Chapter 1
Millie
The dream lingers long after I wake—warmth, skin, the low rasp of a man’s voice begging to make me come. My fingers clutch the sheets, breath uneven, pulse caught between dream and daylight. Then a soft, wet drag across my cheek pulls me back to earth.
Nimbus.
His sandpaper tongue swipes twice before I groan and push him off gently. “You’re relentless,” I mutter, voice still husky from sleep. He blinks, tail flicking once before he flops onto his side with a theatrical sigh.
The room smells faintly of lavender detergent and old coffee, that in-between scent of a place that’s lived-in but never quite settled.
My phone lies tangled in the blanket beside me, still playing the muffled moans and gravelly growls of the audiobook I’d fallen asleep to—some ridiculous monster romance I downloaded at two in the morning after a glass of wine.
I pause it quickly, cheeks warming even though no one’s here to see.
The screen lights up with a new message. Actually, several. From Thalia. My sister never texts with restraint.
Thalia: Millie, new postings at the city library. You’re overqualified for the children’s desk position, but it’s something. Also, you still haven’t called Mom. She’s worried. Call her today.
Below that, three job links, each more irrelevant than the last. One for a receptionist position at a dentist’s office. Another at a boutique hotel. The third at a place that sells boat parts.
I drop the phone facedown on the nightstand. “Not today, Thalia,” I whisper to no one.
The air is cool when my feet touch the floor.
Nimbus hops down too, trotting after me as I head for the bathroom.
The mirror greets me with bed head and puffy eyes.
I splash water on my face, brush my teeth, and lean on the counter for a moment, breathing in the mint.
The water pressure groans when I twist the handle for the shower.
Steam fills the small space. I close my eyes beneath the stream, letting it rinse away the fragments of the dream that still cling like cobwebs. When I’m done, I wrap myself in a towel and stand in front of the medicine cabinet. I pull the door open, grab the prescription bottle, and take a pill.
I swallow it dry, the bitter taste coating the back of my tongue.
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 reads The 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.”
He takes a bite and groans softly, the sound low and genuine. My knees actually weaken. He catches me staring and raises an eyebrow.
“Something wrong?”
I clear my throat. “Just a question. Why is there coffee in the fridge?”
“Because,” he says around a grin, “you keep watering yours down to make iced coffee. I figured I’d make some in advance so you’d stop torturing good beans.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.” He pushes off the counter and moves to the fridge. “Hold on, I’ll show you how it’s supposed to be done.”
He pulls out the cold coffee, fills a tall glass with ice, and pours with the kind of precision that comes from muscle memory. His movements are fluid and confident. He adds a touch of vanilla syrup, a small swirl of cream, then gives it a lazy stir with a long spoon before handing it to me.
“Try that.”
I take a sip. It’s perfect. Smooth and rich, just the right amount of sweetness.
He watches my reaction, smug. “Told you.”
“You’re infuriatingly right,” I say, smiling despite myself.
He gestures to the table. “Come on, let’s eat. You’ve got a long shift today.”
I do, half because I’m hungry and half because sitting gives me something to do with my hands besides fidgeting.
The library is still closed—smoke damage and waterlogged ceilings—so I’ve been working at his mother’s café instead.
Liam helped me get the job. He’s technically the assistant manager, though most customers know him as the barista who remembers everyone’s order and somehow makes latte art that looks like portraits.
As I cut into a pancake, I glance at him. “What time did you get in last night?”
He shrugs. “Late. Maddox and I were gaming. Lost track of time.”
“Ah.” Maddox. He’s been different since the fire—quieter, more restless—but then again, so have we all.
When we finish eating, Liam rinses the dishes, humming softly. Nimbus perches on the windowsill, tail flicking in lazy swishes.
When he’s done, Liam disappears down the hall and returns a moment later with something hidden behind his back. “Got you something,” he says.
“What now?”
He reveals a motorcycle helmet, sleek black with a subtle gold stripe down the side. “Figured it was time to upgrade from the one that kept slipping.”
I reach for it, fingers brushing the glossy surface. “You didn’t have to—”
“I wanted to.” His grin widens. “Come on, you love the bike. Admit it.”
I do. I love the rush of wind, the way the town blurs into color and sound. But I’ll never admit how much I love the feel of him in front of me, the warmth beneath my palms as I hold on.
Outside, the morning air carries a faint sweetness from the nearby bakery. The sun is still low, painting the sky in soft pinks. Liam straddles the motorcycle easily, adjusting his gloves. The machine gleams, a deep, metallic blue that catches the light like water.
“Hop on, Mills,” he says, voice teasing.
I roll my eyes, slipping the helmet on. My fingers shake just a little as I climb on behind him. The seat’s warm from the sun. He hands me his jacket without turning around.
“You’ll freeze otherwise.”
When I pull it on, it’s far too big, smelling like roasted coffee beans and something deeper, something distinctly Liam.
He starts the engine, the vibration humming beneath us. I wrap my arms around his waist, feeling the flex of muscle beneath his shirt.
“Ready?” he asks.
“As I’ll ever be.”
We pull onto the road, the town slowly waking around us. The sea glints in the distance, quiet and familiar. I rest my cheek against his back, inhaling, and my chest feels tight, not from the wind but from the ache of wanting something I shouldn’t.