Back when I was eighteen, and they’d just gotten married, Marcus had been this quiet, towering, constant presence in the house. He ran his own construction company with the same steady focus he brought to everything else.
He’d be gone long hours, and when he walked through the door, everything smelled of sawdust and sweat.
Marcus was never cruel and never raised his voice. But his protectiveness was something else. If a boy called me after ten, Marcus would appear in my doorway, arms folded, asking who it was in that calm, unhurried tone that made the guy on the other end stammer.
If I rolled in past curfew, he’d be on the porch swing, not raising his voice, just watching me walk up the path with those gray eyes until I felt small and guilty and oddly flushed.
Mom never cared much. She’d scold me for five minutes, then got over it.
I used to resent how aware I was of him. The way his shirts pulled tight across his chest when he lifted something heavy. The low sound of his laugh when Mom teased him. And the casual way he’d ruffle my hair, his palm lingering a beat too long on the back of my neck.
I told myself it was normal, that every girl noticed the grown men around her when she was first waking up to her own body.
I packed it away when I left for college, buried it under dorm parties, late-night cramming for exams, and the slow drift of Mom and Marcus’s marriage falling apart. But memories like that don’t vanish.
I crossed to the window and looked down. Marcus was hauling the last of my things out of the trunk. He carried a suitcase in one hand and my plant in the other. As if he sensed me watching him, he stopped and glanced up. He didn’t smile, just held my gaze for a long second, and then carried it all up the steps without breaking stride to disappear inside.
My stomach did a slow, uneasy flip.
I turned away and started unpacking. I went through the motions of hanging clothes, plugging in my charger, and setting my laptop on the desk. I tried to anchor myself in routine. Butevery creak of the floorboards downstairs reminded me he was moving through the house.
By the time I went back downstairs, the sun had slid lower in the sky, covering the living room in warm gold. Marcus was in the kitchen, shirt stretched tight across his back, rinsing a glass at the sink. He glanced over his shoulder.
“Hungry?”
“Starving.”
He gave me a small smirk and turned to face me. “Was gonna throw burgers and potatoes on the grill. Beers with dinner. Nothing fancy.”
“Sounds perfect.”
He dried his hands on a dish towel, grabbed the items for dinner, and headed for the back door. I followed him onto the deck. The late-summer air was thick, cicadas droning in the trees. He lit the grill, flames whooshing up, and I leaned against the railing, watching the easy way he moved.
“You still grill?” I asked.
“Pretty much. Beats heating the kitchen. It’s already hot as hell.” He glanced at me. “When do you start your new job?”
“In a month. Told them I couldn’t start right away, so I had time to help you pack up the house.”
“You’re a sweet girl,” he rumbled out, and I felt my body heat. “What’s your degree again?”
“Got a job at a little marketing firm downtown. Good pay and benefits. I’m excited.”
“You should be. You’ve always had an eye for it.” His gaze caught mine and held. “Always noticed the details.”
The words landed heavier than they should have, and I felt heat crawl up my neck. “Thanks,” I murmured.
He turned back to the grill, but the silence between us didn’t lighten. It coiled. When the burgers and baked potatoes were done, he plated them and carried everything inside. I followed,hyper-aware of how close we were as we passed in the doorway, the brief brush of his arm against mine sending a sharp jolt through me.
We ate at the old oak table, the same one that had the chipped edge and wobbly leg. He asked about how college overall went for me, about my friends, and if there was anyone special. I kept my answers light. School took up most of my time, so I was single and only had a few close friends. Not much time for parties and dates when I had a career to plan.
He nodded and focused solely on me, but his gaze kept drifting to my mouth when I talked, to my fingers wrapped around the beer bottle, to the sliver of skin where my tank top strap had slid down my shoulder.
We cleared the dishes in silence. I rinsed, he dried, and when our elbows touched once, neither of us pulled away. The contact was warm and comfortable.
When the last plate was stacked, Marcus leaned back against the counter, arms crossed again.
“You okay being back here?” he asked, quieter now. “It’s not too weird given the situation?”
