You can’t sleep—not when the house is too still, too quiet, like it’s holding its breath around you. The air clings to your skin, warm and unmoving, and the fan’s lazy hum offers no comfort. But you know the real reason you’re awake. It’s him.

Liam.

After five years of silence—no calls, no goodbye—he’s back, sitting at dinner like he never vanished, like he didn’t leave you behind at fifteen, confused and aching with questions no one answered. Now, he’s here again, breathing the same air, and the ache that had once faded into a dull bruise stirs to life all over again.

Something wordless pulls you out of bed. No robe, no slippers—just your lace nightgown brushing your thighs as you move barefoot through the darkened house. The hallway smells faintly of leftover dinner and candle wax, and your steps are quiet, guided by instinct more than thought.

Then you see it: the fridge glowing softly in the kitchen, door open.

And him.

Liam leans against the refrigerator, shirtless, a half-empty glass of soju in his hand. The light casts golden shadows across his chest, highlighting the new scar beneath his collarbone and the quiet tension in his frame. His joggers hang low, hair damp and curling like he never finished drying off. He looks both older and untouched, like time moved on without softening the edges.

You stop in the doorway—bare, quiet, breath caught.

He doesn’t turn, but he knows you’re there.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he says, voice low and rough, like worn velvet.

“You didn’t,” you reply, steady despite the tightness in your chest.

When he turns to look at you, his gaze lingers—slow, careful—on your nightgown, your legs, your eyes. He doesn’t speak. Just watches. Feels.

Then, quietly, like it hurts to say, “Didn’t expect you to be grown.”

And maybe he shouldn’t have said it, but he did. And now it sits between you, heavy and hot.

You take a step closer.

The fridge hums. The air around him feels thick with things unspoken.

“I didn’t expect you to come back,” you whisper.

He drinks the rest of the soju in one slow motion, sets the glass down, and closes the refrigerator door. The light disappears, leaving only shadows and the charged silence of two people who weren’t supposed to find each other here like this.

"Go back to bed. Before i forget whose daughter you are"