“I’ll take the couch.”
“I thought you didn’t want to sleep on a couch.”
“Mine is far more comfortable than yours.” His eyes told me he was considering it, at least for half a second, but his voice betrayed him. “No. We should keep things separate.”
“Right,” I murmured. “Have a good night then.”
“We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
And that was it before I turned and walked back to the bedroom. Alone.
I didn’t know what I was expecting. Maybe nothing. Maybe something. Maybe just a pause—a sign that meant he hadn’t already decided how this would go. But Marco always knew how things would go. That was the whole point of him.
So I got into bed. I didn’t turn off the light right away. I just lay there for a while staring at the ceiling, thinking about how quiet this place was, how neat. How messy I felt in his space. How I was technically in it, but not really a part of it.
And maybe that was fine. Maybe that was the deal.
I didn’tneedhim to say anything. But it would’ve been nice if he had.
CHAPTER 27
MARCO
Iwoke up pissed off.
Or maybe “annoyed” was the better word.
The tight pull, the dull ache that hadn’t been this bad in months, reminded me exactly why Dr. Carter lectured me about posture, sleeping positions, and whatever else she felt like nagging about. I’d been avoiding those calls and emails too.
Mornings always dragged me back. Every tight muscle, every sore joint, reminded me of being fourteen again—running mile after mile with Gerard in the car behind me, yelling. My chest would burn from the cold air he forced me to run through every morning. It didn't matter if it was freezing or raining, dark or bright—he’d wake me up at five sharp, standing in the doorway with his arms crossed. “Get up, Marco. Discipline is earned,” he’d say, like it was something profound rather than just another stupid command from a man who couldn’t even earn his own respect.
My shoes had never fit right. Gerard wouldn’t buy new ones until my toes were bleeding through holes, and even then he’d complain about the cost. My shirts hung loose, sleeves too short, my body never quite filling out the way he thought a “real man” should. But still, he pushed. He made me run until my lungsfelt like fire, my legs shaking, weak. He’d push until my vision blurred and I tasted blood and bile, bent over and sick, knowing he wouldn’t comfort me or help me back inside. He’d just wait, disgusted that I wasn’t strong enough yet.
Dr. Carter kept pushing therapy. She said running might help—something about exercise clearing my head. But the truth was, I hated running. The moment my feet hit the pavement every miserable memory surged back. Gerard’s disappointment, his dark stare, his voice always telling me I wasn't enough, that weakness was something to run away from—literally.
That’s why I avoided her calls. That’s why I avoided everything. Because mornings still felt exactly like that—bitter, exhausting, and something I’d never outrun, no matter how many years passed or how far away I got.
I glanced at the bedroom door. It was still closed. Valentina was probably still asleep, comfortable as hell inmybed, oblivious to the fact I was out here questioning my entire decision-making process. She wasn’t the problem—not really—just the consequence of my own choices. Loud, stubborn, and reckless as she was, this was on me.
I rolled my shoulder again, trying to loosen the tightness, but I knew damn well the ache wasn’t entirely from the couch. No—the tension had settled deeper, and it had a name that started with “V.”
It had been like this at her place too.
Her place.Now that was an experience.
She’d filled that space with so much noise—arguing over pointless TV shows, eating cereal at midnight, singing badly in the shower—yet somehow made it comfortable.
But now she was here, and I could finally get my life back in order.
I moved her purse to the side to work while I had my morning coffee. It was sitting right in the middle of the counter,wide-open. Leopard-print. She’d dropped it there the second we walked in last night and hadn’t touched it again. I didn’t look inside; I just moved it far enough to open my laptop and ignored the shade of lipstick smudged across the zipper.
Two shots of espresso and one unread case file later, she still wasn’t up. It had been hours.
She was still sleeping. Probably. The bedroom door stayed shut. She’d gone to bed early—not that I blamed her. She’d looked tired last night. Not the usual kind, the deeper kind. The kind you didn’t sleep off. I recognized it.
It was the alcohol. Or the lack of it.
I’d seen it before, that drained look. The twitchy restlessness underneath it, like her body wanted something her brain was trying to forget. My foster mother used to get like that when she tried to quit. Couldn’t stay awake for more than a few hours. Couldn’t sleep either. Just existed in this weird in-between state where nothing felt right. I was twelve the first time she tried. Told me she was “getting her life back.” Then drank half a bottle of something brown and passed out on the porch two days later.
