9. Liam
Chapter nine
Liam
I finish up the last details of the tech setup, my fingers flying across the keyboard as I enter the final specifications into the system. I should feel a sense of accomplishment, but instead, there’s an emptiness in me. The work is done, the job is complete, but something nags at me.
It’s Lucy.
I don’t tell her that I’ve finished. I don’t tell Emma either.
I can’t bring myself to. Maybe I’m afraid of the finality, of it all being over.
Maybe I’m afraid of walking away from the excuse that brought me here every day.
Every time I come to the clinic, it feels like I’m one step closer to seeing her, to hearing her laugh, to feeling that warmth in my chest that I can’t seem to shake.
I’d thought I’d be relieved once the project was done, that I could finally move on.
But no, I find myself walking past the clinic a few times after hours, looking for any reason to pop in.
I make up reasons, from checking the systems to double-checking details.
But the truth is, I just want to see her again.
I bring over the digital check-in system for the pets — something she mentioned in passing a few weeks ago, an idea she didn’t even think twice about, but it stuck with me.
I remember how passionate she was about it, how practical she was.
It felt... right. Like she understood what this place needed in a way that no one else did.
I place the small tablet on the counter, set to the side, ready for installation. I’m about to leave, my fingers brushing the door handle, when I see them.
Emma and Bryan walk in together, the door chimes ringing softly as they step inside. They’re in the middle of a conversation, and I don’t want to interrupt, but it’s impossible to ignore how the atmosphere shifts.
I turn to say goodbye to Lucy, who’s been standing by the desk, absorbed in organizing some paperwork. The words come out of me without thought, a simple “Take care,” but as I say them, I linger. Her smile is soft but warm, and I can’t seem to pull myself away.
"Thanks for everything," she says quietly, and I feel the weight of her words, even if they’re simple.
“Of course,” I reply, and for a moment, we just look at each other. There’s a pull between us, unspoken but undeniable. I know it, and I can see it in her eyes too — the same hesitation, the same longing. We both want to say something more, but neither of us dares to break the moment.
I turn to leave, but I can’t shake the feeling that it’s not enough. That it’s never enough.
But before I can reach the door, I hear Emma’s voice, casual, but with a certain softness to it. “Liam, hang on,” she says, and I pause, turning back. “Bryan and I were just about to head out. How about joining us for dinner tomorrow? It’s been a while.”
I hesitate, the invitation feeling heavier than it should.
I glance at Lucy briefly, her back now turned as she moves to organize more files.
It feels like the moment has passed. But then, I catch Emma’s eyes, the understanding in her expression, and I realize I’m not just being invited to dinner — I’m being invited into something more.
I force a smile. “Sure. Sounds good.”
Bryan walks over, clapping me on the back. “Great. I’ll be looking forward to it.” He pauses for a beat, looking between me and Lucy before continuing, “You’re different with her, you know.”
My heart skips a beat at the comment. I look up at him, trying to play it off, but I know the truth in his words. I know what he’s saying. I’ve been acting differently lately, and it’s not just the work. It’s Lucy. It’s always been her.
“I don’t know what you mean,” I say, my voice casual, but the words feel forced.
Bryan gives me a look, his eyes narrowing slightly as he glances toward Lucy, then back at me. “You know exactly what I mean,” he says, his tone light but knowing. “Don’t overthink it.”
I don’t say anything, just nod in agreement. It’s easier that way.
Bryan and Emma leave together, their voices fading as they make their way down the hall. The sound of the door closing behind them feels final, and I’m left standing there, the clinic suddenly too quiet.
I walk out of the clinic and head toward my car, my mind still racing. The feeling of being so close to Lucy, of seeing her again, of hearing her laugh — it all lingers in my mind. It feels like something I can’t quite grasp, something just beyond my reach.
That night, I drive to the beach cliffs. I always come here when I need to think, when I need to clear my mind. The salty air hits my face as I step out of the car, the waves crashing against the rocks below. It’s always been a place of peace for me, a place where I could think and breathe.
But tonight, it’s different. Tonight, the quiet is too loud. The silence echoes in my ears as I walk toward the edge of the cliff, my hands buried deep in my jacket pockets.
I stand there for a long while, the horizon stretching endlessly before me, the fading light of day casting long shadows.
My mother’s voice echoes in my mind. “Liam, do you ever want more than just this life of work?”
It’s a question she asked me years ago, a question I never had an answer for back then. I was so focused on my work, on my empire, on everything that was tangible, everything I could control. But now, standing here, I realize how much I’ve been missing. How much I’ve been avoiding.
More than just building things.
It’s a thought that haunts me. And now, for the first time, I realize that what I’ve been building — the company, the fortune, the success — it doesn’t feel like enough anymore.
I can’t stop thinking about Lucy. About her quiet strength, the way she carries herself, the way she makes me feel. But I also know that the life I’ve built doesn’t leave room for this. For her.
I close my eyes, taking in a deep breath of the sea air, trying to center myself. But I can’t. I can’t stop the longing in my chest, the yearning for something I can’t have.
And it hits me.
I’m not just building things anymore. I’m building walls around myself, walls I’ve spent years constructing to protect myself from exactly what I feel right now.
But now, it’s too late. I’ve let her in, and I don’t know how to get her out.
I look out over the cliffs, the stars beginning to dot the sky, and I realize I can’t keep running from this. I can’t keep pushing these feelings down.
I want more than just building things. I want her.
But I don’t know how to make that happen. Not with everything else in my life already so complicated.
***
The drive back from the cliffs is slower than it should be.
The road curves through the coastline, the moonlight casting pale reflections on the water below.
My thoughts are heavy, swirling around the conversation I had with myself out there — about what I want, what I’m afraid of, and what’s been building between Lucy and me.
I can’t deny it anymore. I can’t ignore how she’s been occupying my thoughts every minute of every day. How her smile makes everything feel a little more real, a little less complicated.
But I’m not stupid. I know it can’t be that simple. I can’t just let myself feel whatever this is. Not when I’m still not sure where this thing between us could even go.
I’m lost in thought when I notice her.
Lucy.
She’s walking along the beachside road, her silhouette barely visible in the dim light, the sand beneath her feet making her movements look almost dreamlike. She’s alone, her steps steady, but there’s a softness to her posture that makes my chest tighten.
I slow down, my heart giving a jolt. What am I doing?
I pull up alongside her, rolling down the window.
“Lucy!” I call out, my voice a little too loud in the quiet of the night. She looks up, her face a little surprised when she recognizes me.
“Liam?” Her voice is hesitant but warm, and I feel that same flutter I always get when she speaks my name.
“Need a ride?” I ask before I can stop myself. “It’s late, and it’s not exactly safe to be walking around here alone.”
She looks at the car, then back at the road, weighing her options. I can tell she’s tired — her shoulders are slightly hunched, her head a little down, like the weight of the world is just a bit too much today.
“I don’t want to bother you,” she says softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
“You’re not bothering me,” I respond quickly. “Really. I’m heading back anyway. I’ll give you a lift.”
She hesitates again, but I can see the weariness in her eyes, and finally, she relents. “Okay,” she says, her voice barely audible, but I hear the unspoken relief in it.
She walks to the passenger side, her footsteps light against the ground, and I can’t help but watch her as she opens the door.
As she slides into the seat, I feel a strange sense of calm settle over me. It’s just a ride, just two people driving home. But somehow, it feels more important than that.
The car pulls away from the curb, and I try to settle into the comfort of the quiet, but it’s hard with her so close. The night is still, the hum of the car the only sound between us. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, my grip tightening on the steering wheel.
“Thanks for the ride,” she says after a few moments, breaking the silence. Her voice is softer now, and I can sense that she’s not as tense as she was earlier.
“Anytime,” I say, my gaze fixed on the road ahead. “It’s a quiet night. Thought you might appreciate a lift.”
She nods, but then the conversation shifts, and I’m not sure how it happens. Maybe it’s just the stillness of the night, or maybe it’s the fact that we’re alone.
I glance at her for a moment, caught off guard by the question. “I’m from around here. Grew up in Ocean Bay, spent most of my life here.” I pause, remembering how easy it used to be to leave for work and travel to the city, always coming back to the quiet of the town when I needed it.
“Funny,” I continue, a little more relaxed, “I thought I’d want to leave it behind when I was younger. But now? I can’t seem to imagine living anywhere else.”
Lucy smiles softly, and I’m struck by the way her expression softens. “That’s nice,” she says quietly, “finding a place like that.”
It feels like we’ve been talking for hours even though it’s only been a few minutes, the conversation flowing with ease.
We start talking about childhood memories, little pieces of the past that make us who we are today.
I find myself telling her about my childhood — about the small house we lived in, about my mom always making sure I had time for everything that mattered, even when I was so focused on my work.
“And you?” I ask, glancing at her out of the corner of my eye. “Where are you from?”
She looks at me for a long moment, almost as if considering how much to share. Then, slowly, she begins to talk, her voice light but filled with nostalgia.
“I grew up in a small town,” she says, “pretty much like this, actually. My mom used to take me to the park every weekend. We’d sit by the swings, and she’d tell me stories about the stars.”
Her voice trembles slightly when she mentions her mom, and I feel a rush of empathy. There’s so much about her I don’t know, but somehow, in this moment, I feel closer to her than I’ve ever felt.
“That sounds nice,” I say, my voice soft.
She nods, but then her smile fades slightly, as if the weight of the past is catching up to her. The change in her demeanor is subtle, but I can see it. And I want to know more. I want to ask her about it, about the things that make her... her.
But I don’t. I just let the silence hang between us, comfortable and quiet, as we drive toward her place.
We reach her apartment, and I slow to a stop in front of the building. The street is empty, quiet except for the sound of the car idling, the engine soft in the night.
I shift the car into park, my pulse thudding in my ears. The air between us changes — tight, magnetic. She doesn’t move to open the door right away, and neither do I.
“Well,” I say, my voice low, barely steady, “this is it.”
She turns toward me with a soft, tentative smile, and for a breathless moment, we just stare. There’s something between us now — thick and undeniable. Like gravity.
“Thanks again,” she murmurs. Her voice catches slightly. “For the ride.”
“Anytime,” I say, but my voice is rougher than I mean for it to be. I can feel it — the ache, the pull, the wanting.
She shifts in her seat, hesitates, her fingers curling tightly around the door handle. But then she turns to me again. Her eyes search mine. We’re too close. Too quiet.
“Lucy…” I say, barely above a whisper.
She doesn’t answer. Her gaze drops to my mouth. Mine to hers.
We lean in — not all at once, but like we’re being drawn by something neither of us can fight. Her breath mixes with mine, warm and shallow, and I swear the world tilts. My hand finds hers, and when our fingers brush, it’s like something raw and electric sparks through me.
Her beautiful face is inches from mine and I want to kiss her. Oh, how I want to kiss her.
But I don’t.
Instead, I catch her hand — her small, delicate hand — and lift it slowly. Her eyes widen slightly, lips parting as she watches me.
I press a kiss to the back of her hand. Soft. Reverent. Every bit of hunger in me coiled tight in restraint.
When I lower her hand, I meet her eyes again. She’s not breathing. Neither am I.
“I should go,” she whispers, and the words are almost an apology.
I nod once, tightly. “Yeah.”
She opens the door and steps out, but before she walks away, she pauses. Looks back at me over her shoulder.
“I’ll see you around, Liam.”
I don’t trust my voice, so I just nod again. She turns and disappears into the building.
And I sit there, heart pounding, hands clenched on the wheel, tasting the ghost of her skin on my lips — and wondering if I’ll ever survive this thing I feel for her.