Page 15 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
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.
