As Erica continued cleaning the rooms, she felt a sudden urge to open the cabinet tucked behind the old bookshelf in the corner of the living room. The cabinet wasn't anything special, just an antique piece that seemed out of place in the otherwise rustic surroundings, but something about it called to her. As she pulled it open, her fingers brushed against a dust-covered photo album resting on a top shelf. Curiosity tugged at her, and she hesitated for a moment, wondering if she was invading something private.
It's just an album. What harm could it do? she reasoned, pulling it down and carefully opening it. She flipped through pages filled with faded photographs, the edges curling from age.
Her eyes stopped on a photo of a young Sam - his dark hair messy and his expression a mix of curiosity and mischief. He was being held in the arms of a woman who wasn't Aunt Nena. The woman was beautiful, with soft features and a gentle smile. A tear fell down Erica's cheek before she realized it, but what caught her attention most was the message written on the back of the photo: "I love you - Mom."
Her breath caught in her throat. Wait... Aunt Nena's not his mother? The realization struck her like a bolt of lightning. Everything she thought she knew about Sam felt suddenly incomplete. She flipped the photo back into the album and closed it with a soft click, feeling a rush of guilt. She hadn't meant to pry.
Just then, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall. Sam's familiar voice, muffled but steady, called from the door.
"Dinner's ready," he said, his tone calm but carrying a weight that seemed out of place for something as simple as a meal.
Startled, Erica scrambled to put the album back in the cabinet, closing it hastily and hoping Sam hadn't noticed. But as she turned around, she saw the familiar glint of his gaze, locking onto the album she'd hurriedly returned.
"So, you looked through Aunt Nena's album?" Sam's voice was level, but his eyes held an unreadable edge.
Caught, Erica felt her heart race. "I didn't mean to," she stammered. "I just... I saw the picture of you as a kid, and... I got curious." Her words felt weak, but she couldn't quite think of a way to explain herself better.
Sam's gaze softened ever so slightly, but he didn't smile. Instead, he let out a deep sigh and took a seat at the table, his shoulders slumped. There was a heaviness in his posture that made Erica's heart ache.
"So, you found out then," Sam said quietly, his voice almost a whisper. He looked down at his hands, his fingers absentmindedly tapping against the wood of the table. "About why I am the way I am."
Erica felt a knot tighten in her chest as she slowly moved to sit across from him, unsure of what to say. Why does he look so... defeated?
Sam stared at the table, his expression distant, as if the words were a struggle to find. "That woman... she was my mother. She was killed by a syndicate." His voice was barely audible, but the words hit Erica like a wave crashing against rocks.
"A... a syndicate?" she repeated, her throat dry.
Sam nodded, his face hardening. "Yeah. They wanted to take our land. My mom refused to give in to them, so they... took matters into their own hands." His voice trailed off as he looked away, his jaw clenching. The pain behind his words was so palpable that Erica felt a sudden lump form in her throat.
She reached across the table, her hand hovering for a second before resting gently on his. "Sam... I didn't know."
He shook his head slowly, eyes fixed on the floor as if he was trying to bury the memory deep inside. "It's not something I talk about much. But now you know."
The silence that followed was thick and heavy, but not uncomfortable. There was a quiet understanding between them, something unspoken but clearly present. Erica could see the depth of Sam's grief - his walls, carefully built over the years, now slightly cracked.
Erica wasn't sure how to respond. She could feel the weight of the past pressing down on him, but she didn't want to make him uncomfortable by pushing too hard. Instead, she squeezed his hand lightly, hoping her touch conveyed what her words couldn't.
"I'm sorry, Sam," she said softly, her voice full of empathy. "I can't imagine how hard that must have been."
He nodded, but the stoic mask quickly returned to his face, as though he were retreating into himself again. The moment of vulnerability had passed, but Erica could still feel the traces of it lingering in the air between them.
"Anyway," Sam said, clearing his throat, "you should eat. The food's getting cold." He withdrew his hand from hers and picked up his fork, though the tension was still present in his shoulders.
They ate in silence, the only sounds coming from the occasional scrape of silverware on plates. Erica stole glances at Sam as he ate, his face impassive, but his eyes seemed to hold a storm of emotion she couldn't fully understand. How does he carry all of that and still manage to keep it together?
As they finished, Sam stood up and walked to the bedroom, his movements slow, almost deliberate. He sat down on the edge of the bed and stared out the window, the soft glow of the evening light casting shadows across his face. Erica lingered at the doorway, watching him, her heart heavy with the knowledge of his pain. That's why he is the way he is.
She stood there for a long moment, the quiet of the house settling over her, but the stillness felt different now. It wasn't uncomfortable, but rather an understanding between them, one that she had never expected to find.
I wish I could help him, she thought, feeling the sharpness of her desire to reach out, to comfort him in some way. But Sam's walls were so thick, so firmly in place, that she wasn't sure where to even begin.
After a moment of indecision, Erica took a deep breath and stepped into the room, her footsteps quiet but purposeful. Sam didn't acknowledge her at first, but his gaze flicked toward her as she entered, as though he could sense her presence without needing to look.
She walked slowly toward him, hesitating for a moment before speaking. "Sam," she said softly, her voice almost a whisper, "I'm here, if you want to talk."
Sam turned his head toward her, his eyes searching hers for a moment before he gave a small, almost imperceptible shake of his head. "It's... not something I want to talk about," he replied quietly.
Erica nodded, understanding more than words could convey. "I just want you to know... I'm not going anywhere. And you don't have to carry it all alone."
The vulnerability in Sam's eyes flickered again, but he didn't say anything. He simply looked out the window again, his gaze distant as if lost in the memories of his past. Yet, there was something softer in his posture, something more open that made Erica feel a little less distant.
Maybe, just maybe, he's letting me in, little by little.
*****
Erica stood at the sink, the water running over her hands as she scrubbed the last of the dishes. She was tired - tired in a way she hadn't experienced before, the kind of exhaustion that comes from learning new things, adapting to a new life, and - surprisingly - finding some comfort in it. The small house was quiet, the evening light casting long shadows through the kitchen window.
As she reached for a knife to scrub off some leftover grease, her fingers grazed the sharp edge, and before she could react, the blade sliced through her skin.
She hissed in pain, her eyes widening as she stared at the cut on her palm, the blood starting to bead at the surface. The sting was sharp, but it was the suddenness of it that took her breath away.
"Ugh... stupid knife," she muttered under her breath, trying to shake off the shock of it. She grabbed a nearby towel to apply pressure, but it didn't seem to help much.
Just as the pain started to intensify, Sam's voice broke through her thoughts.
"What happened?" he asked, his footsteps quick as he appeared in the doorway. His face was etched with concern, his eyes scanning her hand before locking with hers.
"I just... cut myself," Erica replied, trying to sound nonchalant, but her voice betrayed her, a tremor of unease slipping through.
Before she could say anything else, Sam was at her side, gently taking her hand into his, inspecting the wound with the same careful attention he gave to everything he did. His touch was surprisingly gentle, the roughness of his calluses contrasting with the softness of his actions.
"Let me clean it," he said, his voice steady, and without waiting for her response, he went to the cabinet for a first aid kit.
Erica watched him, her heart unexpectedly fluttering in her chest. His movements were calm, practiced, and the warmth of his gaze when he looked up to meet hers made her pulse race. He was being so... tender.
"What are you doing?" Sam asked, catching her staring at him with wide eyes.
Startled, Erica snapped out of her thoughts and quickly looked away, feeling her cheeks flush. "Uh, it was - um, nothing. Yeah, just nothing." Her voice faltered, and she inwardly cursed herself. Why am I acting like this?
In her mind, though, she couldn't help but think, This guy pretends to be harsh and cold, but he's actually very caring.
Sam finished cleaning the cut and gently applied a bandage. Then, with a playful smirk, he pressed the bandage down a little too firmly, teasing, "Don't fantasize, princess."
Erica's eyes widened, her face heating up even more. She glared at him, irritation flaring. "I'm not!" she snapped.
Sam's grin only widened as he turned back to the sink to finish the dishes. "Sure you're not," he muttered, clearly enjoying her flustered reaction.
Erica folded her arms, trying to mask the way her heart was racing. What is with him? She watched him work for a moment, the silence between them no longer awkward, but comfortable in its own way.
Sam finished the dishes soon after, glancing over at her. Erica had sat down on the kitchen chair, her eyes already drifting closed. The soft hum of the evening seemed to lull her into a peaceful state, and before long, she had fallen asleep right where she sat.
Sam watched her for a moment, his gaze softening. He noticed the way her shoulders rose and fell with each slow, deep breath, the light from the nearby lamp casting a soft glow on her face. She looked so peaceful, so unguarded.
She really is beautiful, he thought, a sudden, unexpected ache blooming in his chest.
Without another word, Sam grabbed a blanket from the couch and quietly draped it over her, making sure she was warm enough. He lingered for a moment, standing over her and watching the steady rise and fall of her chest. The sight of her vulnerability made something in his chest tighten, a feeling he couldn't quite name but that he didn't want to leave.
As he turned to head back to the living room, he cast one last glance at Erica, taking in her serene face. I can't let her get hurt. Not again.
*****
The next morning, Sam woke to find Erica burning with a high fever. The sunlight filtered through the cracks in the curtains, and the warmth of the day seemed to make everything feel more intense. When Sam touched her forehead, the heat radiating from her skin made his stomach flip.
"Erica!" he called out, his voice sharp with panic. "Wake up!"
Erica stirred slightly, but her eyes remained closed. She mumbled incoherently, her breath coming out in shallow, feverish gasps. Sam's heart raced, a deep, overwhelming fear gripping him.
This can't be happening. Not now.
His mind raced as he thought of what to do. He moved quickly, grabbing a damp cloth and gently pressing it to her forehead. "Come on, you need to wake up," he urged softly, brushing her hair from her face. "You're burning up."
Her eyelids fluttered open, though her gaze was unfocused and glazed. "Sam?" she croaked, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah, it's me. You're really hot. I think you have a fever," he said, his tone full of worry and barely contained panic.
Erica blinked, trying to make sense of her surroundings. "I feel... so tired."
Sam's expression softened as he brushed a few strands of hair from her face. "I know," he said gently. "Just rest for now. I'll take care of everything."
Erica gave him a weak smile, her eyes fluttering closed again. "You don't have to..."
"I want to," Sam replied firmly, his voice steady. "Just relax, okay?"
He moved quickly to prepare her some light food, knowing it would be best to keep things simple for her while she recovered. But the worry gnawing at him wouldn't let go. I can't let her stay sick like this.
When he returned with the medicine and a bowl of soup, he gently helped her sit up enough to take the medicine.
"Here, take this. It'll help," he said, offering her the glass with a soft smile.
With a grateful smile, Erica accepted it. "Thank you, Sam. I really appreciate it."
Sam nodded, his relief evident. He watched her carefully as she took the medicine, his mind unable to shake the tightness in his chest. I just want her to get better.
After she finished, he stayed by her side, watching over her as she fell back into a fevered sleep. He didn't leave her once, making sure she was comfortable, keeping a damp cloth on her forehead.
As the quiet of the morning settled in, Sam couldn't help but think, I can't let her get hurt. Not again. But this time, it wasn't just about protecting her from physical harm - it was about something deeper. Something that had begun to settle in his heart, whether he liked it or not.
And for the first time, he wasn't sure if he even wanted to fight it.