*-*-*

[17:48] Sammy:

Paige!!!! Let's go out for dinner today?

[17:49] Paige:

um... is it okay if we maybe do that tomorrow instead?

[17:49] Sammy:

Oh sure, that's fine too!! Is everything okay?

[17:50] Paige:

ummm the mignon is probably around a 7 right now and i dont know why? :/ sorry

[17:50] Sammy:

Got it. Do you want space, or do you want me to come there?

[17:51] Paige:

um... you could... come here? only if it wouldn't be too much trouble though, ill be fine otherwise, don't worry about it, i don't want to be any trouble or anything

[17:51] Sammy:

You're not any trouble! My schedule is pretty free anyway since I thought we might go out, but staying in works too!. :)

On my way now!!! <3

***

*Paige's P.O.V.*

Knock knock. 

Two gentle raps on the door.

"Paige? It's me," Sam calls, and Paige takes a deep breath and forces herself to look presentable instead of like a trembling wreck (just in case anyone else is in the hallway. Just in case they see her. She can't be thought of as weak, she can't.) and crosses the room, reaching for the knob.

"Hey," she greets softly as soon as she pulls it open. She thinks she's doing a fair job of making herself look like she's holding it together, but as soon as Sam steps inside, she crumples inward, wrapping her arms around herself and biting her lip.

"Hi," Sam answers. He closes the door behind himself and then looks at Paige, hesitating, and Paige can sense how helpless he feels like he wants to fix this but doesn't know how, and it only makes her feel worse. She squeezes her eyes shut.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," Sam says immediately. "...It's okay," he adds after a moment, and Paige can't help but remember her therapy session two weeks ago, the one where she got Sam to come in with her, specifically to discuss strategies for Sam to help Paige cope. Despite that, it must still be overwhelming to be asked to deal with this, and she really should've pushed him away, instead of being honest and saying she doesn't want to be alone, and—

"I'm sorry," she squeaks out again, then winces, because that doesn't help either of them. It sends her further into guilt and only leaves Sam that much more clueless. "I mean—sorry, I just—no, that's not—I don't—god, why can't I talk? I—"

"If it's easier, you don't have to talk, Paige," Sam says, looking at her with an odd, scrutinizing gaze that leaves her feeling oddly vulnerable and exposed. "You're shaking. Why don't you sit down? I'll make you tea, does that sound good?"

Not talking. Yes, not talking sounds great. She nods jerkily, wraps her arms around herself and presses her fingers into her own arms hard enough that it hurts, and squeezes her eyes shut, shoulders hunched.

"Thank you," she whispers.

There's a soft sigh, coupled with the sound of movement, but Paige doesn't open her eyes. Staring at nothing is a lot less overwhelming than staring at anything.

"Can I touch you?" Sam asks.

Paige hesitates for a moment. Then she nods again, a sharp bob of her head, still not trusting herself to speak without bursting into tears or hyperventilating or something. Touch doesn't sound bad, so long as she has warning that it's coming; it can be soothing when there isn't too much all at once. Sometimes she feels trapped, sometimes she feels comforted. These things are apparently very hit-and-miss, which is really annoying, honestly.

Something warm settles around her shoulders, and it's the kind of warm that's comfortingly heavy—grounding her in reality, surrounding her in one feeling like a shield, protecting her from the outside world and its too-many stimuli that clamour and crescendo into an overwhelming cacophony, rising up like a dark wave rushing to shore, ready to drown her. She's been standing on the shore, rooted in place, helpless to flee—she's been on an island, maybe, and the wave has been coming from every side—but now, there's a seawall, a protective barrier. It doesn't stop everything from spilling over, but the worst of it is diverted.

Paige opens her eyes.

"Go sit down," Sam says again, gentle but firm. "I'll make you tea, and then we can do whatever you want. Okay?"

"Okay," Paige manages, her voice actually kind of working—what a surprise. Perhaps it has to do with the too-large, brown jacket that's wrapped around her, still warm from being on Sam's shoulders just seconds ago. "...Thank you."

Sam smiles. "You're welcome," he says, and then he heads to the kitchenette and pours some water into the kettle for tea. Paige stares after him for a moment, trying to get her brain in order, and then stumbles to the couch, Sam's jacket still clutched around her like a blanket. She doesn't bother to put her arms through the sleeves; something about wearing it like a cape feels vaguely more secure.

(It smells like Sam, and she doesn't really know what to think about that other than that she likes it.)

When Sam settles down next to her, Paige looks up, startled out of staring at the floor and thinking about what in the world it might be that's making her feel like this today—it feels like it's simultaneously nothing and everything.

"Here's your tea," Sam says, offering a mug. "It's still rather hot, but I can cool it down for you if you'd like."

"In... in a minute," Paige says softly. She takes the mug carefully, holding it in one hand and resting it on her legs so the warmth can seep through her clothes, while the other hand keeps holding the jacket around herself. Next, to her, Sam lets out a careful breath; he seems relieved. Good. Paige doesn't want him to be stressed, especially not on her behalf. Relief means she must be doing something right.

They sit in silence for a few moments. Paige gazes into the depths of her mug, taking deep, careful breaths. The steam smells nice—light and slightly fruity, without being too strong or overpowering. It's almost painfully familiar; she's found pomegranate green tea here, but this particular blend is from the box she brought from home, the huge one that she's been trying to save for bad days. Today is definitely a day that merits it, but...

Something about the way the scent of the tea brings back memories of her parents' favourite sitting room, sunlight streaming in from the huge windows and the laughter of her family filling the air, something about how it whispers home, makes her eyes prickle and begin to water. She hasn't cried from homesickness in—in a while, really, now that she thinks about it—but she supposes it has to rear its head every now and then. Of course, it does.

Anyway, her tea smells like home and this jacket smells like Sam and they're both warm and comforting, and suddenly she feels safe enough that the walls come down and then the tears spill over, rolling silently down her cheeks. Sam lets out a quiet sound of dismay.

"Paige! Paige, what is it?" he asks worriedly, hands fluttering near her chest like he wants to reach out but isn't sure if he should.

Paige appreciates that—he's listened, when Paige told him she doesn't always want to be touched when she's upset—but this is one of the times when she could use the comfort, she thinks, so she just sniffles and scoots sideways until their legs are pressed together, laying her head on Sam's shoulder in both a silent granting of permission and a request.

Sam hears, loud and clear, because the emotions from him suddenly feel like another cool wave of relief washing gently over an agitated shoreline, and then he wraps his arm around Paige's waist, pulling her close. He even twists about a little bit, his other hand stroking Paige's cheek for a moment, and Paige sniffles again, closing her eyes.

"Is this okay?" Sam asks quietly.

Paige nods against his shoulder. She's not really crying, not yet anyway—there are tears leaking out of the corners of her eyes, yes, but her breathing isn't that laboured and she doesn't feel like there's a sob choking and clawing its way up her throat. It's just... quiet tears. That's all.

They sit together like this for several minutes, long enough for Sam to start humming (perhaps an attempt to give Paige something to focus on, as she makes herself calm down and whatnot, which is a surprisingly thoughtful gesture). Eventually, he breaks the silence again (properly, this time).

"Are you feeling a little better?"

Paige nods again. She thinks the tea is probably drinkable now, but she doesn't want to move, not when they're like this and she feels so ... so safe. It feels like if she moves, she'll disrupt the quiet, soft balance they've reached here, and she won't be able to return to this soothing, secure equilibrium. She doesn't want that. This feels good. This is helping.

"I'm glad," Sam says, giving her a gentle squeeze. "What do you want to do now?"

"Not sure," Paige mumbles, too uncertain to admit 'I just want you to stay with me, just like this' out loud. She finally does lift her head, though, because if Sam wants to do something else, she's not going to make him stay, and she might as well sip her tea while she's sitting up properly.

But Sam doesn't pull away, keeps his arm right where it is, still wrapped around Paige like a lifeline, and Paige eventually relaxes against his side, slowly sipping her tea. Sam seems pleased.

"Do you want to tell me something that's been on your mind today?" he asks. It's phrased as a 'do you want this' instead of 'tell me about it,' and the distinction might be small, but it's poignant enough that Paige has a flash of the thought 'I could kiss you for that' before she hurriedly shoves it away. This isn't the time for thinking about her attraction to her fiancé, so if maybe the part of her brain that's busy repeating a long litany of all of the wonderful things about Sam on repeat could get that memo, that'd be great.

"Not really," she admits, fidgeting with one of the buttons on Sam's jacket. "I... don't really know and it's confusing and I don't want to think about it. Everything is just... too much. I'm sorry. I don't really—I can't explain it very well, I guess, I'm just, um... overwhelmed? It's like—it's like the world is just too big right now and I can't handle it all."

"Okay," Sam says, gentle and accommodating, and isn't that something else to love about him—

Love?

Oh.

Maybe that's what this is, after all. Sam is important to her, close to her in a way she's never really felt with anyone else before, and even though a year ago they hadn't known each other, the idea of not having Sam in her life is... sad. Whatever she feels for Sam, love seems like a good way to describe it.

Somehow, that realization doesn't panic her. In fact, it does the opposite—it's calming. Is falling in love with Sam Winchester supposed to feel as natural as breathing?

"Do you want to do something as a distraction?" Sam asks, his fingers starting to comb small lines into Paige's hair, slow and gentle. "Or do you just want to sit here? We can do whatever you want, Paige."

"Thank you," Paige murmurs, and wonders if Sam hears it as the 'I love you' she means it as. She can't quite bring herself to say that so directly, not today when she wants to cling to certainty and hide from doubt and hesitation and fear and things that could possibly go horribly wrong in ten thousand ways, but she hopes Sam knows anyway. "I... um... I think a distraction might be good?"

"Alright!" Sam smiles warmly, warm enough that Paige thinks maybe he did hear it after all and gives her a gentle squeeze. "How about we relocate to the bed, get cosy, and watch a movie or something?"

"That... sounds good," Paige agrees. She takes another long sip of tea, shifting against Sam's side just enough to make herself fully aware of the way their bodies are pressed together, from head to foot—it's grounding and good, and she doesn't want to move, not yet. "After my tea?"

"Yes, of course," Sam says. "Take your time, Paige, we aren't in a rush."

They sit together for a minute or two longer, and although it's quiet, it's not the kind of silence that makes Paige feel tense or awkward. It's simple, just a quiet companionship that doesn't necessarily need to be filled with words. She finishes her tea, then lays her head against Sam's shoulder again. Anxiety is so tiring; she could fall asleep here, she thinks.

Eventually, she sighs, straightening enough to put the empty mug on the coffee table. Sam was right, actually; moving to the bed sounds like a fantastic idea, especially if she thinks she might fall asleep, thanks to the post-"really bad anxiety that wasn't quite a panic attack but damn did it come close" slump. "Should we... should we go start the movie?"

"Yes, we can do that," Sam says. He disentangles himself and gets to his feet, and Paige immediately misses the feel of his arm around her, but at least she still has the jacket. She stands up, too, and follows Sam as he starts walking to the bedroom. "Can you get your computer out?"

"Yes," Paige manages. She plods to her desk, but when she notices Sam isn't following, she stops, confused. "Where are you going?"

Sam pulls open the linen storage closet with a wink. "Why, Paige, I'm getting all the extra pillows and a few of the blankets out. We said we were going to get cosy, right?"

"Oh," Paige says. "Well... alright then."

She lets Sam worry about the cosiness factor, moving her computer to the bed and plugging it in over there before she settles down, clutching Sam's jacket a bit more tightly around her shoulders, and waits. Sam drapes a blanket around her for good measure, tucks some extra pillows behind her back and against her sides, and then squeezes into the pile with her, wrapping his arm around Paige's waist again and letting her lean against his chest.

"Good?" Sam asks.

"Yeah," Paige mumbles, heart pounding ever so slightly from the sudden proximity again. It's not a bad kind of heart-pounding, though; it's more like... anticipation, almost. She closes her eyes for a moment, takes a deep breath, and lets it out as a sigh. She feels significantly better than earlier, and it's all thanks to Sam, really.

"So. Shall we find a movie?" Sam suggests, reaching for Paige's laptop.

"Yeah," Paige agrees, laying her head against Sam's shoulder again. "Something cute?"

"Your wish," Sam says solemnly, "is my command."

She doesn't really pay much attention while Sam browses, concentrating more on the sensations around her—the softness of the pillows tucked around her, the feel of Sam's shirt against her cheek, the pockets on the jacket when she runs her thumbs over it. All of these things are useful, are grounding.

"Ah!" Sam suddenly says, glancing over. "How's this one?" There's a soft look in his eyes, and Paige can't help but wonder if he means to be projecting as much gentle contentment as he is, because just being exposed to that is... really helpful, actually. When she lets her own consciousness lightly brush against Sam's, it's like a breath of fresh air.

Sam looks at her curiously, but he doesn't say anything, giving Paige the time she needs. Paige closes her eyes for a moment, breathing in and out, slow and careful before she opens them and looks at the screen. It's a Pandorian movie, one of her favourites, too.

"Yes," she murmurs. "That looks good. Thank you, Sammy."

She's not just talking about the movie, or even about the jacket or the blanket pile. But the smile on Sam's face leaves her with no doubt that he knows exactly what she means.

"You're welcome, Paige."

He leans over and presses his lips to Paige's hair. Paige freezes for a moment, eyes wide. That's not—people might flirt without it meaning anything but kisses? But—no, no, she can't possibly even hope for that, it's obvious that Sam is just free with affection, even platonic intimacy—

Except what if it's not that, and she's just letting her own self-depreciation get in the way? Because frankly, if she's completely honest with herself, the emotions she feels from Sam often feel like the same emotions she feels toward Sam, and if she's pretty sure she has a romantic interest in her fiancé, then maybe she does need to entertain the possibility, but also...

This is confusing and she's probably going to overthink herself into another state of high anxiety if she isn't careful. Maybe she should save all this careful consideration for when she feels more stable.

What does she know?

One. She likes Sam, a lot. Sam is very important to her—a good friend, a pillar of support, someone she trusts and whose company she enjoys. Someone she... loves? Yes, at this point... she's pretty sure it wouldn't be wrong to say she does love Sam.

Two. This, whatever "this" is, is good. Maybe she hasn't found the right label for everything, but whatever they have between them doesn't necessarily need a label. And that's ... that's okay. So long as it's good, for both of them, a label doesn't matter.

Three. She doesn't mind it (she kind of actively likes it) when Sam kisses her hair like that.

All of these things point at one conclusion, which is that she should stop fretting and just take this as it is. So she does, just nestling a little closer and letting the opening strains of the title theme wash over her. Sam settles his arm around her again, which—which is nice—and leans his cheek against Paige's head, and the feeling of contentment only grows, and—

Paige thinks that maybe, just maybe, she's going to be okay after all.