I shift my hips again, slower this time, and feel him harden inside me, a gradual thickening that makes us both go still. His breath catches, his fingers dig into my waist, and I watch the red in his eyes deepen, the raw edge of him still showing through.
"Sofia." My name, barely a sound, like he's testing whether this is real.
I rock forward, a single motion, and his head falls back against the pillow, his throat exposed, his jaw tight. The lamplight catches the sweat still drying on his chest, the marks my nails left earlier, the faint bruise blooming at his collarbone where I bit down without thinking.
"Say it again," I whisper, and I don't know why I need it, only that I do.
His eyes find mine, pale blue and still wet at the edges. "I love you." He says it like it hurts, like it's the truest thing he's ever said. "I love you, Sofia. I'm sorry I got drunk. I'm sorry I—"
I press my mouth to his, cutting him off. He tastes salt and regret and something sweet underneath, and I kiss him until his hands stop shaking against my skin.
When I pull back, he's breathing hard, his chest rising and falling beneath me, still inside me, and I feel the weight of what he almost said—the fear, the jealousy, the ugliness he let himself become for one night. I was there. I saw it. And I chose to come home to him anyway.
"I'm not going anywhere," I say, my forehead against his. "You need to believe that."
His thumb traces the curve of my hip again, slow and deliberate, like he's memorizing the shape of me. "I'm trying."
I clench around him, a small, deliberate squeeze, and his hips buck, a strangled sound escaping his throat. His hands fly to my hips, holding me still, and I feel the tremor run through him, the way he's barely holding on.
"Sofia." His voice cracks. "I can't—if you move like that, I'm not gonna—"
"Good." I shift again, a slow roll of my hips, and feel him slide deeper, his head falling back, his eyes squeezing shut. "I don't want you to hold back. Not tonight."
He opens his eyes, and there's something raw and frightened in them, like he's standing at the edge of a cliff and I'm asking him to jump. "What if I hurt you?"
"You won't."
"What if I can't stop?"
I lean down, my lips brushing his ear. "Then don't."
His hands slide up my back, pulling me closer, and I feel the shift in him, the surrender. His hips roll up to meet mine, slow at first, like he's testing whether I meant it, and I brace my hands on his chest and ride him, my hair falling around us, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
He watches me, his eyes never leaving mine, and there's something in that gaze that undoes me—a raw, unguarded love that makes my chest ache. His hands find my thighs, guiding my movements, and I feel the tension building low in my belly, the familiar spiral tightening.
"Liam." I say his name like a prayer, like a warning.
He sits up, his arms wrapping around me, pulling me against his chest. The new angle drives him deeper, and I gasp, my fingers digging into his shoulders as he thrusts up into me, his mouth finding my neck, my collarbone, the curve of my shoulder.
"I love you," he breathes against my skin. "I love you, I love you, I—"
The words break apart as he comes, his body shuddering against mine, his fingers gripping my hips so hard I know there will be bruises tomorrow. I feel the heat of him filling me, and that's what pushes me over—the feeling of him losing control, the trust in every involuntary thrust, the way he says my name like it's the only word that matters.
I come around him, my body clenching, my nails raking down his back, and I feel his arms tighten, holding me through it, his face buried in my hair.
We stay like that, tangled and breathing, the weight of the night settling between us like a third body in the bed. Outside, the city is quiet. Inside, his heart is hammering against my palm where my hand rests flat on his chest.
After a long moment, he softens inside me, and I feel him slip out as I shift, a wet warmth spreading between my thighs. I don't move. I don't want to.
"I got drunk because I was scared," he says, his voice rough and quiet. "I saw those guys looking at you, and I thought—I thought you'd realize you could do better. That you'd see me for what I am and walk away."
I lift my head, meeting his eyes. "And what are you?"
He swallows. "A guy who doesn't know what he's doing. A guy who got lucky."
I press my palm to his cheek, feel the stubble rough against my skin, the warmth of him. "You're the guy who stayed when I was too scared to say anything. You're the guy who held my hand when I answered Maya's call. You're the guy who told me he loved me first."
His eyes glisten, and he turns his head, pressing a kiss to my palm. "I don't deserve you."
"That's not for you to decide."
His laugh is wet and broken, and he pulls me down, wrapping his arms around me, holding me like he's afraid I'll dissolve. I let him. I let the weight of him settle over me, his breath warm against my hair, his heartbeat steady beneath my ear.
"Stay," he whispers. "Just—stay."
I press a kiss to his chest, over his heart. "I'm not going anywhere."
His hand finds mine, lacing our fingers together, and I feel the tension finally leave his body, a long sigh escaping his lips. The lamplight flickers, the sheets are twisted beneath us, and somewhere in the dark, the phone is still face-down on the nightstand, unlooked-at, forgotten.
I don't know what comes next. But I know I'm not ready to move.