Liam watched Sam from across the small patch of grass, her head tilted back as she laughed at something he said—something dumb, probably, but he didn’t care. The sound of her laughter, light and unburdened, wrapped itself around his chest in a way that made him forget for a moment everything outside of this small, imperfect world they were building. She didn’t even realize it, but she glowed when she was happy. Not in the loud, look-at-me kind of way, but in the soft, steady way sunlight warms a room without asking for permission. Liam tore his gaze away, forcing himself to focus on the iced tea sweating in his hand. He wasn’t supposed to be falling for her like this. Not when things between them were still so fragile. Not when she deserved more than what he was sure he could give. And yet... here he was. Falling anyway. When Sam started talking about Stanford, about the engineering degree she had put on hold, his chest tightened. She spoke about it so simply, like she wasn’t even aware of how much weight she carried on those small shoulders of hers. Like sacrificing her own dreams was just something anyone would have done. It gutted him. He knew what it was like to have dreams twisted into something else, beaten down by circumstances beyond your control. His father had tried to wring the artist out of him when he was barely a teenager. Liam still heard the words sometimes when he was alone: “You’ll never make anything real painting pictures all day.” But Sam? She hadn’t let life make her bitter. She hadn't lost herself in anger or resentment. She had kept moving, kept choosing love over grief. Choosing her brother over herself. He didn’t think he could admire someone more than he admired her in that moment. "You’re doing a lot," he told her, wishing he could say more—wishing he could wrap her up and take some of that burden off her, even if she didn’t want him to. When she shook her head and said, "I’m not trying to be some hero," he almost laughed. Because to him, that's exactly what she was. Not in some flashy, movie-worthy way. In the real way. The way that mattered. And when she doubted herself, when she said she wondered if she’d ever finish what she started—he found himself leaning in, not even thinking about it. "You will," he said, because it wasn’t just something to say. It was the truth. If anyone deserved to find her way back to her dreams, it was Sam. She looked at him then, a small, uncertain look, and Liam felt the ridiculous urge to kiss her right there in the middle of the farmers' market, powdered sugar from their pastries still clinging to their fingers. Instead, he just held her gaze, willing her to believe him. When she finally broke the moment by asking about him—about his past—he almost sighed in relief. She was always doing that, giving him little ways out without even realizing it. She didn’t push. Didn’t demand. Just waited. He kept it light, joking that he was still trying to figure it out. And it wasn’t a lie, not really. Sure, he had money, a reputation as an artist, some degree of success people seemed to think mattered. But inside, he was still the kid with paint-stained fingers, trying to make sense of a world that had never made much sense to begin with. The only real thing he was sure of lately... was her. As they sat there, crumbs scattered between them and sunlight weaving through the leaves overhead, Liam let himself believe—just for a minute—that maybe it didn’t have to be so complicated. Maybe building something real wasn’t about grand designs or perfect timing. Maybe it was about small mornings like this one. About laughing over cheap pastries and telling the truth when it scared you. About finding someone who made breathing feel easier again. And he was ready to try. Liam stretched out his legs in the grass, his hand brushing the edge of Sam’s knee without meaning to. She didn’t move away, and something about that tiny detail sent a bolt of warmth through him. He wasn’t ready for this day to end. Not yet. “You know,” he said casually, watching her tear a croissant into tiny pieces, “I’m not just a guy who throws paint around. I’m a good cook too.” Sam glanced up, one eyebrow lifting in open disbelief. “You can cook?” Liam chuckled. He wasn’t surprised by her reaction, most people assumed he lived off takeout and instant coffee, some starving-artist stereotype. And sure, there had been years like that, but after his mom passed, cooking had become... necessary. Therapeutic, even. “Yeah. Real food. Not just cereal or frozen pizza,” he said with a smirk. “I’m not saying I’m a five-star chef or anything, but I can hold my own.” Sam laughed, shaking her head like she wasn’t sure whether to believe him. “Okay, I’m officially intrigued.” He hesitated for half a second, heart beating a little faster, before he added, “If you’re not busy later... you could come by. I could make you something. You know, to prove I’m not a liar.” The words hung between them, soft and open, no pressure behind them, just an invitation. Sam looked at him then, her teeth tugging gently at her lower lip like she was weighing it all carefully in her mind. He could see the flash of hesitation in her eyes—the part of her that wasn’t sure, that still guarded herself even when she didn’t want to. He didn’t blame her. Hell, he was surprised she trusted him at all after everything. Liam shifted, giving her space to say no without making it weird. “Only if you want to. No pressure. Seriously.” For a second, he thought she might say no, and he would’ve understood. But then Sam smiled, that small, almost shy smile she didn’t let out often enough, and said, “Okay. Yeah. I’d like that.” Relief, and something deeper he didn’t want to name yet—rushed through him. He stood up first, holding out his hand to her without even thinking. Sam hesitated, but then slid her fingers into his, letting him pull her to her feet. Her hand was warm in his, and he didn’t let go right away. Neither did she. They gathered their things, walking side by side through the thinning crowd at the market. Liam caught himself stealing glances at her more than once, wondering how the hell he had gotten so lucky. When they reached the edge of the lot, Liam unlocked his car and held the door open for her without thinking about it. Sam gave him a look—half amused, half something he couldn’t quite name, but she didn’t tease him for it. She just climbed in, setting the small paper bag of pastries on her lap. Liam walked around to the driver’s side, slid behind the wheel, and turned the key. The engine rumbled to life, and for a few seconds, neither of them said anything. The sounds of the market faded behind them as they pulled out onto the quiet street. Sam leaned her head back against the seat, a small, content sigh slipping from her lips. Liam kept his eyes on the road, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth anyway. This wasn’t what he planned when he woke up this morning. But somehow, it felt like exactly where he was supposed to be.
Liam watched Sam from across the small patch of grass, her head tilted back as she laughed at something he said—something dumb, probably, but he didn’t care. The sound of her laughter, light and unburdened, wrapped itself around his chest in a way that made him forget for a moment everything outside of this small, imperfect world they were building. She didn’t even realize it, but she glowed when she was happy. Not in the loud, look-at-me kind of way, but in the soft, steady way sunlight warms a room without asking for permission. Liam tore his gaze away, forcing himself to focus on the iced tea sweating in his hand. He wasn’t supposed to be falling for her like this. Not when things between them were still so fragile. Not when she deserved more than what he was sure he could give. And yet... here he was. Falling anyway. When Sam started talking about Stanford, about the engineering degree she had put on hold, his chest tightened. She spoke about it so simply, like she wasn’t even aware of how much weight she carried on those small shoulders of hers. Like sacrificing her own dreams was just something anyone would have done. It gutted him. He knew what it was like to have dreams twisted into something else, beaten down by circumstances beyond your control. His father had tried to wring the artist out of him when he was barely a teenager. Liam still heard the words sometimes when he was alone: “You’ll never make anything real painting pictures all day.” But Sam? She hadn’t let life make her bitter. She hadn't lost herself in anger or resentment. She had kept moving, kept choosing love over grief. Choosing her brother over herself. He didn’t think he could admire someone more than he admired her in that moment. "You’re doing a lot," he told her, wishing he could say more—wishing he could wrap her up and take some of that burden off her, even if she didn’t want him to. When she shook her head and said, "I’m not trying to be some hero," he almost laughed. Because to him, that's exactly what she was. Not in some flashy, movie-worthy way. In the real way. The way that mattered. And when she doubted herself, when she said she wondered if she’d ever finish what she started—he found himself leaning in, not even thinking about it. "You will," he said, because it wasn’t just something to say. It was the truth. If anyone deserved to find her way back to her dreams, it was Sam. She looked at him then, a small, uncertain look, and Liam felt the ridiculous urge to kiss her right there in the middle of the farmers' market, powdered sugar from their pastries still clinging to their fingers. Instead, he just held her gaze, willing her to believe him. When she finally broke the moment by asking about him—about his past—he almost sighed in relief. She was always doing that, giving him little ways out without even realizing it. She didn’t push. Didn’t demand. Just waited. He kept it light, joking that he was still trying to figure it out. And it wasn’t a lie, not really. Sure, he had money, a reputation as an artist, some degree of success people seemed to think mattered. But inside, he was still the kid with paint-stained fingers, trying to make sense of a world that had never made much sense to begin with. The only real thing he was sure of lately... was her. As they sat there, crumbs scattered between them and sunlight weaving through the leaves overhead, Liam let himself believe—just for a minute—that maybe it didn’t have to be so complicated. Maybe building something real wasn’t about grand designs or perfect timing. Maybe it was about small mornings like this one. About laughing over cheap pastries and telling the truth when it scared you. About finding someone who made breathing feel easier again. And he was ready to try. Liam stretched out his legs in the grass, his hand brushing the edge of Sam’s knee without meaning to. She didn’t move away, and something about that tiny detail sent a bolt of warmth through him. He wasn’t ready for this day to end. Not yet. “You know,” he said casually, watching her tear a croissant into tiny pieces, “I’m not just a guy who throws paint around. I’m a good cook too.” Sam glanced up, one eyebrow lifting in open disbelief. “You can cook?” Liam chuckled. He wasn’t surprised by her reaction, most people assumed he lived off takeout and instant coffee, some starving-artist stereotype. And sure, there had been years like that, but after his mom passed, cooking had become... necessary. Therapeutic, even. “Yeah. Real food. Not just cereal or frozen pizza,” he said with a smirk. “I’m not saying I’m a five-star chef or anything, but I can hold my own.” Sam laughed, shaking her head like she wasn’t sure whether to believe him. “Okay, I’m officially intrigued.” He hesitated for half a second, heart beating a little faster, before he added, “If you’re not busy later... you could come by. I could make you something. You know, to prove I’m not a liar.” The words hung between them, soft and open, no pressure behind them, just an invitation. Sam looked at him then, her teeth tugging gently at her lower lip like she was weighing it all carefully in her mind. He could see the flash of hesitation in her eyes—the part of her that wasn’t sure, that still guarded herself even when she didn’t want to. He didn’t blame her. Hell, he was surprised she trusted him at all after everything. Liam shifted, giving her space to say no without making it weird. “Only if you want to. No pressure. Seriously.” For a second, he thought she might say no, and he would’ve understood. But then Sam smiled, that small, almost shy smile she didn’t let out often enough, and said, “Okay. Yeah. I’d like that.” Relief, and something deeper he didn’t want to name yet—rushed through him. He stood up first, holding out his hand to her without even thinking. Sam hesitated, but then slid her fingers into his, letting him pull her to her feet. Her hand was warm in his, and he didn’t let go right away. Neither did she. They gathered their things, walking side by side through the thinning crowd at the market. Liam caught himself stealing glances at her more than once, wondering how the hell he had gotten so lucky. When they reached the edge of the lot, Liam unlocked his car and held the door open for her without thinking about it. Sam gave him a look—half amused, half something he couldn’t quite name, but she didn’t tease him for it. She just climbed in, setting the small paper bag of pastries on her lap. Liam walked around to the driver’s side, slid behind the wheel, and turned the key. The engine rumbled to life, and for a few seconds, neither of them said anything. The sounds of the market faded behind them as they pulled out onto the quiet street. Sam leaned her head back against the seat, a small, content sigh slipping from her lips. Liam kept his eyes on the road, but a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth anyway. This wasn’t what he planned when he woke up this morning. But somehow, it felt like exactly where he was supposed to be.
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