We eat in silence for a while, the mood changed but not ruined. I watch the way the sunlight moves across the countertop, the tinyparticles floating in the air, the way Liam’s shoulders tense and relax as he chews.
At one point he asks, “Are you in pain right now?”
I shake my head. “Not at the moment.”
He seems to file the information away, then finishes the rest of his croissant, not making a big deal out of it.
I let my gaze drift to the windows, the world outside glimmering with October blue. I wonder what it would be like to be the kind of girl who never had to explain herself, who could just be soft and pretty and uncomplicated.
But then Liam says, “You’re not defective, Simone,” and the words hang in the air, solid and warm. “You’re the strongest person I know.”
I don’t answer, because if I do, I’ll cry.
We finish our food. The sun keeps moving, and the house settles into a different quiet. I start to clear the plates, but he stops me, saying, “Leave it. I’ll get it later.”
Instead, he leads me to the living room, where we collapse together on the couch. He pulls me close, one arm around my shoulders, and I let myself relax into the weight of him.
We watch nothing on TV, just the muted color bars, but it feels like the safest place in the world.
I rest my head on his chest and close my eyes, letting the sound of his heartbeat drown out the rest of my doubts.
For once, I don’t feel broken.
For once, I just feel loved.
We spendthe next hour on the couch, drifting in and out of conversation, occasionally dozing in the hush of the house. When Liam’s stomach growls again, he laughs and says, “I should feed you real food. Or at least more food.” We migrate to the kitchen, where the countertop is still scattered with the debris of breakfast—jam jars, knives, a mostly-eaten croissant.
He offers to make a frittata. I say I’m fine with toast, but he shakes his head. “No sweetheart. I wore you out last night, and you need the calories.”
I flush, weirdly pleased, and watch as he whips eggs with one hand, his apron tied around his waist, the PICKLE LOVER logo now streaked with a bit of flour. The light is getting whiter, more ordinary, but the kitchen feels like it belongs to some other world—a world where everything is simple and every worry can be cooked away.
He slides the frittata into the oven and leans on the counter opposite me. His face is unreadable for a moment. Then he asks, “Are you happy here, Simone?”
It’s the sort of question I could have fun with, but instead I tell the truth: “I’m happy everywhere with you.”
He stares, just long enough that I wonder if I’ve gone too far. But then he nods, like he expected the answer all along.
“I get restless,” he says. “This place, my job, sometimes I want to burn it all down and start over.”
I slide onto the barstool, careful to keep the shirt pulled over my lap. “Why don’t you?”
He snorts, half amused. “I have tenure. And a mortgage.” He flicks his eyes toward the window. “Sometimes I think about quitting. Taking a year off. Going somewhere nobody cares who I am. Writing the way I used to before I had to publish or perish.”
He sounds almost shy, which is wild coming from a man who just last night was fucking me so hard I almost passed out.
“But I thought you were tenured already. They’re not going to fire you.”
He shoots me a sideways grin.
“Yeah, that’s true, but there’s my professional reputation to keep up. Plus, Iwantto write. It’s who I am, and I want to find somewhere isolated to do it so I can concentrate.”
I nod slowly.
“Where would you go?” I ask, letting my chin fall into my palm, giving him the full dream-girl gaze.
He thinks for a moment. “Maine, maybe. A tiny house on the coast. Or a cabin up north, just far enough from the city to matter.” He glances at me. “Would you visit?”
I laugh. “You think I’d let you hide from me? I’d be on your doorstep every morning demanding coffee.”
