ASSHOLES | scream au

3. sam, sam, sam

Sam stirred from her restless sleep, jerking awake with a soft gasp. The chair beneath her groaned under the sudden movement, and her makeshift blanket—her jacket—slid halfway off her shoulders. She rubbed her face, trying to chase away the fog of sleep clinging to her brain. Her eyes drifted across the dim hospital room, and that's when she noticed Amber. The sight of the girl sitting so comfortably on the bed made Sam's stomach twist. Amber's head rested against Tara's shoulder, their bodies pressed close like they belonged together. There was an ease between them, something intimate that gnawed at Sam. She exhaled through her nose, her jaw tightening slightly.

But at least Tara was safe. At least she wasn't alone, even if it meant being with Amber Freeman of all people. Amber looked so at home—too much at home, as if she had every right to be there. It irritated Sam in a way she couldn't fully explain. She shifted her gaze toward Richie, who was lounging in a chair nearby, his phone in hand. One of his earphones dangled lazily over his shoulder, and the faint glow of the screen illuminated his face in the dim light.

"You okay?" Richie asked softly, his voice cutting through the quiet. His brow furrowed as he noticed her uneasy expression. He pulled the other earphone out and let it fall into his lap, giving her a curious look.

Sam adjusted in the chair, tugging her jacket back over her shoulders as if the small comfort might help settle her nerves. "Yeah," she mumbled, though she wasn't entirely sure if that was true. She dragged her eyes back toward the bed, her voice lowering as she spoke again. "When did she get here?" There was no need to clarify who she meant—her distaste for Amber practically bled through her tone.

Richie shrugged, offering a nonchalant smile. "About thirty minutes ago," he said. "She came in quietly and didn't really say much."

Sam's eyes lingered on the way Amber curled protectively around Tara, and a knot formed in her chest. She exhaled slowly through her nose, trying to shake off the tension creeping up her spine. "You sure you're okay?" Richie asked again, his gaze sharpening with concern as he studied her face.

"Just a bad dream," Sam muttered, dismissing the lingering anxiety. Her eyes drifted down to Richie's phone. "What are you watching?" she asked, more to distract herself than out of any real curiosity.

Richie gave her a sheepish grin, shifting in his chair. "Stab's on Netflix," he admitted with a chuckle. "Got sucked in. Couldn't help it."

Sam shot him a look, both amused and mildly exasperated. Of course he'd be watching Stab—as if the town's violent history weren't already haunting enough, Richie had decided to dive headfirst into the twisted Hollywood version of it.

"What?" Richie said, still grinning. He raised his hands in a playful gesture of defense. "I just want to be prepared."

Sam rolled her eyes, though a small smile tugged at the corner of her mouth despite herself. "Prepared for what exactly?" she asked, her voice tinged with dry amusement.

Richie leaned back in the chair, still wearing that easy, lopsided grin. "You never know with Woodsboro," he quipped, and there was a flicker of something in his eyes—humor mixed with a hint of nervousness, like someone telling a joke to ward off a deeper unease.

Shaking her head, Sam pushed herself to her feet, rolling her shoulders to ease the stiffness from sitting so long. Her muscles ached, a dull reminder of how much tension she'd been carrying since the moment she walked into this hospital. "I need to find something to eat," she muttered, more to herself than anyone else. She rubbed her thighs, trying to wake her legs up from the cramped position they had been stuck in for hours.

Richie glanced up at her, slipping his phone into his pocket. "You want me to come with you?" he offered, his voice light but laced with genuine concern.