Page 45 of Liam

I shake my head, lifting the board higher to inspect it. “I found it under Roman’s bed. It was this or an old bike next to the abandoned couch near his apartment.”

His smile widens, his perfect teeth on full display. “Not a fan of bikes?”

I shrug. “It didn’t have a seat.”

He laughs at that, just as Lincoln pulls up in a four-wheeler. Liam stands, rubbing his palms over his shorts. “I’ll catch you later?”

Hopefully. “Yep.”

An hour passes, and I’m not at all distracted with re-reading our text exchange from the night before. He didn’t respond after my last message, and it took a while to settle my heartbeat long enough to actually fall asleep. When I finally did, he was still there—in my dreams. I woke up in a sleepy haze, unable to remember the specifics. There was him, a row of endless cars, andhope. I distinctly remember the hope. I woke up with an undeniable flutter in my stomach. One may even go as far as calling it butterflies. I’m yet to decide if that’s the case.

Still, I chased that feeling throughout the morning. Craved it even.

The front door bursts open, bringing with it the chattering of twins. They’re discussing work—camera angles and edits—and when they’re like this, both speaking at the same volume, same tone, it’s hard to tell them apart.

I focus on the mundane task in front of me while they continue to talk, and I imagine Liam sitting at his desk, his three screens in front of him, while Lincoln looks over his shoulder. Soon enough, the voices quiet. The front door opens and closes, and I listen intently, trying to predict what’s next.

A second passes.

Two.

Ten.

Then Maggie Rogers fills my ears as “Alaska”—the acoustic version—plays through speakers. I smile, as ridiculous as it is, and go to him. The curtains are drawn, and when I part them, Liam is there, sitting at his desk, pretending as if he hasn’t just tilted my entire world off its axis. He waits until I’m beside him to flick his eyes to mine. Just his eyes. A slight smirk tugs at his lips—shy, quiet, unassuming. I melt at the sight of it. Just a little bit. I raise my hand between us, do the universal sign to request he stand.

He doesn’t. “What’s up?” he asks.

“Stand up.”

This time, he does as I ask, and I reach up, throw my arms around his neck and bring him close. The warmth I felt in my dreams surrounds me in reality, and it settles something deep in my bones. In my marrow.

His arms circle my waist, hand flat on the small of my back, holding me to him.

There are no apologies.

No words of forgiveness.

But there’s this. A single moment shared between us. An act that reveals everything we don’t say out loud.

Hope.

I pull away, but the pressure on my back only strengthens, keeping me there, and for a long moment, we stay that way, nothing between us. No space. No air. Just… us. Connected. I miss his warmth when he rears back, but he doesn’t let go of me completely.

Oxygen traps in my lungs the moment his eyes meet mine. He reaches up, his fingers brushing along my forehead, down to my temple, shifting a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

Slowly, his eyes move, scanning my face.

We’re so close, our exhales merge, become one.

The door opens, and we instantly pull apart, our arms falling to our sides.

My heart… my poor, vigilant heart, strains against the weight of what might’ve been.

“This curtain is so fucking dumb,” Lincoln whines. “Why is it even here?”

Liam and I laugh under our breaths—the sudden memory of why it exists hitting us both. Liam looks over my head, asking, “You got it?”

I glance behind me, see Lincoln holding up a GoPro. “Right here.”

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