8. Zoey #3
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.
Liam glanced over, reading my face. He didn’t interrupt.
I answered on the second ring. Too fast. Guilty fast.
“Hi,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I had a medical thing today, and I didn’t clock in or message and that’s on me. I should have?—”
My new boss cut me off. What a way to make a first impression.
“You didn’t log in,” he said. “We’re already short. You know that.”
“I do,” I said. “I do know that. I had a head injury and lost consciousness, and I’m fine now but I wasn’t earlier, and?—”
“This is a bad week for that,” he said. “We lost the manager. Everyone needs to step up.”
I stared at the wall across from me. That manager’s job had been held together by duct tape and unpaid emotional labor—mostly mine. We hadn’t lost a manager. We had finally removed one. There was a difference, even if the fallout looked the same from the outside.
Of course they needed more now. They always did after people stopped quietly absorbing things. When the damage surfaced, it suddenly became an emergency.
“I can log on now, if you really need me to, I guess,” I said. “I can do some light tickets and manage the inbox?—”
My mouth kept offering concessions before my brain signed off on them. I couldn’t lose this job.
I realized, distantly, that Liam had crossed the room. He stood in front of me now, blocking my view of the wall. He held out his hand, his demeanor calm.
I looked at it, then at his eyes.
He didn’t rush me.
I swallowed and handed him the phone.
“Hello,” Liam said. His tone had changed from the one he’d been using with me. Not loud, not aggressive, but clear and assertive. “This is Liam Beltane. I’m with Zoey. She suffered a head injury today and lost consciousness because of it. She’s currently under observation.”
He fell quiet and listened to my boss.
“She won’t be logging on tonight,” he said. “Or tomorrow. Concussion protocol requires limited screen exposure until symptoms resolve.”
Another pause.
“Yes,” he said. “I understand staffing is strained. That doesn’t change medical risk. She can provide a doctor’s note once the risk has passed.”
He glanced at me once, checking in with me.
I nodded.
“If her condition worsens due to being pushed back to work too early,” he went on, “that becomes a liability issue for the company.”
I stopped breathing. Not because he was wrong, but because he was being this firm for me.
“I’m not threatening you,” he added. “I’m informing.”
Silence stretched. I could picture my boss recalibrating—he wouldn’t want the extra paperwork if something did go wrong.
“Thank you,” Liam said. “We’ll check in once she’s cleared.”
He handed the phone back to me and went to the sink, where he rinsed his hands, then dried them.
When my boss spoke again, his tone had changed. “Rest up. Keep us posted.”
“I will,” I said. “Thank you.”
I hung up and stared at my phone for a second, then set it face down on the cushion. Liam turned back to me. The sternness in his face was gone and had been replaced by something warm and unguarded.
I looked at him for a second longer than I meant to, then quickly looked down at my hands. They were still tense. Fingers curled slightly, like they were waiting for something else to do. Something else to fix.
There was nothing.
The problem had already been handled.
Cleanly. Completely.
My jaw tightened before I caught it. I forced it to release, flexing my fingers once against my palm.
That… didn’t happen to me. Not like that. Not without follow-up. Not without someone circling back, asking for more, reminding me what I owed them.
There was always a cost.
I glanced up at Liam again.
He had already moved on. There was no expectation radiating from him, no look that said I now owed him something.
My chest loosened slightly before I could stop it.
Relief.
My gaze dropped back to my hands.
This was how it started. Small things. Someone stepping in. Someone making things easier. And then suddenly they were inside everything. Every decision. Every problem. Every part of your life that used to belong to you.
I knew that pattern.
I had built my entire adult life around not repeating it.
But this didn’t feel the same.
There was no pressure attached to it. No expectation sitting underneath the gesture, waiting to be collected later.
Just… space.
I exhaled slowly.
The relief didn’t go away.
It just sat there.
And, against my better judgment, I welcomed it.
Liam looked at me. “Do you want dessert?”
I blinked rapidly. “Yes.”