11. Morning Visits
Morning Visits
Rowan
T he doorbell rang like it had a personal vendetta against my skull.
I woke to the relentless pounding, my head throbbing in time with each chime like someone was taking a hammer to the inside of my forehead.
The taste in my mouth was bitter, metallic, last night's whiskey mixed with the particular flavor of regret that came from fucking a stranger just to feel something other than empty.
Sunlight streamed through the cheap blinds, cutting across my face like accusations.
I could hear movement from the other side of the apartment, the rustle of clothes being pulled on, someone trying to be quiet and failing.
Right. The guy from last night. Dark hair, easy smile, hands that knew what they were doing.
I couldn't remember his name, wasn't sure I'd ever asked for it.
The doorbell rang again, insistent and sharp. Whoever was out there wasn't going away.
I stumbled out of bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor, and rubbed my eyes with the heel of my hand.
My mouth tasted like I'd been licking ashtrays, and my head felt like it was filled with cotton soaked in gasoline.
The walk to the door felt like moving through honey, each step requiring more effort than it should.
I swung the door wide without checking the peephole, too hungover and too annoyed to care who was interrupting my misery.
Elias stood there, framed by the pale morning light, holding a brown paper bag of groceries.
His coat was zipped up to his throat against the cold, and his expression was carefully neutral in a way that immediately put me on edge.
He looked well-rested, put-together, everything I wasn't in that moment.
“Jesus Christ,” I muttered, suddenly aware that I was shirtless, that I probably looked like I'd been hit by a truck. “What time is it?”
Before he could answer, the bedroom door opened behind me.
The guy from last night emerged, all tousled hair and satisfied smile, wearing nothing but his jeans from the night before.
His chest was lean and tan, marked with scratches from my fingernails that looked like small pink crescents in the morning light.
“Had a good time,” he said, grinning at me with the lazy confidence of someone who knew he was good in bed. “Text me sometime.”
“Yeah, sure,” I muttered, already knowing I wouldn't. I had his number saved in my phone under a string of meaningless consonants, and by tomorrow I'd delete it without a second thought. That's how these things worked: temporary amnesia disguised as intimacy.
I didn't look at him as he grabbed his shirt from the floor and pulled it on, muscles flexing in a way that had been appealing twelve hours ago but now just felt like a reminder of how hollow the whole thing had been.
He brushed past Elias without acknowledgment, treating him like furniture instead of a human being standing in the doorway.
Elias's gaze followed the man's retreating form, then returned to me. His expression remained calm, but there was something underneath it that I couldn't read. Not judgment, exactly, but something heavier. Something that made my skin feel too tight.
I grabbed a wrinkled t-shirt from the floor and pulled it over my head, the cotton sticking slightly to my skin where sweat had dried overnight. The movement made my head spin, and I had to grip the doorframe for a second until the world stopped tilting.
“That can’t be healthy,” Elias said evenly, nodding toward the coffee mug I’d moved to the counter.
I followed his gaze and realized I was already reaching for the bottle of whiskey I kept beside the coffee maker, my body moving on autopilot toward the temporary numbness that had become my morning routine.
The bottle was nearly empty, amber liquid sloshing against the glass like liquid courage I could never quite manage to swallow enough of.
“So what do you want this early?” I asked, pouring coffee into a mug with hands that shook just slightly. The dark liquid splashed against the ceramic, and without hesitation, I tipped whiskey in after it. The smell was sharp and familiar, like an old friend who enabled all your worst habits.
Elias’s brow furrowed, but his voice stayed cool. “Breakfast of champions.”
“Don’t knock it,” I muttered, taking a sip. “Caffeine and whiskey? Covers all the major food groups.”
“Interesting definition of nutrition,” he said dryly, and the twitch of his mouth suggested he was fighting a smile. “What about protein?”
I smirked, leaning back against the counter, mug in hand. “Guess you’ll just have to feed me.”
The silence that followed was heavier than it should’ve been, heat creeping into the back of my neck as his eyes caught mine—steady, unblinking, like he was cataloging every lie I told myself just to survive the morning.
I held his gaze, refusing to blink first, and something electric sparked between us.
He exhaled slowly, almost a laugh but not quite. “You think everything’s a game, don’t you?”
“Not everything.” My voice dropped, lower than I meant it to, rough at the edges. “Just the things that might kill me if I take them too seriously.”
He lingered there, gaze sharp, reading me in a way that felt more intimate than it should.
Under the kitchen light, Elias looked nothing like the version of him I remembered from the funeral—soft around the edges, always too careful.
He’d grown into himself, jawline sharper, shoulders filling out that old coat in a way that made me think of strong arms pinning me to the mattress, holding me steady when the world spun too fast. For a moment, I wanted to find out if he could handle me—if he wanted to.
He cleared his throat and held up the paper bag like a shield, breaking the spell. “Thought you might need groceries. The state of your fridge was giving me secondhand anxiety. When was the last time you saw a vegetable?”
“Had a cherry in a Manhattan last week,” I shot back. “I think that counts as fruit and fiber.”
He rolled his eyes and set the bag on the counter, unpacking its contents. Eggs, milk, real butter, a bunch of bananas, even a box of pancake mix and a little bottle of maple syrup. The domesticity of it was almost obscene.
“What, no kale chips?” I teased, watching his hands as he worked—long fingers, calloused palms, veins running beneath the skin. I wondered what those hands would feel like gripping my waist, tracing my spine, pinning me down and pulling me apart. The thought left me dizzy.
“I didn’t want to traumatize you on a weekday,” he deadpanned, lining up the groceries like he was staging an intervention. “I figured pancakes were safer. And coffee that doesn’t taste like burnt shoe leather.”
“That’s a bold assumption,” I said, stepping closer. I let my arm brush his, just to see if he’d flinch. He didn’t. If anything, his jaw tightened, but he didn’t move away.
He looked at me then, really looked, and I felt something shift in the air—like gravity realigning, drawing us closer whether I liked it or not.
“Your mother taught me how to make these pancakes with?—”
“Don’t.” The word came out sharper than I intended, cutting through the moment before it could turn into something that would burn us both.
A soft meow interrupted the tension, and Roxie appeared from under the couch, weaving between my legs with the particular brand of neediness that came from being abandoned too many times. She was getting bolder, venturing out during the day now, but she still startled at sudden movements.
Elias's expression softened when he saw her, the careful neutrality melting into something more genuine. “Where'd she come from?”
“Found her on the road,” I said, bending down to scratch behind her ears. She purred and butted her head against my palm, the simple trust of it making my chest feel tight. “Nearly ran her over on my bike.”
Roxie jumped onto the counter and sat primly between us, tail flicking like she owned the place. Elias’s gaze softened as he watched her.
“She doesn’t look like she misses the road much.”
“Of course not. She’s got gourmet kibble now. Living the dream.” I nudged her gently off the bread I’d left out. “She’s also a total freeloader. Doesn’t pay rent, doesn’t do chores. Just sleeps on my chest and drools.”
“Sounds like she learned it from her owner.” Elias’s mouth twitched like he hadn’t meant to let the jab slip.
I raised my brows. “Wow. So you come into my apartment with groceries and insults? Is this supposed to be part of your charm?”
“Maybe it’s just honesty.” He reached out to scratch Roxie under the chin, and she leaned into it like he’d earned the right. “Seems like she prefers me already.”
“Traitor,” I muttered to Roxie. “Don’t get too attached. He’ll probably start bringing you herbal tea and lecture you about life choices.”
That earned me a quiet huff of amusement from Elias, but the silence that followed was heavier than it should’ve been, stretching until I felt the weight of his eyes again. The groceries, the offer to cook, the way he'd shown up at my door like he had some right to care about my wellbeing.
“Look, I appreciate whatever this is,” I said, gesturing at the bag on my counter, “but I don't need a babysitter. I'm doing fine on my own.”
“Are you?” His voice was gentle but pointed. “Because from where I'm standing?—”
“From where you're standing, what? You think you can just show up here and fix me?” The words came out sharper than I'd intended, fueled by embarrassment and the particular kind of anger that came from being seen too clearly.
“Do I need permission now to sleep with guys? What, you got a problem with it? You some kind of homophobe or something?”
Elias went very still, and I watched something dangerous flicker behind his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was quiet but edged with steel.
“Is that really what you think of me?”