The scary thing about power is that the ones who have the most never have to ask for it. Samson had more power over me than he’d ever know—which was the secret I’d keep from him as long as I could.

A ten-year-old secret that would turn bitter on my tongue, a secret I wished would harden my heart after one thoughtless mistake. But he was always it for me. And for him, my heart was eternally soft. 

The teacup was blue, the color of my mum’s eyes; its handle golden, like her hair. The same color hair and eyes she’d passed on to me thanks to the miracle of DNA.

And the teacup held a crack, deep enough for me to run my nail down. I imagined that fissure greatly resembled the one going through my heart at the moment.

It’d been three months since her passing, and each day I kept waiting for more space to breathe around all the aching I was doing.

I poked my head down the hall of the London flat I shared with my father, my sister, and her husband. Seeing the lights off in my father’s room allowed me a heavy sigh. He was deeply, irrevocably heartbroken by his wife’s passing—I often though he wished he’d gone with her.

There was that ache, the prickle behind my eyes signaling the gathering of moisture that was sure to flow.

“Lotte!” yelled my brother-in-law, Ames, in a tone that was more urgent than I’d ever heard from him. I blinked rapidly, dispelling the unfallen tears.

I was in the kitchen of our flat, water splashed up to my elbows when Ames barreled into the room, his arm wrapped around the waist of his best friend and the man I’d been in love with for ten years.  

At the sight of Samson, bloodied and bruised in Ames’ arms, I set the teacup in my hands gently into the milky water and silently followed him down the hall into the living room, where Ames negotiated Sam onto the sofa. A groan spilled from his split lips, quickly followed by a mumble.  

“Make sure he doesn’t roll off,” Ames said before disappearing back towards the kitchen.  

Sam turned his head, his blond-brown hair falling over his face and obscuring his eyes.  

“Hey,” I whispered, flipping the hair from his eyes and running my thumb across the smear of blood on his cheekbone. “What’d you get yourself into?” 

His bottom lip fell open and his breath warmed my hands as I cleaned up what I could of his face with my fingertips.  

“Hi,” he managed, his eyes closed in a wince. I wasn’t sure how coherent he was, if he even knew who was talking to him. “I opened my mouth.” 

“Of course you did.” I sighed, took in the dirt caked on his shirt and the wet around his face. “Fall into a puddle, did you?” 

“A fist, first.” 

Ames returned, handing me an ice pack. In his other hand, he held a towel saturated on one end. I pressed the pack just above his eyes and looked at Ames with a question in my own. 

He squatted down beside me, where I kneeled on the floor. “I had to boost a guy out of the pub. He wasn’t going easily, so Sam took over and carried him right out.” Ames placed a hand over his heart, his eyes earnest. “I didn’t think to check on him. Thought he was out for a smoke. Another patron found him in the street.” 

Anger blasted through me so fiercely that I turned away, so Ames couldn’t see me lose it. Ames didn’t know about my love for Sam—neither did the man himself—and this was not such an occasion to make it apparent.  

“Your secrets are what make you a woman,” as my mother always said. It was one of the last things I had from her, besides memories. Even though she’d been gone three months, her presence was practically suffocating in our flat—she lived and breathed in every corner despite what the date of her passing said on her tombstone. 

I’d been like her. Full of secrets. She’d seen that in me, and had encouraged me to hold onto all of my secrets—they were armor for women like us. And so, I had an entire garden of them, and a special corner dedicated to the man bleeding and aching on our sofa at that moment.  

Once I’d composed myself, I took the towel and blotted the wet away from his face and arms. When I made it down the length of muscle to his hands, I paused for just a touch longer than I needed to, feeling the weight of his hand in mine. I was never this close to him and though it felt forbidden, I allowed myself that brief moment of satisfying the wonder I always had.  

Some might think it pathetic, immature even. To love a man as soundly as I loved Sam, a man I’d never kissed, a man I’d never held. A man who had never been mine in any sense of the word. My heart burned for him before I really knew what that meant, before I understood the power and devastating despair of unrequited love. He was the man who came to me without warning, who had me before I had a grasp on who I even was.  

From the first time he jogged up the stairs to our flat, brushing past me with a wide grin, his hair flopping maddeningly around him—there was a shift in my soul. A whisper of a secret I’d lived with for the last ten years. Being around him in the entire decade that came after was like being fed just occasional bites of an indulgent meal. I always wanted more. One more smile, one more playful wink, one more tug on my hair, one more ‘Lots’, one more joke. Sam had a way of making everyone felt like they belonged. And I never wanted to belong more than with him.  

Even hearing my own thoughts made me want to groan. Because none of this would ever pass my lips into his ears.  

“Did you catch the guy who did this?” I asked Ames, not meeting his eyes as I carefully looked over the cuts and bruises on Sam’s hands.  

“No, he was a one-timer bloke.” 

“Yeah, well, this wasn’t a one-timer experience for Sam.” I raised an eyebrow at my sister’s husband. “How many times is Sam going to get beat up for the pub, considering he’s not even our official bouncer?” 

Ames rubbed the back of his neck. “He’s not weak, Lotte. He gives as good as he gets. Look at him, he’s nearly built of solid muscle.” 

I swallowed, eyes lightly grazing over his body—which was absolutely made of muscle. His sweater even bunched up from his position on the sofa, revealing the lower half of his well-defined abs. Averting my eyes, I carefully set his hand on his chest. “Is the party still going on downstairs?”

“It’s just a little party,” Ames replied defensively. “We got renovation plans approved for our restaurant—why not celebrate in our pub?”

“Is Mal down there?”

Ames averted his eyes, and I knew the answer. “She’s being selfish,” I said, my words holding none of the venom I felt. My sister—though I loved her deeply—was grieving in a way I didn’t understand. Pushing everyone away, as if she was the only one who was suffering, who was suffocating.

“It’s a lot for her, the restaurant, the pub.”

“Yeah, well, you’re running the pub solo. And the restaurant—it’s not even finished. What’s she got to stress about there?”

My grandparents had gifted my sister and her husband a restaurant to renovate, and they’d gifted me a dance studio. Mine had come complete, but the pile of rubble that Ames and Mal had been gifted needed quite a bit of work, which they had to save up for by working for my father’s pub. “I thought Samson was going to help with the renovation?”

“He’ll help, of course, but he’s got his own job. Besides, we need professionals for the plumbing and those sorts of things.”

“You’re not going to get a lot of help out of him if he doesn’t heal. We’ll need another gel pack. His knuckles took a beating.” 

“Rather gave a beating,” Ames said as he rose to standing. “He’s still breathing, right?” 

I whipped toward Sam’s face. The wrinkle from his wince was softened, and his chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. “Yes. I think he’s gone to sleep.” 

“For the best. He’s probably concussed.” 

“Are you supposed to sleep after a concussion? I thought that was a bad thing?” Try as I might, I couldn’t hide the panic that splintered my words. I placed a hand to Sam’s chest. 

“We had a quick chat when I found him and he helped me walk him up here—he’s all right.” Ames disappeared down the hallway, but nothing he said actually put me at ease. 

I slid my hand from his chest down his sweater before pulling it to cover the skin he’d accidentally exposed of his torso. I smoothed the wrinkles and then moved to his feet, which were soaked from the persistent rain we’d been dealing with for far too long. Once I had his boots off, I was working on his socks when Ames returned with two more ice packs.  

“Get him some slippers or something,” I instructed as I took the ice packs from his hands. “And a blanket.” 

Luckily, when Ames had laid Sam on the sofa, he’d put pillow under his head for support, so Sam really only needed a blanket. September had rolled in August’s wet wake, bringing with it a chill in the evenings that permeated through the cracks of our ancient flat as we slept. The cold only seemed to bother me, however. Ames and Mal never complained about the cold, and neither did my dad.

But given that it was past midnight already, Sam might as well stay on our sofa for the night.  

“Here you go, mate,” Ames whispered as he slid some slippers on Sam’s bare feet. “I’ve tried calling Mal, have you heard from her?”

I shrugged indifferently. “She’s probably off being reckless.” I gave Ames a quick look. Ever since my mum had died, Ames had been there. Not my father. Not my sister. My brother-in-law had picked up where my father had faltered, and had endured it all with hardly a complaint.

“She’s struggling, Lotte,” he said gently, but I could see in the dark circles under his eyes that her behavior was affecting him too. “She’ll come back to us.”

I knew he didn’t mean physically. Physically, my sister Mahlon was in and out of the flat, the pub, but emotionally, she was like a vessel that had been emptied. I didn’t recognize this shell of who she was. I hated her in that moment, for stranding Ames with the pub, with the plans for the renovation of their restaurant. She wasn’t the only person to lose our mum.

But I merely nodded and looked over at Sam. Though he looked at peace in his sleep, his lips slightly parted and his hair tamed to the side, I felt an inexplicable pull to stay with him, just in case he’d need me. Without meeting Ames’ eyes I said, “I think I’ll stay up a little later.” When my cheeks warmed from Ames’ silence, I hurriedly added, “I know, with concussions, that he might get nauseated. I don’t want him to throw up all over our sofa.”

“Don’t you have to be at your dance studio tomorrow?”

I thought of the small place that my grandparents had gifted me upon my mother’s death. Where I trained students on dance, but mostly used the space for my own dancing. “I don’t have any students until the afternoon. It’s fine.”

“Right.” Ames stood. “That’s your prerogative.” He turned on his heel and paused at the door to the hall. Closing my eyes briefly, I waited for it. Waited for Ames to finally call me out—to address what was so plainly written upon my face. In the silence of the room, I could hear his mouth open and the intake of air right before a person spoke. But he didn’t say anything. Out of my periphery, I saw him turn and then the flicker of the hall light muting the area in darkness.  

I sighed and dropped my forehead to the cushion in front of me. Now, enveloped in darkness, I was away from his steady gaze. The curtains were closed across the windows of the living room, and with the soft footfalls of Ames down the stairs, I truly felt alone.  

Alone, with Samson.  

Sure, he was practically passed out. But I was in the same room as Samson without the searching eyes of my worrisome sister—not that she’d have the wherewithal to notice now. But I was also away from the questioning gaze of her husband. I hated, down to the root of who I was, that it was so plainly obvious, my affection for him. I knew, with my pale skin, that my blush burned brighter than most, but I had taken care not to meet Samson directly in the eyes—the eyes held the truths of every secret.  

A soft moan from his lips caused my head to lift. In the dark, it was hard to make his face out, but I could see him turn his head briefly and he moaned again.   

“Samson?” I asked, leaning over him. “You’re in our flat. It’s okay; just sleep.”  

As my eyes adjusted to the light, I could see him open his mouth and say, “How’s my hair look?” 

It took me a minute to grasp what he was saying. “Your … hair?” 

“Yeah.” He let out a breath through his nose that made it sound like he was settling in.  

“Your face looks like absolute shit right now, and you’re worried about your hair?” 

“It looks good, right?” 

I couldn’t help the laugh that poured from my throat then. “I can’t see,” I whispered. “It’s too dark.” 

“Mm-hm. It looks good still.” He gave me a lazy smile, his eyes still closed, and I ached to trace my thumb along the curve that carved into his cheek.  

“You’re ridiculous.” And he probably wasn’t all right in the head. “Why’d you let yourself get beat up?” 

“Felt good,” he said, but his voice was so low that I wasn’t sure I heard him correctly. Seconds later, his lips were back in a soft line and the even cadence of his sleeping breaths signaled to me that he’d fallen back asleep.  

I turned until I leaned against the sofa, the back of my head resting on the cushion that Samson laid across and stared up at the ceiling above me. The room was so dark, so quiet, that I felt … safe.  

I kissed a dozen boys and maybe half as many men in my twenty years on earth. I’d never kissed Samson, had never so much as a hug from him, so why did I compare every kiss, every hug, to him? He lived on this pedestal, and no matter how many men I touched, none could compare to him. It wasn’t even how attractive he was—well, it wasn’t entirely that. He had a smile that could melt even the steeliest of backbones, abs for days, hair that belonged on some Greek God we’d read about in school. He was strong, and tall, and there was not a single thing about him that didn’t scream man.  

But it wasn’t any of those things that had drawn me to him. It was the way he walked into a room—not like normal people. He didn’t search for people he knew, he searched for the people he didn’t. He gave out hugs like they were currency for conversation. He loved to talk, but he loved to hear you talk.  

And I didn’t. I couldn’t. I couldn’t meet his eyes and let him wrap his arms around me, and I most certainly couldn’t tell him the things in my heart.  

My phone vibrated from the back of my jeans’ pocket and I grabbed it, swiping up on the screen.  

I couldn’t forget. Brunch with my best friend, every Saturday at eleven. I started to type out my response when Sam adjusted, still asleep, on the sofa. I wrote and rewrote what I initially wanted to tell her: I’m alone with Samson! But in the end, I gave her a simple, See you then and wondered if I’d ever tell her. Not that there was anything to tell her, really. Bianca would be bored and changing the subject sometime between Samson got knocked out at the pub and He sleepily, probably pissed, asked me how his hair looked.  

I wouldn’t let her indifference make me bitter—that seemed to be my mantra lately. The careful and quiet reminder I delivered to myself while smiling in greeting every time I saw her. As far as best friends went, she wasn’t, well, great. But she encouraged me to tiptoe out of my comfort zone, and she was loyal even if her loyalty wasn’t necessarily needed.  

Samson moved again and the ice pack on his hands slid and hit the bare skin my vest exposed. Hissing, I bent forward so it could fall between me and the sofa. After removing the ice pack from behind me, I leaned back against the sofa once more and then immediately froze.  

Sam’s hand had slid off of his torso to rest on the cushions, causing his fingers to graze against the same bare skin that his ice pack had just assaulted. I was wearing my thin pajamas. While modest in style, the vest top exposed most of my back, leaving Sam’s fingers just resting against the line of my shoulder blade.  

I sucked in a breath, feeling immediately so foolish. He was practically comatose now, it was dark, and he probably didn’t even know where he was. It wasn’t like he was grazing my skin.  

But then, he was. My heart kicked into a beat that felt like a dozen horses galloping in my chest.  

Maybe it was involuntary. It was soft; two fingers pressing lightly into my skin.  

I wasn’t sure how long they did that. Long enough that I assumed he’d fallen back asleep. But not so long that it felt unintentional.  

After a moment, his fingers left my skin and I breathed easily again, feeling slightly sad that he’d stopped touching me.  

But then his fingers grazed my skin again, over the curve of my shoulder blade. He held it between two fingers, but he was completely silent, not saying a word. I wasn’t entirely sure he was even awake. Was this merely a movement in his sleep? 

I’d prided myself on staying so still as his fingers explored such an innocent part of my body. But when he pressed his palm flat to my skin, I was so shell-shocked that I let out a quick breath.  

His touch paused for a fraction of a second. But then, again, they continued. They brushed up my shoulder, coming in contact with the ends of my hair. He tugged gently, fingers slipping off my hair lazily before returning, gently, softly, twisting.  

“Sam?” I asked breathlessly.  

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even pause, just continued, touching my hair, moving toward the back of my head, until one finger found the skin at the nape of my neck. He pressed there, and in reflex, I dipped my head back. My arms were alight with goose bumps, my hair standing on end.  

Sam was touching me. He never touched me. Not like this. I swallowed hard, and felt my chest heave out a breath. I couldn’t think of anything, anyone—I barely had the focus to pay attention to what was happening in this moment. It was hard to believe this was actually happening. It was nearly impossible to believe that this was reality. More than a thousand times, I’d pined after Sam. Not once in those brief moments had I ever thought anything would ever come of it.  

I was the girl pathetically in love with her brother-in-law’s best friend. The one who looked at him when he didn’t notice, the one who secretly hated each one of the girlfriends he brought by.  

And now, he was touching me. Not like the way my last boyfriend had touched me. Sam was touching little bits of me, taking his time, exploring me in a way that made my throat catch when I tried to say his name again. 

He still said nothing. He placed his thumb on one side of my neck and his forefinger on the other side. Not tight, but not absently either. My eyes had fully adjusted to the dark of the room now, and after a moment to pull in some courage, I turned my head.  

His eyes were only slightly open, the light from the moon angling just so on them so that I could see his gaze was on my back.  

When his hand slid from my hair down my back, stopping where my pajama met skin, I knew that there was nothing sleepy about the way he was touching me. Over the sound of my heart beating thunderously loud, I could barely make out the sounds of his even breathing. His chest rose and fell, his eyes still on my back—not on my face—and it was if we were suspended in some kind of alternate reality. This was a dream. It was a dream.  

Still stuck in that dream, I turned my head a bit more, until our lips were centimeters apart. When he breathed out, I breathed in. And vice versa.  

It was the quietest, most profoundly complicated moment of my life. His gaze hadn’t shifted; still concentrated on my back. But his hand had moved to my shoulder, fingers curled over it. His fingers were pressed gently against my collarbone. His eyes weren’t following the path of his hand—it was as if he was staring off, thinking about something else.  

Gently, I placed my hand over his. There were so many things I wanted to say to him, but I couldn’t find it in me to open my mouth and break the connection we were silently making.  

His hand on my shoulder turned, and then slid down my arm, knuckles grazing my skin, before he cupped my elbow and pulled me closer.  

I thought I was going to choke on air, as my mouth came closer and closer to his. I couldn’t get enough air all of a sudden. I was an animal braced for the kill, a girl yielding to something that had only existed in her dreams.  

He kissed me.  

And I kissed him back.  

Like his touch, it was slow at first. Warm lips pressed against mine before he pulled away a hair. When he kissed me again, it was firmer, a blood-pumping kiss. His hand cupping my elbow was firm, holding captive. I turned so my neck wasn’t craned to the right, and his hand moved to my other shoulder, fingers curved around it. Not quite an embrace, but more like he was holding me the way he wanted.  

His lips slanted, deepening the kiss. His tongue slid along the seam of my lips and I opened and exhaled into his mouth, feeling my limbs go limp.  

“Sam,” I whispered when he pulled back again. He cupped my chin, his thumb grazing over my cheekbone. I felt fragile in his hold. He had all of the power. I was completely submissive to him. 

But then, with his lips still touching mine, he whispered the word that turned my blood thick, the word that made my heart beat painfully slow.  

“Della.” 

His on-again, off-again girlfriend. Who was not me. 

I was such a fucking idiot.  

This wasn’t a dream; it was a fucking nightmare. 

He wasn’t coherent. And I’d taken advantage of him. And his girlfriend’s name was on my lips.  

I ripped myself away, and took off out of the room, tripping over some nameless object obscured in the darkness before I could reach the hallway. I needed to get away from him, to press my face into a pillow to calm the heated embarrassment that I knew colored my cheeks. To let the pillowcase soak up the tears that had already begun to slide down my face.  

I kissed Samson, and he didn’t even know it was me.  

The most intimate kiss of my life, the one I’d often wondered about—the best damn kiss I’d ever had—had been a complete mistake.  

Tears burned hot on my skin and I swiped at them furiously. I laid flat on my back and stared up at the dark ceiling, feeling so stupid, cursing my naiveté, wishing I’d never stayed with Sam in the living room.  

I grasped the hem of my top and brought it up to my lips, eager to wipe away the memory of that kiss. I didn’t want to wipe off the only memory I’d have of kissing Samson—no matter how humiliated I felt from what had happened. But, the kiss was meant for someone who wasn’t me. I rubbed my skin until it felt raw and dropped the fabric from my hands. 

My phone buzzed in my hand, interrupting the quiet so loudly that I nearly dropped it from surprise.

I hadn’t heard from her all night, and this was what she sent me? Anger and heartache and embarrassment rolled into one, and I typed, Yes, I’d like my sister back, and pressed send.

I wanted to yell at her. She wasn’t there. She just fucking wasn’t there. She was this shell of who she was, without any real feelings or thoughts. She was practically a ghost. And with those thoughts in my mind, I typed off a quick reply. You’re never here. Ames is too good for you.

As soon as I clicked send and dropped my phone, a sob burst from my chest. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair, that Ames was burdened by our splintering family. That my sister wasn’t here. That my father was locked up in his room for at least twenty hours of the day. The world didn’t stop when my mum died. I didn’t get to fall apart like everyone else.

My phone vibrated again, and I flipped it over, not wanting to keep talking to her.

I placed my palms against my eyes and rubbed. After how lightly Sam had touched me, I wanted to punish myself by pressing harder—without affection—across my skin.  

“It’s fine,” I lied to myself in the dark when my tears had slowed along with the beat of my heart. I sniffed, resolving to wash my face, to rid the final traces of Sam from myself.  

The hallway was quieter than I remembered after running through it minutes before. I had to tiptoe past the living room on my way to the loo.   

I wouldn’t pause at the threshold, not wanting to see Sam in the slightest. I crept past the room, listening for silence. 

The light in the loo was brighter than I expected, probably thanks to my red-rimmed eyes. My fingers immediately went to my swollen lips before I took in the rest of my reflection. My face was splotchy, my hair was a mess, and the skin below my eyes looked raw. I tugged on my hair, trying to get it into place, my anxiety and embarrassment burning through me and fueling my movements. 

Quickly, I washed my face and brushed my teeth more harshly than necessary. After running the brush through my hair, I set it carefully down on the counter top and reached toward the back of my head, running my fingers through the strands until I had one lone strand in my clutches.  

While staring at myself in the mirror—the red splotches on my cheeks and the purple tint around my eyelids—all that shame and frustration came back tenfold. I fingered that strand for a moment before giving it a quick tug. There was no pain—not with this as a distraction.

The pleasure that immediately released caused a small smile to form on my lips. I was okay.  

“It’s fine,” I repeated to myself, and this time I believed it.