So Morrison had no choice but to cool himself off in the bathroom.
When he came out, she had already disappeared into her bedroom like a puff of smoke. He chuckled softly, grabbed a fresh set of clothes, changed into them, and knocked politely on her door.
"I'm done. You can come out now."
Lilian cracked the door open just enough to peek through. Only when she confirmed that he was fully dressed did she step outside.
He had changed into a casual outfit—white shirt, black pants, effortlessly handsome. His freshly washed hair was air-dried and left untouched, making his already striking face and languid, wicked eyes look even more devilishly attractive.
Most of the time when Lilian saw Morrison, he was with her brother. The two were always dressed to the nines in suits, looking like elite businessmen straight out of a magazine—impeccably polished, admired by everyone.
But now, seeing him like this, relaxed and dangerous, Lilian couldn't help but remember the last time she'd visited his place—he had that same lazy, predatory vibe then, too.
So the first thing she did after opening the door was bluntly show him the way out.
"You've showered. You've changed. Don't you think it's time to go home now?"
She used to see Morrison the same way she saw Dave—just another older brother figure. Totally safe. That was why she'd even asked him to teach her about relationships.
But now? Now all she saw was danger.
Especially after that kiss just moments ago...
She was seriously considering whether it might be time to break up.
But someone clearly didn't hear a word she said.
Morrison walked straight past her, collapsed onto her living room sofa like he owned the place, and sprawled out lazily. Hands behind his head, he tilted his head toward her with a look of playful grievance.
"I just got off a plane from a business trip and came straight here to see you. I'm dead tired. And this is how you treat me? Kicking me out like I'm some stray dog?"
He'd been abroad all week—traveling nonstop, attending meetings, wining and dining clients. It was no wonder he hadn't contacted her once during the whole trip.
That was just how he was. He'd always kept work and relationships in two completely separate boxes. He never, ever let one interfere with the other.
All his exes had learned that the hard way. The ones who understood left him alone during work hours. The ones who didn't—those who demanded his time, called nonstop, tracked his every move, asking where he was, who he was with—were swiftly and unceremoniously dumped.
The truth was, Morrison had never put any of those women in his heart. If he had, he wouldn't have been able to separate things so cleanly.
Because when you truly love someone...
They become part of your life—your everything.
When you love someone, you miss them the moment they're gone.
When you love someone, even in the middle of work, a single stray thought can pull you back to them.
But Morrison? He could go a week. Two. A month.
No messages. No calls. Not even a thought of checking in.
Could that still be called love?
Of course, Morrison was fully aware of this himself. That's why he never claimed to have loved any woman—not once.
Marriage? Promises? Forever?
He'd never offered any of that to anyone.
And when it came to Lilian...
Right now, he wasn't planning to, either.
Morrison did feel a certain fondness for her—maybe even a bit of affection. But not enough to offer promises. Honestly, he doubted there would ever be a woman in his life who could make him seriously consider marriage.
Lilian glanced at his oversized suitcase, and the memory of how disheveled he'd looked when he walked through the door flashed through her mind. Her resolve to kick him out wavered just a little. Still, she pressed on.
"Exactly. You're tired. Which is why you should be at your place, resting."
But he looked straight at her, completely shameless, and said, "I missed my girlfriend. Can't I come to her place to rest?"
Lilian was speechless.
That excuse... was annoyingly valid.
He missed his girlfriend. He wanted to see her. He wanted to rest with her.
How the hell was she supposed to argue with that?
Still, her face flushed. Her heart skipped a beat.
She wasn't prepared for that kind of casually thrown-out sweetness.
But then she remembered who she was dealing with.
A man like Morrison probably said things like that to women all the time—smooth, natural, and without a second thought.
So she forced herself to stay cool.
"Fine. Rest, then."
Of course, he didn't stop there.
"Before I rest, shouldn't someone be making me something to eat?"
"Something to eat?" She blinked. "There's no food here..."
Lilian either ate at school or mooched meals off her mom, Tiffany. She had zero interest in cooking and even less skill. The kitchen was basically a decorative space in her apartment.
That said, her fridge wasn't completely empty. There were cartons of milk, a few loaves of bread, some cereal—and a whole mountain of her favorite snacks.
Thinking of that, she quickly turned and headed to the kitchen. After rummaging through the fridge and cabinets, she returned with an armful of packaged goodies and dumped them unceremoniously on the coffee table in front of him.
"This is everything I've got."
Morrison stared.
"…"
He slowly sat up, pinched the bridge of his nose like he had a headache coming on, and spoke with forced patience.
"When I said food, I meant actual food. As in, something cooked. Not… snacks."
Lilian looked perfectly innocent.
"I can't cook. And there's no ingredients in the house anyway."
Morrison felt his headache getting worse.
"As a woman in a relationship, shouldn't you at least try to please your boyfriend? Like, say yes immediately and enthusiastically when I suggest you cook something...?"
Seriously.
How could she be this honest?
Even if she didn't mean it, couldn't she have just pretended a little? Lied sweetly, maybe offered to try?
It wasn't even about cooking anymore.
It was about her complete lack of romantic instinct.
Then again, that was the whole point, wasn't it?
The reason they'd ended up like this—him playing the "relationship coach" for her—was because she had no clue how to love or flirt.
But now, a new and rather irritating thought crossed his mind.
What if he did manage to teach her how to be the perfect girlfriend...
Only for her to take everything he taught and use it to charm another man?
That idea sat badly with him.
Really badly.
He found himself caught in a strange contradiction:
He wanted to teach her… but also didn't.
Or maybe he only wanted to teach her if she used it all on him—in bed or otherwise.
Now it was Lilian's turn to sigh.
"I can't cook," she repeated, exasperated. "Why would I lie just to make you happy? What if I burn the kitchen down in the process?"
Morrison: "…"
He gave up, pressing his fingers to his temple.
Lesson One:
Total failure.
"…Just order takeout for me."
That, at least, was something Lilian could handle.
She whipped out her phone and efficiently placed an order, then grinned cheekily at him.
"My treat. Think of it as a reward for working yourself to death on your business trip."
She really put emphasis on 'working yourself to death', voice playful and teasing.
Morrison seriously considered dragging her over and punishing her a little—just enough to wipe that smug look off her face.
But unfortunately, he really was tired. And starving.
He'd pulled an all-nighter before boarding the flight, then spent the entire trip working on a report. Not a wink of sleep in over 24 hours.
Now that he'd showered and finally let his guard down…
His body was starting to give in.