes have been stealing for months: the slope beneath her ribs; the narrow of her waist he’s traced a hundred times from across rooms; the spread of her thigh where it brackets his. Every part is an old ache stemming from wishful thinking turning into charted waters under his hands.
Her head tips back, baring the column of her throat, and he follows it with his mouth- open, reverent, entirely unwise.
She’s the certainty he doesn’t possess. Needy, sure, heat-forward, answering every test of pressure with more . Her nails skate up the back of his neck, and the hiss that leaves him is not a choice. She rolls her hips once, a barely-there glide that steals the air from his lungs, and whatever plan he had about being measured dies on impact.
Sam lets the greed be ugly and honest: the firmer pull at her waist; the way he fits his thigh between hers to coax another soft gasp; the possessive pass of his tongue deep into her mouth that says mine for now, and he means only now, because he’s still a man who believes in debts and morning light.
He will be good tomorrow. He will fix it tomorrow. He will put himself on a plane tomorrow and park her safely where she should be, but tonight - tonight he can’t pretend.
She gives him every reason not to.
Every time he tries to slow, she chases. Every time he draws back an inch to breathe, she follows and catches him with an open mouth, open hands, a flummoxed hunger that matches his and makes a mockery of patience. Her certainty is gasoline; his restraint is a dropped lit match; the room is already smoke-sweet and tilting suffocation.
He cups her face with both hands now, thumbs sweeping heat along her cheekbones, kissing her like he’s trying to memorize a language he’s secretly fluent in. She answers with movement: the arch of her back, the press of her stomach to his, the deliberate way she hooks a knee a fraction higher and drags him closer. It knocks a rough sound out of him, something halfway between apology and triumph.
He pins her, careful with weight, gluttonous with want, and she smiles against him, eyes dark and sure: keep going.
He does. God, he does. He goes greedy in the ways he’s denied himself of: hands flattening to span her, mouth claiming and then gentling and then claiming again, building the heat, riding it, stoking it until they’re both drunk on more than hops and orchard fruit. The room could be on fire. The world could be. He’d still take another kiss, and another, and another, until there’s nothing left to want.
They find the bed by accident, shins bumping, Sam’s knees giving as he falls backwards, laughter catching in throats and turns back into kissing as she follows suit. A jacket slips; fabric skims skin and is forgotten. The sheets pull crooked, the mattress answering with a low, complicit groan.
She climbs over him, guiding his shoulders down, straddling his hips like she was always meant to be there. Her hair falls in a curtain that tickles his jaw; her hands spread on his chest, testing, ultimately claiming.
He feels the slick heat of skin where fabric used to be, the hard press of want that has nothing to do with alcohol and everything to do with her. His fingers bite into her waist, not to hold her back but to keep up, and the rhythm finds them- hesitant for a breath, then confident, then hungry; his hands learn new maps while hers dictate the route.
The bed starts to tell on them in small percussive notes- a creak, a knock, the hush of sheets dragged out of where she’d neatly tucked them. She leans forward, forehead to his, breath mingling until there’s no his or hers left, just the same rough panting and the same bright, dizzy pull toward the point where wanting turns into having. He holds her tight against him and feels her nestle in deeper, as if she could disappear into his chest; he thinks, wildly, that he’d let her.
Tomorrow he’ll be decent. Tomorrow he’ll be distance and wisdom and the man who says rein it in. Penance can wait twelve more hours.