Drop Dead | Sam Fender

Chapter One Hundred and Forty Four

Aurora

I was awoken the morning after Harlow's birthday night out by a loud banging at my front door. I jolted awake, my heart racing from fright as I clutched my chest. Blinking my eyes in a feeble attempt to chase away my tiredness, I swung my legs over the side of the bed and pulled on my dressing gown that was hanging on the back of my door. I heard the door bang again as I made it down the stairs.

"Alreet, I'm coming!" I huffed, turning the key to unlock the door and swinging it open. My stomach dropped as baby blues met my own, glimmering with nerves. "Sam."

"Hi," he gulped, hands shoved deep into his pockets as rocked between his feet.

"What yer doing here?" I asked nervously.

"Go oot with me," he blurted.

"E-excuse me?" I coughed, choking on thin air upon hearing his words.

"Go oot with me," he spoke more firmly this time. "I still like yer, Rora, and I know yer still like me, so... lemme take ya oot... properly."

I swallowed thickly as his eyes searched my face for a flicker of anything that would give him hope. My eyes fluttered closed and I stepped aside. "I think yer best come in," I sighed. I watched as he stepped inside cautiously, following me as I led him to the front room and settling himself on one of the sofas. "Can I get yer anything? A drink...?"

"I'm alreet, thanks," he assured me, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasping together tightly.

"Are yer sure? I've got loads here, water, squash, lemonade—"

"Rory, sit down," he told me firmly as his lips pursed in a thin line.

I shifted slightly as I considered his words, torn between wanting to procrastinate the inevitable conversation as much as I could and listening to his instructions. I nodded reluctantly as I settled on the opposite sofa, putting enough space between us for my comfort.

"Sam..." I spoke nervously, picking at the skin around my nails as his heavy gaze trailed over me. "Listen, what happened at the studio the other day... it was a mistake. I shouldn't've kissed yer and I'm sorry."

"You're not though," he scoffed lightly.

"Excuse me?" I gaped.

Sam ran his hand down his face, stopping at his chin as he began rubbing the five o'clock shadow there. "You're not sorry. Yer enjoyed it as much as I did and yer know it," he commented, his resolve strong.

"That's not the point, Sam—"

"Of course it is!" he interjected. "I like yer, yer like me. It's as simple as that."

"But it's not! Is it?" I exclaimed loudly, which startled Sam but the frustration was eating away at me. "We don't work! History has proven that too many times."

"Rory, it's been five years," he frowned, his lips pulling into a tight line. "We're different people! I know I am, that's for sure."

"Exactly," I laughed bitterly as I averted my gaze from his, unable to resist the temptation of his puppy-dog eyes. "I'm not that girl anymore. I'm not gan go running back to yer every time yer give me some half-arsed apology!" Sam winced at my words, sending a wave of guilt crashing over me. His mouth opened and closed a few times as he tried to find the words to answer me. "I'm sorry, that was harsh."

I watched anxiously as he pushed himself up from the soft pillows and cautiously settled next to me so he was facing my direction but I didn't turn to meet his gaze. I flinched as he grasped one of my hands in his and pulled it into his lap but made no move to tear it away. As much as my brain begged me to.