Another sound, this time closer. I held my breath. Took one more step.
And then I saw him.
Marco.
I deflated at once, slumping back against the wall as if my lungs had only just remembered how to work. I let out a sound that wasn’t quite a sigh and not quite a curse—somewhere between“thank God”and“I’m going to kill you.”
“You scared theshitout of me!” I snapped, rounding the corner into the kitchen to find him standing near the door, back pressed rigid against the wall as if it were holding him upright.
He didn’t say a word to me, nor even bother to look up from the floor.
I’d seen Marco annoyed, smug, furious—even slightly amused once—but never like this. He looked like he was physically restraining himself from combusting right there in my hallway. He was breathing in that unsettling way, as if someone had given him instructions on how not to lose his shit.
Something was definitely not right.
For a split second, I hesitated.
“Marco?” I said, attempting authority and failing spectacularly.
Still nothing. Just that awful, distant stare. Like he wasn’t seeing me but instead was seeing something else entirely, somewhere faraway and way worse than whatever was happening in the hallway.
I reached out carefully and laid my hand against his wrist.
He didn’t move, but his skin jumped under my fingers. For a second, I felt him shaking.
“What’s going on with you?” I wondered, still holding his wrist as if I could tether him here with just that one point of contact. “You’re scaring me. So maybe ... maybe come back now? To this room? With me?”
He blinked.
Once.
Then again. Like he was rebooting.
He pulled his hand away from mine. Not rough, but fast. He stepped back from the wall, posture stiff, eyes still not quite meeting mine.
“I’m fine,” he said.
Bull. Shit.
“No, you’renot,” I snapped, because the fear was turning into frustration now, and frustration was easier to manage. “You just went full statue mode. I thought I was going to have to knock you out with a Swiffer.”
“I said I’m fine.” His jaw twitched. “Go get dressed, Valentina.”
For the first time I was sure he wasn’t fighting me—he was fighting himself; battling something invisible I couldn’t begin to understand.
“I’m serious,” I pressed again. “Tell me what’s going on.”
“It’s nothing,” he repeated stiffly. “Go put some clothes on.”
I scoffed, hoping sarcasm might snap him out of it. “What, is my bare shoulder offending you,mijo?”
His neck stiffened at the nickname. He didn’t turn around to say anything to me. Instead he grabbed his keys and said, “I need a minute.”
And then he was gone as if nothing had happened. As if I hadn’t just watched him go stiff and weird in the middle of my hallway like someone had pulled the pin out of him and forgotten to yell,“Duck!”
I stood there dripping on the tile, towel slipping, hair still wet. I didn’t know if I was pissed, worried, or just thrown—probably all three. And I had no idea what he meant by“a minute.” A minute to breathe? A minute to calm down? A minute to pretend nothing had happened?
Whatever it was, it was vague.
