"You don't even know me."
"Know enough." He looks at me steady. "Know you'd rather run than go back. Know you're trying to protect us by leaving. That's enough."
My eyes are burning. I will not cry in this hallway. Will not break down in front of this man who's already done too much.
"Come inside," Marcus says. "Eat something. Then we'll figure out what comes next."
It's not a demand. Not even really a request. Just an offer. I should say no. Should thank him again, go back to my apartment, pack my bags like I planned.
Instead, I hear myself say, "Okay."
He steps back. Makes room.
And I walk through his door like I'm not sealing both our fates.
Chapter 3 - Reckless
What the fuck am I doing?
The thought hits the second she crosses the threshold into my apartment. Into my space. The place I've kept clean of complications for two solid years.
And now Nora Hayes is standing in my living room holding a container of chicken piccata like it's a peace offering, and I've just invited danger straight through my front door.
Not hers.
Mine.
Because I'm the idiot who couldn't walk away. Who had to get involved. Who's apparently so goddamn lonely that I'm inviting a woman I don't know to eat dinner in my apartment just so I'm not alone for one more night.
Sure as hell isn't because I'm being a gentleman.
I don't know how to be one of those. Never learned. The military doesn't teach you how to pull out chairs and make small talk. It teaches you how to survive, how to follow orders, how to come home with pieces missing that nobody can see.
I haven't been this close to a woman in… Christ, I can't even remember. Unless ring girls count, and those are only in certain matches. They don't look at me. Don't talk to me. They're just bodies moving through space while men like me bleed for entertainment.
This is different.
Nora is different.
She's standing three feet away, still wearing that oversized hoodie, auburn hair falling loose around a face that's too pale.Those hazel eyes are doing what mine do—scanning exits, checking corners, cataloging threats.
She's military-adjacent. Or trauma-adjacent. Same survival instinct, different war.
"You can sit." The words come out rougher than I mean them to. I gesture toward the couch, the only real furniture in here besides a TV stand and a coffee table my brother built from scrap wood.
She doesn't move. Just stands there holding the food container like she's reconsidering every choice that led her here.
Smart girl.
"Or you can leave," I add. "No pressure."
That breaks something. Her shoulders drop half an inch. "No, I… Sorry. I'm just not used to—" She stops. Starts again. "Your apartment is nice."
It's not. It's bare. Functional. A couch, a TV, weights in the corner because some nights the only thing that quiets my head is lifting until my muscles scream. Kitchen table with two chairs. Nothing on the walls because I don't have anything worth hanging.
"You're a terrible liar," I tell her.
A ghost of a smile crosses her face. Gone before I can be sure I saw it. "My mother would disagree. She always said I was too honest for my own good."
