I wake to gray light and the empty space beside me, the sheets cold where his body should be.
I blink at the ceiling, the pine boards swimming into focus, and my hand finds the pillow beside me before my eyes do. Nothing. Just the indent of his head, the faint smell of his shampoo still caught in the cotton.
Then my fingers brush metal.
The key is on the pillow. Placed carefully. Deliberately. Like an offering.
I sit up, the quilt pooling around my waist, and I stare at it. The brass glows dull in the morning light, the same key he pressed into my palm weeks ago, the same one I've carried through every moment since. The one that opens his apartment. His life. The version of myself I didn't know I could be.
And now it's on his pillow, waiting for me to find it alone.
I hear his voice before I can reach for it.
Outside. Low and tight. The cabin walls are thin, and I catch the shape of words through the window cracked open at the headboard—his voice, then Marcus's answering murmur, lower, harder to parse. I hold still, the key cold against my fingertips, and I listen.
"...her mother said..." That's Liam. Strained. Like he's been up for hours.
Marcus says something I don't catch, and then Liam again: "...not yet. I don't know if she's..."
The sentence dies. I hear his breath, short and controlled, the way he breathes when he's trying not to feel something.
I should move. I should pull on clothes, walk out there, let him know I'm awake. But my body won't cooperate. I'm frozen with the key in my hand, the metal warm now, and I feel the future pressing in from all sides.
Her mother. Not yet.
The words circle in my skull. My mother called back. Of course she did—she said she would, said she wanted to meet him, said she wanted to see the boy who made her daughter sound like herself again. I told her I'd bring him home across the ocean when school ends. I told her we had time.
And now Liam is outside, talking to Marcus about it, and he sounds afraid.
The door opens before I can decide what to do.
Liam stops mid-sentence, his head turning, his pale blue eyes finding mine across the room. He's wearing his gray hoodie, the hood down, his dirty blond hair a mess like he's been running his hands through it. The scar above his left eyebrow catches the light, and his face does something raw and unguarded before he masks it.
"Sof."
His voice is soft. Careful. Like he's testing whether I'm solid.
Behind him, I hear Marcus's footsteps retreating, the creak of the cabin floor, the soft click of a door closing somewhere. Giving us space. Giving him space.
Liam crosses the room in three steps. He doesn't sit beside me—he sits on the edge of the bed, facing me, his knees almost touching mine. He reaches for my hand, and I let him take it, and the key is still there, between our palms, the metal pressing into both of us.
"Your mom called back," he says.
I nod. I know. I heard.
"She wants to video call tonight." His thumb traces the key, a slow, unconscious movement. "Both of us."
The key digs into my skin. I feel the weight of it, the promise of it, the door it opens that I'm not sure I'm ready to walk through.
"What did she say?" My voice comes out smaller than I meant.
Liam's jaw tightens. He looks down at our hands, at the key, at the way his fingers curl around mine like he's afraid I'll slip away if he doesn't hold tight enough.
"She said she's been waiting for this call," he says. "She said she wants to see the boy who made her daughter sound happy. She said..." He stops. Swallows. "She said she wants to meet me. For real. Before you bring me home."
I feel my chest tighten. My mother. On a screen. Looking at Liam. Looking at us together, the way she looked at me when I told her about Maya, the way she looked at me when I told her I was leaving, the way she looked at me when I said I was going to America and she didn't try to stop me because she knew I had to go.
I don't know if I'm ready for him to see that version of me. The one who exists on the other side of that screen. The one who speaks in Tagalog when she's tired, who calls her mother *Nanay* when she forgets to be careful, who carries an accent she's spent two years trying to soften.
The one who is still, in some ways, a stranger to him.
"Hey." Liam's hand tightens on mine. "Hey. Look at me."
I look at him. His pale blue eyes are steady, and I realize he's still here, still holding the key between us, still choosing me even though he spent the morning outside talking to Marcus because he was too afraid to wake me up and tell me my mother called.
"I talked to Marcus because I didn't know how to tell you," he says, and his voice cracks on the last word. "I didn't want to wake you up and watch you panic. I didn't want to see you scared. I wanted to figure it out first. Figure out what to say. How to make it easier."
"Liam—"
"I know." He shakes his head. "I know I can't make it easier. I know this is your thing, your family, your mom. I know I'm just the guy who showed up in math class and fell in love with you. But I need you to know that I'm not scared of meeting her. I'm scared of you being scared. I'm scared of you thinking I won't fit."
He stops. His hand moves, shifting the key so it rests flat against my palm, and he presses his fingers over mine, holding it there.
"I'll fit," he says. "Whatever shape I need to be. I'll fit."
I feel something crack open in my chest. Not the good crack, not the one that lets light in—the other one, the one that means I've been holding something tight and I have to let it go now, whether I'm ready or not.
"She's going to ask you questions," I say. "She's going to want to know everything. Where you're going to college. What you're going to do. How you're going to take care of me."
"Good."
"She's going to be suspicious. She's going to think you're just a boy who wants one thing."
"Then I'll prove her wrong."
"She's going to—" My voice breaks. I stop. I look at the key in my hand, at his fingers covering mine, and I feel the weight of everything I haven't said.
"What?" His voice is soft. Patient. The same voice he used the night of the party, when he was drunk and jealous and terrified, the same voice he used when he told me he loved me for the first time.
I take a breath. Then another.
"She's going to see me," I say. "The way I was before I left. The girl who couldn't even tell her own mother she was in love with a girl. The one who packed her bags and ran across an ocean because she didn't know how to stay. She's going to look at me and she's going to remember that girl, and I don't want you to see her too."
Liam is quiet for a long moment. His thumb moves across my knuckles, slow and steady, and I watch his face, the way his jaw works, the way his eyes hold mine like he's trying to see through me.
"I already know her," he says.
I blink. "What?"
"The girl who ran across an ocean." He smiles, small and sad, and he lifts my hand to his mouth, presses his lips to my knuckles, to the key still pressed between our skin. "I already know her. I've been watching her for months, Sof. I've seen the way you leave before you're ready. The way you hold the key like you're still deciding if you can keep it. The way you look at me sometimes like you're measuring the distance between us, figuring out how long it'll take to cross it."
I feel my throat close.
"I know the girl who ran," he says. "And I love her too. I love her because she's brave enough to run, and I love her because she's brave enough to stay. I love every version of you, Sof. Even the ones you haven't shown me yet."
I don't realize I'm crying until I feel the tears on my lips.
He reaches up, his thumb catching the first drop, and he holds my face like I'm something precious, something fragile, something worth protecting even from myself.
"When is the call?" I whisper.
"Tonight. Eight o'clock. She said she'd send a link."
I nod. My hand closes around the key, and I feel it there, solid and warm, the same key he gave me weeks ago, the same key I've carried through every moment since.
"Okay," I say. "Then we have the whole day to figure out what we're going to say."
Liam's smile widens, and he leans forward, pressing his forehead to mine, his breath warm against my lips.
"We could practice," he says. "You could tell me about her. What she likes. What she'll ask. What I should wear."
I laugh, a wet, shaky thing, and I feel the crack in my chest seal itself, not all the way, but enough.
"She'll ask you about your intentions."
"My intentions are to love your daughter until she gets tired of me and then love her some more."
"She'll ask you what you want to be."
"I want to be the guy who deserves her."
I pull back, looking at him, and I see the raw, uncertain boy who sat next to me in math class and cracked his knuckles every time I looked at him. The same boy who got drunk and jealous and terrified because he couldn't stand the thought of losing me. The same boy who gave me a key and told me to keep it forever.
"You already are," I say.
His eyes go soft, and I lean forward, kissing him, tasting the morning on his lips, the coffee he must have made while I was still asleep, the faint bitterness of the night he spent worrying.
He pulls me closer, the key pressed between our chests, and I feel it, warm and solid, a promise I'm still learning to keep.
"We should probably get dressed," he says against my mouth.
"Probably."
I don't move.
He doesn't move either.
We stay there, forehead to forehead, the key between us, and I think about the call tonight. My mother's face on a screen, asking questions I don't have answers to. Liam beside me, holding my hand, proving he's real.
I think about the girl who ran across an ocean. The girl who packed her bags and left everything behind because she didn't know how to stay.
She's still here. She's still part of me.
But she's not the only one anymore.
I lean in, pressing my lips to the corner of his mouth, and I whisper the words I'm still learning to believe.
"I'm ready."
Liam's arm tightens around me, and I feel the key between us, the future pressing in, and for the first time, I don't want to run from it.
I want to walk into it. With him.
"Okay," he says. "Then let's go make some coffee and figure out how to tell your mother I'm going to spend the rest of my life making sure you're happy."
I laugh, and the sound is lighter than I expected, and I pull back, looking at him, at this boy who gave me a key and trusted me to keep it.
"She's going to like you," I say.
"She doesn't have to. I just need her to trust me with you."
He holds my gaze, and I see it again—the raw, uncertain thing, the crack in his armor, the piece of himself he only shows me.
"I trust you," I say. "That's enough."
He nods, and I feel the key warm in my palm, a door finally open, a future I'm not afraid to walk through.
"Come on," he says, standing, pulling me with him. "Let's go find Jenna. She's probably already interrogated Marcus about what we said."
I laugh again, and I let him pull me to my feet, the key still in my hand, his fingers tangled with mine.
The morning light spills through the window, catching the dust motes, and I look at him—the boy who waited, the boy who chose me, the boy who is going to meet my mother tonight and prove he's worth staying for.
"She asks about you," I say. "My mom. Every call. She asks if I've met anyone. If I'm happy."
He holds my hand tighter. "What do you tell her?"
"I tell her I'm learning." I look at him, at the way the light catches his eyes, the way he looks at me like I'm the only thing in the room. "I tell her I'm getting there."
He smiles, and I feel the key in my hand, a door I'm not afraid to open.
"Let me help," he says. "Let me help you get the rest of the way."
I don't say yes. I don't say anything. I just step closer, pressing my lips to his, and I feel the key between us, warm and solid, a future I'm finally ready to claim.