WHERE: nate’s home. WHO: @samaramin & nate.
Nate had watched Sam make his way to the front door from his phone, had not even attempted to move from his spot on the couch to answer it. He wasn’t hiding, he just didn’t feel like explaining himself. To Sam especially, who, he’d seemed to conveniently forget until this moment, had been the one to break into his house for him when he’d been left with nothing, who’d had the thought to grab as much as he could to help Nate at least scrape together something.
It was shame that weighed on him uncomfortably now, shame that kept him from getting his ass up from off the couch and facing his friend who would likely not understand and who would almost definitely not buy his bullshit story. So as the doorbell rang through his house, he remained where he sat.
As he watched Sam finally give up, he let out a small sigh of relief. He’d expected the younger man to put up more of a fight, to cause something of a scene on his doorstep until Nate was forced to open the door or risk drawing attention from nosy neighbors. So, he found thankfulness in small miracles, and sat back on his couch, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, and let out another coward’s sigh of relief at the confrontation he wouldn’t have to face today.
