But the longer she takes to get home, the more I lose my grip on reason. The apartment feels so strange without her. Every minute stretches, twisting something in me into something darker.
Then I hear voices in the stairwell, low murmurs barely rising above the quiet creak of the steps. Neve’s voice is light and familiar, threading through the silence. Then Marlowe’s. Softer.Warmer. The sound of her voice moves through me like breath across skin.
My spine straightens. The noise in my head stills. I feel it in my gut first—a low, rising pulse of heat that hardens and climbs. My body knows she’s close before my mind catches up. It’s not excitement. It’s something torrential, overwhelming. A pressure I can’t shake. She’s home. And all I can think about is how fast I can get my hands on her. Get inside her.
The second footsteps pause outside the door, I’m already moving. I cross the room without thinking, my body lunging forward. I pull the door open, expecting her smile—maybe a laugh—the warmth my body’s been aching for. But what I see hits like ice water. Marlowe stands in front of me—pale, drawn, her hair slipping from a messy bun, eyes dull with exhaustion. Neve stands beside her—arms crossed, shoulders slumped, eyes narrowing like I’ve done something wrong. They both look drained. Not the relaxed expectation I had of a spa weekend.
Their skin has that faint blotchy flush that comes after too many drinks and not enough water. Their movements are slow, a little too careful. I know that look. I’ve worn it too many mornings myself. I think that spa served more tequila than it did tea. They’re fucking hungover. Whatever restful weekend it was supposed to be, clearly didn’t go the way I planned.
Marlowe looks wrecked. Not the way I want her to be, not the way I’ve imagined her since the second she left. She’s too pale, her mouth slack with exhaustion. She shifts the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder but doesn’t meet my gaze. Something inside me pulls tight.
Neve furrows her brows at me, then gives Marlowe’s shoulder a squeeze. Her stare lingers—sharp, scolding—like she’s trying to send a message I don’t quite catch. She mutters something about crashing, yawns without bothering to cover her mouth, and disappears down the hall toward the spare room.
I lock the deadbolt behind them and follow Marlowe, my steps tethered to hers like I’m caught in her current. My eyes stay fixed on the sway of her hips, the slow drag of her feet across the floor. She says nothing as she heads to the bedroom. She doesn’t look back. There’s something in the silence that unsettles me—an edge to her presence, a cold shift in the air.
My fingers ache to touch her. I want to run my hands over every inch of her skin, memorize the places I forgot in the forty-eight hours she was gone. I want to press my mouth to her throat, feel her breath catch against my lips. I want to worship her with my hands, my tongue, with every dark thing I haven’t dared say aloud.
She drops her bag at the foot of the bed and turns to unzip her hoodie. I step closer, close enough to breathe her in. There’s a trace of something floral on her skin—muted by the sharp scent of whatever she was drinking earlier. My mouth finds the side of her neck, just under her jaw—the spot that always draws a gasp from her lips. I kiss her there, hungrily, like a man who’s been waiting his whole damn life for another taste.
Her skin is warm. Sweet. I linger, lips moving against her pulse, my hands hovering just above her waist. I want her bare. I want her open. I want her to need me as much as I need her.
“I’m exhausted,” she murmurs, voice quiet and distant. “Not tonight. I just want to sleep.”
I go still, my breath caught between now and the next moment. She’s never said that to me before. She’s been tired. Sure. But she’s never told me no. Not when I touch her. Not when I kiss her. Not when I press her into the mattress and tell her how good she feels wrapped around me.
I’m confused. It’s not just what she says, it’s how she says it. The way she leans away instead of closer. The way her hand brushes mine. Not to hold it. Just to move it gently aside. Something’s wrong. I don’t know if it’s her or me, or the things Ithought I could keep buried in Vegas. But I feel it now. A fracture forming.
I don’t move right away. I wait, lips still pressed to her skin, hoping she’ll tilt her head just slightly, the way she always does when she wants more. But she doesn’t. Her body stays still. Cold. Detached. Her pulse doesn’t race beneath my mouth like it usually does.
I try again. I press a firmer kiss just under her ear. My hand slides over her hip, pulling her gently back until the line of her body settles against mine. Now she can feel how hard I am. How badly I need her. How much I want to be inside her. I shift, grinding my cock against the soft swell of her ass. A flood of heat shoots up my shaft. Everything in me coils tight with need. She feels too good. Fits too perfectly. All she has to do is surrender. To me.
But instead of softening, she steps away. Just a few inches, but it lands like a gut punch. Then she crosses the room and opens a drawer, pulling out pajamas I’ve never seen before. They’re baggy, shapeless, dull gray cotton that swallows her frame. She turns her back as she undresses, her movements quick and guarded. No glance over her shoulder. No teasing glimpse of skin. She doesn’t want me to look at her. I don’t understand.
She’s never hidden from me. Never rushed to cover herself. She’s usually half-naked the second she walks through the door, hair down, eyes hungry, already pulling me toward the nearest surface I can fuck her on.
She climbs into bed and curls up on the edge of the mattress. Her back to me. Body drawn in tight. She doesn’t even face the center. The space between us feels intentional. Like she’s keeping me out. She lies so close to the edge she might fall. She doesn’t want me near her.
My chest tightens.
I sit at the edge of the bed, but I don’t crawl in. Not yet. I study her body. The slope of her curves beneath those ugly, oversized clothes.
She couldn’t have found out what I did. Could she really just be tired? No. She’s not just tired. She’s pissed. Did I miss something? Maybe I didn’t hide it as well as I thought. But that doesn’t make sense. Bridger and Cody are the only ones who know anything, and they wouldn’t have told her.
I slip into bed beside her, careful not to let the mattress shift beneath my weight. She doesn’t acknowledge me. Just curls tighter into herself. A silent wall where there used to be warmth.
I reach over and turn off the lamp off. The room sinks into shadows, but the streetlight outside pushes in a thin line of silvery light across the sheets, slicing through the dark just enough for me to watch her.
At first, her breathing is tight. Each inhale measured, carefully controlled. Gradually, it begins to ease. Her shoulders lose their tension. Her lips part slightly. I know the exact moment sleep takes her.
I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling, my jaw tight as hell as I listen to the rhythm of her breathing. I want to pull her closer. Wrap my arm around her waist and feel her body give beneath mine. I want the version of her who melts against me in sleep. Who sighs my name without waking. Who always finds my chest in the dark.
But I don’t reach for her. I know this feeling. It crawls up my spine and settles in my ribs, old and familiar. I’ve lived this before. Another woman. Another bed. Laura.
We spent months like this. Our entire marriage was like this. Nights thick with silence. Her body tense, locked down. Her back to me like a fucking fortress. Every time I thought the distance couldn’t stretch further, she’d find a new inch. Me lying beside her, trying to pretend I didn’t feel the way she flinchedwhen I touched her. Like I was the one ruining everything and she was too tired to explain why.
I didn’t understand it then. Now the same ache burns low in my chest. It curls tighter every time Marlowe shifts further away, even in sleep. I thought she was different. No. She is different. She’s not Laura. But the space between us tonight says otherwise. It brings me right back to Laura.
Bridger, Cody, and I were trying to hold on to something then. Cross & Sons. A motorcycle shop with our names on the lease, but still stamped with our father’s signature. His men swinging by too often. Reminding us who the place really belonged to. I wanted out. Wanted clean. But the bills kept piling up, and Clay’s fist squeezed tighter, even from his prison cell. So I worked longer. Stayed out later. Said yes to shit I should’ve walked away from, just to keep the lights on and Laura fed.
