Capture

Building Trust

It was early. Rain tapped softly against the glass of Liam's bedroom window as I lay lazily in his arms. He was still asleep, and yet I couldn't bring myself to look away. I stayed there, watching him, my fingers gently combing through his tousled brown hair. Stubble shadowed his strong jaw, and the slow, steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed was oddly mesmerizing—like proof that he was real.

Eventually, I peeled myself away, whispering a silent promise that he'd still be there after I made myself a cup of coffee. But even as I moved, the moment felt fragile—too perfect, too fleeting. A quiet fear crept in, the same one that always lingered at the edges of happiness. What if none of this was real? What if I woke up alone, and Liam was nothing more than a beautiful dream I'd convinced myself to believe? I couldn't shake the feeling.

I wandered into his kitchen in search of coffee, the quiet hum of the rain following me like a shadow. As I passed the fridge, my eyes landed on a photo—Liam and Louis, arms slung around each other, laughing. A sudden ache bloomed in my chest. Louis. I hoped he was safe, wherever he was.

Shaking the thought, I found a tin of coffee grounds tucked inside a cupboard and began scooping them into the small pot resting on the counter. The scent rose as the coffee began to percolate, rich and familiar. I stood there, waiting, half-wishing the caffeine would seep into my bloodstream just from the smell alone.

Walking back into Liam's room with two mugs in tow, I found him still buried beneath the covers, his breathing slow and steady. I crawled carefully into bed beside him, and the motion stirred him awake.

"Sorry," I whispered as his eyes fluttered open, heavy with sleep. "Go back to bed."

"I'm up," he murmured, voice thick with grogginess. He scooted closer until our noses brushed, resting his forehead gently against mine.

"You're looking better today," I said softly. "Less bruised."

"Your compliments need work, babe," he said, grinning through the sleep.

"You know I meant that as a good thing," I laughed. "You just look... less shitty than yesterday."

"Wow. Thanks."

"Hey, if it's any consolation, I still think you're cute—no matter how shitty you look."

"Oh, good. I'll let my stunning physical appearance slide, knowing you'll still love me."

"To an extent," I said, arching a brow.

"You can't have it both ways, doll face."

"But it's more fun if I can," I teased, drawing out a playful whine.

He shrugged. "I don't make the rules, doll face." I used to hate it when he called me that. It was a dig to make my skin crawl. But now, it gave me butterflies somehow. I love the way it rolls off his tongue, like it's ours.

"No, you just break them."

"Girls love the bad boys," he smirked, tossing the covers aside. As he stood, I caught a glimpse of the bruising—deep blues and purples blooming across his ribs. He winced as he pulled a shirt over his head.

"Where are you going?" I asked, watching him sit on the edge of the bed, attempting to tie his Converse with careful fingers.

"Out. I've got something I need to take care of," he replied, deliberately vague.

There it was again—that wall. Not tall enough to be obvious, but just high enough to keep me on the outside. He always said just enough to keep me calm, never enough to let me all the way in.

And even though I nodded, even though I smiled like it didn't sting, a quiet fear twisted in my chest: what if this is all he'll ever give me? Half-truths and soft kisses, distractions to keep me from noticing how much he still keeps hidden.