The gray light falls across his face in stripes, catching the red in his eyes, the dark hollows beneath them. His hand is warm on my stomach, thumb pressed flat like he's feeling for proof I'm still breathing.
"You stayed," he says again, and his voice cracks on the second word.
I shift, and the ache between my thighs sharpens—a soreness that pulls at the edge of my sleep, a full-body memory of how he'd held me, how he'd begged without asking, how I'd wrapped myself around him while he shook against me. The sheet is rough where the dried evidence has stuck to my skin, tacky and intimate, a claim I don't want to wash off yet.
"I said I would."
His jaw tightens. He doesn't look away.
The phone vibrates on the nightstand, and my hand moves before I decide to reach—muscle memory, the reflex of someone who's been answering for everyone else her whole life. Jenna's name glows on the screen. Three missed calls, all from last night, and a text beneath them: you okay?
I feel him tense before I see it. The muscle in his jaw jumps. His hand doesn't move from my stomach, but the heat of his palm changes—pressure where there was none, like he's holding me in place.
I put the phone face-down. The clatter of plastic against wood is too loud in the quiet.
"I'm here," I say, and I press my palm to his cheek. His stubble scratches against my skin. He hasn't shaved. Probably didn't sleep. "Liam. Look at me."
He does, and I watch the war—the part of him that wants to believe me, soft and desperate, and the part that's already bracing for me to leave, already hardening against the blow he's sure is coming.
"Jenna was at the party," I say. "She saw me leave with you. She's just checking."
"I know."
"Then why do you look like that?"
He doesn't answer. His eyes drop to my mouth, then to the space between our bodies, then back to my eyes like he's searching for something he's afraid won't be there.
"I got drunk," he says finally. "I don't drink. And I got drunk because I saw them looking at you, and I thought—" He stops. Swallows. "I thought, she's going to realize she can have anyone. She's going to realize I'm just the guy who sat next to her in math class."
My chest tightens. I remember how he looked at the party—dazed, disoriented, leaning against the wall while Marcus tried to get him to sit down. I remember the way he'd grabbed my wrist when I found him, the slur in his voice when he said my name.
"Is that why you drank?" I ask. "Because you thought I'd leave?"
He closes his eyes. Nods once.
I slide closer, the sheet dragging between us, and I press my forehead against his. His breath hitches. His hand leaves my stomach and finds my hip, fingers digging in like he needs the anchor.
"I don't want anyone else," I say. "I left a girl across an ocean for you, Liam. I answered your name when Maya called. I told you I love you and I meant it." I pull back just enough to see his eyes. "How many times do I have to choose you before you believe me?"
His throat works. "I don't know."
"Then I'll keep choosing you until you do."
Something breaks behind his eyes. The hardness cracks, and beneath it is just him—the boy who sat silent next to me for two weeks before he finally spoke, who remembered how I take my coffee, who told his mother about me before I met her, who turned down California because of three months with a girl who still can't believe he picked her.
He kisses me. It's not gentle—it's hungry, desperate, the kiss of someone who thought they'd lost something and found it again. His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back, and I make a sound against his mouth that I don't recognize.
When he pulls away, he's breathing hard. "I'm sorry."
"For what?"
"For needing you to keep proving it." His thumb traces my jaw. "For being the guy who gets jealous and drinks and makes you have to hold him together."
"You didn't make me do anything," I say. "I chose to come home with you. I chose to stay." I slide my hand down his chest, feel his heart hammering under my palm. "I'm still choosing."
He kisses my forehead. My nose. My mouth again, softer this time, like he's relearning the shape of me.
The phone vibrates again. We both ignore it.
"You should text her back," he says against my lips.
"Later."
"She's your friend. She's worried."
I reach for the phone, flip it over. Jenna's sent another text: girl i swear to god if he's murdered you im resurrecting you just to kill you myself
I laugh, and the sound surprises me—light and raw, a crack in the morning's weight. Liam's lips twitch, almost a smile.
I type: im okay. at his place. will explain later.
She responds instantly: THAT'S MY GIRL. text me when ur free i need details.
I put the phone down and turn back to him. His hand has found my stomach again, thumb tracing a slow circle at my hipbone.
"You smiled," he says.
"She's ridiculous."
"No. You smiled." His voice is quiet, wondering. "After everything last night. After me falling apart. You still smile."
I take his hand and press it flat against my chest, over my heart. "I'm still here, Liam. I'm still yours."
The war in his eyes quiets. Not victory—a truce. The part of him that's bracing for me to leave doesn't disappear, but it stops holding its breath.
He pulls me closer, wraps his arms around me, and presses his face into my hair. I feel his exhale against my scalp, long and shaky, like he's been holding it since the party.
"I love you," he says into my hair. "I'm sorry I keep needing you to save me from myself."
"You don't need saving." I curl my fingers into his shirt, feel his heartbeat against my knuckles. "You just need someone to stay. And I'm staying."
The gray light climbs across the bed. Somewhere in the apartment, a pipe groans. Outside, a car starts, an engine catches, someone else's day beginning while ours hovers in this quiet, held space.
His arm tightens around me, and I feel the last tension in his body ease—not gone, but softening, like a knot pulled loose enough to breathe.
I press my lips to his collarbone and let my eyes close.
I'm still here.