A bitter, angry drunk.
My chest tightens.
But Marco clearly doesn’t want to talk about it.
So I shelve the thought for now.
Moving closer, I tuck a wet curl behind his ear.
The gesture feels instinctive, protective.
Silence looms in the trees, my arms forming a shelter against an unknown ghost.
I hold him for a while, wishing I could undo the pain of whatever this man has been through.
Water laps against our skin.
“Marco,” I whisper. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have…”
“It's okay.”
He rests a cheek on my shoulder, dissolving into the hug.
Light reflects in his eyes as he ponders something.
“Come back to mine,” he says. “If you’d like to. No pressure.”
My pulse quickens.
He’s opening a door.
One that I very much want to step through.
???
Marco’s apartment looks exactly as I’d expected.
Neat. Stylish. Ordered. Very him.
Everything feels intentional.
A low charcoal couch. Soft lighting.
A tall plant catches the urban glow from the windows.
Generous rows of books are stacked precisely on shelves.
So calm and peaceful.
A safe haven for a brave soul.
We slip our shoes off near the door.
“Ginger beer?” he offers.
I thank him, standing in the corner awkwardly.
Gripping the edge of my pocket, he pulls me closer for a hug.
