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“Stop, like, moving so much!”


Amanda grabbed a hold of Sams wrist, keeping his hand still for the moment, speaking as she did so.

“You need to, like, stop being so….” She made a motion with her free hand, as if at a loss for what to describe his twitchy and sporadic behavior, “So...Spazzy.” 


He tapped his fingers against the wooden table, not really fighting her firm grasp, his wrist limp beneath her palm in the meantime, knowing by now to not argue. Sam used his other hand however to pick up one of the small nail polish containers resting on the table, having trouble reading the colored text on the label behind his shades.


“Y’know Amanda, if you stopped takin’ forever to paint my damn nails, maybe I wouldn’t be so “spazzy”.” He made a point to mock her tone of voice at the word “spazzy” with a faint pout on his lips, and she released his wrist with an irritated sigh, like she was dealing with a child rather than her boyfriend. Well, boyfriend was a weird term to use for him. It wasn’t exactly fitting.


Sure, they’d had sex together, done drugs together, and had some near-death experiences together, but...There were still a lot of things Sam wouldn’t tell her about his personal life. One of those things being where the bruises came from, though she had her assumptions. Another being why they couldn’t be seen together outside of their “friend” group, or at her place. 


Speaking of her place, they were currently sitting out on the patio by the mansion pool. Under the shade of an umbrella, the two relaxed at a small table, where she’d caught him rummaging through her purse when she’d returned from getting them drinks. Which...Somehow led to her painting his nails and trying to just converse with him, the original reason for him coming over completely thrown aside.


“Yeah, well, you need a fucking like, total manicure if you wanna make these colors work. Not my fault your nails are so freaking gross.” Amanda spoke as she lowered her sunglasses, checking over the work she’d done on his nails so far, wanting to double check to ensure she didn’t slop any of the paint onto his skin. Well, that and she did like holding his hand. His palm was oddly cool in the hot summer air, likely from being pressed against the tabletop. For a guy who seemed to get into a lot of messes, his hands were oddly smooth, and she found herself just taking a moment to brush her fingers across his palm.


She could feel his eyes on her though, and cleared her throat as she pulled one of her hands away, holding it out to him with her palm upturned, silently asking for him to hand over the small bottle of nail polish.


“I didn’t exactly ask for this, y’know.” It was fairly obvious he didn’t get that she just wanted some time alone together in a semi-normal atmosphere, after all the crazy and idiotic bull shit they’ve had to deal with in the past couple months. He did hand over the nail polish, however. 


“Yet you’re still letting me, Sam.” She made a point to use his actual name and not the idiotic alias he preferred, which caused his smirk to fall, his expression unreadable. Not that it mattered to her, she was focused on unscrewing the top of the nail polish to continue painting his nails, looking over the top of her shades as she worked.




“I know, I know. You don’t like it. But you still haven’t said why,” Her brows furrowed as she worked, a frown forming on her features, “and its been two months.” She raised her gaze to glance at him for a few seconds, before returning to delicately painting his nails, her firm grip easily keeping his shaky fingers steady. She could feel his right leg bouncing beneath the table. It was always the right side when he started getting anxious, or excited. 


They sat in silence for a bit, before he finally used his free hand to pull his shades away, setting them down on the tabletop with a sigh, a large bruise encircling his left eye. It seemed fairly fresh, not yet forming into a blackeye. And the sad part was? She was used to it. She didn’t even bat an eye, she was just waiting for some excuse to come out of him. 


“It’s my dad, ‘Manda. That’s why I don’t like talkin’ about it.” He had his gaze lowered to the table as he spoke, as if ashamed to admit that his dad beat him, that his dad made him hate his own name, and he could’ve sworn for a moment everything went blurry, before Amanda moved her hand into perspective, having stopped his thought process from spiraling out of control.


She cupped his chin quietly from across the small table, her brows furrowed as she raised her own shades to rest atop her head, her fingers light as they brushed his jaw briefly, enjoying the soft prickle of stubble her fingertips met. 


“Your name isn’t Cool, okay? It’s Sam. Cool Beans is who you are to everyone else. But you’re Sam to me. And that doesn’t need to be a bad thing.” Her fingers brushed up to the sides of his face, thumb tracing ever so gently over the bruised skin with a sad little smile on her features, speaking as she cradled his face with a delicate touch.


“You know I’m the bitchy popular girl to everyone, right? I treat you different when we’re alone. I just want you to feel like you can be yourself around me

“This isn’t about me bein

Sam. I get it. I know. Please.”


They sat in silence once again, and she pulled her hands away, resting them in her lap with a heavy sigh. Sam fidgeted with his fingers for a moment, being careful not to mess with the ones still wet with nail polish, though they shook, and for once, he wasn’t sure about what to say, and it was eating him up. 


She could tell, so she finally spoke up after what felt like centuries, although it’d been mere seconds of silence between them. Words helped fill the tension and oddity of their relationship with ease, it helped clarify and keep their world spinning for each other. 


“Can I finish painting your nails, Sam?” 


“...Yeah. Yeah, you can.”