Sam found that he quite enjoyed having a human girlfriend.

He'd despised humans for a very long time because of what they'd put him through. The experiments, the pain, the trauma that would affect him forever. But meeting you had helped break him out of that, and you pulled him further from that mindset every day. Your house was quiet and away from Vought's flashy cameras or his friends' endless questions. Here he could lose himself in the domestic atmosphere that made him feel almost normal.

But he still wouldn't hug you.

And, oh, you tried. Tried hugging him after work, tried cuddling during a movie, tried holding him at night. Sam squirmed away every time with a muttered string of apologies and self-loathing. It felt like his skin was on fire and he wanted to pull his curls or curl up and hide.

"It's not your fault," he mumbled after you tried reaching out. He shook his head frantically. "N-never... never your fault."

"I wish you would tell me what's wrong," you said, keeping your voice level. Pushing never worked with Sam. If he thought you were angry or hurt he'd just beat himself up more. Leave him space to answer or not, chances are he'd tell you eventually.

And tell you he did. Three days later, after lunch, Sam felt like he was unraveling. Some days were really rough. Today was rough.

"I don't want to hurt you," it burst out of him, his fears overflowing like a waterfall. "I'm just.. I'm so strong. A freak. What if I squeeze to tight? Or.. or.."