Laim
Hey. I’m coming back to Wyoming tonight. Can we talk?
His reply is instant.
Yes.
22
The plane touches down just after sunset, and by the time I make it off the tarmac, my heart is pounding so hard I feel it in my teeth.
I don’t know if Liam will be here, and I don’t know what I’ll do if he’s not.
I grip the strap of my bag like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. And then I see him. Standing by the luggage carts, hands in his pockets, hair a little longer than I remember. He looks tired. Leaner. But still sturdy and familiar in a way that nearly brings me to my knees.
His eyes find me instantly. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t move. Just watches me like he’s afraid I’m a ghost he’ll blink away.
I walk toward him, legs unsteady, breath catching somewhere between my ribs and my throat.
When I stop in front of him, I can’t speak right away. There’s too much. Everything. I search his face for something. Regret, anger, hope. But what I find nearly guts me.
He’s hurting, too.
“I didn’t know if you’d come,” I whisper.
“I wasn’t sure if you meant it,” he replies quietly. “But I came anyway.”
I nod, swallowing hard, fingers tightening around the strap of my bag like it might keep my heart from spilling out.
“There’s something I need to tell you,” I say, barely above a whisper.
His jaw flexes, but his eyes stay locked on mine. “I figured.”
He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t push. Just gestures for me to walk, and I do, falling into step beside him like I never left. Because this airport is not where this conversation belongs.
He opens the passenger door of the truck, holds it for me like it’s second nature. Helps me in. His hand brushes my arm, and the contact is so warm, so familiar, it scrapes something raw and tender inside me.
When he climbs into the driver’s seat, he glances at me. I can see the questions dancing behind his eyes, but he doesn’t voice them.
And I almost blurt it out right then. But the words lodge in my throat.
Instead, he asks, “Hungry? Or do you just want to go home?”
Home.
The word hits harder than I expect, cracking me open in all the places I’ve tried so hard to keep closed.
I look out the window, my voice barely holding steady. “Your place is fine.”
He doesn’t say anything.
Just puts the truck in drive and heads toward the only place that’s ever come close to feeling like home and the one person I’m most afraid of letting back in.
The ride is quiet.
Not awkward. Just full. The air between us crackles, humming with unsaid things and unreleased tension. Every breath feels thick, every glance heavier than it should be.
By the time we turn down the gravel road to his place, the sky is ink-dark, and my skin is buzzing. I feel it building. The heat, the ache, the want I’ve tried so damn hard to bury for months.
