Clothes next.
I pull on a pair of light blue jeans, soft from too many washes, and a white tank top tucked loosely at the waist. A pale green cardigan follows—my armor against the chill that always creeps in off the coast this time of year. My hair goes up in a loose bun.
Downstairs, the apartment greets me in all its shared chaos. Two mugs on the coffee table. A pair of running shoes by the door. A jacket half-slipped off the back of the couch.
Liam’s jacket.
When I suggested he move in, it had been a practical and temporary solution. His house had burned down in the fire that gutted the north side, and my apartment had enough room.But six weeks in, I’ve learned that Liam’s version of tidy is just clutter.
I mean, I am no Marie Kondo, but Liam sure does take the cake. I look extremely organized in comparison.
Nimbus darts ahead of me, leaping onto the counter like he owns it. “You shouldn’t be up here,” I say, though I don’t move him.
The front door opens, bringing in a rush of salt air and the rhythmic sound of sneakers on tile.
Liam’s shirtless, as usual after his morning runs, skin glistening faintly from exertion. His running shorts hang low, the drawstring undone, and a thin sheen of sweat traces the line of his stomach.
Nimbus, the little traitor, abandons me instantly, bounding toward him with a chirp. Liam crouches down, pulling out his headphones as he laughs.
“Hey, little man. Miss me already?”
His voice is warm, the kind that vibrates somewhere in the chest. He scratches Nimbus behind the ears, and the cat melts into it like he’s known him his whole life.
“Morning,” he says, looking up at me.
“Good morning.” My throat feels dry. “Good run?”
“The best.” He straightens, and I have to tilt my head slightly to meet his gaze. His curls are longer now, brushing his temples, darkened with sweat. The color makes his eyes look even warmer—soft brown with a hint of amber when the light hits them right.
“I’ll shower, and then we can head out,” he says, smiling.
Before I can reply, he moves closer—close enough that the heat from his skin grazes mine. His hand lands lightly on my shoulder, then slides to the back of my neck as he presses a quick kiss to my forehead.
“You look like you didn’t sleep much,” he murmurs.
“I didn’t,” I manage.
He smiles again—the kind that doesn’t quite reach his eyes but still makes my chest tighten—and disappears down the hallway.
I exhale, hard. The sound that escapes me isn’t quite a sigh, not quite a groan. Just frustration mixed with something dangerous.
We’re friends. That’s what we decided. Friends who share an apartment and groceries and sometimes laundry detergent. Friends who don’t notice how the other smells like cinnamon and coffee, who definitely don’t imagine what that mouth might feel like pressed lower, slower?—
Nope.
I shake the thought out of my head, busying myself with Nimbus’s breakfast. His tiny bowl clinks against the counter as I pour in his wet food, and he’s already meowing before the spoon hits the dish.
The fridge hums when I open it, and sitting right in the middle shelf is a cup of cold coffee. Dark. Unlabeled. Definitely not mine. I frown. “Did you forget this?” I mutter to the empty room.
My stomach growls in protest. Liam handles the beverages, and I handle the food. I pull out the eggs and sausages and place them on the counter, then I make myself busy preparing the batter for the pancakes.
The smell of butter fills the air. I hum softly to myself as I flip the pancakes, the eggs and sausages already sizzling in separate pans.
Liam reappears just as I’m plating the food. He’s in faded jeans and a black T-shirt that clings in all the right ways. The logo on the chest readsThe Cocoa Nook,his mother’s café. He must have pulled it from the laundry pile I folded yesterday. His hair is still damp, curls pushed back loosely.
“Smells incredible,” he says, leaning against the counter and picking up a sausage.
I try not to focus on the way his arm brushes mine. “I didn’t see any food out, so I figured I’d make some.”
