13 | Unbothered
1148 Words
Stella
It’s well after midnight by the time I crawl into bed, toes frozen, makeup smudged, hair a mess. The lodge has gone quiet, muffled under a blanket of snow and wine-fueled exhaustion. Grace is already asleep, her gentle breathing steady in the next bed over.
I lie there in the dark, phone charging on the nightstand, the faint glow of the screen calling to me like a bad habit.
It buzzes.
I glance over.
Unknown Number: "Still awake?"
A second later:
Unknown Number: "It’s Liam, from the bar. Promise I’m not a creep. Grace gave me your number."
I glare at Grace, not that she is awake to notice. Of course she gave him my number, I wouldn't expect anything less of her.
I debate not answering. I really do. But then I remember how easy he made everything feel earlier. No pressure, no baggage, no history, and suddenly the idea of going back downstairs doesn’t seem so bad.
Me: "Depends. Is this a booty call or a drink call?"
He replies immediately:
Liam: "Definitely a drink call. Unless the drinks go really well."
I smirk.
Me: "Give me five."
I throw on leggings, a sweatshirt, and run a brush through my hair. No makeup. No expectations.
The lounge is empty now except for a few flickering flames in the fireplace. Liam’s already there, lounging on the same couch from earlier, two glasses on the coffee table in front of him.
"Was starting to think I got ghosted," he says, sitting up a little.
"I considered it," I admit, settling in beside him. "But then I figured you’d probably just text Grace and she’d storm the room."
He laughs. "She did seem a little overly invested."
"She’s a menace." I chuckle. "But in the best way."
He hands me a glass. Warm bourbon again. He remembered.
"Didn’t take you for a whiskey guy," I say, eyeing him.
"Didn’t take you for someone who drinks it straight."
"I have layers."
"Let me guess. Surface layer: composed. Underneath: chaos."
I grin over the rim of my glass. "You’re not wrong."
We sit in companionable silence for a few beats. No music, just the crackle of the fire and the soft creak of the old lodge settling around us.
"So," he says eventually. "Tell me something real."
"Real?"
"Yeah. Something you wouldn’t put on your dating profile."
I arch a brow. "You think I have a dating profile?"
"You look like the type who deletes them every three weeks."
"Touché."
I take a sip, let it warm through me. "Okay, something real… I once got banned from a grocery store for staging a fake proposal in the produce aisle."
His eyebrows shoot up. "Seriously?"
"Dead serious. My friend dared me. I didn’t think they’d call security."
He bursts out laughing. "That might be the best thing I’ve heard all week."
"Your turn."
"Okay… I cried during the final episode of a cooking show once."
I blink. "Like, actually cried?"
"Ugly cried. The underdog won, and his mom came out with this giant cake, and I just—"
"Okay, yeah. That’s fair."
We both laugh, and something eases in my chest. It’s been so long since I’ve just existed with someone without analyzing every second of it.
"Why are you still awake?" I ask after a while.
"Couldn’t sleep. Thought maybe you couldn’t either."
I glance at him. "Lucky guess?"
He shrugs. "Or maybe you’ve got that look."
"What look?"
"The kind people wear when their heads are too loud."
I don’t say anything for a second. "Maybe."
We fall into quiet again. But it’s comfortable. Not awkward.
Eventually he leans back, stretches an arm across the back of the couch, not touching me, just… there.
"I’m glad you came down."
"Me too," I say, surprising myself.
He doesn’t press. Doesn’t move closer. Just stays where he is, and for once, that’s enough. Is it sad to admit I'm not used to guys like him? So casually unaware of how attractive they are.
"You ever do this?" he asks, voice soft. "Just… sit up all night, because the alternative feels worse?"
I sigh. "More than I’d like to admit."
"Yeah." He tips his glass toward the fire. "There’s something about late night honesty. Everyone’s more interesting after midnight."
"Or more unfiltered."
"Same thing, isn’t it?"
"Not always."
He glances over, studying me. "You’re hard to read."
"Good." I say, a little sharper than I meant to.
"I mean that as a compliment."
I shrug. "It’s not a game, you know. I’m not trying to be mysterious. I just don’t feel like bleeding all over people who don’t know how to hold it."
His eyebrows lift slightly. "That’s... fair."
We lapse into silence again. But it's not heavy. It just feels... real.
"You know," he says eventually, "you don’t seem like someone who needs saving."
"That’s because I don’t."
"Didn’t say you did." He pauses. "But even strong people get tired."
"Is that your pickup line?"
He grins. "Nah. If I were trying to pick you up, I’d just quote some Hemingway and ask if you believe in fate."
I smirk. "That might actually work on me."
"Duly noted."
We both take a sip.
"You ever feel like you're the only person who didn’t get the memo on how to do this whole 'adult life' thing?" I ask.
"Constantly."
"And then you see everyone around you getting married, buying houses, smiling through dinner parties like it's not all performative crap?"
He raises his glass. "To the ones faking it well."
I clink mine against his. "And to those of us who still think it's okay not to have it all figured out."
The fire dims a little. The room feels warmer, but not just because of the bourbon.
Liam shifts slightly, turning to face me more directly. "Would it be too forward if I said I want to kiss you?"
My heart skips, but I keep my tone casual. "Probably."
"But not a no?"
I meet his eyes. There’s no pressure in them. No demand.
"Not a no," I say, quietly.
He nods like he gets it, like he's been there too.
And then, like magic, he leans back again, giving me space instead of taking it.
Respectful. Unbothered. It’s almost disappointing, and somehow, incredibly attractive.
Eventually, I check the time. "We should probably sleep. There’s a wedding to not ruin tomorrow."
He stands as I do, stretching. "Walk you back?"
"Sure."
We walk the halls in silence, bare feet on old timber floors, everything bathed in the soft glow of antique wall sconces.
When we reach my door, he stops.
"This was nice," he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.
"It was."
He hesitates. Then, "goodnight, Stella."
"Goodnight, Liam."
And for the first time in a long time, I fall asleep with a smile I didn’t have to fake.
- Writer
