Nora was nine weeks old today. During that time, there had been broken nights and aching arms, bottles drying by the sink, and lullabies whispered into the dark. She’d watched Liam cradle their daughter with something close to reverence, his touch so careful it hurt to watch. And all the while, Emma had waited—quietly, patiently, sometimes desperately—for him to come back to her.
He hadn’t left—not in the obvious ways. He rose for the midnight feeds, kissed her temple when she passed him the baby, and slipped into bed each night carrying the same familiar warmth. Presence wasn’t the same as belonging, though, and lately Emma could feel the absence in every brush of air between them.
She sat curled on the couch, Nora sleeping against her chest, a muslin cloth draped over her shoulder. Across the room, Liam stood at the sink rinsing bottles, his movements steady, almost mechanical. He worked as though usefulness might disguise the distance, like it could fix what wasn’t being said.
She let herself study him from across the room. The tension that never seemed to leave his shoulders, the way his jaw carried a constant edge, and the way he stared at the sink long after the water had stopped running. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen him laugh, not really, not the kind of laugh that reached his eyes and softened his face. The part of him that once lived so easily in brightness had gone quiet. She couldn’t tell if it was hiding or truly gone.
She wasn’t blind or naïve. She had always been a woman who faced truths head-on, who didn’t waste energy ignoring what was right in front of her. This time she found herself hesitating, caught between the fear of naming what she saw and the deeper fear of hearing it confirmed. She hadn’t asked him yet, maybe because she already knew the answer, or because putting it into words would tear the thin fabric holding them together.
When Nora stirred in her sleep, Emma shifted carefully and carried her upstairs, lowering her gently into her crib. She stood there for a long moment, watching the steady rise and fall of her daughter’s chest—this tiny girl who felt both like salvation and the fragile thread binding her to a man she wasn’t sure she could hold on to anymore.
When she came back downstairs, Liam was leaning against the counter, his gaze fixed on some point far beyond the kitchen. His jaw was locked tight and his eyes distant, as if he were bracing himself against something only he could see. He didn’t hear her come in.
“Are you okay?” Her voice came softer than she intended.
His head jerked slightly, like he’d been caught. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
Emma moved closer, standing beside him so their arms almost brushed. She just stood there, letting the silence hang heavy with everything they weren’t saying. After a while, shespoke, low but steady. “Soon, I’m going to ask you what’s really going on—and when I do, I need you to tell me the truth.”
Liam turned, his gaze finally locking on hers. For a moment, Emma felt the weight of him press down on her. He drew breath to speak, but Emma couldn’t bear to hear what would follow. She wasn’t ready for the apology or the excuse that might come next. She quickly reached for the baby monitor and walked upstairs.
Later, when the mattress dipped behind her, she kept her back turned, eyes on the soft blue glow of the monitor. She listened to him settle and the way the bed shifted beneath his weight. He didn’t touch her, and for the first time, Emma didn’t lie awake hoping he would.
She listened to the hush of white noise from the monitor and let her mind drift back to that morning. Nora had smiled up at her—gummy and bright-eyed, pure joy without reason. She’d been an absolute angel these past weeks, gentle in her needs and calm in a way that felt like mercy. As if, somehow, she understood her mother was feeling vulnerable and had chosen to give her grace.
If it came to it—if Liam left—Emma knew she would survive. Not untouched, not without grief, but survive all the same. Being a mother had changed everything. Liam might still be slipping from her grasp, but in Nora’s tiny fists, Emma had found something worth holding on to.
Chapter 42
Liam
New York felt like a fever that never broke, constant movement and noise threading through his veins until every part of him vibrated. The city pressed against the hotel glass—horns blaring, tires hissing on wet pavement, and neon signs bleeding through the rain. Even twenty-four floors up, the sound carried, faint but insistent, a reminder there was no such thing as silence here.
Liam stood at the window, forehead close to the glass, watching the cabs swarm the curb below. His reflection stared back at him, drawn and pale, with eyes darkened by exhaustion.
It was the third day on the road with Jacob. Three cities in three days, filled with back-to-back interviews, red carpets, photo ops, and the kind of tension that stuck to his skin like sweat.
He hated every second of it—and he hated how badly he didn’t want it to end.
They hadn’t touched in any meaningful way since that booth in LA, more than two months ago. That was the day Jacob’s voice slipped past every wall Liam had built, breaking him open with three simple words:I miss you.
Those words had lodged beneath Liam’s skin, a pulse he couldn’t quiet. Jacob never spoke them again or offered more,but the tension lived in smaller things—the brush of fingers when he passed a bottle of water, the way he stood too close in crowded green rooms, or the way his eyes lingered when he thought Liam wouldn’t notice. Each small moment carved him open, leaving him raw.
The bed behind him was unmade, covers tangled from a night where he’d turned over and over, trying not to imagine Jacob just across the wall. Close enough that if things were different, Liam would have slipped into his room and into his bed without hesitation. All that longing had nowhere to go, festering beneath his skin, until he was rotting from the inside out.
Tonight was the late-night show—the big one. A gleaming stage, cameras everywhere, and an audience watching from all over the world. The kind of interview the studio fought to secure when awards season circled close. He was supposed to be grateful, smile, and banter with a host who would never see the truth beneath the performance.
The thought of going live on camera again made his throat tighten. He’d have to sit there and smile when he could barely breathe. Sit next to Jacob and pretend he didn’t remember every sound that escaped him in the dark.
He dropped down heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees. Hands pressed over his eyes until the darkness behind his lids sparked with color. It had been three days of Jacob being everywhere—in his lungs, in his blood, and in the marrow of his bones. He was everywhere, as inescapable as his own shadow.
***
The host’s voice carried across the stage, bright and booming. She stood under the lights in a glittering blue suit, with a smile made for the camera. “Alright, folks, next up—two of the starsofWingspan, the show that already has the internet losing its collective mind. Please welcome Jacob Wolfe and Liam Hart!”
Applause swelled, lights flared, and the stage manager’s hand cut through the air in a wave that sent them forward. Jacob stepped first, unhurried, shoulders loose, and every line of his body controlled. Liam followed, heart hammering like he was walking into fire. He smiled, lifted a hand in an easy wave, shook the host’s hand, and lowered himself into the chair as though the motions belonged to someone else entirely.
The host leaned forward with a grin that glinted beneath the stage lights. “Okay, let’s get right to it.Wingspan—not even out yet, and already one of the most talked-about shows of the year. The trailers alone have the internet buzzing. And let’s be honest—it’s not just the writing. It’s the chemistry.”
