Sam.

~~~

The shower took longer than I expected, and by the time we were ready, the bus was already waiting for us near the hotel. I scrambled to grab my essentials and hurried to prepare for the show. The guys didn't have a full rehearsal that night—just a quick soundcheck—but the rush still left me flustered.

When I stepped onto the bus, I noticed it looked cleaner than usual. The stale air was gone, replaced with something almost fresh. It didn't take long to figure out why. Louis, in his ever-dutiful way, had cleaned the entire bus. I felt a pang of guilt when I realized that while Ray and I had been tangled up in bed all day, the rest of the band had been out partying in Amstelveen—and Louis had been scrubbing floors. Sure, it was part of his job, but it didn't make me feel any less embarrassed.

Once we got to the venue, it was clear I wouldn't be in the crowd for this show. Instead, I chose a spot upstairs. It was closed off to the public, but with my all-access pass, I could watch the performance from there. It gave me a good view of the stage without having to dodge sweaty bodies or deal with overly curious fans.

As the band played, I let my thoughts wander. Watching Ray up there, commanding the stage, always left me in awe. But tonight, it stirred something deeper—something that made me want to confront the messy parts of my life I'd been avoiding.

I didn't want to keep pretending I wasn't Ray's girlfriend. Sure, Scott and the hardcore Purple Rain fans would lose their minds over it. But in that moment, I decided: screw all of them. I couldn't keep tiptoeing around their opinions or letting the fear of backlash control my life.

Scott was another issue entirely. I hadn't heard from the detective in over a week, and his last voicemail had been cryptic at best: Plan A failed. I was wrong, Samantha. That was it. No follow-up, no explanation. I figured it meant the restraining order against Scott wasn't happening anytime soon. Maybe Paul couldn't find enough evidence to make it stick.

Until I could get back to L.A. and deal with it myself, I avoided Scott altogether. I ignored his calls, let his messages pile up, and fed him excuses about traveling and time zones. But deep down, I knew the truth: I was done pretending. Whatever friendship we'd once had was long gone, and I was tired of lying to keep the peace.

Of course, the public wasn't going to be any kinder. Purple Rain fans still clung to the memory of Ray's ex, Courtney, like she was some kind of saint. Meanwhile, rumors about Ray being single were everywhere, and the private messages some fans sent him? Let's just say they weren't exactly subtle. He'd warned me about that from the start, though, so I couldn't act surprised.

Still, I knew the clock was ticking. If fans hadn't already figured out who I was, they would soon. Traveling with the band and being spotted with Ray in multiple cities wasn't exactly low-profile behavior. And thanks to my family's ties, there were enough pictures of me from events floating around online to make me recognizable to anyone who bothered to look.

After the show, Ray and I spent another night at the Radisson Blu. By noon the next day, the bus was on its way to Rotterdam. That's when I got the call from Alyssa.

She sounded worried, and it wasn't hard to see why. Something was wrong with my grandmother, Rose. Alyssa didn't have many details—only that our parents had been taking her to the doctor more often than usual and weren't saying much about it.

When I tried to get answers from Mom, she dodged my questions, focusing instead on Tom and my nonexistent relationship with him. But I couldn't stop worrying. Rose had heart problems, and when I was ten, she had a transplant. She'd been fine ever since, but what if something had changed? I hadn't seen her since April. What if I'd missed something important?

While the guys performed in Rotterdam that night, I stayed on the bus, making calls to anyone who might know more. Nobody had real answers. The uncertainty gnawed at me, and I couldn't shake the fear that I might lose her. Losing one grandparent was hard enough—I wasn't ready to go through it again.

After weighing my options and talking it over with Ray and the others, I decided I needed to go back to New York. It wasn't just about obligations—I had to see her, to know she was okay. The best flight option was out of London, so early the next morning, we left Holland and drove to the U.K.

As much as I wanted to stay with Ray, the family came first. He understood that. And even though I hated leaving his side, I knew I'd made the right choice.

~~~

Ray.

~~~

We had time to kill before Sam's flight, so we headed to the Blue Boar for a meal. The place had a cozy, intimate vibe, with its dark wood panels and black accents. It felt like stepping into a quiet corner of the world where time moves slower. We grabbed a table by the window, the pale London light streaming through, casting soft shadows on Sam's face.

She looked beautiful, even with the exhaustion of travel and worry etched into her features. Her blue eyes had this way of catching the light, like waves of ocean dancing against deep green pools. As we waited for our food, she rested her hand on the table, and I instinctively intertwined my fingers with hers.

The waitress apologized for the delay, saying the kitchen was slammed. Neither of us cared. Honestly, food wasn't the main reason we were there—we just wanted to be together, with no distractions.

"I just don't get why they won't tell you what's going on," I said, sipping water. The taste was crisp, but the uncertainty in Sam's expression left a bitter aftertaste.

She gave me a small, tired smile. "My family isn't like yours, Ray. They've always treated me like a child, never letting me in on anything important."

Her fingers tightened around mine. I hated seeing her like this, carrying the weight of unanswered questions on her shoulders.

"For example?" I asked, raising an eyebrow to nudge her along.

"Well," she said, hesitating for a moment before meeting my gaze, "you know Alyssa's adopted, right?"

I nodded. "Yeah, you mentioned that once."

"They adopted her because my mom can't have kids. Which... naturally raised some questions for me," she said, her voice trailing off.

I leaned forward, my brow furrowing. "You think they adopted you too?"

Before she could answer, the waitress returned with our drinks. I watched Sam's expression shift—a relief to pause the conversation, maybe? She thanked the server, wrapping her hands around the coffee cup like it was a lifeline.

"Well?" I pressed after the waitress left.

She took a deep breath, her eyes focusing on the swirling steam rising from her cup. "For a while, I convinced myself that I might be adopted. It would've explained a lot—why I've always felt so out of place in my own family. But then there's the fact that I look just like my grandmother when she was my age. Same build, and the same hair. And my eyes..."

I tilted my head, studying her. "Exactly like Michael's," I said softly, my voice carrying the weight of realization.

She nodded, smiling faintly. "Even the little brown freckles, very Morris gene, my dad's and uncle's eyes are just like mine."

I leaned back in my chair, crossing my arms. "How would you feel if you were adopted?"

"Honestly? Fine. They gave me everything—a good home, a great education, all of it. But still... I'd be curious." She shrugged, the motion small and almost self-contained.

"You're not just curious. You're dying to know," I teased gently, smirking at her.

She gave me a look, half amused, half resigned. "Maybe."

"Your parents can't be that bad, though," I said, leaning forward again. "You're just trying to scare me off, aren't you?"

Her lips curled into a mischievous grin. "No, Ray. I'm just being realistic. But I've said it before—I don't need their approval."

"Okay, then. Spill. You've told me your mom wouldn't like anyone but Tom. What about your dad? Think I stand a chance with him?" I asked, raising an eyebrow.

She hesitated, her expression shifting into something unreadable. Then, with a deep breath, she said, "Do you know Keith Watkins?"

"Yeah, of course," I said, narrowing my eyes. "Why?"

"He was my uncle," she said simply, like it wasn't earth-shattering news.

I froze, staring at her. "Wait... what?"

She held up a hand. "Let me finish the story before you freak out, okay?" I nodded, still reeling.

"Watkins was my grandmother's maiden name. Keith used it as his stage name because my grandfather, Michael, was a well-known writer. Keith didn't want to be associated with the family name for some reason," she explained.

I blinked, trying to process it. "You're telling me you're Keith Watkins' niece, and you just... forgot to mention it?"

"It's not like I knew him," she said, shrugging again and sipping her coffee.

I scoffed, shaking my head. "That guy's a rock legend!"

"Not to my dad," she said, her voice laced with bitterness. "Keith was the black sheep of the family. My grandparents adored him, but my dad and my other uncle, John, were all about business. They thought Keith's career was reckless and irresponsible. My dad pretty much hated him."

I frowned. "So, you think your dad's going to hate me too? Just because I'm in a band?"

She met my gaze, her eyes unwavering. "I know he will. But I don't care. I care about you, Ray, not their opinions." That hit me harder than I expected. Her loyalty, her determination—it was magnetic. Giving me hope, maybe—just maybe she felt the same way about me as I did about her.

The food arrived, breaking the intensity of the moment. We shifted to lighter topics as we ate, but I couldn't stop glancing at her, wondering what it must've been like growing up in a family so different from mine.

After an incredible meal that left me feeling both full and alive, Samantha and I wandered the streets of London, unburdened by any plans or destinations. The city hummed with energy, its cobblestone alleys alive with flickering lights from passing cars and the distant sound of laughter spilling out of pubs. Just as we turned a corner, she stopped abruptly, her gaze fixed on a tattoo parlor nestled between two dimly lit shops.

"I want to go in," she said, her voice carrying that familiar spark of impulsiveness. She pointed to the shop door, a grin tugging at the corner of her lips.

"Are you sure?" I asked, trying to gauge how serious she was.

"Yeah. I've had an idea for a new tattoo saved on my phone forever," she replied, pulling it out and swiping quickly until she found the image. She handed me the phone.

It was simple—a circle with a profile inside it, featuring a smiley face with X's for eyes and a crooked grin. The design screamed grunge, raw and understated, exactly like something she'd pick.

"Oh, I want that too," I said without hesitation. The nostalgia of Nirvana washed over me, and I could already imagine the tattoo on my skin. "Yeah, we should both get it." I grabbed her hand, eager to drag her inside.

"No way," she protested, pulling back and narrowing her eyes at me. "I'm getting it, not we. We can't have the same tattoo."

"Why not?" I teased. "Let's just see if they even have time for us." I didn't wait for her to argue further and opened the door.

The scent of disinfectant hit me immediately, a reassuring sign. Loud music blared from a pair of speakers, and I recognized the song: Twenty One Pilots. The place was small but inviting, with photos of tattoos pinned to the walls and a petite woman sitting behind the counter, her laptop glowing in front of her. She looked up as we approached, her eyes widening like she'd just seen a ghost.

"Oh my god," she breathed. "Raymond Lawrence. In my shop." Her gaze flicked briefly to Sam before snapping back to me.

"Do you have any time left today?" I asked, keeping my tone casual.

"For you? Absolutely. Do you know what you want?" Her excitement was almost palpable, but she kept it professional, at least on the surface.

"Yeah, we both want the same thing," I said, taking Sam's phone and showing the woman the image.

"Ah, Nirvana's smiley face," she said with a knowing laugh. "I've done plenty of those. Come on back; we can start right away."

Sam filled out the paperwork first while I stood close, looking through some photos on the wall. The designs were impressive, bold yet precise. I admired her steady hands as she prepped the tools.

"Where do you want it?" the artist asked Sam after she sat in the chair.

"Here," Sam said, pointing to the inside of her wrist.

"Good choice," the woman said, nodding approvingly.

I watched as the needle buzzed to life, the ink finding its way into Sam's skin. She tensed at first, her body giving a small shiver, but soon she relaxed. The hour passed quickly, and when it was my turn, I was ready.

"Your turn, rock star," the artist said with a teasing smile, handing me the paperwork.

I sat in the chair as Sam joined a girl on the couch by the door. They struck up a conversation—Sam always had that gift of putting people at ease. Meanwhile, the artist turned to me, her eyes gleaming with something more than professionalism.

"Same spot?" she asked, and I nodded.

"Ray," Sam said from the couch, her tone full of warning.

"It's not like anyone will know," I said, glancing at her with a smirk.

The artist laughed. "Don't worry. Confidentiality is everything in this business," she assured us, glancing between Sam and me like she was trying to solve a puzzle.

By the time my tattoo was done, Sam was on her feet, inspecting it. Her expression was unreadable—half amusement, half something I couldn't quite place.

"Seriously, I can't believe you did this," she said, shaking her head.

"Nirvana's my thing too," I reminded her, grinning. "It's not just about us."

She rolled her eyes but didn't argue further. That was one of the things I loved about her—she picked her battles, even when she was clearly annoyed. When we finally left, the artist handed me her card, her smile lingering a little too long. I shoved it in my pocket and grabbed Sam's hand, pulling her out into the cool night air.

"What's the rush?" she asked when I finally slowed down.

I exhaled sharply, raking a hand through my hair. "You left me alone with her. Do you know how uncomfortable that was?"

Sam laughed, loud and carefree. "She was harmless, Ray. She just couldn't stop eyeing you—it's not exactly a crime."

I stopped walking and turned to face her, my hands sliding instinctively to her hips. "You're not mad?"

"Mad?" She arched an eyebrow. "Ray, just because someone looks at you like they'd jump your bones doesn't mean I'm jealous."

Her laugh echoed around us again, and it hit me all at once—how rare and perfect she was. "You're amazing, you know that?" I whispered, pulling her closer.

"I try," she teased, but her eyes softened as she looked up at me.

"I'd never hurt you," I said, my voice low and steady. "You know that, right?"

She nodded, her hand brushing against my cheek. "And I'd never hurt you, Ray. I swear."

For a moment, the city disappeared. It was just us, standing there under the glow of a flickering streetlight, her eyes locking onto mine. When I kissed her, it wasn't just a kiss—it was a promise.

Later, after ice cream and a lazy taxi ride, I dropped her off at the airport. Watching her walk away felt like a gut punch, but I knew this wasn't the end. Not for us. Not yet.