The gray light hasn't moved much. Or maybe it has—maybe an hour's passed, maybe ten minutes. The room is still quiet, still held in that soft morning hush where nothing outside matters, where the only real thing is his arm around me and the slow rhythm of his breathing against my hair.
But I'm awake now. Fully awake. And I feel it—the sticky warmth between my thighs, the dull ache that pulses when I shift my legs, the tender rawness of skin that's been pressed and used and cherished through the night. My body remembers everything. His hands. His mouth. The way he begged me to stay.
I shift, trying to find a position that doesn't remind me so vividly of what we did, and his arm tightens automatically, pulling me closer even in sleep. But I feel him stir behind me—the change in his breathing, the way his fingers flex against my stomach.
"You okay?" His voice is rough, still thick with sleep.
"I need a shower," I murmur.
His hand tightens on my hip. I feel him press closer, feel the warmth of his chest against my back, and I know he's feeling it too—the same awareness of what happened between us, the same need to do it again.
"Come with me," he says.
It's not a question. Not a command either. It's something rougher, rawer—want that hasn't been satisfied yet, hunger that's been banked but not extinguished. I hear it in the way his voice catches, feel it in the way his fingers press into my skin.
I turn in his arms, slow, until I'm facing him. His pale blue eyes are open now, watching me with that quiet intensity that still makes my chest tight. His hair is a mess, dirty blond strands falling across his forehead, and there's a crease on his cheek from the pillow. He looks young. He looks like he's still afraid I might disappear.
I don't answer with words. I just take his hand, threading my fingers through his, and let him pull me up.
The sheet falls away as we stand, and the morning air hits my skin—cool, goosebump-raising, a sharp contrast to the warmth of his palm. I'm naked, still marked from the night before, and I should feel self-conscious, should feel exposed. But he's looking at me like I'm the only thing in the room worth seeing, and I don't have room for shame.
He's naked too. I let my eyes travel—the lean lines of his body, the broad shoulders I've traced with my fingers, the scar above his eyebrow, the way his cock is already half-hard, stirring with the same want that's pulling low in my belly.
He leads me through the doorway into the bathroom, and I feel the cold tile under my feet, the small space that suddenly feels too intimate for words. He lets go of my hand only long enough to turn on the shower, and I watch the water hit the tub, watch steam begin to curl and rise, fogging the mirror, blurring the edges of the room.
He steps in first, holding the curtain back, and I follow.
The water is hot—almost too hot—and it hits my shoulders, my back, washing away the sleep and the sweat and the tears we shed last night. I tilt my head back, letting it stream over my face, and when I open my eyes, he's standing there, watching me, water plastering his hair to his forehead, droplets clinging to his lashes.
He reaches for me, his hands finding my waist, pulling me into the spray. The water runs between us, over us, and I feel his skin against mine—hot and slick and alive. He doesn't kiss me. Not yet. He just holds me, his forehead pressed to mine, his breath mixing with the steam, and I feel the last of the night's tension dissolve into the running water.
I reach for the soap. It's his—something cheap and clean-smelling, the same scent that's been on his sheets, on his skin. I work it into my hands until they're slick with lather, and then I touch him—my palms sliding across his chest, over his shoulders, down his arms. He closes his eyes, lets me wash him, and I watch the muscles in his jaw relax under my hands.
His turn. He takes the soap from me, his fingers gentle as he builds a lather, and then his hands are on me—cupping my shoulders, sliding down my back, tracing the curve of my waist. He washes me like I'm something precious, something breakable, his touch reverent and slow.
When his hands find my breasts, I feel my breath catch. His thumbs circle my nipples, gentle at first, then firmer, and I feel the heat low in my belly flare, feel my knees go weak. I grip his shoulders to steady myself, and he takes the hint, pressing me back against the cool tile wall.
"Liam—"
"I know." His voice is rough, barely above a whisper. "I know."
He drops to his knees.
The water hits his back, streams over his shoulders, and I feel the shift in the air—the weight of what he's doing, what he's offering. He looks up at me, his pale eyes dark in the low light, water dripping from his lashes, and I feel my throat tighten.
"I want to taste you," he says. "I've been thinking about it all night."
I can't speak. I just nod, my fingers finding his wet hair, gripping it as he leans forward.
His mouth finds me, and I gasp—the heat of it, the sudden intimacy, the way he doesn't hesitate. His tongue traces me, slow and deliberate, and I feel my hips press forward, feel the shudder that runs through my whole body. His hands grip my thighs, spreading me wider, and I hear the sound he makes—a low, hungry sound that vibrates against me.
He takes his time. Minutes or hours, I can't tell. I'm lost in the steam, in the water, in the feel of his mouth on me, his tongue circling and pressing, his fingers digging into my skin when I try to pull away from the intensity. He holds me there, keeps me open, keeps tasting, and I feel the pressure building, coiling low and tight.
"Liam—I'm—"
He doubles down, his tongue pressing harder, his fingers sliding into me, curling, finding the spot that makes me see stars. I cry out—his name, a sound I don't recognize—and then I'm coming, my whole body clenching, my fingers pulling his hair as I ride it out against his mouth.
He doesn't stop until I go limp against the tile, my legs shaking, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. Then he rises, slow, water streaming down his chest, and I see the hunger in his eyes—still there, still burning.
He kisses me, and I taste myself on his lips, and somehow that's the hottest thing of all.
"Your turn," I whisper against his mouth.
I don't wait for an answer. I push him back against the tile wall, the water hitting us both, and I drop to my knees the same way he did. I look up at him, at the way his breath catches, at the way his hands grip the edges of the shower walls like he needs something to hold onto.
His cock is hard, full, pressing toward me, and I wrap my hand around the base, feeling the heat of him, the weight. I lean forward and take him in my mouth, not slow, not teasing—just a deep, hungry take that makes him groan, his head falling back against the tile.
I find a rhythm, my tongue tracing the vein underneath, my lips sliding up and down, my free hand cupping him, feeling the tension in his thighs. The water runs over his skin, over my face, but I don't care. I want this. I want him. I want to feel him fall apart the way he made me fall apart.
"Fuck, Sofia—" His voice is strangled, barely there. "I'm not gonna last—"
I don't stop. I go deeper, taking him fully, feeling him hit the back of my throat, and I hear him choke on a moan. His hands find my hair, holding but not pushing, and I feel his whole body tense, feel the pulse against my tongue.
He comes with a sound I've never heard from him before—something raw and broken, my name falling out of his mouth like a prayer. I take it all, swallow every pulse, and only when his grip goes slack do I pull away, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand.
He slides down the wall, ending up on his knees in front of me, and we're both kneeling in the shower, water streaming over us, steam thick around us, and he pulls me into his arms, holds me tight against his chest.
"I love you," he says. His voice is wrecked. Perfect. "I love you so much it scares me."
I press my lips to his shoulder, feel the water beading on his skin, feel his heart hammering against my cheek. "I love you too."
We stay like that for a long time, the water growing lukewarm, the steam thinning. Eventually I shift, and he lets me go, and we finish washing in a comfortable silence—him handing me the soap, me passing it back, our hands brushing in the spray.
He turns off the water, and the sudden quiet is deafening. We step out onto the bath mat, dripping, and he grabs a towel—runs it over his hair, then wraps it around his waist before reaching for a second one for me.
I dry myself slowly, watching him. He's standing at the sink, wiping the fog from the mirror, and I see his reflection—the lines of his face, the quiet in his eyes. The war from last night is gone. In its place is something softer, something settled.
I finish drying and wrap the towel around myself, then walk up behind him, pressing my chest to his back, wrapping my arms around his waist. I meet his eyes in the mirror.
"I'm not going anywhere, Liam."
He holds my gaze for a long moment. Then he reaches into the drawer beside the sink, pulls out a small key, and places it in my palm.
"To the apartment," he says, his voice quiet. "I want you to have it."
I look down at the key in my hand—cold metal, ordinary, a thousand of them in the world. But this one opens his door. This one means I belong here.
I close my fingers around it, feel the teeth press into my palm, and I nod.
"Okay," I say, and my voice shakes a little. "Okay."
He turns in my arms, facing me, and he kisses me—soft, slow, like he's not in a rush, like we have all the time in the world. Steam still clings to the air around us, and somewhere outside the first sounds of the city waking. But in here, in this small bathroom with the fogged mirror and the wet towels and the key warm in my hand, there's nothing but this.
He pulls back from the kiss, but his hand finds mine, the one curled around the key. His fingers trace the edge of my palm, and then he's lifting the key from my grip, lifting it like he's testing its weight, like he's making sure I know what it means. I let him take it, my hand opening onto his, and I watch his pale eyes drop to the key, watch his thumb brush across its teeth.
Then he closes my fingers around it. Slowly. Deliberately. His hand covers mine, pressing the metal into my palm, holding it there like he's sealing a promise.
"I want you to have it," he says again, his voice quieter now, rougher. "I want you to know you can come back. Any time. For any reason. Or no reason at all."
He lifts his gaze to mine, and there's something raw in his eyes, something laid bare. The war from last night has eased into a truce, but under it I see the scar tissue—the fear he's been carrying since the party, since the phone buzzed with Maya's name, since the moment he realized he had something to lose.
"Thank you," I say, and the words feel too small, too thin for what this is. But I don't have bigger ones. I just tighten my fingers around the key and press his hand against my chest, feel my heartbeat under his palm.
He holds there for a long moment, then pulls me into another kiss—shorter this time, softer, like he's trying to pour everything he can't say into the press of his lips against mine. When he breaks away, he's smiling, just a little, and it changes his whole face.
"So," he says, his thumb still tracing circles on the back of my hand, "what do you want to do?"
I blink at him. The shower's still dripping somewhere in the drain, a slow, measured sound. The steam on the mirror has begun to clear, revealing our reflections—towel-wrapped, hair damp, my lips still swollen from his mouth and his from mine. The morning light through the bathroom window is brighter now, softening the harsh edge of the bulb above the sink.
"I don't know," I admit. "I hadn't thought past this."
He laughs—a short, surprised sound that cracks the quiet. "Me neither."
The honesty of it makes my chest loosen. We're both just—here. Both figuring this out as we go. And he just gave me a key to his apartment, which means he's betting on us lasting long enough for me to use it. That scares me and thrills me in equal measure, a tension that pulls tight in my stomach.
I look down at the key again. It's warm from my hand, from his. "Can we—" I stop, bite my lip, try to find the words. "Can we just stay here for a while? Today, I mean. Not—" I gesture vaguely with my free hand. "Not do anything. Just be here."
His face softens, and I watch something settle behind his eyes. Relief, maybe. Or recognition—the knowledge that I want the same small, quiet thing he does.
"Yeah," he says, and his voice is warm now, unguarded. "Yeah, we can do that."
He lets go of my hand, and for a moment I feel the absence of his warmth, the cool air rushing in. But then he's reaching for the towel hanging on the hook, rubbing it over his head one last time before tossing it into the hamper. He catches my eye in the mirror, and there's a playfulness there I haven't seen before, a lightness that wasn't there last night, or this morning, or any of the mornings since the party.
"Race you to the bed," he says.
I laugh. It bubbles out of me, unexpected and bright, and I see his grin widen at the sound. "You're on."
I don't wait. I bolt out of the bathroom, my bare feet slapping the cold linoleum, then the warmer wood of the bedroom floor. I hear him behind me, his laughter mixing with mine, and I reach the bed first, throwing myself onto the rumpled sheets, landing on my back with my arms spread wide.
He lands beside me a second later, his weight bouncing the mattress, and he rolls onto his side, propping himself up on one elbow. His hair is still damp, dark at the roots, and his pale blue eyes are bright, alive. He looks young. He looks like the version of himself that hadn't yet learned to be afraid.
"You cheated," he says.
"I didn't cheat. I just have faster reflexes."
"You had a head start."
"In your head, maybe. In reality, I was just faster."
He shakes his head, but he's still smiling. Then his gaze drops to my hand, where I'm still holding the key, and his expression shifts into something softer, something quieter.
"I mean it," he says. "You can come and go. Anytime. I don't—" He stops, swallows. "I don't want you to feel like you have to ask. Like you need permission. This is yours too, now."
I let the words settle, feel their weight. They're not just a gesture—they're a boundary coming down. A wall he's letting me through.
"Okay," I say. "I'll use it."
He nods, then lies back, staring up at the ceiling. His hand finds mine, and we lie there in the quiet, the morning seeping through the blinds, the distant hum of the city rising outside.
After a while, I feel my stomach growl—a low, undeniable sound that breaks the peace. I feel him tense beside me, then his hand tightens around mine.
"Hungry?" he asks.
"Starving."
He sits up, swings his legs off the bed, and looks back at me. "I have eggs. Bread. Not much else. But I can make breakfast."
I sit up too, the towel slipping slightly, and I catch his gaze dropping to the exposed curve of my shoulder before he looks away, a faint flush climbing his neck.
"Sounds perfect," I say.
He stands, then offers me his hand. I take it, letting him pull me up, and we stand there, still damp, still wrapped in towels, still holding onto each other like we're afraid the moment will break if we let go.
"I don't have anything to wear," I say. "My clothes are at my place."
He considers this for a moment, then a slow smile spreads across his face. "I have a shirt. Sweatpants. They'll be big on you, but—" He shrugs. "It's just me."
"Just you," I repeat, and the words taste good in my mouth.
He leads me to his dresser, opens the top drawer. I watch him pull out a faded gray T-shirt with a faded logo I don't recognize, and a pair of black sweatpants that look like they've been through a hundred washes. He holds them out to me, and I take them, feeling the soft, worn fabric.
"Bathroom's all yours," he says. "I'll start the eggs."
I watch him walk toward the kitchen, the towel still wrapped around his waist, his back bare and still gleaming with the remnants of steam. The scar above his eyebrow catches the light as he turns to glance back at me, and I feel that familiar tightness in my chest, the one that's been there since the first time he looked at me in math class, before I even knew his name.
I slip into the bathroom and close the door. The mirror is mostly clear now, and I catch my own reflection—hair tangled, eyes still heavy with the night's weight, the faint marks on my neck where his mouth lingered too long. I look like someone who's been seen. Someone who's been wanted.
I pull on his shirt first. It hangs off my shoulder, swallows my frame, and smells like him—the cheap soap, the clean sweat, the faint undertone of something warmer that I've come to associate with safety. The sweatpants are enormous. I roll the waistband twice, and they still bag at my ankles.
I look ridiculous. I look like I'm wearing his clothes because I belong to him.
The thought sends a curl of warmth through my stomach, low and possessive. I press my hand to my chest, feel the key still in my palm, and I smile.
When I step out, he's at the stove, his back to me, a pan already sizzling. He's pulled on a pair of boxers and a thin T-shirt, and I watch the muscles in his shoulders move as he works. He turns when he hears me, and his face breaks into a grin when he sees me.
"Told you," he says. "Swimming in them."
"I like it," I say, and I mean it. "They smell like you."
His ears go red, and he turns back to the stove, but I see the smile still there, wide and unguarded. I pad over to the counter and hop onto a stool, watching him crack eggs into the pan, the yolks brilliant orange against the white.
"Comfortable?" he asks without looking.
"Yeah. I am."
He glances over his shoulder, and there's something serious in his eyes, something that cuts through the lightness for just a second. "Good."
I watch him cook, the careful way he seasons the eggs, the way he toasts the bread in the toaster without burning it. He moves like someone who's learned to take care of himself, who's had to. I wonder who taught him, or if he just figured it out alone.
He plates the eggs and slides one across the counter to me, a piece of toast on the side. It's simple—nothing fancy, nothing like the diner where he took me on our first date. But the fact that he made it for me, that he's standing here in his boxers, his hair still damp, his eyes still soft—it means more than any elaborate meal.
I take a bite. It's warm, perfectly salted, and I'm hungrier than I thought. I eat in silence for a minute, the only sounds the scrape of forks and the distant hum of the refrigerator.
He finishes his first and pushes his plate aside, his hands wrapping around a mug of coffee he poured somewhere in the process. He watches me eat, and I feel his gaze, but it doesn't make me self-conscious. It makes me feel seen.
"Sofia," he says, and his voice is quiet, careful.
I look up, fork halfway to my mouth.
"I know I've said it a hundred times already. But I'm sorry. For the party. For getting drunk. For—" He stops, searches for the word. "For scaring you."
I set down my fork, my appetite suddenly gone. "You didn't scare me, Liam."
"I scared myself," he says, and his voice cracks on the last word. "I've never done that before. I've never—I've never cared about someone enough to lose control like that."
I reach across the counter and cover his hand with mine. His fingers are cold from the mug, and I feel them curl around mine, gripping like I'm the only anchor he has.
"You didn't lose me," I say. "I'm still here."
He nods, but his jaw is tight, and I see the moisture gathering at the edges of his eyes. He blinks it back before it can fall, but I've already seen it, and the sight of it—this boy, this quiet, intense boy who gave me his key, who made me eggs, who got drunk because he was afraid I'd leave—undoes something in me.
I slide off the stool and walk around the counter. He looks up at me, surprised, and I step into his space, wrapping my arms around his neck, pressing my chest to his, burying my face in his still-damp hair.
He holds me. His arms lock around my waist, and he pulls me close, his breath warm against my collarbone. I feel the tension in his body, the way he's holding himself together, and I hold him tighter, rocking him slightly, like he's the one who needs to be held.
"I'm not going anywhere, Liam." I whisper it into his skin, let it settle into his bones. "I keep saying it because I mean it."
His hands are fisted in the back of his shirt—the shirt I'm wearing, his shirt—and I feel the fabric strain against his grip. He doesn't speak for a long time. He just holds me, his breath hot and uneven against my skin.
When he finally pulls back, his eyes are red, but he's not crying. He cups my face with both hands, his palms warm and calloused, and he kisses me. It's not desperate. It's not hungry. It's a kiss that tastes like gratitude, like wonder, like the quiet beginning of something he's finally letting himself believe in.
"I love you," he says against my lips.
"I love you too."
He pulls me against his chest, his chin resting on the top of my head, and I feel the steady thrum of his heart against my cheek. The apartment is quiet. The eggs are cooling on the counter. The key is still warm in my palm, pressed between us like a third heartbeat.
Outside, the city is waking fully now—the rumble of a bus, the distant wail of a siren, the chatter of birds in the tree outside his window. But in here, wrapped in his arms, wearing his clothes, holding his key, I feel the edges of my old life soften and blur.
I don't know what comes after this. I don't know if Maya will call again, if Liam's fear will come back, if the quiet war in his chest will ever fully end. But for now, for this moment, for this single, unremarkable Tuesday morning in April, I am here. And it's enough.
He pulls back, his hands finding mine, and I feel him press my palm—the one holding the key—against his chest, right over his heart.
"This is yours too," he says, his voice rough. "If you want it."
I look up at him, at the scar above his eyebrow, at the messy damp hair, at the pale blue eyes that held me on the first day of math class and haven't let go since. I curl my fingers around the key, feel its teeth bite into my palm, and I press my hand harder against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart beating beneath my touch.
"I want it," I say.
And I mean it.