11. Liam
Liam
By the time night settled in, the house had gone quiet. Bobbi’s mom had come to get her a while ago, and I’d spent the time since making sure all the possible loose ends I could tie up were tied.
I checked the lock on the back door again because I needed to. Deadbolt seated. Handle solid. Window latched. My brain eased half a step.
Zoey watched me from the couch with that expression she used when she was deciding whether to argue or let me have the win.
“You already checked that,” she said.
“Yes, I know.”
She let that sit for a second, then she pushed herself up carefully, stubborn even with the crutches. “I’m officially past the danger window, right?”
“According to the doctor.”
“So, I’m allowed to sleep. By myself, even.”
“Yes.”
She narrowed her gaze. “And you’re not going to wake me every two hours and ask me what year it is?”
“No.”
She nodded, looking relieved.
I moved through the room, gathering what she would need for the night. Water on the nightstand. Medication lined up in order. Phone charging within reach. I kept my hands busy because stopping meant thinking too much.
“You don’t have to do that,” she said.
“I know.” That answer always irritated her, but it was true. There was just something about Zoey that made me want to protect, to care.
I helped her stand. She leaned into me for balance before she remembered she didn’t want to. Her hand pressed against my chest for one second longer than necessary. I didn’t move. Didn’t make it something bigger.
By the time she settled on her bed, her shoulders had finally dropped.
Then she looked up sharply.
“Wait,” she said. “Do you expect to spend the night again?”
I laughed in surprise. “No.”
Her posture changed. Something unclenched. Something else tightened. I caught both happening.
“I’m heading home,” I said. “I’ll come back in the morning to check on you.”
She frowned. “Oh.” The word sounded flat, too flat. Her mouth pressed thin and she looked down at her hands. “That didn’t come out right.”
I put my hands in my pockets.
“I just meant…” she continued, propping her crutch against the bedframe, buying herself time. “You’ve been here for over twenty-four hours. You don’t have to keep… hovering.”
Hovering?
“I don’t expect you to,” she added quickly. “Come back. I mean. I’m not assuming anything.”
“I didn’t think you were.”
She glanced up at me, searching for offense. She didn’t find any because I wasn’t offended.
“I just don’t want you to feel obligated,” she said. The edge was still there, but it had softened. “You aren’t a subscription service.”
A smile pulled at my mouth before I could stop it. “Noted.”
She huffed, and I could tell she was irritated at herself now. “That sounded rude, too.”
“It didn’t.”
“It did.”
I stepped a little closer, so she had to look at me instead of away. “Zoey, you don’t need to manage your tone with me.”
She stilled.
“That’s just you,” I added. “You say the sharp thing first. Then you decide if it needs sanding.”
Her shoulders sagged slightly. “I’m not trying to push you out. I just… don’t know what the rules are.”
There it was. That’s what has been worrying her so much.
I held her gaze. “There aren’t any. There don’t have to be. Not unless you want them.”
She exhaled slowly. “Okay.”
“I’ll head home now,” I repeated, “and I’ll come back in the morning.”
She crossed her arms, chin lifted defiantly.
I didn’t move closer, but I didn’t look away either.
The silence stretched, and in it, something changed between us.
She sighed. “Don’t come before eight.”
I nodded. “I’ll bring something to make for breakfast. Something hearty. Your body is healing.”
The look she gave me could have set the house on fire.
I adjusted. “Fine. I’ll bring breakfast somebody else already made.”
“That’s still unnecessary.”
She said it with that careful irritation she used when she was trying to regain control of a conversation. I knew the pattern by now. Gratitude made her uncomfortable. Being cared for made her defensive. The closer something got to meaning something, the sharper she became.
I stepped closer, and Zoey went quiet.
The room felt smaller suddenly. The lamp beside her bed threw a warm pool of light over her shoulders and caught in the loose strands of her hair.
The blue looked darker in the lamplight, almost midnight instead of electric.
She looked tired, softer around the edges than she usually let herself be, but her chin stayed lifted anyway.
Stubborn even when she was exhausted—especially then.
Her mouth parted slightly.
I lifted my hand toward her shoulder and stopped just short of touching her, giving her room to refuse. I felt the pull of her before I felt my own restraint. I could still feel her against me, still feel the way she had leaned into my hands once without thinking.
She didn’t move away.
She watched me, wary and curious at the same time, and something deep in my chest tightened.
“You’re stubborn,” I said quietly.
Her eyebrows lifted. “You’re just figuring that out?”
“I’ve been trying to respect it.”
A small smile tugged at her mouth, then disappeared just as quickly.
She raised her hand, fingers brushing lightly, uncertainly, over the front of my shirt, then resting there as though she was testing whether I was real. The contact sent a clean line of heat through me. I stayed still.
Her thumb moved once against the fabric.
“You’re very…” she started, then stopped.
“Very what?”
“Present,” she said finally, sounding annoyed.
I took a step closer. Her gaze locked on my mouth, then flicked back to my eyes. The room was so still that I could hear the soft rustle of sheets when she inched closer.
I watched her for a second. She sat on the edge of the bed with her shoulders slightly forward, one hand still resting against my chest. She looked smaller from this angle; not fragile, just contained.
The lamp beside her threw soft light across her face, catching the tension in her mouth and the stubborn line of her jaw.
Slowly, I crouched, sitting back on my heels in front of her. Surprise flickered through her eyes before she schooled it away.
Again, her focus dropped briefly to my mouth. The mattress creaked softly when she moved, a subtle adjustment that brought her closer without committing to the movement.
I could feel the warmth coming off her now, steady and grounding, and it took effort not to close the distance too fast.
She kept her hand on my chest.
I didn’t touch her yet.
“You don’t have to look so serious,” she murmured.
The corner of her mouth twitched.
I moved closer, slow enough that she had time to change her mind. Her knees brushed my sides, and she slid her free hand behind my neck. At the contact, I felt a sharp pull low in my stomach.
She made the decision for both of us then, tilting forward just slightly until our heads rested together, temple against temple. I could feel her breath on my skin, feel how carefully she was holding herself. The faint scent of her shampoo drifted up when her hair brushed my jaw.
The closeness felt volatile. I needed to cherish it while I had it. Her fingers tightened at the back of my neck, and I settled my hand lightly at her waist, giving her plenty of room to pull away if she wanted to.
“You’re stubborn,” I said again.
She huffed a faint laugh. “So are you.”
I smiled against her skin.
Her shoulders relaxed by degrees, and the tension between us shifted from sharp to heavy, wanting. I turned my head just enough that our mouths were close without touching.
“Zoey,” I murmured.
She didn’t answer with words. Her hand slid from my neck to my jaw, warm and sure, and she kissed me first.
The kiss started carefully, testing, her lips soft but hesitant, then deepened when I kissed her back.
I kept my movement restrained, letting her set the pace, letting her decide how far we went.
Her hand curled against my face, and the small sound she made when I kissed her again went straight through me.
I wanted to pull her closer. God, I wanted a lot of things, but I didn’t rush.
The room narrowed until it felt like only her warmth and the space I was trying so hard not to take up existed.
Then, from the other room, Markie shouted, “PLEASE HOLD, MOTHERFUCKER.”
Zoey and I froze.
The silence that followed felt almost respectful, as though we were both waiting to see if the universe was finished humiliating us.
It wasn’t.
“SYSTEM ERROR. FUCK YOU,” Markie added helpfully.
Zoey closed her eyes and pressed her fingers to her forehead. “I’m going to set him on fire.”
I was still close enough to feel the warmth coming off her skin, my lips still tingling from the kiss.
“I think he’s stressed,” I said.
Her eyes snapped open, clearly annoyed.
From the other room, Markie shouted, “TURN YOUR ASS OFF AND ON AGAIN.”
Zoey stared at the doorway in complete disbelief. “He has the worst timing.”
“He’s still adapting,” I said.
She turned back to me, her face flushed, but she was very obviously trying not to laugh. “You’re taking his side.”
“I’m trying to remain objective.”
“You’re hot and kneeling next to my bed. There is no objectivity here.”
That made me smile.
Markie muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “DUMBASS,” followed by a click that carried deep judgment.
I stood and stepped back slowly, giving Zoey space again. The tension quickly reassembled.
She rubbed a hand over her face. “My life refuses to allow romance.”
“I noticed.”
She glanced at me through her fingers. “You’re very calm about this.”
“I’ve been yelled at by worse.”
From the hallway, Markie yelled, “PLEASE WAIT.”
Zoey groaned. “He’s never this active at night.”
“I think he knew something was happening.”
“That implies he understands emotional timing.”
“He absolutely understands emotional timing.”
“I hate that you’re right.”
Despite myself, I grinned. Zoey narrowed her gaze, as though my amusement was personally offensive.