Yet my mind keeps circling the what-ifs like they’re debts I owe. It’s exhausting.
The city hums below, distant and alive. For a moment, I forget to guard myself.
“This would be nice,” I murmur.
“For mornings?” Liam asks, staying just inside the door.
I glance at him. “For breathing.”
He smiles—not triumphant, not hopeful. Just soft. “Tee could have a room upstairs.”
He’s not selling it. He’s offering information. I don’t know why that tightens something in my chest.
By the fourth apartment, I’m exhausted.
Not from walking. From deciding. From constantly measuring what I’m allowed to want without accidentally leaning too far into him.
We linger near the kitchen island while the agent takes a call.
“You don’t like any of them,” Liam says quietly.
“I didn’t say that.”
“You don’t have to.” He shrugs. “You keep standing near exits.”
I huff a weak laugh. “Independent-woman syndrome, I guess.”
He nods like that makes sense. Like it doesn’t scare him off. Silence settles between us again.
“Independence doesn’t mean you have to do everything alone, Little Thunder.”
I hate that he says it like a fact instead of a challenge.
“I wish I could believe that,” I whisper. The intimacy and fragility of my confession shake me. “I need to go back to work,” I lie.
He studies me, jaw flexing. Then he backs off. “Okay.”
Just like that.
God, I hate how much that matters.
When we leave the building, the agent chirps about sending listings and next steps. Liam thanks her, polite and distant.
Outside, the late afternoon air presses in. Warm. Real.
“I’ll text you later,” he says.
“I know.” I give him a soft smile.
We stand there for a beat too long. “I love you,” he adds.
I don’t look at him. “I know,” I repeat. But knowing isn’t the same as being ready.
As he walks away, something unsettles in my chest. Not loss. Not longing.
Fear. A different type of fear. For the first time, the future doesn’t feel like something I’m fighting.
It feels like something waiting.
