Always

Chapter Ten

Mia

“Forever is a long time,” I tell him after school, even though my heart hasn’t stopped racing since he said it.

We’re sitting on the hood of his car in his driveway, the late afternoon sun casting everything in gold. It feels strangely calm compared to the chaos of the day.

“I know,” Liam replies, nudging my knee gently with his. “I’m not scared of it.”

I look at him carefully.

That’s new.

Liam has never been the long-term type. He lives in moments—fast rides, loud music, quick decisions. I’m the planner. The one who thinks five steps ahead. The one who weighs consequences.

So why does he seem steadier than I feel right now?

“Today was… a lot,” I admit.

“People talking?”

I nod. “They’re waiting for you to mess this up.”

He exhales, staring out at the street. “I know.”

There’s no defensiveness in his voice. Just honesty.

“And?” I press.

He turns back to me. “And I’m not going to.”

The confidence in his tone should scare me. Instead, it makes something inside me settle.

“I don’t want to be a lesson for you, Liam,” I say quietly. “Or a rebellion. Or a phase.”

“You’re not.” He shifts so he’s fully facing me now. “You’ve been the most constant thing in my life since I was five years old. This isn’t random.”

I swallow.

He’s right. We aren’t random.

We’re scraped knees and shared Halloween candy. Late-night talks through bedroom windows. Study sessions that turned into pizza runs. He’s seen me at my worst—stress crying over grades, doubting myself, panicking about the future.

And I’ve seen him too. The side people don’t talk about. The loyal one. The protective one. The boy who pretends not to care but always does.

“Forever doesn’t mean perfect,” he continues. “It just means I’m not planning my exit.”

That hits deeper than any dramatic promise could.

I reach for his hand, intertwining our fingers. “I don’t need perfect.”

He squeezes back. “Good. Because I’m definitely not that.”

I laugh softly.

For the first time since the beach, the pressure eases. Not because the rumors stopped or because people suddenly understand us—but because we do.

This isn’t fireworks anymore.

It’s quieter than that.

Stronger.

As the sun dips lower and the air cools, he leans over and presses a gentle kiss to my lips. Not urgent. Not proving anything.

Just us.

And for once, I let myself stop planning five years ahead.

Maybe forever doesn’t have to be mapped out.

Maybe it just starts with choosing each other—again and again.