Chapter 189: Hello Rachel, Long Time!* [FIXED!][14/10!]

Liam pulled his car into the visitor’s parking spot, the familiar crack in the pavement still there, still wide enough to swallow a quarter if you weren’t careful.

He killed the engine and sat for a moment, hands resting on the wheel. The apartment building loomed ahead, its beige facade worn by years of sun and rain. He hadn’t been here in a while. He couldn’t count exactly, and that was the uncomfortable part. The guilt sat in his chest, a dull throb that hadn’t quite faded with the drive over.

He grabbed the grocery bags from the passenger seat. Two of them, stuffed with the essentials he’d picked up on the way. Fresh eggs, a carton of heavy cream, thick-cut bacon, a loaf of sourdough, and a couple of avocados. He’d also grabbed a small bouquet of sunflowers because they looked happy and Rachel needed some happiness. He locked the car and made his way to the entrance, nodding at the building’s buzzer panel before pulling the door open. It gave with a familiar, squeaky resistance.

The stairs creaked the same way they always did, the third step from the top letting out a groan that announced anyone’s arrival. Liam remembered learning that sound the first time he’d visited, and he still never remembered to skip it. The hallway smelled like someone’s lingering cooking oil and dust. And there it was—Rachel’s door, standing slightly ajar, a sliver of darkness visible through the crack.

Liam paused. His brow knit. It was evening, the sun was already down, and the apartment beyond the door looked dim. He nudged the door open with his hip, careful not to make noise.

"Rachel?" he called, his voice low. No answer. He stepped inside, setting the bags by the entryway. The living room looked untouched—cushions flat, TV off, no dishes left out. Nothing suggesting she knew he was coming.

There was no reason for her to expect him; he’d shown up without a word. His texting thumb had hovered over her name a dozen times that day, but he’d never pressed send.

He wandered the living room, checking the corners, looking for any sign that she’d stirred recently. A blanket draped over the arm of the sofa, slightly wrinkled. A single coffee mug on the side table, empty but stained brown at the bottom. No phone in sight. No keys. Nothing fresh.

He took a breath through his nose, expecting something—coffee, vanilla, her perfume, anything. Instead, he caught the unmistakable sweetness of wine. Stale, cloying, clinging to the air like it had soaked into the walls overnight.

That heavy, grapey scent that signaled a bottle, maybe two, had been opened and drained.

Liam walked to the bedroom and pushed the door open. Rachel lay sprawled across the bed, still wearing a loose T-shirt and old leggings, hair fanned messily over the pillow. An empty bottle of red wine stood on the nightstand, its label facing him like evidence. She had nothing on that was trying to be alluring, not even a hint of anything lacy. She was just there, unconscious and vulnerable, with a faint flush on her cheeks.

He stood in the doorway, letting the sight sink in. He’d started thinking of her as something else lately—a thrill, a conquest, a body he could slip into when the mood struck. Seeing her like this, passed out from some bad day he hadn’t been around to ask about, cut through that delusion. She’d called him for comfort before. Maybe she had tonight, and he’d missed it. He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.

He didn’t wake her. He stepped away from the bedroom and made his way to her kitchen. The sink held a stack of dishes—a plate crusted with tomato sauce, cutlery, mugs. He rolled up his sleeves and worked through them methodically, hot water and soap building a lather. He scrubbed the plate, rinsed the mugs, and set them in the drying rack. Then he moved to her bedroom again, quietly pulling open her closet and rearranging scattered clothes. A few tops folded, a pair of jeans hung properly, the pile of laundry she’d left at the foot of the bed neatly sorted.

Fifteen minutes passed, maybe twenty. He wiped his hands on his jeans and checked the kitchen. Time to cook.

He cracked four eggs into a bowl, whisked them with a splash of cream, and set a cast-iron skillet on the stove. The bacon went in first, sizzling and curling as the fat rendered. He chopped an avocado and cubed some sourdough, toasting the bread lightly in the residual bacon fat. Once the bacon came out, he poured in the egg mixture, turning it slowly with a spatula until the curds became soft, pillowy folds.

He seasoned with cracked black pepper and a pinch of salt, folded the avocado in after, and plated everything with warm toasted bread on the side.

By the time he finished, about an hour had passed. He was sweating, heat blooming off the stove and the effort of moving through her space. His shirt clung to his back.

He slipped off his shoes and tiptoed to her bathroom, turning the shower knob with careful fingers until the water was hot, then stepping in. The stream washed over him, rinsing away the sweat and the heaviness of the afternoon. He kept movements short, minimal, but the pipes still hummed and the water still splattered against the tub floor.

In the bedroom, Rachel stirred. Her eyelids fluttered, then slowly opened, adjusting to the room light. She blinked, hearing the faint hiss of water and a muffled sound beyond the bathroom door. She turned her head toward the kitchen, where she could just make out the scent of bacon and toast drifting through the apartment. There was only one person that came to mind right now.

"Liam?"

-

Liam turned the water hotter, letting the steam curl around him in thick clouds. His muscles unwound under the spray, but his mind wouldn’t shut up. All this—the dishes, the laundry, the breakfast he’d left warming in the oven—it wasn’t a grand gesture. It was damage control.

He’d been treating her like a convenience, a warm body to visit when the nights got too quiet. Seeing her passed out, empty bottle on the nightstand, had been a gut-check he hadn’t asked for.

He grabbed her soap—something floral, soft, with a hint of vanilla—and worked it into a lather across his chest. The scent hit him immediately. It was her, that intimate fragrance that clung to her sheets and her skin, the one he’d buried his nose in more times than he cared to admit. His cock stirred, twitching against his thigh, thickening without his permission.

He exhaled sharply, annoyed. Not at the erection itself, but at what it said about him. He’d just walked through her wreck of an apartment, seen her vulnerable and messy, and here he was, getting hard over a bar of soap.

He squeezed his eyes shut, scrubbing harder at his arms, his shoulders. A bit of lather slipped past his guard and stung his eyes. He cursed under his breath, blinking against the burn, and used his forearm to wipe it away.

The throbbing between his legs refused to settle. It bounced against his hip, heavy and insistent, as he worked the soap down his stomach, over his thighs. He didn’t touch it. He wouldn’t. That line felt too close to crossing, even in his own head. Not when she was passed out in the next room, trusting him enough to leave her door ajar.

Not everything was about sex. He had to keep reminding himself of that. She was a person, with her own tangled life, her own nights of drinking alone because no one was there to hear her talk. He’d been that person once, and she’d pulled him through. Coming back now, with his dick leading the way, made him feel like a parasite.

Liam couldn’t help it, he had just fucked Vanessa the night before but somehow, his body still wanted more because each person stirred a different kind of feeling within him as his cock remembered them individually, and they all gave him a different degree of pleasure which was why his body reacted the way it did.

Under a different context, Liam wouldn’t have minded this whatsoever but now wasn’t one of those times unfortunately.

He didn’t notice the door behind him. It was the one spot in the whole apartment that didn’t creak, the hinges oiled and silent. Rachel stood in the crack, her eyes half-lidded, watching him through the steam. She saw the hard line of his back, the water tracing the curve of his shoulders. She saw the way his cock hung heavy between his legs, bobbing slightly with each movement, and the subtle pulse of his hand as he fought not to touch it. Her lips parted, and she leaned against the doorframe, making no sound at all.