“You scaredme,” I shot back.
He didn’t answer right away, just leaned forward, elbows on his knees, face in his hands.
I didn’t say anything else—probably because I was thinking too much again. Thinking about how fast his reflexes were. About how tightly he’d grabbed me. How he didn’t look at me afterward. It reminded me too clearly of the night we’d spent together. The way his hands had felt then—strong and careful at first, then urgent, needy, like he was afraid I’d vanish if he let go.
Marco stood up from the couch. He was wearing a pair of shorts—actual shorts, like his knees had ever seen sunlight—and a long-sleeve black shirt.
So apparently, he did own other clothes. I just never saw them because he was always up before nine.
He didn’t say anything at first, just walked to the kitchen with this stiff, subtle wince in his shoulder—the one I kept noticing but hadn’t asked about because he’d shut me down the last time I tried. It wasn’t for lack of trying. I could tell by the way he rotated it slowly when he thought I wasn’t looking. Like he was trying to loosen something that refused to move.
He opened the cabinet, grabbed a glass, and filled it with water. Took a long drink as if he were gearing up for war.
Then, without turning around, he said, “Pack a bag.”
I blinked. “For what?”
He finally looked at me, one eyebrow raised. “I’m not staying another night on that couch. When I get off work tonight, I’ll take you to my place, and we’ll stay there.”
I wanted to argue. I really did. I wanted to roll my eyes and say something cutting about his fragile little spine or his precious morning routines.
But instead my eyes drifted to his shoulder—the way it rolled just slightly inward, tight and strained—and I knew it wasn’t dramatics. He wasn’t making a scene. He was tired. Sore. Probably hadn’t slept through a single night since he’d moved in. Plus, hehadmanaged to stay here for nearly a week.
So I didn’t fight him on it. I just said, “Fine.”
And I packed a bag.
Because maybe I was done pushing—for now. Or maybe I just wanted to see what his space felt like now things weren’t fake anymore. Not exactly real either, but not fake. Something murky in between.
I didn’t tell him that.
Marco picked me up later that night and drove us to his apartment. When he threw the car into park a littletooaggressively and turned to look at me, he said, “Ground rules.”
I blinked, resisting a groan. “Already?”
“I’m not going to waste time pretending this is anything other than what it is,” he dismissed. “You live in my place, you follow my rules.”
“Cute.”
He watched me unamused.
I sighed. “Fine. Let’s hear them.”
“One,” he started, holding up a single finger, “stay out of my business.”
“That one’s gonna be hard.”
“Two,” he continued, ignoring me, “don’t bring anyone here. Ever.”
I lifted a brow. “Not even a hookup?”
Marco’s eyes darkened. That was my answer, I guess.
I smirked. “Noted.”
He clenched his jaw before moving on. “Three?—”
“God, how many are there?”
