Page 69 of Landing Liam

His apology tugs at something deep inside me. “Thank you for apologizing,” I say quietly, my chest tightening at the vulnerability in his eyes.

“Truth is,” he continues, stepping closer, the space between us shrinking until there’s barely a whisper left, “I’m kind of glad someone sent that fake tip.”

My heart skips. “You’re glad?”

His hands leave his pockets, and he reaches up to gently trace a finger along my cheek, his touch so light it feels like a dream. “I’m glad you’re here,” he murmurs. “However it happened, I’m glad it brought you to me.”

I forget how to breathe as his fingers slide along my jaw, leaving a trail of warmth in their wake. He leans in slowly, his gaze locked on mine, giving me every chance to pull away. But I don’t. I can’t.

When his lips finally meet mine, it’s like a fuse ignites. The kiss is slow but electric, his mouth moving against mine with a tenderness that sends a shiver down my spine. I press closer, my fingers curling into the fabric of his jacket, as if holding on to him might steady the world spinning beneath me.

His hands settle on my hips, pulling me flush against him. The heat between us intensifies, the air around us charged and crackling. When we finally pull apart, breathless, his forehead rests against mine, and I feel the steady thrum of his heart in sync with my own.

“I don’t want you to go,” I whisper, the words spilling out before I can stop them.

“I don’t want to leave,” he admits. “But I have to finish this. And then… we’ll figure everything else out. Okay?”

I nod, my hand sliding down his arm to squeeze his. “Okay.”

He presses a final, lingering kiss to my forehead before stepping back, the cold rushing in where his warmth had been. And as I watch him walk to his car, I realize that no matter what happens next, part of me will always be here—with him.

Chapter Thirty-One

Liam

I’m sitting in a sterile room at the local doctor’s office, the faint smell of antiseptic lingering in the air. The hum of fluorescent lights above feels louder than it should, grating against the edges of my already-frayed nerves. Mr. Glowen, the town doctor, came in on his day off to help me prove what I already know—I’m clean.

He’s wearing his usual white coat, his glasses perched so low on his nose they look like they might fall off at any moment. He’s an older guy, the kind who’s been doing this for decades, and he has the no-nonsense attitude to match. He glances up from the paperwork he’s been meticulously filling out and offers me a small, reassuring nod.

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” he says, handing me a sterile collection cup.

I stand, my legs feeling heavier than usual. The tremor in my left hand has been worse today, subtle but persistent, and it’s been throwing me off. I shove my hands into my pockets to steady them as I head for the restroom. It’s not just the stress of the day—it’s my MS flaring up, probably triggered by everything going on.

In the bathroom, the stark white tiles feel colder than they should. I grip the counter for a moment, steadying myself as a wave of fatigue washes over me. My legs feel like they’re filled with lead, and a faint buzzing sensation has started in my feet. I breathe deeply, trying to focus, trying to push through.

The procedure itself is simple enough, but the weight of what it represents makes every step feel monumental. I follow the instructions to the letter, sealing the cup tightly before placing it in the designated bag. I walk back out, my movements careful and deliberate, and hand it to Mr. Glowen.

“Thanks,” I say rougher than I’d like.

He nods again, his face unreadable. “We’ll run two tests. A rapid test which should take less than thirty minutes for the results. We’ll also run a standard test, which will take a day or two to get the results. You’re welcome to wait here or step outside if you need some air.”

I glance at the chairs lined up against the wall. They look about as comfortable as they feel—hard plastic, unforgiving. But the thought of standing too long makes my legs ache just thinking about it. I drop into one of the seats, leaning forward with my elbows on my knees.

The waiting is the worst part. Each passing second feels like an eternity, the weight of the accusations heavy on my shoulders. I rub at my thighs, trying to ease the pins and needles sensation that’s been creeping up steadily. The fatigue feels like it’s dragging me under, but I can’t let it win. Not today.

I’m not sure how much time passes, but Mr. Glowen says, “Liam,” and startles me out of my thoughts. He’s holding a clipboard, his expression carefully neutral as he approaches. I sit up straighter, bracing myself for what’s coming.

“We’re almost done running the panel on the rapid test,” he says. “Initial screens are negative so far, but we’ll confirm everything shortly.”

I nod, my jaw tightening. It’s a small relief, but it’s not enough. Not until it’s official.

Leaning back in the chair, I let out a slow breath. My hand trembles slightly as I run it through my hair. It doesn’t matter how long I’ve been in this sport or how much I’ve sacrificed for it—moments like these remind me just how fragile it all is.

For now, all I can do is wait.

The minutes tick by like hours, each one dragging on longer than the last. I shift in the hard plastic chair, my legs aching with a dull throb from sitting still too long. I know the fatigue is the MS, creeping in at the edges of my stamina, but I refuse to let it get the better of me. Not today. Not when everything I’ve worked for is hanging in the balance

Finally, Mr. Glowen steps into the waiting room, holding a small sheet of paper. His face doesn’t betray anything, which makes my heart lurch uncomfortably in my chest. He stops in front of me, adjusts his glasses, and holds out the results.