𝐏𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐑, sam uley ✗

𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐘 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄

┏━━━━.˚✧˚₊ ᗢ₊˚✧ ﾟ.━━━━┓

A REAL HISTORY LESSON

THE FOLLOWING DAY WAS RESERVED FOR SAM AND TALULLAH, meaning that all pack duties were suspended and the doors to the house were kept shut for the first time in a while.

After what seemed like profuse amounts of apologizing, from Talullah's part due to the destruction she caused and from Sam's part due to indirectly blindsiding her, the pair came to a solution; while they cleaned up the mess, Sam would tell her anything she wanted to know.

And he wasn't going to hold anything back, which was a promise he would soon grumble over when she had asked him about Johnathon fucking Miller.

"You said that when I was human, I was with someone else? Can you, uh, tell me who?"

Ever since they'd started their question-and-answer session, Sam couldn't help but notice how she had yet to ask any about her family. Instead, she asked about literally anything else, things that ranged from what her favourite subject was in school to how deep her connection with Embry truly was. And here she was, asking about the bane of Sam's existence, and he suddenly wished she would pester him about her family.

But he'd promised her he would hold nothing back, so he sighed. "His name was Johnathan. You guys dated for a couple of years."

He saw Talullah's eyes widen, interest clearly piqued. "Was he nice?" was all she could ask next, given that she had zero recollection of this Johnathan boy since her return.

His response was immediate. "He was an asshole."

Talullah paused, shards of glass still in her palms as she approached where Sam was sweeping up some debris in the kitchen. "Continue."

Sam rolled his eyes. "He broke your heart, and then had the balls to come back before our senior year," he explained, and the girl could tell that the shifter really did not like her former partner. "It was the same night you... y'know."

Another thing Talullah had picked up about Sam was his resistance to saying the 'D' aka 'death' word. She'd come to terms with the fact that she died under seemingly unfortunate and unknown circumstances, but it was obvious that he still hadn't.

"Marcus always said he found me when I was dying—" she quickly blurted out, tacking on a hasty, "do you think that Johnathan was the one that killed me?"

The bluntness of her statement had Sam pausing, the handle of the broom in his now white-knuckle grip. "Trust me, we all thought that was the case," he said miserably, and it made a burst of regret lodge itself in Talullah's chest. "But no, the chief cleared him the next day."

"Oh," she whispered, going to toss the glass in the recycling bin that Sam had lugged into the house. "Sorry."

"What for?" he asked.

She shrugged, turning her attention to the wooden splinters on the kitchen floor. "I know you don't like talking about this kinda stuff."

A hand clasped her shoulder, and suddenly she found that Sam was standing next to her. The pinched look on his face was telling– it was earnest. "I told you; you can ask me anything."

She smiled at him appreciatively, watching as he retreated back to the broom he momentarily abandoned.

"Has it always been us three— me, you, and Dawson, I mean?" was her next question, opting not to dwell on the uncomfortable subjects of both Johnathan and her disappearance.