The hallway was empty, expensive, the kind of building where neighbors didn't acknowledge each other's existence. Liam unlocked the door marked 17 and held it open.
"Welcome to—" He stopped. "I was going to say something about it not being much, but that's objectively false. It's a penthouse."
"Smooth."
"I'm very tired."
Her heart melted for him, her dashing hockey captain who’d spent the past three days being everything to everyone. She stepped inside and stopped.
She'd expected the penthouse. The harbor view, the hardwood floors, the kitchen appliances that cost more than her car.
What she hadn't expected was how much ofhimwas here.
Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined one wall—business biographies, yes, but also Yeats and Heaney, history books with cracked spines, an entire shelf of vintage hockey memoirs from the seventies. Framed photos weren't just decoration: Georgia at eight with a gap-toothed grin, his parents laughing at something off-camera, the team dog-piled after last year's division win. The leather couch was angled toward the windows, worn soft in the exact spot where someone sat to read. A mug sat on the side table, coffee ring staining the wood underneath.
On the kitchen counter: a half-eaten protein bar, Sunday's crossword half-finished in pen, the Globe sports section folded to her article from last week.
"You read the Herald?” Her voice came out smaller than intended.
Liam closed the door behind them. "I read you."
She looked at the books, the photos, the evidence of actual life being lived here. She could see it suddenly—herself curled on that couch with a book while he cooked dinner. Her running shoes by the door. Two coffee mugs instead of one.
This wasn't just where he lived. It was where she could imagine living too.
"This isn't what I expected," she said, running her hand along the back of his couch. The leather was soft, worn in. "I thought it would be more... I don't know. Hotel-like."
"It was." He was watching her move through his space. "When I first bought it. Georgia said it looked like a realtor's staging photos. She's been slowly smuggling in things that make it look like a human lives here."
"The books?"
"Those are mine." He moved into the kitchen, pulled two glasses from a cabinet. "Water?"
"Yes. Please."
He filled both glasses from the filter in his fridge—one of those massive built-in models that probably had more technology than her entire kitchen. Brought them over to where she stood by the windows.
"I can see the Garden from here," Libby said, taking the glass. "If you know where to look."
"I know where to look."
They stood there, drinking water like civilized people having a normal conversation, both of them pretending the air wasn't crackling with everything they weren't saying.
Libby set her glass down on the coffee table. Turned to face him.
"So," she said.
"So," Liam agreed.
"You walked out of your press conference."
"I did."
"Very dramatic."
"I was motivated."
"By what?"
