His forehead touched mine. Both of us standing in the shadow at the center of the bridge. The river underneath. The two campuses on either side—Kingswell's stone and glass to the east, Riverside's concrete to the west. Two worlds. One bridge. And us in the middle, in the dark, where nobody could see.
His breath on my face. My hands finding his waist—not grabbing, just resting there. The warmth of his body through the flannel. My thumbs against the ridge of his hipbones.
"We're a mess," he said.
"Yeah."
"I'm still mad at you."
"I know."
"And you're still mad at me."
"A little."
"We're going to fight again."
"Probably."
His hand tightened on my neck. Just slightly. The hold becoming more real.
"But not tonight," he said.
"Not tonight."
We stood there. How long—I don't know. Long enough for the cold to stop mattering. Long enough for my heartbeat to slow and sync with the pulse I could feel in his fingertips against my neck.
Liam pulled back first. Not far. Just enough to see my face. His hand still on my neck. My hands still on his waist.
"The Charles is six days away," he said.
"I know."
"We've got work to do."
"I know."
"Tomorrow. Five-thirty. The boathouse. Be ready."
His mouth twitched. The ghost of a grin. The first one I'd seen in days.
Then… my phone buzzed in my pocket.
He let go. Stepped back. The cold rushed into the space between us immediately—physical, sharp, the absence of him registering in my whole body.
I pulled it out. The screen glowing in the dark. We looked at the text together.
Unknown
Good luck at the Charles. I'll be watching too.
The cold got colder. Anger flashed behind Liam's eyes.
Neither of us said anything for a moment. The text glowing between us.
"Fuck this guy," Liam said.
I pocketed the phone and looked up at him.
