Christ.
I look like I’ve been through a war. Probably because I have. A mopstick war. With a deranged man–child who broke in through the window like this was Mission: Goddamn Idiot.
I lean closer, wiping a circle into the condensation. My eyes are bloodshot. My lip’s a little swollen. My chest still feels tight, but not from fear.
God, I can’t wait to go home. Back to New York, where people only swing mopsticks in musicals. Back to binge–watching Confidential Family with Tessa, baking through the night, testing new recipes that probably won’t sell. But still – safe. Familiar.
And then there’s the quiet part of the fantasy. The one I didn’t realise had snuck its way in until now.
I’d go to Liam’s home games. Sit in the stands with a sign that says something obnoxious like GO LIAM YOU SEXY TREE. Maybe bring cupcakes for the team.
And that thought-
That thought warms something low in my chest.
I blink at myself.
With the regular season starting, he’ll be swamped. I’ll be busy with the bakery. It’ll go back to how it was before, except we’d get to meet up with each other every once in a while. Which should be fine.
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Only, it doesn’t feel fine. It feels like I’m standing on the edge of something soft and stupid and breakable.
I’m still trying to shake the thought when there’s a soft knock at the door. I tug the towel tighter around my chest.
“Come in,” I call out, voice barely above a mumble.
Liam’s head peeks in, eyes warm in that way that always guts me a little.
He’s soft tonight. Too soft for someone who nearly put his brother through a wall a few hours ago. But maybe that’s the thing with Liam. The softness doesn’t mean he’s not dangerous. It just means he knows how to protect what he cares about.
And right now, that softness is pointed at me.
Liam steps inside, gently closing the door behind him. He doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at me like I’m made of glass.
It’s not pity in his eyes. It’s something worse. It’s care.
“You okay?” he asks softly, eye’s sweeping over me like he’s checking for bruises I haven’t told him about.
Something about this scene screams too much déjà vu.
I nod. Then shake my head. Then shrug. “Define okay.”
He gives a faint, humourless smile and leans back against the sink, arms crossed – not guarded, just steady. Present. Always.
“It was a weird day,” I say, tugging the towel tighter even though it hasn’t slipped. “Had my life threatened by some obsessed fan. Got kissed by a stranger. Assaulted someone with a mop. Watched two
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brothers nearly kill each other. Pretty standard Tuesday.”
His smile fades instantly and I panic a bit. “But I bit him,” I say quickly. “And I almost broke his ribs, if that makes it better.”
“It doesn’t.” Liam says, voice low.
I look away.
There’s a long pause before he speaks again. “I should’ve gotten there sooner. I might not be able to kill the bastard, but I should have at least
“You got there in time,” I murmur. “You always do.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Then: “Em, I need to know something.”
My eyes flick back to his.
—
He pushes off the counter and walks toward me – slow, careful, like I‘ m a candle he’s afraid of blowing out. When he’s close enough to touch, he doesn’t. Just watches me for permission.
I give it. With a breath. With a blink.
Liam lifts a hand and brushes a damp strand of hair from my cheek. His fingers are warm. Steady. Like he’s been waiting to touch me.
“What is it?” I ask, breath catching.
There’s something behind his eyes – hesitation, yes, but also resolve. I see the exact moment he decides to stop overthinking and just say it.
“I don’t think we’ve ever actually talked about how we feel,” he says, voice low. “Or- okay, I have. You’ve listened. Maybe grunted once or twice. But there’s a first time for everything.”
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I squint at him. In theory, I understand that sentence. In practice? Not at all.
“You want, what, a love confession?”
His mouth twitches. “Not exactly. Well- maybe a little bit.” He tilts his head, playful but not unserious. “Do you like me, Miss Carter?”
“You’re tolerable, I suppose.” I shrug. “If your spice tolerance wasn’t an embarrassment, I might promote you to ‘likable.“”
“Wrong answer, love.”
–
His eyes spark as he cups my cheek, thumb brushing along the bone. His other hand slides to my neck – not possessive, not urgent, just there, grounding me. When I stiffen at the contact, heat flooding my skin, his smile deepens into something wolfish.
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