Ayla's POV
The house was too quiet.
Not the peaceful kind of quiet, but the heavy sort that pressed against your chest, reminding you of every thought you tried not to think. I had gone to my room after work, telling myself I would sleep early, but sleep refused to come. Every time I closed my eyes, whispers from the office returned, the looks, the murmurs, the way people had stared as though I was something to be examined and judged.
I turned over in bed for what felt like the hundredth time. My stomach ached with a dull emptiness. Maybe it was nerves, maybe it was hunger. Either way, I gave up on sleep and padded down the hall, the soft sound of my steps swallowed by the thick silence of the house.
The kitchen lights were dim. For some reason, that made me relax a little. I opened the fridge and spotted a shiny red apple, I grabbed it, already planning to slip back to my room before anyone noticed.
I turned, clutching the fruit like it was something precious, only to freeze.
He was there.
Liam stood near the counter, a glass of water in his hand, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. The faint glow of the under-cabinet light caught the edges of his profile, sharp and clean. He wasn't looking at me at first, but the moment he did, it felt like the whole kitchen shrank down to just the two of us.
"Hungry?"
The word was quiet, almost casual, but it sent my pulse racing.
I swallowed, trying to steady my voice. "A little."
Without another word, he set his glass down and moved past me toward the stove. His movements were calm, efficient, like this was nothing unusual. He pulled a pan from the rack, grabbed some eggs and flour from the pantry, and within minutes the faint, warm scent of batter filled the kitchen.
I stood frozen by the counter, clutching the apple uselessly in my hand, until he took it gently from me and set it aside.
He didn't speak, just worked with the same quiet focus he carried into the office. A bowl, a whisk, the soft hiss of butter hitting the pan. The silence wasn't awkward, it was steady.
Finally, he slid a small stack of golden pancakes onto a plate and set it in front of me.
"Eat."
It wasn't an order, not really. More like a simple fact, spoken in that low voice of his that made it impossible to argue.
"Thank you," I whispered.
He didn't answer. He leaned back against the opposite counter, sipping his water, his eyes on me. It wasn't the cold, unreadable gaze he gave others at the office. This was quieter, softer somehow, though it still made me squirm under the weight of it.
I cut a small piece with my fork and took a bite. The warmth spread across my tongue, soft and sweet, and for a moment I forgot how to breathe. The silence between us felt heavy, but not uncomfortable, more like it was waiting for something I wasn't brave enough to say. I wanted to speak, to fill the quiet, but every word that came to mind felt either too small or too bold.
Instead, I focused on the sound of his glass as he set it down, on the faint shift of his jaw when he glanced toward the window. The little details that made him feel less like "Mr. Cross" and more like… Liam.
"You couldn't sleep?" His voice broke the silence again.
I shook my head. "Not really. Too many thoughts."
A beat passed before he asked, "About work?"
I hesitated. "About… everything."
He gave a quiet nod, like he understood more than he was willing to admit. The silence stretched again, but this time it didn't feel so heavy. It felt… steady. Like the calm rhythm of his presence was enough to anchor me.
I finished another bite of pancake, and when I glanced up, he was still watching. I should have looked away, but something in his expression held me there. His face was unreadable, but his dark eyes were focused, unwavering felt like they were seeing straight through me.
My cheeks warmed, and I quickly looked down at the plate. "Sorry for disturbing you."
"You didn't," he said simply.
Another pause, then he pushed away from the counter and set his empty glass in the sink. I thought that was the end of it, that he would retreat back into his study or disappear down the hall like a shadow.
But instead, as he walked past me, his hand brushed the counter near mine, just close enough that the warmth of him lingered even after he was gone.
The sound of his footsteps faded into the hallway, and I sat there for a long moment, staring at the empty doorway.
It was nothing, just pancakes, just silence shared in a kitchen at midnight.
But somehow, it didn't feel small at all.
I carried the plate back to the sink, rinsed it quietly, and padded back to my room. Sleep still didn't come easily, but when I finally closed my eyes, I wasn't haunted by whispers or cruel laughter.
Instead, I kept replaying his voice in my head, that single word.
"Hungry?"
And for the first time in a long while, the silence didn't feel so empty.