‘Right,’ he said eventually.
Rowan’s eyes searched his face. ‘Marcus—’
‘No, it’s fine.’ Marcus looked down at the sandpaper in his hand, as if it had become fascinating. ‘Contracts end. People move on. That’s how contracts work.’
‘That isn’t what I meant.’
Marcus let out a small laugh, but it had no sparkle in it. ‘It is a little bit what you meant.’
Rowan said nothing.
That silence told Marcus more than he wanted to know.
He turned back to the window frame and rubbed at a stubborn patch of old paint, harder than necessary. Tiny flakes drifted down onto the dust sheet below. Out with the old, in with the new. What a lovely thought. What a useless, complicated, ridiculous thought when the new thing standing beside him might already have one foot out of Seagull Bay.
‘You have a house somewhere else,’ Marcus said.
Rowan’s brow drew together. ‘Yes.’
‘And a work contract here.’
‘Yes.’
‘And when that finishes?’
Rowan looked towards Atlas.
The dog had stretched out on Marcus’s patch of front lawn now, nose resting on his paws, ears still alert but body calmer than Marcus had seen him outside Rowan’s side. A bee drifted lazily around the wisteria, and Atlas watched it without moving.
‘Then I decide what comes next,’ Rowan said.
Marcus nodded slowly. ‘And have you?’
‘No.’
It was honest.
Marcus wished it didn’t hurt.
He set the sandpaper down on the windowsill and wiped his dusty palms on his work trousers. ‘I’m not asking you to stay because of me.’
Rowan’s gaze came back to him, sharp and dark.
Marcus forced himself not to look away. ‘But I need to know if I’m making room for someone who’s already packed.’
The words seemed to land somewhere deep.
Rowan’s jaw tightened. ‘I haven’t packed.’
‘Metaphorically.’
‘I don’t do well with metaphors.’
‘You’re sanding a window frame with me after kissing me in my dog parlour beside a quiet zone we built together. I think we’re well past literal.’
For one brief second, something like amusement flickered across Rowan’s face.
Then it faded.
