Maddie shifted easily between them, setting out plates and glasses, organizing without being asked. She’d gotten their mom’s coloring—freckles across her nose, copper hair falling loose around her face, and a kind of steadiness in the way she moved.
Emma was perched on one of the kitchen stools, a faint smile tugging at her mouth as she watched his family orbit around them. She looked both tired and utterly alive, caught somewhere between exhaustion and joy.
His mother hovered over her like she was made of porcelain—offering water, bringing a pillow, fussing with gentle hands until Emma finally teased, “I’m pregnant, Mary, not fragile,” and everyone laughed.
Dinner was loud in the best way. Plates passed back and forth, and wine poured freely. His father launched into a story about missing a turn somewhere outside Palm Springs and ending up at a ghost town diner, where the waitress swore she’d met Elvis. Maddie kept trying to correct the details, and his mother kept scolding her for interrupting. Emma laughed so hard she had to wipe her eyes.
For the first time in weeks, Liam let himself laugh too. The sound came easier than he expected, the kind of laughter that felt like home. He didn’t even realize how much he’d missed it until it was there again.
When the plates were empty and the table covered in crumbs and glasses, his mother rose to start clearing. Liam stood to help. She waved him off but didn’t stop him, accepting plates from his hands until they stood side by side at the sink. The chatter behind them softened into background noise.
“You’ve been quiet tonight,” she said, rinsing a dish.
“I’m tired,” he said automatically.
She dried her hands, then turned to face him fully. “Liam.” Her voice was gentle, but it carried a weight he could never ignore. “I know that face. Something’s weighing on you.”
He tried for a smile, the easy kind. “You worry too much.”
She reached out and touched his cheek, thumb brushing along the edge of his jaw. “You’ve always felt things deeply, even when you pretend not to. I can see it, you know.”
He stared at the sink for a long moment. “I’m just… having a hard time lately.”
Her hand stilled on the towel. “With what, honey?”
He shook his head. “It’s nothing you can fix.”
She studied him, quiet for a beat. “That doesn’t mean you should face it alone. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”
He swallowed hard. “I wish I could.”
Something flickered in her eyes—concern, curiosity, love—but she didn’t push. “Then just know that you can, whenever you’re ready.”
He nodded, jaw tight. He wished he could tell her about Jacob. About the way everything had shifted and how impossible it felt to be split in two. He wanted her to tell him what to do, to fix it the way she used to when he was young, and everything was still simple. But all he said was, “Thanks, Mom.”
She didn’t respond right away. Instead, she stepped closer and pulled him into a hug, the kind that had always made the world quiet for a moment. He let himself sink into it, just long enough to feel something close to safe.
When she finally let go, she said, “I love you, sweetheart.” She gave his arm a squeeze and turned back to the sink. “Go sit with Emma. I’ll join you in a minute.”
He nodded, unable to answer, and did as he was told. The room was full of warmth and laughter, all the things he’d grown up believing were enough—and still, a part of him longed for what he couldn’t have. He missed Jacob more than he couldstand. He wanted him here, to share all this with him. The ache was sharp, made worse by everything that should have felt complete.
Chapter 38
Jacob
Two weeks had passed since Jacob had packed a bag and walked out of his house. Since the night Caroline stood in front of him, eyes sharp and unyielding, and asked the question he couldn’t lie his way around.
Caroline no longer wanted him in the house, and he had respected that boundary, even though it hurt to leave it all behind. He hired someone to pack up his things and take care of the logistics. His whole life was folded into boxes, carried out by strangers, and delivered to a beautiful rental where everything looked perfect, and nothing felt like home.
Liam had come to the new house nearly every day since, though never overnight. With the show deep in post-production, their schedule was light—just the occasional callback to the studio, but the urgency had faded. The heavy lifting was done; now it was mostly waiting. It gave Liam both the free time and the ready-made excuses to spend his days with Jacob without raising Emma’s suspicions.
It was sometime during that first week that Jacob unceremoniously pressed a key into Liam’s palm. No words, just a simple truth in the gesture:You don’t have to knock, you’re welcome here.After that, Liam never knocked again.
The turn of that key reached him just past noon. Jacob lay stretched across the couch, a book open in his hand, sunlight cutting sharp lines across the floor. He heard footsteps in the entryway and the sound of keys dropping into the ceramic bowl by the door—Liam’s ritual now, as if the house already knew him. That familiarity made it dangerously easy to pretend this wasn’t a fragile secret held together by borrowed hours.
“You’re early,” Jacob said.
“Emma’s appointment wrapped up quicker than expected.” Liam’s voice carried in from the doorway.
