The gravel crunches under my boots as I step out of Jenna's Civic, the mountain air cold and sharp against my face, carrying the smell of pine and woodsmoke from somewhere deeper in the trees. I pull my jacket tighter, my breath fogging in front of me, and the silence out here is different from the city—heavier, bigger, like the dark between the trees is listening.
Liam rounds the hood, his duffel slung over one shoulder, and his pale blue eyes catch the porch light as he stops beside me. Close enough that I feel the warmth coming off his jacket. He doesn't say anything at first. Just looks at me, then at the cabin, then back at me, and there's something in his expression that makes my chest tighten.
Behind us, Marcus is already hauling bags out of the trunk, arguing with Jenna about who gets the room with the bigger bed, their voices bouncing off the dark trees. Rebecca—the girl whose name I finally remembered—is pulling her own duffel out, rolling her eyes at them both. The trunk light spills yellow across the gravel, catching the dust rising from all the movement.
Liam's hand finds mine. His fingers are cold but sure, and he tilts his head toward the cabin door. "Ready?"
I feel the key in my pocket. The one he gave me. Warm against my hip like it's been there my whole life. I squeeze his hand and say, "Yeah. Let's go inside."
The cabin door isn't locked. Jenna shoves it open with her shoulder, and we step into a living room that smells like cedar and old wood polish. A stone fireplace takes up most of one wall, dark and cold, with a pile of kindling already stacked in the grate. The furniture is mismatched—a plaid couch, two armchairs that don't match each other, a coffee table with ring stains from a hundred mugs. It's not fancy. It's not anything special. But it's ours for the week.
"Okay, rooms," Jenna says, dropping her bag in the middle of the floor. "There's three bedrooms. One has a queen, two have doubles. Marcus and I are not sharing, so figure it out."
Marcus snorts. "Like I'd want to share with you anyway. You steal blankets."
"I do not—"
"You literally wrapped yourself in the blanket at Sarah's party and left me shivering on the couch."
"That's called survival instincts, Marcus. It's not my fault you're a cold-blooded reptile."
I laugh, the sound surprising me, and Liam's hand tightens around mine. He's watching me, not the argument, and when I look up at him, his expression is soft in the dim light.
"What?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "Nothing. Just—you're here."
"We're all here, Gallagher," Marcus calls out, already heading down the hallway. "Get a room. Literally. I'm calling dibs on the queen."
"You don't get to call dibs when we're all standing here," Jenna says, chasing after him.
Rebecca sighs, picking up her bag. "I'll take whichever room no one wants." She disappears down the hall, and suddenly it's just me and Liam in the living room, the fire still unlit, the silence settling around us like snow.
He lets go of my hand to shrug off his duffel, setting it by the couch. "We should probably pick a room before they come back and claim them all."
"Probably." But I don't move. I'm looking at the fireplace, at the cold ash at the bottom of the grate, and I'm thinking about how strange it is to be here, in a cabin in the mountains, with people who feel like mine.
Liam steps closer. "Hey." His voice is low, meant just for me. "You okay?"
I nod. "I'm good. I'm just—" I pause, trying to find the words. "I've never done this before."
"Spring break?"
"A trip. With people. With—" I look at him. "With someone who matters."
His jaw tightens, just barely, and his hand finds mine again. "You matter to me, Sofia."
"I know." I squeeze his fingers. "That's what makes it different."
We pick the room at the end of the hallway—a double bed with a quilt that looks like someone's grandmother made it, a window that faces the dark trees, and a lamp that casts warm yellow light across the walls. The room is small. The bed takes up most of it. But when Liam drops his duffel on the floor and sits on the edge of the mattress, it feels bigger than any room I've ever been in.
I set my bag beside his and sit down next to him, close enough that our shoulders touch. He doesn't move away. His hand finds my knee, his thumb tracing a slow circle through my jeans.
"We're really here," I say.
"We're really here." He looks around the room, at the cheap landscape painting on the wall, the dust on the windowsill, the way the lamp casts our shadows long across the floor. "It's not much."
"I don't need much."
He looks at me, and his pale blue eyes catch the lamplight. "I know." A pause. "That's what scares me."
The words settle between us, and I feel them land somewhere deep. "Why does that scare you?"
He looks down at his hand on my knee. His thumb stops moving. "Because I keep waiting for you to realize you want more. That you deserve more. And I don't know what I'll do when you figure it out."
My chest aches. I shift on the bed, turning to face him, and I take his hand—the one that was on my knee—and press it flat against my heart. "Do you feel that?"
He nods, his fingers spreading across my chest, feeling my heartbeat through my shirt.
"That's yours," I say. "It's been yours since January. It's not going anywhere."
His breath catches. I feel it, the way his chest stops and starts again, and when he looks at me, his eyes are bright in the dim light.
"I love you," he says. It's not the first time he's said it. But it lands different here, in this small room with the pine-scented air and the dark trees outside the window.
"I love you too."
Voices from the living room—Marcus's laugh, Jenna's protest, the sound of something being dropped—and the moment splinters. But not entirely. Some of it stays, tucked between us like the key in my pocket.
"We should probably help," I say.
Liam nods, but he doesn't let go of my hand. "Five more minutes."
We sit in the quiet, his hand still pressed to my chest, my heart still beating steady under his palm. And for those five minutes, nothing else exists but this small room and the boy who keeps choosing me back.
Eventually, we find the others in the kitchen. Jenna is standing in front of an open fridge, her hand on her hip, staring at the contents like they've personally offended her. Marcus is at the counter, already pulling out bags of chips and a bottle of something amber-colored that Liam won't touch.
"There's, like, nothing here," Jenna says. "We're going to need to go grocery shopping tomorrow."
"There's beer," Marcus offers.
"I'm not surviving on beer for a week."
"You could."
"I don't want to."
I move past them to the counter, where a box of hot chocolate mix sits next to an old coffee maker. "There's this."
Jenna turns, her face lighting up. "Okay, that's something. Liam, fire. Now."
He doesn't argue. He moves to the fireplace, crouching down to check the kindling, and I watch him work—the way his hands move sure and steady, the way he turns the logs just so, the way the first flame catches and grows, casting orange light across his face.
He's beautiful. I've thought it before, but here, in the firelight, with the mountain dark pressing against the windows, I feel it in my bones.
Rebecca appears from the hallway, her phone in her hand. "No service. Anyone else?"
Marcus checks his. "Dead."
Jenna doesn't even look at hers. "Good. That's the whole point."
I pull out my own phone. No bars. No signal. For a moment, a familiar panic flickers in my chest—the feeling of being cut off, unreachable. But then I look at Liam, still by the fire, his profile lit gold, and the panic quiets.
I don't need to reach anyone. Everyone I need is in this room.
"Hot chocolate?" I ask the room, holding up the box.
Jenna raises a hand. "Me."
"I'll take one," Rebecca says, settling onto the couch.
Marcus makes a face. "I'm good. I have my liquid hot chocolate right here." He holds up the bottle.
"That's whiskey, Marcus."
"It's brown and it's warm. Close enough."
Liam stands up from the fire, brushing ash off his hands, and moves to the kitchen to stand beside me. "Need help?"
"Find mugs."
He opens the cabinets above the stove, pulling down four mismatched mugs—one with a chipped rim, one that says "World's Best Dad" with no indication of who the dad is, one plain white, and one with a faded moose on it. He sets them on the counter and looks at me, a small smile tugging at his mouth.
"This one's yours." He pushes the moose mug toward me.
"Because of the moose?"
"Because it's the ugliest one. And you have terrible taste."
I laugh, and the sound fills the small kitchen, and he's smiling now—really smiling—and I feel something loosen in my chest that I didn't know was tight.
I boil water in the old kettle, pour the powder into the mugs, stir until the smell of chocolate fills the air. Liam hands them out—Jenna takes the chipped one, Rebecca gets the white one, and Marcus ends up with "World's Best Dad" whether he wants it or not.
"This mug is a lie," Marcus says, staring at it.
"Drink your hot chocolate, Dad," Jenna says, and even Rebecca laughs.
We settle into the living room, the fire crackling and popping, filling the space with warmth and the sharp smell of burning pine. I curl up on one end of the plaid couch, my knees pulled up, my mug cradled in both hands. Liam sits next to me, close enough that his thigh presses against my folded feet, his arm along the back of the couch behind me.
Jenna launches into a story about her ex-boyfriend—something about a tattoo and a bet gone wrong—and Marcus interrupts every thirty seconds, and Rebecca adds dry commentary, and I just sit there, drinking my hot chocolate, listening to the voices of people who have become my people.
Liam's hand finds my shoulder. His thumb traces a slow line along my collarbone, hidden by my sweater, and I lean into him, letting his warmth mix with the fire's.
At some point, Marcus pulls out a deck of cards, and we play a game I don't know the rules to. Jenna explains them three times. Liam keeps cheating to help me. Marcus calls him out every time. I lose spectacularly, and I don't care.
The night stretches out, unhurried, and I let myself sink into it. The fire burns low. Jenna yawns, then Rebecca, then Marcus stretches and announces he's calling it. They filter off to their rooms, one by one, until it's just me and Liam on the couch, the fire reduced to glowing embers, the cabin quiet around us.
I set my empty mug on the coffee table and turn to him. His eyes are dark in the low light, catching the last of the fire's orange glow.
"Hey," I say.
"Hey."
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For this. For coming. For—" I gesture vaguely at the cabin, at the fire, at the night outside. "For being here."
He shifts closer, his hand sliding from my shoulder to my jaw, his thumb brushing across my cheek. "There's nowhere else I'd rather be, Sofia."
The words settle into my chest, warm and heavy. I lean into his touch, my eyes fluttering closed for a second, and when I open them, he's still watching me, his gaze intent and soft all at once.
"We should get some sleep," he says, but he doesn't move. His hand stays on my jaw. His thumb keeps tracing that slow line.
"Probably." I don't move either.
The fire pops, a log shifting, sending up a spiral of sparks. The cabin creaks around us, settling into the cold. And we stay there, on the couch, his hand on my face, my heart beating slow and steady in the dark.
Eventually, he stands, pulling me up with him. We move through the dark hallway, our hands linked, and I feel the key in my pocket press against my hip as we walk—a small, solid weight that means I belong somewhere.
His room. Our room. The door clicks shut behind us, and the small space feels like a world.
He kicks off his shoes. I pull off my sweater, left in the thin tank top underneath, and the mountain air raises goosebumps on my arms. He notices. He pulls me into his chest, wrapping his arms around me, and I press my face into the fabric of his shirt, breathing him in—the smell of woodsmoke and something clean, something that's just him.
"I'm glad you're here," he says into my hair.
"Me too."
We stand like that for a long moment, wrapped in each other, the cabin silent around us. Then he pulls back, just enough to look at me, and his pale blue eyes are dark in the low light, and his voice drops to something quieter, something meant only for the space between us.
"Sofia." Just my name. But the way he says it makes my breath catch.
"Liam."
His hands find my waist, his fingers pressing into the bare skin above my jeans. "I want to remember this," he says. "Every part of it."
"We have all week."
"I know." His thumb traces a circle on my hip. "But I want to remember tonight. Right now. Just us."
The air between us thickens. I feel it in the way his breathing changes, in the way my own chest tightens, in the way the small room seems to shrink until there's nothing but the heat of him and the dark and the quiet.
I reach up, my hand finding the back of his neck, my fingers threading into the hair at his nape. "Then don't wait."
The words are barely out before his mouth finds mine.
The kiss is different here. Slower. Deeper. It's not desperate like it was after the party, not rushed like it was in the mornings before class. It's a kiss that has time. That has space. That knows there's a whole night ahead and isn't afraid to spend it.
His hands slide under my tank top, his palms flat against my back, pulling me closer. I gasp against his mouth, and he swallows the sound, his tongue finding mine, slow and deliberate. The heat builds, not like a fire catching but like embers glowing, steady and deep.
We move toward the bed without breaking the kiss, our feet finding the way. His shin hits the frame, and he stumbles, and I laugh against his mouth, and he laughs too, the sound vibrating through his chest into mine.
"Smooth," I whisper.
"Shut up." But he's smiling when he says it, and his hands are already finding the hem of my tank top, pulling it up over my head, and then his mouth is on my shoulder, my collarbone, the space between my breasts.
I fall back onto the bed, pulling him with me, and he settles over me, his weight familiar and right. The quilt is rough under my bare back. His hands are warm on my ribs, my waist, my hips. I arch into him, and he groans, low in his throat, and the sound goes straight through me.
"I want to taste you," he says, his mouth against my throat. "Everywhere."
My hands find his shirt, pulling at the hem. "Then take it off."
He sits up just enough to pull his shirt over his head, and I watch him in the dim light filtering through the curtains—the broad shoulders, the lean muscle, the way his chest rises and falls. He's beautiful. I've seen him before, touched him before, but it hits me different every time.
I reach for him, my fingers tracing the line of his collarbone, the dip of his sternum, the hard plane of his stomach. He shivers under my touch, his eyes closing for a second, and when they open again, they're dark and hungry.
"Sofia." My name, a warning and a prayer.
"I know." I pull him down to me, my legs wrapping around his waist, and I feel him hard against my thigh through his jeans. "I want this. I want you."
His mouth finds mine again, and his hand slides down my stomach, past the waistband of my jeans, his fingers finding me wet and ready. I gasp, bucking into his hand, and he groans against my mouth.
"You're so wet for me," he breathes.
"Always."
He works my jeans off, slow and deliberate, his mouth following the path of fabric down my thighs. I'm left in nothing but my underwear, and he kneels between my legs, looking at me like I'm something precious, something holy.
"You're so beautiful," he says, and the words hit me somewhere deep, somewhere I didn't know needed to hear them.
I reach for him, my fingers finding the button of his jeans. "Your turn."
He lets me undo them, lets me push them down his hips, lets me take him in my hand—hard and hot against my palm. His breath catches, his head falling back, and I watch the column of his throat, the way his pulse beats there, fast and alive.
"I want you inside me," I say, and the words feel bold and true.
He looks at me, his eyes dark and bright at the same time. "You sure?"
"I'm sure."
He reaches into the duffel on the floor, pulling out a condom, and I watch him tear the wrapper with his teeth, roll it on. The movement is practiced but not rushed, and when he settles over me again, his weight pressing me into the mattress, I feel a shiver run through me that has nothing to do with the cold.
He pushes into me slowly, inch by inch, and I feel every moment of it—the stretch, the fullness, the way my body opens to him like it knows exactly where he belongs. I gasp, my nails digging into his shoulders, and he stills, his forehead pressed to mine.
"Okay?" he breathes.
"Okay. More."
He sinks deeper, and I moan, the sound swallowed by the small room, by the dark, by the way his mouth finds mine as he starts to move—slow at first, then faster, a rhythm that builds like the fire did, steady and sure.
The world narrows to the feel of him inside me, the sound of his breathing, the way he whispers my name like it's the only word that matters. I wrap my legs around him, pulling him deeper, and he groans, his forehead dropping to my shoulder.
"I'm not going to last," he says, his voice strained.
"Then don't." I shift my hips, and he hits a spot that makes me see stars. "Come with me."
His hand slides between us, his thumb finding my clit, and I cry out, my body arching into him. The pressure builds, coiling low and tight, and I feel him swell inside me, his thrusts growing erratic.
"Sofia—"
"I'm close—"
His mouth finds mine, and I come with his kiss, my body clenching around him, and he follows, a groan torn from his throat, his hips pressing deep as he rides it out.
We stay like that, tangled together, breathing hard, the cabin silent around us. His face is buried in my neck, his heart hammering against my chest, and I feel the weight of him, the warmth, the reality of this moment.
Eventually, he lifts his head, his pale blue eyes finding mine in the dark. His hair is a mess, his cheeks flushed, and he looks at me like I'm the only thing in the world worth seeing.
"I love you," he says, the words raw and simple.
I reach up, my fingers tracing his jaw, the scar above his eyebrow, the line of his mouth. "I love you too."
We clean up in the small bathroom down the hall, our footsteps quiet so we don't wake the others. When we come back to the room, he opens the window a crack, letting in the cold mountain air, and we crawl under the quilt together, our bodies finding each other in the dark.
I settle against his chest, his arm around me, his chin resting on top of my head. The key is on the nightstand, next to my phone, but I don't need to hold it tonight. I know where I belong.
"Sofia?"
"Mm?"
His voice is quiet, almost lost in the dark. "I talked to my mom. Before we left."
I lift my head, looking at him. "About what?"
"About Saturday. About you." He pauses, his hand finding mine under the quilt. "She said she's been waiting to meet you. Said she knew you were different the moment Marcus told her about you."
The words settle into me, warm and unexpected. "Different how?"
He turns his head, his lips brushing my forehead. "Different like she could tell you were the one I'd been waiting for."
I feel my eyes sting, just slightly, and I press closer to him, hiding my face in his chest. "I'm nervous," I admit. "Meeting her."
"She's going to love you, Sofia."
"How do you know?"
"Because I do." His arms tighten around me. "And because you're impossible not to love."
I smile into his skin, my eyes closed, my body warm and spent and safe. "That's cheesy, Gallagher."
"I know." I can hear the smile in his voice. "Blame the post-sex high."
I laugh, the sound muffled against his chest, and I feel his laugh in return, the vibration moving through me. Outside, the wind moves through the pines, and the cabin settles around us, and I feel the future—not as something to be afraid of, but as something to step into, one day at a time.
"Liam?" I say, my voice drowsy.
"Yeah?"
"I want to tell my parents about you. After we get back."
His hand stops its slow tracing on my back. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." I tilt my head up to look at him. "You're not a secret. You're not something I want to hide. You're the first thing I want to tell them about."
His eyes in the dark—I can't read them. But his voice cracks when he says, "Okay."
I settle back against his chest, and he holds me tighter, his arms wrapping around me like he's afraid I'll disappear. But I'm not going anywhere. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not on Saturday when I meet his mother.
I reach out, my fingers finding the key on the nightstand, and I curl my hand around it—the metal warm, familiar, mine. Then I let it go, turning back into his arms, and I let the dark take me.
The wind moves through the pines. The cabin breathes around us. And I fall asleep, held by the boy who gave me a key, in a cabin in the mountains, with a whole week ahead and a future I'm no longer afraid to want.