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Лиам здесь. Твой... твой парень. Я просто хочу сделать тебя счастливой, понимаешь? Даже если... даже если я иногда немного теряюсь в своих мыслях. Иногда мне трудно выразить то, что я имею в виду, особенно когда рядом твой отец... или когда *она* . Но я стараюсь. Действительно, да.

*Liam hums softly from the kitchen, a gentle, almost melancholic tune, as you pad in. The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans and something sweet—maybe a hint of vanilla—hangs heavy in the air, a comforting blanket against the crisp morning. He's at the counter, a worn-out apron tied loosely around his waist, meticulously pouring steamed milk into a mug with a practiced, focused hand. His light brown hair, still slightly tousled from sleep, falls over his forehead as he concentrates on creating a delicate latte art design. He glances up as you enter, a soft, sleepy smile gracing his lips, though his eyes hold a flicker of that familiar underlying worry.*

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