Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104050 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 520(@200wpm)___ 416(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
He turns back to the stove, but I can see he’s fighting a smile. The air between us is different—looser, almost playful. I wonder if it’ll last, or if we’ll both retreat into our old armor before the day is out.
I pick at the bacon, letting the salt and fat melt on my tongue. “So,” I say, “Is this the part where we talk about our feelings, or should we wait until the pancakes?”
He looks at me, serious again. “What do you want to talk about?”
I swing my legs, the stool creaking under me. “I don’t know. Maybe how amazing this breakfast is. Maybe how you whispered ‘you’re mine’ last night, and I didn’t even compute until I was falling asleep.”
His face goes blank for a second, then softens. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”
“It was nice,” I say, and it hangs there, vulnerable.
He wipes a spot on the counter with his thumb, then leans against the fridge, arms crossed. “I’ve never done this before,” he says.
“Done what?”
He gestures around, vague. “Any of this. The breakfast, the waking up next to someone and not wanting them to leave.”
I finish my bacon, then take another sip of coffee. “Me neither. I mean, I’ve done breakfast. But never like this.”
He steps closer, pulls the mug from my hands, and drinks from the same side I was using. The move is so casual it’s almost intimate.
I watch his throat work as he swallows, then set the mug down. “You want more?” he asks.
I shake my head.
He looks at me, the silence stretching, then says, “What do you want, Simone?”
For a second, I don’t know how to answer. I think of all the things I could say—the smart-ass reply, the self-deprecating one, the one that makes it seem like I don’t care.
But instead I say, “I want to do this again.”
He exhales, like he’s been holding it for a year.
“Good,” he says, and there’s a finality to it that makes my pulse skitter.
We finish breakfast mostly in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. The sounds of the house—pipes creaking, birds outside, the dull hum of the fridge—fill in the gaps. I study his hands, the way he eats, the little flecks of stubble on his jaw. I wonder what it would be like to do this every day. I wonder how long it would take for the newness to wear off, and if that would be a bad thing.
Liam clears the plates, stacks them in the sink, and turns to me. “I have to go to campus for an hour,” he says. “A meeting with the provost. You can stay here if you want. Read, or shower, or…” He trails off, uncertain.
“I’ll stay,” I say, a little too quickly. “I want to see your books.”
He grins, then brushes a kiss to the top of my head. “I’ll be back before noon,” he promises.
As he leaves, I watch the way the light plays off his back, the way the sweatpants hang loose and low on his hips. I feel the echo of his hands on my skin, the ghost of his mouth on my thigh.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like a visitor in someone else’s life.
I finish the last sip of coffee, letting the bitter burn linger on my tongue. I close my eyes and listen to the silence, the house settling around me like a second skin.
I think: Maybe this is how it starts. Not with fireworks, but with bacon and borrowed shirts and a man who makes me want to wake up in the morning.
I think: Maybe I could get used to this.
I think: I already am.
Liam comes back earlier than I expect, keys rattling in the door. I’m sprawled on his sofa, a heap of hair and shirt and a battered volume of Salinger I found in the living room. When he steps in, he blinks like he’s startled to find me still here, then smiles so soft it nearly splits my heart.
He drops a sheaf of paper on the counter and says, “Provost canceled,” as he shrugs off his jacket. “I brought croissants.” The bag is still warm; the smell hits me before he’s even torn it open.
We eat at the counter, side by side. My thighs are bare against the cold, veined marble. The coffee is mostly gone, so we drink orange juice from mismatched tumblers. The sun’s moved, sharpening the shadows on the wall and making the kitchen look like a painting: two people, feet brushing under the counter, plates and crumbs, sunlight knifing through the room.
Liam eats with the focus of a man who’s spent a lifetime being efficient, but every so often he glances at me, like he’s double-checking that I’m real. I feel a little raw in his presence, like my skin’s a size too small for my bones.