Chapter 133
He watches me with that frustrating mix of amusement and scrutiny, head tilted just enough to make me feel like I’m under some sort of microscope. His lips, soft and pink, are tugged into a frown.
“And?” he prompts.
I blink, momentarily thrown. “And… that’s how it’s done.”
Liam raises an eyebrow. “That sounds terrible.”
A laugh escapes before I can smother it – short, involuntary, almost embarrassed. “It kind of was.”
I don’t say more. I don’t say that every “date” I’ve had before, always at Zane’s side, felt like a scripted performance. Like being pretty and charming and grateful was the minimum entry fee. I don’t say that I used to stare at the candlelight because it was easier than pretending I was being seen by the man who enjoyed watching me squirm and fall at his feet for a moment of his affection.
–
Á
I don’t say that fun always felt like something I had to earn later
after the right dress, after the right smile, after everything else looked good enough from the outside.
Instead, I fold my arms and press my fingers into my elbow, like maybe I can press the discomfort back in. “It’s just… dates are supposed to feel like effort.”
“They are,” he says, so easily it throws me off. “But not the kind
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you have to rehearse.”
I frown. “That doesn’t even make sense.”
“It does,” Liam says, stepping closer. His hands lift to my shoulders, warm and steady, gently coaxing my attention back to him. “In just a few hours, I’ve learned that you’re terrified of heights, have an unhealthy attachment to Squidward-”
“It’s not an attachment.”
“-get scarily competitive in arcade games and then completely flop, and have the worst comebacks in gaming history—”
I glare at him. “That’s actually so rude.”
His mouth twitches with the effort not to smile. “And still. Still. I‘ ve never had more fun with someone in my life.”
My breath catches.
“When I take the woman I like out,” he goes on, voice lower now, more careful, “I don’t care what she’s wearing. I care that she’s close enough for me to hear her laugh. That she smells like that perfume she only pretends not to like. That she’s not pretending anything. If you’re not smiling, my love… then it’s not a date to me.”
His hand brushes behind my ear, tucking a strand of hair back, fingertips lingering for half a second longer than necessary. His gaze doesn’t flinch from mine.
I swallow.
“If you want,” he adds, more gently now, “we can start over. We‘ Il dress up. Find the fanciest restaurant in the city. You can
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order something overpriced and impossible to pronounce, and I‘ Il pretend to understand wine pairings. We’ll call this one a warm–up. A trial run that failed.”
—
There’s an ache in my throat. not sadness, exactly. Something messier. Something that feels like being seen.
“I don’t want to start over,” I say quietly.
His eyebrows lift, just a little.
“I just…” I hesitate. “I think I need to relearn how to enjoy things.”
“You’re already doing it.” His voice is soft, and stupidly sincere. “You’re here. With me.”
I nod, almost imperceptibly.
Liam smiles like he’s been waiting for that answer all day. “Then it’s a date,” he murmurs — and before I can process it, he leans in and kisses me.
It’s soft. Sweet. The kind of kiss that makes my stomach flip and my toes curl in my shoes. I go up on my tiptoes without thinking, chasing more of it, leaning into the warmth of his mouth and the way everything about him feels so easy to fall
into.
–
But then he pulls back – way too soon
way too soon – and laughs, low and amused, his breath brushing my lips. “Emilia,” he says, glancing around dramatically. “There are children present.”
If it’s possible to spontaneously combust from embarrassment, I do.
EMILIA
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–
We eventually find the air hockey table – tucked between a photo booth and a flashing wall of pinball. After absolutely obliterating Liam (and celebrating like I’d just won an Olympic medal), I start to feel like myself again.
–
We move from game to game – racing sims, whack–a–mole, that ridiculous fruit–slicing thing — and in between, we pause. We watch other people play. We laugh at a toddler trying to wrestle a ticket out of the prize dispenser. And we talk.
Sometimes we don’t.
Liam gets recognised more than a few times. A group of girls near the claw machine freeze mid–squeal when they spot him. A couple of guys at the racing game do double takes. He simply smiles, takes the photos, signs napkins and receipts and phone cases ́like it’s nothing — which, for him, maybe it is.
—
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