His thumb hovers over the call button. The phone screen glows, showing "Mom" in his contact list, and I watch the small muscle in his jaw jump once, twice.
He's sitting up now, the sheet pooling at his waist, and his shoulders look wider from this angle, the morning light carving shadows across his back. The scar above his eyebrow catches a sliver of gold.
"I can wait," I say.
He shakes his head. "No. I said I'd call today." His thumb still doesn't move. "She's going to ask a lot of questions."
"I know."
He looks at me then—pale blue eyes, a little wild around the edges. "About you. Where you're from. How we met. What you're studying."
"I can answer those."
"She's going to want to know why I haven't mentioned you before."
Something tightens in my chest. "What will you tell her?"
He's quiet for a beat. Then: "That I was scared."
The words land in the space between us, and I feel them settle into my ribs. He was scared. Of what—losing me before he had me? Of me being real? Of his mother's approval meaning something he wasn't ready to face?
I reach up and touch his wrist. His pulse jumps under my fingers.
"I'm not scared anymore," he says. And then he presses dial.
The phone rings once. I feel the vibration through his arm, through the mattress, through the air between us. I stop breathing.
Twice.
Three times—and then a woman's voice, warm and slightly out of breath, saying, "Liam? Baby, is that you?"
His eyes stay on me. "Hey, Mom."
"You never call this early. Is everything okay?" Her voice comes through the speaker, tinny but warm, and I can hear the edge of worry beneath the cheer.
"Yeah. Everything's fine." He clears his throat. "Actually—there's someone I want you to meet."
The silence on her end lasts a full second. Then: "Someone?"
"A girl. Her name's Sofia."
His mother doesn't speak. I can hear her breath shift, like she's sitting down. My hand finds his under the sheet—his fingers cold, mine colder, and we hold on like we're both about to fall.
"Sofia," his mother repeats. "The girl from your math class?"
His eyes widen. "You knew?"
A soft laugh crackles through the speaker. "Sweetheart, you've been coming home smelling like vanilla and nervous energy for two months. Marcus let it slip weeks ago."
Liam's face goes pink, the color crawling up his neck. "Traitor," he mutters.
"Don't blame Marcus. I'm your mother. I notice things." Her voice softens. "So. Sofia. Where is she from?"
"Colombia," I say, before I can stop myself. My voice comes out smaller than I meant, and I feel the heat rise to my cheeks.
There's a pause. Then his mother says, "Oh, you're right there?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Don't ma'am me—makes me feel ancient. Call me Dianne." Her voice is warm, genuinely warm, and something in my chest loosens. "So you're the one who's been making my son smile like an idiot."
Liam makes a sound like a wounded animal. "Mom."
I laugh before I can help it—a small, surprised sound. "I didn't know I was doing that."
"Oh, you are. He gets this look. Dreamy. It's nauseating." She's enjoying this. I can hear the grin in her voice. "Tell me about yourself, Sofia. Liam's never brought a girl home before. I want to know everything."
I feel the weight of that. Never brought a girl home. I'm the first. The pressure settles onto my shoulders, but it's not heavy the way I expected—it feels like being handed something fragile and being trusted not to drop it.
"I'm from Cali," I say. "I moved here last year to study. I'm in the same math class as Liam."
"Just math?"
The question hangs. I glance at Liam, who's watching me with something raw in his eyes—like he's afraid of what I'll say. Like he's hoping I'll say the right thing.
"No," I say quietly. "Not just math."
His mother hums, a satisfied sound. "Good. Now, when am I going to meet you?"
Liam takes the phone back, his hand brushing mine as he lifts it to his ear. "Mom. Don't scare her."
"I'm not scaring her. I'm being welcoming. There's a difference."
"She's not used to your version of welcoming."
"Then she needs to get used to it. She's important to you. That makes her family."
Liam's breath catches. He looks at me, and I see something shift in his eyes—a crack, a vulnerability he doesn't usually let me see. "Yeah," he says, his voice rough. "She is."
The word lands in my chest like a stone dropping into still water. Family. He said I'm important to him. He said she's family.
His mother's voice softens. "Bring her to dinner this weekend. Saturday, seven o'clock. I'll make my lasagna."
"Mom—"
"I'm not taking no for an answer. Saturday. Seven. Sofia, you like lasagna?"
I lean closer to the phone. "I've never had it."
"Well, then you're in for a treat. Liam, put it on the calendar. I love you. Bye." And she hangs up before he can argue.
Liam stares at the screen, the call ended, and slowly lowers the phone to his lap. He looks dazed. "She hung up on me."
"She sounds wonderful."
He looks at me, and a slow smile spreads across his face—real, unguarded, the kind that reaches his eyes. "She wants to meet you."
"Saturday," I say. "Seven."
"Lasagna."
"I don't know what that is."
He laughs, and the sound fills the room, warm and surprised. "It's pasta. With meat sauce and cheese. You'll love it."
"She called me family." The words slip out before I can stop them, and I feel my cheeks flush again.
Liam's smile fades into something softer, more serious. He sets the phone down on the nightstand, next to the key, and turns to face me fully. "You are." He reaches for my hand, brings it to his mouth, presses his lips to my knuckles. "You're my family now, Sofia. The one I chose."
The morning light catches a dust mote floating between us, suspended and spinning, and I feel the weight of his words settle into my bones. Not an arrival. A beginning. But this—this feels like a door opening onto something I didn't know I was waiting for.
I lean in and kiss him. Soft at first, just the press of my lips against his, and then deeper, like I need to taste the truth of what he just said. His hand moves to my jaw, tilting my head, and the kiss goes on long enough that the dust mote completes its slow drift across the shaft of light and disappears.
When we break apart, he's breathing shallow. "I've never done that before," he says. "Brought someone home. My mom's been waiting for this since I was sixteen."
"She didn't seem surprised."
"She's good at pretending she knows everything." He grins. "She probably does."
The phone lights up with a text. I glance at it—a message from his mom, sent to both of us: "Sofia, if he doesn't treat you right, you call me. I have stories. ❤️"
I laugh, and Liam groans, burying his face in my shoulder. "She's going to be insufferable."
"I like her already."
He lifts his head, his eyes searching mine. "You're not nervous?"
I consider the question. The knot in my stomach is still there, but it's quieter now, wrapped in something warm. "I'm a little nervous," I admit. "But I want to meet her. I want to know where you come from."
He kisses my forehead. "Then I'll show you. Everything."
The morning light has shifted from gray to gold, and the dust motes dance in the warmth. My hand finds his, and we lie back down, the sheet tangled around our legs, the phone silent beside the key that lets me into his life. Saturday is three days away. Three days to prepare for the moment when I meet the woman who made him. Three days to learn to be the girl someone brings home.
But lying here, with his heartbeat under my palm and his breath warm against my hair, I think I might already be her.