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 earlierthan 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.
We talk about nothing at first—the best bakery in town, how he hates the Century College parking lot, why Salinger is overrated.The words are easy, background noise to the click of knives and the faint hum of NPR coming from the living room speakers.
Then, out of nowhere, he says, “You want to talk about last night?”
I almost choke on a crumb. “Sure. What part?”
He shrugs, but his jaw tics. “You said you were safe. That I didn’t need to use a condom. I trust you, but I wanted to check. Does that mean you’re on birth control?”
The heat creeps up my neck, and I set my croissant down. I look at my hands instead of him. “Actually no. I can’t get pregnant for a different reason,” I say, and the words hit the table with a thud.
He’s quiet for a moment. “Why not?”
I trace a circle on the countertop, my pinky smearing a bit of stray jam. “It’s stupid. I have fibroids. In my uterus. Basically it’s a jungle in there—doctors said it’s unlikely I’ll ever be able to keep a pregnancy.” I try for a joke: “It’s like trying to park a car in a garage that’s full of pool floats and Christmas decorations.” My voice catches and I hate myself for it.
Liam is completely still, the way he gets when he’s reading a student’s confessional essay and doesn’t want to tip off how much it matters. His fork is suspended midair. “Are you okay? Does it hurt?” he asks, voice gentle.
I laugh, brittle. “Sometimes. Not so much lately. I get cramps, and every now and then the cramps get so bad that I go for an ultrasound. But I’m okay.” I touch my lower belly, a reflex I can’t control. “I’m fine, really. Just defective, I guess.”
He sets his fork down with a clink, then turns to face me fully. “Don’t call yourself that,” he says, low and fierce.
I shrug, fighting the urge to look away. “It’s not a big deal. Most guys don’t care because honestly, we always use protection. But we didn’t last night, so I thought you should know.”
He surprises me by reaching out and placing his hand gently over mine, thumb stroking the back of my knuckles. “Thank you for telling me,” he says. “And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up so suddenly like that.”
I want to make a joke, but I can’t. Instead, I stare at the juice in my glass and try to make the room stop spinning.
He gives my hand a final squeeze before letting go. “Do you want kids?” he asks.
The question lands like a stone in a pond, sending out a hundred tiny ripples. I think of the foster homes, the years of feeling like I was a burden someone else had to tolerate, the way I never learned to imagine a future that included anyone but myself.
I say, “I haven’t decided,” and it’s the closest thing to the truth I’ve ever said out loud.
Liam nods, slow, like he’s reading between lines that haven’t been written yet.
We sit in silence, just the sound of the fridge and the fork clinking against the plate. I feel exposed, vulnerable in a way I didn’t expect. I wonder if he’ll take it back, decide I’m not worth the trouble.
But he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches for my glass and tops it off, careful not to spill.
