That night, sleep refused to come to Liam.
He lay flat on his bed, one arm thrown over his eyes, the room quiet except for the slow ticking of the clock on the wall. Yet his mind was anything but calm. Every time he closed his eyes, Oliver was there—laughing softly in the lab, blushing during the game, standing too close on the balcony, warm and real.
He stretched his hand forward, the image of Oliver appearing in front of him.
"Oliver, what did you do to me?"
He jerked his hand forward, meeting thin air.
Liam turned onto his side, then onto his back again. The sheets felt heavy. The air felt thick. His chest rose and fell unevenly as a dull heat spread through him from the pit of his stomach.
"Damn it…" he muttered under his breath as he looked down at himself. He can't believe someone can make him as miserable as this.
Oliver's voice echoed in his head. Oliver's smile. The way he had leaned into him without even realizing it. The way his name sounded when Oliver said it—soft, unguarded.
Liam's fingers curled into the bedsheet. His skin felt warm, almost feverish, a thin sheen of sweat forming along his temples. When he couldn't take it anymore, he reached out for his belt, unbuckling it impatiently. His hands moving lower. And without thinking, he grabbed.
A wave of electric current swept through him.
He exhaled sharply, a low sound escaping his throat before he could stop it. He pressed his face into the pillow, trying to breathe. But it was as if a mountain was pressed against his chest.
His breathing came out ragged and uneven...
Guilt and shame followed close behind the desire—heavy and suffocating. Lorette, his mother's voice, the word wrong echoing again and again in his mind. And yet, no matter how hard he tried, Oliver's presence refused to leave him.
"Why you…" Liam whispered hoarsely into the darkness, as if Oliver could hear him.
His heart pounded wildly, torn between what he was supposed to feel and what he already did. By the time exhaustion finally dragged him into a shallow sleep, his sheets were damp with sweat...
Since then, Liam became a stranger to his own body.
He noticed it first in small, frightening ways.
Whenever Oliver smiled, Liam's attention would lock onto his mouth without permission. His gaze lingering on his lips wondering if it's as soft as he had imagined, thoughts stalling as if the world around them had dimmed.
He would look away too late, heat crawling up his neck as Oliver glared at him in anger.
Sometimes, when Oliver laughed too freely or leaned too close, Liam's hand would move on instinct—resting at Oliver's waist, grounding himself there as if Oliver had always belonged to him . Him only and no one else.
Oliver would always stiffen, startled, and push him away with an embarrassed huff.
"Liam, stop that," Oliver would mutter, cheeks flushed.
Liam would pull away immediately, guilt crashing over him. "Sorry. I didn't mean to—"
But the truth was, he did. And that scared him.
At night, Liam would lie awake, wondering why Oliver had always made him feel this way. He couldn't recall a time he felt like this with Lorette. He hated himself for the way his mind lingered on the strange comfort of imagining Oliver close.
This isn't normal, Liam kept telling himself.
And yet, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop his thoughts running out of control most times.
It was a quiet Sunday evening, and Oliver stood in front of his small mirror, unsure of what to wear. This wasn't a big event for him anyway—just a birthday party. Still, his fingers hovered over his few neatly folded clothes, hesitation settling in his chest. In the end, he chose something simple: a clean sports outfit, comfortable and familiar.
"Good enough," he murmured to himself.
When he arrived at the address Liam had sent him, Oliver almost wondered if he had made a mistake. Lorette's house stood tall and elegant behind a large gate, but there was no sound at all. No music. No laughter. Nothing that suggested a party was happening inside.
The silence calmed him slightly.
He showed the invitation on his phone to the security guard at the gate. The man glanced at it, nodded once, and allowed him in. Oliver walked through the wide compound, his footsteps echoing softly against the stone path.
Inside the large sitting room, the quiet remained. The space was too clean, too still. Oliver stood there awkwardly, hands at his sides, wondering if he had come too early.
A maid noticed him then. She paused, studying his confused expression, and smiled politely.
"The party is upstairs," she said kindly. "Second floor. Last room to the left."
"Thank you," Oliver replied softly.
As he climbed the stairs, his heart began to beat faster. He stopped in front of the door the maid had described and took a deep breath, steadying himself. Just go in, he told himself.
The moment he opened the door, sound exploded around him.
Loud music crashed over him like a wave, so sudden and overwhelming it almost made him step back. His ears rang as flashing lights and movement filled his vision, the calm he had felt moments ago completely shattered.
Oliver stood frozen at the entrance, caught between the quiet world he had just left behind and the noisy, unfamiliar one he had just stepped into.
Lorette stood near the center of the room, her arm looped possessively around Liam's. She smiled brightly as guests arrived one after another, greeting them with practiced warmth, accepting compliments and laughter like they belonged to her. This was her night, after all.
When the door opened again, the sound cut through the music just enough to catch her attention. Still smiling, Lorette turned, already preparing another cheerful greeting—only for the smile to stiffen on her lips.
It was Oliver.
He stood awkwardly at the entrance, shoulders slightly tense, eyes darting around as if he wasn't sure where to go. For a brief second, Lorette simply stared at him, surprise flashing through her eyes before it was quickly buried under composure.
Liam, meanwhile, had been finding the party unbearably dull. Despite the noise and people, his attention kept drifting to the door. He had checked it more times than he could count, half-convinced Oliver wouldn't come after all. Maybe he changed his mind, Liam had thought bitterly.
Then he noticed Lorette turning.
Something about the way her body stiffened made him follow her gaze.
His heart jumped when he saw Oliver standing there.
Without thinking, Liam pulled his arm free from Lorette's grip and moved quickly through the room. "Oliver," he said, relief slipping into his voice before he could stop it.
Lorette's fingers curled into her palm. Heat rose to her face—not just from anger, but from embarrassment. A few people noticed. A few exchanged looks. But she forced her smile back into place, smoothing her dress as if nothing had happened.
She turned to the next guest, greeting them sweetly, even as her eyes flicked once more—sharp and cold—toward Oliver and Liam standing together.
The party went on.