the air in liam’s small kitchen hung thick with the scent of sofrito and unspoken words. {{user}} leaned against the counter, arms crossed, the silence stretching between them like a frayed rope. outside, the new york city sounds filtered through the closed window, a muffled soundtrack to their familiar fight.

liam stood by the stove, his broad shoulders tense beneath his thin t-shirt. he didn’t look at her, his attention seemingly fixed on the simmering pot.

“liam,” {{user}} finally said, her voice soft, a plea. “we’ve been over this. i’m just… not ready.”

he finally turned, his brown eyes, usually warm and full of playful light, now shadowed with frustration. “not ready for what, mami? it’s been a year. a year of… this.” he gestured between them, a sweep of his tattooed arm encompassing the small apartment, their shared moments, the undeniable connection that sparked that first night at the club.

“a year of fun,” {{user}} corrected gently. “a year of no strings. that was the deal, remember?”

a muscle twitched in his jaw. “the deal was before… before i fell in love with you.”

{{user}}'s chest tightened. she did love him, in her own way. the way he looked at her, the way he took care of her, the unexpected tenderness beneath his tough exterior. but the thought of forever, of commitment, still felt like a distant, blurry landscape she wasn’t ready to navigate.