This, though… this felt different.
It had started small. That first morning, I’d woken up at six thirty out of habit, padding downstairs in sweatpants that still smelled faintly of smoke despite two washes overnight. I’d made coffee because I needed it to function and because Marco’s kitchen was nicer than mine had ever been—all granite counters and stainless-steel appliances and cabinet space organized in a way that actually made sense.
Ten minutes later, Marco had appeared. Hair sticking up on one side, scruff heavy, wearing flannel pajama pants and a worn Glaciers T-shirt that had seen better days. The moment he’d entered the kitchen, his gaze had landed on me—shirtless, sitting at the counter—and his steps stuttered. Just for a heartbeat. Then he’d looked away quickly, eyes fixed firmly on the coffee maker as he crossed the kitchen. He’d grunted something that might have been “morning,” poured himself coffee, and sat down at the kitchen island with his phone.
We’d sat there in silence for twenty minutes. Just drinking coffee, scrolling through our respective newsfeeds, without needing to fill the quiet with conversation.
It should have been awkward. Should have felt intrusive, witnessing someone’s pre-caffeinated zombie state.
Instead, it had felt… right.
We’d fallen into that routine without discussing it. Every morning, I’d make coffee, extra strong the way he liked it. Every morning, Marco would appear ten minutes later. Sometimes we’d talk—about the team, about upcoming games, about whatever drama was unfolding in the group chat—but mostly we’d just be quiet together, and that was enough.
The commute to the practice facility had become shared too. We’d pile into Marco’s Suburban because it made sense, because we were going to the same place at the same time.
Except it felt like more than that.
Our conversations on the drive flowed easily, with my feet on his dash while I scrolled through my playlist. He’d stop at the same coffee place every morning because their breakfast sandwiches were good and I’d mentioned liking them once. Silence on the drive home after tough practices settled around us, both of us too tired to talk but content to just be.
My clothes had started mixing with his somewhere around day three. I’d thrown a load of laundry in, not thinking about it, and when I’d gone to move it to the dryer,I’d found Marco had added his workout gear. By day five, we’d just started combining loads. It was more efficient, didn’t waste water, and made more sense than trying to keep everything separate.
I’d folded his underwear the previous night while watching TV. Hadn’t thought twice about it until I was halfway through the stack and realized what I was doing. I noticed the way the crotch on his briefs was stretched out and how little coverage there was in the back. How the elastic of his boxer briefs was worn out from his thick thighs. But I’d kept going, because that’s what you did when you lived with someone. You folded their laundry. You split the household tasks.
You built a life together, even if it was temporary.
Marco cooked. That had been a revelation. I’d expected… I didn’t know, bachelor food like we’d always eaten. Pizza delivery and takeout. But the free night I’d been here, he’d made chicken marsala from scratch, and I’d stood in his kitchen watching him move around with skill and confidence, measuring and sautéing and plating like he’d been doing it his whole life.
“My mom,” he’d said when I’d asked, shrugging like it was nothing. “She made sure I knew how to feed myself properly.”
Italian mothers. Of course.
So, Marco cooked, and I did dishes, and we’d settled into that rhythm too. Except I’d noticed that after I finished loading the dishwasher and putting everything away, Marco would come through and make one last swipe of the counters. Like he couldn’t help himself. Like he needed them to be just a little cleaner, a little more organized.
I found it endearing. Didn’t tell him that, but I did.
My mess had gradually spread through his space despite my best efforts to contain it. Shoes by the door because Ikicked them off the second I walked in. Jacket draped over the barstool because hanging it up felt like too much effort after a long practice. Controller on the coffee table, water bottle on the counter, hoodie on the back of the couch.
Marco tidied behind me without comment. I’d watch him sometimes, see him automatically straighten my shoes, hang up my jacket, relocate my scattered belongings to more appropriate homes. He did it unconsciously, a little dance of disorder and order that we’d developed.
I should probably have felt bad about it and tried harder to keep my stuff contained, to be a better guest.
But he never said anything. Just quietly organized my chaos and moved on with his day.
And I let him, because something about it felt right. Felt like we’d figured out how to exist together in a way that worked for both of us.
“You’re overthinking.” Marco pulled me out of my thoughts.
I blinked and refocused on him. “What?”
“You get this look when you’re overthinking. Like you’re trying to solve a complicated math problem.” He picked up his tablet again, but his eyes stayed on me. “Whatever you’re worrying about, stop.”
“I’m not worrying.”
“You’re definitely worrying.”
I lifted the controller again, unpausing the game even though I wasn’t really focused on it anymore. “Just thinking about how long two months is.”
“It’ll go fast. Season’s ramping up and we’ve got a three-game roadie starting tomorrow.” He shifted on the couch, and my feet automatically found their way back to his lap. His hand settled on my ankle like it belonged there. “Besides, it’s not like you’re a terrible roommate.”
