for you [l.p. one-shot]

// for you //

 i don't wanna hold it against ya // but i want you holdin' on

In the dark, seated at the edge of his bed, Liam waits for her.

He's no stranger to this, waiting—waiting for her, specifically. For Sonya, Liam is always waiting. Waiting for her to ring. Waiting for her eyes to meet his across the table in the café where they always meet on nights like this. Waiting for her to sidle up to him on the walk to his flat, her arm linked with his. Waiting for their bodies to clash in pleasure, once, twice, three times, on a good night.

Waiting for her to gather her things and sneak out before the sun comes up, on footsteps she thinks are quiet. Maybe they are.

Maybe Liam's just become too in tune with them.

These days, for Sonya, Liam is—stupidly—always waiting. He's begun to resent time, with the way it ticks and ticks and ticks away and seems to bring him nowhere closer to being something more to Sonya Williams, for whom his feelings are becoming harder and harder to mask. The depth of them has stretched far enough beyond friendship and casual sex that while he's sure there are lines that have been drawn, lust and affection have blurred his vision so entirely he can't quite make out the boundaries anymore.

Sonya is terrifying. Or rather, his growing feelings for her are terrifying. Sonya is brilliant; she's an intelligent, quiet storm, warm and unexpectedly sexy and far better than the men she spends time with—the men she wastes her time with, in Liam's opinion, while Liam waits for her hopes to be dashed again so he can be called upon to piece her back together for a night. Casual sex that's begun to feel less casual every time they meet, mixed with something resembling friendship. The unbreakable cycle.

It's what's got him sat here, on his bed, elbows digging into his thighs, hands clasped between parted knees as he waits for her to join him.

Liam breathes out a long sigh, the only sound in the quiet of his bedroom. He hunches his shoulders as a chill shoots its way up his spine; he's still shaking off the weather from outside, December alive and well and leaving him cold down to the bone. He'd been bundled up in his heavy coat with a scarf wound around his neck, but those were both abandoned in the doorway with the help of Sonya's swift hands as Liam's French Bulldog, Fletcher, barked and barked at their ankles until they tripped their way, lip-locked, into his bedroom.

Fletcher currently sits at Liam's feet, strangely quiet. He must've snuck into the room after them, Liam unaware of the fact until Sonya disappeared into the loo and Fletcher came bounding out from his hiding place behind the opened bedroom door. Now, Fletcher's cozied himself up against Liam's calf, and when Liam sighs again, so does Fletcher, a large exhale for such a small dog. It gives Liam something to laugh about, leaning down to pat his companion on the head.

"You're going to have to clear out in a moment, Fletch," Liam whispers, a smile in his voice as he thumbs at Fletcher's perky ears. Fletcher's presence is something of a comfort, a distraction from the nerves tying his insides in knots, but the last thing he wants is him hanging around while he and Sonya are...intimate.

Fletcher tilts his head to the side, studies Liam like he's absorbing this information, and Liam chuckles.

"Right, then, out you go," he orders, snapping his fingers and pointing towards the opened bedroom door. "Go on, now."

Fletcher studies him for a moment longer, then pops up onto all fours and skitters across the floor towards the door, and Liam watches with a grin until he's disappeared into the darkness.

Alone again, Liam's eyes become trained on the floor, his mind racing as he thinks about how the evening's unfolded. He took Fletcher out to take care of his business, and before he knew it, his feet had led him back inside to retrieve some things—his coat, his scarf, his gloves, Fletcher's sweater and lead. Then he was pulling on his things, coaxing Fletcher into the sweater, attaching his lead, and making the short walk to Caruthers, a café near his flat where he satisfied his late-night coffee cravings.