Page 17 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
The apartment was quiet again when I returned. I slid my dinner into the fridge and spent the next hour tying up loose ends. A few last-minute emails, a call with a grant coordinator who somehow thought "flexible deadline" meant "I’ll get to it eventually," and another round of edits on a very large slide deck. Productive, but not restful.
I wandered back toward the kitchen. Liam was cooking again. Same posture, same quiet intensity, like he hadn't moved since yesterday. I opened the fridge, pulled out my container, and crossed the kitchen.
"You bought dried basil, didn’t you?" he said without looking up.
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
Now he turned, one eyebrow raised like I’d committed a federal offense.
"From the grocery store. Dried. Basil."
I paused, holding my container halfway to the microwave. “Famer's market was closed, sadly. It’s a plant. It’s fine.”
He stared at me like I’d just insulted his grandmother.
He turned back to the stove and gave the pan a deliberate stir. Whatever was in there sizzled louder, like it had an opinion about dried basil too.
I slid my container into the microwave and pressed the "start" button.
We didn’t talk for a few seconds. Just listened to the crackle of oil, the low hum of the microwave, and the distant croon of whatever jazz track he had playing through a speaker on the shelf.
As the microwave hummed, I leaned against the counter, arms crossed, pretending not to watch him. The microwave dinged. I pulled out my container and peeled back the lid.
He glanced at it. “Quinoa, salmon, green beans. Microwaved.”
“Balanced. Portable. Virtually no cleanup.”
“Depressing.”
"Efficiency is the ultimate seasoning," I said with a shrug.
That stopped him. A beat of silence, then he let out a laugh, short, surprised, and maybe a little impressed.
He turned fully towards me with a quizzical expression. "You’re serious."
"Dead serious," I responded coolly.
He cracked a smile and turned back to his cutting board. Something sizzled in the pan, olive oil, tomato, maybe some slow-simmered magic I wasn’t meant to understand. The smell was ridiculous. Mocking.
“You’re really going to eat that?” he asked, gesturing to my dinner.
“You’re really going to pretend yours isn’t overkill?”
"Remind me never to let you near my pantry," he muttered.
"You think I want in on your artisanal ingredient kingdom? Please. I’m just trying to reheat my dinner without burning your kitchen down."
He shook his head, but I saw the smile.
Maybe we wouldn’t tiptoe around each other after all.
I lingered, watching him stir something that smelled like comfort. Then I cleared my throat.
“I really appreciate you letting me stay here,” I said.
He didn’t look up, but something in the set of his shoulders eased, like he’d been holding tension without realizing it. “Of course.”
“It’s… nice being close to my nieces,” I added. The words came out quiet, as I pushed my food around in the container.
