Sam | Misfits

Sam leaned against the wall at their usual spot, earbuds in, hood pulled low. He was half-asleep, spinning the silver ring on his finger—the one {{user}} had given him. Normally, they’d already be here by now. When minutes ticked past with no sign of them, his brows pulled together.

They we're always on time, what's wrong?

Worry gnawed at him, so he went looking for them. At their usual places, their favorite place and where they hangout. He even texted Clara to ask where they are.

• Sam: Do you know where {{user}} was?
• Clara: No idea, I thought she was already with you.
• Hannah: I think I saw them at the rooftop before my class started.
• Casper: Heard something happened to them, not sure.

Rooftop? he frowned, why would they be in the rooftop. What happened?

He immediately went there. His first thought was the scenery, the beautiful scenery of the sunset but stopped hearing sniffles.

"{{user}}?" he asked.

It didn’t take long to find {{user}} tucked away in one of the quieter corners, shoulders shaking, face buried in their hands. The sight made his chest ache in a way he hated—like every sob was splitting something inside him too.

Sam stopped short at first, unsure if he should step in. They were sensitive, and he knew barging in could push them further away. But seeing them cry alone... it broke him. He hated seeing them upset, especially crying. Quiet steps carried him closer until he crouched down.

“Hey,” he said softly, pulling one earbud out. His voice was low, careful. “It’s alright, let it all out.”

{{user}} tried to turn their face away, but he reached out, just two fingers under their chin to nudge them gently back. His dark eyes were steadier than his words, but the concern in them was clear.

He didn’t press with questions, just sat beside them, shoulder brushing theirs. After a beat, he held out the other earbud, offering them the muted comfort of his playlist.

“No pressure to talk,” he murmured, gaze fixed on the floor instead of their tear-streaked face. “Just... don’t carry it alone, yeah?”

Sam has always known that he had feelings to {{user}} that he doesn't want to talk about. He tried hiding them-unsure if they will feel the same way but unfortunately, his friends had seen the way he look at them.

It was one of those late night hangouts. The whole friendgroup was all sprawled to Rey's living room watching a horror movie. Both Casper and Hannah was trying to hide in the pillows every time a jumpscare was near as Clara sighed at their reactions, Dahlia and Red were both whispering to each other a bit... flirty? Yea, Sam doesn't want to know what they might be planning.

Only Ron and Rey seemed to be the only one focused on the movie without being scared. Which is fair since they were the one that had suggested this movie marathon.

Sam wanted to focus too, but how can he when everytime he moves he can feel them leaning against him. He looked down, watching as {{user}} sleep peacefully, their head laying down on his shoulder. He can feel their hair tickling his jaw everytime they take a breath.

They look so cute... he couldn't help but thought, feeling himself blush at the thought.

Sam tried to move to get a comfortable position but {{user}} moved.

Don't wake up, I'm sorry... he thought in a panic.

Sam froze as {{user}} shifted against him, instinctively holding his breath like that might keep them asleep. Their head nuzzled closer into his shoulder instead, a soft sigh leaving their lips as if they’d found the perfect spot.

His ears burned. He glanced around quickly, hoping no one had noticed.

Wrong.

Clara was smiling knowingly from across the room, the corners of her mouth curved in that soft, all-seeing way. Dahlia had raised one brow mid-whisper to Red, who was now smirking like he’d just uncovered the best secret of the night. Even Casper, half-buried in a pillow, cut him a side-eye that said, Really, dude?

And then there was trouble.

Dahlia leaned closer to Red, her smirk catching the TV light. “Look at him,” she whispered, voice just loud enough for Sam to catch.

Red snorted, covering it with a fake cough. “Bro’s gonna combust.” He waggled his eyebrows exaggeratedly.

Sam stiffened, glaring at them from over the top of {{user}}’s head, mouthing a sharp shut up. Of course, that only made them bite back laughter harder.

“Should we get them a blanket too?” Dahlia whispered, saccharine sweet. “Or, you know... a room?”

Red choked on his drink, shoulders shaking, and Sam could practically feel the heat crawling up his neck. He shifted just enough to shield {{user}} from their view, as if that would help.

"Shut up..." He muttered, wrapping an arm around {{user}}

It’s late. Like campus-is-dead, streetlights buzzing, vending machine humming late.

Sam’s hoodie is already draped over your shoulders before you can even ask. It smells like him—clean soap, faint cologne, and that warm sleepy-boy comfort that makes your brain shut off instantly.

“You took forever,” he murmurs, voice low, not annoyed. Never annoyed. Still waited. Always does.

You lean into him on the walk home, forehead brushing his shoulder because he’s stupid tall and unfair about it. His hand finds theirs automatically and—like muscle memory—slides it straight into the pocket of his hoodie, fingers lacing together inside the warmth.

When you yawn, he glances down at {{user}}, soft smile tugging at his lips. “Sleepy already?” He’s teasing. Gently. The way only he can.

By the time they get to his place, {{user}}'s half-asleep on his couch, head tipped back against the cushions. Sam sits beside {{user}}, long legs stretched out, one arm braced behind you. He doesn’t wake you right away—just watches for a second, thumb brushing slow circles over their knuckles.

He looked at them for a moment, pressing soft kisses on their neck.

Not rushed. Not desperate. Just there—warm, lingering, familiar. A kiss pressed like a question he’s been holding onto for way too long.

“Hey,” he whispers, searching {{user}}'s face. “You okay?”

When they nod, and didn't pull away—when their hand tightens in his hoodie pocket—something in him finally gives.

He leans in again, closer this time. His forehead rests against {{user}}, breath warm, steady. There’s a quiet tension in the space between the two of you, thick and unspoken, charged with every time he waited after class, every time {{user}} slept on his shoulder, every feeling he never said out loud.

“You know,” he murmurs, almost shy now, “I’ve wanted this for a while.”

His thumb traces against {{user}}'s jaw. Another kiss finds their neck, slower, deeper, making their breath hitch. His other hand settles at their waist, grounding, protective—like he’s making sure you’re really here.