Page 177 of Dream On, Liar

He had not mentioned the conversation on the sofa. He had not mentioned the way I had said the word secret and watched something tighten behind his eyes, like I had pressed on a bruise. He had not brought up the question he had asked so softly it had almost sounded as though he already knew the answer.

What about your rules?

I should have felt relieved that he had not pushed. That he had not forced the conversation open or made me say the things I was not ready to say aloud.

Instead, it stayed with me.

Everywhere.

It followed me when I reached for my book and forgot what I had been doing. It sat at the edges of my thoughts while I watched him move through the cabin as though he belonged there more than I did. It tightened something in my chest whenever I remembered how easily he could have broken the fragile little bubble we had built around ourselves and, instead, had chosen not to.

By then, I knew him well enough to understand the difference.

He was not avoiding it.

He was waiting.

And I did not know what frightened me more: that he would ask again, or that he would not.

Because this week had become something I did not have language for. It was too soft to feel temporary, too warm to feel entirely safe, and too much ours to feel real.

We had built it without meaning to.

Our mornings had begun with the smell of coffee and him pretending he did not enjoy making it for me. Afternoons blurred into Edinburgh streets, cold air, and his hand finding mine without hesitation. Evenings dissolved into films we never finished because somewhere along the way, we stopped pretending we were only watching a film.

Somewhere in between all of that, I had started to forget what it felt like to brace myself for the end of something.

That was the dangerous part.

Not that I wanted it.

That I could imagine wanting it forever.

I was curled into the corner of the sofa, my laptop open but long forgotten, when the front door opened. The sound cut through the cabin, followed by a rush of cold air and the familiar sound of footsteps.

“Hey, trouble.”

My fingers stopped above the keyboard.

Something in my chest tightened so sharply that it almost hurt.

Because it was not just the nickname anymore. It was the way he said it. The warmth behind it. The quiet familiarity that made it sound as though the name belonged to me.

I looked up.

He stood in the doorway with bags in both hands, his hair damp and curling slightly at the edges, his cheeks flushed from the cold outside.

For a second, I simply watched him.

I had the strange, irrational thought that I was trying to memorise something I already knew I would miss.

“You were gone ages,” I said too quickly.

He raised an eyebrow. “Were you timing me?”

“No.”

The pause that followed made him smile.