*Paige's P.O.V.*

Paige isn't sure what she's expecting when Sam arrives, but in the five or so minutes between receiving his text and hearing the knock on the door, she manages to psych herself up into a good bit of panic again, half-convinced that this talk is going to end with her getting kicked out of Ruritania for being a terrible fiancée and an even worse princess. She's boiling more water for another cup of hot chocolate, a blanket draped around her shoulders as she stands fretting at the counter when she hears it:

Three quick raps against the wood.

She takes a deep breath. Charlie and Prince Campbell are gone—after several movies and lots of popcorn, she finally steeled herself and told them she needed to talk to Sam alone, so they left—which is a mixed blessing, in that their presence certainly helped her calm down, but she doesn't want to have this conversation in front of them, not when she has no idea how it's going to go.

She shuffles across the room, mug in hand and blanket still worn, and opens the door.

"Hi," Sam says, his face carefully neutral. Paige bites her lip nervously and reaches out with an empathic probe, afraid, and finds a mixture of worry, relief, confusion, hurt, and anger, which does absolutely nothing to set her at ease or to assuage the guilt churning in her stomach. "Can I come in?"

"Oh—um—yes, of course," she says quickly, stepping back to allow Sam in. She closes the door after him and they both go sit down, Sam in an armchair and Paige in the corner of the couch again, complete with her pile of blankets.

They sit awkwardly for several heartbeats.

Paige stares into her drink.

Sam clears his throat.

Finally, Paige takes a deep breath and says, "I'm sorry."

Sam shifts in his seat, crossing one leg over the other. "What was that, earlier? I don't understand what happened."

He still sounds so controlled, so neutral, and Paige's heart sinks. He must really be upset. "I'm sorry," she says again. "I never—I made a mistake. I should have been honest with you about this from the start, but I lied to myself and convinced myself it would never be relevant. But, ah..." She hesitates, glances quickly at Sam but sees the same dispassionate look, and winces, dropping her gaze. "I have a generalized anxiety disorder and sometimes it severely impacts my ability to function. Earlier I had a panic attack. That was why I ran away. I'm sorry."

Sam takes a moment to digest that information, resting his chin on one hand and pressing his lips into a firm, displeased line. "You should have told me," he says carefully.

Paige squeezes her eyes shut, scrounges around for steel to strap to her spine, and then meets Sam's gaze. "You're angry with me," she says, feeling numb once again. It's not a question.

Sam's eyes light up with barely-contained frustration. "Of course I'm angry!" he snaps, leaning forward. "You just ran off with no explanation and no regard for yourself! And then you hid, out in the frozen courtyard of all places, and you didn't answer any calls or texts and—do you even realize how easy it would have been for an assassin to get you today? Do you even care how worried I was?"

Paige stares at him, frozen in place. When Sam's face blurs, clouded by tears that start to spill down her cheeks, she quickly scrubs at her face and tries to steady her breathing, sipping her still-hot cocoa and wincing when it scalds her tongue.

"I—I'm sorry," she whispers, giving up and putting the mug down on the coffee table and pushing her glasses up into her hair so she can bury her face in her hands miserably. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, Sam, I k-know I handled it badly, I don't have an excuse, it's all m-my fault, don't you see? This is j-just what I meant, I'm stupid and I'm not, I'm not good enough and I should just go back—"

"Paige," Sam cuts her off, and the anger is gone but the desperation remains. He's quieter now, a shocked, almost hurt note in his voice. "Do you... You mean you... you want to go back?"

Paige chokes on her tears and can't find it within herself to answer.

Sam lets out an explosive sigh. "Goddammit all, Paige, why can't you just talk to me?!"

And there, there's frustration, but also sadness and hurt again, and guilt punches Paige in the stomach and comes out as another sob, steadily building in her throat as Sam looks at her, hurt and unhappy. Paige can't meet his eyes like this, so she doesn't try, just burying her face in her hands to offer futile resistance to the tears.

"You don't tell me when anything is wrong and you automatically assume the worst and—I thought you said you wanted us to be friends!" he accuses, and even without looking at him, Paige knows those icy hazel eyes are flashing dangerously.

"I did," Paige sobs. "I do!"

Sam laughs bitterly. "Then why won't you trust me? How can we be friends if we don't trust each other?"

This is—this is too much. Paige gets up, shaking, drops her glasses on the couch behind her, and stumbles around the coffee table to slump against Sam, needing him to know that it's not his fault and that this is all because of Paige and she just can't find the words to say it, but that's her own fault, too! She just—she needs Sam to know that, he has to know, and Paige doesn't know how to tell him with words, so actions have to do.

Sam lets out a soft sound of surprise, but he gathers Paige into his lap and lets her bury her face in his shoulder, still crying. He's warm, as usual, and Paige can smell the traces of cologne on his shirt.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have yelled—I'm not angry with you," Sam says, more quietly, rubbing Paige's back slowly and hesitantly. "I'm—I was frustrated. It's because I felt helpless in the entire situation and I just—Paige. Paige, why don't you trust me? Is it something I did?"

Paige shakes her head frantically. "I want to trust you," she sniffles, her voice muffled by Sam's shoulder, "but I'm just—I'm scared."

"What are you scared of?" Sam asks in that same quiet, contemplative tone. It's soothing. There's something about his voice that helps cut through the haze of panic and self-loathing. Paige presses a little closer to him, tears leaking out into his shirt.

"I don't know," Paige says stupidly. "Scared of letting people in, m-maybe. Everything is so different here." She pauses, leans her forehead against Sam's neck, and adds softly, "It's lonely."

Sam hugs her a little tighter at that. "You... I wish you'd tell me these things sooner," he murmurs. "I wish I'd known you were feeling this way. You—you know you don't have to do everything alone, right? I'm here. Charlie's here. Kevin and Deanie, too, and Donna. There are people here who care for you."

"Opening up is hard," Paige says simply. "Who actually cares for Paige, just Paige, when there's Princess Mains, the representative of Pandora's ruling family?" Plain Paige is boring and nobody worries about her. The only people who care about just Paige are thousands of miles away, and it's sad.

"I do," Sam says, and Paige's heart lurches painfully in her chest. "I'm going to marry Paige, if she will still have me after today, and I want to be her friend and I want her to be my friend, and I want her to know I only want the best for her and that I hold her in the highest regard and that I trust her, and I swear I will do whatever is in my power to protect her, and I hope, maybe, she can bring herself to trust me, too." He stops speaking and looks down at Paige, and... oh, god. He's just—this is too much all over again, in a different way, and Paige doesn't—she can't—

"Sam," Paige sobs. She hadn't realized just how badly she needed to hear these things, how desperately she was craving affirmation and personal validation, but oh, god, she's crying and she doesn't think she's ever going to stop now, not like this, not when she's so emotionally exhausted and Sam is right here, trying to offer what support he can.

"Please don't cry," Sam begs, a little bit desperately, and the request is so late that it's almost stupidly funny. Paige laughs a slightly hysterical, tearful laugh and clutches at Sam's shirt.

"I—I think it's a l-little late for th-that," she manages, while Sam hugs her tighter. "Sorry."

"No, it's—I just never know what to do when someone is crying," Sam explains, apologetic and confused and kind of panicked. "Oh, hell, how can I give you a speech on how I want you to trust me and open up if I don't know what to do when you do?"

Paige laughs again, sniffling, and scrubs at her face with one hand, the other winding around Sam's neck. "At least you're trying," she mumbles. "That—that counts for a lot."

"Oh, good." Relief is palpable in Sam's voice. He pats Paige's back. "Are... you okay?"

Paige takes a shuddering breath, attempts to swallow the lump in her throat, and accepts that a few hot tears are still going to leak down her cheeks. "I... I think I will be," she answers honestly, taking another deep breath. "Y-you don't have to feel like you n-need to make me stop crying, you know. It—it makes me feel b-better, sometimes."

"But I don't want to be the reason you're crying," Sam protests. "It makes me feel bad!"

"Just—just give me a minute," Paige requests, trying to force herself to breathe evenly. She nestles her head into the crook of Sam's neck, and Sam leans his cheek against her hair, which is—nice. It's nice. Sam is warm and comforting, even as Paige becomes more aware of the fact that she's curled up in Sam's lap and that maybe this should be a little bit awkward, but... but it isn't. It just feels good to be held. This close, she can feel Sam's heartbeat, can feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, and it's soothing.

She takes another deep breath in and wills herself to think about good things—Sam isn't mad at her, Sam knows about Paige's anxiety now, Sam trusts her and wants to be trusted. Sam is well-meaning if a little insensitive at times, as was made painfully clear earlier today...

...Which brings her back to that whole thing again.

And if she wasn't what I or what Ruritania wanted, I would have already broken off my engagement.

Hm.

"Sam?" she asks hesitantly.

"Yes?"

"...Earlier," she starts, and then stops, bites her lip, and has to wipe at her eyes again. Maybe... maybe that hot chocolate will help? She hesitates in reaching for it, though, because she'll have to stand up and pull away from Sam, and she doesn't want to pull away yet, not when being held and comforted is so soothing and calming and good. But then again, the drink will be cold and her throat will be dry.

She frets a moment longer before getting up and reaching across the coffee table to grab her mug, and when she turns around, Sam is rearranging himself in the armchair. Paige hesitates again and starts to head back to the couch, but Sam catches the blanket still draped around her shoulders and asks, "Where are you going..?"

"Oh," Paige says, and she lets Sam gently pull her back down into his embrace, sitting against the opposite shoulder this time.

"Sorry," Sam says lightly. "My leg was getting kind of numb. Anyway, what were you saying about earlier?"

Paige blinks. She takes a sip of the drink and cradles the warm mug to her chest, leaning against Sam again, and sighs. "Earlier, when you said... if I wasn't—if I wasn't what you wanted, you'd have broken off the engagement?"

Sam stills against her. "Yes?"

"Are... are you going to do that now?" Paige asks weakly. "Because I'm—I'm like this, I guess. And because I didn't tell you sooner, and I know I can't possibly be—"

She stops talking in surprise when she feels a chuckle rumble in Sam's chest.

"Paige," Sam sighs, "you almost sound as if you're trying to make me break it off." He pauses. "Though... you said you want to go back. ...Are you? Trying to make me break it off, I mean? Is it too much for you after all?"

"No!" Paige shakes her head vehemently. "No, I don't—no, I definitely don't want to break off our engagement—that would mean renegotiating the terms of the alliance and having to do that again would probably weaken it, but—aside from that it's not like I don't want to do this anymore, I knew what I was getting into when I first signed that paper! I'm just—I'm not good enough! And I got—I got really upset earlier, with myself, because I thought I fooled you into thinking that I am."

Sam is quiet for a moment. Paige takes another few careful sips of hot chocolate to avoid having to look at him.

"I—I'm not saying that to try to make you justify anything to me," she blurts out after a moment, worried that Sam is trying to find a way to let her down gently and to reveal that it's true, Paige isn't good enough, without being hurtful. "I just—I thought you deserved to know what happened. That's all."

"Paige," Sam sighs. "Paige. Did it ever occur to you that you are good enough, and the only one being fooled is you, telling yourself that you are not?"

Paige opens her mouth, ready to refute that immediately, and then realizes the words aren't there, so she closes it again. "It's... easier to believe it's the other way around," she says lamely instead. "The idea that I'm the only one who hates me seems too good to be true."

"Why?" Sam asks, bewildered. "You don't seem worthy of hate to me. I think you're lovely, Paige."

"That's... thank you, but—it's just. Hard. I've been—the 'why' is a question I don't know the answer to, yet," Paige sighs. That brings her to another thing. "I... was working on it, with a therapist, back in Pandora," she admits quietly. "Madison even told me I should find someone here to talk to about all this, and also to renew my prescription for anxiety medicine, but I just... I kept lying to myself and saying it would be fine until it wasn't fine, and everything happened too fast. That's... that's my fault again. I'm sorry."

Sam hums in thought. "So... do you want to find a therapist now?" he asks. "I can try to help with that if you'd like."

Paige almost bursts into tears again at the offer. "You—really? You mean it?" she asks, wide-eyed, because finding new therapists is definitely her least favourite part of the therapy process, and it's frustrating and upsetting and scary and god, she hates it. "You'd—you wouldn't mind?"

Sam looks a little alarmed. "Please don't cry again!" he exclaims, frantically patting Paige's shoulder. "It's okay! I'd be happy to help, I just want you to be open with me, this is what friends do, yes? Helping each other?"

"Well, yes," Paige says, smiling a little at Sam's anxious reassurances. It's kind of endearing, really. "But it—it still means a lot to me, to hear you say that. Thank you, Sam."

"Of course!" Sam says, relieved. "We can start looking tomorrow if you'd like?"

"That... sounds good, I think," Paige says. "Do we have time tomorrow? There's the court session in the morning, and in the evening there's that state dinner. I guess we could do it in the afternoon..."

"We'll squeeze it in somewhere," Sam promises. "Don't worry about it for now."

"Okay," Paige says. She's tired and all too willing to ignore things that could potentially be worrying. It's much easier to just lean against Sam and sip her cocoa and pretend there is nothing beyond this moment.

"What else can I do?" Sam asks, a minute or two later when Paige is just starting to think about how close they are again. It's a nice, comfortable closeness, and she feels like she could grow to get used to being held like this.

"What do you mean, what else?" she asks.

"Like... earlier, what should I have done?" There's something analytical in his tone now like he's replaying the scene in his mind and poking and prodding at all the different possibilities. "I doubt you would have told me you were feeling anxious in front of the Baroness, so in the future, if something like that happens, I'll try to watch my words, but I might still not know... what should I do to be better, Paige?"

Paige bites her lip again, absently chewing at the chapped skin in thought. "Um... maybe I should find a way to let you know," she suggests softly. "Like, a code word or something to just tell you I feel bad? So if I say it randomly, it might not mean anything to anyone else, but you'd know?"

"Yeah, that sounds good!" Sam agrees. "You might have to smack me if I forget it a few times, just in case. What word should it be?"

"Good question," Paige mutters, looking around the room for inspiration. It shouldn't be a word she uses too often, but it also shouldn't be one that would be completely out of the blue, right? Something super weird would be more notable to anyone listening to their conversation, and she wants it to be unobtrusive...

"I know!" Sam announces. "Mignon!"

"Mignon?" Paige repeats, wrinkling her nose. "Why Mignon?"

"Because," Sam chirps, confident and assured in his brilliance, "I already associate it with you, and it's your comfort food! So if I ask you how the Filet Mignon level is, from one to ten, the one-to-ten scale is really just telling me how much comfort you need!"

He sounds so pleased with himself that Paige can't find it within herself to say 'no'. Besides, it's not like she has any other ideas, and this entire thing is mostly to help Sam help Paige anyway. So if he wants to use "Mignon" as their code word...

"Sure," Paige says. "That works."

"Wonderful," Sam hums. "So how's the Filet Mignon index right now?"

Paige feels a smile tug at her lips due to the pure ridicule of the phrase. "Maybe around a five," she answers, tucking her head into the crook of Sam's neck again. "It was probably a nine earlier."

"Not a ten?" Sam asks, sounding surprised.

Paige lets out a dry laugh. "I probably will never actually call it a ten," she says, "because I'll always be telling myself, especially when I'm distressed, that it could be worse and I need to get over it."

"Oh," Sam says. "Hm. Okay. I'll keep that in mind."

"Yeah," Paige agrees. "...Thank you for doing all this."

Sam sighs, any remaining levity draining from his voice. "You're welcome," he answers. "I just... I never want today to repeat itself, Paige. I was terrified when I couldn't find you earlier. I kept thinking about how I promised you I'd keep you safe, and how bitter the irony would be if you got hurt or even killed after you ran away because of something I said. I know the palace grounds are generally pretty safe, but I couldn't help but worry."

"Sam," Paige breathes, taking one hand from her mug to wrap it around her fiancé's waist. Guilt gnaws at her. "I'm so sorry."

"It's... it's alright," Sam says. "I don't think it was really either of our faults. It just happened and was rather unfortunate. But nothing bad ultimately came of it, and you and I had a nice talk, right?"

"Yeah," Paige agrees. "So... just checking, but, um. We're okay, right?"

Sam smiles a tired but genuine smile down at her. "If by okay you mean we're still engaged and we've also established what I hope is a mutual trust, then yes, I think we're okay."

"I trust you," Paige mumbles, and... it's true. After tonight, she does trust Sam. Having a panic attack in front of someone and then being consoled about it tends to make her trust that person, she supposes, and in the end, it was pretty much squarely her fault that all of this happened.

"Thank you," Sam murmurs in response. "I'm glad to hear it."

They sit together in silence for another few minutes. Paige finishes her drink but doesn't set the mug aside, because that would mean moving away again, and there's no need for that. She just stays there, head comfortably nestled against Sam's neck, and closes her tired eyes.

Later, she wakes up just as Sam is laying her down in her bed and realizes, vaguely, that she must have fallen asleep on him. But she doesn't bother dwelling on that for long, much more content to sigh and sink into the pillows, soft and deep, even though they lack the warmth of Sam's touch.

"Good night, Paige," Sam whispers, leaning down to kiss her forehead. "Sleep well."

(She does.)