A broken laugh escaped me. "Always."
He smiled softly, then looked toward the window, like picturing something far beyond it.
He took a breath. "Okay, so... you know the Pillars of Creation? The nebula?"
I blinked. "Yes?"
"Those big columns of dust and gas in the Eagle Nebula. They're beautiful. Legendary. But for years, scientists thought they were being destroyed by a nearby supernova. That they were already gone, and we were just seeing the light from the past."
I tilted my head. "That's... dark."
"It gets better," he said. "Turns out, they weren't gone. They're still there.Surviving.Even under pressure. Even with something trying to erase them, they kept shining. Kept making stars. New ones. Brighter ones."
He looked at me then, eyes soft.
"I know you feel like what Aaron did shattered you. But maybe all it did was clear the dust. Maybe you're not broken. Maybe you're becoming. Still building stars."
I stared at him, that ache behind my ribs cracking wide open—but this time, it didn't feel empty. It felthopeful.
I took a shaky breath. "You always do this, you know?"
"What?"
"Use space metaphors to emotionally wreck me."
He smiled. "Occupational hazard."
"Thank you," I said, voice breaking on it, like all the emotion I'd been trying to hold together decided now was the perfect time to leak through.
Liam didn't rush to fill the silence. He just held my gaze, soft and steady, like he was anchoring me without even trying. Then he smiled—crooked and lopsided in that boyish, stupidly charming way that always seemed to show up right when I needed it most.
"Also," he said with a casual shrug, "the crumble's not bad, right?"
That cracked something open—I let out a watery laugh and wiped at my cheeks. "It's ridiculous. Cosmic even."
He perked up, eyes lighting with mock pride. "Thank you. I like to think of it as a universe of flavor packed into a single bite."
I laughed again, shaking my head as he nudged the tray toward me with a grand little flourish.
"Well," he added, his grin widening, "I am anastronomo-baker."
"A what now?"
He puffed out his chest dramatically. "Astronomer by day. Baker by heartbreak. It's a niche field."
"Oh, is that what you do with all that cosmic dust and stardust metaphors?" I teased. "Turn them into dessert?"
"Exactly," he said solemnly. "Each crumble is scientifically calibrated to soothe existential dread and post-breakup spirals."
"Oh, good," I said, taking another bite. "I was worried I'd need to sign a waiver."
"You technically still do," he quipped. "You're ingesting interstellar emotions. May cause side effects like warmth, emotional safety, and, unfortunately, developing a soft spot for nerds with poor dancing skills."
I nearly choked on my bite from laughing, then looked at him—really looked at him. His eyes were piercing, almost too blue under the glasses, and his hair had somehow found the perfect spot today, like it had an agenda to ruin me slowly.
"You know," I said softly, "for someone who talks to stars for a living, you're awfully good at making someone feel grounded."
His expression shifted then, from playful to something a little gentler. A little deeper.
