She’s not wrong.
Bare beige walls. Minimal furniture—a sofa, coffee table, desk. No pictures, no personal touches. More like a hotel room than home.
“I don’t spend much time here,” I admit. “Just a place to handle my business shit.”
She walks to the window, looking out at the Vegas skyline. “Good bones. Great location. But yeah, depressing as hell.”
I laugh hard. “Tell me how you really feel.”
She turns, her eyes bright with excitement. “What if I fixed it up? Made it feel like a home? Some paint, pictures, actual curtains instead of those sad blinds?”
The idea of Marley putting her stamp on this place excites me. “Do whatever you want with it. Paint the walls pink, hang weird art, knock down a wall. Whatever you do to make it less depressing.”
Her smile is radiant. “I’m not knocking down walls, City Boy.”
“The offer stands.”
She turns, exploring the rest of the apartment—the small kitchen, a decent bathroom, and a bedroom with a queen bed. When she returns, she’s practically glowing.
“This is really okay, not some joke?”
“DoImake jokes?”
She tilts her head, placing her hand on her hip. “Onlyreallybad ones. Like dad jokes but lamer.”
I chuckle with a genuine smile, slapping my hand to my chest. “Ouch! But no, this is not a joke. Treat this place as if it’s yours.”
“Thank you. This is amazing, Nitro.” Her shoulders relax, and she’s stopped fidgeting. Now she has a space that’s hers. Even if temporary, even if borrowed—it’s hers.
“When can I move in?”
“Whenever you want. I’ll give you a key.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow works.”
She crosses the space and hugs me. Her arms wrap around my waist, her head barely reaching my chest, but enough to make my breath catch.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“You’re welcome, Small Town.”
She pulls back, looking up at me, close enough to kiss if we weren’t sticking tothe plan.
“I should go,” she says without moving.
“Yeah,” I agree, not moving either, our eyes remain locked, the energy between us popping and cracking. The tension is about to snap, but finally, Marley steps back, easing the burning embers between us.
“I’ll text you tomorrow?”
“Sounds good.”
“I’ll take you back,” I offer, and she shakes her head.
“It’s fine, I’ll catch an Uber… I’ve had good experiences with them. I know you probably need to get back to the club, and there’s probably shit here you need to take care of before I move in tomorrow.”
She’s right.
