Chapter 7: Liam's Return
The shift was seismic. In the two days since Liam’s visit, the apartment’s atmosphere had gone from easy to electric. They still didn’t talk about it, not really. They’d cleaned up the kitchen, silently. Aidan had gone to work at the observatory, calibrating sensors while the memory of her against the counter played on a loop behind his eyes. Catriona had drawn her emotionally ambiguous dragon, the lines sharper, darker than before.
Strings were everywhere now, thick as cables. They taped themselves to the ceiling when he walked in the door and she was there. They wrapped around his throat when he saw her wearing his shirt again, a deliberate choice that made his pulse jump. The ‘no strings’ agreement felt like something they’d read in a history book.
Aidan pushed open the building’s heavy front door, tired from a double shift under the sterile observatory lights. He climbed the stairs, the smell of old wood and other people’s cooking filling the stairwell. He reached their landing, fished for his keys, and stopped.
The door to their apartment was ajar.
Not wide open. Just a two-inch sliver of shadow between the door and the frame. A cold wire threaded down his spine. He never left it unlocked. Catriona was paranoid about it, always double-checking the deadbolt.
He heard a voice from inside. A man’s voice, slurred and raised. Liam.
Aidan’s bag, full of laptops and star charts, hit the floor with a thud. He didn’t remember dropping it. He pushed the door open slowly, the hinges silent.
The hallway was dim, the late afternoon sun cutting in through the open bathroom door, illuminating motes of dust in the air that smelled of lavender candle and, beneath it, the sour tang of whiskey.
He took two steps in and saw them.
Catriona was backed against the living room wall, near the faded floral paper. Her face was pale, her freckles standing out like drops of ink. Liam stood over her, one hand planted on the wall beside her head, the other gripping her wrist. His knuckles were white. His usually perfect hair was disheveled, his eyes bloodshot and glittering.
“—just talk, Cat, for Christ’s sake,” Liam was saying, his voice thick. “You owe me that much. After everything.”
“I don’t owe you a goddamn thing,” Catriona shot back, but her voice wavered. She was trying to twist her wrist free. “You need to leave. Now.”
“Or what? You’ll call your roommate?” Liam sneered, leaning in closer. The whiskey smell rolled off him. “That guy a fighter? He didn’t look like much.”
Aidan’s vision narrowed, the periphery darkening until all he saw was Liam’s hand on her wrist, the fearful set of her jaw. A calm, terrible clarity settled over him. It wasn’t the laid-back engineer who moved forward. It was something older.
“Get your hands off her.”
His voice wasn’t a shout. It was low, flat, and it cut through the humid tension in the hall like a blade.
Liam’s head snapped around. His gaze landed on Aidan, and for a second, confusion flickered in his drunk eyes, followed by a dawning, belligerent recognition. Catriona’s eyes locked onto Aidan’s. They weren’t just scared anymore. They were pleading, and warning him—don’t, this is a mess, he’s drunk.
Liam let go of Catriona’s wrist slowly, deliberately. He turned to face Aidan, squaring his shoulders. “Well. Look who it is. The convenient fuck.”
“Aidan, don’t,” Catriona said, pushing off the wall. “Just… let me handle this.”
“He’s in my home,” Aidan said, not taking his eyes off Liam. “He’s touching you. He’s done.”
Liam barked a laugh. “Your home? You’ve been here five minutes. I know her. You don’t. You’re just the warm body she’s using to forget me.”
The words were meant to sting, to provoke. Aidan felt them, but they dissolved in the cold fire of his anger. He took another step forward, closing the distance. He wasn’t a big guy, but years of rock climbing had woven dense, lean muscle across his frame. He saw Liam’s eyes dart over his shoulders, his arms, reassessing.
“You’re going to walk out that door,” Aidan said, his voice still eerily quiet. “And you’re not going to come back.”
“And if I don’t?” Liam challenged, his chin jutting out.
Aidan didn’t answer with words. He just stood there, blocking the path to the living room, to Catriona. His posture was absolute. It was a wall.
Liam’s drunk bravado warred with a sobering thread of caution. He glanced at Catriona, then back at Aidan. “This isn’t over,” he spat, the words aimed at her. “You think this is some fairy tale? He’s just another guy. He’ll get bored.”
“Leave, Liam,” Catriona whispered, the words fierce.
With a final, venomous look, Liam shoved past Aidan, making contact, a hard shoulder check. Aidan rocked with it but didn’t give ground. He watched, every muscle coiled, as Liam stumbled down the hall, wrenched the front door open, and disappeared into the stairwell. The sound of his heavy, receding footsteps echoed, then faded.
Silence rushed in, deafening.
Aidan turned. Catriona was still against the wall, but now she was sliding down it, her legs giving out. She landed on the floor, drawing her knees up to her chest. She was shaking.
He was at her side in an instant, kneeling on the worn hardwood. He didn’t try to hug her. He just put a hand on her ankle, a solid point of contact. “Hey.”
She buried her face in her knees. A harsh, dry sob shook her shoulders. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I thought he was gone. I heard the knock and I thought it was the Chinese food and I just… opened it.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“It feels like it is.” She lifted her head. Her eyes were wet, her mascara smudged. The sight of it—Catriona, who was never anything less than fiercely composed—undone, cracked something open in his chest. “He’s never been like that. Not physically. He was just… a pathetic guy who wanted a gallery wife. This was different.”
“He was drunk and desperate. That’s a dangerous combination.” Aidan’s thumb stroked the bone of her ankle. “Are you hurt? Your wrist.”
She looked at her wrist, where red marks were already blooming against her skin. “No. Just… startled.” She looked at him, really looked at him. “You were… different. Your voice. I’ve never heard that.”
He didn’t know what to say to that. The adrenaline was leaching away, leaving a shaky hollow in its place. The quiet, considerate guy who got flustered by sleepwalking felt like a distant memory.
“I should call the police,” he said, the practical thought surfacing. “File a report. In case he comes back.”
She nodded, silent. He pulled out his phone, made the call. The conversation was brief, clinical. They’d send an officer when one was available. It felt inadequate.
He hung up. The silence stretched, but it was softer now, shared. The lavender and whiskey smell was fading, replaced by just them.
“I hate that he was here,” Catriona said finally. “In our space. I feel like I need to burn sage or something.”
“We can rearrange the furniture,” Aidan offered, a weak attempt at his old humor.
A ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Yeah. Maybe.”
She uncurled, stretching her legs out. Their shoulders brushed. She leaned her head against the wall, looking at him. “The ‘no strings’ thing is officially bullshit, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he said, without hesitation. “It is.”
“Good.” She let out a long, slow breath. “Because I think I need a string right now. Just one. To hold onto.”
He understood. He slid his arm around her shoulders, and she came into him, tucking her head against his neck. They sat on the floor of their hallway, in the pooling shadows, listening to each other breathe. The fear of the last ten minutes slowly receded, replaced by a raw, new proximity. The front door was locked, the chain engaged. Outside, the city hummed, indifferent. In here, there was only the solid warmth of her against him, and the unspoken promise that whatever this was, it was no longer just convenient. It was necessary.