But it makes sense in a terrible way.
I can't protect him. Can't warn him properly about what Castellano is capable of. Can't undo the fact that he's now on a dangerous man's radar because of me.
But I can thank him. Can make him something real before I disappear. It's not enough, not even close, but it's something.
And maybe it'll make me feel less like a coward when I leave.
I pull the chicken from the fridge. Set a pot of water to boil for pasta. Start chopping vegetables with hands that are finally, finally starting to steady.
Cooking has always calmed me. Even when I lived with my parents, when nothing I did was ever good enough, when my sister got all the attention and I got all the criticism, cooking was mine. The one thing I could control.
I make chicken piccata because it's the kind of meal that says *thank you* without needing words. Lemon, capers, butter, white wine I bought just to have something in the apartment that felt like living instead of surviving. The smell fills the small kitchen and spills into the hallway.
It's good. I know it's good. I've made this recipe a hundred times.
I plate it. Find a container with a lid because I'm not about to show up at his door with actual dishes I'd have to retrieve. That implies a future interaction. Implies I'll still be here tomorrow.
I won't be.
The guilt twists again but I push it down. This is the right choice. The only choice. He'll be safer with me gone.
I hope.
The container is warm in my hands when I step into the hallway. His door is right there. 3B. So close I've been hearing him through the walls for a week without knowing what he looked like.
Now I can't stop knowing.
Can't stop seeing the way he stepped forward without hesitation. The scars on his hands. The absolute calm in his voice when he told those men to leave.
*She doesn't belong to anybody. That's not how people work.*
No one's ever said anything like that about me before.
I raise my hand to knock and freeze. What am I doing? This is stupid. I should be packing, not standing in a hallway with homemade dinner like some 1950s housewife thanking the neighbor for returning a ladder.
He saved me from being dragged back to a man I'd rather die than marry. And I'm bringing him pasta.
It's inadequate. Pathetic. Meaningless.
I knock anyway. Three sharp raps that sound too loud in the quiet hallway. For a moment, nothing. Maybe he's not home. Maybe he left. Maybe—
The door opens.
Marcus fills the doorway. He's changed since the parking lot. He swapped his gym clothes for jeans and a black t-shirt that does absolutely nothing to hide the muscle underneath. His hair is damp like he just showered.
Those dark eyes lock on me and I forget how words work.
"Nora." He says my name like a statement. Not surprised. Like he was expecting me.
"I—" My voice comes out too high. I clear my throat. "I made you dinner. To say thank you. For earlier."
His eyes drop to the container in my hands. Something changes in his expression. Not quite surprise. More like he can't figure out what to do with this.
Join the club.
"You didn't have to do that."
"I know." I hold it out. "But I wanted to."
