The phone buzzes against the nightstand and her eyes open to gray morning light, to dust motes drifting in the stripes of sun that fall across the rumpled blanket. She blinks, disoriented for half a second—the weight of his arm across her waist, the warm curve of his shoulder against hers—and then the phone buzzes again, and she sees it.
The screen glows. Maya's name.
She reaches for it without thinking, but Liam's hand is already there, palm flat over the glass, his fingers pale against the dark phone. He's not pressing. Just waiting. His thumb rests beside the edge of the screen, close enough that she can see the fine lines of his knuckles, the soft hair on the back of his hand.
She looks at his fingers. Then at his face.
His expression is unreadable in the gray light, his dirty blond hair mussed from sleep, a crease on his cheek from the pillow. The scar above his eyebrow catches the light, faint and pale.
'You don't have to read it,' he says. His voice is soft, roughened from sleep, but his hand doesn't move.
The phone buzzes a third time. A longer vibration. A new message.
Sofia's throat tightens. She stares at the screen, at Maya's name glowing beneath Liam's hand, and she can feel the weight of the choice in the space between them. The silence stretches like a held breath.
His palm stays flat on the glass, steady. Not demanding. Not possessive. Just present, waiting for her to decide.
'She's been texting,' Sofia says, and her voice comes out thinner than she meant it to. 'Last night too. I haven't—'
'I know.' His eyes hold hers, pale blue in the morning light. 'I saw.'
The phone buzzes again. Four messages now, the screen flickering with each one, and Sofia's hand hovers beside his, her fingers brushing the edge of the nightstand.
She thinks about Maya's sharp laugh, the way she'd lean into Sofia's shoulder when they watched movies on her laptop, the smell of her darkroom chemicals that clung to her hoodies. She thinks about the breakup—Maya's voice on the phone, careful and sad, saying I don't want to be the reason you're not living. She thinks about the texts she never answered, the ones she let slide into the gray space between two lives.
Liam's thumb shifts. Just a fraction of an inch. His palm stays flat, but the movement draws her eye.
He's waiting.
She reaches for the phone, and her thumb brushes his.
His skin is warm. She feels the fine bones of his hand, the slight roughness of his callus from the weight room, the light pressure of his palm against the glass. He doesn't move away. Doesn't press down. Just exists in the same space as her hand, their thumbs touching like they're sharing the same breath.
'What if I don't know what to say?' she asks, and her voice is barely a whisper.
His hand turns under hers, his fingers sliding to curl around her wrist. Not pulling. Not holding. Just there, warm and solid against her pulse.
'Then don't say anything.' His thumb traces a slow line across the inside of her wrist, and she feels her heartbeat jump under his touch. 'You don't owe her an answer.'
'She left me.' The words come out raw, and she feels the sting of them in her chest. 'She said—she said she didn't want to hold me back. But she still texts. She still—'
His hand tightens slightly. Just enough to feel.