Chapter 183
“Hey,” he says softly, brows pulling together. “Why are you apologising?”
His eves search mine, and I feel the air still between us.
“And why are your eyes red?” he adds, his voice quieter now, more careful. Like he’s afraid of the answer.
I shake my head before I can think too hard about it. He’s holding gift bags in one hand and draped over the crook of his other arm is the black dress the one he made me try on weeks ago. I never took it
home.
–
My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to. “You got me more stuff?”
The worry in his eyes doesn’t fade, but he doesn’t press. “Someone has to.”
I frown. “Liam.”
He doesn’t answer. Just steps closer and pulls me in, and I think he’s going to hug me. But then he exhales – long and quiet — and I realise he’s trying to peek over my shoulder.
“Is this what got you worked up?” His voice is gentle, not mocking. Just trying to understand. “The photo book?”
I don’t answer,
“Help me out, baby,” he murmurs. “I can’t fix it if I don’t know why it
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hurts.”
“It doesn’t hurt,” I lie, a little too fast.
“Sure, love.”
I try to pull away, but his chin is already hooked over my shoulder, his arm banded around my waist like a seatbelt. I hear the pages flipping behind me, the soft sounds of him thumbing through the photo album.
“Liam, let go,” I yelp, twisting against him.
“No.” He flips another page. “You don’t want me to buy you things, and that’s what got you upset? Seriously?”
“I don’t want to be a burden,” I mutter. “I can take care of myself.”
He laughs quietly, not unkindly. A sound that vibrates against my back.
“I know you can. That’s not even a question. But I want to take care of you. That’s the part you never let sink in.”
I go still.
“I don’t buy you things to impress you,” he continues. “But if I see something that reminds me of you, I want you to have it. If I know something will make your life even a little easier, I want to do it. If I think something will make you smile, I want to be the reason you’re smiling. I like knowing you’re warm because of a hoodie I gave you. I like knowing you’re reading a book I picked out, even if you roast it halfway through. That’s what love looks like for me.”
I say nothing. But I’m trembling. A little. Enough for him to notice.
He lowers his head slightly, brushing his thumb along my cheek in a
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way that feels too gentle, too knowing.
“Now,” he murmurs, “are you ready to tell me what’s really going on?”
I nod. Then hesitate.
“Any year now, love.”
The teasing in his voice is soft, coaxing. It earns the smallest laugh out
–
of me — a short, shaky breath that makes his mouth twitch like he’s trying not to smile.
I press my lips together, trying to make sense of the knot in my chest.
And then
—
softly:
“I just…” I stop. Try again. “I don’t do anything for you.”
He frowns, confused. “What?”
“You’re good,” I say, the words shaky and fragile. “You’re kind and thoughtful and you think about everything, all the time. You’re always doing things for me. And I-” I swallow hard. “I don’t do anything back. I haven’t earned this. I haven’t earned you.”
—
I feel the wetness on my face before I see it – before his hands are there, gentle and familiar, wiping the tears from my cheeks like it’s second nature.
“There you go again,” he whispers. “Thinking love is something you have to earn.” His palm cups my face, anchoring me like he’s afraid I’ll float away if he doesn’t hold me down. “You don’t have to give me anything back to make this worth it. I’m not keeping score. I love you, Emilia. That’s not conditional. That’s not something you earn.”
My knees nearly give out. I blink, but everything’s already gone blurry.
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He steps closer, not pushing, just waiting. One hand cups my check like I might break if he’s too rough.
“I love you,” he says again, softer this time. Like a truth he’s been carrying for ages and finally set down. “Not because of anything you do. Just because you’re you. That’s all I’ve ever needed.”
I try to speak, but my throat’s tight. I shake my head. A few tears fall before I can catch them.
“I haven’t done anything to deserve that,” I whisper.
He leans in until our foreheads touch. His thumb brushes under my eyè, gentle and steady.
