We stand there until our skin dries, until the steam clears from the mirror, until his heartbeat slows against my cheek. He doesn't let go, and I don't ask him to.
Eventually, we move to the bedroom. The sheets are still tangled from earlier, the fan still humming its slow circle overhead. He pulls me down beside him, and I curl into his chest, my cheek against his collarbone, his arm heavy across my waist.
I fall asleep like that. Warm. Safe. The key still in my sweatpants pocket, a hard little promise against my hip.
The phone wakes me.
Not a sound—I keep it on vibrate, always—but the light. A glow from the nightstand, blue-white against the dark of the room. I blink at it, slow and stupid from sleep, and then I see the name.
Maya.
My arm moves before my brain catches up, reaching for the phone before the vibration can stir Liam. His breathing is still deep and even behind me, his arm loose around my waist. I tilt the screen away from his face.
A photo. A beach at sunset, the water gold and pink, palm trees leaning into the frame. I scroll past it to the message beneath.
"I'm in Hawaii for break. Can I see you? I need to explain."
I stare at the words until the screen dims, then lights up again from the motion. Hawaii. She's in Hawaii. Which means she's on this side of the ocean. Which means she's close enough to—
Beside me, Liam stirs.
His arm tightens around my waist, pulling me closer, and I feel the key press against my hip through the sweatpants. His face turns into my hair, his breath warm against my scalp, and I hear the change in his breathing—the shift from sleep to waking.
"Sof?" His voice is rough, still half-gone. "You okay?"
I should say yes. I should put the phone down, turn over, press myself against him, and let the morning take this moment away. But my thumb is still on the screen, and the words are still there, and I can feel the way he's already reading the tension in my body.
"It's Maya," I say. Quiet. Like saying it softer makes it smaller.
His arm doesn't move. His breath doesn't change. But I feel him go still behind me—that particular stillness of a body suddenly paying attention.
"What did she say?"
I turn the phone so he can see it. The photo, the message. The words that have followed me across an ocean and a time zone and every promise I've made him.
He reads. Silent. Then he looks at me, his pale blue eyes steady in the gray morning light.
"She's in Hawaii."
"Yes."
"And she wants to see you."
"Yes."
He doesn't say anything else. He just looks at me, and I realize he's waiting. He's not going to tell me what to do. He's not going to ask me not to answer. He's just going to hold me and let me choose.
The key presses against my hip. Solid. Real. Mine.
"I didn't answer yet," I say. "I just—I saw it, and then you woke up, and—"
"Sof." His hand finds mine, the one still holding the phone. His thumb brushes my knuckles. "Breathe."
I breathe.
"What do you want to do?" he asks.
The question sits between us. It's the right question. It's the one he keeps asking me, the one I keep having to answer. What do I want. Not what Maya wants. Not what he wants. What I want.
I don't know.
"She left me," I say, and the words come out smaller than I meant them to. "She broke up with me. And now she's here, and she wants to explain, and I don't know if I want to hear it or if I want to throw my phone into the wall."
He almost smiles. Almost. "Both sound reasonable."
I let out a breath that's half a laugh, and the tightness in my chest loosens by a fraction. He pulls me closer, his arm around my waist, his lips brushing my temple.
"You don't have to decide right now," he says. "She texted you. You don't owe her an instant answer."
I know he's right. But the message is still there, glowing on the screen, and I can feel the weight of it pulling at something inside me. Not longing. Not regret. Just—unfinished. Like a door I left half-closed and someone is pushing on from the other side.
"I told her I was falling for someone," I say. "When she called. I told her."
"I remember."
"She didn't care. She still came."
"Maybe she cares too much." He says it quietly, without judgment. "Maybe she realizes she made a mistake and she's trying to fix it before it's too late."
I turn in his arms so I can see his face. "That doesn't bother you?"
He holds my gaze. "It bothers me. But it's not about me."
"It's about us."
"It's about you." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his fingers lingering at my jaw. "What you need. What you want. I already know what I want."
"What?"
"You. Here. Staying." He says it simply, like it's the easiest thing in the world. "But I can't make you want that. You have to keep choosing it."
The key presses against my hip again, and I think about what it means. He gave it to me because he trusts me. Because he wants me to come back. Because he believes I will.
I look down at my phone. The screen has gone dark again, but I know the words are still there. Maya's face, the beach, the plea.
"I want to see her," I say, and the words feel like stepping off a ledge.
Liam's jaw tightens, but he doesn't pull away. "Okay."
"I need to know why she came all this way. I need to hear her explain. And then I need to tell her that it doesn't matter."
He watches me, his blue eyes unreadable. "Are you sure?"
"No." I laugh, brittle and honest. "But if I don't, I'll always wonder. And I don't want to wonder. I want to know, so I can let it go."
He's quiet for a long moment. Then he nods. "Then you should go."
"Come with me."
The words leave my mouth before I think them through. He blinks.
"What?"
"Come with me." I sit up, the phone still in my hand, the sheet pooling around my waist. "If I'm going to see her, I want you there. She's my past. You're my present. I don't want to go back into that room alone."
"Sof, I don't think that's—"
"I know it's not normal. I know it's weird. But I don't care." I reach for his hand, threading my fingers through his. "You're the one I chose. I want you to be there when I tell her that."
He looks at our hands. His thumb traces the curve of my knuckles. Then he looks up at me, and there's something raw in his eyes—something scared and hopeful and so tender it makes my chest ache.
"You're serious."
"I've never been more serious about anything."
He pulls me down into a kiss, his hand at the back of my neck, his mouth warm and hungry. It's not a soft kiss—it's a desperate one, a kiss that says I don't know how to believe you but I want to.
"Okay," he breathes against my lips. "I'll go with you."
I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding, and I press my forehead against his.
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet." His voice is rough. "You haven't seen her yet."
"I'm not thanking you for coming. I'm thanking you for trusting me."
He closes his eyes, and I feel him settle against me, his body relaxing by degrees. The phone is still in my hand, dark and waiting, but I don't look at it. I look at him.
"When?" he asks.
"I don't know. I need to figure out where she is, if she's still in Hawaii, if she's coming back—"
"Then ask her."
I look at the phone. The screen is dark, but the message is still there. Waiting.
I unlock it. Open the conversation. My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
"I can stay for that part if you want," Liam says. "Or I can give you space to text her. Whatever you need."
I appreciate the offer, but I know what I need. I turn the phone toward him, the screen bright, and I type with him watching.
"I got your message. Where are you?"
I send it before I can second-guess myself. Then I put the phone face-down on the nightstand, the way I used to hide Maya's messages from him, except now it's different. Now I'm not hiding. I'm choosing.
The phone buzzes almost immediately. I flip it over, and my heart lurches when I see the response.
"On the mainland. Drove up from LA yesterday. I'm at a motel near your school."
She's been here. The whole time I was asleep, tangled up in Liam, she was here, closer than she's been in months. The thought makes my stomach turn.
"Close enough to drive to," I mutter.
"What?" Liam's hand finds my back.
"She's at a motel. Near campus." I show him the phone. "She drove up from LA."
He reads it, his jaw working. Then he hands the phone back. "What do you want to do?"
I look at the screen. At Maya's name. At the question hanging over everything.
"I'm going to ask her to meet somewhere public. And I want you to come with me."
He nods, his hand still on my back. "Okay."
I type again. "Tomorrow morning. The coffee shop on Main Street, the one with the blue awning. 10am."
Her response comes in seconds. "I'll be there."
I put the phone down and look at Liam. The morning light is brighter now, filtering through the blinds and falling across the sheets. His hand is still on my back, warm and steady, and the key is still in my pocket—folded into the fabric, waiting for me to wear it again.
"I'm scared," I admit.
"I know."
"I'm scared I'll see her and feel something. Or that I'll see her and feel nothing. I'm scared I'll hurt you. I'm scared I'll hurt her. I'm scared I'll make the wrong choice."
He pulls me into his lap, his arms around me, my legs on either side of his hips. His face tilts up to mine, and his hands settle on my thighs.
"You won't make the wrong choice," he says. "Because you're choosing me right now. Every time you tell me the truth instead of hiding it. Every time you turn the screen toward me instead of away. Every time you say my name instead of hers."
"Liam—"
"I was scared too." His voice cracks, just slightly. "At the party. When I saw those guys around you. I thought—I thought this is it. She's going to realize I'm not enough. She's going to go back to Maya, or find someone better, or just—disappear."
"I'm not going to disappear."
"I know." He swallows. "I know that now. But I didn't know it then. And I got scared, and I got drunk, and I made an ass of myself."
"You apologized."
"I meant it."
"I know."
We sit there in the growing light, tangled up in each other, the phone face-down on the nightstand. Tomorrow I'll see Maya. Tomorrow I'll close that door, or leave it half-open, or watch it swing both ways. But right now, I'm here, in his lap, in his apartment, with his key in my pocket and his arms around me.
And that's the only answer I need to have, for now.
I reach for the phone before I can talk myself out of it.
The screen lights up under my thumb. Maya's last reply is still there—*I'll be there*—and the words feel too simple for the weight they carry. I open the keyboard and type:
*Don't come alone.*
Three words. That's all. A boundary I didn't know I needed until I wrote it.
I hold the phone toward Liam, the screen angled so he can see it without moving. His hand stops on my thigh, and he reads. His jaw works once, twice. Then he looks at me, and there's something in his eyes I can't quite name—surprise, maybe. Relief.
"That's a good idea," he says quietly.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." His thumb traces a slow circle on my knee. "It means you want to be safe. It means you're not walking into a room alone with her without a way out."
I hadn't thought of it that way. I just don't want to sit across from Maya without Liam at my back. Without someone who knows me now, who chose me when I had nothing to offer but a broken heart and a promise to try.
"She might not bring anyone," I say. "She might come alone anyway."
"Then you'll know."
I look at the screen. Three words. I can still delete them, still let the meeting tomorrow be what Maya chooses to make it. But I don't want to.
I tap send.
The message wings away into the dark, and for a second I imagine it crossing the miles between Liam's bedroom and whatever motel room Maya is sitting in, a text chime she probably has on silent but still sees, the screen lighting up with my name.
I put the phone face-down before I can see if she's typing back.
"Do you want to see her response?" Liam asks.
"Not yet." I turn the phone over again, just to be sure. The screen is dark. "I sent it. That's enough for tonight."
He shifts beneath me, his hands sliding up my sides, settling at my hips. I feel the warmth of his palms through the thin fabric of the shirt I'm wearing—his shirt, from the top of his drawer. It smells like him. Detergent and the faint trace of sweat from our shower that still clings to his skin.
"You're shaking," he says.
I look down at my hands. He's right. There's a fine tremor running through my fingers, the kind that starts in the chest and works its way out. I didn't even notice.
"I'm okay," I say, because it's the easier thing to say, but he's already wrapping his hands around mine, holding them still.
"You don't have to be okay." His voice is low, rough in a way that has nothing to do with sleep. "You just sent a message to your ex asking her to bring backup to a meeting she asked for. That's not 'okay.' That's brave as hell, but it's not okay."
A laugh escapes me—short, surprised. "When did you get so good at this?"
"At what?"
"Saying the right thing."
He shrugs, a small movement that shifts me on his lap. "I just say what I feel. You taught me that."
I lean forward and kiss him. Soft. His lips part against mine, and for a moment the phone, the message, the meeting tomorrow—all of it drops away. There's just his mouth, his hands on my waist, the weight of his body beneath me.
When I pull back, his eyes are still closed. He opens them slowly, like he's coming up from deep water.
"What was that for?"
"For trusting me." My voice cracks. "For not telling me to stay. For letting me choose instead of keeping me here."
He shakes his head. "I'm not letting you do anything. You're letting yourself be here. There's a difference."
I know he means it. That's what undoes me—the way he says it like it's simple, like of course he would trust her, like of course she would come back. Like I've already proved something he never doubted.
I press my forehead to his, and we sit there, breathing together. The key digs into my hip through the sweatpants pocket, a hard reminder that I have somewhere to anchor myself.
"Can we lie down?" I ask.
"Yeah."
He shifts, and I slide off his lap, onto the mattress. The sheets are cool against my legs, still damp in patches from our shower. He follows me down, pulling me against his chest, his arm around my waist, his knees tucked behind mine.
I stare at the ceiling. The fan spins its slow circle, pushing the warm air around. The light from the window has shifted—still morning, but brighter now, the shadows shorter.
"Liam."
"Yeah?"
"Thank you."
His arm tightens around me. "You already thanked me."
"I'm thanking you again."
He doesn't argue. He just presses his lips to the back of my head, and I let my eyes close.
I don't sleep. I can't. But I let myself settle into the warmth of him, the rhythm of his breathing, the slow sweep of his thumb across my stomach.
The phone stays face-down on the nightstand. Silent.
"She's probably typing right now," I whisper. "Figuring out what to say."
"Probably."
"I don't want to look."
"Then don't." He shifts, his chin settling on top of my head. "Leave it there. Read it when you're ready. Not when she expects you to."
I think about that for a moment. The control it gives me back. Maya sent a message asking to see me. I replied on my terms. I sent an extra instruction on my terms. And now the phone sits there, waiting for *me* to decide when to check it.
"She's used to me answering fast," I say. "When we were together, I always—I always answered. Straight away. Like the world would end if I didn't."
"And now?"
"Now I don't care if the world ends." I turn in his arms, facing him. "Let it end. I'm staying here."
His hand finds my face, his thumb tracing my cheekbone. "You keep saying that."
"Because I keep meaning it."
He kisses me again. Slower this time, like we have all the time in the world. His hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back, and I let myself sink into it—the taste of him, the smell of him, the weight of his body pulling me closer.
When he breaks the kiss, I'm breathing hard. He looks at me, his pale blue eyes dark in the growing light.
"If you want to stop," he says, "we can stop. If you want to talk, we can talk. If you want to sleep, we can sleep." He swallows. "Whatever you need. Tonight, tomorrow, forever. I'm here."
I feel something crack open in my chest. Not break—crack. A fissure that lets light in.
"I don't want to stop," I say. "I don't want to talk. And I don't want to sleep."
His breath catches. "What do you want?"
I don't answer with words. I kiss him, and this time my hand finds the hem of his shirt—of my shirt, the one I'm wearing—and pulls it up. He breaks the kiss just long enough to help me peel it off, and then his hands are on my bare skin, warm and rough, tracing the curve of my spine.
I want to be close. I want to feel him so completely that there's no room for Maya's name in my head. I want tomorrow to feel far away, and right now to feel infinite.
He rolls me onto my back, his body covering mine, and I feel the weight of him settle between my legs. The sweatpants I'm wearing are the only fabric left between us, and he presses against me through them, and I gasp.
"Tell me if it's too much," he murmurs against my throat.
"It's not."
"Tell me if you need to stop."
"I won't."
He lifts his head, meets my eyes. "I mean it, Sof. If anything—"
"Liam." I cup his face in my hands. "I'm not fragile. I'm not going to break because my ex sent a message. I'm here, with you, and I want this. I want you."
He searches my face for a long moment. Then he nods, and his mouth finds mine again, and I feel his hand slide down my stomach, down past the waistband of the sweatpants, into the heat between my legs.
I'm already wet. I don't know when it happened—maybe when he kissed me, maybe when he said *whatever you need*—but his fingers slide through me easily, and I arch into his hand.
"Sof." His voice is rough, strained. "I want to be inside you."
I nod. "Then be inside me."
He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of the sweatpants, and I lift my hips to let him pull them down. They catch on the key in the pocket—a brief snag—then slide free, pooling somewhere near my ankles. I kick them off, and then I'm naked and he's still wearing boxers, and the sight of him above me, the morning light catching his shoulders, his chest, the scar above his eyebrow, makes my chest ache.
"Come here," I say, pulling him down.
He does. His mouth finds my breast, hot and insistent, and I let my head fall back as he sucks me into his mouth, his tongue circling, his hand sliding down between my legs again. His fingers press inside me, and I gasp, my hips lifting to meet him.
I reach for him, my hand sliding into his boxers, wrapping around the length of him. He's hard, so hard, and the sound he makes when I touch him sends heat flooding through me.
"Sof—"
"I want to feel you." I guide him, press him against me, and he understands. He shifts his weight, his hand replacing mine, positioning himself at my entrance.
He pauses. Looks at me.
"You're sure?"
I reach for the key. It's tangled in my sweatpants on the bed, the metal cool against my fingers. I hold it up, let it catch the light.
"I'm sure."
He pushes into me slowly. A stretch. A fullness. I feel every inch of him, the way my body opens to meet him, the way he fills the space inside me that's been hollow since I woke up to that message. I wrap my legs around his waist, pull him deeper.
His forehead presses against mine. His breath comes in short, hot bursts against my lips.
"Sof—"
"Don't stop." Or *please don't stop*. I don't know which I said. Both, maybe.
He doesn't. He moves inside me, slow at first, then faster, his hips meeting mine in a rhythm that feels like a promise. I hold him, my hands on his back, his shoulders, his hair. I feel the sweat gather between us, the heat of his skin, the way his breathing changes when I clench around him.
"Tell me what you need," he says.
"You." I can barely get the word out. "I need—you."
He kisses me, deep, desperate, and his hand slides between us, finding me where we're joined. His thumb circles, presses, and I feel the orgasm building, a wave rising from somewhere deep and unstoppable.
"Liam—"
"I've got you." His voice breaks. "I've got you, Sof."
I come apart in his arms. My body clenches around him, and I hear myself cry out, his name, a word that isn't anything, and he follows me, his hips pressing deep as he spills into me, his mouth open against my throat, his whole body shuddering.
We lie there, tangled, breathing hard. The fan hums overhead. The light climbs across the wall. The phone is still face-down on the nightstand, and I haven't checked it, and I don't need to.
He shifts, pulls out, rolls onto his back. His arm finds me, pulls me against his side. I rest my head on his chest, feel his heart hammering beneath my ear.
"That was—" he starts.
"Don't say it." I press my hand over his mouth. "Don't ruin it with words."
He laughs, a breathless sound that vibrates through his ribs. He kisses my palm, then holds my hand against his chest.
We stay like that. The key is still on the bed, glinting in a shaft of light. I reach for it from memory, my fingers finding the metal, and I hold it between us.
"I brought it back," I say. "I went all the way to Hawaii in my head, and I brought it back."
His hand closes over mine, over the key.
"You never left," he says.
The phone stays dark. The morning keeps climbing. And I let myself be held.