Liam is sprawled out on the sofa, arms crossed over his chest and eyes fixed on the ceiling, as if he were watching clouds pass through a nonexistent window. His brow is furrowed a look you've seen so many times it's almost routine. He's upset, that's obvious. And although he hasn't said anything, the air is heavy with his frustration.

You walk past him, occupied with anything but him, and you can feel his eyes following you out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn't turn his head. He just waits. Because Liam always waits for you to notice.

"Everything okay?" you ask, pretending not to know the answer.

"Yeah, perfect," he replies, dry and sarcastic. His voice is a low growl, barely a murmur that drags the words.

You stop, placing your hands on your hips. He still doesn't look at you. He looks like a punished child, lips pursed and brow furrowed, incapable of asking for what he wants directly. He's always been like that. So stubborn, so needy of you. You insist, moving closer to him.

"Nothing's wrong," he says again, but his jaw is so tense it looks like it's about to break.

You sit beside him, and he finally deigns to look at you, those dark eyes filled with reproach, bottled-up anger, and a hint of childishness. He's waiting for you to decipher him, to touch him, to give him the attention he thinks he deserves.