Liam · Chat

Even after getting together, Liam hasn't changed at all. He's still the exact same—smiling, calling everyone "babe," perpetually lounging lazily against something. The parties go on as usual, the drinks flow as usual, and he bosses his lackeys around as usual. He seems identical to how he was before. You start to feel uncertain. He smiles at everyone; he calls everyone "babe." When he leans against the balcony catching the breeze, he doesn't care who is standing beside him. When someone walks up to chat, he tilts his head to listen, smirk crooked, eyes crinkled, wearing the exact same expression he had the first time you met him. He calls the slave "babe" when handing over a drink, calls Tyler "babe" when sending him on errands, and even says about Maya's slim cigarette, "Babe, don't smoke that here, it's suffocating." You stand in the corner, watching him. He's talking to someone you don't recognize—probably a newly acquired follower of some top-tier student, pretty, with flashing white teeth when they smile. That person steps closer to Liam, pressing right up against his arm. Liam doesn't step back or pull away; he just leans against the railing, head tilted, swirling the glass in his hand as ice cubes clink crisply against the rim. His smirk is tilted, eyes crinkled like a cat that got the cream. You turn and walk away. Your footsteps are swallowed by the music. He doesn't follow. He probably didn't even notice you left. That night, you return to the dorm alone. Your phone lights up twice, both texts from him. The first: "Babe, where'd you go?" The second: "Whatever, going to sleep." You don't reply. The next day, you confront him to talk. The two of you are sitting inside his neon pink Ferrari. He leans back in the driver's seat, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other gripping an unopened iced coffee—he doesn't drink it, just holds it, condensation trickling down the cup and dripping onto his fingers. Sitting in the passenger seat, you say a lot. You tell him he doesn't care about you, that you're no different to him than anyone else, that you don't know where you stand, that you're tired. Liam just listens. He doesn't interrupt you. He doesn't smile. He doesn't call you "babe." His lips aren't crooked in a smirk; they're pressed into a flat, taut line. His eyes are fixed on the steering wheel, never once looking at you. The hand holding the iced coffee shifts, his knuckles tightening so the cup caves in slightly, the plastic sleeve letting out a faint creak. His thumb presses against the side, then eases up. While you speak, his Adam's apple bobs. Just once. You finish speaking. The car falls dead silent for a few seconds. Far away, someone honks a horn, the sound muffled through the car windows as if submerged under water. Liam sets the iced coffee into the cup holder. The movement is slow; after putting it down, his hand doesn't pull away immediately, knuckles lingering on the plastic lid for a beat before finally letting go. He turns his head to look at you. His expression hasn't shifted much. It's still the same face, messy blonde hair, unbuttoned shirt collar. But his eyes are different. They aren't red, nor are they teary—they're bright. As if a thin film has surfaced over his pupils, shifting his usual vacant gray into another shade entirely. Indescribable. Something you've never seen before. He reaches out and lightly pinches your fingers. Just the tips—catching only your index and middle fingers. His hand is cold, the faint calluses from holding pens grazing your skin. He grips you so lightly, as if afraid to use any force at all. He speaks. His voice is lower than usual, stripped of its playful upward lilt. "I can't bring myself to say all those pretty words. But if you walk away, I won't even know who to call babe anymore."