#glassbxttless

There’s a quiet hum to the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead— almost indiscernible from the chattering in the hall all of which was a stark contrast to the quiet rustle of that worn in paper in Sam’s hands. He’s hunched over in that narrow medical cot, his leg propped up with thick bandages wrapped tightly around his thigh. The ache is a constant companion, sharp and unforgiving, but he’s learned to tune it out. Mostly. He thanks God that he’s the only one in the room. 

He unfolds that worn in, creased piece of paper. One of many you’ve sent him over the past few months. His fingers have traced your familiar handwriting so many times he thinks he knows your signature by heart. A soft smile tugs at his lips as he scans the letter, despite the pain he’s in. Your words are permanently etched into his mind— he knows that he could recite every line if he really wanted to— but reading them over, touching the same ink and paper you had your hands on, feels like he’s giving himself something to keep trying for. Something good. 

A nurse walks by, offering him a small nod as she passes, she asks if he needs anything. But Sam pays her no mind. He’s in his head, far from here— he’s sitting on that old, threadbare couch you two had gotten from a consignment store when you moved into your first apartment together. Whiskey, your very blonde, very happy, golden retriever baby girl, sprawled out on his lap. He’s listening to your laughter ringing through the living room at some dumb comic printed in the morning paper. You’d written about that day in your latest letter. It was one of his favorite memories. You had tucked a polaroid into the envelope with that letter of Whiskey with her tongue hanging out. Sitting in the sunlight streaming in from the window, blissfully unaware of anything happening to him beyond those walls. 

He glances down at the bottom of the letter, where you’ve drawn a little calendar with a countdown. Fifteen days. Yesterday, it was sixteen. Tomorrow, it’ll be fourteen. You had sent this one the minute you’d gotten the word he was in the hospital. And the thought alone of going home so soon makes his chest feel a little lighter. He’s gotta make it through fifteen days. Just fifteen more until he’s back home with you and with Whiskey. Fifteen more and he’d be sleeping in his bed, his arm draped around your middle and he’s determined to be ready.

He’s spent countless Christmas’, countless Easter’s, and countless summer barbecues at your parents and he’s hated every minute of it— having to listen to fight after fight break out over potato salad or the desserts not coming out properly, but he swears even all of that can’t even hold a candle to relearning how to walk. It’s embarrassing, it’s been the hardest thing he’s ever done. The pain doesn’t just throb when he stands— it claws up his leg and sinks into his fucking bones. Yet every morning, he swings his legs over the edge of his cot. His eyes linger out the window, watching the clouds as they pass by, and he plants his good foot on the ground. He braces himself and he sure as shit doesn’t let himself think about the day his life was almost taken from him. He doesn’t let himself dwell on the feeling of dirt and blood seeping in and from his wound. He can’t focus on the way everything seemed to blur at the edges. Instead, he counts— the steps he takes. The feet from the bed to the door. The days left until he can hold you again. Every step he takes forward means one less second he spends stuck in this God forsaken place.

When he comes back to Earth, the nurse— whose name tag says Abby— smiles at him again. “Can I get you anything?” she asks softly, her eyes glancing at the screens in his room. Sam just gives his head a little shake and folds the letter carefully. Trying not to rip the seams anymore than he had already— and he’s slipping it into the pocket of his duffel, where dozens more are crammed. Each one a moment in time. A sacred memory— a lifeline. He doesn’t care how worn they get or how many times he sees you scribble out I love you onto the page. He’ll treasure each one. They’re pieces of you, of the home he so desperately wants to be back in, and he needs those letters more than he needs air some days.

He looks at his duffel as Abby leaves the room. Exhaling slowly, he’s trying to loosen the tension knotted in his shoulders. He reaches over and pulls another letter from his duffel, careful with the worn paper. It’s a little older, one of the first ones you sent. Your handwriting is smudged in places, and he knows it’s from his own fingers tracing the words too many times. He doesn’t care. Every letter you’ve written to him is what has kept him going. They’re a reminder that you’re waiting for him back at home. 

Fifteen more days. It feels like an eternity. But he’s survived this long— he can fortunately survive a few more weeks. It’s just the waiting that kills him. The waiting for you. He’s stuck in this room most hours of the day. There are more than enough quiet stretches of time where his mind wanders to dark places he wishes it wouldn’t. He tries to keep himself busy, pushing through the pain during physical therapy. He keeps forcing his leg to try to work the way it’s supposed to. Some days, it’s a losing battle. Other days, he feels almost like the man he was before.

He takes one long look at the page in his hands, and again he folds this letter and slips it back into the duffel. He’s patting the pocket for good measure, a small smile on his face. A few of the guys wander past his room, one of them waving when he catches Sam’s eye. Sam lifts a hand in response, and he’s glad they didn’t stop— he’s too distracted for conversation right now.

After a moment, he pushes himself to his feet, wincing as his leg shoots a pain up his spine in protest. He grits his teeth, letting out a breath, and he takes a few careful steps. He’s determined to make it across the room without using the crutches propped against the wall. His physical therapist said he was making progress, but it never felt like it. It feels like his body is fighting him every step of the way. “Come on, Sam,” he sighs to himself, jaw clenched. “Get it together, fuck.” One step, then another. He’s trembling. He knows it’s not a pretty sight, and his gait is more of a limp now than a stride, but he’s doing it. He’s getting better for himself, for you. He thinks of you waiting for him back home. How you’d probably sat in the corner of the couch to write all of your letters, the knitted orange throw you just had to have pulled over your lap. Whiskey would be tucked up against your side. He thinks of your smile, your laugh as you’d read the letters he wrote back. They came few and far between. He even thinks of the way you’d roll your eyes when he was home and said something dumb just to make you laugh. He pushes forward, fueled by the thought of wrapping you up in his arms the moment he sees you. When he makes it to the window, he braces a hand against the sill, the other settling down on the bandages of his thigh. He lets out a shaky sigh, breathing through the ache in his leg. Outside, the sun is setting, casting the hospital in hues of orange and pink. He wonders what it looks like at home, if you’re watching the same sky.

Fifteen days. He can make it fifteen more days.

When Abby returns to check on him, Sam is still staring out the window. He’s leaning on the sill and wall more than he had intended. His fingers are brushing the locket he wears under his shirt these days. The one you so diligently packed away in his backpack. Abby offers him a gentle smile, not saying a word, just giving him space. She brings a chair over for him. Sam turns his head to smile at her thankfully. He sits, his gaze refocusing out of the window. He doesn’t really notice her leave the room this time— he’s too caught up in thoughts of the sky, of you, of being back home. Hell, he even thinks of Whiskey curled up between the two of you in your full size bed. That’s the first thing that’s gotta go— you two need at least a queen.

That fifteenth day comes quicker than Sam expects. He had been counting down so damn long that the reality of it feels almost like it’s some sick twisted dream. That he’ll be back to his first day back in the hospital. That he’d imagined this entire wait. His hands are a little shaky as he finishes tossing another t-shirt in and zipping up his duffel— making sure everything is tucked in just right. He straightens his back, taking a deep breath to calm his nerves. His leg pulsing with an ache he just wills himself to ignore. 

The quiet knock on the door pulls him from his thoughts. Erik pokes his head in, flashing a grin. “You ready, Sam? Bus leaves in ten.”

Sam just nods, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag. “Yeah, ready as I’ll ever be. Just making sure I didn’t forget anything here.”

Erik steps inside, giving him a once-over, head to toe. “You look like you’re about to shit yourself, man. You sure you’re good?”

“Yeah, just… nervous.” Sam rubs the back of his neck and lets out a sigh, he’s trying to play it cool and anyone close to him would know it’s just a façade. “It’s been a while since I’ve been home.”

Erik smiles a bit, giving him a light slap on the shoulder. It’s reassuring. A tap that shows just how much he cares for him. “Ain’t that the truth. You’ll be fine, though— yeah? Your girl’ll probably tackle you the second you step off the plane. I’ll have to be standing there to catch you two before you eat shit.”

Sam can’t help the smile that tugs at his lips and the laugh that tumbles out. “Yeah… I… I really wouldn’t put it past her.”

He slings the duffel over his shoulder and a few crumpled pieces of paper poke out of the side pocket. Erik catches sight of them and he lifts a brow. “What’s all that in there?”

Sam freezes for a second, and then shrugs, looking a little sheepish. A faint blush creeping up his neck and settling into his cheeks. “They’re just letters.”

“From home?” Erik asks softly. 

“Yeah.” Sam pulls one out, fingers brushing over the familiar handwriting. Your handwriting. He’s careful not to unfold it, he knows this letter by the little heart on the front— some things aren’t meant to be shared and this was one of them. “She sent ‘em every week. Sometimes more. Just… they kept me together, you know? Got to look forward to hearing about her life back at home every week.”

Erik’s eyes soften. “Damn, O’Brien. That’s… that’s really fucking sweet. You’re a sap.”

Sam scoffs, trying to hide how much the letters mean to him exactly. “Yeah… well. They really helped. Especially when things got rough… Especially in here.” He takes a look around the room before he shoves the letter back in the bag, making sure it’s secure. “I just… couldn’t bring myself to throw any of ‘em out.”

“Wouldn’t expect you to, man.” Erik smirks. “She must be one hell of a girl to put up with your cranky ass this long.”

Sam laughs again, “It’s been ten years. You have no idea. I don’t deserve her, but… shit, I’m so fucking lucky.”

Erik claps him on the back again, this time a little gentler. Putting his love into it. “You better get moving, lover boy. The plane’s not gonna wait and something tells me, she’s gonna hunt you and I both down if you miss it.”

Sam nods, giving the room one last look. It feels strange to be leaving after having spent so long here. But there’s no hesitation when he grabs his duffel bag and follows Erik out. As they make their way down the hall, Sam keeps his fingers loosely wrapped around the strap, right where the letters are tucked.

And you find yourself at the airport, it’s buzzing with chatter. There’s a mix of anxious energy and barely contained excitement from those around you. You’re surrounded by families; children, spouses, and life partners. Some are holding signs and others clutching flowers but they’re all waiting for the same thing— the sight of someone they’ve been missing for far too long. You’re standing towards the back of the crowd, bouncing on your toes. Your fingers come up to fiddle with the locket that’s never left your neck (not since Sam had given it to you all those years ago). Every time someone moves near the gate, your heart lurches forward— beating nearly out of your chest. Then, finally, the first few soldiers step through the doors, and the whole place erupts. People are crying, shouting names you can only vaguely recognize, bodies are running into open arms. Your own eyes scan the crowd desperately, searching for one familiar face, for your guy, and then— There he is.

Sam.

He looks tired, thinner than you remember him. Your breath catches in your throat as his eyes land on you. For a brief second, it’s like the whole world slows down. It’s only the two of you. There’s no loved ones crying, no hugs shared. It’s just the sight of Sam right in front of you. Then he’s moving closer, limping just a little bit as he's pushing through the crowd with single-minded determination. He has to get to you. 

You don’t even have to think— your feet move on their own accord. And suddenly you’re running to meet him halfway. You collide with his chest, almost knocking him over in the process. His arms wrap around your waist, squeezing tight enough to steal your breath. You bury your face in his shoulder, inhaling the scent of him— sweat, soap, the faintest hint of smoke clinging to that well loved hospital issued hoodie.

“Holy shit,” Sam mumbles, his lips pressed to your hair. A heavy hand leaving your waist to cradle the back of your head against him, “You’re fucking real. You’re actually here.”

You let out a sniffle, pulling back just enough to see his face through blurry eyes full of tears. Your hands move up from where they had been wrapped around his shoulders to cup his jaw. “You’re the one who looks like a fucking mirage. Are you sure you’re actually here?” He grins at that and leans in to kiss you— he’s soft at first, like he’s almost hesitant. Likes he’s not sure if this is all some twisted dream. And when he’s sure it’s not. That the weight under his hands is full and real— he’s moving, kissing you with hunger when you pull him closer. It’s messy and desperate. His hand still cradling your skull, his other had your hips pulled flush with his right in the middle of the gate. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care. You’ve waited too damn long for this.

Someone nearby clears their throat— Erik, maybe? He’s giving Sam a teasing shove on the shoulder. “Save it for later, O’Brien. We’ve got a whole welcome wagon here.” and Sam flips him off without even looking his way. He’s still smiling against your mouth, he can’t bring himself to pull away. You laugh. Your own hands sliding from his jaw to the back of his neck, tugging him in for one more kiss. When you pull away, you reluctantly step back to give him space. He keeps one arm wrapped around your waist, though, like he’s scared he’ll wake up and this will all be the dream he was dreading if he lets go. And once the initial chaos of families reuniting dies down, the two of you manage to make your way to your car. Sam leaning on you the entire way just enough to ease the strain on his leg.

“I would’ve brought a damn wheelchair if I knew you’d be this stubborn,” you tease as you open the passenger door, letting him sink down into the seat. 

He scoffs, turning at the waist to drop his bag into the back. You smile at the letters peeking their way out of the side pocket, well worn and well loved. “No way. I’m not letting my girl push me around like a geriatric patient. I’m good, babe. Swear.”

You roll your eyes at the way he tries to ease your mind, but there’s a warmth blooming deep in your chest. He’s still your Sam— stubborn as hell, but yours. The drive home is a quiet one, both of you soaking in the silence. You're just happy to be in the same space again. You steal glances at him at each red light, noticing the way his shoulders relax more and more the closer you get to home. And when you finally pull into the driveway, Sam huffs out a relieved laugh. His eyes are just scanning over the front of the little brick home you two had bought. It’d been almost three years since then. “Goddamn. Never thought I’d be so happy to see this place again.”

You round the car and help him out of the passenger seat, ignoring his muttered protests. Swinging his duffel over your shoulder, you shoot him a wink as you walk up the sidewalk to unlock the front door. As soon as it swings open, you hear a ruffle and the tap tap tap of nails on hardwood. Whiskey jumps from her spot on the couch and lunges towards the door at the familiar smell. She’s practically launching herself at Sam.

“Oh, shit— hey, baby!” Sam drops to one knee, wincing slightly. But he’s burying his hands in the fur near Whiskey’s collar, as the dog whines and licks his face like she’s trying to make up for lost time. Sam laughs, his eyes crinkling as he smiles so fucking big. Hems scratching behind Whiskey’s ears. “Damn, I missed you too. You still slobber like a damn faucet.”

You turn to let the front door click shut, smiling. Then you’re reaching down to take your shoes off and place them on the rack next to the door. “See? She didn’t forget you. You had nothing to worry about. Maybe I should’ve warned you about the ambush though, been telling her daddy’s coming home for days now.”

Sam grins up at you, looking happier than he has in months. He is happier. He’s home with his girl, with their family— “It’s fine. Better than any welcome home I could’ve imagined.”

You can’t help but laugh as you watch Sam and Whiskey, you lean back against the stained glass window of the front door with your arms crossed. “I can see she’s your favorite now.” you let out a dramatic sigh. “I should probably go pack up my stuff and make room for hers in the closet.”

Sam rolls his eyes, pushing Whiskey’s face away with a gentle hand on her snout as she tries to lick into his mouth. “You’re just jealous ‘cause she likes me more than you.” He glances up at you, eyes twinkling as that age old joke— of Whiskey’s favorite parent— between the two of you hangs back in the air. You missed it. “Besides, babe. She didn’t write me any love letters or send me nudes. You’ve got the edge.”

“Oh, wow, what an honor,” you deadpan, rolling your eyes. “I can’t believe I managed to beat a dog in the battle for your affection. Truly a victory.” 

Sam grins, finally managing to stand again. He’s shaky and you notice the way his leg trembles. He catches you looking and he puts on a soft smile, wiping his hands on the thighs of dark wash denim. “I’m good,” he mumbles, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

You hum, stepping closer to him until your hands slide over his shoulders. “You know…” You start to speak, your finger brushing over his chest. “If you need help getting to the couch, I might be able to make room in my busy schedule.”

“Oh, fuck off,” he laughs but there’s no bite to it. He’s pulling you against him. Hips to hips. Flush. You can feel every twitch of his muscles . “I’ve been walking on my own for weeks now. I don’t need a damn babysitter.”

“Oh, you’re definitely getting babied, Sam,” you tease, pressing a kiss to his cheek. But you linger there, letting out a gentle sigh. “You don’t get a choice in the matter. I haven’t seen you in months, you almost got yourself killed, just… let it happen.”

Sam’s hands find your waist again, his eyes scanning over your face as you pull back to meet his gaze. And just as you go to open your mouth again, he’s kissing you— it’s longer this time, a little rougher than you anticipated. He’s kissing you like he’s been waiting his whole life to do it. When he pulls back, his lips curve into that crooked smile you fell in love with almost a decade ago, a little chipped tooth he’s never bothered to fix (because you thought it was cute). “God… I really missed kissing you. You’ve got no idea how many times I just sat there in that fucking hospital, thinking, ‘Fuck, I’d kill for just one kiss right now.’”

You smile at his words, brushing your fingers over the velvety expanse of Sam’s buzzed hair. “Yeah?” You start, a little giggle pulling its way from your chest, “Bet you sweet-talked that picture I sent then too, huh?”

Sam lets out a laugh, unashamed. His eyes were twinkling as his hands rub up and down your back. “Damn right I did. When a guy’s got one picture in the spank bank to get him through a shitstorm, he’s gotta make it count.”

You roll your eyes, your face feeling hotter than usual, but your smile doesn’t falter one bit. “You seriously kept that thing on you the whole time? It wasn’t even the best one.”

But then his hands are leaving you and he’s reaching into his jacket, pulling that stupid little folded up polaroid out from his inside pocket. He’s turning his eyes towards you, holding it up between his index and middle fingers with a lopsided grin. The edges are worn, the colors faded from being unfolded and refolded too many times, the folds were starting to rip a bit… but you could clearly see your tits on display. “What can I say?” He almost giggles, “Kept it close to the heart. Got me through a lot of long nights.”

You tug it from his fingers, turning it towards you as you unfold it carefully under his gaze. You examine it with a smile, feeling that familiar heat crawl up your spine. “Looks like it’s been through hell.” You say softly. 

Sam shrugs, tilting your head up with a finger under your chin. He’s leaning back in to nip at your bottom lip. “Yeah, well… so have I. At least I came back in one piece.” At those words, your hands slide around his shoulders. One hand rests against the nape of his neck, and he groans when you squeeze there just a little. You remember when Sam’s hair was just a bit longer, when you could tug on it and elicit the same noises. You’re deepening the kiss, tilting your head to slot against his lips more comfortably. He pulls you flush against him once more, his hands firm on your hips. He was holding you like he was trying to make up for every single second of time lost. His lips trail down your jaw to your neck, peppering small kisses as his eyelashes tickle against your cheek, and you can’t help the breathy laugh that escapes. “Christ, I really fucking missed you,” he mutters against the skin of your neck, his voice rough, completely love drunk.

“I can tell,” you tease him, your hands sliding from his shoulders to press against his chest. You can feel the steady beat of his heart against your fingers, and it puts a smile on your face. “You’re acting like you’ve never kissed me before.”

“Feels like I haven’t,” he admits softly, his kisses trail back up your neck and he nips at your earlobe. “Gonna take me a while to make up how much I’ve missed you. Hope you don’t have anywhere to be, baby.”

“Nowhere that’s more important than this,” you admit. And you mean it. You’re pulling him back to kiss you again— it’s slower this time. His lips are softer than you remember. He’s taking his time relearning every curve of your mouth. Every single touch of his hands against your skin sends your head in a spiral. And he doesn’t stop trying to get reacquainted with your kiss, your body, until his leg starts to give out. He’s pulling away and hissing out softly, the pain flashing across his face. You immediately steady him, slipping an arm around his waist. “Hey… You okay?” 

“Fuck,” he sighs; half annoyed and half embarrassed. “Leg’s being a little bit of a bitch today.”

“Maybe that’s because you’re acting like you didn’t just get off a six hour flight after months of, you know, not walking,” you quip, playfully glaring at him. And then you’re guiding him to the couch.

He rolls his eyes, but there’s a loving smile on his face as he sinks down onto those familiar cushions. It’s his spot. Whiskey’s blanket curled up on the opposite corner. “You gonna lecture me, or kiss me again?” He tilts his head a bit to look at you, that little lopsided grin reappearing. 

You sit beside him, nudging his shoulder. “Can’t I do both?”

He smirks, reaching out to pull you closer. “I’d rather the latter.”

And when he kisses you this time, his hand cradles your jaw. He’s slower now, more deliberate with his touching, with his lips— you know he’s trying to make sure you know just how much he missed you. Your hand splays across the chest of that hoodie and you can feel his heartbeat gradually picking up under the fabric. And for the first time since he walked off that plane, it really sinks in. He’s fucking home. He’s safe. He’s right where he belongs. Sam leans back against the couch, his hand dropping from your jaw to your waist. And he’s pulling you back with him until you’re straddling his lap. His hands find their home on your hips once more. He’s got a little smile on his face as you pull back, “What?” you ask, arching your eyebrow up.

“I just… can’t believe you’re real,” he says, his hands sliding from your waist up your sides. “Swear to God, I thought I was dreaming when I saw you at the airport. Been so fucking long. Almost lost my shit when I realized it wasn’t some fucked-up hallucination.”

You laugh, eyes glinting under the lamp light next to you. You’re tracing your fingers along his stubbled jawline. “Guess I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Oh, it definitely fucking is,” he chuckles, leaning up to kiss you again. Now he’s rougher, kissing you deeper. Slotting his lips against yours. His hands slide under your shirt, warm and calloused against your soft skin. You can feel his fingertips twitch slightly— like he’s still not convinced you’re really here. You pull back just enough to straighten your back, gripping the hem to tug your shirt up and over your head, letting it drop to the floor behind you. Thank God you decided on no bra today. Sam’s eyes widen, and he sucks in a breath, making you feel a faint heat creeping up from your chest and you laugh— almost embarrassed.

“Holy shit,” he deadpans, eyes fixed on your bare skin— the way your nipples pebble up under the cool air. “It’s been so fucking long since I’ve seen boobs in person, I think I might cry.”

You laugh, swatting at his shoulder. “You’re such a loser.”

He grins, running his hands up your sides and a hand settles right over your left breast. He squeezes gently as he leans in to brush his lips over your collarbone. “I’m so serious, babe. Thought I’d forgotten what they looked like. Damn near threw a party for myself when I saw that picture.” You’re still laughing when his kisses trail up your neck from your collarbone. Each of the kisses, a little softer than the one before. He squeezes again, kneading your breast gently. His thumb tracing slow circles along the underside, his index finger brushing over your nipple. He’s so warm against you— his chest radiating heat and you want that hoodie off. When he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes hooded and his smile hazy… his expression is softer than before. “You’re even prettier than I remembered,” his voice is low, like that was a secret he never had meant to admit. 

“Yeah?” you tease, brushing your fingers over the chest of his hoodie. You ruck up the bottom, if you’re topless— he can be topless too. But he doesn’t move to make it any easier to pull off. “You sure you didn’t just forget what I looked like? Stared at my boobs too long instead?” 

“Oh, fuck off,” he laughs, but the words aren’t convincing. He kisses your shoulder, then the dip just above your collarbone. “No way I’d forget what you look like. But shit, it’s better in person. Way fucking better.” You kiss him again, your fingers curling against the fabric of the hoodie that is still on. He hums against your mouth, hands sliding back from your breasts to your back. He’s kissing you like he’s got all the time in the world and every time he pulls away, it’s just long enough to catch his breath before diving back in. He brings one of his hands between your bodies to start working it into your  sweat pants. His other hand sliding down to settle on your ass. Whiskey wanders over, sniffing at Sam’s leg and nudging his hand. Sam pulls back from the kiss, groaning. “Whiskey,” he mutters, looking down at the retriever, who just wags her tail. “Come on, baby. Give us a minute.”

You let out a giggle, bringing your hand away from his chest to give Whiskey a pat on her head. You use the back of your hand to gently nudge her away. And Sam waits until she pads off up the stairs. You turn back to him, his eyes crinkling with a smile. “Good girl,” he calls up the stairs after her before he’s focusing on you again. “Now, where were we?” You don’t get a chance to respond to the question before he’s kissing you again. He’s truly kissing the air out of your lungs. His hands find your ass, squeezing as he pulls you as close as he possibly can. He’s relaxing under your touch. He breaks the kiss again just to look at you, and he’s grinning like an idiot. You’d be annoyed if he wasn’t so pretty. “You know, I was worried I’d be too fucking broken to fuck you like I ought to. But right now, I’m thinking I’m in pretty good shape.”

That pulls a laugh from deep in your belly. You’re moving your hand from his chest to cradle his cheek, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone gently. “I didn’t expect sex this soon, sweetheart.”

He scoffs rolling his eyes as he presses his forehead to yours. “Are you fucking kidding? I’ve been thinking about you non-stop. If I can’t handle sex, I might as well turn in my man card.” You laugh, shaking your head as you lean back into a kiss. Your hands still on his face, his still on your ass. He squeezes the flesh through the fabric of your sweats and he pulls you closer, shifting your position in his lap. He winces and draws in a sharp breath. Immediately you pull back, concern washing over your face.

“Sam,” you say softly— grabbing his attention, “are you okay?”

He takes a shaky breath. That bone clawing pain rushing up his spine. So he forced a smile. “Yeah, just… fuck, leg’s acting up.”

You slide off his lap, moving to stand next to the sofa. You help him lie back against the couch cushions— his head resting against a pillow propped against the couch arm. “Maybe we take a break, yeah? We’ve got plenty of time. You don’t have to push yourself.”

He lets out a laugh, sighing as he shakes his head. “I’m not pushing anything, babe. Just… forgot for a second that my leg’s a pain in the ass.” He pats the sliver of space beside him. “C’mere. I… I just wanna hold you for a bit.” So you squeeze in next to him. Your head settling on his bicep as you curl into his side. Reaching behind the two of you, he grabs that orange knit blanket and drapes it over your bodies. And then he wraps his other arm around you, sandwiching you in. He kisses the top of your head, letting out a contented sigh. “I missed this,” he whispers, his fingers tracing little circles? no, hearts— on your arm. “I missed you.”

You relax against him, letting out a breath. You could feel your heart finally slowing to a steady beat to match the one in his own chest. He’s home. And right now, it’s enough just to be wrapped up in each other’s arms. It’s enough to be sharing soft kisses and whispered jokes right here on your sofa. It’s enough to be letting the world outside your little bubble fade away.

“I- I know this is the third time I’ve done this, so I don’t know if you’ll get this voicemail, but I have to do it. I can’t keep recording message over message again. I’ve... I’ve just gotta say it. I know that what happened between us wasn’t fair, it wasn’t right, and fuck- I’m an idiot. My work’s important. Like, save the world, important. You’ll be a hero, Dan. But I can’t hold it in anymore. I can’t stop thinking about you... I fucking love you. I fucking love you and I’ll- I’ll be damned if I don’t tell you that again. I’m sittin’ here in my car just crying like an idiot because I fucking miss you and your cuddles, the way you’d always care about everyone, and damn... you looked at me like I was some sort of Saint... and, I- I just...” 

His voice is cut off as you register a sniffle through the receiver, then another, and you can tell two things from his voice: one, he’s been crying, and two... he’s drunk. Clearly, he thinks he’s leaving a voicemail, and while you wish you could let him ramble on and pretend it is... the sigh you release prevents it. Your heart aches, chest tight as you shift in bed, tongue wetting your dry lips in thoughts. The thing is, you’d dated Dan for nine months. That might not seem like a long time to some, but it felt like forever between the two of you. The first four had been blissful; lots of dates on the weekend, a genuine connection sparked between you and him. However, he’d been tasked with a new project as of recent, and the past five months had been nothing but silence. Time spent together was filled with fights and stress, and while you truly believe you’d fallen for him... Dan seemed all too consumed with his work. 

Work is important, and you know what Dan is doing for the government is crucial... but the secrecy... the absence of explanation, there becomes a point when it’s just too much. Worse came to worse and eventually you couldn’t take it, you had to cut him off. His partners were open about the work-life balancing struggle, how they’d missed their kid’s birthdays, and some holidays. You’d accepted their reassurances for months. Eventually, you felt that time was passing you by. Almost half a year with barely any time spent together, any dates... nothing. Now, a week after your breakup, Dan’s calling you at who knows what time in the morning.

“Dan,” your voice comes out hoarse, a hint of grogginess clueing him in on your state.

“Did I wake you? I didn’t mean to- I- I’m sorry,” he interjects, another sniffle heard.

“You know why we...” the words die on your tongue. It hurts. The image of Dan sitting in his car outside some bar in Alexandria crying because of how much he misses you. “It’s not fair. You can’t call me at-” you pull back your phone to try and look at the screen, the bright light blinding you.

“-two fifty-six,” he answers for you.

“-two fifty-six in the morning,” you place it back against your ear and sigh, “and just tell me that you love me.” The now-familiar feeling of your heart welling up in your chest threatens to raise tears.

“But I do... I fucking love you, and letting you go was the stupidest thing I’ve ever done,” he argues, words not as slurred as earlier. Chewing on your lip, you mentally debate your options. Sleep curls around the edge of your mind and makes this more of a struggle.

“Even if that’s true,”

“-it is.”

“-if you’re serious... I want you to hang up, Dan. I need you to hang up and tell me this when you’re sober,” you respond, eyes shut as you hope and pray that this isn’t a fluke. For once, just once... let things go right. There’s shuffling on the other end of the line, the sound of fabric shifting, and a grumble in thought. A few moments pass in silence. The tension builds in your chest at the hope and prospect of either feeling relieved or having your heart crushed a second time. Dan finally hums in affirmation and there’s the familiar click of the line going dead. Releasing the breath you’d been holding, you let yourself breathe freely and clutch the phone to your chest. 

There’s a chance he’ll feel differently in the morning, that possibly, he’ll regret even having this conversation with you (if he remembers it). Yet... you’re hopeful for some reason; hopeful that Dan’s changed his ways, he’s willing to try harder this time. Maybe there is a future for you both... just maybe.

--------

You chuckle just a little at the surprise in his voice, and even Paterson’s dimples make an appearance.

“I think last year it was three hours before we even got to eat.” He says, his eyes flicking up to Doc’s in the rearview to give him a friendly smile, “But that was because my cousin kept interrupting.”

“Three hours?” Doc groans,  “Pat tell me you’re joking. I haven’t eaten all day!”

To prove his point, a loud stomach growl sounds from the backseat, and Paterson’s smile turns into a full on chuckle of his own, as you’re doing your best to not encourage him too much over in your seat. In your lap is a big Tupperware of matzah toffee, a coveted recipe that you’re tempted to let Doc try now to hold the poor man over.

“No one told you to fast.” Paterson says, his voice soft and only a little teasing, “Only the first-born in every family fasts the night before Passover.”

“Wish I had known that now, I’m starving.” Doc grumbles, his normal steady mood shifting into something a little exasperated when he wonders aloud, “What even are these fifteen steps?”

“Do you really want to know or are you just asking to ask?” You ask, finally breaking your silence. You love telling people all about Seder, love talking about the holiday. It’s one of Paterson’s favorites too, and his eyes practically light up at the thought of getting to teach his friend.

“No I want to know.” Doc scratches the back of his neck, “I did some reading but…”

“Well, it starts with the Kadesh.” You let Paterson take the lead, loving the way the deep rumble of his voice soothes your ears. He explains, “It’s a blessing over the first cup of wine, and to commemorate and sanctify the holiday. Then there’s the Urchatz, a ritual hand-washing to cleanse ourselves before we begin.”

Paterson drives steadily, carefully through the trees, remembering how he had always dreaded the next step. You pinch at his nose playfully when it crinkles up, his expression endearing.

“Next comes the Karpas, the first food that we get to eat although it isn’t really…food food. It’s a piece of green vegetable, I think we’re using parsley this year?” Paterson asks, looking at you. Sometimes you used celery, but Paterson’s mom liked to switch it up every other year. You nod, and he continues, “We dip it in salt water to represent the tears our people shed while enslaved in Egypt.”

“Damn, you guys don’t mess around huh?” Doc lets out a laugh at that, and you’re inclined to agree.  

“Trust me, it gets way more dramatic.” You say, while Paterson tries to figure out how to find the detour for some road work ahead of him, “Then there’s the Yachatz, where the first piece of matzah is broken in half. The larger piece of matzah is called the afikomen, and is hidden somewhere in the house for the kids to find at the end.”

“Aw that’s pretty cute actually.” Doc smiles, and Paterson beams. He can’t wait until he has children of his own to go running through the house, wreaking havoc.

“Some families do it where the kids have to steal it off the Seder leader’s lap without them noticing, which is also really funny.” You nod, because you also agree, “But it usually distracts the kids during the Maggid, so we personally don’t do it.”

“The Maggid?”

“It’s the longest part of the Seder, this is when we read the long and drawn out story of our Exodus.” Paterson explains, “All the plagues, the slaughter of the first born – ”

“They get slaughtered and they have to fast?” Doc interrupts with raised eyebrows, “That sucks for firstborns.”

“Then we wash our hands again with the Rachtzah,” Paterson only continues with a smirk, glad that his older brother Paul has to wear the brunt of that responsibility. Nevermind that they’re twins, he’s older by two minutes, “And we’re not allowed to talk, it’s a silent hand-washing.”

“Oh do we get to eat now?” Doc’s eyes light up, as his stomach growls again.

Successfully navigating away from the road-block, you and Paterson exchange an apologetic glance.

“No,” He shakes his head, “Then we break the second matzah while saying the Motzi.”

“And then we eat the Maror, the bitter herb.” You add on, “This signifies the bitterness of slavery. Again. But after that we get to eat the Hillel sandwich.”

“Oh thank god – ”

“It’s bitter herb sandwiched between two pieces of matzah.” Paterson squashed Doc’s hopes before he even has a chance to get them too high.

“Dammit!” Doc laughs, feeling like this is the dinner that never ends. He isn’t entirely wrong, but there is relief on his face when Paterson pulls up to the drive-way, and you unbuckle your seat belt, turning over your shoulder to smile at him.

“After that you get to eat though.” You wink.

“For real this time?” Doc asks cautiously, making Paterson nod with a grin.

“For real.” He clips a yarmulke to his hair like the good boy he is, “And I promise it’s worth it.”

The three of you get out of the car, and you make sure that you have everything that you need before going in. Doc looks a little hesitant, eyeing the house that already has music and happy chatter sounding from the slightly open window.

“What do we do after we eat?” Doc asks, his hands in his pocket.

“The kids hunt for that piece of matzah, we do a final blessing after we eat called the Barech, invite a ghost in to come hang out with us and protect us, and then we sing songs.” You offer him a hand for him to hold, knowing that he must feel a little intimidated by it all.

Seder was intimidating for a lot of people, even those who had celebrated it for years. But then again, rituals are meant to be shared with family and friends, and you’re just glad Doc wanted to see for himself what it was all about.

“Did you say ghost?” Doc immediately blinks, making you laugh – it really was a silly part of the tradition, but an important one nonetheless.

“His name is Elijah, he’s really nice.” Paterson locks the car door and “When Elijah leaves though, we drink another glass of wine and dance. But by that point usually everyone is trashed enough that we all black out on the couch. It all depends.”

Approaching the front step, Doc takes in a deep breath. You slip him a piece of matzah toffee that he happily accepts, eagerly eating the dessert. His face lights up when he tastes how delicious it is, and he can’t help but smile.

“This sounds like one helluva dinner Pat, I gotta say.” Doc sounds almost impressed, that something so elaborate continues to be observed year after year after year.

“Are you ready to find out for yourself?” Paterson asks, gently nudging Doc with his elbow in a friendly gesture.

“If there’s more of this,” Doc points to the matzah toffee, “Then I’m more than ready.”

The three of you grin and Paterson steps through the threshold with your hand securely held in his, as the family welcomes you all and gives a most warm welcome to Doc, who finds that by the end of Seder after four full glasses of wine on an empty stomach, it is one helluva dinner indeed.

                                                   -------------------

You were halfway through reorganizing the chew toy section for the second time that day, when the bell over the front door jingled louder than you’re used to. Tuesdays were slow, only one or two customers had trickled in that morning and not one of them had been Sam, a regular Tuesday flyer— and you still had four hours of your shift left to go. Agnes looked up from her stool at the register at the sound, eyes squinting beneath her glasses like she was already preparing to pull out a special brand of unimpressed. You peeked around the endcap, your hands curled around a kong ball, just in time to see who had apparently unknowingly earned her wrath today.

Not Sam O’Brien, that was for sure.

This guy was taller, face softer around the edges. He had a beat up navy hoodie on, with the sleeves tugged low. You could see the frayed hem and the hole in the armpit each time he moved his arm forward slightly. His cheeks were pink like he’d either jogged here or he just existed in a state of permanent embarrassment. He looked skittish, like he’d been placed in an environment that definitely wasn’t normal for him. You watched as his chest rises and falls as he takes a deep breath before approaching the counter. He pushes a hand over the slightly overgrown buzz cut on his head before offering the smallest, most polite smile you’d ever seen survive Agnes’ attitude. His voice is nervous, a bit of a shake as each word tumbles from his lips, “Hi, um… I’m here to pick up an order for Sam? Sam O’Brien. For his dog. Whiskey.”

You step a little closer, pretending to busy yourself with a box as Agnes narrowed her eyes. “You’re not Sam.”

That makes him huff out a laugh, and he’s bringing his hand up— scratching at the back of his neck. You wanted to hear that laugh again and again. “No, ma’am. Definitely not. Thomas— I mean, Tommy. Tommy’s fine. He asked me to grab it since I was already in town.” His eyes divert towards the counter for just a moment before he’s looking up at Agnes, his cheeks still tinted pink but there’s a wide grin spread across them. 

Agnes sighs, loud and annoyed. “About damn time. Order’s been sitting since last week. Dog’s gonna think we forgot about her.”

You tried not to smile as you wandered even closer, the box you’d been fussing with now long forgotten. Moving on, you’re pretending to organize the treats now. You could get a good look at him now. Tall, broad shoulders, the hoodie just a little too short on him. You thought you might’ve seen Sam in a similar one. His hair was blonde. And the second Agnes turned to get the order slip you could see him visibly begin to relax— those shoulders rolling back and loosening, that quiet little smile settling in again. Cheeks still pink as ever. 

Cute. He was really fucking cute.

Agnes heaves herself up after tugging the order slip off the back counter. She’s muttering something about her “damn hip” and pointed toward the back, where two very large bags of dog food sat next to the break room door. “It’s those two fifty-pound salmon and pumpkin bags by the door.” She takes a look out the window next to the register, seeing Tommy’s vehicle was the only one there, “You can bring your truck ‘round back.”

He gives a curt nod, slipping his hand into his hoodie pocket to pull his keys out. But before Tommy could turn, you step up and tap his arm lightly. You’re biting down on the inside of your cheek so hard you could cry, but fuck this is what playing it casual has to look like. “I can help you load it, if you want.”

He looks at you. He’s really taking you in. He’s surprised for half a second, and then something softer is settling behind his eyes. That same little nervous ass smile that’s been on his face since he walked in— but now it’s growing, it’s all teeth and red cheeks. He was looking at you like he didn’t quite believe you could help him load it, but he appreciated the offer anyway.

“Thanks,” he says softly, voice gentle albeit his exterior looked anything but gentle. “But I’ve got it. Appreciate the offer, though.” He smiled, like maybe he was the type to find genuine offers kind of sweet. He gives you a nod as he walks out, sliding into that old red beat up Ford F-10. He pulls the truck around back and smiles at Agnes as she lets him through the back door. 

You busy yourself right in front of the break room— maybe you had work to do there or maybe you just want to watch the way he handles two fifty-pound bags like they weigh nothing at all. He shoots Agnes a grin, a quick thank you. And if his eyes catch yours while he’s turning to leave, you’re none the wiser. 

Tommy backs into Sam’s driveway nice and slow— not wanting to clip the flower beds and get his ass chewed out like the last time. He’s throwing it in park, heading around the back to tug the tailgate down— those big-ass bags of dog food still riding solo in the back. He can hear Whiskey barking before he even took two steps down the flower lined walkway— that pitchy and whiny bark Sam always complained about, echoing through the cracked front windows.

He takes the two steps up to the front porch, lifting his hand to knock. But the front door swings open before he even gets a chance to. “You took your sweet goddamn time getting back,” Sam chuckles, a grin spread ear to ear. “Whisk thought you ran off with her dinner.”

“Think she can wait just a few more minutes. Said this has been sitting there a week,” Tommy huffs as he heads back down the path, hauling one of the bags out over his shoulder with a loud grunt.

Sam chuckles and rolls his eyes, taking a step out onto the porch to get a better view. From the doorway, Sam’s girl— standing bare feet, comfy T-shirt, hair up— watched, smiling at the sight of them. “Hey, Tommy!” She sends a little wave his way as Whiskey nuzzles at her legs. 

“Afternoon, Mrs. O’Brien,” he responds politely, giving her a small nod as he huffs out a breath. Tossing one of the bags down inside the door with a soft thud before he repeats the entire thing with the second. Sam’s girl has a hand on that little pink collar around Whiskey’s neck to keep her from darting. She was practically vibrating with excitement, her tail a blur. The only person she loved more than Sam and his girl? was Tommy. 

“Oh, don’t encourage him, sweetheart,” Sam mutters, pressing a kiss against her shoulder as he steps back over the threshold to help slide the bags into their usual spot, limp and all. “He’s trying to marry us off before I even propose.”

“She’s put up with you long enough, hasn’t she?” Tommy asked, shaking his head just a bit as he let out a chuckle. 

Sam barks out a laugh at that, shooting him a grin. “Barely.”

Tommy watches as Sam’s girl steps around them to start putting away the dog food into the bins in the cabinet. Sam kisses her head and then he’s leading Tommy back out onto the porch. Sam’s stretching then, and Tommy is letting his hands settle into the front pocket of his hoodie. They stand there for a moment, comfortable with the quiet growing between them before Tommy asks, all red cheeked and curious, “Hey, so… that stocker at the shop— how long’s she been working there?”

Sam gave him a sharp look out the corner of his eye as he leans against the banister railing. “What, the cute one with the freckles? or the one who looks like a 2003 Hot Topic threw up all over them?”

Tommy flushed instantly. “Uh….” He mutters something else as he looks away, but he’s smiling. Barely. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. But it’s enough for Sam to notice.

So Sam does what any other older brother would do, he elbows him a little too hard in the ribs and turns up the teasing to ten. “Aw, buddy. You got a little crush on Pet Shop Polly?”

“I just asked a question.”

“And I’m just saying you look like you want to write her a thank-you card for making eye contact with your sorry ass.” Sam chuckles and crosses his arms over his chest. Tommy doesn’t miss the way he shifts his weight to his good leg. 

Tommy chuckles and rubs the back of his neck. “You’re such a dick.”

“Yeah, and she’s really sweet. Way outta your league.” He rolls his eyes and takes another look at Tommy. Head to toe.

Tommy finally laughs then, full and warm, his cheeks getting even redder. “Shut up, man.”

“You shut up.” Sam counters and shakes his head, “You should go back, man. I’ll even let you take Whiskey with you. Can say she demanded to thank her personally. Been wanting a little time with the missus anyway.”

“That’s dumb.”

Sam grins, ear to ear like he’s just cracked the code into getting Tommy a girlfriend. “Yeah maybe, but it's the best excuse you’ve got.”

The next evening Tommy sits in his truck for a solid two minutes after parking before he works up the nerve to go inside. Whiskey’s beside him in the passenger seat. She’s sitting proud, leash clipped to her little pink harness like she had any clue that he was trying to use her to get laid. She looked thrilled. Tommy knew her walks with Sam were getting shorter each day. But while Whiskey just wants to get out of the house, sniff around a little— Tommy looks like he was trying to do calculus in his head in the front seat of his truck. “She’s not gonna care,” he mutters like he knows literally anything about you, he’s rubbing his palms against his jeans, willing them to dry before he steps out. “You’re just… bringing the dog in to say thanks. It’s not weird. Not weird at all.”

Whiskey let out a yawn and a long sigh, “Great,” he sighed. “You’re the perfect wingwoman, Whisk.” He finally clambers out, pink leash in his hand. And he nudges the door open with his shoulder. The bell above the door jingled again, loud and tinny. Enough to make Whiskey growl out in annoyance.

You glance up from the aisle you were stocking. Agnes is on her break and you were the only one on shift right at the moment. You’ve got a bag of dental chews in one hand and a price gun in the other. You weren’t expecting anyone to come in this late, certainly not him— with the world’s happiest golden retriever happily trotting alongside.

Tommy gives a little wave in your direction. “Hey.”

“Hey,” you smile, definitely surprised but not unhappy. You had never seen him in the store before yesterday. You place the things in your hands down on the cart in front of you, grinning, “Did Sam already run out of dog food?”

“No, uh… Whiskey just wanted to say thank you. You know. For the food.”

You blinked, starting to feel hot from your toes, upward. “She did?”

Tommy nods, really trying his best not to look as nervous as he felt. And he was spectacularly failing at it. “Yeah. She defininitely said thank you.”

You grin, biting back a laugh as Whiskey sits down at your feet and gives you the most slobbery, expectant stare imaginable. You can’t resist. “Well,” you said, crouching a little to give her a scratch behind the ears, “she’s very polite.”

“She gets it from Sam,” Tommy jokes and your laugh brings a smile to his eyes. Tommy looks more than a little relieved at the sound, and then clears his throat. “Honestly, I just figured I didn’t, uh… say thank you properly. For offering to help me yesterday. It was super nice.”

“You didn’t have to come all the way down here to do that.”

“I know I didn’t have to. But I wanted to.” Tommy shrugs, that same little smile on his face. Like he doesn’t know exactly how it’s been rewiring your brain for the last 24 hours.  

You stand up, brushing your hands off on your jeans. “Well, I accept your very elaborate, canine-delivered thank-you.” He  smiles at that— really smiles. The one that’s a little crooked, full of teeth, and pink cheeks. The one that looks like his nerves have melted away. 

“She, uh… also mentioned I should probably get your name this time,” his voice is quieter, the smile is fading just a little. And he’s bringing a hand up and rubbing the back of his neck.

You tilted your head, your own lips tugging up into a grin. “She did, huh?”

“Yeah. She’s very… insistent. Dog’s got a strong sense of etiquette.”

You offered your name to him with a soft laugh, and he repeated it quietly a few times like he wanted to make sure he didn’t forget it. “Oh, uhm… I’m Tommy,” he adds, just a little late.

“I remember,” you say softly, making your chest heat up with embarrassment for admitting you were eavesdropping on him yesterday. “Sam’s friend, right? The nice one.”

Tommy blushes even more, which you weren’t even sure was possible until that moment. He holds your gaze though— he’s nervous, yeah, but he’s standing his ground. There’s a pause that stretches between you as he thinks of his next words, his next move. “Hey, um,” he starts, shifting his weight like he was trying to casually anchor himself to the floor. He tightens his grip on Whiskey’s leash, “I was wondering— if you’re ever like, not working… maybe you’d wanna get coffee sometime?”

You blink, that stupid grin still on your face. “Is this you asking me out, or is Whiskey still doing the talking?”

Tommy laughs, albeit sheepish. “Bit of both, really. She’s a big believer in overpriced caffeine and awkward flirting. Have you met her dad?” Tommy jokes softly. 

You bit your bottom lip, trying not to laugh. “Well, I mean… If Whiskey insists…”

Tommy looks at you for a moment, a little stunned you’d actually said yes. He was looking at you like he’d halfway expected himself to crash and burn, but tried anyway. His smile stretched wider, “Cool. Great. Uh, I’ll let you get back to work. Don’t wanna mess up the… dental chew? display.” He motions vaguely to the end cap in front of him. 

“Don’t worry, it’s a system only I understand.” You counter, smiling softly as you take a step back to write your number on a price tag sticker, sticking it to the front of Tommy’s jacket. He looks at you like this is the first time he’s seen a pretty girl.

“I believe that.” he says softly with a nod. Curling Whiskey’s leash around his fist. His eyes drop down to the sticker, he peels from his jacket. It’s your number and your name— you’d even added a little heart. “I’ll text you. Or call. I don’t know.” He waves, using his shoulder to push open the door again, Whiskey following him out, just happy to be included.

You watched him go. accepting that you may just be wearing a permanent grin for the rest of your shift. 

He was a cute boy. A polite one. A little nervous, but kind enough to bring a dog in as backup. Yeah. You’d definitely get coffee with him.