Liam’s text was vague — “New place, fresh start. We’ll talk soon.”
Her brow furrowed. Liam wasn’t exactly the king of mystery.
She tapped her fingers against her knee, impatient.
“Where could he possibly be moving?” she muttered to herself.
Normally, Hope was pretty good at focusing… on Hope.
But today, Liam’s cryptic message gnawed at her.
She paced the living room, her designer heels clicking with each step.
“He better not be doing anything stupid,” she huffed.
Visions of Liam crashing at Wyatt’s, or worse, Bill’s, made her shudder.
Then a much worse idea hit her.
The cliffhouse.
Steffy’s house.

The one overlooking the ocean, the one dripping in memories.
“Please tell me he’s not moving back in there,” she said out loud.
She grabbed her keys.
Only one way to find out.
Hope tore through the streets, heart pounding, ego bruised.
“This is not about me,” she insisted to herself.
(Although, let’s be honest, it kinda was.)
Parking with a screech, she sprinted to the cliffhouse door.
There it was: Liam’s old beat-up duffle on the porch.
A lamp she recognized from their first apartment poked out of it.
Hope’s stomach dropped.
She knocked. Hard.
No answer.
The door creaked open.
And there he was — Liam.
Smiling. Comfortable. At home.
Hope blinked, stunned.
“Oh, you have got to be kidding me,” she whispered.