Snow? Never heard of it! - 3. Chapter 3: Home alone.

Liam woke at 05:30 because Rick had signed a contract with the alarm.

The bedroom light snapped on. Not fully—Rick was not a monster—but enough to communicate intent.

“Morning,” Rick said.

Liam groaned and pulled the blanket over his head. “Is it so late?”

Rick checked his phone. “Yep. Snow’s still coming down. Roads are bad. I’m leaving now, to catch the train.”

“Good for you,” Liam muttered into the pillow.

Rick leaned over and poked Liam’s shoulder. Not hard. Just enough. “You said you wanted to start early today.”

“That was yesterday. I can sleep the theoretical time to work.”

Rick smiled, entirely untroubled. “But you’re awake now.”

Rick pulled on the blanket. Cold rushed in like it had been waiting. Liam pulled back the blanket, pouting already. “Why do you hate me?”

“You know I don’t. I just don’t trust you unsupervised this early.”

Rick kissed Liam’s forehead, grabbed his jacket, and said, “Anyway, your flat white is ready. I made your vegetable-fruit plate. Don’t empty the chocolate drawer.”

Then he left, closing the door with the confidence of someone who believed in consequences.

Liam lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling.

Fine, he thought. I’ll get up. He crept his way into the living room. The apartment responded at once—lights adjusting, screens waking, the coffee machine still on, as if it had been expecting him to fail and planned accordingly.

“Alexa, good morning,” Liam said more as a habit than a greeting.

“Good morning, Liam. Right now it is 05:45. It is -10°C, partly sunny. Today is going to be partially cloudy with probable snow. By the way, the plants need water. You don't have a green thumb but a good sense of time. Should I set a new reminder?”

“No,” Liam said. “Partly sunny? Is that supposed to help morale?”

Liam carried his coffee to his room, opened his laptop, and performed the ritual of productivity: inbox, calendar, work platform, project folder, changing his status to “working from home.”

Nothing urgent. No appointments.

He opened a document named “Abstract_V03,” stared at it, and took a sip of coffee.

I should think about this properly, he decided. He leaned back in the chair, eyes closing briefly.

Just to concentrate. I think I can concentrate better under the blanket. Liam left the laptop on and crawled under the blanket. That was the advantage of having his desk in the bedroom.

Liam woke at 10:11 to the sound of his watch vibrating persistently. Someone from work was calling. It rang long enough to feel intentional. It took him a moment to remember where he was.

The room was bright and cold. The shutters were open, the heating had shifted into pause, and the air purifier hummed with quiet disappointment.

He grabbed his phone and answered the message. Working from home, Liam thought, meant being always available. It meant discipline. It meant pretending time was optional while still respecting it. Something Liam did not currently possess.Liam rolled onto his side and reached for his phone. The screen unlocked immediately, waiting.

He went to the kitchen and stood in front of the coffee machine. “What kind of coffee do I want?” Liam considered for ten seconds, then filled his cup to one-third with the light hazelnut syrup and pressed double macchiato. The machine made a noise that suggested skepticism, then began grinding beans with theatrical enthusiasm. Liam leaned against the counter, watched the snow through the window, and told himself this counted as a transition phase.

Then he automatically opened the chocolate drawer, considered whether he wanted the Ferrero chocolate bars or the Happy Hippo, and grabbed both in the end. “My diet starts tomorrow.”

Coffee in hand, chocolate half in his mouth, he went back to his laptop.

Emails loaded. A calendar reminder pulsed. The draft document blinked open where he had left it that morning—still random notes, still accusing.

Liam stared at it.

10:29.

Plenty of day left. Time, conceptually, was on his side. This was still early, philosophically speaking.He muttered something under his breath and padded to the bathroom.

The mirror showed him exactly what he expected: hair in rebellion, black rings under his eyes—not usual for someone who had slept this much—and a faint crease between his eyebrows that suggested he had been frowning even in unconsciousness.

He brushed his teeth with unnecessary aggression and then stared at the sink as if it could offer guidance, traced the water stains on the faucet, the dust grains on the mirror cabinet. For a second, he thought of scrubbing everything clean, but he was just too tired for the task. So he washed his hands instead, dried them, and stood there for a moment too long, staring at the towel rack.

Back in the kitchen, he looked for something sweet. The surfaces were clean, the table clear, the plate full of healthy food—Rick’s work. Liam returned to the drawer, professionally stocked, leaned against the counter, and watched the snow again.

The street was still pale and muffled. Cars moved carefully, like they had agreed to keep their mistakes to themselves. Someone was shoveling a path with the resignation of a person engaged in long-term punishment.

Liam watched the shovel for a while. Then watched a pigeon attempt to land on a railing and fail, wings flapping in offended indignation.

His mind drifted, which was what it did when presented with silence.

He thought about the lab. About yesterday. About the mill jamming. About Jana’s face when she told him the mixer didn’t work. About the half-run, the compromise, the feeling of being forced into “good enough” when his brain only accepted “right.”

He thought about the interview tomorrow and immediately tried not to.

He glanced at the clock on the oven.

11:27.

It was still early. He could go back to bed. He grabbed his phone, walked back to the bedroom, and closed the door, just in case someone decided to walk into their apartment looking for something.

He moved the mouse so his status was active again, checked the emails, and closed his laptop.

He made himself comfortable on the bed, looking out of the window; he realized the neighbor could see him on the bed if they were home and looked out of the window.

“Alexa, big bedroom window 90%.” The motors whispered as they closed the shutter, sealing the room into a private, gray-lit cocoon.

It felt good to have things under control without having to get up again.

He pressed the browser icon on his phone, opened an incognito tab. He hesitated for a second, then thought it was just maintenance.

He did not think of it as indulgence. He thought of it as relief. A bodily reset. A way to feel something uncomplicated. A way to be briefly absent from the universe of expectations. Everyone needed such moments once in a while—for him, even a bit too often recently.

He was not avoiding work; he was preparing for it.

He typed a few words into the search bar, stared at the results for a second, and then, in a movement that felt both inevitable and deeply humiliating, he clicked one.

Time passed in a way that felt both fast and thick. The quiet of the apartment amplified it. He closed the tab, as if ending a negotiation that had gone on too long. He sat in silence afterward, breathing, feeling both calmer and worse.

This was the problem with relief: it had consequences. The calm was real. The shame was also real. Liam sat with both, as if they were two incompatible fluids refusing to mix.

He leaned back against the pillow, stared at the ceiling, and waited for his brain to reboot.

It did not. Instead, guilt arrived, fully dressed.

He checked the time again.

14:03.

“Fuck,” Liam said, to no one.

He stood abruptly, nearly knocking over his coffee, which the table caught with admirable reflexes and a soft warning chime.

He made the bed, grabbed the used tissues, and inhaled. He really had to air the room if he didn’t want Rick to make funny comments. He opened the window, left the room with the door closed behind him.

He paced to the living room, hands running through his hair, thoughts snapping between defensiveness and despair. He should work. He wanted to work. He liked work.

Shower. That could be something to help him deal with his mood.

The shower had helped him feel human again. He opened his laptop—no new emails, no new messages.

It was already 14:30. He had to prioritize a bit. So, the best way was to check his appointments for the coming days.

He swore quietly.

Tomorrow. Job interview at 11:00. The thought hit him like a delayed impact. He froze.

“I’m so not ready,” he whispered.

What was the job description again? He opened a new tab. “What’s on the agenda today?” The question welcomed him. Yes, his AI friend could definitely help him. He typed like a madman, setting the roles, scope, description of the job, what he could do, what he wanted, adding line after line to his prompt, and then waited.

The appointment was planned for one hour, and according to his AI friend he had to talk about the research topic for at least half an hour just to show his competence and understanding, convincing them he was the best candidate.

The research topic—what was it again? He typed the keywords in the project title he had memorized weeks ago and carefully avoided since.

“Boiler, Natural circulation”

Liam leaned closer to the screen and read.

Diagrams filled the page—loops of pipes, arrows pointing with unsettling confidence, labels that assumed the reader knew what a downcomer was without needing emotional support. It looked like a nervous system designed by someone who hated uncertainty.

He clicked a flowsheet.

The image expanded, sprawling across the screen. Boxes. Valves. Heat exchangers. A system that relied on balance and difference and the kind of behavior that only existed in theory.

Liam swallowed. At last, he found a video explaining the whole concept in glass boilers, pipes, and more.

Liam did know some of it. He was not ignorant. He had a degree. He had worked on systems. He understood physics. He understood mass balance and energy balance and the satisfying cruelty of equations that always had an answer, even when you didn’t.

But this topic had its own logic. Its own vocabulary. Its own traps. He added the other key words, “instabilities, simulation.”

Liam skimmed and felt his mind snag on every unfamiliar term, like a sweater catching on a nail.

He stared at the results until he could feel his brain going flat. “Fluid mechanics was not my thing.”

He rubbed his face.

Tomorrow, someone would sit across from him and ask questions. Not cruel questions, probably. Questions meant to assess fit, interest, competence. They would expect him to speak like he belonged there.

Liam could picture it too well: his own mouth opening, words coming out, and the sudden sick awareness that he was performing rather than speaking.

He felt exposed already.

Don’t panic, you can do it. That was probably what Rick would say.

He had applied for this position. Half out of despair, half to prove he was right and his situation was dramatic. He had read the description and thought, I can do that. He had written his cover letter without showing it to Rick. He had shaped his experience into relevance. He had polished the language until it felt like a version of himself that could survive scrutiny. And he only told Rick about it when he got the invitation to the job interview.

He opened a PDF of a dissertation and scrolled. The text was dense. The formatting was the kind academics used when they wanted to save paper and punish readers. There were references. Graphs. Units. Acronyms.

Now, faced with the actual content, he felt the application he wrote was a lie he had told politely.

He sat up straighter, as if posture could create competence. He was not stupid. He knew that. He had done harder things. He had survived worse projects, having no idea what they were about.

By 15:30, he had created the illusion of productivity: a notebook of scribbles, a browser full of tabs, a head full of half-formed understanding and full-formed dread.

By the time the front door opened, Liam was hunched over his laptop, surrounded by tabs, notebook filled with aggressive arrows and half-finished thoughts, jaw clenched hard enough to ache. His shoulders were raised as if bracing for impact, the room smelling faintly of cold air and despair.

Rick came in quietly, shaking snow from his coat. He paused, looked around the room, and located Liam on the couch—laptop open, notebook on the table, eyes fixed on the screen like he had been working uninterrupted for hours.

“You look like you’re losing a negotiation.”

Liam flinched. “I’m working.”

Rick hummed. He set his bag down and leaned over the back of the couch, eyes scanning the screen. “Boiler circulation.”

Liam nodded. “It’s worse than it sounds. I know nothing. I’m not smart enough for this shit. I guess I’m gonna write the professor that I changed my mind and cancel the interview. It’s just two years anyway.”

Rick glanced at the notebook. “Everything sounds worse when you write it like it’s attacking you. But you can do it. What can happen? You shake hands, drink a free coffee, eat some chocolate. Chat a bit and go back to work.”

Liam put his laptop aside and hugged his knees. “I don’t know.”

Rick shrugged. “You know how to learn. And you know how to ask questions. That’s usually what they want.”

Liam didn’t look convinced.

Rick stepped closer and leaned over the back of the couch. He did not touch Liam immediately. Rick had a way of reading the atmosphere first, of deciding where Liam’s skin was safe and where it would react.

“What happened,” Rick asked, “before this,” pointing to the notes.

Liam stiffened. “Nothing.”

Rick waited. His silence was not dramatic. It was practical. Like waiting for a printer to finish.

Liam exhaled.

“My conference funding got declined,” he said, too fast.

Rick’s head tilted slightly. “The one you were excited about.”

Liam shrugged. He tried for casual. “They had too many applications. Limited funds. It’s not personal.”

Rick’s mouth tightened—not in anger, but in recognition.

Liam continued, because if he stopped talking, he might feel it.

“It’s fine. It’s just… money. And bureaucracy. And bad luck. I didn’t care that much.”

Rick looked at him with the slow patience of a man who had known him for years and therefore did not believe him.

“You rewrote the abstract five times,” Rick said.

Liam’s jaw clenched. “I rewrite everything.”

“You looked up flights, routes, cities.”

Liam stared at the laptop screen as if it contained answers. “You were going to present,” Rick said, voice even. “You were excited.”

The truth was embarrassing in its simplicity. He had wanted to go badly. He had wanted to see Japan since he read his first manga. And of course he had wanted to talk about his work. He had spent hours working on his presentation so he could convince his supervisor he had something fancy to show to the community.

“Okay,” Liam said quietly. “I wanted to go.”

Rick nodded. “Good.”

Liam frowned. “Good?”

“Yes. You’re allowed to want things.”

Rick’s hands settled on the back of the couch, almost touching Liam’s hair. “We pay for it.”

Liam blinked.

“We pay ourselves. We go anyway. And we turn it into a romantic trip.”

Liam protested, “That’s expensive.”

Rick shrugged. “So what? You know we have the money—and some more.”

“And the interview tomorrow—you’re going to do your best,” Rick added with finality.

Liam closed his eyes for a moment and allowed himself, briefly, to stop fighting the day.

Outside, the snow kept fall

ing. The apartment adjusted the lights as evening approached, efficient and neutral.

Nothing was solved, really. Tomorrow still loomed. The formulas still twisted across his screen in memory.

But Rick was there.

And for the moment, that was enough.