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"She's right."

I turn sharply at the sound of Liam's voice. He's standing a few feet away, hands in his pockets, his gaze locked on my brothers with quiet certainty. "She's not a kid anymore."

Dean and Ryan both bristle at that, but it's Nate who speaks first.

"We know that," he says, his voice calm. "We just don't know what to do with that."

The words hit something deep inside me. Because I get it. I do. For so long, I was their responsibility. Their little sister. The one they had to keep safe. And now? Now, I'm standing here, covered in dust and adrenaline, having just walked through a storm they never saw coming.

Things are different.

And none of us quite know what to do with that.

Ryan sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just… don't shut us out, okay?"

My throat tightens, but I nod. "Okay."

That seems to be enough for now. Dean shakes his head before pulling me into a gruff, bone-crushing hug. "Next time you need backup, you call me first, you got it?"

I let out a weak laugh. "No promises."

Ryan groans. Nate just smirks.

And then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch Liam watching. Not impatiently. Just waiting.

He meets my gaze. "Can I take you home?"

I should hesitate, should think about what that means, about how this whole arrangement is supposed to be coming to an end. But I'm too exhausted, too overwhelmed, too done.

So I nod. "Yeah. Please."

The drive is quiet. Not tense, not awkward—just quiet.

By the time we reach the loft, my body is screaming for sleep, but my mind won't stop racing. Too much has happened tonight. Too much is still left unresolved.

Liam seems to sense it.

"Sit," he says the moment we step inside, nudging me toward the kitchen island. "I'm making you something."

I blink. "You? Cooking?"

He smirks faintly, rolling up his sleeves. "Try not to look so shocked."

I settle onto a stool, watching as he moves through the kitchen with a kind of effortless precision. He works methodically, chopping onions, garlic, tomatoes—layering scents into the air until the entire loft smells like a Sicilian grandmother's embrace.

"You really know what you're doing," I murmur, resting my chin on my hand.

His lips twitch. "I had a Sicilian nanny growing up. She made sure I wouldn't starve."

I smile faintly, letting the warmth of it all settle over me—the soft simmer of sauce, the low hum of city lights outside, the way Liam moves, controlled and sure, but somehow at ease.

It's nice.

Which is why, when he finally sets a steaming bowl in front of me—pasta with rich, slow-cooked sauce, flecks of fresh basil—I blurt out, "I can't do this fake dating thing anymore."

Liam stills, just for a second. Then, carefully, he sets his own plate down.

"Yeah," he says. "I feel the same way."