The Reckless Collision

Chapter Seventy-One

The soft creak of the stairs broke through my thoughts. I turned to see her standing in the doorway, her hair slightly messed up from sleep, her oversized sweatshirt hanging loosely off one shoulder. She looked so small, so fragile, and yet there was something steady about the way her tired eyes found mine.

"You didn't have to clean up," she said, her voice hoarse and quiet.

I shrugged, offering a faint smile. "Couldn't sleep," I said, my voice sounding rougher than I intended. "Figured I'd do something useful."

She walked toward me, her bare feet making soft padding sounds against the floor. When she wrapped her arms around me, pressing her cheek against my chest, I let out a breath. I wrapped my arms around her, pulled her close, and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

For a moment, everything felt right. The warmth of her against me, the steady rhythm of her breathing—it was enough to quiet the noise in my head. But then, like an unwelcome guest, the thought of tomorrow barged back in. I had to tell her. I couldn't keep avoiding it.

We sat at the kitchen island not long after, the silence between us heavy but not uncomfortable. I'd thrown together a simple breakfast—leftover rolls, cold cuts, and some fruit I'd arranged on a plate in an attempt to make it look like I'd tried harder than I had.

Sam picked at her food, her fork scraping against the plate absentmindedly. Her pretty blue eyes drifted in and out of focus, the weight of the last few days still clinging to her like a shadow. I wanted to say something, to ask if she was okay, but the words stuck in my throat.

Finally, I set my fork down, the sharp clatter of metal against ceramic louder than I'd intended. Sam's head lifted, her tired eyes locking onto mine. I swallowed hard, feeling the weight of what I needed to say pressing against my chest like a physical thing.

"We need to talk, love," I began softly, the words coming out quieter than I'd planned. My voice felt as fragile as the space between us, and I hated how exposed I sounded.

Her brow furrowed, concern flickering in her gaze. She set her own fork down, leaning slightly toward me. "About what?" she asked, her voice calm but tinged with worry.

I looked down at the table for a moment, rubbing the back of my neck. The words were there, circling in my head, but none of them felt right. I took a deep breath and met her gaze again. "About yesterday. About Tom."

Her expression shifted slightly—a flicker of recognition, a shadow of something she tried to hide—but she didn't speak. She waited, giving me the space to continue.

"I know this isn't the best time," I admitted, my throat tightening as I forced the words out. "But... I can't stop thinking about it. Yesterday, seeing him, seeing you two together—it messed with my head. And then there's..." I hesitated, looking for something in her expression, some kind of reassurance that would make this easier. "There's something I didn't tell you. I ran into Tom at a restaurant a while back. He said some things—things that made me question everything. And now, after yesterday..." I trailed off, shaking my head. "I can't stop replaying it."

Sam leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed loosely over her chest. Her face softened, but there was a hint of disappointment there, too. "Why didn't you tell me you saw him, darling?" she asked, her voice gentle but firm. "You know Tom. He does this. He knows exactly how to plant seeds of doubt."

Her words hit me like a punch to the gut, but I didn't interrupt. I clenched my jaw and listened, my fingers drumming absently on the edge of the table.

"He tried the same thing with me yesterday," she continued her tone steady but laced with frustration. "Tom is trying to create cracks where there aren't any. That's what he does. He wants you to doubt yourself. And he wants me to doubt us. But none of it matters, Ray. None of what he said matters to me. You're enough. You've always been enough."