Page 19 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
There, stuck neatly to the cabinet above the counter, was a Post-it note in blocky, efficient handwriting.
Microwave still operational. No judgment.
Right below it, another note.
Coffee maker prepped. Just hit start.
I smiled despite myself. Quiet, thoughtful.
I pressed the button and leaned on the counter while it percolated. My eyes drifted to the glass door that led to the balcony.
Behind me, the front door clicked open.
Liam stepped inside, two grocery bags in hand.
"I didn’t know what kind you liked," he said, moving toward the fridge. "So I got oat milk, almond, 2%, and cream."
I blinked. I stared at the four cartons lined up on the counter.
Being considered, anticipated, wasn’t a language I was fluent in.
The Second Chair
Liam
The elevator hummed as it climbed, too slow for how fast my thoughts were moving.
I like my space. My solitude.
It’s why I bought this condo. Why I chose the unit on the top floor with no neighbors overhead and only one unit to the side. Why I didn’t bother putting a chair on the balcony until last year.
It took longer than I expected to find a chair that felt right. There was only one left, and I still remember the salesman’s surprise when I told him that a single chair was all I needed.
This condo, this sanctuary, was mine. Quiet. Predictable.
And it’s not like she’s going to be here that long.
I shifted the grocery bag in my hand, four cartons of milk bumping awkwardly against each other. Almond. Oat. Two percent. Cream.
The coffee was already prepped. She took it with milk.
The elevator dinged. I shifted the bag again and caught my reflection in the mirrored panel. One hand full of milk, the other balancing three more grocery bags against my side. I looked like a rookie trying too hard. Which, maybe, I was.
I hoped she was still asleep. My plan was simple. Slip in. Unload the milk. Get my coffee. Step onto the balcony before she stirred. I needed ten minutes of normal. Of silence. Of just me.
The door slid open.
I stepped into the apartment.
And there she was. My breath caught.
Claire stood barefoot at the counter, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other braced against the edge. Her hair was pulled back in some efficient twist, neat and low. Morning light spilled across the glass and softened everything it touched, including her.
She turned. Our eyes met.
For a beat, I just stood there. The bag in my hand felt too heavy to hold.
"I didn’t know what kind you liked," I said, moving toward the fridge, trying to sound casual. "So I got oat milk, almond, 2%, and cream."
