Cookie

12

The day passes in a strange mix of warmth and confusion.

Liam sits next to me in every class now, making me laugh with whispered jokes, passing me silly notes, or sometimes just sitting there in comfortable silence. And it’s messing with my head.

Because this guy—the same one everyone fawns over, the same one who could have anyone he wants—is giving me his attention. He cares about me. And every time he smiles or touches my arm, my stupid heart skips a beat.

But then class ends, and it’s like none of it mattered. The moment the bell rings, some random girl appears at his side, wrapping herself around him, and he just smirks at me, tossing a cocky wave before disappearing with her.

It shouldn't bother me. I have no reason to feel jealous. Liam and I are friends, and he’s been nothing but kind to me. I don’t want to ruin that with emotions I don’t even understand.

But at lunch, it’s just me, Mary, and Alicia at our usual table—Logan’s at the library working on some project—and Liam? He’s two tables away. With his tongue down some blonde’s throat.

I try not to look. But I must be failing because—

"What’s with that look, Twinkle?" Mary asks, raising an eyebrow.

She’s effortlessly put together, as always—her blue peplum top hugging her curves, dark leggings elongating her legs, simple black oxford shoes, and pearl earrings completing her perfect aesthetic.

"Nothing," I lie, stuffing fries into my mouth.

Alicia scoffs. "She’s jealous as fuck."

I glare at her, shaking my head, but she just grins, looking effortlessly angelic in her baby-pink dress, high heels, and perfectly curled hair.

"Do you like Liam?" Mary asks, eyes wide with surprise.

Her words send a jolt through me. "No!" I protest, way too fast.

Mary laughs, placing a hand on Alicia’s leg. Both of them turn to face me, waiting.

I sigh, rubbing my temples. "I don’t know, okay? He’s been so nice to me, and he’s helped me a lot since I met him. And let’s be honest—he’s so good-looking he might as well be a model. Dark hair, dark eyes, dark clothes… dark everything."

We burst into laughter, and Alicia nearly chokes on her coffee.

"He does look like a bad-boy model," Alicia agrees, glancing over at him with zero shame, making me blush for no reason at all.

I take a deep breath. "Look, yeah, I think he’s hot. And I feel… attracted to him. But he’s literally dating half the school, and I am definitely not his type. He doesn’t like me like that. And even if he did, I wouldn’t risk ruining our friendship. I really appreciate having him as a friend."

Mary hums, tilting her head. "Maybe you’re just confused, Nat. You’ve never had a guy friend before, and now your first one happens to look like that. It makes sense you might mix up friendship with something else."

Alicia nods. I hesitate, then nod too. Maybe they’re right. Maybe I’m just confused.

So when Liam and his latest conquest approach, telling us it’s time for the next class, I smile, even offering the girl half of my chocolate cookie. This is just a new situation. That’s all.

At least, that’s what I tell myself—until after school, when we ride to his house together.

I don’t know how he knew I don’t like cars. I never told him. But instead of offering me a ride, he showed up with a bike, and we pedaled side by side to his place.

Mary must’ve told him.

And then, as if he somehow knows all my favorite things, he gives me a small tour of his house, makes me coffee, and instructs his brother to order Chinese food for us. How he knew Chinese was my favorite is beyond me.

By the time we reach the so-called “training room,” I’m already feeling weirdly… comfortable. Safe.

That feeling vanishes the second I step out of the changing room and find a shirtless Liam waiting for me.

Oh. Oh.

He’s only wearing gray shorts, and they hang dangerously low on his hips, revealing those deep-cut lines that could make a nun reconsider her vows.

I knew Liam was attractive fully clothed, but like this? It should be illegal. His abs are so defined he looks like a Greek statue, like someone hand-sculpted him with unfair levels of detail. Every inch of him is strong, sharp, perfect.

I know my mouth is open. I’m sure I’m staring.

"Cookie, you’re drooling."

His teasing voice snaps me back to reality. My face ignites.

I hurriedly wipe the corner of my mouth—even though there’s nothing there—and avoid his gaze. He just laughs, closing the distance between us.

He’s too close now. His body heat wraps around me, his scent intoxicating.

"I’ve told you, Nataly," he murmurs, voice playful. "If you want something, all you have to do is ask."

Oh. Oh.

I swallow hard, mentally screaming at myself to not think about kissing him.

"I want you to put a shirt on," I say instead, forcing myself to meet his eyes.

His smirk deepens. "You sure you want me to cover all this?"

I need to get away from him before my brain malfunctions entirely. I walk over to a bench, grab his discarded black T-shirt, and throw it at him.

He catches it effortlessly, still smirking, but slips it on. Thank God.

"Do you ever work out, Nat?" he asks.

I shake my head.

"Ever played a sport besides biking?"

Another head shake. He sighs like I just told him I hate puppies.

"Alright. Here’s the plan." He crosses his arms. "We train three times a week. Mondays and Saturdays are for strength training. Wednesdays are for self-defense—I’ll attack, and you’ll have to stop me. We’ll build your endurance, and by the end, I promise you’ll know how to throw a proper punch."

It sounds… horrible. My idea of exercise is walking to the fridge.

But I nod. "Sounds like a plan."

He grabs my hand, pulling me to the mats, and my skin tingles where he touches me. I try not to notice how good it feels. How warm his hand is.

Friends, Nataly.

He’s just your friend.

"Now, Cookie," he says, grinning. "Punch me."

I hesitate. "What? No! What if I hurt you?"

He laughs. "Trust me, Cookie. You won’t."

I clench my fist, lift my arm, and swing.

Nothing. He doesn’t even flinch.

Instead, he laughs.

"Tell me you’re joking. That’s all you’ve got?"

I groan in embarrassment.

He moves behind me, hands guiding my legs, waist, and arms, positioning me properly. His voice is low, steady as he explains.

"A punch isn’t just your fist. It starts in your legs, moves through your core, your shoulders—your entire body. You twist, flex, swing, and then hit."

His touch lingers—warm, firm, distracting. My heart is racing.

Friends. Friends.

When I finally punch him again, this time with the right form, his proud smile makes my stomach flip.

"You did good, Cookie," he says softly. "I’m proud of you."

And somehow, that means more than anything.