Chapter 12
THE MORNING AFTER
SIMONE
Ismile and yawn a bit, looking at the light.
It’s incredibly gorgeous—shards of sun pouring through Liam’s kitchen windows, turning every dust mote in the room into a diamond.
I’m wearing nothing except for his dress shirt, and yet totally comfortable, sitting at his kitchen island with my legs swinging like I’m five.
My toes brush the cabinet beneath, every few seconds making a hollow thunk that echoes in the silence.
Liam is by the stove, spatula in hand, hair still a little rumpled from the hours we spent making love and then, miraculously, sleeping.
He’s wearing nothing but a pair of grey sweatpants, low enough that I can see both the beautiful cut of his lower back and the pale suggestion of a tan line just above the waistband.
The muscles of his arms flex and twist as he flips bacon, and every so often he reaches for the salt with fingers that, twelve hours ago, were inside my mouth.
He glances over his shoulder. The look is soft, not the usual bludgeon of dark blue intensity. “Coffee?” he asks.
I nod, stretching my arms over my head, letting the shirt gap enough to show one breast, then the other. He notices—of course he does—but doesn’t comment, just returns to flipping bacon like I’m not trying to destroy his concentration on purpose.
The kitchen is immaculate, every surface some shade of black or stainless, but there’s evidence of real life: a bottle of sriracha with the cap missing, a row of mismatched mugs drying by the sink, a battered lunchbox that looks like it could have belonged to a Civil War reenactor.
I wonder how much of it is him, and how much is just the set dressing of a man who’s spent too long alone.
He pours coffee into a mug and brings it over. The mug says, in blocky white letters, WORLD’S OKAYEST DAD. He puts it in front of me with a half-smile.
“I didn’t peg you for the dad joke type,” I say.
He shrugs. “Found it in the break room last year. Kind of liked the energy.”
I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the heat bleed into my palms. “You could do worse,” I say, and it sounds like a compliment.
He goes back to the stove, and for a minute the only sound is the violent hiss of bacon and the burble of the coffee machine refilling itself. I take a sip and immediately burn my tongue, but try not to show it.
Liam glances at me, then grins—actually grins—and says, “Don’t tell me you’re one of those people who puts ice in their coffee.”
“Only if I want to taste my own tongue for a week,” I say, and he laughs, a deep, rough sound that makes me want to climb across the counter and ruin him all over again.
I watch him cook. He’s methodical, but not fussy.
Every movement is efficient, practiced, like he’s spent years optimizing the act of breakfast. The way he pours eggs into a pan, the way he pinches the spatula in the web between thumb and forefinger, the way he shifts his weight from one foot to the other with unconscious grace.
It’s a little obscene, how good he looks in loose sweatpants and nothing else.
I clear my throat, testing my voice. “Are you always this domestic in the morning, or is this a special occasion?”
He gives me that look, the one that could peel paint off a wall. “I wanted to make sure you ate something.”
He starts to plate the food—eggs, bacon, sourdough toast from a bakery I’m pretty sure has a waitlist. He’s got a little glass of homemade strawberry jam, the color so red it’s almost cartoonish.
I can’t help it. “You’re kind of a kitchen slut, aren’t you?”
He raises an eyebrow, then wipes his hands on a towel. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It’s not,” I say, letting my eyes linger on the line of his hips. “I just didn’t expect a full-service breakfast.”
He sets the plate in front of me, then leans in, bracing his arms on either side of the counter so that his face is close to mine.
“I’m full service in every department,” he says, low enough that I feel it more than hear it.
I decide right then that I’m never going to win a single game with this man, but it’s going to be fun trying.
“So do you always cook bare-chested?” I tease. “Or is this only for me.”
He thinks for a moment, then, as if remembering something, opens a drawer and rummages. He pulls out a green apron, frilly and kitschy, with PICKLE LOVER emblazoned in neon letters.
He shakes it out, then ties it around his waist. “Satisfied?” he asks.
I nearly snort my coffee. “That’s incredible,” I say, “You look like a Chippendale with a side hustle at a county fair.”
He glances down at himself. “I’m regretting the purchase.”
“No, no, it’s perfect,” I say, and mean it.
The apron only emphasizes his size, the ridiculous definition of his arms, the way the sweatpants barely contain him.
I imagine a world where he wears nothing else, just the apron and the look of a man who could break every bone in my body and then make me breakfast in the aftermath.
He turns back to the stove, but I can see he’s fighting a smile. The air between us is different—looser, almost playful. I wonder if it’ll last, or if we’ll both retreat into our old armor before the day is out.
I pick at the bacon, letting the salt and fat melt on my tongue. “So,” I say, “Is this the part where we talk about our feelings, or should we wait until the pancakes?”
He looks at me, serious again. “What do you want to talk about?”
I swing my legs, the stool creaking under me. “I don’t know. Maybe how amazing this breakfast is. Maybe how you whispered ‘you’re mine’ last night, and I didn’t even compute until I was falling asleep.”
His face goes blank for a second, then softens. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”
“It was nice,” I say, and it hangs there, vulnerable.
He wipes a spot on the counter with his thumb, then leans against the fridge, arms crossed. “I’ve never done this before,” he says.
“Done what?”
He gestures around, vague. “Any of this. The breakfast, the waking up next to someone and not wanting them to leave.”
I finish my bacon, then take another sip of coffee. “Me neither. I mean, I’ve done breakfast. But never like this.”
He steps closer, pulls the mug from my hands, and drinks from the same side I was using. The move is so casual it’s almost intimate.
I watch his throat work as he swallows, then set the mug down. “You want more?” he asks.
I shake my head.
He looks at me, the silence stretching, then says, “What do you want, Simone?”
For a second, I don’t know how to answer. I think of all the things I could say—the smart-ass reply, the self-deprecating one, the one that makes it seem like I don’t care.
But instead I say, “I want to do this again.”
He exhales, like he’s been holding it for a year.
“Good,” he says, and there’s a finality to it that makes my pulse skitter.
We finish breakfast mostly in silence, but it’s not uncomfortable.
The sounds of the house—pipes creaking, birds outside, the dull hum of the fridge—fill in the gaps.
I study his hands, the way he eats, the little flecks of stubble on his jaw.
I wonder what it would be like to do this every day.
I wonder how long it would take for the newness to wear off, and if that would be a bad thing.
Liam clears the plates, stacks them in the sink, and turns to me. “I have to go to campus for an hour,” he says. “A meeting with the provost. You can stay here if you want. Read, or shower, or…” He trails off, uncertain.
“I’ll stay,” I say, a little too quickly. “I want to see your books.”
He grins, then brushes a kiss to the top of my head. “I’ll be back before noon,” he promises.
As he leaves, I watch the way the light plays off his back, the way the sweatpants hang loose and low on his hips. I feel the echo of his hands on my skin, the ghost of his mouth on my thigh.
For the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like a visitor in someone else’s life.
I finish the last sip of coffee, letting the bitter burn linger on my tongue. I close my eyes and listen to the silence, the house settling around me like a second skin.
I think: Maybe this is how it starts. Not with fireworks, but with bacon and borrowed shirts and a man who makes me want to wake up in the morning.
I think: Maybe I could get used to this.
I think: I already am.
Liam comes back earlier than I expect, keys rattling in the door. I’m sprawled on his sofa, a heap of hair and shirt and a battered volume of Salinger I found in the living room. When he steps in, he blinks like he’s startled to find me still here, then smiles so soft it nearly splits my heart.
He drops a sheaf of paper on the counter and says, “Provost canceled,” as he shrugs off his jacket. “I brought croissants.” The bag is still warm; the smell hits me before he’s even torn it open.
We eat at the counter, side by side. My thighs are bare against the cold, veined marble.
The coffee is mostly gone, so we drink orange juice from mismatched tumblers.
The sun’s moved, sharpening the shadows on the wall and making the kitchen look like a painting: two people, feet brushing under the counter, plates and crumbs, sunlight knifing through the room.
Liam eats with the focus of a man who’s spent a lifetime being efficient, but every so often he glances at me, like he’s double-checking that I’m real. I feel a little raw in his presence, like my skin’s a size too small for my bones.
We talk about nothing at first—the best bakery in town, how he hates the Century College parking lot, why Salinger is overrated. The words are easy, background noise to the click of knives and the faint hum of NPR coming from the living room speakers.
Then, out of nowhere, he says, “You want to talk about last night?”
I almost choke on a crumb. “Sure. What part?”
He shrugs, but his jaw tics. “You said you were safe. That I didn’t need to use a condom. I trust you, but I wanted to check. Does that mean you’re on birth control?”