Page 36 of Stuck with my Guarded MVP
It never includes me.
Opening the Door
Liam
Ilay in bed, staring at the ceiling, hands behind my head, the room dark except for the faint wash of light bleeding in through the slats of the blinds.
I hadn’t moved in at least an hour. Sleep wasn’t coming. It hadn’t even tried.
My mind kept circling the same image, Claire, curled on the couch, her hand reaching toward mine. The soft weight of her fingers, the way her eyes flicked up when she asked, quietly, if I was okay.
And then me pulling back. Not harsh, but I'd closed the door.
She didn’t deserve that.
I exhaled hard through my nose, shifted onto my side, then onto my back again. The sheets felt both too warm and too cold.
My eyes opened to the same ceiling. I checked the phone. 3:32 a.m. I rolled onto my left side and stared at the wall. I woke again before dawn, the sky still dark through the blinds. I stared at the ceiling for a few more minutes. I wasn’t falling back asleep.
So, I gave up. Swung my legs over the edge of the bed and sat there for a minute, elbows on knees. My eyes burned, but not from lack of sleep.
In the bathroom, I turned on the light and blinked against it. Picked up my razor out of habit. The blade skimmed over my jaw with practiced precision until—
"Ouch."
Just under my chin. Shallow, but sharp. I grabbed a towel and pressed it against the nick. A bright dot bloomed through the fabric.
"Serves you right," I muttered.
I rinsed the razor, wiped down the counter, and stared at myself in the mirror a little too long. The circles under my eyes were darker than usual. My jaw was tight, my mouth drawn.
No wonder Claire looked worried. If a teammate looked like this, I’d have asked what was going on.
I tossed the towel into the laundry bin and rubbed the back of my neck.
"This might be a two-cup-of-coffee morning," I muttered to no one.
I stepped into the kitchen. I hadn’t set up the coffee last night. No filter. No grounds. Just an empty pot and silence where there should’ve been the slow drip and faint steam.
While the coffee brewed, I opened the fridge and reached for the milk. The basil and thyme Claire had picked up, were tucked in a glass of water on the top shelf, stems freshly trimmed.
I hadn’t even thanked her.
I kept my hand on the fridge door, staring at the herbs.
Then turned, grabbed a cutting board, and pulled out some peppers and onions from the crisper. Eggs. Cheese. I wasn’t really hungry. I just needed something familiar to do.
The knife clacked against the board with every cut. Fast. Rhythmic. Loud enough to carry.
If she was awake, she’d hear it. If she came out, I could offer breakfast. Ask about... what she thought. She’s a doctor. She’d know. About symptoms. About timelines. About what it might mean.
Footsteps. Soft ones. Just outside the kitchen.
Claire appeared in the doorway, hair mussed, sleeves pushed to her elbows, like she'd rolled out of bed and walked straight into whatever this was.
She blinked at the sight of me and the mess I'd made of the counter.
"Smells good," she said, voice scratchy.
