author's note: hello everyone! i’ve been turning this idea around in my head for a while now — this fic about an Argentine popstar, the most confrontational one of the decade. i had to tweak a few things for narrative reasons, mostly timelines, but the core of the idea stayed the same. i wanted to share this introduction with you first, just to see how the concept lands with you, if it works, if it pulls you in. i’m also leaving a video of Lali so you can really get the vibe of what i’m aiming for with this character and her energy on stage.
Over the last two years, Missy’s career had taken a leap impossible to ignore. It wasn’t organic or quiet growth—it was an explosion. And while many preferred to credit talent, audacity, or perfect timing, the truth was that it had all begun with an unexpected enemy.
The president.
Without subtlety or restraint, he had decided to turn her into a public target. He accused her of living off state taxes, of charging inflated fees for free shows across different provinces, of being an overproduced product serving a culture that—according to him—needed to be erased. He didn’t say it behind closed doors. He said it on television, at official events, in interviews. He repeated her stage name like a slogan, sharp and deliberate.
Missy didn’t respond with statements. She responded with music.
She wrote songs that didn’t ask for permission or forgiveness. Lyrics that didn’t defend themselves—they attacked. The reaction was immediate. Radio stations amplified the conflict. The public chose sides. Where there had once been packed theaters, there were now stadiums selling out in a matter of hours. Her first show after the media explosion was devastating: a spectacle of lights, screens, and choreography that blended eroticism, power, and absolute control of the stage. It wasn’t empty provocation. It was a declaration.
Offstage, away from headlines and chants, her name was Valentina—a name rarely spoken out loud, almost unused, like something carefully folded away. Onstage, under the lights, there was only Missy.
International media turned their cameras toward Buenos Aires as if something dangerous were happening. And, in a way, it was.
By 1998, two years after the conflict began, Missy performed five consecutive nights at one of the largest stadiums in Argentina. Every date sold out. Foreign journalists, special correspondents, photographers. The phenomenon was no longer local. The controversy had crossed borders.
And, against all odds, the place where it resonated the most was England.
A country with a long tradition of cultural protectionism. Ours first, imports later. In the heart of the britpop era, the artists dominating the scene were confrontational, revolutionary, incapable of keeping their mouths shut. In that context, the figure of a young Latin American woman who faced political attacks without bowing her head was as unsettling as she was magnetic.
The invitation to the British awards arrived wrapped in cultural language: the breakout artist from Latin America. The contemporary voice who could take it. In Argentina, the news landed like a bomb. The Malvinas war was still an open wound. Sixteen years hadn’t been enough to close anything. Her decision to set foot on English soil was read by some as provocation, by others as betrayal.
But Missy didn’t travel to ask for permission. She traveled with a plan.
On the other side of the room, without knowing it yet, was Liam Gallagher.
In his own ecosystem of chaos, arrogance, and noise. In an England that believed itself the center of the world. Oasis was everywhere, and for him, the universe boiled down to sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Nothing seemed capable of knocking him off balance… until he saw her.
The first thing he noticed wasn’t the music or the voice, but the symbol.
Right at the center of her chest, clearly visible under the stage lights, was the Malvinas logo. Direct. Unmistakable. A gesture impossible to ignore on a British stage. A blunt уар before any explanation could arrive.
Only then did the accent come. The opening introduction was in Spanish. On an English stage. Another immediate scandal.
He didn’t understand every word, but he understood the message.
The moving body. The sharpened voice. The violent sensuality of the performance. Absolute control of the stage. The crowd’s reaction. The madness spreading through the room.
She didn’t look at him. But he couldn’t stop looking at her.
That was the exact moment when two incompatible worlds began to collide. And neither of them was willing to give in.
pairing: 1998!liam gallagher x popstar!reader
word count: 4,1k
cw: we're getting there, like... there - sexual tension - enemies to lovers (hot) - angst obvs - he cares about her - slow burn - liam suddenly is a good boy - media scrutiny - overwhelmed valen
author's note: so... the two lovebirds (or birds of love) are getting along, just a little bit, but first both of them have to get out their claws. i just love this dynamic. here’s a video of lali dancing too
The next morning, Valentina woke up with a rare kind of peace in her chest.
She stayed in bed longer than she usually allowed herself to, listening to the distant hum of the city through the hotel window, letting it seep into her skin. When she finally got dressed, she did it quietly—simple jeans, a sweater, her hair tied back, sunglasses tucked into her pocket. She looked like any other girl walking through a foreign city.
And that was the point.
This time she didn’t want the London Eye. She didn’t want Big Ben or Tower Bridge or Buckingham Palace. She’d done all that already. She wanted the real London—the neighborhoods, the markets, the side streets where no one cared who she was.
She wanted to see what the city was when it wasn’t performing.
She walked for hours. Past corner cafés and old brick buildings. Past small bookstores and train stations that smelled like rain. She listened to the rhythm of English voices around her, still unfamiliar but oddly comforting, like she was learning a language without trying.
For a moment, it felt like she’d actually succeeded. Like she had escaped. Then she saw the newspaper stand.
It wasn’t even dramatic at first. Just a small booth on the corner of a street she didn’t recognize, the kind tourists never bothered to photograph. Valentina slowed down automatically, curiosity pulling her closer.
And then she froze. Her face was on the front page. Not once. Not twice but everywhere. Different angles. Different photos. Some taken on stage. Some clearly taken without her knowing. A shot of her walking out of Abbey Road. Another of her laughing with someone. Another of her turning her head, eyes narrowed, caught mid-expression.
But the headlines weren’t about her performance, about her music or about her message. They were about him.
LIAM GALLAGHER REJECTED BY ARGENTINE POPSTAR
MISSY: THE WOMAN WHO HUMILIATED BRITPOP’S PRINCE
PRIVATE JAM NIGHT TURNS INTO BACKSTAGE DRAMA
OASIS FRONTMAN LEFT SPEECHLESS BY LATIN SENSATION
One of them, printed in bold disgusting letters, made her stomach twist.
ANTI-BRITISH POPSTAR OR JUST A SLUTTY DISTRACTION?
Valentina stared at it like it was a personal insult carved into stone. Someone had sold the story. Of course they had. Someone had taken something private—Abbey Road, a jam session, a night that was supposed to be quiet and human—and turned it into a cheap tabloid fantasy. The kind of story people could swallow without having to think. The kind of story where she wasn’t an artist. She was just a girl who rejected Liam Gallagher.
The world always preferred that version. It was easier. Dirtier. More entertaining.
She felt anger rise in her chest, hot and sharp. Because she knew this game. In Argentina it was the same. Always the same. Art didn’t matter as much as scandal. Music didn’t matter as much as headlines. The industry didn’t care about her voice, only about her mouth—what it said, who it kissed, who it rejected.
Valentina clenched her jaw. For a second she wanted to rip every paper in half. Instead, she bought one. Just to have it in her hands. Just to feel the weight of it. Proof that even here, across the ocean, they were still trying to reduce her into something small.
She folded it under her arm and kept walking. She told herself it wouldn’t ruin her day. Not again.
But the city felt different now. The streets were still beautiful, the cafés still smelled like warm bread and coffee, but Valentina’s skin had tightened. Her shoulders sat higher. Her gaze sharpened.
She could feel it. The storm had followed her. And it wasn’t finished.
She turned a corner, trying to shake it off, when she heard footsteps quickening behind her.
“Missy!”
Valentina didn’t stop.
“Missy! Excuse me—Missy!”
A man stepped into her path, holding a microphone like a weapon. Behind him, a photographer lifted his camera immediately, lens aimed straight at her face.
Valentina stopped so suddenly she almost laughed. Of course. The man smiled like he’d caught prey.
“Missy, right?” he said, voice too cheerful. “A quick question. Do you have a moment?”
Valentina didn’t answer. The camera flashed.
“Do you regret what you said at the Brit Awards?” he pressed. “Some people think it was disrespectful to come to England and turn your performance into a political statement.”
Valentina’s lips parted slightly, but she didn’t speak yet. She was watching him. Studying him. Measuring what kind of man he was.
He leaned closer, hungry.
“Do you still stand by what you said about the Falklands?”
There it was. The word that made English mouths sound clean while Argentine blood still remembered it as a wound.
Valentina inhaled slowly. She didn’t raise her voice. She answered like she was talking about the weather.
“It’s not a trend,” she said, her accent thick and unmistakable. “It’s history.”
The man blinked, caught off guard by how calm she sounded. The photographer’s camera clicked again.
“And do you hate Britain?” the journalist asked, as if he’d been waiting to throw the most dramatic line possible.
Valentina’s eyes narrowed.
“I don’t hate Britain,” she replied. “I hate people who think they can erase what happened just because it makes them uncomfortable.”
The journalist’s smile faltered for half a second. Then it returned, sharper.
“Would you apologize to British people who feel offended?”
Valentina looked at him for a long moment. Then she said, slow and deliberate, voice still calm:
“No.”
And she walked away.
The photographer followed her for a few steps, shouting her name, but Valentina didn’t turn around. Her heartbeat was steady. Controlled.
She knew exactly what would happen next. They would cut her answers into something uglier. They would turn her into a headline again.
Problematic. Controversial. Difficult. She’d been called worse. Still, the anger burned in her stomach like acid.
By the time the afternoon arrived, Valentina was exhausted. Not physically—emotionally. The kind of exhaustion that comes from always being watched, always being asked to justify your existence.
So she did what she always did when she needed to breathe. She walked without destination.
But London was bigger than she thought.
The rain started without warning. A thin drizzle at first, then heavier, soaking her sweater, sticking her hair to her neck. The sidewalks became slick. The air smelled like wet stone.
She tried to find the underground, but every sign looked the same. Every station felt like the wrong one. People moved fast, not looking at her, and for the first time since arriving in England, she felt genuinely foreign.
She couldn’t tell where she was. Her hands were cold. Her shoes were damp. Her phone was useless. Valentina swallowed hard. And then, without thinking, she ducked into the first place she saw.
A pub.
Warm light spilled through the windows. The smell of beer and fried food hit her immediately. The noise was comforting—laughter, voices, music low in the background. The kind of place that didn’t care about awards ceremonies or headlines.
She stepped inside, dripping rain onto the floor, and took off her sunglasses. She only wanted to dry off. Sit down. Figure out where the hell she was. Find her way back. That was all.
But the moment she lifted her eyes— She saw him.
Liam Gallagher.
Sitting at the bar like he belonged there, a pint in front of him, cigarette between his fingers like it was an extension of his body. Next to him, Noel leaned back in his chair, looking bored and unimpressed with everything in existence.
Liam’s head turned. And the second his eyes landed on her, his mouth twisted into a grin. Like he’d just won.
Valentina stopped walking. She didn’t even have the energy to be annoyed.
Liam looked her up and down slowly, eyes flicking to the rain clinging to her hair, her clothes, the tiredness in her posture.
“Well, well,” he said, voice loud enough to carry. “Look who it is.”
Noel glanced over too, expression unreadable. Valentina sighed. Of course. Liam leaned back on his stool, smug as sin.
“You’re shit at disappearing, aren’t you?” he said, lazy, almost amused.
Valentina stared at him for a long moment. Then she said, flat, honest, exhausted:
“I’m not disappearing.”
Liam’s grin widened, like he’d expected a fight. Valentina continued, quieter.
“I’m lost.”
That did it.
For the first time since she’d met him, Liam Gallagher looked genuinely caught off guard. The arrogance didn’t vanish, but something shifted underneath it. Something human.
Noel raised an eyebrow. Liam blinked once. Then he scoffed, like he needed to recover.
“Right,” he muttered. “Course you are.”
Valentina walked toward the bar anyway, dropping her wet jacket over a chair like she didn’t care who was watching. She sat two stools away from him on purpose.
Noel watched her like he was analyzing a painting.
“You seen the papers today?” Liam asked, tone casual but eyes sharp.
Valentina didn’t answer immediately.
“Yes,” she said finally.
Liam hummed. “You really love stirring shit up, don’t you?”
Valentina turned her head slowly.
“I didn’t stir anything up,” she replied. “Your country did.”
Liam laughed once, but it sounded wrong. Forced.
“They’re saying you’re anti-UK now,” he said. “That you came here to start a war.”
Valentina’s lips curled into a humorless smile.
“I didn’t start anything. I just said the truth.”
Liam leaned closer, lowering his voice.
“Yeah, well,” he muttered, “you might wanna be careful. England doesn’t like being told the truth.”
Valentina’s gaze sharpened.
“You’re telling me to be careful?” she asked. “That’s rich.”
Liam shrugged.
“I’m telling you you’re loud,” he replied. “And you don’t shut up. You’re like—” he searched for the word, then waved his hand. “A bloody firework.”
Valentina scoffed.
“And you’re like a drunk mosquito,” she replied. “Always buzzing around my head.”
Noel snorted into his drink. Liam shot him a glare.
“You know what I mean,” Liam insisted. “You come in with your little logo, your little speech—”
“Little?” Valentina cut in, voice suddenly cold.
Liam paused. Valentina leaned forward, accent thickening as her anger rose.
“You think it’s little because it didn’t happen to you,” she said quietly. “Because it’s not your boys. Not your dead kids. Not your families. You call it a war. We call it an open wound.”
Liam blinked. The pub noise seemed to fade behind them for a moment. Noel’s expression shifted slightly. He looked… interested. Liam opened his mouth.
Valentina didn’t let him speak.
“And don’t talk to me about respect,” she continued. “Respect is not silence. Respect is not pretending something didn’t happen because it makes you uncomfortable.”
Liam swallowed. He tried to smile again, but it didn’t land.
“Alright,” he muttered. “Alright, calm down.”
Valentina’s eyes flashed.
“I am calm.”
Noel leaned forward slightly, voice calm, cutting through the tension like a blade.
“She’s right, you know,” Noel said.
Liam snapped his head toward him.
“Oh, shut up.”
Noel shrugged. “I’m serious. You’re acting like she’s committed a crime for having an opinion.”
Liam scoffed, but his eyes flickered back to Valentina. And something about his expression changed. He didn’t like being wrong. But he hated being called ignorant even more.
Valentina sat back, exhaling slowly. For a moment, none of them spoke. The rain tapped against the windows. Then Liam cleared his throat.
“You need a ride back?” he asked, like it didn’t matter. Like he was asking about the weather.
Valentina narrowed her eyes.
“No.”
Liam’s mouth twitched.
“Yes,” he said anyway. “You do.”
Valentina stared at him.
“I can find my way.”
Liam leaned closer, voice low.
“You can’t even find your way out of this pub, love.”
Valentina’s jaw tightened. Noel stood up, stretching, clearly done with the entire conversation.
“Alright,” he muttered. “I’m not babysitting this. I’ll get the cab.”
Valentina blinked.
“You don’t have to—”
Noel waved her off. “It’s raining. Don’t be stubborn.”
Liam smirked. Valentina hated that she didn’t have a comeback ready. She stayed silent, and Liam took that as a win.
Minutes later they were outside, rain pouring harder now, the streetlights reflecting off wet pavement. The cab arrived.
Inside, the air was warm and suffocating.
Valentina sat by the window, arms crossed, watching the city blur past too tired to try and talk with them. Noel sat between them, staring straight ahead like he regretted being born.
The silence was unbearable. Liam broke it first, of course.
“You always this miserable in the mornings?” he asked.
Valentina didn’t look at him.
“It’s afternoon.”
Liam laughed softly. Noel sighed like he was going to die.
“You’re gonna be the death of me,” Liam muttered.
Valentina finally turned her head slightly, eyes cold, voice calm.
“Good.”
The cab stopped outside her hotel. Valentina reached for the handle immediately. Liam leaned forward, voice sharp.
“You’re not gonna thank me?”
Valentina paused.
"Thank you, Noel" she said looking directly to his brother.
Then she looked at him, expression unreadable. Liam smirked. Valentina stepped out.
Before she walked away, she turned just enough to meet his eyes one last time.
“Don’t follow me,” she said.
Liam’s grin widened, pure Gallagher arrogance.
“That’s not gonna happen.”
Valentina rolled her eyes.
“Yeah,” she muttered. “Thought so.”
The next day, the scandal exploded. Not the silly or gossip kind. The real kind. The kind that turned into politics.
Newspapers painted her as anti-UK, anti-Britain, a foreign provocateur who had come to stir resentment. The headlines grew uglier. Meaner. More nationalistic.
And for the first time since arriving in England, Valentina felt genuinely threatened.
Because this wasn’t Argentina. This was a country where she had no allies. No team. No safety net. No crowd screaming her name.
She sat in her hotel room, watching the news on television, arms wrapped around herself, listening to people debate her existence like she was a headline and not a person.
Then the screen changed. A reporter stood outside a building, microphone raised.
“Liam Gallagher,” the reporter said, stepping in front of him. “Can we get a comment? There’s controversy around Missy—some are calling her anti-UK. Is it true you’ve been spending time with her?”
“Inappropriate?” he repeated. “For saying what she believes?”
He leaned closer to the microphone, eyes sharp, voice loud enough to carry.
“If you lot are offended by a logo on a woman’s chest, maybe you’re the problem.”
The reporter blinked. Liam kept going.
“She didn’t insult anyone. She said history. You just don’t like hearing it.”
Noel appeared behind him, looking like he wanted to disappear. Liam didn’t care.
“And for the record,” Liam added, voice dripping with irritation, “she’s got more backbone than half the cowards writing those headlines.”
The reporter tried to interrupt. Liam cut him off immediately.
“And if you’re asking if I’m spending time with her,” he said, lips curling. “Yeah. I am. And you can all get fucked.”
He walked away. Valentina stared at the screen. Her heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might crack her ribs.
She couldn’t believe what she’d just heard.
Liam Gallagher… defending her. Publicly. In England.
She couldn’t ignore what he’d just done. stayed still long after the interview ended.
The TV moved on to other stories—politicians, weather, sports—anything that wasn’t her. But she barely registered the sound. All she could hear was Liam’s voice, sharp and certain, cutting through the journalist’s questions like a knife.
Defending her. Not politely. Not in a calculated, PR-friendly way. He defended her like it cost him nothing and everything at the same time.
And that was what hit her.
Because Valen knew what it meant to be loud. To be controversial. To be the headline everyone loved to twist. She knew what it meant to wake up and find your name being chewed up by strangers who didn’t even bother to listen to your music.
But she also knew something else—something most people didn’t understand.
That when you were that kind of public figure, you were always alone in the middle of the noise. No one protected you. No one risked their own reputation for you. Not unless they were getting something out of it.
And yet Liam had done it anyway. For the first time in a long time, Valen didn’t just feel understood. She felt… covered. Protected.
It wasn’t romantic, not exactly. It was something raw. Like two people who had both been burned by the same kind of fire, recognizing each other across the smoke.
It moved something in her chest she hadn’t let herself feel in years.
She reached for the phone on the nightstand. Then stopped. Because she didn’t have his number.
Of course she didn’t.
She exhaled sharply, frustrated, and grabbed the small notebook she’d been carrying around since she arrived in London—full of addresses, schedules, little scribbles, tourist notes, reminders. She flipped through it quickly until she found the only contact she had that mattered.
Creation Records.
She dialed before she could overthink it. The line rang.
Valentina closed her eyes briefly, already irritated by the name.
“I need a number,” she said. “Liam Gallagher’s.”
Silence. Then a small laugh on the other side, as if this wasn’t surprising at all.
“I’m sorry, I—are you sure?”
Valentina’s jaw tightened.
“Yes.”
Another pause. Then the woman sighed, like she was about to break a rule she’d break anyway.
“Alright. Give me a second.”
Valentina waited, heart beating harder than it should’ve.
A click. The woman came back. She read out the number slowly. Valentina wrote it down, pressing the pen so hard it almost tore the paper.
“Thank you,” she said, quick and clipped, and hung up before she could change her mind.
She stared at the number. For a full minute, she didn’t move. Then she dialed. It rang once. Twice. Then someone picked up.
“What?”
His voice was rough, blunt, unmistakably him. Like he’d been expecting trouble and decided he didn’t care.
Valentina swallowed.
“Liam.”
There was a pause. Then a low laugh, warm with satisfaction.
“Valen,” he said. “Look at you.”
Valentina rolled her eyes automatically, but the sound of her name in his mouth still did something strange to her stomach.
“I saw the interview,” she said, getting straight to the point. “The one on TV.”
“Yeah?” Liam replied, like it was nothing. Like he hadn’t just told half the country to go to hell.
Valentina hesitated. Then she forced the words out.
“Thanks.”
There was another pause. She could almost hear him smiling. Valentina cleared her throat.
“But next time,” she added quickly, voice sharper, “don’t lie. We’re not spending time together.”
Liam scoffed.
“You keep saying that,” he said, amused. “But in the last couple weeks I’ve seen you more than I’ve seen my own brother.”
Valentina went quiet. Her cheeks warmed, annoyed at herself for reacting at all.
“That’s not my fault,” she muttered.
“It is now,” Liam replied easily. “You alright?”
Valentina swallowed. She didn’t want to answer honestly. But something about the way he asked—like he wasn’t mocking her, like he actually meant it—made her chest tighten again.
“I’m fine,” she lied.
Liam hummed.
“No, you’re not,” he said. “But you will be.”
Valentina stared at the wall, phone pressed against her ear, heartbeat louder than her thoughts. She whispered, almost against her will:
“I didn’t expect you to do that.”
Liam’s voice softened—not by much, but enough.
“Yeah, well,” he muttered. “Didn’t expect you to be all over the bloody papers either, did I?”
Valentina let out a small laugh, tired and bitter.
“They’re twisting everything,” she said.
“I know,” Liam replied. “That’s what they do.”
A beat. Then he added, quieter:
“I meant what I said, though.”
Valentina’s throat tightened. Because she believed him. That was the dangerous part. Liam cleared his throat.
“So,” he said, voice returning to its usual tone, lighter but still edged. “You wanna get a drink? Get the bad taste out of your mouth?”
Valentina hesitated. It wasn’t a bad idea. But she could already see it—stepping out of the hotel, getting spotted, cameras flashing, her name and his name stitched together like a headline waiting to be born.
MISSY AND LIAM: SECRET NIGHT OUT AFTER SCANDAL.
She couldn’t handle that. Not now.
“I could,” she admitted quietly. “But… I don’t want to go out.”
Liam didn’t interrupt. Valentina kept going, choosing her words carefully.
“Not because of you,” she added quickly. “But because of the tabloids. They’re watching me. I just want things to calm down. I don’t want more pictures, more stories, more bullshit.”
There was a pause. Then Liam hummed, like he’d heard her, like he understood.
“Alright,” he said simply.
Valentina exhaled, relieved.
“Good,” she muttered.
Another pause. And then Liam’s voice came back, far too casual.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll come to you.”
Valentina blinked.
“What?”
But Liam was already laughing under his breath.
“Night, Valen.”
And before she could protest, before she could argue, before she could even form a coherent sentence in English— The line went dead.
Valentina stared at the phone in disbelief.
“What the hell…” she whispered.
She dropped it onto the bed, pacing the room once, twice, trying to convince herself he was joking. That it was just another one of his stupid provocations.
Half an hour later, the bedroom phone rang. Valentina frowned, confused. She picked up slowly.
“Hello?”
“Miss Valentina?” The voice on the other end was polite, professional. The hotel manager.
“Yes?”
“There’s a gentleman downstairs asking for you,” he said carefully, as if he already knew this wasn’t going to be a normal request. “He says his name is Liam Gallagher.”
Valentina went completely still. Her stomach dropped. Of course. She pressed the phone tighter to her ear, almost in disbelief.
“Liam Gallagher?” she repeated.
“Yes, miss,” the manager confirmed. “He insists it’s urgent."
Valentina closed her eyes. She didn’t know if she wanted to laugh or scream.
“Send him up,” she said finally, voice flat.
“Very well,” the manager replied. “He’ll be there shortly.”
She hung up.
And the moment the line went dead, Valentina realized something she should’ve realized hours ago: Liam Gallagher didn’t ask for permission. He was the kind of man who simply arrived.
Liam stood there. No Noel. No band. No entourage. Just Liam.
Hair messy, jacket half-open, cigarette tucked behind his ear like an afterthought. In one hand, he held a paper bag that smelled like greasy comfort food. In the other, two bottles clinked softly—something amber, something clear.
He looked her up and down with a grin that screamed victory.
“Told you,” he said.
Valentina stared at him, speechless.
“You can’t just—” she started.
“I can,” Liam cut in easily. “And I did.”
Valentina blinked, then glanced at the bag.
“What is that?”
“Food,” Liam said, like she was slow. “And drinks.”
Valentina’s eyes narrowed.
“You’re insane.”
Liam shrugged.
“Yeah,” he replied. “But you didn’t wanna go out. So I brought the night to you.”
He lifted the bag slightly, eyebrows raised.
“You gonna let me in, or are you gonna stand there lookin’ like you’re about to stab me?”
Valentina stared at him for another long second. Then she stepped aside. Liam walked in like he’d been invited his entire life.
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