backstage romance

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Her eyes widened further when he set the coffee cup on top of the cakes, heart thudding heavily in her chest. Oh, he just wasn’t going easy on her, was she?

“And a herbal tea?” It was stupid how hopeful she sounded, her eyes darting back and forth between the cup and Morgan, hardly daring to believe her luck.

She couldn’t let her gaze dwell on Morgan for too long though. He looked absurdly handsome today and Eliza’s silly heart could hardly bear it. His hair was pushed back in that charmingly effortless way, and the button-up he wore did everything to bring out the colour of his eyes. She had to forcibly remind herself that Grace had probably picked it out for him. If she said her boss’ name in her head enough times, then it would almost be like manifesting her presence as a warning for Eliza not to get too far ahead of herself.

Morgan certainly didn’t help matters by raising his arm and leaning casually in her doorway. He must have known how attractive that was and Eliza had to look down at her socks, fluffy and dotted with meerkats, so she wouldn’t do something atrocious. Like giggle.

“Oh! Sorry! Of course. Come in, come in,” Eliza said, backing up a little when she realised she was being rude, leaving Morgan out on her doorstep instead of inviting him in. She was still learning the parameters of their new dynamic: Morgan as her boss’ boyfriend and Eliza as little more than an underling he once knew in a different but completely unreachable capacity. Still figuring out what was and wasn’t an appropriate way to act around him, Eliza belatedly realised that being mannerable shouldn’t have to be pushed aside for caution.

As soon as he used that word though - proposition - colour rushed to Eliza’s face. Morgan hadn’t meant it in any type of way, but there was certain vocabulary that men you were once head over heels for simply couldn’t use if you wanted to avoid being flustered by them.

Eliza pulled the door open with too much force. It battered noisily against the adjacent wall, making her jump.

“Shoot!” She winced and immediately lay a soothing hand on the wood, as if apologising for being so rough with it. Then, still blushing, she quickly ushered Morgan in and gently closed the door behind him.

“Oh, so… this isn’t to do with Grace’s birthday?” she asked him, tucking her hair behind her ears as she followed him into her living room.

She was proud of her living space. It was cosy and lived-in and completely her own, and she was rarely messy. That being said, her laundry was drying on the clothes horse over by the window and the last thing she wanted, given their current circumstances, were for her bras to be on show for Morgan to see. Now beet red, Eliza grabbed a blanket and threw it over the whole contraption before whirling around and plastering a grin on her face.

“Is there something else she needs my help with?”

She’d been one hundred percent correct in her guess, of course, not that Morgan had said anything to confirm nor deny. Eliza had always been a tea drinker over coffee, and he’d never forgotten it. Over the years when he’d been running himself ragged learning new routines and choreographing whole productions, leaving no room to recuperate until he was aching and bedridden, he’d turned to Eliza’s trusty old herbals during his most dire hour of need. He’d always been a little partial to a chamomile, allowing them to nurse him back to health as he let his bones rest and his callouses heal. 

“You always apologise t’your door like that?” Morgan grinned, eyeing her shamelessly. He thought back, albeit begrudgingly, to the god awful smut romance that Alice had brought in one day a few months ago. It had been some deranged drabble about a woman who’d been, well, fucking a door. “Y’ain’t been readin’ Alice’s books again, have you?” 

He was only teasing, of course, but a part of him hoped he could coax out another delicate blush from the woman. Eliza’s eyes had gone so wide and so huge as the pink-haired dancer had recited back line after line of vapid, poorly written, veritable porn to the entire room. Had Grace been a little stricter, they might have all been spared, but even she’d been a little amused by the excerpt, going so far as to brand it the perfect hate-gift for Declan next Christmas. 

He waved off her theories, a hand absently batting through the air as she brought up Grace’s birthday for the second time. He understood that it was a full-time job tending to the other woman’s schedule, but he wished it didn’t have to leak into Eliza’s days off too. She deserved a reprieve from Grace Eckstein’s hectic calendar. Eliza worked hard enough as it was already without doing so outside of a paycheck. 

Not that it was lost on him that he was here to enlist her help, of course. But if she obliged, he’d make sure it was worth her while, too. 

The ghost of a smile played on his lips as he watched her not-so-subtlety launch a blanket over her laundry as it dried. He wasn’t sure what she was hiding, but she was doing an adorable job of it either way. 

“I’m not here about Grace, sweetheart. I’m here about you,” he enlightened her, barely registering the casual term of endearment. 

After a moment’s hesitation, he dropped down on her sofa, deciding to give himself the go ahead to get settled in. If he was planning to spend the next half an hour pitching his idea to her, he might as well make himself comfortable. 

“Or rather, about us. I sort of... Need your help with somethin’,” he explained, stretching an arm out wide across the back of the sofa. He tapped the top of the couch, wiggling his fingers up into a wave as he tried to grab her attention, to coax her over to join him. 

Her Merry Clayton vinyl (an absolute steal from the flea market down in Dumbo) spun on her turntable as Eliza mopped her kitchen, loudly singing along.

“Yes, we’re gonna fall in love and it feels so right!” The next ‘yes’ (followed by we’re gonna make love, it’s gonna be tonight) was met with Eliza jumping in the air, her socked feet landing soundly back on the linoleum.

By the time she got to I can just imagine huggin’ and and teasin’ and lovin’ and squeezin’ all night, Eliza was swinging her mop around like it was a glorified mic stand, propping up her performance as she flung her arms out to the side. 

She could have kept going, her energy boundless after waking up to the sun filtering through her curtains and not the shrill beeping of her alarm that dragged her out of bed to go and fetch Grace’s coffee. She could have danced around her kitchen all day, finding fun ways to choreograph her cleaning routine, if it hadn’t been for the buzzer to her apartment going off. She halted at once, flyaway hairs falling in her face as they escaped from the ribbon tying her hair into a ponytail.

With an upwards puff of air blowing from her lips, Eliza settled her mop against the doorframe and skidded over to her front door, worriedly thinking she might have sent her dad’s sandwich to her own address instead. Her peephole had long since gotten cloudy and unclear since she moved in, so Eliza had no choice but to open up her door, curiously poking her head around it and rearing it back in surprise when she saw who was on the other side.

“Morgan.” She blinked, trying to make sense of what was happening.

She’d been seeing Morgan quite a lot lately, but never without Grace by his side. In what she hoped was a subtle manner, she peered over his shoulder, half-expecting to see her boss there. Already, her mind was running rampant, jumping straight into self-preservation mode as she wondered how it was going to be possible for her to share her own private space with her ex and his new girlfriend, who just happened to be the woman that paid Eliza’s bills.

“Yes!” Merry Clayton called from her record player again.

No, Eliza wanted to fire back, still staring at Morgan in a daze.

At least it seemed like he was alone, unless this was a cruel game of hide and seek.

“Butter me up?” she asked, her head tilting to the side. Her expression cleared at once. “Oh, for Grace’s birthday? I actually do have a list of gifts she’d mentioned looking at, so I could…”

She trailed off as her eyes dipped down to the box in his hands, and the clear plastic window that let her see what was inside. With little means of hiding her excitement, she lifted her eyes and grinned at him.

“Is that a strawberry eclair?”

That feeling seemed to drift away from him momentarily as she asked him about Grace. Was her birthday coming up already? Shit, he really did need to get her something. Fuck, when was it again? The 13th? Maybe the 14th...? He couldn’t remember, but he still had a few days at least. He blinked, shaking his head, ready to protest when her attention was immediately snagged by the treats in his hands. The warmth returned, settling in his chest, and his own smile brightened as he was met with the full force of Eliza’s mega-watt grin. He’d fucking missed that face, damn it. 

“You god damn betcha it’s a strawberry eclair,” he laughed, wiggling his eyebrows at her. 

Playfully, he weaved the box through the air, settling it just below her nose to allow the scent to waft up to her nostrils. Then, as soon as they were there, he pulled them away again, carefully propping her drink atop the box – steadily, of course. He wasn’t about to ruin all his good intentions by destroying the cakes with a spillage. 

Now with a hand free, he braced it against the doorframe, bracketing her with one arm. 

“You gonna make me stand out here all day with these, Calhoun? Or are y’gonna invite me in so I can share the goods?” he teased, smirking down at the pretty girl. 

They both knew as well as anyone that he’d never deprive Eliza of anything. Or, rather, they’d once known that. Maybe she didn’t have the same inkling anymore, but it remained true. She could send him packing and ask him to forget her address, and he’d still be careful to deposit the eclairs into her arms before he turned on his heel. 

“There’s at least 3 eclairs in here with your name on ‘em - the fourth’s mine, obviously – an' I reckon my girl Merry Clayton might like to hear about the proposition I have for you,” Morgan grinned, not quite hearing the innuendo in his words. 

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That’s not why he doesn’t want her to know, a sorry little voice piped up at the back of her head. Ah, there she was. Eliza’s inner monologue. Her own worst critic. 

She was rarely too harsh with herself, but even rarer still was she kind. Instead, she’d settled into a pathetic middle ground where she tended to feel a bit sorry for herself. Self-pity wasn’t a good look, and she knew that, but it was hard to fight against when there was no evidence telling you that you were anything more than the sum of your grieving parts. Eliza was an assistant, and a stressed out one at that, always running around in circles, plagued by the feeling that she was never quite pleasing Grace. She was nowhere near the place her teenage self had dreamed of being. 

And Morgan? He was a star in his own right now. Renowned in his craft. An acclaimed dancer and sought-out choreographer. And, with a twist in her stomach she realised, the Grace Eckstein’s boyfriend. Where Eliza had once been the privileged little girl sheltered by Mommy and Daddy, now she was down on her luck and fetching coffee for the woman Morgan had in his bed while his own career climbed higher and higher. Of course he wouldn’t want Grace to know about them. 

“Oh. Right,” she breathed, forcing herself into action so she could give him a jerky, unnatural nod.

She turned, swiftly, to make sure the other coffee cup wasn’t in danger of being lost to them, only to freeze when Morgan caught her hand.

Instantly, she felt dizzy. How could she not? Morgan’s thumb pressed into her palm, reminding her of a summer long ago where he taught her to dance and she was utterly remiss to think about how it was possible for someone to be that in love. He’d taken over each and every one of her senses and she’d gone willingly, too naive to realise her hand would be ripped away from his the moment summer ended. 

Her eyes lifted to look at him again, eyebrows twitching inwards at his choice of wording. What did he mean? He couldn’t keep screwing up her life?

… Did he know?

Fear caught in her throat like barbed wire. She hadn’t told Morgan about the baby, too scared about screwing up his future. She’d thought she would never see him again and her mom had easily been sworn to secrecy. It wasn’t possible for Morgan to have known what had happened, and if he somehow did then… well, no. He quite obviously didn’t. If he did, she could only assume he would be far angrier at her instead of treating her with this tentative kindness.

“It’s okay. You’re not… None of this is your fault. It’s nobody’s fault. I just… I really need this job,” she pleaded with him, feeling ten times smaller than she had when she’d woken up that morning. Cheeks burning, she opened her mouth again, only to jump when Grace’s bedroom door opened.

“Grace!” she said, her voice full of far too much pep. She tore her hand out of Morgan’s grip, glad the kitchen counter would have hidden it from Grace’s view. Whirling around, she tugged the paper coffee cup from its holder and carried it over to her boss.

“Coffee for you. And Tanvi says she’ll e-mail over the list of contacts you needed in the next half hour. Is there- is there anything else I can get for you?”

Still, he found it hard to resist the urge to draw closer to her, even as her back was half-turned to his. His hand remained where it was, thumb pressed against her pulse as he searched for the right thing to say. Frowning, he shook his head in a desperate, silent plea for her to understand. He wanted her to be happy, he wanted her to thrive. Morgan would never do anything jeopardise her job with Grace, he wouldn't dream of it. 

“Of course. I'd never...” he trailed off, his sentence cut short by the sound of Grace calling out to him. The sound of his girlfriend calling out to him. 

As the bedroom door opened somewhere behind him, he stayed put. The sound of Grace's footsteps carried themselves closer with each passing second, but Morgan felt frozen in time. What was the worst thing that could happen here? Maybe Grace would take one look at them and immediately notice the spark between them. She and Morgan weren't serious – they'd never had much of a talk about their relationship past sex and convenience – so maybe she wouldn't even care. He'd heard her talk about her assistant, about Eliza, with so much fondness, as though she were missing a limb when the other woman wasn't by her side. He could relate to that. 

Morgan finally tore his gaze from Eliza's when it became all too apparent that years of yearning wrapped into one, neat and earnest look was not a good look for him in Eliza's eyes, before turning to face Grace with a placid smile. She looked as beautiful as she always did which was exactly the problem. Grace always looked beautiful, no matter the time of day or the circumstances she was surrounded with. The briefest of appraisals told Morgan that his girlfriend had slipped away into the bathroom to give her hair a quick comb through, expertly ruffling it to give it that messy, post-sex look that she wanted them both to believe was au natural, but pointedly was not. He would wager a guess that, should she close the gap between the three of them, her teeth would be bright and shining and minty fresh, too. She thought he didn't notice her sneaking away each morning, dipping out of bed while she thought he was still asleep, but he let her have her secret. What did it matter? 

He watched as her lips met the paper cup – a very thin, light sheen of gloss plumping them up, for whose benefit he had no idea – and finally stepped around the kitchen counter to join her. Even just placing that small bit of distance between he and Eliza felt wrong, like a betrayal of sorts, but his arm mechanically found its way around Grace’s waist as she stepped into his side. It was like a routine, one that they’d polished together so perfectly, with Grace insisting they needed to look the part at events. There had always been the unspoken truth that Declan might be present, always lingering between the two of them, the elephant in the room that they opted to never voice aloud. 

“Eliza here was just singin’ your praises while I introduced myself,” Morgan explained, cutting off Grace before she could answer. 

Her lips quirked up into a knowing smile at his words, and he gave her hip a gentle squeeze before pressing on, driving the point home. If Eliza was worried about the safety of her job, he was gonna make damn sure that there was nothing for her to concern herself with. 

“Sounds like you got yourself a good one here, darlin’. She’s real fond of you an’ the work you do, and she’s got that coffee order o’yours down to a fine art,” he huffed out a laugh, though it felt dry and forced in his throat. “Seems like you got yourself a good one here, babe.” 

Those final words burned against his throat as his eyes strayed back to Eliza’s, his chest caving in the whole time. 

As she fruitlessly tried to mop up the mess spilled across Teddy and Grace’s kitchen floor, she froze as soon as she heard his words, coated in that deep accent that had sent a thrill shooting through her the first time she’d heard it. All those summers ago.

Struck into a pinned-still silence, she realised she was holding her breath, as if that was going to do anything except cause the Apple watch Grace had kindly gifted her (she needed to make sure Eliza never missed a text!) buzz with the reminder to relax, take a deep breath in. Her cheeks burned once more with fresh humiliation at the noise it emitted against her wrist, hating for her stress to be painted so cleanly in front of Morgan by a device she wasn’t all that competent at making work. She still got a little confused by all the buttons and Tanvi had tutted and playfully called her a grandma before attempting to teach her how to navigate the settings of it.

The casual way that Morgan threw the coffee towards the trash can, his aim true like he was the Sundance Kid, did nothing to help Eliza out and she pressed her lips together, looking away.

“It’s not all that bad, really,” she said diplomatically. Once she’d found her voice. Truthfully, she couldn’t stand Grace’s coffee order, which was why Grace always had a second coffee quickly delivered to her and why Eliza often found herself nearly asleep at her desk, foregoing her own cup. She much preferred the more gentle taste of the herbal teas she had stocked in her cupboard in abundance at home, but if she’d gotten one of those today, then Grace would be without her first caffeine hit of the day and that would leave them all in hot water.

A horrible metaphor really, since that was what was currently soaking Eliza’s shoes and Morgan’s pyjama bottoms.

That he was wearing in front of her. With no shirt. Because he’d just got out of bed. Where he’d been sleeping with her boss.

Oh god, she really had done something awful in a past life, hadn’t she? Or maybe this one. A chill ran through her when she realised what it was that she could be facing karmic punishment for, just like the ladies with their curled blonde bobs and pro-life pins and placards had yelled about from outside the clinics Eliza had once gone to. She had to fight to remember what her mother, far more liberal than anyone born in sixties-era Georgia was thought to be, had told her.

You don’t get to feel guilty about unburdening yourself from something you never asked for, Sadie Calhoun had said, smoothing a hand over her daughter’s hair. And what brought you here? You don’t get to feel guilty about that either. Love isn’t something to feel guilty about.

Not for the first time that morning, Eliza almost buckled under the weight of how much she wanted her mom right now. That, coupled with the realisation of what the only man she’d ever loved had been doing with her boss throughout the night, was enough to make Eliza’s eyes sting painfully.

“Don’t be silly,” she choked out, playing at being unbothered even if the strain of her voice betrayed her. She tried to swallow back her tears and dabbed at the floor again with the now-sodden paper towels. “You didn’t know. We didn’t know and it’s been years anyway, so…”

Morgan’s name filtered through the closed door of Grace’s bedroom, wrapped in a questioning tone. At once, Eliza’s head flew up, green eyes piercing through Morgan as she looked at him properly for the first time. 

“I haven’t… She doesn’t know that…” Well, it was obvious Grace wouldn’t know about her current boyfriend and her assistant’s years-previous dalliance. Eliza and Morgan hadn’t ever thought they’d come back into contact again until, oh, three minutes or so ago. Really, nobody was to blame here but as Eliza’s mind suddenly flashed through the inevitable future of attending meetings and galas with Grace, her arm linked with Morgan’s, her chest began aching and she selfishly wanted to rid her future self of having to put up with Grace’s awkward, sympathetic, I-don’t-want-this-to-be-weird smiles.

“I should go,” she said quickly.

But instead of laughing, he merely sighed and offered her a fond smile. Too fond for a man whose girlfriend was stretched out, half-naked, just a few feet away. Hell, definitely too fond for a guy who hadn’t seen Eliza in years and had lost any right to claim he knew her anymore. 

He had no idea what he’d been planning to say to her just then, the words having died in his throat. If he’d known, he wouldn’t have what? Been there, shirtless and fresh from a night with Grace as he’d ambled into the kitchen and knocked the wind from her sails? No, not that. More like, if I’d have known I’d be seeing you, I wouldn’t have gotten tangled up with her in the first place. Not with you here, not when there might be a chance. He decided against admitting all of that, since he didn’t want Grace to come crashing out of the bedroom with a taste for his and Eliza’s blood. 

It’s been years anyway. 

Eliza’s words pierced through his heart like ice, and he stared hopelessly at her, mouth agape as his brows furrowed, disappointment etched plainly across his features. He was doing a horrible job of masking his obvious heartache, but he immediately smoothed the lines of his face the moment he heard Grace call out him. He returned to the same, stony faced expression he usually reserved for Alice whenever she came prancing into rehearsals, arms linked with Tomás, the two of them rambling on about some ridiculous, convoluted routine the two of them had dreamed up in a tipsy haze the night before. Usually, it involved Wilhelm shirtless and surrendering to their whims, which Morgan would never greenlight as long as he lived. 

“I won’t tell her,” Morgan blurted out, before he could stop himself. 

He paused, turning the words over in his head. Was that the right thing to do? He had no idea. It was the sleazy, selfish thing to do, he supposed. To lie to his girlfriend – was she really his girlfriend? Was that what their arrangement entailed, if they were being truly honest with themselves? – felt like a spineless thing to do. He wouldn’t be surprised if Eliza turned her nose up at him and called Grace out to them now, to out his strange, elaborate ruse to keep the two of them a secret. As though he thought he could keep the woman all to himself, both in memory and in person, the only woman fit to inhabit the space he’d carved out in his chest all those years ago. 

Without thinking, he shot to his feet and reached for her, wrapping a hand around her wrist as he stilled her in place. He couldn’t let her leave, not yet. Not like this. He squeezed his eyes shut, exhaling slowly as his thumb dipped low, pressing against the palm of her hand before tracing along her wrist, feeling the rapid rate of her pulse, beating in time to match his own. 

“You don’t have to leave on my account, Eliza. I don’t wanna ruin this for you,” he searched her gaze, desperate to find some even footing. “I don’t wanna fuck this up for you. I can’t keep screwing up your life.” 

Oh! I suppose so. Morgan is... yes, he's very nice. We don't have much cause to talk to each other a lot though. I mean, he's Grace's boyfriend and I'm just her assistant, so... It wouldn't make sense for us to always be in contact, but I hope he and Grace are very happy together. He does swear a lot less than Declan did...

She’d gone from sweetly giggling about him at the summer resort, hiding her blush in the safety of her mom’s cardigan, to allowing the older woman to wipe her tears away. First, when they left the resort for good, and then when she’d driven Eliza to the clinic, her indiscretion solid and absolute. If anyone was going to understand why Eliza suddenly felt like the world had been flipped upside down, it would have been the unshakable Sadie Calhoun. Perhaps if she’d been able to talk to her mom, she’d have handled the situation better.

Instead, she stood wordlessly while hot coffee soaked through her canvas tennis shoes and white socks. 

“I…” She opened and closed her mouth, figuring it best to stay silent until she was sure nothing incriminating would come out.

It should be noted that Morgan’s shirtless state was doing absolutely nothing to help matters. As he kneeled down by her ruined shoes, a sharp gasp caught at the back of Eliza’s throat and she quickly turned away. She began tearing paper towels from the holder on the counter, scrunching them up in her hand so she could kneel down by Morgan and make an attempt to clean up the mess.

“I take my coffee the same as she does in case something like this happens,” she explained. A completely superfluous statement that explained nothing right now.

Cheeks red hot, she ignored her shoes for the moment. Instead, she dabbed uselessly at the coffee-covered linoleum of Teddy’s kitchen floor, wincing when the spilled liquid burned her fingertips.

“I’m Grace’s assistant,” she eventually supplied, head still bowed. It felt like too much of a Sisyphean task for her to lift her head and look at Morgan. Eliza had never been the brave sort.

Eventually though, she felt desperation leak into her tone as she chanced a peek at him and whispered, “I didn’t know.”

His first instinct was to reach for her, even as he kneeled before her, his head level with her stomach. His mind flashed back to days when they’d hidden out in the private staff quarters, Eliza stretched out on the sofa with Morgan’s cheek pressed to her stomach, his arms wrapped around her thighs. Her fingers had coaxed their way through his hair as they’d dozed in and out of a lazy slumber, dreaming away their summer in each other’s arms. Maddeningly, selfishly, he longed to pull her in now and do the same. It was completely insane, they hadn’t seen each other in years, and yet his chest gave a familiar and never-forgotten tug at her mere proximity to him. 

Blinking stupidly, he shook his head as Eliza turned her back on him, trying to clear his mind and regain some of his composure – if he’d ever had any. He stared down at the mess surrounding him, his pyjama bottoms now sending a chill through them as they slowly but surely became soaked in coffee. It hadn’t even occurred to him to grab paper towels or attempt to slow the rapid seep of coffee along the kitchen floor. He’d simply thrown his body down in front of Eliza as though it were an impulse to drop to his knees before her, as though that were his natural place in life. 

“Here. Uh, let me take some’a those,” Morgan offered, clearing his throat. 

He averted his gaze as he gently retrieved some paper towels from Eliza’s hands, assisting her as he clumsily dabbed the growing mess and tried to soak up as much coffee as he could muster. Morgan had spent years of his life wondering what he’d do or say if he ever saw Eliza Calhoun, yet now that he’d found himself in that exact position, he was stumped. He felt like a complete idiot. Eliza. There had to be millions of Eliza’s out there, yet Grace’s very own assistant had to be his Eliza. Of course. He was lost for words as he searched for something useful to say or do, his fingers deftly pinching at the rim of the now empty coffee cup as he lifted it and lazily tossed it into the bin. It was a real juvenile, Cool Boy tactic, as though he thought Eliza would be deeply affected by his perfect – though admittedly fluke – aim.  

“You don’t take your coffee nothin’ like that crap Grace drinks,” he retorted, suddenly finding his voice at exactly the wrong moment. 

It was the truth, though he wasn’t sure it was the most sensible response. Perhaps Eliza did take her coffee differently now, but he doubted it. She was simply too kind to want to disappoint Grace – or anyone, for that matter. She’d rather drink the nasty, too-sweet coffee that Grace swallowed down in bucket-loads – dangerously loaded with sugar and syrups to keep her energised throughout the day – than risk letting her down in any way. 

He fell silent again, gaze still lingering anywhere but on Eliza as she admitted to being Grace’s assistant. He’d worked out that much on his own. Running a hand through his hair, a cold chill ran through his body as she finally lifted her gaze. The frantic look on her face mingled with her nervous tone was enough to send a wave of guilt crashing through him. Morgan pressed a hand into his own bicep, pathetically attempting to rub some warmth back into his skin as it dawned on him that he was still shirtless. Great, yeah, sure. Why would he be fully clothed when running into his ex for the first time? 

“I didn’t know either. I wouldn’t have – if I had, I’d never have...” Morgan found himself stuttering, fumbling his words in a way that felt uncharacteristic. Eventually, he simply waved a hand to gesture his near-naked form, no doubt landing himself in further hot water. 

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