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Brunch. Riverwalk Café. 12:30. No excuses.

I blink. Then I squint again.

Of course. Because the universe hasn't already handed me enough to deal with, now I have to sit through lunch with my overprotective brothers while my brain is still short-circuiting over Liam Carter.

I groan and flop back against the pillows, but I already know there's no getting out of this. Ryan doesn't invite people to brunch. He summons them. And if I don't show up, he'll probably assume I've been kidnapped.

Liam kissed me.

I kissed him back.

And now? Now I have to figure out what the hell that means.

After the kiss—that kiss—he exhaled sharply, ran a hand through his already-messy hair, and muttered something about how he should probably go. But I didn't move, and he didn't move, and then, instead of heading for the door, he leaned back against my couch like he'd just fought a war.

Which, in a way, I think he had.

So, instead of forcing words neither of us were ready to say, I grabbed the remote and turned on the TV, scrolling mindlessly through streaming options.

"Are we pretending that didn't happen?" he had asked, voice dry but not mocking.

"Absolutely."

He chuckled, rubbing his jaw. "Good."

That was it. No tension, no awkwardness, just… acceptance. Like we were two people who had crossed a line and decided, for now, not to look too closely at it.

I scrolled past action movies, past rom-coms, past things that might encourage any further tension, and landed on an old episode ofBrooklyn Nine-Nine. Safe. Neutral. Uncomplicated.

Liam had stayed on the couch, stretching one arm over the back, legs long and lazy. He looked comfortable. Too comfortable.

"You're staying?" I had asked.

He had closed his eyes briefly, like he was weighing the pros and cons of moving. Then, with an exhale, "I'll leave in a bit."

Except a bit turned into a few episodes. Then an hour. Then another.

At some point, I made tea. Real tea this time, not the chamomile peace offering from earlier, but a strong, spicy chai, because Liam looked like he needed something with a little more bite. He took it with a grunt of approval, his fingers brushing mine as he grabbed the mug. I ignored the shiver that ran up my spine.

We didn't talk about Vanessa. We didn't talk about whatever the hell was happening between us. We just sat there, watching TV, drinking tea, and existing in the same space.

Eventually, I curled into my usual spot on the couch, knees tucked under me, arm resting against the cushions. Liam shifted too, his long legs stretching onto my coffee table like he owned the place. The TV's light cut clean lines across his face, sharpening the set of his jaw, glinting off the smirk that never quite disappeared.

I wanted to ask what he was thinking.

I didn't.

Somewhere around midnight, I must have dozed off, because the next thing I remember is waking up to the soft hum of my TV's home screen and a blanket draped over me. My couch was empty. It was deep night or early morning, or both.

Liam was gone.

Now, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, I try to piece together what this means.

Because this was never supposed to be real.

It started as a fake relationship, a convenient arrangement, a way to keep both of our families at bay while we handled the mess Vanessa was throwing our way.

But last night, in the glow of my apartment, none of that felt fake.