Page 44 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
“I thought I might find you here,” he said.
I smiled faintly, still looking out. He turned slightly, so he was facing me, leaning one elbow on the railing.
I didn’t move.
He was so close that I could feel the heat radiating off him. Not cold anymore. I might actually start to sweat.
“You made today easier,” he said, voice quiet.
A pause.
“You make things better, Claire.”
I turned to look at him, but he was already heading back inside.
I closed my eyes, and stayed where I was. Let the air cool my skin. Let my heartbeat settle.
Then tilted my head back toward the stars and whispered, “Maybe the universe is paying attention.”
Coffee and Cinnamon
Liam
The apartment was quiet. Well, it was early. I tugged on a hoodie and stepped onto the cold tile floor. I loaded the beans and hit the brew cycle, the machine whirring softly to life. Reached into the cupboard and pulled out two mugs and the cinnamon she likes. Set it beside the mug she always uses.
As the coffee brewed, I leaned against the counter and stared at the far wall. Running the reel again, last night, Maeve’s voice on the phone, the look on Claire’s face when we realized it wasn’t Huntington’s. Relief, plain and simple.
Claire had touched her forehead to my shoulder. Then she apologized, like she wasn’t allowed to need comfort. She had to make sure I knew it wasmymoment, not hers.
So I hugged her. Was I trying to comfort her?I don’t even remember making the decision. My arms just... moved. Like they had a mind of their own.
The stress of not knowing what was going on with Maeve had me on autopilot. First the hug, then the balcony.
I was surprised to see her. That she was still awake. The next thing I remember, I was outside too. Invading her space.
I could’ve just offered to make her dinner or said thanks like a normal person.
What did I say? ‘You make things better.’ Does that even sound like thank you?
She did make things better, for Maeve, for me, for the mess of this past week.
The steam from my cup curled up. I stood there, still leaning on the counter, waiting for the familiar sound of her door opening. The smell of coffee usually summoned a certain woman, sleepy hair, desperate for caffeine, somehow still kind of beautiful.
A few moments later, I heard the click of a door opening and the soft thuds of slippers against the hardwood.
"Hey," she said walking into the kitchen. Same hoodie, sleeves pushed up, hair in that half-twisted thing she somehow managed to make look intentional.
"Morning," I said, gesturing toward the mug. "Cinnamon’s already out."
She smiled. "You make a pretty good roommate."
I smiled and shook my head.
She poured her coffee. I watched her swirl the cinnamon in, slow and precise, then take that first cautious sip like she didn’t quite trust it not to burn her. Her nose crinkled. Then came that soft, satisfied hum I looked forward to.
I cleared my throat, trying to sound casual. "You home for dinner tonight?"
She glanced over, brows raised. "Are you checking up on me?"
