Page 12 of June

There was something about Liam that made the world feel... quieter.

Not duller—just easier to breathe in. Like everything was wrapped in soft cotton and lit by slow, golden light.

He kept bringing me pastries. Not ordinary ones—no chocolate chip muffins or danishes.

Liam brought pastries shaped like stars and moons and lopsided galaxies.

He made them himself. With flour-dusted sleeves and a kind of clumsy dedication that made it obvious how hard he tried.

It was... endearing.

"This one,"

he mumbled one morning, holding up a swirled croissant streaked with blue and gold food dye.

"is a spiral galaxy. Um. If you squint."

He cleared his throat.

"I tried to make the arms accurate, but—uh—turns out butter has a mind of its own."

I blinked at it, biting back a smile.

"You made this?"

He gave a one-shouldered shrug.

"It's called M81. I thought it looked kind of like you."

I raised a brow.

"Because I'm flaky?"

His ears went red.

"No! I mean—no, not at all. It's just... it's beautiful. Quiet. And sort of... pulls everything around it without trying."

I flushed and looked down, trying not to smile too hard.

Another afternoon, he brought a spiral pastry tinged with blueberry and something gold, edges singed just a little too dark.

"This was supposed to be the Sombrero Galaxy,"

he said sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck.

"The rim got a little... crispy."

I looked at it, amused.

"You made an entire galaxy in your kitchen?"

He pushed his glasses up with his knuckle, looking mildly embarrassed.

"Well. A very edible one. Kinda."

I raised a brow.

"Because I remind you of a hat?"

His face crumpled into the purest look of panic.

"No! No, no. It's not—it's not the hat part. It's just—"

he took a breat.

"—because it's striking. And visible from really far away. And it has this incredibly dense center."

"Are you calling me emotionally dense?"

"No!"

He looked horrified.

"Just... grounded. I don't know. I'm bad at this."

I laughed—quiet but full.

"You really are."

He gave a small smile.

"But I mean every word."

And he did. That much was obvious. There was something gentle in the way he looked at me. Like he was afraid he'd say the wrong thing and send me running—but still wanted to try. And slowly, we fell into something easy. Something warm and undemanding.

Sometimes I'd catch him looking at me like I was made of moonlight and equations. Reverent. A little stunned. Like he didn't quite believe I was real. We talked for hours, about everything and nothing. But some of my favorite moments were the quiet ones. The ones where words weren't needed.

One late afternoon, we collapsed onto the studio floor, breathless and sore from dancing. Dust danced in the golden sunlight streaming through the tall windows.

Liam rolled onto his side, his head resting on his arm.

"Do you ever think about how stars die?"

I blinked at him.

"That's a weird question for after dancing."

He looked sheepish, but pushed on anyway.

"They collapse under their own gravity. But sometimes... they explode. And scatter. And that makes space for new stars."

I looked up at the ceiling, letting that settle in my chest.

"I was a collapsed star, once,"

I whispered.

He didn't say anything at first. Just shifted closer, like he could feel the edges of that confession.

"You still shine,"

he said softly, voice barely above a breath.

And that—God, that undid me.

My heart cracked open in places I thought I'd locked shut. So I told him. Not everything. But enough. The outline of it.

"There was someone,"

I said.

"Aaron. We were engaged. But he... chose someone else."

Liam nodded slowly. He didn't ask for more. Didn't offer me pity.

Instead, he said.

"People think love is a feeling. But feelings come and go. Real love is choosing someone. Over and over. Even when it's hard. Especially then."

He turned his head toward me, his cheeks pink but his voice steady.

"You should be chosen, June. Every single day. Every version of you. I don't get how anyone could lose someone like you and just... walk away. That's not love. That's someone who doesn't know what they're holding."

Then he added, so quietly I almost missed it:

"If I ever found something rare on a far-off moon... I wouldn't leave it. I'd stay. I'd build my whole life around it."

I stared at him, breath caught, unsure how to respond.

He looked away first, flustered, pushed his glasses up and checked the time. Then back at me.

"I, uh, I want you to come with me. There's someone I want you to meet."

My stomach flipped. "Now?"

He was already pulling on his jacket.

"Yeah. It's kind of... important."

"Who?"

I asked, my voice smaller than I intended.

He hesitated, then smiled gently.

"My most special person; I love her more than I can possibly say."

I didn't know why that stung. But it did.

Still, I followed him. Because something about the way he said it didn't feel threatening. Just honest.

His car waited on the curb—a robin's egg blue Mustang that looked like it belonged in a sepia-toned photograph. He drove in comfortable silence, occasionally humming along to a slow jazz track on the radio.

When we pulled up to a quiet building with warm lights and manicured hedges, I looked at him, confused.

He glanced over, a little nervous now. "Come on."

Inside, the air smelled like flowers and clean linens. A few nurses waved to him. He waved back shyly, like he wasn't used to being noticed.

"She's usually by the window,"

he said softly, leading the way.

He knocked gently, then opened the door.

A woman sat by the window, elegant even in her age. Her hair was curled and pinned, her posture proud. And when she looked up—

Her eyes matched his exactly.

"Hi, handsome,"

she said, beaming.

His whole face lit up. "Hi, Mom."