Honestly, a part of me didn’t mind.
Which was weird, because I was usually very big on personal space.
He didn’t bother talking to me. Instead he closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall.
I watched him for a moment—maybe a moment too long. It felt strangely intimate to see him like that, eyes shut, his face blank in a way that felt private, almost vulnerable. He seemed tired in a way I recognized immediately because I felt it every single day.
I wondered briefly what made someone like him tired. Was it the suits and the responsibilities that came with them, or something deeper—something he hid as carefully as I hid everything I carried around?
I tore my attention away quickly, staring at the dirty subway floor instead. It wasn’t my place to wonder about him. He wasn’t my friend or my confidant. He was barely more than a stranger—one who’d given me cigarettes and unwanted lectures about my life choices. And yet here he was, sitting so close our kneestouched, relaxed enough to let himself drift off somewhere else, even just for a minute.
I shouldn’t have felt comforted by it, but somehow, quietly, secretly, I did.
If the wall was as comfortable as it looked, I’d have fallen asleep right here too. But the truth was, my body ached, my mind ached, and his arm? His arm looked like it would do just fine as a pillow.
So I used it—since he was already taking up half my seat anyway.
The second I rested my head against his shoulder I felt him stiffen. He seemed uncomfortable, rigid even, like I’d violated some invisible boundary he’d set. But he didn’t move away.
“You’re in my space,” he murmured softly, eyes still closed, refusing to look up.
“You’re in mine,” I whispered back.
He let out a quiet breath, a sound of reluctant surrender, and stayed exactly where he was. I wasn’t sure if he was annoyed or amused. Probably a little bit of both.
Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I was crossing a line or just desperately craving some small human contact that didn’t involve hospitals or heartbreak.
He smelled good—clean, like that ocean-breeze fabric softener. The warmth of his arm felt impossibly solid against my cheek. I could hear his steady breathing, feel the careful rise and fall of his chest beside me, and something about that was comforting in a way I hadn’t felt in far too long.
Or maybe I was just really tired. Exhaustion made everything feel comforting—even lawyers with judgmental tendencies and annoyingly nice-smelling coats.
Either way, I stayed exactly like that, head resting against him, stubbornly silent, the entire ride home. He didn’t move or speak again, and neither did I.
When the train finally pulled into my stop, I stood quickly, brushing myself off as if the moment hadn’t just happened. I didn’t bother saying goodbye. Goodbyes were pointless. Besides, I had a feeling I’d see him again soon.
After all, someone had to judge my life choices.
CHAPTER 7
MARCO
DECEMBER 25
New York wasn’t a city—it was a sentence. The kind handed down quietly, without explanation, and definitely without mercy. I wasn’t sure what crime I’d committed, but I’d stopped arguing a long time ago. Now I served the time with clenched teeth, hands deep in my pockets, counting down the days as if they were tally marks scratched into concrete walls.
I should’ve been halfway to DC by now. A flight home weeks ago would’ve made sense. Hell, not showing up at all would’ve made more sense. But logic was taking a back seat lately.
And now here I stood, smack in the middle of Max’s living room, watching people smile these empty plastic smiles and wondering how exactly I’d ended up here. Again. I was starting to think I must enjoy making myself miserable. Maybe it was a hobby. Maybe it was the only hobby I had left.
I held a whiskey I wasn’t going to drink, partly because I didn’t trust myself with it, and partly because it felt better to have something to hold onto. It gave me something to do with my hands, at least, besides shoving them deep into my pockets and clenching them into fists, which was usually my other go-to.
“Still here?”
Remy’s voice cut through my thoughts. I turned to face him. He was with Max. They were side by side, standing so close it was as if they were two halves of the same person. Funny how people could do that, blend together until you didn’t see one without immediately looking for the other.
“Remy,” I said, tipping my head slightly. “Max.”
Max gave me one of his usual half-smiles—the kind he kept in reserve for people who’d seen him at rock bottom. It still caught me off-guard sometimes, seeing him sober, clear-eyed, clean. Before Rosalie, he was always high. Eyes glazed over, looking right through me. I’d hated seeing him like that. Seen too many people like that before.
