Capture

The Morning After

The soft hum of my coffee maker pulled me from sleep. For a second, I didn't recognize where I was — the ceiling above me felt foreign, like waking up in someone else's life. The air was still, but then I turned my head and saw him.

Liam. Lying in my bed. His head on my pillow. His arm loosely wrapped around my waist. His lips parted in sleep, bare chest rising and falling in that slow, steady rhythm I remembered from last night.

We hadn't had sex. We hadn't even come close, but the quiet we shared was louder than anything I'd ever known. To be held like that — like I mattered — was more intimate than anything I could have prepared for.

And now I couldn't forget the weight of it.

He had let me in last night. Shown me something rare and bruised and beautiful. A heart that had been broken and never fully healed. A boy who had carried too much pain for too long and still found a way to hand some of it to me. It had been real, and fragile, and frightening.

I wanted to hold onto that moment like breath in my lungs.

I laid there longer than I should have, just watching him. His face was softer in sleep, the hard edges gone. I'd seen something real in him last night and I wanted to keep seeing him.

Eventually, I slipped out of his arms and tiptoed into the kitchen. The coffee had just finished brewing from the auto timer. I reached for a mug and poured myself a cup, adding a spoonful of sugar.

I leaned against the counter, cradling the mug, trying not to overthink everything, but that was impossible.

We hadn't slept together, but falling asleep holding someone — really holding them — somehow felt more intimate than sex.

I didn't know what it meant. Or if it meant anything at all to him.

A creak from the bedroom made me freeze. The bathroom door shut. 

"Shit," I mumbled, checking the clock. I was late. Again.

I abandoned my coffee, rushed to my bedroom, yanked on fresh clothes, and drowned myself in perfume in lieu of a shower. I scribbled a note — Thanks for staying, had to run. Lock up when you leave — and left it on my pillow before slipping out the door.

By the time I made it to my office, I was slightly out of breath and fully unprepared for Niall's entrance.

"You're late," he sing-songed, leaning in my doorway, coffee in hand.

I didn't even look up. "Don't start."

"Can't help it. You've got that post-sex glow."

I groaned. "Do I look like a whore?"

"You look like a woman who had a very good night," he grinned.

"I did not have sex, Niall."

"That's what people who definitely had sex always say."

"I mean it," I said firmly. "We didn't even take our clothes off."

His eyebrows shot up. "Wait — so you had a sleepover? Like a high school cuddle sesh?"

I stared at him blankly. "Don't say cuddle sesh ever again."

Niall leaned against the doorframe, clearly enjoying himself. "So who was it? Someone I know?"

I hesitated. Yes. Very well. "No. Just a friend," I lied.

"Oh, just a friend," he repeated, using air quotes like a child.

"I'm not talking about this with you."

"You say that now, but by lunch, I'll have it figured out."

I threw a pencil at him. "Out. Now."