Chapter 19 Same Eyes
Same Eyes
Claire
Ididn’t hear the door open. One second, I was carrying my mug toward the kitchen, the next—
“Hi,” he said.
I looked up. Liam stood just inside the door, bag in one hand, looking a little tired. And then he stepped toward me.
He leaned in and kissed my cheek.
Okay. That’s new.
I stood there, holding my mug, pretending I hadn’t just forgotten how to function for a second.
Friends did that. Sometimes. Maybe.
He stepped back, rolled his bag in. I watched him go, doing my best to ignore the lingering warmth where his mouth had been.
It’s good to have him home.
I walked back to my room, sat down at the desk. How is that possible? I left my laptop for five minutes. Twenty-five emails. Really?
My indignation was interrupted by the sound of the front door clicking closed.
Out again.
Probably restocking the fridge or grabbing some new seasoning I wouldn’t know how to use.
I would’ve gone with him.
I stared at my inbox for a few seconds.
Maybe I needed some fresh air too.
I slipped on my sneakers, tied my hair into a quick knot, and ducked out for a lap around the block. Nothing intense, just enough movement to quiet the buzzing in my brain.
By the time I stepped back into the building, I felt calmer. A little sweaty. A lot confused.
My phone buzzed. Brooke.
You home? I want to return your container.
In the elevator. I’ll come to you.
Brooke yanked the door open mid-step, already mid-sentence. “You have to get that recipe from Liam. That risotto? I didn’t even leave any for Nolan. And I’m not sorry.”
I smiled. “I know, it's dangerous.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That sounds like a loaded statement.”
“Not like that,” I said quickly.
My face felt warm.
Brooke gave me a look. “Well, if you do get that recipe, I expect it in writing. Preferably laminated.”
“Deal.”
I got on the elevator, holding the empty container.
When I stepped back inside Liam's apartment, he was in the kitchen, putting the groceries away.
He looked up, and for a second, he just… looked. Like he hadn’t realized I’d left.
I held up the empty container. “Brooke wants the risotto recipe.”
He pulled a carton of eggs from the bag, set it in the fridge.
But he kept glancing over.
Why is he looking at me like that?
He looked at the kitchen and then back at me. “What if I show you how to make it?”
Why did that sound safer than it felt.
Lesson one was learning how to chop.
I held the knife, trying to remember everything he’d just said about keeping my fingers curled and the tip down.
Then I felt him behind me.
His chest brushed my back, his hand gently covering mine on the handle. The other adjusted the angle of the blade.
I froze. Startled.
His arms weren’t wrapped around me, not exactly. But it felt close enough to count.
I didn’t move. Neither did he.
I took a deep breath.
This is what it feels like to be held.
His breath tickled the top of my head, warm and quiet. I could smell him, soap and something clean and crisp and hard to define.
I stayed perfectly still, afraid that if I moved, I’d break whatever was happening. Or admit that I didn’t want it to stop.
I reached for the silverware, remembering how Liam had set the table last time. Side by side, not across from each other. Kind of intimate. But he’d done it, so that's what I will do.
My hands paused for a second before I placed the plates.
I noticed the soft flick of a flame. Liam was lighting candles. Two of them.
Do roommates light candles?
I took my seat, the candlelight casting a soft glow across the risotto.
Fork, plate, bite. Easy.
Except the moment I lifted my fork, I could feel it, him. Watching me.
I looked up.
Liam was leaning on his elbow, just... looking at me.
Not in a weird way.
In a way.
I blinked, realizing I’d been staring right back.
Okay, say something. This silence is awkward.
I lifted my fork a little. “It was kind of nice nuking dinner in a judgment-free zone.”
He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Did I say the wrong thing?
I stabbed another bite. “But I did miss this.”
And I don’t just mean your cooking.
The risotto was perfect. Creamy, warm, and laced with just enough lemon to cut through the richness. I made a small, involuntary sound as I chewed, half pleasure, half surprise.
Liam didn’t say anything, but when I glanced over, he was still looking at me.
I ducked my head and kept eating.
He told me about a teammate who nearly missed the team bus because he couldn’t find his shoe. I asked how that was even possible, and he just shrugged like it was normal hockey chaos.
I laughed, watching his mouth move as he talked, just a little too intently.
Then came the protein powder tangent.
“You’re kidding,” I said, wrinkling my nose. “Two hundred grams a day?”
“At least. I think one of the rookies was blending it into soup.”
He gave me that half-smile again—the crooked one that felt like it came with a secret.
This felt… nice.
Comfortable. Familiar.
Two people catching up over dinner.
I speared a final bite, but paused before lifting it to my mouth. A thought flickered through me. Would it be so crazy?
The way we sat side by side. The candles. The quiet understanding. His eyes on me like I was something he wanted to keep looking at.
For half a second, I let myself imagine it. The way couples looked in restaurant windows. Their reflections layered on top of each other, like a single image.
Us.
Our reflection in the elevator. Enjoying churros from the same bag.
A framed photo.
Of Liam—smiling beside a woman who looked like… me.
Younger. Same eyes. Similar jawline. Same dark hair.
I blinked, trying to make sense of it.
“What?” Liam asked, his brow pinching slightly.
I blinked, like I’d just been yanked out of a daydream. “Nothing. Just…”I looked at him, hesitated.
Should I say anything?
“There’s a photo in your hallway. I noticed it the other day.”
You opened the door, Claire. Now you have to walk through it.
He didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Just sat there, perfectly still, like someone holding their breath.
He knows exactly which photo.
“You were in it.” I set my fork down. “With a young woman. Who sort of looked like a younger version of me.”
The candle between us flickered. Or maybe I imagined it.
“That was Nora,” he said.
And?
He didn’t elaborate.
The name sat between us like a dropped fork. Sharp and sudden.
“She was someone I dated. A while ago.”
Yet there she is.
Right up there with your sister.
On your greatest hits wall.
I nodded, trying to keep my voice casual. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I just… wondered.”
What the full story is.
“She was nothing like you,” he said quickly.
My brow lifted, just slightly.
“I mean—you might look a little alike, sure. But you’re completely different.”
Completely different from women you date?
“She lived on a farm. Grew her own vegetables. Made soup from scratch barefoot in the yard.” His lips twitched. “She wore these gauzy shirts that never really fit right. Always had paint or dirt on her.”
I microwave and use dried herbs.
“She couldn’t sit still. Took in every stray she ever met, cats, dogs, people. Anyone who wandered too close. She was a lot.”
Yesterday I sat in front of my laptop for 4 hours straight.
The quiet stretched.
I reached for my fork, then stopped. I wasn’t sure if I wanted another bite. The risotto had cooled. So had everything else.