Chapter 5 Settling In
Settling In
Claire
Ihad it down to a science.
Two suitcases, one backpack, and one reusable grocery tote that held my mobile office. I’d packed with military precision, every zipper compartment maximized, every cable coiled and labeled. Efficiency was my native language.
He must’ve heard the elevator, because the door was already open when I reached it.
Liam was standing in the entryway, hands in his pockets, trying not to hover. He was polite about it, didn’t ask if I needed anything, didn’t pretend we were suddenly roommates. Just nodded and stepped aside so I could pass.
That cologne again.
I adjusted my grip on the grocery tote and walked toward the hallway, where the guest rooms were located. And that’s when the travel mug slipped.
The stainless steel clattered against the hardwood once before Liam caught it mid-bounce.
"Good reflexes," I said without thinking, pausing just long enough to accept it back.
"Goalie," he replied, as if that explained everything. It kind of did.
I let out a short breath. Not quite a laugh. "Right. Makes sense."
His broad shoulders that made sense in the context of net coverage. His movements were controlled, minimal. Economical, even. The kind of muscle memory that doesn’t waste energy.
I rounded the corner into the guest suite and mentally ticked off the list—bed, closet space, outlet accessibility, natural light, temperature control. Everything in order.
This was temporary. Just a stopgap while Nolan’s place was filled with family chaos. I’d stay out of Liam’s way, be respectful of shared spaces, and make zero assumptions.
Simple.
I started to unpack, cables, chargers, adapters, all in their place.
But my eyes drifted to the hallway, towards the rest of Liam’s apartment.
It’s a shame that a goalie mask hides a jaw like that.
“Okay. Last plug.”
I pressed the adapter into the wall socket and watched the power light blink on. Hopefully, the internet is decent back here.
I was almost done setting up my temporary lodging. Quick look at my watch. 5:00.
“I better go out and grab dinner,” I muttered.
I thought about asking Liam if he needed anything, but the apartment was quiet and empty. No sign of him in the kitchen or living room. I grabbed my wallet, keys, and coat, and slipped out.
Arturo had mentioned a local market two blocks away. Said it was clean, efficient, no-frills. My kind of place. Ten minutes later, I had exactly what I needed: grilled chicken, sweet potatoes, and broccoli. Packed in a recyclable container with a compostable fork and zero effort on my part.
Back at the apartment, it was still quiet. I slid the container into the fridge and headed back to the guest suite.
I waited until it was late enough that I wouldn’t be interrupting his dinner. Then I stepped out, planning to heat up my meal and vanish again.
I figured Liam would’ve finished cooking by now. He hadn’t.
I paused just outside the kitchen threshold.
His back was to me. He was wearing a royal blue T-shirt, which made his shoulders look even broader, his build unmistakably athletic.
His sleeves were pushed up, his forearms flexing as he sliced through a bunch of scallions with calm, mechanical precision.
His movements weren’t rushed or careless, they were…
exact. Controlled. Like he’d done it a thousand times and didn’t intend to get it wrong now.
The copper pans gleamed under the recessed lighting. Something sizzled on the stove, olive oil, maybe garlic. Something richer beneath it. Whatever it was, it smelled a thousand times better than I imagined my prepared dinner from the market would. But that wasn’t the point.
I stayed still a second longer than I meant to, watching. He shifted his weight as he worked, and I realized, he moved like someone trained to react. Efficient. Fast-twitch. Reflexes. Coordination. Upper-body control. It tracked. It must be useful on the ice.
He turned slightly, not enough to see me, just enough to drop the scallions into a small white bowl. His posture was relaxed, but there was an edge to it. A deliberateness. A certain kind of focus I’d only ever seen in ORs and elite athletes.
I stepped forward as quietly as I could, opened the fridge, and grabbed the container I'd picked up earlier. Then I crossed to the microwave and opened it. The soft beep was barely audible, but he stilled.
Not a full pause. Just a subtle tightening across his shoulders. A half-second of alertness. Like he’d clocked the sound and filed it under “offense.” But he didn’t turn. Didn’t say anything.
I slid the container in, hit start, and watched the numbers count down from ninety.
He resumed chopping, now a lemon, like nothing had happened.
But I knew he noticed.
When it beeped, I took the bowl to my room and ate with the door half-shut.
After dinner, I brushed my teeth and did the rest of my routine, micellar water, retinol, night moisturizer, eye cream. Twenty-eight steps if you counted flossing, which I always did.
Totally functional. Not indulgent. Also completely necessary, according to five dermatologists and a lifetime of stubborn genetics.
I changed into soft cotton pajamas and crawled into bed. One problem. I wasn’t actually tired. New place, new rhythms; it always took me a night to settle.
Eventually, I walked barefoot to the balcony. Just a few minutes of air before bed. The glass door slid open silently, and I stepped out into the night.
The skyline blinked back at me, quiet, endless, full of people with plans and partners and dinner reservations. None of them required me to explain why I was out here alone.
I turned to head back in, and caught movement out of the corner of my eye.
Liam.
He was in the living room, maybe just passing through, maybe not. His eyes flicked toward the balcony for a half-second, then away.
Had he been watching me? Or was I in the way?
I slipped back inside, tugging the door gently shut. Perhaps I should ask if it's okay to use the balcony. It was his home, after all.
Tomorrow. I’d check tomorrow.
I woke early, pulled on leggings and a tank top, and walked toward the kitchen, hair still damp from a quick shower. I figured Liam would be gone already.
He wasn’t.
We nearly collided in the hallway, he was coming around the corner fast, duffel bag over his shoulder, keys in hand.
"Oh, sorry," I said, stepping back quickly.
"No, that was me, my bad." He shifted like he wasn’t sure if he should keep moving or wait. “I don’t want to be late for practice. New coach and all.”
I smiled.
His eyes dropped briefly to my sneakers. "Heading out?"
"Not yet. Just… caffeine."
"There’s coffee in the carafe," he said. "Still hot."
I nodded, then immediately tugged the neckline of my tank top a little higher. "Thanks. Do you happen to have any milk?"
He winced. "Just black. Sorry."
"No worries. I’ll adapt."
He turned to go, then paused. "Hey, if you're out running errands later, would you mind picking something up for me?"
"Sure. What do you need?"
"Fresh basil. There’s a guy at the farmers market, on 14th, near the bookstore, who usually has the best. If you're down that way, that’d be amazing." He hesitated. "Only if it’s not a pain."
I tilted my head. The exact location where I should get the basil felt oddly specific. "I can do that."
He gave a quick nod. "Thanks."
Then he was gone.
I stared at the door for a second, then headed for the coffee.
The coffee was, unsurprisingly, perfect. Strong, hot, not burnt. The man had range.
I spent the next hour responding to emails, making a few calls for Nolan’s community fundraiser, and outlining a timeline for a new grant proposal I’d been consulting on. Mid-morning, I ran a few errands for Brooke, light bulbs, batteries, and a pickup order from the pharmacy.
By the time I reached the market, the farmers' market stalls were already packing up. I veered off to a nearby chain grocery instead, faster, no crowds, no weaving through produce bins.
They were out of fresh basil.
I stood in front of the empty bin for a full thirty seconds before grabbing a glass jar of the dried stuff and tossing it into my basket, along with a bagged salmon fillet, pre-cooked quinoa, and microwaveable green beans.
Not ideal. But it was dinner. Efficient, dependable, not likely to spill.
Like me.
The apartment was quiet again when I returned.
I slid my dinner into the fridge and spent the next hour tying up loose ends.
A few last-minute emails, a call with a grant coordinator who somehow thought "flexible deadline" meant "I’ll get to it eventually," and another round of edits on a very large slide deck. Productive, but not restful.
I wandered back toward the kitchen. Liam was cooking again. Same posture, same quiet intensity, like he hadn't moved since yesterday. I opened the fridge, pulled out my container, and crossed the kitchen.
"You bought dried basil, didn’t you?" he said without looking up.
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
Now he turned, one eyebrow raised like I’d committed a federal offense.
"From the grocery store. Dried. Basil."
I paused, holding my container halfway to the microwave. “Famer's market was closed, sadly. It’s a plant. It’s fine.”
He stared at me like I’d just insulted his grandmother.
He turned back to the stove and gave the pan a deliberate stir. Whatever was in there sizzled louder, like it had an opinion about dried basil too.
I slid my container into the microwave and pressed the "start" button.
We didn’t talk for a few seconds. Just listened to the crackle of oil, the low hum of the microwave, and the distant croon of whatever jazz track he had playing through a speaker on the shelf.
As the microwave hummed, I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, pretending not to watch him. The microwave dinged. I pulled out my container and peeled back the lid.
He glanced at it. “Quinoa, salmon, green beans. Microwaved.”
“Balanced. Portable. Virtually no cleanup.”
“Depressing.”
"Efficiency is the ultimate seasoning," I said with a shrug.
That stopped him. A beat of silence, then he let out a laugh, short, surprised, and maybe a little impressed.
He turned fully towards me with a quizzical expression. "You’re serious."
"Dead serious," I responded coolly.
He cracked a smile and turned back to his cutting board. Something sizzled in the pan, olive oil, tomato, maybe some slow-simmered magic I wasn’t meant to understand. The smell was ridiculous. Mocking.
“You’re really going to eat that?” he asked, gesturing to my dinner.
“You’re really going to pretend yours isn’t overkill?”
"Remind me never to let you near my pantry," he muttered.
"You think I want in on your artisanal ingredient kingdom? Please. I’m just trying to reheat my dinner without burning your kitchen down."
He shook his head, but I saw the smile.
Maybe we wouldn’t tiptoe around each other after all.
I lingered, watching him stir something that smelled like comfort. Then I cleared my throat.
“I really appreciate you letting me stay here,” I said.
He didn’t look up, but something in the set of his shoulders eased, like he’d been holding tension without realizing it. “Of course.”
“It’s… nice being close to my nieces,” I added. The words came out quiet, as I pushed my food around in the container.
He glanced over. “Yeah? You see them a lot?”
“Not as much as I’d like.” I adjusted my grip on the container; suddenly aware I was holding it like a security blanket. “I offered to babysit tomorrow night so Nolan and Brooke could have a date.”
That got his full attention. He turned slightly, a knife still in his hand. “That’s really nice of you.”
I shrugged. “They’ve earned a night off.”
“How old are the girls again?”
“Five and seven. Bright, hilarious, and obsessed with glitter slime.”
He winced. “Dangerous age. You’re brave.”
“I’m only nervous about feeding them. I was thinking of ordering pizza.”
“What, no microwaving?”
I scrunched my nose and narrowed my eyes in mock offense. “No promises. I’m a culinary rebel.”
I saw a smile trying to form.
I hesitated. “Do you have a favorite pizza place? Something kid-friendly but not totally inedible?”
That made him smile, the kind of easy grin that reached all the way to his eyes. “You want my pizza recs now?”
I matched his tone. “Well, you clearly have strong culinary opinions.”
He pointed a wooden spoon at me. “Only on the important things. I’ll write down a name.”
“Appreciated.” I paused, feeling a warmth settle in my chest that had nothing to do with the microwave. “Thanks again, really.”
He nodded. “Anytime.”
I took a step back, ready to retreat, but… I didn’t want to. Not yet.
Then I remembered, the balcony.
I hesitated, then turned a little toward him. “Hey, last night, I couldn’t sleep, so I stepped out onto the balcony for a bit. Just to look at the stars.”
He stilled, spoon hovering.
“I meant to ask… is that okay? I know this is your place, and I want to be respectful. I figure you’re used to having it all to yourself, and I just don’t want to get in the way.”
He didn’t answer right away. His shoulders tensed. His jaw shifted slightly. Then he set the spoon down and glanced at me fully.
Our eyes caught, just a second too long.
“Sure,” he said. “Thanks for asking.”
“You're welcome," I said softly. Goodnight, Liam.”
He nodded. “Goodnight, Claire.”
I walked slowly back toward the guest wing, my steps quiet against the hallway floor. The air felt cooler now, still carrying a hint of lemon and roasted garlic from the kitchen.
I brushed my teeth and followed my routine.
I woke up early and made my way to the kitchen in search of coffee.
There, stuck neatly to the cabinet above the counter, was a Post-it note in blocky, efficient handwriting.
Microwave still operational. No judgment.
Right below it, another note.
Coffee maker prepped. Just hit start.
I smiled despite myself. Quiet, thoughtful.
I pressed the button and leaned on the counter while it percolated. My eyes drifted to the glass door that led to the balcony.
Behind me, the front door clicked open.
Liam stepped inside, two grocery bags in hand.
"I didn’t know what kind you liked," he said, moving toward the fridge. "So I got oat milk, almond, 2%, and cream."
I blinked. I stared at the four cartons lined up on the counter.
Being considered, anticipated, wasn’t a language I was fluent in.