Summery: Y/N comforts Sam after he tries to hurt himself
Pairings: Sam Golbach x female reader
A/N: CONTENT WARNING I TRIED TO MAKE IT AS NONE TRIGGERING AS POSSIBLE, PUTTING THIS HERE JUST INCASE THOUGH
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The apartment was quiet—too quiet. Sam’s place was never silent. Even on the worst days, he left music running, videos half-edited, or lights glowing somewhere. But tonight, when you let yourself in with the spare key he trusted you with, the emptiness hit like a wall.
“Sam?” you called softly, your voice barely carrying through the stillness.
Your chest tightened. Something felt wrong. You moved through the living room, careful, listening. A small lamp glowed in the corner—one you’d given him. Its gentle amber light cast long shadows across the floor, but it didn’t touch the heaviness pressing down on everything else.
You found him on the bathroom floor.
Curled against the tub, knees drawn up, back shaking with each unsteady breath. A trembling hand hid his face, the other limp at his side. The air smelled faintly of metal and panic.
“Sam…” you whispered, sinking to your knees beside him.
His shoulders flinched. “Don’t—don’t look at me,” he choked out. His voice was raw, wrecked. “Please. I didn’t want you to see me like this.”
You reached out, slow enough that he could pull away if he needed. He didn’t. His whole body sagged when your hand touched his arm, as if he’d been holding himself together by a single fragile thread.
“I’m here,” you murmured. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Sam’s breath hitched. He tried to speak but gave up, pressing his forehead to your shoulder as he broke apart in your arms. You held him tighter. You felt the fight in him—the desperate, exhausted, hurting fight he kept hidden behind smiles, jokes, and the cheerful energy he showed the world.
He’d been trying so hard. Too hard.
Minutes passed with only the sound of his breathing shaking against you. When he finally spoke, it was barely audible.
“I tried… I tried to stop the thoughts. I swear I did.” His fingers curled into your sleeve. “It felt like everything in my head was screaming. I just wanted it to stop for one minute.”
“You didn’t deserve to feel that alone,” you whispered. “Not then. Not ever.”
His eyes lifted, glassy and frightened. “I messed up.”
“No,” you said firmly, cupping his cheek. “No, Sam. You stayed. You called me. You’re still here. That isn’t messing up—that’s strength.”
He swallowed hard, breath trembling. “I didn’t think anyone would care.”
Your heart cracked. “I care. God, Sam, I care so much. If you disappeared—” your voice wavered— “there would be a hole in my world that nothing could fill.”
He closed his eyes, leaning into your touch like he was trying to anchor himself to the warmth. You brushed a thumb beneath his eye, wiping away a tear.
“I don’t even know how to fix this,” he admitted, voice muffled against your shoulder.
“You don’t have to fix it alone,” you whispered. “I’ll help. We’ll do it together. Step by step. You don’t have to face it by yourself anymore.”
He trembled, burying his face further into you. “I’m scared,” he admitted. “I’m scared I’ll… fall again. That I’ll mess up like this next time.”
“You might,” you said gently, pressing your forehead to his. “But that’s okay. Because I’ll be here. Every time you fall, I’ll be here. And each time, I’ll help you up.”
He gave a shaky laugh, bitter but soft. “You really… you really mean that?”
“I do,” you said, voice firm but tender. “Because I’ve seen your heart, Sam. I’ve seen your courage—even when you think you’re too weak to keep going. You’re stronger than you know, and I’m proud of you for staying.”
His tears slipped freely now, hot and trembling against your skin. “I… I didn’t think anyone would notice,” he whispered. “No one would care enough to stay.”
“I noticed,” you said. “And I care. So much.” You held him tighter. “And I always will. You’re not alone in this—ever again.”
The hours passed with you holding him, guiding him through shaky breaths and whispered fears. You rubbed his back, letting him cry, letting him release the fear and shame he’d been holding for far too long. Every word of reassurance you spoke, every gentle touch, was a lifeline.
Eventually, you guided him to the bed, letting him sit before easing him down. His hands shook as they intertwined with yours.
“I don’t know if I can… I don’t know if I’ll ever be okay,” he admitted, voice small.
“You will,” you whispered, brushing hair from his face. “It’s okay if it takes time. Healing isn’t instant. But we’ll face it together. One day at a time. And tonight, just know… you’re not alone. Not for a second.”
Sam’s chest caved in on another sob, but this one sounded different—less hopeless, more like release. He folded into you again, and you held him through every tremor until his breathing evened out.
Before sleep finally claimed him, he whispered, voice rough but steadier, “…thank you… for being proud of me.”
You pressed a kiss to his temple. “Always,” you breathed. And you meant it.
And in the quiet that finally wrapped around you both, the soft glow of the lamp, the stillness wasn’t suffocating anymore. It was safe. Healing.
The morning light spilled softly through the curtains, painting the apartment in gentle gold. Sam stirred under the blanket you’d tucked around him the night before, his hair mussed and his eyes heavy with sleep, but calmer than you had seen in days.
“Hey,” you whispered, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead.
He blinked up at you, voice hoarse. “Hey…”
He shrugged, a faint tremor in his shoulder. “I think… better than I expected.”
You smiled, relieved. “Good. That’s all that matters for now. No expectations, no pressure—just today.”
He let out a small laugh, shaky but genuine. “I don’t know if I’ve ever felt this… normal in a long time.”
“Then we’ll take it slow,” you said, squeezing his hand. “Step by step. No rushing. Healing isn’t a straight line—it’s messy. And that’s okay.”
Sam looked at you, a mixture of vulnerability and gratitude shining in his eyes. “I… I don’t want to hide from you again.”
“Then don’t,” you said softly. “I’ll be here through the mess, the tears, the panic, the fear. Through everything.”
Over the next few days, you stayed close, offering steady presence rather than words when they weren’t needed. Sometimes you’d sit together on the couch, Sam’s head on your shoulder, eyes staring blankly at a muted video, and you’d trace patterns on his arm. Other times, you’d coax him into small, grounding activities—a cup of tea, a slow walk down the quiet streets, laughter over silly videos. Each moment, no matter how tiny, reminded him that life could still feel safe.
One afternoon, he sat on the balcony, hands wrapped around a mug, eyes fixed on the skyline.
“I’m scared it’ll come back,” he admitted. “The… the feeling. That dark… edge.”
“I know,” you said gently. “And that’s why we don’t ignore it. We talk. We breathe. We do the things that remind us there’s light, even when it’s hard to see.”
He exhaled shakily. “I don’t want to burden you anymore.”
“You’re not a burden,” you said firmly. “Never. You’re human, Sam. You feel deeply. And I care about every part of you—even the parts you think are broken. That’s why I stay.”
He finally looked at you fully, eyes glimmering with tears and something else—a fragile hope. “I… I want to try. I want to really try.”
“And I’ll be here,” you whispered. “Every step.”
Some nights were harder than others. Panic would rise uninvited, shadows would creep in, and Sam would tense as memories and thoughts pressed in. But each time, you were there—soft words, warm hugs, grounding him, letting him lean on you without shame. Slowly, he began to trust that feeling safe didn’t have to be temporary, didn’t have to be conditional.
One evening, months later, you were both sitting on the couch, blankets tangled around your legs. Sam rested his head against your shoulder, phone in hand, scrolling casually.
“You know…” he murmured. “I never thought I’d make it through those nights.”
“You did,” you said softly, pressing a kiss to his temple.
“I did, because you stayed,” he said, voice low but steady. “Because you believed in me when I couldn’t even believe in myself.”
“I’ll always believe in you,” you replied. “No matter what.”
He squeezed your hand gently, leaning into you. “I’m proud too. Proud of myself… and proud of us. That we faced it together.”
And in the quiet comfort of that moment, Sam finally let himself feel it: hope. Not the overwhelming, blinding hope of instant healing, but the patient, quiet hope that grows slowly, nurtured by care, presence, and trust.
And together, step by step, the dark nights became fewer, the light slowly stronger, and life—fragile, messy, and beautiful—felt like something worth holding onto
