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So, for now, they hadn’t crossed that final threshold. Yet with each day, each lingering glance, every flirtation and quiet moment, it became clear: love had never been the question.
They went on plenty of dates—or none at all, really. Because they didn’t need to date. What they needed was time. Time spent together, doing nothing special except rediscovering each other. Relearning the familiar, sharing the new. Liam was still Liam—kind, thoughtful, and effortlessly fun. Sophie, at her core, was still the girl he’d always loved. And whatever had changed, Liam embraced without hesitation.
Now, Sophie stood by the fireplace in Liam’s living room, her glass of red wine barely touched as she watched him move through the kitchen. He still had that easy confidence about him that she admired. The kind that never asked for attention but always held it.
Nothing had ever truly got under his skin. Well, except for Sophie that is.
There was something achingly familiar in the way he worked—measured, focused, completely in his element. She’d watched him like this a hundred times before, back when life was simpler. But tonight, it felt different. Warmer. Closer.
The years apart hadn’t dimmed what they once had. If anything, they’d made it deeper. And as she stood there, wrapped in the quiet hum of his home, she realized she wasn’t bracing for heartbreak anymore.
She was ready—ready to let herself want him, completely.
Her gaze drifted to the painting on the far wall and she stepped closer. Admiring the picture, she let her fingers trail lightly over the edge of the frame. The girl in the painting was bold, happy, utterly unashamed. That girl hadn’t worried about being enough. She hadn’t questioned if she deserved to be wanted.
Sophie let out a breath, her gaze flicking toward the kitchen where Liam moved with ease, stirring something on the stove and humming under his breath. He’d always been that way, steady and sure.
He’d given her space, never pushed, never asked for more than she was ready to give. And with every patient, gentle touch, every lingering look, he’d reminded her of who she was before life had bruised her.
She was that girl in the painting. Maybe not all the way, not yet. But she could be.
And she wanted to be—with him.
Her pulse kicked up, anticipation threading through her limbs. She set the wine glass down on the mantel then crossed the room with slow, deliberate steps.
Surprised to find her so close, he looked up. She didn’t give herself time to second-guess.
She stepped behind him then slowly slid her arms around his waist.
He hummed deep in his throat and cocked a smile. “Hungry?” he asked, his voice warm.
She pressed her cheek against his back, let herself feel the strength of him, the quiet safety he’d always given her.
“Yes,” she murmured. But it wasn’t dinner she wanted.
She turned him toward her, lifted onto her toes, and kissed him—slow and deep, pouring all her love and trust, and need into it.
When she pulled back, his hands rested at her waist, his gaze searching hers.
“Soph?”
“I don’t want to wait anymore,” she said softly. Her fingers curled in his shirt. “Come to bed with me.”
Sophie stood at the edge of Liam’s bedroom, her fingers twisting in the hem of her sweater. The fire in the hearth flickered over the walls, casting a soft golden glow, but it was the warmth of Liam’s eyes that held her in place.
She’d started this. She’d kissed him first tonight, let her hands slide up his chest, felt the steady, grounding beat of his heart under her palms.
And she hadn’t stopped when his lips traced the line of her jaw or when his hands slid under her sweater to stroke along her back.
She’d wanted this.
She still did.
Liam stood across from her, shirt unbuttoned, his expression calm but intent. He wasn’t rushing her, wasn’t demanding anything. He was just waiting, the way he always had.
She let out a breath and stepped forward, lifting her hands to frame his face. “Liam, I love you.” The words came easily now, because they were true, because she’d fought too hard to let herself love him again to keep them locked inside another minute.
“A stór,” he murmured as his hands skimmed her waist. He’d been longing to hear her say those words and so desperately wanted to say them. “I love you too, a stór.”
