Chapter 30
Chapter thirty
Liam
Iwasn’t nervous.
Not really.
Okay, maybe a little.
I adjusted the cuffs on my shirt for the third time, caught my reflection in the mirror behind the door, and scowled at myself.
I checked my phone. No new notifications.
Set it down. Picked it back up. Wandered two steps toward the kitchen, forgot why, turned around again.
My brain kept jumping ahead, looping back, skipping like a scratched record.
Too much energy with nowhere to go, even though nothing was technically happening.
My hair was behaving, my button-down was black and fitted just enough, sleeves rolled to the elbow, collar open to the second button.
Not trying too hard. My heart was pummeling like I was headed into battle, not dinner with someone I’d already slept with, kissed, and held.
Someone who’d already seen every messy part of me.
But it was different now.
We were different now.
I looked at myself in the mirror once more. “You look like you’re about to combust, dude.”
Sam was picking me up because apparently he had “plans.” I didn’t know what those plans were, just that he told me to wear something nice and maybe skip the cologne because he wanted to smell my skin.
I’d never melted faster in my life.
The sound of the knock at the front door made me turn. Sam stood just inside the entrance, eyes sweeping the room before landing on me. He wore a deep green sweater that clung just enough, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms. Dark jeans. Brown boots. Clean-shaven and wide-eyed.
God, he was beautiful.
“You ready?” he asked, that little half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
I grabbed my jacket, shrugged it on. “Lead the way.”
He reached for my hand without hesitation, and I let him take it. Out in the open. In front of whoever might be looking.
And I didn’t care.
We drove through Havenwood. Early November is beautiful here.
He took me to Juniper’s, a small new restaurant tucked away in the Rivermere District that was giving the Bistro a run for its money.
Candlelight, rustic wood beams, low hum of live jazz.
Intimate without trying too hard. The kind of place I never went because I was always working, too restless, or didn’t think I had anyone worth sitting still for.
Sam made a reservation under “Liam’s boyfriend.”
When the hostess said it out loud, something in me cracked open.
He glanced at me, innocent as sin. “Too much?”
“No,” I said softly. “Not enough.”
Dinner was nice. Conversation flowed like it always did between us. Laughter tucked between bites of roasted chicken and charred broccolini. Sips of good wine. Every time his hand brushed mine on the table, my skin lit up.
Halfway through dessert, he leaned forward and licked a smudge of chocolate off his thumb, and I swear I forgot how to breathe.
“You okay over there?” he asked, biting back a grin.
“No,” I admitted. “You’re… fuck. You’re dangerous.”
He just laughed and fed me the last bite of his flourless cake like it was nothing.
We walked along the cobblestone path beside the creek after dinner, lights twinkling in the trees above us.
Sam’s fingers were laced through mine, warm and steady.
We didn’t speak for a while, just walked.
My foot kept nudging pebbles off the edge of the path, enjoying the tiny click of stone against stone.
The cool air brushing past us, the sound of water moving over rocks.
Finally, Sam stopped, turning to face me. “Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.”
He looked up at me, eyes unreadable. “Do you ever think about… what this could look like, long-term?”
I blinked. “Us?”
He nodded. “I’m not asking for a ring or anything. I just… I like this. You. Us. And I want to figure out what it looks like when we don’t keep things in a little box.”
“You mean… what we are to each other?”
“I mean what we get to be to each other.” His voice was steady, quiet. “We’ve both lived a lot of our lives playing by someone else’s rules. I think it’s time we write our own.”
“You’re really good at this whole relationship thing.”
“I’ve had a long time to think about what I want.”
“And you want me?”
He stepped closer. “I want us.”
That was the moment I kissed him. Right there on the path under the trees. Not because I had to or felt like it was expected, but because I couldn’t not. His mouth met mine like he’d been waiting for it all night.
When we finally pulled apart, he whispered against my lips, “Come home with me.”
There was no hesitation.
Only yes.
Sam
A week later Liam was hanging out at my house. It was a school night, and Liam was judging me. I could feel it from the other end of the couch.
“You really chose this?” he said, gesturing at the screen with his chopsticks.
“You said I could pick,” I replied, mouth full of pad Thai. “I warned you I was in the mood for absolute garbage.”
“I thought you meant like a bad rom-com or something. This is…” He squinted. “Is that guy proposing with a chicken nugget?”
“Yes,” I said proudly. “And the nugget has a ring inside. This is art.”
He groaned and leaned back, stretching one arm across the back of the couch behind me, chopsticks still in hand.
His thigh brushed mine, warm through his joggers.
I was in sweats and an oversized sweatshirt, feet curled under me, takeout containers spread across the coffee table.
The heat was turned up too high, and it felt like home.
I took another bite. “You don’t have to watch, you know. I won’t be mad if you go hide in the bedroom.”
“I’m not leaving you alone with this trash fire,” he said, but his voice had softened.
I tilted my head toward him, smiling. “So you like suffering with me?”
He looked down at me, eyes lingering. “I like being with you. Even if you make me watch nugget proposals and psychic dog dating shows.”
I rolled my eyes, trying not to melt. “You’re so dramatic.”
“Says the man who cried during the Domino’s commercial.”
“Okay, it was moving.”
He smirked, then leaned over to steal a bite of my noodles, chopsticks plucking food from my box with way more confidence than skill.
“Hey,” I said, swatting at him. “You have your own.”
“But yours tastes better.”
“You’re lucky you’re hot,” I commented.
“I am lucky,” he said quietly.
That shut me up.
For a few minutes, we sat like that. Eating. Watching. Legs tangled under the blanket. The occasional reach into each other’s takeout boxes.
Then his hand slid a little farther behind me on the couch.
And didn’t move.
I leaned back slightly. Just enough to rest against his arm. He let it settle across my shoulders, pulling me in closer. My heart picked up, just enough to notice.
“You know,” I said, not looking at him. “We never did finish making out the other night.”
“No,” he murmured. “We didn’t.”
The screen flickered. Something exploded. I didn’t care.
I twisted toward him, our legs brushing, my hand resting just above his knee. “You gonna kiss me, or are you waiting for the next nugget proposal to inspire you?”
He laughed under his breath. “Come here.”
I did.
His lips found mine in a kiss that started sweet and familiar, then deepened quickly. His hand cupped the back of my neck, thumb brushing my jaw as I leaned into him, parting my lips.
I felt the heat move low in my belly as his other hand found my waist, fingers slipping under my sweatshirt to brush bare skin.
I let my own hand slide up his thigh, over the curve of muscle beneath soft cotton, until he made a low sound and pulled me closer. I swung a leg over, straddling him on the couch, and kissed him harder.
This wasn’t slow exploratory kissing.
This was need.
This was want.
This was “I know what you like, and I want more.”
He groaned into my mouth when I rocked against him, hands on my hips now, guiding. Anchoring.
I broke the kiss just enough to whisper, “We should probably pause the show.”
He blinked at me. “What show?”
"Exactly." I reached for the remote and turned the TV off without looking.
And when I kissed him again, it was like a match striking.
Liam
The trail curved gently through the trees, gold, rust, and crimson swirling overhead like the forest had caught fire in the most beautiful way.
Leaves crunched beneath our boots, and Sam’s gloved hand brushed against mine as we walked, coffees in our other hands.
Steam curled up into the crisp mountain air, and somewhere in the distance, a woodpecker tapped rhythmically on a tree.
It was peaceful. Simple. The kind of Sunday that made you believe in second chances.
Sam took a long sip of his coffee, then glanced over. His expression was unreadable, but something about the way he licked his lips, then hesitated, told me he was working something out.
“You good?” I asked, nudging his arm.
He hummed. “Yeah. Just… thinking.”
I braced, instinctively. That phrase had never once led anywhere good in my history.
“I’m not breaking up with you,” he added, glancing at me with a wry smile. “Calm down.”
I laughed, a little too relieved. “Okay. Good start.”
“I’ve just been thinking,” he continued, “about how easy it is for couples to stop talking. Like, really talking. And I don’t want that to be us.”
The way he said it, so gentle and direct, made me slow my steps.
“Okay,” I said carefully. “Is something wrong? We’ve only really been together for a couple of weeks. We had a great night earlier this week just making out like teenagers on your couch. Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” he said, laughing and shaking his head. “Not at all.”
He stopped walking.
That alone was enough to make my stomach tighten.
Sam turned fully toward me, still holding my hand, his thumb brushing slow, steady circles into my glove like he needed the contact as much as I did.
“I love what we have,” he said quietly.
My breath caught.
“I love you.”
The words landed between us like something fragile and enormous all at once.