But I’d figure it out. I always did.
I had seventeen years of practice at hiding who I was. I could handle a few weeks of Étienne Savard living under my roof.
Probably.
CHAPTER FOUR
Étienne
I’d been living in Marco’s townhouse for almost a week, and somehow it already felt more like home than my apartment ever had.
The thought hit me as I sprawled across Marco’s couch, controller in hand, my sock-covered feet propped comfortably in his warm lap while I navigated my character through some alien wasteland. He didn’t even seem to notice anymore—just sat there with his tablet, scrolling through game tape from our last game against New York, occasionally shifting his leg to get more comfortable under the weight of my feet.
This was us now. This ease we’d fallen into without discussing it, without any awkward tension from me invading his personal space.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table, and I grabbed it one-handed without pausing my game. Landlord. Finally. I paused the game and sat up slightly. I answered the call, wedging the phone between my ear and shoulder. “Yeah, this is Étienne.”
Marco glanced up from his tablet and shifted his attention to me.
I listened to my landlord drone on about moisture levels and cleaning and renovation timelines, and my stomach sank with every word. “Uh-huh. Right. And that’s the fastest you can—okay. Yeah. No, I understand. Thanks.” I ended the call and set my phone down, staring at it for a moment.
“Well?” Marco asked.
“Two to three months.” I ran my hand through my hair. “For the cleaning and renovations.”
His jaw tightened, that muscle jumping the way it did when he was trying to stay neutral about something that bothered him.
Two to three months. I’d been hoping for a few weeks. Maybe a month at most. Two to three months was… a long time to be living in someone else’s home. A long time to be imposing, no matter what Marco said about it being fine. “That’s longer than I thought,” I said, still processing.
“Yeah.”
I pulled my feet off his lap and sat up properly, setting the controller on the coffee table. The loss of contact felt wrong, but this conversation needed me to be serious, not draped across him like a lazy cat.
“I should probably look into getting another place,” I said. “Short-term rental or something. Extended stay hotel, maybe.”
Marco’s head snapped up, his dark eyes sharp. “Why would you do that?”
“Because two to three months is a long time, man. I don’t want to?—”
“Don’t.” He set his tablet aside and gave me his full attention. “Don’t say you’re imposing. We’ve been over this.”
“But—”
“You’re staying here.” His voice had that edge to it, theone that meant he’d already made up his mind and arguing would be pointless. “I have the space. You’re already settled in. Finding another place would be stupid and expensive and completely unnecessary.”
I studied his face and looked for signs that he was just being polite, that he was secretly counting down the days until I was gone. But all I saw was stubborn determination, the same look he got on the ice when he held a line and nothing was getting past him.
“You’re sure?” I asked.
“I’m sure.”
Warmth settled in my gut. Relief, maybe. Or gratitude. Or something else I wasn’t ready to examine too closely.
“Okay,” I said. “Thanks. I mean it. This is—you’re saving my ass here.”
“You’d do the same for me.”
I would. Without question. But somehow, I didn’t think it would feel the same, having Marco in my space versus being in his. My apartment had always felt temporary, impersonal. A place to sleep and keep my stuff, but not really a home.
