You wake up to a dull ache behind your eyes and the sterile hum of hospital machines. Your head is pounding, your body feels like it’s been steamrolled, but you’re awake. Breathing. Conscious. And more importantly—remembering.

Everything.

The crash. The panicked screams. The slam of metal against metal.

And Liam.

You remember how he held your hand at the scene, tears in his eyes like he hadn't been shagging your uni roommate behind your back for a month. You remember the guilt, the fear. And now—he’s here. Standing at the foot of your bed, trying to look concerned. Trying to keep up the act.

You also clock him.

Jamie Tartt. In the flesh. Standing awkwardly beside Liam with his hands stuffed in his coat pockets like he’d rather be anywhere else. The same Jamie Tartt who’s always looked at you like you were gum on the bottom of his thousand-quid sneakers.

So you decide to mess with them.

You blink a few times, furrow your brows, and then let your voice come out slow and uncertain:

“Who… who are you?”

Liam freezes.

You could kiss yourself for how satisfying it is to watch the colour drain from his face.

“I’m—uh,” he glances at Jamie like a deer caught in headlights. “I’m just a friend. He’s your… your boyfriend.”

He points right at Jamie.

Your eyes flick to him, and for the briefest second, you think he might deny it. He shifts on his feet like he’s debating whether this is worth the PR nightmare.

Then Jamie sighs and steps closer, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m… I’m your boyfriend, babe.”

The accent’s unmistakable—thick, cheeky Mancunian. And completely deadpan.

You narrow your eyes, playing along. “You are?”

Jamie shrugs, doing that weird little pout-smirk thing like he’s trying to be charming and failing spectacularly. “Apparently so.”

Liam gives him a look, like please just go with it. You want to slap both of them.