Oliver didn't mean to start pulling away.
At least, that's what he told himself.
He replied later than usual.
Sometimes minutes. Then hours.
Sometimes not at all.
When Liam asked why, Oliver always had an answer ready.
I'm tired.
I need to study for finals.
My mom needs me today.
All of them were true.
All of them were excuses.
Liam noticed everything.
He noticed how Oliver stopped waiting for him after class.
How he avoided empty corridors.
How he never suggested rides anymore.
How his smile still existed—but didn't stay long.
One evening, Liam finally confronted him.
They were standing near the school fence, Liam had pulled him there, fortunately, the place was as empty as a graveyard. Oliver kept his bag clutched to his chest like a shield.
"Is this because of your mom?" Liam asked quietly.
"I'm trying, Oliver. You know that. I will find a way."
Oliver didn't answer right away.
He looked away instead.
"That's not it," he said.
Liam stepped closer taking the bag away from him and placing it on the ground. "Then what is it?"
Oliver's throat tightened. "We can't keep doing this forever."
Liam froze.
"What does that mean?"
"It means…" Oliver exhaled shakily. "Maybe after graduation, things should change."
Liam stared at him, disbelief creeping into his eyes.
"Change how?"
Oliver forced the words out. "Maybe we should… stay away from each other."
The silence that followed was heavy. Crushing.
"Why?" Liam asked, his voice barely holding.
"So people can talk?"
"So we can pretend we never existed to each other?"
Oliver's hands trembled. "So we can live without fear. Without hiding. Without destroying everything around us."
Liam laughed once — sharp, broken.
"You're talking like someone who's already left."
"That's not true," Oliver said quickly. "I just—"
"You're giving up," Liam cut in.
"On us. On everything."
Oliver looked at him then, really looked — and his eyes shone with unshed tears.
"I don't want to," he whispered.
"But wanting isn't enough anymore."
Something in Liam snapped.
He stepped forward, closing the distance, gripping Oliver's wrist just enough to make him stop moving.
"Look at me," he said.
Oliver tried to pull away.
Liam didn't let him.
"You're not allowed to erase me," Liam said softly. "Not like this."
Oliver's breath hitched.
Liam leaned in, his forehead resting against Oliver's, their breaths mixing.
"Remember," he murmured.
"Remember the bike rides. The field. The promises. The way you look at me when you think I'm not watching."
Oliver's hands clenched in Liam's jacket.
"You don't get to decide that none of that mattered."
Oliver squeezed his eyes shut.
Liam's hand slid to the back of Oliver's neck, cradling, not caging. Fingers splayed wide against warm skin, thumb brushing the fine hair at his nape in slow, unconscious strokes. He drew Oliver in until their bodies pressed flush — chest to chest, heartbeat slamming against heartbeat like two people trying to prove they were still alive.
For one suspended breath Oliver let himself sink: the cedar-and-soap smell of Liam's jacket, the steady heat of him, the way holding him still felt like the only safe place left in the world.
Then Liam moved.
His other hand slipped lower — past the hem of Oliver's jacket, under the soft cotton of his shirt. Palm flat against bare stomach, feeling the quick rise and fall, the tremor beneath.
Oliver's eyes snapped open. Both hands flew to Liam's wrist, gripping hard, trying to stop him.
He shook his head once — sharp, desperate. Pushed at Liam's chest with trembling palms, trying to create space, trying to say no without sound.
Liam didn't speak. He only paused, breath ragged against Oliver's temple, eyes searching Oliver's face. Then, slowly — so slowly — he leaned in again, forehead resting against Oliver's, refusing to let the distance grow.
Oliver pushed harder, a quiet, choked sound escaping his throat. His fingers curled into Liam's jacket, not quite shoving now, caught between resistance and something deeper.
Liam's hand stayed where it was, warm against skin, unmoving for a long moment. Then, with aching gentleness, it drifted lower — beneath the waistband, careful, reverent. Fingers curled lightly around him, not stroking yet, just holding. A soft, steady pressure, like a memory pressed into flesh.
Oliver stiffened. His hands fisted tighter in Liam's jacket, knuckles white. He tried once more to twist away, shoulders hunching, breath coming in short, panicked bursts.
But Liam didn't force. He only held — palm warm, thumb brushing once, feather-light, along the sensitive curve. Then again. Slow. Tender. Every motion quiet, deliberate, like he was tracing something sacred he was about to lose.
Oliver's resistance faltered. His pushes grew weaker. His forehead dropped forward until it rested against Liam's shoulder again. A single, shuddering breath left him. Then another. His body softened against his will — hips tilting the smallest fraction forward, betraying him.
Liam kept the rhythm gentle, unhurried. No rush. No demand. Just slow, loving passes that drew small, helpless tremors from Oliver's frame. The kind of touch that remembered every secret place, every stolen moment behind closed doors or under starlight.
Minutes passed — or maybe only seconds. Time blurred in the orange light.
Oliver's hands loosened. His arms hung limp at his sides for a heartbeat. Then, quietly, he let himself lean in — just enough. Let the warmth wash over him one last time.
When the final shiver passed through him, when his breathing steadied into something broken and quiet, Liam's hand stilled. He withdrew slowly, carefully, fingers trailing one last soft line along Oliver's waist before slipping free.
Oliver didn't wait.
He stepped back — sudden, unsteady. His hands shook as he bent to scoop his bag from the grass. He clutched it to his chest like armor again.
Without looking back, without a word, he turned and ran.
Feet pounding against the path, bag slapping against his hip, he disappeared around the corner of the school building.
Liam didn't chase.
He stood frozen for a long second. Then his knees gave. He slid backward until his back met the cold metal of the fence. The bars pressed into his spine, unyielding.
He sank down slowly until he was sitting on the ground, legs bent, arms loose at his sides.
His chest ached — a deep, hollow hurt that spread behind his ribs like cracked glass.
He stared at the empty path where Oliver had vanished. The sun slipped lower, painting the fence in long, sad stripes of orange.
Liam pressed the heel of his hand to the center of his chest, as if he could hold the pieces together.
But nothing moved.
Nothing came back.
Only the quiet sound of his own breathing — ragged, uneven — and the slow, heavy knowledge that Oliver is slipping away, little by little.
And that was the last time they were together until graduation came...