So in the end, Morrison had no choice but to cool himself off in the bathroom.
By the time he stepped out, fully clothed, Lilian had vanished into her bedroom like smoke. He chuckled quietly, ran a hand through his damp hair, pulled on a fresh white shirt and black slacks, and walked over to her door.
Knock, knock.
"I'm done. You can come out now."
The door creaked open just a sliver—only wide enough for a single wary eye to peek through. Lilian scanned him up and down like a customs officer checking a suspicious package. Only when she confirmed he was fully dressed did she slip out, arms crossed, posture stiff.
He was casual now—no suit, no tie. Just a crisp shirt tucked half-heartedly into tailored pants, the top buttons undone, sleeves rolled up. His damp hair was left to air-dry, unruly in the most photogenic way. With those sharp cheekbones, lazy eyes, and sinful mouth, he looked less like a CEO and more like trouble incarnate.
It made her uncomfortable.
Most of the time, when she saw Morrison, he was beside her brother Dave—suit-clad, aloof, untouchable. The perfect businessman. The perfect son.
But like this?
Relaxed. Undone. Dangerous.
It reminded her too much of that one time she'd visited his penthouse—back when she still thought of him as her "relationship tutor." Even then, he had that same slow-burning heat to him. Like a predator waiting for the right moment to pounce.
And now… he had pounced.
So the first thing Lilian did—without even thinking—was point to the door.
"You've showered. You've changed. Don't you think it's time to go home now?"
Once upon a time, Morrison had felt just as safe as her brother. Just another older guy in a world of older guys.
That illusion had been shattered the moment his mouth touched hers.
Now, all she could see was danger. A man who made her heart race and her brain short-circuit.
She was even starting to wonder whether she should just… break up.
Unfortunately, Morrison hadn't heard—or had chosen not to.
He strolled right past her and collapsed on her sofa like it belonged to him. One arm draped lazily over the backrest. The other tucked behind his head.
He looked every bit the spoiled, jet-lagged, filthy-rich heartthrob who believed the entire world was his to occupy.
"I just got off a flight and came straight here to see you," he said, voice slow and low, like a complaint wrapped in velvet. "I'm exhausted. And this is how you greet me? Kicking me out like I'm a stray?"
He had a point—technically.
She knew he'd been abroad the past week. Endless meetings, wine-soaked business dinners, back-to-back flights. He hadn't contacted her once during the entire trip.
But that was Morrison in a nutshell. He kept work and romance in different worlds. His lovers learned early on: interrupt his schedule, and you were gone.
He'd never blurred the line. Not once.
Because when you loved someone—really loved them—work couldn't erase them. Even in the middle of the busiest day, you'd think of them. Even when you were far away, you'd want to check in, send a message, hear their voice.
But Morrison?
He could go a week. Two. A month. Without even blinking.
No calls. No texts. Not a single thought spared.
Could that still be called love?
Of course not.
Even Morrison himself would never claim otherwise. He'd never told any woman he loved her. Never made promises. Never talked about marriage.
And when it came to Lilian?
He didn't plan to, either.
Maybe there was affection. A fondness, even. But it wasn't love. Not yet. And maybe not ever.
Lilian's gaze drifted to the suitcase he'd wheeled in earlier, still sitting by the wall like it belonged there.
He didn't just drop by.
He came prepared to stay.
That thought made her nerves spike again.
"You're tired," she said, steadying her voice. "Which is exactly why you should be resting at home."
But Morrison didn't budge. His dark eyes met hers with a lazy challenge.
"I missed my girlfriend," he said, deadpan. "Can't I come rest where she is?"
That line—so casually spoken—landed with a thud in her chest.
Her brain shorted out for a second.
She opened her mouth, then closed it again.
That was the thing about Morrison. He was so smooth, he made even the most ridiculous excuses sound reasonable.
He missed her.
He wanted to rest.
With her.
What was she supposed to say to that?
She flushed. Her heart skipped once, then twice. She was dangerously close to letting him off the hook.
But then she reminded herself—this man probably said things like that to women every other day. It didn't mean anything.
So she forced her expression back to neutral. "Fine. Rest, then."
Of course, he wasn't done.
"Before I rest," he said, stretching dramatically, "shouldn't someone be making me something to eat?"
"…Something to eat?" she echoed blankly.
"There's no food here."
It was true. Lilian rarely cooked. Either she ate at school or stole dinner from her mom's fridge. The kitchen in her apartment was more decoration than utility.
Still, she had a stash of snacks.
So she turned and rummaged through the cabinets, then returned with an armful of treats—instant noodles, chips, cookies, candy, a banana for nutrition.
She dumped it all onto the coffee table in front of him. "Here. All yours."
Morrison stared at the mountain of junk food. Then slowly sat up and pinched the bridge of his nose.
"When I said food, I meant… cooked food. You know. Real food."
Lilian tilted her head innocently. "I don't cook. And even if I wanted to, there's nothing in the fridge."
Morrison inhaled slowly, praying for patience. "As a girlfriend… shouldn't you at least try to make me happy?"
She looked puzzled. "Why would I lie just to please you? What if I blow up the kitchen?"
He stared at her for a moment.
She was being serious.
Brutally, endearingly serious.
And it was driving him absolutely insane.
This girl. This completely unromantic, brutally honest, utterly clueless girl.
She couldn't cook. She didn't pretend. She didn't even try to charm him.
It was almost admirable.
And incredibly annoying.
But most of all—he realized, to his surprise—it was dangerous.
Because if she did learn how to charm someone…
What if she used those skills on someone else?
What if he taught her how to love—and she ended up loving another man?
The thought made something curl unpleasantly in his gut.
He wasn't jealous.
He just… didn't like the idea.
At all.
Lilian, meanwhile, had pulled out her phone and was already tapping away.
"Fine. I'll order food. My treat. As a reward for working yourself to death on your business trip."
She smiled brightly, a teasing glint in her eyes.
Morrison narrowed his.
If he weren't so damn tired, he might've grabbed her right then and taught her a different kind of lesson.
But exhaustion was finally catching up to him.
His eyelids were heavy. His stomach was empty. His patience was paper-thin.
He leaned back, closed his eyes, and muttered under his breath:
"Lesson one… total failure."