It was like he didn’t know how to be a part of something without standing slightly to the side of it. But he stayed, and Ididn’t know what to do with that, because for the first time, I wasn’t the one waiting to leave. I was the one watching the door, waiting for it to open and close again. And when it didn’t—when he kept coming back, when his shoes stayed lined up by the wall and his toothbrush stayed beside mine—I had to admit, I didn’t hate it.
I didn’t like it either. Not fully. Not yet.
But it made me think. Made me wonder what life would look like if I’d stuck around more. If I hadn’t made myself small enough to slip through the cracks. If I’d let people expect things from me without resenting them for it.
That was in the back of my head for the rest of the week. And maybe because of that, I started to notice more things about Marco.
Small things, like the way he moved. There was this weird stiffness in his left side. His shoulder, mostly—sometimes his leg. It wasn’t huge. You wouldn’t clock it unless you were watching him carry a grocery bag or bend down to pick something up—which, apparently, I was doing now.
Watching him.
It was subtle, but it was there. The way he winced slightly when he twisted too far. The way he leaned into his right leg just a tad more, as if he didn’t trust the left to hold all of him.
I didn’t ask at first, because it felt ... intimate. And if there was one thing Marco and I were violently allergic to, it was anything that felt like caring on purpose. But one morning, while he was stretching his neck like someone who’d spent the night fighting demons on the couch, I said, “You know, Sasha would tell you to run it out.”
He glanced at me, blinking as if I’d just suggested we take up ballet together.
He just shook his head. “No.”
“No, you’re not stretching?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow. “Or no, you’re not listening to Sasha?”
“No, I’m not running.” He said it fast, like he needed to shut it down before I could ask why.
So I didn’t.
But I kept watching. I noticed other things too. Like how he never looked into the mirror in the living room. Not once. Didn’t evenfaceit. And it wasn’t like the mirror was subtle. It was huge. Framed. Directly across from the couch. You couldn’t walk past it without catching your own reflection unless you were tryingreallyhard not to.
Which he was.
He’d sit facing the kitchen. Or the window. Or literallyanywhereelse. And I thought maybe it was accidental at first, just some weird spatial preference.
And then there was this morning, when I’d woken up first.
Which was already weird. Marco was always up before me. Helikedbeing up before me. He treated the early morning like it was some sacred part of the day—quiet and clean and untouched by the chaos I brought to any room.
But it was 9:00 a.m. and he was still asleep.
On my couch, one arm stretched up over his head, the blanket half off his body like he’d kicked it off in a dream. His hair was slightly messy. He looked ... soft. Not fragile. Not weak. Just quiet. Like he’d finally stopped bracing himself.
I sat down next to him, right by his waist. Not even thinking about it really, I threw onJersey Shoreand kept the volume low. I wasn’t trying to wake him up. I just ... God, I don’t even know what I was doing. Watching him, I guess. Studying the version of him that didn’t get to exist when he was awake.
Because when Marco was awake, he wason. But asleep? His brow wasn’t tense. His mouth wasn’t pressed into that line thatmeant he was keeping something to himself. He just looked ... human.
Which was probably why I stayed.
I didn’t mean to freak him out, but apparently, sitting next to a six-foot lawyer while he was unconscious triggered some kind of survival instinct. Because when he woke up—abruptly, as if he’d been yanked out of a dream—his hand shot out fast. Like,fast. Right to my hip, like he was reaching for something—or someone—without thinking.
And I froze.
He blinked up at me, breath caught in his throat, palm still on me like he hadn’t registered what he was doing yet.
“Jesus,” he muttered, dropping his hand the second his brain caught up. “What’re you doing?”
“I live here,” I said dryly. “Remember?”
He sat up too quickly, rubbing the back of his neck like he was trying to wipe the dream off his skin. He didn’t look at me. He looked at the TV instead, as if Snooki might save him from the fact he’d just grabbed me in a panic, like I was an intruder and not his ... what? Wife? Roommate? Situation?
“You scared me,” he said.
