He left early. Always. I never caught him in the morning.
By the time I was up, the apartment was clean, the coffee pot was half-full, and the sugar I hadn’t asked for but always grumbled about was suddenly on the counter.
I’d gotten used to drinking it black, but I guess he’d noticed. Figured. The man could ignore a heartfelt conversation like a pro, but somehow, he’d remembered I liked sugar.
I’d started asking questions. Normal ones. Questions that didn’t mean anything—at least not on the surface. His favorite sandwich (turkey, no mayo). The first job he’d ever worked (mechanic, believe it or not). Whether he’d ever had braces (no).
He asked about my mom. He hadn’t even met her, yet he asked if I’d talked to her lately, if she was eating, if she still hated the nurse with the tattoo I’d told him about. I think he liked to hear the answers, or maybe he just liked to see me relax when I spoke about her. It was one of the few things I knew how to talk about without turning everything into a joke.
Yesterday, I’d asked about his family.
It was late. I didn’t even remember why it had come up. I was folding laundry or something when he walked past and I said, “Do you have any siblings?”
He’d said no. Not biological ones anyway.
Then I’d asked, “Well, what about your parents?” because I was an idiot.
He’d looked at me for a second—one of those long Marco looks—and said, “I grew up in the system.”
I’d wanted to say something. Wanted to ask more. I hadn’t. Something about the way he’d said it made me think this wasn’t a conversation we were having. It was just a detail he’d let slip, like he’d forgotten to lock that particular drawer.
So I’d nodded and changed the subject. But I’d thought about it all night.
I wondered where he’d slept when he was a kid. If he ever had a favorite meal growing up. If he’d ever celebrated a birthday. I wondered if he used to dream about a different life—one with a real house. With stability.
We still fought sometimes. That was inevitable. He still looked at me like I was unpredictable, and I still poked at him just to watch him react. But something was different. Maybe it was the way he lingered in a room longer than before. Maybe it was the way he actually let me talk without cutting me off. Maybe it was the way I noticed things I hadn’t noticed before.
Like how every night, when he thought no one was looking, he rolled his shoulder. Subtly, just once, like he was working out a kink that had been there for a while. Sleeping on the couch probably wasn’t doing wonders for him.
Not that he ever complained. I doubted he would even if his entire arm fell off. That was Marco—he’d suffer in silence before he ever admitted to needing something.
That thought settled somewhere in my chest for the next couple of days. I wasn’t sure why. It wasn’t my problem.
Except, apparently, it was. Because three nights later, after hearing the shift of leather and knowing damn well he was probably stretching out that shoulder again, I got up and started moving his things. His watch, his cufflinks, the extra set of clothes he’d left in the hall closet—one by one, they went from the couch to my room.
Hisroom.
Our room?
“What are you doing?”
“Making a life-altering decision.”
He didn’t move. “You’re moving my things.”
“Ding, ding, ding,” I said, shooting him a quick look over my shoulder. “Look at you, lawyer. Soperceptive.”
He narrowed his eyes, clearly trying to work out my angle. Marco always needed there to be a reason—an ulterior motive, some hidden agenda—but this time there wasn’t one. Or if there was, I didn’t want to think too hard about what it meant.
I sighed before turning to face him fully. “You’re sleeping in the bed.”
His posture stiffened. “No, I’m not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No,” he repeated, “I’m not.”
It didn’t take me long to roll my eyes as I stepped past him to grab the suit jacket draped over the back of the couch. “Your shoulder’s been bothering you.”
