"Everything. Romance, fantasy, mystery. Anything that wasn't my real life." I tuck my hair behind my ear. "I brought three with me when I ran. They were the only non-essential things I packed."
"Which three?"
The question surprises me. Most people would move on. Would say something generic about loving books too. But Marcus is looking at me like the answer actually matters.
"Pride and Prejudice," I say. "Because I've read it so many times the pages are falling out. The Night Circus, because it makes me believe in magic. And a poetry collection by Mary Oliver because sometimes I need to remember the world has beauty in it."
He nods slowly. "My brother reads. Not as much as you probably, but he's always got a book going. Mostly horror. Stephen King, that kind of thing."
"What about you?"
"Field manuals, mostly." A ghost of that almost-smile again. "Not exactly literature."
"But you remember what your brother reads. Pay attention to it."
"He's all I've got." Simple. True. "He matters."
I envy them. No one's ever said I matter like that. Like it's just a fact. Like there's no question.
"You're lucky to have each other," I say quietly.
"Yeah." He picks up our plates, stands. "We are."
I follow him into the kitchen. The space really is too small for two people but I can't seem to stay on the couch while he cleans up dinner I made.
"You don't have to—" I start.
"You cooked. I clean. That's fair."
"That's very domestic."
He glances at me. "Don't get used to it. This is a one-time thing."
Right. Just for tonight. I lean against the doorframe and watch him rinse the plates. His movements are military efficient. Nothing wasted. Everything purposeful.
"Thank you," I say. "For letting me stay. For all of this."
"Stop thanking me."
"I can't. You're helping me and I don't even—"
"Nora." He turns off the water. Looks at me directly. "You don't owe me anything. Not thanks, no explanations, nothing. You needed help. I'm helping. That's it."
That's not it though. It can't be that simple.
"I should let you sleep," I say, because standing in his kitchen while he looks at me like that is doing something dangerous to my resolve. "Where should I—"
"My room." He says it before I can finish. "You take my bed. I'll take the couch."
"I'm not taking your bed—"
"You are. It's not up for debate." He moves past me into the living room. Opens a closet and pulls out a pillow and blanket. "Bathroom's down the hall, second door. Take whatever you need."
"Marcus—"
"Nora." He looks tired suddenly. Not physically. Something deeper. "Please just let me do this. Let me help without fighting me on every detail."
I close my mouth.
