The first time Lilian called him, Morrison thought it was a prank.
"Teach me how to date," she said over the phone, her voice soft, light, and maddeningly calm.
He paused, then chuckled. "You drunk?"
"No." A beat. "I just figured... you’re experienced. You’d know what to do."
It hit him like a punch.
Lilian. Dave’s kid sister. The quiet one with the straight bangs and oversized hoodies. The girl who used to hide behind the sofa when they played poker in her parents’ house.
But that wasn’t the image that came to mind now.
Now, he saw her in a tight yellow crop top and a white denim mini skirt, all legs and pale skin, with a tiny waist that flashed when she reached for her drink at the restaurant last week.
He hadn’t even recognized her at first — until Dave muttered, "That’s Lilian. My sister."
Morrison had almost choked on his whiskey.
He should have forgotten it. Filed it under "inappropriate thoughts to never revisit."
And asked him to teach her how to date.
He should have said no.
Instead, he said, "When do we start?"
They met near her university, in a café too pink for his taste. She looked... annoyingly angelic. No makeup, hair loose, in a baby blue sundress that barely reached her knees.
"Thanks for coming," she said, was some tutoring session.
He sat across from her and folded his arms. "Why me?"
"You’re handsome," she said, matter-of-fact. "And you know how this stuff works."
His lips curved into a slow, amused smile. "You mean, dating?"
She nodded. "Flirting. Touching. Kissing. All that."
He raised an eyebrow. "That last one’s kind of advanced for a beginner."
She blinked. "We can start slow. Holding hands?"
Something dangerous stirred in him.
He was thirty-two. A man with a reputation for burning bright, fast, and never looking back. He didn’t do hand-holding.
But when she reached for his hand across the table, his fingers closed around hers before he could think. fr eewe(b)nove.l.co\m
Her hand was small. Warm.
His palm... was sweating.
She tilted her head. "You’re nervous?"
He gave a short laugh. "Not exactly."
She stared at him, puzzled. "Sweaty palms usually mean nerves. Or kidney weakness."
"I read it online." She pulled out her phone. "Want me to show you?"
He nearly knocked the phone out of her hand.
"Stop Googling my body functions while we’re on a date."
She looked startled. "Are we on a date?"
"I—" He exhaled. "You said I was teaching you how to date. This qualifies."
"Oh." She lowered her phone. "Then I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you."
Morrison ran a hand through his hair and looked away.
She wasn’t doing it on purpose. That was the worst part. She wasn’t teasing. She wasn’t acting coy. She was just... a sweet girl who didn’t know better.
Which made everything ten times more dangerous.
They sat in silence for a while.
Then she murmured, "You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to."
He looked at her. Really looked.
She was young. But not stupid. Not clueless. There was hurt in her eyes — small, quiet, like a scratch that hadn’t started bleeding yet.
He sighed. "I’m not mad at you. I just—"
What? Didn’t trust himself?
"Look," he said, reaching for his car keys. "Let’s get out of here. I made a reservation."
He took her to a restaurant — one with candlelight, roses, and a view. He’d arranged it earlier, thinking it might impress her.
It did. She lit up the moment she saw the table. "This is beautiful..."
Morrison watched her spin slowly in place, eyes wide like she was inside a fairytale.
She turned back to him with a shy smile. "Thank you, Mr. Morrison."
"Mr. Morrison?" He frowned. "Do I look like your high school teacher?"
She blushed. "What should I call you then?"
He leaned in, voice low. "Try Morrison. Or handsome. I’ll answer to either."
She laughed. Genuinely. No filter, no pretense. It made something twist in his gut.
She was so damn pure. It made him feel like a filthy bastard just standing next to her.
Dinner was smoother. She talked about uni, her roommates, the books she liked. She had this habit of poking her straw with one finger while she thought, like a distracted little bird.
He, meanwhile, was losing his mind.
Every time she smiled, his gaze dropped to her lips.
Every time she tilted her head, his imagination filled in the rest.
And when she said, almost too casually, "Do couples... kiss after dinner?"
He knew he was completely, hopelessly fucked.
He drove her back to her dorm. Neither of them said much.
As he pulled up, she turned to him, face serious. "I like you."
"I mean, I think I do," she added quickly. "I haven’t liked anyone before, so I’m not sure. But I feel safe with you."
That word hit him like a blade.
He was a man who once forgot a woman’s name mid-climax.
He was the guy women warned their friends about.
And yet, this girl — this good girl — was looking at him like he was a harbor in the middle of a storm.
"Don’t," he said hoarsely.
She blinked. "Don’t what?"
"Don’t look at me like that."
He didn’t kiss her that night.
Didn’t touch her again.
He just watched as she got out of the car, waved once, and disappeared into the dorm building with a skip in her step.
Then he leaned back in his seat and cursed.
Because he knew — absolutely, undeniably — that he was in trouble.
And this time, he might not walk away clean.