you sat across from sam in the library, books and lore scattered everywhere, but neither of you were paying attention to the words on the pages. your jaw was tight, his hands tangled in his hair, both of you stuck in that familiar push and pull. it always ended like this. silence thick enough to choke on, feelings left hanging in the air like ghosts.

“you don’t get it,” you finally muttered, voice sharp but shaking. you hated yourself for it, hated how predictable this dance had become. fight, break, fall back into him. cliche

sam’s head lifted, eyes heavy, tired but burning in that way that always made you falter. he leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low but cutting straight through you.

“maybe i don’t get it, but you think i don’t feel the same way? you think i don’t hate this, how every time i swear i’m gonna let you go, i can’t?” his mouth twisted, bitter, almost a laugh but not quite. “god, we’re a cliche, aren’t we?”

he reached across the table then, fingers brushing yours like he couldn’t help himself, like even when he wanted to walk away, he was tethered to you. his grip tightened, steady, even as his voice cracked. “tell me you don’t want this, and i’ll let you go. but if you do- if you want me- then stop pretending you don’t.”