Chapter 40 Liam
Iwoke up before her.
The November light was creeping through her bedroom window, soft and gray, turning everything the color of early morning possibilities.
She was still asleep beside me, face pressed into the pillow, hair spilled across white cotton like ink in water, one hand curled beneath her chin in that way she'd always slept, like she was protecting something fragile even in her dreams.
I didn't dare move. Just lay there and looked at her like a man who'd been given something he didn't deserve and couldn't quite believe was real.
Her face was softer in sleep, all the careful guards she kept up during the day dissolved into something undefended and true.
I could see the faint freckles across her nose that only showed up in summer but had resisted this year’s cold, the small scar above her eyebrow from when she'd fallen off her bike at twelve, the exact way her mouth curved even when she wasn't smiling.
Beautiful in the way that mattered—not because she was perfect, but because she was entirely, unmistakably herself.
I'd almost lost this. Almost lost her.
Again.
The thought sat heavy in my chest, sharp-edged and clarifying.
Last night she'd looked at me with such devastation, such certainty that I'd betrayed her again, and I couldn't even blame her for thinking it.
I'd earned that suspicion. Earned every wall she'd built, every moment of doubt, every careful distance she'd maintained.
The fact that she'd let me back in at all felt like grace I hadn't worked hard enough to deserve.
But I would. I'd spend the rest of my life deserving it if she'd let me.
She shifted slightly, made a small sound, and my breath caught. But she didn't wake. Just burrowed deeper into the pillow, her hand relaxing against the sheets.
I wanted to touch her. Wanted to trace the line of her shoulder, the curve of her spine, wanted to press my mouth to the space behind her ear and feel her wake up slowly against me.
But I held still. Let myself just look. Let myself memorize this moment: her in my arms, morning light, the apartment quiet except for our breathing.
This woman who'd built a business from scratch after I'd destroyed everything.
Who made cinnamon rolls that sold out by nine AM and somehow made spreadsheets feel like poetry.
Who was stubborn and careful and so goddamn brave it made my chest ache.
Who'd let herself be vulnerable with me last night despite every reason not to.
I'd spent almost two years trying to become someone worth that vulnerability. Someone who showed up, did the work., and didn't take the easy way out when things got hard.
I wasn't perfect at it. Probably never would be. But, by God, I was trying. And I'd keep trying every single day.
Her eyes opened.
For a second, she just looked at me, sleep-soft and confused. Then recognition slid in. Memory. Her expression shifted through about six emotions in three seconds before landing on something that looked almost shy.
"Hi," she said, her voice rough with sleep.
"Hi."
"You're staring."
"Yeah."
"It's weird."
"Can't help it." I reached out then, couldn't stop myself, and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "You're here."
"In my own bed, yeah." But her mouth twitched. It was almost a smile.
"You know what I mean."
She did. I could see it in the way her expression softened, the way her hand came up to cover mine where it rested against her cheek.
"We did this," she said quietly.
"Yeah."
"It's not going to be easy."
"I know."
"I'm still going to be scared sometimes. Still going to doubt. Still going to—" She stopped. Swallowed. "I'm going to mess this up sometimes."
"So will I." I shifted closer, until we were sharing the same breath. "But I told you… I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you tell me to."
"I won't."
"Promise?"
"I'm terrified," she admitted. "But… I promise."
I kissed her then. Soft and slow and careful, like we had all the time in the world. Like we were building something that would last instead of something that would break.
When we pulled apart, she was smiling. It was perfect; real and unguarded and just for me.
"I made you a cake," she said. "It's still in the fridge."
"The birthday cake?"
"Chocolate-espresso. Your favorite." She bit her lip. "I couldn't throw it away."
Something warm and impossible expanded in my chest. "Can I have some?"
"Now?"
"Now."
So we got up. Wrapped ourselves in blankets and padded to her kitchen in bare feet and rumpled clothes. She pulled the white box from the fridge, set it on the counter, and lifted the lid.
"Happy Birthday" written in careful script across perfect frosting.
"It's beautiful," I said.
"It's a week old."
"It's perfect."
She cut us both pieces. We ate standing up at her counter while morning light filled the apartment and turned everything soft-edged and new.
"Best birthday cake I've ever had," I said.
"Liar."
"Best everything I've ever had." I set down my fork, pulled her close. "You. This. Us trying. All of it."
She looked up at me with those eyes that saw everything: every mistake, every effort, every stupid hope.
"We're really doing this," she said.
"Yeah." I kissed her forehead. Her nose. Her mouth. "We really are."
And when she kissed me back—deep and hungry and sure—I finally let myself believe it.
We were going to be okay. It wouldn’t be perfect, and it wouldn’t be easy, but…
We were going to be okay.
And that was enough.