Sam's POV
I tapped my pencil against the desk for what felt like the hundredth time, watching the page in front of me as if it might magically fill itself with words. The library smelled faintly of old books and polished wood—comforting, grounding—but my mind was spinning. Words about my family, my past, my burned home, and everything I hadn't shared yet with anyone.
"Still staring at that like it owes you money?" Liam's voice broke through my thoughts, and I flinched. Of course it did. I should have known he wouldn't let me brood in peace.
I looked up. He was leaning casually against the side of the table, arms crossed, that infuriating smirk firmly in place. My notebook practically radiated frustration.
"I was… thinking," I said, closing it a little too fast.
"Thinking, huh? Dangerous territory for you. Should I be worried?"
"Not really," I muttered, immediately regretting the soft tone.
"Not really?" he echoed, raising one brow. "Suspicious. Very suspicious."
I rolled my eyes. "Maybe I just need to focus."
"Focus, sure," he said, stepping closer, eyes scanning the page. "On doodles about your family heritage? That's what you call focusing?"
I groaned. "It's more than doodles! It's complicated."
"Everything about you is complicated," he said casually, though I could see the curiosity in his eyes, sharp and unyielding.
I felt my cheeks warm. "I'm just trying to figure out how to start. My family's history—it's not easy to sum up."
He leaned in, lowering his voice. "Start with what sticks. The good, the bad, the messy stuff people don't expect. Not what you think they want to hear."
I blinked at him. "That… actually helps."
"Of course it does. I'm brilliant like that," he said, smirking.
I groaned again, trying not to smile. "You're impossible."
"Maybe. But at least I'm honest," he countered smoothly.
I shook my head, trying to focus. But it was hard. Talking to him made my chest feel tight, made my hands fidget, and sent sparks of irritation and amusement at the same time.
Zoe plopped down beside me with her usual grin. "You two are at it again, huh? The silent 'I-will-not-talk-but-I-will-observe' thing?"
Liam smirked. "She started it."
I glared. "I did not—"
"Oh, come on," Zoe interrupted, raising her hands. "You both act like the world will explode if you speak. Just talk. Simple sentences. Low stakes. Try it."
I sighed. "Fine. We're working on a heritage project. About our families."
"And?" Zoe prompted.
"And I don't know how to start," I admitted quietly.
Liam leaned back, tapping the table. "Fair. Keep it honest. Keep it simple. The chaos, the messy parts, the fire and ashes, literally and metaphorically. People love that stuff."
"Easy for you to say," I muttered. "You probably have a neat, organized family history that doesn't include burned homes and… and nightmares."
His expression softened for a second, though it quickly hardened again. "I've got my own chaos. Trust me. You think it's just you?"
I blinked. "You're full of surprises. That's… not comforting."
He shrugged. "It's honest. And that's all I can give."
We dove back into the project, tossing ideas across the table. Words bounced, opinions clashed, and tempers flared for brief, heated moments.
"I don't want to make it sound sad," I said, tapping my pen nervously.
"You're overthinking," Liam shot back. "It's not a pity project—it's your story. Make it raw, make it real. Make it yours. Don't filter it for anyone."
"Easy for you to say," I muttered. "You've never had to—"
He stopped, giving me a steady look that made me pause. "Actually, don't assume I haven't. Everyone has chaos. Don't pretend yours is any less valid than mine."
I stared at him, too caught off guard to respond. That… that was the first time he'd said something that didn't cut or tease. Something that mattered.
The next few hours blurred. Ideas bounced, pencils scribbled, and notes piled up. At one point, our hands brushed while reaching for the same pen. I froze. My stomach did a backflip.
"Sorry," I whispered, pulling back.
"No need," he said softly, eyes locking with mine in a way that made my chest tighten.
We sat like that for a few seconds too long. Zoe nudged us, of course, but I didn't mind. Not then.
"Stop staring at each other," she said, rolling her eyes. "It's creepy."
I laughed quietly. "You're impossible."
"Maybe," she said, smirking.
By mid-afternoon, we'd compiled a rough outline of our project. Liam had argued with me, teased me relentlessly, and somehow, my heart felt lighter than it had in weeks.
"Caffeine?" he asked suddenly, shutting his notebook.
I raised an eyebrow. "What, like a celebratory coffee after surviving this torture session?"
"Exactly," he said, standing and stretching. "Victory drinks. Or at least… liquids that aren't water."
I smirked. "Fine. Let's go."
At the Café
The café was cozy, with sunlight streaming through tall windows. The smell of coffee and pastries filled the air, blending with faint chatter from other students who had wandered in after school.
We grabbed a corner booth. Liam leaned back, arms crossed, smirk in place, though his eyes had softened. I fiddled with my notebook, pretending to be interested in my sketch, but I was anything but.
"So, heritage project," he said. "Any revelations about your family yet?"
I shrugged. "A few. Nothing groundbreaking. Just… messy memories. Fire, moving houses, little victories, big losses."
He leaned closer. "Sounds like life. Honestly, that's what makes it good. Real. People like that."
"I feel like I'm airing out all the old wounds," I said quietly.
"Good," he said, a teasing grin appearing. "Better to air them than let them rot in the attic. Trust me."
We laughed, but it was a small, soft laugh. More comfortable than teasing, more personal than ordinary.
I stirred my drink, glancing at him. "You know… you're not as horrible as you think."
He smirked. "High praise coming from you. Should I frame it?"
"Definitely," I said, laughing.
Our conversation shifted naturally. Stories about school, small personal confessions, silly debates. I caught glimpses of him I hadn't seen before—the way he genuinely listened, the way he softened when he laughed, the way his eyes crinkled without the usual arrogance.
"You're tolerable," he said quietly, watching me stir my tea. "Maybe even enjoyable."
I felt my cheeks flush. "I… maybe," I whispered back, not trusting my voice to be any firmer.
There was a pause. A gentle, weightless pause, the kind that made the air between us feel thick and charged.
I wanted to ask him why he cared so much, why he lingered on words and glances. But I didn't. Not yet.
We spent the next hour there, bantering, teasing, and sharing bits of ourselves. I realized I could talk to him—not just about school projects, not just about trivial things—but really talk. About stories, fears, laughter. About me.
And he was listening. Really listening.
Liam's POV
I watched her—the way her fingers fiddled with the pen, the little furrow in her brow when she concentrated too hard, the way she laughed quietly at my stupid jokes.
She's fragile in a way that makes you want to protect her, and fierce in a way that makes you respect her. I don't know how to handle both at the same time.
We argued, teased, collided, and yet… she listens. She really listens. And when her hand brushed mine at the table, I didn't move away. I didn't want to.
There's something here—unspoken, tentative, fragile. Something worth noticing, worth protecting, worth… caring about.
At the café, over lattes and pastries, the laughter came easier. Banter became conversation. Conversation became something more.
I catch myself staring sometimes, too long, noticing details she doesn't realize. The curve of her smile, the way her hair catches the light, the softness in her eyes when she talks about things that matter.
And I want to know everything about her.
When she whispered, "I… maybe," my chest tightened. Maybe. That's all she said. But I felt it—the beginning of something.
Something fragile, tentative, but undeniably there.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't want to let it go.