"Peace offering," I say, aiming for light. "For subjecting you to my terrible self-defense skills yesterday."
His hand actually moves toward the mug. I see his fingers twitch, almost reaching, before he pulls back like the ceramic might burn him.
"I don't need coffee."
"It's already made—"
"I said I don't need it."
But he's not looking at me when he says it. He's looking at the mug like it's a tactical problem he can't solve. The dismissal in his voice is absolute.
I take the mug back to the kitchen. Pour his perfect military coffee down the sink. Watch it swirl away like my dignity. My mouth fills with a metallic taste.
Twenty minutes later, I try again. Different approach. Get him talking about something other than how much he doesn't want my coffee or my company.
"So… your family. The Rosettis. That's a lot of brothers, right?"
"Yes." He doesn't look up from his phone, but I catch him glancing at the windows. Checking sightlines. Always checking.
"And a sister? Sofia?"
His jaw tightens, just slightly. His typing stops. "Yes."
"Are you close?"
"We were."
"Were?"
Nothing. His thumbs move over his phone screen like I'm not even here. But his breathing has changed. Deeper, controlled. The way he breathes when something matters.
"I heard one of your brothers is having a baby? Or his wife is? That's exciting. Little Rosetti babies probably come out knowing how to intimidate people."
He finally looks at me, and his eyes are cold as January in Chicago. But underneath the ice, I swear I see something flicker. "Is there something you need?"
"I… no. I was just making conversation. You know, that thing humans do when they live together. Words. Sounds. Emotional connection."
"I'm working."
He's moved to the window now, studying the street below like he's planning an invasion. Or expecting one.
"Right. Sorry. I'll just… exist quietly over here. Again."
I retreat to the couch, pull out my phone, pretend to scroll through Instagram while my eyes burn. The rejection is constant now, a steady drumbeat of dismissal. I watch him from behind my phone screen. He never looks at me. But twice, when I shift positions, he starts to turn toward me before catching himself.
By lunch, I'm desperate enough to order food. Thai from his favorite place. I've been paying attention to his preferences even though he clearly hasn't been paying attention to mine.
"Food's here," I announce when it arrives. "Your usual. Pad thai, extra spicy, no vegetables because apparently you hate joy and fiber."
"I'm not hungry."
"You have to eat—"
"Marisol." He says my name like it's tactical equipment he needs to put down carefully. Asset. Assignment. Not the woman who was underneath him yesterday, wanting him. "I said I'm not hungry."
But he's looking at the takeout bags with something like longing. When did he last eat? This morning's protein shake?
"Okay, but about yesterday—"
