The phone went dark between them, the screen swallowing Maya's name back into the glass. Sofia's thumb was still pressed against his, the warmth of his skin a shock against the cold device, and she felt him holding his breath. The room had gone quiet—the muffled sound of a car passing somewhere outside, the tick of the radiator in the wall, the slow rhythm of his pulse where their fingers met.
She pulled her hand back first. His fingers trailed across her wrist, a ghost of contact, before falling to the blanket. The morning sun fell across the rumpled sheets between them, dust motes spinning in the light, and she watched his face, looking for the crack, the tell, the thing he wouldn't say.
"Read it," she said. The words came out dry, scraped from somewhere deep. She held his gaze. "I want you to know what she said."
His jaw tightened—a muscle jumping just below his ear, a subtle flex of control—and then he reached for her phone. He moved slowly, deliberately, like he was giving her every chance to take it back. She didn't. She watched his thumb swipe the screen, watched his pale eyes track left to right across Maya's message.
His expression didn't change. No flinch. No hard set to his mouth. But his knuckles went white around the edges of the phone, the bones pressing sharp against his skin, and she saw him swallow. A single, audible click in his throat.
He set the phone down face-up between them. The words were right there, raw and unguarded in the gray morning light. I still think about you. I miss your laugh. Please just tell me you're okay.
Sofia stared at them, and her chest tightened. She'd expected anger from him. Or a cold silence, the kind of distance that said I need space. What she hadn't expected was his hand finding hers again, his fingers lacing through hers, holding on like she was the only solid thing in the room.
There was a tremor in his palm. Barely there, a fine vibration she wouldn't have caught if she hadn't been skin to skin with him. He didn't speak. He just held her hand, his thumb tracing a slow, deliberate line across her knuckles, and she felt the question in every inch of his body.
What do you want?
She turned toward him, the phone forgotten on the bed between them. The movement brought her chest against his, the thin cotton of his t-shirt warm from his skin, and she felt his cock stir against her thigh. He was hard. Of course he was. The intensity of the moment, the vulnerability of it, the way he'd held her hand instead of walking away—her body answered before her mind caught up.
"Liam." She said his name like an anchor, like a line thrown into dark water. His hand left hers, sliding up her arm, across her shoulder, until his palm cupped her jaw. He looked at her—really looked, past the surface, into the hollow where the fear lived—and then he kissed her.
It wasn't gentle. It was hungry, desperate, a claiming that left no room for ghosts. His mouth moved against hers, his tongue sliding against her lower lip, and she opened for him, her hands finding the hem of his shirt, pulling it up. He broke the kiss just long enough to let her pull it over his head, and then his mouth was on her neck, teeth grazing the curve where her shoulder met her throat.
"I'm not going anywhere," she whispered. The words came out before she could stop them, a promise she didn't know she was ready to make until she heard them in the air. He pulled back, his breath warm against her skin, his eyes searching hers.
"Say it again." His voice was rough, stripped of its usual quiet control.
"I'm not going anywhere."
He kissed her again, harder this time, his hand sliding down her back, gripping the curve of her hip through the blanket. She felt the length of him pressed against her thigh, the heat of his skin through the thin fabric of his boxers, and she reached down, her fingers finding the waistband, pushing under.
He was already wet at the tip, slick against her fingers, and he hissed through his teeth when she wrapped her hand around him. The sound of it—sharp, involuntary, hungry—made her clench around nothing. She wanted him inside her. She wanted to feel the weight of him, the stretch of him, the proof that he was here, that he had stayed.
He seemed to feel the same shift in her. His hand found the hem of her shirt, pushing it up, his mouth following the line of her stomach. She let him guide her onto her back, the morning light falling across her skin, and he looked at her—naked, open, the phone face-down beside them—and his expression softened.
"You're so beautiful," he said. Not like a line. Like a confession. Like he was still afraid she'd disappear.
She reached for him, pulling him down, guiding him between her legs. She felt the head of his cock against her, wet and hot, and she tilted her hips, inviting him in. He pushed forward, slow, the stretch of him filling her inch by inch, and her breath caught, her hands finding his shoulders, her nails pressing into his skin.
"Fuck," he breathed, his forehead dropping to hers. "You feel—I can't—"
"Don't stop." She wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groaned, a low sound that vibrated through his chest into hers. "Don't stop."
He moved inside her, slow at first, a rhythm that let her feel every inch of him. The angle shifted, and he hit a spot that made her gasp, her hips bucking, her fingers digging into his back. He found it again, and again, and she felt the pressure building, the tension coiling in her stomach, her thighs trembling against his hips.
"Look at me," he said. She opened her eyes. His face was close, his jaw tight, his pupils blown wide. "I want to see you when you come."
That was all it took. His words, the weight of him inside her, the way he held her gaze—she shattered, her cunt clenching around him, a broken sound escaping her throat. He followed a moment later, his hips stuttering, his breath warm against her mouth, his body pressing her into the mattress as he emptied himself into her.
The room was quiet again. The dust motes floated in the morning light. The radiator ticked.
He stayed inside her, his forehead resting against hers, his breath slow and uneven. She felt the sweat cooling on her skin, the weight of his body a comfort rather than a burden, and she let her eyes drift closed.
She felt him pull out, felt the warmth of him leave her body, and she heard the soft sound of the blanket being pulled up. He settled beside her, his arm sliding around her waist, his chest pressing against her back. He tucked his knees behind hers, fitting them together, and pressed a kiss to her shoulder.
The phone was dark on the mattress beside them. She could feel its weight, the silent pressure of Maya's words still suspended in the air. But Liam's hand was on her stomach, warm and steady, his thumb tracing lazy circles against her skin.
"I saw her message," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. She felt the words against her hair. "And I saw you choose to show me."
She didn't answer. She just pressed her palm flat against his hand, lacing her fingers through his, holding on.
The third body in the bed was smaller now. Quiet. Waiting. But Sofia was still here—her palm pressed to his skin, his breath warm against her neck, the sun climbing higher outside the window.
And she wasn't letting go.