When we finally made it back inside the house, the sun was properly up, flooding the giant kitchen with warm light.
I still couldn't walk properly, but Liam was carrying me with zero effort like I weighed nothing. I wanted to protest, but after last night's embarrassment, my pride was already in critical condition.
He settled me carefully onto a tall chair near the kitchen island, adjusting a fluffy pillow behind me like he was setting up royalty.
"Alright, Firefly," he said, dusting his hands, "what do you want for breakfast? Chef Liam is at your service."
I grinned, wrapping my arms around myself.
"Chef Liam? Wow, we're leveling up already?"
He winked. "Just for you."
My cheeks flamed again.
Somebody really needed to invent a 'stop blushing' pill, because I was running out of blood at this point.
He turned to the kitchen, gathering ingredients like he knew exactly what he was doing. He tossed a few things into a bowl, moving around with surprising grace—barefoot, messy-haired, still in his loose nightshirt and sweatpants—and somehow looking... painfully good.
I watched him crack eggs with one hand, stir the batter, hum to himself—and I was so lost in the moment that I didn't even notice when he sneaked up to me again, holding something in his hand.
"Wheat flour," he said casually.
Before I could react, he dipped his finger into it, and with a slow, deliberate movement,
boop — he dabbed it right on the tip of my nose.
I gasped. "Liam!"
He didn't laugh.
He didn't even smirk.
Instead, he stood there, inches away, looking down at me with the softest, most serious expression I'd ever seen.
Like... like I was something precious he had to handle carefully.
His eyes traced the curve of my cheekbone, my forehead, then settled back on my eyes.
No teasing. No jokes.
Just a gaze so full of quiet affection that my heart completely forgot how to beat.
He raised his hand again slowly, brushing a stray strand of hair from my face, his fingers lingering just a second longer than necessary.
I forgot how to breathe.
It was like we were trapped inside a bubble where only the two of us existed, and—
Door creaking sound.
"Ahem."
Both of us jumped like guilty teenagers.
Standing at the kitchen entrance was Peter, holding a bouquet of fresh flowers, his expression... unreadable.
His eyes flickered from the flour on my nose to Liam's hand, still dangerously close to my face, and for a second, something dark passed through his gaze.
He let out a little scoff, setting the flowers down a bit roughly on the counter.
"Wow," Peter said, voice light but a little sharp, "early morning baking class? Cute."
Liam didn't even flinch. He just shot Peter a lazy smile and said, "Yeah. Cooking for my princess."
My princess.
I wanted to die on the spot.
Peter, however, just smirked in that dangerous, sarcastic way of his and rolled up the sleeves of his jacket.
"Move," he said, nudging Liam aside with his shoulder. "You'll burn the house down. Let me handle it."
Liam raised his eyebrows, stepping back with exaggerated politeness.
"Be my guest."
Peter took over the stove like a man on a mission, grumbling under his breath as he cooked eggs with unnecessary violence.
Every flip of the spatula was like he was personally taking revenge on the eggs for existing.
I couldn't help but giggle under my breath.
Both boys shot me a look at the same time.
"What's so funny?" Peter asked suspiciously.
"Nothing," I said sweetly, wiping the flour from my nose and feeling way too pleased with myself.
Liam leaned on the counter lazily, watching me with that small, secret smile that made me feel like I was glowing inside.
Before Peter could come up with another sarcastic jab, the front door burst open.
"EMMAAAAA!"
Chloe's voice echoed through the hallways.
She appeared in the kitchen within seconds, looking like she had sprinted the whole way from her house.
Her hair was messy, her shoes half on, and she was carrying what looked like a box of homemade cookies.
When she saw me perched like a princess on the counter and Peter and Liam hovering around me like bodyguards, her mouth fell open.
"WHAT is happening here?!" she shrieked.
"Nothing," Liam said innocently.
"Breakfast," Peter muttered.
"Flirting," I mumbled under my breath, but thank God no one heard that except Chloe, who waggled her eyebrows at me dramatically.
She dropped the cookies on the counter, pulled up a chair next to me, and whispered loudly, "Girl, you are living my Wattpad dreams."
I buried my face in my hands.
Meanwhile, Liam continued cooking pancakes, humming to himself.
Peter aggressively chopped fruit beside him, his jaw ticking every few seconds.
And Chloe started setting the table, throwing me these huge exaggerated winks whenever either boy said anything remotely cute.
It was... chaotic.
It was embarrassing.
It was wonderful.
For the first time in a long time, despite everything I had been through—the hospital, the fears, the mysteries—
I felt like...
I belonged.
Like this crazy, messy little breakfast scene was my safe place.
My strange, beautiful family.
And even if I didn't know what the future held—
At least for this moment, with the sun shining, and pancakes flipping, and laughter spilling into the air—
I was happy.
After the chaotic, laughter-filled breakfast, I started feeling a little tired.
My body was still healing, and sitting upright for too long made everything ache.
I must've winced or shifted uncomfortably, because Peter noticed instantly.
Without even asking, he was by my side.
"Come on," he said softly, his voice gentler than I'd ever heard it.
"I'll help you back to your room."
Before I could protest, Peter leaned down and scooped me up carefully into his arms.
I gasped quietly, feeling his warmth surround me, his arms firm and secure.
He held me so close that I could hear the steady, calming beat of his heart.
"You're so light," he murmured teasingly, glancing down at me with a half-smile.
"And you're... annoyingly strong," I muttered, trying to hide how red my face had become.
He chuckled under his breath, the sound vibrating through his chest against mine.
Carrying me like I weighed nothing, he walked through the bright hallways of Liam's house, the morning light throwing gold into his hazel eyes, making them glow like fire.
His gaze kept flickering down to me — soft, concerned, something deeper hidden behind his usual smirks.
When we reached my room, he nudged the door open with his shoulder and carried me inside, setting me down gently onto the giant bed piled with pillows.
But even after placing me down, he didn't move away immediately.
He just knelt beside the bed, still holding my hand.
For a few long seconds, we just stared at each other.
I could feel the weight of a thousand unspoken things between us —
All the memories, the dreams, the fears, the moments we never dared to talk about.
All the times he had been there for me — without asking for anything in return.
Peter reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear with the lightest touch, like he was afraid I would shatter if he pressed any harder.
"You scared me," he whispered, voice almost breaking.
I blinked up at him, my throat tight.
"I thought..." He shook his head. "I thought I lost you."
Something inside me cracked open.
Without thinking, I grabbed his hand, squeezing it tightly.
"You didn't," I whispered back. "I'm here."
Peter's eyes darkened — not in anger, but with so much raw emotion that it made my chest ache.
Slowly, carefully, he leaned in.
My heart thudded painfully against my ribs.
His forehead rested against mine, his hand still holding mine, our breaths mingling in the tiny space between us.
Everything else disappeared — the house, the morning light, the healing bruises — gone.
It was just him and me.
Peter and Emma.
I closed my eyes, feeling the warmth of his skin, the softness of his breath.
Then, his thumb brushed across my knuckles — so tender, so reverent — like he was memorizing the feeling of me.
He pressed the lightest, softest kiss onto my forehead, lingering there for a heartbeat, two, three.
And when he pulled away, he looked at me like I was the most important thing he had ever seen.
I opened my mouth to say something — anything — but then—
"OH. MY. GOD!"
The door crashed open so hard that Peter practically jolted backwards.
Chloe stood there, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, holding a bottle of orange juice and looking like she had walked into a soap opera.
"I leave for two minutes," she cried dramatically, "and you two start making a K-drama moment without me?!"
I flushed so hard that I thought my entire body might combust.
Peter cleared his throat, looking away and rubbing the back of his neck with that shy, guilty little smile he got when he was caught being soft.
"I... was just helping her," he said weakly.
"Yeah, yeah, sure," Chloe said, rolling her eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't fall out. She marched into the room, tossed the juice bottle onto the table, and plopped down on the other side of the bed.
"I'm officially the chaperone now," she announced, flashing me a teasing grin. "No more secret forehead kisses when I'm gone."
"Chloe!" I cried, mortified.
Peter just laughed under his breath, and even though my cheeks were on fire, a little part of me glowed.
Because even though Chloe had interrupted — even though the moment was broken —
It had happened.
Peter had kissed me.
Peter cared.
And nothing — no teasing, no awkwardness — could ever take that away.