Gray sweatpants. Black T-shirt. Hair wrecked by the wind or maybe his own restless hands. One of Liam’s knuckles looked scraped. His eyes were bloodshot, not from tears, but from everything he wasn’t saying. He wasn’t the man who made headlines.

He was just a man. Standing at my door. Wrecked.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I said.

“I know.”

His voice was low, like it cost him something to get the words out. Not drunk enough to be sloppy. Just drunk enough to tell the ...