Chapter 13: Getting to know Sam
Another week passed by fairly quickly, and before I knew it, we had wrapped filming for the second episode of Teen Wolf.
Of course, nothing ever goes perfectly to schedule, so it was actually a bit over a week, but close enough.
The important part was that I finally got a proper day off. I hadn't realized how exhausting it was to play the lead role in a show like this—being the main character comes with more scenes, more pressure, and significantly fewer breaks.
Thankfully, for the next few scenes, the director had agreed that I could commute instead of staying on location.
I didn't really understand his reasoning at the time, but he'd been oddly insistent that I go home. Maybe it was logistical.
Or maybe he knew something I didn't. Either way, after two full weeks of being stuck near set accommodations, I was finally on my way back to my apartment.
Dragging my duffel bag behind me, I stepped into the building, and it felt strangely surreal. Like I was stepping into a version of my life I hadn't touched in months, even though it had only been a couple of weeks.
Everything smelled familiar. The light from the window hit the floor the same way. But the space felt... still.
When I opened the door and walked into the living room, there was Sam—my roommate—lounging on the sofa with his phone in hand, completely relaxed. He looked up the moment I walked in.
"Wow, famous superstar finally decided to grace me with your wonderful presence," he said, sarcasm thick in his voice and a teasing grin on his face.
"Ugh, I'm too tired for this, man," I groaned, dropping my bag unceremoniously by the door. I made my way over and flopped onto the sofa right next to him without even taking my shoes off.
He had a movie playing on his laptop and a bucket of popcorn resting on the floor. Without hesitation, I leaned over and grabbed a handful of popcorn, shoving it into my mouth like I hadn't eaten in hours.
"Whoa, what are you doing?" he asked, half laughing.
"I'm on this ridiculously strict diet," I said through a mouthful of popcorn. "Producers and directors have me eating like a monk. But they gave me a couple of days off, and I am one hundred percent sure they know I'm going to cheat during this time."
Sam raised an eyebrow, actually taking a second to look me over. "Dude... you do look like you gained a lot of muscle."
He sounded genuinely surprised.
"Yeah, you don't even understand half of it," I replied, sitting up straighter, tempted to finally tell someone everything. But just as I was about to get into it, I stopped myself.
"Oh, wait. I can't," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "I'm under a confidentiality clause. I can't tell you much about what's happening behind the scenes."
"Yeah, that makes sense," he nodded. He didn't seem offended.
So instead, I just talked about what I could talk about—how the filming process worked, the long hours, some of the funny moments on set, the costumes, the constant makeup retouches. I knew Sam wouldn't tell anyone if I let something slip, but the truth was, it wasn't about trust. It was about protection.
As someone who'd studied law before all this happened, I knew full well that confidentiality breaches didn't usually come from betrayal. They came from people assuming it was fine to share something "harmless," or thinking the person they told would never repeat it. And then, somehow, it would spread. I didn't want Sam to carry any liability, and I certainly didn't want to get sued.
So I kept things light. We talked about the parts I was allowed to share. And for the first time in what felt like forever, we just sat back and relaxed—two friends hanging out on the couch like we used to before everything changed. The weight of set life, of roles and responsibilities and hidden truths, melted away for just a little while.
It felt good. Like home.
"So… about this hot co-star," Sam said, his voice just casual enough to be deliberate, his eyes watching me for a reaction.
I hesitated. Just a second. But that was all he needed.
"Hot co-star?" I repeated, stalling, trying to buy myself time. "What do you mean, hot co-star? I never told you she was hot."
Sam blinked slowly. "Dude."
He said it in a flat, unimpressed tone, the kind of voice someone uses when they know they've caught you red-handed.
Then he sat up a little straighter, planting his elbow on the armrest of the couch. "If you mention a girl more than three times in one conversation, it means you think she's hot. You've been doing this since middle school. And again in high school. You've done this basically the entire time I've known you."
I opened my mouth to protest, but the words didn't come. Because the longer I thought about it, the more I realized he was absolutely right. It was one of those annoying little personality quirks I didn't even notice about myself.
But he wasn't wrong. I had mentioned her three times. Probably more.
The strangest part? I had never even referred to her by her real name. It had always been "Allison" in my stories, in my recounting of scenes. Not Crystal, not the actress playing her—just Allison.
Like Scott's lens was bleeding into mine and the characters were slowly becoming real, even when the cameras weren't rolling.
I leaned back against the couch, suddenly feeling more proper, like I had to reset myself. "Okay, fine," I said with a reluctant smile. "What about this so-called hot co-star?"
Sam smirked. "I'm just asking if you've had any… interesting scenes with her."
There was no mistaking the implication.
I sighed. "I might or might not have kissed her during one scene."
His eyes lit up like a kid who just got permission to open a Christmas gift early. "Oh, good shit. How was it?"
I didn't answer right away. I just shrugged and looked down at the floor, pretending to be far more interested in a scuff mark on the tile than I actually was.
"It was alright," I muttered.
Sam stared at me for a second, then let out a breath. "Dude. Seriously?"
He shook his head, clearly deciding to let it go as he pushed himself up off the couch and headed for the fridge. He grabbed a soda, popped it open, and leaned against the counter with that same teasing grin on his face.
"So," he said casually, "are you going to have any more interesting scenes with her?"
I turned to look at him, half-expecting him to drop it. But he didn't.
With a sigh, I gave in. "Well… I might or might not be making out with her next week. There's a scene."
Sam made a long, exaggerated whistling sound. "Damn, you've been working hard."
He took a sip of his drink, set the can on the counter, and then pointed at me. "Alright, enough of this vague nonsense. I need to see a picture of this girl."
I rolled my eyes but couldn't suppress the slight grin tugging at my lips. I knew this was coming. Honestly, I'd probably be doing the same if our roles were reversed.
During dinner time, I decided that I was finally going to treat Sam. Not just as a friendly gesture, but as a way of showing appreciation—for everything he'd done and all the support he'd given me through these past chaotic weeks.
Since I could finally afford it, and more importantly, since I had the chance, I wasn't going to take no for an answer.
I told him straight up that if he wasn't going to let me pay him back the money I owed him over the past few months—because, in all honesty, he'd covered more than he ever mentioned—then he had to at least let me take him out for a half-decent dinner. It was the least I could do.
He resisted at first, of course. That was Sam for you.
But eventually, after enough pestering and mock-serious negotiating, he gave in with a roll of his eyes and a reluctant smile.
We ended up at this cozy Italian place not far from our apartment. It wasn't anything fancy, but the food was genuinely good—rich sauces, fresh pasta, and garlic bread that was just the right amount of crispy. We both dug in like we hadn't eaten in days.
After dinner, we decided to walk around for a bit, just to stretch our legs and let the food settle. It was one of those rare nights where the city felt calm—warm lights from storefronts, a slight breeze brushing past, and a comfortable silence that didn't need to be filled.
But we talked anyway. About life, about how things had changed since the show started, and then gradually, the conversation shifted to something deeper.
Sam opened up to me about his parents. It wasn't something he did often. Actually, in all the years I'd known him, he'd never gone beyond vague comments or short remarks about his childhood.
But tonight, something had shifted. Maybe it was the setting. Maybe it was the food. Maybe it was just time.
He told me how he'd been kicked out of his home when he was sixteen. Just a kid, barely finished with school, suddenly out on his own.
His parents had told him he was a burden, that ever since he was born, their lives had only gone downhill. They blamed him for everything. Said he was a curse.
And the thing was, he didn't tell me this with bitterness. There was no anger in his voice, no resentment curling under his words. Just a quiet kind of acceptance.
Like it was something he'd learned to live with, not because it was okay, but because it was simply part of his story.
He talked about how that moment forced him to grow up quickly. To work harder than anyone else around him.
He bounced between part-time jobs, figured out how to pay rent, and slowly built a life from scratch.
Over time, he'd managed to impress a lot of people—landlords, managers, even professors. But he never really let that success get to his head. It just made him keep going.
Listening to him speak like that reminded me how cruel the world could be. How some people, the ones you expect to love and protect you, could be the first to push you away. And how rare it was to meet someone who didn't let that turn them cold.
Even with the soul of someone far older than Sam, I found myself genuinely respecting him. Because it takes a lot of strength to look back at something like that and not let it define you. To accept it, not as a wound to carry, but as a foundation you built yourself upon.
I was nowhere near that mature.
We walked quietly for a while after that, sipping from the soft drinks we'd grabbed at a nearby convenience store—just Sprite, nothing fancy. It was late, but not too late. The streets weren't empty yet, and a few other people were out enjoying the night.
As we turned the corner of a quieter street, we both heard it. A small group of guys standing near a parked car, laughing loudly and catcalling a group of girls walking past them. The girls looked uncomfortable, speeding up their pace as the guys got bolder.
Sam glanced at me. I could already see the frown forming on his face. It was the same for me. That knot of discomfort tightening in my chest. The kind of scene that made your blood stir.
And just like that, the air around us changed.
...
Authors note:
You can read some chapters ahead if you want to on my p#treon.com/Fat_Cultivator