I shove my hands through my hair and stand, pacing a short line between the bed and the window like movement might shake answers loose.
It isn’t too late. That thought keeps trying to take root.
It’s morning. I could still fix this. I could still go. I could still meet them. Even with the bruised eye, even with the shame. I could show up anyway and prove that I’m not running.
Except I don’t know where to go. Except Rafe won’t answer.
I stop pacing and grip the edge of the desk, knuckles whitening. My chest feels tight again, the familiar precursor to panic humming under my skin.
No.
Not now.
Not again.
I force myself to breathe slowly. In through my nose, out through my mouth. Count it. Control it.
A knock sounds at the door. My heart leaps so violently it hurts.
For one bright, stupid second, hope flares in my chest like a match. Rafe. Maybe he’s cooled off. Maybe he slept. Maybe he woke up and realized he doesn’t want today to be like this. Maybe?—
I move fast, crossing the room and yanking the door open without checking the peephole.
The hope dies instantly. Marco stands in the hallway, dressed in travel clothes, duffel slung over one shoulder. His expression shifts the moment he sees my face. “Jesus,” he says quietly.
I swallow hard. “Yeah.”
He winces. “That’s… not subtle.”
“No,” I agree, voice flat.
Marco doesn’t wait for an invitation. He steps inside, turning sideways to clear the doorway, then pushes the door shut behind him like he’s claiming the space. Normally I would argue. Normally I would tell him to get out, that I’m fine, that I don’t need babysitting.
I don’t have the energy.
Marco drops his bag near the chair and looks around the room like he’s cataloging the damage. The half-packed duffel. The untouched room service tray on the counter. The wrinkled sheets.
He looks back at me. His gaze is sharp. “You sleep?” he asks.
“A little,” I lie.
Marco’s mouth tightens. “Bullshit.”
I don’t respond.
He sighs through his nose and runs a hand over his hair. “Okay. We’re going to talk.”
My gut twists. “Marco?—”
“No,” he cuts in, calm but firm. “You don’t get to dodge this.”
I lean back against the wall near the door, arms crossing over my chest like armor. “What do you want me to say?”
Marco watches me for a beat, then chooses his words carefully. “I want to know where your head was at last night.”
I stare at him. The answer is complicated. It’s also humiliating as hell.
The answer is: I was drowning and someone handed me a match, and I lit the whole room on fire.
