The key is still warm from my palm when Liam shifts beside me. His hand slides from my waist up to my jaw, turning my face toward his before his eyes are even fully open—just that pale blue cracking through the sleep, finding me like he already knew I'd be here.
"I've been dreaming about you," he murmurs.
His thumb traces my lower lip, slow and deliberate, like he's memorizing the shape. Like he's still half-asleep and not sure I'm real. I don't answer—I just lean into him, my hand still wrapped around the key, and when his mouth finds mine, it's not soft this time.
It's the kind of kiss that knows where it's going.
His body presses me into the mattress, and I feel the key dig into my palm as I grip it tighter, anchoring myself to the moment before I lose myself entirely. His tongue slides against mine, and he tastes like sleep and something darker, something that's been building since we lay back down.
His hand leaves my jaw, trails down my throat, settles on my collarbone. His thumb finds the hollow there, presses gently, and I feel my breath catch.
"Liam—"
"Shh." He kisses the corner of my mouth. "I know Saturday is three days away. I know you're nervous. I know all of it." His hand slides lower, palm flat against my chest, feeling my heartbeat. "But right now, it's just us. Just this bed. Just the morning."
I look at him. The dust motes are still spinning in the gold light, and his hair is a mess of dirty blond against the pillow, and his eyes are so blue they hurt to hold.
"I want to meet her," I say. "I do. But I also want to stop thinking for one second."
His smile is slow, almost shy. "Then stop thinking."
He pulls the sheet up over us, and for a moment we're just breathing, his chest against mine, his hand still pressed to my heart. The key rests between my palm and his back, and I can feel the metal warming to my skin.
"Tell me something about her," I say. "Something Marcus doesn't know. Something only you know."
Liam is quiet for a long moment. His thumb traces a slow circle on my sternum.
"She keeps every drawing I ever made her," he says eventually. "From when I was five until now. They're in a box under her bed. She thinks I don't know."
My chest tightens. "That's beautiful."
"She's the reason I don't give up on people." His voice is rough now, raw. "She stayed. Through everything. My dad leaving when I was nine, the shit grades in middle school, the summer I almost drowned lifeguarding and couldn't get back in the water for months. She stayed."
I slide my hand up, cup his jaw. "So she's the reason you waited for me."
He meets my eyes. "She's the reason I believed you could stay too."
The words settle between us, heavier than any kiss. I feel the key in my palm, and I realize I'm gripping it so hard the edges are leaving marks.
"Show me her picture," I say. "You have one, right?"
He nods, rolls over to reach for his phone on the nightstand. The movement pulls the sheet away, and cold air hits my shoulders. I shiver, and he laughs softly, tucking the sheet back around me before he unlocks the phone.
"This is from Christmas Eve," he says, turning the screen toward me. "She makes me take one every year. In front of the tree."
The woman in the photo has Liam's eyes. The same pale blue, the same way of looking at the camera like she's seeing past it. Her hair is silver-streaked brown, pulled back in a loose bun, and she's wearing a red sweater with a small reindeer embroidered on the collar. She's smiling, but it's the kind of smile that knows loss—the corners of her eyes crinkle, but there's something held back, something saved for later.
"She's beautiful," I say.
"She'll like you." He takes the phone back, sets it face-down on the nightstand. "She already does. You're the first girl I've ever wanted her to meet."
I don't know what to say to that. The weight of it settles in my chest, warm and terrifying.
"What if I say the wrong thing?" I ask. "What if I'm too quiet? What if she thinks I'm—I don't know—not good enough?"
Liam's hand finds mine, pries my fingers open, takes the key from my palm. He sets it on the nightstand next to the phone, then laces his fingers through mine.
"She's going to see what I see," he says. "A girl who left everything behind to chase something better. A girl who's brave enough to meet her boyfriend's mom. A girl who bites her lip when she's nervous and laughs like she means it and looks at me like I'm worth looking at."
He squeezes my hand.
"That's who she's going to meet. The girl I love."
The word lands in my chest and stays there, warm and heavy, like a stone dropped into still water. I've heard him say it before—in the coffee shop, in the shower, in the dark—but it hits different in the morning light, with his hand in mine and his mother's photo still fresh in my mind.
"I love you too," I say.
He kisses me, soft this time, his lips barely brushing mine. Then he pulls back and looks at me with something I can't quite name—relief, maybe, or wonder.
"Saturday," he says. "Lasagna. My mom's stories about me as a kid. You, looking beautiful and nervous and perfect."
I laugh. "You're going to make me cry before we even get there."
"Good tears." He brushes a strand of hair from my face. "The best kind."
We lie there for a while, the morning stretching out around us. The sun climbs higher, casting a warm rectangle across the floor. I can hear birds outside, and somewhere down the hall, a door opens and closes—a neighbor leaving for work.
My stomach growls.
Liam grins. "Hungry?"
"Starving."
He sits up, the sheet pooling around his waist. His back is bare, the morning light catching the lines of his shoulders, the faint tan lines from last summer's lifeguarding. I watch him stretch, his arms reaching toward the ceiling, and I feel a warmth that has nothing to do with the sun.
"Pancakes?" he asks.
"From the diner?"
"From my kitchen." He swings his legs over the edge of the bed. "I've been practicing. Marcus said my last batch was 'edible,' which is basically a Michelin star coming from him."
I laugh, and it feels good—light, uncomplicated. "Edible. That's the dream."
He stands, pulling on a pair of sweatpants from the floor. I watch him move through the room, collecting a shirt from the chair, a pair of socks from the drawer, and I feel the key's absence in my palm like a phantom limb.
I reach over, pick it up from the nightstand. The metal is cool now, but it warms quickly in my hand.
"Coming?" he asks from the doorway.
I slide out of bed, pull on his hoodie from the foot of the mattress. It smells like him—laundry detergent and something warmer, something I can't name. The sleeves fall past my wrists, and I push them up as I follow him into the kitchen.
His apartment is small, but it's his. A couch with a blanket thrown over the back, a bookshelf crammed with paperbacks and a single framed photo of him and Marcus at the beach. The kitchen counter has a blender, a coffee maker, and a stack of textbooks I recognize from our shared class.
"Sit," he says, pointing to the small table by the window. "I'll prove I'm husband material."
I raise an eyebrow. "Husband material?"
He freezes, then laughs, a little flustered. "Too soon?"
"Maybe a little." But I'm smiling. I sit at the table, the key still in my hand, and watch him pull ingredients from the fridge—eggs, milk, a carton of buttermilk that's past its date. He smells it, grimaces, tosses it in the trash.
"We improvise," he says.
"We trust the process."
He works the batter in a bowl, his movements efficient but not practiced—he's still learning this, still figuring out the rhythm. A smear of flour on his forearm. A drip of milk on the counter he wipes with his thumb. He cracks an egg one-handed, and the shell crumbles, and he curses softly as he picks pieces out of the bowl.
"You're doing great," I say.
He shoots me a look. "You're just saying that because you're hungry."
"I'm saying it because it's true."
He pours the batter into a pan, and it sizzles. The smell fills the kitchen—warm, sweet, domestic. I lean back in my chair, the sun on my face, and I think about how different this is from everything I imagined.
Six months ago, I was in a different country, in a different life, waiting for a girl who never showed up. Now I'm here, in a boy's kitchen, watching him make me pancakes with flour on his arm and a key in my pocket.
"What are you thinking about?" he asks, not looking up from the pan.
"How strange it is," I say. "Being happy."
He flips the pancake, and it lands perfectly. He glances at me, and his eyes are soft. "Strange good or strange bad?"
"Strange like I don't trust it yet. Like if I blink too hard, it might disappear."
He slides the pancake onto a plate, pours more batter into the pan, then crosses to me. He crouches beside my chair, his hand finding mine, the key pressing between our palms.
"It's not going to disappear," he says. "I'm not going to disappear. Saturday isn't going to disappear. We're building something real, Sofia. Brick by brick. Pancake by pancake."
I laugh, and it comes out wet. "Pancake by pancake?"
"It's a solid metaphor." He grins. "You want butter or syrup?"
"Both."
"Good answer." He kisses my forehead, then stands to flip the next pancake.
I watch him move around the small kitchen, and I let myself feel it. The warmth. The safety. The terrifying, fragile hope that this is real.
The key is heavy in my pocket.
I pull out my phone while he works, check the time. 8:47 AM. Saturday is still two days away, but the hours feel charged, like they're holding their breath.
A text from Jenna lights up the screen: So. How was the night? Details. Now.
I smile, type back: Good. Really good. He's making me pancakes.
Her reply comes instantly: PANCAKES. The man is locked in. Tell me everything.
I glance at Liam, his back to me, spatula in hand. Later, I promise. Meeting his mom Saturday. Panicking.
Wait WHAT. Okay no more texts. You focus on that. I'll need a full debrief Sunday. GOOD LUCK.
I pocket the phone, and Liam slides a plate in front of me. Three pancakes, golden-brown, a pat of butter melting on the top one. A small pitcher of syrup beside it.
"Presentation needs work," he says, sitting across from me with his own plate. "But the taste test is the only one that matters."
I cut a piece, dip it in syrup, take a bite. The pancake is warm, slightly dense, a little uneven—but it's good. It's real. It's his.
"It's perfect," I say.
He watches me eat, a small smile on his face. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I take another bite. "You're a natural."
He digs into his own, and we eat in comfortable silence, the morning light pooling on the table between us. I catch him looking at me, and I catch myself looking back.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing." He shakes his head. "Just—I want to remember this. The way you look right now. In my hoodie. Eating my pancakes. Sun on your face."
My chest tightens. "I want to remember it too."
We finish eating, and he takes our plates to the sink. I stand, stretch, and feel the key shift in my pocket. I pull it out, look at it—the brass glinting in the light, the edges worn from being held.
"I should go home," I say. "Shower. Change. Start getting ready for Saturday."
Liam turns from the sink, drying his hands on a dish towel. "You could stay. Shower here. Borrow my clothes."
"I could." I step toward him. "But I also need to figure out what I'm wearing to meet your mother. And I need to call my grandmother. And I need to emotionally prepare."
He nods, understanding. "Okay. But you're coming back tonight?"
It's not a demand. It's a question. A hope.
"I have a key," I say, holding it up. "I'll let myself in."
He crosses to me, wraps his arms around my waist, pulls me close. I press my face into his chest, breathe him in.
"I'll be here," he says into my hair. "Whenever you're ready."
I tip my head back, look up at him. "Two days."
"Two days." He kisses me, soft and slow, and I feel the promise in it—not just for Saturday, but for everything after.
I pull away, grab my bag from the bedroom, and pause at the door. He's leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching me go.
"Thank you," I say, "for the pancakes. And for—" I gesture vaguely. "All of this."
"Anytime." His smile is soft, private. "I mean it. Anytime."
I close the door behind me, and the key is warm in my pocket as I walk down the hallway, out into the morning, toward the apartment that still doesn't feel like home—but the key in my hand does.