Page 29 of New Year's Faye

"I'm going to stop you right there." I interrupted, fighting to control my anger. I leaned forward, my gaze fixed on Amy with a deadly calm. “I tripped and hit my head. Anyone suggesting otherwise clearly doesn’t know Sam—or me—at all.”

The atmosphere in the room shifted instantly, the temperature seeming to drop as a thick silence settled over us.

Amy’s carefully rehearsed smile slipped, and I saw a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes as she tried to backpedal, her voice suddenly more hesitant. “Of course, of course, I only meant...”

“I know exactly what you meant,” I said, my voice like ice. “And to imply anything other than the truth of this matter is not only misinformation but potentially damaging to a man whom I love and admire.” I placed my hand deliberately on Sam’s knee.

Sam’s fingers entwined with mine, squeezing.

“We understand the public interest in our relationship, and we respect that people want to know more about us,” Sam slid in smoothly, sounding unreasonably calm and collected. But we’re here to talk about the tour. The band has worked hard on new material that we can’t wait to share with fans.”

Justice picked up the thread, talking enthusiastically about their new songs, but I could feel Sam's tension simmering beside me, see it in the tight line of his jaw and the way his hand stayed possessively on my shoulder.

Finally, the red light blinked off, signalling the end of the segment. Amy's apology was as shallow as her smile, and I responded with practiced politeness—despite my desire to tell her where to shove it. Sam kept an arm wrapped around my shoulder, his tension was like a live wire beside me, barely held in check.

As soon as we were clear of the studio and lost in the bustle of crew breaking down equipment, Sam grabbed my hand. "Come on."

"Sam—"

"Not here."

He pulled me toward the exit, weaving through the crowd until we reached the limo waiting outside, its dark, sleek lines reflecting the cool winter light. The driver opened the door, and I barely had time to climb inside before Sam followed, closing the door firmly behind him.

He hit the intercom button. “Drive.”

“What about the others?” I protested, twisting in my seat to see them emerge from the station, stopping to sign merch for the multitude of fans that waited for them.

“They can get a fucking taxi.”

I cocked one eyebrow. “What’s up your nose? That went well.”

“Well?” He stared at me from across the rear of the car. “Faye, you practically slapped her.”

"I had it handled," I said, my frustration flaring. "She was baiting you, Sam. I needed to?—"

"Handled?!" His harsh laugh cut ribbons through my heart. "If they want to accuse me of something, let them. I have nothing to hide”

"You’re angry because I shut her down? It's my job to control these situations."

"I don’t need you to defend me. And I’m not a fucking ‘situation’.”

"Yes, you are!” I shot back, leaning forward, anger vibrating through every nerve. "We are! We’re the very definition of situation-ship. What do you think I am if not a complication to be managed?”

“My wife!”

Shocked silence crackled between us, hot and heavy with frustration, resentment... and something else. Something that made my heart race in a way that had nothing to do with anger. His eyes searched mine, fierce and conflicted, his breathing shallow.

"Fuck it," he muttered, voice thick with frustration.

Before I could process what was happening, he closed the space between us, his mouth crashing into mine. For a split second, I froze, shocked by the feel of his lips on mine, the sheer heat behind it. But then something inside me snapped, and I was kissing him back just as fiercely, my hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.

He groaned against my mouth, one hand sliding into my hair as the other gripped my hip, pulling me flush against him. This kiss wasn’t the careful, staged peck we’d given for the cameras. This was raw, real, filled with every unspoken thing between us, every simmering argument, every unsaid word. His lips werehot, demanding, as he kissed me like he was claiming me, and I gave as good as I got, pouring my frustration and pent-up desire into every clash of our mouths.

After a breathless minute, he pulled back, chest heaving, his forehead resting against mine as he tried to catch his breath.

"Fuck, sorry.” He started to pull away, but I wasn’t having it.

I grabbed his shirt, yanking him back to me. "Don’t you dare stop.”

---