Page 88 of High Hopes

She swallows hard. “Okay.”

“Okay,” I echo, leaning back against the couch and letting her settle against me.

We sit in the quiet, her hand resting over my heart, her breathing soft and even. And I’m thankful. So unbelievablythankful because right now, it feels like we’ve found something real, something solid—like we’re exactly where we’re meant to be.

31

LIAM

I wakeup in a great mood. Like whistling-on-my-way-to-the-kitchen kind of mood. The kind where the world seems brighter, the air feels fresher, and everything just ... clicks. After last night with Birdie, how could it not?

I have a girlfriend, and I only had to beg her a little bit.

I’m practically floating as I shuffle into the kitchen, still wearing my sweats and a faded Dayton T-shirt, thinking about breakfast. Maybe I’ll do eggs. Or pancakes. Or both. It’s a good day. It deserves both.

When I step into the kitchen, I walk into a surreal little scene I wasn’t prepared for. Warren is already sitting at the table, like he’s been there for hours. Like this is just a normal, everyday morning routine. He’s got a bowl of cereal in front of him, a cup of coffee, and an expression that screamsdon’t talk to me.

“Warren?” I ask, blinking.

He glances up briefly, his dark, disheveled hair flopping over his forehead, green eyes sharp and assessing. Then, as if he’s decided I’m not worth more than a second of his attention, he looks back down at his cereal. “Morning.”

“When did you get here?” I ask, grabbing a mug and pouring myself some coffee.

“Last night.”

“And you didn’t think to let me know?”

“You asked me to move in,” he says, deadpan. “I moved in.”

I set the coffeepot down and turn to face him. “Right, but most people would, I don’t know, give a heads-up first?”

“Didn’t want to bother you,” he says with a shrug, shoveling another spoonful of cereal into his mouth.

I stare at him, bemused. In some aspects, he’s just like me—blunt, straightforward. In others,he’s impossible to figure out—like a book missing half its pages.

“You’re such a little weirdo, you know that?”

“Yeah, I’ve heard,” he says, unbothered.

I shake my head and grab a chair across from him. The guy is a total enigma, but I can’t say I’m surprised. My aunt has always been kind of a mystery—grumpy, aloof, and perpetually annoyed by the world. It’s no wonder her son would take after her.

Warren’s like a cat that tolerates you because it has no choice. He’s also infuriatingly neat. His hair looks like he woke up and tried not to fix it, but everything else about him—his posture, his movements—is methodical. Even now, he eats cereal like it’s some kind of science experiment. Precise spoonfuls, no stray drips of milk, no slurping.

“So,” I say, sipping my coffee, “Everything good with your room? My mom told me your last place had a mold problem.”

He shrugs, which I’m starting to realize is his default answer for everything. “Yeah.”

“Cool,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “You’re welcome, by the way.”

“For what?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“For me being such a great roommate,” I say with a grin. “I’m the whole package—great vibes, excellent taste in snacks, and a winning personality.”

He snorts, the closest thing to a laugh I’ve gotten out of him so far.

Normally, I’d hate this kind of chatter. I’m usually the one being prodded for conversation, and I’m not big on meaningless small talk or trying to draw words out of people who clearly don’t want to talk. But with Warren, it’s kind of fun. Like trying to crack a code no one’s solved before, and every shrug or deadpan response feels like a tiny victory.

“So,” I say, switching gears, “how’s the team? You guys getting ready for the conference championships?”

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