"It isn't that bad—"
"There was a protein shaker growing mold on your desk."
"No way."
"And rowing socks everywhere."
"They need to air out."
We were both laughing now, the tension dissolving into something easier. Something that felt almost normal. Almost like we were two people who could do this—lie in bed together and laugh about nothing—without the weight of everything we were hiding.
Liam finished cleaning up and tossed the towel back. I dropped it on the floor—I'd deal with it later—and we both just lay there. Naked. Side by side on my bed.
The silence that settled over us was comfortable. Warm. His arm pressed against mine. Our breathing still syncing up.
I let myself have it. Just for a moment. Let myself pretend this was something I could keep.
"Monday," I said finally. Quiet. "Joint practices."
"Yeah."
"I don't know what to do about it." The admission came out raw. Honest. More honest than I'd intended—but that seemed to be the pattern with Liam. He made me say things I hadn't planned to say. "About being around you. I don't think I can control myself."
Liam turned his head to look at me. "You're the king of control."
"Not with this." I met his eyes. "Not with you." I paused. Corrected myself, because the truth deserved more than deflection: "I don't want to be anymore."
Something flickered across his face. Fear. "Alex—"
"I know. I know we have to be careful."
Liam was quiet for a long time. Staring at the ceiling. I could see him thinking—could almost watch the walls rebuilding behind his eyes, brick by brick.
I wanted to ask.Can we do this again?The question sat right there, pressing against the back of my teeth. Four words. Simple. Terrifying.
I didn't say them.
Because if he said no, I'd have to live with it. And if he said yes—if he actually said yes—I'd have to live with everything that came after. The hiding. The lying. The constant performance of indifference in front of everyone we knew.
So I swallowed the question and let the silence hold it instead.
We lay there for another moment, just looking at each other. His eyes were softer now. Less guarded. And I could see the exhaustion creeping in around the edges—the weight of everything we were carrying.
I wanted to tell him something. That this mattered. That he mattered. That I'd been waiting for this—for him—since Brackett Lake, and having it was both everything I'd hoped and more terrifying than I'd imagined.
But the words stuck. They always stuck. I'd spent so long performing composure that the real things—the raw, vulnerable, honest things—had no pathway out.
Then his phone buzzed.
The sound cut through the quiet like a gunshot.
Liam's expression shifted immediately. Tensed. "Shit. Where's my—"
He rolled off the bed, grabbed his jeans from the floor. Pulled his phone out of the pocket.
The light from my desk lamp caught him as he stood there—naked, phone in hand, not thinking about being seen. His bodywas all hard lines and lean muscle. Broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist. The cut of his hips. The way his quads flexed when he shifted his weight. A fading bruise on his ribs from practice, yellowish at the edges. The trail of dark hair running down from his navel.
He was beautiful and he had no idea. That was the thing about Liam—he moved through the world like his body was a tool, something built for work and water and survival. He didn't see what I saw. Didn't know what it did to me, watching him stand in my room like he belonged there, unselfconscious and bare and already pulling away.
