Sam.

~~~

Every story has a hero and a villain, but who decides which is which? I never felt like I fit neatly into either role. Protagonist, antagonist—none of it felt right. If anything, I'd always seen myself as a decent person, somewhere in the messy middle. But as I lay in that hospital bed, staring at the stark white ceiling, an unsettling thought crept in: maybe I was the antagonist in Scott Shaw's story.

My fingers absently stroked Ray's hair as he slept, his breaths deep and even. The nurse had given me sedatives too, but they didn't seem to work. I felt restless, far too awake for someone who should've been out cold.

The truth was, I needed to go to the bathroom. Carefully, I propped myself up on my elbow, the movement making my head spin. I swung my legs over the edge of the bed, my feet meeting the cold, unwelcoming floor. Slowly, I stood, feeling a small surge of gratitude that the drip wasn't hooked to my right hand anymore.

The bathroom walls were chilly against my palm as I fumbled for the light switch. With a soft click, the room flooded with fluorescent brightness, making me narrow my eyes. I shuffled to the toilet, the effort it took to sit and stand again almost laughable. My legs wobbled like jelly beneath me, and I gripped the metal bar on the wall for support.

When I reached the sink, I made the mistake of looking in the mirror. God, I looked terrible. Puffy cheeks, dark shadows under my eyes, and greasy hair that hung limply around my face. I barely recognized myself. A shower, I thought. I desperately needed a shower.

The sterile bathroom felt even colder as I realized I didn't have any of my things. No toiletries, no clothes, nothing. Everything I owned was still at my apartment—now a crime scene. I felt oddly exposed, standing there in my flimsy hospital gown.

The door creaked open, and I startled, turning toward the sound.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" Ray stood there, his eyebrows drawn tight in concern.

"I just had to pee," I said defensively, moving toward the door.

"That's why I stayed, darling. To help you." He stepped forward, taking my elbow gently but firmly enough. "Don't give me that look. I've seen plenty of you already." His lips quirked in a teasing smile as he guided me back to the bed. "And since we're moving in together, I don't see what the big deal is."

"Yeah, sure," I said with a roll of my eyes, the sarcasm thick in my voice. "I want a shower."

Ray crouched in front of me as I sat on the bed, lifting my legs back onto the mattress with practiced care.

"I figured as much," he said, pulling the blanket over me. "I told Mom what to buy. She and Logan left the hospital last night to grab everything you'll need. Logan's bringing it all this morning." He brushed a strand of hair away from my face, his touch warm and soothing.

"I can wait until morning," I murmured, though I already hated the idea of staying this grimy any longer.

"I'll help you," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

"I can shower by myself, Ray," I said, cutting him off before he could insist further.

"Not this time, love." His voice softened, and his brown eyes searched mine. "You need to let your arm heal. Just let me help, okay?"

My protest died on my lips. His concern was palpable, and I was too exhausted to argue. "My eyes feel heavy," I mumbled instead.

"Sleep, love." His voice was the last thing I heard as my eyelids finally gave in.

When I woke, sunlight streamed through the open blinds, filling the room with a soft, golden light. I blinked a few times, trying to shake off the grogginess.

"What time is it?" I asked with a yawn, my voice scratchy.

Logan's familiar face came into focus as he looked up from his phone. "Almost nine," he said, slipping the device into his pants pocket.

"Where's Ray?" I asked, glancing around.

"Taking a shower," he said, nodding toward the closed bathroom door. "How are you feeling?"

"Decent," I said with a shrug, shifting onto my back. "Wouldn't showering at home feel better?"

"He's not going home," Logan said with a smirk, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. "That's why I brought him everything he needs. Mom wanted to come, too, but she had to work."

"Thank you for coming," I said, smiling faintly. "And for bringing me stuff. Ray mentioned it."

"You're joking, right?" Logan leaned closer, his expression turning serious. "You saved my brother's life."

"That's... debatable," I said, shaking my head.

Logan grinned. "Not to me."

"Did the doctor come by yet?" I asked, changing the subject.

"The nurse said he'll be here around ten," Logan said. "The guys are coming later to visit, and your parents will probably show up soon, too."

I groaned, half-joking. "You might want to avoid them."

"True," Logan said with a nod, his tone light but thoughtful.

"Did they say something bad to you or Nora?" I asked, trying to gauge the extent of the damage.

"Define 'bad,'" he said with a laugh that held little humor. "They dismissed Ray the second they arrived. Barely said anything to me or Mom, really."

I sighed, nodding. "Sounds about right." I started to prop myself up on my elbow, the dull ache in my shoulder flaring up. "I need to get up."

Before I could move further, the door swung open, and my parents strolled in. They looked oddly well-rested, their cheerful demeanor clashing with the weight in my chest. My mother, Jennifer, laughed at something my father, Richard, had said, her voice too loud for the quiet room.

"Good morning, sweetheart," Mom said, gliding to my bedside and planting a kiss on my forehead. Her sharp perfume enveloped me as she turned to Logan with a polite nod. "Ray," she said absently.

I froze, stunned. Did she seriously just confuse Logan with Ray? The resemblance between the Lawrence brothers was there, sure, but it wasn't that strong.

Logan, for his part, seemed more amused than offended. He smirked, lowering his head. "Logan," he corrected, standing up from the chair. "I was here yesterday, Miss Morris. You met me then."

"Oh, right. The brother," Mom said, her tone dismissive as she brushed at an imaginary speck on her sleeve.

Richard, who had lingered by the door, finally spoke. "Can you give us a moment alone with our daughter?" His voice was firm, his expression unreadable.

Logan glanced at me, a silent question in his eyes. I gave him a small nod. "Sure," he said easily, making his way to the door. "I'll grab you a coffee," he added, flashing me a playful grin.

"That sounds like heaven," I said with a tired smile.

The door clicked shut behind him, and I barely had time to exhale before my father's stern voice cut through the air.

"Where's the other one?" he asked, his disdain for Ray practically dripping from his words.

Closing my eyes, I took a moment to gather myself. My head throbbed, a deep, pulsing pain that traveled from my shoulder to my neck and settled in my temple. The weight of grief for Scott—despite everything—pressed down on me, and the last thing I needed was another round of family drama.

"Ray is in the shower," I said, opening my eyes to meet his unrelenting gaze.

"Well," Mom said, smoothing a strand of hair from my face. "Now's the time to get everything off your chest, honey." Her tone was oddly chipper, as though we were catching up over brunch. "The press is all over this."

"The press?" I repeated, startled.

Both of their faces tightened into familiar expressions of irritation, the kind they reserved for when I asked questions they deemed unnecessary. Guilt twisted in my stomach. They knew about Ray, sure, but only in the vaguest terms. Mom had always been in denial about my relationship with him, pretending it wasn't serious—or didn't exist at all.

"You mean because of Ray?" I asked, answering my own question.

Richard pulled out his phone, the beeping sound from it breaking the tense silence. "Michael Morris's granddaughter," he read aloud, his tone clipped, "involved in a shooting at her apartment in Los Angeles. The incident resulted in Samantha Morris's injury and an unidentified man's death. Sources say the scene involved the vocalist of rising rock band Purple Rain. So far, it's unclear why Raymond Lawrence was present." He lowered the phone, his brows furrowed. "Should I keep reading?" he asked, thumb poised over the screen.

"Richard," Mom said sharply, her voice cutting through the tension. She turned her focus to me, her eyes narrowing. "Tell us, how did all this happen?"

Her tone set my teeth on edge. It wasn't a concern—it was an interrogation.

"It started about six months ago," I said, my voice quieter now. "Actually, a week after I met Ray."

"I told you that boy was trouble," Richard said, his gaze flicking to Mom.

"No," I snapped, sitting up straighter despite the pain it caused. "It wasn't Ray's fault. It was Scott. He... he shot me. And then he shot himself."

Mom's expression shifted to shock as she sat at the foot of the bed. "I thought you two were friends."

"We were, Mom," I said, forcing myself to meet her eyes. "But Scott was stalking me. His feelings for me... they weren't just friendly. Ray and I figured it out, and I hired a private detective to help. But..." My voice faltered, and I closed my eyes, trying to steady myself. "The detective's dead too."

"Why didn't you tell us?" Mom asked, her hand covering mine. Her touch felt hollow, offering no comfort.

"Let's see," I said bitterly, pulling my hand away. "Maybe because all you ever want to talk about is when Tom and I will get back together—which, for the last time, is never going to happen." Mom's eyebrows shot up, and I seized the moment to drive my point home. "I love Ray. You'd better start accepting that." My voice wavered, but I held their gazes. Talking about Scott wouldn't have helped. "I thought I could handle it on my own," I finally added.

"Well, clearly, you couldn't," Richard said flatly, stepping closer to the bed. "Why did he shoot you?"

"I don't know—"

"He was aiming at me," Ray's voice interrupted, calm but resolute.

I turned toward the bathroom doorway, where he stood, his face shadowed by a mix of anger and guilt. My chest tightened at the sight of him, knowing how much weight he was carrying.