Shrugging, he handed me a pair of chopsticks. I accepted them and shifted on the couch, making room without inviting him closer. He sat, not quite beside me but near enough that I was acutely aware of the space between us.
We ate in silence for a few seconds.
“This is all really good,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “This is not my first time ordering from them.”
“You’ve only lived here for a few days…”
“Correct.”
He tried the dumplings next. Then the rice. He nodded again, approval stacking.
“You were strategic in your ordering,” he said.
“I was emotional in my ordering,” I said.
He glanced at me, amused. “You planned for leftovers.”
“Leftovers are survival,” I said. “Future Zoey will be grateful.”
He took another bite and leaned back slightly, careful not to crowd me. His knee angled toward mine. Didn’t touch, which I noticed—I hated that I noticed.
Markie chose that moment to contribute from the other room. “PLEASE HOLD, MOTHERFUCKER.”
Liam burst out laughing before he could stop himself. Just as fast as it came out of him, it was gone.
I pointed my chopsticks at Markie’s enclosure. “That’s his way of saying he approves of the menu.”
“High praise,” Liam said.
The food disappeared faster than it should have. He paced himself as we ate. I did not. At some point, he pushed one container closer to me without saying a word. It was the same container I kept circling back to.
His fingers brushed mine for a second. Barely there. Thoughtless. He didn’t seem to notice. I did. Which was irritating, because the contact was so casual it slipped past all the parts of me that usually tensed first, and I was able to enjoy it despite myself.
When I finally leaned back, so full I was faintly offended by it, Liam’s eyes met mine.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Food coma.”
He smiled again. I rested the chopsticks on the lid and closed my eyes for a beat. The room felt occupied in a way that didn’t press on me.
This was a terrible precedent.
Liam stacked the containers, then put them into the fridge without rearranging everything else. He paused once, analyzing the mess that was my fridge, then continued. It was efficient and domestic, and it absolutely should not have elicited feelings inside me, but it absolutely did.
His shirt pulled tight across his shoulders as he moved. The fabric rode up at his back when he bent. The fridge light shone on his arms, and if the corded muscles were anything to go by, he could lift the appliance with one arm. He wiped the counter with a paper towel, folded it once, wiped again, then tossed it in the trash can.
I was having inappropriate thoughts about leftovers.
My phone started ringing.
I flinched so hard I nearly dropped it. The screen lit up with the worst possible words.
WORK.
“Shit,” I said out loud.
