I hadn't even stepped through the doorway when two arms hooked under my suitcases and yanked them out of my hands like I was a guest at a five-star hotel. I blinked at the sudden emptiness in my grip.
Liam grinned at me, luggage lifted effortlessly.
"Welcome back home, roomie!"
He said it with the enthusiasm of a newlywed greeting his spouse after a honeymoon break.
I… hated how my heart reacted.
It did that stupid little jumping puppy thing and wagged its imaginary tail.
"I can carry my own things," I muttered, reaching for the bags.
He turned away, hugging the suitcases possessively to his chest.
"Nope. You're my guest—"
"I'm paying rent."
"—my guest."
I rubbed my temples. "You act like we're getting married."
Liam snorted. "Relax, I'd at least buy you flowers first."
I almost dropped dead on the spot. Why does he say things like that so casually? He has no clue how dangerous he is.
He hauled everything inside like he hadn't just stabbed me with unintended flirtation. His apartment smelled like caramel and bread—probably from the café he worked at. It was warm, cozy, full of indoor plants, and somehow every plant looked happy, like they all received emotional support therapy from him personally.
I could barely keep my composure. I was here because rent prices were slowly murdering me, not because I wanted to live with the Human Warmth Machine.
Sure. Keep telling yourself that, Noah.
Before I could mentally unpack my denial, Liam finished placing my bags in the living room and stretched his arms with a dramatic sigh. "There. Now you can settle in and start your new life as a famous writer."
"I'm a broke writer," I corrected.
"You're going to be famous," he insisted. "Manifest it or whatever."
I rolled my eyes. "Manifest me a million dollars and a fanbase that doesn't ask for spicy chapters every hour."
He beamed, clearly satisfied with my annoyance. "I missed this. You being salty and me being sweet."
Look, I'd rather lick gravel than admit it, but being around him again felt like returning to gravity after floating aimlessly for years. I was still untangling that feeling when he suddenly grabbed one of my duffel bags, opened it—
—and pulled out a pair of my underwear.
I lunged. "Put that down, you menace."
"It's just underwear, Noah." He held it up like he was inspecting a fragile museum artifact. "What's wrong with folding it?"
"Everything. Everything is wrong. Stop. Drop it. Abort mission."
He shrugged. "I'll fold them later."
"You fold my underwear and I'm jumping off the balcony," I warned.
Liam laughed way too hard at that. "You're dramatic. I'll give you a roommate guidebook on how to live with a ray of sunshine like me."
"I'd rather live with mold."
"Mold doesn't cook dinner."
That shut me up.
He smirked knowingly and walked toward the kitchen. "Speaking of which… sit tight."
I dragged my suitcases to the bedroom he'd cleaned out for me. When I opened the door, I stopped thinking. Breathing. Living. Existing.
Because there, beside the small bed and window, was a compact wooden desk. Smooth, new-looking, with a warm lamp, a pen holder, and a little sticky note on top that read:
Write masterpieces here.
My throat tightened. Liam had decorated the desk with tiny fairy lights wrapped around the edge, like a small constellation just for me. It wasn't expensive or extravagant. It was something more dangerous—thoughtful.
How do you react to something like that without sounding like you're proposing marriage on the spot?
"I figured you needed a real writing space," Liam said from behind me.
I hadn't even heard him walk in. I turned.
He leaned against the door frame, arms crossed, smug but soft. "You can't write masterpieces on the floor forever."
"That's… debatable," I muttered.
His voice lowered slightly. "You've worked hard enough. Let the world see it."
Words got stuck in my mouth like gum glued to pavement. My brain couldn't decide whether to panic, cry, or kiss him out of gratitude—
Whoa.
No.
Bad brain.
Sit in the corner and think about taxes.
I swallowed, forced my voice to stay steady. "You didn't have to do this. It's too much."
"It's just a desk, Noah."
Just a desk. An understatement the size of Jupiter.
I sat down, fingers brushing the smooth surface. The chair hugged me like it had been designed to support my questionable life choices. A stupid wave of emotion crawled up my chest. I blinked fast to keep my eyes dry.
I wouldn't cry. Not in front of Liam. Especially when he'd definitely tease me for it.
"It's perfect," I said quietly.
"Good," he replied in an even softer voice, like he'd been holding his breath waiting for my reaction.
He reached out and messed up my hair gently. I slapped his hand away, because emotions were dangerous and hair ruffling was the gateway drug.
"Dinner in ten. Don't cry into your desk. It's new," he teased on his way out.
"I'm allergic to kindness," I called after him.
"Then you're living in the worst place possible," he yelled from the kitchen.
I sighed, leaning back in the chair. Maybe I was. Maybe it wasn't so bad.
Dinner smelled incredible. I'd barely sat down when Liam served steak with roasted potatoes and vegetables. He wore an apron that said "Chef in Training: Pray for Your Life."
"Very reassuring," I said.
"You'll live. Probably."
He cut a piece, tasted it, nodded. "Wow. I'm amazing."
"I didn't even eat yet," I pointed out.
"You don't need to. I know talent."
I dug in anyway, expecting chaos. Instead, it was stupidly delicious. Perfectly seasoned, tender, everything he made should be illegal.
"Okay," I admitted. "You win. I'll stay here forever."
He clapped once. "Yes! We're domestic!"
"You're delusional."
He wiggled his eyebrows. "Someday you'll cook too, and we'll really be married."
I stabbed a potato with aggression. "Never say that sentence out loud again."
He laughed, leaning on the table with that easy smile of his that always looked like sunlight stretching across morning windows.
I had to look away before my heart did something embarrassing, like attempt a tap dance.
We ate. We bantered. We cleaned up together. He washed dishes while I dried. It felt too natural, too easy. Too… dangerous.
Afterward, I wandered into the living room, planning to organize my books. Liam followed, carrying folded clothes—including, yes, underwear.
I yanked the stack from him. "You folded them anyway?!"
He shrugged, wearing zero shame. "They fit better in your drawers now."
"I warned you about the balcony."
"Then I'll save you before you hit the pavement. This is teamwork."
I glared. He grinned like a smug golden retriever. I couldn't win.
Just as I inhaled to complain further, a sharp knock echoed from the front door.
Liam froze.
His smile evaporated instantly, replaced by an expression I'd never seen—annoyance? Dread? Maybe a mix?
I frowned. "Who is—?"
He didn't answer. He just stared at the door like it might explode.
Another knock. Faster. More impatient.
Liam rubbed his face, muttering, "Why now?"
"Who is it?" I asked again.
He sighed, grim.
"She's here."
Before I could ask anything else—
The door opened and entered...