Chapter 261: Familiar Comfort
The phone slipped from his hand and struck the tiled floor with a dull clack, landing face down.
Samantha startled, instinctively looking toward it. "Oh!" She half rose from her chair. "Your phone—"
"It’s fine."
The answer came automatically.
Fitzgerald didn’t even spare it a glance. For one brief moment, he acknowledged the possibility that the email had already been sent.
If it had... Then it had.
Whether he picked it up now or thirty seconds later would change nothing. He could deal with the consequences afterward.
Right now, there was someone in front of him still trying not to cry.
He reached into the tissue box instead, quietly pulled out another tissue, and held it out to her. "You’ll dehydrate if you keep crying," he said matter-of-factly.
Samantha stared at him for a second before a watery laugh escaped her. "That’s... probably the least comforting thing anyone has ever said to me."
Fitzgerald frowned slightly. "It is scientifically true."
"I know."
Still smiling, she accepted the tissue and carefully dabbed beneath her eyes. She couldn’t help studying him.
He really hadn’t changed.
His way of caring had always been... unconventional.
Back then, she used to compare him to her aunt. Both of them expressed affection through actions rather than words, leaving people wondering whether they cared at all until they quietly solved a problem no one else had noticed. The difference was that her aunt buried herself in research while Fitzgerald buried himself in observing people.
He had never been particularly affectionate with words, yet he always seemed to know what she needed before she asked. A hot drink when she skipped meals. An umbrella before it rained. A jacket over her shoulders whenever she complained about the cold. And, admittedly... he had never been shy about asking for what he wanted in return.
Those memories had always begun the same way.
He would steal a kiss that left her breathless, then somehow convince her that there was no reason to leave the bed for the rest of the day. By the time she realized it, an entire weekend would have slipped by with the curtains still drawn, the world forgotten beyond the apartment walls.
She rarely moved.
He simply refused to let her.
Whenever she complained that she was hungry, he would disappear into the tiny kitchen before returning with another plate of warm apples. He always bought the same variety—the crisp, sweet ones that reminded her of Laurel Hollows, the ones her aunt insisted were the only apples worthy of becoming pie.
He had even learned how she liked them.
Brown sugar, just enough to caramelize around the edges. A dusting of cinnamon. A whisper of nutmeg. A generous spray of butter. Soft enough to melt on her tongue, yet still carrying that familiar bite she had grown up with.
The taste of her home... made by him.
She would always finish every last slice, never leaving a single piece for him, while he merely laughed and reached for another apple to prepare. He ate them fresh instead, biting into them while she curled against his chest as he absentmindedly read whatever book had captured his interest that week.
Looking back, it was ridiculous how they had managed to survive entire weekends on little more than apples, wine... and each other.
Those days had been impossibly simple.
The world outside had continued spinning, filled with deadlines, research papers, and responsibilities neither of them could truly escape. Yet within those four walls, time had seemed to bend around them, allowing them to pretend—if only for forty-eight stolen hours—that nothing else existed.
They had never spoken about forever.
Neither of them had needed to.
Back then, forever had felt as ordinary as another apple waiting on the bedside table.
Her gaze drifted almost unconsciously over his leaner frame.
He looked... different.
She didn’t like it.
The softness that had earned him the nickname Fudgie was gone. There had once been something irresistibly comforting about resting her head on his broad, cushiony chest after exhausting days at university.
She wondered...
Was it still as comfortable?
How much had he changed?
Did he need help?
She wanted to ask. But she knew one thing. He wouldn’t let her in. It was why she accepted teh breakup when he suggested.
He’d give her the world had she asked. But not his heart. Never his heart.
Her chest hurt.
Realizing where her thoughts had wandered, Samantha quietly cleared her throat and forced herself back to the present.
"I think you’re getting better at this."
"At what?"
"Comforting people."
He considered the question with complete seriousness. "I followed the instructions."
She blinked. "What instructions?"
"My psychiatrist’s." He spoke as though explaining an instruction manual. "He said not to offer solutions immediately. He also recommended tissues instead of telling people to stop crying."
For a heartbeat, Samantha simply stared at him.
Then she laughed. It was a genuine laugh, where the corners of her eyes crinkled, the lingering tears turning into something almost warm.
"You actually received instructions for that..." she said between soft laughs, "...and you remembered them?"
"I have an excellent memory."
"That, I can believe."
Her smile lingered as she looked at him.
He really was an odd man. A little antisocial. Selective with his attention.
He never wasted effort on people or things he considered meaningless. He observed everyone with unsettling precision, speaking little unless he believed the conversation served a purpose. Around everyone else, he seemed emotionally detached, almost clinical, as though he were studying humanity from the outside.
Except with her.
With her, he had always talked more.
Listened more.
There had always been something quietly lost about him, as though he were searching for something he couldn’t even name. He responded far better to gentle guidance than raised voices, despite naturally slipping into the role of giving orders himself.
Even his understanding of family had always seemed... incomplete. Or perhaps simply different. He rarely spoke about his own.
And yet... Here he was again. Sitting across from her after five years.
And somehow... Her heart was beating exactly the way it had back then.
"You know..." she said, smiling into the tissue, "you’re still the strangest person I’ve ever met."
A faint smile touched Fitzgerald’s lips. "No one says that to my face anymore."
"I’ll bet."
He looked at her for a long moment before speaking, almost absentmindedly. "But you stayed."
The words seemed to surprise him as much as they surprised her.
Silence settled between them. It wasn’t awkward. It simply... existed.
Samantha’s expression softened. "I did."
She wasn’t entirely sure why she’d answered so honestly.
Across the table, Fitzgerald wasn’t sure why he’d asked in the first place.
For the first time since the phone had fallen, his gaze drifted toward it, still lying face down beside his chair.
His heartbeat quietly picked up again.
Whatever waited on that screen... could wait another few seconds.