Lilian never expected Morrison to fall asleep before the takeout even arrived.
All she did was step into her bedroom to take a quick phone call. When she returned—there he was. Out cold on her couch, limbs sprawled out like he owned the place.
He hadn’t even made it to the second throw pillow.
One look at him, and she could tell just how bone-deep his exhaustion ran. His brows were still faintly furrowed, like even in sleep, he hadn’t managed to let go of whatever was chasing him. She’d seen this kind of crash before—her brother Dave used to pass out like that after pulling all-nighters trying to fix the wreck that was Washington Co.
That kind of sleep was less about resting and more about survival.
But now, the man was asleep—and she was the one left wide awake, pacing, and mildly panicking.
The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the soft hum of city traffic filtered in from the window. Judging by how dead to the world Morrison looked, he probably wasn’t waking up any time soon. Not tonight. Maybe not even until morning.
Was she seriously going to let him stay over?
A single man and a single woman. Alone. In her apartment. At night.
And him, of all people.
Charming, inappropriate, dangerously good-looking—and way too comfortable testing boundaries.
It felt like inviting a fox to nap in the henhouse.
Could she really just wake him up and kick him out like some cold-hearted landlord?
She stood at the far end of the couch, arms folded tight, mind racing for a solution. And just as she heard the telltale ding of the delivery arriving—
If he had to stay... then she’d be the one to leave.
Lilian took the food, placed it quietly on the table, scribbled a quick note on a sticky pad, and slipped toward the door.
I had to head back to campus—something came up.
There’s a microwave in the kitchen if you want to reheat the food.
Please lock the door when you leave.
At the last second, she added a little doodle—a round smiley face. Half guilt, half habit.
She paused, grabbed a light blanket, and carefully draped it over him. The moment her fingers brushed his shoulder, Morrison stirred, mumbling something unintelligible, then went still again.
Without another word, she turned and quietly slipped out the door.
Was anything actually urgent at school?
Her thesis had been submitted days ago. All that remained now was to wait for feedback. No meetings, no classes—just empty time.
But going back to the dorm?
Especially not with Angela still there.
With the final defense coming up and graduation looming, Lilian had no desire to stir up more drama. She’d already decided: once they graduated, everyone would go their separate ways. No need to light any more fires.
Angela, fortunately, had been accepted into a graduate program in Manchester. That alone had been a huge relief.
The moment Angela got that acceptance letter, she became intolerable. Passive-aggressive, smug, and venomously opinionated.
"Your family’s rich, right? Why bother applying for jobs? Just buy your way into grad school like the others. Oh wait—you’re not even applying? Maybe because your GPA isn’t good enough?"
Every sentence from her was like a toxin—disguised as casual chat, weaponized with intent.
And sure, Lilian’s family was wealthy. But that didn’t mean she was some rich leech coasting on daddy’s credit card, playing pretend as a serious student.
Her GPA? Flawless. Top of the class.
If she wanted to buy her way into a prestigious program, she absolutely could. But fake success had never appealed to her.
Truth be told, she didn’t even want another degree.
After years of endless studying and competitive nonsense, Lilian was done. She just wanted a stable job, a modest apartment, and peace.
Angela seemed to think so.
Sometimes Lilian envied Laurent. He had Vivian, Zoey, and Marylin—three loyal friends who stuck with him through thick and thin. Four years, zero betrayal. Even now, with everyone headed in different directions, they were still a team.
Her own dorm? A complete disaster.
Her other two roommates were fine—decent, even kind. But with Angela in the mix? The entire atmosphere was poisoned.
Eventually, Lilian stopped opening up to any of them. It was safer that way. One slip of the tongue around Angela, and you’d find your secrets turned into gossip, your mistakes broadcast to the world.
So she confided in Laurent instead.
He was the only one who truly listened.
That night, after leaving her apartment, she headed straight to her mother’s place. Not unusual. She often spent the night there when things got messy—free dinner, hot shower, and a warm bed. Her mom, Tiffany, barely blinked when she showed up.
Back at her place, Morrison woke up around midnight—starving.
The room was dark. Quiet. Too quiet.
He sat up slowly, blinking against the faint light from the street outside. His throat felt dry, his limbs heavy.
He frowned, reached for his phone—and remembered it was off. He’d shut it down to escape work messages.
He powered it back on and used the screen glow to find the light switch. The room lit up.
He glanced around—and saw the note tucked under the takeout bag.
He picked it up, skimmed it, and let out a short, amused breath.
"Had to go back to campus"?
What "urgent" academic emergency could possibly exist during finals week? She was clearly lying.
The little bunny ran off because the big bad wolf fell asleep in her den.
Morrison shook his head, walked into the kitchen, and reheated the food. Five minutes later, the box was empty, and he felt vaguely more human.
He was about to head home when—
Nah. Too late. Too tired.
Instead, he strolled straight into her bedroom.
No shame. Not even a little.
Her bed was soft. Pink. Smelled faintly of her shampoo—something floral and sweet. He sprawled out on it like he belonged there, arms behind his head.
Then, curiosity kicked in.
He glanced around—bookshelf, desk, vanity, closet. He opened the wardrobe out of pure boredom.
Her clothes were modest. Like, aggressively modest.
Conservative to a fault.
If she was trying to dress attractively, she clearly wasn’t aiming to impress.
He clicked his tongue in disapproval.
He thought about the kiss they’d shared. The surprise in her eyes. The way she’d trembled—not in fear, but something else entirely.
There was fire under that ice.
Then he lay back in her bed, pulled the blanket up to his chest, tousled his hair just a bit, and lifted his phone.
Shirtless. Lying in her pink bed. Her pillow under his head. A slow, smug grin playing on his lips.
He didn’t add a caption.