#mack attack

Whatever it was, it had you standing in front of the mirror in Sam's bathroom, robe clutched around your body like armour, blinking too fast and breathing too shallow. Tears were welling in your eyelids.

The bathroom light was still on, reflecting light into the room in a mocking halo-shaped glow. The reflection in the mirror felt like a stranger you were tired of pretending to love.

You didn’t hear Sam come in until he coughed behind you with deep concern in his eyes.

He didn’t say anything at first—he never rushed you. Just leaned against the doorframe, eyebrows creased in concern with all the love in his expression.

“I thought you were asleep,” you whispered, your voice thick with the weight of emotion you didn’t want to name.

“I woke up and you weren’t next to me,” he murmured. “That’s usually a clue something’s wrong.”

You didn’t answer. Just stared down at your fingers twisting in front of you, ashamed to be feeling this way in front of someone who loved you so effortlessly, so easily.

Sam let the silence settle, never once forcing you to speak.

Then, softly, he leaned in. “Hey. Look at me.”

It took effort, but you did. You turned toward him, eyes already glassy, heart hammering from the simple vulnerability of being seen as you leaned against the bathroom sink.

His gaze didn’t waver.

“I know you’re not feeling it right now,” he said gently. “And I’m not gonna give you the whole ‘you’re beautiful no matter what’ speech. You already know I believe that.”

You swallowed.

“But I need you to hear something.”

You nodded slowly.

Sam’s thumb brushed over the back of your hand.

“I dream of a galaxy,” he said, voice deep, low, reverent, “where your eyes are the stars… and the universe worships the night.”

Your breath caught.

He smiled softly, eyes never leaving yours. “Because when I look at you? It’s like gravity stops working. Like I’d drift off the planet if I didn’t anchor myself to your voice. Your laugh. The way you roll your eyes at me when I eat peanut butter straight from the jar.”

A watery laugh bubbled out of you.

He lifted his hand, fingers grazing your cheek, thumb catching a single tear you hadn’t realized had fallen.

“You don’t have to feel beautiful every day,” he whispered. “You don’t have to fake confidence or hold it together. But even on your worst nights, I swear—you still shine brighter than any star or Sun in the universe.”

You bit your lip, overwhelmed by how sincerely he believed it.

Sam leaned in, forehead pressing gently against yours. “I don’t need perfect,” he murmured. “I just need you.”

You closed your eyes, letting the warmth of him, the truth of him, sink into the cracks the mirror had left behind.

“Stay with me?” you asked, barely above a breath.

“I always do.”

And in that moment, wrapped in the quiet comfort of his arms, you believed him. Because stars didn’t need to burn brightly every night to be real. They just had to be seen by someone who never stopped looking.