Page 12

PIPER

T wo days after The Kiss That Never Happened (as I've labeled it in my mental filing system), I'm sitting in Ryan's borrowed office space, staring at my laptop screen while avoiding eye contact with Liam Sullivan.

Outside, the sky threatens snow, the clouds hanging low and heavy like the awkward tension between us.

The weekend before Thanksgiving break feels suspended in a strange limbo—campus energy simultaneously winding down and ramping up for finals season.

"So," I finally break the silence, voice overly bright, "for our third Love Lab Experiment, I thought we could try the 36 Questions That Lead to Love study."

Liam, who's been pretending to read something on his phone, jerks his head up. "The what now?"

"It's a psychological study by Dr. Arthur Aron," I explain, slipping into academic mode like a comfortable sweater. "The premise is that mutual vulnerability fosters closeness. Thirty- six specific questions that escalate in intimacy, followed by four minutes of sustained eye contact."

"Eye contact," he repeats, looking anywhere but at me. "Great."

Since the coffee shop kiss, we've managed exactly one brief text exchange:

We should probably discuss what happened

LIAM

Probably

Followed by radio silence.

"It's perfect for the podcast," I continue, pretending my heart isn't pounding like a timpani. "Demonstrating how structured conversation frameworks can accelerate emotional connection. We'll select the most podcast-appropriate questions."

“Got it. Podcast-appropriate." He runs a hand through his already sexily tousled dark hair. "So, we're just...not going to talk about the other night?"

“You were the one who seemed to decide that.” I swallow hard. “And upon reflection…I think you were right not to address it.”

His dark brows lift. “You do?”

“Yeah, I do. I think it's safer that way, don't you? For the podcast. For our arrangement. For Derek.”

I cough lightly.

"So, the questions." I push forward. "I've prepared a recording setup. We'll answer the questions honestly but remember we're selecting excerpts for the podcast, so?—"

"Keep it PG-13?" The corner of his mouth quirks up.

"Exactly." I feel myself relax…fractionally. "Ready?"

He gestures to the recorder. "Hit it, Thompson."

I press record, and we begin.

The first few questions are innocuous enough.

If you could have dinner with anyone in the world, who would it be?

(Liam picks Wayne Gretzky; I choose investigative journalist Ronan Farrow).

What would constitute a perfect day for you?

(His involves hockey, pancakes, and a beach sunset. Mine involves bookstores, perfect coffee, and uninterrupted writing time).

But as the questions deepen, so does something in the space between us.

"Question twelve," I read. "If you could wake up tomorrow having gained any one quality or ability, what would it be?"

Liam's quiet for a moment, his usual quickness to answer fading. "I'd want to be more... present," he finally says. "Less caught up in trying to be who everyone expects me to be."

I blink. “Who do they expect you to be?"

"Connor," he says softly. "My brother. The perfect son. Perfect player. Perfect…everything."

I find myself leaning forward, recorder forgotten. "And who do you want to be?"

His eyes meet mine, hazel-green and unexpectedly steady. "Just Liam. Whoever that is."

The rest of the questions flow more naturally.

We discuss childhood memories, hidden fears, when we last cried—even if it was from laughing at some silly movie.

With each answer, the Liam I thought I knew—the carefree jock with the easy smile—transforms into someone more layered.

More thoughtful. And achingly real.

"Question thirty," I continue, my voice having grown softer over the hour we've been talking. "Share an embarrassing moment in your life."

He laughs suddenly. "Freshman year, I was trying to impress this girl in my English class. Decided to quote Shakespeare, only I mixed up my quotes completely and ended up saying 'To infinity and beyond' as if Buzz Lightyear was the great romantic poet of our time."

I scoff. “Please tell me she called you out."

"Mercilessly," he confirms with a grin. “Your turn now.”

I hesitate. "Last year, I gave an entire presentation with my skirt tucked into my tights. Didn't realize until I'd been standing with my entire ass out in front of thirty people for fifteen minutes."

"Ouch. What did you do?"

"What any reasonable academic would do," I deadpan. "I pretended it was an intentional feminist statement on vulnerability and power dynamics, untucked my skirt, and continued without missing a beat."

He laughs, the sound warming the small office space. "That's the most Piper Thompson thing I've ever heard."

By the final question—"If you were to die this evening with no opportunity to communicate with anyone, what would you most regret not having told someone?"—we're sitting much closer than when we started, the recorder between us on the desk almost forgotten.

"I'd regret not telling my dad and my brothers how much their support has meant," I admit. "Especially after Mom died. And... I'd regret not telling myself that it's okay to occasionally color outside the lines I've drawn."

Liam's eyes don't leave mine. "I'd regret not telling my parents that I need to find my own path. And I'd regret..." he pauses, "not seeing where certain unexpected connections might lead."

Gravity seems to leave the room in that instant.

I resist the urge to grab the recorder and hit pause.

"We're supposed to do four minutes of eye contact now," I murmur.

"Think we've had enough practice with that already," he replies, his voice low.

Before either of us can say more, my phone buzzes loudly against the desk.

DEREK

Party at Hockey House tonight. Bring Abigail if you want.

I show Liam the text.

“Shit. I forgot about that damn thing.”

I sigh. “Me too. Or maybe my brain involuntarily pushed it out of my thoughts.”

“Likely the latter.” He pauses. “Are you going?"

I glance over at him. “Are you?"

"It's my team,” he points out with a half-smile. "Kind of have to."

I take a deep breath. "Then I guess I'll see you there."

Hockey House thrums with bass-heavy music and the chaotic energy of athletes celebrating a pre-Thanksgiving win.

Abigail abandoned me for the dance floor within minutes of arriving, leaving me clutching a red cup of suspicious-looking punch while trying to look like I belong.

I spot Liam across the room, surrounded by teammates, his easy laugh visible even from here.

Our eyes meet briefly before Derek materializes at my side.

“Glad you made it, Pipe.” He nudges me. “I know this kinda thing isn’t usually your scene, but…”

"Expanding my horizons.” I raise my solo cup and tentative sip of the punch, immediately regretting it. “Christ Almighty, what is in this, battery acid?"

"Ryan's special recipe. Don't ask." Derek's gaze follows mine across the room to where Liam stands. "You two seem... friendly lately."

"It's for the podcast. It’s professional. You know that.”

"Professional," he repeats skeptically. "Is that why he can't stop looking over here every thirty seconds?"

"We're conducting an experiment on sustained eye contact," I blurt out, then wince at how that sounds.

Derek's expression darkens. "Pipe, I know you're an adult, but Sullivan's not... he doesn't do serious. Not with anyone."

"Neither do I.” I frown. “In case your memory needs jogging, big brother of mine…I have a fellowship to win, grad school applications, a career to build. Dating isn't even on my radar."

"Good.” He takes a sip from his own cup. “Because guys like Liam are fun for a season, but they're not there for the championship, if you know what I mean."

Before I can respond, he's pulled away by a teammate, leaving me with his warning and the horrible punch.

I set the cup down and head for the back porch, needing fresh air and space from the curious looks being thrown between my brother and his teammates.

The porch is mercifully quiet, occupied only by Wren, who sits wrapped in what I recognize as Kellan's hockey jacket.

"Escaping the chaos?" she asks with a sympathetic smile.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only to a fellow hockey-adjacent introvert." She pats the bench beside her. "It took me months to get comfortable at these things."

I sit, grateful for her calm presence. "How did you and Kellan even happen? You seem so..."

"Different?" She snorts. “We are. I’m a walking disaster with paint in my hair and no idea what day it is. He’s the kind of guy who sets calendar reminders for his calendar reminders."

I laugh, recognizing the dynamic all too well.

"The secret," she continues, "is realizing that different doesn't mean incompatible. My chaos challenges his control. His steadiness gives me something solid to lean on—even when I pretend I don’t need it."

"But practically speaking," I press, "how do you make it work? With his hockey schedule, your art deadlines..."

"Compromise. Lots of communication." She smiles softly. "And accepting that sometimes the most unexpected combinations create the most interesting results. As an artist, I'm drawn to contrasts."

"Derek thinks I should stay away from teammates," I admit.

"Derek," Wren says, “like every older brother—is overprotective and knows exactly how his friends talk about girls they're not serious about." She gives me a look. "But I've never seen Liam look at anyone the way he looks at you.”

I start to protest, but she holds up a hand.

"I'm not saying jump into anything. Just... don't dismiss possibilities based solely on categories and preconceptions. That's all."

As if summoned by our conversation, Liam appears at the porch door, his eyes finding mine immediately.

"Sorry to interrupt," he says, looking between us. "Ryan's about to attempt karaoke. Thought you might want to witness the impending disaster, Piper."

"For podcast research?" I ask, smiling.

"Obviously. Purely professional study of embarrassment thresholds in social settings."

As I stand to follow him inside, Wren catches my eye with a smile that makes me wonder if I'm as transparent as I feel.

For someone who prides herself on careful planning, I'm suddenly afraid I've stumbled into something I never anticipated—and even more afraid I might not want to find my way back out.