"You don't have to be a stubborn ass, you know?" I huffed, catching up to Liam as our building finally came into view. He was hunched over, one arm wrapped tight around his ribs, limping like every breath hurt.
I stepped under his arm and looped it over my shoulders. He didn't fight me — not this time. Maybe he was too exhausted, or maybe something had finally cracked open in him. Either way, I felt his weight lean into me. He was letting me carry some of it.
"Why are you being so nice to me?" he asked, voice frayed at the edges.
"You should try it sometime," I said lightly, and to my surprise, he actually smiled. Not his usual smirk — a real one. Quiet and almost shy.
That smile hit something deep in my chest.
I didn't say anything as we entered the lobby of our flat. He winced with every step, and I held on tighter, feeling more than just his physical weight. It was everything he wasn't saying, everything he carried, and strangely, it felt right being there with him, helping him, not because I had to, but because I wanted to.
He was letting me see something real. Something unguarded, and I liked him like this. Not loud or performative. Just Liam.
We rode the lift to the third floor, he slumped against the wall.
"Where are your keys?" I asked.
"You gonna rob me?" he muttered.
I rolled my eyes. "You're in no shape to stop me."
He handed them over with a weak scoff. I unlocked the door and helped him inside.
His place surprised me. It wasn't what I expected — not flashy, not overly masculine. Just... simple. Clean lines, muted colors. It felt like him, stripped of the mask.
I eased him onto the couch and headed to the kitchen, rummaging through his freezer until I found something frozen I could wrap in a dish towel.
"You're fussing," he groaned from the couch.
"I'm preventing permanent damage. You're already borderline tragic, don't push it." I returned to him and settled beside him, pressing the ice gently to his ribs. He hissed through his teeth as my elbow brushed against his side — even that light of a touch sent pain radiating through him.
"You're hurt," I said quietly, more to myself than to him.
"I'm fine."
I glanced at him. "Shut up and take your shirt off."
He raised an eyebrow. "Your foreplay needs work, doll face." But he didn't argue and with slow, careful movements, he peeled off the shirt he wore.
The breath caught in my throat. Bruises marred his ribs, dark and ugly, spreading down his side like ink in water. Faint scars crisscrossed his chest too. Old ones, thin and pale like ghost stories. I stared, not because of the damage, but because of the way it felt seeing him exposed like this. Raw. Human. Beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with perfection.
"I'm fine," he repeated softly, seeing my face.
"No," I said. "You're not."
"I've been worse."
"Lay down." To my surprise, he listened. I pulled him gently until his head rested in my lap. He let out a breath and I placed the ice on his ribs. Without really thinking, I ran my fingers through his hair.
He didn't pull away. His eyes closed, lashes dark against the swelling, and I kept combing gently through the mess of it, trying to soothe him. I could feel his tension slowly melting. My touch was the only sound in the room, soft and rhythmic.
The longer I sat there, the more I realized how much I wanted him to let me in. To let me stay because when Liam dropped the armor, when he stopped trying to be cold and distant and impossible, he wasn't some unreachable guy with secrets and smirks — he was just a man. And I, despite all odds, cared about that man.
He murmured, eyes still closed, "You don't have to sit with me."
"I know," I said, brushing his hair from his forehead. "Go to sleep."
But sleep didn't come. I could feel it in the tension returning to his shoulders, the restless way his breath caught. After a long pause, he sat up gingerly. "I need a drink."
I watched him stumble toward the kitchen, bare-chested and bruised, and something in me followed before I even made the decision to move. "I'll have one too," I said as I joined him.
He gave me a sidelong look but didn't protest. He grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniels and took a long swig. I took it from him after and pressed it to my lips, tasting the heat and weight of it. The bottle was still warm from his hands. Something about drinking from the same bottle made the air thin like we'd crossed some invisible line.
He watched me carefully, like he could feel it too.
I handed the bottle back and turned to his fridge, letting my eyes scan the photos tacked up there. I was trying to distract myself from the fact that I wanted to kiss him — badly. The thought was electric in my veins. My fingers itched.
One photo caught my eye. Two boys, arms around each other, smiling. One of them was Liam. The other was the man I saw in the hallway this morning. And outside The Safe tonight.
I stepped closer, hand reaching out to brush the image — Liam's hand slammed against the fridge, pinning the photo beneath his palm. The crack of skin on metal split the moment in half. Everything froze.
"Liam?" I yelped jumping from his sudden movement. His body was close, the warmth of it still electric — but his face had changed. The softness, the humor, the quiet — all gone. Every trace of vulnerability vanished behind something colder, sharper.
He was stone. His jaw tightened. "Get out."
"What? Why?"
"I said get out."
His voice was still low, but the edge in it made my stomach twist.
"I just... I just want to help." My words came out gentler than I meant them to, almost fragile.
His eyes shifted. Not angry — not yet, just worn and haunted.
"Please," he said. "Don't." His tone was sad, regretful even. There was something desperate under the surface, and I reached up without thinking, brushing my fingers along the line of his jaw. His reaction was immediate. Violent — not in force, but in energy. He grabbed my wrist and pushed my hand away, stepping back like my touch stung.
"Don't get close to me," he snapped, voice rougher now. "I'm no good."
"Liam—"
"I said GET OUT!" he shouted suddenly, his voice cracking the tension like a whip.
The heat that had been between us — seconds ago, alive — vanished. Gone in an instant. Replaced by something bitter and cold, a frigid wall rising out of nowhere.
The bottle in his hand trembled.
"Who is he?" I asked, eyes darting to the photo he still covered with his hand.
Then came the crash. He turned and hurled the bottle against the wall. Glass exploded. Whiskey sprayed across tile and brick and metal. I flinched hard, heart skidding.
"Liam!"
"OUT!" he roared, already moving toward the door. "I said OUT!"
He shoved it open and dragged me to it before I could even process the words.
"Liam, wait—" The door slammed behind me, loud and final. I stumbled back into the hallway, eyes wide, chest heaving. The silence hit like an aftershock.
Moments ago he'd had his head in my lap, my fingers in his hair, and now his door was shut and I smelled like liquor and regret. My throat burned.
And then, soft and almost hesitant behind me, a door creaked open. "Emma?" Harry's voice floated into the silence.
YOU ARE READING
Capture
Fanfiction[COMPLETED] You can't run forever, eventually you'll be captured. A dark past he's spent years running from threatens to swallow him whole after a simple knock on her door.
