Her hand finds the phone on the pillow, the screen still dark, Maya's name still waiting beneath the glass. Liam's arm tightens around her waist, his thumb tracing her hip bone, and she feels his breath slow against her neck. "You're thinking about it," he says, not a question. She doesn't answer, her thumb hovering over the power button, the silence in the room thicker than any words she could offer.
His chest is warm against her back, his skin still damp from sleep, and she can feel his heartbeat through the space between his ribs. Steady. Patient. Like he's waiting for her to decide something she didn't know she had to decide.
"I'm not—" she starts, but the lie dies before it reaches her tongue. She is thinking about it. About Maya. About the four messages she hasn't read. About the way her thumb used to know Maya's number by heart, the way she used to fall asleep with the phone pressed to her ear, the way the ocean between them felt like it was shrinking until one day it wasn't.
Liam doesn't push. His hand slides from her hip to her stomach, palm flat, fingers splayed, pulling her closer. Not possessive. Grounding. Like he's reminding her that he's here, that his body is real, that the warmth against her back isn't going anywhere unless she tells it to.
"You don't have to tell me," he says, his voice low and rough with the morning still in his throat. "But you're shaking."
She looks down at her hand. He's right. The phone trembles in her grip, the dark screen catching the light from the window, and she doesn't know when it started or how to stop it.
"She keeps texting," Sofia says, and the words feel foreign in her mouth, like she's admitting something she hasn't admitted to herself. "She said she's glad I'm happy. That she wants me to be happy."
Liam is quiet for a long moment. His thumb traces a slow circle on her stomach, the motion almost unconscious, like he's thinking through his skin.
"Are you?" he asks.
The question lands soft but heavy, settling in the space between them like a stone dropped into still water. She turns her head slightly, enough to see the edge of his jaw, the stubble catching the morning light, the way his eyes are fixed on her face even though she isn't looking at him.
"Happy?" she repeats, and the word feels too small for what she means.
"Yeah." His voice is careful, measured, like he's walking through a room full of glass. "Are you happy, Sofia?"
She thinks about the answer. About the way his hand felt on her thigh last night, the way he said her name like it mattered, the way he held her after, his breath warm on her shoulder, his arm heavy and sure across her waist. She thinks about the parties she went to without him, the guys who bought her drinks, the way she kept looking at her phone, wishing it was his name on the screen instead of Maya's.
"I don't know," she says, and it's the truest thing she's said all morning.
His hand stills on her stomach. She feels him inhale, slow and deliberate, and when he speaks again, his voice is the same measured calm, but there's something underneath it now. Something that sounds like a door closing.
"Okay."
She doesn't know what that means. She doesn't know if it's acceptance or resignation or something else entirely, and the silence that follows feels wider than the bed, wider than the room, wider than the space between two people who were tangled together hours ago.
She sets the phone down on the nightstand, screen-down, Mira's name hidden from view. The motion feels deliberate, like she's drawing a line she isn't sure she wants to cross.
"Liam."
"Yeah."
She turns in his arms, shifting until she's facing him, her knees brushing his thighs, her hand finding the center of his chest. His heartbeat is steady under her palm, and she watches his face—the pale blue of his eyes, the scar above his brow, the way his jaw is set like he's bracing for something.
"I'm not thinking about her the way you think I am."
He blinks. "How do I think you're thinking about her?"
"Like I want her back." The words come out before she can stop them, and she feels heat rise to her cheeks, her hand pressing harder against his chest like she can ground herself in the rhythm of his heart. "I don't. I ended it. She ended it. We—it's done."
His hand comes up to cover hers, his fingers warm and calloused, the same hand that held her face last night, the same hand that slid between her thighs and made her forget her own name.
"Then what is it?" he asks, and there's no accusation in his voice, just curiosity, just the quiet need to understand.
She looks down at their hands, at the way his fingers thread through hers, at the contrast of his pale skin against her brown, at the way they fit together like they were meant to.
"I don't know," she says again, and this time the words feel smaller, like she's admitting something fragile. "She was my first everything. My first kiss. My first—" She stops, her throat tight. "My first time I thought I knew what love was. And I left. I left her, and I came here, and I thought I was fine. I thought I moved on. But every time she texts, I feel like I'm still there. Like I'm still that girl who was too scared to say what she wanted."
Liam's thumb traces the inside of her wrist, a slow, soothing motion that makes her breath hitch. "What do you want, Sofia?"
The question hangs in the air between them, and she feels the weight of it, the weight of every moment that led to this one—the first time she saw him in math class, the way he looked at her when she confessed, the way his mouth felt on hers, the way he said her name like it was the only word that mattered.
"I want this," she says, and her voice is steadier than she expected. "I want you. I want to wake up like this and not feel guilty about it."
His eyes soften, the tension in his jaw easing, and he lifts her hand to his mouth, pressing a kiss to her knuckles so tender it makes her chest ache.
"Then stop answering her."
The words are simple, direct, and they hit her like a wave. She stares at him, at the quiet certainty in his eyes, at the way he says it like it's that easy, like she just has to choose.
"What if she keeps texting?" Sofia asks, and the question is small, almost childlike, like she's afraid of what she'll do if Maya keeps pulling at the thread.
Liam's hand slides up her arm, over her shoulder, curling around the back of her neck with a gentle pressure that makes her tilt her head up. His forehead rests against hers, his breath warm on her lips, and when he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper.
"Then you don't answer. Every time you don't answer, you choose me. And I'll be here. Choosing you."
She feels the tears before she sees them, hot and sudden, spilling down her cheeks. She tries to turn away, but his hand holds her steady, his thumb brushing the wetness from her skin, and he doesn't say anything. He just holds her, his presence steady and sure, like he knew this was coming, like he was ready to catch her.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, and she doesn't know what she's apologizing for—the tears, the hesitation, the ghost of an ex-girlfriend that keeps finding its way into her bed.
"Don't be." His lips find her forehead, soft and lingering. "You're here. That's all I need."
She pulls back, her eyes wet, her nose running, her face a mess of emotion she didn't know she was holding. He looks at her like she's beautiful anyway, like the tears don't matter, like she could fall apart in his hands and he'd still hold the pieces.
"I don't deserve you," she says.
He laughs, a low, warm sound that vibrates through his chest. "That's not how it works. You don't earn people. You meet them. You choose them. Every day."
She doesn't have words for what that does to her, so she kisses him instead. Soft at first, tentative, her lips brushing his like she's asking permission. His hand tightens on the back of her neck, pulling her closer, and the kiss deepens, slow and deliberate, like they have all the time in the world.
When she breaks away, her breath is uneven, her heart pounding, and she feels lighter than she has in weeks.
"Can we stay here today?" she asks, her voice small. "Just... here?"
He smiles, and it reaches his eyes, a rare, unguarded thing that makes her stomach flip. "I was hoping you'd say that."
He pulls the blanket up over them, his arm wrapping around her waist, and she settles against his chest, her ear pressed to the steady thrum of his heart. The phone is still on the nightstand, screen-down, Maya's name hidden from view. She doesn't reach for it.
She doesn't need to.
The morning light shifts across the ceiling, slow and golden, and she lets herself breathe, lets herself feel the weight of his arm around her, the warmth of his skin, the quiet rhythm of their breaths syncing together.
His lips brush her hair, soft and almost unconscious, and she feels him smile against her scalp.
"Happy birthday," she murmurs, and she feels his chest vibrate with a quiet laugh.
"It's not for three months."
"I know. But I wanted to be the first to say it."
He presses a kiss to the top of her head, and she feels the word in his lips, even if he doesn't say it out loud. She closes her eyes, and the silence that settles over them isn't heavy anymore. It's warm. It's theirs.
And when the phone buzzes on the nightstand, a fifth message from a name she used to know by heart, she doesn't open her eyes. She doesn't move. She lets it buzz until the screen goes dark, and the silence returns, and Liam's arm tightens around her like a promise.
She's still shaking. But she's not alone.