Sam: "Feels like Home"

You’re already thrumming with excitement the moment you and your father ring the familiar gnome-shaped doorbell on Sam’s front porch. You can hear the hum of laughter and conversation from inside, familiar voices you haven't heard in a while. Well, since Thanksgiving, but it feels like a lifetime ago now, what with the mad rush of finals.

Sam yanks the door open mid-knock, eyes bright, face splitting into that massive, unguarded grin—the one they've always reserved just for you. They're wearing a truly heinous reindeer-print button-down rolled to the elbows, hair sticking up in different directions, as though they’ve been dashing about the house like a mad person all day. Which, knowing Sam, probably isn’t too far from the truth.

“You made it!” they exclaim, grinning at both you and your father, as though that was ever in question. You wouldn't miss this for the world.

if not bigger than Sam

Before you can answer, Sam envelopes you into a hug, arms locking tight around you. They lift you clean off the ground, spinning you in a circle. You burst out laughing, breathless and dizzy.

if bigger than Sam

Before you can answer, Sam envelopes you into a hug, arms locking tight around you. They even attempt to lift you off the ground—a valiant but doomed effort, given your relative sizes. Instead, they succeed only in squeezing you so hard around the ribs that you wheeze out a startled laugh. The whole maneuver nearly topples both of you into the doorframe. 

When Sam finally sets you down, their hands linger at your waist for just a breath longer than necessary, thumbs brushing against your sides through your coat. Just a beat too long to be casual. 

You suddenly remember that your father’s standing right beside you. You step back, clearing your throat. Your father gives the both of you an affectionate, if a little awkward, smile. "Happy Christmas Eve," he says.

You straighten, face a little warm. You wonder what your father thinks of this new development, considering he too, has known Sam for years now. “Hi,” you manage, holding Sam's gaze.

"Hi," Sam echoes, softer now. There's something in their eyes—something open and unguarded—that makes your heart skip.

"Sam!" Mrs. O'Connelly's voice rings out from somewhere deeper in the house. "Let them in before they freeze to death on the porch!"

Sam laughs. “All the better, two more garden gnomes to add to the collection.” 

“Uh,” you shoot a sidelong glance at your father. "Should we be running—?” 

Sam catches your hand, tugging you inside, still laughing. “Too late now.”  

“Make yourselves at home, I’ll be out in just a second!” Mrs. O’Connelly calls from the kitchen. “Just wrangling the turkey into submission!” 

Your dad steps into the house behind you, taking it all in. He lets out a low whistle. “Wow. This is… lively.” 

The house is exactly as you remember it. Every available surface is crammed with knick-knacks—ceramic pottery, musical instruments, mismatched picture frames, a collection of D&D figurines… the list goes on. It’s cozy and lived-in and unapologetically eccentric—just like the O’Connellys.

The walls, too, are covered in photos. You recognize most of them. Hell, you're in most of them. You and Sam, gap-toothed and sunburned at the lake. You and Sam holding up a regional doubles trophy, both of you grinning like maniacs. You and Sam sprawled on this very couch during a movie marathon, half-asleep and tangled together. You and Sam dressed in your very best, cheeks pressed side-by-side and posing on the stairs, getting ready to head to prom night together. 

It hits you, suddenly and unexpectedly, how much of your life has been spent in this house. How much of you is woven into the O'Connellys' history.

Mr. O'Connelly—Liam—hurries out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on an apron that reads "May the Sauce Be With You" in bold letters above a Darth Vader wielding a bottle of sriracha. He leaves the door open, and a waft of the lasagna drifts over, rich with garlic and tomato and melted cheese.

Liam pulls you into a hug first, then pumps your dad's hand enthusiastically. "It's been too long!" He beams. "Hope you brought your appetite, because we made enough food for about twenty people."

You laugh. "Don't worry. We came prepared."

Their lasagna has become a fixture in your life. A constant. A tradition that marks most of the big moments in your life: high school graduation, college acceptances, that brutal loss at Nationals your senior year when you and Sam had cried on this very couch. But it's also part of your everyday life: you'd had dinner at Sam's place almost as often as you'd had at home— in part because you'd been hanging out with Sam in the afternoon and lost track of time, in part because your dad had often worked late.

Sam's older sister jogs down the stairs. Erin nods at your dad, then smirks at you. "Hey, dork. You wouldn't believe how much Sam's been talking about you coming over. It's been unbearable. Thank god you're finally here so they'll shut up."

Sam lunges at her, and the two of them immediately devolve into a wrestling match that nearly takes out a lamp.

...

Dinner is loud, warm, and gloriously chaotic.

Everyone talks over each other in the way only people who've known each other for years can manage. You, Sam, and Erin fall into your old rhythm immediately—teasing, bickering, layering inside jokes on top of each other while catching up on everything that had happened while you’d all been in different cities. 

Your dad and Sam's parents have their own parallel conversation, trading stories about colleagues you've never met and referencing events you only vaguely remember. It reminds you that they'd been friends too, long before you and Sam were even born. That this connection runs deeper than just you. 

At some point, Sam's hand finds yours under the table.

Your pulse jumps. You glance at them sidelong, and they're already looking at you—soft, unguarded, like you're the only person in the room.

You lace your fingers together and rest your joined hands in your lap. Something warm and steady unfurls in your chest.

You have seconds, then thirds, before moving onto dessert; a chocolate mousse with strawberries that your father brings to every Christmas dinner with Sam's family.

For a moment, looking at it, you're hit with an unexpected memory of your dad, years ago, hiding in the kitchen after your parents' divorce, fussing over this exact dish so he wouldn't have to answer questions he didn't have words for yet. Things had been raw back then. Painful in ways you hadn’t been ready to process, at the time. 

Now, he’s laughing easily as Sam’s mom compliments him for the mousse, the weight of that old hurt softened by the passage of time.

"Ugh," Erin says, staring at her plate. "How am I supposed to stick to my diet when this beauty’s sitting right in front of me? Everyone’s conspiring to foil my plans."

"I fully support your diet," Sam says, already digging in. "I'll eat your portion."

Erin elbows them away, expression immediately morphing from despair into one of fierce protectiveness. "Touch my dessert and I'll end you."

...

After dessert, Mrs. O'Connelly whips out her Santa hat and drags the red festive bag by the door that you and your dad had dropped your presents into when you'd entered. "Secret Santa time!"

It's a tradition that goes back as far as you can remember. Every year. No exceptions.

Sam unwraps a wooden flute, along with a note that reads: "To fuel your next hyper-fixation." Your father had picked Sam’s name out of the bag, and you’d suggested the flute, knowing that Sam had recently gotten very into Celtic folk music and what they’ve begun to call ‘wood elf music’. 

Erin snorts, nodding approvingly. Clearly, she’s privy to this newest obsession too.

When it's your turn, you open a slim rectangular box. Inside is a vintage tennis magazine, yellowed at the edges, the cover featuring your local tennis hero—Mattie Lannister—the first player you’d ever watched livemid-serve. There's a full-page photo spread inside, followed by a long interview from their first championship run.

Your breath catches.

"Do you like it?" Sam asks, leaning forward, eyes bright and anxious.

You think of the old wooden racket you'd gotten signed by this exact player, reminded of the day your dad took you to see them play live, the match that made you fall in love with tennis. That afternoon had changed the entire trajectory of your life.

Your dad, leaning over your shoulder, lets out a low whistle. “That’s Mattie.” Judging by the wistful look in his eyes, you can tell he’s got fond memories of that afternoon too. 

"How the hell did you get this?" you breathe, turning back to Sam.

"Craigslist, if you can believe it," Sam says, grinning now. "Had to drive all the way to San Francisco to pick it up. The guy who sold it was a huge fan of Mattie's too. I think you'd like him."

Your dad smiles at you, warm and knowing. You wonder if he's thinking about that afternoon too—one of your favorite memories with him.

"This is—" You swallow hard, looking back at Sam. "Thank you."

Sam's cheeks flush. "Yeah. Of course."

Your dad's gift is a book titled 1001 Hobbies for Retired Dads. He flips through it, laughing. "This is perfect. I'm keeping this for reference when I finally take the plunge." 

Sam’s dad claps him on the back, smiling. “If you ever want to do any of the suggestions, hit me up.”

Later, all six of you settle on the floor around the coffee table to play Codenames.

You and Sam win by a landslide.

Erin throws her hands up. "This is bullshit. You two have freakish telepathic lover powers. I'm splitting you up next round."

The word—lover—hangs in the air for half a second.

Your gaze flies to Sam's. Their cheeks go pink, but they don't correct her.

"Whatever," you say, waving at Sam's parents. "They're a couple too, and no one's proposing to split them up."

"Yeah, but they're struggling to even understand the rules," your dad says, grinning. "Not exactly a threat."

A round of good-natured laughter follows.

You play Scrabble. Then Scythe. Then Exploding Kittens. Each round gets louder and more rowdy than the last.

Everyone accuses everyone else of cheating. Mr. O'Connelly threatens to disqualify the entire table at least twice. Your dad googles two-letter Scrabble words and starts yelling them randomly even during the other games. Sam keeps trying to steal cards from your hand when you're not looking. Erin finds a way to insult someone with every single sentence. Mrs. O'Connelly blatantly flouts the rules, and when called out, blames her lack of reading glasses.

Eventually, the games wind to a close. You and Sam drift out to the front porch, leaving the adults inside chatting and sipping wine.

Sam closes the door behind you and settles onto the small porch swing. You squeeze in beside them, even though it's only meant for one person. The swing creaks ominously, a reminder that you're not kids anymore. Sam laughs and disregards the warning, adjusting so you're more comfortable, then slings an arm around your shoulders.

The porch is strung with Christmas lights—multi-colored bulbs that cast everything in soft, warm hues. The December night is crisp and clear, and you can see stars scattered across the sky.

You can still hear the low murmur of conversation from inside, muffled and indistinct. Sam leans into you. You sit together, quiet and content, past and present folding neatly into one another. Your breath mists out in front of you, mingling with Sam's.

"This is really nice," Sam says.

"Being home?" you ask, turning to look at them.

"Being here with you," Sam says, meeting your gaze. They lean in toward you—close enough that you can feel their breath warm against your ear. "It always feels more like home when you're around."

Your chest tightens. You turn to look at them, and Sam's smiling—a little shyly, like they've just confessed something they've been holding onto for a long time.

Before you can fully process what you're doing, you're reaching out, tipping Sam's chin toward you with two fingers. "I missed you," you murmur, nose brushing theirs. Your lips are a whisker away, but you hold back—partly to give them the chance to close the distance, partly because you want to drive them just a little bit crazy.

"Same," Sam whispers, tilting closer. "More than you know."

Then they kiss you—soft and slow, like you have all the time in the world.

They taste like wine and chocolate mousse and something ineffable that you can only describe as home. When you finally pull back, foreheads pressed together, Sam is smiling. You're close enough to see the Christmas lights reflected in their eyes, fractured into tiny points of color.

The kiss deepens. Sam shifts their weight, practically in your lap at this point, causing the swing to screech metallically at the both of you.

"Ah, shoot," Sam leans back a little, breathing hard. "This thing is like an 18th century chaperone."

...

Around eleven, your dad stifles a yawn and gets to his feet. "Alright, it's getting late. We should probably head out. Still got work tomorrow—Christmas isn't quite here yet."

Mr. O'Connelly taps the Retired Dad book and winks. "Not my problem anymore."

Your dad laughs. "I’ll join you soon, hopefully.” 

Mrs. O'Connelly smiles warmly at your dad and pulls you into a hug. "It was wonderful having you two."

You glance at Sam, then at your dad, then at Sam's parents. You're still thinking about the unfinished kiss on the porch swing. "Is it okay if I stay over?"

You're not even finished asking before both of Sam's parents say "Of course!" and "Absolutely!" in unison. Your dad nods as well.

Sam grins at you, bright and unrestrained.

Erin rolls her eyes. "Great. Guess I need to dig out my earplugs."

You feel your face go hot. Sam flushes scarlet.

"Erin!" Mrs. O'Connelly scolds.

But Sam's faster. "Don't make me remind you of that Bruce Springsteen knockoff you dated in high school? I'm still traumatized." 

You laugh. You remember that guy. Leather jacket. Truly tragic guitar solos.

Erin groans, laughing now too. "Oh my god, okay, you win. Please never remind me of him ever again."

...

Back in Sam's room, you settle into bed together.

It feels just like old times, except that so much else has changed. The room itself feels familiar in its constant state of flux. The posters have changed, as they always do, reflecting Sam's latest obsessions: indie bands you've never heard of, obscure filmmakers, video game cover art. This is just how Sam is—always chasing the next thing, always curious, always evolving.

Sam grabs an extra blanket from the closet, then passes you a set of pajamas. Yours, to be exact. You still have your own stash of clothes (and your own toothbrush) here. 

The pajamas smell like the Sam you knew from high school—the laundry detergent their family uses isn’t quite the same as the one they’d started using at college. The smell of bright citrus hits you like a wave, transporting you back to a time when you were still just friends. When your feelings for each other were undefined, unspoken, hovering just beneath the surface. 

You wonder if your high school self had any idea this would happen someday.

Sam’s eyes catch yours from across the room, a dark, ocean blue. They pad over, stopping right in front of you. A second later, their hands find your waist, the bare skin just above the hem of your t-shirt. Your breath hitches. 

“Is this okay?” they ask softly. 

You nod, both hands moving to their hips, tugging them closer. "Maybe your sister wasn't wrong about needing those earplugs after all,” you murmur, voice dipping low. You lean in, lips brushing the side of their neck, just below their ear. 

Sam makes a small, breathless sound. "Erin's gonna give us so much shit tomorrow."

"Whatever," you murmur against their skin.

Sam laughs. You finally tumble onto the bed together, you on top, weight pressing Sam into the mattress. They look up at you, pupils blown wide, lips parted. Their hands map the planes of your back, your sides, your shoulders, raising a trail of goosebumps in their wake. Then they slide your shirt off completely, tossing it by the side of the bed.

You kiss their jaw, their throat, feeling them shiver beneath you.

"I've got so much to catch up on since Thanksgiving," Sam whispers, breathless and grinning.

Time dissolves into heat and breath and the slide of skin against skin. The quiet sounds you both make, muffled against each other's mouths. Sam's hands are everywhere—gentle but certain, like they've memorized exactly how you like to be touched. Every point of contact leaves a spark that lingers, tingling down your spine.

Despite the threat of Erin overhearing you in the next room, neither of you has the self-control to stop.

When Sam finally comes, they gasp your name, fingers digging into your shoulders, and the sound of it—raw and unguarded—undoes you completely.

Eventually, you settle into each other, limbs tangled, Sam's head tucked under your chin. Their breathing evens out gradually, and you feel the exact moment they start to drift off, body going soft and heavy against yours.

"Are you seriously falling asleep on me already?" you ask, laughing quietly.

"Mmm," Sam hums, already half-gone. They press a drowsy kiss to your collarbone. "We'll pick this up in the morning."

You smile, carding your fingers through their hair.

Soon enough, you'll be counting down the days again—marking time until you see each other next, until winter break ends and you go back to your separate schools, your separate lives. 

But tonight, at least, you'll fall asleep next to Sam, and wake up to them tomorrow morning. For now, you have all the time in the world.