The morning light had shifted — no longer the gray-blue of near-dawn but something warmer, gold threading through the blinds and falling across the tangled sheets in long, slow stripes. He was still inside her, softening, a different kind of fullness now, and she could feel every small movement he made — the way his chest rose and fell against hers, the twitch of his fingers against her hip, the slight shift of his weight as he adjusted without pulling out.
Neither of them moved to separate.
Her hand rested on his chest, palm flat against his skin, and beneath it she could feel his heart — steady now, slowing from the gallop it had been, but still there. Still real. Still beating against her palm like it was telling her something his voice couldn't.
His eyelashes brushed her forehead when he blinked. She felt the small movement, the soft drag of skin against skin, and she pressed closer without meaning to.
"What time is it?" she asked, her voice rougher than she expected.
His arm shifted, reaching blindly for his phone on the nightstand without actually looking away from her. "Almost seven." He set it back down. "Sun's up."
She knew what he meant. The night was over. The dark that had held them, that had made everything feel like it existed outside of time — it was gone now. The light was here. The world was waking up.
"I don't know what happens after this," she said, before she could stop herself.
His hand stilled on her hip. His eyes found hers — those pale blue irises that seemed to hold more light than the room did. "What do you mean?"
"I mean —" She bit her lip, looking away, her gaze landing on the golden stripe of sunlight crossing his shoulder. "The night is over. The sun is up. And I don't know..." She swallowed. "I don't know if we're supposed to just — go back to normal. Like this didn't happen."
The silence stretched. She felt it in the space between their bodies, in the way his breathing changed — slower, more deliberate, like he was thinking through every word before he let any of them out.
"Sofia." His voice was low, rough, and he waited until she looked at him. "This happened. It's not something we can pretend didn't."
He shifted his weight, and she felt the movement inside her — the soft slide of him against her walls, still sensitive from hours of him filling her, stretching her. She gasped, a small sound that caught in her throat.
He stopped moving immediately. "Sorry."
"Don't be." She pressed her thighs together slightly, holding him there, and watched his eyes darken. "Don't be sorry."
He exhaled, a shaky breath that ghosted across her lips, and pressed his forehead against hers. "I don't know what happens after this either," he said quietly. "But I know I don't want it to be nothing."
Her heart did something complicated in her chest — a flutter, a squeeze, a looseness that made her feel like she was falling even though she was already lying down. She turned her head slightly, her lips brushing the corner of his mouth, and whispered, "Then what do you want it to be?"
He was quiet for a long moment. She could feel him thinking — the tension in his jaw, the way his thumb traced a slow, absent circle on her hip. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a breath.
"I want it to be the beginning of something. Not just tonight. Not just —" He gestured vaguely with his free hand. "Not just this. I want to wake up next to you. I want to make you coffee. I want to sit next to you in math class and know that when it's over, I get to come home with you."
He said it like it was simple. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And maybe to him, it was.
She felt her eyes sting. She blinked, hard, and looked at the ceiling until the feeling passed. "You barely know me," she said, her voice smaller than she wanted it to be.
"I know enough." He pulled back just enough to look at her — really look at her, his eyes tracing her face like he was memorizing it. "I know you bite your lip when you're nervous. I know you take your coffee with sugar and cream, but you only stir it three times. I know you hum under your breath when you're working through a problem, and I know you do that thing with your eyebrow when you think I'm not paying attention."
A laugh escaped her — surprised, watery. "You noticed all that?"
"I told you," he said quietly. "I've been watching you for months."
She reached up, her fingers finding the scar above his eyebrow, tracing it lightly. He closed his eyes at the touch, his whole body softening, and she felt the shift inside her again — felt him twitch, felt the slight thickening that made her breath catch.
"Liam," she breathed.
His eyes opened. His hand slid from her hip down her thigh, gripping just under the curve of her ass, and pulled her closer — not that there was anywhere to go. They were already pressed together, already joined, but the gesture made her feel claimed in a way that sent heat spiraling through her chest.
"I don't want to go back to normal," he said, his voice rough with something that wasn't quite urgency. "I want this to be our normal."
She looked at him — at his messy hair, at the golden light catching on his shoulders, at the vulnerability in his eyes that he was trying so hard to hide. And she realized, in that moment, that she believed him. That he wasn't going to wake up tomorrow and pretend she was just a girl from math class.
"Okay," she said.
He blinked. "Okay?"
"Okay." She shifted beneath him, the movement sending a jolt through both of them — she felt him harden against her inner walls, felt the sudden tension in his thighs, the sharp inhale he tried to hide. "I want that too."
Something in his face changed. A release, a relief, a hope he hadn't let himself feel. He lowered his head, pressing his lips to the hollow of her throat, and she felt him breathe against her skin — a long, slow exhale that seemed to carry every fear he hadn't spoken aloud.
"Okay," he repeated, like he was testing the word. Like he was tasting it.
She ran her fingers through his hair, the dirty blond strands slipping between her fingers, and let her head fall back against the pillow. He was still inside her. Still half-hard. And she could feel the question hanging between them — the same question that had been there since the first time he'd pushed into her.
She wanted him to ask it again.
She wanted to say yes again.
But he didn't move. He just lay there, his mouth against her throat, his breath warm and even, his body heavy on hers in a way that felt like safety. She felt the slight tremor in his arms, the way his hands were gripping her like she might disappear if he let go.
"Liam." She said his name softly, her fingers stilling in his hair. "I'm not going anywhere."
He lifted his head, his eyes meeting hers. There was something raw there — something unguarded that made her chest ache. "I know," he said. "I just — I don't know how to stop being afraid that you will."
She pulled him down, pressing her lips to his, a soft kiss that tasted like morning breath and promise. "Then I'll keep showing you until you're not."
His breath shuddered against her mouth. His hips shifted, a reflexive movement, and she felt him slide deeper — a slow, easy push that made them both gasp. He was fully hard now, pressing against her in a way that made her thighs clench around him, and she felt the first warm flutter of arousal between her legs.
"Sofia." He said her name like a question, like a prayer, his forehead pressed to hers. "I want you again. But I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't." She arched beneath him, taking him deeper, and watched his eyes roll back for just a second before he caught himself. "I'm sore. But I don't care."
"I do." He stilled, his breathing ragged, his hands pressing into the mattress on either side of her head. "Tell me if it's too much."
"It's not." She lifted her hips, meeting him, feeling the friction where they were joined. "Please, Liam. I want to feel you."
He made a sound — a low, broken groan — and then he was moving, slow and deep, the angle pressing against something inside her that made her see stars. She gasped, her nails digging into his shoulders, and he adjusted, pulling back and pushing in again with the same deliberate slowness.
"Like this?" he asked, his voice strained.
"Yes —" She was already breathless. "Don't stop."
He didn't. He moved with a rhythm that was almost lazy, the morning light painting golden streaks across his back, the sheets tangled around their legs, the only sounds in the room the wet slide of him inside her and the soft, broken sounds she couldn't hold back. He was watching her — his pale blue eyes locked on her face, reading every microexpression, every flicker of pleasure — and she felt seen in a way that was almost too intimate.
She reached up, her hand finding his cheek, and he turned his head to press a kiss to her palm without breaking rhythm.
"You're so beautiful," he murmured against her skin. "Do you know that? Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"
She shook her head, heat rising to her cheeks, and he caught her chin, tilting her face toward the light.
"Look at me," he said softly. "Please."
She did. And he held her gaze as he pushed into her, deeper than before, the angle pressing against her in a way that made her gasp and arch and cling to him.
"That's it," he breathed. "Let me feel you."
Her walls fluttered around him, the pleasure building slowly, like a tide she could feel rising in her chest. He was moving faster now, his rhythm faltering, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts against her throat.
"I'm close," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I'm so close."
"Then come for me." His hand slid down between them, his fingers finding the slick bundle of nerves at her apex, and she cried out — a sharp, surprised sound that dissolved into a moan as his thumb pressed exactly where she needed it. "Come for me, Sofia. Let me feel you."
She shattered. Her orgasm hit her like a wave, her body clenching around him, her hips lifting off the bed as pleasure tore through her. He kept moving, kept thrusting through it, his name falling from her lips like a prayer —
"Liam — Liam — "
He followed a moment later, his body shuddering against hers, his face buried in her neck as he spilled into her with a broken, desperate sound. She held him through it, her hands smoothing down his back, her legs wrapped around his waist, keeping him close, keeping him inside.
They stayed like that for a long time, tangled together, breathing each other's air, the sunlight climbing higher across the sheets. She felt him soften inside her again, felt the warm trickle of him leaking from where they were joined, but neither of them moved to clean up.
Finally, he lifted his head. His eyes were half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion and satisfaction, and there was a small, soft smile on his lips that she'd never seen before.
"Hey," he said.
She laughed, the sound watery and real. "Hey."
He kissed her — soft, lingering, a kiss that tasted like everything they'd said and everything they hadn't — and then he pulled back, his expression shifting into something more serious.
"I have a question," he said. "And you don't have to answer right now. But I want you to think about it."
She nodded, her heart suddenly beating too fast.
He took a breath. "I want to take you on a date. A real one. Not just — this." He gestured vaguely at the bed, at their tangled bodies, at the evidence of the night spread across the sheets. "I want to pick you up at your door. I want to pay for dinner. I want to hold your hand in public and not care who sees."
Her breath caught. "Liam — "
"I know it's fast. I know we're still figuring this out. But I don't want to hide. I don't want this to be a secret." His thumb traced a pattern on her hip, grounding himself. "I want everyone to know you're mine."
She felt the tears before she could stop them — hot, sudden, spilling down her cheeks before she could blink them away. He looked panicked for a second, his hand coming up to wipe them, but she caught his wrist and held it against her chest.
"Yes," she said, her voice breaking. "Yes, I want that."
He stared at her. "You do?"
She laughed through the tears, nodding. "I want all of it. I want to be yours."
The smile that broke across his face was like sunrise — slow, golden, lighting him up from the inside. He kissed her, hard, and she tasted salt on his lips, tasted the tears she hadn't realized he was crying too.
"Okay," he said against her mouth. "Okay. That's — that's all I needed to hear."
She pulled back, looking at him — his red-rimmed eyes, his flushed cheeks, the joy written across his face like a language she was only beginning to learn. She pressed her palm to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart, and let herself believe it.
This was real. This was happening. And for the first time in months, she wasn't afraid of what came next.