Page 22 of June

His hand doesn't leave mine the whole way back. The night air is quiet, humming with possibility, and something in his silence feels different now, like calm before a very deliberate kind of storm.

When we reach his house, I'm surprised by how warm it feels. The outside is modest, nothing flashy, but once we step in, it's like stepping into another universe.

The living room is a quiet dream, warm and full of thought. Deep blue walls wrap around us like dusk, kissed by the soft amber glow of scattered lamps. A low couch stretches along one side, draped in textured throws and pillows that invite touch. The fireplace crackles faintly behind its iron grate, the last of its embers sighing into the stillness.

But it's the shelves that stop me. They rise floor to ceiling, a tapestry of Liam's mind. Leather-bound astronomy logs. Dog-eared paperbacks with margins filled in pencil. Charts of forgotten constellations. Tiny planetary models suspended from the ceiling by nearly invisible threads, swaying slightly in the warm air. Every surface whispers of the cosmos. Wonder. Obsession. Solitude.

Above his desk, framed in minimalist black, is a photograph of the Pillars of Creation—a cradle of stars, frozen in time and light. This isn't just where he lives. It's where he dreams. A sanctuary. A love letter to the stars—and maybe, I think, to the parts of himself he never quite says aloud.

I turn slowly, drawn back to him. Liam leans against the far wall, eyes on me. Silent. Still. There's no smile now. No joking or nervous fidgeting like earlier. Just that focus—fierce, unwavering. Like I'm the only thing in the room not yet cataloged, not yet studied. My breath stutters.

"You want a drink? Coffee?"

he asks, his voice low, casual, but laced with something deeper.

I shake my head. "No,"

I murmur.

"I'm good."

His lips twitch at the corners. Not a smile—no, it's darker than that. A flicker of something more deliberate. A promise.

"Good,"

he says, taking a step toward me.

"I want you clear. I want you to remember all of this."

The way he says it—low, slow, with an edge that sends heat cascading down my spine—it's not a question, not even a request. It's a declaration. A shift in gravity. He walks past me, brushing so close his fingers graze the fabric at my waist, and the contact is so subtle, it burns. He stops at the threshold of the hallway and glances back once.

"You coming?"

His voice isn't playful now. It's quiet, but absolute. The kind of tone you follow. I do. He leads me to his bedroom. And it's just as stunning as the rest of the house. Walls the color of deep twilight seem to hum with silence, wrapping the room in a soft, endless hush. The ceiling above glows with scattered constellations—tiny lights painted and placed with care, forming familiar patterns in the dark. Like a sky he built for himself.

The shelves are cluttered, but not messy—each item carefully placed. Fragments of meteorites glint softly under glass. A star atlas lies open, pages worn from use. Tiny planets float inside bell jars, suspended in time and light. Every corner of the room whispers devotion, to the cosmos, to knowledge, to wonder.

The bed is large and perfectly made—navy sheets smooth and taut, a thick quilt folded with precision at the foot, patterned like a galaxy mid-spiral.

But I hardly notice the bed. Because all I can feel is him. Liam stands close behind me. I feel the heat of his body before I feel his touch, his fingers brushing lightly against my wrist, barely there, but enough to spark every nerve awake.

"You know..."

he murmurs, his breath warm against the back of my neck.

"I waited for you. All this time. Letting you lead. Waiting for a signal. A sign."

I turn slightly, heart thudding. "And now?"

I ask, my voice quieter than I meant.

His lips curve into something that's not quite a smile, something darker, more certain.

"Now I'm done waiting."

He steps into my space, not forceful, just... certain. His fingers move to the buttons of his shirt, slow, deliberate. One by one. The fabric parts, and I forget how to breathe.

"I told you I loved Superman,"

he says, voice a low vibration in the air between us.

"Most people think that's just the nerd in me talking."

Another button undone. My eyes follow his fingers, helpless.

"But it's not,"

he continues, softer now, eyes locked on mine.

"It's because I am Clark Kent. Mild-mannered. Soft-spoken. Hiding behind glasses. Playing it safe."

He pulls the glasses from his face and sets them gently on the dresser. The motion is quiet, reverent. Like he's shedding an old skin.

Then the shirt opens fully—and I see him.

Not the quiet man who stargazes in silence, or the gentle touch in the hallway. No. This man is fire. Focused. Feral in restraint.

"In private though, "

he continued, his tone teasing yet sincere.

"I don't have a cape, but I do have a knack for taking control when the situation calls for it."

His fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from my face, his touch both gentle and assured.

"Of course,"

he added, his gaze locking with mine.

"only with your enthusiastic consent. After all, even superheroes need permission to save the day."

"Hmmm", I said as I am barely listening to him. I am just gazing. His chest is lean, defined—not chiseled, but strong. Real. And the ink—

Liam's fingers gently tilted my chin upward, his eyes locking with mine, a smirk playing on his lips.

"I need words, sweetheart,"

he murmured, his voice a low, commanding whisper that sent shivers down my spine.

Caught in the depths of his gaze, I blinked, momentarily lost.

"Huh? Oh... yes, yes,"

I stammered, a blush creeping up my cheeks.

He chuckled softly, the sound rich and warm. "Good,"

he said, his thumb brushing gently against my cheek.

"I like hearing that."

The ink stuns me.

Not a scattering of tattoos, but a tapestry of them—galaxies winding across his ribs, nebulae blooming along his chest, symbols in delicate lines tucked just beneath his collarbone. One swirl of stars arcs from his shoulder down toward the curve of his hip, and beneath the trail of cosmic ink, near the sharp V of his pelvis, numbers and coordinates I don't yet understand mark his skin like secrets.

"You tattooed the universe onto your body,"

I whisper, awe catching in my throat.

He nods, stepping closer. He takes my hand, guiding it along the path of inked constellations, each star a point of connection between us. His touch is confident, yet tender, as if he's inviting me to explore the universe he's mapped on his skin.

As our fingers trace the celestial patterns, I feel a sense of wonder and intimacy, as if we're charting a course through the cosmos together. The room fades away, leaving only the warmth of his body. I barely manage a whisper.

"You... you have a nipple piercing to!"

He grins. A wicked, knowing grin.

"Two, actually. And you haven't even seen my comet trail."

I blink.

"Your what?"

He steps close, lips grazing my ear as he whispers.

"Relax. Let me show you why the stars don't lie."

My skin prickles. My heart pounds.

He reaches for the zipper of my dress, slow and deliberate, he murmurs against my neck.

"You've been dancing around me for too long. It's my turn, sweetheart."

The zipper slides down. My dress slips lower.

"God,"

he says.

"touching you is like a solar flare—sudden, searing, and unstoppable."

I laugh—a breathy, shocked kind of laugh—but it fades fast when he turns me around, one hand flat against my back, pressing me forward.

"You're breathtaking,"

he murmurs.

"Every. Damn. Time."

I want to speak, say something clever or teasing, but I can't. I'm too busy watching the shimmer of ink on his chest and wondering just how many galaxies he's hiding on his skin.

And in that moment, I believe him.

Clark Kent in the light.

Superman in the dark

The room is thick with heat and breath and something unspoken that's slowly settling between us like dust in moonlight. Liam's hand is still wrapped around my waist, his chest rising and falling against my back as he catches his breath. I can feel the beat of his heart against my spine—steady, strong, like an anchor.

For a while, neither of us speaks. There's no need. The silence is full. Comfortable. Charged in a different way now. But then his lips brush my shoulder—soft, lingering—and he shifts slightly, guiding me to turn beneath him.

His fingers sweep gently across my cheek, down the curve of my jaw, then trace along the edge of my collarbone—slow, reverent, as if he's memorizing me all over again. Not with heat this time, but with wonder.

Then his mouth is on mine again—deeper this time, but slow, controlled. He kisses me like he's claiming new ground, like he's marking the moment into memory. And beneath the softness, I feel it. That coiled tension in him again. He's not done.

His lips curve—not into a smile, but something darker. Hungrier.

"Keep your eyes on me. No looking away"

he murmurs. I obey without hesitation, my body already aching for him.

In public, Liam was all quiet charm—glasses slipping down his nose, a thoughtful smile, the kind of man who let others speak first and lingered on the edge of a room like he was more comfortable watching the stars than standing in the spotlight.

But now, in private, something shifted. The softness peeled back, revealing something steel-edged and sure. His voice dropped lower, slower—less question, more command. His touch was no longer tentative, but deliberate, like he'd mapped every inch of me in his mind and was simply following constellations only he could see. He didn't hesitate. He took. He guided. And I followed—not because I was told to, but because I wanted to. Because in his arms, I was never unsure, never drifting.

He leaned in, his breath warm against my ear.

"You have no idea what you do to me,"

he whispered, his tone a blend of reverence and desire.

"Every moment with you is a discovery, a new theorem to solve."

His hands moved with purpose, tracing the lines of my body as if reading a beloved book. Each touch was a word, each caress a sentence, building a narrative only we understood.

"You're my favorite equation,"

he murmured, his lips brushing against my neck.

"Complex, beautiful, and endlessly fascinating."

In that moment, I saw the perfect blend of his dominant confidence and his nerdy charm. He was a man who could command a room with his presence, yet lose himself in the intricacies of a complex problem. He was both the anchor and the storm, the question and the answer.

Liam in private was gravity. Not loud, not boastful—but inescapable. A force you didn't run from. A force you surrendered to.

And he was not just claiming. He was possessing me.

He moves with smooth, confident thrusts—slow, deep, unhurried. Like he's savoring me. Like he's watching the stars move behind his eyes and this is the only orbit that matters. His fingers dig into my hips as he drives into me with deliberate control, grunting softly each time I gasp his name.

Even with my legs trembling and my body aching in the best possible ways, Liam doesn't let me go. He stays inside me, buried to the hilt, like he belongs there—and at this point, I'm starting to believe he does. I feel every breath he takes. Every twitch of control trying not to unravel again. His eyes stay locked on mine, even as his hips begin to move again—slow, purposeful, impossibly deep.

"I know you're tired,"

he murmurs, voice all gravel and reverence.

"But I'm not done claiming you yet."

A whimper slips from my lips, my body already shivering with fresh need.

"Turn over,"

he murmurs.

My breath catches, but I obey, rolling onto my stomach, hips lifted instinctively. I hear the soft rustle of him sheathing himself again, and then his hand slides over the small of my back, up to my shoulder blade, pressing me gently but firmly into the mattress.

"Good girl, Arch for me. Just like that, hold it."

he whispers.

As the night deepened, so did our connection, each shared breath and whispered word weaving us closer together. In his embrace, I found a sanctuary, a place where passion met intellect and where dominance met tenderness.

"You were amazing,"

I whispered, still catching my breath.

He smirked, a playful glint in his eyes.

"I know. You were moaning like a dying star—bright, desperate, folding in on yourself before exploding."

I gasped, then burst into laughter.

As the silence stretches between us, I find myself tracing the tattoos again, letting my fingers dance across the inked lines, the designs that tell a story I can only begin to understand. His hand moves to mine, guiding me gently, and I can feel the weight of his gaze on me, not demanding, but full of something, something I can't quite name.

"Tell me about them,"

I whisper, my voice soft, reverent. I can't help but be drawn to the intricate designs that weave across his skin like a map—like a secret language.

He takes a deep breath, his eyes distant for a moment.

"Each constellation represents a memory,"

he begins.

"The Orion's Belt here,"

he points to a trio of stars inked near his collarbone.

"was my mom's favorite. I used to tell her stories about it when I was a kid."

His fingers move to a series of numbers and symbols near his ribs.

"These are coordinates to the cabin where I used to stargaze. It's where I first fell in love with the night sky."

I listen, captivated, as he shares the stories behind each mark.

"The equations,"

he continues.

"are from my thesis on astrophysics. They remind me of the passion I have for understanding the universe."

He pauses, his voice tinged with emotion.

"When my mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer's, I started getting these tattoos. It was my way of preserving memories, of holding onto the moments that mattered."

"and this is a solitary star, representing Sirius—the brightest star in the night sky."

he adds.

"It serves as a beacon, representing the father I never knew. Just as Sirius shines brightly from afar, my father's influence is felt even in absence, guiding me through life's journey."

I squeeze his hand, feeling the depth of his love and the pain of his loss etched into his skin.

"They're beautiful,"

I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

He smiles, a mixture of sadness and gratitude in his eyes.

"They're my story,"

he replies.

"A map of who I am, where I've been, and the people I've loved."

I press a kiss to the starry tattoo on his chest, my lips lingering for a moment, grounding myself in the present, in this moment. There's a comfort here that feels almost foreign but so right, so natural. The flickering light from the stars above us, the faint hum of the night settling in the air—it's as if the universe itself has conspired to make this night perfect.

And for a moment, the world outside disappears. There's only us—two souls, intertwined under the stars. The night feels... magical. Like time itself has paused, and the world outside has faded into the background. The only thing that exists is the quiet rhythm of our breathing, the soft brush of my fingers against his skin, and the weight of his words as he shares pieces of himself with me.

But somewhere in the back of my mind, a whisper tries to intrude. It's not a voice from the past, but the shadows of it—the echoes of who I was before this. Before him.

I shake my head slightly, brushing away the thought. No. This moment, this night, is mine. I won't let the whispers of the past ruin it.

Still, as the night wraps around us, a feeling creeps in. A familiar insecurity that I can't shake off. What if this is just another fleeting moment? What if it's not real, not lasting? What if he—like everyone else—leaves when things get too complicated, too messy? or even when they are not messy?

I squeeze my eyes shut for a brief second, trying to push the thought aside. Why am I thinking this? I hate myself for it. For doubting him. For doubting me.

Is this what I've become? Someone who expects the worst, just because it's easier than hoping for something that might not last?

I don't want to feel this way. I want to be here—with him—without all the baggage of the past hanging over me. But the insecurities are gnawing at me, turning my stomach in a way I can't ignore. Will Liam, like Aaron, eventually grow tired of me? Will he, too, leave to make sure I was the one?

I shake my head again, refusing to let the doubt take over, but it lingers. It's the fear of being left behind. Of being just another person who couldn't measure up, couldn't hold his attention.

I know because I have to go back to my studio and I'll have to see Aaron. The thought curls in my stomach like cold wire.

Liam's hand rests on my shoulder, his thumb gently brushing the skin there as if he senses the shift in me, the quiet war waging within. He doesn't ask, doesn't push. He just holds me, grounding me once again in the present.

"Rest now,"

he murmured.

"The world can wait."

The words settle in my chest, warm and soothing, but my mind is still racing. How can I believe him when I can't even believe in myself anymore? When I can't shake the feeling that no matter how wonderful this night has been, it won't be enough to stop him from walking away eventually?

I rest my head against his chest again, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear. A heartbeat that's steady, warm, real.

"Thank you,"

I whisper,

Liam's fingers threaded gently through my hair, his touch a soothing rhythm that matched the cadence of my breath. His voice, low and steady, enveloped me like a warm blanket.

"I've got you,"

he murmured, his lips brushing against my temple.

"Right here, right now, you're safe."

I felt the weight of my worries begin to lift, replaced by the comforting presence of the man holding me. His arms tightened slightly around me, grounding me in the moment.

"Whatever demons you're facing,"

he continued, his voice a gentle anchor.

"we'll confront them together. But not tonight. Tonight, let them rest."

I nodded, the tension in my shoulders easing. In his embrace, the chaos of the world faded, leaving only the steady beat of his heart against mine.

"Breathe with me,"

he whispered, guiding me through each inhale and exhale.

"In this space, there's only peace."

As the minutes passed, I felt the storm within me quiet. Liam's presence was a balm, his unwavering support a reminder that I wasn't alone.

"When you're ready,"

he said softly.

"we'll face everything together. But for now, just be."

And in that moment, wrapped in his arms, I allowed myself to simply exist, free from fear, anchored by affection. But I know the weight of my past won't lift until I confront the demons I've tried so hard to ignore. I will face them soon.