Morrison had already predicted she would co down for dinner. That was why, after calling her, he didn’t wait at her door—he simply returned to the dining room and sat down, waiting.
When Lilian finally descended the stairs, she didn’t spare him a glance. She moved straight to the table, pulled out a chair, and sat down as if he wasn’t even there.
The table was already set—bowls, chopsticks, and a few steaming dishes laid out neatly. She glanced at him briefly, her tone polite but distant.
"Thank you."
Then, without another word, she picked up her chopsticks and began to eat.
The mont the first bite touched her tongue, the taste hit her—familiar, achingly familiar. Lilian’s hand paused mid-chew, her jaw tightening as mories rushed back unbidden.
Just like that, she was dragged back to those days—the sweetest, simplest days of their ti together. Back when love had been easy, unburdened by promises or consequences. Back when she had slowly handed him her heart without fear, savoring the warmth he gave her, the kind of warmth every woman secretly longs for.
"Is it... not to your liking?" his voice broke through her thoughts, hesitant, almost cautious.
Morrison had always been confident in his cooking. Back when they were together, she had praised him endlessly—said his cooking even put Tiffany’s and Laurent’s to sha.
But now, seeing her eat in silence, seeing her pause mid-bite, doubt crept in.
Lilian lifted her gaze to et his, a faint smile touching her lips.
"It’s... a little bland."
Then she lowered her eyes again and kept eating.
The truth was, the food was perfect—seasoned just right, the way she liked it. But she said it was bland on purpose.
Because Lilian wanted to hurt him just enough to push him away.
Morrison did feel the sting of her words. He had prepared this al with quiet hope, thinking that maybe—just maybe—a table full of warm dishes could soften her heart, even a little.
But in that instant, sothing struck him hard: they hadn’t just been apart for a few days. It had been more than a year.
And a year was enough ti for a lot to change.
Taste buds could change. Preferences could shift.
A heart that once loved deeply... could learn to stop.
Still, though disappointnt pricked at his chest, sothing else flared stronger—resolve.
If anything, her coldness only made him more determined. He had made up his mind: this lifeti, it had to be her. No amount of rejection or bitterness would make him walk away.
So the very next second, he set down his chopsticks and picked them up again as if nothing had happened, serving himself another bite. His voice was light, casual—so casual it almost sounded like he hadn’t just been wounded.
"What’s your plan for tomorrow?"
Lilian looked up at him in surprise.
Wasn’t he supposed to be the proud one? From the plane until now, she had cut him down more than once. And yet, here he was, unfazed. Did he really not care?
Before she could speak, a sudden sneeze escaped her.
Morrison’s brows knitted at once.
"Eat up. After dinner, take so cold dicine."
Lilian didn’t argue. She kept eating quietly. The virus was already creeping in—dicine might not help much now.
Because of her obvious symptoms, Morrison didn’t have much appetite left himself. After dinner, he made sure she took her dicine, his gaze following her every movent.
Then he asked, almost too casually,
"Where am I sleeping tonight?"
"Pick any guest room you want." Her answer was flat.
He glanced at her, his lips quirking in that familiar shaless way.
"This is Bert’s house, isn’t it? So technically... your room is a guest room too, isn’t it?"
"...Lilian just stared at him.
Was there anyone more shaless than this man?"
"My room is technically a guest room too," she said sweetly. "So yes, you can sleep there if you want."
Morrison’s eyes lit up, a flicker of surprise and hope flashing across his face.
"Really?"
"Of course," Lilian replied lightly, "because I’ll be sleeping in my brother’s room."
Morrison’s expression darkened instantly.
"You’re a woman! How does it look if you sleep in another man’s bed? Forget it—go back to your room. I’ll take the guest room downstairs."
His earlier teasing about sharing her bed had only been half a joke anyway. He wasn’t going to force her into anything, not now. He’d waited over a year—what were a few more days, even if the desire was gnawing at him?
So that night, Lilian locked her door and drifted into a feverish sleep, while Morrison lay awake downstairs, tossing and turning in the silence.
The rain outside fell the whole night through.
By morning, the sky had cleared—too soon for Morrison’s liking. A clear day ant he’d have to leave.
When Lilian woke up, her throat was burning raw, and even opening her mouth felt like scraping sandpaper. She didn’t need a doctor to tell her—she was sick.
She let out a quiet sigh. Even after the hot cocoa and the cold dicine last night, the fever had taken hold.
Worse yet, she had a photoshoot scheduled today. Canceling was out of the question.
Dragging her aching body out of bed, she washed up slowly. Her forehead felt hot beneath her fingertips. Each throb of discomfort only sharpened the resentnt she felt toward the man downstairs.
If he hadn’t dragged her into that storm, if he hadn’t kissed her in the pouring rain, she wouldn’t be like this now.
He’d been out there longer than she had, yet he was perfectly fine. And she—after only a short while—was a ss.
Bracing herself, she headed downstairs. The photographer had already called to remind her about the shoot. Sick or not, she had no choice but to push through it.
The aroma of breakfast drifted through the house—warm milk and toasted bread.
Lilian didn’t even need to look. Of course, it was Morrison again.
But she had no appetite.
As soon as she ca downstairs, her gaze swept over him before pointing at the door.
"The rain’s stopped. I have work today. Find sowhere else to stay."
Her voice was hoarse, low—weak even. Morrison’s brows furrowed. He reached out to feel her forehead.
Lilian flinched instinctively, sick of how casually he touched her as if he had any right to.
Still, his hand found its mark. His frown deepened.
"You’re burning up."
She snorted coldly and moved to leave. The last thing she wanted was his concern—not when he was the reason she was sick in the first place.
But Morrison wasn’t about to let her walk out like that. His hand closed gently yet firmly around her arm, stopping her in her tracks.
"You’re sick. Why are you still thinking about work? Eat sothing first. Rest at ho."
"I have a scheduled shoot. I can’t just cancel last minute."
She tried to pull her arm free, but Morrison’s strength barely gave her a chance. With a smooth tug, he guided her to the dining table and practically seated her.
"Then at least eat," he said firmly. "If you insist on going, fine. But I’ll take you to the hospital first, then you can go to work."
He shot her a look, sharp yet concerned.
"What ti’s the appointnt?"
"It’s just a cold. No need for a hospital. dicine will do."
Lilian rubbed her temple, irritated. He was worse than her brother Bert—and Bert was already annoyingly attentive, always reminding her of this and that. Now there was Morrison, hovering like a storm cloud.
Her delicate brows knitted together as she snatched a piece of toast from the table.
"I don’t have ti for breakfast. I’m already late."
She turned to leave, but the sudden movent, coupled with her fever, sent her head spinning. Her knees wobbled—and she nearly collapsed, only to fall straight into Morrison’s arms.
Lilian froze, mortified.
Morrison held her firmly, refusing to let go, his deep voice brushing past her ear, low and coaxing,
"No ti for breakfast? Fine. I’ll drive you. Eat on the way."
Maybe it was his gentle tone. Maybe it was the fever making her weak. But this ti... Lilian didn’t push him away.
Morrison imdiately packed a few slices of toast into a clean bag, grabbed a carton of milk, slipped her cold dicine and fever reducer into a small pouch, and filled a thermos with warm water.
Then, with infuriating ease, he took her hand and led her out the door.
By the ti Lilian sat down in the passenger seat, she finally realized—he’d once again wrapped himself around her day, and she had let him.
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