Morrison hit send.
Along with the photo—shirtless, in her bed, grinning like the smug bastard he was—he’d added a couple lines of text:
Your underwear’s way too conservative.
Next ti, I’m taking you shopping—my style.
He could practically see Lilian’s face right now.
Wide eyes. Flaming cheeks. Shaking fingers. Probably hurling her phone across the room while shouting his full na in fury.
The ntal image made him laugh out loud.
Serves her right.
After all the tis she’d bruised his ego—especially that unforgettable mont when she deadpan diagnosed his sweaty palms as a sign of kidney deficiency—this was payback.
Petty?
Sure.
Childish?
Absolutely.
But damn, it felt good.
Still chuckling, he tossed the phone aside and lay back against her pillows. The faint scent of her shampoo still lingered on the sheets. It was soft, warm, and oddly comforting—just like her.
Before he realized it, his breathing had slowed, and sleep took him under.
Wrapped in her blanket. Surrounded by her scent.
He slept like a rock.
Across town, Lilian was not so lucky.
She’d taken a long nap in the afternoon and ended up staying awake late, half-watching a movie in bed. Around midnight, she finally turned off the lights and burrowed under the covers, ready for sleep.
Ping.
Her phone lit up.
She reached for it lazily, expecting so boring notification.
And then—froze.
Eyes wide. Heart hamring.
There he was.
In her bed.
Shirtless.
Her blanket. Her pillow.
A cocky smirk on his face like he’d just claid the territory as his own.
And the ssage...
Your underwear’s too conservative.
Next ti, I’ll take you shopping—my style.
For a full three seconds, Lilian could not breathe.
She didn’t scream. Not yet.
But her face was on fire. Her brain short-circuited.
And then—she exploded.
What. The. Hell.
Who gave him permission to strip down and sleep in her bed?!
What kind of sick creep takes a selfie half-naked on soone else’s pillow?!
And—wait—how did he even know what kind of underwear she wore?!
Was this man insane?!
Lilian shot up from bed so fast she nearly knocked over her nightstand.
Her first instinct: call him and scream.
Second instinct: slap him with a lawsuit.
Third: burn her sheets.
She jabbed his na on her contact list.
Beep.
Phone off.
She tried again.
Still off.
One more ti.
Nothing.
"ARGHHHHHH!" she shrieked, hurling the phone into a pillow. "You goddamn, cocky, shaless—!"
She didn’t sleep a wink that night.
Lilian was out the door by dawn.
Fueled by righteous fury and secondhand embarrassnt, she skipped breakfast, bolted from Tiffany’s place, and headed ho like a woman on a mission.
Tiffany, still half-asleep in her pajamas, called out from behind, "Hey! What’s the rush? You didn’t even eat!"
"No ti! Ergency! Personal crisis!"
The elevator couldn’t move fast enough. The second her apartnt door unlocked, she stord in like a one-woman SWAT team—ready to kick him out and curse him to hell.
But when she reached her bedroom—
He was gone.
The bed was empty. Cold.
But the dent in her pillow was there. And the creased sheets. And the faintest trace of that arrogant man’s cologne lingering in the air.
Worse—his suitcase was gone.
The jerk had left.
No confrontation. No groveling. Not even a goodbye.
Lilian stood in the middle of the room, fists clenched at her sides, body practically vibrating.
"Coward," she muttered.
She had ntally prepared a full speech. She was going to grab him by the collar and make him regret being born. But now?
Now she had nowhere to put her rage.
So instead, she ripped the sheets off the bed like a madwoman and shoved them into the laundry.
Everything—sheets, pillowcases, even the duvet cover—was going to be boiled, bleached, and burned if necessary.
anwhile, Morrison was having a fantastic morning.
He’d woken early, slipped out before she returned, and headed ho feeling like a man who had just robbed a bank and gotten away with it.
As he kicked off his shoes at his place, his phone buzzed.
Linda.
His mother.
Morrison groaned.
Of course. The timing was perfect.
He hesitated, finger hovering over "decline."
Odds were, this was about another blind date. Probably with soone nad Clarissa or Daphne or whatever socialite his mom had dug up this ti.
But... guilt won out.
He hadn’t been ho in a week.
"Hey, Mom," he said with forced cheer.
"Baby! You’re back? Why didn’t you call last night? I made osso buco!"
Ah, yes. The guilt trip starter pack.
Linda Hayes, Queen of Emotional Blackmail.
"I was with a friend," Morrison said vaguely, walking toward his kitchen.
There was a pause. And then—
"What kind of friend?"
He grinned.
Ti for a little spice.
"A girlfriend."
Silence.
Then:
"MORRISON! You’re thirty-two! If I find out you’re still fooling around with one of those internet-famous bimbos—!"
"Relax, Mom," he drawled. "She’s not internet-famous."
"She better not be! I’ve seen your taste. Last year it was that yoga influencer who couldn’t spell ’philanthropy’!"
He laughed. "This one’s different."
"Different how?"
Morrison leaned back on the couch, a strange smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
"She calls kidney-deficient."
"...What?!"
He didn’t answer.
Not directly.
But in that mont, with his mother’s screeching in the background, all Morrison could picture was a certain girl’s flaming red face, trembling hands, and the way her eyes nearly popped out when she saw his photo.
For once, it didn’t feel like a ga.
It felt like the beginning of sothing.
Sothing real.
Maybe.
Just maybe.
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