I hadn't planned on staying this long.
Three days, tops—that was what I told myself when I packed the duffel and slammed the door on the life I was trying to escape.
But on the seventh morning, I was still here.
Still waking up to the smell of pine and engine oil. Still stealing quiet moments on the porch with a mug too big for my hands. Still avoiding emails and pretending my phone didn't exist.
And still pretending this didn't mean something.
Because that was dangerous, right? To start feeling safe somewhere temporary. To start wanting something you hadn't planned for.
Liam had gone to work early again. I heard his truck start around six, the tires crunching down the gravel, then silence. It used to annoy me when he didn't say goodbye, but now I got it.
Some things didn't need words.
---
Around noon, I finally dragged myself into the shower.
The hot water felt like a reset. I stood there too long, forehead against the tile, letting the steam loosen whatever weight was stuck in my chest.
When I came out wrapped in a towel, there was a knock at the door.
I froze.
Not because I was nervous. But because no one knocked out here.
The town was too small. People just showed up.
I cracked the door slightly, heart thudding.
A woman stood there. Maybe early sixties. Dark hair twisted into a neat bun. Lipstick a shade too bold for the country. She held a casserole dish like a weapon.
"You must be the writer," she said without smiling.
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
She pushed the door open a little further, like we were already friends. "Liam said you were staying. I figured it was about time I introduced myself."
I tightened the towel and stepped aside. "Right. Sure. Come in."
---
Her name was Marianne. She lived two doors down—not that "two doors" meant much in this place. She taught piano on weekends and hosted a book club with three other women who apparently hated each other more than they liked reading.
She talked fast, moved faster. Set the casserole down, inspected the living room like she was an appraiser.
"I dated Liam's father," she said suddenly, turning to me. "Back in high school."
I blinked again. "Oh."
"He picked me over her, you know." She folded her arms, smiling like it still mattered. "But she got pregnant, and well… things turned out the way they did."
It took me a second to catch up. "You're talking about Liam's mom?"
She nodded, as if we were discussing a mutual friend.
I stared at her, unsure whether to laugh or run.
"And now?" I asked.
"Oh, she lives in Florida. Married some guy who sells hot tubs."
This entire conversation felt like I'd stepped into someone else's family photo and couldn't find the exit.
"Anyway," Marianne continued, brushing invisible lint off her sleeve. "He doesn't talk about her much. But I figured if you're sticking around, someone should fill you in."
I wasn't sure what made her think I was sticking around.
But the way she said it… made it sound like a warning.
---
After she left, I stood in the kitchen for a while, staring at the casserole like it might contain a message.
The truth was, I was sticking around. At least for now.
And people were starting to notice.
It wasn't just Marianne.
The barista downtown now remembered my name. The clerk at the grocery store asked if I wanted the usual. A couple kids waved at me from their bikes when I passed.
Small things. But they added up.
And that scared me more than anything else.
---
That evening, Liam came home later than usual.
His shirt was streaked with something dark—oil or grease or both—and he looked tired in a way that went beyond sleep.
I handed him a beer, and we sat outside, legs stretched out, the sky turning that perfect soft blue just before it gave up and went dark.
"Your neighbor brought over a casserole," I said eventually.
He didn't look at me. "Let me guess. Marianne?"
"Is she always that... intense?"
Liam let out a dry laugh. "That's a generous word for her."
"She told me about your parents."
His smile faded.
I regretted saying it immediately, but it was too late to take it back.
He didn't answer right away. Just took a long sip of his beer.
Then, "She always thought she was supposed to end up with my dad. I think it still pisses her off that he picked my mom."
"Even though it didn't work out?"
Liam glanced at me. "Some people hold onto what should've happened longer than what did."
I didn't know whether he was talking about Marianne or himself.
Maybe both.
---
Later that night, after he went to bed, I sat in front of my laptop again.
I opened the document I'd been working on for days, fingers hovering over the keys.
I still wasn't writing anything I could send to my agent. Nothing commercial. Nothing shiny or marketable.
But it was real.
This time, the story wasn't about a woman who was perfect or brave or always said the right thing.
It was about someone who didn't know what came next—but kept showing up anyway.
And that, I was starting to believe, was enough.
The next morning, I woke up before the sun.
No alarm. No noise. Just that quiet sense that something in me was restless.
I stared at the ceiling for a while, listening to the creaks of the old house settling. Then I got up and padded into the kitchen barefoot, still wrapped in Liam's oversized hoodie.
The air smelled faintly like last night's beer and pine cleaner. The casserole dish sat untouched on the counter. I didn't have the heart to throw it away.
Maybe I'd return the dish. Maybe I'd scrub it so clean that Marianne would smell my disapproval in the lemon soap.
I smiled at the thought.
But beneath the smile was something else—something unsettled.
---
I didn't want to admit it out loud, but I was starting to get too comfortable here.
That was the part no one warned you about when you ran away from your life—the risk that you might find a better one waiting where you landed.
A slower one. A quieter one. One where people remembered your name without needing to scroll through their contact list.
And Liam... Liam made it harder not to imagine staying.
Not because he was perfect. Not even close.
But because he never pretended to be. He didn't try to fix me or rescue me or get under my skin with clever words.
He just showed up. Every day. Same worn-out flannel, same stubborn calm, same quiet stare that felt like a challenge and a comfort all at once.
It made me wonder what kind of life I could build if I stopped waiting for the one I left to make sense.
---
He came back from the shop around eight, earlier than usual.
I was still in the hoodie, still sitting on the porch with cold coffee, still pretending I wasn't overthinking everything.
He stood at the bottom of the steps for a second, like he wasn't sure whether to come up.
"You look like you haven't slept," he said finally.
"You look like you have grease in your soul."
Liam smiled—small, but real. "I do. You learn to live with it."
He climbed the steps, sat beside me without asking. We both stared out at the trees like there was something urgent happening in the wind.
"I talked to Jax today," he said after a while.
I turned to look at him. "Your brother?"
He nodded. "He's getting married."
"Oh wow." I blinked. "Is that... good news?"
"I guess," Liam muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. "He asked if I'd come. It's in Austin. Two weeks."
"Are you going?"
He shrugged. "I don't know."
There was a pause.
"Do you want to?" I asked quietly.
Another shrug. "Not sure what good it would do. We haven't talked in two years. Last time we saw each other, he called me a coward."
"Were you?"
Liam glanced at me, and I braced for the cold edge of anger. But he just exhaled.
"Yeah," he said. "Back then? I was."
I didn't say anything. Not because I didn't have thoughts. But because sometimes people didn't need fixing. They just needed someone to hear them.
---
That night, I found him outside under the hood of his truck, even though it was already dark.
A single work light cast long shadows across the gravel. He had grease on his cheek again. And his sleeves were rolled up just enough for me to remember what his forearms felt like under my palms.
"Truck broken again?" I asked, arms crossed.
"Nah. Just making up excuses to not think about my brother."
"Good plan."
He looked up, and something about the way he smiled felt more vulnerable than usual.
"Would you come with me?" he asked.
It took me a second to register what he meant.
"To the wedding?"
"Yeah."
My heart kicked once, hard.
"I don't even know him."
Liam wiped his hands on a rag. "Neither do I, apparently."
I hesitated.
This wasn't the kind of invitation people threw around. It wasn't casual. Not here. Not with him.
"Why me?"
He didn't answer right away.
Then, softly, "Because when you're around, I don't feel like a stranger in my own life."
That did something to me. Something sharp and terrifying.
But I didn't run.
Instead, I took a slow step forward, until the only thing between us was the warmth of the engine and the weight of all the things we still weren't saying.
"I'll think about it," I said.
Liam didn't push. He just nodded, like that was enough.
---
Back inside, I finally opened one of the emails I'd been ignoring.
It was from my agent. Short, clipped. Asking if I had anything new. Something to pitch. A paragraph. A sentence. A title, even.
I stared at the blinking cursor in the reply box.
Then I typed:
"It started with an engine that wouldn't start, and a woman who didn't know how to stop running."
I hit send before I could overthink it.
Maybe it wasn't much. Maybe it wasn't polished or clever or even good.
But it was real.
And for now, that was all I had to give.