Chapter 3: The Almost
Matt offered Zara a conciliatory smile as he returned from the bar, and she forced one in return, a brittle facsimile of warmth. “Everything sorted?” he asked, his polite tone barely masking his annoyance as he handed her the fresh drink. She nodded, taking it without drinking. “Shall we get out of here?” he suggested, his hand finding the small of her back.
She said yes. Turning to where Liam still stood, a statue against the shifting crowd, she simply said, “Goodbye, Liam.” His expression didn’t change, but his eyes held hers for a second too long as Matt guided her toward the door.
In the Uber, Matt asked, “So, who was that guy?” His voice was light, but she felt the probe beneath it. “Just an old friend,” Zara said, watching the wet city lights smear past her window. “Online friend.” Matt made a vague, understanding sound and let it drop, his hand resting on her knee.
Back in her living room, the single lamp cast long shadows. His kiss was practiced, insistent, his hands roaming her back as he leaned into her on the couch. She kissed him back, but her mind was a splintered replay of Liam’s voice: It makes me want to put my fist through a wall. Matt’s touch felt transactional where Liam’s gaze had felt like a confession.
His fingers slid up her thighs, seeking the hem of her underwear with an eagerness that snapped her back into her body. She flinched, placing a hand on his chest. “Wait,” she breathed, pulling her face from his. “I’m sorry, I… I can’t. I’m really tired.”
Matt drew back, confusion hardening his polite features. “Seriously?” He let out a short, frustrated laugh. “You brought me back here.” “I know,” she said, tugging her dress down. “I just need to sleep.”
Her phone, face-down on the coffee table, buzzed once, vibrating against the wood. They both stared at it. It buzzed again, a double text. Matt looked from the phone to her face, his own tightening with dawning comprehension. “Is that him?” he asked, the name ‘Liam’ heavy in the silent room.
The phone buzzed a third time, a sharp indictment against the wood. “It might be,” Zara admitted, the lamplight casting her face in uncertain shadows. “I should probably check it.”
Matt stood up, putting physical space between them on the couch. “You should probably do a lot of things,” he said, his voice tight. “Look, I’m not an idiot. You’ve been somewhere else all night.”
“I know. I’m sorry, Matt.” She pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them. “I really am. I know I led you on.”
He let out a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. “Especially by inviting me back here,” he said, stating the obvious she was trying to articulate. “That does generally imply a certain… progression.”
“It does. And that’s on me.” She glanced at the silent, dark screen of her phone. “I thought I wanted a distraction. From him. From all of it.”
“But you don’t.” It wasn’t a question. He shoved his hands in his pockets, looking more resigned than angry now. “You’re still stuck on your ‘old friend’”
Zara had no defense for that. It was the unvarnished truth. “It’s more complicated than it seems.”
“It always is,” Matt said, heading for the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. “For what it’s worth, I hope he’s worth the drama.”
The door clicked shut behind Matt, the sound final in the quiet apartment. Zara sat frozen on the couch, the echo of his parting words dissolving into the hum of the refrigerator. She let out a shuddering breath, the green silk of her dress now feeling like a costume she needed to shed.
She trudged to her bedroom, peeling the dress off and letting it pool on the floor. In an old t-shirt, she crawled under the duvet but sleep was a distant country. The dark ceiling offered no answers, only a blank screen for her regrets.
Her phone glowed on the nightstand, a silent accusation. She grabbed it, the cool glass against her palm. Three notifications from Liam waited, each a little explosion of time.
The first, sent minutes after she’d left him at the bar: I shouldn’t have said that. Any of it.
The second, an hour later: You’re right. It’s my fault.
The third, sent just ten minutes ago, well after she’d left with Matt: I’m not good at this. But seeing you with him felt like watching my own funeral.
She stared at the last line until the letters bled together. Her thumbs hovered over the screen, the glow etching patterns on her face in the dark room. She typed three words, deleted them, then typed two more.
Zara: Hi Liam. Are you awake?
The ‘Seen’ receipt appeared instantly. Three dots pulsed, stopped, then pulsed again with a frantic rhythm.
Liam: Yes.
Zara: I can’t stop thinking about what you told me at the bar.
The dots cycled for a long moment.
Liam: What part?
She drew her knees up, the duvet pooling around her. The blank space above her couch felt like it was watching.
Zara: All of it. The glass cracking. What you imagined. She swallowed, her throat dry. You imagining it was you.
His reply was slower this time, each word arriving with deliberate space between them.
Liam: I shouldn’t have said that. It wasn’t fair to put that on you.
Zara: It wasn’t. But you did. She took a shaky breath, the memory of Matt’s hands on her thighs a sharp contrast. You asked about Matt.
Liam: I don’t want to know.
Zara: He’s gone. I sent him home.
The three dots appeared and vanished repeatedly, as if he was typing and erasing a novel. A full minute bled by in silence.
Liam: Why?
Zara: Because he wasn’t you. The truth, sent into the digital void, felt like stepping off a ledge. And I couldn’t stop thinking about you watching your own funeral.
His response came back in a brutal, simple rush.
Liam: So what does that mean?
Zara stared at his question glowing on the screen, the darkness of her bedroom pressing in. She could feel the ghost of Matt’s hands on her thighs, the sting of Liam’s confession in the bar. Her fingers moved before her courage failed.
Zara: It means I’m sitting here in the dark thinking about you.
She sent it, her pulse hammering in her throat. The three dots appeared instantly, a frantic heartbeat in the digital space between them.
Liam: I’m doing the same.
The admission, so simple, undid her. She pictured him in his quiet flat, the city lights his only company. The memory of his cracked pint glass, the foam dripping over his knuckles, flashed behind her eyes.
Zara: Is it stupid that I want to see you? Like, right now?
She held her breath, watching the dots cycle and stop, cycle and stop. His reply was cautious, measured.
Liam: Now? It’s past one.
Zara: I know what time it is. I’m asking if you’re free.
A longer pause stretched, thin and taut. She heard the echo of his voice from the bar: I’m asking now.
Liam: Free, yes. But it’s a terrible idea.
Zara: Why?
Liam: Because I won’t be able to pretend anymore. And neither will you.
The truth of it was a current in the dark room. She typed slowly, each letter a commitment.
Zara: I don’t want to pretend. That’s the point.
His response was quicker this time, stripped bare.
Liam: Where?
She exhaled, a shaky laugh escaping her. This was really happening.
This was really happening.
"Send me your address," she typed, the command quiet and final in the dark. "I'll drive over." He sent it thirty seconds later—a suburb, a street name, a number—a digital key to a world she’d only imagined. Zara swung her legs out of bed, the cool floor jolting her awake. She shrugged off her t-shirt and pulled on a soft grey tank top, her skin still humming from the earlier, unwanted touch.
She stepped into loose black sleep shorts, her reflection in the dark window a ghost of intention. She didn't put on a bra; the fabric of the tank top was thin, the night air a whisper against her skin as she grabbed her keys. The drive was a blur of orange streetlights and her own racing thoughts. She parked outside a modest, single-level brick unit, its garden neat but lonely under the moonlight.
She walked to the door, the concrete cold through her thin socks. She knocked twice, the sound stark in the silent street. The door opened and there he was, backlit by the warm glow of a living room lamp, wearing a worn black t-shirt and jeans. He looked older than he had in the bar shadows, the lines around his eyes deeper, his expression unguarded and raw.
"Hi," she said, her voice smaller than she intended.
"Hey." He stepped back to let her in, his gaze sweeping over her—the sleep shorts, the tank top, her wild curls, the beautiful, vulnerable reality of her standing on his threshold at nearly two in the morning. The air inside smelled of old books, clean laundry, and the faint, earthy scent of him. He closed the door softly, the click sealing them in a new kind of silence.
"You came," he said, stating the obvious because every other thought was too dangerous.
"You sent the address." She shifted her weight, suddenly aware of the thinness of her top. "Was this the terrible idea?"Yes." He didn't look away from her. "Probably."
"But you still let me in."
"Of course I let you in," he said, his voice rough. "Do you have any idea how you look right now?" The question hung between them, a confession in its own right. She glanced down at herself, then back up, a slight, self-conscious smile touching her lips.
"It's just what I sleep in."
"It's not just anything," he murmured, taking a half-step closer. The space between them crackled, charged with everything said and unsaid across years of screens. She could see the scar on his palm from the broken glass.
She could see the scar on his palm from the broken glass. “What did you mean,” she asked, her voice barely above the hum of the fridge, “when you said it’s not just anything?” He didn’t answer immediately, his warm brown eyes tracing the line of her shoulder where the thin strap had slipped. The quiet in the room was a third presence, pressing in on them.
“It means you’re standing in my hallway,” he finally said, the words measured and low, “looking like you just climbed out of my bed, not yours.” He let out a slow breath, the sound ragged. “And I’m trying very hard not to touch you.”
Zara felt a flush spread across her chest, a mixture of heat and a strange, terrifying power. “Sorry,” she murmured, glancing down at herself, then back to his face. “I’m not wearing a bra.”
“I know.” The two words were a gravelly admission. He took another half-step closer, erasing the last safe distance between them. She could smell the faint scent of soap on his skin, see the darker flecks in his irises.
“That’s the point, Zara.” His gaze dropped to her mouth, then back to her eyes. “You know exactly what you’re doing here.”
“Do I?” Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm that felt loud enough for him to hear.
He didn’t answer with words. Instead, his hands came up, palms rough against the thin cotton at her hips. He pulled her close, the movement slow and deliberate, eliminating the last of the cool hallway air between them. One hand slid around to the small of her back, the other spanning her waist, his thumb brushing just beneath the hem of her tank top.
He really took her in, his gaze drifting over her face, her hair, finally settling on her eyes. His breathing had changed. “You know,” he said, his voice low. The warmth of his hands seeped through the fabric, a stark contrast to Matt’s grasping eagerness on her couch.
This was different. This was recognition. “This is what I imagined,” he murmured, his thumb making a slow arc on her waist. Her own breath hitched, catching in her throat. She could feel the hard lines of his body against hers, the proof of his want.
His hands tightened at her hips, pulling her flush against him so there was no misunderstanding, no space for pretense. The hallway light caught the new rawness in his eyes, a look she’d never seen in all their years of pixelated friendship. “Is this okay?” he asked, the words a rough whisper against her temple, his body tense as if awaiting a verdict.
She answered by tilting her face up, her lips parting. He didn’t kiss her. Not yet. He just looked, studying her like she was a puzzle he’d finally been allowed to touch. One hand released her hip, rising slowly to trace the line of her jaw with his knuckles. “You touched my face like this at the bar,” he murmured, the calloused skin grazing her cheekbone. “Drove me out of my mind.”
His thumb brushed her lower lip, a tentative touch that made her shudder. “I replayed it all night,” he confessed, his other arm hooking more firmly around her back. She could feel the rapid thud of his heart through his shirt. “Seeing you give that bloke your number. Hearing you laugh.” He dipped his head, his forehead resting against hers, his breath warm. “I thought I’d lost you before I even had you.”
“You didn’t lose me,” she whispered back, her hands finally lifting to rest tentatively on his chest. She felt the solid muscle beneath the cotton, the quickening rhythm of his breathing. “I’m right here.”
“I know,” he said, and the sheer relief in those two words broke something open between them. He finally closed the last inch, his mouth meeting hers with a hunger that was all the more devastating for its control. The kiss wasn’t gentle. It was a claiming and a surrender, a silent conversation of years of missed chances. His tongue slid against hers, and she melted into him, a small sound escaping her throat.
He walked her backward until her shoulders met the wall, the cool plaster a shock against her skin. He broke the kiss, both of them breathing hard, his eyes searching hers in the dim light. “Tell me to stop,” he breathed, his voice gravelly with want. “Tell me now.”
“Stop?” Zara’s voice was barely a whisper against his mouth. Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt. “No.” That single word unlocked everything. His control, carefully maintained for years, shattered.
He kissed her again, deeper this time, one hand cradling the back of her head to protect it from the wall. The other slid from her waist around to the curve of her hip, his grip firm and sure. She arched into him, a soft sound escaping her throat as his stubble scraped her chin.
It was nothing like she’d imagined in all those lonely, online years. It was messy, hungry, and real. He broke the kiss to trail his lips along her jaw, down the column of her throat. “Zara,” he murmured against her skin, the word a warm vibration.
His teeth grazed the sensitive place where her neck met her shoulder, and she gasped. “Liam.” His name was a plea and a confirmation. She could feel the hard proof of his want pressed against her, a blunt, thrilling pressure through the layers of their clothes.
His hand slipped under the hem of her thin tank top, his rough palm flattening against the warm skin of her lower back. The contact was electric. She shivered, her own hands exploring the hard planes of his shoulders through his shirt.
“I’ve thought about this,” he breathed into the hollow of her collarbone, his voice ragged. “So many times.” “Me too,” she admitted, tangling her fingers in his dark hair. She pulled his face back up to hers, needing to see his eyes.
The look there was fiercely possessive, stripped of all its former reserve. It terrified and exhilarated her in equal measure. He kissed her once more, slowly, as if memorizing the feel of her.
Then, with a fluid motion, he bent and hooked an arm behind her knees, lifting her from against the wall. She let out a startled laugh, wrapping her arms around his neck. He carried her down the short hallway, his stride purposeful.
He shouldered open a door, the room beyond dark but for the city light bleeding through the blinds. He didn’t lay her on the bed so much as follow her down onto it, his body covering hers. The weight of him, the solid reality, was an anchor.
The sheets were cool and smelled faintly of clean cotton and him. He propped himself up on his elbows, his dark hair falling across his forehead as he looked down at her. “Okay?” he asked, the word rough but unbearably soft.
“Very okay,” she whispered, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, the stubble a welcome abrasion. He caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm that sent a shudder through her. “I spent so much time wondering what this would be like.”
“And?” His breath was warm against her skin.
“You’re better than the daydreams.” She saw the corner of his mouth twitch, a real smile breaking through the intensity. He shifted his weight, settling beside her on the narrow bed, his hand finding her waist again as if magnetized.
“The daydreams nearly killed me,” he admitted, his thumb brushing the strip of skin between her top and shorts. “Especially after you left that night.”
“The night you broke the glass.” She watched his eyes, seeing the memory flare in their warm brown depths. He nodded once, a tight movement.
“I’ve still got the scar.” He held up his palm, the thin white line visible in the dim light. She took his hand, bringing it to her lips and kissing the mark gently.
“Why did you never say anything, all those years?” Her voice was small in the dark room. He was silent for a long moment, his fingers lacing through hers.
“I was a ghost in a machine, Zara.” He said it plainly, without self-pity. “What did I have to offer you from here?”
“Yourself,” she said simply, rolling onto her side to face him. “That’s all I ever wanted.” He reached out, tucking a curl behind her ear, his touch lingering.
“You have me now,” he murmured, his voice a low vow. “For whatever that’s worth.”
“It’s worth everything.” She closed the final distance, her lips meeting his in a kiss that tasted like recklessness and home. His arms tightened around her, pulling her close until no space remained between them.
His arms tightened around her, pulling her close until no space remained between them. She felt the sharp intake of his breath against her neck, the firm press of his body a thrilling antidote to the ghost of Matt’s clumsy hands. “Wait,” she whispered, her voice breaking the silence of the dark room.
Liam stilled instantly, his muscles locking. He began to pull back, his expression shadowed with immediate regret. “Sorry, I—”
“No,” Zara said softly, her fingers tracing the line of his shoulder. “Not like that.” She shifted, rolling onto her back and looking up at the ceiling where city light painted shifting stripes. “I just need a second to believe you’re real.”
He lowered himself beside her, propping his head on his hand. His other hand found hers, their fingers intertwining on the sheet between them. “I’m real,” he said, his thumb stroking her knuckles. “Regrettably solid.”
She laughed, a quiet puff of air. “All those years of you being just a voice in my head.” She turned to look at him. “And now you’re here, in a bed, being all… tactile.”
“Tactile,” he repeated, a slow smile spreading. “Is that the technical term?” He leaned in and kissed her shoulder through the thin fabric of her tank top. “I have a lot of lost time to make up for.”
She shivered, the warmth of his lips seeping through the cotton. “We’re not in a rush,” she said, but her body arched toward his wordless reply.
“Speak for yourself,” he murmured, his mouth traveling up the column of her throat. His hand slid beneath her top again, his palm warm and sure on her ribcage. “I’ve been in a rush since you walked into that pub.”
Her breath hitched as his thumb brushed the underside of her breast. “Is this why you cracked the glass?” she breathed. “Because you thought you’d never get to do this?”
He paused, his lips hovering over hers. “Yes.” The word was raw, unadorned. “Every part of this.” Then he kissed her, dissolving the last of the distance not with urgency, but with a profound, claiming certainty. The world outside his bedroom ceased to exist.