Chapter 7: The Breakfast Interrogation
Cold. It was the first coherent thought. A deep, marrow-level cold that had settled into the apartment overnight. Cass opened her eyes to a gray, frozen world. The heater’s hum was still conspicuously absent, leaving a silence so profound she could hear the faint groan of the building’s pipes. Liam was a warm, still lump beside her, breaths fogging slightly in the air.
She slid out from the covers, the wooden floor biting her bare feet. She’d slept in just her cheer sweatshirt and the gray sweatpants, no underwear. The memory of last night’s friction, both given and taken, was a persistent ghost on her skin. She padded to the window. A whiteout. The blizzard had buried the world, silencing everything under several feet of snow. The power lines were down. No cars. No people. Just a vast, muffled stillness.
She heard him stir behind her. A low groan, the rustle of sheets.
“Power’s still out,” she said, her voice scratchy with sleep.
“Yeah,” he croaked. “Figured.” A beat of quiet, then the sound of him sitting up. “I’ve got a gas stove. And a fireplace. We won’t freeze. Or starve.”
His tone was practical, focused on solutions. A way to avoid the elephant hibernating in the room. She turned. He was running a hand through his disaster of hair, avoiding her eyes, the sheets pooled around his waist. The morning light was unkind, highlighting the faint shadows under his eyes. He looked like a man who’d fought a war in his sleep.
“Breakfast?” he offered, finally glancing at her. “I can do French toast. Got some sausage and bacon that needs cooking before it goes bad.”
“That sounds… amazing, actually.”
He nodded, all business. “Great. I’ll, uh, get the stove going in the kitchen. You can… be in charge of the fireplace.” He gestured vaguely toward the living room. “There’s wood and stuff beside it. Kindling’s in the newspaper stack.”
The division of labor was a lifeline. They both clung to it.
An hour later, a semblance of warmth and normality had been fought for and won. A small, cheerful fire crackled in the living room hearth, pushing back the chill. In the kitchen, the camp stove hissed under two cast iron skillets, filling the cramped space with the rich, caramelizing scents of browning butter, sizzling pork, and cinnamon. Cass set the small, Formica-topped table with chipped plates and mismatched mugs.
They ate in near-silence for the first few minutes, the void filled only by the sounds of chewing, the howl of wind outside, and the crackling fire. The French toast was perfect, golden and eggy. The sausage snap had a garlicky bite. It was a good breakfast. A painfully normal one.
Liam cradled his steaming mug of black coffee with both hands, staring into its depths like a fortuneteller. His fingers drummed a restless, nervous rhythm on the ceramic. He cleared his throat.
“So,” he began, the word puffing out with his breath. “Did you… sleep okay last night? All things considered?” His eyes flicked up to hers, then back down, a rapid-fire movement of pure anxiety.
She took a slow sip of her own coffee, letting the bitter heat travel down her throat. Under the table, she stretched her leg. Her bare foot, clad only in a thick sock she’d found in his drawer, brushed against his sweatpants, just above his ankle. She felt him flinch. She didn’t move her foot away.
“Mmm,” she murmured, lowering her mug, her gaze holding his. “Best sleep I’ve had in years.”
The ambiguity hung between them, a shimmering veil. Because of the storm? Because of the bed? Because of you? Because of what you did in the bathroom?
A faint pink tinge crept up his neck. He took a gulping swallow of coffee, wincing at the burn.
She decided to press her advantage. The quiet, bookish boy was off-balance. She was used to being in control.
“So, Liam Abernathy,” she said, leaning forward on her elbows. “Tutor extraordinaire. Baker of emergency French toast. What’s the deal with you?”
“Deal?” He blinked.
“You know. History. Who was the last girl you brought back to this fortress of solitude?” She waved a piece of bacon around the tiny kitchen.
He laughed, a short, self-deprecating sound. “Brought back? That implies I left. I mostly just… exist here. And tutor people.”
“Come on. There must have been someone. Pre-med student? Librarian with a secret wild side?” She took a bite, watching him.
He shrugged, pushing a piece of sausage around his plate. “There was a girl in my Classics seminar last year. Lydia. We went out for coffee three times. She said I was ‘sweet but terminally un-ambitious.’ She’s dating a law intern now.”
The way he said it was clinical, like he was reporting a minor lab result. But Cass heard the tiny fracture in his voice.
“Terminally un-ambitious? What does that even mean?”
“It means I want to teach high school history, not conquer the world.” He finally looked at her, a defensive spark in his eyes. “I like things that are quiet. And have clear answers in the back of the book.”
“And that’s a bad thing?”
“To some people.”
Cass considered him, this big, warm, solid boy who made perfect French toast and apologized for existing. “What’s your type, then? Since Lydia The Classicist wasn’t it.”
“I don’t know,” he said, too quickly. Then he sighed, relenting. “Smart, I guess. Has to be smart. Kind. Someone who… gets the joke. My humor’s pretty dry. It doesn’t always land.”
“That’s it? Smart, kind, gets your jokes?” She tilted her head. “No physical preferences? You’re not secretly into goths or girls with tons of piercings?”
He blushed again, a full-blown flush this time. “I mean… I notice. Obviously, I notice. Someone who takes care of themselves, I guess. But that’s… secondary.” He was lying. She could see it in the way his jaw tightened. He had preferences. Strong ones.
“So, brains over body,” she stated.
“It’s not that simple.” The words came out sharper than he’d intended. He looked immediately contrite. “Sorry. It’s just… the body thing. It’s a trap. It’s all anyone ever sees. They make assumptions. They expect a performance.” He gestured vaguely at himself, at his broad shoulders clad in a worn flannel shirt. “What I have… it just complicates everything. It creates an expectation I never asked for.”
Cass froze, a piece of French toast halfway to her mouth. What I have. The throbbing against her ass. The damp patch. The thick, heard pulses against the bathroom tile. He wasn’t just talking generally. He was talking about it. His pride, and his curse. He was admitting it to her, without saying the words.
She recovered, chewing slowly. “Sounds frustrating.”
“You have no idea,” he snorted, a trace of real bitterness there. “It’s like having a… a luxury sports carburetor on a beat-up sedan. It doesn’t fit the model. People either don’t believe it’s real, or they just want a test drive with no intention of buying the car.”
The metaphor was so awkward, so perfectly him, that Cass almost laughed. Instead, she felt a surge of protectiveness. And a hotter, sharper spike of curiosity.
“Maybe you’ve been showing it to the wrong people,” she said softly.
His eyes snapped to hers. The kitchen was suddenly very small. The scents of food were overwhelming. The fire popped in the other room.
“Maybe,” he whispered.
The moment stretched, thin and electric. Her foot was still resting against his calf. He hadn’t pulled away.
Her phone, charging by the camp stove with a portable battery, buzzed against the counter. Once. Twice. A frantic flutter.
Maya.
The spell broke. Liam glanced at the phone, then pushed his chair back, standing up. “I should… start cleaning this up. Dishes’ll be a pain without hot water.”
“I’ll get it,” Cass said, rising too quickly. She grabbed the phone, tapping the screen as she walked toward the living room fireplace, putting the thick stone hearth between her and the kitchen.
Maya: WELL??? Is he walking funny? Are you walking funny? DETAILS WOMAN.
Cass: We just had breakfast. He made French toast.
Maya: I don’t care about the carb intake. What did he SAY?
Cass: He basically admitted he’s hung like a horse and hates it. Called it a ‘luxury sports carburetor.’
Maya: BAHAHAHA. Oh my god, that’s the nerdiest dick metaphor ever. I love him. Did you tell him you heard his private symphony last night?
Cass: No. We’re doing this… dance. It’s tense. Good tense.
Maya: So make it worse. You’re wearing just those sweats, right? No panties?
Cass: Right.
Maya: Bend over. In front of the fireplace. ‘Accidentally.’ When you pick up a log or something. Let him get an eyeful. See what the carburetor does.
Cass glanced back toward the kitchen doorway. She could hear Liam scrubbing a pan, the clatter of dishes. The fire was burning down to embers. A few smaller logs were stacked beside the hearth.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. It was a stupid, obvious, cheap move.
She took a deep breath, set her phone face down on the stone, and walked to the woodpile. She selected a medium-sized log, then, bending from the waist, she reached for a smaller piece of kindling. The old, worn sweatpants stretched taut across her rear. The fabric, thin from countless washes, outlined the perfect, clean curve of each cheek. And with nothing beneath, the deep, suggestive cleft between them was starkly visible in the firelight shadow.
She held the position for a count of three. The heat from the fire warmed her front. The draft from the window chilled her back. She heard the clattering in the kitchen stop.
She straightened up slowly, placing the logs carefully on the grate, nudging them with the poker. She didn’t turn around. She just knelt there, stoking the fire, hoping to feel the weight of a stare on her back like a physical touch.
After a lifetime, the clattering in the kitchen resumed. Same as before.
She picked up her phone.
Cass: Done.
Maya: And?
Cass waited, the phone growing warm in her hand. No sound from the kitchen but the deliberate scrape of a sponge on cast iron. No footsteps. No cough. Nothing. The deliberate, mundane noise felt like a verdict.
Cass: I don’t think he looked. Or he’s a master at hiding it.
Maya: BULLSHIT. No man with a pulse ignores that view. He looked. He’s just playing it cooler than you. You need to change the game. This tension is going to give me an ulcer.
Cass watched Liam’s silhouette move past the kitchen doorway, heading toward the sink with a stack of plates. His movements were steady, ordinary. Frustration simmered under her skin.
Cass: So what’s the move?
Maya’s reply was instantaneous.
Maya: Old school. Truth or Dare. It forces interaction. It’s playful. It breaks the ‘will-they-won’t-they’ staring contest. You can ask the questions you actually want answers to. And if you dare him… well, you’ve seen what he’s working with. Use your imagination.
Cass felt a nervous thrill crawl up her spine. It was juvenile. It was also a direct line through the awkwardness. She took a steadying breath, the scent of woodsmoke and bacon grounding her.
Cass: Okay. Doing it.
She stood up, her joints stiff from kneeling. The fire was now a robust, crackling heap of logs. She walked back into the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe. Liam stood at the sink, his back to her, shoulders working as he scrubbed. The water was icy, his hands were bright pink.
“You know,” she said, her voice loud in the quiet apartment. “We should probably conserve that water. Who knows when the pipes might freeze.”
He jumped, just a little, and turned off the tap. “Right. Good point.” He dried his hands on a towel, not looking at her.
“We need a better distraction than worrying about the pipes,” she continued, walking slowly to the table and sliding into her chair. She traced a finger through a drop of spilled maple syrup on the worn wood. “I’m bored. And you’re clearly in your head. We should play a game.”
He finally turned, leaning against the counter, the towel draped over his shoulder. His expression was cautious, curious. “A game? Like what? We don’t have power for video games. I think I have a deck of cards somewhere.”
“Not cards.” She met his gaze, held it. “Something simpler. Truth or Dare.”
He blinked. A slow, deep blush started at his collar and climbed. She watched it travel, fascinated. He cleared his throat. “Truth or Dare? Are we twelve?”
“We’re two adults trapped in a freezing apartment after a cold night,” she countered, keeping her tone light. “The normal rules are suspended. Come on. It’ll be funny. You can learn all my deep, dark cheerleading secrets.” She gave him a small, challenging smile. “Unless you’re scared.”
It was the right button to push. His shyness was underpinned by a stubborn pride. She’d seen it when he talked about his teaching dreams, his ‘sports carburetor’. His chin lifted just a fraction.
“I’m not scared,” he said, his voice a bit softer than usual. He pushed off the counter and walked to the table, taking the seat opposite her again. He folded his hands in front of him, a student awaiting a test. “Okay. Fine. Truth or Dare. You start.”
The air tightened. The only sounds were the fire and the wind.
Cass leaned back, feigning casual thought. “Alright. Truth or Dare, Liam?”
He didn’t hesitate. “Truth.”
Safe. Predictable. She nodded slowly, tapping her chin. “Okay. A truth. Let’s start easy.” She paused, letting the silence build for a beat. “When was the last time you kissed someone?”
He let out a short breath, almost a laugh. His shoulders relaxed a little. This, he could handle. “Last semester. November. Lydia. After our third coffee. It was… fine. A little awkward. Like a handshake with more teeth.”
The honesty was disarming. And sad. Cass filed the information away. “My turn,” he said, his eyes sharpening. “Truth or Dare, Cass?”
She mirrored him. “Truth.”
He didn’t rush. He studied her, as if deciding which of many questions to ask.
He studied her, as if deciding which of many questions to ask. “What’s your favorite movie?” he finally said.
The safety of the question made her exhale. Softball, indeed. “The Princess Bride,” she answered without hesitation. “It’s got fencing, fighting, true love. Classics.”
“A classic,” he echoed, a faint smile touching his lips. “Good choice. Your turn.”
“Truth or Dare?”
“Truth again,” he said.
She swirled the last of her cold coffee, thinking. “What’s something you’re secretly really proud of, that no one would guess?”
Liam looked down at his hands, the pink, water-wrinkled skin. “I, um. I build model ships. The old wooden ones with all the tiny rigging. It takes forever. My hands shake sometimes.” He held them up, showing a slight tremble. “I finished a Spanish galleon last month. It’s on my bookshelf, under the Plato.”
The image of this big, quiet man hunched over microscopic ropes, his beefy fingers delicately applying glue, was unexpectedly poignant. “That’s actually really cool,” she said, and meant it.
“Thanks. Okay, my turn. Truth or Dare?”
“Truth.”
He seemed to gain a little confidence from her reaction. “What’s the hardest part about being… you? Cassidy Blackwood, star cheerleader.”
The question was deeper than it sounded. It wasn’t about routines or practices. It was about the persona. Cass felt her performative smile falter. “The assumption that I’m empty,” she said, the words coming out quieter than she intended. “That because I care about how I look, and I’m good at something physical, there’s nothing going on up here.” She tapped her temple. “People either want to date the idea of me, or they instantly dismiss me. There’s no in-between. It’s lonely.”
Liam just nodded, as if she’d confirmed a private theory. He didn’t offer pity. He just absorbed it. “I get that,” was all he said, and she believed him.
“My turn. Truth or Dare, Liam?”
“Truth.”
She leaned in, the fire casting dancing shadows across her face. “The ‘luxury sports carburetor.’ Has it ever actually… worked in your favor? A moment where it was an asset, not a complication?”
He barked a laugh, sharp and surprised. “Straight for the jugular.” He scratched the back of his neck, considering. “Once. In the communal showers after intramural football. A guy on the other team saw it and just said, ‘Jesus, Abernathy.’ There was a certain… savage respect. That’s about it.”
Cass grinned, a real one. “Savage respect. I like that.”
The game settled into a rhythm, a verbal tennis match. Truth. Truth. Truth.
He asked about her family (divorced, messy, she visits her mom in Florida to escape the snow). She asked if he had any siblings (one older sister, a dentist, “the successful one”).
She asked what his biggest fear was. He didn’t say spiders or heights. “Being too forgettable,” he said, his voice low. “That I’ll live a quiet, decent life and it’ll be like I was never here.”
He asked about her first kiss (Tyler McCormick, seventh grade, behind the gym, tasted like sour gummy worms and regret). She asked about his first time (junior year of high school, Jennifer, equally awkward, over too fast, spent most of it worrying he was doing it wrong).
The barriers were dissolving, brick by brick. The apartment wasn’t just warm from the fire now; it was charged with a new kind of heat, the heat of being seen. Really seen.
After another round—his favorite smell (old books), her most embarrassing moment (falling off the pyramid during homecoming, live on local TV)—Cass stretched her arms over her head, the hem of her sweatshirt riding up to reveal a sliver of toned stomach. She caught him looking this time, and he didn’t glance away.
“Okay, this is getting ridiculous,” she said, smiling. “We can’t just keep choosing Truth. We’re gonna talk ourselves into a coma.”
Liam’s eyebrows lifted. “So choose Dare.”
“Fine,” she said, the challenge bright in her eyes. “Dare it is. Hit me. Make it good, Abernathy. I’m a professional athlete, remember?”
He fell silent, his earlier confidence seeming to retreat. He studied her face, then his gaze drifted to the window, to the howling white world beyond. The weight of the opportunity hung between them. He could ask for anything. A flicker of something bold passed behind his eyes, then was quickly banked. He wasn't willing to push. Not like that.
He looked back at her, a shy, almost apologetic smile on his face. “I dare you to… go stand on the balcony for sixty seconds. In this.” He gestured to her sweats.
Cass blinked. She’d braced for something intimate, something that played on the tension strung between them since last night. Instead, he’d chosen a childish, freezing stunt. A laugh burst out of her, part relief, part disbelief. “Are you serious? It’s a blizzard out there!”
“You said make it good,” he shrugged, that shy smile turning into a full grin. “Prove your toughness. Sixty seconds. I’ll time it.”
It was a deflection. A safe, silly dare that screamed of his reluctance to cross the line he’d already, in his sleep, vaulted over. The message was clear: he was still backing away from the real game.
“You’re on,” Cass said, standing up. A gust of wind slammed the side of the building, making the windows rattle. She marched toward the sliding glass door leading to the small, icy balcony, her heart pounding with a strange cocktail of disappointment and wild excitement.