Page 60 of High Hopes

We leave my apartment together, my bag slung over my shoulder and Liam’s hands shoved deep into his pockets. It’s a short walk to campus, and everything feels deceptively normal. Just a regular morning with my buddy ol’ pal.

But as we near the arts building, my mind drifts back to that night. To the way he sounded on the phone, all sleepy and sweet, telling me he’d kiss the hell out of me when he saw me again.

Now he’s here, walking beside me, but he hasn’t brought it up. Hasn’t even tried to hold my hand.

I glance at him out of the corner of my eye, trying to gauge his mood. He looks focused, like he’s lost in thought, his brow furrowed ever so slightly. But then, without warning, he stops in his tracks, turning to face me.

“You’re acting weird. Very . . . un-Birdie-like.”

I snort, crossing my arms over my chest. Of course he would notice. “Yeah, well, it’s probably because . . . the other night, you said some things.”

“What kinds of things?”

My cheeks flush. “You know ... about me.”

His lips twitch into a teasing smile, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I’m listening.”

My stomach flips. “Like . . . you said you’d kiss me when you saw me again. But you haven’t—”

He steps closer, leaning in just enough to make my heart skip a beat. “Birdie, baby,” he murmurs, his voice dropping low, “if you want me to kiss you again, you should just come right out and say it.”

The nerve. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out, and the smug glint in his eyes tells me he’s fully enjoying this. “So, you weren’t just drunk when you said that? You didn’t forget?”

“Course not. How could I forget something like that?”

I’m standing there, rooted to the spot, my mind racing. And then he’s cupping my cheek, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip. His touch is so gentle, reverent and lovely.

“You gonna ask me, or do I have to make the first move?”

“Kiss me,” I murmur, barely able to get the words out. “Please.”

That’s all it takes. He’s on me in a flash, his mouth crashing into mine, his hands sliding around my waist to pull me close. I gasp, but then I’m melting into him, my fingers tangling in his hair.

God, this is what I wanted, what I needed.

It’s all heat and urgency, like he’s been waiting days for this moment. And maybe he has. There’s a certain tension in his grip, the way he’s holding me like I might slip away if he loosens his hold.

His hand slides to the back of my neck, holding me in place as he deepens the kiss. I’m dizzy, my head spinning, but it’s all him—his touch, his taste, the sizzling heat between us. His teeth graze against my lip, a sharp pull, and I moan, instinctively leaning into him.

When he pulls back, his forehead rests against mine. “I’ve been thinking about that for days,” he mutters, low and raspy. “About you. About this.”

I laugh softly, my hands still fisted in his hoodie. “You’re such a sap.”

“Yeah, well,” he says, grinning. “You make me one.”

The sound of distant laughter reminds me where we are, and I pull back slightly. But Liam doesn’t seem to care. He just grabs my hand and starts walking again, like we’ve been doing this since the start. Like nothing else has changed between us.

We reach the arts building, and my heart is pounding for a whole new reason now. I’m about to see my final piece—the one I’ve poured my heart into over the last few weeks. The one that could make or break my chances at the fellowship.

Liam squeezes my hand, his eyes softening. “You ready?”

I nod, but my stomach flips as we step into the studio. It’s quiet and empty at this hour, the silence almost too much. My footsteps echo as we head toward my workspace.

There’s a note propped up on my table, written in Professor Hall’s unmistakable scrawl:

Pulled it out early this A.M. Didn’t want to risk anyone’s grubby hands getting on the masterpiece. Good job, Birdie.

I read it once, then again, my heart beating a little faster. A compliment from Hall is rare. But I don’t want to read too much into it. Not yet.

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