The words I'd said without thinking—raw from the race, stripped down by 2000 meters of shared pain. The truest thing I'd ever admitted out loud.
"I meant it," I said. The words came out steadier than I felt.
"I know you did." His voice dropped. "That's the thing."
He took a step closer. Then another. Close enough that I could feel the heat coming off him despite the cold still clinging to his hoodie. Close enough to see the pulse beating in his throat.
"I don't want to talk," he said.
My breath caught.
"Okay."
"I don't want to set rules or figure out what this means or have some conversation about—" He stopped. Swallowed. "I just want you."
Three words. Simple. The simplest thing he'd ever said to me.
And the most honest.
I closed the distance.
My mouth found his and the world contracted to a single point. His lips were cold from the walk but his tongue was warm, and the contrast made something short-circuit behind my ribs. His hands came out of his hoodie pocket and found my waist, fingers gripping hard enough that I felt each one individually through my shirt.
I kissed him back with everything I had. Everything I'd been holding since the race.. Since he'd called me golden boy and pressed me against the lockers with a tenderness that had wrecked me more than any desperate hookup ever could.
This kiss was different from those.
Not frantic. Not stolen in the dark. Not half-drunk on adrenaline with one ear listening for footsteps.
This was deliberate. This was Liam choosing to walk across the bridge. Choosing to knock on my door. Choosing me with his whole body instead of just the parts he couldn't control.
His hands slid up under my shirt, palms flat against my ribs, and I shivered—not from cold. From the way his touch felt intentional. Like he was trying to memorize the shape of me.
"Off," he said against my mouth. Tugging my shirt.
I pulled it over my head. Tossed it. Didn't care where it landed, which was a first—I always cared where things landed.
Liam looked at me. Eyes traveling down my chest, my stomach, my arms. Taking his time in a way he hadn't before. Every other time we'd done this, there'd been urgency—a clock ticking, someone who might walk in, the risk of getting caught sharpening everything into desperate speed.
Tonight there was no clock. No risk of interruption. Just his eyes on my body and the way his breathing changed when he looked.
"Come here," I said. Reached for the zipper of his hoodie. Pulled it down slowly. He let me push it off his shoulders, let it drop to the floor.
The white t-shirt underneath. I grabbed the hem and he raised his arms. The shirt came off and there he was—bare-chested in my room, the muscle definition in his shoulders and arms still carrying the pump from the race.
I pressed my palm flat against his chest. His heart was hammering. Fast and hard, the rhythm matching mine.
"Your heart's going crazy," I said.
"Yeah. It does that around you."
The admission hit me somewhere deep.
I kissed him again. Slower this time. Deeper. Let my hands explore his back, the dip of his spine, the way his muscles tensed and released under my palms. He groaned into my mouth—low, vibrating through both of us.
His hands found my belt. Unbuckled it with more patience than I expected. His fingers were steady. Deliberate. Like unwrapping something he wanted to take his time with.
The belt hit the floor.
